The Mask







I am blindfolded again and waiting for Mistress to 

return. The house is cool; a heavy night rain broke the string of hot days and 

muggy nights that made us regret our decision not to install central air 

conditioning when we remodelled the house. The cuffs that restrain my arms and 

legs are unusually tight. I have lost feeling in the thumb and index finger of 

my right hand. Beneath my pink, cotton dress, beneath my heavily padded 

brassiere, my chest begins to itch. My mind wanders; I think about work, about 

the stack of unanswered mail that will still be on my desk Monday morning. 

Maybe, I think, this was a mistake. Maybe we should have accepted Gene and 

Doris' invitation to spend the weekend on the lake.<br> 



It has been almost a month since Mistress gave me to 

Patrick. In the interim she has escalated her dominance. It is no longer just 

a Saturday afternoon diversion. Now I submit to her every day. <br> 



"From now on," she had said the day after Patrick had 

taken my mouth, "when you come home from work you will immediately become 

JoAnna." She had punctuated the command with a hard blow to my thigh. "I want 

you dressed and on your knees every night when I arrive, do you understand?" 

Caught by surprise, I had not answered her. Her hand had flashed down onto my 

exposed flesh again, harder than before. "Do you understand?" Her voice was 

harsh, but not as harsh as the look in her eyes.<br> 



"Yes," I said meekly, both excited and appalled at the 

prospect of being JoAnna for her every day. <br> 



That next week established our new ritual. I would get 

home usually around 5:30 or so, an hour before Mistress would come through the 

door. As instructed, I would immediately strip off my suit and tie, shower, 

shave my face, underarms and legs, then pull JoAnna's clothes from the closet. 

I would carefully put on stockings, heels, a garter belt, brassiere, and 

whatever dress or skirt and blouse Mistress had picked out for me the night 

before. Once I was dressed I would carefully fit my wig, then spend fifteen 

minutes or so anxiously waiting for the sound of her keys in the lock. When I 

would be certain she was at the door I would kneel beside the living room 

couch, my head down, my trembling hands clasped in my lap, and try to still my 

racing pulse. <br> 



Each day had been the same. She would come through the door and totally ignore 

me for what seemed like an eternity. She would read the mail or fix herself a 

drink. Sometimes she would disappear into our bedroom for fifteen or twenty 

minutes. Finally, just when I would be on the brink of despair, she would 

speak to me.                                  <br>



"Stand up." Her voice was always sharp. "Let me inspect 

you." I would rise and then, at her command, turn around slowly. "Lift your 

skirt." I would comply. <br> 



"Your stockings are crooked," she would announce, or, 

"your panties are soiled," or, "your wig isn't straight." Whatever my 

infraction, the punishment was the same. I would be pushed down and forced to 

kneel at the base of the couch with my torso flat against the hard cushions. 

She would then raise my skirt, jerk down my panties and administer fifteen 

hard blows to my exposed backside. If I  cried out, made any sound at all, 

she would spank me another dozen times. <br> 



"You may now worship my feet," she would say when my 

punishment was over. While I would lie on the floor beneath her, her 

stockinged feet in my hands, my lips caressing her toes and the soft spaces in 

between them, she would silently watch television or read the newspaper. 

Sometimes, if I was not performing to her satisfaction, she would slap my face 

and issue precise instructions. However much I learned to fear her spankings, 

I came to yearn for the half hour or so she would allow me free reign with her 

feet. For reasons I could never hope to explain, I found stroking, sucking and 

kissing the pungent flesh calmly intoxicating. <br> 



"Enough," she would finally say, "I'm hungry. Fix me 

something to eat." I would then prepare her a meal. I was not allowed to eat 

until she was completely finished with her plate. If what I fixed was not to 

her liking, I would once more be spanked. After the meal she would again 

command me to kneel at her feet while she watched television or read. <br> 



Only at the end of each evening did the ritual vary. 

Some nights, perhaps half the time, she would hike up her dress, spread her 

legs and roughly pull my head into her crotch. "Make me come," she would say, 

pushing my face deep into her. On other evenings, she would order me to lie 

flat on my back. "Raise your skirt, slut. Masturbate for me." When I would 

come she would feed me my own ejaculate. "Do you miss Patrick?" she'd ask 

softly, a half-smile playing across her lips. "Would you like to suck his cock 

for me again?" <br> 



It began raining; I could hear the blurred staccato of 

the heavy drops striking the roof and the bedroom window. My hand was still 

numb. My chest still itched. Why had she secured me so tightly, I wondered? I 

wanted her to return. I wasn't at all certain I was in the mood for this 

today. Had we gone too far? What had started months ago as a sexual game, as a 

wicked dash of needed spice in our relationship, was now starting to be 

frighteningly serious. Sharp thunder, alarmingly close, rattled the house. 

Images of an old Boris Karloff film flashed through my mind in grainy black 

and white. Who was the monster here, I wondered? Was I <i>her</i> creation 

now; or was she still mine? <br> 



Thunder ripped through the house again. I started to 

sweat, imagining trying to escape a burning house bound and dressed as I was. 

The rain was crashing against the house, the angry, ragged roar underscored by 

the thunder's deeper timbre. Something soft curled around my leg. The cat. 

Eva's plaintive, hoarse meowing was barely audible against the din of the 

storm. Another crack of ominously close thunder rattled the mirror against the 

opposite wall. Eva leapt into my lap, her claws digging painfully into my 

thighs. "It's alright," I said, wishing I could stroke her or hold her. 

"She'll be home soon." <br> 



Suddenly the weight of the cat vanished from my lap. 

Confused, I called her name. Warm fingers stroked my cheek. If I had not be 

bound securely to the chair, I would have jumped six feet. "Mistress?" I 

called out anxiously, aware of my total vulnerability. <br> 



"I'm here, love." Her voice was soft, light as 

feathers. "There's nothing to be afraid of. The storm is breaking, darling." 

Her voice, her touch, calmed me. The warm fingers moved across my cheek, 

played with my lips, then slipped over my chin and onto my neck. I shivered. 

"Does that feel good, darling?" <br> 



I nodded my head, remembering her order not to speak. 

For an instant the hand vanished, then it's warm, reassuring touch returned, 

this time on my knee. "Your legs look lovely today," Mistress said as the hand 

glided toward the inside of my thigh. "Those stockings are a perfect shade for 

you, darling." Finger tips brushed the thin strip of fabric covering my balls. 

I felt myself harden. I hoped she would kiss me; my mouth opened in 

anticipation. The finger tips became a hand cupping my penis through the slick 

panties. "Are you getting hard, JoAnna?" Mistress' voice was half laugh and 

half whisper. "Did you imagine me doing this to you while I was gone?" The 

hand slid over the tip of my penis, pulled down the waist band of my panties 

and then returned to my cock. The touch of her flesh directly on mine was 

electric. <br> 



"I'm going to remove your blindfold, JoAnna." I bent my 

head forward, making it easier for her to release the velcro seal. Whatever my 

misgivings before, now I yearned to look into her eyes and tell her I was 

totally hers, her slave, to be used however she wished.<br> 



The blindfold dropped from my face. I cried out, 

shocked and frightened. I was staring not at Mistress' face but at a bright 

red and black, hideous, grimacing mask. The painted eyes, so close to mine, 

were huge red circles. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room I 

realized this masked figure kneeling before me was male. Beneath the mask his 

shoulders and chest were bare, hairless and heavily muscled. I tried to shrink 

away from this frightening stranger whose hand still gripped my now shrunken 

penis. <br></h4>