“Why you devastating, sexy, teasing bitch,” Yolanda Peterson exclaimed as her eyes wandered like caressing fingers over the incredible assortment of lush curves that were stuffed into a tissue-thin paisley print silk dress that seemed at least three sizes too small for her friend, Ethel Walsh.
When Yolanda managed to tear her eyes away from the monumental teats which normally were squeezed into the twin hammocks of a size 44-D-cup bra, but which obviously weren’t today by the way they moved liquidly about on Ethel’s ribcage, her black eyes wandered down over a wasp waist, flaring hips, and then gasped when she saw that her friend’s long, full-fleshed limbs were clad almost to the hem of her mini-mini skirt in gleaming black leather boots.
“ETHEL … they’re simply FANTASTIC,” Yolanda shrieked ecstatically. “I’ve never seen such an exquisite pair, and of course those marvelous legs of yours don’t do them any harm either … what’s the occasion?” “Our wife swapping club meeting this week was to be the occasion,” Ethel giggled. “But I’ve got the hots so for you today that I thought they might melt down your resistance.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Yolanda laughed. “You clad in a burlap sack would melt down my resistance. Come on in before I kiss your pussy right here on my doorstep.” “That black lace negligee you’re wearing, plus your black hose and gloves isn’t exactly conducive to playing jacks,” Ethel smiled as she entered the foyer of the Peterson mansion, her skyscraper-heeled boots and her tight mini forcing her to take little mincing steps, her enormous melons jouncing about heavily in the flimsy confinement of her frock.
“They weren’t intended to be,” Yolanda smiled as she reached up and cupped the underside of her friend’s massive, out-thrusting breasts, squeezing them with gloved fingers, lifting them, amazed as always by their incredible weight. “God, I’ve been dying to get my hands on these beauties all day.”
“And they’ve been aching for you to,” Ethel smiled as, starting at the neckline, she began to unbutton a series of buttons that ran down the front of her skin tight frock.
“M-m-m, I like my girl friends to be cooperative,” Yolanda gasped when the dress parted after the fifth button was opened and Ethel’s magnificent naked teats spilled out of her bodice to roll ponderously about, the almost dinner plate sized aureoles and thumb sized nipples brilliantly red from a heavy application of lipstick.
“GOD what a teasing bitch you are.”
“You’re a teasing bitch yourself,” Ethel scolded, then moaned as Ethel captured an enormous globe in eager gloved hands, almost sinking from sight in its pillowing softness. “You’d better not let me catch you with some fiat chested broad!”
“You know big boobs are my ‘thing’, sweetie, every other woman looks like a skinny boy compared to you,” Yolanda gasped as she leaned down and sucked a huge nipple into her warm mouth, lacing it with a darting tongue.
Ethel was about to unbutton her dress and lay it aside, but suddenly realized that she would look sexier with her mammoth teats spilled over the top; so instead she stood motionless, her tautly gloved arms by her side, permitting her excited friend to have her way with her breasts, breathing, “Just as long as you concentrate solely on mine, they’re all yours, darling-g-g … oh that’s it, bite them.., ouou-ou … oh YES-S-S … OH GOD but my pussy’s on fire!” “That’s a fire I’ll put out later with my saliva,” Yolanda gurgled through nipple-stuffed lips.
The tight kid squeaked over Ethel’s flesh as Yolanda squeezed great handfuls of foam rubber-soft breast flesh and twisted it viciously, her sharp teeth raking the excruciatingly sensitive flesh of her friend’s swollen nipple.
“Oh YES-S-S!” Ethel shrieked in a fit of carnal delirium, grasping the back of Yolanda’s head and pressing her face into the depths of her breast. “Oh I’ve GOT to have it .. take me to your dungeon … Give me the lash, rip me to SHREDS!”
“My but aren’t you the impatient one,” Yolanda teased, letting the incredibly elongated nipple slide wetly from between her nursing lips, the resultant sound like that of a cork popping off of a bottle of champagne; then walking to a nearby couch and sliding the great round globes of her luscious rump onto it, spreading her gorgeous black nylon sheathed limbs wide in wanton invitation. “I don’t think that I could concentrate on giving you the lashing that you crave unless I am relieved first, temporarily of course.” The leather that held Ethel’s knees in a vise-like grip screeched on the hardwood floor as she dove between the widely splayed limbs of her friend, crying out as she swooped down and buried her lovely face in the dense, moist nest of passion, “Oh I’m going to eat you like you’ve NEVER been eaten!”
These proved to be no idle words as the ravishing Ethel feasted on Yolanda’s creaming love canal like a man on the desert for a week who had found a water hole. Hot desire blazed within the two gorgeous females as Yolanda lurched forward on the couch, swiveling her lush hips wildly, pumping her hot pussy against the huge busted Ethel’s greedy mouth, the room filled with wet, squooshing sounds.
As Yolanda’s hips rolled and tossed, she tensed, then bathed her friend’s wildly suctioning lips with her release, “Now you sexy bitch … to the DUNGEON with you!”
As the two ravishing women made their way down to the basement, a basement that had been converted by one of Yolanda’s husband’s ancestors into a fantastically equipped dungeon, Ethel did a strange thing. Reaching into her handbag as they made their way down the ancient stone steps she drew out an enormous bra and slid the cups under her gargantuan teats which were still flopping about, overlapping the neckline of her gown. It took every ounce of her strength to draw the body straps together in back and work the catches, her heavy breasts rising as she did so as if hoisted by some unseen derrick.
“Spoil-sport,” Yolanda pouted. “You’re very wasteful, you know that’ll be ripped to pieces in a few minutes.” “Not necessarily,” Ethel smiled as she buttoned up her dress, Yolanda staring in disbelief at the awesome amount of shadowy cleavage created by the constricting action of the bra. “I had this specially made by a corsetierre; the body straps are double reinforced. You’ll have to use every ounce of your strength and pinpoint accuracy to cut it in two.”
“This has got to be my favorite spot on earth,” Ethel cried out as they entered the clammy dungeon, her lovely eyes sparkling as they examined a row of instruments and devices of torture that lined its walls. “Oh let’s hurry, I can just feel that delicious lash ripping into my bottom cheeks.”
“It’s my favorite spot too, precious,” Yolanda enthused
as she led her gorgeous friend to a raised platform in the center of the dungeon and mounted it with her. Ethel eagerly held her gloved arms above her head and Yolanda quickly fettered them at the wrist to two chains that hung down from a massive overhead beam. “We certainly have had some fabulous times here together. Remember when we stripped the clothing off of that cute grocery boy with the lash, and then laced his cock into erection till he finally shot his load into the air?”
“And then I worked his dick into erection with my gloved hands immediately afterwards and had him screw me although he was hanging upside down at the time,” Ethel laughed. “But enough talking, sweetie, I can’t bear the suspense any longer.”
“You know it just occurred to me, we’re like Jack Spratt and his wife,” Yolanda smiled as she left the platform and turned a huge crank at its base, the platform gradually lowering till Ethel hung suspended in the air.
“Well, Jack Spratt could eat no fat, and his wife could eat no lean.”
“I’m a sadist and you’re a masochist, same thing.” “Thank God for that … now stop teasing me and get on with it,” Ethel cried out as she wriggled her enormous yet shapely bottom-cheeks wildly in the air, as if begging for the sting of the lash.
The lash’s sting wasn’t long in coming. Yolanda first shrugged off her filmy negligee, it falling on the floor as she walked to a row of paddies, quirts, whips and such that hung on the wall. She purposely ground the great ham-hocks of her rump together in magnificent unison for Ethel’s benefit, the long, pencil-thin garter straps alternately tightening and sinking into their softness, then loosening, with her steps.
Her gossamer black nylons cast off brilliant highlights down their entire length as they reflected the light from an overhead lamp while she returned with a menacing looking eight foot long builwhip.
Yolanda cracked the whip expertly in the air, Ethel cried out in feigned fear, “Oh Mama … you’re not going to hit your little girl with the awful whip.”
Yolanda snarles as she stood with black silken limbs widespread, gloved hands on hips, the perfect picture of evil domination. “She is going to hit her little girl’s gigantic tits.”
Her eyebrows knitted, her black eyes fierce, the lids garish with eyeshadow, her full, fruity lips carmine laden, Yolanda resembled a female satan as she raised a tautly gloved arm high overhead, the whip uncoiling gracefully behind her, then whistling through the air as she snapped her wrist forwards. There was a loud, exploding crack as the rawhide curled around a huge, out-thrusting teat and sliced through Ethel’s thin silk dress, the material reddening as blood began to flow instantly from a deep laceration.
On the next stroke she brought the lash down with even more ferocity, adding an extra sharp flick of the wrist at impact that made the metalic tip bite more deeply into her breasts, a scant inch below the previous weal.
A fiendish look on her face, Yolanda worked the lash feverishly down over her friend’s torso, bits of paisley print filtering to the dungeon floor as she tore the gown to shreds. Ethel writhed under the fiery pain, but there was a definite sensual undertone to her shrieks as the lash did its vicious work.
Finally, with a thin strip of material still clinging to Ethel’s left arm, leading down to a bit more bunched around her waist, Yolanda centered her attentions on the strongly constructed bra which as yet showed no effects from the lashing. Moving catlike around to Ethel’s rear, Yolanda sent the lash hurtling towards her back, and with incredible aim sliced through the reinforced body strap with her first attempt.
Like the first heavy droplets of rain that precedes a storm, blood was flowing down over the awesome hills and valleys of Ethel’s majestic body, splashing onto the platform. Now the lash was working relentlessly, crisscrossing over the milk white flesh, superimposing new cuts over previous weals and lacerations.
Ethel’s unearthly screams reverberated around the dank stone wails of the dungeon, only ceasing when Yolanda grew so arm weary she could go on no more. Then the diabolical mistress of Peterson Manor moved between her friend’s flailing booted limbs, drawing her lush hips towards her eager mouth with one hand, the other overhead cupping the underside of a horribly lacerated globe, the blood oozing between her gloved fingers and dripping down.
Now to put out that fire in your pussy,” Yolanda said calmly.
“M-m-m-m … delicious as always,” Yolanda enthused as she licked her ripe lips clean of the sweet honey she had drawn from Ethel’s honey pot, her gloved fingers busy loosening the manacles around her wrists.
“That was the greatest ever,” Ethel said with enthusiasm. “I’ve never known you so eager. Was it just me or is there something else on your mind?” “Oh it was you and those scrumptious boobs of yours of course, precious,” said Yolanda as she took a length of rope and wrapped it twice around her friend’s waist, and then looped it under her crotch, drawing it up hard in back, the rough hemp barging roughly between her pussy lips and entering her chasm of passion.
She wrapped the rope around Ethel’s wrists, then knotted it securely, saying excitedly, “But there is something else on my mind, something that excites me terribly.”
“It had better not be another woman, I’ll cut her…” “No silly, you’re all the woman anyone could possibly ask for,” Yolanda interrupted with a laugh that sent her heavy breasts rolling about on her ribcage. It’s my husband, Bob.”
“Don’t tell me that you’ve decided to go straight after all this time,” Ethel sneered, drawing her shoulders back and thrusting her ribcage forward to emphasize the enormity of her awesome melons.
“Of course not, silly, sit down and I’ll prove it to you …
if I didn’t manage to convince you while you were hanging in mid-air a few moments ago,” Yolanda giggled as she helped Ethel over to the wall and assisted her in sitting on the cold stone floor, her shredded back resting against the wall.
Yolanda kneeled beside her and cupped her massive melons in her gloved hands, pressing her feverish, richly painted lips against Ethel’s in a smoldering kiss.
“Tonight I’m going to tame my husband, make him my slave for life,” she enthused, bending down and cleansing Ethel’s torn breasts of its coating of blood with the enthusiasm of a half-starved kitten attacking a bowl of milk.
“Impossible,” Ethel moaned as Yolanda’s darting tongue lapped madly at first one nipple then the other.
“He’s far to big and strong; he’ll break you in half the moment you try.”
“Oh physically he’s capable, but mentally he isn’t,” said Yolanda as she rose and meticulously wiped the blood off of her gloved hands. “He’s really a sissy boy. He was tied to his mother’s apron strings till she died last year, now he’s attached himself to mine. I plan to make it official tonight by humiliating him the way we did that grocery boy. He’d still come and be my slave ifI were to call him.” But he was a mere boy, and your husband is a powerful man,” Ethel reasoned.
“Want to make a small wager, say a hundred dollars,” Yolanda smiled, her eyes wandering over her friend’s elegantly booted limbs. “I sure would like a pair of boots like yours.”
“I’ve got news for you, they cost me three hundred and fifty dollars, let’s make it for that,” Ethel suggested, spreading her glamorous, booted limbs and kicking them spasmodically in the air. “Use those fantastic lips on me just once more and I’ll be willing to wait here to see the results, I’ll even help you if you want me.”
“It’s a deal,” Ethel sighed as she sank to the dungeon floor and pressed her face into the hot, saturated nest that so eagerly awaited her.
“Boy what a day I had at the office,” Bob said wearily as he entered the living room, then exclaimed as he saw his wife draped langurously on a couch, “Good Lord, what kind of an outfit do you call that?”
“It’s the outfit I’m wearing to the Vansant’s costume ball next week, baby. Why do you look so upset, I thought you dug me in black kid gloves, hose, and especially sexy corsets,” Yolanda chided, running her gloved fingers caressingly over the gleaming taut leather of her corset which was squeezing with agonizing force against her waist and diaphragm, the lower portion and garter straps forming a delicious frame around her creamy white haunches and the dense tangled forest of her pussy.
“B-but your breasts are bare, they … they look obscene,” he gulped.
“Why you hypocriticial prude,” Yolanda snapped. “You don’t think them obscene when I parade around in less at our wife-swapping parties!”
“T-that’s different,” Bob blushed. “They’re our own intimate group of friends. Everyone important in town; the mayor and his wife, the members of the town council, they’ll all be at the Vansant’s.”
“The sight of your wife’s big tits ought to get you in solid with those creepy members of the town council … I know you’ve been dying to get on it for years,” Yolanda sneered, holding a soft arm up that was painful in the tight grip of the strong leather, methodically smoothing out the tiny wrinkles that had formed at elbow and wrist.
“Don’t your understand, it’s the WIVES?” Bob cried angrily. “Once they see how flagrantly you show off your breasts they’ll see to it that I never get on the council!” “I’m wearing this outfit, and that’s all there is to it,” Yolanda said with finality.
“I COMMAND you not to,” Bob shouted fiercely.
“I-I order you not … to-to wear that costume,” he stammered, the fierceness gone from his voice as Yolanda approached him, her black eyes dilated ominously.
He held his hand up to ward off his furious wife.
Yolanda pushed up on his elbow with her left hand and caught his fingers with her right, pulling back, bending the fingers viciously. Holding him powerless in the grip of her strong right hand, Yolanda chopped back with her left in a series of quick, stacatto-like blows, striking him on his face, a gloved mark showing with every brutal blow.
Her husband’s wild pain-racked shrieks thrilled and delighted Yolanda. Her stilt-heeled shoe went behind one of his feet. She tugged harder on his fingers and drove the heel of her left hand under his chin. Bob fell backward, almost loosing consciousness as his head cracked against the hardwood floor.
Yolanda leaped atop him with a cry of triumph, pressing her right knee against the upper portion of his right arm, then drove her lovely, dusky nylon encased knee into his left arm, smashing his elbow painfully against the floor.
She tightened the gloved fingers of her fight hand into a hard fist and drove hard, a magnificent sledge-hammer blow to his jaw. Again and again her right arm rose and fell, erasing the last vestiges of defiance from his face.
The blows were hurting terribly, drawing blood from his mouth and nose, creating swollen bruises that would show for weeks. He had to get away from the awful punishment. He heaved his muscular torso upwards, tossing her off of him; but when he rose unsteadily to his feet she brought him back down with a vicious karate chop to the back of his neck.
Her husband completely unconscious now, Yolanda quickly stripped him down to his cotton briefs. Then as his consciousness gradually began to return, she grabbed his hair and raised his battered head, slipping one full and glorious silken limb under it. Then, with deadly deliberateness, she clamped her other leg around his head, locking her slender ankles together and applying great pressure.
Gradually, as his senses returned, Bob was aware of both the pain and his prison of perfumed ivory smooth black nylon. Then he was aware that his nose and mouth were mashed against the lush black tendrils of her well manicured pelt and it was difficult to breathe.
“Kiss it, slave,” she commanded, applying more pressure. And you’d better put some enthusiasm into it or I’ll crush your ugly head like an egg shell.”
Yolanda rubbed her thighs back and forth over his face, the metalic clips on her garter straps raking cruelly over his ears and cheeks.
Like a docile dog trained to do his master’s bidding, the completely subdued Bob Peterson sent his long tongue into the fiery depths of his wife’s pussy, and the shrieks that his flailing tongue brought forth weren’t of passion, but of triumph.
The situation was so thrilling, so exhilarating to Yolanda, that she experienced her most fantastic climax ever. And after she did, she led Bob upstairs to the master bedroom, he trailing along after her like a faithful dog.
“I’m going into my dressing room, slave, and when I return you’d better be down on your hands and knees,” she commanded, and when she returned, a vicious looking paddle in a gloved right first, a length of strong rope in her left, she smiled when she saw him kneeling in the center of the bedroom, for now a pair of elegant crotch-high leather boots like Ethers were almost a certainty.
Yolanda’s arm seemed tireless as she flailed away at his tortured rump, creating terrible additional pain by jabbing her rapier-like heels into his rump, side, and arms.
Then, discarding the paddle and throwing her terrified husband face down on the floor, Yolanda quickly fettered his wrists. “Rise slave!” she commanded.
Bob did so obediently, weaving unsteadily in his weakened condition as he pleaded, “P-Please don’t hurt me any more, darling. Look at my blood, it’s all over your bedroom rug.”
“Damn my bedroom rug, come over here, slave,” Yolanda sneered, the perfect picture of a domineering woman as she stood with booted limbs widespread, one gloved hand on hip, the other pointing imperiously towards the bed. “Stand with your back to the bedpost.” As soon as he did so, Yolanda took the extra length of rope that was hanging from his wrists and tied it securely to the bedpost.
“This should hold you immobile for a while as I change into a costume more fitting for the occasion,” said the raven haired temptress as she delivered a powerful blow to his stomach.
As Bob hung suspended by the bedpost in a state of semi-consciousness, his spouse went to her dressing room and donned a costume that she removed from a closet.
There was something bizarre, even evil about it. She had gathered her hair in back into a huge bun, and a wide brimmed leather hat fitted her head. A loose-fitting gleaming black leather cape was gathered in the middle by a wide leather belt. Leather riding britches that fitted her full-fleshed legs like a second skin, and an armpit length pair of black kid gloves completed her outfit.
With the quickness of a jungle cat, Yolanda made her way down to the dungeon and released Ethel from her bonds, smiling triumphantly as she said, “It only took about ten minutes. He’s my complete and utter slave, so much so that he has an invisible ring in his nose.
“Oh really,” Ethel snorted as she rose and rubbed her gloved wrists where the rope had made the flesh tender and sore. “You still have your ex-maid Bertha’s uniform, don’t you?”
“You mean big Bertha, yes of course, why?” “Because if you can get Bob, or Bobette as we shall call him, to wear her uniform, then give him a going over down here, then you’ll have the boots.”
“Oh what a beautiful amazon of a maid he will make,” Yolanda giggled as the two ravishing females made their way hurriedly to the maid’s quarters and sorted out a uniform for Bob, including a huge pair of falsies that Bertha had worn since she was flat chested.
“Yolanda, sweetheart, you’re not going to make me wear those,” Bob cried when he saw the garments that Yolanda was carrying when the two women entered the room, barely noticing Ethel despite her gorgeous semi-nakedness.
“Shut up, not another word out of you slave,” Yolanda commanded as she took a wispy black satin and lace garter belt and wrapped it around Bob’s middle, Ethel kneeling before him and tugging a gossamer black stocking over a muscular leg.
As Yolanda clipped a garter strap to the black band at the top of the stocking, Ethel slipped his foot into a skyscraper-heeled black pump. It took fully ten minutes for the eager women to work a pair of long black kid gloves over Bob’s muscular arms, but Bertha’s arms had been muscular too, and finally they managed the difficult task.
Bob Peterson was a tall and well built man; but he was also slender and his body hairless. With the addition of the sensuous black hose and the stilt-heeled pumps, his limbs were now completely, utterly, feminine. The type of limbs that drive most men mad; wide at thigh and calf, narrow at knee and ankle.
When a bouffant blonde wig and frilly white cap, falsies, skin tight black satin uniform, and a little white apron were set in place, and a deft application of lipstick, mascara and eye-shadow, Bob indeed was a gorgeous blonde amazon of a maid, one who would stop traffic.
“Good gracious,” Ethel exclaimed in amazement, “if I didn’t know that there was a big penis dangling under that little apron, I’d kiss Bobette’s pussy!”
Yolanda didn’t hear her friend for she had left the room, returning shortly with a broom and a long bull whip with a heavy, ornate handle. “This room is terribly dusty, Bobette, sweep it clean,” she ordered, handing her gorgeous husband the broom.
As soon as Bob started to sweep, Yolanda sent the bull whip singing through the air, he shrieking in agony as the metalic tip sliced through his drum-tight uniform and lacerated his buttocks.
“Do you call that SWEEPING?” she shrieked. “I’ll teach you to be lazy in my household … to the dungeon with him!”
“Oh no, not down there,” Bob walled, terror in his eyes.
“You know I never go down there. I’ve pleaded with you to let me take those terrible devices out of there.”
“Now you’re going to find out why I haven’t agreed to your cry-baby pleas,” Yolanda snapped as she grasped her husband’s gloved arm and led him from the room, Bob finding the going very unsteady in the unfamiliar stilt heels.
A few minutes later Bob hung suspended in mid-air by means of a strong chain that girdled his middle. He was doubled up, his gloved wrists fettered to his ankles. A large stone block that was tied to his wrists also hung in midair, creating terrible pains in both his arms and legs.
“Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing to me?” he screamed … My arms and legs feel as though they’re coming out of their sockets … oh I can’t STAND the pain!” Goaded on by the Dante’s Inferno-like atmosphere of the torch lit dungeon, Yolanda sent the whip slicing repeatedly into her husband’s bottom-cheeks with a terrible ferocity. She lashed on without pity, ignoring his wild screams of agony, the leather whined shrilly, then exploding each time with a loud crack as it cut Bob’s uniform to tatters.
Yolanda made one fatal mistake. She was so caught up in her diabolical sadistic passion that she lashed away relentlessly till she was in a state of complete exhaustion, unable to raise her arm for one more blow.
“Release the slave,” she gasped, leaning against the dungeon wall for support.