“Repeat after me: ‘Please, Mistress, I need this.’ But only if it’s true.”
“Mifhwehf , vwo, fweev.” Mistress, no, please.
“Is it not true? Because if it’s not, your body is lying to me. Is your body lying to me, marath’damane?”
Isabel didn’t trust herself to answer anymore even through the gag. Mistress Lanfear had never had particular trouble understanding her gag-talk through a simple ballgag anyway. She couldn’t stop herself from giving a helpless, noncommittal, treasonous mewl, though.
“Say it, marath’damane. Say it, Isari.”
Taking the phone call had been either the worst mistake she had made in two years, or the best decision she had made in her life. She could feel the tantalizing, rippling edges of subspace at the farthest edges of her vision, the farthest edges of her consciousness, what she hadn’t felt in so long. She had never felt it at all via a mere FaceTime call, or she probably would never have picked up.
“Fweev, Mifhwehf, I heew fis.”
“So you do, Isari. I’m glad to see that your mind has finally caught up with your body. Continue. Put your finger back where it was. Hike your dress higher.”
The second part of that actually proved harder than the first, for the dress was ankle-length, wide but not overly so. She managed it anyway. In the meantime, the first part was much easier, for her sex was hungry for attention, even if just from her own fingers. It had been longer than she wanted to admit, or to think about. The moment she touched her clit, the electric current went straight from there to her brain, bounced around inside the most carnal parts of her mind, and arced back down her body to every finger and toe. She arched her back wantonly, cursing the baggy maxi dress that made it hard to display her breasts they way they deserved, the way the eager sub in her wanted to display them, had once displayed them in person to the very woman now present only by screen. She thrust them forward as if determined to overcompensate for her drab choice of clothing, particularly given the daring and exquisite ensemble that Mistress Lanfear had found for the occasion. It didn’t matter that the enslaved damane in the series also wore drab gray dresses. What mattered was that her mistress wanted a show, and she wanted to give it. Her breathing was already fast and urgent through her nose, but she increased it further now, just to give that little extra prominence to the movement of her chest.
“That’s it, marath’damane. More than marath’damane. That simply means Those Who Must Be Leashed. But you, you were born for it. Oh, I wish I was there to put this on you. Don’t you?”
“Mmmm-hmmm!” Isabel—Isari—was already lost in the fantasy of exactly that, and had neither the breath nor the mental bandwidth to even attempt to form words around the rubber ball in her mouth. If she had had anything close to that mental bandwidth, she might have even used it in a last feeble attempt to turn aside, to pay attention to the red flags that by now were tattered remnants, banners left on a battlefield that had already been lost.
Mistress Lanfear held up the gleaming collar, open and facing the camera, so that it nearly filled the screen. Its impossibly high quality was even more apparent blown up to such size in 4K. Heavy and solid, delicately but ornately engraved, beautiful, teasing, taunting. “When I snap this closed, you know where to feel it, and you know what to do. Now, Isari.” She snapped the collar closed in front of the camera, and the sound echoed both in the Isabel’s room in Dolby Atmos, and in Isari’s rekindled submissive soul.
“Oh Gaahhhv oh Gaahhv oh Gaaaahhhhhvv!!”
The orgasm crashed over her body, which had been starving for it for beyond forever.
And the fire and lightning within her burst free of their dams as well.
There was only the briefest warning crackle, and Isabel, still writhing in the midst of her orgasm, turned to one side and focused as much of her attention as she could muster on an innocent floor lamp. Both the main bulb and the reading bulb shattered and died in sparkling blazes of glory, and the lamp itself flashed with coruscating electrical arcs before it toppled, leaving a scorched circle on the ground where the base had rested. Worse yet, the outlet in the wall, which fortunately was just an exposed box backed by exposed brick rather than set into drywall, sparked and a thin rectangle of flame outlined it and began to creep up the conduit that ran along the wall. Isabel writhed still more and threw herself onto her back in a lewd, undulating mockery of a bridge pose, but there was no relief there with her eyes pointed skyward. The pendant lamps hanging from the ceiling of her little industrial loft sparkled and shattered as well, and one fell crashing onto her breakfast bar.
She forced her eyes closed, simply by instinct, even though she knew this never worked, because the lack of sight only heightened the strength of the orgasm that she was still in the midst of. Mistress Lanfear had blindfolded her more than once during their summers together for that very reason, among others. A very distant corner of her mind was aware that she was also not exactly doing anything to help regain her focus with her finger still teasing her clit even as the disaster unfolded around her, but she would have had trouble enough stopping at this point even if her mistress had commanded her to—and Mistress Lanfear had commanded quite the opposite. And both her young, healthy, sex-starved body and whatever impossible, hungry energy hid within her had needed this release for so, so long.
Something she had still never been able to describe rippled and rolled out from her in all directions. She felt the yoga mat burn beneath her, and her smelled the smoke. She leapt up, her eyes snapping open again. She quickly shed the dress, every inch of the hemline burning, and cast it onto the already-doomed mat. The twill storage box in which she had kept her mistress’ toys and other mementos smoldered and then burst into flame. She grabbed the closest of the three separate fire extinguishers that she kept in her little flat, and, still naked and gagged, quickly turned the foam on the blaze. At first, it did no good, like throwing water on an electrical fire, as the torrent of energy continued to rage. It literally hurled the foam back from the mat and the dress and the box, scattering it across the room, even on the TV, where it looked like it landed in Mistress Lanfear’s midnight hair, and just above her right eyebrow. The items on the floor burned to ash, ten times as quickly and completely as any normal fire would have consumed them, leaving nothing but blackened pieces of metal from some of the toys in the memento box. Only then, as if the energy was satisfied that it had already devoured what it could, did the firefighting foam begin to land and prevent the fire from spreading any further. With the energy subsiding, Isabel finally dared look at the circuit breaker box by the front entrance, hurrying over to it and deactivating the circuit to the outlet where her martyred lamp had been plugged in. The electrical fire had crept a yard or so up the conduit on the wall, but she was now able to turn the firefighting foam on that as well. Without the electricity–or anything less explicable–feeding it, the last little blaze was extinguished in seconds.
Isabel turned back towards Mistress Lanfear. A partial silence fell. There was still a faint crackling sound in the air, and it wasn’t coming from the ruined pendant lamps or anything in particular. The odor of smoke was there, too, but it was surprisingly thin, only a trace amount from the burned conduit. Isabel’s dress, yoga mat, and under-couch storage box had burned so completely that there was nothing left to rise as smoke. As it was, the odor of smoke was thin enough that it couldn’t hide the rich, musky smell of Isabel’s own arousal, which also glistened on her now-bare pussy.
The TV and phone were both somehow undamaged. Mistress Lanfear had stood by now and stepped back from her own camera, so she and her sul’dam dress were visible to her chest. She had crossed her arms over her chest, and the silver bracelet was visible on her left wrist, with the cord leading down to towards where the a’dam would be resting, coiled, on her hip. The woman on the screen had not said a thing the entire time. Her expression now was unreadable, but at the very least, it was not shocked.
“Aaaeee,” Isabel moaned through the gag. God, even now, that sounds so hot! Oh God, please tell me she’s not going to push me to round two after this. Because I’d probably do it. As powerful a release as that orgasm had been, she would have gladly ridden that wave even further if she hadn’t had to jump up to save her loft, and possibly her building. It wasn’t completely out of her system. She shuddered at the memory of continuing to finger herself even as the power surge had begun. Part of her couldn’t believe she’d mustered the willpower to stop even as the yoga mat beneath her and the dress she was wearing had caught fire. She quickly unbuckled the back buckle of the gag, and gently squeezed the ball out of her mouth. “Addie, why?”
There was another partial silence. Then Mistress Lanfear’s face softened and warmed, and there was Adalynn again. “Because, Isabel Desiree Bauer, you needed that even more than I did. And, unless my eyes greatly deceive me, you could still do with a little bit more. Maybe even a lot. I know I could.”
Isabel shrank slightly in humiliation, both at the truth of the words and at how easily Adalynn had apparently seen it even through nothing but a phone camera. However, she had vented enough at this point now to not fall quite so effortlessly under Adalynn’s spell anymore. “This isn’t funny!” She gestured around her apartment, the ball gag still in her hands. “Look at this!”
“I’m looking at it,” Adalynn replied. “And I will take care of it. And you.”
“Addie, you can’t help with this!”
“Bullshit. I’ve spent the last three and a half years at MIT, two and a half at least, working on ways. You wouldn’t even believe the sacrifices I’ve made, the pseudoscientific rabbit holes I’ve wasted time on here, the rules I’ve broken, the things I’ve had to hide, for no reason beyond wanting to touch you again.”
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