Free SlavesofMistressDespoiler by Bruce McLachlan Page B

taxing the supply of breath he had snatched before he was deprived of access. When a route to acquire was once more gained, he gasped and spluttered, the interior of the hood still soaked and draining away the flood. Shivering slightly, he strained to draw free, only to have his efforts defeated by the demanding burden of the Mistress and his awkward position. When the roaring signal of the flush came again, he hauled at his cuffs, suddenly having to purloin a breath as he was dunked once more.
    Forewarned of the flood, the snagged breath was devoutly held to make this easier on him. The searing impact of a crop onto his rear had him unleash an underwater yelp that lost a great stash of his air. The throbbing burn of the trench she had burned into him pounded in his flesh, making him strive to break free so he might nurse the injury, but he was too secure. The chain links rattled upon the pitiless mooring, and his boots squeaked upon the tiles in vain.
    The waters lazily withdrew and he sucked in great gasps of air. The moisture he rashly drew down with his much-craved lungfuls had him break into coughs and racking hacks.
    The deluge fell the moment the tank had refilled, the noisy gurgle ending and being replaced immediately by the tumbling roar of a swirling flood. No sooner had this dense monsoon drowned him than the crop fell, applying a fierce hack that had him fighting to keep his air. Another followed, and another, the terrible ferocity causing him to cry out and squander precious breath. Fighting her condemning rear, straining his back and neck to get free, he was assured that he would drown, and only thoughts of getting free filled his mind.
    The unforgiving edges of the cuffs dug at his skin, curtailed in their cruelty only by the opera gloves. Bouncing on the tiles had bruised his knees. His kicking legs were beset with burning swats of her lithe weapon. He could do nothing in his panic save await the draining of the bowl, and when air became available, he gulped it down and wheezed softly afterwards.
    “P..please, Mistress Lynn, no more,” he begged, unable to brook this level of callous misuse any longer.
    “Be silent, slave!” she growled, and applied her weapon. Striking into his jolting rear, she tracked the oscillating target and slammed heavy-handed blows into it.
    Yelling into the bowl, he announced his pain fully, pleading for mercy as she thrashed him and then without warning he was lost under the ocean of the waters. This was by far the hardest occasion to endure because he had virtually no breath left. He had to wait an eternity of seconds before he could once more find access, and as his face burned from starvation even against the cold waters. She continued to beat him, causing him to writhe, expelling energy when he needed to keep calm and preserve such imperative supplies.
    The level dropped and he swilled the new air. The lungfuls were a life giving elixir to his starved senses. The sight of the nebulous bowl rolled in and out of focus from the acts of drowning she was perpetrating with indifference, his mind warped by denial and hysteria.
    “Now, you won’t be so sloppy in future will you, slave?” she asked, ensuring he knew this had been a lesson for his failings as a maid.
    “No, Mistress Lynn,” he whispered softly, and yelped when the crop struck his collected welts once more.
    “What was that?”
    “No, Mistress Lynn,” he repeated with more volume.
    She paused and then lifted herself from her exhausted seat. Deploying the key to free his hands, a riot of pins and needles played within his fingers and palms. His hands remained slack, the control over them diminished by the contusions dwelling beneath the latex.
    With the leash, she dragged him out on his pummelled knees and walked before him. The bane that had been her rear hovered before him, taunting him as an object of worship and extreme punishment. She stopped suddenly and let him pause at her side.
    Hauling his head up so