Madame Wanda’s eyes burned red, incandescent with fury she stormed over the table and returned to the Captive with a pair of nipple clamps, two bull clips attached together with a chain. “I’m beautiful aren’t I, almost flawless. Wanda gave another couple of tugs and he twisted and turned like rag doll idly tossed around by a kid. Wanda rolled her eyes back theatrically, “Of course…”
The Servant shuffled over to the table and picked up a studded wooden paddle which he obsequiously presented to his Mistress. After gulping air, the Captive had asked, ‘Who is Marge?”
“Marge,” Wanda had replied, torching a cigarette, “Is a very dirty girl.”
Smiling to oneself, Wanda allowed the night to soak her up, and she enjoyed the sweetest of dreams, her heels clicking in phantom recesses. A squat, bulky and powerful man with a shaven head, dressed in a white shirt with a Windsor cut and black tie, blood flecked white gloves, grey waistcoat and black trousers, the Servant had worked up a sweat preparing the Slave for Mistress Wanda and he had
