Human Bondage – Volume Twelve

Human Bondage – Volume Twelve

The enslavement of man to woman has been the subject of countless books down the ages, from Masoch to Maugham, and shows no sign of slowing down.

Now, FDC bring you the “Human Bondage” collection, with the books in each volume describing the gradual and insidious fall to servitude, and the sexual and domestic conditioning of unwilling and once-proud men, to all too willing – and sometimes evil – women.

The twelfth volume in the collection contains two works, opening with Wilson Henshaw’s tale of fetish and erotic mind control, “The Toe Ring”; followed by Ms Rachilde’s story of a VERY unwilling domestic chattel, “Manservant”.

EXCERPTS

“The Toe Ring”

As he had been taught, he sucked each of her brown toes in turn that his saliva might supply her nails with an extra lustre. He was a long way past any feeble and futile demur he knew would only win him her displeasure. Knowing also that, if she were displeased his wife would be sure to follow suit.

And, given the history he had shared with the former love of his life, punishment at her hands seemed even more excruciating and humbling than the considerable shame he felt at being chastised by a younger woman.

And a woman of colour, to add to his sense of personal and manly disgrace.

The sing-song, almost Welsh in nature, English in which she addressed him also a matter of some personal angst and debasement.

Angst and debasement, he felt now as her words drifted down to him as he sucked upon the big-toe of her left-foot from a kneeling position on the kitchen floor below her.

“You must consider yourself favoured,” she told him, pomposity all the more outrageous for its certainty it would not be taken to task by the wretch at whom it was aimed. “It is not all servants who are favoured by their Malkin enough to be allowed to serve in such a way.”

The delightful prospect of serving her in sections to the wildlife in the zoo at Regents Park presented itself to him once again and, also again, he wondered just how it was she managed to keep him not just at her feet without any possibility of retaliation, but deferential to all women he met. His own wife most of all.

“There are many theories about where and when nail polishing actually began,” she told him in that hatefully accented English, this as his thoughts bemoaned the onslaught of yet another of the low-caste and hatchet-featured woman’s educational reveries. “It would appear, however, India was where the practice first originated. When you suck upon my superior Indian toes that they may be bright and vivid before I allow you to colour them, you are privileged to be playing your part in a custom thought to date back well over 5,000 years.”

He made no reply, conversation necessarily limited by the presence of the toe around which his tongue was currently wrapped; though his thoughts bridled at the knowledge this low-born and evil woman truly considered herself his superior.

The suggestion offered by a more realistic inner voice that she would be hard-pressed to feel any other way, given the deal of almost total control she exercised over him, he allowed to be swamped by the more immediate concerns of his eviscerated male pride and the various scenarios of vengeance forever writ large across his inner diary.

“Soon,” she continued, the magnificent eyes which were so out of keeping with the rest of her features fair dazzling with the vitality lent them by her complete and utter control over the demoralised and abjectly beaten Englishman at her feet, “if your progress warrants it, you will have earned the honour of serving Miss Christina in such a fashion. Perhaps even Miss Cora, should she find the time and be receptive to having her feet attended by you.”

He felt himself begin to tear up at the prospect of having the woman he had married watch him perform such an emasculating and repulsive chore and fought the urge back.

It was enough for his tormentor to degrade him, without aiding and abetting her in what she seemed to consider her life’s work.

But then why, if he felt as degraded as he did, and hated the woman with an impotent passion, a passion he could not act upon and felt must end in his insanity, was his cock tenting out the black-trousers that served as a part of his working “uniform”?

The silky smooth skin of the shapely calf-muscles he could see above his mouth and the nail shining tongue within it; calf-muscles upon legs that shared nothing in common with his preconceptions of Indian women with thin, rickety lower limbs; going some way to answering his question.

As did the nipped in waist over which flowed her vivid pink sari and the magnificent breasts contained within it.

But that face…?

And the cess-pit of a mind contained behind it…?

*****

“Manservant”

The face staring down into his eyes was familiar and unfamiliar at one and the same time; though each had known the other many times in such an intimate way in his pursuit of lust and her desire for the same – with the added necessity of earning a living, in the woman’s case.

The expression beaming down to him, as her fabulous body sat astride his own seemed, he would decide after the event, like a final and irrevocable valediction.

As the woman rode his hard-cock, in no hurry to reach her destination and simply disappear like so many of her calling, her vivid green eyes – in pretty but street-hardened features, unimpeded by the tresses of her silken blonde hair she had piled and fastened atop her head, stared down into his as if making a goodbye.

That she was only a common or garden variety lamp-post prostitute, whose living had been decimated by the incomprehensible onset of the Great War with Germany and the absence – some never to return – of her previous clients, did not mean her ears were not in perfect working order.

And prostitutes, of courtesan or lamp-post variety, could always be relied upon to have a finger on certain aspects of the social pulse.

She had been working on him for nearly an hour now, but there was no hurry; having been paid, after all, for the whole of the night. An extravagance she sensed might be his last for some time to come – perhaps ever. And one he appeared in no hurry to bring to a close.

Or she either, for that matter.

Why would she be?

Especially when his trade and what it bought was so dear to her; being as it was over the last few years a welcome piece of commerce and one of her more enjoyable adventures in the world of flesh-for-sale.

A no strings – apart from the cash he handed over when their coupling was exhausted – commitment that suited them both.

The longer his cock remained in the embrace of the whorish cunt, she realised – the same cunt that was still, amazingly tight, given its less than pristine condition; and he was at least average in both thickness and in length – the less time had his thoughts to devote themselves to what the future held in store for him.

Four times now, she had brought him slowly to the edge of climax and then slowed her pace just enough to fetch him back from the precipice; each time sensing the tightening of his body that prefaced an explosion and taking steps to… soothe… the detonator. Men to her had been made transparent through usage and required no words of warning from them to know when their all-important eruption was set to take place. And especially not with this one.

He had told her that she was the best he had ever had. Not the most beautiful, mind; but certainly the best. Candour in regard of her looks that convinced her he was serious when it came to her qualities in other areas.

Not for the first time this night, she gazed down into those handsome features and wondered – given the word on the street – how long they would remain in such a condition. Just how stupid, inebriated, or both, had he been to get involved with…

She gave a mental shrug and warned herself to stick to her long-held code-of-conduct and “not get involved”.

A difficult feat for her to manage in his case; despite telling herself over and over that he was just another – and rarer by the day – meal ticket.

One she could, under different circumstances, have felt feelings for, but…

Again, she closed off an avenue of thought she knew from the past to be unrewarding for her and decided instead not to revisit the inevitable cul-de-sac into which thinking of such a kind inevitably led her.

Far better to concentrate upon the none too onerous job in hand of riding the body and cock of a handsome man and allowing fate’s fickle hand to do its work.

And without dignifying it with her own thoughts of regret and remorse.

Knowing they had at least until morning and that his powers of recovery – even at his relatively advance age – remained considerable, she decided finally to allow him his orgasm.

And not only because she was becoming fatigued.

Despite her calling, the magic of a man’s orgasm and the power it endowed to the woman delivering it had yet to lose its… uniqueness… for her; no matter how short-lived her feminine triumph; and each time a man erupted at her urgings she felt a sense of empowerment for which she would have assassinated guiltless Presidents were she promised the feeling would last.

And assuming, of course, that she could locate an innocent leader of the kind.

Still staring into his eyes and again realising she would miss him, she again began to ride his ramrod with increasing pace as his eyes fixated themselves upon the stupendous breasts that swayed in rhythm to her manipulation of him.

Leaning forward, she thrust her hands into the pillow either side of his head and lowered her head to his; the hairs on his cheat tickling her bottle-hard nipples and taking her closer towards her own crisis; the intensity with which her eyes bore into his reflecting the sense of triumph she always felt when conquering or about to conquer this particular…

Animal!

Again she sensed the tell-tale signs of his loss of control; but this time, instead of slowing down she began to buck upon his cock with greater speed and intensity as he fought the orgasm she was now forcing upon him. Delaying and delaying until further delay was impossible, exactly in the way she had taught him, that his release might be both more powerful and of greater duration before he spilled his manhood into the waiting receptacle of her well-used pussy. His erupting inside her in such a way of no matter since a botched abortion had turned future childbirth from yet one more avenue to cul-de-sac.

“Yes, yes, yes…” he screamed before her equally urgent lips mashed down onto his and silenced his vocal entreaties.

Her biting of his lower lip was all it took to send him over the edge; his departure over it taking her with him as both became a galvanic coupling of hyper-sensitised flesh and he pumped the contents of his balls into her pussy – and with exactly the force and need she had striven in the past hour or so to extract from him.

It was only a minute or so later, both side by side on the mattress as they recovered enough for further acceptable sexual hostilities, that both their thoughts returned to what the morrow would bring.

Both with their own take upon what was to come.

She with a sense of loss and the sure knowledge the night they were experiencing together would be their last.

He with a sense of impending doom and the equally certain knowledge that he could not escape what his stupidity had set in train for him…

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