Disgust

He was average. Average height, average build, average looks. Just
average. His suit was from an average shop, worn in an average way and
he probably, just probably, had an average job. Not that it mattered
because the moment he stepped through the door he ceased to be a
person. He was property.

She, on the other hand, was perfect. Perfect height - not too tall,
not too short. A perfect figure with curves in the right places, but
nothing so large or so small it made her look top of bottom heavy.
Perfect black hair, the right style of short bob to frame a face that
was a perfect canvas for her to paint on her performance.

"Sit down, David."

He sat on the plain wooden chair by the door and tried not to look
nervous, as he was supposed to. All first-timers were supposed to be
nervous when in the presence of perfection. It was a rule.

"You've had a week to think, so where shall we start?"

He looked at her, thought for a moment, then held back.

"If you don't open up this will not be a very good session for either
of us."

Bravery set in and he took a folded slip of paper from inside his
jacket and handed it to her. She snatched it, unfolded it and skimmed
it.

"OK," she agreed. "Why?"

"My wife," he said, then cleared his throat and started again. "My
wife doesn't approve of my fetish, in fact she won't be around me when
I'm, you know, playing."

"So you want me to act the way you'd like her to act?"

A pause while he tried to find some more courage. "If that's all right
with you, that is."

"Did you read the rules I sent you?"

"Yes."

"Recite them."

"I must always address you as Mistress," he said, trying to recall the
few words she'd sent him. "I must always look at you with my hands
behind my back and on my knees. I must obey you without hesitation or
query. I must not touch myself or cum without your permission. If I
wish to stop a session I must say 'red', if I wish to stop a
particular treatment I must say "amber.'"

"Not bad for a novice. But you forgot one."

He racked his brains.

"The one that says when I walk in to a room you will kiss my feet."

His cheeks exploded in to crimson.

"Right, from this moment on you are my slave, understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

He blushed again.

"Yes, Mistress."

"You do what I say, when I say it. Right?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Right. Follow me."

She took Mr Average upstairs and showed him the room. It was a plain
room, walls painted red, floor dark polished wood, shutters over the
windows and light from a number of uplights on the same wall as the
window. A large mirror fixed to the wall opposite reflected the light
back and made it seem a larger room that it was. There was nothing in
it, apart from a stylish leather chair, a large wire cage and a
wardrobe pushed in to one corner.

"You have your own clothes I take it?"

"Yes, Mistress," he said and held up his bag.

"Good. I'll give you ten minutes to change. Put your clothes in your
bag and put it in that corner. When you are dressed wait in the middle
of the room on your knees with your hands behind your back.
Understand?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"And you don't move until I specifically tell you."

"Yes, Mistress."

She turned and left him, locking the door from the outside for added
dramatic effect. Then it was in to her private room, her sanctuary in
the world of other people's fantasies.

The key, she'd learnt some time ago, was not to appear as their
fantasy figure the first time they met you, but to be natural and
sexy. That was why she'd worn the tight jeans and T-shirt, a neutral
choice that would hold his expectations in check until she was ready.

Planning meant that would not take long. Two outfits were waiting for
her. One, the long rubber dress with the plunging neckline, would wait
for another day. The other, PVC and cotton, would be more appropriate.

And so she dressed. The blouse first, a manly style cut off at the
bottom of her ribs to make it easier to manage. She only did the
bottom two buttons up, enough to hold it back and let her cleavage
come through. Then the leggings, tight to the knee before flaring a
little to accommodate her boots, had she chosen to wear them and and
not the open toed sandals with the twenty centimetre heel and four
centimetre platform.

Finally the corset. PVC, boned and designed to take five or six
centimetres off her waist. A few deep breaths and some struggling and
she managed to clip the hook and eye clasps at the front the way she
wanted them. All that remained was to pull the laces tight herself and
tie them off.

A check in the mirror to make sure her make-up hadn't smudged, then a
last twirl to make sure the outfit was sitting right. Perfect. And so,
with a sway in her hips, she left her bedroom and returned to where Mr
Average would, if he had done as he was told, be waiting for her.

She paused at the door and took a deep breath. It isn't, she'd once
mused, only the submissives who get a little flutter in their stomach
when they meet someone for the first time. Dominants are entitled to a
moment of hesitation as well. Then she unlocked and opened the door,
stepping in to her own playroom.

He was there as she had told him. In the middle of the floor on his
knees, his hands behind his back and his head raised. His body was
covered entirely in black matt rubber, showing off an average body
tone and a slight paunch. Only his face was visible, through a round
hole in the black rubber, an expression that combined the fear of a
fantasy being revealed with the expectation that it might become real.

"Oh my god," she said, her voice laced with disgust and the pauses
between each word lengthened for drama. "What the hell are you
wearing?"

"It's rubber, Mistress."

She walked round him slowly, looking at him, watching him watching
her. Her hand rested on his head and slipped easily over the rubber.
She felt him shiver beneath her touch and managed to hold back the
smile.

"It's like a condom," she said. "Are you wearing a condom?"

"The same material, yes, Mistress."

"That's not what I asked," she snapped and slapped him round the back
of the head. "Are you a prick in a condom?"

"Yes, Mistress."

She resumed her walk round him.

"What do you do at home? Dress up and look in the mirror?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Oh my god," she said, almost spitting the words at him. A sudden move
and she was so close to him he was little more than a dot on the floor
beneath her. "That is so sad. What is it?"

"Sad, Mistress," he said and his body shrunk a little.

She grabbed his jaw, sinking her fingers in to his skin. His head was
pushed right back so his face was just visible over the mounds of her
breasts.

"Does your wife know you do this?"

"No, Mistress."

"No. And shall I tell you why?"

"Yes, Mistress. Please."

She looked in to his eyes. There was expectation there, a longing to
hear her words reduce him to nothing.

"If your wife saw you like this she would laugh at you, wouldn't she?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Why?"

"Because I'm sad, Mistress."

She let him go, standing back and pointing to the large mirror.

"Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

He shuffled round on his knees until he was looking at himself.

"I see a man in rubber, Mistress."

"No," she snapped, slapping him round the head. "You see a silly
little pervert dressed up in rubber. Don't you?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"What are you?"

"A silly little pervert, Mistress."

There was a pause as she repositioned himself. He was now in the left
of the mirror and beneath her, giving her the perfect view of his
front in the mirror and his back from where she stood.

"Is this all you do in your rubber costume? Just look at yourself?"

"No, Mistress."

"Don't tell me you masturbate?"

"Yes, Mistress," he confessed, looking straight at her as he did.

She laughed.

"Oh christ, a pervert and a wanker. What a sad little wanker you are.
Come on, say it. 'I am a sad little wanker.'"

His shoulders dropped again as he said, "I am a sad little wanker," in
an almost inaudible voice.

"Louder."

"I am a sad little wanker," he repeated, almost at normal talking
level.

"I still can't hear you."

"I am a sad little wanker," he repeated for a third time. His cheeks
were scarlet now as he raised his voice. Other people might be able to
hear him.

"With feeling," she snapped and clipped him round the back of the head
again.

"I am a sad little wanker."

"Again."

"I am a sad little wanker."

She caught the tear in the corner of his eye. His fantasy was coming
true, but could he handle it. Time, perhaps, to change tactics.

"What do you think about when you wank? Or do you just stand there and
admire yourself?"

He sniffed back his tear.

"I think about other people, Mistress."

"Who? Men, women?"

"My wife, Mistress. I fantasise about my wife wearing rubber."

"Your wife?" she said, her voice edged with surprise. "Not happy with
being a sad little wanker yourself, you want your wife to be one as
well? Don't you love her?"

"Yes, yes I do, Mistress," he answered, stumbling over his words.

"But you're a sad and lonely pervert. And you want to make her one
too? How can you call that 'love'?"

His head dropped. She put her hand on top of his head and pulled it
back sharply, turning it so he was looking at her reflection.

"Does she know about your rubber?"

"No, Mistress."

She stepped up behind him, pulling him in to her stomach and holding
his head to look at himself again.

"You daren't. You tell her about this and she'll laugh in your face."
She punctuated her words with firm slaps to his cheeks. Each one made
him flinch, and made her smile. "Pathetic."

He fell on his hands when she pushed him away. His legs were opened as
he balanced himself, too good a target for her to ignore. She kicked
him, not hard, but in just the right place to bring a yelp from his
lips and put a wider smile on hers.

"Oh dear," she mocked. "Did I hurt the wanker's cock? What a shame, he
won't be able to tug it again tonight."

She kicked him again for good measure.

"Get up."

He pulled himself up on to his knees, not missing the opportunity to
look at himself in the mirror again. She just knocked him down again.

"Dozy idiot. Did I say you could look at yourself?"

"No, Mistress."

"No. I didn't. So why the hell did you think you could?"

"I'm.... I'm sorry, Mistress."

She spun and sat on him, her bottom on his shoulders, her hands
resting on his arse. She ran her hands over his rubber, stretched
tight over his buttocks. He shivered under her.

"God, look at this bottom of yours. All covered up in rubber. It looks
like a beach ball or something."

"Yes, Mistress."

She slapped him hard.

"Shut up, wanker."

Again she stroked him. Then she stood, looking at him again in the
mirror.

"Kneel and face me."

She looked down at him. His face was full of uncertainty and his body
wasn't sure if it was supposed to brace itself upright or droop in
subservience. The choice was made for him when she grabbed his face
and pulled it up.

"You are a sick wanker," she told him. "That silly face of yours stuck
out from all this rubber. Did you think I'd like to see your sad
face?"

He tried to drop his head, but she held firm, digging her fingers a
little deeper in to his jaw.

"Stop it, wanker. You don't drop that pathetic head until you are
told."

"Yes, Mistress," he managed to say through his crushed lips.

"Oh do shut up, wanker," she snapped. "I don't want to hear that weedy
voice of yours."

She pushed him away, managing to catch him with the flat of her hand
as he tumbled backwards. Leaving him on the floor and turned and went
to the chair at the back of the room. She say on it with her legs wide
open. A click of her fingers brought him crawling across the floor,
ensnaring himself between them. There was a look in his eyes that
suggested he was afraid. It made her feel good about herself that she
could reduce a man to trembling fear.

"You make me sick," she hissed and slapped him hard round the face.
She carried on slapping him, using each blow to underline a word,
"Kneeling in your rubber suit and wanking at every chance. You disgust
me."

"Yes, Mistress," he whimpered as the onslaught paused.

"Did you hear me? You disgust me."

"I disgust you, Mistress," he repeated. Tears were forming in his eyes
again.

Her hand gripped his jaw, pulling his face around. Her expression was
fixed on him, making him feel small and insignificant.

"You disgusting, pathetic little worm," she said and spat at him. The
globule hit him on the bridge of the nose and trickled quickly down on
to his cheek. "You aren't even fit to be called human. You're just a
disgusting perverted thing."

She spat again, catching him on the left cheek. Her hand tightened on
his jaw, forcing his mouth open, open wide enough for her to land her
third shot on his teeth.

"Please, Mistress. I'm so disgusting, Mistress. I am disgusting,
Mistress."

She knew what was happening. She knew the tears rolling down his face
and blending with her spit were fuelling his fantasy. She knew about
his furtive glances to the silver zip between her legs, the corset
round her waist, the bare skin between her breasts. She could see the
bulge in his suit twitching, and uneasy shifting of weight from knee
to knee.

"You want to wank, don't you?"

"Yes. Yes, Mistress."

"You want to get that thing out and tug on it in front of me?"

"Yes, Mistress. Please, Mistress."

She pushed him back with her hands, sending him sprawling on to the
ground again. The soul of her foot landed on his erection, pressing
down hard on it. She rubbed it up and down, wanking him with her shoe.

"I want you to cum right now," she told him. "Cum in that disgusting
little pervert suit of yours. Come on."

His face went crimson and his eyes bulged. She shook her head at him,
putting him off and prolonging his anguish. But that was the point.
The longer she put him off the longer he had to kneel there,
embarrassed and humiliated by his inability to perform.

"What's taking so long?" she demanded.

"I'm sorry, Mistress," he said, almost pleading with her. She could
see the desperation on his face.

"Get it out."

He fumbled down at his crotch, pulling at the zip, then at the rubber
until his erect penis was out in to the open.

"Oh, this is pathetic," she said.

The movement was swift and sudden. One moment he was kneeling, the
next he was on his back. She'd grabbed his legs, holding them up as
his weight rested on his shoulders. The view of his own penis, its
single eye glaring at him, was unobstructed.

"Pull on it," she snarled at him.

Nervously he moved his hand to his cock, shifting his weight to stay
balanced. He could see her looking at him from around the side of his
legs, laughing at him with her eyes. It made him more embarrassed, yet
more eager to please.

"Open your mouth, you sick pervert."

He did, and now he felt more uncomfortable as he waited for the
inevitable. It was almost there now, almost ready to complete his
degradation. And her smacks did nothing to help delay as his bottom
once more started to burn.

She laughed as his own juice splashed on to his face. It wasn't a
subtle laugh, but a belly deep one that rang round the room and made
him squirm with discomfort. What was worse? The bitter taste of his
own semen, dribbling down his face and over his chest, or the mocking
she delivered?

His legs landed with a thud on the floor.

"Stupid little wanker," she hissed at him. She was bent down over him,
glaring at him as he lay in his semi-dazed, post orgasm state. "I
suppose you think you're just going to stay there and let someone else
clear up that mess?"

She went to slap his face, then thought better of it. His face was
covered in his own cum, his chest too. Days of frustration must have
gone in to that one moment of ecstasy.

"Clean it up. You've got twenty minutes to get downstairs." she told
him, and stormed out of the room.

He lay there for a moment, enjoying being alone. He felt fulfilled,
satisfied. Then he rolled on to his stomach and, like the disgusting
pervert he was, licked the floor clean.