Mistress Rosa: Chapter 2: The Demise of Harry
Harry’s life has been grey and predictable. Marriage and kids, a job in
accountancy, and now at the age of fifty, a miserable divorce. So now he’s on his
own again. He’s found a modest house in the countryside to live, where he hopes
to restart his normal, uneventful life.
One of his new routines is to take a stroll before going to bed, out of the village
and up to the crest of a little hill, where he has a splendid view of the stars. He’s
a bit of an amateur star-gazer and the view of the night sky here is impressive.
Along the path up to the hill he’s noticed there’s a modern house, tucked behind
some bushes and trees, with glass doors at the back that look out onto a small
secluded terrace. The blinds are usually closed when he takes his stroll, but
occasionally when he passes they are open, and he has a view into a large room
empty with a grey carpet and a white fur rug. He has no idea who lives there,
but he’s curious.
One night, during his walk, he sees the blinds are open and someone lying on
the rug, watching a tv screen. He stops and stares. It looks like they’re naked. He
leaves the path and takes a few steps through the bushes to get a better view.
Now he can clearly see that the coloured lights from the screen are reflecting off
a young woman lying on the rug in front of it, and she is wearing nothing but a
short tight black rubber skirt. She’s propped her head against a fluffy white
cushion and she’s staring at the screen. Harry is intrigued and takes a few steps
closer. He puts out his cigarette. He doesn’t want her to look out and see the red
flame. She’s pretty too, young and slim with long jet black hair and breasts he
cannot seem to take his eyes off. He feels embarrassed. He’s well hidden in the
bushes but still. He stands and watches. She’s writhing gently on the floor and
the undulations of her body are slow and sensuous. He cannot see the expression
on her face but it’s clear to him she’s aroused as she lies there watching the
screen.
It must definitely be porn, he thinks. Whatever she’s watching seems compelling.
He stands there for ten minutes and she doesn’t look away for a moment. The
flickering light makes him think it isn’t porn, more like a light show with strobes.
After twenty minutes he feels guilty about being there and leaves.
The following night he’s back on the path. The blinds are open again and she’s
lying in the same spot, glued to the screen, wearing her shiny black skirt. He
steps through the bushes and manages to get closer this time, so close he can
hear her moans of pleasure through the window, so close he can see that she has
covered her body with oil and is rubbing her erect and oily nipples with her
fingers.
Harry tries to move round so he can get a glimpse of what she is watching. It’s
the same bright flickering light. Maybe it’s a rock concert. He gets as close as he
dares, but the screen is angled so he still cannot see what is mesmerising her so
much. He stands there in the shadow and listens closely. Apart from her
occasional moans, he can hear a dull, low pitched drone coming from the screen.
It’s not a rock concert. He’s mystified. What is turning her on so much? He in
turn is aroused by her body, by her beautifully shaped breasts and the way she is
writhing slowly and seductively on the floor just a few feet away from him. Soon
he feels his stiff cock, bursting to break free from his jeans. He’s tempted to sit
down in the dirt and jerk off.
Twenty minutes later he’s still staring at her through the window. Nothing has
changed, only now he’s aching to come. He manages to tear himself away, and
when he returns to his house, he immediately jerks himself off. The orgasm is
overwhelming and divine as he imagines himself on that fur skin rug, having oily
sex with the woman with the rubber skirt.
The following night the blinds are closed. He’s annoyed. He turns back straight
away. He doesn’t even look up at the stars. The blinds stay closed for another
week and he’s both frustrated and disappointed. His rational mind says it’s for
the best. He’s no voyeur after all.
Three weeks later he’s taking his nightly walk and once again he glances down
through the bushes to see if there’s light from the house. He’s ever hopeful but
again it’s dark. He walks on up and smokes his cigarette and thinks of other
things. As he passes the house one the way back down the path the lights in the
house go on. He stops. He watches the window. The blinds are closed but light
seeps through. He waits. The blinds open. His heart misses a beat. His mouth is
dry. He sees her standing at the window, looking out into the blackness. He steps
back behind a tree, even though there’s no way she can see him. It’s pitch black
outside and he’s still on the path. He waits. She moves away from the window.
She fetches her cushion and lies down on the rug.
Harry steps closer. As he creeps gingerly down the slope of bracken he snaps a
twig with his foot, and panics for a moment for fear she might have heard it.
He waits, frozen for several moments before peering out from behind a tree.
She’s still there. Her skin glistens with oil, just as before, but this time she has
turned the screen around a little and she is kneeling down in front of it as she
stares, no less intensely than before. Again she’s aroused and masturbating.
Harry moves closer, into a position where at last he can see the screen. He stares
at a spiral. Is that is? He watches the spiral, waiting for something to happen. He
sees images flashing up between the spiral patterns, so fast he cannot quite work
out where they are. He feels compelled to get closer to the window so he can get
a better view. He steps over a small fence steps and onto the terrace. He stands
close to the wall of the house, peers into the room from an angle, and now he
can see the spiral clearly and can hear the faint low-pitched drones from the
screen more clearly. He waits, mystified. More images flash out, more bright
colours, more weird, psychedelic patterns. His eyes start to feel fuzzy. He feels
hot, horny, confused. There’s something hypnotic about the video. It’s very
relaxing, it’s stopping him from thinking. He drops to his knees. His mouth drops
open. Soon he is drooling, but he is no longer conscious of what he is doing. He
unzips his fly and finds himself rubbing his cock hard. For several minutes he is
lost in trance. He hears the woman break out into laughter and suddenly he
snaps out of trance. Suddenly he’s afraid. He puts his cock away, clambers back
to the path and hastens home, swearing he’ll never go back.
Three days later he’s out strolling again. The blinds are shut. He’s deeply
annoyed and it sends him into a bad mood for days. He tries hard to convince
himself it’s for the best. There are angels are looking after him, he thinks.
However they don’t stop him taking his nightly stroll and when the blinds are
open again, he’s back on the terrace, kneeling in the same place, with his cock
out, staring at the spirals on the screen. It feels so good, being mindless and
horny, unable to think, without a care in the world, repeating the phrases the
video instructs him to repeat.
‘I am mindless and blissfully happy.
I am a horny slave
I obey my mistress...’
He’s there for half an hour and when a message appears on the screen
instructing him to jerk off, he jerks off and his spunk splashes against the window.
He collapses onto the concrete floor, exhausted and dazed. He recovers his
mind, his breath, his sanity, zips up his fly and hurries home.
He manages to resist going out for his walk the following night and then luckily
for the next three nights it’s cold and raining hard outside so he stays in.
But the day after that it’s a mild dry night, and he puts on his coat. He cannot
resist. Minutes later he’s on the terrace again. This time she isn’t there. There’s
just the tv screen, which is now turned round so that it faces the terrace. It’s just
for him now. He’s hooked.
From then on the nightly ritual continues. He gets aroused late afternoon in
anticipation and by the time he’s reached the terrace and in kneeling in front of
the glass doors, he’s already very horny. Each night the video is different and
each time it lasts a little longer. At the end of each video the message flashes
onto to the screen instructing him to jerk off, and immediately he does what he is
told. A small jam jar has been placed on the floor by the window, and Harry
finds himself jerking off into that.
And then two weeks later he’s walking up the path and sees the house is again
dark and the blinds are closed, and again he’s lost, in pain, aching for the
escape he craves and is being denied. There’s no logic to this, he thinks. He’s
addicted and tonight he cannot watch the videos. It’s irrational. He paces up and
down the path for half an hour, like a dog on heat, hoping the blinds will open
and he can slip back again into blissful trance. The blinds however, stay shut and
it’s cold so finally he trudges angrily back home.
The next few weeks are agony for Harry. Each night he checks but the house
remains empty he blinds stay closed. He’s in a foul mood every day and drinks
heavily each night.
One Sunday morning he finds himself walking up the hill. It’s warm and sunny.
He peers through the bushes, hopeful as ever. There’s no sign of life around the
house. Only he sees that she’s hung her black rubber skirt on the washing line.
He stares at it for twenty minutes, trying to work out what it means. Why hang
out a rubber skirt to dry? For the rest of the day he cannot get the rubber skirt
out of his mind. He goes back the following morning and the skirt is still there,
pegged to the washing line.
For some reason he gets the idea into his head that he is expected to take the
rubber skirt and wear it himself. The idea disgusts him. He’s never worn women’s
clothing before. But then he cannot get the idea of it out of his mind. He tries to
resist this perverted thought, to distract himself from the image of the black
rubber skirt that floats into his mind whenever he sees rubber, or touches
something soft and shiny.
Then problems flare up at work, things start to get really stressful for him, his
blood pressure rises and just when he is about to flip, he thinks of the black
rubber skirt and it’s a welcome distraction. It happens again and again to the
point where all he has to do is think of the skirt and he feels his shoulders drop,
his body relax and his mind grow calm, and the moment he finds himself alone,
he has to resist the urge to get down on his knees, open his mouth wide and start
edging. He feels he must resist. Something more powerful than him is taking over.
It’s too dangerous to go down that path. He’s a very average, man, and like
most average men, he has to be rational about everything. This is all very new to
him.
Then one day an idea suddenly hits him.
What if I don’t have any choice? What if those weird sparkly videos have re-
programmed me mind some way, and I can’t do anything about it?
He has no idea why the idea of having no choice arouses him so much. Harry
has always been a man who is always in control, always cautious, and convinced
he is alone responsible for his own destiny. Now he imagines a different reality.
Supposing it’s all out of his control now and he just accepts his new destiny?
What if those weird hypnotic videos have installed new software in his brain,
making him think of doing things that would normally repulse him? The more he
thinks about this, the more exciting life becomes, and the reckless desire to let go
and accept no more responsibility for his actions, becomes stronger.
He starts to imagine a voice in his head.
‘Take the skirt. Wear it. Wear it for me.
You are a slave now. This is what you have to do.’
This idea arouses him too. And as the days pass he cannot get it out of his head
that all resistance is futile. He starts to accept that he is weak. It’s not so bad. He
begins to accept that he is happier being a slave. And if he is happier, why
resist?
Each night he takes his walk, the house is dark. He cannot stop thinking of all the
possibilities. New fantasies keep coming into his imagination. Supposing she
wants him to be her sissy slave? He has no idea where this idea comes from.
He imagines the videos put that idea into his head as well, and this arouses him
more. He starts to imagine who the woman might be. Was she also hooked by
these videos? Or was it a trick to entice him to watching them? And that time she
broke into laughter - was she not laughing because she knew he was there
outside?
He decides that she is his her mistress and she is putting him under her spell. It
becomes an irresistible idea and every time he thinks about it, he gets aroused.
Her name pops into his head. Rosa. He doesn’t know why but he feels it must be
her name.
‘Rosa, Mistress Rosa, my Mistress Rosa.’
So one night he sneaks down through the bushes onto the terrace and takes the
skirt off the washing line. The moment he puts it on, the rubber against his skin
makes him feel soft, feminine, gentle, passive, submissive, safe, and most of all
aroused. He finds himself walking around his house wearing nothing but the
skirt, rubbing against the tip of his cock. He finds himself repeating the words
‘Thank you, Mistress’ long into the night till finally he is overcome with such a
powerful rush and has the most amazing orgasm of his life. The following day he
puts the rubber skirt on under his clothes, and spends the day at the office unable
to concentrate on anything, much to the irritation of his colleagues. For the first
time in his life, he doesn’t care.
The house remains dark for a month. He tries to work out why. What has he done
to be denied his pleasure. Another idea comes into his head. Maybe he has to fill
the jar with his spunk before she lets him watch more videos. It’s a crazy idea.
But he cannot let it go. It’s what was meant to be. This is a test. The blinds will
stay closed till the jar is full.
That night he knows what he must do. He puts on the rubber skirt. His erection is
instant. He slips on the rest of his clothes, goes up the path and back to the
terrace. He goes down on his knees in front of the window. He gets out his cock
and starts to edge. He repeats the mantras he’s learnt from the videos, over and
over again, and when he’s repeated them a hundred times he allows himself to
jerk off into the jar. The orgasm is intense and sublime, leaving him delirious and
semi-conscious for several minutes afterwards. This happens every night for three
weeks, by which time he has found the courage to walk out of the house wearing
just the rubber skirt and lipstick, and his spunk has reached the rim of the jar,
His hope and prediction comes true when he next walks up the path, and is
relieved and comforted to see those flickering lights ahead, through the bushes.
His heart pounds. Now he is really to go to the next stage. He climbs through the
bushes. He kneels down to face the screen, and begins to stare into the bright
sparkling spirals. He edges for an hour, repeating the same mantras, transfixed
by the flashing images, numbed by the frequency of the low pitched drones, lost
in blissful trance. The video ends. He stares blank at the screen, eyes glazed,
mouth open and drooling.
She appears at the window. Now she is dressed in a black rubber suit that covers
her entire body. Her face is masked. Her nipples form rigid bumps on her soft
rounded rubber breasts. She slides open the glass doors.
‘Good little dolly. Soon you will be ready. Soon we shall be together. Soon you
will be dressed for me in a shiny black rubber dolly suit, with big black rubber
breasts. Now you can come for me, my little rubber dolly.’
Harry’s mind is blank. His body trembles and then he comes and the spunk
gushes from his cock, into the jar, till it spills over the lip and dribbles onto the
concrete floor.
She closes the door. The blinds are shut and house falls into darkness. Moments
later he gets up and staggers home.
Harry’s life starts to change radically after that. He loses his job because he
cannot be bothered to keep up with the workload. It is no longer unimportant to
him. Now he knows what Mistress Rosa has planned for him, he can think of
nothing else. He’s going to be her rubber dolly slave, whether he likes it or not.
And now he believes this, he’s decided that normal life is not worth the effort. He
spends hours on line, staring at images of beautiful black rubber clad figures with
huge rubber breasts and is happy knowing that soon he too will be one of them.
He orders the suit, complete with mask and extra large rubber breast
attachments. He stops answering his phone because he grows weary of having to
explain why he lost his job, and what his plans are for the future, tired of
pretending to be ordinary, when in truth he knows he has been chosen to
become a rubberdoll slave. He has no idea why he believes this, except that the
fantasy keeps him aroused, weak, submissive and safe.
He stays in his house except for essential visits to the shops for food. Inside his
house he wears the rubber dress all day. One morning he gets the idea that
Mistress Rosa wants him to wear red lipstick, and cannot get the idea out if his
head for days, till finally he has to go and buy some. Each night, when it's late,
he knows he must walk up the path wearing just the rubber skirt and lipstick. He
must go climb down to the terrace, kneel down in front of the video screen and
start edging.
When the rubber-suit finally arrives he puts in on. The rubber feels so hot, he can
only just stop himself from coming the moment he is zipped up tight inside it.
The soft black latex gloves fit perfectly. He’s ordered thick black rubber boots
with heels and they send him into rapturous joy the moment he’s zipped them up.
The mask is shaped to make his face feminine, and there are holes for him to see
and a large hole for his mouth. Once fully dressed, he stares at his new image in
the mirror. He likes the way his lips protrude from the tight rubber opening in the
mask and remembers the lipstick. One the lipstick is applied, he paces up and
down in his new black rubber heels, till he can walk like proper rubber dolly.
That night he creeps out, dressed in his new rubber suit. He reaches the terrace
and kneels down. He unzips the tight rubber zip fly and pulls out his stiff cock
and starts to rub. The video starts, the spirals begin and soon he is drooling
again, mouth open, mindless, oblivious to everything.
The video continues for four hours. Harry remains on his knees, and keeps
staring vacantly through the glass door at the screen from start to finish. As dawn
breaks the video ends and she appears, dressed in a long white dressing gown.
She slides open the glass door and says,
‘Enter, my little rubber dolly slave. I think you’re ready now.’
Harry crawls slowly into the room. She closes the doors and shuts the blinds.
The room is dark. She whispers in his ear.
From now on, my little rubber dolly, you must keep that cock hard for me, keep
that mouth open, keep drooling, and keep saying to yourself - ‘I am a little
rubber dolly slave’ over and over again.
Harry starts to mumble the words, incoherently, since his mouth remains open
and his limp, drool-soaked tongue rests on his lower lip. She makes a call. An
hour later two women in white overalls are at the front door. She turns to the
black, shiny figure kneeling, edging, mumbling mindlessly beside her, and
whispers,
‘Time to go and join the other rubber dollies. The truck is waiting outside for
you.’
The rubber doll gets up and follows the two women to a large white truck. The
steel doors at the back are open and there are steps leading inside. At the foot
of the steps it sees two lines of identical rubber dollies sitting along the benches
that run along the sides of the truck, but because this rubber dolly can no longer
think, it takes nothing in. There is a space at the far end. The rubber doll is
nudged up the steps. As it passes along, all the other rubber dollies have their
rubber hands gripped around their stiff pink cocks, rubbing up and down,
mindless and synchronised, all of them mumbling the same phrase over and over
again.
‘I am a little rubber dolly slave...’
The rubber doll sits in the allocated space. Moments later the steel doors shut
and the truck engine roars into life.
Rosa watches the van as it pulls out of the drive and then she turns and walks
back into her house. It’s 7am and she hasn’t slept much. She makes a cup of
herbal tea and walks into her office. There is a line of photos, faces of men,
pinned to her noticeboard. One of them is a photo of Harry. She takes it down,
tears it into little pieces and drops them all into the bin.
Daniel Guy
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Daniel Guy is an experienced fetish writer and a selection of his work can be found at: