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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:

https://danielguy0.blogspot.com

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