HOME | DD

Description

Arma had grown to love his mistress’s touch as much as he loved the air he breathed. This was good, because sometimes she gave one and not the other.

Serving as the personal throne of The Directrix this weekend was a horrible, evil, awful reward. She had personally chosen him from a line of other wannabe slaves and personal servants, singled him out for service with a glare and a pointed finger. Arma was promptly dressed appropriately for a piece of furniture.

An advanced synthetic leather suit; tight, heavy, and covered in appropriate anchor points. He bit his lip as they pulled the zipper up his back, and blushed as she proved one quick grab of his package.

“If you want more,” said one dressing-slave, “You’ll have to do a good job with her. Rumors say she’ll give you release if you’re good to her. But some rumors also say that the REALLY good ones end up as her permanent toys. So… good luck, either way.”

“Nnn-nnngh!” Arma let out a grunt as the dressing-staff finished locking him in leather and steel. He was led to a large contraption wherein he could be tested as the seat of The Directrix. The metal frame, unsubtly, positioned his head between her legs as a cushion for her derriere.

The Directrix was in rare form as she entered, sashaying with the grace and merciless demeanor that she was famous for; unspeaking, unyielding, unnerving. She shut her eyes and daintily took a seat on Arma’s face.

The loud, squeaking sound of leather against his gagged lips. Mistress’s scent. Incredible warmth. The powerful odor of leather. Thick restraints across his body. Breathless heat as she began to gently grind herself against her toy’s face. Quiet, muffled grunts as he would occasionally manage a good moment of air before she’d luxuriate on him further. A growing need; an animal hunger as he felt himself squirming in her grasp.
Her fingers ran up and down his head on occasion, never quite looking at his eyes. He was a throne; a living one, of course, but not a person. She gently caressed his chin, fingering a thumb over his gag, while staring off into the distance.
Too soon, it was over, and she dismounted him. She nodded. He’s a pass.
Arma quivered as the dressing-slaves came and released him from the frame.
“Good news, young man. She likes you. You’ll be her seat tonight at the opera.”

===

Arma hadn’t expected so much fuss. There were so many security precautions put in place before they ever departed the Governing Palace. The opera was scouted out and scanned in a hurry; The Directrix had decided, on a whim, to visit the Grand Conservatory and no screening or pre-check had been put in place.

Of course, nobody paid any heed to Arma. He’d been bundled into a heavy sleepsack, strapped into a tight hood, and gagged with a fat plug. And that was before they locked him in a foam-lined case for transport.

By the time they arrived at the opera house, he was hot, heavy, and lost in his own thoughts. They opened the box and began to undress him as if they were assembling a tool at a work site, before getting him properly locked into the same tight leather catsuit. He did appreciate how it hugged his body, and as they walked him through the back-halls of the opera house, he began to appreciate the small things. The tight buckles around his wrists and neck and ankles all made for a convincing figure, and drew attention inward to the harness around his chest and waist.

The masked, voiceless security guards brought him to the opera box first. It was a decadent affair; all red and black and gilt gold trim. The only thing out of place was the wood and steel that formed the service throne in which Arma would be locked.
Arms, legs. Metal on metal, buckles, straps. His body’s mobility slowing until it was quite minimal. The important thing, as always, was that his gorgeous suited body was going to function as a luxurious and decadent seat for his mistress.

She made only one mistake that evening. Knowing that his pleading eyes would force her to sympathy, she ordered that Arma be hooded up as well as more thoroughly gagged. He mewled at the thought of being in the dark the whole night, but she justified it simply.
“If I see your eyes, I won’t be able to concentrate on the performances down below. Now, be good, and you’ll be… justly rewarded.” She winked, ordering her security guards in her booth to vacate and give them a bit of privacy.
He didn’t know what she meant, but he didn’t have time to ask as she slipped a leather hood over his face. It had openings for the eyes and mouth, but a plug-gag and blindfold laced over the hood meant that he’d be quiet for the play, and also relying solely on the voices of the singers.
The Directrix was quite pleased as the show began. After the overture, she was humming with glee - and so was her seat, who was in a growing erotic bliss at being the hooded service-slave between Ma’am’s legs.

It was at that point that she stood up to make a short speech; the performers at the opera were her subjects as well, of course. And, it was here that her greed would prove quiet disastrous. Arma, blind and hooded and gagged, was unable to see the gloved hands behind Phantom’s head appear, unable to warn her that she was about to be kidnapped, and unable to tell her that she needed to turn around lest she disappear into the clutches of The Resistance.

The spotlight aimed at the booth, but it had only a swaying curtain where Phantom had once been, and the squirming, mewling form of her trophy.

Posted using PostyBirb

Character Arma belongs to ArmaBiologica

Art by the incredible yacermino

Description

Arma had grown to love his mistress’s touch as much as he loved the air he breathed. This was good, because sometimes she gave one and not the other.

Serving as the personal throne of The Directrix this weekend was a horrible, evil, awful reward. She had personally chosen him from a line of other wannabe slaves and personal servants, singled him out for service with a glare and a pointed finger. Arma was promptly dressed appropriately for a piece of furniture.

An advanced synthetic leather suit; tight, heavy, and covered in appropriate anchor points. He bit his lip as they pulled the zipper up his back, and blushed as she proved one quick grab of his package.

“If you want more,” said one dressing-slave, “You’ll have to do a good job with her. Rumors say she’ll give you release if you’re good to her. But some rumors also say that the REALLY good ones end up as her permanent toys. So… good luck, either way.”

“Nnn-nnngh!” Arma let out a grunt as the dressing-staff finished locking him in leather and steel. He was led to a large contraption wherein he could be tested as the seat of The Directrix. The metal frame, unsubtly, positioned his head between her legs as a cushion for her derriere.

The Directrix was in rare form as she entered, sashaying with the grace and merciless demeanor that she was famous for; unspeaking, unyielding, unnerving. She shut her eyes and daintily took a seat on Arma’s face.

The loud, squeaking sound of leather against his gagged lips. Mistress’s scent. Incredible warmth. The powerful odor of leather. Thick restraints across his body. Breathless heat as she began to gently grind herself against her toy’s face. Quiet, muffled grunts as he would occasionally manage a good moment of air before she’d luxuriate on him further. A growing need; an animal hunger as he felt himself squirming in her grasp.
Her fingers ran up and down his head on occasion, never quite looking at his eyes. He was a throne; a living one, of course, but not a person. She gently caressed his chin, fingering a thumb over his gag, while staring off into the distance.
Too soon, it was over, and she dismounted him. She nodded. He’s a pass.
Arma quivered as the dressing-slaves came and released him from the frame.
“Good news, young man. She likes you. You’ll be her seat tonight at the opera.”

===

Arma hadn’t expected so much fuss. There were so many security precautions put in place before they ever departed the Governing Palace. The opera was scouted out and scanned in a hurry; The Directrix had decided, on a whim, to visit the Grand Conservatory and no screening or pre-check had been put in place.

Of course, nobody paid any heed to Arma. He’d been bundled into a heavy sleepsack, strapped into a tight hood, and gagged with a fat plug. And that was before they locked him in a foam-lined case for transport.

By the time they arrived at the opera house, he was hot, heavy, and lost in his own thoughts. They opened the box and began to undress him as if they were assembling a tool at a work site, before getting him properly locked into the same tight leather catsuit. He did appreciate how it hugged his body, and as they walked him through the back-halls of the opera house, he began to appreciate the small things. The tight buckles around his wrists and neck and ankles all made for a convincing figure, and drew attention inward to the harness around his chest and waist.

The masked, voiceless security guards brought him to the opera box first. It was a decadent affair; all red and black and gilt gold trim. The only thing out of place was the wood and steel that formed the service throne in which Arma would be locked.
Arms, legs. Metal on metal, buckles, straps. His body’s mobility slowing until it was quite minimal. The important thing, as always, was that his gorgeous suited body was going to function as a luxurious and decadent seat for his mistress.

She made only one mistake that evening. Knowing that his pleading eyes would force her to sympathy, she ordered that Arma be hooded up as well as more thoroughly gagged. He mewled at the thought of being in the dark the whole night, but she justified it simply.
“If I see your eyes, I won’t be able to concentrate on the performances down below. Now, be good, and you’ll be… justly rewarded.” She winked, ordering her security guards in her booth to vacate and give them a bit of privacy.
He didn’t know what she meant, but he didn’t have time to ask as she slipped a leather hood over his face. It had openings for the eyes and mouth, but a plug-gag and blindfold laced over the hood meant that he’d be quiet for the play, and also relying solely on the voices of the singers.
The Directrix was quite pleased as the show began. After the overture, she was humming with glee - and so was her seat, who was in a growing erotic bliss at being the hooded service-slave between Ma’am’s legs.

It was at that point that she stood up to make a short speech; the performers at the opera were her subjects as well, of course. And, it was here that her greed would prove quiet disastrous. Arma, blind and hooded and gagged, was unable to see the gloved hands behind Phantom’s head appear, unable to warn her that she was about to be kidnapped, and unable to tell her that she needed to turn around lest she disappear into the clutches of The Resistance.

The spotlight aimed at the booth, but it had only a swaying curtain where Phantom had once been, and the squirming, mewling form of her trophy.

Posted using PostyBirb

Character Arma belongs to ArmaBiologica

Art by the incredible yacermino