As Yolanda clipped a garter strap to the black band at the top of the stocking, Ethel slipped his foot into a skyscraper-heeled black pump. It took fully ten minutes for the eager women to work a pair of long black kid gloves over Bob’s muscular arms, but Bertha’s arms had been muscular too, and finally they managed the difficult task.
Bob Peterson was a tall and well built man; but he was also slender and his body hairless. With the addition of the sensuous black hose and the stilt-heeled pumps, his limbs were now completely, utterly, feminine. The type of limbs that drive most men mad; wide at thigh and calf, narrow at knee and ankle.
When a bouffant blonde wig and frilly white cap, falsies, skin tight black satin uniform, and a little white apron were set in place, and a deft application of lipstick, mascara and eye-shadow, Bob indeed was a gorgeous blonde amazon of a maid, one who would stop traffic.
“Good gracious,” Ethel exclaimed in amazement, “if I didn’t know that there was a big penis dangling under that little apron, I’d kiss Bobette’s pussy!”
Yolanda didn’t hear her friend for she had left the room, returning shortly with a broom and a long bull whip with a heavy, ornate handle. “This room is terribly dusty, Bobette, sweep it clean,” she ordered, handing her gorgeous husband the broom.
As soon as Bob started to sweep, Yolanda sent the bull whip singing through the air, he shrieking in agony as the metalic tip sliced through his drum-tight uniform and lacerated his buttocks.
“Do you call that SWEEPING?” she shrieked. “I’ll teach you to be lazy in my household … to the dungeon with him!”
“Oh no, not down there,” Bob walled, terror in his eyes.
“You know I never go down there. I’ve pleaded with you to let me take those terrible devices out of there.”
“Now you’re going to find out why I haven’t agreed to your cry-baby pleas,” Yolanda snapped as she grasped her husband’s gloved arm and led him from the room, Bob finding the going very unsteady in the unfamiliar stilt heels.
A few minutes later Bob hung suspended in mid-air by means of a strong chain that girdled his middle. He was doubled up, his gloved wrists fettered to his ankles. A large stone block that was tied to his wrists also hung in midair, creating terrible pains in both his arms and legs.
“Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing to me?” he screamed … My arms and legs feel as though they’re coming out of their sockets … oh I can’t STAND the pain!” Goaded on by the Dante’s Inferno-like atmosphere of the torch lit dungeon, Yolanda sent the whip slicing repeatedly into her husband’s bottom-cheeks with a terrible ferocity. She lashed on without pity, ignoring his wild screams of agony, the leather whined shrilly, then exploding each time with a loud crack as it cut Bob’s uniform to tatters.
Yolanda made one fatal mistake. She was so caught up in her diabolical sadistic passion that she lashed away relentlessly till she was in a state of complete exhaustion, unable to raise her arm for one more blow.
“Release the slave,” she gasped, leaning against the dungeon wall for support.
The END
