The House of Lesslie Ch. 02

I.

I woke up.

Even after having taken over the House of Lesslie weeks ago, each morning was still the same, and came with the same feeling of disorientation, in need of a few moments to adjust to the realities around me, as new as they were.

The bedroom around me was still darkened by heavy, burgundy curtains that allowed only a sliver of the early morning's light into these old halls, waiting for the mansion's thick walls to be woken up by it, a caress much softer than what I would have preferred.

Still, I woke up.

Stretching myself around the latex sheeting that had replaced mother's choice for beddings, which had been mostly satin and silk. She had always been such a traditionalist about certain things, I thought to myself in that moment, letting the warmth of the red rubber wash over me, showering my own naked body with its slick wetness. It moved around me like waves of blood, birthing me to the new day.

I preferred things that were industrial in their nature, as far removed from the natural order of things as possible. It was a preference gathered in my years of travel, and said preference was now slowly seeping into my immediate surroundings, little by little, day by day, transforming my family's home into my own and forcing the very fabric of the mansion to bow down to my force, bend to my will.

True dominance takes time and effort, and submission - whether it was by people or environments - would always and forever be a work in progress, never quite finished but always somewhat imperfect, thus waiting to be pushed beyond their natural boundaries.

The master bedroom was the first thing I had taken control of. While manners and methods of conducting your daily affairs in the mansion were of utmost importance in establishing your dominance over servants as well as over clients and business contacts, it was here in the bedroom that true decadence had to be asserted, where deviousness was born like a perpetually wet flower that took root in the very heart of the mansion itself, and then spread through the floors, grew on its walls and pushed its thorns of pain into the bodies of those living here.

It had taken me ten years to transform myself, but the time that it had taken for the first changes to take place in the Lesslie mansion had only been weeks. Perhaps not the busiest weeks of my life so far, but most certainly the most challenging.

The master bed had been reworked with great care by some of London's best industrial artists, and where once had been a wooden 17th century monstrosity of pillows, satin sheets and silk cushions was now a complex construct of hardened iron that had been drilled into the marble floor, penetrating mother's memory with cruel intentions and full intent to overpower her workings.

It was not that I didn't cherish those memories that had been forged here, in the decades she had ruled the House of Lesslie with her smooth touch and unforgiving cruelty.

I did cherish them, far too much, and in these moments, in the drift between sleep and waking, I feared I would drown in them and not return, if I let them come too close to my conscious mind.

After all, this was the room that birthed me.

Both as a boy named Sebastian, and then later again as what I would become, the shemale I had chosen to be, no longer held back by the confines of my natural body, no longer caged by how others saw me.

I allowed myself to fall into that feeling.

I allowed myself to slip back into sleep.

There was still so much to do, so many things to prepare.

II.

"Do you like your position here, darling?

I made it sound casual, not too much like an order while I placed my cigar between the teeth of the sculpted ashtray mouth on mother's desk, imagining it to feel the burn dripping down into a slave's throat, its sparks hissing as they went down.

I had drunk most of Caroline's cunt wine, with only a thin coating of it sloshing against the insides of my wine glass. It taste lingered in my mouth, its warmth filling my belly.

"I have no right - "

Caroline stopped herself, fearing to offend me.

"I am not my mother, Caroline."

"No, Mistress."

"Do you love me, Caroline?"

The gorgeous Irish girl trembled a little. It was not often that a slave, be it whore or maid, was asked this question. Most of them, they entered service willingly, and loved their shame and humiliation, never expecting, never daring to dream to be treated in any other way than filth.

"I love you, Mistress," came the whispered reply.

"Did you love my mother?"

Caroline hesitated.

It was clear mother had not ever shown her this kind of intimacy, such care for her thoughts or emotions. I could see the Irish girl's thoughts racing, wondering what would be the proper etiquette, what might be the answer that would please her new goddess.

"I loved serving her needs, Mistress," she finally said.

"You are one of the mansion's piss whores, aren't you?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"How many of you do I own?"

"Your mother bought me at an auction, Mistress, together with five others."

"A collector's item, then, are you?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Is it what you desired to be, darling?"

"I desired to find my place, Mistress."

"Don't we all, darling?" I thought about it for a moment, on this first day of my new duties, all of which would come crashing down on me soon enough and would not leave time for any kind of conversation, not until I had established myself in the ranks of those who had worshipped mother. I repeated, slightly more quiet and more to myself, "don't we all?"

There was a beautiful innocence in that girl in front of me.

Don't get me wrong, my darlings. Slaves are a dime a dozen, and those who entered the services of my family had often many reasons other than subservience to do so. If you wanted to disappear, from debt, from a scorned lover, from the world, the House of Lesslie was more than happy to provide you with that opportunity.

At a price, of course.

If you gave yourself to us, you would be cared for, would be given an opportunity of a life time, but for that, you would also have to be enslaved for a minimum contract of five years. There would be no questions asked, only orders given.

And so, this may have been the first time dear Caroline had been asked anything since she had entered the household. She reminded me of those I had lifted up in the years that now were behind me.

"Present yourself to me," I said.

Without objection, without shame, Caroline began to let her body flow out of the maid's uniform, a ghostly white form of perfection given flesh, curved and strong and shuddering a little as the air touched and caressed it.

I took in that image, with an eye sharpened through experience, looking for the soul underneath the skin, trying to find any blemishes, and imperfection, for this would be my raw material, the canvas I'd use to build her, to make her a piece of art.

I walked over to Caroline, felt her skin underneath my fingertips, the smallest, simplest touches. She inhaled sharply, her mouth slightly opened, the inhale quickly becoming a hiss, then a low, guttural moan.

She could be useful, I thought to myself. I blew smoke on her hardened nipples, warming them to my touch that followed, slow and gentle, watching her whitened cunt lips becoming engorged by it, that simple display to her mistress, her piss slowly drying on the inside of her thighs as it was replaced by thicker, creamier juice that started to pour from inside her, enough of it to have my fingers scoop it up.

I brought it to my mouth and tasted it. It was flavored with salt, syrupy and mingled well with my saliva. Yes, she definitely could be useful.

"And what is the place you wish to be, darling?" I whispered into her ear as streams of smoke escaped my body and washed over our faces, a fog of lust that engulfed my little darling whore's eyes and mouth.

"Any place my mistress wishes me to be," Caroline replied.

I cupped her breasts from behind, my gloved fingers lifting them up, weighing them, as if my hands were a scale. It caused another small whimper that came out of the Irish girl's mouth, and despite her rigid posture, her training so far, she couldn't resist arching her head back and closing her eyes, just a little, her waterfall of hair falling into my face.

Without warning, I took one of her nipples between my thumb and forefinger and twisted it around. The guttural moan rose to a high pitched scream that started in her chest, lungs of air and lust, expelled through the pain.

I laughed quietly.

She still tried to maintain her posture, even as my other hand reached down from behind, found her ass and parted those cheeks, not once relenting, not once stopping to turn and twist that nipple, adding to her pain.

Sweat began to pour out of her, and with it, a smell of desire and deviance, running down her naked body and gathering in those holes and crevices that were my property.

I slid my fingers into her, slickening the rubber with her flowing cunt juices that quickly became white and frothy around the latexed black. Tears followed the sweat, single, quiet little rivers of pain that streamed down her cheek as her nipple remained locked in that cage of pain, sending signals through all of her nerves and telling her to move, to get away from me, to run, to escape.

And she didn't flinch.

She didn't speak.

What wonderful raw material to work from, I thought.

I could have chosen anyone, I knew. It was the randomness of this choice that surged through my own body, the knowledge of such power, to lift somebody up from their destined station in life or to drop them into the darkest depths of despair.

Between my fingers, Caroline's filthy, sweaty shithole opened up, allowing me to enter her through her ring of flesh that otherwise would be a barrier, never meant to be broken or defiled, but now a willing ring of muscles and nerves.

There was barely any resistance as she opened up, opening her gates to her back and allowing me to discover her insides, a wet and delightful mess that had been stored there, full of rich, earthy flavor and wonderfully soft. My fingers buried themselves into her guts to dig it up, to feel it swirl around, to scoop it up.

Caroline moaned. Those yelps of pain, replaced by a deep, humming rhythm of gasps as she understood and found her own pleasure from it.

"Show me," I whispered to her as I added a second, a third digit into the depth of her guts, playing with the soft shit that met them, tried to drown them, wet and moist and ready to come out and play.

I withdrew from her, little soft specks of shit clinging to my latex fingers that were brown, chocolate smears of perfect quality.

I walked around her, leaving her gasping shithole open from my touches, from that wicked invasion that would be merely the first of many to follow. I wanted her to see this. To understand. And worship it.

Standing in front of her gasping, ghostly body, I presented Caroline with what I had found inside her, three fingers of soft, smelly shit.

"Please, Mistress," she whispered, ah, yes. Fear, for the first time.

"There is nothing here to be afraid of," I said in a calm voice, soothing her angst, "because there is nothing here that doesn't deserve worship, Caroline. Do you understand?"

"Mistress, I don't," she whimpered.

"Let me show you, darling," I said.

I took a single, deep drag from my cigar and kept it, caged it deep inside my own body, before presenting the shit-covered fingers to myself, sliding them between my lips and letting my tongue meet up with what Caroline had gifted me.

It was soft, brown and tasted salty, with just a little hint of nuts as it burned itself into my taste buds, enticing and exciting me in anticipation.

"Mmmh," I whispered, releasing the smoke from within myself as my mouth swallowed up the brown smear, my fingers spreading it on my lips, mingling the taste with that of my lipstick.

Caroline's eyes were bulging. She had known, of course, that there were toilet whores in the mansion, trained, willing and lusting after those tastes, but to find her mistress to accept and willingly devour the waste of one of her lowest slaves - a slave whose name she had not even known hours earlier- made her already raw nerves send out a powerful signal of pleasure that exploded between her cunt lips, blinding her to everything else in the room, including me.

Clear and thick girl cum rushed past her cunt lips as she watched me delight in the taste of her shit, flaking on my lips as I slid my cigar past the brown stains and let the tip of it burn brightly, in deep orange and red, a glow that only seemed to be surpassed by the hellish spark she could see in my eyes.

"Oh.. god," she whimpered as the floods of her own hellish lust rushed through her to overwhelm any kind of decency that may have been still there, holding it all back, but no more. Her body expelled it, with such force that it gushed through her cunt and out of her body, squirts of depravity that made her legs tremble.

"All of you tastes good," I told her.

I leaned in and brought my lips to hers, looking for a sign of revulsion. But there was only acceptance, with our lips locking around gaping moths and tongues licking each other. And Caroline's body shuddered under the newfound sensation, newfound tastes, just as I had hoped, greedily lapping up that warm goo from my lips that had come from deep within herself.

Between us was now filth, shared.

I left it in her mouth, allowing a string of spit to connect us for a moment longer as I withdrew, like a shiny temporary chain that had been wrapped around her soul, before I wiped it off from my lips.

"Do you want to become?" I asked her.

"Like you, Mistress?" she whispered back, shivering at the thought.

"Is that something you aspired to, darling?"

I laughed.

"Is there cruelty in you, dear Caroline?"

"I don't..." she began. "I don't know, Mistress."

"Would you like for me to find out?" I lifted her chin and forced her to stare up at me, her goddess, her lover. The answer was a pain-filled, lustful hiss.

"Yesss."

"Then squat for me."

There was a moment of hesitation, quickly remedied by a kick against the inside of the Irish girl's calves, forcing her legs to re-adjust to a new stance, making her squat on the carpet in mother's former office.

I knew how I wanted to mark it as my territory, I thought. And knew I had found the right plaything to do so. There was always one, hidden amongst the ones flashier and bigger and louder, always one who had the potential to become a piece of art, if given the chance.

And here was hers. Let us see what she was made of, shall we?

"Do it," I said.

I let her squat there for a good minute or two, allowing her muscles to burn, that muscle burn to spread throughout her whole body as she strained, still unsure what exactly it was her new mistress wanted from her.

Then I clapped my hands, calling for James.

The mansion's major domus had been waiting outside, on the other side of the door, always close enough to hear my voice or respond to a command. And he entered quietly, that hulking man in his uniform, with barely a raised eyebrow at the display that was unfolding in front of him.

Being mother's lover and favorite, he thought that he had seen it all, had partaken in most things that had happened in this office.

And that is why I wished for him to be here.

I wanted that particular audience.

To show how wrong he was.

"Fetch me a whip, James," I ordered. He nodded slightly and opened one of the office's cabinets.

I knew, of course, where mother had stored her toys, but not only did I not wish to divide my attention between sweet, sweet Caroline and such a mundane task, I wished to show James what exactly had become of that 20-year old boy he had known prior to my wander years.

"The cat," I ordered him.

With another nod, his large hands took out one of the heaviest whips, a bushel of tight leather strips that hang down from a long grip shaped like an ebony, uncut cock. It looked small in those mighty hands, was not made for somebody his size to handle.

It was perfect for me.

I stared at the squatting Irish girl. Sweat had formed on that beautiful, ghostly skin of her, dripping down her body, gathering between her legs before falling down, droplet by droplet, onto the office's carpet.

It was some kind of Persian monstrosity, likely to have been in the family for generations and worth more on the open market than most slaves I had ever bought or sold through my underground network of clubs that I had established in the past five years, catering to the filthy and decadent.

It had been one of mother's favorites, and just like James, it would soon find out what place it had in the new order of things.

My lips, stained from sweet Caroline's filth, brown and purple, lipstick and shit, curled up to a cruel sneer.

Three minutes now, maybe four, and the cramps started to happen. The muscle burn had grown throughout her entire body, had set it alight, was burning it down to fiery ashes as the calves and thighs began to cramp out, releasing more pain into my sweet new whore's nervous system.

Caroline grunted. I reveled in that sound.

I opened my palm to James, not looking at him, demanding in silence. The ebony cock, made from wood and leather and other fine, fine things slid into the open palm, my fingers slowly closing around it as I felt my hand's power, its might, only moments away from my demonstration.

"Will that be all, Mistress?" James asked beside me.

"No, James," I said. "I wish for you to witness this."

The weight of the whip's handle was confirmation of my own position in this room, an affirmation of my violence, threatened and soon to be realized.

With merely a flick of my wrist, the cat lashed out, whooshed through the air, its leather strings picking up speed to find their target, sweet Caroline's breasts, already shaking from the strain I had put her under.

The leather connected with a harsh sound, a violent caress that created a blinding ball of fire spreading outwards from those points on Caroline's body it had touched, leaving behind reddening flesh.

"Owwww!" Caroline screamed.

The leather returned to me, cutting once again through the air as I listened to the symphony of pain I had caused.

"Did mother ever treat you like this, darling?"

Another flick of the wrist, followed by the almost penetrating sound of flesh accepting punishment. Caroline, for all that pain, did not leave her position, still squatting.

But she screamed. Oh dear god, yes, how she wonderfully she screamed.

And each scream ended in a sob, and each sob in a whimper and a guttural moan.

"Ngh!" Caroline sobbed as the whip hit her body a third time, leaving strips of reddened flesh across her chest and belly, her breath ragged and in shortened gasps.

My voice rose up from inside me, hardened and cutting through the air with just as much viciousness as the whip prior.

"Did mother ever give you that much attention?" I asked.

"Ngh!" Caroline sobbed, before that moan formed a single, strained word, flowing out from her lips, not only affirmation but a depraved kind of glee that she found in my treatment of her. Yes, she was going to be worthy of my attention, all right.

"No."

Another whoosh of leather pain stripped the truth from Caroline's body, lash by lash, coming in gasps between painful breaths.

"But you believe you deserved it, didn't you?"

"Ngh!"

"Say it, darling."

"Yes!" Caroline shouted, that anger released into that one shout, exposing now not only her body, her cunt and ass to me, but baring her soul. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"Watch this, James," I whispered to the major domus at my side.