A New Slave for Mistress Jayne
- 2 years ago
- 18
- 0
Miss Jayne And Mistress Elaine, High Priestesses O free porn video
“Oh, God, I’m late!”
I almost tripped over my high heels as I ran towards my cherry red Lamborghini, my hobble skirt hitched over my thighs, blonde wig askew. I fumbled in my Dior purse for my car keys.
“Phew!” I was so relieved; I couldn’t imagine how much trouble I’d be in if I got to work too late. Thankfully, the Lambo responded instantly to my high heel on the gas and I roared out into the morning traffic. There was only one set of traffic lights at which I was able to tidy up my makeup.
Soon the traffic thinned out and I roared forward at 120mph. Within minutes – no, it was probably only seconds – I came to a screeching halt in the driveway of The House of Mischief. I threw my leather driving gloves and pink picture hat onto the passenger’s seat, grabbed my pocketbook and scrambled up the driveway. I really, really needed a strong coffee and a cigarette. And a pee. And to get this damned Kotex out of my bum.
The massive black, wooden door creaked open. I checked my diamond-encrusted watch: five minutes late; a miracle.
I [paused, hearing that all-too-familiar angry voice.
“Get in here you little bitch. We have customers waiting!”
@@@@@
Let me introduce myself. My name is Jayne. I’m 25, tall, svelte, drop-dead gorgeous with a face like an angel. I used to be male – there I’ve said it – and grew up in Annaheim (next-door to Disneyland, such an irony). My asshole of a father deserted us when I was five and, as my mother was stark raving mad, my sister Katherine took over the job of raising me.
It’s only a dim memory, lost in the mists of time, but K decided I was too frail and pretty to be a boy. She let my curly blonde locks grow down to my shoulders and dressed me up in all her hand-me-downs.
No-one knew I was not the sweet little miss being dragged down the street by her grinning 10-year-old sister. The grandmothers, especially, couldn’t get enough of me. They stroked my hair, tickled my tummy, one after another, until I was snivelling from exhaustion.
Still, the clothes were wonderful. My favourite outfit was a pink silk party dress, with puffed sleeves, Peter Pan collar, fastened at the back with a row of pearl buttons and tied around my waist with a light blue ribbon, cinched tight, and done up with a big bow at the side.
On my dainty feet, I wore short lacy white socks and a pair of shiny pink mary-jaynes. Underneath it all I had on a short tulle petticoat that swooshed the skirt out, a silk camisole top and the cutest pair of pink frilly panties you could imagine. When I twirled, the ruffles peeked out as if by magic. (And they hid the tiny erection that sprung up whenever I found myself dressed up.)
It was a happy, even ecstatic, c***dhood! There was no-one to boss me around – except for big siss -and I lived life as if it were a fairytale: no school, no silly shorts or T-shirts, being adored like a Disney princess.
The years floated by. An endless stream of vicarious thrills. One thrilling experience after another. The perfect girlhood.
Reality didn’t really set in until I was 13 and on the verge of puberty. I was depressed thinking about it. Was this the end of all the fun?
K could tell I was worried and took me along to our GP who immediately diagnosed “euphoric crossdressing”, whatever that meant. She prescribed hormones, and Valium to arrest my anxiety (they worked wonderfully).
Happy female emotions rushed back inside me and I felt relaxed and almost back in the womb.
The oestrogen, too, restored my inner glow, not to mention my budding breasts and X-ray figure.
But K had her own life to lead. A lesbian, she had fallen in love with a gorgeous Hispanic hairdresser whom she would marry.
Just before they set off to San Francisco to live, she took me quietly aside and told me not to worry.
“There’s plenty of money to keep you going. The doctor will look after your health, and now that mom is locked away for good in the insane asylum, no-one will bother you. I’ve spoken to Sophie [the girl next door] and she’ll be there to help whenever you need it.
“You’re a teenager now – and smart - and you can pretty much look after yourself. Look at you – my precious little Jayne. I’m certain you’ll have the perfect life.”
Within days, the couple had disappeared up Highway ! and I was left alone.
Tranquillity reigned as I set about creating my own life. I went online and studied for my high-school diploma, was accepted into the fashion and beauty school at UCLA and took myself off to the Phi Kappa Delta sorority house where I shared a room with Kokoro (It translates as “cherry blossoms of the heart”), a doll-like Japanese cutie with a quicksilver temperament. She taught me the ways and wiles of the campus freshman – gymboots, skinny jeans and floppy sweatshirts; dresses were a no-no – and I followed her around like a puppy (in heat!).
There were all-night parties where I learnt to hold my liquor, kissy sleepovers in babydolls, smoking, and best of all, the secret societies. I was happily inducted into the “Pussy Club”, a stronghold of lesbian sex and heavy BDSM: “I swear by Almighty God, I will be a nasty little slut …” This gave me quite a few ideas but I’ll come to that later.
My true gender was soon revealed but no-one seemed to care. There was a thrill having a “shemale” around. “The best of both worlds” and all that.
That exciting experience came to an end when I was 24. I graduated top of the class but, despite my great marks, I had no experience, and languished in a poorly paid job at a downtown beauty parlour. I was fed up but had hit a brick wall until … Mistress Elaine strode haughtily into the salon.
I set to work washing her magnificent tresses, pausing only to hold a mirror behind her so she could admire her latest hairdo.
“What’s a nice tranny like you doing in a place like this?” She laughed but I was taken aback: how could she tell?
“Don’t worry, cupcake, I can spot your kind from a million miles away. What the hell are you doing here, I might ask?”
I gave her the abbreviated version of my life story, how it had come to this – miserably!
Again, she smiled. “I could do with a creature like you: how would you like to come and work for me? Top-dollar, great conditions, in fact everything you probably always wanted.”
Yeah, but what was the catch. “How do I know you’re on the level?” She winked. “Follow me and you’ll find out.”
I paused and then made up my mind. I threw the plastic apron at my boss, shouted “I quit, you bitch” and marched out behind my new mistress.
A new and more-than-exciting phase of my life was just beginning.
@@@@@
Let me introduce myself! My nom de guerre is Elaine and my background, for the most part, is unimportant.
I am the BDSM queen of LLa Land: fabulously rich and successful, fabulously versed in the ways of bondage and submission. In fact, fabulously everything.
I opened the House of Mischief in a dilapidated gothic mansion outside town some 10 years ago when I was just 30 years old and have been catering to the warped desires of the gentlefolk of this town – male and female, transgirls too – ever since.
I try to employ smart, sensible girls as my assistants, but inevitably d**gs or boyfriends or just plain ennui drag them away.
I was desperate to find a new “girl” and it was fortuitous when I came across Jayne. She was smart, beautiful – perhaps an ingenue – but she had a je ne sais quois that delighted me.
It took little persuasion to drag her into my dark, dark world, but she knew that I knew that she wasn’t being coerced and jumped at my offer of riches and a good life. And now it was all coming true for her.
“Who’s that at the door?” she mused. “I think I know. Excuse me while I give someone a good kick up the bum!”
Which is where our story really begins …
@@@@@
Elaine stood up, her imposing figure casting a shadow over the petite girl. “And where have been, Missy,” she demanded.
Jayne could only bow her head and offer an apology.
“Sorry, Elaine – I mean Mistress Elaine – the traffic was bad.”
“I’ve heard that one before. Now go and get changed out of that Chanel suit and into something less sensible. Time is money and I really don’t want to have to whip it out of your pay cheque.”
Jayne spun on her heels and clattered upstairs.
Elaine was already in her work clothes: leather corset cinched tight, a tight black leather skirt, elbow-length gloves, stockings and garter belt (but no black lace panties today) – and black leather, skysc****r 6 inch stacked heels. She had a whip tucked into her waistband and her gorgeous raven tresses were drawn back into a severe bun, topped, majestically, with a black gold tiara.
She tapped her feet. “Where is that little sissy? Hurry up, Jayne.” She looked perfect.
“In a moment” came the trilled reply. “I’m stuck.”
Jayne was indeed “stuck”. She had been desperately pulling on her black latex catsuit and there was still the corset, gloves, heels and bondage collar to come. Finally she wriggled free and was soon arrayed in her shiny uniform.
Not even pausing to gather up her clothes, she rushed down stairs and stood panting before Elaine.
“Right, quick inspection!” said the senior mistress “Yes, everything appears to be in order – I like your makeup too. I’ll have to get you to make me over sometime. But now it’s down to business. Where is the appointment book?”
Jayne rummaged around in a desk drawer and produced the ragged-edged diary. “Here it is!”
“Good. Now who’s first?”
“Mrs Granville wants a lesbian scene with a side order of submission.” They both laughed.
“OK, you can do the pussy licking and tongue kissing and I’ll take over with the spanking. Giant orgasm, and that’s $2000 in the bank. Next.”
“Mrs Faversham wants to bring over her 18-year-old son David, I mean Davina, to watch us crossdress him like a doll. She wants a bit of cunt action, too. They may even fuck. You certainly can in California. (California has some of the loosest transgendwe
You can look after
And so they planned out the afternoon’s deviations, Elaine toting up the vast profits like a human calculator. It would be an average day, nothing too strenuous, nothing too perverted.
“So let’s go!”
@@@@
I almost tripped over my high heels as I ran towards my cherry red Lamborghini, my hobble skirt hitched over my thighs, blonde wig askew. I fumbled in my Dior purse for my car keys.
“Phew!” I was so relieved; I couldn’t imagine how much trouble I’d be in if I got to work too late. Thankfully, the Lambo responded instantly to my high heel on the gas and I roared out into the morning traffic. There was only one set of traffic lights at which I was able to tidy up my makeup.
Soon the traffic thinned out and I roared forward at 120mph. Within minutes – no, it was probably only seconds – I came to a screeching halt in the driveway of The House of Mischief. I threw my leather driving gloves and pink picture hat onto the passenger’s seat, grabbed my pocketbook and scrambled up the driveway. I really, really needed a strong coffee and a cigarette. And a pee. And to get this damned Kotex out of my bum.
The massive black, wooden door creaked open. I checked my diamond-encrusted watch: five minutes late; a miracle.
I [paused, hearing that all-too-familiar angry voice.
“Get in here you little bitch. We have customers waiting!”
@@@@@
Let me introduce myself. My name is Jayne. I’m 25, tall, svelte, drop-dead gorgeous with a face like an angel. I used to be male – there I’ve said it – and grew up in Annaheim (next-door to Disneyland, such an irony). My asshole of a father deserted us when I was five and, as my mother was stark raving mad, my sister Katherine took over the job of raising me.
It’s only a dim memory, lost in the mists of time, but K decided I was too frail and pretty to be a boy. She let my curly blonde locks grow down to my shoulders and dressed me up in all her hand-me-downs.
No-one knew I was not the sweet little miss being dragged down the street by her grinning 10-year-old sister. The grandmothers, especially, couldn’t get enough of me. They stroked my hair, tickled my tummy, one after another, until I was snivelling from exhaustion.
Still, the clothes were wonderful. My favourite outfit was a pink silk party dress, with puffed sleeves, Peter Pan collar, fastened at the back with a row of pearl buttons and tied around my waist with a light blue ribbon, cinched tight, and done up with a big bow at the side.
On my dainty feet, I wore short lacy white socks and a pair of shiny pink mary-jaynes. Underneath it all I had on a short tulle petticoat that swooshed the skirt out, a silk camisole top and the cutest pair of pink frilly panties you could imagine. When I twirled, the ruffles peeked out as if by magic. (And they hid the tiny erection that sprung up whenever I found myself dressed up.)
It was a happy, even ecstatic, c***dhood! There was no-one to boss me around – except for big siss -and I lived life as if it were a fairytale: no school, no silly shorts or T-shirts, being adored like a Disney princess.
The years floated by. An endless stream of vicarious thrills. One thrilling experience after another. The perfect girlhood.
Reality didn’t really set in until I was 13 and on the verge of puberty. I was depressed thinking about it. Was this the end of all the fun?
K could tell I was worried and took me along to our GP who immediately diagnosed “euphoric crossdressing”, whatever that meant. She prescribed hormones, and Valium to arrest my anxiety (they worked wonderfully).
Happy female emotions rushed back inside me and I felt relaxed and almost back in the womb.
The oestrogen, too, restored my inner glow, not to mention my budding breasts and X-ray figure.
But K had her own life to lead. A lesbian, she had fallen in love with a gorgeous Hispanic hairdresser whom she would marry.
Just before they set off to San Francisco to live, she took me quietly aside and told me not to worry.
“There’s plenty of money to keep you going. The doctor will look after your health, and now that mom is locked away for good in the insane asylum, no-one will bother you. I’ve spoken to Sophie [the girl next door] and she’ll be there to help whenever you need it.
“You’re a teenager now – and smart - and you can pretty much look after yourself. Look at you – my precious little Jayne. I’m certain you’ll have the perfect life.”
Within days, the couple had disappeared up Highway ! and I was left alone.
Tranquillity reigned as I set about creating my own life. I went online and studied for my high-school diploma, was accepted into the fashion and beauty school at UCLA and took myself off to the Phi Kappa Delta sorority house where I shared a room with Kokoro (It translates as “cherry blossoms of the heart”), a doll-like Japanese cutie with a quicksilver temperament. She taught me the ways and wiles of the campus freshman – gymboots, skinny jeans and floppy sweatshirts; dresses were a no-no – and I followed her around like a puppy (in heat!).
There were all-night parties where I learnt to hold my liquor, kissy sleepovers in babydolls, smoking, and best of all, the secret societies. I was happily inducted into the “Pussy Club”, a stronghold of lesbian sex and heavy BDSM: “I swear by Almighty God, I will be a nasty little slut …” This gave me quite a few ideas but I’ll come to that later.
My true gender was soon revealed but no-one seemed to care. There was a thrill having a “shemale” around. “The best of both worlds” and all that.
That exciting experience came to an end when I was 24. I graduated top of the class but, despite my great marks, I had no experience, and languished in a poorly paid job at a downtown beauty parlour. I was fed up but had hit a brick wall until … Mistress Elaine strode haughtily into the salon.
I set to work washing her magnificent tresses, pausing only to hold a mirror behind her so she could admire her latest hairdo.
“What’s a nice tranny like you doing in a place like this?” She laughed but I was taken aback: how could she tell?
“Don’t worry, cupcake, I can spot your kind from a million miles away. What the hell are you doing here, I might ask?”
I gave her the abbreviated version of my life story, how it had come to this – miserably!
Again, she smiled. “I could do with a creature like you: how would you like to come and work for me? Top-dollar, great conditions, in fact everything you probably always wanted.”
Yeah, but what was the catch. “How do I know you’re on the level?” She winked. “Follow me and you’ll find out.”
I paused and then made up my mind. I threw the plastic apron at my boss, shouted “I quit, you bitch” and marched out behind my new mistress.
A new and more-than-exciting phase of my life was just beginning.
@@@@@
Let me introduce myself! My nom de guerre is Elaine and my background, for the most part, is unimportant.
I am the BDSM queen of LLa Land: fabulously rich and successful, fabulously versed in the ways of bondage and submission. In fact, fabulously everything.
I opened the House of Mischief in a dilapidated gothic mansion outside town some 10 years ago when I was just 30 years old and have been catering to the warped desires of the gentlefolk of this town – male and female, transgirls too – ever since.
I try to employ smart, sensible girls as my assistants, but inevitably d**gs or boyfriends or just plain ennui drag them away.
I was desperate to find a new “girl” and it was fortuitous when I came across Jayne. She was smart, beautiful – perhaps an ingenue – but she had a je ne sais quois that delighted me.
It took little persuasion to drag her into my dark, dark world, but she knew that I knew that she wasn’t being coerced and jumped at my offer of riches and a good life. And now it was all coming true for her.
“Who’s that at the door?” she mused. “I think I know. Excuse me while I give someone a good kick up the bum!”
Which is where our story really begins …
@@@@@
Elaine stood up, her imposing figure casting a shadow over the petite girl. “And where have been, Missy,” she demanded.
Jayne could only bow her head and offer an apology.
“Sorry, Elaine – I mean Mistress Elaine – the traffic was bad.”
“I’ve heard that one before. Now go and get changed out of that Chanel suit and into something less sensible. Time is money and I really don’t want to have to whip it out of your pay cheque.”
Jayne spun on her heels and clattered upstairs.
Elaine was already in her work clothes: leather corset cinched tight, a tight black leather skirt, elbow-length gloves, stockings and garter belt (but no black lace panties today) – and black leather, skysc****r 6 inch stacked heels. She had a whip tucked into her waistband and her gorgeous raven tresses were drawn back into a severe bun, topped, majestically, with a black gold tiara.
She tapped her feet. “Where is that little sissy? Hurry up, Jayne.” She looked perfect.
“In a moment” came the trilled reply. “I’m stuck.”
Jayne was indeed “stuck”. She had been desperately pulling on her black latex catsuit and there was still the corset, gloves, heels and bondage collar to come. Finally she wriggled free and was soon arrayed in her shiny uniform.
Not even pausing to gather up her clothes, she rushed down stairs and stood panting before Elaine.
“Right, quick inspection!” said the senior mistress “Yes, everything appears to be in order – I like your makeup too. I’ll have to get you to make me over sometime. But now it’s down to business. Where is the appointment book?”
Jayne rummaged around in a desk drawer and produced the ragged-edged diary. “Here it is!”
“Good. Now who’s first?”
“Mrs Granville wants a lesbian scene with a side order of submission.” They both laughed.
“OK, you can do the pussy licking and tongue kissing and I’ll take over with the spanking. Giant orgasm, and that’s $2000 in the bank. Next.”
“Mrs Faversham wants to bring over her 18-year-old son David, I mean Davina, to watch us crossdress him like a doll. She wants a bit of cunt action, too. They may even fuck. You certainly can in California. (California has some of the loosest transgendwe
You can look after
And so they planned out the afternoon’s deviations, Elaine toting up the vast profits like a human calculator. It would be an average day, nothing too strenuous, nothing too perverted.
“So let’s go!”
@@@@
Louise
- 20.07.2022
- 20
- 0
