Serving Madame Caramel: Part 2

I become 'domestic' for the first time

Clutching a yellow shoulder bag containing rubber hood, collar and CB-6000, I listened carefully while Madame Caramel told me what she expected. We were making slow progress through heavy traffic in south London, on our way to Red Spot Studios.

“This shoot is about Me. I am the focus, not you. When we arrive, I want you to lay out my clothes carefully, to help me with my shoes and anything else I may need. At other times, you will kneel in the corner and wait until you’re told what to do. You’re there to be used in whatever way Mistress Eleise or I need for the camera”.

I felt myself blushing slightly: the minicab driver could hear everything that was said. Madame had glanced at him and spoken sotto voce when She first broached kinky topics but now She didn’t seem to care what he heard.

“Did you bring your cage?”

I squirmed. “Yes, Ma’am”

“Well, I don’t want you getting an erection when I put it on, do you understand? I don’t have time to waste”

My cock was already hard. I tried to compress it with the hand that was under my yellow bag but that just made it worse. I could only hope that when the moment arrived, with other people in the studio, I would find the situation more mundane and detumesce accordingly. If it remained stubbornly erect, not only would I be humiliated and embarrassed as Madame tried to squeeze me into the sheath of transparent plastic, but I also ran the risk of annoying Her for the second time that day. I was very anxious to avoid incurring her wrath again: I wanted to please.

Madame Caramel was taking something of a risk in inviting me, almost a complete stranger, to participate in the day’s shoot for Femme Fatale Films. I was desperate, not just to be a good slave (obedient, attentive, anticipating Her needs and making no demands) but to perform well in the scenes.

I had seen an email in which Mistress Eleise had said that She would like to re-create the artwork of Namio Harukawa  so I knew that I would be spending much of the afternoon with my face pinned under Madame Caramel’s voluptuous buttocks. Apart from that, (which I was looking forward to enormously), I didn’t know what to expect. When I’d asked what She had in mind, Madame had told me that it was better if I didn’t know. Would there be pain? Would I be awkward and clumsy on camera?

I checked the navigation app on my phone: we would arrive at the studio in 8 minutes. I wasn’t sure whether I was feeling excited anticipation or nervous dread: whatever it was, the adrenaline was pumping.

………….

“Make sure the seams are straight and don’t you dare ladder them”. I was kneeling at Madame’s feet in the dressing rooms of Red Spot Studios. It was the first time I had seen Her in anything but street clothes and I was beginning to understand what BBW can mean. Madame is a beauty of Rubensesque proportions: curvaceous, powerful and strong.

“But I’m not soft,” she said while I carefully rolled her stockings up her legs.

“Feel”

My breathing was shallow and fast as I slowly reached up and touched the firm brown flesh of Madame’s thigh: I felt muscle, not fat. My deepening sense of submission was reinforced as I realized that, psychological domination aside, She was quite capable of overpowering me physically.  As I fumbled with the stockings, my hands were impatiently brushed aside.

“If you are to serve me permanently, you will have to do better than that. Get  undressed and kneel in the corner. Don’t get in the way”

Very conscious of my persistent erection, I kept still and watched as Madame Caramel sat on a high stool in front of mirrors surrounded by light bulbs while Mistress Eleise of Femme Fatale Films applied make up in preparation for the shoot. I might as well have been part of the furniture for all the attention they paid me. My role was clear to be of service when required, otherwise to be invisible. I did my best to fulfill it.

It is often these in these quiet moments when there is no obvious domination, no verbal or physical interaction, that I am most conscious of joy in submission. The two Dommes chatted about make-up, maids and other matters as if I was not in the room. I felt completely at ease, content that my only responsibility was to do as I was told.

“Come here and bring your cage with you”. 


I picked up the CB6000 and its middle-sized securing ring.  My cock had wilted a little under the scathing gaze of the two Dommes but it was still a struggle to squeeze on the transparent case and fix it on to the three white stalks which locked it into place. I handed Madame the padlock.  I’d never been in chastity while shaved: if you are going to be denied access to your cock, the experience is greatly improved by not getting hairs trapped in hinges or snagged elsewhere in the device.

We were both ready: Madame elegant in black seethrough dress and corset, Her slave naked except for his cage. I picked up my rubber hood and followed Her into the studio.

We enacted three scenes. The first, for Femme Fatale, involved facesitting.

I drowned in Madame’s voluptuous backside, slipping between ecstasy as my whole face was enveloped between the capacious cheeks of Her ass, and moments of panic as I reached the limit of my capacity to hold my breath. With Madame astride my head, I was trapped: even if I had wanted to, I could not have thrown her off,  I writhed, slapped my hands and beat my feet on the floor until She lifted for a moment allowing me a few seconds to gasp for air and then settling her weight on me again. If you do watch the film, you will see that I was completely at Her mercy: had she wanted to suffocate me, there was nothing that I could have done.

If you want to know what happened next, you can see for yourself at Femme Fatale Films - search for 'In The Zone"

The other two scenes were for Madame Caramel’s own site. In the first of these, a scenario in which I played an incompetent servant punished for failing to clean the floor of Her boudoir properly, I acquired a name that has subsequently become a continuing fixture.

“What shall I call you? Something which describes your status as a slave….I know: ‘domestic’”.

And ‘domestic’ I have remained: it’s stayed with me longer than the nick on my cock inflicted when Madame kicked me as I was removing the offending wax  with my mouth.

To my surprise and delight, Madame Caramel permitted me to hold her hand in the cab back to Hoxton.

“Yes, domestic,” She said. “I think we’ll get on very well”.