-- Cam Inventor's Confession: February 2017 --

"I've a treat for you," she said, as she slowly stripped me of my clothes, peeling off my work shirt, my trousers, reducing me from my professional, workday self to my true inner-self, her boy, her slave.

I clasp my hands together behind my back while she heads over to the dresser.  "Funny," I think. "She's left the collar..."  Then I see her slowly pull the hood out from the drawer.  It's thin, supple black leather, very sensual.  She knows I love wearing it.  She loves the space it puts me in when she pulls the laces tight.  She loves how quiet and still I become, how submissive it makes me.

"Mistress..." I start, but she holds the neck of the hood open and I immediately, obediently bow my head and she pulls the black leather over me.  It's an open-mouth design, but something about it stops me from talking, like a hooded bird of prey, patiently waiting for the chance to fly again.  Only the soaring I know I'll be doing is in this hood.

I moan softly as she moves behind me, one hand languidly stroking my shoulder.  The laces start to tighten, pulling the calfskin tight against my face. Slowly, by degrees, the hood gets tighter, the laces cinched lower and lower, until she ties them in a bow at the back of my neck.  I raise my head and wait for her to fit her collar back round my neck, over the neck of the hood, and the distinctive little metallic click as her lock seals me in again.

Just a finger on my shoulder, her nail delicately scoring my flesh.  It is all I need, the signal to sink to my knees.  All this time, I've been silent, but now, standing before me, she leans down, lifts my chin with her finger and waits for me to ask.

"Mistress?" I begin to ask the question, inevitably knowing it won't be answered.  But the doorbell cuts me off and she drops my chin like a child discarding a toy.

I hear her open the door, voices excited in the hallway.  Hers, and another.  Another female.

"Yes, he's in here. Would you like a drink first? Water? Or coffee?" she asks, being as ever the perfect hostess.

"Do you have any iced tea?" the other woman asks.  "Of course," she replies, and I hear her voice fade as she heads to the kitchen "I'd get him to get it for you, but..."

Within a couple of moments, there are two women standing one either side of me.  I squirm slightly, not knowing who this new person is.

"Cam," her voice, unmistakable my Mistress, "this is Erica.  She's a friend.  She's a Domme.  And for the first time, I'm going to share you with someone else.  Isn't that nice?"

I nod and reply, throat dry, cock stiffening involuntarily. "Yes Mistress. Very nice."

One of my two tormentors leans down and slaps my chest, hard.  I grunt. "Thank you...Mmmii..."

"Miss Erica," Mistress instructs, letting me know who it was.

"Thank you Miss Erica," I reply.

The pair get to work on me, slapping, cropping, flogging me.  Starting warming me up, reddening my buttocks, my thighs.  Learning how far, how hard to take me.  Taunting me; Mistress asks me how many times I've cum inside her without permission. Forced with slaps to my thighs, stinging blows, to admit it's been twice now so far.  And the circumstances of each.  Humiliation.

Objectification, too.  New toys come out to be tested on me; nipple clamps, what feel like bulldog clips (which I never see, but hurt like hell when they're ripped off my cock and balls), and a thin carbon fibre rod called a misery stick, marking me with tiny sharp welts all the way up my thighs.  I'm made to feel like an experiment, a competition to see who can leave the nicest mark.  I don't know who wins, because I don't know who's doing what.  The mystery both adds to the eroticism, and to my subby distress.

I want to stop it, to cry out and make it all stop.  But I don't want to let Mistress down and I'm so deep in subspace too that I'm just riding the waves of pain and pleasure, tossed around on a sea of sensation.

It's not long enough though (it never is when it stops!), and all too soon it's over; I'm released, unhooded, and sit, blinking and squinting despite the dim, dank afternoon light.  The three of us sit for a while, and all I can do is grin while the ladies chat - a few well-directed questions to bring me back to normality, still grinning like an idiot though, and Miss Erica leaves.  We're left alone.  I run my fingers over the welts and red marks, wincing at my sore nipples.

That was over a week ago.

The marks have gone, but I'm still grinning.  And I'm more in love than ever with Mistress.