Sisterhood Of Nyx Part4

I was investigating a female-led cult. I was tricked, trapped, and tortured to find out what I had discovered about them.  I’d held out till now, but things were about to take another diabolical turn.

……..

“Gerald made some very… poor choices earlier,” she said lightly. “So he’s spending some time in punishment.”

I was led deeper into the room, my steps compliant, my will absent. With a light tap on my head, Ms. Cindy commanded, "Stay," the same word one would use for a well-trained animal. I obeyed, and the leash was discarded on the floor beside me as she turned away. Across the room, Ms. Sandra filled two crystal goblets from a carafe. She approached Ms. Cindy and handed her one of the glasses. "To another successful acquisition," she toasted, the glasses chiming together. "Indeed," Ms. Cindy agreed, her arm snaking around Sandra’s waist to draw her in. Their lips met in a kiss of raw, unapologetic passion, a celebration of their shared victory.

I was left to kneel on the plush carpet. I was rendered invisible, my nudity defined only by the collar at my neck and the cruel cage encasing my cock. A relentless, dull agony radiated from my groin as my flesh strained against its metal prison, a futile and desperate attempt to break free.

Setting her goblet aside, Ms. Sandra’s hand snaked into Ms. Cindy's hair, her fingers twisting into a firm fist. With a sharp, decisive tug, she wrenched Ms. Cindy’s head back, baring her throat. 

"Do you want to play, my little slut?" Sandra's voice was a low, possessive growl. A desperate whimper escaped Ms. Cindy's lips.

 "Oh, yes, please, please, Mistress," she pleaded, her voice thick with sudden, utter submission.

"Remove all your clothes. Let me see my property," Sandra commanded, her voice leaving no room for question. Cindy's movements were fluid and immediate, her hands making quick work of each button and clasp. The garments fell away without a moment's hesitation, revealing a body that was, by right of ownership, entirely Sandra's to command.

Ms. Sandra began a slow, predatory circle around Cindy. Her touch was a constant, shifting pressure—stroking the curve of her hip, prodding the soft flesh of her stomach, pinching her thigh just enough to make her flinch. Leaning in, she pressed her lips to the sensitive skin of Cindy's neck, drawing a soft moan from her. As she kissed, Sandra's hands snaked around Cindy's torso, claiming her breasts. Her fingers found the nipples, already hard as bullets, and gave them a gentle, deliberate pinch.

Ms. Sandra turned Cindy around. She ran her hands down Cindy’s sides, her touch firm yet teasing. "You're going to be a good girl for me, aren't you?" Ms. Sandra murmured, her voice low and commanding. Cindy nodded, her breath hitching as Ms. Sandra's fingers brushed against her clit again, circling slowly.

“Over here, boy,” Ms.Sandra shouted at me.

I crawled over to where they were both standing.

“Hold, Ms. Cindy’s arms behind her back.”

Cindy willingly put her hands behind her, and I took them and held them in place from my kneeling position.

 "Keep her arms held," Ms. Sandra instructed me, her eyes locking with mine. "Don't let go until I say so." I tightened my grip slightly, feeling Cindy shiver at the restraint. Ms. Sandra smiled, clearly enjoying the control, and leaned in to whisper something in Cindy's ear that made her whimper softly.

Ms. Sandra stepped over to the table, picking up her wine glass and taking a slow, deliberate sip. She set it down and slid open a nearby drawer, her hand emerging with a thick, phallic-shaped object. With a flick of her wrist, she twisted the knob at its base, and it hummed to life with a low, powerful vibration. A wicked smile played on her lips as she brought the buzzing tip to rest against Cindy's slick pussy lips. Cindy let out a guttural groan, her body tensing as she instinctively tried to pull her arms free from my grasp.

I tightened my grip, holding Cindy's wrists firmly as she squirmed.

 "Uh, uh, uh," Ms. Sandra tsked, pressing the vibrating tip more firmly against Cindy's slick folds. "You wanted this, remember? Be a good girl and take it.”

 Cindy's struggles weakened as the intense vibrations sent jolts of pleasure through her body, her moans growing louder. Ms. Sandra slowly circled her clit with the toy, enjoying the way Cindy's hips bucked involuntarily. "That's it," she cooed. "Let go. We're just getting started.”

Ms. Sandra leaned in, crushing her lips against Cindy's in a forceful, possessive kiss. Her tongue plunged into Cindy's mouth, swallowing her gasp as she simultaneously drove the buzzing dildo deep into her dripping passage. Cindy's body went rigid, a strangled grunt escaping her throat as a sharp, mini orgasm ripped through her, making her tremble uncontrollably in my grasp.

The buzzing dildo still buried deep inside her, Ms. Sandra turned back to the drawer. She rummaged for a moment before tossing something onto the floor beside me. "Put them on her," she commanded, her voice sharp.

I released Cindy's arms and picked up a pair of soft leather manacles joined by a short, sturdy chain. Cindy remained pliant, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her orgasm, and offered no resistance as I fastened the cuffs securely around her wrists, binding her hands behind her back.

"Hold that inside her," Ms. Sandra instructed, nodding toward the dildo. I moved my hand to press the base of the toy firmly against her, ensuring it stayed deep within her slick folds. Satisfied, she turned and walked toward an ornate, dark wood wardrobe standing against the far wall of the room.

Ms. Sandra's voice cut through the air from across the room. "I want her bent over the bed, with that pretty arse up in the air, and make sure you keep that inside her."

I rose to my feet for the first time since I'd been led into the room, my legs cramped and stiff as blood rushed back into them. I took Cindy's arm, my other hand still pressed firmly against the base of the buzzing dildo, and gently guided her toward the large bed. She moved with me, her body pliant and compliant. I positioned her as ordered, bending her over the edge of the mattress so her arse was high in the air, all while being careful to keep the vibrating toy buried deep inside her dripping pussy.

I knelt back down, my hand pressed firmly between Cindy's legs to hold the buzzing dildo in place. Her moans were soft and constant, a clear sign of her mounting pleasure. A moment later, Ms. Sandra appeared beside me. My eyes widened as I took in the sight of the large, black strap-on cock jutting out from her groin.

"Boy," she said, her voice low and authoritative. "I want you to make this nice and wet for Ms. Cindy." She brought the tip of the rubber cock to my lips. Despite the horrifying memory of my earlier ordeal, I knew better than to hesitate. I opened my mouth and took as much of the thick, rubber shaft into my mouth as I could, my tongue working to coat it with saliva.

After a few minutes, she pulled the slick, saliva-soaked phallus from my mouth with a soft pop. "Good boy," she murmured, stroking my head like a dog. "Now I want you to get Ms. Cindy's arse nice and wet for me."

I looked up at her, confused by the command.

"Get your mouth between those cheeks and fuck her arse with your tongue!" she yelled, shoving my head forward toward Cindy's exposed backside.

I obeyed without hesitation. I gently parted Cindy's soft cheeks and tentatively extended my tongue toward her tight, star-shaped sphincter. A firm hand on the back of my head pressed me forward, a clear signal that my effort was insufficient. I squeezed my eyes shut and began to lick and prod in earnest. The tight pucker yielded slightly, and the tip of my tongue slipped just inside the channel beyond.

My jaw ached and my own cheeks were soaked with a mixture of sweat and saliva when Ms. Sandra finally yanked my head back. "Kneel over there until you are needed," she ordered, her tone dismissive.

I scrambled to obey, moving to a spot a few feet away and sinking back to my knees. From there, I watched as Ms. Sandra positioned herself behind Cindy. She guided the head of the large, black strap-on to Cindy's prepared entrance and slowly pushed it into her tight back passage. Cindy groaned, a deep guttural sound, and pushed her arse back, eagerly meeting the intruding cock.

As Ms. Sandra established a steady rhythm, her hips slapping against Cindy's flesh, she produced a small leather whip I hadn't seen before. She began to gently flick it across Cindy's back and the curve of her arse with each thrust. It was clear this was for eroticism, not punishment, a sharp contrast to the brutal whipping I had received earlier. I could still feel the stinging scars on my own skin, a vivid reminder of Ms. Sandra's true discipline.

I watched for a long time as Ms. Sandra worked on Cindy. Her thrusts became brutal, the whip discarded to one side. She grabbed a handful of Cindy's hair, yanking her head back, and spat a stream of derogatory names at her. Cindy was screaming, and I couldn't tell if it was from pain or pleasure—it was likely a twisted mixture of both.

Finally, with a final, deep thrust, Ms. Sandra pulled out and stepped back. Cindy slid limply from the bed to the floor. The vibrator, dislodged by her fall, clattered onto the carpet, still humming. She lay there panting, eyes closed, face drenched in sweat, but wearing a deeply contented grin.

I jerked as a soiled rubber cock was pushed against my cheek. I turned to see Ms. Sandra's menacing eyes staring down at me.

"Clean it," she ordered.

I stared in disbelief. She couldn't be serious. She shoved the strap-on, slick with Cindy's arse, against my lips. "Now," she said, her voice full of menace.

The small voice in the back of my head started to scream a refusal, but it was weak, hollow, and had no substance. My lack of resistance was instantly decided when Ms. Sandra’s hand shot out and slapped me hard across the face. The sting was sharp and final. I opened my mouth.

I raised my arms to steady the strap-on, trying to make the disgusting task as bearable as possible. "Hands behind your back, boy," Ms. Sandra snarled, shoving my arms down. "Look me in the eyes. You always look your Master in the eyes when you service a cock."

For the next ten minutes, I performed the degrading task, my eyes locked on hers. I gagged several times, fighting to keep the contents of my stomach down. Through the entire ordeal, my own cock remained painfully hard, straining against its cage.

"That should be clean enough," she finally said, pulling the rubber shaft from my mouth. "Now get over there and release Ms. Cindy and help her up."

Relieved, I crawled to Cindy's side, unbuckled the leather manacles, and helped her to her feet. As I stood to support her, she took a moment to find her balance before her hand shot out, slapping me hard across the face. A backhanded slap followed immediately, sending me stumbling backward.

"Who the hell do you think you are, tying me up like that?" she spat. "And who said you could stand?"

I crashed to my knees, a single tear of humiliation and confusion tracing a path down my cheek. I was utterly lost.

Ms. Sandra came to stand beside Cindy and kissed her softly on the lips. "I told you he couldn't be trusted," Cindy said to her.

"Perhaps you were right, dear," Ms. Sandra replied, holding out a small black fob. She handed it to Cindy.

A wicked, cruel smile spread across Cindy's face as she pressed the button. The pain was blindingly instant, a white-hot agony that seized my entire body. The darkness came quickly and painfully as the electric shock collar did its work. I passed out.

I came to with a jolt, my mind a fog of confusion. I tried to move, but my body was held fast, locked in a rigid position. As my eyes slowly adjusted, all I could see was a series of black bars directly in front of me. I squinted, and the familiar bedroom swam into focus, but only through this limited, rectangular frame. I could make out the large bay window, the ornate wardrobe, and the plush carpet. My peripheral vision was blocked entirely.

I was wearing a mask of some kind. It clung tightly to my head, conforming to my face, but I could still breathe easily. There was also some gag in my mouth. I coughed, trying to draw a proper breath around it, and a warm liquid instantly filled my mouth. I recognized the taste immediately. It was the same sweet-tasting concoction they had me drinking earlier.

As my body slowly came back to life, a sharp, insistent pain radiated from my shoulders and down my arms. I realized with a dawning horror that my arms were strapped tightly behind my back, pulled upward at an agonizing angle. I was on my knees, my legs forced slightly apart. Glancing down as best I could, I saw straps securing my ankles to the corners of... a cage.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I had replaced Gerald. I was in the very same cage I had seen him in when I first entered the bedroom with Ms. Cindy.

A silhouette appeared against the bright light of the bay window. It was a woman, completely naked except for a pair of sleek, calf-length black boots. A chair was placed behind her by an unseen person, and she sat down with an air of authority. Another figure then emerged and knelt before her.

I squinted, my eyes struggling to penetrate the glare and make sense of the scene. The person kneeling had something curved and dark protruding from their mouth.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I recognized Ms. Sandra as the seated woman and Gerald as the figure kneeling before her. Then, another person entered my limited field of vision: Ms. Cindy, also naked, holding a whip in her hand. A black strap-on jutted from her own groin.

Muffled orders came through the hood, and Gerald immediately got onto his hands and knees. The whip cracked down on his backside, and he crawled forward. It was only then that I saw it: a dildo was strapped to his head, the jutting phallus covering his face.

Ms. Sandra stood and moved her chair back a few paces. She positioned herself, legs apart, bent over the chair, hands braced on its back. Gerald was guided forward until he was directly behind her. Ms. Cindy took hold of the face cock and aimed it, pushing Gerald's head forward. Ms. Sandra pushed back, impaling herself on the dildo attached to Gerald's head.

Ms. Cindy then walked around behind Gerald. She tapped the inside of his legs, and he widened his stance as best he could. She knelt between his spread legs and, without hesitation, pushed forward, driving the strap-on she wore deep into his arse.

Gerald was grunting with a raw, pained sound. His neck was bent at an impossible angle as Ms. Sandra pushed back against him, forcing the face cock deeper inside her while Ms Cindy thrust into him from behind. Each powerful thrust from Ms. Cindy drove Gerald's head forward, only for Ms. Sandra to grind back against him, creating a torturous seesaw that threatened to snap his neck. All the while, the whip in Ms. Cindy's hand slashed across his back, leaving fresh, red welts with every cruel stroke.

Ms. Sandra screamed, a high, piercing sound of release, and reached behind her to grab Gerald's head, holding him deep inside as she climaxed. Her sharp fingernails dug into his shaved scalp, breaking the skin. Ms. Cindy threw the whip aside and grabbed Gerald's hips, pulling him back onto her strap-on to ensure she went as deep as possible. They held him in that agonizing embrace for a long moment, Ms. Sandra's body pulsing as the orgasm ran its course.

Ms. Cindy pulled out first, not gently, but with one quick, sharp movement that made Gerald cry out. She walked away, undoing her strap-on as she went and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. She returned and gently guided Gerald's face away from Ms. Sandra. The dildo came out with an audible, wet plop. She roughly shoved Gerald aside and went to Ms. Sandra, holding her and kissing her neck and face. The two women hugged and kissed, and Ms. Cindy helped Ms. Sandra back toward me. I lost sight of them as they moved onto the bed, just outside the limited view of my cage

From the bed came the sounds of movement, a symphony of groans, moans, kisses, and sharp cries. I could only imagine the scene, and the thought made my own cock throb painfully as it was crushed against its steel prison. Gerald lay where they had discarded him, a heap on the floor. I thought I could hear the faint sound of sobbing, but I couldn't be sure.

I sucked at the gag jammed in my mouth, but nothing came out. I must have drained the reservoir of their drink while watching the ordeal. All of a sudden, I became aware of music. It wasn't loud, and it wasn't muffled like the other sounds coming through the hood. This was gentle, soothing, and seemed to be playing directly in my ears. A strange peacefulness washed over me. It made me relax, a stark contrast to the searing pain in my shoulders and the dull ache in my knees.

The music played on, a continuous, melodic stream. My eyes grew heavy. I blinked, fighting to stay alert, but the soothing melody was too powerful. Soon, the darkness overtook me again, and I slipped away into an unconsciousness that felt like a mercy.

I awoke gently, the softness of a mattress beneath me a stark contrast to the hard floor of the cage. My head throbbed with a dull ache, and my mouth was bone dry. I shivered, a cold sweat on my skin despite the warmth of the quilt covering me. I stretched, my limbs feeling stiff and sore, and looked around.

My heart stopped.

It was my room. The familiar prints on the wall, the pile of clothes on the chair, the morning light filtering through my own curtains. I sat bolt upright, my mind reeling. Was it all a nightmare? A vivid, twisted dream born of stress and depravity? My body ached with a pain that felt too real to be imagined. I threw back the covers and looked down at myself, searching for some sign, some mark that would prove the horrors of the cage, the collar, and the women had actually happened.

I stood up too quickly, and a wave of dizziness washed over me, forcing me to lean back against the bed to keep my balance. A surge of nausea followed, my mouth watering uncomfortably. I scrambled to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to wretch. A foul-tasting, bitter liquid burned my throat as it left my stomach and splashed into the bowl. I stayed there for a couple of minutes, breathing heavily until the spinning sensation subsided.

I stumbled to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. Lifting my head to grab a towel, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My hand flew to my head. All my hair was gone. It wasn't a dream. It had happened. I turned slowly, craning my neck to look over my shoulder. Faint, red marks crisscrossed my skin—the fading evidence of the beating I'd taken.

The towel dropped from my numb fingers. I rushed to my small office, my heart pounding. I looked around, scratching my newly bald head. Everything was exactly as it should be. My laptop was on my desk, and my books were on their shelves. The world outside my window was normal. It was a terrifying, maddening contradiction. The physical proof was on my body, but the world I knew was untouched.

I sat down at my desk, my hands trembling as I turned on my laptop. I entered my password, and the familiar welcome screen appeared. Everything seemed as it should be. Or so I thought. I navigated to the folder where I kept all my notes and contacts concerning the cult. It was empty. My heart hammered against my ribs. I logged into my cloud accounts—Google Drive, Dropbox, and OneDrive. The same. Nothing. My backup drive. The same. I frantically scrolled through my internet history, my search queries, and my browser cache. All the links, messages, and every trace of my investigation had vanished. It was all gone.

This wasn't just a simple deletion. This was a professional, systematic erasure. They targeted my local drives, my cloud accounts, and even my browsing history, obscuring their digital footprints and leaving me with no trail to follow.

My hard copies. Had they found my files? A flicker of hope surged through me. I went to the cupboard under the stairs where I kept my safe. I spun the dial, my fingers fumbling but finally getting the combination right. The door swung open, and I smiled to myself. There it was, the red binder in all its glory. A wave of pride washed over me for having outsmarted them.

I carried it back to my desk, my confidence returning with every step. I sat down and flipped open the cover, ready to review my notes, to find a thread to pull.

My smile vanished.

The binder was empty. Every page, every note, every photograph was gone. In the center of the empty space, a single, small, matte black card lay. I picked it up with a trembling hand. A phone number was printed along the center in ornate gold lettering.

A chilling phrase echoed in my mind, something someone had said: "We are dismantling your life as we speak." Or something like that. Panic, cold and sharp, seized me again. I scrambled back to my laptop and checked my bank account. A wave of relief washed over me when I saw the balance was untouched. I checked my emails, my social media accounts—everything seemed fine. Perhaps it was just an empty threat, a mind game to break me.

A profound wave of tiredness washed over me, a bone-deep exhaustion that made my limbs feel like lead. I needed to lie down. I flopped back onto the bed, but my mind refused to rest. It replayed the experience, every degrading, humiliating detail. My hand wandered down my body, and I found my cock, unrestricted and stiffly erect. My shaved balls felt firm and full. My mind went back to servicing the ladies, to the taste of the strap-on, the feeling of submission. As I began to pull on my cock, the memories flooded my senses. After only a few strokes, my back arched violently, and my cock exploded, a powerful, shuddering orgasm that ripped through me with an intensity I hadn't felt in years.

3 Weeks later.

 I sat outside my local coffee shop. It was a cool but bright day in early December. Rochester was lovely this time of year; everybody was preparing for the Dickens festival, and Christmas decorations were up—a lull in tourists just before the rush of the weekend. My coffee was going cold as I turned the black card over and over in my hand. I took it everywhere with me now. It was like a small security blanket. I have no idea why.

My dreams have become more erotic. All based around the ladies. I went as far as to attend a local B.D.S.M. munch at a local pub. It was interesting, but I was just another single man looking for something. I consulted a professional dominatrix, but as sexy as she was, I lacked realism. It was a performance. A transaction. What I experienced wasn't a game; it was a complete and total surrender of self, a terrifying and exhilarating loss of control that no paid session could ever replicate. They weren't playing a role; they were living a reality that I had been briefly, brutally, allowed to enter.

I had no interest in anything else in life. I was fortunate enough to have enough money in the bank to last a good while. I ignored all social media. I felt like I was treading water. I drank my cold coffee, and I made my decision. I had to make the call.

Later that night, my heart pounding, I dialed the number on the card. It rang five times. Just as I was about to hang up, I heard a click, followed by a flat, electronic voice. It gave me an address in Portland, Dorset. And a date. A week from now. I scrambled to write them down. 

The line went dead.

I stared at my hastily scrawled note. Did I hear it right? Did I write it down correctly? I decided to call the number again. To my shock, the "no such number" tone came up. I tried three more 

times, but there was no change. The number was gone.

A week later, I found myself on the 4-hour train journey from Rochester to Weymouth. No direct route meant I had to change at Victoria. My mind wandered. Is this where I was kept? If so, how had they transferred me from the Isle of Wight? Over the last three weeks, I'd constantly wondered how they managed to get me back into my home. The logistics were a puzzle I couldn't solve, a testament to their efficiency. 

The train journey itself was a study in contrasts, the mundane reality of packed carriages and delayed announcements clashing violently with the secret, dark purpose of my trip. From Weymouth, I'd have to get a bus or an Uber to Portland, a small island of stone connected to the mainland by a causeway, a place that felt as remote and final as the decision I had made.

The Uber dropped me off at the address—a large cottage set back in its own grounds. I walked up the gravel driveway, the crunching under my feet unnaturally loud in the quiet countryside. A sign on the front door read "All Visitors To Back Door," with an arrow pointing left. I was already regretting not asking the driver to wait. I pulled out my phone and, as I suspected, there was no signal. A cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach.

I followed the path around the side of the house and found the back door. I took a deep, steadying breath and rang the bell. The sound echoed, and then, there was only silence. I waited, my heart hammering against my ribs, every second stretching into an eternity.

A calm, slightly distorted female voice came from the Ring doorbell's speaker. "Come inside. You will find a box to your left. Please remove all of your clothes, place them in the box, and clip the padlock closed. Leave your bag, phone, and wallet on top of the box. Then kneel with your head touching the ground and wait."

The click of the lock disengaging was the only reply. I pushed the door inward, revealing a dimly lit, stone-flagged hallway. The instructions echoed in my mind, each word a deliberate step in a ritual designed to strip away my identity. I saw the box, a simple wooden crate with a heavy brass padlock lying beside it. My heart hammered, but my decision had been made weeks ago. I was here.

Sharp footsteps echoed on the flagstones, coming closer. I flinched as cold leather encircled my neck, the buckle fastening with a soft, final click. A tug on the leash connected to it pulled me forward. A single, clipped command cut through the silence.

"Heel."