Light Relief

The Marquise surveyed the room with satisfaction. She had been away for the week, staying with Lady Isobel in her Chateau in Fontainebleau, while a team of her male slaves had been hard at work decorating her graceful Bloomsbury apartment to her exacting specifications. She sojourned away every year, just before Spring, finding it invigorating to return to a change of scene in her London home.

Impeccable as her choices had proved, it was the treasured furniture that attracted her attention. Two rather unusual items of furniture. At one end of the room stood a unique standing lamp and, just to one side, there was a curious form of coffee table.

Both these items had one thing in common. They were formed from the bodies of men. Two of the Marquise's slaves. The standing lamp went by the name of d, while the table she called i.

The sun was setting, and Chet Baker played in the background as she moved, with predatory grace, across the room to the lamp. d was encased in form-fitting bronze with only his face, cock and balls left free. She lifted d's penis and began to squeeze it.

His organ bloomed in her firm gloved grasp. She smiled as his phallus hardened, straining against the cock ring circling his genitals. As his cock pulled on the ring, the cable tightened and an audible click sounded. The room was instantly bathed in a golden glow from the 100 watt bulb which sat neatly in the purpose-built housing perched on top of d's head. Encasing the bulb, to contain and direct the light, was a delightful Tiffany lamp shade.

Once d was aroused like this, the pressure of his rigid penis, pulling against the taut cable, maintained his erection indefinitely, keeping the lamp lit.

Marquise heard laughter from the hallway. Her friend, Princess Midnight, strode into the room, smiling, as always. The Marquise rose to her feet, thrilled to see her lovely friend.

"How was your trip, Marquise?" asked Princess Midnight, returning the keys.

"Quite delightful, Princess," replied the Marquise, placing the keys on the low table.

"And how was your new maid?" continued the Princess.

The Marquise frowned.

"She's a little too eager to please any lady who chooses to take advantage."

"A flirt?" queried the Princess.

"A flirt," confirmed the Marquise.

"But enough of that. My idiot slaves have performed well under Your supervision, Princess?"

The Princess smiled. "Don't worry, I made sure they followed Your instructions to the letter."

At this point simone, the Marquise's maid, stepped quietly into the room, eyes lowered.

The Marquise looked up.

"Yes, simone?"

"Ma'am, I have unpacked Your bags and am awaiting further instructions."

simone was despatched to fetch wine, as the two most beautiful and most desirable Ladies in London talked.

simone returned, bearing a tray.

Reaching out a gloved hand, Princess Midnight studied the downcast face of the maid.

"Maid."

"Yes Ma'am?" simone replied nervously.

"I hear you have been something of a flirt while accompanying Your Mistress abroad. What do you have to say for yourself?"

simone looked up, startled, glancing at her Mistress and then back to the Princess.

"Lower your gaze at once! How dare you look upon a Lady, a guest in My house?" thundered the Marquise.

simone trembled, averting her eyes.

"Well, maid?" said the Princess.

"Not to my knowledge, Ma'am," she replied quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

The Marquise noticed the maid's hands trembling as she took a glass from the tray. The golden light filtering through the wine reflected off her polished nails, making an arc of diamonds on the darkling ceiling.

The two women glanced at each other with mild surprise.

"So you think your mistress is wrong, simone?" asked the Princess.

"N...n...no Ma'am."

"In that case you confirm my suspicions?" interjected the Marquise.

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm sorry, Ma'am. Please forgive me, Mistress".

The two women shook their heads.

"Look at this," the Marquise said to the Princess and with her quirt lifted up the hem of simone's short skirt.

simone's face flushed as the two women examined her panties. There for all to see were tell-tale stains in the front of her pale pink silky panties and to make it worse her cock was pushing against the soft feminine fabric with crass urgency.

"Well, slut. It's obvious you have not been keeping your mind on your duties,Ó The Princess observed.

"Isn't it?" said the Marquise.

"Go into my bedroom, strip to your panties and wait for me. I'll deal with you later."

"Yes, Mistress. Very good, Mistress," simone replied, and scuttled off towards the door.

"Don't drag your heels, maid! When I say to do something You run!"

simone broke into a run as she left the room. The two women laughed as they heard simone's heels scurry along to the Marquise's bedroom.

"So, she's been getting under your feet, my Lady...?" mused the Princess.

The Marquise raised a single inquisitive eyebrow.

"How would you like her to really be under your feet? Permanently."

The Marquise smiled. Princess Midnight set her glass down on the coffee table and, picking up a tawse from the mahogany side-table, followed simone.

The Marquise settled into the sofa, reached out and picked up a magazine from the coffee table. She drew her feet tantalisingly along the nether tassels adorning her table and smiled at the inevitable shudder. A book of Helmut Newton photographs rested on its surface, and she observed with delight a new item. A large, limited edition of Sardax prints lay next to it, with the talented artist's personal inscription on the cover.

i was bound face up, with wires attached to the hoops placed through his freshly pierced ears, immobilising his head. His limbs were encased in carved oak. From his anus rose a curved wooden stem, which passed through a hole in the glass table top and opened out to form a bowl into which fresh fruit was placed daily. Covering the slave's genitals, at the edge of the table's surface, was a hollow bronze statue of a cowering male, which at the Marquise's insistence was to be given the most vigorous polishing every day.

The Marquise reached down between her thighs, and fondled her crotch discreetly, melting at the sight of an intelligent man, helpless in bondage, serving as elegant parlour furniture for its capricious female owner. She slipped off her shoes and, leaning back, rested her stockinged feel on i's immobile face.

The Marquise picked up the copy of American Vogue by her side. The article she sought was there.

"Hello. I am d, an appliance in my owner's household. In my previous incarnation as a free man, I loved literature, nature, the power of the imagination, and serving females in all their many wonderful guises. It was this last, crowning passion, which set the course of my life.

After taking voluntary redundancy from my teaching post, I was intrigued to come across an advertisement to act as a standing lamp to a beautiful and powerful woman. Being treated as an inanimate object had a deep resonance for me, and I applied immediately, never thinking I would be lucky enough to secure the placement.

I am very content. There is of course no sex for me. It wouldn't be appropriate. However, I may look at my Mistress in her tight leather skirts, and calf hugging leather boots, as she entertains the many attractive and dominant women, often similarly attired, who visit her home.

While I am here, as her property, it is my pride to function to the best of my abilities for her. In return she feeds and houses me, and appreciates me. I embody the truth that women don't need men, and my existence demonstrates the exciting proposition that, to a dominant woman, a man can be no more important than a piece of furniture, and be honoured to serve her as such.

I hope my Lady never dispenses with my services. She has told me that she might upgrade me to a hot water bottle, although she would only need me in the winter. I can think of nothing better than to be so intimately at my ownerÕs feet. I sometimes read over her shoulder, when she lets me, but never pry. She's a very fair mistress, and I am glad to be hers. I must finish now. Dusk is falling, and the Marquise will be along shortly. We're reading about something called Object Relations. Or rather, she is. "

The Marquise glanced up smiling, crossing an elegant womanly leg over the other, and sipping tea. She was pleased with d. His interview had been informative without impropriety.

Something caught her eye, however. There, glistening in the light thrown out by her lamp, was a sticky shining residue on the tip of the lamp switch. She frowned.

d's breathing grew perceptibly faster as he felt his Mistress's disapproving eye upon his straining cock. He knew that such a vulgar display of his boyhood would not be welcome. He had wrestled with how best to deal with this. The pressure of the line on the cock ring ensured there was little he could do about his erection. Indeed without it, he could not fulfil his role as a lamp. Yet he felt sure he should not be leaking pre-cum! What kind of lamp did that?

She rose slowly to her feet and stepped over to the lamp to examine the switch. She gently brushed the tip of the switch under her velvet-clad fingertips and with a look of disgust shook her head.

"Oh dear, you appear to be overheating. We'll have to get you off before you adversely affect the electrics."

d said nothing for he was a standing lamp, and standing lamps as a rule were not imbued with the power of speech.

Peeling off her velvet glove, the Marquise reached down to the silver plinth on which d stood. daverted his eyes from the compelling curve of her hip and thigh, as his Mistress pressed gently on a small detail on the base, opening a hidden drawer. Inside the drawer was a single disposable rubber surgical glove, and what looked like a small medicine bottle.

Slowly the Marquise drew the glove over her fingers and unscrewed the lid of the medicine bottle. In one velvet gloved hand she held the bottle close to the tip of d's penis. With her rubber glove she began to manipulate the switch with a dispassionate, almost mechanically detached rhythmic motion. Before long the lamp began to quiver and after a short time, with a strange sound, half sigh - half whimper, the lamp went out.

In the moonlight, the Marquise screwed the cap back on the now full medicine bottle. Placing it back in the drawer of the plinth she left the room for the night, knowing that when she next returned, a fresh glove and empty bottle would be resting within the hidden drawer.

She made her way through to her bedroom. There she found Princess Midnight holding a pair of stained pink panties delicately between her forefinger and thumb. She turned as she heard the Marquise approach.

"You may want these as a keepsake to remind You of Your old maid - and perhaps as a warning to her replacement."

The Marquise looked around the room until her eyes finally settled on a beautiful thick pile Persian rug which lay at the foot of her bed and hadn't been there before now. She delicately stepped onto the rich weave, and felt the soft give of the material. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, incredulous at what she was experiencing.

"This is simone?" she asked in wonder, bouncing gently on the balls of her feet. The Princess nodded.

"How perfect! Does he know I am here?"

"Oh yes, Madam. He can hear, feel, sense everything just as before. In fact if anything, his senses are sharper than they ever were. The only difference is that he is dumb, immobile, and has the physical form of a rug. Other than that, he is unchanged."

"Wonderful." The Marquise beamed at her gifted and beautiful friend, and started walking over the rug.

"You're so much better as a rug than a maid, simone. So much more useful. And just think, you'll never need scolding again. You lucky, lucky slave. I will call you s."

The Marquise invited her friend to join her on the rug, and together the two women danced a tango over the transformed body of s, revelling in his luxuriant softness beneath their trampling feet.

As the two women caressed, a doorbell rang.

"That'll be Justin to pick me up," explained Princess Midnight.

"Justin? Justin with the...?"

"Yes, Marquise. Justin with his ridiculously large ever-erect cock".

"I don't know where you find them, Princess, but I envy you, thinking of the pathetic specimens crawling around my feet."

"Oh Marquise, really, envy is something you know you never have to feel over something as meaningless as a man. Why don't you borrow him for the evening?"

"Really, Princess?" beamed the Marquise with a lustful predatory expression.

"Call it a welcome home present!".

How had s taken the transformation? Lying helplessly on the floor, he had no idea at first of what had happened to him. One moment he had been stripping off his maid dress as instructed, and then Princess Midnight had walked into the room, pulled his panties off, scolding him, and made him lie on his back on the floor. Obeying his Mistress's beautiful accomplice without question, he had lain, staring up with desire at Princess Midnight's long legs as she began some sort of strange incantation.

She had stood astride him, waving her hands, and with alarm he had felt his body changing, dissolving almost. It was as if he was sinking into the carpet, deep into its very fibres. He felt a curious weightlessness and realised he no longer could differentiate one part of his body from another. He was used to his cock feeling frustrated, but not his entire body. He tried to raise his head... only he couldn't tell anymore what part of him this was. He noticed the chandelier hanging from the ceiling above him was reflecting the floor. Strange he thought to himself... i'm right underneath it but can't see myself.

And then it had slowly dawned on him. That rug hadn't been there when he entered the Marquise's boudoir. He watched the reflection as Princess Midnight straightened the rug out with the pointed toe of her shoe. His whole body was being manoeuvred around by her foot. The sensation was a complete sensory overload.

He realised that somehow the Princess, revered for her wiccan powers, had turned him into this exquisite Persian rug.

And now she was walking on his chest, his face, his cock, laughing softly to herself, and he could feel her weight, the sharp stab of her heels, he could see up her long lithe legs into the darkness beneath her skirt, and he could no more move or cry out as could any rug strewn on the floor in a Lady's boudoir.

And now his beautiful Mistress was about to be pleasured by some strange man with a giant penis. He felt sick, jealous, overwhelmed with the unfairness of his lot. s decided he would simply pretend this wasn't happening. He couldn't tell what was worse, his being turned into an inanimate rug, or having to think of his Mistress in the next room being pleasured by another man.

Only, he soon realised that she wasn't about to be pleasured in the next room...

He smelt her perfume just before he heard her heels cross the wooden floor and then she was there. Dressed in her red satin dress. The one that fitted her exquisite form so perfectly. Her face was alive with expectation as a naked, well muscled and even better hung man knelt down on s and began to plant delicate kisses on the Marquise's shoes. This was going to be agony - physically and mentally. The combined weight of both bodies made it difficult for s to breathe. He had no lungs, no body to speak of, yet he felt like he did. The Marquise's heels bit into his pile as if it were his naked chest. His cock throbbed with no physical means of relief. He could do nothing but observe as his Mistress broke his heart while standing on his head with this... this powerful man on his knees.

Music swelled up as the man took off her shoes and stockings. Slowly he slid her velvet panties down her superb legs with his teeth, kissing her feet in turn as he delicately slipped her free of clothing. Last off came the dress, his hands caressing the smooth satin one last time before naked, she pulled the man's face into her pussy. He ate long and hard, his cock a rigid beacon of desire all the time. Hungry for more, she lay back, her soft white buttocks pressing onto the rug, and the minutes stretched on into hours as she took the full length of Justin's impressive shaft deep within her womanhood, draining him dry, exhausting him, teasing him back to manly ardour, and fucking him again.

Finally, she disentwined her limbs from those of her broken and used paramour. She rolled him callously off s and lay still for a moment, her adorable arse pressing down on s's chest. She could feel his heart beating fast and strong through the surface of the rug and, smiling to herself, pulled the rug around her, surrounding herself in the frustrated desire and impotent stifled agony of s.

Whispering into the Persian weave, she taunted, "Perhaps one day, if you're very good, you can be my maid once again."

s, unable to articulate, could do nothing but weep dry tears, which formed shooting stars in the rug's fabric, and pray that his Mistress would keep her naked flesh pressed against his for just one moment longer. He despaired of ever being able to communicate with her again.

But as always he underestimated the Marquise, who read his every thought as easily as her own. She had already decided that s would be required to remain a soft cushion on which she would conquer innumerable suitors. As s would come to realise, she had to destroy his male ego in the process, and maybe, just maybe, one day rebuild him in his true, as yet unfulfilled image, restoring him to his former status as her slave.

Marquise