Sacrificed To Femininity
High Priestess Diana stood at the edge of the dimly lit chamber, her cold, unblinking gaze fixed on the male slave before her. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows across the stone walls, and the scent of incense mixed with the metallic tang of anticipation that hung in the air. The room, draped in deep reds and blacks, bore witness to countless ceremonies, yet tonight’s ritual stirred something deeper within her; a rush of excitement, fierce and uncontrollable.
Though her exterior remained calm, her heart pounded in her chest, an unfamiliar heat rising within her. She had witnessed countless men fall to their knees in submission, squirm under her whips, and plead for mercy that would never come. She had inflicted pain with precise, detached cruelty, reveling in their suffering. And yet, this moment felt different. Why? she wondered, her mind tracing the contours of her anticipation as her eyes bore into the man now kneeling at the foot of the altar.
He was unlike the usual captives brought before her for punishment. This slave had not been dragged in, screaming or fighting against his fate. No, he had walked willingly; no, eagerly; toward his destiny. He knelt before her, his back straight, eyes cast down in reverent submission. His skin gleamed under the candlelight, his physique honed to perfection, each muscle a testament to the rigorous conditioning and painful refinement he had endured. This was no mere man, trembling in terror, but a creation, a product of the cult’s relentless manipulation.
The breeders were special, Diana mused. These men were not plucked randomly from the dregs of society like common slaves, weak and feeble. They were bred, meticulously crafted through generations of genetic manipulation to produce only the finest physical specimens. Their bodies were chiseled, their imperfections eradicated by both the knife and the whip. Trained from the age of eighteen in the art of obedience, submission, and worship, they were taught to revere the goddesses as women did; but always as lessers, always understanding their place beneath the superior, divine feminine.
He knelt now, head bowed, muscles tense yet utterly obedient, knowing what was to come yet welcoming it. Diana’s pulse quickened further. This was not the passive fear of a broken man, trembling before her power. This was something far more delicious: willing sacrifice. This slave, bred for his perfection, trained to withstand immense suffering, understood his role completely. His purpose was to serve, to suffer, and ultimately, to be offered in a sacred rite that transcended mere pain. He believed in the very superiority that Diana embodied.
The High Priestess found herself savoring the moment before the ritual would begin. Though she whipped and tortured men regularly, though their cries of pain brought her satisfaction, this; this was something else. She could feel the intensity building within her, the anticipation of what was to come, the ecstasy she would derive not only from the pain but from the power she wielded over one who willingly gave himself to her cruelty. He believed in her. He worshiped her.
His training had been long and arduous, both mental and physical. He, like all the others in the breeding program, had been conditioned to worship the goddess Cruella alongside the women, though always as a lesser being, a worshiper whose role was to endure suffering as an offering. He had been taught to see his submission as sacred, his pain as a necessary tribute to the goddesses he could never hope to understand. Each strike, each lash, was part of a holy process, and he had memorized every chant, every prayer that would be spoken tonight.
Diana could feel the eyes of her sisters upon her, the other Priestesses watching in silent anticipation. They too shared in her excitement. The moment was nearing. Soon, the ritual would begin; the ritual where this carefully groomed specimen of masculinity would offer not just his body, but his soul, in an act of ultimate submission to the High Priestess and the goddesses she served. He was perfect in every way; physically sculpted and mentally broken, yet willing, a rare combination.
Diana raised her hand, signaling the start of the ritual, her pulse thudding louder in her ears. The room seemed to pulse with energy, a dark and twisted kind of holiness. The chanting began, soft and rhythmic, rising in waves as the other women’s voices filled the chamber. The slave remained perfectly still, waiting, knowing what was to come. His body was prepared, his mind steeled for the pain, but nothing could prepare him for the true ecstasy he would give to the High Priestess in this moment.
For Diana, this ritual was not about the mere infliction of pain; it was about the pure, raw power she held over life and death, over mind and body. Her excitement swelled as she stepped forward, her hand caressing the cold blade that would soon mark the beginning of the ceremony. She could feel her heart thud in time with the chants. Soon, she would take from him everything, not just because she could, but because he wanted her to.
As her eyes locked onto his bowed head, she felt the first stirrings of a pleasure far deeper than anything physical. This was true power: the ability to command not just obedience, but devotion, to have a man; created, shaped, and broken; kneel willingly before her, offering his life, his pain, his very essence, for her pleasure and the twisted whims of the goddesses they both served.
Diana’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles as she prepared to begin. The ritual had only just started, but already, she knew this one would stay with her long after the altar had been cleansed of blood.
High Priestess Diana surveyed the scene with meticulous attention to detail, her gaze sharp as she circled the slave kneeling at the altar. Every step of preparation had been overseen by the younger dominas, but this moment; the ritual; required perfection. The Goddess Cruella demanded nothing less, and Diana had no intention of allowing anything to go wrong.
The slave dared not lift his eyes to the Priestesses or the acolytes who stood silently by, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Instead, he stared up at the imposing statue of the Goddess Cruella towering above the altar. It was the first time he had ever seen the inner sanctum, let alone laid eyes on this sacred symbol. His breath hitched at the sight. The statue, over fifteen feet tall, loomed over him, the embodiment of the goddess’s unyielding cruelty. The artisans who crafted it, enslaved long ago for their talents, had captured her essence perfectly. Cruella’s face was an exquisite blend of beauty and malevolence, her imperious gaze a reminder to all males of their worthlessness before her divine power.
The slave’s thoughts momentarily drifted to the cult’s vast library, where he had been forced to study under the constant supervision of the Priestesses. It had been a relentless task; memorizing the teachings of Cruella, her sacred writings, the rules on how women should treat their “inferior” male counterparts. He had also studied the manuals used by young dominas as they honed their sadistic techniques, learning to break men with cold precision. Failure in these studies had meant severe punishment, each error met with lashes and brutal reminders of his place.
But the past was a dull ache compared to the sharp terror of the present. The ominous click of Diana’s stilettos on the stone floor and the swish of her robe as she moved around him brought him back to the ritual at hand. She walked slowly, inspecting him with the cold eye of a hunter appraising her prey. His body had been prepared perfectly by the younger dominas; every inch of his skin shaved smooth to heighten sensitivity, every mark ready to be displayed to the eager onlookers. Rings adorned his flesh: through his nose, his nipples, his ears, and his genitals. Each polished and gleaming, a testament to the cruelty yet to come.
As Diana circled him, a faint odor reached her nostrils; one she recognized but found unpleasant nonetheless. The male had been anointed, as per the sacred teachings, using the only “female fluid” deemed acceptable for such a ceremony. The young dominas had cleansed him thoroughly, as they were trained to do. Diana’s lip curled in faint distaste, but she nodded her approval.
One of the other Priestesses stepped forward, reverently carrying an intricately carved chalice. She handed it to Diana, who, without hesitation, pressed it to the slave’s lips, forcing him to drink. The slave obediently swallowed the warm, salty liquid. Diana had provided the Sacred Wine herself, ensuring its potency, and she was pleased to see him drink it eagerly, as any properly conditioned slave should. He licked his lips as she withdrew the cup, though the bitter taste lingered.
The room filled with a low, rhythmic chanting as Diana gave the signal. The dominas began their incantation, their voices a haunting melody that echoed against the stone walls. Above the chanting, the slave recited his memorized speech, his voice trembling only slightly as he asserted the superiority of the females before him. His words dripped with self-loathing as he declared his own worthlessness, offering his pitiful male body as a sacrifice in honor of the Goddess Cruella and the supreme femininity she embodied.
Diana watched him closely, noting the bead of sweat forming on his brow, the slight tremble in his voice. He was afraid; good. Fear was necessary for what came next. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction as the other Priestesses moved to chain him to the altar. He offered no resistance as they bound him, face upward, to the cold stone. The ritual was designed to break even the strongest slaves, and this one had been conditioned to endure more pain than most. Yet Diana knew that no matter how much training they had, they all broke eventually.
Once secured, the rings were carefully removed from his body, and he shuddered. Diana noticed the tremor, a slight quiver that betrayed his fear, and it sent a thrill through her. These slaves, bred for their strength and beauty, were meant to withstand the severest punishments. But her goal was not just to punish him; it was to break him entirely, to have him begging for mercy, reduced to nothing more than a sobbing, pleading wretch before her.
She removed her robe, handing it to an acolyte who whisked it away without a word. The slave’s eyes widened as her body was revealed; bare save for thigh-high boots and a skimpy G-string. Her chest was exposed, her posture regal and powerful, every movement oozing dominance. She saw his gaze linger on her, the insolence of it, but she allowed it. She grinned, her lips curling in wicked amusement. What could I possibly do to him that’s worse than what’s about to happen? she thought.
The slave’s heart pounded in his chest as he caught sight of that grin, the grin of a predator ready to devour its prey. His blood ran cold.
An acolyte stepped forward, handing Diana a long, tapering switch. She accepted it without a word, feeling the weight of it in her hand as she slowly turned back to the slave. The switch was supple, designed for precision and maximum pain. The acolytes and dominas stood back, eager to witness the spectacle. This was more than a ritual; it was a demonstration of the pure, unyielding power women held over men in Cruella. And Diana intended to make it unforgettable.
With a deliberate slowness, she raised the switch above her head, the room silent save for the slave’s ragged breathing and the faint crackling of the candles. Then, with a sharp flick of her wrist, the switch came down, and the first crack echoed through the chamber.
The ritual had begun.
High Priestess Diana’s eyes were sharp as she aligned the switch with the man’s chest, focusing on his nipples with predatory precision. Her arm rose and fell with brutal force, delivering a perfect strike that landed exactly where she intended. The whip cut across his nipples, but despite the sharpness of the blow, the slave made no sound. He merely tensed, muscles tightening against the pain, his face impassive.
Her irritation flared briefly. Diana prided herself on her skill, her ability to break even the strongest of men, and yet this one; this slave; remained steadfast in his silence. She increased her pace, the switch rising and falling with increasing speed, each strike landing with the calculated force that had earned her the envy of the other Priestesses. His chest and stomach bore the marks of her blows, welts forming on his skin, but all she received in return were groans; faint, reluctant sounds that did little to satisfy her desire for total submission.
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. She had to break him, and quickly. Her status as the High Priestess was not merely ceremonial; it was earned through her dominance, her expertise in inflicting pain, and her unrelenting control. She wanted to remind the assembled Priestesses why she held that title. They watched her closely, their envy palpable, and she would show them that she was still the best.
Her eyes trailed down his body to the undeniable evidence of his conditioning. His prick stood erect, rigid, his body responding instinctively to the sadistic link between pain and pleasure that had been forged through years of training. Diana smirked. She knew how to turn that trait against him. Lowering the switch to his groin, she placed the tip gently on his balls. She saw the fear bloom in his wide eyes, and for a moment, she let that fear build.
Then, with a savage twist of her arm, she brought the switch down with all her strength. The hiss of the switch through the air was followed by the crack of it striking the delicate flesh, sending a shock of blinding pain through his body. The scream that tore from his throat was raw, primal, the sound of a man finally unraveling. It washed over Diana like a wave of triumph, and a wicked smile spread across her face. She had him now.
Without hesitation, she rained down blows on his genitals, her strikes methodical yet relentless. His cries grew louder, more frantic with each strike, as she occasionally targeted the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs for variation. The sound of his agony filled the chamber, and the audience of Priestesses and acolytes watched in rapt attention, delighting in his suffering.
The slave’s resolve crumbled, and soon he was begging. His voice cracked and desperate, he pleaded with her, “Please, Honored Superior, have mercy… Stop, I beg of you… Please!” The words tumbled from his lips, a litany of pain and desperation. Diana, satisfied with her success, allowed herself to step back, breathing heavily from the exertion. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, but the slave was too consumed by his suffering to notice the way her body moved, glistening in the candlelight.
She looked down at the angry red welts she had raised on his body, the swollen, bruised flesh that now marked him as hers. Her grin widened. He was broken. The pitiful creature that had once knelt in supplication was now reduced to a quivering mess of pain and fear.
“String him up,” she commanded, her voice cold and authoritative.
Two acolytes stepped forward and unchained the slave from the altar. His body sagged, and he stumbled as they helped him down, his legs weak and trembling. The audience tittered with amusement at his pathetic state, but Diana was too impatient for the final act to join in their laughter.
“Get up, pig,” she snarled, her voice low and dangerous. “Move, or it’ll be slower.”
He scrambled to his feet, his movements frantic, driven by the fear of what she might do next. The acolytes led him to the center of the room, directly beneath the ornate ceiling of the temple. A heavy chain was lowered, and his wrists were fastened to it before the chain was raised again, pulling him up until he was suspended just above the floor, his toes barely grazing the stone.
Diana circled him, her eyes drinking in the sight of his broken form. His face was a mask of dread, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain. Pathetic, she thought. Years of training, and he’s broken in ten minutes. She felt a surge of satisfaction as she accepted a bullwhip from one of the acolytes.
Around her, the other Priestesses shed their robes, revealing their lithe bodies clad in shining leather and PVC. Each took up a bullwhip of their own, spreading out around the helpless slave. The acolytes formed a ring around them, eager to witness the spectacle, their eyes glinting with anticipation.
Diana took her place at the front of the circle, her arm poised to strike. She let the moment stretch, savoring the tension in the air before she unleashed the first crack of the whip. The bullwhip sliced through the air with a loud crack, wrapping around the slave’s waist before the tip snapped against his skin. His body jerked, another scream ripped from his throat, and the other Priestesses followed suit, their whips lashing out in perfect harmony.
The sound of cracking leather echoed through the chamber, mingling with the slave’s tortured cries. His body writhed in the chains as the relentless barrage of strikes continued, each one met with a fresh scream, his pleas for mercy growing weaker as the minutes passed.
But Diana had no mercy to offer. She reveled in his suffering, each cry of pain feeding her insatiable hunger for dominance. He should be grateful, she thought, her whip rising and falling with unrelenting force. For the first time, his worthless existence has had some meaning.
As the final act of the ritual unfolded, Diana’s grin returned. This man, like so many before him, would be offered to the Goddess Cruella; a fitting end to a life of insignificance. His screams would echo in the sacred halls long after his body was reduced to nothing, a testament to the unbreakable supremacy of the women who ruled this temple and the world beyond.
Lady Tanya exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching as it curled lazily in the air before her. Her sharp eyes flicked toward the limp figure lying on the cold stone floor, a faint sneer tugging at her lips. Fool, she thought with disdain. Did he really believe we wouldn’t go through with it? The very idea seemed ludicrous. His failure had sealed his fate long before the ritual had even begun. In this world, failure wasn’t just punished; it was erased, wiped clean in blood and pain, until nothing of the offender remained but a shadow of broken memories.
Tanya’s decision had come swiftly when the High Priestess proposed his fate. She hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t questioned the necessity of it. The cult was everything to her; her power, her influence, her rise to dominance. She had built her life around the Sisterhood, using its authority and cruelty to cement her position in society, a place of unquestionable control. Now, with the backing of the High Priestess and the other Priestesses, Tanya had her sights set higher; on the position of head of State security. She would rule with iron authority, much like she had ruled over the weak men who had crossed her path.
Rumors had been circulating about Lady Karla, whispers of her being offered a coveted seat on the council. The thought made Tanya’s blood boil. Karla; conniving, duplicitous, scheming; was a threat. But Tanya had plans. She intended to make her move before the treacherous Aphrodite, who always seemed to be pulling strings behind the scenes, even realized what was happening. She would strike swiftly, ensuring her rightful place on the council before anyone could interfere.
Her gaze softened, just for a moment, as she reflected on the crumpled body before her. It wasn’t pity, of course; pity was for the weak, and men were nothing more than tools to be used or discarded as the Sisterhood saw fit. No, it was the memory of the previous ritual that lingered in her mind, a ritual that had gone awry but had been satisfying in its own right. The failure hadn’t dampened her pleasure. In fact, it had left her with an odd sense of contentment, a reminder of the power she held over the fate of every man who crossed her path.
David had been different, though. He had been taken to Cruella’s birthplace, the most sacred of temples, for the Rites of Enslavement. Tanya remembered it vividly, the tension in the air as he stood there, silent and unsure, awaiting his fate at the entrance of the grand temple. He had been brought there by Lady Angelica, whose sweet name belied a cold, ruthless nature. Angelica had always delighted in breaking men, and David had been no exception.
As they waited, two women emerged from the temple; a blonde and a brunette, each as imposing as the other. Without hesitation, David bowed down respectfully before them, but it wasn’t enough. The blonde, eyes flashing with cruel amusement, lifted her leg and brought her heel down sharply onto his back.
“You don’t bow low enough,” she had hissed, twisting her heel into his flesh as if to grind the very defiance out of him. David gritted his teeth, but he made no sound. Angelica had only smiled, leaving him there with them as she prepared herself for the coming ritual.
The blonde didn’t let up. She pressed her foot harder into him, until he was forced flat against the ground, his cheek pressing against the cold stone. Then, with an air of bored superiority, she ordered him to kiss the brunette’s boots. His lips met the cold leather, and the brunette sneered down at him.
“Follow,” came the order, and David crawled behind them as they led him to the slave’s entrance. The stone steps leading to the temple were rough, designed to wear down the spirits of the men forced to crawl upon them. The blonde took special care to make his ascent even more miserable, stepping on his hands with deliberate cruelty. Sometimes her heels caught him squarely, other times just the soles of her boots, but each step was calculated to hurt.
The riding switch in her hand sliced through the air with swift, sharp cracks, each strike landing on his back and shoulders as she drove him onward. David clenched his jaw against the pain, refusing to show more than the slightest flinch. But the brunette wasn’t content with such subtle reactions. She unfurled her bullwhip, her lips curving into a smile as she sent the leather lashing across his back. The crack of the whip echoed in the stairwell, and David’s body jerked slightly, though he held himself together.
Strong, the brunette had thought with grim satisfaction. His mere flinch wasn’t enough to deter her. She lashed out again; once, twice, sending the whip slicing through the air and into his flesh with deadly accuracy. Satisfied, she coiled the whip back up with a smirk, knowing that the true punishment had yet to begin.
Lady Tanya’s memory of the scene brought a faint smile to her lips as she flicked the ash from her cigarette, watching it drift to the floor. David had been a reminder of the futility of resistance, of the absolute control the Sisterhood wielded over these wretched creatures. And now, looking down at the limp figure before her, she knew the cult’s teachings were more than justified.
The Goddess Cruella demanded obedience, demanded that the weak be purged from the world. Men, in their lowly state, were destined to suffer for their failures. Tanya had no doubt that the High Priestess would ensure this pathetic specimen’s agony would serve as a reminder to all the other men in their service. There was only one use left for a failure like him.
Taking one last drag from her cigarette, Lady Tanya ground it out beneath her boots with a deliberate twist. Her eyes glittered with cold resolve as she turned away, knowing the ritual would continue, and the Sisterhood would grow stronger in its relentless pursuit of power.
David stood alone in the center of the large, dimly lit room, his heart pounding as his eyes scanned the unsettling surroundings. The room, dominated by an enormous Japanese-style bath, was eerily calm, a sharp contrast to the dread rising within him. The soft trickling of water was the only sound, but it did little to soothe the unease creeping up his spine. He knew what was coming.
His mind reeled as he recalled how Lady Angelica and the others had left him standing there, claiming they needed to “prepare.” But it wasn’t the thought of Angelica that sent a chill down his spine; it was the sight of her, the one who had haunted his nightmares since his last visit to this place.
Lady Tanya.
She stood by a pillar in the corner of the room, a figure that radiated cruelty and command. Her black leather corset hugged her figure with brutal perfection, emphasizing her curves in a way that only made her more intimidating. Thigh-length boots, polished to a gleaming shine, completed the fearsome image. Her long, blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that, while beautiful, held a cruel, knowing smile. That smile chilled David to his core.
Tanya was no ordinary Priestess. She was the enforcer of the cult’s strict, unforgiving rules. Where others might display fleeting moments of mercy or hesitation, she showed none. She had no tolerance for mistakes, and those unfortunate enough to fall under her judgment learned quickly that any infraction, no matter how minor, was met with unimaginable cruelty. She was the executioner of the cult’s will, the Lady who carried out punishments with savage precision.
David’s stomach churned as he locked eyes with her. He could never forget his previous encounter with Lady Tanya; a memory that had burned itself into his soul. Angelica had brought him to the dungeon beneath the temple, ostensibly as a “lesson.” It was there, under the watchful eyes of his cruel mentor, that Lady Tanya had unleashed two hours of unrelenting agony upon him. The memory was seared into his mind, each detail as vivid as if it had happened just moments ago.
That day, she had been tasked with teaching him the true meaning of obedience. She had begun her brutal session with a flurry of lashes, expertly wielding her whips with terrifying precision. Unlike the common punishments he had endured during training, Tanya had not wasted her time with his back. No; she aimed for the most sensitive, most vulnerable areas of his body. His cock, his nipples; each blow sent waves of pain that tore through him, leaving him gasping, his body writhing in the chains that held him. The sheer savagery of her strikes had appalled him, but his protests had fallen on deaf ears. She had laughed as he buckled under her blows, a sadistic glint in her eyes as she reveled in his suffering.
But that had only been the beginning.
Tanya had swiftly moved on, introducing new tortures that pushed him far beyond what he had thought was possible to endure. She attached heavy metal weights to his inflamed nipples, cock, and balls, the searing pain causing his vision to blur with tears. The slightest movement made the weights tug painfully at the clamps, the sharp pull of metal digging into his flesh as though trying to tear him apart from the inside. He had begged for mercy then, pleaded for some form of reprieve, but Tanya had merely smiled as she watched his suffering intensify.
With a flick of her crop, she had ordered him to jog in place, knowing full well what torment the bouncing weights would cause. Every step sent the clamps jerking cruelly, yanking on the raw, tender skin with every movement. The agony was indescribable, each tug a fresh burst of searing pain that ripped through him. He had sobbed openly, his body trembling with exhaustion and agony, but the only response he received was more encouragement from Tanya’s sadistic lash.
When she finally reached over and tore the clamps from his flesh, it was not mercy but a new form of torment. Each removal had been accompanied by fresh waves of pain, ripping cries from his throat as she methodically worked her way down his tortured body. And then, without pause, she had resumed with her cat o’nine tails, delivering blow after blow until he was reduced to groveling at her feet, desperately kissing her boots, his voice hoarse as he choked out pathetic pleas for her mercy.
The thrashing had stopped, but his suffering had not ended.
David had foolishly believed, for one brief, fleeting moment, that his ordeal was over. He had thanked her, kissed the gleaming black leather of her boots with trembling lips, his body wracked with relief. But that had been his mistake; his assumption that mercy could exist in such a place. Tanya had merely smiled, a chilling grin of triumph as she ground her needle-sharp heel into his back, sending fresh waves of pain through him.
And then the real torment had begun.
Spurred on by his pitiful cries for mercy, she had taken him to new heights of agony, pushing him beyond his breaking point, reveling in his desperation. She had used the whips again, targeting his most sensitive areas with even greater precision. Each lash had been a symphony of suffering, his body jerking uncontrollably as she expertly manipulated his pain. He had been reduced to a quivering, sobbing wreck, completely broken by the end.
And now here she was, standing before him again, her eyes gleaming with the promise of fresh pain.
David’s heart sank further. He could already feel the chains in his mind locking into place, the hopelessness settling in as Lady Tanya approached with that same cruel smile. She was a predator, and he was her prey; a fact he had no choice but to accept.
The door opened, and Angelica returned, her face composed and cold. The ritual was about to begin, but David’s mind was already far away, drowning in the terrifying certainty of what Lady Tanya would do to him next.
The room’s calm, deceptively peaceful atmosphere was a cruel contrast to the storm of terror building inside him. His body still remembered the pain, the helplessness. His only question now was how much worse it would be this time. He knew she would ensure that he never forgot it.
Now, he faced her again; Lady Tanya, the Leather Bitch, the enforcer of the cult’s most brutal punishments. Without thinking, David dropped to his knees before her, his body responding instinctively to the terror she instilled in him.
“Lady Tanya…” he began, his voice trembling.
“On your feet, worm,” she sneered, her voice laced with contempt. The sound of her derision sliced through the air like one of her whips. “I’ve got to get you ready for your ritual.”
David stood, keeping his head bowed low, eyes focused on the stone floor beneath him. The memories of their last encounter swirled in his mind; memories of unrelenting pain, humiliation, and submission. He dared not speak further.
“Strip,” she commanded.
He obeyed immediately, fumbling with his clothes as fear constricted his chest. As his garments fell away, the jangling of chains filled the air, announcing the return of the blonde and brunette. They had re-entered the room, now completely naked save for the chains that bound their wrists and ankles. The cold steel of their restraints contrasted sharply against their smooth, flawless skin, and they moved with the calculated grace of those who knew their power.
Lady Tanya gestured toward the large bath at the center of the room with the crop that was always strapped to her wrist. “In,” she ordered, her tone brooking no hesitation.
David approached the bath, but as soon as he dipped his foot in, his heart sank even further. The water was ice-cold. His breath caught in his throat, but the fear of what Lady Tanya might do if he hesitated forced him forward. He plunged into the freezing water, feeling his body seize up as the cold enveloped him. His cock and balls contracted painfully as the icy water reached his waist, and he struggled to keep his gasping breaths under control.
Lady Tanya watched with a smirk, her eyes gleaming with the unspoken promise of punishment should he falter. Disappointed by his stoic obedience, she turned to the blonde and brunette. “I’m going to prepare for the ceremony,” she said casually. “You know what to do.”
Without another glance in his direction, she strutted out, her boot heels clicking sharply against the stone floor.
David shivered uncontrollably, watching the two women as they slowly removed each other’s chains. He couldn’t help but admire their ripe, voluptuous bodies as they descended into the bath beside him, gasping as the cold water met their skin. Despite their sensual closeness, his cock remained shriveled, shrunken from the biting cold.
The women wasted no time, moving to either side of him and scrubbing his body with rough pads. The sensation was far from pleasurable; their scrubbing was harsh, the friction only intensifying his discomfort in the freezing water. Desperate for some information, David tentatively tried to start a conversation, hoping they might give him some insight into the ritual awaiting him.
“I didn’t realize there were female slaves…” he ventured quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of splashing water.
The two women immediately stopped scrubbing, turning to look at each other before bursting into laughter. David blinked in confusion, looking from one to the other as their giggles continued to echo through the bathhouse. His bewilderment only seemed to amuse them more, their laughter growing louder.
Eventually, the brunette composed herself enough to explain. “We’re not slaves,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “We’re trainees. Every Mistress who wishes to join the cult must first learn to serve the Goddess through her Priestesses and followers. It’s part of the initiation.”
The blonde continued, a smirk curling at her lips. “Once we’re initiated, we’ll be free to join the other followers at ceremonies. No more serving; only commanding.”
David tried to digest this information, but before he could respond, the brunette added with a sly grin, “Although… some of the humiliations are fun, especially when they involve male slaves.” Her words were punctuated by a soft giggle, echoed by the blonde.
As they resumed washing him, they evaded any further questions, their hands working down his chest and stomach. Soon, one of them grasped his cock, her fingers curling around his shrunken member with a gleeful smirk.
“What’s this?” she sneered. “Not much to work with, is there?”
David’s face flushed with embarrassment, his heart pounding in his chest as the blonde joined in. Her hand replaced the brunette’s, her grip firm as she examined him with disdain.
“No, quite pathetic,” she added, turning her icy gaze to him. “Is this how you show your respect for the superior sex? Aren’t you excited by having two Mistresses forced to bathe you?”
David hung his head, his humiliation deepening. “I’m sorry… the water…” he mumbled, his voice trailing off as shame overtook him.
The blonde’s expression hardened, and she sneered. “Well, we’ll see about that. Get out.”
David clambered out of the bath, standing shivering in the center of the room as the women reattached their chains. They dried him roughly, the towels scraping against his skin, which had become hyper-sensitive from the icy water. The brunette grabbed his cock again, her fingers tightening around the shaft.
“Well?” she demanded, her eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.
Before he could respond, she began to stroke him, her hand moving back and forth with expert precision. Behind him, the blonde’s hands slipped around his waist, cupping his balls as she massaged them gently. Her firm breasts pressed against his back, her nipples hard against his skin, and despite the cold, he could feel his cock hardening under their skilled touch.
Within seconds, his body responded, his prick swelling to full erection, the veins bulging as blood surged through him. His balls loosened, and his excitement became undeniable, his breathing shallow as pleasure briefly overtook his fear.
But just as he began to lose himself in their attentions, they let go abruptly, leaving him throbbing with unfulfilled desire.
“We still have much to do to prepare you,” the brunette said dismissively. “Lie down.”
Disappointed, David obeyed, lying on a towel the blonde had placed on the floor. They moved quickly, retrieving dishes of water and plastic bags from a nearby table. He relaxed slightly, recognizing the next step; they were going to shave him. It was a familiar process, one he had endured whenever he was required to pleasure a Lady.
They shaved him meticulously, starting with his back and legs, moving to his pubic area and genitals. The razor scraped against his skin, leaving him smooth and hairless. When they moved to his chest and arms, they left no hair untouched. Finally, they shaved his head and face, even removing his eyebrows. He marveled at the sensation, his entire body sensitive and bare.
Once they were satisfied with their work, they made him kneel as the blonde fetched a jewelry box. Gold rings were inserted into his ears and nose, the sharp pinch of the piercings reminding him of his place. When they were done, they had him lie on his stomach again.
The smell of strong spices filled the room as they began to massage oil into his skin, coating every inch of his body with the thick, aromatic lotion. Their hands moved efficiently, though the sensuality of their touch was undeniable. They worked quickly, however, their focus on the task at hand rather than any pleasure they might offer him. Before long, the erotic massage ended, and David felt a chain being attached to the ring in his nose.
They led him from the room, guiding him downstairs and into a part of the temple he had never seen before. They stopped in front of an ornate door, its surface intricately carved with scenes of dominance and submission. Women, their power absolute, subjugated both men and women alike in the carvings. At the top, the Goddess Cruella’s divine face gazed down upon her followers with approval, her beauty radiating cruelty and superiority.
David’s heart raced as he stared at the door.
The Inner Sanctum.
David stood trembling as the blonde indicated the door, her earlier sneering attitude now replaced by an unmistakable flush of excitement. The ritual was drawing near, and even her usually cold demeanor was cracking under the weight of anticipation. “Wait here,” she instructed, her voice betraying a rare hint of eagerness as she slipped inside the door. She took care to close it behind her, not allowing him even the slightest glimpse of what awaited beyond.
Left alone, David remained silent beside the brunette who held the chain attached to his nose ring. His body still tingled from the rough shaving and oiling, but the sensual preparation had distracted him from the real reason he was there. Now, as he stood at the threshold of the temple’s most sacred space; the Inner Sanctum; the full weight of the ordeal ahead pressed down on him. His mind spiraled into a whirlpool of terror, filled with visions of what might be in store for him. His heart pounded in his chest, his breaths shallow and fast, and the dryness in his mouth made his tongue stick to the roof of it.
The silence dragged on, each second feeling like an eternity, until the door suddenly swung open again, breaking the tension like a knife through taut skin.
“On your knees,” the brunette commanded sharply. “Men aren’t allowed to walk in the Goddess’s shrine.”
David dropped to all fours immediately, his nose-ring tugging painfully as the chain jerked him forward. Crawling through the doorway, he kept his head low, unable to look up at his surroundings. The cold stone beneath his hands and knees only added to his growing sense of dread. The chain pulled him painfully by the nose as the brunette led him into the center of the room. Only when she stopped and unclipped the chain did he dare raise his eyes.
The sight that met him nearly took his breath away.
Before him stood a large, imposing stone altar, carved with the same intricate inscriptions he had seen on the door. But it was what towered above the altar that filled him with awe and dread; a colossal statue of the Goddess Cruella herself. Her form was majestic and terrifying, every inch of the stone capturing the cruel beauty that had inspired centuries of worship. Her eyes, cold and indifferent, looked down upon the altar where countless men had been degraded, tortured, and sacrificed in her honor. The statue radiated power, and David could almost feel the weight of her gaze as it bore down on him.
He tore his eyes from the statue and glanced around the room, his pulse quickening when he noticed Lady Tanya standing off to the side, half-hidden in the shadows. She was clad in her usual leather ensemble, her presence as ominous as the burning brazier next to her. An iron handle protruded from the coals, glowing red-hot. His stomach twisted at the sight, and he quickly averted his gaze, not wanting to think about the possible use of the branding iron.
Arranged behind him, in a perfect semi-circle, stood the worshippers; figures cloaked in white hooded robes. Their faces were hidden, giving them an almost ghostly presence as they observed the proceedings in silence.
A door creaked open behind the statue, and David’s heart skipped a beat. The Priestesses had arrived. They entered one by one, their red robes flowing elegantly as they took their places around the altar. Finally, the High Priestess herself appeared, clad in black, her presence commanding the room as she took her position directly in front of David.
His fear spiked. He tried desperately to calm himself, remembering the teachings Lady Angelica had drilled into him. Every word, every gesture had to be perfect. Any mistake could lead to failure; a fate worse than death at the hands of Lady Tanya. His mind raced through the ritual instructions, the consequences of any misstep looming over him like a dark cloud.
The High Priestess spoke, her voice cold and authoritative. “Why are you here?”
David knew this was no ordinary question. It was part of the ritual, and his response had to be flawless. He took a deep breath, his body trembling as he carefully formed his answer.
“I offer my worthless body to you and your followers, as a sacrifice to your goddess and the superiority of women,” he said, his voice trembling but steady enough.
There was a tense silence. David held his breath, unsure if his words had satisfied her. After a few agonizing seconds, the High Priestess nodded slightly.
“Good. Let us begin.”
She drew back her hood, revealing a face that made David’s heart stop. She was, without a doubt, a worthy High Priestess to the cruel goddess she served. Her skin was pale as snow, her dark eyes sharp and cold, framed by heavy black eyeshadow that gave her an almost predatory air. Her full, blood-red lips stood out against the alabaster of her skin, an unsettling blend of beauty and danger.
“Lie on your back,” she ordered.
David obeyed without hesitation, lying flat on the cold stone floor, his arms and legs spread wide. He knew what was coming next; the baptism. He had read about it in the sacred texts. He must be cleansed, bathed in the Sacred Wine of Womanhood, before his suffering could be offered up to the Goddess.
The four lesser Priestesses removed their robes, revealing their perfect, naked forms. They positioned themselves on either side of him, two on the left, two on the right. His eyes roamed their bodies, each as flawless as Angelica’s. His heart pounded as they widened their stance, their legs parting slightly.
Then he felt it; the first stream of warm liquid splattering across his body. The sensation made him gasp as it ran down his face, over his chest, and pooled on his stomach. Soon, the other streams followed, bathing him in the hot, golden fluid. His cock, already sensitive from the shaving and oiling, hardened under the humiliation. His skin tingled as the Sacred Wine soaked into his pores, every nerve alive with the humiliation and arousal of the moment.
When the baptism was complete, he lay there for a moment, drenched and trembling. His body glistened in the candlelight as the Priestesses looked down on him with cold, calculating eyes.
“Sit up,” the High Priestess commanded.
David sat up slowly, the stone beneath him now damp with the Sacred Wine. His knees shook as he knelt before her, waiting for the next part of the ritual.
“Are you ready to show your devotion?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous.
“Oh, yes, Mistress,” David answered, the words slipping from his mouth without thought. He knew what was coming next.
The blonde who had prepared him earlier stepped forward, holding an ornate chalice between her hands. The sight of it made David’s stomach turn. He had been baptised in the Sacred Wine, but now he would have to drink it. He could already taste the warm, salty bitterness on his tongue.
But it wasn’t the blonde who stepped forward to fill the chalice. To his surprise, the High Priestess herself disrobed, handing her black robe to the brunette who collected it swiftly. David could barely tear his eyes from her. She was breathtaking; her body was as flawless as her face, every curve and muscle sculpted to perfection. From his kneeling position, her long legs seemed to stretch endlessly, leading to full, womanly hips that tapered into a narrow, elegant waist. She stood over him, her gaze piercing as she spread her legs.
The blonde knelt before her, holding the chalice in place as the High Priestess filled it with the Sacred Wine. When the cup was full, she approached David, holding it to his lips.
He swallowed hard, every eye in the room trained on him as she tilted the cup. The warm, salty fluid filled his mouth, the taste making him gag, but he forced himself to gulp it down, desperate to avoid any mistake. He drained the cup completely, not daring to spill a drop. The punishment for such a blasphemy would be severe.
Satisfied, the High Priestess stepped back as the blonde took the chalice and retreated. The chain was reattached to David’s nose-ring, and he was led to the altar. There, he was made to stand and bend over, his chest pressed against the cold stone. Once again, the chain was removed.
The worshippers gathered around, each now hoodless, revealing their faces. The dominas of the cult were an exquisite sight, every woman more beautiful and commanding than the last. Some wore their coldness like armor, their faces hard and unyielding. Others had a softer, almost angelic beauty, but even they radiated a quiet cruelty. Each and every one of them was a master in the art of dominance, selected for their skill and devotion to the Goddess.
David knew what was coming. The ritual was designed for their pleasure, to prove the superiority of women through his suffering. They would savor every moment of his degradation, every cry of pain, as he was offered up in honor of Supreme Femininity.
And he knew, without a doubt, that his suffering would be total.
David’s arms were pinned tightly behind him, his body trembling as fear coursed through him. He twisted his neck, desperate to see Lady Tanya as she approached, the sharp click of her stiletto heels echoing in the silent chamber. In one hand, she carried her infamous crop, the cruel tool she had used to discipline him so many times before. But it was the branding iron in her other hand that made his blood run cold. The iron glowed a menacing red, its twisted emblem; the mark of eternal servitude to the cult; searing the very air around it.
“A mark of your undying respect and devotion,” Lady Tanya sneered, her voice dripping with sadistic amusement. She stopped just behind him, the heat from the branding iron radiating toward his already sensitive skin.
David squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the horror of what was coming. His cheek pressed against the cool stone of the altar beneath him, offering the briefest comfort before the inevitable pain. He barely registered the hard piece of rubber being shoved into his mouth. He bit down on it hard, feeling his teeth sink into the thick material. It was meant to prevent him from biting his own tongue, but in his fear, he grasped at it as if it could somehow anchor him against the coming torment.
The silence in the room was deafening. Every Priestess, every acolyte, every worshipper held their breath, their eyes fixed on him. The anticipation hung thick in the air, a palpable tension that pressed down on him as he waited, helpless, for the searing pain that was about to tear through him.
Then, it came.
The branding iron touched his skin, and the pain was indescribable. It was as if his flesh was being ripped apart by fire. A primal scream ripped through his throat, but it was muffled by the gag, the rubber piece barely containing his agony. His body convulsed, muscles straining against the iron grip of the Priestesses who held him down. Lady Tanya moved the branding iron with expert precision, making sure the mark was deep and unmistakable, each second of contact stretching into an eternity of white-hot torment.
Time ceased to exist for David. There was only the unbearable, burning pain that consumed his entire being. He could hear nothing, see nothing; just the endless agony that radiated from his backside, blotting out all else. His vision blurred with tears, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps through his nose.
Finally, it was over. The branding iron was removed, but the pain lingered, throbbing and pulsating as though the fire still burned beneath his skin. He lay panting, the gag removed from his mouth as he gasped for air, tasting blood where his teeth had sunk into the rubber. One of the Priestesses reached down, yanking the bit from his mouth. He saw the deep impressions his teeth had left, but he barely registered it.
The Priestesses moved him next, forcing him up onto the altar, positioning his body with a cold efficiency. They stretched his arms and legs toward the four corners of the altar, the rough stone beneath him scraping against his burned skin. He winced, his body too battered to resist as they attached heavy iron manacles to his wrists and ankles. The chains clinked ominously as they were pulled taut, holding him spread-eagled and completely vulnerable.
David’s mind swam in a haze of pain and exhaustion, but he forced himself to remain conscious. He watched, helpless, as the worshippers gathered around him, their faces flushed with excitement. Their eyes gleamed with a mixture of awe and hunger after witnessing his branding, their focus entirely on him. Although they stood still, their postures stiff and respectful, they seemed to lean in, looming over him with anticipation of what was to come.
He turned his head, trying to see what was happening as he heard the soft clink of chains from one of the acolytes. She stepped into view, carrying a velvet-covered tray. His heart sank further as the High Priestess approached, her black robes flowing behind her with an air of finality.
“What you are about to experience is the final Rite of Enslavement,” the High Priestess announced, her voice echoing through the chamber. “Each Priestess will fit you with a ring bearing her name, so you will finally, totally, belong to us. You know the ritual.”
David’s mind scrambled. He had been taught the ritual, the words drilled into him endlessly by Lady Angelica and the others, but the pain; the burning agony still radiating from his branded flesh; had driven everything from his mind. He tried to focus, to remember, but his thoughts were scattered, his fear paralyzing him.
“Speak,” the High Priestess commanded, her voice sharp and unforgiving. “Now!”
David stammered, panic overwhelming him as he tried to recall the sacred words. His mind was a jumble of fragmented phrases, but nothing coherent formed. He mumbled something unintelligible, his voice cracking with desperation, but it wasn’t enough.
The High Priestess’s face darkened with rage, her eyes narrowing in contempt. Without another word, she turned sharply, her black robe swirling around her as she strode out of the room, barking a command to Lady Tanya and the other Priestesses to follow her.
David lay there, his body stretched and broken, watching as the worshippers silently filed out behind the High Priestess. The room emptied, the grand doors closing with a low thud that reverberated through the stone chamber, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
He had failed. His failure was absolute, and he knew what it meant. The punishment would be merciless. There was only one fate left for him now; he would be offered as a sacrifice in their ultimate ritual. The thought of it filled him with dread, a deep, suffocating despair that settled over him like a dark cloud.
He gazed up at the towering statue of the Goddess Cruella, her cold eyes staring down at him as if in judgment. He was nothing. He had always been nothing. And now, his only worth was to be offered up in death, his suffering a final tribute to the women who held his fate in their hands.
As despair washed over him, he felt a strange calm settle into his bones. There was no escaping it. No redemption, no mercy. His fate was sealed, and now all that remained was to endure the final moments of his existence as best he could.
David closed his eyes and resigned himself to the inevitable.