Dr. Kshama Patel, Lesbian Mistress
Oca 28, 2021 // By:analsex // No Comment
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My name is Dr. Kshama (pronounced “Shama” — the “K” silent. It means “Beautiful Queen” in Hindi) V. V. (the middle names comprise no less than 44 letters!) Patel (as common in India as “Smith”, “Jones” or “Johnson” are in your Western societies.) I am half Turkish and half Indian, born in Istanbul on the 24th day of March in the year 2042, my family having moved to the city of my father’s birth — Mumbai, India — on the 1st day of August, 2044. I am Doctor of Gynecology here in Mumbai, with an office in Lahore, teaching a course in medicine at the University of Lahore on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. I am attractive, even beautiful, to non-Western eyes, but I to you I suppose I’d be would be considered a fat and homely “Sand Nigger” to use your parlance. But let me assure you, dear readers, I don’t lack for white pussy, both young — 19 — and “old” — 60.
I am a slaveowner, a Lesbian Mistress. It may surprise and perhaps enrage white readers that of my 34 slaves, fully 26 are white, 4 Thai and 3 Japanese and 1 Vietnamese. Slavery is legal in this portion of India, though it is currently illegal to own anyone deemed to be Central Asian — Turk, Afghani, Indian or Pakistani. Even that corollary is set to expire with Indian Parliament’s recent vote to legalize slavery throughout India. It was more of a rubber stamp than anything, though, as de facto slavery has existed in India since at least 1800.
The email exchanges lasted for several days; as I was incorporating Gertrude into my house, as personal slavegirl, first as toilet girl, then perhaps as maid, then as as full pleasure slave. Gertrude was born in Brighton, UK, 31 years before, a student at University of Mumbai, blonde, blue eyed, very Nordic, very hot, her figure a true thing of beauty, breasts that wouldn’t quit, and dancer’s legs well developed and exquisite. I purchased her from a small market in Mumbai a week before. I despised the name Gertrude, thinking it clumsy and ugly for such an angel, I re- named her Inge (while also a Swedish name, it’s roughly translatable as “Doe Eyed” in Hindi.)
I found out from the slaver selling her that Gertrude had come to India in a guise of student but in reality was MI5, investigating the disappearance of British girls in Mumbai and Lahore. The huntress became the prey!
As with all new slaves, I paired her with Aisha. Ah, lovely Aisha. She was a Russian peasant from Kiev, also blonde and blue eyed, but diminutive, reminding me very much of Russian gymnasts (so much so considered naming her “Olga” after the famous Olga Korbut, but “Olga” in Hindi means “ruler.”) Aisha was a superb trainer; she had infinite patience, but her skill with whip and shrill, angry voice superb training tools. Each new slave feared her completely.
As she had never been a slave, Inge was slowly learning Islam, reciting her lessons under Aisha’s waiting switch, her punishments severe if she misquoted lines, her rewards generous if she recited her lessons perfectly. Arabic fluently, the Qur’an — for all its beauty and superb poetry — is a difficult to learn, particularly to Westerners, who must learn an alphabet light years from their own. I’d been raised Islamic, of course, having come from Kashmir, a little village not far from the famed “Silk Route”, but never believed in its teachings, absolutely opposed to its view and treatment of women as second class. But, too, I realized its amazing potential for training haughty Western slaves and subjugating them absolutely.
Since Aisha was also an accomplished belly dancer (a highly delectable trait for some common in Russian women!) she also trained slaves in that splendid art. If Inge’s dancing was noticeably better, Aisha was rewarded with Paris fashions, shoes and jewelry; if, however, I was displeased by Inge’s slowness in learning, or if Aisha hadn’t performed another duty to my satisfaction, she was whipped. Harshly, brutally, and it was a lesson she would remember. A mistake, most assuredly, she would not repeat. Or the consequences would be worse.
One of Aisha’s favorite indulgences — other the chocolate brownies I allowed her on rare occasions — was simply lying under the Mumbai Sun, skin glistening sexily with the Cocoa Talashi Oil (a lighter version of Talashi gel mixed with cocoa butter, a re-formulation for SPF protection), her skin a luscious golden brown, hair bleached blonde. If I were in the mood and Aisha had done well in her service, we would make love under that blazing sun, her tongue happily serving her Mistress, my tongue occasionally on her hot body, my face between her glorious breasts, loving each other as only a woman and slave can. Our orgasms were usually mutual and always volcanic casino şirketleri and soul shaking, my Aisha always mumbling “thank you, Mistress” in feeble breaths.
Aisha — after a one such lovemaking session — asked, in her delightful Russian –accented Hindi, that if, indeed, Islam were the “only true religion” and Al’lah the “only true God”, why were women subjugated and considered second-, almost sub– human within it.
It was a question I had been anticipating. Though of barbarian stock, Aisha was remarkably intelligent, balancing a magnificent figure with a sharp, almost equally magnificent mind.
“My child,” I answered, trying to coordinate all of my knowledge of my 33 year religious experience (that is, all my life) into a response both to the point and honest. “…the ways of God are unknown to humans.”
“But, Mistress,” she asked humbly, meekly, tone of voice wonderfully submissive, eyes flashing with intelligence and doubt, “is God not a woman?”
“God is male,” I responded, reaching for my quirt, pretending my anger was about to boil over. She flinched and edged away shyly, long blonde hair falling to her waist, beautiful breasts bouncing delightedly, blue eyes flashing fear.
“If that is so, Mistress, would not His teachings command us to worship women, and hold them in the highest esteem, for all life, of every animal I know, is borne by the female?Instead, the Qu’ran teaches we are slaves.”
I was about to strike Aisha when I realized it was futility to keep up the charade of Islam much longer. “That is true, child.” I murmured, drawing her sweaty little body back to me.
“Mistress forgive my impudence,” Aisha’s tongue slid down my left leg, and she eventually started kissing and nibbling my feet; I watched, loving the way her long hair was always floating and catching on my sandals, hot breath delightful and refreshingly gentle on my tired brown skin. I gently helped her to her feet and we cuddled on the expansive lawn chair.
“Not impudence, child, intelligence. I wouldn’t have you any other way.” I kissed her. She gave my hot titties a gentle feel, cupping them, caressing them.
“I know Mistress forbids criticism of Islam.” She said finally. “I will accept my punishment joyfully.”
“My darling Aisha,” I brushed hair from Aisha’s eyes. The night was sweltering and humid, but a remarkable scent of Jasmine wafted in the air, someone somewhere was serenading her Mistress with magnificent tabla (small bongo-like drums). We listened to the unspeakably erotic singer a few moments before I kissed Aisha’s hand and gently raised her chin.
“… you have been looking at the book of Isis, haven’t you?”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes, Mistress. It’s in your library – my house duties took me there. I know I shall be punished for not asking first.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Five lashes.” She knelt before the chair and bowed, I struck her five times with my switch of Indian teak, she groveling, kissing my sandals, catching her hair on the straps, but not screaming out once.
I realized, though, the punishment wouldn’t – couldn’t – be harsh. The Book of Isis — 13 volumes, leather-bound, gilt-paged – was in English. A wide variety of literature was also kept in my library, from magazines like Playboy, Penthouse and Mistress Sappho (a Lesbian S&m magazine) to Vogue, Cosmopolitan, People and a dozen others. Leather bound hardcovers of Anais Nin works shared the shelves with paperbacks of Pauline Reage, Daniel Steel and Nora Roberts .
“I apologize, my great Mistress.” She whispered, her red lips full, perfect and superbly kissable. “Though I cannot read, the pictures in The Book of Isis are most exquisite .”
“Aye, they are,” I smiled. I keep my library open. I require — I demand – my slaves to be beautiful to look at, exquisite in bed, superb to kiss, and intelligent. “But ask next time, yes?”
“Da, Mistress!” she smiled, mixing her languages.
“Look at dear Inge,” I indicated my blonde slave practicing her belly dancing in my yard. “She is a former agent in British intelligence.”
“I didn’t know that, Mistress.” Aisha grinned.
“She told me. Nothing escapes me.” I frowned. “I know my slaves absolutely.”
“She is one of the few slaves who took to your Being immediately. She adores you completely. I know this.”
“She adores you, too,” I continued. “She fears your switch. You have taught her slavery, you are her absolute, unquestioned superior, despite you are of uneducated Russian peasant stock, and she graduated from Oxford and can speak 5 languages.”
Aisha didn’t care for Inge, I knew, but pretended to in order to casino firmaları please me. I could lash her til she bled, punish her until she showed Inge love. But I did not. I preferred that Aisha despise Inge, as this would ensure my slaves were under control, that they may have hated one another, but adored me. I never played them off one another and never favored one over the other, but the tension between them meant they were constantly trying to prove their worth.
“All the tenets of Islam are present in Isis — originally known as ‘I’isis’. It’s believed the word ‘Islam’ is derived from it. Mohammed was God’s prophet, but it was the Goddess ISIS to whom he was Prophet. Worshipers are actually required to face WEST toward Cairo – Isis’ birthplace, but this has been corrupted.”
“Mistress worships Isis!” Aisha whispered, aghast.
“Yes, my darling slave,” I admitted. “I have worshipped Her since my youth. It was dangerous apostasy, heretical evil punished by stoning, so I couched my worship of Her through Islam.”
“Strip.” I ordered out of the blue, as we were still exhausted from our primitive, frenzied lovemaking of two hours before.
Aisha stripped off her camisk, a one piece, knee length cotton tunic favored by slaves. The garment — also called a “ti’yinah”, was comfortable, durable – even, surprisingly, in monsoon wracked portions of India. As opposed to many Mistresses, I allowed my slaves sandals when outside — never indoors, of course — this small concession appreciated, for the streets of Mumbai were filthy and always brutally hot. Rare times when we were in Mumbai or New Delhi, I ordered my slaves to wear miniskirt, fishnet hose and heels, slutty as possible to show them off.
“Kneel,” I commanded. Aisha, perhaps wondering what was in story, did so.
“Wet your finger,” I slipped off my clothes, my warm pussy hot and waiting. “and insert it into me, finding the clitoris as fast as possible.”
She did so gently, immediately finding, as I knew she would, my clittie; her mouth drawn instinctively, magnetically to my pussy, Aisha greedily lapping up my sweet juices, our simultaneous moaning and sighing erotic and animalistic.
“Good girl,” I panted, stroking her sweet head and gently pushing Aisha back to her knees. This was intended to be a ceremony, not another round of glorious fucking. That would come later.
“My juices cover your fingers, yes?”
“Da, Mistress.” She replied, still a bit breathless.
“Inge!” I screamed, “Iiyiha!” (“Come here.”)
Inge appeared as if she was on a rubber band. She likewise was sweaty and out of breath in her lycra workout clothes. I knew she was using cheap practice zills, but as I had to keep lovely Inge on her toes, I harassed her anyway.
“Slave, those are not your good zills, are they?” I asked with as much fake suspicion as I could muster.
“No, Mistress, they are not.” Pathetic little Inge mumbled. “I kiss your feet a million times, they are not!”
She showed me. Indeed, they were the beaten-up disks of cheap brass slaves used to practice with. I smirked with fake anger and tapped my switch at my side. Inge swallowed heavily.
“Pull down your lycra.” I ordered. She did so immediately. “5 strokes on your ass for your fucking Western insolence.”
I switched Inge five times, but she had not been insolent one bit. No matter, she was a slave and must obey without question or tardiness. She absorbed the first 3 blows without a sound, crying out piteously on the 4th and 5th.
“Strip nude and kneel next to your sister!” Inge did so, her ass a bright red. “Aisha, stand.”
She obeyed immediately, obviously afraid to suffer Inge’s fate for tardiness.
“My cum is still wet in your hand?”
“Yes, Mistress, delightfully so.”
“Touch your pussy. It is hot and wet, yes?”
“Da. Desperately wet, my mistress.” Aisha panted.
“Good. Insert your finger into your pussy, mix our juices, then place your hand in mine.
She obeyed, adding her juices to my gooey cum already in her hand, and transferring it to my fingers. I thus anointed her with index and forefingers, making the sign of the ‘I’ on her glorious, supple body: pubic bone, belly button, between her breasts, her lips, then her forehead.
“Repeat these words: ‘Grand, glorious, Supreme Mistress Isis, Goddess Isis, the Mistress of my Mistress and of every soul in the Universe. She commands my Mistress to do Her bidding, my soul belonging to Mistress Kshama, as her soul belongs to Thee, Supreme Mistress Goddess Isis.”
Aisha repeated the words perfectly in her Russian-accented Hindi, her body quivering with güvenilir casino arousal, nipples rock hard and ready, lips of her pussy delightfully, magnificently engorged. I could smell her!
“Superb! Inge, you’d better be hot and deliciously wet too!”
“Of course, Mistress, as always.” I commanded Inge to finger herself. She did so with a delightful, frenzied passion. “DO NOT MASTURBATE!”
“Aisha, mix the cum on your fingers — mine and yours — with Inge’s . She did so. I then performed the same rites as I had on Aisha, Inge’s body trembling with each touch of my long fingers. The horny slut wanted to be fucked, as each touch produced new ripples of divine pleasure within her. I denied her sex, however. She must wait.
“Excellent.” I sucked the cum from Inge’s fingers slowly and deliberately, making sure Inge knew a Mistress’ tongue took its time.. “I have brought them to You, Isis my Queen.” I chanted. “As I promised .”
We exchanged kisses — myself then Aisha, Aisha then me, me then Shaahli’i, then Aisha.
“Aisha, go back to the chair, Inge, back to your dancing.”
The morning brought sad news. Inge, who’d secretly been corresponding with someone via email — much to my displeasure — informed me her father had died, and she desperately desired to go to Scotland for his funeral. I initially absolutely forbade it, for practical reasons. As a fugitive, ex-MI 6 agent (Inge was no longer considered to have been kidnapped, but to have deserted), the minute she showed her face in the UK, British authorities would seize her. But dear, sweet Inge was so upset and heartbroken, I had no choice but to let her go. But I gave her a long list of conditions and requirements first. First, I commanded she had to cut her blonde locks, dye it black and wear brown contacts over her blue eyes. Second, a false Indian passport was acquired for my “cousin, Shaahli’i Patel” for a one-weeek tourist visa to visit “a sick aunt” in Scotland.
“I am going to trust you,” I said. “I must. I am barred from the UK, and I forbid Aisha to accompany you.”
Inge nodded, and kissed my feet softly. “Thank you, Mistress. I shall return to you.”
“Darling one,” I whispered. “You betrayed your country for me, you abandoned your work, your career, for me. I am your Mistress, your absolute Goddess, your life. I own you.”
“I, then, would be enormously saddened — and volcanically angered — if you simply disappeared, favoring selfish freedom to Glorious enslavement.”
“I would not do that, Mistress. As Isis is my judge.”
I kicked her. “NEVER use Goddess Isis’ name in vain!”
She licked my feet, softly biting the leather ring holding my big toe While my fury at this pathetic little slut was genuine, likewise I had to trust her. If she’d chosen to stay in England, there was little I could do. I merely had to hope she returned to me.
“Mistress, I wouldn’t do that. Slave hopes Mistress knows that.”
“I do,” I helped her to her feet. “I am sorry to kick you. I am not a heartless Mistress.”
“Slave knows that.”
We exchanged the same passionate kisses we shared on that rainy first night precisely one year before. She was soft and supple in my hands, her boobs large and magnificent, her heart beating faster than I could remember it.
“I shall be back in 3 days, Mistress. I promise that.”
“Slavegirl promises?” I repeated, with grave emphasis.
“With all of her heart and soul,” She whispered, “as it is now all of YOUR heart and soul, for it’s belonged to you precisely one year today.”
“You shall remain collared,” I insisted, sliding a finger on her collar, tracing Inge’s name etched in the Sterling silver. “I forbid its removal.”
“Of course, Mistress,” she replied, though obviously apprehensive. “But so as not to provoke idiotic and embarrassing questions, may I wear a neck brace and claim to my family I had been involved a minor car accident? Please, my Queen? I feel my family just wouldn’t accept or understand the fact I am owned by another.”
I pondered her request, ready to answer with an emphatic “no”, but I remembered the unfortunate circumstances to which Inge was returning, and relented. If she did run away, if she was lying to me, her collar had been constructed in such a way to make removal not impossible, but difficult, dangerous — and expensive.
She and Aisha departed early the next morning, having ordered Aisha to keep Inge on leash the whole while. I knew there was nowhere she could have escaped to, but the leash was a reminder of Inge’s circumstances and the promises she made. She would board the fabled “Orient Express” (expensive, but exquisitely secure) to Paris, thence the “Chunnel” to Scotland.
Though I had 33 other slaves to entertain me — and was due to visit Mumbai Slave market the next day (called “New Arrival Day”, as if it were selling compact disks!)
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