Sunday, May 4, 2008

Punishment Fit for a Slave

this is fiction.
i was driven to write it
in lieu of the real thing.
please forgive me, master.
please forgive me, J---.
- - - - - - -

When she picked him up at the bus station, he didn’t say a word.

She had been forewarned. Everything had been explained ahead of time. He hadn’t let her hear his voice for the past three days, but he had laid it all out in a clear, cold e-mail.

“You disobeyed my order. You deliberately disobeyed me. This was more than a fit of naughtiness. Your transgression was severe, and you will be punished accordingly. Not as a pet. Not as a submissive. But as a slave. You must be reminded that in the end you are nothing but a slave. “

She cried as she read his words, but couldn’t argue. In her own eyes, her behaviour was unforgivable.. She would welcome whatever punishment he chose to mete out in hopes of being washed clean of her sin.

She stayed in the car, saving them both from a public display of the silent greeting, the sad space between their bodies. Besides, she was dressed per his precise specification. The slave shirt, a man’s white dress shirt, held closed by nothing but the three bottom buttons. No underwear. He would have kept her barefoot, but for safety’s sake while driving had allowed sandals. But no socks.

Around her neck was the cold metal choke chain.

The day was chilly for spring. Despite her low spirits, her nipples had hardened from the cold. He loved those nipples He had to work hard to control the smile that threatened to break the mood. She did need to be punished severely. It would be cathartic for both of them. And then they could move on.

She drove him silently home, her eyes as downcast as they could be considering her need to look at the road. She still couldn’t bear to look at him when she got out of the car. She waited as he took his bag out of the back, and then walked silently by his side up the steps. At the top, she reached forward to insert the key in the lock, but he put his hand over hers and unlocked the door himself. A small gesture, but clear. He was home and in charge. He was indeed the master of the house.

It was the first time he had touched her since he arrived, and the only gentle touch she would feel for hours to come.

He nodded sternly toward his bag, and she took it into the bedroom. Then she went to relieve herself. While she could.

She returned to the living room and stood, her eyes focused on the space between her now bare feet.

“Take off your shirt, slave. Now.”

Her eyes betrayed a hint of protest. The blinds were open. But she obeyed without argument. She opened the three buttons, shrugged her shoulders, and let the shirt slide down her arms to the floor.

Inwardly, he nodded. She had passed the first test.

“Now, slave. Go down to the dungeon, Kneel before my chair. And wait.”

She did as she was told.

The so-called dungeon, aka the family room, was carpeted, but the position was stll hard on her knees. She wasn’t at all flexible as a slave should be. But she posed as he had commanded, with hands behind her, shoulders back, breasts proffered, legs spread as wide as she could manage. Mortified, she realized that her cunt was swelling and seeping. She knew there would be nothing intentionally erotic about what was going to happen to her, she knew he would hurt her in ways he never had before, but still… she allowed herself a small rueful smile. Perhaps after the beating she was in for, she would be cured of being a pain slut. But she doubted it.

He made her hold the position for a long time. He put some water up to boil, stretched his legs from the four-hour trip, petted the cats, made himself some tea and a sandwich, ate while looking at the newspaper, and used the bathroom. He knew she hated being banished to the basement. It was all part of the punishment.

Finally, with a mixture of relief and fear bordering on terror, she heard him coming down the steps. Now it would truly begin. They had the house to themselves for the long weekend. She had no idea how much time he had allotted to her punishment.

It began with the castigation. Cold and factual. There was no need to remind her of what she had done – she would never forget how she had betrayed his trust with her disobedience. It wasn’t the action itself that was so serious. She hadn’t betrayed him with another man. Or woman, for that matter. But she had betrayed the spirit of their relationship. He gave the orders. He knew what was best for her. She was to obey. Period. But he wanted her to hear it again, from his own lips. She needed to suffer in order to be cleansed, and he had to flog her soul as well as her body.

She wept at his words. She wept at her foolishness. She wept at the hard note in his voice. And most of all, she wept at knowing that she had disappointed him. The tears flowed from her eyes, as did the snot from her nose. He wanted to go to her, to wipe her eyes as well as her nose. But he knew he had to play the whole thing out, so instead tossed her the box of tissues.

“Clean yourself up, slave.”

She blotted her eyes and blew her nose, knowing there would be a lot more tears and snot to come. She made a little pile of the wet tissues, and again brought her hands behind her, each clutching the opposite arm just below the elbow.

Along with instructions for picking him up at the bus station, he had sent a list of items she was to gather and array. She was to prepare the implements of her own torture. He surveyed the items arranged neatly on the large, sturdy coffee table. It was time for the next act.

Even a grad student needs study breaks. He had rested his mind from working on his dissertation by practicing his knots, viewing instructional videos, and studying drawings of Japanese bondage. The latter gave him fierce erections and violent dreams, but also (and this was the point) gave him ideas for how he would torture her. For he wanted to do more than just beat her. He wanted to make her feel threatened and helpless and manipulated. He wanted to remind her that he did indeed own her, that she was his to command AND to abuse, and that she should keep this in mind the next time he issued an order.

He knew there was no chance she would ever again forget.

Gathering up the collection of hemp ropes, he strode over to where she knelt. It had been a while since their last bondage scene, but the practice paid off. He pulled everything a little tighter this time, the ropes around her breasts, around her arms, around her wrists as he bound them behind her. The knots he created for her clit and cunt and anus were large, intrusive, and painful. Again, he found himself smiling inwardly as he positioned the knots, for despite the fear and despair in her eyes she was open and slippery. He longed to plunge his fingers into her and his cock jerked upwards, but he steeled himself against his own lust and concentrated on his task. He was trying a new position, aiming to increase her feeling of vulnerability. He proceded to bind her right ankle to her thigh and torso. Then, taking up another piece of hemp, he wound it around her left ankle and, reaching up, attached it to the hook he had instructed her to screw into the upright wooden beam behind them.

He surveyed his creation. She was not only immobilized. She was open to attack on her most delicate parts.

Normally, the next step would have been a spanking. But nothing was normal about what was to come. This was no pretend punishment for manufactured offenses. Her transgression was real and severe, and the punishment would be the same. The intimacy of the touch of his hand would mitigate the mental effect. So for now it was to be implements only.

Still, he wasn’t that cruel as to beat her without some sort of warm up. He stood up, removed his belt, folded it in half, and raised his hand.

“Now, slave. For you are but a slave. And you must learn what happens to slaves who disobey.”

She flinched inside even before feeling the first blow from his belt. She flinched, and then cried out, but in truth she welcomed the pain. She needed this. She needed this to cleanse her of the guilt and the regret. She needed this to reassure her that he wouldn’t send her away. However cruelly he treated her, this ritual was his statement that she was worth taking the time to scold and to punish and to reduce to a screaming, sobbing, submissive mess. Because after all that came forgiveness.

He held back as he beat her. He held back because this was but a warm up, and because he was starting with the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. He held back because he was aiming carefully. He would eventually beat her cunt, but he wanted it to be intentional. Once, in play, he had accidentally brought the belt down hard on her cunt and her scream still rang in his soul. He hadn’t meant to hurt her that badly. This time, he did. When he was ready.

The belt came down on her flesh 50 times. Her usually pale skin was flushed and glowing. She had tried not to wriggle, had tried not to scream, had tried to show that she knew she deserved this. But she was never all that good at controlling herself.

He walked back over to the table. The way she was positioned, she could see him put down the folded strip of leather and take up the next item on the program. Something new.

She waged a constant battle in the back yard, defending it from invasion and ultimate surrender to a neighbor’s army of bamboo. The day before his arrival, she had cut an armload of three-foot lengths from the tops of the younger plants and stripped them of their leaves, creating a thick handful of flexible switches. She had tied the base together with string, and today it lay on the table with the more familiar toys. Or what used to be thought of as toys.

He tried it out, swishing it through the air, getting a feel for the weight and resistance. He brought it down a couple of times on his denim-shielded leg and estimated the effect it would have on her bare parts. Then he returned to standing over her.

She expected him to continue the assault on her cunt. But he wanted to keep her off balance. He brought the bundle down on her breasts.

He didn’t hurt her all that hard. He did own her after all, not to mention the feelings he had for her, and didn’t want to do any permanent damage. But he had never beat her tits before, and he achieved the desired effect even without great force.

“When a slave is being punished, nothing is safe. Do you understand that? Slave?!”

He had such power over her when he addressed her that way. “Slave!”

“Yes, master. I understand, sir.” Her words were soft and tearful but definite and submissive.

He flogged each tit 10 times.

“Whose breasts are these, slave?”

“They are your breasts, master.”

“Yes. They are my breasts. And whose nipples are these? Slave.”

It always felt worse when he set that word apart. Slave. Worse. But better. It sent her down into subspace. He knew what he was doing. The soft part of him wanted to spare her from the worst of the pain. She would get the message clearly enough. This was psychological torture as much as physical affliction. Just knowing what he was doing to her would upset her well enough.

“They are YOUR nipples, master.”

“That’s right, slave. You are my slave and these are my nipples. You are never to forget that. Your body and your will, they all belong to me. And you will never again forget it. Will you? Slave.”

“No, master. I promise. I will never forget that ever again.”

He could hear the change in her voice. She was going down.

Acting quickly, he threw down the bundle of switches and took up the new item he had brought with him. Japanese clover clamps. He had never even subjected her nipples to clothespins, although he loved to twist them, to pinch them, to sink his nail into them. She gasped as he brutally seized each red nub and fastened a clamp on each one. Finally, he yanked on the chain. Hard.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but he didn’t wait for any further reaction. Taking up the bamboo bundle again, he slid one switch out from the rest. Again, he gave a few practice swishes through the air, before proceeding to whip her thighs.

The pain was cutting. It reminded her of the rubber band punishments he made her inflict on herself. In many ways it was worse than the cane, even though the switch wasn’t coming down as hard. He whipped her steadily, mercilessly, leaving clear red welts on the flesh already reddened by the belt.

And now he started to speak as he whipped her. Steadily and firmly, following the rhythm of the bamboo on her thighs.

“THIS is HOW a SLAVE is PUNISHED. THIS is what HAPPENS when a SLAVE disoBEYS. NEver forGET who OWNS you, SLAVE. I am the MASTER and YOU are the SLAVE.”

He tried to stay dispassionate, but anger was seeping in. Anger. And lust. He was getting hard. Very very hard. He tried to stuff it all back down, but it was a struggle.

He finally stopped whipping her and looked down at the welts he had left. At first he had aimed for clear parallel lines, though that was hard with such thin, fresh bamboo. Some of the blows had accidentally crossed each other, and then in the end he deliberately brought the switch down in the other direction, finishing up with five strokes in the same spot on each inner thigh. Where the welts crossed, and where he had concentrated the stripes, spots of blood rose to the surface. Once more, he had to control his tender feelings. He would leave the blood there to dry. He wanted her to see it. She knew he wasn’t into blood. The spots would be another reminder of how serious this was.

The whipping had brought cries of pain at each stroke, but not as loud as if he hadn’t brought her down somewhat into subspace. He had never taken her all the way down with physical pain. Fantasies of branding nearly deprived her of the ability to speak, but that was the furthest she had ever gone. He suspected she would be at least partially conscious for the rest of the punishment. Good. He wanted her to know what was happening to her.

He exchanged the switch for the belt.

“Slave. Do you remember when I accidentally hit your cunt? This time, slave, it won’t be an accident. This time I mean it. I am going to bring the belt down on your cunt. Five times, slave. Five times. It will drive the knots deeper into your cunt and harder onto your clit. This will hurt, slave. A lot. But not nearly as much as you hurt me with your disobedience. Remember that, slave. When you disobey, you betray my trust in you. It is for that more than anything else that you are being punished. Do you understand me? Slave?”

“Yes, master.” Her voice was clouded and tremulous. She was there enough to know this would hurt like hell. And again, she didn’t doubt that she deserved it.

He picked up the black and white checkerboard bandanna from the table.

“I don’t want to frighten the neighbors with your screams.”

He gagged her. He had never gagged her before. Her eyes flashed panic. He ignored it.

Once more, he stood up. He raised the belt. He aimed carefully, and brought it down hard on the knots that adorned her crotch.

He heard her scream from behind the gag.

Four more times he beat her cunt. Four more times her choked screams met his ears, When he was done, he stood there, breathing heavily. He was startled by how powerful he felt. His sadism had overcome his scruples, had pushed past the litany he had been repeating to himself that this was all a necessary punishment and nothing more. He had hurt her badly, and he reveled in her pain. He felt strong and powerful and he wanted to keep hurting her, his sadism was unleashed and he wanted to keep finding more and crueler ways to use her body. And then he wanted to force his cock down her throat and rape her. Truly rape her.

He shook his head to clear it. The fun would come later. He had a job to finish.

She was whimpering at his feet. He bent down and removed the gag. She was surprised by the gentleness in his touch. She had sensed the sadism pushing past the dispassionate desire for correction. It had simultaneously frightened and pleased her. She always felt it was good for him to let it out. And this had been an appropriate time for her to pay the price. Still, shaken and in anguish as she was, she smiled fondly at the tenderness that was creeping through.

He stroked her hair, and used a tissue to wipe her eyes and blot the drool from around her mouth.

“It’s almost over, kitten. It’s almost over. This will be the last part.”

He knew he had let it slip. He had called her “kitten.” He hadn’t meant to until it was all over. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted it to be over, perhaps more than she did. He wanted to welcome her back. This punishment in truth was more for her than for him.

He released her ankles, and she rolled around a bit to get the blood flowing again. Which hurt. He removed the clover clamps, which let the blood back into her nipples. Which hurt. He sat her up and untied the rest of the ropes.

“Crawl for me, kitten. I want to see you crawl.”

He couldn’t go back to calling her “slave.” She started to cry. This was more painful than all the blows combined. It just reminded her how she had disappointed him.

He steeled himself. He stopped himself from saying his usual, beautiful “Don’t cry, kitten,” in that special, loving inflection.

“Crawl. NOW.”

She crawled. They both knew it was to get the blood flowing again. She crawled around the room while he removed every item from the coffee table and placed them on the futon. He let her crawl back and forth for a couple of minutes, then walked over to her and seized the end of the choke collar, forcing the metal noose tight against her throat. He pulled her back towards the coffee table. She had to scramble to keep up with him.

“Up. On the table. On your knees.”

He took a small box from the futon, another item he had brought with him. He held it in front of her while he removed a butt plug. It was her first.

“I am going to cane you now. Fifty strokes, for no reason other than that is how many I am choosing to give you. But first, two more reminders that you belong to me. Every part of you belongs to me. You belong to me and that is why you are always to obey me. ALWAYS. Do you understand?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped a condom onto the butt plug and shoved it into her cunt. He knew she was wet – the rope knots had been slippery when he removed them from her various orifices. He moved the butt plug in and out, gathering the natural lubricant.

He was gentle as he eased it into her tight little ass hole. She had never been fucked there, but had read enough to know to push out. Between them, they got the job done. A learning experience for them both.

Next came another condom and the monstrous purple dildo. She hated it. It was too big. Which was why he inserted it now in her cunt. She was stretched and stuffed and possessed.

“I am going to cane you. You deserve this. I am not going to bind you. You are going to count off the strokes and hold the position and accept this as punishment. And then that will be the end of it. Now lie down on the table.”

The wooden top was hard. It was not at all comfortable. She stretched her arms down the table legs and grasped them at their base. He tucked a pillow under her hips to raise them into position. Her legs hung down behind. She was fully alert now. No more subspace in which to take refuge.

Again, practice swishes through the air.

“Now. Loud and clear. If you lose count I’ll have to start over. But you won’t lose count, will you? You won’t lose count.”

“No, master. I won’t lose count.”

She was exhausted. She was in pain. But she could see the end. And he was giving her what she needed. Because after punishment came forgiveness. It cleansed her of her sins.

She counted. He struck. Sometimes she gasped. Sometimes she screamed. Some of the strokes were swats. Some of them arrived with all the weight of his body behind them. She never knew what was coming. But she gave herself up to all of them. She gave herself up to the pain. She tried to relax under the blows and concentrate on counting and hold on as the end grew nearer and nearer.


A solid stroke.


A slightly lighter one.


He hit her so hard he thought the cane would break.

She screamed one last time. And then started to cry. He threw down the cane and gathered her in his arms.

“Shh… shh… it’s ok, kitten… It’s ok now… It’s all over… You’re forgiven… You’re my good kitten now… shh… shh…”

He stroked her hair, he kissed the tears, he reached into the cooler he had told her to prepare and brought out a bottle of water. He poured the welcome liquid carefully between her lips and she swallowed gratefully. Then he eased her down onto the carpet, on her belly. The cooler’s contents included a large bag of frozen peas. He covered her buttocks with a dish towel and applied the bag of peas as a cold compress. Then he returned to stroking her hair while the air filled with mingled murmurs of apology and forgiveness.

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