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Ch1: Appointment day
It is a sunny cold day in March. The snowstorm that covered the streets with snow is gone, leaving a clear, frosty day, with temperatures in the 20s. I walk down the street, dressed only in my black sable coat, black velvet choker, and stylish 5 inch pumps, also black, of course.
As I walk, the cold air seeps under my coat, up my legs and into my bare pussy. I am going to Mr. Marshall’s mansion. I am afraid of what will happen there. I know I will be beaten, but not how, or how much. Where, I do know; all over. It’s always on a Thursday, though not on all of them, that I go to Mr. Marshall’s, always alone, and always nude under my one allowed piece of clothing.
I never know when I will go. Sometimes Paul, my master, will tell me in the morning, after I’ve showered and shaved him, as he dresses, maybe as he does his tie:
“Today you have an appointment with Mr. Marshall”
And I answer softly “Yes Paul” He lets me use his first name, most of the time.
Other times, he tells me the night before, maybe after he’s used me, as I lie in his arms, coming down from subspace. “Tomorrow you have an appointment with Mr. Marshall” and my answer is always the same; soft, submissive; “Yes Paul”
Some days he may phone me at work to tell me, so my anticipation and fear, is prolonged. Rarely, he may even tell me four or five days in advance, so my fear can build up more.
Paul rarely beats me. He exerts his dominance in other ways. He knows that beating is not the only way to cause pain, sometimes unbearable pain. Pain limited only by his imagination, and he has a wide and varied imagination. But he rarely beats me.
When I go to Mr. Marshall’s I know I will be beaten. That is the one common denominator in all my visits. And I will be beaten hard, way beyond any pleasure, way beyond any limit. That is my fear.
Mr. Marshall’s palatial mansion is only three blocks from my
master’s spacious home. It is far to walk, in the cold winter air, clad as I
am. A passerby sees only an attractive young woman, 5 foot nine inches,
stylishly dressed in patent leather pumps and an expensive sable coat. My
shoulder length, dark brown hair is carefully coiffed in an up do. My makeup is
perfectly done, my eyes are very light blue, surrounded by my naturally long eyelashes,
enhanced with water proof mascara, so it won’t run with my tears. My lipstick
is the deepest shade of red, custom made by Paul’s parfumer in
He does not notice my size B breasts, hidden by the bulky sable coat. In the spring, he would stare at them, covered only by a thin sundress, but it is winter, and he cannot see that I am nude, under the coat. He does notice my shoes, and perhaps wonders where I am going, with these classy shoes, on the snow covered sidewalk.
I arrive, climb up three steps and knock on the door. The knocker is bronze, shaped like a lion’s head, with a large ball on its mouth.
Parker, Mr. Marshall’s butler opens the door. Unbidden, I enter, remove my coat and hang it on the hanger. I remove my pumps and put on black sandals, with even higher heels. The sandals tie on my ankle. Parker doesn’t even glance at my nude body. Women do not interest him. He climbs up the stairs and I follow him. The house is kept rather cold, on purpose I am sure, and my pink nipples stand up proudly on my breasts.
As is always the case, I follow Parker to Mr. Marshall’s study. He opens the French doors for me, and I enter the study. The aroma of fine cigars is always the first thing I notice; it endures in this room, even though I seldom see him smoke. It is a large, airy room, with bay windows that open to the park across the street. The walls are lined with book cases, filled to the brim with books in all kinds of bindings, from leather, to cloth, hardcover and paperbacks. I do not know in how many languages. I recognized English, French, Spanish and German. A Persian carpet covers most of the hardwood floor.
Mr. Marshall sits at his desk, writing. He does not look up. I move to his right side and sit on the desk. The dark wood is covered by a sheet of glass. The glass is cold on my ass cheeks. I gather my right thigh under me, and bend my left knee. My shaved pussy is wide open, exposed for him to see, or touch. I hear the French doors close as Parker leaves. Mr. Marshall keeps on writing, occasionally consulting one of the books or journals he’s got on his desk. The tick-tock of the pendulum in the grandfather clock on the corner provides the only sound, aside from his fountain pen, scratching notes in a yellow pad. The ink is blue.
Time passes; every so often he lifts his head, looking at me, but he doesn’t otherwise acknowledge me in any other way. Sometimes, he touches one of my nipples with his finger; rarely does he touch my pussy, exploring it with his index. When this happens, I am always embarrassed that he finds it so wet. At times, he pinches my clitoris slightly, between his thumb and index. I can never contain a gasp of pleasure-pain at this; but it happens so rarely…
He always wears a smoking jacket when he writes. It is deep
crimson, and ties at the waist with a black silk band. He also wears a white
shirt and an
As the evening passes, I feel more and more afraid, as the unavoidable time gets closer and closer. Eventually he rings a bell. I am always startled by the sound of it. The French doors open and I follow Parker up the stairs to the next floor. He always stops at the powder room at the landing; he opens the door and watches me as I empty my bladder. Even after all these times, I cannot avoid blushing with embarrassment. I must pee, in front of him, with my legs wide open. After I am done, I follow him, trembling and unsteady to the next room. The room is very plain. It is painted light green, with white crown molding. There is a large window, looking out on the backyard. It is triple-paned and the whole room is soundproof. No one will hear my screams.
I remove my sandals and walk to the center of the room. There are leather ankle bracelets that I put on. A thick wooden beam hangs from the center of the roof, where a chandelier would normally hang. It is suspended by two thick white manila ropes attached to the ends of it. On the bottom of it, two iron manacles, lined in leather hang open. I place my wrists in the manacles which then close automatically. Parker then presses a button, and the beam rises, until I am standing on tip toes. He then attaches my ankle bracelets with lengths of rope to rings on the floor, and pulls my legs wide open. I now hang, spread-eagled, with all of my body exposed for punishment.
Parker leaves the room to get the instrument he will use on me today. He takes his time. I wait. What will it be? The lash or the crop?
If it is the crop, I will only get thirty or forty slashes, and then I will go to Mr. Marshall’s room, where I will serve his pleasure during the night. If it is the lash, I know I will hang here for hours, until I receive a hundred lashes, well paced, so I can feel all of them. Parker is an expert in this. He takes his time. He lets me feel each lash, entirely, and then gives me the next. He will pause often, to rest his arm, and to let me recover. He gives me sugared water, to keep my energy up. It wouldn’t do to have me pass out, of course.
If it is the lash, after he is done with me, he will take my body down, carry me to a nearby room, and put me to bed, in a small bed with crimson satin sheets, where blood stains will not show. I will sleep there, undisturbed, until the morning. He will bring me breakfast, always coffee and two croissants, and then, I will walk back home.
I never know where Mr. Marshall is when I am being beaten. He is never in the room, and, as far as I can tell, there are no cameras, not even hidden ones, in the room. The walls are bare; there is no place to hide a camera. I prefer the cane. At least, when I am caned, Mr. Marshall will see the wheals of the crop on my body, and will then enjoy using me. I feel that my suffering serves a purpose.
When Parker whips me however, there is no one to enjoy it. He definitely does not. I know that he does not get erect during a session. Mr. Marshall is not there either, and neither is Paul. I have asked Paul if he sees the sessions, or if they are taped and he said no. He does know what happens in them, although, when he sends me, he does not know if Mr. Marshall will use me or not. It is so frustrating. If at least Paul could see me being whipped, it would at least count for something. I strangle a sob. I lift my eyes and Parker stands in front of me.
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