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Step forward slave," my Master ordered. Slowly, walking on tiptoes, I approached the frame in front of me. my breath quickening, and started feeling the much wanted and very familiar tingling between my legs. A whiff of cold air passed through the room, and made my skin form goose bumps and my nipples hardening, pointing slightly upwards. my Master spoke:

"Slave, you are on video. Please state clearly what you have accepted - and agreed to - and desire should happen to happen to you."

I looked straight into the camera. started to speak, but my voice was hoarse. I licked my lips, and started once more:

"My name is Kathy. I have since long ago had a fantasy to be whipped like a slave girl. No mercy. No safe word. And whipped with a five-stranded wide, long straps as described in the books. Master has kindly allowed me to live out my fantasy. He will now whip me twenty five times with the specially crafted whip. He will apply force at his discretion. I cannot, and have no desire to stop him. I will endure my entire punishment in full. This is my fantasy, one I crave, one that Master has given me as a gift. This is not abuse, no matter what injuries I may suffer. I enter this of my free will, and place myself fully at the mercy of my Master, who has promised me to hold nothing back."

My breathing had quickened. l stepped forward and placed myself under the chain hanging from the ceiling. Master attached my hands to the chain above my head. A naked woman attached my ankles to duffs far out on the side. The sound of electro motors sounded, and soon I was stretched with legs wide, toes barely touching the ground. my wrists took the main weight of my body. my breath became faster and more strained. Despite the padded cuffs, i felt the pull on my wrists. The sweat cooled my body and made me shiver slightly.

Another shiver went through my body. Master was back, and pulled a thick, soft leather hood over my head, working my hair into a pony tail that he pulled through a vent in the back of her hood. . Slowly, Master started tightening the laces. Every inch of my face was soon hugged tightly by the hood.

The only openings were just below my nose, too small to give unrestricted breathing, but large enough to give me the air I needed to not pass out.

Master took his time lacing it up tightly once, then once more. It now held my head perfectly. I started sweating inside the hood. My skin was hyper sensitive. All sounds were now muffled. I could scream all I wanted, but almost nothing would be heard outside the hood.

Nothing happened for many minutes. I shifted around, trying to find a more comfortable position, failing entirely. My wrists were getting more painful by the minute.

Nothing happened, Then, without a warning, the five strands of the whip came out of nothing and hit her back hard. I jumped, bucked and threw myself against the ropes. I screamed in pain and terror, wanting nothing more than having the pain end. But outside the hood, nothing but a whimper could be heard.

The restricted breathing forced me to calm down. This had hurt beyond anything she had experienced. my back was on fire. And the fire was getting stronger.

The second lash hit , It stung worse than the first, mainly because it landed on top of the first. the third lash hit my back again. I screamed from the top of my lungs, bucked and twisted, trying to tear the solid frame apart.My body was dripping with sweat, Finally my erratic moves stopped. I slumped forwards, my back felt like it was on fire and the fire was increasing. .

The fourth lash fell across my tummy. The burning took my attention away from the hurting wrists. I tried to close my legs, because I feared where the next lash would fall. But three was no give, no way to bring my feet together, no mercy.

The fifth lash fell on the left side of my ribs. It was the worst so far. Sweat was running down my body, I tried to twist away from the pain. But the cuffs and the frame held me in place. .

I got a lash on the right side of my ribs, then number seven hit the outside of my right thigh.I braced for the next to hit my left thigh, but it never cams. Instead my right lower leg felt the whip. I almost danced in pain. I cursed and pulled and bucked, but could not free myself.

It felt like my right leg was on fire. But my left was fine. That made it worse. Asymmetric pain can drive one insane. the ninth lash hit my breasts. For a moment I could not breathe. What was I thinking? Twenty five fucking lashes, and I was going insane with pain before I had made it to ten? How could I survive sixteen more?

Number ten fell again across my breasts, but made better contact with my nipples. I screamed so it could be heard outside the hood. But nothing happened. I slumped down in my bindings, fully exhausted. Sobbing and pleading.

My butt went on fire with lash number eleven. Then number twelve was again across my back. Now I was fighting my restraints with all my strength.
Master stepped away and folded up the whip. He could see that I was at a breaking point. He had promised to complete the whipping. He would do so, but for now I needed some rest. As he stepped down from the frame, others came up and started feeling the red welts on my body. I jerked violently. The audience understood. I was in sensory overload.

I woke with a jerk. I had passed out. Sweat was in my eyes, stinging. Wrists and arms were hurting. Parts of my body were on fire, other parts felt numb. Had they completed the whippings? Had I passed out from the pain? I tried to remember. Then lash number thirteen came from behind and up from below her legs. All five strands made solid contact with my vagina, one strand landing on my clit.

This time the bondage frame creaked under the strain of me pulling at my restraints. Inside the hood, I screamed but now mixed with incoherent babbling. This was not possible. I wished I could just pass out. I mumbled all the safe words I could remember.
My body started tingling. I could see a black hole opening. my pain disappeared. My breath stabilized. I felt so alive. I had entered subspace.

The remaining lashes fell, but I took them with little reaction. Master increased the strength of the lashes. He knew I had eluded the pain by dropping into subspace. He was glad I had escaped. Number 25 hit on my clit and vagina again, but this time there was barely any reaction. He carefully folded the whip, put it to the side and motioned for the other spectators to move to the adjacent room.

Half an hour later, he was back. With the help of two other slaves, he freed me from the frame. I slumped down. They held me up, and carried me into another room with a huge bed.

When I woke up, my body was still burning. I staggered towards where I remembered that the bathroom was. My master understood and guided me in. . It was time to travel home.

At home laid down on my bed

I was a whipped slave that had no choice but to stay and suffer. With the pain washing through my body, I drifted back into subspace. I fell asleep.I had found my peace.
Fantastic, well done, so erotic, it tickled my fancy and more
 
Not sure if this is the right place but I admire Kathy's work so I figured I tag along.

While I prefer ancient to medieval themes I do play with Doms who prefer modern. In this play I (in a modern society) was purchased as a slave after being convicted of a crime. I have been trained at State expense so the man who bought me knows what pleasure he wishes to indulge in I am best suited for.

kisses

willowfall

Modern_001.jpgModern_002.jpgModern_003.jpgModern_004.jpgModern_005.jpgModern_006.jpgModern_007.jpgModern_008.jpgModern_009.jpgModern_010.jpg
 
"You've been behaving yourself, Kathy," said the guard, studying his chart. "No reports this week."

"Yes Sir."

"Must be a mistake. You're always on report for something. Last week it was three. You must have done something."

"No, Sir. I was... good"

"Anyway you will be punished" said the guard.

I worked hard the past seven days to avoid trouble. In this place, that was almost impossible, my reward was punishment. Unfair, but that was life here.

The guard says "Lets's begin."

The was a blur of movement. Oak thumped in hard across my butt cheeks. They flattened, crushed by the impact.

When the paddle retreated, it left behind an imprint, pink and hot. My cheeks bobbled and twitched. Fiery sting shot through me.

Another swing, the placement lower and hitting more on the right side. My cheek burned. I grunted, body jerking with the hit. .

A third and then a fourth. After five, the white expanse of buttocks bore a series of overlapping marks. Tears trickled down my face , I struggled to hold my hands at bay and keep my bottom obediently relaxed.

More spanks followed, the guard an expert at delivering maximum sting for minimal effort. He let the heavy wood do most of the work, at each solid whack my body rocked, my butt jiggling.

The standard ten was hardly considered punishment in this place . It was a beginning, not an end. .

The paddle continued to punish, I cried out , unable to hold my yelps and moans. I wiggled, and twisted my hips, careful to keep my feet planted and my hands clear of the line of fire, but moving as much as I dared simply because I could no longer stand still and endure such agony.

This brought a smile to the face of the guard, except his lips didn't move and his expression didn't change. It was an internal grin, a secret satisfaction that he enjoyed. He loved making the girls squirm. That was his goal in life.

Soon I was dancing. My limbs jerked, I twitched and wiggled, while behind, my buttocks steamed as the wood thumped and smacked into my soft flesh. The paddle struck with no more mercy. The guard was as grim and swung the paddle with righteous conviction.

I sob and stagger, pain flooding my rump and flowing through my torso.

The guard pressed ahead. They were near the 20 but he didn't care. he made the rules here .

An extra lick or two was all I needed. When the intensity was too great, I slipped, one foot rising off the pads as I cried with pain.

"A violation!" cried the guard . "That's five extra."

I sobbed, my head drooping. I wasn't prepared for the awful correction that came, the paddle striking low and actually lifting my body upward. My feet shifted as I struggled to hold my position.

"Another violation and another five penalty swats," said the guard. .

The paddle worked its magic, transforming pretty white cheeks into roasted red rump. l wept nonstop, my cries increasing with each whack.

As the count approached 30, severe even for this place, my struggles increased so much that sweat dripped from my brow .

The guard, concentrating hard now puts serious effort into the swings, eager to cause me to move and extend the spanking by a few more smacks.

At stroke 29, he succeeded, his lips twisting into a grin as he called out another five-lick penalty. I slump, though remained obediently in position.

The guard swung harder now, faster, the wood pressing aside the air and bursting upon the cherry-red buttocks with a vigor that nearly toppled me.I had to brace myself and work to thrust my sore butt out toward the paddle, welcoming the agony, in order to spare myself additional penalties.

This time I survived the onslaught. Though my butt burned, I managed to stay still and accept the searing swats.

The guard didn't mind. He put down the paddle, satisfied he'd imparted his message. l would remember this spanking for a while. A few weeks, perhaps a month, and then I'd need another reminder.

Inmates were bad girls and needed to be punished. It didn't matter if I behaved herself or not. That was just an excuse. I was here to be tortured, to be reformed, to suffer. I'd made my mistakes and this was my due. I was strong with a healthy body, and my sentence was only two years. It would be extended, of course, at least six months or maybe a year for some made-up offense like fighting . It would happen at the last minute, just a day before my release. That was the best way to crush my spirit. Let me think I'd almost escaped, then bring me back inside for another spanking.

I slowly dressed, wincing at every movement, tears still flowing.

"Next!" the guard cried, picking up the paddle and watching as another victim, made her way into the punishment room.
 
"You've been behaving yourself, Kathy," said the guard, studying his chart. "No reports this week."

"Yes Sir."

"Must be a mistake. You're always on report for something. Last week it was three. You must have done something."

"No, Sir. I was... good"

"Anyway you will be punished" said the guard.

I worked hard the past seven days to avoid trouble. In this place, that was almost impossible, my reward was punishment. Unfair, but that was life here.

The guard says "Lets's begin."

The was a blur of movement. Oak thumped in hard across my butt cheeks. They flattened, crushed by the impact.

When the paddle retreated, it left behind an imprint, pink and hot. My cheeks bobbled and twitched. Fiery sting shot through me.

Another swing, the placement lower and hitting more on the right side. My cheek burned. I grunted, body jerking with the hit. .

A third and then a fourth. After five, the white expanse of buttocks bore a series of overlapping marks. Tears trickled down my face , I struggled to hold my hands at bay and keep my bottom obediently relaxed.

More spanks followed, the guard an expert at delivering maximum sting for minimal effort. He let the heavy wood do most of the work, at each solid whack my body rocked, my butt jiggling.

The standard ten was hardly considered punishment in this place . It was a beginning, not an end. .

The paddle continued to punish, I cried out , unable to hold my yelps and moans. I wiggled, and twisted my hips, careful to keep my feet planted and my hands clear of the line of fire, but moving as much as I dared simply because I could no longer stand still and endure such agony.

This brought a smile to the face of the guard, except his lips didn't move and his expression didn't change. It was an internal grin, a secret satisfaction that he enjoyed. He loved making the girls squirm. That was his goal in life.

Soon I was dancing. My limbs jerked, I twitched and wiggled, while behind, my buttocks steamed as the wood thumped and smacked into my soft flesh. The paddle struck with no more mercy. The guard was as grim and swung the paddle with righteous conviction.

I sob and stagger, pain flooding my rump and flowing through my torso.

The guard pressed ahead. They were near the 20 but he didn't care. he made the rules here .

An extra lick or two was all I needed. When the intensity was too great, I slipped, one foot rising off the pads as I cried with pain.

"A violation!" cried the guard . "That's five extra."

I sobbed, my head drooping. I wasn't prepared for the awful correction that came, the paddle striking low and actually lifting my body upward. My feet shifted as I struggled to hold my position.

"Another violation and another five penalty swats," said the guard. .

The paddle worked its magic, transforming pretty white cheeks into roasted red rump. l wept nonstop, my cries increasing with each whack.

As the count approached 30, severe even for this place, my struggles increased so much that sweat dripped from my brow .

The guard, concentrating hard now puts serious effort into the swings, eager to cause me to move and extend the spanking by a few more smacks.

At stroke 29, he succeeded, his lips twisting into a grin as he called out another five-lick penalty. I slump, though remained obediently in position.

The guard swung harder now, faster, the wood pressing aside the air and bursting upon the cherry-red buttocks with a vigor that nearly toppled me.I had to brace myself and work to thrust my sore butt out toward the paddle, welcoming the agony, in order to spare myself additional penalties.

This time I survived the onslaught. Though my butt burned, I managed to stay still and accept the searing swats.

The guard didn't mind. He put down the paddle, satisfied he'd imparted his message. l would remember this spanking for a while. A few weeks, perhaps a month, and then I'd need another reminder.

Inmates were bad girls and needed to be punished. It didn't matter if I behaved herself or not. That was just an excuse. I was here to be tortured, to be reformed, to suffer. I'd made my mistakes and this was my due. I was strong with a healthy body, and my sentence was only two years. It would be extended, of course, at least six months or maybe a year for some made-up offense like fighting . It would happen at the last minute, just a day before my release. That was the best way to crush my spirit. Let me think I'd almost escaped, then bring me back inside for another spanking.

I slowly dressed, wincing at every movement, tears still flowing.

"Next!" the guard cried, picking up the paddle and watching as another victim, made her way into the punishment room.
Congratulations on your text and a kiss on your buttocks to reduce your pain!
 
"You've been behaving yourself, Kathy," said the guard, studying his chart. "No reports this week."

"Yes Sir."

"Must be a mistake. You're always on report for something. Last week it was three. You must have done something."

"No, Sir. I was... good"

"Anyway you will be punished" said the guard.

I worked hard the past seven days to avoid trouble. In this place, that was almost impossible, my reward was punishment. Unfair, but that was life here.

The guard says "Lets's begin."

The was a blur of movement. Oak thumped in hard across my butt cheeks. They flattened, crushed by the impact.

When the paddle retreated, it left behind an imprint, pink and hot. My cheeks bobbled and twitched. Fiery sting shot through me.

Another swing, the placement lower and hitting more on the right side. My cheek burned. I grunted, body jerking with the hit. .

A third and then a fourth. After five, the white expanse of buttocks bore a series of overlapping marks. Tears trickled down my face , I struggled to hold my hands at bay and keep my bottom obediently relaxed.

More spanks followed, the guard an expert at delivering maximum sting for minimal effort. He let the heavy wood do most of the work, at each solid whack my body rocked, my butt jiggling.

The standard ten was hardly considered punishment in this place . It was a beginning, not an end. .

The paddle continued to punish, I cried out , unable to hold my yelps and moans. I wiggled, and twisted my hips, careful to keep my feet planted and my hands clear of the line of fire, but moving as much as I dared simply because I could no longer stand still and endure such agony.

This brought a smile to the face of the guard, except his lips didn't move and his expression didn't change. It was an internal grin, a secret satisfaction that he enjoyed. He loved making the girls squirm. That was his goal in life.

Soon I was dancing. My limbs jerked, I twitched and wiggled, while behind, my buttocks steamed as the wood thumped and smacked into my soft flesh. The paddle struck with no more mercy. The guard was as grim and swung the paddle with righteous conviction.

I sob and stagger, pain flooding my rump and flowing through my torso.

The guard pressed ahead. They were near the 20 but he didn't care. he made the rules here .

An extra lick or two was all I needed. When the intensity was too great, I slipped, one foot rising off the pads as I cried with pain.

"A violation!" cried the guard . "That's five extra."

I sobbed, my head drooping. I wasn't prepared for the awful correction that came, the paddle striking low and actually lifting my body upward. My feet shifted as I struggled to hold my position.

"Another violation and another five penalty swats," said the guard. .

The paddle worked its magic, transforming pretty white cheeks into roasted red rump. l wept nonstop, my cries increasing with each whack.

As the count approached 30, severe even for this place, my struggles increased so much that sweat dripped from my brow .

The guard, concentrating hard now puts serious effort into the swings, eager to cause me to move and extend the spanking by a few more smacks.

At stroke 29, he succeeded, his lips twisting into a grin as he called out another five-lick penalty. I slump, though remained obediently in position.

The guard swung harder now, faster, the wood pressing aside the air and bursting upon the cherry-red buttocks with a vigor that nearly toppled me.I had to brace myself and work to thrust my sore butt out toward the paddle, welcoming the agony, in order to spare myself additional penalties.

This time I survived the onslaught. Though my butt burned, I managed to stay still and accept the searing swats.

The guard didn't mind. He put down the paddle, satisfied he'd imparted his message. l would remember this spanking for a while. A few weeks, perhaps a month, and then I'd need another reminder.

Inmates were bad girls and needed to be punished. It didn't matter if I behaved herself or not. That was just an excuse. I was here to be tortured, to be reformed, to suffer. I'd made my mistakes and this was my due. I was strong with a healthy body, and my sentence was only two years. It would be extended, of course, at least six months or maybe a year for some made-up offense like fighting . It would happen at the last minute, just a day before my release. That was the best way to crush my spirit. Let me think I'd almost escaped, then bring me back inside for another spanking.

I slowly dressed, wincing at every movement, tears still flowing.

"Next!" the guard cried, picking up the paddle and watching as another victim, made her way into the punishment room.
Brilliant, Kathy, you really capture the essence of sadistic punishment, applied by a cruel man to a submissive victim. He enjoys because he can inflict it, and you "enjoy" it because you have no choice.
 
"Feel free to add yours to this thread" Kathy said. OK. What happened was I had to come, as in orgasm. It was a forced orgasm day and I didn't really feel like it when I woke up. Then the phone rang a hundred times, I had a thousand emails to answer and by the end of the day I was distracted and knackered. In horror I realised it was approaching midnight and I had to come by then or risk punishment. Thinking quickly, I asked the bloke I was in an online conversation with "Do you think I'm a slut?" He was baffled. Degradation thrills me and I knew I would have to try something radical to excite myself enough in time.

"In need you to swear at me, please!" I said. I tried to explain as best I could and he asked "You want me to talk dirty to you while you masturbate?" "Yes!" I said.

He called me a filthy fucking whore and told me I was a dirty, shameless, depraved slut. Oh god it was lovely. He said he wanted to crush my throat, pick me up by my ankles, spread my legs and tear my flimsy little knickers off with his teeth. He was everything I needed and I made it to oblivion with a whole minute to spare. But...........

One of the rules live under is that I must allow no one but my Master to control me sexually. Worse, there's another one which dictates that I must report how and when I become aroused. I was so desperate to avoid punishment for not coming when forced, I wasn't thinking clearly and realised I'd have to tell my master what I'd done. I emailed him. With me so far? It's an on line relationship OK?

The next day there was an email titled "Naughty Slut." in my inbox. Fuck. fuck, bloody fuck! I hardly dare open it. My Master thought I'd been resourceful rather than guilty and he let me get away with it but I had to write up my filthy fucking whore chat and send it to whoever I thought doing so would humiliate me the most. Bastard!

One of the people, someone I talk to on DA, read it and asked my Master to make me send him a note to express how I would humiliate myself in front of him. If it's not good enough he's going to send his recommendations for punishing me to my Master. I think they're all ganging up on me.

Anyway, I sent it after it had been approved by my Master, so I had to be careful what I said. I'm not sure yet if I've fucked up or what. Oh well, it's only pain! This is it..............

I’m a worthless whore. I’ve been willing to sacrifice my will to feel another’s control and power over me. My rose is no longer mine, it’s the instrument through which others inflict discomfort and humiliation on me for their own sexual gratification. It thrills me to be treated with no respect at all and I’ve offered myself in order to suffer the depravity of whoever would like to use me.

I’m worse than a slut. I’m shameless in my need to experience the malicious exploitation of my body by those who would deny me my own sexual fulfilment. I am for my persecutors, desperate, precarious and terrified of their intentions. It excites me to know they will bully and torment me.

I would present myself to you stripped to my knickers wherever you asked me to do it. My wrists would be handcuffed behind my back and the key hung round my neck. Would you take it from me? Would you take my knickers, my last shred of dignity?

I’d be quiet while you handled me, or allowed others to. If you let me, I’d kneel, but turn so I could present my arse. I’d pray it would please you as I lay my head on the ground, arched my back and spread my legs. Would you know I’d want you to kick me? I’d want you to bruise my rose so it hurts me when you take it. My, no sorry, your rose would remind me how far I’d fallen from grace each time I felt the pain.

It’s cold here, the ground is icy. My nipples freeze in contact with it. Will you drag me away by my ankles, maybe just one. Would people watch as my breasts scrape across the ice, my hair soaked in murderously cold water where my body heat’s melted a little. I’d wait for you to do this, if you want. I’d never protest or complain.

Would you collar me? Would you drag me that way? I would not resist. I’d be compliant, resigned and grateful for my fate.

How wretched would you make me? Would you keep me dirty and cold? I’m tainted, to be punished for that, not for any particular offence although I’m sure I’ll commit plenty of those as your humour dictates. I need to be punished to keep me in my place as the willing, obedient object of the cruelty I crave.

How would you punish me? Would you thrash me? Would you parade me, disgraced and degraded in public? Would you share me with your friends or maybe those spiteful enough to torture me without mercy? Would I have no value beyond her whose ordeal was to provide the pervert’s entertainment?

I’d know how my life would be if you took me. You’d see my fear in my eyes. Would that mean anything to you? I’d be terrified by the horrors you might subject me to. How was it for your other girls? Have they since been discarded as I expect I might be too, after you’ve had enough of me.

I’d wait, exposed and vulnerable at your feet, anxiously displaying my submission. I’d hope that you might think I was worthless enough. Would the brutality I’d know you wanted me for be guiltless, wicked fun then? I’d know that’s all I’d be, debauched sex for someone else.

The dread I’d feel then would be intense. Would you see how intoxicated I was? Would you know how threatening me with the abuse I expect made me burn with lust? Would you know I would accept it?

I would, but I can’t. I’m taken. I’ve already offered myself with the same promise I might have made to you if I could. It wasn’t something I took lightly and the moment I agreed to submit was beautiful. I’m cared for now and my worthlessness has given me value in my Master’s eyes.

Now, I write of the whore I love to play with reckless abandon, safe behind my shield, owned and accessible only if my Master wills it.
 
As the taxi drives away I look around, feeling alone. I am finally here. When I leave I shall be transformed. That thought pleases me, but makes me nervous. I know I have been indulgent of late and I deserve this, but the treatment is severe and difficult to endure.

The attendants inside check me in and soon I am ready to begin. I am led to my chamber where my clothes are removed. Wearing a short robe I am led to the showers where two female attendants wash me, one directing the spray while the other coats my skin with lather.

After the impersonal shower I am toweled off and led to the medical chamber where I am weighed, measured, and examined inside and out. It is all done very routinely, impersonally, and I enjoy the feeling.

My first appointment is with Mark. I remember him well. A large muscular man who used to be a professional body builder. Now he is the whipping master at the club. I go to him with apprehension. He is pleased to see me.

We begin with a light whipping, me strapped to a vertical rotating column. As it slowly spins around I am greeted with the lash across my back, my buttocks, my legs. He spares nothing, but goes over me well. This is not a discipline whipping but a preparation whipping. I must be toughened for what I am to endure.

The whipping lasts a half hour, and I am tired when it is over. It was not very painful, but my body tingles all over. "Come back after lunch for the other side," he says , and I nod.

I am given an enema before lunch. Fortunately it is a small one, warm, not hot, and as I sit for lunch I already feel overwhelmed. Lunch is a simple salad. It is elegant and tasty, with three kinds of lettuce, several exotic vegetables, and a spicy low-calorie dressing.

After lunch I spend an hour in the warm sauna, and then it is back to Mark. Again I am strapped to the pole, but this time my back is pressed against it. My breasts and crotch are fully exposed to his lash and he does not spare me but whips me all over. This is more painful but Mark is gentle. He does not want to hurt me, only help me to feel. It is wonderful.

After my whipping I go to my room for a short nap, then to Sarah for another enema, this one larger and with warmer water. She leaves it inside me for a good fifteen minutes and when she returns she takes a small wooden paddle from a drawer and spanks my bottom at least a dozen times, sternly warning me not to lose my enema. It is difficult, but somehow I manage. My bottom feels good and warm when she is done, though my face is flushed with shame at being treated like this. It is good none of my friends or associates are here!

My next stop is the weight room, and here the strange man makes me really work. We begin with stretching and calisthetics, and then pump iron on various machines for almost an hour. We work on my pecs, , my abs, my legs, everything. I am exhausted when we finish. My trainer pushed me hard and didn't hesitate to spank me whenever he thought I needed it.

In my chamber the attendants are waiting for me, and again I am showered and washed without being allowed to do it myself.

Supper is light. A clear broth followed by steamed vegetables and small slice of roasted chicken. The meal is delicious, though the portions are small. For dessert there is a small quivering cube of Jello.

I read for a while before bed, but soon fall asleep. It is barely dark outside but I am too tired to keep my eyes open.

In the morning I am awakened before dawn and led by an attendant to the showers. There are many of us here, all women. Two attendants spray all of us with water and our own attendants wash us down. It is strange. There is much laughter and giggling and yet I can see many of the girls have been treated severely, their buttocks and thighs whipped. In a few days I shall be like them, perhaps even today. Will I be ready?

I am taken outside and naturally I am not allowed any clothing. First is the whipping, this time by a petite female . She binds me to the cross-post with my hands above my head and whips me all over. She uses a cloth whip with many tails, and it does not hurt at all--it only _feels_. It is hard to describe. In some ways it is too light, and I want more, but in other ways it is too intense.

Occasionally during the whipping the woman stops and caresses my body. She feels my skin and tells me I am beautiful, and then she whips me more. Finally, after a long time (it felt like hours but was about forty minutes) she puts down the cloth whip and picks up a heavy leather strap. With this she whips my bottom and thighs, and this _hurts_. No games here, this is pain. I writhe and cry out but it does no good. She spanks me until my bottom flesh is roasting, and then she sprays me with water from a squirt bottle, the fine mist settling all over my body. Then she whips me with the cloth whip for another ten minutes.

After my hour of whipping I am led to the sweatbox, a small metal container in the middle of the courtyard. There are several of these. They are like miniature greenhouses, with curved roofs that dissipate the sun's rays. Inside is a small bed where I stretch out, still naked. The woman locks me in.

Time passes slowly. I drift in and out of sleep. It is very warm. Not hot, but warm. My body glistens with sweat and my buttocks and thighs sting. After an eternity the woman returns. "How long was I in there?" I ask as I climb out. My body drips with sweat.

"Two hours," she says, and leads me to the whipping post again. My arms are bound above my head and this time the whipping is with a real whip--threads of leather dangling from a wooden handle. It is still a light whipping but now the blows sting. The woman moves all around me, varying the blows. She never strikes the same place twice. She'll catch my bottom with a blow and then my breasts. Another will come from the front but slap the backs of my thighs. She whips my belly and back, my chest, the front of my legs, and even brings the whip of between my legs. I am soon moaning softly and whimpering. It does no good.

The whipping continues now with a thicker whip, and it leaves marks. Tiny welts begin to appear all over my body: my breasts, my belly, my inner thighs, my buttocks, my back, my calves. I cannot stop weeping. It hurts very much.

With the whipping done the woman takes up a long riding crop and strikes the back of my legs and my buttocks a couple dozen strokes. Each blow leaves a thick welt pulsing and throbbing, and I scream with each application.

After the cropping the woman splashes me with two buckets of salt water, one to my front and one to my back. My body burns with feeling. She unchains me and takes me to the mudbaths where I am covered with thick, gooey mud that feels deliciously cool and wonderful against my stinging flesh. I am left in the mud to soak for an hour. I am blissfully happy.

The icy spray used to wash off the mud is horrible. It stings but numbs my body. I am forced to rotate my body every which way so that the spray can wash me clean. The mud has invaded my entire body, especially between my legs, and I know that I shall have to be thoroughly cleaned later.

A white terry-cloth robe is provided and I head for the cafeteria for a late lunch. I am famished and hope that there is more than salad. As I walk, my body aching, I think of what lies ahead, part of me, a deeper, perhaps more intimate part, is feverishly excited. I know that this place will transform me, it will be worth the effort.
Thank you Kathy, I love your fantasy. I also share a desire to be whipped. Unsure if you want any of my stories here? Thank you
 
Thank you Kathy, I love your fantasy. I also share a desire to be whipped. Unsure if you want any of my stories here? Thank you
If you have stories to share, lcs, you might consider starting your own thread on which to feature them.:)
 
BDSM club fantasy


We reach the club the girls go right inside to make final preparations and then act as ushers. Mark has been manning the ticket booth in the lobby and the line stretches out the door. There seems to be about twice as many men as women and most of the women are accompanied by a man. I am guided through the lobby to the doorway leading to the stage.

Bobby turns me so I face the wall. He unties my hands and allows me a moment to rub my wrists. After a few moments he pulls my right arm back and straps a leather cuff on my wrist. He repeats the process on my left wrist. He then raises both my wrists only to draw them together behind my neck. The collar on my neck is rotated until one ring is in front and one sticks out behind me. The metal clip that attaches the leash is clipped onto the two wrist cuffs. The end of the leash is tucked up over my bound wrists. I am turned once more to face our customers.

With my hands bound behind my neck my elbows stick out to the sides. This causes my breasts to rise and jut out more prominently. The short robe I wear rises even higher on my thighs. I am made to kneel beside the door. Bruce uses his foot to nudge my knees further apart. I lean back resting my bottom on my heels and take one final look at the line of customers who have come to see me suffer.

A man entering the club stares at my skimpy loincloth, which is now revealed by the kneeling position, I am forced into. Bobby takes the black strip of cloth that was used to bind my wrists and wraps it twice around my head before knotting it behind. I am blindfolded. I tense waiting for what will come next. The boys tell me they do it to make sure I can't see. I think they just enjoy making me flinch. I yelp when the front leash lashes cruelly across my upper thighs. Sometimes they strike a breast or across my belly, there's no telling where they'll strike. "No I guess she didn't see that one coming," Bobby chuckles.

I'm the only one who uses a blindfold. I have it left on through the scourging and then for the first half-hour or so on the cross. Mark says I use it because I'm really a shy little girl who wants to hide from her inner slut. Maybe he's on to something there. By the time it comes off I'm sweating and panting like the proverbial bitch in heat. It helps me get into my role and the patrons seem to like it. It provides a little variety for the regular customers.

Now I'm on my knees while the customers pass by on their way into the seats. I straighten my back, pushing out my breasts. I grasp my left wrist with my right hand and try to cradle my bound wrists against the back of my neck. My elbows extend outward like stubby little wings.

I can only imagine the thoughts passing through their minds as they await the show. I wonder how many of those sixty odd cocks are already stiffening in anticipation. Someone passing by lifts my chin and tousles my hair. It seems to be a gentle gesture but for some reason I resent it. "Bitch!" I hiss under my breath, though I don't really know if it was a man or a woman. The church bell (the real church two blocks away) is ringing noon and it's time to go in.

When I'm blindfolded my hearing seems to improve and I can hear Mark engaged in an animated conversation at the ticket booth.

Someone behind me grabs me under the shoulders and pulls me to my feet. I'm a little disoriented with the blindfold but the hands turn me in the right direction then sweep down the curve of my body and give my bottom a friendly little swat.

It's beginning and I take a deep breath. I try to swallow but my mouth has gone dry. The leash gently tugs me forward. My knees are weak and my legs wobble as I'm lead slowly down the aisle. I strain to make out the anticipatory whispers that rise from the audience on either side but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my heart.

I nearly stumble on the first step up into the sanctuary but Bruce steadies me. I'm turned about to face the audience. Bruce is on my left but I can't hear Bobby on my right. It seems that Bruce is working alone now. One by one my sandals are removed, then the wrists are unclipped from the collar. I want to stretch my arms but I'm given no time as the robe is pulled over my head. The audience murmurs in admiration as my bare breasts are revealed. I shiver. I'm standing before these strangers in my blindfold and a skimpy loincloth. Bruce's hand closes on the front of my loincloth and with a rough tug it too is pulled free. The last vestige of modesty has been removed. After a pause of a few seconds the spectators break into applause.

I am made to stand before them a few moments longer. I hear footsteps approach from my right. Bobby is back. Two pairs of hands turn me around. My back is now to the crowd. My leather wrist cuffs are attached to the two ropes dangling from the ornate columns on either side of the sanctuary entrance. I feel my arms are being pulled up over my head, spread wide between the two high posts. The ropes tighten and I'm straining, nearly up on my tiptoes.

The sanctuary is kept warm year round by two electric heaters. It's almost 27º C - a little warmer than comfortable even for a girl who's naked. Still I'm shivering even as the sweat begins to form on my brow. My breath is coming in ragged gasps. The scourging is about to begin; we use two leather cat-of-nine tails with half-inch wide suede lashes.

"Ever done this to a woman before? Bruce asked.

" Never. My wife thinks she might want to try but…"

It's not Bobby but a slow thick accent, off to my left...

"Right, well we're not trying to draw blood here or rip up her flesh," Bruce says calmly.

I'm really starting to get frantic now. What was Mark thinking?

"We just want to turn her back and bottom a bright rosy pink. Timings important now, so just follow my lead and strike when I give you the nod."

Without further ado a cat slashes across my upper back. I gasp and twist to my left trying to escape the sting. I begin to count to thirty but it takes almost thirty-five seconds before I feel a tentative lash on the right shoulder.

"A little harder next time," Bruce advises.

Thirty seconds on the dot and Bruce gives me another smart whack with the cat. The Yank follows right on time and this time I can feel it.

"Harder yet," Bruce orders and he waits his thirty seconds to demonstrate with a swat across my bottom. I hop and yip in pain, his blow on time and across my ass with enough strength to set me dancing on one foot.

"Good one," Bruce observes.

They lapse into silence working like a well-practiced team. I can count the lashes or I can count the time between them - I've never been able to do both. I choose to count the time. What I do doesn't alter a thing for I'll be scourged for twenty minutes receiving forty lashes spaced thirty seconds apart. They work their way up and down my back as I twist and hop from foot to foot for the spectators’ amusement. By the time it is half over I've given up counting and just screech as the blows fall and sob as I wait for the next one. It isn't the most severe whipping you're likely to see but by the time it's over my back and ass are on fire and I'm dripping with sweat.

The cats are set aside. The ropes slacken a bit, and my arms are lowered enough to let me stand with my legs spread apart. I walk my feet backward a step and bend slightly at the waist, leaning forward and grabbing hold of the ropes, letting them take some of my weight. I'm in the same position I was in this morning when Mark used me; my puss feels exposed and needy. The two "Roman guards" take up their position beside me. I can hear the squeaks and rustling from the pews as the girls usher the assembly up the right hand aisle. As they pass through the archway on the right there is a sign. " Use Gloves! Hands Only." Set along the altar railing are three boxes of disposable latex gloves (small, medium and large). I can hear the snap of latex as the first person slips on a pair and then they reach me; hands, dozens of them, one after another, sometimes two, three, or four at once. A procession of hands too many to count. They wander freely over my body. I can't see or do a thing; all I can do is feel. Some want to feel the heat of my whipped flesh through a thin layer of latex while others feel a need to give my throbbing ass just one more swat. I can feel cool breath on my burning back as someone leans over me to fondle my dangling breast and nipple. Other hands trace the strands of the whip marks across my bottom. Everyone feels the need to brush a lingering hand across my pussy's lips.


To be continued................
 
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I admire you, Kathy : never I could accept to put my naked body , for a whipping and other things, in front of so much people ! I only can to show my sufferings with some of our friends ... ;)
 
Part 2

I tell myself I'll be strong. I won't let these strangers shame me like the last time (and the time before, and the time before that….) I squeeze my eyes shut behind my blindfold, grit my teeth and lock my legs in position determined not to move. I jump a bit when someone wants to see how far he or she can jam his or her finger into my ass. That's allowed as long as they don't try fisting me. I'm determined to stand there stoically accepting my fate.

The people seem quiet as they reach out stroking, poking, and grabbing but their hands begin to commune with my poor throbbing body. They tell me of curious tongues, nibbling mouths and throbbing cocks wanting to plunge into my pussy from behind. My pussy lips thicken and moisture begins to seep from between them. My pussy can't help it. It's all those hands demanding, grasping, and fondling her, brushing over her, she can't take it. At first it's barely perceptible, the slight tilt of the hips as my pussy pushes upward, gradually opening to greet the next hand. Then my hips are rocking as the hands caress the length. I shudder and before I know it my ass is wagging obscenely and my clit is throbbing and my gapping pussy is nearly grasping at the fingers that stroke and probe. I'm so close nothing will stop me. Now I can hear snatches of comments as the line files past - "Horny little bitch," says a female voice; "Brazen slut," says another; "Voracious slit," says an overly articulate man, and "Dripping cunt," from another rumbling male voice. I feel my face flush and I know it's at least as bright as my bottom but I no longer care. I concentrate on what the hands are telling me as I try to block out the other sounds. But a new problem is quickly developing. The constant sweeping of fingers across my pussy and the constant poking have combined with the two full cups of coffee that I had earlier. Normally I would have used the washroom while the others dressed; today I was forced to wait on my knees in the kitchen. I have a desperate need to pee. Thoughts of release fade. Now as the line of hands continues to file past me, I'm no longer seeking them out. I'm squeezing my legs together and urgently trying to avoid the probing digits. I vaguely wonder if these last few people in line feel cheated. In any event my bloated bladder keeps me from my orgasm. At last the 90 odd pair of hands have paraded past me and familiarized themselves with my body. I really don't know how long it took. It seemed to go on forever but I'm not sure it lasted much longer than the flogging. I'm sweating and squeezing my legs together; the boys must know something is wrong. I whisper to Bruce that I need to Pee NOW! and he grunts. I can imagine the grin that's spreading across his face.

The leather cuffs are freed from the ropes and my arms drop to my side. Bruce and the other man each grab me under a shoulder and hustle me up the four steps to where my cross lays waiting

To be continued...................
 
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