Christine sits by the window and watches the snow covered French alps passing by outside.  The train car is overheated, overcrowded and stuffy.  With every fleeting minute she knows herself to be further from rescue, further from home, further from her Master.
       She thinks about what her Master has told her about her destination and shudders in happy anticipation, very aware of how she must smell to her fellow passengers.
       The way she smells is not Christine’s fault.  Its her Master’s fault, its God’s fault.  Her Master says she’s just made in such a way that when she gets sexually excited she sweats pheromones like a sow and gushes pussy juice like a ditch pump.  He also says that he loves her natural scent more than any man-made perfume and that she must never wear anything to cover it up.
       And how can she not be excited?  This train is taking her to the Hotel duLoc, one of the premier BDSM spas in the world.
       She glances at her compartment mates, noting that two of the men are holding their hats in their laps and sweating almost as much as she is.  The other man is twitching his handsome nose and looking around as if wanting to accuse someone of passing gas.
       Sitting across from the handsome man is his traveling companion, a hard looking, dark eyed blond woman who returns Christine’s glance with a stern look of promise.
       Christine smiles at her, re-crosses her legs, and meets her gaze, feeling as if she is being grilled in a police station basement.  After a moment of intense linkage Christine jerks her eyes away from the woman’s and looks back out the window, suddenly afraid of what she is to do.
       The train slows, pulls into a station and she sees the name duLoc, painted on the station wall.
       Her knees are rubbery as she gets up to grab her gym bag from the overhead storage compartment.  She is horrified to see that she has left a wet spot on the seat cushion and realizes that there must be a matching stain on the back of her red Spandex mini skirt.
       The sexual exposure of it makes her heart thump, her pussy gush anew.
       She watches in the window as, behind her, the two hat men elbow each other and share the silent joke.  The handsome man and his companion stand up as well, each pulling on matching black leather trench coats that look like they should have Death’s Head lapel pins and red and black swastika arm bands.
       When the train stops, Christine opens the door and climbs down, the task made difficult by her tight skirt and too high heels.
       Coatless, shivering in the crisp mountain air, she walks away up the platform, feeling every eye watching her, aware that everyone can see the big wet stain spreading across her butt, feeling her turned on body responding to their attentions in ways that are older than mankind.
       Beneath her white silk blouse, her suddenly chilled nipples are aching, fist hard and puckered, tenting the thin silk in two perfect points.  Between her thighs, her naked, shaved labia are swollen and dripping, her pussy juice running in rivulets down her inner thighs, soaking the tops of her white silk stockings.  Not for the first time, she wishes her Master allowed her to wear underwear.  But she know that he likes her, as he says, “bare and bubbling.”
       She sees a liveried footman holding a slate with Hotel duLoc painted across the top and her name chalked under it and walks over to where he stands.  “I am Christine Maxwell,” she says, shivering from more than just the mountain chill.  She senses someone close behind her and looks back to find the couple in the trench coats have followed her and are now standing directly behind her, so close that she could not turn and run, even if she wanted to.
       “The carriage is this way, Ms Maxwell,” the footman says in heavily accented English, taking Christine’s gym bag.  Then to the two behind her, he says, “Welcome back Countess Von Hilde, Major Denton. So nice to see you two again.”
       The major says something in French that Christine does not catch and the two men chuckle as if sharing a joke.  She has learned that if you do not get a joke, it is probably on you.  She blushes without knowing the reason why and follows the three out to a waiting open carriage.
       Christine is sitting facing the trench coated couple as they wait while the footman loads the luggage and then joins the driver up on the high seat.  With a lurch, the carriage starts forward, catching Christine unprepared and upsetting her back so that her two companions get a good sun lit look up her too short skirt.
       As the horses begin to pull the carriage up the rocky hill toward the hotel, the major says, in a clipped, upper class English accent, “You look cold, madam, may I offer you my coat?”
       She looks longingly at the warm garment then thinks about the wet spot she would leave in its lining, sighs and says, “My Master has sent me here, dressed as I am.  I would not disobey him.”
       The Major smiles in a way that makes her think of a jungle cat and says.  “As you will, madam.” and settles back into his seat, his eyes so full of fire she suddenly feels all hot and sweaty again, despite the chill.
       She remembers what her Master has told her about her destination.  The Hotel duLoc is a fifteenth century castle, built high on an outcropping of naked rock by a Duke born on the wrong side of a blanket.  Having for enemies his own half brothers, the Duke built his castle strong.  It needed to be, before standing ten years it had been besieged three times.  Each time the thick stone walls and commanding position had withstood the siege, keeping the defenders safe and well fed from its labyrinth of underground warehouse caverns and cisterns.
       Now, wired for electricity, plumbed, heated and glazed, it provides the perfect place to explore one’s sexuality.  She twists her neck, looking up at the castle, again shivering with anticipated pleasure.
       The Englishman clears his throat and says, “If I may be so forward, madam, might I introduce The Countess Von Hilde?”
       Christine nods to the dark eyed woman, feeling like a mouse locking eyes with a swooping owl.
       “And I am Major Guy Denton, retired, late of Her Royal Majesty’s Household Guard.  We will be your personal trainers during your stay at the Hotel.”
       “Oh, I see!” she says, feeling the wet spot on the back of her mini skirt getting wetter.
       His eyes move down to where her mini skirt almost hides her crimson, swollen sex.  “When your Master told the hotel of your desires, they naturally sent for us.”
       As they pass under the castle’s huge iron portcullis she finds herself unable to move, unable to protest, unable to articulate her feelings.  She is now a prisoner.  For the next three days she will be kept naked and helpless.  She will suffer the tortures of the dungeon, the pain of the lash.  And, hopefully, she will know the passion of the Gods.
 

       Supported by a chain hoist suspended from a track in the ceiling, the head box cut its prisoner off from the outside world while at the same time exposing her nude body to anything and everything.
       There were two other women on the stage, both dressed to kill in high heels, black net stockings and split skirts.  jenny, the blond was pretty much naked from the waist up, dressed only in an open fishnet teddy and a push up bra that did not cover her nipples.  The brunette, Molly, sat at the piano and played as the other danced and sang.  jenny was dancing around the helpless woman, using a wicked looking riding crop to caress her ringed nipples, her spread inner thighs, her dripping, wide open sex, all the while singing a jazzy, passionate version of Feelings.
       The girl in the head box was doing her level best to escape, but fixed as she was, there was little danger of that happening.
       The crop was her only connection to the outside world, her only assurance that that world still existed.
       Mark found myself in a kind of a trance.  He could feel the frustration of the prisoner, the helplessness, the sense of sexual exposure, the rising passion.  More important, he realized, he was getting whiffs of her musky pre-cum.  They were sitting so close that her pheromones were washing over them like a kind of invisible surf.  Under the table, his cock was growing hard as a bar of iron.
       When the song was done the girl in the head box was moaning in passion, obviously on the verge of orgasm, her open pussy seeming to gulp air as she humped her hips up to meet the crop’s snapping cracker.
       The singer knelt behind the shuddering prisoner and began to caress her helpless, sweat covered body, saying, “Do we have any more contestants for I Can Take It Night?  Is there any one of you who’s got the cajones to join our little amateur here on the stage?
       It was at that moment that one of Mark’s Japanese friends noticed his woody under the table.  Soon the entire club knew that he was all saddled up and ready to ride.
       He found himself standing up, his big cock tenting his Dockers, his face flushed, his desire for the prisoner sweeping aside his common sense.
       Mark walked up onto the stage to the applause of the club, letting his cock point the way.  jenny whistled softly, standing up and coming to greet him with a “Well hello sailor!” that got a laugh from everyone, even his Japanese guests.
       “What is your pleasure tonight, big boy, top or bottom?” jenny asked, stepping around behind him to look approvingly at his tight buns and wide shoulders, getting another round of laughter and applause.
       He found himself confused.  What on Earth had made him come up here?  He looked down at the prisoner at his feet and said.  “I guess I want to help you top her some more.”
       “She sure needs topping.” jenny said, then to the crowd asked, “Shall we let him show us his stuff?”  The people clapped and cheered, shouting encouragement.
       On the floor, the girl in the head box was doing her level best to escape her restraints enough to masturbate.  She was getting nowhere, of course, but it was an interesting thing to watch.
       “Well, rule one is if you fuck her be sure to use this.” jenny said, holding up a stud covered condom.
       Mark looked at the condom and asked, “I can really fuck her?”
       “Fuck her, suck her, lick her, trick her, anything you want.  Fixed like that she won’t give you any trouble.  It’s just that if you go too far she might give the safety signal and that will be the end of her part of the show.”
       “Safety signal?”  Mark asked, his hands itching for the helpless girl sitting on the floor.  In the back of his head what remained of his rational self asked, “Her part of the show?”
       “My, you are new in town, aren’t you?”  joked Molly, mugging to the laughing crowd.  “The house safety signal is `Shave and a haircut, two bits’  If for any reason she says, hums or even knocks out its rhythm, the party is over.  Until she does that, however, we have her consent to continue.”
       “Shave and a haircut?”  he said, kneeling behind the helpless nude and drilling her in the back with his cock while grasping her breasts so that her nipple rings stuck out between his knuckles.
       From inside the head box there came a muffled muttering, a hint of angry impatience, of impotence, of frustrated, helpless desire.  His fingers caressed her body, unhampered by anything she could do.  Soon her box muffled mutterings had moderated, becoming almost pleading in tone.  His cock was pressing against her back, its heavy promise hot, hard and throbbing, his musky scent finding its way into her nose and though it, directly to her hindbrain.
       He forgot about the thirty people watching and began to zone in on the helpless captive in the head box.  He caressed her body, as if trying to calm a skittish colt.  He toyed with her, tugging on her nipple rings, tickling, caressing, pinching, slipping two fingers into her open vulva and reaching high up inside to massage her g spot.  Soon her love muscle was convulsing around his fingers in a kind of promise, a kind of incitement, a kind of linkage.
       He had never seen this woman’s face, yet here he was, about to fuck her in front of thirty people.
       Inside the box, the faceless girl was panting in helpless passion, obviously deep in her slave state, ready for his touch, obviously waiting to be fucked, wanting the payoff.
       He wanted to do it, ached to do it,  But he couldn’t.  It was just too personal.  He stood up as if to leave the stage, only to be confronted by Molly and jenny, each armed with a wicked looking black and white braided leather whip.
       “Where ya goin’ dog boy?”  jenny asked, limbering out her whip.
       Mark could not believe what was happening to him. when he tried to move toward the edge of the stage jenny’s whip struck, leaving his left calf feeling as if it had been sliced to the bone.  Jerking from that pain he felt Molly’s whip sting his right shoulder, raising a painful welt two inches long across his upper arm.
       The entire club was on its feet, cheering the two women on as they expertly used the whips to drive him back to cower against the stage’s rear wall.  Once he was trapped, held at bay by the threatening whips, jenny ordered him to strip.
       When at first he did not obey she popped another pain star onto his thigh that nearly made him fall.  He looked into the two women’s faces and knew himself lost.  He looked down at the orgasmic prisoner in the head box and suddenly knew the real reason he’d walked up onto the stage.  He opened his jacket and began loosening his tie.
       As he removed his shirt there was a satisfied muttering from the crowd.  He was glad he took care of his body, proud of his lean, hard, well muscled chest.
       When he lowered his Dockers his big cock popped up out of his boxers, looking like a railroad semaphore.  The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering so loud he was encouraged to strip tease just a little as he lowered his boxers, getting into the spirit of the thing.
       As he was standing on one foot, pulling off his second sock, Molly snapped her whip around his support ankle and yanked, dumping him on his butt.
       “Don’t move, dog boy!” jenny said, standing over him, ready to strike as the other woman knelt to apply a set of ankle shanks, hobbling him and making him their plaything.
       Behind the two black clad women, the crowd cheered and offered obscene suggestions.  It was as if he were living out his most treasured wet dream.
       The blindfold was made of leather and it blocked out all light when Molly strapped it to his head.  Mark started to lift a hand to feel it but jenny’s whip popped and his hand suddenly felt as if it had been stung by a giant wasp.  “Do not try to save yourself now, dog boy, its already far too late.” jenny’s voice said, as she forced her knee between his legs to spread his knees and then pin his throbbing cock to the stage floor.
       Molly, done with the blindfold, began to buckle a dog collar around his neck.  As she worked, she whispered, “Steady on big fella, we haven’t lost a customer in a couple of months.”
       Finished with the buckling, Molly began to caress his naked, freshly whipped body, forcing him to feel his nudity, his passion, his need.
 

       jenny’s voice said, “Walk like a dog walks, dog boy.” and he felt her whip being none too gently wrapped around his throat.
       Getting to his hands and knees, his ankles snubbed in chain, he crawled across the stage, blindly following the leash, moving to where the girl in the head box waited.
       “Now fuck her dog boy, and it had better be good.”  Molly’s voice whispered into his ear.
       The crowd noise lessened and the piano began to vamp the old Billie Holiday standard All Of Me.  As jenny began to sing, Mark went to work on the girl in the head box, doing his fumbling best to obey Molly’s orders.
       He began by shortening the chain hoist attached to the top of the head box, lifting her bottom off of the floor.  Working by feel, he helped her get her shackled feet beneath her so that she was soon balanced there, her ass sticking out like an invitation to the dance, unable to sit back down.
       He wanted to take her, then and there, driving his aching cock deep into her so perfectly presented pussy.  But Molly’s orders had held such menace that he thought he’d better make a good show of it first.
       He knelt behind her and began to caress her straining, helpless body, finding in the process that her waiting had not been in vain.  She was deep in her slave state, her fevered pussy still as hot, wide and juicy as ever.  Reaching under her, he felt how her ringed nipples remained tight and excited, how hot was her well cropped flesh, how sweat dewed, how horny.
       Aware that his every movement was being watched by thirty loud, half drunk critics and, more importantly, by two women with whips, he began to massage the captive’s nipples with one hand and her out-thrust bottom with the other.
       The pleading sounds from inside the head box told him and the crowd that here was a submissive deep in her slave state.
       A man in the crowd shouted.  “Give her a mustache ride dog boy, you know you want to!”
       Mark wanted to, her dripping pussy smelled so good his tongue was getting thick.  He considered how best to do it, fixed the way she was fixed.  He tried kneeling behind her and bending his neck so as to reach in under her, but found the position awkward, good enough for clit licking but hard to get any true vaginal penetration with his tongue.
       Without warning a whip popped against his bare bottom and Molly’s voice said, “Lie down on your back dog boy, we’ll fix her up for a face sit.”
       Shocked by the sudden explosion of pain in his ass, Mark almost bit off the tip of his own tongue.  The whip’s impacts on his clothing covered flesh had been unbearable.  On bare flesh, it was twice as painful.  He quickly obeyed, truly afraid of another blow.
       “Spread your arms dog boy, we’re going to fasten you down.” came jenny’s voice, kneeling next to him.
       In seconds it was done, he was lying flat on his back, shackled down at wrists and collar, his big purple headed erection sticking up like a smoke stack.
       Still blind, he lay there and listened as the two women worked on the other captive, passing a support strap under her arms and across the upper slopes of her breasts then attaching it up the hoist hook so that her slim neck was no longer supporting so much weight.
       Attaching a length of chain from her wrist/ankle bar up to the same hoist hook above her, they suspended her in a sitting position above the stage then rolled her chain hoist trolley over so that her pussy was positioned directly over Mark’s face.
       As jenny was padlocking his ankle hobble down to a fourth tie-down ring, Molly was turning the spike covered condom inside out so that the dozens of sharp rubber spikes became dozens of sharp teeth.
       “Lick her dog boy, but you better not make her come until I give permission.”  Molly said, working the spike lined condom/cock sleeve down onto his throbbing organ and securing it there with a drawstring cord she tied around his balls.
       Needing no further incentive, Mark went to work on the open pussy swinging above his nose, lifting his face and quickly getting it covered it in the hanging young woman’s passion juice.  After a while someone, Molly he thought, came and squatted down on his latex sheathed organ, becoming the mythical toothy cunt of his fantasies.
       Over the course of the next ninety minutes he learned many things, wonderful things, disturbing things, life changing things.
       It was his first ever real time bondage experience and it was everything he’d ever dreamed it could be.
       Later, he found out that there had been cameras recording the show and almost swallowed his tongue when he found out how much Molly was willing to pay for the distribution rights.
       Taking the money and saying goodbye to his asshole boss in Chicago, Mark moved to North Beach to become one of Molly’s crew of lovers/actors/cameramen/talent scouts.
       Now, three years later, he is about to star in his twenty first Moll Flanders production.  His co-star is going to be Christine Maxwell, his latest discovery.
       Christine has no idea about the cameras, they have found that things go smoother if the bottom doesn’t know her passion is being recorded.
 

       When her legs are buckled tight and useless she begins the task of lacing the hoodwink to her own head.  As she tighten the laces she remembers the first time she wore this helmet, that wonderful first night in Tokyo.
       Her Master laced it for her that first time, tightening it and drawing the soft leather close around her face.  At first he left off the blindfold and gag, letting her get used to its discomforts one at a time.  Its cloying, airless warmth, its closeness, its implacable hold.  Then, gentling her like a colt, he added the blindfold and gag straps.
       She found myself suddenly blind and dumb, helpless to defend herself and so horny she was afraid to move.
       She felt her hands being pulled up high into the middle of her back and bound, her wrists lying parallel, each tightly bound to its opposite elbow behind her back, exactly as she’d requested in her e-mail to the Muzuma brothers.
       Step by meticulous step he bound her into the exact configuration she had described, the classic Japanese arm and upper body tie, complete with cooze rope and cross-eyed nipple nooses.
       Attaching a suspension rope to the knot above her arms, and two other ropes to her ankles, he then lead her, blind and stumbling, back into the bathroom, where he had her stand down in the knee deep hot water while he rigged the suspension rope up to a hook in the middle of the ceiling.  Then, hoisting her body up so that her toes no longer touched the tub’s bottom, he tied her off, leaving her suspended, her feet dangling in the hot water.
       Spreading her legs with the ankle ropes, he tied them out to the sides of the tub, leaving only her toes still in the water.
       His hands came to her then, pleasuring the parts of her that weren’t being tortured by his tight ropes, torturing the parts of her that were.  She was where she had wanted to be, experiencing in spades what she’d wanted to experience.  She was under discipline, safe from the possibility of doing wrong, safe from the sin of free will, free to know the full potential of her passion.
       It was as she had dreamed it would be.  She was free, nay, bound to feel her passion rising within her, her long suppressed sexual desires coming at last to fruition.
       During the next couple of hours she must have come twenty times.  Each one of those orgasms was more pleasurable than any she’d had before.  She had confirmed her suspicions.  She is, and always will be, a natural slave girl.
 

       Now, the hoodwink laced tight once again, she carefully wraps the thing’s collar around her throat, covering the knotted ends of the laces, and padlocking it closed, ensuring that the hoodwink will stay in place.  Dangling down her bare back she can feel the short chain and attached set of handcuffs that await her wrists.  She brings up the blindfold and fastens it in place over her own eyes, using the four snaps attached to the mask.  She feels around until she finds the gag then inserts it into her mouth, quickly, before she loses her nerve.  When the gag strap is buckled behind her neck and its snaps are snapped she is almost ready.
 

       All that remains is for her to bring her hands up into the middle of her back and to secure them into the dangling handcuffs.  This she does, feeling the flip-flop in her tummy that says she is now beyond the point of no return.
       She feels the excitement rising within her, unstoppable as a glacier, relentless as a pack of wolves.  She bounces up and down in her bondage, experimenting, discovering how the egg bounces and rattles against her g spot with each and every move she makes.
       Her nearly naked body, shining with sudden passion sweat, feels as if it has suddenly grown feelers, antenna that sense what is happening in the room she cannot see.  She hears a clink behind her and a slight tug that tells her she have been tethered in place by a dangling chain.  Now she can only sit here, shivering and shuddering as she waits for the nipple cropping she ordered.
       “We have much to do and little time to do it, Ms Maxwell.” The major’s voice comes from off to the side as Christine feels the countess spreading her knees wide and propping them open with a length of broom handle stuck between her knees.  “We thought we’d combine several of the, ahem, activities, to save rigging time.”
       The crop’s whistle is her only warning before the sharp, pistol shot impact against her inner right thigh, about half way between the leg strap and the knee prop.
       She surges against her bondage, knowing that she is going nowhere.  Knowing that she is going to suffer some before she gets her reward.  Again the cracker comes, this time to her left nipple, the blow setting fire to her tightly puckered patch of nerve filled flesh.  And again, and again the blows come, each designed to make her know her helplessness, her complete captivity, her rising passion.
       Suddenly it stops, leaving her body burning and nearly orgasmic, her breath whistling in and out through her nose, her gag garbled squeaks nasal and urgent.
       She feels a hand gripping the thong of her g string and suddenly her hips are lifted, back and up, leaving her hanging from her throat on one end and her clitoris on the other.  Unable to draw breath, she feels six quick cane slashes across her suspended ass and one across the soles of her feet before she is returned to her knees on the carpet.
       Humping in helpless passion, the vibrator within her vulva now going at double speed, the blackness of the hoodwink filled with star-shells of bursting passion, she begins to come.  It is a long, long time before she stops.
 

       Watching on the large video screen as Christine shudders through one last orgasm, Mark says, “God Damn, she makes me horny!”
       jenny chuckles from the control board, zooming one of her cameras on Christine’s bubbling sex as the now exhausted egg re-appears, its mission accomplished, in a fresh gush of pussy juice.
       Christine is now free of the dangling chain.  Instead, she is tethered down to the carpet covered platform by her collar, which has been snubbed down to a ring.  Her bent knees have been positioned up beneath her, lifting her bottom high into harm’s way.  She is still helpless in the handcuffs and leg straps, the bar between her knees is continuing to keep her legs spread, her pussy open and available.
       The countess’s hands catch the egg as it is expelled and set it aside, her voice saying, “We should bottle this powerful elixir of yours Christine, it smells Vonderbar.” She is speaking in a soft soothing voice, as if she were putting a child to bed.
       The major, now dressed in a loin cloth and hangman’s mask, is removing the hoodwink’s blindfold, allowing the captive to see for the first time in six hours.
       Moaning in exhaustion, Christine looks up at the major’s big cock straining against his loin cloth and knows her work is, as yet, undone.
       The gag has been in her mouth so long it is seems to have attached itself to her tongue.  Its removal is surprisingly painful, as is the insertion of the major’s hard cock in the gag’s place.  Mark feels his own organ throb at the sight of Christine sucking the major down, her red lips stark against the black hoodwink.
       jenny squirms in her own growing discomfort and switches cameras, catching up on what the countess is doing to the captive’s upended, cane welted, paddle pinked and nettle stung other end.  It is a good night pussy kiss with a two fingered g spot massage so tender and sweet jenny has to snort.  “The Countess Von Hilde likes your subbie, Mark.  You’d better be careful she doesn’t steal her away.”
       “Christine will go where she pleases.” Mark says, feeling the fist of regret clenching in his gut.  “She is more enslaved to pleasure, than to me.”  He confesses, knowing that for some, any Master who makes such an admission, automatically relinquishes the title.  The nice thing about Molly and jenny, he realizes, is that they know how switch he is, and being the same way, don’t hold it against him.
       Molly gets up from the recliner where she has been watching the show and gently shoves jenny out of the director’s chair.  “Let me spell you, jenny darling, your bladder must be bursting.”
       jenny gets up and tries to walk to the toilet, but before she’s gone three steps, is forced to run for it.  “You’d think she’d learn not to drink so much coffee on a day we’re filming.” Molly chuckles, panning a camera to watch the trainers putting their charge to bed for a well deserved nap.
       Still watching the large center screen, Mark says, “Shit, there is almost none of that six hours that need to be edited!”  He marvels, remembering the day’s events.
       “$he’$ exactly what we have been needing, a fre$h face $o to $peak.”  Molly chuckles, zooming on the Countess Von Hilde’s hands buckling the once again blindfolded Christine into a white canvas straight jacket.  “$he’$ going to put u$ $o far above the re$t of the pack they will think their $erver$ have cra$hed.”
       “You’re doing it again.” jenny says, returning to the room with more dignity than she left it. “The dollar $ign$ are back.”
       Molly looks around and says, “That’$ becau$e I need lot$ of money, ju$t to keep you in the $tyle you demand.”
       On the screen Christine is lying on the bed in her straight jacket, only the crotch strap as yet unbuckled.  She is having the hoodwink removed by the major who is saying, “Put the panties on her Countess, we don’t want her pussy to get cold.“
       jenny, now back in the director’s chair, gets a shot of the countess picking up a pair of black Spandex panties equipped with twin internal dildos.  “Yes Sir Major Sir, at your service, Sir, you pushy bastard.” she mutters for the benefit of her lapel mike but too low for the major to hear.
       “What was that?” the major asks, lifting the now unlaced hoodwink from Christine’s face.
       “Oh nothing.” says the countess, spreading grease on the twin dildos and meeting her captive’s eyes in order to avoid meeting his.
       The major looks at his teammate with a strange look in his eye and considers going off script just this once.
       Christine, too tired to protest that she needs to pee first, feels the panties being pulled up her legs, feels the twin dildos being pressed home inside her twin passages, feels the deeply powerful vibrations coming in waves that threaten to re-awaken her passions.
       “Oh God!  I need to pee!”  She cries, knowing that speaking without permission will only earn her extra punishment.
 

       When Christine awakes, it is dark outside.  The room is now lit only by dozens of gas candles set in brackets around the walls.  Then it gets darker as rough hands strap a blindfold over her eyes.  Still helpless in her straight jacket, she struggles a little, just for the look of the thing, knowing she will not escape.
       The countess stands off to her right, saying, “Now that you are all rested up, darling, it is time for your first caning.  As you know, in addition to the dozen your Master ordered there will be the three dozen you earned today by talking, coming and peeing, all without permission.”
       Christine feels lucky it is only three extra dozen.  In her Master’s notes it allows up to six.
       She feels her ankles being released from the side of the bed and her two trainers helping her up from the sodden mess she’s made of the bedding.  She is taken, staggering in blindness, still helpless in the piss soaked and stinking canvas restraint, across the room, to a hanging collar, positioned directly over a drain in the floor.
       Tethered, she feels her two trainers removing the straight jacket and dildo panties.  Her wrists are shackled out to the sides, as are her feet, spread-eagling her in a five way stretch.   The sound of a bucket sloshing and a sponge being wrung out informs her that she is about to be bathed.  The probe of the enema nozzle against the rosette of her asshole lets her know they intend to get her insides as clean as her outside.
       When the sponge first splats into her bare chest she discovers the water is snowmelt cold.  As the enema begins to flow into her colon, she discovers it is also cold . . . and carbonated!  She gets the peculiar sensation of a balloon being inflated in her rectum, sealing her asshole tight.  After a time she feels the enema hose being disconnected, leaving the anus cork in its place.
       They back away, leaving her standing spread eagle, shivering with cold and fear.  They are waiting for her body heat to release the carbon dioxide from the enema water, waiting for her tummy to begin to bulge with the growing gas pressure.
       The flogger’s first impact against her ass tells her they want her to dance.  Shivering, she goes into a bump and grind, her bondage precluding almost everything else.
       The pain in her stretching, cramping belly would have forced her into a ball of agony but the five way chains keep her from even that relief.  The floggers flog, now up between her spread legs, marking her swollen pussy lips with stripes of bright crimson, now across her ass so that first one cheek explodes, then the other.  The enema bubbles and expands within her and there is nothing she can do, not protest, not escape, not control her captors in any way.  Hell, she can’t even control her own bodily functions.  Her helpless person is nothing but their plaything.  Her sexuality, like the rest of her, belongs to her trainers.  It is theirs to mold, to shape, to guide.
       The slow but relentless splat, splat, splat of the flogger gives a rhythm to her dance of agony, to her passion, to her life.  The growing pain in her belly is soon counter-pointed by the by the flares of pain in her loins, the stabs of agony when the whip thongs tangle with the enema cork still clenched in her anus.
       Deprived of her vision, she finds her sense of touch multiplied, her sense of smell intensified, her hearing enhanced.  She can almost visualize the flogger’s many thongs whistling up between her legs, the thongs hitting her swollen pussy lips first and wrapping up to mark the swelling curve of her lower tummy with constellations of pain stars, galaxies of hurts, hurts that do not hurt so much as excite.
       Squeaking in passion, Christine passes into her slave state, becoming a being of pure, unrestrained lust.  She fights her chains, her hips humping, her pussy gulping, her vision full of skyrockets and supernovas, her mind fucked.
       Then, just as she is humping herself up to an orgasmic peak, the flogging ceases.  She is quickly released from the five way chains and helped, bent over by her stomach cramps, to the toilet and sat down.  She feels a hand between her legs and suddenly the balloon inside her deflates, releasing the pressure in her guts in a long and windy gush that sprays both the inside of the toilet and her ass cheeks with shitty water.
       She feels her wrist shackles being attached together behind her back and she is returned, shivering and empty, to the dangling collar for a second, much needed, warm water sponge bath.
       Drying their captive with hot towels, they take her clean, sanitized and achingly empty body to the awaiting caning horse.
       Still gagged and blindfolded, Christine remembers the type of caning horse she ordered.  Consisting of a set of pillory stocks for her hands and throat attached to a horizontal bar that will support her torso and present her ass on one side and a sound deadening, world isolating head box on the other.
       She feels her trainers lift her up to straddle the leather covered support bar, handcuffed, she struggles to find her balance as they strap her feet out wide to the support legs.  She is sitting on her freshly flogged pussy, feeling her slave passion returning once again, even more powerful than before.  She is as ready as humanly possible for the four dozen cane slices she has earned.
 

       Molly, having shouldered another of the big cameras, gets a low angle close-up of the way the pussy rings are stretching Christine’s labia down out of her bottom.  How with every wobbling step forward she takes, Christine is making the heavy passion juice dripping chains swing beneath her, further stimulating that which needs so little stimulation.
       He feels the rings on his cock getting tight again and fills his head with her stink, wishing she could come to him faster.  He watches with dilated eyes as she nearly loses her balance, shuddering in a mini orgasm that makes her pussy gush anew.
       Hanging from his widely spread feet, the dildo called Scalawag stretching his anus, the thongs and harness gripping his throbbing package, his yoke blocked view of her restricted to her ring tortured vulva, Mark feels her lips and tongue on his imprisoned cock.  The heavy wood of his yoke creaks as his hands attempt to reach out to her, needing to give back some small measure of the pleasure he is receiving.
       Christine draws his caged cock into her mouth, tasting his cum, filling her head with his cheesy stink, needing him between her legs more with every thundering beat of her heart.
       Strapping a heavy professional masseuse’s vibrator to the back of his hand, the major grips the exposed stub of the Scalawag and begins to slide it in and out of Mark’s ass, rattling it against his prostate in a way that only a man could appreciate.
       At the same time, the countess has put her camera down and is kneeling beside Christine, gently rattling her pussy chains with one hand and swinging her nipple weights with the other.
       How Christine stays balanced on her too high heels she will never know, what happens as they seem to implode together, becoming one bright supernova of released sexual energy, she will never forget.
 
       The End.
 
       Epilog; Like Mark before her, Christine finds forgiveness in the numbers of zeros on the check Molly gives them as their share of the profits.  So what if she can never teach high school in Marin County again?  There is always Hollywood High.
       The knowledge that her Master also likes to be a slave frees Christine to try playing the part of Mistress for him, something she finds she enjoys enough to become a star.