Training Master
by Raul Roget
Copyright 2007

Adults Only!

Chapter 1: I’m a Baaaad Girl

“I screwed your best buddy - John.”

“That’s nice dear. I hope you enjoyed it. Did he come?”

The nude redhead kneeling before him tossed her head, impatiently, venting her frustration. “Of course he came, silly! Do you think I’d screw him and make him stop before he spurted?”

Donald lowered his newspaper and glanced at her, ignoring the fully exposed field of freckles that covered her chest, and her pert nipples.

“Really, Dotty. How many times have I told you not to use euphemisms? You know the right words. You ‘fucked’ John and let him shoot his load. Not in your cunt, I hope?”

She looked at him, carefully masking her annoyance. “In my mouth.”

She licked her lips with her long pointed tongue, savoring the trace that survived a vigorous tooth brushing, daring him to comment. He failed to take the bait and raised the newspaper.

“That’s nice, dear.”

Dotty glared at the paper, mentally setting it ablaze. Anything to get his attention. She inched forward, rubbing her nipples back and forth across his pant legs.

“Don’t you think I should be punished... Sir?” She paused for dramatic effect and then stressed the word, knowing he hated to be called Sir.

Donald rumbled and growled, finally dropping the paper in his lap. There was an exasperated look on his face as he looked down and deliberately drew his legs back, allowing her nipples to swing through empty air.

“Dotty, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re too precious to me to ever punish. You’re welcome to put your handcuffs on, like you do every night, and I’ll fuck you before I go to sleep. Just don’t put them on too tight.”

“Big fucking deal!”  She mouthed the words silently at the newspaper, which was quickly back in position. She glanced about the room, as if looking for moral support for her quest, but nothing there was any help. She was on her own, and as usual, running into a brick wall. There were times - like right now - when her fingers itched for a baseball bat to bounce off his stubborn head.

A casual observer would have immediately labeled her a slut, on further study a potential pain slut. Looking at him, the word ‘wimp’ might surface. Certainly Donald and Master would never occupy the same thought. However, appearances CAN be deceiving. Any reference to his being Gay would have been hurriedly dismissed. After all, he DID say he was going to fuck her.

Dotty had been absolutely certain that her admitting an affair with John would set him off. She couldn’t believe that her trump card had been discarded with such a total lack of interest. She wasn’t at all sure that he had even heard her admission, despite the fact that he had taken the time to correct her.

She suppressed an overwhelming urge to storm the newspaper, claws extended, screaming vulgar epithets. She knew only too well that it wouldn’t penetrate his righteous armor. She knew from bitter experience. ‘Been there. Done that,’ she told herself. He hadn’t even raised his voice. Actually, he didn’t say anything. He just gave her that look, his face expressing his disappointment.

‘Aha!’ You have her labeled. Just another nympho who’s starved for sex. A Domme for sure. If you think that, it’s time to switch channels to the Reality Network.

As you’ll see further on, Dotty is anything but your garden variety nympho. It’s Donald who considers it a wasted day if he doesn’t fuck her at least once, and does his best to live up to his “Morning, Noon and Night” motto. They had never discussed it before they got married and it came as a big, and not overly welcome surprise when the frenzied hourly coupling of a typical honeymoon slacked off only slightly at the idyl’s end.

Our Dotty went into marriage with two big secrets. Thanks to hours spent on the Internet, learning the facts of life, she developed a raging thirst for bondage and discipline. She didn’t dare broach her newfound penchant, for fear of compromising her pending marriage, although she did emit a couple of broad hints that died of neglect.

She assessed Donald as a forceful man, fitting her idolized fantasy of a husband. Her second secret revolved around that trait. She had long since realized that she had two character traits, a masochistic streak a yard wide and a matching submissive streak that both begged control by a man. Truth be told, she enjoyed the frequent visits to the bedroom, but she longed to be on a strictly limited ration of orgasms, the excess corrected with the wildest punishments her fertile imagination could conceive.

She was dumbfounded after the honeymoon was over and she approached him, intending to bring up bondage and control. He stopped her almost before she started, knowing exactly where she was headed. She was kneeling, fully clothed, knowing he enjoyed undressing her.

He had looked at her, then reached down and grasped her hand, pulling her to a seat beside him on the couch. She resisted, momentarily and to her consternation he apologized for hurting her. He held her face in his hands, kissing her, his tongue probing. She wriggled in anticipation, but he had other things on his mind.

“Dotty, I know that you are into bondage. Your father tracked your visits on your computer and described the things you have been watching. He begged me not to get involved with you in those practices and he begged me - and made me promise - not to hurt you.”

“But darling, there are a lot of things we can do without any hurt involved.” She looked at him, pleading with her eyes.

“Not without breaking the letter of my word to your father. I’ll give you all the fucking you could possibly want, but I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

Thunderstruck, Dotty stared at him, disbelief written all over her face. Donald kept his face blank but his brain was in a turmoil. He had been prepared to display his own brand of bondage on their honeymoon, only to have the rug pulled out from under him. Now he had to deny both of them the fun and games that each had in mind.

Months later, she had come to him with a pair of handcuffs. In a weak moment he had given her permission to wear them, knowing that his rationale was based on the false assumption that she would quickly tire of her toy. Instead, as he knew she would, she constantly found new ways to restrain herself, flaunting the cold steel as he lay on top of her.

He was always on top. She had tried to introduce a variety of positions but he held the line on that one thing, letting her know that it was either the missionary position or nothing. She deliberately kept up a constant barrage of chain noises, rattling her cuffs on the metal parts of the bed. He ignored them.

She was frustrated.

He was frustrated.

She was on his case every waking moment.

He ignored her. That is, between bedroom bouts. She had no choice but to admit that he was a superb lover - for a man - giving her every possible sexual treat, except the one that she wanted. She did find it hard, after a string of increasingly intense orgasms, to keep her focus on bondage. Still she managed to intensify her reactions by visualizing her legs and arms tied or chained, clamps on her nipples and clit, and a butt plug stuffing her ass.

Donald of course was pleased with the grunts and moans that to him indicated he was doing a good job of satisfying her. Over time he began to realize that he couldn’t take credit for noises that occurred while he wasn’t doing anything to her. He started paying closer attention, but about the only thing he could prove was that her orgasms were the real thing, which stroked his male ego.

She in turn was vaguely aware that he was checking on her, but since he never confronted her, she assumed that he wasn’t aware of her dependence on visions of bondage. She continued to scheme, but all that did was fan her frustration into a blazing inferno. She was as stubborn as he was, so the two sparred for over a year, Dotty seizing every opportunity to get him to dominate her, Donald carefully ignoring her.

Her affair with John hurt, despite the fact that he showed no sign. He didn’t have to have it spelled out for him, but his marriage was about to go down the tube. If Dotty found someone to dominate her she’d be gone before he could open his mouth. He doubted that John was into bondage, but Dotty was very persuasive and could easily twist him into dominating her.

Long after a sated Dotty had gone to sleep, Donald lay, staring at the ceiling, reviewing what was happening. Reluctantly he came to the conclusion that he needed to talk with her father. He knew Phil would be horrified to find out his daughter was having an affair. He stopped at that point, unsure what Phil would do.

Dotty had a hair appointment that would take all afternoon, giving Donald plenty of time for a visit to her parents. Donald tried to think of points to make, but gave it up in confusion. He would have to play it by ear. He called and confirmed a time.

Phil greeted him at the door. There was no sign of Maude, so Donald assumed she was gone. When he told Phil that he had some important things to talk over with him, Paul assured him they had the whole afternoon. He fixed a pair of drinks and they made themselves comfortable in the living room.

“What’s going on?” Phil asked, to get the conversation started.

“You may not like some of the things that I’m about to tell you, but please let me explain what has happened in my own words.”

“Go ahead. I’ll keep quiet until you’ve finished.”

Donald went into considerable detail in describing the constant pressure Dotty was exerting, trying to get him to break his word to Phil. When he got to her affair with John, Phil choked on his drink. Donald stopped while he wiped his face, then waited for his reaction.

“She needs to be punished,” Phil sputtered.

“Indeed! I wanted to slap her face on the spot, but I remembered my pledge to you, not to hurt her.”

“Donald, I’m sorry. I never dreamed you would hold out this long. I admire your loyalty, but you should have come back to me long ago. It’s obvious that Dotty will stop at nothing. You’re lucky she didn’t leave you before this.”

“Phil, she and I are deeply in love. We get along together completely, except for this one point. Our sex life is as perfect a match as you can find. But, she is going to leave me. Whether for John or someone else who will master her, I know she will. I love her too much to let her go over one point.”

Phil was silent, staring into his drink as if he could find a solution there. After long moments he downed the last of the drink and set the empty glass on a side table. He sighed, shook his head to clear it and nodded to Donald.

“Before we talk further, there is something I want to show you.”

Donald looked at him, puzzled. He looked even more puzzled when Phil walked to a closet door and opened it. Crammed into the tiny space was a woman, blindfolded and gagged. Her wrists were cuffed behind her back and a short hobble connected her ankles. She was wearing a dark blouse and a skirt that fell well below her knees. Phil grabbed her arm and jerked her out of the closet, gripping her tightly as her bare feet stumbled on the rug.

“You heard?”

Her nod was reluctant. He turned her around with her back to Donald, who was already certain the bound figure was Maude.

“Bend over! Lift your skirt above your waist!”

She stood, unmoving. There was a “zing” and a long single tail snapped around her calves. She took two, crying into her gag before her cuffed hands started inching up her back with the skirt.

The slowly rising skirt revealed a lack of underwear. More important it revealed a pair of ass cheeks with a row of closely spaced and swelled up welts, beginning deep in the crevice where the cheeks joined the thighs and measuring each half inch up to her waist. Donald winced in sympathy, guessing correctly that they were a major hurt.

With the skirt up, she bent over, grunting with the additional pain as her welted flesh stretched. Dizzy with pain, she moved one foot forward to keep her balance. Phil pinned the dress in place, then pulled a wooden chair to the center of the floor. He removed her hobble and made her straddle the chair, facing backward toward where Donald was sitting.

Phil removed her gag, which had muffled her agony from sitting on the hard wood. He warned her brusquely not to move or there would be further punishment. Even as he said it, one leg was moving, cramped. Swiftly he roped her ankles to the chair legs, then snapped the whip around her calves again.

Then he removed her blindfold. Maude flushed red, certain she was exposed but helpless to cover herself. Donald’s gaze bored into her eyes, trying to decipher this wholly unexpected event. She was unable to maintain eye contact, her gaze dropping but returning after a few seconds. A mind reader would have had an interesting moment reading her thoughts.

Phil traded the whip for a longer carriage whip, then sat down beside Donald. He reached forward comfortably and laid the tip on one bare thigh, sufficient warning for even the most obtuse, or stubborn.

“Tell your son-in-law exactly why you look like a striped assed ape!

“Masters... I am being punished...”

“We know that. Get to the point!”

“Masters, I urged my daughter to have an affair to break your will.”


“I urged your father-in-law to make you agree not to hurt her. I didn’t want her following in my footsteps into bondage.”

“Which was the bigger mistake?”

Maude knew it was a trick question. Either way she would be punished.

“Masters, both are heinous. I will accept punishment for both.”

 “We’ll discuss your punishment later. Do you realize that your advice could have destroyed their marriage?”

“Yes, Masters, but by then it was too late.”

“You realize too that both you and your daughter have been living a lie in your marriages?”

“Yes, Masters. I am guilty of hiding my love of bondage. I am also guilty of persuading Master to convince you not to hurt your wife. I fully realize my faults, offer no excuse and petition you to punish me with a severity that matches my foolhardiness.”

“You realize that you have done substantial harm to our daughter?”

“Masters, I am ashamed of my poor council. I would give a lot to be able to undo the damage I caused.”

“As one part of your punishment, you are forbidden to have any contact whatsoever with our daughter, That means no visiting, no telephone calls, no emails or letters. At the end of a year we will review any progress by you and our daughter.”

He left the sentence hanging. Maude got the message without a spelling lesson. “In the meantime we intend that recuperating for you two will be suitably painful. You will no doubt get tired of thanking us for punishing you, but you will neglect profuse thanks at your peril.”

“I am deeply disappointed in both of you. Therefore, you both will be treated as slaves, with all that the word suggests - chains, whips, clamps and all the other pain devices, which we will use whether you deserve them or not. Is that clear, or do I need to explain your fate?”

“Masters, thank you for punishing us.”

Chapter 2: Bad Girls Get Punished

“Masters, thank you for punishing us.”

“Hmpf! Apparently that wooden chair you are straddling isn’t much of an incentive. Try that again with all the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster.”

The second attempt was miles better. The two men acknowledged it with a slight nod. Both realized they had their work cut out for them.

Dotty of course was totally unaware of what was happening. She tried to have her usual chat with her mother when she left the hair salon, but there was no answer. The answering machine failed to kick in, which should have been a clue that something wasn’t right, but she ignored it, assuming that her mother had forgotten to turn the machine back on. She was about to get the surprise of her young life.

Donald stared at his now nude mother-in-law as Phil stripped her, put her blindfold back on and set her back straddling the wooden chair. The last thing she saw were Donald’s eyes, intently focused - but not on her face. Deeply embarrassed she rocked painfully from one ass cheek to the other, wishing for a hole to crawl into. To add to her discomfort, his staring triggered her fantasies and she found herself within a hair’s breadth of a scale-10 orgasm. Once Donald left, Phil demonstrated that he could read her like a book and she spent the whole evening periodically begging for release. Phil would read aloud a sample from a lengthy list of her faults, always ending with an emphatic “No!”

Thoroughly cowed, Maude prayed for relief when they finally got ready for bed. With a sinking heart she realized that relief was a concept totally alien to the new mind set of her husband. He treated her to a resounding fuck that rocked the bed, coming in buckets in her slick tunnel. She barely held onto her control, egged on by threats of really serious punishment if she slipped up. He left her on a wind swept desert plateau, unsatisfied and frustrated, while he rolled over and went to sleep after cuffing her hands to the headboard. She spent the night staring at the ceiling, wondering what sort of hell her daughter was suffering.

Much later she would find out that Dotty had a much different “first” day.

Dotty was not dumb. She was smart in a number of ways. Right now, kneeling before Donald and his #@$#@ newspaper she could “smell” that something was wrong. Her intuition turned events into smells - the only way she could describe it. She’d gotten a “whiff” when he came home. Looking back, it had been her cue to run. She didn’t but all through dinner she kept getting little sniffs of something that she instinctively knew she would not like.

Kneeling close to his knees, she felt like she had her nose inside a perfume bottle, except this premonition had a sickly sour “smell.” She waited, forcing herself to be patient, half sick from the waves of scent that curled the hair in her nostrils. Whatever it was, it was going to be bad.

Finally. Finally he finished reading. He checked the sections to make sure he hadn’t missed anything important. Then he carefully folded them and placed them in the recycling basket. Dotty watched the routine she had seen a thousand times. This time, her dread of the unknown growing with each passing second, she wanted to scream at him and make him hurry his methodical neatness, but she bit her tongue, instinct telling her this was not the time for histrionics, or hysteria.

Finished. Dotty realized she was holding her breath. She sucked in air as he sat and watched her. Unmoving. Silent.

She lifted her eyes to his compelling stare. She couldn’t match it and dropped her gaze to his knees.

“Look at me.”

Her nostrils flared as she literally dragged her eyes back up to meet his. Alarm bells and screaming sirens filled her head as she felt her control slipping away. She revised her assessment. This was going to be really, really bad.

She couldn’t face him. Suddenly flooded with guilt, her eyes dropped again. Annoyed, he repeated the order. Dotty shook her head, tears forming and blurring her eyes. In a moment of clarity she realized what she had done to set this off. That made her feel even worse.

He made no move to punish her for her failure to obey him. Her face was a reachable target for the slap she expected. Dimly she attributed it to the “no hurt” rule, but as she was about to find out, that rule was out the window.

Donald was playing the cat and mouse game to the hilt. He knew she already realized she was about to be punished. What she didn’t know yet was the extent of her punishment. Donald stared at her, letting the tension build. Very briefly he considered kicking her out, but that wasn’t part of his agreement with Phil and he loved her too much to lose her.

“Your mother gave you some very bad advice.”

The words hung in the silent room. Dotty raised her head, suddenly unsure of where this was heading. How did he know what she had suggested?

“She not only encouraged you to have an affair, on the one hand she encouraged you to pursue your bondage fantasies, while she made your father bind me with an oath not to hurt you. Frankly your father and I haven’t figured out the motive for her duplicity. We think it her desire for control, but as of today, that control has ended.”

Dotty gasped, momentarily returning his gaze before dropping her eyes, the confusion showing on her face.

“Your father has decreed that she is to have no contact with you in any manner or for any reason. As I left he was cutting up her credit cards while she sat on a wooden chair with some pretty severe welts on her ass cheeks.”

Dotty winced in sympathy, mentally feeling the whip marks on her own cheeks. She suddenly remembered the unanswered phone call. The retribution had already started.

“Your father is very upset with your mother. To give you an idea of what she is in for, quite some time after I got to their house, he opened the broom closet - which was a tight fit - and dragged her out, gagged, blindfolded, with chains on her wrists and ankles. She was clothed then, but she was nude by the time I left. I have the distinct feeling,” he said, sarcastically, “that it will be a cold day in Hell before she puts any clothes back on.”

Dotty’s face was a volume of emotions. She hadn’t been told not to speak, so she stuttered a question, “But... but... but, Dad isn’t into bondage?”

“He is now, thanks to tracking you two across the Internet. Now, shut up, until I’m finished!”

Dumbfounded, she closed her mouth and dropped her eyes as he continued. “Your father and I have agreed to treat both of you as slaves. That probably will be a bigger burden for your mother as she wants to dominate, while you want to be a sex slut and pain slave.”

“This is going to be interesting, because your father can wear out whips on your mother, while I have to find something that will work with you because I’m sure that I could beat your ass all day and you’d be begging for more. You’ve fully demonstrated that with all the byplay with your handcuffs.”

Dotty flushed, caught out in her scheming. With mixed emotions she realized for the first time that she was married to a very dominant man who was at the moment leading her up to her immediate fate.

“Speaking of cuffs, why aren’t you wearing them?”

She met the eyes that were boring into her very soul. Her eyebrows rose with her dismay. She jumped to her feet and fled to the bedroom. She returned with the handcuffs resting on a serving tray and again knelt before him. She looked to him for an order - instruction. He remained silent, a slightly grim line to his mouth. She instantly upgraded her day to extraordinarily bad. She was about to make a costly mistake.

Dotty bent her head over the tray, kissing the cuffs even as she wondered how long it would be before she would be released. She guessed he wanted her hands behind her. He waited until she had locked both wrists securely before he cleared his throat.

“Did I tell you I wanted your hands behind you? Nod or shake your head.”

Bile welled into her mouth. Any of several possible answers would be wrong. There was only one possible answer that her head movement could respond to. She shook her head, fighting neck muscles that seemed to have turned to cement.

Warily she glanced at his face. The Cheshire Cat grin destroyed the last vestiges of her composure. She could hear in her head - “You’re a mouse and he’s about to eat you alive.”

“Did you expect ME to do the housework while you live out your fantasies?”

With perfect clarity she realized that he was a long jump ahead of her, outsmarting her. If she had put the cuffs on in front he would be dressing her down for not making herself helpless. Her dream of bondage was quickly turning from a win-win to a lose-lose situation. She was sure his question was rhetorical but she meekly shook her head.

She bent her head to the tray on the floor, closing her lips on the key. He let her wait a full minute before he silently held out his hand. As soon as he grasped the key she rose and knelt again, her back to her husband. He unlocked the cuffs and threw them across the room, clattering against the wall. He issued two orders, “Crawl. Fetch!”

She tried to lift herself just above the rug, but Donald would have none of it. She felt his boot pressing on her shoulders, pushing her turgid nipples into the short stiff fibers. His foot made it plain that he expected to see rug burns when she had retrieved the cuffs.

By this time she was thoroughly rattled and when she returned she forgot to kiss the cuffs before closing them on her wrists. Donald waited until she was finished before admonishing her and making her crawl a second time to return them.

Somehow she managed to complete the task to his satisfaction. Kneeling before him, she listened with a deepening sense of doom to his plans for her. His words had bite, critical, sarcastic and insulting. As he talked she understood the language and the tone to be the way he would address a slave. This set a different mood, because he had already said she would be treated as a slave and he was confirming her status with every sentence.

“You’ve wanted to be a slave - my slave - ever since we met. You’ve used your fantasy slavery as an aphrodisiac when you masturbate. Now, the reality is here. You crossed the line and earned yourself the real thing. The severest penalty I can sentence you to is frustration. You face a minimum of a year as a chained slave, under my thumb day and night. Can you guess how many times in a year you can be made to rub your clit to within a heartbeat of a forbidden orgasm? How often can you ram a dildo into your pussy until your eyes roll up into your head?”

He laughed, a bitter sound. “Your mouth got you in trouble, so I plan to take particular pleasure in using it, exclusively and often. Your blow jobs need to be perfection personified.”

She relaxed, again realizing she had been holding her breath. Donald saw the slight signs and added a postscript, “We’ll reserve your asshole for when you fuck up badly enough to earn a reaming.”

She told herself, ‘He’s reading my mind. No, he’s not. It’s impossible. He IS reading your mind.’

He let her adsorb his words.

“It gets worse from here on. You have a choice. You can pack your bags and leave, but never come back. Or, you can be the shackled slave of your dreams, transferred to my kind of nightmare.”

The good and the bad sparred in her brain. Love won out.

“Will you leave?” She could swear that his tone recommended she take the option, but she shook her head. Once, then again, to ensure that he saw it.

He made no sign that he had received her answer, ordering her to the kitchen to prepare his favorite dinner. As she hurried, she wondered where and when she had lost her peace of mind. The argument between go and stay flared anew, but quieted when she reminded herself that the option of going no doubt was a one time offer, now expired. Her first time thought - to be repeated frequently over the months to come – ‘How can he be so cruel?’

Unexpectedly, he followed her into the kitchen, sitting down on a corner of the counter, within feet of where she was working. For some reason the innocent sounding “visit” of her Master to her work space scared her. She hadn’t the foggiest idea what or why, but she was sure that it meant more problems. She sucked her mouth, so dry her tongue was sticking to her gums.

He watched the emotions flickering across her face, easily reading her fear, concern, worry, dread as each in turn shaped her pretty face. She tried to concentrate on her work, but to her horror found it impossible to gather her thoughts. She blamed it on the man sitting so close to her, tempting her to make a fatal mistake by asking him to go back to the living room. She was smart enough to know he was doing it deliberately, but she was helpless to counter it.

Dotty was in a curious position for a new slave. Despite her months of play with her cuffs she was relatively ignorant of the extent to which her slavery could go. She wanted to be a slave, Donald’s slave, but the willing slave apparently had no place in his plans. In effect she was an abducted slave, willing on not, and willing or not she would be treated - and trained - as a hostile piece of baggage. She was getting a bad case of nerves from his proximity. He kept his face bland, expressing his impatience by tapping the one foot that was on the floor.

She remembered a long forgotten incident early in their marriage when he was waiting for her to complete her makeup. It began with toe tapping. When he had started to hum tunelessly she knew she was in trouble. Aghast, she realized that he was beginning to hum right now. Frantically she assembled the meal, narrowly avoiding dropping the plate in her haste, seconds before whatever deadline he had set.

He ate. She watched, kneeling at his side. He made no move to feed her. She worried. After a few bites he delivered his decision, “You’ve cooked better than this.”

She nodded in agreement, unable to vocalize an excuse.

“Get up on the table.”

As she scrambled to obey, she wondered, ‘Is he going to whip me?’

He ate another bite. “Sit facing me. Spread your legs. Wider!”

He chewed a piece of gristle that she had overlooked. Tired of it he spat it out, bouncing off her taut belly.

“One finger. Masturbate. Do NOT come!”

Her face flamed. She touched her dry clit. Automatically she brought the finger to her mouth. She jerked in terror when he yelled, “Dry!!!”

Gingerly she touched herself. Her clit rebelled, painfully. Slowly she rubbed, with a feather light touch. It did not please Master.


She moved her hand rapidly, her finger a blur.

He resumed eating, his eyes always on her moving finger.

She realized that the stress was about to trigger a bout of hyperventilation - a first for her masturbation fantasies. Instinctively she knew that he would enjoy her predicament, but she had not chance to test her theory as he ordered her to stop.

“You were about to come.”

Was it a question, or a statement of fact? To be on the safe side she nodded her head. She gritted her teeth, fighting to retain some vestige of control.

“Your Master has NOT given you permission to have an orgasm.”

She opened her mouth to protest that she was following his most recent order, but his raised eyebrow - signaling “Make my day!” - shut it again.

“You will ALWAYS warn me when you are about to peak. You will - sometime in the future - have ample opportunities, but you will earn every one.”

Eyes down, she meekly accepted his edict, but she was not at all sure that she understood his prediction.

The rest of the evening went about as poorly as she expected. She knelt, facing him, while he watched a porn film. She had never completely come down her mountain of frustration so the sound alone was enough to keep her climbing back toward the top. Donald was fully aware of her reaction and took some smug satisfaction in having her helplessly fighting her emotions.

When the film ended, he showed her his rampant cock. His words biting, he made it clear that he was aroused by the film, not by her nude body. Her blow job was a near disaster, as he criticized her every move. Like her mother, she spent the night cuffed to the headboard.

Chapter 3: Bottoming From the Bottom

Dotty’s penance for a bad job left her with a mouth full of salty semen which she had to nurse until Donald’s light snoring told her that he was asleep. Even then she was hesitant to swallow, fearing a trap. At last she swallowed, convulsively repeating it several times while phantom juices swirled over her taste buds. She would have given untold wealth for the glass of water on her night stand. She recognized the intent, she would not soon forget the taste of her husband.

Breakfast, after a sleepless night, was not overly pleasant. Donald took position on the corner of the counter again, watching her like the proverbial hawk. Her handcuffs caused a minor problem or two, but her instincts carried her through. Her sore knees on the hard kitchen floor were her biggest physical problem. That and the way she was otherwise ignored, like a piece of furniture.

Donald had changed his plan rather drastically, intent on confusing Dotty and scaring her at the same time. His Cheshire Cat grin returned as he asked, “What WERE your plans for today? You can speak, to answer questions. As briefly as possible.”

“I had no plans, Master.”

“You could have left off the ‘I had.’ I said brief.” He paused for effect. “You are not allowed to use ‘I.’ Answer with ‘slave’ instead.”

He watched her face with satisfaction, as it turned bright pink. “Try again.”

“Slave had no plans, Master.”

“I would have thought that you would be bursting with ideas that you want me to punish you with. None at all?”

Dotty could see - as well as hear - the jaws of his trap closing on her. Every answer, every possible answer, would earn punishment. Her mind raced as she sought an answer with the least consequences. Head down, she said softly, “No, Master.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said ‘No’ to your Master. Start - and memorize - a list of words you are forbidden to use. Put this one at the top of the list.”

As she nodded, he prepared his bombshell.

“You’ve always wanted me to dominate you. You, a submissive, desperately want a Master. Instead, you are going to be in the unique position of topping yourself, or as it were, bottoming from the bottom. You will design your own punishments and - subject to my approval - will carry them out.”

Donald almost added, ‘Without any help from me,’ but decided to keep his options open. Dotty stared at the floor, clearly visualizing the ultimate irony of dictating her own chastisement. She was smart enough to both realize that he again had outsmarted her and that her immediate future was anything but a rosy glow. “Yes, Master,” she said, resignedly.

“Let’s try again, with the new rules. You were at the hair salon yesterday. Any ideas there for a possible punishment?”

‘Oh, shit,’ she thought, ‘here it comes.’

Without the slightest hesitation she spoke the words she knew he wanted her to say, “Slave must go back today and have her head shaved.”


She hesitated, almost long enough to be reprimanded, “Slave needs to take a camera and a recorder, so they can humiliate her.”

“Go get dressed. Shoes, cape and your cuffs. I’ll make the appointment. Wait in the bedroom until I call you.”

The hair salon card was stuck to the refrigerator door. Donald got the manager and outlined what was about to take place. He broke into a broad grin when the man told him that almost all the operators were into the BDSM scene.

“Then you’ll know exactly what to do with her.”

“Yes, sir, she’ll get the full treatment.”

“She is to announce to everyone why and how she is being punished. Your girls - and the customers - can ask any questions they want. I’m sure they will have appropriate penalties for a refusal to answer.”

“You can bet on that.”

Donald hung up, walked to the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Come down, on the double!”

The cape swirled behind her as she raced down the stairs, praying she wouldn’t stumble. She knelt at his feet, holding her cuffed wrists out to him in mute supplication.

“Your appointment is in 30 minutes. When you get there, take off the cape, hang it up, turn on the recorder and then tell everyone why you are there and invite them to watch. You will treat the hair stylists with complete respect and obey them and the manager as you would me. Give the camera and recorder to the manager to use as he sees fit. I’ve taken care of the fee and the tips, so you won’t need any money.”

Dotty had never tried to drive a car while in handcuffs, but she quickly got the hang of it, and drove carefully to the shop, not anxious to attract attention from a policeman.

When she walked in the door, she realized instantly that she had been set up. The manager opened the door for her, the stylists were standing outside their curtains and several waiting customers were staring openly at her.

She stopped, one foot half raised, ready to bolt, but her common sense took over. If she fled, Donald would find something ten times worse to do to her. The manager grinned at her and then almost dragged her through the door. He held the back of the cape as her reluctant fingers opened the single button at the collar. He hung it up, then turned to Dotty, who was beet red and vainly trying to emulate the famous ‘September Morn’ painting, with one too few hands.

His firm hands “undressed” her, forcing her arms to her sides. Her nipples, rubbed into prominence by the cape, stood proudly.

He announced, “Girls, Dotty is here for a reason. She will tell you why, and answer any questions.  Dotty, you have the floor.”

At the moment Dotty was wishing herself sinking through that floor. The crimson flush had reached her navel. She cursed Donald to herself, reading his fine hand in this scene.  Barely above a whisper, she began to speak, but was immediately shouted down.

“Louder! We can’t hear you!”

“My name is Dot... My name is slave. Slave is being punished for being unfaithful to her husband. Slave was here yesterday to get her hair done. Today, at her suggestion, (Yeah, right!) slave is being punished by having her head shaved in public. All of you are welcome to humiliate her further and slave will answer any questions.”

One of the waiting customers dropped her dog-eared magazine and reared to her feet, her face a mask of anger. She strode toward Dotty, yelling as she came, “If I’d known they work on whores here I never would have set foot in this place.”

With that she slapped Dotty on the cheek and pranced out. Behind the mortified Dotty’s back she turned, grinned broadly and waved two fingers in the “V” for victory sign.

The manager grabbed Dotty’s shoulder and pushed her to her knees, explaining, “You are going to pay dearly for my losing a customer. Someone, bring me a blindfold for this piece of shit.”

As soon as it was in place the operators and most of the customers gathered closely around her. Dotty was immediately treated to several disparaging remarks about her physical attributes. She heard her tits described as “saggy,” Her slightly protruding belly drew a sarcastic “How many months preggie is she?” The questions began immediately, her answers speeded by full nail pinches on her nipples and some severe hair pulling, the latter accompanied by teasing over her soon-to-be-gone locks.

She was forced to disclose her interest in bondage and tearfully admitted to tricks she had been using in an attempt to get her husband to tie her up. A question about her cuffs triggered demands for every intimate detail of how she had used them in her plans.

“Whose idea was it to shave your head?”

Dotty bowed her head and meekly replied, “Slave’s.”

“Ah, bullshit! You wouldn’t spend $100 yesterday and then another hundred today to cancel it out.”

She could barely be heard over the chorus of agreement from the other women. Dotty raised her head, blind eyes looking toward the ceiling, as if praying for deliverance, knowing there would be no respite.

“Tell us, since you made up this lie, why are you doing it?” The sarcasm was biting, the tone bitter.

Dotty tried to appeal to their feminine values, “Please, slave was wrong and hurt her husband. He refused to top slave and instead told slave to determine her own punishment. He mentioned this place and asked slave if it suggested anything. Slave’s first thought was her hair and slave blurted it out to placate him.”

“That’s a crock! I for one think you need to be punished for lying to us.” Again, there was a chorus of agreement and one of the girls slapped her cheek.

The manager, who knew the facts, ordered, “Put her in the chair and strap her down. Stella, get your razor.”

Dotty kept her mouth shut in an effort to keep from inciting the women to further violence. She was gritting her teeth to keep from begging them to stop, knowing that the repercussions would far outclass the psychological damage of losing her hair. She flinched, visibly, at the sound of Stella’s razor being honed on the leather strap. One of the girls laughed, “We can use that strap on her ass once she’s shaved.”

Stella took a full twenty minutes with her scissors, reducing Dotty’s magnificent locks to a reddish stuble. Dotty was sweating and the short bits of hair were sticking to her nude body. One of the watching girls picked up a spray can of body moisturizer and wet down any dry areas she could find. By the time Stella put the scissors away and picked up the razor again, Dotty was engulfed in hair.

Stella was poised with the razor when an idea came to her. She got out the scissors and clipped Dotty’s eyelashes and eyebrows. Dotty bit her lip, hard, trying to avoid inciting further indignities.

Dotty’s mind was in a whirl as the rapid fire events kept surprising her. She was getting a thrill from being dominated in such a public fashion. She decided, wryly, that she might just as well be suffering this out in the middle of the sidewalk. Her native submission was conflicting with the dominance that Donald seemed to be working by some form of remote control.

Given that she had walked into the shop with an entirely different scenario in mind, she was still struggling to make sense of the way she was being treated. Stella had been her favorite stylist for several years, without the slightest hint of any interest in bondage.

She focused on Donald, recalling word for word their conversation, refreshing her memory of the shock when he told her she would have to decide her own punishment. She cast about for some other explanation, but kept coming back to the realization that somehow Donald had arranged the weird things that were happening to her. She had expected the shaving would be done behind a closed curtain. Instead she was surrounded by 15 to 20 people, including at least one man - the manager. She had dictated the deed, but Donald, working through a surrogate, had heaped one humiliation after another upon her.

The whispers and the titters of laughter from all sides were getting to her. Fresh waves of humiliation rolled over her in rapid succession. She reluctantly gave Donald credit for discovering a chink in her pain armor. If he started out at this level, she was facing a rough time ahead.

Knowing that Donald’s fine hand was working behind the scenes didn’t help a bit. Her guilty conscience was a constant bother, the little voices in her head heaping misery upon misery for the way she had treated him. Somewhat to her dismay she was already looking beyond today, looking for new ways to be humiliated.

Stella studied her handiwork and decided she had finished the head to her own satisfaction. She could feel the taut neck muscles, reading the frustration and embarrassment that Dotty was feeling. Deliberately she stropped the razor again, as if exposure to the air had dulled it. Dotty was fit to be tied, wanting her to get it over with, fully realizing that she was already helplessly bound and helpless to speed up the humiliation building from Stella’s time wasting. She wasted more than a minute dreaming up things she would do to Stella to pay her back.

Not to be outdone, Stella had a purpose in mind. Instead of slathering shaving soap on Dotty’s head, she barely wet the stubble. The result of course was that the razor had dragged rather than slid. Shaving her head left her scalp inflamed and red - and took forever. Dotty was cursing to herself, swearing retribution even while she assessed her chances of getting at Stella as a little less than zero. She kept holding her breath, expecting blood to come dripping down her cheek at any moment, but Stella was too experienced for that to happen.

The “bitch” said under her breath, but within earshot of Stella, cost her. Her ravaged scalp was doused with liquid fire from a spray can. She screamed, to the immense enjoyment of her rapt audience. The pain had a not unexpected reaction - Dotty was pushed to the edge of an orgasm. She panted once, gathering her strength, only to have one of the sharp-eyed girls yell, “She’s going to come!”

Stella’s razor was already touching skin. She applied just enough extra pressure to make it hurt, a warning. Dotty gulped and fought to control the impending climax, her ingrained fear of anything sharp taking over. The razor remained in place until Dotty had herself under control. One or two of the watchers were tempted to clap, but they realized that it would send the wrong message.

Stella had her own message, “Call me bitch again - or anything like it - and you lose a nipple. Or, perhaps you want your clit shaved?”

The razor rested for a long moment at the base of her right nipple. Dotty got the message. She started to apologize only to be shouted down, “Nobody said you could talk, so shut the hell up!”

That was followed by a roar of laughter, mocking Dotty’s sour face. Her whole body turned at least another shade of pink. She was quickly reaching the color of a cooked lobster.

She no doubt would have risen to fire engine read if she knew that her every move and sound was being recorded. The manager had brought out an expensive video camera that he was using in a professional manner. He grinned as he mentally reviewed the long list of buyers who would pay well for a DVD or a tape, despite the lack of a known porn star. The slight motor noise was easily drowned out by the hubbub around Dotty.

One of the customers spoke up, “You need to do something with that forest between her legs.”

In a moment, Dotty’s pussy filled the viewfinder, in time to see a female hand holding a pair of needle-nose pliers appear, grasp a pubic hair and slowly pull. The flesh distended, following the pull, until the root broke free, with a yelp from Dotty.

The hand returned and a second hair followed the first into space, Dotty’s cry of pain even louder.

“Okay, slut, answer this question: Do you want me to pull the hairs, or do I use my razor on your pussy?”

“Please, Mistress, shave slave.”

Another hair was yanked bodily from her mound. Dotty squalled in protest and pain.

“Shave what, slut?”

Dotty rushed to obey.

“Please, Mistress, shave slave’s pussy.”

Stella looked around the room, grinning, “You heard, she asked me to shave her pussy. Think I should?”

A chorus of “No’s” dissolved into gales of laughter as another hair left its anchor point. Stella could see a tear trailing out from under Dotty’s blindfold and down her cheek.

Stella shook her head ruefully.

“I side with the majority, but we’d be here for a week attacking this overgrown jungle.”

She slapped it with her open hand to emphasize her point. The audience grumbled, there were a couple of suggestions way over the top and one clear voice urging, “Shave her dry!” Fortunately the group blamed Dotty, rather than Stella, for spoiling their fun so all of their ire was directed at Dotty.

Dotty wanted to plea for mercy, but to her, behind the blindfold, it sounded more and more like a lynch mob. She retreated from the idea, steeling herself for the shave that would leave her pussy bare.

Stella picked up a squeeze bottle and sprayed a generous amount of water, which seemed to disappear in the dense growth. She couldn’t resist zapping the puffy lips in the midst, delighting in Dotty’s sudden jerk against her bonds. To Dotty the water felt like an ice cube on her tender flesh. Stella made a mental note to repeat the spray when Dotty’s clit was uncovered.