Love Letters

Dearest G,

Happy greetings from Prague, 1998. It's a pretty decent posting. Except, that is, you're not here.

Fuck, but I miss you. All of you. I'm going crazy just thinking about you. It's okay during the day, there's a lot on, but it's the empty evenings that are really messing me about. I wish I had my own personal Adept so I could Hop across and see you, but there's no use wishing for something you can't have.

I've written a story about us. Content warning: there's a lot of whipping and fucking in it. Especially whipping.

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

See you soon (I hope),

Love,

D

The hearing was yesterday, but you were dismissed from the Judgment Room while your sentence was decided. Today, you wake after a night of disturbed dreams, still unsure what your offence was or what might be the punishment for it.

You had seen the faces of the members of the Conduct Review Committee. You were left in little doubt that whatever punishment they decided on would be a harsh one.

That night you slept poorly. Your slumbers were broken by flustered awakenings from nightmares of apprehension and fear. You woke, sweating, in a bed that had become hot and clammy. You wondered if you had caught something, and if your Admonition might be postponed or reduced in severity because of illness.

Eventually tiredness won out and you slept undisturbed until your bedside light turned itself on and slowly brought you to wakefulness. You yawned, and for one blessed moment you forgot that you were under sentence. Such relief, followed so swiftly by despair!

You gulp. What will the day bring? Will you be able to bear it? Will this be the day that you die? You know that the Company has the power to administer the ultimate punishment. You bury your head in the pillow and sob.

Soon you realise that, come what may, you have to attend to your bodily needs. You get up from the bed and go to your bathroom. There you take off your pyjamas and put them in the laundry chute, use the lavatory, and have a long hot shower. You towel yourself dry, throw the towel into the chute and step naked into your bedroom, expecting to find the day's clothes laid out ready on the bed. You hope there will be a nice set of white cotton bra and knickers, a soft silk blouse and a calf-length skirt in royal blue, together with a garter belt and stockings and a pair of comfortable flatties.

But there is nothing. No clothes, no underwear, no shoes. Your dressing gown is missing from its hook. You are stark naked and helpless.

There must have been a mistake. Someone will get into trouble over this. You pick up the receiver of the bedside phone and punch 0. Nothing happens. The phone is dead. You rattle the cradle rest. Still nothing.

This is ridiculous. You should call for help. So you cross the room and try to open the door. It is locked. It doesn't budge however hard you bang on it or twist the handle.

All right. You'll shout for help from the window. There has clearly been a major systems failure. Maybe a fire. And with that thought come the first feelings of panic. Suppose there is a fire and the House has been evacuated, but you've been forgotten? Have you been left to die?

So you pull back the curtains and try to open the window. But it won't move. And, worse, the steel shutters have been drawn down so that no light can get in from outside.

You sit on the bed. Locked in. No phone. No clothes. What about your laptop? But it mysteriously disappeared overnight, so you can't message IT Services or Housekeeping.

You're starting to feel a bit chilly, so you get back into bed and pull the duvet up. An idea! Perhaps you can wave to the cameras which you're sure are embedded in your room. Or you could trash it, or set fire to it. That would bring someone running, wouldn't it?

But you realise that you have no way of starting a fire, and that any other action would either be ignored, or else be interpreted as a breach of Company regulations and render you liable to punishment, probably uncomfortable. And with that thought comes the reminder that this is the day that you are due to undergo an Admonition and that it is probably going to sentence you to a strict Physical Sanction.

You put your head in your hands. You cry a little. Then you wonder if you are going to miss your breakfast and whether it might be delivered to your room, especially if you were in the bathroom at the time. So you go into the bathroom and sit on the lavatory for a while. You have a drink of water from the cold tap, hoping that it's of potable quality. Too bad if it isn't.

Ten minutes you give it, and then you return to your bedroom. Nothing has changed. The door and window are still locked. You can't even tell what time it is, as your watch has gone missing. Ah! Wait! What about the TV? It might tell you what's going on. At least it would tell you the time. But when you turn it on, all it displays is one message, in yellow letters on a blue background:

WAIT UNTIL YOU ARE CALLED

And that is all. It's the same on every channel.

There's nothing left to do but go back to bed and turn the light off. Maybe you could get back some of the sleep you have missed. You crawl under the covers. In search of comfort, you let your hand stray towards your pussy. Perhaps you could stroke your clit; that would feel nice and maybe you would be able to forget your dreadful situation for a while. But no; you cannot tell whether you are in Company time, and the prohibition on sexual activity during that period is absolute, and fiercely enforced. You're in quite enough trouble already.

Some time later -- how long you couldn't say -- the thought strikes you that you could try to drown yourself in the bath. Surely that would bring someone? You get up and check the bath taps. Water gushes from both of them, but it's quite useless. Somebody has removed the bathplug. Stuff it with toilet paper? No, that would just dissolve away.

So you return to bed and doze through the day. Time passes; how quickly or how slowly you could not say. You have more drinks of water. No food comes, and you start to feel hungry. You doze again. You count sheep. You recite all the lyrics to Sergeant Pepper.

After a while, your hand strays back to your vagina. You can no longer resist, so you stroke it gently. You find your clitoris. That feels good so you caress your right breast and its nipple with your other hand until it is engorged and sensitive. Your legs part spontaneously, and you find yourself imagining that you are opening yourself to me. You raise your knees and arch your back. You can almost feel me entering you. Fearing that you are overheard, you bury your head under the pillow. Perhaps it muffles your soft cries and gasps.

Your hips move in a primaeval rhythm. You come and come again. 'Ah, ah, ah!' And then you sleep. From time to time you wake and use the bathroom.

And finally, after undefined hours, minutes and seconds, waking and sleeping, there is a change. All the lights in your room turn on full and there is a muted click from the door. You sit up, startled, and see that it has swung open, quite silently. You get out of the bed and notice that there is a gown, made of loosely woven muslin, resting on top of it. You shudder; someone has come into your room while you were sleeping and left the garment there.

It is obvious what is expected of you. Just to reinforce the point, the lights flash impatiently. Best get it over with, you think, and so you slip the gown over your head. It reaches down to your feet and clings to your body. Your breasts and buttocks are clearly outlined. You are beautiful, your nakedness enhanced by your diaphanous apparel.

The corridor outside your room is dark in one direction and light in the other. So you walk into the light, observed by cameras that swivel to watch you as you walk. A door slides open and you enter unthinking, in a trance.

You have boarded an elevator that descends for thirty seconds, maybe more. The door opens, and you walk out into the place where your Admonition and Rectification will be carried out.

The room is hazily lit by amber sconces and clearly well equipped for the application of correctional measures. Instruments of discipline hang from racks fixed to the walls, made of leather, rubber, wood and iron. There are benches and special chairs equipped with steel shackles, a crucifix, a whipping post and a set of horizontal bars, a St Andrew's cross of darkest ebony, a set of stocks and a functional toilet, open to view. Three seniors sit behind a table.

The Admonition is delivered. You have committed a grave offence and you must pay the price for it. You bow your head and accept the Committee's judgement. Your Exercise Of Retribution will proceed directly. It will consist of a severe PS. The seniors leave, their work done. They will monitor the punishment remotely.

I am there, and a woman, middle-aged and clad only in a thong of kid leather. Her breasts hang heavy and low. She invites me to take a seat so that I can watch you undergoing your Physical Sanction and intervene if I consider it necessary. I sit in a comfortable reclining armchair. There is a table next to it, with a flask of water, a glass and a bottle of aged Scotch whisky on top. I pour myself three fingers of spirit and settle back. The woman -- she is an Amazon; well-muscled and strong with a guttural voice and an air of cruelty -- commands you to take your place, ready for a flogging. You step up onto a dais, facing away from me. When ordered, you hold out your arms so that your wrists may be bound to the Saint Andrew's cross. You press yourself against it, facing it. A mirror shows me a view of your face when you're told to open your legs and spread them wide apart so that your ankles may be strapped to the feet of the cross. You are wide-eyed. You tremble slightly.

'Is she to be gagged?' I am asked.

'No. I wish to hear her vocalisations.' I certainly do.

The disciplinarian nods. She ties your hair up into a bun and pins it into place, so as to prevent it from obstructing her operations on you. She demands to know whether you are on your period -- you shake your head -- and whether you have recently eliminated wastes. You nod. She puts her hand to the back of your neck and tears the thin cotton gown from you in a single movement. Its shreds fall to the floor around your feet. You are revealed in all your glorious nakedness. I gasp in admiration. I want you. Especially, I want your bottom. It has always been my favourite part of you, well-rounded and deeply cleft.

All is ready. The woman takes a many-thonged leather whip from the rack, takes your head and turns it to one side, and shows it to you. I see your face when you behold the instrument of discipline. I see your fear. You understand that you are helpless, naked and exposed to the lash. You realise that the whip will be wielded with no hesitation and no mercy. You wait in dread anticipation of your ordeal. Long minutes crawl by. Then the moment comes. The air is cleaved by the thongs of the whip. It hisses like a snake. The shock to your naked flesh when the first stroke falls. The sound it makes when it bites into you. The marks it leaves on your lovely skin. The way your body twists in response. Your soft moan of pain. You had not known how terrible it would be. A red line runs from your right shoulder to your left thigh. It burns terribly, like a fresh brand.

Now you know how the whip feels after only one lash. You do not know how many more lashes you can take.

The disciplinarian whips you for a second time, in the opposite direction. Your back, bottom and thighs now bear a scarlet cross, echoing the cross to which you are bound. You shake and tremble. You gasp. You struggle to take breath.

The whip is a fearsome thing, made of metre-long strands of soft, flexible Spanish leather. I take a sip of whiskey. It is very fine. I love the sight of your whipped body. I eagerly anticipate the lashes to come.

More strokes fall, one by one. More and more, and you leap and turn and writhe in your bonds. Your shoulders, and your back, and your lovely arse, and your thighs, and your calves are striped again and again by the cruel whip. You scream continuously. The disciplinarian has been instructed to spare no part of your body. What a monster she is! She grunts every time she wields the lash and her eyes gleam with pleasure at every sound you make. Her breasts swing as she moves. She loves to inflict torment on her clients.

Meanwhile, runnels of sweat drip from your body. I relish your wonderful, beautiful cries of anguish -- no, no, no, please no. No more. The mirror shows me your expression each time the whip falls; your wide-open mouth, your begging for mercy, your tight-closed eyes, the tears that fall from them and run down your cheeks. I am excited beyond belief by the sight of your suffering under the whip; your body aflame, streaked with scarlet. You writhe enticingly. Often a lash-tip wraps around your body and strikes a breast, even a nipple. You scream especially loudly when that happens. Sometimes it flicks against your vagina and you throw your head back and yell with all your might. A shiver runs up and down my spine and I sip more of the whiskey. How superbly you respond to your flogging! How delicious is your agony to me!

'Stop! Please stop!' you cry. 'For the love of God, stop! I repent of my offence! I have been punished enough! I will sin no more! Spare me! Whip me no longer! Mercy!' Your appeals for clemency are, of course, ignored. I nod to the disciplinarian, and she smiles and continues.

As the strokes pile up -- ten, twenty, thirty -- your movements become less desperate and more sinuous. Your screams and cries change to gasps and moans. Your agonies are fabulously erotic to observe; and I notice that the flogger's nipples have become erect and that my organ is straining for release. It throbs with desire. It longs to enter you. We are both relishing your pain and suffering. They give us great pleasure.

The whipping continues inexorably. Lash falls upon lash as there is now no part of you that has not felt the whip and so perforce new strokes must overlay previous ones, multiplying their impact. Your screams re-echo in my ears. You are desperate. This is torment beyond your imagining, beyond endurance. But you are bound with leather and iron. You must endure it. You must surrender to it. Do not fight the whip, G, it is your mistress, whom you must serve. It delights in inflicting agonies on you. And more, it seeks out your sin. It explores your soul through your body, and where it finds vanity, it expunges it. Where it finds disobedience, it dissuades it. It shows you the way that you must go. The whip is right, and you are wrong. Learn from it, G! For it is your salvation. Nothing teaches as the whip teaches unless it be the cane or the birch or the strap.

Are you learning, G? Are your cries the howls of demons fleeing your flesh? Are you being purified? Then, as there is no end of wickedness in the world, so there can be no end to purification. The whip may pause, but it will never stop, not while there is sin in your soul and disobedience in your flesh.

The whip is your mistress, true, but it is also your friend and saviour. It wants you to be good. It loves you.

After fifty lashes have been administered to your helpless naked body, the disciplinarian pauses. She tells me that she has given you the prescribed number of strokes. I rise from my seat and cross the floor of the chamber of punishment. I examine you closely. I run my hands over you; your full breasts, your narrow waist, your lovely bottom, your soft thighs, inside and out. My fingers trace the lines that the whip has drawn on you. Barely conscious, you shudder and moan. Your breasts rise and fall as you breathe. I am deeply excited by them. I love to see them scarlet and whip-marked.

You are a woman who has been severely punished. You have endured the strictures of an instrument of due diligence, wielded by a professional. Knees bent, you hang on the cross by your wrists; shaking, crying, praying, 'O Lord, let this be over! I have learnt my lesson.'

'You have flogged this bitch well and according to your instructions,' I say to the woman with the whip. 'But I do not believe that she has been flogged enough. Give me the instrument.'

She nods and passes it over to me. 'Leave us,' I say, and she departs. The door closes behind her with a heavy thump. We are alone together in this soundproofed subterranean room. I remove my shirt. The time is half-past five. Company working hours are over for the day, as I have planned. I am free to treat you in any way that I like.

'Stand up properly, offender,' I say. You straighten yourself, taking the weight off your arms.

You know, for it is obvious, what is about to happen. You tremble violently in your bonds. You are quite helpless before me, bound as you are. You are magnificent in your despair.

I let the strands of the whip run through my fingers. Briefly, I imagine myself tied like you, lashed as you have been. The thought is stimulating to me. Perhaps one day our positions will be reversed. But not today.

I stand behind you and strike. The second part of your immolation begins.

I am very strong. I flog you with all my might. You suffer terribly. And there is another thing beyond mere force. The disciplinarian whipped you with great skill. She is a professional, after all. She was doing her duty. But I whip you with passion, and you can tell the difference. Before, you were lashed by a stranger. Now, you are flogged by your lover. I know your body well, all its secret places. I know exactly where to strike to produce the maximum effect; the greatest response. While the disciplinarian spread her strokes all over your body from head to toe, I prefer to concentrate on your superb behind, with its delightfully inviting undercurves, and your shapely thighs. How they glow! How your breasts rise and fall with your breathing! I want to bite and suckle them.

Although every lash hurts abominably, you begin to find that shortly after each one strikes you begin to wish for the next one to fall. A warm glow spreads though your body, centred on your bottom, running up and down your spine. You rub yourself against the ebony of the cross, up and down, up and down. It is polished by your sweat. I continue to whip you -- lash, lash, lash -- while you dance a fandango of tortured desire. You are overwhelmed by whip-lust. 'Whip me, whip me, whip me,' you murmur, 'Please don't stop,' and I do not stop. I continue until you are at last overtaken by your sensations and you come, again and again and again, more powerfully with every blow that falls. A gateway opens wide and you enter the palace of physical and spiritual delights. I observe your face in the mirror, open-mouthed in a wild cry of agony and ecstasy. I watch you worship at the altar of the whip, giving yourself to it utterly. You have many ecstatic climaxes. I lash your private parts and you orgasm over and over again. Your cries pierce my soul. You have never been so beautiful to me as you are now. I have never loved you so much. We both lose count of the number of whiplashes I give you. Your inner thighs glisten. Your juices spatter on the floor.

When it is over, I strip myself, stand close behind you, and cup your lovely wounded breasts in my hands. I roll your engorged nipples between finger and thumb. You groan. I press myself hard against you, and you return the pressure. I feel the heat of your striped body against mine. It is blazing with passion. Your legs are held wide apart by your bonds. You are open to me. You are ready, as am I. I am seized by the desire to take you as you stand, enter your yielding flesh and possess your tormented body.