Progressive Discipline

She stood, stock-still. Waiting. He had circled and was now pacing behind her, swishing his heaviest cane through the air, the sound it made both terrifying and erotic. She felt the tip of it stroke the curve of her right buttock, then the left. He slipped it between her legs, pressing upwards and against her slick cleft. She stumbled slightly, attempting to keep her balance in the stiletto heels of the ballet boots in which her legs and feet were excruciatingly trapped. He let out a low, sadistic chuckle.

"Can't have you falling on your face just yet," he said. She didn't dare turn around, but heard his boot-clocks walking away from her and towards a cabinet in the room. She knew from prior experience that he kept the Training Room's "hardware" there. When he returned, he was holding a two-foot spreader bar and a pair of clamps. He snapped the clamps onto either end, and then knelt down before her to attach the bar to the cuffs around her boots.

She barely had time to recognize the mistake she'd made in looking down at her Master in this position. She bit back a painful scream as he reached up and jammed his fist against her crotch, forcing his huge, ham-like fist partially into her slick cunt. He continued to press against her mound with his closed hand, seething with anger at her impertinence for daring to look down at him. He slowly withdrew his fist from her bruised and tender aperture as he stood, and he drew to his full height, the luchadore mask he wore angled slightly down as he glared at her, mask-to-face.

"Never. EVER. Look down at me. You serve ME. If I have to punish you for looking down at me again..." Again, he left the threat unspoken, the rage demonstrated in his breathing. He took the chain linking her hands and yanked it upwards, lifting the manacles above her head and quickly clipped it to a steel ring suspended from a ceiling beam. Then he drew a flat palm back, and she squeezed her eyes closed as she felt the blow land across her left breast. He then slapped her other breast, backhand, the sound of flesh smacking the vinyl of her halter cutting through the air. She howled with pain as he repeated the process, hard smack on the left tit, backhand on the right. Then he cupped her chin and pulled her face directly against his, almost close enough for a lovers' kiss.

"You fucking whore," he whispered. "You love having your tits spanked." She nodded, eyes wide, cheeks tear-streaked.

"Say it."

"I love it..." Barely audible.

He reached out, yanked the underside of the vinyl halter up and over her breasts, exposing them. He grabbed a handful of her breast, squeezing it mercilessly.

"You love WHAT, CUNT?"

She spoke more firmly this time, calmer, despite the mauling her breast was receiving. "I love it when you abuse my tits, Sir."

Mollified, he nodded and released her chin. He walked around behind her, and she again heard the swishing of the cane. She had already known that she was going to have a very rough session today, and this was going to be the climax, the main event. If she were lucky, she'd have an orgasm while he was caning her. If not, she'd have to wait until she could obtain permission. She felt him roll the vinyl skirt all the way up her ass to her waist, and she was now completely exposed in every way. The cane whickered violently through the air twice more, and both times she bit down, preparing to scream with pain, but no blow came. The third time, however, was not a practice blow -- it landed heavy on her backside, hard enough to jar her forward. She rocked forward on the rounded toes of the ballet boots, the chain suspending her hands above her pulling taut, cuffs biting into her wrists. She groaned loudly, from equal parts rapture and torture. Again he whacked her ass with the cane. Again. Again. The welts rising on her body would be excruciating later on, but for now they were a welcome sensation, the knowledge that her tender ass was being wrecked by his ministrations with the cane a pleasurable diversion. Another blow. Another, this time across her thighs. She stood as straight as she could, feeling each crack against her skin a new, brilliant sort of pain, electrifying her senses and charging through her nervous system with every strike. And her Master was relentless -- he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of upper body strength to have caned her so ruthlessly for what had seemed like hours.

Finally, she heard the cane rattle to the floor behind her. His ragged breathing matched her own perfectly. Her body was covered in a sheen of sweat, the ultra-sensitive skin of her bottom and thighs welted and raised, tiny droplets of blood along the cane-stripes. Her inner thighs slick with her juices, a small puddle of it on the floor directly between her spread feet -- she must have climaxed without even realizing it. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back to his bare chest. Large hands cupped her breasts, trapping the nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. She sighed, content that the worst was over, and that she had done well in his eyes. The thought of crying out their agreed-upon safe word had never even crossed her mind.

He unclipped the chain lashing her bracelets together, freeing her hands (and WOW are my shoulders sore now! she thought mildly). Still behind her, he again knelt down to remove the spreader bar from between her feet. This time, though, she kept her eyes straight ahead -- she was a good slave and had learned her lesson well. When she felt his hands on her hips, turning them, she obliged to face him and the chest he now leaned against. He stepped away from her, and she bent over at the waist, placing her hands on the hard, carved surface of the chest's lid. She heard the buzz of his zipper slide down, and then a brief rustle as his pants dropped to the floor around his ankles. While her "punishment" was technically over, she would still have to endure some pain -- between the welts on her ass, the bruising she'd taken from his fist earlier, and the simple fact that the Big Boss was very well-endowed. She carefully stepped her feet apart again, spreading them as she leaned forward, and felt the plum-sized head of his organ between the cheeks of her ass.

He stroked up and down her backside, rubbing his hard cock against the red-striped welts the cane had delivered earlier. He then took himself in hand and they groaned in tandem as he guided his member inside her, her slick labia offering no resistance. He began to slowly saw in and out, rocking his hips, she rocking hers in time to meet him. The pain of his hips smacking against her sweat-covered, bruised cheeks made her yelp and sob, and she clenched down around his cock, milking him for punishing her so roughly. Deeper he went, thrusting more vigorously now, until she could feel his heavy balls swinging and slapping against her throbbing clit, bouncing against her body as he lost all abandon and began to fuck her mercilessly.

Just as she felt another orgasm beginning to build from the pain and pleasure she was experiencing, she felt him quickly withdraw from her mound. He hissed at her, "Turn around, turn around NOW!" She complied, maneuvering as best as she could in the rounded-toe boots, and she knelt before him, the patent leather unyielding and painful, biting against the backs of her knees and ankles. She assumed the position of the perfect submissive -- on her knees, mouth wide, eyes open and adoring as she watched the fat purple head of his erection disappearing and reappearing from his fist directly in front of her face. Enraptured as his hips and thighs began to tremble, then convulse. As the first spurt of his orgasm left the tip of his cock, she closed her eyes and felt warmth splatter onto her face, coating her cheek and rolling down. Another jet blasted along the side of her nose, a third painting her forehead and dripping into her eyes. Several more, smaller spurts coated more of her face, landing in her hair, and dripping down her chest and onto her exposed breasts. She reached up to wipe her forehead to keep his cum from dribbling into her eyes and he smacked her hands away viciously -- he would not allow it.

At last his hips stopped jerking, the torrent of sperm finally drained dry. One of her eyes seemed to be glued shut, but she looked up at him with blurred vision and smiled, sticking out her tongue and licking what she could reach, allowing his seed to pool in her mouth and on her tongue. Holding his gaze, she swallowed with a grimace, then opened her mouth wide, showing him she had done so. His hands stroked her hair and face.

"Such a good little slut. You did good today."

"Yes Sir," she replied, then dared to joke with him a bit. "Good thing my next commercial shoot isn't one where I have to sit down..." She paused, half-smiling, hoping he would appreciate her wit. Her heart leapt when he chuckled at her, acknowledging the mild joke. "There's some ointment in the bathroom right through that door. Do you need help getting it on?"

"No Sir, I can manage." She swallowed hard at this point, knowing she was going to have to ask for permission for something she'd been doing at will since she'd been a teenager. "But may I...?"

He cut her off. "Once. And only once. It must be here in the office building. You can do it now, in my presence. You can do it in the bathroom. You can do it at your cubicle if you so choose. But not at home -- I must be able to watch you when you do."

She nodded. "Yes Sir. Help me up?"

He grabbed her wrists and pulled her to a standing position, and she tottered towards the bathroom's door. She went inside, and blinked in the harsh fluorescent light as compared to the relative darkness of the Training Room. She looked at herself in the mirror -- her lipstick smeared, one eye still pasted shut with sperm, mascara running down her cheeks like black tear-trails, her left breast already developing a rather nasty yellow-purple bruise from the beating she had taken there. She couldn't see her ass in the mirror, but as she ran her fingertips up and down her cheeks, she could feel the enormous welts he had left her. And she really wasn't kidding that much about the commercial shoot -- she'd be lucky to sit down ANYWHERE for a few days.

She sat down on the toilet, gingerly, and relieved herself again. Her sex was bruised, pulpy, and sore, but in a heavenly sort of way. She cleaned herself (carefully), stood up, and delicately applied the healing ointment to her very sore and rippled ass. After trying unsuccessfully to pull the latex garments back into place by herself, she left the bathroom to ask Sir for help. Instead, she found the room now well lit, the chest covered over with a simple black cloth and pushed back into a corner, and no evidence of the ring that had suspended her hands above her. Also no evidence of Sir.

Instead, a young woman waited for her to exit the bathroom. The same one who led her here originally. And she was VERY young-- maybe barely out of her teens. Blonde. Pale. Shorter than herself but with a nervous, wiry energy. Clad in a vinyl jumpsuit with zippers over the twin mounds of her small breasts and crotch. She held her thin whip-cane in one hand, and a black suit bag in the other. "Thought you might could use these, sugar!" Definitely the girl from before -- the twang of the last word sounded more like "sugah". The bag landed squarely at her feet, and she bent down to pick it up, muttering her thanks. Then the sound of a metallic snick cut her voice off, and her eyes widened to see a very dangerous-looking switchblade open right in front of her face.

"For the skirt and halter -- those aren't coming off unless I cut them off. Am I right?"

"Ummmm, yeah. Probably so." She felt the tip of the knife slide up between her breasts, through her cleavage, turning and biting into the vinyl rolled up above her breasts. With a quick, practiced motion, the blonde mistress-in-training sliced through the vinyl, and it dropped to the floor in a soft fwap. She repeated the knife's action along the prisoner's left hip, cutting the garment away. She examined the prisoner's ass, fingering the welts and bruises, appraising them. "Damn, he's good" she mused to herself. Almost as an afterthought, she turned around. "Do you need help with anything else?" A lascivious grin followed this statement, obviously referring to the prisoner's own need for sexual release.

While the idea of playing with another woman wasn't completely foreign to the prisoner, it had never been anything other than an idea -- an occasional fantasy to pass the time. She'd never seriously considered it before, though. As she was mulling it over, the blonde approached her, the catsuit creaking as she did so. The blonde reached down and unzipped the crotch-zipper of what she was wearing, exposing a rather small, furry blonde muff. She dipped two fingers between her legs, stroked them up and down her pink labia, and lifted them to her lips. Then, sucking them clean, she asked the other "Would you like a taste of mine? Or your own?" The prisoner declined, shaking her head. She mostly just wanted to get dressed and get the hell out of these boots.

"Damn. I wanted to watch that pretty pitch-girl's face working between my thighs today. Maybe some other time. Go get dressed so I can get you out of here. Hurry up."

She deftly untied the boots, unlacing them several on one boot, then several on the other, slowly bending down until she was able to carefully step out of them. She gasped with pain as her ankles bent for the first time in several hours, and her toes were crushed and blistered. She yanked off the now-disjoined cuffs, tossing them aside with the boots. She unzipped the suit bag, breathing a sigh of relief to see her name tag, her headband, and all the other accoutrements that allowed her to return to herself. She quickly donned her panties and bra, carefully avoiding the bruised and broken spots (WOW that tit is gonna bruise, she thought), slipping on her polo shirt, her white jeans, and then her shoes. She left the socks off, knowing she'd have to sit to put them on and knowing that wasn't going to happen.

As she dressed, the blonde girl carefully undid the fastenings of her catsuit, letting it fall to the floor, exposing herself completely as she did so. She really was gorgeous, and maybe some other time, when she wasn't in so much pain, the prisoner might consider it. "My name is Stephanie, by the way. Sorry, meant to tell you that earlier." Stephanie reached for an identical suitbag at her own feet, and pulled out a floral sundress and flat sandals, as well as a company ID badge with her picture. She dressed quickly, pinning the badge to the strap of her sundress just as the prisoner had re-established herself, tying the apron in place and again adjusting her nametag, straightening it.

Stephanie tossed the blindfold to the brunette, indicating that she put it back on. She walked her, guiding her by the elbow, through several corridors and corners. When they stopped, she heard the "ping" of an arriving elevator, the doors sliding open. Stephanie led her into the elevator cab and up they rode. Only once did either of them speak.

"He used to tear my ass up like that too." The blonde girl smiled wistfully at this memory.

When the elevator ground to a halt, and the doors pinged open, Stephanie lifted the blindfold up and off the other's head. They were back on the sixth floor. The blonde dominatrix (who really just looked more like a college-age intern working in the building) pointed down the hall, and gave her instructions. "The regular bank of elevators, the ones you ride every day, are down that hall. You won't be able to get back to six without authorization. Go back to your cubicle. He'll call you again in two weeks. And he said he hopes your ass gets to feeling better -- he has some rather "invasive" plans for it next time. Sorry sugar, his words, not mine." This last was directed at a wince and grimace from the brunette, her hands involuntarily going to her sore bottom and carefully rubbing it.

"OK, thanks. And I'll keep that offer of yours in mind for some other time, deal?" Stephanie smiled, almost demurely, and extended her hand. The brunette started to stammer out, "By the way, you can call me F..."

"Honey, everyone knows your name. Besides, tricked-out nametag? Remember?" Stephanie laughed and walked back to the service elevator they had arrived on, pushed a button, and disappeared with a wink as the doors shut and sped off to another floor. The brunette walked back to the bank of elevators, passing Suite 602 on her way. She glanced at it, but kept walking. She reached the elevator lobby, and chose "down". She just wanted to get home, get in a bubble bath, and get herself in trouble by disobeying him and breaking his policy on masturbation. She tugged at her apron strings and adjusted her headband a bit forward as the elevator doors slipped open soundlessly. She got on, pressed "P" for the parking deck below the building, and hoped no one else would ride down with her.

Fortunately, no one did. She'd been through quite enough for one day, and wanted to unwind in peace. The doors slid open and she headed towards her car, breathing the cool late night air, welcoming the change of scenery. As she reached for her car keys, she saw a black convertible streak past her in the deserted parking deck, a tousle of blonde hair and the hint of a floral sundress in the driver's seat. She thought to raise her arm in a wave, but the convertible whipped around the corner, tires shrieking as it sped out and away into the night. She got into her own car, trying to find the most comfortable way to sit on her bruised bottom, and started it, heading for home.

The following morning, she arrived to work as usual. She stopped by the same restroom as she always did, double-checking her hair, her makeup, applying one more coat of the bright red lipstick that was part of her trademark. Greeting her co-workers, stopping to chitchat at the coffee clutch, doing everything she usually did. And she thought she was doing an incredible job of not letting on that her mangled feet and bitterly sore derriere were foremost on her mind as she talked to and high-fived each person.

She reached her cube to find a plain white envelope on her desk, only her name printed on it. When she opened it and let the contents drift to the desk's surface, she found and counted a total of seventeen rose petals. For the seventeen times she had served him. All but one of these were the purest white. The last, blood red. This was the first time he actually made me bleed, she thought as she held the petal to her lips, inhaling its fragrance. She smiled to herself, gingerly sat down, and logged in. She put on her million-watt smile, her headset perfectly in place, and sighed contentedly. She couldn't wait until a week from Thursday. The first beep of the day sounded in her ear, and she swiveled around in her chair, ready to get started. "Hi, thanks for calling Progressive! This is..."