A sequel now then to my first-person present-tense "Redefining Punishment," with a short accompanying companion poem.
***
October 11th, 8:36 a.m.
It has been exactly five months since Mommy, p.k.a. Mistress Helen, has "adopted" me as her slave-puppy-daughter. I have since over this summer left any remnants of my past life behind. I am still essentially the same person underneath it all—25-year-old Delilah Olivia Gainey from Tudorville—and yet, my identity has taken a dramatic shift of late. Prior to this spring I lived on my own, as a single lesbian with an apartment, friends and a job. I was basically happy and content...or so I believed. Before I met Mommy Helen, I was not even aware that something was lacking in my life, let alone what it was.
My relationship with Mommy Helen began as a series of monthly meetings as slave to her—my Mistress. Soon after, Mommy demoted me (or
pro
moted me, depending on how you view the transformation) to her whipping pup. My soft, delicate, innocent heart and pussy questionlessly gave themselves over to her. I should be fibbing to you, Beloved Visitor and Reader, were I to tell you that I knew whether she cast a spell on me or simply possessed such a captivating magnetism that I was drawn to her not of my own free will. Either way, my emotional and physical surrender to her was involuntary.
You may be familiar already with the remainder of my story, Dear Friend, but in the case you are not, I will encapsulate it for you. On Mother's Day of this year I was due to appear at Mistress Helen's—as she was then still known to me—domicile, but I was detained in traffic and could not in time. I knew then that even so, I was in trouble, and I was in it deep. It mattered not that the situation was out of my hands; I was tardy, and tardiness is a crime for which Mistress Helen yields no compassion.
Mistress coerced me through a series of multifarious terrors the likes of which I'd never known before and can merely pray never to again. She truly redefined the concept of punishment. New levels were explored. Hidden depths were plunged. Closed portals to unfathomable reaches of mystery were unlocked. She shone the light and showed me the simple, honest truth.
I was a bad girl.
I
am
a bad girl.
And I am
her
bad girl.
And this is all I ever shall be from these days forth.
Call it a brainwash, call it psychological poisoning, call it power of compulsive suggestion. Call it what you will, my friend. There remains no reasonable, rational or logical explanation. It is a simple reflection of the way things currently stand. Once upon a time, I was a sweet, normal, well-behaved, genteel young lady.
Now, I am daughter to Mistress—forgive me;
Mommy
—Helen, and my future knows no further endeavors.
I belong, to her.
Life with Mommy Helen hasn't presented itself exactly as expected. Five months ago when she imprisoned me, I was terrified, broken and helpless. I felt that life as I knew it was over. In a way, you could say it was. In another, you might say that a new, momentous chapter had just commenced. But I was soon to discover to my surprise, Mistress—my assumed Mommy—wished not to confine me to her quarters for the purpose of eternal castigation and torment. My sentence is being served as we speak, in indefinite to permanent residence here, but observation questions the degree to which I am truly being "grounded," as it were.
The nature of this situation caught me off-guard in May. Mentally and physically terrorized by Mommy's brutally fierce scolding of my tardiness, I expected the days to follow to entail more of the identical. But I near dare say the person who returned to the house that fateful Sunday was in fact not the same who had gone. When Mommy Helen came home, something in her demeanor I could not define had radically changed. All I know is that same day, when Mommy descended back to the basement and found me in tears, she relieved me of my shackles, and slicked her tongue in long, thorough, almost even tender strokes, up the sides of my face, licking my tears away.
The next she said was simply as follows.
"
Come...daughter
."
The mystery unraveled as I began spending all of my days and nights under Mommy's care. I was orphaned at a young age, and spent the better part of my youth at a foster home, a story I told her prior to one of our initial sessions. One morning in May soon after adopting me, she told
me
a story, about a little girl once upon a time who was struck by the tragedy of a natural disaster, and was robbed of everyone and everything she held dear. It was a solemn and heartbreaking tale that I was soon to learn was serendipitously...autobiographical.
Mommy was that little girl.
This transformation in her was simply remarkable. It was awesome, in the purest and most literal sense of the word. Her story left me breathless. It was the first time I can remember beholding genuine emotion seeping through Mommy's normally stone-cold façade. Up to this point, the Mistress Helen I knew was a cold, calculating, ruthless domme who made me burn for her torture one moment, then cry for mercy the next. When I learned the truth, my heart bled for her. Suddenly, all came clear in my eyes. When she took me under her wing as her slave last year, I was no more than merely this. But I was astounded to be told that over these past several months, Mommy had grown to care for me. It seemed she wanted me for her own yet before that groundbreakingly horrifying day.
Our encounters proved to be remarkably fortuitous. Mommy became the parent I had virtually never known, and I became the child she had never had. We both needed someone, and in this unusual twist, found our ways into each other's lives.
My astonishment broadened to parallel my knowledge as she told me more and more. My mind was swept as she admitted to me that my lateness deeply wounded, as well as disappointed her. She did not reveal to me whether she was consequently
scared
that she might have lost me—thereby thrusting such unforgettable ferocity upon me in the way of discipline and reprimand, ensuring I would never disappoint her this way again—or strictly angry. I almost immediately ejected the first possibility. Mistress Helen, afraid? Of anything? No. This couldn't be. Not the Mistress Helen I knew.
Nothing
intimidated her.
...Or...
did
it?
I dared not actually broach the subject with her, for I knew precisely how she would respond. It was a riddle with which I would have to wrestle for a while. But were there one thing I had in no short supply, it was time. A whole life to figure it out.
Since dwelling in her home, she has taken me to bed each night to fall asleep in her arms. She subsequently began gently easing me into a daily routine. In the mornings she would, and continues to this day, to bathe me. It remains one of my favorite daily activities. She massages a marvelously blended shampoo and conditioner through my hair and proceeds to baptize me. She dispenses and applies liquid wash to my goosebump-ridden flesh and scrubs me ever so thoroughly. The tantalizing sensations accelerate beyond words. When I close my eyes, her cool, fair hands are bestowed with the touch of divine sorcery. She polishes until I gleam, and I never want to leave here.
The water and effervescent bubbles fill to the brim with ninety-six pounds of Delilah Gainey deposited into the cauldron, and it is a most fortunate circumstance. For even while my desires and impulses and cravings remain uncontrollable, should Mommy detect my guiltily throbbing, starved pussy, blood-red clit and stiffened nipples beneath the frothy surface, I should without doubt be further punished for my arousal without her permission.
I digress briefly to mention that though our relationship has thus metamorphosed from Mistress and slave into adopted mother and daughter, my brain has yet to be trained to accept. Though she retains my heart and my pussy both locked in an emotional vise, she makes it patent that I am under no circumstances to so much as
think
about setting the wheels of passion in motion between us. On the other, should
she
see fit to order me to the dungeon and engage me in a session of intimacy, any and all proverbial bets are on. And I am only far too pleased to obey. I would do
anything
for her.
But by the same token, as she knows that solitary masturbation no longer holds present or future significance to me, she may also opt to deny and deprive me for days at a time, eventually reducing me to a pleading heap on my knees, orally pleasuring her feet while begging for her love.
Oh, Mommy's bare feet...I am stymied to process the attraction or source thereof, but
oh
, such raw sexual devastation her mere
feet
wreak upon my libidinous soul. Those luscious soles...those sumptuous toes...those flawless arches...
She commands me to stand so that she may cleanse my lower regions. My cunt shoots premature come like a water jet.
I can stand it no longer.
"Permission to become aroused, Mommy??"
She tortures me by making me wait immeasurable spans for her reply.
"Permission granted."
I emit a squeal of delight and push myself to my feet, careful not to slip. Inevitably, a bit of water leaks over the edge of the tub. It is vastly to my advantage that spilling bathwater is nowhere to be found on Mommy's no-no list. When I have stood, I eagerly shake my hands half-dry and take a firm grip on the curtain rod. No sturdier shower rod has ever been installed. The first time Mommy bathed me, she picked me up and I gripped the rod. She released me, and nothing happened.
Grasping desperately just to keep from injuring myself, my eyes roll back and I moan in the throes of passionate surrender. Mommy's soapy, mature, talented hands travel my contours, starting at my hips and working their way down. My aching pussy is already dying for attention that only Mommy can give. And she knows it. She saves my pussy for last. As agonizing as is always the prolonging, the end result is
never
less than worth its wait.
