1 comments/ 18963 views/ 1 favorites Progressive Discipline By: irishkenny1974 "Okay, hun...thanks for calling!" She clicked the button to disconnect the call. Another satisfied customer, she thought to herself. Her eyes flickered toward the white-and-chrome clock on the office wall, anticipating the next few minutes. She watched the second hand swing across the company logo running across the center of its face. Do I have enough time? She drummed her fingers on the desktop for just a moment, indecisive. After several more seconds of contemplation, at last she pushed back from her desk, standing up from her blue swivel chair. She smoothed down her white apron, checking to make sure it was crisp, straightening her nametag. Taking a deep breath and assuming the million-watt smile for which she was famous (literally), she headed out of her workspace, past the cubicles of her co-workers, waving to some, high-fiving others as she went past. She concentrated on keeping up the façade of the cheerleader and franchise spokesperson everyone knew her to be. But when she reached the ladies' room door, pushed it open, and slipped inside, the smile fell away. She knew that the Big Boss would be calling for her soon, and she must be ready. She was certain she had met the Big Boss in public, in the office, might have even spoken with him. But she had never seen his face during the sessions that always followed his summons. She had never heard him speak, except in a hoarse, throaty whisper, commanding her. The only other utterances she had ever heard from the man were of a more animal nature -- the groans and sighs of his pleasure as she served him. The simple thought of the things he made her do for him, the power and control over her, which he possessed... She shivered slightly, clearing her head of the fantasies-come-true invading her thoughts. She had work to do. She checked herself in the mirror, carefully straightening her headband. A tube of ultra-red lipstick appeared from the pocket of her white jeans, and she twisted the bottom, very carefully applying the crimson to her lips as she watched herself in the mirror. Glancing around to ensure that she was completely alone in the restroom, she stepped into a cubicle, unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her high-cut white cotton panties. She sighed gently with relief as the cool air from the restroom's air ducts wafted over her bare sex, her panties sliding down over the flare of her hips. She sat down, relieved herself quickly, and flushed. But she felt the heat between her thighs when she cleaned herself - she knew she was aroused, the mere anticipation of the Big Boss's phone call set her off every time. This had been going on for quite some time, maybe eight months. Sixteen phone calls, sixteen summons. Every other Thursday, promptly at three-twenty, the second line on her cubicle's phone would ring. No one else ever called that line. Not even she knew the actual direct number. But she would hear his whisper, his beckon to serve, and she would obey. The first time she took that stranger's call, she had been working for the company for several years and had been the face of the franchise for most of that time. Never before had she had any trouble at work -- she loved her job, she loved her co-workers, and she loved saving her customers money. But when she answered the jangling of the phone, glanced down and saw the caller ID was completely blank, and heard the raspy voice on the other end, she froze with fear and concern as he began to speak. She wondered for a brief moment if one of her co-workers was yanking her chain, and then he spoke her name. Short. Harsh. Authoritarian. His tone snapped her attention back to him. He began his orders that first time with where she should go immediately after he disconnected, and what she would find when she did. And his voice was so direct, so full of the threat of punishment should she fail to do as proscribed, she obeyed. She had placed the phone back on the crate, hands trembling, her heart racing. The implications of this unknown man's words had made her blood run cold. Except in one place. The junction between her thighs felt like molten steel. He had told her things. Secret, filthy, abominable things. The sort of perversities that would have any other employee at this multi-billion dollar insurance company running straight to the Human Resources department. But she was no regular employee. People knew her. People loved her for her sunny disposition, her complete trustworthiness, and for her sardonic humor. Being in her position, she technically didn't have a direct supervisor -- she pretty much did whatever needed to be done, whether it was customer service, media, or just talking to people about how great this company was. And even if she DID have someone to report to, what would she say? That she had just taken a call from someone obviously inside the company, someone very high up based on what he had revealed to her, and someone with security access? Someone who had the capacity to blank out her caller ID and then proceeded to say the most despicably sexual things in her ear, outright daring her to betray the nature of his call? She had listened to him that first time. She had nodded in the appropriate places, clinging to each word while he basically mind-fucked her over the phone. She had sat stock-still in her chair, every degrading and debased word sinking into her nervous system. As he began to describe to her what she was about to do for him, she had begun to rock gently in her seat, the crotch of her high-waisted cotton panties completely saturated with her excitement and shame. Her nipples had been like small, pale bullets inside her white polo shirt and bra, and she was so excited that she struggled to keep her free hand on the desktop so it wouldn't drift into her lap. When he asked if she understood his directions, and if she was going to comply willingly, all she could squeak out was a meek "Yes, Sir." And she had followed them to the letter. And the pain, the mortification, the embarrassment, and the exquisite pleasure that followed throughout that afternoon and evening had been so gratifying. Despite having not seen his face, despite his brutality, it had been complete bliss. And now, sitting in the corner stall of the women's restroom just off the fourth-floor customer service pod, her hand slipped between her thighs, lost in the thrall of her memories of submission. Fingers stroked downward over the fine hairs of her mound, spreading her vulva apart with her fingertips, and she inhaled sharply as she felt the first stroke against her exposed and throbbing clitoris. Reminiscing about her first experience with the Big Boss, her first time chained, her first time flogged, her first time physically tortured and emotionally humiliated by this unrelenting masked deviant had brought her to this level of sexual arousal, a personal passion she simply could not deny. She began to glide two fingertips up and down the length of her cleft, knowing that this act was forbidden but inevitable. She bit down on her lower lip, pinching her stiff nubbin between her finger and thumb and moaning as softly as she could while she continued to pleasure herself. She heard the door to the restroom open as another employee entered, the sound of heels clicking on the floor. She snatched her hand out of her lap quickly, guiltily, trying to get her breathing back under control. When she glanced down at the leather-banded wristwatch on her forearm, she realized with horror it was almost time for his call. Should she miss it, the consequences may be more than she could bear. She desperately wanted to finish what she'd started, but she hastily yanked up her panties, buttoned her pants, and snatched her apron from the hook inside the stall's door as she opened it. The intruding woman was standing at the vanity mirror, touching up her makeup. This was someone she recognized from her floor, and she reattached her smile as she stood next to her. She straightened her headband again, fluffed her dark auburn hair, and flashed her blue eyes up into the mirror to meet the other's. "Heeeyyyyy! How's your day going?" she chirped. "When ya gotta go, ya gotta go, right? See ya later, and push those bundle policies!" She only hoped the woman standing in front of the mirror hadn't noticed the smell of fresh sexual arousal emanating from her as she passed, exited the restroom and headed back towards her cubicle. Her phone was already ringing. Oh, shoot! She ran the last few steps into her cubicle and snatched up the receiver from its cradle. She knew it was the Big Boss, and before words of apology could form on her lips, she heard the venom in his voice. "You're late, slut." "Sir..." "Shut up!" he snarled at her. She held the phone to her ear, embarrassed. Silent. She waited her turn, having learned her place when in contact with him. "I know why you are late, too. You were in the bathroom just now. And you were doing something bad. VERY bad. Something you KNOW you're not allowed to do without my express permission, slut. Or did you forget your place?" "No, Sir. I didn't forget," she replied meekly. "Then you disobeyed me on purpose. Since you obviously can't control yourself, I'm going to have to do it for you." "I'm sorry, S—" "SHUT UP!" he roared. She winced, pulling the phone from her ear. Her free hand flew to her face, trying to cover her expression of shock and shame quickly. She knew that if anyone saw her as anything other than the super-friendly superstar, questions would be asked. Or people would talk about it when she wasn't around. And that led to rumors. And rumors led to trouble. She leaned back into the receiver, silent, expectant. His voice returned to its usual hoarse whisper, but she could hear his fury brimming just below the surface. "You will report to Suite 602 in this building at precisely 4:30. If you are so much as a fraction of a second late..." He had left the promise of repercussions unspoken, and her imagination churned with fear at what may happen if she didn't comply. He continued, knowing he had her full attention. "You will dress in what is provided, and you will blindfold and cuff yourself. You will be escorted to the Training Room at my leisure. You understand." Not a question. She responded without hesitation. "Yes, sir. 4:30." She knew better than to repeat the suite number for fear of being overheard. And she knew better than to be late twice in one day. She was already starting to worry about what the punishment was going to entail for her indiscretion in the bathroom only a short time ago. Adding insult to injury (Ha, ha. Like I'm not going to get both of those anyway, she mused) would only worsen the situation. And the possibilities were limited only by her Master's imagination, which was cruel, and based on her experiences with him so far, without boundaries. Progressive Discipline Ch. 02 Trembling, she stepped off the elevator alone onto the sixth floor with a full minute to spare, and immediately headed for Suite 602. She saw absolutely no one else walking around, no sounds coming from the hallway other than the cold electric buzz of the fluorescent overheads. It occurred to her that she'd never been on the sixth floor before, had never had a reason to do so. Gathering her courage, she raised her hand to knock on the door. Lowered it. Raised it again, shaking. Right as her knuckles made contact with the door, she heard a soft click and the door swung inward. A rather dour, non-descript middle-aged man peered up at her from behind thick glasses, silent. He sat at the desk in the front of the suite, the lone furnishing in the room. No computer on the desk. No art on the walls. Not a single company logo to be seen anywhere. The room was lit by a solitary overhead ballast above the desk. She regarded her surroundings with trepidation - none of this was doing anything to assuage her fear of what was about to transpire. The middle-aged man glanced nervously at his watch, and then finally spoke in a quavering voice. "Your instructions are to go into the next room, undress completely, and oil yourself. Then put on the clothing left for you in there. After you have dressed, you will assume the proper position. Wait. He will send for you." The man rose from the desk, and he walked toward her with a stooped gait. Stopped directly in front of her, his eyes swimming in the fishbowl lenses of his glasses. His breath was stale, tie and jacket rumpled and stained. He briefly appraised her, and then walked past her and out of the suite without so much as another word. She heard the lock shut behind her with a snick, and then the jangle of keys, an invisible bolt shot. She was locked in. For just a moment, she looked around at the complete sterility of this room. No windows looking into the hallway. No exterior windows. She lingered for just a moment, tracing her fingertips over the slightly dusty top of the desk. Realizing there was nothing else to look at, she slowly walked into the next chamber, a mixture of fear and anticipation churning in her stomach. Like the room she had just left, this one was completely bare of decoration and furniture. Also practically no light -- a single fluorescent ballast just above the door. Only two things were in the room, and both were obviously meant for her. One was a floor-length mirror resting against the wall. The other was an ordinary black garment bag suspended from a coat hook just inside the door, the sort of thing executives traveled with in every airport in the world. But the contents inside that bag were anything but ordinary. As she slowly unzipped the suit bag, the smells of fresh vinyl and leather permeated the air. She removed the articles, appraising each one as she laid it on the floor, trying to inventory what she was about to have to put on: a very thin vinyl halter top. Something that could only be a vinyl microskirt. Studded leather wrist- and ankle-cuffs. A collar. A blindfold. A red ball gag, replete with head strap. Lastly, from the bottom of the bag, a pair of impossibly long, impossibly straight thigh-high lace-up boots, with what had to be a six-inch high heel and no discernible place where the foot angled away from the ankle. She saw the rounded toe of the boot, and imagined a ballerina en pointe, feet fully extended from the ankle, and realized that was exactly what these were -- ballet boots. Not meant for dancing, either. These would be torture to walk in, and she grimaced as the thought crossed her mind that the boots might very well be the least painful experience of the evening. Along with the boots in the bottom of the bag, she found a small bottle of baby oil. And she knew from past experiences what this was for -- vinyl and latex garments did not pull well over dry skin, and could chafe when it did. She left the bottle in the garment bag for the moment; she had to undress first. She pulled her apron's strings at the small of her back, feeling it loosen from her waist. She carefully loosened it from her collar, slipped it over her head and headband, and hung it over the hook with the suit bag. She kicked off her shoes and white ankle socks, and then unfastened her pants. She pushed them down her hips, letting them slide to the floor, and stepped out of them. Then the still-damp panties rolled down the white skin of her now bare bottom, over her supple thighs, and to the floor, joining her pants. Her hands rubbed up and down her bottom, less for pleasure than for apology and comfort, because she knew that it was going to be extremely sore very soon. She then placed her hands at her neck, unbuttoning the collar of her polo shirt, grasped her shirttail, and pulled it over her head. Now standing in only her bra, she shivered slightly with anticipation as single droplet of moisture beaded from between her thighs and rolled down one leg. Hastily, she undid the clasp between her breasts, freeing them as she shrugged the garment back from her shoulders. Completely nude, she bent down to retrieve her clothes, and she carefully folded everything, placing each item in the bottom of the bag. Almost as an afterthought, she stripped her watch from her wrist and pulled the headband backwards and off, tucking both into the pocket of her apron. This she suspended from the clothes hanger, zipping the bag shut, effectively encasing her persona in a shroud of nondescript black plastic, sealing it away until later (after...) when she would retrieve herself and her identity. For right now, she was no one. She had no name, no personality. She was merely "slave" or "slut". And she now belonged to Him. She now stood before the mirror, examining herself. Her breasts were not overly large, but they were firm and perky, much like her personality. Skin pale white, only an occasional freckle here and there to mar an otherwise porcelain landscape. A flat but undefined tummy, the darkness of her navel a stark contrast. The low-trimmed triangle of her dark pubic hair, stopping just above the cleft of her labia, which were completely bare all the way back to the cleft of her buttocks. He had insisted on her waxing this area after their third session, and of course she had complied. Fortunately, she found a spa discreet enough to handle celebrity clientele, but it had still hurt like hell having her pubic hair ripped from the roots around the sensitive skin surrounding her most delicate parts. She knew she had time -- she was quite certain he was watching her via some discreetly installed security camera, and would not send for her until she was dressed and ready for him. She reached for the baby oil, opened it, and squirted the sweet-smelling slippery lubricant into her cupped palm. She started with her feet and ankles, bending from the waist, working the oil into her skin carefully, diligently. She moved up to her calves, her knees, and finally her thighs, massaging her skin, careful to make sure every inch of skin was completely saturated. Her fingers continued upwards, coating the skin of her inner thighs, her hips, and her ass. She was careful not to touch her mound any more than necessary as she spread the oil over it -- she was already very moist and sensitive, and overstimulating her sex was likely to push her over the edge. She finished rubbing the oil into her hips, over her belly, and then concentrating on her breasts and back. She had worn this halter before, and she knew what to expect this time. Her nipples were erect, swollen nubs glistening with oil and sweat as she applied coat after coat over them, preparing them for whatever the Big Boss had planned. She finished by rubbing a copious amount of the oil into her neck, along her cheeks, and into her forehead. Glancing in the mirror again, her skin white, luminous, and shining in the light above her head, she looked like a naked, nameless seraph, something pure and otherworldly. Something innocent. Something for him to shatter later. She examined the collection of vinyl and latex garments, deciding what to put on first. She knew that the boots were going to be a bitch-kitty to put on and stand in, so she set those to the side. She plucked up the microskirt, stepped into it, and wriggled her hips as the material rolled and slid into place -- without the oil coating her skin, it never would have gone on at all. Her thighs were bound together in the vinyl sheath -- the material was stretched taut across them. Next she slipped the halter over her head, struggling to get her arms through the straps. She fought with the bottom edge of it, unable to pull it down under her breasts. Impatient, she snatched up the baby oil and squirted it over her chest, coating it, rubbing it into her tits roughly. With a final yank and twist, it slid into place, crushing her chest into a form resembling that of an S&M Barbie doll -- plastic, formed, and molded in place. The black vinyl of the halter and skirt creaked as she moved inside it, and she bit down on her lower lip as she regarded the ballet boots waiting patiently on the floor beside her. The laces were loose enough for her to slide into them, but she would have to put them on from a sitting position. Grunting, she knelt down, knees pressed together, uncomfortable enough in what she was wearing already. She maneuvered herself down to the floor, legs protruding out in front of her, and picked up the left boot. She struggled to bend her legs properly to get into the boots, and she was sure he was probably laughing at the images of her plight on the security monitor he was watching. Once she finally had her feet planted in them, she began to tighten the laces, eyelet by eyelet. If a single stitch was turned or gapped, he would be displeased. Besides, she was a perfectionist, and that part of her psyche didn't stay in the suit bag with her nametag and white company-logo-emblazoned apron. Her fingers worked carefully but deftly, tugging each lacing tight, twenty-nine eyelets on each side of the boot, beginning at the midpoint of her extended foot and rising up the patent leather over her shin, her knee, and ending at mid-thigh, leaving a mere inch of material above the final pair of eyelets. She then repeated the process with the other boot, again, carefully but deftly. She was again grateful for the baby oil she had been allowed, as she needed to coat her knees and thighs again to get the boots situated just so. She finished tying the laces on her right thigh, looked down, and admired her work. She thought the boots made her legs look incredibly beautiful -- straight, black, shiny, the toes pointed severely in front of her, the heels spiking down forever. The skirt gathered underneath her was so brief; she could feel the nap of the carpet against her exposed ass and labia as she moved. She bent over again, reaching for her ankle-bracelets, and buckled them around the boots. "How am I supposed to get UP from here?" she wondered with mild amusement, trying to rock herself over onto her stomach so she could stand. The patent leather creaked and bit severely into the backs of her knees as she pushed back into a kneeling position, making her gasp with pain, and she slowly rocked backwards onto the high-spiked heels, straightening her knees as she stood. As she lifted her torso, the halter protesting noisily, she gasped with pain as her weight settled down onto her heels and toes. Sharp agony greeted her with every stunted step in these monstrous boots. She realized she still had a few more items to don before she was completely prepared for him. The leather wrist cuffs, collar, blindfold, and the gag. She bent down again, struggling to maintain her balance and not fall on her face, and carefully picked up each item one by one, tucking them into the narrow valley between her breasts and the halter so she only had to bend over and stand up once. She fastened the collar around her neck, then pulled on the blindfold, letting it hang loosely around her neck to be placed last. She attached the wrist cuffs one at a time. Finally, she placed the straps of the ball gag over her head, situating them carefully, watching herself in the mirror as she adjusted them into place across her forehead, her cheeks, behind her ears. The only thing she did not do was put the ball in her mouth -- that right was reserved for Him alone. She regarded her reflection once more before lifting the blindfold over her eyes. She no longer resembled the seraph, or some innocent angel glowing with light. She now looked like a prisoner -- the wrist cuffs waiting to be chained together, joined to her collar, the severe boots adding several inches to her height, the red lipstick she wore now the slash of a whore's mouth below the straps of the gag. He will be pleased, she thought, and she settled the blindfold into place. Head down, back and ass pressed against the wall, she stood with her wrists pressed together in front of her. Now, all there was left to do was wait for whatever the Big Boss had in store for her. Progressive Discipline Ch. 03 She started, awakening to the sound of several clicks directly in front of her. She felt her wrists being jammed together, joined by an extremely short chain. She could not see, and other than the sound of creaking leather and vinyl, and the clicks of the chains being snapped into place, she could not hear. The only sense available to her was that of smell, and the only thing she could discern about the person handling her bondage was the faint hint of perfume and hairspray. A woman, probably younger than herself. And when the other spoke briefly, her voice was completely unfamiliar, dead of emotion. "Come with me," she said in a low, flat monotone. Suddenly the prisoner felt her neck tugged forward by a chain (no doubt attached to the ring on the collar) and her feet complied slowly, wincing in pain as the ballet boots jammed her toes with each step. Disoriented, she allowed herself to be led out of the room in which she had dressed. Following the sound of creaking leather and heels clipping along the floor, she was told to turn left or right a split second before the chain was yanked in the correct direction. Twice she stumbled against the wall, almost falling to the floor the latter time. Both times she felt a sharp crack of a cane against the exposed flesh of her ass, peeking out from underneath her skirt. Whoever this woman was, she was cruel, and probably served the Big Boss as an understudy of sorts. And her cruelty came through in her voice as the prisoner cried out, stumbling a third time, almost knocking over her captor. "You stupid CUNT!" She hissed, a slight Southern drawl in her speech. "I will ram the end of this fucking cane up your fucking ASSHOLE if you fucking fall again! Understand?" Another sharp crack against her hip, then another whicker and crack across her chest. This felt different than the canings she had received before from the Big Boss – he was heavy handed, but very specific. The girl guiding and whipping her was out of control, her blows landing mercilessly but haphazardly. And lightning fast – the whicker she heard directly before each blow was the sound of the cane breaking the air before it as it hissed toward its target. The captor snatched the chain attached to the prisoner's collar, fisted it double, and yanked hard. Falling forward, she squeezed her eyes shut and prepared to crash to the floor. But instead, she felt the arms of the other woman catch her, trapping her before she fell. Her mouth was close to the prisoner's own, cinnamon gum on her breath. "You are SUCH a delectable little piece of ass, babe," the dominatrix purred. "If you weren't such a company hot shot, and if I could get away with it, I would Fuck. You. Up." She felt one end of the cane press into the soft space below her jaw, forcing her head up and back. Fingertips grazing along the hem of her skirt, slowly, barely skimming the sensitive flesh of her upper thighs. Then suddenly, she sobbed as the other woman shoved her hand up her skirt, her thumb instantly and instinctively finding her hard clit, pressing it fiercely. The domme chuckled, massaging and stroking her sex roughly. "Let's go, you little slut. You're already in trouble, no need for me to join you in it..." She felt the tug of the chain again, and followed, legs trembling. Between the pain from the boots wrecking her feet and the sexual tension in which she was ensnared, she was somewhere between the verges of tears and ecstasy – she couldn't tell which. She stuttered along, still following the chain attached to her neck, until they reached an elevator. Her captor had fallen silent, the threats and taunts at an end, and together they rode silently down. When the car halted and the doors slid open, she expected to be dragged out again, and waited for the tug on her collar. Instead, her captor shoved her forward, and she yelped as the cane again cracked through the air and striped the backs of her thighs, right below her skirt. "You're on your own now, slut. Big Boss is coming. Have fun!" She heard a low giggle as the doors slid closed again, and then silence. She stood, feet apart, head down, hands still manacled in front of her, and waited. She heard a door open, and then footsteps. Heavy, booted ones. Him. She felt his fingers on her cheeks, and then blinked as he peeled her blindfold up. She peered up, still half-blind, and could make out little more than the black smudge of the mask he always wore. He was only a bit taller than her, bare-chested, wearing only black pants and the heavy black rider's boots she'd heard approaching. He reached toward her face, and she closed her eyes again as he slipped the ball gag over her lips between her teeth. Then he spoke. "Turn around. Hands on the wall." She slowly rotated around on the ballet boots, bending slightly at the waist, palms pressed against the wall. She heard a rustling sound, a swishing, and he spoke again, low and harsh. "Count them." And before she had time to react, to absorb what he'd said, she felt her ass explode in agony as what felt like a thousand leather strips bit into her flesh. She bit into the ball gag, hard. She screamed in pain, but managed to get out the word "ONE!" muffled by the ball. She heard the heavy swish of the flogger again, and braced herself. "T-TWO," she cried out again as the tendrils snapped at her bottom again. She could already feel the welts raising on her skin, tears welling up in her eyes. She heard him chuckle behind her, and then felt him yank the skirt up and over her tender bottom, exposing it. He slipped the flogger between her thighs, forcing them apart, and she struggled to keep her balance as she stepped her feet apart. "Th-Thr-THREE!" She screamed again, the flogger now biting just under her cheeks, snapping against her lips of her vagina. Then he was on her, his breath hot in her ear, crushing her against the wall. "Whore," he muttered, sneering. The handle of the flogger slipped between her labia, and she groaned as it entered her, bruising her walls. He reached up with his other hand, grasping her throat, pulling her head back against his shoulder. He slowly shoved the flogger's handle in and out of her sex, her juices flowing over it. She whimpered into the gag, eyes closed, trying to decide whether what she was feeling was pain or passion. "You're a perfect little whore, aren't you, whore?" Directly in her ear, menacing, seething. He slid a finger under the gag's strap, popping it from between her teeth. "Y-yes Sir..." she whimpered, the smooth glass ball on the end of the handle fucking her faster now, pressing against her g-spot. "Are you enjoying getting your little whore's cunt drilled with this thing?" She nodded, panting now, desperate for release. She tried to buck her hips to urge him on, and he responded by yanking her back against him again by the throat, eyes widening in panic as her wind trapped in her chest, unable to speak or breathe. He caressed her throat, relaxing his grip just enough for her to suck in a hollow, whistling breath. "You don't get to cum yet, slut. I might not let you cum at all after that little show in the bathroom. Go over to the chest." He pulled her about-face by the chain on her collar, shoving her forward. She felt his eyes on her as she tottered on the ballet boots' pointed toes towards an enormous wooden chest in the back of the dark chamber he referred to as "the Training Room". She turned and faced him, her knees shaking. He threw the flogger to the floor, ignoring it as it skittered into the corner, the glass ball shattering on impact with the wall. He trod towards her, boots clocking on the hard floor, his head lowered like a bull's. He did not turn to look at her as he passed her, instead focused on the chest. He threw open the heavy hinged lid, reached inside, and as he turned to face her, his thick flexible cane in one hand, she trembled with fear and anticipation. She knew what was coming next. And it was going to hurt. Progressive Discipline Ch. 04 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..."