The Challenge

by [email protected]

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© Copyright 1998 - [email protected] - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/f; M/f; collar; cuffs; bond; slave; paddle; spank; crop; gag; anal; chair; dungeon; spreader; sex; cons; XX

WARNING! This story is only for adults over the age of 18 and contains Strong Sexual Content. It is intended as a work of fiction for ADULTS only, and the author does not in any way condone similar behavior. If you are under the age or 18 or reside in a state that prohibits such behavior, stop reading immediately!!!

Archiving permitted, reposting is permitted; but only if you include this statement of limitation of use and notify the author by e-mail. The author forbids you to make, distribute, or sell multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format. However, individual readers may make single copies of the story for their own, non-commercial use.

Attn: Readers please feel free to send an e-mail to the author. I do want to hear from you!

Continues from

Chapter Two: Death and the Resurrection

Part One: The Debt

June 1980

For Alana Peters, life could not get any better this June day. The stock deal to take the client's company public had hit the street this morning, and she had made it happen. She had worked for the investment firm on Wall Street, and this was her first big deal.

All the months of hard work, negotiations, nights spent in New York, all were paying off now. She had taken an old family firm public, and her investment firm was issuing the stock. For them and her it meant commissions, fame, and fortune. Already there was talk of an article about her in the Wall Street Journal, and she was sure to make partner.

She had spent the night before in NY, and had taken the car, a red Mustang convertible, into the City. Once the deal went public, let the big boys get on TV. Alana decided to hit the road and take a few days off. She would swing by her mother's house in Greenwich, pick up a few clothes, and then head up the coast, maybe end up in Boston.

She was driving north on the Merritt Parkway and the two lanes and sharp curves challenged her driving, forcing her to downshift to maintain control. She enjoyed the sound and feel of the five liter V8 and manual tranny as she raced, well over the limit, into Connecticut. Her black hair streamed behind her in the wind, as she had forgotten to wear a scarf. Driving with the top down was the most exhilarating feeling!


She turned to her left, and saw a red Pontiac Firebird. The man behind the wheel gestured, and floored his gas pedal. Alana, not wanting to be outdone, responded in kind, and slammed the Mustang into fifth gear. The speedometer jumped to over a hundred, and she was pushed back into her seat.

Rounding a curve, the Mustang encountered a puddle of water and oil. It's rear wheels lost traction, and it began to spin. First the car hit the center median, then bounced back to the shoulder; it's tires screaming in protest. The car hit a pole at nearly a hundred, ejecting Alana who had not worn her seatbelt. Alana screamed as the car disintegrated, her body buffeted by the forces tearing the car apart. Her body flew through the air, finally striking the pavement, her bones and flesh breaking on impact.

Police Report: Connecticut State Police PO Richard Parker

While on patrol on the morning of June 16, I observed two vehicles, a Pontiac and Ford Mustang, racing at a high rate of speed on the Merritt Parkway. Even before I could turn my lights on and pursue, the Mustang had spun out of control after sliding on a wet patch of road, and ejected the driver onto the pavement. Exiting from my patrol car, I called for an ambulance. The driver, a young woman, was badly injured given the force with which she hit the pavement. I was surprised that she was still alive when I reached her.

The driver was very lucky, given that right behind me was a doctor from Greenwich Hospital who stopped after seeing the accident. She was a trauma doctor, and kept the woman alive. Else she would have died quickly from her injuries.

Medical Report: Dr. Stephanie Richards

While driving on the Merritt Parkway to work on June 16, I was witness to a horrible road accident. Alana Peters was driving a red Ford Mustang Convertible, and was ejected during an accident.

I stopped to provide emergency medical aid, and was assisted by PO Parker who was already on the scene.

Her right leg was broken, along with collarbone, skull fracture, concussion, multiple broken ribs, punctured lung, and massive internal injuries and bleeding. Luckily, an ambulance was returning empty and heard the call from PO Parker, and was on the scene in 2 minutes. Even with the proper equipment, Alana went into cardiac arrest before we got her to the hospital. It took all of my skill to restart her heart, saving her life.

Alana Peters is lucky to be alive. However, when she awakens, she will be spending months, maybe a year in the hospital to recover and will require physical therapy to restore normal use to her body.

Her constant companion now will be pain as her body slowly heals from the heavy injuries that she has sustained.

She may regret surviving the accident given the long and painful path to recovery.

End Medical Report

Part Two: The Conscious Choice

July 1981

Alana drove her new BMW into Manhattan and had parked it at a garage not far from the address that she had been given over the phone. Scared like hell, she had walked without the cane a couple of blocks to a residential building. She had pressed the button, and been admitted within.

Her first view of the House of Domination was a letdown. Just an office where she was asked a few simple questions by a receptionist. Then she was conducted into another, private office, where she faced another woman. Her companion was an attractive woman in her early 30s, nicely dressed in a silk blouse and plaid skirt.

"Take a seat please," she directed, "drink?"

"Diet Coke."


The woman stood up and walked to a refrigerator, and removed 2 cans. One she handed to Alana then reseated herself in her chair.

"Thank you," said Alana.

"How may we help you?" asked the woman.

"I want to be used by a Dominatrix," bluntly stated Alana.

"No doubt in your mind?" asked the woman as she drank her Coke.



"I want to know what it feels like to be in submission," Alana replied, sipping at her soda, her throat suddenly bone dry from fright.

"Have you ever had these fantasies before?" asked the woman.

"Why all of these questions? I'm not a cop."

"No need to worry," the woman laughed, "we have some highly prominent people amongst our customers. If we were ever shut down, I just have to make one phone call and the heat would be off. Which is why you never see a place like ours busted."

"Sounds interesting," Alana replied.

"Why do you want to submit?"

"I want to feel a lash and riding crop, to be used, to be dominated by another woman."

"All right, we can provide that," said the woman, "and you must learn to obey all of my orders."

"Are you a Mistress?"

"Yes, Mistress Martine. Before any client goes under the lash, I like to ask a few questions. You pass. Payment will be in cash, used bills only. Small ones, please. You will be conducted to one of our Dungeons where my slave maid will have you undressed and ready for my use. You can still back out now, if you want."

"No," sighed Alana, "this is what I came here for."

"Good," answered Martine as she stood up, "see you in the Dungeon, then. Naked."

Another woman then conducted Alana, this time in her early 30s, to the Dungeon. Except that this was the first time that she had seen anything related to Domination. The Maid was dressed in a form fitting rubber outfit in black, and she was perched on very high heels. She escorted Alana to a small anteroom, when she was made to undress. Silently, Alana removed all of her clothes. Her blouse, skirt, underwear and shoes were all taken from her. The Maid then produced a box, inside of, which were leather cuffs, which were locked around her wrists. Then a collar was placed around her neck, to which a leash was attached. Alana was made to stand up, and her wrists were locked behind her back. Finally, a fur lined leather blindfold covered her eyes. She was now naked and helpless, and at the mercy of others.

"Come," she was instructed, feeling a tug at her collar.

Alana obeyed, and let herself be led a few steps. She had no idea what room that she was in, except that she was soon made to kneel. Just a few months before, she would have been incapable of doing that simple action. Even though the room she was in was quite warm, she still shivered, and Goosebumps covered her skin.

She heard the unmistakable sound of the click of a woman's heels, and then her blindfold was suddenly removed. She looked up, and there was Mistress Martine! Except that now she was dressed in a black leather corset, elbow length black leather gloves, black stockings, and matching black high heels.

"Mistress?" asked Alana.

"Silence, slave, you will speak only when you are spoken to," Martine said in a firm tone of voice.

Alana swallowed from fright. This was what she had sought out, what she wanted. To submit to someone, and finally to feel the lash.

"Have you ever been whipped before, or spanked?" asked Martine.

"No, Mistress."

"Then we shall have an easy session. I don't want to scare you off, so that you won't return."

Alana then was pulled to her feet like that of an errant child. Martine marched her over to a chair, and Alana was then draped across Martine's knee. She was going to be spanked!

"You will count out each one," ordered Martine, "if you fail to do so, then I have a paddle waiting. Several, in fact, everything from leather to wood."

"Yes, Mistress," answered Alana.







For the first time since childhood, Alana was over someone's knee, being spanked. Martine delivered each blow so that it struck in a different place on her bottom. Alana had the unmistakable feeling that her skin was gradually becoming warm. Also that she was slowly starting to be sexually aroused by her little punishment.

"Twenty!" cried Alana, who was startled when Martine stopped.

"Thank your Mistress!"

"Thank you, Mistress Martine," cried Alana.

Alana was then pulled to her feet by Martine, who marched her over to a chain hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists were released, then locked above her head to the chain. Then Martine locked similar cuffs around her ankles that were attached to a bar that would keep her legs open. Martine gestured, and the chain was suddenly pulled taut. Alana strained to keep her toes on the floor.

Her slave handed Martine a riding crop, and she flexed it in her gloved hands. Alana remembered how for her 16th birthday, she had been sent to England for a summer to learn how to ride a horse. She had been given a crop, but had never used it. Her friends had played around by using them on each other, but she had not joined in. Plus there were those stories that she had heard about the crop being used on people!

"Prepare to feel the crop, and you will not have to count, slave," taunted Martine.

Alana tensed, and she soon felt a stripe of fire run across the outside of her left thigh. Swallowing, but remaining silent, she felt each stroke of the crop as it struck her exposed nakedness. Martine was keeping to her word, as the strokes only stung Alana's flesh. They were quite mild in reality. Compared with the effort and pain of getting back up and walking between two parallel bars.

"Stronger," whispered Alana.

"What was that, slave?" asked Martine.

"Stronger, Mistress, please?" begged Alana.

Martine then began to strike Alana with even more force in each stroke. She drew her arm back and delivered each stroke methodically. Alana felt the finally she was in the position that she wanted to be. Her breathing was fast and flushed, her nipples were erect, and she knew that she was wet between her legs. Just like during therapy. Alana was sexually around by the pain that she was undergoing once again.

Then she felt the gloved hand of the Mistress probe her between her opened legs. Alana moaned when she felt as Martine push the gloved fingers into her sex, happy at the invasion.

"My, you're wet!" exclaimed Martine, surprise on her face.

"Whip me, Mistress?" begged Alana, "Please?"

"Have you ever been used by a Dominatrix before?" asked Martine.

"No, Mistress."

Martine exchanged the crop for a long, sinuous, black leather whip. The oiled leather gleamed in the light, and Alana wondered just how it would feel. Suddenly, a lifetime of watching old movies on television came back to her. She was going to go under the lash!

"Kiss the handle," ordered Martine.

Alana did as she was ordered. Martine then coiled the whip, and drew her hand back to strike. The whip lashed out, and coiled itself around Alana's stretched form. When the tip struck, Alana cried out. Not with pain, but pleasure. For the whip in its first stroke had released the sexual energy that the spanking and crop had stored within her.

Martine delivered stroke after stroke, each one with increasing severity. Alana's body pulsed and shook as she was wracked with one orgasm after another. This was like what she had experienced in therapy, but multiplied many times.

Finally, Martine ceased. She presented the handle to Alana, who kissed it again.

"I would like to see you after you've dressed," said Martine.

"Yes, Mistress."

Alana was let down by the Maid. She was escorted to a bathroom, where she could freshen up and dress. She washed her sweat-covered body off with a wash rag, and found that her pussy was sopping wet. Her body was covered by the marks from the crop and whip, but she was happy. Not in any pain at all. Alana dressed, and was helped by the Maid.

In the same anteroom where she had been questioned, Martine was waiting, still in her leather outfit. She was drinking another Coke, and smoking a cigarette.

"Have a seat. I've written you a bill," directed Martine.

"Thank you," said Alana.

Alana looked at the bill, and opened her purse, extracting her wallet. Nothing had been touched. She removed the fee, plus a generous tip for Martine, who had earned it.

"You're either a liar about not having been used before, or you're a natural that's used to pain. I watched your face when I was using you. You loved it, didn't you?" demanded Martine.


"Serving a Mistress before, or loving the pain?"

"The pain," Alana answered.

"Then you're a painslut," observed Martine.

"A what?" asked Alana.

"Painslut. Were you satisfied by my work?"

"Yes, Mistress. I'll be back again. Thank you."

Alana took her exit, convinced that what she had paid for was worth every dollar. She had gotten what she wanted. Walking around the neighborhood she entered the first bar that she passed. She ordered a stiff drink, and bummed a cigarette from the bartender. Alana inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs, her skin still smarting from the use that she had taken from the Dominatrix.

She sat quietly at the bar, watching the daily life of Manhattan pass by the windows. Just a few miles from here stood Wall Street, and her job, where she was still on Medical leave. But somehow, that no longer seemed important.

Alana smoked her cigarette, recalling the weeks-spent in pain after the accident as her body slowly healed. The days she did nothing but cry in her hospital bed, begging for painkillers. Her mother Eve, shouting at the doctors for something to dull her daughter's agony, only to be told that it wasn't proper medical practice just to give medication for that purpose.

Then slowly she had begun to heal. Her body repaired itself, and she was taken out of bed. First to sit up, then to stand, next to therapy. Every step that she took was sheer hell; every time she used her arms to lift weights was torture.

One day, during an intense session to force her to walk Alana found that the pain had excited her sexually. Her pussy was wet when the therapist had exercised her legs to force her to walk. The first time, she had been ashamed of herself. But each time that she had gone for therapy, Erica found that she would enjoy the pain. Her sex became wet, her nipples hard with desire.

When she had been recuperating at home, with a Nurse to take care of her and a visiting therapist to continue her exercises Alana suddenly remembered the Voice. She had read the paper while she worked in Manhattan, and had looked with wry amusement at the ads in the back from Professional Dominatrixes.

So Alana had resolved that when she was finally able to walk on her own that she would find a Dominatrix who would provide her with both pain and pleasure.

Alana had done that, and would go back for many visits to see Mistress Martine, who would take her a little further along with each session. She enjoyed being placed under the crop and lash, having a gag between her teeth. Afterwards, at home she would look and admire the marks on her skin.

Deciding that she wanted more, she then discovered the S&M clubs in Manhattan. She learned to disguise herself by using makeup and a wig. Then she rented an apartment in Rye, and bought an old car and took that into the city at night instead of the new BMW.

Alana Peters, daughter of wealth, Ivy League University Graduate, and future Wall Street Partner realized that she was now playing a dangerous game. That people in her position in society didn't just enter the world of D/s, without a huge scandal erupting.

So she resolved that she would use the wealth that her position in life had given her to create another life: where she could become another person.

Greenwich CT: January 1982

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be," cried Eve Peters, as mother and daughter sat together on the couch in the library.

"Mother, please! We've already argued about this before. There's nothing that will change my mind," said Alana, swallowing, as she brushed her black hair away from her eyes.

"Maybe another doctor or clinic," suggested Eve.

"No, I've had enough doctors," shouted Alana.

"Alana, please! You don't know what you're doing!"

"Yes, I do mom, please!" begged Alana.

The afternoon sun shone through the library windows, and a breeze came through the open windows. Mother and daughter, arguing, as they had for months. They sat on the couch together, and tears flowed onto both their faces.

"I've had you followed, do you know that?" asked Eve, "what's the benefit of wealth if you can't use it? I know you have an apartment in Rye, just over the border. That you bought an old car so you wouldn't use the new BMW I bought for you after you finished therapy. That you dress up on Friday and Saturday nights in a wig with plenty of makeup and go to those horrible sex clubs in the city and...and," Eve buried her face in her hands, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.

"And what, mother?"

"The first couple of times, the detectives couldn't get in. But then they bought some leather clothes, and billed me, and followed you. And saw you getting whipped in public!" cried Eve.

"I'm sorry mother, but it's true."

"You're not going to deny it?"


"That's even worse!"

"Mom, I've got a confession to make. During therapy, I found that I liked pain. After I could walk again, I started going into Manhattan and found a Dominatrix to use me. I enjoyed it!"

"Is that what you like, being beaten?" asked Eve shock on her face.

"It's not like that. Then I wanted more, so I started going to the S&M Clubs."

"No, no!" cried Eve, aghast at what her daughter was telling her.

"Mother, I just can't explain it, maybe I was just this way all along, and didn't know it. Until the accident, and the therapy, and all the pain I underwent, brought it to the surface."

"That you're a sex pervert!" accused Eve.

"No mom. Slave, submissive, bottom. But it's just what I feel."

"You might be discovered. Think of the scandal!"

"I already have. Why do you think that I disguise myself? One night, I was in a club, and saw a Wall Street lawyer that I once worked with. He didn't recognize me."

"What happened to the debutante? To the girl we hosted a ball for in Manhattan? Who went to Radcliffe and Harvard? Who learned horseback riding in Europe? Is that what you want to be, a sex slave?"

"If that is what it takes to be fulfilled, yes, mother."

Eve broke into tears, sobbing. Alana reached outwards and held her mother tightly to herself, trying to comfort her. She grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the couch, and dried her mother's cheeks.

"No, no, I've already lost one daughter, I won't lose another," cried Eve.

"She left of her own accord, you know that. Just as I must, but I'll always be nearby. I promise I'll always live near here, in Greenwich, Darien, or just over the border in New York," consoled Alana.

"But what about the scandal?"

"I'm taking care of that," answered Alana.

"You're planning something, tell me what. Now!" demanded Eve, "I know that you've been seeing a plastic surgeon in Manhattan, and a lawyer."

"You won't like it," cautioned Alana.

"I don't like the fact that my daughter is going to sex clubs, either. What are you up to?"

"All right, mother. You said it yourself just now. What is the use of great wealth if you can't use it? Well, I'm going to use some of it, for me."


"In a few weeks, you won't have to worry about Alana Peters going to sex clubs, because Alana will no longer exist. I'm having the plastic surgeon give me a new face. Meantime, the lawyer is creating a new identity for me. Everything from birth certificate to college degree."

"No!" screamed Eve, "no!"

"Mother, it's the only way that my face won't end up on the Daily News! The only way to avoid a scandal is to cease being Alana Peters. I've decided to give up my former life and create a new one, one where I can explore my sexuality without worry. I'm going to take a normal job, live in a regular apartment, and cease to be one of the upper class. I gave up my Wall Street job because I want something else in life! I'm sorry," comforted Alana, as she held her mother in her arms, and dried her tears.

"What's going to be your new name then?" asked Eve, disbelief in her voice.

"Erica Riken," answered Alana.

In February, Alana had gone for plastic surgery. Alana Peters had disappeared into South America. Erica Riken then suddenly appeared and rented an apartment. She had gone from working a Finance job on Wall Street to being a bookkeeper for a liquor distributor in Darien.

When she looked in the mirror, Alana no longer looked back at her. Instead, there was someone different. Someone new that could explore the new life that she had chosen.

Gone were the Yacht Races, Horse Shows, Golf (that she had hated anyway), and summers at Martha's Vineyard. Along with the Gucci gowns, unlimited expense accounts, and Louis Vuitton handbags that she had liked.

'I've crossed the Rubicon,' Erica said to herself one evening, as she drove into the city.

Erica was wearing a clingy black dress, heels, and had even made some friends in the scene. Finally she was free to find a Dom, someone that she could serve as a slave.

Part Three: The Wrong Dom

September 1982

Erica drove her seven year old Chevrolet up the driveway to her Master's house. She had spent the day shopping, doing chores, fully aware that she wouldn't be returning home until late Sunday. Past the point where she would be able to get anything done before the workweek again started. Daniel had been lately asking for her to begin her slavery after work on Friday night, but Erica had refused.

While it was true that she did want to serve, Erica still needed time to recreate herself. To let the two women who inhabited the same body to reconcile themselves into Erica Riken.

Daniel owned a house in Portchester, NY, just over the border in New York. About a forty-minute drive from her apartment in Darien, CT. He owned a company, or so he told her. They had met one night at an S&M club in Manhattan. Erica had found him very attractive. Slim, athletic, well built, he seemed the very model of a man that she had always been attracted to. He usually dressed in black, leather of some kind.

For several months now, she had belonged to him. They had started by going to dinner together, and he had charmed her thoroughly. Since Daniel was to be her first Master, he had told her that everything that she was going to learn about submission was to come from him. So he had ordered her not to read any books about S&M, and she had obeyed.

Erica locked her car, and put her keys in her purse. She walked to the front door, and opened it with a key that Daniel had given her. Since it was summer and still quite warm, all she was wearing was a blouse, skirt, and modest heels.

Locking the door behind her, she quickly stripped herself of all of her clothes, hanging them in the hall closet. On the small table was a collar and bracelet set, which Erica rushed to lock upon herself. Erica locked the cuffs around her ankles, then her wrists. Brushing her long black hair around her neck, she locked the leather collar around her neck. New to her confinement in recent weeks was a ballgag. Erica picked the object from the table, opened her mouth wide, and inserted the red rubber ball into her mouth. She buckled it tight at the back on her neck, breathing through her nostrils. Finally, she knelt down on the carpet, and locked her collar to a chain attached to the wall. Then she locked her wrists together. Erica was now bound and helpless, with a key nowhere in sight to release her. She leaned herself against the wall to wait.

It took only a short time for the ball between her teeth to become uncomfortable. Once, she had not closed the leather straps tightly enough, and Daniel had punished her severely. So afterwards, Erica had always obeyed his orders.

Bound as she was, Erica didn't know if she was alone in the house, or if her Master was upstairs. She had been ordered not to enter the house beyond the foyer. Some weekends Daniel would be in the house, other times he would be returning home.

Either way, Erica felt vaguely uneasy about her vulnerable position, that she shouldn't be helpless in this manner. Resting on her knees, even though she was on a piece of carpeting, soon became uncomfortable. While she had told Daniel about her accident, and that her body really wasn't fully healed, he didn't seem to care.

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the key turn in the lock. Erica felt a breeze of outside air brushing against her naked skin, and she remained rock still, facing into the house. She didn't know who had entered.

She felt like squealing when her ass cheeks were roughly parted, and a finger probed her tightly closed anal opening. Erica was glad when she received a couple of spanks on her behind. That meant her anus was safe. For now.

Erica was then pulled to her feet, and she quickly took a glance at Daniel. He was dressed in a summer shirt, shorts, and sandals. He unlocked the chain from the wall, and led her into the living room. He made her sit down on the couch, and removed her ballgag.

"Thank you, Master," said Erica as she took several deep breaths.

"You're welcome, slave. Did you wait long?"

"No, sir."

"Good. I made Dinner earlier; all you have to do is reheat it. I'll unlock your hands, and then you can put everything in the oven. Then we'll eat."

"Yes, sir."

While Erica considered herself a good cook, and had offered to prepare Dinner on numerous occasions, Daniel still insisted on cooking himself. Even though he was a lousy cook, in Erica's opinion.

Still, he had roasted a Chicken, which he had managed to cook without it being dry or tough. They ate together, him clothed, Erica naked. When they were done, Erica cleaned up, and washed the dishes.

"Thank you, sir," said Erica.

"You're welcome, slave."

Glancing at the clock, it was now 9 PM. She knew that Daniel would take a shower, change, and would be ready to use her. Which was what she wanted, she desired. To be used and wanted by her Master.

Erica was then pulled over to a chair, and her wrists were locked behind her back. Her collar chain was then locked to the chair, making her helpless once again. Daniel's hands touched her breasts, and her nipples quickly became erect. He touched her stomach, and playfully tickled her, making her giggle.

"Be back soon, slave. And don't go anywhere!" he admonished.

"Yes, sir," Erica said in response.

Erica waited patiently, indeed, what else could she do, as Daniel prepared himself. Some weeks, he had blindfolded her. But not this time. Erica wondered if this was by design, or just what she perceived as erratic behavior.

Daniel preferred to use her while wearing a black leather vest and matching leather shorts. Once he had finished bathing & dressing, he reappeared in his usual outfit.

"Ready, slave?"

"Yes, Master."

Alana was released from the chair. In the basement of the house, Daniel had built a small playroom. While nothing like the Dungeon that Erica had been used in by Mistress Martine, it still contained an impressive amount of D/s toys. Daniel pulled Erica along, down the stairs. Erica was glad she wasn't hobbled, else she would have had trouble negotiating the steps.

The playroom was one of the basement rooms, and the walls had been painted black. Small but intense lights shone from the ceiling, which provided some illumination. Ringbolts were mounted on the walls to secure slaves to, there was a bondage chair that would allow access to the occupant's sex, a leather clad bench, and a cabinet to hold various toys.

Erica had been Daniel's slave for months, and she never knew what would be awaiting her. In recent months though, something had changed. It had begun when Daniel had told her to stop seeing her friends that she had just recently made, and that she wasn't supposed to read any books on the scene. She had uneasily complied with his orders.

She was placed on a rug in the center of the playroom, and made to kneel. She did so in silence, awaiting Daniel's next move. He got a riding crop from the wall, where it had been hanging. Then he walked back to her, and placed its tip under her chin. She shivered, nervous about what would happen next.

"Do you accept your discipline, slave?" Daniel asked.

"Yes, Sir," Erica quickly answered.

"Prepare to be used then."

Erica soon found herself hanging from a ceiling chain, her legs opened by a spreader bar. She was now totally vulnerable to whatever Daniel would do to her. This was what she had waited for, what she had wanted all week. First striped and then used sexually by her Master Daniel. She didn't have to even look at herself to know that her nipples were hard.

"Count, slave!" Daniel ordered.

The first stroke with the thin crop was delivered across her exposed sex, making Erica cringe with pain. Normally, Daniel would work gradually up to striking her sex. Instead, he had begun there, and Erica suddenly feared what would happen next.




Daniel maintained a steady rhythm of strokes with the crop, each one landing on a different place on her exposed body. Hanging by the chain, her legs held open by the bar, and counting each stroke, Erica soon began to perspire. She could feel the drops running down her exposed flanks, and she grew ever more excited after each series of strokes.




Erica realized that she was now in for a severe session, having been cropped far longer than usual. In spite of the large numbers of strokes, and the fact that she felt like her skin was on fire, she had entered the point where she could "ride the pain." Divorcing her mind from her body, she went beyond the usual pain/pleasure feeling that she usually felt while being used.

"Kiss the crop," ordered Daniel.

Erica suddenly came back to Earth, her mind and attention elsewhere as she again realized where she was. Quickly, she kissed the crop's handle, again and again.

"Thank you, Sir!" Erica stuttered.

"You were somewhere else."

"Yes, Sir!"

He held her in his arms, which were also covered in sweat from his exertions, and kissed her. He forced his tongue into her willing mouth, and she kissed him passionately in return.

"Would you like to be whipped?" he asked.

"Yes, please, Sir!"

Daniel smiled, then walked over to the cabinet. He replaced the crop on the wall, then withdrew a long sinuous black leather whip from the cabinet. It was a supple, oiled piece of leather. And it would hurt terribly!

"Ready, slave?" Daniel asked.

"Yes, Sir!"

"No need to count, darling."

With the first stroke of the whip, Erica exploded into a series of explosive orgasms. The whip would curl itself around her naked body, then come to rest with an explosive crack. It struck between her breasts, and legs. She screamed with both pleasure and pain, all at the same time. Tears fell from her eyes and down her cheeks as she felt the wonderful release that she had been waiting for all week. The strange inversion of pain and pleasure that she had craved since the accident and therapy.

Erica didn't know, nor did she care, how long she was whipped, or even how many strokes. But when it was finished, and she hung limply from the chain, she was glad. Daniel first released the cuffs on her ankles, then released her wrists.

"Thank you, Master," breathed Erica.

"You're welcome, slave."

Daniel carried Erica upstairs into his bedroom. He washed her off with a towel, then he proceeded to strip and clean himself off as well. Then he jumped onto the bed, and began to kiss her all over. He started at her feet, and moved up her legs to her sex, then stomach, her breasts, and finally her mouth. Erica enfolded him in her arms, and opened her legs to accommodate him.

His cock was already erect and hard, and he entered her wet slit easily. His cock was long and hard, and he penetrated her, making Erica moan with desire and want. In no time, he established a rhythm as he drove her into the bed. Again and again, time after time.

Having already experienced orgasms while being cropped and whipped, Erica came quickly. Daniel held back, extracting the maximum amount of pleasure that he could from her.

"Ooooooh!" Erica moaned, "ooooh!"

Finally, they came together, both experiencing orgasms at the same time. He then lay beside her, tired after his exertions of having used her both in the playroom and in bed.

"Thank you, Master," said Erica.

"You're welcome, darling. I'd like to ask you something."

"Yes, Sir?"

"You work for a liquor distributor, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I want you to steal me a case of whiskey," he asked.

"I can't do that. I've never stolen anything from any place that I've worked," Erica answered, "and liquor is valuable stuff. We have a security firm keeping an eye on everyone, and tight inventory controls. And liquor is a controlled substance, too."

"I want you to steal a case of whiskey," Daniel repeated, even louder.

"Sorry, I can't. I'll gladly buy you one, sir, as a gift..."

Enraged, Daniel got up off the bed and removed a cane from the dresser. With pause or mercy, he delivered ten swift and harsh strokes to Erica. Cringing from the unexpected and sudden attack, Erica curled into a ball to shield herself from the cane's impacts. Crying from the sudden change from pleasure to pain, Erica was then slapped by Daniel.

"Disloyal Bitch!" he roared.

He then turned her onto her stomach, flattening her onto the bed. Before she realized what was happening, Erica felt her ass cheeks being forced apart.

"No!" cried Erica in horror, "no, please!" she begged.

Erica had never really liked having her behind invaded; the very thought had always repelled her. She knew that Daniel's stiff cock would deeply invade her, opening her anal hole. Daniel didn't bother to use any lubricant of any kind. His cock was rammed inside her, forcing its way to her puckered opening.

"Open up, cunt!" roared Daniel.

"No, sir," cried Erica, "please," she cried as tears fell from her eyes.

Even though her bottom hole was closed tight, Daniel managed to force his cock inside her. Erica resisted, then tried to open herself. But Daniel pushed himself inside her, and Erica's anus hurt from the unwanted intrusion. When he finally penetrated her, Erica screamed. Then she felt his hot come squirt itself into her anus, the final humiliation. She had not screamed that way since the day she had been ejected from the Mustang, with death a certainty facing her.

That night, Erica cried herself to sleep, with Daniel totally oblivious to her, uncaring.

The next day, she took a shower in the morning, and was horrified to see red in the tub's water. Her ass was sore, and hurt! Later, she took some toilet paper & Vaseline, and cleaned out the blood from her behind. Erica wanted to cry. What had happened to Daniel? He had been a kind, caring Master for months. He had fulfilled all of her desires, training her, disciplining her. But taking her in the rear against her wishes!

Afterwards, they ate breakfast together, which Erica had prepared. She had made batter, and had heated up a waffle iron, which had gone unused until she had become his slave. They ate juice, waffles, and coffee together. The Times was spread on the far end of the table, but neither of them looked at the paper.

After they had finished, Erica brought the dishes into the kitchen to clean up. She was washing the dishes in the sink, wearing an apron, when she suddenly felt Daniel's hands surround her and hug her from behind.

"Erica, I'm sorry," Daniel began, "I don't know what came over me."


Daniel turned Erica towards her, and kissed her. He held her tightly, pressing her apron-clad form against his. He was wearing an old sweatshirt and pants, and looked slightly mussed.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have used you against your will like that. I'll never do that again."

"Thank you, Sir," replied Erica.

For the rest of the day they made leisurely love in the bedroom together. Sometimes, Daniel would strike her with the crop, but it was only for a mild reminder of Erica's position.

It rained, and seeing the drops on the windows made the day seem even more dreamlike and lazy. Finally, though, afternoon had come and Erica had to leave. She again showered, and dressed.

"Erica?" Daniel asked.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Before you leave, I have to tell you something."

"Yes, Sir."

"Next week, I'm taking on a new slave, who will be a companion for you," said Daniel.

"Thank you." The thought of sharing Daniel was one that Erica had never considered!

"Her name is Lauren Singer."

Continues in


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