A Traitor Among Us

by The Technician

Email Feedback | Forum Feedback

© Copyright 2020 - The Technician - Used by permission

Storycodes: M+F+/f; M/f; F/f; bond; naked; slave; spank; pain; electro; D/s; hum; public; figging; cons; XX

There is a traitor in the Executive Club, but who is it and how should the traitor be punished?

What would you do if you discovered that someone in your elite BDSM club was about to publish a tell-all book exposing the members? The Executive Club decides that the appropriate thing to do is to punish the author as the entertainment for the Club’s annual dinner.

This story involves severe spanking, electro-punishment, and humiliation. If that is not your cup of tea, pass on this one. But if you like that particular brew, enjoy a nice hot cup of pain and debauchery as the Executive Club punishes the traitor among us.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2020 by The Technician ([email protected]).

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Dorothy Williams looked slowly around her dining room table before solemnly saying, “I call this special meeting of the Executive Club Steering Board to order.” She then slammed her gavel sharply against the pad which protected the surface of the walnut table. Because of the secrecy of the meeting, her slave, trixie, was safely tucked away in her bedroom in firm isolation bondage. A blindfold covered her eyes. Her ears were blocked with soft wax. To further ensure that she could see or hear nothing, her head was covered with a slave hood with the ear and eye holes firmly zippered shut. And to prevent her from removing any of that, she was face down on the floor with her arms and legs hogtied behind her back.

By day... or at least during working hours... slave trixie was Ms Tricia Malone, administrative assistant to the very successful half of Tucker and Williams Market Advisors. Actually Tricia did most of the market research and for the most part wrote the market advisories which the clients received. Dorothy, however, received most of the credit and all of the commissions on the trades.

There was some talk when Tricia first moved into the same upscale apartment building as Dorothy, but both soon made it clear that Tricia’s apartment was on the “shadow side” of the building with very small windows and no view except the back of the adjacent building. Besides, it was much, much smaller than Dorothy’s lavish apartment with a view of the park and the downtown streets. Dorothy told her friends, “That cheap apartment was available and I didn’t want some riffraff moving in, so I let Tricia know about it. It works out very well for both of us. She no longer needs her car and she can drive me to work each morning in mine.”

What most of their friends and business associates didn’t know was that Tricia’s apartment was actually intended as servant’s quarters when the building was first built. There was an interconnecting doorway which opened from the hallway next to the small bedroom in Tricia’s apartment into Dorothy’s large kitchen. Each evening after work, Ms Tricia Malone would enter her apartment, strip naked and then kneel at that doorway with her forehead pressed firmly against the floor. Eventually, Dorothy– now Mistress Dorothy– would open the door from the kitchen side and say simply, “You may enter.” Slave trixie is an excellent cook, though her Mistress had to teach her most of what she knows.

Weekends were slightly different. On Saturdays, slave trixie was expected to wear a French maid’s outfit– sans panties, of course– while she carefully cleaned her Mistress’ apartment. If there were any imperfections– and there always were– slave trixie would lie over the top of the leather couch while her Mistress used a leather paddle to remind her to be more diligent in her cleaning. At first, slave trixie was hesitant to clean the windows while basically naked from the waist down, but now she doesn’t even notice the glare off the binoculars and cameras from adjacent buildings. Mistress Dorothy insists the windows always be cleaned at exactly 9:00 am before the sun rises too high in the sky. Of course, that time of day also guarantees that slave trixie is brightly lit while standing next to the window without the sun being so bright that it glares off the glass. On Sunday, her outfits would vary, but not by very much. Sunday was a play day and more often than not, her Sunday outfits were primarily wrist and ankle restraints.

Dorothy was the Prime Mistress of the Executive Club, an old money BDSM club that had been around for many generations. The constitution of the club mandated that the vice-president, called the Master– or Mistress– at Arms, be a Master if the club leader was a Mistress or a Mistress if the club leader was a Master. Jerome Wilson, the Master at Arms had called for this special meeting. He notified the other three board members that a private detective who occasionally did work for him had come to him privately and said that while investigating a totally different matter, he had discovered treachery most foul among high-ranking members of the Executive Club.

Master Jerome looked at the Prime Mistress and the other two members of the board and then said in his gravelly voice, “There is a traitor among us. Someone has betrayed us... or is planning to betray us... by publishing a tell-all book naming names, dates, and events.” He coughed in that irritating way he used to indicate that he was about to say something important. “This book evidently includes very graphic descriptions of some activities which would cost influential members their jobs if everything became public.”

“Who would do such a thing?!” Master Frank Thomas, the club treasurer, said forcefully. His voice was very controlled, but for a CPA to show any emotion at all was quite a surprise. “What can we do about this?” he asked, his voice still strong and firm.

“That would depend,” Master DuWayne Harper said softly. Unlike Master Frank, when Master DuWayne was upset he became more quiet. His wife, Mistress Muanda often told people, “You really don’t want to go against DuWayne if he’s smiling and whispering.”

“Depend on what?” Prime Mistress Dorothy said sharply, but somewhat quietly.

“It would depend on whether or not there is a copy of this manuscript secreted away with a friend or stored somewhere on the cloud as insurance,” Master DuWayne replied. “And whether or not it would be worth violating major laws to prevent people learning about what are possibly relatively minor violations.”

“You’re speaking in riddles again, DuWayne,” Master Frank muttered. “Spell it out.”

“No record of this meeting?!” Master DuWayne said angrily, slapping his hand flat on the table.

“You’re the club recorder,” Master Frank replied. “No one else is taking notes if you aren’t.”

“No recording devices?” Master DuWayne asked. His voice was getting softer and softer.

“All phones out and off,” Prime Mistress Dorothy said and six phones were set on the table after being held up to show that they were indeed off. Master Frank and Prime Mistress Dorothy both carried two phones, one personal and one for business.

“And your special pen, Jerome,” she added firmly.

“It’s already off,” he said as he took it from his pocket. “But so you can be sure... “ He unscrewed the top and removed the batteries and set everything with his phone.

Prime Mistress Dorothy turned to Master DuWayne, smiled and said, “Satisfied?”

“What about slave trixie?” he replied.

“She’s in her bedroom in isolation bondage,” Prime Mistress Dorothy answered. “Now are you satisfied?”

“OK,” Master DuWayne said curtly. Then after a pause, he said in a clipped, firm voice, “The question is, do we arrange for a burglary or electronic incursion to retrieve any computer or hard copies of this book?”

“If necessary,” Master Jerome said flatly, “I could arrange for both a physical and electronic intrusion.” He paused and then said, “But qualified, discreet people would be very expensive. I’m not sure I can bear the total cost by myself.”

“Don’t worry,” Master Frank said. “There are ways... there are always ways.”

“Good to hear,” Master Jerome said with a quick smile, “but I think Master DuWayne has more to say.”

Master DuWayne looked very slowly around the table and then said, “If necessary, do we arrange for an unfortunate accident for the author?” He gave one of his frozen smiles and added, “There are always ways for that also.”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Master DuWayne,” Prime Mistress Dorothy said almost sweetly. “This person is obviously a member of this club. They thought they could write this tell-all book anonymously, most likely to make some needed money. They know our power, individually and collectively. They know for certain that the rest of the club, working together, can absolutely ruin them... or worse.”

“Then what do you propose?” asked Master Jerome.

“What is the worst punishment we can give?” the Mistress asked, looking around the table.

“That depends,” Master DuWayne began and everyone glared at him. He smiled and quickly said, “That depends on whether the author is a Master or a slave.”

“They could be a Mistress... or a Ma’am... or a neutral spouse... or even an unattached submissive,” said Master Frank in his normal, measured, boring way of speaking.

“Ever the bean counter,” Master DuWayne muttered, “but the categories are the same. If it’s a slave, the worst that can happen is to be declared slave zero. For a Master... or Mistress, the worst would be to be downgraded to slave category like was done with Master Thomas when he was caught making secret videos of our meetings. He was downgraded for six months to the status of slave. He could have quit, but he decided to accept the punishment, which in addition to the six-month loss of status required that he receive five swats with a leather paddle from each Master or Mistress in the club. At the end of the six-month period he was restored, but everyone still remembers how he broke after about one hundred swats and was crying like a baby and screaming for mercy like a little girl before the two hundredth swat was given. He will never regain the power he once had.”

“But those videos were for his own personal use and we recovered all copies,” Master Jerome said. “This is much more serious.”

“Are you suggesting a permanent downgrade?” asked Prime Mistress Dorothy.

“Yes!” he replied forcefully, almost shouting. “I would go so far as to recommend a permanent downgrade to slave zero.”

The table was quiet for several seconds and then the Prime Mistress asked softly, “Is that a motion?”

“Yes,” he answered, still speaking forcefully as if controlling anger, “I move that the culprit– if this is true– be permanently downgraded to slave zero whether they be Master, Mistress, Ma’am, Sir, slave, submissive, or neutral. They will further have to endure the full punishments the club can decree short of lasting physical harm or death. And if they refuse, the full economic and social weight of this club shall be used to destroy them in this community and pursue them wherever they flee.”

Prime Mistress Dorothy’s eyes were very wide. She was visibly pale, which was a considerable feat considering her normal, rather milky-white complexion. “Don’t you think that is a little severe?” she said softly. Then she added sarcastically, “Why don’t you just add the slave’s multiplier to finish her off? In fact, since Master Thomas endured five swats from each of us, why not make it a five-swat multiplier?”

“So moved,” Master Jerome said tersely, “... everything I first said with the addition of a quintuple slave’s multiplier to finish him... or her... or it off.” He turned toward Master Frank and said flatly, “Did I include every possibility there?”

Master Frank merely swallowed hard and nodded.

Master DuWayne spoke softly. “That is a little open-ended. I would like to specify that the punishments be that this culprit be permanently downgraded to slave zero and branded as such; that they endure Master Jerome’s Chair of Humiliation and my Wheel of Pain; that they be permanently depilated; and finally that they be given as a slave to whichever Master or Mistress can make the best claim on them.

“You’re forgetting the slave’s multiplier times five,” Prime Mistress Dorothy said flatly.

“That was included in the original motion,” Master Frank said. Perspiration was starting to show on his brow.

“I accept your recommendation to my motion,” Master Jerome said flatly. “Since we aren’t really keeping a record, there is no need to repeat it all.”

“Then I second your motion,” Master DuWayne said firmly.

“All in favor?” Prime Mistress Dorothy said crisply.

Four ‘ayes’ echoed in the room.

“Given the importance of this vote,” Prime Minister Dorothy said firmly, “let the record show that the Prime Mistress also voted aye.”

“There is no record of this meeting,” Master DuWayne said with one of his very cold smiles. Then after a pause he added, “... but we will all remember that the vote was unanimous. And we will all remember exactly what we decided.”

“There is one other thing we need to consider,” Master Jerome said slowly. “This book could be very lucrative for some publishing house as well as for the author.”

“And?...” Master DuWayne said after Master Jerome paused.

“And it could definitely affect the stock prices of perhaps some major publishers or bookstores,” Master Jerome continued. “Hell, it could even affect Amazon.”

“And?...” Master DuWayne repeated.

“And if a stock broker knew of this book in advance or knew that it was being withdrawn,” Prime Mistress Dorothy said with a smile, “they would have insider information that could intentionally or unintentionally be used to influence what her clients traded in the market.”

“Exactly!” said Master Jerome.

“So what you are so hesitant to say, my dear Master at Arms,” she said, smiling and looking directly at Master Jerome, “is that I need to be kept out of the loop on this.”

“That would be best,” Master Jerome replied smoothly. “Then if there is any market response afterwards, there is nothing to tie you to... ... whatever.”

Prime Mistress Dorothy smiled again, this time at all of them, and said, “Let the unkept record show that I hereby appoint Masters Frank, Jerome, and DuWayne as an investigative committee to find out all details of this betrayal. A full report will be made at our annual Anniversary Dinner, and the traitor, whomever he or she is, shall be punished as our entertainment for the evening. That gives you one month to ferret out the betrayer.”

“I guess that ends our meeting,” Master Frank said.

Prime Mistress Dorothy rapped her gavel lightly and said, “Meeting adjourned. See you at the Anniversary Dinner.”

Masters Jerome, Frank, and DuWayne rose from the table together and walked to the door. As they were going down in the elevator together, Master Jerome said quietly. “There is another reason that we had to keep the Prime Mistress out of this.”

“What’s that?” Frank asked.

“The traitor,” Master Jerome responded “is a Mistress.”

Chateau Robespierre is an extremely lavish estate secluded far out in the country in the center of a large parcel of land. Despite having been there for well over a century, few in town knew the chateau was there. And those few who knew it was there had no idea who owned it, only that it was a very rich and very secretive family. The chateau building, itself, was very secure with two separate perimeter fences surrounding it in addition to barred windows, heavy doors, guard dogs and an in-house security force.

To say the least, it was very upscale from where the club would normally hold their yearly party. Everyone in the Executive Club was well-to-do, but few in the group could afford the upkeep on such a place as this. Most years the club’s budget wouldn’t even allow renting it for the weekend because of the cost. But it had become available for this special weekend at a very reasonable rate. Actually the word Master Frank used was “cheap.”

A few days after the special meeting, a friend in real estate contacted him and asked if he knew anyone who might be interested in renting the chateau for a weekend. The owner wanted to “try a test run or two before going full rental to strangers.” Frank knew that it would be perfect for this year’s special needs. And he was never one to turn down a bargain.

It was always a little difficult to find the right setting for the Executive Club Anniversary Dinners. One reason was that it was not just a dinner–it was a whole weekend. But the most important reason was that sometimes the Anniversary Dinner weekends get a little noisy and if there are nearby neighbors, they tend to call the police when they hear screams. Frank knew that this year might get even noisier than usual and was already searching for a new venue when Chateau Robespierre just dropped in his lap. The real estate agent who showed it to him seemed a little taken aback when Frank said in his calm, CPA tones, “You could scream your bloody head off out here and no one would hear you.” He signed the rental agreement immediately. The chateau would be perfect for the Anniversary Dinner.

New members are welcomed into the Executive Club at the Anniversary Dinner. For a Master or Mistress who is welcomed to the club, the primary noise is cheers or applause. But submissives are also officially welcomed at the Anniversary Dinner and the sound of one hand clapping... against a firm buttocks... is often accompanied by screams of pain or passion... or both.

This year’s party would be noisier... a lot noisier. A Mistress was going to be permanently downgraded to slave zero and subjected to severe punishments. Normally a slave can work her way up from slave zero, but this Mistress would be slave zero forever or at least as long as she is a threat to the Executive Club.

Normally a new submissive automatically becomes slave zero. Each year at the Anniversary Dinner, all of the submissives are rated and re-graded. Usually the more experienced ones move up the pecking order. And, of course, those who have not performed as well as they should are moved down. If there is no new submissive being accepted at the party, then the lowest-ranking slave becomes slave zero. This year that lowest-ranking slave will become slave two. The new submissive will be slave one. And, of course, the downgraded Mistress will become slave zero.

Prime Mistress Dorothy called the meeting to order at exactly nine pm Friday night. It wasn’t actually an official meeting, and people had been gathering since seven, but her announcement meant that things were becoming “official.” Several wives who had been standing around with a cocktail in hand stopped, removed their dresses, and knelt at the feet of their Master. Several husbands did likewise, but a man is never able to whip off his clothing quite as gracefully as a woman.

The Prime Mistress clapped her hands together loudly and several more submissives and slaves joined the party. Most were crawling on all fours, but several were walking upright. One young woman was wearing a strange set of criss-crossing leather strips that somehow encased her entire body while at the same time making her look naked. She walked up to Mistress Muanda and handed her the leash, which was attached to the front of the outfit where many leather strips crossed midway between her breasts and her throat. She then knelt at her Mistress’ feet.

“Please proceed to the table for our official photograph,” Prime Mistress Dorothy said sharply, “then the slaves will be released to serve.”

The forty Masters and Mistresses led at least that number of slaves and submissives into the ballroom where a huge table had been set up. The table was lit by several candelabrae placed down its length. Soft lighting from above helped illuminate the area directly around the table, but the area near the walls was dim, almost in darkness.

The Prime Mistress sat at one end. To her immediate right sat Master Jerome and his slave wife karen. She, of course, knelt at his feet. To the Prime Mistress’ left sat Master DuWayne and his wife Mistress Muanda. Several slaves knelt at their feet. One– the one in the strange strap outfit– stood stiffly at attention behind her Mistress. Master Frank sat next to Master Jerome. His wife, Mistress Marilyn sat next to him. Their lone slave knelt at her feet. There were whispers among some of the members that Master Frank was subordinate to his Mistress wife, but no one would risk saying anything while he was around. He may not exude a great deal of personal power, but his power with finances was unrivaled and it was not good to piss off someone who could bankrupt you if they so choose.

The rest of the table sat in their order of power. There was no official list which said who sat where, but everyone knew. Usually all it took was a stern look from a Master or Mistress to cause another Master or Mistress to move down. Sometimes a vote of “those above” would settle the dispute. Only rarely would the two Masters or Mistresses resort to tests of power or skill to determine their seating rank.

Once everyone was seated and settled, the official photographer climbed a ladder at the low end of the table and carefully focused a camera mounted on a tall tripod. He directed Master Ronald, who was seated at the lowest chair opposite– but a long ways away from– the Prime Mistress, to turn his chair ninety degrees so his face would be in the picture. He then took a series of images before saying, “That should do it.” The slaves and submissives were then dismissed to serve the meal.

After the dinner was complete, and the slaves and submissives had rejoined their Masters, Prime Mistress Dorothy tapped her spoon against an empty glass and said, “I think our first order of business tonight should be the acceptance of a new submissive to our group. I turn things over to Master DuWayne, who is sponsoring her.”

Master DuWayne stood and nodded slightly toward the head of the table. “Masters and Mistresses,” he said addressing those seated at the table, “I have acquired a new submissive slave and wish her to be enrolled on the slave membership of the Executive Club.”

“Any comments or questions?” asked the Prime Mistress.

It was a standard protocol question similar to “Does anyone object to this marriage?” No one expected anyone to ask anything, but Master Arnold, who was not very popular with the other Masters and Mistresses, rose and said, “I have a few questions for Master DuWayne, the primary one being how he, as an African-American, can justify to himself the owning of slaves.”

A very tense hush descended upon the table. Several of the Masters and Mistresses of color glared at Master Arnold. Master Duwayne, himself, clenched the edge of the table. His body was almost vibrating as he practically yelled out, “I am not an African-American! I am a Jamaican!” He chuckled slightly and continued strongly and loudly, “No white man freed me and no white blood runs in my veins. My heritage began with the slave revolts of 1760 and came to full fruition in the Christmas slave revolt of 1831.”

He and Master Arnold glared at each other across the table for several minutes. Then Master Arnold looked down and said, “Sorry, Master DuWayne, I misspoke.”

Master DuWayne smiled broadly and said, “Now that we understand each other, we can be friends.”

“But my question still remains,” Master Arnold said carefully. “How can a person of your... Jamaican heritage... hold a bevy of sex slaves?”

Many at the table again held their breath, expecting another outburst. But instead, Master DuWayne laughed in that way that only he could and replied, “They aren’t all sex slaves, Master Arnold. Some are just... slaves.” Then he stood, and his voice changed. He became like a professor lecturing his class. “There are people in every culture,” he began, “who are natural slaves... and they are miserable because no one is Mastering them. Yes, even among my people there were those who longed to grovel at the feet of the Masters.”

He looked around the room. His voice became deeper than its usual baritone as he pressed his hands against his chest and said, “But there are also those who yearn to feel the power of being a Master.” He paused and looked down at the naked young girl at his feet. Her paper-white skin almost glowed against the black of his suit pants.

“This girl,” he said, pointing down at her, “wants to be my slave. She wants to do everything I command her to do. She wants to endure my punishments when she falls short of what I expect. But...”

He held up his right hand with the index finger pointing up into the air. “... What is your safe word, slave?” he said harshly.

“Sodacracker, Master” she replied, her forehead pressed firmly against the ground at his feet.

“And what is your escape phrase?” he continued.

Without rising from the ground she squealed out, “Please don’t make me say it. NO! Please, no!”

“This is just putting it in the record,” he replied softly. “We are not ending our relationship.”

With her head still against the ground she said / sang, “John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.”

DuWayne laughed loudly and said to all, “You see. She can stop what is going on with just a word. And she is free to leave our arrangement whenever she wants to just by singing a few words. It doesn’t take a violent revolt, only words.”

He lifted her head slightly. Her face was wet with tears. He asked softly, “But where do you want to be my little pasty one?”

“Naked at your feet,” she replied, stifling her sobs and rubbing her forehead against the floor just in front of his shoes.

“She needs to be a slave,” he said softly, “and I enjoy being a Master. It’s as simple as that.”

He then looked around the room and said, “I move that we officially accept pasty one as a submissive slave in the Executive Club.”

“So moved,” someone shouted. Another voice yelled, “Second.” The Prime Mistress quickly said, “All in favor say, ‘Aye.’” There was no need to call for the Nay votes. It was unanimous.

Master DuWayne looked down at slave pasty one and said softly, “Now all we have to do is make it official.”

Slave pasty one was visibly trembling as she raised her upper body to look at her Master. There was a black leather collar in her hand. She must have been hiding it under her legs. She held it out across her hands which were flat with palms up. Then in a quivering voice she said, “I offer this collar and myself to you and submit to you as my Master... if you will have me.”

Master DuWayne let her kneel there trembling for a while. Then he reached down and took the collar from her hands. As he wrapped it around her neck he said, “I accept you as my slave.” After he locked the collar in place in the back, he quickly drew back his hand and then slapped her smartly across both ass cheeks. He waited for her yelp to fade away before saying, “And I will guide you and punish you until you become a perfect submissive.”

She dropped back to the ground with her forehead pressed firmly against the floor and began blubbering out, “Thank you, Master. Thank you, Master. Thank you, Master.”

“Silence!” Master DuWayne said loudly and she stifled her joyful cries. “You are the lowest of the slaves,” he said softly, but firmly, “and now it is time for you to show your place in the slave world of this club.”

She rose to her feet. The deep black of the shiny leather collar made her flesh look even whiter. She definitely fit the name “pasty one.” She took a deep breath before walking over to the punishment horse that was sitting in an open area alongside the table. Two naked slaves, one male, one female, met her there.

“Do you need to be restrained?” one of them asked.

“No,” pasty one replied, “but I want you to restrain me so that there is no chance that I will dishonor my Master.”

Several Masters and Mistresses at the table nodded at pasty one’s choice of words. The two slaves bent pasty one over the curved top of the spanking horse and pushed her forward so that her ass was in the proper position. She held tightly to one of the several handholds on the front legs of the spanking horse to hold herself in place. The two slaves then wrapped wide leather thongs around her wrists and tied them to the handholds. She would still be able to let go, but if she did, the leather would hold her in place. They went to the back side of the horse and used similar leather thongs to hold her legs in place. Again, it would be possible for pasty one to try to raise her legs, but the leather would prevent much movement.

“Are the slaves aware of their new positions?” Prime Mistress Dorothy asked.

Master David Tucker, the other half of the Tucker and Williams brokerage, and SlaveMaster for the Executive Club said, “All slaves have been assigned their new numbers. I was told to reserve slave zero for a special purpose, so the new slave is slave one.”

“Thank you, Master David,” she replied. Then she addressed the slaves, “You will welcome slave pasty one into your slavehood by giving her one smack with the leather paddle, starting with the highest-ranking slave.” She paused and then said, “This is not a multiplier, so only slave pasty one will feel the sting of the paddle.”

She waited until the slaves were lined up and then said, “Begin.”

There are forty Masters and Mistresses in the Executive Club. Some are couples, but some couples have more than one slave. In total, there are fifty-three slaves, not counting pasty one. The first spank, from slave patricia, was squarely across both ass cheeks. Slave pasty one’s white skin immediately showed a red welt in the shape of the paddle. Some of the slaves intentionally hit only one asscheek. Not all hit with the same strength. You could tell from the “Thwack!” of the leather striking flesh how hard the blow had been.

Slave pasty one’s ass quickly turned from white to pink to red to purple. Somewhere around the forty-fifth smack, pasty one shrieked loudly and let go of the handles. If it had not been for the leather restraints, she would have lifted up and off of the spanking horse. She began wailing immediately, not because she was in pain, but because she felt that she had failed her Master. The slaves who struck after that seemed to put all they had into each blow so that pasty one broke totally and began crying and begging for them to stop.

After the fifty-third– and final– blow was given, Master David said simply, “Release her,” and the two slaves who had bound her to the horse released first her legs and then her hands. They helped her off of the spanking horse and set her on her feet, but she could not stand and fell to her hands and knees.

“Come here,” Master DuWayne said firmly and she tried to stand, but could not, so she crawled over to where he was sitting at the table. She pressed her face to the floor and through her cries and blubbering wailed, “I failed you, Master. I let go. I didn’t want to, but my hands just let go.”

“That’s OK, pasty one,” Master DuWayne said softly. “You are a new slave. You are still weak. I will teach you to be strong and next year we will show how much you have grown.”

“Thank you, Master,” she blubbered. “I will make you proud next year.”

Several Masters and Mistresses smirked at her profession of thanks. They knew how many hours over a spanking horse it was going to take to train pasty one to hold on regardless of what was done to her.

Prime Mistress Dorothy again tapped her spoon against an empty glass and said, “Normally at this time, we would give the various Masters and Mistresses a chance to showcase the training of their slaves. ... And we may still do that, depending on the results of a special investigation by Masters Jerome, Frank, and Duwayne.”

She stood and placed both hands on the table. Leaning forward and speaking slowly she continued, “It was reported to the steering board that someone– a high-ranking Master or Mistress– had betrayed our club by preparing to publish a tell-all book of our... exploits. Betraying the trust and confidence of this club is a serious accusation so I appointed those three Masters to look into the matter.”

She turned to face the Master at Arms. It looked like she was smirking as she asked almost derisively, “Master Jerome? Have you anything to report?”

There was a loud noise as all of the doors to the huge ballroom were slammed shut. Standing next to each set of doors were two burly security men dressed in all black. If they had been there before, they had gone unnoticed in the shadows, but now, standing in front of the doors, they were very prominent.

Master Jerome stood and walked to stand alongside the Prime Mistress. Four security men walked with him, two on each side. “Yes, Prime Mistress, I have something to report,” he said slowly.

He lifted his hand and pointed it toward something in the darkness behind him. Suddenly a large screen lit up revealing a printed manuscript. He clicked his remote again and the image shifted to a close up of the title page. It said, “The Executive Club - A Tale Of Sadism and Debauchery”.

Another click and the image scrolled down to reveal the author’s name. The author was “slave painspot.”

“Retrieving the manuscript from the publisher was not difficult,” Master Jerome began, “because all that had been submitted was a synopsis which no one except Mistress Deanna had seen.” He pointed to one of the Mistresses sitting at the table. Master Jerome coughed slightly and then said, “It might have been much more of a problem had this gone to one of the other editors, but by our great fortune, it was submitted during the week that Mistress Deanna was tasked with reviewing new manuscripts.”

He began walking slowly around the table. “It had, of course, been submitted electronically and anonymously, but a private investigator friend of mine who specializes in electronic security was hired by a client he will not mention, in fact, I don’t think he knows the client’s name. In any case, he was hired to retrieve or destroy some files which had been hacked from a backup server.”

He pressed his hands together, “It was a ransom for return case and he had an almost unlimited budget, so he was easily able to get the files back. He paid double what the hacker was asking for and explained that money was no problem for the client and the client was willing to spend ten times that amount to exact revenge should any of the information ever be leaked. Pictures of the hacker’s wife, girlfriend, brothers, sisters, parents, and fishing buddies made that promise seem so believable that the hacker turned over all of the other files he had stolen from the backup site.”

He clicked his remote again, “Among those files was this...” A word processor opened on the screen. The document displayed was the full manuscript for the book. “Apparently, our author thought that putting a copy of her manuscript on a backup site would be an insurance policy. Instead it was one more link leading to her discovery.”

The screen now showed the file directory of a computer. “We hired that hacker to do some work for us and he easily backtracked the author to her personal computer where we found this hidden directory.” The image zoomed in, to an almost grayed-out directory which was titled “PERSONAL.”

“The same hidden directory was found on her work computer.” The image changed to show the same directory on a different computer. “And on her personal laptop.” Again the image showed the grayed-out PERSONAL directory.

“A surreptitious entry to her apartment,” Master Jerome said firmly, “uncovered four thumb drives hidden in various places and two large backup disks which mirrored what was on her personal and business computers.”

“So who is this person?” Prime Mistress Dorothy said. Her voice was less firm than normal. It almost sounded shaky, and she was obviously perspiring. Her normally very pale skin was ghostly white and reflecting the light in a sheen on her forehead.

Master Jerome stepped back leaving the four security men standing alongside the Prime Mistress.

“It is YOU!” he said angrily. “The arrogance you must have to sit there and call for the results of this investigation knowing it was you. Your hubris in believing that no one could unravel your secrets has undone you. ... and you have decreed your own punishment.”

The four security men lifted the Prime Mistress away from her place at the table. As they set her back on her feet, one of the men grasped the shoulders of her dress and pulled outward. The material was strong, but he was stronger. Beneath the dress, Dorothy was wearing a pale pink brassier and a matching, lacy, pale pink pair of panties.

There was a loud click as two combat knives snapped open at the same time. Then while two of the men held her, the other two quickly sliced the straps and back of the brassier and the sides of the panties. They pulled her toward the side of the room, leaving her shoes behind as they again lifted her off the ground.

There was a bright spotlight now illuminating what had been shadows. Dorothy stood between the two guards clad only in pale pink thigh-high nylons which had matched her underwear. One of the guards reached down to remove them, but Master Jerome called out, “No. Leave them for now.” He laughed and said, “A partially-clad woman is much more naked and humiliated than one who is totally nude.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Dorothy said in a very shaky voice. “I’m innocent. I didn’t write that book.”

“Ah,” said Master DuWayne, “the hubris continues, Prime Mistress, or should I say slave painspot.” His voice became very quiet, but everyone was listening to every word. “That was an interesting nom de plume, painspot. Spot... dot... Dorothy... clever, but from this point on you shall be known as slave one or your own chosen name... slave painspot.”

“And as we discussed in the steering board,” Master Frank said, “should you refuse to accept the punishments set forth by this club, we– individually and collectively– will destroy you and drive you from this community.”

Dorothy was crying softly and repeating, “No, no, no.”

“I believe,” Master Jerome said, “that we called for ‘the full punishments the club can decree short of lasting physical harm or death.’ Specifically, we talked of the Chair of Humiliation and the Wheel of Pain.”

A strange-looking wooden chair was pushed out into the light. In some ways, it resembled an old-fashioned wheelchair, in others it was more like an electric chair. There were wide wooden arms and a wooden plank which went up above her head. There were also two wooden supports for her legs with little shelves on which to set her feet.

The guards pushed her into the chair and walked away. Several naked slaves came running up and began binding her legs and feet to the supports and her arms to the wooden arms of the chair. A wide leather belt was pulled around her chest, holding her fast to the back, and another belt of leather was used to hold her head firmly to the tall portion of the back.

“Most of you have never seen this chair,” Master DuWayne said, smiling. “My slaves have, and a few of my former friends have. It is of my own invention.”

He walked over to the chair and pressed down on the board on which painspot’s head was restrained. The whole chair sort of collapsed and rotated so that painspot was now lying on her back with her knees up to her chest and her arms held almost against her shoulders. The seat of the chair had totally dropped away allowing her body to jackknife with her legs pulled obscenely apart. Master DuWayne pressed harder and she continued to rotate so that her back was at about a forty-five degree angle and the board on which her head was secured was touching the ground.

He walked around to the front of the chair and then said, “I’ve always wondered if you had a pink asshole.” He reached forward with his finger and touched her bright pink rosebud. She tried to pull her asscheeks together, but the way the chair was holding her, that was not possible.

“I think ten by hand, ten with leather, and ten with wood should start things off nicely,” Master DuWayne said as he held out his hand above her ass. He struck hard and the imprint of his hand was immediately visible.

“Now, now, painspot,” he said gruffly. “Have you forgotten everything you knew as Prime Mistress Dorothy. A slave counts the spanks for her Master. If you don’t count, I have to start over.”

He again slapped his hand loudly against painspot’s ass. Now there were two handprints in red on her white asscheeks. “One, thank you, Master,” painspot said slowly.

“Ah, you do remember,” he said as he again slapped her ass. “Two, thank you, Master,” she said firmly.

Master DuWayne spanked at a measured rate and slave painspot counted each swat and thanked him each time. When he was done, he slowly rubbed his hand across her bottom. “Oh,” he said, “you seem to have lost a little control of your bladder. You are wet down here.” He gave her one sharp smack and said, “If you weren’t a former Mistress, I might think you were enjoying this.”

Master Frank stepped forward and said, “I will use the leather paddle.” He held out his hand and a naked slavegirl placed a wide leather paddle in it. The paddle was black leather and looked like an oversized ping-pong paddle. He swished it back and forth a couple of times and then said, “You won’t have time to thank me, but I still want you to count. If you can’t keep up with the count I start over.”

He stood slightly to one side of the chair and started spanking. The loud “Thwack!” of the leather hitting skin was followed by a loud yelp. The second swat covered painspot’s attempt to count the first.

“What did I tell you?” Master Frank said sternly. “If you can’t keep up with the count, I start over.”

He then immediately smacked her ass with the paddle. “One!” she shouted as soon as the paddle hit. Then “Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven-Eight-Nine-Ten!”

Master Frank laughed dryly. “I really didn’t think you could keep up, painspot. You will make someone a marvelous slave.”

“That will come later,” Master Jerome said. “Let’s see how well she counts wood.”

He then leaned in close to her head and said in a stage whisper, “I’m going to go very slowly, so you will have time to scream, count, thank me, and ask for another because you are a bad slavegirl. Do you understand that?”

He moved so he could stare down at painspot as she tried to nod her head. Finally she blurted out a tearful, “Yes.”

“Good,” Master Jerome said as he swung the wooden paddle downward at her ass. It hit both asscheeks, but striking from above, the primary force was on the open area between the cheeks. From painspot’s scream, it may have made contact with her cunt or asshole.

“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!” painspot screamed, then she got control of herself and said shakily, “One. Thank you, Master. May this bad girl have another like she deserves?”

“Well said,” Master Jerome replied as he moved around behind her, “but you know my name. I want to hear it. And you are not a girl, you are a slavegirl.”

He didn’t wait for a reply but instead swung again with the paddle, this time striking squarely across both asscheeks. The scream wasn’t quite as loud, and there were only two “Oh, Gods” before painspot got control of herself and said, “Two. Thank you, Master Jerome, for punishing this slavegirl. May she have another like she deserves?”

Master Jerome said, “Very good, but you didn’t count the first one properly, so that was one, not two. This will be stroke number two.”

Master Jerome stood slowly swinging the paddle back and forth. Slave painspot was tensing and relaxing her ass trying to anticipate the blow. Her ass was now bright red with purple splotches. The holes drilled into the wooden paddle were already creating darker purple spots that were raised up slightly from the other welts. Her ass tensed and was starting to relax just as Master Jerome swung the paddle with all his strength, striking squarely across both asscheeks.

This time there was a high pitched scream followed by a long series of “Oh, Gods” which dissolved into crying. “The count,” Master Jerome said curtly.

“Two,” slave painspot said. She followed that with the proper “Thank you, Master Jerome, for punishing this slavegirl. May she have another like she deserves?”

Master Jerome never hit quite that hard again, but that meant little to painspot, whose ass was swelling and becoming more and more purple. After the tenth stroke, painspot screamed, got herself under control, then thanked Master Jerome and asked for another. When she realized what she had said, she began blubbering, “No, no. I didn’t mean that. Please don’t give me another.”

“Don’t worry, painspot,” Master Jerome said, “We said ten. You counted ten. And ten it will be.” He brightened and said, “Besides, we are going to take a little intermission here and have some dessert. I’m not sure what we are having, but your dessert involves a little ginger.”

He held out his hand and a naked slavegirl ran up and handed him a carefully carved-ginger root. It was a large one that had been carved in the shape of a buttplug. He stepped up to painspot and pressed the carved root against her pink sphincter.

“Luckily, this root is very fresh and already secreting oils so it is self-lubricating,” he said as he pushed the root into her ass. “Unfortunately, those same oils are going to start being a little irritating in a few minutes.” He patted her swollen ass and said, “Enjoy your dessert.”

Slave painspot was screaming even before the naked slaves finished serving the dessert. “Someone put a rag in it,” Master DuWayne said angrily. He got up from his seat and stepped over to where the Prime Mistress had been stripped of her title... and her clothing. He picked up her discarded panties and threw them to one of the slaves. “Here, use this,” he said angrily. A few moments later painspot’s screams had diminished significantly.

After everyone had finished their desserts, Master Jerome– Now technically Prime Master Jerome– stood up and said, “While everyone is enjoying a cup of coffee or a glass of liqueur, I think we should move to our next level of punishment for slave painspot.”

He clapped his hands loudly and said, “Bring out the frame.”

In response, two security men wheeled a large bondage frame up to near the head of the table and lifted it off the cart on which it was moved.

“Bring her,” Master Jerome said forcefully and four security men went over to the Chair of Humiliation and pulled it back up into the sitting position. Then several naked slavegirls quickly unbound slave painspot and attempted to lift her from the chair. She pulled her sodden panties from her mouth and screamed “It burns! It burns!”

She continued to scream and struggled against them until Master Jerome said wearily, “Remove the fig.”

One of the slavegirls reached between painspot’s asscheeks and pulled the ginger root out of her ass. Slave painspot stopped struggling for a moment, but she continued moaning loudly saying, “It still burns! It still burns!”

“Ice her,” Master Jerome said curtly and another slavegirl came running up holding a hunk of ice which had been frozen in the shape of a butt plug. He took the ice butt plug and rammed it into painspot’s ass. That brought another scream, but then her moans became just pained, “Uhhh, uhhh,” as the ice cooled the fire in her anal canal.

Once she was under control, Master Jerome turned to two of the security men and said, “Bind her in the frame... tightly.”

The two men pulled painspot over to the bondage frame and quickly wrapped restraint cuffs around her wrists. Thick ropes, which led through pulleys in the very top corners of the frame, were already attached to the restraints. Each man took one rope and pulled hard, lifting painspot up onto her tiptoes. Then they tied off the ropes to a cleat on the side of the frame.

One of them then knelt down and attached restraint cuffs to painspot’s ankles. These also had thick ropes attached which went through pulleys in the very bottom corners of the frame. Pulling up on the ropes dragged painspot’s legs wide apart and pulled her down, stretching her arms even more tightly. By the time they tied off the lower ropes, painspot was bound extremely tightly in a naked X in the middle of the frame. Her toes were barely touching the ground and the tension in her arms and legs was causing her body to vibrate.

Master Jerome stood in front of her with his hands on his hips. “I was slightly upset with myself for not permanently removing all of your body hair before the spanking,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “but you seem to have already taken care of that.”

He reached up and ran his fingers through her long, blond hair. “So,” he said brightly, “all that we really need to take care of is the hair on your head.”

“No, please, no,” she whimpered. “Everyone will be able to see when I go out in public.”

“Everyone can see your pussy is bald,” Master Jerome retorted, “but you cover it when you are out in public.” He laughed slightly and said, “But you... and those who have seen it... still know it is bald. You can wear a wig when you go to work. Master David has said that he will keep you on as a secretary. He might even have your former slave trixie take over your accounts. It seems she is the one who has done most of the work on things for the past many months.”

In response, slave painspot just began crying.

“Shear her!” Master Jerome ordered and a slave girl immediately stepped forward with a battery operated hair cutter. As the long golden locks fell to the floor, painspot sobbed loudly.

When she was totally shorn, Master Jerome commanded curtly, “Make it permanent!”

A slave stepped forward wearing long rubber gloves. “Stay still,” she said quietly, “or this might get in your eyes.” She then carefully smeared a very foul-smelling cream on painspot’s hairless head.

“It burns!” painspot whined and Master Jerome snapped back, “You said that about the fig in your ass. Do you want your panties back in your mouth? Besides, the pain will be gone shortly. It only burns while the hair follicles die.”

The slave in the rubber gloves returned with several towels. After wiping the cream away, she then used a wet towel to clean painspot’s now shiny scalp.

After everything was cleaned up, Master Jerome said, “Now you look like slave zero. I think we need to find you a Master soon. I am sure that everyone here would love to see you on your knees permanently submitting yourself.”

“That won’t be necessary,” a woman’s voice spoke out. Everyone turned to see slave trixie, Dorothy’s former slave, standing slightly behind Master Jerome. She was no longer naked, but was instead wearing a very form-fitting floor length black dress.

“She has already submitted herself to me,” slave trixie said forcefully, “and I claim my place in this club as Mistress Tricia.”

“Can you prove this?” Master Jerome said. His face showed his skepticism. “Can you prove that she knelt at your feet and submitted herself?”

“Yes, I can,” slave trixie said evenly. “And my method of proof will save you the trouble of mounting her on the Wheel of Pain.”

She looked out into the darkness and said, “Carl, bring me my small suitcase and activate the screens.”

A man dressed in the traditional formalwear of an English butler walked up to slave trixie– or was she truly now Mistress Tricia?– and handed her a small suitcase and a remote control. She set the suitcase on the edge of the table where Dorothy had been sitting and pointed the remote up at the wall. A very large monitor screen of some sort lowered from the ceiling and turned on. It showed a blue screen with the words, “No Signal” across it in white.

“Sorry for the messy beginning to this presentation,” Mistress Tricia said softly. “We are improvising.”

She lifted a very small headset from the suitcase and draped it over her ears. She adjusted the microphone in front of her mouth and suddenly her voice became loud through the screen as she said, “I promise you, it gets better.”

She then took two laptops out of the suitcase. One she set on the table. The other, she set on a chair in front of the frame in which slave painspot was restrained.

“Release her,” she said firmly, “but make sure she stays in front of the camera.” She paused, smiled at the Masters and Mistresses at the table, and then said, “Don’t worry. The camera will show only slave painspot and the wall of my ballroom.”

Several of the people at the table looked slightly confused so Mistress Tricia smiled even wider and said, “Oh, I haven’t told you yet, have I? Malone was my mother’s maiden name and thus my middle name. My last name is actually Robespierre. But my mother said that the best way to learn to be a proper Mistress was to spend some time as someone’s slave. I thought her maiden name would be best while I did that.”

While the murmurs and conversation slowly died down, she stepped in front of her laptop and typed something into the keyboard. The large monitor immediately mirrored her display. She signed into a popular porncam site and the screen divided into four squares. The top left square showed a flashing red announcement which said, “Slave painspot will be LIVE in three minutes.” The top right square showed the naked slave painspot kneeling on the floor where the security men had left her. Except it wasn’t exactly her. It was a very realistic avatar that looked somewhat like her, or at least what she looked like when she still had hair.

The lower left square showed a strange-looking, circular meter with one bright yellow hand pointed straight up. Above it was a large number zero, also in yellow. Alongside the circular meter was what looked like a red thermometer. Above the thermometer was a large red zero.

The lower right square showed a listing of people signed on to the site. There were at least a dozen and more were signing in every second.

Mistress Tricia Robespierre spoke again, only this time her voice was strangely distorted and sounded mechanical. She said very forcefully, “You know how you are supposed to be kneeling, painspot. Present yourself!”

Dorothy’s– slave painspot’s eyes flew wide open. “No,” she said, “it can’t be. It can’t be.”

“I said present yourself!” Mistress Tricia said even more loudly and firmly.

Slave painspot immediately grabbed the back of her head with her hands and pulled her elbows back as far as she could. Her back was now ramrod straight. Her breasts were lifted slightly by the position of her arms. Her knees were held wide apart so that her sex was plainly visible. The avatar on the screen mimicked painspot’s actions. Except for the face, which was slightly different, the avatar was painspot. It even had her slightly protruding pink cunt lips which dripped slightly as she knelt at presentation attention.

Mistress Tricia took something black out of the suitcase and slid it across the floor so that it hit one of painspot’s legs.

“Put it in.” Mistress Tricia said firmly. Her mechanical voice sounded even more menacing than her natural voice which could also be heard by those close to her.

“No, please, Mistress,” slave painspot begged, “not here, not in front of all of these people.”

“Put it in or you go live without the filter,” Mistress Tricia said, now starting to sound angry. Then she started counting, “Five... four... three... two... one...” On one, the avatar disappeared from the screen and a live image of slave painspot took its place.

“Please, no, Mistress,” painspot continued to beg, “these people are... were my friends.”

“Put it in or I post a full dox of you and keep it on the website,” Mistress Tricia responded. Then she started counting again. She had only reached three when slave painspot picked up the strange-looking device and held it between her legs. Now that she was holding it like that, it was apparent that it was a combination butt plug and dildo of some sort. The two were held together by a rather thick section of plastic or rubber that seemed to have a metal stripe across the top of it. The ass plug and dildo also had stripes of metal on them. There were two wide stripes of metal on the plug, and four narrower stripes of metal on the dildo. Slave painspot had a great deal of trouble forcing the huge butt plug into her ass. Finally she rose up onto her knees and bounced her ass hard against the floor. She yelped loudly as the wide portion of the plug was forced through her anal sphincter. As the ass plug popped into place, the dildo slid easily into her cunt.

“Display!” Mistress Tricia said loudly. And slave painspot returned to her proper position.

She then spoke again, but this time she seemed to be talking to the members signed onto the website. “Tonight is a special night, painspot fans. For the first time you are seeing painslut painspot in her natural beauty.” She paused and then said, “And to celebrate this occasion, I am reducing the price to only one credit per click. Remember, the more clicks which register in any one second, the higher the voltage gets for that second.”

Something like a small bell sounded from the screen and the yellow number went to one. More bells sounded and the number rapidly increased. With each bell, painspot yelped in pain. Evidently the clicks on the website triggered some sort of shock in the dildo and ass plug and perhaps even in the strip in between.

The bells continued to sound and the yellow number grew larger and larger. At the same time, the red number grew and the level of the thermometer rose. At the end of each second, the thermometer level dropped back to around half of what it was but stayed there for only a few clicks. The bells were starting to become almost continuous.

“No, no, please, no,” slave painspot cried out. She was no longer in the display position, but was instead on her side on the floor, clawing at the device between her legs which was shocking her cunt and ass. She twisted and squirmed, almost running in a circle on her side as the shocks– and the pain– caused her muscles to tighten. Then she flopped over onto her back with her legs spread wide and quivering.

“No, please, Mistress,” she begged softly, “don’t let them do this to me.”

Mistress Tricia’s voice switched back to normal. Evidently she was speaking to the room, not through the website. “But you always wanted the world to see that you were a painslut, Dorothy,” Mistress Tricia said mockingly. “That’s why you replied to my email inviting you to be a part of my little website. That’s why you wrote the book. That’s why you were going to expose the Executive Club. You wanted to be exposed yourself as the painslut you truly are.”

“No,” slave painspot whined, “that isn’t true.”

Mistress Tricia replied, “Maybe it isn’t. ... But maybe it is.”

Then her voice switched back to the website mechanical voice as she said sharply, “Give the customers what they want, slave painspot. Show them what a true painslut orgasm looks like.”

Slave painspot’s back began bouncing against the floor. Her legs were still spread wide but were now raised slightly into the air as they quivered with each shock. She let out a deep groan and then reached up and grabbed her own breasts and began pinching and twisting her nipples.

The dial on the yellow meter was moving almost too fast to register and the yellow number was changing so fast that it was practically a blur. The thermometer was rising higher and higher. As it reached 100, slave painspot suddenly screamed extremely loudly and arched her back so that she was touching the floor with only her heels and the top of her head. Her hands slammed repeatedly into the floor as she arched higher and higher as if trying to couple with some unseen giant. Then with an even louder groan, she fell back to the floor and lay there twitching as the pulses pounded her ass and cunt.

The yellow numbers slowed to a stop. The red number dropped back to zero. Mistress Tricia said in her mechanical voice, “And that’s how a painslut orgasms on pain alone.”

The display on the big monitor changed. Now the top left section showed a red announcement that said, “Slave painspot is off-line, but will return on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings at 8:00 pm. To watch recordings of previous sessions select the desired video. Each viewing costs five credits except the most recent video which costs fifty credits.”

The upper right square displayed sixteen video icons, each with a play symbol in the center of them. The bottom left square was a larger icon of the most recent video with the live version of painspot shown kneeling on the floor of the chateau’s ballroom. The bottom right square continued to be a listing of who was signed into the site.

“I think that proves that painspot has submitted herself to me as her Mistress,” Mistress Tricia said, nodding toward Master Jerome, then Master DuWayne, and finally toward Master Frank. “I claim her spot in this club,” she continued, “and hope someday to become Prime Mistress as she did.”

“You may just do that,” Master Jerome said firmly. He then began slowly clapping. Soon all of the Masters and Mistresses at the table were slowly applauding the newest Mistress member of the Executive Club.

“I remind you that the chateau is open for your use this weekend,” Mistress Tricia said politely. “And there are some rooms in the old basement area that have been set up as dungeons. I’m sure that you and your slaves may find those areas interesting.” She gave a slight laugh and added, “Well, you might find them more interesting than your submissives... unless they, like slave painspot, are dedicated painsluts.”

“Speaking of painslut painspot,” Master DuWayne said firmly. “There was one more punishment which she decreed upon herself. She was so sure that we wouldn’t uncover her treachery that she flippantly added the slave’s multiplier to her punishments. I believe her actual words were to ‘finish her off with the slave’s multiplier. In fact, make that a five-swat multiplier.’”

“Bring out the spanking horses,” Master Jerome ordered and two padded devices that looked somewhat like a gymnast’s vaulting horse were brought out and placed in the spotlit area of the ballroom. One was significantly taller than the other.

“Facing each other,” he said softly and the two horses were adjusted so that they sat more or less side by side.

“Strap slave painspot in place,” Master Jerome said firmly.

Two security men and four naked slaves rushed to put painspot over the taller of the horses. The two men pulled her arms over the horse until her body was bent over the horse and her ass was high in the air. The slaves then quickly bound painspot’s wrists to the legs supporting the padded portion of the horse. They then hurried over to the other side of the horse and bound painspot’s ankles to the legs on that side. Her feet were about a foot off the ground so she was supporting her total body weight on her hips which were resting on the padding of the horse.

“Slaves line up for a five-swat slave’s multiplier,” Master Jerome said loudly. Then he turned back to the table and said in a much more normal voice, “For those of you who have never witnessed a slave’s multiplier, it is simple. Every slave receives exactly what the punished slave receives. And the punished slave receives a swat from every slave– or in this case five swats.”

He held the small leather paddle in his hand and swished it a couple times before continuing with, “The lowest ranking slave will take the paddle first, and the second lowest slave will present themselves on the spanking horse. They will receive five swats and then pass that on to the next highest... and so on and so on until it gets back around to the lowest ranking slave lying over the spanking horse. After she– or he– has received the five swats, she will then pass those swats on to painspot. Then it all repeats with the next highest slave starting the multiplier round.”

He laughed, “Now obviously, once you have received those swats, your pain and anger will cause you to swat just a little harder than you were swatted. Thus the power of the swats is multiplied as it is passed down through the slaves.” His voice hardened slightly as he said, “And it will go through the line of slaves until every slave has given the proper number of swats to slave painspot.”

He paused for a moment as if thinking and then said, “There are now fifty-four slaves counting our new slave zero, slave painspot. That means she– and all of the slaves– will receive fifty-three times five swats by the time the multiplier is finished.”

He walked back over to his position at the table and said simply, “Begin.”

The paddle was handed to slave pasty one, slave one. Slave two, slave shortdick lay over the short spanking horse. Slave pasty one gave him five swats with the leather paddle. From the expressions on the faces of the Masters and Mistresses at the table, they were not impressed.

“Let it build,” said Master Jerome softly. “Let it build.”

Slave shortdick stood up and took the paddle from slave pasty one, who went to the back of the line of slaves. A female slave, greeneyes, next lay over the horse. Slave shortdick passed on the five swats that he had received, and yes, they were slightly harder than he had received.

This continued all the way through the line of slave until slave pasty one was laying over the horse and the lead slave, slave patricia, slave number fifty-four, was wielding the paddle. For a new slave, pasty one took the blows fairly well, crying out, but not begging for things to stop. Then she was handed the paddle.

The five swats that pasty one had received had been much harder than any of the fifty-three that she had received at the beginning of the evening when she was received as a slave of the Executive Club. Her body was trembling slightly as she stood behind slave painspot. Then she swung with all her strength while saying loudly and angrily, “You’re making me get 265 swats. I won’t be able to sit for a week and it’s all your fault.”

Master Jerome chuckled and said, “Sometimes the multiplier works faster than other times.”

Slave pasty one was sweating and breathing hard as she handed the paddle to shortdick. Slave greeneyes lay over the spanking horse and he delivered five, fast swats to her ass. He was evidently keeping it a little softer because he knew that he would be at the other end of the line receiving five before he gave five to slave painspot.

Watching a chain spanking such as the slave multiplier can get somewhat boring, so most of the Masters and Mistresses spoke among themselves and sipped on their coffee or liqueur. Several of the slaves left the line to take care of serving the Masters and Mistresses another round of desserts. The creme puffs seemed to be especially popular.

One or two Masters or Mistresses made wagers on whether or not this or that slave would break. Several of the slaves came very close, but none lifted up off of the horse or begged for mercy.

Finally, pasty one was over the horse as first in line. That meant that slave patricia was wielding the paddle and would be the last slave to receive the swats. Slave patricia didn’t hold back, but instead whaled away at pasty one’s ass for all five blows. Slave pasty one was screaming by the third blow and bouncing on the horse by the fifth, but she didn’t let go.

As she got up, slave patricia said with a smirk, “My Mistress was betting you would break. I was trying to help her win her bet.”

Slave pasty one took in a deep breath and then asked, “What’d she lose?”

Slave patricia shrugged and said, “She has to give Master DuWayne a blow job. If I break, she also has to let him fuck her in the ass... but that’s never going to happen.”

Slave pasty one accepted the paddle from slave patricia and waited for slave shortdick to lay over the horse. His ass was very red and swollen. Before starting she leaned in and said very softly, “Pass this on around to patricia. And tell the next slave why. She intentionally tried to break me.” She then pulled back her arm and swung with all her strength.

Slave shortdick’s scream caught the attention of the Masters and Mistresses at the table. They watched in surprise as the diminutive pasty one delivered four more crashing smacks with the paddle. As shortdick rose haltingly from the horse, pasty one said softly, “Remember what I told you.” She then went over to the table and knelt at Master DuWayne’s feet.

Conversation at the Masters and Mistresses table started falling away as they began watching in wonder as the final round of smacks became stronger and stronger, and the responses from the slaves became louder and louder. Finally it came to the last slave, lead slave patricia, laying herself over the spanking horse. Slave fifty-two, gayboy, leaned in close to her and said, “This is from pasty one.” Then he reared back and delivered five spaced spanks, each with all the might he could muster in his weightlifter arms. On the fourth spank, slave patricia broke, screaming and kicking her legs as she let go of the front legs of the horse. Slave gayboy didn’t wait for her to regain her grip, but instead delivered the fifth spank straight down, driving her cunt hard into the padded horse.

As he handed her the paddle he said just loudly enough for her to hear, “Be careful who you step on on the way up. It can be a mighty long drop back down.”

She stood shaking in anger for a moment and then began taking her anger out on slave painspot who screamed with each blow of the paddle. After the screams died away, slave pasty one leaned in closer to her Master and said, “May this humble slave please speak?”

Master DuWayne laughed slightly and said, “Of course.”

“Slave patricia bragged of her Mistress’ bet with you and tried to break me,” slave pasty one said with her head bowed low. “I sent her a message back through the line of slaves. I hope I did not do something to displease my Master.”

“No,” Master DuWayne said as he stroked her hair. “And I think that when Mistress Rheana learns of her slave’s stupidity, she just might make her slave satisfy you, both while she is giving me a blow job and while I am fucking her in the ass.”

“What would you have lost?” slave pasty one asked.

Mistress Muanda answered this time. She said, “There are some things that slaves do not need to know.”

Slave pasty one’s eyes went wide and she pressed her head against the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to ask anything I should not know.”

“That’s OK, pasty one,” Mistress Muanda said softly. “You will learn.” She stroked slave pasty one’s hair and repeated, “You will learn.”

“There is one last thing before we go to our rooms... or perhaps the dungeon rooms for the evening,” Master Jerome said curtly. “Our new slave needs to be branded.”

“If I may,” Mistress Tricia said, “I have a laser brander which is much more humane.” She smiled broadly and added, “But that’s not the reason I prefer it. It is superior to an iron because it can clearly make a much more elaborate brand.”

She clapped her hands loudly and the butler, Carl, again walked out. This time he was carrying what looked like a large square police radar gun. After she had taken the strange device from her butler, Mistress Tricia said, “This device can brand or tattoo or even print a temporary tattoo on the surface of the skin.” She paused and then said, “But like ordinary branding irons, the slave must be held totally immobile so that the brand is clear.”

“Lay her back over the shorter horse,” Master Jerome said forcefully. Four security men and several of the naked slavegirls released slave painspot from the tall horse and then pulled her over to the shorter horse where she was positioned standing with her very sore ass against the padded top of the horse. The naked slavegirls bound her legs to the legs of the spanking horse at the ankles and then again at the knees. Then the four security men pulled her backwards over the horse so that her cunt was uppermost on her body.

“Hold her tight,” Master Jerome said firmly. Two security men pulled at each of slave painspot’s arms while Mistress Tricia stood between her legs with the strange gun. She quickly typed something into a small keyboard on the back of the gun, then checked what she had typed on a small display screen. Evidently pleased with what she saw, she smiled and held the large square hood of the device against slave painspot’s abdomen just above the top of her slit.

There was a buzzing sound and painspot screamed very loudly. “Don’t say it burns,” Mistress Tricia said angrily. “We’ve heard that enough from you already tonight.”

Her warning wasn’t necessary. Slave painspot wasn’t even able to form words as she shuddered under the buzzing of the branding gun. When Mistress Tricia lifted the hood off of slave painspot’s skin, there was a very neat brand just above her cunt with three lines which read, “slave painspot” then below that it said “slave zero” and below that it in an elaborate signature font, it said “Property of Chateau Robespierre.”

“That will need some pain salve and antiseptic,” Mistress Tricia said evenly, “but I will apply that once we get to our room. There is something we must do first, however.”

The butler again walked up to her and handed her something in a box. Mistress Tricia opened the box and handed the item to slave painspot. It was a shiny, wide, black leather collar. On the front in embossed gold it said, “painspot - Property of Chateau Robespierre.”

Slave painspot looked at the collar for a moment and then knelt in front of Mistress Tricia and held the collar out across her hands which were flat and palms up. In a firm and very clear voice she said, “I offer this collar and myself to you and submit to you as my Mistress... if you will have me.”

Mistress Tricia almost immediately reached down and took the collar from her hands. As she wrapped it around her slave’s neck she said, “I accept you as my slave.”

After she locked the collar in place in the back, she quickly drew back her hand and slapped painspot smartly across both her swollen ass cheeks. She waited for painspot’s scream to fade away before saying, “And I will guide you and punish you until you become a perfect painslut.”

Slave painspot dropped to the ground and pressed her forehead firmly against the floor. “Thank you, Mistress,” she said. “Thank you for allowing me to be your slave. ”

Mistress Tricia turned to address the gathering and said, “There will be a light breakfast at nine in the morning and a luncheon at noon. I will see you all then.” She then attached a leash to painspot’s collar and led her out of the ballroom.

When they got to the Master– or should that be Mistress– bedroom, Mistress Tricia said softly,

“Lay face up on the bed and I will apply the salves you need for the brand.”

Slave painspot did as she was commanded.

After very gently rubbing the salve on the brand, Mistress Tricia squirted more of the ointment onto her hands and said, “Turn over onto your hands and knees and I will put the same pain reliever and antiseptic on your ass.”

As Mistress Tricia was gently rubbing the pain reliever and antiseptic over painspot’s swollen asscheeks, slave painspot said, “I really didn’t write that book, Mistress, no matter what it looks like.”

“I know,” answered Mistress Tricia, “but you did want to be free of being a Mistress. You kept making small mistakes at work trying to get Master David to get angry with you.” She paused, “When you moved on to larger mistakes that I almost couldn’t cover for you, I arranged for you to see the Painsluts Live website.” She took slave painspot’s hand and said, “I had all of your passwords and all it took was daily searches for the site’s name for you to start getting invitations to join. Once you did, I modified your account so you would be able to find your perfect Mistress... me.”

She wiped her hands on a towel and continued, “I thought that would be enough, but you consciously or unconsciously started making even more mistakes. And each time you made a major mistake, you would go to the website and practically beg me to punish you. Your orgasms from the pain were much greater than anything I could give you as your slave. It became a regular thing three times a week that you would sign into the website looking for me. That’s when I realized that you needed to be a slave and set up the webcam pay site. You needed to be the lowest slave in order to be happy.”

She stroked painspot’s cheek and said, “I loved you too much to let you destroy yourself, so I arranged for a controlled destruction. I will be a good Mistress for you. I will love you and protect you and see that you get everything you need. I think you will be happy.”

She paused and said, “Do you have any questions, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress,” painspot answered. Then after a long pause she smiled and said, “Can we still go to the website and play on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights?”

“And for a Sunday matinee, if you want,” Mistress Tricia said with a smile.

“Master DuWayne was right,” slave painspot murmured as she curled up on her side.

“What do you mean?” asked her Mistress.

“Some people yearn to be a slave and are not happy unless someone Masters them,” slave painspot replied. “My place will always be naked at your feet.”

“Sleep,” Mistress Tricia said softly. “Tomorrow we can make love for the first time as true Mistress and true slave.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” slave painspot said as she let the effects of the pain relievers take her into a deep and blissful sleep.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Wayne Mitchell “The Technician”

[email protected]

See my published books at


= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =


You can also leave your feedback & comments about this story on the Plaza Forum