Diary of a Pain Slut - Week 4

story continued from part three

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This is week four of that diary. There are five weeks, each more or less stands on its own, but makes more sense if you have read the previous weeks.
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Diary of a Pain Slut - Week Four of Five

Maddi’s Diary, Day Eighteen, Monday

Dr. B can be so frustrating. He practically ordered me to have Mom watch me do one of my Beat Girl webcasts, and then he wouldn’t talk about it. Last Wednesday, he said he would wait until he had read my write-up. I wrote it all up for him and today all he said was, “Nothing unexpected occurred. I think we need to look more at what happened Friday and Saturday night.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I was being my normal pain slut self. It was just live at The Pit rather than online.”

“Who told you to take off your shorts and panties?” he asked.

I looked down and said softly, “Shirley.”

“Who ordered you to masturbate while you drank your whiskey sour?”

“Shirley.”

“Who soaked your panties in hot sauce and stuffed them in your mouth?”

“Shirley.”

“Who masturbated you to climax while the hot sauce burned your mouth?”

“Shirley.”

“Who did you call Mistress?”

I just stared at him for a long time. Finally I answered, “Shirley.”

“It sounds like something very major has changed in your life, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“When I read your journal for this coming week,” he said, “I want to hear about what you and Shirley have done to clarify your relationship. I also want to know what your parents think of it, as well as hers.”

He closed the file on his desk and said, “Think you can do that?”

I nodded my head yes and he got up from behind his desk. “Then we’ll see you on Wednesday.”

When I got home, I called Shirley. “We have to talk,” I said.

“Are you having second thoughts?” she asked.

“No!!” I said. I tried to make that sound really emphatic. “I’m not having second thoughts.” I tried to make that sound emphatic, too.

I almost cried into the phone, “I’m having therapy session homework.” I know that sounded very frustrated and I wasn’t even trying to sound that way.

“Oh,” she said. “What are you supposed to do?”

“Talk,” I replied. “We are supposed to talk about what our relationship means and then we are supposed to talk to my parents and yours.”

“Is that all?!” she screeched into the phone. “Who in the hell is your therapist?”

“Dr. Bergenstein,” I replied.

“Thomas Bergenstein?” she asked. Her voice was suddenly much quieter.

“I think so,” I answered. “Do you know him?”

“Yes,” she answered. After a pause she added,  “That explains a lot.”

“Does that mean something is wrong?” I was starting to get worried.

“No,” she laughed. “It means that he understands you a lot better than you think he does. Why don’t I come out to your house tonight and we can sit down and talk to your mom?”

“OK,” I said.

“And I have an idea about how you can meet my parents. There is a party at the club this weekend.”

“Does that mean I can go as your guest?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” she said. “Only another Master or Mistress can come to the club as a guest.”

“Then what will I be?”

“You will come as my slave,” she answered. Then she laughed, “Trust me, you will love it.”

She paused and asked, “What time do you get off work today?”

“I work close every other Monday,” I answered, “but I did that last week. So tonight, I’ll be home a little after seven.”

“I’ll be there around 7:30,” she replied.

I got home at 7:15. I had just told Mom that Shirley was coming when she pulled in exactly at 7:30. We all sat down in the living room. Mom looked over at Shirley and asked, “Does this have something to do with Maddi coming home without her panties Saturday night?”

I turned red. Shirley just laughed. “She was also missing her shorts,” she said. “But yes, it has something to do with that.” She paused before continuing, “... and the fact that we have been in love with each other since junior high school. Well, back then it was a crush. Now it is love.”

“I didn’t know,” Mom said rather breathlessly. She was trying to hide her surprise and not sound judgmental or whatever.

“Neither did we,” I said.

“It would appear that we have all learned a lot about each other in the past few weeks,” Shirley said. “I found out that the girl who I was afraid to tell that I loved her was a submissive pain slut.”

“I found out,” I continued, “that the girl who I was afraid to tell that I loved her was a very powerful Dominatrix and Mistress.” I shrugged. “We were sort of made for each other all along and didn’t know it.”

“I found out more about what I am,” said Mom. “But I also found out that my relationship with my husband is far more important than what I am. I can be happy keeping the beast caged within me.”

She turned to me, “But you can’t. Your beast can never be caged. It can only be tamed. And it looks like you might have found your beast tamer. You have my blessing.”

She hugged me, “And though you father will never be able to really understand, he will give you his blessing, too, because he loves you and he will be able to see that this is what is best for you.”

That led to a group hug and all of us crying.

Just before Shirley left, she gave me something. It was a light gray, velvet choker necklace with a silver emblem on the front of it. She said I didn’t have to wear it until this weekend, but that when she came to pick me up Saturday night, I should be wearing it, and nothing else. It was a pale shade of grey, but she called it a “white collar,” and said that it would identify me as a slave who was not yet in a permanent collared relationship.

“It’s sort of the equivalent to wearing a guy’s class ring,” she explained to me and Mom. “You aren’t married, or even engaged, but it still tells others that you are taken and not available.”

“I guess I will have to figure out how to explain this all to Dad sometime before then,” I said.

Mom smiled and said, “No, I think it should be a surprise to your father. You stay in your room until Shirley comes to pick you up. When she gets here, you wait for ten or fifteen minutes before you come out of your room. That will give him time to do his fatherly cross-examination of your date. Then you come out and the two of you leave. After you are gone, your father and I will have lots of time to discuss what all of this means.”

End of entry for Day Eighteen

Maddi’s Diary, Day Nineteen, Tuesday

The first thing I did when I got up this morning was to put on my white collar– I know its gray, but Shirley called it a white collar and that’s how I think of it. I went out to breakfast wearing it, and nothing else. Mom looked at me and raised her eyebrows, but I answered, “I thought I should get used to it so it looks natural Saturday night.”

“Does it feel natural?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” I replied. I was surprised that my voice was practically gushing. I sounded very much like a young woman deeply in love. I guess that’s what I am. I am a young, female pain slut who is deeply in love with someone who will, hopefully, be my Mistress forever.

I am also a pain slut who has a job she has to be at this morning and an online webcast she has to do tonight. Tonight is TAZapper night, and that takes a lot out of me, so I know that I won’t be writing anything after the performance. I’m writing this up after work, but before Beat Girl goes on the air.

Things at the restaurant today were very normal except for the fact that I was wearing nothing beneath my waitress uniform. As I took orders from customers, I kept imagining myself doing so wearing just the collar.

The manager noticed that I didn’t sit down at all during my break. That was because I was afraid that I would leave a wet spot on my dress. She asked me if everything was OK and I said I was fine. Then she said, “You look different today. If I didn’t know better, I would say that you were in love.”

I smiled back at her and said, “I am.”

End of entry for Day Nineteen

Maddi’s Diary, Day Twenty, Wednesday

Last night was TAZapper night on Beat Girl. The TAZapper– pronounced TAY-ZAPPER, is a cattle-prod like thing about the size of one of those lighters with a long barrel. It looks something like one of them also except it is red with a solid, black plastic barrel. There are two pieces of metal on the tip of the barrel. They look sort of like the end of two paperclips that are embedded in the plastic. They are the electrodes.

They’re shaped that way so they can’t accidentally snag on something and won’t penetrate the skin. The TAZapper is supposed to be safe for use on a human, and the pulse is supposed to stay more or less in the skin so it won’t cause heart problems or any of that. A cattle prod is a lot stronger and the electrodes are pointed so they will penetrate slightly into the cow’s thick skin. The cattle prod hurts a LOT more than the TAZapper and causes involuntary muscle contraction, but it can also stop your heart if you accidentally put it on someone’s chest or even if you get the electrodes exactly on top of an artery and a vein when you press it against the skin. The chances of that happening are pretty small, but it is still too dangerous to use regularly.

For TAZapper night, five players can be up at the same time. Three have zappers, and two have vibrators. One of the vibrators is a big ol’ fat Magic Wand vibrator. The other is a slim line vibrating dildo. The zappers and the vibrators are mounted on robot arms like are used to weld cars together on an assembly line. In fact that’s what they are.

Harold bought them used from somewhere and modified them so that they can be controlled with a game joystick. I had to stand there for hours while he programmed them so they will touch my skin, but can’t spear me... well the zappers can’t spear me. The vibrators, that’s a different story. If a player has skilled hands, he can shove the Miracle Wand all the way into my cunt or put the slim-line vibrator up my ass. Harold put a lot of safeties into the robot programming to make sure they can’t hurt me– as in damage me.

Players pay for time, not shocks. It is so many points for so many minutes. The shocks are always the same level– hard. You can select an intensity level for the vibrators, but it doesn’t cost more.

I do the introductory stuff with restraint cuffs already in place on my wrists and ankles. I used to put them on after my intro, but then I am rushed and one week, I got the cuffs way too tight and my hands and feet were almost purple by the time the half hour was up. Now they are in place  and, when I first explain things, I click the metal D-rings on my wrist cuffs together so they click really loud and say, “Tonight is TAZapper night.” Then I explain how everything is supposed to work and encourage them to get in the cues early.

Time costs a hundred points a minute, so you can actually sign in for the whole thirty minutes for 3000 points. In US dollars, that is $600, and it is not unusual to have someone in for the full session. Since there are five players, that means that the whole session brings in only $3000 from the players. That’s a little lower than the other sessions, but for some reason, the TAZapper sessions have a much larger following. Most of the actual income comes from the huge number of people who log in to watch at 50 points per session, so the total income for the night is actually much higher.

Anyway, after I do all my introductions, I clip my restraints to the cables and stand between the two pillars of the TAZapper set. The cables tighten and pull my legs really far apart, and then the upper cables tighten until I am held taut.

The timers come on screen, but don’t start counting down for another three minutes while the Magic Wand robot goes through an automated program that gets me ready. The pain from the TAZapper shocks is different from a spanking or whipping or even from shocks from a TENS unit, and unless I am already pretty well turned on, they won’t trigger the pain-pleasure cycle. They just hurt. I told Harold that I wasn’t going to do the TAZapper anymore because of that, but he convinced me to try it one more time with what he called “the warm up cycle.”

I did, and it worked. It is still my least favorite session, but it’s OK now.  And it doesn’t leave any marks or bruises that have to heal, so it does give my ass time to clear between sessions with the paddle and cane.

I did my introductions, the Magic Wand robot got me ready, and then all five robot arms pulled back into the standby/ready position. I looked up at the big monitor on the wall and could see that all five player slots were booked for the whole session. Then the first arm moved in and popped me right on the tip of my nipple.

That wasn’t a good sign. That meant that at least one of the players was a skilled gamer and he– or she– was going to be able to move quickly and put their zaps exactly where they wanted. A second zap hit me almost immediately right in the middle of my belly button. I wasn’t expecting that... well not there, and I yelped a bit when it hit me.

After that things started get pretty fast and furious. It must have been a woman on the Magic Wand, because whoever it was really knew how to use it. So did whoever had the slim line. They were pumping it in and out of my ass as if I were being fucked back there. Did I mention that the slim line vibrator is also self-lubricating? It pumps out a baby-oil-like solution from small holes in the tip so that it slides across my skin or slips easily into my ass. I’ve had a couple of people try to put it in my mouth, but the sign-on instructions clearly say that the neck is the limit and the arms are programmed not to go above my collar bones.

I was yelping and squirming pretty good from the shocks and the vibrator action when I did something that I’ve never done before. I closed my eyes and imagined that it was Shirley doing all this to me. Ignoring the fact that there were actually three TAZappers and two vibrators, I imagined that she had a vibrator in one hand and a zapper in the other and was doing all of this to me on stage somewhere.

For the first time, I felt a major orgasm building during a TAZapper session. I’ve gone over the top once or twice during TAZapper sessions, but those were always little orgasms, not much more than what I call a sneeze orgasm. It’s there and then it’s gone.

This wasn’t a sneeze orgasm. It was a jump off the mountain into the clouds orgasm. I think the timer had counted down to about 8 minutes when it finally happened. I heard myself screaming out “Mistress, I love you!” and then the world dissolved in white light and bright colors. By the time things got back into focus, I was standing between the restraint poles with the cables hanging slack from my wrists. It must have looked impressive because the readouts showed a huge number of download requests for the video of the session.

Afterwards, I didn’t shower or even take off the restraint cuffs, but staggered naked back up to the house and fell into bed.  I woke up barely in time to make my session with Dr. B.

This afternoon, the manager didn’t tell me I looked like I was in love. Instead she said, “You look really tired today. Long night?”

“No,” I answered, “just a very intense evening.”

End of entry for Day Twenty

Maddi’s Diary, Day Twenty-One, Thursday

Wednesday is “hump day” for most people, but for some reason, Thursday seems more like that to me. Maybe it is because I am recovering from Tuesday nights on Wednesday, but by Thursday I am looking forward to the weekend.

I am especially looking forward to this weekend.

End of entry for Day Twenty-One

Maddi’s Diary, Day Twenty-Two, Friday

OK Dr. B, I am talking about group first today... but mainly because of how badly it sucked.

I sat there quietly while the two teachers who basically raped their students went on and on about how unfair society is for punishing people like them who are in love. I really wanted to scream at them, “It isn’t love when you are banging three or four students at the same time!” but I held my tongue because you are not supposed to be judgmental in group.

I also didn’t say anything when the sex addict college boy and girl kept looking sideways at each other and reaching over and touching each other’s leg when they thought no one was looking. I think they are taking my advice about helping each other out even though I never said anything to them.

Then Wanda– that’s teacher #1 who was sleeping with 4 girls in her class at the same time – noticed my necklace. “Do you know what you are wearing?” she asked in a really snarky, haughty voice.

I put my hand to my throat and gripped the emblem on the front of the velvet choker. The emblem is silver and sort of looks like the Chinese Yin and Yang emblem except that are three teardrops that intertwined, all three were black within a silver outline, and there was a hole in the center of each teardrop through which you could see the velvet of the choker.

“And what am I wearing?” I asked.

“You may have bought it at some street fair thinking it is a Triskele and are wearing it to look Irish,” she continued, still sounding like a haughty teacher belittling an ignorant student, “but that is definitely NOT the Celtic symbol of the three phases of the Goddess in your life. With those little holes drilled through it, that is the BDSM symbol, and with it on the front of a choker like that, it is the symbol of a slave.” 

She looked around the rest of the group looking very satisfied with herself. “Where DID you get it?” she asked. Her voice sounded very gleeful and she looked like a hawk ready pounce as she waited for me to answer so that she could further expound on my ignorance of Celtic and BDSM symbols.

“My Mistress gave it to me,” I answered. “It’s a white collar which means that she is my Mistress and I am her slave, but we have not made that permanent with a collaring ceremony. If we do make it permanent, I will wear a black collar, probably a leather one when we are together, and a black choker similar to this one when I am out in public doing other things.”

Diane, teacher #2, joined in at this point. “How can you do that to yourself? How can you lower yourself to such a degree as to become a slave? You are not a piece of property! That is sick!”

I lost it at that point, “You two seduce impressionable students who don’t know what they are doing and you think that me making a conscious decision to give myself to the woman I love is sick?! We actually DO love each other! And we ARE equal. I am not being forced. This is my choice as much as it is hers. I am choosing to give myself to her and trusting that she will use me in ways that are good for both of us. I can’t control the beast within me, but she can. By letting her control me, I am letting her help me control the beast before it devours me.”

Then I did something that I was absolutely not supposed to do. I stood up and walked out of group. I knew that doing so could be grounds to send me downstate for in-patient treatment, but I didn’t care. It was either leave or physically attack these two hypocritical bimbos, and I chose to leave.

As I got to my car, my phone chirped. It was a text from Dr. B that said, “You may leave group early today.” I guess that was his way of telling me he wouldn’t send me downstate. Or maybe, he was creating a paper trail so that he could justify not doing so. In either case, thank you Dr. B. :-)

End of entry for Day Twenty-Two

Maddi’s Diary, Day Twenty-Three, Saturday

Again, I am writing early on Sunday morning because I got in WAY too late last night to sit down and write anything.

I was nervous all day thinking about what was going to happen. I only vaguely remember Shirley’s parents from when I met them once in high school. I kept trying to picture her dad in my mind, but all I could see was Robert DeNiro as Mr. Byrnes in that movie “Meeting the Parents.”

I was so distracted that I made mistakes on two orders. That almost never happens. And then I did the unthinkable. I dropped a tray. The manager immediately came over to the table and apologized profusely for the accident. Luckily the tray tipped toward an empty table and no one got splattered with any of the food.

The manager told the family that if they would just wait for the order to be re-done, it would be on the house. “On the house,” isn’t exactly accurate. It would come out of my pay. But it was my fault, so I can’t really complain.

The manager took me aside after that and asked if I was OK. “You’ve been very distracted all day,” she said. “This isn’t like you.”

“I’m meeting my fiancee’s parents tonight,” I replied. “We are going out to a club together.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Congratulations! You will have to bring him in to meet me, but in the meantime, I am sending you home before you dump a pot of hot coffee over some customer’s head.”

“Thank you,” I said. Then I added, “But it’s a she, and you have met her... Shirley, the girl who comes in here with Vicki all the time.”

“It’s still congratulations,” she replied with a smile. Then she put her hands on her hips and said, “And you still need to go home before you really hurt somebody.”

“Thank you,” I repeated and headed home. I got there about 1:00.

I took a long, hot bubble bath as soon as I got home. I was tempted to make it a Mom-style bath, but decided that I should save myself. Besides, none of my vibrators are waterproof. I used my little spinning tweezer thing to make sure that I was totally smooth everywhere. Then I put on a robe and went out to sit in the living room to watch TV.

Nothing interesting was on, and I really wanted to take a nap, but I was afraid that if I went back to my bed I would end up spending all afternoon with my Jack Rabbit. Finally, I decided that I really was tired and went back to my bedroom. I didn’t even think about the sexual tension that was building within me. Instead, I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I woke back up around 5:00 when I heard the rumble of Dad’s truck being backed up into its parking place by the big shed. I went back into the bathroom and washed my hair in the shower and started getting it ready for the evening. I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to say to Dad. Mom wanted me to just surprise him when Shirley showed up, but I wasn’t so sure.

It took about 45 minutes to get everything right with my hair, and by that time, Dad had put his stuff away, showered, and was sitting in the living room.

I went back out and sat on the couch. Dad was in his old beat-up recliner. Mom keeps threatening to throw it out, but it is too heavy for her to move by herself. The compromise is that she keeps a cover thrown over it while Dad is on the road. He folds it up and sets it on the floor next to it while he is home. I guess all relationships are built on compromises.

Mom came in about six and announced that they were going to have a late supper after I left on my date. Dad perked up and asked, “You have a date tonight?”

“Yes,” I answered.

I was about to say that Shirley would pick me up in about an hour and a half, but Mom cut me off with “Her date will be here at 7:30. We will eat around 8:00, if that’s OK with you, honey?”

Dad said “No problem,” and went back to reading his paper and ignoring the television. He always has it on when he is in the living room, but he never really watches it. I think he is just so used to the noise in his truck cab, that the quiet of the house takes some getting used to.

Shirley got there at exactly 7:30. When he heard the car in the driveway, Dad looked over at me and said, “You’d better shake your ass. It sounds like your date is here and you aren’t ready yet.”

“I am ready,” I said quietly, and he looked at me with his eyes scrunched up a little bit like he was confused. Then Mom let Shirley in the front door.

“Oh,” Dad said. “Double date?”

“No,” I answered. “Shirley is my date.”

I stood up and dropped my robe to the floor. I was wearing nothing but her white collar. “And my Mistress,” I added.

Dad sat there with his face totally blank looking back and forth between Shirley and me. I was waiting for the explosion, but instead he turned to Shirley and said in a very firm and fatherly voice, “Treat her right. Keep her safe. Keep her happy.”

Then his voice softened as he added, “She’s always been different, but I think you already know that. And I can see it in your faces that you love each other.”

He shrugged. “Actually,” he continued, “I sort of thought you loved each other back in high school, but I wasn’t going to ask back then.”

Then his voice hardened again, “But never forget that she is my daughter, and if you break her heart, you will have to answer to me!”

It’s a good thing that Shirley had said no makeup, or it would have been running down my face as I went over and hugged my Dad where he sat. He looked up at me and said, “And you never forget that I am your father. I will always be there for you, no matter what.”

As we started to leave, he added with a laugh. “At least your Mom won’t have to stay up late tonight worrying that you are going to come home without your panties.”

Shirley laughed and said, “Good night, Mr. Miller. Good night, Mrs. Miller.” She stopped and looked directly at Dad. “And don’t worry. I will treat her right. I will keep her safe. And I will try my best to keep her happy.”

Tears were pouring off my face as we walked out to the car. I noticed that she had pulled it around so that the passenger side door was right up against the grass and I wouldn’t have to walk across the gravel in my bare feet to get in. “I love you,” I said softly as I got in the front seat.

“There’s a blanket on the floor that you can use to cover yourself if necessary... and if I give you permission. Don’t use it unless you have to, and unless I tell you to.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I answered as we drove out of the driveway.

The club wasn’t in town, but rather up in the city. It took about an hour and a half to get there, so it was about 9:00 when we arrived. I wasn’t sure where we were except that it was close to downtown. Shirley pulled into what looked like the entrance to a parking deck. She put some kind of card in the gate and it opened for us.

A short while after we descended into the darkness of the parking area, we came to a well lit booth with a guard sitting inside it. The lane was blocked at that point with a heavy barricade-style gate that looked like it could stop a tank. There was also what looked like a heavy concrete barrier sitting across the road.

The guard said nothing, but Shirley leaned her head out of her window slightly and said, “Mistress Shirley Beckworth and one unregistered white collar slave.”

The guard pushed a button or something and the heavy steel barrier in front of us slid upward while the concrete buttress folded back into the pavement. They evidently took security pretty seriously here.

As we started to move forward, the guard said pleasantly, “Have a good evening Mistress Shirley” Then nodding toward me he added, “... slave Maddi.”

“I thought you said you weren’t telling your parents that you were bringing me,” I said.

“I didn’t,” she answered.

“Then how did the guard know my name?” I asked.

Shirley chuckled. “Big brother is watching you,” she said as she pointed up at one of the many cameras on the ceiling. “The facial recognition programs knew who we were before the first gate opened for us. The Society has access to the Homeland Security database, so they knew everything about you before we got to the guard’s booth.”

“Is all that really necessary?” I asked.

“There are some very important and powerful people who are members of the Society. You couldn’t really hurt them by exposing their membership, but it’s a bother to clean up that kind of mess. And just because it doesn’t work, doesn’t mean that there aren’t people out there who wouldn’t try.”

“Like who?” I asked.

We had gotten to a parking place, and Shirley shut off the car and turned to face me. “A couple of years ago,” she began, “a local reporter got the idea of doing a big expose’ on the club. She really didn’t know much about it, but knew it was kinky and that rich and powerful people were involved. She decided to pose as a slave in order to get in.”

Shirley reached up and touched my neck. “She even had a white collar made to make it look real. Then she got some female private detective to pose as a Mistress. The PI had connections in Seattle and somehow got false membership papers from there. She even got her name and picture in the club member database.”

She laughed, “But they didn’t count on facial recognition. The guards let them go in, but security met them at the door. They were told that since they wanted to find out what goes on in here, they would. They were both stripped... well the PI was stripped, the reporter was already naked. Then they were taken down to the dining room and put up on stage strapped to X-shaped frames that held them securely in place on top of two Sybian machines with double penetration attachments.

“All of the hidden surveillance cameras that the PI had smuggled in were trained on them and broadcasting or recording everything while they sat on those machines all night being forced into one orgasm after another. In addition the club cameras were recording everything. Around 1:00 am, the local Grand Master came up on stage and put stainless steel collars on both of them. Then they were dropped off naked in front of the newspaper offices.

“Each of them was given a little memory card that would unlock the collar if it were programmed with the right key code. They told the PI that they would give her that code when she turned over all her files and told them exactly how she had managed to hack into the Seattle club. They told the reporter that they would give her the code when she gave them her files.”

“What happened then?”

“The PI turned over the files and gave the name of the hacker to the security people. It turns out he had bragged to a friend of his that he could get into the most secure server in Seattle, which just happens to be the one at the Society club there. The PI out there found out about it and told him to prove it by setting up a fictitious member– the PI from here. The hacker did, but he also contacted security and told them where the weakness was. It had already been fixed by the time the reporter tried to sneak in here. The hacker works for the Society now.”

“And what happened to the reporter?”

“People who play with fire, sometimes get burned,” Shirley said. “You might meet her tonight. She still wears the stainless steel collar except now it has a Mistresses name engraved on it. She wanted to find out something about the club, but instead found out something about herself.”

She opened her car door, “But enough history! It’s time to meet the parents.”

As they started to walk toward the entrance, Shirley said to me, “No one will say anything tonight because you are an untrained slave, but proper etiquette is that you walk slightly behind me and to the right.”

I tried to walk where she said I should, but kept finding myself alongside her.

“That’s OK,” she said. “Just don’t ever get in front of me. Then someone will say something regardless of whether or not this is your first night.” She paused and added, “And watch for sharp stuff on the floor out here in the parking area. They keep it pretty well cleaned up, but I don’t want anything to mess up you meeting Mom and Dad.”

We walked down to the end of the parking area where there was a well lit door which said “Entrance.” Just inside the door was a standard hostess / maitre-de welcome desk. A very beautiful woman in a long black dress looked up at us as we entered and said, “Ah, Mistress Shirley, your parents are already seated and waiting for you.”

It felt kind of weird. She didn’t ignore me. It was more like I wasn’t there. I found myself looking at the mirrored wall alongside the welcome desk to see if I was actually visible. What I saw was two beautiful women, one older in a long black dress, and one younger and more beautiful in a shorter, light blue evening dress... and a naked slave. I had to look twice to find me.

It was sort of like I didn’t exist, but somehow, my nakedness and almost invisibility, made Shirley that much more visible and beautiful and I was very pleased. It was OK if I couldn’t be seen if it made her more beautiful in my eyes and the eyes of the world.

The hostess led us over to the far side of the eating area near the stage. The dining room was arranged like you would expect at a night club. There was a small dance floor area in middle on one side and in the wall behind the dance floor was a slightly raised stage about 20 feet wide. The stage protruded out into the room about ten feet in a large half circle that touched the walls at the edge of the curtained opening.

As we walked through the crowd, I tried to stay two steps behind Shirley like I was supposed to, but it was impossible to be slightly to her right. I had to follow directly behind her. I noticed that one or more people at many of the tables was naked, like me. Most had black leather collars, but a few had jeweled collars or shiny stainless steel bands around their necks. One or two slaves were kneeling on the floor next to their Masters or Mistresses. Seeing them reminded me that I, too was naked, but my nakedness felt more and more natural.

A handsome man about my Dad’s age stood up at one of the tables right next to the edge of the stage and waved at us. Shirley waved back and then we were at the table. “Mom, Dad,” Shirley began, “this is Maddi. She is wearing my white collar.”

“Congratulations!” boomed Mr. Beckworth as he hugged his daughter.

“Yes, congratulations,” said Mrs. Beckworth quietly. “Have you set a date for a collaring ceremony or is it too soon to talk about that?”

I started to say something about us needing to work through some things first, but as I turned to Shirley’s Mom, no words came out. She was naked! There was a soft black leather collar around her neck with an emblem similar to what I had except it had jewels around it and the word Master on one side and David on the other. Her nipples were pierced and two small silver weights hung from each. The weights were small silver figures of a woman hanging in bondage with her hands above her head. The silver rope from which the figures hung was tied to the ring in each of Mrs. Beckworth’s nipples.

“Maddi is totally untrained,” Shirley said brightly. “She doesn’t know for sure what this would mean for us. So I don’t think it would be fair to ask for a total commitment before she is trained and knows what would be expected of her.”

I was still sputtering softly and trying to speak. “You’re... you’re...”

“Yes?” Mrs. Beckworth said, looking up at me.

“You’re a slave?” I finally got out.

“Yes, I am,” she answered with a smile.

“But you are both attorneys in one of those big offices downtown?” I continued to sputter as I looked back and forth from Shirley’s Dad to her Mother.

“I am that also,” she continued. “And so is Master David. But being a Master or, in my case, a submissive, isn’t my total being. I am many things. I am not always submissive and I’m not submissive to everybody.” She smiled brightly. “Ask any prosecuting attorney whose ass I’ve kicked in court about that.”

She motioned for me to sit down and continued. “A Master-slave relationship is very complex, as are all true, loving relationships. Some couples,” she said, pointing toward a nearby table, “are Master-Mistress and they have slaves together.” She then pointed to the naked man and woman kneeling at the feet of the Master-Mistress couple. “Those two slaves are also a couple.” She laughed slightly, “As a matter of fact, they are married with three children.”

“Some couples are Mistress-slave,” she continued. “There are rules to the relationship which must be abided by if one is to remain a member of the Society, but there are no rules as to what composes that relationship. If you decide that this relationship is right for you and Shirley, and you accept her collar, you will be welcomed here as a registered slave, with all of the rights and privileges which that gives you.”

I probably looked and sounded as confused as I was. I asked, “Rights and privileges? For a slave?”

Now it was Shirley’s Dad who spoke. “The relationships in the Society are Masters and submissive slaves, not captive slaves. A slave gives herself, or himself, to his or her Master. They are not enslaved. And if, at any time, the relationship sours and the Master no longer properly cares for his slave, she can appeal to the council.”

He cleared his throat. “Sometimes that means the council mandates that the couple seek counseling. Sometimes the council reminds the Master of the proper way to treat a slave. And sometimes, the council steps in to free and protect the slave. In my time here at the club we have had to remove one or two members who would not follow the advice of the council, but most come around when they are shown the error of their ways.”

As he was finishing speaking, a waitress appeared at the table. It was hard to tell if she was a slave, but she was definitely not a Mistress. She was dressed in a frilly French maid’s outfit that barely covered her ass. She had on a fishnet body stocking of some sort and a tiny black thong that was totally visible beneath the little black dress. The top had half cups that did not cover her breasts, but rather held them out for display. She walked with funny steps almost as if her ankles were bound together, but I could see nothing that was hobbling her.

If you ignored how she was dressed, she acted no differently than I did when I take an order at the restaurant. She even started with the one whom she thought would probably be paying the bill, namely Mr. Beckworth. Shirley ordered next and then the waitress looked over at me. I was unsure what to do. Finally I whispered to Shirley, “Do I order on my own, or do you do that for me?”

Shirley’s Mom answered me with a laugh. “You order on your own, Maddi, unless your Mistress has told you otherwise.” She patted me on the back of my hand, “But you will figure all these things out soon enough.”

I gave the waitress my order and after she got Mrs. Beckworth’s order she minced back into the darkness.  “Is she a slave?” I asked.

“No,” Mr. Beckworth said. “She’s a college student working her way through college. Her name’s Tracy and she works here rather than at one of the bars or strip clubs because here no one pats her ass or tries to pick her up. Waitresses are considered slaves of the club, even though they are really employees. And it is against club rules to touch another person’s slave without permission.”

He then turned to Shirley and asked, “If Maddi is totally untrained, why did you have me reserve time on stage tonight so that you could display a new slave?”

“Daddy!” Shirley hissed. “That was supposed to be a surprise.”

Shirley then turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, Maddi. I just want to introduce you to the club and show them that you are a natural pain slut and worthy to be called a Society slave.”

I was trying to figure out what to say, when her mother said to me, “Shirley didn’t tell us that you were into pain. Did you start with self-pain or self-bondage pain sessions?”

I had been worried about Shirley’s parents not understanding, but now the problem seemed to be that they understood all too well and were asking questions that I wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Maddi is Beat Girl,” Shirley said suddenly.

“Oh,” her Mom responded. “That’s why you looked somewhat familiar. I am so happy to meet Beat Girl in person. Master David bought me a season pass so I can watch all your sessions. He won’t let me play, but I can watch and dream that it is me. I especially like to watch the TAZapper sessions. If he comes home late, he can tell if I have been watching the video from one of those sessions because I’m ready for anything by the time he gets his coat hung up.”

This was the first time I had met one of Beat Girl’s fans and now I really wasn’t sure what to say. I was pretty sure that I shouldn’t tell her that the TAZapper sessions were my least favorite. Luckily, our waitress arrived with our food before the silence got too long and I had to say anything.

It was a very good meal. I had a glass of wine with the meal and Shirley ordered a second glass for herself and for me as the table was being cleared. Her Mom and Dad ordered some sort of after dinner liqueur.

When the drinks came, Shirley turned her chair almost around and indicated that I should do the same. I wasn’t sure why until I saw the hostess standing in the middle of the stage. “Masters and Doms,” she began, “Mistresses and Monsieurs, for your entertainment tonight we have three offerings. The first is the punishment of a slave who has been disobedient one too many times. She was given a choice of relinquishing her collar or being punished publicly before you. She chose public punishment. The second is between two Mistresses, both of whom think that their slave can take more strokes of the cane. There is a very interesting bet riding on the results of that contest. And the final presentation is the introduction of a new slave to our midst. Let us begin with the punishment of a wayward slave.”

“Slave gloria ends up on stage about once every six months,” Mr. Beckworth explained quietly. “She claims she is not a pain slut, but she forces her Mistress to publicly beat the hell out of her a couple of times a year. Mistress Sharon knows what is going on, but she loves gloria and knows that gloria needs this.”

The curtains opened on the stage and a large Saint Andrew’s cross was pushed out to the front of the stage. A very blond, very white, very thin young woman was bound tightly to the cross facing it. A very striking looking woman in a black silk blouse and long, black leather skirt walked out to the middle of the stage. She was holding a very long leather paddle about three inches wide. It had some sort of wooden handle that was also wrapped in black leather.

“How many strokes do you think that you deserve for your disobedience?” the woman asked the bound slave.

“Twenty-five,” the slave answered in a shaky voice.

“You will receive one hundred,” the Mistress answered firmly.

“No please, Mistress, I could never stand that,” begged the slave. “Please, no more than forty.”

“Sixty,” responded the Mistress.

“Fifty,” replied the slave.

“Very well,” said the woman in black. “I will respect your weakness and give you only fifty swats of the flat whip, but you must count each stroke properly or we begin again.”

David again leaned in so that Maddi could hear and said, “It is always fifty strokes.” Then he laughed slightly, “And about half the Masters and Mistresses have bets as to whether she messes up the count at eight, nine, or ten.” He then sat back to watch what was unfolding on stage.

The woman had called it a flat whip, and she indeed handled it like a whip. She pulled her hand back and the long flap of leather curled back almost as would a bull whip. Then she snapped her wrist forward and the long, flat leather paddle whipped forward and slammed into the slave’s ass.

The slave screamed a very high-pitched scream, but then said in a shaky voice, “One, thank you Mistress.”

The stroke and the count were repeated again and again and again. On the tenth stroke, the bound slave yelped, but then said, “Twenty, thank you Mistress.”

Mr. Beckworth leaned over toward the next table and the man there pushed a couple of bills into his hands. Evidently he had ten in the pool or whatever.

“Stupid slave,” the Mistress growled. “We are going to have to start over and I am going to swing twice as hard. If you mess up the count again, we will keep starting over until you get it right.”

She then pulled back on her arm and curled the flat whip in the air. This time when she flipped  her wrist forward, you could almost hear the tip of the leather snap in the air. I made a very resounding “Thwack,” as it slammed into the slave’s ass cheeks. But this time it was not a yelp of pain. Instead, the slave said, “One, thank you Mistress.” in a voice I have heard many times before because I have used it. It was the voice of pleasure pain.

“She didn’t mess up the count,” I whispered to Shirley. “That was her signal to her Mistress that her E buddies had arrived and she could start really laying it on.”

“I know,” said Shirley. She turned to me and grinned. “I know; you know; Mistress Sharon knows; the whole room knows; but slave gloria evidently doesn’t know.”

She turned a little further so that she could look me in the face, “Not everyone understands what it is to be a pain slut like you do. There are a lot of women– and men– out there who do not understand the cravings they feel in their body. Many seek the pleasure in pain without knowing why and are destroyed by people who take advantage of them. Many cannot accept what they are and destroy themselves. You have been given the gift of understanding who and what you are.”

“And I have been given the gift of parents who understand, and...” I choked up a little at this point but I finally pushed out, “... the gift of a woman who loves me because of, and despite, what I am.”

Shirley took my hand and then patted the side of her leg and pointed at the floor. I knelt on the floor next to her and put my head on her leg. My tears were wetting the fabric of her dress, but I didn’t care. I closed my eyes and let her stroke my hair lightly as I knelt there and cried for joy.

I really wasn’t hearing what was happening on stage, but suddenly Shirley’s hands were gone from my hair and everyone in the room was applauding. I looked up on stage and the Saint Andrew’s Cross was being twisted from side to side so that everyone in the room could see the results of the whipping.

With her very, very white skin, her now very red ass shown out like a beacon. There was some coloring of the skin at the top of the legs indicating that a couple of times the flat whip had struck a little low. But there were no marks on the lower back over the kidneys. Mistress Sharon knew her stuff and I doubted that those low strikes were accidental. I know from experience that a strike just below the ass cheek hurts five or ten times more than a swat on the meat of your ass.

As the cross was turned our direction, I could also see that the inside of slave gloria’s thighs were wet all the way down to her knees. Her E buddies had definitely shown up for her. I pitied her, not because she had just received sixty swats with a really wicked looking whip, but because she didn’t understand that all she had to do was tell her Mistress that she needed pleasure pain, and Mistress Sharon would have given her what she needed without having to go through all this charade of misbehavior. Oh well, it works for her. And I am in no position to say what is normal.

The cross was pushed off stage and the hostess returned to the center of the stage. “We have a disagreement between two Mistresses,” she began. “Both claim to have the slave with the highest tolerance for pain of all the slaves in the club. And they are willing to bet their own asses on it.”

There was a titter of laughter from the crowd. The hostess made a motion with her hands and two sets of stocks were pushed onto the stage. There was a female slave secured in each of the stocks. Their ankles were strapped to the front of the base of the stocks and they were bent over at the waist over a T-shaped piece. A strap over their back held them in place there and then their heads and hands went through normal stocks. These stocks were obviously intended as whipping stocks.

The stocks were positioned so that the slaves were facing each other. Each of them appeared to have a large, red ball gag in their mouths, but there didn’t appear to be a holding strap going around their head. They also were holding large red balls in each of their hands.

“The contest is simple,” the hostess began. “Mistress Darlene will cane Mistress Trudy’s slave, and Mistress Trudy will cane Mistress Darlene’s slave. Each slave has three rubber balls, one in each hand and one in her mouth. The first slave to drop all three is the loser, or should I say, the Mistress of the first slave to drop all three is the loser.

“The losing Mistress will then keep caning the slave in her stocks until that slave has dropped all three balls. At that point, the losing Mistress will replace the losing slave in the stocks and receive the number of strokes that it took to cause the winning slave to drop the balls.”

She turned to two Mistresses dressed in leather Dom outfits who were standing on the edge of the stage. “Do you understand the terms of the bet?”

“Is there a limit to the number of strokes of the cane that she will receive?” asked one of the Doms.

“No,” answered the other. “There is no limit as to how many strokes I am going to lay across your naked ass once you have lost.”

“Then we begin,” announced the hostess. “You will strike on my count, and only on my count. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” both Mistresses answered and held their canes at the ready.

“One,” intoned the hostess and both Doms swung as hard as they could with their canes.

Both slaves gave muffled grunts of pain, but neither dropped anything.

“Two,” said the hostess.

Again both slaves grunted, but the one slave’s grunt was higher pitched. I looked up at Shirley and said, “Mistress Darlene is going to lose, and lose badly.”

“What?” she answered me.

“Mistress Trudy is more accurate with her swing than my robots. Harold had to program them to move slightly for each stroke or I couldn’t stand the pain of getting hit time after time in the same place. Mistress Trudy is putting each stroke of the cane in exactly the same place. That slave won’t be able to stand it for long.”

Shirley smiled at me and leaned back to whisper something to her father. He then leaned across to the man from whom he had collected the earlier bet and after a few words, I saw them shake hands.

“You’d better be right,” Shirley whispered down to me. “Dad has a thousand dollars riding on your word.”

I wasn’t wrong. On the fifth swing, the one slave let out a tremendous yelp and the rubber ball bounced across the stage. On the ninth swing, the ball from her left hand joined the other on the floor of the stage. I could see her fingers digging into the ball in her right hand as she tried to hold onto it, but I dropped the safety switch at ten before Harold reprogrammed the robots. I know that the pain was nearly unbearable. At twelve the slave groaned out, “Nooooo!” as she realized that her hand had involuntarily let go of the ball in reaction to the intense pain.

Mistress Trudy stood with her cane in her hand and looked over at her defeated opponent. Mistress Darlene glared at her as the hostess said, “I will begin the count again. The number when the slave drops the third ball is the number of strokes Mistress Darlene will receive from Mistress Trudy.

“One,” she began. Mistress Darlene was swinging with all her might. The slave in her stocks had yet to drop a single ball. Her stroke was very strong, but her aim was wild. Each stroke was all over the place. The slaves ass was crisscrossed with stripes, but she still held on to all three balls.

It wasn’t until “Fifteen” that the first ball dropped. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the ball from the mouth, but rather the one from the left hand. At “Nineteen” the ball from the right hand joined its brother on the floor. It wasn’t until “Twenty-seven” that the ball from the slave’s mouth dropped.

I had expected it to fall when she screamed or something like that, but it just dropped to the floor as the slave grunted and twisted in the stocks. After it hit the floor, the slave spit something out of her mouth. It was a piece of the ball. She had dropped the ball not because she had opened her mouth to scream, but because she had bitten through it.

Regardless of the Mistresses caning techniques, that slave could handle a tremendous amount of pain– and I don’t think it was pleasure pain. She was bearing the pain out of love and devotion to her Mistress. I’m not sure I totally understand that, but then she probably doesn’t understand me getting pleasure out of pain either.

Mistress Darlene was sweaty with exertion. She looked out at the crowd in the club. “I acknowledge my defeat,” she said firmly, “and I accept the consequences of it.”

With that she began removing her clothing, letting each item drop as she removed it.  Then she went over to the stocks which were now empty and draped herself across the front piece. Two burley men in black jeans and black T-shirts with “Security” written on the back, pulled her tight and began strapping her in place. Once she was firmly in place, they pushed the stocks out toward the front of the stage so that her ass was pointed toward the audience. Her ass cheeks glistened with her perspiration.

“The difference between what the two slaves endured was twenty-seven strokes,” said the hostess. “You may begin, Mistress Trudy.”

“And you’d better count them properly,” Mistress Trudy said to her defeated opponent, “or Mistress or no Mistress, I will start over.”

The snap of the cane striking Mistress Darlene’s ass was very loud and echoed throughout the club. “One, Mistress Trudy,” Mistress Darlene said.

By the tenth stroke, there was a single, dark purple, bleeding welt across Mistress Darlene’s ass and she was crying and begging for Mistress Trudy to stop. By the fifteenth stroke she was almost incoherent. She got the number out, but was blubbering, “Please, no more. No more. Please, no more.”

“There is only one way I will stop,” responded Mistress Trudy. “If you submit to me as your Mistress and accept slavery at my hand.”

There was a long period of silence and then Mistress Darlene said firmly, “Fifteen, thank you Mistress Trudy, may I have another.”

She counted each stroke that way for the remainder of the caning, finishing with, “Twenty-seven, Mistress Trudy. I will still be a Mistress long after you are kneeling at the feet of a twelve-year old.”

“Ouch,” said Shirley’s Dad. “That is one of the greatest insults you can throw at a Master or Mistress, to say that they will kneel at the feet of a twelve-year old.”

He then looked down at Maddi and said, “Love is a wonderful emotion, but sometimes it is hate that will get you through hell.”

“I hope I never have to find out,” I answered. “I hope I never have to find out.”

Shirley stroked my hair one last time and said, “Time for us to go up on stage.” She smiled at me and then said, “You won’t need hate to get through this. Just your love for me and some help from your E buddies.”

I walked behind her as she crossed the dance floor and walked up the steps to the stage. There was a simple padded wooden chair in the middle of the stage. Shirley sat down on it and then patted her lap and said quietly, “Lay across my lap.”

I did.

She looked out at the people in the club and said, “I am Mistress Shirley Beckworth. I want to introduce to you tonight a young woman whom I love and to whom I hope to extend my collar in the near future.”

She patted me lightly on the butt. I felt really silly lying there across her lap looking out at the audience as she introduced me.

“Maddi is totally untrained and is basically ignorant of the rules and expectations of the Society. But she is the most natural pain slut that I have ever seen. And she has the heart of a slave who loves her Mistress. I want to show you both those qualities tonight.”

She patted me lightly again and rubbed my ass. Her fingers slipped between my legs slightly and I felt myself starting to get wet.

“I also love her and she loves me.” Shirley said. “As she is trained, and if she accepts my collar, I will bring her back up on stage regularly so that you can see her develop into a fully trained Society slave.”

She stroked my butt and slid her hand between my legs. “Open yourself up,” she said. “You should be open to this.”

I spread my legs slightly and felt the air cool the moisture between my legs.

“I will start with one hundred spanks of my hand with her over my knee,” Shirley explained. “Then I will give her fifty swats of a paddle while she is kneeling on the chair.”

I heard myself gasp at that.

“Then,” continued Shirley, “she will then put herself over the back of the chair for twelve cuts with the cane.”

There was a smattering of polite applause from the crowd. She patted my butt a little harder and said, “Slave Maddi, this is my first public command to you. You MAY NOT CUM until the twelfth stroke of the cane. Do you understand this?”

“Yes,” I said.

I understood what she said, but I didn’t understand why she said it. She wanted me to hold myself back through the whole thing, and only let go at the very end. I wasn’t sure I could do that.

“Let us begin,” she said and started swatting me on the ass.

Her swats were firm and they stung, but they weren’t exceptionally hard. After about a dozen hits, she said, “You don’t have to count these, in fact, I don’t want you to count these or the paddle, but when we get to the cane I want you to count them properly. I think you saw what was expected in the last presentation.”

“Yes Mistress Shirley,” I replied.

She patted me several times lightly on the butt as a way of saying that I had answered properly, and then she went back to a real spanking. I noticed that as she continued, she was getting harder and faster. The smacks were starting to really sting, and then they were starting to hurt, and then they were starting to really hurt.

I could feel my legs starting to kick on their own and I was starting to make little grunting sounds as I tried to keep quiet, but she was getting harder and harder and faster and faster. Then the first of my E buddies showed up.

It wasn’t long before I stopped kicking and grunting and slowly changed to writhing and moaning. With the way she had spanked me, Shirley had taken me into pleasure pain long before the pain level got unbearable, or even serious. I was floating on an endorphin high and not noticing how many swats she was delivering to my ass.

Suddenly I realized that she was patting me again, rather than swatting me.

“Stand up,” she said, and I did.

“Now kneel on the seat of the chair and bend over the back and grab the back legs.”

I did. I could feel the heat of my ass and the top of my legs and I could also feel the coolness of my moisture as it trickled down the inside of my legs. Then “Splat!” A wooden paddle slammed into my ass.

“One,” said Shirley.

If she had started with that paddle, I would have screamed with that first swat, but Shirley had throughly warmed me up with a hand spanking. My E buddies were in full force and I just grunted in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

Each swat was painful. It hurt, and it hurt more each time that paddle slammed into my ass, but it also felt soooooooooo good. It was more than my E buddies. I was doing this for her. I was making her proud in front of her fellow Masters and Mistresses. I was taking the pleasure for myself. I was bearing the pain for her.

OK, maybe I understand love pain a little better than I thought I did.

Somewhere around thirty swats I started getting into trouble. No, the pain wasn’t becoming unbearable, it was the exact opposite. I could feel an orgasm building deep down within me. I kept trying to push it back down, but the pressure was building and building and building.

By forty swats, I was groaning and begging. I wasn’t begging for her to stop, I was begging for het to let me cum. “Please, let me cum,” I cried out.

I repeated that several times and then switched to “Please, Mistress Shirley, let me cum.” I kept chanting that for several swats and then went to, “Please, Mistress Shirley, let your worthless and undeserving slave cum.”

I was running out of words to add to my pleas when I heard her say, “Fifty.”

She patted me on the ass again. It was a very light pat, but it hurt like hell because my ass cheeks were now so bruised and swollen.

“Now stand behind the chair,” she said as she turned the chair around. “And bend over the back with your hands flat on the seat of the chair.”

I did and realized that I was in much the same position as had been the slaves– and Mistress Darlene, in the spanking stocks.

“Twelve of my best,” she said to me. “And you will properly count each one of them or we will start over.” She paused and then added, “And remember, you may not cum until the twelfth stroke of the cane.”

I bent over the chair like she had instructed me to do. I could feel the muscles in my legs and ass pulling tight as I placed my hands on the seat of the chair. Then I heard a swishing sound and my ass exploded.

I don’t know why, but the robot canes don’t make that same swishing sound. Maybe it has something to do with the way a real person whips their wrist on the backstroke or the strike or whatever, but it sounds different. It feels the same, though. It hurts... a lot!

E buddies can only do so much. Normally by this time, I am riding through the pain on the wings of an orgasm, but Shirley had forbidden me to cum until the twelfth stroke of the cane. I managed to choke out, “One, thank you Mistress Shirley.”

Then I felt the cane tapping me on the ass. The robots never did that. She was teasing me with the cane, little taps that weren’t strokes. They were barely hard enough to feel. But then she suddenly pulled back and swish, smack, explode.

It took me a moment to respond. It wasn’t that the pain was overwhelming me, it was that the explosion in my ass was more than enough to trigger a major orgasm and I had to push it back down inside me before I could speak.

“Two, thank you Mistress Shirley.”

That’s how it went for the next ten strokes. Swish, smack, explode, force the orgasm back down inside of me and then say, “Three, thank you Mistress Shirley.

“Four, thank you Mistress Shirley.

“Five, thank you Mistress Shirley.

“Six, thank you Mistress Shirley.

“Seven, thank you Mistress Shirley.

“Eight, thank you Mistress Shirley.

“Nine, thank you Mistress Shirley.

“Ten, thank you Mistress Shirley.

“Eleven, thank you Mistress Shirley.

Finally it was swish, smack, explode, force the orgasm back down inside of me and say, “Twelve, thank you Mistress Shirley.”

As I heard myself say it, I realized that it was, at last, the twelfth stroke. The orgasm immediately tore its way through me. I felt myself letting go of the chair. I felt myself standing there shaking and screaming. I felt my legs wobble beneath me and I felt myself falling to the floor.

It was as if three or four or even five orgasms had been bottled up inside of me and all of them got released at the same time. I lost track of where I was and possibly even who I was. I was off somewhere in orgasm land and wasn’t sure I knew the way back to reality.

Things finally came around and I found myself lying on the floor of the stage. Shirley was sort of sitting/kneeling on the floor and had my head in her lap. She was stroking my hair. I wasn’t sure where I was at first and the sound of thunder was confusing me, then I realized that it was applause. The entire club was on their feet applauding wildly.

After a few minutes, Shirley stood up and helped me to my feet. She guided me back to the table and put me in my chair. I was still so numb from the orgasm that I didn’t even notice the pain of sitting on my blistered ass.

After she sat down, her dad put his hands on top of mine on the table and said, “Only a truly naturally born pain slut could receive that much pleasure from what Shirley did to you.” He patted my hand and added, “And only a person totally worthy to be a Society slave would have been able to hold that inside herself like you did just because your Mistress ordered you to.” He patted my hands and said with obvious pride, “Welcome to the family.”

It was a little after 2:30 in the morning when Shirley dropped me off at home. I told her to let me off out front rather than pulling into the driveway so it wouldn’t wake up Mom and Dad. “Besides,” I said, “I want to walk across the grass in the moonlight dressed like I am.”

Shirley giggled and said, “All you’re wearing is my collar and a bunch of bruises.”

“That’s what I mean,” I said and kissed her goodbye.

End of entry for Day Twenty-Three

Maddi’s Diary, Day Twenty-Four, Sunday.

This was another normal Sunday except for the fact that Shirley dropped by around 2:00 in the afternoon. She wanted to check that I was still OK with everything. Mom and Dad talked with her a little bit, but it was just the “Hi, how are you,” kind of conversation.

I told her that there was something I wanted to show her, and then told Mom– loud enough that Dad could hear, that we were going out to the play house to talk.

I gave her a tour of the studio. As I explained each area to her, all she could say was “Wow! No wonder Mom is one of your biggest fans. This is a pain slut’s paradise.”

“It keeps the beast in check,” I replied. “Or at least it gives the beast a place to roam.”

“The beast?” Shirley asked.

“That’s what Mom calls the pain slut within us,” I explained. “She keeps hers in a cage and only lets it out once in a while.” I shrugged, “Mine is too strong for a cage. It needs a strong master to control it.”

“Or a Mistress,” she replied. She reached up and stroked my hair and repeated, “Or a Mistress.”

I kissed her lightly on the lips and said, “You don’t just have an obedient slave who loves you. You have an obedient slave who loves you and happens to have a very powerful beast loosely caged within her.”

“I’ve handled more ferocious beasts in the past,” she said and she continued to stroke my hair. “Don’t worry, I will tame your beast and keep it under control.”

Damn, why do I always end up crying even when I write down some of this stuff.

End of entry for Day Twenty-Four

End of entry for Week Four

 

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21.08.14