Chapter 1:  Appointment day


      It is a sunny cold day in March. The snowstorm that covered the streets with snow
is gone, leaving a clear, frosty day, with temperatures in the 20s. I walk down the
street, dressed only in my black sable coat, black velvet choker, and stylish 5 inch
pumps, also black, of course. 
      As I walk, the cold air seeps under my coat, up my legs and into my bare pussy. I
am going to Mr. Marshall’s mansion. I am afraid of what will happen there. I know I will
be beaten, but not how, or how much. Where, I do know; all over. It’s always on a
Thursday, though not on all of them, that I go to Mr. Marshall’s, always alone, and always
nude under my one allowed piece of clothing. 
      I never know when I will go. Sometimes Paul, my master, will tell me in the
morning, after I’ve showered and shaved him, as he dresses, maybe as he does his tie:
      “Today you have an appointment with Mr. Marshall.”
      And I answer softly “Yes Paul.” He lets me use his first name, most of the time.
      Other times, he tells me the night before, maybe after he’s used me, as I lie in
his arms, coming down from subspace. “Tomorrow you have an appointment with Mr. Marshall,”
and my answer is always the same, soft, submissive, “Yes Paul.”
      Some days he may phone me at work to tell me, so my anticipation and fear, is
prolonged. Rarely, he may even tell me four or five days in advance, so my fear can build
up more.
      Paul rarely beats me. He exerts his dominance in other ways. He knows that beating
is not the only way to cause pain, sometimes unbearable pain. Pain limited only by his
imagination, and he has a wide and varied imagination. But he rarely beats me.
      When I go to Mr. Marshall’s I know I will be beaten. That is the one common
denominator in all my visits. And I will be beaten hard, way beyond any pleasure, way
beyond any limit. That is my fear. 
      Mr. Marshall’s palatial mansion is only three blocks from my master’s spacious
home. It is far to walk, in the cold winter air, clad as I am. A passerby sees only an
attractive young woman, 5 foot nine inches, stylishly dressed in patent leather pumps and
an expensive sable coat. My shoulder length, dark brown hair is carefully coiffed in an up
do. My makeup is perfectly done, my eyes are very light blue, surrounded by my naturally
long eyelashes, enhanced with water proof mascara, so it won’t run with my tears. My
lipstick is the deepest shade of red, custom made by Paul’s parfumier in Paris. I have
applied two layers and gloss over it. My lips, naturally thick, resemble ripe cherries
after this. 
      He does not notice my size B breasts, hidden by the bulky sable coat. In the
spring, he would stare at them, covered only by a thin sundress, but it is winter, and he
cannot see that I am nude, under the coat. He does notice my shoes, and perhaps wonders
where I am going, with these classy shoes, on the snow covered sidewalk.
      I arrive, climb up three steps and knock on the door. The knocker is bronze, shaped
like a lion’s head, with a large ball on its mouth. 
      Parker, Mr. Marshall’s butler opens the door. Unbidden, I enter, remove my coat and
hang it on the hanger. I remove my pumps and put on black sandals, with even higher heels.
The sandals tie on my ankle. Parker doesn’t even glance at my nude body. Women do not
interest him. He climbs up the stairs and I follow him. The house is kept rather cold, on
purpose I am sure, and my pink nipples stand up proudly on my breasts. 
      As is always the case, I follow Parker to Mr. Marshall’s study. He opens the French
doors for me, and I enter the study. The aroma of fine cigars is always the first thing I
notice; it endures in this room, even though I seldom see him smoke. It is a large, airy
room, with bay windows that open to the park across the street. The walls are lined with
book cases, filled to the brim with books in all kinds of bindings, from leather, to
cloth, hardcover and paperbacks. I do not know in how many languages. I recognized
English, French, Spanish and German. A Persian carpet covers most of the hardwood floor.
      Mr. Marshall sits at his desk, writing. He does not look up. I move to his right
side and sit on the desk. The dark wood is covered by a sheet of glass. The glass is cold
on my ass cheeks. I gather my right thigh under me, and bend my left knee. My shaved pussy
is wide open, exposed for him to see, or touch. I hear the French doors close as Parker
leaves. Mr. Marshall keeps on writing, occasionally consulting one of the books or
journals he’s got on his desk. He writes on a laptop. The tick-tock of the pendulum in the
grandfather clock on the corner provides the only sound, aside from his fountain pen,
scratching notes in a yellow pad. The ink is blue.
      Time passes; every so often he lifts his head, looking at me, but he doesn’t
otherwise acknowledge me in any other way.  Sometimes, he touches one of my nipples with
his finger; rarely does he touch my pussy, exploring it with his index. When this happens,
I am always embarrassed that he finds it so wet. At times, he pinches my clitoris
slightly, between his thumb and index. I can never contain a gasp of pleasure-pain at
this; but it happens so rarely…
      He always wears a smoking jacket when he writes. It is deep crimson, and ties at
the waist with a black silk band. He also wears a white shirt and an Ascot tie. Sometimes
he asks me to get him a drink. When he does so, I walk to the cupboard and pour him
Glenlivet with a single ice cube. Sometimes he looks at me while I do so.
      As the evening passes, I feel more and more afraid, as the unavoidable time gets
closer and closer. Eventually he rings a bell. I am always startled by the sound of it.
The French doors open and I follow Parker up the stairs to the next floor. He always stops
at the powder room at the landing; he opens the door and watches me as I empty my bladder.
Even after all these times, I cannot avoid blushing with embarrassment. I must pee, in
front of him, with my legs wide open. After I am done, I follow him, trembling and
unsteady, on my high heeled sandals, to the next room. The room is very plain. It is
painted light green, with white crown molding. There is a large window, looking out on the
backyard. It is triple-paned and the whole room is soundproof. No one will hear my
screams.
      I remove my sandals and walk to the center of the room. There are leather ankle
bracelets that I put on. A thick wooden beam hangs from the center of the roof, where a
chandelier would normally hang. It is suspended by two thick white manila ropes attached
to the ends of it. On the bottom of it, two spring loaded iron manacles, lined in leather,
hang open. I place my wrists in the manacles which then close automatically. Parker then
presses a button, and the beam rises, until I am standing on tip toes. He then attaches my
ankle bracelets with lengths of rope to rings on the floor, and pulls my legs wide open. I
now hang, spread-eagled, with all of my body exposed for punishment.
      Parker leaves the room to get the instrument he will use on me today. He takes his
time. I wait. What will it be? The lash or the crop?
       If it is the crop, I will only get thirty or forty slashes, and then I will go to
Mr. Marshall’s room, where I will serve his pleasure during the night. If it is the lash,
I know I will hang here for hours, until I receive a hundred lashes, well paced, so I can
feel all of them. Parker is an expert in this. He takes his time. He lets me feel each
lash, entirely, and then gives me the next one. He will pause often, to rest his arm, and
to let me recover. He gives me sugared water, to keep my energy up. It wouldn’t do to have
me pass out, of course. 
      If it is the lash, after he is done with me, he will take my body down, carry me to
a nearby room, and put me to bed, in a small bed with crimson satin sheets, where blood
stains will not show. I will sleep there, undisturbed, until the morning. He will bring me
breakfast, always coffee and two croissants, and then, I will walk back home.
      I never know where Mr. Marshall is when I am being beaten. He is never in the room,
and, as far as I can tell, there are no cameras, not even hidden ones, in the room. The
walls are bare; there is no place to hide a camera. I prefer the cane. At least, when I am
caned, Mr. Marshall will see the wheals of the crop on my body, and will then enjoy using
me. I feel that my suffering serves a purpose.
      When Parker whips me however, there is no one to enjoy it. He definitely does not.
I know that he does not get erect during a session. Mr. Marshall is not there either, and
neither is Paul. I have asked Paul if he sees the sessions, or if they are taped and he
said no. He does know what happens in them, although, when he sends me, he does not know
if Mr. Marshall will use me or not. It is so frustrating. If at least Paul could see me
being whipped, it would at least count for something. I strangle a sob. I lift my eyes and
Parker stands in front of me.