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 parfumer 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. 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.