Chapter 6: Day Two, 23 December

We continue our exploration of the dungeon. There’s a new rack on the wall hosting a larger selection of whips, floggers and paddles than before. Madame Faye takes a few moments to study them while I examine one of the three new ‘fake’ braziers strategically placed around the dungeon. The ‘glowing coals’ effect of the braziers is impressive, and the braziers are obviously the source of heat in the room. However, when I get closer I realise the heat is coming from the base of the brazier, and that the ‘coals’ are perfectly safe to touch.

The only alteration to the dungeon cells is the discreet addition of a monitoring camera inside each cell. Previously any form of camera or monitoring device had been forbidden inside all of the buildings. However, I recall an item in the club’s newsletter a few months ago advising that they were being installed inside the cells. The club rules require an hourly check on all slaves confined to a cell. Finding enough volunteers to carry out the task at night was sometimes difficult, so monitoring can now done by remote camera linked to screens in the administration office should the need arise.

“Come over here, Slave Tessa,” calls Madame Faye, interrupting my examination of one of the braziers.

I obey at once and join Madame Faye at a new piece of equipment. A wooden yoke is dangling from the ceiling by two heavy chains. The yoke is positioned so that a prisoner is made to stand with her neck and wrists secured to the wooden beam while punishment is delivered. Needless to say, I’m told to position myself so that I can be restrained by the yoke.

The height of the yoke is adjustable, and Madame Faye sets the height so that I must stoop slightly, or carry the weight of the wooden beam on my shoulders. Neither option is comfortable, but I suppose that’s Madame Faye’s intention. While I’m trying to find a comfortable position to stand, Madame Faye goes over to the rack of whips and floggers. I know from past experience that she will prefer one of the whips, but she makes a show of considering the other implements.

So far Madame Faye hasn’t instructed me to undress. Now that I’m restrained by the yoke, I’m unable to do so myself. While my leather harness leaves most of my torso exposed, it will nevertheless get in the way of any flogging of my back and arse. The design of the harness enables removal without needing to free my neck and wrists from the yoke, but Madame Faye shows no inclination to strip me.

“Have you been punished with a paddle before?” asks Madame Faye.

“Yes, madame,” I reply. “You punished me twice with a paddle last summer.”

“Ahh! Yes, that’s right. I remember now,” muses Madame Faye. “But that was only on your arse, wasn’t it?”

“Um. Yes, madame,” I reply.

“Then I think it’s time we see how well you respond to being paddled on your thighs. Prepare yourself.”

A flood of emotions flash through me in a matter of seconds. I feel a mixture of excitement and arousal in anticipation of the experience. However, there’s also a twinge of fear at the level of pain that may be involved. I’ve no idea how painful this punishment is going to be. However, I’ve no option but to prepare myself as Madame Faye has ordered.

Thwack!

Madame Faye doesn’t waste time in delivering the first stroke. I grit my teeth, refusing to cry out on the first stroke. It has become a matter of pride for me to silently endure at least four strokes of whatever punishment I’m receiving. My thighs are unaccustomed to being punished, so the level of pain is a new experience. However, it is well within my ability to endure, so I steady my breath and count the first stroke.

“One, Madame. Thank you,” I call.

The suspended yoke isn’t the easiest device with which to restrain me for punishment. Apart from the weight on my shoulders, my ability to move a step or two in any direction makes it harder for Madame Faye to line up her stroke. That increases the risk of a miss-hit causing injury or landing on a more sensitive part of my body. Despite the spreading pain, I do my best to stand still. I know I must trust in Madame Faye’s ability to land her strokes in the right place. Like everything else in our relationship, trust is essential between us.

By the sixth stroke I can no longer stop tears steaming down my face. But I refuse to plead for mercy, nor do I utter more than a short grunt or gasp from the pain. I continue to count the strokes, although in a very ragged way. Mercifully, six strokes is all that Madame Faye intends to deliver.