Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. And so life continued at its usual pace. Although I met Shona socially a few times after that event, it never seemed appropriate to discuss the events that had taken place in my cellar. Several times I had met her and Mike in the pub and she had not been her usual chatty self to say the least. Although part of this was due to her obvious embarrassment, I also think she preferred to keep the information from Mike, whom she had begun to 'date' on a reasonably regular basis. As mentioned, they had both admitted to having slightly submissive leanings when pressed, so I couldn't help but feel that the relationship existed for convenience. Neither of them had had an intimate relationship for some time, and it was a case of any port in storm. They were good friends first and foremost though, so it was unlikely that they would allow anything to spoil this. I foresaw the relationship tapering off over a reasonable short space of time. Debbie's role hadn't changed a great deal. The life of a slave never does. She remained obedient to me in every respect, although I had few chances to test it as far as I had on the night of my dinner party. I think that night had underlined our respective positions very adequately, however. She had followed my every instruction, even to the point of humiliating herself publicly. There had been several witnesses to her display of slavedom, and nobody, including Debbie, had been left in any doubt as to her position in the house's pecking order. There had been no recent instances of disobedience. She continued to accept her maintenance whippings readily, if noisily, and she carried out her duties in the house to an irreproachable standard. With regular and frequent practice, she had become something of an expert in the art of fellatio, and was able to bring me to the point of ejaculation in record time, readily accepting the opportunity whenever it arose, her previous misgivings relating to oral sex seemingly vanished. Although I occasionally allowed her into the house itself after dinner, it was normal for her to spend the long evenings in her cell. I believed it helped to continually remind her of her position. Recently though I had begun to relent, and had begun to chain her in the lounge while I went out with friends on Saturday nights. I think she believed that I was allowing her this privilege for work completed during the preceding week, although in truth I was considering her safety should a fire break out. Buried deep in the bowels of my home, it is unlikely that she would have been aware of the fires existence until it was too late, something I would have had difficult reconciling with my conscience. Although she was chained to the large bookcase in my lounge, in the event of fire breaking out, I believe she would have eventually ripped the padlock from her clitoris as the fire spread. A horrendous thought, but a life saving one none the less. It was with this in mind that I would leave her, cross-legged on the floor, glued to Sky News, the only channel I would allow her to watch, the rest being blocked by password. Every Saturday night, I would roll home, usually the worse for drink, and find her sitting in the same position I had left her, eager to take me in her mouth and relieve my tension before I would escort her back to her cell. I felt that this was good for her, whilst the fact that she was viewing one information channel, naked and chained, reminded her that she was still enslaved, the rolling news items helped to stimulate her mentally. I felt that she had been sufficiently 're-programmed' for me not to have to worry about this outside influence, and try as I might to find fault in her behaviour, this small privilege didn't seem to affect her obedience in any way. I for one had begun to lead a more interesting social life than ever. I had always made a concerted effort to stay away from 'the scene'. It seemed so contrived and affected. While I could see the attraction of taking your slave to a fetish club, it seemed to me that this was usually done as much for the benefit of the slave as his/her owner. Exhibitionists and voyeurs mainly attended these venues and everything was done with a very happy, consensual air. I often felt that a great deal of the guest were there because they enjoyed dressing up. The concept of these nights was marvellous and brought a great deal of entertainment to a large number of people, but that was my point. It was entertaining. The life of a slave, a real slave, could not be described as entertaining. Fulfilling perhaps, rewarding even, but never entertaining. This didn't stop me attending on my own occasionally, and enjoying the events for what they were. I had begun to meet a great many people with similar leanings to me, although other commitments in their lives prevented them from pursuing their dreams to the extent I had. Many of them removed their leather trousers the next morning only to replace them with pinstripes, in preparation for the beginning of a busy week at their office in the city. Despite this I would spend many enjoyable evenings reclining in the plush leather chairs, my brandy in my hand, and my feet resting comfortably on the back of the nearest available slave. For obvious reasons, I never took Debbie, the reality and depravity of her existence would have proved too much for these weekend actors and actresses, and so I would attend slaveless, preferring to retain my anonymity as an 'Owner'. I made a great deal of useful contacts during this time, swapping e-mail addresses, website addresses and useful numbers. It seemed that BDSM was alive and very much well in the South of England, if the amount of addresses mounting up in my diary were anything to go by. It was typically British, the way that none of this activity was apparent on the face of things, but it soon became clear that I wasn't the only 'genuine' sex slave owner in the UK. In fact, there were owners in the South of England who kept their slaves in considerably worse conditions than me. I didn't know how much was reality, and how much was urban myth. But several names cropped up time and again, usually in relation to a particularly cruel act or punishment used in the 'breaking' of a new slave. I didn't see that it was necessary to be as inhumane as that After all, although I had whipped Debbie regularly, her training had relied as much on mental punishment as physical. I would nod and smile politely at these revelations of incomprehensible torture, secretly pleased that I had been able to nurture an obedient slave without having to inflict such incredibly agonising tuition. I mentally pictured her on my whipping bench, her buttocks a network of fine red lines, each one earth-shatteringly excruciating in its application, and found it impossible to imagine that a more intense pain was either possible or necessary. On one such occasion, the subject of conversation turned to an apparently well-known name in the world of sexual slavery, one Karl Leeson. My curiosity roused at tales of this man's alleged acts of cruelty against young women and girls, I began to listen, intrigued by the tales that followed him. One of the 'Doms' at this particular club, an amiable chap in his early forties was more than willing to furnish me with the details as he had heard them, warning me beforehand that a great deal of what he was relating was unsubstantiated. Karl Leeson, it would seem, had spent a great deal of his life in either prison or the British army, obsessed with discipline but unable to adhere to it himself for any length of time. New recruits had rapidly flourished under his strict and demanding regime, those that is that stayed the course. There had been a higher than ever instance of soldiers leaving the army and disappearing back into society during his period as training officer, and after a while questions were asked and aspirations cast about his suitability to train young recruits. His life outside the confines of the barracks had also been note-worthy, seemingly spending his spare evenings paying desperate prostitutes large sums of money in order that he might flog them, quite literally, tying them securely to an object in their room before removing his army issue belt and flaying them within an inch of their lives. More than one prostitute, emotionally and mentally scarred by the ordeal, had approached the army with her complaints. They had all been paid off, in an attempt to avert a national scandal; and Karl had been warned to contain his more violent urges, or face expulsion from the forces. The physical and mental punishment he lavished on his recruits served to satiate his sadistic desires for a while, before inevitably, he began to once more yearn to continue his ritualistic abuse of the young girls he favoured. One evening, legend had it; drunk and highly-strung, he had once more visited the redlight district, searching diligently for a prostitute who didn't recognise his huge, distinctive figure. Finally finding a girl who was prepared to accommodate him, they disappeared into her room. This time, the girl spent three weeks in the local hospital, and rather than approach the army with her tale of brutality, she took her story to the national press, who soon discovered many more girls willing to relate stories of torture at his hands. Inevitably, the army was forced to act, and moved him to a secure unit for the mentally unstable, the many doctors who questioned him astounded by his apparent lack of mercy, remorse, or awareness of the terrific pain he had inflicted on his unfortunate victims. It was almost five years before he managed to convince the authorities that he was a reformed and trustworthy citizen, being discharged from the hospital gates straight into the waiting car of the Russian government official that had been sent to 'collect' him. His notoriety had reached their ever-attentive ears and they were prepared to offer him a fantastic sum of money to act as a mercenary, 'disposing' of people who were considered a threat to the communist regime. For some considerable time he enjoyed his work, before relations between Russia and the rest of Europe began to thaw, and he became surplus to requirements. Satisfied that he could never relate any of the things he had carried out on their behalf, lest he should incriminate himself, they allowed him to go, severing all connection with him and disposing of any files or documents that carried his name. This is how he found himself back in his native country, a huge amount of cash (some earned, some appropriated) in his account, and his bloodlust more prevalent than ever, his experience abroad only serving to develop his fetish, rather than satisfying it. He had bought a large mansion set in considerable grounds in the South of England, a well known house, well known for the terrible exploits that occurred within its high, impenetrable walls. Word had it that many owners from around the world had taken their slaves to his house, following an indiscretion that they felt merited a more serious punishment than they were capable of inflicting. Little was known of the slave's fate after being admitted, as owners and slaves alike were sworn to secrecy before and after leaving his premises. It would seem that he was not the kind of man that you were likely to betray, as nobody I found was prepared to speak of the methods he used to chastise the disobedient slaves, only shuddering visibly at the mention of his name. It was his habit, allegedly, to occasionally visit fetish clubs around the United Kingdom, searching for naive, ownerless slaves to inflict his unique brand of training upon. It was with interest then, three Saturdays later, that I heard he was at the bar, sitting alone with his gin and tonic, a area around him of some ten feet devoid of people, an unusual event in itself, given that the rest of the club was full to capacity. I braved the no-mans-land and made my way over to his side. Without turning, he spoke, a deep toneless voice, slightly unnerving me. "Mr. Peacock" I started, surprised at his knowledge of my name. "You have been asking questions about me?" With this he turned, fixing my eyes with his, his dark, thick eyebrows drawn low over his deep, dark eyes. It gave him an appearance of being perpetually angry, although given what I had heard so far, perhaps he was. "Yes, I.I was curious" "Perhaps you wished to present your slave to me for extra-curricular training?" "I don't own a slave," I answered easily, used to lying to the people that surrounded me, keen to protect my anonymity. He laughed derisively, "You are perhaps one of the worst liars I have ever come across," he stated simply, crushing my confidence and instantly making me wish I'd never approached him. "Ok, so you've uncovered my secret, its just something I don't like to broadcast. here" I struggled for an explanation, motioning behind me with my head. He looked briefly round at the overweight executives, trussed up in leather and steel, cavorting round the club on their hands and knees, ecstatic at their temporary removal from the world of reality that they lived with six days a week. "I understand," he stated, simply Silence fell for a moment, but my curiosity drove me to continue our conversation "I understand you are a slave trainer?" He laughed, putting his drink down and turning to me "No, YOU are a slave trainer" he stopped to light his cigar "I am a little more than that" I waited patiently as he blew smoke rings through his thick-pursed lips. "You are a genuine slave owner right?" I nodded "You're not connected with the Saturday night slave contingent" I shook my head. "My slave is with me full time, she is as genuine a slave as the laws in this country will permit" He paused taking another long draw from the evil smelling cigar as he pondered my statement. "Where is she now then?" he asked, making a show of looking behind us. "She.she's at home watching TV." I suddenly felt slightly stupid; I felt the need to clarify the situation "She's chained though, naked, and I restrict her viewing to news channels, its only one night per week, the rest of the time she's locked.." I tailed off, realising I was rambling, running out of ways to convince this stranger that she lived under anything other than the strictest conditions. He was smiling, showing a set of perfect white teeth. "You trust her then?" "Y...Yes I suppose I do" I said, slowly. Trust had never been a word I had associated with Debbie "She is behaving herself in your absence?" "I'm sure of it," I said resolutely. He didn't answer for a moment, shaking his head slowly and staring deep into my eyes. "You are blind or stupid or both my friend. " he began, " A slave left to her own devices will do anything but behave. She is putting the time you spend away from her to good use. Remember, necessity is the mother of all invention, and from a slave's oppression is born a devious nature that a master criminal could be proud of. When you discover that she has been deceiving you, contact me. Slaves rarely disobey again after a short stay at my house" he finished ominously. I pocketed the card, more as keepsake of this incredibly charismatic gentleman, than from the point of view of someone who would ever need his practical assistance. On her short length of chain, glued to the television, I found it impossible to think of a way in which Debbie could transgress. "Television" he repeated to himself, shaking his head again, a note of incredulity in his voice. That was the extent of our conversation that evening, and I returned home shortly afterwards, the entertaining antics of the club's members seeming somewhat incongruous after the dark and foreboding conversation I had just held. It was soon forgotten however, and life moved on at its usual pace. I held several parties in quick succession, even inviting some of the less eccentric members of the fetish groups to my home, swearing them to secrecy before they entered. It had become apparent that confidentiality was sacred in these circles, and a Dom's word was his bond. It was usually more than his reputation was worth to jeopardise his anonymity. Debbie served my guests at all these events, resplendent in her nudity, occasionally performing for particular guests, always with the same charming reluctance she had shown the first time. It seemed that life could go on forever in this amiable manner, until near disaster struck, quite unexpectedly, and Karl's words turned out to be more prophetic than I could ever have imagined. It was a Saturday evening, and I had arrived home slightly earlier than usual, full of high spirits and alcohol. After enjoying my customary oral relief, I led my slave to her home in the cellar, before settling down in front of the television. It would be fair to say that I watch television very rarely. There tends to be very little on that attracts my alternative tastes, and the set-top box had not been unlocked for about a month, programmed to show nothing other than Debbie's news channel. With some difficulty I remembered my password and began to scan the channels, flicking briefly through each one. At one point I stopped, scarcely able to believe my eyes. In front of me was the screen reserved for the primitive e-mail service that my cable operator supplied, and on it was a message, obviously written by Debbie, and addressed to one of her old friends. I read the text, my blood running cold as I realised that she had detailed all our activities, even going to the trouble of remembering names and dates. My heart missed a beat It was unthinkable that any of these individuals could have their double lives discovered, the consequences would be catastrophic. What's more, the 'trust' that I had spoken of earlier was non-existent. While I was out drinking, assuming that my slave was innocently watching the television, she had used it not only to contact the world outside her home, but also to jeopardise the careers of my friends. I sat back, perplexed and angry. I needed to think, to find away out of this mess. Debbie cowered at the back of her cell. She could see from the expression on my face that I was angry, and she had a fair idea of why. She was expecting the hiding of her life, it never came, and instead I led her naked and un-protesting back to the living room and sat her in front of the television. Up until this point not a word had been passed between us, although her face became ashen as I flicked through the channels to the offending page. Slowly and carefully I explained that she was to write to her friend once more, explaining that her e-mails had been a work of fantasy, and that the people she had named had never behaved in the manner she had described. I had no doubt that her friend would swallow this, as it is much harder to believe that I have a house full of slave owners than it is to believe that Debbie was having a bit of fun at her friends expense. I dictated the content of the letter to her, allowing her to word the message as she saw fit, not wanting it to seem contrived. She finished by crowing over the fact that she had led her friend into believing these fantastic messages, and promised to call soon, a promise I intended to see she could never keep. Sure that she was to be whipped within an inch of her life, I led her back to her cell, gently ushering her into its confines before leaving the room, her eyes searching mine, desperate to know my intentions and the manner of punishment she was inevitably going to receive. As I sat upstairs, a large brandy in my hand, I breathed a sigh of relief. The e-mail should be sufficient to halt any potential problems that her previous messages might have caused. That only left one problem. Debbie. The whole concept of keeping her as a slave had changed; she had crossed the line and broken too many unwritten rules. It astounded me, that despite the obvious pain I inflicted during her punishments, she was still prepared to risk yet greater punishment by behaving in this way. I could not for the life of me fathom a way to re-dress the balance, as the pain of the switch was obviously not enough? The answer occurred to me in an instant, and from the moment it emerged through the fog in my brain I desperately tried to quash it, but it remained unflinching and glaringly obvious. There was only one road open to me. Where I had failed as a tutor, only one man could succeed. A man with a reputation for training unruly slaves matched only by his reputation for cruelty. I did not see another way to counter the problem. With a sinking heart, yet convinced I was doing what was best, I took the card from my wallet and rang Karl Leeson Less than an hour later I was driving us deep into the English countryside, the map on my passenger seat open at the relevant page, my slave in the back seat, dressed in the jeans and t-shirt she had originally arrived in. I had not told her where we were going, and in fact had not spoken to her at all since dictating the e-mail to her earlier. Realising that we were nearing our destination I decided to explain her fate. "You cannot be trusted," I stated, simply, breaking the silence. "A slave that you feel must be supervised constantly is little better than worthless" I continued, realising the effect my words must be having. I glanced in the rear view mirror, hardening myself against the sight of her pitiful face, ignoring the apologetic tears that had begun to well in the corners of her eyes. "I am taking you to an expert on this field, somebody I met at the club. We will be here a week, during which time he will undertake to punish and correct you as he sees fit. Do you understand?" I twisted in my seat in time to see her nodding reluctantly. As I turned back to face the road I spotted the landmark I had been told to watch for, and slowed the car to a crawl, turning into a tiny lane, little more than a cart track, and began our ascent up the side of the rolling hill, the car bouncing from side to side as it rocked up the stony trail After an age, by which time I felt as if every filling I owned was coming loose, we crested the hill, affording us a tremendous view of the surrounding green countryside. Like a patchwork quilt the agricultural land lay before us, a network of hedges and ditches, the roads and paths below us seeming tiny in the distance. There was little sign of habitation, apart from the odd farmhouse in the far distance, and apart of course from the huge mansion that dominated the hillside that we about to descend. Gingerly picking my way around the potholes, I occasionally risked taking my eyes off the road for long enough to inspect our destination, marvelling at the high stone walls that surrounded it, becoming ever higher as we neared, till they entirely blocked our view of the beautiful home within. As we pulled up at the main gates I spotted what seemed to be an intercom, and pushing the button on its stainless steel surface was rewarded with an immediate answer. "Drive up to the house" the voice stated simply, prompting me to return to the car and drive through the menacing steel gates, which had begun to slide apart on well-oiled runners. The road within its confines was much better, the gravel crunching beneath our tyres as we made our way up the tree lined drive to the front of the house, pulling up finally at the stone steps that led up to a pair of the biggest oak doors I believe I have ever seen. There didn't appear to be a doorbell of any description, so I prepared to knock, my efforts curtailed by the fact that one of them was already opening, and an immaculately dressed butler was beckoning us into the hallway. "This way please Sir" he intoned, ignoring the presence of Debbie, who walked closely behind me, the grandeur of our surroundings adding to her fear. Before long we turned into the drawing room, where our host reclined casually in a large leather armchair, dressed in suit and tie, a cigar hanging lazily from his fingers. Crossing the room quickly and brushing his well-oiled hair back into place, he shook my hand, the briefest of smiles flickering across his face, his handshake brief and firm, his hands strangely cold in the warmth of the room. An open fire flickered welcomingly in the grate, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. The neat lines of books were broken up occasionally by an oil-painting or two, images of haughty stern looking characters, one or two bearing a striking resemblance to our host, who had begun to speak again. "So this your slave?" he remarked, obviously It was the first reference anyone had made to the pretty brunette that had followed me into the house, conspicuous in her worn denims and thin, almost transparent t-shirt. He turned to face her. "Strip " he commanded suddenly, the sharp note in his voice causing us both to jump. Falteringly, still not entirely accustomed to casting off her modesty under the gaze of strangers, she began to remove her clothes, peeling the white t-shirt from her lean, lithe arms self-consciously, glancing nervously at us both before fumbling with the buttons of her jeans, sliding them slowly down her firm legs to a crumpled heap on the floor, stepping out of the fabric and allowing her arms to fall to her sides, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. I felt my-self become aroused at the sight. It didn't seem to matter how often I watched her undress, it always excited me. She seemed blissfully unaware that her hesitant, embarrassed, reluctant movements gave the whole performance an air of intense eroticism. "Hands on your head!" He barked, obviously quite used to this sort of procedure. Slowly, Debbie did as she was asked, her breasts being drawn up and out by the movement, as if inviting our inspection. He walked directly towards her, briskly kicking her ankles apart, and without further ceremony or warning, drove his index finger forcibly up and into her sex. Debbie 's hips bucked violently, surprised by the sudden and painful intrusion, and she let out an indignant yelp, the rough skin of his finger grating against her dry, unyielding labia He began to explore her vagina, probing and massaging, before extracting it and eyeing it with disdain. Almost absentmindedly, he pushed the tip of his soiled finger into Debbie's mouth, forcing her to clean it. "You don't abuse this hole, evidently" it was more of a statement than a question. I shook my head, slightly disconcerted by his uninvited inspection of my property. "Bend over slave! Touch your toes," he commanded, again in the forceful tone that seemed to command obedience. Casting a wild glance at me, she did as she was ordered, her legs still spread, her fingertips touching her delicate pink toes, her calves stretched taut, the soft skin of her thighs smooth and shimmering in the firelight, her pink puffy labia protruding shamelessly from between the V of her splayed legs, and above this, her anus, the object of his attention. Carelessly spitting on his index finger he placed it upon the tight bud of her sphincter, before again pushing it home, his fingernail mercilessly scratching the tender virgin flesh as it entered This brought a shrill shriek from Debbie, who had never experienced the sensation of a foreign object entering such a sacred part of her anatomy. Karl threw her a disdainful look, removing his finger, and pulling her upright by the back of her hair. "More un-chartered territory?" he commented to me, sarcastically, again proffering his finger to Debbie's lips. This time she hesitated, loath to do as she was being asked. "SUCK, SLUT!" Karl commanded, abruptly, reddening slightly with irritation. I began to see how he had earned his reputation. He seemed to have a very volatile temper indeed, switching from amiable to furiously angry in the blink of an eye. Fearful of the consequences, and filled with trepidation at the thought of what further pain this powerful man might inflict upon her, she complied, dutifully sucking at the flesh until he drew away, drying his hands on the spotless handkerchief drawn from his jacket pocket. Ringing a small bell on the mantelpiece, the doorman reappeared almost instantly, standing to attention, awaiting further instruction. "Take her to the preparation room" he ordered "oh yes, and take these ridiculous garments with you!" He kicked at the small pile of clothes Debbie had removed with apparent disgust, turning to resume his seat by the fire and motioning me to sit in the similar chair opposite. As the Butler disappeared from the room, Debbie's discarded garments in one hand, held away from his body as if they were infected somehow, and a terrified, mortified Debbie in the other, his fingers circling her upper arm, propelling her gently but firmly towards her fate . I felt obliged to speak. "I." Karl held up his hand, silencing me in an instant. "Don't worry" he began, a half smile upon his lips "We'll take good care of her" Perhaps it was his brusque, offhand manner, or maybe the glint in his deep black eyes, but I drew little comfort form his words . "What methods of correction do you intend applying?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "She will be whipped several times a day" he began, in the tone of voice a waiter may use to inform a customer of the contents of the menu. "We will brand her with your initials later in the week" he continued, smiling as my eyebrows began to rise "It looks quite attractive when it heals" he added, soothingly. "Anything else?" I asked, with feigned nonchalance, "Oh, there will be plenty of time to discuss the curriculum later" he said, vaguely. "Now perhaps you would like to see your slave being whipped properly?" His emphasis on the word properly both angered me and worried me. He was at once suggesting that I was incapable of delivering appropriate levels of punishment upon my slave, and at the same time insinuating that her forthcoming beating was likely to be extremely severe at best. There had never been any crisis of confidence on my part. During the considerable time I had spent training Debbie I had never questioned the fact that was I was doing was right. Now however, walking alongside this infamous gentleman's measured tread, I was beginning to question my own judgement. Perhaps I had been a little hasty in contacting this man. Perhaps the legends about the severity of his punishments were not as exaggerated as I had assumed. Perhaps I would have felt better dealing with my slaves disobedience myself, instead of entrusting her correction to a man I knew so little about. Perhaps I was worrying unnecessarily, I told myself, forcibly banishing any doubts from my mind. Besides, the thought of a discreet brand on my slave was not altogether displeasing. A short walk later, and I Was prompted to enter a door marked 'viewing area' which I pushed open, to find a semi-circular arrangement of soft leather armchairs, all radiating towards one blank, black shiny wall. Karl had left me as I entered the room, and it was with some surprise that I heard his muffled voice, seemingly coming from the smooth wall. "Lights!" It boomed. In an instant it became clear that the wall was in fact not a wall at all, but a piece of clear plate glass, appearing solid until the lights behind it were switched on, instantly rendering it transparent. I consider myself to be reasonably levelheaded, and not given to unnecessary melodrama, but the sight that was offered to my incredulous eyes caused my heart to skip a beat. The window offered a view onto a room not unlike a squash court. The room I occupied was half way up one wall, offering a perfect vantage point from which to view the proceedings. The room itself was about the size of a tennis court, as if viewed from its end, and the floor was of polished wood, reflecting the intensely bright halogen spotlights that littered the high ceiling. The walls were stark white, only serving to amplify the feeling of brightness. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the change in light. It was then that I spotted Debbie. From the centre of the ceiling hung along thick chain, disappearing into the ceiling and presume ably attached to a winch. Her delicate wrists were bound in leather cuffs and connected to the chain's end. Even as I watched the chain had begun to shorten, rising noiselessly into the ceiling, taking her weight and then slowly lifting her feet from the floor, her toes reluctantly leaving the safety of the wooden floor, and pawing uselessly at thin air. With a start I realised that to add to her suffering she was also blindfolded, and in her mouth sat a large ball gag, something I had never felt it necessary to use. She was sobbing, more from fear than pain I assumed, although it would not be many minutes before the taut burning sensation in her shoulders and arms became acutely painful. She swung gently, tiny and alone in the centre of the huge room, her naked, slim body incongruous in the austere surroundings. As I watched, keen to know how the events would unfold, she struggled slightly, the bonds already cutting into her flesh, the cramp in her shoulders already beginning to show. I had never suspended her. From a hidden, unmarked door in the sterile walls walked Karl. Walking slowly towards Debbie, nodding curtly at me, hidden from view behind the glass, he began to uncoil the whip he was carrying. For a moment I stood motionless, horrified, for as he unleashed yard after yard of the long thick leather tail it became apparent that it was a Bullwhip, specifically designed for use on the thick, leathery, impenetrable hides of cattle. Surely he couldn't expect to use the same tortuous instrument on my slave? Karl began to test his barbaric instrument, cracking it expertly on the shiny wooden floor. At this, Debbie began to writhe in her bonds, oblivious to the growing pain in her wrists, aware only of the fearful sounds that echoed around her. Suddenly and with the utmost conviction, I regretted my decision. I should have dealt with the problem myself, isolated her in her cell, and stopped her minimal privileges, anything, but not this. I fought with my conscience, wildly wondering how I could stop the inevitable torture that was about to unfold before my eyes. Short of running from the room and finding the entrance to the chamber below, wrenching the whip from his grasp, I could not see an escape. Trying to contain my mounting anxiety, I headed for the door, wrenching with growing concern at the handle as I realised it was locked. From behind me, muffled by the thick glass, I heard the whip crack once more, this time with a different note. A sickening, thudding crack. I rushed back to the window, pushing my palms and face against the cold glass, like a child looking into a sweet shop window, both desperate and loath to see what result it had had on my slave. Instantly I turned away, incapable of allowing my eyes to rest on the scene. Unable to scream, the ball gag only allowing muffled cries, my slave spun gently round from her chain, as she spun full circle the extent of the damage became obvious. Starting from a point a little below her left shoulder, and ending below her left buttock was a long thick reddening line, already beginning to swell. I walked to the back of the room, unable to see the hapless girl spinning below me, listening helplessly as the whip sounded once more, in an instant delivering more pain than my largest switch was capable of administering in a week. I tried the door again, testing its strength with my shoulder, to no avail. It was as solid as the plate glass that offered a view of the macabre events below me. Unable to watch, and powerless to intervene I listened with horror as the whip fell again and again, the space between its measured, ear shattering rifle-shots interrupted only by my slaves gurgling whines and the soft, almost inaudible voice of Karl, as he taunted her. "You'll behave now bitch" CRACK!!!!!!! "You'll learn the hard way." CRACK!!!!!!! CRACK!!!!! "If it's the last thing I do" CRACK!!!!!! Incapable of intervening, close to tears myself as I listened to the muffled cries for mercy coming from my slave, I pushed my palms over my ears, unable to listen to the horrifying noise any longer. Slowly, after several moments, I pulled my hands from my head, realising that the noise had stopped. I walked tentatively to the window, unsure as to what awaited me. Karl had gone, and although Debbie was still cuffed to the chain, it had been lowered enough to enable her toes to touch the ground, enabling her to take fraction of the weight of her tiny wrists, preventing permanent damage to the joints in her shoulders and arms. As I stared, transfixed, Karl had entered the seemingly unlocked door, and stood at my left shoulder. I turned to face him, unable to express my feelings. "You.You." I stuttered red faced, relieved that Debbie remained alive at least. Speechless, I turned back towards my slave. As she slowly revolved at the end of the chain, I saw the full extent of the punishment. Karl had not restricted himself to her buttocks and back. His blows had failed to discriminate specific areas, and her body looked as though she had been plunged into scalding water. Every inch of her seemed to have been damaged by the whip, her flesh bruised and angry, a network of thick scarlet lines, and each one more intensely painful in its application than I could possibly conceive. Even her breasts had not escaped, and I cringed as I tried to imagine the agony that she must have endured as the thick, stiff, leather whip had laid its stinging, destructive surface across such tender sensitive skin Noting my dumbfounded expression, he began to speak, his voice soothing in the quiet of the comfortable room. "Perhaps a little more severe than the punishment you are inclined to administer?" "A little!" I uttered incredulously "Little and often is not a maxim I find applicable to slave training" he continued, ignoring my criticism "I find that infrequent, yet intense sessions have amore lasting effect." I shook my head, unable to accept that the barbaric scene I had just witnessed could be justifiable. For the first time I had begun to feel pity for my slave. Nothing she could have done could warrant such torture. "However" he continued brightly, interrupting my thoughts, "The initial punishment is always most severe, acts as a bit of awake up call" he smiled, a twinkle in his eye. Despite his attempt at levity, I felt far from cheerful, and made him aware of it "Patience." he reprimanded, "You must allow my treatment time to take effect, after all it was you who brought her to me, you must have felt she needed some sort of specialist training" He was right. I was responsible for her current condition. Although I could not have known the form or severity this madman's punishment, I had delivered her into his hands, and must accept responsibility for the consequences. I thought back to Debbie's disobedience, seemingly an age ago. It still filled me with anger. "You say this is the worst punishment she will receive?" I asked, beginning to crack. "Yes, of course, I mean, how much more could she take?" I nodded reluctantly. It seemed I had little choice than to let the events run their course. As we walked out of earshot of the room, away down the plush, carpeted corridor that led to the dining room, I was too far way to hear her anguished screams for help, audible even through her gag, as the butler poured the first bucket of salty, antiseptic, ice-cold water across the angry scarlet wounds across her back.