Redefining Punishment

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While I’m taking a little intermission from my regular numbered third-person stories, I thought I would try something a little different and see how it goes over. Up till now I’ve been playing with mostly moderate, relatively safe BDSM. This story pushes the limits of extreme BDSM and pain. This story makes the “Hell And Back” series look like a walk in the park (even part 3!). This is my fifth holiday salute, and also my first experiment writing in first-person and playing with the dynamics thereof, from a female POV, no less, and also my first story written in present tense, getting in touch with my inner submissive lesbian.

 

***

 

May 11th, 7:02 p.m.

 

Oh dear, I think, wiping nervous perspiration from my forehead as I run red lights and stop signs. Oh dear oh dear oh dear…this is not good. This is most definitely not good at all.

Mistress Helen is expecting me. She has ordered me to appear before her at her home-office-den-dungeon at precisely 7:00 sharp. I am at least ten minutes from my destination, and it’s already 7:02. I am in such trouble. I sweat profusely, despite the exceptionally cool 68° spring weather. It is such a beautiful day today, and I am so oblivious to it as I can think of nothing except panic. I would attempt to ring and alert her of my tardiness, but it would do no good. One thing I learned first and foremost is that an appointment with Mistress Helen is not like any traditional sort of appointment. It is made crystal-clear that you are not to be tardy on Mistress Helen’s watch. Her demands are firm and non-negotiable. Under no circumstances is being so much as a second late permissible. She does not tolerate lateness, and she does not forgive mistakes.

Oh no…Mistress Helen is going to be so cross with me. I do not even want to think about what she’ll do to me.

My name is Delilah Gainey. I’m 24 years old, and up until six months ago, I lived the relatively normal life of your more or less everyday lesbian (or a basic variety thereof): I worked at a retail store to put myself through school, I wore a rainbow bracelet, fleece and Doc Martens, I cut and cropped my hair, I covered my car in bumper stickers, I hung out with my platonic friend Matt and our mutual chick-buddy Holly, I chased pretty girls together with them, and I idolized Martina. And I fell in absolute love with the Plain White Ts, for obvious reasons…okay, that’s just li’l’ ol’ me. Things were going well enough. I was a level-headed gal with her feet firmly on the ground, but somehow I felt something was…missing. Then, I left it all behind, as my life drastically changed.

That’s when I met Mistress Helen.

Had we not crossed paths back in early November last year, I would never in a million years have guessed what it was that was lacking. The logic was simple: it was precisely Mistress Helen herself which was missing in my life.

A month and a half after my 24th birthday, I was on the way back to my car one day when she materialized, as if out of nowhere. I can only guess she was standing behind the tree adjacent to the lot. All I remember is opening the door and looking up to see an intimidation-inspiring, ravishingly hot 5’9″ brunette in her 40s, standing ten feet from me, directly on the other side of my Malibu.

She was smiling at me, cordial and yet ominous. She introduced herself, and the rest has since remained something of a blur. Her bright jade eyes seemed to hypnotize me as I gazed into them. They were irresistible. For all I know she did hypnotize me that day. I might’ve literally levitated into the air and floated senselessly after her like in a dream as she led me to her home and lair.

She asked me to tell her about myself. We spoke about me for a bit, then Mistress Helen took me down into her dungeon, shackled me and told me about her. I could not explain exactly what it was about the restraint that generated the feeling of pure pleasure and desire in me, but it instantly fired me up. Mistress informed me that she engages in what is called adopted lesbian domination (or “lezdom,” for short).

Why precisely she referred to it as “adopted” lezdom I have never been certain.

To the casual observer, my association with Mistress Helen would seem akin to that of a cult leader inducting a susceptible innocent, for a sabbatical of torture and mind control. And said casual observer may be correct, as just as Mistress controls my mind and runs me through a series of excruciating bodily torments, she has also trained my psyche and my pussy to expertly serve and worship her. She has mesmerized me, and entranced me, until my every daily thought and my every nightly dream is infused with the presence of my beloved sorceress. She is my empress and my temptress. I live her, I breathe her.

And yet for all my worship in the splendor that is Mistress Helen, the extent of my knowledge on her is just this: her first name, where she dwells, Betturkey and that my pussy belongs to her. She dominates me 100% without question. Our relationship goes beyond being a top and bottom. She is the zenith. She’s the summit. I am the nadir, the deepest fathom below sea level.

Today, the second Sunday in May, will be my seventh monthly session with Mistress. Well, that is, presuming she does not turn me away for being tardy. I am so petrified that she may do this, or worse to me. A terrible traffic jam has obstructed my trek to her domicile, and now I know I am toast. My goose is cooked. Sweat drips off my face and my heart pounds in fright. I am so terrified of my eventual consequences.

I could not bear to be banned from her premises.

Since I have known her, Mistress Helen has gradually, methodically commandeered my soul. She has taken over my mind and become a much more significant part of my life to this day than could be done without. She not only filled the empty void in my life that craved such direction, she shoved me into the metaphorical passenger seat and took the wheel herself. I would like to say for sure that I made the decision to begin adopted lezdom/worship with her of my own free will and sound mind, but I cannot. I would like to say that I held the reins for myself and opted of my own volition to try this with her, but I cannot. Nor can I any longer maintain control over myself when in her presence. Her psychological hold over me has become insurmountably powerful.

Since our initial session in November, the opening regimen remains the same. Upon my arrival, Mistress beckons me inside and politely instructs me to quietly shut and lock the door behind me. She forces me to surrender my purse and remove my clothing, and I am unable to so much as contemplate defying her. I am naked to the bone. She orders me to stay put while she confiscates my belongings and hides them in a secret location in her den to which I am not privy. She returns shoeless, gestures to her sumptuous feet on the floor, and I lower myself to all fours to kiss and nuzzle them.

As I am orally loving her toes, down to her insteps and back again, she raises one warm, soft, pretty bare foot and lightly kicks the side of my face, reprimanding me for nothing more than simply being such a pitiful, worthless slut, and I revel in the humiliation. I am already moist, insatiably submissive to my hungry core, and she knows it. She circles and fiercely spanks me for dampening without her permission. It stings like hell, and in a brutal cycle turns me on and moistens me yet more. She knows she already owns me. She attaches my chained collar to my neck and I become her obedient pup. I remember Mistress delighting in the fact that my middle name is Olivia, my initials spelling the word “dog”. She told me she had always wanted a dog, a role which I now fulfill for her. She walks me down the hall and around the corner until we reach the staircase. I carefully make my way down and we descend to the basement-dungeon, where it is dark, dingy and gray, and every sound echoes. The atmosphere is eerie and unpleasant. Deserving dishonor and shame as I do, I am to wait in the corner until she decides she is ready to begin.

The Mistress deliberately takes her time going about business, for the sole purpose of frustrating me. She knows I cannot stand the waiting. She takes ruthless advantage of each weakness she discovers within me, and my resistance holds not a candle to her almighty coercion. I helplessly fall at her feet and melt at her relentless domination. Like the finest dominatrices, Mistress Helen possesses a vicious cruel streak, but as well a wonderfully sadistic sense of humor. It fills her with such devilish glee to terrorize me so mentally as well as physically. She knows just how to thrill me and just how to make me suffer…and ache…and burn for her. When we reach the climax of our play, I am each time roughly forced to come for her, explosively, without inhibition or reserve. My moisture and come spray all over myself and the floor, and I am left to clean up my mess.

And when our session has concluded, she releases me, to continue about my life, but yet maintains constant presence in my mind.

But I am getting far ahead of myself. Oh my God! I think frantically. I have almost just struck another vehicle because I cannot concentrate. I am so deathly afraid. Yet I cannot go back. I cannot turn and run from Mistress Helen. Her magnetic pull on me is far too great. I have no choice; I must come to her. In each sense of the word.

At 7:08, we at last reach the emergency situation on the road which has been hindering our progress, concealed by police cars. I hope everyone is all right, but I mustn’t concern myself. It’s imperative I press on to my impending doom. Tears join my sweat and I swipe them away. Finally, at 7:14 I careen around the corner and arrive.

I am whimpering and shaking Betturkey Giriş as I shift the car into park and push myself out. I do not check to make sure the car is locked, I only shut it and scramble to the front door. I notice the inside door is shut. This is a bad sign. Upon each previous session for which I have been summoned, only the transparent outside screen door has been shut, and I am to see myself in. Hands trembling, knuckles snow-white, I place myself between the screen and front doors and gently attempt to push the latter open. No access.

Oh dear.

Oh, she is going to make me pay for this. I close my eyes in a wince, and push in the doorbell just enough to activate it. I lower my head and clasp my hands in front of me like the naughty whore I know I am, and stare at my feet as I wait for the response.

And wait I do. At least sixty seconds pass before I hear the lock click inside and the door slowly creaks open.

I do not need to look up to discern how displeased she is. I timidly step inside.

I do not see her at first, but I am not eager to look into her countenance of obvious disapproval. I turn to shut and lock the door, as per our normal arrangements. Her shadow comes into view. I follow it up to finally look into her cold, blood-chilling eyes.

“M—…M-Mistress Helen,” I stammer out, “I am so, SO, so sorry, I…I ran into traffic, and I know I should have left earlier, and it’s all my fault. And I know how much trouble I’m in. I just can’t even express how remorseful I feel right now. I—”

She places a finger to my lips.

“Silence.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I silently mouth, bowing my head with sad, ashamed eyes, as she removes the finger. She caresses my cheek and I fearfully close my eyes and brace myself, waiting for the disciplinary blow.

But it does not come. A bit bemused, I wait a moment, open one eye, then the other, to see her gazing blankly back at me.

My eyes drop. “I’m sorry, Mistr—” I start to whisper before she shushes me again. She waits a moment, and the next word she says is, “Clothes.”

She is ordering me to undress. I do not exactly understand. It’s as if I did not arrive late at all, and she is proceeding with our normal routine. I have been a full fourteen minutes late. I do not get it; I was certain she would virtually crucify me for my actions, helpless though they were. Is she perhaps…softening? It seems inconceivable. I wish to ask her what is going on, but I sense it’s better to remain speechless. I begin instead to merely strip for her, as is status quo.

I relinquish my purse and remove each garment, one by one, handing them to Mistress Helen. Thus far, it is as if nothing is different from our first six sessions. I am still mystified, but now feeling a bit more relieved. Once I am naked, she departs with my clothes to relocate them. I wait patiently for her to return, still quite nervous but no longer certain how much trouble I am in.

As I wait, I try to make sense of it all. But I can’t. Mistress Helen is positively merciless. Anyone who knows what she is capable of would attest. Any person abreast of the details of our first six sessions, now presented with my current set of circumstances, would be just as baffled as I. Perhaps this is all part of her chastisement, to confuse me before she really brings the ax down.

She returns, shoes off, now once again in her lovely size 8 bare feet. Oh, what pedal beauties. She points downwards, and I assume the doggy position. Had I an actual tail, I would not be able to keep it still. I can see the sheen left on Mistress’ wonderful feet from the fresh coat of vanilla-scented edible lotion she has just applied. They look more delicious than ever. They are actually compelling me to salivate in the back of my mouth. She signals me by arching them, and I am only too ecstatic as always to begin worshiping Mistress Helen’s delectable feet.

I passionately kiss them. I nose them, I lick them, I nibble them, I taste them. Traces of lotion transfer and smear my face as I carry out my initial duties. I try hard as I can to will my cunt to remain dry, but of course fail.

Mistress takes me only semi-forcefully by the hair, and shoves my face to the floor. I bury it, remain stationary and wince as I anticipate being struck on the ass, to keep my libido in check.

I feel nothing. After a short while I blink open my eyes warily and raise my face an inch.

SMACK!

Everything flashes red.

Mistress Helen has tricked me. Once again. She knew I was waiting for it, and she purposely held off on the spanking until she could see I had let my guard down. I have ceased bracing myself, and she has taken this window to deal a stroke of epic proportions.

The first sting zaps through me, and immediately following it, the promptly swelling arousal. I squeal, trying to keep my voice down as my body warms up and goosebumps leap on my skin. I do not need a mirror to see the red, hand-shaped pattern of welts she has just branded on my right ass cheek. For a few moments, nothing happens.

But I then feel the prolonged terror come over me as Mistress traces a single fingertip lightly over her handprint on my tender rump, and the agony squeezes my eyes shut. I open my mouth and exhale a stifled cry of pain. The most gentle fingertip caress torching my ass is a testament to Mistress Helen’s fiery intensity. I fight the tears back as I remind myself this is only the beginning.

 

***

 

May 11th, 7:47 p.m.

 

Despite her identical treatment of me thus far, I can tell Mistress is highly unhappy with me. She sternly jerks me by the chained collar into the corner of the dank dungeon where I am designated to wait for her, and the first novelty of the evening surfaces as she bolts me to the wall. This she has never done before, but the logic is not difficult to follow: I was late, and now that she has me here, she wishes to keep me here.

A harbinger of things to come? I wonder, terribly frightened, but excited.

My labia dampen once more, tinting and reddening as I ponder the surprises Mistress could have in store for me this evening. I am to sit subserviently facing the wall, head down. I shall surely be further castigated should I disrespect her by turning around to spoil her “surprises” of the night. I hear the sound of something audibly heavy dragged along the cement floor and a bam! as it is laid flat—this I must at the least presume. To my intrigue and confusion, I then hear the same pattern of sounds repeated two or three more times. I am eagerly curious, but my compulsion to obey Mistress’ wishes supersedes my curiosity.

I hear that Mistress Helen has changed into a more comfortable pair of shoes to protect her immaculate feet from the dusty floor. When she has finished with her previous setup at which I can only speculate, she reapproaches and unbolts me.

“Slave.”

She is being formal still. I turn to look up into her strict face, awaiting my chastisement, zealously but not too much. She points one firm finger to the dungeon’s prepared “stage,” where I see she has placed a number of thick gymnasium-like mats, which are lined along the floor. I can also see they are reasonably soft, but not mattress-soft.

Are we going to perhaps…wrestle? I allow my mind to impishly wonder, hoping she does not notice the wet spots on my thighs.

I feel her tug on my collar. I follow, continually on all fours, until she gestures for me to perch on the mats with a “Sit!”

The heat of her voice and the severity of her command make my blood accelerate. I try to keep my nipples from stiffening as well without permission. If events are to proceed now as in prior sessions, she shall now take off my collar, blindfold and handcuff me.

I’m correct. She crosses behind me, removes the collar, lets it fall to the floor behind us, yanks her cuffs out from her waist holster and roughly seizes my wrists. My enthusiastic pussy generates another layer of wet pleasure as she shackles my trembling hands. I force my facial muscles to keep from smiling. She subsequently whips out the black blindfold with a flourish (I do not need to see her to know how this looks) and five seconds later my sight is sublimely gone.

I hear her footsteps slowly return to in front of me. This is the moment in all sessions at which I am no longer sure what could happen, as it is different from this point on each time. At first, nothing happens…then…nothing still happens…and it seems an eternity as I am waiting for the hammer to fall. I’ve no way of measuring how much time has elapsed before she finally speaks again.

A scared chill runs up my back.

“You’ve disappointed me, Delilah.”

My blood drops to below freezing. I tense up and begin quivering. Here it comes. What, I cannot fathom, but I have a feeling I will be neither able to stand it nor get enough of it. Another eternity passes.

“Are you aware of what this means?”

I nod my terrified pretty little head. She again does not speak for several moments. Both of us know full well we’ve got all night, and she knows I want to be punished, get on with it, and get it over with, which is precisely why she is drawing it out. My curiosity is getting the better of me. Perhaps it is not the best idea, but I test the water and open my mouth.

“Permission to speak freely, Mistress?”

Silence. And more silence. I’m beginning to regret my request until she says, “Permission granted.”

Whew. “Um…what are the mats for, Mistress?”

I think I hear a faint hint of a chuckle, but cannot say so with any degree of certainty.

“I’m sure you’d like to know,” is Mistress Helen’s only answer. I close my lips and await her orders.

Ten seconds later, her hand fastens around my tresses, drawing me to my feet. “Stand,” she commands.

I push myself to my feet, anticipating anything that comes to mind. Mistress’ capabilities are limitless. The next sound I hear is more rattling of metal. My heart jumps.

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