Total darkness. Not because my cell light is off and it’s nighttime outside, but due to the large blindfold that covers half my face. Dinner was finished two hours ago and Ms. Lynn brought me back to my cell. I was allowed a rest, then she returned to dress me in a basic uniform. She made all the straps extra tight, particularly the one for the crotch. No dildos or butt plugs but a thick, long penis gag was shoved in my mouth. Ms. Lynn sat me on the cot and zipped up my boots with their familiar four-inch heels…

The door shuts and absolute silence reigns. Then, soft music plays, a harp and flute. I had no idea the dungeon was wired for a sound system since no one had used it before. The gentle strains float down from speakers above.

There is movement in the room but no one touches me. A couple of heavy things are dragged about, but no words are spoken. Where are they, the ones who will take control of me? Those who would rescue me from the isolating night and mold my sexual soul as they see fit? I take a hesitant step forward and instantly am met by a whip across my breasts. I cringe and squeal and back up.

A soft click and a quiet hum. Something heavy is being lifted up from the floor. A chain creaks as whatever it is slowly swings back and forth.

“Let’s see those beautiful, dark eyes.” It is Gwen. The blindfold comes off and I blink in the sudden glare.

Toward the back wall, slightly to my right, hangs Bree. Parallel to the floor, about eye level, she is suspended from a sturdy wood frame that reminds me of a gigantic puppeteer’s cross. The cross is suspended by four steel cables that meet at an apex about three feet above Bree’s waist. From there a single large cable disappears through a hole in the ceiling. Her splayed hands and feet are cuffed to four screweyes. Her chest, hips and legs are supported by strong straps. Unlike the poor slave Mr. Lange suspended by her arms, Bree’s strain is minimal. She can hang there for hours. What’s more, she can be moved to any height, to kiss, to service, or to be impaled from behind.

Dylan forces the largest ring gag I’ve ever seen past Bree’s lips. I think for sure her jaw will be dislocated but her wide mouth manages to accept it. He places a thin strap under her chin, then back up around the main support pole, thus giving her head some support. “Now you just hang there. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“Leave her,” Gwen snaps. “Help me unwrap our little beauty here.”

Dylan gives Bree a small push and she lazily turns. He blows her a kiss, then stands beside Gwen.

They are both dressed in spotless white leather. Dylan’s pants and vest seem to meld into one. His dark hair is loose, longer than Gwen’s, falling well past his shoulders. His bare arms are smooth; no hair, no scars or tattoos. Gwen’s complexion matches Dylan’s; unsullied, immaculate. Below her short skirt, well shaped legs are sheathed in white stockings, balanced on a pair of white high heels. Above her narrow waist a halter top shows a hint of cleavage. A mole on her right breast provides small relief from her skin tone. Gwen’s hair is pulled up in a French twist, revealing an elegant neck.

I had always thought of white as a submissive’s color, an empty canvas ready to be painted upon by the master. Yet, on Dylan and Gwen it projects power. A pair of deities come to earth to frolic among the mortals, take their sport, then return to the heavens.

The gods take my arms and lead me to the whipping post. My body harness is removed, my hands tied overhead to the large ring. I am stretched until my heels are off the floor and I teeter on the sharp pointed toes of the boots.

Dylan unbuckles my gag. “Time to get rid of this. I know what I want to hear, and it isn’t muffled screams.” He makes me lick and suck the dildo until all my saliva is back in my mouth, then the warm up begins. They both hit me with heavy floggers, up and down my back, ass, legs and even my arms. I tense against the initial blows but the steady rhythm they adopt relaxes me. I feel good all over, in a warm, safe place.

The intensity of the blows increases, each one pushes me a little higher on my personal pain index and my reactions accordingly follow. I pass into the “uh” stage where every separate blade on the flogger is a wonderful tool bruising my skin. My spirit rises with the pain and I am back in the safe place.

Now only one flogger strikes me and I accustom myself to the new cadence. It teases me out of the safe place with promises of new heights and I can’t help but follow. I climb the mountainside …

My pain pushes me onward, at the same time a friend and an enemy. Long ago I left the safe spot. My pain is always with me. The flogger explodes across my back and I yelp. I hear a satisfied grunt from behind me and the flogger feeds my pain, giving it more strength to push me further. I cry out, my pitch increasing with each dreaded, loving stroke.