Madam in Attendance by S.M. Ackerman
Previously published as The Diary of Miss Whippy Cane, has been updated, refreshed and many more sexually charged scenes have been added.
If you are reading this, you nosy pervert, then clearly you have invaded my room and removed this diary without my permission!
Bored with the dull life of a typist that still lives with at home, I take a class at my brother, Charlie’s, suggestion. Unbeknownst to me, taking the class and meeting the beautiful and mysterious Lesley has been a devious set up. I make plans to meet Lesley at her grand estate, and whilst there, she introduces me to things that was previously unknown. The BDSM lifestyle. Lesley whips a young man that is bound, gagged and has a hood over his head. I’ve never known such a feeling of power and sexual excitement! When I get home, many thoughts flood my head, and I fondle myself to an explosive orgasm, the likes of which I have never felt.
At school, a young girl by the name of Clair, sends me a note inviting me to tea. After my experience at Madam Lesley’s, I know that I have the power in me to take control of sweet, doe-eyed Clair, and make her mine. I eventually get Clair to come to my house, and find her to be perfectly willing to be subjugated under my cane.
After many cancelations of meetings with Lesley, I finally meet with her again. She hands me a folder that contains many pieces of paper. The first page strikes me as the title states:
AN EXPLANATION OF AN INEXPLICABLE DESIRE
(Understanding Voluntary Slavery)
Lesley and I confer on what it all means to me, and she makes a proposal. She wants me to help run her business and become a Madam in her brothel of pain and kinkiness. What could I possibly say, other than a resounding yes?
Includes: Bondage, caning, whipping, gags, hoods, stocks, birches, kennels, collars & leashes, humiliation, and much more!
I could smell the distinctive scent of bacon and eggs being fried in the kitchen as I descended the backstairs, into what would have been the servants’ quarters and now was my slave quarters and kitchen area. Standing naked at the cooker, manipulating my breakfast treat was one of my regular slaves; his name for now, I might change it, was Paul.
The Health and Safety Executive, who had been my first real employer, once I was out of college, aged around 18. I had worked as a typist in a typing pool, before, that was, discovering my true vocation in life. They would, I am certain, have been very concerned by the presence of a naked, very erect cock. With, as is normal for males, a mind of its own, being so near to both a lit gas burner ring and very hot cooking oil.
I, for one, did not care if Paul splashed his cock. What concern was it of mine if a slave was clumsy, there would be a level of punitive justice if the oil spat; there would be a lot higher level of punishment if my eggs got broken, that was for sure.
Paul was obviously aware of my presence in the room. He stood up slightly taller, sucking in his very slight pot belly, just as he had been trained to do by me. Trying hard, he ignored my presence and continued to cook. The inevitability of odds occurred just as I passed out of the kitchen, heading down the long stone floored corridor towards the front door. I had something to attend to before returning to the dining room for my breakfast. Behind me I heard the distinctive yelp of pain; that certain kind of pain which only humbled males can emit. The fat had spat and poor Paul now had a hot tip. I smiled at the thought but could not be bothered with the suffering of slave Paul.
The box was placed by the front door to my right; it seemed so innocent to any vanilla (non S&M guests) as they walked past it. The box, as it was always referred to, was made of wicker and because of that it was slightly see through from the inside.
Though anyone imprisoned inside it and desperate to look out would have a very poor view of the long hall. I had instructed that a single hole be cut through one end and very low down. So that to be able to utilize this vision point, a subject would have to contort themselves in the most painful of ways, just to be able to get a single eye to the hole. Their reward for the effort would be a view which would extend all along the hall but only about two feet high at its upper most point.
This tickled my sense of fun. Why you might wonder and the answer would be because any punished contained in the box could, if they tried, view my black patent boots as they strode towards them. They could also clearly hear the sound as my metal heel tips clacked against the stone flooring, that’s why.
The best part for me is that because of the rooms being laid out so that they spur off the corridor, the victim would never know if I was coming to attend to them or would I at the last second turn off into one or another of the rooms.
In this case there was a very deserving individual locked in my box. His name, I would not normally confide to you the undeserving reader, but in this case, his punishment was personal and he deserved all the torment that I could enjoy supplying to his currently very cramped self. So here goes, his name is Mr. Roberts, there I’ve written it. He is middle aged, slightly paunchy and bald on top, but the reason why he deserves strict control, is because he teaches or rather taught English.
Obviously teaching English alone does not automatically require severe punishment, but in Mr. Roberts’s case one particular incident lead to his being naked in my box. That story reader I might, if you are good, tell you later, but for now I have more important things to do than satisfy your pathetic inquisitiveness. Mr. Roberts needs a modicum of attention; I had felt his eye burning into me as I walked towards his prison. He would be desperately hoping that I was going to let him out. After all he had been locked inside my box now since eight pm the previous night and unlike the rest of the world, I do not get up at disgustingly early times in the morning. I demand that the streets are aired, that the day has well begun, so for today being up by ten was, I consider, very early.
Poor Mr. Roberts’s bladder would be bursting by now, his legs would be cramped and if he had been eagerly looking through the hole, his back would be painfully twisted. So just because I can, I patted the lid of the box. Jiggled and checked the padlock and then turned away, ignoring him. I walked slowly as though distracted, along the corridor: secretly I hoped that the sound made by my heels would be drilling into his head.
From the kitchen Paul appeared carrying a loaded tray with a tureen style cover placed over my plate. My breakfast was arriving.
A quick glance down showed that the yelp of pain had been as I anticipated; I could see the glisten of burn cream on his still erect cock. The dining room was to my left nearer the kitchen than the box, Mr. Roberts would be getting a very nice view of my legs as I walked away from him; such a pity that he now clearly understood that he was in there for a while yet. I, like him, understood the consequences of failing to hold his bladder under control. He had found that out on previous incarcerations.
I was sure that he would desperately try to hold out in the hope of release and relief, but perhaps he was doomed to fail. Perhaps he also realized that fact and if he did, what was the point of his holding on, he could choose to accept the punishment for his messing, and grant himself the relief he sought. And besides my hall floor could do with a good licking down, all sixty feet of it.
Breakfast was delicious, the eggs were whole and just the right side of runny, and the bacon was trimmed to perfection and crisped just so, all in all Paul had served well. I clicked my finger calling him away from the wall to which he had automatically gone and stood, facing the brick of course. He responded immediately and now was standing next to me looking anxious.
My finger wrapped around his still swollen erection, but now it was a burnt, red cock as well. I decided that I would show my appreciation of his gift to me in a most memorable way, at least for him it would be memorable. Clasping his cock near the base I dug my nails into his tender flesh and then pulling toward his tip I raked the flesh, the yelp of pain when my nails dragged slowly across the red burn was reassuring, he understood that I was pleased and he had received his reward for services rendered. Poor Paul would have to go back to the kitchen and reapply more cream to his swollen raked cock.