My Personal Trainer Ch. 01

My name is Robin.

I'm 21-years old, healthy, and come from an extremely wealthy family. You'd think I'd be happy.

Well, happiness is never that simple, is it? You see, I'm one of those people who finds the allure of the BDSM world to be dark, forbidden and intoxicating. I wanted in.

But I lived in Ridgefield... a town so boring that it had no BDSM community whatsoever. Most people around here believe that B&D stands for Black and Decker. Finding a suitable partner to top me is about as easy as drinking hot tar through a plastic straw.

So, being young, frustrated, and desperate, I made a foolish error in judgement. One night, I saw a guy at a local pub, and because of the way he was dressed, I assumed he was into the BDSM scene. He was wearing a black leather jacket, black leather pants, and black leather boots.

I fixated on him as the answer to all my problems. I envisioned myself kneeling naked at his feet, groveling, and raising my ass up to accept stinging punishments from him. I didn't even know his name, but I assumed he could give me everything that had been missing in my life.

I made my way through a crowd of patrons, introduced myself to him and flirted. I told him I was attracted to his dominant energy and that if he was looking for a sub; I was more than willing to sub for him.

My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears, I couldn't make out most of what he said after that, but he ended up walking me out of the pub, so, I assumed he was going to take me to his place and show me what he knew about bondage and discipline.

In the parking lot, he pulled out several lengths of rope, and I gasped as he told me to stand with my back to a lamppost.

Overly eager, I obeyed, he tied my wrists behind me, securing me to the post. My heart raced and there was a soft, wet pulse in my sex as I waited for him to take control of my body.

And then I screamed bloody-blue outrage as he stole my purse, my phone, and my car.

"Bastard! You fucking bastard!"

He wasn't even remotely skilled at rope bondage. I was able to reach the knots, and it took me less than twenty minutes to get free.

I went back into the pub, borrowed the bartender's phone, and called the police. There was a GPS in my car and my phone. It didn't take the police long before they had him in custody. I got all my stuff back, but I ended up looking like a fool for trusting him. And things got worse when my parents came down to the police station.

"You let a boy tie you up?" my mother said, incredulously. "Why would you do that?"

I had to explain to my mother and father that I had willingly allowed Kevin to tie me up because I thought he was a cute guy who was into kinky bondage instead of a common thief. My parents were incredibly disappointed in me. They thought that only people who were mentally ill would volunteer to let somebody tie them up.

They didn't see bondage and discipline as a legitimate sexual kink. I got lectures for several days from both my mother and father. Well, mostly from my mother.

"I don't understand," my mother said. "We've given you every advantage a child could have. We've given you ice skating lessons, ballet lessons, ski vacations to Colorado and Switzerland. We've given you a credit card for shopping excursions. How could you end up like this?"

"Maybe that's the problem. I think maybe you've given me too much privilege. I think that it's normal for human beings to struggle and experience pain and distress. Maybe it's awkward and confusing for me to never have to struggle for anything. Maybe you and Dad have made my life too easy, and now I feel the need to be punished for everything being handed to me on a silver platter."

"Well, now, you're just talking nonsense," my mother declared emphatically. "Everyone wants to eliminate pain and struggle from their lives."

I rolled my eyes at that.

My father had to go to Bulgaria and Greece for business. He wouldn't be back for at least six months. He told my mother to deal with me. My mother made an appointment for me with a clinical psychologist.

"I don't want to see a psychologist!" I screamed.

"Well, we've seen what happens when you do what you want," my mother retorted. "You're going to see a psychologist! Maybe Doctor Marston can fix you! I'm all out of ideas what to do with you!"

"I don't need fixing!"

My mother and I sniped at each other for six days as we waited for my appointment with Doctor Marston. I was dreading the appointment and had already decided that I hated Doctor Marston before I even met her.

* * *

On the dreaded day, I sat in the waiting room with my mother until I was told that Doctor Marston could see me. I was filled with trepidation as I shuffled into her counseling room. She was a dapper woman in a pale grey blazer, pale grey skirt, and sensible shoes. Her hairstyle was very conservative. She looked so respectable. I felt she should be on the cover of Oxford Today.

Her voice was calm and measured. She greeted me pleasantly enough and invited me to sit wherever I felt most comfortable. I sat stiffly on the edge of the couch. She seemed nice enough, but I was still filled with tension.

"Just so you know... I'm only here because my mother made me."

Doctor Marston nodded gently and softly replied, "I appreciate your honesty, Robin. It can feel incredibly frustrating to be forced into a space like this. Would you like to share the reason your mother is making you attend session with me?"

I sighed heavily and avoided eye contact.

"So, about a week ago, I was flirting with a guy at the pub. I told him I wanted him to tie me up. I thought he was a master... like a BDSM type master. He wasn't. He was just a thief. He took advantage of my kink, and after he tied me up, he stole my car."

"That sound like a frightening experience. Were you physically hurt?"

"No. Just robbed and humiliated."

"And how have you been feeling since it happened?"

"Mostly embarrassed. I feel like I should have known better."

"What do you think you should have known?"

"That wearing leather doesn't automatically make somebody a trustworthy dominant."

"That sounds like something important you've learned. But I also want to make sure you understand that someone taking advantage of your trust doesn't mean that you're responsible for his decision to rob you."

"I get that," I assured Doctor Martson. "But after he was arrested, that son of a bitch told the cops about the fact that I asked to be tied up. Both my parents freaked out when they found out their eldest daughter was into bondage. My mother and father both say that I'm deeply disturbed, and that masochism is a sign of severe mental illness."

I took a deep breath, tried to steady my nerves and then added, "So, my mom says that I'm broken and she sent me to you so that you can fix me."

Doctor Marston leaned forward, and in a calm and reassuring tone of voice said, "Robin, I don't think that you're broken. Wanting to be dominated in a BDSM session is not a sign of mental illness."

I had been hunched over with my head hung low until she said this. Then I lifted my head, blinked in surprise, and said, "Seriously? My parents made it sound like I was some sort of freak. And the cops and that car thief said things about me that weren't much better."

"Seriously, Robin," she said, her voice so soothing it was almost like a relaxing massage for my nervous system.

"For a long time, psychology misunderstood kink and BDSM, but modern health professionals recognize that consensual kink is a healthy, normal variation of human expression. In fact, for many people, exploring submission and masochism can even be a valuable method of stress relief."

Reflexively, I scooched forward, listening more attentively to Doctor Marston's words. These were the most supportive words I'd gotten from anyone since the night Kevin stole my car.

"Stress relief?" I asked. "Bondage and corporal punishment help people to relieve stress? Are you sure?"

I saw the tiniest hints of a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. I think she was pleased to see some of the stress bleed out of me as I took on a more positive attitude, but her face rapidly shifted back to a neutral professional mask.

"Of course, it can seem counterintuitive from the outside," she said. "But it has a lot to do with how our brains handle pressure. In your day-to-day life, you deal with social anxieties, deal with family expectations, and manage a lot of active mental chatter, right?"

I actually had to think about that for a moment. She was educated and used bigger words than I was typically used to. It took a few seconds to translate her words into something I could digest, but once I did, I agreed.

"Yes, there are anxieties, self-doubt and self-criticism," I agreed. "My brain literally never shuts up. I'm constantly anxious about making the wrong choices and beating myself up when I think I've screwed up."

"Exactly," she said. "When you enter a structured BDSM session as a submissive, you explicitly hand over control to someone you trust. You no longer have to make decisions, anticipate problems, or manage the world around you. That allows your analytical mind to completely shut off."

"And that relieves stress?" I asked.

Although even before she replied, I was starting to feel I understood how shutting down my analytical mind would be beneficial. Just... letting go. Let someone else take over for a while. Shut down the part of my brain that criticizes and second-guesses me.

"Some people who practice BDSM describe something they call subspace."

"Subspace?"

"It's an altered state that some submissives experience during intense scenes. They describe it as feeling deeply relaxed, euphoric or unusually focused on the present moment."

"That sounds great."

"It can be. But not everyone experiences it, and it isn't something you should feel obligated to pursue. I'm more interested in understanding what submission means to you personally."

I explained that I had sexual fantasies. I'd had these deep, intense sexual fantasies for years, and I felt an urgent need to act them out. It could be very distracting and frustrating to have these deep, urgent needs and no outlet for them. It made it hard for me to focus on ordinary day-to-day activities when my unmet sexual needs kept intruding into my thoughts.

"I can help guide you on how to explore those interests more safely, Robin. We can discuss consent, boundaries, and ways to recognize potentially dangerous situations. I can also guide you towards educational resources about BDSM practices."

"Can you help me find a dominant?"

"I can't choose a sexual partner for you, Robin. Only you can do that. But I can help you develop proper judgment so you can make a better decision than you did with Kevin."

"Well, that would certainly be an improvement," I said as a small smile spontaneously lit up across my face.

"Would you be comfortable having you mother join us for a session?"

"Only if you promise to tell her I'm not crazy."

"I'd be happy to."

* * *

Doctor Marston was eventually able to convince my mom I wasn't crazy. And I accessed some of the educational materials that Doctor Marston recommended.

All of this was a marked improvement. However, it still didn't solve the problem of me not having a guy to top me. What good is being a bottom without a top? What's the good in being a submissive without a dominant?

My mother decided to solve the problem the way she solves 90% of the problems that come her way. She threw money at it.

One day, a woman arrived at our home. She was tall, intimidating and dressed in a sports bra, leggings, and running shoes. She had impressive abs and a gym bag slung over one shoulder. Her name was Isobel.

My mother said that she'd hired her to find me a master. But in the meantime, she'd be treating me to the punishments and the humiliation that I so desperately needed.

"Wait! You hired a female to dominate me?" I asked incredulously.

"Listen, Robin," my mother said tersely. "I did a great deal of research on professional dominants. I did background checks on every single one that lived close enough to do house calls. Isobel was the only one that hadn't been sued, arrested or was otherwise disreputable. It's either Isobel or nothing. Which would you prefer?"

Isobel stood there and gave me a look. She had a powerful presence. I started feeling submissive to her just from the way she stared at me. It was as if she was communicating with my submissive instincts without using any words.

And I was aching for the touch of a dominant.

I didn't mention any of this out loud. Instead, I went with an obvious-sounding question and asked, "Why is she dressed like she's on her way to the gym?"

"That was my idea," my mother announced. "If any of our neighbors ask, we can tell them she's your personal trainer."

A wicked smile crossed Isobel's face, and she added, "That's actually close to the truth. As your mistress, I'll be pushing you to your physical limits. Your heart will race, and you'll be sweating by the end of your sessions with me. You'll barely be lying at all when you tell them I'm your personal trainer."

Wow. Something about her voice triggered my submissive instincts hard. She may not have been a man, but her voice caused me to immediately imprint on her as an authority figure.

My brain got a little fuzzy after that. I don't remember everything that Isobel or my mother said after that. But I seem to recall promising Isobel that I would obey her. There was a lot more to it, but I mainly remember promising to obey.

I was overexcited. My heart was pounding in my ears, making it difficult to hear. Isobel said something, but I couldn't make out what she said. I asked her to repeat herself."

"I said that normally when I make house calls to do a session with a slave, they're already naked for me. I'll excuse your behavior this time since nobody told you I was coming, but you need to get undressed now."

I glanced over in my mother's direction. It had been years since the last time she'd seen me naked. And we were standing in the foyer. My sister was in the kitchen, just thirty feet away. If I were to get undressed where I was, I'd feel unbearably exposed.

"Wouldn't it be better to move this upstairs?" I asked. "In my bedroom, we could have more privacy. I mean, you don't really want to do this in front of my mother and my sister, do you?"

The look on Isobel's face was not happy. She turned to my mother and said, "How old is her sister?"

"Nineteen," my mother replied.

"She's an adult. She should be able to handle seeing Robin naked."

Then she turned back to me and said, "Strip! And you'll be punished for your hesitation. When I give a slave an order, I expect them to obey without hesitating or making excuses."

My heart hammered in my chest. I was a privileged woman from a wealthy family. Nobody had ever talked to me like that. My skin felt hot; my pulse raced, I hastened to obey.

Isobel and my mother stared intently at me as I stepped out of my expensive shoes, and then I removed the leather Gucci belt from around my waist.

I was wearing a white shirtdress with buttons all the way down the front. I started unbuttoning the ones at the top and didn't stop until I had unbuttoned every single one of them.

Then, I stepped out of my dress, folded it, and placed it neatly on the hall tree. The hall tree had a mirror, and I glanced at my reflection, seeing myself wearing nothing other than a strapless white bra and white low-rise bikini panties.

The bra fastened in the front, and I quickly moved to unfasten it before I lost my courage. Then I removed it and dropped it on top of my dress, revealing my breasts to my mother and Mistress Isobel. Of course, my nipples became instantly hard.

I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, pulled them all the way down my legs, and stepped out of them. Suddenly, I was stark naked in front of my mother and a stranger.

There was an overwhelming feeling of humiliation and exposure, and I clutched my hand to my chest, screwed my eyes shut and tried to slow down my frantically beating heart.

"Eyes open," Isobel snapped. "Hands behind your back! Slaves are never to use their hands to cover themselves!"

It took an enormous amount of self-control to follow her orders. A lifetime of wealth and privilege meant that I'd grown accustomed to being treated with deference and respect. Mistress Isobel treated me with contempt and abuse.

It was exciting, but it was also shocking, and I was having difficulty adjusting. And with my hands behind my back, my mother and Isobel had an unrestricted view of my naked body.

I felt vulnerable and uneasy, and then Isobel stepped forward and began to examine my breasts. I took a deep breath and tensed up as she kneaded the soft flesh and tweaked my hard nipples.

"These breasts are perfect," Isobel said as she enthusiastically groped me. "And your nipples are so pale!"

My mother stood there and watched as the woman she hired explored every inch of my naked body, smoothing her fingertips across every inch of my exposed skin, into every nook and cranny. It was a struggle for me to stand there passively and allow her to do this with my mother as a spectator.

Things became even more difficult for me when Isobel spun me around and forced me to bend over at the waist.

"Place your hands flat against the wall," she commanded softly. "And spread your legs."

I ended up in the police frisk position. Only since I was naked, I felt even more vulnerable and degraded than some poor person being frisked by the police. Then, Mistress Isobel crouched down by her gym bag and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

I trembled as she felt up my glutes and squeezed each cheek individually. She took her time, savoring her power over me, enjoying the helpless position I was in, and groped me to her heart's content.

"I don't allow my slaves to have hair obscuring my view of their pussy," Isobel said as she placed a hand between my legs and tugged on my pubic hair. "Tomorrow morning, my assistant will be here between 8:00 am and 8:30 to shave you. I expect you to be naked and kneeling in the foyer when she gets here."

I gasped and thought to complain. Then, she pulled my buttocks apart, and I shuddered, envisioning how exposed my anus and my pubic lips must be.

"She'll also bleach your anus. Just think how much more adorable you'll look with a bald pussy and pink anus."

My face blushed red hot. Then she worked one of her fingers into my vagina, questing and exploring my moist interior while my mother watched.

"Oh!"

"You're so wet," Isobel observed as she withdrew her fingers and then roughly re-entered me with two fingers. "I'm glad to see you're so enthusiastic. Barely out of your clothes and you're already excited for me."

I whimpered and felt a surge of shame pass through me. It was embarrassing enough to strip naked and put my body indecently on display, but for Isobel to announce to my mother that my pussy was soaking wet, drove my humiliation up to agonizing levels.

Then, my feelings of helplessness and humiliation escalated as Isobel removed her fingers from my wet sex and pushed them into my exposed anus.

"Please!" I whispered urgently, "I've never..."

Her fingers were well lubricated with my juices, and she slid deep inside my ass. It was done far quicker and easier than I would have thought possible.

"Been anally impaled," Isobel finished my sentence for me. "When you're impaled this way, it will leave you feeling helpless and vulnerable. You can expect me to spear your anus often while I'm training you."

"Um, what's going on?"

My feelings of anxiety spiked the moment I heard Drew's voice. I hadn't heard her approach, but suddenly she was there, holding an energy drink and her eyes wide with shock at seeing her sister naked and getting buggered by a domineering stranger.

Startled, I tried to straighten up. But Isobel pushed a hand into my back, urging me to remain bent over.

"Drew, you remember how your sister said she felt an urgent need to be punished and made helpless?" my mother replied. "Well, I hired this woman to come over to the house six days a week to help Robin with those needs."

"Seriously?" Drew's eyes were wide like a deer caught in headlights. "That's why Robin is naked in the entrance hall and getting cavity searched?"

"Humiliation is important for your sister," Isobel replied as her fingers probed deeper and wriggled aggressively inside me, making me squirm. I bit my lower lip and struggled not to whimper or cry out.

"For a wealthy, entitled woman like your sister, being stripped and paraded around naked can be an emotionally potent form of humiliation. You can expect to see your sister naked every time I visit. Scenes like the one you're seeing right now will become commonplace."

I could feel my face blushing red hot and I whimpered, but I maintained my position with my hands pressed against the wall and my legs spread wide. It was humiliating, but I had spent years fantasizing about being treated this way. I wasn't going to give up the fantasy, even if Isobel was a wicked sadist for doing this in front of my family.

I struggled to keep from moaning and panting as Isobel thrust harder and deeper. It wasn't easy. But my sister was standing right there looking at me and I didn't want to make this more awkward than it already was.

"Robin, is this what you want?"

It would have been impossible to keep my voice steady with enthusiastic fingers thrusting inside of me like a posthole digger. So, instead of trusting my voice, I just nodded.

"Why?"

I sighed. For someone who wasn't a masochist, it would be difficult for Drew to understand the appeal of being a naked, helpless victim. And it was difficult to think of the proper words while my ass was getting raped.

Finally, I said, "R-Remember Necronia?"

Drew nodded. Necronia was a fictional character that my sister had become obsessed with back when she was younger.

When Drew was ten years old, she took to dressing like Necronia every day. She dressed like Necronia when she went to school. She dressed like Necronia at home. She dressed like Necronia when we went to pick up Father from the airport. She vehemently resisted Mother's attempts to get her to dress like a normal girl.

Drew nodded. She remembered Necronia. She spent almost an entire year dressed all in black, with a funeral shawl and black lipstick. The whole family remembered.

"When I asked you why it was so important to you, what did you tell me?"

"It was... difficult to explain. It was important to me. It was an important part of who I was back then, okay?"

I nodded. Necronia was an important part of her identity back then. Years later, she still couldn't explain why, but it was important, and we allowed her to live like that because it made her feel complete.

"Well, this is an important part of who I am now." I said through gritted teeth. My legs felt rubbery, and my breathing had become ragged. "M-Maybe not forever, but definitely right now. I need to experience th-this."

Then, Isobel abruptly slipped her fingers out and withdrew from my ass. She peeled off her latex glove, turned to my sister, and said, "Young lady, is there somewhere in the house I can dispose of this?"

Drew was unable to respond at first. Isobel had stripped me naked and probed my ass like she was digging for gold. Then, she politely asked my sister for help in finding a trash can. It took Drew a few seconds to switch gears from prison rape scene to polite conversation.

"Sure," my sister said timidly. "The kitchen. I'll show you."

"Don't move," Mistress Isobel said. "Keep staring at that wall and keep your legs spread. If you break position, I'll know."

Isobel followed my sister, and I obediently stood there naked, bent over and feeling more and more submissive the longer I remained in that vulnerable, shameful pose.

When my mother and I were alone in the foyer, my mother turned to me and said, "Is this too much for you, Robin? If this is getting to be too much, I can send her away."

"I can take it," I said. My heart was racing; my voice was shaking, and my arms and legs trembled as I said it. I was both embarrassed and exhilarated at the same time. And I felt feverish with passion as I waited for Isobel to return and abuse me some more.

"If you insist," my mother said, sounding smug. "But she's just getting started. When things get too difficult, you'll change your mind."

I sighed and then when Isobel returned; I tensed up. She grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked upwards, forcing me to stand up.

"Hands behind your back, young lady," Isobel said. "Slaves shouldn't have too much freedom. So, before we go upstairs, I'm doing something to keep you out of trouble."

With brisk efficiency, she reached into her gym bag and pulled out some handcuffs. She locked them around my wrists, making me helpless. Then she took a few moments to admire how I looked.

"You're starting to look like a slave-girl already," Mistress Isobel said as she looked me over from multiple angles. I felt a strange surge of pride at her words. Countless hours of erotic fantasies where I was a naked and objectified slave had conditioned me.

"I'm taking her upstairs now," Isobel said to my mother. "You can join us if you wish."

We ended up in my bedroom. Isobel escorted me to the center of the room and then stopped.

"Kneel here, legs apart."

She helped me down and inspected her posture, nudging my knees wider with the toe of her running shoes. "Keep your back straight."

She then opened up one of my closets and began to examine the clothes hanging on display there. Most of my dresses were deemed too boring and unappealing. She took those off the hangers and dumped them on the floor in the corner.

"Never again," she announced as she added to the pile. "It's a sin to have a body appealing as yours and to wear clothing so unflattering. I ought to punish you for covering up your body with... those potato sacks."

I opened my mouth to defend my fashion decisions, but then my mother spoke up and said, "I'll donate those to the local clothing drive."

I felt my face blushing hot. My mother had made her way into my room so silently I hadn't realized that she was there watching. I tensed up, and then Isobel pulled a royal blue dress out of my closet.

I had worn the dress exactly once before... on a dare. It had a plunging neckline, an open back, and a scandalously high slit. It was the most revealing dress I owned. It covered very little.

"Tonight," Isobel said sternly, "you will go to a lesbian club in Greenwich Village. It's called Wonderland. You will wear this dress. Arrive at 8:00 PM, approach one of the female patrons, flirt with her, buy her a drink, and get her to passionately make out with you. This is your homework assignment. I will know if you fail."

"Mistress, I couldn't wear that in public," I protested. "I'll look like a slut! With the side slit and the way it exposes my boobs in the front, I can't even wear underwear with that dress!"

"That wasn't a request," she said as she gave me a smoldering stare. The intense look made me reflexively squirm. My heart sped up. I felt a surge of delicious fear, and I apologized.

She then went through my underwear drawer and tossed most of my panties on the floor. She left my thong panties alone, but she declared everything else to be unacceptable.

"No more grandma panties!" she declared loudly. "I'm burning these. And if I ever catch you with anything other than thongs or V-strings, you'll be punished. Understand?"

My jaw dropped, and my eyes widened. When my mother told me that she had hired a dominatrix to do things to me, I had assumed that she would come over to the house and punish me, and then go away, leaving me to get on with life with no interference from her.

But there was more to it than that. Wasn't there?

Her work demanded my full participation and cooperation, even a sort of surrender. Mistress Isobel caught the look on my face out of the corner of my eye.

"Oh yes, I'm the most important person in your life for the foreseeable future. I'm a full-service dominatrix. You're going to get most of what you want, everything you need, and some of what you deserve. Your mother had already paid for the physical and sexual abuse. The little mindfucks will be free of charge. I throw those in for my own amusement."

Having made that chilling announcement, she found my phone on my nightstand and grabbed it. She knelt in front of me, used my face to unlock my phone and then proceeded to go down my list of contacts.

I had four friends that I hung out with: Curt, Marty, Dana, and Jules. After I unlocked my phone, she got their contact information and quizzed me about all of them.

Which of them was the most attractive?

Did I have any photos of them?

Were any of them bisexual?

Had any of them ever seen me naked?

Had any of them ever flirted with me?

I lost track of how many questions she asked. She wrote down my answers on a legal pad and filled several pages with copious notes about my friends.

"There are two possibilities I'm looking at for finding you a master," Isobel explained.

"There's the possibility of finding you a master in Chelsea or the East Village and convincing them to come here to Ridgefield. The other possibility is for me to take one of your local friends and corrupt them into becoming a loving sadist who's willing to treat you the way you want to be treated."

I gasped at the possibility of kneeling naked at the feet of one of my friends. Mistress Isobel seemed not to care and continued to explain her plan.

"Either way, there's going to be a lot of work involved. But once I get a look at your friends, I'll know how much of a challenge they represent."

I was trembling at the thought of being spanked and sexually objectified by one of my friends. My heart pounded frantically in my chest at the mere thought of it and then before I could drift into a self-pitying fantasy, Mistress Isobel demanded my attention again.

"What have we here?"

I blushed so intensely I felt I might pass out. My sadistic personal trainer held up a flesh-colored silicone dildo with a thick shaft in one hand. In her other hand, she held a wearable, clitoral vibrator.

My breathing became labored, I felt feverish. My mother stood just a few feet away, watching, and the embarrassment and humiliation I felt was like a crushing weight that threatened to kill me.

"I'm confiscating these," Mistress Isobel said.

She dropped them in her gym bag. Then, she turned to me and said, "Slaves aren't allowed to give themselves orgasms. From now on, you only receive satisfaction when you get it from me or someone of my choosing. When you're with me, you need my permission to come. And you had better be prepared to earn it."

My mother gave me a pointed look as if she were waiting for me to object to Mistress Isobel's decree. My face flushed hot with embarrassment as my sex toys were confiscated, and I was banned from ever masturbating again, but I part of me desperately wanted to be controlled, dominated and punished by a cruel master.

I dropped my head like a guilty child, bit my lower lip, and said, "Yes, Mistress."

I got the impression my mother was playing a game of chicken with me. She seemed to think that these cruel humiliations would be too much for me and that I would back away from my desire to be the submissive in a BDSM relationship.

If my mother was playing a game with me, I was determined to win it. I wasn't about to give my mother the satisfaction of seeing me give up after the moment things got difficult. I embraced my status as the victim and resigned myself to suffering far worse indignities than this.

"Well! What do we have here?" Isobel inquired mockingly. "We have been a nasty little girl, haven't we?"

She held up a paperback with a lurid cover. "The Art of Surrender! And our poor heroine is naked, handcuffed, and on her knees just like you!"

I opened my mouth to apologize or to try to compose a reasonable explanation. Then I closed it. Denials would sound foolish, and apologies would be rejected. I was a bad girl and nothing I said was going to change Isobel's mind.

"Look at how tattered it is," my mistress said, holding the book up where my mother could get a good look at it. "The binding is cracked, and some pages have come loose. I'm guessing you've been reading this book with one hand. It must be one of your favorites since you've spent so much time with it. I'm sure you won't mind lending it to me for a while."

She set it in her gym bag along with my sex toys. She gave me a wicked look with a raised eyebrow and said, "I'll take notes when I read it, especially the pages that you have dog-eared."

My mother gave me another smug, judgmental look, but I chose to ignore it. Instead, I dropped my head like a guilty child, bit my lower lip, felt my blush deepen and murmured, "Thank you, Mistress."

My mother was still acting smug, as if she'd achieved some sort of victory over me. She declared that she had things to attend to, and she swept out of the room like the leader of a conquering army.

I was naked, on my knees and my pussy clenched hungrily around nothing. My mistress's decree that I was now forbidden to supply myself with my own orgasms somehow cruelly triggered my libido even harder, and my sex pulsed wetly.

My new mistress rummaged around in her gym bag, produced a key to my handcuffs, and ordered me to stand up.

"I'm not setting you free, little slave," she explained merrily. "I'm just switching your hands from back to front. I assume you're going to behave?"

I couldn't have felt more submissive to her if I tried. She unlocked one of my wrists, and I positioned my wrists in front of me, making it easy for her to make me her prisoner once again.

"Good girl," she said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "When your mother hired me, she told me you've never been spanked. Is that true?"

"It's true, Mistress," I replied, trembling ever so slightly. "My parents claimed that spanking was barbaric. And I never found a sexual partner that was willing to spank me."

"A virgin," Isobel declared cheerfully. "It's rare that I get to punish a virgin. I guess this is my lucky day."

My new mistress sat down on my bed, made herself comfortable, then grabbed me and threw me over her lap.

My heart beat faster, and I could feel the blood pulsing through me. I shook nervously and struggled not to whimper or make any sounds of protest. I didn't resist. I just lay face down across her knees with my face down near the floor.

It was an undignified position in which to punish a girl. My bare buttocks were raised and indecently on display, my anus, and pubic lips inches away from Isobel's face while my face was almost to the floor.

"You've had this coming to you for a long time, young lady," Isobel announced. She grabbed one of my ass cheeks and squeezed.

She readjusted her grip several times, as if testing the firmness of my flesh, and then she said, "I generally go easy on virgins. I should know whether you are approaching your limits, but don't hesitate to tell me if you think that you are in real trouble. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Your safe word is 'elaborate'. If you say that word, I will immediately set you free and give you whatever aid and comfort you require. But don't be too quick to use it. You are stronger and braver than you think you are."

"Yes, Mistress."

I didn't feel brave. I felt a surge of fear at her words, and I trembled. But wasn't that dark, delicious sense of fear part of the reason I was doing this? Without fear, it wouldn't be exciting, would it?

I squirmed across Isobel's lap as I embraced the fact that I was about to meet the reality that lurked behind my bondage and discipline dreams. Mistress Isobel spent a considerable amount of time feeling me up, and then a hard slap came down on my right ass cheek.

CRACK!

The severity of the sting took me by surprise. The hired slave trainer had a strong right arm. I recoiled from the blow and clenched my jaw, doing my best not to scream. The first spank that came down on my bare bottom was sharp and stinging. The second spank came rapidly after the first, and it stung fiercely. I bit my lower lip, struggling not to cry out in pain and reflexively squirmed and writhed across her lap.

"You're getting some nice color back there," Isobel commented. "My handprints on your ass look quite vivid."

I gritted my teeth, already in pain, but tried to be stoic. I think she took my stoicism as a challenge, and she redoubled her efforts. She became vicious in her assault on my naked buttocks. There was a stinging swat on one cheek and then the other.

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!"

I wasn't able to remain silent and stoic for very long. Soon, I was crying out in pain and squirming frantically across her lap.

When she began, she went for symmetry, first one ass cheek, then the other. Then, she did five or six stinging slaps on my right cheek before moving on to the left. The red-hot, stinging pain seemed to accumulate faster that way.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Blow after blow rained down in a steady stream, and each one hurt a little more than the one before it. I didn't dare think what my backside must look like.

It was a humiliating and painful punishment, and I soon began to sob. I kept my ass up in the air and my palms flat on the floor, but I was unable to keep my legs from kicking and my hips from writhing. I squirmed my hips in a truly shameful fashion across her lap, like some sort of demented lap dancer.

I sobbed, and my body twisted and floundered in agonizing pain as my bare bottom was mercilessly reddened. Then Mistress Isobel started on the backs of my thighs. The first few blows didn't sting that much -- not compared to my poor, abused ass cheeks, but the subsequent ones certainly did.

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Aaahhh!"

My whole body shuddered, and I tensed up. The pain was staggering, and each blow stung my naked skin more than the blow that preceded it. I writhed and bounced across my personal trainer's lap, and soon, I was crying hot, wet tears.

I must have been quite a sight. Face down over Mistress Isobel's lap, my ass in the air, stark naked, wriggling and bouncing as my innocent backside collected painful pink and red handprints. The sharp slaps of her stern hand continued to sting the curves of my ass and the backs of my thighs until I was sobbing uncontrollably.

From the way my bottom was stinging, I could tell my ass was rapidly turning red. I attempted to remain in position across her lap; however; the pain was so severe that I found myself kicking my legs uncontrollably and writhing with each blow.

Her strong right hand caught the sensitive underside of my bottom near the delicious crease where the lower curve of the buttocks meets the backs of the thighs, and my throat became raw from all the agonized screams.

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! OW!"

I moaned and squirmed and kicked, but she held me tightly around the waist and kept me from squirming off her lap. She spanked me harder and harder. I sobbed, my hips squirmed, I made a degrading display of myself as my poor bottom was wickedly assaulted.

"You've spent your whole life as an entitled, spoiled brat," Mistress Isobel declared over the sound of my sobbing. "I bet you don't feel so entitled and spoiled now."

My poor bottom was a riot of pain. My personal trainer ordered me to get up off her lap, and when I was slow to obey, she grabbed me around the waist and torso and forced me abruptly into a standing position.

Mistress Isobel led me over to a full-length mirror so I could see how intensely she had reddened my bottom. It was a hot, angry shade of red, and something about that made me proud.

"I told you that you were brave," Isobel said as I stared at my poor, abused bottom. "You could have used your safe word at any time. But you didn't. You took your punishment like a big girl. I'm proud of you."

I savored the look of my freshly spanked ass and the radiant throb of searing pain. I surmised it would be a while before the pain faded.

"Now, let's see if you can summon a little more strength, young lady," she said as she kept a tight grip on my arm. "You remember I told you that you would have to be punished for your hesitation when I told you to strip downstairs?"

"Yes, Mistress," I said nervously.

"It's best to get that out of the way now."

I was still sobbing, and my eyes were still welled up with tears. Mistress Isobel pulled out a leather strap from her gym bag, and she told me to place my hands flat on my dresser. It was waist height for me, so it made it the perfect piece of furniture to bend over to receive corporal punishment. A fresh wave of tantalizing fear surged through me, but I obeyed, bending over and putting my already sore buttocks on display for more punishment.