The Secrets of Majesta


“Majesta, Majesta, the secrets of Majesta”. The phrase tumbled around my mind, repeating itself as a mantra. I could not get my head clear; Majesta had clearly become an obsession for me.

“Majesta, Majesta, the secrets of Majesta”; on and on it went, like a song that is stuck in your head, like an itch that you can never relieve.

You could see the imposing entrance to the House of Majesta from The Esplanade, a wide boulevard that wound its way along the lush coastline, home to up-market residences and the well-healed. I had heard whispers about the set-up at Majesta; a mistress that was elegant and controlling, easy to please yet severe when showing her displeasure, passionate with her rewards, and equally passionate when punishing misdemeanors.

I had heard about the Sisterhood, a group of bewitchingly beautiful young ladies who treated each other like sisters, offering warmth and companionship when the times were good, comfort and tenderness at times of distress, yet like any brood of sister, vindictive and spiteful when needled.

I had also heard about the luxurious quarters that lay beyond that imposing wrought-iron security fence: the indoor heated pools with perfumed waters where the Sisterhood splashed and wallowed; Italian tiles scattered with Persian rugs that caressed tender feet and offered a bed on which to play; marble fountains depicting bare breasted nymphs, water tumbling down into sparkling ponds from the urns cradled in their arms; harps clutched to the hearts of willowy musicians, their delicate fingers plucking out melodies that whispered with an erotic timbre; dramatic ocean vistas showcasing waves that crashed wildly against the cliffs below.

I longed to be a part of that hedonistic milieu, to be one of the Sisterhood, to submit to that dominant lady of my imagination whom I imagined to be in control at Majesta.

“Majesta, Majesta, the secrets of Majesta.”

Around and around the phrase tumbled, and with every repetition my obsession and resolve grew. I would find a way in, and I would find a way to join the Sisterhood.


I watched her walk through Majesta’s security gates and up the road to the mall. She was slightly built, yet her curves still managed to provide shape to her white sun-frock.  A handbag hanging from her shoulder seemed to swing in time to the tempo created by her slender arms, her hips swayed provocatively as she stepped up the road.

I was just feet behind her by the time she stepped into the coffee shop, and we both headed for the same table; it was fortunate that it was the only vacant spot. She smiled at me warmly; no, she didn’t mind sharing and she would be delighted by my company. Monique was all I had imagined that a member of the Majesta Sisterhood would be: charming and classy, sexy yet modest. Her voice was soft and silky, deferential yet confident; she spoke with such grace that I felt my own soul rise to a higher spiritual plane. Her perfume was delicate and fresh, radiating soft and airy notes of violets and juicy fruits that delighted my senses, yet she had used it so sparingly that I was left desperately straining for more. It mingled with the coffee on her breath to create an intoxicating etherial blend, a tantalising promise of her intimate self.

I closed my eyes for a second and savored the scent; let my imagination race off to the Majesta of my dreams. I now had a real person to set in the scenes of which I had dreamed. Rose petals now floated in the heated indoor pool, Monique and the rest of the Sisterhood sat on the surrounding marble coping, combing out their freshly washed hair, massaging fragrant lotions into well toned legs. Aromatic oils glistened on firm, plump breasts; gentle voices and bright laughter created a symphony of hedonistic pleasure.

My flight of fancy was over in a flash; I had an objective to achieve and my options were few. Our chatter was light and innocuous, but I kept glancing downwards to her handbag which lay on the table in front of her. Nestled alongside her cell phone and peeking out was a security pass; I could just make out the word Majesta printed beneath an ornate crown.

We had both finished our coffee when the opportunity was presented. Monique reached into her bag with her incredibly long and slender fingers, and she delicately plucked out her wallet. Pale pink and white gingham check; the wallet was as feminine as one could have predicted. I watched her pick up her tab and walk over to the cashier to settle and I knew instinctively that this was my opportunity; it was now or never.


With my heart pounding, my fingers snaked into her bag and I plucked the security card out, palmed it and then dropped it into my purse in a dexterous move. I felt as deft as a magician and was sure that my act had gone unseen.

Monique and I parted ways with a cheery farewell; she headed into the mall, her handbag once again slung over her shoulders, while I slipped off home to plot my next steps.

I tried my best the next morning to dress to impress; my aim was a style that would be consistent with the way Monique had presented that day. From the sun dress to my freshly painted finger and toe nails, from ear rings to bracelets and belt, pink was my theme, class was my aim. I knew that my high-heeled sandals were at once elegant yet casual; the dainty straps were bound to impress.

I tentatively waved Monique ‘s card in front of the reader at Majesta’s imposing wrought iron gate, its gold flecks of paint sparkling in the sun, and was relieved when the security lock gave a satisfying click; “Access revoked” had been my the foremost of my fears. As I stepped up the pathway to the mansion’s front door, the staccato click of my heels seemed to tap out a rhythm for that magical phrase that still resonated relentlessly in my mind: “Majesta, Majesta, the secrets of Majesta”.

I was at last going to learn of those secrets within. I hoped that fortune would smile on me again and was sure in my mine that I would be welcomed inside.


I was met at the door by the mistress of Majesta. She introduced herself as Anne-Marie; she was as gracious and elegant as I had dreamed she would be. Possibly in her late thirties or early forties, she had a flawless peaches-and-cream complexion which was crowned by a beautifully styled bob of strawberry blond hair, a wave of golden and cool highlights adding flair and some class.

Her dress could have come out of a Victorian catalog; a high necked, full sleeved, cream outfit that was elegant, feminine, graceful. I had little doubt that she wore a corset beneath; her posture was perfect, her silhouette stunning. Around her neck she wore a simple leather collar, an ornate “captive ring” O-ring with a floral design in silver gracing the front.

“I found this card and stopped by to return it.” I trembled as I handed her the security card; my voice sounded husky and my breath seemed to catch in my throat.

“Why thank you, my dear.” She reached out to take it from me. “Monique told me that she had lost it. I am quite certain she won’t do something as careless as that again.”

I felt myself flush.

“Is there any chance I might speak to her? I met her yesterday and would love to renew her acquaintance.” I felt myself slipping into old style language; there was something in Anne-Marie’s dress and manner that made it seem so right.

She pushed the door open, inviting me in.

“Do come in my dear. Well, Monique is a bit tied up just now, but I am sure she would love to speak to you after she gets free.”

“Is she home?” I was suddenly worried that all of my scheming would come to naught.

“Oh yes, very definitely at home. We are just about to start her punishment for losing this very card! Would you like to come in and witness the strokes?”

My heart raced; this was more than I could have wished for. As Anne-Marie led me inside, I found that my speculation of how Majesta would be, was not far off the mark. The ground floor was a huge open space, with floor to ceiling windows looking out over the cliffs. A sunk-in pool, surrounded by Roman looking statues, dominated the center; on either side of the pool, low marble slabs, each resting on two columnar pedestals, provided seats for the Sisterhood ladies.

A young, naked woman was lying on her back on one of the slabs, her hands tied behind her head with red satin bindings. Her legs were splayed, the balls of her bare feet just touching the marble tiled floor on either side; another set of red bonds secured her ankles to brass rings set into the base of the pedestal. A velvet blindfold was tied around her eyes; immobilized in the most gentle of ways, she was open to receive the ministrations that were being lavished on her in a most sensual way.

At the foot of the marble slab, a women clothed in a flowing, diaphanous, white shift knelt, a plush velvet cushion on the floor providing protection for her knees. Her head was buried between the captives legs, her fingers were tracing exquisite patterns on the bound woman’s silky skin. Another lady knelt on the floor towards the top end of the slab; she was tantalizing one of the captive’s nipples with her tongue, gently flicking and teasing the other with the tips of her fingers. The subjugated woman moaned softly, luxuriating in the pleasure, living for the moment.

It was not a harp that provided the background music but a grand piano set in an alcove lined with tropical plants from the south. Two member of the Sisterhood sat on the stool, fingers dancing across the keyboard in a duet that filled the room; Straus, Chopin, Weber; waltzes that evoked the mood of ye olde world, one that was graceful, elegant, sensual. A third member of the Sisterhood, also dressed in a flowing white shift, leaned on the piano, twisting the ringlets in her hair, humming to the melodies, lost in her dreams.

My eyes were drawn to a low platform set off to the side of that vast room. Monique, naked except for her elegant leather slave collar, graced the stage, her arms spread wide and fastened to two upright poles. The fastenings were not the silky bonds of the woman on the slab, but rather shiny steel cuffs, ones from which there would be no inadvertent release. She looked straight ahead, dignified in her own way, staring into the distance, focused on her inner thoughts.

Another member of the Sisterhood stood at her side, reaching up to hold Monique’s one hand, stroking her forehead tenderly, flicking away a lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes; an offer of support, words of comfort, an empathetic companion. I felt my insides churn, the warmth of a fire flaring up inside my belly, felt the stickiness developing between my thighs. I was enchanted by the act of punishment about to unfold, aroused by the scene, riveted by the setting.

Anne-Marie’s words woke me from my reverie.

“Monique, you will receive six strokes of the cane for your carelessness in losing the card. Justine, please go ahead and deliver them.” Her voice was silky, yet dispassionate; I could never have perceived that she too might be aroused by the scene in which we were now a part..

Justine, who had been comforting Monique, reached back to pick up a leather handled cane. She took a few steps around her prey, tapping the cane in her hand, eyeing the posterior of the women she was to whip. The cane was raised, her elbow tucked in, and she brought it slashing down across Monique’s taught bottom. Monique grimaced, and swayed forward slightly, hurt, but not displaying the effects of significant pain.

I felt my own arousal grow; I felt the flush come to my cheeks and I tried to ignore the amused glance that Anne-Marie threw my way. I was morbidly fascinated, turned on by Monique’s discomfort, engaged by the sight of the cane in Justine’s hand; she held it so lightly, flicked it so effortlessly, yet it tickled my fancy that it could cause such pain.

“Harder Justine, else you too will be whipped.”

There was no anger in Anne-Marie’s voice, no malice, just a statement of fact.

In the background, the whipping elicited no response; the waltz filled the air, the moans of pleasure from the woman tied up at the pool drifted in and out of my consciousness; the traffic outside that cruised The Esplanade belonged to another world.

I thrilled to the crack of the second stroke. The splat of the cane against tender flesh punctuated the air; Monique rocked forward in her shackles and gasped in pain. I longed to walk around and see the stripes on her bottom but felt rooted to the spot on which I stood beside Anne-Marie.

“Harder, Justine! I want her to sing!”

I looked sideways at Anne-Marie; a flush seemed to have crept into her cheeks, a steeliness into her eyes.

The third cut was delivered with a huge amount of force; I could see Justine’s fierce concentration as she leaned into the stroke, could see her grimace with the effort, and could see her look of satisfaction as the rod found its mark. The swish of the cane whistled its own accompaniment to the grand piano’s valse, Monique’s scream of anguish nearly caused my heart to stop.

This was beyond what I found arousing, I couldn’t let it continue.

I shouted out; “Stop…don’t hit her again! Please!”

Justine stopped in her tracks, the cane seeming to hover at her shoulder.

I turned to Anne-Marie, desperation in my voice, “Let her go please! She did nothing wrong. It was me. I stole the card from her purse. I am to blame for the lost card, not her!”

There were tears in my eyes, panic in my voice.

Anne-Marie turned to me, her stare was icy, her voice controlled. As she looked into my eyes I realized that she had known this all along; she had played me for the fool that I was.

“Very well,” she said at last, “You will be whipped instead. Justine, let Monique down.”


Justine led me to another marble slab; pillows were placed down on which I was to kneel.

“Her clothes….just cut them off.”

Anne-Marie’s voice was cold, devoid of compassion. She looked so beautiful standing there in her cream dress, her hair perfectly bobbed, her make-up flawless. It was incomprehensible to me that someone so hard could exist beneath such a soft and elegant façade, yet that excited me, made my juices flow.

A pair of scissors materialized in Justine’s hands; she made no effort to preserve my clothes or my dignity. Both my dress and underwear were cut off as if I was a wastrel; there would be no getting out of Majesta without one of the girls offering me a set of their own.

I was steered onto the slab and made to kneel; the cushions felt soft and luxurious, the warmth a contrast to the cold marble that touched the tops of my feet. My ankles were tied together with a red satin ribbon; Majesta seemed to have an abundant supply of those! Angelina pushed my head and torso down so that my bottom was raised high and my breasts and head rested on the cool marble slab. She pulled two more ribbons from her pocket, and my wrists were fastened to the ring in the pedestal, down close to the floor.

I felt that I was disconnected from my body, that I was living in a dream. The waltzes drifted in and out of my consciousness, and I could hear the moans of passion from the woman on the other slab. Yet, I felt acutely aware of my physical vulnerability; my bound wrists, my bound ankles, but most of all, my up-ended bottom. I could imagine the engorged and excited lips of my vulva peeking out from behind, their arousal on display, glistening lasciviously and proclaiming me for the slut I was; my bottom hole winking lewdly, dispelling all vestiges of dignity.

I was in my dream world, soaking it up, wallowing in my decadent state, thrilling to the attentions of Justine. Out of the blue, my mantra popped right back into my head: “Majesta, Majesta, the secrets of Majesta; Majesta, Majesta, the secrets of Majesta.”  Around and around it went, lulling me into a false state of safety.

I heard the whistle of the cane at the same time as it struck. I heard myself screech, felt myself wave my bottom around desperately, trying to get relief. I had never imagined the cane would be that brutal; had never dreamed of the pain experienced by those poor spanking models who I had watched getting beaten in order to satisfy the sexual appreciate of voyeurs like me.

The second cut seemed to build on the first; the pain increased dramatically; my howl of agony pierced the air. I cried, pleaded for Justine to stop, begged Anne-Marie to bring it to an end. It is impossible to bargain when you are in such an ignominious position; I felt wretched, my bottom up high and swinging around wildly, my breasts crushed beneath me against the marble slab.

“You can cry all you like, there’s no one who will hear.”

Anne-Marie’s voice came to me from a mile off; it seemed to be coming through a tunnel.

Justine began to swish my backside rhythmically, not hard, not viciously. The heat built up and I couldn’t imagine how I could tolerate anymore. Yet the switching kept coming, the pain kept mounting. My throat became hoarse from the screaming; I dimly heard my own screams coming to me from far off.

It was a new concert that I heard play. Justine seemed to time her strokes to that of the waltz; the pianists had found a new rhythm of their own, an increased tempo, an upbeat cadence. And with every bar, the cane whipped down on my bottom, and I cried and screamed to the music, adding urgency to it, a fever of pain accompanied by cries of passion.


I have no idea how long the swishing lasted; it seemed like an eternity before I heard Anne-Marie telling Justine to stop.

Gentle hands pulled at my calves, pulling me back along the marble slab, forcing me to lie down flat on its cool surface. None of my bonds were released; I became a captive of passion. I felt the cool dripping of calming lotion poured onto my hot bottom, felt Justine’s hands begin to soothe away the pain. Moments before, she had been swishing me causing me unimaginable pain; now she was massaging and soothing, drawing out the heat, calming the inflamed nerves.

Monique knelt on a pillow she had placed on the floor in front of me; she raised my face and wiped away the tears with a warm, damp cloth. I felt her breath on my face, smelt her wholesomeness, a mixture of her perfume and the scent of her own punishment. Notes of violets and tangy fruits, a bitter essence from the sweat of pain, the earthy muskiness of female arousal. I felt her gentle kisses on my eyelashes, as delicate as a butterfly, as tender as the nuzzling of a deer; the sweet whispers of passionate endearment, her gentle stroking of my hair.

And all the while, Justine’s massaging had become more focused, more personal, more intimate. While one hand continued to gently stroke away the heat, the other was probing between my thighs, rubbing my clit, probing my depths. I felt my juices flowing, felt myself opening up, felt myself responding, forcing myself against her hand, grinding myself in time to the incessant music.

I had lost all sense of shame, dropped all my inhibitions, and was drowning in the wonderful sensations of unabashed, sexual desire. I was overcome with the exquisite waves of sensuality, was moaning with lust, savoring the scents of perfume mixed with passion. I performed like a lascivious harlot then, drowning in the sea of aphrodisia, succumbing to the opiate of decadence.

My release from the red, satin bonds was accompanied by acceptance; acceptance from Anne-Marie that I had paid my penalty, forgiveness by Monique for the way in which I had set her up, a hug from Justine to show that there was no malice in the swishing she had delivered.

My cut up dress was spirited away; I pulled on the new, white shift I was given with a happy heart. It signaled my entry into the Sisterhood of Majesta; my swishing was a rite of passage. Majesta still had many secrets to reveal to me, but for now, I was content to revel in the one I had just experienced.


2 thoughts on “The Secrets of Majesta

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s