The House of Majesta – The Chambers

The Summons

I knocked at the door of Anne-Marie’s chambers and waited. The summons had been delivered by a maid to the sleeping quarters where I had been resting; an elegant, feminine script on a lightly scented note, gold edging adding a touch of the inevitable class. The invitation was simple and imperious: “Come to my chambers, now! Attire: Dressing gown.”

I felt vulnerable, yet enthralled. What good could come of a meeting with Anne-Marie? Despite her elegance, her calm demeanor, her lovely appearance, I had witnessed the cruelty that lurked inside. Yet I could not deny her innate sensuality and the erotic allure of her domineering character.

I knocked on the dark cherry-wood door again and waited. The floor felt cool under my bare feet, and I shivered slightly, possibly from the lack of protection that my lacy gown offered, more probably from the sense of imminent threat laced with the potential of an impending encounter that was contributing to my own mounting excitement.

Her voice was sultry yet muffled when it came; her “Enter!” had me reaching for the heavy brass handle and slowly pushing the door ajar.


It was as if I had walked into a picture; perhaps one of the most erotic visions that my mind could possibly have conceived. The entrance lobby of her chambers opened directly into a sunny dining room; wide windows overlooked the cliff and the waves hurled themselves on the rocks way below.

A round mahogany dining room table commanded the center of the room; it was a piece of furniture that instantly transported the room back to a more elegant era. A heavy Victorian sideboard was set on the one side of the room, a bundle of canes stacked neatly on top. Each cane’s handle was neatly bound in colored leather; the coding was obvious at once. The black handled cane looked monstrous, the deep blue marginally less serious. The powder blue was light and whippy, not intended to leave deep bruises, yet the welts it could raise made my skin tingle with fear.

Anne-Marie was standing next to the side board, a pink handled cane grasped lightly, seemingly comfortable handling an instrument of pain. She looked ever so genteel, an ankle length white gown flowing down to the floor. A silver choker graced her slender neck, gold earrings dangled alongside, their sapphire and ruby gems let out from the vault for the night.

She glanced up at me, and then resumed her study of the cane. A highly polished silver hilt graced the thick end, a bold pattern was engraved around the knob at its base. She held the cane delicately in her long and slender fingers; her beautifully manicured nails which were painted a vibrant red, were set off against the pink cane handle, both telegraphing messages of dominance and femininity, danger and seduction.

She gripped both ends of the cane lightly with the tips of her fingers and bent it into a graceful bow; backwards and forwards, up and down. She tested its suppleness, assessed its flex. I was mesmerised, taken in by the elegance, terrified by the menace and I sensed my arousal flickering to life in the sexually charged scene.

I looked up to find her watching me, the hint of a smile flitting across her cherry red lips. I thought I could detect a faint blush on her cheeks, a flush on her neck, a pulse in her breast. Her perfume, ever so light, ever so intoxicating, drifted elusively in and out of my awareness; her eyes sparkled brightly with amusement – or  arousal?

I glanced away, taking in the sexy scene in the room. Justine, naked Justine, was bent across the table, her elbows resting at its center, hands cupped to support her dainty chin. She stared straight ahead to the opposite wall, ignoring the interruption, lost in her thoughts. Her breasts looked incongruous, delicate and pale, flattened by the unrelenting pressure of the harsh wooden top. Her back arched sleekly down from her slender neck, sweeping up at its middle to push her bottom  up and put it on show. Long legs spread slightly apart , her thighs were quite taut framing her love lips between. Depilated or plucked; cream or epilator? The lips were smooth and hair  free, a constant symbol of lust, we all knew by now that this was the way of the ladies of Majesta.

I noticed no sign of arousal, detected no hint of emotion, but there was a steeliness to her demeanor indicating that still waters ran deep. Her bottom was firm, almost tomboyish in shape. Porcelain smooth, it displayed no cane marks, no signs of abuse. Justine preferred to be the one to swish rather than be swished; perhaps now was the time the tables would be turned?

Anne-Marie had moved in while my concentration on her had lapsed. The stroke came without warning, without giving Justine a chance to prepare. It was the pink handled cane, one that made a terrifying swish in the air. I don’t believe Anne-Marie swung it with undue force; as could be expected of her, the cut was delivered with grace and panache. It was more of a flick than a viscous slash, the effects resulting more from timing than force of her blow . A welt materialized instantly on Justine’s skin, a painful tramline line that perfectly bisected her cheeks .

“I love to paint on a clean canvass,” Anne-Marie swooned.

“You know, Cara,” she said addressing me in a conspiratorial tone,  “I like to keep Justine pristine for moments like this. She does not get it often, but when she does, it is a delight to observe.”

This was so in keeping of Anne-Marie’s way; dispassionate and uncaring for the pain that she caused. I looked up at her, and was sure that that flush I had detected earlier had taken on a deeper hue; despite her calm outward appearance, I was now convinced that she was becoming aroused.

Anne-Marie flicked again, the strike of a serpent imparting a venomous bite. Justine yelped, but did not react in any other way. She neither kicked back nor swayed but continued to stare straight ahead, a frown of concentration creasing her pained face. There was no follow-through in Anne-Marie’s stroke; she pulled the cane back immediately on impact and held it up straight like a sword in her hand. To a virtuoso conductor, timing is all; Justine played both soloist and conductor in this orchestral score.

With the fingers of her left hand, Anne-Marie reached forward to assess her perfromance. Gently, with infinite care, she traced the wicked lines that ran from the west to the east. Her finger tips traversed the welts, sensed the pain, luxuriated in the texture, admired the effect. Her blood red nails traced deep patterns on the drum tight flesh, testing Justine’s submission, enhancing her pain.

I admired Justine’s stoicism for just a moment, but then rationalised it away; she hadn’t been punished as severely as when she had layed into me, and two strokes was hardly a punishment for Majesta at all.

All is not always as it seems

Anne-Marie eyed me and sensed my misgiving.

“All is not always as it seems, Cara” she counseled.

Anne-Marie had a way of talking down to me in a patronising sort of way. It annoyed me intensely, but reflected the reality of the relationship we had. She was a natural dominant and I a submissive; a relationship like this was bound to occur.

I stared back quizzically; what could possibly not be as it seems?

“Cara, have you ever heard of a bite-stick?”

I shook my head; it was definitely outside the scope of my limited S&M knowledge.

“A bite-stick,” she informed me, “is a stick that a submissive may be required to grasp in their teeth, a wonderful test of self-control during times of punishment. Drop it, and the punishment is doubled.”

She waited for a moment for the point to sink in; Justine was definitely not chewing into a bite-stick, though based on the look of intense concentration on her face, there was something amiss.

Anne-Marie continued to look at me, a sardonic smile playing across her lips.

“What if I told you Justine was grappling with a bite-stick? Would your opinion of her self control change?”

“But she isn’t!” I retorted.

“Justine, stand up!”

I watched as her slender body struggled up straight. It struck me then that she had probably been bent over the table for quite a while, possibly from before my summons had been dispatched. She stretched, then settled into a rigid stance, her fingers laced behind her head, her eyes once again focused at a spot on the opposite wall.

Anne-Marie whipped the cane across her bottom once more, then stood back to watch the electrifying effect.

Justine contorted in a most delicious way. Her upper thighs turned inwards, her bottom pushed out. Her hands flew down, but rather than to her flaming bottom, she jammed them between her well toned thighs. I felt my own arousal build; I at once wanted to comfort her yet to revel in her distress, wished for the same treatment but was petrified that I too would be whipped in cruel way. In a state of confusion and arousal, I watched Justine regain her composure and stand up straight.

Anne-Marie flexed the cane again, and once again addressed Justine in that maddening, reasonable voice of hers.

“Well held, Justine!”

I was lost; I was sure that there was something that was passing over my head.

“So Justine,” she continued, “should we try one more? Or perhaps a few squats and star jumps instead?”

Justine’s voice was muted, her eyes tearful.

“Please swish me just once more. That’s all I have to get through, isn’t it now?”

“Of course my dear, if that is what you want. It will be with the powder blue though, my favorite of course. Do you want to take it bending over or standing up straight?”

There was always a hidden agenda to Anne-Marie’s seeming kindness. As she said to me: “nothing is quite like it seems”, and with Anne-Marie, it is always seems that nothing is quite how it sounds.

Justine paused and then whispered her choice.

“I will take it standing, please.”

Anne-Marie toyed with her, seeming to enjoy her distress, loving the humiliation she was making her endure. She took her time, selecting her cane, whistling it through the air, flexing its shaft. She took a few tentative taps on Justine’s punished rear, then stepped back, a wicked smile creasing her face.

“Squat Justine, now!”

Justine looked at her in terror, her feet rooted to the ground.

“Swish me please Anne-Marie, please! Don’t make me do this! Spare me, please!”

Her distress was real, and as it built up, my confusion and arousal rose too in equal parts.

Her pleading fell on deaf ears, and finally Justine submitted. Her thighs parted, straining as she squatted down; a humiliating action that drove me right to the edge. As she moved lower, her thighs parted, her labia glistened; I was gratified to see that she too was now aroused.

Poor Justine, my heart went out to her! As she lowered herself down, I noticed her jawline tense and her teeth grit. The tension in the air was palpable, and it was cut by the sudden flash of Anne-Marie’s cane. The stroke wasn’t vicious in any sense, although it was whippy enough to raise another weal. Justine yelped again, and for a moment seemed to lose control. She made as if to rise, then suddenly sank lower.

All of a sudden, the unexpected happened; suddenly Anne-Marie’s cryptic comments all fell into place. I was startled as a green jade egg, glistening with her juices, popped out from between her lower lips, clattered onto the floor and finally rolled to a stop.

“The Majesta version of a bite stick, my dear,” Anne-Marie took pleasure in announcing. “Justine did so well in holding it in for her swishing, but I am sorry to see that just the slightest bit of physical exertion has caused her to lose control.”

Anne-Marie’s cruelty seemed to know no bounds. “Tonight Justine, you will join Monique and Cara in the punishment room. Go Justine, I am deeply disappointed in you.”

She dismissed the poor woman with barely a glance, then in the unpredictable manner of the lady she is, Anne-Marie took me by the upper arm and led me away.

“Cara, my dear, I am sure you found that enlightening, yet that is not what I brought you here for. Let’s retire to my bedroom; I too have desires that I need fulfilled.”


The House of Majesta – The Flapping

The Flapping

With as much grace as I could manage, I folded myself over Ann-Marie’s lap. Once again, I knew that all eyes were on me, but I had recovered some of my composure; getting spanked over an assertive and beautiful women’s knee was something I had dreamed of for many years.

I felt my shift being folded back slowly across the small of my back, felt her fingers patting the cloth to keep it in place. I was inwardly pleased that I had worn my panties that day. Created from a deep, rich red satin, they were lace trimmed and elegant, sexy and sensuous; so fitting, I thought, for the classy, Victorian ambiance of the House of Majesta.

My self-satisfaction proved to be short-lived. Anne-Marie snapped the waistband elastic against my skin and then it seemed an eternity before she spoke. She lectured me as if I was a child.

“What right do you think you have to wear underwear in my household, young lady? You are a neophyte. Neophyte’s have few rights. Until you are accepted, I do not want to see this behavior again. Do you quite understand?”

“Yes, Anne-Marie,” I mumbled, devastated, the wind taken right out of my sails.

She dragged the offending item of lingerie down my legs, and dropped it contemptuously on the floor at her feet.

I had expected her next move to be a slap or perhaps one of those sets of gentle stroking I had heard that took place before a spanking was delivered. I felt her hand creep between my legs, exploring, sensing, judging. I yelped as she grabbed a few strands of my pubic hair, twisted them viciously into a tight little curl and then jerked twice on the little, silky ringlet.

Anne-Marie’s voice had turned to ice, her gentle tone a thing of the past.

“Ladies of the Sisterhood, and especially neophytes, do not have pubic hair!”

My head was hanging upside down and close to the floor, so I could sense but not see the anger on her face. The coldness in her tone told it all.

“You, Monique, will be responsible for this girl’s appearance. It was through you that she got here, so you will bear the consequences. Now listen here, you two…”

She gave my hairs another tug; I assumed the ‘two’ referred to Monique and me.

“…you will both be whipped at sundown for this infraction. Monique, please be kind enough to ensure she is plucked before that takes place.”

As quickly as her temper had been aroused, I sensed Anne-Marie’s mood return to normal. Her voice became soft and creamy again, smooth and mellifluous.

“Justine, would you mind bringing me the ferule? I find myself a bit constrained here.”

Although I couldn’t see her face, I could imagine the smile of delight that would be lingering on Justine’s lips. I was well acquainted now with the perverse sense of satisfaction she got from inflicting pain and wondered how Anne-Marie would involve her in my chastisement. I didn’t have to wait long to discover this, nor to be enlightened as to what exactly a ferule was.

Justine squatted on the floor at my side, a plump, velvet cushion in her arms. It was not a crown that rested on it, but the ferule, the instrument that was about to cause me such pain. Perhaps eighteen inches long, it was a highly polished, brown, pear shaped leather paddle. It had a robust look to it, despite the elegant finish. The crown of Majesta was embossed in gold at its center, and a delicate pattern of inter-twined scrolls marked out the edges; they too were embossed in gold. The handle was bound with leather thongs and an ornately crafted silver hilt was further evidence of the craftsmanship at play.

“Kiss it, Cara,” Justine whispered, “and remember that once Anne-Marie has given you the flaps and released you, you need to request that you be allowed to kiss it again. Remember to curtsey when you are dismissed.”

I was grateful for this coaching, and despite this ridiculous ritual, I was pleased that I had something on which to focus my mind.

Justine disappeared from my view, and I waited, barely able to breathe, for the punishment to start.

“I love the ferule, Cara,” I heard Anne-Marie say; “I find that it is useful to burnish bottoms that have been marked with the cane.”

She rubbed the leather paddle across my bottom, patting it tentatively, inspecting what had to be done.

“You see, Cara,” she was in lecture mode now, “the swishing you received yesterday left some rather interesting marks. Your bottom looks so untidy! Marks here, bruises there; there is just no order! Now, with this flapping, I am going to help you repair this. I am going flap your bottom to French-polish out all the marks; it will take on a lovely, rosy hue, a consistent color across all of your cheeks, a healthy glow which will delight us all.”

Once again she had found her way to make her sadistic approach seem to be a kindness and so reasonable, yet I didn’t take solace from her kind words. I wasn’t so sure in my mind that I was going to be delighted with my bottom being given a healthy glow. It was still tender from my swishing the day before and it felt pulverized from the bobbles that had crushed their way into my flesh while sitting on the Neophyte Chair.

I was surprised at how painful the flapping was. I might have imagined that the sheer width of the ferule would have spread the impact, or that perhaps seeing my obvious plight Anne-Marie would have some pity and go easy on me this once. That is not how it played out; she set in with a consistent tempo, a cadence that didn’t seem to ever let up. I could understand now why she called it flapping; she applied the paddle with a strength that was firm but not brutal, flapping away at my bottom while allowing the leather to do her work.  She didn’t have to be brutal; the tender state of my bottom provided her all the help that she needed.

I cried, I screamed, I kicked. Nothing could stop the incredible pain that engulfed my rear. The flesh was so tender that I knew I couldn’t take another swat; yet the flaps kept raining down, with metronome-like regularity, punishing me beyond what I thought a person could endure.

Suddenly it was over and I was left hanging over her knee, blubbing and sniffling like a child, tears pouring down my cheeks, distraught and in pain, shaking in despair . I half expected Anne-Marie to hug me, comfort me like the child I felt I was, console me in my pain, dispelling my fear. Anne-Marie wasn’t made like that; I don’t believe she had a single soft streak in her body or tender words to share.

“You can get up now Cara.”

She game me a nudge, not pushing me off her lap to the floor, but indicating that it was perhaps best that I move away from her now. I obliged, tumbling to the ground and curling up like a fetus in pain. I felt drained and spent, and I didn’t care if the other girls saw me in this state; I simply didn’t care.

“Take her away, Monique. Bath her and be generous with the cold cream. I need the two of you to be in top form this evening for your punishment session. And Monique, don’t forget to pluck her!”

I was in no state to ask to kiss the paddle, and curtseying to the sadistic mistress of the House of Majesta was the last thing on my mind. I was led out of the dining room by Monique, her arm around my shoulder giving me comfort and moral support, tissues on offer to wipe my eyes and to blow my nose. I dimly heard the chatter across the breakfast room table pickup, but didn’t care if they were talking about me; I simply didn’t care.

I felt an intense closeness to Monique at that moment, and knew that with her at my side, anything was possible and I knew in my heart that I wanted to be a fully fledged member of the Sisterhood of Majesta.

“Cara, sweetie,” she whispered in my ear, “remember that a girl never died from a whipping! You will be all right.”

The House of Majesta – The Neophyte Chair

A Sensual Awakening

The Sisterhood’s sleeping quarters at the Majesta Mansion were exotic by any standards. There was one large room for all of the ladies but it was by no means a dormitory. Six king sized beds were arranged around the room at various angles, each having their own dressing table, headboards, boudoir chairs and reading lamps. It was as if each was a room in its own right, except there were no dividing walls and no uniformity with respect to the alignment.

There was no fixed arrangement as to who slept where or who slept with whom. The ladies tended to tumble in to bed with whomever they had spent time with during the day, or whoever’s company they felt like when it was time to retire. It would come as no surprise then, that I woke up with Justine’s arm draped around the front of my neck, her sweet breath gently caressing my temple, as delicate as a butterflies’ kiss on a warm summer day, a hint of chocolate from an early morning glass of flavored milk lingering on her parted lips.  My bottom felt tender and bruised yet the sensation was actually pleasant and one that I enjoyed very much.  I pushed it back snugly against Justine’s belly, feelings of sensuality washing over me: warm, smooth and soothing.

Monique was on my other side, her head resting on my arm, her face snuggled against my breast, her lips gently nuzzling my nipple, her long slender fingers tracing delicate patterns across my pubis, twisting little circlets of my silky hair, teasing but not entering, petting without promise of release.

“Cara” she murmured to me, her voice still slightly husky from her sleep, “you know it’s likely that you will get whipped again today?”

My breathing stopped for just a second; how could I go through another swishing like the one I had just received?

Her fingers increased their tempo, tugging just a little more at my hairs, pressing slightly harder against my mons. I remained silent; I was too shocked to respond.

“You would be ok with that, wouldn’t you? You did know we girls get whipped… and you loved what happened afterwards!”

“Why me, Monique?” My mind raced. “What have I done now to deserve it?”

Monique nipped my nipple with her teeth and smiled up at me coquettishly; Justine stirred, disturbed by our whispering but not yet fully awake. I could hear activity in one of the other beds; moans of pleasure, the gentle whisper of sheets beneath bodies, the deep, passionate breathing of a lover being satisfied.

“Just because; because you’re new; maybe because Anne-Marie likes you; maybe it excited her to see your pain, to hear your screams. None of us beg her to stop; we are all used to the strap and the cane. It was quite different to hear your begging! Perhaps she will want to hear that again.”

Her fingers insinuated themselves into my slit, traced circles around my clit; around and around, a little pressure, a little teasing. I felt my breathing quicken, felt myself start to keep pace with the women in the other bed.

“But you liked it afterwards, didn’t you Cara? Your swishing excited you; Justine wasn’t that cruel!”

The images of yesterday’s swishing tumbled around my mind; the replay of the post-swishing massage caused a new wave of pleasure to build in my belly. I sank deeper and deeper into the sensations, pushing myself against Monique’s fingers, delighting in my body’s response. Her gentle sucking on my nipple resumed, her fingers flexed, applying pressure, strumming me urgently. Justine’s chocolaty breath, her compliant belly, her leg draped over mine felt like they belonged, a comfortable eider draped around my sensual self.

It was all too much, and as the waves of orgasmic pleasure rippled through my body, I heard the moans of release escape from the other bed too. I fell back limply against my pillows, resigned to my fate, accepting of my status, luxuriating in the comfort of Justine’s and Monique’s warm presence.

The Neophyte Chair

Justine and Monique led me into the dining room for breakfast at precisely two minutes before eight am. The penalty for being late, I was told, didn’t bear thinking about. We were the last of the Sisterhood to appear; all of the other ladies were standing behind their chairs, hands neatly clasped on the top of the ornately carved backrests, looking fresh and pristine in their flowing white shifts.

The setting could have come out of a page of a book on nobility; the table was laid with gleaming silverware, beams refracting through crystal glasses cast delightful little rainbows on the fresh white table cloth, silver rings encircled starched white serviettes. Light danced off the crystals in the chandelier, gentle chamber music was piped in from a hidden source.

There were four chairs vacant when we entered; the one at the head of the table was obviously for Anne-Marie. Monique directed me to the setting directly at the left of the head; she was whispered in my ear that this was the ‘Neophyte Chair’ as she took up a position at my side. The silence in the room was overwhelming and I suddenly felt a rush of nerves overcome me; Monique’s prediction of an imminent whipping rushed to the forefront of my mind.

Anne-Marie’s entrance was timed to perfection. As a maid struck a silver gong with her leather covered mallet, the door swung open and Anne-Marie walked in. Despite her charm, her very feminine deportment, her classic cream dress that could have come right out of a Victorian era boutique, her presence was powerful and in a sense, intimidating.

She greeted the ladies with a warm smile and a cordial greeting, yet her tone was measured, her enunciation was perfect. Anne-Marie projected her presence with such grace and ease, yet I had witnessed a display of sadism yesterday that had left me scared and repulsed, while at the same time, inexplicably attracted. Complex, beautiful, baffling; Anne-Marie didn’t need physical strength to project her power.

The maid servant pulled out her chair and only when she was seated did the Sisterhood make their own moves to pull out their own chairs.

I felt all eyes on me as I pulled my own chair back; the blood rushed to my face as I looked down at the seat. Under normal circumstances I would have found the seat’s surface to be interesting, perhaps a beautiful work of art in its own right; but this was the ‘Neophyte’s Chair’ and admiration for artwork was the furthest thing in my mind. I was apparently the neophyte and I didn’t quite know where to place myself; the floor did not oblige and open up to swallow me and I was left there standing and feeling a mixture of shock, trepidation and disbelief.

The seat was covered with a thick layer of glass of some sort; imagine a sparkling microwave oven glass platter turned upside down. A rough texture covered the surface, shimmering with the brilliant white light cast down from the crystal chandelier. Think of the little plastic spiked bobbles on the back of a plastic non-slip carpet runner; that is what they reminded me of. To sit on them with my already tenderized bottom was going to be an ordeal; to sit and enjoy my breakfast was going to be a stretch.

It was not, however, the threatening texture that brought the flush to my cheeks; rather it was the plug that was mounted towards the back of the seat. Not excessively large, it reminded me of the ornate glass stopper that fitted so snugly into the wine flask in my own home. The elegant curves, the flared base, the gentle taper that ended in a perfectly rounded tip. Under any other circumstances I might have been tempted to run my fingers up and down the polished surface, admiring the finish, watching the light rays spill off it’s surfaces, searching for the imperfections in the glass whilst all the while knowing that none could exist.

The purpose of this plug was all too obvious, and as I looked up and around the able, I found that all eyes were resting on me, sardonic grins and sly little smiles playing across the freshly glossed lips. My gaze settled on the seated Anne-Marie; she raised those perfectly shaped eyebrows of hers and seemed to be waiting for a response.

“It’s the Neophyte Chair; it will be yours to use and enjoy until you are formally inducted into the Sisterhood.”

I stared back at her blankly, my mind swirling, wondering how to get out of this situation without losing face. Letting one of her ladies off the hook was not the way of Anne-Marie.

There was an absolute stillness that had fallen across the room; no-one spoke, the chamber music seemed to have faded to silence. I was aware of my heart thumping in my own chest, the flush in my face and strangely enough, a stickiness that seemed to be building between my thighs.

“My dear, you will need some lubrication, of course.”

Anne-Marie continued to watch me expectantly, perhaps disappointed that I made no move. I continued to stare at her blankly.

“In the past, other neophytes…”

She looked around the room.

“…in fact, Monique was one of those I believe, ….”

Her eyes settled on Monique at my side.

“….have demonstrated their fellatio skills, you know?”

I couldn’t believe my ears; surely this wasn’t happening to me, surely Monique, who seemed so pure and wholesome, hadn’t done such a thing! I wasn’t going to kneel down in front of this audience and perform fellatio on a chair seat; mounting it afterwards with an audience would be humiliating enough.

Sensing an impasse, Anne-Marie reached into her pocket and withdrew a small tube. I looked at it as she passed it across to me; the ‘lubricant’ was a brand that I was intimately familiar with: it was toothpaste, the same brand that was available for all of the ladies to use in the Sisterhood washroom.

“Others have used this; it is readily available, easy to bring to meals and longer lasting than saliva.”

The facetiousness of her comment passed right over my head; I was in not in a receptive mood for her quips.

I took the tube with trembling hands and squeezed a liberal trail of it onto my index finger. The movement I had to make as I spread it across the plug, rubbing it up and down, being sure to cover all surfaces, was highly suggestive, though frigging a cock was the last thing I had on my mind.

With as much dignity as I could muster, I spread my skirts across the chair and pulled my panty gusset to the side. I hovered over the glass plug, my thighs straining, desperate to ensure that my entrance was accurate and my landing would be soft. The toothpaste did actually act as a lubricant, and I gently lowered myself onto the seat’s rough surface.

The eyes continued to watch me, looking for the reaction, taking a perverse pleasure in my physical and emotional distress. The seat was hard, the bobbles sharp and the flesh of my backside screamed in pain, but I was determined not to show it, desperate not to provide Anne-Marie or the Sisterhood with any of the reaction they seemed so keen to see.

“Have you ever been figged, Cara?”

It was the first time that Anne-Marie had used my name and it made me look up sharply.

“Figged? I am not sure what you mean, Anne-Marie.”

“Oh Cara! You have so much to learn here, my dear! We must give you the wonderful opportunity to experience that very soon! In the meantime, enjoy the feeling of the plug on your chair; it will provide you with just a taste of what is to come.”

The burn from the toothpaste started slowly, but minute by minute, the heat intensified. I found I had to wriggle, desperately trying to get relief. Clenching seemed to make it get hotter, relaxing made the burn penetrate deeper.

By now the girls were chatting amongst themselves and I felt Monique’s hand reach for my knee under the table cloth; a gentle pat and squeeze to let me know she was there, a gesture of friendship and comfort, a glance of compassion. I glanced at the clock on the wall and was surprised to see that it had only been a few minutes since I had mounted the plug.

Breakfast was the main meal of the day in the House of Majesta; the fresh fruits, brightly colored melons and creamy yogurts that were being enjoyed would be followed by cereals and eggs. It was a leisurely meal and the conversation was light hearted, the chatter flowed easily. Yet, I found I could not participate; my attention was riveted to my aching bottom and the unforgiving nature of those little glass bobbles that seemed to torment every nerve in my well punished posterior. To top it all, with every second that passed, the toothpaste that I had used burned hotter and hotter; the discomfort just grew and grew and grew.

“Feeling a little uncomfortable, Cara?”

Anne-Marie’s voice seemed solicitous enough, but I had come to doubt the sincerity of her compassion

“So you have not been figged yet; how about flaps? Ever been flapped?”

I shook my head despondently.

“I don’t know what that is Anne-Marie; I really am new to this all!”

“Ah! So how about this? I am prepared to let you off the chair now; perhaps tomorrow morning you will come better prepared with a more suitable lubricant. Instead, what I can offer is to flap you right now. It should be a relief not to have that plug irritating you so much.”

My ears perked up with her next remark; anything to get me out of this dreadful predicament! I was at the point where any deal she offered would have been better than the discomfort I was currently suffering. Tears of self pity were starting to trickle down my cheeks and I felt weak and humiliated in front of these ladies who just a few hours before I had imagined to be my peers. I nodded gratefully and pushed up with my straining thighs, lifting off that beastly surface, feeling a sense of relief as the plug slid free.

Nothing could be worse than the Neophyte Chair; certainly not a flapping whatever that could be!

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.