CHAPTER 29

On the following Monday, Maria came bustling into Gerda's quarters carrying one of the black cases from the Preparation Room, which usually meant some new addition to her Mistress's wardrobe, now so vast it filled the two long sliding cupboards down the side of the sitting room. In addition there was the high chest of drawers which was crammed with various masks, gloves, gags, belts, corsets, wrist and ankle straps, blindfolds; in latex, vinyl, rubber, and leather, and some made of shining steel. Yet another large cupboard contained a huge selection of thigh boots, knee boots, and high­-heeled stiletto shoes.

Gerda was writing in her diary at the desk, clad loosely in a thin rubber caftan, awaiting her dressing orders for her first appearance as an 'avenging' Mistress. She was feeling apprehensive about the forthcoming test, as any sadistic tendencies she sometimes experienced were very submerged at the moment.

‘Your new 'Mistress' costume, Madam! It's beautiful! I got a thrill just packing it into the case. I hope you'll use it to punish me one day!’

Half an hour later Gerda surveyed herself in the mirror and had to agree it was most effective. The entire outfit was in shining dark red. Over a thin latex suit she wore a close fitting thick latex jacket and heavy latex shorts, very tight. The legs of the shorts barely covered the top of the high leather thigh boots, which Maria had taken fifteen minutes to lace up from the ankles. Over thin rubber gloves she wore red leather gauntlets, and over a latex mask she was laced into a perfectly fitting leather helmet with built‑in darkened goggles and two nose holes. It was so tight that the absence of a mouth slit effectively gagged her.

The only departure from the dashing red figure was a wide steel belt, and a steel collar clamped over the neck of her mask and jacket, keeping her head fairly rigid. The belt pulled her slim waist in tightly, and pushed her breasts out against the jacket.

She pivoted gracefully on the four‑inch heels of the boots, again marvelling at the perfection of the island's workshops, whose craftsmen knew to a centimetre every measurement of each slave. Finally, Maria took out a red leather tawse and hung it on a small hook at the side of the steel belt. Gerda felt a stir of excitement at the sinister red figure staring back from the mirror, even the eyes obscured from an onlooker.

‘Lovely! What a perfect Mistress!’ Maria breathed, ‘I envy the slave or maid you'll be punishing tonight.’ Gerda laughed and took her little serving maid's masked head between her gauntlets and fondled it affectionately.

‘You're impossible, Maria! With your sexy masochism, I don't know why you don't apply to become a slave. You'd have an absolute ball!’

Maria's teeth flashed whitely through her mask. ‘I might have eventually if I hadn't met you, Mistress. But I just wish you'd punish me more often, you're always so kind to me. Perhaps tomorrow I'll spill your coffee all over you when I wake you!’

At six precisely Gerda reported to the main Punishment Room, feeling strangely shy in her new role. She was glad only the Executioner and Miss Dodds would know her identity. There were seven Top‑Level Slaves at present in the establishment, all fairly tall and with good figures, so no victim would be able to tell who was the Punishment Mistress.

Two Instructors were strapping down a trainee slave over a Whipping Block in the huge room. She was firmly gagged, and making small whimpers of protest or fear. Miss Dodds and the Executioner were talking in a corner. Miss Dodds immediately came over as Gerda started to kneel and make her obeisance.

‘No, no, girl! Not when you're acting as a Mistress. You look very fetching. A beautiful costume! Now, come over to the slave while the Executioner reads out the Punishment, and just do as she says.’

Gerda crossed to the wretched girl, now strapped firmly down and blindfolded. As she turned her head in mute appeal, Gerda saw the name 'Gretchen' s stencilled across the latex mask. ‘A new one,’ thought Gerda, ‘poor bitch, and she's a fat little thing too.’ The tightly rubbered bottom seemed to spread right across the edge of the padded block, bulging against its shining black covering.

Laura came over with a sheaf of notes.

‘It is six o'clock and time for your Punishment, slave Gretchen,’ she read slowly, ‘You have been here eight days now, and this is your third Punishment for incurring Demerits for sloppy dressing and careless behaviour. In addition to what you receive now, you will sleep tonight in an extra rubber suit with your wrists chained to the side of your bed. It is essential you begin to act like a slave with responsibilities, otherwise your Punishments will increase in severity. At present, you have a further 70 Demerits, and you will receive one stroke for each Demerit. The first 50 will be with the cane, the final 20 with a heavy tawse. Just be thankful I have not ordered one of the more severe whips; but if you continue to ignore the rules you will receive a much more painful thrashing next time.’

An Instructor handed a long thin yellow cane to Gerda. The Executioner nodded to her. ‘Proceed, please, carry out the first fifty strokes.’

Carefully Gerda laid the cane across the wide bottom, measuring her stance so that each stroke would cross each cheek equally. Now she felt pleasantly excited and aware everyone was watching her. She grasped the cane firmly and brought it swishing down with a satisfying crack. A fraction high, she thought, but there’s so much bottom there it's hard to tell where the Sex Line is. She knew now, from her own painful training, that whipping was a difficult art if it was to be carried out correctly. For some strange reason there is a narrow line, about an inch wide, running across the cheeks of the bottom, which can create a strong sexual reaction in the whippee. Above or below that line causes only unpleasant pain. A carelessly aimed stroke, especially with a cat‑o‑nine ­tails, can cut across the top of the thighs and cause agony. She knew that the Executioner could place two hundred strokes within the magic Sex Line without difficulty. It still hurt, of course, but an expert whipper could start off lightly and gradually increase the severity, taking the victim along until the sexual sense slowly turned the pain into pleasure. But one wrong stroke, too high or too low, could immediately kill this subtle emotion.

Gerda had also learnt that the whipper must stand slightly sideways and almost level with the waist of the victim, not level with the bottom, otherwise the angle of the whipping arm would cause the lash to strike hardest over the far cheek, and with a long whip the end would curve over the other side and cause a painful weal on the hip.

Gerda carefully remembered these subtle points as she brought the I cane down with long strokes, now satisfied she had the exact measure and the cheeks of the girl were receiving the whip exactly equally. She was fascinated the way the fat bottom jumped and quivered with each stroke. She had reached forty when Laura whispered to her. ‘Harder! With all that fat she's hardly feeling anything!’

Gerda gave the next ten with the full swing of her arm, becoming pleasantly excited by the slave's muted screams and the fat body in its tight black latex jerking against the straps. At fifty she stopped, breathing heavily and aware her thin undersuit was becoming slithery with perspiration.

The Instructor took the cane and handed Gerda a short wide tawse made of thick shiny leather, with a wooden grip. ‘Slow and very hard,’ Laura instructed quietly, ‘It makes a lot of noise but it doesn't hurt much.’

After five pistol‑like cracks, Gerda realised the girl was not moaning and barely twitching her bottom, obviously the fat and the double‑thickness whipping suit was absorbing most of the pain. She stood back slightly and brought the tawse down with all her strength, the 'WHACK' resounding round the room. This time the girl jerked and her bottom tried to arch against the straps. Now Gerda felt wonderful; the big bottom seemed to rear up, longing to be punished, and she lashed it with great sweeping strokes, finding it easy to keep the short tawse exactly on target. It was with regret she heard the Instructor mutter 'Eighteen ‑only two more'.

The final strokes cracked down, and she stood back, panting. She watched the slave being unstrapped and guided in front of her and made to kneel to pay homage by kissing her bottom. Then the slave's blindfold was removed and she was taken from the room by the Instructors.

Miss Dodds gave a hearty laugh when the door had closed.

‘Well, well, Slave Gerda, that was quite a revelation! You acted as if you'd been a professional Mistress for at least five years. Did it come naturally or have you been practising or swotting up?’

Luckily Gerda's tight leather mask prevented her from saying anything except a vague mumble. Miss Dodds, dressed as usual in her white and blue rubber Matron's outfit, stripped off the long latex gloves she wore when officiating at a Punishment, and still chuckling, swept out of the room.

Laura came up to Gerda and her gloved hands lightly caressed the jutting breasts. ‘You were sensational, my sweet, I nearly took Pleasure just watching you in that costume swinging that whip. You really enjoyed it, didn't you!’

Gerda nodded, indicating her inability to speak distinctly through the tight leather, then she crossed to the Whipping Block and lay her torso along its padded top so that her bottom in the tight shorts stuck tantalisingly into the air. Laura laughed delightedly and picked up a heavy black whip and gave Gerda a stinging lash across the shiny red shorts. Gerda hardly moved, giving a groan of pleasure. Laura put down the whip.

‘I'd love to, darling, but there's another Punishment due here in a few minutes. Besides, you're becoming a glutton. My whipping arm will fall off with exhaustion. Off you go! Next Monday I'll arrange a much harder session for you, this was just a trial to see how you made out!’

Gerda rode up to the fourth floor in the elevator feeling intensely randy and frustrated now. Her tight long boots, her steel belt and collar, felt pleasantly restrictive and her mask was wonderfully clammy and tight and she had no wish to take off her costume. Then she had a perfectly splendid idea. She tapped down the corridor in her high heels and swept into her quarters. She signalled to Maria and crossed to a notepad on her desk, then wrote rapidly: IT WAS VERY SUCCESSFUL. NOW I FEEL VERY MISTRESSY AND IT'S TIME YOU HAD A PROPER WHIPPING. GET OUT SOME STRAPS AND A RIDING CROP, THEN LIE DOWN ON MY BED WHILE I SECURE YOU.’

To her surprise, Maria took her hand and led her into the bedroom, picking up her own gag and holding it for Gerda to strap in. ‘I thought you'd feel like that, Mistress, so I got everything ready!’ She pushed the thick gag into her mouth and looked up with eyes twinkling through her mask.

On the rubber‑sheeted bed were laid out wrist straps and chains, an assortment of straps, and three evil-looking whips.

CHAPTER 31

It was Friday, the first of her two 'off' days, and the evening every week when she dined with her Lord and Master, Le Compte. Even though she had been married to him for many weeks, Gerda felt a thrill of fear and longing when this day came and she knew she would spend the night with Guy. Sometimes he was loving and considerate, reminding her of the time he had wooed her in Paris, polished in manners and gentle in his lovemaking. On other occasions he would be her stern master, eventually ordering her to bed in some heavy rubber outfit and deliberately 'raping' her. But even on these sessions he would sometimes laugh and spoil his 'cruel' image by kissing and cuddling her.

It had been raining hard all morning, and after lunch she dressed in a heavy but comfortable rain outfit and too long walk, deeply breathing in the salt air and letting the clean rain roll down against her masked face, until it was wet and streaming and she could catch drops of it through her mouth hole, laughing and treating each sip like nectar. Over her working suit she had strapped chest‑high rubber waders with flat heels for easy walking through the woods, and for the first time was wearing the new rubber mackintosh which, as a Top‑Level Slave, she was permitted to order to her own design.

It was made of extra thick soft black latex, long and without any opening except a short zip at the neck so she could pull it over her head. The zip had a double seal and a very high collar, which came up over her chin and round her ears, with a tight hood that fitted closely round the edge of her face, sealing her mask on more tightly. The sleeves had attached gloves, making her totally watertight except for her mouth and eyes. The skirt of the raincoat fell to her booted ankles.

She returned about four, allowing plenty time before she reported to Guy for her twelve hours of bliss. She stood in the main hall for a few minutes, taking a cloth to wipe off most of the rain, then slightly unzipped the high collar and pulled back her hood, leaving only her working mask over her head. She strode into the Slaves' Rest Room to hear the latest gossip.

When she had passed her exams to become a Top‑Level Slave, she had wondered the next day why Maria had brought her a new working mask and removed her old one with the name 'Gerda' stencilled in white letters across the forehead. Then she realised the new one was exactly similar, except that 'Gerda' was now stencilled in gold letters, the status sign of highest slavery.

The room was fairly crowded; the stools by the bar all occupied, but as she approached four white‑stencilled slaves immediately offered their seats, as obeisance to her name in gold. She accepted one next to her friend Yvette, who was clad from head to foot in gleaming white latex. She greeted the girl affectionately, then ordered a vodka martini from the serving maid behind the bar.

‘So, how does it feel to be a respectable married woman?’ her friend asked saucily, ‘I must say, though, that apart from my Karl, Le Compte is the dishiest thing around. Who would have thought a year ago you'd be the big boss's wife! A T‑L Slave and, I'm told, shaping up fearsomely in the Mistress stakes!’

Gerda didn't ask how she knew. Every T‑L Slave seemed to have some underground source of gossip and information, especially if she had a sympathetic serving maid. ’I hear your Karl has just invented a number 12 Rod, which can be pumped up after it's been inserted?’

‘Touch,’ Yvette grinned through her white mask, ‘but it's just fabulous. When it's really inflated there's no way to remove it until the valve's unscrewed. You can hardly walk and it feels like you're sitting on a huge stake. You must get Guy to try it on you.

‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Gerda tartly, ‘I've no desire to feel a huge stake up my posterior.’ But she felt a secret thrill at the idea. She sipped her drink and surveyed the room. There were several new slaves with unfamiliar names on their masks. Then she caught sight of the fat slave, with 'Gretchen' on her forehead. She seemed larger than ever, and her mask was dripping sweat through the eyeholes. She was sitting dejectedly in an armchair.

‘That slave over there, Gretchen, in the chair, is it my imagination or is she getting even fatter?’

‘No. The poor bitch is in severe Punishment now to reduce weight. Most of her normal training has been shelved until she loses twelve kilos. For most of the day she has to wear five heavy rubber suits, two masks, and underneath that top suit she's carrying about twenty metres of thick chain padlocked round her body. She's allowed too sit for only five minutes each hour, and her diet is being strictly controlled. At night, she's locked into a watertight sweat suit and a total helmet gas mask. Old Doc sees her each morning, gives her vitamin injections and glucose and the lot, then she's back into her five suits and chains again. I hear that in another four days she'll be thinner than any of us.’

Gerda stood up. ‘Excuse me a moment, I must have a word with her.’ She rustled over in her heavy mackintosh smock just as the girl struggled to her feet, the chains under her outer heavy suit clinking musically. ’Sit down!’ said Gerda kindly; ‘there's no need…’

‘I must!’ the girl gasped exhaustedly, ‘Five minutes only to sit. I'm so hot! Please could I have some water? I'm not yet allowed to order anything from the bar.’ Gerda realised the girl had forgotten it was a strict rule slaves were not allowed to help each other. Nevertheless, she crossed to the bar and ordered a large glass of iced lemonade. The girl muttered her thanks and drank it like someone finding a water hole after five days lost in the desert. Gerda took back the glass and turned to find an Instructor close behind her. He regarded her through his leather mask, then turned to the other girl.

‘Come along, slave Gretchen, it's time for your run to the jetty and back. We've got to get you nice and slim so those new Punishment costumes will fit you!’ He pushed the groaning girl towards the door. Gerda returned to her stool, now thoughtful.

‘You think he saw me give Gretchen that drink?’ she asked Yvette. ’If he reports me, I'll get clobbered. It's quite a serious offence.’

Yvette was unsympathetic. ‘With a bit of luck they may give you the pressurised number 12 Rod!’ She consulted a slim gold watch on her rubbered wrist. ’I must go; Karl arrived today, he's cooking up some new torture for me, that's why I'm all in white. He dresses me like this when I'm to be really punished, says it makes it more effective if I look virginal!’ She finished her drink and stalked off, moving gracefully in the ultra‑high‑heeled white boots, revelling in the thought of the punishment ahead of her.

Gerda followed a minute later, her thoughts brightening as she envisaged the evening to come. She wondered if Le Compte had left any special dressing instructions for the evening, or whether she was free to choose her own wardrobe.

Upstairs, she stripped off her rain costumes and slid back one of the fitted cupboards, her mind boggling at the cost of these fabulous garments, some of which she had only worn once for a special occasion. Usually when she dined with Guy, he ordered her to take off her mask and gloves, a high honour as a slave was never allowed to appear outside her own quarters without them. She found a note from Maria in her childish spidery handwriting: THE SERVING MAIDS ARE BEING FITTED FOR A NEW TYPE OF CHASTITY BELT, I MUST GO THIS AFTERNOON, NO SPECIAL D‑INSTRUCTIONS FOR THIS EVENING, SO I HAVEN'T LAID ANYTHING OUT. I MAY BE A LITTLE LATE, WHAT'S THE PUNISHMENT?

‘Cheeky devil,’ thought Gerda, smiling at her maid's constant desire to be punished. It had become a regular twice‑weekly ritual that Maria's Demerits must be expurgated. Although Gerda had carried out the discipline reluctantly, she now found herself giving her maid Demerits for the slightest imagined infraction, knowing that Maria looked forward to the punishments as much as her Mistress enjoyed giving them.

She decided to wear a glamorous lounging suit, which had been delivered many weeks previously, but, probably through an oversight, she had not yet been ordered to wear. It was a jump suit, close fitting but not too tight, of rubber‑lined grey satin. There were high‑heeled silver knee boots to match, and long grey latex gloves. She remembered that she also had a wide grey belt and a thin latex mask in the same colour. She bathed and dressed slowly, tucking the bottom of the jump‑suit legs into the top of her boots. The final effect was sexy and elegant; she could almost have attended a smart cocktail party in Paris without comment. The satin gleamed seductively and the rubber lining rustled and felt cool against her powdered skin. She pulled the belt very tight and tucked the shiny grey mask inside the high Russian collar of the suit. It was almost seven and Maria had not yet returned. She wrote 'FIFTY DEMERITS' across her note, made sure her gloves were high and tight and without a wrinkle, and descended to Le Compte's luxurious suite.

He bade her come in, and kissed her slowly and lovingly, making her body melt with desire, then he stood back and admired her. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, ‘but then you have the model's flair for making anything look elegant on you! I've mixed some vodka martinis. Before we dine, but after we've had a drink, I have a task for you, which I hope may give you a good appetite!’

They sat on a long sofa and sipped the ice‑cold drinks.

‘We'll get this over with, then be able to relax,’ he explained. ‘I slipped on the deck coming back from the mainland today, and I've hurt my wrist. As you can see, the Doctor treated it and it's securely bound, it's only a slight sprain, but it's my right hand, my whipping arm!’

She murmured her sympathy, hoping it would not affect his sexual caresses later on.

‘However, I was due to carry out a short, but severe, whipping tonight which for various reasons I want to keep confidential. The victim is in my study, ready for punishment. So I would like you to carry it out for me. There will be no need for you to speak, I will stand beside you and she will believe I am giving the whipping. I hear from all reports, incidentally, that you are an expert!’

Gerda gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Against my better judgement, Master, but through very personal experience I know how very painful ‑ in the wrong way ‑ a sloppy whipping can be, so I try to whip correctly.’ She thought she knew why the punishment was to be carried out 'confidentially'. It would be a slave who had just passed her exams and become 'Top‑Level', or a slave about to take her exams. Probably she had committed some grievous error, but Le Compte, no doubt on Miss Dodd’s recommendation, would purge the sin with a secret whipping rather than publicly humiliate the slave at such an important time as her exams.

‘We won't keep her waiting,’ Guy said, his white leather suit creaking as he rose, ‘She's already strapped in position, and I've laid out a black Punishment whip which will really hurt. But we'll limit it to thirty lashes. In her case it's more the humiliation than the suffering.’

They entered the study, Gerda's heart beating faster at the thought of using a Punishment Whip, three feet of thin steel, bound with leather, with an extra foot of handle. On a bare bottom even a moderate stroke could draw blood.

She was glad to see the victim was heavily masked, gagged, and blindfolded, but slightly shocked to notice she was wearing only a thin latex suit without the normal double thickness to protect the bottom. She was secured over a portable whipping horse with eight heavy straps, from her booted ankles to her neck, her arms drawn tightly to the end of the horse and held by wrist and elbow straps.

Le Compte handed Gerda the evil black whip, then spoke briefly to the helpless figure. ‘You know why you are to receive these thirty strokes. You have agreed to them, and it will be our secret. Now brace yourself.’ He signalled to Gerda to commence.

The strong martini and the cool rubber of her suit had given Gerda an exciting feeling of freedom as she measured her whipping pose. When she acted as a Mistress on her Monday sessions, she was always ceremoniously dressed and corseted. Now she felt delightfully alive and sexy as she lifted the long whip and heard the faint crackle of her suit as it moved loosely over her body. Almost playfully she flicked the whip down, with satisfaction noting a pressure line marking the tightly latexed bottom, exactly ere she had aimed.

The thin whip made relatively no sound apart from a sinister swish as it curved through the air. Gerda was surprised therefore to hear the muffled scream and hear the straps creaking as the girl writhed in agony.

She took careful aim again and delivered a slightly harder stroke, using only a small proportion of her full strength. This time the victim shuddered in one long moan of agony. Gerda looked enquiringly at Guy, who nodded and made a motion she could whip harder.

After twenty slow, spaced‑out strokes Gerda was afraid she would have an orgasm. There was something so intensely evil about the thin black whip, which she knew, must be causing incredible agony through the tightly covered bottom. She tried to control her trembling body in order to keep each stroke exactly across the centre of the bottom, remembering to 'follow through' each lash so that the tip would not curl over the far side. She waited a full thirty seconds between each, to allow the victim to recover and prepare for the next one.

At twenty‑five Le Compte held up a pad he had been writing on by the desk. LAST FIVE FASTER AND HARDER, he had written. God, thought Gerda deliriously, I'm really turning into a sadist, I'm loving every second of this!

She lashed down the first of the final strokes and nearly cried out as it split the thin latex and a patch of white bottom emerged, thin bubbles of blood turning the weal crimson. Then, incredibly, she saw the bottom strain outwards, as if begging for the next one. She gave the final four in quick succession, fighting down her orgasm, then watched in horrified fascination as the five weals, now plainly visible through the slashed latex, but very close together, turned the white bottom to blood red. It was with enormous relief she heard a long moan of ecstasy and saw the strapped girl strain her bottom outwards in a massive orgasm.

Le Compte signalled her to go back to the sitting room while he started unstrapping the girl. Weakly Gerda put down the whip and almost staggered through the door, shutting it behind her. She felt both ashamed and horribly randy, and tried to pretend she was only acting on Guy's behalf. He probably would have whipped the victim much harder. She sat down and finished her drink, aware that the elegant silver suit was now hot and plastered against her body in a wet embrace.

In a minute Le Compte rejoined her. ’She's left by the other door,’ he explained with a satisfied smile. ‘You did very well, exactly right in every way. Perhaps not hard enough!’

‘But those last five, the blood…’

‘Nothing to it! That's only the tip of the skin. A really hard stroke will split the flesh and the blood will spatter out, believe me! We never go that far in this Training Centre, but I've seen the Baroness Oblonska whip a male slave until her white apron was covered in blood! Enough of that, you saw how she took a Pleasure, so it can't have been that bad! We'll have another drink then we'll dine. You can take off your mask and gloves now.

At seven in the morning Gerda stirred languorously as she heard the chimes of Guy's alarm. Usually he swung immediately out of bed and poured out coffee, ready and perking when the alarm sounded, behaving like a loving husband until reluctantly it was time to dress and return to her own quarters.

It had been a wonderful night and four times he had entered her and brought her to a screaming Pleasure, his lean body seemingly tireless. Before he could get up she rolled over and hugged his head against her bare breasts. ’Leave the coffee for two minutes! Let me just hold you like this, dear lovely Guy, my Lord and Master and magnificent screwer-in‑chief! Why do I love you so?’

Guy looked up into her smiling face; glad she could still appear beautiful in the early morning.

'Love, as they say, is a many splendoured thing,’ he remarked, laughing at her, ‘I'm happy to see your lesbian instincts don't seem to interfere with your heterosexual activities.’

Gerda felt a chill run through her body. Just how much did Guy suspect about her mad passion for Laura? ‘I'm all mixed up, Master,’ she said faintly, ‘I know I'm a masochist, but sometimes I do enjoy whipping someone. And am I very peculiar, feeling a desire for a woman when I love you so much?’

‘I would say you're a very lucky girl! It's what you call in English eating your cake and having it! Tell me, what is your relationship with the Executioner?’

Gerda closed her eyes. There was no way she could lie to this wonderful man. She took a deep breath.

‘I know you're going to be shocked, Guy, and I have no excuse I can possibly offer; but in some strange way I'm enormously attracted to her.’

His strong face was very close to hers. ‘You're trying to tell me you've been unfaithful to me? With a girl?’

She opened her eyes, wondering if this was the end of her beautiful dream. She would be horribly punished then banished from the Island.

‘Yes, Master,’ she whispered, ‘I ‑ I tried to fight it, but I was weak and gave in, and then I found I loved it. God, I'm sorry!’

To her surprise he grinned at her, then stood up and brought across two cups of coffee. ‘I'm glad you told me, Gerda mine. Truth is a rare quality, and deceit only breeds distrust. All I ask is that you are not unfaithful to me with another man!’

She did not pretend to understand. He sipped his coffee and now his smile was like a mischievous schoolboy.

‘The Executioner, also, is a truthful and loyal person,’ he explained, sipping his coffee, ‘She came and told me how she had blackmailed you, and admitted she had taken complete advantage of you. She offered to resign and leave the island.’

Gerda looked horrified, but there was nothing she could say.

‘I thought that would be a very stupid solution. Where would I find another Executioner who was so talented and honest, and so fair in her judgement of Punishment? So I told her she must be humiliated and punished. With thirty strokes of the steel whip!’

Gerda slopped coffee into the saucer, realisation flooding through her. ‘Last night ‑ it was Laura? You made me whip her?’

‘I did. What's more, I told her I would invent that silly story about spraining my wrist, and would order you to carry out the whipping! Most appropriate, wouldn't you agree?’

Gerda felt numb, remembering the split latex suit and the bloody weals across the nude bottom. Laura would never forgive her; apart from the agonising pain, she, the feared Executioner, had been strapped down helplessly and humiliated by a mere slave!

Guy sensed her distress. He took their cups and laid them on the bedside table. ‘I wouldn't worry! She loves you very much and now she's rid of her guilt complex. No doubt you'll suffer for it in due course, but she managed to take a Pleasure so maybe she'll order you to whip her again! I think we've just time for an early morning diversion. Go and put on your mask, gloves, and boots, then come back and I'll show you one long thick advantage a Master has over a Mistress!’

CHAPTER 33

GERDA'S DIARY

I've been neglecting my writing again over the past few weeks; perhaps the reason is deeper than I imagine, because certainly I have more free time now than I had during those long months of Training. (I still spell it with a capital 'T'‑ as I was taught in the beginning!).

But I’m a very mixed‑up lady, and I'm putting down words on paper tonight because I must sort out my own thoughts. Will anyone ever read these pages, and if they do, will they even begin to understand my desires and problems? I doubt it.

In a fit of masochistic zeal tonight, I determined to write down my feelings, but very suitably dressed so that I could concentrate. (Was I being honest, or kidding myself?). I greased my heavy latex pants and inserted the two wedges, fore and aft, feeling that divine sensation as the thick Rod eased cosily up my bottom. Then I dressed in my watertight working suit, and zipped on a heavy latex suit over it, sealing on thin latex gloves in which I can write or type.

I zipped up a splendid pair of red vinyl thigh boots and ordered Maria to lace me tightly into a leather corset. I pulled on my working mask, but still I feel too free. It was eleven at night and Maria was about to depart.

‘Wait a minute, Maria,’ I said somewhat abruptly, 'I need someone to talk to for a few minutes.’ I sat down in an armchair, feeling the two wedges drive deeper into me, experiencing that awful and wonderful longing for pain and punishment. Maria stood obediently in front of me, cute as hell in her new brown and yellow latex uniform, her Rod just visible beneath the abbreviated skirt and peeping through the hole in the tight pants so that, the chains could pass up to the waist corselet. She wore the small Rod happily for sixteen hours a day, as did every serving maid.

'I thought that becoming a Top‑Level Slave would be the end of my problems, Maria, but it seems one isn't allowed to relax. My love life is heaven, no problems there, but now Le Compte wants me to train as a Mistress!’

‘You'd be superb, Madam, enthused my little monkey girl, ‘you whip me better than anyone I’ve ever known.’

I realised my problems were much too personal and complex to discuss with Maria. I stood up, determined to solve my dilemmas tonight.

'I'm not tired and I'm going to work through the night at my desk. I want you to fix a heavy gag harness over my head and lock it into position. Then you will chain my ankles and waist to the chair and padlock them so that I cannot move. Understand?’

Maria looked worried. ‘But Mistress, suppose you want to…’

‘Furthermore,’ I said severely, ‘Turn up the rheostat of the central heating to maximum and plug in that big electric fire. I want to be very warm while I write. I've been eating too well and I could lose a couple of kilos!’

Again my serving maid tried to protest. ‘It's not safe by yourself.’

I knew she meant well but I didn't want to argue. ‘If you say another word you will get Demerits. Get out the equipment quickly.’

So here I am, strapped and chained to m desk chair, a heavy leather harness holding a thick gag tightly into my aching mouth. I've tried to ease it out, but Maria obeys her orders only too well, and the straps are rigidly tight and held in place by the small padlock at the back. And although I can remove the straps holding my shoulders, thighs and calves to the chair, there's no way I can unlock the chain round my waist or the ankle chains padlocked round the legs of the chair. It's now hellishly hot, and my inner suit is streaming with perspiration.

It’s my own fault, of course. But I've had to do a great deal of thinking, and now I may as well write it all down. (I’d give anything for a glass of iced vodka. My mouth has dried and the big gag feels like a block of cement).

I suppose (after two hours meditating here in deep thought) that I shouldn't have any problems. Not at the moment, anyway. I am in the very fortunate situation of having a Master and a Mistress (Lovely Guy and lovely Laura) who seem content to share me between them. How lucky can I get? Never have I dreamt that sex could be so wonderful. I would die willingly for either of them.

So, unknown reader of this diary, what may ask, is the big problem? Good old Gerda seems to have it made.

You may be right, unknown reader, but the path of life has lots of crafty little bumps along the way.

You see, three months ago I was ordered to begin this lark every Monday of reporting as a Mistress and giving a slave or serving maid her punishment. I didn't want to do it, because I’m a born masochist, right?

BUT, and here's the rub, I’m starting to look forward to that Monday evening like it's Santa Claus time. When I begin to get dressed in my 'Mistress' costume I become another personality. Sadism rears its lovely head and by the time I swish and rustle down the corridor my adrenaline is oozing and I’m read to whip some poor slave into shreds. There, I've written it down.

That's my problem. Not only do I love men, but also I love women. Not only do I adore pain and punishment but I want to inflict it as well. Last Monday I disgraced myself by taking Pleasure while I was whipping, and continued after the 100 prescribed strokes until Miss Dodds came across and slapped my face and removed the whip from my hand.

What am I, unknown reader? A sex maniac? Jekyll and Hyde and Gerda? Even de Sade knew his limitations; I don't.

Eighteen months ago I was a rather snooty and shy model in Paris, not a virgin but still regarding sex as a deliciously guilty experience like gambling at the Casino or eating six cream buns when one was on a strict diet.

I see by the clock it's 3 a. m. I want a pee and I want a drink, I must have been crazy to have myself locked in like this. I can't even get to my bedside intercom to summon Maria back. But I must confess I’m sloshing in this heat treatment and it's delicious!

So get back to your confessional, Top‑Level Slave Gerda, the honoured. Wife of Le Compte Guy de Rhislain; bless his beautiful large prick which I only get to feel once a week.

Now we come to the main problem. Everyone, it appears, seems to think I would make excellent Mistress material and Guy, Laura and Miss Dodds all are urging me to go to the Baroness Oblonska's establishment in Nice for a few months.

They all mean well, I’m sure of that.

‘You must not stagnate,’ Miss Dodds confided, ‘There are some girls who are fine slaves, but will always be slaves. You're intelligent, who knows what the future may bring?’

My lovely Laura may have an ulterior motive. Since that dreadful night when Guy tricked me into whipping her, I suspect she's found unexpected masochistic longings.

‘Go for just a few months, darling Gerda, and learn all the subtleties of Mistresshood. Who knows? You may return and be able to teach me some new tricks! Besides, Nice is only forty minutes by air from Rome, I can come and visit you often.’

Guy was more profound. On one of our Friday evenings he brought up the subject.

‘You are a beautiful and intelligent girl, my love, and you will not be content to remain my slave‑wife forever. There will come a day, perhaps years from now, but there will come that day when you decide slavery has become a bore and you wish to seek the excitement of outside Life again. Then I will lose you, and I will have failed you. It's because I love you so very deeply I think you should go and try this new experience. You will still be my bride‑slave, but in all other respects you will be a. Top-­Level Slave qualified to have her own male slave and serving maid. Think of the enormous ramifications of such a situation! A Mistress and a Slave, serving and being served! You are incredibly fortunate to be blessed with a split sadomasochistic personality, which can be dominant or humble, at your will. Frequently I’m asked if I will train male slaves. I've always refused up to now, but perhaps we might open a new wing. For five days of the week you would rule as a Training Mistress, and for two days you would revert to being my beautiful Slave! You would never become bored.’

So what's the problem, you ask?

The problem is that I’m scared. Is it really possible for one human being to have an equally split sadomasochistic personality? I’m already torn between my love for Guy and my love for Laura, although this strange arrangement seems to be working out. But just supposing I find I love being a Mistress and being a dominant female, and I decide this slave business is for the birds? Guy is such a he‑man; there's no way he'll accept a whip-swinging wife who wants to wear the (rubber) pants. And, despite her vague inclinations towards as yet undiscovered masochism, the Executioner is still a hard headed, sadistic lesbian, much as I adore her. (You see, unknown reader, that although I’m self‑chained to my masochistic chair, my masked head is clear and I still have my marbles).

Now, for my final confession! When Miss Dodds first brought up the Oblonska proposition some weeks ‑ or months ‑ ago, instinctively I rejected the idea. Now, I’m sort of ashamed to say that the prospect attracts me enormously! In the right mood, I adore being a Mistress, swaggering around in my costume (And would I design some really way out Mistress outfits!) and knowing that the cringing slave must obey my slightest command. Already I’m an expert whipper and can lay ten lashes across a tight bottom so closely together it looks like one stroke. Twice in the last month I've been ordered, on a Monday, to give a slave mild suffocation, and through my own considerable experience I can judge exactly when the stave has reached her limit.

And enemas! I just adore giving enemas, perhaps because they 're relatively harmless (I've not yet given a Punishment enema) and because most slaves seem to fear them and feel they are the ultimate humiliation. I love the feel of a serving maid strapping the heavy apron round me, then I take the greased tube and push it right inside the quivering bottom of the slave, muttering dire threats of a five‑litre punishment if the slave moves even a muscle.

Oh yes, my sadistic tendencies switch on only too quickly these days. But after every Monday evening 'Mistress' sessions I look forward enormously to Tuesday morning when I resume my Top‑Level Training, as if somehow I can be purged of my sadistic enjoyment of the previous evening.

So now I have to make my big decision. Do I agree to go to the Nice Establishment for a few months and become a fully qualified Mistress? Will it change my relationship here? It's for that very reason I don't want to leave.

I'm desperate to pee. It's nearly four a.m., and Maria won't bring breakfast until eight. ‑ I'll skin her alive.

At two minutes past four in the morning, an astonished and relieved Gerda looked up from her desk as the door opened quietly and Maria, still fully dressed, entered the room, eyes blinking sleepily behind her mask.

‘I'm sorry, Mistress, I meant to come back earlier, but I fell fast asleep. May I release you now?’

Urgently Gerda nodded her masked and gagged head. When the chains were unlocked she made a stumbling rush to the bathroom. She returned five minutes later, ungagged and feeling very much better. She looked at Maria with enormous affection. ‘How would you like a few months on the glamorous French Riviera?’ she asked.

CHAPTER 35

On the following Friday, the night she spent every week with Guy, Gerda came up to her quarters an hour before reporting time to find Maria grinning through her mask.

‘You're to become a real old‑fashioned slave tonight, Mistress,’ she giggled, ‘A black slave from the little ol' Deep South! I don't know what Cora will say about this!’

Cora was a jet‑black American Negress who that week had passed her final exams as a Top‑Level Slave. Her short, fat, and very proud Master had watched the fabulous six ­feet tall girl receive her Belt in the Main Hall ceremony and had promptly taken her off to his chalet to inflict more punishment on her beautiful body. It was a strange combination, but there was no doubt that the statuesque Negress adored her tubby little Master. Gerda had become friendly with her and was fascinated to study the basis of their relationship.

Gerda regarded the outfit, which her maid had laid out. Although it seemed strange, she loved Guy's imagination and she had worn many bizarre costumes for their Friday dinners.

She pulled on the shiny black latex tights, then long loose breeches of heavy rubber, with gold buckles fastening below the knee. On top went a, gold silk tunic, lined with rubber, with a high stiff collar. Her mask was a smiling coal‑black Negress with red lips outlining the mouth slit. Long latex elbow gloves and high‑heeled patent shoes with gold buckles completed the outfit.

The heavy rubber breeches crackled loudly as she strode down the corridor. She was not rodded and the costume felt much too comfortable. She wondered if Le Compte had some devilish plan in mind.

She was surprised and pleased to find Laura having a cocktail with her Master. It would be a good time to announce her decision to go to Nice for a few months. She knelt in front of Le Compte and kissed his white leather suit at the crotch, then performed a similar obeisance to the Executioner's bottom, covered in a silver rubber jump suit.

‘I like it’ Guy declared, waving Gerda to an armchair, ‘I'm queer for black girls in sexy rubber breeches.’

‘So am l,’ Laura agreed, smiling through her silver mask, ‘I always think tough black girls like this one can withstand much heavier punishments!’

It was a relaxed atmosphere, and Gerda regarded her two lovers with awe and adoration, feeling intensely masochistic and wondering if she could ever leave them to become a severe Mistress. She sipped the vodka martini, which Guy had poured for her, then came straight to the point.

‘Master, If it still pleases you, I will go to the Baroness Oblonska's Training Centre as a Mistress, but please, on condition I can take my serving maid Maria with me.’

Le Compte looked delighted. ‘Excellent! Laura, you have no objection to Maria going with her? Personally, I think it's a good idea, she's a good maid and may give Gerda some moral support in the early stages.’

It was difficult for Gerda to assess Laura's reaction through the silver mask. ‘Of course I've no objection, just so long as Gerda keeps that little monkey in order. When they return here, I think Maria should be trained as a slave, she'd make excellent material. As far as Gerda is concerned, I know she'll make a good Mistress, but I think we ought to invoke the one‑day‑a‑week rule.

Le Compte laughed. ‘It was a rule initiated by the Executioner,’ he explained to a puzzled Gerda, ‘to avoid the slave becoming carried away by her Mistresshood. When we have a Top‑Level Slave being trained as a Mistress at Madam Oblonska's, Laura flies up to Nice once a week to give her a severe twelve‑hour Punishment session to bring her back to reality!’

Gerda's heart beat faster as she saw the warm grey eyes watching her though the silver hood. She tried not to appear too enthusiastic about the idea; to have a heavenly punishment from Laura every week would indeed be the icing on the cake!

‘Whatever my Master wishes,’ she said demurely, ‘Although I will never lose my feeling of Slavehood. Would my Master sometimes come too?'

‘We might take it in turns, you lucky slave! Now to business. Laura, ask Miss Dodds to arrange with Katrina when she would like Gerda to report. Katrina, incidentally, will give you one week of training and advice, and may want some special costumes designed for you. However, I want you completely fit and healed before you go to Nice.’

‘Healed, Master? I don't understand.’

Laura stood up, her tight jump suit crackling deliciously. ‘I must get back to my work, Guy. Cora and her Master, Cyril, will join you for dinner at eight, but I may come in later. He's asked, incidentally, if it's permissible for Cora to dine in chains tonight.’

‘Certainly, she's his slave. It may be an interesting evening!’

Gerda knelt and kissed the Executioners rubbered bottom before she left the room. Guy refilled his glass and motioned her to be seated again. He stood by the mantelpiece, tall and elegant in his tight white leather.

'So now we come to the bad news, Gerda, but perhaps you won't consider it all bad. The time has come when you must receive the official Branding on your bottom.’

Gerda felt a thrill of fear and excitement. Although it had never been mentioned before, she knew all Top‑Level Slaves had to receive the mark of their Master. She remembered the red‑hot irons she had applied to Yvette's nude bottom and involuntarily she shuddered, spilling a few drops of her martini onto her shining black breeches.

‘Yes, Master,’ she replied faintly. ‘It will be an honour.’

He regarded her with cynical amusement. ‘As you know, there are two kinds of branding for a slave. The so‑called 'short‑term' one, which will, after a year or so, more or less disappear. Then there is the permanent one, which a slave will carry for the rest of her life.’

He paused. Gerda looked up at him through the black Negress mask, her hands wet inside her tight gloves.

‘I am married to you, Master,’ she said simply, ‘Therefore I beg that my scars are permanent, for only you shall ever see them!’

He bent slowly and kissed her. She clung fiercely to him, her intense love for this man blotting out the enormity of her request. He straightened up. ‘Well said, my darling Gerda, it shall be as you wish. But I want this to be a special occasion, and for every person on the island to witness the Ceremony. It will take place at six on Sunday evening. And for seven days after you will be released from all duties.’

He moved over to the sideboard to pour her a drink, giving his Slave a chance to recover her numbed senses. Bad enough to contemplate such a cruel torture, but to be ceremoniously branded in front of the entire Establishment!'

Le Compte returned and changed the subject. ‘There'll be four of us for dinner tonight, so you will remain masked and gloved, a most attractive blackamoor slave; I hope Cora will appreciate the gesture! You'll like her Master; he's an American millionaire in the wholesale shoe business, a most pleasant little man with a lively sense of humour, and a vicious sadist! He's wise enough to know this and works off his sexual inhibitions by making a ten‑day visit to Europe every few months. He makes a lightning round of his business contacts in London, Paris, and Rome, then spends around six days here, punishing his slave. Luckily Cora is a perfect foil for him. He likes tall black girls, and she's a rabid masochist. I'm rather hoping he'll go for your black disguise tonight and make Cora jealous, it should be a most interesting evening.’

Gerda thought longingly of her Friday evenings when usually she and Guy dined alone like a married couple. But at least she would have her Master to herself later on. ‘By the way,’ Guy went on, ‘In my bathroom you’ll find some tinted sunglasses to hide your blue eyes, and a very red lipstick with which I want you to coat your lips, through the mouth hole, making you as whorish a negress as possible. Cyril will like that!’

When Cora and her master arrived at eight, Gerda tried not to smile at the strange pair. Cyril was only an inch over five feet, with a large fat stomach that strained out of a skin‑tight black latex suit. His leather thigh boots managed to make him look even more ludicrous, with his unmasked head, bald and shining; but his cheery smile seemed to radiate from a happy soul.

Towering over him, more than six feet tall in her high‑heeled boots, Cora was an impressive sight. Apart from the laced leather thigh boots sweeping up her never‑ending legs, she wore a tight black latex leotard with a wide steel belt padlocked cruelly tight, long elbow gloves, and a gold metal collar. Her black latex hood was cut away below the nose, leaving her mouth and chin bare. Her wide lips were heavily rouged. Across her eyes was strapped a leather blindfold.

She was heavily chained. Not with the usual training type, but with large 'gold' links between her ankles and wrists, with another heavy chain secured to her metal collar, failing between her breasts and padlocked to the centre of her hand and foot chains, but loose enough to allow limited movement. They clinked loudly as Cyril guided Cora forward, graceful even in her heavy bondage.

Guy introduced them, and Gerda took a perverse delight in kneeling briefly in front of Cyril, making her thick shining breeches rustle loudly. She saw his face beaming as his eyes noted the bright red lipstick and mysterious dark glasses. There was no way he could tell whether the attractive Negress mask hid a white or a black face.

‘Pleased to meetcha,’ Cyril smiled, fondling her gloved hand, ‘I guess you know my Cora slave. I'll take off the blinkers when we eat, but she's been a bad girl, as usual, and I made her cry, so she's got red eyes.’

‘Don't you believe the fucker,’ Cora drawled insolently, ‘He's full of chickenshit. He couldn't make me cry if he tried!’

Cyril laughed delightedly. ‘Guess that's another 100 Demerits, honey lamb. Gee, Le Compte will think I'm too soft with you!’

‘I think you'll get by, Cyril,’ Guy said good‑naturedly, ‘Let's all have a drink, then we'll go into the dining room.’

I f my slave gets sassy again, ‘ Cyril said apologetically, ‘ I'll fix a big gag she can watch us cat. I truly believe it would be her biggest punishment, she has an appetite like a horse!’

To her surprise, Gerda found the dinner both interesting and amusing. With her blindfold removed, Cora managed to eat daintily, despite her heavy chains. She was a well-educated and intelligent American girl, with a biting sense of humour which matched her Master's. It was obvious to Gerda that this strange pair adored each other, and once again she marvelled at Le Compte's uncanny flair for finding the perfect slave for each of his clients.

Laura arrived late, apologising and saying she had already eaten.

Over coffee, served flawlessly by one of the gagged maids, Gerda felt herself blushing under her mask as Guy brought up the subject of her branding. ‘You're here until Monday, Cyril? Then arrange your schedule to keep Sunday evening, at six, free. It'll be announced through general Orders tomorrow morning, but everyone will attend the Branding Ceremony of my Slave Gerda.’

‘Holy Jeez!’ Cyril said excitedly, ‘I've never seen that! Hey, Cora's a Top‑Level Slave now, doesn't she get to be branded too?’

‘Eventually, Cyril, but we always wait a period to make sure the Slave is able to sustain her Top‑Level standard. A Branding, after all, is a rather permanent affair, the last and final acceptance by the girl of life‑long slavehood. Just as a nun is never rushed into taking her final vows, so do we wait until both the slave, and the Management, feel it is the right time.’

‘So how long does Cora have to wait?’

Guy smiled enigmatically. ‘A month? Six months? Suppose you fell in love with some other slave? Suppose Cora asked for another Master?’

For once Cora was serious. ‘Never! I would like to be branded immediately. Please, Monsieur Le Compte, with Gerda on Sunday?’

Guy shook his head firmly. ‘Definitely not. But soon, perhaps, because I do feel you need each other and have genuine love and affection.’

Cora smiled evilly at her Master, her solemnity banished. ‘Old Chickenshit would faint at the sight! Besides, there's a new rule that all Masters must have their slave's initials branded on their dong!’

Gerda choked with laughter at Cyril's startled face. ‘That ain't true, Count!’ he demanded anxiously, ‘It might ruin me for life!’

Guy shook his head, mock serious. ‘It would be a good and a fair idea, but there are too many complications! Many of our clients have wives who might not appreciate the gesture, especially as the initials would almost certainly be different.’

Cyril looked relieved, then peered closely at Gerda. ‘You're a lucky broad, Gerda doll. If Guy hadn't chosen you, I'd have swapped you like a flash for this black cow here. Hey, maybe I could have her for a day or two, Count, just to teach her 'a few new tricks, eh?’

Cora's mouth tightened and she leant forward, carefully holding her heavy chains, then picked up her glass of wine and threw the contents over Cyril’s black latex suit. Gerda was shocked, then realised from Guy and Laura's amused faces that this was apparently regular behaviour by this curious couple.

Cyril sighed, then nodded to Laura. She stood up and crossed to a cupboard, then returned with a heavy ball gag, a blindfold, a padlock and a pair of handcuffs. Cora grinned impudently as she opened her mouth wide to accept the gag.

‘Don't worry, Gerda, old Chickenshit couldn't get it up if he tried! It takes me…’

She broke off as Laura expertly thrust in the gag and strapped it up tightly, then fitted on the blindfold. She handcuffed Cora's wrists together, then padlocked them securely to the steel belt.

‘No cognac and cigars for you this evening,’ she said lightly, ‘You want me to punish her later, Cyril?’

‘Nah, my serving maid's bringing over a Punishment Sleeping Suit, the very heavy one, from the Preparation Room. I've got a special gas mask and a few other goodies going on as well, I think a few hours in that will tame her down!’ He leaned down and kissed Cora's gagged lips. She pushed her head eagerly in response. Gerda shook her head in wonderment, amazed and delighted that great big beautiful Cora so obviously loved this funny little man.

They retired to the sitting room for cognac served in wafer‑thin balloon glasses, Cora sitting contentedly on the floor between her Master's leather boots. Cyril was an amusing conversationalist and an hour passed quickly before Laura stood up and excused herself.

‘I have two slaves to go into Punishment Meditation in the dormitory tonight, and I like to make sure their bondage is absolutely correct. Gerda, tomorrow is your 'free' day, perhaps you'd have lunch with me and we'll discuss the Nice project more fully.’

Gerda nodded agreement, resisting an urge to take Laura's superb silver‑clad figure in her arms. It was her Master's night and she felt randy and horribly masochistic as she watched Cora's gloved hands move helplessly in their steel bonds.

A few minutes later Cyril stood up and hauled his slave to her feet. ‘Time to go, you wretched slave,’ he growled, ‘You've so many Demerits to work off I'm going to miss all my beauty sleep!’

When they had departed, Gerda knelt in front of her Master. Her outfit was now warm and wet, and she loved the feel of the slave breeches in the heavy rustling rubber.

‘I need to be hurt tonight, Master,’ she whispered, ‘Will you please whip your black slave without mercy?’

‘What a splendid idea, Slave, and I think that pouting red mouth needs a really vicious gag in it. Kneel over the back of the sofa while I fetch some straps and a really severe whip, just to warm you up!’

CHAPTER 37

The next week passed slowly and delightfully for Gerda. Although there had been other slaves in the past who had suffered the 6‑second 'permanent' branding, the fact that, even though married to Le Compte, she had actually chosen the more severe branding had made her an awesome figure and someone to be revered. Slaves and serving maids bowed low to her in the corridors, and even the Instructors stood aside to let her pass.

For the first twenty‑four hours she had felt her bottom on fire, despite the Doctor's dressings and a pair of tight latex pants lined with lint and antiseptic ointment. But half way through the week the pain had vanished and she was able to sit down with little discomfort.

During her free week, she took a delight in dressing in tight heavy costumes; deliberately avoiding loose caftans which she might have been expected to wear. By the end of the week she was bored, very randy, and longing to start her high‑level training again. Her Friday night with Le Compte had been postponed, as he was visiting Paris on business, and on the way back was to stop over in Nice to confer with Katrina Oblonska. She had resigned herself to a quiet evening when her intercom buzzed.

‘Hallo there! It's Laura'

Gerda felt excitement flood through her body. She had hardly seen the Executioner since the previous Sunday.

Coyly, ‘You've been neglecting me. It's been a lonely week.’

‘I know. On second thoughts I decided it was time for physical recovery and mental meditation. Are you feeling better?’

‘I feel terrific! But horribly masochistic and Guy's away tonight, so I'm doubly frustrated!’

There was a pause. ‘I'm off‑duty until noon tomorrow. Would you like to have dinner in my suite?’

Gerda sighed, theatrically. ‘I might be poor company. I was about to go downstairs and smash a window so that I could be horribly punished!’

The laugh tinkled over the 'phone. ‘Don't bother to smash a window, I think I can arrange something to keep you from being bored. Take your time, but I'd like you to arrive well rodded and wearing grease pants. The rest I leave to you.’

Gerda put down the receiver with adrenaline racing, inwardly amazed, and amused, at the incredible change in her character and sexual inclinations during the past year. The aloof model who had always regarded sex as a pleasant but slightly boring necessity of life, had now been trained to such a peak that six days of abstinence from pain and suffering had resulted in her almost begging the Executioner for punishment! But she laughed happily, unashamed and revelling in her masochism. She summoned Maria.

‘A number 9 Rod, the heaviest grease pants, then I want that very tight thick latex suit on top. I'm dining with the Executioner, Maria, and I feel wonderfully masochistic. What else should I wear to please her?’

Maria was now fully aware of her Mistress's strange relationship with Laura. She did not approve, but Gerda had explained that Le Compte knew of it, and accepted it, and anyway her darling Mistress could do no wrong.

‘Humility, Mistress,’ she replied, thinking rapidly, ‘A baby‑doll outfit?’ Maria's eyes sparkled mischievously through her mask.

‘No, not quite, it's too 'soft'. I want Laura to hate and despise me, to want to punish me.

Maria’s eyes sparkled mischievously through her mask.

‘Monmartre, Mistress! A surly, sexy French tart!’

‘That’s it, you bright little bitch! Over my heavy suit I'll wear very high red thigh boots, and a skin‑tight black rubber dress, very short. A wide belt, long red gloves, and that slightly sinister mask with the green eye shadow and thick red lips; and a very long black wig.’

Half an hour later a slinky Parisian whore wiggled up to the door of Laura's suite, balancing expertly on the five‑inch stiletto heels of the long red leather boots, laced tightly up her thighs. Laura opened the door and burst out laughing as the sexy apparition minced into the room, the shinny black dress hardly covering her bottom.

‘I like it! My punishment vibes are blowing their mind. Dear Gerda, sit down while I get you a drink. First, I must talk business with you, after which, I have some very unpleasant plans for you. She ran her gloved hand under the short dress, gently pushing in the thick Rod, and feeling the grease macking inside the heavy pants. Gerda groaned with delight and pushed herself fiercely against Laura's hand.

They took their glasses and sat on a white leather sofa; Gerda almost swooning as the huge Rod was forced high into her bottom.

‘Your scars,’ asked Laura anxiously, ’The grease won't affect them?’

‘It's good for them. They're healed anyway, but Doe said not to let them get too dry. They look terrific, you performed a work of art!’

‘I wish it hadn't been me I Normally, it's a Ceremony I love, inflicting real and genuine pain, for a good cause. But with you, my love, every second crucified me as well!’

Gerda tried not to appear impatient. She was longing for Laura to become the cruel and implacable Mistress again. She was wearing a long blue hostess dress of rubber ­lined silk and a half mask in the same material, but which allowed her long fair hair to cascade down her back.

‘It's been a boring week, Mistress,’ Gerda whispered, ‘No training, no punishment, I'm desperately needing some pain and torture. Will you be very severe with me tonight? Please?’

Abruptly Laura's mackintoshed hand gripped one of Gerda's breasts straining through the tight rubber dress and she squeezed it until the slave was moaning in ecstasy. ‘Yes,’ she whispered hotly, ‘you're going to suffer all night. Annabel will serve dinner in a few minutes, and meanwhile I'll bring you up to date on the Nice arrangements.

She released her hold and stood up, the cool Executioner again.

‘You will leave on Thursday, with Maria. Katrina will send a car for you, as you will have two trunks of costumes which she will require you to wear, apart from those she is having specially made for you. The trip is about 500 kilometres, but the road is good, the Strada del Sole, and you should make it in about six hours. Both you and Maria will be dressed for the journey according to Katrina's instructions. Just before the French-­Italian border, at Menton, both of you will cover your costumes with nun's habits, for Customs; although it is purely a formality at this time of year, as thousands of tourists pass back and forth every day.'

‘You will be given a few days training, after which you will be expected to act and behave as a fully fledged Mistress. Only Katrina and her Head Instructor, a man called Zed, will know you are actually one of our Top‑Level Slaves, so you must keep up your act as a severe and dominant Mistress, and, of course, you will instruct Maria accordingly. Her story with the other servants must be that she has attended to you as a Mistress for several years.’

Gerda listened, only half-attentive, as she macked softly on her deliciously large Rod, feeling the thick grease squash round her bottom and push sexily between her thighs. She felt incredibly randy, and eventually she looked up at Laura.

‘Mistress? Before we have dinner, will you please suffocate me? Please? Otherwise I'll go bonkers.’

Laura smiled through her mask, understandingly. 'What a good idea! It will give you an appetite.’ She crossed over to a chest and returned with a heavy rubber helmet and a pair of handcuffs. ‘Hands behind you, Slave, you must never feel able to reach your hood.’

Gladly Gerda sat forward and felt the cold steel clamp together round her wrists, securing them behind her back. Then she felt the heavy loose rubber hood slide over her mask, and her Mistress stood behind the sofa and clasped the long collar round her neck. She was in total darkness now, eagerly breathing in the hot air and feeling the oxygen expire.

She started to gasp and breathe quicker, instinctively pulling at her manacled hands to get them free. Her lungs heaved as the useless air, void of oxygen, panted in and out. She screamed in ecstasy and macked frantically on her Rod.

‘Yes…darling…Mistress…punish…me…hurt me…I want your…pain…please…cruel…hard and…cruel…don't release…me…’

She tried to fling herself forward, but the relentless hands round her neck held her immobile. Red flashes speared through the darkness, and she was riding on a superb cloud with an orgasm building inside the thick rubber macking pants. She relaxed suddenly; happy to know she was slowly dying at her adored Mistress's hands.

Cool air was flooding into her lungs, and the heavy rubber hood had been removed. She heard Laura laughing.

‘You're an incredible slave, my sweet! I believe you'd die happily, as long as you could take a massive Pleasure! Get yourself together, I've unlocked your wrists, and it's dinnertime!

Later, Annabel served coffee and brandy. When Laura had dismissed her maid for the moment, Gerda twisted round on the sofa and spoke anxiously to her Mistress.

‘I can stay the night, please? You've got to punish me, make me realise I'm your slave, that I'm completely at your mercy. Will you whip me?’

Laura teased the randy slave. ’No your scars must remain virginal for at least two weeks. But we're going to bed shortly, and you're going to wear a new costume I've designed. And, my lovely Gerda, you're going to be locked into the Adoration Breeches. You're going to have a very warm night!’

Gerda almost had an orgasm at the thought. The Adoration Breeches, worn by a Master or Mistress, made of thick rubber and with a third leg in front into which the slave's head was securely strapped, forcing the masked face against the Master's or Mistress's crotch. Tiny holes allowed the slave to breathe, but the heat would always build up, and there was no way the slave could withdraw from inside the tubular leg strapped tightly round the neck.

She turned and looked into Laura's half-masked face.

‘I'm so happy,’ she whispered, ‘What right have I to enjoy life so, much? I love you; I need you. I love Guy, and I need him. I have both of you, and above all, I must always be dressed in Rubber. All my Punishments are now superb Pleasure! No one person on this earth can have this much happiness! There has to be some awful retribution somewhere!’

Laura fondled her slave's breasts through the heavy latex suit, gently and lovingly.

‘No! Just thank Le Compte Guy that he chose you, and now you are realising how wonderful life can be! But soon you will have to learn a trade, because Guy believes a Top‑Level Slave should never stagnate. You can concentrate on becoming an interior decorator, or a costume designer, you know he owns two trendy shops on Fifth Avenue? You can become a writer or an accountant, or even a full‑time Mistress. But always he will make your brain work!’

‘I just want to be lave, a good slave.’ Gerda whispered, ‘Please punish me!’

‘You're a lovely paradox,’ Laura smiled, ‘Have you forgotten how turned on you can get with a whip in your hand and a tightly rubbered bottom strapped down in front of you? You're one of the lucky people.'

‘But not tonight, my Mistress, please may I get dressed in my new costume?’

‘You may. It's my conception of an astronaut's suit, but much heavier. Meanwhile, take off everything and have a bath. I, too, will get properly dressed!’

Reluctantly, Gerda had stripped and removed her Rod, and wallowed in a hot bath. Annabel, who had been summoned back, removed the grease pants and wiped the heavy latex suit dry. She was now heavily gagged through her latex mask, so Gerda could not elicit any information from her.

Having dried and powdered herself. Gerda was mildly surprised to rind Annabel ready to reinsert the Rod, well greased, up her bottom, and then found herself being clad again in the thick rubber suit. In the large dressing room, Annabel pulled across a heavy silver suit, which appeared to be made of a thick and shiny rubber compound.

Gerda struggled into it. It was in one piece, with boots and gloves attached. Annabel zipped it up the back, then pulled the hood over Gerda's own mask, strapping it tightly under her chin and round the neck.

Gerda realised it was a totally waterproof suit, and already she could feel the heat building inside. Underneath the silver suit, her own heavy latex suit was already wet with perspiration. She gloried in the sensation.

Annabel led her to Laura's bedroom door, then bowed and departed. Almost timidly, Gerda knocked and opened the door.

Her Mistress was dressed in heavy black rubber from head to feet, a thick mackintosh suit with waterproof feet and rubber gloves attached to the end of the long sleeves. Over the black suit she wore the sinister Adoration Breeches, long and loose and with the third leg hanging down between her thighs.

Gerda moved forward, knowing what was expected of her, wanting to cry out some loving phrase to her Mistress. Laura made no sign, except to lift the third leg and open its end.

With infinite understanding Gerda knelt on the bed and slowly thrust her head into the heavy rubber sleeve of the leg, until Laura could pull it down to her neck and strap it tightly into position. With a sigh of pure bliss, the Executioner lay back against the pillows.

‘Settle yourself down, slave, because you'll be there for the next eight hours. You'll sleep between my thighs, like this, and you'll be well covered with several rubber sheets to keep you very warm. Lie down flat on your tummy, now, and put your hands behind you so that I can padlock them together, I wouldn't want you to try to remove your head from my breeches while I was asleep! Good! Now rest well, because I will surely let you know when I want you to give me a Pleasure!’

Almost in a dream of ecstatic reality, Gerda found herself lying on her stomach, her hands padlocked behind her, and her head encased and firmly strapped inside the thick latex Adoration Breeches. She could only just breathe through several small holes in the base of the third leg, and in her heavy latex suit, plus the thick 'astronaut' rubber outfit, she could feel the perspiration bursting out of every pore.

She felt Laura slide down more comfortably on the rubber bed-sheet, then sensed a heavy mass of latex sheets being pulled over her. She dimly heard her Mistress speaking.

‘You will remain like this all night, slave Gerda, strapped into my Breeches and available at any moment to give me Pleasure. Meanwhile you will suffer a heat treatment in that beautiful silver rubber suit which is completely watertight. I shall be merciless, Slave, because I want you to suffer so that you will always fear the Executioner, the symbol of Punishment!’

Gerda felt the sweat run down inside her mask, and pressed her face more tightly against the rubber suit covering her Mistress's crotch.

‘I am your devoted slave, Mistress,’ she moaned, ‘Please keep me imprisoned between your thighs for evermore!’

At eight the next morning, an exhausted Laura released the strap around Gerda's neck and allowed her to withdraw from the thick latex leg. Gerda stood up, stretched, then attempted to reinsert her head into the third leg.

‘Stop it!’ Laura cried sharply, ‘Your Punishment's finished! You've been nearly nine hours inside the Breeches. The rubber sheets have caused enormous heat, and your astronaut suit must be loaded down with perspiration!’

‘Absolutely true,’ Gerda murmured sleepily and happily', ‘Now why don't you relax, while I blow your inhibitions out the window!’

CHAPTER 39

An hour later, after a hot bath and a large iced vodka, Gerda had finished examining her luxurious suite on the second floor of the Chateau. She was wearing only a long rubber dressing gown and now felt pleasantly relaxed and most impressed by her surroundings. There was one enormous room, furnished elegantly with Louis Quinze antiques, with a four‑poster bed and a big bay window, which overlooked the Mediterranean and the sprawling city of Nice below. Leading off the room was a large tiled bathroom and a good‑sized dressing‑room with fitted cupboards, two of them already full of her new Mistress costumes. Beyond the dressing room was another bedroom, much smaller, and a bathroom, which was to be occupied by Maria, much to her delight.

Maria had already showered and dressed in her serving uniform, and was busy unpacking the costumes from the big trunks. She was humming happily through her mask, completely recovered from her long hot journey.

‘It's lovely, Mistress! What a beautiful place, it's going to be one long holiday!’

‘I'm not so sure of that, my little one! Dear Katrina has a reputation for running a fantastically strict establishment. But I must admit I couldn't be more comfortable. But what the hell do I do with a male slave all day long? You take care of all my needs.’

‘No doubt you'll learn, Mistress. Did you see how tight his balls were? I wish I had balls like that, sticking out front and asking to be beaten!’

Gerda laughed. ‘You're incorrigible! They must feel horribly vulnerable in that position. I see by the list of Rules on the desk there, that I must carry a whip and a ball-beater on my belt at all times. I'll be a walking arsenal! Now, what should I wear for this cocktail party?’

Although there were many intriguing outfits hanging in the wardrobes, Gerda decided to wear a costume she had designed and had made for one of her Friday evenings with Guy, but which had only been delivered a few days previously. It consisted of a thin skin‑tight overall suit of dark blue latex, over which was a slim ­fitting dress of vinyl, knee length and of the same colour. The mask, gloves, belt and leather boots were of a paler shade of blue.

When she had dressed and Maria had laced up the three‑inch stiletto heeled boots, Gerda surveyed herself in the full‑length triple mirror in the dressing room and liked the effect. Of the undersuit, only the knees and a few inches of thigh showed, appearing like shiny blue stockings, but the tight feeling of the suit was warm and pleasant. She pulled in the wide belt another notch to emphasise her slim waist, and rolled the thin gloves tautly above her elbows. Her mask bore her name in small gold letters across her forehead.

‘Damn,‘ she said, ‘I wonder if the Mistresses here have their names like that? Will they know that on the Island it means I'm a Top‑Level Slave? To hell with it, I'm proud of those gold letters!’

She rang the push button on the wall, which summoned her male slave. Within a minute he knocked on the door and entered, immediately standing stiffly to attention. She walked round him slowly, her dress swishing softly. She wished now she had worn a Rod.

‘So, you are my slave Hans. Are you German?’

‘No, Madam, I'm English. As in a Convent, we are given names which are not our own.’

‘Are you glad to be assigned to me?’

‘It is an honour to serve you, Madam.’

‘I’m a very strict Mistress,’ Gerda said untruthfully, ’I shall punish you severely for the slightest infractions.’

‘Of course, Madam, that is understood.’

‘Damn it, thought Gerda, this is getting nowhere. ‘My personal serving maid, Maria, takes care of me in my quarters. Why should I need you?’

For the first time he appeared uncertain how to answer.

‘I am here to serve you, Mistress. If you wish to take a Pleasure I am here to be whipped or tortured. If you wish to go round the grounds, you will saddle me and ride me. Or strap me between the shafts of your own private two-wheeled buggy. I will also clean and polish all your costumes and boots and shoes. Not many Mistresses have serving maids here.’

Gerda nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. Then I think I will give Maria certain powers over you. I shall not allow her to punish you, but you will obey her commands always, is that understood?’

‘Whatever you order, Madam.’

‘Good. Now I have an appointment with La Baronessa. You will show me the way to her suite.’

He knelt swiftly and kissed the instep of her booted foot, then they walked down the long corridor, the top of the slave's heavy rubber thigh boots making a loud crackle against each other at every step. She was to hear this delightful noise all day long as the slaves moved around. At the very end of the wide carpeted corridor was a graceful staircase spiralling up and down. Beyond it was a heavy door, on which was written in French, English and German the words: PUNISHMENT DIVISION. NO SLAVES ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY A MISTRESS OR MASTER.

They started to descend the stairs. ‘Do you frequent the Punishment Division often, slave Hans?’

He coughed, or it might have been a chuckle. 'Very often, Madam. Here we receive Punishments even though we have incurred no Demerits. Punishments are part of our constant Training.’

On, the first floor, they traversed more corridors, brightly lit by splendid chandeliers, until they came to large double doors. Hans knelt again and kissed her boots, then stood up. ‘At any time you are outside your quarters and wish to call me, Madam, my number is 40. On the intercom telephone just dial 4‑0, which is the extension in my room.

She watched him pad swiftly down the corridor, his heavy, two‑inch heeled thigh boots contrasting clumsily with the sleek tight leather suit. She supposed the thick rubber boots were a deliberate and constant reminder of slavehood.

As she was now a Mistress, at least in name, she decided not to knock. She entered the room, a huge elegant lounge now occupied by about thirty people. It could have been any smart cocktail party except that everyone was dressed in rubber or leather, and most of the guests were hooded. Several slaves, dressed as footmen in gleaming latex and rubber, banded by thin gold chains between their wrists and their ankles, were circulating with champagne and canapés. There was a babble of conversation and the smoke of cigarettes and pot hung heavily in the air.

The Baroness Oblonska came across to greet her. She wore a stunning long black evening dress of highly polished 'wigan' rubber, beautifully cut so that it showed her statuesque figure. She was unmasked and her silver hair was piled high like a crown. Gerda realised what a fine looking woman she was, although well into her fifties. Only the thin cruel mouth gave any hint of her sadistic qualities.

She smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘My dear Gerda! You look divine! What a very clever outfit. A complete latex suit underneath?’

Gerda nodded; little would escape Katrina's eagle eyes. Even in the early days on the Island, the Executioner had never seemed so sinister as this polite and pleasant woman who was now introducing her to some of the other Mistresses. Gerda was thankful to see they were all masked in black latex and carried their name across the front in small letters.

‘There's no point in meeting everyone at once, my dear, you'll get to know them in time. There are twenty‑two resident Mistresses, and four trainee-Mistresses like yourself. But to avoid any favouritism or bitchiness, only the Slave‑Master and myself know who are the trainees. As far as the other Mistresses are concerned, you are fully­ qualified and joining my staff. We make a strict rule that prying into one's past is forbidden, so you should have no awkward questions. When the party is over, please stay behind and I will give you more information while we dine together. Now, here is Monica. She is German, but speaks good English and French. She is small but very tough, one of my best girls, really feared by the slaves! Monica, look after your new colleague and make her feel at home.’

Monica was petite and a shade on the plump side, but Gerda sensed it was mostly muscle and her well proportioned figure looked ominously strong in its tight black latex sheath.

‘You have not a drink, friend Gerda! Here, you like champagne?’ She gestured curtly to a slave who hurried across with a tray of' glasses, and a champagne bottle wrapped in a white cloth. Only then did Gerda notice all the footmen had their balls tightly strapped and pushing hard against the shiny black latex breeches.

As the slave began to pour out the champagne, Monica smiled cruelly through her mask and caught hold of his strapped balls with her gloved hand, squeezing them even tighter inside the breeches. ‘Pour!’ she hissed, ‘If you spill a drop you will get fifty Demerits!’

Behind the leather‑masked face there was a faint groan, but he continued to pour the champagne steadily, although Monica was squeezing harder. Hastily Gerda took the full glass before it spilt. Monica released her hold and turned away, now disinterested.

A bore, is it not? Once a week we have the party like this, 'to keep up the social spirit' says La Baronessa. Who wants to be social, eh? My slave no like this social party either. Before I come here, I always take him to a Punishment room, then I ‑ how you say? ‑ winch him up by his wrists, and strap on a heavy ball weight. I stay here thirty minutes, perhaps longer. He always pleads with me to come back soon.’

Gerda was mildly horrified. ‘You mean ‑ he's hanging off the floor now? With weights round his balls?’

‘Ja. I go in perhaps ten, fifteen minutes. By then he is suffering good. Come, there is Margaretta, she English Mistress, very young and very tough, she a sexy maniac, you will like her.’

‘Call me Maggie,’ said the slim girl after they had been introduced, ‘You're new here?’

Gerda watched Monica drifting towards the bar, probably delighting in her slave's agony as she renewed her drink. 'Yes, Maggie, I just arrived today. It's a beautiful place. Have you been here long?’

‘Almost a year. Are you on general duties, or training your own slave?’

‘Er, general duties. I've been allocated slave number 40, I believe he's very good?’

‘Yes, lucky you! He's one of the permanent slaves, been here about four years, I believe: He's Top‑Level and a glutton for punishment. I had him for two weeks when my slave was ill, I wore myself to a frazzle beating and whipping him. He just loves it, it almost takes the fun away!’

‘You obviously enjoy your work!’

Maggie smiled through the mouth slit. ‘Indeed I do! Can you imagine; I get paid for it? I was working in a boutique in Knightsbridge, going round the bend with my frustrated sadistic impulses, and this lovely young man takes me to dinner. We get back to his sumptuous flat and he confesses he doesn't want to screw me, he wants to be tied up and whipped! Well! It turns out he's filthy rich and asks me to come here for a short holiday to learn the art of being a Mistress.’

‘But you've been here a year now?’

‘Sure. After a heavenly month I told him I wasn't leaving. Katrina gave him back half his fee for my training, and took me on as a fully‑fledged Mistress. I still see him, he comes across once a month for a weekend and I beat the shit out of him, so we're all happy. I tell you, it's pure heaven here, the stricter you are the more Madam likes it. But you must use judgement and skill, you get a rocket from her if you put your slave into hospital.’

‘There's a hospital that will take them? Don't they ask questions?’

‘The hospital's in the grounds, silly! It has ten beds, two doctors, and four nurses. They're all a bit sadistic, of course, so no slave tries to go there for a rest.’

Gerda wondered if she would be able to stick out the training course. She noticed the room was emptying. Maggie introduced her to two more Mistresses. One was a strapping Swedish girl, nearly six feet tall, almost bursting out of a tightly laced black leather suit, and the other seemed to be an older woman, clad in a loose rubber jump­ suit, and with a soft American accent. Their names were Marj and Natalie. The American seemed more sympathetic.

‘You'll find it a bit strange the first few days,’ she confided to Gerda, ‘But the Baroness is a smart woman, and she allows you to find your own level. Naturally, you've got to enjoy training and punishing these slaves, otherwise you wouldn't be here, but usually she starts you with a novice slave, so you kind of work into the more severe training together.’

‘Who's the Slave‑Master? I keep hearing his name.’

Natalie's face seemed to wrinkle behind her tight rubber mask.

‘He's a devil! Utterly sadistic and merciless. Everyone's scared of him, but I must say he runs the place like a very conscientious headmaster! He's unprejudiced and very fair, but some of his punishments are really appalling, and he'll sometimes stand over the Mistress to make sure it's fully carried out. Rumour has it that he was a famous French judge, forced to resign through some scandal. He probably wanted to guillotine his victims himself! He's obviously highly educated, speaks beautiful French and English. He's always dressed in black, with a clown's face.’

‘A clown's face? Why?’

Natalie smiled. ‘Who knows? It's a latex hood of a smiling classical clown. Somehow it makes the punishments more bizarre and fearsome, coming from that cheerful face. Nobody's ever seen his real face, except probably Katrina. I must go; I have to secure my slave into punishment bondage for the night. Good luck!'

Ten minutes later the room had emptied. Slaves cleared the empty glasses and removed the over‑flowing ashtrays, then discreetly departed. Gerda found herself alone in the huge room. She crossed over to the bar and poured herself a drink. Presently a door opened and Katrina beckoned her.

‘Come into the library, it's more cosy. We'll have a quick drink, then Zed is joining us for dinner.’

Hastily Gerda joined the Baroness in the pleasant oak panelled library next door. Two walls of the room were lined with shelves and Gerda strained to see what Katrina considered was fruitful reading. She remembered her grandfather lecturing her, as a small girl, in the Cotswold house, ‘You can tell a man's character by the books in his house,’ he had rumbled. She had only time to glimpse volumes of Proust and Trollope before she was obliged to sit by the fireplace opposite Katrina.

‘Now, Gerda, I'll give you a quick rundown. Zed, incidentally, is the Slave‑Master, and only he knows you are Le Compte's wife and Slave. Everyone else imagines you are a new Mistress joining my establishment. Over the, next few days Zed and I will indoctrinate you into our customs and training methods and rules. In private Zed or I will tell you what we are about to do, then you will watch while we carry it out. After you have learnt the routine, which is comparatively simple and is similar to what you have undergone at Le Compte's establishment, you will gradually take over. Afterwards, but never in front of the slave, we will comment on, or criticise, your performance. By the end of a week, you will have infiltrated into the daily Training Roster with the other Mistresses.’

There was a brief knock at a door, and the Slave‑Master entered. He was extremely tall and wore a comfortable loose fitting black latex suit; the legs tucked into knee‑high leather boots. The white latex hood fascinated Gerda. The full smiling clown face was painted on in bright colours, with rosy cheeks and a huge red mouth. He ambled over to Gerda and took her hand in his own black‑gloved one and raised it to his lips.

‘Greetings fair Gerda! I'm Zed. Americans call me Zee, but then all Americans are crazy. Katrina, my darling, may we eat soon, my stomach thinks my mouth is on strike.’

Gerda gawped at this strange man. His voice was low and musical and his English impeccable. Was this really the terrible Slave‑Master whom everyone feared? The clown face beamed down on her, as if reading her thoughts. Katrina brought him a large glass of whisky.

‘I'm off duty for an hour, my lovelies, so let's relax. How is your dear husband, Guy?’

It took her by surprise. ’Very well indeed, Master,’ she stammered.

‘Please, call me Zed tonight. But outside these four walls, I'm addressed as 'Master' by the Mistresses and 'My Lord' by the slaves. How conceited can I get?’

Gerda relaxed slightly, unable to prevent herself liking this strange man, despite his reputation. ‘You know Guy, then?’

The clown lips roared with laughter. ’We went to school together! I'm a little older than he is, and I never let him forget it. Yes, I know that wretched husband of yours. Now, with Katrina's permission, I would like you to remove your mask, so I may see what woman has finally trapped him!’

Gerda looked at the Baroness, who smiled assent. She unzipped her mask, luckily still dry, and pulled it off, shaking her short blonde hair free. He gazed at her for a long moment.

‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘Yes, I can understand now. A very lovely young masochist, with sadistic overtones which shows a strong character! He's waited many years to find you, Gerda, I hope you will never disappoint him.’

‘Never!’ she said quietly, ’I love him more than my life!’

A Sheraton table, set with sparkling silverware and Baccharat wineglasses, had been set up in the large sitting room. The strangely clad trio dined on wafer‑thin prosciutto and melon, pink roast lamb with young French beans and a crisp salad, and a crme plombires parline to follow. Gerda had been obliged to replace her mask so that the slave serving them could not see her face, but their conversation was uninhibited.

‘Carlo has been my personal servant for many years,’ Katrina explained, ‘He is a deaf mute, so we can talk openly. He is an old man now, and has served in my family for more than forty years. He is the only slave who is allowed to wear shoes instead of heavy thigh boots. He likes to act as a slave, but I would never dream of punishing him. Anyway, he is too perfect ever to merit chastisement!’

Gerda regarded the little man in his smart butler's uniform in gleaming latex. His black mask gave no indication of age, but through the eyeholes his bright eyes twinkled mischievously.

‘It happens that he adores rubber,’ said La Baroness, ‘When he was a young man, he was taken on as a chauffeur by my father. We had a huge open tourer, a Hispano­ Suiza, and I'm sure Carlo used to live in his long rubber mackintosh and high boots. When my parents died he wrote me a long letter saying he could only stay with me if he was allowed to dress in proper rubber uniform, so everything worked out extremely well!’

When Carlo was serving coffee and liqueurs, Katrina became more business‑like.

‘During the next few days you will mostly work with Zed, as I seldom concern myself with actual training. So I will leave it to him to indoctrinate you into our methods. But you must learn one fact immediately, or you will never be a good Mistress.

‘Every slave here, and at present there are over fifty, has come here, or been brought here, voluntarily. Each one has signed a complicated legal document requesting that he be trained as a servant and accepting any punishment we may deem fit, and exonerating us from any legal proceedings in the future. In other words, every slave here is a masochist and desires his punishments and agony. We do not accept a slave until he has spent two days and nights in heavy bondage and severe pain. There are many masochists who only want to fantasise, and who become cowards the moment their dreams of slavehood become reality.’

Gerda was curious. ‘But how do they come to you? Where do you find them?’

Zed answered her. ‘Our fees are very high, therefore most slaves are brought hereby rich women who have already established their relationship with the slave. Some of these women are happily married, but have a sadistic urge, which has to be satisfied occasionally. In that case the slave remains here, is taught a useful trade, and is at her disposal whenever she wishes to visit him. Other slaves are homosexuals, brought here by their Master to be correctly trained. The normal Training Course lasts three months, and it is very severe!’

‘Then there are the others,’ said Katrina quietly, ‘The ones I personally prefer. These are the rich young men and, sometimes, older men, who are bored with life and realise they are hopeless masochists. They have spent small fortunes on whores specialising in bondage and whipping which, incidentally most of them do abysmally or trying to find obliging girlfriends who go for rubber and leather and can wield a good whip. Some of the luckier ones hear of our existence and manage to contact us. If we believe they are genuine and suitable, they come here for a six‑month course, and during that time we endeavour to find them a Mistress whom they can serve, and sometimes even marry. You would be surprised at the number of attractive, unmarried women with strong sadistic tendencies who are desperately looking for a slave‑mate! We have a very high percentage of successful introductions.’

Zed clipped the end of a large Corona and stuck it between the bright red lips of his mask. ’What Katrina means to say is that every slave here is expecting to be severely punished and utterly humiliated. Mild training or punishment is an insult to them, and they certainly don't want kind words or sympathy! From the moment they enter this Establishment they must be taught there is nothing except pain, more pain, and still more pain. They must suffer, in one form or another, for twenty‑four hours a day. Just five minutes of kind talk or sympathetic understanding can damage or destroy the will­power we are building up inside them, the power to accept and welcome more and more severe punishment and pain. Can you understand that?’

'Indeed I can,’ Gerda replied with feeling, ‘As you well know, I've spent a year being subjected to the same philosophy. 'Pain must be turned into Pleasure', and it does work! But I must say that the odd word of sympathy, or praise, was enormously helpful.’

‘That is the basic difference between a male and a female slave,’ said Katrina earnestly, ‘Women do require that occasional psychological boost to their ego. But you now must remember that a male slave does not! My slaves here must be treated as dirt, always, and must be trained to live with pain and bondage and discomfort every minute of the day and night. Will you please get this very firmly into your head?’

‘I will, Madam,’ Gerda said meekly, somewhat unnerved by Katrina's grim philosophy.

‘Then I would like to see you start your Mistresshood now,’ the Baroness said with a faint smile. ’In a few minutes, when we have finished our coffee, you will go over to that telephone and dial your slave to come down immediately. Then you will give him twenty hard strokes on his balls. That will show him he now has a merciless Mistress!’

Ten minutes later Gerda had consumed two large brandies to get herself into the right mood to carry out the unexpected order from La Baronessa Oblonska. She was sure Katrina and Zed had planned it from the beginning, and that it was in some way a test to find out if, in fact, she had Mistress material inside, or whether she should be returned to Le Compte in disgrace, a soft‑hearted slave. Determined to prove herself, she stood up.

‘Madam Katrina,’ she said crisply, ‘As you no doubt know, for the past few weeks, every Monday, Le Compte has been training me in the arts of Mistresshood, allowing me to carry out certain Punishments. For this purpose, whatever costume I wear I insert a number 8 Rod. I would therefore request a delay of twenty minutes while I return to my quarters and get Rodded up!’ Them's fighting words, she thought, slightly tipsy.

She saw Katrina's quick smile of surprise and approval.

‘Why certainly, Mistress Gerda! Zed and I have much to discuss, so take your time, the night is still young. I suggest you dial 12 and ask for a slave, otherwise you may get lost in this rambling old place!’

Back in her suite, Gerda rapidly explained the situation to Maria, who immediately crossed to a cupboard that turned out to be a well‑stocked bar, and poured out a large brandy for her Mistress.

‘I'll have your Rod and grease ready in a moment, dear Mistress, meanwhile drink this. You're right, this is obviously a nasty little plot to test you. Let me unzip your dress! I'm afraid you'll have to get completely undressed in order to get into the grease pants covering your Rod.’

‘Then I'll wear something more appropriate! Lay out a tight shiny black latex suit, a wide belt, a black vinyl mini‑skirt, and those high‑heeled vinyl thigh boots with the back zip, we haven't time for laces. And a short cape in heavy black latex. Hurry!’

Within fifteen hectic minutes she was Rodded, greased, and fully dressed, a splendid and fearsome sight in shining black, the tiny skirt reaching to the high tops of the gleaming boots, her waist tightly constricted by the wide belt, her firm breasts pushing against the form‑fitting latex suit. Long gloves and a black mask completed the ensemble. She buckled the short cape round her neck and threw one side dashingly over a shoulder.

The guide slave was waiting outside the door to lead her back to Katrina's rooms. She strode down the corridor behind him, now feeling delightfully randy and sadistic, and slightly drunk. The large Rod macked excitingly in her bottom.

She entered Baroness Oblonska's apartment and pirouetted slowly on her high heels. ‘I felt this costume would be more appropriate, Madam and Master,’ she said demurely, 'I hope you approve?’

Zed gave a huge laugh, his clown face merry. ‘Lovely, Gerda! One up to you! Now call your slave and let's see what you're made of.’

Katrina, too, was smiling. ‘What a pleasant surprise! By the way, order Hans to put on his leather Punishment Pants. This should be most interesting!’

Gerda dialled 40 and immediately heard her slave's voice answer.

‘Slave Hans,’ she said in a low growl, surprised at the pleasure it gave her, ‘You will report to Baroness Oblonska's apartment at once, as I intend to punish you so that we understand each other from the beginning. You will also wear your leather Punishment Pants.’

She heard a muted hiss of dismay, then his voice came back steadily. ‘Of course, Mistress. I shall be there within minutes.’

She replaced the receiver and accepted another cognac from Zed, but only sipping it. She felt wonderful now, happy to be part of Katrina's establishment, sexy and smooth and tight in her Mistress costume. She moved gracefully across to the mantelpiece, conscious of Zed's admiring gaze as he regarded her superb figure.

'What's the significance of the leather pants?‘ she asked.

Katrina smiled; a cruel smile this time.

‘They are of thick leather, and very tight, and they also lace up the back. The slave's balls are already strapped very firmly round the rear of the scrotum and encased in their latex bag. When the leather pants are worn, they constrict the balls even further and spread them extremely painfully. The tighter the lacing, the more the pain. It's a dull ache, actually, which can grow slowly worse until after an hour a slave can faint.’

‘And even the touch of a ball‑beater is a new agony,’ the Slave‑Master said casually, ‘But Hans is a good slave, you'll find he can withstand almost anything. Katrina, Ger­da will need a ball-beater and a good thick gag.’

‘And a whip, please,’ Gerda whispered, a small part of her brain astonished at the sexual thrill coursing through her body, ‘I'm very fond of whipping tight bottoms. May l?’

Katrina rose and crossed to a cupboard. ‘My dear, Hans is now your slave for as long as you're here. You may do anything you wish, and the more severe it is, the better I'll be pleased.’

She returned with a large rubber ball gag attached to a head strap, a long leather-covered steel whip, and two ball-beaters. One was of plain wood, like an enlarged ruler, the other had a hard rubber ball attached to the end of a 12‑inch handle.

‘The Whip is vicious,’ she said matter‑of‑factly, ‘But he'll be well protected with his slave suits and the leather pants, a tawse or cane would have little effect.’

There was a knock at the door, and Hans entered. He bowed low, then crossed to each of them and kissed their feet. Then he stood to attention.

Katrina stood and crossed behind him. Over the leather slave‑suit he wore a pair of thick black leather shorts. His strapped balls clearly outlined as they pushed helplessly against the tight pants. She undid the bow knot at the back and commenced to lace them up more rigidly. There was a low moan from the slave's masked head. She retied the laces and returned to her seat, nodding to Gerda.

Gerda undid her cape and let it fall to the floor. She picked up the gag and approach­ed Hans, moving slowly to allow him to take in every facet of her sinister garbed figure. She forced the large ball through his mask into his open mouth, then strapped it very tightly behind his head. She could hear his rapid breath, as he was now obliged to breathe through the small nose holes only.

Her suit felt warm and wet, and she moved her legs casually to let the Rod mack up and down, her sadistic impulses now totally taking over. This was her slave, obediently waiting for the pain and agony she would inflict on him! Already she felt near to a Pleasure.

‘You are Hans, slave number 40,’ she said in a low voice, aware she must also play to her critical audience, ‘Assigned to me as my personal property. You are shit, Hans, and I will treat you as such! You will suffer pain when it pleases me, even if you have in­curred no Demerits. I am totally without mercy towards slaves. They are scum, fit only to serve and to endure eternal pain and agony. Now bend over!’

Steady, Gerda girl, she thought, you're getting into Grand Guignol; somebody is going to laugh any moment, get on with it. Oh, but it's so lovely, look at that tight little bottom in its shining black leather, just aching to be whipped!

She lashed the whip across his bottom, fairly hard. Despite his heavy coverings, she knew it must have hurt, but he remained rock steady, his gloved hands holding his booted ankles. Now she whipped harder, long solid strokes, standing well, back to give the maximum power to her arm. After fifteen strokes she heard a muffled moan. She threw the whip aside.

‘Stand up, slave Hans. Legs apart, with your hands behind your back. I will not degrade you by hand cuffing them together, but if you dare move them I shall start your punishment over again!’

She saw Katrina nod with approval. Jesus, she thought, I should have been on the stage, I'm terrific! She deliberately bent down so that the Rod pushed cruelly up her bottom. She picked up the light ball‑beater.

‘I'm now going to beat your balls, slave Hans. It's one of my pleasures in life. I like my slave's balls to be purple and to be permanently swollen to twice their normal size.’ (Cool it, girl, you've no idea if that's even possible, don't overplay it). ‘I'll give you twenty fast strokes just to warm you up.’

She whipped the balsa wood ruler against his straining balls hard and rapidly, quickly realising that the light thin wood was causing no intense pain through the leather and latex coverings, although by the final stroke he had stiffened and his breath was gasping. She allowed him a minute to recover; her own orgasm lurking near.

She picked up the other beater with the attached rubber ball. This, she knew, was the cruel one. She took careful aim, then smacked it hard against the leather pants.

Hans gave a shrill scream, muffled through the gag. His knees bent and his body strained in agony, but he kept his hands clasped behind him, and in a few seconds was again standing straight, his legs wide apart.

She continued to punish him, slapping the ball‑beater against the leather, strokes that were not too hard but obviously were causing him acute agony. She realised that a really strong stroke could cause unconsciousness; it excited her even more, knowing this power she held over the slave.

She allowed a full minute between each stroke, waiting until his moans ceased. At nineteen she was on the brink of an orgasm and she turned to Katrina, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

‘Is it allowed for me to take Pleasure? I can do so with this next stroke!’

‘Of course you may! Not during official Punishments or Training, but most certainly when you're only playing with your slave. That's what he's there for, basically. To serve you and give you Pleasure in whatever manner you wish. But give this last stroke much harder. He won't die!’

Gasping, Gerda turned back. She took careful aim and brought the ball‑beater down with a heavy 'thunk' across the front of the tight leather shorts. She watched in mild wonder as Hans slowly sank to his knees and fell forward, then she threw herself into an armchair and unashamedly macked frantically on her Rod as the Pleasure swept through her body.

CHAPTER 41

GERDA'S DIARY. THE ESTABLISHMENT IN NICE. FIRST NIGHT.

I am tired and exhausted. It is after midnight, and it has been a long and traumatic day. The lengthy journey in the heat, the change of location, then the unexpected 'test' tonight and my subsequent huge Pleasure, which will make me sleep like a log ‑ if I can subdue my chaotic mind. It is some time since I wrote in my diary, but I felt tonight that it might help my state of mind to put down some thoughts.

The Gerda I used to know in Paris has vanished, probably forever. I no longer know who I am, or more important, what I am!

Basically, I am a sexual masochist, trained as a slave, and now married to my adored Guy.

But ‑ I have strong lesbian instincts, and my beautiful Laura can turn me, on, and while I am with her I forget my love for Guy in the total adoration I have for my cruel Mistress. Simple, eh?

And now, let's face it, I find I can do a complete reversal and become a cold, calculating, and horribly cruel Mistress! Tonight I got enormous sexual satisfaction in whipping and beating my male slave until he collapsed; almost unconscious from the pain I had deliberately inflicted on him.

Am I a monster? Am I sexually deranged? These orgasms I have now, whether they are masochistic or sadistic, are far stronger than when I have indulged in `ordinary' sex. In Paris, and going back to my 'teens, sex was always pleasant and I could reach a mild orgasm, sometimes even two if I had a skilful lover. But now I have these wracking, shuddering Pleasures which blot out my world for a full wild, wonderful minute, sometimes repeating, a continuing series for two or three minutes of sheer backbreaking heaven!

I sense now that I will become an excellent Mistress. I love the dressing‑up, and the drama, and the prologue, and the slave cowering in front of me, powerless to resist. I love the sight and the sound of the whip cracking across a tight bottom and the crackle of my mackintoshed arm and the feel of the whip held in a black rubbered hand.

Yet I long for the moment when I am to serve my Master Guy, or Mistress Laura orders me to report for Punishment, knowing the pain and agony I will suffer. I love the cold thrill of Maria dressing me, lacing and tightening me into a Punishment Suit. The feeling of a huge gag being remorselessly strapped into my mouth; hearing the sinister slither as a Suffocation Hood is slipped over my head. Lying strapped and chained to a Whipping Block listening and waiting for the first slash across the vulnerable bottom, then fighting the exquisite pain and straining in ecstasy against the cruel unrelenting straps.

I'm scared of this coming week, because I know I’m going to enjoy every minute of it. God knows I’m not a man hater, but there's something enormously exciting about having a strong male in my power. The female slaves I punished, on the island, excited me too, but they were my physical equal, as it were. Whereas a huge strong male, who could normally throw me across the room with one hand, being available for punishment and humiliation, makes me shudder with pleasure even now. And those tightly strapped balls! What wonderful new vistas open up, I fear slave number 40 will rue the day he was assigned to me!

But where is it all leading? Is it some devious plan of Guy's, to get this out of my system so that I will revert to being a passive slave and a good wife? Or has he some incredible programme worked out to raise my sexual impulses to unbelievable heights? I must go to bed. Maria is waiting for me, faithful little Maria, who only wants to serve and be loved. I truly believe she would die for me, and that's a very sobering thought.

She's waiting by the large bed to zip me into a Punishment sleeping bag, at my own request. I felt it would be good for me tonight. One slides into the heavy rubber sheath in the nude, inserting the arms into tight sleeves inside the suit. Then it's zipped up and padlocked round the neck, then the thick loose hood is pulled on and attached to the neck of the suit. One is completely encased in rubber but quite comfortable unless you get an itchy nose. The heat builds up in the watertight sack during the night, so that by morning I'll be gently squirming around in warm wet perspiration.

How droll that I should choose this tonight! To me, only a short year ago, a rubber coat was something worn by the Paris gendarmes in the rain, very practical, but heavy and unattractive. Dear Guy, how much you have expanded my mind and body during these months!

But what does the future hold for me?

That's all for now.