.
.            PART I: THE MASTER SPEAKS: IF YOU DON'T WRITE...

    I have just thought of a proper punishment for not writing. We might
need the better part of a day to see this one through.

    I seat you in front of a specially prepared desk and tell you that you
have been warned to write many times. The time for warning is over. You see
two sets of large electrical staples (like to anchor a wire to the floor)
have been driven partway into the desk's surface. The sets are separated by
about 12 inches. As you stare at each set you see that they are laid out
roughly like a hand with two staples for each finger and thumb.

    "You want me to slide my hands into those, don't you?", you say, as you
begin to move your hands forward.

    "Palms upward", I tell you as I turn your hands over. It is a tight fit
but you manage to wriggle your hands in. You realize I have made them to
precisely fit your hands.  Now I bring up two leather thongs from the edge
of the desk and tightly secure your wrists so you cannot lift them nor can
you pull them back.

    You know what is coming and you are not surprised when I tell you I am
now going to give you a *reason* for not writing. From the first bamboo rod
slash on each palm your tears begin. Very quickly you are crying...then
yelping...then screaming, "Stop, I'll write!"

    The slashes descend with a monotonous regularity. Your cries are loud,
then soft. You beg for surcease. One particularly painful blow falls and
you scream. I continue the vigorous bastinado for a full five minutes. You
are near to fainting.

    I sit back and observe the effect on your hands. Your once white hands
are now crisscrossed with red. Still sobbing, you ask to be released. "Not
yet", I tell you and I walk away. A quarter hour later I return and untie
the leather thongs.

    "My hands won't come out", you tell me, "They have swollen into the
staples".

    I look. "Indeed, they have", I agree. "Well, I am going out to take
care of some matters. If the swelling goes down by dinnertime, I would like
steak".
.
.
.          PART II: THE SLAVE'S RESPONSE: The Wages of Silence
.
.
    I have not been able to look at my hands for quite some time ---
exactly how long, I am not sure: the only clock in the room, a sleek,
silent electric timepiece, is mounted on the wall behind me, and I cannot
turn around to see it; the row of windows that would have relieved the
gloom are shuttered and closely draped. //Is it dinnertime yet?// I wonder,
cautiously trying my unconventional bonds.

    Despite my care, the movement sets off ripples of pain that I know from
my previous attempts will only fade slowly. For a few moments, I sit,
staring stupidly at my palms and fingers, swollen into their already tight
bonds, crisscrossed with bright welts as though they had been pressed
against a red-hot grille.

    Suddenly, tears that should've been long used during my punishment
rolling down my cheeks to the desktop, I begin jerking violently at the
staples pressing into each finger, frustration and fury at my solitary
confinement temporarily anesthetizing me to the pain.

    After three yanks, my fourth attempt at escape is aborted by two large
hands appearing out of thin air to grip my wrists. "Shhh," you order me,
your lips against my ear. Immediately, I obey, oddly content now that you
are with me.

    You feel me relax, and release my wrists, withdrawing for a second; but
you have not left the room, and so I slump in the uncomfortable straight-
backed chair and concentrate on enduring the pain I have inflicted on
myself.

    I feel your approach, and I open my eyes to see you tuck towel-wrapped
ice packs around each of my swollen hands. You perch one hip on the corner
of the desk, and even in the dark room, I know you are looking at me, not
my hands --- I can feel your gaze caressing my face, following the lace
trimming the top of my white silk teddy, circling my breasts, sliding over
my belly, combing through the black curls covering my delta, then dropping
lower ---

    My body responds to your scrutiny as though responding to your touch:
my nipples harden into stubby little points that stiffen even more as the
soft silk abrades them; tiny shivers of arousal jolt my skin wherever your
eyes light; the narrow strip of material between my legs grows damp when
your attention lingers there.

    I shift in the chair, and lick my lips. Still staring intently at my
crotch, you command, "Stand up, Veronica."

    I brace myself for the misery the remnants of my lessoning are sure to
give me the second I begin such a drastic maneuver, and I am surprised when
rising from the chair only makes my cold hands throb a bit more. You reach
out a long, hard finger to smooth away the remnants of the fast-drying tear
track on my near cheek. "See? the ice is working," you reassure me.

    To spare myself, I "stand" bent at the hips, my arms folded double so
that my shoulders hovered some six inches above my pinioned hands, and my
taut nipples brush the icepacks' cool terrycloth towels with each breath.
You lift the corners of the icepacks to check my hands, and nod at what you
see. "The swelling will go down soon," you say, half to yourself, laying
the icepacks back down and returning your attention to my body beneath the
semi-transparent garment.

    You stand up and walk around behind me slowly, examining me as if I
were a horse up for sale --- running your hands and eyes over me, soon
untying the bow straps holding up the top of my teddy and baring my breasts
for weighing and squeezing, kneading my belly, lightly slapping my buttocks
and thighs, sampling the damp silk over my cunt. I tremble in embarrass-
ment.

    I am not surprised when I feel one of your hard, warm fingers hook
itself under the crotch of the teddy and pull the snaps apart. You smooth
the soft material down my legs and let it fall to the tops of my white
five-inch heels.

    A fingertip parts my labia, revealing the moist tissues. You take each
lip between thumb and forefinger and open me. I blush furiously as you hold
me open, watching without comment as I grow wet.

    I am annoyed with myself when I find my hips thrusting back helplessly,
my greedy cunt begging for a more emotional, less impersonal touch. You
ignore my unvoiced plea, observing my passion for a minute or two before
placing your thumbs side-by-side in my cleft and sliding them up between my
buttocks.

    When you press open my asscheeks to expose my anus, I hang my head in
mortification, and grow even more aroused in spite of it. You do not
penetrate me, you only look, and my breath grows short, my labia swell, and
the scent of my passion seems to fill the room.

    The sound of your zipper cuts through me, and I offer myself up to you
without reservation, pressing my breasts into the cold packs and my cheek
to the desktop. You enter me in one smooth motion, one hand arching over my
hip to tantalize my clit, the other drifting up over my belly and ribcage
to capture my nipples between your knuckles, the rough wool of your suit
pants grinding against the tender skin of my asscheeks and inner thighs.

    I come on the third stroke, bowing my back and pressing my cheek to the
smooth wood. But you do not stop --- your strokes become shorter, your
wool-covered hips driving your cock into me at various angles, your shaft
scraping every wall of my tunnel. The second time, my orgasm lifts me up on
my toes and forces a cry from my lips as your seed gushes into me.

    We both collapse in temporary exhaustion, me with my breasts against my
numb and frozen hands, you along my back, your teeth bruising the skin
where my neck and shoulder meet. After a moment or two, you relieve me of
your weight and the special sensation of your softened shaft.

    Knowing what you want, I raise my head and turn enough to meet the wet
fingers you are holding out to me. I taste my own juices, and it renews my
desire. By the time my tongue has laved your shaft clean, and half-hard
again, I am breathing shallowly and silently urging you to take me again.

    "No," you answer, re-arranging your clothes. You root around in your
pockets and move back behind me. A soft dry cloth --- your handkerchief?
--- wrapped around two of your fingers cleans me *very* thoroughly, and is
then withdrawn.

    The soft jingling and the long, thick, smooth shape that you push into
my cunt is very familiar to me, and I cannot suppress a sound, half-
passion, half-denial.

    "I thought you might like some company, Veronica," you tease me as you
pull the chair far out of my reach. "I thought you might like you good
friend Catnip to visit you," you continue with a slight chuckle in your
voice, making sure that the remote-controlled vibrator we have nicknamed
"Catnip" is well-seated within me.

    You fasten a slender, specially-designed belt about my waist, buckling
it in the small of my back. Catnip's restraints are next, two delicate
chains that rest in the groove between labia and thigh and are attached to
the dildo vibrator by a short, glove-soft strip of leather passed through a
hole in the base of the device. "We don't want you to lose Catnip," you
remark, attaching the chains to their well-spaced hooks on the waist belt
to insure that Catnip stays put. Once again, the leather thongs nailed to
the edge of the heavy wooden desk are wrapped around my wrists, and then
closely tied to the side loops of the belt, preventing me from rising.

    Catnip begins to vibrate at his lowest, most disturbing frequency,
which arouses but does not sate. I twist my hips and rub my thighs to-
gether, anxious to concentrate enough of the sensation to build to an
orgasm. "Oh, no, Veronica, it can't be so simple," you chide. The next
thing I feel are your hands on my ankles, moving them apart. You lash them
to the inner front legs of the desk, more than three feet apart. To keep my
balance, I must press my chilled breasts into the ice packs.

    "That's better," you tell me, patting my ass. "Just stay there, let
Catnip keep you company while I'm gone, and wait for the swelling to go
down." You kiss me deeply, invading every crevice of my mouth before
walking to the door.

    Already I am writhing under Catnip's ministrations. You open the door,
and then stop. "Oh, by the way, I think I'll set six steaks out to thaw."

    I contort my neck in an attempt to look behind me. "*Six*?"

    Your voice is the epitome of innocence. "Why, yes, didn't I mention it?
... I feel like a party. I'm going down to invite the Sterlings and the
Houstons over for dinner. If you like, I'll send the ladies up to say hello
when they arrive," you promise gaily, closing the door on my gasped
protests.

        ********************************************************

    When you eventually come back, I am in a frenzy stronger than the one
you originally found me in, trying desperately to relieve my lust.

    I don't know how long you watched me from the door; I was too deep in a
lust-filled haze to know much of anything. But I did know when you parted
my buttocks, the dollop of lubricant deposited on my anus hardly having a
chance to land before it was driven into me by your shaft. My inarticulate
scream comes not from pain, but from the sheer pleasure of being so
completely filled.

    Dimly I realize that you are so deep inside me that the wool of your
trousers will leave the pattern of its weave in my skin. The realization is
enough to send me over the edge. The deliverance of my orgasm is such that
I can only shake, paralyzed, a low keening moan that swells from my throat.

    I lie limply on the desk, happy that you are within me, but unable to
move, unable to think. I can still feel, though, and I tremble when you
lean over and lick the rim of one ear. "Better now?"

    I make a small, possibly affirmative sound in my throat.

    "Good," you rasp. Your big hands grip my hips, and you begin to thrust,
long strokes that take you from total penetration to near separation.

    At first, I simply lie there, passive and accepting. But something ---
the motion? The still-humming dildo? Or the need to respond to the master
of my body? I do not know --- rouses me, and arouses me. I begin to meet
the steadily increasing force of your shaft, at first weakly, then, when
your hands find their way to my clit, with escalating enthusiasm. This
time, both our voices call out triumphantly when we come.

    You recover more quickly than I. Sated and languid, Catnip finally
quiet inside me, I watch, smiling, as you untie my arms. I like you in this
considerate mood, and enjoy your tender ministrations. "Lift up a little,"
you murmur. "I have to look at your hands."

    I am tired, but I am able to obey. When my breasts are removed from the
melted icepacks, I gasp --- they are so cold!

    You remove the towel-wrapped icepacks from my hands. The welts do not
look as angry as before. "That's better," you say, slipping your arms
around me. You grip my wrists and, with slow wiggles, pull my still-swollen
fingers free of the staples with less pain than I expect.

    I straighten in the circle of your arms, grateful to lean against your
chest when my legs balk at bearing my weight. You are still examining my
hands. "Do they still hurt?"

    Experimentally, I flex them, and wince. "Yes, Sir --- but not as much
as my breasts!"

    You touch my crinkled nipples. "Brrr!" you agree, warming the nipple
between your thumb and forefinger. "Come on, let's take care of you. Can
you walk?"

    Vainly, I try to suppress a grin, for we both know I would rather be
carried than walk. In an obliging mood, you pick me up, all right --- you
turn me around and toss me over your broad shoulder like a sack of flour,
my hip against your neck, my head swinging at your waist as you stride off
to the bathroom.

    You sit me on the bathroom counter and care for my hands, slathering a
cooling cream on them, and then winding so much gauze around them it looks
as though I'm wearing boxing gloves. I laugh, and make jokes, hoping
foolishly to postpone the next step.

    Finally, you sit on the vanity chair and order me to you. Shyly, I lie
face-down across your lap while you remove Catnip and the restraining
chains, wishing you would not continue. But you do. Your fingers part my
asscheeks once more, and insert the enema syringe. As you fill me once
more, you scold me quietly and thoroughly for letting my correspondence
pile up, gentling your censure with caresses but promising to repeat and
prolong the punishment if I repeat or prolong my rudeness. When I admit in
a shamed little whisper that I can hold no more, you set me on my feet and
fill the bathtub with hot water and my favorite scented oil as I sit
blushing on the toilet.

    With an air of old-world courtesy that somehow does not seem out of
place in this unusual setting, you help me up and into the steaming tub.

    "Wake up, little one," you call for the third time in ten minutes.

    I jerk awake. "Forgive me, Sir," I sigh.

    You squeeze the loofah sponge, sending a cascade of warm water down the
center of my back. "You've had a long and tiring day." Your supporting
hands bracketing my waist help me stand up. "If I put you in bed, do you
think you can stay awake long enough to eat?"

    My stomach reacts to the mention of food, and I realize that I haven't
eaten. Knowing my appetites as you do, you rub my belly playfully. "I
grilled steak," you say lightly, wrapping me in a fluffy, over-sized bath
sheet. "Baked potatoes with plenty of sour cream, and green bean cas-
serole."

    You throw me over you shoulder and pat my buttock. Head down, I grin.
"But nothing sweet?" I say in a pouting tone.

    "I ate all the cookies while I was grilling the steaks," you reply
ruefully.

    The master bedroom in the country house is huge, but the oversized
brass four-poster bed manages to dominate it. You set me down on the edge
of the firm-soft mattress and remove the bath sheet. "Sit here and let the
fire warm you up. Don't go to sleep. I'll be right back."

    I *do* doze off again, but the sound of the door opening brings me
back. You enter balancing a large serving tray on one forearm. I lean
against you and eat steak and drink fine red wine from your hand, since I
cannot handle silverware or wineglasses with my bandaged hands. I laugh out
loud when you explain why the Sterlings and Houstons declined your invita-
tions, and whimper low in my throat when you tug at my nipple and ask if
I'm still cold.

    Your hand claims my breast, and I nuzzle your nipple in turn, sleepy
but willing. After a few moments, though, you stop kneading me. "Not
tonight," you announce staunchly, to yourself as well as me. You release my
teat to turn off the lamp over our heads.

    When you pull me down beside you in the shadowed, flickering light of
the dying fire, I can finally relax. Always, when I annoy you, I wonder if
you'll ever *stay* angry, even after the punishment is complete --- I
wonder until you fit your naked body with mine, pulling my head onto your
chest atop your heart, pushing your knee high between my thighs, capturing
my breast in your hand and rubbing the nipple back and forth absently. When
you do, I breathe once, deeply, filling my nose with your distinctive
scent, snuggle into your warmth, and fall asleep, the smile of the well-
mastered submissive at home on my lips.



                            Yours in submission,
                                 Veronica
