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 And so life continued at its usual pace.  Although I met Shona socially a
few times after that event, it never seemed appropriate to discuss the
events that had taken place in my cellar.  Several times I had met her and
Mike in the pub and she had not been her usual chatty self to say the
least.

   Although part of this was due to her obvious embarrassment, I also think
she preferred to keep the information from Mike, whom she had begun to
'date' on a reasonably regular basis.

   As mentioned, they had both admitted to having slightly submissive
leanings when pressed, so I couldn't help but feel that the relationship
existed for convenience.  Neither of them had had an intimate relationship
for some time, and it was a case of any port in storm.  They were good
friends first and foremost though, so it was unlikely that they would allow
anything to spoil this.  I foresaw the relationship tapering off over a
reasonable short space of time.

   Debbie's role hadn't changed a great deal.  The life of a slave never
does.  She remained obedient to me in every respect, although I had few
chances to test it as far as I had on the night of my dinner party.

   I think that night had underlined our respective positions very
adequately, however.  She had followed my every instruction, even to the
point of humiliating herself publicly.  There had been several witnesses to
her display of slavedom, and nobody, including Debbie, had been left in any
doubt as to her position in the house's pecking order.  There had been no
recent instances of disobedience.  She continued to accept her maintenance
whippings readily, if noisily, and she carried out her duties in the house
to an irreproachable standard.

   With regular and frequent practice, she had become something of an
expert in the art of fellatio, and was able to bring me to the point of
ejaculation in record time, readily accepting the opportunity whenever it
arose, her previous misgivings relating to oral sex seemingly vanished.

   Although I occasionally allowed her into the house itself after dinner,
it was normal for her to spend the long evenings in her cell.  I believed
it helped to continually remind her of her position.

   Recently though I had begun to relent, and had begun to chain her in the
lounge while I went out with friends on Saturday nights.

   I think she believed that I was allowing her this privilege for work
completed during the preceding week, although in truth I was considering
her safety should a fire break out.  Buried deep in the bowels of my home,
it is unlikely that she would have been aware of the fires existence until
it was too late, something I would have had difficult reconciling with my
conscience.  Although she was chained to the large bookcase in my lounge,
in the event of fire breaking out, I believe she would have eventually
ripped the padlock from her clitoris as the fire spread.

   A horrendous thought, but a life saving one none the less.

   It was with this in mind that I would leave her, cross-legged on the
floor, glued to Sky News, the only channel I would allow her to watch, the
rest being blocked by password.

   Every Saturday night, I would roll home, usually the worse for drink,
and find her sitting in the same position I had left her, eager to take me
in her mouth and relieve my tension before I would escort her back to her
cell.

   I felt that this was good for her, whilst the fact that she was viewing
one information channel, naked and chained, reminded her that she was still
enslaved, the rolling news items helped to stimulate her mentally.  I felt
that she had been sufficiently 're-programmed' for me not to have to worry
about this outside influence, and try as I might to find fault in her
behaviour, this small privilege didn't seem to affect her obedience in any
way.

   I for one had begun to lead a more interesting social life than ever.  I
had always made a concerted effort to stay away from 'the scene'.  It
seemed so contrived and affected.  While I could see the attraction of
taking your slave to a fetish club, it seemed to me that this was usually
done as much for the benefit of the slave as his/her owner.  Exhibitionists
and voyeurs mainly attended these venues and everything was done with a
very happy, consensual air.

   I often felt that a great deal of the guest were there because they
enjoyed dressing up.  The concept of these nights was marvellous and
brought a great deal of entertainment to a large number of people, but that
was my point.  It was entertaining.  The life of a slave, a real slave,
could not be described as entertaining.  Fulfilling perhaps, rewarding
even, but never entertaining.

   This didn't stop me attending on my own occasionally, and enjoying the
events for what they were.  I had begun to meet a great many people with
similar leanings to me, although other commitments in their lives prevented
them from pursuing their dreams to the extent I had.  Many of them removed
their leather trousers the next morning only to replace them with
pinstripes, in preparation for the beginning of a busy week at their office
in the city.  Despite this I would spend many enjoyable evenings reclining
in the plush leather chairs, my brandy in my hand, and my feet resting
comfortably on the back of the nearest available slave.

   For obvious reasons, I never took Debbie, the reality and depravity of
her existence would have proved too much for these weekend actors and
actresses, and so I would attend slaveless, preferring to retain my
anonymity as an 'Owner'.  I made a great deal of useful contacts during
this time, swapping e-mail addresses, website addresses and useful numbers.
It seemed that BDSM was alive and very much well in the South of England,
if the amount of addresses mounting up in my diary were anything to go by.

   It was typically British, the way that none of this activity was
apparent on the face of things, but it soon became clear that I wasn't the
only 'genuine' sex slave owner in the UK.  In fact, there were owners in
the South of England who kept their slaves in considerably worse conditions
than me.  I didn't know how much was reality, and how much was urban myth.
But several names cropped up time and again, usually in relation to a
particularly cruel act or punishment used in the 'breaking' of a new slave.

   I didn't see that it was necessary to be as inhumane as that

   After all, although I had whipped Debbie regularly, her training had
relied as much on mental punishment as physical.

   I would nod and smile politely at these revelations of incomprehensible
torture, secretly pleased that I had been able to nurture an obedient slave
without having to inflict such incredibly agonising tuition.

   I mentally pictured her on my whipping bench, her buttocks a network of
fine red lines, each one earth-shatteringly excruciating in its
application, and found it impossible to imagine that a more intense pain
was either possible or necessary.

   On one such occasion, the subject of conversation turned to an
apparently well-known name in the world of sexual slavery, one Karl Leeson.

   My curiosity roused at tales of this man's alleged acts of cruelty
against young women and girls, I began to listen, intrigued by the tales
that followed him.  One of the 'Doms' at this particular club, an amiable
chap in his early forties was more than willing to furnish me with the
details as he had heard them, warning me beforehand that a great deal of
what he was relating was unsubstantiated.

   Karl Leeson, it would seem, had spent a great deal of his life in either
prison or the British army, obsessed with discipline but unable to adhere
to it himself for any length of time.  New recruits had rapidly flourished
under his strict and demanding regime, those that is that stayed the
course. There had been a higher than ever instance of soldiers leaving the
army and disappearing back into society during his period as training
officer, and after a while questions were asked and aspirations cast about
his suitability to train young recruits.  His life outside the confines of
the barracks had also been note-worthy, seemingly spending his spare
evenings paying desperate prostitutes large sums of money in order that he
might flog them, quite literally, tying them securely to an object in their
room before removing his army issue belt and flaying them within an inch of
their lives.  More than one prostitute, emotionally and mentally scarred by
the ordeal, had approached the army with her complaints.  They had all been
paid off, in an attempt to avert a national scandal; and Karl had been
warned to contain his more violent urges, or face expulsion from the
forces.

   The physical and mental punishment he lavished on his recruits served to
satiate his sadistic desires for a while, before inevitably, he began to
once more yearn to continue his ritualistic abuse of the young girls he
favoured.

   One evening, legend had it; drunk and highly-strung, he had once more
visited the redlight district, searching diligently for a prostitute who
didn't recognise his huge, distinctive figure.

   Finally finding a girl who was prepared to accommodate him, they
disappeared into her room.  This time, the girl spent three weeks in the
local hospital, and rather than approach the army with her tale of
brutality, she took her story to the national press, who soon discovered
many more girls willing to relate stories of torture at his hands.

   Inevitably, the army was forced to act, and moved him to a secure unit
for the mentally unstable, the many doctors who questioned him astounded by
his apparent lack of mercy, remorse, or awareness of the terrific pain he
had inflicted on his unfortunate victims.

   It was almost five years before he managed to convince the authorities
that he was a reformed and trustworthy citizen, being discharged from the
hospital gates straight into the waiting car of the Russian government
official that had been sent to 'collect' him.

   His notoriety had reached their ever-attentive ears and they were
prepared to offer him a fantastic sum of money to act as a mercenary,
'disposing' of people who were considered a threat to the communist regime.

   For some considerable time he enjoyed his work, before relations between
Russia and the rest of Europe began to thaw, and he became surplus to
requirements.

   Satisfied that he could never relate any of the things he had carried
out on their behalf, lest he should incriminate himself, they allowed him
to go, severing all connection with him and disposing of any files or
documents that carried his name.

   This is how he found himself back in his native country, a huge amount
of cash (some earned, some appropriated) in his account, and his bloodlust
more prevalent than ever, his experience abroad only serving to develop his
fetish, rather than satisfying it.

   He had bought a large mansion set in considerable grounds in the South
of England, a well known house, well known for the terrible exploits that
occurred within its high, impenetrable walls.  Word had it that many owners
from around the world had taken their slaves to his house, following an
indiscretion that they felt merited a more serious punishment than they
were capable of inflicting.

   Little was known of the slave's fate after being admitted, as owners and
slaves alike were sworn to secrecy before and after leaving his premises.
It would seem that he was not the kind of man that you were likely to
betray, as nobody I found was prepared to speak of the methods he used to
chastise the disobedient slaves, only shuddering visibly at the mention of
his name.

   It was his habit, allegedly, to occasionally visit fetish clubs around
the United Kingdom, searching for naive, ownerless slaves to inflict his
unique brand of training upon.

   It was with interest then, three Saturdays later, that I heard he was at
the bar, sitting alone with his gin and tonic, a area around him of some
ten feet devoid of people, an unusual event in itself, given that the rest
of the club was full to capacity.  I braved the no-mans-land and made my
way over to his side.  Without turning, he spoke, a deep toneless voice,
slightly unnerving me.

   "Mr.  Peacock"

   I started, surprised at his knowledge of my name.

   "You have been asking questions about me?"

   With this he turned, fixing my eyes with his, his dark, thick eyebrows
drawn low over his deep, dark eyes.  It gave him an appearance of being
perpetually angry, although given what I had heard so far, perhaps he was.

   "Yes, I.I was curious"

   "Perhaps you wished to present your slave to me for extra-curricular
training?" "I don't own a slave," I answered easily, used to lying to the
people that surrounded me, keen to protect my anonymity.

   He laughed derisively,

   "You are perhaps one of the worst liars I have ever come across,"

   he stated simply, crushing my confidence and instantly making me wish
I'd never approached him.

   "Ok, so you've uncovered my secret, its just something I don't like to
broadcast.  here" I struggled for an explanation, motioning behind me with
my head.

   He looked briefly round at the overweight executives, trussed up in
leather and steel, cavorting round the club on their hands and knees,
ecstatic at their temporary removal from the world of reality that they
lived with six days a week.

   "I understand," he stated, simply

   Silence fell for a moment, but my curiosity drove me to continue our
conversation

   "I understand you are a slave trainer?"

   He laughed, putting his drink down and turning to me

   "No, YOU are a slave trainer" he stopped to light his cigar "I am a
little more than that"

   I waited patiently as he blew smoke rings through his thick-pursed lips.

   "You are a genuine slave owner right?" I nodded

   "You're not connected with the Saturday night slave contingent"

   I shook my head.

   "My slave is with me full time, she is as genuine a slave as the laws in
this country will permit"

   He paused taking another long draw from the evil smelling cigar as he
pondered my statement.

   "Where is she now then?" he asked, making a show of looking behind us.

   "She.she's at home watching TV." I suddenly felt slightly stupid; I felt
the need to clarify the situation

   "She's chained though, naked, and I restrict her viewing to news
channels, its only one night per week, the rest of the time she's locked.."

   I tailed off, realising I was rambling, running out of ways to convince
this stranger that she lived under anything other than the strictest
conditions.

   He was smiling, showing a set of perfect white teeth.

   "You trust her then?"

   "Y...Yes I suppose I do" I said, slowly.  Trust had never been a word I
had associated with Debbie

   "She is behaving herself in your absence?"

   "I'm sure of it," I said resolutely.

   He didn't answer for a moment, shaking his head slowly and staring deep
into my eyes.  "You are blind or stupid or both my friend.  " he began,

   " A slave left to her own devices will do anything but behave.  She is
putting the time you spend away from her to good use.  Remember, necessity
is the mother of all invention, and from a slave's oppression is born a
devious nature that a master criminal could be proud of.

   When you discover that she has been deceiving you, contact me.  Slaves
rarely disobey again after a short stay at my house" he finished ominously.

   I pocketed the card, more as keepsake of this incredibly charismatic
gentleman, than from the point of view of someone who would ever need his
practical assistance.

   On her short length of chain, glued to the television, I found it
impossible to think of a way in which Debbie could transgress.

   "Television" he repeated to himself, shaking his head again, a note of
incredulity in his voice.

   That was the extent of our conversation that evening, and I returned
home shortly afterwards, the entertaining antics of the club's members
seeming somewhat incongruous after the dark and foreboding conversation I
had just held.

   It was soon forgotten however, and life moved on at its usual pace.

   I held several parties in quick succession, even inviting some of the
less eccentric members of the fetish groups to my home, swearing them to
secrecy before they entered.  It had become apparent that confidentiality
was sacred in these circles, and a Dom's word was his bond.  It was usually
more than his reputation was worth to jeopardise his anonymity.

   Debbie served my guests at all these events, resplendent in her nudity,
occasionally performing for particular guests, always with the same
charming reluctance she had shown the first time.

   It seemed that life could go on forever in this amiable manner, until
near disaster struck, quite unexpectedly, and Karl's words turned out to be
more prophetic than I could ever have imagined.

   It was a Saturday evening, and I had arrived home slightly earlier than
usual, full of high spirits and alcohol.  After enjoying my customary oral
relief, I led my slave to her home in the cellar, before settling down in
front of the television.  It would be fair to say that I watch television
very rarely.  There tends to be very little on that attracts my alternative
tastes, and the set-top box had not been unlocked for about a month,
programmed to show nothing other than Debbie's news channel.

   With some difficulty I remembered my password and began to scan the
channels, flicking briefly through each one.

   At one point I stopped, scarcely able to believe my eyes.

   In front of me was the screen reserved for the primitive e-mail service
that my cable operator supplied, and on it was a message, obviously written
by Debbie, and addressed to one of her old friends.

   I read the text, my blood running cold as I realised that she had
detailed all our activities, even going to the trouble of remembering names
and dates.

   My heart missed a beat

   It was unthinkable that any of these individuals could have their double
lives discovered, the consequences would be catastrophic.

   What's more, the 'trust' that I had spoken of earlier was non-existent.

   While I was out drinking, assuming that my slave was innocently watching
the television, she had used it not only to contact the world outside her
home, but also to jeopardise the careers of my friends.

   I sat back, perplexed and angry.  I needed to think, to find away out of
this mess.

   Debbie cowered at the back of her cell.  She could see from the
expression on my face that I was angry, and she had a fair idea of why.

   She was expecting the hiding of her life, it never came, and instead I
led her naked and un-protesting back to the living room and sat her in
front of the television.

   Up until this point not a word had been passed between us, although her
face became ashen as I flicked through the channels to the offending page.

   Slowly and carefully I explained that she was to write to her friend
once more, explaining that her e-mails had been a work of fantasy, and that
the people she had named had never behaved in the manner she had described.
I had no doubt that her friend would swallow this, as it is much harder to
believe that I have a house full of slave owners than it is to believe that
Debbie was having a bit of fun at her friends expense.  I dictated the
content of the letter to her, allowing her to word the message as she saw
fit, not wanting it to seem contrived.

   She finished by crowing over the fact that she had led her friend into
believing these fantastic messages, and promised to call soon, a promise I
intended to see she could never keep.

   Sure that she was to be whipped within an inch of her life, I led her
back to her cell, gently ushering her into its confines before leaving the
room, her eyes searching mine, desperate to know my intentions and the
manner of punishment she was inevitably going to receive.

   As I sat upstairs, a large brandy in my hand, I breathed a sigh of
relief.  The e-mail should be sufficient to halt any potential problems
that her previous messages might have caused.

   That only left one problem.  Debbie.  The whole concept of keeping her
as a slave had changed; she had crossed the line and broken too many
unwritten rules.

   It astounded me, that despite the obvious pain I inflicted during her
punishments, she was still prepared to risk yet greater punishment by
behaving in this way.  I could not for the life of me fathom a way to
re-dress the balance, as the pain of the switch was obviously not enough?

   The answer occurred to me in an instant, and from the moment it emerged
through the fog in my brain I desperately tried to quash it, but it
remained unflinching and glaringly obvious.

   There was only one road open to me.  Where I had failed as a tutor, only
one man could succeed.  A man with a reputation for training unruly slaves
matched only by his reputation for cruelty.

   I did not see another way to counter the problem.

   With a sinking heart, yet convinced I was doing what was best, I took
the card from my wallet and rang Karl Leeson



   Less than an hour later I was driving us deep into the English
countryside, the map on my passenger seat open at the relevant page, my
slave in the back seat, dressed in the jeans and t-shirt she had originally
arrived in.  I had not told her where we were going, and in fact had not
spoken to her at all since dictating the e-mail to her earlier.

   Realising that we were nearing our destination I decided to explain her
fate.  "You cannot be trusted," I stated, simply, breaking the silence.

   "A slave that you feel must be supervised constantly is little better
than worthless"

   I continued, realising the effect my words must be having.

   I glanced in the rear view mirror, hardening myself against the sight of
her pitiful face, ignoring the apologetic tears that had begun to well in
the corners of her eyes.

   "I am taking you to an expert on this field, somebody I met at the club.
We will be here a week, during which time he will undertake to punish and
correct you as he sees fit.  Do you understand?"

   I twisted in my seat in time to see her nodding reluctantly.  As I
turned back to face the road I spotted the landmark I had been told to
watch for, and slowed the car to a crawl, turning into a tiny lane, little
more than a cart track, and began our ascent up the side of the rolling
hill, the car bouncing from side to side as it rocked up the stony trail

   After an age, by which time I felt as if every filling I owned was
coming loose, we crested the hill, affording us a tremendous view of the
surrounding green countryside.  Like a patchwork quilt the agricultural
land lay before us, a network of hedges and ditches, the roads and paths
below us seeming tiny in the distance.

   There was little sign of habitation, apart from the odd farmhouse in the
far distance, and apart of course from the huge mansion that dominated the
hillside that we about to descend.

   Gingerly picking my way around the potholes, I occasionally risked
taking my eyes off the road for long enough to inspect our destination,
marvelling at the high stone walls that surrounded it, becoming ever higher
as we neared, till they entirely blocked our view of the beautiful home
within.

   As we pulled up at the main gates I spotted what seemed to be an
intercom, and pushing the button on its stainless steel surface was
rewarded with an immediate answer.

   "Drive up to the house" the voice stated simply, prompting me to return
to the car and drive through the menacing steel gates, which had begun to
slide apart on well-oiled runners.

   The road within its confines was much better, the gravel crunching
beneath our tyres as we made our way up the tree lined drive to the front
of the house, pulling up finally at the stone steps that led up to a pair
of the biggest oak doors I believe I have ever seen.  There didn't appear
to be a doorbell of any description, so I prepared to knock, my efforts
curtailed by the fact that one of them was already opening, and an
immaculately dressed butler was beckoning us into the hallway.

   "This way please Sir" he intoned, ignoring the presence of Debbie, who
walked closely behind me, the grandeur of our surroundings adding to her
fear.

   Before long we turned into the drawing room, where our host reclined
casually in a large leather armchair, dressed in suit and tie, a cigar
hanging lazily from his fingers.

   Crossing the room quickly and brushing his well-oiled hair back into
place, he shook my hand, the briefest of smiles flickering across his face,
his handshake brief and firm, his hands strangely cold in the warmth of the
room.

   An open fire flickered welcomingly in the grate, and the walls were
lined with bookshelves.  The neat lines of books were broken up
occasionally by an oil-painting or two, images of haughty stern looking
characters, one or two bearing a striking resemblance to our host, who had
begun to speak again.

   "So this your slave?" he remarked, obviously

   It was the first reference anyone had made to the pretty brunette that
had followed me into the house, conspicuous in her worn denims and thin,
almost transparent t-shirt.  He turned to face her.

   "Strip " he commanded suddenly, the sharp note in his voice causing us
both to jump.  Falteringly, still not entirely accustomed to casting off
her modesty under the gaze of strangers, she began to remove her clothes,
peeling the white t-shirt from her lean, lithe arms self-consciously,
glancing nervously at us both before fumbling with the buttons of her
jeans, sliding them slowly down her firm legs to a crumpled heap on the
floor,

   stepping out of the fabric and allowing her arms to fall to her sides,
her gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

   I felt my-self become aroused at the sight.  It didn't seem to matter
how often I watched her undress, it always excited me.  She seemed
blissfully unaware that her hesitant, embarrassed, reluctant movements gave
the whole performance an air of intense eroticism.

   "Hands on your head!" He barked, obviously quite used to this sort of
procedure.  Slowly, Debbie did as she was asked, her breasts being drawn up
and out by the movement, as if inviting our inspection.

   He walked directly towards her, briskly kicking her ankles apart, and
without further ceremony or warning, drove his index finger forcibly up and
into her sex.

   Debbie 's hips bucked violently, surprised by the sudden and painful
intrusion, and she let out an indignant yelp, the rough skin of his finger
grating against her dry, unyielding labia He began to explore her vagina,
probing and massaging, before extracting it and eyeing it with disdain.

   Almost absentmindedly, he pushed the tip of his soiled finger into
Debbie's mouth, forcing her to clean it.

   "You don't abuse this hole, evidently" it was more of a statement than a
question.  I shook my head, slightly disconcerted by his uninvited
inspection of my property.  "Bend over slave!  Touch your toes," he
commanded, again in the forceful tone that seemed to command obedience.

   Casting a wild glance at me, she did as she was ordered, her legs still
spread, her fingertips touching her delicate pink toes, her calves
stretched taut, the soft skin of her thighs smooth and shimmering in the
firelight, her pink puffy labia protruding shamelessly from between the V
of her splayed legs, and above this, her anus, the object of his attention.

   Carelessly spitting on his index finger he placed it upon the tight bud
of her sphincter, before again pushing it home, his fingernail mercilessly
scratching the tender virgin flesh as it entered

   This brought a shrill shriek from Debbie, who had never experienced the
sensation of a foreign object entering such a sacred part of her anatomy.

   Karl threw her a disdainful look, removing his finger, and pulling her
upright by the back of her hair.

   "More un-chartered territory?" he commented to me, sarcastically, again
proffering his finger to Debbie's lips.  This time she hesitated, loath to
do as she was being asked.

   "SUCK, SLUT!" Karl commanded, abruptly, reddening slightly with
irritation.

   I began to see how he had earned his reputation.  He seemed to have a
very volatile temper indeed, switching from amiable to furiously angry in
the blink of an eye.  Fearful of the consequences, and filled with
trepidation at the thought of what further pain this powerful man might
inflict upon her, she complied, dutifully sucking at the flesh until he
drew away, drying his hands on the spotless handkerchief drawn from his
jacket pocket.

   Ringing a small bell on the mantelpiece, the doorman reappeared almost
instantly, standing to attention, awaiting further instruction.

   "Take her to the preparation room" he ordered "oh yes, and take these
ridiculous garments with you!"

   He kicked at the small pile of clothes Debbie had removed with apparent
disgust, turning to resume his seat by the fire and motioning me to sit in
the similar chair opposite.

   As the Butler disappeared from the room, Debbie's discarded garments in
one hand, held away from his body as if they were infected somehow, and a
terrified, mortified Debbie in the other, his fingers circling her upper
arm, propelling her gently but firmly towards her fate .  I felt obliged to
speak.

   "I." Karl held up his hand, silencing me in an instant.

   "Don't worry" he began, a half smile upon his lips "We'll take good care
of her"

   Perhaps it was his brusque, offhand manner, or maybe the glint in his
deep black eyes, but I drew little comfort form his words .  "What methods
of correction do you intend applying?" I asked, trying to sound casual. 
"She will be whipped several times a day" he began, in the tone of voice a
waiter may use to inform a customer of the contents of the menu.

   "We will brand her with your initials later in the week" he continued,
smiling as my eyebrows began to rise

   "It looks quite attractive when it heals" he added, soothingly.

   "Anything else?" I asked, with feigned nonchalance,

   "Oh, there will be plenty of time to discuss the curriculum later" he
said, vaguely.

   "Now perhaps you would like to see your slave being whipped properly?"

   His emphasis on the word properly both angered me and worried me.  He
was at once suggesting that I was incapable of delivering appropriate
levels of punishment upon my slave, and at the same time insinuating that
her forthcoming beating was likely to be extremely severe at best.

   There had never been any crisis of confidence on my part.  During the
considerable time I had spent training Debbie I had never questioned the
fact that was I was doing was right.  Now however, walking alongside this
infamous gentleman's measured tread, I was beginning to question my own
judgement.  Perhaps I had been a little hasty in contacting this man. 
Perhaps the legends about the severity of his punishments were not as
exaggerated as I had assumed.  Perhaps I would have felt better dealing
with my slaves disobedience myself, instead of entrusting her correction to
a man I knew so little about.  Perhaps I was worrying unnecessarily, I told
myself, forcibly banishing any doubts from my mind.

   Besides, the thought of a discreet brand on my slave was not altogether
displeasing.  A short walk later, and I Was prompted to enter a door marked
'viewing area' which I pushed open, to find a semi-circular arrangement of
soft leather armchairs, all radiating towards one blank, black shiny wall.

   Karl had left me as I entered the room, and it was with some surprise
that I heard his muffled voice, seemingly coming from the smooth wall.

   "Lights!" It boomed.

   In an instant it became clear that the wall was in fact not a wall at
all, but a piece of clear plate glass, appearing solid until the lights
behind it were switched on, instantly rendering it transparent.

   I consider myself to be reasonably levelheaded, and not given to
unnecessary melodrama, but the sight that was offered to my incredulous
eyes caused my heart to skip a beat.

   The window offered a view onto a room not unlike a squash court.  The
room I occupied was half way up one wall, offering a perfect vantage point
from which to view the proceedings.  The room itself was about the size of
a tennis court, as if viewed from its end, and the floor was of polished
wood, reflecting the intensely bright halogen spotlights that littered the
high ceiling.

   The walls were stark white, only serving to amplify the feeling of
brightness.  It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the change in
light.

   It was then that I spotted Debbie.

   From the centre of the ceiling hung along thick chain, disappearing into
the ceiling and presume ably attached to a winch.

   Her delicate wrists were bound in leather cuffs and connected to the
chain's end.  Even as I watched the chain had begun to shorten, rising
noiselessly into the ceiling, taking her weight and then slowly lifting her
feet from the floor, her toes reluctantly leaving the safety of the wooden
floor, and pawing uselessly at thin air.

   With a start I realised that to add to her suffering she was also
blindfolded, and in her mouth sat a large ball gag, something I had never
felt it necessary to use.

   She was sobbing, more from fear than pain I assumed, although it would
not be many minutes before the taut burning sensation in her shoulders and
arms became acutely painful.

   She swung gently, tiny and alone in the centre of the huge room, her
naked, slim body incongruous in the austere surroundings.  As I watched,
keen to know how the events would unfold, she struggled slightly, the bonds
already cutting into her flesh, the cramp in her shoulders already
beginning to show.  I had never suspended her.

   From a hidden, unmarked door in the sterile walls walked Karl.  Walking
slowly towards Debbie, nodding curtly at me, hidden from view behind the
glass, he began to uncoil the whip he was carrying.

   For a moment I stood motionless, horrified, for as he unleashed yard
after yard of the long thick leather tail it became apparent that it was a
Bullwhip, specifically designed for use on the thick, leathery,
impenetrable hides of cattle.  Surely he couldn't expect to use the same
tortuous instrument on my slave?

   Karl began to test his barbaric instrument, cracking it expertly on the
shiny wooden floor.  At this, Debbie began to writhe in her bonds,
oblivious to the growing pain in her wrists, aware only of the fearful
sounds that echoed around her.

   Suddenly and with the utmost conviction, I regretted my decision.

   I should have dealt with the problem myself, isolated her in her cell,
and stopped her minimal privileges, anything, but not this.

   I fought with my conscience, wildly wondering how I could stop the
inevitable torture that was about to unfold before my eyes.  Short of
running from the room and finding the entrance to the chamber below,
wrenching the whip from his grasp, I could not see an escape.  Trying to
contain my mounting anxiety, I headed for the door, wrenching with growing
concern at the handle as I realised it was locked.

   From behind me, muffled by the thick glass, I heard the whip crack once
more, this time with a different note.  A sickening, thudding crack.

   I rushed back to the window, pushing my palms and face against the cold
glass, like a child looking into a sweet shop window, both desperate and
loath to see what result it had had on my slave.  Instantly I turned away,
incapable of allowing my eyes to rest on the scene.  Unable to scream, the
ball gag only allowing muffled cries, my slave spun gently round from her
chain, as she spun full circle the extent of the damage became obvious. 
Starting from a point a little below her left shoulder, and ending below
her left buttock was a long thick reddening line, already beginning to
swell.

   I walked to the back of the room, unable to see the hapless girl
spinning below me, listening helplessly as the whip sounded once more, in
an instant delivering more pain than my largest switch was capable of
administering in a week.

   I tried the door again, testing its strength with my shoulder, to no
avail.  It was as solid as the plate glass that offered a view of the
macabre events below me.  Unable to watch, and powerless to intervene I
listened with horror as the whip fell again and again, the space between
its measured, ear shattering rifle-shots interrupted only by my slaves
gurgling whines and the soft, almost inaudible voice of Karl, as he taunted
her.

   "You'll behave now bitch"

   CRACK!!!!!!!

   "You'll learn the hard way."

   CRACK!!!!!!!

   CRACK!!!!!

   "If it's the last thing I do"

   CRACK!!!!!!

   Incapable of intervening, close to tears myself as I listened to the
muffled cries for mercy coming from my slave, I pushed my palms over my
ears, unable to listen to the horrifying noise any longer.

   Slowly, after several moments, I pulled my hands from my head, realising
that the noise had stopped.

   I walked tentatively to the window, unsure as to what awaited me.

   Karl had gone, and although Debbie was still cuffed to the chain, it had
been lowered enough to enable her toes to touch the ground, enabling her to
take fraction of the weight of her tiny wrists, preventing permanent damage
to the joints in her shoulders and arms.  As I stared, transfixed, Karl had
entered the seemingly unlocked door, and stood at my left shoulder.

   I turned to face him, unable to express my feelings.

   "You.You." I stuttered red faced, relieved that Debbie remained alive at
least.

   Speechless, I turned back towards my slave.  As she slowly revolved at
the end of the chain, I saw the full extent of the punishment.

   Karl had not restricted himself to her buttocks and back.  His blows had
failed to discriminate specific areas, and her body looked as though she
had been plunged into scalding water.  Every inch of her seemed to have
been damaged by the whip, her flesh bruised and angry, a network of thick
scarlet lines, and each one more intensely painful in its application than
I could possibly conceive.

   Even her breasts had not escaped, and I cringed as I tried to imagine
the agony that she must have endured as the thick, stiff, leather whip had
laid its stinging, destructive surface across such tender sensitive skin

   Noting my dumbfounded expression, he began to speak, his voice soothing
in the quiet of the comfortable room.

   "Perhaps a little more severe than the punishment you are inclined to
administer?" "A little!" I uttered incredulously

   "Little and often is not a maxim I find applicable to slave training" he
continued, ignoring my criticism

   "I find that infrequent, yet intense sessions have amore lasting
effect."

   I shook my head, unable to accept that the barbaric scene I had just
witnessed could be justifiable.  For the first time I had begun to feel
pity for my slave.  Nothing she could have done could warrant such torture.

   "However" he continued brightly, interrupting my thoughts, "The initial
punishment is always most severe, acts as a bit of awake up call" he
smiled, a twinkle in his eye.

   Despite his attempt at levity, I felt far from cheerful, and made him
aware of it

   "Patience." he reprimanded,

   "You must allow my treatment time to take effect, after all it was you
who brought her to me, you must have felt she needed some sort of
specialist training"

   He was right.  I was responsible for her current condition.  Although I
could not have known the form or severity this madman's punishment, I had
delivered her into his hands, and must accept responsibility for the
consequences.

   I thought back to Debbie's disobedience, seemingly an age ago.  It still
filled me with anger.

   "You say this is the worst punishment she will receive?" I asked,
beginning to crack.  "Yes, of course, I mean, how much more could she
take?"

   I nodded reluctantly.  It seemed I had little choice than to let the
events run their course.  As we walked out of earshot of the room, away
down the plush, carpeted corridor that led to the dining room, I was too
far way to hear her anguished screams for help, audible even through her
gag, as the butler poured the first bucket of salty, antiseptic, ice-cold
water across the angry scarlet wounds across her back.