Progressive Discipline Ch. 02

Trembling, she stepped off the elevator alone onto the sixth floor with a full minute to spare, and immediately headed for Suite 602. She saw absolutely no one else walking around, no sounds coming from the hallway other than the cold electric buzz of the fluorescent overheads. It occurred to her that she'd never been on the sixth floor before, had never had a reason to do so. Gathering her courage, she raised her hand to knock on the door. Lowered it. Raised it again, shaking. Right as her knuckles made contact with the door, she heard a soft click and the door swung inward.

A rather dour, non-descript middle-aged man peered up at her from behind thick glasses, silent. He sat at the desk in the front of the suite, the lone furnishing in the room. No computer on the desk. No art on the walls. Not a single company logo to be seen anywhere. The room was lit by a solitary overhead ballast above the desk. She regarded her surroundings with trepidation - none of this was doing anything to assuage her fear of what was about to transpire. The middle-aged man glanced nervously at his watch, and then finally spoke in a quavering voice.

"Your instructions are to go into the next room, undress completely, and oil yourself. Then put on the clothing left for you in there. After you have dressed, you will assume the proper position. Wait. He will send for you."

The man rose from the desk, and he walked toward her with a stooped gait. Stopped directly in front of her, his eyes swimming in the fishbowl lenses of his glasses. His breath was stale, tie and jacket rumpled and stained. He briefly appraised her, and then walked past her and out of the suite without so much as another word. She heard the lock shut behind her with a snick, and then the jangle of keys, an invisible bolt shot. She was locked in.

For just a moment, she looked around at the complete sterility of this room. No windows looking into the hallway. No exterior windows. She lingered for just a moment, tracing her fingertips over the slightly dusty top of the desk. Realizing there was nothing else to look at, she slowly walked into the next chamber, a mixture of fear and anticipation churning in her stomach.

Like the room she had just left, this one was completely bare of decoration and furniture. Also practically no light -- a single fluorescent ballast just above the door. Only two things were in the room, and both were obviously meant for her. One was a floor-length mirror resting against the wall. The other was an ordinary black garment bag suspended from a coat hook just inside the door, the sort of thing executives traveled with in every airport in the world. But the contents inside that bag were anything but ordinary. As she slowly unzipped the suit bag, the smells of fresh vinyl and leather permeated the air. She removed the articles, appraising each one as she laid it on the floor, trying to inventory what she was about to have to put on: a very thin vinyl halter top. Something that could only be a vinyl microskirt. Studded leather wrist- and ankle-cuffs. A collar. A blindfold. A red ball gag, replete with head strap. Lastly, from the bottom of the bag, a pair of impossibly long, impossibly straight thigh-high lace-up boots, with what had to be a six-inch high heel and no discernible place where the foot angled away from the ankle. She saw the rounded toe of the boot, and imagined a ballerina en pointe, feet fully extended from the ankle, and realized that was exactly what these were -- ballet boots. Not meant for dancing, either. These would be torture to walk in, and she grimaced as the thought crossed her mind that the boots might very well be the least painful experience of the evening.

Along with the boots in the bottom of the bag, she found a small bottle of baby oil. And she knew from past experiences what this was for -- vinyl and latex garments did not pull well over dry skin, and could chafe when it did. She left the bottle in the garment bag for the moment; she had to undress first. She pulled her apron's strings at the small of her back, feeling it loosen from her waist. She carefully loosened it from her collar, slipped it over her head and headband, and hung it over the hook with the suit bag. She kicked off her shoes and white ankle socks, and then unfastened her pants. She pushed them down her hips, letting them slide to the floor, and stepped out of them. Then the still-damp panties rolled down the white skin of her now bare bottom, over her supple thighs, and to the floor, joining her pants. Her hands rubbed up and down her bottom, less for pleasure than for apology and comfort, because she knew that it was going to be extremely sore very soon. She then placed her hands at her neck, unbuttoning the collar of her polo shirt, grasped her shirttail, and pulled it over her head. Now standing in only her bra, she shivered slightly with anticipation as single droplet of moisture beaded from between her thighs and rolled down one leg. Hastily, she undid the clasp between her breasts, freeing them as she shrugged the garment back from her shoulders. Completely nude, she bent down to retrieve her clothes, and she carefully folded everything, placing each item in the bottom of the bag. Almost as an afterthought, she stripped her watch from her wrist and pulled the headband backwards and off, tucking both into the pocket of her apron. This she suspended from the clothes hanger, zipping the bag shut, effectively encasing her persona in a shroud of nondescript black plastic, sealing it away until later (after...) when she would retrieve herself and her identity. For right now, she was no one. She had no name, no personality. She was merely "slave" or "slut". And she now belonged to Him.

She now stood before the mirror, examining herself. Her breasts were not overly large, but they were firm and perky, much like her personality. Skin pale white, only an occasional freckle here and there to mar an otherwise porcelain landscape. A flat but undefined tummy, the darkness of her navel a stark contrast. The low-trimmed triangle of her dark pubic hair, stopping just above the cleft of her labia, which were completely bare all the way back to the cleft of her buttocks. He had insisted on her waxing this area after their third session, and of course she had complied. Fortunately, she found a spa discreet enough to handle celebrity clientele, but it had still hurt like hell having her pubic hair ripped from the roots around the sensitive skin surrounding her most delicate parts.

She knew she had time -- she was quite certain he was watching her via some discreetly installed security camera, and would not send for her until she was dressed and ready for him. She reached for the baby oil, opened it, and squirted the sweet-smelling slippery lubricant into her cupped palm. She started with her feet and ankles, bending from the waist, working the oil into her skin carefully, diligently. She moved up to her calves, her knees, and finally her thighs, massaging her skin, careful to make sure every inch of skin was completely saturated. Her fingers continued upwards, coating the skin of her inner thighs, her hips, and her ass. She was careful not to touch her mound any more than necessary as she spread the oil over it -- she was already very moist and sensitive, and overstimulating her sex was likely to push her over the edge.

She finished rubbing the oil into her hips, over her belly, and then concentrating on her breasts and back. She had worn this halter before, and she knew what to expect this time. Her nipples were erect, swollen nubs glistening with oil and sweat as she applied coat after coat over them, preparing them for whatever the Big Boss had planned. She finished by rubbing a copious amount of the oil into her neck, along her cheeks, and into her forehead. Glancing in the mirror again, her skin white, luminous, and shining in the light above her head, she looked like a naked, nameless seraph, something pure and otherworldly. Something innocent. Something for him to shatter later.

She examined the collection of vinyl and latex garments, deciding what to put on first. She knew that the boots were going to be a bitch-kitty to put on and stand in, so she set those to the side. She plucked up the microskirt, stepped into it, and wriggled her hips as the material rolled and slid into place -- without the oil coating her skin, it never would have gone on at all. Her thighs were bound together in the vinyl sheath -- the material was stretched taut across them. Next she slipped the halter over her head, struggling to get her arms through the straps. She fought with the bottom edge of it, unable to pull it down under her breasts. Impatient, she snatched up the baby oil and squirted it over her chest, coating it, rubbing it into her tits roughly. With a final yank and twist, it slid into place, crushing her chest into a form resembling that of an S&M Barbie doll -- plastic, formed, and molded in place. The black vinyl of the halter and skirt creaked as she moved inside it, and she bit down on her lower lip as she regarded the ballet boots waiting patiently on the floor beside her. The laces were loose enough for her to slide into them, but she would have to put them on from a sitting position. Grunting, she knelt down, knees pressed together, uncomfortable enough in what she was wearing already. She maneuvered herself down to the floor, legs protruding out in front of her, and picked up the left boot. She struggled to bend her legs properly to get into the boots, and she was sure he was probably laughing at the images of her plight on the security monitor he was watching. Once she finally had her feet planted in them, she began to tighten the laces, eyelet by eyelet. If a single stitch was turned or gapped, he would be displeased. Besides, she was a perfectionist, and that part of her psyche didn't stay in the suit bag with her nametag and white company-logo-emblazoned apron. Her fingers worked carefully but deftly, tugging each lacing tight, twenty-nine eyelets on each side of the boot, beginning at the midpoint of her extended foot and rising up the patent leather over her shin, her knee, and ending at mid-thigh, leaving a mere inch of material above the final pair of eyelets. She then repeated the process with the other boot, again, carefully but deftly. She was again grateful for the baby oil she had been allowed, as she needed to coat her knees and thighs again to get the boots situated just so. She finished tying the laces on her right thigh, looked down, and admired her work. She thought the boots made her legs look incredibly beautiful -- straight, black, shiny, the toes pointed severely in front of her, the heels spiking down forever. The skirt gathered underneath her was so brief; she could feel the nap of the carpet against her exposed ass and labia as she moved. She bent over again, reaching for her ankle-bracelets, and buckled them around the boots.

"How am I supposed to get UP from here?" she wondered with mild amusement, trying to rock herself over onto her stomach so she could stand. The patent leather creaked and bit severely into the backs of her knees as she pushed back into a kneeling position, making her gasp with pain, and she slowly rocked backwards onto the high-spiked heels, straightening her knees as she stood. As she lifted her torso, the halter protesting noisily, she gasped with pain as her weight settled down onto her heels and toes. Sharp agony greeted her with every stunted step in these monstrous boots. She realized she still had a few more items to don before she was completely prepared for him. The leather wrist cuffs, collar, blindfold, and the gag. She bent down again, struggling to maintain her balance and not fall on her face, and carefully picked up each item one by one, tucking them into the narrow valley between her breasts and the halter so she only had to bend over and stand up once. She fastened the collar around her neck, then pulled on the blindfold, letting it hang loosely around her neck to be placed last. She attached the wrist cuffs one at a time. Finally, she placed the straps of the ball gag over her head, situating them carefully, watching herself in the mirror as she adjusted them into place across her forehead, her cheeks, behind her ears. The only thing she did not do was put the ball in her mouth -- that right was reserved for Him alone.

She regarded her reflection once more before lifting the blindfold over her eyes. She no longer resembled the seraph, or some innocent angel glowing with light. She now looked like a prisoner -- the wrist cuffs waiting to be chained together, joined to her collar, the severe boots adding several inches to her height, the red lipstick she wore now the slash of a whore's mouth below the straps of the gag. He will be pleased, she thought, and she settled the blindfold into place. Head down, back and ass pressed against the wall, she stood with her wrists pressed together in front of her. Now, all there was left to do was wait for whatever the Big Boss had in store for her.