Sweet Gwendoline Ch. 18

Amesbury ordered me to start serving the canapes. And as I stood in silent horror, Mistress, Barletta, Lyndsay and the other free women at the table began to debate the merits of punishing me for being a bad daughter.

I hesitated but then obeyed, cringing anew at every order, as Mistress Barletta, Amesbury and Lyndsay forced me to display my naked body in front of my mother. It was horribly embarrassing, in addition to being darkly exciting.

My heart pounded like a wild thing in my chest, however, I dutifully went around the table, serving food and clearing away plates, trays and platters as the meal progressed. Lyndsay, my mother and the other women talked about me as if I weren't even there, discussing my strong emotional need to be abused, dominated, humiliated and punished, as well as the degrading things that had already been done to me in Mistress Barletta's home.

I could feel my face heat up as my embarrassment deepened, however I could also feel the sexual heat between my legs increase to a feverish level. My vagina throbbed and became so wet that it was literally dripping. This of course, increased my humiliation as my labia became visibly engorged, and slick with my own juices. My arousal was shamelessly on display for everyone to see. I didn't even have any pubic hair to help obscure my inflamed nether lips. Lyndsay had found a way to more fully immerse me into the exciting reality of what it meant to be a slave. It humiliated me in a way that I had never experienced before. At the same time, it also created a pulsing fire within my loins.

Riley and I were carrying piles of dirty plates into the kitchen, and Justine was getting ready to serve dessert, when I heard my mother say, "Whip my own daughter? I don't think so."

Then I heard Mistress Barletta respond, "I'll make you a deal. Your daughter is going to be punished anyway. I was thinking sixty lashes with the single tail whip. But if you're willing to wield the whip yourself, we can lower it down to thirty."

Amesbury put me to work in the kitchen after that, so I was unable to hear the remainder of the conversation, however, my whole body flushed hot at the thought of what they were discussing. Whipped by my own mother? That would be so barbaric and humiliating!

As I stood over the sink and washed dishes under Amesbury's close supervision, I felt a soft, wet pulse in my sex. It would be degrading, but that was exactly the sort of abasement I was expecting when Lyndsay singed me up to be a naked prisoner in Mistress Barletta's home.

That night as I lay in bed with Justine, I found sleep elusive. The thought of being whipped by my own mother filled me with a sense of dread and mortification. Justine could see that I was troubled and asked me why I was so distraught. I explained the snatches of conversation I had heard, and she whispered back that she'd heard of such things happening in Mistress Barletta's house before.

"I'm not surprised," Justine whispered back, "This is the way Mistress Barletta thinks. Physical punishments aren't enough. She likes to cause emotional suffering as well."

"But my own mother," I protested, conveying my outrage softly, so as not to alert the guards.

"Debasing yourself before strangers is one thing," Justine whispered, "But Mistress Barletta thinks it's much more delicious to debase her slaves in front of their siblings or their best friends. Although this is the first time I've ever heard of her humiliating a slave by having her own mother be the one responsible for the debasement."

Justine held me close as I wallowed in emotional turmoil. I felt utterly helpless, and far too miserable for sleep, although eventually I must have drifted off as I remember dreaming.

* * *

My dream was based on real-life events. In my dream, I was eighteen years old and living at home with my mother. I had borrowed my neighbor's car to attend a Comicon in San Diego. I got Gigi Edgley's autograph and had a great time. Unfortunately, somebody stole my neighbor's car while I was inside the convention, and I got into trouble for leaving the car unlocked in an unattended garage.

In real life, I called the police and they recovered the car quickly. My neighbor had a LoJack in her car, and the police were able to track the car to its exact location and retrieve it. It took less than an hour and nobody got hurt. My mother gave me a stern lecture on responsibility, and that was the end of it.

My dream took real life events and blurred them with wicked eroticism. In my dream, Ms. Bednarz didn't have LoJack in her car and my mother was furious that I had allowed my neighbor's car to be stolen. I still got a stern lecture on responsibility, but in addition to the lecture, I was sentenced to a painful and humiliating punishment.

"Elaine is a friend of mine," my mother said, "and your negligence has damaged my friendship with her. Do you have any idea of the spot you've put me in?"

"I'm sorry, Mom," I said penitently, "I really, really am."

"Sorry isn't good enough this time," my mother said sternly, "This time I'm afraid there will have to be consequences. I've invited Elaine over. And when she gets here, you're going to be punished. It's important that she knows I'm not being lenient with you, so I asked her to be a witness."

Time moves differently in dreams, and Elaine Bednarz arrived in my mother's home a fraction of a second after my mother told me that she had been invited over. Ms. Bednarz was a petite woman with a pixie haircut. She was one of the least intimidating women I had ever met, but in my dream, she looked severe and had a pitiless look in her eyes.

"She'll receive eighteen swats," my mother explained to Ms. Bednarz, "The number of swats is equal to her age. That way she knows as she gets older, her punishments will get longer and longer. It gives her more incentive to behave as she gets older."

"That seems like a practical system," Ms. Bednarz opined, "I hope Gwen appreciates how much thought you've put into this."

Next I was ordered to take off my pants. It was embarrassing unbuckling my belt, unzipping my pants and stepping out of my jeans with Ms. Bednarz and my mom watching, but apparently not embarrassing enough.

"Panties too," my mother insisted, "I have no intention of spanking your cotton and spandex panties. It's not a real punishment unless its inflected on bare skin. Now, take them off."

I felt my face flush hot with embarrassment, however, my mother's voice had a severity to it that I'd never heard before. There was iron in that voice, it didn't sound like the sort of voice with which I could argue, so I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and pushed them down to where I could step out of them.

Adding to my humiliation was the fact that I had recently taken to shaving my vulva. It made me feel clean and well-groomed, but it also left my pubic lips bare and shamelessly on display. With my labia so bare and exposed, I felt I was in some sort of pornographic exhibit. I felt exposed and vulnerable with my next-door neighbor seeing me like this.

"That was sensible of you," Ms. Bednarz said, "The spanking will sting more if she doesn't have any fabric protecting her backside from your hand, but I have one small request."

"Yes?" my mother asked.

"I'd like for her to remove her shirt and her bra as well."

"Whatever for?" my mother asked, "It's not like those things can interfere with her spanking in any way."

"It will help to humiliate her," Ms. Bednarz replied, "And the more humiliating the punishment, the more likely Gwen will remember what's been done to her today."

My mother took a few seconds to consider this request and eventually decided that the extra added humiliation would do me good. And when I stood fully naked in front of my next-door neighbor, she

at last agreed that I was ready to be properly punished for my misdeeds.

Ms. Bednarz had always been a warm and welcoming woman, I was shocked at her sudden cold, malevolent attitude towards me. I laid across my mother's lap and had a few seconds to consider my neighbor's unexpected transformation when suddenly a harsh crack of my mother's hand across my backside took me by surprise.

My mother had never spanked me before in my life and I was amazed at the amount of force behind my mother's hand as it spanked my defenseless bottom. I gritted my teeth and tried not to cry out in front of these two older women, not wanting to appear weak or undignified, however, the blows came so quickly and so mercilessly that soon I was choking back sobs.

There was an unexpected pause in the brutal spanking of my poor bottom and I heard my mother say, "Gwen, I need you to arch your back for me. If this spanking is going to do you any good, I need your hindquarters raised up high. I need them to be on display as much as possible."

I wasn't keeping count, but my bottom was already throbbing with scalding heat as I arched my back and raised my bottom up for my mother. My obedience towards my mother was promptly rewarded with a series of stinging spanks directed at the sensitive spot where the lower curve of my buttocks intersected with the backs of my thighs.

"Aaaaaaghhhhhhhh," I screamed shamelessly as my mother mercilessly reddened my sore buttocks and the backs of my thighs. I kicked and squirmed across my mother's lap as I my poor bottom was turned red by my surprisingly strong tormentor.

My vision was blurry with tears when the spanking paused, I felt my mother's hand on the small of my back. Then I heard her admonishing voice as it said, "Arch your back, Gwen. If I must tell you again, I'm going to double your punishment."

"Much better, dear," my mother said, when my bottom was raised up indecently high. And then a flurry of stinging blows came down across my thighs. I was naked, crying, my abused buttocks felt red, and my next-door neighbor was standing there watching, with an unobstructed view my degradation.

When the punishment was finally over, my poor bottom and the backs of my thighs felt is if they had been cooked over an open flame. I sobbed and I whimpered in agony, and I stood on wobbly legs when my mother told me that I could get up off her lap.

"I'm very proud of the way you accepted your punishment, Gwen," my mother told me, "You didn't argue or beg. You just did as you were told. You did exactly what a good, penitent daughter should do in a situation like this."

My mother hugged me, pressing her clothed body into my naked one. Then, Ms. Bednarz proceeded to hug me and as her arms were wrapped loving round my naked torso, she said, "You were very brave to go through all that without complaining. I forgive you."

"Still friend?" I asked, my voice choked with sobs.

"Still friends," Ms. Bednarz confirmed.

* * *

At some point I woke up, the details of my dream echoing through my head. It was a powerful dream, and I struggled to dissect its meaning. I feel that all dreams have meaning and as I lay there on my dark prison cell, I tried to piece together what my subconscious was trying to tell me.

By the time one of the guards showed up to let me out of my cell, I decided that the message had been about the appropriateness of being whipped by my mother. After all, my mother was an authority figure in my life. And submitting to authority figures was an important part of my core identity.

I was hoping that my whipping would be all about punishment and not cross the line into sex. For me, cruel punishments and libidinous activities sort of melded together, but when my mother was the one administering it, I was hoping that my whipping would strictly be about pain and contrition. I was willing to be contrite and obedient, I was hardwired for that, but incest with my mother would take me way outside of my comfort zone.

I drifted off to sleep again, but at some point my slumber was rudely disturbed by the sound of a compelling female voice calling out, "Up girls! Get on your feet!"

It was a woman in a security guard's uniform. It was a smart-looking uniform with a visored cap, black leather boots and a tactical belt. I noticed that there was no gun holster on her tactical belt, however there was a whip clipped to it. The combination of the whip and the authoritarian voice inspired instant obedience in both Justine and me.

"The two of you need to be handcuffed before I let you out of the cell," the guard informed us, "So get over here and turn around."

Justine and I were made to stand up against the bars of the cell, with our hands behind our backs. We awkwardly protruded our hands through the bars and the guard handcuffed our wrists behind our backs. It wasn't until we had lost the use of our hands that the guard unlocked the door to our cell.

Another guard showed up and I was escorted (along with Justine) to a large bathroom where two of Mistress Barletta's maids were prepared to wash and groom us.

Mistress Barletta doesn't think that slaves should be allowed to bathe or groom themselves. She seems to think it will increase a slave's feelings of helplessness if we're never allowed to bathe in private, shave our own legs or touch our own bikini region with a razor.

When I had been bathed, shaved, dried, brushed and anointed with scented oils, one of the guards told me that I was to be whipped. Justine was informed that she would be a witness.

Mistress Barletta believes that every punishment should be a spectacle. She feels that guests should witness punishments for the inherent entertainment value, and that other slaves should witness punishments for the feelings of dread it will inspire when their time comes.

I was led into a windowless room and told to stand underneath a trapeze bar. Justine was brought into the room as well, however she was made to stand near the far wall. She was meant to be a spectator, not to be part of the show. My handcuffs were unlocked, and the guard watched me for any sign of rebellion or panic.

"Please, raise your arms Ms. Schön," one of the guards said, and the other guard pushed a button to make the trapeze bar descend. The bar was lowered until it was approximately at eye level. Two guards then flanked me and then proceeded to buckle the leather straps around my wrists that would make me helpless.

I embraced my helplessness as the two uniformed guards looped the straps around my wrists and buckled each of them tight to hold my hands two feet apart above my head.

"A few guests have been invited to witness your punishment," one of the guards informed me, "I'm not sure how long before they get here, but your whipping can't start until everyone is here."

My wrists were bound to the trapeze bar, but the bar remained where it was. I speculated that they were waiting for the guests to arrive before they raised it again. I had a few moments to wonder how long I might have to wait, when Mistress Barletta strode into the room.

"Ah, Lyndsay's delightful slave-girl," Mistress Barletta said cheerfully, "How are we this morning?"

She stood directly in front of me and lifted my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. She was a strong, self-confident woman and her gaze was intense. Looking into her eyes sent a disconcerting chill down my spine.

"Frightened, Mistress," I confessed, "I've been told that I'm to be whipped."

The authoritarian woman then placed her hand between my thighs. Her wicked fingers proceeded to brush up and down across my sensitive labia and two of her fingers penetrated me and forced their way into my wet vagina.

"Frightened, and yet aroused at the same time?"

"It happens that way with me, Mistress," I confessed, "Many of the things that I find to be sexually arousing are also frightening."

"Oh, you are a treasure," Mistress Barletta informed me, "And I hope this is not your last visit to my home. But for today, you shall be providing for us a grand spectacle. Have the guards told you anything about what will happen?"

Both guards gave me stern looks as if warning me not to say the wrong thing. I found their looks to be confusing. What could I possibly say that would offend them?

"Only that I am to be whipped and that guests have been invited to witness my whipping."

The looks on the guard's faces softened after that. Apparently, I had said the right thing.

"What you have been told is technically true," Mistress Barletta conceded, "however, there is more to it than that. I have offered your mother the opportunity to whip you."

My body stiffened at the revelation. I had already surmised that my mother would be the one whipping me today, however, hearing my suspicions confirmed still had an emotional reaction. I had spent years trying to keep my mother from knowing about my unconventional cravings for humiliation and punishment, and now she was going to become a direct participant in one of my most intense humiliations.

"Your mother was reluctant to accept at first," Mistress Barletta explained, "however, after I agreed to a number of concessions, she finally agreed to wield the whip that marks up your adorable skin this morning."

"Concessions, Mistress?"

Mistress Barletta nodded and replied, "I had originally proposed a whipping of sixty strokes. Your mother bargained me down to thirty-six. In addition, she requested that we take you off libidol. I agreed."

"No more libidol, Mistress?" I asked.

Libidol was a cruel drug that Mistress Barletta gave to her slaves. It roused a slave's libido while simultaneously making it impossible to achieve orgasm. Slaves hated this drug. It left us in a constant state of sexual frustration.

"You weren't taken to Doctor Ponder's office this morning," the intimidating woman said, "Didn't you notice? Your mother insisted that I take you off the drug before she would agree to whip you. She was very insistent. I eventually had to agree to her terms."

"That was very kind of her, Mistress," I replied timidly.

"I expect your mother to deliver thirty-six painful lashes to your naked body," Mistress Barletta said firmly, "If she fails to do that, you'll be put back on the drug immediately. Is your mother capable of marking up her only daughter with three-dozen painful strokes of the whip?"

Mistress Barletta's question took me off guard. In the twenty-two years I've been alive, my mother had never so much as given me a spanking. She didn't have a propensity for inflicting pain on people. She was more inclined towards kindness and compassion than she was towards cruelty and violence. Was my mother capable of delivering a cruel whipping to her only daughter?

"Oh, well it looks as if your disciplinarian is here," Mistress Barletta said as she looked over my shoulder, "I suppose we'll soon find out what she's capable of."

My mother had entered the room, carrying a single tail whip. It wasn't the most painful whip she could have chosen but, used properly, it could still inflict a lot of pain. I found myself hoping that my mother would wield it with a great deal of cruelty. I didn't want to go back on that horrible drug.

One of the guards pressed a button on the wall and the trapeze bar ascended. My wrists were drawn upward, and my body was stretched until I was standing on my toes. I felt the strain in my arms as my body was pulled taut.

"Hello, Gwen," my mother said when my toes were just barely touching the floor, "I suppose Mistress Barletta explained everything to you."

I was being buffeted about in a whirlwind of emotions. There was the agonizing humiliation at my mother seeing me bound and naked, that feeling of dread every slave feels when a harsh punishment is imminent and the feelings of fierce gratitude to my mother for freeing me from the wretched drug that denied me orgasms.