Thesis Pt. 04

Chapter 11: Why Weight?

Course 8 / Day 3: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: She coped well with her initial work programme yesterday. No concerns so far, but of course little has been done to stretch her beyond her treatment on arrival and her shaving / piercing sessions, which she managed to get through without more than expected levels of distress. The exercise training regime continues today to increase her level of fitness.

Jenny's Recollections

At the start of today, I'm feeling strange. I can hardly believe that I consented to them piercing my tongue and my septum but I can feel the stud in my mouth and the ring in my nose every time that I move my tongue or shake my head. The piercings feel a little sore. Not painful just – well – there. It's more than that though; more than the physical discomfort. I'm left wondering what they are going to ask me to do and what I will consent to.

Jo arrives with an electric razor. She has me kneel and then watches as I shave my head. She tells me that I will do this every day to keep my head smooth and hairless. It feels strange. It's not like the hair has even started to grow back, or at least, so it seems. When I say this to Jo she simply tells me that it's part of my routine. It doesn't matter if there is hair or not, shaving is going to be done every morning first thing.

After that I'm brought to the gym to find myself confronted by George and my fellow slaves. We're put into the same rubber G-strings and triathlon suits and lined up at one end of the gym with our hands on our heads.

George has in his hand the remote control that he can use to shock us. As if we needed reminding!

While George is thumbing through some papers, I sneak a look around at the others. Carrie has also had her head shaved - it's a relief to find I'm not the only one - but no-one else has a nose ring, at least so far …… Those who notice mine smile and I risk a quick smile back.

"So, Fifty," – it's George speaking – "no real weight training experience?"

"No … Sir."

He smiles, but narrows one eye. The "Sir" was obviously expected a bit earlier in my reply.

"Why not?"

"Er, well, err, Sir, I mean it's not a thing girls do really, unless you are very sporty …"

"And do owners like flabby slaves?"

Owners. That word again. I get an odd stab of pleasure hearing it applied to me.

"Well, no, I guess not. But doesn't weight training make you all bulky and not very attractive?"

"Fifty: that's just a myth. Yes, you can get overbuilt, but you have to work hard and very long to achieve that and it does not come by accident. On the other hand, what about her?"

He shows me a photograph of a gymnast. She is beautiful in her poise and her physique. No fat. Toned body. Defined muscle. Beautiful posture. Serious eye candy for sure. I mean, if you're into women.

"Yes, Sir. She is very …. Beautiful."

"I'm glad you agree, Fifty. I will have her picture put on your cell wall, to remind you where you are going"

Cell wall? I get another adrenalin rush at George's reminder. I know that is how I feel about it, but it's a charge to hear it called that.

"So, this is the start of quite a long road for you. Weight training gives you everything she has and the inner strength of knowing you have worked hard to achieve it. Also, pleasure at knowing you delight the eyes of others. You OK with that?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. So this is what you are going to do with us. We have eight weeks and you get two programmes. We'll change things after about a month to give your body another challenge. Otherwise, you'd just stop improving. We have time to lay a foundation, which you will build on after you are discharged …."

Once more, it seems as if Inward Bound is determined that we shouldn't forget them after we leave.

"The first thing will be to teach you a repertoire of exercises and get your muscles and ligaments used to training. We will work your arms, shoulders, chest, back, abs, bum and legs and you get one day's rest in between sessions. Come with me."

So that's aerobics every day and on alternate days we get weights as well. This is going to be tough. George then puts me to work learning the exercises for each area. I do one set of each – but fifteen repeats of each one. George is very picky about technique. It seems as if the appearance of my exercising is almost as important as the weight I lift and the pace of the work: count two lifting, count three lowering. He chooses weights that are heavy (for me), but not so heavy as to prevent my getting right to the end of the set. Even so, by the time I get to the twelfth repeat my muscles are starting to burn.

He seems to know instinctively when I am about to flag, appearing at my side with an encouraging wave of his remote control and, sometimes, a word of encouragement. It's enough to help me to keep going. Some of the others aren't so lucky. Sue, for one, seems to earn a series of shocks from the remote.

After forty-five minutes, I can hardly lift my arms past horizontal, but my program is over and I join my colleagues in some post workout stretching.

Then, we get to strip off and have time in the pool. Here we are all naked. The water feels wonderful as it did before, flowing languidly across my bare shoulders, down my back and between my legs, small eddies teasing my labia. I'm surprised that I feel no embarrassment about being in the pool. Skinny dipping with four other girls I hardly know causes me no problems. Even being watched by the others, people who have de facto some serious authority over us, isn't a difficulty.

I would never feel this way, if I were back at home, in my own environment with people I know well. I think about Joe and me. Where could we go to do this? How would he feel, if I were to suggest we "went naturist" when we go on holiday next time? Would I feel able to ask him? That's the main question …..

As we are swimming I see that both Anna and Judy have impressive tattoos on their backs; elaborate dragon designs that are far more dramatic than anything I've seen before on a woman. I don't get a chance to ask either Anna or Judy about them. I wonder if they got them on their first visit here and I remember the question on the application form asking if I'd consent to being marked. I'm worried that I said 'yes, subject to approval at the time'. What will I do if they ask me to consent to something like that? I can always say 'no' can't I? But would I? I'm not sure. I didn't say no when they asked about the piercings and look what happened to me then.

All too soon – given that this is the closest I've had to any relaxation since I got here - it's time to climb out and get dried, to be ready for work, but it's been a good session.

"Fifty!"

"Yes, Sir?"

"There will also be this book in your cell. I expect you to read it. And, of course, you will be tested on knowledge and understanding." George holds up a book on strength training and points at me with the remote control to emphasise his words. The message is absolutely clear!

Chapter 12: Ylena Zhukova

Course 8 / Day 4: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: Fifty expects corporal punishment to form part of her experience and Ylena has proposed an introductory session today. We will also let her have the first of her e-mail sessions.

Jenny's Recollections

I am in my room. My cell. An escort comes for me. When I stand, she smiles and places a broad leather belt around my waist. My hands are cuffed to the belt behind my back and then I'm plunged into a sweet musky darkness as she drops a leather hood over my head. She must clip a lead to the belt; I feel a tug at my waist. "Come on, Fifty," my escort says, "Just come with me."

I feel panicky at first: walking blind with just the guidance of the lead and the voice of my escort to steer by.

The floor beneath my feet is non-slip vinyl near my room, then stone. We're in a corridor now, I guess. The one that leads to the stairs.

"Fifty, pause." I stop. "Good. You are at some stairs. Now step and step and step. That's it, keep stepping." I keep going up the stairs which wind to the left. Then, there's polished wood under my feet as we reach the landing and finally, carpet as I am guided into somewhere new.

We stop, I hear a door open and then we move again. She pulls the hood from my head and I see that I am in a room with a desk, computer and a stool. The stool is shaped like a saddle. "Sit," says my escort. I lower my backside gingerly onto the chilly seat but thanks to the shape I have to spread my thighs and the front part tends to press on my clit. It feels like leather or vinyl against my naked bum. "You get to send e-mails from here and you'll get to check this e-mail account once a week," she says. She unclips my wrist cuffs. "You can e -mail your safe contact or anyone else but we'll check what you're sending before it goes. Mostly the slaves just like to send a "Hi, I'm having a good time" note to friends, but it's up to you. You get fifteen minutes." She stands back from the desk. I'm obviously not going to be left on my own – but the sensations from the saddle stool are a definite plus.

I think about it for a while. There's nothing I want to say to Angela and I'm not sure what to say to Joe. But, in the end I tap out a short e-mail to him saying that I hope he's fine and that I've managed to get access to e-mail occasionally if he wants to send me anything.

Soon enough my escort is telling me that my five minutes is up, She cuffs my hands back behind me.

At the same time Judy arrives. The escort turns to her and says, "You're to take Fifty up to room number 19". Without waiting for a reply from Judy, the escort pulls the hood back on over my head. I'm not sure where I am going now, but I follow Judy, drawn along by the leash, being led along another corridor and through another door until we stop once again.

"We're here," Judy says to me quietly, as she stops. We're both standing still. Suddenly, I feel Judy's hands stroking and squeezing at my breasts. I can't do anything about it with my hands cuffed behind me. In once instant, I'm shocked, surprised and aroused. It's the first instance of any overtly sexual behaviour since I came here. In an instant I remember that there is almost certainly more to being a slave than being kept naked and washing floors. But, she isn't supposed to be doing that I'm sure.

I hear the sound of a door handle turning. Judy's fondling stops. A voice says, "Ah, you are here. Bring her in. Take her hood off and leave us."

Judy removes my hood. I blink in the light looking at her. She grins at me as much as to say, "Enjoyed that didn't you?" I'm not sure if I did, or not. Judy drops the leash, so it hangs from the middle of my belt down between my legs. She smiles at me again and leaves.

Before me is another girl, this one about my own height, with blonde hair and a happy open face. I'm not sure if I should say anything about what Judy did, but I decide to leave it for now. She smiles perhaps a little diffidently and says, "Hello, Fifty. I am Ylena, but you should call me Gaspazha."

Her English is very good, but accented. I guess from having met colleagues from Eastern Europe at the university that she is from Russia, or possibly somewhere on the Baltic. She has a slim athletic build and she is wearing a fitted leather top, which pushes her breasts upwards just enough to be provocative, a very smart leather skirt (not cheap I guess), black tights and black loafers.

"Now," she continues, "you have come to me to continue your education, so today is training! Come with me." She leans forward and grasps the lead, pulling gently, but insistently forward. We go to an adjoining room. The curtains are drawn giving the room a rather secret air. It is decorated in scarlet red wall paper and a pale blue carpet in the centre of the room is a wooden frame, its middle covered with padded leather. I have seen one before at a fetish show. It's a spanking horse. I feel a knot as tight as any that have bound me grip my stomach.

"Kneel!" Gaspazha insists.

I obey.

"Good! So, you are learning some lessons at last." She walks around me looking at me from each side.

"Excuse me," I say.

"Yes?"

"Is Gaspazha your name?"

"Gaspazha is my title – in Russian. So you are going to learn some very useful Russian!"

My guess was correct

"Do you like CP, little Fifty?" I'm surprised by her use of the 'little', but I know better than to contest it.

"In my fantasies, but I haven't had much experience. Well none actually. My husband does not think it's respectful. And before him… Well no."

"Hmm," she looks unconvinced. She walks around behind me and runs her hands across my back as though searching for some clue that I am lying. "Well, I'm pleased with your lack of experience really, because I like to work with novices. That way, I can mould you to my ways more easily. Easily for me, that is." She smiles. I smile back, but I do feel very vulnerable. I didn't think that she meant it would be easy for me. "Well, so much to do! Where shall I start? It's like being an artist and you, moi slooga, are my blank canvas. When we have finished today, you will be beautifully decorated in reds, pinks and purples." She can see I look confused. "Moi slooga – 'my slave'. You say 'vash slooga' - your slave. Say it!"

"Vassh slooga," I try to copy her sound.

"Not quite: say vash-shlooga with emphasis on the ooo."

I try again. She smiles tolerantly. "Oh well, never mind for now. But, I can be very encouraging to students. Now. Kiss."

She offers me the tab of her riding crop to kiss and immediately I am frightened that I am completely out of my depth. Gaspazha sees me tense. She reaches forward, stroking the back of my neck, a reassuring touch. The crop has a red star at its tip. There is a knot in my stomach and simultaneously a hot wetness in my loins. Fear and sexual anticipation. The combination of sensations that has always drawn me back to this.

"Bend forward and kiss my feet."

I lean forward eagerly. She must know from my application that I have a strong foot fetish. Or maybe she doesn't mind whether or not I like it.

"That's right. Good across the shoe. Around my ankle, then my calf. Now the other one. Good. Now my toes." She has slipped her foot out from her shoe and her foot smells sweet and leathery. "Now that tickles!"

"I'm sorry," I say pulling back."

"She says 'I'm sorry'? Good moi slooga, you should be sorry. But, what you say is 'izhveneetie' OK? Say it."

I look at her. "Ishevenetia," I say, haltingly.

"Izhveneetie; try again."

"Izhveneetie."

"Better!" She smiles again, obviously amused by my attempts at pronunciation. "Your nose ring. It tickles me. You were pierced earlier in the week I think, so if the ring can roll and swing like that, Cynthia must have put a little grommet in your septum, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good. Is your ring permanent?"

"No." At least, I think it isn't.

"No what?" I can see she is becoming impatient.

"No Gaspazha"

"Better. And you are?"

"Sorry."

"Izhvenetie! Say it again."

"Izhvenetie."

"Hmm." She reaches down and plays for a moment with my nose ring. "Not permanent? Not permanent yet!"

I'm appalled by another flush of sexual excitement when she says yet!

"Good, but now we must move on. Get up there!" She picks up her crop and points to the spanking horse. Excitement is now replaced by plain anxiety. The horse supports my torso , knees and lower limbs. She straps me down: my arms, back and calves. My bum and most of my back are now completely at her mercy.

"We shall start with a little hand spanking." SLAP! I gasp and buck forward and there is another SLAP on my other buttock. The pain is bright and sharp, but not bad enough for me to want her to stop. She carries on for ….for …..I have lost count of the slaps: perhaps twenty or so and then she stops and rubs me, stroking my buttocks.

"Good, well that's very nice. Your nice little virgin bottom all red and hot. How do you feel?"

"Hot! Thank you Gaspazha! It was not as bad as I thought it would be."

She laughs. "No? But that's because we are just starting! I have to break you in slowly." I am afraid again. "What is your job?"

"I work at a university: psychology."

Psychology? Then you will know statistics?"

"Yes. Some"

"Good, I'm an accountant. I like numbers too,,,,,"

"Accountant???" It seems an incongruous occupation for a Russian disciplinarian.

"Da! Slooga."

"So do you work here and do the accounts?"

"Ha! No: I am now a full time Domme. So many of my old colleagues I now meet as clients. I'm in private practice, but come here on certain sessions."

"Private Practice??? I bite my lip to stop laughing – it just seems so bizarre.

"Here are two dice, Fifty. What is the probability of any number combination?"

"Well there are thirty-six possible outcomes. If they are fair, all combinations should have the same chance of turning up, but the probability of certain numbers in particular is different: a "two" is one chance in thirty-six, a seven is six chances in thirty-six because you can make a seven in more than one way."

"Very good, Fifty. You are right! And some numbers might be quite dangerous for a slave strapped down and awaiting punishment….." Gaspazha rolls the dice…. A six and a four. "Aha ten! So your bum can now taste ten different instruments! You see, we have such a choice." She opens a cupboard in the wall of the room revealing a range of punishment implements. "Let's see, now. A small paddle; a large paddle; a strap; a tawse; a wooden spoon; a horse hair flogger; a cow hide flogger; a crop; a paddle with holes in it and ……. Another tawse! I am going to enjoy this and your poor bottom just cannot get away can it?" I think this is a rhetorical question, but Gaspazha insists. "Can it?"

"No, Gaspazha,"

"And, how many of each should you get? Just look at these very special dice." Gaspazha comes close to me and I can see she has a handful of dice but there are numbers on each face, not spots and the numbers are in the twenties and thirties! "Hmm, perhaps these." More dice, but this time lower numbers. I sigh with relief.

"You have a safe word, don't you?"

"Yes, it is …."

And, as I am about to tell her she slips what I later learned was a pony bit gag into my mouth, fastening it firmly behind my head.

"Not anymore! No interference from safe words! Not for a beginner. Not needed so soon. You only may need it when things get difficult. So we begin …….."

Gaspazha then begins to beat me with slow deliberate strokes, counting each stroke in Russian (at least I think that's what she is doing) and I follow in my head in English. I am getting fifteen strokes from each instrument – that's ten times fifteen – that's 150 in all.

She shows me each implement before she starts. Each implement has a different feel: the horse hair whip is scratchy and tickly both at the same time. The floggers are bright and "peppery", whilst the paddles and tawses are thuddy and stingy, depending on which one in particular.

Gaspazha is clearly a craftswoman when it comes to this: she alters her force and rhythm and timing and I manage gradually to scale the heights of 150 strokes.

An accountant by day and a Domme by night, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. (Ms. in this case) Hyde. I drift off, seduced by the rhythm of the strokes. SLAP! Ouch! That was different. That hurt more.