The Ultimate Whipping
“Lani at Camp Seventeen”
Danielle Richards
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Danielle Richards
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NOTICE
This book contains an adult subject and is intended only for readers over the age of eighteen.
It contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts and circumstances and depicts consensual bondage, discipline, and sadomasochistic practices and passions. It is a work of pure fiction and all characters, places and activities are totally fictional. Any similarity to real people and places is unintentional and purely a coincidence. Any dear reader that may find such activity offensive is requested to not read the book.
Lani, a young, strong, petite, athletic, dark tanned beauty from Hawaii, a girl who loves giving herself as a slave and especially appreciates a harsh whipping, consents to an “Ultimate Whipping.” She willingly gives her hard brown body over to temporary slavery at an exclusive and exotic BDSM resort for the very rich where weeks of hard physical, emotional and erotic training prepare her for this very special and challenging experience. Her journey to her appointment with the whip is exciting and highly educational. Her encounters with other slaves and the guests of the resort give her exciting new experiences and revelations as she moves toward her date with an Ultimate Whipping. She wishes only to take all she can, and get and give as much pleasure as possible. Her final realization that her only possible option and reward is total emotional surrender and absolute physical failure is what draws her in ever deeper and fuels her desire to experience and savor her Ultimate Whipping.
THE ULTIMATE WHIPPING
“Lani at Camp Seventeen”
Preface
Saying at this moment that I am both excited and calm does not make sense to most people. The dictionary says to be calm is to be not excited. But this same dictionary would not find it possible to put exquisite pleasure and excruciating pain together. Yet they go together for me. Since you are reading this, they very possibly may for you too.
So with incredible excitement and anticipation, calm and totally naked I am being led through a large group of wealthy and casually elegant diners in a lavishly decorated tent toward The Frame, a contraption designed for and ideally suited to suspend a slave for a long and savage whipping.
I am here at Camp Seventeen, an exclusive BDSM resort, for what they call the Ultimate Whipping. Loving the whip, and of being harshly whipped, as I do, I consented to it when the proposition was but before me.
Here I have had weeks of physical training with hard exercise and conditioning to shapeand prepare my body. Bound naked under the tropical sun at all times during dawn to dark to bake my skin to a sensuous deep dark brown, and the caring application of exotic oils have prepared my look and my skin. Sensational sexual training and continuous sexual arousal, falling in love with so many beautiful slaves and fabulous Masters and Mistresses, has super-charged my sexual hunger. Near constant and severe bondage to shape my psyche and build my endurance, witnessing a steady stream of whippings and tortures, and denial of the whip and those tortures to me, have all been cleverly and skillfully employed to prepare me emotionally for this moment.
So as I move forward through these people, I am ready. I am excited. I am afraid, I am eager. Yet, I am calm.
The light from the flaming torches set about the tents and along the path to The Frame glistens on my lightly oiled mahogany skin and flashes off the swaying delicate gold slave jewelry in my left nipple and navel marking my status and ownership. My body is rock hard. Every muscle is well defined under taut skin on a body stripped of all fat. I know I look fantastic and love the feminine athletic hard body I came with and that has been fully perfected here. The way the people look at me tells me they like what they see, and me. I have been told my body is perfect for whipping. I hope so. I do not want to disappoint them.
Secured in a fully stretched X in The Frame before them, I await the Ultimate Whipping. I want to do my best. I want to bring pleasure to my Master and Mistress. I want to take it all. But I am reminded, that failure is the only exit possible. That is the Ultimate Whipping. No predetermined number, no stopping, no mercy, only whipping me until I fail. Until my body fails and I pass out. Not just once, but three times.
I am calm, but so excited. Oh Master, can we please begin. Whip me, please!
Chapter 1
“Yes Sir, you know very well, more than just about anyone I should think, that I really love a good hard, no mercy whipping. I don’t think I can get enough of it or one that it too hard. At least I haven’t yet. I’ll admit it may be odd to some, but I know you understand, I just love it. I shouldn’t, I guess. But, I do.”
This is the reply I make in a subdued voice to his very direct question. I think it is a particularly odd query in that not only the person asking the question, but two others at our dinner table of six, have whipped me before and everyone here is very much aware of the how I respond under the lash. I simply love it and can’t get enough of it.
Still, the question coming as it does, is an odd surprise. The question is only the beginning of an interesting evening and discussion, and a very intense seven weeks to follow.
The invitation, to join my Master and Mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Kenji Matustmoto, for dinner with my Mom and Dad, and Ms. Linda Baxter, my mentor, came as a real shock. Nevertheless, since I love everyone on this little list, and since the invitation is to Hoku’s, the really superb upscale restaurant at the Kahala Hotel, I am more than happy to accept. Besides, I had not heard from Mr. and Mrs. M, as they prefer to be called, since they put my Mom and I on a plane out of Japan after my great little S&M adventure with the video for the rock group Power Station. They had told me they would be in touch soon to discuss another adventure for me, and the month of waiting has seemed very long. I am having a fine mid-Summer time of sun and surf and an exercise and fitness obsession, but can’t help but get antsy waiting for some more fun in the S&M scene. I am really getting desperate because all of my girlfriends that introduced me to the scene are on vacations on the mainland or Europe, leaving me alone and horny in Hawaii. Well, not that horny overall, since with my S&M playmates gone, I do have more time for Todd, Kawika, and Mike, and a few guys I pick up for little quickies. I mean, a girl has to have some outside interests.
Anyway, with an invitation to dinner at such a great place, I even got dressed really nice. When we went shopping in Paris on the way back from Japan, I saw this little lace chemise in a lingerie shop there. It is pastel mint and yellow with purple flowers and comes with an awesomely sexy and super tiny matching thong. It is very sheer, but I wear it as a dress. You can see the thong and it shows my figure very well and it hangs just perfectly on spaghetti straps and drapes nicely from my nipples. My Mom said that she feels it is unbelievably sexy and “probably barely street legal…and you have to get it and better yet, you have to wear it out.” Besides the label is Ravage. With that name, I knew it is for me. I did my hair nicely and am even wearing heels. This pleases my Mom and Dad, and Ms. Baxter, and surprises the hell out of the Matsumoto’s who make a point of mentioning it when they greet us as we arrive.
“You look really fantastic tonight Lani. The pale pastels of this dress--is it a dress?,-- really sets off your super dark tan fantastically,” Mr. M. practically gushes.
“It does indeed dear,” Mrs. M. joins in without the slightest hint of jealously, “and it is actually a piece of lingerie, a chemise, but she does look stunning doesn’t she? Lani,” she says now directing her comments to me, “you can pull this off like few can. You always look so fantastic dressed and ...undressed. I remember how stunning you were that last night in Tokyo and didn't think I'd ever see you looking that amazing again. But, you do again tonight. What a joy.”
Mr, M. smiles broadly and makes a joke about wanting to pull it off right here and now, and while I giggle a bit, Mrs. M. just gives him the look wives always give to annoying husbands.
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure how you would feel about this much exposure in such an upscale public place. Anyway, I am glad you like it, since you are the guys that paid for it. I love the way it looks and like the way it feels even better,” I report and swing around slowly to give them a good look at the deeply plunging back and the exquisite detail on the back of the thong.
The four women in the group, Mrs. M, Mom, Linda and I bring the room to a stunned silence when we walk in. We are all looking really hot, sexy, and yet classy and sophisticated.
The polite small talk lasts only until we have ordered. I brake “training” and gave up on totally non- fat for some of the fantastic Pacific-rim fare they have at Hoku’s. Our table is in the far corner of the dining room, by the windows facing the ocean and Koko Head, and is semi-private in its placement, but not that private for the discussion that is about to take place. So it is still a little disconcerting to me, even knowing that all of us gathered around this table are into the scene and, except for me and my parents have all played with one another. So it is, as I told you, a surprise when Mr. M. takes a sip of his wine and then smoothly changes the conversation from his golf game to asking me “Lani, you do have a special love for the whip, don’t you?”
“I know that dear,” he says after I have confirmed my love of the whip. “You see, besides wanting to see you all again, I wanted to discuss an idea my wife and I have for you to further learn and explore. Are you interested?” he asks softly.
“Well, you know the answer to that one too?” I say jokingly.
“Do you remember in Japan last month when I told you at my beach house that I knew of a nice school that would teach you sexual techniques that you have never even dreamed off?” Mrs. M. quizzes me breaking into the conversation from across the table. “We have made arrangements for you do go if you want to. And, we have set up an opportunity for you to have a fantastic experience with the whip. It is something that they specialize in.”
“Please, tell me more,” I urge sincerely, glancing back and forth between my parents and Mr. and Mrs. M.
The Matsumotos pick up on my searching glances. “Oh, I guess we should tell you that we have already discussed the idea with your parents and Linda. They think it may be exactly what you are looking for. I mean, we all realize that you are twenty and can choose to do whatever you like. But we know how close your family is, that you are all S&M players, and all, but we wanted to talk to them to see what they felt before we presented the offer to you,” Mr. M. reports calmly taking another sip of wine as my Mom, Dad and Linda nod knowingly.
“O.K., whatever it is, I’m game,” I blurt out brashly.
“I think it might be best if you hear the program before you agree to it, dear,” my Mom offers sweetly in the tone Mom’s use to tell you that you are about to screw up.
“Maile is right, Lani,” Mrs. M. hurries to agree with my Mom. Then she takes a rather deep sip of her wine and then looking me directly in the eye with that gaze of powerful authority she has mastered, she continues. “You see, one of the things that we love about you dear is that you thrive on the scene, and that you understand why consent is such an important thing. It is important to you isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, very much. I am still a pitiful novice in the scene, but I have given it a lot of thought in the short time I have been exposed to it. I mean the five of you gathered around this table with me have all helped to introduce me to this lifestyle and erotic pleasure. And for that, I will always be most grateful. But I have come to understand that, for me at least, it is not just the pain that is the turn on. I mean, I don’t get turned on just from getting hurt. When I broke my collar bone in gymnastics, that sure wasn’t a turn on. Hurt like hell, but no thrill. Even at this early stage of development, I have come to appreciate that the thrill involves the pain, no disputing that. But it is much more. It is the emotional scene, and the physical scene and the aesthetic. It is the fact and the fantasy. It is giving yourself totally to another and trying to please them and expand their realm of pleasure by taking willingly all they wish to inflict on you. Still, not only knowing that you are giving of yourself freely, but that their is a safety net of consent and mutual agreement about what will transpire allows you to lose yourself in the moment without the terrible fear that something totally awful, that you really don’t want to happen, will happen to you. Do you know what I mean?” I ask sincerely seeking their understanding and approval.
“Yes, of course we do,” my beloved teacher and first real Mistress, Ms. Baxter, says actively entering the conversation for the first time.
“But don’t you ever wonder what it would be like if you didn’t have any control over what is going to happen? I mean, for example, if you knew you were to be whipped and couldn’t stop it when you wanted,” Mrs. M. asks pointedly.
“I didn’t have the ability to stop you when you whipped me at the end of the show in Tokyo,” I countered.
“Oh, yes you did. You just didn’t realize that you did. I would have stopped the minute you really asked me to. It is just that knowing you, I knew you would want to take as much as you possibly could to please me, the audience and yourself,” Mrs. M. informs me, correctly.
“So how is this different, and what does that have to do with what you are offering me? I want to know.
“It is hard to explain it this way, Lani. But we wanted to hear you confirm that consent is an important factor for you. Yet, we want to make the point to you, and to demonstrate to you, that at another level the loss of control has its own power of excitement. So, I guess the best approach is for us to outline our offer and see what you think.”
At this point the waiter returns with the appetizers and is placing them before us. “Fine, Sir. I’m all ready to agree, but to make everyone happy, I want to hear the details,” I tell them still very full of the moment and the attention I am getting.
“Lani,” Mr. M. says in a scolding tone, “how can you tell us you care about consent, and then go ahead and agree to something before you even know what it is?” His tone of contempt at this moment is too clear.
“It is easy, and may I add totally consistent. You need not get so upset. You see, Sir,” I reply affecting an authoritarian tone of my own, “the plan you will offer is being presented by a Master and Mistress that I already know, trust totally, and love; has been approved my the women that introduced me to you in the first place, thank you Ms. Baxter; and the people that care the most for me in the whole world, my parents. So, you see, how much more do I need to know? I’m interested in the details. I am sure I will find them stimulating, but I already know I’ll agree. And now, you know why.” I end my little speech and smile a sexy sly knowing smile at all my loved ones at the table.
“I am sorry, gomen nasai,” Mr. M. says bowing his head slightly as he does. “I should know you better. I feel sorry to have said it. I am over matched by you,” Mr. M. says with a touching sincerity.
“No worries,” I pronounce with a pretend Aussie accent. "I just wanted to explain I had a reason for what I said, and that I hold these beliefs deeply.” I now flashed an even bigger smile and say, “So…, please pass the crab dip, and…the plan is…?”
Chapter 2
The plan, or "program" as Mr. M. refers to it, basically has two major components. The program is on the one hand, fantastic, imaginative, instructional, motivating, fascinating, exciting and erotic, and the more I hear about it the more I want to do it. On the other hand, the program is clearly the most diabolically sadistic, entrapping, terrifying and fiendish scheme I have ever heard of, and the more I hear about it the more I want to do it…maybe.
I become increasingly enthusiastic as the basic parts of the program is laid out before me, one or another of the group gathered at the table asks me if I really understand what each component really means. I can see the doubt on my Dad’s face, but can also see that at each turn my Mom is reassuring him that I do understand and what is being proposed is well within my desires, if perhaps not my capability. The explanation goes on from the appetizer, to the salad of Waimanalo Greens with the delicious raspberry vinaigrette dressing, to, in my case, the seared Ahi served with wasabi sauce and some awesome garlic mashed potatoes, all the way through my crème Brule and espresso. The detail with which the program is explained suggests both that they want to be sure I know what I am about to get into, and that they really enjoy the vicarious thrill of talking about it.
“O.K., then,” I begin when they have finally finished with every detail of their little group presentation, “the way I see it is that if I agree, you take me to this special place in Thailand you call Camp Seventeen. I understand that Camp Seventeen is basically an exclusive S&M playground and school for the very rich and the people they bring there. Then for about a month or so I will be trained in the most erotic and exotic sexual techniques, and at the same time be trained in advanced bondage. Part of the training is to get some really fantastic physical conditioning and be fully prepared for the thing you are calling the “Ultimate Whipping.” Then I have about a week to recover and come home. Is that a fair summary?”
“Yes, as an abstract. But are you sure you understand how your consent fits in and what the extent and limits of it are, and what actually makes the “Ultimate Whipping” what it is?” Mrs. M. inquires sincerely.
“Yes,” I say with complete confidence, “I do.”
“Then what are they, Lani?” Mr. M. puts it to me directly.
“It's really simple. It is a lot like the first time we played at your house, and come to think of it,” I said looking over at Ms. Baxter, “it is a lot like the way you handled my wonderful initiation.”
“Not exactly, dear,” Ms. Baxter interrupts. “Remember in both of the cases you mention, you consented to be our slave and to allow us to initiate you or to play with you, but you always had the option of stopping the scene if you wanted to. In your play with Mr. M. stopping caused no consequences other than the scene would end. Yes, in your initiation, if you stopped the consequences were that your initiation would cease immediately and we would never let you associate with the group again. But in both cases you did have the ultimate control to stop the scene whenever you wanted to. Do you understand that in this program, once you consent to participate, the predefined limits will be faithfully respected, but you won’t be able to stop the program once it begins?”
“Yes, Ms. Baxter, I fully understand that. I guess my example is bad, but I do understand. I find that to be a fascinating part of the attraction.”
“You are right dear,” my Mom allows. “It is.”
“But I understand, yeah, that we will establish the basic limits in advance. Isn’t that right? It is just that once I agree to those, I can’t stop the program once it starts. Right?”
“Exactly,” Mr. M. says and the rest nod.
“And,” Mrs. M. continues, “how does the “Ultimate Whipping” work?”
“That is the part that I think is the coolest…, and the scariest. What you said is that the idea is to give somebody a whipping that would push them well past their level of endurance and will. That the person getting whipped is prepared both mentally and physically to face the event, and then in a ritual ceremony in front of the club’s membership, management, staff and slaves, is whipped until falling into unconscious and then revived and whipped until unconscious again two more times. After the slave is unconscious each time, the slave gets five more strokes to ensure they are not faking, and then it is over. The diabolically clever, or should I say fiendishly sadistic, part of this plan is that neither the Master nor the slave can actually control how it goes. The slave must take the whipping until passing out, and the Master must whip the slave until that point no matter what,” I explain with a detachment like I am describing an event from history. But the moisture that I feel developing between my legs signals me that I understand this on more than the purely intellectual level. I pause to gauge their reaction.
After a few seconds, Ms. Baxter speaks. “I guess you get an “A” for comprehension and reporting, dear, but are you sure you are willing and able to undergo such an ordeal. The “slave” you mention and the “person getting whipped” you talk about is you dear. Remember, only you can put yourself in this terrible position, but once you are in it, nobody, I mean nobody, can stop it.”
I nod yes, for the first time overcome with the consequences of agreeing. “Well, I must not be the first one to do it. It sounds very well thought out and all. Besides, I can’t imagine that people like you would try and get me to do this if anyone has died or anything.”
“No one has died. It is a real, and very terrible whipping, but it is done in such a way as no permanent marks are given. The marks may show for a couple of months, but they are not permanent. The preparation makes sure of that,” Mr. M. is now reassuring me. “But while we at Club Seventeen have done it before, we only do it less than once a year as a rule. It has been better than a year and a half since our last one. It is such an event that members will come to observe from all over the world if they can possibly make it.”
“Really?” I say, showing some slight fear in my voice for the first time.
“More coffee everyone?” Mr. M., my beloved Master and our gracious host asks.
We all relax and the conversation turns smoothly to small talk as we all sip Cappuccinos , Espresso and Kona coffee for the next several minutes. A nice diversion for me is when the really cute waiter that has been eyeing me very fully when he comes by, and I flirting boldly with him, lets the water from the water pitcher drip ever so cleverly on my back, just above the crack in my ass. I don’t jump or say anything to him, but when he goes around to the other side of the table; I look him right in the eye and sipping my water, let just a trickle drip on my right nipple, making the sheer lace rally transparent. What fun. I think I’d like to get wet with this guy.
Then as suddenly as he had turned the conversation away, Mrs. M. returns it to the subject at hand as the waiters leave the table. “Well, Lani, what do you say? Yes or No?”
I look quickly and in turn to my Mom, Dad and Ms. Baxter. In each I see a deep concern, and a green light. I also see a reflection of my spirit that wants to do it. “Sure. Yes.”
“Are you sure?” Mr. M. pushes at me.
“Yes. Absolutely. I mean I am sure I will regret it many times while I am there, but like the other things, overall, when it is over, I will have learned and experienced more than ever before in my life, and love it.”
“O.K., then, that’s it. Come by tomorrow afternoon with your Mom and Linda, and we will go over the specific of your limits, and the do’s and don’ts. I’ll call Club Seventeen when we get home tonight and confirm your reservation, have them alert the membership to make plans for about seven weeks from now and make your airline reservations. You will leave in five days. O.K?”
Wow, that's it. I'm doing it and things are moving really fast. “Yes, that will be wonderful,” I say and meaning it, while a cold chill runs up my spine.
Chapter 3
The flight from Honolulu to Tokyo-Narita Airport in Japan is long and uneventful. Having partied pretty hard the night before I left on my latest adventure, giving both Kawika and then Todd farewell fucks to remember me by, I sleep a lot in the plush environment of the forward cabin. Being alone on this flight, I read, watch the two movies, eat too much, and just relax. I relax, that is, when I am not obsessing about what lays ahead in Thailand at Club Seventeen. I also think about how much has happened in my life in a few months. After all, it is only a few months ago that my friends and Ms. Baxter introduced me to and initiated me in BDSM. As I sit here in the plush First Class Cabin, with the dull roar of the four huge jets pushing me across the Pacific from Hawaii to Japan again, I recall with a secret pleasure and smile my recent memories. I loved my initiation, the whipping while suspended above the deck of the beach house, the fire sticks, the electro-shocks, and the wonderful last night when I was crucified naked on the cross above the dance floor of the club, with skewers through my nipples and whipped long and hard. After that came the fantastic whipping session at Mr. Matsumoto’s lovely basement dungeon where I beat his friend Sumkanto and took his full hundred lashes and won the bet for Mr. Matsumoto. As the plane approaches Japan I also recall that just a few weeks ago I had a wonderful time as the girl taking all forms of abuse in the video to go with Power Stations new CD, and finished that fine adventure with the fantastic whipping ceremony in front of about forty thousand crazed fans at their two rock concerts in Osaka and Tokyo. I became a huge overnight sensation after that, and had to be disguised and spirited out of Japan and back to home in Hawaii before any of the media could figure out that I am not in fact a Japanese girl or who I really am.
The layover in Narita while I wait for the flight to Bangkok, is too long and totally lacking in anything that resembles fun. Following Mrs. M.’s orders exactly, I go from the plane directly to the JAL Executive Club, where she has reserved an office suite for me to spend my five hour layover isolated completely from the other travelers. Her purpose in this is to keep me out of sight since it had only been less than a month since I had “escaped” Japan just ahead of a pack of newsmen and paparazzi that were trying to identify the girl in the Nippon Spirit video by Power Station. The smoke had not yet cleared from that, and the Matsumoto’s had even considered having me fly to Bangkok in the other direction around the world to avoid going through Japan on this trip. Once she remembered the private office suites inside the JAL Executive Lounge, and the discretion they always show to their favored customers, she felt it is safe. She is right. It is safe. It is also boring, but plush and comfortable. A nice young businessman waiting for a connecting flight eyes me up pretty good as I enter the lounge. When the boredom gets to point I can’t stand it any more, I go out of my little room to see if he is still here. He is. I invite him into my private room, and after a very brief conversation about nothing in particular, I come on to him just to see what will happen. What happens is great. There is nothing like some simple gratuitous sex with a total handsome stranger to pass the time between flights. The room is not perfect for first rate sex, but the deck is just the right height for him to go down on me, and with me bent over the sofa he gives me what I need, actually he gives me what I need three times, to take our minds of the numbing wait. Unfortunately his flight to London is an hour before mine to Bangkok, but it is great fun while it lasts. I never even got his name. (O.K... I'm a slut...isn't that what this is all about?) Mrs. M. joins me there about twenty minutes before the time to board our flight to Thailand. She asks me if I was able to entertain myself during the long wait, and I simply smile at her, and she shakes her head knowingly, laughs and tells me that I am obviously a girl in need of some first rate slave training.
A few hours later sitting besides one another in 3A and 3B, we approach Bangkok. Mrs. M. joined me in Japan to escort me to Club Seventeen and get me checked in. She tells me her plan is to spend a day or two there getting me settled in and getting a little rest and relaxation and a little “play time” with some of the slaves there, before she goes away to return just before the time I will face the “Ultimate Whipping.” She promises that as “long as I have a heart beat, I’ll be there. So will Kenji. Without fail,” she reassures me. I was disappointed to learn in Hawaii before we left that neither my Mom or Ms. Baxter are allowed to come. The Matsumoto’s did promise to show them the video that will be made of the event.
“Lani,” Mrs. M. speaks to me putting down her magazine and starting a conversation, “we will be landing in about an hour. I want to review the agreement with you before we land. Once we clear immigration, things will happen fairly fast and you will enter your new status as a temporary slave of Club Seventeen. Peter, he is the Club Master, will interview you on arrival to see for himself that all is as we have discussed. He is a very careful man; he has to be in his business. We have known him and been members for over a dozen years, but for an “Ultimate Whipping” and extended slavery as in your case, he insists that everything go exactly by his rules.” With that she opens her Hermes briefcase and takes out the envelope I had last seen when I signed it in her home a week before.
“Let’s just run over the major points and anything you want to add or delete before we land. O.K.?”
“I think I have it very clearly in my mind. It is all I have thought about the past week. But if you want to, that’s fine with me,” I tell her as a small lump comes into my throat thinking about what I have gotten myself into. It is always the same with me. I want to do it so badly when the idea is proposed to me. Then as the time draws near I get scared and ready to bolt. Then, once it begins, I am drawn deeper and deeper and willingly into the lovely trap. I wonder if I will always feel this way. I hope so. It is clearly part of the fun, part of the thrill, and part of the attraction.
“O.K. then, here is the contract. I have a copy for me and one for the Camp Master. I’ll let you follow-on on mine. O.K.?,” Mrs. M. asks me handing me the business-like folder with the Club Seventeen logo, a totally nondescript maroon block letter rendition of the name on a cream background. I open it to see the familiar document with the rows of options and check marks indicating my choices and consent to specific things. After the introduction, are the two columns headed “permitted” and “not permitted.”
“You recall the basics, I am sure. So let’s skip over that and go to your check marks,” she says as if discussing something as mundane as a party menu or kitchen remodeling. “You seem a bit tense, dear. Is something the matter? Second thoughts?” she quizzes.
“No, really, I am fine,” I lie.
“Really? I know you a bit you know. Seems like you are rather on edge,” she probes gently.
“Yeah, well to be honest, I am kind of scared right now. Like in the past, with the girls, and with you in Japan, I knew the people and all. Now, you are going to leave me at this place and I will be their slave for weeks before I see anyone I know again. Anything can happen…and not all of it may be good,” I confide my concern in her.
“Oh, I see,” she says slowly closing the folder in her lap. “I thought that you were totally aware of the circumstances and at least all right with them, if not pretty keen to do it,” her concern showing.
“That is with you and Mom and Ms. Baxter in your den when I signed it. Then it all sounded so exciting and cool. Now, with about an hour to go, I am getting really scared. I mean, I’m not all that sure what will happen in the sexual training, or the bondage training, as they are called. I guess I’m not too worried about the physical conditioning. I mean I love to workout and want to get as fit, strong and buff and cut as I possibly can. And I have a good understanding of the rules of the “Ultimate Whipping,” and I guess that sort of scares the shit out of me too. And, I’ll be all alone with total strangers, most of whom I assume I can’t even talk to. You can understand how I feel can’t you?”
She holds my hand in hers and gives a loving squeeze. “Indeed. But we believe that the feelings you are having now are part of the mix that makes it all so delicious. Are you telling me you don’t want to go through with it? If you are, that’s fine. We understand. We can cancel,” she says in the most gentle of voices, far more like a Mother spoiling a child than a Mistress with her little slave girl.
“Won’t you be really mad at me if I back out on you now?” I ask not because I am really considering quitting, but more just to hear what she will say.
“Not at all. Lani, dear Lani. My husband and I are very wealthy, you know that. The cost of your quitting in terms of money is totally insignificant. Sure, we will be disappointed that we will not be able to watch you go through what is planned for you, but we will not be mad at you. Remember dear, we love you, and we want you to be comfortable giving yourself to us for years to come,” she says continuing her calm and sweetly sincere tone. “Remember dear, it is all of the people that love you that felt you were not only ready but desirous of just such a prolonged and intense experience. The more you get, the more you seem to want. The “Ultimate Whipping” is a special thing, an extreme test and a catapult to the highest levels of S&M awareness and involvement. But we all thought that is what you want and need. If it is too early, or if it will never be right for you, that is O.K. We love you anyway. When we get a little closer to landing I’ll call ahead and cancel. It will be fine. We will spend a nice couple of days in Bangkok together and then you can fly back with me when I am scheduled to leave anyway. How’s that?,” she asks giving my hand another loving squeeze.
“That’s really lovely and sweet of you. But I don’t want to call if off. I am just telling you that I am getting really scared, that’s all,” I tell her finding a new conviction to go ahead and knowing that they are all correct. I do want to do this thing. It is in me. It is my nature. When I go out to surf waves that are bigger than I have surfed before, I always get scared before I jump in. I am always on the verge of backing out and heading for home. But every time, something in me says ‘No Lani, go for it!” I always do, and even if I take a terrible pounding in the process I come out stronger and better for it. Let’s hope this will be the same. “No, Mrs. M., don’t make that call. I want to do it. Really!”
“You sure, dear?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“They will ask you once again when we get to the club. Answer with your head and your heart and only what you want. No matter what you choose, we will all love you just the same. But, remember”, she warns sternly, “once you consent at that point there is no turning back. You will be our slave, Kenji’s and mine, in their custody, carrying out our instructions and plan for you for the next six weeks. When Peter asks you next time, be sure. Be very sure.”
“I will. But I am sure now that I want to do it,” I say and smile at her. “Can we go over the list now? Please?”
The permitted and non-permitted items and categories are laid out in careful order from a long laundry list of extraordinary entries. I had checked off several items in both columns. It had taken nearly two hours of discussion and coordination with the Matsumoto’s basic plan to formulate the list at her home back in Hawaii. I can recall sharply the discussions we had on every point. They all fit into their general plan for this period of training that will culminate in the “Ultimate Whipping.” Under the “permitted” column I have checked the several items that will encompass the intense physical conditioning, skin treatments, diet and other preparation for the Ultimate Whipping. Mrs. M. had me specifically check the item for “suspension training” as she said she has requested that I be suspended for the final portion of the Ultimate Whipping. I had also checked the items that Mrs. M. said would permit my bondage training. They included things like “continuous/prolonged restraint,” and similar entries. She had me check the items that defined the nature of my servitude such as “temporary Club Seventeen slave girl,” the “wearing of slave identification jewelry” and “dressing exactly as ordered, to include total nudity,” and “humiliation and public display.” Under the category of sexual and erotic training I had checked “all sexual acts for the pleasure of the slave, the master/mistress, and others as ordered by appropriate Club authority for mutual satisfaction.” That sounded pretty good to me. The list of specific items permitted continued in considerable detail. Even with the detail provided I am smart enough to realize that they are general and rather broad guidelines I am agreeing to allow.
Of more interest to me when we made up the list, and even more so now, is the list of things that will not be allowed. Unlike the items that are allowed, the choices here are highly detailed and specific. When we went over the list the first time, they all told me to be sure to include all those things I really didn’t want to have happen. I made sure to mark “No permanent marks such as tattoos, brands and scarification,” and “no unsafe sexual contact.” I also checked “cutting or shaving of hair on head,” leaving them free to shave what very little else I have if they want to. I made a dark mark on the box for “scat” having no desire at all to be shit on or have anyone shit on me. Mrs. M. asked if I felt the same about Golden Showers and I told her I didn’t think I am looking for it, but wouldn’t rule it out, provided that I didn’t have to drink any piss, and she annotated the contract accordingly. The whole list when taken together with the permitted items is a comprehensive compendium of the kinky. I feel better when we finish reviewing the list.
The last part of the contract is a highly specific portion that lays out the rules for the Ultimate Whipping. Every detail is exact and clear. On first reading it seemed that all spontaneity is eliminated from the event. But on closer reading and understanding it becomes all to clear that within the detailed guidelines is an apparatus that bonds the slave and Master together in a ritual event that will test the resolve of the Master and ultimately truly break the slave. I shudder in anticipation of the event yet some five or more weeks away.
It is at the end of this part that I have placed my signature. Besides it is an open line where I am to sign again upon beginning my enslavement at Club Seventeen. Below that section is the contractual agreement between the club and the Matsumoto’s for payment and liability.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened low and tight across your lap, that your tray tables are stowed and that your seats are returned to the full upright position. We will be landing in Bangkok, Thailand in about fifteen minutes. The local time in Bangkok is 1:15 p.m. and very hot, humid and sunny. We hope that you all enjoy your stay in Bangkok.”
Chapter 4
The little man at Immigration is curious why I will be spending six to eight weeks in Thailand without a hotel address. Ms. M. calmly explains I will be staying with some friends of hers but doesn’t have the address of their beach house. The official wants some address, and Mr. M. gives him a business card of somebody, I have no idea who, and tells him I can be reached if it is necessary through this man. The guy at Immigration eyes get real big and he becomes very solicitous, bows deeply putting his hands before him like in prayer, and sends us on our way without further questions. I don’t ask any either, but am impressed at the scope of Mrs. M.’s contacts and apparent influence. Customs isn’t much better at first. They want to know why Mrs. M. has come for a four day visit with only a small carry-on bag, but are really suspicious when I tell them I am staying about six weeks and have no luggage at all, and merely a small back pack. I guess it does look a bit odd for a young girl to be standing before them in highly tailored black slacks, white starched sleeveless blouse and high heels, all from Chanel, and with only a LV leather backpack with a pair of tiny denim cut-off shorts and a tank top, a hair brush and toothbrush inside.
“Excuse me Miss,” he says looking directly into my eyes, “I do not even see any cosmetics in your bag. Can you explain?’
“Yes sir, I don’t use them,” I tell him truthfully.
“My good man,” Mrs. M. chimes in with a rather caustic tone, “we need to get moving, I have a helicopter waiting on the field. I thought that Customs is concerned with what we bring into and out of the country, not what we do not. May we proceed? If you have a problem, you can reach me here, and again she presents the card. Again it works like a magic wand and suddenly we are on our way with considerable deference being shown.
Mrs. M. knows exactly where she is headed and as soon as we are out the door into the lobby, a nice looking Thai gentleman, maybe thirty, greets her and leads her directly to a waiting car. He didn’t have a sign or anything, so he knew who he is looking for, and Mrs. M. knew him as well. When we step through the door it is like stepping into a steamer. Hot, humid, and polluted. The car is plush and cool with the engine running. We get in the back of the big black limo, the man gets in front, and the driver pulls away. Not a word is needed. Ten minutes later, we have navigated our way around the maze of the airport and are going through a gate to a group of hangers. The limo pulls up just a few feet from a waiting helicopter, the rotor blades already going, spinning slowly.
“O.K. Lani, you still on?” Mrs. M. quizzes as she slides across to exit the limo as the man holds the door.
“Yes ma’am, I am. Are you going to ask me over and over again? I am ready, and wish you wouldn’t keep asking. You might scare me out of it,” I tell her.
“Don’t get nasty with me Lani. I love you dearly, but I don’t like being second guessed,” she scolds me in an icy tones that almost freeze in the air over the red hot asphalt of the tarmac.
“I didn’t mean it that way at all, Mrs. M. Very much the opposite. Sorry,” I tell her as I draw myself from the car to stand behind her.
“Yes dear. Sorry. I just get really testy with those little officious men at Customs and Immigration. It’s always the same silly routine. It just gets me in a bad mood. Sorry to have snapped at you dear, but the question is sincere. Remember from the beginning we only want you do to this with your consent. It is very important that you are sure, because once we get to Club Seventeen and you sign in, your consent is given and irrevocable.”
I nod my understanding and she continues, smiling. “O.K. then, here we go. Please take off your shoes, slacks and blouse and slip on the shorts and tank top in the bag, and we will get going.” As I do as I am told standing right there on the tarmac between the limo and the helo, Mrs. M. explains that once at the Club, things will move quickly and since I look so good in this outfit, she wants to preserve it for my departure some weeks away. Its a good thing I have tough feet from going barefoot in Hawaii all the time, because the tarmac is very hot. The man that accompanies us with the car almost hurts himself trying not to be too obvious that he is watching as I strip off the Chanel and stand on the tarmac totally naked before I slip on the shorts and little white tank top. A couple of seconds later Mrs. M. produces handcuffs, slips them on me with my hands behind my back and gets me secured in a seat in the back of the helicopter.
“Lani, we will be flying down to Club Seventeen, takes about an hour in the helo. From here on out you are my little slave girl, and I want you to act accordingly. If at any time before you sign the contract again at the Club you want to change your mind, just say so, and I will merely remove you from the situation as my slave. This is the last time I will tell you this.” Then with a quick, but sweet kiss on my cheek, and a squeeze to my upper arm, she continues, “I know that you won’t be changing your mind. We will get you settled and then I’ll be off and back in about six weeks to see your ceremony and take you home. I think I might be nearly as excited about all this as you are.” I merely nod, but doubt it.
Mrs. M. puts on a pair of headphones, but I don’t get any, and the pilot lifts off and away we go. It is fun to see the sprawling jumble of buildings and twisting rivers and canals below that is Bangkok. The pilot takes us south to a river, lined with modern high raise office buildings and condos and then heads West toward the Gulf of Thailand. Then it is to the South again sort of along the coast. It is beautiful and very different than anything I have ever seen before. Green fields, and swamps, little boats and villages, groups of hotels and the green flat landscape heading inland with lots of green rivers leading to the blue-greenish gulf. After what seems to be about forty-five minutes the pilot begins to lower the altitude and zoom along the coastline. We go by a city of lots of resort hotels that hugs the coast and stops at hills to the south of it. About five to ten miles, I’m guessing, farther on, is a huge white hotel-resort complex that sits on the beach. We are low enough for me to see people laying on lounge chairs on the beach and swimming off shore. The place looks great, and I sort of wish that is where we are going.
About ten minutes later the pilot starts to make a big low circle, and I know that I am looking at my new home. Or should I more rightly say my prison, for the next six weeks. It is fabulous. I see a group of two story white buildings with blue tile roofs in a big “U” facing the beach. Three swimming pools, a large open lawn area, a grove of palms near the beach, some thatched roof little buildings here and there, and several smaller out buildings to the rear make up most of the camp. The heliport is in a clearing maybe one-half mile from the buildings. As the pilot brings the helo around again in a very low circle, I can see what makes Club Seventeen different than the other beach resorts I just passed. The large lawn area has all sorts of bondage equipment spaced about and several things that look like cement picnic tables, but that doesn’t seem to really make sense. The girl staked out spread-eagle and naked in a clearing in the woods underscores what makes this a special and wonderful place. I notice a total lack of surf, and three really tiny offshore islands. As we swing real low over one as we make the final approach to the landing area, I see a man and a woman, they look like plump white middle-aged types as we zoom by, that are standing tied to two Saint Andrew’s crosses in the middle of this tiny little off-shore islet. What a cool place.
We touch down and the rotor comes to a stop as a Jeep and a white Mercedes sedan pull up. The first person I notice is a tall thin well-built man, maybe fifty, with short cut blond hair, khaki walking shorts and a white polo shirt and tan boots. We step down from the helo, a young Thai man helping me down, and I follow Mrs. M. forward towards this man.
“Right on time Kumiko. So happy to see you again. I hope your trip was pleasant. Everything is as you wish and has been made ready,” he tells her smartly as he first bows, then kissesd her out-stretched hand, and finally gives her a warm hug, in what seems like a strange combination Asian, European, American greeting. “And, this beautiful young thing must be Lani. How will I ever be able to thank you for bringing such as exquisite slave to our Club?”
“Yes Peter, this is Lani, and yes I am happy to be here too. If this club wasn’t so very dear to me, I would never put up with the flight and crap I have to go through to get here. Peter, I am sure you will love her as Kenji and I do, and you can thank us for bringing her to you by carrying out our plan faithfully and having your best ever Ultimate Whipping Ceremony for us all to savor,” she tells him graciously. “Can we get to your office? I want to change into something much more comfortable, get a drink, get the business out of the way of getting Lani checked-in, and get a long massage from Pami,” she more or less orders as she marches forward and gets into the waiting sedan. The young man takes me by the arm to the Jeep and we are off along the road through the woods. We pass the girl staked out in the woods as we head toward the main building. She is young and brown and beautiful, and now that I am closer, I can see that she is well marked from a hard whipping. The few trickles of blood on her sides tell me she has had a pretty hard trashing. But I can’t tell more than that and no one else seems to even notice her.
Maybe five minutes later we are in Peter’s office. It is mostly wood and wicker, tastefully done, large, and not a hint of what the club does. Mrs. M. excuses herself right away, after asking Peter for a gin and tonic, and walks out a door and disappears down the hall. When she returns within three minutes she is wearing a black bikini top and a white pareo over a black thong. She looks wonderful. Remembering my role and what she has asked me to do, as soon as she makes herself comfortable in one of the large wicker chairs with cushions in beige Thai silk, I move to kneel at her left side. Peter and Mrs. M. exchange small talk for a few minutes, and she updates him on Mr. Ms’ latest doings and what she desires while she is here before they turn to me and my status here.