I stand before him, head bowed, not daring to move for he is my Master and he is going to teach me how to be his slave; teach me how to serve him, please him and obey him without question.  I must not think about myself or any pleasure I might derive from serving him.  Everything must be for my Master.

It will be hard.  It is expected to be hard and I will make mistakes.  I expect to make mistakes and I will be punished and punished most severely.  I would be deeply disappointed if I were not punished.  Pain is part of the pleasure and I look forward to it with fear and trepidation but I look forward to it just the same.

My Master circles slowly round me as I stand, waiting for him to speak, not daring to say anything until he gives me permission.  He reaches out and touches my day clothing, as if it is something intruding on his control over me.

“Take this garment off.” He speaks in a quiet but authoritative voice and I obey without hesitation.  The zip is pulled down and I step out of my day suit and stand once more, my head bowed but now completely in the nude.

Whack!  The stroke of the crop across my buttocks feels as if a great bee has stung me and I try desperately to stifle my cry of pain.

“Fold your garment neatly and place it in the corner of the room,” he orders me and I stoop to pick up the clothing, hurry to the corner of the room that the Master has indicated, then hasten back to stand before my Master again.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“Mirabelle,” I reply and the stinging crop descends once more upon my buttocks.

“Wrong!”  His voice is raised, not in anger but simply to emphasise the point.  Teaching me the error of my ways.  Considerate as always.  “Slaves do not have names.  Not until I decide that they should have a name.  Until that time, you will be known only as `slave’.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I answer in all humility but this obviously does not please my Master.  Another sting of the crop tells me so.  The blow was harder this time and I could not avoid letting out a little squeak.  I thought that I would be punished for that but he leaned toward me.

“Yes what?”

“Yes Master,” I replied, aghast at the thought that I had forgotten to include the word Master before.

“That is better,” he said, softening his tone.  “You will learn eventually.”

“Yes Master,” I confirmed.

“Time to get dressed,” he informed me as he selected various items of clothing from the wardrobe.  He almost always selected a number of items and this was no exception, so that it took some considerable time for me to dress and make myself presentable and it was often difficult to work out the function of each item. He always watched me put them on and I am sure that he obtains some obscure pleasure from watching me carry out this task.  There is never any hurry and never any pressure to dress quickly.  Fortunately, I have worn this style of outfit before and can remember what to do.

Picking up the item that he calls a bra, I carefully fit one of the shaped pieces of material over my left boob and hold it in place while I fit the second piece of material over my other boob, then sliding my hand round to the back, while holding on to the stretchy bands that are attached to the bra, I clip them together behind me and let go.  With a slight adjustment, my boobs are now held in this black, lacy support.  Not that my boobs need supporting, even though they are of adequate size, for they do not sag but are firm and round which seems to be something that my Master enjoys. Then why did he order me to cover them up in this bizarre fashion?  The bra was tight and I was aware of it holding my boobs in its lacy embrace.  Not an unpleasant feeling, just unnecessary!

I select the next item, which is again black as all the items are today.  This peculiar item is difficult to describe but my Master says it is called a suspender belt which I believe derives its name from the attachments hanging from the belt, which in turn support or suspend another item of clothing, the stocking.  These were obviously the next items of the outfit to put on.  There are two stockings, one for each leg but as I could never decide whether there was a left or a right stocking, I pretended to know which was which and simply put them on at random. I dared not ask my Master or I am sure that he would punish me and as he never corrected me in this matter, I assume that I have so far been lucky.

The stockings that had been selected today were strange indeed.  They were called fish net stockings which was an apt description for them.  They were full of little holes and as far as I could see, were of no practical purpose whatsoever.  What use is a garment which consists of thousands of little holes?  Obviously my Master knows.  He knows everything and who am I to say that I think they are ridiculous?  I am not that brave and it is not the place of a slave to question the choice of her Master.  He always enjoyed seeing me pull these stocking things on and as I work them up and straighten my legs, smoothing the material, his penis rises which is a sure sign that he is pleased with me.

I stood up and attached the top of the stockings to the suspender belt thing.  It is strange how a material with holes in it can feel warm and comfortable but they do.  While I am standing, I pull on the item of clothing called panties and work them into place over the suspender belt.  The purpose of this minuscule item, is to cover my pussy but they are so small that they hardly covered anything and although I try to tuck the hairs of my fanny under the material, I am not too successful and some of my wiry hairs protrude out from either side.

You might think that I had dressed in sufficient clothing but you would be wrong!  There were black, shiny leather coverings for the feet which were called shoes and instead of having your heel flat to the ground, these shoes had raised heels on them, at least 25mm high; so high in fact that I had difficulty in walking.  I have tried others even higher but I find it impossible to walk in them.  The angle of such tortuous devices, combined with the weight of your body, forces the feet to side down and crushes your toes painfully.  In addition and obviously designed to add to the torture, the toes of the shoes narrow down to a point, so that the toes are squeezed up together.  A very clever device to make a slave’s life a painful one!  I remember my Master telling me once, that people at one time wore these things called shoes for pleasure and that some heels were 150mm high.  I adore my Master and must not argue with him or question what he says but that I cannot believe!  No-one would ever be stupid enough to try and wear such things!

Teetering in my high heeled shoes, I put on the next item of clothing, a dress.  This too is black and made of a semi shiny material but the design is again ridiculous.  The sleeves are short and only cover the top of my arms.  The neck is so low that I am sure that my Master can see my bra with my ample boobs bulging out, at least I can when I look down.  What is even worse, the bottom of this so called dress does not even hide the top of the stockings.  My Master will be able to see bare flesh between the top of the stockings and my panties.  I do hope that he does not mind.  At least his penis looks pleased!

Over the front lower half of the dress, I put on a frilly white item called a pinafore and once this is tied at the waist and adjusted, I am at last ready to serve my Master.

Not one of the items of this bizarre outfit helps me to achieve the tasks that my Master sets me, in fact they hinder me and I could carry out everything so much faster and far more efficiently, if I had worn my work coverall but my Master thinks otherwise and I must obey!

My first task is to walk up and down the room, while he watches.  Sometimes, like today, he plays with his penis, rubbing it as he watches but perhaps that is because he is in the nude and does not know what to do with his hands.  I walk up and down on my high heels and try to look graceful but it is not easy.

Then I am made to tidy up the room.  I know that he has machines to do that for him but he insists that I bend over and pick various items up.  It wouldn’t be so bad if there was a reason for it but I do believe he drops the items on purpose!  I would have thought that he would want me to face him as I bend over, in deference to him but he insists that I bend over with my back to him, despite his superiority over me.

As part of the usual routine, I serve him a drink on a silver tray but today, as I bend to kneel down before him and offer him the drink, I lose my balance on those stupid high heels and spill a drop of the drink on to the tray.  It is only the smallest of drops but it is more than sufficient for my Master to punish me and quite rightly so.

Standing in high heeled shoes is quite bad enough but standing, tied to a post is so much worse.  With the front of my body pressed up hard against the post, ropes are used to secure my hands above my head forcing me to stretch up and adding to the discomfort of the shoes.  More ropes are wound around my body, securing me tightly to the post and even more ropes hold my legs tightly together and then hold the legs to the post so that my movements are severely restricted.  I am unable to turn my head sufficiently to see what my Master is doing but I can hear.

I can hear the swish of a crop as he tests it by swinging it in the air.  This makes me tense and subconsciously I try to wriggle my bottom out of the way but I am sure that my Master would not make those threatening noises with the crop if he had knew that he was teasing me!

The swishes grow louder and more frequent, then the crop strikes, straight across my bare buttocks.  The pain from that first blow is intense and I cry out and try to wriggle out of the way but cannot.  The stinging crop falls again, then again and again.  I cry out for mercy, pleading with my Master to stop, promising him that I will not spill his drink again and that I have most certainly learned my lesson.  I start to cry, great tears streaming down my face, unable to wipe them away with my helpless hands and still the blows continue to fall, raining down on my defenceless bottom; stinging, biting, hurting, crying, crying!