Karen had just two more days to last until the end of her qualification period.  Her current position as ‘Volunteer 525’ had taken her through three of the hardest months of her young life.

At this moment her eyes were comically crossed, she was watching the single bead of perspiration slowly tickling its way down her nose.  She pondered over the option of shaking her head to remove the offending article, weighing the benefit against the added strain this would place on her stretched nipples.  She was standing naked, bent forward at the waist with her arms drawn painfully up her back pointing to the high ceiling, held there by her wrist cuffs which were attached to the overhead motorised pulley.  Small lead weights dangled from the biting nipple clamps placed on her an hour ago.  The pale white flesh of her bottom was criss-crossed with ten bright red twin tracked weals, unmistakable evidence of having been recently caned. 

Some six feet to her left, another slave was balanced in exactly the same position. Her dilemma was worse; she had two weights hanging from each of her distended nipples.  Although this girl was of a darker complexion, the same marks of the cane stood out in proud relief on her well rounded behind.  Her suffering had been, and continued to be, far greater than Karen’s. So many vivid welts throbbed and burned her rear it was impossible to be certain of the precise number, as each fiery track was interlaced with another.  Her tears rolled off her cheeks to land with a silent splash at her feet, every heaving sob adding to her agony as the suspended weights swung gently from her breasts. 

Karen reflected on her own good fortune: in just one more hour her immediate ordeal would be over, two more days of routine classroom stuff would follow and then she would have qualified.  The poor wretch next to her would remain in her strained position for at least two or three more hours and who knows how many more hours, days, weeks or years of torment to follow.

 

Karen allowed her mind to wander back to that hot July day, which although only a few weeks ago, felt more like several years.  It was the day after her twenty third birthday and, still recovering from the celebrations of the previous evening, she had decided enough was enough.  Her job as a secretary in a city law firm was driving her crazy with boredom; she had been looking around for something totally different, something to take her out of the mundane nine to five rat race, and most importantly, something where she could exercise her dominant nature.  Her social life was a nightmare.  She was definitely more attracted to women than men, but had enjoyed the occasional hetero relationship.  The one prime factor was her need to dominate.  Since her mid teens she had enjoyed using her powerful personality to persuade apparently straight girls to perform lesbian acts with her.  Her desires had continued to grow, reaching the point where she now needed to control all of her relationships. She needed to inflict pain, both emotional and physical.  In keeping with her sexual preference, she would rather rule over women, but if the chance came along to dominate a man she could cope with that quite happily.

The advertisement had been quite small and, placed as it was, in her regular monthly edition of ‘Contact’, it was probably not read by too many people.  Certainly those without an interest in the world of sexual domination, even had they read it, would not have grasped the implication of the wording.

 

Teacher / Trainer Required

Will suit late twenties early thirties.

Male / female

Broadminded approach to education essential.

Experience and qualifications less important than aptitude.

Working away from home you must be very strong willed and

prepared to undergo intensive in – house training.

Send details to:

P.O. Box No.

 

The address named a small village in the Cotswold Hills.

It was only because the advertisement appeared in that particular publication that it aroused any interest in her at all, normally an educational post based in some sleepy country town would not have held her attention long enough to finish reading the advertisement.

She had spent the next three days thinking about the wording in the ad. Hoping she had interpreted the message correctly, she decided to apply for an interview.  Exactly one month later a letter had arrived inviting her to a meeting with ‘Miss Catherine Davis,’ to be held at the Park Lane Hotel, London.

She had made up her mind to attend the meeting relatively easily, deciding what to wear had been considerably more difficult.  Should it be a discreet business suit, or more in keeping with what she hoped the job would entail, perhaps something more daring?  After changing several times she had settled on a navy blue trouser suit, tightly cut at the waist over a white silk blouse, black patent leather shoes with figure enhancing three-inch heels.

Barefoot, she could claim to be five feet seven inches tall, her trim, if not quite athletic, 34-24-34 frame was topped with a bobbed hairstyle, the short fringe keeping her chestnut curls away from her face.  Her make-up was minimal, intended to mainly accentuate her deep hazel eyes and high cheekbones.

It had taken four separate meetings, in different locations, before she finally had been offered the post on a trial basis.  Whilst attending the last meeting at a hotel near Southampton, she had been told she would have to live abroad for at least the next twelve months and that contact with people outside the organisation was absolutely forbidden during that time.  She had been given seven days to accept the offer and then a further two weeks to put her affairs in order. This was to be followed by a final briefing before her departure overseas. She still did not know where she was going, only that it would be hot. 

When Karen received her instructions for the next meeting, she also received a small package containing the clothes she should wear.  The typewritten details told her to be at a motorway service area on the M5 at two PM, on Thursday of that week.  A chauffeur driven Mercedes would meet her and the driver would identify himself as Marcus.  She should enter the rear of the car and immediately put on the blindfold she would find on the back seat.  The notes also told her that Marcus would be instructed not to speak during the journey, which would take approximately sixty minutes.  Just reading the instructions sent a shiver of expectancy raced down her spine. She could not wait to begin this new adventure.