The Institute

As MJ came through the door from her break, she was keenly aware of the vulnerability her condition showed. A bright dress set-off the posture collar and her wrists that were locked to it. The ankle cuffs locked together just above her spiked heels insuring she couldn’t run even if she wanted to. The hood and blindfold ensuring that she couldn’t see who was watching her.

As she was walking through the house, break time over, she was reminded of this vulnerability and all of the fires burning through out her body.

MJ’s tongue was on fire. All through out the morning, Mistress M had conspired to make MJ talk much more respectfully. “Yes, Ma’am.” “No Ma’am.” “You can go to hell, Ma’am.”

Whatever the question, be respectful in your answer, or find yourself sucking on a bar of soap. Repeatedly. Twelve times with that bar of soap. Twelve excruciating minutes. It’s not like the bar of soap would fit through the hood, so she had to bite down on it with her teeth and hold it up with her tongue. And even after it came out, the whole world smelled like Irish Spring.


But the soap wasn’t the worst part. No, the mouthwash to get the taste out of her mouth was even worse. Because it burned. And it kept burning until Mistress M allowed her to spit it out once she was done with the toothpaste.

MJ’s feet were on fire. Nothing she had gone through before had trained her for spending so long on her 5″ spiked heels. The balls of her feet were sore, her legs were sore and her balance was getting worse. Why could Mistress M not understand that high heels were a temporary punishment and not an all day thing?

MJ’s balls were on fire. As a punishment for getting soap stuck in her teeth, Mistress M decided that a little toothpaste was in order. So she smeared in on. Down the shaft. Across the head. Behind the sack. Massaging it in like a fine lotion until a nice tingly sensation set in, which lasted about 10 seconds before a painful burning set in. And the gasp, which caused the mouthwash to dribble caught everyone by surprise.

Mistress M seemed to take no notice, however, as she packaged up MJ’s parts with layers of cloth to ensure that the toothpaste would not be able to spread. And to ensure that her balls would constantly feel a great deal of pressure.

MJ’s nipples were on fire. Mistress M had liberally coated them with menthol gel before snapping on clothespins in preparation for an afternoon of watching television. MJ had no notion of how long the programming would last, but that the burning started immediately was not a good sign.

MJ’s ass hole was on fire. As a punishment for dribbling, she had shoved a plug up her ass before allowing her to get rid of the burning mouthwash. After pulling up her panties and hose, MJ was gagged and wrapped in plastic before being deposited on the couch for the afternoon.


It was after three hours of mindless television the she couldn’t see and barely hear that MJ really began to feel the size of the plug. And that need to relive herself of it was increasing the burn by the minute.

MJ’s ass was on fire. After cutting her out of the plastic that she had been watching TV with for four hours, it was finally time to be punished for the need to use soap earlier in the day. Two swats for every second it had been in her mouth. Twelve hundred strokes from Mistress M and her wooden paddle.

So MJ found herself bent over the edge of the bed. Still wearing the high heels. Still with her balls packaged tightly. Still with her nipples clamped. Still with the anal invader.


As the hundred of swats added up to over a thousand, MJ was finally coming to realization that she would make it though it. She barely heard as Mistress M indicated she needed a break. A colorful dress was put on. Then her gag removed. Then she was shoved out on the front porch of the house so that Mistress M could take her much needed break.

It was with all of these fires in her mind that MJ stumbled back into the bedroom at the urging of Mistress M. In a way she was glad to have been hooded so she would know who was witnessing her humiliation while she was standing on the front porch hearing the traffic go by. And maybe if people did see her standing out there, they wouldn’t recognize her if they saw her out on the street. “Yes,” she thought, “it is better not to know.”

“So where we?” Mistress M wondered aloud as she threw MJ over the edge of the bed. “I remember getting to five hundred, so that sounds like a good place to start. Does that sound good to you MJ?”

MJ knew that the real count on swats with the paddle was well over one thousand, but also realized it would do her no good to say so. Trying to correct Mistress was like trying to comfortably spar with a brick wall. It just wasn’t going to happen. So resigned to getting another 700 with the wooden paddle, MJ wearily answer “Yes, Ma’am”

“That’s correct. Mistress is always right. It’s good to see you have finally learned this lesson.” Then Mistress M reached around and shoved the gag back in her mouth. “Of course, I shouldn’t expect you to remember this always, so I will provide you a little help. To make sure you don’t speak out of turn.”

“Now, let’s get started again with 501,” Mistress M called out as she pulled the paddle back, getting ready to strike. The blow landed and MJ grunted and the beat went on. And on. And on. For almost seven hundred more.

With the relentless paddling nearing an end, she was almost numb to the pain that keep shooting from the edge of the paddle. After nearly two thousand blows MJ was ready for something else–anything to make this end. And the doorbell rang and Mistress M told her “It’s your visitor, so I suggest you go answer the door immediately. The rest of the paddling can wait.”

The doorbell rang again as MJ was struggling to get off the bed and again as she made her way slowly down the hall. The high heels and legs cuffs didn’t help matters much and the various fires, down to an ember, were beginning to rekindle. As she bent at the waist to open the door (with her wrists still clipped to get collar) and then swing it open, she had no way to judge expression of surprise on the face of the woman standing before her.