Another whap with the whip on my burning butt.   That makes eight.   Only two more to go and then I could relax.   I kept telling myself not to cry, not even to whimper.   And I was concentrating all my energy into not moving a muscle.

Although I was strapped down, ass up over the padded saw horse with my legs spread wide I was desperately trying to hold still and not squeeze my ass shut.   Not that I could, the way I was positioned.   But I needed to practice for the day when I will finally be allowed to accept my discipline without being tied down.

The Mistresses are all experts at spanking and whipping.   I know this.   I have yet to see any of them make a mistake and accidentally beat my exposed balls or sting my vulnerable asshole when I'm in this position.   Deep down I know this.   I know I should trust in them completely and yet I can't.   Not yet.   I can't seem to give up my fear that their aim will be slightly off and . . . .

"Slap!"

One more to go.   I could do it.

Novice Penny was standing beside her holding a clipboard.   She'd been writing down whatever Mistress had been saying about me.   They keep meticulous notes here on all the slaves, I've found out.   Besides the usual—age, height, weight, measurements (including length and width of erect penis, and size of the largest dildo we have so far been able to take up our butts)—they keep track and grade us on all our lessons, as well as our reactions to whatever they've done to us.

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