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Alastair chuckled at this. “With some implements, just a little goes a long way. Look closer and you can see that even with a light hand the tawse leaves little welts.”
He was right. Dora imagined herself in the woman’s place, legs spread, bottom on display. She looked around then, hoping to see a woman like herself. There were subs of all shapes and sizes, but none quite like her. Another image came to her mind, of people making fun of Alastair behind his back, joking about the size of his sub. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea?
He showed her the Saint Andrew’s cross with its four shackles, a metal tripod with a suspension hook where a slight male sub was hanging by his wrists while a beautiful woman in latex was slapping the inside of his thighs with a riding crop as he whimpered.
What looked like a leather drum on four legs was actually a padded barrel horse. Alastair explained that the sub would lay astride it with wrists and ankles restrained at the base. There was also a spanking bench currently occupied by a woman she recognized as one of the students she’d seen on the school floor. She was strapped down, her upper body and bottom elevated in an all-fours position. Her legs were separated by a spreader bar; her bare pussy was open and exposed. Her bottom was cherry red, thanks to the man standing next to her. He was clutching a large paddle in one hand. The other hand was stroking her between the legs. Despite the tear stains on her pretty face, she was smiling.
“What are those?” Dora pointed to one of several huge armoires scattered throughout the dungeon.
“That’s where the implements are kept.” He motioned to the barrel horse. “Would you like to try?”
“I did.” She looked around. “But look at these women, Alastair. They’re all so—”
“Inferior to you? I know.” He sighed dramatically. “But I promise to be gracious and not pity their Doms too much.”
She glared at him. “You’re making fun of me.”
“I would never make fun of you, young lady. Understand? At some point in this journey, you will understand that preference in partners is like preference in implements. You like what you like. And what do I like?”
“Me?”
“Again, with more certainty.”
“Me. You like me.”
“That’s right. Daddy likes you.”
He led her to the padded barrel horse.
Dora kept her eyes on him while she undressed. Even with Alastair’s reassurances, she was nervous. The horse was surprisingly comfortable; her arms and legs hugged the soft leather surface; the fleece-lined cuffs were snug but comfortable on her hands and wrists.
To the side was a large armoire. Dora watched as Alastair opened it. Every bit of interior space was utilized, with both the inside and inner doors hung with all manner of implements.
“We’ll start with a bit of sensory play,” he said, and took down what looked like a pinwheel with sharp metal teeth.
Dora’s first reaction was dread, but Alastair soothed her with a sweep of his hand down her back before running the wheel lightly down her side to her right buttock. He told her it was called a Wartenburg wheel, and that she shouldn’t be afraid of it. The sensation was like a spiky tickle that made her tingle. Alastair varied the pressure of the wheel as he ran it across her bottom, down her legs, even across the soles of her feet. The latter made her wriggle on the horse, made her aware of the restraints that bound her.
“Remember this?” he said and picked up a tawse exactly like the one she’d seen used on the woman in the stockade. Of course, she remembered it. She also remembered that Alastair said it looked deceptively benign and now he proved it; the sting it produced across her bottom was disproportionate to the relative gentleness of the blow. She flinched, cried out, then relaxed as Alastair ran his hand over the thin red lines he’d painted on her bottom.
“Can you be my brave girl?” he asked.
She nodded, unable to speak. Alastair struck her twice more, harder, on the lower half of her bottom. Waves of delicious pain moved through her body. She could feel her pussy growing wetter by the moment.
She tasted the strap, the paddle, the flogger. By the time Alastair helped her off the horse, her bottom was throbbing. He moved her to a bar suspended from the ceiling, raising her arms and affixing them to the cuffs on either side. He produced a spreader bar and used it to restrain her feet apart. Her legs were open, her pussy vulnerable to whatever he chose to do.
Alastair moved to stand beside her. “Choose a safeword,” he said.
“Anything?”
He nodded and she considered it.
“God save the queen?”
He chuckled. “A safe phrase. I like it. Do you trust Daddy?”
“Always.”
He moved behind her. She felt something go over her eyes. A blindfold.
