As the days went by, my own reaction to the evening shows was undergoing a slow change: whereas, at first, I had found the merciless cruelty displayed during those performances to be most exciting, the closer it was getting be to my own turn to star in one such show, the more I came to feel ever more terrified. It happened two or two times, during that week, that I was tormented by the supervisors at dinner time, but despite the agony from the whippings and the screams I uttered when a clamp was positioned on one of my most sensitive parts, I had spent the evening hours in the same resigned state I was in during the days, reduced to a mindless wreck by the never ending suffering and by the unmovable authority of the dominatrixes.

However, as the time went by, the understanding of the fact that pretty soon, the girl being tortured would be no other than myself deeply printed itself in my mind. It is true that I had got accustomed to living with an impaling plug deeply thrust into my asshole most of the time, it is true that by then I found quite natural to throw myself on the floor to tongue the soles of the boots which were proffered to me, and it is true also that the very thought of spending my days in such a paradoxical predicament instantly got me in heat like a sow in need, but I was not quite ready to undergo that kind of handling. I knew it only too well: whenever the supervisors looked the other way and I could afford to focus my attention for one moment from the demanding household duties or from the agony of punishment, I found myself standing on shaky legs, my stomach cramped in terror. Had I not been perfectly aware that such a request only would have resulted in a worse sentence, I would have begged my tormentors, on my knees and crying, to do anything to me, to kill me even, but to spare me from the murderous dinner torture. I was ready to abandon myself to the most abject humiliations, humiliations I had not yet understood belonged only to fantasy, and to the most inhumane sacrifices. Nevertheless, day after day, hour upon hour, the unbearable moment came ever closer, its progress not to be checked. When the fate-designed evening came at last, so feverous was my terror of the torture that was in store for me that I could not help making a great number of minor mistakes and blunders during the day, so that I received again and again the kiss of the whip - an instrument which, in Lady Fiona's castle, never had to be asked twice to sing its anthem. I even had daydreamed, at some time, that if I could contrive to get to the torture stage with a body utterly disfigured by the whip, I could be possibly spared the torture. Of course, that very thought was nonsense, on at least two counts: first of all, the supervisors were perfectly able to whip me for a whole day without inflicting serious damage to me, and anyway, there could be no doubt that the Mistress would have found the infliction of torture to a slave already marked by the whip to be vastly interesting, so that nothing could save me.

When, at long last, it was dinner time, sheer terror had utterly numbed my mind. I went straight from a state of unrestricted sexual arousal to one of almost total paralysis: I had witnessed the terrible condition in which the tormented slaves went back to their duties on the following morning, and when I reflected that even so masochistic a slut as Bettina had hardly been able, literally, to stand on her feet, I had to realize that, whatever torture was being readied for me, it would be the worst on of all my life. As I was trying to fortify myself despite that desperate situation, Monika came and without further ado tied my wrists behind my back, snapped a leash to my collar, and dragged me with a total lack of regard towards the dining room where all the other inhabitants of the mansion were getting ready for their evening meal.

We came in at the far end of the room, and I still distinctly recall the sensations I went through while I was being led to torture The coldness of the air, which made my nipples even stiffer, Enrica's hard stare as I passed her, the lack of interest that the other slaves seemed to display towards my perils as they went on servicing the dominatrixes in every possible way, and of course. Lady Fiona. Like always she was incredibly beautiful. She was sitting on her chair like an Empress on her throne. Her long hair only partially covered the generous measure of luscious cleavage bared by the low neckline of an obviously very expensive silken evening dress. I had seen her turn her eyes to me as soon as I had entered the room, and since then she had never wavered in her inquisitive gaze, studying me, appraising every feature of my body with the knowing eye of a cattle merchant. I recall the strange sensation I had felt right then, and I almost felt ashamed, because at that very moment I was being freed of the huge anal plug which up to then had never once left me. My attention had been focused, for an instant, on the perceptions which came from my bottom: I had distinctly identified the unfamiliar sensation of cool air nuzzling the inner walls of my distended sphincter, and the burning feeling which still remained from a caning I had received, a few hours before, on my ass cheeks. Momentarily turning my eyes to the table, I had been overwhelmed by Lady Fiona's smile, an ironic smile which conveyed all the cruelty she was able of, and for that very reason, utterly fascinated me.

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