Slave Yoga Ch. 03: Slave Naked

Master John, still laughing, tossed a handful of treats on the floor in front of me, which I generously distributed to the naked slave girls around me. Sunfire, glaring, did not partake.

The men behind the glass did not know the reason for the laughter, nor did they seem to care. "Slave spread!" Master John called out, and I joined the other girls in arching my back and spreading my legs. The men's eyes quickly focused elsewhere, on the part of my anatomy that promised them their pleasure, and any thoughts of who I truly was vanished like the little piece of hoof that was now resting in my belly.

Master John worked us, and worked us hard. Two times the distracted Sunfire got the whip cracked across her rump, much to my delight.

My first session of nude Slave Yoga had been a triumph, and I found myself sashaying toward the door as the class ended, purposely swinging my hips for the gawking men in the window. The other free women were equally impressed.

"Nice job, Tracy!" Suzie said.

"Yes, I can't believe you really did it!"

"You're a natural!"

"You OWNED it Tracy."

"Most impressive. I almost thought you were a real slave."

"Yes. Well done!"

I relished my triumph but nonetheless felt a slight twinge of nervousness as I watched the free women, laughing, carefree, and (of course) clothed in their leotards disappear through the main door for their walk back to their locker room.

I wanted to go with them but of course I could not. I was a naked slave girl.

Remembering my meeting with Professor Crush I knew I had one more mountain to scale. I knew today was the day, as Master John was pleased with me, and would be easier to bend to my will. I deliberately stalled until the other slave girls had left.

"Master?" I said. Master John did not acknowledge me but I knew he was listening. "Master, I'm a big proponent of operant conditioning and... uh, I want to incorporate negative reinforcement into the next phase of uh..."

"I do not have time for games," John said curtly as he picked up his gym bag and walked toward the door.

Realizing that he had not understood I quickly dispensed with the smokescreen of my psychological jargon. "I want you to use the whip on me, like I was a real slave girl."

Master John stopped walking. After a moment, without turning, he replied, "If I used the whip on you, I would whip you freely, more than the other slave girls."

"Why more?" I asked, confused.

Master John turned to address me directly. "Because you have more potential... and you are much in need of discipline."

"Thank you," I said, unsure of what to say, and realizing the stupidity of what I said shortly after I said it. Did I thank him for whipping me more? How stupid of me!

Fortunately Master John did not think my answer was foolish. "Very well. You beg for the whip. If you wish to be trained under its shadow then give Master Mark and I a written note authorizing your punishment."

"Yes, Master."

I shrunk back a bit as Master John came closer, towering over me as he invaded my personal space. "When I was a senior in High School I had a terrible crush on you. I was shy and awkward and you were indifferent to me, as you were indifferent to so many of the boys in class. Do you remember?"

I shook my head. "A lot of students have schoolboy crushes," I explained. "I can't be expected to remember—"

Before I could finish Master John siezed me by the scruff of the neck and slapped my naked bottom 5 times in quick succession. His hand felt like a paddle and I cried out, my eyes filling with tears of shame and humiliation as the few remaining men in the window above me laughed and applauded my spanking through the glass.

"Go," he said brusquely, releasing my neck.

I didn't need to be told twice. Quickly I scurried toward the door leading to the slave pen, rubbing my bottom all the way.

Still rubbing I exited the workout room and ran down the cement hallway and down the stairs into the slave pen, the metal door locking securely behind me.

My brain struggled to process what had just transpired. I had requested Master John to help me with my experiment on the impact of negative reinforcement in operant conditioning. He had misinterpreted this as "begging for the whip" as if I was some randy piece of slave meat who felt she needed to be beaten in order to feel loved.

He was 100% wrong, of course, but then a moment later I experienced the novel and peculiar sensation of a powerful man's hand spanking my naked bottom. It was humiliating and painful, of course, but it was also oddly thrilling, particularly with the men watching. Of course in my case the pleasure derived from my professional satisfaction in knowing that my research could now proceed rather than the shame of the spanking itself.

Master John had said I "needed discipline." What had he meant? I knew he couldn't have been referring to any sloppiness or laziness on my part, for I was already the best slave girl in the class. Granted the novel experience of feeling his hand spank my naked ass had been pleasurable, at least in retrospect. But at what point did "pleasure" turn into "need?" It was an interesting question and I was determined to find the answer.

I walked unchallenged past the guard and through the iron door at the bottom of the stairs. The guard did look at me, but said nothing, and I recalled the slave monger's vulgar observation that "One naked slave pussy looks pretty much like another." I knew it wasn't true, of course. I was still a free woman after all, not "naked slave pussy." I was able to fool a seasoned professional because of my expertise in psychology and because my training and intellect were far superior to his.

The slave pen had been a basement locker room that was converted into a holding area for the slaves when the club had ramped up its Slave Yoga operations. It's most notable feature were the guards at the door, an area of cement floor where the slaves could sit and wait for pickup, and a sunken pit with a gang shower.

I had not planned to shower but I was hot and sweaty after the rigorous exercise and a slave trainer with a whip on his belt was blocking the way and preventing me from getting to the waiting area without first passing through the showers. Feeling the vulnerability of my nudity I decided not to challenge him I joined the other girls under the spray.

The water was cool but not cold, and I took a moment to enjoy the feel of the tepid spray on my naked skin. The "slave scrub" - a gritty industrial disinfectant liquid soap - seemed more like kitchen cleanser than the perfumed soap I used at home but it got me clean fast. It burned my hair and eyes; I'm guessing that was the various industrial delousing agents designed to kill any form of pestilence on contact.

I hadn't been in a gang shower since High School and certainly never in a gang shower where men could watch me. The male trainers definitely kept their eyes on us and clearly enjoyed looking at our naked bodies. However they didn't ogle us the same way as the disgusting perverts who gaped down on us from the viewing area did. While enjoying the girl's nudity the trainers maintained a professional distance. After all, they saw as much every day, and beautiful as we were still a job to them.

Relaxing under the spray I took a moment to savor my triumph. I had fooled everyone, even Master John, into thinking I was really a slave girl. Not only a slave, but a slave even more beautiful and slave hot than Sunfire! Giving up my precious leotard had been an inspiration. Once I was slave naked my grace and movements made me the most beautiful slave girl in class.

Maybe I was the most beautiful slave girl in the world, or the most beautiful slave girl ever! I discretely reached between my legs and stroked my pussy at the thought.

"Did you like performing naked for the men?" a voice behind me said.

Surprised, I turned to discover Sunfire and two of her goons looming over her. "Do you like playing slave girl, free bitch?" she challenged. "Maybe you should lick my pussy."

Sunfire's stooges laughed as I stepped backwards from them as they advanced.

"I'm not a slave," I protested. "Remember your place."

"No one here knows your free, little Tracy," Sunfire taunted. "Now it's just us "slave girls." The men won't care if you lick my pussy. I've never had a free woman lick me. Maybe I'll like it."

I pushed past Sunfire but one of her goons grabbed my hair. The scuffle only lasted a moment but quickly all the trainers ordered all four of us out of the shower.

"She started it," I said, defending myself.

The slave trainer seemed uninterested. "Where is your collar, slave girl?" he said.

I just stared at him, dumbfounded, melting under his penetrating glaze. I didn't have a collar, of course. Why would I have a collar? I wasn't a slave girl.

The slave monger did not wait for me to formulate an answer. "Whip them," he said casually. "Whip them on their bottoms."

The other girls turned and raised their naked backsides in the air. A part of me was pleased to see Sunfire get it, at least until one of the slave mongers grabbed my hands, spun me around, and yanked me forward until my bottom was sticking up in the air as well.

"You're making a mistake," I sputtered. The response was the crack of a leather strap and a cry of agony from one of Sunfire's minions as the slave strap set her bottom ablaze.

I had enjoyed seeing Sunfire get the whip in class and I very much wanted to see her punished again. However my enjoyment at hearing the snap of the slave strap across a feminine bottom was tempered by the fact that my upturned backside was next in line.

Whap!

"Please, Master. Mercy! I'll be good!" she begged.

WHAP!

"So sorry Master. I will do anything! Let me pleasure you, Master!"

A part of me was disgusted. What a slut! The strap continued to strike. 15? 16? 17? I lost count. I very much wanted it to continue, to delay my own reckoning, but I also wanted it to end for I knew my punishment would be just as severe.

How fickle the life of a slave girl is! A few moments before I had been wiggling my hips for the men as I took a triumphant victory lap across the room. Now my butt cheeks clenched and unclenched in anticipation of the punishment I would soon receive.

"I have this coming," I thought. "I deserve it. I shouldn't have goaded Sunfire. The Masters are right to punish me, and I must try to learn my lesson."

I caught myself. "When I am punished, I must try to learn my lesson," was one of the many humiliating slave mantras I had been forced to chant over-and-over during my training. However I was shocked to discover it creeping into my conscientious even as my bottom was raised high for discipline.

How ridiculous. I didn't "deserve" to be beaten. I knew that I was engaging in The Stockholm Syndrome, identifying with my captors to restore my sense of power. Odd as it was, I welcomed the peculiar thoughts, for I knew it would make the discipline go down easier if I viewed it as fundamentally just.

"I deserve this," I thought, letting my training override my reason. "I hope the Masters are strict with me, so I learn my lesson."

I had mentally acclimated myself to the punishment to come and cursing my foolishness for allowing myself to be dragged into a slave girl cat fight in the shower when I heard Suzie's voice behind me.

"Stop! Wait! She's not a slave!"

I carefully kept my eyes down and my bottom raised as Suzie and the slave monger she had bribed explained to the trainer my "peculiar situation."

I didn't rise until Suzie walked over and handed me my clothes.

My clothes! My precious clothes! Oh, what a difference clothes make!

From the sidelines I took my time dressing so I could enjoy the spectacle of Sunfire and her two friends crying and promising to be good and begging my forgiveness as they received a just and proper whipping for their gross disrespect toward me.

"I'm sorry, Master!"

"Forgive us, Mistress Tracy!"

"We are so sorry, Mistress Tracy!"

"Mercy, Mistress! 1,000 pardons!"

I had no mercy to give. Once fully dressed I realized that the punishment I had supposed a few moments before to be unspeakably harsh was actually far too lenient. Sunfire's ass already had several whip marks on it from class and was rapidly turning red but I wanted more. Turning to Suzie I suggested that he give the slave monger swinging the spanking strap a sizable gratuity to "lay the strokes on smartly on Sunfire's ripe little ass."

Suzie, amused, laughed and handed me $100. With Gunfire watching I made a show of grandly presenting the whip master with his bribe.

Sunfire glared hate at me and I give her a little wink as the trainer raised the strap high above his head.

"Owwwww! Mercy, Mistress! Mercy!"

I smiled, relishing Sunfire's torment. Indeed, the moment would have been perfect if not for the nagging memory of the note that I needed to write to Master John and Master Mark imploring them to use the slave whip in my own training, and the uncomfortable warmness of my own freshly spanked buns.

4-20

When I woke up the next morning I immediately wrote Master John and Master Mark the note I needed to take my training to the next level.

Dear Master Mark Mark & Master John

In order to help you help me achieve the best Slave Yoga poses possible and with the goal of receiving the very highest Slave Grade I can, I hearby authorize you to discipline me as you would any other slave girl under your control, with any tool and the severity you deem appropriate, including the slave whip. I wish to be disciplined exactly as you would discipline any other slave girl and I free you from any liability or damaged that may arise as a result of said discipline.

Tracy Smith

I signed it and gave it to Suzie to notarize it and forward it onto Master John and Master Mark at the slave houses they worked at. Suzie thought it was a wonderful idea and even volunteered to give me "a taste" of the whip but I declined. I suspected I would feel it soon enough.

Unfortunately for me Suzie, still riding high from her power trip with me at the office, became insistent, and demanded that I show up for a "training session" as her slave girl. "I want to feel that sweet little tongue of yours on my snatch, Tracy. I know you want it too."

When I told her I wasn't interested in girls she got angry. "I'm NOT a lesbian. How dare you talk to me that way! You're a slave already you just don't know it. If I brought your case before a judge you'd be licking my pussy by this time tomorrow."

I pointed out that I wasn't the only one in the Slave Yoga class, and that I had overheard her so-called colleagues at the law firm speculate about collaring her.

Suzie told me to "Fuck off!" I knew that I had hit a nerve. Suzie had started the Slave Yoga as research or perhaps curiosity but now she was living as much on the razor's edge as I was and if one of the Judges she worked with found out she might end up doing her Slave Yoga on the auction block.

I regretted fighting with Suzie and resolved to make it up to her the next class. Perhaps a training session wouldn't be so bad. In fact, it might be interesting. I wouldn't really have to lick her if I didn't want to. After all, unlike Suzie I wasn't a lesbian.

I made a mental note to ask Professor Crush about it in our next meeting. The important thing now was to proceed with the adverse conditioning for my thesis and not to let Suzie or other distractions get in my way.

I knew I was pushing the envelope pretty far but in truth I was more excited than concerned. Beating Sunfire - both figuratively and literally - had given me a renewed confidence.

What did I have to fear from the whip, really? They never hit hard enough to leave a permanent mark, and although the slave girls seemed to make a big deal out of it, I suspected that was simply for show. How bad could it be?

Besides, it was clear to everyone that I was the best in the class. For the last few weeks I had gotten nothing but praise and slave candy. Professor Crush's insistence that I subject myself to the risk of the slave whip would introduce an element of danger that would make my training more exciting, but there was little chance I'd actually be disciplined in any serious way.

Even if I did get a flick or two what of it? It is said that a true slave girl longs for the whip and the structure and discipline it represents. After all, why would a master waste his time whipping a slave girl if he didn't care for her?

Although I wasn't a slave I now very much understood the psychology of this seemingly odd reasoning. Although not a slave I too was curious about the whip and very much wondered what it felt like. There was a certain intimacy to cracking a whip or strap across a slave girl's naked bottom and I knew that now that he had spanked me the relationship between me and Master John would never be the same.

Once again I was grateful for the insights that my Slave Yoga training had given me. Two semesters ago I had written a paper about the elaborate psychological gymnastics that slave girls used to justify their own whippings and the elaborate defense mechanisms they used to make themselves feel like participants in a sort of game rather than simply animals under the whip. Now I understood that these "defense mechanisms" were nothing of the sort.

Master's pretend that they whip slave girls out of anger or dissatisfaction or simply because they enjoy it. Slave girls know better. Counterintuitive as it may seem, it's the slave girl's conduct that determines the whipping, hence it would be I, in the role of a slave girl, who would in complete control. I would not be an animal under the lash, but rather a master chess player in full control of her board.

I knew that Sunfire and the other slave girls were deathly afraid of punishment but somehow their fear made it all the more alluring. I had been terrified to be bent over, ass in the air, waiting for the strap. Yet I had felt strangely disappointed when Suzie saved me. Part of it was curiosity, but there was more to it than that.

I experienced the strange sensation of desiring punishment not merely for the experience but because I knew that on some level the punishment was deserved. Even if I had done nothing wrong in fighting with Sunfire I had displeased my Masters in the slave pens, and in the topsy-turvy psychology of the slave girl mind that alone merited punishment.

I knew that Professor Crush was right and that the punishment was essential to the experiment. I wanted to be punished. I needed it. I didn't want to be excused or released. I wanted to experience a shameful and humiliating corporal punishment at the hands of a Master who felt that I was a dumb animal too stupid to be reasoned with.

"A slave girl only understands the whip." It was another one of the mantras I had repeated endlessly during my psychological conditioning but only now did I understand the truth of it. While I was most definitely NOT a slave girl, and I was not stupid, I knew there were certain lessons only the whip could teach, and they were lessons I very much wanted - no, NEEDED - to learn.

A part of me — no, all of me — envied Sunfire her punishment, and I felt a strange sort of jealousy as once again she stole the attention I deserved as she touched her toes with her big round bottom high in the air. I could tell from her tears and the tremor in her voice that her punishment was painful and humiliating.

I, the cruel and vengeful free woman — had tipped the slave monger to whip her all the harder. I relished my power over her even as I felt jealous of her. It made no sense. Or did it? Was it possible that I wanted to be punished for my cruelty to her?