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On Behavior Modification... (Ff Bondage)
This work Copyright (C) 2000, by Caitlain McCarren. I reserve
all rights of distribution not otherwise expressly granted
herein.
Should you like my works and wish to add my to your
collection, you are at liberty to do so for personal use as
proscribed by the Berne Convention and U. S. Copyright law
pertaining to fair use. In addition, electronic distribution
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Transmission or distribution by all other modes; print,
duplication to optical or magnetic media, and such other
modes as may be currently or ultimately provided, are
expressly forbidden. I, Caitlain McCarren, retain all rights
to such transmission.
In addition, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to
or association with persons living or dead is coincidental.
I describe situations, which without proper care could cause
bodily harm or injury. Fiction is best left as such. Don't
attempt any of what is described herein without providing
utmost care and consideration before the fact.
To close, this story, while work of fiction, describes adult
situations. If you are not yet of the age of majority, or if
accessing, reading, possessing, or distributing material of
this nature is illegal in your community; or if such material
offends you, I invite you to leave now, before you begin.
ON BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION... One Way:
I'm strapped to this chair again, as I am everyday at this
time. I can't even muster the mental energy to struggle
against my bonds. I don't have anywhere to escape to anyway,
and I need the energy to endure the humiliation that surely
comes each and everyday at this time.
It's an ingenious system Mistress devised motivating me to be
the good I now know I want to be. Miss Lynn has taken
it upon herself to mend my evil ways. My teenage life is
fraught with disasters and setbacks and, I admit it, I was
bitter. I was a handful all right. I broke my mothers heart
again and again. Schoolwork? That was a joke.
All of that has changed now thanks to Miss Lynn. I'm chained
to my bed each night at 8:30 PM. No more nightlife for me.
I'm unchained from my bed each morning at 4:00 AM. I'm
allowed an hour to rise, shower, groom, and dress. Then I
make my way to the kitchen where I chain myself to the bakery
station. There I don an apron, then mix and knead dough for
25 loaves of bread. Miss Lynn has a weakness for fresh baked
hot buttered bread and at 8:00 AM sharp each day she
invariably cuts open one of the last loaves to come from the
oven.
The rest of the loaves are packaged and gathered for
distribution to houses around the neighborhood and to the
soup kitchen a block away. Two of Mistress's other do
that chore. For the most part I'm not allowed to leave this
house, accept on rare occasions for doctors visits or yard
work. I dare say that if Mistress had her way I would never
see light of day.
I remove the last loaves from the oven and set them out on
the racks to cool, remove my apron and hang it on the
peg, then reach under the bakery counter and retrieve the
foot stocks. I move to the bay window overlooking the
garden, center the stocks between, and remove the manacles
from within. Then, as the good little scullery slave I am, I
step in, close, latch, and lock the foot stocks. I pull up
the manacles attached to the stocks by a chain, clasp, latch
and lock them. I stand, due to the length of chain, in a
slight squat with my knees unlocked, a position Mistress
finds better for my posture than hunched over and head down.
After a few minutes, it seems an eternity to me, the other
girls tumble down the stairs in dress and discipline collars
and quietly snigger at me, the new in the bay window, as
they gather the bread and go. Mistress released them for
their deliveries.
A few moments latter, Mistress steps down the stairs. She is
always impeccably dressed. Her ability to create something
new each day amazes me. Her ability to keep clean and fresh
is in a strange way unnatural, perhaps supernatural, or so it
seems to me. She calls that poise. She says she has hope of
cultivating some of it within me. I now try, but still, I
have my doubts.
Mistress enters the room and moves straight to the bread on
the butcherblock table, cutting it with the knife retrieved
from the slot in the side. She opens the tub of sweet cream
butter brought from the dairy in exchange for some of the
bread I make each day. With a spreader retrieved from the
same slot in the butcher block she liberally coats two pieces
of bread and rolls her eyes at the first taste of bread and
butter. "Darling, I love you for this bread alone, but tell
me, what good things have you done over the last day." At
this she comes to me and releases the discipline collar
around my neck, a signal that I'm to speak freely to the
questions she asks.
I am given, and except, the opportunity to tell her of all
the ways I tried to please her and to conduct myself in a way
she finds acceptable and appropriate. I tell her of the
difficult social situations I experienced, what I did to
handle them, and note any special advances I made attempting
to comply with goals she set for me. She takes the time to
congratulate me when I handled myself well, discusses how I
might handle myself better in some situations, and tells me
when I'm wrong handling other situations I had counted in my
plus column, letting me know how others handle it much more
successfully.
"Now dear, tell me what went badly over the last day." Here,
I'm required to recite all the instances where my
interpersonal relations ended less than optimally. We
discuss where I went wrong and how to handle it better next
time. Based on this information she fills out a Pleasure or
Pain Card gauging my demeanor over the last day. Upon it is
scribed a rating of her sense of the progress I've made over
the last day toward becoming a proper lady. The report
encompasses my demeanor, poise and deportment. The higher
the rating the better for me. This is sealed in an envelope.
Mistress makes one a day but everyone of authority in the
house, though it is not required, is allowed to make one
daily too.
These reports, Pleasure or Pain Cards, are deposited in a
container with others that have accumulated. My container is
a plastic bucket stored within a locked drawer at the bakery
station. Two locks prevent tampering. The key for one is on
her key ring. The key for the other rides on a chain around
my neck, a chain I never remove except when she opens the
drawer. Should a lot of reports be submitted and the bucket
fill unduly, she embargoes submissions until I work through a
enough to require additional submissions.
Everyday, after inserting the new submissions, Mistress
requires that I make a random selection from a random
population of these reports and puts the bucket away in the
drawer locking it with both keys and returning mine to my
neck. I'm further required to carry that card until I can
submit it to her 5 hours latter. After our discussion she
replaces the discipline collar and I go mute until the next
discussion. The collar zaps me should I attempt to speak.
She then releases me to the classroom. There I'm distracted
by the card, but must pay attention to my lessons lest I
receive another bad report. Then through lunch where I'm
thinking of my diet. I must lose 2 pounds a week, according
to the nurse, until I weigh what the actuarial table says
is the low limit for women of my height. I received a good
report for losing two or three pounds a week. I'd have
received a bad report for losing more or less than that.
I received a good report for cleaning my room and keeping it
orderly. I received a good report for applying my make-up
correctly each morning. I received a good report for wearing
high-heels during the day instead of the standard low heels.
The instructor gave me a good report for the A+ I earned on
my Composition test. I received a good report for paying
attention in class.
I'd had a good day, but at 1:00 PM it ended and the tutor
released us to our rooms. I lay the card on my bed,
undressed, hung or folded my clothes, removed and hung my
shoes on the tree. I stepped into the six inch heels, locked
them on with the small padlocks and walked to the middle of
the room, taking the report with me, where I shackled myself
to the eye-bolt in the floor. I waited for Miss Lynn. She
didn't make me wait long.
"Well dear, I hear you had a good day?" she asked. I
nodded my acknowledgment. I had hope she would ignore the
report I had in hand and reward me. While she can do this in
extraordinary circumstances, she doesn't always. "I
appreciate your efforts to please me and get along with your
peers. Do you have your report?" I held it out to her, my
hope dashed. She took it and set it aside. She retrieved
the chair in which I now sit. She pushed me down over it's
back. She inserted my anal plug and applied the butterfly
stimulator. She wrapped my chastity belt about me and locked
it all in place.
She tugged back on my shoulders to right me and I stood. She
turned the chair toward me and invited me to sit. She
strapped me in then opened the letter, hiding it from my
sight. She looked to me and without giving away a thing
said, "While I could just rewarded you it contravenes
this system we devised to motivate you to do well at all
times, and not just to please us when you need release.
Let this assure you that we are looking after your long-term
submission and will not be swayed by temporary submissive
behavior." She left to prepare, leaving me wondering which
way it goes.
The deal is this. The duration of what comes is decided by
the number of reports you have had in a row. If today is a
good report and yesterdays was a bad report, two hours of
pain. If today's is bad as was yesterday's then four hours
of pain is proscribed. If this is the third day in a row of
bad reports then six hours duration is required of you. Four
days in a row means eight hours. Bedtime is postponed until
your have served your full duration. At one time Mistress
had to postpone my release to my chores in the morning.
Though marginally more bearable than pain, pleasures are no
less humiliating. I can't imagine sixteen hours of multi-
orgasmic bliss but at this rate of change of behavior it is
entirely possible I could know what it's like, and soon.
So, here I am waiting, wondering, remembering. When I first
arrived I made it obvious I didn't want to be here. I fought
my bonds and refused to obey the rules. I thought that if I
made enough trouble they would simply be rid of me. Not so,
as I was told repeatedly. Miss Lynn said there was nowhere
to go, none would have me, and I was too to be by
myself, but too for juvenile detentions. The reason I
was here was because my had given me over to her care
and didn't want me back unless I learned to behave
properly. I didn't believe her. I didn't believe her until
I heard the words from mother's mouth. I felt betrayed and
for a short time I fought all that much harder. However,
Miss Lynn was relentless. She gave no quarter. She
personally punished every slur and insult, every instance of
insubmission, disobedience, or non-compliance. She wore me
out, culminating in that eighteen hour punishment.
After that I began actually trying to be good. It took a
while. I'd forgotten how. Though I'd try, at first I'd
always do something to mess up. Miss Lynn, while
acknowledging my efforts to do better, none the less
punished, through pain, ignominy, and humiliations, each of
the despicable acts that brought shame to me.
Eventually, as I became better, more pliable, more willing to
do good, Miss Lynn started listening to me and she heard me
complain that all she did was punish me for doing bad. When
I asked what was the reward for doing good, she had no
answer. It took a month but she tried this system on the
other girls. They liked it. It was effective so she liked
it. When they tried it on me I was hooked with the first
orgasm. After that I wanted to be good all the time.
The collar was designed specifically with me in mind. It
senses when you speak. It shocks you when you do. The
louder the voice the nastier the shock. It doesn't prevent
you from speaking, but it puts a high cost to it. After it
was locked on at full power I instantly stopped back talking
my superiors. It has been turned down quite a bit now, but
the first time I slip it is set back to full power, as has
been done on two occasions now.
Because I won't back talk my superiors there is nothing left
but to decide I'll do or not what has been assigned. If I
refuse, then they work on me until I comply. It has
streamlined the process of assuring submission, obedience,
and immediate compliance on my part.
"Darling, are you leaving a wet spot on your chair?" asked
Miss Lynn, shaking me out of my daydream. I nodded. "What
has you so hot?"
Quietly, I whisper, "My memories, Mistress."
"I see," was her reply. She brought the chains up from the
dungeon, sign of a pain punishment, though not always. I've
no say as she claps them on and locks them. She releases the
straps and motions at me to stand. I do and she finishes
binding the chains around my waist. Grabbing the ring at the
front she guides me down the stairs to the dungeon. Upon
arriving she passes a bar behind my back and between the
crooks of my elbows them back and my hands
and wrists to my stomach. A bungy-cord is attached to the
bar from the ceiling pulling the bar up and my arms too.
"The butterfly at your hips is set to operate for about two,
two and a half minutes every fifteen. Where in that fifteen
minutes is randomly selected. It is possible that it may
chose to pick up at the beginning of a period that just ended
resulting in as much as five minutes of stimulation. In
addition, the collar is set to activate and provide a low
voltage forty second shock every fifteen minutes. The two
periods do not necessarily coincide. The behind you
will look after you. Enjoy."
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* *
* Implied *
* Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, *
* And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd, -- *
* Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, *
* And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay. *
* *
* Milton's Paradise Lost, book iv, Line 307. *
* *
* Something to say from the submissive's point of view? *
* Hard to find the "right" words? Want it in a story? *
* Tell me about it by mail at caitmccarren@yahoo.com. *
* *
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