Redefining Punishment... Again

A sequel now then to my first-person present-tense "Redefining Punishment," with a short accompanying companion poem.

***

October 11th, 8:36 a.m.

It has been exactly five months since Mommy, p.k.a. Mistress Helen, has "adopted" me as her slave-puppy-daughter. I have since over this summer left any remnants of my past life behind. I am still essentially the same person underneath it all—25-year-old Delilah Olivia Gainey from Tudorville—and yet, my identity has taken a dramatic shift of late. Prior to this spring I lived on my own, as a single lesbian with an apartment, friends and a job. I was basically happy and content...or so I believed. Before I met Mommy Helen, I was not even aware that something was lacking in my life, let alone what it was.

My relationship with Mommy Helen began as a series of monthly meetings as slave to her—my Mistress. Soon after, Mommy demoted me (or promoted me, depending on how you view the transformation) to her whipping pup. My soft, delicate, innocent heart and pussy questionlessly gave themselves over to her. I should be fibbing to you, Beloved Visitor and Reader, were I to tell you that I knew whether she cast a spell on me or simply possessed such a captivating magnetism that I was drawn to her not of my own free will. Either way, my emotional and physical surrender to her was involuntary.

You may be familiar already with the remainder of my story, Dear Friend, but in the case you are not, I will encapsulate it for you. On Mother's Day of this year I was due to appear at Mistress Helen's—as she was then still known to me—domicile, but I was detained in traffic and could not in time. I knew then that even so, I was in trouble, and I was in it deep. It mattered not that the situation was out of my hands; I was tardy, and tardiness is a crime for which Mistress Helen yields no compassion.

Mistress coerced me through a series of multifarious terrors the likes of which I'd never known before and can merely pray never to again. She truly redefined the concept of punishment. New levels were explored. Hidden depths were plunged. Closed portals to unfathomable reaches of mystery were unlocked. She shone the light and showed me the simple, honest truth.

I was a bad girl.

I am a bad girl.

And I am her bad girl.

And this is all I ever shall be from these days forth.

Call it a brainwash, call it psychological poisoning, call it power of compulsive suggestion. Call it what you will, my friend. There remains no reasonable, rational or logical explanation. It is a simple reflection of the way things currently stand. Once upon a time, I was a sweet, normal, well-behaved, genteel young lady.

Now, I am daughter to Mistress—forgive me; Mommy—Helen, and my future knows no further endeavors.

I belong, to her.

Life with Mommy Helen hasn't presented itself exactly as expected. Five months ago when she imprisoned me, I was terrified, broken and helpless. I felt that life as I knew it was over. In a way, you could say it was. In another, you might say that a new, momentous chapter had just commenced. But I was soon to discover to my surprise, Mistress—my assumed Mommy—wished not to confine me to her quarters for the purpose of eternal castigation and torment. My sentence is being served as we speak, in indefinite to permanent residence here, but observation questions the degree to which I am truly being "grounded," as it were.

The nature of this situation caught me off-guard in May. Mentally and physically terrorized by Mommy's brutally fierce scolding of my tardiness, I expected the days to follow to entail more of the identical. But I near dare say the person who returned to the house that fateful Sunday was in fact not the same who had gone. When Mommy Helen came home, something in her demeanor I could not define had radically changed. All I know is that same day, when Mommy descended back to the basement and found me in tears, she relieved me of my shackles, and slicked her tongue in long, thorough, almost even tender strokes, up the sides of my face, licking my tears away.

The next she said was simply as follows.

"Come...daughter."

The mystery unraveled as I began spending all of my days and nights under Mommy's care. I was orphaned at a young age, and spent the better part of my youth at a foster home, a story I told her prior to one of our initial sessions. One morning in May soon after adopting me, she told me a story, about a little girl once upon a time who was struck by the tragedy of a natural disaster, and was robbed of everyone and everything she held dear. It was a solemn and heartbreaking tale that I was soon to learn was serendipitously...autobiographical.

Mommy was that little girl.

This transformation in her was simply remarkable. It was awesome, in the purest and most literal sense of the word. Her story left me breathless. It was the first time I can remember beholding genuine emotion seeping through Mommy's normally stone-cold façade. Up to this point, the Mistress Helen I knew was a cold, calculating, ruthless domme who made me burn for her torture one moment, then cry for mercy the next. When I learned the truth, my heart bled for her. Suddenly, all came clear in my eyes. When she took me under her wing as her slave last year, I was no more than merely this. But I was astounded to be told that over these past several months, Mommy had grown to care for me. It seemed she wanted me for her own yet before that groundbreakingly horrifying day.

Our encounters proved to be remarkably fortuitous. Mommy became the parent I had virtually never known, and I became the child she had never had. We both needed someone, and in this unusual twist, found our ways into each other's lives.

My astonishment broadened to parallel my knowledge as she told me more and more. My mind was swept as she admitted to me that my lateness deeply wounded, as well as disappointed her. She did not reveal to me whether she was consequently scared that she might have lost me—thereby thrusting such unforgettable ferocity upon me in the way of discipline and reprimand, ensuring I would never disappoint her this way again—or strictly angry. I almost immediately ejected the first possibility. Mistress Helen, afraid? Of anything? No. This couldn't be. Not the Mistress Helen I knew. Nothing intimidated her.

...Or...did it?

I dared not actually broach the subject with her, for I knew precisely how she would respond. It was a riddle with which I would have to wrestle for a while. But were there one thing I had in no short supply, it was time. A whole life to figure it out.

Since dwelling in her home, she has taken me to bed each night to fall asleep in her arms. She subsequently began gently easing me into a daily routine. In the mornings she would, and continues to this day, to bathe me. It remains one of my favorite daily activities. She massages a marvelously blended shampoo and conditioner through my hair and proceeds to baptize me. She dispenses and applies liquid wash to my goosebump-ridden flesh and scrubs me ever so thoroughly. The tantalizing sensations accelerate beyond words. When I close my eyes, her cool, fair hands are bestowed with the touch of divine sorcery. She polishes until I gleam, and I never want to leave here.

The water and effervescent bubbles fill to the brim with ninety-six pounds of Delilah Gainey deposited into the cauldron, and it is a most fortunate circumstance. For even while my desires and impulses and cravings remain uncontrollable, should Mommy detect my guiltily throbbing, starved pussy, blood-red clit and stiffened nipples beneath the frothy surface, I should without doubt be further punished for my arousal without her permission.

I digress briefly to mention that though our relationship has thus metamorphosed from Mistress and slave into adopted mother and daughter, my brain has yet to be trained to accept. Though she retains my heart and my pussy both locked in an emotional vise, she makes it patent that I am under no circumstances to so much as think about setting the wheels of passion in motion between us. On the other, should she see fit to order me to the dungeon and engage me in a session of intimacy, any and all proverbial bets are on. And I am only far too pleased to obey. I would do anything for her.

But by the same token, as she knows that solitary masturbation no longer holds present or future significance to me, she may also opt to deny and deprive me for days at a time, eventually reducing me to a pleading heap on my knees, orally pleasuring her feet while begging for her love.

Oh, Mommy's bare feet...I am stymied to process the attraction or source thereof, but oh, such raw sexual devastation her mere feet wreak upon my libidinous soul. Those luscious soles...those sumptuous toes...those flawless arches...

She commands me to stand so that she may cleanse my lower regions. My cunt shoots premature come like a water jet.

I can stand it no longer.

"Permission to become aroused, Mommy??"

She tortures me by making me wait immeasurable spans for her reply.

"Permission granted."

I emit a squeal of delight and push myself to my feet, careful not to slip. Inevitably, a bit of water leaks over the edge of the tub. It is vastly to my advantage that spilling bathwater is nowhere to be found on Mommy's no-no list. When I have stood, I eagerly shake my hands half-dry and take a firm grip on the curtain rod. No sturdier shower rod has ever been installed. The first time Mommy bathed me, she picked me up and I gripped the rod. She released me, and nothing happened.

Grasping desperately just to keep from injuring myself, my eyes roll back and I moan in the throes of passionate surrender. Mommy's soapy, mature, talented hands travel my contours, starting at my hips and working their way down. My aching pussy is already dying for attention that only Mommy can give. And she knows it. She saves my pussy for last. As agonizing as is always the prolonging, the end result is never less than worth its wait.

She descends my outer thighs, one at a time, before gliding her adept, beautifully soap-caked fingers along my knee, calf and lower limb before reaching my ankle. "Paw," she whispers.

I shift my weight and give Mommy my petite pedal paw. She lathers it up and down, in and between the toes, and I giggle lightly as the tickly sensation rides up inside me. My insides sparkle. Mommy knows this titillates me so, and so she slides one single nail up the sole before releasing my hind paw, prying out a giddy laugh. The lather and cleanse is repeated down my remaining leg. By this point I am clinging to the shower rod for dear life. My legs quiver as groaning whimpers escape.

Please, Mommy, I begin whispering into the soapy air. Please, oh, please...I beg of you...I cannot bear to wait!

Both legs clean, all ten toes blissfully tickled, Mommy finally begins massaging my inner thighs. My breaths rush forth in heavy, audible rasps. Tingles grace my trembling skin like the bubbles in the bath, with accelerating velocity that feel like fireworks as she nears my pussy. My clit is already readily erect for her. I worry not about harming myself. Mommy is infallible and omnipotent. If I fall, she will catch me.

She fingers me delicately, as only Mommy Helen can. Her fingertips expertly caress the softly groomed skin bordering my labia. An entirely fresh coat of secretion seeps through my pussy. When she decides the moment is right, she seductively divides my labia and, to my delirious euphoria, digital penetration at last commences.

The Earth's speed of rotation multiplies exponentially, and I am dizzied into a frenzy.

"Yes, Mommy!" I implore, almost crying. "Please, Mommy! Deeper, Mommy, please, deeper!"

"Patience, Delilah," I think I hear her serenely chide.

The contents of my vocabulary vary between altered states of mind, and the word "patience" is currently foreign as they come.

Somehow, I manage to wait Mommy out, and she indeed thrusts inside me deeper...and deeper...and deeper...

I am intoxicated beyond all things tangible or thinkable. Just when it seems the intensity can build no higher...

...I feel what only must be Mommy's tongue circumnavigate my swollen clit.

I explode. Limitless. Depthless. Boundless. Too much can never be enough. I frantically beg for more. And more...and more. I am howling in heavenly pleasure. I am a tiny, 5'2" girl, not even a single one hundred pounds, and Mommy Helen is culling an eruption of inhuman roars from my bowels.

I can only claim semi-awareness regarding details of the morning's events as we reach this point, and so, unable to say for sure, I believe I now hang suspended from the rod, all but defying gravity, hoisting both legs from the tub and clenching every joint I can find. I curl and scrunch my toes until they layer over one another. I think Mommy is helping me stay afloat by cradling me from beneath as she sucks, plunges and eats me. I am so beyond any and all limits of sanity by now, I could crash to the floor and be knocked into the happiest, most tranquil coma imaginable.

Even so, I've nothing to worry about. Mommy shan't allow me to fall.

By the time the world-rocking orgasm is through, I can barely remember my name, or what day it is. I can only speculate at this moment. Through my glassy eyes and my glassy mind, I gather a vague observation of Mommy letting me down from wherever I am, carrying me from the room, drying me, sitting me on our bed for the time being, brushing my hair, and granting me a short siesta before I awaken to see her sitting by my body, fondling my cheek. She kisses me. I remember where I am, and rise to the post-orgasm ritual of Mommy applying my velvet leash and hand- and footcuffs. I lower myself to all fours and she walks me out from the bedroom.

***

October 11th, 4:45 p.m.

My conditions are humane, especially by Mommy Helen's standards. I am no longer bound to ask permission to speak freely, but my sexual will remains under her ownership. I calculated one day, going by the ways in which she looks after me, that as her daughter, logically, she must really care for me after all. Her degrees of tenderness and devotion may be questionable, but now as my Mommy, she will not allow me to go without food or shelter. I am not permitted off premises without Mommy's supervision at all times, but I am allowed anywhere inside the house anytime I please.

Occasionally, she will take me outside because she comprehends I simply need the fresh air, further evidence that she does actually love me. It is upon days like this I am to dress myself, and my garb is responsible, innocent and feminine. We hold hands together about our business, and I am not to wander out of her sight. Otherwise, I am kept in nature's own inside the house. Much of my time is occupied maintaining our home. Even as I have found that Mommy Helen is quite capable of nurturing me as the biological child she never had, she is not necessarily the type to visibly express affection. She will allow me to hug her, kiss her, lay my head in her lap and confide in her, and to say that I love her, but such is the extent of our shared affection. I often crave these forms of familial love to be reciprocated from Mommy, but I am to remind myself that she shows her love for me solely by no longer abusing me the way she used to as her slave.

The line of distinction blurs. Mommy still toys with me and pleases my pussy, as well as cuffing me and walking me like the dog I am, but these are gestures that make me feel well-loved and taken care of by her. They remind me that Mommy still wants me for her own, and vice versa, and that we shan't part ways any day in the near future. She no longer, however, subjects me to unpleasant or harmful practices she once would, which genuinely hurt me and make me feel unsafe. Now that she has me under her own roof, necessity of punishing me for absence or tardiness is not even up to consideration.

During most of the afternoons, Mommy departs for a number of hours, and while not performing tasks of cleanliness, I am to entertain myself. I began keeping a diary to pass the time and pen my thoughts. Aside from this I've spent many an interested hour exploring our home, particularly in the massive library, in which I've found countless friends in the innumerable tomes and stories offered. Come now to think of it, the library is a source of love from Mommy. When I shared with her how much this treasure chest of literature meant to me, she gradually brought me more and more books to nourish my comfort and help make me feel at home. I gratefully and enthusiastically continue to accept the gifts as they are presented, as if it is Christmas morning.

Mommy's only rules for me vis-à-vis the library are as follows: I am permitted no more than one book at a time outside of it, no food goes near any books or the library, and I am to keep it tidy at all times and return the books to their respective shelves. There are more books than I could read in my lifetime if I spent my every waking moment in the library and read nonstop, but my zeal for new books never wanes. I was always fond of reading as a child, both mandatorily and for leisure, but bestowed with such a wealth of literature in my new adoptive home took my literary enjoyment and satisfaction to a new plane.

Sometimes when Mommy goes away in the afternoons I wish she stayed with me so we could spend our time bonding in the library and reading to each other. I allow myself to speculate on where she goes and what she is doing, but it is a taboo subject to bring up to her. I would wonder now and again if she were to seek out another slave to adopt, but I banished that idea. I like and relish that Mommy is all mine, so to speak, and that I am all hers. I do not wish to "share" her, and the thought renders me sad. I enjoy feeling special in her life, and do not want to lose this feeling.

After five months under her roof and exclusively in her care, I think I really feel happy here with Mommy.

Today, on the 11th of October, at a quarter to 5:00 p.m., she returns home. I hear the door, and eagerly run to meet her like her puppy, which I also still consider myself. She always wanted a canine companion, as well as a daughter, and I serve both purposes (my initials coincidentally spelling the word "dog"). I am just a bit excited as always to see if she brought me any new books to read, but today I find I am in for quite the surprise.

She enters.

"Welcome home, Mommy!" I chirp, a smile on my face. "I missed you!"

She regards me with her motherly eyes. "And I you, Delilah. Now then...there's someone I would like you to meet."

..."Someone"?

I cannot deny that my heart sinks a bit at hearing this. The secondary thought that comes to mind: We have company? Oh my goodness, I'm naked! Should I ask for permission to dress first?

"Th—...there...is?"

"Indeed." Mommy gestures to the still-open door, and I am met with a sight that stirs my reactions.

Into our home comes what appears to be a young woman, somewhere in the neighborhood of my own age. Mommy blocks my view of most of her at first, but as she rounds her side to meet me for the first time...

...My heart rises right back up into my chest, and swells...as the world as I know it stops...and time stands stock-still.

Standing before me...is the most lovely...beautiful...comely...stunning young lass I have ever seen in all my life.