Christian Discipline Committee

CHAPTER 4

       As we walked into the lobby clutching our clothes, one of the assistants directed us to a side doorway marked “Robing Room.”  There were five of us by then, and I’m sure the other four felt as fortunate as I did that we had first, been accepted, and also we had not been forced to pour own pee all over ourselves before leaving, like the others had done.  The Robing Room was crowded on two walls with racks of what looked like blue chambray work shirts with all sorts of colorful embroidery on them.  The third wall had a rack of dark maroon and black robes, which wasn’t too surprising for a “Robing Room,” I thought.  The fourth wall was mirrored and there was a series of squares painted on the tile floor with a low pedestal beside each one.

       “Step to a square, attention posture, clothing on the pedestal,” one of the women ordered.  I noticed her shirt for the first time.  It was one of the blue chambray work shirts with several colored patches down the sleeves and the words “Christian Discipline” over the left breast pocket and in large script letters on the back.  She also wore gym shorts and sneakers and a wide belt with a hairbrush clipped to it.

       “Bend over, hands behind your knees,” she ordered.  I thought we were going to get another set with the hairbrush, but instead, I felt a cool something on my ass cheeks and realized she was rubbing some sort of cream on it.  And it was no surprise to me when her fingers dug into my ass crack and along my pussy, rubbing it with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm, but it did relieve some of the pain.  Some of the pain, not a lot, I told myself.

       She walked behind us, pacing back and forth.  “You may now put on your panties and stand at attention,” she said.  As we complied her companion assistant had walked along the line of us and removed our bras from each of our piles of clothing.   And what about that, I thought, standing there, feeling my nipples getting hard in the chilly air of the robing room. 

       “You may now put on your skirts or pants,” she continued, “ then stand at attention once again.”  I got the feeling that the mirror wall was two-way mirror and that there were at least observers there, if not cameras, too.  “Now, present those tits to me,” the woman said.  We all cradled our boobs under our palms, pushing them up and out as she inspected each of us.  “Good, now pluck them by the nipples, heads back, eyes closed.”  I guess we all complied because I didn’t hear any corrections coming as we stood there gripping nipples.

       “Come on, get them higher!” she coaxed, “and spread them wider, too!”

I felt like I was going to tear my nipples off if I raised them any more, and my “girls” were still throbbing from the beating I had taken in the interview room.

       “Feel the pinch,” the woman assistant sneered, clamping and pinching her hands around each of ours as she moved down the line, showing us how it was done.  “Pinch ‘em up good, and HOLD IT!” 

I didn’t think I could take much more of pinching my own nipples when the other woman came up behind us and said,  “You may release your tits and gather up your bras and put them on.”  We were grateful for that until I looked at my bra when the woman tossed it down beside me.  The front of each cup had been cut out so that my entire nipple and areola would be sticking out of the bra when I put it on.

“These will be known as your ‘training bras,’ the woman giggled, “and you will wear them whenever you come here or to your training sessions, is that clear? You may answer with a simple ‘yes, Ma’am’.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” we all replied in unison, scooping our boobs into the bras, reaching back to hook them.  I shuffled my boobs around to get them seated in the cups.  The nipples stuck out forever, it seemed.

“You may complete your dressing and collect you shoes and handbags at the desk.  And when you return here next, after checking in at the desk you will come in here to disrobe as instructed, understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” we all replied, again in unison as we headed for the outer lobby’s check-in desk.  I signed for purse and shoes, along with a manila envelope that had my name on it, with instructions on the label not to open it until I returned home and I had access to a computer.  Of course, my curiosity was killing me as I got to my car and headed home.  Sitting in the car seat wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be, but it was still terrifically uncomfortable.  My butt, back and boobs all felt like they were hot enough to melt.  Traffic was heavier than usual on the way home, but I made it at last. 

As I got out of my car, I realized that my nipples were poking hard against my blouse with my bra cut away, and I thought I caught a whiff of urine from my crotch that had been soaking wet with my own pee and not allowed to wipe dry.

It was close to fifty yards to the door of my apartment building and I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t run into any of my neighbors as I rushed for my door, trying with some subtlety to hold the envelope in front of my flopping boobs and pointy nipples.

       I fumbled with my keys, grateful that my daughters were still at soccer practice, and got the door unlocked.  I ran to my bedroom, pulled off my clothes, dashed to the bathroom and turned on the shower.  I climbed in to feel the hot water running over me when I realized what a mistake that was.  The water pounding on my battered and scratched body was excruciating, but I rubbed my pussy clean, jumped out and started toweling off.  Every time the towel touched my skin it felt like another stroke of the paddle or crop but I just wanted to feel clean and at home.

       I looked myself in the mirror, turning the three panels of the vanity mirror over the sink so that I could see my back and sides.  At least there was no broken or bleeding skin, but there were some purple welts and I knew I would be bruised for days.  My breasts were bruised the worst, I thought, with ugly stripes across the nipples and the tender undersides.  I don’t normally bruise too easily, but these were going to be Technicolor, I thought.

       I put on a silky robe and sat on the bed to tear open the large manila envelope.  It had a note with an address and phone number to contact as my Training Mentor, telling me to call tonight between the hours of 7 and 8 p.m. to set up my first lesson.  Along with the note was a Bible Study Guide with a schedule of lessons to follow, sample quiz questions, and also a pamphlet entitled “Women’s Christian Discipline Committee Rules, Regulations, Responsibilities and Expectations.”  I thumbed through the pamphlet, decided to wait on the Bible Study, and looked again at the contact info.  There was no name, just a phone number and address.  The address was Number 3 Oak Hills Lane, which I knew to be a very exclusive part of the area and home to quite wealthy people.  But how was I to address or even ask for the person who is supposed to be my Training Mentor?

       Then it hit me that this was yet another one of the Committee’s domination and control.  I would have to fumble around with whomever might answer the phone, probably sounding like an idiot, asking for who there might be the one to train me in Christian Discipline.  Would I ask for the Lady of the house?  What if there is more than one generation living there?  A grandmother, who could easily be the one, or even a granddaughter.   It was just another humbling quandary, and it wouldn’t be solved for at least three more hours when the clock hit 7.

       I lay down on the bed and must have fallen asleep immediately.  The next thing I heard were my two daughters rushing in, dropping their school bags just anywhere, kicking off their shoes and giggling the way that only teenage girls can.  I shook myself awake, feeling the stiff soreness in every joint as I roused my beaten body and slowly got off the bed.  I pulled the robe tight around me so they might not see any marks and walked out to meet them as Jennifer ran into the bedroom followed by Janice right behind. They had followed that pattern from birth, with Jennifer still taking the lead, though sometimes even I had to look closely at their freckle patterns as the only way to tell them apart.   They loved to switch places, confusing teachers, coaches, even friends, but I could always figure which was which, although sometimes I felt that they were really challenged to try to deceive even their mom at some point.

       I started picking up clothes from the floor where I had dropped them when I rushed in, hoping they wouldn’t notice anything.  Why should they notice anything, I thought, their clothes are always all over the floor.

       “Mom, are you OK?” Janice asked.  “Are you sick, or something?”

       “I’m fine, just a little too much exertion at the gym today, there was a new trainer,”  I replied, gathering up my bra and trying to conceal the cutaway cups.  It seemed as though I had succeeded.  “Hey, let’s go get Chinese for dinner, OK?”  I said, hoping to distract them as I dropped my clothes in the hamper and moved toward my closet.

       “Whatever,” they both said; walking out and looking at each other in that secret language that only twins have with each other.  I slipped into a fresh pair of panties and just the touch of the elastic waistband sliding over my butt cheeks was enough to make me wince.  I chose a loose pair of slacks and an oversize man’s type shirt.  As I was trying to ease my throbbing breasts into a clean and uncut bra I saw one of the girls coming back into the room. She couldn’t help but see how red my chest was even almost up to my throat.

       “Mom, what’s wrong with you?” Jennifer asked, with some alarm.

       “Oh, nothing, I just got overheated in the new exercise routine at the gym today, and I guess I’m still a bit flushed.  I turned away to clip my bra and grabbed for the shirt.  “Tell you what, I will call out for Chinese, and

you guys can work on your homework.  I’m sure you have some, don’t you?”

       “Yes, a bunch of it,” she answered, not seeming quite satisfied with my answers,

       I called out for Chinese delivery and saw that it was five after seven.  I found my mobile phone, went into the bathroom and locked the door.  My hands shook as I dialed the number.  Three rings, four, then five.  A female voice answered

       “Alden residence.  How may I help you?” the voice asked.

       “Alden?  I guess I would like to speak with Mrs. Alden, then,” I stammered.

“I am calling for the Church.”

       “And this is reference to ...?” the voice queried.

       “Uh, about the Church Committee, I was asked to call this evening.”  I was calming down a bit.

       “Committee? Which Committee?  Madame works with several committees, and her time is precious to her and to her family.”

       “I am to be calling from the Christian Discipline Committee,” I answered, hoping I was making progress.

       “Are you a member of the Committee, Ma’am?”

       “No, at least not yet.  I am calling about training for membership and I was given this number.”

       “Ah, you are the new one.  And you are calling to set up your training time with Madame, are you?”

       “Yes, I am, uh yes, I am.”  I felt like a complete fool.

       “I will get Madame for you,” she replied, “but you should have better manners on the phone.  And you call me ‘Ma’am’.”

       “Yes, Ma’am, forgive me, Ma’am,” I blurted out.  I seemed an eternity before the phone was picked up.

       “Is this Meredith?”  the voice asked, and before I could answer she continued.  “I am Joanna Alden, assigned to be your training Mistress and that’s how I expect you to refer to me, as ‘Mistress Joanna.’   Is that clear?”

       “Yes, Mistress Joanna, quite clear.  Thank you, Mistress.”

       “Not bad for a start.  Now let’s get to it, shall we?  This being Monday, I expect you here at 10 am on Thursday this week for a first session lasting five to seven hours.  Understood?”

       “Yes, Mistress Joanna, but I am so sorry, my work schedule has me on for Thursday.  May I try to--?”  She cut me off in mid-phrase.

       “It WILL BE THURSDAY!” she said firmly.  “I have already arranged it with your manager.  You will make up the work on Saturday.”

       Saturday was an important day to spend with my girls, and I was about to say something to that effect when Mistress Joanna went right on.

“I know you probably have plans with your two girls for Saturday, but you will work out your real priorities in this, I know.” 

       She knows my job, my manager, she knows about my daughters, what else, I wondered, as Mistress Joanna continued.

       “You will wear only jeans, a simple blouse, light sandals or flip flops, and the required underwear of your training bra and thong panties.  You will leave your purse and any other belongings locked in your car and bring only the key with you.  Is this understood?”

       “Yes, Mistress Joanna, I understand, thank you Mistress,” I answered, stuttering as I spoke.

       “Good, then we will see you at 10 on Thursday morning,” she hung up and that was that.

       Sleep that night was non-existent, between my pain-wracked body and my mind racing about what I had gotten myself into.  I finally got to sleep sometime around 4 a.m. and almost slept through my alarm at 6 to get the girls up and moving.  I got them off to school and wandered around my bedroom, wondering what to do.  I could just give this up, I told myself, but then the opportunities for us would be gone, and I didn’t see many other golden opportunities popping up ahead of me.  I stopped in from of my mirror, dropped my robe, and turned to look over my shoulder at the damage.

       It wasn’t too bad, I thought, though there would be some bruising.  The worst seemed to me at the tops of my thighs right below the crease of my ass.  I stepped back and looked down at my crotch area and gasped.  The insides of my thighs and up around my pubic hair were all a discolored bluish-purple and there were two long red welts across my lower torso.  No wonder the elastic of my panties hurt so much when I put them on, I told myself.  I hadn’t really looked that closely the night before.

       The next two days were a bit more calm, work was work, the girls were pretty much themselves, and I even got a decent amount of sleep on Wednesday night despite sitting up late each night reviewing the Rules and Regulations pamphlet and even looking through the Bible Study Guides.  I won’t repeat many rules here, since they will come out through this account of my humiliation and training with the Women’s Christian Discipline Committee, but they all had to do with obedience and even more to the attitudes expressed through that kind of obedience.  You see, it’s not enough just to obey, but one is expected to obey with gratitude, admiration and willingness, even joy!  Imagine that, I thought, being joyful at getting your ass kicked.

       Thursday finally arrived.  I had already explained to the girls that I had had to trade shifts with someone in exchange for a later favor, and that I would make it up to them, losing Saturday and even missing one of their soccer games.  I still felt guilty about it, but resigned myself that this would be better for all of us in the long run.  I did contemplate turning back more than once, but I didn’t and I found myself at the gates of 3 Oak Hills Lane.  I drove up and looked for a buzzer to call to be let in when I saw a camera sweeping back and forth from one of the stone pillars holding the gates, and they began to swing open.  A curving gravel drive led uphill to a large house with a graceful porch across the front with a balcony above.  Looks like a plantation house, I thought.  Only things missing are slaves working in the fields.  Well, I hadn’t seen much of the place at that point.

       I stopped my car off to the side where the drive curved out and parked behind a Mercedes Roadster.  I locked the car, steeled myself, and went to the front door, trembling about even ringing the doorbell.  As I reached the step, the massive red door opened to reveal a stout but tall woman in a dark maroon uniform with a cream colored apron.  She looked Hispanic with black hair pulled back and dark flashing eyes.

       “Madame is expecting you Meredith,” she said, pointing for me to come in and almost slamming the door behind me.  “Follow me, please.” 

       She led me through the front hallway and past a huge living room and a dining room that looked like it could seat thirty, on into a high-ceilinged library with a huge desk at one side and two wing chairs tucked against a bay window.

The door closed behind us as the woman came up beside me and pointed again. This time it was to a red throw rug in front of the two chairs.

       “Take off your shoes, then stand there on the red rug,” she said.  I slipped out of my sandals and the woman took them, and then stood on the small rug.  “Now off with the blouse and the pants,” she said.  “And hurry.  Madame likes things to move at a pace.”  I rushed out of my jeans and almost tore the buttons off my shirt getting it undone.    My nipples jutted from the cut cups of my bra.

       “Training bra,” she grinned, giving my left nipple a tweak.  “Turn and face the chairs, legs spread, arms out straight.”  I complied and felt her release the clasp on my bra and drape it out onto my shoulders a bit.  Then she grabbed my panties and pulled them down to my knees, leaving them there.  “You wait here, just like that.  Madame will be here soon.”

       I stood there with my panties pulled down and my bra hanging half-off my body but with my nipples still poking through what now seemed like obscene holes in my bra cups.  Somehow I felt more on display than I would in being fully naked.  I don’t know how long I stood there, probably less than five minutes, but my arms were ready to cramp when I heard the door open behind me.

       “So this is our Meredith,” I heard Mistress Joanna say.  “Welcome to your training home.”

       “Thank you Mistress Joanna,” I heard myself say.

       Mistress Joanna came around my left side, carrying a short riding crop, which she used to push my bra away from my left breast.  “Well, I think you will make for an adequate subject, don’t you?”

       “I ... uh, I hope so, Mistress Joanna, thank you Mistress.”

       “Well, that all depends on you, and on your faith in our Lord Jesus, doesn’t it?”  She poked at the right cup of my bra with the crop and took a seat in one of the overstuffed wing chairs.  “You may drop your arms and let your bra fall to the floor.”

       She tapped the crop on a booted calf and she looked me up and down, then pointed to my knees.  “Put your legs together and slide your panties to your feet.  Put your hands behind your head and stand at attention so that I may inspect you.”  I did as she ordered and looked at Mistress Joanna ash se rose and started to circle me.

       She was an inch or two taller than me, but her boots made her almost a head taller.  Her honey blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore no bra but what seemed a thin camisole under a white silk blouse that covered her shape yet allowed her prominent nipples to show.  She wore a linen skirt that fell just below her knees and shiny maroon boots in soft leather and a matching wide leather belt.  She was not what I would call gorgeous, but her high cheekbones and soft broad lips made her appear ‘striking.’ Just as I was thinking that her green eyes reminded me of a cat, her tongue traced a line along her upper lip, just like a cat eyeing its prey, I thought.

       She stepped in close to me, running the crop along my torso, over and across my breasts, then down between them and along my upper thighs.  “I see Martha left some marks, or was it that little bitch Elaine?” she asked.  I took a breath before answering and she continued as though I wasn’t there.  “Never mind, they don’t look so bad as they could, now do they?”

       “No, Mistress Joanna, they looked much worse a couple of days ago,” was the best that I could answer.

       She smiled at me with the look of a feral cat.  “We will just have to freshen them up, wont’ we?”

       “Yes, Mistress Joanna, thank you Mistress.”

       I heard the door open behind me and the woman who had first admitted me came in.

       “Oh, Josie, just in time.  Take these clothes to the service area and we will meet you there shortly,” Joanna said as she indicated my underwear on the floor and my other clothes on a side chair.

       “Yes Madame,” the one called Josie said as she gathered them up and left, leaving the door open to anyone who might walk by and see me standing there naked and at attention.

       Joanna stepped aside and slid a low ottoman over in front of me.  “All right, onto the ottoman, on your knees, then hands back at attention.”

       I settled myself onto the ottoman, got my balance and placed my hands as required.        

       “Eyes closed, and feel the beginning of your training,” she said as she sat back down but still stroked along my body with the crop.  “We like this, do we?”

       “Yes, Mistress Joanna, thank you Mistress.”  I felt the crop tap, tap, tapping on my nipples, one then the other, then stroking up and down my belly.

       “Open your eyes, lean down, hands on the floor,” she said as she pulled my shoulders down and I caught myself on my hands.  “Good, now down onto your elbows and forehead touching the floor.  Oh, nice.  Perfect for a warm up,”

       I was kneeling upside down on the ottoman with my ass in the air when I felt her push my ankles apart. 

       “Oh, this is perfect, isn’t it?”  she said  “ISN’T IT?”  she demanded.

       “Yes, Mistress Joanna, thank you Mistress.” I muttered, my words catching in my throat.

       “Good.  Now, I like to start with a hand warm up, flesh on flesh, but I like to think a warm up is best with a strong Latin, bongo drum beat.”  She pushed up against my back and began swatting and pounding my between my ass cheeks like they were a pair of bongo drums.

       “Butt bongo is a great warm up, don’t you think, Meredith girl?” she asked, not missing a beat.

       “Yes, Mistress Joanna, thank you Mistress,” I replied, wondering what just what I had done.