Vanilla Island

4. First trial

“A dream is not reality but who’s to say which is which?”

(Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)

“But, I nearly forgot, you must close your eyes otherwise you won’t see anything”

(Lewis Carroll, Jan Svankmajer, Alice )

I ascend the stairs slowly and pause before the door at the far end of the landing. Stepping slightly aside, I allow her a clear view. The terror on her face is unmistakable—not merely an expression, but a tremor that passes through her entire body like a wave.

I know exactly what her imagination is conjuring: a heavy wooden door groaning open to reveal a dungeon. Most likely, she’s recalling a scene from The Countess of Rudolstadt, where Consuelo is subjected to a Masonic trial and led through a sinister, Inquisition-era vault.

I wait—deliberately—to let the full drama of her imaginings play out. Then, with calm ceremony, I open the door. She blinks in surprise—and confusion—at the sight of an entirely ordinary salon: soft leather furnishings, a coffee table, a palm in the corner by the window.

Without a word, I guide her through to a second door. Her apprehension returns, tempered now with curiosity.

I pause again, then open the door slowly, with just a touch of theatrical flair, and speak in Shere Khan’s voice:

“Enter. Five steps forward—then stop.”

We are now in the bedroom. It is dark—naturally, this only heightens her unease.

I reworked the plan of this part of the house myself, enlarging it to take up an entire wing of the second floor. The suite comprises the bedroom, a dressing room, a bathroom, and several smaller rooms—all soundproofed from the rest of the house. The antechamber we just passed through serves precisely that purpose.

At the far end of the bedroom stands a vast bed; in front of it, an open area, free of clutter. The furnishings are minimal: a leather sofa, a pair of pouffes, two chairs and a small chest of drawers. Set into the wall, a discreet bar with glassware and a mini-fridge.

The entrance is at the side, and the entire wall opposite the bed is mirrored. Another mirror is mounted on the ceiling above the bed. Both are finished with a bronzed patina, antique in style and can be concealed with curtain-screens, operated remotely or via an app. For now, they remain open.

I switch on the lighting gradually, keeping it muted. She casts a quick, surprised glance about the room. I can’t let her grow comfortable—not yet—so I release Shere Khan for a moment, but keep him tight on the leash.

Shere Khan circles the girl now, a leather-tipped riding crop already in his hand—retrieved from the chest of drawers.

“Back straight. Heels together. Hands tight against your sides. Eyes on the floor.” The commands come crisp and sharp, each like the crack of the crop itself.

She hesitates—only briefly—and receives a swift flick across her backside. It is not a strike, more a sharp tap, but she cries out and jerks as though scalded.

“This is how you present yourself before your Master. Who are you? Answer me!”

“A slave…” Then, after another light slap, she quickly adds, “Sir.”

“When you answer your Master’s question, you look him in the eye.” Shere Khan lifts her chin with the tip of the whip, fixing her gaze. “And what should you say now?”

“Yes, Sir…”

“Now back to the floor. You do not look up again until I speak to you. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why are you in this room right now?”

She freezes—fear and confusion flicker across her face. Then, as if mustering her courage, she replies in a quiet, strained voice:

“To be punished, Sir.”

“On your knees!”

Even in the low light, her blush is unmistakable. Slowly, hesitantly, she sinks down.

“This is the position for awaiting punishment,” Shere Khan growls, his voice rough with command. “Back straight. Hands behind your back—palms resting on your bottom facing outwards. Eyes on the floor. Spread your knees.”

He administers a few sharp taps to the insides of her thighs.

“Have you memorised this position?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replies, a little faster now.

“What was your offence? Speak!”

“Sir… I didn’t address you as ‘Sir’, Sir…” She stumbles over the words in her agitation, but clearly decides that repetition is safer than omission.

“Now look me in the eyes and beg your Master to punish you.”

She falters, unsure of what he wants. Finally, she manages—awkwardly, haltingly:

“Sir… please punish me.”

That’s enough—Shere Khan must be reined in before he gets carried away. This is not the moment for his usual, more brutal methods. I already understand my Mousey well: what excites her is the surrender, the suspense, the ritual of it all—not crude humiliation or verbal degradation, which Shere Khan might be all too ready to dispense.

She fears pain—real pain—but she doesn’t need it. Her mind supplies its own intensity: the idea of punishment alone heightens every sensation, so that even the lightest stroke feels momentous.

“Stand up.”

She rises quickly and assumes the correct posture again. She learns fast—good.

“Take off your socks.”

Without hesitation, she slips them off and stands uncertainly, unsure what to do next.

“Go to the mirror, place them neatly on the floor, and return to your position.”

The mirror is several metres away. She walks across, bends to lay the socks down and then returns—posture perfect.

“Now remove your jeans and do the same.”

After a brief hesitation, she fumbles with the buttons and slowly pulls off her jeans. She carries them to the mirror and is about to return—when she suddenly freezes. In a quick, nervous movement, she takes off her underwear and tucks it beneath her jeans. She has seen the dark, unmistakable stain—a tell-tale trace of desire on her plain, faded knickers And she is mortified.

That’s how women are: they would rather stand naked before a man than reveal a pair of unflattering knickers with a stain they believe shameful.

“I didn’t give you permission to remove your underwear. Put them back on.”

Even from across the room, I see the flush that climbs her neck and colours her cheeks. She falters.

“Quickly. Put them on and return to your place!” Shere Khan’s bark is sharp.

She pulls them on with a look of loathing, then returns, eyes lowered.

“Now remove your knickers and take them away.”

This she does with haste—almost eagerness—and visible relief. But the next instruction stops her cold.

“Now repeat the entire sequence. Three times.”

She freezes. The humiliation is profound, and for a moment I almost pity her. But the lesson must be learned.

Besides—watching her sweet, rounded backside sway as she bends to lay down those panties… I could make her do this forever.

She sees herself in the mirror each time—and sees me, standing behind her. I notice how her arousal grows with every passing moment: faint tremors ripple across her skin, and her hands tremble ever so slightly.

She returns after completing the humiliating ritual three times. I take my time, fully savouring the exquisite sight of her naked lower half—the curve of her hips, the sweet vulnerability of her stance. Then, calmly, I issue the next order:

“Take off your jumper.”

She obeys at once— after the degradation of standing bare with her stained knickers, removing a simple jumper must seem trivial by comparison.

She steps back into place, now dressed only in a long-sleeved T-shirt. I make her remove that too.

I see that Mousey is preparing to unclasp her bra—old, faded, modest—but she hesitates. She turns slightly, attempting to conceal herself with her arms.

I let Shere Khan take a step forward—just enough to flick the bra strap with the tip of the whip. He tilts her chin up, meeting her wide, frightened eyes. She’s on the brink of tears—not from pain, but from the raw shame of exposure.

I reach out, unhook the clasp, and issue the command to remove it. She complies, dropping the bra onto the growing pile by the mirror.

“Hands behind your head.”

And now she stands before me—completely naked.

I take a moment to appreciate the vision in front of me. Her delicate, finely drawn body is breath-taking. The platinum collar gleams faintly against her slender throat. She is beautiful—strikingly so. I guide her gently to face the mirror, and stepping behind her, I take hold of her breasts in both hands, squeezing them firmly.

“Look in the mirror.”

The image is arresting: her soft, nude figure pressed to the clothed form of a man—fragile, exposed, achingly vulnerable.

I let my hands roam slowly over her back, down over her hips, her thighs. She flinches at every touch. Her skin prickles under my fingers, shivering beneath my palm. I return to her breasts and tease her nipples, now taut and sensitive, between my fingers. A quiet, hoarse moan escapes her lips, and she stares into the mirror with wide, astonished eyes.

I know she’s slipping away—her expression tells me she is no longer here in this room. Perhaps, in her mind, she’s aboard a pirate ship, or captive in a sultan’s harem. Wherever she’s gone, it’s real for her—this transformation is total, honest. She’s not pretending.

Time to help her fully cross that threshold. I take out a black satin ribbon and gently blindfold her.

“On your knees.”

She kneels without hesitation, fluid and submissive, settling into the waiting pose. I say nothing further—let her float in the silence, anticipating what might come. The not-knowing is part of the magic.

I retreat to the bathroom and spend several minutes washing my hands—longer than needed—to prolong the suspense. When I return, I find her trembling from head to toe. Between her parted thighs, a fine glistening thread catches the light. She’s ready.

“Stand. Hands behind your back—in a box position.”

I firmly seize her by the back of her neck with my right hand and lay her across my lap.

I am hard now, and she knows it—feels it. She inches forward, until I am pressed against the soft underside of her body, right beneath her womb.

“You will now receive ten strokes. You must count them aloud and say, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ after each one. What do you say now?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispers—her voice taut, strained, as if forcing the words through clenched fear.

I give her the first, feather-light slap with my palm. She jerks as if struck with a whip, her whole body spasming, and a strangled cry escapes her lips.

“One! Thank you, Sir!” It sounds more like a sob than gratitude.

“Don’t hold back—scream. No one will hear you.”

I strike again, just slightly harder. She arches her back with a loud cry, and between ragged breaths she chokes out:

“Two! Thank you, Sir!”

It arouses me—not the act itself, which is little more than a brisk caress, but the intensity of her reaction. To her, in the furnace of her imagination, I am wielding a lash with merciless strength.

I land five firmer slaps. Now she is openly weeping, shaking, trying instinctively to escape my grip, but I hold her hands tightly. She’s lost count—her voice collapses into a broken stream of syllables:

“Thank… Sir… give… me… a-a-a-a…”

Her imagination must have already painted a picture of her buttocks being whipped with a belt. I stroke her buttocks—they are slightly reddened, but that's all.

My finger slowly descends into the hollow. I gently run it over her wet lips several times, carefully spread them apart, and penetrate inside. She falls silent, freezes, and only shudders with silent sobs, sighing intermittently.

I bring her almost to the edge and now she is trying to move closer so that my finger is in the coveted place. No! It's not time yet!

“Slave, why are you being punished? Answer me!”

“Sir,  I didn't… say.. Sir..” she sobs, her voice filled with the pain of losing the long-awaited release that her desire-filled body craves, because she was so close…

I slow down, calmly delivering the last few strokes. The final two I give over to Shere Khan. She shrieks and arches violently, so much so that I have to press her back down—not gently, not tenderly. It stings.

And then—the moment arrives.

I know exactly where and how to press, just with a fingertip. A sudden, wild wave runs through her—her body convulses, her feet drum against the floor. A long, low cry, pulled from somewhere deep within, echoes through the room.

I feel her tighten around my hand, her body pulsing in rapid contractions. Then she collapses—boneless, weightless—and slides off my knees onto the floor.

It’s a kind of sensory overload—a momentary paralysis, when the brain loses command and the body simply lets go.

I lift her and lay her on the bed. She curls into a ball, breathing in quick little bursts—slowly, as if under a parachute, she settles back to earth from the flight into space I sent her on.

I sit beside her, stroking the flushed skin of her bottom, still firm, still warm. I smile to myself. Never before have I met such an emotionally transparent submissive—so quick to surrender, to trust, and to reach such ecstatic release from nothing more than a few gentle slaps.

But she isn’t just a submissive.

She’s my little, brave, passionate Mousey.

I turn on the shower. It’s a special design—a wide, square ceiling panel a metre across, pouring down like tropical rain. Hidden LEDs light up with the flow, their power drawn from a tiny generator inside the panel. The heavier the pressure, the brighter the rain glows. The lights change constantly—rippling in every colour of the rainbow, especially enchanting in the dark.

“Come,” I say softly, lifting her into my arms. “I want you to wash me.”

Here I am standing in front of him in a submissive pose. He orders to take off my socks. I obey, uncertain what to do with them. He commands me to take them to the mirror.

I turn—and freeze. The entire wall behind me is a mirror.

I see myself in it: my flushed face, my tousled hair, the stupid socks trembling in my hands. I look small, almost comical—like a schoolgirl caught out—and at the same time, utterly exposed.

He’s standing there, tall, motionless, holding something that looks like a riding crop or a delicate little whip—long, narrow, faintly menacing.

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