Free Condemned to Slavery by Bruce McLachlan

to her grizzling student.
    The boot once more dropped onto Lydia, squashing her again.
    “What is your name?” asked the woman, lifting the crop in warning.
    “Six one nine two, Warden Folter,” blurted Lydia.
    “Say it again. Quicker this time,” demanded the woman, skimming the tip of the crop across her assets to make her breasts quiver and her mouth drop open and air a cry.
    “Six one nine two,” she rambled with speed.
    “Keep saying it,” growled the woman.
    Lydia started to chant the number again and again, and each time she did, the dull thwack of the thin weapon was sung against her body, the Warden applying a merciless stroke each time she declared her new identity, the pain burning the digits into her very soul. Soon she was choking the words, fighting to get them out, her level of endurance left far behind, her fright of disobeying this grand sadist the only encouragement to keep her going.
    “Say it backwards!” the Warden ordered, changing the nature of the lesson.
    Lydia paused, trying to concoct the reconfigured litany, receiving several ghastly stripes into her sex for her failing, the Warden increasing the metronome precision of her drum roll, using the added suffering to stall Lydia’s efforts until finally she yelled out at the top of her lungs.
    “Two nine one six!”
    The assault ceased suddenly, cutting off without warning, leaving her an enfeebled husk, her body rolling within a fog bank of tortured befuddlement.
    The boot slipped aside, lodged under her hip and turned her onto her front where she let out a gurgling croak when she was laid down onto her bruised breasts and thighs, the revitalized welts singing aloud under the slight weight of her frame. Scowling, she clenched her teeth and endured the added woe, her body damp with fevered perspiration, her face stained with trails of tears, saliva and sweat.
    “In gratitude for this lesson you may kiss my boots, six one nine two,” smiled the woman, presenting a polished toe to Lydia’s face.
    Without delay she nuzzled forward and adored the footwear, wondering to herself why she was giving in so easily and licking the leather rather than just kissing it. Lydia told herself that she was just trying to overcompensate in her task to avoid any more chastisement, but there was something else. The severity of the whipping, the harsh treatment that had been so meticulously and thoroughly meted out to destroy her identity had left her strangely aroused. Fawning on the leather, she ran her tongue back and forth.
    “That’s very industrious of you, six one nine two,” stated the Warden, taking the boot back and presenting the second one.
    Lydia craned her head forward and started to lap at the second boot, shivering slightly as her loins started to become damp. What was happening to her? Why was such subjugation kindling her libido?
    “Seeing as you have such an affinity for boot cleaning, you may handle the soles as well,” she ordered, turning one of the chairs around.
    Grabbing Lydia’s shoulders she pulled her back up onto her knees and sat back into the chair. Crossing her legs, she lifted the bottom of a boot to Lydia’s face, staring into her eyes with a lustful grin.
    Lydia closed her eyes and moved forward, putting her mouth to the tread, her tongue spilling along it, her sense of excitement raging through her form.
    “Open those eyes, six one nine two. Look at me,” warned the officer.
    With hesitation she complied, meeting the libidinous stare of the Warden as she studied Lydia’s submission.
    “Good girl,” beamed the Warden, watching intensely as Lydia completed her task.
    Before offering her the other boot, she lifted herself up and peered down at Lydia’s crotch. The untouched boot moved in and nudged her knees.
    “Spread yourself for me,” she ordered, making Lydia stiffen with a snort of surprise.
    “Do it,” slurred the Warden with grave tones.
    With a slow shift of her thighs she moved her legs apart, the