EXTRACT FOR
More Rigorous Retraining
(Miranda Birch)

A short while later, four slaves hurried into the bedroom, including 3231. They all bowed. All were naked, their fit, muscular young bodies on full display. 



"Who is responsible for maintenance?" demanded Susan. 



A slave stepped forward, numbered 2987. 



"I am, Miss," he said. 



"And why, pray tell, is the ice-maker not working?" asked Susan testily. 



"I... I don't know, Miss. It has... has only just been brought to my attention." 



"It's a piece of gross negligence," said Susan. "Bring me that cane off the dressing table." 



Susan slid out of bed, moaned and placed her hand to her head. Quite naked, she was a tall, lithe looking blonde of 22 years. Her breasts were not large but very firm. The nipples stood quite erect. 2987 advanced with the cane and knelt at Susan's feet, raising the implement up to her on the palms of his hands. 



"Get over the end of the bed," ordered Susan crisply. 



Meekly, 2987 bent over as ordered. 



"You're supposed to check equipment repeatedly, and repair it if necessary. Is that not so, slave?" 



"Yes, Miss," quavered 2987. 



He was tense and quivering."So you are slack, idle bastard, right?" 



"Yes, Miss." 



Susan saw the nates of his bare rump clench -- as well they might, in view of what was coming! 



"And for being a slack and idle bastard you are now going to be punished!" 



Carla, sitting up in bed, bare breasts thrusting fulsomely, watched her partner lay on the cane with vicious force. She is a good punisher, thought Carla. Almost as good as myself. This was not unjustified pride: Carla was a trainer and an acknowledged expert in inflicting discipline upon the hapless males of the Retraining Centre. 



2987 uttered a whinnying gasp at each cut, his hindquarters twisting and turning violently over the end of the bed. The other three slaves looked on seemingly without emotion. This was a familiar enough scene in the household -- in any household on camp, in fact. 



And so the first six strokes were laid on, each one bitting hard. Then, as the caning continued, 2987 began to yelp at each cut, writhing convulsively, hands clawing into the bed coverlet. He was aware that, if he did not keep his hindquarters presented, or tried to avoid any stroke, he was likely to be put in the pillory... where the punishment would begin all over again. 



2987 was sobbing with pain after the twelfth stroke. His eyes were misting with tears. It was a cruel punishment for such a slight oversight. His Mistress's hangover probably had something to do with it, though truth be told she was a martinet in any event. He remained bending, feeling the stinging throb of the freshly-raised weals. It was a pain with which he was most familiar, but that never made it easier to bear. 



"Have you anything to say, slave?" demanded Susan. 



"I humbly beg pardon for my slackness, Mistress. I deserved to be punished." 



The words were all part of a ritual laid down in the rule-book. Correction was merited; therefore correction was good for the trainee; therefore the inflicter of the correction had to be duly thanked for it. 



"You did indeed," said Susan.