Unraveled Together by Wendy Leigh

and leashed, into a crowd of them: twelve dominants and their slaves.
    â€œWhat will they do to you? Will they stroke your body? Will they pinch it? Will they squeeze your welts? Or will they add more of their own? Will they talk about you, laugh at you, make fun of your nakedness, or will they take turns licking and pleasuring you? Will you be penetrated? If so, where? In your ass? In your cunt? Or will I remove the gag and allow all the men to fuck your mouth? Then turn you over on your back and allow all the women in turn to squat over your face and I’ll order you to lick them? What will it be, my darling?”
    Behind my blindfold, my eyes are wide, my heart is thumping, my mouth is dry, and even if it weren’t dry, the gag ensures that I am unable to answer.
    He places me on all fours and drags me out by the leash to the top of the staircase. The famous horseshoe staircase, one of the most glamorous and dramatic features of Hartwell Castle.
    Then he removes the leash.
    â€œIs your ass very sore?”
    I nod, my eyes still moist from the pain of the paddling.
    â€œGood. Lift up your arms.”
    I obey, and feel him grip under each of my arms, so that he is supporting all my weight.
    Then he lowers me down onto the top step.
    I sit there, bewildered and afraid.
    â€œGet downstairs now. I’ll be supporting you, so you are safe, so just do it,” he orders.
    I don’t understand, and even though I can’t see him, from behind my blindfold I look at him pleadingly.
    â€œDon’t be stupid, Miranda, because I know you aren’t. Go down the staircase on your ass, and make sure you bump it down on each step really hard, or else . . .”
    I know better than to protest. And so I start my shameful, painful descent into the dining hall below, where the group of Masters and their slaves are waiting, and watching me in my humiliation and pain.
    I hear excited murmurs and flinch.
    â€œHear them, Miranda? They are loving this. And I hope you are loving being their entertainment for the night . . .” he says.
    How many stairs, how many stairs will I have to take, how much pain, how much humiliation? I want to run, I want to hide, but he won’t let me.
    I know I must have almost reached the bottom of the stairs, my ass is in such agony. Then I hear a loud, Texan voice: “Very endowed up top, you must have plenty of fun with those, Robert . . .”
    And then a woman’s voice: “Poor thing, bumping all that way, must really hurt.” I can tell that she is enjoying every second of my discomfort, my shame, my exposure. But how would I feel if she were in my position? Would I feel happy, too? Or would I feel sorry for her, just as I now feel sorry for myself?
    The last step, I end up there with a bump, just as Robert commanded, and everyone in the room bursts into applause.
    â€œStand up and take a bow, Miranda. You’ve acquitted yourself remarkably well for your first public performance,” he says, and helps me to my feet.
    And blushing all over, I do what he says, while the crowd laughs and claps more.
    Then he whispers in my ears, “And now for the next stage, my darling.” And leads me to the left, to the far end of the room, where I know the long oak table stands.
    I know that oak table only too well, as during my time here he has more than once ordered me to bend over the end of it and said, “Take what’s coming to you . . .” But surely not now, surely not in front of all these people? Surely he won’t go as far as to spank me here, in front of them? If he does, I’ll die of shame. I’ll die, I know I will, but at the same time, I don’t understand why I am so wet. And I’m deathly afraid that when he orders me to bend over the table and part my legs, as he always does, he’ll find the evidence of my arousal. I don’t know how I’ll live through this, I don’t.
    He