Sophie's Punishment

By Madison Barry

*Note: This novella is a crossover story featuring characters and locations from The House Series and The Island Series and takes place after the end of both series. You do not have to have read either or both series to enjoy this book.

Sophie is a therapist in training who was sex slave for a year on the very exclusive, secret island resort owned by a man known only as Sir. She asks Sir for permission to develop a support system to help other former slaves like herself to get on with their lives after they've been released. Sir agrees, on the condition that Sophie not reveal his secrets to anyone not on his payroll. She approaches Tara, a sex and trauma therapist, to offer her a job in her new program, but Tara is dubious until Sophie tells her the whole story of her experiences on the Island. Tara and her partner and Master, Spencer, agree to help Sophie both with her own issues and with her project. They suggest that Sophie work with one of Spencer's fellow Masters, Roberto, to explore her submissive side in a safe environment.

Sophie and Roberto hit it off, and Sophie begins to learn about BDSM and true submission. But when Sir finds out just how much Sophie told Tara and Spencer about him and his Island, he is angry enough to want to cancel the whole program and revoke the generous reward Sophie earned upon her release from the Island. Sophie is desperate to change Sir's mind, and decides she has to submit herself to him for punishment in order to preserve her reward and her program. Can she bring herself to return to the Island and strip off her clothes for her former master?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Madison Barry
• Release date: Oct 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370428878

Madison Barry

Writer, business owner, and mother-of-four, Madison Barry may appear vanilla, but her kinky alter-ego comes out at night. They say you should "write what you know," so Madison's fiction focuses on kink, BDSM, and themes of domination and submission.Follow Madison on social media:Twitter: @AmyAndSirFacebook: @MadisonBarryAuthorInstagram: @MaddieBarryAuthor

Book preview

Sophie’s Punishment

By Madison Barry

Copyright 2017 Madison Barry

Kindle Edition

Kindle Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A quick note about this book:

Sophie’s Punishment is a standalone novella that features characters from both The Island Series and The House Series and takes place after the events of both series. While it may contain minor spoilers for both, I’ve written it with the intent that a reader can enjoy it whether or not they’ve read any or all of the other books of either series.

For my fans

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 1

Spencer

I would never admit it to her, but sometimes I stayed late at the office on purpose so that Tara would get home first, and I’d get to walk in to my beautiful slave already in her evening collar, kneeling naked in the living room. She probably knew it, though. And I tried not to make a habit of it. After all, when I came home late, we had less time to spend together before bed. I managed to keep it to once or twice a week.

Today, she had a late appointment, though, so I was home before her, sitting in the living room with a glass of cognac. I’d eaten with a client, and she said she’d grab something for herself when she had a chance. That meant we could get right down to business when she walked in.

I swirled the amber liquid while I planned our activities. Some nights, we just talked, fucked, and went to sleep. But it was Friday, and that meant we would spend a couple of hours in the playroom.

A good, strong flogging to start with, I decided after some deliberation. She’d been mentioning my floggers recently, how pretty they were, and how they were the perfect balance of thuddy and stingy, letting me know she wanted me to use them on her without saying it straight out. She knew if she asked for them, I’d store them away for a few weeks just to make her stew. But I’d indulge her tonight. It had been a while.

I still found it hard to believe that after over fifteen years of secrecy, our relationship was finally formalized and common knowledge. Well, not too common. Common among those who mattered. I marveled every time I came home to her that she was here for me to come home to, and it still astounded me every time she walked through those doors that she considered this her home, too. There had been quite an adjustment period. An evening or a weekend together every couple of months like we’d had for so long, was hardly comparable to actually living together in a full-time Master-slave relationship.

Not for the first time, I thought about asking her to marry me, too. The Master-slave agreement, to me, was far deeper and more meaningful than a piece of paper from the state that said we were bound together, but the legal benefits were not insignificant. Then I could be certain she was provided for. Not that she couldn’t support herself, but she shouldn’t have to. And what if something happened to me? There wasn’t really anything stopping me now.

After the flogging, I thought, forcing myself to get back to the task at hand, a blindfold and rope. Maybe a hogtie with the anal hook, and then a little orgasm denial until she begged. I wondered if she could come in the hogtie. I was certain she had before.

The front door opened and closed, and I heard her heels on the tile of the foyer, the jangle of her keys as she dropped them with her purse in the hall, then two thunks as she kicked off her shoes. I couldn’t remember what she was wearing today. Was it the blue suit? I’d have to pay more attention when she dressed in the morning. I should know everything about her.

She came into the living room with her phone in both hands, typing rapidly. It was the blue suit, the royal blue almost the exact color of her eyes, her blonde hair shimmering against it. She shrugged the jacket off even as she continued using the phone one-handed. Maybe she didn’t realize I was home? She hadn’t looked up from the phone screen yet. She unzipped the knee-length business skirt with one hand, too, and let it drop. Her white lace thong sent my thoughts careening away from what she might be doing now to what I planned to do to her very soon. She’d gotten her toenails done, I noticed. Pale pink. I approved.

She stopped undressing and sank onto a love seat facing slightly away from me. Nope, she did not know I was here. Naughty girl. My car was in the garage, and she must have parked in the driveway. She didn’t like parking in the garage because she was afraid she’d damage my Audi. I’d assured her there was plenty of room, but it was not a battle I needed to fight. Besides, sometimes it worked to my advantage that she didn’t see my car. Like tonight, for instance.

She was really distracted, though, by whatever was on her phone. That was unlike her, and it piqued my curiosity enough that I cleared my throat to get her attention. Her squeal of surprise was most gratifying, and the phone thumped to the floor. She stripped off her blouse and undergarments without delay, then fell to her knees beside the phone. I heard her mutter a distinct shit as she scrambled into position, and I had to suppress a laugh. My evening had just gotten considerably more interesting!

Slave, I said in greeting. Something on your mind?

Her perfect breasts bobbed as she got control of her breath. I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t know you were already home.

Clearly. You didn’t think to look up from your phone to check? I’d needle her a little first.

I should have, Master. I’m sorry.

That’s not an explanation.

I—it—

It was difficult to fluster Tara. Whatever had happened must have really gotten to her. I sipped my cognac while I waited for her to collect herself.

Master, my evening session was very strange. She sent me an email while I was driving home, and I was answering it when I came in.

What do you mean by strange? Tara was a therapist and had had many unusual cases over the years, but this one had her more off-balance than I’d ever seen her.

I—it—she wasn’t a patient. I mean, she didn’t come to me for therapy, and what she did want to talk about was bizarre. She paid twice my hourly rate and made another appointment for next week, but I don’t even know what she wants from me.

I couldn’t take her to the playroom when she was so obviously agitated. We’ll talk first, then. Tell me about it.

She sighed with relief and returned to the love seat, facing me this time. It was no more comfortable for me to have a conversation with her while she knelt on the floor than it was for her. She needed to debrief, and that meant she needed to be able to relax a little. I guess since she’s not a patient, confidentiality doesn’t apply. She glanced down at her phone as though she wanted to continue writing her email, but she let her hands settle on her lap and returned her attention to me. This young woman came in and told me she had just completed the MFT program at USC and was starting her internship. I thought she was going to ask if I would supervise her, but that’s not what she wanted at all. She said she was working on a project, trying to bring together lay advisers and licensed therapists for something very—what was the word she used? Clandestine? Something like that. Anyway, she was so vague about what this project involved, I’m not sure I can even summarize it for you. She said there’s a group of women—only women, apparently—who need some very specialized care from female therapists who—discreet! That was the word. Female therapists who could be very discreet about what they learned. We’d work exclusively for a former employer of hers—she didn’t give me a name—who would pay us very well in order to ensure our loyalty and discretion. She said I could keep seeing patients in private practice as well, but this mysterious employer would pay enough that I wouldn’t need to. The duties would be to meet and advise these women in person, over the phone, or by FaceTime or Skype. She shrugged.

Why couldn’t she be more specific? I asked.

I don’t know.

Was there more? How can she expect you to consider an offer like this without more information? This doesn’t sound like a good idea, Slave.

I know it doesn’t. I was ready to dismiss the whole thing as some delusion or scam, but then she sent me this email, and now—I don’t know.

Show me.

She picked up her phone and swiped a couple of times, then handed it over.

Dear Ms. Baker:

Thank you for meeting with me this evening. I realize I was very vague and that I can’t expect you to take a leap like this without more detail. First, below is more about me. I invite you to investigate my background to see that I am who I said I am. I have also attached three letters of reference from my professors. Second, the women you would be working with have been through a unique experience. Some have experienced trauma, while others may simply not understand what has happened to them or why they reacted the way they did. They will have an assortment of anxieties, phobias, and posttraumatic reactions. And some may simply want to reflect upon specific episodes. They have no one else they can talk to, and the gentle guidance of a trained therapist will help them reintegrate into their regular lives.

Yours truly,

Sophie Lin

The word reintegrate caught my attention immediately. That was the term we had used at the House for the help our slaves required when they were released, and it suggested the women she referred to had been isolated for some period of time from general society. You think she’s hinting that these women were sex slaves, I said.

Tara nodded. I’m not sure if she intended to give that much away, but if you see it, too … I don’t know. She had mentioned the anxiety, phobias, and PTSD during our conversation, too.

We have to assume this anonymous employer is the same person who kept the slaves in the first place. I reread the short email, hunting for more keywords. And if they consider it a trauma, that implies they were forced, or that they were required to do more than they thought they were agreeing to. So why would someone who forces women into sexual slavery simply release them and then offer them assistance in reintegration? The irony was not lost on me, that I myself kept a sex slave and had trained others. But they had all come willingly. Tara and I had an agreement, one she could end at any time. And I had never forced her to do something that I thought would cause her emotional or physical trauma.

Those are the same questions I was asking myself when I walked in. You can see why I was, um, distracted. She lowered her gaze, ashamed.

I did understand. Now I was equally distracted. I clicked on the draft of her reply.

Dear Sophie:

I admit I was ready to write off the entire session. It is indeed a lot to expect for me to take what you say on faith. Your follow-up email intrigues me, however. I believe I understand the subtext of yourhdjsn

I laughed when I saw that the email ended with gibberish. That must have been when she noticed me and stopped typing. I handed her the phone back, and she set it down beside her.

But, Spencer, if I find out there’s illegal activity going on, depending what it is, I might be obligated to report it. If not legally, then ethically or morally. What happens then?

She was quite rattled if she used my name instead of my title without even realizing it. I let it pass. Seems to me you should just refuse, Slave.

"I know. But … If there really are women out there who need help, and I can help them …? It’s what I do, Spenc—Master."

And it’s what I love most about you. Let me investigate this Sophie person first, see what I can find out, before you respond.

Thank you, Master.

Feeling better?

Yes, Master.

Good. Playroom. I gave her a few moments to go up there ahead of me while I poured two glasses of water. She was waiting on her knees for me by the door, clearly more at peace now that we’d discussed her bizarre meeting.

I unlocked the playroom and flipped on the light. She crawled inside and knelt again. I had to punish her first, for failing to realize I was home, and my inclination was to simply deny her the flogging she craved, given the mitigating factors. I did want to try the hogtie, and this way we would get to it sooner.

Slave, I was going to flog you, but I think that will have to wait for another day.

She understood. Her shoulders slumped. Yes, Master.

But, I know your distraction was well-founded and unusual, so I won’t punish you further. This time. That cheered her up a bit. On the bench.

She climbed up on the spanking bench, eager now. I admired her, as I always did, the curve of her hip, her firm ass, her dainty feet. Her long, blonde hair cascaded around her head, and I gathered it over one shoulder so I could see her face. She smiled at me.

Smiling, eh? I stood in plain view with nothing in my hands and studied my fist. Ever since I’d fisted her ass, I’d been threatening to do it again. I’d never seen her come so hard, but she’d also said it had been painful enough that she wasn’t sure she wanted to do it again, now that she knew what to expect. Her smile faded, and a faint trepidation entered her eyes. She voiced no protest, however.

She knew better than that.

I very deliberately turned my back and went to my supply cupboard, hiding my actions with my body. I slipped the anal hook into my jacket pocket and collected several coils of rope and a bottle of lube. I added a small vibrator to my pocket and returned to her side. She was smart enough, and knew me well enough, to know I’d be trying to mislead her. Staying one step ahead of her was part of the fun. But I hoped she wouldn’t guess what I actually planned.

I loosened one coil of rope and brought her arms out in front of her head and tied her wrists together. She liked the process of being tied as much as I enjoyed tying her, and we both entered a focused but relaxed state as I worked. I wrapped rope around each of her ankles and secured them to the leg rests on the bench. This wasn’t really a hogtie, I decided, but it should be interesting nonetheless. A proper hogtie would work better on a table or a bed.

I considered untying her and transferring this to the bedroom, but I did rather prefer saving the bed for more traditional activities.

I showed her the bottle of lube, then moved out of her line of sight. I could make her close her eyes, but now she would think she’d seen what I was going to do, and that would add to the deception.

I lubed the first two fingers of my left hand and rested my right hand on her ass. She tensed, exhaled, twitched. Two fingers entered her asshole with little resistance, and her shuddering moan was most gratifying. I wiggled my fingers, stretched her, moved in and out as though I were loosening her up for more, felt her clench against me, sensed the battle within her, obedience and fear vying for space in her consciousness.

Oh, I did so love this game, and I especially loved it with Tara, because she played