Observations from the Punishment Floor

My name is Klutz. I belong to Mistress Felice, a close friend of Madam Nora’s and a long-term subscriber to this very magazine. I’ve served under her collar for nearly four years, and I’ve worked as a journalist even longer. It’s rare when those two parts of my life intersect, but tonight, I’ve been given the unusual honor of reporting on something… quite singular.

Mistress sent me here with strict instructions: watch everything, take notes on everyone, and do not interfere. And I understand why. What I’m witnessing here isn’t theater, though it has a stage. It’s not performance, though there’s an audience. This is something more raw. More real.

Madam Nora has reserved a darling little restaurant on the edge of the arts district. The kind of place where you might hear a jazz trio and sip a good Bordeaux, with walls painted in soft, romantic golds and maroons and little mismatched sconces that make the whole room glow like a low fire.

Tonight, though, no wine is being poured. The bandstand hasn’t been set for music, but for something far more intimate and savage. The tables were cleared after dinner and moved aside. In their place: a half-moon of chairs, all facing the small raised platform at the front. I count fourteen guests. Every single one of them a woman, seated with the quiet ease of those accustomed to authority. Some cross their legs. Some sip from short glasses. One is already idly flexing a cane across her thighs like it’s a nervous tic.

At the center of it all, standing alone on that low stage, is duckie.

He’s naked. Entirely. Cock soft and obedient, hands clasped behind his back, back straight, eyes forward. His expression is serene. Not blank—serene, like he’s made peace with the inevitability of what’s to come. I’ve never seen anyone look so exposed and yet so composed.

It is a strange, powerful sort of stillness. Not just his—everyone’s. It’s like the room has been braced.

I was told this was a punishment ceremony, a monthly tradition where duckie, the Magazine’s service sub, takes lashes for every infraction logged by the staff and volunteer submissives under the Magazine’s umbrella. I thought I understood what that meant. But now, watching him breathe under the soft amber light, knowing he will be whipped not just for his own faults but for everyone else’s… I realize I didn’t understand a thing.

Not yet.

---

The Ceremony Begins

I’ll be recalling every moment of this evening with as much accuracy as I can manage, not only because I must—Mistress made it clear I’m not allowed to leave without filing my final report—but because I need to. I’ve never seen anything like what unfolded tonight. The intensity, the elegance, the open depravity—at times it left me struggling to keep up, heart pounding, cock caged, and utterly out of my element.

The atmosphere shifted the moment Madam Nora stepped onto the stage.

She didn’t need to raise her voice. A hush swept over the room like a silk sheet. In a perfectly fitted plum suit that hinted at vintage couture, heels clicking decisively against the wood floor, she addressed the gathered Dommes as though she were hosting a dinner party and not presiding over a disciplinary ritual.

“My secretary will be administering the bulk of this evening’s punishments,” she said, her voice smooth, self-assured, unmistakably in command. “She’s being trained for greater responsibilities. One must invest in the next generation of service authority, after all.”

From the side, a woman emerged—shorter than Nora, but no less striking. She moved with a coiled grace, a panther in human form. Dressed in a sleek, high-necked black dress that hugged her figure and fell to mid-calf, the fabric shimmered with the faint sheen of satin. She wore her dark hair swept up, her heels slender, her gloves tight. There was something surgical about her elegance—clinical, even.

She approached duckie like she already owned him.

Then, with a soft, almost affectionate smirk, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Just the barest press of lips. But duckie blushed instantly—full and helpless. A flicker of boyish embarrassment across his otherwise disciplined composure.

Then she turned. Reached down to a waiting tray. And without ceremony, lifted two floggers—one in each hand. Long falls, dark leather, heavy tails. I heard them whisper as she tested the weight in each palm.

Then she stepped behind him and began.

The floggers cracked through the air like punctuation. Each strike landed with precision and force, curling around duckie’s buttocks, thighs, and lower back. She alternated hands, crossing and uncrossing, creating a rhythm like a drumbeat—low and relentless. I watched duckie’s shoulders tighten just slightly with each hit, but not once did he flinch away. His stance held. Steady. Proud.

But I noticed something else.

His cock, soft before, twitched. Then again. It wasn’t hard—yet—but it was listening. Responding.

Madam Nora observed all this with the air of a hostess explaining a recipe. “Just warmup,” she said lightly to the guests. “We wouldn’t want to mark him too early.”

The Secretary didn’t hold back. If this was warmup, I can’t imagine what came later. She worked his body like she’d done it a hundred times before, her arms strong, her pace unrelenting. The guests watched with the quiet attention of women enjoying a fine performance. A few sipped cocktails. One leaned forward and murmured something to her friend, both of them laughing under their breath as a particularly sharp blow made duckie’s thigh jolt.

Eventually, the Secretary paused. Her breathing was heavier now, chest rising with exertion.

“Turn.”

Duckie obeyed.

His back, ass, and thighs were flushed—an angry, deep pink. His front, by contrast, was almost untouched. The visual contrast was striking, obscene, beautiful.

Then she resumed.

This time, the floggers swung from the front, catching his hips, inner thighs, and stomach. Each strike added to the symmetry, layering sensation and color. I couldn’t look away. He didn’t move. He just stood, letting it happen, letting her happen to him.

If it had been me, I’d have been a crumpled, whimpering mess on the floor by now.

But duckie was still standing. And the show had only just begun.

---

When the Ceremony Bent Reality

I haven’t attended one of these ceremonies before. I’ve read about them in briefings, caught whispers in submissive circles, even seen the odd photo hinting at the scale of duckie’s punishments—but nothing prepared me for what came next.

And from the look on duckie’s face, it wasn’t part of the usual schedule either.

Two submissives appeared from the wings—when they arrived, I can’t say. They moved like stagehands in a cabaret, silent and precise. Together, they brought out a heavy wooden sawhorse, clearly custom-built. Padded on top, reinforced below, fitted with cuffs at all four anchor points.

duckie didn’t resist. He followed the movement fluidly, almost like it was muscle memory, though his widened eyes told a different story. This wasn’t routine.

He bent forward over the apparatus and allowed them to cuff his wrists and ankles in place. He was locked down in seconds—stretched and open. His ass, perfectly presented. His face, held horizontal, staring directly into the semicircle of amused, aroused, and calmly sipping Dommes.

Then came the women.

They were dressed identically, each in a skin-tight black unitard that covered everything and somehow made them look even more dangerous. Their bodies were strong, athletic, poised like weapons. But it was the strapons that stole the show. One wore a gleaming black dildo—thick, long, merciless. The other’s was bright pink and slightly curved, designed less for fantasy and more for visibility and degradation.

They didn’t say a word. They didn’t tease. They didn’t warn.

The one with the black dildo stepped behind duckie and, with a confident thrust, pushed it inside him. No ceremony. No delay. Just a slow, deliberate invasion until her hips pressed flush against his ass. duckie’s mouth dropped open in a gasp that never made it to air, because that’s when the pink strapon woman moved in from the front, gripped his chin, and buried her cock between his lips.

And just like that, duckie was impaled. Skewered like meat on a spit. One thick cock down his throat, another lodged deep inside his ass.

This wasn’t soft-focus pegging porn. This was unrelenting use.

I’ve heard men speak of pegging like it’s a hot fantasy—candlelight, giggles, a dab of lube and a slow push. Let me tell you, what happened here stripped the “fantasy” right out of it. Unless your dream is being stretched to the hilt while gagging helplessly on a cock you can’t get off of, while hands grip your skull and hips slam your ass so hard your whole body shifts forward with every thrust.

duckie didn’t just endure it. He took it like the champion submissive he is. Moaning, eyes watering, dripping spit from his chin, yet staying present, staying plugged in. I honestly don’t know how.

And just when the intensity hit a peak, it turned.

Madam Nora stepped up again.

“It’s time,” she said. “These are for Magazine infractions.”

The Secretary returned, this time without the floggers. Instead, she held a leather strap. Long, stiff, brutally thick. It looked like it could shatter someone’s focus with one swing.

And the two women? They didn’t stop. They kept going. Kept fucking him hard, hard enough to make the platform creak, as the Secretary took her place behind him, strap ready.

---

Punished for Zeek, the Lead Sub

“First,” Nora announced, “he’ll take twenty-five for Zeek.”
She paused just long enough to let that register.
“Doubled, due to his punishment wheel spin. That makes it fifty.”

Fifty.

The first blow cracked across duckie’s shoulder blades with a sound like someone breaking firewood. The whole room twitched.

Then another. And another.

And still the women kept fucking him. The black dildo pistoning deep, the pink cock driving down his throat. duckie couldn’t scream. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe without inhaling cock.

Ten.
Fifteen.
Twenty-five.
By now I was certain they’d call a break. They didn’t.

Thirty.
Thirty-five.
Forty.

duckie’s body shook with every hit. His back was mottled red and starting to welt. His ass was being pounded from within and without. And the whole time he remained locked in place, chained and used, as the Secretary’s strap landed over and over again.

Forty-five.
Fifty.

Then—finally—they stopped.

The women stepped back. The Secretary lowered the strap. A silence settled over the space, broken only by duckie’s heavy, wet breaths.

He was given a quick water break. Madam Nora gestured, and one of the serving subs held a straw to his lips. He drank greedily. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

And me? I sat there stunned, hard in my cage, notebook damp with sweat from my palms.

And we were nowhere near done.

Apparently duckie was getting off easy—Zeek had been the only staff sub with points transferred. But that wasn’t the case for the volunteer subs. And duckie, in a spin of ritual cruelty, had drawn a punishment wheel result that tripled what he would take from those infractions. At this point, I wasn’t just stunned. I was scared for him.

Then I got terrified.

Because I saw his face change.

Up until then, duckie had seemed focused, maybe even blissed out in that deep submissive space. But now? Now he looked… furious. Frustrated. Betrayed. His jaw clenched. His eyes locked somewhere behind me. I turned.

A man had entered the stage.

There was tension in the room immediately. duckie stared daggers. The man looked confused, hesitant. He exchanged hushed words with Madam Nora. Then, with visible reluctance, began to strip. His shirt came off. Then his pants. Under Madam’s calm direction, he stepped forward and allowed himself to be cuffed to the horizontal bar just in front of duckie’s bound frame.

The air was thick. duckie looked like he wanted to spit.

Madam turned to the audience. “Some of you may remember a recent blog post duckie authored, where he mentioned personal details about me and someone I had not given him permission to write about. This,” she gestured toward the man on stage, “was my mister.”

Apparently, the poor man had believed he was meeting Nora to reconcile. Whatever she said to him before he agreed to strip and bind himself for display, I cannot begin to imagine. Her authority is absolute.

duckie’s new command was brutal in its elegance: after every strike, he had to say “thank you” followed by the name of the sub whose punishment he was taking. While maintaining eye contact with Mister. Mouth nearly level with the man’s cock. That alone would have been difficult. But to hold his head up that long? Madam made sure. When his chin sagged, she would gently pull his hair back, lifting his face to look right into Mister’s eyes.

---

Punished for BoxingGloveLove

The first sub up: the so-called “new guy,” known as boxingglovelover.

He had racked up 46 punishment points. Fortunately for duckie, this sub had received his lashings himself, thus reducing duckie’s load to 12. Tripled, of course, that made thirty-six lashes.

The Secretary stepped in again, this time wielding a long black leather slapper that rang sharply with every impact. With the pegging paused, she had full access to his backside and the tender backs of his thighs.

The noise was unmistakable. SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.

duckie’s ass, already flushed from earlier, was now darkening to angry new shades.

He struggled to speak. duckie has a known stammer, and it comes out in moments of extreme stress. I will not attempt to reproduce it phonetically here, but the message was always clear.

With every hit, he choked out: “Thank you, boxing boy.”

He didn’t always finish the words before the next one landed. But the Secretary didn’t pause. The pace was relentless. The sounds, brutal. The rhythm, almost inhuman.

Thirty-six lashes.

And when it ended, duckie was still glaring. Still locked on Mister. And Mister? He was getting hard and had an undeniable grin on his face.

I don’t know what turned him on more—the spectacle, or the defiance in duckie’s eyes. But either way, the humiliation was palpable.

And the night wasn’t over yet.

---

Punished for mrsub

Next on the docket was mrsub. His ledger had held a full 100 lashes, but he’d apparently taken most of them previously, which brought duckie’s share down to 25. Of course, with the punishment wheel’s cruel blessing, that number was tripled. Seventy-five.

Now, I’m not proud to say I almost laughed—but I did. Not because of the pain, but because of the speed. The Secretary returned with yet another tool—a lighter flogger, one that she wielded with astonishing speed and control. Within seconds, duckie was under a barrage. She moved so fast it was hard to track the strikes. For every gasp of “thank you mrsub,” she’d already hit him three or four more times.

The pace was blistering. The punishment, technically identical in count to those before, felt like a sprint compared to a marathon. duckie was panting by the end, mouth open, chest heaving, the back of his thighs reddened in streaks.

What followed shifted the mood yet again.

duckie was unstrapped from the sawhorse. I watched as Madam Nora approached him, joined by another Domme. They spoke with him quietly, touched his back, examined his marks. Madam laid a gentle palm on his head and stroked his hair.

Something broke in him. His body softened. That edge—the fury, the defiance—melted away.

Then he turned, crawled on hands and knees, and knelt before Mister.

Mister, still cuffed standing, watched him. duckie leaned forward and took the man’s cock into his mouth. The act was ritual, deliberate—but not erotic. Not from duckie’s end. His movements were efficient. Mechanical.

Mister frowned. He seemed uncomfortable. Then irritated.

“Do you not want this?” Madam Nora asked from across the stage. “We can turn him around, if you’d rather use the other hole.”

There was a silence. A flash of temper crossed Mister’s face. But he said nothing. And so, duckie continued. On his knees, performing. The entire room watched as one man, angry and humiliated, received a blowjob from another who looked more resigned than obedient.

It was hard to watch. I felt bad for duckie. And I felt jealous.

Jealous, because he was still the center of it all. Because he was doing what many of us fantasize about—serving, publicly, brutally, intimately. Because his pain had meaning.

And because in that moment, all eyes were still on him.

---

Punished for mommieslittlepet

Just as I thought Mister was about to shoot his load down duckie’s throat, Madam Nora intervened. She stepped forward and pulled duckie off the cock with a firm grip to the back of his neck. Mister looked dumbfounded—open-mouthed, flushed, visibly teetering on the edge of orgasm.

duckie, by contrast, looked almost smug. If it wasn’t quite a smile, it was something just north of satisfaction. He was reveling in Mister’s discomfort – his ruined orgasm.

Madam Nora turned him to face the audience, standing now but still very much on display. She raised her voice just enough to announce the next sentence: “These are for mommie’s little pet, who has earned an impressive 101 points.”

Apparently, that sub had taken the punishment himself, which brought duckie’s share down to 26. But the wheel had been spun, and tripled—he was now facing 78 lashings.

A second horizontal bar was brought to the stage, this one positioned just above duckie’s head. He grasped it on his own, not cuffed like Mister had been. This time, the Secretary approached with something that made even my stomach tighten—a bullwhip.

She uncoiled it like a serpent.

The snap rang out before the first strike even landed, a warning of what was to come. Then the real pain began.

CRACK. “Thank you mommie’s pet.”

CRACK. “Thank you mommie’s pet.”

The cadence began with power and control. But around the fifteenth lash, I saw it—the pain was starting to register. duckie’s face contorted slightly with each strike. His words grew softer, more labored.

And then came the unmistakable sign: his cock was hard again.

At forty-five, the Domme who had previously inspected his wounds—perhaps a medic, perhaps simply trained in care—stepped forward and called a stop. She approached duckie, examined him closely, said something to the Secretary.

A shift.

The bullwhip was returned to its place. In its stead, a flogger—thicker strands, still stingy, but nowhere near the slicing precision of the whip. A merciful change. Or perhaps just tactical?

The punishment resumed. duckie remained erect, murmuring out “thank you mommie’s pet” as the flogger left marks of its own. Over and over.

Seventy-eight in total.

By the end, it was clear he was struggling. His cock, once proudly hard, now only half-masted. His body swayed. It wasn’t just physical pain—it was depletion. And yet, some part of him remained hungry for it. Everything I’ve been told about duckie’s masochism came to life in that moment.

He can’t get enough. Or, more likely, he doesn’t know when he’s had enough.

The assisting subs returned, helping him to the edge of the stage. There, he was checked again—cool cloths to the head, water brought to his lips.

The guests, for their part, were served another round of drinks. It was intermission.

And we weren’t done yet.

---

Punished for subjay

While duckie was catching his breath and being tended to at the edge of the stage, Madam Nora turned her attention back to Mister.

Still bound, still standing, he was visibly irritated—his arms twitching against the restraints, face locked in a mix of arousal and humiliation. She approached him quietly, leaned in, and whispered something into his ear.

Whatever she said worked.

Within a minute, his soft cock stirred and stiffened again, betraying every ounce of reluctant composure he had left. duckie was brought back to the center, still pink and pulsing from the last round, and bent once more over the sawhorse. He was cuffed securely—wrists and ankles—his body exposed, his face once again level with the now-rehardened cock of the man he’d just serviced.

Then came the next name: subjay.

Forty-six lashings earned. Thankfully for duckie, the sub had already taken his own, reducing the transfer to 12. Tripled? Thirty-six.

The announcement wasn’t even done before the black-clad Domme with the purple strapon stepped forward. Without flourish or hesitation, she pressed herself behind duckie and drove her cock into him.

The sound duckie made—loud, guttural, startled—cut through the air. A yelp, followed by desperate, rhythmic grunting as the strapon worked him open with unrelenting pace.

The Secretary began.

Armed with a riding crop, she stood at duckie’s side and raised her arm in an even, consistent arc. Each stroke landed clean across his upper back, the crisp smack of leather against already-tender skin filling the room.

duckie managed to voice “thank you subjay” in between gasps and groans, sometimes breaking the phrase up across two breaths. But he said it. Every time.

The audience sat still, silent, sipping. Watching.

Thirty-six lashes. Thirty-six thrusts. And duckie bore them all.

When it ended, the Domme slid her cock free from his hole, slowly, almost teasingly. He sagged slightly in the cuffs, muscles shaking.

But there was no long break this time.

There was movement backstage. Something was coming.

And duckie was still chained, panting, his hole gaping and red, waiting.

---

Punished for eleven

Just as duckie’s breathing seemed to stabilize, the Secretary returned to his side, this time carrying a rod. Bamboo, by the look of it—light, flexible, brutal. It was announced that the sub known as eleven had earned 66 lashings, taken his share, leaving duckie responsible for 17. Tripled? Fifty-one.

I’ve taken a rod before. Once. And that was enough. To face fifty-one lashes, after everything that boy had already endured? I thought we might be about to witness the true breaking of the duck.

The first strike landed square across his ass, low and vicious, almost directly over the hole that had just recently been stretched open and used.

“Thank you eleven,” duckie said through gritted teeth.

The next hit snapped against the backs of his thighs. He yelped, but still managed his line.

Then four in quick succession—all across his ass again. The pace was tight, fast. His voice cracked on the fourth, but he kept speaking.

I thought maybe the Secretary was giving him a moment to recover, but it was only a beat, and she unleashed four more with the same brutal rhythm. “Thank you eleven,” again and again, voice thin, muscles trembling.

Ten in. Already, he looked near collapse.

The Secretary circled him. Made eye contact with Madam Nora, who stood, impassive and unreadable.

No reprieve came.

She delivered ten more. This time, across his upper back and shoulders, the rod leaving visible stripes even from where I sat near the back. duckie didn’t scream—but the way his body jolted with each blow made the pain obvious.

At twenty, she paused. A submissive brought water to duckie’s lips. He drank, wordless. Drenched in sweat.

Then it resumed.

For the next twenty lashes, the Secretary counted them aloud.

Not as a display, not to encourage him—but with the cold detachment of someone reading a checklist.

Each came precisely ten seconds apart.

She worked down his body again—shoulders, then ass, then thighs. duckie was yelling his “thank you elevens” at first, but by the early thirties, his voice dropped off. His lips moved. No sound came. Tears were starting to stream down his face.

At forty, Madam Nora finally called a pause.

She stepped onto the stage and knelt beside duckie’s face. Spoke to him in tones so soft I couldn’t make out a word. Only the two of them will know what passed in that moment.

When she rose, she gave a calm but firm command: “Unshackle him.”

I thought that was it.

He’d made it. He’d earned his exit. Beaten, but unbroken.

The assisting subs moved quickly, gently supporting him as he rose.

He turned to face the crowd.

And then came the laugh. A ripple of delight from the Dommes around me.

I looked closer.

duckie was rock hard.

Madam Nora stepped forward and raised her voice once more. “He still has eleven more… for eleven.”

Even I chuckled.

duckie stood tall. Cuffed no longer. He squared his shoulders, planted his feet, and faced the audience like a prizefighter entering round fifteen.

The Secretary stepped in with the rod and delivered the remaining eleven. This time, striking his front—chest, thighs, just above the groin.

It was clear she was holding back, or at least being selective. His body absorbed the hits with no more than a grunt or two. His cock didn’t waver.

At last, she stepped back.

duckie was handed a bottle of water. A cloth pressed to his face.

Apparently, there was just one sub left.

The current topboy of the volunteers was known as exibishboy.

And I thought: how much trouble could a topboy possibly have gotten into?

---

Punished for exibishboy

So it turns out this exibishboy had earned 61 lashings. He took his own punishment, leaving just 15 for duckie—but as always, tripled. Forty-five.

I was relieved to hear this would be the final round. duckie had to be running on fumes. I don’t say this to embarrass him, but the condition of his body at this point was, frankly, alarming.

He was soaked. Every inch of his skin glistened with sweat. His ass, in particular, was a roadmap of red—welts, stripes, handprints, and bruises overlaid like calligraphy. The poor boy had been relentlessly fucked in both ends, whipped, strapped, flogged, and cropped… and yet, there he stood. Legs trembling, cock throbbing, still waiting to serve.

And then came that look.

Madam Nora’s mouth curled into something sinister—beautiful, but unmistakably wicked. She passed the Secretary a small leather flogger and gave her quiet instructions.

What followed was… different.

The Secretary stepped in front of duckie and raised the flogger—not to strike his back or thighs, but to flick directly at his cock. Tap. Smack. Flick.

Each hit was light, playful even, but clearly stung. And duckie? He was laughing. Not out of mockery. Out of raw, unfiltered pleasure. He tried to get out his “thank you eboy,” but more often than not, he was moaning or chuckling, too deep in it to speak clearly.

The flogger danced across his shaft, his balls, his inner thighs. It wasn’t the most brutal beating of the night. It was something else entirely—indulgent, humiliating, erotic.

By the time the 45 lashes were complete, duckie was still hard. Just as hard as when it began.

Madam Nora returned to center stage.

“The punishment ceremony,” she announced, “is concluded.”

The audience applauded. Some softly, some with more enthusiasm. duckie stood tall, breathing heavily, cock pointing skyward, beaming.

It was pride. Honest, earned pride. Not defiance. Not relief. Pride.

That’s where the formal part of the night ended.

More happened, of course. One of the Domme guests took duckie aside and put his erection to good use—I won’t name her, but she left looking very pleased. Mister, still shackled during the final act, was finally released. His cock was never allowed to cum. He left the venue red-faced and angry.

And no, he didn’t go home with Nora. Or duckie.

As for me? I’m shaken. I’ve endured punishments before—earned humiliation, public scenes—but nothing like this. duckie was dismantled and rebuilt in front of our eyes. And then he served. Again and again.

This was not just a ceremony. It was a crucible of flesh and will, a savage trial by obedience where duckie stood not only as a servant, but as a symbol of raw, unrelenting devotion. He endured beyond limits, absorbed pain that would have broken most men, and emerged—naked, trembling, erect—with pride in his heart and fire in his eyes. It was a gauntlet, yes, but duckie didn’t just survive it. He claimed it.