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Mahiri's calendar lay unrolled on her desk, full with crossed out events and amendments scribbled in the margins. Her buttocks tingled and back ached from the hours hunched behind the desk like a common scribe. Positively undignified for someone of her stature. But as she liked to say: “no pain, no reward."

And what a reward awaited, a literal gift from the Queen herself. It was not often that another lioness was in need of discipline, but that that other lioness would be none other than her good, dear friend and colleague Imara? Only in her most private thoughts had she even dared fantasize of such an opportunity.

The corners of her muzzle curled up and she licked her lips. Yes, a chance to bring her wayward pride-sister back into the fold was worth any inconvenience. The males would have to wait. Their regular checkup sessions were so routinely boring anyway. She was too good at her job. If she wanted to pick up the cane or the flogger, she usually had to invent a reason herself.

But today she faced a truly exciting challenge. Imara, proud and haughty like a prince who had wandered in from the savanna thinking he could be the king of the castle. Such would-be usurpers tended to turn real humble, real quick when she had their balls in a vice, but something told her Imara would be a tougher nut to crack. Perhaps it was the impassive, even bored expression on her face as she stood in front of her desk. Surely she knew what she was in for, yet she showed no fear, no trepidation. Good. Mahiri would have lost respect for her otherwise.

Imara had shown up on the hour, knocking on her door at the exact toll of the bell. Perhaps she hoped to get this over with as quickly as possible – like when getting a rotten tooth pulled: the more you waited, the more it hurt.

“Do you know why you're here?" Mahiri asked, quill scribbling, not even looking up at her, partly to hide the unprofessional smile constantly trying to sneak past her own defenses.

“Of course," Imara said, her voice clipped with impatience.

“Then where are your manners?"

She made a tsk noise and began taking off her top. She pulled it over her head, folded it neatly and placed it on the floor, then removed her skirt. Seeing her strip down for inspection like one of her own male charges nearly made Mahiri's breath catch in her throat. Imara was a beautiful lioness, her fur smooth and perfect, her body firmly muscled yet round in all the right places. She stood confidently with her arms straight. It would have been undignified for her to try to cover herself like a bashful fresh initiate.

“Remind me again," Mahiri said, “what was your crime?"

“I overstepped my authority."

“And what is the punishment for that?"

“Ten strokes of the cane is typical for minor infractions," she recited in an almost bored tone of voice.

“Do you consider your infraction minor?"

There was hesitation, a minute widening of the eyes, a nearly imperceptible parting of the lips. “I had a lapse of judgment during trade negotiations."

Mahiri shook her head. Making excuses. Despicable. She leaned forward and spoke in a low, serious tone. “You knew exactly what you did. You may think yourself the future Queen, and perhaps you will be, but not today. Forcing our Queen's hand in a delicate matter of foreign relations is tantamount to treason!"

Imara's ears folded just a smidgen and her hands closed into loose fists. Had she really expected her to go easy on her? Mahiri pushed a piece of paper across the table for Imara to see. Her eyes turned to track it, but otherwise she did not move an inch. “Take a look at this. Signed and stamped by the Queen herself. I'm authorized to exercise *my* best judgment in how to best chastise you."

Now her ears flattened fully. They had worked together long enough for her to have good idea what was in store for her. Mahiri let herself smile. Imara knew how much she was enjoying this, no point in hiding it anymore.

“Do you want me to beg?" she asked, as if she thought Mahiri was above such pettiness.

“Why, yes! I will not consider you sufficiently disciplined until you do."

Imara snorted, making Mahiri's smile only wider. In all their years together as pride-sisters, as colleagues, she had never seen her let her guard down, always projecting an image of being hard to the core like a diamond. But diamonds don't just break, they shatter.

Mahiri stood. “Given your station, it would be bad for morale if other pride members were to witness your humiliation. We especially wouldn't want to give the males any ideas. We shall therefore conduct your punishment here in private." She might have imagined it, but Imara seemed to shrink back. Her arms twitched, like she had just suppressed an instinct to cross them protectively. From a drawer, Mahiri produced an item and set it on the desk: a black leather collar, like of a prisoner who had transgressed against the pride. “Put that on."

Imara eyed the collar with a look of disdain. She clearly did not yet accept blame for her actions. After a moment of hesitation, she picked it up and fastened it around her neck. Mahiri walked up to her and clipped a padlock onto the buckle. The collar wasn't the riveted shut type typically used; the buckle promised redemption, the lock said it had to be earned.

Mahiri continued past her, to the wall where she hung her tools. She took her time selecting from her assortment of ropes, then went to stand behind Imara.

“Arms up," she commanded. Imara obeyed, her proud nature preventing her from showing any sign of resistance or discomfort. Mahiri began by fastening a band of rope around her lower chest, just below her ample breasts. Another band encircled her upper chest, followed by a diagonal rope between her breasts and again from the opposite direction. A quick knot after each loop to keep everything snug and secure. This created an elegant yet practical rope harness around her upper body, not constricting by itself, but the foundation for the restraining bondage. Guiding her arms behind her back, Mahiri continued to bind her, tying her wrists together with another length of rope and securing them to the harness, leaving her arms utterly immobilized.

Taking a third rope in hand, Mahiri proceeded to construct another harness to around Imara's waist and thighs. Her fingers traced the thick, firm muscles of her thighs as she laid down the bands, the skin beneath her tawny fur burning hot to the touch. Through this, Imara stood still and silent, her breathing even, betraying no emotion, even her tail hardly twitching.

“On your knees," Mahiri ordered and Imara complied, maintaining her air of detached defiance. If she had shown fear now, Mahiri would have lost all respect for her. Gently but firmly, she took hold of Imara's bound shoulders and lowered her down onto her belly. She tied her ankles to her thighs, cinching the stack of bands just tight enough to be mildly uncomfortable.

As the final touch, she fetched a short wooden staff from the wall and fastened the metal loops at its ends to Imara's ankle bindings, forcing her legs apart. The sight of her helpless, prone form at her feet made Mahiri's heart race. For someone so used to always being in control, how delightfully degrading it must have felt to be so utterly at her mercy.

Mahiri walked to the wall and loosed a rope from a cleat. From a pulley system overhead, she lowered a suspension rope with a metal ring at the end to hover just above Imara's bare back. She returned to her side and knelt down to tie a suspension harness to fully support her body. Once satisfied with her work, Mahiri went back to the wall and pulled on the rope, softly lifting Imara up into the air. She hoisted her up until her head reached about chest height, then fastened the rope back upon the cleat.

Walking up to her, she brushed her fingertips through the delicate, soft fur of her throat and chin as she passed. “Do you know the origin of this technique of bondage?" she said while admiring her hanging figure.

Imara did not deign to reply. Mahiri took some satisfaction in choosing to assume she didn't know. She idly ran her fingers across Imara's back as she spoke, tracing the lines of the ropes. “Supposedly, it was brought to the kingdoms by a visiting tiger noble centuries ago. The tigers use dyed ropes and follow the patterns of their stripes. A skilled artist can make it look like their subject is levitating midair."

“How unfortunate we don't have stripes," Imara said, her voice still impassive, though there might have been the tiniest note of strain in it.

Mahiri chuckled. “Indeed. Though my ropework might not do your body justice, it is functional enough to keep you hanging while I finish my paperwork."

Imara simply stared at her.

“Oh, but don't worry. I've prepared a little something to entertain you while you wait." Mahiri turned and skipped to her bedroom, where she had that little something all set up. Set atop a rolling cart was the electro-stimulation machine, fully charged up, ready to run for hours and hours if needed. As it had been part of the fateful trade agreement that had led to Imara now dangling from her ceiling, it was only fitting she use it.

She rolled the cart into her study. Imara did not show any outward reaction when she saw it, but her resolve would surely start cracking the moment she was hooked up. She parked the cart next to her, then picked up a mask she had laid out in advance. It consisted of a leather blinder and gag attached together with straps so neither could slip off. Imara graciously opened her mouth and allowed Mahiri to put the set on. Lack of sight would only enhance her other senses, and they should be keen as possible to fully appreciate what was to come.

“This is an amazing device," Mahiri said, giving the wooden chassis a pat. “I've been reading the instruction book and I've only yet scratched the surface of what it can do. Look at these dials and switches—oh I suppose you can't. In any case, the machine can be set up in countless ways to suit every occasion."

During the couple of days Mahiri had had the machine in her possession, she had spent every moment of free time experimenting with it. So far, she had only tested it on herself to develop an intuitive feel for what each dial and button did. What shame she hadn't had more time to practice before this once in a lifetime opportunity.

She picked up the notebook where she had written down her discoveries and flipped to the page she had bookmarked just for today. She turned the dials to the appropriate positions and flicked the right switches. The machine had come with a comprehensive set of electrodes, different ways of connecting it to a body. For this occasion, she had chosen three clamps of the kind that passed electric current from one side to the other. They had a fancy name she didn't quite remember but, according to the book, such electrodes could be safely applied to just about any part of the body.

She cupped Imara's breast in her hand and softly traced a circle around her nipple with the claw her thumb. Imara remained stoic, not even wincing when Mahiri attached the clamp. Her other breast she squeezed roughly, eliciting a low grunt from Imara as she put the clamp on. Grabbing her by the base of her tail, Mahiri held her steady while she pinched the third clamp to her clitoral hood. A subtle shudder ran through Imara's body as the gold plated jaws bit in.

Mahiri walked back to the machine and took a moment to examine Imara's face. Was that trepidation she could see? Was she squeezing her eyes shut behind the mask, trying to brace herself? Mahiri licked her lips and flipped the power switch. Amber lights on the front panel flickered like eyes in midnight lamplight, accompanied by a faint, nearly subliminal sound like a shrill screech carried by the wind. Imara's ears pivoted towards the source. Mahiri turned up the tension dial, just barely above minimum.

“Can you feel it?" she purred. “Exquisite, isn't it? I've set all three clamps to work independently, so you can't anticipate when and where the next shock comes. It makes for a far more interesting experience, don't you think?"

She adjusted the tension, just a tiny bit above the point she herself had found to be just about unbearable. It was less than a third of the power the machine was capable of. So much potential yet to be tapped.

Imara drew in a sharp breath and jerked. A hot wave passed through Mahiri's body at the sight. Even though she managed to keep from crying out, she couldn't keep entirely still under the sensations. At this power level, the individual jolts should have felt something akin to strokes from a small whip but, unlike her arm, the machine wouldn't tire. If the pulses had been consistent, she could probably have braced herself against them, but the unpredictable timing made that impossible. She'd have to remain alert and fortified and tire herself out or accept her helplessness and surrender to the punishment.

Really, this machine was almost making it too easy. It was unfortunate it made no sound as it worked. With a whip or a paddle you had that immediate feedback, even if just spectating. You saw and heard the impact and could get a sort of vicarious feel for it. With this thing, you could only see your subject wriggling and moaning, seemingly for no reason. Imara suppressed her reactions well enough to make it look like nothing was happening at all. Just knowing the torment she was silently going through wasn't nearly as satisfying as seeing the effect – even if that effect was just the slap of leather against flesh.

Mahiri returned to her desk, her gaze lingering on Imara's bound figure. She still had work to finish but the sight of her occasionally twitching in her suspension made for a most agreeable background. This was something she'd definitely make a habit of, though sadly not with her in all likelihood.

She did not rush her work, taking regular breaks to lean back and just watch and enjoy Imara's suffering. Wouldn't do to hurt her wrist with all that writing.

Imara had gone mostly still once again. The lights on the machine were still glowing, but she was just hanging there, head lowered in apparent exhaustion. Perhaps the device had already broken the fight out of her, or — more likely — she had just got used to the shocks. Mahiri got up to increase the power slightly. Imara shuddered and parted her lips to reveal gritted teeth.

Smiling, a renewed fire coursing through her veins, Mahiri returned to her desk. With such entertainment in view, it was a wonder she managed to get any work done at all.

The bell had tolled twice by the time she was ready. Imara had once again grown used to the new intensity level. Mahiri stretched a back arching, joint popping stretch, and walked over to the machine. She had discovered an interesting flaw in its construction. If the power was switched off without turning down the tension first, it generated a single very short but extremely strong jolt as it shut off. She grinned and flipped the switch. Imara's whole body jerked and a high pitched “ah" escaped her lips.

Supporting her breast in her left hand, Mahiri took hold of the nipple clamp with her right. She could feel Imara tensing as she did so and heard an almost silent, clipped groan as she released the clamp. She couldn't entirely suppress her groan when she freed her other breast either. Mahiri moved down, putting one hand on her mons and taking hold of the clamp with the other. She felt her muscles tensing. As she released the clamp and blood flowed back into the tender region, Imara's whole body jerked like a fish pulled out of water, setting her swaying on the ropes.

Mahiri placed the electrodes back into their compartments, then removed Imara's gag and mask. “How did you like it?" she asked. “An experience unlike any other, wouldn't you agree?"

Imara stretched her jaw and licked her lips, her breathing labored. “I'll have to borrow this machine in the future."

Mahiri had to smile. Still so defiant, so proud, as expected. Had she turned the machine all the way up to full power, she might have spoken in a different tone, but it wouldn't do to break her too soon and end the fun early.

“Sounds to me you haven't had enough."

Imara did not respond.

Mahiri carefully lowered Imara down to the floor. Crouching over her, she untied her limbs but left the harnesses in place; the ropes weren't in the way and looked rather fetching. She ordered her to stand, then tied her wrists together in front of her, fastening them to the metal ring. She went back to the wall and tugged on the rope, lifting Imara's arms up above her head until she had to stand on tiptoe and cling to the rope to keep her balance.

Mahiri grabbed a cane from a wall hook and went to her again.

“Raise your tail. You will now receive your ten strokes. Count them for me."

As soon as her tail was out of the way, Mahiri thwacked the cane against her firm ass. Imara swayed, but did not cry out. “One," she said in a flat tone.

Mahiri swung the cane through the air, intentionally missing her by inches. Imara flinched but did not reflexively count the miss.

She swung again, this time hitting her, just below where the first stroke had landed. “Two," Imara said, still impassive.

She hit her twice in quick succession. “Two—Three," Imara counted. She wasn't hitting very hard, not nearly as hard as a typical punishment would call for. She would leave no marks visible through her fur for any of her trainees to potentially see. Call it professional courtesy. She delivered seven more strokes, pausing in between to give her time to appreciate the them.

“Are we done?" Imara asked, forcing a bored tone of voice to mask the pain beneath, not entirely succeeding.

“You don't sound very contrite," Mahiri said. “If you can't take it anymore, just say it. Say it like you mean it."

Imara merely glared at her. The response she had hoped for.

Mahiri untied her wrists, then ordered her to follow. She led her to the bedroom, though the bed wasn't the intended destination. Like her colleague, Mahiri had furnished her boudoir with a dungeon's worth of bondage equipment. Near the center of the room stood a plain looking piece that was nonetheless her favorite: a wooden table whose surface was perforated by a regular grid of holes. These holes were large enough that ropes, chains, and other fasteners could be passed through, making it easy to tightly secure anything – or anyone – in place over it. Mahiri had already prepared a set of restraints for Imara: shackles for the wrists and ankles, belts for the thighs, waist, and chest, and even a little tail cuff.

As she stopped at the table and pointed at it, Imara took the hint and lied down among the restraints. Mahiri took her left wrists and slowly extended her arm, guiding it to the shackle and locking it there. As she walked around her, she kept her fingertips in contact with her body, tracing a path from one wrist to the other. There was an argument to be made that this was the best part of a punishment session. The binding, the preparation, the anticipation. It could be sensual, it could be rough. The trepidation of what was to come, it could be worse than the actual punishment. Imara seemed perfectly relaxed as Mahiri shackled her with her arms and legs spread, immobilized in a position where her most intimate areas were exposed and vulnerable.

On a side table, Mahiri had already laid out the instruments for the next torture: a sandglass and an electric massager attached to an adjustable wooden mount designed to slot into the table. The massage wand was another wonderful innovation she had bought from the Trading Company. It was nominally intended for some dubious medical practice but its true purpose was patently obvious. The mount she'd had custom made by one of the pride's artisans.

Crouching over Imara's legs, she attached the massager to the table, then adjusted it so the device's ball shaped vibrating end pressed firmly against her clitoris. The belts kept her hips pinned in place like a specimen on a corkboard, in an utterly inescapable position. As Mahiri stood up, she noted with some glee the subtle glare Imara was giving her.

Holding up the sandglass, Mahiri said, “I find using the massager to be quite an effective way to relax at the end of a long day. I'll give you half an hour to enjoy it before we move on to the next stage of your punishment." She set the glass on the table, inverted, and flicked the switch on the vibrator.

If there was one bad thing to say about the device, it was the noise. Its loud buzzing drowned out Imara's gasp. Her lips peeled back in a growl and she breathed heavily, not quite yet panting. Her muscles bulged as she tried in vain to squirm away. Mahiri's heart raced as she watched her. Imara could hide her pain well enough, but the relentless sexual stimulation was impossible to ignore. How deliciously humiliating, to have her own body turned against her like this. Mahiri pulled up a stool and sat down to watch. The fire in her own nethers was too hot to ignore and she reached down to play with herself as she observed Imara contort her face between grimaces and open mouthed panting.

Imara's pupils dilated and her panting increased in frequency. She arched her back as much her restraints allowed. Her head jerked up and down, her mouth wide open in a silent roar. She threw her head back and groaned loudly, her arm muscles bulging as she tried to rip free of the bonds. There was no respite from the vibrations, the machine would push her to orgasm after orgasm. Only a third of the time had passed.

As the sand dwindled, so did Imara's self control. She was screaming as the vibrator pushed her to yet another climax, groaning and trashing as mind-numbing overstimulation tortured her. As far as Mahiri knew, she did not posses an electric massager herself and was thus utterly unaccustomed to the strong sensations it could create.

The last grain fell and Mahiri flicked off the vibrator. Imara panted, the corners of her mouth foamy with spittle. She looked at Mahiri, a defiant grin on her muzzle, and said, “Was that — supposed to be — torture? I — probably — enjoyed it more — than you."

“No," Mahiri said, punctuating the word with a little laugh. “That's coming up next."

She removed the vibrator from its attachment and placed it back on the side table. She picked up a small wooden box and opened its lid to reveal a heap of fine needles that glinted like freshly polished silver. She opened a jar beside the box, letting out a pungent whiff of hard spirits. She poured some on a piece of cloth. Carefully, she picked up a needle and wiped it on the soaked cloth, then turned around, holding it up between thumb and forefinger for Imara to see. Her eyes narrowed just a little, but she didn't look too concerned.

“I've been taking lessons from Nadira," Mahiri said. “I'm fairly sure I know how to do it safely by myself now." She leaned in close. With her left hand, she pinched the skin on Imara's breast, just above her nipple then slowly pushed the needle through the fold of skin. Imara didn't even flinch. Not that Mahiri expected her to, having tested them herself she knew the needles looked more painful than they felt. She continued, adding three more around her nipple, making a little square. She repeated it on her other breast as well.

Through all this, Imara kept a neutral face, betraying no emotion.

“Is this too basic for you?" Mahiri asked. “Well, I'll show you an advanced technique I've been learning." She turned back to the table and uncorked a phial. She cleansed another needle and dipped it in. Turning back to Imara, she held it up once again for her to see. “This is a special poison. Don't worry, it's not deadly or even injurious, as long as you take the antidote." She leaned down and pushed the needle through Imara's nipple. The reaction was immediate, she sucked in air through her mouth and jerked her head, grimacing.

Mahiri grinned triumphantly. Finally a reaction, just as she had predicted. If she had started with the poison needles, Image could probably have tolerated them, but after wearing down her defenses, she was finally in the right, receptive state of mind. “The interesting thing about this," Mahiri said, looking down at the cringing Imara, “Is that the poison lingers even after the needle is removed. It can days, sometimes even weeks, for the pain to entirely fade away." Their eyes met, Imara's wide as saucers. “Of course, I have the antidote right here. Just one drop and it counteracts the poison. All you need to do is ask."

She prepared another needle, then impaled her other nipple.

Imara squeezed her fists and threw her head back. From between gritted teeth she groaned something obscene.

Mahiri's grin widened and she bit her lip. She picked up another needle, let Imara's wide, moist eyes track it as she hovered it above her body, seeking her next target. She pinched the skin right above her navel and pushed the needle through. Again, Imara groaned, exhaling through her teeth and jerking her head.

Mahiri prepared another needle. She gently dragged the claw of her index finger down across her belly, her mons, then stopped to pinch her clitoral hood. She gave Imara a couple of seconds of anticipation before suddenly pierced it.

Her whole body flinched and trashed. Her head shook from side to side and a hoarse, mumbled word escaped her throat.

“What was that?" Mahiri asked.

Imara let out a feral hiss. “Stop…I'm begging you. Give me the antidote. Please."

Mahiri grinned. “So you do admit to your crime?"

“Yes... I'm sorry. I was presumptuous. It was not my place."

“Very well," Mahiri said, letting her voice ooze with satisfaction. She wouldn't have minded making her trash some more, but all good things come to an end. And a good thing it was, for this was the last torture she had prepared. How embarrassing would that have been!

She proceeded to slowly pull out the needles one by one – in the order she had placed them, starting with the non-poisoned ones – and began administering the healing drops. Imara sighed in relief, her whole body seemed to melt in the orgasmic bliss of the spreading coolness that the drops brought. Mahiri gazed at her face as she recovered, her facade finally cracked, genuine relief and vulnerability showing in her softened features.

She undid her shackles and waited for a moment to see if she would sit up without permission. She didn't. Mahiri pointed at the floor. Without further prompting, Imara went down on her knees, eyes downcast, her hands behind her back, like a well trained male would. Mahiri crouched down close to her, straddling Imara's knees between hers. She cupped her head in her hands and leaned in to give her face a long lap with her rough tongue, rasping from the tip of her nose to the top of her head, licking away the salty tears from around her eyes. “There, there," Mahiri said in a soothing tone. “The Queen will forgive you."

Imara accepted the grooming, though she did not lean in to it. After slowly going over every inch of her face and throat, Mahiri stood and said, “Stand up. I have one last thing for you."

Imara's posture was no longer rigid, her expression no longer of stoic impassivity. She was defeated.

From a shelf beneath the side table, Mahiri produced the last item: a female chastity belt. Imara's eyes widened as she saw the metal garment, though probably mostly in surprise at the fact that there was still one to be found anywhere in the castle. “A little something to go with your collar. Spread your legs."

There was a look of tired despair in Imara's eyes, but she did as told. Mahiri closed the belt around her waist and locked the metal crotch piece between her legs. She pointed at the floor and Imara knelt down again. Mahiri smiled. What a perfect way to end the session, to remind of her place by reducing her to the status of one of her own male charges: collared, locked in chastity, and on her knees.

Mahiri waved her hand and turned towards the entrance. “Follow me. On all fours." As they passed doorway to the study, Imara stole a wary glance at her stack of clothes, perhaps wondering if she was about to be sent out into the castle halls wearing nothing but the collar and chastity belt. Mahiri led her to her den and pointed at the low cage that served as the stand for her sofa table. “In you go."

Just for a moment it looked like Imara was about to protest. Her shoulders sagged and she accepted her fate, crawling into the open cage. Mahiri sealed it shut with a padlock, then walked to the other side to crouch down face to face. “Tomorrow at Queen's Court, you will get your chance to offer your sincere, heartfelt apology before the whole pride. If the Queen is satisfied, you will be free of that collar. I leave you now to contemplate your actions and choose your words."

Imara closed her eyes and nodded. Mahiri stood, an indescribable, hot feeling of euphoria swelling in her chest. She spread a cloth over the table, hiding her captive from view. She was having guests over later in the evening and would keep true to her word to not have Imara's degradation witnessed by others. But that didn't mean she had to be excluded from the soiree.

This was, Mahiri considered, quite possibly the best day of her entire life.