Peace and Freedom

That had been two years ago.

She spends a lot of her time at the new house in chains, and a pretty, skimpy dress -- otherwise naked; barefoot; silent, kneeling where she was last used, or had last been put to work; waiting quietly, calm. She is not permitted any initiative, and all orders are to be obeyed, however arbitrary, so that there is no sense in looking for meaning. All her meaning here, comes from her body; if it is satisfied, then she is grateful to be permitted to be here.

She works hard, too -- fifty, sixty hour weeks, earning more and more money -- she has bought out her old firm, fired the abuser on day one. It is, astonishingly, glorious to be permitted to hand over all her earnings, all her profit, to the others, to let them deal with the terrible business of deciding what to do with it; she is regularly moved to tears by the beautiful, crazy, benevolent things that they choose.

Simply; everything is better now.

Now that she has peace. Peace and freedom. Peace and freedom from herself. Achieved through these chains -- and what they symbolise.

And the punishments too; the ever-present promise of severe punishment for expressing even the smallest idea. Such punishments are, thankfully, increasingly infrequent. Not that she challenges their severity, or resents the threat; she is pleased that she has less and less need to be punished mostly because it shows that she is learning to calm herself, to stop thinking, stop demanding things of the world. To accept.

And she has them to thank for this, too -- for it had been them who told her that if she couldn't stop thinking, then she should think about something useful -- useful to them -- she should think about sex.

She should think about sex so that she would always be turned-on. Wet. Wet for their convenience, so that she was always ready to be used, always hot for it. And it had worked. Thinking about sex, thinking about getting wet, under threat of punishment - whipped for not being wet between the legs -- this did it -- this stopped her thinking about things she ought to do, that others ought to do, stopped her thinking about clever schemes, about money. Nowadays, she just thought about being fucked, about being fingered, about licking cocks, licking pussies, about being chained while those things were happening, about how hot it is to be fucked while helpless..

Perhaps she feels this way about the punishments, too, because no-one here is a real sadist, although most will admit to getting some pleasure from the sessions; a few of them even had initially argued against real, physical punishment -- Sara-Anne the most vehement. But Galena and Christian had insisted, and carried the day, and beaten her quite frequently in the first few months, until it had become a part of the household routine -- Alison kneeling on the floor through a house meeting, naked, chained, waiting, silent, trembling, eyes down. Alison hearing them discuss what she was going to be punished for, how many strokes, who wanted to do it. Alison getting fucked, then in front of everyone, by those for whom the prospect of her being thrashed was exciting -- talking to her about it, about the suffering she was about to go through while fucking her, looking into her eyes, smiling at her. Alison being thrashed, naked, stretched out, cuffs locked to a beam, up on tiptoe, until she cried and begged and promised to behave, everyone looking on. Alison being fucked, hard, afterwards, by those who got turned on by her tears, her screams, her pleas, cocks hard, pussies wet at her humiliation and despair.

Somehow this ritual had become holy to her, even if she was happy it didn't happen so often, didn't require quite so much pain. Sometimes, she found herself doing something wrong on purpose, knowing it will result in shame and pain in front of everyone -- just because she loves the ritual.

Even Sara-Anne eventually asked for a turn; whipped her breasts with a cane, afterwards spending the whole night kissing and caressing her, crying with her, until, at last, they had both laughed.

Galena laughs at her, every day. And she smiles back, and kisses Galena's shoes, if she's allowed to, in gratitude. Galena doesn't touch her otherwise.

The others do, though; all of them -- in various combinations. And their friends. Since she's not counted as one of them, they've decided fucking their friends is just another 'shit job' they can make her do.

She hasn't complained, even though it hurts almost as much as the whip, just in a different way. The business of being fucked by people who control her is as memorable, as different, as special -- as addictive -- as it had been when her abuser had done her. But now it's not abuse -- at least, her body doesn't feel as if it is abuse. It's not love either, she knows. They are all each other's lovers -- she is no more than a tolerated creature. But that's more than enough.

She is -- and will say out loud, to anyone -- she is deeply, deeply grateful to be allowed to stay here, like this. There is nothing she would change, even the punishment.