Six 01

Dearest Cecilia,

I write to familiarize you with Six, whom, per our earlier correspondence, I am entrusting to you while I'm away.

He used to have a name and not just a number -- as did One through Five before him. He had an identity apart from mine, and a life too. Maybe he still does. His work has to do with IT patents so specialized, he told me once early on, that only a score of lawyers worldwide can even understand each other's briefs and memos. But he is only his true self, he said, when he is with me.

I've grown too fond of him, and he's grown too comfortable around me. I think it will be to the benefit of all three of us if you are able, during my time away, to remind him how to fear, how to tremble, how to cry. He needs to develop more austere expectations -- I fear I've coddled him and let him cum too often, sometimes once a week. (He cums involuntarily aside from that, sadly -- he still has very little self control in that regard -- and is, of course, duly punished for it.) I sense that he's grown a touch egotistical, a bit entitled, because he's had so much of my attention in recent months. I've broken him to a fairly civil domestic degree, but he needs disciplining that's more shocking and visceral -- the kind you used to specialize in and which I trust you still do.

As of two weeks ago, he's not allowed to speak unless asked a direct question. Nor is he allowed to look me in the eye unless given express permission. I'm enjoying that arrangement, but do as you please.

He's hard almost constantly. When he's not, it's because he's quickly working up to or down from an erection. His cock -- and let's get right to it, shall we? -- is adequate, no show stopper, but nothing to weep or laugh about either. It's often a little wet, pre-cum oozing or dripping much of the day like a dog's saliva. Sometimes I put a condom over it just because I'm tired of telling the excitable little bitch to clean up after himself.

I usually have him wear a thin silk g-string. Black is my favorite, but when it's in the wash, the navy blue, maroon, gold, or silver ones do nicely. His cock usually strains against it. When he's tied up, it sometimes pops helplessly, humiliatingly out of the minimal fabric, and that unnerves him. Sometimes it's better contained and hidden in thicker leather briefs, one of which has a fairly medieval looking silver codpiece that snaps over it.

Or now and then I slip him into peter pants. Are you familiar with them? They are essentially tight briefs but with an elephant-trunk-like protrusion in front in which a perennially hard cock can reside at full longitude. And you can lace off and squeeze the balls beneath that "trunk." When I let him go naked or fit a harness over him, his dick just sticks out like a little flesh horn, begging me to punish or tease it.

He will report to you with his metal suitcase, which includes not just the g-strings and peter pants, but a variety of hoods, blindfolds, gags, masks, whips, clamps, paddles, dildos, candles, ball weights, strips of thin rope and leather string, a thin nose hook (which is actually twin hooks side by side, one for each nostril), a thicker ass hook, and a humbler. (Have you seen a humbler? If not, you must try it on him! It's worn behind the ass and pulls the testicles back as if they were in a miniature stocks. It pulls them when the slave is on all fours, and slightly hobbles him when he stands, forcing him to stick his bottom out just a smidge as he awkwardly walks. Hours of entertainment, my friend.)

You'll also find packed a strap-on dildo harnesses, an old fashioned (and ridiculously heavy) ball and chain, assorted metal and leather cuffs, and a pair of special leather thong briefs with an attachable butt plug. There's also a wrapped gift for you -- he doesn't know what it is. If I recall, you have convenient power outlets in your play space, yes? You'll need one to charge it. His cage is too large to send. And I think at our most recent lunch, you mentioned that you'd bought one.

He's pliable and sensitive. I don't think you'll want or need to physically injure him in any way beyond one or two days' healing. But if you could toughen him up psychologically, you'd be doing us both a favor. As I said, and I do fret over this, my relationship with him has become too considerate. He needs to be reminded what a little savagery is like.

His response to recent ass play makes me wonder if he's not ripe to begin his bisexualization, which, as you and I discussed in New Mexico, I now think should really be a part of the training for every slave, male or female or anything in between. I'll only be away for a month, but if you have thoughts along those lines, please let me know. Six is clean and I want to keep him that way -- his tongue in particular is invaluable to me and I do care for him deeply -- so, needless to say, please be very careful what and whom you expose him to.

The rest of his contract you've read and we've discussed. No welts or bruises that last more than a week, and honestly I've never even resorted to anything near that. Slapping, paddling, clamps, wax, and tight challenging bondage are more than enough to blissfully terrorize him. Public humiliation is his happy horror, although he does insist, per contract, on keeping his identity a secret, so for any displays of him -- actual or on the internet -- he must be well masked or hooded.

He gets squirrelly in isolation, which might add to his pleasure and yours in mild doses but I wouldn't overdo it. And he's a lightweight when it comes to drugs and alcohol, but seems to enjoy the calm that comes with a shot of something or a chill pill under the right circumstances. That is contractually allowed as long as it's done in good faith and in a physically safe context. He sunburns easily so if you put him outside, make sure he's well screened and, well, don't forget about him. You have been known to be a little absentminded.

I like him, on weekends especially, to arrive hungry -- as in, having fasted for a day or two. It makes him that much more pliable and pitiful and responsive during our time together. On two occasions, prior to his Friday night arrival, I've had him empty his gut completely, as though he were readying himself for a colonoscopy. It makes ass fucking him a little tidier, but entails his taking a Friday off from work, which he can only rarely manage.

When he came to me a year ago, he was already slender but a little out of shape. I sent him away for a month of personal training with Samantha and he came back to me in his current toned condition. Please keep him that way. Remember, he's a loan, not a gift.

The gym talk reminds me that I should give you a little more history, for your amusement if not your edification. For it was at a gym that I first saw him in person. I had Sharon bring him along so I could get a good look at him and a good look at how they are with each other. Sharon -- I had to think for a moment to remember her actual name! How odd, given that she's now my primary lover and a domme in training. I now refer to her, and think of her, only as Five.

*

I met Sharon during the intermission of a chamber concert. My soul permeated by the Ravel string quartet, I sipped overpriced champagne and spotted my friend Denise standing with this striking woman with Asian features in a simple but gorgeous sleeveless burgundy gown. They knew each other through publishing, and the three of us got to talking.

Denise mentioned Sharon's engagement. "Where's your fiance?" I asked.

"Working," Sharon said, "as usual."

"You should have just ordered him to drop all that and come with you."

"He'd like that," Sharon said with a chuckle.

"The break from work? Or being ordered around?"

"Both," she said. But more the latter."

"Oh my," Denise chimed in. "It's like that, is it?" She raised her eyebrows at me -- she knows my predilections. In fact she knows them well.

"And you?" I asked Sharon, "do you like giving orders?"

"That's a rather personal question," she said.

"Yes, it is." I held my ground, as you know I always do.

"Buy me a glass of that and I'll tell you," she said flirtily.

But by the time I'd shelled out for another slim glass for both of them, intermission was over. We agreed to meet for another drink after the concert.

At the Cafe Nouveau, Denise, perhaps sensing that I was circling a new quarry, ducked out quickly after tossing back a glass of wine. Sharon and I lingered over ours. We discussed our work -- she hammers out international literary rights deals, she explained, and I told her about my teaching.

"Philosophy! What a thicket," she said. "I loved the little bit I had in college, but I could tell I was just glimpsing the edge of the forest. All that jargon. All that tangled history. Everyone commenting on everyone else's commentary until the primary work itself is obscured." She was smart, and beautiful, and very well spoken. She was also right -- I've had much the same misgiving about my field a thousand times.

"But," I said, "is literature any different? Isn't every novel in part a comment on novelistic traditions? And as with literature, you take all the fragmented works, step back, and begin to see them as part of an intellectual landscape. That's where it gets rich. Or at least sometimes it does, with the best, most lucid work."

"Do you have a specialty?"

"French philosophy from the existentialists on. Lots of it is stylized wind. But some brilliant, instructive works too. You?" I asked.

"I deal with contracts from all over the world," she said. "But I'm Japanese-American and before law school I was a comp-lit major. I wrote my college thesis on Murakami."

A second glass brought a second conversation, or rather a return to the one we'd started outside the concert hall.

"You were about to tell me during the intermission whether or not you liked being in control."

"Of my fiance, you mean?" She smiled knowingly and looked down at her hand cupping the wine glass. "Denise told me a little about you. I know she has exotic extracurriculars. Why should I tell you about my personal life?" she looked at me in playful defiance. "If I liked being in control then why would I let you steer our conversation in that way?"

"Because you want to. Because you're clearly ambivalent about it."

"Mmmm. I do like playing the top. But I've always been curious about the flip side, the submissive side. Edward could never take the upper hand with me, though, not even in play. He's hardwired to be a gentleman, or gleefully passive, which I think is his natural state."

"Is that the kind of man you want to marry?"

"Yes. He's brilliant. He's kind. He's sweet. He's sexy. He's considerate. He's got a serious salary. He'll be a loving and generous father some day. You find me that combination in any other man and I'll be happy to second-guess my decision." Again, that flicker of playful defiance in her eyes.

"I'd like to meet him," I said.

"Hmm. You mean for a movie and a slice of pizza or something?" She laughed because she knew that's not what I meant. "We went to an S&M club one night out of curiosity," Sharon went on. "We were just lookie-loos. Frankly, too many out of shape unpleasant-to-look-at people. Watching a fat dude wank while watching some pale trailer trash parade each other around in collars isn't my scene. Call us superficial, but if it's like that, we'd rather watch porn together."

"You're a snob."

"I don't deny it."

"Do you watch a lot of porn?"

"Less than the average American. More than the average lawyer. We like the spicy stuff. A little paddling here. A little whipping there. Some boot licking, perhaps. A few slaps. Lots of German and French speaking."

"The Japanese have quite a reputation."

"Some of that too. Pixelated genitals don't really turn me on, though. How can they sanction tying someone up and cumming all over their face, but be too prudish to show their crotches? I've never understood that."

"I have a proposal," I said. "You don't go in for the clubs -- but you want to explore your darker tastes. I can help you with that."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I'm a member of a gym downtown. I'm friends with a trainer there. You bring Edward there for a workout. The trainer will leave guest passes for you at the front desk. You both dress in form-fitting lycra shorts. You weight-train for an hour. I watch you. You don't tell Edward who I am or what I look like. He doesn't know who in the gym is watching him, only that someone is. You know who I am, but you don't look at me. You don't acknowledge me. Nor do I you. The situation will probably arouse you both. He'll have trouble hiding that. But he's not to leave and go to the locker room. If he gets hard, so be it. I get to see the both of you in a more physical primal setting. And by showing up, you demonstrate a first instance of obedience."

"And if I can't persuade him to go?" Sharon asks, smiling nervously, wondering still if I was serious, if all this could really happen with a woman she'd met scarcely two hours ago.

"I suspect you can persuade most anyone of anything, particularly the man who adores you."

"And if I don't want to do it?"

"Then I'm afraid we won't be able to be friends. Which would be a shame, because I like you already."

"You're kidding, right? You don't forego a friendship over something like that."

"Perhaps you're right. But if you ever want to see me again, it would be a gamble on your part not to show up. Think it over. Here's my number. Call if you want to set it up."

*

Sharon tested me. She didn't call for a week, and I frankly couldn't stop thinking about her. Then she texted me: "We'd like to play."

I texted her back: "You took your sweet time, didn't you. There are consequences for that. I'll be in touch when I'm ready."

I made her sweat it out for a week -- what I hoped was a long, wet, imaginative, torturous week. Then I sent her the details.

They warmed up on side-by-side elliptical trainers, then, as directed, went over to the weight machines and free weights. I eyed them from upstairs, where there is a little juice bar and lounge area, and flipped through a new translation of a hot young philosopher. I'd read her in the original French and it didn't make much sense to me, so I thought I'd better try the English. That made even less sense.

As instructed, Edward and Sharon both wore tight fitness shorts. He had a sleeveless T-shirt. He was skinny but handsome in an earnest and nervous looking way. Kind of all American with short sandy hair starting to bald a little. She wore a sports bra over her tiny breasts and had a deliciously toned midriff. Her legs were solid, slender, and athletic. She'd played volleyball in high school, and they were both runners.

As a little freak-out test, I asked Samantha, our mutual trainer friend, to walk by them, stop in front of them, and conspicuously stare at them for a minute, then walk on. Sure enough, Edward sprung a boner from the attention. Sharon subtly shook her head at him as though to say, "No, that's not the one."

About 10 minutes later, I walked down to the weights floor and approached them. Sharon wasn't sure if she was supposed to acknowledge me yet, and looked apprehensive. I sat them down on a weight bench, kneeled in front of them, and whispered.

"Edward, I'm Diana." He reflexively extended his hand. "Don't shake my hand and don't ever try to touch me unless I give you express permission to do so. And by the way, your cock is seeping a little excitement fluid there. That must be humiliating for you."

I turned to Sharon. "You did well. If you want to play again, text me the word 'Please' within 24 hours. Nothing more than that. Just 'please.' It's important that you learn how to follow my instructions carefully. If you don't want to play again, do nothing, and have a nice life."

With that, I picked up my gym bag and headed for the door.

The text came three hours later. I couldn't help but imagine their conversation during that time. The questions, the persuasion, the fears.

Cecelia, I'm running late. I'll continue the story when I get to New Mexico. I'd better pack. Do let me know how things go with Edward -- um, Six, that is. I think you'll enjoy him.

Love,

Diana