Strange Days Pt. 03

But then it got surreal. As the six new female members from the two inductions were blindfolded, Charlotte led us six new guys to the smaller room. In the middle were five cosy armchairs, arranged around a queen-sized bed with lilac-colored sheets of silk or satin. Charlotte tied a blindfold over her eyes and then pointed in the direction of where we six were standing. No words were spoken but we understood. The nearest to the straight line from her finger was Andrew. I was glad it wasn't me. She shuffled towards the bed, and when she made contact she lay down, on her back with her legs spread. Andrew knew what was expected, but hesitated — not out of reticence but unsure if he was supposed to undress. So she patted the mattress and all he did was unzip his trousers and lower them halfway to his knees. As he lay on top of her I looked away. The rhythmic squeaking of the bedframe and squishing of the mattress gained in tempo. He grunted and she moaned as their climax was reached. Yet without foreplay or any aftermath, the sex was brief and mechanical, more a ritual than an act of passion, not what I associated with a group that celebrated pleasure-seeking as the highest ideal.

When Andrew had finished and stood up, looking sheepish as he fixed his trousers, I jumped to my feet. It wasn't that I was eager to go next. I felt squeamish about inserting myself into a vagina filled with several other guys' semen. (Indeed it shocked me that condoms weren't used, even more than the fact that this impressive, desirable woman was inviting half a dozen men quite a few years her junior into her body one after another.)

I knelt on the mattress between Charlotte's thighs and fumbled with my trouser fly. Her lips curled into a smile as she pushed away my hands and completed the job, drawing down my pants. Her own hands were cold, but as I lowered myself onto her body it was warm as the blood rushed through it. When I pushed into her and began to pump, her breathing and heart rate increased dramatically. I could feel both through her heaving breasts. She licked her lips and blew out rapid-fire puffs of air. I peered at where her eyes were hidden behind her blindfold, wondering what she was thinking, and feeling. In other words, was she really being turned on? She lay passively, her legs never changed position, she rarely used her arms; so she was exercising formidable self-control.

Immediately that I felt my semen gush into her I stopped thrusting. The deed, so far as I was concerned, was done. I didn't feel sated or gratified or contrite, but instead jaded. Whereas Charlotte seemed still fresh and earnest — which was a good thing, because four young men were awaiting their turn. As I lifted myself off her, I impulsively put my fingers into her vagina. It was hot, and moist from her own juices as well as Andrew's and my fluids. Charlotte didn't react. I ran them up her belly, over her breasts and around each nipple, across her throat and to her mouth. She sucked them but kept her teeth clenched. I caressed her cheeks and her blindfold. She now went tense, and for an irrational few seconds I thought I'd gone too far. But I realized that it was my show of tenderness which caught her off-guard. For as I crawled off the bed she stroked my arm in a gesture of acknowledgement.

As with Andrew, I didn't watch the other guys having their way with her. When it was Oscar's turn she started gasping. He was grinding her pelvis. He may have been insensitive but I think he was just clueless. Jonathan was rougher; and even so my impression was that none of us guys really knew the ins and outs of pleasing women. We were what no young guy wants to admit — rank amateurs.

So I didn't feel good about any of it. It was a numbing, almost depressing experience. My takeaway was not elation or gratification, but rather awkwardness, remorse, even shame. Which should have made no sense. Charlotte was the one lying naked on the bed being fucked by six tyros. Yet she enjoyed it physically. At the end she seemed none the worse for the wear and tear but remained mentally detached (except for that brief moment of subtle intimacy when she touched my arm). But I think that was the point. We were being tested — we males, that is, even if an outsider might conclude it was Charlotte. As I had already discovered, first and superficial appearances meant nothing.

And if what I've just written makes no sense, this describes my experience in a nutshell.

As we went back to the main room it occurred to me that every male present had been inside Charlotte. The women were still naked. (I was hardly affected by that now.) The six new girls, no longer blindfolded, gave us funny looks and stared at sweaty and disheveled Charlotte. So at that moment my feelings of self-reproof returned. I searched Laura's face for a sign of reproach or disappointment in me. Her inscrutable expression told me nothing but that she had seen all this before.

I don't know how the new girls had been consecrated into the Empyreum. I never found out because nobody talked about it. Initiations are usually an ordeal. I don't know why this has to be so, except that when you go through a lot to attain something like membership of a group, you value it more highly than if your admission had been easy. But in our case it was more about seeing how far we were prepared to go. More importantly, and ominously, it was a means of inducing conformity and guaranteeing secrecy. Certainly I had ventured into places where I would never have dared or desired to, before that night.

Yet for the next two months the gatherings of the Empyreal Society were almost conventional, even genteel affairs. Wilder parties were held weekly in Lakeside Hall. There was one more initiation, to which we neophytes were not invited, of all girls I was told. That being said, the real game was yet to be played.

"When your footsteps and thoughts carry you down the same path your heart and soul are directing you, you will know without a doubt that you are headed in the right direction."

― Molly Friedenfeld, The Book of Simple Human Truths

The drive from the campus took around two hours, although I could not be exactly sure. I lost track of time staring silently out the window, watching the houses rush by, then farms and fields, marshy scrubland and finally dense forest. We were travelling close to and parallel with the coast, and through breaks in the trees I caught fleeting glimpses of the ocean's leaden glaze under an overcast sky. The only sounds I heard were the steady drone of the engine, the dreary hum of the tires, the dull, doppler-shifting roar of passing traffic, and from my seat near the back of the bus some of the conversation from the five young men occupying the rear bench. The nonchalance of their words was belied by the tremor of excitement in their voices.

None of us women (thirty altogether) spoke. It wasn't that talking was prohibited. We were preoccupied with our thoughts. We sat with our hands under our thighs, between our legs, palms down, wrists crossed, as instructed. Our panties were bundled at our knees, and our skirts were pulled up so our backsides were naked against the upholstery; and the first touch of the vinyl, cool and slick, against bare flesh had been oddly titillating. I must have gasped because Francine, next to me, gave me a smug look, as if this was nothing new to her, or she was too tough to be affected. But all around us there were soft sighs of pleasure. Each time we hit a rough patch of road or rounded a bend, I felt a delicious tingle as my skin peeled away from the seat and clung again as I sank back down. It was weirdly erotic; and with our senses already heightened by exhilaration and apprehension, none of us could suppress the occasional gasp and moan. But our muscles started to cramp (not painfully, but unpleasantly) because we had to lean forward slightly, maintaining a stiff posture, to keep our hands in place beneath our thighs. Francine began to whimper and squirm, and I found some guilt-edged relief from my own discomfort in hers.

After a while my eyelids drooped, my mind went fuzzy. I'd spent weeks preparing for this, mentally and physically. I even stepped up my exercise program. However last night, knowing I would not sleep well, I had gone to bed early. That was a mistake. I lay awake through the hours, contemplating what lay ahead. Now I was starting to suffer the consequences. Francine was also beginning to nod off. As the bus veered off the highway, she lolled sideways until her head was almost in my lap.

We turned onto a narrow, winding, rutted road, and that roused me from my stupor. The woods closed in, and the rumble of rubber on asphalt was replaced by the crackle and crunch of macadam. The vehicle slowed but began to swerve and shake and rattle. We were jolted and jerked. My skin became goosebumpy. I felt the adrenaline surging through me. My breathing quickened. The tickle inside me built to a throbbing thrill. We pulled up at an iron gate. The driver alighted to open it. The gate was sturdily built and flanked by a grimly high barbed wire fence. Once we were through, we continued on our journey for a few more minutes before slowing down to cross a rickety wooden bridge over a narrow stream. As we did so, a few of the girls started whispering.

These were the first words any of us had uttered since our departure. Just a short distance away was a group of a dozen or so women. They were working on the edge of the creek, constructing a small dam. Some were digging and chopping, others hauling timber and pushing barrowloads of rock. Apart from sun visors, gloves and work boots, they were naked. Perspiration glistened on begrimed bodies which bore crisscrossed pink streaks. Each wore a thick leather collar; some, though not all, were shackled hand and foot. They discreetly lifted their heads and squinted at the bus as we went by. I knew most of those faces, strained by fatigue, smeared with dirt and sweat. Supervising them and languidly watching us pass from the shade of a flamboyant poinciana were two young men who relaxed on deck chairs, sipping drinks. Unlike the toiling women they wore clothes.

As we gazed upon this tableau, the murmur on the bus increased, but not from the males, who had contrarily gone silent. Though not unexpected, the scene was confronting, a daunting reminder and a tantalizing foretaste of what lay ahead.

Once we had climbed out of the gully we could no longer see the creek, the slaves and their masters; but through a gap in the greenery I caught sight of a sprawling estate. Beyond undulating meadowland loomed an imposing Georgian-style mansion. Four stories high, its stately scale and symmetry were deformed somewhat by a soaring, Gothic-style tower affixed to the east wing. We drove on, down an increasingly uneven road, until the bus lurched to a final halt in a clearing on the summit of a small hill. I could make out, in the distance, a cluster of low, white-painted buildings crouching atop a squat plateau. Recent rain had turned the surrounding fields into a gorgeous palette of vibrant colours — emerald-green grass, delicate white jasmine, lavender bellflowers, pink and orange gazanias, scarlet geraniums. On a terrace off to our right cattle grazed placidly. To the left were orchards and vegetable gardens, tended by several more nude women.

Enthralled by the scenery, I took a moment to notice that Francine was not sharing my interest. She was in the window seat and staring downwards. I shifted my attention. Standing on the gravel next to the open door of the bus were two men. There were dressed alike in khaki trousers and maroon shirts. Ominously tucked into the belt of each was a length of cane. One of them made a gesture and our five travelling companions rose from their places and sauntered down the aisle. Glances were exchanged with us females, seated in silence. They thanked the driver and disembarked, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, trying to conceal euphoria behind façades of causal calm. They were greeted with formal salutations and a cordial follow-up.

A few paces astern were four women, bare-skinned but for leather collars. With heads bowed, they stood with their arms folded behind their backs. Their bodies were slim but shapely, toned by an austere regimen of diet, exercise and hard labor. The skin hues of three were deepened by exposure to the sun, and showed no hint of tan lines. Their hair was tied back severely. The fourth had silky-smooth mahogany skin and glossy black, ornamentally woven locks. Each woman bore on her breasts, belly and thighs faint pink stripes and fading bruises like the marks on their sister slaves down by the creek. (I must confess, that made me cringe.) In the sunlight which shone through the scattering clouds onto their loins glinted silver rings which pierced their labia.

Because they were staring at the ground, it took me a moment to identify two of them. Elegant, enigmatic Claudia and audacious, avant-garde Laura were the cerebral and sublunary doyennes of the Empyreal Society, the woman of ideas and the woman of action. Their postures reflected their natures and motives. Claudia held herself in a rigid, disciplined pose. She had a delicate, brunette, blue-eyed beauty that made it hard to tell her age — probably late twenties. The exemplar of self-possession and sophistication, at Lakeside Hall she was like a housemother, always cool, sympathetic and soft-spoken, yet decisive and resilient. So it was something of a shock to see her so servile and wantonly displayed. But she truly believed in the hedonist philosophy of the Empyreans. Laura looked stressed, as if wanting to break free. She fidgeted, raising and lowering herself on the balls of her feet; but she could not suppress a wry smile. Laura was both charming and intimidating. She had a sugar-and-spice look of softness that was belied by a steely — one might even say flinty — persona. For her, I'm sure, all of this was a game and she was playing a role not much more extreme than her other devil-may-care adventures.

Once they'd disembarked the new Masters inspected the four women. The latter were older than any of the males and most of us waiting on the bus, a couple by several years. Each performed a graceful curtsey, keeping her eyes lowered as the males studied her body. One of the senior Masters (Brandon by name) said a few words and, in front of Laura, traced with his finger one of the pink lines which ran along her torso, diagonally across her right breast and down her tummy. He made a joke. Jonathan and Tyler smirked; Daniel and Andrew grimaced; Oscar's expression was deadpan. I filed their reactions in my brain as useful information for the future. But Laura flinched and Brandon pulled his hand away.

The new Masters performed a double-take as they examined one of the slaves, the statuesque dark woman. She was proud, the only one of the four who lifted her head (if only for an instant) to return the men's scrutiny. She had the sleek lines of a gazelle, and like a gazelle's her eyes flitted about, as if constantly alert for predators. I looked harder and recognized her. Justine was a celebrity athlete. She was also a doctoral candidate at the Academy of Sport. But she'd traded public acclaim and Olympic gold for pubic silver, the thrill of the race for the sting of the whip. Next to her, the fourth woman (whose name I've learnt is Danica), was sultry and sensual. I hadn't seen her or Justine at Empyreal gatherings, but I could be sure that, like the others, she had impressive credentials.

And even after my experience with the Empyreal Society, knowing what to expect, it felt strange seeing these women as they were now, humbled slaves, their naked bodies defiled, meekly awaiting orders from their lords. Yet though docile they were not degraded. Their bearing was one of humility but not shame. Each stood erect, impassive and inscrutable, drawing back her shoulders, pushing out her chest and thrusting forward her pelvis, in a silent, self-assured affirmation of her womanhood. The message was clear, not just to those of us still waiting on the bus but to the five neophyte Masters. It was a reminder that in the weeks ahead, the stars of the show would not be those who wore the clothes and wielded the whips.

I realized that these were odd thoughts to be racing through my head. But my senses had been honed. I could feel the unease emanating from the novice Masters. How bizarre, I thought, that they should feel so unsettled. After all, their summer would be a time of privilege, enjoying the service and obedience of their slavegirls. But they were aware that it would be, in an important way, more a trial for them than for us. My test would be one of endurance, and I knew I had the stamina to pass it. Theirs would be one of self-control, of deciding how far they could push their authority without crossing an invisible, imprecise boundary, of understanding the difference between Master and martinet. And that was what felt so weird. I and my fellow slaves were nervous, but juiced up, by what lay ahead for us. Our newbie Masters were just nervous.

That's when I knew I had made the right decision. I was determined to not just endure the impending ordeal but to embrace the experience. I would not only be testing my own limits, I would be proving myself to my fellow slaves and to my Masters. Indeed, still sitting on the bus, I was getting turned on just thinking about the formidable challenges ahead. It was, in a way, flattering, to have been chosen, to have been deemed strong enough for this adventure. Beside me, Francine was breathing more heavily now. And I'm sure that all thirty of us had similar thoughts swirling through our minds and similar feelings surging through our bodies — dread and arousal.

My musings ended. The bus driver abruptly spun in his place and ordered us to "Get up. Strip." He faced to the front again but watched us through the rear-view mirror as we took off our clothes. That was easier said than done. There was not enough room in the aisle for all of us, so some had to use the seating space as well. We bumped and jostled and there was the occasional giggle as we undressed; but no words were spoken. I folded my skirt and blouse and underwear and placed them on my vacated chair. I lay my sandals upside down on top. The others were doing the same. Then, awaiting our next command, I gazed wistfully at the neat, forlorn pile, my last connection to the outside world.

It surprised me that we had to strip on board the bus. I had not expected our initiation to come so quickly; but it was better this way, for anticipation is often more excruciating than the event itself. It was also our first practical lesson about the Summer Commune. Once she had touched the sanctified soil of the compound, a woman was forbidden to cover any part of herself. During my time here I would not be permitted to wear anything on my body. I would be on display; but our nudity meant more than providing a visual treat for our Masters. It was a reminder, to them as well as us slaves, to both sexes, of what we are and what we are not. But it also made us more accessible, more vulnerable. I shuddered.

"Line up and stay quiet," the driver growled, not bothering to turn around. Selena, at the very front of the line, took a cue from someone outside and clasped her hands behind her head. The rest of us followed her lead. To fit our entire column in the narrow confines, we packed our bodies together until our contours dovetailed. It was an intimate squeeze. My face was buried in Jessica's hair. I could smell her vanilla-scented shampoo. Francine's bosom nudged between my shoulder blades. Her flesh was warm and moist, the nipples were hard. I could feel her rapid deep breaths and even her quickening pulse through breasts quivering with anticipation.