Strange Days Pt. 04

"Excuse me please, Master," we say in turn, keeping our eyes downcast and the irritation out of our voices. While interfering with our work is frowned upon, it's not forbidden. After three weeks, however, I would have thought they'd be tired of the game.

Groping is also discouraged, at least of the unauthorized kind. But Jonathan positions himself so we have to turn sideways to edge past him. My breasts brush against his shirt. He pretends not to notice, and his expression doesn't change; but the same happens with Jessica who flinches and Caitlyn who grits her teeth. Layla doesn't balk. She presses her naked chest and hips against his; and while keeping her head bowed she ostentatiously licks her lips. His face begins to redden. Coming after her is Stephanie, weighed down with two heavy paint tins. She squeezes against the wall of the building to avoid touching. I see her subtle smile; but it's enough that she will likely and Layla will definitely pay for their insolence. And while we don't always enjoy our punishments, we savor our acts of defiance, however petty and futile.

Breakfast begins at seven o'clock. The girls from H block are on kitchen duty. The men arrive intermittently over the next hour. There is a row of tables in the middle of the hall and for them dining is an informal affair. We, the slaves not serving, eat in two shifts, at tables placed at one end of the hall. For us there is no chat and no lingering over coffee, and no choice of what we eat or don't. (As our physician and dietitian, Olivia insists that we never skimp on meals.) We take pride in sitting erect and silent, maintaining our discipline. We don't look up from the table, even at each other.

(We sit on wooden bench seats. For no reason other than picayune malice, and to remind us, as if any reminding were needed, of our status, the cushions have been removed and our bare bottoms rest on the bare wood.)

Once we've eaten we return to our huts for a spruce-up prior to resuming our work. After all, slavegirls must look their best when toiling in the summer heat. We have time for just a quick grooming; but we must present ourselves always at our visually appealing best. There are cabinets with the complete range of toiletries -- soaps, toothpaste, pads, perfumes, powders, deodorants, creams, balms, lotions, shampoo, clippers, razors, etcetera. The sole personal items we're allowed are contained in a pouch containing a toothbrush, tissues, tampons and sanitary towels. Tampons are preferred for hygiene because they permit an unobstructed view of our genitalia. Of course, this is more important for us, the slaves, than for our Masters. The males have plenty of female flesh to gaze upon; but surrendering that last bit of intimate space to public view serves as another potent token of what we are and what we are not.

And on that topic, most of the girls are smooth down below, and these have chosen epilation over depilation (that is, long-term over short-term removal). I am in the minority. I have kept some of my pubic hair, albeit trimmed and thinned to a gauze of wisps and curls. However, in another respect natural beauty is the desired mode. For missing from the usual feminine accoutrements is make-up -- no rouge, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, nail polish, perfume.

On the other hand, sunscreen is compulsory for all outdoor activity, in lotion and spray form rather than cream (for aesthetic reasons). For health and safety, when on work duty we have headgear and footwear, though with nothing in between except our collar.

Then it's back to the mess hall; but we line up outside, along and facing the front wall, in the usual posture with feet slightly apart (because knees should never be pressed together) and arms folded behind our backs. We wait there, staring at the timber, joined by the second breakfast shift, for another half-hour. It's tiring and dreadfully tedious, with no talking or movement permitted. This is one more of the gratuitous burdens imposed on us, serving no purpose but discomfort and humiliation. I occupy my mind reciting song lyrics in my head. Eventually, however, everyone marches off, leaving just Olivia and me.

The infirmary occupies a wing of the administration building. Master Andrew is waiting for us in the office. I first met him in the first aid class, when he was a junior student, I a senior and Olivia the teacher. Now the roles are reversed. Although he's the least qualified of us in medical expertise, he possesses what Olivia and I do not, so he's in charge. It's a strange dynamic. Theoretically, she must ask his permission for everything she does; but most of the time his role is standing back to observe and ratify Olivia's doctoring decisions with an occasional nod.

"We have a patient," he says.

"Thank you, Master," she replies.

In the treatment room, Sarah is perched unsteadily on the edge of the bed. She's tiny (even smaller than itsy-bitsy Stephanie) and looks more fragile than ever. Her face is a ghastly pale as she offers a feeble, apologetic smile. She starts to get to her feet when Andrew enters; but he waves a hand and she gratefully sinks back onto the cot. Olivia diagnoses migraine, and Sarah painfully nods in agreement. It's not her first attack. She's embarrassed to be a nuisance (as she calls herself) and is worried she will be sent home. Olivia reassures her that it hasn't reached that stage; but she's in no condition to work and will be spending the day under observation. I feel awful for the poor girl, who is normally so full of obstinate spirit. Yet there is a moment when I can smile and reflect on the weirdness of our situation. Olivia draws a sheet up over the patient's body, and Sarah flinches. It could be the unfamiliar sensation of fabric on her skin or the opprobrium of having her body covered in the presence of a Master; most likely both. In any case, he doesn't seem to mind.

We haven't received any other patients by mid-morning. (There have been no serious issues in the three weeks so far, just upset stomachs, trivial infections and a couple of minor injuries.) Olivia has paperwork to complete: updating records and inventory, and so on. Andrew can assist, and because a slave cannot be redundant or remain idle, I go next door to help out in the kitchen. The fifteen girls of Hut H are busy cleaning and preparing lunch, watched over by Master Oscar. He's lounging in a camp chair in the middle of the room, sipping an iced drink, studying the bare backsides of a half-dozen slaves kneeling around him scrubbing the floor. He casually acknowledges my curtsey as I enter, then points to Cassandra, who is scouring the tiles near his feet. She's one of the oldest slaves in the Commune, ten years senior to her imperious Master. She passes a sponge across to me without looking up. Beside her, Lucinda wiggles her bottom as she scrubs, reveling in the Master's gaze.

All the girls are sheathed in a glaze of perspiration. I feel a bit guilty that my morning has (so far) been easy. Master Oscar, of course, looks relaxed and comfortable, enjoying the privilege of the penis. Getting bored, he goes over to where the rest of his troupe are making and wrapping sandwiches. Among these is Alice. Quick-witted and temperamental, back on the campus she's a brilliant student, studying postgraduate mathematics. Notwithstanding her petite stature, she has an intense, intimidating stare. She's also Oscar's sister. He joins her standing at the bench and slaps her backside. She doesn't react except to hold up a sandwich while staring straight forward.

There are four sets of siblings in the Commune. Layla and Katrina are sisters. But I must confess that I still feel a little queasy about the notion of a brother and sister in a master-slave relationship. In fact there are three such pairings, the others being Amanda and Andrew, Hannah and Nathan. In each case she is the elder, and that at least makes sense. A guy would be too protective of a little sister for her to be allowed to properly fulfill her duties. But I cannot imagine what it's like to be the slave of your baby bro.

Around noon the Masters arrive sporadically at the mess hall, accompanied by the women they've been supervising. We in the kitchen grab nibbles between serving them. But halfway through Master Paul selects half a dozen of us to take refreshments to the slaves working on the dam. We're laden with backpacks containing food and drinks and other supplies. The delivery, which could have been done in a few minutes by vehicle, takes us thirty. It would have been even longer, but we use a short-cut via a forested ridge which skirts the mysterious Georgian mansion. For no good reason (but the Masters need none) we are hitched to each other with a tether joined to our collars, an arm's length apart.

As we leave the compound, we pass the girls from H block. Not yet called to lunch, they are working alongside some of the Masters, painting the end hut. The morning work detail is one of the few occasions where you may see both sexes sharing the load, except of course that the males are in charge. The Masters wear overalls to absorb the paint spatter. For the girls there will be much mutual scrubbing and scraping in the showers this evening. Emily sees me and in a whisper asks about Sarah. The other girls look up. Master Daniel starts to reprimand her but thinks better of it.

"Okay," I respond, with a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile.

They go back to work.

Once we're ascending the ridge, Master Paul doesn't mind if we talk. But the climb is difficult because the track is steep, and after the latest rain slick with mud. My shoes are not designed for hiking, and as I slip and slide I'm too focused on staying upright to maintain a conversation, and getting quickly out of breath. My backpack is heavy. I must be carrying more than just lunches. Up front, leading Eliza on a short leash, Master Paul urges us to go faster. Since he's not burdened like us, it's easy for him to pick up the pace. Still, I'm not aggrieved. He could be more considerate, but it's his privilege to not be.

The day has turned hot and humid. The threat of a thunderstorm looms on the western horizon. Inside the forest, however, it's pleasantly cool. Water drips from the canopy and runs in tickly rivulets down my body. The giant leaves of elephant ears laden with raindrops droop across the path gently slapping my breasts, belly and thighs. It's nice being bare-skinned. (Well, it's never not nice; it's part of being a slavegirl. I mean it feels good in the tactile sense.) Even so, by the time we reach our destination I'm puffing and sweating.

The fourteen women on the site are not working on the dam itself but clearing debris from the side of the road that leads to the rickety bridge we crossed in the bus. The creek is flood-swollen and fast-flowing, so they are keeping well away from its banks. Nevertheless their bodies are plastered and faces smeared with slimy, foul-smelling muck. Incorrigible Katrina is still in her chains and, I'm not surprised, is also gagged. I and my fellow beasts of burden deposit our loads and take out the sandwiches, fruit and juice. I finally discover what else we've been hauling: tools of all types. The walk back should be easier and quicker.

The two men in charge greet Master Paul. Their clothes are impeccably clean. After a few minutes they command their slaves to line up and kneel on the grass, awaiting permission to eat. They do so in silence, with heads bowed, taking prim little bites, and I wonder if they're stretching out the time. Katrina looks stricken as the others begin, until she is allowed to remove her ball-gag.

The six of us who brought the food squat nearby, still tethered. Master Paul approaches Gabrielle. He unhitches her from her leash and she stands up. He touches her chin to raise her head, but she keeps her eyes lowered. He inserts a finger under her collar and leads her away, to behind a thick patch of shrubbery. A moment later we hear moaning. When they emerge there is still leaf litter adhered to her back and bottom. He kisses her and she returns to her place with the rest of us. (This might be disturbing to anyone who doesn't know they've been in a relationship since long before she introduced him to the Empyreal Society.)

Master Paul confers with the other men and they call for Roxanne to join them. As in the infirmary, there's a peculiar master-slave dynamic at the dam site. Roxanne is a qualified civil engineer. She is therefore the unofficial manager of the project. The two young males are nominally in charge, and her instructions are channeled through them. Sometimes other Masters come to provide extra hands, and it gets more complicated. But Roxanne is very astute, able to have her say and her way while maintaining proper humility. She receives her orders and organizes her sister slaves to collect their tools and stow them in a metal shed near the dam.

All twenty of us are now commanded to line up. Those not shackled or carrying packs have their hands tied behind their backs. Then we move off, heading back over the ridge to return to the compound. Roxanne leads. The thirteen whose hands are bound have to cope with the swishing of the leaves and branches that have invaded overgrown parts of the track. While there are no ticks or venomous snakes around these parts, leeches are lurking ready to attach themselves to unprotected flesh. We have lots of that; but this time we all emerge unscathed, unsucked. Katrina hobbles along in her chains at the rear of the column, trying to keep up and dreading a Master's cane... or not; it's hard to tell with her.

But the three men seem to be trailing a long way behind, out of range of sight and hearing; and we soon realize that they're not following us at all. They've detoured for some reason, maybe heading down to the mansion. So for the first time in quite a while we are free from male supervision. We keep up our pace, but we're able to chat and joke, mainly about our Masters' facets and foibles. Gabrielle receives some good-natured teasing.

Suddenly Roxanne calls "Hush!" As our column goes quiet we hear, filtering through the trees and bushes, shouting, laughing and squealing. We are nearing the compound.

"Oh great," the girl behind me groans. "The fun's begun!"

On the field below the plateau everyone has gathered for the games. There are, altogether, a hundred people in the Commune. Slaves outnumber Masters three to one. I don't know the selection criteria because in the Empyreal Society as a whole the sexes are roughly equal in number. The women are proportioned as thirty novices (serving our first summer in the Commune), thirty trainees and fifteen veterans or "graduettes". Only five of the twenty-five Masters are rookies. They are assigned to the five huts, each supervising fifteen women (with three graduettes, six trainees and six novices). The other Masters reside in huts which each house four men despite being the same size as ours.

The event in progress is a sort of chariot race. The chariot, really a litter, is a triangular frame of sturdy wooden poles carried at the corners by three women, who are wearing bit-gags. It is ridden by one of the Masters who perches rather precariously in the middle. The course is a long figure-eight. As the rider urges on his struggling bearers, on the curves it is easy for him to lose his balance and fall out. He then has to climb back onto the frame as the girls strain their aching muscles to lift it, with his weight, back to waist height. At the end of the race they collapse and after a few heats the ground is strewn with exhausted naked bodies. Of course, to win a heat and advance through the run-offs means they will have to drag themselves to their feet and draw on their last reserves of energy. You have to be fit and unflinching to be a slavegirl in the Commune.

One of the Masters comes and speaks to Roxanne. I think he's asking what's happened to our three supervisors. She shakes her head. He directs us to drop our packs, sun visors and shoes in a pile, and then take up a position, remaining in our line, near the race course. I'm worried, being dog-tired, that we are going to be drafted into the game, but fortunately we're able to sit it out, as spectators. The women from the dam site still have their hands tied behind their backs, and now we six are bound as well. To my dismay, Oscar and Tyler do the deed. They're not exactly sadistic, but they relish their authority over us more than most of the Masters. Oscar wrenches my arms behind me and is rough trussing my wrists with a leather strap. He manages to fondle my breasts and my butt as he's doing so. We are all then ordered to kneel.

Katrina, naturally, gets special treatment. One of the Masters grabs the chain that runs down her front and drags her across the field to where the other three shackled slaves are squatting. They are not permitted to rest on their heels, and so they are red-faced and swaying from the pain and fatigue. If any starts to totter she is prodded with a Master's cane. Pride as much as the fear of a stinging whack keeps them from falling over.

The races, meanwhile, go on. Master Matthew's team, which includes athletic Justine, crushes the competition. Everyone takes a fifteen-minute break. The girls are even permitted to sit together and talk. And when a couple of the men come over and untie us nineteen, we know it's time for the next game. It's race day, apparently. All the women are involved except Sarah, who is allowed to sit and watch.

This event could be called Crabs and Worms. The circular course is not very long, but we complete two circuits. On the first we move like a crab, facing upward, hands and feet on the ground. It's a great way to firm up your arms, shoulders, abdominals, legs; and doing it nude puts all those healthy bits on display. The second time around we crawl on our bellies. The grass is short but prickly, and I dread that I'll be itchy for the rest of the afternoon. It's humiliating, and meant to be. (The games are supposedly not just entertainment for the men but part of our training. Layla's sardonic "So what have we learned, ladies?" a week ago earned her a day in chains alongside her sister.) I wonder about the older women, Claudia, Cassandra, Justine, Olivia, Roxanne: how many degrading things they've been put through, how they cope, whether their motivations are the same as mine.

We all do our best to win, though there are no prizes and a victory in the heats ensures a second ordeal and even a third in the final rounds. You don't spend your summer in the Commune if you're a quitter. So I'm pleased with myself that I reach the semi-finals while content that I don't make the last four. Not unexpectedly, Justine again wins the competition.

As a bonus event, the four chained girls hobble forward onto the circuit. They cannot crawl or crab-walk, but are not excluded from the fun. They complete the race on their knees and Katrina is puffing heavily past the edges of her ball-gag. She still manages to force out an "Is this the worst you've got?" laugh. I cringe. You can only take taunting so far.

More games have been scheduled, but a darkening sky and ominous distant rumbling intervene. The Masters confer and declare a halt to proceedings. We slaves are sent to get cleaned up.

The ablutions block adjoins the sleeping quarters. It is spartan in design, with a bare concrete floor and three shower heads in a single stall. The two toilet pedestals sit side by side rather than in separate cubicles. There is no privacy. This appears to be deliberate, because empty hinges reveal where doors had once been. The toilet seats are screened from the outside by an interior wall, but when we shower anyone can stare in at us. And I guess it shouldn't really matter since we are nude all the time anyway. But it's another reminder us that we have willingly forfeited our right to modesty.