Sweet Gwendoline Ch. 09

I hesitated and held the pen loosely in my right hand, "and what exactly does that mean?" I asked, "What will I be agreeing to if I sign all this?"

"What?" the girl said, suddenly crestfallen, "Ruth Taylor didn't explain the rules to you?"

Christina then cleared her throat loudly and took me by the shoulders and forced me to look at her.

"I think I can explain exactly what you'll be agreeing to," Christina said confidently.

"Basically this is a contract that states that when you're here, you'll be waiving several your legal rights. You'll be naked and banned from wearing clothing any time you're here. There will be times when club employees; and club members; will subject you to corporal punishment. This contract states that you give them permission to do so, and that you won't charge anyone here with assault if they should spank your bottom, whip you or use a riding crop on you. There will also be times when club employees; and club members; will sexually assault you. This contract states that you give them permission to do so, and that you won't file charges of rape against any of them."

My chest tightened as I imagined myself subject to this contract, being naked in front of all of the visiting club members and all of the club employees. I couldn't help but imagine myself naked, breasts pressed against the harsh wood of a whipping post, a crowd gathering to watch as a wicked club employee cruelly punished my naked skin with a leather whip.

I could feel my nipples; concealed respectfully within my clothes; growing hard and erect. I felt a visceral thrill in my lower extremities at the thought of being a sexual toy for the staff that worked in this building, and them having the legal right to sexually abuse and punish me.

I had zoned out at some point as Christina continued to explain all the legal implications of what was in the documents I was supposed to sign. I had gotten too caught up in the fantasy and had lost track of the actual words coming out of my mistress's mouth.

I didn't tell Christina any of this, I just nodded my head in agreement and began signing every page that required my signature.

I know. It was foolish of me to sign away a multitude of my legal rights without fully understanding what I was signing first, but the temptation of sublime nakedness, utter submission, luxuriant humiliation and deliciously painful punishments overpowered my good judgement. I signed my name on every line the perky girl wanted me to sign, and I did it with speed and enthusiasm.

"Excellent," the perky girl said as she took the signed documents away from me, "Now I just need you to strip."

"Strip?" I asked, caught somewhat flat-footed. I was still in the very respectable-looking lobby, with the perky functionary still looking at me. Indeed, the well-dressed, older women across the lobby were still looking at me as well. Certainly, nobody was expecting me to get naked here.

"Club policy," the girl calmly explained, "Submissive club members are to immediately report to the reception desk upon each visit, and surrender all of their clothing and all personal items. You're a submissive club member, so you're going to have to take off all of your clothes."

There was a significant pause and then the girl rigidly added, "Now."

At that point I think I surmised why Christina had me dress so respectfully for my visit to the Vineyard. To be dressed in tweed and looking so respectful, then to be ordered to strip naked increased my feelings of humiliation and helplessness. It would have been more merciful if I had arrived wearing a two-piece bikini. The humiliating act of public stripping would have been over quickly. By wearing an elaborate ensemble, it took longer to strip naked and my humiliation was prolonged much longer, as I was slowly and methodically reduced from a well-dressed, respectable, important-looking woman, down to a lowly naked slave-girl.

It was much more humbling than if I had only to remove two of three pieces of clothing.

I stripped right there in the middle of lobby, in front of Christina, the aristocratic women and the perky receptionist, five sets of eyes that seemed intently focused on my every move.

"Put all of your clothes in this box, please," the perky receptionist said, holding up a cardboard box and then placing it down on the marble counter.

The cheerful helpfulness of the receptionist seemed out of place for the humiliating task that I was currently performing. It was as if the people who managed this BDSM club were trying to confuse me.

My tweed blazer and my high-heeled shoes went into the box first. Then I unzipped my tweed skirt and added that to the perky girl's cardboard box. Next I unbuttoned my dress-shirt and shrugged out of that. Then I rolled down my stockings and added them to the box as well.

Reaching behind me, I unhooked the clasp on my bra and allowed the material to fall away from my breasts. My nipples immediately felt sensitive and became harder and more erect upon direct contact with the cool air of the air-conditioned lobby, and when I dropped my bra into the cardboard box, the young receptionist didn't attempt to conceal the fact that she was staring directly at my bare breasts and rigid nipples.

When I was down to just my panties, I stole a glance over at the aloof, elegant women on the other side of the lobby. One of them was leaning forward and raising her chin to get a better look at me. The eldest of the three women produced a pair of expensive-looking, gold and black opera glasses and proceeded to use them to get an improved view of my near-nudity.

Being naked in front of four total strangers was a new experience in utter submission and humiliation for me. I felt my face heat up with the flush of embarrassment as eight strange eyes bored into me and waited for me to remove my last item of clothing.

I felt a sense of helplessness, humiliation and delicious fear, however, Christina insisted that it was normal for submissive club members like me to strip naked in the lobby of this building, so I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slid them down my legs.

When I was fully naked, I dropped my panties into the box, along with all of my other clothes. My panties had an obvious wet stain on the crotch that gave evidence of my sexual arousal. The receptionist must have noticed, but very diplomatically failed to say anything about it.

I felt helpless and vulnerable, as the receptionist and the three older women openly appraised my naked body, however, I also felt a pulsing fire in my loins. There was a heady thrill that went along with my sense of helplessness and vulnerability.

"I'll also need your watch and any jewelry you might have," the bright-eyed receptionist said, "Slaves aren't allowed to own any personal property, so you'll have to surrender anything you have and give it to me."

I sighed, removed my watch and dropped that into the box as well. I wasn't wearing any jewelry; however, I did have a handbag and an iPhone. Those went into the box as well.

While the three aristocratic women evaluated my naked body, the receptionist took the box with all my clothes and sealed it with packing tape. She then took out a wide-tip magic marker and wrote my name across the top of the box in very neat handwriting. She also wrote some additional information on the box, including my membership number, my inmate number, today's date and the time that the box was sealed.

"Inmate number?" I asked, but the receptionist just ignored my question, carried the box to a locked door, unlocked it with her keys and placed the cardboard box with all my possessions on a shelf inside the storage closet. I couldn't help but notice there were several other very similar cardboard boxes already being stored in there. Did that mean that there were other naked girls somewhere in this building, just as humiliated and helpless as I was?

When the receptionist returned she flashed a winning smile at Christina and said, "Beverly won't be in her office for at least another twenty minutes. Miss Ward, you can have a seat here in the lobby while you wait for her to be available."

Then she turned to me, smiled and added, "Miss Schön, you'll be escorted to a holding cell until Beverly is ready to see you."

"Holding cell?" I asked in shock and disbelief. Certainly, I must have heard the girl incorrectly. This place wasn't a prison, was it?

"Dominant members wait in the lobby," the receptionist informed me in a very calm, polite tone of voice, "Submissive members wait in a holding cell. That's club policy."

Before I had an opportunity to argue with the office-girl, two uniformed security officers approached me, and I was told they were to escort me to my holding cell.

The security officers were both female, however, they were both tall and imposing looking. I surmised that each one of them were six-feet tall and they were both athletic looking. They were both wearing very sharp-looking black and grey uniforms. They were both slender of build and both had high cheekbones and oval faces. One might even had called them attractive if not for the severe and unkind expressions on both of their faces.

"Miss Schön, please turn away from me and place your hands behind the back of your neck," one of the uniformed security guards said. I obediently followed her orders and she took advantage of my obedience, and handcuffed my wrists behind my back.

Then I submissively allowed one of the imposing women to grasp my bare arm and lead me to the holding cell, where I was required to wait.

This was really happening screamed an excited voice inside my head, I'm naked, handcuffed and being led to a holding cell! I'm gloriously naked in public, utterly submitting to these grim-faces security guards, being humiliated in front of strangers and being helplessly escorted to whatever fate the Vineyard has in store for me! This is like something from one of my most intense sexual fantasies!

The holding cell was larger than I expected, perhaps thirty feet by sixty feet. There were three formidable-looking concrete walls and a view into the corridor through a long line of strong, iron bars.

The holding cell had a wooden bench, a sink and a toilet. When the security guards placed me inside and locked the door behind me, I was forced to acknowledge my helplessness and vulnerability. I wouldn't be leaving this place of my own volition. I would only be able to leave if someone in authority came to let me out.

The guards weren't chatty and they left me there without so much as a cryptic warning. I was left alone in there for quite some time, although I had no way of measuring just how long. My watch had been taken away from me and there was no clock in the hallway. And while I'm certain I was locked in that cell for more than twenty minutes, I had no way of proving it.

When the guards next returned it wasn't to release me, but rather to add another naked prisoner to the holding cell.

My cellmate was an attractive woman. She had medium-length red hair and a slender, athletic build. She had high cheekbones, firm breasts, dancer's legs and beautiful green eyes. I was glad to have an attractive cellmate to share the holding cell with me, although I was surprised when the security guards unlocked her handcuffs and set her hands free. My wrists were still locked behind my back! Why was this pretty redhead unlocked from her handcuffs?

"That seems unfair," I said timidly, after the guards had left me alone with my naked cellmate.

"What does?" the woman asked as she rubbed her wrists and looked me over.

I turned slightly, showing my new acquaintance the stainless-steel cuffs on my wrists and complained, "They let you free from your cuffs. Why not me?"

"Ah," she said, realization dawning on her face. She stopped rubbing her wrists and said, "You're new here, aren't you?"

"So?" I asked.

"New inmates are an unknown quantity," the naked redhead replied, "The guards aren't certain that they can trust you yet, so they take extra precautions. This is my eighteenth visit to the Vineyard. The guards know what kind of submissive I am by now. They know that I won't touch myself or masturbate, or break any other rules if my hands are uncuffed, so they allow me a small degree of freedom."

"Wait," I said, focusing on a few key words from the redhead's response, "Masturbation is against the rules?"

"You really are new," my cellmate replied, suppressing a laugh, "When you're here, your handler is in control of your orgasms. You're not allowed to have an orgasm without your handler's permission, so unless your handler specifically orders you to play with your pussy, it's forbidden."

My cellmate's voice was pleasant, and then I suddenly realized that her voice was familiar. Her face was familiar too. I tried to recall where I had seen her before, but the memory eluded me. She wasn't anyone I had worked with from my job at the bank, I was certain of that, and she seemed about eight or nine years too old to be one of my classmates from high school.

I tried to imagine her with clothes on, but it was no good. My body was too feverish with sexual desire, and my mind was refusing to allow me to create a mental picture of the attractive redhead with clothes on. I could only picture her stark naked.

I suppose I could have asked her where we met. She seemed calmer and more focused than me. She would probably do a better job of remembering where we met, but I decided I wanted to continue to try and work my memory and solve this on my own. It was sort of like a game to pass the time.

Her voice was very pleasant to listen to, and I knew I'd heard her voice somewhere before, but the harder I tried to latch onto the memory of where I'd heard her voice before, the further the memory drifted away.

Then the security guards added an extra distraction when the brought me a new cellmate. She was tall, slender and had exquisite legs. She had long, black hair and looked vaguely Mediterranean, perhaps Italian or Greek. She had a very pretty face, however, her large, firm, perfectly round breasts drew my eyes away from her face. Her breasts were the perfect shape, however, they looked incongruous on such a skinny girl. I surmised that for a girl with her slender build, such large breasts must be the result of saline or possibly silicone implants.

Young Ms. Fake-tits nodded briefly at my red-headed cellmate and then turned her attention to me. She made eye-contact, took a couple of steps closer, and then said, "I haven't seen you in here before."

Fake-tits had an American accent, I placed it as a Pacific Northwest accent. I had expected her to have a Greek or Italian accent due to her Mediterranean looks, but America is such a hodgepodge of people from different parts of the world. Her family may have come from Italy or Greece at some point in the past, but Miss. Fake-tits was totally Americanized now.

I didn't say any of this out loud, but rather just replied, "This is my first day."

Her eyes opened wide and her attitude changed. "Oh, God! I remember my first day here! I was so scared! How are you holding up?"

I appreciated the question. I felt an immediate bond with this girl, and I suddenly felt bad for judging her decision to have breast augmentation surgery.

"Okay, I'm a little scared," I admitted, "but it's mostly a good kind of scared."

"The fear can be really delicious sometimes," the redhead said, joining in on the conversation.

"I think they deliberately try to instill a sense of fear into you," the Italian-looking girl said, "The concrete, the iron bars, the uniformed security guards, the handcuffs...it's all like you've been sentenced to a maximum security prison."

"Psyops," the redhead said, "They try and fill you with feelings of being humbled and defeated before you even meet your handler."

"There's been a lot of talk about my handler ever since I got here," I said, addressing both women simultaneously, "What exactly is a handler?"

"A handler?" the Italian-looking girl said, "They're sort of like a master or mistress for hire. They're experts on how to handle slaves, and usually do a better job than your actual master or mistress."

"They're more professional and less emotional," the redhead said, "They don't care if you love them. They don't care if you're sexually attracted to them. They're just there to- "

And then the naked redhead was interrupted as the security guards came back and bellowed out my name.

"Gwendoline Schön," one of the female security guards called out, "Step forward! Everybody else, step back!"

I couldn't help but think that the security guards almost looked like clones of each other. They were both about six-feet tall, they both had an athletic build, sort of a swimmer's build, they both had strong jaws, they both had blonde hair, they both had humorless faces. Did the Vineyard insist on hiring only security guards with that very specific look? What are the odds that they would look so similar by accident?

* * * * * * * * * *

My handler's office looked somewhat large, but also very organized and bureaucratic. She had a large, wooden desk that looked old yet functional. She had a computer monitor, keyboard and printer on her desk, but no family photos or personal items. There were stacks of folders with paperwork on the left side and a phone on the far-right side of her desk.

Next to my handler's desk was a much smaller desk, and a skinny, agitated-looking woman about my age was sitting at it. I assumed that this younger woman was some sort of administrative assistant. She was dressed like an office worker and had the nervous look of someone who had too many tasks to do and an unreasonable deadline to get them all done.

My handler herself looked amazing. She looked to be perhaps twenty-nine or thirty years old. She had high cheekbones and lips like Angelina Jolie. She looked slender, but not frail or scrawny. She was dressed in a tweed blazer and a white button-up dress-shirt. I had been dressed in almost exactly the same outfit just that morning. Somehow seeing my handler dressed in the same sort of tweed skirt-suit that I had been forced to strip out of less than an hour ago, made me feel even more naked.

The contrast of being stark naked while my handler wore the same sort of tweed suit that I had been forced to strip out of made me more appreciative of Lyndsay's CFNF fetish. There was a definite feeling of powerlessness at being naked in front of my handler while she was dressed so conservatively.

My handler was working at her computer when the guards ushered me in. She looked up just long enough to acknowledge the security guards and said, "Make her kneel."

The security guards were still holding me by my arms. They exerted some downward pressure on my body and one of them roughly poked the back of my right thigh, just above the knee. I immediately began to bend my knees, and the security guards kept a tight grip on my arms until I was securely on the floor, kneeling.

I was grateful for that. With my hands bound behind me, kneeling was kind of tricky. The guard's tight grips on my arms helped to ensure that I wouldn't end up falling flat on my face.

"Knees farther apart," my handler said dispassionately, and without looking up from her computer screen.

Since my handler couldn't see how far apart my knees were, I wondered if this was some sort of test. Did she want to see how I would react to her orders? Did she want to see if I was obedient, even when her orders made no sense? Or did she just assume that all submissives were negligent when it came to keeping their thighs far enough apart?