Taking Instruction

[Author's note: this story is told from Alena's point of view, taking place after the activities related by Quinn to Cassie in Alena's Game Ch. 13. It's set in the past, in a time where Madame Syn's husband Harvey, the founder of the Lost and Found, is still very much alive and in charge.]

---

Alena messaged her husband to tell him she would be late and not to wait up. She was sitting at her desk in her office at the university where she worked, staring at her screen, not really taking in the words, her mind a long way from the research paper she was supposed to be finishing. Clarke called out as he headed through the door, wishing her a good weekend. Alena waved but didn't reply, turning her attention back to the screen. She needed to concentrate, but it was an uphill struggle. With an effort of will, Alena began to build up a data table, checking and re-checking the statistics from her experiment, trying to lose herself in the tedium.

Her phone buzzed, shattering her concentration, and she looked down at the little notification from her husband. Two words: yes Mistress.

Alena's head drooped, her chin resting on her hand as she stared at the message. She could picture him sending it, she could almost read his thoughts. He would be standing in the kitchen, or maybe the office, with the phone in his hand, staring at Alena's message in the same way that Alena was now staring at his, reading the unvoiced context behind the words. She hadn't told him where she was going, or who she was meeting, or how late she was going to be, and that would be sending Quinn into a tailspin as he struggled to accept that his wife was having another night out and he wasn't invited.

Quinn for his part would be standing because she had forbidden him to sit. She had forbidden him that morning, as a casual idea that popped into her head just before breakfast. She'd made him eat his muesli from a bowl on the floor instead, as she perched on a stool by the breakfast bar dressed in her work skirt and blouse with her own food, looking down at the naked man on his hands and knees lapping at his breakfast beneath her feet.

Alena hadn't told him he was allowed to use the furniture as she left, so her husband would have remained standing all day, or sitting on the floor. She wanted to pretend to herself that she'd simply not remembered to rescind the rule as she headed out the door, accidentally constraining him to the humiliation of being unable to use the furniture, but she'd done it on purpose. There was a part of her that wanted him to spend the day naked and therefore unable to leave the house, unable to sit down, unable to eat from the table. She admitted to herself that it felt good to show her husband his proper place.

Alena closed the document and powered her computer down. It was no good now that her train of thought had wandered to Quinn and the way she had so effortlessly forced his submission to her this morning. Her forthright, dominant husband, that sharp legal mind, the real breadwinner in their marriage with his high-flying lawyer salary, now so easily reduced to a plaything whenever she wanted.

She had never wanted it, any of it. The hassle of keeping up that part of their marriage in the bedroom, the requirement to keep him happy by laying down under him, it had become stale, almost a chore. She had engaged less and less, until it was only when he cajoled her into it, kissing and fondling until she acceded and undressed. Even then, they slipped into a routine, with Alena left unsatisfied while she felt her husband pumping his load into her, more often than not. When he'd suggested sex games to liven things up just out of the blue one morning, Alena had cringed inwardly and had practically fled the house to get to work and away from the conversation.

Quinn had sent through a spreadsheet later that morning to her private account and she had read it with a mixture of dread and squeamishness. The fact that he had a detailed list of the sexual practices they could try, with a column for both of them to indicate their preferences, the fact that he'd gone to the trouble of defining that the responses were green for yes, yellow for think more about it and red for will not do, it all told her that Quinn had been thinking about it a lot. The conversation that morning was premeditated; Quinn had been, as usual, preparing meticulously for that moment.

That was the thing that had given her pause for thought that day, that Quinn really wanted them to go through a list of activities, that he believed it would somehow kindle a desire in her, maybe reset their humdrum sex life. She had hunkered down at her desk between lectures and forced herself to go through it, feeling more and more like a pervert as she had to look up phrases and descriptions on her phone to avoid her searches turning up on the university network. It made her feel dirty, knowing that Clarke was on the other side of the partition, or that Emily was sitting no more than a couple of metres away to her left. At least Alena had the window seat, so she could angle her screen for some privacy as she went through her husband's ridiculous list, occasionally tapping in a new search on her phone.

On a purely rational level, she could see how it would have made sense to her husband. Like Alena, he was analytical, detailed and thorough. It was what had drawn her to him in the first place, finding a man who would not only put up with her little foibles but would embrace them, dividing up the space in the bathroom cabinet neatly if not exactly equitably, working to a calendar rather than changing plans at the last minute. The list fitted perfectly into that life, but at the same time, Alena was struggling.

Oral. Bondage. Denial. Whipping. Anal play. Cross dressing. Sex toys. Lingerie. Role play. Dress up. Public sex. Same sex. Threesomes. It went on and on. As Alena worked her way down the list, it twisted her guts. She had no interest in any of it. Some of the items were there because Quinn would have been striving for completeness, so she held onto that fact, rather than allowing herself to contemplate that the list was Quinn's way of ascertaining her willingness to indulge in pissing or scat.

And yet, when she'd come home to him, and she had seen how earnest he was about the list, how much effort he thought he was putting in to recharge their relationship, she had softened and relented. It was their relationship in a microcosm, eventually yielding to what he wanted, worn down by him. He had shown her his completed spreadsheet, neatly colour coded. Out of sheer desperation she had locked onto one item: denial. It seemed to involve the least effort on her part and would prove to be burdensome on her eager husband, giving him the opposite of what he wanted: abstinence from sex rather than more of it.

Alena had no concept then of what she had just done. They'd agreed, Quinn mostly just to get the ball rolling on his way to the items he wanted, she was sure. Alena had read up on it and they had started, just like that, as if it was a craft project or a maintenance task around the house. Alena had expected it to last a day, but everything she did seemed to pull them deeper into it. The harder she made it for Quinn, thinking he would draw the line and the list would be over, the more he dove further into it. What should have been yet another little indulgence to her husband's whims had instead ripped through their lives like wildfire, eventually changing them both and the power dynamic in their marriage forever.

Alena picked up her coat and her handbag, checking the time. The research paper would have to wait until next week, she conceded, and she headed out towards the campus food court to find herself some dinner. As she ate, alone at a table in the middle of the brightly lit hall, she began to prepare for what the night had in store for her, and that same little rush of dread that she'd been battling with tugged at her, the nagging uncertainty that had been her constant companion since she had decided her course of action all those weeks ago, watching her husband's head between her legs, feeling the bliss of his tongue servicing her needs as his own manhood strained powerfully against the confines of the cage she had locked around it.

Alena had reached an epiphany in that moment, as her husband built her up to a wonderful orgasm. Quinn wasn't playing anymore. The lifestyle she had imposed on him inexpertly, imprudently, she had watched him embrace. Even as she felt like an imposter for standing over him, ordering him to kneel or to pleasure her, or to crawl, she could see in his eyes how real it was for him. There was no doubt in her husband's mind that Alena was able to command him to do anything: she had removed his choices and he had accepted that he was now completely subject to her will.

Alena scooped up another mouthful of the chicken casserole. It was ironic, she thought to herself, the way that Quinn had accepted his new life as her slave, how he acted around her, like she was giving him a burden to shoulder as she subjugated him to her wishes. She could tell that he was genuinely struggling now, but it was a war with himself, a tipping point he had reached in his own acceptance of his need to be constrained and owned by Alena. He had embraced the fact that he was her possession now and no longer her husband and equal in their marriage, abandoning himself to the notion that he was trapped irrevocably under his willing and merciless owner's complete control.

If that had been true, then Alena would have been on her way home now, to allow herself to be worshipped by the naked submissive she had imprisoned at home. In reality, she thought to herself, Quinn had imprisoned her, trapping her on a pedestal that she could no longer leave. By creating this new reality for himself as he submitted to her ownership, he had created it for Alena too, she thought bitterly. Quinn had made the decision that he was all in; but he hadn't asked Alena if she was all in too. Ironically, Quinn the newly-awaked submissive had again made another important unilateral choice for the both of them, like he'd always done in their marriage.

Alena finished her plate and slid her tray into the clearing racks by the door. She hustled out to the car park, checking the time. She didn't want to be late: that would go very badly for her. Quinn would probably be on his cushion on the floor, unable to get comfortable, unable to turn on the TV to entertain himself, just reduced to sitting and waiting and thinking about what his cruel, cunning Mistress was up to without him. Alena laughed to herself mirthlessly: if he knew the truth, he would have a seizure. She got into the car.

---

Alena got to the club with five minutes to spare, paying the cover charge at the front door and then threading her way through the younger crowd to the back of the establishment. Here, there was another door and a velvet rope guarded by a massive Pacific Islander, and then beyond that imposing guardian, the club within the club, the Lost and Found.

Alena passed through the door, feeling how much it had changed for her from the first time she had visited. Then, she had been freaking out quietly to herself as she'd accompanied Quinn, hopelessly underdressed for the scene she found before her. Harvey had rescued them, finding them stuttering to a halt, wide eyed at the leather, the flesh, the sheer otherness of the crowd. He had been dressed in a smart suit, quite unlike the people around them, and welcomed them with a reassuring smile.

He had introduced her to a woman at the end of the night, older than her but stunningly attractive in a shiny turquoise latex dress, her long blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail and dark kohl accenting her piercing grey-blue eyes. Alena had baulked and nearly turned around on the spot, but the woman had been welcoming and reassuring, escorting her to the bar to get a drink. She had introduced herself simply as Syn and they chatted.

It wasn't until she got up the nerve to visit a second time, and to start to ask the questions she had gone to the club to answer, that she discovered that Harvey was the owner of the club and Syn was his wife and also his slave. The very way Harvey mentioned it, almost casually, left a powerful impression on Alena so that, by the end of the second night, she had finally summoned the courage to broach the subject she needed answers to. Harvey's suggestion had been straightforward, simple.

Now here she was, at his behest, scanning the Lost and Found for its broad-shouldered, gregarious owner. She saw the big man at the bar, in conversation with the barman. Alena made her way through the crowd to announce her presence to him. Harvey spun around, noticing Alena and flashing her a wide, devilish grin. Alena couldn't help herself and smiled back.

"I hope I'm not late," Alena said.

"No, not at all. Right on time. How are you?"

"Fine, I'm fine. How are you?"

"Just a little nervous, though, correct?" Harvey asked, ignoring her question.

Alena bit her lip and nodded. "Just a bit."

"Drink first," Harvey announced, beckoning the barman over. "Glass of water for the lady. Large."

Alena frowned as the barman poured her a tall glass and handed it to her.

"Hydration is important. Bottoms up."

Alena took a sip of the cold drink.

"No," Harvey said, "Bottoms up."

It was the way he said it, the way that the smile faded, that gave Alena the impetus to continue drinking, swallowing until the glass was empty. Harvey's smile returned. He took the empty glass from her hand and set it down on the bar.

"Isn't Syn here tonight?" Alena asked, trying to keep the conversation light, feeling unnerved by Harvey's sudden change of personality.

"She's upstairs. She's a little tied up with something at the moment."

The barman filled her glass again. Harvey held it up for Alena to take.

"Bottoms up," he repeated.

This time, Alena did as she was told, placing the empty glass back down on the bar.

"There, lessons one and two completed," Harvey said.

"One and two?"

"Yes, we've already begun. In fact, we began the moment you walked into the club. Had you been even ten seconds late, there would have been a punishment waiting for you."

Alena paused, scanning Harvey's face. "I see," she replied.

"You don't but you will. So, lesson one was you do as your dominant commands without delay, as you did with the second glass. Lesson two is that hydration really is important. The submissive must always be cared for."

Alena squirmed. "I need to confess something," she said.

"Go ahead."

"I'm just really, really nervous."

Harvey frowned. "Do you still want to go through with tonight?" he asked.

"Can you tell me what we're going to be doing?" Alena countered. "If I knew then I'd feel a lot easier."

She smiled at Harvey, remembering the way he'd talked to her on her last visit, when it had been himself and Alena and his wife alone in a booth. Harvey had listened carefully, nodding and asking questions to clarify his understanding, as Alena had laid out her thoughts to him.

It was simple, or so she had thought. She wanted advice on how to be a good domme, and had sought out the club as perhaps a place where she might find someone who would share their experience with her. Alena had confessed that she felt like a fraud, ordering her husband around. She needed to learn the ropes, she had said. Harvey had lapsed into silent contemplation but had then nodded his bulky head.

"You recall what we spoke about," Harvey said.

"Yes."

"Then I assume you are here to learn from the bottom, as a submissive for the night."

"I am."

Just saying the words terrified her, but she held her emotions in check.

"Then you have no rights to request anything of me at all, least of all what I have planned for you. All you need to know is that from the moment you entered the club until the moment I give you permission to leave, you belong to me. Are you ready for that?"

Alena nodded, solemnly.

"You need to understand that I will decide if you need to know anything. I will tell you what to do, how to act, and you will obey. I want you to give yourself over to this exercise as completely as you are able and in return I will show you the submissive world, under my complete control for the night. Do you have any questions?"

Harvey was watching her closely now, his expression serious. Alena felt a long way out of her comfort zone.

"What... what about if you tell me to do something that I don't want to do?"

"You do it. You are my submissive, you have no wants and needs. Only I have wants and needs and it's your role to attend to them. You now exist to please me."

"But you could ask me to do anything," Alena exclaimed.

"Yes, I could, and believe me, with other people in your situation I have," Harvey replied, grinning again, "I have made people do and experience things you wouldn't believe."

Alena felt her mouth becoming dry as she mulled over the implications of his words. An instinct was buzzing at the back of her mind, telling her to head over to the exit now, before it was too late.

"But that's not for you," Harvey continued, changing to a reasonable tone of voice, "This is your first time. Let me lay it out for you in general terms, so that you have an idea what to expect without me giving up all my secrets. We're going to conduct an exercise that tests one or more of your limits, but upstairs in private and away from an audience. You must remember that I will push you and you may feel uncomfortable, but I'm not looking to humiliate or debase you."

Harvey stopped and laughed to himself.

"At least, not in this session. Degradation is an important tool in the dominant's repertoire, but it must be used with skill and caution. Overstepping a limit and causing the submissive undue psychological distress is always a danger. Like any race, you need to warm up the muscles first. So, first, we establish a safeword."

"Starburst," Alena volunteered.

"Good. Not as clunky as pineapple or unicorn. Believe me, I've heard a few. Starburst it is. Now, believe me when I say this. If you use that word, everything stops. We will all then need to agree if we start again or if that's the end of the night. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Pardon?"

"I'm saying I understand, Harvey."

Harvey's eyes narrowed and his expression became stern. Alena realised her mistake and corrected herself hurriedly.

"I meant, I understand, Master."

"Sir. You understand, sir. I own only one slave, and she's waiting for us upstairs. You may only call me sir."

"Yes, sir," Alena replied, quickly, "Sorry, sir."

"Good, Alena. Follow me."

She felt vaguely ridiculous calling him that, but at the same time, she became aware of the way he had already begun to rebalance the power between them, able to use her name freely but with Alena forbidden from using his. A few moments ago, she had been able to use his first name and hold a conversation as equals. Now, she was subordinate; her rights to familiarity with him had been revoked. She now needed to show him her respect at all times. It gave her an inkling of how her husband felt every time he addressed her as Mistress, reinforcing the imbalance in their relationship, his inferiority.

Harvey led Alena up the stairs to the office. She had never been in the office before, and took a moment to look around the room. There was a large desk facing the door and a high-backed leather office chair tucked behind it, with a couple of chairs to one side. Against the wall to her left, there were shelves stacked with folders and books and what looked like sex toys of various descriptions, next to a luxuriously-upholstered chaise longue in deep cherry red velvet.