The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 03

I never understood, nor was told, the significance of that evening.

"Life begins at the end of your comfort zone."

— Neale Donald Walsch, Conversations with God

Lucy departed at the end of my second week. Two men came for her in the night. One of them was Richard. This was the third time I'd seen him with Lydia, and I could tell that he'd risen in status since she had dismissed him so curtly in her office. He knew his way around the apartment, but he had not been away from home long enough to have spent time there as one of Lydia's apprentices. He never explained their connection, at least not to me, except that he had delivered me to her. The other man that night was unfamiliar. Lucy did not appear to know him.

The four of us whose rightful place was the prone position welcomed our visitors thus; and they and Sir Jason then went to the drawing room, taking Lydia and Lucy with them. The three men emerged sometime later, laughing and smoothing out fresh wrinkles in their trousers. All this time, Rebecca and I had remained prostrate on the living room floor, not daring to move.

Master Richard ordered me to raise myself onto my hands and knees. He crouched in front of me, tenderly stroked my hair and tapped under my chin to raise my head; but I kept my eyes downcast. I kissed and licked his boots. I performed my duty the way I had been taught, raising and wiggling my backside, jiggling my breasts just above the carpet so my nipples brushed lightly across the pile. He complimented Sir Jason on what a good slavegirl I was turning into. Then he knelt behind me, patted me lightly on the thighs to make me spread my legs, and cupped his hands over my breasts, fondling my nipples with his fingers. As I felt the warm shaft nudging gently between my buttocks, seeking my front entry, I tried to make myself wet... but the picture in my mind's eye was of the gauche young man I had taken into my home, not the imperious young man who was now my Master; and it was as if my body would not consent to being aroused. I braced myself as he leant forward and pushed into me. I felt his quickening breath on my neck, his soft gruntings increased in tempo with the rhythm of his thrusts, and I swallowed my cries. Next to me, Rebecca moaned.

When they were finished with us, the men went back to the drawing room. They brought out Lucy, her hands bound behind her back, a ball-gag between her lips and a stout metal collar around her neck to which was attached a heavy chain. Richard and his companion took her away. (She and I met again, soon enough, in the Château.)

Sir Jason ordered Rebecca and me into the drawing room. There we found Lydia hog-tied on the rug. The Master came and commanded me to kneel with my hands clasped on the crown of my head. He wrapped a length of cord around my chest, above and below and crossed between my breasts, and ran it down between my legs and up my back, making sure it fit snugly within my cleft in front and my crevice to the rear, binding it in a loop about my neck. The noose was tied in such a way that when he pulled it as tight as he could, entrenching it within my body between my thighs, I was not strangled but nevertheless forced to arch my body backwards. He then tied my wrists to the harness behind my back. In this manner I was obliged to waddle to the elevator and down to the games room. The pain in my loins had not yet abated. Lydia and Rebecca were bound face-to-face, their bodies pressed together, so they had to crab-walk all the way.

It was late, almost midnight, so the session was short, but our Master made it count. The pillory had been refitted. In place of the cross-boards for the head and hands were frames to clamp our wrists and ankles. We were locked in a kneeling position, facing away from the scaffold with our haunches resting on top of the board and our arms between our legs to spread our thighs and open up our front and rear cavities. Once he had availed himself of our exposed womanhood, the Master set to work with the whip, the cane and the cattle prod until tears stained our blindfolds and our screams could no longer be stifled by our gags.

That night it was I who shared Sir Jason's bed. Our bodies being his to do with as he willed, he never bothered with foreplay. He was not gentle, but more clumsy than callous. And that set me thinking. I wondered when and how and with whom he'd had his first experience of a woman, indeed how much experience he had before entering the apartment. These were not questions I could ask, but his callow attributes fit with the nature of Lydia's tutelage.

Two days later he was gone. His departure was so sudden that it took me completely unprepared. He left for his classes that morning and never returned. Lydia came home early that afternoon with a young woman who collected his personal belongings. I never saw Sir Jason at the Château Chaînerie, although I assume he was there at times when I was not. But I encountered him a few months later, as I was walking through the university grounds not far from the Gor tavern. He was with a very pretty, dark-skinned woman aged about thirty who was wearing a little yellow sundress despite the chill of late autumn. Around her throat was the familiar leather collar and on her finger the signature ring. It was Justine, from the Château. Our eyes met and she smiled, but she did not speak.

Jason and I talked for a few minutes, reminiscing about our time together in the apartment. He asked about Lucy and told me he had spoken recently to Lydia; but he did not mention Rebecca. Having seen that I still wore my own ring and collar, he suggested that I come to his residence at six o'clock that evening. I had no particular reason to accept or decline his invitation; but I also had no other engagements. I was unattached, idle and feeling jaded. And though to this day I have no idea if our meeting was pure happenstance or contrived, he seemed surprised as well as pleased when I agreed.

He was living in an on-campus student housing complex. It was a Friday night, and the place was busy with young people coming and going. There was a party in progress in a couple of adjoining flats, which spilled out onto the veranda. No one paid any attention at all to me, except for Justine, who was waiting on the footpath. She was still wearing her tiny dress, swinging her arms and stomping her feet to keep warm. She asked me to take off my coat, and when I did the piercing bite of the cold air on my bare arms made me wonder how long she had been standing there shivering. She held out a black satin scarf and I tied it over my eyes. Then she steered me up two flights of stairs. I heard voices and footsteps around me, but nobody did or said anything to indicate curiosity over a woman being led blindfolded to one of the third-level units.

It was Jason who restored my sight. He had typical undergraduate student shared accommodation, a small living room cheaply furnished, bathroom, kitchenette and two bedrooms. On the sofa were sitting two young men, and in the single armchair an elfin-sized, flaxen-haired, pixie-faced girl who unlike her fully clothed companions was in her underwear, an incongruous combination of expensive lace brassiere and cotton novelty knickers (embroidered with cupcakes and birthday candles). Jason introduced only the girl, Lauren, and said "Enjoy your presents" before kissing her on the cheek. Then he left.

I watched him depart, too perplexed to react and thinking he might return. In the moment of mute, awkward inertia which followed, I lost the chance to extricate myself. Instead, training, habit and instinct kicked in. As the three youngsters sat there watching us in silence, for all of their feigned bravado they were clearly nervous, not knowing how to proceed. So Justine and I took off our clothes and knelt on the linoleum floor. Lauren was the first to respond. She reached down beside her chair and held up a coil of nylon rope. She waited until I nodded, and then ordered me to lie on my stomach. She stood up, a full head shorter than me, and spoke in a childish, high-pitched voice. The resemblance to Jason was strong enough that she was most likely his sister. That made his birthday gift to her even more intriguing.

She certainly knew the ropes, as she deftly trussed me in a frog-tie, then a shrimp-tie, and then other, more exotic positions. There was a lot of rope and she used it all to weave intricate webs about my limbs and torso. She was gentle but never spoke except to give commands; and it felt weird to be totally compliant and under the control of this young, diminutive, squeaky-voiced girl. In the meantime, her companions amused themselves with Justine. They were actually saying things like "Make her sweat" and "Make her squeal." So after a short while an irritated Lauren said "Listen boys, why don't you take her to the bedroom?" and they did.

But the really odd thing about that evening was that I was not able to work out exactly what the girl's true interest was, besides in tying me up, down and sideways. She was lovingly attentive in applying the breast harness and the crotch rope but, at the time, took no other advantage of my nude and helpless condition. After maybe two hours she left me in a more conventional hog-tie and went to the bedroom where her friends were playing with Justine. She came back a long time later, naked. She was panting heavily, and the wisps of hair between her legs were moist. She tossed her crumpled underwear casually onto the sofa and resumed where she'd left off with me.

This time she was more interested in my body than the ropes embracing it. She kissed and caressed me. She straddled my face and pressed her groin to my mouth; and as I pleasured her I smelt sweat and saliva and semen. After that, she untied me so we could embrace and intertwine. But she seemed edgy and impatient, rather than passionate. And when she'd had enough of kisses and caresses, she bound me again. Getting more excited, she also became more creative and cruel. She stung me with rubber bands and seared me with dripping candle wax, all over — my nipples, my pubes, my backside, down to the soles of my feet.

My tiny tormentor was methodical as she went about making me squirm and moan and groan. She seemed curious about what it was like to be on the receiving end, to be a slave. She stared into my eyes, a searching, thirsting expression glowing in her own eyes and etched upon her brow. She stroked my limbs, pressing her nails into my skin, and explored with her fingers between my thighs to test my responses and gauge my reactions. Just before she gagged me (while I sat tied in the lotus position), she fondled my lips and cheeks and explored inside my mouth, as if she were trying to experience vicariously the sensations I was feeling. But she asked no questions, and I volunteered nothing.

When Jason came in at midnight, the game ceased, so abruptly that Lauren whined "It's still so early," and he scolded her like a parent would a five-year-old. (This behavior was especially discordant as I sensed that she was the elder sibling.) I put on my clothes in silence and massaged the parts of my body where the ropes and the girl's sadistic ministrations had left their marks. Lauren also dressed and, leaving Justine with the three males, walked with me to my car. We did not speak until I offered to drive her the short distance back to the apartment building. She haughtily declined, and in her face and her voice I recognized the same bemused contempt and wistful envy which the free women in the Gor tavern showed towards a servile kajira. But as I pulled away from the curb, she smiled and waved good-bye. She hugged her little body against the cold, looking distracted and unsettled... looking lost.

I have not seen her since (nor, for that matter, Jason), and I wonder what path she has followed.

"Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes possibles."

"Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds."

— Voltaire, Candide

Our new Master arrived on the morning after Sir Jason left. Sir Brandon was even younger. He was very polite, almost ingratiating in his speech; but in the words of the Bard, "The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman!" From the outset he was less indulgent towards his slaves' needs and wants, much more strict and demanding. He may have been too challenging an assignment even for Lydia, because I learned (sometime later) that he left shortly after my own departure. But for as long as he remained in the apartment, Lydia never compromised. She bore the burden of her slavery in quiet acceptance and fortitude no less than I or Rebecca.

Life was much harsher under the new regime. In contrast to his predecessor, Sir Brandon was home most of the time, going out only at irregular intervals. As a result, Rebecca and I had none of the free time we'd previously enjoyed. When he was not amusing himself with us (he had daunting reserves of energy and expected even more from his women), he kept us tied up in the living room or chained to the bed. He did, however, release us whenever he went out. That was one of the house rules. But we were told to kneel facing the wall in a corner of the room, mute and immobile, until his return. Once he was gone for several hours, yet we obeyed. He did not question our compliance, nor did he have any need to do so. I could no more have disobeyed him in his absence than I could have defied him to his face.

We females no longer shared meals with our Master, so there was no more table talk. In fact we were rarely allowed to speak to each other, and so it was a lonely time. Penalties for any infractions (most imagined) of the unwritten rules were severe. Since we were to be flogged each evening in any case, Sir Brandon resorted to crueler, more sadistic, more shameful, more degrading punishments. One time he made me swallow a tablespoonful of chili powder and became engaged when I didn't cry out. So he summoned Rebecca and ordered us to perform enemas upon each other... and lock our bowels in writhing agony until given permission to run to the bathroom. His favourite penance was for us to kneel on rice. Strictly for amusement, he put pegs and clamps on our nipples and labia.

I call those dozen days my time of tribulation; but in a sense I owe Sir Brandon a debt of gratitude. My experiences as his property prepared me for my initiation into the Château. They confirmed what Lydia and Sir Jason had been teaching. Adversity does indeed make you wiser and stronger. I also understood, for really the first time, that it is this which excites, invigorates and rejuvenates me. Intangibles I had once supposed were imperatives in my life — dignity, freedom, self-reliance, self-determination — now mean nothing compared to the power I have found within myself. It is no paradox that I summon strength from my subjugation, feel pride in my degradation, draw energy from my weakness and servitude.

Yet the new Master tested our endurance. One way he did this was to make us wear chastity belts. Since he had sole access to Rebecca's and my bodies, these were not to keep us celibate, but rather for humiliation and as a demonstration of his will. They were made of leather and metal. The waistband consisted of a thin strap which sat above the hips and drooped in the front and rear, and was attached with a miniature padlock to the "shield" that covered the crotch. We each retained our own key for emergency egress, but honesty and honor kept us locked in. The shield was shaped to fit the contours of our loins, and ended just above the tailbone. When we needed to use the toilet we asked permission to remove the belt. There was a small slot for urination (not wide enough to take a finger and thus too narrow to serve any other purpose). It was not a very efficient means of channeling the flow, so that if we needed to pee, we sought the Master's consent for its temporary removal. Sometimes this was granted, sometimes not.

Affixed to the inside front was a plug that was inserted into the vagina. Each belt came with several of different sizes. (I noticed small scratches where the shaft coupled to the shield, indicating that I was not the first to have it inside me. I wondered who the previous wearer had been, and what had become of her.) The Master asked how deeply we could be penetrated without excessive discomfort, in order to give us each the longest insert possible without doing damage. He didn't specify exactly what he meant by "excessive" and feminine pride impelled us to go maximum rather than minimum. A similar, but mercifully smaller, shaft was provided for the rear entrance. These together made moving about a major challenge, while sitting and squatting were virtually impossible. Putting on the belt took effort because the shield was semi-rigid, and unless we aligned the two plugs perfectly with our cavities, it required some back-and-forth maneuvering to slide them into place.

For added effect, on the inside of the panel just above the slot was a bud or stud which, when the belt was snugly fitted, pressed against the clitoris, imparting into each and every movement a very specific thrill. Unfortunately, as well as keeping us in an almost permanent state of orgasm, the "stimulator" rubbed against the urethra, so we also felt like we constantly needed to pee.

Lydia agreed to wear a chastity belt when she left to go downtown. She wasn't obliged to. Our slavery was in effect only inside the apartment and the studio. She did it to please the Master, but his escalating demands probably explain his premature removal. (I saw him once in the Château, so he wasn't expelled entirely from the brotherhood of Masters.) What she wore was a slightly more streamlined version that made sitting and walking easier. Nevertheless, how she coped with the plugs and the "stimulator" during her working day was a mystery to me. Twice she returned to the apartment confessing that she had been forced to remove her belt. She never said why, whether it was to use the bathroom or to entertain one or more of the Masters from the Château. She was savagely punished, of course. She could have lied about it (just as Sir Brandon could have sealed the lock with wax or something which would break when the lock was undone), but it never occurred to us to contravene our orders. For what would be the point of our slavery — as much an assertion of our own true nature as it was a gift of devotion to those whom we served — if we violated its most basic tenet?

For Sir Brandon's additional amusement, also implanted into the shield were twin electrodes which were in contact with the vulva; the plugs were wired as well. There was a small pouch on the back of the belt to attach a battery and remotely controlled switching mechanism. The Master used this to randomly shock us, individually or all at once. The settings ranged from mild jolt to lightning bolt.

So wearing the chastity belt was not easy, and as such it was a constant, bracing reminder that my body no longer belonged to me. The stimulator bud was a symbol of the purpose my body served, and the electrodes a token of the Master's control; just as nudity took away my privacy and signified that I had surrendered the right to withhold any part of myself, that I should be at all times accessible. And it was a marvelous feeling, to be owned, subject to a power outside, beyond and above myself, to be utterly and abjectly and joyfully devoted to that power, and to have the strength to endure it.

Sir Brandon reinforced this on the morning when he removed the butt plug from each belt. This made wearing it slightly less awkward, but that was not his motive. "Your comfort is irrelevant," he told us. Then he used the words that had become our mantra. With just the one shaft, in the front, "the belt represents what you do not have in common with those who own you." Its presence inside our bodies was to remind us constantly, never let us forget or ignore, what it is which sets us apart from our Masters, what we are and what we are not. The symbolism was not subtle. It was not meant to be.