The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 04

We were kneeling with our thighs spread and arms folded behind our backs, our torsos arched backwards, breasts and hips thrust forward. In this pose it was difficult to avoid gazing at the men seated before us. I could only stare at the ceiling or off to the side. (We weren't permitted to close our eyes, since that would be as disrespectful to the Masters as looking directly at them.) My body and arms ached from the stress of my posture, my knees from the slate floor under them. We had been gagged once more, and ooze dribbled down my throat. The rising pain and my hunger pangs, as well as the chill, made it impossible to zone out. I could not blank my mind nor focus my concentration elsewhere than on the discomfort and the tedium as, over the next two or so hours, our Masters unhurriedly ate their meal and were entertained by the new slavegirls, who had served it.

(It was only now, minus her blindfold, that I recognized the statuesque, thirty-something blonde. Her eyes were suitably downcast but nevertheless darting about nervously, impatiently, excitedly. Her ball-gag hung on its strap around her neck; her wrists were cuffed in front, with just enough slack in the connection to allow her to perform her serving duties. Her ankles were shackled, but she could shuffle around the table and to and from the kitchen. She had not been one of those depilated or branded that afternoon, but there were plenty of marks on her skin that had not been there when I first spied her from the window in the tower. I was startled when I put a name to the face. It was one seen and heard often in the news. The sisterhood was expanding its domain, from the halls of academia to the chambers of commerce and now into the corridors of political power.)

Despite the hardship, it felt nice to be on show like this, exposed and helpless; and it was not just our posture that swelled our chests. It was pride. There is no more exquisitely delicious manifestation of your potency as a sexual being than to be so desired that satisfying the desire becomes all that you are and everything you do. My parted knees touched those of the women on either side of me, but the closeness I felt to my sisters was much more than merely the physical contact. We were so different, and so alike.

To my left, sandy-haired, freckle-faced Annabel restlessly scuffed her toes on the tiles. A brash and lively girl, she had been introduced to the Chaînerie by her lover, Juliette. She felt no attraction to men, but had agreed to serve them because she was servile to Juliette, who served men because she sometimes desired that which a woman could not provide. But when her inamorata departed the house, Annabel chose to stay on. She discovered that, in her own frame of reference, when men are our superiors every woman is an equal; and though she found delight in submission and servitude, it was the love of one of her own kind that she needed.

(At night, when not sharing the bed of a Master, all the women slept huddled together in the dormitory, a room carpeted with cloud-soft goose-down mattresses and pillows and luscious velvet cushions. This was the only luxury we had in the house, and it affected us. For although strictly speaking it was forbidden, unless for the entertainment of the men, Annabel and Lucy and the two or three other girls whose affections were for their own sex made the most of it. The rest of us didn't mind, and sometimes we joined in. If discovered we were punished... but the Masters would always find a pretext to be punitive.)

On my right side was Mei-Ying, tiny and fragile, a porcelain-complexioned, genuine Chinese doll. Since she rarely speaks, except to a Master, I've found out almost nothing about her. She is our resident physician, and why she gave up the medical profession to join the sisterhood I have no idea, except that she had done no more or less than the rest of us. (But she and Sabrina are the only women who live permanently in the Château.) While she is the smallest of us, she is as well the most stalwart. I have never seen her flinch, never heard her cry out. After an especially rigorous session of games with the Masters, she will tend to her fellow slaves without any consideration of her own state. And on this evening, as always, she maintained her almost mystical stoicism. While Annabel fidgeted, Mei-Ying never moved a muscle, never made a sound. She seemed able to retreat behind some impenetrable barrier.

From her right came a soft, drawn-out moan. Nicole, with the girl-next-door charm and femme fatale looks, does not have the ability to withdraw into herself the way Mei-Ying can. I'm glad I am also that way. I have long since decided that I want to feel the full magnitude and unmitigated consequences of my slavery, to experience its pure, invigorating, clarifying intensity. It's why I still go back to the Château.

Nicole, and Corinne kneeling directly opposite us across the room, had been reluctant additions to the house at first. Nicole was (and perhaps still is) a competition surfer. She has the classic beach-girl looks — pretty, straw-blonde and blue-eyed, slim but sturdy. She's high-spirited and gregarious, and gets into more trouble with the Masters than any other slave. She had, it seemed, been installed in the Château as collateral on a debt. One story was that it had been owed by her fiancé, another that it was her brother's. She came and stayed willingly, accorded no special status or exemptions or concessions. While they were both in the house she served the man who brought her no more or less than she did the other Masters, even though it was his debt that she paid off; and after it was settled she stayed on, while he departed. In joining the sisterhood, she freed herself from one bond and found a more enriching commitment.

Corinne was one of the few married women in the sisterhood. For obvious reasons, marital ties do not accord well with the rights and privileges the Masters enjoy over all the women. But her husband found gratification in sharing what he owned, and consented that she be common property. She, in turn, consented to be shared. (In my most recent visits to the Château I have not seen her; and I wonder if she has found and taken another path.)

Next to Corinne was Olivia, who suffered the curse of being a beautiful woman loved by two men and loving them equally. Masters Jeremy and James might have come out of the pages of the Victorian novels Olivia devoured. Sir Jeremy could have been the incarnation of Heathcliff, dark and brooding, fervent and beguiling, restless, dangerous and unredeemed. Sir James was the embodiment of Edgar Linton, charming and cheerful, easy-going and even-tempered, sympathetic and sincere. It had been, for a while, a suitable arrangement. One man offered excitement and unbridled passion, the other promised safety and genteel romance. Sir James lacked a forceful spirit; but Olivia understood that it takes a truly strong man to show real tenderness. Sir Jeremy was domineering; but Olivia believed that only the weak need fear the audacious and assertive. And they ended up together in the Château. The two men engaged in some sort of competition for her allegiance. This was before my time, so I don't know the details or the outcome. But they return to the Château every few months, as we all do, where Olivia belongs to all the men.

Kneeling beside Olivia was Desirée. She appeared to be in a sort of half-trance, her head lolling to one side, then rolling slowly to the other, her eyes half-shut, the lids fluttering, little blobs of foam glistening at the edges of her gag. She has not changed much since that time, not so very long ago, when she managed the Wooden Pony Club; but now on the few occasions when she speaks it is in a humble voice. Her glossy dark hair has been severely cropped. Her eyes, still sparkling, are never raised in the presence of a Master.

It was Desirée who had set me on the path which led to the Château; and ever since I have wondered what course my life might have taken had she not offered me that waitressing job, or if I'd declined.

When I encountered her for the first time in the house, a few days after my arrival, she was in the yard with two novitiate Masters, being led with a bridle through the gardens on an endless figure-eight course. She's the tallest of the slaves, towering over most of the men as well; and so she wouldn't be able look to down on her handlers she had been strapped into a leather harness which forced her to stoop. Her arms were locked outstretched in a heavy wooden yoke fixed tightly about her neck. A luxuriant mare's tail poked from her rear end. Grunting and frothing through a bit-gag, she trotted unsteadily around the flower beds, steered and goaded with riding crops. Broad pink streaks criss-crossed her back and backside. I wondered at the time what offence she had committed. (Probably none. I was still new, and had not yet learned the ways of the Château.) She glanced up and saw me looking, and her expression — surprise at my being there, embarrassment at her present degraded state — unnerved me.

Desirée is so much like Lydia, tough, confident and self-possessed, and if I had known her from elsewhere than the Wooden Pony Club, I would have been mystified by her presence in the Château. But that's the point. Desirée is like Lydia, and not so unlike the rest of us. For whomever it is that selects the females for the Chaînerie — certainly not the Masters, probably Lydia, but maybe some éminence grise or covert camarilla, lurking sub rosa in the shadows of our proclivities and passions — has not picked the low-hanging fruit. But such conceit can be hazardous when you're a slave. It is not wise to remind the Masters that we're special.

I could describe all the women in the Château, but their stories are similar.

After the Masters finished their banquet, they retired to the "sanctum", a drawing room that women never enter, except for housekeeping. (It is such a hallowed place that only the senior slaves, Lydia, Sabrina and a couple of others, are assigned this chore.) With the men thus absent, those of us females not on kitchen duty had time for dinner and ablutions. We eat well in the Château. The food is simple, but appetizing and nutritious. Although we are denied alcohol, we are permitted one cup of coffee and one of tea per day. We take our meals in the dining room but do not sit at the table. We kneel on the floor and eat in silence. We are not supervised, but no one disobeys the protocols.

The bathroom is located next to our sleeping quarters. There is only one for all the women. (Each Master's bedroom has its en suite.) We are allowed no privacy; there are not the facilities nor is there ever the time for us to perform our toiletries separately. Showering together, like sleeping together, helps reinforce the bonds of our sisterhood. And the Masters may come in to watch us, although only the neophytes take much interest.

Afterwards, as normal, everyone in the house assembled in the courtyard for the entertainment. This evening most of the women were dismissed because the men had more games to play with the new slaves. And life in the Château is not all service and suffering. With so many of us available, our chores do not fill all the hours. Most of the work is menial and repetitive, and very often redundant. You cannot scrub spotless floors more spotless. But they remind us to be humble, dutiful and conscientious. (We don't need to be reminded, but as slaves we must be.) Nevertheless, we have leisure. During the daytime we may stroll in the gardens, swim in the lake, read and study. There is a library, with armchairs and desks for the Masters and velvet cushions for the slaves. While television, computers, phones and newspapers are forbidden, an unspoken rule is that a woman using her "free" time in the library is never bothered. She can be called on at any time for any duty, but most of the Masters regard excessive demands as boorish. (They also never violate the sanctuary of our dormitory. Only there are the women allowed to converse without a man's permission. In return for this privilege, we never speak about the Masters.)

On this night, Sabrina and I were not dismissed. We had yet to be punished for my indiscretion with Sir Steven. It was, however, a light penalty this time, since my offence had been unintended, and in any case Sir Steven was too preoccupied with the newly inducted slaves to come up with something more imaginative. We scrubbed all the toilets in the house until midnight. They were already sparkling clean, naturally, but that was not the point.

The following morning about half the women, including Lydia, returned to their lives outside the Château, along with several of the men. Two dozen slaves and seven Masters remained. The males organized more games in the yard, to put us through our paces as a demonstration for their new comrades. The highlight was the pony-girl event. We were adorned with "tack" more elaborate that the rig I had seen on Desirée — bridle and bit (with a vile rubber tongue depressor); halter, collar and reins; blinkers and martingale (the harness used to maintain the proper head bearing); and a bonnet with feathered plume. A tail was attached to my rear end, and though held in place with a butt-plug it was not otherwise secured. Since we were promised a severe whipping if it fell out, the technique was to squeeze the buttocks tight, making movement more difficult but a thrashing less likely. Our wrists were strapped behind our backs and our ankles hobbled so we could canter but not gallop. We were hitched up to sulkies. Four at a time we raced along the paths and around the gardens, urged on by our drivers with whip, rod and electric prod. We pranced and capered in the dressage event.

The games continued until late afternoon; and at the end of the day, dirty, smelly and exhausted, we were thoroughly pleased with ourselves for having passed every grueling test. Justine emerged as champion. Tall, slim and sleek, with lustrous coffee-toned skin that gleams a golden bronze in the sunlight, she is an accomplished athlete who had forsaken gold medals for the chains of our sisterhood. I managed second place. Our reward was the honor of wearing the white garter for three days. It is worn around the left breast by a girl who has been especially pleasing to her Masters. She also becomes the object of the severest treatment, to remind her that vanity does not befit a slave.

After dinner, Justine and I were hog-tied and joined together, by our collars, a binary gag consisting of two fused balls, and a contrivance of four steel hooks welded together and inserted into our lower openings. We spent the rest of the night locked in our embrace. Linked so intimately to her partner, there was no way for either of us to ease the stress on her body or relieve the ferment. Each motion, each wiggle, each squirm increased the stimulation from the metal shafts lodged inside us. Justine and I puffed and panted. I felt the rapid pulses of her heartbeat through her breasts as they heaved against mine. The whiff of perspiration merged with her perfume to compose a bouquet of sweet, seductive piquancy, like some exotic spice.

Every couple of hours one of the Masters would release us long enough for a sip of water and a chance to empty our bladders. Then, once we were rejoined, he administered a thrashing. Though fit and firm, one of the most resilient slaves in the house, Justine hates being flogged. She cried and yelped, and a fine spritz of spittle sprinkled my face as it erupted from out of the sides of her gag.

It was an interesting time. But it always is, in the Château.

"Where else might my path lead me? Foolish it is, this path; it goes in loops, perhaps it goes in circles. Let it go where it will, I will take it."

— Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

My initial sojourn in the Château lasted forty days. After that, my return visits have varied from overnight to a week or so, and once a year an entire month. It was during one of the week-long stays that the eight slaves and two Masters were inducted. (It was, at the time, the largest single intake. Yet numbers in the sisterhood continue to increase.)

When I departed the Château that first time, having completed my training and passed the first of my tests, Lydia said to me:

"Once you've left here, you remain the property of the Masters. And just as here, you are not compelled to do anything, to serve any man. Everything you do is done freely, everything you give is given freely. But in choosing, freely and willingly, to submit and obey, you have given your consent, unconditionally. Your only freedom is your right to walk away..." She paused, adding as if in afterthought, "...and not look back."

In fact, on the outside I try to lead an almost normal life. I have secured a full-time teaching position at the university. The pay is modest, and tutoring supplements my income. But my schedule allows me the flexibility to go back to the Château. At any time I can be summoned, but Lydia or whoever makes the arrangements ensures that returns cause minimum disruption to our lives and, more importantly, do not arouse the curiosity of those unaware of this aspect of our existence. For while we are not ashamed of what we have become, it is secrecy that sustains the sisterhood and empowers the brotherhood. In any case, it is impossible to explain experiences and feelings to those who have not been where we have journeyed.

As a free woman most of the time, I am subject to just a few ongoing rules. I can neither travel, nor change my job or my residence, nor make friends or find lovers without the consent of Sir Richard, who is my custodian. (Property requires a keeper.) I wear only dresses and skirts, never trousers or other "masculine" attire. (I must always remember what I am and, in this case, especially what I'm not.) My hair is kept short. (To my agreeable surprise, my new style received "It suits you" compliments from friends, family and colleagues.) If for any reason I cannot wear my Chaînerie collar, I substitute some other collar or choker, as a reminder of my slavery. (One must never reveal the secrets, indeed the existence, of the Chaînerie, so the § collar and ring are to be worn only with discretion.)

Maintaining the covert existence of the Chaînerie is an imperative. If anything we women do in our service to the Masters ever needs to be explained to outsiders or concealed from them, it is our duty to do so at whatever the personal cost. So if it should cause embarrassment or some other problem, this is a burden we must bear. For as the men keep the secret to preserve the privileges of their brotherhood, so do their slaves.

Sir Richard, no longer my surrogate little brother but my Master, is the only man I am bound to obey unconditionally beyond the Château. For another year he lived with me, rent-free and with full access to my body (albeit not exclusively). But he is a generous Master. Indeed, when detached from the brotherhood he is more thoughtful and less self-absorbed than he used to be. He has found a girlfriend, and although submissive she does not appreciate his dalliance with other women, so she has not joined the Chaînerie. Eventually they found their own place, and although Sir Richard is still in charge of my life, I now reside on my own.

There are, for me, men who might be called lovers, but no serious relationships. I avoid complications. Within the confines of the Château and the constraints of the Chaînerie, in the simplicity of servitude, I have found personal fulfillment. And people I know well have noticed that I've changed. They use a word that had never been applied to me before. Serene.