The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 04

The British playwright David Hare wrote a line which once struck a resonant chord with me. "Our lives dismay us. We know no comfort. We have dreams of leaving."

Before I embarked on my journey, while I had not quite reached that sentiment, I dreaded that I might. Through my experiences in the Wooden Pony Club, the Gorean tavern and the Château Chaînerie, in becoming part of the sisterhood of slaves I have discovered new and better dreams. The challenges I faced had once been enervating. Now they strengthen me, in body and in spirit. That is the sweet paradox of my slavery.

I have never returned to the nightclub or the tavern, though I walk past the latter most days on campus. And oddly enough, while I have returned to Château several times, I have no clear notion of its location, only that it is somewhere past the outskirts of the city. That's because, when travelling to or departing from the house, I have always worn a blindfold. All women do. And sightless, you are lulled by the monotony of the drive, losing track of time. So with the probable exception of Lydia, no woman knows the precise whereabouts of the Château.

Even after I arrived home that first time I had no idea how long the journey had taken because Sir Richard kept me blindfolded. He ordered me to strip and I heard him setting out ropes and shackles on the coffee table. On his command I prostrated myself on the carpet. He drilled me, front and rear; and when he rolled off me, panting, I lay on my belly and put my hands behind my back.

"Welcome home," he said.

"Thanks," I wheezed.

"By the way, I have a new job." He said it proudly as he seized my arms.

"Congratulations," I grunted as he wrenched my elbows together and bound my wrists.

Before I could ask what it was, he caressed my lips and thrust a ball-gag between them.

"You know," he said, "this place needs some tidying up."

He knotted my blindfold more tightly, pulling my head backwards as he did so.

"You can get onto that first thing in the morning."

(Since I had been taken straight from Lydia's apartment to the Château, I had not been in my own home for nearly ten weeks. In the morning I was pleasantly surprised that Sir Richard had not in fact trashed it completely.)

"Anyway, maybe we need a bigger place. You should think about getting another job."

I tried to gurgle a reply. He trussed my wrists to my ankles and hauled on the ropes until my body arched backwards. He turned me onto my left side so he could tie a yoke around my neck and run the free end of the cord down my front and between my thighs. He pulled firmly, and I groaned as it dug deep into my crevices.

"I know a place that's hiring waitresses." He laughed. "That sounds familiar. Isn't this where we came in?" He paused. "Poor thing; you look exhausted." He paused again. "I know what you need."

I felt something slithering, in a leisurely fashion, across my bare bottom. It was the braided rawhide of his favorite whip. It felt good.