The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 05

"We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time."

— T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

A whistle at noon signaled the end of the Saturday shift. The construction crew locked away their tools and secured the site before heading back into town; except for two females, who stayed behind — a brawny blonde and a small, sinewy brunette. Once their workmates were gone, these two shed their hard hats and boots, discarded their denim shorts and flannel shirts, removed their bras and briefs, and took their place with the women already gathered on the front lawn.

The faces of my sister slaves were mostly familiar, their identities less so. There are so many of us now, it's impossible to learn all their names and all their histories. We knelt on the grass, arranging ourselves in an arc which followed the curve of the driveway, keeping our knees apart, heads bowed, arms folded behind our backs, stomachs sucked in, hips and breasts thrust forward. It felt right to be naked again. For the remainder of the weekend, at least, things were back to normal. It had been years since any of my sex had worn clothing in the Château; but while the new wing was being built and outsiders were on the premises, expediency prevailed. However, the project was nearing completion, the upgraded and expanded slave quarters almost ready for their occupants.

A dozen men stood on the porch, resplendent in their Masters' regalia. With them was Lydia, diminutive, nude and in chains, but by any other measure the most commanding figure in the group. There was quiet dignity in her posture and poise. She kept her eyes downcast but held her body self-confidently erect, pulling back her shoulders and pushing out her chest and pelvis, proudly proclaiming what she was and what she was not.

On the part of the lawn in front of the flower beds a marquee had been set up, and under it a crowd was sheltering from the early afternoon summer heat. The spectators were all males, in a wide range of ages. They were owners, husbands, fiancés, boyfriends, brothers. They looked restless, were talking and laughing but in hushed tones. Some were as new to the Château as the paint still drying on the barracks walls. They had come to bear witness to the liberation of a hundred butterflies from their cocoons.

It was a long wait. My knees had begun to ache, my neck became stiff. The blazing sunshine seared my bare skin. My belly and thighs glistened with rolling perspiration. I felt my parched throat tighten as I watched the men seated under the canvas and standing on the porch being served cold drinks by a squad of slavegirls. But suddenly there was movement in the narrow gap in the trees where the roadway emerged from the forest. Three Masters in crimson capes led the procession. Directly behind, six women trudged in single file. These were the half-dozen most senior slaves in the Chaînerie, apart from Lydia herself — Jane, Sabrina, Justine, Desirée, Mei-Ying, Monique. (The sisterhood is founded upon the principle of absolute equality among women, but in the service of men some are more equal than the rest.) They sweated as they shuffled along the path, naked under the hot sun, trudging beneath the weight of heavy shackles. Their collars were connected to each other by a hefty chain drawn tightly between their legs. They panted through cumbrous ball-gags. Each was blindfolded with the customary black satin sash but skillfully steered herself by feeling ahead with her toes to stay on the gravel. The audience went silent, as all eyes now focused that way.

The initiates, not far behind, soon came into view, marching in two side-by-side columns. Pale flesh and tan lines revealed those women for whom public nudity was not yet a familiar condition. The nervous bobbing of bowed heads exposed the apprehension of those experiencing for the first time the real-life state of their slavery. Each wore a collar by which she was joined to her sisters ahead and astern; hands were bound behind backs, and they were gagged in a variety of ways. Spread out with the length of an arm between each, they were being paced by half a dozen Masters to keep the tether stretched between them taut, so that as the front of the lines reached the driveway, the rear ends were still hidden in the woods. They did not look around, but fixed their gaze on the pebbles crackling cheerily under bare feet. (They were not ashamed of or embarrassed. They would have held their heads high, if permitted.)

The left-hand file contained faces I knew. They were from the university, both students and teachers; and the newcomers' range of ages was greater than that of the currently serving slaves. I was surprised to see Charlotte, less so Alycia, both from the Gor tavern, no longer haughty freewomen. Charlotte was one of the oldest in the line, as trim and tender as the much younger women. (I searched furtively amongst the spectators for James. I did not spot him, but he may have been hidden in the crowd.) In the other queue I recognized some faces. The sisterhood was expanding. It seemed that commerce, industry, politics and the arts were, collectively, as well represented in the Chaînerie as academia. I could not help but think, with more than a little unslavelike pride, how much education, talent and ambition were invested in the female property kneeling on the lawn and streaming down the driveway towards the Château.

Escorting the slaves were novitiate Masters, just six of them, spread out and moving back and forth along the two extended lines, wielding whips which they did not hold back in keeping the women to a quick and steady cadence. I knew that the men had rehearsed their grand entrance, for I had been part of their training the weekend before, and still bore the marks from those who, being new to the protocols and practices of the Chaînerie, had brandished their whips with a little too much vigor. But for the new slaves, it would be a surreal experience — harrowing, scary, humiliating, grotesque, preposterous. I envied them.

I reflected in silence on the process by which our movement grows, as every slave provides for the instruction of those who follow her into servitude. It seems inexorable. Each commitment and each surrender leads to more demands, increasing obligations and more challenging duties, and you find yourself shackled ever more securely to your status. Becoming a part of the Chaînerie, you attach yourself to the end and serve in turn as a link to which new connections are forged.

And as I watched this peculiar pageant, I remembered what Lydia had said when I had just arrived.

"Your first day in the Château will be one of the worst days of your life. The second will be one of your best."

She peeked out the open window, down into the courtyard. The formalities had concluded and the festivities had begun. Mingling with the guests and the women, the Masters were conspicuously resplendent in their black breeches, red velvet jackets and crimson capes. She ducked her head below the sill and barely managed to swallow a laugh. For the induction rituals had become more elaborate, absurdly so, with each new intake of Masters and slaves. The latter were steadily growing in number, but Justine had seen the young men come and go. Indeed, in recent months the turnover of Masters had increased, and each set of recruits to the Brotherhood seemed more fresh-faced and callow than their predecessors.

Now these impressions could have been in her imagination. Four years of servitude in and out of the Château were bound to play tricks on the mind. Or perhaps she was getting cynical. After all, the initiation of new Masters was inevitably harder on those veterans of the Chaînerie whose duty it was to educate them.

All of the "seven sisters" — the senior women in the Château — except Lydia had been dismissed at the end of the ceremony. They were released from their shackles and went to the kitchen to prepare the feast and then retired to the dormitory to await summons. They knew that the dinner was over when they heard the laughter and shrieking which told them the evening games had begun. After another hour, two of the new Masters came for Mei-Ying and Desirée; and some time after that Jane and Monique were taken away. Justine and Sabrina waited in silence, passing the time by checking each other's collars and cuffs to make sure they were on straight and properly secured, the leather gleaming, the metal joints sparkling.

The last two novitiates arrived. The women prostrated themselves and kissed the feet of Sir Daniel and Sir Philip. Justine thought this was a silly custom but had long since lost her distaste for theatricals. It amused her that both young men had, in anticipation, thoughtfully polished their boots to remove all dirt and dust.

Still lying on her belly, her arms behind her back with fingers to elbows, Justine slowly rotated her wrists until one of the men received the message, reached down and pushed the insides of her bracelets together until the little clasp snapped into place. It was Sir Daniel who had claimed her. He started to help her to her feet, but she gently shook off his grip and stood up by herself. So did Sabrina. It was not easy, without the use of her hands, and the effort left her muscles aching, but it was always a satisfying moment to show how strong and skilled the slavegirls were. For while there is no dignity in abject servitude, you can feel pride in being so sturdy and self-reliant, to be so totally devoted to fulfilling your Master's desires. The very thought gave Justine a pleasant tickle inside.

There was an uneasy, silent pause, until she puckered her lips in a way the new Masters were taught was seeking consent to speak.

"Yes, girl?"

"Thank you, Master. May I be permitted the honor of going with you to your room?"

She tried not to smirk. Such euphemisms (and their dysphemism cousins) were part of the play.

"Yes, girl."

With her eyes downcast, she could see the front of both pairs of trousers tightening, the bulges straining against the dark serge. These novices were so wet behind the ears that she wondered if they might be virgins. (Not likely; but it would make an odd sort of sense. It had seemed for some time that the proprietors of the Château Chaînerie were seeking the rawest of recruits. That made life in many ways more difficult for the slaves, but also more interesting.)

Sir Daniel clipped a leash to her collar and led her into the building and up to his fourth-floor quarters. Sir Philip followed with Sabrina. Along the way they passed Jane and Desirée, on their knees scrubbing the floor of the corridor and pausing to glance up and smile, with sympathy and envy. (Their Masters must have decided to rejoin the fun and games downstairs.)

On the bed, Sir Daniel proved as awkward as Justine suspected he would. First, after fumbling with the tiny lock, he could not free her hands from behind her back; so when (due to nerves) he proved inept at penetration she was unable to assist, which made it harder on her. Of course, what was worse was the disappointment she felt in failing to give immediate pleasure to her Master. But he was also comically irresolute about his clothing. It was etiquette that a Master should not be naked in the presence of a female, or at least that she should be blindfolded so as not to gaze upon that which made him the Master and her the slave. But Sir Daniel was uncertain whether stripping off his trousers constituted nudity. So he lowered them only to his knees, and he kept his shirt on. At least he took his boots off. Afterwards, however, he could joke about it.

In fact, Justine found her newest owner to be charming in his own way, naïve and inexperienced but with a self-deprecating sense of humor which as a woman she found endearing and as a slavegirl she was obligated to ignore without giving offence. He permitted her to speak freely, and although she knelt at his feet (as he sat in the armchair by the bed) keeping her eyes focused on the floor, and her hands were still locked behind her back, she expressed herself openly and they learned things about each other.

Sir Daniel was still a student (university, not school, she was relieved to hear) and had a girlfriend (whom he no clear desire to see join the women in the Château), and he really couldn't say what had impelled him to take this change of life's course. Like all the men in the house, he had survived the rigorous selection procedures, so he must have some special quality that was valued in prospective Masters. Justine was not, of course, privy to the process. But it was obvious from his lack of expertise that he had not been an apprentice in Lydia's apartment.

Suddenly he said "Look up at me."

She lifted her head, and her eyes fleetingly connected with his.

"I've seen you before," he said.

She did not respond, but finally he proclaimed "Yes. I remember now; the gold medals."

She was not bothered. They all eventually recognized her.

"Want my autograph?" she was tempted to reply.

"Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend, or a fiancé?"

She did not answer, not wishing to expose that part of herself which was not already in his possession. He did not insist. Another of the protocols of the Château was that while there a woman should have no identity of her own; she was defined by what she was not, more than by what she was, and not by what had once been or might in the future be. This was not only to make her a better slave; it gave her protection in her life outside. If she was someone with a public profile, such as Justine, the Masters were sworn to secrecy. And it was rumored among the slaves that the men had the means to enforce this code, although only Lydia (it was presumed) had that knowledge, which she never revealed.

Anyway, Justine found that the memories of her previous existence were fading. She never lost them, but that aspect of her past had become irrelevant to her present. Despite the excitement of competition, the delight in the testing of limits, the buzz from the crowd's acclaim, her off-the-field life seemed empty. There was a hollowness in her relationships, she felt lonely in the midst of people. She had never settled for the mundane, and having won so much she sought a new kind of release, a different self-fulfillment. There were certain outlets and channels, which led to places both murky and lurid. Bad times followed and she sank into despair. Then she met Lydia...

Sir Daniel placed a hand on her head and ran his fingers through her hair.

"Almost time for supper," he said.

"How banal," she thought.

"Lean forward, on the bed please."

It seemed that he was determined to prove himself. Still on her knees, she shuffled forward. Her body was preparing itself, her nipples began to stiffen and rise again, and the touch of the cold satin sheet sent a thrill surging through her. With one hand the Master pushed her shackled wrists up to the middle of her back, and with the other he gently nudged her thighs apart. But as he pushed into her, the excitement overwhelmed his benevolence, and he made merciless use of both her cavities.

After that he was apologetic but no less brutal in his application of the whip. He was tentative in administering the first couple of strokes, as if he'd never flogged a woman before; and when Justine whimpered he wavered. But he knew quite well that to do whatever he wished with his victim was not just his privilege and pleasure but his duty, and he understood that her presence in the house was the only assurance he needed that this should be her fate. So he landed the third strike with less hesitation and more confidence, and delivered the rest with gusto. The rush of blood overcame his revulsion at her wails and the welts blossoming on the loins that a short time before he had used in a different way.

Although she had no right to such thoughts, Justine felt a trace of contempt that this neophyte should feel any qualms about ravaging her with phallus and whip, since it was her body being plundered and despoiled. But she knew he would come around. New Masters were chosen because they were, amongst whatever other attributes were deemed useful, quick learners. And the slaves were, all of them, good teachers.

"I must getting too old for this."

It was only as the words came out that she realized that she had spoken and not just thought them. She glanced about fearfully, hoping that none of the Masters heard. Nobody had, or at least nobody reacted.

Sabrina was the longest serving slave in the house. She had not changed much over the years (or so she believed), and there was still no greater happiness than in doing what she did, being what she was. Yet there were times when she wondered if perhaps what she had given up, the things other women seek, might have offered equal fulfillment, given her as much joy.

She had not been brought up this way. She had always been of independent spirit and was once ambitious. Before she came to the Château she was studying on a postgraduate fellowship, and earned extra income as an exotic dancer. She found the demands of her part-time job to be oddly appealing; and that was when Lydia found her. She had a fiancé, Charles, and they entered the Château together. It was a sweet time, at first, to be owned by the man she loved; but there was a strict rule, that all the Masters had equal access to all the women. Charles could not cope and the wedding was called off. Yet he was still one of her Masters, and they remained close. Sabrina loved him no less, for what he was and she was not.

It was during her third year that she became a permanent resident of the Château. In one of her last sojourns outside she met André. They knew about each other's preferences, penchants and proclivities, everything that is except this most precious of her secrets. She decided to leave the Chaînerie and for a while they were happy; but the flames of her old passion were soon rekindled. And so it was on a winter's night that she drove with him to the house in the country.

They were greeted at the door by Sophie, who took them to the library where a fire crackled in an ornate hearth. Sabrina took off her clothes and knelt on the rug as her lover took his seat in one of the green leather Chesterfield chairs.

"What is it you want?" she asked.

André stared after Sophie who was crossing the room, towards the drinks cabinet.

"Scotch please, on the rocks."

Sabrina heaved an audible sigh. André ignored her.

Sophie dropped an ice cube into the glass and swirled it about, gently, lovingly, until it gleamed a golden brown. She brought the drink to him, genuflected with head bowed, and then retired to the corner of the room nearest the fireplace, kneeling and facing the wall with her hands clasped on her head so that the flickering of the flames played dancing games across her naked body. The streaks and stripes from a recent whipping glowed pink on her skin.

Sabrina described to her lover what pleasures would be his if he consented to share her with the other Masters. She explained that it was because she belonged to him that he could give her to them, and the more that he shared her the more she was bound to him. But once he had agreed that she should be owned by all of the men in the house, and that she should serve and obey them all alike, she would not be free to refuse anything to any of them, nor was he free to deny them that to which they were entitled.

She assured him that she served the Masters gladly, indeed gratefully, that she bore her chains and her scars with pride, and that if her slavery might in reality be the loss of freedom, it was a willing sacrifice and a joyful surrender. For true submission could only be offered up, not taken. Nevertheless, she served the Masters in order to give them pleasure, not to receive it, for hers arose only out of theirs.