The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 06

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly."

— Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah

"So it's your wish to become a model?"

"No, not really." Monique pointed to her lover. "This was his idea."

"You could be. You have a quality... Please do not turn your head. Raise your chin more."

"Just this one time," she insisted.

Monique lifted her head, to gaze at an imaginary spot on the ceiling. The man stroked her cheek with greasy fingers.

She flinched, and he pulled his hand away. There was no hint of apology or discomfiture in his face or his manner. He was short and somewhat seedy, not repulsive or creepy but unkempt and vaguely sinister, hardly the sort of individual she would associate with the fashion industry. But she guessed that it really didn't matter what lurked behind the camera.

"Tilt your head a little to the left, please."

He stood back, scratching his nose, studying her.

"Well-proportioned, fine features... not beautiful."

"Thanks a lot!"

He raised his hands defensively. "Please do not take offence. Beauty is at best transitory, and it intimidates most men. You are pretty. This is more desirable in a woman."

Unmollified, she peeked out of the corner of her eye at her lover. Robert allowed himself a vestige of a smile, but it vanished quickly under her acerbic glare.

"You may relax now."

The man deposited his light meter and other bits and pieces on the nearby bench and took up a small white bundle. He shoved it in her general direction as he busied himself with resetting or recalibrating or retuning his equipment... whatever it was photographers do.

"You may change in there."

She looked about. There was a simple curtained partition in the corner of the room.

"Shoes off, and no underwear, please."

She stopped and stared at him.

"We do not want the lines showing under your dress."

"No... of course not..." She looked again at her lover, her sense of unease growing more intense. He just shrugged and smiled.

She entered the makeshift cubicle. There was a full-length mirror and a stool for her discarded clothing. Her costume was a tiny dress, cut in the style of a Hollywood-Roman slavegirl's tunic. It was very short, dipping in front and back to the corded waist and slashed on the right side all the way to the hip. She inspected her image in the mirror. With the décolletage, cleavage, side boob and naked thigh, she had to admit that she did look sexy. Maybe she really could do some modelling... She expelled the idea from her head with a vigorous shake. This would be a once-off, for Robert's indulgence.

Tugging forlornly downwards on the embroidered hemline, she sucked in a deep breath and pulled back the curtain. As she emerged, Robert almost leapt from his chair. Mr Decorio bobbed his head approvingly.

She performed a little curtsy and pirouette, immediately regretting the latter as her skirt swirled upwards. The photographer frowned impatiently.

"Step onto the platform," he commanded, fondling his tripod.

The tiles were frigid under her bare feet. The backdrop was a plain sky-blue, the sole prop a faux marble broken column, encircling the base of which was a chain. Decorio took some pictures and she struck some poses, the sort of thing she thought professionals might do. She was even beginning to enjoy herself, despite the coldness underfoot and the concern that she might be revealing more of herself to the lens than she intended.

"No no no!" he barked, all of a sudden. "Be natural! Now turn away from me and lean forward."

Doing so, she felt the tickle of the hem of her little dress riding up over her posterior.

"You must not move!"

"You told me to lean forward."

"You... cringed!"

"I'm sorry, but is this sort of shot really necessary?" She was looking straight at Robert. He moved towards her, arms outstretched.

"For my private collection," he said, but stopped in his tracks, not wishing to trip over the joke that had fallen so flat. "They're for your portfolio," he went on, in a subdued voice. "You don't even have to keep them."

She stared at him. His tone was odd, unsettling, almost pleading.

"Your fiancé is right, of course," said Mr Decorio. "No pouting, please."

"I'm not pouting, I'm thinking. And I'm not his..."

She sighed and thrust her bare backside towards the camera. She heard the faint whirring click a few more times.

"Surely that's enough."

"Yes. Turn around and kneel please, up on your toes, resting on your heels, back straight, arms at your side, knees slightly apart."

"Like this?"

He just nodded.

While Decorio was adjusting the light reflectors, Robert had opened a cardboard box and was taking things out — a metal collar, leather cuffs, chains.

Her eyes widened, her skin tingled. But Robert had warned her that some of the "scenes" might have an "edge."

"Don't move," he whispered as he clamped the iron band about her throat. It was heavy and he secured it with a small padlock. Intrigued, she saw him drop the key into his trouser pocket.

The touch of his cold fingers and the colder metal on her neck had made her shiver. When he placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and pushed the narrow straps of her dress down her arms, in doing so drawing it downwards to just above the tips of her breasts, she trembled.

"Sorry, darling," he said.

She smiled and looked up at him, as he hitched the end of the chain attached to the pillar to a ring on her collar.

"No, don't raise your eyes; keep them lowered," he told her, softly.

"Bow your head," the other man growled.

She blinked and glanced about, but kept her eyes downcast. Yet the orders of the two men troubled her less than the fact that she obeyed them without further question.

Robert stood up and stroked her shoulders and neck, playing with the collar and its miniature lock. He tenderly brushed away the wisps of hair that had fallen across her brow when she drooped her head. Then he crouched behind her, took a gentle hold of her forearms and pulled them back, closing the leather bracelets around her wrists and connecting them. They fit snugly, but only if she held her arms straight, which caused her shoulders to stretch rearwards, her chest to push outwards and the front of her dress to slip a little more.

She found herself gasping little "Ooh!" sounds as Decorio made small adjustments to her position. He took many photos, from all angles and directions, and long before he'd finished the novelty of her situation had worn off. The air in the room was cooled, deliberately so (she believed) for the stimulating effect it had on her nipples (which raised little swellings in the flimsy fabric of her dress... but were just about all that held it in place). Her feet had gone numb from the freezing bite of the floor tiles, and the dulling sensation was creeping up her legs. Goosebumps stippled her skin, but her calf muscles were burning from the stress of kneeling.

"Dress off, please," the photographer said to Robert.

"Really?" She looked plaintively at her lover. He nodded gravely and freed her wrists from their shackles.

Not understanding exactly why she was complying, she peeled the white tunic from her body and let it fall to her knees. A sudden chill made her shudder, but that must have been in her head, because the dress had not offered much covering against the cold. Yet the poses she adopted for the camera, on Decorio's instructions, added immensely to the discomfort. Lying prostrate on the frosty tiles, on her back and on her stomach, she felt that she might turn to ice.

At last, with a gesture of curt dismissal, the photographer brought the session to an end.

"May I get dressed now?" Monique asked as he began packing away his equipment. She got to her feet and remembered that the chain would not allow her to move far from the platform. She rattled it against the column. Robert hesitated, just long enough to make her cheeks redden, before releasing her. She retreated behind the curtain in the corner of the room. As she pulled on her knickers, the caress of the cotton sliding over her loins felt both delicious and comforting. But from the other side of the screen she could hear an unfamiliar, feminine voice.

When she emerged, folding the little white frock, Robert and Mr Decorio were talking to a small, very attractive woman. Her brunette hair was cropped rather severely short. She was dressed in a business suit which was conservatively tailored except for the very brief skirt that gave a tantalizing glimpse of the lacy tops of her stockings and the ribbon suspenders of a garter belt. Girding her slender neck was an elegantly crafted leather choker. Around her wrists, half hidden by the sleeves of her jacket, were golden bangles. Her eyes flickered only fleetingly in Monique's direction. They glittered a steely blue. She was asking peculiar questions.

"Has she been tied up before, or chained?"

"Not by me," Robert answered.

"Whipped or spanked?"

"Not so far as I know."

Monique stepped forward to introduce herself, but the woman turned away.

"You've done well, Mr Decorio," she said as she left the room.

The two men talked briefly in low voices, and Monique heard the name "Lydia."

Monique and Robert followed soon afterwards. It was cold outside and he took off his coat to drape it affectionately over her shoulders. They kissed. It had been a strange evening. She had many questions. But they could wait.

When the door opened, she was confronted by a strange face. But it took her just a couple of seconds to recognize him. Mr Decorio was, in his own gnomish way, unforgettable.

"Come in," he said.

She did not move, and the man just smiled. Over his left shoulder, Robert appeared, carrying a scotch glass in each hand.

"Come in," he implored.

Her lover gave Decorio a sulky look, but that was all. This puzzled Monique as she brushed past into the room.

Robert gave one of the glasses to Decorio, who took just a sip before setting it down on the coffee table. Monique later recalled that he never touched it again.

"Here, let me have your coat," Robert said, but she angrily pushed his hand away. She took it off herself and left it with her purse on the sideboard.

"I thought we were..."

"Mr Decorio and I have some business."

"What sort of business?" She tried to make eye contact, but he turned his face away.

"Shall we sit down and discuss this matter together?" Decorio sat in one of the two armchairs and waved his hand inviting Robert to take the other. When he did so, Monique was surprised. She stared at him before bringing one of the chairs from the dining room. She set it down as far from the men as possible, the coffee table between them.

She regretted now having removed her coat. Robert had promised a "romantic dinner" and she had dressed for the occasion. She could almost feel Decorio's gaze slithering up her legs and down her cleavage.

"What sort of business?" she repeated. "You mean the photos?" Her mouth was dry. Robert had not offered her a drink.

The man looked amused. He shook his head.

"That is merely my... sideline, Miss... may I call you Monique?"

She nodded, but felt her cheeks become flushed.

"I guess you're going to tell me that glamour photography is your hobby. Those are the standard terms, aren't they? Glamour? Hobby?"

Decorio waved his hands in self-defence.

"Please, no. My profession. The company I work for employs me to provide certain services."

"Which company is that?"

He ignored the question. "One might say that my business is..." He paused, whether for dramatic effect or to find the right word she could not tell. His manner of speech was odd, stilted, as if he were speaking in a foreign tongue. "Acquisitions."

She saw Robert shift uncomfortably in his seat. Decorio saw it too.

"Perhaps property management might be the better description."

"Do you enjoy talking in riddles, Mr Decorio? Or is this some sort of seizure? Should we call a doctor?"

He laughed, loud and wholeheartedly.

"Oh yes," he said. "I like this one." He turned to look squarely at Robert. "We so rarely appreciate what we have." He paused. "I am mystified that you do not yet live together. It would make things so much less complicated... more convenient."

Very annoyed now, and more than a little unnerved, she stood up and strode towards the door. She halted with her hand resting on the unturned knob. Decorio grinned and Robert grimaced. Her coat and purse were on the other side of the room.

"Forgive me." The little man beckoned towards the chair. "We will complete our business and then I shall leave."

"Thank you," Robert said as she came back into the room; but before she could take her seat again he added, "Why don't you make us coffee?"

Glad to be out of there, she went to the kitchen. When she returned Robert was signing some papers. Monique did not mind that Decorio ignored the coffee. As he departed, he took her hand and seemed about to kiss it when he decided instead to shake.

"What a strange character," she said as the door closed. "Are you going to tell me what that was all about?"

"Soon enough," he replied.

"What exactly does that mean?" she demanded.

His face darkened, but his tone of voice was mellow. He pressed two fingers gently against her lips.

"Do you remember what you promised?"

She took a step backwards and bowed her head. The unpleasantness of the last half-hour dispersed into the mist of her desire for him.

"Yes, my love."

"Say it."

"Never question, always obey."

"Did you mean it?"

"Yes, my love."

"Show me."

She lowered herself to her knees and slipped her dress off her shoulders, down over her waist and hips, along with her panties. She bent forward until her forehead touched the carpet at his feet.

"Good girl. Stay like that. We won't go out tonight."

He went to get the ropes. While he was gone, as much as she tried not to, Monique thought about Mr Decorio. For though she hated to admit the fact, had it not been for that photo session two months ago, her relationship with Robert would likely not taken the road it had. Her lover had somehow been inspired. He had become more decisive, more in control, more... there was only one word that fit... manly.

This pleased her because for a while she felt that she'd been getting too assertive (domineering, even) while his easy-going nature seemed to have devolved into apathy. And it wasn't that she was uncomfortable with micromanaging their lives — in fact, that was the problem. Being the boss came too easily to her. Playing the passive partner came too readily to him. So it was nice to see the change in him and to feel the change in herself.

She felt it first and most keenly on the night of her birthday. Robert had promised her a gift, and when they arrived home from a fine dinner, he led her into the living room, and he sat on the sofa, and she stood facing him. He told her to take off her dress and her underwear. It was a demand, delivered dispassionately, and she complied feeling very self-conscious. For while it was hardly a new experience to stand naked before him, this was a strange sensation, to strip for him as he sat on the sofa and studied her body as she slowly revealed herself. Then he ordered her to dance, and though she was awkward he nodded and smiled, and she found herself, despite her embarrassment, pleased that he was pleased. Indeed, the discomfiture made her skin tingle and her insides twitch. And after that he told her to kneel, with her head lowered and her arms folded behind her back, to bend forward and kiss his feet. But this was hard to do without the use of her arms for support, and her nipples grazed the carpet. It surprised her how hard they were, how aroused she'd become. So when her lover commanded her to crawl to the bedroom, and she blissfully obeyed, she understood the nature of his gift to her.

It was odd, therefore, that in Decorio's presence Robert appeared to have reverted to the way he was before. But she put that out of her mind when he came back and began to bind her arms, and she submitted in silent joy. The lingering spirit of the strange, disheveled man did not perturb her. She understood with perfect clarity, and even pride, what it was she had become.

For in just those two months Monique had discovered that aspect of herself which had always been there but had lain dormant and deeply hidden. She and Robert would still have loved each other, she was sure of that, but her devotion had blossomed into pious adoration. She had not realized that she could be capable of such emotion and passion, or that she could know such happiness.

All she wanted was to please him. She belonged to him, would go anywhere with him, would do anything for him.

The butterfly was emerging from her chrysalis.

She had no idea how long she had been in her prison. Because the light never changed, she lost track of the time and had no way of knowing when day changed into night. In any case, mostly she was blindfolded, as she had been when she was brought here.

She had been taken up a circular stairway, so even though she had not seen the outside of the house or had opportunity to explore all that was inside, she knew that she was in some sort of tower or turret. From what she had glimpsed in the few brief moments when she had her vision, it was a small room with a low ceiling and no windows. The walls were unadorned and there was no furniture. In one corner was a toilet and a washbasin. Her only comfort was a coarse wool mat. The door was never closed (she would have heard the hinges creak as when she entered), so the air never became stale; but the result was that a cool current constantly wafted over her naked body. She had no blanket, although it was never too much for her to endure.

The chain attached to her collar hung from an overhead beam, with just enough margin to allow her to lie down. She could not reach the commode while tethered, so she had to rely on the indulgence of the Masters when they visited or the assistance of the slavegirls who brought her meals. The women were permitted to unchain her for this purpose, but her wrists remained clamped behind her back in their leather bracelets. Since there was no bath, every so often she was washed with sponges. Once two of the Masters took it upon themselves to do the job with scrubbing brushes until her flesh burned.

Normally, however, the Masters were gentle with her, much more than they had been on that first night. Because she could not see and they never spoke, she never knew which of the men it was who was having her, except when it was Robert. She could tell from the way her lover had always fondled her hair and how he nibbled on her breasts and belly, taking just enough between his teeth to make her gasp but not to break the skin. She was aware that each of the Masters had his own penchants, but she'd always had her eyes covered.

She welcomed the visits, and not just because most of the time she was left alone in the darkness of her blindfold and the confines of her bonds, with no company but her thoughts and no relief from the monotony except in her dreams. She loved each and every one of the men. Some were kind and some were cruel, some strict, others easy, some skilled in the enjoyment of a woman's body, some puerile and undisciplined. She knew (from the one time she had been permitted to look upon them) that most were handsome, one or two not so much. It did not matter. She loved them all, for what they had done to her and what she had done for them, for what they were and she was not. She loved them for the freedom which was theirs and which she was denied. She loved that they made her submit and forced her to obey, to become what she had always known was the thing she needed to be.