The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 07

homage (noun) — a expression of honor, respect or reverence for a person; an artistic or literary work imitating or in tribute to another

"She felt the way you do at night, deep in a dream you have dreamt before and is beginning again; certain that the dream exists, and certain that it will end; wanting it to end because you're afraid you will not be able to bear it, and wanting it to go on so you will know how it ends."

— Pauline Réage, Histoire d'O

A black limousine (not unlike one of those hackney cabs you see on the streets of London) waited outside the building, its engine humming languidly. A light breeze and a sprinkle of rain tickled on her face; but otherwise the night was quiet and still. The avenue was deserted, the houses enshrouded in the gloom of early evening. The pallid amber light cast by the roadside lamps was subdued and contorted into weird shapes by the cheerless drizzle.

A tall, heavy-set man in a grey suit and a broad-brimmed hat greeted Jane with an open umbrella to shelter her as they walked briskly to the car.

"Get in," he commanded. There was impatience in his voice.

She obeyed, and he climbed in after her, shedding his hat and coat and stowing them along with the umbrella under the seat. Andrew was already in the vehicle, and Jane found herself seated in the middle, braced between the young man and the large man. She started to brush the droplets of rainwater from her skirt, taking care to keep the water off the trousers on each side of her. She grasped the hem where it had ridden up her thigh, to draw it towards her knees, but the big man put his hand on hers and pressed it down. She recoiled at his touch, and he must surely have felt her flinch, but he said nothing.

On the bench facing them was a woman who acknowledged the two males with a quick glance and a terse nod and then looked squarely at Jane. The compartment was only half-lit, but even in the semi-darkness Lydia was stunning, a petite, gorgeous brunette, with eyes that glistened like blue sapphires, and cherry-red lips which curled ever so slightly in a subtle smile. Her cheeks were lightly rouged but her hair was cut short in a severe, almost masculine style. She wore a champagne-colored overcoat, with the sides parted to reveal a plain black dress. Her hands were folded in her lap, and on the left middle finger was a signet ring, chunkier than what most women would wear. It was hard to make out a motif in the dim lighting — interlocking S-shapes. Encircling her throat was a close-fitting leather collar, the clasp at the front a miniature padlock. Curiously, the woman's coat and dress were bunched up behind her, so she was not sitting on them.

As Jane reached down for the buckle, the big man commanded "No seat-belt." She'd always been very safety-conscious and opened her mouth to protest. Then she thought better of it and clamped her jaws.

The glass partition separating them from the driver was glazed, so she could not see who was behind the wheel, but she was able discern a form which looked fuzzily feminine. Lydia spoke briefly through a small open panel. And as they slowly pulled away from the kerb, Andrew gently stroked Jane's arm. She thought he was about to say something, maybe even kiss her cheek, but he just turned away again, staring out the window into the deepening gloom.

"Give him your purse," Lydia said, nodding towards Andrew. She spoke with a slight accent (perhaps French, maybe something more exotic), but there was authority — and a certain coldness — in her voice.

Andrew took her purse but immediately passed it across her lap to the big man, who rummaged through it, for no good reason Jane could ascertain. Then he tossed it rudely to the floor. The contents spilled around her feet.

"You won't be needing it," he said blandly.

She dared not reply.

Lydia frowned but did not otherwise react. "Take off your jewelry," she instructed after they had driven a while.

Jane removed her watch and earrings and pendant, and dropped them into Andrew's hand. He did not hand them over (and she was thankful for that), but put them instead in his coat pocket.

"Now your shoes."

She kicked them off.

"And your stockings."

"I'm wearing pantyhose," she said.

The woman did not respond.

Jane paused, but only for a second or two. She had known this was coming, what she was getting into; and when she'd had the opportunity to do so she did not refuse. She had always been this way, of course, never backing away from a challenge. When she and Andrew were kids, when they played together, Jane was the adventurous one, taking the lead in their exploits and escapades. And they had not really changed — not in that sense, anyway.

With a soft sigh she raised herself slightly off the seat, pushing with her shoulders and the backs of her knees against it. She reached under her skirt to draw the nylon down her thighs. This produced a peculiar buzz she had never felt before, simply removing her pantyhose, because here in the car with people watching her, it seemed so promiscuous. When it was scrunched at her knees, Lydia raised her hand.

"Leave it there," she said.

They were by now heading out into the country, along a narrowing winding road. Trees loomed out of the dark across their path, menacing silhouettes against the diffuse orange glow seeping into the sullen sky from the receding lights of the city.

"Don't sit on your skirt. Pull it up behind you."

Puzzled, she looked across at the other woman, at her coat and dress and how they were pushed behind her. And so, silently, Jane lifted her body from the seat once more and drew back the skirt from under her bottom. The upholstery was cool and slick and sticky, queerly sensual, against her naked skin. She felt a delicious tingle when the leather peeled away as the car rounded a bend. It clung again as she sank back into the seat when the road straightened.

She sighed and shivered as the big man raised his hand and lowered it to rest briefly on her right knee. Then fleshy fingers crept slowly up under her hemline and along her bare thigh. This made her shudder, and he pulled away, but only to reach for the collar of her blouse. He fondled it for a moment, then moved his hand downwards. He opened the blouse, taking his time to pop each button; and when he'd finished, he pulled the two sides apart. He traced his fingers upwards over her belly and her chest, pausing to play with the straps of her brassiere. His hand slid over her breasts, squeezing them through the bra's delicate tulle, and seized the gore between the cups.

She marveled at her own shameless audacity, in permitting this man to do what he was doing. She wondered if it was too late now to change her mind, and pondered the consequences of backing out, as well as the cost of going on. At this thought she must have cringed, because the man was all of a sudden angry.

"Sit still," he growled. That startled and frightened her. Andrew made no effort at all to comfort her, but Lydia laid a soothing, reassuring hand briefly on her trembling knee.

The man tugged brusquely on the front of her bra to strip it off, and she was jolted forward. It did not break free, and the straps burned into her shoulders as he jerked on it several times.

"Please..." she said finally. He relented, but his hand remained where it was. She leaned forward and reached behind her back, under her blouse. She unfastened the clasp. The man pulled again, and this time the straps broke and her brassiere came away. He let it fall to the floor.

They drove on for a long time, in silence. Her breasts, naked and free, quivered and swayed with the motion of the car. The inside edges of her parted blouse caressed her nipples; the leather tickled her backside and thighs. Each time the road curved, the three bodies on the seat leaned with it, and the touch of the trousers on both sides on her knees thrilled her in a way that it would not have if she had not been so exposed. It was a weird, pleasantly erotic sensation, as she sat there, between the two men, watched by the other woman, feeling open and wanton and defiant.

The rain was coming down hard by the time they turned off the highway. It was difficult to tell exactly how far they traveled after that, because the car sped up and slowed down as it slewed and skidded along the twisting, rutted dirt road. The excitement was building inside her, along with the dread, and it seemed like half an eternity had passed before, after a sharp turn, there was a crunching of pebbles under the tires, a scraping of low-slung tree branches across the roof, and the rasping of iron gates that swung on rusted hinges. Abruptly, the engine cut out and they rolled to a halt.

No one moved or spoke, except the driver, who exited the car and came round to Andrew's side to open the door. Their chauffeuse was a woman about Jane's age, tall and athletic. In the shimmer of a driveway lamppost, Jane saw that she was, like Lydia almost unbearably beautiful. Her hair was cropped like Lydia's. She waited stoically, standing at attention uncovered in the rain, her diaphanous white dress clinging soddenly to the luxurious contours of her body. Her throat was girded by a broad leather collar, and similar bands were affixed to her wrists and ankles.

At last the big man beside Jane spoke. "Lean forward. More."

She bent her body until her chin was almost between her knees.

"Put your hands behind you."

She crossed her arms over the small of her back. The man was gruff in his words and his actions. He looped a cord about and between her wrists, drawing the ends tightly and cinching the knot with a vicious tug. She barely stifled a yelp.

She did not understand why she was restrained in this way, because she did not feel like a prisoner and had no intention of disobeying her instructions; but she did not resist. Her instinct was to test her bonds by flexing and twisting her arms, but the effort produced only chafing.

It was Andrew who blindfolded her, with a red satin sash, brushing his fingers tenderly across her cheeks as he placed the cloth over her eyes, tying it in place firmly but gently. Funnily enough, being rendered sightless did not disturb her as much as the first feel of the rope around her wrists. There was something oddly comforting about being in the dark. It calmed her to not know what was happening and what was about to happen. She felt like she was having one of those weird dreams, when the things going on around you don't make sense but it doesn't bother you, because things are not supposed to make sense.

As she was being bound, Jane was still leaning forward. The two men's movements as they prepared her caused her nipples, already aroused by what she was feeling (and by the chill of the air from the open door), to brush and rub against her thighs. She could not hold in a soft moan.

She tried to sit up, but a hand on the back her neck brusquely held her down.

"Stay as you are," the big man commanded.

"Nearly done," Lydia whispered.

One of the men (she thought it was Andrew) wrapped a belt around her arms, just above the elbows. When he drew it tight and buckled it, the stress on her chest as her shoulders were wrenched backwards by the tension of the strap forced a gush of gasps and groans from her lungs. Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled upwards to make her sit straight once more; but he did in a way as not to hurt her.

Behind her blindfold, she had no clue what the others were doing, but she heard shuffling noises, and then the part of the seat to her right heaved, as the big man climbed out of the car. She started to move as well, but Andrew's hand was on her shoulder holding her back. She felt something pressing lightly against her lips. It was smooth but pliable, with a velvet quality, and she did not realize straightaway what it was. But after some prodding she opened her jaws and Andrew pushed the ball in. It fit snugly behind her teeth, filling her mouth and depressing her tongue, but well clear of her throat, so she had no fear of choking. It had a slightly pungent, rubbery taste, unpleasant but not repellent.

Andrew secured her gag with a rigid leather strap, the edges of which dug painfully into her cheekbones as he buckled it in place; but once it was fastened it was not so bad. Even without the attempt, she knew she could no longer speak, nor indeed make any sound other than a gurgled, gargled mumble.

She did not have much time to savor this latest brand-new sensation.

"Get out," the big man ordered.

Both men helped her, half-dragged her, from the car. It wasn't easy with her arms pinioned. The pantyhose bunched at her knees fell to her ankles when she stood upright. Neither of her escorts made any attempt to free her feet, or to assist her in doing so, as she shuffled along the gravel driveway. She managed to kick away the nylon only just before losing her footing.

Andrew had taken a firm grip on her strapped elbows and steered her onto a cobbled path. The stones were jagged under her bare feet, and greasy from the rain. Several times she slipped; and although he stopped her from falling, he did nothing to warn her when they reached a set of steps. Sightless, she stumbled at the bottom one. Her shins knocked painfully against its sharp edge. She rasped a feeble remonstration through her gag.

They halted on the porch. "We will leave you here," the big man said. "When the door opens, do what you're told. If you refuse, or hesitate, or disobey, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

She slowly bowed her head.

It was Lydia who continued. She sounded unfazed by her colleague's harsh words. "Never forget, you are here of your own free will. No one has forced you. Do you agree?"

This time she replied with a vigorous nod.

"You're doing well." Andrew spoke in a low, soothing voice. "Remember, we're in this together."

Jane was grateful at that moment for the blindfold and bulbous gag. They concealed her laugh.

"Don't worry about your purse and shoes," Lydia told her. "You won't need them."

No one knocked or rang a doorbell. So she waited. At least she was out of the rain. The men's footsteps retreated, but in what direction she could not tell. She did not know what had become of Lydia or the chauffeuse. She did not hear the car start up and move off. Yet she knew she was alone, cold and wet and fearful. Her bound arms ached, her wrists felt numb and swollen. The ball-gag did not quite seal her mouth, and dribble oozed from the corners and down her chin. She shivered as the breeze gusted onto the porch, over her bare arms and legs, under her skirt to tickle her uncovered loins, and through her open blouse. Her wounds, although mild (there was no blood trickling down her shins) had begun to throb.

It was some time before the door creaked open. Warm dry air wafted over her. She could faintly discern a bright light as a dull, orange-gray radiance beyond her blindfold. Pairs of hands took hold of her arms and guided her over the threshold. No words were spoken, but the fingers were slender, soothing and feminine. A luxurious thick-pile carpet was squishy and friendly between her toes, even if water still dripped down her legs and formed a saturated patch beneath her feet. Her attendants (there were three of them) did not seem to mind as they undressed her. The skirt came off without any trouble, but with her arms still bound behind her, the blouse could only be cut away. Jane sighed on hearing the scissor blades shear through it. But the woman who did the cutting fondled the material as she did so, and the back of her hand kept brushing against Jane's breasts. They lingered long enough for Jane to be aware that the touch was not unintended.

Now she was naked, but for her blindfold and gag, the cord and the strap.

The women began drying her hair and body with a fluffy, heated towel. They dabbed her chest, patted her back and shoulders, buffed her belly, padded her intimate parts. The way her arms were pinned behind her back pushed out her front, straining her bosom to a piquant stiffness, and the sensual strokes of the warm fleece drew from her a blissful whimper. One of the attendants tended to her shins, gently daubing the abrasions with a cloth and tenderly applying some sort of ointment. Another sprinkled perfumed water, which had a subtle floral fragrance, over her body, and applied rouge to her lips, nipples and labia. They were fastidious and unhurried. They said not a word.

When they were done, each of the females in turn ran her hands slowly down Jane's torso, front and back, caressing each curve and exploring both of her lower crevices. She felt an unexpected thrill, something different from what she had experienced so far. As all three, at once, began to tease and squeeze her quivering body, as her insides tightened and she began to convulse in the exquisite agony of an onrushing orgasm, she suddenly remembered where she was, what she was and why she was here. Yet it seemed not quite real, as if she were in a play, and all the actors but herself had read the script. Or maybe this was a dream, and all these other people were nothing more than her imaginary creations. Perhaps it was part of a joke she had not yet got. But she did know that she had once, as a teenage girl, read a novel which reminded her very much of this. If only she could recall the details, to prepare herself for what was to come...

She could not see the women, knew nothing about them. She was stark naked and completely helpless in their lustful clutches. But they belonged to her.

The new mistress of the Château Chaînerie sucked in a few hurried, panting breaths before the next wave of pleasure shuddered through her.

"You're lucky, Jeanne had repeated; they will be much harder on you. What had she meant by that? Then she ceased to be conscious of anything but the collar, the bracelets and the chain. Her body began to drift, to vanish in the wake. She was going to understand."

— Pauline Réage, Histoire d'O

It must have been close to midday when she awoke. There was just one small window, but she could guess the hour from the angle of the sun's rays.

Apart from that there was not much light, and it took a while for her sleep-blurred eyes to adjust. The room was sparsely but elegantly furnished. The bed was a large four-poster with slender carved columns of red oak but no canopy. In the corner were a velvet-covered sofa and an "Ottoman" style tuffet or footstool. The floor was of wooden boards polished to a high sheen. Beside the bed was a lush rug of rich magenta speckled with gold filaments and decorated with a circular pattern of linked S-shapes, also of gold thread, identical to the design on Lydia's ring. There was no door, just a crimson curtain draped across the opening. The walls were painted a glossy black, and more crimson hangings bedecked the entrance to a compact cubicle containing a hand basin and toilet. There were no lighting fixtures except for a bracket lamp glowing feebly next to the bed.

The mattress on which Jane lay naked was queen-sized and sumptuous. The silk sheets and quilt were not folded down. Above the headboard was fixed to the wall a steel circle approximately the width of a hand, and next to it was embedded a metal hook. They were far enough from the floor that Jane could reach them only if she stretched on tiptoes (and if her hands were free); but she was not very tall, and the average man would do so without effort. A slim silver chain was fastened to the hoop and descended to her collar. She probed the neckband with her fingers. It was snug enough to girdle her throat and stay in place halfway up, and not slip around. Fashioned in several thin layers of leather, it was lined on the inside with fur or felt so that the edges did not abrade the skin. She could discern by touch an inscription embossed on the outside, flanking the small ring on the front and the lock on the back. As there was no mirror, she had no way of determining what the words might be.