The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 07

Lingering in that foggy twilight of half-asleep and half-awake, she took a few moments to gain her proper senses. Though her blindfold had slipped off her eyes during the night, her hands were still shackled, now in front rather than behind her back. Clamped on her wrists were gold-plated bracelets crafted in the form of finely braided ropes. On each was a tiny clasp, and the means by which they were snapped together made it impossible for the wearer to unlink them. They were also clipped onto the loop on Jane's collar, so her hands were joined just below her chin, in "prayer" position.

Across the room, on top of the dresser, lay the key to her shackles. It was just out of reach. The chain which anchored her to the ring on the wall was long enough for her to move about and get to the toilet stall, but it had been looped over the hook in such a way that the slack which remained would not permit her to obtain the key. She tugged half-heartedly, and fiddled with the lock on her collar. Neither yielded; but what bothered her most of all was being deprived of the full use of her hands. It was frustrating to have the rest of her body thus made inaccessible to her, as if a reminder that it no longer belonged to her; and she worried how she would cope if she needed to use the toilet.

Memories of the night came back slowly, and might have been a dream but for the aching in her limbs and the markings on her body. Still bound, gagged and sightless, she was taken to her room by the women, who placed her against the wall with the chain attached to her collar shortened so that she was forced to stand there for what felt like and may have been hours. It was excruciating to be alone in the dark and the silence, fighting fatigue, fending off the enervating boredom with all kinds of imaginings. Eventually the aching of her jaws and the pain in her arms and leg muscles gave way to numbness, and she descended into a sort of waking dream in which she heard voices and saw things that were not there. But then, sometime in the middle of the night, men came, at least two of them but maybe more. It was hard to tell because none of them spoke. One of them removed her gag, which felt good after so much time. Her mouth was dry, her lips were puckered and her jaws were sore. He then freed her arms, but only to raise her hands over her head and shackle them to the hook that held her chain. She was made to face the wall, and from the way she was posed and her body exposed, she knew what was coming. Even so, the first stroke, from a cane because of how it stung, was a shock. She yelped and one of the men chuckled. The second was a burning slap, from a leather belt, and she groaned. There were several more before hands that were surprisingly gentle turned her around so that she faced her tormentors, albeit from behind her blindfold. Now her breasts and belly and thighs were assailed by the cane and the strap, but she no longer made any noise, too exhausted to expel the air from her lungs.

When the men had gone, one of the girls returned and loosened the chain to allow her to lie on the bed; but she attached Jane's shackled wrists to her collar so that she had no good use of her hands.

After that, Jane was left in peace, and in solitude, visited only by occasional moments of terror as she considered her condition. It occurred to her that, though her bed might be soft, she was chained in a cell, humiliated and flogged, as if she were a convict condemned for some heinous crime; but the worst prisoners were not subjected to the cruelty she had suffered while guilty of no crime. So it fascinated her that she felt no anguish or indignation, but rather a strange exhilaration.

Soon after she had awoken, Jane was brought a meal. It could serve as breakfast or lunch; it did not matter; but it was skimpy, just a piece of dry toast, a peeled banana and a slice of melon. In any case, she wasn't hungry. The cup of tea, however, was a blessing. She normally drank coffee in the morning; but flavored and scented with something sweetly aromatic she could not identify, on Jane's parched lips this was empyrean nectar.

Her server was the chauffeuse from last night, still wearing her choker and wrist and ankle cuffs, but otherwise nude. Jane could not help but stare. Exposed by the daylight, the young woman was even lovelier than she had looked in the evening rain. Her lean curves, satin-smooth skin and sleek long legs, her golden-brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes conveyed a vibrant athleticism and a fresh-faced innocence. Jane thought back to the lively, laughing girls she used to watch on the hockey field and the running track, their lustrous tanned limbs dancing in a sensual ballet of energy and grace, their breasts bobbing and jogging and swaying to the rhythm of their moves. She had wondered then about the feelings stirring inside her, never really understanding — or if understanding, never really accepting.

While she ate and sipped, sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands still shackled at her throat, the two of them did not speak. The fact is, Jane felt embarrassed, naked and chained as she was, even if the girl standing silently before her was equally bare. Plus there was an awkward moment when the girl proffered a small tablet, the purpose of which Jane understood immediately; and when she shook her head the girl gave her a quizzical look. But it would be the last time while she was in the Château that Jane would refuse the little pill.

(Before entering the house, knowing what she was getting herself into, she had asked about protection. She was told, ominously, that inserted devices might not withstand the rigorous lifestyle of the Château.)

As she put the empty cup back on the tray, she looked closely at her server's collar. Imprinted on it were five sufficing words.

RACHEL PROPERTY OF THE CHAÎNERIE

She was about to say something when there was a noise outside the doorway, and the curtain parted. Rachel immediately stood back from the bed, rigidly at attention but with her arms behind her back, not folded but with fingertips touching elbows. She pulled her shoulders backwards, to push out her splendid chest. She kept her eyes downcast in humble submission to their visitors.

Andrew and another man came into the room. Her cousin was wearing the clothes he had arrived in last night, but they looked freshly laundered and pressed. His companion was clad (rather absurdly Jane thought) in brown breeches and black boots and a ruffled white shirt (the sort of thing you imagine being worn by poets and pirates). He looked to be no more than twenty, was short and stocky with the teenager's chubbiness not yet entirely burnt off. He had lank, flaxen hair and greenish grey eyes, and a thin-lipped mouth that drooped at the corners. Lodged in his right boot, Jane noted with alarm, was what appeared to be a riding crop.

"Time to rise," Andrew said.

"What o'clock is it? Have I really slept all morning?"

There was no response.

"Master," she added.

"It's not a lot before noon. So yes, you did."

The other young man grinned benignly. "You needed it. You weren't allowed much sleep, were you? You're still..." He did not finish the sentence.

She shook her head in agreement, and to disperse the remaining fog. She waited for one of them to speak again. An uneasy silence followed. She stole a peek at Rachel, grasped the problem, got up from the bed, stood ramrod-straight and bowed her head. She did it so quickly, so mechanically (once she knew what was expected of her) that she did not think about the shame of her nudity until it was too late to worry.

Andrew nodded appreciatively. Jane blushed, surprisingly proud of her unquestioning compliance. But she flushed a bright red when he added "Good girl."

Beside her, Rachel giggled.

"There's a problem, female?" the other man demanded.

"No, Master," she replied through gritted teeth.

Sir Andrew stood there in silence, and though she dared not raise her head she knew he was studying her naked body. She felt her skin prickling, and for the first time since entering the car outside her home she felt the pangs of regret. She could almost feel his eyes creep over her body. They were cousins (albeit second cousins) and childhood playmates, and this felt so wrong. But when she took the chance of glancing up, what she saw on his face was not lust but pity. She bit her lip to suppress a smile. His gaze flickered past her breasts and pubes, to settle on the red welts on her thighs and belly which looped around to her back and bottom. There were a dozen, some narrow, the marks of the cane, others the broad streaks from the strap. Oddly enough, until reminded by Sir Andrew's sympathetic stare, she'd forgotten about them.

Jane glanced cautiously at her other visitor. She frowned. There was something about him and the girl that drew her attention. Rachel was at least a couple of years older, and half a head taller. He was somewhat flabby, his clothes ill-fitting and disheveled; whereas her body, sans attire, was trim and taut. But there was enough similarity between them that with a shock (and a little revulsion), Jane realized that the two might be brother and sister.

Sir Andrew went over to the dresser and picked up the key. He gestured to Rachel, who took it and unlocked the chain from Jane's collar, and released her hands as well. But the girl immediately took hold of her arms and pushed them behind her back. She nudged Jane forward until she was just in front of Sir Andrew, but turned away, so that he could clip together the bands on her wrists. Then he blindfolded her, with the same red sash he had used the previous night. After that, he attached a tether to her collar; and with this he led her out of the room.

"Hurry up," she was told. "The games begin in half an hour."

Behind them, Rachel was most likely taking the tray to the kitchen.

The floor tiles in the hallway were numbingly cold under Jane's bare feet, and she almost stumbled as they entered the stairwell. "Mind your step," her guide advised, being far less helpful than he no doubt intended to be. As they came out into the vestibule, she could hear hushed voices and muted laughter, male and female. Unable to see, she had no way of knowing if she was the focus of attention; but from somewhere off to her right came a muffled squeal and elsewhere a moan, both feminine and partially smothered by passage through a gag.

They entered another corridor, a short one that led into what seemed to be an interior courtyard, since it was an open, sunny space with neither breeze nor the sounds of trees and birds and insects, and the men's footsteps echoed. She was steered to a pole or pillar on one side of the enclosure, and made to stand with her back to it, the column nestled between her shoulder blades. She ran her fingers along its surface; her hands were still cuffed behind her. It felt smooth but slightly granular, like half-polished marble. The cable which had served as her leash was secured to a hook or a peg above her head so that she could not move away from her position, nor bend her knees or body without pulling on the collar and choking herself.

Before leaving her there, one of the men — she hoped it was not Sir Andrew — drew his hand up the inside of her thigh and briefly penetrated her. She gasped, but that was all. Could she have imagined, just twenty-four hours ago, responding thus... hardly responding at all? She heard them depart, and then she waited. It was impossible to judge the passage of time, because she was placed in the shade of an awning, so she could not keep track of the sun's movement.

She was not by herself the entire afternoon, however. Every so often one or two men would come into the courtyard. This would be during a lull in the chorus of noises and voices she could hear emanating from some distance beyond the walls. There were squeals and screams, and shouts and laughter. Her piqued curiosity was tempered by the dread certainty that she would soon be a player in those games. Her visitors came mainly to gawk at her, and make a few crude comments about her body; sometimes they would fondle her breasts and probe between her legs. Once they brought with them several of the slavegirls, who pleasured her with their lips and tongues. But most of the time she was alone, attended only by her thoughts and feelings, questioning why she was there, wondering where it would all end and what she would become.

She knew when it was getting near sunset because she sensed, behind her blindfold, the sky begin to darken. A breeze swirled across the flagstones and, starting at her toes, the cold air crept up her naked body like an oozing, muculent shroud. Then two of the women came for her, and took her to a bathroom on the second floor — one guiding her on the leash, the other tapping her lightly on the hip when they reached the stairs and on the shoulder to warn her of corners to be turned. Her cuffs and blindfold were removed and she showered alone. Then Rachel accompanied her back to her gilded cell. Another girl, Siobhán (each girl's name was inscribed on her collar), was waiting for them, and she informed Jane that they had been ordered to prepare her for dinner. Before they started, her bracelets were locked behind her back, and she sat on the edge of the bed as they applied perfume, lipstick and eye shadow, rouged her cheeks and the tip of each breast and the lips below her belly. Siobhán lovingly stroked Jane's hair before tying it up. (It was impossible to ignore that all the women Jane had been able to see so far in the Château had short-cropped hairstyles, whether sporty like Rachel's or boyish like Lydia's or pixie-cut like this girl's. She had no idea, then, why this might be so, whether it was a rule or a custom, a practical measure for some reason, or just a fashion.)

Once she had been made ready, she was blindfolded once more and taken downstairs. When the red sash was removed, she found herself in a dining room that was not very spacious but opulently adorned and furnished, with marble flooring, polished wood-panel walls, a baroquely carved ceiling and ornate crystal chandelier. On the wall at the far end there hung a large portrait, of a stern-faced middle-aged man and a sweet-faced woman. Wearing an old-fashioned three-piece suit and a flowing black cape, the man stood with one hand clutching his vest and the other resting upon the head of the woman, who was nude and kneeling by his side. The couple's resemblance to Jane and Sir Andrew would have been obvious to everyone present.

Most of the room was taken up by a heavy oak table, at which were seated a dozen males, who looked to be aged between twenty and thirty years, and in no way distinguished in appearance except for their tuxedos. At the head was Sir Andrew while sitting to his right was Lydia, the only woman at the table, who was nude. The chair at the other end was vacant, and to it Jane was led by her two attendants, one of whom freed her hands from their golden shackles. Lydia alone rose, and remained standing until Jane was in her place. The leather under her naked bottom felt clammily cold and slippery, and she did not experience the sensual congeniality of the limousine's upholstery. The edges of the seat pressed into the raw skin of her thighs, and the intricately chiseled slats that formed the hind part of the chair left their imprint on her bare back. But she was famished, having eaten nothing in more than a day apart from that scanty noontime repast.

In deciding how to behave in the presence of the Masters, Jane took her prompts from Lydia, who did not appear to be following the imperative of keeping her gaze lowered or averted to avoid the insolence of eye contact. She talked freely when spoken to but did not initiate conversation. She nibbled at the food on her plate, took but a few sips of her wine. She never acknowledged the presence of the half-dozen slavegirls who served the meal and drinks. The males, particularly the younger ones, nodded their appreciation but never spoke to them.

The Master who sat to Jane's right was Sir Ethan, the young man who had come with Sir Daniel to fetch her at noon. He tried to engage her in the table talk more than once, but she resisted being drawn in, for fear that her words or simply her presumption in speaking to a male as if she were his equal might get her into trouble. He good-humoredly shrugged off the rebuff and turned his attention to one of the waitresses, graceful, raven-haired Elizabeth. He pushed his chair back to put her across his knee, and the woman's forehead rested against Jane's thigh under the table, as she began to gasp and moan. The other diners glanced at them with only mild curiosity, while without being instructed a diminutive brunette stepped forward from her waiting station against the wall to take up Elizabeth's serving duties.

After the dessert had been finished, the dishes cleared away and the coffee brought out, one of the men rose from his place with glass in hand. The other Masters, and Lydia, joined him in standing, facing Sir Andrew who remained sitting. Cued by a subtle shake of Lydia's head, Jane stayed seated as well. The half dozen slavegirls in the room lay on their bellies, arms behind their backs, legs apart.

The speaker made some remarks before offering a toast. Jane, staring at the prostrate females on the floor, didn't really listen and hoped she would not be called on to respond. All she heard were his final words.

"So let us drink to the lord and lady of the Château Chaînerie."

"You look at a star for two reasons, because it is luminous and because it is inscrutable. You have beside you a sweeter radiance and a greater mystery — woman."

— Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

Andrew opened his eyes, yawned and sat up. The places beside him were empty. He struggled to recall what he had done with the lovely Lydia and the gorgeous Justine. Then he saw the chain fixed to the post at the foot of the bed. He quietly moved to that end of the mattress and peered over the edge. The two women were curled up on the rug, asleep, their naked bodies embraced, arms and legs intertwined. The connector between their collars had just two or three links, so they were coupled face to face, lip to lip, breast to breast, belly to belly. It was a vision so sublime, so alluring, so overwhelming that he had to hold his breath, lest he roar out his joy and waken them.

Lydia stirred, her nose twitched as she felt Justine's gentle breathing on her face; she smiled and sighed, but her eyes did not open. Andrew studied the slumbering forms. In the morning light, Lydia's skin glowed honey-gold, Justine's a sun-kissed mahogany. Across the thighs, backs, buttocks and hips of each woman was a criss-cross of faint pink markings and swellings, the slowly fading memoir of yesterday's games and last night's entertainment.

He lay down again and saw himself, sprawled in purple silk pajamas on black satin sheets, reflected in the overhead mirror. He laughed (but not too loud). Apart from that cliché, he might have been in the royal suite of some palatial hotel. Never had he seen such opulence in a bedroom. And yet, for all the lavish accouterments, nothing surpassed the sumptuous splendor of his two sleeping beauties. It seemed a pity to disturb them, but he was not yet done with those succulent, obliging bodies.

It had been a strange few days since Lydia had summoned him and Jane to that extraordinary meeting.

The cousins had known each other all his life; Jane was a year and a bit older. He'd always had a crush on her, and as they were second cousins that was not out of bounds. She was pretty and popular, very smart and from what he'd seen utterly fearless. Because neither of them had siblings and they lived close by, they played together as children, and as teenagers were still friends; but in recent years their families had grown apart. Her Grandpa Joe had been an eccentric character, and something happened which caused a rift between him and his brother, Andrew's grandfather. No one spoke openly about the scandal, but there had been rumors of an affair between Joe and his sister-in-law. When they all gathered at the funeral, nothing was said of the falling out, and some healing took place.