The Visitor

However, in the immediate aftermath of her initial enslavement, she could only manage the memories, the psychic trauma by pushing thoughts of personal culpability deep down, avoiding panic. Instead she told herself she did what she did, said what she said during her captivity solely for survival. In a similar vein, she rationalized her silence following her "liberation", her pretense of normalcy, was her only alternative to avoid social and economic ruin.

Yet in that moment when he told her the price of her surrender, she was beyond analytical thoughts -- indeed, beyond most forms of critical thinking. As with her earlier steps toward defeat, she wasn't allowed to simple submit to being shaved; she was expected to beseech him for the privilege, which she did with a degrading degree of passion, trying to believe her own lewd and pitiable oaths and protestations, the better to convince him of her sincerity.

By then it was apparent that despite the great self-discipline and restraint her visitor had demonstrated up to that point, he was eager to see his whore shorn. Therefore, he did not make her grovel very long before marching her into the bathroom, placing her on the toilet seat, and lathering up her nether locks.

Even as he wiped away the last of the shaving cream, revealing her freshly denuded mons and labia, she felt -- no; knew -- that he had taken something more from her than just hair. He had taken the illusion that she was an innocent victim with no culpability for her situation.

She had always thought of herself as a good person -- not a saint, mind you, but decent and moral. Yet as she stared at her freakishly bald and vulnerable vulva, what she saw was the shameful stigmata of her submission to Evil. She was now an accomplice to Evil... therefore, she was now evil. She was, what they used to call, a Fallen Woman... Whore... Wanton... Slattern... Slut. In her world... or the world she used to live in... no decent, moral woman would allow a man, any man -- especially this man -- to desecrate her most intimate flesh in that way.

No; not allow -- she had begged for it. Oh, she could tell herself he forced her to those profane petitions, but how could he force her except by the promise of surcease of suffering? Despite a lifetime of sermons extolling the virtue of righteous suffering over sinful ease... over even life itself... her pretentions to moral superiority evaporated in a heartbeat in the face a little pain and the fear of more.

In her old world, a righteous woman (as she had thought herself to be) would have endured anything rather than agree to his despicable, unnatural demands. Because if such a woman did dishonor herself and her principles through abject capitulation, how could she continue to live?

Looking back with her years of agony-educated experience, she saw the worst torments she had endured during her breaking as barely foreplay by her current standards of suffering. He would never have permanently harmed her, much less killed her -- he even admitted as much to her years later, though she had long since divined as much on her own.

So, 10 years later, still hearty and hale... and still the complete and utter slave to this unholy monster... she had at last come to the bitter realization that if she wasn't morally weak, she would not be this man's bitch and fucktoy.

She had come to know -- with anguish and remorse worthy of a Greek tragedy -- what she truly was; a worthless wanton whore, who not only rolls over like a kicked dog for her owner, eager to suck the dick that rapes her, but, having moved beyond pride or shame, obsequiously accepts -- God help her... revels in -- the scraps of lascivious pleasure her master tosses her way.

At least these days she no longer needed to shave her sex; years before, shaving had given way to waxing, in turn giving way to laser and electrolysis treatments -- which included her legs and her underarms -- so that now she was perfectly and permanently smooth from her neck to her toes. A great time savings, she thought absently.

***

Trying to keep herself in the present, she set aside these morbid and pointless musings, focusing instead on the task of removing her stockings and garter belt.

There was a ritual as to how she had to remove them. He liked rituals. First, she leans over, bending from the waist, both arms outstretched, her hands on the ankle of her outstretched leg. It was so similar to a basic ballet position that she was sure this is where he got the idea. Then, she slowly runs her hands up the entire length of her long, firm, shapely and virtually unblemished dancer's leg. Then she repeats the gesture on the other leg.

Supposedly, this was to smooth out her nylons, but of course, it was actually to sensuously display her stocking-clad gams to their best affect.

He loved her legs. He especially loved her legs in stockings.

As she began unfastening her garter clasps, she again thought of the many ways he had transformed her outer appearance in order to reshape the woman within.

Oddly enough, of all the covert alterations imposed upon her, having to parade around daily in fetish underwear was the one that most profoundly drove home and reinforced her subjugated condition. Her physical "upgrades" rarely made their presence felt during a typical day, but she was ever conscious of the garter suspenders against her bare thighs, the firm, restrictive embrace of a girdle, corselette, waist cincher or corset, the need for extra caution to avoid exposure every time she sat, stood, entered or exited a vehicle.

Then there was always the irrational fear that everyone she met "knew" she was wearing slutty lingerie beneath her otherwise unremarkable outfits.

The shame she felt by being constantly reminded of the whore's uniform she wore beneath her deceptively wholesome clothes, paled before the guilt she experienced when she acknowledged the erotic thrill this sensation gave her.

It was during his third visit that he instituted the change in her intimate apparel. He insisted she wear stockings everyday -- never pantyhose or knee-highs. And no pants either; he ordered her to get rid of virtually all her slacks, pants and jeans. He then took her on a shopping spree to a mall more than 50 miles from her town to secure a starter supply of suitable undergarments.

Mortified, she was extremely compliant, trying desperately not to draw attention to herself and her much younger escort as they selected suggestive "unmentionables".

Once they returned to her home, he told her to order more such lingerie via the internet... much more. He even presented her with a list of the items she needed to buy, and a list of online suppliers from which she may wish to choose.

She was about to object that she was a public-school teacher with limited income, when he produced an envelope containing a great deal of cash. He told her to deposit the cash, make the purchases on her credit card, and then pay off the balance on her card. He knew just how much she owed on the card and what her limit was. She would soon learn there was very little he did not know about her.

"Oh," he added, "and take a grand and buy yourself something nice... something fun."

As she was to discover over the years, whatever his other personality defects were, stinginess with money was not among them.

He told her she could use her own judgement in selecting each day's underwear ensemble, as long as she adhered to the new dress code. She would never know when he would return, he said, but when he did, not only would she be punished if she were found "out of uniform" on the day of his return, but he insisted he would know if she had been lax any time prior to that.

She didn't believe there was any way he could know what she wore beneath her clothes each day... but then, she didn't believe he would ever really return after his first visit. She could almost laugh now at how self-deluded she was then. After his first visit, she stopped shaving. When he did return and she was forced to bare her furry crotch for his inspection, her unfounded optimism earned her a sound caning.

Properly chastised, she bemoaned the fact that even if he couldn't track her daily grooming, all she would need to do to earn his terrifying wrath was to be out of compliance the one day he did show up. This was more than enough to convince her to use her razor every day.

Yet, despite having been soundly broken, there remained the faintest spark of rebellion in her, at least early on. As a secret act of defiance, she risked her new lord and master's displeasure by wearing one of her last remaining "granny panties" and a pair of cinnamon pantyhose that had somehow missed the purge of its sisters. Even if he were surreptitiously observing her from afar, she reasoned, nothing would look amiss. And since, until that point, she had only known him to appear on a Friday, she felt she was safe from inspections Monday through Thursday.

However, when he next came to her, it was a Wednesday. He then cited the exact day she had defied him. She was caned for her faithlessness and never again did she doubt his omniscience.

It was another year before she discovered he had seeded her house with wireless surveillance cameras and microphones. He laughed when she confronted him. "So?" was his response to her confusion and anger. Stunned into silence, his words invoked a grim, if liberating, epiphany; she had already ordered her life as if he was watching her every move -- what would be the practical difference now that it was based on fact rather than faith? With an equanimity that surprised her, she realized there really was no difference.

Her life... such as it had become... continued on.

Yet this revelation did indeed precipitate changes, subtle at first, then later, more profound. Knowing exactly where her god's "eyes" were, made her somewhat self-conscious to begin with, but very soon, she accepted this condition as the norm.

At some point after this, she began waving hello or goodbye to her unseen observer as she entered and left her house. Then she would bid him good morning and good night as she rose or retired. Before long, she was sharing observations, jokes, and the minutia of her day with the cameras and microphones as if they were her mute, unseen roommate.

Then there was a stretch when weeks without a visit from her owner, turned into months. Soon, every Friday brought with it a terrible tension -- dread mixed with... something else -- which wouldn't dissipate until she would arrive home at the end of the day to find once again, he had not come. She would then experience an inexplicable disappointment bordering on depression. The entire weekend she would find it hard to muster any real enthusiasm for anything.

She found herself having nightmares -- erotic nightmares -- about her visitor, her master, reliving the unspeakable... and oddly thrilling... perversions he subjected her to. What was worse, she would wake from these dreams to find the hand roughly exploring her sex, the hand cruelly pinching and pulling her nipple, was not that of her personal demon, her sadistic owner, but her very own.

Whenever this occurred, she would curl up into the fetal position, arms wrapped tightly around her knees and sob herself back to sleep, partly from shame, but more from longing.

Had something happened to him -- was he hurt or dead? Had he decided her debt to him had been paid? Did teasing and torturing her no longer please him -- did she no longer please him? Or worst of all, did she bore him?

One Friday night, after five months of his absence, the widow began to undress for bed then stopped before removing her under garments. She pulled a chair into full view of one of the three cameras that monitored her bedroom and sat in it, staring directly into one of the lenses.

She began to speak of the sexual thoughts that entered her head during the day. She spoke of how hard it was to be the slut he wanted her to be and still maintain the facade of respectability her survival demanded. She quietly confessed, with tears falling, the revelation she had tried to deny for so long; she missed the disgraceful things he did to her, the euphoric heights his passion drove her to. The horrible, consuming, stomach turning shame he made her feel, was itself intoxicating -- even the self-loathing she experienced in remembering their sins and longing for his return had a delicious sickly sweetness that an ever-increasing part of her ached to drown in.

As she confessed herself to her Lord, she began to masturbate, saying that it was for him, that she was debasing herself as an offering to him. She cried to the empty room that she hoped her shameful spectacle pleased him enough for him to return soon and personally degrade her. Her climax took her as she sobbed repeatedly, "...for you, sir; for you..."

She shambled off to bed where she cried herself to sleep. After that, every Friday night that he did not show, this little passion play, this ceremony of supplication was repeated.

At length, her personal messiah blessed his acolyte with his presence and discipline. Still, that next Friday, after he left, the enslaved matron again celebrated her perverted Mass of Submission. He had truly become her deity, obedience to his will, her religion.

Oh, she still attended St. John's every Sunday morning that her true Lord was not in town. It was one of her few remaining social activities outside of school, as well as a key center of news and gossip... but it was more than that.

Since her secret Fall from Grace, the sermons, ceremony and society of that small-town parish provided the apostate slut with irresistible emotional mashups she could not refuse. One moment she was a haunted penitent wanting to grovel in her iniquities to beg indulgence of the Almighty -- the next she was a deep-cover agent provocateur for Satan's realm, secretly smirking at the irony, hypocrisy and the banal evil so rampantly on display in God's house.

What she mostly felt like was a voyeur at an orgy of normalcy. She found amusement and insight in observing mundane humans in their natural environment.

Where she felt real transcendence, where she truly touched the eternal was in her private Friday night services. The blasphemy of it all was not lost on her. She told herself that she was damned many times over already. She needed to accept her situation. Her heretical Friday night conjurations helped her make emotional and spiritual sense of her experience. Besides, it made her hot.

***

Unhooking her broad, white garter belt, she laid it on top of the rest of her clothes on the sofa, leaving her wearing only her white, cotton blend thong and her 3-inch heels with the wide ankle straps. He loved how her shapely legs looked in heels, how her hips swayed more when she walked in heels.

She normally wore flats to work, but because of her premonition that her visitor would come, she wore heels. She had to be careful in her selection; a teacher's shoes could only be just so sexy without attracting uncomfortable attention.

Oh, and she had some very sexy shoes and she knew just how sexy she looked in them. This was part of his gift to her; her visiting demigod had established as axiomatic that she was beautiful. She had somehow forgotten that fact in the 15 years between her marriage, her husband's illness and his death and the time her visitor had first claimed her as his own. As a result, most of the world had forgotten it also. She had settled into a quiet, conservative, unassuming and unremarkable persona. So different from the bold, daring (reckless?) tall blond vixen of her younger days.

That was just as well, he told her. Most of the world did not deserve to view her unadulterated glory. It was the right and privilege of her owner and master alone to determined who was worthy to see her true self. Only in his presence was she allowed to drop the widowed school marm disguise and reveal the sensual goddess within. Yes; "goddess" -- he didn't use the term often, but every time he did, she gushed from the core of her womanhood.

***

She blinked away the reverie as she felt the old familiar juices begin to flow. It was time for the dramatic part of her transformation; off came the glasses, down came her long silver and gold hair, on went the make-up and voila... the Whore of Babylon lived again.

She was always amazed how patient her master was, quietly watching her as she peered into the large mirror above the fireplace and gracefully, efficiently applied the cosmetics -- just the way he had instructed. She kept her "transformation tools" in a small ornate wooden box there on the mantle. This is where she slowed down and took her time, carefully using the lipliner, applying her "kiss-proof" (and felatio-proof) lipstick in slow, sensuous strokes, taunting him with visions of where those plump, blood-red lips would soon be. It excited her to know she still had the power to enflame a man's lust with such a simple, subtle act.

She removed a barrette and few bobby pins from her hair, and ran her fingers through her mane of long, thick blond tresses, liberally streaked with gray, as they tumbled past her shoulders. Leaning back, she slowly, dramatically shook her head side to side, all the while keeping an eye on her appreciative audience.

She appraised her face and form in the mirror as she subtly teased her master with pointless yet sensual "adjustments" to her thong. Nary an inch of flesh sagged anywhere on her tall, taught and toned dancer's body. Defiant of the years, her jaw line was still firm and the flesh of her neck nearly so. Ever modest in dress, the pale skin of her décolletage had been spared the worst ravages of the sun. Not one for the out of doors, her finely crafted cheeks and sleek forehead likewise showed little trace of the elements' cruel caress. Only a subtle network of shallow creases around her large, alert eyes, and the corners of her perfect mouth with its full sensuous lips, betrayed the passage of time.

A few years shy of sixty, the modest, often self-effacing matron had been told repeatedly, and at length, by her owner that she was a beauty. This was hard for her to accept at first, though she wouldn't have dared argue the point with him. His resolute conviction on this point, however, made her start to think, and from there, to observe.

What she began to see, by watching the men she encountered, was that, to her amazement and guilty delight, her alleged beauty wasn't merely a self-inflating fancy, or brainwashing from her master -- but simply fact. Back in her teens, she had never questioned the allure she held for the opposite sex, yet time and cruel fate had, bit by bit, stripped her of all her self-assurance. In a way, her enslavement had made her young again.

Before he took possession of her, she had stopped thinking of herself in sexual terms; she had become so emotionally dead that she barely noticed that she, or anyone else, even had a gender. It took the trauma of his arrival to awaken her from her somnambulist state.

She now saw herself and the world with new eyes and try as she might to hide it, at some very subtle, perhaps even subliminal level, others noticed and reacted to this paradigm shift. As evidence, she need only recall that even with her charms camouflaged by her now consciously dowdy wardrobe, she could detect frequent lascivious, albeit covert, stares from male students and faculty -- the sort of males to whom she was all but invisible before the advent of her visitor.

Irrefutable proof that she was once more seen as a woman, was the awkward, semi-pathetic offer from a fellow teacher to "have dinner sometime". Shocked, confused and embarrassed, all she could do was stammer her apologies and make a quick exit. The man was probably 10 years her junior. This was almost five years ago and there were a few similar such attempts from others since then.