Erotic Paradise (2)

Scanning Proofreading: CSH

Erotic Paradise (04)

Elliott 5 A Walk on the Wild Side

I think I thought: the terrace facing the sea is the whole club; once in the garden, the spreading branches will separate us from the admiring eyes. However, I would not be so lucky.

I lowered my head and tried to catch my breath, only half believing what I was seeing. The gardens stretched endlessly, full of tablecloth-covered lunch tables, all crowded with elegantly dressed men and women, and serving very coldly at the tables were hundreds of naked slaves carrying trays of food and wine.

Several dozen guests walked back and forth around the buffet table, topped with the lace-like leaves of California pepper trees. They formed small groups, laughing and talking; and, of course, there was still as large a crowd as before on the terrace of the big building gazing that way.

But it wasn’t just the size of the garden or the large group of people in it that struck me again.

It was the mass that resembled in a singular way any other person except the naked slaves who formed a dazzling spectacle of light.

Tanned arms and throats were covered with gold jewels that glittered, sunlight exploded in the reflective lenses, and silverware tinkled on china Men and women with tanned skin and elegant Beverly Hills dresses were eating lunch as if it were perfectly normal to have a fine group of naked men and women serving them Of course as usual, there were about fifty new slaves with mean looks and trembling bodies gathered at the gate, where Everyone looked very frightened.

It can be fun to see the back turned while the face is engaged in sincere speech, as much fun as it is to see bold stares and smiles.

Still, it all happened too fast.

The pile of new slaves was huddled together and a group of new managers were about to gather around them. They waited long enough for us to catch our breath, then ordered us to run along a garden path.

While in line, a strong, redheaded male slave cut in and another followed, whipped by managers who seemed more worldly than the group of managers on the yacht.

They were powerfully built, like the blonde sailor, but they were all equipped with white leather pieces, including tight pants, undershirts, and belts to drive us away.

They seem to naturally match the light-colored tablecloths, the large floral hats worn by the women, the white or khaki shorts worn by the men, and the crepe-faced striped jackets.

I perked up and tried to see a female manager, but couldn’t. Instead, there were plenty of striking women scattered throughout the gardens, and I also saw short skirts, beautiful legs, and bright high-heeled sandals everywhere.

The grass, though soft, scraped my feet. I felt dizzy because there was verdant grass growing all around me, fragrant jasmine and roses everywhere, the horses I had seen in their golden cages, huge blue and green macaws, pale red and white parakeets. There were dozens of squeaking capuchin monkeys in a large, kitschy cage. The grand finale: wandering peacocks pecking around in the flowers and grass.

This is paradise, yes, I thought. And we are slaves for pleasure in it, like a scene from an ancient Egyptian tombstone painting, in which all the slaves are naked and the princes and noblewomen are well dressed. We are here for the use and enjoyment of men, as food is for eating and wine for pouring. We have slipped into a depraved history that has not been erased, and find ourselves being driven through the gardens of the cream of the crop of princes.

I felt out of breath, but it wasn’t the running. It was the torrent of sensations, the desire to reach the peak.

The slaves waiting at the table were very subdued. I kept seeing heavily oiled bodies adorned with only a little silver flake or white leather collars. Wherever I turned my eyes, pubic hair and nipples struck me. And I’m one of these characters, I thought. This is my role and I can’t get out of the script.

They drove us even faster and the manager whipped us very hard with his belt. The whipping began to bring a stinging sensation.

Two creepy, swelling hot breaths that were simultaneously both stimulating and debilitating. The other slaves crowded into the middle of the trail, trying to escape the whip, but I was unmoved. I looked stubborn, despite letting the whip fall.

The path meandered and took a thousand turns. I realized corporately that we were walking around the garden. We were being shown. There was a psychic explosion in my brain. There was no way back. I couldn’t utter a cryptic word and leave for a shower as well as a massage.

The truth is that nothing is out of my control, maybe for the first time in my life.

We approached a flagstone terrace with tables set up. Everyone’s heads turned, it was members, guests whoever they were they were pontificating. A young dark haired manager really started to put on airs with his belt.

On some level, my reason said, “His job is to whip the crap out of us, so why resist? We are here to be reduced to nothing, to give up our will.”

But I couldn’t keep that thought in my head. I had lost an important vision of “lost” and that’s exactly what I told Martin I wanted to be “lost”.

But the scene around us looked familiar. We passed the swimming pool again, and the high wire mesh fence of the tennis court.

In fact, we are almost back where we started. Now we were driven toward the center of the garden, where the tables showed in a fan from a large white stage. It was one of those pavilions you see in the little parks of towns where bands play on Sundays, but with a narrow tunnel projecting from it, like the kind they use at fashion shows.

When I saw Dance Hop, my blood cooled a bit, or warmed up, depending on how you look at it.

Within seconds, we were huddled in the shade under the mimosa trees behind the pavilion. The manager rudely pushed us together, told us not to touch each other, and then from the loudspeaker came the smooth, watery voice of the announcer, “Ladies and gentlemen, the volunteer slaves are now available for viewing by the pavilion pavilion.”

For a second, the sound of my heart beat higher than anything else. Then I heard a round of applause at the table, which seemed to echo down the slope of the terrace before disappearing into the empty blue sky.

I could feel the trembling and anxious air around me, as if we were connected to the same living wires.

A tall female slave with thick sleek blonde hair pushed those lovely breasts toward me.

“They’re not going to make us walk up that ramp one by one, are they?” She asked in a low voice.

“It will, ma’am, I think they want us to.” I answered her in a low voice as well, red-faced from the realization that we were two naked slaves struggling to converse, very afraid that the manager might overhear.

“That’s just the beginning.” The red-haired male slave, to my right, said to me.

“Why on earth can’t we just serve someone a drink or something?” The blonde slave girl said, not moving her lips.

One of the managers turned around and whipped her with a belt.

“Beast!” She hissed. As soon as the manager looked away, I put my body between the blonde slave and him. When he turned back around, he didn’t seem to notice and just whipped the other slave.

The blonde slave girl snuggled up to me a little. For the first time it occurred to me: women are more comfortable with their attitudes, because you can’t say what they feel. And all the men showed a completely straight posture, rather humiliating.

Regardless of the situation, this moment is going to be like hell. To be tied up, for one thing; to be forced to run with the crowd, for another, would be even worse. And to be forced to walk up that slope! If I am not prepared to do this, O Martin, they will not accept me, will they?

The crowds increased like cells dividing as people everywhere walked towards the pavilions, and many of the empty tables were immediately filled.

I want to run. I’m not saying I really wanted to. I couldn’t run more than two steps away, but I was really worried that if they let me walk up on that stage alone, I’d back off or get away with it. My chest was heaving like someone had injected me with another aphrodisiac at the same time. The blonde slave girl was squeezing me with those lovely, soft, silky little arms and thighs. I can’t go crazy like this, I thought, I can’t fail my first test.

A white-haired young man with two ice-blue eyes, a microphone in his hand, passed back and forth through the pavilion, telling the audience that the new volunteer slaves were a real piece of work. He wore the same white leather pants and undershirt as the manager, and his shirt was open at the throat, but he wore a short, well-tailored white cotton blouse, which gave him a more tropical appearance.

Members are gathering and sitting on the grass next to the narrow canal. There are groups of people standing up under the trees.

Immediately a boutique-like dark black female flesh was forced into the center of the pavilion and a manager grabbed her wrists together above her head. This was better than an outright slave auction, and this naked commodity squirmed in the manager’s grip.

“Arisia from Germany.” The man with the microphone announced to the loud cheers. The manager spun Alysia around and then pushed her forward to walk up the long ramp.

No, I was thinking, maybe even whistling through my teeth. I just wasn’t prepared to deal with this. I should feel sorry for her, fuck it, not stare at her plump little ass and the blush on her face. I was in the same predicament.

In a gesture of poised agony, she turned toward the unending end of the aisle and hurried back to the emcee, apparently trying not to run.

The crowd looked even more arrogant. Some of the women even subtly bent their bodies to sit close to the grass.

No, it can’t be. In a passive situation, they can do anything to me, but I can’t make him do it. Yet how many times have I said the same thing at Martin’s, and I’ve always managed to do what I was told to do, haven’t I?

These are small places, Elliot. “The club is huge… yes, but I’m ready, Martin. Even you say that.

The next man up was a young man named Marco with a hard, tight, small back and an extremely handsome face. He blushed as much as Arisia, and was as terse as a broken iron mallet. He walked awkwardly, but I don’t think anybody minded the matter. The crowd seemed to grow more frenzied, as if this male slave had liberated something within them that the girl of a moment ago could not.

I felt the manager grab my shoulders and I couldn’t move. I mean, my God, there are fifty other slaves here, give me a break?

“You have to go do this!” The young blonde girl whispered.

“You must be kidding!” I whispered back.

“Quiet. Move, Elliot!” The manager pushed me forward and was surprised when I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. The emcee turned around, wanting to know what the delay was. Another manager immediately grabbed my wrist and a third pushed me toward the steps.

I’ve often heard the phrase “press your heels together,” but I hadn’t done so until this moment.

I knew then that I was completely out of control.

Now they were dragging me into the pavilion with all their might, as if it were a Roman marketplace, and the other two with strong arms were helping the three in front of them, so I didn’t stand a chance.

“I can’t go through with this!” I said as I struggled.

“Oh yes you can,” one of them said in a sarcastic tone, “you’ll do it and do it right away.” They suddenly let go of me and pushed me in front of the emcee, as if they knew I would be too shy to turn and run away.

Thunderous cheers rang out from every direction. It was like the clamor that bursts out at a horse show when a fallen rider remounts his horse that refuses to move forward. For a second, all I could see in front of my left side was bright light. But I didn’t move, I just stood there helplessly on the Roman auction block, like all the other “imports”. I did at least that.

“Come on, Elliot, up the ramp!” The emcee said, sounding like an indulgent lunatic, one of his hands on the microphone. From the front row of the audience on the grass whistles and coaxing shouts went up. I thought I was going to back up and get off the stage as quickly as possible, but instead I just put one foot in front of the other and started walking up the ramp.

My mind has flown to the moon. This is more than an “insult”. It was a sentence of death. It was being forced to walk up the gangplank and fall into the sea to die. Cold sweat broke out all over my body again, but I was as indifferent as ever.

But then I began to see everything again, people’s eyes hammered me heavily, and I began to hear clapping, to hear whispered comments only in tones, not words. This system is brilliant in every way.

I deliberately slowed down. I belong to those people who feel halfway to an orgasm and take a deep breath.

It was easier to turn around and walk back that way, so why did I bother forcing myself to look squarely at those watching me? The smiles, the nods, the slight whistles of approval. You bastards, you.

Don’t do the smart thing, Elliot. Don’t do that. But I could feel the smile unfolding on my own face. I stopped, crossed my arms, and deliberately winked at the two lovely dark-skinned women she wore white hats and grinned. The front row exploded into a roar and clapping high in the air. Hell, don’t just smile, look at all the others with the rest of your eyes. Send a little flying kiss to that tiny little brunette in the white dress pants! In fact, why don’t you smile at all the beautiful girls, wink at them and send a little flying kiss?

From every direction came laughter and cheering. There was a group of people who were really cheering for me, and their line stretched all the way to the trees. Everywhere I was being kissed and men were waving their “pep” fists at me. Why don’t you turn around like a fashion model, don’t put on airs, you know, just take your time, watch them carefully, what’s the big deal?

Then I looked straight over at the ramp and stared at a group of guys with the angriest looks I’d ever seen, the kind of crowd you don’t want to see in a dark alley, all of them staring angrily at me while the emcee sort of stared open-mouthed.

“Show’s over, Elliot!” One of them said through gritted teeth and in a whisper that was purposely meant to be heard. “Okay, Elliot, now get down here!”

I froze there. But all I could do was wave goodbye to my audience of fans and walk in. I don’t let them drag me down.

I lowered my head and walked towards them as if I hadn’t seen them and was just going to be a good boy again. Two seconds later, they grabbed me by both arms and threw me down the steps, touching my hands and both knees to the grass.

“Well, Mr. Juggling Personalities.” I heard one of them say in a voice that quivered with anger.

The other man pushed me forward with his knee.

All I could see in front of me was a pair of white plimsolls while my head was pressed down and my lips touched white leather whether I liked it or not.

Then I felt a hand in my hair and my head was pulled upward until I saw a pair of dark brown eyes. It looked great, just like the rest of them. I sensed that this was going to be part of the sweetness and torture that even the pastry chef in this part of the world might get you hot and bothered.

But this man’s voice can suffocate your soul.

“Oh, you’re really smart, aren’t you? Elliot.” He asked revealing a chilling anger. “You do have quite a few sneaky ideas.”

“Not a ghost idea.” I thought, but I didn’t say. The situation was truly dire. In fact, the situation was so dire that I couldn’t really understand how the situation could have evolved so quickly. In fact, I couldn’t understand what I had just done.

The other managers gathered round as if I were a dangerous animal; and the slave show went on, in spite of the same guttural noise from the crowd as before.

It would be impossible to analyze this feeling of shame, this feeling of disaster. I have made a big mistake, fuck it, I have caused a panic there, I have failed.

I try to be submissive. I know that defending myself is the worst thing you can do.

“That was a first for us, Elliot,” said the brown-eyed fellow, “I mean, that little trick you just pulled off. You did make a name for yourself.”

The face was beautiful, the booming voice riotous. His chest almost exploded out of his shirt.

“What do you think the ‘head of the volunteer slaves’ is going to do to you when he hears that you asked for that little gag,” he asked, “what is going to happen to you?”

He flashed something in front of me and I could tell it was a very thick grease pencil.

I remember whispering “shit” or “fuck it”.

“Don’t make a sound,” he threatened me. “Unless you want to be gagged too.”

I felt the pressure of the grease pencil on my back and heard him spell out the words he was apparently writing: “Slave of Pride.”

He pulled me up and I stood. However the standing position was worse. I felt a manager’s belt whipping me. Then the lashes fell like hail and my body cringed.

“Eyes down, Elliot,” the manager said. “Hands behind your neck.” He touches my chest with a grease pencil and writes the same words, spelled out just as deliberately. I tried not to grit my teeth. I don’t understand why something as small as that hurts so much, and the feeling of remorse turns to panic.

“Why don’t we use the whipping post?” One of the others asked. “It would soften him up, and the foyer acceptance office would be very easy to deal with.”

Really, guys, I’m just the new kid at the mercy of the world.

“No, we’ll keep him in a state of consciousness and sacrifice him to the ‘head of the volunteer slaves,'” said the first, “no matter ‘the head of the volunteer slaves ‘ what the decision is.”

He lifted my chin with the tip of his pen.

“Don’t try anything else, blue-eyed,” he said. “You don’t know what you’ll get yourself into.”

I look back at the “nice little boys and girls” while he pushes me to the side and orders me to stand still.

The red-haired male slave was just strolling around the stage, displaying the proper humble demeanor that drew whistles from the crowd. And the young blonde female slave was gazing at me as if I was some kind of heroic figure or something. Fuck it.

What was wrong with me that I performed that clown act? I had been acting pretty good, and then I just had to look at them and had to smile.

Now I resist the system, when I would have wanted the system to embrace me. I resist the system instead of giving in to it, just as I resist everything outside of me.

You’re ready, Elliot. You can handle what happened there. But is that what you really want?

Yeah, fuck it, Martin. In any case, the little bastard has created discipline, and the humiliation seems more real than ever.

Erotic Paradise (05)

Lisa 6 Routine Services

When I entered, Richard was sitting by the window of his office, his sunglasses pushed up into his thick reddish-blonde hair, apparently watching the new slaves cross the garden below.

He shifted, quickly flashing a smile, and walked toward me with the usual slow, graceful ease, his thumbs hooked in his back pockets. His eyes were deep-set, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, and his sun-red face showed deep wrinkles, the kind that appear early in a Texan’s life in hot, dry weather, and seem to last forever. When I saw him, I thought of his nickname in the “club”, “Wolf”.

“Lisa, honey,” he said. “We miss you. Don’t ask how much you’re missed, it’ll only worry you. Give me a kiss.”

He is twenty-four years old, the youngest chief executive we have ever had, and “head of the volunteer slaves,” and one of the highest trainers in the “club.”

I always think: height doesn’t matter, it’s all in the demeanor, but if you have Richard’s demeanor, height can really add a lot of light to you.

He handled the slaves effortlessly, instructing them and frightening them with his whip. All his gestures were so slow and listless that the slave was greatly amazed by the power. Though his eyes were deep-set and often squinted, he often revealed a particularly doubtful look, implying openness, curiosity, and an immediate expression of deep affection for every slave he saw.

He was flawless as the “head of the volunteer slaves” because he was able to make things clear. He was the best administrator, always looking excited about what he had to do, and constantly obsessed with the essence of the “club”. He is almost painfully preoccupied with the slaves he directly dominates and worships the “Club” as a god. This obvious fact revealed an amazing freshness that impressed me. I put my arms around him and pressed my lips to his cheek, slightly embarrassed.

“I miss you too, everything about you.” I said, but in a voice that made myself sound weird. I wasn’t back to normal yet.

“A few minor issues, beautiful.” He said.

“Just when they’re about ready?” I mean the volunteer slaves. “Can’t it wait?”

“I think you’ll be able to handle it quickly, but it will require you to show tact.” He ran behind the desk and thrust a file forward. “New member. Jerry K. McAllister. One year full service. Sponsored by six other members, all of them here, to talk to him, tell him what to do, but, he doesn’t know how to start.”

Full service means: the man pays the highest membership fee, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, and can come and go as he pleases. He can stay here all year if he wants to. But they don’t.

The “club” operates a bit like a bank in this respect, depending on the fact that not everyone gets paid on the same night.

I sat down behind the desk and opened the file. Forty-year-old domestic computer millionaire from Silicon Valley, California, with a huge estate in San Mateo and a private Lear jet.

“He has had a few drinks with friends on the terrace,” Richard stated, “and now he is in his room waiting for someone who can help him a little. He wants a young female slave, dark-haired and dark-skinned. I had asked Cynthia to come in, but he dismissed her, saying he needed someone to give him a little guidance, a ‘demonstration hand’ as they call it in the computer world. I thought maybe you could stop by for a little while and talk to him, and he promised to come back this afternoon.”

“Not if I can find someone,” I said, while picking up the phone. “Please pick up Monica immediately.” Monica was the only trainer I entrusted with this kind of thing, and if she wasn’t there, I had to go.

She’s in.

“Hi Lisa, I was just coming down.”

“Circle back, please? Monica.” I gave her the details of Jerry B. McAllister’s details to her about being heterosexual, smoking a little, drinking a little, maybe taking cocaine, being a workaholic, and so on. “Ask Deborah to do you a favor. Tell the gentleman that you will return after giving instructions. Deborah might be able to learn the instruction from there. She can turn a Peter Pan into a Marquis de Sade (sadist’s paraphrase) without saying a word.”

“Sure, Lisa, leave him with me.”

“Thanks, Monica. Fifteen minutes, don’t miss the study guide. Promise him that the two of us will go to his place in the afternoon.”

I hung up the phone and looked at Richard.

“Well?”

“Yes. I thought you’d want to handle it yourself. We could have held things up for a few minutes.”

He had the same look on his face that I’d seen on Diana’s and Daniel’s.

“I’m a little tired from my vacation,” I say before he can ask the inevitable question. “The plane was late.”

Let me look at the other documents in front of me. The centaur trainer is here from Switzerland and he wants to sell us slaves who are fully harnessed, harnessed and roped to pull rickshaws and wagons. Si, it’s lovely. So why did I get a headache right away?

“Don’t bother with any of it,” said Richard. “We shall see the lovely little stable to-morrow.” He sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of the table.

“What’s this,” I picked up the scribbled phone message, “is a little guy claiming he was forced?”

“A load of nonsense. He’s a handsome, young, lecherous shepherd god, a Persian boy type indeed, who told the boys on the yacht last night that he was a captive and had been kidnapped in Istanbul. He was lying. He is from New Orleans and is very timid.”

“You’re quite sure.”

“We brought him in early this morning. Lawrence is working with him now. Nine times out of ten he has confessed that he is afraid. If he was taken prisoner, it was in the palace of Darius before Alexander’s invasion.”

I reached for the phone.

None of us like to disturb our masters in their private studios with questions about slaves, but this matter must be resolved immediately.

The phone rings softly and it is always interesting to see how different slaves react to the ringing. For some slaves and masters, the telephone completely punctures the ecstasy. For other slaves and masters, the telephone reinforces the feeling of inferiority. The master stops and goes to answer the phone while the suffering slave waits for further scrutiny and testing.

Lawrence’s voice was the usual cautious whisper.

“Yes?”

“How did it go?” I said.

Slow, booming laughter.

“He has confessed everything, all lies. He just panicked. But you should hear the story he fabricated, I’ll give you the tape.” He turned his mouth away from the microphone and gave an order to the slave in the room with him. “Most of it is about him being poisoned,” he said, “stripped naked and sent north on the ‘Orient Express’. Now the big question is: to send him to the place under the stairs for three days to punish him completely? Or care for him?”

“Tend to him. If he’s that scared, I think it’s important that you tend to him. Punish him for lying, but you know, don’t make him do the hard work. He’ll lose himself.”

“That’s exactly what I thought, but he’s going to be punished.”

“Make sure you get me the tape. I want to hear that story.” I put down the earpiece.

A wonderful scene flashed in my mind, as exquisite as a roller coaster ride in some park or another.

We should have a train ready on the earth, with a big old steam engine, and splendid old carriages with which to send slaves to various places on the earth, and auction them off to the members on platforms, and have slaves available for little parties in the sleeping cars.

Not the Orient Express, but the Eden Express. I like the name. I can see the gold swirls: “Eden Express”. Yes, everything on the Eden Express is very Edwardian. Perhaps, as our business grows and spreads across the island, we’ll really need this kind of transportation. We could lay miles of railroad…

Suddenly, I saw the railroad tracks stretching endlessly, as if the land and sea were no longer real, and the Eden Express kept moving forward, its giant’s one eye continuing to pierce the darkness of the night, while at the same time it was leaving this little Eden and heading for the unknown. To places unknown…

“God, but you’ve gotten so gentle,” Richard said suddenly.

Anyway, I felt very sudden. I just saw myself in a white dress, boarding the Eden Express.

“If it was last year, you would have made that boy do two weeks of hard labor.”

“Is that so?” Wearing a white hat and carrying a white handbag, she was dressed like the girl the old man remembered in Citizen Kane, the girl he’d seen on the ferry a few years ago and couldn’t forget. “She was wearing a white dress…” Is that what he said? It was wonderfully crazy to think that someone would remember me like that. Somewhere in my luggage, there’s a new white dress and a white straw hat with long white ribbons… Do they match your black leather strap and boots?

“I think you made the right decision, of course.” Richard said.

I watched him, trying to pay attention.

“It works both ways,” he continued. “It is a very solemn thing. Everything is feasible if the will is strong and the direction is taken.”

“That little guy was scared.” I said. Richard was talking about the little guy, wasn’t he?

“When is it?” I asked.

“In fifteen minutes they’ll be arriving in the foyer. Please don’t tell me that you have your eye on anyone. Let me tell you!”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I said, forcing a smile.

Richard was always right. He was able to review the files, assign slaves to the proper trainers, and know exactly who would choose whom. Of course, the others had to race to choose slaves and bargain with each other, and I was first.

“A man by the name of Elliot B. A blonde man named Elliot Slater.” He teased me.

“How do you know.” My face hole felt hot and must have flushed. It’s ridiculous. We’ve actually played this game a thousand times before.

“Elliot B. Slater was tough,” he said. “He’s one of the ones who really stepped into the ring. Except, he’s very handsome.”

“They’re all very handsome,” I said, not wanting to admit anything. “How about that L.A. girl, Kitty B. How about Cantwell?”

“Scott has fallen in love with her. I’ll bet you’ll pick Elliott B. Slater.”

Scott was the “trainer of trainers”. He, Richard and I formed what others called the “Holy Trinity” and indeed dominated the “club”.

“You mean, you want me to pick Elliot B. for Scott’s sake. Slater.” I said. Scott was as much a trainer as an artist. Anyone he picks has to be displayed in the trainer’s classroom half the time as a working model. It was a mind-numbing experience for a slave.

“Nonsense,” Richard laughed. “Scout loved Slater just as much. But he gave it up, so to speak, because he knew you. Slater came from your mentor, Martin B. Halifax of San Francisco. Halifax. Halifax sends us geniuses, philosophers, real madmen. What did Martin say at first, ‘Read Soviet Russian novels verbatim’?”

“Forget it, Richard!” I said, trying to sound offhanded. “Martin’s the romantic. We’re getting flesh and blood.”

This kind of talk makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s that feeling of desperation again, like something really important is going to be missed. A real headache. Shouldn’t have had that gin.

“Lisa loves Elliot!” He sang in a low voice.

“Shut up,” I said angrily, surprised by both of us. “I mean, you know, let’s see where this goes. You guys are way too smart for me.”

“Well, let’s walk there slowly,” he said. “Leave before the phone rings!”

“Good idea.”

The slaves may have gathered.

“I bet you’ll pick Slater. If you don’t pick it, I lose a hundred dollars.”

“It’s not fair to tell me that, is it?” I forced a smile.

Scott was waiting for us in the foyer, his glossy black leather pants and undershirt as snug as skin.

He greeted me warmly as usual, then kissed me and put his arm around my waist. The trainers had nicknamed him “Black Dog”, which he deserved as much as Richard deserved “Wolf”. He was always prone to physical affection. The fact that we never shared a bed helped create a wonderful tension, and every time we touched, we showed a little flirtation. You could learn things about sensuality from Scott just by watching him walk across a room.

I hugged him tightly for a moment. His muscles were firm and full of heat.

“If it concerns a slave named Eliot B. Slater,” I said, “then don’t sweet-talk me. It would be unfair.”

“Whatever Lisa wants, Lisa will get,” he replied, with another long kiss. “But maybe not as fast as you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sweetheart, this little fellow of yours is a real livewire. He just performed a little juggling act in the pavilion place and won a full house.”

“What did he do?”

“Teased the whole showcase in a wonderful way,” Scott grinned. “They pulled him out of the ranks.”

“Richard?” I said, while immediately turning to him.

“Don’t expect me to be as lenient as you were just now,” Richard said. “I’m not the kind of man to become gentle.”

Elliott 7 Trial in the Foyer Acceptance Office

My heart begins to beat fast as I realize that the show on the pavilion is almost over. The others are assembling, in pairs, and walking away quickly, like naked school children.

One of the managers finally approached me and ordered me to move forward and to keep my eyes down.

There were a lot of scornful looks and comments thrown around the table, and the words “slave of pride” flashed in my head like neon lights.

In fact, on several occasions, the manager ordered me to stop, stand still and be examined. I managed to obey, my eyes looking down, not caring about the talk that was going on around me, muffled voices sometimes audible in English, sometimes in French.

The good guys are gone now.

Soon, however, we came to a building with a low roof, screened by banana leaves. Then we entered a carpeted passageway which led to a brightly lighted foyer.

When we entered, the slaves were already gathered there, and a kind of instruction had begun.

I felt my face flush while we marched quite strikingly alongside a group of people until we reached the front of the place.

A tall young red-haired man with a very narrow face was talking, and when he saw us he stopped and asked, “Who is this?”

This place is worse than Pavilion. My whole body tenses up and I try to act like I look really sorry.

“Sir, it’s ‘Slave of Pride’,” the manager replied, his voice revealing a surprising amount of hatred. “It takes three managers to force him to walk up to the dance in the garden…”

“Whoa, yeah.” The tall redhead interrupted.

The conversation seemed to rumble through the foyer. All the meek did stare. I renewed my efforts to analyze my feelings of shame, but it was no use.

“Proud so soon? Mr. Slater.” The red-haired man said. I was shocked to hear him say my name. He didn’t even look at the nifty little gold bracelet with the name tag attached. It was truly remarkable. I didn’t dare to look up, but I could still tell that not only was he tall, but he was also a bit sturdy in his elegant appearance, and his skin was indeed tanned from being at sea, as if he had spent some time on a yacht.

I was also able to see glass walls on each side with men and women behind them. There were a lot of people gathered behind the red-haired man.

Everyone was gazing at the small, festering scene. I knew that this strange group of men must be trainers, the rascals of the “club”, because most of their clothing was black.

Black leather boots, skirts, and shorts with a short white blouse or shirt. They hung their leather whips from the hooks of their belts. Martin said that only senior staff in heaven wore black leather clothing and shoes. The effect almost inevitably affected me.

The man began to pace as if he were scrutinizing me, and even his posture, the way he changed his body weight, revealed command.

In a tiresome, unpleasant feeling of shock, I glimpsed four apparently anxious slaves far to his right, lined up in a row, all turned to face the assembled crowd, some with wet faces, others just red. On their chests or stomachs were texts written in grease pencil, and they had all been severely whipped. It’s the “bad guys” I’m with, I thought with dismay. It’s no use at all.

It was the old-fashioned schoolhouse teacher in a dress coat dragging you to the front of the room and whipping you in front of the class, which I hadn’t experienced.

“I hear you performed a little trick in the garden, Mr. Slater,” said the red-haired trainer, “a little magnificent procession up to the platform.”

They pick these guys based on voice, I think. He’s the kind of teacher in a Dickens novel who wears a dress coat. I’m sorry, I think I’d like to read Robinson Crusoe now instead… “You’ll receive this season’s ‘Creative Talent Award’ if we have one to give.

”

I shook my head slightly to indicate that what I thought I was doing was horrible. It was horrible.

“But we don’t want creative talent here, Elliot.” He said, leaning his body closer so his height was almost as threatening as his voice. A man this tall should have an anesthetic applied immediately and four inches cut off each leg. “You are a slave, but you don’t seem quite able to remember that.” A beautiful pause for effect. “We are here to help you with your difficulties, get rid of them, and get rid of your pride.”

I don’t have to try to look very pained. He was whipping every inch of my skin. There was a deathly silence in this spellbinding place that my nerves could not bear. I was conscious again, as I had been when I was in the yacht-earth, and no one else was so real. I had been a bad little boy, in need of the harshest correction, and now the real world had formed itself around that simple fact.

To make matters worse, there’s a female trainer about to approach. Well, you knew this would happen sooner or later.

So be strong! But the word “defenseless” is taking on a new meaning in my head. I can see her shadow, smell her scent.

Aroma and Sex, a reaction-inducing tinderbox.

I could see her plimsolls, tiny, fitting wonderfully around her ankles. I could hear my own breathing, my own heartbeat. (Steady down, Elliot. Stop panicking.) She’s tall, just not towering above me like that redheaded head honcho, and at the same time she’s as elegant as perfume, with long, dark brown hair.

The male trainers suddenly grabbed my arms and turned me around. Now I didn’t have to look at them, but my back was exposed, and my insides felt like they were freezing.

I looked at the floor and heard a subtle cackle and knew it was the trainer unhooking the whip from his belt.

Gentlemen, the show is about to begin.

The whip strikes solidly on the thighs and calves. It’s best not to wince or make a sound. Then I was pulled around in a circle and forced to kneel in front of this man, and I had to put my hands out so my face hole wouldn’t touch the ground as I fell.

This time it was the back of my neck that took the whipping, which I didn’t expect at all. He whipped me so hard that I had to clench my teeth and stifle my moans. I could smell the odor of his leather boots and shorts; suddenly, I kissed his boots. He hadn’t asked me to, and I was a little surprised that I did. My insides were empty.

“Ah, that’s much better,” said the trainer. “Now you’re revealing signs of hope and even showing a little style.”

I was mildly shocked.

“Get up, put your hands where the back of your neck used to be, and walk over there with the other slaves who have been punished.”

Two or three quick lashes followed, and in the face of the new humiliating situation: join the wild group of men who stood silent and motionless, facing the crowd.

There were rows of lovely bodies, bare thighs, and pale red sex organs hidden in thick, tangled pubic hair. The first time I saw the glass-walled observation room was high above and parallel to this one, crowded with faces of both sexes.

It can be a really messy much audience. The whipping wasn’t over yet, the trainer’s whip rained down again, another one of those struggling struggling struggling struggling not to cower or make noise.

I struggled to find inner peace, silence, to survive the feeling that everything was meaningless, to try to give in. The pain was piercing and fiery.

In a frenzied instant, I saw the tall female trainer just to my right, and I glimpsed the bright lights and shadows on her thin face and those enormous brown eyes. It was beautiful, beautiful.

My heart is going to jump out of my chest. So what. All the other male slaves broke down too, didn’t they?

“How’s our pride now? Elliot.” The trainer asked, stepping in front of me. He raises the whip, holding it tightly between his hands before pressing it to my lips.

I kissed the lash, like a Catholic kissing a crucifix displayed in a church on Good Friday, my lips feeling the leather, the warmth spreading throughout my body.

There was a singular moment of total relief. I let my lips rest against the whip he held. My head was spinning and all resistance was disappearing in the heat.

I didn’t even look at him, but I think he felt, sensed that something slightly profound had happened. He removed the whip and walked to my left, and I felt as if I was unconscious for a few seconds.

Then came another halting and irresistible moment, like the one on the ramp when I was looking at the crowd. But this time I was looking at the female trainer, and only for a brief second; I don’t think the redhead saw it.

A face that would make a peony die, ma’am. I looked down with my eyes, not moving my head. The scene had become a bit of a blur.

“Let’s have a lesson on how to keep your chin up and face our obedient classmates.” The redheaded trainer muttered. Those hypocrites, you’ve got to be kidding me. I looked at them and did exactly what he ordered.

“Fellow students, you are looking at these voluntary slaves who are being punished,” he commanded. Everyone’s eyes were on the Gang of Five.

“Now we’re going to restart the class as if these little interruptions hadn’t happened,” the trainer said. “If any of the bad boys and girls dare to move a muscle, make a whining or pained sound, then we will have to stop again.”

He strides away from me, toward the first row of volunteer slaves, and for the first time I see him completely clearly. Very tall, yes, very broad and moist shoulders with a lean chest, and thick red hair.

The white silk shirt is pure pirate kitsch with loose sleeves and lace rolled cuffs. Handsome bastard. Except, of course, that his eyes were almost buried under his bushy eyebrows, “like simmering coals,” as they say in bad books.

“As I was saying before the unfortunate interruption,” he said very quietly and slowly, “you, all of you, are now the property of the ‘Club.’ You exist for the benefit of the members of the ‘Club,’ for their pleasure in looking at you, or touching you, or whipping you, or humiliating you, and working you as they please. You have no identity here other than that of slaves, and will be fed, exercised, and dressed by your individual trainers.”

Now his voice not only sounded calm, but almost friendly as well.

But I was able to see the slaves squirming their bodies. He was looking at the slaves again, and they were giving him furtive glances. Perhaps it is more difficult for them to seal, I thought in my mind, because they have not yet mustered up the courage. Maybe you go through two whole years of never mustering up the courage and end up dying of a nervous breakdown. But what could possibly be worse than that? The lower classes. That’s funny.

“But you will also be objects of study,” he said, “you will be objects of inquiry. The trainers here, with or without your conscious co-operation, will find out what it is that shames and excites you, what it is that weakens and strengthens you, what it is that makes you perform at your best. But in all this they endeavor to add to the pleasure felt by your Masters, the pleasure felt by the members of the Club.”

“You need this punishment, you desire it, you must obtain it, however fearful and remorseful you may be at this moment; you have thrown yourselves into slavery in order to receive it; you are on the fashionable auction-stand, by means of the best auction-brokers All this is one of the most interesting and delightful coincidences that nature has to offer. Because you work here relentlessly and tirelessly, you will receive what you desire in a form you never imagined; and all your most impractical dreams will be put to the severest test.”

“Again, this is all done for the sake of your masters and for the sake of your trainers, who represent your masters and know what your masters’ desires are. You are being honed and honed to reach the top of the heap for the sake of your masters. The ‘Club’ exists for your Mistresses and Mistresses and guests.”

He stopped and paced slowly in front of the volunteer slaves, his narrow back turned toward me for a moment, arms crossed, whip dangling from his belt. I could see the bodies of several slaves shaking.

I could hear a slight whimper from one of the male slaves beside me.

“You will be delighted and terrified to hear of this thing,” continued the trainer, “and that is, that you will be the object of relentless concentration in this place, and that you will be continually and untiringly doing the work. There are currently about three thousand members here for the new season, and the suites and bedrooms are now three-quarters full. Beauty, variety, intensity… these are the expectations of our guests, and their appetites are insatiable. The members of the ‘Club’ will never neglect you.”

I tried to visualize myself with others who were listening to these words, to imagine that I had managed to walk through the garden without displaying odd behavior, to imagine that my training was going well.

“You will, of course, be kept in the best of health,” he continued, “and you will be fed three times a day, sometimes for the pleasure of your Mistresses and Mistresses, and sometimes in private. You will be massaged, bathed, exercised, sunned, polished and oiled. The punishments you receive will never trigger real physical harm. Your skin will not be damaged, burned, or irreparably harmed. In almost any situation, you will be watched and the personnel who trained you will be around. No accidents ever happen here, and we try to take care that they don’t.”

“But you exist to provide pleasure; you are cared for to that end; you are whipped to that end; you are humiliated and your sexuality is aroused in a ruthless manner to that end. We shall make you objects of entertainment in any way that Mistress and Mistress desire.”

He had stopped in front of me, and his back turned quietly, and I saw him reach out and touch the breasts of a short female slave. And the slave girl seemed to be acting very sad and was crying, tears staining her tiny face. As his fingers slid over her tiny stomach, her whole body bent as if to him.

“Now, you are all dedicated to the ‘Club’ in a casual way,” he began again, and stepped back. “But to-night that presentation will be more dramatic, there will be some special performance in which you will play an important part.”

But does the matter include us? What’s going to happen to us?

“In order to prepare you for this, and in order to prepare you for all your training, we will offer you to a trainer. He chooses you on the basis of : what individual traits you possess while being part of his or her group of regular slaves.”

“Your individual trainer will know you better than you know yourselves. He or she will oversee all of your behavior and physiology, they will monitor your exercise and your special training, and they will talk to the guests who request your presence and service. They will punish you, develop you, and improve you as you become a feathered slave of the ‘club’.”

“Now, let me warn you, if you think you will be trained, if you think that the cane, the whip, the trainers, the Mistresses, the Masters, the Mistresses, that there is nothing for you to marvel at, then you have a lot to learn in the ‘club’. “

“In fact, you would do well to view the next few months of training as a series of shocks. That means anticipating the unexpected and recognizing the fact: that control of all aspects of your minds and bodies belongs to someone else.”

“If you had shown cooperation, if you had yielded in every way to the men who trained you, then everything would have been easier. But, yielding or not, things must always be accomplished.”

“What you must do from this moment onward,” he continued, raising his voice and looking at us, the punished children, “is to be absolutely silent, obedient, and absolutely subservient to all who train you here, who use you here, and who tower over you here. There is no one lower than you on this island, nor is the lowliest servant in the kitchen or the garden lower than you. You are true slaves, true property, and you must not show the slightest movement, gesture, or reaction or lack of reaction that might be considered disobedience or pride.”

“But the worst offense you can commit,” he said, turning to the other slaves, “is to mention ‘running away,’ let alone attempting to ‘run away.’ Any request for release will be considered as serious as an attempt to flee. I need not add that escape is impossible. The time of punishment for these acts is not counted as part of the time of the covenant, no matter how long the punishment may last. For example, if you stay here for two years, the two years will not be counted if you are severely punished for desertion or rebellion.

”

He stopped and turned to face us. I could feel his gaze on me, only I remained oblivious to him and looked ahead, meanwhile the lovely brunette slave girl was still looking back despite her tears.

I can’t see the tall brunette trainer, where is she? She has the strength to move around this room like a normal human being, yet it seems alarming that I am standing here as a captive. The male trainer approached.

I was able to see the soft, glistening silk of his shirt, to see small pieces of lace stretching to the tops of very thick-boned wrists. My legs tingled. I struggled to keep my body steady while he walked through the ranks. I heard another high pitched whimper from another slave.

“But these are among the rare offenses,” the trainer said. “Any can be seen in this little display occasion: the more common are prideful behaviors rising strong and impulsive rebellion. Today we must consider these two behaviors. There were five disobedient slaves who thoroughly humiliated themselves even before they had actually begun to serve.”

He stopped again and watched each one of us. I saw someone pushing a very large metal iron rack, which turned out to be a white platform with heavy casters fitted underneath, with thick steel rods protruding from the ends, supporting long, tall crossbars extending from one end to the other, not much different from the kind of metal racks used in stores to push clothes hanging on hooks, except that it wasn’t designed for clothes.

The steel rods are too tall and sturdy, while the hook and loop attached to the overhead crossbar is too big.

The trainer takes a look at this thing and walks over to the first punished slave on my right.

“Jessica,” he said quickly. “The disobedient, the fearful, the cowering, the one who wants to break away from examining her!” He said, his tone revealing an insipid note of mock scorn. I heard whimpering again. “Punish her with five days in the kitchen, on her knees, scrubbing pots and pans, becoming a plaything for the kitchen staff, and that should give her a little insight into her true purpose.” He snapped his fingers and then there was a commotion as the slave let out a high pitched moan.

In a few moments, all that could be seen was her body upside down, lifted high, her hair cascading down, while white leather shackles were fastened around her ankles, hanging from hooks and loops by means of knotted straps between her ankles.

It’s not going to happen to me hanging upside down like that! But it’s going to happen anyway. And this time you don’t have to do anything, just stand still and wait. The word “kitchen” was soon written on her back in a very ornate font.

The next slave was already listening to the verdict: “Elric, behaving in a horrid manner, unwilling to obey the simplest of his manager’s commands. I think five days in the stables, grooming horses, as a groom’s horse, should hate effective.” The trainer said, and then the rest of my eyes saw the strong male slave lifted up, easily as the woman, plus shackled hanging by both ankles on that rack.

My heartbeat is registering this predicament in its entirety. Yes, sir, they hang you upside down like that in a few seconds, and then what? Five more days! Oh, no. Should have called home. Circuit overload. Wrong equipment. Fuse is about to blow.

“Eleanor, willful, independent, very proud, and really rough on her guests.” So a blonde woman who had been gagged with a black leather gag was quickly taken away they grabbed her ankles backwards and passed me. “Five days in the laundry room and a good education in washing and ironing.” The trainer said while the appropriate font was quickly scratched across her beautiful back.

My head is swelling. There was a slave next to me. Kitchen, stables. Hey, no, that’s not going to happen. Let’s rewrite the script!

I see the female trainer again on the left. Perfume. Clever little heels cackle.

“Gregory,” the red-haired trainer said, “is very young, very stupid, very reckless. I think his crime, more than any other, involved clumsiness and nervousness…”

The slave let out a pleading moan that was not at all restrained.

“Five days of service with the waitresses should work to cure that tension. Use the mop & broom and get some good exercise.”

Now, standing alone, I gazed at the copper-skinned Gregory, his black curls like a tight-fitting hat. I watched as he was soon hung upside down from the crossbar.

He obediently positioned both hands, as several other slaves had done, while the disobedient Elinor squirmed wildly in spite of or because of the whips that were continually applied to her.

“Elliot,” the trainer said as he stood beside me. I felt one of his hands reach very abruptly under my chin. “Proud, willful, a little overly individualistic, and not suited to the tastes of Mistresses or Mistresses, I should say.”

It’s unbearable. I thought I heard this son of a bitch laughing.

But then I heard a woman’s voice behind me.

“Richard, I want this one.” She whispered.

All systems are in a state of emergency. Circuits are burning through the insulators and there’s going to be a fire.

She stepped closer, fragrant with the scent of flowers, dark figures appearing in the balance of my eyes, tiny hips forming sharp angles, and pointy breasts.

“I know you want this one,” the red-haired bastard replied, his voice a little low, “but the punishment…”

“Give him to me,” she said. Sounded like a velvet glove on my neck. “I had made an exception to this in my office because I knew it was the best way. You know I’m best able to handle this sort of thing.”

Goosebumps rose all over my body. The perfume was Chanel, and it came on in faint waves, like it emanated with her pulse.

“Lisa, that kind of exceptional treatment is your prerogative… but I’m the ‘Superintendent of Volunteer Slaves’ and this is a routine case…”

Lisa. I felt my body twist and turn, only I didn’t move. The man’s hand touched my chin again, lifting it up.

“Elliot.” He began again.

“I have first choice, Richard,” she said, her voice a little more crisp. “I’m going to choose now.” She leaned closer, her short lace top almost touching my arm. I was about to burn. I could see her tight little black leather skirt, her slender hands. Beautiful hands, like the hands of the saints in church.

“Of course, you have first priority,” the trainer said. “Of course you can choose now, but he still has to be punished before training can begin.”

He quietly grasped my chin and scrutinized my face. I felt his fingers press against my cheek. But my insides have gone blank.

“Elliot, look at me.” He said.

Steady on, Elliot. Look at this wonderful man. Deep-set gray eyes, full of energy, revealing self-effacing humor.

“Let’s hear what our proud young volunteer slave sounds like,” he said, barely moving his lips as if he were thinking on one side. He was close enough to kiss. “Look me in the eye and tell me very sincerely that : you are sorry for the disgrace you have incurred.”

Elliott B. Slater is lost.

“Eh?”

“I’m so sorry, Master.” I said softly. Not bad for someone who had died five minutes ago. But it was like being in that situation again, and he must have known, this bastard, he must have known that it was horrible to look him in the eye and say that; and it was horrible to keep seeing the dark shadow of “her” and smelling the perfume.

His eyes blinked and his eyelid lids fluttered.

“I’ll handle him, Richard,” she said, sounding a little sharp.

My eyes closed for a moment. Do I want her to win this argument? What do I want to make happen?

What does it matter what I want?

“Let’s compromise!” He said, one hand still pressed firmly against my face. He was scrutinizing me as if I were a sort of scientific specimen. “Let’s just decide it’s only three days of hard labor, cleaning toilets, and handing it over to Lisa the Perfectionist the way she wants it.”

“Richard.” She whispered. I could feel her anger, like heat.

And this is my personal trainer, this shadow-like woman, and this is the future. Three days in the bathroom, thinking about the future if I can even think about it.

“You’re a very lucky young man, Elliot,” Richard the trainer continued. I was obviously shaking. Why even try to hide it? “The Perfectionist has the right of first refusal to choose all her slaves, and the slaves she chooses are the finest artists in the ‘club’. But in the future, if she finds fault, you have more toilet punishments waiting for you.”

“She had come in front of me, but I still did not dare to take my eyes off him. I could see, however, that she was all delicate and elegant, and that her black curls were more like a cape than a veil. Her big black eyes pierced my heart.

She also has an ingredient of something, a palpable but undefinable something. I don’t believe people have auras or emit shockwaves. However, there seems to be a primal force emanating from her.

I can feel her, I feel her all the time. Like a sound was coming from her that was too low for the brain to consciously hear.

The trainer gave the order in a higher voice, “Clean the restroom for three days.” And she reaches out with both hands and grabs my head. I feel a very strange element to her touch, so even though she doesn’t force me to look at her, I do, like an electric contact.

She was lovely, with an elegantly boned and shaded face, a little grumpy red mouth, and eyes staring straight at me, revealing a very faint look of innocence, completely oblivious to the fact that I was looking back at her as well.

My heart went blank again. I can’t suffer her, can’t belong to her! To think that I should let this fragile human being put me in a position of powerlessness. But my dick had gone from fourth gear into overdrive. She did see it. She wouldn’t miss a thing, she wouldn’t. She let go of me.

I didn’t even have enough time to think about panicking when I saw the evil men in white leather dresses & shoes walking towards me. They lifted me up and turned my head downward and my heels upward.

Pure amazement, the inability to panic that they’d done it, going to it’s unseen what followed was wide, smooth leather shackles snapped around my ankles and my body placed on the hook and loop.

The grease pencil stabbed into my back I couldn’t feel what letters were being written, they couldn’t seem to get the words right I struggled to stop my body from swaying while the blood rushed to my head.

Then I did feel panic. I was completely dumbfounded. But it didn’t make any difference, because I was hanging there, completely helpless and unable to predict anything. The rack creaked and began to roll as we followed it forward. Things were as simple and overwhelming as that.

The trainer’s voice rang out, explaining that the punished volunteer slaves would be expected to work and sleep in the most uncomfortable conditions, and that their punishment would be merciless, exhausting, and not for anyone’s pleasure. Over the course of the next few days, other slaves would visit them to learn more about the consequences of disobedience.

We walked steadily towards the open door and my whole body felt swollen. The “club” was devouring us like a giant mouth.

But while we were physically suspended upside down, we may have been moving into another degree of space. I tried hard not to look back at the upside-down scene of the room.

“Now,” came the voice: “the trainers may choose their slaves.”

Erotic Paradise (06)

Lisa8 Do whatever you want, master.

Who made all these rules of harsh punishment in the first place? Even if no one had ever caused that kind of minor ruckus before, it was routine, and Richard was right on that point.

I finally close my bedroom door and the time is nine o’clock.

The shimmering light penetrates the window  and the inescapable night wind always brings coolness to our island. Why can’t it cool the fire burning in my heart?

The slaves in the bathroom were two of my favorites, Rona and Myke, both blonde, short, and very pleasant, and they had lit the lamp.

They scooped up the water without asking me if I liked it; they set out my pajamas and turned the bed down. I was finally sleepy and sleepy while they gently washed and soaped my hair. Michael gently rubbed the oil all over my body, blow-dried my hair, and then began to comb it.

“We miss you, Lisa.” Michael whispered, kissing my shoulder.

Lorna is gone, but Myke still wanders off and does a lot of little unnecessary things. Great body, great organs. Why not want it? But not tonight.

“Okay, Mykel.” I said.

He walks across the room in silence and kisses my cheek again. One of my arms lightly embraces him for a moment and rests against his shoulder.

“You work too hard, boss lady.” He said. Mouth ready for a kiss.

I closed my eyes. The airplane kept circling. My sister, sitting in the Hotel St. Pierre, looked across the table at me and said, “Why don’t you come clean and tell us about your job?”

“Ah!” I opened my eyes and my body shivered. I was almost in dreamland. “Must go to sleep now.” I said.

“Two can sleep better than one.”

“Michael, you’re precious, but tonight is not good.”

I lay still under the soft, thick white sheet and gazed at the delicate texture of the cotton lace that formed the canopy.

Okay! They have to get him there. All right!

Couldn’t help but imagine what he looked like in the foyer at the acceptance desk. He looked ten, no, a hundred times better than he did in the photo. Blue eyes, really first-rate blue eyes, and a body that was surely “best in class”. But what was fascinating was the unshakable dignity, the way he stood there and took it all in, like an Aesbayadiz in shackles.

How sentimental. Lisa, try to sleep!

Well, he deserved it, three days in the toilet. But did I deserve it? To have to wait three days for him?

Since that time, I hadn’t had five minutes alone with Richard to tell him what I thought of him. Or, every five minutes I always had to think of Elliot Slater. Slater crawling on the floor cleaning the floor.

After it’s all over, I’m going to lock myself in my office and sort through the letters, orders, prescriptions, bills, new equipment, designs that have been strewn about for the last year, approving them, filing them, sending them out and so on… Promising to talk to the pony trainer tomorrow. Then the usual meals with new members, answering questions, guiding them on little tours around the world. Mr. Jerry McAllister was happy. Mr. McAllister was happy. Everyone was happy. Maybe even Eliot Slater was happy. Maybe even Elliot Slater was happy. Who knows?

In fact, the “first night” went so well, so often, that no one would have minded in the least if I had disappeared.

What now?

Gazing up at the hooded canopy above me, it was as if the moment I had just fallen asleep in Mykel’s arms hadn’t happened. Memories came back, snippets of the past floating around me, faces about to take shape, voices about to appear.

Listen to the breeze through the open door and the rustle of the leaves.

Don’t think about him. It’s not like they’re going to sell him to an exotic place.

And don’t touch those memories. But how do you stop those memories? When you remember the past in this way, it’s as if you think you can change it, put it in order, maybe understand it for the first time. The memories are actually there all day long, lurking in the shadows of the mind like an enemy army ready to encircle.

I could see the highway stretching south from San Francisco, then the dense forest of “Monterey cypresses,” the tall houses with steep roofs behind mossy brick walls, and the narrow gravel road, with the private road in front of us and the gate closed behind us. I sat demurely next to Kim B. Paul next to me in the dark blue seat of the limousine, arms crossed in my lap. I even struggled at one point to pull down my skirt and cover my knees.

How ridiculous!

Kim B. Paul is speaking in a quiet voice.

“You’ll find the first few days the most difficult, and at some point you’ll realize that you can’t escape it, and you’ll panic. But you will have the comfort that there is, in fact, nothing you can do about it.” He paused and looked at me carefully, “How do you feel now?”

“Both scared,” I whispered, “and excited.” But the words dried up in my throat. I wanted to say: no matter how I felt, I wouldn’t turn back for anything. I could see the wooden door with the caretaker’s hut above it. The sedan was pulling up to a very deep, pointed brick garage, which was as Tudor as the mansion on the far side of the woods that had just been in front of us.

As we entered the garage, darkness enveloped the car. Suddenly I felt terrified and reached out to touch Kim B. Paul’s hand. “You’ll always know the situation, won’t you?”

“Sure. Now think about it! Is there anything else you want to say or know? Because I’m going to strip you naked now. You can only enter the villa naked. I must take your clothes away. You must never speak to your master or servants, for they will punish you for it.”

“You’ll come and take me away…”

“Of course, after three months, exactly as agreed.”

(You have to go to Berkeley in three months. You have to.)

“Keep in mind everything I have taught you, keep in mind the stages you will go through: when you are very afraid, tell yourself how exciting it is. In that, you have to be honest with yourself to remember that there is nothing you can do about it. It is not your responsibility to save yourself.”

（Save yourself. Save your soul. My father was in bed, reading books, new novels, paperback philosophy books. “Lisa, you’ve never had taste, judgment, or anything but the worst kind of crap one might find in a bookstore, but for the first time, I fear for your immortal soul.

”）

I could feel my nipples against my short top, blazing, the thin seams of my panties soaking wet between my thighs. It was then that Kim Paul leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, pulling my hair back into my face. Paul leaned in and kissed my cheek, pulling my hair back above my shoulders. My hair was longer then than it is now, and it seemed thick and heavy.

I felt Kim. Paul’s hands reach up to where my wrists are, grabbing them behind my back, and also feel the scissors slice through the short blouse, an untidy piece of fabric falling onto the dark blue blanket of the car.

When I was naked, he pulled me out of the limo.

“Keep your head down,” he said, “and don’t move.”

The concrete floor felt cool underfoot. The door opens and the bright light cast over me dazzles me. He kisses me again. I hear the engine start and a rumble from the closed garage and I know he’s leaving.

But a young waiter in a gray uniform had stepped forward, grabbed my wrist, and pushed me toward the door. I felt my hair hanging over my bare arms like a shield of mercy. My nipples throbbed with the thought: will this stranger, this co-conspirator in the secret world of sex, see the dampness between my legs?

“We use covered trails in the winter,” he said. It’s the voice of someone older. Educated, neutral. “You have to walk a large distance. When you approach the house, you have to get down on your knees and stay on your knees.

You’ll be kneeling a lot inside the house.”

We were walking on the trail now. I feel his gloved hands gripping my wrists, and the light is bright, yet watery. Through the thick woolen glass of the dead window, I could see only the blank wall in front of me, the green trees pressed against the glass. I thought in a sudden feeling of panic: the sedan had reached the highway and I was not muzzled. I might well have screamed out and demanded to be let go.

But in that case he might put a muzzle on me. I do know that this will be the case. I have been told.

“Do not be deceived by the kindness of the servants towards you,” said this man beside my ear. “If they catch you not on your knees, if you show them the slightest discourtesy, they will certainly report it to your master.

The reason for this is simple: if they can find fault with you, the masters will hand you over to them to be punished. They look forward to this kind of thing, they like it. Especially a fresh young girl with such fine skin. A tiny, raw hand. So, I say again, don’t be fooled by their .”

We turned the corner and now the floor was carpeted. For my knees, of course. At the front and the promenade place, I saw a door. My heart raced.

“You must show absolute humility to everyone in the room and never forget it. Now, hands and knees on the floor.”

What do I remember after that?

The door swung open to the extravagantly large modern kitchen, with its huge refrigerator door, its gleaming, dusty steel sink, and the female cook in pulpy white, sleeves tied around her ample waist, turning to look at me from her high wooden chair.

“Eh, she’s cute.” A smile, wrinkles showing on her round face.

The long, polished foyer contained marble-topped tables with mirrors. And the quiet parlor had lace-roofed panels, and the sunlight penetrated through the heavy windows . A shock went through me as I saw it all. I walked naked through this kingdom of abundance toward my master’s study; he sat at his desk in the study, the telephone near his ear, and a pencil in his hand.

The first sight of my master took less than a second, and with my face down, I crawled into the middle of the dark blue Persian carpet.

The bell chimes in the room. The canary chirps somewhere, its wings touching the horizontal wood of the birdcage with a soft sound.

“Oh, yes, yes, Si, I have another call. I’ll call you back.” The crisp British accent revealed an aristocratic air of affection. The phone clicked. “Yes, she’s lovely, very lovely. Straighten up, dear. Yes, I like her. She’s going to be great. Come here, young beauty.”

I move around the table as he instructs me, seeing his shoes, seeing the darker colored pants beneath the train of the dark satin red robe. A hand reached out to touch my face, my breasts. “Mmm, great.

“Every word so clear, yet all spoken quickly, “is even better than I hoped.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter. “It’s not nonsense.”

“Look at me, Lisa.” He snapped his fingers.

A thin, angular face with dark eyes that twitched almost unnaturally. Thick gray hair, combed back from the forehead and temples. Handsome, yes. Unusual indeed. Much like the quality of the voice, the eyes are eldritch, or more revealing of true mischief, almost revealing of youth.

“Now leave her with me! I’ll call you when I need you.” It was a comfortable commanding gesture. “It’s true that I don’t have time for this,” considering… “but I’ll be in a hurry. You come with me, young lady.”

A door opened into an unusual room, narrow and harshly lit by sunlight streaming through lead-framed glass panels. A long, polished table with leather handcuffs and ankle ornaments was suspended from the edge of the place by a leather refinery. There was a shelf on the wall with torture canes, belts, handcuffs, and harnesses. Much like Kim. Paul’s studio, where he taught “discipline” to students who had been recruited after reading discreet advertisements in the most unlikely newspapers. I have been well educated in this area.

But this time it’s graduation, this time it’s the first job interview, and it’s the world of careers.

I silently crawl across the rose-colored dark parquet floor into another soft rectangle formed by the red Persian rug. Heart poofs. It’s the sound of his shoes.

“Stand up, honey, that’s it.” I felt the thin leather whip around my head. Panic.

“Shhh, there, there. Are we that scary?” His right hand came up and cupped my left breast while I felt the smooth satin robe touch my back. “That’s right, steady yourself and grab the base of your spine with both hands. You want to look beautiful in your Master’s eyes, don’t you?” Lips leaned over my face, and I softened in the face of such tenderness. Exactly as you want, Master.

My sex organs seemed to become blazing and overflowing beyond belief. I felt the thin lash around my forehead, cheeks, and narrow lashes on either side of my nose. My tongue quickly stuck out to touch my lips.

“Kitten’s tongue!” He whispers in my ear, squeezing the underside of my ass. The smell of cologne is revealed on my breath, and a low, monotone laugh is heard. He has gathered up all of my hair and is coiling it into a ball with sturdy bobby pins. The helmet, formed by the belt, clung to the perimeter of my head, tugging in short bursts above the mass of hair. I felt the tight cummerbund around my waist, sliding under my armpits. I struggled not to make a sound, I was trembling too much.

“Hush, there, my baby. You’re just a baby, a sweet little baby, aren’t you?

“I’m sorry,” he said, standing in front of me, fastening the corset just above the curve of my stomach at the bottom, then compressing it in hard with each new hook and loop while his body approached my breasts. The holster surrounded me, and the semicircular cups, which couldn’t cover my nipples, pushed my breasts up.

“Great.” He said, suddenly kissing me on the lips through the thin belt mask. The tension was unbearable. The corset was now all bunched up and seemed to lift me up as if I didn’t have my own weight or physical strength.

“Lovely.” He said, cupping my nipple and carefully placing it above the holster, pulling and tugging to make it a little longer and harder. How used he was to everything, how skillful and agile!

“Now, what are we going to do with these two lovely arms?” Whatever you want to do, Master. I stretched my neck, my body trembling, trying to show my submission through undulating movements. Each breath seemed to touch the blazing sheath of the tight corset. Hunger spasmed between my legs.

He stepped out of my blurry vision and returned almost immediately with a pair of oddly long leather gloves. I could see right away that the two gloves could be linked together. He turned my body around and quickly slipped my fingers into this black lambskin, working it carefully over the top of my hand and wrist, and then doing the same on my right hand until the glove was a smooth snug fit above the elbow. I felt the knotted strap jerk sharply, both arms latching onto each other while he pulled back hard, making my breasts stand out even more. My face hole blazed beneath the strap. Tears were about to well up. Will this make him happy, or angry? I’m bound now, unable to move in any way, and my breathing becomes more rapid and unsteady. Bound.

“Well, well.” He added, that unfamiliar British accent making even the simplest syllables sound odd.

I saw his long hands with knobby tumors and took out his high-heeled boots. With a heel that high, walking seemed impossible. He set the boots down, pulling the pullers apart to open the long leather tops, and I stepped in with both feet, feeling the leather immediately cover my knees. One of his hands smoothed out the leather, and the feeling of tight pressure was too wonderful to bear. It was almost like standing on my toes, only my arc was curved backward that way.

“That’s good, that’s great. You know Kim B. Paul sends you your measurements to order these things and he measures exactly. He never does it wrong.” He took my face in both hands and kissed me again through the belt.

The desire that blazed within me was excruciating, and I felt like I was in danger of collapsing without support.

“But we have even more wonderful decorations to adorn this little plaything of mine,” he said, lifting my chin, and I knew the decorations: those round black paperweights clamped to my nipples, those dangling earrings hooked into my ears with tiny tips touching the centers of my ears, making my whole body shiver. I couldn’t be completely quiet, nor could my body be completely still.

“Look, you have been properly equipped,” he said. “Sweet little girl, let’s see what you have on you. Walk over to where I’m in front of you! Be graceful and hurry.”

He snapped his fingers.

The heels of my plimsolls gurgled on the parquet floor before I made my way to the carpet again, my body thumping with hunger as I sprinted through the heat.

He led me to a pair of soft velvet sofas that were on opposite sides of the fireplace. My skin felt the heat of the flames intensely. Lovely warmth.

“Now get on your knees, dear,” he said, “and spread your legs.” I struggled to obey, though the boots were so high and hard that my posture seemed awkward. He sat down on the couch in front of me. “Stick your hips out to me, honey,” he said. “That’s it, great. Your master really finds you beautiful.”

He fell silent, and I heard myself whimpering softly, tears welling up in my eyes. I was bound so tightly by gloves, corset, and boots that I felt like I was floating somewhere in a world where strength and gravity meant nothing. He bent over and kissed my breasts, cupping them, licking his tongue over the nipples, over the paperweights clamped over them. I felt my hips sliding forward, uncontrollable. I feel myself falling into his arms.

“Yes, baby’s lovely,” he whispers in my ear, kissing my mouth. Hot and firm fingers supported my breasts above the tight corset. “Now, stand up,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “Face me. That’s it. Heels together. Yes, such lovely tears.”

The room is a hazy wonderland of shapes and bright lights, a fire flickering behind a brass screen and pictures hanging on the walls. The dark-haired man, whose form was lean, rose upward as well, some distance from me; arms crossed, he watched me, his commands almost a whisper.

“Yes, turn around again, very good, heels together, all the way together, chin up.”

Finally, I felt his arms around me. I can’t help but cry out, sobbing in the face of the strength of his arms, the sight of his shoulders, the feel of his chest. My breasts ache as he embraces me, pressing me against the smooth silk robe, his lips touching my mouth through the belt once more. I feel like I’m going to overflow, and I can’t help it.

That first night, after it was all over, I lay beside him, my flesh still tingling from the stimulation of his flesh. How did I feel then?

How to sum up those three months of intense intimacy that followed, the endless bitter battles with that insolent and vile little chambermaid, and her yoke of torture. Running through the garden on a spring morning, with my master galloping his two favorite depopulated horses beside me, the world outside was as distant and unconvincing as a fairy tale.

Also, the servants must have insulted me by way of punishment when I was unable to behave with an obvious willingness to please, yield, talk back, or oppose.

Was there ever a panic? Perhaps on that first morning: when I saw that horse trail and knew I had to run, even though my arms were tied behind my back. Or the first time I was thrown over the knee of the serving cook, writhing and screaming at the injustice of the situation. But I don’t think any of that was a panic.

The panic came one morning at the end of August, when Kim Paul was walking around in the little painted room outside the kitchen where I slept. Paul was walking around in the little painted room off the kitchen where I slept, saying over and over again: “Think before you answer. He asked you to stay another six months. Do you know what that means? Do you realize what you’re throwing away if you refuse this request? Look at me, Lisa. Do you understand?”

He bent his body and gazed into my eyes.

“You know what it means, imprisonment like this. You think it’s easy for me to find something like this for you? You need something like this. You know you do. Is this your dream you’re going to wake up from? I don’t know. When you are awake, is it possible to find another such situation for you, a wonderful situation of imprisonment like this.”

Don’t come in this poetic mood.

“If I don’t leave, I’ll go crazy. I don’t want to stay. I’ve told you from the beginning: I have to go to school at the beginning of the fall semester…”

“You can defer registration. You can defer a semester. You know how many people I have to replace you…”

“I have to leave now, don’t you understand? This is not my life, not my whole life!

”

Within an hour, we were driving to San Francisco, and how strange it felt to be dressed once again and sitting upright, gazing through the blurry windshield of the limo!

How does the city look after those months? How does it feel to lie in a hotel room and stare at the phone? The semester starts in two weeks. My body aches and stiffens due to the fever. Orgasms, aches and pains.

That first night, I sat on a plane to Paris with the money I had earned and didn’t even call home.

For a few days I wandered in a daze through the restaurants on the Left Bank, shocked and distressed: the traffic was noisy, the pedestrians crowded, as if I had been released from a prison cell. My body ached from the pain of the cane, the whip, the dick, and the suffocating, torturous amount of attention that was also the culprit! Orgasm, pain.

Two pathetic dates with a student at Soprano College; dinner and debate with an old American friend; and a dull evening of not-very-enthusiastic lovemaking with an American businessman who had the temerity to hook up with a completely unattached person in the lobby of a hotel.

Then there was the long plane ride home. The campus was packed with people, slow-eyed young men with blank expressions from drug use and empty thoughts, who didn’t even see the bronze-skinned girls in bra-less T-shirts; and, people talking about marijuana, sex, revolution and feminism in the world’s greatest social laboratory.

Alone in his room at the St. Francis Hotel, gazing at the phone for hours before finally dialing the inevitable call.

“Yes,” Kim B. Paul answered the phone and immediately acted enthusiastic. “I happen to have just the right man for the job. He’s not as rich as our other friend, but has a beautifully decorated Victorian building in ‘Pacific Hills.’ He will be very interested in your experience. He’s very strict. How long is the Christmas holiday? When will you be able to prepare to go?”

Is this an addiction? It’s not my life! I’m a student, a young woman. I have things I must do…

“The man at Pacific Crest, yes, and then the couple, young man and woman, both shrewd enough to own a room on Russian Hill for their slaves. Two more weeks. “No more than that, Kim Paul. Paul.” Once again with the owner of that lovely Hillsboro villa.

He sat on the high four-poster bed, right next to me, his hand gently squeezing my hand, while saying, “You know, it was really stupid of you to leave me. Kim P. Paul said, “I shall not torment you or oppress you. Paul said, I shall not torment you or oppress you. But don’t you see that you are giving up the opportunity? I will let you use the morning time to go to school if you want. I will provide you with everything you need, as long as you are obedient, as you are loyal, as you often are.”

I was sobbing as his voice continued.

“I need you,” he said. “I need to possess you, to possess you completely, to make you feel everything you’re capable of feeling. Oh, if I didn’t work so conscientiously, so elegantly, I wouldn’t let you leave here. It’s going to be very exciting, don’t you know? Going back and forth through the veil is exciting. I’d dress you up, take you to the opera, sit in the box with you, forbid you to speak, forbid moving your hands, and then, I’d take you home, strip you naked and possess you. Every morning after you came back from school, I would make you run through the garden naked “I will, I will, I will…” “Ah, you know you want this, you want to belong to me, you do belong to me…”

Alone on the highway that night, I hitchhiked to San Francisco, and the driver kept saying, “A college girl like you shouldn’t be sharing a car with strange men.”

After that, between months of rejecting people, no, I can’t, I don’t want to, not anymore. I want to study, I want to go to Europe. I’m going to be what the world calls normal. I want to fall in love, get married, have children. I’m going to, I’m going to… I’m burning up. I’m in hell.

Kim B. Paul was angry and expressed disgust. “You’re my best student, my work of art.”

“You don’t understand. This kind of thing consumes me. If I do it again, I won’t turn back from it.

Don’t you get it? This kind of thing eats up everything. I lost my mind.”

“It’s what you wanted!” An angry whisper. “You cannot deceive me. You were made for me, you are a slave, and without a master your entire life will be incomplete.”

“Don’t contact me again.”

Is there a knock on the door? Knocking on the door of dreams?

I sat up in bed. The hazy sounds of conversation came from the far side of the garden as guests moved along the path. I gazed into the darkness, which faded slightly; the shapes of the trees became clear against the glass.

Yes, it was a knock, so soft it seemed like an auditory illusion. I had a strange feeling that Elliot Slater would be there. Elliot Slater would be there. It was impossible. They’d taken him to the bottom of the stairs, probably in shackles. Why on earth should I think that he would come to this room if he could?

I tapped the little buzzer on the table and the door opened. Pieces of bright yellow light shone from the porch, and then there was a figure, naked and perfect, but the figure was too short to be Elliot Slater. Slater. It was Michael again, looking into the darkness of the room, unable to see anything.

“Lisa?”

“What, Myke?” Even if I really had been sleeping, really dreaming, I wouldn’t have drifted off like this. The past seems to be its own anesthetic.

“They want you in the office, Lisa. They said your phone must be off.”

It’s not possible. I never turned off the phone. This is the first night…

And yet I saw in the rest of my eyes the throbbing little bright light of the phone. The bell. What happened to the bell? I remembered. I had deliberately turned it off when I came in.

“Richard said they had a girl there whose documents were forged,” Mykel stated. “She wasn’t old enough to go to prom.”

“How the hell did they get here?” I asked.

“Lisa, if I had known anything about this place when I was seventeen, I would have parachuted in.”

He was already standing by the open cabinet, ready to help me dress.

I sat there for a while, abhorring them for wanting me to go, but it was better than this sleep that wasn’t really sleep, better than these dreams that weren’t really dreams.

“Michael, see if the bar has some good red wine,” I said. “I can dress myself.

”

Elliot 9 Visitors in the Shadows

It was dark.

I stood again on my toes, with my head hanging forward and my wrists tied to a hook, as is the case on a yacht. For the second night in succession, pleasant dreams were had. I was surrounded by other slaves and the door would often open and an attendant would walk the ranks and apply oil to our aching buttocks and legs. Lovely sensuality. Occasionally one of the attendants would walk over and offer us water, but we could only lick it lightly.

Throughout the afternoon and evening we cleaned the toilets, not the private bathrooms of the bungalows and suites, but the public toilets on all floors of the “club” building, adjacent to the many social halls and swimming pools: perfect slavery with mops and brushes, mostly crawling. We were ordered to work by the muscular male attendants, who were a bunch of fast guys, real roughnecks, wearing boots and always with a whip, always ready to show off their skills.

You can’t engineer this, it’s the sublime necessity of every humiliation and domination involved in the wonderful depravity of a brothel. It’s eight hours of teasing for an orgasm that has never been reached, only they don’t let it come.

There were a thousand glimpses of salons, bars beautiful people and privileged people passing us everywhere without a glance that happened to add to the luxury of the ordeal. The waiters automatically come in for a little one-way entertainment and games when they get the chance, just to remind us what an orgasm is all about.

But the spirit of the situation has a real purpose: to drain you. It depletes your tension, your inhibitions, and that raw feeling that there is an unbelievable trial waiting around every corner.

I could feel the obstacles taking shape in my head.

I am part of the system. The system is working. I’m glad for the uncomfortable periods of rest, and accept with a strange sense of humor the fact that in less than six hours, I’ll be scrubbing things again in a burst of blinding bright light, while fashionably dressed members come and go. This goes on for three days, and the real training hasn’t even begun yet.

Real training means: “The dark-haired, dark-eyed, two-handed, beautiful young lady named Lisa.

“O Elliot, you’ve really drawn a flush.

But don’t think about it! Every time I try to visualize her and remember the tone of its voice, I get a little dazed inside.

Better think about something else. Better hope that after three days of mop-and-brush purgatory, I’ll be strong enough to face hell.

Or is it heaven?

The problem with all of this is that it’s both hell and heaven.

I heard a strange noise outside the shadows; perhaps I was half asleep. Long boots stepped on the marble floor, perhaps in front of me, in front of the narrow, thin carpet on which my aching feet were pressed. But what was that? A lighter, crunchier cackle.

I opened my eyes.

There was a figure in the darkness far to the right. Tall, but not as tall as all the men here. And there was that fragrant, intoxicating perfume.

Indeed. There she is. The woman of my life.

I see bright light shining on her smooth, hanging hair. I see bright light flashing in her eyes.

The rest of her body was dark except for a ring glowing on one finger. Then the uppers of her boots flashed, and when she came closer something glowed in her hand; then her short blouse revealed bright white, with tiny pearl buttons glowing faintly; then her face loomed up as if the darkness had faded with the bright light.

If it weren’t still so dark, I’d close my eyes, like we’re supposed to do. But I just stared.

She stepped closer while I felt her hot little hand on my cheek and something cold touching my lips.

I smelled the strong fruity aroma of the wine and I opened my mouth. Delicious red wine, very refreshing, I drink deeply. I licked my lips with my tongue as the glass was removed.

Her eyes were large, dark, and clear.

“Are you enjoying a little penance trip amongst the brushes and buckets?” She asked softly, not even revealing a hint of sarcasm.

I heard myself reply with a low, deep chuckle.

Not smart. I tense up, but then I see a bright light appear in her cheeks when she smiles.

Her bare forearms rubbed my hips and her hands caressed my back.

“Unh!” I quickly cringed and stiffened up fiercely. It wasn’t just my leg muscles that stiffened.

“Bad boy,” she said, pinching one of the whip marks on my body, her fingers sending that jolting sensation throughout my body, just as she had done upstairs in the foyer acceptance office.

My pulse was beating rapidly and I could feel it in my temples. Her breasts almost touch my chest before she walks back.

“What are you learning here?” She asked.

I almost laughed out loud again. I knew for a fact that she had heard me.

“Learned absolute obedience, ma’am.” I said. The statement revealed a little bit of humor, but it happened to be the truth.

What she was doing to me now, however, was worse than a broom and a mop. Every stimulus of the day made it worse. At this point, sexual fulfillment seemed to become like a myth to me. The dizzying excitement would go on forever, with peaks and valleys, and this was one of the peaks. In fact, it would be Everest.

“Give me a special kind of whatever,” she said sincerely. “It’s what you’ve learned and is new to you. If anything.” There was no artificial drama revealed in her voice; it sounded intimate, in that oddly straightforward way. “The Chanel perfume fluctuated softly. Bright lights starkly revealed her small mouth.

I tried to think. But all I could think about was: what was going on in the lower part of my body, how she looked, how she smelled, and how her fingers felt.

She raises her glass again and I sip slowly, taking a deep breath. Not much help.

“What did you learn?” She asked again, revealing a bit of coldness in her voice, as if she was going to beat me with a ruler if I didn’t memorize the nine-nine multiplication table.

“I learned that I’m scared.” I said, surprising even myself.

“Fear,” she repeated. “Afraid of the people who have been using you?” She asked. “Or afraid of me?”

“Scared of both,” I said. “I don’t know which I’m more afraid of.”

I immediately felt regret. I wanted to take back what I had said, not understanding why I had said it.

I’m trained in voice Martin and all of his customers say this, which means that I specialize in providing answers with a somewhat formalistic component. And formalistic answers are more than just a stimulus; they cover everything.

“Did the Broom and Mop Squad… assault you?” She asked.

“Sure, whenever they get the chance,” I said. My face heated up. “They pay more attention to soap and water and loud scolding and don’t have a lot of time for anything else.”

Is that me talking? To her?

“You’re a difficult man, aren’t you?” She asked. The words still didn’t reveal sarcasm. In fact, she sounded ambiguous.

“As long as you’re happy, ma’am.” It was a nice formalistic answer, but it sounded very sarcastic.

The sound of my heartbeat is too high, too fast.

But she seemed to smile again, yet not in a cheerful, self-satisfied way. “Why are you afraid of me?” She asked. “Have you never been punished by a woman?”

“It’s not that impressive, ma’am.” My throat felt slightly choked. It was just the elegant people in those vanity Victorian bedrooms, in Martin’s house, that gave me a little taste and drove me crazy. And the Russian countess at the country house who just gazed at me. Si, it was a journey but not enough of a journey that I couldn’t wrestle with what was happening.

“You’re too nice to be punished by a woman, aren’t you? Elliot.” She whispered. A matter of formalism.

“If it is a good woman, then the answer is: no.” I said. Fuck it, Elliot. Shut up!

But she laughed, trying to hide it, turning slightly to the side, but I heard it, a slight chuckle.

I imagined myself suddenly kissing her, overpowering her with kisses, pulling down the lace and pearl buttons of her short blouse.

I couldn’t think of her any other way than that she was lying in my arms and I was kissing her, opening her mouth. It was great. It was real sleepy, playful.

Why didn’t she let me remain silent and not answer? I mean: like in the pavilion, and in the foyer at the acceptance point, when I was in fear, a white light appeared in my mind and I was in a state of confusion?

“Are you really that afraid of me? Elliot.” She asked. Blood pulsed in my cheeks. But she couldn’t see it, the light was too dim. “It doesn’t sound like you’re too scared.”

I was able to see white lace spilling over the tops of her breasts. I was able to see the paler skin of her long throat. Her voice was touching a certain depth within me, and that certain depth was as vulnerable as it was unexplored.

“I’m scared.” I said.

A pause.

“Maybe you should be afraid,” she said, as if revealing an important secret. “I’m sick of you creating this mess, and I’m going to make you feel bad about it.”

I swallowed, trying to put on a small bitter face and keep the sarcastic smile on my own face.

She tiptoed to her feet and stood up, her hair touching my bare shoulders, the perfume drowning me. I felt her lips against mine, high volts of electricity, the lace of her short blouse crushing against my bare chest. A double shock, I couldn’t catch my breath as her wet little mouth opened. My dick touches her smooth leather skirt. I suck harder, opening her lips wider, pushing my tongue in, my dick pushing into her. She lets go of me and jumps back.

I stretched my body forward in the confines of the leather tether and kissed her neck as hard as I could before she could get out of the way.

“Stop.” She said, jumping backward farther.

“I am your slave,” I whispered. I meant what I said, but I couldn’t help adding, “Besides, I can’t free myself from this abominable hook and loop.”

For a second she seemed too angry and surprised to say anything. She was staring at me angrily and also rubbing the place where I had kissed her as if I had bitten off a piece of her flesh of course I didn’t do that.

“You’re so hopeless at fucking it!” She said furiously, but under her breath and on her face there was a hint of hesitation and lack of understanding.

“I didn’t mean to,” I said regretfully. This was a real mess. “Honestly, I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t mean to. I came here to obey all the rules, and I don’t want to continue to get stuck like this.”

“Shut up.”

Tense moments. Blood pounding in the brain and several other places. I wondered if they had a prison in this part of the world to incarcerate the really bad guys. Maybe the slave prisoners were locked up with iron refineries and dug ditches. Will I get a fair trial? Would she testify against me? Would Martin call with a telegram asking for leniency? Probably not.

She cautiously moved her body in as if I were some kind of jungle beast. I didn’t look at her.

“Now, I’m going to kiss you again,” she whispered. “You have to stay still.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She approached my right side, careful not to touch me, and then there was another shock of two hundred volts of electricity, and this time, I felt like she was going to burn. I think I’m going to cum just from kissing her, it’s so passionately hard. She was leaning into my side, her arms around me.

I turned my head when she suddenly let go of me. Everest Peak, yes.

“I’ll be waiting for you, Elliot.” She said.

“Yes, ma’am!” I said, still unable to look at her, the sound of her footsteps as she moved away completely tormenting me.

(to be continued)