IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Wed Feb 19, 2014 3:22 pm

This is another story in my Château Fantaisie series.

IN HER OWN WORDS

1. The Wooden Pony Club

My strange journey began prosaically enough. My boyfriend Damian took me to a fancy restaurant for my birthday. Afterwards we went to our favourite pub, where we came across Matthew. He was drinking with a couple of his friends but left them to join us.

At the time, I was hardly on speaking terms with my brother. With both of our parents gone, I had raised him more in the role of a surrogate mother than an elder sister. I am just three years his senior but had to grow up fast while he got to enjoy the last of his teenage years. I didn’t resent him for that, even though I was forced to abandon my studies in order to work two jobs. The problem was that Matthew had not grown up. At the age of twenty he was barely passing his subjects (doing just enough to ward off expulsion), had no ambitions and never held a paying job. Yet it was my fault. In my determination to fill the void left by the divorce and our mother’s death, I had spoilt him. I indulged his impulses, put up with his games and supported his dissolute lifestyle. He needed discipline and direction in his life, but I was not sure how to provide it.

Now we had come to a crossroads. I had resolved to go back to university, which meant switching to part-time work. If we were to keep up the house payments, Matthew would at last have to pull his weight. I had been rehearsing the speech that I was going to present when the right opportunity came along. But it never did.

That night, however, I was feeling complaisant. Perhaps it was the two glasses of dinner wine. But I had noticed a change in my brother in recent weeks. He seemed more focused, had begun finally to show some maturity. He had even started to contribute to the rent and housekeeping fund. So when, that night, he proposed that we move to a new venue, I put aside my usual “What is he up to?” reservations. Damian agreed, somewhat reluctantly, and the scene was set for my voyage of self-exploration.

Matthew steered us to a rather seedy-looking nightclub about ten minutes’ walk away. The cool night air partially cleared my head, and I was starting to have second thoughts, especially when I saw the notice that females were admitted free of charge. This is rarely a good sign. Nevertheless, it intrigued me that Matthew flashed an ID card for the doorman, and all three of us were ushered inside without paying.

However, the interior was not as dingy or sordid as the façade suggested. It appeared to be a typical establishment for its kind – crowded and noisy. Most of the patrons were male, but there were quite a few other women, including an all-girl group who were the most boisterous in the place. The waitresses and female bar attendants were scantily clad, but in expensive lingerie –- satin-and-lace bra and panties, garter belt, stockings and high heels. The music was provided by a contemporary jazz band that was really good. I was not surprised that the main entertainment was “exotic dance” but it was tasteful enough.

We found a table and ordered drinks. Since I was still feeling somewhat fuzzy, I had lemonade. The waitress called Matthew by name; and sometime later the manager came to talk to us. My brother introduced us and announced her as “our hostess” Desirée. She was a tall, slim, striking brunette, with dark, sparkling eyes and a wry, slightly crooked smile. She wore the same sexy outfit as the other female staff, and Matthew was being behaving very familiar as she stood beside him, patting and fondling her backside and playing with the suspenders on her garter belt. She kept brushing his hand away with hers but seemed otherwise unperturbed by his manners.

Desirée stayed to chat for a couple of minutes. She seemed interested in my circumstances and I guessed (correctly as it turned out) that she was appraising me for a job offer. But shortly before midnight, Matthew suddenly declared that it was time to leave. Aware of his nocturnal habits, I found this rather odd; but since it was a weeknight, I was happy to go. Damian concurred, keen to be out of the place and anticipating a reward for the patience he’d shown thus far. He was not disappointed... but that’s another story.

I had almost forgotten that evening’s events when, a couple of weeks later, Matthew woke me up with coffee and a prospect. At the time, having given up my previous jobs, I was looking to supplement my meagre income as a tutor. I had done waitressing before and was receptive when he told me there was a position open at the nightclub.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because I work there, dummy,” he replied.

With that information, I felt guilty for criticizing his out-all-night lifestyle of the past few months. Yet when I demanded why he hadn’t just told me, he gave a cryptic, evasive reply. In any case, the very next day we went back to the Wooden Pony Club. The name was discreetly displayed on a small sign above the doorway.

In the harsh light of day, from the street the place looked even more disreputable than it did in the dark, and in striking contrast to the plush decor inside. I had the distinct impression that this was deliberate… a false front. The air of mystery aroused my curiosity, and it was something of a letdown to be welcomed by a weather-beaten, middle-aged man in scruffy overalls wielding a mop. He conducted us to an upstairs office where Desirée was just hanging up on a phone call. She was now in a business suit and her hair was tied back, but even in a tailored jacket and a man’s tie she maintained the casually sensual deportment of a showgirl. When she stood up and came round from behind her desk to greet us, her skirt, short and pleated, was still falling into place, giving us a peek of bare thighs between the tops of silk stockings and a garter belt like the one she was wearing when we first met.

As she started outlining the terms of employment, it only just occurred to me what had been bothering me the most. Matthew worked there as a waiter and bar attendant, was one of the most junior members of the staff, and this woman was his boss. This put his interaction with Desirée’s derrière that night in the club in a much different and more interesting light. But I did not dwell on it, since the job opportunity was too good to refuse. The pay was generous, the hours were flexible and the dress code was... well, I’d worn less when serving drinks in the poolside restaurant not so long ago.

At only one stage of the interview did I have any misgivings. Desirée asked Matthew to wait outside, and after he’d excused himself she told me to stand up, take off my blouse and drop my jeans. I complied, feeling awkward and self-conscious as she leant back in her chair and inspected me, telling me to stretch out, touch my toes and perform slow pirouettes. She said I was very pretty and I thanked her for the compliment, and she said “Just stating a fact, honey.”

As my brother came back into the office, I was still buttoning my shirt, and he gave us both an inquisitive look before nodding and grinning.

I started the following week. That uncomfortable moment in Desirée’s office had me a little concerned, but I put it out of my mind. It was only a short bus ride from our house and the university, so the easy commute was a bonus. Desirée introduced me to my co-workers in the dressing room and presented me with my uniform. It consisted of a pink chartreuse camisole and panties, trimmed with black lace, a frilly garter belt with four suspenders, pure silk stockings which alone must have cost a small fortune, and stiletto-heeled pumps. One of the girls had to help me with my garter belt, and the shoes were not designed for long periods of waiting on tables. However, it was sexy and feminine, and when I got started it was fun to be the centre of attention as the new waitress.

Matthew was tending bar that night, and there were a couple of other male staff. They were elegantly dressed in grey slacks and waistcoats, white shirts and red ties. I envied them in one respect. The temperature of the room was turned down low, so if I didn’t keep moving the goosebumps began to appear. Not only goosebumps… we weren’t permitted to wear a bra under the camisole, which was very sheer, so the chill had a visual effect that was, at least, pleasing for the customers. Our boss, to her credit, led from the front in her skimpies.

The work was typical waitressing. There must have been some unwritten decree about the behaviour of the customers, because it appeared that a strict hands-off policy applied to the newer girls (who were distinguished from the veterans by wearing the camisole instead of a plain bra). I was not touched once all night, unless it was so subtle I was too busy to notice. On the other hand, all the other women including Desirée received the feel-up treatment. On my second night I was fair game, although it was nothing to complain about -– an occasional hand on my backside or the inside of my thigh. The penalty for gross misconduct was immediate ejection from the club, but I only heard of this rule and never saw it needing to be imposed.

The most novel thing I encountered was the procedure for tips. Those left on the table and bar or dropped onto the trays were pooled for equal distribution amongst all the staff; but any gratuity that was slipped inside our knickers or the tops of our suspenders was ours to keep. So I quickly got used to the unofficial guideline that you didn’t react too quickly when you felt a guy’s fingers inside your pants. Occasionally someone would go too far and try to insert his money into the slot, but you could deal with this by means of a cautionary flick to the ear. The male servers did not seem to mind that they were denied a share of about eighty percent of the tips. On the whole, the mood among both staff and patrons was upbeat and the ambience of the club (on the inside at least) was distinctly upmarket.

For the first month I was on probation, although my wages and duties were the same as the others’. Since just about everyone but the boss worked part-time, there were a lot of staff. Most of my fellow employees were university students like myself, and because the girls had to be over twenty-one years of age, we were mostly postgraduates; which meant we were probably the most highly educated bunch of waitresses in the city. Yet we hardly ever socialized, because we all had different rosters.

It didn’t take me long to get used to working in lingerie. The biggest challenge was posed by the high heels, and by the end of each shift I was near to exhaustion. But on the whole it turned out to be a very pleasant working environment. Everyone got on well together, and Desirée was a first-rate manager, very skilled at walking the line between the rights and welfare of her staff and the needs and demands of the clientele. I was happy, and grateful to Matthew for getting me the job. It paid well, especially with the tips, which netted me more in a week than I earned in a month at that poolside place.

Damian turned up the first couple of nights to give me encouragement, and of course to check out my uniform; but we never stopped in when I was off-duty. I normally worked Tuesday to Thursday; but at the end of my probationary period, Desirée asked me to come in that Friday evening, put in a couple of hours and then stay on to enjoy on-the-house drinks and take in the entertainment. Damian arrived just as my shift was ending, around eleven o’clock. Matthew was still working, and he kept my boyfriend supplied with the free drinks. I remained sober, eager to know the reason for the special invitation.

At exactly midnight, the character of the club changed, so quickly that it took me by surprise. The lighting turned a lurid red. The band started playing throbbing, discordant notes. The waitresses shed their bras to serve topless. That in particular startled me, but Desirée had gone even further. The music rose to a crescendo, as a circle of harsh white light tracked across the room before settling on the small stage. She emerged from the shadows to mount the platform. She was completely nude, except for a black garter belt and fishnet stockings, high-heeled boots and, encircling her slender neck, a studded leather collar.

I was so stunned that I didn’t hear what she announced to the audience before she disappeared. An expectant buzz filled the room as onto the stage stepped three figures, two men wearing robes and masks (one black, the other red) and a young, tall, blonde woman wrapped in a white cape and blindfolded with a black sash or scarf. The men were holding her arms to guide her up onto the platform.

The man in black seized the girl by her shoulders, spun her around and stripped off her cloak. She was naked underneath. He pulled her arms behind her back, clamping silver bracelets on her wrists and linking them with a piece of cord. He was not gentle, and her body jerked and twisted as he secured her hands. He turned her around a full three-sixty degrees so that we could see that her elbows almost touched behind her. It looked agonizing and she was grimacing. The way she was bound drew her shoulders back, pushing out her chest. Her breasts were not large, but this enforced posture enhanced them. They glistened with a thin film of perspiration; her nipples were hard and erect.

The girl squirmed as the man shoved a large ball-gag into her mouth and braced it with a leather strap, tugging so forcefully that her head was wrenched backwards. He fastened a metal collar around her throat. My initial shock quickly gave way to curiosity and excitement. Damian, who appeared just as startled, put his arm around my shoulders, and he squeezed me tightly as we watched.

The other man had wheeled onto the stage a wooden bench that was roughly like a vaulting horse, one of those things gymnasts leap over, except that the top was not flat but peaked; so in profile from the front it was shaped like an A. It had leather straps attached at strategic places along the sides. While red robe positioned the bench, his associate guided the young woman to one end. Then, with a hand on her back between her shoulder blades, he pushed her forward until she was bending over the apparatus. Her feet still touched the floor, until each man seized an ankle, raised it and secured it with one of the straps. In doing so they hoisted her roughly onto the device and she was left sprawled on top of it. She was made to sit up straight, straddling the wedge-shaped top. She immediately began to wriggle about, but only for a short time, until she appreciated that squirming only made things worse. Her struggles quickly subsided.

Even through her gag and behind her blindfold, I could see the girl’s face contorted in pain and humiliation. I’m sure every woman in the room gasped and cringed in sympathy. Her protests, though muffled by her gag, could be heard clear across the room. Then to add to her distress, black mask drew her shackled wrists upwards, toward her shoulders, twisting her arms into an awkward and excruciating position, to attach her bracelets to her collar. The two men then stood back to allow the enthralled spectators to admire their handiwork.

This first act lasted no more than fifteen minutes, although it must have seemed like an eternity to the victim. I was embarrassed and repelled and fascinated by this spectacle of a young nude woman suffering for the amusement of the crowd. But when she was lifted off the apparatus, set down on the floor and her restraints removed, she smiled and raised her arms in triumph. The crowd clapped and yelled their approval. And she was able to walk off by herself, albeit with a slight wobble.

Breathless and exhausted, Damian and I just looked at each other, neither saying a word. Yet the rest of the customers went back to drinking and chatting, as one of the waitresses mounted the stage, took off what little she wore and began gyrating to the music. Somewhat to my astonishment, she was a very accomplished dancer, transitioning to a jazz ballet with skilful moves.

I turned to Matthew, who had come to join us at the table. “It’s not over yet,” he said. Then he saw the look on my face and grinned. “Take a closer look,” he said, gesturing towards the contraption on the stage. The pointy peak of the “wooden pony” was not sharp at all, but rounded… indeed more an upside-down U than an inverted V. Nevertheless, with the girl’s weight pressing down on her most tender parts, it could not have been comfortable, especially in front of an audience.

About half an hour after the first, the second act started. Next to the wooden pony a pillory had been set up, one of those medieval contrivances into which the victim’s head and hands are locked. The masked men brought out two naked victims this time. They were already gagged and blindfolded but I recognized them as girls who a few minutes earlier had been sitting at a nearby table. One was a fellow waitress, Marilyn, who like me had been off-duty. She was married, and her husband was still at the table, with a man I presumed to be the other girl’s partner.

This second girl, with her arms shackled in front, was made to ride the wooden pony, while Marilyn was locked in the stocks. This time they presented more than just a static tableau. The men began flogging them, every so often swapping between their victims. I flinched as each blow landed, but after a while I noticed that there was no blood drawn, and the pink welts raised on the backs, buttocks and thighs were barely visible. The whips were flails with about a dozen braided leather extensions to spread and soften the impact. It was more ritual than torture, focused on degradation rather than inflicting pain.

Marilyn was yelling something through her gag. I thought at first they were muffled curses or pleadings, but once I understood the true nature of the show I realized that she was mocking and taunting her tormentors.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she gurgled.

“Cool it, girl,” I thought. But the men stayed calm.

When they were released, the second girl’s knees began to buckle and Marilyn helped her off the stage. But during the intermission they reappeared at the table, still in the nude but neither appearing any the worse for their ordeal. In fact, Marilyn glanced across towards us, smiled at me and winked.

Damian and I stayed for another hour. There were more, similar exhibitions, and the crowd gave each woman a rousing ovation. One pair was a lesbian couple who had been kissing and cuddling in a corner of the room until they were called to the stage. From their expressions I don’t think they were expecting it, but they went up willingly. I half-expected one of them to fill the domination role, but both were stripped (being the first “players” to come up still in their clothes) and placed on the wooden pony, facing each other, their hands shackled behind their backs. They were “seated” close up to each other with their chests pressed together, and joined by a dual gag, two balls fused so that when they went into their mouths the women were locked in a kiss.

Like Marilyn and her friend, they were whipped, and then tormented with something that looked awfully like a cattle prod. No part of their bodies were spared, not the soles of their feet nor their underarms nor their genitalia. Before this began, to demonstrate that the electrodes really carried a current, a male volunteer was zapped on the backside, through his trousers, and he jumped. He pointed to his lady friend at the table, and after a brief remonstration she bent over; but the man in black pulled down her knickers and poked her unprotected flesh. She shrieked and everyone laughed, but I shuddered to see the two helpless women on the pony hearing the yell and the scream and wondering, behind their blindfolds, what was coming.

I was mesmerized by each of these performances, but I was also tired and had to be up early in the morning. Anyway, I was mentally drained. Matthew must have signalled to Desirée, because she came to our table, and as I stood up she gave me a hug. She said a few words to both my brother and my boyfriend that I didn’t hear. She then gave some directions to one of the waiters, who took a card out of his pocket and handed it Damian. She shook hands with him, but when she held out her hand to Matthew he ignored it, grabbed hold of her left breast and shook that.

I sucked in a breath and held it in anticipation of an eruption, but she just laughed and told my brother to behave himself. I was captivated by this strong, confident woman, stark naked and yet in total control, completely at ease with her fully clothed male staff and clients and the liberties they took.

Damian was disappointed to be going. I had put on a little frock over my skimpy costume, but as the crisp, early morning air caressed my bare arms and legs, my shiver was not just from the cold. What we had witnessed in the Wooden Pony Club both troubled and titillated me… but even more my boyfriend. He stayed overnight, and made love to me with such vigour that it hurt. I didn’t get to sleep until almost dawn.

To be continued…

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby OldTUGger » Wed Feb 19, 2014 5:35 pm

One word: Hot.

Five more words: And sure to get hotter...

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Wed Feb 19, 2014 9:47 pm

Continued…

So the Wooden Pony was a BDSM club. At least, that’s what it became after midnight. I had heard about such places and seen similar stuff on the internet. In some ways it was exactly as I pictured one would be, in other ways profoundly different. And what most intrigued me was that the “performers” were not professionals, except insofar as a couple of them worked at the place. From the surprised reactions of some, I got the impression that they were first-timers; and even the experienced ones appeared to be amateurs. One of the most memorable was a girl chosen, apparently at random, from the audience. She was stripped on the spot, but before her hands were bound she hugged her a husband/fiancé/boyfriend, gazed into his eyes and said, “I love you.” He replied “Show me,” and she nodded and smiled.

The other thing that struck me as unusual was that all the “subs” were females and all the “doms” male. From what I had gathered in my research, that was not unheard of but nevertheless uncommon. But I was later to learn that there was an explanation, but one that I could not have predicted…

Things were back to normal for the next two weeks. I worked my regular shifts at the Club in the evening and attended my classes during the day. And then Desirée asked if I’d be willing to come in on Friday, and work past midnight.

She saw my expression and smiled. “Just to wait on tables, honey.”

I readily agreed. The pay was the same but I expected the tips to be bigger. Of course, I would be serving topless. And when I informed Damian, he was disillusioned. Desirée did not want boyfriends hanging around when we were on duty, which was reasonable. (Marilyn had been officially off the clock that night she was with her husband.) His presence had been tolerated the first couple of times, while I was still settling in. I got in some sleep during the afternoon, and then I went to work. I was disconcerted to find Matthew on duty.

I started at eight, and at the stroke of midnight off came my bra. This bothered me less than I thought it would, except when Matthew paused in his duties to enjoy a good long stare at my bare chest. I felt a bit squeamish having my brother ogle my boobs, but I was sure he was just doing it to discomfort me, so I ignored him. Meanwhile the BDSM show started on schedule, and continued until four in the morning, with a performance about every half hour. The most popular prop was the wooden pony. In between sessions, one of us waitresses danced. When my turn came, Desirée patted me gently on the shoulder and told me my panties would have to come off. She was sensitive but firm, and I understood her point. If we all shared in the tips, we should all be prepared to do our duty. And we did very well on the gratuities, including the men… except they were not obliged to dance naked.

While whirling and twirling my body au naturel on the stage, I looked about to see if Matthew was watching. I never saw him. I was told later that he was in the cloakroom “bonking” one of the other waitresses… but someone may have been pulling my leg. For though I am hardly neutral on the subject, I have never thought of my little brother as particularly attractive to the opposite sex. He’s short and not especially handsome, and at that time still carried some of the pudginess of adolescence. He was also the youngest member of the staff.

But the Wooden Pony Club was a funny place. Outnumbering the men three-to-one, the women appeared to be very indulgent towards them. I guess when you’re working almost naked alongside males who are fully clothed, there is a sexual tension that can only have been heightened by the Friday and Saturday shows, in which nude women were systematically tormented and humiliated. I still recalled, vividly, the way Matthew had groped his boss on that first night, and her lack of any adverse reaction.

Anyway, I worked there for six months, including half a dozen after-midnight shifts, and it was arguably the best job I’d ever had. However, I then started on a critical phase of my postgrad studies, which would involve both research and a teaching position. When I informed Desirée that I would have to quit, she was gracious about it, even giving me an unexpected pay bonus.

But then she said, on my last day: “Why don’t you come in on Friday?”

I knew from the sparkle in her eye what she meant. I must have frowned.

“No pressure,” she said. “Give it some thought. I think you will find it… enlightening.”

In fact, it did not take me long to make up my mind. I was intrigued by what I had seen on those late nights in the club. About half the players were “virgins”, as we called them, while the regulars tended to be very regular -- every weekend, a few on both Friday and Saturday night. So although it felt weird, I was desperately curious to know what it was like, to experience for myself what these girls put themselves through, or consented to have done to them. The devil-may-care fearlessness of my youth (when I was an unreconstructed tomboy) was reasserting itself... perhaps against my better judgement.

During the days before my show, I was distracted, nervous and bitchy. My friends and colleagues started to avoid me. Only Damian knew the reason. And on Friday, when we turned up at the Club at around eleven, I was appalled to see Matthew waiting for us. But he was uncharacteristically supportive and even gallant, and it occurred to me that the situation may have been as awkward for him as it was for me.

I was not just the big sister who had been his surrogate mother for nearly five years; I was also the strong, smart, resourceful go-getter. He once remarked that the reason he was punier than me was that he had lived for so long in my shadow. (“Nothing grows well in the shade,” he said.) Yet since he brought me to the Wooden Pony Club, introduced me to Desirée and helped get me this job, he had been seeing me in a whole new way… most obviously in the nude, but more generally as a woman with an actual sexuality. So I wondered how our relationship might be different after this night. I figured it could only change for the better…

Mine was to be the second performance. Too afraid to be out front watching the first, I stayed in the kitchen, while Damian sat in the audience. When the first act ended and the young women came staggering off-stage, I almost lost my nerve. Desirée tried to soothe me with a few comforting words. She told me that, because this was my first show, I wouldn’t be gagged, so I could yell “Stop!” at any time. I worried about what the crowd’s response would be to that and she was very blunt.

“Screw them. If they don’t like it, they can volunteer to take your place.”

Very reassuring… in its own way.

Then the woman’s countenance changed. She glared at me so hard I almost toppled backwards. “Take off your clothes,” she snarled.

It was just the tonic I needed. I stripped and put my dress and undies in a box on the counter. And what happened next gave me even more confidence… after the initial shock. Matthew had come to join us, which disconcerted me; but he got to the rear of Desirée, seized her wrists and tied them behind her back with nylon cord. Again her face changed, this time to a blissful, wistful expression. The transformation was as marvellous as it was sudden. Her chest began to heave as she started softly panting, and the pink buds on her breasts began to rise and stiffen. She bent forward at the waist and lifted one leg as the tickle between her thighs began to swell within her. Mathew was still holding her arms, and it was extraordinary to see this tall, svelte, gorgeous woman, normally so tough and self-possessed, naked and bound and wilting with arousal in the clutches of my brother, almost a head shorter and thoroughly unspectacular in every other way.

Meanwhile the two showmen had come for us. The one in black (whom I now knew as George) tied my hands behind my back, much tighter than I was prepared for and I groaned. Desirée was about to say something but I whispered “It’s okay.”

George, who looked so menacing in his sinister black mask and cape, had a thin, reedy voice with a slight lisp.

“Sorry, sweetie. It has to be tight. It makes your boobs stick out. The punters love it.”

Desirée was blindfolded, I was not. We were led out onto the stage. With the lights on us, it was difficult to see into the audience, but there was plenty of clapping and cheering. Half-blinded, I almost tripped while stepping up onto the platform. And yet my nervousness had for some reason melted away. I was trembling, but with excitement, as I beheld the wooden pony awaiting me. I was relieved to see, on my first close inspection, that the top edge was indeed rounded.

But Desirée took the attention at first. She was to endure what was called the electric bar dance. The torture device was devilishly simple, just a horizontal bar attached to legs like a carpenter’s “horse” and set above the floor at crotch height. At one end of the bar were wires leading to a battery. Say no more. The woman was made to straddle the apparatus and stand on tiptoes to keep her tender lower parts off the bar.

The first time she lost height and was zapped she yelped, then she squealed, and after the first half a dozen she whimpered. Although I had no idea of the strength of the charge, I could hear the faint crackles, and as Desirée became more fatigued raising herself on her toes they became more frequent. After about ten minutes she was given a momentary respite, but only so Brian (red mask) could insert a bulbous ball-gag in her mouth.

Now it was my turn to entertain the crowd. I was lifted up onto the pony and mounted in the middle, with my ankles strapped to the sides. So I couldn’t use my hands to raise myself off it, a rope harness was tied about my neck and shoulders, and my wrists hitched to the yoke in the middle of my back. The weight of my body pushed the ridge into my groin. It hurt more than I anticipated but less than I feared, more a dull ache than a sharp pain. The worst moment was when George pushed me backwards until all the pressure was on my tailbone. That was distressing enough, but then he put his hand between my thighs and used his fingers to spread my labia. When I was brought back to an upright position, I thought it was going to be excruciating; but with the tender flesh not pinched between my body and the wood, the sting was actually reduced. In fact the worst of my ordeal was when I started to get a cramp in my left leg. Not really expecting any assistance, I told Brian, who massaged away the spasm. Of course, he wasn’t being merciful; my ordeal was thus prolonged.

Some women I had seen would hump the pony, actually riding it, so to speak, until they were moaning in both ecstasy and agony. I decided to forego that pleasure.

Meanwhile Desirée’s dilemma had worsened. While still struggling to hold herself above the bar, she received a whipping, on her belly and breasts. It did not look very forceful, but it didn’t need to be. Each lash made her totter, and there would be another series of crackles as the little sparks leapt from the metal to her skin. She shook her head wildly; a foam of saliva dribbling out from the sides of her gag and down her chin sprayed in all directions; but she kept the rest of her body as rigid as she could to minimize contact with the electric current. That took a lot of strength and self-discipline; but it did not make much difference.

If I had tried to estimate how long I spent straddling the wooden pony, I would probably guessed an hour. In fact it was no longer than fifteen minutes. As I was lifted off my perch by tender hands, I received my applause and revolved to leave the stage unassisted. Desirée looked in far worse condition. Her beautiful body was lathered and her hair plastered with perspiration, and she was visibly shaking. But she smiled at the staff as we came back into the kitchen (where my clothes were) before we headed to the showers.

When I joined Damian at our table, the people around me said encouraging words and patted my arm. I had not been the centrepiece of the show, and even most of the “virgins” I had seen take their first ride suffered more than I had. But no one seemed to care about that. Taking the stage at the Wooden Pony Club was about testing your own limits, facing your own fears, and everyone appreciated that.

“Anyway,” said Desirée as she scrubbed the sweat and saliva off her breasts, “next time you can be more adventurous.”

To be continued…

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Thu Feb 20, 2014 4:10 pm

2. The Social Club of Gor

I never returned to the Wooden Pony Club.

For a month or six weeks (I cannot remember exactly how long) I was engrossed in my research and my teaching job. Since Matthew was spending less and less time at home, we didn’t discuss much, and when we did there were more pressing things to talk about than the nightclub where I used to work. He was reverting to his old ways, contributing almost nothing to the household accounts, exactly nothing to the household chores.

Whenever I asked him to at least clean up his own mess, he would dismiss my request with something contemptuous like “That’s woman’s work.” Considering that I was paying the bills and making all the important decisions, I found that attitude just a little bizarre. However, mainly because I was preoccupied, I kept putting off the inevitable confrontation.

I also found my relationship with Damian to be inexplicably cooling. At first I blamed myself. If I was too busy to look out for my little brother, I was not doing right by my boyfriend either. But when I discovered that he had been going to the Club without me, I confronted him.

“What the deal?” I asked. It was a pretty lame interrogation, I admit, but his response surprised me.

Instead of answering, he blandly replied: “Desirée is gone.”

He explained. Not long after my ride on the wooden pony, she had quit and disappeared. No one seemed to know where she had gone, when she’d be back… if she would ever return. Someone recalled her mentioning a house in the country, but that was all.

Despite my curiosity, I tried not to be distracted from my important business; but eventually I did some discreet investigation. Since Desirée’s departure the Wooden Pony had been turned into a more conventional striptease joint, and the seediness of its façade was beginning to ooze into the club itself. The staff turnover had increased dramatically. Matthew still held a job there, but he was not as keen as he’d once been. I even heard him on the phone a couple of times trying to weasel his way out of a Friday night shift. I wondered if this was what had caused his recent change of mood. But it was then that I discovered that my boyfriend and my brother were spending a lot of time together.

Now really intrigued, I actually considered following Matthew, like a sleazy private eye, one evening when he walked out of the house after dinner, leaving his dirty plates on the table for me to clear away. Instead, a few nights later when he was about to leave and I knew he wasn’t off to work, I said to him:

“So, are you meeting Damian?”

He gave me a quizzical look, less “How do you know?” than “Why do you care?”

I made it clear, by my expression alone, that I would harass him until I got an answer, so he simply shrugged his shoulders.

“We’re going to the Club. Wanna come?”

“The Wooden Pony?”

He laughed. “It’s a place on campus.”

“What’s it called?”

“You won’t have heard of it.”

“Then it’s a secret club…”

He didn’t answer.

“Really?” Now I just had to find out. “Let me get my bag.”

“Okay.” He held up his hand and then pointed at my legs. “No jeans,” he said.

“You’re wearing jeans.”

He just stared at me.

“Right,” I said. I went to my bedroom, took off my jeans and put on a skirt. Half-expecting him to have scarpered, I returned to find him standing impatiently in the doorway.

Our destination was in the middle of the campus where there is a shopping precinct with a lot of rooms that the student union rents out at a low fee to various clubs and associations. But the place my brother took me to was in the basement of a building in a side street. It immediately reminded me of the Wooden Pony, being dingy on the outside, brighter on the inside. But the similarities stopped there, even discounting the very disconcerting “Leave your weapons at the door” banner which spanned the entrance.

It was more like a pub than a nightclub, with a bar, half a dozen tables and a dance floor which was simply a cleared section in the middle of the room. Oddly, this was covered in fleecy mats and pelts which would have made dancing difficult, if not treacherous. There was an alcove at one end which served as a kitchen. The toilet doors were marked his and hers with stencilled silhouettes, of what appeared to be a fur-covered barbarian warrior and an obviously naked woman wearing chains.

Behind the bar were two attendants, male and female. He was clad in a buckskin vest over a rough-twill long-sleeved shirt, with leather trousers and sheepskin boots… looking like he’d stepped out of a cheap Viking movie. She was wearing, in addition to a broad leather collar and steel bracelets, a barely-there “maille” bikini -- that is, made of small metal rings linked in a mesh pattern. I had seen these before; indeed I once had one, but mine was lined on the inside with fabric. This one was simply metal against skin, revealing just about everything that even the tiniest bikini is supposed to hide. It must have been rough on the nipples, as well as irritating -- chafing around the edges and plucking a few pubic hairs. Indeed, I noted that the girl’s movements were all very measured… but even then she occasionally winced. Why, I asked myself, would she choose to wear that? I was not really thinking straight.

A waitress was wandering between the tables, also in collar and cuffs and wearing a miniscule bikini, although this one was of soft, gentle-on-the-tender-parts suede.

There were four or five young men standing or sitting at the bar, and maybe a dozen others at the tables, including four playing cards and three a dice game. About half were in costume, the same sort of faux barbarian garb worn by the bartender (with no obvious intimation of whimsy or irony). They were quaffing from tankards or, in a couple of cases, drinking horns. None looked up or in any way acknowledged our presence. But their companions did.

I counted seven females besides the two staff servers, three at the bar and four at the tables. All were kneeling, sitting or squatting on the floor, in various states of undress. Two were completely naked. All were wearing leather collars with tethers. One of the nude girls, crouching at the feet of her master who was sitting on a barstool, was cleaning his boots. He kept tugging at the rope attached to her collar, so her head was bobbing up and down while she was trying to work. The women all looked up as we entered, but quickly averted their eyes if Matthew turned his head in their direction.

The barman set down an earthenware jug of something or other, frowned and pointed to a sign on the end of the counter: “All pets must be leashed.”

I was about to say “Not a chance… let’s go,” when Matthew said “Freewoman.”

“Don’t get many in here,” the barkeep growled.

“What shall it be, Sir?” the girl asked, her metallic bikini softly rustling.

Matthew ordered a beer and a wine. “She’s paying,” he said.

The girl said “Thank you, mistress,” as she took my credit card. I smiled. Even mediæval taverns accept the plastic these days.

Snubbing me now, Matthew took his drink and moved along the bar to take the stool beside the guy with the clean boots. They shook hands and had a few words. The slavegirl looked up, but only to the men’s chest height, and said “Good evening, Master Matthew.”

He did not answer but patted the top of her head. Her owner tapped her shoulder and the girl began polishing Mathew’s shoes with a rag and brush. I noticed she had beside her a little box with a collection of cleaning items.

Not really knowing what to do now, I stood at the bar sipping my wine. It did not surprise me when two guys got up from a nearby table to stand on each side of me, in very close.

“Very nice,” one of them said.

The other looked past me, towards Matthew. “Any chance this one’s for sale?”

I had an answer ready, but my brother’s sense of self-preservation had not abandoned him.

“No, sorry… not tonight, anyway.”

The pair looked disappointed. They were quite young, about my brother’s age.

The one who had spoken first gave me a long hard stare.

“I know you,” he said.

The second guy nodded. “Yeah, the Wooden Pony. Nice performance. Welcome to Gor.”

The first one shook his head. “I don’t mean that. Have we met?”

I replied that I doubted it, but there was definitely something familiar about him.

He looked hard, thought for a moment, and then his face brightened.

“Got it!” he exclaimed, loud enough that everyone in the room turned to see what was happening. “You’re… you teach my statistics class.”

That figures, I said to myself.

To be continued...

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Fri Feb 21, 2014 5:50 pm

Continued...

We stayed only about half an hour. While I was there, none of the women spoke to me, or were permitted to speak; but they listened intently, and I could see that one of them at least (the second nude girl) really wanted to join the conversation, from her place at our feet. The other naked slave, the one with the shoe-cleaning box, took the opportunity to spruce up the footwear of all the men who had gathered around me. Her blissful smile as she worked made me think… It’s nice to have a hobby.

Somewhat to my embarrassment I found myself the focus of attention. My original two courtiers, Paul and Andrew, were soon joined by several others (much to my brother’s disgust). I refused a couple of offers of drinks, while continuing to pay for Matthew’s. They were impressed that I had read several of the Gor novels of John Norman, even more so that I knew the name was a nom de plume of a philosophy professor. And they did not seem to be offended by the fact that I found the books to be rather amateurishly written and plotted, and the Nietzschean ideology behind them distasteful. Paul, for example, confessed that he was more interested in Gorean culture than the “literature.” (He actually used air quotes when he said the word.)

“So, you’re thinking of joining us?” Andrew said.

I vacillated.

“Freewoman or slave?” someone asked.

I looked around, and down, at the girls on the floor.

“Shouldn’t you ask her brother that?” said another.

To my surprise, that earned a few snorts of derision. Indeed, my impression was that the guys liked having a freewoman to talk to. The slaves were mere chattels, not worthy of attention except for the service they provided … but that didn’t seem right either. I felt I was not seeing the whole picture.

When I left, my curiosity at least partly sated, without any prompting Matthew joined me, so I wouldn’t have to walk home alone in the dark. It was atypically chivalrous of him. And that was the last I thought I would see or hear of the Social Club of Gor.

***

The following week, I taught the class which included Paul. Afterwards he asked me what I thought of the Club and if I intended to go there again.

“Interesting. Doubtful.”

He paused, and his face had that morbid look people get when they are about to ask a question when they already know the disappointing answer. But he swallowed his words before they came out.

“Well then, it’s a definite maybe,” he said instead, and smiled.

But of course I returned. It was Friday evening and I hadn’t heard from Damian. I had already written him off as a long-term prospect, so I was not particularly disheartened. Matthew had come in late for dinner, which I had started preparing as soon as I came in from a hard day’s work. However, he was apologetic, and as reparation he wanted to take me out.

Knowing exactly where he had in mind, I was inclined to decline; but I decided (somewhat against my better judgement) that this was a way of reconnecting with my brother.

“You’re not going to sell me, are you?”

He laughed and shook his head. “They couldn’t afford you.”

If that was the best compliment I was going to get, I would take it graciously.

Unlike the first time, he was in costume, although he resembled a hippie more than a barbarian warrior. The best I could come up with was a floral peasant-blouse and a ruffled, knee-length skirt and boots. Matthew advised me that “to fit in” I should pull the top off my shoulders and undo the lace-up front down to my midriff.

“It’s come to this,” I sighed, “taking sartorial advice from my little brother.”

The pair of us looked like flower children dropping in from the ’sixties

We took a bus to the university because we didn’t feel like walking the extra distance; and it says something about Friday night culture on campus that neither of us looked out of place. When we reached the Club, there was no doorman because none was needed. Matthew had his own key.

The place was crowded… maybe fifty people in all. This time there were as many women as men, and the atmosphere was much more casual. Although a few of the girls were naked, there was very little kneeling and squatting. Some of the slavegirls were no more déshabillé than myself; they were distinguishable from the freewomen only by the obligatory collar and leash. The clientele were in a range of ages, from barely legal (to drink in a bar, that is) to late thirties or early forties. Not all the females were beauty queens, and not all the males were capable of hunting sleen in the Mountains of Sardar.

Conversation rarely crossed gender lines. The slaves mingled freely with other slaves, though rarely with the freewomen. Every so often one would be summoned by her master to perform some service -- dance for his friends, fetch him ale if he was gambling at table, show off her latest tattoo… the reaction would be a quick, eyes-rolling sigh of resignation followed by a plastic smile. But I could tell they loved the attention. That was something I learned while working at the Wooden Pony Club, and particularly when riding the eponymous beast.

Whenever a slave spoke to me for the first time, she opened with the words “la kajira”, which one of the freewomen explained means “I am a slavegirl.” Since she was collared, it was more an affirmation than an introduction… or perhaps a reminder to me of what she was, of what I could be, and most crucially of how she was to be treated. For protocol, I quickly learned, was very important. Freewomen looked down on kajirae, and the males looked down on all the females, regarding freewomen as lower than the slavegirls.

There was a particular young lady, extremely beautiful, who stood at one end of the bar in a gorgeous full-length green gown with splendid décolletage, haughtily holding court over a clique of acolytes. At the time I was talking to Paul and Andrew.

“Such a shame,” Paul said, nodding in the direction of Princess Pea-Green.

“She needs to be on the block,” Andrew replied.

“The block?” I inquired.

“Auction block.” The barman leaned across the counter. “It can be arranged.” He winked.

Yet freewomen, I had been assured, could own slaves, even a male kajirus.

“There’s no discrimination here,” I was told. But if so, I replied, where were they?

The explanation, for what it was worth, was that male slaves were neither collared nor compelled to wear distinctive clothing. Only females were obliged to display the visible tokens of their status as property. And the reason for that was not really made clear, but had something to do with Gorean mythology. So I looked about. There was likely to be a kajirus or two in the room, but I had no way of knowing, and it was certainly not etiquette to ask... at least not for one of my sex.

(Only later did it occur to me that there was a way of telling. Early in the evening, Matthew came up to me asking for a “loan” -- which always meant a handout. I got a few knowing smiles, but when it was mentioned that he was my brother the looks I was getting turned very odd. Suddenly awakening, I hurriedly explained that there was “nothing going on.”)

My main sources of information were my fellow females, both free and slave. It somewhat surprised me that no one questioned my questioning. Once they’d ascertained that I was not some infiltrating agitator, they were free and open and frank. I think they liked having an outsider to whom they could explain their philosophy and lifestyle. I also discovered, after talking to the men as well, that the females took the whole thing much more seriously. Which made sense. After all, the kajirae and to an extent the freewoman had a much more personal stake in the Gorean fantasy than their boyfriends and husbands.

I was asked the same questions as the other night. “Are you going to join us? Freewoman or slave?”

I did not answer; but the truth is that I really enjoyed myself that night.

Around ten o’clock, the kajirae danced naked, individually or in pairs. They were very good, obviously with lots of practice, the choreography both intricate and exquisite. A few of the girls were clearly shy about removing their clothing, but they did not hesitate. The waitresses and the barmaid (the same from the other night) took their turns; the latter seemed quite happy to be out of her metal bikini. The freewomen clapped along with the men, and a couple danced as well, though with their dresses on.

We stayed on until midnight, when Matthew abruptly decided it was time to go. I actually protested. But on the way home he told me that my visitor’s rights had run out. If I wanted to go back, I would have to join the Gorean society for real. I just laughed.

And that might have been the end of it.

***

To be continued...

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Sat Feb 22, 2014 3:05 pm

Continued…

Why I went back to the tavern is a question to which I am only now discovering the answer. It was the same feeling that impelled me to ride the wooden pony… not exactly of emptiness, but a sense that there was a void in my existence that needed to be filled. For the last five years I had been focused on things and people outside myself, and when I looked back on my own life it was like seeing it through the eyes of a stranger. But it was worse than that. My life was mundane. There was no excitement… no adventure... no stories. And nothing ever glowed. At least sometimes things should glow.

I still knew very little about the Social Club of Gor. Matthew was reluctant to share, and given its nature I could not really blame him. So one afternoon I went with him back to the subterranean lair of the Goreans. In the daytime it was innocuous, almost banal. It was closed for business, with just one person holding the fort. I recognized the custodian as, of all people, the shoe-cleaning girl I encountered on my first night. Unlike then, she was dressed, in jeans and sweater and sneakers. She was sitting at one of the tables reading an economics textbook. She looked up, smiled and called Matthew by name… no salutation, no grovelling, no downcast gaze.

When we told her that I wanted to sign up, I was again asked the question, freewoman or slave.

“Freewoman, I guess,” I replied.

“Are you sure?” she asked. She looked at Matthew.

“Don’t look at me,” he said.

I gave it some thought. “Yes, definitely.”

She wandered over to the bar and brought back a sheaf of papers for signing.

“Slaves are free,” the girl informed me.

“What? Oh, yes.” I grinned and paid the membership levy.

“Welcome.” She handed me my certificate and receipt.

It was like buying a pair of shoes… only with less fuss. I was now a freewoman of Gor.

***

It had been three weeks since my last visit. The place was again crowded, and everything appeared the same. It took me a while to spot one interesting difference.

In a corner of the room half a dozen slavegirls were kneeling, backs to the wall, with heads bowed, knees apart, hands clasped behind their heads, leashes tied loosely to a railing. One of them was the haughty freewoman in the green gown... except, of course, the gown was no more.

I joined a group of my sisters, Princess Pea-Green’s former devotees, who greeted me with hugs and complimented me on my dress. I did not ask directly but soon got a clue to the fate of their former doyenne. For there were three classes of freewoman -- consort, concubine and companion; or in lay language -- wife, girlfriend/fiancé and friend/relative. So I was a companion, and in the Gorean tradition that represented a perilously unstable status. All women had to have a male guardian, and a companion could be enslaved on his order or with his consent. If she entered the tavern without an escort, she could be enslaved. If she broke any of the laws of the Club, she could be enslaved. If she fell behind in her membership dues, she could be enslaved. If she said the wrong thing, dressed too much like a man, looked at a man the wrong way, pouted, flirted, strutted or… Heck, it was a wonder that there were any freewomen at all.

So former Princess Pea-Green had been an enslavement waiting to happen.

The auction began at ten o’clock, and I had no idea how long the girls had been forced to wait in their corner, since I had come in around eight. They were not naked, each wearing a loose-fitting tunic which I learned was called a camisk. It was simply a rectangular piece of cloth draped over the body like a poncho without sides, belted at the waist with a cord and extending to about mid-thigh. Worn without underwear, it was complemented by the standard adornments, a leather collar and metal bracelets. Of, course, as soon as they were ordered to stand up, the camisk came off. Their hands were locked behind their backs and they were brought forward one by one, led around the room naked on their leashes. The auctioneer warned the crowd that groping the merchandise was strictly prohibited.

The Princess (Alycia by name) appeared dazed, but she brightened up considerably once the bidding for the possession of her charms began. In fact, she was the last of the slaves to be offered for sale. I guess our shoe-cleaning kajira could have explained the economic theory behind putting your best commodity on the block last. She was bought, as most of the girls were, by a consortium, in this case four young men; and I was shocked when they took her to a back room located next to the kitchen. But three of them emerged a minute or two later, laughing.

I never found out what Alycia’s specific offence had been, but my dark thoughts about the tavern were quickly dissipated. Her new owner was her boyfriend. The money raised went into the Club’s coffers and the girl’s membership fees were refunded… to the master, of course. At least, this is what I was told.

After the sale came the dancing. I resisted calls to be included in the entertainment.

Once again, to my surprise, Matthew was willing to cut short his evening to accompany me home around midnight. I still had no idea how long he had been associated with the Goreans, or why he seemed so willing to bring me into the fold, and my questions were starting to irritate him. Perhaps it was the two or three or four glasses of wine, perhaps it the bracing chill of the late night air; I was insistent and he started to get angry. I laughed, thinking “Now you know what it’s like to have an obstreperous sibling!”

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

I shut my mouth, recalling the fate of Princess Alycia.

He must have guessed what was going through my mind.

“Yes,” he said. “You should be careful. You should watch out.”

But as it transpired, I was looking in the wrong direction.


To be continued…
Coming up next… The Sisterhood of the Ring

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby Mr Underheel » Sat Feb 22, 2014 7:48 pm

Oh. My. And THANK YOU!!!

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby jc27 » Sat Feb 22, 2014 9:59 pm

more more more! (y) *thumbs up*

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Mon Feb 24, 2014 1:24 am

Working on it :o)

3. The Sisterhood of the Ring

As I took off my dress, folded it and placed it beside the other bundles on the bench, I looked about the room. The floor was clear of furniture except at one end, where two dozen or so chairs were positioned flanking the doorway. The wooden boards were covered with twenty small canvas mats set out in three rows. Next to where we put our clothing was a table piled high with coils of ropes, silk and satin scarves and a large collection of gags of all different shapes, sizes and degrees of difficulty.

Our audience consisted of people I had come to know from the tavern, some well, others not so much. They included half a dozen females, whose expressions were the usual freewomen’s combination of curiosity, contempt and envy. The men, on the other hand, adopted a carefully contrived “seen it all before” attitude, while never taking their eyes off the proceedings. Among the latter were my brother, my former boyfriend and my new owner.

At the tinkle of a bell, we took our positions on the mats. Since even slavegirls have their hierarchy, I was assigned to the back row; but the lines were arranged in such a way, both staggered and slightly curved, that our audience had an unimpeded view of all three ranks. At that signal, also, the door was locked, and our instructress took her place on the mat placed out in front, between us and the spectators. Unlike us, she was not naked, but her silver-coloured leotard was of such form-fitting, sheer lycra that she might as well have been. She was small and slim but athletic, with short, shaggy chestnut brown hair and large, dark eyes. Her voice was high-pitched but powerful. Her tone was harsh, in the manner that a freewoman addresses a kajira… but also the way an aerobics coach might teach her class.

There were no introductions or other formalities; we went straight into the loosening-up exercises. They started off slowly but quickly built to a crescendo. My heart pumped, my chest heaved, the sweat ran down my face, my torso, my limbs. The little woman was unrelenting.

“Lift those legs! Get those knees up! Fling those arms out! Suck in that belly! Squeeze those butt cheeks! Push that chest out! Bounce those boobs!”

Despite the pain and perspiration, it was all I could do to not giggle.

After a minute to catch our collective breath, the instructress barked “Obeisance!” and we immediately dropped to our knees. I bent forward until my forehead touched the mat, my wrists crossed behind my back, my belly against my thighs, my backside above my heels (not resting on them) so that my weight was balanced on my knees. In this posture we each showed reverence to our masters and the freewomen, as we’d been trained.

“Homage!”

To achieve this pose in a single, fluid movement, I raised my body until I was kneeling upright with my hands on the floor behind my feet, and then I leaned backwards, with my bottom still holding just off my heels, propping myself on my arms. This arched my torso and thrust my breasts forward. At the same time, I spread my knees to open my thighs for the viewing pleasure of the spectators. They politely applauded.

“Prone!”

I lowered myself rearward, continuing to arch my torso until the tips of my breasts were the highest part of me, pointing to the ceiling. I held that position as I counted to thirty. Then I sank slowly backwards onto the mat, bringing my arms around in a smooth sweep to support my body until my hands were alongside my legs, thumbs against calves. This left me lying on my back staring roofwards, my legs bent up and my feet tucked into the sides of my buttocks but with thighs apart, and with my weight on my shoulders and knees. My bones creaked. My muscles burned. My sinews would have screamed, had they voices.

“Endurance!”

“Damn!” I said to myself. “What the hell am I doing here?”

***

Habits, once ingrained, are hard to break. I had fallen into the routine of going to the tavern each Friday night and could not climb out again.

It was open three nights a week, and I became one of the regulars. During that time, I saw half the freewomen enslaved. I also saw half a dozen new girl members, all of whom signed up as kajiras. And it quickly became clear that, with all the restrictions on their rights, the life of a freewoman in Gorean society was actually rather dull. While the men got to play with their soft toys, those females who owned a girl (or a man indeed) were not permitted to flaunt their possessions. Freewomen were supposed to be above such petty showboating. The men treated them with courtesy and in return they were expected to act with dignity, decorum and discretion.

There was no rule that a man could not dally with a freewoman while owning a slave, or share his slave with other masters; but this rarely happened. It was the warrior’s code of honour, I was told; and it amused me that they maintained this noble masquerade. It was all part of the fantasy. In reality, of course, when a stout champion left the safety of the tavern, he risked confrontation with a dreadful adversary. The night air had the magical property of transforming humble slavegirls into vengeful wives and girlfriends. And it happened every so often that the band of brothers would raise a toast to a fallen comrade, one who would never again drink in the sensual delights of Gor.

Nevertheless, I did once get to witness the hidden side of Gor. Some of the freewomen with whom I was on speaking terms invited me to a Saturday evening soirée in Jennifer’s home. She was one of the oldest members of the Club and most frequent habitués of the tavern. The seven of us drank wine, listened to music and discussed literature. It might have been a bourgeois suburban ladies’ book club. The books we talked about were the Gor novels, and the erudition of my companions startled me. We discussed and debated various aspects of the culture, the lifestyle and the mythology, as if it were Shakespeare. We conversed and discoursed on the nature of slavery, and in particular pleasure slaves.

Our entertainment was supplied by Jennifer’s husband. I had seen James a few times at the tavern, not as often as her, and he had not stood out in any way. But tonight he was collared and clad in a loin cloth. He was tall, muscular and deeply tanned, with sandy hair and a square jaw. He addressed his wife as “Mistress” and the rest of us as “Lady.” But he was not obsequious like the slavegirls. He spoke with a strong voice and he looked us each straight in the eye. For in Gorean culture, even among the enslaved, pride had different meanings in the masculine and the feminine.

Indeed, once the music stopped the brawny barbarian tradition of Gor asserted itself. James knelt at the feet of his mistress, pulled her down onto the rug, tore off her dress and had his savage way with her, right in front of us. And as she lay softly moaning, he seized my ankles and hauled me off the sofa. He stripped me and then each of the other girls, more gently but just as firmly. After that it got interesting.

I discovered two things that night. The first was that some men have incredible stamina. The second was that I am more prey to my passions than I had ever had reason to believe. James was neither forceful nor insistent. I surrendered to him without resistance or remorse or regret. And while he was ravishing me, two of the other women shared the bonne bouche, feasting on my lips and breasts. When their turn came, I did my bit.

Indefatigable, almost immediately that he had extracted himself from the last of his ladies, James pulled his loincloth back on and retrieved a carton from behind the sofa. He took out several coils of rope and dumped them on the floor. As I reached for my clothing, Jennifer grabbed my arm and pulled it away. “Not yet,” she whispered; and without a word, she and her pleasure slave organized us to lie on our bellies on the rug with our hands behind our backs. It was a big room, with enough space between the furniture for us to form a line, side by side. I found myself at one end, and Jennifer became part of it at the other. James started on her.

I heard a loud slap, a yelp that was not Jennifer’s, and a voice that was James’s growling “Keep down!” So not daring to lift my chin off the rug, I could only tilt my head and catch glimpses from the corner of my eye of what was happening. James was moving slowly along the row, accompanied by grunts and groans as he squatted between the bodies, working his way towards me. When he reached me, after a long time, my wrists were roughly seized and bound, and my ankles were bound, and my wrists and ankles were bound together. We struggled and wriggled and giggled in our hog-ties as he played with us for maybe an hour. Then he untied our feet and herded us to the bathroom. He took us in two by two into the shower to wash away the sweat and other detritus from our exquisite ordeal. He took Jennifer in last, alone, and they were there a long time, while the rest of us waited in silence sitting still bound on the cold, wet tiles. The walls of the cubicle shuddered, and so did I at the ravenous ferocity of the clash of bodies behind the frosted glass.

Their shower stall pas de deux was a fitting coda to our soapy operatics.

On the way home, three of us shared a cab. Nikki and Maryanne were talking loudly about the night’s excitement and about Gor in general. I nudged Maryanne and gestured at the driver, who could hear every word.

She laughed. “Heard it all before, haven’t you Gabby?”

Gabriel winked at us via the rear view mirror.

About half-way to the first drop-off, however, Nikki went silent. We all noticed and the conversation petered out.

“My turn next week,” she finally said.

“For what?” Maryanne asked. I suspected the answer.

“To join the other team.”

“Liking the girls now?” Gabriel said with a toothy grin.

“Always have,” she replied, reaching forward to flick the back of his neck with a fingernail.

Maryanne finally got the message. “One less freewoman,” she mourned. “We are a vanishing breed.”

“More than you think.”

Maryanne turned to stare at me, wide-eyed in the semi-dark.

“Not you too!”

***

To be continued…

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby Gwen » Tue Feb 25, 2014 5:25 am

too good so far
please continue soon

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Tue Feb 25, 2014 4:26 pm

Happily :o)
However, I am not sure about this installment. I don’t think it works. Still, I had fun writing it. It is partially based on a glorious chapter from my youth (the first two paragraphs being non-fiction :o)

Continued…


In the tomboy phase of my girlhood, I was an accomplished leg wrestler. For the uninitiated, in this form of wrestling the competitors lie flat on their backs next to each other, but with their heads and feet pointing in opposite directions, their hips even with the other’s shoulder. They each raise the inside leg simultaneously to a vertical position to lock at the knee, and attempt to flip their opponent. It takes skill as well as strength, brains as well as brawn, to be a champion.

Having quickly run through the short list of challengers from my own sex, I took on the neighbourhood boys. I was virtually unbeatable. Indeed, the only time I lost fairly was the first time I wrestled in a dress. As I lifted my leg and flashed my knickers, the sudden burst of applause from the spectators distracted me just enough to put off my timing. But diversions were part of the game, and any tactic to unbalance or confuse one’s adversary was allowed. However, after a while, dismayed at being constantly outclassed by a girl, the boys resorted to outright cheating. So I retired with honour unimpaired. In any case, my days of snips and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails were just about over.

The memory of those glory days came back to me as I stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the denizens of Gor.

It had been a week since I had made known my decision to renounce my status as a freewoman and join the company of kajirae. In authentic Gorean tradition, the choice would not have been mine to make, unless I was one of those disreputable types who comported themselves as slavegirls and thus forfeited the right to be anything else. But a respectable freewoman could become booty through kidnap or conquest. On the other hand, since the tavern was located not on the planet of Gor but in the basement of a building on a campus backstreet, any such forcible enslavement would have been unprecedented. So unless the capture was pre-arranged (a not unheard-of occurrence), the victim could regain her liberty through payment of a ransom, usually settled in tankards of ale.

There were, of course, the myriad rules that a freewoman could violate and end up claimed as property. One of these was that she must have a guardian. And given that Matthew was the member who brought me into the Social Club of Gor, and was a male, he automatically filled that role. It said so on the papers we signed. But no true barbarian is bound by a few words on a parchment. On his say-so, and for a suitable recompense, I was fair game for any who might bid to collar me.

My brother said my price would buy him a week’s supply of lager.

“Only a week?” I was offended.

“I can drink a lot,” he lamely replied. “So who’s the lucky new owner?”

(He knew by now that Damian was out of the picture. It had been a long time coming, but the break-up had been formalized when my old boyfriend found a new girlfriend. We remained still on good terms. But Erica scorned the ways of Gor, so his days there were numbered.)

I kept my silence and made arrangements. Even then, I was not yet sure that the road I was about to take would lead where I really wanted to go. There were divergent paths before me, and while my head beckoned me in one direction, my heart pulled in the other. I had made friends among the freewomen, and the men had begun to accept me almost as an equal. So I was determined that I would set the terms for my conversion.

There was a big crowd in the tavern, more so than the usual Friday night assemblage. Word had passed around. Two of the kajiras, Julianne and Devashni, prepared me. They removed my dress and underwear and gave me a red camisk to wear. Quintessentially Gorean, it both concealed and exposed. A collar was placed about my neck, but without a tether, for that would be fixed by my new master. They drew my arms behind my back and locked my wrists together with steel bracelets. As I was brought out to face the multitude, I kept my head up, because though I now wore the raiment of a slavegirl, I was yet free. But when I looked about the room, the other freewomen (including Jennifer and Maryanne) averted their eyes. I was no longer part of their world.

Matthew joined me in the centre of the room and announced that I was now without guardian and thus for sale. But this was to be no auction. Only those already enslaved, and those unworthy of contention, were sold on the open market. I would have to be won. More precisely, the man who won me would have the right of purchase. Those who wished to challenge paid a fee and drew lots. But of course the competition was contrived. Although some forsake subterfuge as ignoble, stealth, cunning and deception are a part of the armoury for most warriors of Gor. For a female, who is not restrained by the manly code of honour, they are her most lethal weapons.

The first contender stepped forward. He was tall and wiry, and he beamed confidence. He took his place on the mat, arms at his side. When I took my position, with my hands pinned behind me I lay with my body arched. Far from this being my handicap, when our legs went up he mistimed the hook. Knowing that the thigh muscles are less effective when working at an angle, I used the slight advantage to pull his leg out of vertical alignment with his hip. With a loud groan he flipped, landing sprawled across my legs. The audience cheered. Devashni came forward to draw the hem of my tunic back down to cover my pantiless private parts.

The second contender, burlier than the first, was wary of tricks and overcompensated. This time I engaged my gluteal muscles in a quick burst of raw power, tossing him even quicker. He looked no less surprised. My years of playing in the dirt and being scolded by my mother were paying off. But after the third opponent had been dispatched, I was beginning to tire. So number four succumbed to a feint. I pushed hard for half a second and then released the pressure, unbalancing my foe. Reapplying the force, I pitched him in a complete rollover. He protested angrily and the congregation jeered.

By now, the most eminent warriors of Gor had been defeated, but my strength was waning. The fifth challenger was reluctant to step forward, and for a moment I thought my plan had reached fruition. But urged on by his companions, he looked down at me, puffing and sweating on the mat; he performed some squats and lunges to warm up, and lay down beside me. I engaged my last reserves of energy to overcome him. As I lay on my back, exhausted, he reflexively put out his hand to shake. I rolled onto my belly to offer mine; he laughed and slapped my bare derrière instead.

Naturally I was proud of my triumphs, but at this point such vanity could be my undoing. The next contestant had good reason to not hesitate in coming up to the mat, but I was determined that he would not win me without a fight… though win me he must. I knew that I could not survive another round.

As he leapt high to celebrate his conquest, I scrambled to my knees, every muscle and sinew afire, my head now bowed in servitude. Master Andrew, after acknowledging the plaudits of the crowd, reached down to my waist to untie the cord. He ripped the red camisk off my body. He placed his hand under my chin to lift my head; I kept my eyes downcast as he attached the tether to my collar. My arms still shackled behind my back, I was led by my leash on the lap of honour around the tavern as the new owner showed off his prize and basked in the praise and panegyrics. My vanquished opponents were gracious in their salutes. Since they paid no price for defeat, except in terms of pride and purse, I guess they could afford to be.

I was taken to the back room. It was my first visit. The only furnishings were a washbasin and a bed and a full-length mirror. Andrew released my hands but blindfolded me before he undressed.

Afterwards, I lay with my head on his chest, he under the sheets and me on top. He stroked my hair and caressed my breasts. I was still aching from the combat, and my master, exhilarated and energized by his victory, had not been gentle. I reached under the sheet to pay further tribute, but he pushed my hand away.

“Cigarette?”

I started to sit up, startled, but he laughed.

“Isn’t that what they say?” He sounded ashamed of his feeble joke.

“Well,” I said. “If you have finished ravishing me, I have to go.”

“Already?’

“You can drink on with your barbarian buddies. Some of us have to work in the morning.”

“What is this thing called work?”

“Where are my clothes?”


To be continued…

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby jc27 » Sun Mar 02, 2014 12:10 am

please do continue soon!

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Tue Mar 04, 2014 2:41 pm

Sorry for the delay. Unfortunately, my career commitments are starting to take up most of my writing time and energy. Hopefully the quality of the story does not decline too much.

***

I enjoyed my weekly visits to the tavern. They were not an escape from the stresses of my everyday life, but at least a retreat.

Naturally things had changed since my conversion from freewoman to slavegirl. But not really to my surprise, I found freedom in my new role. It was no paradox that the loss of independence was liberating. I felt more of a sense of individuality and greater self-reliance in obeying the straightforward, uncomplicated commands of my masters, as arduous and demeaning as they might sometimes be, than in following the elaborate and largely meaningless protocols of the freewomen. And since I was by temperament not at all submissive, at least in no conventional way, I took on the challenge of suppressing my natural inclinations not as a surrender but rather an exploration.

It was, of course, Andrew who now took me to the tavern. My last lecture for the week ended at three o’clock on Friday. Afterwards I waited with Paul in my office. He did not resent that I had chosen his friend to be my owner, as we were both aware of the ethical problems in having such a relationship with one of my students. In any case, it was sufficient for him to see his teacher, a legendarily hard taskmaster in the classroom, stripped and humbled. And as much as I might have been ashamed to admit it then, this in turn gave me a thrill. Perhaps I was making up for lost time, for the sacrifices and missed opportunities, the unlived adventures and unfulfilled dreams of the past few years, when I had already given up my freedom, to take charge of a household and take care of my little brother.

We always went straight to the club. It was usually crowded by the time we got there, and Andrew was greeted with grunts and growls of acknowledgement by his fellow warriors as he crossed the threshold. Arriving slavegirls such as I were sent immediately and without fanfare to the back room to change out of our day clothes. It was deemed uncouth to make us undress in the bar area, even those who were to spend the rest of the evening naked. Normally I was permitted to wear my camisk… until, obviously, the dancing started.

We were rostered for kitchen duty, and sometimes to fill in for one of the waitresses. Most of my time, however, was spent sitting or kneeling at my master’s feet, on my leash. If he was at one of the tables playing cards or dice, I fetched him drinks and snacks when the waitress was busy. We slaves were allowed to have drinks, and it was a matter of honour that if one of the men bought us one he expected nothing in return but thanks. It was a nice boost to his ego, especially for those like Paul and Matthew who did not possess female property of their own, to have us show our gratitude with a grovel. And I did not mind the obeisance. If nothing else, the occasional belly crawl and fawning bootlick helped pass the time.

But it was never boring. My teaching, my research and my household duties had left me little time for relaxation and no energy for recreation; so it was nice to be able, if not to relax, then to be released from responsibility and accountability. Sometimes the routine was broken by special shows and presentations. The club had its own bondage master, who demonstrated his techniques on us. Each Sunday afternoons there were more bondage sessions, dance lessons and general slave training. Attendance at these was not compulsory, but we all wanted to be better kajirae.

The freewomen for the most part ignored us, and when they could not disregard us completely they treated us with disdain. (The same went for the female staff, who were bondswomen, neither abject nor free.) But they had their constraints as well; they were not allowed to gamble and could drink only in moderation. Unlike a warrior, for whom overindulgence with the beer mug or the wine cup was a source of manly pride and a cause for jest, a freewoman who allowed herself to become inebriated might as well have been shackling herself. Yet almost all would be eventually enslaved as well, and when they were we treated them no differently than we did each other. In the sisterhood of slavegirls, we were all equal.

And if I had become enthralled by the contrived, recherché culture of the tavern, I should say in my defence that most of us never lost touch with reality. Only a couple of the weekend warriors ever got carried away with the make-believe, and they were rapidly pulled into line by their comrades. Anyway, we could never forget where the world of Gor ended. On the other side of the front door was a campus with thirty thousand students coming and going and leading relatively normal lives. And there were occasions when the non-fantasy intruded.

Uninitiated guests were rare in the tavern, and none gained entry unannounced or uninvited. And given the nature of the club, a certain degree of secrecy was understandable; but everyone insisted that it was to keep out undesirables… voyeurs and wannabes according to some, mentally defective riffraff in the words of one whom I hold dear. Furthermore, since prospective warriors outnumbered potential slavegirls by around ten to one, the Social Club of Gor could be selective in its admissions to the brotherhood. So it did not surprise me (nor did it particularly offend me) that I had been my brother’s ticket of entry.

Now and then, inevitably, a new face in the tavern was one I recognized, and who recognized me. The first looks, especially from the females, were of pity, contempt and curiosity, on seeing me half-naked (and sometimes completely nude) squatting on the floor on my leash. But there was excitement and arousal in those expressions, and I knew from experience that most of the women who stayed would soon be joining me at the end of their own tethers.

But one night there was a visitor who was different from the others. She was small, beautiful, expensively and elegantly attired in a leather jacket and leather skirt, silk blouse and silk stockings. Her hair, cut short, was a caramel-streaked chestnut brown; her eyes glistened like blue gemstones. She looked more out of place than anyone I had seen in the tavern, and yet she made herself at home as if she’d been there forever. But the oddest thing about her was who accompanied her. It was my brother.

As she was introduced, unlike the other freewomen she paid close attention to the slavegirls. For a fleeting moment when I looked up as she spoke to Andrew, our eyes connected, and hers now glittered like cold, hard steel. I quickly lowered my gaze, but my impertinence had not gone unnoticed. She asked Andrew to make me stand up.

“May I?” she said, talking not to me but to my owner. She stroked my hair, brushed it back from my brow, and passed her fingertips over my lips. She ran her nails lightly down my throat and between my breasts, and then with both hands she parted the front of my tunic to uncover my chest. I winced when she squeezed the flesh and pinched the nipples, and I glanced up to glimpse the faintest trace of a smile as she nodded to Andrew.

“Turn around,” he ordered. As I obeyed, everyone else in the room had become interested. The woman lifted the hem of my dress to fondle my rear end. Then she took hold of my arms and drew them gently behind my back. I felt leather cuffs being sealed about my wrists and locked together. She nudged me on one shoulder and I turned to face them again.

“Pull your shoulders back.” These were the first words she had spoken directly to me. I did so, feeling my chest tighten and, with my eyes downcast, watching my breasts push outwards.

“She needs to do that,” the woman said, “until it becomes automatic. Girls need to be taught. Our instincts have been suppressed.”

She said something else I did not hear, and then untied the cord which held my camisk at my waist. The garment slumped to my hips, but remained held up by my manacled hands resting against my backside. I moved my arms just a little and the dress fell to my ankles.

“Nice,” the woman said. “Is she always shaven?”

I blushed.

No one answered, unless it was with a look. If anyone did, I desperately hoped it was not my brother. But she seemed to have already lost interest in me.

“Go to the corner,” Andrew commanded.

I stepped out of my fallen camisk and went to join the half-dozen other slavegirls. Then I took a peek back towards the bar, thinking: How did my little brother come to know this sexy, sophisticated woman? What was their association? It was just in time to see something as strange as anything so far.

The woman went to sit on one of the bar stools; but as she did so, she discreetly unzipped her skirt on the side, and pulled back the flap so that when she lowered herself, the skirt was pulled back, away from her bottom. And I could see that there was only bare skin between the tops of her stockings on her thighs and the garter belt on her hips. From the way her mouth pursed in pleasure, I could tell that it was more than just the physical touch of her naked flesh against the seat of the stool which aroused her; it was the symbolism of the act which evoked such sensual, shivery delight. Some of the males noticed her gesture, including Matthew, but I don’t think any saw her smile.

The woman held court at the bar until after the dancing. This was not one of the duties I enjoyed. I had quickly become inured to the humiliation of performing naked, but not my excruciating lack of talent. And it seemed that the woman’s eyes were on me alone. When we were finished, she abruptly departed with Matthew.

Around midnight, feeling exhausted, I asked Andrew if we could leave. Although disappointed, he agreed. He drove me home and left me in the driveway. (His property rights, of course, stopped at the front door of the tavern.)

Inside, I found Matthew and the woman. He was reclined on the sofa. She was kneeling on the carpet, naked but for her stilettos, stockings and garter belt. His trouser belt was wrapped about her throat. She spun around, towards me, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

“Monique,” he announced, “this is Adrienne.”

“What… the… hell?” I spluttered.

Adrienne just blinked and turned back to Matthew. She sank down to rest on her heels but leaned forward, and her naked torso began to slowly undulate, her breasts rubbing softly and methodically against his trousers.

“You do this here?” I said, in as calm a voice as I could manage. “In our living room?”

My brother grinned.

Our living room?” he repeated. “Let’s talk about that.”


To be continued…

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby OldTUGger » Tue Mar 04, 2014 3:26 pm

Interesting turn of the plot there at the end! After circling purposefully but deliberately for a few installments, this tale appears to be at the threshold of its event horizon...

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby jc27 » Tue Mar 04, 2014 10:52 pm

awesome update! i was as surprised as monique o.O
all the best for work! but do come back and update when you're free ^^

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Wed Mar 05, 2014 7:15 pm

jc27 wrote:all the best for work! but do come back and update when you're free

As one of my heroines would say... I am here and ready to serve.


***

Adrienne’s apartment was located on the top storey of a nineteenth-century mansion that had been converted into shops on the ground floor and studios in between. It was spacious but modestly furnished, with a fireplace in the living room and in each of the bedrooms, a study with well-stocked bookshelves, and balconies that overlooked the city centre on one side and the river on the other.

The woman did not appear to be married. There was a ring on her finger which looked nothing like a wedding band. I never saw her with any man whom she treated differently from all others. Yet she did not live alone. When I moved in, two of the guest rooms were occupied. We were met by one of her boarders. Collette was a slender, pretty, olive-skinned girl with large, dark eyes. Her hair was cropped short like Adrienne’s and seemed to be naturally jet-black but bleached and tinted ash-blonde. When she greeted us, she was naked.

The place was accessed by an elevator which, with the insertion of a key, by-passed the intervening floors and opened directly into the residence. As soon as we entered and the doors had shut, Adrienne ordered me to stop and take off my clothes. She also stripped, and we gave each item we discarded to Collette, who lovingly folded them in two neat piles and carried them after us.

“Here you will not wear clothing,” Adrienne said, “nor make-up nor jewellery, not even your collar. Your body must be completely bare at all times.”

Awaiting us in the living room were the other two of my fellow trainees. Vanessa was tall and athletic, fair-skinned and naturally blonde. I thought she looked a lot like me, though a couple or more years older (perhaps in her late twenties). Jason was slim and good-looking, about my age or maybe younger, with a golden-bronze complexion and coppery red hair that also appeared to be dyed. Dressed in spick-and-span slacks, a crisp white shirt and carpet slippers, he was the only one in the apartment who wasn’t naked. As she introduced us, Adrienne ordered me to kneel. She did as well.

Jason smiled indulgently and permitted us to rise, before going off to the study. Collette and Vanessa excused themselves and headed for the kitchen.

Adrienne took hold of my shoulders to make sure I gave her my full attention. “You know why you’re here?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“You don’t call me that anymore.” She frowned. “Now, do you wish to leave?”

“No.”

“Say it.”

“I do not wish to leave.”

“Good. From now on, while he is here, Jason is master of the household. You will obey him at all times.”

“You as well?” I asked.

“His orders take precedence,” she replied.

“I meant, do you obey him as well?”

She gave me a funny look. “Of course.”

Considering her nudity and the fading pink spots on her knees, I realized how foolish my question had been.

She showed me about the apartment, pointed out her bedroom and Jason’s. I would be sharing with the other two girls. Our quarters were commodious, but there was only one bed, albeit queen-sized.

“Most nights,” I was informed, “you will not be sleeping in your own room.”

Evening was approaching, so I had just enough time to freshen up before Collette and Vanessa served dinner. The dining room was large and the table big enough to accommodate a dozen people. Adrienne and Vanessa held back until Jason was in his place, and I followed their lead. Collette never took a seat at all, but waited on the rest of us, and in particular the master. We all spoke freely (conventional dinner talk), but four of us kept our eyes downcast. (As I discovered in due course, these free mealtime discussions served a purpose. So long as we, the females, observed the proper etiquette, they gave us, and especially Adrienne, a chance to address issues of importance with the man of the house without having to worry about the rest of the master-slave protocols.) I learned that Jason and Collette were attending university, and Vanessa was a fitness instructor of some kind.

“I’ve seen you on campus,” Jason declared, as Collette cleared away the dessert dishes. He did look familiar, and I desperately hoped he was not another of my students. He laughed. “Well, in a way on campus… the Gor tavern.”

Adrienne was amused by my stricken look and subsequent sigh of relief. She was perceptive, and altogether a very impressive lady. Of everyone, she said the least, listened the most, missed nothing.

When dinner was finished, I was sent to the kitchen to help with the washing up. Then Collette and I returned to the living room. Vanessa and Adrienne were both wearing blindfolds and their hands were tied behind their backs. They were joined to each other by a rope harness secured about their necks. It was Collette who bound and blindfolded me and yoked me to the others. We thereafter waited in silence, as the fourth member was added to our little trussed ensemble. We were linked close enough that I could sniff Vanessa’s shampoo in front of me and the residue of detergent on Collette to my rear. Jason then led us, by our mutual tether, via the elevator to one of the suites below the apartment.

When our sight was restored, I saw that we were in a studio of some kind, perhaps a photographic workshop. There were bright lights in the ceiling and also on free-standing lamps; but heavy crimson drapes on the windows had the effect of making the space gloomy even when fully illuminated. A number of black-lacquered screens were placed seemingly at random, and in their shiny surfaces I could see reflections of the four of us, still leashed in our queue. There were three low chairs or stools, upholstered in red leather, and a bed, all of the ottoman style (without sides or arms and, in the case of the bed, no headboard). The furniture was arranged on one side of the room on a large square of plush carpet, just like a photographer’s set-piece.

In the middle of the room stood a structure which thoroughly unnerved me.

Constructed of metal pipes and bars, the frame consisted of dual parts, on the left two vertical poles separated by about the span of my outstretched arms, and on the right a triple pillory made of hinged segments with grooves in the upright posts to adjust the height. Jason untied our hands and ordered Collette and Vanessa to kneel directly behind the scaffold while Adrienne lowered the stocks so their heads and hands could be clamped in place. She then dropped it even further until the two were forced to bend forward, their chins just off the floor and their rumps raised high.

Adrienne then placed herself in the third pillory, and Jason locked her in it.

“Come here,” he said to me and had me squat behind Adrienne. On his command, I pushed both of my hands between her thighs. She gasped and gulped, panted and puffed, her skin quivered and her backside cheeks twitched as I caressed her until my fingers became numb in the warm, moist folds. I did the same to Collette and Vanessa, while Jason hushed all three with ball-gags. By the time I had done my duty, they were slumped on their haunches, whimpering quietly; but Jason rudely interrupted their rapture by hauling on a rope attached to the scaffold which elevated the pillory until they were raised onto their tiptoes and moans of ecstasy became groans of despair.

Jason now had me stand between the two poles, with my arms and legs extended in a starlike pose. Straps were secured to my wrists and ankles, and tightened until I was lifted onto my toes and it felt as if my arms and legs would be detached from their sockets. But it was invigorating to have my muscles and tendons stretched, and weirdly exhilarating to be so helpless and exposed.

This being my first night under Adrienne’s tutelage, I thought I might be spared the more rigorous parts of the curriculum. But Jason took full advantage of my immobilized condition, penetrating me front and back. With my body tensed and stiffened by my hoisting on the frame, the passage had to be forced somewhat, but the effect was to make more sensitive the points of entry. His thrusts and my squirms amplified the strain from my bonds. My legs were cramping, and every breath seared my lungs. But the master knew how to wrest shrieks of pleasure from my lips and make my sweat run in streams.

When he had finished, he gagged me and returned to the other women. He uncoupled each in turn from the pillory, bound her and toyed with her for perhaps half an hour before putting her back in her place and beginning on the next. The humiliation was cruel and the torments ingenious, leaving his playthings sobbing in shame and shaking with delight. From what I understood, Jason had signed up as Adrienne’s apprentice just a week before. A young man can learn a lot in seven days, under expert guidance.

When he released me from the torture of the frame, I almost wept for joy, but my elation did not last. He bound me in a hog-tie so severe that my torso was bent backwards at what felt like ninety degrees. After being stressed for so long on the scaffold, my arms and especially my shoulders burned like I was under a red-hot grille; but the tiles were ice-cold against my bare flesh. After that, I don’t remember much until we were in the apartment once more. Jason retired immediately to his bedroom. I think he had a generous purpose in doing that, leaving the four of us to recover. Collette, Vanessa and I stayed in the living room while Adrienne went to the kitchen to prepare warm milk.

“Sit on the mat, not on the sofa or chairs,” she told us.

While we waited, Collette showed me how to kneel on the carpet, resting on my heels but with my thighs apart. When not being used, my arms should be at my side or behind my back either folded or with wrists crossed.

“How do I know which to do?” I asked.

Vanessa smiled. “You will know when you’ve done it wrong.”

Adrienne brought in the four mugs on a tray. She carried on as if she had not been absent.

“Yes, we’re sweaty and the leather costs a lot to clean. But that’s not the reason we sit on the floor. Except with the master’s permission, we do not use the furniture.”

“It would be disrespectful,” Collette added.

“We are not worthy,” Vanessa continued, lowering her eyes as she said it.

I saw Adrienne subtly shake her head as the other girls spoke. I guess we all had different reasons for being here, kneeling naked on the carpet, speaking in whispers.

“For the same reason we do not cover our bodies,” Adrienne resumed, “even if the master is not here, even when you’re alone. Your condition as a woman does not change in the absence of men. In fact, it is more imperative when there is no master present that you keep this in mind. There are two aspects to your being… what you are and what you are not. Each is equally important in how you define yourself, and regardless of your circumstances, whomever you are with, whatever else changes, these are the constants in your life.” She paused, and looked straight into my eyes. “But it takes a while before this becomes second nature. So in the meantime, you will have certain reminders.”

These were strange words, and I was not sure what to make of them. I understood but did not comprehend.

Adrienne slapped her thighs. “Anyway, it’s late and we’re exhausted. We shall take this up again tomorrow.” She turned towards Vanessa. “Go the master’s bedroom,” she ordered.

The tall, blonde girl dutifully bowed her head and lifted herself slowly to her feet. Her body was still feeling the ravages of the evening’s entertainment.

Collette and I went to our room, and there was to be one last surprise in this day of revelation. As we lay together in the half-light of the softly glowing dresser lamp, my bedmate leaned across and began kissing my breasts and fondling me between my legs. I feebly tried to push her away, but she held my arms down, pressing my wrists into the pillow as she lay fully on top of me. Once I had composed myself, I allowed her to caress me and I caressed her. We fell asleep with our bodies united and our limbs intertwined. When I awoke to the newly dawning day, I found Vanessa asleep beside us.


To be continued…

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Sat Mar 08, 2014 5:31 pm

***

For twenty-one days I never left the apartment other than to be taken down to the games room. During the day Vanessa and I were there alone. There were the customary household chores to be done, and we cooked the dinner. Our duties were on the whole light, not much more than dull distractions from the many idle hours we had to fill. There was neither a television nor a radio, nor a computer except in Adrienne’s private office which we were not permitted to enter. The door was never locked, so far as I could tell, but we never knowingly broke any of the rules. That included not wearing anything on our bodies; so we were afraid to take advantage of the two balconies because neither was completely screened from public view. For most of the time, our entertainment was found in the library. We also chatted, of course, but only about general things and never about how or why we had come to be in this place, for that was strictly forbidden.

Collette and Jason came home together in the late afternoon. She wore the same kind of outfit each day, a skirt and blouse with stockings and a suspender belt, and a black leather choker. Upon entering the apartment she immediately stripped and came to the kitchen to help Vanessa and me. Jason availed himself of the privilege of his sex to relax in the living room or the study or on the balcony. I brought him his slippers and the newspaper and a beer or whisky; and as I knelt before him to honour his presence he patted me on the head and said “Good girl” and slapped me hard on the behind as I got to my feet to go back to my chores. But sometimes, if he felt in the mood, he called one of us from the kitchen for supplementary entertainment.

When Adrienne arrived, everyone gathered in the vestibule, and when she had undressed she prostrated herself before our young master. We had dinner and then Jason took us down to the third-floor studio. Some nights Adrienne assumed control and showed her pupil how to compress the maximum agony into our torment and extract the utmost ecstasy. Other times he took control and his four playthings were driven to paroxysms of pleasure and pain, the like of which I had once believed existed only as clichés in trashy airport-stand paperbacks.

During my second week, Collette departed. Two men came for her in the night. One of them was my brother and I knew the other from the Gor tavern. Four of us welcomed our visitors in the prone position, and they and Jason then went to the study, taking Adrienne and Vanessa with them. The three men emerged sometime later, smoothing out fresh wrinkles in their trousers. Jason bound Collette’s hands behind her back, put a ball-gag into her mouth and fixed about her neck a stout metal collar to which he attached an equally heavy chain. Matthew and his comrade then took her away. (We met again soon enough in the Château.)

I went to the study and found Adrienne and Vanessa hog-tied, one on the rug, one on the sofa. Jason came and ordered me to kneel with my hands clasped on the crown of my head. He wrapped a considerable length of cord around my chest, above and below and criss-crossed between my breasts, and ran it down between my legs and up my back, making sure it fit snugly within my cleft in front and crevice to the rear, binding it in a loop about my neck. The noose was tied in such a way that when he pulled it as tight as he could, entrenching it in my body between my thighs, I was not strangled but nevertheless forced to arch my body backwards. He then tied my wrists to the harness behind my back. In this manner I was obliged to waddle to the elevator and down to the games room. The other two women had been bound and leashed face-to-face, their bodies pressed together, so they had to crab-walk. Because of all the time we had spent awaiting the arrival of Collette’s new custodians, it was already late, almost midnight. So the session was short, but Jason made it count.

A few days after that, he disappeared. It was so quick that it took me completely unawares. He left for his classes that morning and never returned. I don’t know who removed his personal belongings; they were there and then they were gone. I never saw him at the Château, but encountered him a year later, while I was walking through the university grounds not far from the tavern. He was with a pretty, dark-skinned woman, aged about thirty, who had on a little yellow sundress despite the chill of a late autumn. She was wearing the familiar leather collar and triskelion ring. It was Justine, from the Fantaisie. Our eyes met in recognition and she smiled, but she did not speak.

Having seen I was still wearing my own collar and ring, Jason said he expected to me to be at his residence at six o’clock sharp; although he did ask “Do you have any engagements?” I told him I did not, uncertain what his response would have been if my answer had been otherwise. To this day I have no idea if our meeting was pure happenstance. It was my first day back at the university since I’d quit before moving into Adrienne’s apartment.

Jason was living in an on-campus student housing complex. It was a Monday night and the place was busy with people coming and going. There was a party in progress in a couple of adjoining flats which spilled out onto the veranda. No one paid any attention to me, except for Justine who was waiting on the footpath. She was still wearing her tiny dress, swinging her arms and stomping her feet to keep warm. She asked me to take off my coat, and when I did the piercing bite of the cold air on my bare arms made me wonder how long she had been standing there shivering. She held out a black satin scarf and I tied it over my eyes. Then she steered me up two flights of stairs. I heard voices and footsteps around me, but nobody did or said anything to indicate curiosity over a young woman being led blindfolded to one of the third floor units.

Jason let us in, but to my surprise, as my sight was restored he was putting on his jacket. The flat was typical student accommodation, with a small living room and even smaller bathroom, a kitchenette and two bedrooms. On the sofa were sitting two young men and in the single armchair a petite, red-haired girl who unlike her fully clothed companions was in her underwear, an incongruous combination of expensive lace bra and cotton novelty knickers (embroidered with cupcakes and candles and “Happy Birthday”). Jason introduced only the girl, as Lauren, and said to her “Enjoy your presents” before leaving us.

The three sat there watching us, not knowing how to proceed, so Justine and I, at the same time, took off our clothes and knelt on the linoleum floor. It was Lauren who moved first. She reached down beside her chair and held up a coil of nylon rope. She got up and ordered me to lie on my belly. She talked in a childish, high-pitched voice, she was a full head shorter than me and looked very young, no more than eighteen or nineteen. I noticed a vague resemblance to Jason, and it was possible that she was his little sister -- which made his birthday gift to her even more intriguing. But I never found out for sure.

The girl certainly knew the ropes, as she deftly trussed me in a frog-tie and then a shrimp-tie and then other more exotic positions. There was a lot of rope and she used it all to weave intricate webs about my limbs and torso. She was gentle but never spoke to me except to give commands; and it felt strange to be totally compliant and under the control of this diminutive, squeaky-voiced teenager.

In the meantime, her male companions were amusing themselves with Justine, and they were actually saying things like “Make her squeal” and “Make her sweat.” So after a while an irritated Lauren said “Listen boys, why don’t you take her to the bedroom?” and they did.

But the really odd thing about that evening was that I was not able to work out exactly what the girl’s interest was, besides in simply tying me up, down and sideways. She was lovingly attentive in applying the crotch-rope, but took no other advantage. After maybe two hours she left me in a more conventional hog-tie and went to the bedroom where her friends were playing with Justine. She came back a long time later, naked but with her undies in her hand. She tossed them onto the sofa and resumed where she had left off with me.

When Jason came in at midnight, the game ceased so abruptly that Lauren whined “It’s still so early” and he scolded her like a parent would a five-year-old. She was still nude, and that disturbed me for some reason. But I remained silent, put my clothes on and massaged the many parts of my body where the ropes had left their marks. I thought about Justine, in the bedroom, and wondered if her night was over as well. I was walked to my car by the master, who never said a word except through the open window as I was about to drive off.

“Till next time…”


To be continued…

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby OldTUGger » Sat Mar 08, 2014 7:26 pm

Ooh, I love it when your tales get all ropey... ;-)

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby jc27 » Sun Mar 09, 2014 8:26 am

thank you for the updates! will adrienne or matthew be the one who leads her into the chateau, or will it be jason? so are all the girls actually "trained" at adrienne's apartment first? doesnt sound like from the previous story! keep going when you're free and all the best with work!

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby xtc » Sun Mar 09, 2014 9:29 am

sarobah wrote:Sorry for the delay. Unfortunately, my career commitments are starting to take up most of my writing time and energy. Hopefully the quality of the story does not decline too much.


Sorry I haven't caught up with this story lately but, yeah, employers are like that. Mine seemed to expect me to work rather than write. Unreasonable, really.

May I assure you that there has been no lack of quality? I only hope you enjoy your job as much as I did mine prior to retirement (even if I did need to report in to work when I was supposed to).
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Sun Mar 09, 2014 10:40 pm

OldTUGger wrote:Ooh, I love it when your tales get all ropey...

I thought it was time to include some ropework :o)
jc27 wrote:Will Adrienne or Matthew be the one who leads her into the chateau, or will it be Jason? So are all the girls actually "trained" at Adrienne’s apartment first? Doesn’t sound like from the previous story!

All shall be revealed in these final two instalments… including one last secret :o)
xtc wrote:…employers are like that. Mine seemed to expect me to work rather than write... I only hope you enjoy your job as much as I did mine prior to retirement (even if I did need to report in to work when I was supposed to).

It’s a cruel world… But I do love my work, which is why it takes up so much of my time.
My biggest loss is actually not being able to read more stories here on the TUGs site.
It is such a big injustice that I was not born a billionairess. I would still do the job I have, but I wouldn’t have to worry about nonsense like housework and shopping :o(

Anyway, here’s the latest…


Our new master arrived on the very same day that Jason left. Brandon was even younger, about my brother’s age, and from the outset less indulgent and much more strict and demanding. He may have been too challenging an assignment even for Adrienne, because I learned (sometime later) that he left shortly after my own departure. But while he was in the apartment, Adrienne never compromised. She bore the burden of her slavery in quiet acceptance and fortitude no less than I or Vanessa.

In contrast to Jason, Brandon was home most of the time, going out only at irregular intervals. As a result, Vanessa and I had none of the free time we’d previously enjoyed. When he was not amusing himself with us, he kept us tied up in the living room or chained to the bed… although he always released us when he went out. That was one of the house rules. Yet despite the harshness of the new regime, I found myself settling comfortably into this strange new life, with no responsibilities except to serve, no obligations except to obey, no liabilities, no uncertainties, no remorse, no guilt. The almost continuous state of arousal in which I found myself was exhausting at first, but I soon discovered a self-rejuvenating quality to my bondage and servitude that was not unlike the second wind I used to get at the athletics carnivals of my schoolgirl days.

But after three weeks Adrienne took me into her study and closed the door. Even then, in private, we did not sit on the chairs; but the rug was fleecy and warm, and I loved its tickly touch on my bare flesh. It gave me goosebumps. In the time I had been here, I had discovered sensations and emotions that, in my previous existence, I took for granted or which had existed below my level of conscious insight. But now I recalled those most famous lines from one of my favourite poems…

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.
For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern.

Adrienne was more down-to-earth.

“Monique… pay attention. You are leaving here tomorrow. You will be taken to a place in the country, not too far from here. There you will continue to serve our masters.”

She described the Château, and explained that my life there would be rigorous, even more so than it was under Brandon’s stern authority, but the fulfilment of everything which had happened, the culmination of all I had experienced, the reward for all I had endured during these past few months. And as she spoke, I felt only numbness, the disappointment that this part of my journey was coming to an end counterbalanced by excitement and dread that another chapter was beginning.

But then Adrienne put her hand on my shoulder, delicately brushed back my hair, tenderly stroked my face.

“Do you remember the meeting in my office, six weeks ago? Of course you do. You were bitter then... with me, with your brother. You did not come here of your own free will. You weren’t forced, but you believed you were given no choice. Do you still feel that way? Please be honest.”

I looked at her, paused to ask myself the same question.

“Mistress…” I began.

She blinked but did not respond. I said it deliberately, to let her know that, so far as I was concerned, we were not really sisters in servitude. That was a convenient fiction, no more tangible than the fantasy that the men to whom we were bound in slavery were the true masters of their domain.

“I was not given a choice. I consented because I wanted to save our home. That was my fault. I didn’t prepare my brother well enough; I gave into him when I should have stood up to him. He made bad decisions, and I have been the one to pay the price.”

She stared at me, frowned and started to say something, but stopped. It was the first time I had seen this cool, calculating woman actually flustered. I smiled, relishing the moment.

“I don’t regret it; but that doesn’t change what happened. What I’ve lost I have made up for ten times over. But let’s not fool each other… or ourselves. So the answer is no. Although I go willingly… happily… I am not going to the Château of my own free will.”

We could have said more, but the door swung open and the two of us prostrated ourselves on the voluptuous rug, hands behind our backs. Master Brandon locked leather collars about our necks. He was not gentle.


To be continued… one last time…

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby sarobah » Wed Mar 12, 2014 5:42 pm

***

From the window in the tower I could see out over all of the estate. Surrounding the house were manicured lawns dotted with tidily trimmed shrubs and bordered by dense woodland. A gravel driveway circled in front of the porch before veering off in the direction of the highway, which was partly visible in the distance between gaps in the trees. From the rear of the building, a cobbled path meandered amongst the flower beds towards a latticework pavilion, where two of the masters were sitting in the shade sipping tall drinks. They were casually watching three slavegirls tending the gardens. It was a hot and humid summer afternoon, and perspiration glistened on the women’s nude bodies as they worked. To my left, a light breeze wafted across the tiers of terracotta roof tiles, carrying up from the courtyard music and men’s voices, and every so often a feminine shriek of laughter.

I was about to turn away and resume my chores when a movement caught my eye, at the far end of the road, where it emerged in a sweeping curve from the forest. The pink fuzziness gradually revolved itself into a short column of naked women, seven altogether. They were spaced no more than half an arm’s length apart, and marching slowly towards the house. Their arms were pinioned behind them; they were linked by a chain attached to their collars; all were gagged; and everyone but the first in line wore a blindfold. The leader was guiding her flock with measured steps, but they were being hurried along by a lone master who moved up and down the file tapping bare backsides apparently at random with his cane. A few paces behind walked two young men attired in the flamboyant uniform (black breeches, white ruffled shirt, crimson velvet jacket) of novitiate masters.

It is hard, with so many girls passing through the Château these days, to remember them all; and the faces were partly covered; but these seven were clearly new to the sisterhood. None had been branded, although that was not a sure sign, since about half the slaves even now choose against wearing the Fantaisie logo permanently on their skin. But three in the group still had pubic hair. (I felt some pity for that trio, because the depilation ritual is a favourite amusement for the masters.) When they had shuffled onto the circular drive, they were ordered to halt, and to bunch up until they touched.

Sir Richard and Sir Jonathan came down off the porch to greet the new masters and inspect the new property. They were thorough in their evaluation, and as each girl in turn was probed and prodded, at first not aware, from behind her blindfold, of what was happening, she jerked and cringed, and the compact line of bodies wobbled as the squirming rippled along it. After this welcome, they were herded up the steps to begin their new life. I envied them for their innocence and inexperience as they embarked on their voyage of self-discovery.

Most appeared to be aged in their mid- to late twenties. It was the typical range, with one exception. The woman at the rear, tall with a splendid figure and billowing blonde hair, looked to be well into her thirties. The neophyte masters, on the other hand, were fresh-faced youngsters. It seemed like the Château was recruiting them as soon as they could shave.

Perhaps it was. I have never found out how Matthew came to be inducted into the brotherhood, nor the true identity of his creditors, those to whom he had offered me as collateral. During my time in the house, and outside while I continued to wear my collar and ring, I did not speak without permission, and naturally he never brought it up. So my suspicions, such as they were, counted for nothing. In any case, it no longer mattered. I was now where, I am absolutely certain, I always needed to be. I went back to scrubbing the floor.

It was my brother who came to fetch me, maybe half an hour later. “All females are to assemble in the courtyard.”

I broke a cardinal rule by attempting to catch his eye with mine. I should not have been reflecting on my first days in the Château. That encouraged pointless and corrupting thoughts. He clicked his tongue in disapproval but said nothing. He clipped the leash to my collar and took me down to the lobby. There, near the base of the stairwell, stood three slaves. We glanced at each other’s faces and I gasped out loud.

“What’s the problem?” Sir Matthew demanded.

“Nothing, Master. Please forgive me.”

It still felt peculiar, addressing him in such a manner. But I remembered Adrienne’s words, those she had spoken that first night in her apartment and which I did not at the time comprehend… but now I understood. “What you are and what you are not.” It was this which made us no longer big sister and baby brother, no more the devoted surrogate mother and confused, reckless youth. It made us master and slave.

Adrienne and Elizabeth were standing to attention, hands bound behind their backs, tethers already attached to their collars. They are, so far as I know, the oldest and longest serving women in the Château. And although nobody has ever told the story of how the Fantaisie got started, there is much you can learn from the whispered covert gossip of the slaves and fragments of overheard conversations from the masters. Adrienne was the subject of most speculation. She was the doyenne of the sisterhood, unquestionably, but many suspected that she was much more.

It was when I saw the third woman that I had to catch my breath. It was the statuesque blonde who had just arrived. She was collared but not shackled. A ball-gag hung about her neck on its strap, and the trail of saliva between her breasts had not yet quite dried. Her eyes were suitably downcast but nevertheless flitting about nervously, impatiently, excitedly. Without her blindfold I recognized her immediately. The name I must keep secret, of course, for the fate of governments is of greater import than the frivolous memoirs of a mere slavegirl.

Sir Matthew and I halted at the foot of the stairs. Perhaps on some signal that I missed, he seized my arms and pulled them behind my back, locking the bracelets together. He thrust the phallic shaft of a pecker-gag into my mouth. Just before a shadow descended over my eyes, I saw two more persons emerge from one of the side rooms. Neither Sir Daniel nor Jane had changed much since that rainy night, a year ago, when I drove them here for the first time; but now she carried the tattooed mark of the Château on her buttock and wore its emblem on a ringlet which passed through the lips at the entrance to her body.

The symbol was familiar enough. It has been called the triskelion, described as three curving legs or intertwined spirals. Like many things about the Château, no one speaks of how or when it came to be adopted as its symbol.

But the funny thing about being a slave in a mansion populated by slaves is that you become part of the furniture (sometimes literally… footstool duty for instance). Things are said that are not intended for your ears but which you catch anyway; and the masters seem to forget that a blindfold does not dull your other senses but rather amplifies them. So we have all heard that the three parts of the triskelion are in fact the letter S. What they stand for might be anyone’s educated guess… except I think I know. The Château stands on three legs. Slavery (or perhaps submission… I have encountered both). Secrecy (though some say subterranean… but I find that too arcane). Sisterhood.

Sisterhood. Nobody disputes what the third S stands for.

The secret sisterhood of slaves… There is nothing, in whatever constitutes the unwritten charter of the Château Fantaisie, any mention of a brotherhood of masters.

I felt a tug on my halter. Sir Matthew was leading me to the courtyard.

Sir Daniel had already leashed the four women. I heard one of them groan for some reason, and the noise came out as a gurgled growl past the edges of her gag.

“Shall we follow?” It was the master’s voice, but it was no command.

The courtyard was congested as everyone gathered for the induction of two new masters and seven fresh slavegirls. Two-seven was the same ratio as the sum of all the men to all of their female property. That, apparently, was Adrienne’s preference. And what Adrienne desired Adrienne always got.


The End

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby jc27 » Thu Mar 13, 2014 2:22 am

so andrienne desired monique? im still half confused to little bits and parts here or there.
but awesome update nonetheless!!

Re: IN HER OWN WORDS

Postby vantran » Thu Mar 13, 2014 7:44 am

Not really the dom type of person, but cool story.