## BUTTERFLY

Post by sarobah » Wed Feb 12, 2014 4:09 am

This is part of my Château Fantaisie series. I am posting it in a new thread because (to be honest) I have no idea how it is going to develop. The main character received a two-sentence mention in one of the previous instalments. Every woman has her story.
1. The Studio
“Is it your intention to become a model?”
“No, not really.” She pointed to where her lover sat. “This was his idea.”
“You could be. You have a quality… Please do not turn your head. Raise your chin more.”
“Just this one time,” she insisted.
Caroline lifted her head, to gaze at an imaginary spot on the ceiling. The man stroked her cheek with greasy fingers.
She flinched, and he pulled his hand away. There was no hint of apology or discomfort in his face or his manner. He was short and unglamorous, not repulsive or creepy but unkempt and vaguely sinister, hardly the sort of individual she would associate with the fashion industry. But she guessed that it really didn’t matter what lurked behind the camera.
“Tilt your head a little to the left, please.”
He stood back, scratching his nose, studying her.
“Well-proportioned, fine features… not beautiful.”
“Thanks a lot!”
He raised his hands defensively. “Please do not take offence. Beauty is at best transitory, and it intimidates most men. You are pretty. This is more desirable in a woman.”
Unmollified, she peeked out of the corner of her eye at her lover. Roger allowed himself a vestige of a smile, but it vanished quickly under her acerbic glare.
“You may relax now.”
The man deposited his light meter and other bits and pieces on the nearby bench and took up a small white bundle. He shoved it in her general direction as he busied himself with resetting or recalibrating or retuning his equipment… whatever it was photographers do.
“You may change in there.”
She looked about. There was a simple curtained partition in the corner of the room.
“Shoes off, and no underwear, please.”
She stopped and stared at him.
“We do not want the lines showing under your dress.”
“No… of course not…” She looked again at her lover, her sense of unease growing more intense. He just shrugged and smiled.
She entered the makeshift cubicle. There was a full-length mirror and a stool for her discarded clothing. Her costume was a tiny dress, cut in the style of a Hollywood-Roman slavegirl’s tunic. It was very short, dipping in front to the corded waist and slashed on the right side all the way to the hip. She inspected her image in the mirror. With the décolletage, cleavage, side boob and bare thigh, she had to admit that she did look sexy. Maybe Mr Decorio’s suggestion about doing some modelling… She expelled the idea from her head with a vigorous shake.
Tugging forlornly downwards on the embroidered hemline, she sucked in a deep breath and pulled back the curtain. As she emerged, Roger almost leapt from his chair. Mr Decorio bobbed his head approvingly.
She performed a little curtsy and a pirouette, immediately regretting the latter as her skirt swirled upwards. The photographer frowned impatiently.
“Step onto the platform,” he commanded, fondling his tripod.
The tiles were frigid under her bare feet. The backdrop was a plain sky-blue, the sole prop a faux marble broken column, encircling the base of which was a chain. Decorio took some pictures and she struck some poses, the sort of thing she thought professionals might do. She was even beginning to enjoy herself, despite the coldness underfoot and the concern that she might be revealing more of herself to the lens than she intended.
“No no no!” he barked, all of a sudden. “Be natural… Now turn away from me and lean forward.”
Doing so, she felt the tickle of the hem of her little dress riding up over her posterior.
“You must not move!”
“You told me to lean forward.”
“You… cringed!”
“I’m sorry, but is this sort of shot really necessary?” She was looking straight at Roger. He moved towards her, arms outstretched.
“For my private collection,” he said, but stopped in his tracks, not wishing to trip over the joke that had fallen so flat. “They’re for your portfolio,” he went on, in a milder voice. “You don’t even have to keep them.”
She stared at him. His tone was odd, unsettling, almost pleading.
“Your fiancé is right, of course,” said Mr Decorio. “No pouting, please.”
“I’m not pouting, I’m thinking. And I’m his girlfriend, not his…”
She sighed and thrust her nude backside towards the camera. She heard the faint whirring click a few more times.
“Surely that’s enough.”
“Yes. Turn around and kneel please, up on your toes, resting on your heels, back straight, arms at your side, knees slightly apart.”
“Like this?”
He just nodded.
While Decorio was adjusting the light reflectors, Roger had opened a cardboard box and was taking things out… a metal collar, leather cuffs, chains.
Her eyes widened, her skin tingled.
“Don’t move,” he whispered as he placed the iron band around her neck. It was heavy and he secured it with a small padlock. Intrigued, she saw him drop the key into his trouser pocket.
The touch of his cold fingers on her throat had made her shiver. When he placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and pushed the narrow straps down her arms, drawing the top of her dress down to the tips of her breasts, she trembled.
“Sorry, darling,” he said.
She smiled and looked up at him, as he hitched the end of the chain attached to the pillar to a ring on her collar.
“No, don’t raise your eyes; keep them lowered,” he told her, softly.
“Bow your head,” the other man growled.
She blinked and glanced about, but kept her eyes downcast. Yet the orders of the two men troubled her less than the fact that she obeyed them without further question.
Roger stood up and stroked her shoulders and neck, playing with the collar and its petite lock. He tenderly brushed away the wisps of hair that had fallen across her brow when she drooped her head. Then he crouched behind her, took a gentle hold of her forearms and pulled them back, closing the leather bracelets about her wrists and connecting them. They fit snugly, but only if she held her arms straight, which caused her shoulders to stretch rearwards, her chest to push outwards and the front of her dress to slip a little more.
She found herself gasping little “Ooh!” sounds as Decorio made small adjustments to her position. He took many photos, from all angles and directions, and long before he’d finished the novelty of her situation had worn off. The air in the room was chilled, deliberately so (she believed) for the stimulating effect it had on her nipples (which raised little swellings in the flimsy fabric of her dress… but were probably all that held it in place). Her feet had gone numb from the freezing bite of the floor tiles, and the dulling sensation was creeping up her legs. Goosebumps stippled her skin, but her calf muscles were burning from the stress of her kneeling posture.
At last, with a gesture of curt dismissal, the photographer brought the session to an end.
“May I get changed now?” Caroline asked as he began packing away his equipment. She got to her feet and found the chain would not allow her to move far from the waist-high column. She turned to face away from the two men, offering her wrists to be freed from their shackles.
Roger hesitated, just long enough to make her cheeks redden, before releasing her. She retreated behind the curtain in the corner of the room. As she pulled on her knickers, the caress of the cotton sliding over her loins felt both delicious and comforting. But from the other side of the screen she could hear an unfamiliar, feminine voice.
When she emerged, folding the little white frock, Roger and Mr Decorio were talking to a small, extremely attractive brunette. Her hair was cropped rather severely short. She was dressed in a business suit that was conservatively tailored except for the very brief skirt, which gave a tantalizing glimpse of the lacy tops of her stockings and the ribbon suspenders of a garter belt. Girding her slender neck was an elegantly crafted leather choker. Around her wrists, half hidden by the sleeves of her jacket, were golden bangles. Her eyes flickered only fleetingly in Caroline’s direction. They glittered a steely blue. She was asking peculiar questions.
“Has she been tied up before, or chained?”
“Never by me,” Roger answered.
“Whipped or spanked?”
“Not so far as I know.”
Caroline stepped forward to introduce herself, but the woman turned away.
“You’ve done well, Mr Decorio,” she said as she left the room.
Caroline and Roger followed soon afterwards. It was cold outside and he took off his coat to drape it over her shoulders. They kissed. It had been a strange evening. She had many questions. But they could wait.
To be continued…

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by troublemaker1 » Wed Feb 12, 2014 5:50 pm

A very good first post-can't wait to read more!
Hey there

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by sarobah » Thu Feb 13, 2014 12:18 am

Well, here it is :o)
2. The Apartment
When the door opened, she was confronted by a strange face. But it took her just a couple of seconds to recognize him. Mr Decorio was, in his own gnomish way, unforgettable.
“Come in,” he said.
She did not move, and the man just smiled. Over his left shoulder, Roger appeared, carrying a scotch glass in each hand.
“Come in,” he implored.
Her lover gave Decorio a sulky look, but that was all. This puzzled Caroline as she brushed past into the room.
Roger gave one of the glasses to Decorio, who took just a sip before setting it down on the coffee table. Caroline later recalled that he never touched it again.
“Here, let me have your coat,” Roger said, but she angrily pushed his hand away. She took it off herself and left it with her purse on the sideboard.
“I thought we were…”
“Mr Decorio and I have some business.”
“What sort of business?” She tried to make eye contact, but he turned his face away.
“Shall we sit down and discuss this matter together?” Decorio sat in one of the two armchairs and waved his hand inviting Roger to take the other. When he did so, Caroline was surprised. She stared at him before bringing one of the chairs from the dining room. She set it down as far from the men as possible, the coffee table between them.
She regretted now having removed her coat. Roger had promised a romantic dinner and she had dressed for the occasion. She could almost feel Decorio’s gaze slithering up her legs and down her cleavage.
“What sort of business?” she repeated. “You mean the photos?” Her mouth was dry. Roger had not offered her a drink.
The man looked amused. He shook his head.
“That is merely my… sideline, Miss… may I call you Caroline?”
She nodded, but felt her cheeks become flushed.
“I guess you’re going to tell me that glamour photography is your hobby. Those are the standard terms, aren’t they? Glamour? Hobby?”
Decorio waved his hands in self-defence.
“Please, no. My profession. The company I work for employs me to provide certain services…”
“Which company is that?”
He ignored the question. “One might say that my business is… acquisitions.”
She saw Roger shift uncomfortably in his seat. Decorio saw it too.
“Perhaps property management might be a better description.”
“Do you enjoy talking in riddles, Mr Decorio? Or is this some sort of seizure? Should we call a doctor?”
He laughed, loud and whole-heartedly.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I like this one.” He turned to look squarely at Roger. “We so rarely appreciate what we have.” He paused. “I am mystified that you do not yet live together. It would make things so much less complicated... more convenient.”
Very annoyed now, and more than a little unnerved, she stood up and strode towards the door. She halted with her hand resting on the unturned knob. Decorio grinned and Roger grimaced. Her coat and purse were on the other side of the room.
“Forgive me.” The little man beckoned towards the chair. “We will complete our business and then I shall leave.”
“Thank you,” Roger said as she came back into the room; but before she could take her seat again he added, “Why don’t you make us all coffee?”
Glad to be out of there, she went to the kitchen. When she returned with a tray and three cups and a juglet of milk, Roger was signing some papers. Caroline did not mind that Decorio ignored the coffee. As he departed, he took her hand and seemed about to kiss it when he decided instead to shake.
“What a strange character,” she said as the door closed. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
“Soon enough,” Roger replied.
“What exactly does that mean?” she demanded.
His face darkened, but his tone of voice remained subdued. He pressed two fingers gently against her lips.
“Do you remember what you promised?”
She took a step backwards and bowed her head. The unpleasantness of the last half-hour dispersed into the mist of her desire for him.
“Yes, my love.”
“Say it.”
“Never question, always obey.”
“Did you mean it?”
“Yes, my love.”
“Show me.”
She lowered herself to her knees and slipped her dress off her shoulders, down over her waist and hips, along with her panties. She bent forward until her forehead touched the carpet at his feet.
“Good girl. Stay like that. We won't go out tonight.”
He went to get the ropes. While he was gone, as much as she tried not to, Caroline thought about Mr Decorio. For though she hated to admit the fact, if it had not been for that photo session three months ago, their relationship would likely not taken the road that it had. Roger had somehow been inspired. He had become more decisive, more in control, more… there was only one word that fit… manly.
It was odd, therefore, that in Decorio’s presence he appeared to have reverted to the way he was before. But she put that out of her mind when he came back and began to bind her arms, and she understood with perfect clarity and great pride what it was she, at least, had become.
For in those three months she had discovered an aspect of herself which had always been there but had lain dormant and deeply hidden. Caroline and Roger would still have loved each other, she was sure of that, but her devotion had blossomed into pious adoration. She had not realized that she could be capable of such emotion and passion, or that she could know such happiness.
All she wanted was to please him. She belonged to him, would go anywhere with him, would do anything for him.
The butterfly had emerged from her chrysalis.
[To be continued…]
Not much bondage in this instalment. I promise to do better next time.

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by OldTUGger » Thu Feb 13, 2014 6:33 am

To quote one of the great palindromes of all time: Egad! No bondage?

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by Mister Mistoffelees » Fri Feb 14, 2014 9:34 pm

I smell a double-cross somewhere in this scenario. Perhaps a collusion between Roger and Decorio? Is Roger playing Caroline foul? Can't wait to see how it plays out!...
Welcome to Snowden! Enter at your own risk...

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by sarobah » Fri Feb 14, 2014 11:22 pm

Come now, would any of the characters that come of my innocent brain be so shifty?
3. The Tower
She had no idea how long she had been in her prison. Because the light never changed, she lost track of the time and had no way of knowing when day changed into night. In any case, mostly she was blindfolded, as she had been when she was brought here.
She had been taken up a circular stairway, so even though she had not seen the outside of the house or had opportunity to explore all that was inside, she knew that she was in some sort of tower or turret. From what she had glimpsed in the few brief moments when she had her vision, it was a small room with a low ceiling and no windows. The walls were unadorned and there was no furniture. In one corner was a toilet and a washbasin. Her only comfort was a woollen mat. The door was never closed (she would have heard the hinges creak as when she entered), so the air never became stale; but the result was that a draught constantly wafted over her naked body. She had no blanket, although it was never too cold for her to endure.
The chain attached to her collar hung from an overhead beam, with just enough margin to allow her to lie down. She could not reach the commode while tethered, so she had to rely on the indulgence of the masters when they visited or the assistance of the slavegirls who brought her meals. The women were permitted to unchain her for this purpose, but her wrists remained clamped behind her back in their leather bracelets. Since there was no bath, every so often she was washed with sponges. Once two of the masters took it upon themselves to do the job with scrubbing brushes until her flesh burned.
Apart from that, she never suffered any tortures. When, now and then, one or more of the masters came, they were gentle with her, much more than they had been on that first night. Because she could not see and they never spoke, she never knew which of the men it was who was having her, except when it was Roger. She could tell from the way her lover had always fondled her hair and how he nibbled on her breasts and belly, taking just enough between his teeth to make her gasp but not to break the skin. She was aware that each of the masters had his own partialities and penchants, but she’d always had her eyes covered.
She welcomed the visits, and not just because most of the time she was left alone in the darkness of her blindfold and the confines of her bonds, with no company but her thoughts and no relief from the monotony except in her dreams. She loved each and every one of the men. Some were kind and some were cruel, some strict, others easy, some skilled in the enjoyment of a woman’s body, some puerile and undisciplined, some handsome, one or two not so much. It did not matter. She loved them all, for what they had done to her and what she had done for them, for what they were and she was not. She loved them for the freedom which was theirs and which she was denied. She loved that they made her submit and forced her to obey, to become what she had always known was the thing she needed to be.
Then, after who knows how long, time was no longer standing still and her twilight existence in the tower came to an end. It was Roger who came for her. He arrived with one of the other masters, and when they had finished with her, he went to the door with his companion as if to leave. But he came back and lay beside her and pushed inside her again, with less tenderness than she expected of him. Then he helped her to sit up (as her hands were still locked behind her back) and removed her blindfold. He slipped two fingers between her neck and the front of the collar and pulled her close to him.
She thought she was going to be kissed, but he said “Look up. Just this once.”
After all this time, it felt strange to gaze into his face, as if she were his equal.
“You know I love you.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Call me Roger, one last time.” There was something wistful, nostalgic, in his voice.
“Yes, Roger.” Her eyes were downcast once more.
“And it is because I love you, and I know what you desire, even more than you, that I have brought you here and given you to the other masters… No, do not speak… But now it is time to take the final step. From now on, you must accept and follow this single principle, that pleasure is yours to give but not to receive, that everything you have comes only as a gift from those you serve, and can be taken away, whether you think you deserve it or not. It is no longer your right to decide what you have and what is taken. Your submission must be unlimited and unconditional, with no expectation of reward and no relief from whatever is required of you. If you love me, then you love everything that I and the other masters demand of you.”
It sounded like a speech he had prepared, or been taught to him.
“Do you agree? Just nod.”
He stroked her flushed cheeks and quivering lips. She was alarmed, not knowing why he was telling her this now.
“At any time, you can leave the house. No one will stop you. But once you have chosen to stay, understand that it is not of your own free will that you submit and obey. You stay because you need to be here, so it is meaningless to consent to that which gives you what you already desire. That is all we offer, all you can expect while you are here, a slave and nothing more, in the Château, and afterwards as long as you remain the property of the masters.”
He caressed the red satin blindfold and reached forward to tie it over her eyes. He lifted her to her feet and unhitched the chain from her collar. Guiding her by taking hold of her elbows and walking behind her, he took her out of the room and down the stairwell, being careful to maintain a firm grip so she did not stumble and fall. When she felt the freezing tiles underfoot she trembled, but she felt safe to be on a solid floor.
It must have been early afternoon, because the masters and their women were assembled in the courtyard for the games. For once Caroline did not take part. She was led to a small flight of wooden steps that rose to a platform about chest-high from the ground. Her shackles were fastened together in front and a cable attached, and her hands were pulled above her head until she was compelled to stand on her toes in order to ease the strain on her arms and shoulders. A rope was then slung from a cross-bar; it ran between her breasts and down her belly, between her thighs and up behind her. It was made tight enough that it burrowed into her creases, front and rear. The tension on the line hauling up her arms was thereupon released, but rather than provide relief, the stress thus transferred to the rope between her legs forced her onto her toes again. A plump rubber shaft was thrust into her mouth and buckled in place.
For most of the afternoon Caroline was left alone, trying to decipher, behind her blindfold, from the laughing and squealing and screaming and cursing, what games the masters were playing with their slaves. The only attention she received during the first hour or so was when someone mounted the stand to loosen the rope that ravished her; but the respite was for just a couple of minutes each time.
It was sweet tribulation which she suffered, not being able to rest or relax or ease the pressure, except by lifting one foot off the floor as a cramp set in; but she could only hold it there for a few seconds. She hated the pain but loved that she was in pain, for her suffering reaffirmed what Roger had told her in the tower. Submission must be unlimited and unconditional. It is no sacrifice to give up that which you are willing to give up, what you are happy to surrender. So she was honoured and overjoyed that the masters had chosen to test her with such torments, to strip everything from her.
Yet eventually they took pity on her, and while it shamed her that they should do so, she could not help but be pleased. She was ordered to lie on her stomach; her hands were bound behind her with rope (instead of being cuffed) and her ankles were similarly bound and tied to her wrists. The hog-tie was made severe enough that her body was arched backwards with just the tips of her breasts touching the wooden boards. The astriction this caused to her chest made each breath she took, through the bulbous gag, an exquisite ordeal.
When the games ended and the slaves went inside to wash and begin their new round of chores, Caroline was again separated from the others and taken to the library, where the masters had gathered for their pre-dinner drinks. They made her bend over the ottoman footstool on her belly, or across it on her back, according to each man’s preference. Afterwards, they tied her, standing with her arms stretched upwards, to a hook embedded in one of the columns which supported a narrow mezzanine.
Roger alone whipped her that night, and only on her back and buttocks and thighs. She was proud that she resisted the urge to cry out, and when she turned to offer the front of her torso, her lover put down the lash and kissed her lips and breasts and belly. She was untied and permitted to kneel on the rug, the heat of the fire on her red-raw skin, while the masters finished their whisky and brandy and waited for the slaves to beg their attendance at the dinner table.
When the rest were gone, Roger called her across to his armchair and she sat at his feet with her head resting on his knees.
“You have been strong, so far,” he told her. “Now you must be stronger.”
She raised her head, started to look up at him, then buried her face in her hands on the carpet.
“I will be going away, will be gone some time.”
She felt the tears begin to well up, but she held them back.
“I am leaving you in good hands. The other masters will take care of you, will make you obey. Do understand what I am asking… what I am demanding… of you?”
“Yes, Master!”
The tears came. Roger patted her head.
“Don’t fret my dearest. It is for the best. You belong to all the masters equally now. Serve them all faithfully as you have served me.”
She remained huddled on the floor at his feet, her face hidden, the tears of joy still flowing.
[To be continued…]

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by OldTUGger » Sat Feb 15, 2014 5:02 am

This story gets better with each installment. Thank you for making time to write it!

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by sarobah » Sat Feb 15, 2014 6:42 pm

You are welcome :o)
The next installment (after this one) of the Château Faintiaie series may be my last. It will, however, bring the story full circle.
4. The Château
She lay awake, on her back, the master on top of her, sleeping but still inside her. Even if she could somehow wriggle out from beneath his body, her collar was chained to the headboard and her left bracelet was joined to that of Suzanne, who was on her belly, also asleep.
The young man was not a lightweight, but Caroline’s time in the house had made her strong, and she could breathe without difficulty. However, he was restless, perhaps dreaming, and the shifting of his pelvis over hers was having its effect. She peered out the window. The sky overhead was still black, but on the horizon a faint band of pink heralded the approach of dawn. She could not remember what day it was, and it did not really matter. Time seemed to flow at an inconstant rate within the walls of the Château, and it was easy to lose track of how many mornings she had spent doing the masters’ chores, how many afternoons playing the masters’ games, how many evenings serving the masters’ pleasure.
Most of the slaves would be starting their duties by now. She missed being with them. She loved that her role in the Château was not only to satisfy the personal and peculiar needs of the masters but, just as importantly, to maintain their comfort. But she enjoyed in particular the silent camaraderie of the kitchen. Although they were not permitted to speak (there were girls who had been in the house for months whose voices she had never heard except in addressing a master), this was the only time during the day when the women consorted without the overbearing presence of the males.
Of course, at night those who did not have the honour of sharing a master’s bed slept together, and the first time Caroline joined them she discovered that the men did not command all of the affection and passion in the house. Such intimate contact between the women was strictly prohibited, but this was a rule “more honour’d in the breach than the observance.” For as much as they were devoted to those to whom they belonged, they all, sooner or later, yearned for the love of an equal.
(The Bard is often misunderstood. “More honour’d in the breach than the observance” does not mean a custom more often ignored than followed, but rather one that it is more righteous to violate than to practise. Breaking the “Sapphic” rule, the only injunction from the masters that Caroline ever saw wilfully disobeyed, satisfied both interpretations.)
She smiled. The young man’s movements had subsided, and he had slackened inside her. His dream was over. His eyes flickered open and for an instant connected with hers. She quickly looked away, but he yawned and grunted and rolled off her, sat up and reached for his robe. Suzanne was now awake as well, and once the master had disconnected their cuffs and gone to the bathroom, the two women adopted the customary position, kneeling on the floor next to the bed, arms folded behind their backs, knees apart and heads bowed, tethered to the bedframe awaiting his return.
He was gone a long time and they never moved or spoke or glanced at each other. He came out smelling of soap and shampoo and aftershave. Caroline felt his hot breath on the back of her neck as he crouched behind her. Her hands, pinned between her back and his chest as he lunged forward, grabbed onto his shirt; and when he finally pulled away it took her fists a second or two to release the velvet. She gasped and sighed and toppled forward, her head and shoulders resting on the edge of the mattress, as Sir Matthew shifted sideways to enter Suzanne.
Though slightly chubby and baby-faced (were they getting younger or was she feeling so much older?), the new master certainly had stamina. And he was learning quickly. It had taken a hundred days to train Roger and Caroline before their arrival in the house; Matthew and Monique had been prepared in less than thirty. But there was another thing, something new. Roger and Caroline were lovers; Matthew and Monique were brother and sister. That troubled and intrigued her. Adrienne and Master Decorio were not only improving their skills, they were refining their technique.
For something was brewing. The hushed conversations of the masters were passed along in whispered exchanges between the slaves, which produced fragments of rumours. But no one was in doubt that since the passing of the Grand Master there would be changes at the Château.
*****
[To be continued...]

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by sarobah » Mon Feb 17, 2014 4:53 pm

*****
Each time Caroline left the Château to return to what had once been everyday life, she felt the pangs of dispossession. It was strange to walk through the streets of the city unfettered, to look a man in the face without dishonour, to speak without having first been spoken to. She had almost forgotten what it was like to have clothing on her body, to feel the swish of the skirt on her legs, the tingle of the blouse on her breasts. Yet the clothes did not comfort her. They symbolized loss… loss of the enchanting embrace of the ropes and chains, the joy of servitude, the bliss of obedience.
Naturally, she kept her ring and collar as a constant reminder that at any time she was accessible and available to any of the masters. And since Roger was gone, on two or three evenings a week one or more of the masters called round to her apartment. Sometimes they brought other girls, and occasionally they went out, to a restaurant or nightclub.
At the office that she managed now on a part-time basis, several of the women had commented admiringly on her collars. They were not those she wore in the Château, of course. She was not ashamed of her slavery, but the masters’ rule of secrecy remained sacrosanct. So she’d had half a dozen elegant chokers designed, of crochet, of lace, of silver and of braided leather, each bearing the triskelion crest. The staff must also have noticed that since her return from that impromptu vacation four months ago, she never wore trousers, only skirts and dresses, and chance glimpses revealed that she wore stockings with garters or a suspender belt, never pantyhose. Sometimes a sheer blouse or an open button disclosed that she never wore a brassiere.
None of the masters came to her workplace, until one day a woman and two men turned up. She was a beautiful brunette in an elegant cream silk blouse and black pencil skirt. Her companions were both short and undistinguished-looking, one slightly built, greasy-haired and dishevelled, the other more than a few years younger, stocky and somewhat pudgy. Heads must have turned as Caroline ushered them into her private office and shut the door.
She turned the lock, went to her desk and wheeled her chair out from behind it so that none of her would be hidden from her visitors. The men took their seats, and then Adrienne. Master Decorio conscientiously paid no attention, but the young man watched in fascination as the woman unhitched her skirt and let it fall to her ankles, then stepped out of it. She had on stockings held up by garters but no underwear, and the bottom of her blouse did not reach past her hips, so all of the lower part of her body was uncovered. As she sat, her mouth puckered in a soft gasp. Caroline smiled. Even after so much time, you never get used to the tickly touch of cool, slippery leather under naked flesh or, under the gaze of the masters, these delicious feelings of exposure and shame.
Caroline did not remove her own skirt, but opened the side-zipper so she could lift the sides away from her bottom, and after pulling her panties down to her knees she took her seat with the usual “Ooh!”
Like Adrienne she did not cross her legs but instead kept her knees a little apart, to remind the men and themselves that their bodies and all of the delights therein remained the property of the masters. But unlike in the Château or when they entertained the special guests in her apartment, she was not obliged to keep her eyes downcast. Nevertheless she did so, not out of habit but because it suited her to do so.
The business part of the meeting did not last long. Caroline was informed that Sir Matthew was to join the masters, and that her responsibility would be to ensure that, as new as he was to their community, he should not miss out on any of the privileges to which he was entitled. She understood, knowing that novice masters were always surprised to discover that from their first day in the Château they were the equal of all the other men in their ownership of the women, that the only distinction in status was between those born to be the masters and those to be the slaves.
After that, Adrienne reached into her handbag and produced two red satin sashes and two pairs of leather bracelets. Both women tied their own blindfolds in place and put the cuffs on their wrists, and then knelt on the carpet with their arms behind their backs. Adrienne told Sir Matthew that his right as a master was to select the woman he wished to use for his pleasure, that whichever of the two he picked was his decision alone, and that he should not feel concern for the one he did not choose to honour, because she would be happy that he had done that which pleased him. Nevertheless, Caroline felt her cheeks burn with the humiliation of not being the one whose body would serve as his portal into the brotherhood of masters.
Yet as her hands were locked together behind her, she knew that Master Decorio would ensure that her anticipation would not be wasted.
*****
The following day, Sir Matthew and his sister signed the papers which admitted one and bound the other to the Château. The terms were simple and generous; the Grand Master’s legacy ensured that. However, this was only the second contract which Caroline had seen (for she signed as a witness), the other being of course her own; and they were much different. It was a difference which disturbed her, and altered her perception of the Fantaisie in a way that nothing she had seen or experienced in the house had done. For Monique was (so far as Caroline knew) the first woman to enter the house, into slavery, not entirely of her own free will.
[To be continued with In Her Own Words, the final story in the Château Fantaisie cycle.]

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by jc27 » Tue Feb 18, 2014 10:25 pm

please continue soon! cant wait to find out why and how monique isnt entering the house of her own free wil!! ><

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by sarobah » Wed Feb 19, 2014 3:24 pm

Your wish is my command.
Monique's story is told IN HER OWN WORDS.
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by Gwen » Tue Feb 25, 2014 5:46 am

wow its very good
efficiently written
please continue

### Re: BUTTERFLY

Post by Mr Underheel » Sat Mar 01, 2014 3:00 am

Sarah, I love everything that you write!