I bite my lip to keep from crying in outrage.
They use the shower sprayer to rinse the soap, being careful to aim the sharp spray at my tortured asshole, then I’m hustled from the big shower stall and roughly dried before they take me into another room—Gilby’s bedroom, from the look of it. There, the sisters fasten my wrists and ankles into pairs of heavy, unforgiving steel cuffs. One holds my hair, giving it a wicked tug, and the other latches a matching steel collar around my neck. It feels so rigid. I feel as if I belong. The sisters quickly clip my cuffs, shackles and collar to short chains attached to some bolts at the foot of his high, wooden bed. I’m on the hard, bare wood floor, and not even a sheet is given me. But it’s warm enough in the room, and I resign myself to my uncomfortable night. I am maybe too tired and worn to care. And still thrumming with the need to come from what the Girls did to me. From what this place is doing to me.
I lean against the footboard, since the chains don’t have enough give for me to lie down, and in moments my head drops to my chest, and I am lost in the hazy realm of dreams.
I think I expected Gilby to wake me and use me again, to beat me, but suddenly it’s morning and he’s nudging me awake with one slippered foot.
“What? You think you get to sleep all damn day, slut?”
Of course no answer is expected and I keep my mouth shut, blinking hard, trying to focus, to wrap my head around the current situation: slumped on the hard wood floor, naked, bruised inside and out. I flex my toes, stretch one leg experimentally. Everything seems to be working, if sore, but the soreness I take great pleasure in. And in thoughts of the Master, of his scent in my nostrils as Gilby fucked my ass.
Need him
.
“Smiling?” Gilby says, and I blanch that he saw it. “Don’t worry, there’ll be little enough to smile about later on. Today’s a school day.”
He lets out a harsh chuckle while I wonder what this could possibly mean. The only thing I’m certain about is that any lessons I learn here will be harsh ones. I am terrified. Enchanted. I can hardly wait.
Soft footsteps on the floor and one of the Girls is back. Gilby gives a nod of his chin and she kneels to take me out of the cuffs and shackles, and snaps a leash onto my steel collar. She gets to her feet and when I don’t rise quickly enough, she kicks my leg, and I get up and follow her as she tugs on the leash. We go upstairs and into my room, where she hands me toothbrush and toothpaste, signaling for me to brush my teeth. I obey, using a bottle of water and spitting into the now-clean bucket, which she also motions for me to use to relieve myself. Since all I get are hand gestures, I know this is the silent Girl, so I don’t ask any of the thousand questions that wait at the tip of my tongue, baiting me.
When she turns to start the bath, I notice a second bucket on the floor next to the bathtub, and suddenly I know exactly what is about to happen, even before she bends over to screw the long nozzle onto the faucet. And I blush for some inexplicable reason, as if I have anything left to be embarrassed about. As if this has not been done to me before.
She waves a hand and I step over the side of the bathtub and squat in it, the porcelain cool under my bare feet. Bending to retrieve the empty bucket, she places it in the bottom of the tub, then she parts my ass cheeks and inserts the slim nozzle into my sore anus.
The water is pleasantly warm as it begins to fill me up, then uncomfortable as the pressure builds. I do not want this to happen. I do not want this to happen. But it’s too damn late, and too damn bad. I am here of my own accord, because a larger part of me wants exactly this. Requires it. Yes, even this ultimate humiliation!
I take long, deep breaths, remind myself that everything the Girl is doing to me is at the Master’s direction. But that helps only until she pushes the bucket under me and removes the nozzle. Then there is a single breathless moment where I try to hold it in before my bowels empty into the bucket, and I start to cry. This is no gentle seeping of a tear down my cheek, but horrible, hard sobs. The Girl is unsympathetic. She uses the nozzle to rinse me off, then re-inserts it and begins to fill me up once more. And I hate it, and I hate her, and some completely unreasonable part of me is grateful to her at the same time. For doing what will please the Master. For purifying me for him. For the degradation, which I claim to hate but which I also secretly love. Maybe because it opens me up in this way. Because I am utterly helpless against it—the humiliation and the tears and shitting into a goddamn bucket. But I don’t fight it. Why would I? I am exactly where I want to be. Some part of me stands back and screams that I’ve lost my mind, yet at the same time I feel more sane and centered than I have in my entire life.
Three more times she fills me up and I empty into the bucket. Afterward, I’m exhausted. She runs the bath, then quickly and thoroughly bathes me, hands me a towel, and I dry myself. She shoves me toward my pallet, and I lie down and close my eyes as I hear her pad from the room. I want to sleep. But too soon she is back with a tray and I have to sit up.
“You must be hungry,” she says, making my heart leap.
It’s the other Girl!
I look at her carefully, making a quick but thorough visual inspection, and I see she has a small mole over her left breast, just beneath the brand. I don’t think her sister has one.
“Yes, starving,” I say, realizing only then that it’s true.
“Better hurry. It’s a school day,” she says, as if everyone knows about this but me.
“What is it, the school?” I ask, pouring a little of the rare milk I’ve been given for the first time in days into the bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with gold raisins.
“Uh-uh. You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” She frowns at me. “Ah, I see you did. Silly Girl.”
“Am I going right after breakfast?”
“Isn’t that always when we go to school?”
She smiles a little, but I know I’m not in on the joke.
I take a few sips of hot tea, and it feels lovely. Soothing. I am too nervous to ask her more about school. Maybe I don’t want to know.
“Have you ever been worked by Gilby?” I ask instead, wondering if she will answer.
“Of course. He was the one who brought us here.”
“What?” I don’t know why I feel shocked by this—maybe it’s simply my fragile state after the working I’ve had—but I do.
“He was my lover. My Dom. But he likes to share his submissives. When he found out I had a kinky sister, well, we were his fondest wet dream.” Her brows draw together for a moment as she takes a blueberry from the fruit bowl on my tray. She pops it into her mouth. “He was hard on me. He was the one who made me see I need it. He’s very good. But he’s not the Master.”
She looks up at me, and her gray eyes are gleaming with what I recognize as that hint of subspace we all carry when we are well-played. It’s then I notice the bruises on her thighs. Am I so in my own head, my own experience, that I failed to see her beautiful marks?
She catches me looking and smiles a small, Mona Lisa smile as she runs her hands over her bruises and welts, but she doesn’t mention them. There’s no need to. We both understand. It’s happiness for people like us. And I smile back, my own mysterious smile, because we are both freaks, and we know it. We glory in it. We are all of us freaks here. A lovely shiver of belonging runs through me, like a song in my veins.
Yes.
“This is ultimately a very small world we exist in,” she continues. “I’ve been given to Masters and Mistresses from all over the world, they’ve taken me places, to other houses in Europe, one in Bali, one just outside of Tokyo. It makes me know my small place in it all.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
She shakes her head. “This is your first time in this sort of environment. You don’t even know the half of it.”
Some small part of my ego wants to argue the point, but I don’t do it. How would I know? Nothing can truly prepare you for this kind of formal place. For being a slave in the deepest sense. I understand I am at the very beginning of this journey. And isn’t a big part of it about learning to let ego go and simply
be
? Isn’t that what I’m looking for? To be forced out of my busy, busy brain, to be
made
to be present?
I nod. “I think I’ve only touched the tiniest tip of experience. I know that as much as I
can
.”
Her smile lights up her face. She is so lovely, and my body aches for her touch again. “You’re a philosopher, like me. It gets us in trouble, you know. But we like that.” Pausing, she bites her lip for a moment before releasing the plush, pink flesh. “It won’t serve you well in the schoolroom.”
I nod. “Will the Master be there?” And suddenly my heart is hammering with hope, my sex pounding with need for him.
She picks up the tray and stands, leaving me disappointed, anxious. “Brush your teeth and empty your bladder again. Someone will be back for you.”
I watch her long, brown hair swaying around the curve of her hips as she leaves the room, holding my breath until I hear the lock turn, allowing me to exhale.
The schoolroom.
Gorgeously threatening words, simply because the idea has been presented to me that way all morning. If only I knew he would be there. I need to feel his demanding hands on my flesh, to hear his voice. To breathe him in. But that will happen only when
he
decides, and right now I hate that aspect of my powerlessness.
I take a breath of acceptance and do as I’m told—of course I do. But the whole time I am wondering what this school will be like, what might happen to me there. I flash back to the last days of summer before starting kindergarten. I felt so entirely alone, a sad thing for a five-year-old. But my beautiful French mother had died the year before, and my father, an American, had moved me from my early childhood home in Paris to his grand home in New York. There was no one but the new nanny to take me to my first day at school. It felt a bit like being thrown from a ledge. Perhaps that’s why I now seek the relative safety of being bound, being made to do things that are beyond my control. I need to go back to those feelings of powerlessness in the world in a way in which I feel protected. In which
I
make that choice.
I make that choice.
Yes. Everything is different now. I choose even the fear and the isolation. My pulse calms a bit as I breathe in that idea, as I try to banish thoughts of kindergarten and my father from my mind.
A few minutes later a man I’ve never seen before—another slave wearing nothing but a shining collar and a halo of long, curling blond hair—comes in and grins at me.
“I’m here to take you to school.”
The words themselves make me shiver with dread, and I find myself clenching and unclenching my fisted hands. Enough anticipation has been built up to make me sink into subspace—into
slave
space—and my mind is emptying out so fast I barely have time to be alarmed. The fear is all in my body, a purely physical response.
Go.
Don’t go.
But of course I am going.
The male slave holds out a leash and I go to him, standing quietly and staring down at his half-hard cock as he clips the leash to my collar. It must be so much more difficult to be a male slave, with your excitement worn on the outside. I’ve always thought so. But my own nipples are hard as two stones, and I’m sure anyone could see a blush on my cheeks and my chest. It’s the curse of being a natural redhead. The Masters and Mistresses all love it. Of course, they always slip their searching fingers into my cunt, finding it wet. I am wet more often than not, my body always seeking out pleasure, and finding it in the tiniest detail: my Mistress’s perfume, my Master’s voice, a quiet command, a rough beating, another beautiful slave. It will all set me off. I spend much of my time fighting my orgasms.
My pussy clenches hard now as the slave boy leads me from my room and into the hall. Across from the Master’s study a door is open, and we turn there and enter.
The room is arranged as a schoolroom, much like the ones I sat in as a child, even with chalkboards and maps on the walls. Except in the long rows of desks, there is a phallus carved from wood in the center of every seat. My gaze roves over these lovely, wicked seats, noting that the closer to the front of the room they sit, the larger the dildos are. I am suddenly so shaky it takes me a few moments, as the slave boy leads me to a desk in one of the middle rows, to notice that most of the dildos in the very front row are double-headed, and in the seats which have single phalluses, they are huge butt plugs, cones of graduated beads. A wave of desire and fear washes over me. But then the slave boy has a hand at the small of my back and another on my shoulder, forcing me to bend over. He kicks my legs apart a little wider, and I feel his fingers between my thighs.
“Good. No need for lube. The Master will be pleased.”
The Master?
My heart stutters in my chest. There is no one seated behind the large wooden teacher’s desk at the front of the room, which seems oddly threatening to me, making my heart pound harder, my legs feeling as if they might go out from under me. But luckily the blond boy is guiding me into my seat, helping me straddle it while I use my hands on the desktop to hold some of my weight as he lowers my already-clenching cunt onto the protruding phallus. Sighing as it enters my body, I have to bite back my climax. He pulls my body up, then lowers me again, smiling a little at me as he does it a few times, fucking me with the phallus in my seat. Finally he settles me onto it, but it’s not terribly large, and my lustful body accepts it easily. I make an effort not to squirm, not to rub my g-spot against the smooth wooden surface. Not to come—oh no, not to come. What might the punishment for that be? A rebellious part of me—a daring part of me—wants to know.
“Stay still,” the slave boy warns me before he snaps the handle end of my leash to a metal loop on one side of the desk and walks from the room.