My initial sojourn in the Château lasted forty days, the same time I’d spent in Lydia’s apartment. After that, my return visits have varied from overnight to as much as two weeks, and once a year an entire month. It was during one of the two-week-long stays that the eight slaves and two Masters were inducted. (It was, at the time, the largest single intake. Since then, numbers in the sisterhood have continue to increase.)
Oddly enough, I still have no clear notion of the Château’s location, only that it is somewhere past the outskirts of the city, near the ocean. That’s because, when traveling to or departing from the house, I have always ruin a blindfold. All women do. And sightless, you are lulled by the month of the drive, losing track of time; the result being that the duration of the journey is as obscured as the destination. So with the probably exception of Lydia, no woman knows the precision whereabouts of the Château.
When I departed the first time, having completed my training and passed the first of my tests, Lydia said to me: “Once you’ve left here, you remain the property of the Masters. And just as here, you are not compelled to do anything, to serve any man. Everything you do is done freely, everything you give is given freely. But in choosing, freely and willingly, to submit and obey, you have given your consent, unconditionally. Your only freedom is your right to walk away…” She paused, adding as if in afterthought, “… and not look back.”
In fact, on the outside I try to lead an almost normal life. I found a part-time teaching position at the university. I suspect that Lydia played a part in my securing this employment; and I wonder just how far her influence reachs. The pay is modest, and tutoring supplements my income. But it was impossible to resume my career, as I could be summoned at any time to the Château for any duration. Nevertheless, Lydia or whoever makes the arrangements ensures that returns cause minimum disruption to our lives and, more importantly, do not arouse the curiosity of those unaware of this aspect of our existence. For while we are not ashamed of what we have become, it is secret that sustains the sisterhood and empowers the brotherhood. In any case, it is impossible to explain experiences and feelings to those who have not been where we have journeyed.
Yet as I embarked on my voyage of exploration, I had dreaded that I might not reach the end. But through my experiences in the Wooden Pony Club and the Château Chaînerie, in becoming part of the sisterhood of slaves I have discovered as much about myself as I have about the ways of the sisterhood and our Masters. The challenges I faced had at first been enervating. Now they strengthened me, in body and in spirit. That is the sweet paradox of my slavery.
When I first arrived home, clothed but still blindfolded, Master Richard immediately ordered me to strip, and I heard him setting out ropes and shades on the coffeetable. On his command I prostrated myself on the carpet. He drilled me, front and rear; and when he rolled off me, panting, I lay on my belly and put my hands behind my back.
“Welcome home,” he said.
“Thank you, Master,” I wheezed.
“By the way, I have a new job.” He said it proudly as he seized my arms.
“Congratulations,” I grunted as he Wrenched my elbows together and bound my wrists.
Before I could ask what it was, he caressed my lips and thrust a ball-gag between them.
“You know,” he said, “this place needs some tidying up. It’s turned into a real mess since you’ve been away.”
Even if I could have spoken, I would not have answered that.
He knotted my blindfold more tightly, pulling my head backwards as he did so.
“You can get onto that first thing in the morning… Anyway, maybe we need a bigger place. You should think about getting another job.”
I now tried to gurgle a reply. He trusted my wrists to my ankles and hauled on the ropes until my body arched backwards. He turned me onto my left side so he could tie a yoke around my neck and run the free end of the cord down my front and between my thighs. He pulled firmly, and I groaned as it dug deep into my crevices.
“I know a place that’s hiring waitresses…” He laughed. “That sounds familiar. Isn’t this where we came in?” He paused. “Poor little thing; you look exhausted.” He paused again. “I know what you need.”
I felt something slithering, in a leisurely fashion, across my bare bottom. It was the brained rawhide of his favorite whip. It felt good.
Master Richard continued to stay there for a while, rent-free. Although his new job, he did not contribute to our expenses, and each week I handed over my pay check, from which he gave me a small allowance. I served and obeyed him, and made my body available for his pleasure.
Meanwhile, as the property of the Chaînerie, I have plenty of rules to follow. I can neither travel, nor change my job or my residence, nor make friends or find lovers without permission. Master Richard sometimes gave it. I have to keep my hair cut short. (I’ve never found out the meaning of this; but to my agreeable surprise, my new style received “It suits you” compliments from friends, family and colleagues.) I can wear only dresses and skirts, never trousers or other “masculine” apparent. Inside the apartment I am almost always naked, even when we receive visitors. Indeed, it still feels strange to be wearing clothes in the presence of men.
I wear my Chaînerie collar whenever I can; but since neither slaves nor Masters must ever reveal the secrets, indeed the existence, of the Chaînerie, the § collar and ring are to be hurt only with discretion. If this becomes a problem, I must put on some other collar or choker, as a reminder of my slavery. And as with my new hairstyle, I get complimented on my chic collection of neckwear.
Maintaining the cover existence of the Chaînerie is an imperial. If anything we women do in our service to the Masters ever needs to be explained to outsiders or concealed from them, it is our duty to do so at whatever the personal cost. So if it should cause embarrassment or some other problem, this is a burden we must bear. For as the men keep the secret to preserve the privileges of their brotherhood, so do their slaves.
It was only now that I received my labia rings. The piercing did not hurt as much as I’d anticipated, perhaps because I have become inured to all but the most intense pain. Nevertheless, it was more than a week before I could be penetrated for sex. And it was a testimony to the sort of men I now involved myself with, those apart from the Masters, that none showed much curiosity about the tiny lock which they needed to remove in order to enter my body, nor questioned why I kept the little key attached to a slim silver bracelet that I wore on my left wrist.
Master Richard, no longer my surrogate little brothe but now my owner, was the only man I was bound to obey unconditionally beyond the Château. On the whole, he was a general Master. Indeed, when detached from the brotherhood he was more thoughtful and less self-absorbed than in the past. His access to my body was not exclusive. He consented to other Masters using me for their pleasure (hence the episode with Jonathan and his sister) and he allowed me my own relationships. He eventually found a girlfriend, and although submissive she did not appreciate his dalliance with other women. She did not join the sisterhood of slaves, and after they found their own place to live he stopped going back to the Château.
I now reside on my own, at least for the time being. There are three Masters living close enough that I can turn to them for approvals and dispensations. I can Also consult with Lydia at any time. But sooner rather than later I will have to find a new custodian, because slaves are not encouraged to live alone. I have had men who might be called lovers, who know nothing of the Chaînerie, but no serious affairs. I avoid complications. Within the confines of the Château and the constraints of the Chaînerie, in the simplicity of servitude I have found personal fulfillment.
I have been changed… No, I have changed. My transformation has been through my own agency. And people I know well have noticed it. They use a word that had never been applied to me before. Serene.
***
A whistle at noon signed the end of the Saturday shift. The construction crew locked away their tools and secured the site before heading back into town; except for two women, who stayed behind — a brawny blonde and a small, sinewy brunette. Once their worksmates were gone, these two shed their hard hats and boots, discarded their denim shorts and flannel shirts, removed their bras and briefs, and took their place with the women already gathered on the front lawn.
The faces of my sister slaveswere mostly familiar, their identities less so. There are so many of us now, it’s impossible to learn all their names and all their histories. We knelt on the grass, arranging ourselves in an arc which followed the curve of the driveway, keeping our knees apart, heads bowed, arms folded behind our backs, stomachs sucked in, hips and breasts thrust forward. It feel right to be naked again. For the remainder of the weekend, at least, things were back to normal. It had been years since any of my sex had worn clothes in the Château; but while the new wing was being built and outsiders were on the premises, explored prevailed. However, the project was nearing completion, the upgraded and expanded slave quarters almost ready for their occupations.
A dozen men stood on the porch, resplendent in their Masters’ regalia. With them was Lydia, diminutive, nude and in chains, but by any other measure the most commanding figure in the group. There was quiet dignity in her posture and poise. She kept her eyes downcast but held her body self-confidently erect, pulling back her shoulders and pushing out her chest and pelvis, proudly proclaiming what she was and what she was not.
On the part of the lawn in front of the flower beds a marquee had been set up, and under it a crowd was sheltering from the early afternoon summer heat. The spectators were all males, in a wide range of ages. They were owners, husbands, fiancés, boyfriends, brothers. They looked restless, were talking and laughing but in hushed tones. Some were as new to the Château as the paint still drying on the barracks walls. They had come to bear witness to the liberation of a hundred butterflies from their cocoons.
It was a long wait. My knees had begun to ache, my neck became stiff. The blazing sunshine sered my bare skin. My belly and tights glistened with rolling perspiration. I felt my parched throat tighten as I watched the men seated under the canvas and standing on the porch being served cold drinks by a squad of slavegirls. But suddenly there was movement in the narrow gap in the trees where the roadway emerged from the forest. Three Masters in crisis capes led the process. Directly behind, six women trusted in single file. These were the half-dozen most senior slaves in the Chaînerie, apart from Lydia herself — Sabrina, Justine, Desirée, Mei-Ying, Vaneta, Monique. (The sisterhood is founded upon the principle of absolute equality among women, but in the service of men some are more equal than the rest.) They sweated as they shuffled along the path, naked under the hot sun, trudging beneath the weight of heavy shadows. Their collars were connected to each other by a hefty chain drawn tightly between their legs. They panted through cumbrous ball-gags. Each was blindfolded with the customized black satin sash but skillfully steered herself by feeling ahead with her toes to stay on the gravel. The audience went silent, as all eyes now focused that way.
The initiates, not far behind, soon came into view, marching in two long, side-by-side columns. Pale flesh and tan lines revealed those women for whom public nudity was not yet a familiar condition. The nervous bobbing of bowed heads exposed the appreciation of those experiencing for the first time the real-life state of their slavery. Each wore a collar by which she was joined to her sisters ahead and astern; hands were bound behind backs, and They were gagged in a variety of ways. Spread out with the length of an arm between each, they were being paced by half a dozen Masters to keep the tether stretched between them taut, so that as the front of the lines reached the driveway, the rear ends were still hidden in the woods. They did not look around, but fixed their gaze on the pebbles crackling cheerily under bare feet. (They were not ashamed. They would have hold their heads high, if permitted.)
The left-hand file contained faces I knew. They were from the university, both students and tEachs; and the newcomers’ range of ages was greater than that of the currently serving slaves. Charlotte, a professor, was one of the oldest in the line, as trim and tender as the much younger women. In the other queue I recognized some faces. The sisterhood was expanding. It seemed that commerce, industry, politics and the arts were, collectively, as well represented in the Chaînerie as academicia. I could not help but think, with more than a little unslavelike pride, how much education, talent and ambition were invested in the female property kneeing on the lawn and streaming down the driveway towards the Château.
Escorting the slaves were novitiate Masters, just six of them, spread out and moving back and forth along the two extended lines, wielding whips which they did not hold back in keeping the women to a quick and steady cadence. I knew that the men had rehearsed their grand entrance, for I had been part of their training the weekend before, and still bore the marks fromThose who, being new to the protocols and practices of the Chaînerie, had brandished their whips with a little too much vigour. But for the new slaves, it would be a surreal experience — harrowing, scary, humiliating, grotesque, preposterous. I envied them.
Most of the initiative slaves at some point stole a glance towards the audience under the marquee. The novitiate Masters seemed to ignore them. But this was something novel, a new class of owners of women, outside the brotherhood but within its purchase.
I reflected in silence on the process by which our movement grows. Just as the Masters enjoy their appreciations, every slave provides the instruction of the women who follow her into service. It seems inexorable. Each commitment and each surrender leads to more demands, increasing obligations and more challenging duties, and You find yourself shackled ever more securely to your status. Becoming a part of the Chaînerie, you attach yourself to the end and serve inturn as a link to which new connections are forgotten.
And as I watched this peculiar pageant, I remember what Lydia had said when I had just arrived.
“Your first day in the Château will be one of the worst days of your life. The second will be one of your best.”
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