Jaime very nearly clapped her hands in childish excitement at the prospect. After hanging her cuffs and chain in their place on the wall, she made her bed. She thought back on the day before. Sunday she had spent a difficult but rewarding morning working with Mistress Marjorie on positions training in the second floor dungeon, really more of an exercise room, complete with mirrored walls and ballet bars.
“You have natural grace,” Mistress Marjorie had encouraged her as she struggled to master the various standing, kneeling, sexual and punishment positions required of all staff slaves at The Enclave. “You’ll need to memorize these positions quickly. Practice is the best way. I’ll make sure you get in at least an hour a day.” At the end of the session, she gave Jaime a laminated chart outlining ten basic slave positions, along with several variations on each. Jaime had taped it to her bedroom wall, and she glanced at it now, promising herself to work on them during free time.
Jaime was intrigued by Mistress Marjorie’s ability to submit to her husband, and then to so effortlessly segue into her dominant persona when dealing with the slave staff. Jaime had never known a true switch before, but for Mistress Marjorie it seemed as natural as breathing.
The session after lunch on Sunday had been less appealing, and a lot more exhausting. Master Brandon had overseen stamina training on the side lawn. Katie and Jaime were paired against Hans and Lucia in a tortuous relay race. Teammates had to run back and forth carrying a heavy concrete brick, which they would hand off to their partner, who would then sprint back and forth across the lawn cradling the rough, scratchy weight as best they could, before handing it off once again.
The teams had been unfairly matched, with Hans and Lucia barely breaking a sweat as they sprinted like athletes and effortlessly handed off their brick to each other. While Jaime was slender, she well knew that thin did not equal fit, and it had been a long time since she’d done much exercise beyond window shopping and walking from her office to her car. Poor Katie huffed and puffed as she stumbled forward, her face red, the sweat streaming. Thank goodness Master Brandon finally called a halt to the exercise before Katie had a heart attack.
“You did very well,” Jaime heard Master Brandon tell Katie as he led her away, his arm around her shoulders. “Much improved since you first arrived, hmm?” Jaime could only wonder what it must have been like before.
Now Lucia was waiting for her in the bathroom and, though it had only been a few days, Jaime had quickly become accustomed to the washing and grooming routine. It was surprising, too, how easily she’d adjusted to being totally naked, save for her collar. Within a few minutes she was showered, smoothed of any stubble and ready to face whatever awaited her.
It looked like another perfect summer day had dawned as Jaime took her breakfast to the veranda. She sat with Mistress Aubrey and Gene, who kept their clinic open on Saturdays, and thus took their weekend on Sundays and Mondays.
“I’ve volunteered Gene for your session this afternoon,” Mistress Aubrey announced. Jaime, who had been lost in a daydream, snapped to immediate attention at these words. She looked at Gene, who grinned and cocked one eyebrow. She was dying to ask what the session would involve, but held her tongue.
When breakfast was over, Jaime reported to the laundry room, which was where all the cleaning supplies were kept. Katie, Lucia and Ashley were already there, standing at attention, arms behind their heads, eyes straight ahead. Jaime took her place in the row and stood likewise. Danielle, Hans and Gene appeared a few seconds later and took their places silently, forming a second row behind the first.
Master Lawrence came in and stood in front of them, his arms behind his back, his posture military-straight. On the edge of her vision, Jaime could see him examine each slave with a critical eye. When he got to her, she stood as straight as an arrow, breasts thrust forward, feet precisely shoulder-width apart, fingers laced firmly behind her head. When he drew his fingers lightly over her armpits, she managed to stay stock-still, though it tickled like crazy.
“Chin up,” he snapped, pushing at her chin with his index finger. Master Lawrence would have made a good army drill sergeant. She imagined all of them shouting out, “Sir-yes-sir!” after he barked out an order.
“Is something amusing, slave Jaime?” Master Lawrence’s cold voice sliced through her.
“No, Sir!” she replied, thankful he couldn’t penetrate her thoughts. “Pardon me, Sir.”
After a moment during which he stripped her flesh from her bones with his gaze, he finally looked away. Jaime sighed inwardly with relief.
“Slave Danielle,” he said, fixing his eyes on the back row. “You will set out the shoes and hobble chains. Hopefully you won’t end up on the punishment pony this time.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Master Lawrence,” Danielle replied. Jaime felt the freeze of Danielle’s silent fury directed toward her as Danielle moved forward to get the high heels for the female slaves and the heavy work boots for the males.
She’d tried to talk to Danielle, to tell her she didn’t blame Danielle for what was surely an honest mistake, even though she suspected it probably wasn’t. Whatever Danielle’s motivation had been in giving her boots a size too big, Jaime had been willing to let bygones be bygones. She’d further tried to assure Danielle she hadn’t been the one to say anything about it to the Masters, but her words fell on deaf ears. Danielle simply walked away each time Jaime began to speak.
Danielle set the pairs of shoes down in front of each slave, along with a pair of ankle cuffs attached to either end of a small hobble chain. At a signal from Master Lawrence, Jaime and the other slaves bent down to slip on the shoes and attach the ankle cuffs. While the visual effect was erotic—naked slave girls working in high heels and chains—it definitely made cleaning more challenging.
“It keeps you focused,” Hans had explained, when she’d wondered out loud about the training aspect. “And it eroticizes the experience. Something as menial as cleaning out a toilet becomes sensual when you think about the submissive aspect of what you are doing.”
Easy for him to say—he got to wear the boots, not the heels.
It was amazing how many toilets there were in that huge house. In addition to the four in the slave quarters, there were three on the first floor, eight on the second and four on the third. Jaime needed every minute of the morning to clean the toilets and wash all the bathroom floors, along with wiping down the counters, cleaning the sinks and shower stalls, and polishing the mirrors. By the time lunch rolled around, she was more ready for a hot shower and a nap than a meal, but there was no time.
The afternoon session was to take place in the main dungeon, and Jaime was both nervous and excited at the prospect of working directly with Master Anthony. She was sure whatever was in store for her, it would stretch her limits and push her boundaries. In a way, she wished the training didn’t include a second sub, but no one had consulted her on the matter.
Happily, she had just enough time to take a quick shower in the slave quarters before the session. As she brushed out her hair in front of the mirror, she stared at her image. Though she was only in her fourth day of the two-week stint, the face that looked back at her was different than the nervous, uncertain girl she’d seen upon arrival.
Even without makeup, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes had a sparkle to them, as if she carried a bright, warm secret deep inside. She smiled. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she were being true to her inner self—to that part of her that contained her essence. Her previous life as a ski instructor in Vermont and then as a clerk and paralegal in Asheville seemed almost like a dream. Or no, not a dream precisely, but a different life, one lived in black and white, while The Enclave was a burst of vibrant color.
She knew she was in the throes of a crush, if not necessarily on a particular person, then on the whole place that was The Enclave. Yes, the training was difficult and exacting. It required more of her than she’d ever given to anything else in her life. And yet, it was pr
ecisely because of that, because she was asked every day, every hour, to give all she had to give, that it was so worthwhile and so fulfilling.
“I want to be here,” she announced to the mirror. Then she caught sight of the reverse image of the clock behind her, and she scurried out. Fortunately, she was the first to arrive in the main dungeon. She knelt quickly on one of the yoga mats, assuming a kneeling, at-ease position, her back straight, upward palms resting lightly on her knees. As she waited, she looked around the room, drinking it all in.
The space was huge, nearly as big as the main dungeon at The Garden. It was outfitted with beautifully crafted, high quality BDSM equipment, including three X crosses, two spanking benches, two bondage chairs, a cock and ball torture chair, stocks, several cages and a suspension swing. There were racks of whips, canes and paddles, coils of rope and chain, counters neatly lined with gags, cuffs, blindfolds, dildos, plugs, pots of wax and candles, along with trays of needles and metal implements that made Jaime shudder just to look at.
Turning to face the open double doors of the dungeon, Jaime drew in a deep breath and let it slowly out. In addition to positions training, Mistress Marjorie had worked with her on breathing, on letting submissive peace move through her being. “Eventually,” Mistress Marjorie had assured her, “you will find that your nervous anticipation no longer serves you. You will let it go. You will stop trying to control the moment, and that is when you will achieve true submissive serenity.”
Jaime closed her eyes and focused on calming her mind and body. Though she remained jittery with anticipation, some of the clatter quieted in her head, and the butterflies, while still batting around in her belly, weren’t quite so insistent.
She kept her eyes down as Master Anthony entered the dungeon. His black, polished boots appeared in her line of vision. She could see Gene’s bare feet behind him. Master Anthony touched the top of her head and stroked her hair.
“Stand up, slave Jaime. Hands behind your back, legs spread wide.” Jaime rose, trying for the fluid, graceful movement she’d practiced with Mistress Marjorie the day before, not sure she succeeded.
Master Anthony was dressed in black leather pants and an open black leather vest, no shirt beneath. His chest hair was silver against tan skin, his muscles every bit as ripped as a man half his age. He moved close and reached for her throat. He gripped her hard just beneath the jawline and she gasped, her nipples instantly erect. With his other hand, he reached between her legs and cupped her already throbbing, wet cunt. His palm rubbed against her vulva. She moaned, her hips arching forward of their own accord.
“Stay still,” he ordered, his tone quiet but firm. A shudder moved through her loins as he pushed a single finger into the grip of her wetness, and she blew out a ragged breath. He increased the pressure under her jaw, blocking her ability to breathe. She felt her face tighten, her heart beating overly fast. Master Anthony stared deep into her eyes and she felt as if she were balanced on a cliff—the slightest puff of air would send her flying.
All at once he let her go and stepped back. Somehow Jaime managed to keep her position as she bit back a whimper of frustrated desire. It wasn’t the man, necessarily, but his sheer mastery that held her in such thrall. She struggled to control herself as he began to speak. “Today we will work on focus during distraction and on orgasm control,” he said. “Slave Gene will assist me in the exercise. Your task during the session, slave Jaime, is to follow my instructions, no matter what else is happening at the time, and that includes holding back from orgasm when so ordered, and then coming when I command it.”
“Yes, Sir,” Jaime managed, though his words created a sudden, anxious tightness in her chest. Most of her intensive training to this point had been passive—taking a whipping, enduring caning or anal penetration, suffering through difficult bondage sessions. Today’s assignment would require her active participation and control of what she still considered automatic, physiological responses to stimulation. Master Anthony had already reduced her to a sopping wet, trembling puddle of submissive desire within thirty seconds of entering the room. How the hell was she going to get through this training? She knew it was possible in theory to control one’s orgasm and to come on command, but she had no idea if she would be able to accomplish these goals. Or no, strike that—she was pretty sure she was going to fuck this up.
“During the first part of this exercise,” Master Anthony continued, “you will be secured in a bondage chair. Gene will play with your cunt while I torture your breasts. You will focus on achieving orgasm, and not letting the erotic pain get in the way. Your ultimate goal is to use that pain to help propel you to your climax. The challenge is to balance on the tightrope between pleasure and pain, between release and control, until I give you permission to let go. Do you understand the assignment?”
“I-I think so, Master Anthony.”
He led her toward the bondage chairs. There were two types. The first chair was made of stainless steel. There was an adjustable steel collar at the top center of the chair, as well as steel cuffs on the armrests and the front legs for full restraint. This chair brought medieval torture scenes to Jaime’s mind.
The second chair had a wooden frame, the seat and back made of red, padded leather. The top half of the chair formed a T cross, and the seat was shaped like an inverted V. Master Anthony led her to this chair and directed her to sit, her bottom resting on the point of the V, her thighs along either side, her back against the T cross.
He strapped her wrists into leather cuffs that hung from eyehooks at the top ends of the T and then cuffed her ankles to the chair legs. Turning a lever on the side of the chair, he widened the V until her thighs were spread, her cunt fully exposed and accessible. He stood back and regarded her appraisingly, his gaze moving like fingers over her skin.
After a moment he turned toward the entrance of the dungeon, where Gene knelt quietly on a yoga mat. “Slave Gene. Come over here and kneel between slave Jaime’s legs. You will focus on oral pleasure. You may use your hands as well.”
Gene stood and walked quickly toward them, his pierced cock already rising to the task. He licked his lips and flashed a grin at Jaime as he knelt before her. She was far too nervous to smile back.
The sudden, unmistakable sonic snap of a whip startled her. Master Anthony was holding a short-handled single tail whip. “Repeat your assignment to me, slave Jaime, and then we begin.”
Being bound as she was, arms and legs spread wide, cunt on full display, Jaime had a hard time concentrating. Her mouth was dry, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. “You’re going to torture my breasts”—she stared at the single tail whip as she spoke—“while slave Gene makes me come.”
“Be more precise. What is this exercise about?”
Jaime tore her gaze from the whip and looked directly at Master Anthony as she struggled to compose her thoughts. “Um, it’s about control and focus. Focus on my orgasm while you, um, distract me with breast torture.” His nod gave her more confidence, and she continued, “I am to get myself to the edge of a climax, but then wait until you give me permission to come, Sir.”
And I have no idea if I can do this. She sent a brief, heartfelt prayer to the BDSM gods, wherever they might be.
“That is correct, slave Jaime.” Master Anthony snapped the whip once more in the air, and Jaime’s breasts tingled, her nerve endings alive with expectation. He looked down at Gene, who waited patiently between Jaime’s spread thighs. “You may begin, boy. Do your best, as I know you will.”
Gene placed his hands on Jaime’s thighs as he leaned forward. His tongue appeared between parted lips. He drew a long, wet, sensual line over the folds of Jaime’s vulva. Already deeply aroused, she shuddered with pleasure. He licked and kissed her sex with the ardor and passion of a skilled lover and she moaned her approval.
A sudden, sharp line of fire snapped across her left breast and she cried out. Ignoring everything but his task, Gene licked in a teasing circle around her throbb
ing clit as the second stroke of the whip left its mark on her right breast. Instinctively she tried to close her legs and her arms, but she was unable to move. The whip struck again, its tip finding her nipple. The pain obliterated everything else. Jaime screamed.
“Focus,” Master Anthony said calmly. “Accept with grace and joy what both slave Gene and I are giving you.”
The next stroke hit her other nipple.
Jaime screamed again, her only focus on the pain.
Gene pushed a finger inside her, and her vaginal muscles clamped down hard around it. His tongue soothed away the pain in her nipples, moving in fluttery strokes over and around her hard, aching clit.
The whip struck in rapid, stinging strokes on the undersides of Jaime’s breasts as Gene continued his sweet attention at her cunt. “Focus. Control. Grace,” Master Anthony intoned. The whip continued to sting, but the pain was bearable now, almost welcome. The pleasure mounted, moving through her like a rising tide. Gene did something amazing with his tongue and Jaime knew it was a matter of seconds before she lost it.
Oh god, oh god, let me come. Please. Say it.
The whip continued to caress her with its now delicious sting. She managed to open eyes she didn’t realize she’d closed. Master Anthony was watching her face as he flicked the whip in perfect precision. He was so masterful, with his dark eyes, intense expression and complete control of the situation. Gene’s tongue, lips and fingers were driving her wild.
Please, please, please, oh fuck. “Oh, ooooo…” Without her permission, or anyone else’s, Jaime orgasmed, the climax dragging her under and spinning her in its wake. Even as she shuddered and bucked in her restraints, she knew she’d fucked up—she’d failed at focus and control.
Remorse quickly overtook the raw, animal pleasure of the climax. When she could get her breath, she gasped, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sir, I—”