Miraculously, they hadn’t fired her outright at the museum when she’d explained she had to take a sudden, two-week leave of absence due to a “family emergency.”
“I can’t promise you the job will still be waiting,” her boss had advised, “but I’ll do my best to keep it open for you.”
She cracked her window, enjoying the soft breeze of the late spring afternoon and the twitter of birdsong. Hard to believe they were only an hour from the honking, gasoline-fumed hustle and bustle of the city.
The car took a sharp turn and began to ascend a narrow ribbon of pavement that snaked back and forth as it angled upward into the foothills. Massive, leafy tree branches hung out over the road, no other houses in sight.
“I should only be an hour or so,” Tom told the driver as he killed the engine. “You can wait for me.”
A tremor of excited fear coursed through Morgan at his use of the singular pronoun. She would not be returning with him.
As they climbed out of the car, Morgan stared up at the huge three-story Tudor house with its steeply pitched slate roof. Its walls were dove-gray granite and, unlike their pushy, aggressive city cousins, the pigeons strutting across the pavement looked as if they’d been placed there purely for their decorative effect. Even the sound they made was refined, a low cooing murmur.
The driver popped the trunk and removed Morgan’s wheeled suitcase. Tom took the handle and nodded toward Morgan to follow him. “Ready?”
Reminding herself of the money that had hit her bank account that morning, and what a great opportunity this was to explore her “submissive potential,” Morgan managed a brave smile as she nodded.
Delicate birch trees in big copper urns flanked the front door. Tom rang the doorbell to the left of the doublewide mahogany doors. As if she’d been waiting just on the other side, a tall, imposing woman dressed in white, flowing silk her hair swept back from her face, opened the door with a gracious smile.
“Ah,” she said, taking a step back to indicate they should enter. “You must be Monsieur Reed. I am Claudette Rodin.” She held out a long, slender hand, which Tom shook. “Welcome to the Chateau.”
“A pleasure,” he replied.
Smiling at Morgan, Claudette added, “And you must be Morgan. We’re delighted to have you.”
“Thank you,” Morgan managed, pleased that at least her voice hadn’t wavered. Claudette’s accent was thick, with the pure vowels and rolling Rs in the back of her throat that marked her as thoroughly French. Her hair, which Morgan had first taken for blond, was in fact silver. She appeared to be in her mid to late sixties. Clearly once a great beauty, she still had high, beautiful cheekbones and smooth skin. Her face was lined with good humor around the mouth and eyes. Morgan noticed then that, in spite of the elegant gown, the woman’s feet were bare. She wore a thin red collar around her neck with what looked like a real diamond at its center. A slave collar?
Claudette’s gaze fell on Morgan’s suitcase. “You can leave that here in the hall. We will deal with it later.” She led them into a front room that was built on a grand scale, flooded with light from two translucent glass skylights that created a gracious sense of space. “Michael is presently engaged, but should be free shortly.”
A young woman appeared from another room. She was dressed in a sheer white dress that hung to just above the knee, the neckline low enough to reveal cleavage. It was clear that beneath the short dress the woman was naked. Her feet, like Claudette’s, were also bare, though she wore no collar. She had a pretty face, with large, hazel eyes and a small but sensual mouth, a dimple in her chin. Her hair fell in thick waves of honey blond to her shoulders.
“Ah, Laura,” Claudette said, turning to her with a smile. “There you are. Can you please bring our guests some refreshments? We’ll be out on the veranda.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Laura said in a low, pleasing voice. She flashed a quick, shy smile in Morgan’s direction and then vanished the way she had come.
“Let us get acquainted and then I’ll give you a brief tour of the facilities, bon?”
“Sounds good,” Tom agreed. He gave Morgan an encouraging smile.
They walked through the spacious living room and out a beautiful set of French doors that opened onto a wraparound veranda. A row of chaise longues lent it the look of a ship’s deck. Just beyond the veranda, under a canopy of oaks, the ground sloped down gradually toward the road. On the left, in an area cleared of trees, Morgan spied a small lake shimmering in the sunlight. A tennis court was also visible through the trees.
Laura reappeared as the three of them settled into the comfortable chairs. She set a tray of drinks and small cakes on the table between them.
“Thank you, Laura,” Claudette said with a slightly imperious air. “You may go.”
With a nod, Laura glided gracefully back into the house.
Claudette poured iced tea into Tom’s and Morgan’s glasses, and then poured one for herself. “Would either of you care for a pastry?” She gestured toward the tray with an elegant hand.
“No, thank you,” Tom said. He turned to Morgan. “You?”
Morgan doubted she could get anything past the nervous lump in her throat. “No, thanks.”
“Bon,” Claudette replied, her tone suddenly more businesslike. “Before I give you a tour of the facilities, let me tell you some things about us. Each trainee’s program is specially tailored to the specific needs of the individual and to the desires of their Master.”
Had Tom told them he was her Master? Did you have to be owned in order to be trained here? Morgan glanced at Tom, but he remained focused on Claudette.
“We have two permanent trainers at present, plus a visiting trainer from London. We also have four house slaves, one of whom you just met. Along with serving the Masters, they sometimes assist in training, where appropriate, and serve as our cleaning and cooking staff as well. In return for their service and devotion, we give our slaves a beautiful place to live, and much more importantly, the lifestyle they crave. If it doesn’t work out—if either side is discontent with the arrangement, we wish them farewell and that is that. Beyond that, we set up a fund for each house slave, which we deliver to them when they are ready to retire from service.”
“It sounds like an impressive setup,” Tom said. “How many trainees do you have right now?”
“We’re training two women right now, and holding the third spot for Morgan. We only train a maximum of three at a time, since we are a small staff and we like to give our charges our full attention. We are expecting a new trainer sometime in the next month or so, and then we’ll be able to take on more trainees.”
She turned to Morgan. “If you join us as a trainee, you will be used physically and sexually, and you will be disciplined as necessary, but you will also find fulfillment most people can only dream of. You will be taught not only to accept erotic suffering with grace, but with passion and serenity. You’ll learn to please your Master sexually as well, not only through service to him, but by giving of yourself without reserve. What we really offer, Morgan, is the chance to explore your inner self, not only your submissive nature, but your whole concept of yourself as a sensual being.”
A chance to explore her inner self… Was she ready for that level of introspection? The idea of bringing grace and serenity to her BDSM play was a novel one to Morgan. She’d witnessed it—the peaceful, joyous glow that suffused some of the subs’ faces during particularly intense scenes at the club, but she had never even come close to experiencing it herself. Could she really achieve that level of submission in two weeks?
Claudette glanced at a slim gold watch on her narrow wrist and rose gracefully to her feet. “If you are sufficiently refreshed, I would like to take you on a quick tour.”
Tom got to his feet, and Morgan followed suit. As they walked back into the house, Claudette said, “First I’ll show you Morgan’s accommodations during her stay here.” She led them up a grand, curving stairway and down a long hall to a sec
ond set of stairs, this one straight and narrow. There were several rooms on the third floor, with a single bathroom at the end of the hall. She brought them to the room closest to the bathroom. About twelve feet square with one small window, it contained nothing but a queen-size bed in a brass bedstead, a small nightstand to one side. There was no other furniture in the room, and the walls were bare.
“Quite a contrast to the rest of the house, hmm?” Tom observed.
Claudette arched an eyebrow. “They are trainees, not pampered guests. It is serious training.”
Morgan swallowed hard. Was she really up for this?
“Come along, please. There is more to see,” Claudette said. She led them back down to the second floor. “This is the positions studio.” Claudette waved her hand around a room that looked like an exercise studio, with a rounded wooden bar running midway along the length of one mirrored wall, and yoga mats placed here and there on the hardwood floor. “As the name implies, you will study slave positions here, and this is also where the girls work on their posture, stamina and strength training.”
She led them to the room next door, which looked like a small, well-equipped BDSM dungeon. “This is the training room, sometimes called the punishment room.” It was outfitted with a St. Andrew’s cross, a spanking bench and a few other pieces of equipment Morgan didn’t recognize, but which looked deliciously diabolical. There was a large concrete brick in one corner of the room, above which hung a chain with cuffs attached, a small shower stall in another corner.
Finally, Claudette led them to the main dungeon on the first floor, which was much like Tom’s club, with plenty of suspension racks, bondage tables and spanking benches, with whips, paddles, floggers and other toys readily available in racks around the room, and hung from hooks along the walls. Morgan experienced the usual rush of masochistic lust seeing such toys always activated inside her, but the desire was mingled with trepidation. Playing at a BDSM club was a far cry from slave training. Was she in over her head?
Claudette glanced once more at her watch. “Maître Michael should be free now. Please come this way.” She led them from the dungeon to a door that was partially ajar and tapped lightly on the frame.
“Come in,” a deep voice called from within.
As they entered a wood-paneled room filled with leather furniture, a burly man stood and came around his desk, his hand extended. “Michael Coddington. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reed.” He pumped Tom’s hand vigorously and then turned to Morgan with a smile. “And you must be the new trainee. Welcome to the Chateau.”
“Hi,” Morgan replied, suddenly shy in Michael’s imposing presence. Somewhere in his fifties, he wasn’t an especially tall man, but he was powerfully built. His brown hair was longish and combed straight back, the temples brushed with a hint of silver. He had dark eyes over a rather bulbous nose and a large, generous mouth. He wore a pale gray suit from which peeked snow-white shirt cuffs held together with actual cufflinks.
“Please.” Michael gestured toward two adjacent loveseats in a corner of the room. “Have a seat and we will talk.”
As they took their places on the loveseats, Morgan next to Tom on one, Michael on the other, Morgan noticed Claudette had remained by the door, her head bowed.
“Come, my love,” Michael said softly to her, the tenderness in his tone and the expression on his face making it clear to Morgan they were a couple.
The older woman approached. To Morgan’s surprise, instead of taking a seat beside him, she knelt at his feet and rested her head gracefully against his knee. Michael stroked her hair as he smiled down at her.
After a moment, he looked up at them. “So, what are your impressions so far? What do you think of this fine establishment of ours?”
“I’m quite impressed,” Tom replied. “Depending how things go, I might send all of my girls for training. Maybe I’ll even send my husband.” He grinned.
Michael smiled. “We’d be delighted to work with him in whatever way suited you. But tell me more about Morgan. From what I understand, she’s not owned, per se, but works at your BDSM club as a house submissive available for scene play?”
“That’s right,” Tom concurred.
“This is actually a novel situation for us—a sub with no Master.”
“My club caters to serious folk in the lifestyle, and I’d like you to help Morgan expand her boundaries and limits. She’s a relative newcomer to the scene, but what she lacks in experience, she makes up for in enthusiasm, right, Morgan?” He flashed a grin at Morgan.
“I hope so,” she replied, trying to keep her nervousness at bay.
“We will help you reach your full potential,” Michael said with a kind smile that made Morgan relax, at least a little. Turning to Tom, he added, “Because Morgan is not owned, I think our standard boilerplate contract will be appropriate for her brief time here. We already have her clean bill of health—thank you for that.”
As a requirement for working at his club, Tom required all his subs to be regularly tested for any STDs, given the nature of his business. Morgan had gone along with this requirement, happy for the free exam and lab work.
“And to give you similar comfort,” Michael continued, “all of us here at the Chateau are healthy, receive routine medical exams, and are meticulous in our hygiene.”
“Excellent,” Tom replied.
It was odd to Morgan that this conversation was taking place entirely between the two men, as if she were just a pet or an object. But maybe, for their purposes, that was all she was. The thought was both unnerving and, on some level, deeply exciting—the stuff of erotic novels.
Michael touched Claudette’s shoulder. “Can you go get Gerard and Aaron, if they’re not busy?”
“Oui, Maître.” Claudette rose fluidly to her feet.
As she left the room, Michael stood and went to his desk, returning a moment later with two clipboards. He handed one to Tom and the other to Morgan. A pen was attached to the clipboard, which contained a single piece of paper filled with small typed print.
“Take your time reading the contract. You both have an identical copy. Basically, that document gives us carte blanche to train Morgan as we see fit. The most successful training occurs when no limits or restrictions are placed on the trainer. While we would never harm one of our charges, our methods can be quite, er, intense.”
He turned his focus exclusively to Morgan. “Once you sign that document, you give up all rights, except, of course, the right to terminate the contract and leave the program. If you stay, you will be regarded as our property, to use and to train as we see fit. You will not be in contact with the outside world. That means no cell phone, no internet, no communication, period. You will abdicate all control. That means you don’t decide when you get up or go to sleep. We do. You don’t decide when you eat or even if you eat. We do. If we decide you should be punished, we choose the punishment and execute it, and we decide when you’ve had enough. You don’t decide who will use you sexually, who will whip you, how they’ll whip you, when they’ll stop or if they’ll stop. We do.”
Morgan’s mouth had fallen open as he was speaking, and she forced her jaw to close. Her heart was beating fast, a pulse ticcing in her throat. And yet, at the same time, her nipples were hard, the small triangle of silk between her legs soaked. It sounded like a fantasy. Imagine returning to the club, no longer a lightweight player in the scene, but a full-fledged trained submissive. She was both thrilled and terrified—desire and fear balanced like equal weights on a scale in her mind and heart.
There was a light knock at the door and Claudette appeared, two men behind her. The first one was a slim man of medium height with dark hair and a prominent nose, his eyes dark, round and as penetrating as a hawk’s. “I am Gerard Renaud,” he announced in the same rich French accent as Claudette. His birdlike eyes flickered briefly over Morgan and then moved to Tom, who had risen from his seat. Gerard’s mouth lifted into a smile as he stepped forward and extended his hand. “A
pleasure to meet you.”
Morgan turned her gaze to the second man, and her heart skipped several beats while she tried to remember how to breathe.
“And this is Aaron Sterling,” Michael said to the room at large. “He is a visiting trainer from our sister facility in London.” Turning his gaze to Morgan, he added, “Aaron will be your primary trainer, Morgan.”
O. M. G.
Aaron appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was easily six foot or taller, well-muscled but lean, with thick blond hair falling over his forehead and curling down the back of his neck. A down of golden hair covered his tanned arms, a sexy contrast to the white linen shirt rolled to just below the elbow and worn loose over jeans that molded perfectly to his long, muscular legs, his feet in black leather boots.
He came to stand in front of them. His face was angular, his jaw square, his nose large and slightly crooked above full lips. His eyes were a luminous gray-blue, thickly fringed with blond lashes. He fixed Morgan with a gaze that stripped away every defense. Her body melted into a puddle of pure lust as she stared back, her nipples aching with the need to feel his touch, her pussy throbbing.
As Aaron extended his hand to her, Morgan forgot where she was, or that anyone else was in the room. His grip was light but firm as he gazed into her eyes. “It’s nice to meet you, Morgan.” His voice was deep and rich, his British accent incredibly sexy. “I understand you’re signing on for the two-week full-immersion program. I look forward to working with you.”
Morgan had to stifle a moan. Could it get any better? She’d always been a sucker for an English accent, which only added to his total hotness. She licked her lips, batting her eyelashes at him as they held hands a little too long. She didn’t get a gay vibe from him—quite the contrary.
Aaron took a seat in an armchair adjacent to the loveseat on which Tom and Morgan sat, his leg so close she could have reached out and squeezed. Stop it, she ordered herself. This wasn’t a dating game. It was a serious proposition, and she needed to focus.