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V
I stood at the gate to the brownstone for perhaps 60 seconds, but is might as well have been an eternity. I was not just naked, but still flushed and dripping from the climax I had experienced minutes earlier. At least three couples walked past me while I waited for an answer. I could feel their stares, and when one couple passed me I could hear the man whisper something to his female companion that made her giggle. But eventually I heard to lock buzz open, and I pushed the gate open and walked up the stairs to the front door, a heavy, oaken affair with antique wrought-iron strips across the front. Next to the front door was a discreet brass plaque that read “OBD Publications.” The door was opened by a man wearing jeans, a flak jacket, and sunglasses on his head. He had an expensive-looking camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “So you’re the one. All right, come this way.” The man seemed completely uninterested in me, which was a relief in a way. I had just been the main attraction out on the street, and if I could have even a few minutes of being ignored, that was likely to be the closest thing to privacy I was likely to experience that day. I followed the man down a hall that had a series of locked doors, each of which he opened and then carefully locked behind us as we passed through. We eventually came to the rear of the house, where there was an elevator. The man with the camera said nothing as he pressed the “up” button. When the elevator arrived, he politely allowed me to step in first, as though I was a lady deserving of such chivalrous treatment. As the doors closed, he pressed a button labeled “PH,” which would take us to the top floor of the beautiful old mansion.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing what was obviously a high end photography studio complete with staged lighting, various sets, and other equipment. Several men were milling about; I assumed they were technicians or photographers or some such thing. Near the elevator was a oversized foam-board poster of a magazine cover; apparently this was where the pictures for the magazine were taken. The magazine banner read “Obediance,” and then in smaller italicized text beneath, “Members Only.” The enlarged cover featured a truly lewd photo of a nude woman on her knees, hands bound behind her back, with her mouth pressed to the groin of a naked man shown from the waist down. The woman’s mouth was obscenely distended to accommodate what was obviously an unusually large penis, the outline of which could be seen pressing against the inside of the woman’s cheek.
“Wait here,” the man with the camera instructed me, leaving me standing in the middle of the room naked except for my breast chains and my butterfly thong. He disappeared through a door on the left side of the studio. I must have stood there alone for 15 minutes. The thought entered my mind to find a place to sit down, or perhaps to seek my escape, but I remembered the instructions Dan had conveyed from my Master: “Just obey.” So I did as instructed and waited. As I surveyed the studio, my gaze returned to the poster. In my degradation, I found myself aroused by the photo and particularly aroused by the beauty of the blonde woman in the picture. As I studied the magazine poster, my eyes widened at the familiarity of the woman. Could this be Lisa, Dan’s wife, my tennis partner and fellow community booster? The woman who had two children who went to the neighborhood school? It was hard to tell because the woman’s features were so distorted by her grotesque sexual pose. And yet as I scrutinized the photo, I concluded that it could only be her. Her blonde hair was pulled back away from her face the way Lisa usually wore it. She also wore distinctive diamond earrings that I had seen Lisa wear once at a club dinner. Was it possible that Lisa, like me, was a wanton slut?
Eventually the photographer emerged with a woman – a woman? I thought – and they strode purposefully toward me. The woman was younger than me, blonder, more beautiful, I thought. She was dressed in riding clothes: leggings, knee-high leather boots, form-fitting blouse, blonde hair in a stylish ponytail. “Hello there, beautiful,” said the woman. “I understand you’re here for your photos. Don’t be nervous. Our job is to make you as attractive as possible, and I see we have some good material to work with.” She reached out and weighed my right breast in her hand. “We’ll need a few touch ups, of course, and then we’ll be ready to go. Come with me.”
I followed her through the side door, vaguely conscious of how ridiculous I must look, an older woman following her naked into a theater-style dressing room and obeying every command in silence, without question. On one side of the room was a counter with sinks, makeup kits, blow dryers, and the like; on the other side was a row of costumes, shoes, and other paraphernalia. I won’t waste time describing the excruciatingly long photo shoot since, chained here in this basement, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to write before someone returns to use me. Suffice to say that more than 400 photos were taken, and when they were finished I was allowed to watch as the woman (I heard her referred to as the art director) and the photographer reviewed the finished product. Photos had been taken of me in every pose the pornographic mind can imagine. I was photographed alone; I was photographed blindfolded with an unknown man’s member in my mouth; I was photographed chained to a wall, beaten and crying. The attractive art director smiled at me and said “Good stuff, beautiful. That will give us plenty to work with. Now come with me. Your master has asked that we give you accommodations for the night.” She knew I have a Master? I thought. Who else knows?
“Thank you,” I said in a small voice. The woman handed me a white robe to cover my nakedness as we walked back toward the elevator. It felt hypocritical to wear a virginal white robe, to indulge a modesty that only 48 hours earlier was a fundamental part of my personality but which had been squelched by less than two days of utter sexual abandon. Nonetheless, I gratefully accepted the robe and slid it on. It felt luxurious against my skin, which had been so abused over the past few hours. We exited the elevator on the second floor, where I found a hallway with three doors on either side, each with a room number, not unlike an elegant boutique hotel. The art director inserted a key in one of the locks and opened the door for me. I walked inside and found a luxuriously appointed room with a four-poster bed and other fine furnishings. “Get some rest, beautiful,” said my escort, shutting the door behind her. She hadn’t given me a key, or, for that matter, any clothes other than the robe. When I heard the key turn in the lock, I realized that she had locked me in and that I was more or less a prisoner in this fancy room.
I don’t believe I had ever felt so alone. I sat on the bed in my robe, hugging my arms to my chest, rocking back and forth, and keening softly. Why had my husband – that is, my Master – chosen this for me? Where had I failed as a wife? How could he want to share me in this way? I pondered questions like these for more than an hour, when I heard an envelope being slipped under my door. I leaped from the bed and picked it up. The envelope was of the most expensive paper and bore a single word carefully engraved in script with a fountain pen: “Whore.” Locked in a room naked except for my robe, having spent the afternoon posing for hard-core pornographic pictures, I knew that I was the intended recipient. I opened the letter.
Dear Elizabeth [my heart leaped at the use of my name] ~
When I ordered you to suck Ken’s cock last night at the cabaret, I had no idea what you were really capable of. I had thought you might simply be a submissive wife succumbing to her husband’s whim. But now that you have sucked the cocks of two strangers, and displayed yourself nude to our friend, and walked naked down Congress Street with your tits in chains before orgasming on the sidewalk in front of a crowd, and played the amateur porn star this afternoon, I realize you truly are a whore, not a wife at all. I want you to grow in your role as a whore because that’s obviously who you really are.
Because I love you, I want to warn you what is in store for you in the coming days and weeks – and months and years. You will be debased and degraded beyond your imagination – I apologize in advance for this. Men you don’t know and men you do know will cum in your mouth. You will be made to fuck strangers three at a time. Your ass will be penetrated mercilessly. You will doubtless be chained and whipped. But these are merely physical torments. Your real challenge lies elsewhere.
In time, you will lose the most basic vestiges of your humanity. The first thing to go will be your modesty. You will dress as a whore if you are allowed to dress at all, which will be only rarely; you will soon find it completely natural to parade your naked body in public, in front of strangers, in the most inappropriate places imaginable. Next will be your name; I have addressed this letter to you by name because it is in all likelihood the last time anyone will use it, and in time you will forget it yourself. People will rarely address you directly, and when they refer to you in conversations with others they will use a variety of degrading but, you will come to agree, more accurate terms: Whore, Slut, Cunt, Slave, and a few others. Later, you will lose even more fundamental aspects of your identity, such as your sexual orientation. That will be for your masters to choose on any given day, and – I am sorry, my darling – you must prepare yourself to eat pussy as readily as you are already prepared to suck cock. Finally, you will lose your voice, which will be of no further use to you except to scream or cry out when you are being fucked or beaten. You will find that, more often than not, you will have a man’s cock or a gag in your mouth.
I apologize in advance that the cock in your mouth will frequently not be mine. But sometimes they will be friends of mine or even friends of yours, so you can take some solace in that. And I will on occasion be with you. Your mouth, your breasts, your rear, your sex are very special to me. I will enjoy using them sometimes, and I will enjoy seeing other men use them at other times. Rest assured that, while you will now submit to men through pure obedience rather than love, I love you and you are doing my will.
Love,
Your Master
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