Chapter 1:   Board Meeting

Two people are in two offices, a hundred miles apart. By coincidence they are both looking at the same page of the same magazine.

Larry Ross, thirty five years old with sandy hair that just might be starting to thin at the back and a waist that is just a bit thicker than he would like, is one of them. Until recently Marketing Director of Clegg Enterprises Special Products Division, Larry has been given a new job by Clegg and a new challenge, too.

The other is Jenny McEwan, a post graduate student and researcher at a university in the English Midlands.

The magazine is Second Skin, a glossy BDSM and fetish scene magazine.  The page they are looking at carries an advertisement placed by a business called “Inward Bound”.

They may be looking at the same thing, but they each have very different interests. Jenny is studying it closely. She is telling herself that her interest is academic, but that might not be the whole story. Larry, on the other hand, already knows about Inward Bound; when he first heard about it he was so impressed he recommended that Clegg Enterprises buy the company.

Jenny is remembering times when a new issue of Second Skin was the thing she looked forward to most of all.  She recalls how she and her lover used to read it together in bed using its fetish imagery and kinky articles as a springboard for their own imaginations. It is a pleasant memory, but right now that’s the problem: it’s only memory. She goes on looking at the advertisement. She is going to discuss it with her PhD supervisor, Professor Dawney, later. She is suspicious of Dawney’s motives for suggesting that Jenny look at the advert. She is determined that she won’t end up in bed with the Prof again. Not this time.

Larry is sitting at an empty desk in an empty office in an empty building. It’s the first day in his new job; his first day as managing director; the first day of the new business venture that Clegg has set up. He takes one last look at the magazine and then puts it to one side.

He allows himself a few moments to savour the luxury of an empty diary, an empty filing cabinet and nothing more than the ideas in his head and an open-ended directive from his boss as the starting point for what needs to be done.

The directive was Clegg’s quiet, “Just get things started, Larry. Go talk to the people in Huntingdon. See how you can move things along.” It is a change for Larry; but it is a change for Clegg too. He isn’t used to letting somebody else run things. It’s obvious that neither of them will find the change easy to deal with.

For Larry it is definitely a promotion. Today he is starting on “Project Willing”, the result of ideas that he himself had proposed to Clegg. They aim to take over “Inward Bound”, a business that specialises in giving submissives a chance to experience consensual slavery. Larry isn’t sure which is going to be the bigger challenge, doing the job, keeping Clegg happy or keeping the business legitimate!

He is, however, sure about one thing. The whole enterprise is going to work better with a cup of coffee but, with no kettle, no coffee machine, no coffee, no milk, no secretary it will have to be Starbucks, he thinks.

There’s so much to do to even get the basics in place. He stands up, runs his hands though his hair and looks out of the window. Unsurprisingly, he can see the green and black sign over a shop front less than fifty yards away. He looks down at his waist line. He promises himself that he’ll have a low fat muffin this time. He knows he’s lying to himself.

He is half way to the door when the phone rings.  “Ha! Interruptions!” Larry thinks, “That’s good. I must be getting somewhere already. You always get interruptions as soon as you start doing something important.”

He picks it up. “It’s Larry.”

“Hi, Larry.” He recognises the voice at the other end. “It’s Sarah,” she says. “I’ve just had a message from Mr. Clegg. He wants you for a special board meeting at 10:00.”

“Did Freddie say what it’s about?”

“No, Sir, but I sort of had the impression that he has something on his mind. He was, er, very definite if you know what I mean.”

“Thanks Sarah. I know what you mean. I’ll be there.” Larry looks at his watch. It will only take him fifteen minutes to get over to the Brick Lane offices.

Larry puts down the phone. With an empty desk and an empty diary there doesn’t seem like there’s much preparation he can do. He was going to call the people in Huntingdon they were planning to take over. That was going to be the starting point for “Project Willing”. But now, well it’s probably best to wait until after the board meeting. He looks at his watch. 9:30. Larry thinks, “I might as well walk round. It’ll be better for me than the coffee anyway.”

The Brick Lane office has a seedy, unkempt air. It is set on the edge of the City in a 1950s block of dirty brick, peeling paintwork and metal windows. The building has an anonymous, non-descript feeling to it that suits Clegg perfectly. He doesn’t much care for ostentation. At least not in his business dealings.

At 10:00, Larry makes his way up to Clegg's office.

The room is comfortable rather than luxurious, but then Clegg's preferred business forum is his club or the restaurant alongside it rather than the Whitechapel offices. Sometimes, though, he needs an office base, and this is it.

Clegg's management style is usually pretty 'hands on'. He finds it hard to delegate. Worse still, he finds it hard not get involved with the detail. Larry remembers stories of how Freddie insisted on taking part in ‘operations’ sometimes.  He isn't surprised that Freddie is looking to involve himself even at this early stage. He had hoped he was going to get through his first day without it, though.

It's not as though he's even keen on meetings,” Larry thought to himself. “He’s never been strong on the formal ‘running the business’ stuff.” As a result, Larry is surprised to see the room almost full. There’s even one of the secretaries there to take minutes. Larry is astonished. Freddie doesn’t usually go in for taking minutes.

Larry looks around the room. It’s not quite the usual suspects. Freddie is there, of course, and Elly (his business and, everyone assumes, personal partner) in her role as group legal adviser. Pamela Jordan, the group’s medical adviser, and Connie Mbazu, recently appointed as head of training, are both there, too.. There are maybe a half a dozen others lurking at the back. Given that the office isn’t much bigger than a table that has room for eight, it’s pretty crowded.

Clegg smiles and waves Larry to the one remaining chair. “Hello Larry, glad you could come. I just thought it would be good if we all had a chat before you got yourself stuck into things with ‘Project Willing’. Give us all a chance to make sure that things go in the right direction. No treading on toes. No dead ends. You know.”

Larry nods. He knows. He knows exactly. What this says is that Freddie’s changing his mind about things.

“The thing is,” Elly cuts in, “Freddie’s has been re-reading your business plan and looking at the due diligence from the ‘Project Willing’ acquisition. We’re wondering if maybe the “consensual” division might be more important for the future of the Group than we thought at first.”

Elly had always struck Larry as dangerous. She is an attractive woman, her hair jet-black and curly and usually, as today, combed back from her forehead. Her eyes are piercingly blue. Larry always felt there was much more going on in her head than she ever spoke out loud. On their previous encounters, she’d given him a fair hearing and when she’d agreed to support him, she’d always delivered. She is wearing a smart, fitted, white blouse, a black leather skirt, black tights and riding boots. Her outfit tells you she’s a powerful woman, a woman that means business, and one that doesn’t mind your knowing it.

“Yes,” Freddie continues. “We have to have an eye to the social and political context we are operating in.”

Larry is immediately worried. ‘Context’ is a word he doesn’t normally associate with Freddie. It means that he’s been talking to people. That is invariably a bad idea from Larry’s perspective.

“The thing is, Larry,” Elly chips in, “that our business risk is gradually increasing whilst the fees we can charge clients can’t rise in step.”

“You see,” it was Connie now, “your marketing efforts increased demand significantly and that has created a problem. Shipping. The business now has a far bigger export market than our home market. Now we have to ship across international borders ….”

“Well,” says Larry. “None of this is news to me. This is all stuff we looked at in the marketing plan, way back. I don’t want to be unhelpful, but what’s this got to do with my business? If I start by trying to solve the problems of your side of the business, I’ll never get it started.”

“Sure, Larry. Sorry.” Clegg sounds almost apologetic. “Let’s slow things down folks. Larry’s right; we don’t want to get things confused. Let me just explain the problem though. The problem as I see it is,” Clegg looked around as if defying any of the others to interrupt him again, “, one of transport. The police and customs are now very interested indeed in the illicit movement of people.  Their primary interest is in terrorist operations, but they’re very aware that a lot of illegal immigration and drug trafficking is involved with people trafficking, bringing in sex workers. And, that’s how our slaves are seen.”

“And,” Elly came in again. Clegg shuts his eyes. “While our usual measures serve to keep most of the law enforcement people on-side most of the time, we have to sweeten more people and that’s expensive.”

“Elly,” Clegg interrupted with barely concealed impatience. “And, of course, when Tricia was discovered all crated up and en route to Moscow. Well, let’s just say it didn’t help.  We’re going to have the problem of shipping for some time to come. Unless we take a radical look at the problem.”

Larry is feeling increasingly impatient. “And, this radical look relates to my business in some way?”

Freddie nods and looks to Elly. “Do you want to cover this?”

“Sure,” she says with a smile. Freddie sits back in his chair, his hands folded across his stomach. “So Larry,” Elly continues. “We were thinking that if ‘Project Willing’ could find people who wanted to be slaves, they would cross borders willingly as legitimate travellers to their new owners. That would avoid a  lot of problems, not to mention a  transport cost. I’m thinking we could get to having no real involvement in shipping beyond maybe organising their tickets.”

“Erm, well,” replies Larry. He’s irritated that everyone wants to jump on his wagon. “Well, I’m glad you all feel that this is going to be more than a side show, but a couple of things. As of today, right now, this moment, we do not have an operation in this space – there are a few ideas in my head and the possibility of taking over this new business. So, maybe I can get on with that?.”

Dr Jordan joined in for the first time. “I think you might be missing a point here. There will be people who contact you for an adventure holiday of consensual slave training. During their training, some of them are going to find that the lifestyle is something they would like to continue for an extended period of time. Then who knows? Maybe even 24/7/365 and on into their indeterminate future.”

“What we think we could be looking at, Larry,” Connie continues, “is a complete revolution in the slavery business, with a substantial proportion of slaves in harness because they want to be. They’ll and are prepared to approach us for contracts after their training. In fact, if we train them properly, the physical and psychological changes they experience will lead them to the point where that sort of request is more than likely and …”

“Of course,” Elly takes up the thread, “we would have to negotiate honorariums, health insurance and pension contributions on their behalf with their owners, sorry  - our clients, as part of the package …….”

Larry is trying to keep his irritation under control. He hasn't even got this thing started and the rest of the organisation is already trying to hijack it. He is about to lose his cool when Freddie cuts in.

“But in short, Larry,” Freddie leans forward trying to reassert some control, at one time pleased and frustrated by the way that everyone has been pitching in. “If I can just sum things up.” He looks around the room. The others at the table get the message and sit back. “I think -  we all think - that this project is important for our future. . If there is going to be a growth in consensual slavery, it will affect businesses like us that focus on the non-consensual kind. This company we're acquiring has got facilities and they've got know-how that we can take advantage of.  So, Larry, old man, I want to see how quickly you can get them integrated into the group and how soon we can learn the lessons we need to from them. I am going to give this a fairly high priority. Everyone here is really committed to giving you any help that you need.”

“So, no pressure then?” asks Larry.

“No,” smiles Elly. “No pressure at all! We all have complete confidence in you!”

Larry is used to them behaving like this. He knows how to deal with it. “In which case,” he says, looking around the table and smiling back at Elly in the quiet way he uses to re-assert control. “Perhaps you can let me have your feedback on the contracts that the Huntingdon business is using, Elly. And, Connie, you might like to let me know what your people thought of the site that the Project Willing business is using for their ‘experience’ sessions and when you’re going to finish with Sukie and Rachel, so I can have them as was promised? And, Dr. Jordan, you could update me on the psychological profiling you were doing on their training people. Now that we’re all working as a team. So to speak.” He smiles at the others, happy that he’s made his point.

Clegg chuckles as the others mutter their agreement and start to gather up their papers. He turns to Larry and throws his hands up in mock surrender. “All right,” he says, “you don’t have to ask me. I’ll get the CFO to finish his financial review on the ‘Project Willing’ business as well. Like I said, let’s get on with it.” 

While Larry is dealing with the machinations of corporate office politics, Jenny is on her own. She is in the room she shares with three researchers at the university, thumbing through Second Skin. She is looking at the photographs of fetish club events and wondering if she could persuade her husband that they should go to one. She remembers how much fun she had when she went with one of her girl friends, way back in her student days. The only problem had been that others there had got her wrong. Most of the men had thought she was a dominant. It was being quite tall and slim, she supposed. Or maybe it was just the rubber cat suit she was wearing. That and wishful thinking.

She smiles and pushes a strand of her shoulder length, dark brown wavy hair back from her face. She remembers the man that had tried to buy her a drink at the bar. He had taken the drink from the barman and got down on his knees to offer it up to her. It was one of the more original chat up routines she had come across, even if it hadn’t worked.

She smiles again,

Jenny smiles easily. When she does so, her eyes open giving her a wide-awake look. She opens her mouth a little wider than might be thought polite, showing even white teeth and a touch of gum beneath her upper lip.

Her research colleagues think of her as cheerful, open, and straight forward. Jenny puts that down to her determined chin and the way that her nose tips up. Occasionally though, as her colleagues would tell you, she can seem a bit naïve and a bit of a romantic. Jenny doesn’t have an excuse for that.

She turns the page. There’s an article on how a corset fetishist has combined her enthusiasms with the philosophies from Laura Doyle’s book, the Surrendered Wife. Jenny knows she’s supposed to be thinking about her research programme and she’s pretending to herself that this might have something to do with it. When the article moves on to describing the erotic combination of tight lacing and submissive demeanour, Jenny’s hands stray to the crotch of her jeans. She’s fondling herself; looking at a dramatically lit, black and white photograph of a kneeling, corseted, woman. She hears someone in the corridor outside. She gives a strangled cough and drops the magazine. She manages to slide the issue of Second Skin under the latest copy of the Journal of Behavioural and Cognitive Psychotherapy as one of her colleagues comes in. 

Chapter 2:   Acquisitions

“I'm puzzled, Mr. Ross.” Corinne Aimes, the founder and owner of two companies, Huntingdon Management Development Limited and Inward Bound, is talking amiably with Larry Ross, a man who claims he can inject a substantial cash investment into her business. They are sitting in the garden of a Cambridgeshire pub. Corinne is drinking white wine. Larry is enjoying a pint of bitter.

“So your business, Clegg Enterprises Group, specialises in recruitment and placement,” says Corinne. “Sort of head-hunters?”

Larry nods. Corinne is right, although not in the way she thinks. Larry is impressed by Corinne. She’s smartly dressed, dark wavy hair worn short of her shoulders and a dark, almost middle-eastern complexion. Her eyes are fringed with long dark lashes and her features are soft. Although she might be easy to look at, she has obviously got a determined streak when it comes to business negotiation. She’s sitting there looking every inch the successful young business woman. She’s wearing a sober suit with dark grey jacket and trousers, black ankle boots and a black high-necked blouse. Around her neck she’s wearing a heavy silver necklace. It’s not obvious at first but looking at the design Larry sees that it’s formed from two intertwined keys. It makes a subtle and stylish statement about Corinne’s interest in the world of BDSM.

“I guess there is a sort of fit with our main business,” Corinne says. “and I suppose I can see why you’d be interested. Recruitment and placement on your side, training and motivation on ours.”

 

“Exactly,” Larry responds disingenuously. “The Group Chairman has something of a background in the training and motivation business. He's been looking to invest in those areas. Sees them as a sector that is likely to grow. Building the knowledge economy. Competing on a global scale. That sort of thing. And then, there's your rather unique sideline....”

“I'd have thought that would be enough to put most people off. There's not usually much enthusiasm for companies to get involved with businesses which the general public might see as racy, to say the least.”

“Our chairman is a broader minded man than that. And longer sighted. He’s interested in looking at leisure markets, too.”

“Well Inward Bound certainly falls into that category by my definition. Though I’m not sure if some of my guests right now would think that what they are enjoying was a ‘leisure’ activity.” Corinne toys with her necklace and glances across to her car. “Your interest in that side of the business still seems odd to me.”

Larry watches her, wondering for a moment if she has one of her clients in the boot of her Jaguar. He realises that the rather cool and conservative looking Corinne might just have decided to amuse herself by bringing a customer along on this outing. He finds the thought an arousing one but reluctantly drags himself back to the problem at hand. Larry seeks to reassure her. “Let's just say he understands people and he understands how businesses can make money out of dealing with people. If I'm honest, I suspect he's a bit curious about the whole consensual BDSM sexuality thing.”

“Well, it's a common enough turn-on, you should tell him. Otherwise this particular business would have no foundation.”

Larry thinks wryly, it's not the BDSM thing that's puzzling him, it's the consensual thing. He lets it go. “So, tell me how you set it up; the Inward Bound side, I mean. The corporate training and motivation I think I understand from the papers you sent through.”

Corinne sits back. “Well,” she says, “I'd just finished my degree in educational psychology. I was finding it hard to get work. I had a few short-term contracts on research projects. Then the Uni set up the science park and there were a whole string of little businesses springing up as the faculty tried to find ways to make their research “relevant” or at least get paid twice for their work. Most of them knew next to nothing about business. Truth be told, neither did I,  but the first rule of education is that if you've read one more book than your student you'll be OK, so that was where I managed to set up Huntingdon Management Development.”

“But the other side of the business?”

“I was coming to that. When I'd been in my last year at Uni and cash was short, I made a little extra with the odd bit of paid dominance. There are plenty of opportunities for it around a university town. BDSM is the thinking person's sex, after all. And, one of my clients from then turned up as a client for the training business. He teased me a bit about it, which was fair enough I guess;  Said that he hoped my courses weren't as painful as my sessions had been; suggested that students would pay more attention if I taught class in a gown and mortar board. That sort of thing. Laugh a minute – you can imagine.

“Anyway, I was at a theme park the following weekend; ...on one of those scary rides that throw you around the sky until you're not sure if you're going to get to the end before your breakfast. And, I thought, why isn't there a theme park for adults? A sort of BDSM Centre Parcs. I looked around in the UK and there are a few places that offer accommodation – bed, breakfast and bondage, that sort of thing. There didn't seem to be anyone trying for anything more ambitious; something that would be a real experience for those taking part. I guess the place that really fascinated me was the Other World Kingdom, but that's in the Czech Republic – I thought there was bound to be an opportunity for something closer to home. Well, it wasn't too difficult to see that I could rework some of our training centre accommodation. I had a few contacts from my Mistress Whiplash days and some of the boys and girls in the legitimate side of the business weren't averse to making some extra money. It sort of took off from there.”

“The Other World Kingdom caters mainly for men though doesn't it. Your 'Mistress Whiplash' clients must have been mainly male too, I'm guessing.” Corinne nods and gives him a half smile that seems to suggest that if Larry wanted to try that side of things out she wouldn’t mind obliging. Larry avoids the thought. The only time he’s been tied up by a woman it wasn’t at all pleasant. “How come you ended up with something that seems to appeal mainly to women?”

Corinne shrugged. “I'm not sure. We didn't plan it that way. I'd like to pretend it was all part of some grand strategy, but it wasn't. We started off offering a 'kidnap & hostage' experience. You know the sort of thing, the 'victim' agrees to an approximate time and duration, we snatch them, take them to some unknown destination, keep them captive and then eventually release them. Virtually all the takers were women. Either that, or it was boyfriends giving their girlfriends a treat.”

“And customers liked it?”

“Oh yes. It's a common fantasy and we did a good job, if I say so myself. Some of the team got quite adept at snatching the customers and bundling them into the back of a van or the boot of a car. Others turned out to be really good at the surly guard part. You wouldn't realise what a level of skill there is in it!”

“I guess you're right.” Larry is thinking that some of his colleagues back at the office might well agree with her.  

“We built up a range of different offerings and we managed to find a few different places to keep our customers. Somebody had a house with a cellar; someone else knew a derelict farm with some outbuildings. We even used one of the old supply stores at the University for one client. Anyway, word got around. It's like any other business – personal recommendation is the best source of new customers, but it does tend to turn up customers like the ones you already have. Then, one of our clients had a fantasy that involved her being held prisoner for a couple of weeks. One of the 'guards' thought that while she was there, they could put her through a sort of slave training programme. Afterwards, the client asked us to set up something similar for herself and three friends and things grew from that. We don't advertise much. There seems to be a captive market, if you'll pardon the expression. ”

“And now?” Larry is happy for Corinne to go on talking.

“Well, we've adapted some parts of the site in Suffolk. We alternate the use between Inward Bound and the Corporate Training events. We bought the site using business start up grants. Inward Bound runs five courses a year, each of one month - although we're thinking of increasing that- with five participants. Five is all we can manage at present. We charge £6000 for a month's course - which isn’t that expensive when you think about it, compared to a cruise, say.  Also, the Inward Bound clients help to get the Centre ready for the next Corporate Training course, which provides our Inward Bound clients with work to do and reduces costs in our vanilla business. Inward Bound currently grosses around £150,000 a year give or take. Costs are negligible, as I’ve explained, and even the staff costs aren't high. Quite a few of the staff have a stake in the business. All right the business is certainly not as big as it could be, or as profitable. On the other hand, growing it would take a lot of time and effort. The thing is, Larry, this business is doing all right. I'm not even sure what we'd do with an injection of cash from your organisation, except maybe to let us handle more participants in each course.” She looks at her watch again.

“Do you need to get back?” Larry asks.

“No it’s fine. I do have another appointment.” She looks across at the car again. Larry is more than ever convinced that somewhere, either in the back of the car or wherever she’s going, there’s someone that’s waiting helplessly for her. “But nothing that won’t keep safe until we’ve finished.”

Larry is happy to continue. “You talked about both operations in the same breath: tell me about the team you have. Do you have staff from one business in the other, for example?”

“Yes, we do. As it happens all of the core team from HMD help out with Inward Bound. I mean, both are pretty small operations and its not as if we are operating in different countries or anything like that.”

No, just on different planets, from the point of view of the clients, thinks Larry. But he lets Corinne carry on.

“Actually you do not need many people to run a training business and there are three of us: me Charlotte and Josephine. We were friends at university and had a shared BDSM Interest. We have all put cash into the business.  We’ve all made contacts in the Scene that have been helpful. I suppose I’m spending more time on IWB because that’s …ah… more labour intensive, so to speak.” There’s another glance across to the car. “There’s Gerry. He’s an architect and that’s been really useful to help with pulling our HQ into shape and then there’s Celia, George Jonathan and Ylena who all have their own jobs too but come to provide specialist input when we are running an IWB course. Then some of the alumni from previous courses who live reasonably locally can also help out.”

“So, are all your colleagues on the payroll?”

“No, not really. At this stage we are not generating enough cash and quite a few of the Team have their own mainstream careers, as I mentioned but we are now at the stage were we can pay everyone’s expenses, although most of the profits get ploughed back into the business as investment for the future. I think this works because we all really enjoy what we do and participation is part of the reward we get. However, enjoying your job doesn’t pay bills and we have to be hard headed about this.”

Larry looks at the cool, confident, young woman he has been talking to. It’s hard to believe that she would be anything other than hard headed when it comes to her business. On the other hand, the suspicion that she’s enjoying the discomfort of someone, somewhere, is enough to convince Larry that Inward Bound is a labour of love as much as a money making enterprise.

“Well Corinne, regarding our investment; we'd like to work with you to discover what the opportunities are. Maybe the Suffolk site could benefit from additional capital investment? Maybe you could find ways to take more participants on a course? Maybe you could offer different styles of programme? Or a two month experience? Perhaps if you weren't dependent on the corporate side of the business, you'd have more time to develop this? Let's get some of our people working with your people. We ought to set up a visit to the Suffolk facility. Our chairman is very keen on a collaborative approach.” Larry was almost surprised at himself for his last remark. Actually, his experience of Freddie was that his view of teamwork was a lot of people doing what he said.

“Well,” says Corinne. “I agree it's worth talking. I’d like to understand more about your business too, if we’re going to work out how to best work together. And anyway, I’d want to know where the money’s coming from. You’ll forgive me if I’m careful - In my experience potential investors don’t come wandering in off the street every day of the week. And, frankly, I’m surprised that you are as interested as you are in the Inward Bound side.”

“Perfectly reasonable,” Larry responds. “Let me see if I can reassure you. We’ve spent time working at it, getting our management strategy and procedures right. It’s also one of the reasons why we’re looking for a UK business to invest in. Get some of our eggs out of the international basket, to diversify so to speak. If I’m honest I think our chairman has been involved in some businesses on the ‘leisure’ side of things in the past – video production, fetish photo web sites, that sort of thing. I think he sees us working with you as a way of getting back into an area of business he always enjoyed.”

Corrine feels reassured. “OK, I can understand that, I would like to be less dependent on the corporate side, if I'm honest. This side of things is a whole lot more fun and the cash flow is a whole lot better. I get so tired of trying to screw payment out of some of the corporate clients.”

“Well, that's just the sort of area we could help with in the short-term. We could take over your debt collection.” Larry wasn't sure how well Freddie's debt collection techniques would work in the corporate world, but the important thing now was to get Corinne on side.

“Aha,” says Corinne. “Yeah. Well, maybe I have been distracted from the stuff I want to do by the things I need to do. If this relationship lets me change that, it might be a good idea after all. Look I agree. Get some of your people to come up to visit the Suffolk site. You’ll get a better feel for how we do things and I expect we will both get a better idea of whether our businesses would be a good fit for each other.” 

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” says Larry. At least that way we get to keep on talking, he thinks.

Talking is something that Jenny isn’t doing. She’s sitting at the end of her bed, her dressing gown pulled tight around her shoulders. Her husband is sitting on the bed at the other end, staring out of the window. Jenny is staring at her feet. It hasn’t been a very successful evening. Jenny had tried to talk about some of the things she thought might make their love making more fun. Her husband hadn’t been very receptive. Sure, he understood what it was that she liked and no, he didn’t thing there was anything wrong about it. The problem was that either he didn’t want to act out any of it or that he didn’t think it would work and in any case he didn’t want to talk about it.

Jenny’s fantasies revolve around dark, silent, strangers and dark silent deeds. And, in the past, there had been more than fantasies. But, Jenny felt, silence wasn’t really what was needed right now. What was needed right now was a good hard fuck. She just wanted him to hold her, tell it would all be OK some way and then throw her back on the bed and fuck her. But she didn’t say anything and Joe kept staring out of the window.

Chapter 3:   Fond Farewell

About six months later, Jenny McEwan finally gets to start writing up the notes she will use as the foundation of the research proposal that she hopes will eventually lead to her doctoral thesis.

Jenny’s Recollections

I watch as Joe tosses his case into the back of the taxi. He turns back towards the house for a moment and waves before getting in. We’ve been together three years now and I’ve found the partings getting harder and harder. It’s difficult too know which is worse; the going away or the coming back again. The closer we get to his going away, the more I feel like I'm walking on egg shells when it comes to anything about us. 

Well, maybe it’s the work. This time he’s going to Cambodia, north of Phnom Penh, working with the Vietnamese, helping the Cambodians to upgrade the water supply network there, Joe says. He’s only to be away two weeks this time, but the trip after this will be for almost three months.  I’m quite proud of him really. It’s sort of heroic, I guess. At least, I say to myself, I’ve got something to think about while he’s not here, on top of what I want our relationship to be, whether it is going where I want it to go. Assuming I know.

Maybe I’m just trying for too much. Most of the time we bump along quite happily, but I think we’re missing out on something. Joe is a loving guy but, well, sometimes it seems like he’s happy to let things just drift along. I like to have time to chill out and relax, but I just feel there ought to be more to it than that. When we got together I guess his steadiness and the quiet, determined, way he approached life were some of the things that attracted me to him. Now, I'd just like to see a bit of passion about something sometimes. Especially about me.  

There’s always plenty to think about outside of home. My job at the University is demanding, but I think I am good at it. I graduated six years ago. I’m working as a researcher in the department of psychology and I feel I am making good progress towards my doctorate. The only problem there is Professor Dawney and that’s my own fault.

The two of us had a short, tempestuous, affair while I was working for my master’s degree.  I’ve always had an interest in the BDSM lifestyle - well more than an interest I guess, if I’m honest - and we met by chance at a munch. We discovered that it was a passion that we both shared. The professor and I found that our drives fitted neatly one with the other; me submissive, Professor Dawney very much the dominant partner. Subsequently, we managed to run our relationship without upsetting the university. It was hardly the first time that an academic had got involved with a student and besides Dawney wasn’t one of my tutors.

Then, two things happened. I finished my master’s and got a junior teaching post at the university. Shortly after, I met Joe McEwan and found myself swept up in a romantic dream of a future life with him, even if things aren’t looking like turning out that way right now. That was when I told Dawney that I couldn’t go on with our relationship.

The professor seemed to understand – eventually.

When Joe and I started our life together it was fine at first. Well it still is. Fine, that is. It’s just that I’d like it to be better, more than just ‘fine’. Maybe part of the problem for me is that he gets really closed off before he goes away on one of his trips. It’s like he feels he’s already on his way and doesn’t want to be confused with stuff from around home. That hurts, because I really want to have a close and loving goodbye each time Joe goes away. 

Also, we never really found a way to make the BDSM thing work between us. He seemed – well - diffident about it. And, when I tried to raise it he’d back away, saying it wasn’t “appropriate” - whatever that meant. It wasn’t that he disapproved; he enjoyed the tales I used to tell him of some of my more outrageous escapades from before we met.

One of my boyfriends was keen on fetish clubs and we used to go together. It felt great to be dressed all in rubber and led in chains into a room to sit at his feet all evening. Then there was the time a girl friend and I had decided to go to a fancy dress party as a sheikh and a harem slave. It had seemed like a great idea but she’d got hold of some slave manacles that she could lock on me. The bitch left me behind in our flat while she had a great time at the party with the guy I’d been planning to hit on. Then, when she got back, she left me chained up while she bonked the guy senseless in the next room. By the time he left, I was so hot for it that we just fell on each other. There were a few more times like that. Somehow it was always me that ended up in rope or handcuffs or straps. But, then, that was how I liked it.

Joe found the tales a turn on all right. But they didn’t make him want to try any of it.

I guess it seemed more that he felt it wasn’t right for him, or for him and me. But it didn't matter. Or, at least I told myself it didn't matter.

I guess that's why I didn't back away from Dawney's suggestion – even though maybe I should have. Joe always seems pleased to get home and sorry to leave, but in between? I very much needed to keep myself busy.

Dawney encouraged me into pursuing a PhD and helped me choose a research area. I shouldn’t have agreed to take on something that was so close to Dawney’s own area, but I needed a supervisor and the professor had always been very supportive. Now though, things were getting difficult and it was becoming worse as a result of the direction my research was taking. When Dawney suggested the topic, I should have recognised the problems that could arise, especially the fact that it was bound to venture into areas where Dawney was considered the authority. But, I didn’t.

The basic idea was to explore the relationship between stress and play; analysing the role that play has in reducing stress. I thought it presented an exciting research opportunity. It was only as the work progressed, that I started to feel that Dawney hadn’t let go of what we had once enjoyed together. The Professor’s slant on the study of the subject matter was that I should focus in my research area to specifically examine the role of BDSM play and stress. It was a legitimate subject for such research. It neatly avoided the pitfall of an overly broad focus on play, in general—which was a good thing. But, I couldn’t help but feel that an alternative topic might have been suggested if I had been a male student, or if the professor and I hadn’t been previously been involved with each other in the way that we were. 

The phone rings. I pick it up. The professor’s voice sounds calming after the tension of the exchanges with Joe as he’d left. “I wondered if you’d be in this morning.”

“Yes, sure. Why not?”

“Well, you said Joe was going away again and …”

I interrupt. “It’s just his job. It’s what he does. One month on, two weeks back. It’s a routine. I’m used to it.” I guess my one time lover knew that I wasn’t.  To make matters worse, next time he is going to be gone for almost three months. I’m not looking forward to that except that it will give me some more time to think about what I want from our relationship, and whether I stand any chance of getting it. “I’ll be in. I need to talk to you about my work. I’m not sure which way I should be going.”

“Of course. Just drop by. I’ll be happy to give you some direction.”

I put the phone down, remembering the insidious way in which Dawney had pushed our power games and thinking, “I’ll bet you will.” I gather up my papers and push them into the old, green, canvas shoulder bag I use. Last of all, I collect up the bundle of fetish magazines that I’d been working through. Once upon a time, they would just have been fun but, while the content still gives me a thrill, this time the purpose of my studies has been more “legitimate”. I’ve been cataloguing the various references to different forms of play and picking up on the occasions when some aspect of stress, either increase or alleviation was mentioned. A forest of yellow post-it tabs stuck out from the magazines. Then, there were the copies of printed material from a whole series of BDSM discussion boards and forums. At least there was a volume of material to start working on.

An hour later, I’m knocking on the door of Professor Dawney’s office. “Just a minute,” comes the voice from within. I stand in the corridor hugging my pile of papers to my chest, the canvas bag hanging heavily from my shoulder. More power plays, I think. I lean back against the wall, staring down the corridor and on out through the window across the park. I’d become used to these little demonstrations of control. “Come!” Even Dawney’s invitation to enter seemed designed to intimidate.

“Oh, Jenny, excellent,” Dawney’s greeting is fulsome. At once, I remember how I had been first attracted to the professor. Angela Dawney manages to combine a cool authoritative air with an almost Bohemian sense of the unconventional. The university is no longer the domain of the unconventional – the continued quest for funding and the need to make research “relevant” means that today’s departmental heads are as much business people as academics. But Angela Dawney is an eccentric oasis in a desert of convention.

Angela smiles as she pushes back a strand of hair. She’s only 38, maybe 10 years older than I, but her hair is already greying in places. Not that she cares. She is driven, and believes in making the best of herself, but I’m not sure that applies to the way she looks after her appearance. She can look a bit matronly, when she’s not careful.

Her office is filled with the usual collection of piles of books and journals. Her desk is covered with them too. Her laptop is propped on a top of one of the smaller piles, a web cam clipped to the screen peering out at the room like the eye of the Cyclops. A message window blinks, irritated, demanding attention. The only things on her desk apart from that are three framed photographs of Angela with the other academics at the Psychology Research Conventions in 2005 at Denver, 2006 at Stanford and 2007 at St Petersburg.

The Professor prides herself on being at the centre of an international network of specialists. The result is that she finds herself sought out to peer review papers, edit journals and comment on research proposals.

The rest of the office is buried beneath the accumulation of knowledge; a bookcase, a side table and two chairs are suffering in the same way as her desk as is a good three quarters of the floor. “Find yourself some space,” Angela calls, waving vaguely.

I look around and come to the same conclusion that many of Angela’s students do. There was nowhere else but the floor. I push a couple of the piles of books to one side and squat down, cross-legged, on the carpet, looking up at her. She likes that.

Angela swings her chair around to face me. She puts down the unlit cheroot she has been chewing on in, defiant against the college’s attempts to outlaw all forms of tobacco abuse. She brushes some biscuit crumbs from the lap of her calf length skirt. As she leans forward, my eyes are drawn to the Victorian style buttoned boots that the professor invariably wears. I remember a time when I would have wanted little else but to be sitting where I was then. I shrug to try to shake myself back to reality. “So,” Angela says, “tell me your thoughts so far.”

I launch into a summary of my progress so far, the material I’ve collected, the avenues explored.

“There is very little firsthand objective observational data. I think this is understandable. On the one hand, BDSM play has only surfaced into the public arena in relatively recent years and on the other, I guess it takes time for it to become a “respectable” subject for academic research. Then again, objective observations of BDSM behaviour are difficult to make without disturbing the participants. Imagine: you are in the hands of a Domme who is giving your bum a good going over and in the corner there is someone writing every thing down and then asking a whole series of questions about how it feels.”

I look across at Angela, concerned that she thinks I might be trivialising the discussion. Of course, she would be the last one to put herself in that situation. She doesn’t seem worried. I carry on. “Also, male behaviour has been the first target for scrutiny – guys in high powered jobs going in for sessions of role reversal as a way of escape. And females? Well, there is not a great deal to be had about women under occupational stress.  Again, it’s only in fairly recent years that one could find a significant number of women working at senior executive level and I think political correctness discourages the idea that some women might have a submissive sexual drive co-existing with a high powered management or technical job. And, of course, ‘super woman’ can’t possibly suffer from stress and require a somewhat exotic way to deal with it.”

Dawney looks thoughtful. She reaches out and I pass her a pile of the research papers I have been working through. Dawney rifles through them. It is a field she is familiar with and one in which she herself is considered to be an authority. From time to time, she peers down at me over her gold rimmed half moon spectacles. “I think you’re right,” she says. “This looks like a thorough collection of the existing research and I’d trust your assessment.” I feel pleased. Angela’s praise has always lifted me up. “But you’re an ethnographer. You must feel you have the ability to do original research in this area. To observe, to analyse, to draw conclusions from observation.”

“That’s what I think is needed, professor,” I say, anxious to keep things on a professional footing, and conscious that I am also venturing into an area that my mentor considers very much her own.

“Good” says Angela. “That’s why I asked you to look at the Inward Bound advertisement. I think it might be an interesting area of research for us. A sort of ready made sexual laboratory, I’d like you to go on one of their courses.”

“What?” I’m shocked by her proposition. It seems way out of line. Just another example of Dawney trying to restart our affair.

“Hear me out, Jenny,” she says. “This has got nothing to do with anything in our past. This is purely for research. Inward Bound’s courses offer a degree of immersion that you wouldn’t normally find. There’s a chance to observe genuine changes in behaviour and response. We couldn’t possibly reconstruct it in a laboratory.”

“That’s all very well, Professor,” I feel I want to get this onto a formal footing. “But it sounds like pretty dubious science to me. I don’t see how you can achieve much with an observer that is also a participant. And no matter what we got up to,” I look directly at her. Angela at least has the grace to look a little abashed, “I know that I’m hardly very experienced in BDSM and while, yes, I might find it a personal turn on, I can’t see how we would get any useful ethnographic results from it.”

“Of course, Jenny. You’re right. That’s not what I’m suggesting. What I think we should do is to try to establish if Inward Bound really would provide us with a suitable environment for a properly controlled research project. If you can get a real feel for what goes on there we could see if we really could answer the research questions that are coming out of your studies.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier and more ethical just to have someone sit in on some of their sessions?”

“Easier, certainly. I don’t think it would give us the best insights though. I think it really needs someone that is there and part of it. Either as part of the staff or as a course member. I couldn’t see you as part of the staff though.”

That’s unfair, a cheap jibe, I think. I am how I am. I’m not ashamed of my submissive responses.

Angela sees that I’m annoyed by her remark. “Sorry, Jenny. That was unkind. I do think that participation is an important element in allowing us to set the research agenda here. But of course, if you don’t feel that it’s something that you would like to do or feel able to do….”

It’s the same old, manipulative, Angela. And when we were together I did enjoy it. Now it’s difficult. I really don’t want to get myself back into a relationship with her but, on the other hand, the Inward Bound idea is intriguing and it could turn out to be an area for really interesting research. A guaranteed doctorate! I feel myself being drawn to the idea. It’s probably unwise but I start talking through some ideas. 

“Well, I could try to record some direct first hand observations of the submissive experience that Inward Bound provides. I could use a quasi-ethnographic approach. Although we’d have to recognise that the value of the results would be very limited for anything beyond establishing a research framework…”

“Of course,” Angela interjects. She can see that I am sliding myself in to the idea and she knows that she only has to oil the slope.

“Then I will see whether it’s practical to come up with a more scientific research programme.”

“I like that idea, you’d treat participation as a sort of pilot … hmmmmm …,” Angela says, polishing her glasses. “Give it some thought,” she continues “I genuinely think it’s the best way to move your doctorate forward. I know you’ll be thinking this has something to do with what went on before but it’s really about your studies. I suggest you explore what is involved. I’ll find out what I can do about funding.”

I smile. As usual Angela assumes agreement. I offer her my thanks, pick up my things and start to leave. I’ve learned enough from my time with Angela to quit while I am ahead. Besides,   I’m still not sure if I want to go through with this.

“Do you have to go?” Angela says. “With Joe being away, I thought you might need some company.”

“Sorry, professor, I have to go,” I say keen to return things to a professional footing.

Angela looks disappointed. “Perhaps another time,” she says.     

That’s exactly what I am worried about but, when I get back to my office, I spend an hour before going home thumbing through Second Skin again. There’s an article about enthusiasts for wearing fetish clothing in public. I’m fantasising about what it would be like to be dressed in rubber, following Joe around our local supermarket on a leash. Then I hear someone at the door.

The fantasy dissolves instantly. I toss the magazine back onto my pile of work papers and head back to my empty home.

© Copyright Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2008

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com   Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

All characters fictitious

Chapter 4:   First Contact

Jenny’s Recollections

A few days after my meeting with Angela, she sends me an e-mail: “Dear Jenny,” it says. Angela’s e-mails always sound like letters. “I hope you have been thinking about your proposed exploratory investigation.” So now it’s ‘my proposed investigation’ I think. “Contact Inward Bound and see what they have to offer.  At this stage, I think you should regard this as a pilot project as we discussed and I think you should approach them as an ordinary client. I’m sure you’ll agree that their approach might be different if you state your academic interest right away. As I’ve always said the foundation of good field work is minimum bias and maximum objectivity. As far as funding is concerned, it will depend on their fees, of course, but I hope we can use some of my Endowment Funding. Best wishes, Prof.”

When I first looked at the Inward Bound website, I was amazed, curious, intrigued and delighted, in that order. From a research point of view I can agree with the Prof:  it was fascinating. I have seen some similar sites, but they were in the USA or Eastern Europe and almost without exception they are focused pretty much exclusively on the fantasies of male submissives. Angela’s enthusiasm has made me more than a little nervous, though. From what we had shared together, I can imagine that her interest in Inward Bound might be more than academic and it wouldn't be with her joining in as one of the consensual slaves. I am still worried that she might see this as some opportunity to revive our personal relationship.

On a personal level, Inward Bound could offer me the chance to fulfil the sort of fantasies that had been with me since I was a young teenager, things that I hadn’t shared even with Angela when we were together. Sure, I would prefer to be playing this sort of game with Joe, but he felt it was not “appropriate”.  It’s strange. Joe and I have this really open relationship; we can talk about anything, but somehow when it comes to this the shutters come down. Maybe it's me or maybe it's him. I found it difficult to say what I wanted; he found it difficult to take the lead. What ever it is, it hasn't really worked out for us. The vanilla sex was fine – he was kind and loving and friendly and it was great. The trouble was it wasn't enough. But I would rather be playing with Joe. Wouldn't I?

I try to put my personal interests and my feelings about Joe to one side. In the context of what I am supposed to be doing, they aren't going to help with objectivity! Still, it’s hard not to think about him. And us.

I’m looking at the home page of the Inward Bound web site. “Inward Bound” it says in a professional looking style with sober colours. "The place to explore your submissive fantasies in depth. Join us for the chance to experience consensual slavery. Extended courses let you lose yourself in your wildest dreams.”

I must have looked at this site twenty times, or more. At first, I thought it was too good to be true;. Each aspect of what Inward Bound claimed to do pulled at my own desires and spoke to what I felt might be the  research needs, too. I wrote notes on the site for discussion with Angela, but I kept being drawn back again and again. I almost knew the content by heart: the facilities that they had; the range of programmes they ran; the sort of experiences that the slaves, or as they called it “participants” could expect; the importance they saw in helping participants take each step along their own personal journeys. I guess you might think that showed more than professional interest, and I think you would be right.

I suppose that I just sort of fall towards a decision. I have the opportunity; Joe will be away for nearly three months over the summer. I have the motive; the chance to find out finally, if this flavour of sexuality is as exciting in fact as it is in my head.    Best of all, I have the alibi; it really will be pioneering ethnographic research. Won't it?

So here I am, looking at the Inward Bound web site again. I’ve told Angela that I’m prepared to do it. She has told me she can get the funding. She’s promised there no more to it than research. I still don’t think I believe her but I’m not going to stop.

At the top of the page it says, "Register For More Information Now." I'm looking at the on-line online form that I have just completed.

Name, age, e-mail contact and mobile number. It could be a holiday booking site.

Level of experience of BDSM. Sexual likes and dislikes. So, not like many holiday booking sites there.

There’s a part where they ask about my general medical history and rather some more specific questions about my sexual history. It’s embarrassing in one way to be exposing this, but the questions are very politely asked and the anonymity of the computer makes it easier.

“How long could I stay?” the form asks and then “What would I like to achieve?” That’s a difficult question and I’m not even sure I know the answer. Plus of course, I don’t want to say anything about the university. I look at what I’ve typed in. “To understand my submissive responses better.” It sounds a bit lame, but it will do. And it’s true. It’s probably not all of the truth, but it is at least true.

Finally, there is the inevitable “where did you hear about us?” I tick the box marked “Second Skin Magazine” and now the last box is gently and seductively blinking at me:  “Send?”, “Send?”, “Send?”, “Send?”

With a stab of adrenalin running through my body, I press the return key and send the form!

At once I’m thinking, “Gee, what have you done, girl? Was that really wise?”  Joe is not easy at all with my thoughts of master / slave games. What if I find out I really enjoy it as much as I enjoy my fantasies? Where does that leave Joe and me?

Before I can think too much about it, a new box opens on the screen. “Dear Jenny. Thank you for your enquiry. We’re delighted that you’ve decided to get in touch with us. This is an automated reply, but Charlotte will try to call you tomorrow and will leave you an e-mail if she cannot reach you. Best wishes and thanks again from the Team at Inward Bound.”

And again, I’m caught between conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I’m taken aback to get a response so quickly, perhaps even a little uneasy that a reply came at all. On the other hand, I’m reassured by the tone of the Inward Bound reply; it seems friendly and very professional. And, now I feel I am in a corner.  I am going to have to follow this through.

I go to bed. A large whiskey helps me into a deep sleep.

 

I wake up really rested. My mind turns over the jobs for the day and I’m asking myself why I feel so relaxed and good? At the back of my mind, though, I’m feeling that there is something difficult to do today. Then I remember Inward Bound and a stab of anxiety drives me out of bed, to the bathroom and then downstairs to breakfast. I’m fretting about whether I’ve done the right thing. The feeling is still with me as I leave the flat and start my journey to the university.

It’s 10 am – or just after. I have a lot to do today and I am in the middle of setting out the day when my mobile rings. My eyes are still scanning down my list of “work” e-mails as I casually answer, feeling slightly irritated about the early interruption. The unfamiliar voice on the phone jerks me back to full attention.

“Hi, is that Jenny?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, it’s Charlotte.” There’s a pause. “...Look, I’m sorry to catch you at work, but did you send us an enquiry form through our web site last evening?”

“Erm, erm, yes, I did, actually.” I feel embarrassed, as If I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have. Charlotte laughs. It’s friendly, understanding, a laugh that encourages me to let down my guard.

“Great. Look, I was just calling to make a first contact.” Her voice is light and she sounds approachable. “If you would like to take your enquiry a little bit further, I would normally arrange to meet you maybe at your place or over coffee in town which is often best. I’m sure there will be other things you want to know. I can give you more information before you take any more definite steps. And I’ll want to make sure that our programme will fit in with what you are looking for, too.”

She stops. I can’t think of anything to say.

“Would you like that?” Charlotte says. “Just to find out more? Maybe next week?”

My mouth is a bit dry now and I’m sure my voice is shaking. “Erm, yes please, erm thank you. Yes. Yes definitely.”

So, a week later, here I am in a quiet corner of Café Nero and absolutely on cue a girl about my own age saunters in. Tall, slender, athletic looking. Blond hair, folded into a French pleat. Piercing blue eyes, pale skin; she could be Scandinavian, I think. Blue jeans and white blouse under a leather jacket. She has cowboy boots on and carries a rather informal,  but smart leather brief case. The jacket, boots and bag all match, in the same soft tan leather. In a word – class. She pauses and calls a number on her mobile. My mobile rings. So, this must be Charlotte. Heavens: this really is for real, then?

Charlotte sees me reach for my phone. She smiles, comes over and puts her hand and rather familiarly on my shoulder. “Hi, Jenny, I’m Charlotte.” She sits down. “Good to meet you.” She looks at my still full coffee cup. “Do you want another she asks?” I shake my head. “I’ll get myself some water.”

Moments later she is back. She opens her brief case. Forms. The whole world runs on forms these days. Even people in the fetish world have forms. She can see I’m nervous.

“Look, I’ll start if that’s all right. Usually,  it takes applicants a while to get their heads around the fact that this could really happen for them, so it probably easier if I lead off and then I’ll let you ask questions afterwards. OK?”

I nod, grateful that she’s taking the lead, pleased that in spite of her ice maiden looks, she's friendly and approachable.

“Well, there are one or two more things we have to know about you, mainly psychological outlook and some more medical. The thing is that the whole idea is for you to enjoy the course, but as it can be a bit demanding....” Charlotte smiles at me. I grin back. “As it can be a bit demanding it’s important we know were we are starting from with each of our applicants. We need to be able to exercise our Duty of Care and we can only do that on the basis of the right information. I hope it’s OK with you to go through this now?” I nod in response. “We do hold the data on computer, but we would rather not scatter your answers across cyberspace. We take data protection very seriously.”

As I make my way through the questionnaires, I can see why! Finally, I finish the forms and pass them across to Charlotte. “So what happens now?” I say.

“Well, let’s see.” Charlotte thumbs through some of the questionnaires. “OK.  You are really pretty much a complete novice, apart from this,” she’s looking at the part of the form where I had to list previous relationships with details of any BDSM activities involved. “It sounds as though it gave you some experience of power exchange. Oh, I like this –“

“What?”

“This bit here: ‘I would like to find out if this type of sexual trip is as exciting in reality as it is in my head.’ – that’s very helpful. I think you will find the answer is ‘yes’, by the way.”

Hmmm. Yes for me but is that good for Joe and me, I wonder?

 

Charlotte leans forward. “Jenny,” she says, “here is where we go now. We run the courses four times each year and the next will start in June. There will be other people on each course. There could be both boys and girls. You don’t have to interact,” Charlotte winks in a meaningful way, “if you don’t want to or if that is a Red Line Issue for you. You will experience what it is like to be a slave, to follow orders, to be punished if you fail to follow them, to have your freedoms restricted, to be trained to perform better.”

I gulp, a little uncomfortable. If I’m honest I’m a bit turned on at this point; sitting in these very ordinary surroundings with this attractive woman discussing these extraordinary ideas.

Charlotte gives me an encouraging smile. “It’s very important to us that you feel safe at all times. We will give you a safe word which you can use at any time to stop the action. However, one of the features of these courses is that they will help you to push against your limits, so we like to encourage participants to keep going as long as they can. To help you through, we give you a 10% financial rebate at the end, if you have managed not to use any of your lifelines so to speak.”

I nod.

“One other thing. We also need you to let someone you trust know where you are going and they get a contact phone number – a landline number which is traceable by the phone people – to get you in emergency. You get a “safe call” to them when you arrive to confirm you are OK. Again, that’s designed to help you to feel safe, but of course it’s a bit of an insurance policy for us, too.”

“Now, assuming you still want to go through with this. Sometime next week I will send you an e-mail consent form which you have to sign and return as hard copy to our business PO box and also a booking form to confirm when you would like to come. And also you’ll need to make payment! We need you to pay in advance for each month, so if you were following a two month course, you will need to tell your bank when to make the second payment. If you’ve any questions in the mean time you can just e-mail me. Use the questions@IWB as the address and don’t forget to give your name, so I can deal with it.”

It all seems pretty clear. I say, “Thanks. Yes, That’s fine. Yes.”

Charlotte starts to pack up her papers. “Well, is there anything you want to ask me now?”

I don’t really know what to say. I think for a moment and then blurt out. “Have you done the course?”

Charlotte smiles. “Oh, I’ve had a lot of involvement in the courses,” she says, “but not really as a participant. Some people are better at giving instructions and some people are better at taking them, don’t you think?” She looks straight into my eyes.

I try to respond nonchalantly but it just comes out as a muffled whimper. Charlotte grins. “OK, Jenny that’s me done!” She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek: not a sexual kiss, more like two girl friends together. She smells nice. Something from Santa Maria Novella? “I really hope we meet up again soon! Bye!” And with that, she’s gone.

One week later, to the day, I open my e-mail in-box and there is the Inward Bound e-mail from Charlotte, “Hi, Jenny. As promised, here is your consent form and booking confirmation form. Booking and payment is electronic – just click the link. The consent form has to be printed out, signed and sent as hard copy to the address you will see at the end of my note. Best wishes, Charlotte.”

Oh boy, what do I do now? This really is decision time. I know Joe will be away for the best part of three months from mid May. He gets back in early August. Inward Bound’s next course starts in early June. My teaching commitments will be over in June. And the financial bit is being paid for by Prof.

Putting the research angle to one side, I ask myself how do I feel deep down? Deep down, I want to do it. To see how far it is. To find if I really am as I think I am …

Later that day, Prof has a few free moments and I take the e-mail and blank copies of the forms to her in her study. I don’t want her to see the version I finally signed. I could imagine the snide remark when she saw that I said I didn’t want to be involved in direct sexual contact.  I also didn’t want to have to defend the fact that I’d consented to being marked or pierced subject to agreement at the time it happens, Angela had always been keen for me to have my nipples pierced but I’d resisted at the time. Now it sounded quite sexy but I knew that she’d be irritated.

She reads them through carefully. Fortunately she doesn’t ask me how much I’ve been prepared to sign up for. “OK, so it looks as if June is the time. I can manage to cover the fees from the endowment funds.” She peers at me over her glasses. “I guess I can rely on you to help the fund out by coming back with the 10% discount?” Angela smiles indulgently, but it’s going to be my bum on the line. I guess that’s why she is smiling. “How long do you need to be there?”

I hesitate, “Err, well, I’m not…”

“Look,” says Angela, “I think we should send you there for a couple of months. You will be much better placed to take stock of the situation after that. You will find it easier to get immersed in things over the longer period. It will help with an objective assessment of the research opportunities and challenges.”

I can see the sense in what the Prof is saying, but what her motives might be worries me.

“Actually, I like their approach.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, they talk about Duty of Care, and they have seriously addressed the idea of Informed Consent. They leave you with a channel of communication to someone on the outside. I can do that for you, if you like. That’s good. Very well thought out. You seem to be in the hands of professionals.”

I hadn’t thought about who would be my life line. The Prof is the obvious choice I guess. So I’ll be in the hands of professionals. Yes, and I will also be in the hands of Professor Dawney, my former lover, my life line to the outside, my link to the real world.

In the mean time, I can look forward to Joe’s getting back and working out how to tell him what I’ll be doing during his next trip. If I tell him what I’ll be doing during his next trip.

1. Chapter 5:   Goodbye & Hello 

Joe’s been home for three weeks and he’s going back to Cambodia soon. This has been a good break. I managed to grab some time for us to be together out of the teaching and research schedule. We’ve even managed a couple of days away in this really cosy hotel up on the Yorkshire coast, not far from Whitby. Joe seems more relaxed away from home. Maybe, if you travel as much as Joe does at the moment, you just feel more comfortable in hotels?

Whatever the reason, it's been good for us. We’ve walked on the cliffs and eaten good food and talked about nothing and shagged like rabbits and it’s been great.

But, I nearly spoil it. I had told Joe that I would be away while he was, doing some field work for my thesis and I’m thinking how the accommodation at Inward Bound is probably going to be different from the slightly faded splendour of the hotel and I nearly tell Joe about what I’ll be doing while he is away. But then I can’t, I’m frightened to tell him straight and I get angry with myself and snap at him and Joe says what’s got into me and I can’t tell him and …. Oh, oh! This is all too complicated.

It’s OK in the end, though. And we manage a making-up shag!

It all starts after lunch in the hotel when neither of us say very much and between us we finish a bottle of wine. When we get back to our room I say, “I’m sorry Joe, I didn’t mean to get mad.”

He says, “Don’t worry. Come here,” and takes me in his arms. He’s gentle but firm as he pulls me towards him. I always like it when he does that. My head fits on his shoulder perfectly. I nestle closer and kiss his neck. “That’s good,” he says. He’s just being nice but in my mind I’m hearing the words of a slave master. The only trouble is I want it to be Joe.

“You know I only want to please,” I say, wishing that he would take me at my (unspoken) words.

“In which case, I’d better take you to bed,” he responds. He pulls off his shirt. I like his body. It’s fit; quite muscley. He smells sweet and musky. He takes my hand, steering me across the room. I let him lead me. As we fall on the bed I go to unfasten the belt of his trousers, it’s what a good slave girl would do, after all. Joe laughs as I fumble with it and says, “Here let me.” I can’t stop him. He unfastens it, unzips his trousers and pushes them off. I try to pull his boxers off. “No,” he says, smiling and trying to push my dress up, “let’s take yours off.”

We tumble together until I’m naked and so is he. We’re both laughing. Happy as kids. His hands are on my breasts, then sliding down around my waist, pulling me towards him. I’m kissing him. He’s kissing me.  We’re both aroused and maybe a little drunk. He lays me back, kneeling between my parted thighs, his cock swollen and erect. He goes to pull on a condom but I distract him, reaching  out towards his cock. “Its OK”, I say: “I’m safe just now.” Actually I don’t care if I am or not the way I feel at the moment. I reach out towards his cock but he takes my hands in his, lifts them to his lips and kisses them before he lays down on me, I’m giggling at his rather gentlemanly kiss; its more knightly and chivalrous than ravishment but then he kisses me on the neck, the ear and the lips and I feel his cock pressing up against me and the slipping inside.

He’s obviously enjoying himself. He’s stiffer, thicker, than he has been for quite a while. That arouses me more. I’m murmuring with pleasure and the murmuring gets louder and turns to more of a grunt. He likes that. He’s pushing into me, saying how much he loves me, how great it is to be in me, how hard I make him. My hands are on his back, my fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, squeezing him harder towards me. I’m gasping; the pleasure in my cunt; the feel of his body against mine; the closeness of the two of us. I wrap my legs around his bum, so he can’t get away. Can’t pull out. I want to feel him come inside me.

And then he comes, his words of love turning to grunts as he pulses into me. I’m not far behind him, my own cries merging with his as I press back at him, as if I could somehow prevent what I know must be the shrinking of his member. But then I’m there, squealing with delight as I gasp and groan into my own orgasm.

He rolls off me, laying back. I snuggle up against him. We lay together, cuddling, for what seems like hours. He gets up, pulls the bed coverings over me and walks across the room.

He’s in a reflective mood. “Are you happy Jen?” he says staring out of the hotel window across the windswept view of the bay.

“Mmm, of course,” I say. “Especially after that.”

“Not just shag happy,” Joe grins sitting down on the bed beside me. “Happy happy?”

“Of course.”

“It's just that, well, I don’t know, you’ve seemed a bit preoccupied. I know I get moody before these trips sometimes. I just wanted you to know it’s nothing you’ve done and I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to upset you. I know I can be a bit clumsy.”

“Like a bull in china shop?” I laugh and he joins in. “No, it’s OK. I’ve just got a project to work on while you’re away and it’s going to be quite difficult. And you’re going to be in the back of beyond and won’t be able to e-mail me and I won’t be able to speak to you. That’s the trouble really. Not enough time together.”

“You’ll handle it. I know it’s no good asking you about it; I don’t understand the psychobabble. I never got over that dinner with your professor where she managed to make all that kinky stuff sound so highbrow! But, you’ll handle it all right.”

“Was that dinner really so bad?”

“You know I can’t get enthusiastic about vegetarian food.”

I grab for a pillow and make as though I am going to hit him with it. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Dawney’s got a different view of the world from me. She sees sex as something to analyse, part of some great transaction between the man and the woman, or in her case the woman and the woman. To me, it’s just something two people do because they want to or because they love each other or because they think it might be fun. All that analysis, classification, pigeon holing, labelling -  what good does it do? And when she started to trot out that clap trap about - what did she call it? - ‘The psychodynamics of the dominant – submissive relationship’ I thought – do me a favour, if that’s how people want to get their rocks off, why not just let them get on with it?”

And I almost bring myself to say, yes let’s. Right here. Right now. You and me. Fuck the psycho dynamics. Just fuck me. Fuck me again and fuck me hard and fuck me bareback and don’t be kind and friendly.

But I don’t. And I don't know why.

And then, the moment is gone and he’s looking at his watch and saying, if I’m going to get a drink before dinner I’d better get in the shower right now.

I say, “Yes, Sir!” He grins. It’s the closest we get.

We’re back home. It’s two days later and Joe’s bag is packed. We've managed the last couple of days without the tensions coming back to the surface. The cab is waiting outside with its engine running.  “Bye Jen,” he says and kisses me. “I’ll call if I can.”

I suddenly panic. If he does call, I won’t be here and I don’t even know if I’m going to be able to respond to e-mails. The Inward Bound site said things would be quite immersive and without contact with the outside world. “I know,” I say. “But I’m not going to be around much anyway. You know I said I have this project? It looks like I’ll be away from home quite a bit. The project has the people being studied isolated for observation, so we’ve banned mobile phones and PC’s from the site. So don’t worry if you don’t catch me, or I don’t get back to you. If there’s anything urgent, Dawney can probably track me down.”

Joe looks distracted. I don’t really think he’s taken this in. He grabs his coat. “Sure, hun, don’t worry. I’ll be back soon enough and we can do all our talking then. I’m going to be up country anyway and the communications are always dodgy. I’ll try to use e-mail.”

“Keep safe, lover,” I say and kiss him back. I’m wondering if that will work either. Maybe I can get access to the Internet somehow.

“And, you too,” he says picking up his bag. And then he’s gone.

The phone rings. He’s hardly been gone five minutes and Angela is on the phone. It’s almost as if she were watching. “Jenny, how are you? Are you ready for your field-trip?”

Ready is probably not the word, but I’m as prepared as I can be. I’ve agreed with Angela that I’m not going to try to keep notes or write things up as it goes along. I can’t imagine that I’ll get much opportunity and I don’t really want to get caught with a notebook. I mean it’s not like I’ve told them that they’re my research project.

The really important thing is to immerse myself in the experience, so I can understand how the stress of the adventure changes my reactions to what’s happening to me and those others I come up against. I’m going to have to work hard at making sure I commit to memory all my experiences, so I can write them up when I get back.  

.  

“I guess so, Prof,” I say. “I’ve spent enough time telling my students that dispassionate observation is the key to ethnographic research. Now, I get to see if I can do it when I’m in the middle of it.”

“Well, I shall be away for a few days myself though I will be back just before you go and then I’ll be on the end of a phone if you need me. You’ve got that life line, if you need it. Although, as I said, I'd like to get the 10% discount back.”

Maybe she would, I think, but that was never going to be an issue with me. If I need to bail out, a few pounds more out of Angela Dawney’s endowment fund aren’t going to worry me.

There’s not much more I can do. All I know is that they'll contact me with my joining instructions and after that it's all a mystery. Two months of who knows what until I get back here again.

Two weeks later I am at home, on my own. My mobile phone pings to tell me a text has come in: “you’ve got e-mail” and when I open my inbox, there are my instructions. ….. Now, I know that it’s really going to happen. I really am on my way.

Chapter 6:   A Long & Winding Road

Course 8 / Day 1: Course Progress Meeting

Josephine: All the team are briefed for today’s activities for the new Course 8 intake. There are five this time and they will arrive at the Centre around 19:00.

Jenny’s Recollections

Joe’s been gone for a couple of week. I’ve been working hard to prepare myself but now I’m sitting on the edge of the couch in the lounge at home staring at the papers I have just printed. I’m biting my lip and twisting a strand of hair between my fingers. Somehow, now that the time has arrived, it all seems a bit too real.

“Dear Jenny, here are your joining instructions,” the e-mail says. “Please follow them exactly in order to start your experience in the most successful manner. You will understand that an important part of your experience is concerned with receiving and following instructions. You should view this as the first part of that experience. Please do not bring any personal belongings with you apart from those items mentioned in this letter, you will not need them.”

Of course, it is what I had expected, but somehow it is still disturbing.

“Please do as follows:. Firstly, you are to take a shower and you will shave yourself. Dress in jeans, a tee-shirt and flip flops. Bring a towel and a swimming costume. Do not wear jewellery. Do not bring a mobile phone. You will need exactly £2.20 in coins. Do not bring money or credit cards. As a first step, you should go to the Sports Centre and swim. Be in the main pool at 11:30 exactly. You will receive further instructions there.”

I take a shower, rummage in the wardrobe and put on my underwear. None of my jeans are clean, so I take a pair of linen trousers instead. A tee-shirt doesn’t really go with them, I think. So, instead, I pull on a white sleeveless top. As I put on a pair of sandals I think, “Well, it isn’t exactly what they’d asked, but it’s close enough.”   

Entry to the Sports Centre costs exactly £2.20 and, at 11:20, I am sitting on the edge of the pool, my feet dangling in the water. I look up at the large competition clock on the wall above the deep end of the pool. The minute hand clunks one step further towards half past eleven. As it clunks once more to eleven twenty seven I ease myself off of the poolside and into the water, setting out with a slow breast stroke for the middle of the pool. I roll over on to my back and kick a few times, pushing slowly up the pool.

I roll over again and looked at the clock. Eleven thirty exactly. I am almost surprised that nothing happens. “But then,” I think, “they only said for me to be here at half past eleven.”

It is as I am wondering what to do next, that a woman surfaces beside me. “Hello, Jenny,” she says, and I know that things are starting. I don’t recognise the woman, even though she has recognised me. However, given that the woman is wearing a skin-tight white swim cap, goggles and a nose clip, it is hardly easy! “We need to swap keys: you have to give me your locker key,” the woman says.

Puzzled, I do as I am told.

“Thank you,” the woman says. “Now take mine.” She passes her own key over. “Stay in the pool another half hour. Then go and get changed into the clothes you’ll find in my locker. You’ll find your next instructions there too.” Without another word the woman swims away from me to the far side of the pool and pulls herself out. Picking a towel from one of the poolside couches, the woman walks away towards the changing rooms, wrapping the towel around herself.

At twelve o’clock, I climb out of the pool wondering what the next step will be. I, too, grab a towel and head towards the changing rooms. Inward Bound is certainly setting the scene. I’m obviously going to have to get used to following instructions. It will be interesting to see how this conditioning affects the way that the stress of the situation builds up. 

As I take the woman’s things from the locker I find a pair of flip-flops, jeans and a white tee-shirt, exactly what I had been told to wear in the joining instructions. Well, as my jeans were not clean and as I did not know I would be swapping clothes anyway, I guess I made the right call to do as I did.  There is no underwear here! Looking back, the letter had not said to wear a bra and pants, either.  But then, I had not taken the note as literally as that. So I’m definitely sure I made the right call.  There’s an envelope stuffed into the pocket of the jeans – and a mobile phone.

The note reads: “Hi, Jenny: Here is a mobile phone and we will be in touch with you soon. Meanwhile, you need to have your hair cut. You have an appointment at one o’clock with Isla at NX Hair in town. Ask her to give you a number four crew cut. And have another piercing put in your left ear.”

I put my hand up to my left ear lobe. I haven’t worn earrings as the original note had said I shouldn’t wear jewellery, but I do have one piercing in either ear. I suppose that I’ve always thought anything more than that a bit unconventional, “But then,” I think, “what I’m doing is hardly conventional anyway. I’m not sure that I’ll go along with that though.”

I make my way out of the Sports Centre and off towards town. I am very conscious of the fact that I am naked beneath my tee-shirt, thinking that every man I pass must be staring at my nipples. The way that my jeans rub against my naked, shaved, crotch is even worse.

As I walk on, the mobile goes off.

“Jenny?” I don’t recognise the voice.

“Yes.”

“Hi. Are you on your way to NX?”

“Yes.”

“Good. The cut is on account and there is a message for you at reception. ‘Bye.” The phone goes dead, as whoever it was hangs up.

By the time I get to NX Hair, I am feeling discouraged and a little uncertain, but I overcome my fears and go in. “I’m Jenny McEwan” I say, “I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock. With Isla,”

“Oh yes. Take a seat,” the receptionist says.

Moments later a smiling, red headed girl appears, ‘Isla’ is embroidered in red letters on her black, high necked shirt. “Come through,” she says waving to a seat at one of the sinks. “Cut and a piercing, wasn’t it?”

“Ah,” I say sheepishly, “I’ve changed my mind about the piercing, if that’s OK.”

“Of course,” Isla says. “Why wouldn’t it be? It’s your choice. Now, how about the cut. What did you have in mind?” Isla has picked up her electric clippers.

“Well, I wanted something shorter. With summer coming, I just need something easier to manage. Actually, something like yours would be good.”

“This isn’t all that short,” Isla replies.

“Well, it’s shorter than mine is now. I think it will look nice like that and it will be short enough for what I want.”

“OK,” says Isla, “let’s go with that.” She seems abrupt. I wonder how much of this has been all set up by Inward Bound, but I’m not all that brave at the hairdressers at the best of times. Isla sweeps a black sheet across me and goes to work washing the chlorinated water out of my hair before setting to with comb, scissors and clippers. It all feels odd to me, but it doesn’t take all that long and when Isla has finished combing and cutting I feel rather pleased with the result.

I’m wondering what her next step will be, as Isla pulls the black sheet clear. “There you go,” Isla says.

I stand up. Isla is waiting, holding the sheet. “It’s on account,” I say, “it should have all been arranged.” Isla, evidently still hoping for a tip, looks across at the receptionist who pulls the earphones of her i-pod out of her ears.

“S’allright,” the receptionist says, dropping the copy of Hello! that she’d been reading. Isla looks maybe a bit disappointed, smiles and says she hopes to see me again before too long.

“Was there a message left for me?” I ask, beginning to get the hang of the game by now.

The girl appears to drag a faint memory from the depths of her consciousness. “Oh. Yes. Well there was this.” She pulls out another envelope. Inside is a note and a Travel Card good for a railway journey to London and the Underground. The note says “Warwick Station, London train 14:49”

I get to the station with fifteen minutes to spare before the train. Thinking that I’ll pass the time with a cup of coffee, I almost get to the front of the queue in the station café before I realise that I have no money on me. Embarrassed I slip out of the café, feeling as though everyone is looking at me now, not just the men. I step back onto the platform.

I feel the mobile in my pocket and think at least I can report in to Angela. I dial her number. The phone replies that I need a top up. “Very clever, Inward Bound,” I think. “You’ve given me a pay-as-you-go phone with no money on it.” I can receive calls, but I can’t make them. I’ve been neatly tied to an electronic string…

The train carries me swiftly on to London and I spend the journey gazing out of the window. I’m feeling increasingly anxious as I am carried further and further away from home and safety.  As the countryside begins to give way to the London suburbs I am startled by the mobile going off again.

“Hi, Jenny. You caught the train then.”

I’m startled. How does she know? Was there someone from Inward Bound at the station?  Is there someone on the train watching me?

“It sounds noisy.” Of course. She can hear that I’m on the train. “Anyway - more instructions! When you get in to Marylebone Station, I want you to go on to the Underground and go to Monument. Got that?”

“Yes,” I say, “and what then?”

But, by the time I ask the question, the caller has hung up.

I get to Marylebone Station and head for the Underground. The journey involves me my finding my way on to the Bakerloo line, to Embankment, changing and taking the Circle Line to Monument. As I emerge into the daylight, the mobile rings once more.

“Jenny?” It’s the same voice.

“Yes?”

“Not far now! Find Gracechurch Street, follow it into Fenchurch Street, and make your way to

The Elephant. It’s up beyond Mincing Lane. On the left. Bye.”

A pub! That can mean food, drink and company. Things are looking up!

As I walk through the streams of City workers making their way home, I’m still anxious about being naked under my tee-shirt and jeans. But of course, they don’t really notice me. They’re all thinking about getting home. Comfortable, familiar, secure home. But what about me? I kept musing that as they journeyed to the security of home, I was on my way to a very different type of security!

Oh dear! I stop as I suddenly realise that I can see The Elephant. Just what is waiting for me only a few steps ahead?

“The rest of you lot are in the function room,” the bar maid calls as I step into the almost empty bar. “It’s through there,” she nods.

I go through to a room at the back to find four other girls dressed just like me. With them is Charlotte, whom I’d met after my initial enquiry, and a short black guy. He’s talking in an American accent to a rather fit looking guy that looks like he's taking time out from training for some sport or other.

“Hi, Jenny,” says Charlotte smiling, pushing a strand of her blonde hair back from her face, “glad you got here. How did you enjoy the journey?”

“Well, I guess it was an anxious trip,” I say. Laughter from the others suggests that anxiety has been a common experience. They all look to be about the same age as I am. There’s a mixture of shapes and sizes. A bunch of normal looking girls having a drink in a pub. Well what did I expect? If I’ve learned anything from my forays into the fetish scene it’s that you can’t tell that someone is into this just by looking at them. 

“Here, have a drink,” says Charlotte handing me a glass without asking me what I want. “It’s a good way to break the ice. This is Carrie, Sue, Anna and Judy.” She points to the other girls. “And these two are Gerry,” she points to the American. He returns a broad grin. “And, George.” George cheerily raises a hand. I see him smile, he's got a sort of Hugh Grant look about him, but tougher.

“Now,” continues Charlotte, “just a word to you five. This is your last chance to abort the mission.” She looks around at the four of us. Nobody says they want to bail out. The other four girls have got rather tense expressions. I guess I look the same. “OK,” Charlotte says, “so that’s us ready to roll.”

Gerry joins in, “the carriage awaits, duty and honour call us onward to our fate, so let’s go!”

The combination of the drinks and Charlotte and Gerry’s urgings mean that we get up in a more mellow frame of mind than we all probably arrived in, but I guess that the other four are still feeling as nervous as I am. Certainly none of us say anything as we follow Charlotte, George and Gerry to an NCP car park nearby. Gerry points out a smart Mercedes executive coach. “There you go, ladies,” he says jovially.

We take our seats and strap ourselves in. Still no one says anything. I guess we have all got used to following instructions on our journeys to London and now we wait for more. As we move off, things start to shift up a gear.

Gerry is driving. George, sitting beside him, turns around in his seat.

“Now, ladies,” George begins, as the coach bumps out of the car park and into the late afternoon traffic, “you may have noticed that the coach has tinted glass so you will not be visible to passers by or other road users. We have to be a little confidential about our destination and maybe you all could use some sleep, so I think it would be a good idea for you to put these sleep masks on.” He passes them back to us. “You can make believe you’re in business class. The seats in this are just as good!” George is an effective salesman. We obey his request without question.

A moment later, Charlotte comes to crouch down beside me. “It’s a good idea if you keep quiet for the ride,” she whispers. I feel her smooth a strip of tape across my lips. It’s just a small piece, and I guess I could easily dislodge it if I chose. It’s not exactly a gag, but it’s strongly symbolic. I hear her whispering the same thing to the girl next to me. I guess that she does the same to all of us. And then, Charlotte is back again to say softly “now don’t worry” before drawing my hands onto my lap and slipping handcuffs onto my wrists one on either side of the seatbelt lap strap.

So here we are, strapped into a strange car, blindfolded, gagged and handcuffed, all without protest. Ah the power of stress, hunger, alcohol and fatigue!  And desire. After all, we’re all here because we want to be here.

Out of the car park and over the next ……hour, or was it two? We drive on heading for… where? Our fate I suppose, as Gerry had joked earlier.

As the coach whirrs along my mind wanders to The Story of O, which I read years ago. It begins as O is driven through Paris with her lover, her naked buttocks against the seat of the taxi, while she sat there in gloves. I had found this first passage as arousing as anything in the book. Now, my own situation is not so different as I am driven through the English countryside, a restrained captive, made captive with my own consent.  This, I feel is every bit as bizarre and what’s more it’s real.  Damn, the effects of the drink are kicking in. I’m going to be desperate for a pee, if the journey goes on much longer!     

The slow stretching of my bladder begins to command my attention and the more it occupies my mind, the worse it becomes. Judging from the restless wriggling of my companions, the others are feeling the same!

Then, it’s Charlotte’s voice. “OK, girls I think we’ve got time for a comfort break. Does anyone want us to stop?” The chorus of “mmm’s” gives her the answer she expects. “Gerry,” she says. “Better pull off when you can.”

The coach stops. Charlotte takes our blindfolds off and releases our handcuffs, but not the tape across our lips. We get out to into the dusk on a lonely country road. It is silent and the trees all around cast deep pools of shadow.

“Just go on the grass,” Charlotte says, “You will all be OK. There shouldn’t be anyone around.”

I don’t make a habit of peeing in public places, but any port in a storm and it seems like we are miles from anywhere …..and oh the relief! - an emotion I could tell was fully shared by the others.

We get back in the coach and strap ourselves back in. Without being asked, we put our blindfolds back on. Charlotte slips the cuffs back on my wrists. “All ready, Gerry,” she calls and we move off. We resume our journey only to stop a few minutes later. The car makes a sharp turn and slows, turning this way and that until we can hear that we are driving on gravel. Finally, less than five minutes after our pee-break, we come to a halt.

“It’s a pity you girls couldn’t hold on for a few more minutes,” George laughs.

We are taken out of the car again and the blindfolds come off. The tape stays across our lips and our hands are re-cuffed in front of us again. We stand on the drive outside a rather large house, surrounded by parkland, enveloped in the smells of a summer evening.

As I walk past Charlotte, she is smirking and it seems to me that having the five of us relieve ourselves in the road has all been part of the script!

“OK girls,” says Charlotte again, “you have made it! You will get some supper. Next, you’ll get the chance to make your safe calls. After that, you’ll be taken to your rooms and given the chance to freshen up. Then, we’ll get you properly admitted. Welcome to Inward Bound.”

© Copyright Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2008

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com   Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

All characters  & organisations fictitious

Acknowledgements

Phil & Freddie would like to acknowledge the help given by the editors in creating the final version of this tale. Many thanks to Dennis, Peter, Red & Rohanna for their input, corrections and suggestions. If there are any typos, punctuation mistakes, inconsistencies or continuity errors left in Thesis then they are Phil’s and Freddie’s fault!

1. Chapter 7:   Admissions Procedure

Course 8 / Day 1 Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Josephine: Fifty was somewhat surprised by her session with Celia after her admission, but took her initial challenge without protest. There is every sign is that she will quickly adapt to the Inward Bound regime.

Jenny’s Recollections

We are taken into a rather well-appointed dining room. Our group of five is shown towards a separate table just for us. There are place cards at each seat with our names on. Mine has the number Fifty in brackets after it. The other girls all seem to have numbers beside their names too. No one explains what they mean. We’re left to sit ourselves down to eat.

I’m trying to take it all on-board. Thinking about how I’m going to write this up for the research proposal.

Supper is on the table already, waiting for us. It’s fairly Spartan food and makes for an interesting contrast with our gracious surroundings. There’s a big bowl of muesli, a pair of stainless steel water jugs, a plate of oat cakes and another bowl filled with fresh fruit. We’ve each got a plastic beaker, a metal bowl and a plastic spoon. It’s all pretty basic, muesli with water, oatcakes, fruit and water to drink. This diet looks like it’s going to be good for us, if it goes on like this. One thing is certain; any spare fat will be history for me, if we eat like this for two months!

Nobody comes to take the tape from our mouths. Carrie is the first one to peel it away and start spooning some muesli into her bowl. Her handcuffs clank against the metal bowl, as she reaches for one of the water jugs.

After the long journey and nothing to eat since breakfast, I am hoping for something, well, something more normal, and hot! Something like the richer and more indulgent meal being consumed by Charlotte, Gerry and George, at the next table – with wine! There are some none too subtle messages going out.

None of us say anything. I guess that the others are as nervous as I am. Having the tape and blindfolds on during the journey seems to have put us all into an introspective mood. I look around at the others. They all look about the same age as I am. Sue is maybe a few years older, a little more heavily built than the rest of us. Anna is quite tall and willowy; Judy slim, but with nicely prominent tits. One good thing; at least I’m not the only one that hasn’t had her hair clipped really short. Carrie has her hair done pretty much like mine. It’s such a beautiful auburn, I can see why she wouldn’t want to have it clipped. All the others do seem to have got their extra ear piercing, though. They all have a single gold stud in rather red looking ear lobes.

At the other table “the Faculty”, as I’ve christened them to myself, are all chatting away; inconsequential stuff about the trip up, as far as I can tell.

Eventually the Faculty finishes, pushing away their plates, most of them leaving something. We’ve been waiting quite a while and even if we haven’t found it that appetising, we’ve managed to clear almost all of the food that they served up for us.

Two more Inward Bound staff arrive. One of them points at me and beckons me to follow her, out of the dining room along a corridor and down a flight of stairs of stairs to an office. She dials a number on the phone and hands the receiver to me. “Your safe call”, she says, “Just say you got here OK”.

Eventually Angela’s voice mail picks up – it’s just as well that I’m not in any sort of jam!

“Hi, Angela, it’s Jenny,” I say. “Just a quick call to say I got here safe and sound. I’m at …er…(I look down and realise that I can’t give Angela the number because there is no number on the phone) …at IWB. I am just checking in. ‘Bye.”

I hand the receiver back to the woman. As she takes it, I can see she is obviously very amused by my reference to “checking in”, as though I was at some grand hotel. Well, I’ll keep up appearances as long as I can.

We leave the office and further down the passage, get to what I guess is going to be my room, at least for tonight.

I’m not sure that ‘room’ is the right word.  This is the first confirmation of what Charlotte had told me at the interview, “We try to push your limits and it can be quite demanding”. The room looks exactly like a prison cell. There are three solid walls, but the corridor wall is all bars, floor to ceiling.  Inside I can see a couch with a blanket and towel folded up on it. There are en suite facilities, well sort of - a wash hand basin next to a French style squatting toilet with a shower head over the toilet tray. There’s one small window, barred of course, high in the outer wall. I presume it will admit daylight come tomorrow but there’s no way I can reach it so there won’t be much of a view. Maybe clouds if I’m lucky.

My escort engages in a real conversation for the first time. “Fifty, I’m your trainer and my name is Josephine,” she says. “You can call me Jo,” I hadn’t been expecting to be allowed such familiarity, “except when I tell you otherwise.”

“Pardon?” I say. “What’s with the ‘Fifty’? My name’s Jenny.”

Jo shakes her head. “No. Not here. Slaves have numbers, not names. You have left Jenny behind. As long as you are here, you’re ‘Fifty’. See, here’s your number on the door. Still, Jen-ny; Fif-ty – your number’s not far away from your old name!”

Jo waves me into the cell and takes off my handcuffs. “OK Fifty, get undressed, please, and have a shower and there’s a tooth brush by the basin. Be sharp!”

Her snapped instruction spurs me to action. I guess if I’m going to be a slave, I’m going to have to get used to doing as I’m told. The numbers thing is hardly a surprise but it certainly adds to the stress. I’ll have to think to remember my number. I can imagine there will be penalties for not responding when I’m called. This could be a focus for some of the research. How people respond to having their identities re-assigned and to what extent their behaviour changes as a result of changes in the way that they are identified. 

Of course, there are not many clothes to struggle out of, just the tee-shirt and jeans.  I stand with my feet on the footpads of the toilet. The shower controls are within easy reach. The water cascades down over me, into the toilet pan and away down the drain. It’s very efficient. In short order, I’m washed, dried and my teeth are cleaned. I turn around to see that Jo has swept the clothes into a bag.

“Very good, Fifty,” she says. “The next job is to have you collared and cuffed. If you wondered why we wanted measurements of your neck, wrists and ankles, here is why.” She snaps five bands on me. They are flat polished metal and lined with black rubber and clip efficiently into place. “And, that’s you done for now,” says Jo.

“What about clothes?” I say, conscious that Jo is picking up the bag containing my tee-shirt and jeans.

“Clothes?” Jo seems genuinely puzzled, as though I’d asked for something extraordinary.

“Yes. I wondered what it was that you wanted me to wear.”

At this point, Jo breaks out laughing. “No, no clothes for you, Fifty. You didn’t follow your first instruction, did you?” I guess that my confusion shows on my face. “You know. About what you were told to wear in your Joining Instructions?”

“But …,” I start to try to explain, but Jo presses her finger against my lips.

“Shhhh!” she says gently. “It doesn’t matter why. These things happen, but the why never matters. We just think that the best way to help you avoid similar mistakes is to keep you completely naked throughout your time with us. All slaves get to go naked at some stage; it’s just that you will get to be naked right from the start. You might even get an all-over tan, if the weather is good. Well, apart from your neck, wrists and ankles.” She laughs again. “Enjoy!”

She stands back and slides the cell door closed with a clang. It seems to lock automatically.

And there I am, left all alone and wondering just what I have got myself into.

Another of the staff appears outside my room. She is tall with red spiky hair and blue eyes. She wears blue scrubs and white surgical clogs – and speaks with a lilting South African accent. It’s as if a member of the cast from “ER” has just walked onto the set.

She has all the breezy confidence of a doctor or a nurse. “Hi Fifty, just stand back and I’ll let myself in,” she says as she swipes a card through a card reader outside my “room”.

The door unlatches and she enters, carrying what looks like the sort of utility box you can buy at Mother and Baby stores. She sets the box down on my bed and opens it to show various sterile packets.

“OK, Fifty. I’m Celia. I’m here to teach you a bit about personal hygiene.”

“Hygiene? But I’ve only just had a shower and ……”

Celia is laughing, hands on hips. “No, Fifty. Internal hygiene, silly.”

Internal hygiene? What is the girl talking about – oh, but wait a minute, I have just cleaned my teeth, so she cannot be interested in teeth …..

“Fifty, when was the last time you went for a crap?”

I’m not really happy talking about this sort of thing, not even - especially not even - with Joe. I blush and fall over my words.

“Hmmm, well whenever it was, I bet you didn’t really clean yourself out, inside. Did you? Well, you see, Fifty, slaves have got to look after themselves inside and out. Owners expect it. And you are going to start doing it. Now, on your knees, over there, by the toilet.”

Celia’s not expecting any arguments and I’m going redder by the second. Obeying seems best, but surely …… surely not …..

I am facing away from my bed, but can clearly hear the sound of some of the packs being opened and then I feel Celia rubbing something on my anus. She is wearing rubber gloves. Instinctively, I clench my buttocks, and get a sharp slap on my bum for my pains – which really stings.

“Fifty ……!”

I’m sorry, it’s just …… well it’s just …….

“You’re not used to having an enema?”

OH! Jeeze! OH!

“Er, well no. I’m just not. Sorry. It’s … I …..”

“Well, it will be another first for you. And, I’m sure you will get used to it just fine. Now. I’m going to do the first one with you and I’m going to watch you do another one right after me. After that, And we will go on doing them till I’m happy you can do it. Then it will be down to you to clean yourself out daily. Got that?  We’ll check, hmmmmm?”

“Oh, …..”

“No, the right answer is: ‘Thank You Mistress!’”

“Oh, look I’m sorry, err it’s just well, I’m just not used to ….”

But Celia is laughing and somehow that’s encouraging, but gee! High  cringe  factor, as far as I’m concerned.

Celia again: “So here’s what you are going to do. Put some warm water in this metal bowl – warm, NOT hot. Still as its going inside you, I guess I don’t need to labour that.” She fills a metal bowl from the hose tap next to my toilet. “Next, you fill this enema syringe like this?  Now you – come on, it doesn’t bite.”

I reluctantly take hold of the very large metal syringe. The business end is about as wide as a finger and rounded at the open end.

“Now, I have lubed your anal bud, so take the syringe to your rear end – yes like that – feel it on your bud – do you feel it?”

“Yes, Celia.” I’m horrified by the whole process, by what she’s doing and by the fact that she’s there watching.

“OK. So now, we gently push it in. Make as if you are having a crap. Are you? Would another slap help?” I shake my head. It’s the last thing I want right now. “AHHH, there you go!”

The syringe feels cold and slippery …. but finally, it’s in up to the hilt, so to speak. A cold, rigid, finger up inside me.

“Now squeeze the plunger with your other fingers.”

I’ve got my forehead resting on the floor, knees apart, bum in the air, one hand on the barrel of the syringe and one hand free to squeeze ….. the water as it enters me is warm and comforting. I must have sighed with relief, because Celia replies with the well worn medical cliché, “There, that wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

No, it isn’t, except for my pride. But then perhaps the demolition of personal pride and self consciousness is one of the things I am going to be learning?

“OK. Now squeeze your bum tight shut. Slide the syringe out.” It’s a curious, slippery sensation as it comes away. “And get over the loo.” Anxiety must be showing on my face because Celia answers my unspoken fears. “Don’t worry, you won’t leak if you squeeze tight!”

I squeeze. Boy, do I squeeze!

“Now you are over the loo, Just let go ……”

A stream of water  - and other material pours out of me. Yeuch! This is so embarrassing! But, not so embarrassing as to prevent Celia making me go through the whole thing four times, till at last the water coming out of me is clear. We watch it passing across the toilet pan tray and down the drain.

“Now, that’s better, Fifty!” I will expect you to do that every day and after clean the kit afterwards. You keep it in this box.” She motions to the utility box. “It’s got to be spotless. Absolutely spotless. Always. You got that?”

“Yes, Celia. Sorry! Mistress.”

“Good girl!” She strips off her gloves and discards them along with the sterile wraps into the flip top stainless steel waste bin in the corner of my room. “Right: now go and wash your bum and hands and clean your teeth, if you haven’t done that already. I’ll leave that to you. Then it’s bed time.”

Celia reaches through the bars and swipes her card to gain her exit. I watch as she leaves. It’s been an oddly “veterinary” incident, leaving me feeling slightly less than fully human, somehow. I mean having someone else telling me how to look after myself, as if I could not be trusted on my own …..

“Stand away from the bars,” she tells me, as she reaches out to press a button on the wall beside the door. There is a quiet whir as an aluminium mesh shutter starts to slide down on the outside of the bars, cutting me off from the rest of the room. It eventually reaches the floor and a clunk announces that it, too, has locked into place. I am left completely alone, taken aback, indignant and shivery. I lay down on the couch. The surface is wipe-clean PVC, but at least there is a cotton cellular blanket. Shortly afterwards, the light goes out. It’s very dark. The only light is a tiny red LED glowing up in the ceiling.

I am left alone to mull over the past few hours; the journey, the other girls, the ‘Faculty’, being collared and cuffed, being given a number, and then the humiliation of the enema. It’s odd. I’m here partly because Joe and I are not as complementary as I’d like us to be sexually and I am going to be trained by a girl called, Jo. Strange. Then I think, how will I explain this to Joe when I get back? Suntanned, but with white marks on my wrists and ankles and neck? I’ll have to think of something, though heaven knows what. But what would he feel if I just told him the truth?

Finally I find myself thinking about my safe call to Angela. I really wish that I could have spoken to her in person but I wasn’t surprised to get her voice mail. Also, I would have felt happier if I could have given an actual number. Do they allow the transmission of their number on outgoing calls? I called Angela’s university direct dial line. Does the university exchange record incoming numbers? That way, she can get the number. Could someone pick out the Inward Bound number from all the thousands which might be logged?

Suddenly, as thought piles on thought, worry on worry, there’s a cold stab of panic in my stomach. I could be much more exposed and alone than I thought. Anxiety churns in my mind. I try to calm myself, thinking back to the project working out how I am going to describe this; trying to think how I can separate my responses from my observations; what it might mean for the research. It’s a good distraction. At last I am overtaken by sleep.

Chapter 8:   A Problem With Puppy Fat

Course 8 : Day 2 Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: #50

Josephine: The first part of #50’s induction this morning should not present any serious problems. George and I will take care of her initial physical with the others. We’ll start with the standard introduction to the weight loss/ fitness programme and make an assessment of what she might need during the rest of her course.  

Jenny's Recollections

Well it’s started. I’ve been anticipating and also dreading this for quite a while and now we’re off. After the tension of yesterday’s events, the worry about what would happen, the – yes – the stress of it all, it was quite a relief to be left alone in my  - ah - room. I worried myself asleep thinking about my safe call – I would have felt a lot happier, if I had been able to speak to Angela in person.  Anyway, when sleep finally came, I stayed asleep until the lights came on and the shutter went up. 

First thing this morning, we are all collected together and taken to a gym. I’m feeling really screwed up with embarrassment, being naked because of not following instructions! I feel fee so stupid! Completely humiliated! It’s a new building on the other side of a small courtyard just across from the building where we were kept last night. It’s awful having to go outside between the two buildings to feel the cool air on my naked skin for the first time. 

The gym is pretty well equipped. There are six treadmills, six cross-trainers and a serious collection of free weights, together with weights benches and some other weight training machines. I’ve never been much into keeping fit. The university has a gym, but I never really find time to use it. This stuff looks quite scary! Thinking back to why I am here, I can see that there would be plenty of opportunities to study a mixture of stress and play in here.

On the plus side, there’s also what looks like a rather nice pool which connects through a tunnel to an outdoor pool extension.

Jo and George tell us all to strip. I’m naked already along with Sue. Thank goodness I have a partner in crime, so to speak. We exchange a smile, recognising our shared mistakes. I can see that Sue is a few years older than me. She‘s built more heavily than I am. She’s a bit overweight if I’m honest. What she does have is a great pair of breasts. I’ve always felt that mine were too small, Sue’s are substantial with large dark aureolas. Suddenly I’m conscious that I’m staring at them. She returns my look and grins. I guess we all know why we’re here.  

The other three are wearing grey track suits and one of them, Carrie, doesn’t like being ordered to undress. They ignore her objections and eventually she complies. Their whole approach is very matter-of-fact, assuming we’ll do as we are told, treating us as so many units needing to be processed. It’s all very impersonal, but not much worse than trying to check out a book at the university library!

We get weighed, measured and have the thickness of our skin folds measured with some distinctly aggressive looking callipers. They look nasty, but they don’t hurt. In fact, the sensation is on the pleasant side of strange. Jo and George note down the results without commenting on any of them. They just wave us to come with a click of the fingers, or wave us away as they need us for each stage of the process.

It’s only when they have obviously got all the details that they want, that George goes out with all the notes and Jo takes some time to explain what they are doing. She has us line up against the wall, facing out with our hands on our heads. “There are two things you need to be aware of as a slave. One, are you fit enough for the things you’ll have to do? And, two, do you look the way your owners – that’s us – want you to? We’re going to make sure you measure up on both counts. You all probably know about having your Body Mass Index worked out from your height and weight. However, muscle weighs more than fat and BMI becomes less accurate the more fat you lose and the more muscle you put on. At that point, it’s better to measure skin fold thickness and look up your Body Fat Percentage. For you girls, we are aiming for 20% of your weight as fat. That will let your muscles show through with lots of sexy definition. We like lean, well-muscled, slaves who look nice and are fit and strong. Unfortunately, this can’t be achieved in the time you have with us, but you are going to get a flying start and we’ll take you as far as we can - so there will be homework for you after you are discharged. We WILL be checking up on you after you get home, just so when you come back you won’t have to start from scratch. …………..”

Homework? Checking up on us? When we come back!?? Gosh, I had not expected that!  It’s beginning to feel like being in the grip of some sort of secret society. Perhaps we are. But are they really serious? Best not ask, just keep my eyes and ears open. I need to try to remember all this for my thesis anyway. It certainly ups the stress levels, the way in which they assume they are in complete control of every aspect of our lives. But then, thinking about it, they are.

George comes back carrying a box which he places on the table at one end of the gym. One by one, he points to each of us and beckons for us to come forward.

First we get a rubber chest strap, which fits just beneath our breasts. This is part of a heart rate monitor and the monitor goes on our wrists. They are obviously taking care of us. Second, we’re told to put on a rubber G-string, which is pleasantly firm. Third, we get what looks like a swimming costume for each of us. It almost feels odd to have clothes on again.

George explains that these are “triathlon suits”. Mine fits firmly rather than tightly and it’s definitely snug between the legs on top of the rubber G-string but it’s not uncomfortable.

Once we’ve all got our suits on and we’re standing in a line across the gym  - hands on our heads again - Jo begins to work her way along the line. She gives each of us a belt, which locks around the waist. There is a pouch, or a pocket at the back which I guess in normal circumstances would be for a sports drink bottle, but for us looks like it contains some sort of box. We can’t open the pocket. Jo takes a wire which issues from the pocket and pushes it through a small zip opening in the back of our suits to plugs it into some sort of connector on the back of the G-string. What’s that all about? Some other sort of monitor?

“OK, girls,” George calls us to order. “Slaves have to be fit and so we are going to begin to change the habits of a lifetime for some of you.” George looks across at the slightly overweight Sue. “You are all going to get a daily work out. We will always start with an aerobics session. We are going to keep you at your optimum heart rate for “fat burn”.  But to help you do the best you can, as it were, your kit will deliver a little added incentive ………”

George presses a button on what looks like a small TV remote. Carrie immediately yelps and rubs her crotch, as if she has been stung. George continues, “Your G-strings are made from an electroconductive rubber. It runs, as you can feel, rather snugly between your legs, over your anus and between your labia. If you do not keep up with the treadmill settings, or the supervisor thinks you are giving less than 100 % - well Fifty-two?”

“It really stings!” Carrie looks upset at being chosen as the guinea pig for this particular demonstration.

“Yep,” George smiles, “it really stings and will go on stinging until you catch up and or start doing your best!

The juice comes from the power packs on your belts, so you are carrying the means to maintain your own discipline. OK, enjoy your session. Jo will look after you!”

George’s lecture leaves me feeling …… feeling, surprisingly, not surprised.  I’m actually intrigued by the ingenuity Inward Bound is showing and glad that we  - well, I - am going to be pushed and kept up to the mark. It’s all rather delicious and another interesting example of stress for me to remember. I must be crazy. In fact, I definitely am crazy, because I start to get wet between my legs. That, of course, is making for better electrical contact and I start to get even more wet at the idea of that. Yes, definitely crazy. In fact, certifiable.

George hands the remote to Jo, who takes each of us across to one of the treadmills. She goes along the line setting us off. She presses the “custom” button and the inclination of my machine rises and the treadmill’s belt begins to move. The display reads, “Inclination :  2%. Speed : 5 kph”, so its just a steady walk for now. I cast a glance to the others – we are not all doing the same, so the settings must have been made with some reference to what we said about ourselves on our application forms to join the course.

After about a minute the treadmill speeds up. Every minute the speed rises again and every alternate minute, the incline increases until I’m walking at 6 kph on an incline of 5.5%. After 25 minutes the calorie counter tells me I have burned through the thick end of 300 calories, but now I’m starting to get tired. It’s not just me. Anna glances round and finds Jo with her back turned. She presses the speed control on her treadmill to reduce the speed only to find her G-string immediately delivers a sharp sting. She cries out and Jo is at her elbow at once.

“Getting tough?”

“Yes, Mistress. Please can you give me a break. I’m still stinging!” I’m surprised that she wants to quit. She doesn’t look much less fit than I am and while I’m tired, I can take this so far. I’m also surprised that she says “Mistress”. Well, not so surprised, I suppose, but it’s the first real acknowledgement of the “traditional” relationship between Doms and subs in a BDSM relationship. I mean, I know I’ve been handcuffed and stripped and collared and numbered and all, but somehow hearing Anna say that out loud makes it all the more real.

“OK, Twenty-four, stand on the side of the mill and come off for a moment – you others keep going EXACTLY as you are.” We all keep on walking but we’re all watching what is going to happen to Anna too.

Jo slows the treadmill to a stop and lets Anna dismount.

Jo says, “Twenty-four, slaves have to learn obedience. Would you like six of the crop across your bum as a break from the treadmill?”

“Yes, Mistress. Please.”

We can follow proceedings because they are reflected in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors which line one of the walls of the gym. It’s the first time there has been any suggestion of punishment and while I knew that it was going to be part of things here – actually, I think part of me has been looking forward to that if I’m honest. – Nevertheless, I suppose I’m surprised by how casually it is being viewed as part of the normal state of affairs by Jo, how ready Anna is to accept it, and how captivated all of us slaves are by the spectacle, even as we carry on jogging to keep up with our machines.

Jo delivers six strokes at one stroke every 30 seconds. Quite hard. Anna struggles to keep still and after the sixth, Jo springs her trap.

“Now, Twenty-four, back on the treadmill.”

“Mistress?” There’s a catch in Anna’s voice that tells us that she wasn’t expecting that at all.

“Yes?”

“But you said …”

“No, you thought a spanking was an alternative; I said it was a break. I prefer it to be an extra encouragement. You have had your break. Now it’s got to be paid for. Back on the treadmill!”

Jo fires the remote and Anna yelps. Immediately, she is back on the machine and jogging to keep up with it.

“Funnily enough, Twenty-four, you only had a couple of minutes to go anyway, so let’s give you another ….five.

Eventually, five sweating slaves, all breathing heavily are allowed to step back onto firm ground to listen to another short lecture from Jo. “This programme is going to be about losing weight and gaining fitness. It is really very straightforward: eat less, work more! We want you to lose fat, but gain muscle. The safe rate of fat loss is about a half kilo per week. We are going to take you through that by giving you 500 calories less each day than you need to maintain your present body composition. We will feed you 250 calories less and make you work 250 calories more, which of course adds up to 500.  Simple. We will do treadmill work one day and weights the next day and every fifth day you get a rest day. Any questions?”

Nobody says anything. I think we’ve all come to conclusion that least said is soonest mended when the Inward Bound staff are around. Jo looks around at the five of us. She’s obviously sat through enough of these sessions to know what’s going through our minds.

“No? Fair enough. Don’t always be so quiet though, sometimes it might pay you to speak out.” I look at the others. They are all wearing rather impassive expressions. I don’t get the impression that they believe her. I don’t either. Jo continues, “Well, go wash your kit and then you can have 15 minutes in the pool and admire Twenty-four’s bum. Let me see.” Jo beckons Anna towards her and instructs her with a spin of a finger to peel off her kit and turn around. “Hmmm not bad. You won’t enjoy sitting on that for a while, girl. Oh, by the way.” She turns back towards us. “The rest of you girls take note. It will be harder for the next one of you that tries to wriggle out of hard work!”

Now that, I do believe, because anyone could tell that Jo had obviously enjoyed herself. But then, there is the luxury of the pool. The water is warm, but not too warm and the feeling as it slips up across my naked body is wonderful. I strike out from the side and the water streams between my legs and around my breasts. Ah, if only I could start every day like this. Could Joe and I find somewhere to go in the summer where we could swim naked: just us two …?

We are each taken back to our cells for breakfast. I say “breakfast” - it’s not much given how hard we’ve been working, but I guess that is the idea. It’s served on a tray pushed through a gap at the foot of the bars that close off my cell. There’s fruit, a high fibre cereal bar and some water. The fruit and the cereal bar are in a metal dog’s bowl. The water is in a bottle with a sports cap. I can’t get the top off. Sitting, naked, on the floor of my cell, eating out of the dog bowl, and sucking on the water bottle I feel very different from the person that started out to the Sports Centre yesterday.  I wonder how different I’ll feel by the end of the day, the end of the week, the end of this whole programme?

Never mind coming up with a research agenda; how is this going to affect me?

Suddenly, it seems like a long time to give myself over to these people. On the other hand, while I’ve got over the sensation of having the tight rubber strap between my labia lips and the thrill from the threat of the shocks, I’m sill feeling quite turned on by the whole situation. In fact, thinking about it I’ve felt this sort of low level arousal all the time I’ve been here. It’s like the background radiation in the universe; not very energetic, but there all the time everywhere. In some ways it’s quite tiring, in others quite relaxing. I feel abstracted, somehow, as if I’m not quite in the real world. (Well, maybe I’m not.) Is that a response to the stress of the situation? I guess I need to think about that. Although, I must confess, analytical thought is proving a bit difficult when the main recollection of the morning is how you felt with the threat of a shock in the pussy, if you dared to stop jogging! So, I’ll keep remembering what I can and I’ll try to work out the meaning later.   

Chapter 9:   Bad Hair Day

Course 8 / Day 2: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: Fifty will be a stretched by her encounters today. Everyone, please be aware of this, if you have any contact with her after her sessions this morning or afternoon, please refer to Gerry or Celia in order to check on how her sessions went. 

Jenny’s Recollections

I’ve got over the exercise session and I’ve finished breakfast. Jo appears.  I’m handcuffed and taken out of my room.

As I am led through the building I see some of the other girls hard at work cleaning and tidying. I pass Judy. She’s on her knees, wearing some sort of grey track suit. She’s scrubbing at the floor. She looks up as I go by and I see she’s been gagged with a bright red ball. Jo tells her to keep busy and Judy responds with a “Hnng Hnngstregh” which I take to mean “Yes, Mistress.”

I wonder if something like that will be done to me. I suppose so. Suddenly I’m feeling confused. All this time I’ve been thinking about the course and I’ve no real idea what is actually going to be involved. I look back over my shoulder as I follow Jo along the corridor. Judy is working hard. She looks up again as we reach the corner. I can’t tell if she’s unhappy about what she’s doing or if she’s enjoying it. Maybe she doesn’t even know herself. I’m in two minds about most of what’s happened so far.

Jo takes me to see the genial and enthusiastic black American who was on the coach with us yesterday.  As soon as he speaks, I think he could double for Eddie Murphy. “Hi, Honey. Nice to see you again. For now, just call me Gerry,” he says.

Why is it that if you have a bunch of Americans, there’s always one called Gerry? And of course, he calls me ‘Honey’.

I’m still standing in the doorway.

“Well, come on in Honey. Come on in and sit right down!”

“Do I have a choice?” I’m finding the combination of his polite tone and the fact I’m handcuffed confusing, to say the least.

He laughs. “Gee, you Brits are all so droll. Nope, you ain’t got no choice at all. And, to make sure you stay put, you get strapped to the chair here, too.”

So, he takes my cuffs off and clips each wrist to the chair. The chair is comfortable and heavy. As Gerry would say, the chair and I weren’t goin’ no place.

He stands back and looks at me. It’s a curious stare, appraising but not sexual.

“Hmmm, so you just startin’ out here, Hon?”

“Yes, that’s right; I arrived here, er, yesterday, I think.” What am I thinking? He knows exactly when I got here. He was in the bus with all of us.

I have no watch – they said not to bring one -  and there’s no clock in my room. Room? Actually cell, I guess, but I can’t quite bring myself to say that. I feel a bit embarrassed to be here. Now that is incongruous! Worrying about being here, when maybe I should be more worried about the fact that I’m naked and restrained in a chair. I have not been given any clothes, save for a collar which has been locked around my neck and bands around my wrists and ankles. The collar has a dog tag style ID disc which apparently says I’m Fifty. Number Fifty, I hope. Not age Fifty!

Gerry brings me back to the present. “OK baby: this is going to be a fun day for you. This is make-up time!” He takes a comb and draws it through my hair. “Say, weren’t you supposed to get this cut before you got here? Make your hair manageable?”

“Well, yes I did. It’s much shorter, it’s  …………”

Gerry interrupts, “Uh uh, no you didn’t, Hon. WE said ask for a number 4 buzz cut and you asked for a trim. Right?”

“Well, yes. I just thought a crew cut might be a little on the short side.”

“On the short side?? Gee, I just love the way you Brits talk about a crew cut. So navy! Well, babe, the thing is – do you read?” Gerry is looking really inquisitive now.

“Read?”

“Yeah, read, as in books?”

“Well, yes. I work at a university. Books are us!” Immediately, I worry about my flippant remark and how he will take it.

“Works at a university!” Gerry furrow his brow. “Well, I just wondered if you had done any reading …. about DS relationships and how when the Master speaks to the slave what the slave is supposed to do is to just go and do ?”

“Well, yes. I suppose I, I didn’t know how literally to take things.”

“Literally???? You take literal things literally! Look, Babe: one thing we are going to teach you here is obedience. Obedience means doing what the master says, when he says it. Got that?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“OK, tell you what. As this is your first full day and all, I’m going to go easy on you. You’ll sure get to learn this obedience thing. Now jus’ let me see this hair of yours.” He peers intently, then scoops up some hair with his comb and fans it out. “Uh uh: not good Lady. You’ve got split ends here. You do not look after your hair. I’m going to cure all of that. Right now! And, more than that – I’m going to make you one beautiful gal. See her?”

He leans a photo on the mirror in front of me.

“This is Miss Ramatoulaye Diallo. The Face of Africa 2001. Senegal’s Finest.”

A statuesque young lady (girl is not appropriate for her) gazes at me from the photograph. She is very African and very beautiful. Outstandingly beautiful. I look more closely. She smiles and shows wonderfully even white teeth ….. Oh! Oh! Oh! ….. I suddenly feel cold and very heavy in my tummy. Her head is shaven . Completely. Realisation! Gerry is going to shave me bald! It’s as if there is telepathy between us.

“You ready now, lady?”

I have lost the power of speech.  I don’t even try to struggle on the chair. He picks up a pair of electric clippers and begins. First, at the back of my head. I can feel the cold buzzing metal of the blade. Then the right side. Then the left. Then, finally from my forehead back to the crown. I open my mouth to speak, but still no words come out. I’m completely without hair. I do not recognise the face looking back at me in the mirror any more.

And he still isn’t finished.

The breezy banter continues to pour out of him as he picks up an electric razor this time and works the foil progressively down from the crown of my head, like peeling an apple from the top. Then he works gently upward from the periphery to the crown.

Finally, the massacre of my lovely hair is over . Nothing – nothing is left.

“There, lady. What–do-you-think-of-that????? Let me tell you, you got one cute scalp.”

Think? I can only feel. Cold and sick. What ever possessed me to put myself in the hands of these people?

Gerry rounds off his assault by rubbing some sort of moisturiser into my distinctly pink scalp. His hands and warm and the cream seems slightly warming in itself.

“Trouble with you whiteys is, that you have such pink scalps when they get to see the light of day! You’ll look a whole lot better when you get some tanning up there. To hurry up the improvement some, I’ve just given you a good rubbing with self tan.  Come to think of it, you could use self tan all over.” For the first time, I’m conscious that he’s looking at my naked body. “You ever been to a bodybuilding competition?”

“No,” I say, weakly.

“Y’know you should go! I always think those muscular girls look so beautiful. Anyway, they all get pretty smart at the self tan – I’ll get it written into your programme. What do you think?”

“Thank you, Gerry,” seemed the safest reply.

“Well, guess I’ll let you run along now and get yourself a coffee. Try strong and black. And remember next time: an order is an order!”

Gerry reaches down and unclips my wrists from the chair. I put my hands up to my scalp and it feels strange. Gerry watches as I touch it and then takes my hands and locks my cuffs back together. I look at him in surprise. “You got a problem with that?” he says. “You can get a coffee with your bracelets joined up, can’t you?”

“Yes, Gerry,” I say.

“Great,” he says.

As I emerge from Gerry’s room I pass Carrie being led unwillingly along the corridor. She looks at my shaved head in shock, I look at her auburn hair and I can guess what’s about to happen. So doe she as she is hustled into Gerry’s room! 

Chapter 10: Piercing Questions

Course 8 / Day 2: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: When Gerry has finished with Fifty, she has a session booked with Celia. This is likely to challenge Fifty more than anything else so far. 

Jenny’s Recollections

It is not long after my visit to Gerry. After my coffee, they handcuffed my hands behind me and put me back in my cell.  Now an escort comes.  He links my wrist cuffs together and I am taken to a new room.

It smells antiseptic and very clean. The floor is covered in a smooth non-slip pale green vinyl which sparkles as I walk over it. There are white cupboards on the wall, an operating light on the ceiling and what looks like a dental chair in the centre. It’s upholstered in pale blue and has matching pale blue restraining straps, which look faintly ridiculous. It makes me want to giggle. Except I guess that won’t be appreciated.

Facing me is Celia, the girl I first met when she instructed me on personal hygiene on my first day. She is dressed in the same blue surgical scrubs and wears white surgical clogs on her feet. The same South African accent greets me. “Hi, Fifty,” she says. “Nice to see you again.  I’d shake hands but..” She nods at my arms. “Turn around and I’ll release you. Hmmm, love that hair!” She looks at my bald head.

“Yes,” I say casting my eyes down, still embarrassed by how it looks and by the fact that it is the result of my own failure to follow my instructions - again. “Well, I guess it will have grown back by the time I’m released after the course.”

“Err, actually Fifty, it won’t. According to your training plan,” she looks over towards an open laptop, “ah…  your going to be shaven daily till release! You know we like to push your limits a bit. Besides, quite a lot of girls go shaven now and you look absolutely terrific just as you are.”

Her compliments are no consolation. I’m actually a bit shocked at this news and it must show in my face. Celia puts her arm round me and guides me to the couch. “Can I just check something? You gave permission for piercings subject to agreement at the time. Is that right?”

Suddenly I’m feeling a little uncomfortable. “Err, yes,” I say warily.

“So you’ll be all right with this?”

After my experience with Gerry I realise my past must be catching up with me. I had been told to get an extra ear piercing and I had tried to skip the challenge. Now it looks as if I am going to have it done to me afterall.

I look around; the place looks clean and clinical. Celia has the confident air of all medics. It’s reassuring and even though I know it’s stupid I think, why not? I hear myself saying, “Well, I suppose so.”

 

“Just lay down and we’ll get on.”

“Get on with what?”

She sighs. “You all start off with so many questions. Get on with what we are going to do. You will find out, so just accept it and don’t worry.” She’s busy with the straps of the chair, pulling one across my chest another around my waist, more around my ankles. As she fastens them, tightening them securely I feel both a sense of panic and a thrilling feeling. I flex a little against the straps. She pulls them tighter until I really cannot move. Once she sees I really am secured to the couch she speaks again. “Slaves need to learn respect, obedience and trust, Fifty. I think you know that you have fallen down a bit in your first exercise in the obedience department. Due to your failure, you’re bearing the consequences.” She looks up again at my bare scalp and runs a finger across it. “Still, I’m pleased with the consequences! OK, open your mouth.”

“Are you a dentist, then?” I’m becoming more worried now.

“No. I’m a nurse, but my field is head and neck surgery, so I’m good with mouths and noses and things.”

“Just what are you going to do?”

“Ha! So curious, Fifty. Well that would be telling. All you need to know is that I am here and you are there and that you were going to open your mouth? And without talking.”

I suppose I can say stop right now. Perhaps I should, but I don’t. Celia’s professional manner, my own desire to experience as much of Inward Bound as I can and the way in which I have already become used to doing as I am asked overcomes my reticence. I open my mouth. She examines me with a dental mirror. She is very gentle as she pulls my mouth this way and that with latex covered fingers. It’s surprisingly reassuring.

“OK: no gingivitis, or calculus, but a bit of plaque on your terminal molars. I’ll give your teeth a polish and get rid of that for you. More attention to detail young lady! Also a good virtue in a slave, consensual or not.”

“Are there non-consensual slaves?” It’s an even more scary thought than being strapped to this couch.

“There are, and maybe I’ll turn you into one, if you don’t do as you are told!”

I feel a stab of panic and also, strangely, a stab of anticipation. She’s surely not being serious?

“OK Fifty, I’m just going to protect your eyes from the light now.” She straps a blindfold on me. So, not exactly like the dentist. She travels slowly around my mouth with a dental hand piece polishing my teeth, which once again feels reassuring as well as tickly and all the more so as she has strapped me to the couch and I cannot get away.

“Right Fifty, just swallow – it’s only a bit of toothpaste and saliva in your mouth.” I gulp it down, coughing as the pepperminty, gritty paste slips down. “And, now open up again, please.”

I open, but this time she slips an instrument between my teeth and before I can react, I hear the clicking of a ratchet and I can no longer close my mouth. I cry out in surprise making a curious squawking sound. I am further panicked by the feeling of a strap being pulled across my forehead locking it hard back against the couch and then there’s Celia’s fingers in my nose. 

“Easy girl, easy. You are going to be just fine. Here’s some cream to go inside your nose…”

I try to say something, but of course I cannot say anything except to make a sort of gacking noise. But then there’s the feeling of Celia’s hand on my shoulder and slowly I calm down.

“OK Fifty. Here’s another test for you.  Like the obedient slave girl you are …hmmm, well that’s a bit optimistic just now……….  Lets say, will be …… I want you to stick your tongue out and incidentally, if you don’t, I’m going to grab it with a surgical clip.”

I don’t like the sound of the surgical clip and I do as I’m told.

“Good girl, for a change. OK, so now, I’m just going to catch your tongue and gently hold it with this,” There’s a click and a strange pressure on my tongue. “So, now you’re still OK, huh?

Let’s just have a look at your lingual veins.” I feel an instrument pressed onto the top of my tongue. “Congratulations- you have normal anatomy. That was just a light source to transilluminate you.”

I feel her lift up my tongue and pull it a fraction further forward. “And, a mark here and a mark under here.” In a flash, I realise that she must be going to pierce my tongue and I make another cry and hear her say. “OK Fifty, now just take a deep breath in … and out …. and in and out and just a sharp touch here.” I feel as if she has pressed on my tongue with a sharp pencil. There is a momentary tearing feeling, then nothing and I hear a clatter as something lands in a dish. “…..and there you are. All done! Now, just keep your tongue just there. Good. And this goes through there. And this slides back out. And this screws on here. And you’re done! You have just had a tongue piercing! You really should have had that extra piercing put in your ear. But, do you know what, I’m really glad you didn’t. Disobedience from you means fun for me!”

I’m horrified that they’ve done this because of my disobedience. But, I’m relieved too and stunned that it was so easy. I would have never had the courage to do that in “civilian” life. I feel instantly high and I relax into the chair with relief that it’s all over.

“OK Fifty. That’s a 20 mm barbell. I’ve pierced your tongue about ten millimetres back from the tip, so everyone will get to admire your shiny stud when you speak. Plus there’s room for me to give you another further back later on if we decide to.”

I give a whimper at the prospect of more ironmongery in my mouth. From Celia’s tone I can imagine her grinning.

“Now, you will have a sore tongue for two or three days, so you will be on a soft diet.  Careful oral hygiene please. . I’ll have some chlorhexidine mouthwash left in your cell, which I want you to use three times each day as well as brushing. In a week the swelling will subside and I’ll be able to insert a 15 mm rod for you and a couple of weeks after you’ll be down to a 12. How do you feel? Ah, you can’t say because of the Whitehead gag. It will be out in a second. Now, let’s look at your nose.” Nose? I can vaguely feel Celia in my nose again and the presence of her fingers means I have to breath through my mouth, but I have no idea what she is up to …………..and then I feel something cold on my skin ……..and then a dull crunching (but nothing sore) ……….and then whatever it was clatters down and Celia’s fingers are in my nose again with something else. I think I sense her squeezing hard ………..

“Right, Fifty: you are beginning to look like a real slave girl now! Earlier, I put some local anaesthetic gel on your septum and I have just taken a dermal punch to your septum and taken a 5mm core out so I could insert a titanium grommet. Titanium is very tissue friendly, which is just as well, because it’s in two parts and when I squeeze them home it’s a perfect friction fit and will just not come out. Ever. At all.”

I let out a gasp

“And I’m now inserting a nice chunky septum ring! Don’t worry too much. We do know slaves have to back to the real world! The grommet is made from anodised titanium and it’s a dark pink, so difficult to see normally – unless you know what to look for. As for the ring, this particular ring can be removed – but we have others which can’t. Now are you going to be lucky enough to get one of those????”

I whimper through the gag.

“I’m going to give you an intramuscular shot of penicillin in your thigh, just to avoid any risk of infection. Now you now know why we give you a detailed medical history form to complete?”

I’m sweating and starting to shiver, even though the room seems quite warm.

“Hey ho, hard day, huh?”  Celia wraps me in a blanket, which is tucked firmly round me and I start to feel a bit better. She removes the blindfold and pushes the operating light out of the way. I blink against the bright lights of the medical room. She loosens off the gag and takes it from my mouth. Gradually, I seem to recover. I can feel the barbell in my tongue and the ring resting on my upper lip. For goodness sake, what have I let myself in for from these lunatics?

Celia raises the back of the couch and holds a mirror in front of my face. “I like to pierce the septum a little further back than some people. I think it looks far better if it’s not hanging down under your nose tip like a dew drop. What do you think?”

I open my mouth – but, once more, nothing comes out.

“Here,” Celia says, “drink this ……….”

She releases the strap across my forehead and puts a drinking straw to my lips. I gingerly, then gratefully, sip on down what seems to be a sports drink. Shortly after I really do begin to feel better – but look at the state of me!

“Well Fifty, we are done with the tough stuff for today. You coped pretty well. No screaming. That’s good. So now let’s do the admin.” Admin! Here I am with ironmongery in my mouth and nose and she’s worried about admin! “Now, your general knowledge should have told you that you address me as Mistress, not talk to me like I was a colleague in your university department.”

“Sorry – it’s just –it’s just…”

“Sorry what?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress, but …. “

“Mistress who?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress Celia.”

“Better! At last. Right, Slave Girl Fifty, I’m going to have to give you some demerits for your earlier mistakes, but you can redeem yourself tomorrow. I think you have had enough for now.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you what?”

“Thank you, Mistress Celia”

“OK. Well that was another demerit! Let’s get you back to your cell before you trip yourself up again!” She laughs and pats me on the shoulder and then gives me a hug. I laugh along, although I can feel tears in my eyes.

I’m unstrapped from the couch. Celia reconnects my wrist cuffs behind my back and an escort leads me away, still helpless, back to my cell. I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Angela’s ideas on the research could possibly justify this; wondering if my own enthusiasm to experience this hasn’t pushed me into more than I can handle.

© Copyright Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2008

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com   Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

All characters  & organisations fictitious

Acknowledgements

Phil & Freddie would like to acknowledge the help given by the editors in creating the final version of this tale. Many thanks to Dennis, Peter, Red & Rohanna for their input, corrections and suggestions. If there are any typos, punctuation mistakes, inconsistencies or continuity errors left in Thesis then they are Phil’s and Freddie’s fault!

Chapter 11: Why Weight?

Course 8 / Day 3: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: She coped well with her initial work programme yesterday. No concerns so far, but of course little has been done to stretch her beyond her treatment on arrival and her shaving / piercing sessions, which she managed to get through without more than expected levels of distress. The exercise training regime continues today to increase her level of fitness.

Jenny's Recollections

At the start of today, I’m feeling strange. I can hardly believe that I consented to them piercing my tongue and my septum but I can feel the stud in my mouth and the ring in my nose every time that I move my tongue or shake my head. The piercings feel a little sore. Not painful just – well – there. It’s more than that though; more than the physical discomfort. I’m left wondering what they are going to ask me to do and what I will consent to.

Jo arrives with an electric razor. She has me kneel and then watches as I shave my head. She tells me that I will do this every day to keep my head smooth and hairless. It feels strange. It’s not like the hair has even started to grow back, or at least, so it seems. When I say this to Jo she simply tells me that it’s part of my routine. It doesn’t matter if there is hair or not, shaving is going to be done every morning first thing.

After that I’m brought to the gym to find myself confronted by George and my fellow slaves. We’re put into the same rubber G-strings and triathlon suits and lined up at one end of the gym with our hands on our heads.

George has in his hand the remote control that he can use to shock us. As if we needed reminding! 

While George is thumbing through some papers, I sneak a look around at the others. Carrie has also had her head shaved - it’s a relief to find I’m not the only one - but no-one else has a nose ring, at least so far …… Those who notice mine smile and I risk a quick smile back.

“So, Fifty,” – it’s George speaking – “no real weight training experience?”

“No … Sir.”

He smiles, but narrows one eye. The “Sir” was obviously expected a bit earlier in my reply.

“Why not?”

“Er, well, err, Sir, I mean it’s not a thing girls do really, unless you are very sporty …”

“And do owners like flabby slaves?”

Owners. That word again. I get an odd stab of pleasure hearing it applied to me.

“Well, no, I guess not. But doesn’t weight training make you all bulky and not very attractive?”

“Fifty: that’s just a myth. Yes, you can get overbuilt, but you have to work hard and very long to achieve that and it does not come by accident. On the other hand, what about her?”

He shows me a photograph of a gymnast. She is beautiful in her poise and her physique. No fat. Toned body. Defined muscle. Beautiful posture. Serious eye candy for sure. I mean, if you’re into women.

“Yes, Sir. She is very …. Beautiful.”

“I’m glad you agree, Fifty. I will have her picture put on your cell wall, to remind you where you are going”

Cell wall? I get another adrenalin rush at George’s reminder. I know that is how I feel about it, but it’s a charge to hear it called that.

“So, this is the start of quite a long road for you. Weight training gives you everything she has and the inner strength of knowing you have worked hard to achieve it. Also, pleasure at knowing you delight the eyes of others. You OK with that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. So this is what you are going to do with us. We have eight weeks and you get two programmes. We’ll change things after about a month to give your body another challenge. Otherwise, you’d just stop improving. We have time to lay a foundation, which you will build on after you are discharged ….”

Once more, it seems as if Inward Bound is determined that we shouldn’t forget them after we leave.

“The first thing will be to teach you a repertoire of exercises and get your muscles and ligaments used to training. We will work your arms, shoulders, chest, back, abs, bum and legs and you get one day’s rest in between sessions. Come with me.”

So that’s aerobics every day and on alternate days we get weights as well. This is going to be tough. George then puts me to work learning the exercises for each area. I do one set of each – but fifteen repeats of each one. George is very picky about technique. It seems as if the appearance of my exercising is almost as important as the weight I lift and the pace of the work: count two lifting, count three lowering.  He chooses weights that are heavy (for me), but not so heavy as to prevent my getting right to the end of the set. Even so, by the time I get to the twelfth repeat my muscles are starting to burn.

He seems to know instinctively when I am about to flag, appearing at my side with an encouraging wave of his remote control and, sometimes, a word of encouragement. It’s enough to help me to keep going. Some of the others aren’t so lucky. Sue, for one, seems to earn a series of shocks from the remote.

After forty-five minutes, I can hardly lift my arms past horizontal, but my program is over and I join my colleagues in some post workout stretching.

Then, we get to strip off and have time in the pool. Here we are all naked. The water feels wonderful as it did before, flowing languidly across my bare shoulders, down my back and between my legs, small eddies teasing my labia. I’m surprised that I feel no embarrassment about being in the pool. Skinny dipping with four other girls I hardly know causes me no problems. Even being watched by the others, people who have de facto some serious authority over us, isn’t a difficulty.

I would never feel this way, if I were back at home, in my own environment with people I know well. I think about Joe and me. Where could we go to do this? How would he feel, if I were to suggest we “went naturist” when we go on holiday next time? Would I feel able to ask him? That’s the main question …..

As we are swimming I see that both Anna and Judy have impressive tattoos on their backs; elaborate dragon designs that are far more dramatic than anything I’ve seen before on a woman. I don’t get a chance to ask either Anna or Judy about them. I wonder if they got them on their first visit here and I remember the question on the application form asking if I’d consent to being marked. I’m worried that I said ‘yes, subject to approval at the time’. What will I do if they ask me to consent to something like that? I can always say ‘no’ can’t I? But would I? I’m not sure. I didn’t say no when they asked about the piercings and look what happened to me then.

All too soon – given that this is the closest I’ve had to any relaxation since I got here -  it’s time to climb out and get dried, to be ready for work, but it’s been a good session.

“Fifty!”

“Yes, Sir?”

“There will also be this book in your cell. I expect you to read it. And, of course, you will be tested on knowledge and understanding.” George holds up a book on strength training and points at me with the remote control to emphasise his words. The message is absolutely clear!

Chapter 12: Ylena Zhukova

Course 8 / Day 4: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: Fifty expects corporal punishment to form part of her experience and Ylena has proposed an introductory session today. We will also let her have the first of her e-mail sessions.

Jenny's Recollections

I am in my room. My cell. An escort comes for me. When I stand, she smiles and places a broad leather belt around my waist. My hands are cuffed to the belt behind my back and then I’m plunged into a sweet musky darkness as she drops a leather hood over my head. She must clip a lead to the belt; I feel a tug at my waist. “Come on, Fifty,” my escort says, “Just come with me.”

I feel panicky at first: walking blind with just the guidance of the lead and the voice of my escort to steer by.

The floor beneath my feet is non-slip vinyl near my room, then stone. We’re in a corridor now, I guess. The one that leads to the stairs.

“Fifty, pause.” I stop. “Good. You are at some stairs. Now step and step and step. That’s it, keep stepping.”  I keep going up the stairs which wind to the left. Then, there’s polished wood under my feet as we reach the landing and finally, carpet as I am guided into somewhere new.

We stop, I hear a door open and then we move again. She pulls the hood from my head and I see that I am in a room with a desk, computer and a stool. The stool is shaped like a saddle. “Sit,” says my escort. I lower my backside gingerly onto the chilly seat but thanks to the shape I have to spread my thighs and the front part tends to press on my clit. It feels like leather or vinyl against my naked bum.   “You get to send e-mails from here and you’ll get to check this e-mail account once a week,” she says. She unclips my wrist cuffs. “You can e­­-mail your safe contact or anyone else but we’ll check what you’re sending before it goes. Mostly the slaves just like to send a “Hi, I’m having a good time” note to friends, but it’s up to you. You get fifteen minutes.” She stands back from the desk. I’m obviously not going to be left on my own – but the sensations from the saddle stool are a definite plus.

I think about it for a while. There’s nothing I want to say to Angela and I’m not sure what to say to Joe. But, in the end I tap out a short e-mail to him saying that I hope he’s fine and that I’ve managed to get access to e-mail occasionally if he wants to send me anything.

Soon enough my escort is telling me that my five minutes is up,   She cuffs my hands back behind me.

At the same time Judy arrives. The escort turns to her and says, “You’re to take Fifty up to room number 19”. Without waiting for a reply from Judy, the escort pulls the hood back on over my head. I’m not sure where I am going now, but I follow Judy, drawn along by the leash, being led along another corridor and through another door until we stop once again.

“We’re here,” Judy says to me quietly, as she stops. We’re both standing still. Suddenly, I feel Judy’s hands stroking and squeezing at my breasts. I can’t do anything about it with my hands cuffed behind me. In once instant, I'm shocked, surprised and aroused. It's the first instance of any overtly sexual behaviour since I came here. In an instant I remember that there is almost certainly more to being a slave than being kept naked and washing floors. But, she isn’t supposed to be doing that I’m sure.

I hear the sound of a door handle turning. Judy’s fondling stops. A voice says, “Ah, you are here. Bring her in. Take her hood off and leave us.”  

Judy removes my hood. I blink in the light looking at her. She grins at me as much as to say, “Enjoyed that didn’t you?”  I’m not sure if I did, or not. Judy drops the leash, so it hangs from the middle of my belt down between my legs. She smiles at me again and leaves.

Before me is another girl, this one about my own height, with blonde hair and a happy open face. I’m not sure if I should say anything about what Judy did, but I decide to leave it for now. She smiles perhaps a little diffidently and says, “Hello, Fifty. I am Ylena, but you should call me Gaspazha.”

Her English is very good, but accented. I guess from having met colleagues from Eastern Europe at the university that she is from Russia, or possibly somewhere on the Baltic. She has a slim athletic build and she is wearing a fitted leather top, which pushes her breasts upwards just enough to be provocative, a very smart leather skirt (not cheap I guess), black tights and black loafers.

“Now,” she continues, “you have come to me to continue your education, so today is training! Come with me.”  She leans forward and grasps the lead, pulling gently, but insistently forward. We go to an adjoining room. The curtains are drawn giving the room a rather secret air. It is decorated in scarlet red wall paper and a pale blue carpet in the centre of the room is a wooden frame, its middle covered with padded leather. I have seen one before at a fetish show. It’s a spanking horse. I feel a knot as tight as any that have bound me grip my stomach.

“Kneel!” Gaspazha insists.

I obey.

“Good! So, you are learning some lessons at last.” She walks around me looking at me from each side.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Yes?”

“Is Gaspazha your name?”

“Gaspazha is my title – in Russian. So you are going to learn some very useful Russian!”

My guess was correct

“Do you like CP, little Fifty?” I’m surprised by her use of the ‘little’, but I know better than to contest it.

“In my fantasies, but I haven’t had much experience. Well none actually. My husband does not think it’s respectful. And before him… Well no.”

“Hmm,” she looks unconvinced. She walks around behind me and runs her hands across my back as though searching for some clue that I am lying. “Well, I’m pleased with your lack of experience really, because I like to work with novices. That way, I can mould you to my ways more easily. Easily for me, that is.” She smiles. I smile back, but I do feel very vulnerable. I didn’t think that she meant it would be easy for me. “Well, so much to do! Where shall I start? It’s like being an artist and you, moi slooga, are my blank canvas. When we have finished today, you will be beautifully decorated in reds, pinks and purples.” She can see I look confused. “Moi slooga – 'my slave'. You say 'vash slooga' - your slave. Say it!”

“Vassh slooga,” I try to copy her sound.

“Not quite: say vash-shlooga with emphasis on the ooo.”

I try again. She smiles tolerantly. “Oh well, never mind for now. But, I can be very encouraging to students. Now. Kiss.”

She offers me the tab of her riding crop to kiss and immediately I am frightened that I am completely out of my depth. Gaspazha sees me tense. She reaches forward, stroking the back of my neck, a reassuring touch. The crop has a red star at its tip. There is a knot in my stomach and simultaneously a hot wetness in my loins. Fear and sexual anticipation. The combination of sensations that has always drawn me back to this.

“Bend forward and kiss my feet.”

I lean forward eagerly. She must know from my application that I have a strong foot fetish. Or maybe she doesn’t mind whether or not I like it.

“That’s right. Good across the shoe. Around my ankle, then my calf. Now the other one. Good. Now my toes.” She has slipped her foot out from her shoe and her foot smells sweet and leathery. “Now that tickles!”

“I’m sorry,” I say pulling back.”

“She says ‘I’m sorry’? Good moi slooga, you should be sorry. But, what you say is ‘izhveneetie’ OK? Say it.”

I look at her. “Ishevenetia,” I say, haltingly.

“Izhveneetie; try again.”

“Izhveneetie.”

“Better!” She smiles again, obviously amused by my attempts at pronunciation. “Your nose ring. It tickles me.  You were pierced earlier in the week I think, so if the ring can roll and swing like that, Cynthia must have put a little grommet in your septum, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Is your ring permanent?”

“No.” At least, I think it isn’t.

“No what?” I can see she is becoming impatient.

“No Gaspazha”

“Better. And you are?”

“Sorry.”

“Izhvenetie! Say it again.”

“Izhvenetie.”

“Hmm.” She reaches down and plays for a moment with my nose ring. “Not permanent? Not permanent yet!”

I’m appalled by another flush of sexual excitement when she says yet!

“Good, but now we must move on. Get up there!” She picks up her crop and points to the spanking horse. Excitement is now replaced by plain anxiety. The horse supports my torso , knees and lower limbs. She straps me down: my arms, back and calves. My bum and most of my back are now completely at her mercy.

“We shall start with a little hand spanking.” SLAP! I gasp and buck forward and there is another SLAP on my other buttock. The pain is bright and sharp, but not bad enough for me to want her to stop. She carries on for ….for …..I have lost count of the slaps: perhaps twenty or so and then she stops and rubs me, stroking my buttocks.

“Good, well that’s very nice. Your nice little virgin bottom all red and hot. How do you feel?”

“Hot! Thank you Gaspazha! It was not as bad as I thought it would be.”

She laughs. “No? But that’s because we are just starting! I have to break you in slowly.” I am afraid again. “What is your job?”

“I work at a university: psychology.”

Psychology? Then you will know statistics?”

“Yes. Some”

“Good, I’m an accountant. I like numbers too,,,,,”

“Accountant???” It seems an incongruous occupation for a Russian disciplinarian.

“Da! Slooga.”

“So do you work here and do the accounts?”

“Ha! No: I am now a full time Domme. So many of my old colleagues I now meet as clients. I’m in private practice, but come here on certain sessions.”

“Private Practice??? I bite my lip to stop laughing – it just seems so bizarre.

“Here are two dice, Fifty. What is the probability of any number combination?”

“Well there are thirty-six possible outcomes. If they are fair, all combinations should have the same chance of turning up, but the probability of certain numbers in particular is different: a “two” is one chance in thirty-six, a seven is six chances in thirty-six because you can make a seven in more than one way.”

“Very good, Fifty. You are right! And some numbers might be quite dangerous for a slave strapped down and awaiting punishment…..” Gaspazha rolls the dice…. A six and a four. “Aha ten! So your bum can now taste ten different instruments! You see, we have such a choice.” She opens a cupboard in the wall of the room revealing a range of punishment implements. “Let’s see, now. A small paddle; a large paddle; a strap; a tawse; a wooden spoon;  a horse hair flogger; a cow hide flogger; a crop; a paddle with holes in it and ……. Another tawse! I am going to enjoy this and your poor bottom just cannot get away can it?” I think this is a rhetorical question, but Gaspazha insists. “Can it?”

 

“No, Gaspazha,”

“And, how many of each should you get? Just look at these very special dice.” Gaspazha comes close to me and I can see she has a handful of dice but there are numbers on each face, not spots and the numbers are in the twenties and thirties! “Hmm, perhaps these.” More dice, but this time lower numbers. I sigh with relief.

“You have a safe word, don’t you?”

“Yes, it is ….”

And, as I am about to tell her she slips what I later learned was a pony bit gag into my mouth, fastening it firmly behind my head.

“Not anymore! No interference from safe words! Not for a beginner. Not needed so soon. You only may need it when things get difficult. So we begin ……..”

Gaspazha then begins to beat me with slow deliberate strokes, counting each stroke in Russian (at least I think that’s what she is doing) and I follow in my head in English. I am getting fifteen strokes from each instrument – that’s ten times fifteen – that’s 150 in all.

She shows me each implement before she starts. Each implement has a different feel: the horse hair whip is scratchy and tickly both at the same time. The floggers are bright and “peppery”, whilst the paddles and tawses are thuddy and stingy, depending on which one in particular.

Gaspazha is clearly a craftswoman when it comes to this: she alters her force and rhythm and timing and I manage gradually to scale the heights of 150 strokes.

An accountant by day and a Domme by night, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. (Ms. in this case) Hyde. I drift off, seduced by the rhythm of the strokes. SLAP! Ouch! That was different. That hurt more.

“Aha: I’m not satisfied with that one. My technique was bad. Here it is again.” SLAP! And, it is sore and it does hurt second time round but better. So even in spanking, there is evidently correct technique to be mastered.

Eventually we are done – and my bum is throbbing and on fire, but a nice fire.

“There Fifty: you took that well: no screaming and no safe word used!” I grunt into my gag to indicate that I couldn’t but actually I didn’t ever want to. “Well done. What do say to your Gaspazha? Ha! But, let me help you.”

She unfastens the pony bit gag. I sigh a long sigh: I am covered with perspiration – and Gaspazha then picks up a long whippy cane and swishes it through the air. I thought we had finished!!?? …………

“Have you ever had the cane, Fifty? Hmm, probably not, I think.  Actually, I like caning people, as you will find out. But, not for you today.”

Oh! Relief!

“Come.” She unstraps me from the horse. I stand unsteadily. “Here.” She hands me a fresh orange juice. It has never tasted so good. “Another?”

“Thank you, Gaspazha.” I nod.

“Spaseeba, Gaspazha. You should say ‘spaseeba’.  I think you have earned a demerit for that last mistake and I will enjoy helping you to pay for it.”

“But I didn’t know the Russian for thank you. How could I?”

“No, I know you didn’t, but Fifty life is not always fair! Now: you have managed to earn er,” She turns to consult another laptop – every one here seems to have one. “Da! Yes, 100 demerits.”

“100???”

“Da, Da, Da! 100. And today you managed to pay back forty by managing your training well, so that’s sixty still to pay. Our interest rate on unpaid accounts is 10% per day, or ten strokes, whichever is greater.  So assuming no more demerits, when I see you next week, you will have a debt of sixty plus seventy or 130 to clear!”

She sees that I am becoming distressed. “Now,” Gaspazha becomes reassuring, putting her arm around me, “the cane is worth more that paddles and straps, so I expect you will be anxious for me to give you a good caning next time?”

“Da Gaspazha – I think.”

“Good! That’s excellent! I shall look forward to seeing you again! And, just look at your bottom. That’s wonderful. Let me photograph you for your record. I like to keep a picture of my art.

Chapter 13: Is There Life After Housework?

Course 8 / Day 5: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: Fifty is showing reasonable progress with her work and slave training sessions and seems to be reconciled to being naked, pierced and shaved. Gerry, Ylena and Celia all report her responses are satisfactory and she seems to have settled into accommodation without difficulty. Introductory sessions have established her discipline programme, so we intend to continue with planned training / experience regime.

Jenny's Recollections

I awake to find daylight seeping in through my room – no, let’s be frank - my cell window. There is no clock and so I don't know the exact time. I guess it’s maybe half past six in the morning.

I feel quite good considering what I went through yesterday.

There's no mirror, either. I run my hand through my hair, only there is no hair, of course, just my bare scalp. My arm brushes my nose ring and when I swallow, my tongue feels swollen and tender. My buttocks are still sore from the attentions of Ylena, my Gaspazha.

The feeling that I had on waking of being rested is replaced by anxiety about the coming day; about what other challenges are in wait for me. …

There is nothing to read, nothing at all in my cell except for the blanket that covered me for the night, a small towel, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste. There’s a razor and shaving cream too, which I had thought was just for my pussy, and an electric razor to use on my head.  I lay in bed for a while thinking. Thinking about how natural this all seems to me now, how easily I seem to have fallen in to the routine here, how easy it's been to submerge myself in the rules and the rituals. Why couldn't Joe and I do any of this? Why couldn't we even talk about this? He always seemed kind, maybe just a bit preoccupied with work, but somehow whenever I tried to bring up the subject he'd fend it away. Even in bed, if I tried to get him to take a more dominant role, he seemed to shy away from it. It wasn't ever that he said he disapproved, more that he couldn't see how it related to him and me. Was it his fault? Was it mine? I don't know and I don't feel I'm getting any closer to that here. 

I get up and go to the toilet.  At least, with the shutters down, no one can see me squatting or cleaning myself inside. I still cringe about having to do that, but at least I’m alone.

I have a shower: standing on the toilet foot pads, turning on the water and letting it cascade off my naked body and down the toilet.

I shave my pussy again, as they’ve told me. I shave my scalp, too.

I get dry. With no hair this doesn't take long and the towel is only just damp at the end of it. It's quite warm in my cell. The water was hot too., I'd half expected it to be cold; my gaolers obviously aren't being as unreasonable today as they could be.

I clean my teeth carefully– carefully because of my new tongue piercing.   It's awkward trying to move the brush around my mouth without knocking the stud and besides my tongue feels swollen and bruised. Celia gave me some chlorhexidine mouth wash to help with the healing.

It's all I can think of to do. The light through my cell window is getting brighter. I guess it could be seven o'clock now but I don't have any way of knowing for sure. I sit on the edge of the bed.

There's a mechanical click and the shutter on the outside of the cell bars begins to rise. Josephine is standing there, smiling. I get to my feet. It seems appropriate.

“Good morning, Fifty!” Her tone is cheery. “Good to see you are up. Ready for the new day?”   I nod. “Turn round.” I do as she asks. “Hmmm, nice red bum! I heard your meeting with Ylena went well. Now, turn back to face me. Good. Just look at you! A ringed, collared, and shaven slave. Very tasty! Suits you!”

I find myself smiling gratefully and feeling definitely aroused at the combination of standing naked for her appraisal and the backhanded compliments.

“Well, Fifty, the first thing today is to take you for your gym session. You’ve been missing out.” Jo unfastens the cell door and slides the bars back. “Come!”

Jo leads me back down to the gym. It’s a weights session today. The others have got a head start on me. I’m finding it harder work than they are by the looks of it. I get quite a few shocks in my pussy when George – it’s him that’s supervising our exercise today – thinks I’m not working hard enough. He looks like he’s getting as much fun from handing out punishment shocks as Jo did. At the end of it I’ve lifted more than I would have thought I could and worked harder and longer than I thought was possible.

For breakfast we’re in the same room where we all last sat together on the first night

I look across the room at them sitting with their bowls in front of them.  Sue is naked just like me. The others wear grey sweat tee-shirts and short skirts and Carrie's head has been shaved like mine. I guess that Sue, Carrie and I are supposed to be a dire warning to the others, or a promise of what's to come for them?

Anyway – I’m pleased to see that I'm not the only one in the wars, so to speak.

Breakfast follows the general pattern of the other meals I have had: aggressively wholesome! This time, though, they seem to have given me some consideration. In respect of my pierced tongue (maybe), we have been given porridge (with milk, so things are definitely looking up) yoghurt (low fat variety) and soft rolls. It still takes me ages to eat it. I apologise to the others. I explain why and they all want to see my tongue. I'm embarrassed and proud at the same time.

After we have finished breakfast, Jo appears again and takes us up to the main hall. She has us stand in a semicircle at one end of the room.

“Now, girls,” she says with the hearty tone of a school mistress welcoming a new batch of pupils, “you've had a quiet few days to settle in. Now, your programme really starts.” I'm thinking that the last few days have been anything but quiet for me. Imprisoned, kept without clothes, the hair from my scalp removed and with all this ironmongery put into my body; how is that quiet? “The purpose of a slave is to be useful. In order to be useful, you need to learn obedience, humility and discipline of course, but you need to learn to work, too. Today you will start to learn to be useful here.”

I suppose when I'd thought about this, I expected the discipline and the obedience. I wasn't sure what she might mean by humility and I hadn't really expected that they would make us work. Mind you, I don't know what I had expected. A continuous round of sensual domination?

Jo went on with her briefing, “When the Centre here is not being used to training slaves, like yourselves, you might wonder what we do with the premises. Well, the estate is used for Corporate Management Training. That means that the place has to be made ship shape for the next course. Your job over the next couple of months is going to be to get it ready for use. Cleaned, polished, tidied. All useful domestic skills for any slave. After all, a slave isn't just for the bedroom, she's for life.” Jo smiles. The rest of us look less comfortable, I suspect as a result of the reminder that there will probably be some sexual aspect to our slavery. “Every day you will all have some 'Useful Time', time spent working on tasks that you have been assigned in addition to any training or correction. Today, most of you will be on cleaning duties.”

Ingenious, I think to myself. We are paying to have a slave experience and Inward Bound get to simultaneously reduce the operating overheads for this other legitimate, vanilla, business!

“But, before we go on,” Jo hasn't finished with us yet. “Just a few words about your progress.

On your joining instructions, we said that an important part of your experience would be to learn to receive and carry out instructions? You all remember that?” We all nod. “Well, Carrie did not manage to get her hair cut as instructed, so we have helped her there and a little bit more. Sue did not manage to get her dress code quite right, as you may have guessed.” Sue blushed, pink spreading down from her face and across her naked chest. “And Jenny, poor Jenny, is clearly very new to the game, as you can see. She's naked because she didn't think we meant what we said about the dress code. She failed to follow instructions at the hairdressers, so she has this wonderful shaven head. And, she missed out on her extra ear piercing so - push your tongue out Jenny,” I do as she asks. “And,” Jo reaches up and grips my nose ring to pull me gently forward out of line with the others, “she has this delightful nose ring too. Doesn’t she look terrific?”

The others stay quiet. Maybe they don't agree, or maybe they are just waking up to what might happen to them.

“Well girls, should we sell our collared slave girl, or keep her as a reminder to you all?”

 

We all laugh and the tension is broken until Anna decides to add, “I think you should sell her!”

Once more, I feel an astonishing sexual thrill at the idea mixed with horror at the very idea itself and anger at being “betrayed” by a fellow slave.

Fortunately, Jo laughed, saying “No Anna. She has not been trained to a high enough standard – not yet anyway - but what about you? I‘m sure your master could be persuaded to put you up for auction at the end of your course? I’m sure you’d fetch a good price.”

I don’t know what to think about this exchange. Part of me feels very sexually excited. Part of me feels shocked. Part of me feels Anna deserves it! I think the others are uncomfortable, too. There’s a nervous laugh from all of them.

Jo continues, “Anna and Judy have been before. This is their second training course. We’ll expect a higher standard from them, of course. Turn round you two and drop your pants,” she orders. “Show your bums to the others.”

The two girls turn around, lift their short skirts and wriggle their panties down over their hips in a flirtatious way that brings a sigh of exasperation from Jo. Both girls are beautifully, if that’s the word, marked with parallel cane marks across their buttocks – I count quickly and decide there must be twelve or fifteen tram lines. The wheals are deeper than anything that Ylena had inflicted on me.

“All right you two tarts, that’s enough. Now to work! Anna, Judy – you’ll clean up in the kitchens. Carrie, start in the study rooms at the end there. Jenny, Sue, this hall floor needs to be washed; you can deal with this. Stand over in that corner you two, face the wall and wait for me to return. Anna, Judy, Carrie can come with me.”

Presently, Jo returns.

“Now, you two,” she begins. “Two things. When I am training you, we will use your numbers, Fifty-three isn’t it?” Sue nodded. “And Fifty.  You will call me Mistress.” She looked at us with a fixed stare. “Who am I?”

“Mistress Josephine,” Sue and I chorus together.

“Well done.” Jo gestures to the floor, Victorian mosaic tiles in beige and blue. “You will wash this floor. You will use a two bucket technique. One bucket has soapy water. One has fresh water. You wash with the soapy water and rinse with the clean water. This way, the soapy water always stays clean and the fresh water gets dirty and you change it as soon as needs be. You will find buckets, soap and squeegee mops in the domestic room downstairs. Now get to it. You have one hour to get the floor spotless. I will start you with fifty demerits each and let’s see how many you get to keep!”

Demerits mean more cane strokes and I have an overdraft already, so Sue and I set to with a will. It feels strange, the two of us, naked, mopping and cleaning, but by the end of an hour the floor is looking much better than before and I’m feeling pleased with what we’ve done.

Jo, needless to say, is not so easily satisfied. She kicks her shoes off as she comes into the hall and walks across to us barefoot. Just a glance at the soles of her feet shows that there is still dirt there. “Right. Fifty-three and Fifty. Possible demerits fifty. For this effort I will reduce that by ten each. That leaves you with forty each. Now, you have another chance to get this floor clean and if it’s not perfect I will be pleased to award to sixty demerits each.”

I’m getting better at mental arithmetic all the time. I have a debt of sixty and could be awarded sixty more if Jo is not satisfied with our efforts. That’s one hundred and twenty and with interest at 10% a day is going to add up to a very sore backside!

Needless to say, we set to again with desperation at our elbows. When Jo comes back, she rewards us by accepting our efforts and confirming our score of only forty demerits for our morning’s work. Then, she adds on ten each for our initial failures!

“You see Fifty and Fifty-three, achieving high standards can be a painful process!”

Chapter 14: How To Be A Gardener

Course 8 / Day 6: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: Time for Fifty to start getting involved in some outdoor activities and help with preparations for the garden party.

Jenny’s Recollections

I am waking up early and feeling refreshed these days.

I guess the (very) regular hours with nothing in the way of normal household or occupational responsibilities must be good for me, and but today it's rather before the usual time (as far as I can tell) when the shutter goes up and Jo is outside my cell. She opens the bars and comes in.

“O.K, Fifty; just get yourself ready and you can go to breakfast.”

“Er, Mistress, you have caught me before I have – you know – been to the loo. Could you, err, give me a moment?”

“Of course, off you go.” She goes on standing there with her arms folded.

“But, erm, I’d rather be alone ……….” I still haven't got used to the complete lack of privacy that the slaves are expected to endure.

“Mmmm, you probably would,” Jo is sympathetic but firm, “but life is different for you now. Off you go and squat.”

Her use of the word “squat” seems to carry a very odd sexual charge. I find it odd how some words have the way of turning a switch in my brain. For a second, I’m pulled between the sexiness of what she is telling me to do and the embarrassment of actually going whilst another adult watches.

“Er, do you have to? I mean, I don’t even go in front of Joe at home. I don’t think I’m really at my best.”

“Fifty, slaves get to do as they are told and they also have to learn to think rather less about themselves. It seems to me that’s a lesson you need to take on board. If it makes you feel any better, look up there.” Jo points to the ceiling at the inconspicuous black ball and its little red light. “When you are in your cell, we need to watch over you. That’s a security camera; we have watched you 'go' ever since you have been here.” I know she's right of course, I'd suspected that it was something of the kind. “Now, I haven’t all day. Use the toilet and let's get on.”

For some reason, using the toilet when there is someone else actually there is still very awkward. I’ve got used to the likelihood of having a monitored camera in my cell and I don’t think about it anymore, but this is different. With a sigh I do as I am told and the only saving grace is that the squatting toilet makes the mechanics of everything somehow more effective. I can't look anywhere, but straight ahead at the floor while I'm doing it, but I'm sure that Jo is studying my every move closely. There is no toilet paper in my cell and I have to wash my bum with water from a hose placed just by the toilet pan (or should it be “dish”?) - all watched by Jo.

The hose tap is elbow operated and the water comes out at a pre-set temperature.  It’s on the cool side of warm and there is no adjustment for it. To the side is a bottle of liquid soap with a pump-top which, once again, can be elbow operated. This has occurred to me before, but the whole arrangement in my cell has a sort of “animal husbandry” feel to it, even to the way my mattress has a wipe-clean surface and the floor of the cell slopes ever so gently towards the toilet dish, so that everything can be hosed down. – That last, being one of the personal house keeping duties I have to do every day. When I try to stand back and think psychologically, all these small things (plus the metal bowls we eat from) add up to deliver a powerful, unmistakable message; “You are not like us, you are less. You are animal. You are a utility.”

“At last, Fifty! Now shave your crotch and scalp and clean your teeth and face, please.” I do as she says, but she hasn't forgotten my earlier lack of enthusiasm for following orders. “Right, to help you be rather more obedient, you can have 10 demerits! We will obviously have to do this again regularly until you lose some of your inhibitions.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” seems the safest reply, although I'm not looking forward to that.

“You’re welcome, Fifty!” Jo responds, cheerily, ignoring my reticence.

After breakfast, the girls and I are taken out to the garden. One of the support staff – ‘the Keepers’, as I call them – tells us that it’s time we helped with the gardening. So, we are given hoes and all troop off to work on the flower beds, of which there are several very large ones.

It's my first really good look at the Inward Bound “Spa” from the outside in daylight.

The building is quite large, but extends much further back than the frontage suggests.

The garden looks rather “municipal”: all flower beds and banks of small conifers and rhododendrons. The main drive winds away and is very soon lost behind the trees. I glance round, but there are no other buildings in sight. Because of the shrubbery there's no view of any nearby houses, or come to that hills or even a boundary wall. It's just as well, as both Sue and I are completely in the nip! Fortunately, it’s a warm rather humid day and as my colleagues start to sweat, I’m left feeling really OK.

I wonder about the house and what it might have been. It's obviously an old house, perhaps from the turn of the last century, so it must have been bought or rented by Inward Bound. Our own accommodation isn’t something many landlords would want done to their property by a tenant, so I'm guessing that tends to rule out a rented or leased property. Buying a place like this in good condition in south east England would need serious money. and I get the impression that Inward Bound is a relatively young organisation, so I imagine that they bought it in a fairly run down state and have been busy upgrading ever since.

So, an old house? Hmmm, the kitchen area is a bit industrial for that. School?  Not enough “class rooms” from what I have seen. A convalescent home or sanatorium or perhaps an asylum? A hospital would explain the large kitchens and the large gardens. Shielding the house from the surroundings would be appropriate for an asylum or sanatorium. I know a lot of sanatoria closed in when antibiotics became effective against TB in the 1950’s, but that’s too long ago for the way the place is fitted out, unless Inward Bound have done a lot of work. On the other hand, mental  health reforms in recent years led to smaller inpatient asylums being sold off, and that would fit. So that’s it. I bet this was an old asylum. Ironic. It’s a sort of asylum again … That would be rich! You don't have to be mad to apply to come here, but it helps!

My suppositions are cut short by the arrival of lunch. It's a more lavish affair than usual for us slaves; sports energy drinks, sandwiches and fruit.  Well, we are doing a pretty physical session today.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the Keeper in charge of us calls us together for a short break. Sue is sent in to deal with some domestic tasks, but then he tells the rest of us that the last job for the day is to mow the lawn...

One of his colleagues appears with a large collection of straps which he passes out to us. We all don what looks like a climber’s body harness – it’s one of the few things that I have worn since I have been here! Once we have them on, the Keeper comes around and checks the straps, tightening those that seem loose. Then, he and his colleague fasten our wrists to the harness behind out backs and fits each of us with a rubber bit gag.

We are formed into a team of four, two by two, Carrie and Anna, Judy and me. We're led off to be harnessed to a mower. “OK girls,” the Keeper says, “you're going to pull this. Lets say it's your contribution to reducing carbon emissions. You can help to save the planet!”

The mower has a small seat on top and the keeper climbs up onto it.

I've fantasised about pony play sometimes, but it was always with the idea of me being some fine animal being paraded with a feather head dress. This isn't anything like glamorous and if you're looking for pony play, this is hardly what you would call “play”. The Keeper has a small flogger and the two girls closest to the mower are dangerously in range.

“OK girls, here is how this goes,” the Keeper begins. “I will shout, 'Pull', 'Stop', 'Left',

'Right' or 'Straight On', and that's JUST what you will ALL do TOGETHER. You will pull as a team and watch out for each other. Anyone who doesn’t pull their weight gets whipped. Anyone who wrong foots their neighbour gets whipped. Any questions? No? Good. Then PULL!”

Questions are difficult to express when you are gagged, but the ground rules seem pretty straight forward and off we go.

Actually, the grass is reasonably short anyway and the mower glides quite easily over the lawn – but there is a lot of lawn and, inevitably, our legs start to tire. The Keeper  threatens a severe whipping for the first one to slow down. The encouraging flicks of his whip are coming more frequently.

Then, the rain starts. At first one large heavy drop splats onto the drive just to our side as we hall the mower past, then another and another. The rainfall builds up in intensity astonishingly quickly. In hardly a couple of minutes the rain is pounding down on us. I glance up. The Keeper is drenched. The other girls are soaked; their grey sweat skirts and tops clinging to their bodies and hair laying lank and saturated across brows and shoulders and it's all horribly unpleasant – except for Sue and me! I am naked and shaven and the rain just cascades off me, like water off a duck’s back. As I look round I start to chuckle (as far as you can when you are bit-gagged) and as my colleagues look round to see what I am about, I begin to laugh and laugh and laugh.

Above the noise of the rain, the keeper aims a sharp glance at me, and flicks the tail of his whip across my naked, dripping buttocks.

“Just what is the matter with you, Fifty?”

He dismounts and squelches round to where I am hitched up in the team and removes my bit. “Well?”

I'm giggling hopelessly. I can barely get my words out. “It's -  hurhh – It's just that – mmm - if you're naked, there is absolutely no problem with the rain! This is the first time I have been really glad about getting my Joining Instructions wrong! You should try it!”

He looks at he through eyes narrowed against the downpour and I’m wondering whether my frankness was really wise. He turns back to the rest of the girls. “All right, Team, rain stops play. Back to the garage.”

We all pull the mover off the lawn, onto the drive and round the back of the house to the forecourt of the garage -  which in times past, has been thoughtfully roofed over with glass.  We are all unhitched and unharnessed, except that I am taken right back outside into the rain by the Keeper.

I'm attached by a chain run from my wrists to a metal ring in the wall about a couple of feet above my head. “Well, Fifty,” the Keeper says, “if you like the rain so much, I shall let you enjoy some more of it!”

So, there he leaves me, while he takes the others inside. I stand for what must be an hour, until the rain stops. I am cold and shivering when he returns.

“So, was it worth it, Fifty?”

“Pardon, Sir?”

“Laughter comes at a price!”

“I'm sorry, Sir,” I apologise but, inside, I think it's probably the only time I will have the upper hand the whole time I’m here!

In the evening, I am taken to see Celia again. At first, I assume she is going to check my piercings are healing properly, as the first thing she tells me is to lay down on her medical couch. But then, I realise that there must be something else, because my bum is hardly on the couch before I am being strapped down and blindfolded....

Even in the present circumstances, her lilting South African accent has a reassuring calmness about it.

“OK Fifty, let me see how you are doing?” I feel her fingering the ring through my septum. “Hmm, healing well and that’s encouraging. Just open your mouth a shade more…. Oral hygiene up to speed…..good …..just a moment.”

I give an involuntary “gunghh!” as a hard, rubbery tasting bar is pressed across my mouth. Celia is putting a pony bit gag (as I remember from this afternoons exertions) in place and straps me down just a little bit firmer. As the straps grip tighter, my anxiety rises in step.

“Right, Fifty you are going to get two or three more tokens of slavery, lucky girl!”

I try to respond, but the gag very effectively prevents any coherent comments.

Celia chuckled, “Yes, I just knew you would be pleased!”

Was I going to say I was pleased??

Then, I feel her playing with my nipples. First right, then left. Then a pause. Then, the crackling of a sterile wrapper being opened.

I feel a cold metallic touch as she grasps my nipple with some sort of clamp. There's a sharp crushing pain and I cry out - but that does not prevent the same thing happening to my other nipple.

Celia has pierced my nipples! Two tokens of slave hood. Am I surprised? No. In fact, it’s almost expected and I am pleased in a sort of deep-down, visceral, way.

She is back manipulating the right one: it stings a little and feels bruised, but actually not too bad and the procedure is again repeated on the left side.

“There! As always, you look wonderful! I just know you will agree.” There's a slight pause. I can hear her moving about.” Now, this next job will take just a little longer.”

Someone else comes into the room. The two of them start to do something to my right forearm. The first thing I feel is a stinging prick , like an injection.

“OK Fifty. I am just going to make your skin nice and numb.” Another pause. “You might feel a little pushing and tugging … there… nod if you are OK?”

I nod – hesitantly and anxiously.

“A little pushing now …. And, some pressing now …And, this is to stop a tiny little bit of bleeding.”

Bleeding? Is Celia taking my blood and if so, what on earth for?  Now, I am getting frightened. I have rapidly stopped enjoying the session, but it is anxiety rather than discomfort that is driving my feelings. I start to cry, sobbing at my inability to stop what was happening.

“Now, now, Fifty,” Celia is trying to calm me. “Just be the good slave that you are and trust your betters. I’m putting a dressing on your arm now and you are done.”

Celia wipes my face with a warm damp cloth and I begin to feel better. She takes the gag off and blindfold too. I lift my head as far as the straps will allow and look down at my chest to see both nipples ringed. On my arm I can see a white surgical dressing covered by some sort of plasticky  (presumably waterproof) bandage.

“Well, Fifty, what do you think?”

Celia is obviously very pleased with her efforts.  The first thing I say, for reasons I don't understand at all, is, “But Celia, if I have babies, how will I be able to feed them?”

For a moment, Celia looks as though she is lost for words, then bursts out laughing as I start crying.

“Now, Fifty,” she chides, “for starters, we both know that if you got pregnant right now, you wouldn’t need to breast feed for nine months, by which time you will be well healed. Girls with pierced nipples can breastfeed just fine. You can always swap your rings for rods which baby will easily manage.”

I’m still sobbing. “What have you done to my arm?”

“I’ve given you an RFID.” She sees my blank look. “Radio Frequency Identification.” I look none the wiser. “You have been chipped. Supermarkets use these to keep track of their stock. Now, we're using them to keep track of ours! With this we will always know where you are and you can interact with the house security systems. It's really quite small and has been snuggled under your skin. I closed the wound over with skin adhesive, so there will be almost no scar and the best thing is after healing, they are very hard to remove. The chip will let you into places we want you to go, keep you out of places we don’t want you in and keep you in places where we would like you to be. It also it carries your Inward Bound slave number and your number on the International Register of Slaves and Submissives. Anyone with an RFID reader can tell who you are and what you are.”

“But, nobody asked my permission! No one asked if I wanted to be 'chipped'! No one said anything about a register.” I'm angry, but at the same time aroused. How strange is that? To be walking around with this thing in your arm that would let someone point a device at you and have it tell them everything about you? It feels very unsettling.

Celia dismisses my annoyance. “Of course not, Fifty! Why should they? You are a slave. Of course slaves don’t get asked.”

"But, I'm only on a course! This is only for a couple of months!"

“Mmmmm, so you are. But, we all get changed by life's experiences. Short or long. One way or another. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Celia’s blunt exposition of the facts of life leaves me feeling aroused and angry at myself for being aroused by what's been done to me – not so much my nipples, as the RFID. I’m also left feeling very tired and a bit sick.,  So, Celia and her colleague, a Chinese looking guy called Jonathan, look after me until I feel able to go back to my cell for the night.

When I get there, I lay in bed missing Joe for the first time: feeling that maybe this is all too much, that maybe I can't take this, maybe I shouldn't take this, wishing for his more gentle touch. It's while I'm thinking about Joe that I fall asleep.

© Copyright Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2008

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com   Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

All characters  & organisations fictitious

Acknowledgements

Phil & Freddie would like to acknowledge the help given by the editors in creating the final version of this tale. Many thanks to Dennis, Peter, Red & Rohanna for their input, corrections and suggestions. If there are any typos, punctuation mistakes, inconsistencies or continuity errors left in Thesis then they are Phil’s and Freddie’s fault!

Chapter 15: The Garden Party

Course 8 / Day 6: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: No reason why Fifty should not be involved in today's “open day”. Her basic skills are sufficient for any of the service tasks envisaged for supporting the day, rather than any of the tasks for which we will use the more experienced, second-course trainees. Everyone is set up to let the people from Clegg Enterprises to see what we’re doing with their investment.

Jenny's Recollections

Actually, now that I come to think about it, there seems to be something going on: I'm even more sure about my feelings later, when the shutter to my cell goes up and there is no communal breakfast, either.

Anna comes with a tray that she leaves outside the bars of my cell. I have to kneel down and reach through the bars to get at the food; some fruit, a bread roll and a glass of orange juice. By the time Anna walks by with the next tray for the cell beside mine I've already finished eating. She smiles and picks up the empty tray without saying anything. And, I notice that Anna’s nipples are also pierced – though her rings have obviously been there a while, perhaps since her first visit here - but her arm is dressed like mine.

I wash and shave, It’s become a morning ritual. Nothing happens for quite a while. That's unusual. Usually we are out of our cells and working by now.   

Then, things get very busy indeed. Carrie, Sue and I are collected by Jo. There is no time for niceties.

We’re taken out of our cells. As I go through the door of mine, I hear a short beep and I realise that there is a sensor on the door frame registering the RFID chip in my arm. I can’t get used to the fact that somewhere a computer can record each time I go from one room to another, noting down every time the chip in my arm passes one of their sensors.

“Right, you three,” she says when we arrive in the main hall. “We want twenty chairs put out in rows over there. Then we need five tables each with six chairs, laid up for lunch and another row of tables to hold a buffet out on the terrace. When you've done that Fifty-two and Fifty will be waiting at table for lunch. You, Fifty-three, are to report to Ylena.” I'm confused by what's going on and jealous that Sue has been chosen for Ylena, for whatever it is. Jo must know that Ylena is my Gaspazha.

Jo can see I am hesitating. “What is it Fifty? Was I not clear? Or do you want some demerits?”

“Yes, Mistress, I mean, no Mistress,” I babble and scuttle off with Carrie and Sue to find the things that are needed. With the three of us working, it doesn't take us too long. By the time Jo returns, the room is laid out as she has ordered and we've laid up the tables on the terrace. As she comes into the room, the three of us stand waiting, our hands behind our backs. Ylena is with her. Jo makes a swift inspection of the room and declares herself satisfied.

“Well done, slaves,” she says. “Sorry, Ylena they've earned no more demerits this time.”

Ylena smiles. “Never mind,” she says. “It's Fifty-three that's coming with me isn't it?” She reaches out, grips Sue by her wrist cuff and leads her away.

I want to yell out, “No! No, it's number Fifty, number Fifty is your slooga, it's me,” but I can see it would do no good. Sue just nods and follows Ylena as she leaves the room.

Jo catches me watching them leave. “Is there not enough to interest you here, Fifty?” she asks.

“Sorry, Mistress,” is all I can manage.

“Right. Now listen to me the pair of you.  We have guests for lunch. People that are coming to see how we do things here. You two will be waiting at table as I said. This is what you will be wearing.”

She passes us each a box. I'm excited, I haven't worn anything since I arrived. Even some fetish waitress uniform will be a wonderful change, I think. As I open the box, I realise I shouldn't have got my hopes up. There's a pair of Greek looking sandals, a strappy thing I don’t recognise and a badge with the words, “Hi, I'm Fifty How Can I Serve You?”

“Put on your sandals and I will help you with your muzzles, Jo says. “And hurry up. Our guests will be here soon.”

We do as she tells us. It doesn't take long. Then, Jo goes to work with the straps. First, she pulls a shaped leather piece across my mouth and the lower half of my face. There's a strap around my forehead, two others run up across the top of my head from just in front of my ears, two more straps go up either side of my nose to meet in the middle of my forehead and a single strap from there runs up over the top of my scalp. My head is caged in leather straps that hold the muzzle across my mouth very firmly in place. As Jo tightens the straps, it's clear that I can't even flex my jaw, much less say anything recognisable. It's a curious sensation. My whole head feels closed in, clamped tightly by the leather. This of course is typical of Inward Bound. Breakfast was quite a while ago, our tummies will be reminding us that we should be having some sort of lunch, mean-while we are going to be surrounded by much more interesting food that is given to us and we are going to be kept from temptation and even from conversation by a muzzle. Able to serve others, but kept securely in our places.

Once the muzzle is on, a belt goes around my waist and then she clips my wrists cuffs to it behind my back. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to wait at table, if I can't use my hands. But, with the muzzle across my mouth I can't ask, either. She follows this up with a strap around my elbows. Ouch! It's painful as she pulls it tight. It's good for my posture though, I guess, as it pulls my shoulders back.

Jo looks at me and nods with satisfaction before doing the same to Carrie. She has the two of us stand side by side and looks us over. I see her look down at the boxes. She realises that we aren't wearing our name badges and picks them up.  She clips Carrie's badge to her collar and then turns to me. She's about to do the same but then she gets a worrying twinkle in her eye and she grins. She reaches up and clips it to my nose ring instead; the badge is just dangling in front of my muzzle. I don't know why I should feel this looks any more ridiculous than the rest of my outfit looks anyway, but I do. I manage a grunt of protest which Jo, of course, ignores.

“Good,” says Jo. “Now we'd better get your trays.” She leaves us for a moment and comes back carrying two trays and a series of lengths of chain. She starts off by fitting a tray onto me. The arrangement is quite ingenious. Two clips on the back edge of the tray fasten to rings on my belt, chains from the front two corners of the tray run up and clip to my collar. Jo fits a tray on to Carrie as well. “Now,” she says. “Your job is simple. Just go to the servery over there. They will load your tray. You then walk out to the terrace and go around the tables, pausing at each to allow them to take anything that they want. I'm sure I don't need to tell you the consequence of dropping things, spilling things or upsetting our guests. I know you saw how disappointed Ylena was that none of you had earned any demerits yet.” There's the sound of people chatting from outside the hall. “Right. Out of here. Go into the servery. You're waitresses, go and wait.”

The two of us shuffle out as best we can, the trays swinging awkwardly from the waist clips and chains. I'm sure we'll not be able to carry anything to the tables. In the servery food is being organised, bottles of wine are being opened. The two cooks look up with an approving grin as we enter. I watch Carrie walk up and down, trying to get the hang of keeping her balance and keeping the tray steady. I decide that's a smart move and do the same thing myself.

Through the door from the servery, I can hear a presentation going on. Jo and Gerry are talking, describing the regime that we have here and how they expect their charges to behave. There is another young woman that I have not met, although I have seen her in the house. She seems to be in overall charge. I try to get a bit closer to hear more of what’s going on. As I reach the door there’s a beep – another sensor, detecting my chip, I realise. Moments later, one of the “keepers” is at my side.

“I don’t think you’re needed here, are you, Fifty,” he says. “Why don’t you get back to what you’re supposed to be doing?” I realise he’s been alerted by the RFID monitoring system. They really do know where I am and where I should, or shouldn’t be. He takes me firmly be the arm and leads me away from the presentation room.

Eventually, the presentation finishes. There's a round of applause. Charlotte appears at the door of the servery and gives a thumbs up sign to the cooks. One of them nods and beckons Carrie and me across. “Right, you two,” he says. “Time to go to work. I hope you've got the hang of those outfits.” He starts to load food onto my tray, bowls of tasty looking nibbles. It's all I can do to stop myself drooling, but my muzzle at least makes sure I don't. So much of the food we've had has been rather Spartan, still, I’m loosing my puppy fat and that can’t be a bad thing.

“Off you go,” he says, giving my naked backside a pat. “Come back when they've finished that lot.”

I start towards the door. It's difficult moving quickly and coping with the tray, but I manage it.  A door from the servery leads into the hall. The door has been wedged open and a screen now stands in front to defend the servery from full public view. I snake my way through, managing to keep the tray steady and glad I do not have to push the door  open with my shoulder.

In the main hall some groups are still chatting, but most of the audience has moved out onto the terrace. I can sense that our visitors are watching me, as I make my way towards the French doors that lead out to the terrace. Groups are sitting around the tables, chatting away. The sun is shining. I feel it warm on my naked skin and I'm suddenly aware that I'm out in the open air, in full view, naked, bound, and gagged. I stop, startled for a moment by my situation. I look around. The terrace looks out across parkland. There's not another house in sight, just the shrubs and trees of the garden. It is,of course, just as I remember it from yesterday. I recover myself and focus once more on my task. It looks like there's two or three of the faculty on each table, two or three guests. I make my way to the nearest.

Jo and Gerry are holding forth whilst a blonde rather cool woman, is questioning them. “So, do you find there is much of a drop out rate?” the woman asks and then says, “Ah, good, food,” as I arrive alongside her. She picks a selection of snacks from my tray and puts them on her plate. She turns back to Gerry, ignoring me. “I'd have thought that might be a problem.”

“No, Doctor Jordan,” Gerry is his usual expansive self, “once they're here they seem to like it.  We do try to make sure they know what they are in for before they come and we try to screen out those that we don't think will stay the course. I don't think we've had more than two drop out since we started.”

“Maybe you aren't making things hard enough for them,” the black woman says with a mischievous grin. I edge a little further around the table. Gerry takes some food. Jo joins the conversation.

“Don't forget our participants are all here willingly,” she says. “There's a narrow line between giving them a stretching experience and having them feeling they're being abused.”

“And, ah repeat business?” continues Dr. Jordan.

“Yep, we are now getting a trickle of slaves coming back for what you might call further training – in fact we have a couple of them right now., A second course is more challenging for us, because we have to be ingenious enough to work out some different moves and I guess this is one of the areas where we would place further investment.”

I've got as far as the woman Jerry referred to as Doctor Jordan. She helps herself from my tray. It’s getting lighter and that makes things easier as far as I'm concerned. I'm about to move on when she tells me to stop. She reaches up to the badge hanging from my nose ring and twists it so that she can see what it says. She smiles and lets it go. She turns back to Jo, “So, are all your programmes based on behavioural techniques, or do you ever need to use drugs in any way?”

Jo looks shocked. “No. No, nothing like that. It's all just based on conventional training approaches. It’s much like we use on the corporate side of the business,. with some adjustments, of course, as you've seen.” Gerry takes some food and my tray is more or less empty. I'm still standing by the table. Jo looks at me and waves me away impatiently. I head back to the servery.

Inside, my tray is loaded up again and I return to the hall and  my shoulder and arms are stiff from being strapped as they are and my neck is stiff too from taking the weight of the tray. As I emerge from the servery, I see Ylena look up at me and instinctively stiffen my posture. I will show her what good slave I can be, how well I can do as I am told. I am sure there must have been some mistake that she took Sue this morning. She could not have forgotten that I am her slave. She must know how it makes me feel to see her with another slave. Or, perhaps she does... My rational, analytical, self resurfaces from the depths. I am not the only slave here. Ylena is here doing a job. She's not here as my personal coach. I am paying for this – well actually Angela’s endowment fund is paying for this -  and I am an academic research worker doing under cover field work. There, I feel better for that! But I still feel jealous about Ylena...

Carrie is working her way around a table, much as I had before. I take my tray to another table. Charlotte is talking with some of the guests. There's a youngish looking man, in his mid thirties, I guess, a woman in her late twenties and a very cool looking woman with piercing eyes. “Did you see all you wanted to this morning, Elly?” Jo says.

The cool looking woman responds. “Mm, yes, thanks. You've got an interesting set up here. It just shows that if you get what you offer right, you'll get people to sign up for it.”

“That's what marketing is all about, Elly,” the man chimes in. “I think that Corinne has got her product pretty much right.”

I move around to let Elly select some food. The younger woman, Corinne,  - the one who seemed in charge during the presentation earlier - smiles modestly. “I'd like to pretend that we'd thought it all out before hand,” she says, “but really, it’s grown up bit by bit. One of the things this investment is doing is to let us think properly about the way we do things. And, I have been particularly careful to have the right people with the right sort of special expertise, for example Ylena and Celia.”

“Yes,” replies Elly, “I have been admiring Celia’s work. I do like your slave’s pierced nipples! Very neatly done. And, this one's nose ring, too!” She gestures at me. I blush, but I am almost proud to have been noticed.

“Mmmm,” continued Corrine. “Well it seemed the right thing to do. I asked Celia to make sure they were all done for your coming.” She turns towards the man. “You know Larry, your people are all surprisingly well tuned in to all this. I'd expected them to be a bit shocked, I guess, but they're all taking it in their stride.”

Larry doesn't respond to this, but Charlotte gestures to me to take my tray around to the man. “Have something to eat, Larry,” she says.

The man smiles but shakes his head. “It all looks great, but this sort of stuff is a disaster for me,” he says. “I just have to look at it and I can hear the weight going on. I like the waitress though.” He reaches out and runs a finger down the outside of my thigh. I'm shocked by his casual acceptance of the way I'm standing naked, muzzled and helpless beside him. “How come she's naked while the other one gets to keep her clothes ? ”

Charlotte grins. “Number Fifty here didn't follow instructions when she joined, I'm afraid, and now she's paying the price. We like our guests to see that what happens to them springs at least in part from their own behaviour. That was one of Corinne’s basic ideas when she set this up.” Charlotte catches me listening to their conversation. “You've finished here, Fifty,” she says. “Take what's left back.”

I make my way back towards the servery winding my way between the tables, catching snippets of conversation as I go.  “Well, yes, the cells are pretty basic, but we think that's the best way to get them used to the idea of slavery early on.” ...  “Yes, the extra investment will let us build another 5 cells, so we can double the number of participants on a course. We’ll start the construction at the end of this course.” … “We try to make sure that they are kept busy. Of course, we get the benefit of their efforts for the other business, but that's not really the purpose of it.” … “And, you're finding that there are enough coming forward to fill the places you've got?” ... “Yes, we’ve got enough enquiries, so that we can fill ten places on the next three courses and we’re finding that quite a few of our ‘guests’ want to come back for a second course; it’s addictive!” … “Tell me about the RFID implants you have been placing. Have you always done that or is that new?” The two groups, the faculty and the visitors, seem to be getting on famously. As far as I can tell the event has been a success.

It’s evening now and I’m back in my cell, “officially” running through the day’s events in my mind in preparation for my research report, but actually looking critically at more personal feelings.

I really enjoyed today: being naked and noticed by the guests, being tempted by food but restrained from satisfying myself. Enjoying doing a simple job really well. Enjoying being obedient and being seen to be obedient. I could really be at home in this environment. But then, this could not last for ever, could it? It’s odds-on that sooner or later being a humble domestic would pall and I would pine for something more challenging. And then, there’s Joe. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if somehow I were doing it to please him? Or, he had sent me here and what I did for Inward Bound, I were really doing for Joe.

  

Chapter 16: Getting What She Came For

FCE Internal Memo:

Confidential:  Elly to Larry

Freddie and I have just discussed the team’s views after the Inward Bound event.

We are all very impressed with what has been achieved. The infrastructure and investment are both very much in order, but the crucial issue is the quality and (in this case) the originality of the staff and that’s excellent. All in all, our visit confirms the feelings expressed at the Board Meeting: this is a very important initiative and we are happy to do what is necessary to protect and nurture this project.

Course 8 / Day 12: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

J: She has handled the cleaning and domestic duties reasonably, It should be time for her to move her experience up a level. Further session planned with Ylena for today.

Jenny's Recollections

I'm told that I have to go again to see Ylena, my Gaspazha. I imagine it will involve another beating. But, somehow, I long to see her again; to hear her soft, insistent voice. One of the escorts comes to take me from my cell. He tells me to face the wall and draws a broad belt around my waist. He buckles it tightly. He takes my wrists and cuffs them behind my back.  He slips the hasp of a padlock through the staple on the buckle and clicks it shut.

“Turn around, Fifty,” he says flatly.

I see he's holding a leather dog's leash. He clips it to my nose ring. “Are you enjoying this, Fifty?” he says.

I blush. The truth is that I am. He knows. I don't have to say. He's holding the leash in one hand, gripping my arm with the other. I can't help comparing his decisive grip with how Joe touches me. Where Joe is tender and gentle, this man's grip is firm: not rough, not violent just very controlled, very measured, and very determined that I should do as he wants. Why do I find it so hard to be really aroused by Joe's loving touch when this man's grip makes me so wet?

He steps away from me, turns his back and says, “Come along, Fifty,” over his shoulder. I don't have any choice but to follow him as he leads me out of my cell and along the corridor back to the centre, the leash looping down from my nose ring to his hand.

He stops outside Ylena’s room and hangs the loop of my leash on a hook beside the door. Before he goes he takes my arms and sets me back, firmly, against the wall and then  he leaves me. Why doesn't Joe treat me like this? Why can’t I ask Joe to treat me like this?

I stand there for several minutes, not knowing what to do. Eventually, I decide to try to attract some attention from within. I lean across and tap the door gently with my forehead.

The door opens. It's Ylena. “Fifty! Excellent. Come in.” She reaches up and unhooks my leash. Once inside the room, she unclips the leash from my nose ring. “Now let me see you!”  I'm standing with my head bowed; partly because that is how I have been told to behave, partly because I'm afraid she will see a brightness in my eyes as a result of my encounter with the guard and my anticipation at this encounter.

She puts her hand beneath my chin and lifts my face. “Ah, you seem much more confident today. I expect you are getting used to your position here?” I don't think she wants me to answer. “Do you remember our last meeting?”

I nod, “Da, Gaspazha,” I say remembering to use the Russian.

“And do you remember what you are?”

“Da, Gaspazha. Vash slooga.” I drop my eyes. It seems the only thing to do, acknowledging that I am her slave.

Ylena smiles. “Bravo, little one, bravo. Do you remember what I promised you the last time?”

I bite my lip and nod. “Da, Gaspazha.”

“Good. Today I begin to teach you how to take a good caning. Today. Now. How do you feel about that?”

“Nervous, Gaspazha.” I'm almost disappointed that I don't know the Russian word for how I feel.

“Nervous? Good, that’s excellent. It will heighten your experience. Now, I think you know where to go.”

I make my way through to the red and blue room and over to the spanking horse. I lay myself down across it. Obediently. Without protest. Without even the need for further urging. I know that there will be pain. That this will leave me sore. Even so, I bend across the horse, trusting Gaspazha to take care of me.

She unlocks the padlock that holds my wrists to my belt, takes it off and methodically straps me on to the spanking horse. And, I lay there, my belly against the cool leather of the horse, and allow her to do it. Without protest. Am I just becoming chronically obedient or trusting or secretly looking forward to my ordeal? If I am honest the answer is all of them. I am greedy for sensation! Like having the largest box of chocolates, but knowing someone else has to choose them and pass them to me.

Ylena strokes the nape of my neck. That touch alone is almost enough to make me whimper. I sense that she realises that too. “So, moi slooga. First, I shall warm your bottom because the cane on a cold unprepared bottom is very bad news indeed. Like when you exercise you must warm up your muscles, so it is with beating. Understand, moi slooga.”

She begins. First a hand spanking, short firm slaps then heavier blows, slow pats and rapid swats. Then comes a strap, then a tawse. Never hard blows, just rapid slaps, they hurt but not badly.

Then, comes a small whip. “Look at this moi slooga, see how small this is.” And it is, the grip no bigger than her hand, the tail no longer than her forearm. “But, small things can be very effective can they not, moi slooga.” The blows come quickly, back and forth, hard then soft then hard again, left buttock then right, working up from the base working down from the top. Every one of my senses is tuned to what Ylena is doing to me.

After this preparation, I am gasping, squirming and enjoying it. I can feel sweat trickle down from my back around my belly and down onto the leather of the horse. I'm not just enjoying this – that’s not a strong enough word. I try to stand aside psychologically – to revisit my analytical self – and watch my reactions objectively – but I can’t be objective. I'm not just enjoying it. I'm lost in it. Abandoned to it. Unaware of anything beyond, Ylena, me, the spanking horse and Ylena's toys. The sensation is extraordinary and I know that this is why I came. I would not be anywhere else for anything.

“Ah ha! What a nice hot red bottom!” I feel Ylena's hand on my buttocks.

I can feel the results of her work and a large floor-to-ceiling mirror lets me see what is happening to me. I see Ylena wearing the same leather skirt and bustier that she wore before. I can feel what she has done, but I cannot see the results of Gaspazha’s efforts yet.  And besides, she hasn't finished.

I watch with trepidation and anticipation as she picks a cane from the rack on the wall. She swishes it through the air.

“Well, Fifty, the cane! Have you been caned before? I think not?”

“No, Gaspazha.”

“Pardon?” Ylena's tone is indignant.

“Nyet spaseeba Gaspazha.”

“Better. This is not a good time to forget what I have taught you, is it?”

“Nyet, Gaspazha.”

“Nyet! So, I think I shall start with six of this light cane.”

She takes up a position behind me.

“Are you ready moi slooga?”

“Da, Gaspazha, I think.”

“Time to learn a new word, moi slooga. You know the word for 'please'? It's 'pazh’alsta'.”

“Pazh’alsta?” 

Before the word is out of my mouth, I hear the swish. I look up at the mirror as the cane connects with my bottom. It feels hot and bright, stinging and burning. But nice. I can't believe I think that. It feels nice. It's not nearly as bad as I feared it might be. I feel curiously light-headed, almost drunk.

A second, third and fourth stroke connects, each separated by perhaps thirty seconds of rest.

I am breathing in shallow gasps now. It may be pleasurable, but there is still pain and the pain is building into a wave crashing onto me. It's not unbearable, but I hope she will let the wave crash and recede –  and she does.

Ylena walks around to my head and crouches down so she can look me straight in the eyes. “

Just two more, Fifty,” she says.

She walks back to stand behind me. The first of two! AHHHHH! I bite my lip. That hurt. She waits and saws the cane slowly back and forth across my bottom like a violinist drawing their bow across their instrument. It feels good and the respite feels better.

The second blow comes without warning. AHHHH HHHHHA! I squeeze my buttocks together in response as the final stroke of the six burns its way into my bum. I realise there is no more to come. I relax onto the horse, breathing heavily, like an athlete after a hard run is over.

“Well. moi slooga? Did you enjoy that, little one?”

She has finished, but she doesn't unstrap me from the horse.

“Da, Gaspazha, spaseeba! It was much better for vash slooga than I thought it would be.”

“Hmmm. Better is not necessarily the sensation I was trying for. Still different canes feel different and after you have had a short rest you can try another.”

Another one? She leaves me strapped to the spanking horse, the leather padding sticky against my sweaty belly. The prospect of more caning should be really frightening, but I am amazed to find myself completely calm, as I think about what is to happen next. I shiver, my sweat evaporating has chilled my skin, but here is Ylena to warm it again.

I watch her in the mirror as she chooses from the rack, picking canes, one after another, weighing them in her hand bending them and testing their springiness. Replacing one and selecting another. Trying that and returning to the first. Trying another and deciding on that. I’m sure she is doing this to torment me, but as I watch in the mirror it's almost as if Ylena is in a different room and I'm looking through a window into another room not into a mirror into this one. I feel her choices have nothing to do with me; that what is happening now and what will happen soon have no connection.

Then she is standing beside my head, her skirt inches from my face, the smell of the leather filling my nostrils. She strokes my scalp. “This cane is heavier, moi slooga – see how the noise it makes is different as I swish it through the air. This is more, more thuddy. It will bruise you deeper, and it will make your bottom sore for longer – tomorrow and the next day.”

She says nothing more. Before I know it, the second cane has licked across my bum, and the sensation really is different. The difference makes it easier to bear. It burns too, but there is a deeper, broader, quality to the pain. Almost like a deep massage. Two, three, then four strokes each delivered slowly, deliberately. In my mind is the picture of waves gathering, ready to rush to shore and crash onto the beach.

Gaspazha waits.

The sea calms. It draws back from the beach.

A fifth stroke!

I am breathing deeply and heavily.

A sixth stroke!

The wave of pain crashes over me. I am clenching , unclenching , clenching my buttocks and squealing, whimpering, sobbing with the pain.

There's a hand on my neck and my back, rubbing soothing, calming ………..

“Well done, moi slooga. Well done, Fifty. Twelve strokes of the cane and moments ago you were a cane virgin.”

She wipes my eyes. Tears or perspiration? I cannot tell.

“Spaseeba, Gazpazha.” A sob escapes my lips.

“Pazh’alsta!” Ylena says, “It also means, 'you’re welcome'. Pazh’alsta. You took your cane very well. Fifty, I am proud of you! Now for pleasing vash Gaspazha, moi slooga has a reward.”

I feel Gaspazha loosen the strap across my back that holds me to the horse. She slides something between my legs.  It feels like a sort of shield covering my pussy. It's firm, but not cold. Leather perhaps, or plastic. She fastens elastic straps to my belt to hold it in place. Then I feel her finger pushing the shield to one side, slipping her finger beneath it. Her finger  - moist and slippery – spreads my lips out under the shield. I've never been touched there by a woman but even so, throughout this, I lay there, calm and passive. Accepting. Her slave.”

A moment later there is something cool on my anus and I feel as a rubber gloved finger circles my bud and presses inwards. Whether because of my caning or some animal arousal, my sphincter relaxes and I let her finger glide inside. She works her finger gently inside me around and around, side to side. This is very new ground and it feels so surprisingly good. Why did Joe never do this to me? Why did he never cane me? Did I ask? Would I have allowed him? Perhaps we were just too shy of each other?

Now, something else is gently probing my anus. Something harder. There's the sensation of a  bump as something slips through. Then, another and another.

“Fifty, have you ever tried playing with electrics?”

“No, I’m sorry, Nyet, Gaspazha!” Her words pull me back from my reverie. It's as if I have  suddenly woken up. I'm afraid, but somehow I feel that Ylena won't let her slave come to harm. “Er, what are you going to do?” I start to say, but coherent speech is abruptly cut off…..

“AaaAAAAHHHHH!” There's a delicious tingling, pulsing sucking feeling that runs across my vagina. I start giggling and laughing. The sensation runs through me again and again; gradually more and more intense.

Then, “AAAAAAHHHHH,” deep inside my bum another wiggling pricking pulsing exquisite sensation begins.

Ylena's voice is quiet and close to my ear. “Do you like that, moi slooga?”

“AAAAHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH.” I can hardly speak, it's like a fountain gushing across my vagina and inside my rectum. “YES,YES, Yes,” I gasp, in time with the sensations.

Gaspazha chuckles, obviously pleased with my reactions. “A little more, I think.”

“Yes, please, please,” I beg. “AAAAAHHHH. Gaspazha?”

“Yes, Fifty.”

“Gaspazha, will you cane me again – AAAAAAHHHH – vash slooga begs you.”

“Pardon?”

“Will you cane me again? Please. Pazh’alsta. ”

“Of course, perhaps next week?”

“No, please,” the sensations in my pussy and my arse continue. “AAAAAHHHHH, please. Pazh’alsta, Gaspazha, cane me now!” I can hardly believe I am saying this: the afterglow from Gaspazha’s previous attentions plus the astonishing sensations created by the electrical stimulation blend together and and and AAAAHHH, I just want to feel the stinging burning cane again!.

“Pazh’alsta, moi slooga, pazh’alsta.” She picks up one of the canes and stands behind me.

The waves of stimulation continue to pulse through me. I can't believe that I have begged her to beat me more, but the sensations she has provoked have made me throw any caution I had to the winds.

The cane smacks hard across my bum – and I love it!

“Oh!”

Another stroke; “OH!”

Another stroke; “OHH!”

And another and another and another!

I am pressing my bum against the straps which hold me, lifting it towards the fiery kisses of Gaspazha’s beautiful cane.

 

“There, Fifty! Another six. Would you like more?”

It seems impossible for me to say anything else. “Oh, yes please! Pazh’alsta Gaspazha.”

“Six?”

“Plea AAAAHHH. Pazh’alsta!”

“So, the heavier cane this time……”

From somewhere far away or so it seems comes the sensation of another, six, slow, firm, burning cuts across by bum and once more, like a runner finishing a race, there is complete exhausting satisfaction!

Finally, Gaspazha completes my caning and powers down the electrical stimulation unit.

I hang tired, throbbing, burning across the horse. I am wet with sweat and even though the room is warm, I start to shiver again.

Gaspazha unstraps me, then helps me down from the horse. My legs have turned to jelly and I sink to my knees. She wraps a warm towel around me, crouching beside me, holding me close to her and whispering, “moi slooga,”

I have had, quite simply, the most erotic exhausting time I can remember. I know that I will do absolutely anything this woman asks me to do: lick her feet, wear her brand or tattoo, make love to another girl, be her slave for ever, just anything!

“I think moi slooga enjoyed herself?”

“Oh, Da, Gaspazha. Spaseeba!”

“Excellent, I think you are beginning to get what you came for. But, I think you can do more. We will have to see how far you can go, won't we moi slooga? You know you will be beaten for your de-merits, don’t you?” I nod, remembering that I had 130 points before today’s session started. Gaspazha hasn’t said that my beatings today have reduced the total at all. “Now, we know how you respond to beating we can punish you appropriately.  Who knows where it will all end?”

Who indeed, I think. One thing I am sure of; I’m finding it increasingly difficult to spend time thinking about the research project. I’m swallowed up by everything that’s going on here in my life as a slave.

Chapter 17: The Tattooing Incident

Course 8 / Day 15: Course Progress Meeting

Participant Notes: Fifty

Jo: At yesterday’s review we agreed that Fifty was ready for her next experience. Charlotte has agreed to mentor her through this with Jonathan providing the technical input. We have scheduled Fifty’s tattooing for today, assuming she consents as we anticipate. It worked well for those on the last course, and like them, we expect this will help Fifty to confront issues of trust and the need to surrender to her new slave identity. She has given outline consent and Charlotte will begin by asking Fifty to provide a confirmation.

Jenny’s Recollections:

I am in my cell. The shutter is up so it’s open to the corridor through the bars. Charlotte comes.

She looks cool, calm; the epitome of Scandinavian elegance. She is dressed in a polo shirt, cut-off cargo pants and polished black thick soled leather loafers. There’s the heavy, sweet, fine, aura of Santa Maria Novella; the same scent she was wearing when we first met.

She unlocks the door with a swipe card, comes in and sits on my bed. She motions me to sit and I kneel at her feet.

She slips her feet out of her shoes, to draw them up onto the mattress, but instinctively (now) I lean forward and begin to kiss her feet.

They are beautiful feet; lightly tanned, no calluses, nails carefully trimmed, a toe ring on one foot and an ankle bracelet on the opposite ankle. They smell warm with the scent of leather, from her shoes.

Suddenly, I raise my head and smile broadly. I am rushing back to the normal in control, analytical, me. “You know, Charlotte, I never dreamed …”

She cuts me off. “SHHHH, little one.” She lays one hand on my head. “Shhhh. Stay where you were. Where you were …”

And I’m back as a slave once again, but with tears in my eyes now. Charlotte pushes my head gently down and I resume: kissing licking, rubbing my lips against her feet.

“Now, that’s good Fifty. Doesn’t that seem good to you?”

And it does seem good. Appropriate. Safe. Correct. I'm always happy here, caring for my Mistresses. It's funny. I have no problem with this; crouching at the feet of Charlotte, or Jo. Some of the other girls find this aspect of their slavery the hardest. They can cope with the bondage or the beatings, but they find it had to submit at this intensely personal level. Sue collected ten demerits yesterday for being slow to massage Charlotte's feet when ordered. Anna earned punishment for defying Ylena over something similar. For me, though, these services are the fulfilment of everything else:, the reason for the bondage and the beatings, the reward for the household duties, the honour of slavery. And then, I think, “Why can't I do this for Joe?”

Charlotte interrupts my thoughts. “Well done, little one. Well done. Now …”

It takes a moment to realise that she is trying to attract my attention. “Yes, Mistress?”

“Fifty: we would like you to take a souvenir home with you.”

“But, surely it’s not time for me to go home?”

“No, but some souvenirs need time and occasionally some need special consent.”

“From me?”

“Mmmmm, even from you. You know we do nothing that you have not consented to.”

She's right, of course.

“For your souvenir, we would like you to be tattooed. Would you like that?”

My first reaction is, I'm not sure. Actually, it's something I had never thought of. Of course, I had noticed other girls with various tattoos, some very attractive, some a bit tacky, and there are the tattoos that Judith and Anna have, but I never thought of having one myself ……….

“Er, I well, well I mean I never thought of it ……..I mean it might depend on what, on where .... erm what did you have in mind?”

“Of course, Fifty, we come back to the 'trust' question now. Would you trust us to do the best by you?”

I think about it for a moment. Actually, I do trust them. Even so, it’s a big step. I think back to the tattoos that I saw on Judith and Anna. “Yes, Mistress. I do,” I say but I need some reassurance. “Would it be something like the ones that Judith and Anna wear?”

Charlotte understands my worries. “Fifty, we know that your consent has to be informed. I will tell you this. Whatever we do would be hidden under your normal clothes. Nothing in the design would be obscene or offensive in any way. It will be done by a professional tattoo artist who would be proud to point to his work afterwards.”

What she says reassures me. I can see that she’s waiting for my answer, The look on her face is at once understanding of my dilemma, accepting of the sense of my concerns and disappointment that I am not more ready to demonstrate my trust.

“I’m sorry, it’s just not something I ever really thought of.”

“No, but we have thought of it for you. Will you trust us?”

“Yes Charlotte – sorry - Mistress.”

Charlotte leans forward and strokes my scalp. “Good,” she says. “Don’t worry it will be all right. I’ll send Jonathan to see you. Now you were …?”

I smile and lean forward again to kiss lick and rub my lips against her feet. In spite of the uncertainty, the tingle of apprehension, here I feel safe and right.

After Charlotte has gone, I have another visitor. Jonathan. I saw him on my last visit to see Celia.

He smiles broadly. “Hi, Fifty. I have come to talk about your tattoo. Stand up.”

I stand.

“Turn around ….. and again ….slowly. No stand up straight. Raise your arms. Now bend over. Hmmmmm. OK, let's do that again, and I’ll photograph you.”

I repeat the routine accompanied by clicks from Jonathan's digi-cam.

“OK, thank you, Fifty. I will work up a design on these and I will come for you later.”

“Sir,” I ask, “what will it look like and where will it be?”

Jonathan smiles. “To be absolutely honest, I haven’t decided yet. The very best and most artistic tattoos tend to be bold and simple. They're often quite a bit larger than their owners originally had in mind.” His eyes twinkle as he sees me bite my lip at this suggestion. “Although you have given your consent and you have agreed to leave the design up to us,. of course, I do remember you are a girl. Don't worry, Heavy Metal Biker or old fashioned Sailor imagery would not look right for you and cartoon characters are not appropriate for your personality either …”

Relief must have shown in my face, because he flashes a broad smile at me. “So I have to go and review possibilities. Positions and of course,” he pauses, “size. Then, I will know just what to create that will be right for a slave like you.”

I’m beginning to feel a knot of anxiety and anticipation somewhere between my tummy and my clit!

“I thought you used transfers from books and just tattooed over them?”

“That’s the way it always used to be. It is still used a lot. It's called Flash. Sometimes Flash can look really good. But, that's not what we're going to do for you, Fifty. I like to develop individual designs for my clients  - you can be a client on this occasion.” He smiles again.

“How long will it take? Will it hurt? ”

“Not compared to a session with Ylena!” he laughs and sees me blush. “Well, it will be uncomfortable in places. If I'm tattooing where the skin is thin, over bone, it can be worse and of course it can go on for a long time.  Relatively small designs can be done in one session, but yours will probably take several sessions.” He must see how nervous that makes me feel, is he planning to cover my entire body? He ignores my anxiety and carries on. “I might decide to see you at my studio after you are released, depending on the final design.”

After my release … I have had so much to think about that “release” and return to normal life seems a completely alien idea. But now there is this new idea that my ‘experience” won't end with release … that my time here will cast a shadow into the future. My hair will grow back, the pale marks from my cuffs and collar will fade, the scar from my implant will disappear, even my piercings could heal over but this will be visible always. Just how long will the shadow of Inward Bound actually be, I wonder? I am more than a bit concerned. I am actually feeling quite scared. When I started this I thought that the big problem was going to be coping with what ever they threw at me as part of the “experience”. Then I thought that trying to be objective enough to come up with something that would relate to a research agenda would be a problem. (All right – that has been a problem, I know). And I thought about the problems that I was going to have with Angela when I got back. And Joe. What I haven’t thought about, until now, was me and how all this was going to affect me  And now that I do, I am scared.

The rest of the day and the day after follows the usual pattern here. Housework, kitchen duties, serving the Mistresses and gardening. The beeps from my RFID chip every time I go through a door. I do seem to be getting an overall tan. What will Joe think of it? Actually, how am I going to explain any of this to Joe?

Three days later, after breakfast, Jo tells me I have an appointment with Jonathan and the knot in my stomach returns in an instant. She cuffs my wrists together, clips a leash to my nose ring and takes me to Celia’s room. She hangs the leash on the coat hook outside the door – as Jo did when I last went to see Ylena – and I just have to wait until Jonathan himself shows up. He smiles his broad smile and goes in to the room leaving me outside for a while longer. After a few minutes he comes out again, unclips my leash and takes me inside.

“Now, Fifty, I need absolute cooperation. I can’t work properly with you strapped down, if you are to be decorated to the highest standards. I think you will understand that. Are you prepared to lay still for me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl. Lay on the plinth.” He indicates a medical styled, lightly padded, adjustable ‘bed’, well to the side of Celia’s dental chair. The medical room is really rather bigger than I had remembered. The ‘plinth’ is exactly what a physiotherapist might use – I suppose that was where they got the idea of it. It’s upholstered in a darker leather like material (as I learned later because the tattooing inks can be hard to remove from lighter coloured material.)

After I am flat on the plinth, Jonathan sponges my skin with warmish water to dampen it and lays a sheet of what looks like tracing paper on top and another adjoining and another and another. I can feel my panic rising as he covers more and more of my back, then my hip and finally the top of my leg, with the paper.

“These are stencils Fifty, made from the overall design which I then printed up to life size. Today I shall tattoo the outline and on later visits I can do the filling in. That’s the part which will take time and it’s probably best done at intervals over the next few months.”

“That’s a long time!” I’m feeling that I’ve been stupid to agree to this and that maybe I should back out now.

“Yes, but your skin needs time to recover between sessions. It’s not like spreading paint on a canvas. And I would actually like you to enjoy the experience as well as the end result.”

Jonathan’s remarks make perfect sense and they are reassuring too. My irrational rational self reasserts itself. “There,” I hear my stupid, rational, self say to my more cautious, irrational but sensible self, “he says it’s all right so it will be and you can see he’s concerned for your well being so what problem could there possibly be?”

As so often, my stupid rational self wins out.

“So,” I say, “let’s get started …….”

Jonathan peels each stencil carefully from me and begins by spreading Vaseline across the area of skin he intends to work on. His design – whatever it is – is frighteningly extensive. He starts at my shoulder and moves sinuously over my back, down to my buttocks and off down one leg. Gee, this is going to be so big, I’ll never be able to get this lasered off if I take against it. The sensation of being tattooed seems to depend on where he is working. Sometimes it's prickly, sometimes sharp, sometimes just a buzzing sensation and sometimes really not nice at all. He gives me regular breaks and from time to time, rubs the target area with more Vaseline. The rubbing is a great relief and feels very comforting. We even stop for tea on a couple of occasions, as well as taking short breaks. It feels like being in the real world once again.

After the second tea break, Jonathan gives me a progress report, “That’s the outline of the principle design done!”

“There is more?”

“Ah ha!”

“Oh …”

“Don’t worry, you will love it when it’s finally done. So will your Owner.”

Owner! I get the now familiar sexual stab of pleasure at the word: “Owner”! The only question is who is my owner? Is it Joe, or is it Inward Bound?

“The last thing I’m going to do today is to complete one section at the bottom of your back. It's your bar code. It matches the number on your chip.”

“Oh …”

“Don't worry, it's well integrated into the design and will not look at all out of place.  In fact, it will look just like a part of the second level decoration unless you know what to look for. Now, let me just check.”

He takes a small pistol like device and points it at the scar on my arm where the RFID chip is buried. There’s a beep and Jonathan looks at the device.

“Fine,” he says. “At least I’ve got the right number. It wouldn’t do for your chip to say one thing and your bar code to say another. That way lies schizophrenia!” he laughs.

Well, I suppose it’s a relief that he thought of that but, even so, the bar code does not feel inconspicuously small to me, as Jonathan works on it. First he lays down another transfer stencil and then performs a check scan. The actual tattooing takes a long time. I suppose it’s got to be pin-point (Ha!) accurate if it’s going to scan properly, but I’m really glad when it’s done.

Jonathan sprays my skin with water again and places cling-film dressings over the areas he has worked on. The session is over and I’m very glad. Excruciating? No, but enough is enough! I’m sent off to my cell to rest up for the remainder of the day and towards the end of the afternoon, Jonathan reappears. He has me shower, and the cling film dressings peel away. He very gently soaps my skin (which feels rather rough and very tender now) and pats me dry with a soft towel before spraying on a final layer of skin dressing.

It is later on that I get the first reaction to Jonathan’s work.

“Jenny! …… bloody hell! Have you seen yourself?”

I’m having my evening meal with the rest of the girls and they are evidently impressed by Jonathan’s efforts. Even Judith and Anna applaud, which is worrying.

“No, actually I haven’t.  What’s it like?”

“It’s absolutely fantastic. You lucky sod!”

I finally get to see it later when I sneak a few moments to look in a mirror while I’m doing duties cleaning out Charlotte’s bathroom. It is impressive; a great abstract dragon design as though something from the Book of Kells has been lifted out and laid down on my back. I’m actually quite proud of it – which is just as well. Jonathan was right about the barcode, I guess. It is hidden away in the design but, even so, I know what it is and that it is there. I feel like a piece of meat in a supermarket. But then, I suppose that’s the idea. I find the idea arousing. I suddenly have this mental image of myself sitting in a wire trolley, being wheeled out of a girl supermarket by Joe, the check-out bleeping as it rings up my price and Joe hands over the cash willingly.

Let’s hope Joe agrees with the other girls about the tattoo. I guess I could remove my piercing jewellery (though I don’t want to) and my psychological state might even return to normal one day, (outside chance) but this tattoo really is forever ………………

© Copyright Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2008

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com  

Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

All characters  & organisations fictitious

Acknowledgements

Phil & Freddie would like to acknowledge the help given by the editors in creating the final version of this tale. Many thanks to Dennis, Peter, Red & Rohanna for their input, corrections and suggestions. If there are any typos, punctuation mistakes, inconsistencies or continuity errors left in Thesis then they are Phil’s and Freddie’s fault!