The Picture: The Stuff of Dreams Copyright 2003 by the author Chapter 1 The first thing I noticed was her face - the half-closed eyes and rounded cheeks both pleading and despairing at the same time as she knelt before her foreign tormentor. I wondered what she might be thinking, kneeling so helplessly before him, her shoulders pulled back by the ropes confining her wrists behind her back, her fair ankles imprisoned in golden shackles, her soft breasts so delicately exposed. I wondered if her head were held forcibly in place by the hand clasped in her brown hair and the chain leash attached to her collar, or if she bent forward willingly to serve her master so abjectly and intimately. Might there be a hint of pleasure, of contentment in those pale cheeks? "What do you think, Heather?" Myron's voice snapped me out of my reverie, reminding me where I was. I was here to appraise paintings, not lose myself in their depths. I quickly scanned the remainder of the canvas, taking in the Orientalist motifs, the cliched barbarian, the wanton cruelty of the scene. "It's 1850s, French, a rather mediocre example of what passed for pornography back then," I answered, hoping I wasn't blushing. In fact, paintings of this genre - though usually considerably more refined - had been part of what attracted me to art history in the first place. That, and the attractions of spending summers doing research in Paris, of course. "Some of the details are skillfully done, but overall it isn't particularly remarkable." "So what do you think we can get for it?" asked Myron. He was a mid-level executive at a prominent uptown auction house, which had hired me to appraise a set of paintings they had obtained from an estate liquidation. "Oh, twenty, maybe twenty-five thousand," I said nonchalantly. "OK," he said, making a note in his book. He took me by the elbow the way middle-aged men like ushering young women, and led me to the next painting. I snuck a final glance over my shoulder at the nude, bound figure, her master's passion spilling over her red lips and onto her ivory chin, trapped forever in that pose of helpless subservience. I felt a wave of warmth between my thighs and turned my gaze to the next painting. Although the collection included many more notable paintings - including one that might have been a Manet - it was still that crude image of a slave girl's subjection that stuck in my mind as I took a cab down to my gallery on 57th Street. I closed my eyes and pressed my thighs together as I tried to imagine what that girl might be feeling, her knees pressed against the hard floor as she desperately sought to please her master. By the time I arrived at the gallery, I had an idea. Mid-19th-century French historical paintings were actually one of our genres. Unlike the downtown galleries, our clients were the old rich and new rich co-op owners of the Upper East Side, people who wanted the opulence of continental nobility in their 4,000 square foot apartments. Naturally, we would be bidding on the collection at the auction the next week. And as the assistant director, it was up to me to determine which pieces we would bid on, and how much we would pay. As I wrote my report, I included the painting that fascinated me on our "A" list, and put down a price that should be sufficient to win it. Although we were bidding on pieces that I had just appraised, I didn't worry about conflicts of interest - this was hardly exceptional in the closely-knit world of fine arts in New York. I left my report on the director's desk for his final review and headed downtown for my date with Robert, all the while imagining what might happen later that evening. We had been going out for a couple months, and though our relationship had been casually romantic so far, I found myself involuntarily fantasizing about what it might be like to kneel before him, my eyes half-closed, and please him as best I could. I felt my cheeks grow warm and my breathing grow faster. Luckily, the taxi stopped at the restaurant, and I stepped outside into the cool, refreshing air. I flirted shamelessly with Robert throughout dinner, doing my best to lick my lips and chew my vegetables as sensuously as possible, crossing and uncrossing my legs under my short skirt. I think he knew what I was doing, but he was more than happy to play along. By the time we made it into my apartment, we were all over each other, kissing and fumbling with our clothes, and soon I was naked and on my back on the couch, he poised above me. "Wait," I said, an idea suddenly coming to my mind. I took his arms and gently guided him down until he was sitting on the couch, as I slipped off the couch onto my knees before him. I took his right hand and placed it in my hair, lifting my wide eyes to him hungrily. Then, letting my eyes flutter closed, I bent my head forward and extended my tongue. I heard him utter a soft moan as I bent to my task. I don't think he noticed when I clasped my hands together behind my back. "Thank you," he said as we crawled into bed and I snuggled up to him, my brown hair cascading across his shoulder. "Thank you," I whispered as I began to drift off to sleep. *** As if in a trance, I rose from my bed and walked over to the large window. Outside in the night, tiny points of red light flickered in the distance. Somehow I knew they were the campfires of an invading army. The cool breeze blew my thin silk nightgown closely against my body and raised goose pimples on my bare forearms. I shivered. I saw people moving restlessly in the dusty street below, but strangely no sound reached my ears. Larger fires broke out sporadically along the city walls, each time doused by teams of soldiers bearing buckets of water carried from the central well. I felt afraid, terribly afraid. The air became colder and colder. I wrapped my arms tightly around my body. I felt the building begin to shake as a battering ram began its rhythmic assault on the city gate. *** I was wide awake. Robert was snoring softly. I rose quietly to close the window and shut out the cool autumn air, and slipped back into bed, pressing my belly and breasts against his firm body. He moaned softly as I caressed his chest with my small hand. I wondered what, if anything, my dream meant, as I fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 2 I was sitting halfway back, off to the side, when the painting came up. It was relatively late in the auction, and most people were done with their bidding. Not wanting to take any chances, I had volunteered to attend the auction myself, coming up with a flimsy pretext to justify my unnecessary presence. No one had thought anything of it. This time I let my gaze linger on the other, dark-haired woman, reclining on the hard wooden bench, her left hand lazily holding the chain that depended from the slave girl's collar, her right hand stoking the master's pleasure. What was she, I wondered. Was she also a slave, but a more privileged one, one entitled to clothing at least? Or was she a concubine, one who enjoyed participating in the abuse and training of captured beauties? Her face suggested serenity and experience, not the innocent helplessness of the nude girl kneeling on the floor. I lifted my marker quickly, indicating a bid of $16,000. My eyes paused also on the slippers to the left of the master's feet, so neatly placed there. Had the slave girl delicately removed them from his feet with her teeth just a moment before? Had she been commanded to worship them with her lips and tongue, before being granted the privilege of paying homage to his body directly? I lifted my marker again. The bid was up to $21,000. And how had the man undressed? Had he torn down his clothes in his haste to have the girl offered before him, or had she also been compelled to gently disrobe him with her teeth, unveiling his manhood in the process? "Sold," came the auctioneer's voice. I blinked my eyes to clear them. The price had been no higher than I had expected, meaning that no one could find the purchase remarkable. Soon the painting would be delivered to my gallery. I realized I was pressing my thighs together underneath my skirt. My palms were sweating. Luckily there were no more paintings that I needed to bid on. I waved to Myron as I rose and slipped out the back of the auditorium. In the cab, I called the gallery and said I would be taking the rest of the day off because I didn't feel well, which was at least close to the truth. Because of the rush hour traffic, it was beginning to get dark when I finally arrived at my apartment building in Gramercy Park. I knew Robert would be working late, which meant I would be left to my own devices for the entire evening. I stood in front of my full-length bedroom mirror as I took off my clothes, first taking care to close the curtains tightly. I saw the naked woman in the mirror straighten her body, drawing in her stomach and lifting her breasts as if for inspection. At an unseen command, she lowered herself to her knees, the palms of her hands sliding down onto her soft thighs. Eyes closed, she felt a booted foot thrust her knees apart, opening her body vulnerably. I watched in shock as she wantonly tossed her head back, letting her brown hair fall behind her shoulders so as not to obscure her rounded, lifted breasts. Her lips parted invitingly. I compared the girl in the mirror to the one in the painting fixed in my mind's eye. Perhaps the girl in the painting was a bit thinner, her hair a few inches longer, but I thought the girl in the mirror might measure up acceptably. The girl in the mirror shifted to her right, sliding her right foot under her left ankle, and crossed her wrists behind her back, arching her back as she tilted her head forward. A few strands of hair drifted back in front of her shoulder and grazed the side of her breast. I gazed at her out of the corner of my eye. Yes, she might do, I thought. A man might find her worthy of taking, and keeping, to do with as he pleased. All she needed now were a collar on her neck, ropes about her wrists, shackles on her ankles, and a master to serve. I squirmed on my knees, feeling the warmth build up between my legs. I moaned softly, but kept my hands crossed behind my back, confined by the bonds of my imagination. I had long known of my submissive tendencies, but had limited myself to a few light-hearted bondage sessions with my boyfriends - surely nothing too far from the norm. I had always been too concerned with my career, and the pleasures available to a young woman with a decent salary in Manhattan, to be tempted to pursue those tendencies further. However, seeing the painting - otherwise so unremarkable and devoid of real historical interest - had somehow triggered and inflamed those desires, to the point where I could almost feel the taste of my servitude in my mouth. I wondered what the girl in the painting would be forced to do next. Unbidden, the girl in the mirror bent forward, lowering her forehead to the carpeted floor, lifting her bottom up in the air, completely exposed from behind. Turning my head to the side, I saw her body heaving as she felt her imaginary tormentors casually making use of her offered body. With a whimper, she squirmed down onto her stomach, her breasts pressed against the floor, her legs widely spread behind her, her wrists still held captive by invisible cords. As I watched, scandalized, she pressed her belly down further into the carpet, moaning as she rubbed herself against its thick pile, pinned in place by invisible masters, forced to cry out her submission to them. Dazed, I unclasped my hands and crawled up to lie on my bed, my breast heaving. I had not known that girl existed inside me. My torrent of emotions drowned by fatigue, I fell asleep. *** The crisp morning air was still drifting into the room from the large window, not yet warmed by the bright sun. I cautiously peered out and down to the street below, frightened of what I might see but irresistibly drawn nevertheless. Below, the city streets were a jumble of frantic activity. Heavily booted soldiers, their black hair flowing out from under their helmets, tramped over the unpaved streets, weapons drawn, seeking out stragglers from the defending forces. Wounded men lay slumped against the stone walls, their mouths open in gasps or screams. Single women fled through the streets on bare feet, seeking shelter in an open doorway. Strangely, the entire scene was completely quiet, as if an invisible curtain separated me from the world below. Suddenly I gasped in surprise. Two fair-skinned young women rounded a corner and headed down the street below my window, stumbling as they hurried. Their clothes hung on them in tatters, clearly revealing the softness of their breasts and the lines of their hips. Their hands bound behind their backs, they were unable to close their garments about them to hide themselves from the soldiers' leering gazes. Their necks were confined in rope collars, by which they were yoked together. Most frighteningly, they were being driven down the street by a moustached, dark-skinned man with a flowing scarf on his head, cracking a whip over their heads and occasionally across their scantily protected backs. I wanted to shrink back from the window, but some unseen force kept me there, my eyes glued to the scene below me. Now they were just below my window. I could see tears in the eyes of the girl on the left, her face familiar to me from one of the many social occasions we had enjoyed in peacetime. Still locked in place, I was unable to hide when her tormentor lifted his gaze to my window, a cruel smile growing on his lips as his eyes locked with mine. I saw him issue commands to his men, but still no sound reached my ears. As I watched, he tied the two women to a post by their collars, and slowly walked through the entranceway to my building, following the two soldiers he had sent ahead. Only then was I able to tear myself away from the window, but I could only make it as far as the door to my bedroom, afraid to open it and see what lay in wait for me. I clutched my nightgown to my body, feeling the flimsiness of the one veil that might protect me from these intruders. I could feel my heart beating in panic, could hear the ragged breaths escaping my lips as I stared at the door. Suddenly the eerie silence was broken by sharp pounding against the door. Terrified, I shrank back against the far wall. The pounding increased as the door began to weaken ... *** I blinked my eyes. Someone was knocking on the door of the apartment next to mine. My clock read 6:55 AM - still another 5 minutes to sleep before I had to get up to go to the gym. I closed my eyes, wondering if I would slip back into that exotic, frightening dream. But I only heard the sounds of delivery trucks on the city streets below. Five minutes later, I got up, started my coffee maker, and turned on the water in the shower.
Chapter 3 Early the next week, the painting was delivered to my gallery. It was easy to arrange for one of the assistants to drive it, still unwrapped, to my apartment. Gallery employees were allowed to borrow art works from the collection to display in their homes, and as the assistant director I kept track of who had which pieces. I spent the day in a state of nervous excitement, controlling the impulse to unwrap the painting and take the long, close look that I had been afraid to indulge in earlier. Finally it was 5:00. I climbed into the gallery's van with Peter, the assistant, and we drove to my apartment. Peter and I maneuvered the painting up the stairs and into my bedroom, where we wrapped up my previous "loaner" - a late-19th-century French still-life - to be returned to the gallery. I declined the offer to unwrap and hang my new prize, explaining that my boyfriend would help me later, and saw Peter out. Then I raced back up the stairs and eagerly tore the protective wrapping off the painting, uncovering the cruel, sensuous scene that was so fixed in my mind. I slowly absorbed the canvas's earthen colors and sensuous lines, picking out details I had previously missed - the cruel binding of the naked girl's wrists, accentuating the arch of her back; the matching brass of the ankle shackles, armband, collar, and chain leash that marked her status so clearly; the powerful thigh of her captor, seemingly as thick as her waist; the faint shadow of a bulge in her cheek. But still I came no closer to making out the emotion that colored her face. Was it intent focus on duty? Or helpless desperation? Or something else? I looked at my watch. I only had an hour before Robert would arrive for dinner, a dinner I had rehearsed in my mind all day. I hung the painting on the wall, facing the bed, and draped a cloth over it, as if before an unveiling. Then I moved to the kitchen to prepare dinner, wondering if this were the sort of chore that the slave girl on my bedroom wall might also be expected to perform. Luckily, studying art history at NYU and in Paris had taught me how to please a man in the kitchen. Fifty-five minutes later, the potatoes dauphinoises where just browning in the oven, the asparagus in brown butter was waiting in its serving dish, the avocado and grapefruit salad was tossed, and the lamb chops were marinated and ready to be seared on the grill pan. I slipped into the bedroom and undressed, pausing briefly to assess my nude body, hoping it would measure up to the figure in the painting. Then, as I heard knocking on the door, I hurriedly put on a slip and robe in matching pink silk, drawing the belt tight around my waist to accentuate my figure. I opened the door and was rewarded by the sight of Robert's lower jaw sagging open as my bare thighs slipped into view, and ushered him into the apartment quickly. "I have a surprise for you," I whispered in his ear as I took his jacket." He stepped back and looked me up and down. "You mean that isn't it?" he asked. "Well, another one," I smiled, and led him to the kitchen, where I had already poured us two glasses of Cote Rotie. "To tonight," I said, raising my glass. He was at a loss for words. I know I was uncomfortable during dinner, feeling nearly naked with only flimsy silk covering my body, but I'm sure he was even more uncomfortable, trying not to stare at my thinly veiled breasts or my exposed legs as we ate. I served him each course as demurely and pleasingly as I could, but did not neglect to tease him gently as I walked back and forth from the kitchen, or as I leaned close to him to refill his wine glass, or as I reached under the table to caress his thigh with my hand. When it was time for dessert, I ate my sorbet slowly and lingeringly, letting my spoon vanish into my mouth and closing my eyes as I let my tongue drift around my lips. "It's time for your surprise," I said as I put down my spoon. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I was terrified of how he might respond, but I was determined to go through with my plan. "You mean there's more?" he said. "Much, much more," I answered, taking him by the hand and leading him to the bedroom. I seated him on the bed, facing the draped painting, and slowly took off my robe before him, stripping down to the thin pink slip beneath. It came about a third of the way down my thighs, but was slit high on each side, showing off my hips as I moved, and the low-cut neck revealed the soft curves of my breasts clearly. "I got a new painting from my gallery," I said, grasping the cloth that hid it from view. "I hope you like it." I pulled the cloth off the painting, exposing its fair captive to view. I saw Robert's eyes widen in surprise. I stepped closer to the bed and kneeled at his feet, leaning my head against his thigh as we looked at the painting together. I looped my arm around his leg and stroked it gently. "It's pretty shocking," he finally said. "I'm surprised you like it," he added. "Maybe you won't be when you get to know me better," I said, looking up at him from my knees. "What does that mean?," he said, his hand now in my hair. I looked at the painting. "Have you ever fantasized about having a slave girl, who would do anything you asked, instantly and obediently, like that girl on the wall?" He hesitated. "Um, not really." "Are you sure?" "Well, maybe occasionally, but I certainly never thought of you that way," he stammered. "Well this is your surprise," I said, pausing to kiss him on the outside of his knee. "For tonight, I'll be that girl. I'll do anything you want, anything you've always wanted to do with a girl but were too afraid to ask." There. I had said it. I had offered myself to him, as his slave, if only for a night. He was silent. I edged around in front of him, still on my knees, and rested my hands on his thighs. "Shall I strip for you?" I asked, looking up at him. "You really don't have to do this, Heather," he said. "I like you just the way you are." "This is how I am, Robert, kneeling before you offering myself to you. Tonight, I just want to make you happy." He didn't respond. "Don't you want to see me naked?" I asked. "OK," he said, trying to be casual about it. I reached up to the front of my skimpy garment and slowly drew it over my head, baring my body before him. I drew back my shoulders and lifted my breasts for his view, hoping he liked what he saw. "Shall I serve you like that girl in the painting?" I asked, hopefully. "Um, OK," he said, still unsure what he could ask for. "Thank you," I said, reaching up to unbuckle his belt. I lowered his pants and underwear, and slid my hands around his waist as I bent forward to take him in my eager mouth. I moaned softly as I felt the familiar warmth build between my thighs. I had hoped that seeing the painting would unleash Robert's desire to have a slave girl, and I had clearly offered to be that girl. I wasn't sure if it was working, but still, I was kneeling naked before him, serving his pleasure. I pressed my thighs together. I could feel his hands in my hair, guiding my head off of him. "Come up here," he said, patting the bed. I crawled onto the bed and lay next to him, my breast heaving in excitement. "I don't want a slave girl," he said. "I just want you." Then he leaned down and kissed me deeply, rolling on top of me to make love the old-fashioned way. I kissed him back, but inside I was disappointed. I didn't know if he really didn't want a slave girl, or if he was only trying to conform to what he thought I wanted. I closed my eyes and imagined it was a cruel, foreign master forcing himself upon me, pushing my legs apart and claiming my body as his loot. Finally I cried out in submission and ecstasy. Robert thought it was love. "Thank you for a wonderful evening," he whispered as we snuggled together in the bed. I felt sleep take hold of me and plunge me into darkness. *** The door broke inward with a crash, and three dark-haired men swaggered into my bedroom. I put my hand to my breast and looked around me frantically. There was no escape, and no one was coming to my aid. I had nothing to protect myself from these strange, powerful men. Their leader, with the dark, cruel moustache, walked directly toward me, his heavy boots echoing against the floor, stopping just inches from my heaving chest. He looked down into my eyes, his expression a mix of contempt and lust. I averted my eyes and slumped down to my knees, any will to resist drained out of me. He extended his foot and lifted his leather boot up toward my face. Tears in my eyes, I leaned forward and kissed it timidly. I knew that I was powerless against these men, that my only hope for survival lay in doing anything they asked. I shuddered, thinking of what that might entail. He chuckled softly and slid his other foot forward, towards me. I lowered my face and hands to the floor as I pressed my lips to the boot, tasting the dust of the streets on my tongue. Then I felt myself lifted up, one arm held by each of the two other soldiers, until I was standing before him, my eyes only coming to the level of his neck, my body trembling in fear. I saw him draw a dagger from his belt, and my heart began to race. "Please," I sobbed. "Please don't kill me." He lifted the dagger toward my neck. "I'll do anything you want," I begged. "You can do anything you want to me." He smiled. Then he grasped the collar of my nightgown with one hand and slashed down the front with the dagger, ripping it open and exposing my body to him and his men. They laughed, cruelly. Sobs of both relief and humiliation wracked my body. The man casually brushed aside the shreds of my garment, stripping me completely naked. I closed my eyes as their hands roamed across my body, feeling my breasts, belly, hips, and thighs, even my most intimate areas. The man laughed as he felt my dampness, my body's self-defense against its expected use. Tears of shame slid over my cheeks. I wondered if I was going to be raped, or worse. I hoped they would find me pleasing. I knew that I would do anything I could to satisfy these men, on whom my life depended. Then I felt a rough rope collar tied around my neck, and my hands lashed together behind my back. One of the soldiers tugged on the length of rope dangling from my collar, leading me toward the door like an animal. I followed him down the steps of my own house, steps I had climbed thousands of times before - but never naked, bound, and led by a leash, a helpless captive of powerful men. I stumbled as I was dragged over the threshold and into the street, averting my head so I would not have to meet the lustful stares of the soldiers on the street. I wished I had been granted at least some scrap of clothing to hide my nudity, but I guessed that I was not likely to enjoy such niceties, given my present condition. I felt the warm sun beating down on my unprotected body. My captor, behind, me, raised his whip and barked out commands in a foreign tongue. *** "Heather! Heather!" Robert was shaking me gently. I felt the sunlight streaming through the window and onto the bed. "You were dreaming," he explained. "It's time to get up." I closed my eyes. I could still feel the dust of the street under my feet, the rough rope collar around my neck. I opened my eyes and looked at the alarm clock. "Thanks, honey," I said and kissed him on the cheek as I slipped out of bed.
Chapter 4 All that day, I could not shake the images of that dream out of my head. Sitting at my desk, I needed only close my eyes and those vivid images of capture and humiliation flowed back into my consciousness. I tried to place myself back in that unfamiliar bedroom, held in place by two strong men, as my clothes were ripped from my body, those dark eyes raking up and down my flesh, mocking my nakedness. I put my hand to my neck, expecting to feel the harsh strands of rope that rubbed against my soft neck. I willed the dream to move forward in my head, wondering where they had been taking me, and what indignities they might visit on me when we arrived there, but each time my imagination failed me. By lunchtime, I could stand it no longer. Announcing that I had a lunch date downtown, I rushed to the subway to catch the train down to the Lower East Side, the address I had found on the Internet fixed in my mind. I pushed the door open. Inside, it was clean, well-lit, and friendly. I paused as I scanned the shelves and racks, admiring the arrays of specialized equipment available for sale. My eyes passed quickly over the books and videos, lingered curiously on the whips and crops, and finally settled on the collars, handcuffs, manacles, shackles, and other devices hanging on the far wall. Imagining every pair of eyes in the store following me, I walked quickly to the wall, my eyes fixed directly ahead of me. I was looking at the metal collars, trying to guess what size might fit my neck and wishing I had measured it that morning, when I heard a voice from directly behind me. "Can I help you find anything?" I turned. It was a young woman, college age, unquestionably pretty, with short, black hair and a small diamond stud in her nose. "Do you need help with anything?" she repeated. "No, thanks," I said hurriedly. Then, before she could turn, I added, "Actually, maybe you could help me pick one of these ..." I couldn't get the word "collar" out of my mouth, certainly not in public like this. "The collars?" she answered. "The leather collars are more comfortable, but the steel ones do have that feeling of ... of irreversibility." "The steel ones," I whispered. "Is it for you?" she asked innocently, as if we were looking at silk scarves or leather handbags. I nodded and looked about the room quickly, hoping no one else was noticing. "Well, this should be about your size," she said, picking one of the smaller collars. She held it out to me. I touched it hesitantly. Its surface was of gleaming steel, unbroken except for the hinge where it opened and the lock where it closed, and the small ring attached to it. "The inside is beveled, for comfort. And here's the key," she added, demonstrating how it opened and closed. "Do you want to try it on?" she asked casually. "No, that's OK," I stammered. "I was wondering ..." I trailed off, looking at the wall. She noticed where I was looking. "One of these chains will do nicely as a leash," she offered. I nodded. Ten minutes later I was out on the street, my purchases stuffed into my handbag. In addition to the collar and chain leash, I had bought two pairs of metal shackles, joined by adjustable lengths of chain. They should fit my ankles and wrists quite nicely, the salesperson had said. I closed my eyes, imagining what the cool steel would feel like locked about my slender wrists and ankles, or about the tender flesh of my throat. I wondered what I would look like in the mirror. I opened my eyes and steadied myself. Then I headed back to the subway station to head back to midtown. Back in the gallery, I slipped into the bathroom with my new toys. I cradled the shackles lovingly in my hands, feeling their weight and smoothness. I even locked one of them around my left wrist, holding the key tightly in my right hand, before quickly unlocking it again. I didn't want to run the risk of being embarrassed at work like this. I could wait until I got home. Robert was busy that night, so I knew I would be undisturbed. Once I got home, I rushed around the apartment, closing the blinds on all the windows and securing all the locks on the door. Then I sat on my bed and spread out my new accessories on the comforter. I looked up at the painting, admiring the gleaming gold of that slave girl's collar, leash, and shackles. Steel would have to do for me. Standing before the mirror, I removed all my clothes, forcing myself to strip slowly, as if commanded by a master. I rubbed my hands slowly up and down my naked body, caressing the curves of my belly and hips, once again feeling the rough inspection by my captors in the previous night's dream. Then I picked up the steel collar and knelt down on the floor, watching the girl in the mirror as she lifted the collar to her lips and shamelessly caressed it with her tongue. I tested the key in the lock twice, lifted the collar to my neck, and closed it. It was narrow enough that I could feel its inside surface on my throat, but not uncomfortable. I put my hand to the collar and slid it around my neck. Without the key, I had no way of removing it, of course. I was imprisoned by it as helplessly as that girl in the painting. I repeated the ritual with the shackles for my wrists and ankles, each time kissing the chains submissively before I locked my fair limbs within them. I left myself about nine inches of slack between my ankles and six inches between my wrists so that I would be able to get around the apartment and take care of myself. Then I placed all three keys on a key ring and trusted it to the top drawer of my nightstand. On a whim, I lowered myself to all fours and began crawling across the floor, toward the mirror. I saw my naked breasts swaying beneath me as my shoulders rocked back and forth, my brown hair falling in a thin curtain before my face. I knelt back on my heels and spread my thighs widely before the mirror, blushing as I exposed myself brazenly to view. I wondered if the captors in my dream might have ordered their slave to present herself to them so elegantly and vulnerably. I moaned softly, closing my eyes. I hoped that sleep would return me to their feet to serve their pleasure. It was too early to go to bed, so I got up from the floor, still naked and bound, and made my way with small steps to the kitchen to make dinner. I accustomed myself to the limitations of my new world, the challenges of chopping vegetables with only six inches of freedom to separate your wrists, the need to take small, delicate steps when walking in ankle shackles. I watched some TV, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, and talked to my boyfriend, holding the receiver to my head with both hands, wondering what he would think if he could see his girlfriend then, a perfect picture of captive submission. I kissed him good night over the phone and crawled back to the bedroom. I dimmed the light so I could still make out the painting on the wall. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I unlocked my right wrist, shortened the shackles to a single link of chain, and placed the key ring carefully on top of my nightstand. Then I reached my hands behind my back, fumbled with the right bracelet with my left hand, and finally managed to close it about my wrist. I looked up at the painting. I was bound as helplessly and vulnerably as that other slave girl, my hands held behind my back, powerless to defend myself, my breasts thrust forward by the awkward position. My neck was locked in a steel collar. My ankles were shackled, preventing me from escaping, but still allowing my thighs to be thrust apart, either lying on my back or bent forward on my knees, to be used for a man's pleasure. I slid partway under the covers, as best as I could. I looked up at the painting in the dim light. Still, I wondered, what was that girl feeling, as she was put to her master's pleasure? Was it resignation, or despair, or excitement? For myself, I felt only anticipation, as I lay my head back and tried to will myself to sleep, rolling to my side to relieve the pressure on my bound wrists, hearing the crack of an unseen whip as darkness invaded my consciousness. *** Afternoon sunbeams were slanting into the courtyard, lined with marble columns. I recognized it as the courtyard of our royal palace, which I had visited on ceremonial occasions, along with other citizens of the city. But now I was kneeling in the dirt along one edge of the courtyard, completely naked, my neck even free of the rope whose abrasions I could still feel on my soft skin. I stole a glance to each side. I was in the middle of a line of about twenty young women, some partially clothed, some not at all, all kneeling in the dirt, heads bowed in submission. I felt the heavy footsteps of guards behind me, heard their voices speaking the threatening intonations of their foreign tongue, no doubt discussing the merits of the prizes before them. I wished I had something to wear, to hide my nudity from their gaze. A whip cracked in the still, warm air. I lifted my eyes, trying to keep my head lowered. A black-haired woman with sensuous, olive skin stood about fifteen feet in front of us, brandishing a long, evil-looking leather whip. She was dressed in a flowing, multicolored gown. "Sluts!" she shouted at us, in our language. I heard whimpers of protest. "You are all cheap, worthless sluts," she repeated, her eyes sweeping across us. "Kneel straighter!" she commanded. "Spread your knees! Hands behind your head!" She cracked the whip for effect as we all struggled to obey her commands. I could see that no one wanted to find out the consequences of disobedience. "I am Raisa, the slave trainer of General Halimar, the conqueror of your city," she said. "As citizens of a defeated city, your lives are his to do with as he pleases. He can have you tortured or killed, and no one will lift a finger to protect you." We kept our position, motionless. We knew enough about affairs of state to know that what she said was true. "But you are fortunate," she continued with a smile. "You have been found of interest - perhaps of sufficient interest to be a slave." I felt a shudder pass through my body as her words sunk into me. I had only a faint idea of what slavery might be like, but it was enough to fill me with dread. "If you are accepted as a slave, you will be permitted to attempt to please your masters, and in exchange for being pleasing, you might be allowed to live." She paused. "That is the future that is open to you." I could feel my breast rising and falling with fear. No longer was I worried that strangers could look on my naked body with impunity; now I could only think of what it might be to be a slave, to have to serve masters unquestioningly and absolutely, to exist only for their pleasure. "So ... who among you wants to be a slave?" she asked. There was silence, as girls wrestled with their fates, perhaps fearing to be the first to beg for her slavery. Still no one spoke. "Very well. A worthless lot," she concluded. Turning to the soldiers to one side, she said, "Take them away and kill them." I looked from side to side in terror as the men advanced. Then a trembling voice dared, "No, please, please don't kill me, let me be a slave instead." Then other voices took up the same plea, and in them I heard my own, begging piteously to be taken as a slave. "Silence!" Raisa shouted, and immediately the hubbub of voices died out. She pointed with her whip to the first girl on the line, a young, blond-haired girl wearing the scraps of a gown. "If you want to be a slave, strip yourself, crawl to my feet, and beg." I watched as the girl, tears in her eyes, tore the clothes off her body, baring herself to the chuckling men, and lowered herself to hands and knees to crawl to her tormentor, bowing her head to kiss her sandaled feet as she begged to be kept as a slave. Raisa motioned her back to her knees and signaled to a soldier, who brought a burlap bag and placed it beside her. From the bag she removed a gleaming, gold-collared band of metal and held it before the trembling girl, pressing it to her lips for her to kiss. Then she swiftly closed the collar around her neck, sealing her fate as a slave. "Return to your place and kneel as you were," she ordered. The girl rose to her feet and turned, but before she could take a step she was thrown back on her belly by the force of Raisa's whip. "Slaves do not rise from their knees unless commanded to do so," she said coldly, striking the girl again for emphasis. Sobbing, the girl crawled back to her place and took up her position, only now her neck locked in the cool metal of a slave collar. Raisa pointed her whip at the next girl in the line. "Beg," she said. Sobbing, the girl stripped herself, and crawled across the dirt of the courtyard on her hands and knees. A minute later she was crawling back to her place, her neck now adorned with a collar symbolizing her new status. Too soon, it was my turn. I unlaced my hands from behind my head and bent forward, pressing my small hands to the dirt. My brown hair fell in a curtain before my face as I crawled toward this imposing woman, my breasts swaying beneath me. I slid my hands forward across the ground and lowered my head to the ground, pressing my lips to her foot. I was determined to please her, no matter what the cost to my dignity. I raised my head a few inches and lowered it again to her other foot, parting my lips slightly this time and hesitantly tracing the tip of my tongue across her skin. My head still bowed, my hair falling about her feet, I pleaded, "I beg to be a slave." I pressed my lips to her feet again. "Please, let me be a slave. I'll do anything you ask. I'll be completely obedient and pleasing." I knew I was begging for my life, but at the same time, I felt a strange exhilaration as I brushed my lips submissively across this strange woman's feet, offering myself completely as a slave. I felt the handle of the whip pushing me up to my knees. "This is a hot one," she said, smiling. I felt the whip pressed against my mouth and parted my lips in response, closing my eyes as I licked the rough leather. I felt warmth building between my legs, but kept my knees widely spread as I had been ordered. Then the whip was withdrawn and replaced with a collar, and I opened my mouth wide, brazenly extending my tongue to lick its smooth metal surface. Shocked at my own behavior, I told myself I was simply doing this to survive, that it was my only possible course of action. But something in me relished the taste of the metal on my tongue, and thrilled in anticipation of feeling it locked on me. I did not have long to wait before the collar closed solidly around my neck, sealing my fate as a slave girl. "Thank you," I whispered. I felt her hand patting my head. "We'll get acquainted later," she said as she dismissed me back to the line. Kneeling in place, my hands once again clasped behind my head, I could feel the sidelong glances of the other girls in the chain, eyeing me suspiciously. I kept my eyes on the ground, humiliated. What had come over me? I told myself again that I was only playing a part, trying to placate this woman in order to save my life. But I could not deny the way I had felt as I licked her whip and the collar that I now wore. Kneeling in that exposed, vulnerable, and humiliating position, I watched the remainder of the captured girls go through the same ritual, returning to their places as slaves, spoils of war. Finally we were all naked, collared, and submitted, awaiting our commands. "You are slaves," Raisa began, walking menacingly along the line of girls, occasionally pausing to kick a girl's knees further apart. "You exist to give pleasure to masters, in any way that they desire. If you fail to be pleasing, you will be beaten. If you continue to be displeasing, you will be killed." She stopped before the first girl, the blonde, trembling slightly as she knelt. "What are you?" she asked, tilting her chin up with the whip. "A slave," the girl answered. "Why do you exist?" "To please men." Raisa pointed to one of the soldiers. "There is a man. Crawl to his feet and beg to please him." The girl hesitated only a moment before the raised whip spurred her to movement. I watched as she made her way on hands and knees to the leering man, as she pressed her lips to her boots. "I beg to please you, master" she said, her voice breaking. "Please let me please you," she sobbed. There were multiple gasps as the man reached down, turned her by the shoulders, and bent her over, still kneeling, before him. Then he opened his trousers and plunged into her from behind, raping her casually, brutally, impervious to her moans of shock and humiliation. When he had finished with her, she collapsed to her belly in the dirt, crying. Raisa towered over her, the whip in her hand. "Well, slut?" she said, tauntingly. "Aren't you grateful? You begged to be used, and he used you. Aren't you going to thank him?" I could hear the other soldiers laughing as the girl rose to her knees before her rapist. "Thank you, master," she whispered. The man patted her on the head, like a dog, and walked away. As the girl crawled back to her place, I tried to digest what I had just seen. A young woman, only this morning a free citizen of the city, had just been publicly raped on her knees in the dirt. Then she had been commanded to thank the man who had visited this degradation on her. While I felt shock and horror, I also felt a curious sense of excitement and even, though I tried to shut it out of my mind, arousal. I imagined what those forceful thrusts would have felt like in my body, and resisted the urge to press my thighs together. I expected I would not have long to wait for my turn. Raisa was standing before us again. "You will obey immediately, unquestioningly, and absolutely," she said. "You will offer any part of your body that a man is interested in, for any use he might think of. Anything less is grounds for punishment." She paused. "Do you understand?" We nodded our heads, not daring to speak, not wanting to be singled out to be raped. Fortunately for us, she seemed satisfied. "Take them away and prepare them for the feast," she said." One of the guards motioned for us to stand. "Hands behind head," he ordered. "Follow!" He led us into the main palace gate. As I walked, one of the soldiers pulled me out of the line. I could feel my body becoming wet, preparing itself to be used. But he did not order me to my knees, or throw me to my back. As I kept my position, exposing myself so vulnerably to him, he ran his hands over my body, across my breasts and sides and hips. I could feel the rough, calloused skin of his hands as he explored me with a casualness and possessiveness I had never imagined, let alone experienced. I could feel my heart pounding and my breathing accelerating as his hands roved over my thighs, hips, and belly, my body involuntarily pressing itself back against his unwanted touch. I could hear him chuckling as I closed my eyes and began rolling my hips. A moan worked its way up from my belly into my throat ...
Chapter 5 I awoke on my stomach, my hips pressed deeply into the mattress, my hands still chained securely behind my back. I closed my eyes, still feeling the traces of the soldier's hands on my unprotected body, pushing myself against his imagined touch. But I could not return to that palace archway, to that humiliating yet exciting scene. Still breathing heavily, I rolled to my side. It was time to get up. I looked up at the painting, partially visible in the morning light that filtered through my curtains. Had that girl been subject to the same domineering, casual exploration of her body that I had experienced in my dream? No doubt, I thought. As a slave, her body was available to the touch of any man who found her of interest. And with her hands bound so tightly behind her back, she had no ability to protect herself. I sat up and swung my shackled feet over the edge of the bed, standing carefully near my nightstand. I looked down, fixed the location of the key chain in my mind, and then turned around and squatted down so my chained hands could reach it. Suddenly, as I balanced myself on my closely chained feet, I slipped and fell backwards against the night stand, jarring it sharply. I caught myself with my hands, struggled back up to my feet, and turned. The key chain was nowhere to be seen. Suppressing the urge to panic, I lowered myself gingerly to the floor and looked around. Finally I spotted the keys, wedged between the nightstand and the wall. I could only reach them by moving the heavy piece of furniture. I surveyed the situation, my pulse quickening. The nightstand was pushed into a corner and bordered on one side by the bed, which I would be unable to move in my current state. There was no place I could position myself to push the nightstand out of the way. I tried sitting with my back to it and pulling it away from the wall, but with my bound hands I was unable to grasp it with any strength. I tried to perch myself on its edge and tip it over onto the floor, but it was too low and wide. I lay on my back on the bed, my wrists pinned in the small of my back, now breathing heavily. My mind was racing. The doorman had a key to the apartment, but I could only imagine what he would think - or do - if he found me naked and chained helplessly in my own bedroom. That left only Robert who had a key. I was terribly embarrassed to be so blatantly caught playing out my fantasy. But he already knew that something in me longed to be a slave. Besides, it might even give him ideas. And in any case, I did need to get out of my apartment at some point. I slid off the bed again and made my way with tiny, careful steps to my desk. I bent forward and pressed the speaker button on the phone with my nose, and then pressed the speed dial button for Robert. Please pick up, I thought as the phone rang. "Hello?" "Hi, Robert, it's me, Heather," I said, trying to sound normal. "Hey, what's up?" "Um, I'm having kind of a problem this morning. I need you to come over to my apartment." "Why, what's wrong?" "I'll tell you when you get here." I didn't want to frighten him away. "Can you make it over?" "Well, OK, there's nothing at work that can't wait," he said. I breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, and let yourself in. I'll be in the bedroom." "OK, whatever you say. See you soon." "See you." I heard him hang up. I leaned forward and turned off the phone with my nose again. My fate was in his hands. I felt a thrill of excitement at the thought. I thought about kneeling before the door, my knees spread for him, but decided it was safer to try to cover myself as best as I could in the bed. I slipped back onto the bed and tried to pull a sheet over me with my teeth, eventually succeeding in getting it about to the level of my breasts. Well, there was nothing there he hadn't seen before, I thought - except the collar around my neck, and he would have to see that eventually. I lay under the sheet, my pulse racing, waiting for him to arrive. I heard the apartment door open, and then footsteps, and then the bedroom door being pushed open. "Heather?" he said as he stepped into the room. His eyes fastened on the steel collar locked around my throat. "What's going on? Are you OK?" Here goes, I thought. "Well, honey, I got myself a little tied up last night ... and then I lost the keys," I tried to say casually. They're behind the nightstand - do you think you could get them for me?" Instead of moving the nightstand, he stepped closer to the bed, looking down at me. I felt momentarily weak, and vulnerable, chained helplessly before him. "Tied up? What do you mean? How did this happen?" I wriggled out from under the sheet and turned to my side so he could see my wrist and ankle shackles as well as the collar. "Do you know how I offered to be your slave the other night? I was wondering what it would feel like, so I chained myself up before I went to bed last night. But in the morning, I knocked the keys off and behind the night stand, and now I can't reach them." He looked completely befuddled. "It's really embarrassing, and I wish it hadn't happened, but could you please get the keys for me?" I tried to smile up at him. "Yeah, sure, whatever," he finally said, and crouched down to pull the nightstand away from the wall. I took the opportunity to slip off the bed and onto the floor, kneeling behind him, my thighs parted, my head bowed submissively. He turned, the keys in his hand. "Here they --." His voice trailed off. I felt his eyes fixed on my naked body. "How can I repay you for this favor?" I asked timidly. He was silent. I lifted my head. "You have me completely at your mercy," I continued. "Isn't there some price you want to demand for my freedom?" I pulled my shoulders back even further, lifting my breasts up toward him. He spun the key chain around his finger. I could tell he was thinking. A trace of a smile curled around the edge of his lips. "I'll think about it," he said, and stepped around me, heading toward the door. "Robert?" I called after him. "What are you doing?" There was no answer, but I heard him doing something in the kitchen. A minute later he was back, and once again I was kneeling before him, this time a bit more fearfully. "I'm going to think about the price while I'm at work," he said, looking down at me, an amused expression on his face. "I suggest you call in sick. I left a bowl of food and a bowl of water for you in the kitchen. I think that should work for you." "You're going to leave me like this all day?" I said. "Yes, I am," he answered. "And all day tomorrow, if I feel like it. If I have any instructions for you, I'll call and leave them on your machine so you can hear them." I was too surprised to object. This was not something I had foreseen. "Enjoy yourself," he said, smiling, as he turned and walked away. A moment later I heard him locking the door behind him. Damn, damn, damn, I said to myself. Now what had I gotten myself into. Well, I had better make the best of it. I struggled back to my feet and made my way to my desk, where I called the gallery and said I wasn't feeling well. Then, realizing I was hungry, I walked carefully to the kitchen to see what my captor had left for me. I felt a shudder of excitement ripple through me when I saw the two bowls sitting on the tiled floor. I smiled to myself. Robert would have me eat and drink from a bowl on the floor. Perhaps he did want a slave girl after all. I knelt down on the floor and bent forward slowly, my hair falling in front of me as I dipped my tongue into the bowl. Cheerios. At least they were low in cholesterol, I thought. After I had eaten half the bowl, I turned to the side and began lapping water from the bowl into my mouth with my tongue. What a sight I must make, I thought, the assistant director of a midtown art gallery, kneeling naked on the floor of her own apartment and drinking water out of a bowl on the floor. I spent most of the day watching TV, kneeling on the floor against the couch, occasionally turning around to point the remote control at the TV with my bound hands. Never had I so wished I had more than basic cable. I tried taking a nap, thinking I might slip back into my dream of the previous night, but this time the discomfort of my bonds prevented me from falling asleep. I did, however, have time to think about what might happen when Robert returned that evening after work. Would he force me to serve him as a slave? Would he throw me on my belly and take me, bound as I was? Or would he kneel me before him like the girl on my bedroom wall, guiding my head onto him with his hand? And when he was finished with me, would he release me, or would he leave me chained to the bed, to await his return the next day and the day after that? More disturbingly, I wondered if that was what I really wanted. Obviously, I was turned on by the idea of submission, but would I trade my current life for the life of a slave girl? I doubted it. I had too much invested in my life as an independent woman - not just my career, but also my identity, my self-image. I liked being smart and self-sufficient, a match for any man I went out with. So what was I doing naked and chained in my own apartment, waiting for a man to return and use me any way he wished? The ring of the phone interrupted my semi-coherent afternoon musings. After my message, I heard Robert's voice. "I'll be there a little after five. I expect to find you kneeling with your back to the door, bent over with your head to the floor. Do not speak or change position when I arrive." I heard him hang up. The words sank into me. When he entered, I would be complete exposed to him, ready to be taken from behind. I realized that I was wet thinking about it. I rubbed my thighs together. By five o'clock, I was nervous with anticipation and arousal. I positioned myself on the rug in the entryway and knelt facing away from the door, making a point to spread my thighs invitingly. I bent forward and pressed my forehead to the floor, thankful for the partial cushioning provided by the rug. And I waited. I heard the key turning in the door. Suddenly a flash of panic shot through my mind. Was it Robert? Could he have sent someone else to take advantage of me and leave? The door opened and someone stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. I wanted to say something, to turn and see who it was, but I knew I had been commanded to remain silent and in position, open and available. I trembled as I heard a zipper behind me. I could feel the wetness between my legs, my body silently begging to be taken. Then two strong hands gripped my hips and he plunged into me from behind, burying himself in my softness. I gasped as he withdrew and thrust into me again, over and over, my body a mere instrument of his pleasure. Then, too soon, he pushed deep inside me, holding me in place by the hips, forcing me to cry out in submission. He withdrew, and I collapsed on my belly on the rug, barely able to breathe. I felt a key turn in the lock on my right wrist, and the shackle being lifted away, and then two hands turning me over by the shoulders. I looked up into Robert's warm, smiling face. He leaned down and kissed me gently on the lips. "Did you like that, sweetheart?" "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes," I whispered, lifting my arms and clasping them around his neck. "Well, maybe we can do it again sometime." He slipped out of my grasp and unlocked my other wrist, and then my collar and ankle shackles. I rose up to my knees and stretched my arms and legs, feeling the freedom of movement I had taken for granted until today. "Thank you for ... freeing me," I said, smiling coyly. "You can repay me by buying me dinner," he said. He slapped me on the bottom. "Get some clothes on. I'm starving." "Yes, sir," I said, and skipped to the bedroom to put on jeans and a sweatshirt. Over dinner in a local Chinese restaurant we talked about our days. He complained about work, and I complained about having to watch daytime TV and eat dry Cheerios. I felt happy inside as we walked back to my apartment. I had confessed my secret to my boyfriend, and our relationship had survived. We could act out my fantasies, and I could return to my life in the morning. "The painting has to go," he said as we snuggled in bed that night. I lifted my head from the pillow and looked at him. "It's really hideous," he explained. "I can't believe you got the gallery to buy it." "OK," I said. I didn't need it any more. I took one last glance at that naked, collared slave girl and turned out the light. *** The large hall was bathed in the light of torches set into the wall. In one corner, a group of dark-skinned musicians coaxed sensuous melodies from a set of instruments I did not recognize. The room was filled with laughing and shouting in a foreign language, and with the gasps and cries of young women. A man raised his hand and beckoned to me. The soldiers were sitting on the floor at long, low tables, the remnants of their victory feast spread out before them. They were being served by about twenty young women of the city they had conquered, now their slaves. I rushed toward the man with my heavy pitcher of wine, as quickly as I could given the shackles on my ankles. I knelt next to him and lifted the pitcher with my chained hands to refill his glass, trying to avoid the eyes of the other men at the table. I was thankful for the thin, sheer, one-piece garment I had been given to wear. Although it left little to the imagination, at least I no longer had to display myself completely naked for these harsh men. Of course, there was no doubt about my status; the collar on my neck left no question about that. I could feel their eyes on the swell of my breasts and the soft flesh of my bare thighs as I knelt, my knees spread as I had been taught. I finished pouring the wine and tried to stand, but was held in place by the man's hand in my hair. He pulled back and twisted my hair, forcing me to look up into his eyes. He said something I didn't understand. Seeing my blank look, he tried again in my language. "Hot slut," he said. "Want man." I nodded, afraid to contradict him. He laughed. "Later." His other hand reached under my tunic and grasped my breast possessively. I gritted my teeth and held my position. Then he released me and pointed at another man. I rose and went to refill his glass. As far as I could tell, our duties so far had been restricted to serving food and drink to the celebrating soldiers. But I knew that other, more demanding services could be required of us. I expected the men had been commanded not to enjoy our other uses until the serving had been completed - which would not be long now, as the men were licking the sugar of their desserts off their fingers. Although I dreaded the prospect of being raped by these cruel men, part of me awaited my impending humiliation with a keen sense of anticipation. It would consummate the slavery that I had begged for in the afternoon, that already felt like my natural place. General Halimar, commander of the troops - and the man who had stripped me naked in my bedroom that morning - rose. He gave a short speech in his native tongue, no doubt celebrating the exploits of his men, and mourning the loss of their fallen comrades. Then he drained his glass, smashed it on the floor, and clapped his hands, to the applause of the men. The man whose glass I had filled a moment ago turned toward where I was kneeling and beckoned again. Hesitantly, I approached and knelt before him, not forgetting to spread my thighs widely, feeling the hem of my garment slide up to my hips. I wondered how long I would be wearing it. I lifted the pitcher, but he took it from me and put it on the table. He crouched in front of me and reached up to the neck of my garment with both hands. I resolved that I would obey him completely. I had no desire to be beaten. I heard a woman's voice behind me. It was Raisa, the slave trainer. His hands paused, not yet stripping me naked before him. They spoke for a few moments, and then he stood up and stepped back, not before pinching my breast cruelly. "Turn around," Raisa ordered. I turned toward her, still on my knees. She reached down and clipped a chain leash to my collar. "The General wants to see you," she said. "If you are not pleasing, I will whip the skin from your body." She turned and led the way, leaving me to scurry as quickly as I could on hands and knees. I heard the men laughing behind me, no doubt watching my exposed bottom as I crawled away. He was sitting on a long, high wooden bench against one wall of the hall. "Ah, the young woman from the window," he said as I approached on hands and knees, my head lowered before him. I felt a jerk on my leash, pulling me back up to my knees. His boot pushed them further apart. "Well, my dear, do you have anything to say to me?" Raisa nudged me with her foot. "I beg ... I beg to please you, master," I heard my voice saying. "Let me please you, master. Let me serve you any way you wish." He stood, and motioned me to rise. "Let's see what you have to offer me," he said. I stood before him unsteadily, my eyes lowered. He raised his hands to the neck of my thin garment and ripped downward, tearing it open all the way, exposing my naked breasts and belly to him. He ripped the shoulder straps and brushed the garment off me, letting it float to the floor. I stood just inches from him, naked and unprotected. His hands cupped my breasts firmly and then slid down my sides and over my hips, then over my thighs and to my most intimate places. He laughed as he felt my wetness. "I see Raisa was right," he said. "She knows slave flesh when she sees it." I blushed in shame. He pushed me back down to my knees. "You may attempt to please me with your mouth," he said generously. "Raisa, prepare her." Raisa quickly unlocked my wrists from the manacles and pulled my arms behind my back, tying my wrists tightly with a length of rope. My elbows were forced back uncomfortably, causing my breasts to strain forward, helplessly offered. The general lowered his trousers, revealing his large, erect manhood. I gathered he enjoyed forcing captured slave girls to serve him in this humiliating way. He perched on the edge of the bench, inviting me to fulfill my duty. It was time to earn my slavery, if I hoped to survive. Tears in my eyes, I wet my lips, widened my mouth, and lowered my face to him, trying to imagine what would give him pleasure. I felt Raisa's firm grasp on my leash, preventing me from rising and fleeing. I caressed him with my lips and bathed him with my tongue, desperately hoping to be found pleasing. I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to the feeling of his manhood in my mouth, worshipping him with the absolute submission that only a slave girl can feel. I heard him moan with pleasure and felt his hand clench in my hair, holding me firmly in place. As I devoted myself unconditionally to his pleasure, my feelings of dread and humiliation faded, to be replaced by a new feeling, one that bordered on acceptance. This was a man, a powerful man, who had taken my city with a sword and defeated its men. As a captured woman, I was rightfully his, to do with as he pleased. I could expect no other favor than to be enslaved and put to the uses that slaves girls are good for. No one remained to protect me, and I was powerless to protect myself. If I wanted to live, I would have to provide some service to my new ruler, and if this was the only service I could offer, then I would offer it unquestioningly. I felt a wave of arousal gather in my belly as I bobbed my head up and down, feeling him grow inside me. Sensing he was close, Raisa reached out with her hand and grasped the base of his shaft, stoking his passion further. I felt his grip tighten in my hair, pressing my face further down around him, and then he erupted, his passion pouring into my mouth as Raisa stroked him skillfully. And then a veil cleared before my eyes and I knew where I was. I remembered the auction house where I had first seen the painting, and the first, fragmentary dream I had had that night, and the days since then until that last day spent naked and bound in my apartment, and the intervening nights when I had been captured and enslaved in my dreams. I knew I was the slave girl in the painting on my bedroom wall, and was wearing her chains on my ankles and around my neck, and the semen dripping down her chin was overflowing from my mouth, still held in place by the hand entwined in my hair. And though I knew this must be a dream, I still swallowed as quickly as I could, using my tongue to clean off my master and finally, when he released my hair and withdrew from me, bending down to lick off the floor the drops I had let escape from my mouth. "Thank you, master," I said, hoping for some word sign of approval. He pulled up his trousers and pushed his foot in front of my face. I licked and kissed at it eagerly. "Give her back to the men," he said simply. Raisa pulled me back up to my feet by my leash and pointed me back to one of the tables. "Go beg to please them," she said, and slapped me on the bottom to speed me on my way, but not before looping a cord about my neck, with a key dangling from it between my breasts. I shuffled off toward the men, still in shock from the use I had just suffered. Since I knew this must be a dream, I was surprised that I had not woken up yet. But I could not deny that I was content to let my fantasy take me where it would. As it turned out, there was no need to beg to please the men. One of them grasped me by the arms and thrust me down over one of the tables on my belly, my legs hanging off the end. I felt my breasts pressing against the rough wood and heard the key strike the table's surface. A large hand pulled the cord over my head. A moment later I felt my ankles being unchained and rough hands thrust my legs widely apart. With my hands still bound behind my back, I was hardly able to move from this vulnerable position, let alone resist what was being done to me. I imagined the sight I must present to the men, my body completely open and exposed to them. I gasped as the first man entered me, rocking my hips against the table as he used me for his pleasure. I moaned, both in humiliation and in satisfaction as I felt him deep inside me. He used me quickly and withdrew. I felt another man enter me in his place. Later that night, I lay on my back on the floor, my hands still pinned beneath me. The last of several men had staggered off, finally satiated by me and the other girls. I was sore all over, but not terribly so. I was ready to wake up. With my hands tied, it was difficult to pinch myself, so I bit my lip as hard as I could, but only succeeded in hurting myself. I felt a boot nudging at my hip. I looked up to see Raisa. "Get up, slut," she said. "The general wants you in his room." I moaned, but I did as she ordered. Thankfully, she let me walk on my own feet, rather than crawling after her. She took me to a large bathroom, untied my hands, and let me soak in a warm bath, letting the sweat and stains of the last hours wash off my aching body. Too soon, she pulled me out by the leash to dry off. Then she was leading me down a long corridor and into a torch-lit room with a wide, low bed. On her command, I climbed onto the bed and knelt, my forehead to the mattress. I felt her pull my hands behind my back and tie them there. She attached my long chain leash to a ring at the head of the bed. "Do not move," she said, and left me with my thoughts. Just this afternoon I had knelt in this same position, waiting for my boyfriend to come and satisfy my fantasy. Now I was waiting for a cruel, harsh master to come and abuse me for his pleasure. This time I truly was a captured slave girl, desperately hoping to please her master, even if only in a dream. I wasn't sure my body could take another assault after all it had endured already. Maybe if I fell asleep, I thought, the dream might end. Surely you couldn't fall asleep inside your own dream. But positioned so vulnerably as I was, I could only think of the impending approach of my master, and the services he might exact from me. I did not have long to wait. I knelt, motionless, as his footsteps approached the bed, and as I felt him position himself behind me. His hands stroked my hips and once again explored my intimacies, feeling the returning wetness that betrayed my readiness. Then he was inside me, using my body casually, imperiously, for his pleasure, treating me as nothing more than so much warm, soft, willing slave flesh. I felt him climax, and then he was finished with me, rolling me off the bed. I fell on the floor on my side and shoulder, thankful the bed was not higher off the ground. Then I felt a thin, rough blanket that he cast partially over me. "Thank you, master," I said as I tried to adjust it with my teeth, my hands still bound behind me. I lay there awake, reliving the events of the evening, remembering the taste of the master in my mouth, the feeling of being bent over a table, the hands on my ankles thrusting them apart. I thought about that final rape I had suffered, in silence, my body just a meaningless vessel for the general's casual pleasure. I could not deny that that was what slaves were for, nor could I deny the arousal I had felt, both awaiting him and held in his grasp. I had learned something more about myself tonight, I thought, but now it was time to wake up. I closed my eyes and finally fell asleep.
Chapter 6 I was back in my apartment. I lifted the painting off the hook attaching it to the wall and set it on my bed. I took one last, long glance at the expression of the helpless slave girl, which was still a mystery to me, and slid it into a padded shipping container. Peter, the gallery assistant, appeared in the apartment and helped me carry the painting down the stairs and to the street, where he loaded it into the van to return it to the gallery. The city streets were as busy as ever, but strangely no sound made it to my ears. As if in a daze, I climbed back up the stairs to my apartment, opened the drawer of my night stand, and took out the steel collar that was still hidden there, closing it securely about my neck without even testing the key. As I lay down on the bed, I felt a tug on the leash that was attached to the collar. The other end must be tangled and caught on something. I turned my head and lifted my body to relieve the pressure on my neck ... *** I was awake again, still naked and bound on the floor by my master's bed. I felt the tug on my collar again, more insistent this time. Realizing where I was, I hastened to obey, struggling up to my knees and clambering onto the wide, low bed. The tension in the leash pulled me toward his waist. He was lying on his back. I approached him on my knees, a prisoner of the leash. I felt his hand in my hair as he guided my head down toward him, positioning me the way he wanted me. "Yes, master," I whispered as I closed my lips around him. I knew now that I was a slave girl, a mere comfort and amusement for this man who could use me so casually, my purpose to warm his body in the early pre-dawn hour. No thoughts of anger or rebellion crept into my mind, only the knowledge that I belonged here, bending over him and serving him with my mouth and tongue. There was no other choice, no other option for me in this world. I felt his hands tighten in my hair as he stiffened inside my mouth, and felt his body shudder as he poured his seed into me, savoring the taste of my submission as I swallowed. I continued my work with my tongue until he lifted my head off of him. A push from his foot instructed me that he was finished with me, and I crept off the bed on my knees, returning to lie on the floor, where I tried to pull the blanket partially over me. I lay awake, on my side, to relieve the pressure on my bound wrists, as the gray light of the early morning filtered through the curtains and into the room. I remembered my life as an independent modern woman, an art history student and gallery manager. Until yesterday, that had been my reality. But that was behind me now, except for the fragmentary memories that might return in my dreams. I didn't know how it was possible, but this was my reality now, to lie chained at the foot of a master's bed, ready to serve his pleasure when summoned by a simple tug on my leash. I wondered if he would choose to use me again this morning. It was not up to me. Somewhere, the choice had been made for me. And there was no going back.
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