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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!
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!
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