Dawn of Dawn

This is my entry for the

Summer Lovin' Contest

. It is a parallel story to my earlier

Dianne

.

While erotic, there is not a great deal of hard, pounding sex; if that is what you seek, please go to one of the many other excellent stories here.

+

The limousine door chuffed behind me as I carefully arranged my cloak before settling myself on the leather seat beside Him. I could see our reflections on the privacy window in front of us and tried to compose myself. It was seldom enough that He took me out and I so very much wanted to do Him proud.

The car pulled out gently. It occurred to me that I didn't know the chauffeur, had never met him. Indeed, I didn't know if it was a him or a her. Probably a him, I thought.

He had of course seen me, for I had been driven in the vehicle many times. Long, sleek and pale gray, the limo would be waiting outside the front door. Its doors always opened for me automatically as I exited the house, without human hand, closing behind me equally impersonally.

It also occurred to me that, as the car was always perfectly positioned in front of the door, I hadn't even seen its licence plate. Not that it mattered.

The car turned and my body shifted; my cloak moved lightly over my body. I could feel the silk lining on my shoulders, nipples and knees.

The cloak's raised hood sharply limited my field of view but, opposite us, on the bench seat just behind the chauffer's compartment, I could see a large cardboard box. Somewhat shallow but as broad as my arm was long, it was pale pink and seemed... I don't know -- 'classy'? It was clearly not something He had picked up in a local strip mall. I certainly didn't recognize the logo.

It was obviously connected to wherever we were going, but it was hardly my place to question. I knew He would explain when it was time. In the meantime, I tried to calm myself, control my excitement, build that serenity He so cherished and expected.

"Dawn," He said. I turned to look at Him. With my hood turned in His direction, I could now see out the window. I tried to focus on Him as opposed to the rural scenery outside.

"We are going to a garden party, a private function."

I nodded. If He wished me to reply, He would say so.

"You will be present to serve me and to be decorative. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"There will be other men there. You will of course be deferential, but you are mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Completely."

Calm as I tried to sound, my heart soared at His words. I was to be on display, which meant that He trusted me, had faith in me and, indeed, was proud of me. I felt a warm glow of pride at that.

I turned back on the seat, focussed on my posture.

.

The limo eventually slowed, turned, then stopped. After a few moments, we moved forward again, slower this time. I could see two tall iron gates reflected on the privacy screen in front of me; they were still slowly swinging open as we drove between them.

He picked up the box from the shelf just in front of Him, turned and handed it to me wordlessly.

I was surprised at how light it was. Opening it, I gasped in surprise -- and pleasure.

The box held a hat, a very stylish white bowler, its floppy brim broader than my shoulders. Swirls of scarlet organza around the crown were formed into large cloth flowers. The red trim perfectly matched my sandals -- no surprise, for nothing in His world was ever by coincidence.

I looked up at Him, beaming. "Thank you!" I said, running my hand along its brim. "It's so beautiful!"

He smiled back at me. "Try it on."

I lowered the hood on my cloak, raised the hat to my head and, using the makeup mirror in our compartment, settled it into place. It looked marvellously sophisticated, something an A-list celebrity would wear to the Kentucky Derby. I felt amazing, cherished beyond words.

"Thank you again," I murmured, my eyes still on my image.

"Meanwhile," He said, pointing, "there's another box in there."

I looked again into the hatbox. I had indeed missed a small florist's box in one corner. Opening it, I discovered a wrist corsage consisting of three miniature roses, their colour also matching both the hat and my sandals.

And my collar, of course. I had wondered why He had presented me with a new one this morning, a red one instead of my usual brown.

"Your wrist, Dawn," He directed.

I held up my left wrist in front of Him; watched as His long fingers fastened the band around it, tugged the bouquet slightly to adjust how the flowers lay.

I lifted them to my nose, sniffed gently before turning to Him with a smile.

"Thank you," I said. "They're lovely."

He smiled back but remained silent. I thought I could see love in His eyes. I hoped I could. I hoped He could see the love in mine, too.

I turned back to the mirror in front of me. My fingertips, roses trailing inches behind, traced over the stitching in the collar, lightly grasped the polished bronze ring, tugged gently. The combined scent of roses and leather filled my nostrils. I closed my eyes, smiled.

I was so very aware of His care for me in those gifts, too, and very grateful for it.

.

Gravel crunching under its tires, the limousine slowed still more, came to a stop. My door opened remotely and I got out as gracefully as I could, adjusted my hat in the afternoon sunshine, checked the folds of my cloak. Details matter.

He came up beside me, took me gently by the upper arm and guided me up the stone steps to a massive oak doorway. I didn't have time to take it all in, but it was clear that the stone building was large -- very large, at least three stories tall. I hadn't known such places existed near His house.

The door to the building opened as we approached and, as was my place, I followed Him in, keeping my eyes properly lowered.

A woman was standing just inside, apparently waiting to greet us. In her early 40s and tall, she was dressed in an ivory-coloured lace dress, high-waisted and with a plunging neckline. The dress spoke to extremes of both simplicity and elegance.

Her cheekbones were high, her chin proud and the shape of her lips and nose suggested both European and African ancestry. Her figure was perfection incarnate and she wore her soft brown hair loose, falling in gentle waves to her full breasts.

It was instantly clear to me that this was no hired staff member. Such aristocratic grace had to belong to the mistress of the house.

She smiled at Him, held out her hand.

"Alexa!" He said, taking it in His, "So very good of you to invite me."

Her reply was confident, her laughter musical. "How could I possibly overlook

you

?"

His hand lingered in hers long enough to make me uncomfortable.

Finally breaking their grip, He motioned at me.

"This is Dawn," He said.

He did not of course introduce her to me.

"Ah," she smiled. "The new one." I could feel her eyes sweeping up and down my form.

Without taking her eyes off me, she asked Him, "Would you like her cloak secured?"

"Please."

Taking that as a command, I slipped out of the garment, folding it over my arm. To my surprise, she reached out and took it from me herself before turning and walking away from us.

"Go," He said softly.

I followed the woman. Wordlessly, she led us to a small anteroom, rich in appearance, but consisting of little but rows of tall lockers, each with an identical brass keyhole in its oaken door.

She took a single small key from an unobtrusive pocket in her dress and, opening a locker, deposited my cloak inside on a hook.

"Will that be all?" she asked Him. He nodded.

Nodding back, she closed the door, locked it. I shivered inwardly, realizing my nakedness was to be controlled, not by the One I adored and trusted, but by a perfect stranger.

It was only as she again turned back toward us that I noticed the thin black riding crop hanging by its loop around her left wrist.

On Dawn's wrist, roses; on Alexa's, a crop.

Our respective standing in the world was again emphasized.

Expressionless, she examined me for some seconds. Tucking the key away, she turned to Him. "I would like to see her properly in better light."

"Certainly," He smiled.

Her bottom as she led us out of the cloakroom was firm and shapely under the dress. The heels of her sandals appearing under her hem as she moved were fetching. Her step was totally feminine, utterly confident.

My eyes grew wider as she led us through the building. The walls were of a panelled wood and the polished parquet floor was covered here and there with thick rugs. A small nation's dowry hung framed on the walls as we passed.

Despite all my training, despite all my attempts for calm, I gasped a little when we emerged through tall French doors into the bright light on a stone patio.

I should have expected it, given the palatial nature of the building we had just passed through, but I was still stunned by the garden outside. Smaller, but as majestic in concept as might be found at Versailles or Blenheim, extensive and perfectly-tended lawns were quartered by flagstone and gravel pathways leading towards a tall fountain in the centre. A faint rainbow could be seen from the mist of falling water. Flower gardens and manicured trees dotted the space. In the far distance, a pair of low mountains could be viewed, their green slopes fading to brown and pink peaks. Off to one side, just outside the garden itself, was a grass tennis court.

What impressed me most was the aura of

perfection

.  In this garden, not a flower was wilted, not one fallen leaf marred the scene. I sensed in it a new clue to Him and His peers, for He too sought and demanded perfection in all its aspects.

The woman stopped just past the French doors, in the middle of a broad patio. She turned back towards us.

"The light's better here," she said. "May I?"

"Certainly."

She turned to me. "Inspection," she ordered. Her voice was soft, but her tone was iron.

Knowing it was His will, I stood with my back straight, my fingers laced behind my head and my feet spread shoulder-width apart. I kept my head up -- with pride, for He always insisted on that -- and my eyes fixed at a point a handbreadth above and in front of my face.

She walked slowly around me. A breeze moved my hair, flowed over my breasts. I felt the warmth of the midday sun on my skin.

"Lovely," she said from behind me. Then, again, the request. "May I?"

"Yes. Of course."

With that, I felt her touch me for the first time. Her fingertips swept slowly and gently over my lower back, down onto my buttocks, squeezed. As she stepped around in front of me again, her fingers trailed over my waist, up to my bosom. Her hand seized a breast, lifted it, and weighed it rolling my nipple with her thumb. Despite all my loyalty to Him, all my love and all my devotion, I felt it harden under her expert touch. I was ashamed of my reaction, ashamed at how thrilling her touch felt, ashamed at my momentary thought that only another woman could so stimulate me so quickly.

"Look at me," she commanded.

I dropped my eyes to match hers, tried very hard not to flinch at her gaze. She moved closer to me, very close. I could smell her breath -- it smelled of cloves.

I am ashamed to admit that I squirmed, just a little, in surprise as her finger slid gently between my parted thighs, softly traced the length of my lower lips.

Suddenly, she turned away, towards Him, leaving me standing there.

"Flawless," she said to Him. "Where

do

you find them?"

He just smiled.

After a moment, she shrugged and led Him down a broad set of stone stairs into the garden. I followed them along one of the pathways towards the central fountain.

Part-way down each of the four paths leading to the central fountain was a free-standing stone arch, wide enough for three people to walk through side by side, and proportionately tall. The follies had clearly been in place for many years, for I could see lichen on the nearer one as we approached it.

We needed to walk around it however, for inside - inside each of them - was tethered a tanned and naked young woman, spread-eagled and facing inwards, ankles and wrists secured to the stone structures by brown leather cuffs. A matching collar encircled each of their necks. Their feet were solidly on the ground, but spread quite wide. Their eyes were covered with matching blindfolds. Their heads were otherwise bare, but an elaborate garden hat rested near the feet of each one.

My heart sank somewhat. I felt myself to be pretty, knew that both men and women found me desirable. As with their mistress Alexa however, I felt outclassed by the exquisite majesty of these girls.

I was also impressed by the discipline of this house, for the girl didn't acknowledge our approaching presence or the sound of our feet on the gravel with the slightest move. She could have been an extraordinarily realistic painted statue.

.

He had not told me what to expect, nor had I ever been at such an assembly. I had on occasion served when He had been at home to small groups of His friends. Once or twice, one of them had brought his own girl with him, but never had I seen so many people of His kind -- or mine -- in one spot.

I almost panicked at the thought that I might shame Him through some misstep, then realized that He would not have brought me here had He not solid confidence in my training, my intelligence and my abilities. I tried to relax.

A handful of men were standing in a group by the fountain, all dressed much like Him, in well-tailored white linen suits. Although I of course kept my eyes properly lowered, I could see that they were talking quietly to each other, most with a drink in their hand. As we approached, most turned to face us. One smiled, another acknowledged His presence with a small wave, another called His name. Although I had of course never been introduced to any of them, I recognized one as a previous visitor to His house.

One pace behind and to the right of each man stood another young woman dressed as I was, in hat, sandals and, of course, collar. Most had a wrist corsage as well.

He stopped beside two of the men. The three shook hands.

"Dawn," He instructed me over His shoulder, without turning His head, "Whisky."

I looked around and saw a striped tent with open sides, clearly set up as a bar. Off beyond that was a circle of tables, already covered with linen tablecloths.

On my way to the tent, I noticed for the first time four additional women. They were clad in the same way as the girls spread-eagled in the arches, which is to say a collar and garden sandals, but these were wearing their hats. The four stood silently by the tent, heads bowed, arms by their sides.

As I walked towards the tent, I could feel the eyes of the men following me, examining and evaluating me. Remembering His training, I kept my head up and tried to move as gracefully as possible. I could hear my heels clicking on the stones of the pathway.

I knew His tastes and, although His favorite brand was not present, I found another He enjoyed. I poured into a heavy crystal glass, added a small splash of water and placed it on one of the several small silver trays off to one side. I returned and, as gracefully as I could, knelt on the grass in front of Him, holding up the drink with my eyes downcast. When I felt the weight come off the tray, I had my first decision. Should I remain as I was or return the tray to the bar and return to stand behind Him? Either option seemed reasonable, but on considering the position of the other women, I decided to follow their example. On returning from the bar, I too took up my position just behind Him to His right.

I was thrilled to see Him give me a very slight nod, without turning His head. I had made the right decision.

Eventually, there were eight men there, including Him, each with his own sun-clad servant. Two were quite old, one quite young and the rest of middle years. All of the women were young; all were exquisitely pretty, utterly desirable.

Alexa circulated among her guests, talking with the men, offering refreshments, the picture of a perfect hostess. I find it hard to express how ordinary it was in most ways -- just a garden party, albeit one in a palatial setting. If we girls had been clothed, it could have easily been taken for an episode of some long-running British television series.

Yet here we were - over a dozen profoundly lovely young women dressed only in hats, flowers and bits of leather. We seemed to almost be ignored by the men, mainly noticed when sent to refresh a drink. Even with my eyes properly lowered, I could sense nothing but the the odd approving glance in my direction. The men talked as any group of men would at such an event, I fancied -- sports, politics, business.

Standing there, I had time to think. Even more than the men's attitude, I wondered about Alexa's women. They all seemed cut from the same Nordic mold -- tall, full-breasted, mainly blonde, uniformly tanned and stunning in their beauty. While Alexa occasionally sent one or another of them on a short errand, they otherwise seemed to have no other presence, no other rôle than serving as ornamentation. Lovely and docile, it was as if they were just more of the many flowers in the garden.

I was very jealous, but rapidly realized that they offered another clue. No matter how majestic the paintings were inside, I could be pretty sure that Alexa didn't spend her entire waking day inspecting them. So, question answered - decoration, albeit with a strongly erotic slant, to be enjoyed when the mood struck. I could live with that.

Periodically, Alexa would send the girls standing by the tent to change with the ones displayed under the arches. Clearly practised in the drill, a small gesture from their mistress would send the four moving, breasts and bottoms swaying gracefully, to the first arch. There they would swiftly unshackle the bound woman and remove her cuffs, placing them instead on the limbs of one of their number. The newly-cuffed girl would be spread-eagled and blindfolded in her turn, presented for the visual pleasure of Alexa and her guests. The newly-released woman having retrieved her hat, the four would then move to the second arch, where the process would be repeated. Each change took but a minute or so; in scarcely five minutes, the newly-unbound women had returned to their station by the tent, leaving the four freshly-tethered figures in their place.

I noticed that the level of conversation among the men dropped off each time this happened. They were not totally immune, then.

Otherwise, the guests, as at any other party, wandered, mixed and remixed. Some strolled off to admire the garden, wandering back when it pleased them. Girls moved with poise to fetch drinks, deliver messages, run errands. I found myself enjoying the party, not only for the pride I had at being with Him, but also for its own sake. It was a lovely spot, the sun and gentle breezes warm on my skin.

.

I had, of course, neither a watch nor need for one, but by the movement of the sun, we had been there rather over an hour when Alexa's girls moved to prepare the circle of tables for a meal. Moving silently up to the house, they emerged presently pushing two trolleys bearing food and plates which they parked beside the bar tent before setting the tables.

In front of one place at the table was a heavy bronze bowl, about the same size as half a basketball cut in half, with a rim thickness about that of a woman's little finger. Alexa, after briefly inspecting the food and dining circle, stood in front of it. Picking up a short but sturdy wooden wand, she gave the bowl a slight blow.