Strange Days

Daniel's Story, continued

"It may be that all games are silly. But then, so are humans... And it is in games that many men discover their paradise."

-- Robert Lynd,

Searchlights and Nightingales

We heard about the Summer Commune just days before the year's final exams. I have no doubt that the timing was deliberate. We had enough important things on our minds without thinking too much or too deeply about what we were told. So when I signed up I really didn't have much of a clue what it was all about.

With just a week to go I started having second thoughts, and expressed these to Laura. She gave me a long, hard look and explained the situation. When she finished it was my turn for the long, hard look.

"I don't get it," I said.

She seemed surprised. "What's to get, Danny?" She rarely called me that.

"What's the catch?"

"There's no catch. You can't just accept it?"

"Would you?"

"Fair point." She laughed. "But I thought you understood what the Empyreal Society is all about."

"I do; and I can see why you want to try this... experience. It's what you've always done, pushing your limits. It's why I've always thought you were, I don't know, special."

She began to stammer. I think she thought I was fishing for a reciprocal compliment, so she stopped and I went on. "I'm just not sure what role we -- the guys, I mean -- have. It seems, well, one-sided."

She smiled. "Don't be so self-absorbed. It's not about you."

"That's what worries me."

She shook her head. "That's you, in a nutshell Daniel, always looking the gift horse in the mouth."

"Is that a mixed metaphor?"

She ignored my question. Then came the revelation.

Having known Laura most of my life, it was foolish of me that it took so long. "It's a game, isn't it? We're playing roles..."

"Now you're getting it." She leapt to her feet and started to walk away.

"That's it?" I called after her.

"So you're in?" she said, looking back over her shoulder.

"Of course," I growled. "Never said I wasn't."

And so I was one of those who gathered at nine o'clock in the morning, at a spot behind Lakeside Hall where a bus was parked. Charlotte and James got us organized; but the only other members of the Society present were the newbies. Laura, for example, I hadn't seen for several days. The girls outnumbered the guys six-to-one. Rachel was there, of course, as was Caitlyn. We didn't speak to each other. No one said much, to nobody's surprise.

The girls boarded the bus first. Charlotte followed them, there was an interval of a few minutes before she disembarked and James said "Go to the rear, fellas."

Once we were seated there were no spare places. I don't know if had been planned that way, our numbers exactly right for the capacity of the bus. There were five of us males in the back. (Marcus, the sixth rookie, had for reasons unknown to me opted out.) As we moved down the aisle I noticed something odd about the way the girls were seated. Only when I passed Caitlyn and took more than a glance did I realize that they were sitting with their bare flesh on the upholstery. All had, apparently, been told to wear a dress or skirt. This was pushed back, and each girl's panties had been pulled down to her knees. Caitlyn saw me staring and blushed.

"Well, this is going to be interesting," I thought. I guess I'm the lord of the understatement.

*

As the girls shuffled in single file along the path leading to the compound, my job as a master -- fancy that, a master! -- was to keep them on track, steady and if necessary upright. Bound, gagged, blindfolded and tethered, and naked, they puffed and sweated and whimpered, and I felt guilty about having to occasionally prod one of them with my cane. But my fellow masters, Oscar and Jonathan in particular, were more severe. Every girl received at least one hard whack across the backside, because it was impossible for them to not falter at some point in their march.

I felt relief, though no doubt less than our slavegirls, when the slow-moving column finally reached the compound. This is a large rectangular area. A mess hall is located at the eastern end next to a smaller building that contains the administrative offices and the infirmary. On each of the northern and southern sides of the compound are six wooden barracks. Between the two rows is an open area about the length of a football field and a third of that wide. The huts are solidly built and well-maintained, but sit on a surface of compacted sandy loam with only a threadbare pretense at a lawn. The western end of the quadrangle is open. From here a path leads down the slope of the small, flat-top hill into a broad valley.

Around two dozen women and three or four masters were working at various tasks in the compound. The men wore the same uniform of khaki trousers and maroon shirt, and every one carried a cane tucked into his belt. Their slaves were, it almost goes without saying, naked. (During my entire time in the Commune I never saw a female body with any covering at all. When I travelled home at Christmas for a family get-together, it felt strange seeing the women wearing clothes. A mental image of my mother and aunts snapped me out of that.)

The thirty new girls were sorted into six groups and led off, still in their bonds, to the huts. We new masters went to the mess hall, where we were treated to a short, somewhat pointless address by Brandon, one of the guys who met us at the bus. Technically there was no hierarchy among us males. Decisions were generally made by vote if not by consensus. We wore a uniform, but that represented unity and equality, not regimentation. Obviously there were individuals with special expertise whose authority everyone recognized; but otherwise, there was no particular reason why Brandon had this assignment. Anyhow, I took an immediate dislike to him. His manner was irritating -- grim-faced yet slightly pompous. The real briefing was delivered after his speech.

Olivia had been standing at the back of the room. Amidst all the gorgeous women in the Empyreal Society, she was a spectacular stand-out, tall and slim, sensuously curved with not an ounce of surplus flesh. Soft-spoken and refined, she had lucent sky-blue eyes and delicate features with finely sculpted cheekbones. Her golden-blond hair was cropped short. Her vulva was a pastel pink flush beneath a gossamer of tawny tufts and curls; and as on her fellow slaves her labia were pierced by a silver ring. I knew her from the Society, as a medical doctor pursing a postgraduate degree.

Naturally I saw her naked at my first Society meetings. Most of the female members seemed unaffected, almost blasé about their nudity, and Olivia epitomized their casual composure. She looked so at ease and innocent that I felt a bit sordid gawking at her. We had a conversation about the history of medicine. It was a subject she was passionate about, and she began waving her hands around, causing her breasts to oscillate in a most distracting way. I started to gibber and jabber and felt ridiculous. Yet only later did I realize that she didn't have a clue why I was all of a sudden blathering -- or she hid it very well. That she thought I was an idiot and not a pervert made it extra embarrassing! And that's the point. Back then her nudity had been a proud proclamation of her feminine strength and dignity. Now it was a symbol of her submission.

I should have been baffled at seeing Olivia as she was now, not just exposed but meek and obeisant; but since Laura introduced me to this lifestyle nothing much could surprise me, least of all what I was learning about myself.

She came forward, keeping her hands behind her back. When she began speaking, she made sure to keep her gaze lowered towards the floor, occasionally glancing up but never making eye contact with any of her audience. Her talk was skilfully presented, as advice rather than as a lesson, since it would be highly inappropriate for a slave to lecture her masters. I had no idea how she would handle having to answer questions, especially dumb ones, but no of us had any.

The session lasted for the better part of an hour, and when it was over Claudia, who was one of the oldest slaves and very much like Olivia (elegant, enigmatic, perceptive), asked us to accompany her outside. Five women were waiting, including Laura. She came up to me, head bowed but with a faint smile and said "Please come this way, Master."

It was the first time I'd been called that... and it came from Laura! I started to say something in return but the first word came out as a rasping croak, so I shut my mouth.

Despite my mental preparations and my experience so far, I was finding it hard to accommodate mentally to this version of Laura, so sweetly servile. I'd known her too many years to be fooled that this was anything other than a game. But as someone once told me -- and yes, it was Laura -- if you immerse yourself in your role-play, if you faithfully follow the rules, as she and her fellow slaves did, it becomes indistinguishable from, it

is

real life.

I followed her to one of the huts on the northern side of the quadrangle. The L-shaped interior is about the size of a large living room. The décor was spartan, with bare wooden floorboards and lighting provided by three windows, and at night by naked bulbs hanging from a low ceiling. Crowded along one wall were eleven narrow bunks almost touching, and four more occupied the opposite side. Each had a mattress and pillow but no sheets or blankets. The only other items of furniture were two cabinets, a bin and an armchair. There are two other doors. One opens onto a concrete deck with bathroom facilities. The other, on the opposite side of the hut, leads out into the quadrangle. Between the rows of beds a small room served as my personal quarters.

Six girls from the bus were already inside, each standing at the foot of her bed facing the wall, staring straight ahead, completely still and silent, stiffly erect except for the occasional twitch -- they would have been like this for an hour -- legs slightly apart, arms folded behind her back. Each wore a leather collar. Because the windows were shut it was hot and humid, and their bare skin glistened with perspiration.

"Turn around, please," Laura said to the girls. It wasn't a command. In the Commune all slaves were equal in status and service, those who were long-term members of the Empyreal Society and those who -- like me -- were naïve neophytes. So slaves didn't give orders to slaves. They transmitted the masters' orders and instructions.

The girls about-faced, and as they did so bowed their heads. Each appeared to pull back her shoulders to push out her chest. On cue the first in the line intoned, softly, "Slave Caitlyn here to serve and obey you, Master."

I sucked in a breath. This as such a different Caitlyn from the girl I had known as both girlfriend and ex-girlfriend. I detected a quaver in her voice and wondered if she was afraid that, in my newfound position of power over her, I would get revenge for our break-up. She must have known I was not that petty; but power does change people. More likely, it was humiliation, and I confess that this aroused me. Indeed, I felt a little ashamed that I'd chosen her for my "harem". But I'm human, after all. I wanted her to lift her head, to make eye contact so we could have the sort of connection we once enjoyed. I could have commanded her to do so, but that would be giving away my thoughts, and more importantly my feelings.

The second girl could not conceal a smile though she kept her gaze directed at the floor.

"Slave Rachel here to serve and obey you, Master."

We had come a long way since our first tutorial group meeting nine months before. Oddly enough, I was still the apprentice, or at least that's how I felt. For both of us it was our first time in the Commune, but she appeared so calm, so self-possessed, whereas I was tingling with nervous energy.

The other girls introduced themselves -- Francine (haughty and passionate), Jessica (high-strung and impulsive), Layla (plain-spoken and impetuous) and Stephanie (tiny and free-spirited). It was a ritual. I already knew them. I'd had a part in the assigning of all the slavegirls to the five huts; but I'm convinced I got the best deal with my fifteen. For as long as we were in the Commune, I would be responsible for their welfare and discipline. They were, for all extents and purposes, my property, and that felt weird. The sudden realization of the weight of duty I'd assumed bore down upon me. How much had changed in my life -- and my slavegirls' -- in so short a time!

These were, without exaggeration, the most beautiful women I could ever hope to meet, intelligent and accomplished as well. The oldest, Claudia, was ten years my senior; Sarah and Emily several years. (I was unsure how much my roommate Ben knew about his sister's involvement in the Empyreal Society, if he was even aware of its existence. I don't think he would have made a decent master. Yet for that matter, Oscar and Jonathan were not much different. I hoped I would be.)

Each of these remarkable women had her reason for being enslaved. Some were masochist, no doubt. Most were like Laura, testing their limits and limitations, searching for the most extreme experiences. And oddly enough, that gave me a hollow feeling. Though I would control their existence, and they would obey and serve me without question or hesitation, I knew that I was no more than a vessel for the fulfilment of whatever fantasies, challenges and desires had brought them here. Because I hadn't earned my privilege; I was interchangeable with a thousand guys. My only qualification was to be born with a penis, to possess what my slaves, for all their other attributes with which I could not compete, did not. My only test would be one of self-restraint. I would have to repress the very passion to which the girls had submitted. Rather than their master, I felt like their minion.

Maybe I was overthinking this. In any case, what Laura did next changed everything, forever. It was a small gesture and I suspect not part of the ritual, just an impulse. She knelt before me, bent forward and kissed my feet. She remained in that position until I stroked her back. She rose and went to stand before her own bed, breasts and pelvis thrust forward. I noticed for the first time a glimmer between her thighs -- the silver ring piercing the lips of her vagina, a barrier and a signpost at the entrance to her body.

She knew exactly what she was doing, as did I. She was redefining the relationship we had shared for almost two decades, in which I had always been the junior, and not just in age. The temple of Laura still stood firm, indeed more glorious, more proud, more dazzling than ever. But I was now the high priest...

"Damn!" I shouted to myself. Were those thoughts really mine? I was glad that all other eyes in the room were fixed on the floor, because I could feel my face reddening.

I retreated to my room. My bags were just inside the door. Modest enough, my quarters were luxurious compared to the girls', with a proper-sized bed, a cupboard and a desk, furnished and equipped for the privileges of my sex, with space for my clothes and personal effects, which the slaves were not permitted to have. My uniform of black trousers and maroon shirt was laid out on the bed. Affixed to the wall was a plaque. It was inscribed with, of all things, a Biblical quotation -- "From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded." In other words, with power comes responsibility. I hoped desperately that I could live up to the trust which these women had placed in me, that I could reciprocate with benevolence the unconditional service and obedience to which they had committed themselves.

Claudia's voice politely interrupted my musings.

"Please, it's time to go, Master."

"Thank you, slave," I replied. I quickly changed into my uniform.

I left the hut, left the seven girls each standing in silence and the end of her bunk. It was bright outside. The clouds had dispersed, the sun was beating down. It occurred to me that it was still just early afternoon.

"Let the games begin," I murmured.

Claudia heard me and smiled.

Rachel's Story, continued

"We do not remember days, we remember moments."

-- Cesare Pavese,

This Business of Living: Diaries

The day begins for us slavegirls officially at sunrise. We don't need a clock. As the first few awaken to the early birds' chorus, they nudge those still sleeping on either side. This morning I am one of them. Our bunks are narrow and crammed together, so I can reach over and touch Caitlyn. She twitches and grunts. I prod, she sighs and sits up. On the other side, Francine brushes away my hand and emits a mournful whimper.

We affix our collars, tidy our bunks and exit the hut, all done quietly so as not to disturb Master Daniel, slumbering in his den. It's light enough outside to begin our chores. The eastern horizon glows a mellow gold. Venus shines virginal white in the violet haze above, while the Dog Star still gleams in the western sky. We gather in the quadrangle. Girls are also coming out of the other huts and assembling. We stamp our feet and swing our arms. Although we haven't worn a stitch of clothing for twenty days, we are not yet inured to the bite of the dawn chill on our bodies.

I don't think any of us mind being up and about so early (except Sarah, who is not looking well). It's a lovely time of the day, not least because we don't have to deal with any of the Masters. That wouldn't be a real problem (after all, it's why we're here), but it's nice to take a break. Yet this is not a time to relax and socialize. Claudia assembles the hut leaders to give out assignments and instructions to the group leaders. Tasks are mostly the same each day but rotated among the five hut "harems". The work is not onerous apart from kitchen duty; and this morning my group is on "prep" -- setting up the equipment and materials for the morning's activities. We collect cans of paint, brushes, rollers, scrapers, knives, buckets, ladders, tarpaulins, etcetera, from the storage shed, and set them in stacks beside each of the huts. So we know what today's big job will be.

Before we begin, however, there is a matter to be taken care of. Four girls march into the middle of the quadrangle and stand rigidly to attention. One of them is Regina, from my hut. Claudia consults with Olivia, our resident doctor, then nods to Donna and Eliza, who step forward, their arms laden with heavy chains. These are locked onto each of the four girls' wrists (in front) and ankles, and then linked to another chain which is attached to her collar front and behind. It runs down her chest and belly, between her legs and up her back. It is of a length that she has to stoop forward slightly to prevent it gouging her crevices. Each will spend as many days shackled as is warranted by her transgression. Regina spoke back to a Master, which is not a serious offense, so she will probably spend just two daylight periods working, eating and bathing in her restraints. But it's not her first time, so the penalty may be more severe. She examines her fetters, shakes her wrists as if testing for weakness. Meanwhile incorrigible Katrina, who is used to wearing chains, caresses them. With a cheeky grin she stands bolt upright so the chain between her thighs tightens into her cleft. Some of the girls watching her wince.

The preliminaries take half an hour, towards the end of which a few of the males have emerged from the huts and are making their way to the mess hall for pre-breakfast coffee. They pause, briefly, to stare idly at us as we begin our chores. That's when we cease any talk, straighten ourselves and quicken our tempo. We don't acknowledge the men's presence and take care to not make eye contact. But one of them, Jonathan this time, amuses himself by playing with us. He stands in the passageway between the mess hall and the administration building, blocking our path.