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.
