The Apartment Pt 04

It was easy to lose one's sense of time in Lydia's apartment. I counted the days, but each seemed more like a week. It felt as if we were living in a bubble, sealed off from the rest of the world.

In the six weeks I was there, I left the apartment only once, other than to be taken down to the games room. The single occasion that we went outside was the night before Lucy's departure. Master Jonathan took the four of us to dinner. We walked, since the restaurant was not very far away. Lydia outfitted each of us. I wore a short, chartreuse dress with off-the-shoulder drape-sleeves. I had nothing underneath except a garter belt to hold up my stockings, and it was an odd feeling to be out in public dressed like that, with the pleated hem of the dress fluttering in the evening breeze to give a tantalizing hint of my exposure. Jonathan, meanwhile, looked uncomfortable and out of his element in a suit and tie.

The

maîtresse d'hôtel

knew Lydia, greeting her by name and directing us to a table in an alcove that was out of the sight of all other customers. Lucy, Evandra and I were reminded to lift the backs of our dresses so our flesh touched the seat. And Lydia, who must have performed this ritual too many times to count, still puckered her lips in delight at the thrill of the upholstery against her bare bottom. I resisted the urge to swab the seat with my handkerchief, assuming the

maîtresse

was familiar with our customs. Indeed, she nodded and smiled as we sat.

This woman ruled her domain with (as the saying goes) an iron fist in a velvet glove. She had on the same uniform as the waitresses -- a skimpy figure-hugging minidress with ample décolletage -- and she ordered them about sternly. She appeared to act more benignly towards her male underlings, who each wore elegantly styled black trousers and long-sleeved white shirt with waistcoat and bowtie; but she monitored them just as closely as the girls when they tended our table. She made sure that her staff addressed themselves at all times to Master Jonathan alone. At the end, she looked on impassively as Lydia passed her credit card across to him so he would have the honour of paying the bill.

The

maîtresse

obviously had a connection with Lydia and understood all the protocols. Our paths would cross again.

During the meal Lucy was blindfolded and her hands were bound behind her back, and we took it in turns to feed her. We made sure that enough food was smeared on her face and her chest, and enough wine dribbled down her front, to make her giggle and wriggle. Meanwhile, our servers tried to ignore us and the mess we were making; and none of the other customers seemed to notice, or if they did pretended not to. It was the only time that we all felt free of the strictures of dominance and submission, and on the way home we clowned about and made jokes, and Master Jonathan appeared more at ease than I had ever seen him. But as soon as we reached the threshold of the apartment, four of us stripped naked once more.

This was one of the few breaks in our routine. Most of the days, Lydia went to her office. Jonathan and Lucy went out to the university. They had not suspended every aspect of their everyday lives, as Evandra and I had. We two were left alone in the apartment There were household chores to be done, and we cooked dinner. Our duties were on the whole light, not much more than dull distractions from the many idle hours we had to fill. There was neither a television nor a radio, nor a computer except in the private office which we females (apart from Lydia) were forbidden to enter. The door was not locked, so far as I could tell, but we never knowingly broke the rules.

One of these rules was that we be nude at all times. The dress I wore on our trip to the restaurant was the first clothing to touch my body in twenty-one days, and it felt quite strange. A latticework screen allowed us to sunbathe on the balcony shielded by from public view. Yet we never became nonchalant about our nudity. Because we weren't given the choice, it was not like we were flaunting our bodies. It was a constant reinforcement of what we were and, in the presence of our clothed Master, of what we were not. So our nakedness was not an expression of feminine conceit but a symbol of our servitude. Nevertheless, we could be proud that we had the strength to embrace what we were becoming... indeed, what we had become.

Cut off from the outside world, we lived in a sort of cocoon, knowing virtually nothing of what was happening beyond the walls of our comfortable prison. As the days passed languidly by, the ennui was a constant reminder of our

raison d'être

. While living in the apartment, our sole purpose was to be of service to the Master, and to keep this foremost in our minds our existence in his absence was made a sort of limbo.

We were not permitted to drink alcohol (except for that special occasion at the restaurant) or to pleasure ourselves in any way other than that we received from our Master. Yet while masturbation was forbidden, the prohibition could not be enforced except by self-restraint. But we were in a state of almost permanent arousal anyway.

Ménage à moi

(a delightful euphemism) was superfluous. And while Lucinda and I, and on occasion Evandra, would dally in bed, the appeal was, for me, more sensual than sapphic.

We were expected to do regular exercise (even if Evandra hardly needed it, being a natural athlete). Lydia explained that as property we had an obligation to keep our bodies in first-class condition for our owner's enjoyment. And while idleness numbed our senses, the workouts honed our receptors. As a result, even the mildest of stimulations left us simmering, and by the evening our bodies were primed, and my insides seethed, for the return of the Master, our next visit to the downstairs room and the nights spent in the Master's bed.

For the rest of the time during the day, our recreation was to be found in the library. I spent many hours there, as did Evandra. I have always loved the smell and texture of old books. There was a wide variety of literature, fiction, non-fiction and poetry, to choose from. There was a collection of French erotic classics --

Les Bijoux Indiscrets

,

Justine

,

Belle de Jour

,

Emmanuelle

, and of course Pauline Réage's

Histoire d'O

and

Retour à Roissy

. Wanting to appreciate these in their original form, in my teenage years I taught myself a rudimentary version of the language; but now I was living the fantasies I had only read and dreamt about.

We were encouraged to keep a personal journal to write about our thoughts and feelings. (So far as I know, these diaries were never read by anyone else. They may have been destroyed when we departed, or Lydia may have kept them. I haven't found out.) We chatted, naturally, though only regarding general things and never about how or why we had come to be in this place. For some reason that was taboo. Indeed, Evandra was reluctant to reveal anything about her life. Just about all I knew of her was that she was twenty-eight years of age and had (like me) put her relationships and career on hold. She revealed nothing else, and neither did I.

Master Jonathan and Lucy always came in together in the late afternoon. She never worked in the apartment, so I do not know how she managed to mesh her studies into her slavery. Upon re-entering she immediately disrobed and came to the kitchen to help out. Master Jonathan availed himself of the privilege of his sex to relax in the living room or in the study or on the balcony. I brought him his slippers and the newspaper and a beer or whisky; and as I knelt before him to honor his presence, he patted me on the head and said "Good girl" and slapped me hard on the behind as I got to my feet to go back to my chores. But if he felt in the mood, he called one of us from the kitchen to provide pre-dinner entertainment.

When Lydia arrived, everyone gathered in the vestibule, including Master Jonathan. It was the only time when he showed any sort of deference to our mentor. She undressed and prostrated herself before him, thus restoring

la différence

. Following the meal, every night, we were taken down to the second floor. Sometimes the sessions were short; usually they went on for hours. At the beginning Lydia had assumed control and showed her young Master how to inflict the maximum suffering while inducing the utmost ecstasy. By the time of my arrival, he had taken full command and his four playthings were driven to paroxysms of pleasure and pain, the like of which I had once believed existed only as clichés in airport-stand paperbacks.

The worst part was the flogging. The Master made use of the whip, the cane, the strap and the riding crop, according to his whim. We were not beaten every night, but this was not to spare us inordinate pain but rather to allow the streaks and welts to subside so as to make us ripe for the next session. The intended effect of this was to augment, not alleviate, the agony. The same principle applied to our torture with the cattle prod and the electric wand. Low current and high voltage maximized the shock and prolonged our ordeal, for up to several hours with no real danger of serious harm or lasting damage. Our gags prevented us screaming ourselves hoarse.

Lydia continued to tutor Master Jonathan when she felt he needed it, usually when he wasn't strict enough. And it was odd to hear her instructing him on how we, including herself, should be maltreated in a way to increase and extend our delectable distress. On my second night when he was laying on the strokes thick and fast, she made a signal that she wanted her gag removed. I thought the woman was about to beg for mercy; but through gritted teeth she explained that he ought to slow down, to allow his victim some respite, so both could regain composure, but that as soon as she recovered he should begin again, and so stretch out her torment without the fear that she might break down under the strain and the session be prematurely terminated.

"Our endurance," she explained to our Master, "is the measure of our devotion."

So these nightly games had a formulaic, methodical, ritualistic quality. They reinforced our submission because by enduring them of our own free will we abandoned any sense that we deserved or desired to be treated otherwise. And this was a source of pride, not shame. Nevertheless, there were times when I felt that it was all part of some expiatory rite. But expiation for what? Maybe for taking so long to find the path along which we now moved. Yet Lydia suffered alongside us, and though this reinforced our sisterhood of slavery, there seemed to be something else going on. It was as if she were atoning as well, perhaps for (in her mind) enthralling Lucy, Evandra and myself.

In any case, the more rigorous the games the more they left me feeling liberated, fulfilled, and... even now it's difficult to find the right words... actualized. It was as if my very existence had been inverted. The apartment and studio became my universe, as the world outside shrank to nothingness. We lived in a sort of unreality, not so much a fantasy as a vivid dream. Sometimes it felt like a nightmare, the kind that you desperately want to be over but at the same time you don't want to end because you need so much to see how it plays out and -- most importantly -- how you will respond.

"Without adversity," Lydia explained, "there is no self-knowledge."

Weekends were especially tedious. Master Jonathan mostly stayed in the apartment, and then we females were not permitted our usual pastimes. When not serving the Master in our various ways we would strike a pose -- that was the term I used. Sometimes we would kneel facing the wall, hands behind the back or clasped behind the head, nipples and nose just touching the wall; or we would lie prone face-down on the floor, with arms behind the back or outstretched; or we'd assume more intricate positions; and we would remain that way, mute and immobile, for hours on end. Sometimes Lydia was exempted if she worked in her office, but mostly she wasn't. This was the most challenging manifestation of our "adversity". It impressed on us that our life in the apartment was focused solely on service to the Master.

Trying to keep your mind occupied for so long, with no outlet or distraction, takes enormous stamina and willpower. A whipping lasted a few minutes; pain may linger but fades. Boredom, on the other hand, grows, enveloping you like a suffocating shroud. Still, it was a marvellous test, and demonstration, of our self-discipline; and it forced us to contemplate what we were and what we were not, what we were becoming and what we had become, where we were going and how far we had travelled.

On most evenings we followed the same simple agenda -- dinner and games. On a couple of occasions we received visitors. The first time it was three young men, one of whom was Lucy's former boyfriend (whom she now called her owner). We entertained them in the apartment and the games room until dawn. But I never received a visit from Richard, who now had a free hand in my apartment and was still living off my beneficence.

The second time was a mysterious episode which I have never been able to fully explain. Master Jonathan had gone somewhere (or been sent away), and six guests arrived. They were four men wearing tuxedos and two women in expensive cocktail frocks. The latter, both of whom appeared to be aged in their early forties, were the first females I had seen in the apartment wearing clothes. But even Lydia was not fully naked, although all she had on were a garter belt, silk stockings and stiletto heels, plus a jewel-encrusted choker. I recognized Jacqueline, a professor at the university, and her husband Paul. The other woman, whom I heard called Ingrid, I could not identify although she and her partner looked vaguely familiar. The other two men were unknown to me.

Lucy, Evandra and I greeted the guests in the usual manner, on our knees kissing feet (just the males'), and then we were ordered to the kitchen. In the drawing room Lydia served her visitors brandy, claret and

hors d'oeuvres

, and conversed with them almost as equals, definitely as friends. When they took their seats for dinner, she waited deferentially for her guests to be seated but nevertheless positioned herself at the head of the table. (I should add that the bare-wooden chairs had been replaced with padded seats which Lucy and I brought up from storage on the second floor.)

As Ingrid took her place, she swept back her dress in the manner with which I was now familiar, and for an instant she revealed that she was not wearing panties; so it was her bare flesh that touched the seat. Jacqueline, who was already sitting, looked amused; but when heads turned in her direction she sighed, raised herself off the chair to pull back her dress and push her pants to her knees. She lowered herself delicately, frowning, as if expecting a shock or a jolt, and then grinned. Her man, sitting to her left, kept glancing under the table throughout the meal. Every so often his right hand would disappear down there, and she would suddenly jerk or shudder, blush, and allow herself a tight-lipped smile.

After dinner, while Lucy, Evandra and I cleaned up, Lydia served coffee and liqueurs. Then the two single men took her and Evandra to Lydia's bedroom. Soon afterwards I heard a loud, drawn-out moan and a high-pitched squeal.

Meanwhile, in the living room Lucy and I were the evening's entertainment. As Ingrid and Jacqueline watched from the sofa, their husbands tied us in many positions. The ropes were expertly applied, the bondage strenuous -- never unbearable but with just enough pain and stringency to make us grunt and sweat.

As Lydia (now completely naked) and the others returned to the living room, Ingrid was discussing something with her companions. I didn't listen, but Lydia had brought from her office a small leather case. From it Ingrid took a long, fine metal rod and showed it to the others. Lydia ordered me to lie on my back on the coffee table, my arms folded over my head, my feet on the floor and my knees spread.

Ingrid smiled benevolently as she gently massaged the flesh between my thighs. She was wearing surgical gloves and I detected the smell of sterilizing alcohol.

"Lie very still, dear," she said. "This will only hurt a little." Her tone was soothing, the words were not. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," I whispered, glancing up at Lydia who was kneeling on the carpet tenderly stroking my hair.

"She's trembling, poor thing," Jacqueline observed from the sofa.

I dared not look but felt my labia being parted and the insides dabbed with a cold, wet swab... then a sudden sharp sting and a brief burning sensation -- not exactly painful, more like prickly.

"Absolutely still," Ingrid repeated.

It took me a few seconds to realize that the shaft had been inserted into my urethra. From its length, I estimated that it did not quite reach my bladder. But because it was semi-rigid, unlike a catheter, it stiffened the sides of my canal. It was not nearly as bad as I expected, slightly uncomfortable but once my brain adjusted to this unfamiliar invasion of my body, unpleasant but pleasurable. Ingrid began moving the rod in and out, gently, and the result was marvellous. Neither my clitoris nor my g-spot had ever given me this much delight... or so it seemed in the moment. The middle of an orgasm might not be the best time to judge.

Remembering Ingrid's injunction, I fought that impulse to open and close my knees like you get when you desperately need to pee. Which I did.

The end of the rod protruded from between my legs, and to my horror I glimpsed the woman attaching a small metal clip connected to a pair of wires. I know an electrode when I see one. I gritted my teeth, clenched my fists, braced my body and prepared to stifle my screams. It wasn't agonizing, but neither was it bliss. What was invidious was that it changed my mental state, short-circuiting my exhilaration, as if to remind me of my singular purpose -- the gratification of others, not myself.

I glanced at Jacqueline. She was squinting at me as I squirmed, her lips pursed and her knees pressed together. Ingrid, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed, almost clinically detached except for an expression of mild curiosity as I jerked with each shock. She handed the control box to her partner, who gave me several zaps, twiddling the dial to experiment with the intensity of my suffering. Each of the men took his turn, but Jacqueline passed up the chance. Lydia was still beside me, and she stayed on the spot when Evandra and Lucy took their turn.

When each of us was on the coffee tabletop, the other two knelt on the floorboards viewing the scene with downcast eyes, hands clasped behind the head, knees apart. My arousal had subsided and the pain had faded to a tingle; but the assault on my organs had left me, in its wake, with a despairing need to ease the pressure on my bladder. Not being able to squeeze my thighs together made the ordeal a dreadful torment. I couldn't change position or posture, and though I tried to distract myself, the sight and sounds of the other girls on the table made it impossible to focus my mind on something remote. And finally, inevitably, I felt the warm fluid trickle out of me and drip onto the polished wood, to form a little pool between my knees. But this didn't relieve the pressure because I was grimly determined to keep the flow to a dribble. No one else seemed to notice or care about the puddle, but I did not want to be kneeling in a golden pond.

Just when this game seemed to be over, attention turned to Lydia. She was reluctant, but Ingrid's husband commanded her, and she obeyed. As she lay upon the table her face was flushed. It was the most humiliated I had even seen her. I could not help but feel some grim satisfaction.