I've been trying to teach this old dog some new tricks. As always, I would greatly appreciate your feedback. -Otis
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Her name was Juliette but he was no Romeo in the ordinary sense as we like to think of that name. Then again these were by no means ordinary times.
They had met at one of the frequent collaring ceremonies performed in the dignified stillness of the powder blue meditation chamber inside the Rothko Chapel safely nestled in the leafy Montrose district.
Some hapless athlete, with well defined abs and cocky attitude no doubt had allowed himself to get in too deep with a glamorous masturbatrix slaver, sporting a two hundred and fifty dollar manicure, who once having seduced him, now led him down the aisle by leash so he could profess his naked and undying devotion to her in front of friends (his and hers), a retinue of BDSM enthusiasts, and prospective buyers seated on the hard Spartan benches under the octagonal skylight.
For the slave, this was the hazard of revealing one's innermost secrets to the wrong person. One could easily forfeit their freedom forever once one's dirty little secrets were revealed to the world.
After all, this was the age of the thought police, ubiquitous and surreptitious, zealously engaged in the construct of a new culture in which there could no longer be a reasonable expectation of privacy.
It was at these social gatherings where men and women weak enough to be ensnared forfeited the privacy of what were once called "private parts", shackled forever into cruel and mocking servitude. The master slave relationship so glorified in this otherwise dignified setting would go on to inexorably extract the slave's body from its personality leaving the latter to wither on the vine.
There had been a time in the not too distant past when individuals like the young man being exhibited were entitled to their own thoughts, opinions, and fantasies, however vile, however deviant, so long as they never harmed others by acting on them.
But after years of political correctness, flash mobs, both virtual and actual, now turned on anyone whose politically offensive thoughts or deviant fantasies were somehow revealed and leaked to social media, ultimately stripping the victim of his reputation, wealth and liberty.
The very technology that had shown so much promise in expanding the opportunities for unfettered communication now threatened and undermined the free exchange of intimate thoughts and sexual fantasy. "Unprotected" phone sex even between friends had led to the public disgrace and enslavement of many a submissive carelessly looking for a safe place to vent.
Ironically, those who had been blessed with the most to lose were now cursed with the strictest vows of chastity and silence when they were among equals and superiors. Indiscretions could only safely occur in front of slaves, as they were no longer considered human and their testimony would be inadmissible in a court of law or court of public opinion. This in turn fueled an ever growing demand for well educated and emotionally intelligent slaves in whom a master or mistress could confide or casually drop pretenses without fear of societal condemnation.
Gary was a regular at these Rothko events. He himself had grown rich as a successful slaver, and, being a tenured professor at a local ivy league university, he taught aspiring and ambitious graduate students the psychosexual nuances and effective training techniques pertinent to the master slave relationship. Not surprisingly, he had managed to enslave quite a few of his own nubile coeds after first bedding them down outside of class.
Gary watched with amusement as the naked young man approach the microphone to confess his moral failings and filthy fetishes to former friends, lovers, and colleagues who had known him when he was still a person in his own right with the legal competency to give or withhold consent to the sexual abuses now awaiting him in this, his next life. Such confessions were good for the soul, and provided the bright line of demarcation between those who remained free and those who had squandered any right to retain their personhood.
While Gary didn't necessary believe in abuse or sadism for its own sake he held the conviction that submissive men and women were existentially lost until they found an honorable and compassionate owner to whom they could surrender. This was the way of the world, at least the world of today, and collaring ceremonies like this one were the brick and mortar, the glue that kept it all together, sanctifying the exchange of vows between Owner and Slave, officially sanctioning the Master-slave relationship, pretty much like the State had legalized gay marriage years before.
The audience roundly applauded as the Mistress recited her vow to forever protect, train, and mold her easy mark until she saw fit to sell him at auction to the highest bidder.
After the vows were exchanged, the slave, his body, sweaty and fully exposed, sprinkled with fragrant red and white rose pedals, his feet shackled in chains, was led outside by a maid of honor into the humid afternoon air towards a remarkable reflecting pool in which a four sided obelisk with a pyramidal point was inverted to touch point to point with a smaller pyramid rising out of a murky shallow basin. In front of the monumental sculpture he was shamelessly groped, photographed and videotaped in his newfound public disgrace. In the background one could hear unobtrusive mellifluous new age music emanating from unseen speakers.
As was the custom, the novice was ordered to get down on all fours to lick the heels and the soles of the shoes of those with whom he had once shared equality, friendship, and intimate secrets. A former girlfriend mockingly posed for the video-cams as she teased his cock into erection, slowly milking him into a very public and copious climax against the befitting double phallic backdrop.
It was at this reception that Gary met Juliette. She was in her mid twenties; he was clearly old enough to be her father.
He immediately observed her exquisite and willowy charm, offset by the wildly windblown black frizzy hair. Upon further inspection, he made note of her fetching freckles, her nicely proportioned hourglass figure, all wrapped together in a cheap poorly fitting navy blue pin-stripe suit, vaguely suggesting at once the genteel poverty of apprenticeship and a subliminal lack of confidence. There was something in her countenance that suggested something more than sensitivity, perhaps a concealment of vulnerability.
He was drawn to her youthful innocence, her apparent lack of baggage, boyfriends, children, commitments.
In time she would be drawn to his practiced swagger, his worldliness, that remarkable appetite driving him to relentlessly hunt down the objects of his desire, and the way he savored his conquests in leisure.
Even in middle age Gary could still serve up that Bad Boys' intoxicating, exotic elixir the younger women always craved, comprised of one part danger, one part rescue, one part delirium, one part lasting regret.
Being the academic, as well as an astute observer of the obvious, he knew that many young woman like Juliette were being pummeled by the "current economic meltdown" with no prospects for relief in sight and as a result were now more inclined to view adult companionship with an older and successful man more palatable than would have been the case in more prosperous times.
After all, he was ensconced in a secure, well paying position at the University, he had nice cars plural, a spacious home in West University as well as a beach house in Kemah, steady income streams from undisclosed sources, and a disarming smile- a royal flush in the casino of first impressions if there ever was one.
At the cash bar he asked her what brought her out to the event. She replied with nervous laughter she had been very good friends with the slave years ago and that it was his sister who had sent her the invite. Gary's eyes narrowed as he calculated that she was likely a closet submissive drawn to this sort of pageantry like one more moth to a flame. She would be fun to train.
Their relationship flowered in due course, slowly unfolding not unlike so many of the vanilla liaisons he himself had observed from a distance. With every new familiarity she found herself being drawn from the outward margins of casual acquaintance into the very interior of his comfortable life.
They came to spend most of their leisure time at his Kemah beach house overlooking one of the canals. She was very comfortable with her body and he encouraged her to walk around the house naked while he was dressed. His fingers hungered for every opportunity to stroke her young and perfect nubile body. She was young enough to be his daughter and he felt the younger man inside him come to life every time he grazed the freckles on her back, every time he cupped his hands to claim exclusive ownership of her haunches. She giggled like a child and her nipples became erect whenever he playfully pinched them and squeezed her perfect perky breasts.
Under his tutelage and patient grooming she revealed herself to be a passionate and receptive lover. He loved to hear her softly moan and cry out like some kind of feral animal in heat under his weight every time he forced himself into the dark moist center of her being.
All that said, he could not help but surmise that she was no longer fully satisfied with ordinary sexual experiences and now she needed something different to satisfy the unmet and unspeakable urges that could have no name in this, the age of the thought police.
Inwardly, he knew that she had the need to discuss her deviant needs with a real adult after years of rehearsing so many forbidden confessions with the transient phantoms of her imagination. If this was to be a successful interrogation he would have to assure her that her secrets were safe with him and that she would not be out-ed.
He smiled broadly as she brought him the two plates of quiche she had prepared for their lunch. She mischievously licked her lips as he poured the fine Cabernet Sauvignon into the two waiting wine glasses. She sat her bare bottom next to him on the sofa and surrendered to his tongue as it snaked deep into her mouth. As was his new found custom he began to play with the trimmed mound of her pubic hair until he found her clit.
He drove her crazy with delight as his fingers found the rhythm that she had already allowed herself to become addicted to. She kissed him and told him that she loved him "a whole lot". She pushed herself into his two probing fingers until his wet knuckles found her ecstasy and climax.
It always gave him no small amount of pleasure whenever he considered how one person's casual habits could become another person's lifelong addiction.
After lunch, after their hunger was satisfied, after her desire was sated, he broached the forbidden topic.
"Juliette, my dearest pet, tell me, how do you feel about the time we spend together?"
"I feel so protected in your arms and free to be who I am. I feel that I can share my thoughts with you without fear of judgment."
He could see a waft of unease cloud her otherwise clear youthful features. He was about to put her assertion and his hypothesis to the test.
"Go on, Juliette."
"Gary, I feel safe and secure for the first time in my life.
"You seem to be able to understand me in ways guys my own age can't even begin to."
"I think we're going somewhere interesting with this.
"Go on," he prodded her.
"But this is a big adjustment for me and it's going to take some time for me to get used to it."
"You're not about to give me that goodbye look, are you?" he asked slyly.
"No, silly rabbit. I'm all yours. I've been very happy with the way we are."
"Juliette, I know that there's been a very bad economy out there. Lord knows, there's so many young people just out of school who may never find work or find a career for themselves, and I guess there's no one to blame for all this."
