The Manor

Please to attend the Manor

The envelope had been hand-delivered to your mailbox during the night. Cream colored, scented like rose petals, your name and address penned with beautiful calligraphy in a rich blue ink, a waxen seal stamped with an obscure coat of arms, something from the 19th century.

"You are invited to The Manor. You have been recommended by a mutual friend whose judgment we trust. You may be in ignorance of our purpose and indeed our activities, but from the hints of our mutual friend, we believe you will be intrigued to attend, and ultimately your desires fulfilled. A car will pick you up at 7pm Friday. If you choose not to enter, you will not be contacted again. If you choose to open the car's door, you need make no further choices for at least 48 hours. We make no warranties to your enjoyment or wellbeing, but merely suggest that you will pass through an intensity and novelty beyond anything you have heretofore experienced."

You agonized harder over what to wear than whether to go. One sleepless night was enough to say yes to yourself. You had never heard of "The Manor," whatever that was, but the hint of excitement and transformation outweighed the sense of danger. But what to wear? The letter's formality seemed to demand a serious demeanor. You chose a formal black pant suit, simple earrings, and a pair of three-inch red heels, the only splash of color.

Now you sit, awkwardly waiting at your front window, looking up and down the street, wondering if you've wasted an hour's preparation for a hoax.

Exactly as your watch switches from 6:59 to 7:00, a long black limousine glides to a stop on the street in front of your house. Nobody emerges.

In a brief panic, you lurch for your front door and step outside. The car remains. You hesitate, but you have no idea what you might need anyway. You have a small bag with a change of clothes and a toothbrush. With a sigh of commitment, you lock your door and walk steadily to the curb, to stand by the rear door of the car. The windows are black, the car silent. You shrug, shake your head, and reach for the door handle. It is unlocked; you open the door and peer in: sumptuous but empty seats. With another sigh, you step in, close the door behind you, and sit. The driver is invisible behind a black partition, but the car begins to move.

A drawer in front of you opens with an electronic hum. A glass of chilled champagne appears, and a dish of black caviar sprinkled with herbs and rock salt. You take the wine. After 10 minutes of driving, you take the caviar. You settle back, no idea how long it will be. Nearly an hour passes, and you wonder why you're doing this.

The limo pulls into a long driveway, sinuous through a dark forest, emerging onto an acre of grass, and an imposing mansion. The front door opens and a butler in a tuxedo appears, stepping up to the car, opening your passenger door. He holds it, waiting for you to emerge. As you step out, he says "Welcome to the Manor. Please follow me." He closes the door and walks to the house, as the limo glides away.

The butler shows you across a palatial entryway, and through a side door into a large study, a dark wood-paneled library with bookshelves, a fireplace with wood burning briskly, and a sprinkling of ornate couches and overstuffed chairs. He closes the door behind you as he leaves. You realize you're not alone; a man sits in one of the chairs near the fire. He has greying hair, seems very fit, formally dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, gold cufflinks with a sparkle of diamond. His shoes are Italian, shined to perfection, and look as comfortable as favorite slippers. He is gazing at you serenely.

"Hi!" you say. "I'm not really sure why I'm here. I received a strange invitation, and decided to accept in a spirit of adventure, but if I'm supposed to know something about this place, I'm sorry, but I'm in the dark!"

He smiles. "That's perfectly alright. We understand. I'll explain...

"You were recommended for our unusual program. Now that you're here, it will play out in a certain, predetermined way. You don't need any preparation, you don't need any previous knowledge.

"My dear, you are known to us as a strong, independent woman. You have intelligence, education, curiosity, and an open mind. You are confident, and successful. What could we improve, if we wanted to? Nothing, perhaps. But we believe you have certain desires, and to be honest, we have our own... complementary desires. So although we act purely out of selfishness, and intend to benefit from your presence to an extreme degree, we believe you will ultimately find this weekend... hmm... shall we say... interesting? If not transformational."

"Um..." is all you manage to say, as your gaze drifts back and forth between the fire and his eyes, and you try to think of what to ask. He smiles, and continues.

"Let's be direct. You are a beautiful woman. A few of us are going to enjoy sex with you, as well as playing out some of our darker fantasies. You will probably feel physical extremes you've never endured before, and perhaps concomitant emotional extremes. It will not all be pleasant, at least for you, but from the time you chose to step into our limousine, you had little choice.

"Of course, you have free will. You can choose to fight, or try to flee. I advise against it, although as a strong, confident person, I expect you will fight. I am going to give you directions. Others in the Manor may also command you. You are going to experience an intense training program in obedience. I expect that within the 48 hours we plan for you, that you will submit utterly, because every time you disobey, or balk in the slightest, you will be punished, quite painfully.

"Now, please come over here and drape yourself across my lap, with your hands and feet on the floor. We'll begin with a light spanking."

"Uh... I think Fuck You! I didn't sign up for this, and I don't know you!" You turn toward the door. Maybe if the guy had taken some time to get to know you! He is handsome enough, charming and urbane in a remote way, but this is not how you expect to be seduced.

He reaches over to a small bell on a coffee table, and rings it gently. The door opens. Before you can exit, the butler and his tuxedo fill the doorway, followed by two extremely large men. They are well over six feet tall, heavily muscled, wearing soft leather shoes, black pants, black dress shirts, black belts, and crew cuts. They move like panthers. They each take one of your arms and effortlessly lift you a few inches from the floor, legs flailing. They take a few steps until your stomach leans over the back of an armchair, your face toward the fire, your legs awkwardly hanging, your arms pinned to your sides. The butler calmly walks to a rack beside one of the bookshelves, and takes a thin cane. He walks behind you. With no warning, no sound other than an ominous swish, he lays a searing streak of red agony across your buttocks, and then steps back. You scream involuntarily, choking it off, wrestling and glaring and too angry to speak.

The seated man gives you a kindly smile, and speaks again, in a calm, welcoming voice. "Would you like to come here for your spanking now?" He cocks his head to one side, waiting for you to answer. You take a breath, wondering what to spit out, how to fight this, what to do. After three seconds, you hear the butler take a step, and that swish; you scream "no!" but it is too late. The cane lashes across your upper thighs and it feels like a layer of skin has been lit on fire. Your legs kick against the chair and ineffectually behind you.

Rapidly you think about your options. You think they will probably continue the caning, or perhaps worse, until you give in, or become unconscious. How long can you fight this? Too soon, he speaks again. "Well, my pretty toy, would you like to crawl over to me, and beg me to spank you?" You recognize he has increased the demand. You know you have about a single second to weigh your decision. You're thinking about giving in, and take a breath to speak, but it's too late. That swish. This time the cane strikes mid-thigh. Knowing it was coming made it worse. Knowing it will continue unless you debase yourself makes it worse. You scream. Then you scream out "Yes, I'll take the damn spanking!"

The two men gently set you on your feet and let go over your arms. You nearly collapse onto the armchair, holding yourself up with your arms. The butler and his henchmen quietly walk out the door, closing it gently behind them.

The original man leans back in his chair. He takes a glass of brandy from the coffee table in front of him, and sips. He looks at you as you breathe raggedly. "I won't punish you for swearing this time, as I haven't explained you are forbidden to do so. Speak respectfully to everyone you meet here. You are everyone's sex toy and slave. Everyone here has the title 'Master' over you. Obey them like a faithful dog. Say 'no' to anything, and you will be severely punished. Speak in anything but a cringing, obsequious, and totally sincere desire to please, and you will be punished. Fight or flight, you will be punished. The punishments will escalate in pain and duration.

"Now, please get on your knees and crawl here. Kiss my shoes, and beg me to spank you."

You silently curse your own foolishness, for opening the door of that limo. You think for a moment that some people would fight to the death against this kind of control. You feel shame that you're considering submission over pain. The shame crumples your knees and you fall to the floor. That's easier than thinking about the bell so close to his fingers. Did he start to reach for it? Hurriedly, you get on your hands and knees, and start crawling toward him, slowing down in hopes of buying a little time, but moving steadily enough not to invite the bell. Too soon, you are at his feet. You close your eyes and bend lower. Your lips touch the expensive leather. Fearfully, you give a thorough kiss, and for good measure stretch over to kiss the other shoe. You have never felt so embarrassed, so demeaned. You swallow, and carefully say "Please, master, would you spank me?"

He reaches over and rings the bell. You gasp "But Master, please! I begged you! Please!"

The door opens, the butler enters. The man in front of you speaks to you: "Yes, that's all right, little toy. Just give Robert here your clothes, and I'll give you the spanking."

You look up at him, and over at Robert. By this point you didn't actually expect to keep your clothes on, but it still makes you burn and blush, to undress in front of two strangers. They look at you. Not sure if you should stand up, you pull off your top, then reach back to unhook your bra. You hand both to 'Robert' who stretches his hands to accept them. Your breasts swing freely in front of this stranger who is about to spank you. He eyes them appraisingly. You decide to stand, to more easily remove your pants. It takes only a moment. You hesitate, but then push your panties down, wincing as they brush where the cane had struck. Your heels had fallen off by the chair and Robert had already collected them.

"Your earrings too, please." You remove them and hand them to Robert. He steps wordlessly out of the room, carrying your clothes. The 'master' raises his eyebrows, watching you stand naked, one step away from his relaxed knees in their tailored trousers. Not knowing his name, you think of what to label him in your mind, considering 'the asshole' but instinctively replacing it with 'the master' out of self-preservation. If you were to blurt out 'asshole' you know what kind of consequences would befall you. You tell yourself you're being smart, not cowardly.

He's not saying anything. You realize he already gave you the instructions, and you might have only seconds before you're punished for not acting on them. You kneel. "Please sir, may I lay on your lap and get a spanking, sir?"

He smiles broadly, opens his arms wide, and says "Yes, pet! Good little thing! Come here." With a twist in your stomach, you shuffle forward, and drape yourself over his legs. You put your hands on the floor to one side of him, which leaves your feet awkwardly splayed on the floor on the other side, your bum raised exactly over his lap. It is then that you notice, to even more shame, that the twist in your stomach has migrated and become a heat in the depths of your vagina, a tingling in your labia, and an anticipation very different from the swish of that cane. You push out of your mind that you might actually enjoy the spanking, if he doesn't hit you too hard.

You don't know where to look, so you close your eyes. You can't keep still; your muscles all over your body twitch, randomly. You imagine how that must look to Him. Oh no, you've started capitalizing it in your mind. Think of him as the Asshole! No, too dangerous. Master. Yes, master. Smack! He just struck your left buttock, really not very hard at all, not painful, just very definitely a smack. You feel you could take a lot of that, without agony, except for the spark where it overlapped a bit with the first strike of the cane. Then he smacks your other buttock, with exactly the same intensity. His left hand is gently draped across your thighs, holding them warmly against his legs. His right hand starts an incredibly regular pace. Left, right, left, right. About two seconds apart, exactly the same mild intensity. You start thinking this is actually quite pleasant, just embarrassing. Time passes. You lose count, your mind wanders, you wonder how long this will continue.

After a weirdly long time, no words spoken, the metronome of spanking continuing, you sense he's hitting you more gently, instead of the increasing intensity you expected. But the sensation is increasing anyway. Your bum must be getting very red. Even light taps are starting to feel like a small flame. His regularity becomes infuriating. You twitch.

You hear the door open. You can't see past the chair, but you hear varied footfalls, a group of people entering. There's the clear sound of high heels clicking, and then the voices.

"Hello, Richard! So this is our new toy! It's a beautiful creature, isn't it? Sorry we're late, but I see you've been preparing with your usual thoroughness. Mind if I give it a swat?"

So his name is Richard.

"Good evening, John, just give me a bit longer. I like a little stronger red hue. I've been waiting for all of you, before bringing the cunt to a boil. Have a seat. Robert! You'll provide everyone their usual drinks?"

"Yes sir. Anyone any special requests?"

"Yes, Robert." A woman's voice. You twist your neck, try to see, can't quite see her whole figure. You can see Laboutins, dark richly patterned nylons on exquisitely beautiful legs, rising into a chiffon gown. "Please get me a serious James Bond martini. I have a feeling this bitch is going to be a handful, and I want a serious drink to get ready." You're wondering what that means, and how she could know anything about what you're like, or how you might respond to a situation you can barely imagine yourself. You hold your tongue.

You notice the smacks are getting harder. They've reached the same strength of the initial ones, but with your inflamed skin, this is now quite painful. You fidget, bite your lip.

"Ah," another voice, "she's starting to feel it, isn't she, Richard?"

The next slap is a lot harder. But the space between has lengthened to three or four seconds, a real pause that makes the next slap much worse through anticipation. You know you can't keep silent much longer. Then the next slap comes, and it hurts! You yelp, crying out piteously. You know, you just know he's going to keep slapping you, and that you can't take it, but that it will be even worse if you don't take it, and suddenly you're crying. You shake, and the tears fall. But the blows don't stop. Every five seconds now, still alternating buttocks, but with a firm intensity that is just too high. Smack! You scream. Your legs move spasmodically. You try to calm them, try to show that you're not fighting, that you're not trying to escape, but the effort is overwhelming. You start crying continuously, dripping, and your nose filling. Smack! The conversation among the people in the room continues as if you weren't there. They talk about businesses, about taxes, about federal politics, about love affairs of their friends. You are barely aware, and less so with every smack on your flaming behind.

There comes a moment, where you can feel it inside yourself. The moment before, you are yourself, in pain, and struggling with an impossible situation, but still a person. The next moment, you break. You are broken. You sag onto Master's legs, muscles still. You're still crying, but calmly. The blows will keep coming, and you'll scream or cry depending on how hard they fall, but your spirit is no longer fighting them. And at that moment, you feel your cunt moistening, and you feel a desire to buck your hips, to grind against his leg. Smack.

Suddenly Richard pushes you onto the floor. "Enough, slut. Time to serve the guests."

You are crumpled on the floor, just in front of the fireplace. Heat from the logs is competing with a fiercer heat from your gluteus muscles. You wonder what you should be doing. Was that an order?

The woman speaks. "Go around to each of us, doggie. Put your hands on our laps, look up to our eyes with love, and ask us what we'd like to do to you. Remember the list, we're going to test you on it."

You cringe. But you remember the cane, and the promise of escalating punishment. You turn to the closest person, a burly man with a friendly smile on his round face, a bushy beard over a large stomach. He seems to enjoy his food. He has a chicken drumstick in one hand and a foamy mug of dark beer in the other. He looks happy to see you. You kneel in front of him, put your hands on his thighs, and look into his face. How should you say this? How are you supposed to look lovingly at him? You swallow and try. "Hello master, I am happy you are here. How... how would you like to use me, sir?"

"Well, pretty pet, you have some terminology to learn. Don't use the first person singular. You are a fuck toy. You don't get to say 'I'. Just refer to yourself as 'this body' or 'this useless piece of meat' or something like that, and we'll get along famously. Hmm... what to do tonight? I think I'd like you tied to a sawhorse where I can fuck you in the ass. Depending on how obedient you are, I might use lube. The more nicely you treat all my friends here, the more lube I'll grease you up with, and let you use to grease up my cock. Now off you go. Next guest." He smiles the same, friendly, beaming smile, and waits for you to move on. If you weren't already broken, this would break you.

Next to the bearded man, sitting on the same couch, is the woman with the chiffon dress. You crawl over on your hands and knees, and drape your forearms onto her thighs. Remembering the command, you look up into her face, trying hard to think of loving her. Her face is cruel but intensely beautiful. Her nose looks chiseled by a sculptor, her eyes intricately made up, like a work of cosmetic art. Her mouth is firm but sensual. She's waiting. You're shaking again, a bit. "Mistress, I would... sorry, this piece of meat wishes to know what you'd like to do with it..."

"Oh Robert, she really didn't listen, did she? Let's string her up! I do so love the punishment periods!"

"Yes!" several people clamored, and a round of applause erupted. Suddenly Robert was at her side, along with the same two giants from before. You cringe and cry, but you don't know what to say. What can you do? It's too late. All you can do is live through the punishment, whatever it is, and try harder to obey next time. I am not 'I', I am a fuck toy, I am a piece of meat. This body is for their pleasure. This body will cry and yield for them. It will do whatever they desire.