The Trials of Francesca -

Master's letter arrives that morning, delivered by a man Francesca has never seen before. He's stocky and blond and has the bemused look of someone given a task he doesn't appreciate but must complete to some strict and mysterious standard.

It must be a new sub, Francesca thinks, knowing how she is never enough for her Master's appetites. But that's just as well -- Master's tastes can sometimes be violent, and he's been known to break a cane on the buttocks of some sturdy and willing male sub. For her, he had other preferences -- he controlled her sexuality, her arousals and her orgasms. He did beat her, occasionally, but not hard. He didn't want to mark her silky skin, he'd say. Of course, he was also unpredictable and there was always a chance he could change his mind. But today, seeing this new sub obediently deliver her Master's post, Francesca is reassured she's still safe, for now at least.

But that feeling disappears once she reads the letter.

#

'My love. I've missed you.'

The letter starts in Master's signature tone -- warm, intimate. So easy to trick innocent prey into thinking an encounter with him would be the same, warm and intimate and loving. But Francesca knows better than that. She's been the prey for almost two years now, and any illusions of warmth have long been dispelled. She knows her Master for what he is: passionate but brutal, a true sadist. And although he spares her the physical pain which sadistic dominants often inflict on their subs, his sadism still comes out in other ways. She blushes when she thinks of the hours she spent crawling on the floor of his luxury London house, naked and trembling, or all the nights when she slept in the cage under the bed, afraid a spider would crawl into her hair.

Oh, how she loves a sadist.

Her attention goes back to the letter.

'This evening, you are going to experience something new. I want you to prove your submission to me tonight, in what is going to be the first of several events where I will share you with other men.'

Francesca stops reading. Her heart pounds in her chest and the rush of adrenaline makes her feel like she might faint. They have discussed this, yes, but as a fantasy. In the darkness of Master's bed, after hours of glorious fucking which left her slippery wet and exhausted with pleasure, she'd sometimes whispered to him dark tales of promiscuity that appealed to Master's sense of ownership -- she was his to give away, after all -- and left her trembling with desire. But she never intended to live out those fantasies. Not in reality.

Or did she?

#

Francesca is watching through the window, half-hidden behind the curtain, as the car arrives at exactly eight p.m. as agreed. She is wearing a skin-tight red dress which barely manages to contain her full breasts and curvaceous bottom.

Francesca is slim and petite, but with the curves of a fertility goddess. She knows the men will love the sight of her, whoever they are.

All day she's not been able to think about anything else, her mind fixated on what was going to happen to her this evening. When the car arrives, she finds herself momentarily angry. Who does he think he is, to offer her to other men? She's not an object, something you can give to others when you've had enough of it! But then she remembers: her Master hasn't had enough of her. He loves her, will never become tired of her. And she is an object, his object, his property to handle as he wishes. She personally gave him that right the day she signed the contract, in which she agreed to obey him unquestioningly as long as she loved him and wanted to be with him. So she asks herself: does she still love him? Does she still want to be with him, living this life on the outer margins of every societal rule and expectation?

Of course she does. She's never loved anyone like this in her entire life.

Francesca closes the curtain and steps away from the window. She feels ready now. If only she knew who was inside the car and what they were going to do her, on this night when all her love and loyalty to the Master would be tested.

Does she have what it takes to get through it? Will the Master be with them, there to hold her hand and encourage her through whatever trial tonight held in its promise?

She shivers with anticipation, a sense of fear and delight, an irresistible excitement deep in the pit of her stomach -- a feeling like no other. You're crazy, she tells herself. No other woman would agree to this, no other woman tries to prove her love in such extreme, illogical ways. But she's not any other woman. She's the Master's favourite sub, the only female amongst them, his favourite. His love. The one he dreams of at night. The one he looks after in every way: emotionally, financially, sexually. So if he wants to share her with other, shared she'll be.

She walks through the room, glancing at the interior that's been lovingly designed by her. The deep-red Chesterfield on which they've fucked more times than she can remember, the Persian rug feeling soft under her feet, the expensive lamps dotted around the room, giving everything a warm glow. She loves this house, has made it her own, although Master paid for everything. I want you to be comfortable, he said to her on the day he'd given her the keys, and she signed the paperwork stating that this house -- this incredible house, bigger and more beautiful than anything she could have ever hoped to own in life -- was her own.

The car is waiting outside. The men are waiting outside.

How many of them will there be? What will she be required to do?

Maybe they're just taking her out to dinner, she thinks suddenly. Not that she could eat, after so much excitement. But she could drink, for sure. Suddenly, Francesca is dying for a glass of cold champagne.

In the hallway, in front of the full-length mirror framed in heavy dark oak, she examines her reflection. She's a beautiful woman and will remain beautiful for many years to come. When she was younger, she used to envy girls from American movies, blond with pink lips, pretty like little dolls, perfect representations of youth and cuteness. She didn't think that her chocolate-coloured tresses and dark green eyes could ever hold any appeal in a world that valued cuteness and cherished all things blond. But over time she grew into her looks and one day realised that men loved the mystery of her oval face, her delicate features and her intelligent eyes. 'You don't look like a fuck doll,' her Master said to her one day, 'you look like an artist's muse, sophisticated and elegant. All the more reason to fuck you every night until all your beauty is one cum-smeared mess.'

Francesca remembers those words as she's looking at herself in the mirror, the slutty red dress contrasting so sharply with the classic beauty of the woman wearing it.

She slides her feet into a pair of red stiletto sandals, too light and open for the cold winter's night outside. But she won't be walking anywhere. The car is waiting for her.

It's time to find out who is waiting for her inside it.