XXXV.
While for Matt life was becoming a baptismal pool in which he could immerse himself in guilt; for Jenn it was a growing freedom she could bathe in – bask in, a freedom from restraints, a freedom from conventional morals and society's morés, a freedom, indeed, from inhibition itself.
The morning they anchored outside Singapore, after most of the guests had disembarked for their day in the city, a handler came to take Jenn to the quarters of one of the older male trainers.
There were basically three levels of service crew working with the vassals. The keepers looked after them, washing, bathing and feeding them; the handlers escorted them to their various assignments and assignations, and left them ready for whatever awaited them; and the trainers developed their skills – or crushed their wills, as necessary – and set up various scenarios for the guests. The keepers were voyeurs. They got a tremendous vicarious thrill out of being close to the fantasy incarnate but safe from its effects. They sometimes had sex with their charges, and were occasionally involved in light discipline, but mainly they just watched and listened and savoured their rights to touch and feel. The handlers were further up the ladder, as it were. Here were the petty dominants who enjoyed their positions of power and felt important in their escort roles. Neither keepers nor handlers were well paid – room and board and a bit of pin money; they were there simply because they loved their jobs – fantastic positions, indeed. Those staff members were never assigned to particular vassals. It wouldn't do to have them form attachments to individuals. From the point of view of Jenn and Matt – of the vassals, they changed continuously.
The trainer accepted Jenn at the door of a stateroom, from the keeper who had delivered her. Without a word, he took her firmly by the arm and led her to the middle of the room to stand before another man seated there in a swivel rocker. "I'll leave her with you, then," he said. The man in the chair only nodded. He was staring intently, looking up and down Jenn's body. Such radiance shone from his eyes that Jenn imagined she could almost feel the visual energy searing her skin. The trainer turned to her. "Mansa has offered to help me with your training. You will follow his direction implicitly." With that the trainer left the room – left Jenn standing silently. A shiver ran over her, like ripples on the surface of a pond.
Mansa sat comfortably in a soft leather chair, while Jenn stood naked, waiting. In the interval, another shiver rippled through her body, whether from apprehension or anticipation even she couldn't be sure. After surveying her again, top to bottom, he finally spoke. He was a classically handsome, large south-central African man of about sixty, dressed casually in an intricately embroidered robe of purple satin over a loose pyjama bottom of the same material. Immaculately groomed, he had a sophisticated spray of grey at his temples. With a deep voice, reminiscent of James Earl Jones, he spoke slowly and softly, but there was an intensity that allowed for no thought of discussion – no other consideration. He first ordered Jenn to turn around once, slowly. Apparently satisfied, he informed her that, as a part of her training, she would be required to keep a cock – his cock – in her mouth for a few hours without letting it get soft or sore and without making him come until he was ready. "Have you had an orgasm yet this morning?" he queried quietly. Those kind of questions, out of the blue like that, in quiet everyday voices, never failed to startle Jenn. She tensed and blinked her eyes for a moment, before replying shyly that yes, she had. "How many?"
"One."
"How was it achieved?"
Jenn amazed herself that she could still feel embarrassed about this, as she felt the blood colour her cheeks. "With my fingers, Master." she replied.
"Do it again," he said, mildly. Adding, after her momentary hesitation, "Now!"
Flustered, Jenn looked around her in a vain search for support, but her hands had already slid from her sides around to her groin. Tentatively, her eyes staying on the face of her instructor, her left hand straddled her labia, easing them apart and holding them wide while the fingers of her right hand began to make slow swirls around her clitoris. Gradually increasing the pace, her orbiting digits dove at random intervals into the folds of her vagina. Now fully open and engorged, she let her left hand drop along the verge of her wetness, stroking and poking, dipping and twirling, taking on more and more of the arousal. At times she had both hands pulling herself open, fingers from each inserted forcefully while her right thumb continuously circled and teased her love-button.
Mansa watched intently from his chair, not moving or making a sound. He wasn't looking at her face and perhaps didn't notice her eyes glaze as they lost focus. Jenn could feel a trembling in her thighs and sensations building in her gut like the roar of distant thunder. Then, like a sudden storm lashing the shore, her orgasm crashed over her, bolts of lightning slicing, blinding, rending. Her eyes fell closed as the climax consumed all available energy. Her legs liquefied under the relentless irritation of her own fingers, and only through the courageous struggle of a deep, tiny portion of her brain was she able to keep from collapsing. As the pounding waves slackened, her quaking body stilled leaving her hands finally motionless in the rain forest of her pubis. Only her breathing belied the paralysis that had settled onto her.
