Indoctrination - Chapter 25
of
Night Owl
genre
bondage
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WARNING! This is a work of erotic BDSM FICTION. It is ADULT ORIENTED MATERIAL of an EXTREME SEXUAL NATURE, including acts of abduction, exhibitionism, humiliation, and discipline. This is not for readers who are easily offended or incapable of distinguishing fact from fiction. The author does not promote such activity in real life unless it is between consenting adults and practiced safely. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give anyone the rights to post or print content without obtaining the author's permission first.
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Indoctrination
by Night Owl
“My dance is a secret poem in which each movement is a word and every word is underlined by music. The temple in which I dance can be vague or faithfully reproduced as it is tonight, for I am the temple.”
- Mata Hari
Chapter 25: Madam Isha
Istanbul, Turkey (4 years ago):
Nobody paid much attention to the musicians belting out Arabic ballads in one corner of the smoky paga tavern. As soon as a song ended, a few people would wipe their greasy fingers on napkins, politely clap and return to their dinners, clearly savoring the lamb kebabs and tabbouli more than the music in the background. The star of the evening had yet to rise.
Raven sat at small round table next to a portly man named Muhammet. He had been traveling abroad – first Europe, then the Mediterranean with a final stop at Istanbul, which was the center of The Organization’s eastern providence. Muhammet, his host, owned the tavern and a large villa that doubled as a slave training facility. Both men bided their time, drinking tea and dipping pita bread in creamy hummus.
“This girl is a real beauty,” Muhammet assured his guest. “Well worth the wait.”
Raven said nothing, but nodded politely. Next to them, sat a group of booze-swigging, leering Greeks, who clearly had no honorable intentions toward the sullen waitress as she served their drinks.
Finally, the drumbeat reached a crescendo, and the beaded curtain in the back parted to reveal a brazen belly dancer sashaying into the room.
“Here she is,” Muhammet pushed his plate aside and dabbed his fat lips with a napkin.
The restaurant suddenly came alive. Hunched shoulders straightened, eyes lit up, appreciative gasps could be heard around the room and food grew cold as the young woman smiled seductively, her body swaying with the fluid grace of a sea anemone.
She was clothed in the Bedlah style, though noticeably more revealing than tradition allowed in much of the Middle East. Since the 1950s, it was illegal for belly dancers to perform publicly with their abdomens exposed or to display excessive skin. In Turkey, however, the art had become debased in recent years and a stripperesque costume style developed, with plunging tops and skirts that flared open generously around the legs.
This dancer's costume, bright turquoise in color with gold trim, left even less to the imagination of her patrons, and there was so much of her to see and admire. A bikini style, sequined top scarcely covered her firm medium-sized breasts, with a fringe of coins dangling underneath against her ribs. The belt was also decorated with coins and sewn into a thin, almost transparent skirt that hung very low on her hips, almost down to the V of her body to expose as much of her abdomen and pelvic region as allowed for modesty.
But what drew the most attention from everyone in the bar was that this woman was clearly not Turkish, or even Middle Eastern. Her skin was fair, almost colorless now under the bright stage light. Her hair, a dark rust color, flowed like waves of silk over her bare shoulders. She was also taller and more slender than most belly dancers with just a slight flair at the hips.
The lecherous Greeks at the next table fell silent (a feat in itself) as they watched the dancer effortlessly roll her flat, beautifully toned stomach in sinewy waves. Lodged inside her navel a tiny gem sparkled enticingly, creating a cavalcade of colors in the low light. She raised her hands high to bare the smooth, luscious curves of her armpits to the mostly male crowd. The gold glinted off her upper armlets and the clapping finger cymbals; the coins danced under her breasts and around the dangerously low hanging skirt hugging her curves; all while her hips swayed in time with the flute and drums. The woman was a veritable feast for the senses -- her rhythmic thrusts and gentle undulations, her snake-like arms promising infinite pleasures and rapturous gratification. Everyone was captivated with her, and the room was full of Turks and Arabs, all of whom were accustomed to belly dancing and not easily impressed.
The girl moved to each table. While she walked, the skirt parted at both hips to show off her legs, which were long and magnificent. Nervous men with dark, clammy hands gingerly tucked notes into her flimsy garments as she teased them with wild pelvic gyrations.
Then the music tempo slowed, and so did her movements. The Greek men pulled wads of large bills out of their pockets and suggestively tucked the notes into the gold belt of her skirt, their fingers lingering against her skin a little longer than necessary.
When the dancer stopped at Raven's table, she expertly moved the smooth muscles in her nonexistent belly, until he too finally reached into his pocket. Her dark eyes then suddenly grew wide as he tossed a hundred dollar bill on the table.
“I wish to see you after the show”, he spoke to her in Turkish.
“I am not a whore”, she replied angrily.
“I’m not looking for one. I have a business proposition for you, to perform and nothing else.”
The woman took the bill and nodded. Later that night, Raven was invited backstage to her dressing room.
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Her real name was Aisha (last name unknown), and she was a performer of belly dance, flamenco, gypsy, and all the variations of Gor – the best anyone had ever seen. Though her background was sketchy, rumor had it she was from the Ukraine and studied in Moscow under well-known Russian choreographers, like Baeva Svetlana, Natalia Strelchenko, and Tatiana Vereschagina.
As the story went, she became romantically involved with a slaver named Mikhail, who worked for The Organization. From the beginning, she seemed to fit right in with the unusual lifestyle, and showed no aversions to the acts of bondage, discipline and sadomasochism that were the themes of every social event they attended. She began to perform at these events and quickly discovered it to be a much more lucrative venture than any work she found in the ‘free world’.
She learned the ancient art of Gorean dance and included it in her repertoire, much to the delight of her patrons.
When Raven first saw her performing in that smoky Turkish tavern he was just as captivated as the others, though he didn’t show it. He had never seen a woman more beautiful, and a fantastic dancer -- engaging, sweet, and very exotic in appearance. He was especially impressed with how she handled the drunken Greeks at the table next to his. Their rude, brutish behavior didn’t seem to intimidate her in the least, nor did it break her rhythm. Raven wanted to see her, so he offered the hundred dollars, knowing she would take it.
But as he assured Aisha, this wasn’t a social call. At that time, Gorean dance was widely popular in the Middle East, and even in some parts of Eastern Europe, yet it was virtually non-existent in the U.S. Raven wanted to change that, and saw this talented girl as a vehicle to finally introduce this ancient art to the states and to make a profit. Backstage, he offered her commissions, both to perform and to teach. He also offered her a large house in New York, bought and paid for, and most important of all, a new life away from the dreary paga taverns and seedy clientele that offered little in tips. Aisha accepted the offer and left her home in the east with no reservations. She was given a new name, Isha, and the title of ‘Madam’.
During the next four years to the present, Raven called on her often to come down from New York to Dark Oak Manor and instruct his trainees. Most recently, it had been Marin, the former ballet student who was sold at the last auction, followed by Livia, the German beauty who once worked the striptease clubs in New York. Both were excellent pupils, having had previous experience in professional dance, and under Madam Isha’s tutelage, they mastered every Gorean variation almost as well as she.
When Raven decided that Amber should also learn the dance, he knew it would be a challenge. Not only was the girl inexperienced, but she was also shy and somewhat strait-laced in appearance and character. The Madam assured him this would be no problem, so Raven offered the instructor a two-week commission with an option of extending her services depending on how Amber progressed. The day Madam Isha arrived, Raven greeted her at the door and kissed her outstretched hand in a continental gesture of homage. Quick exchanges were made with other members of the household, and then she immediately went to business.
Amber was waiting in the Mirror Room with Livia, who had been called in to assist. Both women were dressed in a type of breechcloth secured around their hips with strips of white cloth in front and back. A matching piece of cloth was wrapped around their breasts to conceal them like a brazier. Understandably, Amber was hesitant about her first class, and wondered if she could ever perform in front of an audience or even learn the moves, but after their first meeting, the Madam’s confidence quelled her fears a bit.
“I believe Gorean Dance is the most gratifying service a woman can perform for a man,” she spoke to Amber softly in a thick, fluid Russian accent, “and also one of the most terrifying on your first try. I have trained girls far more inexperienced than you, and all of them have mastered it.”
Madam Isha looked to be in her upper twenties -- not much older than her pupil. Her eyes were large and dark, almost black in color, her lips soft and pink. The sharp contours of her high cheekbones became more pronounce whenever she smiled, without taking anything away from her softer features. The black top she wore was cropped at the bottom, and her bright red, silk skirt hung loose around the hips to display her navel which protruded a little in the center to make her firm belly look all the more enticing. Her dark, amber hair fell open about the shoulders with gold hoop earrings shimmering underneath.
“Gorean dance,” she explained, “is a combination of story telling, displays of emotion, eroticism, acting, and the portrayal of sexual need. It provides the entertainer, though slave, with much power over her audience as her desire, portrayed in her movements, likewise flames the desire of the men who watch. This ability to entice men is instinctual for all women, though individual skills do vary. Our primary concern at this stage is that your motions be fluid and appealing.
“First, you must find your dance animation. Something slow and smooth works best. For most ‘collars’ (slaves) the standard belly dance moves are not a bad place to start. There are 12 basic core moves that define classic belly dance. The continued practice of these core moves is essential for being proficient. Once you have mastered them, these techniques will take your dancing to a higher level by expanding your awareness of how to be creative and expressive with steps and how to apply them to music. Then in the next stage of your training, we will explore the more emotional aspects of expression, which is the common thread of all the Gorean dances.”
So they began with the basic hip twists and thrusts. Both Madam Isha and Livia demonstrated, followed by Amber mimicking each movement. With just three strips of paltry cloth to cover her body, her trainers were able to observe how her smooth muscles worked, and then correct her whenever she was doing something wrong. Amber could also see her own reflection in the mirrors that surrounded them on all four walls, which helped her master the dance isolations.
During the next few classes, they moved on to the more advanced moves – hip circles and figure eights, belly rolls, arm waves, shoulder rotations with arm ripples (or snake arms, as they were commonly called). Amber watched herself intently in the mirrors from all sides. She became increasingly aware of the empty space of open air around her, and how her body interacted with it. She could feel each feathery touch of the cloth swishing between her legs, and how the soft fabric shifted seductively against her pointed breasts underneath.
In less than two weeks, she was putting all of her core moves together to music, and Madam Isha was very pleased with the results so far. When she reported this to Raven, he immediately extended her commission another month.
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As each day passed, Amber thought less and less of returning to her ‘old life’. She began to think of Dark Oak Manor as her home now, at least until the time came when she would be auctioned off to another owner. The training process, though short, had already been very effective so far, and like hundreds of women before her, Amber would be fully indoctrinated as a red silk kajira in three to four months. So when Heidi approached her with an escape plan, she was understandably reluctant.
“And just HOW are we supposed to get out of here?” she asked Heidi. “This house has cameras everywhere.”
“Not quite,” her friend smiled. “That old wine cellar underneath the house doesn’t have any cameras.”
Amber thought about this for a minute. The wine cellar was nicknamed ‘the rabbit hole’, and aptly so, for its narrow ‘corkscrew’ staircase that descended from the dungeon, and the maze of rooms and tight corridors that resembled a network of interconnecting rabbit burrows. She had been down there at least a dozen times, yet couldn’t remember seeing even one camera.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Positive. Len told me.”
“Yeah, but is he telling you the truth, or just pulling your leg?”
“It’s the truth. I think that little creep has a crush on me or something because he was very talkative about it, like he was trying to impress me, so I acted all giddy just to string him along.”
“Heidi, that’s dangerous!”
“Every day we stay in this place is dangerous. Don’t you want to get out and see your family again?”
“Sure.”
“Anyway, he told me something else about the wine cellar.”
“What?”
“Get this -- did you know there’s an escape tunnel down there?”
“No! Where?”
“In the room they had me locked in when they first brought me here. I saw it. There’s a door in the foundation, about three feet square, with a paddle lock on it. Len told me it leads to a tunnel that goes about three hundred feet into the woods.”
“You don’t say?”
Heidi nodded, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone. Amber did the same.
“Have you ever heard of the Underground Railroad . . . you know . . . before the Civil War?”
“I think so,” Amber tried to recall her high school history. It wasn’t her favorite subject. She hated having to remember all the names and dates, so much that she usually retained the information only long enough to get through the tests, then quickly forgot everything not long after.
“It’s like this,” Heidi continued. “During the 1850s, there was an anti-slavery movement, a network of people who assisted runaway black slaves in getting them to the North and Canada. They called themselves abolitionists, and this house was a part of that network.”
“You’re kidding?”
“That’s what Len told me. He said the wine cellar was used to house as many as 50 slaves. That’s why all of those rooms were built, and the secret tunnel was part of their escape route, in case the house was ever searched. I guess the tunnel was never filled in. Now Raven keeps it in case the cops or Feds ever raid this place.”
Heidi then sat back and smiled, “It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it? That this house was once used to help FREE slaves?”
“Yeah, ironic.”
Heidi leaned forward again, “Well that’s our ticket out of here. We just need to find the right opportunity so we can make a clean break before they realize what’s happened.”
“But you said the entrance to the tunnel was paddle locked.”
“I’m sure I can pick it. My brother taught me how with a hair pin once, and I have one hidden in my cell. I took it from a drawer in the dressing room while nobody was looking. So are you in?”
“I . . . I don’t know. If we get caught, then I’d hate to think what Master Raven would do to us.”
“That’s a chance worth taking, isn’t it? I mean,” Heidi thumbed her tunic, “would you rather live like THIS the rest of your life?”
“No . . . but . . . I just need to think about it. OK?”
“All right, but don’t take too long.”
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Shortly after Madam Isha’s arrival, a party was planned with the promise that she would perform for the guests. That night, the girls showered, carefully painted, and curled. Outfits were handed out to each of them. Amber was given a lime green ‘tube’ dress with cross lacing up the sides. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she put on her stiletto pumps and silver hoop earrings, then turned from side to side, making sure everything looked perfect. The strapless garment hugged her medium-sized breasts for a pleasing shape, while the skirt covered just enough of her derriere to give her a look of innocent sexiness. For added interest, the lace up the sides opened generously – showing enough skin to eliminate any assumptions that she had anything else on between her and the dress.
The party was a smaller affair than the last one, about three dozen people, and not as formal. Masters’ Goodwin Stryker and Ethan Rom made the trip down from New York to attend. Goodwin had one slave now, Loryanna (the other girl, Daphne, having recently been sold to another owner), and it was rumored he was interested in bidding for Amber at the next auction.
Another owner Amber recognized was Master Stefan. He brought his two slaves, Shawna and Katie. Amber knew Shawna from the last party. Together they had served drinks throughout most of the night. She was gregarious, open-minded, and charismatic, which were unusual traits for a fully trained kajira.
Amber liked Shawna a lot. She had a pretty face, more cute and endearing than beautiful. At 5’4” she was petite, but also athletic-looking, with skin the color of light Carmel, and one couldn’t help but notice her curly brown hair with its gorgeous ringlets just kissing her shoulders. Her tight-fitting, sleeveless mini dress commanded attention to her bare legs. From what Amber knew about her, Shawna had been a product of middle-aged parents that had grown up in the 60’s and actually gone to Woodstock.
The other girl, Katie, appeared to be just the opposite of Shawna – quieter and more reserved. She was also very slender and her smooth skin the color of alabaster. Her eyes were the darkest brown. Her dark hair had a well-defined part to the side and flowed in lush waves around her shoulders, complimenting a look that was both sophisticated and stunning. Katie was older than most of the other girls, about 30 or so, and though some of her youthful features may have softened a little, she still drew a lot of attention from the guests. The flirty dark brown mini dress she wore dipped asymmetrically at the neckline to bare one shoulder and arm while the single sleeve covering her other arm was long and voluminous. The long skirt had a slit up one side to generously show off one long leg, and a decorative gold chain belt hanging loose around her waist matched the gold stiletto heels and her collar.
While guests mingled, the kitchen was a buzz with activity. Beef, chicken, shrimp, scallops, and various vegetables in soybean oil sizzled on a large Japanese-style teppanyaki cooker, while the sounds of clanging metal spatulas filled the air with promise of delicious tastes. Top shelf Chardonnay and Riesling were served before and after the meal. Finally, everyone moved into the Grand Room for the evening’s entertainment.
The music began and the first dancer appeared. She looked Indian with skin the same color as creamed coffee, chocolate brown eyes, jet black hair pulled back into a neat braid, and a red dot called a bindi marked on her forehead between the eyebrows. She wore a sari wrapped low around the waist and draped over one shoulder, paired with tight fitting bodice called a choli that bared her naked arms and midriff. The color was dark red with gold embroidery throughout that made her look stunning.
As piped in music resembling a Bollywood film played, she began swaying her hips slowly, moving around the little stage area. She moved her arms side to side, carefully making hand gestures as she went. The gestures seemed an important part of the dance since she made so many on them. She carefully pointed her palms up, moving her fingers into various positions.
She also moved her head from side to side, gracefully. She slowly twirled, allowing the sari to twirl with her and fan outward to expose her legs. Then she shook her hips, not gyrating but slowly, rhythmically following the music. She reached up at one point and removed the veil, bringing it along as she danced. She was graceful as she moved her hips and arms, the fabric of the sari and the veil sashaying around her. She ended the performance by lifting her arms high, hands crossed, palms pointing up, and smiled, before the music stopped.
The room broke into applause, and with a final bow, she left the room.
The next performer was Livia, and her outfit was more primitive, tribal, that left little to the imagination. Hanging low on her hips was a simple loin cloth called a ‘chatka’ with two swaths of soft leather flowing down between her legs in front and back. The top was also leather and barely covered her modest breasts underneath like a bandeau, open laced in front to show off her cleavage, and to complete the look, she wore leather cuffs on her arms, wrists, and ankles, each with a row of slave bells. Her eye make-up was very dramatic, her hair, loose and wild about her face. The spiky tribal tattoo that dipped downward from her pelvic bone added to the savage simplicity of her ensemble.
The role Livia played in her performance was that of the Panther Girl, a former kajira living free in the forest, yet dancing to her suppressed womanhood. To the barbaric, intoxicating cadence of flute and drums, she moved in wide circles about the room, her lithe and nubile body twisting and swaying, the bells on her ankles marking each of her movements. Her steps became sharper and faster with the heady swift beat of the drum. Her firm, smallish breasts bounced provocatively under the leather top. Her arms sliced through the open air in snake-like fashion, the swath of leather swishing provocatively between her long legs while the bells jingled sensuously with every movement. As the tempo increased, so did her dance become wilder and more frenzied, suggesting the dichotomy of these free women of the forest, wanting to act as men but with hearts yearning to be collared slaves once again. She screamed and clawed at the air. She ripped the leather away, baring her breasts. She moved to every man in the circle, as if begging to be raped, then spinning several times, she fell on her knees to the floor. Suddenly the music stopped and Livia bent backward, her head back, her hair covering her face. She was breathing deeply, desperate for air, her body shaking and covered with a sheen of sweat as if the movement of the drums were still coursing through her blood.
There was a moment of silence before the audience applauded. It was hard to imagine that anything could match Livia’s performance, but the main act was still to come, and everyone knew Madam Isha would not disappoint.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen until a gong drew everyone’s attention back to the center circle. Two men and two women entered the room. They were dressed like characters out of Arabian Nights. They wore slipper shoes and silk baggy pants that were tight around their waists and ankles. Their upper bodies were clad only bright sequined vests left open in front, while the women in addition wore a type of silk bra around their breasts. They each took a position at all four corners of the circle and slowly sank to their knees.
When Isha entered, she was covered from head to toe in shimmering dancing veils of green, blue, and purple. Around her head, she wore a ‘hijab’ or scarf made of black Egyptian cotton. A smaller veil hid much of her face except for her smoldering dark eyes. She took her stance, arms down at the sides, one knee bent and the toe extended downward. When the drum started she swayed to its slow beat, hips drawing a figure eight upon the tiled floor in a sinuous motion. Again the flutes joined in, the rhythm increased and her veils fluttered and flared out as she turned.
Every move she made was concise and perfectly choreographed. She whirled in a fluttering calliope of colors, hips swaying while her hands traveled her body, feeling for flesh beneath the concealing veils. Her hand found a purple veil hanging off her right hip, and it escaped from the gold cord tied about her waist with a gentle tug, suddenly baring her right leg up to the hip – a startling revelation of human flesh among the swirling dark silks. She reached down to her right hip, and pulling the purple veil free, she exposed that leg as well for all to see. Each time a veil dropped to the floor, the male or female attendant kneeling closest would sweep one arm out to retrieve it.
Isha seemed to move even more fluidly now with her legs free to dance among the remaining veils. Around and around she twirled, feet dancing fast in tiny steps, arms lifting up high then down again in a graceful motion, allowing the veils to slide down briefly to her shoulders and give her audience a teasing glimpse of more flesh. She danced around the perimeter of the circle, only feet away from those in the audience fortunate enough to have found a seat in front, her chest lifting against the veils as her hips rolled to the music.
Moving back to the center, she turned, glanced about as she shimmied her shoulders back a little. Then she lifted her hands to the scarf concealing her head and pulled it away, freeing a mane of long rust colored hair while shaking it wild about her face.
Isha danced the perimeter again, teasing her audience. The veils still covered most of her body and face – an odd contrast next to her legs. Occasionally one hand came down to slap a bare thigh, punctuating the drumbeat. She moved back to the center, looked around, her dark eyes dancing over the blue veil. You could almost see her seductive smile behind it as she slowed her dance until only her hips moved, body undulating in place. She ran her hands up her thighs, her fingers traced the length of gold cord around her waist, then released it, dropping it to the floor. Hips were still swaying to the music as she reached for a clip on her left shoulder and released another veil, then to the right shoulder, another. Her naked arms were now exposed with the remaining veils hanging off one shoulder and around her hips. They outlined her form, gliding over her curves in a way that both revealed and concealed. Slowly, teasingly, she brought her hands to the veil at her face and held it before her a moment before striping it away to reveal all of her face. She had rouged lips, and like her talents, her inviting smile was irresistible.
She tossed her head, her burnt amber mane flying as her dance took on a new tone. Gone was the teasing, flirting revelation of flesh. She fell to the floor, rolled across it, then rose to her knees. Her hand tugged at the first veil on her shoulder, impatient it seemed to free her body from it, and the blue veil fluttered behind her and about her as she rose and spun away upon her toes. A veil around her hips came off next and slithered down her to form puddle at her feet. Only one veil remained, a red one, fastened to one shoulder and flowing down her body between her legs.
The audience grew even more excited, for they could now see shadows of Isha’s body under the diaphanous material. Her firm, lush breasts shook provocatively under the shear cloth with each movement, her nipples pushing outward against it, hips shifting from side to side as she danced. The drum beat faster, and the crowd began to clap their hands in time with its rhythm. Isha swept her arms outward in a wide arch until they came together at the wrists high above her head as if they were clapped in restraints, then she began to spin her body, faster and faster, her feet almost seeming not to touch the floor at all, the remaining veil flowing about her body as the music droned its primal beat.
Isha then moved to Raven and offered the trailing end of the remaining veil with a flick of her hand and hip. She smiled, winking to him as he grasped it, then with an explosion of energy, she spun away from him while releasing the clip on her shoulder. The veil slithered free from her body and fluttered down to the floor at Raven’s feet. She was naked now, save for a gold slave collar about her neck. Isha tossed her head and danced in her wild freedom, hair flaring out in waves of fire. Laughter escaped her red lips with the joy of the music, her feet pounding out the beat. Her nude flesh glowed from her exertions as she danced brazenly around the circle. When the music’s tempo slowed, so did she. Facing Raven, she slipped silently to her knees and lifted her chin high to show her collar. She then arched backward, her thighs parted wide to reveal her ‘slave’s heat’ and a brand upon her inner thigh, her body now offered as a homage to the party’s host. As she held the pose, Isha panted and her chest heaved, her body sweating. After the music faded, the small crowd erupted with applause. Even Raven was impressed. Isha bowed her head in return as the Dance of Seven Veils came to its conclusion.
When Amber saw her again moving through the crowd, she looked especially beautiful that evening. Gone was the collar, the veils, and the brand. She was no longer the slave as depicted in her dance, but treated like royalty by the other guests. She stood under the light of the chandelier, her smooth rust-colored hair tied back and clinging to her skull, the pale green satin of her strapless gown hanging low around her breasts, alive like water about to stream off and expose her soft, argent skin. Amber envied her, for she could enjoy the benefits and carnal pleasures this lifestyle offered, then leave it whenever she pleased and rejoin the world outside. She was like Venus rising up from an open manhole on a bright city street.
After the food, drinks and entertainment, everyone was in a mood to play, and slowly the party moved downstairs into the dungeon. Guests began to branch out to the many rooms and implements of torture they each had to offer. Slaves were bartered and traded off for sessions that would most-likely last all evening.
One small group gathered around a padded table that stood about 30” in height and 6 feet long. Master Stefan called his slave, Katie, into the room and had her lie on her side. The one-sleeved mini dress everyone admired her in earlier was gone now, and her pale, naked body stood out glaringly against the cushioned black leather.
Stefan took the leg beneath her, bent it sharply backward and tied the ankle with rope to her adjacent wrist. Her other arm and leg were then raised high and cuffed together to a chain that dropped from the ceiling, thus depriving her the use of those limbs as well. Katie was about as vulnerable in this position as any woman could be, still on her side with her smooth, shaved crotch stretched open for all to see.
There were moans of approval in the room as Stefan produced the device he would use -- a vibrator fastened to a 3 ft. pole. He flipped the switch, the motor inside hummed, and the soft, flesh colored rubber ball on the end of the vibrator began to spin at high speed. What happened next, drove poor Katie to hysterics. She jerked violently on the table, her right arm and leg tied behind, her left arm and leg stretched above, twisting and rolling her pale body back and forth against the black padded leather while her Master held the spinning ball against her smooth, unguarded sex. Her labia swelled and the wetness of her arousal flowed down her inner thigh onto the black leather padding. Master Stefan set the vibrator down briefly to reach into his coat pocket and pull out two steel clamps linked together with a small chain. He fastened the clamps to her nipples, tightened the screw on each until her pale-pink nubs swelled and turned a dark red. He then took the vibrator and resumed the assault. Katie rewarded the small crowd again with her frantic gyrations while the chain danced between her small breasts. When Stefan was through with her, he graciously offered everyone else a try, lengthening the session another twenty minutes or so. By then, the girl was whimpering like a kitten behind her gag and sweat shimmered off her body like shiny porcelain.
Once again, Amber served drinks, this time with Heidi, who was still a ‘white silk’ and marked off-limits from guests. Being a ‘yellow silk’, Amber wondered why she had not been chosen for a session, though deep down, she was thankful for it.
It was then, Raven approached her,
“Get started on cleaning the kitchen. I’ll send someone up later to help.”
“Yes, Master.”
She climbed the narrow steps to the main level, which now seemed strangely quiet with all guests down in the dungeon. The kitchen was very large and state of the art. All of the appliances were made of brushed stainless steel and the counters topped with polished black marble. At the center of the room, there was a long island with the teppanyaki cooker built into the countertop at one end.
Amber decided to start there. She opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the cleaning supplies, adjusting her short shirt again after putting them on the counter. It was then, she noticed Ethan Rom standing in the room with her. Before she could say anything, he cut her off.
"Be silent, and do exactly as I say. Stand still. Eyes to the floor."
Amber did as she was told while he approached. Ethan’s eyes were pale, cold, and even though she was looking down, she could feel them tracing the lines of her body underneath the dress she wore.
“Sir, I was ordered to clean the kitchen and . . .”
“And I ordered you to be silent!” He slapped her across the cheek, then snapped his fingers and, in the swift double gesture, pointed to a place on the floor before him while almost simultaneously turning his hand and spreading the first and index fingers. Amber recognized the signal and immediately knelt before him in the position of a pleasure slave – head down, arms thrust forward palms down against the floor, ass tilted upward. She began to tremble.
Ethan moved behind her. The dress, as tight-fitting as it was, slipped easily up and over her hips. Her smooth privates were open and inviting. He thrust one hand between her thighs and grasped her pink flesh there.
“You have a beautiful cunt,” he remarked.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“I think you know what’s going to happen next, and we could do it one of two ways. If you resist, that will only make it more painful. If you submit and allow me to fuck you, then it’ll go much quicker. The choice is yours. Either way, I get what I want."
He moved around to face her again.
“Now sit up on your knees.”
She rose and saw that Ethan had opened his pants. He was already erect.
"I’ve heard you’re good at sucking cock. Open your mouth and show me."
Amber knew she had no choice, so she parted her lips and closed her eyes. Ethan grabbed her by the hair, controlling her, but instead of the violation she expected, he gently pushed it into her mouth.
Amber moaned. Her lips slid up and down the first two inches of his member, her tongue fondling the stiff muscle. His musky smell filled her nostrils. Opening her throat, she slid her lips further down until she reached his balls. Monique had instructed her well on how to manage the entire length of a man’s cock, while caressing it with her tongue and lips. She heard him moan, then she ran her hands up under his shirt and across his smooth chest. She withdrew her mouth a little and ran her nimble tongue around the tip, then fell upon it again like a starving woman, sucking vigorously.
Ethan moaned again. Suddenly, he grabbed her by the hair and gently pushed her away.
“You’re not getting off that easily,” he gasped. “Stand up.”
Amber rose to her feet, and couldn’t help but smile a little when she saw that his face had lost some of its steely composure.
“Just what the FUCK are you smiling at?” Ethan turned red with anger and struck her again.
He then grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her around and pushed her against the counter with the teppan in front of her. Using both hands, he pulled the top of her dress down to her navel. Amber’s heart was pounding now. He grabbed her breasts and squeezed them roughly, pinching her nipples, then he pushed her over the counter and held her there with one hand against her back.
Amber made no effort to struggle, nor did she scream. She felt the flat, solid metal surface of the grill pressing up against her naked breasts. Stretching her arms forward to the far end of the counter, she grasped the edge with both hands while Ethan yanked the skirt up over her thighs.
“Which will it be,” he said, “your cunt, or your ass?”
Without waiting for an answer, he chose the former. Amber cried out as he slowly pushed his cock all the way in while keeping her pinned down with the one hand. He began pumping his hips slowly, almost gently, but with the desire and passion in his balls, it didn’t take long before he was fucking her hard and fast.
Through it all, Amber remained prone and bent over in complete submission, her breasts meshed against the hard metal as she was rocked again and again by Ethan’s thrusts into her body. She felt his hand leave her back. She heard the click of the heating dial. When Amber tried to move he pushed her down again, his hand pressing even harder now against her,
“I said don’t move!”
Ethan started to pump harder, his cock tearing into her vagina. The burner coils were directly underneath her breasts with the metal plate in between. Amber could feel the heat rising, but she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Squeezing her eyes shut, she grasped the edge of the counter in front of her even tighter until the knuckles in her hands turned white. Sweat beaded and rolled off her forehead. She tried to tell herself that this was just a game; that Ethan really didn’t turn the dial up that high, but as the temperature grew more and more intense, she began to fear the worst. Her arms, her chest, her back underneath his hand were sweating too, and it felt like the burners were starting to sear her flesh. Amber cried out,
“Sir . . . PLEASE . . . it’s burning me!
Ethan didn’t answer; he didn’t even seem to hear her. With a guttural groan, he grasped her hip with his free hand. She felt his erection throbbing inside her with a provocative rhythm, followed by the warmth of his release. Then Amber screamed, and this time it seemed to break his trance.
When he finally released her, she nearly leaped away from the metal plate, panting, her arms cradling her breasts. The skin around them was warm and red, but to her relief, there didn’t seem to be any burns. Even then, Ethan showed no concern; he only smiled as he zipped his pants,
“It’s better when there’s a little danger involved. Don’t you think?”
Before he turned the dial off, Amber noticed the temperature had been pre-set to 450 degrees. She felt sick to her stomach.
“Now fix your dress and get back to work.”
After Ethan left, she went straight to Raven. Amber knew he would be furious, just as he was with Shane when he raped her in her cell. She had kept the incident to herself back then, and Raven whipped her when he finally found out. She wasn’t going the make the same mistake again, and secretly hoped Ethan would suffer the same fate as Shane.
But when she informed Raven what had happened, there was no anger from him – in fact, he seemed amused by it.
“I told Ethan he could have a half hour with you,” he said, “though I can’t say I approve of what he did. That sort of reckless behavior could have damaged you permanently and cost me at least a hundred grand on the block. Are you sure you’re not burned? Perhaps we should have Monique take a look.”
“No, Sir,” Amber heard herself say, though her mind was lost in total disbelief. “I’m fine.”
“Good, then no harm done. I’m glad you reported it this time, even though it wasn’t necessary. At least now you know what to do when someone violates what belongs to me without first asking for permission. Right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Now get back to work.”
For Amber the walk back to the kitchen seemed much longer than usual after Raven dismissed her. The whole thing had been a test, and apparently she passed, but it didn’t make her feel any better about what Ethan did. She felt betrayed, though she couldn’t answer why she had a right to. She was a slave, and this sort of thing was to be expected. For the first time, she hated what was going on around her, and hated herself for not feeling this way earlier.
As she moved through the dungeon toward the steps, she saw Isha again chatting and laughing with two men. Just six feet away, two more guests were tormenting Shawna, the girl with the gorgeous ringlets in her hair. She was locked in the ‘birdcage’, which was just that -- a long narrow cage with a domed top that was actually suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain. Her wrists were fastened in the shackles at the top so that she too was almost suspended inside with her body stretched. The bars surrounding her allowed just enough room to accommodate the tight space, but there were also spikes along the length of it, all pointing inward. As Shawna hung there, naked and helpless, staggering on her toes, she did her best to avoid the sharp metal points jutting toward her from all sides, though she was not always successful, for the two guests were taking turns poking her through the cage with a small wired device that resembled an electric cattle prod.
For the first time since she could remember, Amber felt no fear, no thrill or even a blank acceptance with what she was witnessing. For the first time she was angry -- with the two guests tormenting Shawna, and with everyone in the room because they were all a part of it.
When she finally reached the kitchen, Heidi was waiting for her,
“Raven told me you needed some help cleaning up.”
Amber said nothing, but just looked at her. She couldn’t help admiring how exceptionally beautiful Heidi looked at the moment. Her golden hair had been taken up loosely in a bun, with wisps of stray curls hanging down at the ears to frame her lovely face. Her breasts were not only impressive in size, but also in the way they stood out on their own, and this was no less apparent then in the strappy, flesh-colored mini dress she now wore with the front draped deep and loose to reveal her cleavage almost down to her navel. Then she noticed the sponge in one hand, and in the other, a bottle of cleanser. That and the silver collar around her neck made Heidi suddenly appear almost comical, but Amber didn’t feel like laughing.
“Is something wrong?” Heidi asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she answered flatly.
The two women worked in silence until they were almost done with the kitchen, then Amber finally spoke up,
“About what we discussed earlier today . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’m in.”
(continued)
WARNING! This is a work of erotic BDSM FICTION. It is ADULT ORIENTED MATERIAL of an EXTREME SEXUAL NATURE, including acts of abduction, exhibitionism, humiliation, and discipline. This is not for readers who are easily offended or incapable of distinguishing fact from fiction. The author does not promote such activity in real life unless it is between consenting adults and practiced safely. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give anyone the rights to post or print content without obtaining the author's permission first.
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Indoctrination
by Night Owl
“My dance is a secret poem in which each movement is a word and every word is underlined by music. The temple in which I dance can be vague or faithfully reproduced as it is tonight, for I am the temple.”
- Mata Hari
Chapter 25: Madam Isha
Istanbul, Turkey (4 years ago):
Nobody paid much attention to the musicians belting out Arabic ballads in one corner of the smoky paga tavern. As soon as a song ended, a few people would wipe their greasy fingers on napkins, politely clap and return to their dinners, clearly savoring the lamb kebabs and tabbouli more than the music in the background. The star of the evening had yet to rise.
Raven sat at small round table next to a portly man named Muhammet. He had been traveling abroad – first Europe, then the Mediterranean with a final stop at Istanbul, which was the center of The Organization’s eastern providence. Muhammet, his host, owned the tavern and a large villa that doubled as a slave training facility. Both men bided their time, drinking tea and dipping pita bread in creamy hummus.
“This girl is a real beauty,” Muhammet assured his guest. “Well worth the wait.”
Raven said nothing, but nodded politely. Next to them, sat a group of booze-swigging, leering Greeks, who clearly had no honorable intentions toward the sullen waitress as she served their drinks.
Finally, the drumbeat reached a crescendo, and the beaded curtain in the back parted to reveal a brazen belly dancer sashaying into the room.
“Here she is,” Muhammet pushed his plate aside and dabbed his fat lips with a napkin.
The restaurant suddenly came alive. Hunched shoulders straightened, eyes lit up, appreciative gasps could be heard around the room and food grew cold as the young woman smiled seductively, her body swaying with the fluid grace of a sea anemone.
She was clothed in the Bedlah style, though noticeably more revealing than tradition allowed in much of the Middle East. Since the 1950s, it was illegal for belly dancers to perform publicly with their abdomens exposed or to display excessive skin. In Turkey, however, the art had become debased in recent years and a stripperesque costume style developed, with plunging tops and skirts that flared open generously around the legs.
This dancer's costume, bright turquoise in color with gold trim, left even less to the imagination of her patrons, and there was so much of her to see and admire. A bikini style, sequined top scarcely covered her firm medium-sized breasts, with a fringe of coins dangling underneath against her ribs. The belt was also decorated with coins and sewn into a thin, almost transparent skirt that hung very low on her hips, almost down to the V of her body to expose as much of her abdomen and pelvic region as allowed for modesty.
But what drew the most attention from everyone in the bar was that this woman was clearly not Turkish, or even Middle Eastern. Her skin was fair, almost colorless now under the bright stage light. Her hair, a dark rust color, flowed like waves of silk over her bare shoulders. She was also taller and more slender than most belly dancers with just a slight flair at the hips.
The lecherous Greeks at the next table fell silent (a feat in itself) as they watched the dancer effortlessly roll her flat, beautifully toned stomach in sinewy waves. Lodged inside her navel a tiny gem sparkled enticingly, creating a cavalcade of colors in the low light. She raised her hands high to bare the smooth, luscious curves of her armpits to the mostly male crowd. The gold glinted off her upper armlets and the clapping finger cymbals; the coins danced under her breasts and around the dangerously low hanging skirt hugging her curves; all while her hips swayed in time with the flute and drums. The woman was a veritable feast for the senses -- her rhythmic thrusts and gentle undulations, her snake-like arms promising infinite pleasures and rapturous gratification. Everyone was captivated with her, and the room was full of Turks and Arabs, all of whom were accustomed to belly dancing and not easily impressed.
The girl moved to each table. While she walked, the skirt parted at both hips to show off her legs, which were long and magnificent. Nervous men with dark, clammy hands gingerly tucked notes into her flimsy garments as she teased them with wild pelvic gyrations.
Then the music tempo slowed, and so did her movements. The Greek men pulled wads of large bills out of their pockets and suggestively tucked the notes into the gold belt of her skirt, their fingers lingering against her skin a little longer than necessary.
When the dancer stopped at Raven's table, she expertly moved the smooth muscles in her nonexistent belly, until he too finally reached into his pocket. Her dark eyes then suddenly grew wide as he tossed a hundred dollar bill on the table.
“I wish to see you after the show”, he spoke to her in Turkish.
“I am not a whore”, she replied angrily.
“I’m not looking for one. I have a business proposition for you, to perform and nothing else.”
The woman took the bill and nodded. Later that night, Raven was invited backstage to her dressing room.
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Her real name was Aisha (last name unknown), and she was a performer of belly dance, flamenco, gypsy, and all the variations of Gor – the best anyone had ever seen. Though her background was sketchy, rumor had it she was from the Ukraine and studied in Moscow under well-known Russian choreographers, like Baeva Svetlana, Natalia Strelchenko, and Tatiana Vereschagina.
As the story went, she became romantically involved with a slaver named Mikhail, who worked for The Organization. From the beginning, she seemed to fit right in with the unusual lifestyle, and showed no aversions to the acts of bondage, discipline and sadomasochism that were the themes of every social event they attended. She began to perform at these events and quickly discovered it to be a much more lucrative venture than any work she found in the ‘free world’.
She learned the ancient art of Gorean dance and included it in her repertoire, much to the delight of her patrons.
When Raven first saw her performing in that smoky Turkish tavern he was just as captivated as the others, though he didn’t show it. He had never seen a woman more beautiful, and a fantastic dancer -- engaging, sweet, and very exotic in appearance. He was especially impressed with how she handled the drunken Greeks at the table next to his. Their rude, brutish behavior didn’t seem to intimidate her in the least, nor did it break her rhythm. Raven wanted to see her, so he offered the hundred dollars, knowing she would take it.
But as he assured Aisha, this wasn’t a social call. At that time, Gorean dance was widely popular in the Middle East, and even in some parts of Eastern Europe, yet it was virtually non-existent in the U.S. Raven wanted to change that, and saw this talented girl as a vehicle to finally introduce this ancient art to the states and to make a profit. Backstage, he offered her commissions, both to perform and to teach. He also offered her a large house in New York, bought and paid for, and most important of all, a new life away from the dreary paga taverns and seedy clientele that offered little in tips. Aisha accepted the offer and left her home in the east with no reservations. She was given a new name, Isha, and the title of ‘Madam’.
During the next four years to the present, Raven called on her often to come down from New York to Dark Oak Manor and instruct his trainees. Most recently, it had been Marin, the former ballet student who was sold at the last auction, followed by Livia, the German beauty who once worked the striptease clubs in New York. Both were excellent pupils, having had previous experience in professional dance, and under Madam Isha’s tutelage, they mastered every Gorean variation almost as well as she.
When Raven decided that Amber should also learn the dance, he knew it would be a challenge. Not only was the girl inexperienced, but she was also shy and somewhat strait-laced in appearance and character. The Madam assured him this would be no problem, so Raven offered the instructor a two-week commission with an option of extending her services depending on how Amber progressed. The day Madam Isha arrived, Raven greeted her at the door and kissed her outstretched hand in a continental gesture of homage. Quick exchanges were made with other members of the household, and then she immediately went to business.
Amber was waiting in the Mirror Room with Livia, who had been called in to assist. Both women were dressed in a type of breechcloth secured around their hips with strips of white cloth in front and back. A matching piece of cloth was wrapped around their breasts to conceal them like a brazier. Understandably, Amber was hesitant about her first class, and wondered if she could ever perform in front of an audience or even learn the moves, but after their first meeting, the Madam’s confidence quelled her fears a bit.
“I believe Gorean Dance is the most gratifying service a woman can perform for a man,” she spoke to Amber softly in a thick, fluid Russian accent, “and also one of the most terrifying on your first try. I have trained girls far more inexperienced than you, and all of them have mastered it.”
Madam Isha looked to be in her upper twenties -- not much older than her pupil. Her eyes were large and dark, almost black in color, her lips soft and pink. The sharp contours of her high cheekbones became more pronounce whenever she smiled, without taking anything away from her softer features. The black top she wore was cropped at the bottom, and her bright red, silk skirt hung loose around the hips to display her navel which protruded a little in the center to make her firm belly look all the more enticing. Her dark, amber hair fell open about the shoulders with gold hoop earrings shimmering underneath.
“Gorean dance,” she explained, “is a combination of story telling, displays of emotion, eroticism, acting, and the portrayal of sexual need. It provides the entertainer, though slave, with much power over her audience as her desire, portrayed in her movements, likewise flames the desire of the men who watch. This ability to entice men is instinctual for all women, though individual skills do vary. Our primary concern at this stage is that your motions be fluid and appealing.
“First, you must find your dance animation. Something slow and smooth works best. For most ‘collars’ (slaves) the standard belly dance moves are not a bad place to start. There are 12 basic core moves that define classic belly dance. The continued practice of these core moves is essential for being proficient. Once you have mastered them, these techniques will take your dancing to a higher level by expanding your awareness of how to be creative and expressive with steps and how to apply them to music. Then in the next stage of your training, we will explore the more emotional aspects of expression, which is the common thread of all the Gorean dances.”
So they began with the basic hip twists and thrusts. Both Madam Isha and Livia demonstrated, followed by Amber mimicking each movement. With just three strips of paltry cloth to cover her body, her trainers were able to observe how her smooth muscles worked, and then correct her whenever she was doing something wrong. Amber could also see her own reflection in the mirrors that surrounded them on all four walls, which helped her master the dance isolations.
During the next few classes, they moved on to the more advanced moves – hip circles and figure eights, belly rolls, arm waves, shoulder rotations with arm ripples (or snake arms, as they were commonly called). Amber watched herself intently in the mirrors from all sides. She became increasingly aware of the empty space of open air around her, and how her body interacted with it. She could feel each feathery touch of the cloth swishing between her legs, and how the soft fabric shifted seductively against her pointed breasts underneath.
In less than two weeks, she was putting all of her core moves together to music, and Madam Isha was very pleased with the results so far. When she reported this to Raven, he immediately extended her commission another month.
----------------
As each day passed, Amber thought less and less of returning to her ‘old life’. She began to think of Dark Oak Manor as her home now, at least until the time came when she would be auctioned off to another owner. The training process, though short, had already been very effective so far, and like hundreds of women before her, Amber would be fully indoctrinated as a red silk kajira in three to four months. So when Heidi approached her with an escape plan, she was understandably reluctant.
“And just HOW are we supposed to get out of here?” she asked Heidi. “This house has cameras everywhere.”
“Not quite,” her friend smiled. “That old wine cellar underneath the house doesn’t have any cameras.”
Amber thought about this for a minute. The wine cellar was nicknamed ‘the rabbit hole’, and aptly so, for its narrow ‘corkscrew’ staircase that descended from the dungeon, and the maze of rooms and tight corridors that resembled a network of interconnecting rabbit burrows. She had been down there at least a dozen times, yet couldn’t remember seeing even one camera.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Positive. Len told me.”
“Yeah, but is he telling you the truth, or just pulling your leg?”
“It’s the truth. I think that little creep has a crush on me or something because he was very talkative about it, like he was trying to impress me, so I acted all giddy just to string him along.”
“Heidi, that’s dangerous!”
“Every day we stay in this place is dangerous. Don’t you want to get out and see your family again?”
“Sure.”
“Anyway, he told me something else about the wine cellar.”
“What?”
“Get this -- did you know there’s an escape tunnel down there?”
“No! Where?”
“In the room they had me locked in when they first brought me here. I saw it. There’s a door in the foundation, about three feet square, with a paddle lock on it. Len told me it leads to a tunnel that goes about three hundred feet into the woods.”
“You don’t say?”
Heidi nodded, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone. Amber did the same.
“Have you ever heard of the Underground Railroad . . . you know . . . before the Civil War?”
“I think so,” Amber tried to recall her high school history. It wasn’t her favorite subject. She hated having to remember all the names and dates, so much that she usually retained the information only long enough to get through the tests, then quickly forgot everything not long after.
“It’s like this,” Heidi continued. “During the 1850s, there was an anti-slavery movement, a network of people who assisted runaway black slaves in getting them to the North and Canada. They called themselves abolitionists, and this house was a part of that network.”
“You’re kidding?”
“That’s what Len told me. He said the wine cellar was used to house as many as 50 slaves. That’s why all of those rooms were built, and the secret tunnel was part of their escape route, in case the house was ever searched. I guess the tunnel was never filled in. Now Raven keeps it in case the cops or Feds ever raid this place.”
Heidi then sat back and smiled, “It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it? That this house was once used to help FREE slaves?”
“Yeah, ironic.”
Heidi leaned forward again, “Well that’s our ticket out of here. We just need to find the right opportunity so we can make a clean break before they realize what’s happened.”
“But you said the entrance to the tunnel was paddle locked.”
“I’m sure I can pick it. My brother taught me how with a hair pin once, and I have one hidden in my cell. I took it from a drawer in the dressing room while nobody was looking. So are you in?”
“I . . . I don’t know. If we get caught, then I’d hate to think what Master Raven would do to us.”
“That’s a chance worth taking, isn’t it? I mean,” Heidi thumbed her tunic, “would you rather live like THIS the rest of your life?”
“No . . . but . . . I just need to think about it. OK?”
“All right, but don’t take too long.”
----------------
Shortly after Madam Isha’s arrival, a party was planned with the promise that she would perform for the guests. That night, the girls showered, carefully painted, and curled. Outfits were handed out to each of them. Amber was given a lime green ‘tube’ dress with cross lacing up the sides. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she put on her stiletto pumps and silver hoop earrings, then turned from side to side, making sure everything looked perfect. The strapless garment hugged her medium-sized breasts for a pleasing shape, while the skirt covered just enough of her derriere to give her a look of innocent sexiness. For added interest, the lace up the sides opened generously – showing enough skin to eliminate any assumptions that she had anything else on between her and the dress.
The party was a smaller affair than the last one, about three dozen people, and not as formal. Masters’ Goodwin Stryker and Ethan Rom made the trip down from New York to attend. Goodwin had one slave now, Loryanna (the other girl, Daphne, having recently been sold to another owner), and it was rumored he was interested in bidding for Amber at the next auction.
Another owner Amber recognized was Master Stefan. He brought his two slaves, Shawna and Katie. Amber knew Shawna from the last party. Together they had served drinks throughout most of the night. She was gregarious, open-minded, and charismatic, which were unusual traits for a fully trained kajira.
Amber liked Shawna a lot. She had a pretty face, more cute and endearing than beautiful. At 5’4” she was petite, but also athletic-looking, with skin the color of light Carmel, and one couldn’t help but notice her curly brown hair with its gorgeous ringlets just kissing her shoulders. Her tight-fitting, sleeveless mini dress commanded attention to her bare legs. From what Amber knew about her, Shawna had been a product of middle-aged parents that had grown up in the 60’s and actually gone to Woodstock.
The other girl, Katie, appeared to be just the opposite of Shawna – quieter and more reserved. She was also very slender and her smooth skin the color of alabaster. Her eyes were the darkest brown. Her dark hair had a well-defined part to the side and flowed in lush waves around her shoulders, complimenting a look that was both sophisticated and stunning. Katie was older than most of the other girls, about 30 or so, and though some of her youthful features may have softened a little, she still drew a lot of attention from the guests. The flirty dark brown mini dress she wore dipped asymmetrically at the neckline to bare one shoulder and arm while the single sleeve covering her other arm was long and voluminous. The long skirt had a slit up one side to generously show off one long leg, and a decorative gold chain belt hanging loose around her waist matched the gold stiletto heels and her collar.
While guests mingled, the kitchen was a buzz with activity. Beef, chicken, shrimp, scallops, and various vegetables in soybean oil sizzled on a large Japanese-style teppanyaki cooker, while the sounds of clanging metal spatulas filled the air with promise of delicious tastes. Top shelf Chardonnay and Riesling were served before and after the meal. Finally, everyone moved into the Grand Room for the evening’s entertainment.
The music began and the first dancer appeared. She looked Indian with skin the same color as creamed coffee, chocolate brown eyes, jet black hair pulled back into a neat braid, and a red dot called a bindi marked on her forehead between the eyebrows. She wore a sari wrapped low around the waist and draped over one shoulder, paired with tight fitting bodice called a choli that bared her naked arms and midriff. The color was dark red with gold embroidery throughout that made her look stunning.
As piped in music resembling a Bollywood film played, she began swaying her hips slowly, moving around the little stage area. She moved her arms side to side, carefully making hand gestures as she went. The gestures seemed an important part of the dance since she made so many on them. She carefully pointed her palms up, moving her fingers into various positions.
She also moved her head from side to side, gracefully. She slowly twirled, allowing the sari to twirl with her and fan outward to expose her legs. Then she shook her hips, not gyrating but slowly, rhythmically following the music. She reached up at one point and removed the veil, bringing it along as she danced. She was graceful as she moved her hips and arms, the fabric of the sari and the veil sashaying around her. She ended the performance by lifting her arms high, hands crossed, palms pointing up, and smiled, before the music stopped.
The room broke into applause, and with a final bow, she left the room.
The next performer was Livia, and her outfit was more primitive, tribal, that left little to the imagination. Hanging low on her hips was a simple loin cloth called a ‘chatka’ with two swaths of soft leather flowing down between her legs in front and back. The top was also leather and barely covered her modest breasts underneath like a bandeau, open laced in front to show off her cleavage, and to complete the look, she wore leather cuffs on her arms, wrists, and ankles, each with a row of slave bells. Her eye make-up was very dramatic, her hair, loose and wild about her face. The spiky tribal tattoo that dipped downward from her pelvic bone added to the savage simplicity of her ensemble.
The role Livia played in her performance was that of the Panther Girl, a former kajira living free in the forest, yet dancing to her suppressed womanhood. To the barbaric, intoxicating cadence of flute and drums, she moved in wide circles about the room, her lithe and nubile body twisting and swaying, the bells on her ankles marking each of her movements. Her steps became sharper and faster with the heady swift beat of the drum. Her firm, smallish breasts bounced provocatively under the leather top. Her arms sliced through the open air in snake-like fashion, the swath of leather swishing provocatively between her long legs while the bells jingled sensuously with every movement. As the tempo increased, so did her dance become wilder and more frenzied, suggesting the dichotomy of these free women of the forest, wanting to act as men but with hearts yearning to be collared slaves once again. She screamed and clawed at the air. She ripped the leather away, baring her breasts. She moved to every man in the circle, as if begging to be raped, then spinning several times, she fell on her knees to the floor. Suddenly the music stopped and Livia bent backward, her head back, her hair covering her face. She was breathing deeply, desperate for air, her body shaking and covered with a sheen of sweat as if the movement of the drums were still coursing through her blood.
There was a moment of silence before the audience applauded. It was hard to imagine that anything could match Livia’s performance, but the main act was still to come, and everyone knew Madam Isha would not disappoint.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen until a gong drew everyone’s attention back to the center circle. Two men and two women entered the room. They were dressed like characters out of Arabian Nights. They wore slipper shoes and silk baggy pants that were tight around their waists and ankles. Their upper bodies were clad only bright sequined vests left open in front, while the women in addition wore a type of silk bra around their breasts. They each took a position at all four corners of the circle and slowly sank to their knees.
When Isha entered, she was covered from head to toe in shimmering dancing veils of green, blue, and purple. Around her head, she wore a ‘hijab’ or scarf made of black Egyptian cotton. A smaller veil hid much of her face except for her smoldering dark eyes. She took her stance, arms down at the sides, one knee bent and the toe extended downward. When the drum started she swayed to its slow beat, hips drawing a figure eight upon the tiled floor in a sinuous motion. Again the flutes joined in, the rhythm increased and her veils fluttered and flared out as she turned.
Every move she made was concise and perfectly choreographed. She whirled in a fluttering calliope of colors, hips swaying while her hands traveled her body, feeling for flesh beneath the concealing veils. Her hand found a purple veil hanging off her right hip, and it escaped from the gold cord tied about her waist with a gentle tug, suddenly baring her right leg up to the hip – a startling revelation of human flesh among the swirling dark silks. She reached down to her right hip, and pulling the purple veil free, she exposed that leg as well for all to see. Each time a veil dropped to the floor, the male or female attendant kneeling closest would sweep one arm out to retrieve it.
Isha seemed to move even more fluidly now with her legs free to dance among the remaining veils. Around and around she twirled, feet dancing fast in tiny steps, arms lifting up high then down again in a graceful motion, allowing the veils to slide down briefly to her shoulders and give her audience a teasing glimpse of more flesh. She danced around the perimeter of the circle, only feet away from those in the audience fortunate enough to have found a seat in front, her chest lifting against the veils as her hips rolled to the music.
Moving back to the center, she turned, glanced about as she shimmied her shoulders back a little. Then she lifted her hands to the scarf concealing her head and pulled it away, freeing a mane of long rust colored hair while shaking it wild about her face.
Isha danced the perimeter again, teasing her audience. The veils still covered most of her body and face – an odd contrast next to her legs. Occasionally one hand came down to slap a bare thigh, punctuating the drumbeat. She moved back to the center, looked around, her dark eyes dancing over the blue veil. You could almost see her seductive smile behind it as she slowed her dance until only her hips moved, body undulating in place. She ran her hands up her thighs, her fingers traced the length of gold cord around her waist, then released it, dropping it to the floor. Hips were still swaying to the music as she reached for a clip on her left shoulder and released another veil, then to the right shoulder, another. Her naked arms were now exposed with the remaining veils hanging off one shoulder and around her hips. They outlined her form, gliding over her curves in a way that both revealed and concealed. Slowly, teasingly, she brought her hands to the veil at her face and held it before her a moment before striping it away to reveal all of her face. She had rouged lips, and like her talents, her inviting smile was irresistible.
She tossed her head, her burnt amber mane flying as her dance took on a new tone. Gone was the teasing, flirting revelation of flesh. She fell to the floor, rolled across it, then rose to her knees. Her hand tugged at the first veil on her shoulder, impatient it seemed to free her body from it, and the blue veil fluttered behind her and about her as she rose and spun away upon her toes. A veil around her hips came off next and slithered down her to form puddle at her feet. Only one veil remained, a red one, fastened to one shoulder and flowing down her body between her legs.
The audience grew even more excited, for they could now see shadows of Isha’s body under the diaphanous material. Her firm, lush breasts shook provocatively under the shear cloth with each movement, her nipples pushing outward against it, hips shifting from side to side as she danced. The drum beat faster, and the crowd began to clap their hands in time with its rhythm. Isha swept her arms outward in a wide arch until they came together at the wrists high above her head as if they were clapped in restraints, then she began to spin her body, faster and faster, her feet almost seeming not to touch the floor at all, the remaining veil flowing about her body as the music droned its primal beat.
Isha then moved to Raven and offered the trailing end of the remaining veil with a flick of her hand and hip. She smiled, winking to him as he grasped it, then with an explosion of energy, she spun away from him while releasing the clip on her shoulder. The veil slithered free from her body and fluttered down to the floor at Raven’s feet. She was naked now, save for a gold slave collar about her neck. Isha tossed her head and danced in her wild freedom, hair flaring out in waves of fire. Laughter escaped her red lips with the joy of the music, her feet pounding out the beat. Her nude flesh glowed from her exertions as she danced brazenly around the circle. When the music’s tempo slowed, so did she. Facing Raven, she slipped silently to her knees and lifted her chin high to show her collar. She then arched backward, her thighs parted wide to reveal her ‘slave’s heat’ and a brand upon her inner thigh, her body now offered as a homage to the party’s host. As she held the pose, Isha panted and her chest heaved, her body sweating. After the music faded, the small crowd erupted with applause. Even Raven was impressed. Isha bowed her head in return as the Dance of Seven Veils came to its conclusion.
When Amber saw her again moving through the crowd, she looked especially beautiful that evening. Gone was the collar, the veils, and the brand. She was no longer the slave as depicted in her dance, but treated like royalty by the other guests. She stood under the light of the chandelier, her smooth rust-colored hair tied back and clinging to her skull, the pale green satin of her strapless gown hanging low around her breasts, alive like water about to stream off and expose her soft, argent skin. Amber envied her, for she could enjoy the benefits and carnal pleasures this lifestyle offered, then leave it whenever she pleased and rejoin the world outside. She was like Venus rising up from an open manhole on a bright city street.
After the food, drinks and entertainment, everyone was in a mood to play, and slowly the party moved downstairs into the dungeon. Guests began to branch out to the many rooms and implements of torture they each had to offer. Slaves were bartered and traded off for sessions that would most-likely last all evening.
One small group gathered around a padded table that stood about 30” in height and 6 feet long. Master Stefan called his slave, Katie, into the room and had her lie on her side. The one-sleeved mini dress everyone admired her in earlier was gone now, and her pale, naked body stood out glaringly against the cushioned black leather.
Stefan took the leg beneath her, bent it sharply backward and tied the ankle with rope to her adjacent wrist. Her other arm and leg were then raised high and cuffed together to a chain that dropped from the ceiling, thus depriving her the use of those limbs as well. Katie was about as vulnerable in this position as any woman could be, still on her side with her smooth, shaved crotch stretched open for all to see.
There were moans of approval in the room as Stefan produced the device he would use -- a vibrator fastened to a 3 ft. pole. He flipped the switch, the motor inside hummed, and the soft, flesh colored rubber ball on the end of the vibrator began to spin at high speed. What happened next, drove poor Katie to hysterics. She jerked violently on the table, her right arm and leg tied behind, her left arm and leg stretched above, twisting and rolling her pale body back and forth against the black padded leather while her Master held the spinning ball against her smooth, unguarded sex. Her labia swelled and the wetness of her arousal flowed down her inner thigh onto the black leather padding. Master Stefan set the vibrator down briefly to reach into his coat pocket and pull out two steel clamps linked together with a small chain. He fastened the clamps to her nipples, tightened the screw on each until her pale-pink nubs swelled and turned a dark red. He then took the vibrator and resumed the assault. Katie rewarded the small crowd again with her frantic gyrations while the chain danced between her small breasts. When Stefan was through with her, he graciously offered everyone else a try, lengthening the session another twenty minutes or so. By then, the girl was whimpering like a kitten behind her gag and sweat shimmered off her body like shiny porcelain.
Once again, Amber served drinks, this time with Heidi, who was still a ‘white silk’ and marked off-limits from guests. Being a ‘yellow silk’, Amber wondered why she had not been chosen for a session, though deep down, she was thankful for it.
It was then, Raven approached her,
“Get started on cleaning the kitchen. I’ll send someone up later to help.”
“Yes, Master.”
She climbed the narrow steps to the main level, which now seemed strangely quiet with all guests down in the dungeon. The kitchen was very large and state of the art. All of the appliances were made of brushed stainless steel and the counters topped with polished black marble. At the center of the room, there was a long island with the teppanyaki cooker built into the countertop at one end.
Amber decided to start there. She opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the cleaning supplies, adjusting her short shirt again after putting them on the counter. It was then, she noticed Ethan Rom standing in the room with her. Before she could say anything, he cut her off.
"Be silent, and do exactly as I say. Stand still. Eyes to the floor."
Amber did as she was told while he approached. Ethan’s eyes were pale, cold, and even though she was looking down, she could feel them tracing the lines of her body underneath the dress she wore.
“Sir, I was ordered to clean the kitchen and . . .”
“And I ordered you to be silent!” He slapped her across the cheek, then snapped his fingers and, in the swift double gesture, pointed to a place on the floor before him while almost simultaneously turning his hand and spreading the first and index fingers. Amber recognized the signal and immediately knelt before him in the position of a pleasure slave – head down, arms thrust forward palms down against the floor, ass tilted upward. She began to tremble.
Ethan moved behind her. The dress, as tight-fitting as it was, slipped easily up and over her hips. Her smooth privates were open and inviting. He thrust one hand between her thighs and grasped her pink flesh there.
“You have a beautiful cunt,” he remarked.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“I think you know what’s going to happen next, and we could do it one of two ways. If you resist, that will only make it more painful. If you submit and allow me to fuck you, then it’ll go much quicker. The choice is yours. Either way, I get what I want."
He moved around to face her again.
“Now sit up on your knees.”
She rose and saw that Ethan had opened his pants. He was already erect.
"I’ve heard you’re good at sucking cock. Open your mouth and show me."
Amber knew she had no choice, so she parted her lips and closed her eyes. Ethan grabbed her by the hair, controlling her, but instead of the violation she expected, he gently pushed it into her mouth.
Amber moaned. Her lips slid up and down the first two inches of his member, her tongue fondling the stiff muscle. His musky smell filled her nostrils. Opening her throat, she slid her lips further down until she reached his balls. Monique had instructed her well on how to manage the entire length of a man’s cock, while caressing it with her tongue and lips. She heard him moan, then she ran her hands up under his shirt and across his smooth chest. She withdrew her mouth a little and ran her nimble tongue around the tip, then fell upon it again like a starving woman, sucking vigorously.
Ethan moaned again. Suddenly, he grabbed her by the hair and gently pushed her away.
“You’re not getting off that easily,” he gasped. “Stand up.”
Amber rose to her feet, and couldn’t help but smile a little when she saw that his face had lost some of its steely composure.
“Just what the FUCK are you smiling at?” Ethan turned red with anger and struck her again.
He then grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her around and pushed her against the counter with the teppan in front of her. Using both hands, he pulled the top of her dress down to her navel. Amber’s heart was pounding now. He grabbed her breasts and squeezed them roughly, pinching her nipples, then he pushed her over the counter and held her there with one hand against her back.
Amber made no effort to struggle, nor did she scream. She felt the flat, solid metal surface of the grill pressing up against her naked breasts. Stretching her arms forward to the far end of the counter, she grasped the edge with both hands while Ethan yanked the skirt up over her thighs.
“Which will it be,” he said, “your cunt, or your ass?”
Without waiting for an answer, he chose the former. Amber cried out as he slowly pushed his cock all the way in while keeping her pinned down with the one hand. He began pumping his hips slowly, almost gently, but with the desire and passion in his balls, it didn’t take long before he was fucking her hard and fast.
Through it all, Amber remained prone and bent over in complete submission, her breasts meshed against the hard metal as she was rocked again and again by Ethan’s thrusts into her body. She felt his hand leave her back. She heard the click of the heating dial. When Amber tried to move he pushed her down again, his hand pressing even harder now against her,
“I said don’t move!”
Ethan started to pump harder, his cock tearing into her vagina. The burner coils were directly underneath her breasts with the metal plate in between. Amber could feel the heat rising, but she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Squeezing her eyes shut, she grasped the edge of the counter in front of her even tighter until the knuckles in her hands turned white. Sweat beaded and rolled off her forehead. She tried to tell herself that this was just a game; that Ethan really didn’t turn the dial up that high, but as the temperature grew more and more intense, she began to fear the worst. Her arms, her chest, her back underneath his hand were sweating too, and it felt like the burners were starting to sear her flesh. Amber cried out,
“Sir . . . PLEASE . . . it’s burning me!
Ethan didn’t answer; he didn’t even seem to hear her. With a guttural groan, he grasped her hip with his free hand. She felt his erection throbbing inside her with a provocative rhythm, followed by the warmth of his release. Then Amber screamed, and this time it seemed to break his trance.
When he finally released her, she nearly leaped away from the metal plate, panting, her arms cradling her breasts. The skin around them was warm and red, but to her relief, there didn’t seem to be any burns. Even then, Ethan showed no concern; he only smiled as he zipped his pants,
“It’s better when there’s a little danger involved. Don’t you think?”
Before he turned the dial off, Amber noticed the temperature had been pre-set to 450 degrees. She felt sick to her stomach.
“Now fix your dress and get back to work.”
After Ethan left, she went straight to Raven. Amber knew he would be furious, just as he was with Shane when he raped her in her cell. She had kept the incident to herself back then, and Raven whipped her when he finally found out. She wasn’t going the make the same mistake again, and secretly hoped Ethan would suffer the same fate as Shane.
But when she informed Raven what had happened, there was no anger from him – in fact, he seemed amused by it.
“I told Ethan he could have a half hour with you,” he said, “though I can’t say I approve of what he did. That sort of reckless behavior could have damaged you permanently and cost me at least a hundred grand on the block. Are you sure you’re not burned? Perhaps we should have Monique take a look.”
“No, Sir,” Amber heard herself say, though her mind was lost in total disbelief. “I’m fine.”
“Good, then no harm done. I’m glad you reported it this time, even though it wasn’t necessary. At least now you know what to do when someone violates what belongs to me without first asking for permission. Right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Now get back to work.”
For Amber the walk back to the kitchen seemed much longer than usual after Raven dismissed her. The whole thing had been a test, and apparently she passed, but it didn’t make her feel any better about what Ethan did. She felt betrayed, though she couldn’t answer why she had a right to. She was a slave, and this sort of thing was to be expected. For the first time, she hated what was going on around her, and hated herself for not feeling this way earlier.
As she moved through the dungeon toward the steps, she saw Isha again chatting and laughing with two men. Just six feet away, two more guests were tormenting Shawna, the girl with the gorgeous ringlets in her hair. She was locked in the ‘birdcage’, which was just that -- a long narrow cage with a domed top that was actually suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain. Her wrists were fastened in the shackles at the top so that she too was almost suspended inside with her body stretched. The bars surrounding her allowed just enough room to accommodate the tight space, but there were also spikes along the length of it, all pointing inward. As Shawna hung there, naked and helpless, staggering on her toes, she did her best to avoid the sharp metal points jutting toward her from all sides, though she was not always successful, for the two guests were taking turns poking her through the cage with a small wired device that resembled an electric cattle prod.
For the first time since she could remember, Amber felt no fear, no thrill or even a blank acceptance with what she was witnessing. For the first time she was angry -- with the two guests tormenting Shawna, and with everyone in the room because they were all a part of it.
When she finally reached the kitchen, Heidi was waiting for her,
“Raven told me you needed some help cleaning up.”
Amber said nothing, but just looked at her. She couldn’t help admiring how exceptionally beautiful Heidi looked at the moment. Her golden hair had been taken up loosely in a bun, with wisps of stray curls hanging down at the ears to frame her lovely face. Her breasts were not only impressive in size, but also in the way they stood out on their own, and this was no less apparent then in the strappy, flesh-colored mini dress she now wore with the front draped deep and loose to reveal her cleavage almost down to her navel. Then she noticed the sponge in one hand, and in the other, a bottle of cleanser. That and the silver collar around her neck made Heidi suddenly appear almost comical, but Amber didn’t feel like laughing.
“Is something wrong?” Heidi asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she answered flatly.
The two women worked in silence until they were almost done with the kitchen, then Amber finally spoke up,
“About what we discussed earlier today . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’m in.”
(continued)
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