Indoctrination - Chapter 34

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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

Only in a collar can a woman be truly free.

“Tribesmen of Gor”
by John Norman


Chapter 34: The Black Glove Society (Part 2)

One week had passed after the party when John received a written invitation from Rupert Thorne to join him for dinner at his home. In the letter, he was instructed to arrive by himself and to dress formally.

“This is in two days and I don’t even own a suit,” he confided to Moria.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll help you pick one out and we’ll have it tailored before you leave.”

“I wonder why he didn’t include you in the invitation?”

“He wants to speak with you alone,” then Moria hesitated a moment. “Besides,” she finally added, “it was my job to bring you to Rupert, now he’ll take you from here. My job is done . . . though I wish it wasn’t.” She then kissed him.

“That sounds like you’re canceling me out, pet.”

“Not at all, and I’ll be here when you get back but . . .,” she paused again. “I have to start performing again. In fact, I’m leaving for the Greek Islands in a month, then Morocco and after that I’ll be performing all over Europe.”

“I see,” John wasn’t sure what to say next, but then he smiled, “One of these days, pet, I may buy a ticket and come visit you again in your dressing room.”

Moria smiled back, “I would like that very much, sir.”

Nothing more was said, but both of them knew that the path John was about to take would eventually doom their relationship. She had her life, and he was about to pursue his. They spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening in the bedroom, then the next day, Moria went with him to help pick out a suit.


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There were directions included with the invitation that took John outside Hamburg to a sprawling mansion with elegant gardens lying around it. The area was cordoned off by dark hedges and an imposing red brick wall behind them. At the end of the sweeping drive, a pair of black iron gates stood, barring entrance to all. After driving up, John rolled down his window and pressed the intercom button to announce his arrival. The electronic gates opened immediately.

A beautiful and very petite Asian girl answered the door. She was wearing a traditional red cheongsam dress, but with a more seductive twist. It was tight-fitting, accentuating the femininity and sexuality of her slender figure. The sleeves only covered her shoulders, leaving her arms bare, and though the skirt fell just above the ankles, there were slits on both sides to allow her freedom of movement and a teasing display of her naked legs underneath. A gold embroidered oriental dragon wound its way upward around her body to the left shoulder where its head rested just below the mandarin collar. Her dark hair was tied back with crossed geisha sticks and around her neck was a gold collar.

“Good evening, Sir,” she announced in broken English, “my name is Vilaiwan. Follow me please.”

Inside the well-appointed home were symbols of wealth and high prestige almost everywhere – in the furniture, chandeliers and artwork hanging on the walls. Vilaiwan led the way to a large sitting room where Rupert was waiting with a drink in his hand. There were two more woman with him – the lovely Catrinel and a brunette he did not recognize, at least not immediately. Both were also dressed elegantly and wearing slave collars.

Rupert approached John and shook his hand as if they were old friends.

“I’ve asked Catrinel to dine with us,” he said, “and this is Johari.”

“My pleasure,” John addressed both women.

“Thank you, Sir,” they answered almost in unison and bowed their heads to him.

It was that moment, John realized Johari was the slave girl he saw at the party hanging naked over the burning coals. She seemed none worse for wear after that ordeal. In fact, she was strikingly beautiful, without a mark on her body, and there was plenty of her to show off in the white dress she was wearing.

The four of them moved into the dining area with the girls leading the way. Catrinel was stunning as usual in a black, sleeveless dress that plunged deep in front between her naked breasts. A turned up bright red collar nearly covered the silver ‘choker’ around her throat.

But despite John’s favor for Catrinel, it was Johari that commanded his eye for the evening. She had piercing blue eyes with high softly chiseled cheekbones. At approximately 5 ft 9 in, her body was slender, well-toned and graceful, her impressive DD sized breasts as firm as ripe melons -- so perfect in fact, that John surmised they couldn’t possibly be her own (though he saw no reason to allow any criticism to fill his thoughts).

The dress she wore was like a formal gown, made of white silk, and from the shimmering slave collar, it fanned out and covered the front of her body completely all the way down to her stiletto heels, but dipped very low behind, generously baring her arms, back and even the outer swells of her perfect breasts. Her blood red lipstick injected classic glamour into the ensemble, and her dark hair, set in perfectly coiffed waves, cascaded down her naked back.

Yet what made this woman look even more exotic, and what John had not noticed when he first saw her that night in the low light of the dungeon, was that through the openings of the dress, her perfectly tanned skin that almost shimmered in the low light was marked by two bold tattoos – a large rose with green petals over one shoulder, and even more provocative, an inked image of a woman wearing nothing but fishnet stockings and heels. The tattoo was displayed on the left side of her upper body, and the artwork itself, so well detailed that he immediately recognized the image to be a famous 1950’s pin-up model named Bettie Page posing with one knee up and her arms covering her breasts.

John had seen tattoos on women before in the seedy Turkish and German nightclubs he worked. Mostly Celtic and Chinese symbols, sun patterns behind the neck, or barbed wire bands around their upper arms, but nothing as intricate and so prominently displayed as the images on this woman’s desirable body.

John wished he could see more of ‘Betty’ through the opening in Johari’s dress. Instead, he forced himself to divert his attention away from her as Rupert ushered everyone to take their seats at the table.

Vilaiwan returned, not to dine with them, but to serve, and with her was another Asian girl wearing a similar cheongsam outfit with golden dragon embroidery, only this dress was a shimmering turquoise in color.

The meal began with curried shrimp and rice, accompanied by a bottle of Piesporter Goldtropfchen ’53 Riesling. Rupert opened the conversation with some small talk, mostly about the businesses he owned, including an engineering firm and a stud breeding farm in England. He was also an investor and profited very well in stock market trades. Both women said very little while they dined and it was quickly evident they were invited merely for the scenery and not to add any thoughts to the conversation. John also said little but listened intently and patiently until Rupert finally turned to the subject he was waiting for.

“As I’m sure you have learned by now, John, The Black Glove Society is very unique group that demands secrecy. It was founded by six associates and I because we all shared one thing in common -- a natural drive to dominate women, not just sexually, but in every aspect of their everyday lives, and the women we sought shared a similar desire to be on the receiving end of this relationship; women willing to submit and give their rights only to us, without conditions.”

He continued,

“On the grand scheme of things, our lives on Earth are extremely short – for some, tragically, shorter than others. There is no guarantee of tomorrow, and we can't hit replay or rewind. If there is ever a moment to do things that matter to you the most, the time is now. Our small group wanted to manage and enjoy life on our own terms and refused to accept the so-called temporary standards imposed on us by modern society. At first, we grew to a couple dozen or so of mostly men and quite a few women who willingly offered themselves as our slaves. We were a loose association with no true sense of identity, that is until we discovered the writings of John Norman. Are you familiar with the author?”

“Only by name,” John answered, feeling somewhat naïve. “Moria only mentioned him briefly to me.”

The speech was interrupted while their main course was served -- roast duckling accompanied by a Mouton Rothschild ’47 Claret. Rupert took a drink before continuing.

“John Norman was a professor of modern philosophy who, beginning in 1966, wrote a series of novels about a mythical planet he called Gor that orbited its sun literally opposite the Earth in a universe parallel to our universe. This world was created millions of years ago and ruled by beings from another solar system called the Priest-Kings. As the story goes, these Priest Kings managed to punch a hole into our universe and began transplanting humans from ancient Mycenae, Egypt, and Asia to populate their own planet. Nothing is mentioned as to why they did this, but it is my opinion that the Priest-Kings wished to experience the ‘earthly pleasures’ we often take for granted and could only achieve this by observing these humans and even manipulating their actions behind the scenes.”

(“So this society in based on a sci-fi novel?” John thought and began to wonder what the hell he had gotten himself into, but he decided to keep listening anyway.)

Rupert went on.

“Everything within this parallel world, was intricately described by the author, the wildlife, plant life, even its geological map. The Gorean humans, themselves, were permitted by their hosts to advance their architectural, agricultural and medical skills, but forced to remain primitive in the fields of transportation, communication and weaponry. These restrictions were carefully engineered by the Priest-Kings to ensure the safety of themselves and the other indigenous and transplanted beings on Gor who, otherwise, might come to harm due to humanity’s belligerent and self-centered tendencies.

“This Gorean culture was similar to our bronze age, specifically the Greek, Roman and Viking cultures, only more hostile and barbaric, especially for the women, who were often abducted and brutalized both physically and sexually by their male captors until they grew to accept and even enjoy their submissive state.

“But these novels were more than just ‘sword and sci-fi erotica’, they were a platform for Mr. Norman to expound his philosophical and sociological views on modern society by reintroducing the teachings of Nietzschean natural order and social Darwinism.

“For example, the Gorean belief is that a person’s place is dependent on where he or she falls within hierarchies of strength and talent. It is a society based on dominance and hierarchy. People are either in their natural place or need to be put in it. Naturally, the strong male warriors are at the top of the social ladder, while helpless, submissive females, referred to as kajirae, not only occupy the bottom but are overjoyed to find themselves in the ownership of these powerful men. So you can see why our group was so fascinated with these stories and teachings, because in many aspects, we had already self-identified ourselves as Goreans.

“But the slavery dynamic wasn’t the primary appeal to most of us. It went much deeper than mere human submission and sexuality.

“As I’ve said, the world of Gor consists of hereditary social classes. Each caste has a specific function to play so everyone knows their place. High castes include the warriors, physicians, and builders; low castes include the woodsmen, peasants, and slaves. Everyone has a code that they are expected to live by, dictating how they are to go about their professions and how they are to conduct themselves with others.

“The welfare of their caste system is more important to each Gorean than his or her own well-being. In return for their loyalty, they can expect protection and care if they ever need it for the rest of their lives. If they try to leave their caste without the necessary and hard-to-acquire consent, they become outlaws -- people of no identity and no worth.

“These codes appeal greatly within our own subculture, so much that we often refer to it as our Second Life, and we try to apply this structure of living in the so called ‘real world’ standards we are forced to deal with today. This could mean identifying with a particular caste within our secret society and abiding by its rules as part of our regular role-playing sessions; or it can mean applying the general principles of honor and pride to the way we conduct ourselves in our day-to-day lives.

“In one way or another, those of us living out our Gorean fantasies are looking to embrace the key principle of Gor’s inequality-based morality. Doing so allows us to understand our role in life and thus be fulfilled.

“As for how women fit into the picture, it was Sigmund Freud who first coined the term ‘feminine masochism’. His psychological theories are built upon the importance of the unconscious and its role in an individual’s behavior and character development. The unconscious is composed of impulses or instincts, for example, the ego, and super ego, whose behavior are greatly influenced by a person’s gender. Freud’s anatomical theory of personality concludes that women are passive, submissive beings, and thus they often direct their feelings of anger, pain, and sadness inwards. Therefore, according to Freud, masochism – the pleasure acquired from self-destructive, self-harming behaviors -- is a purely feminine trait, so it is only natural that women be placed in that caste and treated accordingly.

“Those of us that formed The Black Glove Society, ‘the seven’, as we are commonly called, spent many years developing, and building a system to insure its secrecy from the rest of the world. Of course, as we flourished and grew, the demand for kajirae grew, so we hired mercenaries to bring certain women into our society.”

“Yes, Moria told me”, John replied then motioned to Catrinel and Johari, “and so these women were brainwashed?”

The comment was somewhat reckless, given the company he was with, and John expected a reaction from the woman, but to his surprise, neither of them even batted an eye.

“We prefer enlightened,” Rupert corrected him, “enlightenment through indoctrination.”

“Understood. My mistake,” John apologized, though he wasn’t sure what the difference was.

The conversation once again turned to small talk while desert was served – a delicious cheese soufflé and coffee – and after that was taken away, the two women were dismissed, much to John’s disappointment. He watched Johari as she stood up from her chair and noticed the gown slipping open at the sides to reveal more of that part of her body than she had perhaps intended.

After that distraction was gone, Rupert rose from the table and led John into another room that contained a pool table and bar in the corner.

“I see you’ve noticed the artwork on Johari,” Rupert remarked as he pulled out two snifter glasses and a bottle of brandy.

“It was difficult not to. Very provocative, especially the tattoo on her left flank. Betty Page?”

Rupert laughed, “You guessed right. Beautifully inked images too. Wish I could take credit but they came with the girl. Johari was quite a free spirit before she was brought to us. She still has a rebellious side and quite often requires discipline . . . as I was told you witnessed at the party.”

Rupert poured the brandy into the bowl of one glass, tilting it at an angle and turning the snifter horizontally until the liquid touched the rim. He then offered it to John.

“I’m sure you have been wondering all evening why I invited you to my house for dinner.”

“I assumed you would eventually get to the subject when you’ve made your decision.”

“And what decision is that?”

“Whether you can trust me or not.”

Rupert smiled and poured a glass for himself. John could tell he was more than satisfied with the answer.

“I spent the last hour talking about my life and The Black Glove Society, so I guess that must mean I trust you, doesn’t it?”

“I was hoping you would.”

Each man grabbed a pool stock and began to play while the conversation continued.

“The truth is, John, I wanted to make sure you understood what we are all about. I’ve reviewed your background information that Moria provided me and her assessment about you, which was very positive. I’ve also conducted my own investigation into your history and studied your behavior at the party. I even observed that session I arranged for you and Moria with Catrinel from the next room.”

“Observed . . . meaning you saw everything?”

“Don’t worry, I allowed you and Moria your privacy when it turned more intimate. My only interest was in how you conducted yourself during the session and if you would follow my rules. Catrinel is valuable to me and I didn’t want her harmed.”

“And what is your impression of me so far?” John boldly asked.

“For the most part, very good. You seem to be an intelligent fellow, but not to the point of arrogance. You listen. You speak little, and when you do, you are direct, and your words carry meaning and weight. But you have been at war with yourself. On one hand, you have a passion for dominating women, both physically and emotionally. It excites you to see them as the helpless damsels in distress, bound, gagged, naked in erotic fetish fantasies brought on by your hand. You enjoy the sound of leather when it cracks against their flesh. As a ‘top’ you also show responsibility and even care for your ‘sub’ so as not to put her into serious harm. Not all men see those limits and often get carried away with the moment. I learned this through Moria’s reports on you and after observing you during that session with Catrinel.

“Then on the other hand, there is a side of you that resists. Whenever intimate with women, you are afraid those ‘dark urges’, as you see them, will reach a point when you are unable to control them. You’ve harbored these fears since that unfortunate incident with the young girl in Salzburg.”

“So you found out about that too,” John raised his glass. “My compliments.”

“I hope you’re not offended by any of this and realize now that I needed to learn everything about you, so I might better understand who I’m dealing with. The secrecy and integrity of our society depends on it.”

“Understood. I guess I shouldn’t be offended OR surprised,” John finished his brandy. “After all, I know you’ve had me under a microscope since I met Moria, and yet I’m still here.”

“I’m glad you share no ill will towards us,” Rupert re-filled his glass. “Moria is quite fond of you, by the way, and that doesn’t happen very often with her, but she still had a job to do and that was to establish contact and eventually bring you to me. Even the owner of The Tahari is a close associate of mine and he made sure you were working the stage that evening she performed.”

“So what else do you know about me? My favorite color?”

Rupert laughed and seemed unfazed by the comment. “I’m afraid not. But I do know these dark urges disturb you to the point that you avoid intimate relationships with women, and that you even feel compelled to move from town to town, unable to find any inner peace. You see yourself as a sadist, but only because society has labeled this type of behavior as sick and cruel, even evil -- but I assure you, on this subject, society is wrong.”

Rupert pulled out two Cuban cigars from a box and lit John’s first before his own. Then he continued,

“The New Webster’s Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English Language defines sadism as: ‘sexual gratification gained by causing pain or degradation to others, or a pleasure in being cruel or exerting extreme cruelty,’ but there is no ‘qualifier’ listed for the word.

“For instance, there is a difference between ‘civilized’ sadistic behavior, which can be controlled and managed, and the type of random, unbridled sadism associated with serial killers, like this Ted Bundy fellow we hear so much about. The so-called ‘sadists’ I know are intelligent, rational, even caring souls, many with families, whose primary concern is to achieve acceptance and peace with his own nature.

“When I read Moria’s report on you, I was struck with how your struggle to accept your sadism almost perfectly mirrored my own struggles as a young man. I too felt the need to deny it and to pretend it didn’t even exist in order to head off guilty feelings of abnormality, or the fear that I might harm or even kill someone. This stage of struggle and denial is all part of the maturation process. Sex and S&M in some forms are simply more fulfilling for me, now that I have finally accepted these urges and have learned to understand the boundaries between sadism and outright violence – even to push those boundaries a little, depending on who you are with.

“Women have the same feelings and tendencies as we do, but on the opposite side of the spectrum. As I mentioned before, even Freud states that women are submissive, even masochistic by nature, and they too struggle with their true selves most of their lives. Many will never learn to accept it, and will instead, choose the ‘mainstream’ way of life as society dictates. They seek marriage to men that have never found their true path to manhood. At first, they see themselves as equals, but perception quickly deteriorates until both become unhappy and unsatisfied with the arrangement. The wife will nag and complain about the most trivial things. The husband might look to another woman for comfort and sex. That is why the divorce rate is so high in more ‘civilized’ societies. Because these couples do not understand that in any relationship, one must be dominant and the other submissive, one must make the decisions while the other serves, or the two will forever be in a conflict.

“According to Gorean Philosophy, ‘It is the nature of the female to submit; accordingly, it is natural that, when she is forced to acknowledge, accept, express, and reveal this nature, that she should be almost deliriously joyful, and thankful to her master; she has been taught her ‘womanhood.’ That is why we bring women in against their will, John. It is to indoctrinate, or as I said before, ‘enlighten’ them into discovering and accepting their true selves.

“And if you doubt the truth in what I say that all we are doing is ‘brainwashing’ them, consider this -- over ninety-five percent of the women we have brought here, never try to escape. They have accepted their new lives, embraced them. Some have even earned their freedom to move up the hierarchy within our society and work as mistresses or mercenaries -- women like Moria, and does she appear brainwashed to you?”

“No,” John agreed, “I wouldn’t say so.”

Rupert paused a moment to take another drink and to let his words sink in, then he finally asked,

“So what do you think of our society, John?” Is it something you would like to be a part of?”

He thought about it for a brief moment. There was certainly hypocrisy in their defending themselves as “civilized sadists” while abducting woman and forcing them into this “enlightened” state of servitude, but the simple fact was, he became intrigued with the whole idea and at the same time, felt at peace with his own inner demons for the first time in his life. The answer to him was obvious,

“You had me sold over an hour ago.”

Rupert laughed, “Very good. Now there is something else I have been wanting to ask you. At first, I thought it could wait until we were better acquainted, but I’ve been anxious to bring up the subject.”

“And what is that?”

“This subject is more personal. I’m not a well man, John. Never have been, I’m afraid. I was twice afflicted by life-threatening illnesses during my youth and spent much of that time in and out of hospitals. As an adult my health had improved, but recently time has caught up with me. What I need now is a right-hand man to help me run my affairs. I can’t do it alone anymore.”

“But you hardly know me?”

“Exactly. I have many close friends in our society, some I’ve known for decades, but I still would not trust them with my business. I would rather pluck someone from the outside; someone who has an open mind and a desire to become one of us, to train and groom him from the very beginning. I think you are that person I’ve been looking for, and I consider myself a very good judge of a man’s character.

“That said, let me be clear on this. You will still have to earn your way like everyone else, and with me personally looking over your shoulder. You’ll start at the bottom, as a bodyguard perhaps. I’ll train you myself to be a handler, then a trainer, and after that, we’ll see. Play your cards right, be straight with me, prove to me that you are truly devoted to our society, and I promise, you will be set for life. What do you think?”

John took a final drag of his cigar and put it in the tray. Then he set the drink down and spoke formerly, “I can’t deny what you said about my running and my failure to come to terms with who I really am. That is over. For the first time in my life, I have found a place where I fit in. So I accept your invitation to join The Black Glove Society, and it would be my honor to work for you, learn from you, and help out in any way I can.”

“Very good,” Rupert smiled again. He then looked at his watch, “Now, enough talk of business. I’ve arranged for a little session with the girls. They’re waiting for us in my dungeon.”

“You have a dungeon in this place?”

“Yes, downstairs. Bring your glass and I’ll show you.”

Rupert led the way down a narrow stairway to a level that seemed to span the entire perimeter of his house. The “dungeon” as he referred to it was just that – a dark, cavernous, and foreboding place. Masonry walls -- stones piled on top of each other – surrounded them, and the floors were made of flagstone. Torches flickered off the walls here and there, enough to light their way through what seemed like an endless maze of corridors and chambers. John followed Rupert to one of these rooms, and when they passed through the doorway, his jaw nearly dropped.

Just as Rupert said, both women were waiting for them, only now they had been stripped naked, and were hanging from the ceiling, facing each other.

“I own five slaves, but Catrinel and Johari are my favorites,” Rupert announced with pride. “Would you like to join me?”

“Love to,” John answered, almost hypnotically, his eyes still glued to the beautiful sight before him.

Their bodies were covered with clear oil, making them shimmer in the dim torchlight – Catrinel’s flawless light chestnut skin to Johari’s darker skin inked with decorative artwork. Their arms were raised up and spread outward to the ends of a 4-foot steel spreader bar, then locked together at the wrists with padded leather cuffs. Their legs were also spread and cuffed to another bar about three feet above the stone floor. More leather straps were fastened around their upper arms and just above the knees to keep their bodies connected in front and their breasts pressed tightly together. Above them, beams were fixed conveniently with eyelets and pulleys, and off one of these pulleys, the girls were hanging.

Even more intriguing, was that both women were sharing a rubber ball gag with straps fastened around each of their heads, forcing their open mouths together, as if they were locked in a passionate kiss with the shiny red ball jammed between their lips.

On one wall hung the largest selection of crops, whips, spreader bars, chains, cuffs, and ropes John had ever seen, and more insidious-looking instruments he didn’t even recognize. Every type of instrument to inflict pain appeared to be there.

Tools of the trade.

Rupert selected a flogger and ran his hand down the tails, stretching it. He circled the girls slowly, and with their eyes, both women tried to follow his movements as much as the gag connecting their mouths would allow.

“What is important to remember, is that you don’t want to mark a girl permanently,” he said, “but you want her to feel it.”

Rupert finally stopped behind the lovely Catrinel.

“I usually begin with the back to warm up her flesh a little, then I move to other parts of the body, and finally I concentrate on the more erogenous zones. By then, she has already crossed that initial threshold of pain, her mind floating in a state of being we call ‘subspace’, and her body well-prepared for the next level of punishment.”

He then took a leather flogger, and with a flick of the wrist, sent the tails forward to the center of her lower back. A sharp, ‘SNAP’ sounded as it made contact with her flesh, followed by a muffled whimper from Catrinel. The spot where the flogger landed immediately left a bright red mark on her skin.

He struck her back again and again. Each time, she yelped and squirmed, the front of her body rubbing hard against Johari’s body, their breasts meshing together, and their nipples, do doubt, were as hard as rocks now and pushing against each other.

Rupert switched his attention to Catrinel’s buttocks, giving each cheek a thorough flogging.

Then with an upward motion of his flogger, he struck them both between their legs. A wet ‘SNAP’ could be heard, followed by the shrieks of both woman in unison and the squirming of their bodies. It was then, John noticed that the moans and cries of the two girls seemed more sensual in nature than the sounds of torment one would expect.

Rupert pulled another flogger from the table and presented it to John, “Here, why don’t you give this one a try.”

He struck Johari across the ass with his flogger while Rupert did the same to Catrinel. The women yelped and moaned. They twisted helplessly on the chains. Sweat flowed out of their bodies to mix with the oil. Streams of drool fell from their gagged mouths and landed on their breasts between them.

John then used the quick under hand stroke and struck Johari squarely underneath her buttocks. She responded with a violent jerk of her body against Catrinel. Rupert did the same, and together, they flogged the women’s genitals until he finally decided they had enough.

Next, Rupert produced two vibrators – the kind with a large spinning ball on the end. He gave one to John and together, they tormented the girls in a far different way by placing the vibrators between their legs and leaving them there while they bucked and squirmed, screamed and moaned.

When the session was over, and the girls thoroughly exhausted, Rupert thanked John for coming to dinner, signaling that it was time for him to leave.

“I would like you to come back tomorrow, say 3:00,” Rupert told him as they walked to the door, “and this time, you’ll be spending the evening in one of my guest rooms upstairs, unless you already have plans?”

“I do, but I’ll break them.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Driving home, John felt cheated somehow, and still experiencing a dull throb in his pants that desperately needed relief. So when he got home, he immediately went to Moria’s room,

“So how did it go?” she asked innocently, and John responded by throwing her on the bed.

She seemed to know exactly how he felt and she was more than accommodating in helping him satisfy the need. Later that night, as Moria slept soundly beside him, John thought about everything Rupert said.

Much of the fantasy talk about planets and barbarians seemed more or less an excuse to abduct these women and do what they wished with them, but he still liked the set up they had, and John wasn’t lying when he said Rupert had helped him find peace with those inner demons. In a way, John himself, was enlightened, just like Rupert’s women, and the woman sleeping beside him.


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The next day at Rupert’s home, it was a lovely brunette who answered the door. She too, had a collar around her neck.

“Master Rupert is waiting for you in the bath house,” she spoke with a heavy French accent and led the way while John followed.

“And what is your name?” he asked.

“Sophia, Sir,” she answered.

Rupert greeted them in a small lounge room wearing a satin, kimono robe with wide sleeves.

“Tonight, I’m going to treat you to your first civilized bath,” he announced.

John was given a robe for himself and allowed to change in one of the adjacent rooms.

The bath house was both organic and elaborate with wooden floors, and Japanese-style walls consisting of thick, translucent paper stretched over a wooden frame holding together a lattice of dark wood. Large rock formations and exotic plants surrounded four hot water bathing pools. John’s other senses were immediately greeted by the warm, steamy, fragrant air rising from the pools.

Vilaiwan, whom John had met during his last visit and another Asian woman were kneeling on cushions near the pools. They were clothed identically and with minimum coverage – a white bandeau style top wrapped around their breasts and crisscrossed in front just below the neck and a white mini sarong skirt hung low around the hips.

“Vilaiwan and Ngamta will be our attendants. They’re both Siamese, fully trained as bath slaves and quite skilled in both therapeutic and sexual massage.”

Rupert clapped his hands twice and the girls immediately rose to their feet. Vilaiwan approached John and spoke softly with a thick Thai accent, “Excuse me, Sir.”

She reached out and gently touched his chest, her hands lingered there for a moment, then moved downward, undid the knot, and parted the tunic. She moved behind him and slowly removed the robe, kissing him beneath the left shoulder blade. The other girl did the same for Rupert.

Each of them guided her man into his own pool. Vilaiwan then climbed with John and began sponging his body with soap and scented water.

At first, he wasn’t sure what to think of this and felt a little awkward with the experience.

“Relax, John,” Rupert told him. “Place yourself entirely in her hands. Rule number one in my house is: 'never do anything for yourself when someone else can do it for you', and rule number two: 'men always come first.’”

Vilaiwan continued to bath him, running the soapy sponge over literally every inch of his body. When it moved between his legs, John felt her hand brush against his cock and it began to twitch to life under the scented water. The girl didn’t smile, only continued her work in seeing to it every pore of his body was cleansed. Ngamta was busily at work with Rupert in the other pool, and as John watched both girls (while trying to take his mind of his stiffening member) he took note of the differences between the two.

Vilaiwan was quite attractive -- high cheekbones, oval eyes, and full lips. Her body was very petite, yet well-proportioned, her smooth, perfect skin a light chestnut in color, and her hair, pulled back and held there with geisha sticks.

Ngamta was also petite, though shorter, and not quite as waifish. She had a round face, small nose and her jet-black hair was cut above the shoulders allowing her to keep it brushed back behind the ears rather than pinned up. Ngamta was somewhat plainer looking than Vilaiwan but still quite attractive in her own right, and unlike her counterpart, her face seemed more open to emotion, and occasionally even smiled a little, as if she were genuinely pleased with the chore of bathing her master.

After the ceremonial bath was finished, both men were dried off and towels wrapped around their waists, then Rupert announced,

“Now for your private massage. Take as long as you want with Vilaiwan, then she’ll show you to your room and I’ll send someone for dinner later this evening.”

Again, John felt awkward,

“Now listen, Rupert,” he finally spoke up. “I'm sure this old gal and I will get along very well, but just tell me what’s on the menu here. Am I going to eat her or is she going to eat me?”

Rupert laughed, “You really must learn to obey orders, my friend. Just let the girl take the lead . . . and relax.”

So John followed her to a small nook where a table with towels stood ready.

“Lie face down, please.”

John did so, and Vilaiwan distributed oil with her warm, soft hands over his body. John relaxed a little as she gently kneaded the muscles in his shoulders, back, thighs and calves. She moved her hands under his towel and massaged his glutes, then suddenly the hands disappeared. When John looked around, she had turned her back to him and slowly undid the wrap around her chest, followed by the swath of cloth between her legs and let both slide to the floor. He looked away before she turned around again.

John was then aware of Vilaiwan climbing onto the table over him and her well-oiled breast rubbing against his shoulders and back. Her slow and gentle moves excited him and he became aware of his growing erection pressing hard against the table.

“Do you approve, Sir?”

“Yes,” John mumbled.

Then without warning, Vilaiwan interrupted the massage again.

“Please turn around, Sir.”

She climbed off him so John could turn on his back, allowing him to see her unclothed for the first time. Her young breasts were impressive in size for her petite frame and quite beautiful. He wanted to touch them, caress them, and do much more with this woman’s body, but he relaxed and followed her lead as Rupert suggested, knowing the rest would come in time.

Again her hands moved up and down his arms and around his chest, fingers working out any kinks in his muscles, followed by long, luxurious strokes. She massaged his feet next, then ran her hands up his legs and underneath the towel to massage his thighs, her fingers gently kneading the muscles there within inches of his cock, which was noticeably tenting against the towel.

By then, John was so relaxed and so focused inward, he thought it was perfectly possible that he had fallen asleep and was having a gorgeously obscene dream. But this was reality, and John welcomed it, gratefully.

She gently released the towel, pulled it out from under him, and tossed it aside. He felt his chest jump when her hands touched his cock. John was painfully erect, so she gently and patiently rubbed the shaft. She lowered her head and kissed the tip, then ran her tongue around it, laving the velvety flesh over firm muscle. John’s hands tightened around the edges of the table and he groaned in pleasure-agony as she took the entire length into her sweet mouth, opening her throat with little effort while sucking and stroking him with her lips.

John was about to explode at this point and would have been satisfied using the back of her throat as the target for his relief, but again Vilaiwan was patient and quite skilled in holding him back by giving the base of his balls a gentle, but firm tug to block any flow. John had never experienced anything as excruciatingly erotic as this, even with Moria, but as Rupert promised Vilaiwan was “quite skilled” in this form of massage, and no doubt, he was getting the same treatment from his girl, Ngamta.

Finally, when she sensed he could hold on no longer, Vilaiwan withdrew her mouth and straddled his hips with her legs draped wide and bent at the knees over the edges of the table. She then lowered herself onto him slowly, burying his eager cock inside her warm and wet silken sheath. She leaned forward, placing her hands on the table, and allowed John to caress and kiss her breasts. She moved her hips in all sorts of deliciously tortured movements, he tightened his grip on her breasts with his powerful hands, drawing a moan of pleasure past her lips. The rhythm of her gyrations quickened and John reached for her hips to guide and encourage her until they both came hard together that ended with Vilaiwan throwing her head back to scream.

She finally collapsed on top of him, both trembling and sweating, and draped her body over his body. For the next several moments, only their breathing broke the silence, then Vilaiwan looked up to John and ran her hand through his dark hair.

“Is Master pleased,” she whispered.

“Very much,” he said.

John could have easily fallen asleep on that table, but as promised, Vilaiwan took him to his room where the overnight bag he brought was waiting. Later that evening, he met Rupert downstairs for dinner. Catrinel was there, but instead of Johari, it was Sophia who joined them this time. The men were dressed casually in leisure jackets while the women more formerly and provocatively. It seemed John by now that the outfits each woman were hand-picked to complement her figure, face, even the complexion of her skin.

Catrinel’s red dress was perfect for her tanned, gazelle-like body – a halter-top black that crisscrossed over her breasts before wrapping around the back of her neck, leaving the rest of her upper body displayed, including some ‘under’ cleavage, while the skirt fell well below her navel with slit up one side.

Sophia’s ensemble was simple but equally as impressive – a long white gown with spaghetti straps, draped in rounded folds between her modest breasts, and even lower in back all the way down to her hip bone, exposing her shoulder blades and a beautiful spine.

She looked very young, early twenties John guessed, if even that. She had deep set hazel eyes and an intense gaze, uncommon to the void expressions he often saw in most of the ‘indoctrinated’ women John had met so far. Her straight brown hair had blonde streaks that cascaded down her naked back like a waterfall, with bangs that covered most of her forehead, drawing even more focus on the eyes. Her face had a diamond shape with a very exquisite, soft jawline and tapered chin surrounding her full, pillowy lips.

Like Catrinel, she spoke little and only when addressed. When she did speak, her English was peppered with a French accent that made even the most mispronounced words sound like honey from her tongue.

Both women wore silver collars, monogrammed with Rupert’s initials. John found them extremely alluring, not only because it complemented their appearance, but confirmed ownership and unconditional surrender to their master. He couldn’t help admiring Rupert for having so many beautiful bodies in his house available for use whenever or however he wished.

When the meal was finished, both women were dismissed, but Rupert assured him the night was still young, and once again, led him down to the dungeon where Johari was waiting for them. She was stripped naked, her hands bound together at the wrists and attached to a chain rigged to a pulley above.

“For this session, my friend, you will only be the observer, for I’m going to use a whip on Johari, and this requires more skill than and flogger or crop.”

“Understood.”

Rupert turned the wheel, pulling Johari’s arms high above her head which each metallic click, and stretching her body taut until the toes of her feet just barely touched the stone floor.

This time John could see much more of Johari than the night before, and the sight of her was breathtaking – her head back with her long, dark hair spilling down her back, her firm breasts jutting outward from her ribs like perfect spheres, her nipples pebbled into hard little points as if begging for some form of torment. He could also see now the full portrait tattoo of Bettie Page. The ink drawing was intricate and climbed up that side of her body from the hip to just below her armpit.

After locking the wheel in place, Rupert went to the wall and chose a braided 7-foot whip greased with saddle oil.

“The crack of a whip,” Rupert continued, “is the epitome of SM. The sound of it explodes, like lightning from the hand of a god or goddess. It snakes through the air like a dragon’s claw. It is evil, languid, precise, supremely savage, and sensuous. In short, it is as erotic as it is dangerous.

“It can create a range of sensations from delicate to cruel. It can be as subtle as a lover’s tongue or as frightening as a chain saw. Such is the fantasy; such is the reality for the kajira receiving it.”

John watched with fascination as Rupert snapped the whip in the air to test it. Johari began struggling violently, her arms twisting in the restraints, her body swaying and rotating slowly on the chain, her breasts shaking frantically, unprotected. She was already covered in sweat, so much that her skin glistened in the torchlight, and the first strike hadn’t even landed yet.

“Posture is important when first learning how to crack a single tail. With your feet planted shoulder-width apart, take the handle of the whip firmly in your dominant hand. Make sure it is untangled and unbunched, preferably trailing straight back behind you, perpendicular to your hips. It doesn't need to be perfectly straight, but make sure it's not going to catch on your leg or hip as you bring it up into the snapping position.

“Next, you bring your arm backward, then let your elbow bend naturally and snap your arm down firmly in front of you, keeping the whip clear of your body.

“Now the reason the whip cracks, is because one part of it is traveling in one direction along a straight plane while the other end is traveling in the opposite direction. As you bring the handle forward, the end of the whip moves toward the point where the handle used to be and it will "crack" as it abruptly changes direction.

“And remember that the whip will follow its own path, and it will not crack if you don't maintain a straight plane. Whether vertical or horizontal, your arm and the whip need to be in a straight line to get that distinctive cracking sound with each swing. Once you get this correct, you can then focus on hitting the target.”

The first strike demonstrated the skill Rupert was lecturing about. The whip whistled in the air as he brought his arm back then forward again in one motion and ended with the very tip landing on her outer thigh, followed by a loud ‘SNAP’ against her flesh. Johari moaned in response, her body swayed, and an angry red stripe surfaced on the spot where she had been struck. For the second strike, he swung his arm to the side and the whip circled around her breasts like a snake and landed just below her open armpit. She shrieked this time and tried to turn her body away from him, but Rupert only smiled and drew the whip back again, this time striking her directly on the right cheek of her buttocks.

“Some implements are harsher than others,” Rupert eyed his next target. “Unlike the flogger, a whip can cut to the bone. Be deliberate with your use of it so as not to permanently damage the skin – unless, of course, a slave’s actions require it – but we will discuss punishment later.”

Again and again, the whip sang through the air, and each time it cracked, each time it found a target, Johari did the dance, squirming frantically, her stretched and helpless body rotating on the rusty chain -- even the inked image of ‘Bettie’ seemed to take on a life of its own.

After six lashes, Johari had an equal six impressive welts. The seventh, left a mark on her right breast, the eighth across her lower back, the ninth and tenth on her upper thighs, within inches of the flesh in between. By then, Johari's shrieks of anguish melted away into the soft moans and gasps that could best be described as the sensual sounds of a woman reaching her climax during sex, only this time, her lover was 7 feet of braided leather.

Through it all, John had become emersed with the whole scene. He never realized a woman could react so passionately to a whipping. Moria always enjoyed the flogger, but not as intensely as this girl.

When Rupert finally stopped, he approached Johari and held the whip handle up to her mouth. She kissed it passionately and gave it a stroke with her tongue. Then she said something that surprised John,

“Oh Master, PLEASE don’t stop. Please continue if it pleases you.”

Rupert smiled and stroked her cheek with the handle,

“No more tonight, pet, but you and I have other plans.”

He then turned to John.

“Johari and I would like to be alone now. Ngamta will take you back to your room. Breakfast will be served nine o’clock sharp, and we’ll discuss plans for you to move in.”

Ngamta, now clothed in a red silk tunic, appeared from nowhere and led him upstairs.

Again, John felt cheated, only this time he would not have Moria to use as an outlet for his frustration. Why did Rupert call him out here to witness this incredible event, only to cast him aside again?

Ngamta opened the door to his room and bowed her head as she stepped out of the way to let him through.

“I don’t suppose he would allow you to come in and visit for a while?”

“Master only instructed me to show you to your room.”

“Hmm . . . of course.”

As he entered, she closed the door behind him. Then John glanced at the large, elegant four posted bed and stopped in mid-step. Sitting on the edge of the bed was Catrinel. She was wearing a white satin slip, her silver collar and nothing else.

“Rupert summoned you here?”

“Yes, Sir.”

She approached him slowly and kissed him.

“I think I’m going to like this place,” and nothing more was said. Catrinel spent the entire night with him. There were four silk scarves in the nightstand drawer and John found the four-posted bed very satisfying.


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Acceptance into The Black Glove didn’t take long for John with Rupert Thorne sponsoring him. At first, he worked as a bodyguard until he could be properly trained as a handler. He was eager to learn from his new mentor, and Rupert was just as eager to teach.

After moving into his home, John quickly realized what Rupert meant by needing help in managing his affairs. There were his businesses, the house, and riding stable with four horses, two stable hands on the payroll, and of course, five ‘kajirae’. John had already spent intimate time with Catrinel, Johari, and Vilaiwan. As days and weeks passed, he became more ‘acquainted’ with the other three.

John also learned more about his employer’s health issues that were briefly mentioned that first night after dinner. In fact, Rupert’s life history was filled with life threatening events beginning at age 10. Following an appendectomy he contracted peritonitis, causing him to fall into a coma that lasted days followed by six months of recovery in a hospital. When he was 16, Rupert contracted tuberculosis and was admitted to a sanatorium, where he remained for over a year.

In spite of his illnesses, Rupert Thorne excelled in education and was gifted with a high IQ. As an adult, he profited in his businesses and other investments. But his ill health caught up with him again, this time, it was chronic back pain that could not be cured even after two surgeries. He turned to opium, which relieved most of the pain, but his dependency on the drug became so apparent that some of his associates believed he was flirting with an addiction.

None of these afflictions showed because Rupert kept them well-hidden in his appearance and mannerisms, particularly during his sessions where they certainly didn’t slow down his virility.

One night, Catrinel was sent to summon John to Rupert’s room. When the door was opened, he saw Rupert, wearing a black silk robe, with Johari, Ngamta, and Vilaiwan, all naked and standing around a plush, canopied bed. Candles provided the only light in the darkened room, the light shining off their well-oiled bodies. Sophia was lying crosswise on the bed, also naked, with her head bent backward over the edge toward the door where John was standing, transfixed by the sight. Her wispy arms were stretched out along the edge of the bed and tied by her wrists with red silk scarves to the pedestals. Her legs were also tied on the opposite side of the bed with her knees raised and spread in front of Rupert.

John was motioned by Catrinel to sit in a chair next to the door before she, too, stripped out of her slave tunic to join the others. The room smelled of opium and sitting on the floor near Sophia’s head was a long, curved pipe attached to a bowl made of fired earthenware, seated in a stand near a heated oil lamp.

John watched as Ngamta dropped another opium ‘pill’ into the pipe bowl and held it over the lamp. She then inhaled the vaporized fumes from the other end, held it her lungs for a moment, then bent forward, placed her lips over Sophia’s lips and breathed the smoke into her mouth. The pipe was then passed to Rupert and the other women before all of them joined in for an orgy, with Sophia being the centerpiece. Wet kisses trailed up her arms, tongues lapped at her armpits, her breasts were also kissed and caressed, her nipples suckled. More opium was drawn from the pipe and blown past Sophia’s lips while smoke billowed around her head. She was both stoned and succumbed to mindless arousal from their assault.

John observed the show anxiously, wondering if he would be invited to join in. He watched Rupert as he kissed the insides of Sophia’s open thighs, then taking a draw of the opium pipe, leaned forward and blew the warm smoke against the beautiful pink rose between them, eliciting a moan from the girl, before burying his mouth over her delicious folds, and undoubtedly, exploring with his tongue the warmth inside.

When Rupert stood up again, he finally motioned John to come forward. John anxiously undressed, his cock already stiff and ready to indulge. Moria gave him the pipe to smoke. He had witnessed opium use many times and never found the need to indulge in the drug himself, but he was now caught in the moment and wanted to share in the experience, to feel what they were feeling.

John brought the wooden pipe to his lips, took a long drag, and inhaled deeply, then let the smoke drift out of his mouth and nostrils. Immediately, his head began to swim. He looked down and saw Sophia, her long, graceful neck stretched with her head bent backward, lips parted just a little, but invitingly.

John was always amused with the reproductive drive among men in chasing after full lips, given their connotations with sexual vitality; some even likened them to the labia surrounding the female vagina. John never gave that much thought until that night, and Sophia’s soft, pillowy lips, undoubtedly, were nature’s gift for oral sex.

He ran the tip of his cock over those lips. With her eyes still closed, her mind obviously floating elsewhere, she parted her lips obediently as he slowly pushed past them, slowly, inch by inch and deep into her mouth to the back of her throat. He watched her soft neck muscles work to accommodate him. John closed his own eyes, and moaned, his most primal thoughts relishing the warmth and wetness caressing him. He pulled out and back in without leaving her mouth, wanting her to feel every ridge, every vein of his shaft.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Rupert standing even closer between her open thighs, his body almost touching her body, and Sophia gasped as she felt his rigid shaft slide easily into her moistened sex, like a sword slamming home into its proper sheath. Her eyes were still closed and she moaned with every stroke in her mouth and vagina, signaling she was in perfect pace with both men. In the end, she took their release willingly and with enthusiasm.

After untying the girl, the other women joined in, sharing themselves and rotating with the men in what would be the first orgy John had ever experienced, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last. After that evening, he never let anyone else plant any questions in his mind as to whether Rupert’s health issues would ever weaken his obligations as a businessman or master of slaves.


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Once trained as a handler, John’s compensation went up significantly. More importantly, he became Rupert’s personal apprentice, which alone, was a privilege. John was often awarded the use of his five kajirae for private sessions.

He found Catrinel and Johari to be the most entertaining and his personal favorites. Johari was very feisty and rebellious, and sometimes it took a while to ‘break her’ during a session, but the reward in the end was always worth it. In contrast, Catrinel had both a sweet and wicked disposition that always kept Raven’s interest. She was the perfect slave in his opinion and seemed to know when to be submissive and follow orders, or when to act a little sassy to get him in the mood for administering punishment. Her Romanian accent was as soft as her skin and exotic, opposed to Johari’s bold Yorkshire dialect.

Rupert took John with him to parties and he met all of the original seven members, or ‘inner circle’ as they were commonly called. Each of them had their own slaves, all quite beautiful in their own way, and just as eager to please. But in time, it was Catrinel that he became quite fond of, and as his feelings for her grew, so did their time together. She went to parties with him and dinners as if they were truly a couple. Rupert didn’t seem to mind, in fact, he encouraged it.

“Someday, I’ll let you buy her from me,” he once said, then laughed, “but it will cost you!”

It was about that time that John changed his name to Raven (a suggestion from Catrinel after he had let his jet-black hair grow long over the shoulders). With his new name, he quickly rose in ranks within The Black Glove Society. He became a trainer and earned more money in commissions then he could ever imagine. He bought a Jaguar XJ-S, and with Rupert’s permission, he and Catrinel took road trips together throughout Europe.

But almost hand in hand with his success came tragedy. When a man named Laurent severely beat up a slave girl at a party, Raven, being in charge of security, kicked him out and reported the incident to Rupert Thorne. Laurent was fined $5,000 and his privileges revoked for one year. Rather than take ownership of his own punishment, Laurent blamed Raven for ‘sticking his nose where it didn’t belong’.

One night, while Raven was driving home with Catrinel down a winding stretch of road, the brakes failed completely and the Jag went over the edge into a steep ravine. Catrinel was killed instantly, and Raven’s arm was nearly torn off at the shoulder, leaving him hospitalized and forced to undergo physical therapy for months just to get the arm working again.

When Rupert first told him about Catrinel and that it was Laurent who tampered with the vehicle, Raven’s reaction was predictable.

“I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitch!”

“You won’t have to, my friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s been taken of, Laurent and the men he hired to sabotage your vehicle. We always take care of our own.”

“I wanted to do it myself. It was my right!”

“These situations need to be handled a certain way to maintain security. You know that.”

“Yes . . . yes but . . .”

“Catrinel was a lovely woman,” Rupert broke in, “and I will miss her too, more than you know, but the survival of our society is more important than your feelings, or your revenge. The Black Glove is more important than the life of any individual. That means her, you, and me. Catrinel understood this, and for your sake, I hope you learn to understand it too.”

After Rupert left the room, Raven thought long and hard about what he said, then never brought up the subject again.

In coming years, the society continued to grow and prosper. By then, it was called The Black Glove Organization, and later, the name shortened to The Organization. The health of its founder, however, was failing rapidly. For Rupert Thorne, his chronic back pain, a relatively low immune system, and overuse of opium, began to take their toll. Physically his body grew even more gaunt and pale in appearance, his behavior more lethargic. Long periods in hospitals and rehab clinics left him unable to run The Organization effectively, so a board of directors was formed, comprised mostly of the remaining seven founders.

All the wealth, property and influence Rupert Thorne possessed could not change the inevitable fate looming over him. During his last eight months of life, Raven was there for him, along with Johari and the other kajira. Even Moria Chappell came back to help, for she too loved him.

After Rupert’s death, Raven was awarded a large portion of the Thorne estate, making him a millionaire. Rupert’s slaves went back to auction, much to Raven’s disappointment, though he had no say in the matter. The Board took over The Organization completely, and not long after, decided to build a new slave training operation in the United States near the east coast, since many of its wealthiest members already lived there.

They awarded Raven the task of heading the operation and offered Bella to go with him and serve as a house mistress. John had seen her work at the first party he attended before joining The Black Glove and had met her several times since. She was certainly a very capable dominatrix with years of experience, but Raven had someone else in mind.

“I want Moria Chappell to come with me.”

“Out of the question,” one of the board members objected. “She’s a performer, not a mistress.”

Raven answered flatly, “She’ll do very well in both roles.”

So both Raven and Moria were sent to the U.S. for this new venture. Together, they found a stately old mansion in upper New York surrounded by acres of dense forest. Its remote location and structure were perfect for what they had planned.

Moria became the first house mistress and she also entertained guests at parties with her talents in Gorean dance. Having once been a kajira herself, she was invaluable to Raven in developing the ‘recruiting’ process and training programs. Their personal relationship began to re-kindle also, but not long after, she died suddenly and tragically of an undiagnosed congenital heart defect.

One by one, the people that were once important in Raven’s life had been taken from him – Rupert and Moria, who brought him into The Black Glove Society and the only two people he really trusted, and Catrinel. After her loss he would never let another woman get so close to him again. But any void they left in his life would be replaced by something more powerful – a devotion to his new role in The Organization and the home he called, Dark Oak Manor.

(continued)