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The Apartment

“Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas.”

“The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.”

— Blaise Pascal, Pensees

Lydia’s apartment was located on the top storey of an old inner-city mansion. It was spacious, with balconies that overlooked the business district on one side and the river on the other. It was elegantly furnished, in a somewhat masculine style. There was an ornate fireplace in the living room, along with plush leather armchairs and an amply stocked liquor cabinet. The polished wood floor was strewn with sumptuous rugs, into the purple silk of each was woven an elaborate geometrical pattern in gold thread. The dining room contained a table big enough to seat a dozen people. The kitchen was compact but well-appointed and well-provisioned. There was a drawing room with an enormous, velvet-sheathed chaise longue, Lydia’s private study and a library with filled bookshelves. There were three bedrooms but just the one bathroom.

Lydia was, insofar as I could tell, not married. There was a ring on her finger which was too chunky to be a wedding band. (It bore on its face the now familiar § monogram.) I never saw her with any man whom she treated differently from all the others. Yet she did not live alone. When I first arrived, we were greeted by one of her three apprentices. Lucinda was petite and pretty, olive-skinned with large, dark eyes. Her hair was cut short like Lydia’s, bleached and tinted a coppery red. She was naked. Her pubic area was smooth, and I could see that the labia had been pierced with small golden rings such as those I had seen on Desirée.

The apartment was accessed by an elevator which, with the insertion of a keypad code, bypassed the intervening floors and opened directly into the residence. As soon as we had entered and the doors closed behind us, Lydia commanded me to stop and take off my clothes. She also stripped, and we gave each garment we discarded in turn to Lucy, who lovingly folded them in two neat piles and carried them after us.

“Here you will not wear clothing,” Lydia said. “Your body must be completely free at all times.”

“Free” was an odd word to use. Did she mean it as in freedom or as in… free admission?

“You will not wear anything, not even your collar, nor any make-up, nor jewelry.” (The ring on her finger and those in Lucy’s vulva presumably did not count.) “You will have no possessions. All you have is what you are.”

Awaiting us in the living room were my other fellow trainees. Rebecca was tall and athletic, with richly tanned skin and shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair. She looked to be a couple or more years older than me, perhaps in her late twenties. Sir Jason was slim and good-looking, of about Richard’s age, or possibly even younger, with ginger hair, a pale complexion and a sprinkling of freckles. Dressed in neat slacks, a crisp white shirt and carpet slippers, he was the only one in the apartment who wasn’t naked. As she introduced us, Lydia ordered me to kneel. She did as well.

Sir Jason smiled indulgently as each of us in turn bent forward to kiss and lick his boots. The polish, freshly applied, tasted pungent and waxy. I felt Lydia’s elbow nudging my side.

“Stand up and let the Master see you,” she whispered, keeping her eyes focused on the floor.

I held my body erect and immobile, arms folded behind my back and head bowed, repressing a gasp and suppressing a wince as Sir Jason inspected his property thoroughly, with his eyes and hands, front and back, inside and out. When he was finished, he permitted the others to rise before going off the study. Rebecca and Lucy excused themselves to head for the kitchen. Lydia showed me around the apartment, pointing out her bedroom and the Master’s. I would be sharing with the other two girls. There was just the one bed, albeit queen-sized.

“Your sleeping arrangements,” I was informed, “will vary from night to night, depending on which of us the Master desires.”

When we were back in the living room, Lydia took hold of my shoulders to make sure I gave her my complete attention. “You know why you’re here?”

“Yes, mistress.”

She frowned. “You don’t call me that anymore.” She paused, looking sterner. “So, do you wish to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I wish to stay.”

Her expression brightened. “Good girl. From now on, while you are here and he is here, you belong to Sir Jason. You will honor and obey him at all times.”

I nodded. “You as well?” I asked.

“I am no longer your mistress,” she replied. “He is your Master.”

“I mean, do you obey him as well?”

She nodded slowly, regarding me with a good-humored forbearance. “Of course.”

It took me a second to read her expression and I blushed at my own naiveté. The fading marks on her knees from the floorboards and the faint pink welts on various parts of her nude body had answered my question before it was asked.

Evening was now upon us, so I had just enough Maltepe Sınırsız Escort time to freshen up before Lucy and Rebecca served dinner. We took our seats at one end of the table, with Sir Jason at the head. Lydia and Lucy held back until he was in his place, and I followed their lead. Rebecca joined us when she’d served each course. The meal was simple but pleasant. The Master drank wine while the rest of us sipped jasmine tea.

We engaged in conventional dinner conversation, though four of us kept our eyes downcast. Mealtime, I learned in due course, was the only occasion when we females spoke freely in the Master’s presence. This served a useful purpose. So long as we observed the proper etiquette, table talk gave us and especially Lydia the chance, if necessary, to raise and address issues of importance with the head of the household without having to worry about the master-slave protocols.

Our owner did not dominate the discussion. In fact he was rather shy. Since I kept my gaze lowered the whole time (except for the occasional glance), I could not see his face, but I discerned a slight tremor in his voice, and the hint of a stammer. He and Lucy were studying at university. Like me, she was a postgraduate, while Sir Jason was an undergraduate (which confirmed that he was easily the youngest of us). Rebecca was a lawyer of some kind, “on sabbatical” as she put it.

“I’ve seen you on campus,” Sir Jason declared, as Rebecca cleared away the dessert dishes. He did look familiar, and I desperately hoped he was not another of my students. He laughed. “Well, in a way on campus. The Gor tavern.”

Lydia seemed amused by my stricken look and subsequent sigh of relief. She was very perceptive, altogether an impressive lady. Among us, she said the least, listened the most, missed nothing.

When dinner was finished, I was sent to the kitchen to help with the washing up. When Rebecca and I returned to the living room, Lucy and Lydia were squatting on the living room floor, both wearing blindfolds, their hands tied behind their backs. Our formidable hostess, now sweating and trembling, looked tiny, meek and fragile. The pair were joined to each other by a harness of rope secured about their necks. Without instruction, Rebecca bound and blindfolded me and yoked me to the others. We thereafter waited in silence, as the fourth member was added to our little trussed ensemble. We were linked close enough that I could sniff the lemony scent of the detergent residue on Rebecca in front of me and the strawberry fragrance of Lucy’s shampoo to my rear.

Sir Jason led us, by our collective tether, to one of the suites below the apartment. We went via the stairs instead of the elevator, and without the use of our eyes we had to tread cautiously and huddle even closer so as to not lose our balance on the steps or trip over each other. The slate floor was ice-cold under my bare feet. I felt the tickle of Lucy’s breath on the back of my neck. Her bosom snuggled between my upper arms, the touch soft and warm and soothing against my bare skin. My own naked breasts pressed into Rebecca’s back, and she was pinching her shoulder blades as if to gently squeeze them. As we shuffled slowly down the corridor that led from the stairwell, I felt her bound hands nudging into my crotch; her fingers began working their sensual magic, and I did the same for Lucy. I felt her twitch, and to the rear of our queue I heard Lydia’s deep sighs. I wondered if Sir Jason cared that we were pleasuring each other when our bodies and their delights should belong to him alone. He did not seem to mind.

When my sight was restored (while the others remained blindfolded), I discovered that we were in a studio of some kind. There were bright lights in the ceiling and on free-standing lamps; but heavy drapes on the windows had the effect of making the space gloomy even when fully illuminated. A number of black-lacquered screens were positioned seemingly at random, and in their shiny surfaces I could see reflections of the four of us, still bound and leashed together. There were three Ottoman-style footstools covered in a burgundy-colored fleece, and a bed with plush scarlet satin sheets. This furniture was arranged on one side of the room on a large square of carpet, like a photographer’s set-piece.

In the middle of the room stood a structure which, even after my experiences in the Wooden Pony Club, thoroughly unnerved me. Constructed of metal pipes and bars, it consisted of dual parts, on the left two vertical poles separated by the span of outstretched arms, and on the right a triple pillory made up of hinged segments with grooves in the upright posts to adjust the height. Welded onto the frame at various places were hooks, from which were hanging various implements of torment — whips, chains, iron shackles, bridles and halters, chastity belts with double “inserts” and so on… including something that looked horribly like the “pear of anguish” used (allegedly) by mediæval torturers.

The Maltepe Suriyeli Escort Master untied our hands and ordered Lucy and Rebecca to kneel directly behind the scaffold, while Lydia (still blindfolded) felt for the adjusting screws to lower the stocks, so the girls’ heads and hands could be clamped in place. She then dropped it even further until the two were forced to bend forward, their chins just off the floor and their rumps raised high. She thereupon placed herself in the third pillory, and Sir Jason locked her in it. He muzzled all three with bulbous ball-gags.

“Come here, please,” he said (his mild impediment suddenly gone without a trace), and told me to crouch behind Lydia. On his command, I pushed both of my hands between her thighs. She gasped and gulped, panted and puffed, her skin quivered and her backside cheeks twitched as I caressed her until my fingers became clammy in the warm, moist folds. I did the same to Lucy and Rebecca. By the time I’d done my duty, they were slumped on their haunches, whimpering quietly; but the Master rudely interrupted their rapture by hauling on a rope which elevated the pillory until they were raised onto their tiptoes and moans of ecstasy became groans of despair.

He now ordered me to stand between the two poles, with arms and legs extended. Straps connected to the four corners of the frame were secured to my wrists and ankles, and tightened until I was lifted onto my toes and it felt as if my poor limbs would be detached from their sockets. But the straps on my wrists ran across my palms so I could grip them for support; and it was curiously invigorating to have my muscles and tendons stretched. It was also intoxicating, in a way that I could hardly have imagined not so very long ago, to be rendered so helpless and exposed.

This being my first night under tutelage, I thought that I might be spared the more rigorous parts of the curriculum. But Sir Jason took full advantage of my immobilized and spread-eagled condition, penetrating me front and back. With my body tensed and stiffened by my hoisting on the frame, the passage had to be forced, but the effect was to make more sensitive the points of entry. His thrusts and my squirms amplified the strain from my bonds. My legs were cramping, my arms ached, and every breath seared my lungs. But the young man knew how to wrest shrieks of ecstasy from my lips and make my sweat run in streams.

When he had finished, he gagged me and returned to the others. First he whipped them unmercifully, until they howled through their gags. He then uncoupled each in turn from the pillory, bound her and toyed with her for at least half an hour before putting her back in place and starting on the next. The humiliation was cruel, the torments ingenious. The Master had his playthings writhing in pain and sobbing in shame, their bodies twisting and contorted in feverish rhapsodies of perfervid pleasure.

From what I understood, Sir Jason had signed up as Lydia’s apprentice just a week before. A keen, clever lad can learn a lot in seven days, under expert guidance.

By the time he released me from hanging on the scaffold, the experience had gone from exhilarating to excruciating. I almost wept with relief, but my elation did not last. He pushed me to the floor and lay me on my stomach, and bound me in a hog-tie. It was so severe that my torso was bent backwards at a right angle (or so it felt). After being stressed for so long on the frame, my arms and especially my shoulders burned as if beneath a red-hot grille; but the tiles bit frigidly into my bare flesh. As I endured, he went back to the other three women, and took them from the pillory to the bedroom set where he hog-tied them as well, in a row on the mattress.

It was two hours or more since the games had begun, but Sir Jason was nowhere near finished with us. He untied me except for my hands behind my back, blindfolded me, took me to the set and had me bend over one of the stools. There was a minute of suspenseful silence, and then I heard the bed frame squeak and groan and each of the women moan in turn. As he returned to me, however, even his commendable stamina had failed him, so he used a vibrating phallus to massage my already throbbing parts. And after that, I don’t remember much until we were in the apartment once more, and it was after midnight. I have a blurry image in my brain of the four of us crawling on our bellies to and from the elevator and into the living room, the Master hurrying us along with his whip. He then retired to his bedroom, leaving the four of us to recuperate from our ordeal.

Lucy, Rebecca and I remained in the living room, still somewhat dazed, while Lydia went to the kitchen. Her body and mind seemed to have recovered already.

“Do not sit on the sofa or the chairs,” she told me.

While we waited, I was shown the proper way to kneel on the rug, resting on my heels but with my thighs apart. When not being used or bound, my arms should be at Maltepe İranlı Escort my side or behind my back either folded or with wrists crossed.

“How do I know which to do?” I asked.

Lucy giggled. “You will know when you’ve done it wrong.”

Lydia brought in four mugs of steaming cocoa on a tray. She carried on as if she had not been absent.

“Yes, we’re sweaty and the leather costs a lot to keep clean. But that’s not the reason we sit on the floor. Except with the Master’s permission, we do not use the furniture.”

“It would be disrespectful,” Lucy added.

“We are not worthy,” Rebecca whispered, lowering her eyes as she said it.

I saw Lydia subtly shake her head as the others spoke. I guess we all had our different reasons for being in the apartment. But it amused me to hear our hostess talk of her home and its furnishings and her possessions as if they belonged to the young man. Yet they did, of course, along with the four of us, who shared the joy of womanhood and not the gift of manhood.

“For the same reason we do not cover our bodies,” Lydia continued, “even if the Master is not here, even when you’re alone. Your condition does not change in the absence of your owner. In fact, it is more imperative when there is no man present that you keep this in mind. Our nudity is one of the ways we express the two aspects of our womanhood — what we are and what we are not. Each is equally important in how you define yourself; and regardless of your circumstances, whomever you are with, whatever else changes, these are the constants in your life.”

“Only a man…” Rebecca hesitated. “Only the Master has the honor of wearing clothes.”

“It is his privilege to see us naked, to see all of what belongs to him,” Lucy added.

“And to enjoy it.”

“So being naked, seeing each other naked, even when the Master is away, is our reminder of that.”

Lydia looked straight into my eyes. “But it takes a while before this becomes second nature. So we have certain other (pardon my French) aides-mémoires.” She smiled. “You have experienced some of these tonight. There are others. They can come at any time.”

“You must always be ready and willing to serve…” Rebecca continued.

“…and prepared to suffer,” Lucy added.

“As it is with our nudity,” Lydia went on, “you must understand that the pain and degradation you endure are not just for the Master’s pleasure, although that is what we serve. They are, as well, for your instruction.”

She paused, to let that sink in. My brain was a swirl of thoughts and feelings — of fear and doubt, of hope and excitement and, of all things, pride — pride in myself because I had endured and passed my first test, in my fellow slaves for their strength and fortitude, in my Master who had shown himself worthy of our submission and servitude. Every part of me still hurt. Some parts, however, tingled deliciously… not just from Sir Jason’s attentions, but in anticipation and apprehension of what lay ahead.

“When you leave here, as you embark upon the next stage of your journey, you will find yourself more thoroughly enslaved and yet feel yourself more profoundly liberated than you could ever have believed possible.”

These were strange words. They sounded recited, like a memorized mantra, and I was not sure what to make of them. But as I studied Lydia’s flushed face and naked, pink-streaked body, what I could comprehend did at least begin to explain this beautiful, sophisticated, tough-minded woman’s oddly harmonious blend of dominance and subservience, her boundless energy, her amazing tenacity and docile humility. It was what had brought me to her apartment. Exactly as it had been with that other extraordinarily strong and sensual woman, Desirée, in exploring the mystery of Lydia I glimpsed the prospect (and ran the risk) of discovering some important things about myself.

She slapped her thigh. “Anyway, it’s late now and we are all exhausted. We shall take this up again tomorrow.” She turned to Rebecca. “The Master has chosen you tonight.”

The girl smiled wearily, nodded dutifully, and lifted herself slowly to her feet. Her statuesque frame was still feeling the ravages of the evening’s entertainment.

Lucy and I went to our room, and there was to be one last surprise in this day of revelation. As we lay together in the half-light of the softly glowing dresser lamp, my bedmate leaned across and began kissing my breasts and fondling me between my legs. I feebly tried to push her away, but she held my arms down, pressing my wrists into the pillow as she lay fully on top of me. Once I was able to compose myself, I gave in and allowed her to caress me, and I caressed her. We fell asleep with our bodies united and our limbs intertwined. When I awoke to the new dawning day, I found Rebecca asleep beside us.

***

“We would all be transformed if we had the courage to be what we are.”

— Marguerite Yourcenar, Alexis

It was easy to lose one’s sense of time in the apartment. I counted the days, but each seemed more like a week. It felt like we were living in a bubble sealed off from the rest of the world. Had it really been just months since I’d first entered the Gorean tavern? Not much more than twelve since I’d first gone to the Wooden Pony Club?

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