Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “What’s that mean, given up your freedom?” Matt jumped in. She turned again.

  “Move to the center of the room, Regan,” her husband interjected, “then answer his question.”

  If this were to be an inquisition, then it only made sense to make her statement without her husband to cling to, alone in the middle of their earnest scrutiny. Following the order, she filled the emptiness between the circle of masters, and looked toward Matt, wondering how to answer him.

  “What’s it mean to give Kurt your freedom?” he repeated his question.

  She knew the answer without having to think… though the words were harder to find than she anticipated. “It means that I am no longer an independent woman, sir,” she started, “that I’ve given up the right to decide my future, to make decisions in any matter concerning how I live. It means I’ve given up any claim to property or income. I am owned. My actions, my behavior, any work I do belong to Sir. I have no right to argue or protest. My sole function is to serve and obey him. And, if he sees fit, I accept whatever punishment he wishes to give me.” She’d covered all the bases she could think of and stopped talking, waiting for another question.

  “Why do you do it, Regan?” Clayton spoke from behind her.

  She turned his way, moving in an awkward circle on the floor, desperate, lonely and more frightened than ever. She was nearly in tears as she met Clayton’s eye. His jocular manner had transformed into a tender, almost fatherly guise. And yet, his question was as serious as all the others, and required as much sincerity in her reply.

  “Because being a slave is who I am, sir. It gives me peace… the most true peace I’ve ever felt.”

  She could sense a smile about to form on his amiable face, but he would save it for another time.

  Friends becoming inquisitors—what a fine move on her master’s part, what a stroke of genius, she thought. The intensity of the examination was straight from a slave’s most potent dreams. If it had been a sister slave being grilled this way, she might have applauded the scheme. Now, however, she had to let those thoughts slip away and remember her focus. The moment required every bit of concentration she could muster—and she couldn’t allow herself to cry.

  “Remove your clothes,” Kurt ordered in the same dispassionate way he’d conducted the entire interview. She began quickly, but not quickly enough. “Pick up the pace, slave,” her husband snapped when she fumbled with the button on her skirt.

  Her shoes, her skirt, her tee shirt and panties; there was so little to discard. Leaving them in a small heap beside Kurt’s chair, she settled into her nakedness and turned back to her husband. The air chilled her body, stirring the hair on her arms like a gentle breeze. She sat on one ass cheek with her feet tucked under her, gazing down, feeling oddly embarrassed, as she noticed how her nipples stiffened into two pert knots of pink. Though she’d been through this kind of treatment once before, this occurrence had a death knell ring so portentous that she was tempted to lay right down, confess to whatever she was accused of and take her punishment.

  Tennyson started the questioning again, knocking her back to reality, “You consider yourself a good slave?”

  “That would be a question for my master, sir,” she said politely.

  “No, it’s a question for you,” Tennyson maintained. “I want your answer.”

  “Yes, yes I am a good slave,” she replied quietly.

  “What was that?”

  “Yes, sir, I am a good slave,” she raised her voice slightly.

  “That’s better, slave. Don’t make me struggle to hear you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what are the specific requirements of your slavery?” Matt asked.

  “That I obey my master’s every command, sir.”

  “Be more specific.”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “Specifics in behavior, expectations. How do you communicate with your master?”

  “I must be mindful always of his rights of ownership, sir. I honor him, speak candidly when I’m asked. Even if it means I’m punished, I must be truthful.”

  “Have you been truthful in all matters with your master?” Clayton wondered.

  “I believe I have, sir.”

  “Your behavior is without blemish?” Matt asked.

  “Yes, sir, ” she said, even as Kurt’s words from years past echoed in her brain. They weren’t even big lies, but they chipped away at what I thought was solid rock, and turned that rock into little more than desert sand.”

  The silence following her last response was instantly threatening. Matt Hardy squirmed in his seat, while Tennyson paced briefly, and Clayton and Kurt kept their eyes fixedly on the humbled slave. There was a tingling heat in Regan’s body as she waited for the interrogation to continue. As the quiet minutes passed, the tepid air around her seemed to pound against her brain making her feel as though she were being hit with knifes.

  Her husband broke through the quiet, “Tell me, Regan, what happened in Tennyson’s dungeon three weeks ago.”

  Regan circled around again, turning to the sound of her master’s voice. “Tennyson’s dungeon three weeks ago?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Tell me the story. We have all the time in the world to listen. Don’t we, gentlemen?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  A cool breeze blew in from the open bathroom window as Regan toweled herself dry. She had three appointments in the next few hours so her mind was crammed with thought, all this pushing aside any concern for Kurt Kingsley. It had been nearly a week since their stay at the Country Inn, and not one word from the man she hoped would be mastering her. It wasn’t exactly anxiety creeping into her consciousness, but wonder and a slight sense of dread. He could not refuse, her battered mind would claim. Still, he’d made no commitment and left her with the question of ownership still undecided.

  Regan’s body ached for him—so did her submissive need; but she didn’t have time to think of that ache or the pressing need, or the question of her ownership. When the doorbell rang, she was too lost in her thoughts of work to hear it. Minutes later, she turned to the sound of footsteps approaching; their click on the hardwood floor was enough to startle her.

  She jumped back with a shriek, seeing Kurt standing in the doorway, while she stood before him stark naked.

  “Well, the attire is perfectly apropos,” he said as he surveyed her body. “My only question is: do you always leave your door unlocked?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t know it was.”

  “You know now. It won’t happen again; is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He acknowledged her promise with a nod of his head and moved on.

  “I stopped by only to make sure you clear your schedule.”

  “For what, sir?”

  “Your training begins this weekend.”

  “Training?”

  “Is that not what you asked for?”

  Her eyes widened in awe. “Yes, sir. And for how long will I be trained?”

  “As long as it takes to make you into a decent slave. Now, I suggest that you get ready for work. I suspect there will be a few loose ends to tie up before you’re under my command.”

  ***

  The ceremony of commitment began in the courtyard of an old monastery, which had been recently restored and converted into a sanctuary for modern day slave owners and their slaves. The small haven could house a half-dozen masters in an atmosphere of tranquility and perversion. There were few limits placed on the masters by the owners of this retreat. Though in advance, contracts were agreed on that circumscribed the rules and behaviors the hosts could anticipate from their guests. In addition, any limits enforced by the hosts were explained in detail and waivers were signed. A few customary protocols that were explained, so that guests of the retreat would understand the common conventions that made the retreat function smoothly. For a master seeking a realistic world where Dominance and submission prevailed as a natural circumstance of life, this was
paradise.

  On arriving at the monastery, Regan had been taken to the entry gate and turned over to the Steward of Slaves—a husky, dark-skinned, dark-haired fellow, who was a slave to the owners of the sanctuary, but in charge of initiating new slaves to the general regulations. He wore a pair of cotton britches and a muslin tunic, which made him look as though he’d stepped from the Middle Ages, a commoner or serf.

  Kurt, having been informed of the normal induction procedures gave Regan to the man with little concern, although she was shaking with fright.

  “You’ll be fine, slave. And I’ll be on the hill when you’re ready to join me at the house.”

  “When will that be?”

  “When you’re ready,” he repeated without emotion. “Don’t pout. Hold your head up and do as you’re told.”

  “Yes, sir.” He’d hardly spoken a word to her since he picked her up in the apartment lobby a few hours before, except to say that he was taking her to a slave indoctrination facility where she would be properly trained for her service to him.

  “What, then, was the General’s training about?” she’d wondered.

  “Only a test,” he’d said. “This is for real.”

  Tynan, the Steward of Slaves, took her into the gatehouse for the first of several instruction sessions.

  “Off with the clothes,” was his first command—and one she expected. Slaves weren’t worthy of clothes until they made themselves worthy. Assumptions like this one were easy to make for a woman who understood what slavery meant.

  She stripped away her cream-colored skirt, pale blue blouse, nylons and shoes, then peeked at Tynan wondering if he wanted her to remove her bra and panties as well.

  “Those, too,” he jumped right in without her having to ask.

  A little tickle of delight warmed her belly as she bared herself to the man’s gaze. However, Tynan was uninterested in her physical appearance—he had a job to do.

  Moving deftly, he fitted her with a slave collar—a simple band of brown leather with a locking clasp at the back and a leash ring at the front. Around her left ankle, he placed a thick iron shackle, which reminded Regan of the heavy slave collar she’d worn that night in the country inn. It fit snuggly as a constant reminder of its presence—though she hardly needed any reminder that she was a slave.

  “The rules are…” Tynan started his litany in a listless monotone. “Slaves do not sit on furniture, they do not eat at tables but on the floor. Slaves use only the slave facilities for their toilet, and are forbidden to roam the monastery without their master or an attendant with them. When they are without their master, they are turned over to one of several stewards on duty and chained by the ankle to a staying post until they are summoned elsewhere.” Tynan peered into her eyes and waited for her response.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t call me sir. That is a title reserved for masters, and I am not a master. I am Tynan to you, nothing more.”

  “Yes, si…” she stopped to correct herself, “Tynan.”

  “Better.” He went on. “When you stand in the company of masters, keep your shoulders back, your chin up, your eyes cast downward. Do not look anyone in the eye, unless you’re commanded to do so. When you’re told to kneel, drop to your knees but remain upright, with the same straight posture as you assume when you’re standing—shoulders back, chin up, eyes down. If you’re to be inspected, clasp your hands behind your neck, elbows out. If you’re ordered to submit yourself, kneel, knees spread and bend your torso over your thighs touching your head to the ground, while leaving your hands at either side of your head. All that clear?”

  “Yes, Tynan.”

  “Let me see you demonstrate. Stand.”

  Regan adopted the posture with few changes in her bearing, as this was a natural pose for her.

  “Kneel.”

  She dropped immediately to the ground, adopting the same submissive posture she would use while standing.

  “And for inspection,” Tynan moved on.

  Regan swiftly clasped her hands behind her neck.

  “And submit.”

  She had little trouble with the posture—some things in the slave lifestyle were consistent one place to another. The steward found this initiate an easy study.

  “Stand now,” he said.

  Regan jumped to her feet and assumed the proper position.

  Tynan continued. “There are no rules in the sanctuary for beatings, discipline and punishment—that will be dictated by your personal master. I suggest, however, that you not speak unless you’re spoken to—ever. Slaves know their place—they have no rights, no position, no power, no say. You are, just as I am, a non person in this world. No one is required to give you any respect or afford you any comfort. You’re here to be trained in the manners and customs of your master. New slaves are brought here because it is easier to train you in a place that understands the life you’ll lead.” Tynan paused his lecture to stare her in the eye. “You have any questions?”

  Regan’s mind went blank, then it filled with all the details she was required to remember. She knew the rules were simple, probably nothing more than second nature; but she wanted to remember them perfectly, as she planned no mistakes, no errs, not a single slip.

  While her fear had somewhat eased, it only made her physical desire mount to an incredible degree. This was a monastery, her fantasy a nunnery. Did Kurt have a choice to bring her here, or take her some place else? And did he make his choice knowing how she’d react to this image from her fantasy come to life?

  Was it as dark on the hill as it was in her dreams? Did the same contemptible deeds of lust take place inside the once hallowed halls as took place in her wicked dreams? And would she have to face her greatest fears during this training for slavery? She almost wished for General McIntyre’s prim house, with its starched-faced maids and prissy rules. The possibilities for depravity here were endless—at least her fertile mind believed that so.

  With the rules firmly planted in her mind, Regan was leashed to a chain and walked up a footpath to the monastery’s main building. She recalled the long columned porticos from her dreams, the stucco exterior, and the Mediterranean character from the pictures in her head. As if she were walking into a nightmare, her body’s defenses sharpened. Her instincts were on alert. But her heart raced fast and the attending emotion was at one point so overwhelming that she was nearly in tears. So many conflicting feelings absorbed her on the hike that she didn’t notice the steep incline or the ache in her thighs, or even her own nakedness.

  At the building’s back door, Regan was ushered into a waiting chamber where her leash was tied to a post and Tynan ordered her to the floor where she was to wait. It was difficult to sit comfortably on the stone tiles as the unforgiving surface seemed to jar her bones loose. And with the leash tied high above her, the strain on her neck was difficult to manage No one is required to give you any respect or afford you any comfort. Tynan’s words rang true. Even so, this fantasy come true turned her body heat on high, by degrees hurdling her forward into some unknown place where she might just spontaneously burst with orgasm. Oh! Where was Kurt now? She wondered. She sank down helpless in her spot at the foot of the post, letting the chain continue to tug her neck with a gentle strain.

  Later that evening in the courtyard, the masters gathered for the commitment ceremony. Regan knelt in submission as the Steward, Tynan, had instructed her. Her face was pressed to the sandy stone, her hands beside her head—her body was one small ball of human slave flesh, waiting for ritual. The courtyard had been empty when she first arrived; but once she took her humble pose before an arc of stone benches, she heard shuffling footsteps, and the murmur of voices. Though her eyes remained closed, she imagined a tribunal of masters with long, grim faces and threatening eyes. Judges. Magistrates. Inquisitors. To a submissive woman with a burning desire for humiliation, this was bliss. Would Kurt be among these masters?

  This was the stuff of her best and worst fantasies, w
hen in the nunnery or elsewhere she put herself through elaborate rites. The only thing unknown to her now was the formula—though the result was quite clear in her mind. There would be mindless, numbing sexuality breeding in her body. Whether it was satisfied in climax, she wouldn’t know. But that really didn’t matter. What made her live the moment for its richest treasure was the slavish glory of the instant. There was wonder, excitement, humiliation and desire, all steeped with the best lust she could recall. Never had she been so beautifully aroused as in these seconds of desperate waiting.

  “She has a slave name, sir?”

  Edmund was speaking—the Steward of Stewards. He was not a slave to the sanctuary, but a master himself, the trainer who worked with guest masters as they decided on the appropriate forms of discipline required to meet each master’s needs for their newly initiated slave.

  “Regan,” she heard Kurt’s voice. This was the first time she’d been aware of his presence that day. She’d remained tied to the post in the waiting room for nearly an hour—by her accurate guess; then was taken to a holding cell, which was a bit more comfortable—though the cell was little more than a six by six cage—bars for walls and a lock to keep her inside. The lock was hardly necessary, since Regan was not a rebellious slave. However, no one took chances in this place. Slaves were captives, whether by choice, or against their will, they were treated as if the possibility for escape was always on their minds. Regan wondered during her many hours of waiting if there were nonconsensual slaves at the sanctuary. She saw no evidence of that, though the idea held a certain fascination in her mind. She’d often imagined being taken against her will and how that kind of captivity would feel to a slavish soul.

  She did feel captive now as Kurt stepped forward in front of her.

  Though she couldn’t see him with her forehead trained on the flagstone courtyard, she could distinguish his familiar essence from all the others around her. Besides, he was wearing a pair of special boots he wore only for Renaissance Faires and occasions like this one where the feeling of mastery could be augmented with costumes and customs from the era when slaves were more common than noblemen.