Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Kurt hadn’t worn the boots on the trip to the sanctuary, which made her realize that he’d changed into appropriate attire for the event. What was already raging inside her skittishly aroused body took another dive into the depths of her great sexual appetite.

  “And Regan desires to be your slave?”

  “She has asked me to take her freedom.”

  “Slave, sit back,” Edmund, Steward of Stewards, ordered.

  Regan obeyed. Resisting the urge to look up at the face of her master and this steward, she held her back straight and her head high, keeping her eyes focused down on the sand-colored stone. Already, her knees ached from the hard rock—but her discomfort registered only momentarily. There were too many other thoughts consuming her mind to worry over anything as inconsequential as the plight of her knees.

  “This slave has proved herself worthy of the task?”

  “Her desire speaks loudly,” Kurt replied, “though she needs a heavy indoctrination before I will accept what she offers me.”

  “And she’s willing to suffer?”

  “She will, or she won’t be my slave.”

  Every comment struck like a knife in her gut. Kurt was not Jon Benjamin—a loosely fashioned master with a horny cock and an inventive mind. If the seriousness of her venture with Kurt was not already apparent, it was now. He was writing their relationship in stone and then etching the truth of it on her body and brain. Her excitement piqued, but so did her fear—the good fear, the arousing fear, and a little of the dangerous fear. It was time to trust, otherwise she would have been wise to run from the scene and never look back.

  “Slave, focus your eyes on me,” Edmund began the proceedings.

  Regan looked up, seeing first the Steward of Stewards, and then the others, including Kurt, in her peripheral vision. They were all dressed in simple Old World attire—boots, leather britches, simple tunics, whips and floggers attached to their belts—as if they’d turned back time and the world was now reliving its dark ages.

  “You’ll address me as sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In this ceremony I am speaking for your intended master. You’ll afford me and any master in this company who speaks to you the same respect that you would give to him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It is your wish to give Sir Kingsley your freedom?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To this master, such a declaration means some very specific requirements that you will agree to now or this arrangement will not proceed. Is that clear to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To give up your freedom you will give up self-determination and the right to make decisions on your behalf.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your body will no longer belong to you, but to your master. He will use it as he sees fit. If he chooses to give it away, you cannot object. If he chooses to sell you, you have no say. If he wishes to beat you, or otherwise torture you for pleasure or punishment, that is his prerogative. He has only one injunction to his use of you. By his own agreement, he will not permanently harm you, physically or emotionally. This would be the sole grounds for the agreement you make with him to be voided. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” She shuddered more hearing the extremes of her gift to him.

  “Though he may brandish all manner of disciplinary and punishment devices against you, any permanent alterations to your body must be agreed to by you—any tattooing, cutting, branding, piercing. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In addition, you give up all of your personal property to your master. You own nothing—not what was once your personal assets, your clothes, your furniture, jewelry, other personal effects. Once this ceremony is complete, you are stripped of everything. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You understand as well that you cannot terminate this contract for any reason—save any action taken that would physically injure you. No matter how harrowing the requirements of your service to this master become, you cannot disjoin from him. You understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “You know as well that your master can choose, on any whim or fancy, to terminate this agreement; or if he chooses to barter, trade or sell you to another master, you will be obligated to honor, obey and serve that new master.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  The great intensity of the moment did not escape any of the masters present, least of all the Steward of Stewards. Edmund sat back on his stone throne and took a deep breath, as if he’d just signed a death sentence on her life.

  Regan did not move, but full of determination and certainty, she stared him down. If he were looking for flaws in her resolve, he would not find them.

  “Regan,” Kurt suddenly interjected.

  She turned his way, for the first time in nearly ten hours looking on the man she loved and needed. “Yes, sir?”

  “I need to make it graphically clear to you what this means. I want there to be no doubts.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered as she’d answered Edmund. Hearing the severity in his voice, a little tremor of fear caused her naked body to shake, and her breasts wiggled lightly against her chest.

  “I now have the keys to your car and your apartment. Once this night is over, I will instruct my agent to confiscate all of your belongings. Your apartment will be surrendered to your landlord, and any owing rents paid in full. Anything I don’t find of value will be sold; and the rest of your belongings will be boxed and brought to my house, where you will live with me.”

  Her heart took an anxious leap as these astounding words registered in her mind. So final. So complete. This was all that she imagined.

  “There are several legal papers being drawn up at this time, which will transfer to me the right of ownership for all your personal property, all your savings, checking and credit card accounts. Legally, you will own nothing. You will be responsible for nothing.” He paused. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice sounded like a silly squeak.

  “Your resignation from the Interior Design Associates will be delivered to the company tomorrow and all of your business and personal items will be removed from your studio office. Any work you do, you do for me. Any income from your work belongs to me. That, too, will be worked into a business contract that you will sign. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whatever life you have led is over as of this day. You are no longer Regan Wheat, a single woman, but regan, Kurt Kingsley’s slave. In so far as I can take from you your personhood, I will. And with every legal maneuver I can employ, you will be stripped of worth, career and personal rights. I cannot in this society legally own you as a slave, but in every way I can possess you, I will. Is that what you desire?”

  Regan looked into the cold of his blue eyes and without quavering, she replied, “Yes, sir.”

  The Steward of Slaves then queried with the same question in different words, “You do understand the extreme position you place yourself in? You understand that once you sign the legal documents, if Kurt Kingsley so desires, he can null your agreement with him and leave you penniless on the street? You understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Though you will have your body back, you will have no property, and no claim to property.”

  “I understand.”

  The steward paused to scrutinize her for a moment.

  “What, young woman, gives you the impetus to make this bold a move?” He asked as if he could not quite understand why she’d do this—even though a man in his position must have been through this kind of ritual many times.

  “My desire for this, Sir. And, I trust my master. I trust that he will do only what benefits me.”

  “What if, in your determination, he does not do what is best for you?”

  “It is not my place to even consider that.”

  “True. But, in as much as we can strip you of your rights, we cannot,
he cannot strip you of your mind.”

  “I understand that, sir. I take this as seriously as I know how. And though you’ve outlined the extremes that my slavery requires of me, I still do trust my master. I love him deeply and I believe he loves me. If he is a charlatan, in my life to torture me, then I have misjudged him. But I do not believe that my understanding of his character and devotion to him is misplaced.”

  Edmund nodded, seemingly impressed by her words. “Very good, then.” He sighed and continued with just a few last questions. “Your master is a wise man. He understands the basics of master slave relationships, and what it takes in the real world to have one succeed. Tell us about your devotion to him.”

  This question came as a surprise, but it was an easy one for her to answer. She thought of little else when she thought of Kurt Kingsley but her devotion to him. Though he had a stunning sexual hold on her—she’d known that before with Jon. To love him as she did required more than endorphins and a master’s tone of voice. “I hold my master in great esteem, sir. From the beginning of our acquaintance, he has continually sought the truth from me and given me nothing but his honest reply to all my questions. That is the source of my trust and my devotion, and even my love for him.”

  “Your master requires your utmost honesty in all matters,” Edmund agreed.

  “And I would give him nothing less, sir,” Regan said.

  “You can bare your heart and soul to him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you to waver in your affections for him, you’d tell him so?”

  “I’d tell him everything that is in my heart, no matter what it is.”

  “Even if he were to punish you?”

  “Even then.”’

  “And you’d gratefully accept his punishment if you were caught in a lie?”

  “I would, though I cannot imagine lying to him, or withholding anything I feel. He deserves as much considering the great responsibility he has taking care of my wellbeing.”

  “That would make you a wise slave,” Edmund said. “Keep that covenant and you’ll do well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank yourself, slave,” he noted. “Remember, though, as much as you vow the purity of your love, you will be tested. There will be times when it will not be easy for you to keep your vows. You need to remain cautious and vigilant. You understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Good.” He turned to his three confederates seated two to his left, one to his right—Kurt at the far end. “Unless you have further questions gentlemen, we’ll proceed with this slave’s marking.”

  Regan’s body warmed again, somewhat from relief, though there were new fears to consider. Marking? How would Kurt choose to identify his slave? They’d never talked about any of the common signs of slavery and she had no idea what methods he’d want for her. In fact, she never even considered that he’d take this step. She was already pierced at her nipples; the two curved barbells were quite obvious jutting out from her uplifted breasts. Kurt always enjoyed teasing her with them. She’d come to enjoy the gentle and even the mean way he tugged her flesh. When he played with her this way, she was commanded to remain totally silent while his arousal soared in the midst of her physical misery. But these were Jon’s insignia and it was safe to assume that Kurt would want some formal mark of his own.

  “Slave, your master wishes to remove the bars given to you by your previous master and replace them with larger gauge rings. And, because he wishes that your crotch become the focus of your attention, he will pierce your inner labia. As an outward sign of your slave status, there will be a leaf tattoo around your left ankle where the manacle now appears and a simple unbroken gold chain. Do you understand his plans and accept these symbols of your rank as slave?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Edmund nodded, then pushed off his stone chair, nodding to the other masters. “We’ll take care of these things inside. Slave, return to submit position and wait for someone to attend you.”

  Regan bowed forward, touching her head to the ground, and heard again the shuffling of feet as the masters left the courtyard. It seemed as if she was utterly alone for some time, though it hardly seemed possible that there would be no one with her—not with all the precautions taken to make certain that slaves could not move freely in the sanctuary. Though, she was not a slave to rebel, and her constancy would keep her fixed for hours if that was what was required of her, it was hard to believe that she was trusted to remain unmoving without someone there to monitor her response. Perhaps it was a test.

  For the first time since the ceremony began, Regan felt the discomfort in her knees and legs, with tiny pieces of sand pressing into her skin. To squirm even a little bit only made the discomfort worse. Soon. They would have to come for her soon. Please. Her inner mind was thinking loudly. Attempting to put her discomfort aside, she tried focusing on the astounding truth of her new slave covenant. Yet, with every minute added to her trial, her focus waned a little more.

  Finally, as though some angel heard her plight, she heard footsteps and then saw the boots of some attendant stepping into her small field of vision.

  “Stand,” she was ordered. Another steward she imagined.

  Regan rose carefully, well aware that her legs were nearly numb and that it would take some seconds getting used to walking upright.

  Her steward, however, allowed little time for her to restore her balance. He quickly, snagged her arm and hauled her into the monastery through a heavy oaken door with a rounded top and a thick wrought iron handle.

  ***

  Tennyson’s dungeon—three weeks before. He wanted the truth and what would she say?

  The scene could have taken place yesterday considering how fresh and real the memory was now. If only she’d been able to forget the details and ignore the sexual arousal. But since the day it occurred, that incident had not ceased to play like background music in her life. What could she say now?

  “Tennyson took me into his dungeon,” Regan finally began. “He was asking me to help him renovate the place. He wanted a particular style—something different, something Middle Eastern, from the Arabian Nights, not the typical stone, black dungeon with the heavy air, the leather and ropes. I thought it was a terrific idea.”

  “Did you now?” Matt asked.

  She turned to him, “Yes, I did.”

  “So what else happened?” Clayton inquired.

  She circled to see his face, too, and answered him directly. “He had me close my eyes and picture what he had in his mind.”

  “And you did that?” Clayton went on.

  “Yes, it’s great technique for seeing the results.”

  “And what did you see?” Matt asked.

  She turned back to the master. “I saw what he wanted me to visualize. Scarves, pillows, diaphanous materials…” She remembered with her body as much as her words.

  “And how did you respond physically?” Tennyson asked from his stalking perch as he stopped pacing the floor and leveled his eyes on her.

  “Physically, yes? Of course, my body reacted, the pictures were very well drawn—after all, you created them. And I can do a lot in my imagination.”

  “Yes, I think you can,” Tennyson agreed easily. “So, why don’t you admit the truth about that day?”

  “The truth?”

  “Yes, the truth,” Kurt jumped right in. “It’s part of your agreement with me, a part I think you’ve forgotten.”

  Regan stared at her husband, feeling the blue of his gaze ignite her insides, while the intensity of the room made her turn cold… her fingers felt numb, yet her heart pounded hot… the strange force of sensations wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but one that bounded forward regardless of her attempts to contain it.

  “Sir, please.”

  “I want the truth, Regan, that is your promise to me, or have you forgotten your vows?”

  ***

  The monastery was a series of rooms, meandering like a
maze through the rambling fortress. Regan was lost by the time she reached the marking chamber, which was a simple, windowless room somewhere in the center of the building. The light was bold inside, which only made the purposes of the place more obvious. Most notable was a blacksmith’s furnace used to heat branding irons—now very cool to the touch since it wouldn’t be used this day. Along the walls were an assortment of knives for cutting and the tools for a tattoo artist. Regan’s eye finally strayed to a tray of piercing equipment, which had apparently been laid out for her. A shudder of remembrance shot through her system as she recalled the first time she was pierced in a dingy tattoo parlor with Jon at her side.

  Now, the atmosphere was quite different—a ritual much more serious than that almost comical moment with her first master. The several masters from the courtyard including Edmund were there to witness the ceremony.

  “Sit down,” Kurt addressed her formally.

  Regan noted the stool in front of her and went directly there to take her seat. With one gaze at the needles, she realized the pain she would experience. But she was not about to falter. Instead, she drove her energy to that throbbing place between her thighs where she felt rooted to the earth. Then with a deep breath, she focused her gaze downward, and her mind went blank.

  Kurt’s hands on her breasts were cooler than her hot skin. She quaked and goose bumps emerged on the surface.

  Since they’d met, Regan had worn the barbells Jon had pierced through her nipples the first month of their relationship. She hardly thought of them anymore, except in those moments when Kurt would tease them, twisting the silver until she would almost shriek. She had no idea that he had other plans for the adornment of her nipples or the rest of her body. The surprise was scary, but not in a bad way.

  “I like these, Regan, but the rings are more versatile.” As he spoke, Kurt began unscrewing the barbell posts. “These are just one gauge larger, and should fit without a problem.” Removing the bar on her right nipple, he quickly pressed the end of the new ring into the tiny hole and pushed it through. There was some tug, as the gauge of this silver alloy was tight inside the space, but it gave freely until the end popped through the other side and he could place the captive bead between the two ends. Kurt repeated the procedure with her other nipples, leaving them both pierced with quarter-sized rings.