From that moment, my life began an odyssey that would take me into the uncharted waters of a deep sexual ocean, there to swim with Rowena. I remember it clearly, even to this day. At the instant of the branding I saw her face smiling at me.
I was now Sergei’s alone. The court had dispensed with me, and my master took me home. Just an hour later, he was in my apartment with me to settle me, giving me spirits, and insist that I stay in bed for the day.
“You’ll be working in the bordello three nights a week, two will depend on the schedule of whores. I’ll let you know in advance. And then Saturday you’ll spend the night and stay Sunday until the crowd slows.” This led me to the obvious conclusion that Saturday was the day most men needed a woman’s cunt and had the money and time to go after it. “I’ll check the brand next week to see if it’s healed enough for you to start. Tomorrow though, you see this man.” He handed me a card with a name and address. “He’ll tattoo your ankle.”
“What time?” I asked.
“In the morning before you work.”
I shook my head. “It would be better to go now,” I said, starting to rise from bed. “I have meetings in the morning.”
He looked at me, surprised to see my willingness to put aside the obvious pain of the brand. “Suit yourself, just remember that your contract supersedes your job.”
“I won’t forget,” I assured him.
Though I was tired and sleepy and the brand ached enough to take pain pills, I dressed and left the building to find the person at the address on the card.
***
The tattoo artist was a load of information. He knew I was a slave because many of Sergei’s slaves had been tattooed in the same way.
“You choose the trade, or let him talk you into it?”
“He talks women into it?” I replied. “He tried talking me out of it.”
“You don’t look the part,” the bearded man said standing back to eye me.
“And why’s that?”
“I don’t know. You just don’t look like the other girls that get this treatment. It’s a pretty tattoo though, these little flower buds around the small of your ankle. I remember him picking it out. Sergei wanted something delicate but recognizable.”
“How many women have you tattooed this way?” I asked.
“A dozen maybe.”
“That’s all?”
“You have a curious master there. Some slaves he just squanders on soldiers and riffraff. Others like you he’ll be using for the prime stuff. Should count yourself lucky, you might survive your contract.”
“If you’re trying to dissuade me from the life, your arguments won’t make a difference.”
“Not much point in that now, is there?” He was still working on the tattoo, neatly, painstakingly coloring my olive toned flesh so I thought the blending was quite lovely. This could have been the mark of any women. It wasn’t just slaves that wore such ornamentation, I told myself. Though it had been some time since I’d seen any peer bearing a permanent mark. Frankly, I didn’t care what my peers at the paper thought about it. What I did with my body was no concern of theirs.
“Bet you were branded yesterday, seeing the way you wince?”
“This morning,” I corrected him.
“Back for more so soon? You’re a tough one. Probably why he agreed to one as young as you.”
“He doesn’t say much to me one way or another,” I said. The artist continued with his work, and when he finished, he placed his implements back on the tray then moved back to me. I was about to jump off the table; but before I could, the artist’s hands began to tug at the hem of my dress.
“You know he pays me with your cunt.”
I wasn’t surprised. Understanding what was expected of me, I laid back on the table and spread my legs.
***
I sat in Gatov’s office at the end of the week, waiting. Pissed me off that he ignored me while he took several calls. As I waited I gazed at my ankle admiring the tattoo artist’s work, but most of all I thought of how this permanent painting of roses around my ankle made me feel. I was going to the bordello for the first time that night, my nerves prickly in anticipation. This, of course, was what I’d been waiting for for nearly a month.
What I wanted most was a man to run his fingers over the brand on my ass. The skin around the wound still felt tight, but that was a lush kind of tight, like Rowena would describe the sensation following a good lashing where welts remained.
“The Rowena story is still on your telly,” Gatov said finally looking up from his work and into my eyes.
“How would you know?”
“I have access to all the files.”
“That one’s personal,” I reminded him.
“But you’ll erase it. We can’t give the impression that this paper’s moving in that direction.”
“Who’s going to know? It’s under my code.”
He shrugged. “There are breakins enough to worry about that file being found. Erase it, Chloe. This afternoon.”
“And if I don’t?”
He stared at me and shook his head. “One wonders what goes through your brain.”
“I’m sure you’d like to know,” I replied. “Don’t worry, it’ll be in the trash so to speak, within the half hour. Is that all you want?”
He looked at me as if he planned to say more. “Yes,” he finally said after scrutinizing me with a painstaking eye.
“Thanks.” I was up and out the door.
Max Gatov might have had the power to remove my thoughts on Rowena Dulciat from my files, but he had no power to remove thoughts of her from my brain.
I began in the bordello that night. Arriving at the unmarked building, stepping inside its doors, the sense of liberty I associated with my new life swept through me. My loins were instantly engaged in the thought of how I’d spend my night giving pleasure.
“You’re to go to the attic,” the hostess said when I identified myself. Apparently identification wasn’t necessary, since with one glance at my ankle the woman could see that I belonged to Sergei.
“Will Sergei be here?” I asked the lush brown-skinned woman. She was an exotic female with eyes like a jungle cat, long curly hair that stood out in great volume from her head, and clothes looking like little more than someone’s breath on a foggy day. Translucent and shimmering they offset her body beneath, hiding nothing, but even more, highlighting everything that was important to the clientele of this bordello.
“No. Sergei almost never comes here. Just reaps the rewards of your service.” With her hands on my shoulders she turned me right to left inspecting my face and running her hands through my long hair. “So full and dark. You have a mysterious look. You’ll do well here. I’d like you in the rooms now, but Sergei wants you upstairs.” She pushed me toward a gilded staircase on the other side of the marble foyer. “Three flights up.”
“So, what do I do?” I asked her bewildered.
“It’ll come naturally,” she replied with a generous smile. “Once you get there you’ll know.”
I took the stairs slowly, hanging on to the banister with tense gripping fingers, taking my time getting used to the surroundings. Elaborately decorated in a mix of periods from Renaissance, to the 1920’s, to the nouveau 2060’s, I caught the atmosphere of the place, feeling much how I felt inside the antiquities shop. Women in all states of dress moved lithely up and down the staircase and halls, many casting wondering glances at me. Many ignored me, too, as they fawned over the men who purchased them for the night. Passing from the first floor to the second, the sound of distressed cries struck my ears. From behind closed doors submissives were being whipped. The noise of whips crackling through the air and paddles smacking against flesh provided a remarkable spark to the fire already burning in me. I watched as one humbled, tethered woman, crawled at her master’s feet while he strapped her ass all the way down the hallway until they disappeared into a room.
“You’re new?” I heard a female
voice behind me. I turned around.
“I am.”
“Fresh meat’s always in high demand. Yours will be choice.” A woman with a short but very wild black mop of hair pinched my cheek. “So young.”
“Everyone seems to feel that way, though I don’t feel particularly young.”
“Ah, but you are. Just look at the place.”
She felt behind my back. At first I couldn’t figure out why, until I realized that she was stroking the uneven place on my flesh where I’d been branded. “Still hurt?”
“Not really.”
“You’re Sergei’s,” she said, seeing the wreath of flowers at my ankle.
“And you too?”
“No. Heavens no. And glad for it too. He’ll work you hard.”
“That’s what I want,” I said haughtily.
“Let her go, Cece, she’s got work to do.” The hostess from the foyer was passing by us, giving Cece a sharp smack on the ass. “You’ve got work to do too or Pierre will have you whipped.”
“Only if you tell,” Cece snapped back. The hostess left us with a smirk, I about to continue my journey upwards. “Watch out for her. She’s never loyal,” Cece told me.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Kiri. She’s Sergei’s favorite.”
“His slave?”
“For ten years.”
I continued up the stairs to the final staircase leading to the attic. Pushing open the door at the top, I entered a room of some size, notably unfinished, which was quite a contrast to the elegant rooms below. The rafters of the house were exposed, the wood floor bare, and the only furnishings were a series of beds pushed together in several places where a dozen men or more were taking their pleasure with the women there.
Standing nervously by the door for some minutes, I wasn’t sure how to proceed. But just as Kiri had suggested to me, that quickly changed, when from the corner of one eye, one naked customer spotted me. As though he were expecting me, I found him at my side, helping me strip the clothes from my body, while several others on the bed stopped what they were doing to look. Left with a silk chemise, I was pushed to the mattresses, propelled on hands and knees onto the lumpy surface where I was swiftly poked by a stiff erection.
The men in the attic were brisk and decisive. The women yielding, expecting to be used. On my back I’d have one prick at my mouth another in my cunt. They wanted it tight around their cocks. And they wanted passion back. It helped to groan when I felt the pleasure for myself. Of course that was natural.
In the first several hours in the attic, I changed partners many times, my body, my sweat and my juices mingling with the bodies, sweat and sexual juices around me. It took some time to feel my own response, for fear and nerves. But then, I had the overwhelming feeling that I’d just left the planet altogether, died perhaps. With such feelings, the sexual desire in me let loose. Drawing the men to me, I was the favorite whore of the hour. Even when my ass was breached, I was wanting that. Climaxing didn’t matter as much as maintaining myself on an inebriated high, ready to come if I chose, ready to give more if that was required.
In one lingering moment of that first orgy, another woman jumped up from the bed and pulled me with her by the hand, both of us tearing away from the men who took up with other women in lieu of us. Outside the attic, we went down a half flight of stairs and through a small door I would have thought led to a closet.
“Why here?” I asked.
“Even whores take breaks. This is where we go,” she said. “The name is Indian.”
“Strange name? Is it real?”
“Sure. I was born in the Americaas.”
“I’ve never met anyone …” I replied amazed, thinking that I should have noted that possibility just by seeing the lovely woman’s blonde hair and fair Nordic skin. And yet there was nothing about her, even the way she spoke, that gave her background away. Just a slight accent remained in her speech, but I wasn’t educated enough to recognize it right off. “My name’s Chloe.”
She smiled at me warmly, while her eyes made a lusty perusal of my naked body.
“Here, you might want this,” she said throwing me a blanket. “The place is damned drafty.”
We sat in dusty armchairs, drinking creme soda, which had gone flat. Regardless, the liquid tasted good and soothed my throat. There were fresh peaches to eat, an unexpected find, and bread and chocolates and cheese. This was unlike any meal I’d had before. Being ravenous, I ate until I was stuffed. I’d never eaten a meal in the nude, though it didn’t seem unnatural. And while Indian and I satisfied our hunger, a half dozen other nearly naked women came and went for the same reason.
Relaxing afterwards, the fair-haired woman moved closer to me. Kneeling down before my legs, she parted them so she could come closer still. “Do you mind?” she asked. Her long fingers played with my hair much the same way Kiri’s had. With her hands on my skin I forgot that I’d spent the last three hours having sex with men. “You know they like to see women make love.” Stroking my face, her long nails tickled their way down my neck. She paused when she reached a nipple. Taking the tiny bud between her fingers I felt the pressure when she pinched it, and the resulting jolt between my legs. “You will make love to me when we go back?”
“I don’t know, is that … “
“It’s expected, Chloe. You grow used to these things when you work here. And believe me you’ll need it.” She knew a good deal more than I did about being a slave. I trusted her. Not only that, she was easy to be with, not as startling as Kiri, or as flip as Cece on the stairs. I felt as though I knew her well, perhaps because we’d been in bed together for hours already, even though we’d hardly touched. I remembered resisting her efforts to get close in the orgy attic, but that was because I thought it my job to pay attention to the men. After this conversation, I decided to follow my instincts.
Picking up the cool soda can from the table, Indian ran the wet metal over my breasts and then between them. The opposites of body heat and cold aluminum made it unclear what response to make. My body shivered either way. “If you like, we can do this for them.” Leaning in so that the can was pressed at my belly and between her breasts, she raised her lips while I lowered mine and we kissed. Long and wet and teasing, the kiss lingered while I enjoyed the smell and taste of her, her breath still bearing traces of peaches.
When she felt my body’s physical reply, Indian pulled at my hips to draw my genitals to the edge of the chair. Making her way down my torso with her lips, when she reached my pubis, she parted the thick labia and began sucking my swollen clitoris. I bucked on her face, pushing my crotch against her mouth. A few seconds and I was gone. Repeated orgasms swept through me. Ones I’d never counted on after being thoroughly satiated by cocks just a half hour before. I amazed myself, being so utterly yielding. There was nothing in my imagination that I wouldn’t do.
Later during that break, I found myself entwined with another woman, Coletta, her hands ravenous to feel my flesh, while Indian cuddled at my back and held me so completely that I couldn’t help but actively engage in the lesbian sex. My face was pressed into a Coletta’s cunt, my lips encouraged to play, and my body as used and coerced as it had been with the men. It didn’t take long to understand that behind the sexual activity of doing our master’s bidding, there was another world of female lust inside the walls of the bordello. There the passions were strong, and bonds could be created, and for all the suffering we might bear as slaves to men, we could find sex and tenderness and the genteel fragrance of a women to soothe the aches that men could simply not fathom.
I was schooled by both men and women for two weeks in that attic, made by both sexes to accept whatever was demanded of me. This seemed so simple, so completely natural there was little to balk over, very little to fear after that first night.
Sergei was wise enough to give me the period of initiation in the attic before I began to work the rooms below. When I arrived one night and Kiri sent me to a first floor bedroo
m, I knew that Sergei had found me ready to move on with my duties. The first floor rooms were for simple fucking, much less inspiring than what I enjoyed in the attic. These private men wanting private moments with a woman could be downright tedious, others interesting only because the men themselves had something interesting to say. They were rarely sexually inspiring. I only spent two weeks on the first floor, before it was time for me to graduate once again. Then, it was Sergei himself who introduced me to where I’d spend most of my hours as his slave.
Moving from the first floor rooms of the bordello to the second and third floors was a sobering change. From fresh neophyte to well-used whore in little more than a month, the shock of the second floor subdued my eagerness and turned me cautious. There, I was hired out for sadomasochistic sessions, the prey of dominant men and occasionally a dominant women all paying for permission to take the terms of my contract to its limit and sometimes beyond. These were usually regular clients of Sergei’s who relied on my master to provide them with the kind of flesh they required to live out their fantasies. Great care was taken to see that I dressed and acted the parts I played. I never realized how important the specific details of a fantasy could be to keep the arousal high and make the session a success. It was far more of a job than I ever imagined. Unfortunately, my own pleasure became subordinate to the pleasures of the doms who ruled me during those hours.
My favorite client remained nameless to me, though he could speak my name with such passion I thought he actually knew my heart. Every Thursday evening at ten o’clock I’d find my way to a room where we’d play out his fantasy. Arriving there, the room would be empty except for the traces of his presence: the smell of his perfume, cigar smoke and cologne, the handmade lace he’d bought for me in a Paris Salon and an instrument that he’d use to work my flesh. Dressing sometimes in black, sometimes in gold lingerie, I’d wait for him looking out the window onto the lawn outside the bordello. This was all according to his orders, and I was suspicious enough of this devious man to figure he’d be making sure my face was in that window at the exact time. Ten minutes, fifteen, sometimes even a half hour would pass before he’d finally sneak up behind me on cat-like feet, enter my encircling aura and touch me, his hands always first on my thigh. By then the anticipation of his breath on my neck, his kisses down my back and his tongue running its way along the lace, would make me climax on the spot. Just grazing his hand over my pubis, the roar of desire would leap out. I’d fall into his arms as the orgasm swept my body clean.
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