“Their slave? You mean one woman belongs to two masters?”
Travis nodded. “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-One
When Cara woke the next day, she took a moment to remember where she was. Travis’ side of the bed was empty but he’d propped a note against her cell phone on the night table, instructing her to text him when she wakened. She worried her phone might not have enough battery but smiled as she saw he’d plugged it in. She texted a quick, “I’m up,” threw her legs over the side of the bed so it’d be true, and immediately felt the aftermath of the caning from the night before.
Her pussy and ass were also sore and she smiled, remembering the many times she’d been taken in both.
She’d been pleasantly surprised to discover the kind voice had belonged to Nicolas, and was fascinated by the relationship between the slave and her two Masters. The rules had relaxed somewhat behind closed doors and she’d learned the three of them lived together, and Jenna was a full-time sex slave. What a lucky girl, belonging to two men.
The five of them had their own little mini-orgy, and Cara must’ve fallen asleep mid-fuck because she last remembered feeling drowsy after a particularly fantastic orgasm, and the sensation of being rocked to sleep by the man fucking her.
Shaking her head at the memory, she made her way to the bathroom to relieve herself. The shower looked more inviting than the tub, and she was standing with her face lifted towards the gentle flow, letting the water cascade over her when Travis stuck his head in.
“How’re you feeling?”
She pulled her face from the stream and wiped her eyes so she could see him. “Rough, and good, and tired, and not at all horny.”
His eyes were happy, and she felt as if everything was right in the world as he laughed and reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips to give a soft kiss. “Well then, perhaps I shouldn’t take you down to breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
He nodded. “They tend to serve it right up until dinnertime, since so many people stay up until all hours of the morning. I brought up a plate with eggs and biscuits, and took the liberty of dumping a few tablespoons of honey on the biscuit, if you’re interested.”
Cara’s stomach screamed her interest and she quickly rinsed the soap away and turned the water off, grabbing a towel and drying herself as she walked. “I’m starved, apparently. Are they already at it again down there?”
He chuckled. “Again? The action never stops. People go to bed and get up at different times, so there’s always something happening. If you’re truly done I’ll dress you and we’ll leave, but get some food in your belly before you decide.”
Cara had promptly grabbed the plate and orange juice, and headed towards the bed; she had no intentions of sitting on the hard wooden chair by the table. She gingerly sat on the pillow-top mattress and scooted back, sticking a forkful of eggs in her mouth and chewing as she cut into the honey soaked biscuit.
She talked around her food, not wanting to wait to ask her question. “Are they always so intense? Same rules during the day as at night?”
He nodded. “True slavery doesn’t allow for days off.” The bed dipped below her feet as he sat. He was contemplating her again, and she felt a flutter deep inside. She hadn’t thought it possible to get horny today, but one look from him and she was melting already.
He rubbed her foot, saying, “The rules seemed to hit the spot for you yesterday, though. Did I read it wrong?”
She shook her head as she swallowed. “No, you definitely read it right. The objectification, the dehumanization — it was perfect. I’m just not sure it’d work long term. I want to be me again now. I loved being treated like an object last night, but this morning? I wouldn’t mind you taking care of me, a little.”
His brow furrowed and he sat up, concerned. “What do you need?”
“I don’t think it’s anything in particular. Just you...y’know? Seeing you’d charged my phone, and then you bringing me breakfast.” She smiled. “You’ve already given me what I need.”
He scooted closer to her, draping her legs over his lap and caressing the top of her feet. “I like taking care of you. I checked you over pretty good after you crashed on us last night. Your pussy seemed fine but your ass showed some abrasions you’re probably feeling this morning. I guess more people used your ass, or maybe the sleeve in the costume rubbed it differently?”
She shrugged, surprised to discover she wasn’t embarrassed by their conversation. “I didn’t keep count, but I think more preferred my ass. I’d expected to have some intense marks on my breasts but you can only see a few lash lines. For the amount of pain, it’s a little disappointing.”
He chuckled. “Well, if that’s the case, the welts on your ass should cheer you up. I haven’t counted but I’m guessing we’ll find all ten cane marks.”
His comment reminded her of a question. “One of the men said their slave was on toilet duty. What does that mean? What would the slave have to do?”
Travis smiled. “You’re intrigued, aren’t you?”
She rolled her eyes. “In an observer sort of way, yeah.”
“During peak playtimes, owners can volunteer their slaves for toilet duty. Most serve in one-hour shifts, but occasionally one is volunteered longer. The slave is usually tied into the bathtub but is sometimes expected to remain still without restraint.” He paused, looking her over a second before continuing. “They’re typically placed either kneeling with arms behind them, or lying with legs spread and draped over the edges so we can piss on their face, breasts, and pussy. If the slave is a stranger she can keep her mouth shut. However, if you happen to be friends with her owner and have permission, the slave has to accept it into her mouth, and, in some cases, drink.”
“But, you said, for punishment...”
“I did. If you were punished for spitting I’d have to pick between one and four men I trusted to piss into your mouth. Unless I was taking medication that’d harm you through my urine, you’d be expected to swallow my piss, though you could allow everyone else’s to drain out — no spitting, you have to let gravity do it. On top of this, the other Masters could urinate on you if they chose, although you’d be allowed to keep your mouth closed.” His hand moved to her leg, patted it reassuringly. “Like I said earlier, subjecting you to that isn’t a consideration. I love you, and I don’t want to see anyone else pissing on you.”
Anyone else? She furrowed her brow. “But, you wouldn’t mind peeing on me?”
He was quiet a moment, considering his answer. “It isn’t one of my major kinks. I get off on the power, and the idea I’d be marking you, like a dog marks its territory, but it’ll have to be something you’re interested in before I’ll consider it.”
He wrapped an arm around her from behind, both comforting and proprietary, as he gave her time to process their conversation. She was consumed by the visual of a slave tied into a bathtub, spread open, with multiple men pissing on various parts of her body. The image both disgusted and aroused her, and she wasn’t sure how to fuse the two feelings.
She sighed. “Slaves truly aren’t seen as human here, are they?”
He contemplated the question before saying, “Yes and no. I’ve spent time with some of these people in their homes, and most don’t keep rules quite so strict every hour of every day. Several require their slaves drink their piss, but I think it has more to do with showing the power exchange than in dehumanizing them.”
“Mark and Nicolas? What rules does Jenna have, normally?”
She’d finished eating, and Travis moved her plate to the side table and sat beside her, holding her as he talked. “She’s an editor, and went freelance a few years ago so she could work from home. Clothing isn’t allowed in the house or the shielded areas of their yard, and she must ask permission to leave. She doesn’t have access to money, not even her own. If she wants something she has to ask for it, and — if they give consent — her owners either get it for her or take her shopping to buy it. Other tha
n the very private backyard she hasn’t been out of the house without one of them in years. She’s allowed to use a desk chair in her home office but needs permission to use any other furniture, though they’ve provided large pillows on the floor in several rooms. She’s given what they call maintenance discipline once a week, and if she earns punishment more than twice between maintenance it moves to twice a week for a month.”
Cara interrupted. “But can she talk? Can she look at them?”
“Oh, you’re asking about the club rules? Yeah, she can talk when they’re home, though she has to call them Master. She can’t interrupt, nor argue, but I don’t recall her being quiet during normal conversation. I even remember a rather spirited political discussion, where she wasn’t afraid to respectfully voice her opinions. I’m pretty sure she’s allowed to look at them unless they’re in a scene, too. I’ve never heard her refuse an order or argue when told to do something, but they seem fine with her voicing opposing opinions on movies, literature, and politics, at least. She is their property and it isn’t play pretend with them, but it’s not as draconian in their home as you see here.”
“She can leave if she wants though; she’s not a real slave, right?”
Travis nodded. “She has her own income and she could leave and support herself, certainly. I’m aware of situations where the slave doesn’t work and has no marketable skills. While they’re not kept against their will, I’m not so sure they’d stay if they had the means to provide for themselves. It’s not slavery so much as financial coercion, but I’m still not terribly comfortable with it, when I see it.”
Cara slid down his body, scooting back under the covers. “You said you could arrange for me to watch someone being peed on?”
He dipped his head. “I can. There’s a kinky camping event with a kiddie pool set up especially for watersports, or if you want something more private I can arrange for someone to come to the house.”
“Would you be the one to...”
Stretching out beside her, he propped his head on one hand as he stroked her cheek with the other. “No.” He paused, added, “Unless it’s what you’re asking to see, in which case I can hire someone. I thought you wanted to see another couple in action and I can invite a close friend to bring his slave to the house for a private play party.” He smiled, his eyes warm and happy as he traced the line of her jaw with the back of his fingers. “He’d love the opportunity to make her submit to it in front of us.”
“You said you’ve done it before?”
He sighed, moved his hand to her stomach, and gave her his undivided attention. “I have, but it’s been a while. For a short period I really got off on it, and thankfully I was in Europe at the time where some of the streetwalkers are more likely to agree to that sort of thing, for a price.” His gaze rose for a second and he brought it back, as if forcing himself to look at her instead of an interesting spot on the wall. “It shames me now, how much I got off on the degradation of pissing on them in alleyways and behind garbage bins. I’ve grown up since then and wouldn’t enjoy it anymore. Not like that, anyway. I mean, if I was with someone who got off on it, I could...but back then?” He shook his head. “I was no better than the assholes who used you with no thoughts for your feelings.”
He looked away again, obviously uncomfortable, and Cara reached up to stroke his cheek. “How old were you?”
“I don’t know, maybe seventeen or eighteen? I kept a residence in Paris at the time.” His eyes met hers again and he grinned. “The age of consent’s fifteen; you can buy alcohol at sixteen and can get into clubs at eighteen — though a little cash would get me in at seventeen without a problem.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t a party animal, I still worked a ridiculous number of hours a week, but I was also a teenage boy and too young and full of myself to have so much money and power.”
“Don’t beat yourself up too bad. You grew up, and I’m betting you paid them enough that they don’t think terrible thoughts about you when they remember it.”
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “It’s nice having someone who believes in me. The truth is, a few times I got off on just paying what I thought I could get away with, so they wouldn’t make a scene. Later, you’re right, I more than compensated them, but...” he sighed, rolled back to her, and met her gaze again. “I’ve never been this honest with anyone but Paul. You know how much I love you, right?”
Cara smiled. “And I love you, too, but don’t change the subject. What about it turns you on? Not then, but later...and, now, if you were going to.”
“The power, and the visual; but it’s more than that. A dog uses urine to mark his territory, so in a way it’s as if I’m claiming them. Some of it’s probably the taboo factor of pissing on someone, and even more so, making them drink your urine. But just watching it wet them, drip off them, soak their hair, and the look on their face.” He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and opened them. “I don’t personally like the odor, so if I know ahead of time, I hydrate really well.”
“You’ve paid people regularly, so you felt as if you owned them for a few weeks or so, right?”
“Yes,” he tipped his head, “and in some of those cases I used watersports to drive home my ownership.”
“Would you feel as if you own me more if you peed on me?”
“More? No, I don’t think so. Maybe in the moment, but long term I’m secure in our relationship.” He leaned down to caress her lips with his and rose above her with a happy smile. “I don’t need to prove I own you, and I think that’s what I was doing with them. Besides, we own each other. I’m yours as much as you’re mine.”
Cara curled to the side and sank into the bed as Travis wrapped his arm around her, and her eyes drifted closed as she said, “I need to think about it. I was so turned on last night, possibly more than I’ve ever been, although it disturbed me to be aroused by some of it.” She pushed her bottom backwards, into him, snuggling in. “I wanted to feel disgusted, but couldn’t. I wanted more; I craved even rougher treatment, to be made even less. What does that mean?”
He kissed her shoulder. “It means the submissive in you liked what it saw, and the rest of you wasn’t so sure. We can find a way to keep the parts that turn you on and toss the rest, and we’ll figure out how to do it without turning you into a full time slave.”
“I have the room until tomorrow,” he said, tucking the blanket around her and pulling her closer, gathering her into the curve of his body. “We don’t have to go back on a schedule. Go back to sleep Cara Mia, I’ll be here when you wake this time. Sweet dreams.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cara talked to a few friends who took yoga classes, and was invited to take a trial class with several of them. She hated the first class, which boasted a heated room to keep your muscles warm. The second was okay, but the instructor seemed a little too starry-eyed and out of touch with reality for Cara’s taste.
The third studio was run by a husband and wife, with one teaching while the other walked around and helped those who didn’t have the pose exactly right. A yoga-wall contraption also helped support Cara in the positions she couldn’t get on her own.
The wife’s motto was anyone could do any pose; they just might need a little help. She was quick to place a block or stool in front of Cara when she couldn’t reach the ground, or to show her how to loop a strap around her foot when she wasn’t flexible enough to grab her heel with her hand.
She signed up for their Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning classes, at a time Travis was always at the office. She intended to tell him about the classes soon, but wanted to give it some time first to see if her body could be made more flexible before getting his hopes up.
Cara was certain she’d figured out how to evade the paparazzi, as she arranged to go into the fancy teahouse next door, out the back door, and into the second floor rear entrance of the yoga studio.
Halfway through the second week she came home and proceeded straight to her solarium without even
showering. She’d been painting a few hours when Travis came home from work early, barging in and abruptly interrupting her concentration with a harsh, “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
She jumped at the intrusion, startled, lost in her art with no idea what he meant. She shook her head and turned to him, pallet in her left hand and brush still in the right. “I don’t think so? Are you okay?”
He turned his tablet towards her and she took a second to recognize the girl lying on her back with one leg pointing to the ceiling and the other with a strap around the foot and angled out, was her. She wore yoga pants and top, but the angle looked obscene, presenting a fully clothed crotch shot to the camera’s lens.
“Shit, how did they get that! The studio’s on an upper floor with high windows, and I snuck in and out!”
“I’m not worried so much about how they got it, but that you’re doing this and didn’t tell me. Why would you keep this from me, Cara?”
She saw the hurt in his eyes and her heart instantly broke with the knowledge she’d caused it. She couldn’t hug him with her hands full and paint all over her, and she talked as she deposited pallet and brush on a nearby table.
“Oh Travis, I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I want to be more flexible for you, but I needed to make sure I could do it before I told you.”
He didn’t say anything, and she threw her hands up. “I just started with this studio last week, three days a week, so I’ve had five classes. Well, six counting the test class, I guess. Still, it’s been less than two weeks and I wanted to see some results before I told you. Please don’t be mad at me! I know you’re still careful with me and I want you to be able to bend me however you want!”
His face was still blank, he was still silent, and she wanted to crumple in a heap and die. She turned away and put her hands on the table, dropping her head. “I hate that I can’t be what you need. I’m tired of beating myself up for not being able to handle what Jonathan was trying to teach me, and I wanted to...”
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