Votary

Votary

New York, 1911

Charles had closed the heavy oak front door behind him and started toward the street when he saw a young woman in simple dress approaching the house. She was likely the wife of one of Anya Star's more desperate paramours. It happened often that these poor women of ruined men came to throw themselves at her mercy, often with children in tow. Anya was often kind if they were humble, though not always. Women without children were often shown no mercy beyond a word or two of pity. All received her direct advice: leave him and find a stronger man.

As the woman came closer, Charles recognized her, and she him. She was Mrs. Winston, the wife of his former print shop foreman. They did not speak but simply exchanged nods. Everyone from the old neighborhood already knew the story of him becoming a footman for a dance hall girl. Her boy, as she was known to refer to him. He was a scandal, and beneath any conversation with a respectable woman like Mrs. Winston.

When they passed nearly close enough to touch coats, Mrs. Winston turned her head and gave a strange countenance. Charles suddenly realized that in his hurry to fetch for her, he had forgotten to wash his face! Had Mrs. Winston detected the odor? Had she identified it? If so, there was no chance that she or anyone from the old neighborhood would be understanding of it. Charles had struggled with that himself at first. But he had resolved it for himself, and accepted the consequence. Anya had taken him to an unknown universe of powerful and mysterious forces. Charles felt at home in her universe, and yet adrift in it. And it sometimes left residue.

Before the residue, it had been a quiet afternoon, which Charles had spent house cleaning. He performed those and many other duties for the beautiful and vivacious Anya Star, but none more important than being at her constant beck and call and answering promptly to the tinkle from her little bell. Tonight, the tinkle had come from the large sunroom on the second floor of the Victorian home, overlooking the street. Anya had re-purposed this as her gymnasium room, and in its center were soft mats, covered by fine linin sheets that he had applied that morning. Charles washed and ironed the sheets every morning, always his first task after serving her breakfast and emptying her chamber pot. He took great care with these tasks, and especially with the iron, careful to straighten every wrinkle. He had a terrible fear of disappointing her.

Charles found Anya lying face-down on the massage table, nude, her entire back glowing from light perspiration under the low, warm sunlight. He was moved, as he usually was seeing her nude. The twin domes of her perfect young buttocks shone triumphantly, projecting her beauty like a beacon.

Nudity held no shame or embarrassment for Anya. She accepted herself as a physical goddess, a perfect and beautiful woman. Her face and form were divine, more perfect than any possible artistic rendering.

Charles, however, strugged with shame from the way his penis reacted to her. That was why she insisted on the "penis cage," a device made of wire to restrain him from having an erection. He wore it all the time now in her presence, though he was allowed to remove it to sleep. He knew it was needed. He was always overwhelmed by seeing her, or hearing her. Her face was angelic, and her manner so cute and sweet that her every turn of phrase beguiled the listener. Her physical presence was potent. She was at once slender and sweetly plush, her limbs slim and firmly muscled. Her breasts were large and perfectly formed, full and tantalizing, but he had rarely seen them close. But when she was on the massage table, he was allowed to touch her lovely back, and her skin there was so soft as to seem like he was dreaming the sensation. Her legs were magnificent, her thighs strong and athletic, and even her calves sloping and perfect.

Anya was well aware of how her beauty affected men, and she was not demure with her servant. Her beauty had helped her to impose her will on more than a few already, with the more weak and vulnerable among them often paying for it dearly.

She had certainly imposed her will on Charles, and did so on a constant basis. She was often nude in his presence, and she liked to arouse him. Being near her was a cherished privelege, as he was always eager to express his deep and sincere gratitude on demand.

She told him to close the blinds and remove his clothes. When the room was dark, she had him to stand close. He approached her, naked except for the wire cage around his now straining penis. She sighed happily. She loved seeing his manly member swollen and tight against it's cage. She poked it with her fingernail.

"Tell me, boy, how do you feel?" she cooed.

"Excited, Miss, and overwhelmed." Charles only realized just how overwhelmed he was as he had said it. She could ruffle him so easily. "Your beauty overwhelms me, as you know, sometimes to an unnerving degree." He answered in a soft, barely audible voice, and making her smile.

"Aww, yes, that is true, and very sweet," she said with an appreciative laugh. "Well, I'm done looking at your crotch, boy. You may kneel now so we can see the other's eyes as we talk." Charles immediately dropped to his knees and they made eye contact. He stared at her pretty face as she reached down to caress his hip and groin. She twisted the cage to make him squirm, and then reached under to grasp his balls from the bottom. She squeezed them gently, firmly, insistently, enjoying his sweet cries and moans. To Anya, this was the outpouring of his submissive soul, an offering to her dominant spirit. She watched his face closely and enjoyed his suffering.

"What else, Charles? What else do you feel?" she asked.

Charles knew he had to be honest and forthcoming with Anya. She had been clear about her expections, and she would sense if he was withholding. He took a deep breath and let himself go.

"Pain... and Fear, and Gratitude," he offered, sounding brave and honest. He tried not to grunt from the pain in his balls still held in her lovely hand, but but he made a light gasp as she squeezed him. A stronger squeeze followed, and another gasp. She didn't seem to mind. She looked dreamy, her eyelids heavy. Charles was mesmerized by her.

"What about Sorrow, Charles?" She said with something approaching pity. "Is there sorrow that you'll never fuck me? "

Charles felt the chord struck. It was true. He had realized that his most profound sorrow would be his unquenchable love for Anya, and the fact that he would never be a man to her. Still, his sweet sorrow was dwarfed by the joy of living with her now and basking in her light. But he was choked for words, and tears took him over.

"Oh, you poor, sweet boy! You do harbor sorrow. Such sweet sorrow," she purred. "But the salve for sorrow is acceptance, you know. Are you still in love with me, boy?"

His answer poured out of him.

"Yes! Yes I am, dearest Anya. I am deeply and absolutely in love with you." Tears trailed down his cheeks.

"Sweet boy. Even though you know you'll never fuck me?"

"Yes, Miss. Even though."

"You should be grateful that I let you kiss me sometimes, in some manner. For now you may kiss my bottom. I do enjoy that so much. It's so deliciously sensuous."

Charles felt the air leave his lungs. This was his holy task. He crawled two knee strides down her body and bent to the divine glow of her perfectly smooth buttocks. At the first touch of his lips to her cheek, the warm, damp skin yielded and sank away. His penis lurched and the wires drove pain through it. He continued eagerly, almost involuntarily, in this fine moment of his life. Anya was his goddess, and this allowance to him was her blessing. He moved his lips all over her buttocks, as she instructed him. It was foreplay to the thing she liked the most from him. Finally came her benevolent command:

"Inside now."

Charles used his hands to gently pull her buttocks apart. The secret, earthly scent struck him and his penis screamed against it's cage. He put his nose in her cleft and kissed her most interior skin there. Then he gently kissed her anus, and again, and again, until he heard her again:

"Tongue now."

He worked his newly permitted tongue into her cleft, and tasted her salty and slightly bitter flavor there. He heard her giggle and hum. She really enjoyed this, and Charles felt so grateful to have this sacrament between them - Anya had actually called it that, a sacrament. She proudly identified as a Sensualist, as well as what the Freudians had termed a "Sadist," although she saw no pathology in herself regarding it. She enjoyed wielding natural power over men, making them serve her interests, and suffer for her. Having Charles lick her anus was a wonderful expression of his love, so demonstrative of their relationship, and a sweet, pleasing sensation. She often kept him at this most worshipful of tasks for five to ten minutes, but tonight she was hungry and kept it to a minute or so.

"Okay, done!" she announced. Charles reacted quickly, not wanting to risk annoying her with delay, but he was slow and reverant in pulling his hot face free of her soft white buttocks and watched them gently recoil together. For a moment, he hovered just above her now sealed cleft and savored the sight, warmth, and scent of his goddess.

"Now calm yourself and get dressed," she said. "I'm hungry. Noodles and duck from Jade Palace, and whatever else. Get going."

Mrs. Winston set him walking faster than his usual pace, perhaps to outpace his shame he thought, but at the same time his instinct was to to defend himself, at least to his own heart. In truth, he was not sorry for his strange new lifestyle, though he marveled at how quickly it had all happened and how radically Anya had changed his life.

It was only the previous summer when Charles had arrived in New York City from Pennsylvania, having arranged a position as a printer's apprentice. He had been apprehensive to come, of course, but very excited. The city thoroughly thrilled him. At times it felt overwhelming, at once a fantastical world where anything seemed possible, and one of harsh consequences. There were auto-mobiles driven without horses, and newspaper stories of flying machines. It was an age of science and dreams, but the important things hadn't changed. In the Church, in the neighborhood, and in the family, traditions and institutions held firm. Core beliefs held for all good men and woman, or almost all. He was about to see his tested.

He was a man of 25, but an unmarried virgin, and certain to remain one until he could make his way. He was considered to be somewhat handsome, but was poor and had a meek disposition that didn't portend success. He had fallen in love once, and was rejected with some prejudice and stamped unworthy as far as the young ladies in his community were concerned. He accepted this humility, though he couldn't help but stare and fantasize about beautiful, unattainable women. When he discovered Anya, she became his singular obsession.

He first saw Anya at a big dance club called Maxim's at 38th and Broadway. The drinks were out of his price range, but people said the most beautiful women in New York came there to dance, drink, and look for rich husbands. Anya caught his eye right away. By the end of the week he would learn that she wore a variety of colors, from pale early in the week, and bright jewel-tones on Friday and Saturday evenings. Her dresses were always sleeveless with white gloves, and always impeccably beautiful. She was noticed by everyone, but only the brave approached. Charles knew he could never make her acquaintance, yet he couldn't help staring from across the club as she flirted with handsome and wealthy men. He kept a respectable distance and tried not to be too obvious. But from the first night he saw her, Charles saw Anya in his dreams and thought of her constantly while awake. He had never been so enthralled.

Charles went back again and again and saw Anya flirting and dancing. Watching her gave him great pleasure, but also a low ache in his heart, and turmoil in his penis. He worshipped her. He was suffering for her, because he could never get close enough. Maybe that's what worship is, he thought.

But Charles wasn't as invisible as he thought. Anya caught him staring a couple of times on those first evenings, though she didn't react in any way. No doubt she was accustomed to men staring at her from across the room. There were many hopeless men and boys too shy or too poor to approach her.

During his fourth week of watching her from the corner of the club, Anya took action and changed Charles' life forever. She simply looked directly at him, and with a faint nod of her wonderfully pretty head, motioned for him to come. His walk over to her challenged his legs, but he felt like he was floating.

Charles knew he had to be focused as she introduced herself and asked his name. She was friendly and casual, and seemed amused by his stiff responses. She said that she'd noticed him and her instinct told her that he'd be a good fit for a position as her "general votary," pending an interview, of course.

The word "votary" echoed in Charles' mind. It meant a full commitment from him, and he felt deeply excited and grateful.

He quickly agreed and she asked him to join her carriage ride home. Charles had rarely taken carriages in New York, as the trolleys and subways were more affordable. Anya showed him the out outbuildings, and then the house itself. He would be it's caretaker, she informed him, as well as her personal servant in any role she may need. Charles felt like he was dreaming, but quickly affirmed his interest, and in fact his unguarded willingness. He would resign his printer's apprentice position the next day, and move his meager belongings into Anya's large, Victorian house. Anya laughed at his eagerness, and reminded him that they'd yet to have their interview.

Anya led him to her library room, and bid him to sit in front of her desk. There she sought to explained herself as clearly and honestly as she could, so that her new prospective servant would have some knowledge of the woman to whom he was committing his employement, if not more.

"Of course you know me from the dance hall, but I'm also what some call a parlor girl," she said in a warm soft, sweet tone. She was proud of it. She watched his face for shock, but he wasn't shocked. "But I'm not a whore, Charles. You'd be surprised at what I can do to a man, and what I don't have to do." She laughed. "You men are so weak."

Charles was struck. She saw through him and all of the hopeful, pathetic men staring at her in the club. She knew him in that way, and she was right. He felt weak with her, as if he would be drawn into her orbit for whatever purpose she chose, and he had no will to resist it because he wanted it.

Anya explained that enjoyed dancing, and chatting with friends, and sometimes drinking to a degree, but she had moderated her alcohol use. These evenings in the club had brought many rich and some formerly rich admirers to her table, most of whom eventually contributed to her lifestyle in some way. One of these men had bought her the house they were in, titled in her name. But she gave up nothing in return unless for her own enjoyment. She was not to be trifled with, as a few had learned, and she warned Charles that although she is most often sweet and friendly, she could also be stern, and sometimes even fierce when angry.

It was very clear to Charles that she was a confident woman who took control of situations affecting her. She was intelligent and well educated, and a radical feminist well known for attending suffragete meetings in dance hall style and dress. Many of the suffragettes disapproved, but none would speak against her after the first such incident put the overly pious in their place, which seemed to settle the issue and resonate though their tight community. But many others, especially those unmarried, admired Anya and sought her friendship.

She demanded that her men and boys support progressive views and join the new Men's League for Woman Suffrage of the State of New York. This had surprised Charles, and worried him a bit, since such men were looked on harshly by most. But his hesitation was only momentary. His agreement to join the group was immediate and sincere.

Lastly, but importantly, Anya proudly identified herself as a Sensualist, as well as what the Freudians had termed a "Sadist," although she saw no pathology in herself regarding it. She enjoyed using her natural power over men, making them suffer, and accepting their tributes. If he were to prosper in his employement to her, Charles must accept her absolute authority as would a slave for his mistress, and he must love her boundlessly. Should he not offer both, always, he must go.

At the end, Charles was not discouraged at all. He begged her for the position, and it was granted.

From that time, he was with her every night in the dance club, watching from a distance of 20 feet or so until she beckoned him for some small task for herself or one of her friends. He accompanied her everywhere, and stayed in a small room in her house, a servant's quarters. He cooked and cleaned for her, mended, washed and ironed her clothes, and of course ran any required errands. There was a lot of work, and Anya had high standards, more than had been met by her previous paid staff. Charles was unpaid, and expected to provide better service.

Then she took him into a mostly empty room with a mat on the floor, and told him to sit on a small stool and wait as she changed clothes. She reappeared a few moments later wearing a form fitting leotard, leaving her arms and legs bare. Then she began her nightly stretches, and Charles watched in awe of the beauty of her long and slender legs, and her well toned arms. Her voice cut through his foggy brain, magical and delightful, and he listened closely as she spoke:

"I want you to enjoy being present with me, Charles. I want you to lust for me, and know that you will never fuck me. You'll never be a man to me in that sense, but I think you understand that. That's why I chose you, Charles. But you may watch me when I feel generous to allow it."

Charles watched, and he produced a raging erection in his dark pants. Anya smiled at his discomfort.

"I have a wire cage for your impudent member. We'll fit it to you as soon as you've recovered yourself. It may be a little painful, or I can have you castrated if you prefer," she laughed.

"I'll wear the cage, Miss, gladly."

"Of course you will."

***

Jade Palace was busy, and Charles had to wait almost ten minutes to place his order, and another twenty-five for the dinner box to be filled.

He returned to find Anya sullen and annoyed from waiting, but her mood soon returned to her usual buoyancy with the smell of the food. He quickly set the table and served her plate, leaving his own in the kitchen until she directed him to join her at the table, as she often did. This also meant that he was allowed to speak freely, and to call her by her given name, Anya.

"Anya, I'm so sorry it took so long. Jade is getting too popular."

"Did you tell them it was for me?" she asked expectantly, only half joking.

"No, but I don't think it could have made a difference. They were swamped with orders when I arrived."

"Next time, tell them."

Her instruction was serious, and Charles thought it was more to humble him in public than getting their food faster. She loved the noodles and ate fast. Charles had only a few times seen her eat at the club, dining slowly and delicately as was expected of lady, and of her public persona. But at home, she was a hungry lioness absorbing power from her food.

When she'd finished Charles cleared the table and began washing dishes. Anya stepped into the kitchen and annouced to him:

"When you're done here, cut some fresh roses in my parlor, then fetch my riding crop from the out building, and wait for me in the gymnasium." She looked directly at Charles, having a sly smile on her rip lips. "I think you deserve an old fashioned whipping in the gymnasium - or maybe not so old-fashioned." She laughed.

Charles' nerves were a bit jangled now. She had never had him fetch the crop before. Was it punishment for the late dinner? A few strokes to keep him mindful? No, he thought. She was satified enough with his service. This would be for another of her needs, an expression of her lust and power, and that made him nervous, and afraid.

The roses were barely long enough to be cut, but Anya loved them too much to wait. He arranged them in a vase in her parlor, and he thought of bringing a few with him to present to her in the gymnasium.

When he entered, she was dressed in a leotard without tights, leaving her glorious arms and legs bare, except for high heeled slippers on her pretty feet, showing her painted toes. As always, Anya stunned with her beauty, and Charles reacted as always, with his penis straining in the cage she had prescribed, inducing him to crouch a bit. He held the roses in hand with the much longer riding crop, and went down on his knees to offer both together. A thorn had drawn a spot of blood from his wrist, and Anya seemed to appreciate his gesture. But her smile was slightly treacherous. This was the Sadist, come to play.

"Remove your clothes, and stand in the middle of the mat."

Charles obeyed, and she stepped back to present him with a broad view of her, feet apart and hands on hips. She wanted him to stare at her perfect, strong body for a long moment as she spoke to him:

"I'm going to play with you tonight, boy, and you're going to suffer for me, and serve me in that suffering. I'm going to stripe your entire body with welts from this cane while you stand there." Smiling broadly, she stepped forward and continued, "And tomorrow I'll take you to see a dear friend of mine, so she can see your new stripes too."

She exploded with laughter, reacting to the fearful look on Charles' face. Already she had seen a slight tremble in his right leg.

"But tomorrow is tomorrow, and tonight is for tonight. We'll savor this. We'll take things slowly, with measured pleasure and suffering, and I won't gag you or hush you. I want to hear you, Charles."

The caning came hard and fast, first across his chest and shoulders, then his upper back. He bore it bravely, but then she caned his front thighs, then their backs, and he gasped and whimpered all through it. She was brutal with the cane on his buttocks, and he cried out pitifully before he broke into sobs and lost his legs, falling to the mat in a desperate, wet heap. Anya cooed sympathetically at him.

"Poor boy, Such suffering! But none your penis for once! It's shiveled and hiding in it's cage. Stay down, and take the cage off, Charles.

His hands shaking badly, Charles bent and removed the wire cage from around his cock and balls.

"Hands behind your head now." She said as she squatted on the mat near him.

The cane fell directly on his penis, and then on the inside of one thigh, then the other, and then his testes, and then again, and again. Charles howled like a beaten dog, and then fell back into soft sobs. Anya said nothing, but from a corner of the room Charles heard a gasp. He twisted his neck to look. It was Mrs. Winston. She had witnessed his caning.

"You see, dear?" Anya queried her guest. "You see now what can be done with a man?"

The air was heavy.

"Y-Yes, Miss, I do." Mrs. Winston was stunned, but illuminated to what she must do. "I thank you for demonstrating an example of such a 'man'. I will agree to your terms before my Harold loses his masculinity in such a way. I'll pay you before summer."

"Very good, dear," Anya chirped, pleased with her ploy. "Before summer, and I'm sure you'll hardly noticed the loss from your budget."

"Yes Miss."

"And you will hold your tongue about this, for your own sake."

"Yes Miss. I promise."

"And what say you, Charles? What do you say? Anything at all?" Her wicked smile inspired him.

"I love you, Anya."