Filling the Void 02

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Filling the void -

from high-socialite to sub-human-

by Vitavie

Part 2 - The initiation

Part 1 ended with the following:

Firstly, my men will punish you for having moved during your five days here. You remember the rule of no initiative. Fifteen lashes on your back with the multi-tail whip, fifteen cane strikes on your bottom.'

'But...'

'You were not told to speak, so we'll add one lash and one strike to the amounts.'

'Secondly, after the punishment, you'll clean up the mess you have made. This means clearing up that mess in the corner and when that is done rigorously scrubbing the floor.

'Thirdly, my men will bathe you and freshly shave your head.

'Fourthly, you will be initiated by the full complement of our circle. The full membership comes to thirty-seven men and eighteen women, not including the number of aspiring members. The fifty-five will all use you, using one of your three holes. This time, we will keep you well lubricated, so as to satisfy rule no. 1. You will make all men come, unless they curtail their pleasure at their own initiative. The women may come armed with their dildos, but others you will satisfy by cunnilingus. It is their choice.

'And finally, for now, you will be laid out on the large dining table for the viewing pleasure of the membership during its diner.'

K's pair of men takes me out of my cell, down along the basement corridor, to a room a few doors along. It strikes me that the room resembles a chapel, one of those private chapels grand houses often have: columns, a vaulted ceiling, and three small gothic windows with stained glass, albeit with S&M scenes.

They lift my two hands in turn and attach manacles with D-rings. They kneel down to do the same for my feet. I am self-conscious, as this action brings them close to my sex and anus, which remain unwashed after a week of neglect. But they remain stoic. They will have seen and smelled it all before, I must assume.

They attach the manacles around my ankles to two rings recessed in the floor and my wrists to rings suspended from overhead chains, in the manner of a St. Andrew's cross. They then tighten the chains until I am painfully stretched to capacity, just, and then a trifle further - despite the intense discomfort, I sense they are expert and know what they are doing.

K and his men watch me for a few minutes. The Master with his thoughts, the acolytes with their own - thoughts they never reveal... Not to me...

Do their employers ever ask, or invite their input? Do they reveal their thoughts to each other, even to themselves? Would they be mild, or severe instead?

'Well, slave Vita, you are dirtier than you have ever been, at least in your adult life. Tell me how you feel. Be brief.'

'K, Master... Tell me first how I should address you. I have not been told and I don't know what to say.'

'Very good, Vita. Call me Master or Master K. I'd be fine with just K, but I don't wish to rock the boat of this house. K would be fine by me, as in a way, we are at level footing, or represent two interlocking pieces of a puzzle. Life's puzzle. I as the dominant complement, you as the submissive. I will call you Vita, not slave Vita, because there is no need to state the obvious: that you are slave. The house allows me thus.

'So, Vita, how do you feel?'

'Master K, my isolation was so endless! I have cursed myself for submitting to you. I felt so dirty, so degraded, so alone and neglected. And bored! So bored!'

My head drops to my chest. It takes a few moments and a few deep breaths before I regain the confidence to continue. K lets me.

'Let me rephrase...

'I would regret having submitted, if it were not for you. And if I hadn't found flickers of recognition that I was on the way to my destiny. I hesitate to say it but it is true. I had so much time to think when I was isolated in that god-awful cell. I am amazed that I maintained the seed of my sanity throughout. Because it was pure madness, to be alone and dirty, alone with nothing to do, nothing but musing and pondering... and regretting.

'The dark cloud of regret... I had a vision that I was at a crossroads, at a fork in the road. The left branch saw you beckoning, the other slave Martin, that ugly, marked and discontent male. Clearly, you are my reason for being here. But could I turn into a female Martin, whose middle name appears to be 'Suffering'? His chastity cage and his gaze suggest there is no reward, that he is suffering without compensation.

'I thought a million times: why did I give up my comfortable, privileged existence? But I survived, have retained my sanity and feel I am a better woman for it. Sanity? I am crazy, but sane. How can I be sure, but I think I am. I am yours, unconditionally. Who would have thought I'd ever say such words?'

'Very good. I accept your offer once more.

'Slave Martin, yes... He has some way to go, even if he has been with us for months. I feel you are further along already. But don't forget: he too is free to go. Of course, he, unlike you, has crossed a bridge when it comes to his hair. He was handsome, like a male model. But he could have left when the Judge suggested the permanent hair removal. He howled throughout when it was being done, but never wanted out, not before, not during the initial few hairs, not later. His chastity... He has been locked in from the moment he accepted his submission. He accepted his chastity as a means to an end, as he was sick of his old life, the pursuit of endless empty satisfaction. You are right. His discontent is palpable. It can be cut with a knife. And we are actively doing so. With his consent, as he is free to go, as you are.'

'I am free to go, as he is... That is a helpful thought, though it isn't evident in my mind. I keep having to convince myself. You feel I am I further along already. Oh, dear... It is hard, but I thank you.'

There are tears in the corners of my eyes, but a smile on my lips. I do feel grateful. Yes, I do.

'Now, are you ready for your punishment?'

'K, if I am ever, I am now. I have sinned and am craving punishment. I don't want mercy. To submit is to be punished. In many people's book submission is a sin.'

'Very well, Vita, so it shall be. You and I, we both understand the paradox inherent in your submission, and likewise in my domination.

'We shall punish you.'

He motions to the first man, who fetches the multi-tail whip.

Am I fortunate that he whips my back, so that I cannot see him? Or unfortunate, as I might prefer to face my opponent, stand up to him, in vain?

The first hit would have knocked me off my feet, had I not been suspended. It does knock the wind out of me. The pain is catastrophic! Much worse than I ever expected, or experienced before. I get a minute of reprieve until I am hit again. My vision goes black, with flashes of light. Like stars. Whipping is going to the heavens.

Now the hits start coming at shorter and shorter intervals. I am destroyed when I have been dealt the sixteen hits to me. I am not suffering, I am suffering, I equate to suffering.

The sixteen cane strikes feel different, they would feel different, but I don't consciously register them. I am immersed in pain, I am drowning in pain, I inhale pain and am barely conscious when the font of cane strikes has also been depleted.

I hang in my restraints, floating in the universe of pain, head resting on my chin, eyes closed.

I sense that someone moves to stand behind me, in full-body contact, and places his hands on my belly, like a lover... There is a burning pain on my back and butt where they are in contact with the other body, but soon there is only the body heat.

K... Like a lover...

All is well with the world.

Nothing moves. I hang in my restraints and K stands behind me, with his arms around me and his hands supporting my belly.

With time, the pain returns as a throbbing feeling. I moan...

K says, 'Dearest Vita, I have had you beaten to capacity. Our men are expert and highly experienced. They did not disappoint. You could take what they threw at you, no less, no more. You did not disappoint. We aimed at marking you. The thirty-two welts will be visible for one, two weeks. Sitting down will hurt for a few days. But you did well.

'I have considered to have your skin broken, so as to create a permanent scar.'

I start. 'But you didn't...'

'I did not... Not at the moment... I felt I didn't yet have the right, felt I hadn't earned it. Who knows... I may yet when I feel it would be right.'

'And I, had I already earned it? Wait, don't answer! I shouldn't know...'

He kisses me in the neck and says softly, but with authority, 'Are you ready to move on?'

Am I ready to move on? I will never be ready, not readier than I am now. I reply, 'I am, Master K.'

'Thank you. It is time now to clean your cell.'

I am taken back to the space that was mine for the last week. I am, like it is, still as dirty as I was when I left it, and marked to boot. I am given a brush, a floor cloth, a bucket with scalding, soapy water and a second bucket for the waste.

The dirty corner... Naturally, I use my hands for picking up my solid waste and drop it in the empty bucket. It is dirty to do this. And humiliating. Never have I done anything like this before. Nothing close. Never did I have to concentrate and consider that faecal matter of mine, a good stool a day, mixed with my urine, consider its consistency, contemplate how it falls apart when I pick up a piece, how it smells when I disturb it.

After carefully picking up the first piece, I move swiftly to get it over with. When all that I can pick up with two fingers has been safely deposited in the waste bucket, I wet the dirty corner with the hot water and soap, use the cloth to mop it up and wring it out in the waste bucket. I use the brush to scrub the stains out. I complete the task by washing the entire floor with the floor cloth and leaving the floor as dry as I can, given the tools in hand.

My cell now has the aroma of freshness. Strange, I have not done this kind of dirty, menial work for well over twenty years, not since I was a student, over half my life ago. From the day I started work, I had a maid. Cleaning this dirty cell has been degrading, but I surprise myself: I feel good about cleaning up the mess I made in the space that was mine.

K doesn't continue our intimate tête-à-tête of just now, doesn't compliment me on a job well done. He nods to his henchmen, who proceed to lift me by my armpits and escort me to a bathroom.

The tub is steaming and I start when they lower me into the exceedingly hot water. My wounds! I cry, 'No!!' Strong grips force me in, however, force me past my reluctance. They are expert and know exactly how hot the water is and how hot it should be for me to not faint, burn or boil.

They don't allow me to wash my own body. So, it is K's men who wash me, from head to toe. Rigorously - in between my toes, my armpits, behind the ears and their insides, my bald skull, my anus and my sex, at the exit of my uterus and in between the folds.

I am self-conscious. I am weak, but have to be strong and force myself to trust them. I still abhor them touching my intimate parts. I see their eyes and I sense that they lust after me. Will I ever get used to this? Will they ever be allowed to take advantage of me, like Pierre and his lot took of O?

Then they shave my head again, my entire head, eyebrows included. Had I hoped I would be allowed my hair back? Or at least my eyebrows? Yes, I have hoped for being allowed to grow my hair back and become presentable again, every single hour of my solitary confinement. But no. Not yet. I live in hope: maybe later. No! My task is to let this hope go.

Then the moment has arrived that I have dreaded since K entered my isolation cell.

'You will now be initiated by the full complement of our circle... The full membership comes to thirty-seven men and eighteen women, including myself. The fifty-five will all use you, using one of your three holes.'

I am brought to a large circular room that is decorated in an Oriental style, but otherwise resembles a chapter room in a monastery. We enter through a set of double doors. Seats line the entire rest of the wall. I am not given the chance to count them, but they will more than accommodate the full membership. Most of the seats are already occupied, by the women and men, the full membership, as K has said. I recognise the Judge and one of the women from the dinner a week ago. When I was a guest. Just a guest.

Everyone seated is bare-naked. The age ranges between mid-thirties to over seventy. Every body type seems represented - short, tall, fat, thin, hairy and hairless. This occasion marks the first time I see K bare-naked. He looks athletic, barring a modest potbelly, moderately hairy, a modest cock when limp, but with a heavy scrotum. The cocks of the men vary, from practically invisible to long, from pencil-thin to stubby. The sacks of the men vary likewise, from boyish sacks to ample pouches. A number of the men are nursing erections. A number of the women wear leather harnesses that support dildos, all in red. Breasts of every kind are on display - round and full or perky and pert, sagging or firm, with large or small areolas, dark or light, with fat or modest nipples, long or short.

Oh... I am shocked to see Slave Martin here. He who once was the successful lawyer and womaniser, is locked up standing upright in a glass box, amply tall enough for him and three by three feet wide. Does he serve as decoration? Or is it to teach him a lesson?

His bald shape makes an agitated impression and he is without the chastity cage he wore the previous time. In fact, he is sporting a huge erection, possibly the largest member I have ever seen. Frightening! But he cannot touch it, as his hands are tied behind his back. Is he being kept erect by Viagra or some ancient Oriental predecessor? His frustration is evident - he keeps the tip of his cock in constant contact with the Plexiglas walls, rubbing it along, smearing the surface, and every so often bumping it against the wall. Oh, dear, is such his life?

The servants lead me to the centre of the room. There, a frame is mounted on a pedestal, with sets of manacles. I am told to get down on all fours and crawl inside. My torso below my chest is made to rest on a cushion. The men fix my ankles and wrists with the manacles. Adjustments are made so that I become immobile. I am now surrendered to whatever will happen.

The pedestal can be raised and lowered, by means of pedals. Why this is so becomes clear, when the Judge comes up and raises me with a light buzzing sound, slaps a dose of lubricant on and around my anus and pushes himself in. He takes it slow, thank god, but my subconscious resists, so, he pushes hard, forces for entry and his member suddenly slithers in. My sphincter hurts violently, for an instant. Oh, lord, my anal cherry has just been picked. What a strange feeling! So full! But I feel myself accept and relax.

Oh, now a woman appears in front of me with a lengthy red dildo, with the Judge still stroking in and out of my rear. I have blown men, but have never tried, let alone managed to deep-throat, and this is what the woman is trying to force me to do. I gag and retch, my eyes bulging, my throat convulsing --I nearly vomit. She slaps me on my left cheek, then my right, really violently, and pushes the dildo slowly in, slowly, in to capacity. It takes all my willpower to accommodate the intrusion, but only barely. She then starts to push in and draw out, slowly, in and out, in and out...

She knows what she is doing - like everyone in this mysterious place. She could have destroyed me, but chose to get what she wanted instead. It is sensible, as well as an act of clemency. And she thereby picks my last remaining cherry. So, I live, but drool and continue to tend to retch, and have to fight those urges...

Strangely, the even stroking of the Judge's cock in my ass helps me to take my mind off the dildo in my mouth. Both sphincters, that of my mouth and that of my anus, are stretched. Then, the Judge groans and I sense his warm load filling me. The woman departs moments later, without gratification, naturally, and without a word. I am a tool to them, a means to an end. (Or are their feelings more complex? Will I ever know? I know... I think K loves me. I think...)

Two further women present themselves to me next. The first at my rear, complete with dildo, who wastes not a second before she slaps another dose of lube on my anus and barges in. I don't resist. Don't want to and don't. The woman at my front lowers the pedestal a little - under shrill, sharp protestations from the woman at my rear, who nonetheless manages to carry on after some adjustments on her part. The second woman pushes her mound forward, against my mouth. She sports an unkempt patch of pubic hair, which smells musty. And tastes musty. I don't have to be told what she wants me to do. I wander, that is: my tongue does, through her private forest in search of her lips and clitoris. After some time scouting around for them, I do locate these and begin. On to satisfy her.

Later, after I have done five women and a dozen men, if I didn't lose count, my neck has gone from being stretched to seriously aching, my jaw has gone from numb to beyond uncomfortable, my anus is, well, only very sore, but not torn or properly aching... These people, men and women alike, know what they are doing, know how to use their asset, how to preserve it... That is, preserve me. They are in for the long haul.

In the end, countless men and women used me. I presume the full complement of members. I didn't keep count. I tried to, but couldn't. They all used me. I can't say: abused me, because they knew what they were doing. 'Used' means that they didn't ask for consent, that they caused me discomfort, not to unbearable levels, but one that I was just able to suffer. Discomfort meant pain in my neck, my jaw hurting, my anus and cunt smarting, that I gagged just about every time a load of sperm was released in my throat, but I managed to swallow most of it every time. They didn't abuse me, but used me, did not treat me as a person, but as a thing. I did not disappoint, I think. I satisfied every woman or man that sought a release, I think.

What did I feel? Did I enjoy the experience? I know I went through a rollercoaster of emotions and feelings. No one but K, perhaps, thought of whether it was pleasurable to me. I presume the rest just thought of me in terms of asset preservation. Which I am grateful for, when all is said and done.

So, did I enjoy the experience? No, 'enjoy' doesn't cover it. 'Satisfy' does, perhaps. I was satisfied. Though not literally.

Have I become a sex machine? Would I mind?

K was last. He used my cunt, bless him, and gave me the orgasm he may have thought I was due - in unison with his own. Expertly... Whether it was the most intense orgasm I ever achieved...? I don't know. What I do know is that it was the most welcome orgasm I have ever known.

I am left hanging in my restraints for what must be half an hour, or twenty minutes, or an hour - time is a strange commodity. They know so well how to treat me - hanging in these restraints is without strain. I doze off...

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... until they release my manacles and extract me from the frame.

I expect to be granted a reprieve--a bath and some rest--as I can hardly stand on my feet. But the pair of men hauls me along between them. A second pair take slave Martin along. Our two trios pass through the main corridor and enter the formal dining room. The membership is already there, talking in groups and sipping their drinks, now back to being dressed in evening wear and looking prim, refreshed and cheerful.

They had made my role and place clear to me beforehand, but I had forgotten. The servants lead me to a space at the end of the table where they have placed a small wooden stepladder and motion me to climb it, move to the centre of the table and lie down on a made-to-measure futon mattress, thin but comfortable - efficient, expert. Slave Martin follows and lies down along the table in the opposite direction, head to head, his head just a hand's breadth from mine. I wonder why they appear to place me in his company so consistently.

They mount stands with cameras and sensitive microphones over my cunt and face. They do the same over slave Martin's face and cock, which still appears to be free, without the cage. The four images are projected on four quartets of screens, 2 x 2 m2 each, mounted on the four walls.

K whispers the following instructions to us. Every 5 minutes a soft beep will sound, followed by a soft command. We are to execute the command intended for us and hold the pose for 1 minute, until the next beep. Then, after a four minute interval of rest, the next beep and command, and so on.

First, a gong sounds and all diners take their places. Evidently, each has his or her designated place, as there is no toing and froing going on. The Judge and K sit opposite each other, near where my head rests. An hors d'oeuvre is served. The Judge taps his glass and proposes a toast... 'To K and to his new slave Vita, of the most highly rated bald kind, though not - or not yet - permanently so, as opposed to a few others, including my slave Martin. Vita and Martin will be our entertainment for tonight.'

And he claps, evidently to start the chain of commands.

I hear the first beep and the command: 'pull your vagina open.' After a second's hesitation I comply and see the result from the corner of my eyes: a grotesquely enlarged sticky, glistening, pink rose of flesh, with the dark grotto at the end. And hear the sticky sounds of my cunt opening. I don't dare to look properly. The second beep releases me. The table chatter doesn't truly stop--just falters for a heartbeat--but after that brief lull, I catch a few comments about me, praising or criticising my sex.

The next beep, four minutes later and the sonorous whisper: 'open your mouth as far as it goes.' I open my mouth as far as it goes, until my jaw feels uncomfortable. I feel like a horse being inspected. I hear soft guttural ramblings. I manage the required minute. Four minutes pause.

Further commands... 'Stimulate your clitoris', 'Suck on your finger, like a pouting starlet', 'Stretch your labia minora to capacity', 'Stimulate your uvula', 'Fingerfuck yourself slowly', 'Open your mouth and make a droning noise', 'Fingerfuck yourself frantically', 'Pull out your clitoris to capacity', 'Pull your nose up towards your forehead', 'Stretch the corners of eyes out and upwards', 'Use your fingers to draw your lower eyelids to capacity' and so on. In other words, play the fool and realise you have no privacy or dignity. I am fine with that, I think. Although there is a shred of me that wants to be approved of, liked, respected, regarded as attractive. Oh, dear!

I am fully immersed in my own thoughts and actions, but occasionally register a command to slave Martin: 'stroke your cock, but don't come', 'open your mouth to capacity', 'take your testicles and pull them apart, to capacity.' I can't gauge the expression on his face very well from the corner of my eye, but I can't help but wonder if his feelings mirror mine. Does a male react harder to the lack of control and the humiliation than a woman? I realise he may have been in this position more often.

I don't know how I feel being here with him. Shared sorrow is half a sorrow? I am confused...

There is a final beep, though I only know this in hindsight, and no more commands are forthcoming.

I start settling in laying there still and unmoving.

I stop listening to the chatter around me.

I close my eyes

I dream off...

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Once upon a time...

I am a sophomore business studies. My friends and I have assembled to drink and eat. In this order. At my place. Our group is eight or nine. I have a habit of seeking and finding excuses to strip off. We are half a bottle down each and inebriated, before we have even mentioned making and eating dinner. I don't know exactly why, but one of us, my friend Nancy, brings up a scene from a book, film or whatever she has read or heard - I don't know or I don't remember. She may have made it up, knowing her! There was no online porn yet!

Anyway, what she came up with now sounds like soft-porn à la the l'Histoire d'O and Emmanuelle flicks.

In the scene, a feast was held in some upper-class circle. Dinner included, for which the feast was transferred to the dining room. On the large dining table, a naked maiden was laid out, so my friend said. And the maiden was covered with seafood, nuts, fruits and salads. And pubic hair, in keeping with the fashion of the day. Because in addition to her face, naturally, her breasts and sex were in full evidence.

My friend tells us that the dinner was had, and that looks were cast on the woman, certainly, and that she was referred to, sometimes in crude terms, but she was not spoken to. At the end, she had been stripped of food, but she wasn't clean. Many traces were left. The table was a chaos of leftover and spilled food. She had not been addressed, as my friend said, nor stimulated, just looked at and talked about. Remarkable was that she managed to lie relatively still for what must have been an hour or two, Nancy says.

For us, it is now time to make some food, or get it, or we will be too pissed to bother. No one is willing to cook the meal and we don't have the cash to get a delivery. I check the fridge. 'Let's see... There are some cold cuts, there is fish leftover, there is stuff for a salad and fruit... We don't have to cook... Let's lay the table.' People start getting the stuff out, and plates and cutlery. Until my friend Nancy offers this: 'Or we could play out the story I have just told us.'

Wow!

The notion hits me like rocket. Me, me, me...! But I force myself to be coy and say, 'Sounds like fun! Any volunteers?'

I look around, expecting no response, but to my dismay, my friend Nancy say, 'I'll do it! I'll get laid!' Pun intended, as the near future shows.

So, she slowly strips off her student garb - Converse sneakers and socks, old jeans, red long-sleeved T-shirt, camisole, no bra, cotton briefs with a hole at the hip. And she instantly hops on the table and stretches out. She is a nice, skinny girl-next-door type, we'd now say, with B-size breasts, with meaty nipples, behind which her ribs can be made out, thin wispy pubic hair, through which her closed puffy outer lips can be clearly seen - her inner lips were hidden - and a full head of curly brown hair. There are wolf whistles and shouts of approval.

No time is wasted to lay out the food on her body - under her cries of 'Cold! Get off!' I play along, but I have to hide my disappointment it isn't me. And I feast my eyes on her body. I have never been in a position to study a woman's body so unashamedly. Well, I consider myself a connoisseur of the male variety, post-sex, as I always take my time to look at the bodies of my sleepy bedfellows before drifting off myself. I take the opportunity to get seated at the head of the table, facing her crotch, and ask someone to fill me a plate.

We eat and talk excitedly. My naked friend Nancy has her eyes closed, but talks and laughs along, and shifts restlessly on the hard unforgiving table. She is fed bits and pieces. After fifteen, twenty minutes, she finally sits up, shakes the remaining food off her body and shoots off to the shower. For the hour that remains, she stays naked and ends up spending the night with me. My first lesbian experience, so there is an upside to the disappointment!

This is part of my feverish train of thoughts when, thirty years later, my own turn to serve as a food tray has finally come.

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The next thing I know is when they lower me in a warm and fragrant bath and wash me tenderly. They? No, he! This time it is K himself who does the honours, not his acolytes. 'A special favour... Most members leave any maintenance to the house staff, but I make an exception. I regularly wash and pamper the women I bring here, have brought here. Though not the rule, the other members accept this.'

He looks at my face and says, 'I see your concern... You hear me say you are not the only one. But I only bring a woman into this house if her predecessor has left it.'

I haven't spoken in hours, and my whisper comes out raspy, 'So, can I leave?'

'You can, if you remember. I have said it before. Do you want to?'

'Yes. No. I don't know. I don't know. I really don't.'

'Hush, Vita. Don't decide now. We'll talk again tomorrow.'

I am put to bed, that is, to a bed, as always, without covers and watched by cameras in each of the four corners of the ceiling. And my hands shackled behind my back. These sleeping conditions still bother me, but I am exhausted and fall asleep without great delay.

I sleep deeply. Comatose, like a log.

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The next morning K enters my cell bright and early. He looks me over and then sits down on the edge of my bed.

'So, Vita, how are you?'

'Master K, I feel... overwhelmed, to be honest. I accept all that was done to me, on a conscious level, but my subconscious is still nagging me. My new life is not easy. It is hard. Very hard. I don't know if I can take it.

'The endless chain of the membership using me... It was so relentless. And without release on my part.' I hasten to add, 'Expect for when you took me, mercifully!'

K mercifully smiles at me.

'But the image of slave Martin haunts me. When I feel weak and worthless, his spectre appears before my mind's eye. He looks so ugly, but what's more, so unhappy, so desperately unhappy! I fear becoming like him. I'd rather be dead than be like him.'

I break down in tears.

I am surprised to find K catching me in a tight, warm embrace. We are silent for a few minutes.

Then Master K says, 'Yes, it is very hard. But it is the life for you, I am convinced. You won't be like how you perceive slave Martin. His journey is a long and winding one. He was desperately unhappy before he came here. And here he is unhappy at times, but doesn't wish to leave. Remember, he is, as you are, free to go whenever he sees fit.

'Do keep in mind, slave Vita, that you are free to go, if you find this is not your way, or no longer is! I'll release you when you request it, now and at any time in the future, but a release is irreversible. You'll never see me again, see this house again. In fact, you'll be put on a plane and be persona-non-grata in this city. We have that power and will make sure.'

I sigh and close my eyes. After some time, these words escape my lips, 'I want to stay, Master K. Dear Lord, I can't see my former life as real anymore.'

'You can change your mind anytime later, Vita. Anytime later.'

'There is one thing. You know...'

'I know. There is the matter of your mother. I aware that you haven't been in touch with her for over a week.'

'Wait... It has only been a week? Oh, my submission has been a watershed moment. A new eternity started then. I am out of touch with my previous life. But, my mother, yes. She needs me, if that is true. Or I need her. Need her acceptance, her blessing. I am not sure what I want to say.'

'I know. We agreed that you would be allowed to call her. And invite her here, if you will. I suggest you write her a letter and invite her to a call. We'll restore your phone to you for the purpose, at the scheduled time.'

He explains when mother will have received the letter I am to write and when the Skype call will be opportune.

It takes me three hours to write a first draft, for K to comment and for me to finalise it.

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Here is what I write:

Dear Mum,

You haven't heard from me in a while. I am sorry. I neglected you. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn't know what to say.

I don't know how I am. I don't know what I am.

Perhaps I am no longer worthy of being your daughter. Or you of being my mother.

You may not recognise me.

Last time you saw me I was a wealthy, well-groomed professional woman. That is what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Was I wrong?

Did you ever say that you loved me? Did you when I was a little girl? You cared for me and I have no complaints, but did you love me? Perhaps you did, but you never said. You cared for me and took me for granted, which is not the same as accepting me. During my adult years, you respected me, for my achievements, for my wealth. I have no complaints. But did you accept me, in your heart of hearts? Did you love me? I don't know. Perhaps you don't either.

Did I love myself, did I recognise myself in the image I saw? I took myself for granted too, I guess... My image was ambition. I saw ambition when I looked in the mirror. For three decades, I saw ambition and recognised myself in that image. And I nurtured that ambition and became successful, as I said, and wealthy.

Then I stopped work and just jetted around the world, from hotel to hotel, from dinner to dinner, from alliance to alliance.

You know I never bothered to settle down, as they say. Marry someone, get pregnant and raise any offspring. I had liaisons, alliances... These lasted from one night, to days, to weeks and some even to months. You have met a few men that were with me for a few months. No one really lasted.

Which brings me to the here and now. When you'd see me now, I am certain you wouldn't recognise me. As for me, the person in the mirror feels like a stranger to me. You might say that I am exaggerating, but if you'd see me you would agree.

Did I get a disastrous haircut? Were my clothes stolen? Was I kidnapped for ransom and neglected when my captors realised no one was going to pay up?

The answers to these questions are, almost: yes. But there are essential differences.

Every hair of my body was removed, and I consented. It wasn't my initiative, mind you. But I consented. So, I am without that essential element of female pulchritude. I don't like how I look--no, I abhor it. But I accept it, even as I mourn the loss of my hair. My hair was part of my image, the image of what I was. I am no longer attractive. That is, in the conventional sense.

My clothes... I don't own any anymore. No dresses, no skirts, no blouses, no slacks, no cardigans, no chemises, no underwear. Nothing! Nothing that upheld my image of the past. My skin is what I am dressed in, always, forever.

But don't imagine a middle-aged hag, with fat where it didn't use to be, with cellulites, with wrinkles everywhere. I am middle-aged, but I get fed just enough of everything I need, so that my weight is spot on, a natural minimum. My skin is maintained really perfect by massages, scrubbing, oiling etc. Don't take western skincare as your reference, because that pales in comparison to what they can do here in the East.

Kidnapped, held for ransom? I haven't been kidnapped. They asked my consent before they started to own me, like one would own an animal. And I gave my consent. And I gave them access to my financial means. But I trust them, Master K in particular, and they take good care of me, within their set of rules. The prime rule is to keep me healthy and sane. This rule is carefully complied with, even if they will use and chastise me liberally.

Use means - and you will be shocked - penetration in all three of my orifices: mouth, sex, anus.

Chastise means punished by needles, pins, skewers, whips, floggers, canes etc. Not when I will have been bad, but because it will please the Master and his cohorts. Or because of the very fact that I gave myself away. So, my skin will often show traces of chastisement, but what I said before is still true: they will treat these 'injuries', for lack of a better word, they will treat them well, so that the skin recovers and stays healthy. The traces are thus always transient.

I said: 'Here in the East.' 'Cause that is where I find myself. You know that I have travelled relentlessly once I retired. I am now in Shanghai, and it seems I will remain here--for as long as my Master desires. But he says he is committed to me and I believe him. And for as long as I desire. I am free to leave, but I doubt I will ever want to do so. Unimaginable. Have I been brainwashed? Does it make a difference? So, I feel I will remain here for as long as my Master desires.

So, I am finally committed to a man, like you always wanted. And he to me. You should be happy. But, as you will have concluded when I called him 'Master', we are not equals. We have radically different roles, complimentary roles, in fact, roles that fit. I am absolutely free, free from any responsibility or choice. He, Master, can command me as he pleases, provided I get kept healthy and sane.

I realise this is a lot to take in, Mother, and I know we haven't been in touch. Since I met K, some two, three months ago, I have been scarce; a couple of texts only. Since my incarceration only a week ago, I was not allowed outside contact at all, until I was ready. I am ready now. I have been promised I'd be allowed contact with you - a condition for me before I was ready to submit. You see: I really want to be in touch. Why? Because to lose a child must be murder. (This is perhaps a reason why I didn't have any. Note to self...) And, when all is said and done, I am grateful that you have spawned me. Life isn't a walk in the park - that is: my life isn't - but I am grateful for it, nonetheless, or rather, because of it, as walks in the park are hardly challenges. I don't know... Yet am certain. A real-life paradox. I took the right turn.

Do you wish to see me? I hope you do.

Your acceptance would be my anchor to the world; the world as I knew it, which continues to turn around. I surprise myself, but the words about the anchor came out into my consciousness fully formed, so they must be true.

Needless to say, I invite you with the approval of my Master. You are welcome to come and stay, for a while, for longer, as long as you like, he says. Let's Skype first, to break the ice and because you will have many questions. Will 8:00 a. m. on (date) suit you? I will contact you then. If you don't answer, I will try again on the next day, same time, and so on, until we have spoken. Then we'll decide how we want to progress our contact. I hope you do wish to see me.

I close, with anticipation and nervousness,

Your Vita

End of Part 2