KINKED SOBER:
AN EROTIC BDSM
NOVEL OF RECOVERY
By
Lauren L
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved
Copyright 2011 Lauren L
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Dedication
For Julie Blair and Dia Zerva
Chapter 1
The morning was crisp.
And there stood sweet Venica Bella (though she was not known by that name then), glossy eyed, absolved of all worldly ideas. Water flowed from the kitchen faucet and into a kettle and she watched mindlessly as her hands placed it on the stove.
Was it the same as every other morning?
Egg whites sizzled as wheat bread toasted as orange aroma filled the kitchen from juicing. Yes, it was the same. The morning was peaceful as adoring lilacs in a garden. But, that morning was remarkably different than other mornings, for what was intended to occur had yet to occur. That was the morning in which she and her significant other, Thomas Lark, waited for two years.
“Two years, three months, and thirteen days,” Venica mumbled, stroking the metal neck of the warming kettle. She found two mugs and two bags of herbal tea. She hummed to herself for a moment and then she proceeded to consider herself and her journey, and all to await a simple phone call. The entire process amazed her.
She gazed at her reflection in the kettle. Venica studied her blue eyes and arched brows. She grinned, smiled, frowned; squinted and stretched her eyes thin. As the water warmed in the kettle, she squeezed her shoulders tight and tugged on her silver necklace.
She was beautiful. Yes, a true beauty of womanhood, a rare key, polished, exalting in its supreme intention of unlocking a door- the prized door that mankind longs to unlock with regards to nature’s sexuality; she held in her simple features such radiance that even the moral-less kettle abandoned all reason and reflected her face as respectfully as it was able. For she was not of humanly splendor, and it was of great importance to acknowledge that fact of reality: Venica’s oval face, her thin forehead and crystal, blue eyes, her wavy, blonde hair, her high cheeks and soft chin- it was all goodness, though, goodness in a general human luxuriance. She was easy to view, her face, yes- it was generous in its charity.
Her body, too, was artisan triumph. She was unlike those women who, chiseled as they might be, spent hours upon hours in exercise, pounding away at their bodies. No, it was not like that for her. Venica’s body held its muscles naturally, and by being birthed with a reservoir of such godly genetic quality, she was accidently firm throughout her being. Her legs, arms, torso, neck- it was unnecessary to advance in questioning any portion of her, for her body was natural in its splendor and, just like a person need not defend genealogy, she needn’t explain herself for why or where such an outfit as her body happened to have been formed.
To touch her felt riveting; it stayed the hand of many who suffered with self-loathing, for they were, adequately enough, unworthy of her. Venica’s creamy, pale skin was as dipping fingers into water yet firm as gripping raw meat. Venica was lovely: unwontedly delicate and profoundly robust, she was iconic in her own classic beauty. She was above reproach. Although, she was naïve to her physical charms, which made her even more of a puzzle- even more delectable and desired; her gaze at her reflection was with empty eyes. She knew not of her beauty. She lived as a blossom might live- living and blooming and completely unaware at what a strange miracle she was to eyes who adored her from afar.
Thomas peered around the corner and cleared his throat. “Morning.”
She turned to him, excited at the sight, and rushed to his embrace. They held one another, her hands running through his short, unkempt hair.
He asked, “No call yet?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to worry. It will be what it will be.”
He sighed and looked at the food she prepared. “If they don’t call I’ll be angry.”
She agreed and they debated the arrogance of an institution calling to say whether or not ‘The Appointment’ would be kept.
She said, “They will call. They know we have the money to pay. Besides, all our time there and the interviews and all my medical records- it’d be ridiculous if they don’t call.”
Thomas wasn’t as positive. He said, “We signed all those contracts about forfeiting our five thousand dollar deposit. I can’t imagine losing that money if The Appointment isn’t kept.”
The phone rang. Venica reached behind Thomas and answered, “Hello?”
“This call is to verify The Appointment is pending,” relayed a woman’s soft voice. “The arrival time must be kept. Transportation will leave promptly.” Before Venica could respond she heard a click followed by loud, steady beeping.
Nervous but giddy, Venica looked at Thomas. “We’re on.”
As fast as a sharp wind might explode through a thunderstorm, they ate and showered and left. It was all a blur of chaos, fear, and anticipation, until Thomas pulled into the parking lot and abruptly stopped. Venica read the sign, as she had read it so many times before: BFN.
It had begun.
Together they went inside, signed a registration form on the front admissions counter, and sat down in the waiting room.
Thomas asked, “How long do you think this will take?”
Venica shrugged. “We’re here on time. We’ve never waited before.”
Two other people, a middle aged, handsome man accompanied by a short, young man entered. The two men glanced around and giddily signed the registration form. As they went to sit, the older of the two gave Venica a friendly wink.
Before she could respond the back office door opened and drew Venica’s attention.
A blonde woman, wearing black stockings under a velvet skirt with a silky white blouse called Venica’s name.
The woman sternly pointed at the two men and said, “You’ve arrived too early. This violates The Appointment agreement.”
The older of the two said he was unaware of that stipulation.
She replied, “You are not to see the other applicants. I’ll let it slide but your friend needs to leave now.”
“Sure,” he said.
The woman looked at Venica. “You.” She paused. “Come with me.”
Thomas and Venica began to follow the woman. She abruptly stopped them at the door and said, “Which of you is here for The Appointment?”
“I am,” Venica replied.
“Then say goodbye to him.” She looked Thomas over with disgust on her face, sizing him up. “Are you ready to leave?”
Thomas clutched Venica’s elbow and whispered, “Go. Learn everything you can.”
Venica nodded as a look of concern and longing purged from her face.
Thomas squeezed her hand. “This will be good for us. You are important to me beyond anything I could ever dream of expressing. Follow your heart. Do what you know to be right while you’re there. Please,” he pleaded, shaking his head. He left his thought unfinished and she watched him walk out of the building.
“My name is Miss Ruin,” the woman said. “Follow me.”
Venica walked several feet behind her and watched as her blonde mass of hair bounced along her tight shoulders. They walked through a white hallway, the color of sterility itself, down a short flight of stairs, and entered a small office.
Miss Ruin sat behind a cherry oak desk and waved Venica toward a metal folding chair in front of it. She placed her chin on her palm and smiled. “What is the safe word?”
“Red.”
“Do you have any medical history you failed to inform us of?”
“No.”
Miss Ruin paused, leaning back. “Your file states that you have never used a safe word during a session. You understand you will be responsible for your safety, correct?”
“Yes.”
“The contract you signed limits male interaction with you. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
She folded her hands together. “Do you know what you are getting yourself into?”
Venica grinned. “No.”
Miss Ruin smiled and said, “That’s cute. If you show this spunk over the next couple weeks at Bravada, then I’m sure you’ll have quite a time.”
Venica blushed and muttered, “I know it’ll be hard.”
“You will be pushed like you have no limits.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
Chuckling, Miss Ruin removed a forest green jumpsuit from the desk drawer. “If,” she said, “you are serious and ready, then take these clothes and change into them. Leave all your personal belongings, all jewelry and your wallet and purse and walk out back to the left.” She placed the clothes on the edge of her desk. “If,” and she looked Venica in the eyes, “you change your mind, then follow me out to the front and no one will ridicule you or even speak to you about your choice.”
“I’m ready,” Venica replied.
Miss Ruin stood from behind the desk, shaking her head with condemnation. Slowly she approached Venica and, as she gently took her hand she whispered, “You can change your mind and no one will judge you.” She sympathetically nodded. “Go on, change your mind. It’s okay.”
Venica looked at her puzzled.
“It’s okay,” Miss Ruin repeated. “I’ll walk you out the front.”
“I don’t want to leave,” Venica said. “I want to go to Bravada.” She tossed her hands into the air. “That’s why I’m here.”
Miss Ruin tilted her head with maternal disapproval. “Bravada isn’t a place for people like you. It’s,” and she tenderly ran her hand along Venica’s jaw. “It’s for people who are not as gentle a doe, not as lovely as a gentle rain.”
Without provocation, Miss Vice smacked Venica across the face and grabbed the back of her hair with force, careful not to disrupt the pressed collar of her shirt. Venica remained calm, stoic, slitted eyes and breath held, as Miss Ruin pulled her face close.
Venica smelled coffee on Miss Ruin’s breath as she said, “I gave you a choice. Now you decide. You have one minute.” She released Venica’s hair and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Venica looked around the immaculate office. It was as real as it was a dream.
Was she dreaming?
A sedative of reality passed through her bones, because she knew she was not dreaming. Still, their interaction felt like a dream to her, for its purpose was irrational. She stood idle, wondering why Miss Ruin acted with such disdain for her. Why insist that Venica would not choose to complete The Appointment?
She’d already signed all the paperwork; had her medical records sent and a full physical performed. She paid the exorbitant deposit, wrote essays and papers about sex and passion and dominance and submission. More than anything, she’d waited for so long. She’d shown such willingness, such patience! She looked at the clothing laid out on the side of the desk, looked upon its ugliness with curiosity, and again considered the words of Miss Ruin.
Venica disrobed and tossed her clothes and undergarments into a pile on the floor. She removed the gold watch that her father gave her as a birthday gift. She removed the silver necklace that Thomas gave her for Christmas. She placed them both on the desk, her eyes catatonic, loathing that they must be left.
Though she desperately did not want to leave her items of sentiment, she had no option. She was going, she decided, and no one and no thing, not Miss Ruin, not the loss of her garments or personal trinkets would keep her from Bravada.
Chapter 2
Venica pulled the jumpsuit on, removed her shoes and walked out, turning to the left. She had such resolve about her attendance at Bravada that not even providence would alter her choice.
In front of her stood a strange and unassuming man who held open the back door to a black Cadillac. She walked up to him and he handed her a dark, silky scarf.
He said, “Wrap this around your eyes and keep your mouth shut.” He grabbed her jumpsuit by the lapel and, without regard for her comfort, pushed her into the car. He closed the door and knocked three times. The vehicle began to move.
She wrapped the scarf around her eyes.
And there it was that she sat, awaiting her arrival to Bravada, and all the while listening to the pummeling sounds of rubber tires and gravel. She listened as air passed over the vehicle and she felt like a wave bound for shore. She was certain of herself yet she was uncertain of the unknown; afraid of what to expect from the car ride. After a short while, she completely lost track of time and distance.
Eventually, the vehicle slowed and rolled to a stop. She waited, desperate to remove the scarf from her eyes.
She heard the front door of the car open. The driver exited the vehicle and within seconds the door next to her flew open. She felt a gush of air burst over her neck and through her hair. A strong hand grabbed her and ripped her from the car, throwing her on the ground.
Venica scrambled to get up. As she centered herself and lifted to her elbows, a weighty and solid boot pushed down on the middle of her back, forcing her face into the gravel.
A curt woman’s voice asked, “And where do you think you’re going?”
Venica didn’t respond. Filth and dirt entered her nostrils. The gravel scrapped her cheek and gouged her jaw.
The woman said, “Turn over.” She grabbed Venica’s shoulder and tossed her onto her back. It sent stinging vibrations through her legs and buttocks. “Take this off. You don’t get clothes here.”
Venica heard the vehicle speed away and she felt the earth react to the shredding of tires. She squirmed as the woman ripped the jumpsuit from her body, leaving her naked except for the blindfold. The woman shouted, “Stop moving!”
Venica felt the gravel jab into her soft, fleshy back. The small granular pebbles magnified their pressure when she leaned this way or that. It was a unique discomfort; one she had never before known.
The woman threw the jumpsuit aside. Although Venica was blinded by the scarf, she felt eyes bore down on her fully exposed body. Venica felt the woman’s heated breath on her face. “I’m Nicole Vice. Do you know how to properly address me?”
“Yes, Miss Vice.”
“Good girl,” she purred, as she began to walk around Venica’s still form. “Do you know where you are?”
“Bravada.”
Miss Vice giggled fiendishly. “Yes.” Venica felt the sharp, prodding end of a shoe’s heel dig into her palm. The back of her hand burned as gravel scratched her skin. “What’s the safe word?”
“Red.”
“It is. And if,” she paused, “when you are gagged? What then?”
Venica, blindfolded and pained from the heel driving her hand into the gravel, shook her head side to side three times while grunting.
Miss Vice pulled her foot from Venica’s flushed palm. A burning sensation rose through her wrist and delved deep in her fingertips. She muttered, “Domina will like you. Such a pretty girl you are.” Venica felt a rod poke her cheek, pushing her skin inward. “What do you say when someone gives you a compliment?”
“Thank you.”
“Get up.”
She scrambled to her feet. The gravel and rocks unabashedly compressed into her soles and the aching was nearly unbearable. Every few feet Miss Vice pushed Venica’s back, right between her shoulder blades. Several times Venica fell on all fours, only to hear Miss Vice scream how she needed to walk faster, how she was lazy and unkempt and a pathetic addition to Bravada.
“You shouldn’t be here!” Miss Vice screamed, as Venica stood from the ground. Her high pitched tone pierced Venica’s eardrums. “Do you think you will make it the entire time? You are a mess!” She clutched Venica’s throat, raising her up to her tip toes from the joint that attached her head to the top of her neck. Miss Vice squeezed with such force that Venica felt her pulse reverberate along the edge of her thumb. “Little slave, what time do you think it is?”
She croaked her answer, “Middle of the afternoon.”
Miss Vice cleared her throat. “Middle of the afternoon, what?”
Venica realized that she did not remember Miss Vice’s name. “Ma’am,” she stammered.
All Venica heard was silence. The bursting sun and humidity became her only companion and then, piercing like the sting of a snake bite, closed fingers pounded across her right cheek with a deliberate smack. It took her breath away. She grabbed onto Miss Vice’s wrist, for it was the only reason her body remanded vertical, and she choked a heaving gasp.
Calmly, Miss Vice replied, “Interesting.” She whispered, “Lamb, did you already forget my name?”
“Yes.”
She lowered Venica down to kneel in front of her and watched as sweat beaded and rushed down her naked body. Like pearls strung from a cord, moisture slid along the ridges of Venica’s face and neck from the edges of the scarf that blinded her. Miss Vice adjusted her grip on Venica’s hair and squeezed her scalp, ripping a few strands out. Venica automatically wrapped her hands around opposite wrists behind her back, kneeling with her knees proportioned and her balance resting on her toes.
“At least you have been trained.” Miss Vice ran her fingertips along Venica’s throat. She leaned down and asked, “Who has trained you?”
“My Master.”
Miss Vice smacked Venica across the face. “Your Master.” She pulled and squeezed Venica’s nipples with her free hand, rolling them between her knuckles like lotion. “And what have you heard of this retreat doing for trained slaves?”
“Teaching them.”
Tightening her grip on Venica’s hair, she dropped her other hand from Venica’s breasts, venturing to her stomach. She pinched the pliable, sensitive skin around her naval and said, “True. It is thought that to learn is to teach. What do you plan on teaching?”
Venica fell silent. Her breathing quickened as she felt Miss Vice gently pull on a few short strands of her pubic hair. Her public hairs tugged on the surface of her skin, ever so lightly, that it felt near the soft stinging dampness of walking through a cold morning fog.
“No answer?” Miss Vice angrily slapped Venica’s stomach and, though Venica did not move, not even giving a slight cringe, internally a fire was lit aflame. “Then, what do you expect to learn here?”
Venica straightened her posture. She protruded her breasts and elongated her muscular back into a full presentation of herself. She took a deep breath and focused. “I expect to learn how to better serve as a submissive, Miss Vice. To be a better slave.”
Miss Vice sighed. She whispered, “I shall tell you a secret. If I can trust you. Should I trust you?”
“Please, Miss Vice.”
Smiling, she petted Venica’s buttocks like wind caresses shrubbery. No area was exempt from her fingers as she said, “Each day you will take a step toward a spiritual awakening. And, once you have that awakening, you will educate other slaves and you will take from here and implement in your life everything you learned.” Miss Vice kissed Venica’s cheek with an unexpected sensuality. She kissed her again on her temple as she continued to caress her buttocks. “I read your file,” she whispered, moving to bite her earlobe.
Venica arched her back. Her heartbeat increased at the sensation of Miss Vice’s aura and energy mixing with hers.
Miss Vice stroked the exposed region of Venica’s sex with gentle grace. Her fingers were light as flower pedals and as she caressed her, her senses awoke, arousing Venica, leaving even her tongue tingling.
“Your file said you prefer for women to dominate you,” she whispered, inserting one finger into the tightness of her femininity. She revolved her thumb over her arched hips and buttocks as she drew in and out of her. Venica kept her body still. She focused and concentrated, attempting to expect the unexpected, and all the while managing the discomfort stemming from the gavel beneath her feet.
Miss Vice whispered, “Why, then, do you have a Master at home? Maybe you should have a Mistress.”
Venica blinked sweat away from her eyes behind the scarf. She breathed in and out, her chest rising from anticipation of the coming two weeks. Miss Vice withdrew her finger completely and smacked the cheeks of her buttocks, raising her hand high and stroking downwards with precisely delivered blows. Venica struggled to keep her balance until Miss Vice surprised her by grabbing her nipples and pulling them upwards. Mindless, she followed her lead and stood.
A car screeched to a halt. Miss Vice said, “The next slave’s arrival has saved you from me.” She grabbed the knot that fastened the blindfold Venica wore and dragged her, stumbling up the multiple, uneven stone stairs to the entrance. A door, sounding of thick, oak wood opened, and a wave of stale air gushed over Venica’s face.
“Get in there!” Miss Vice shouted. She pushed Venica inside, dropped her on a concrete floor, and slammed the door shut.
Chapter 3
Flickering light was all Venica saw beyond the darkness of the blindfold she wore.
Candles, perhaps?
The cold air settled around her recently sun-kissed body, and on her sweaty skin it felt like a cloak of tacks. Placing her hands in front of her, she felt along the ground searching for something, anything, which might appease her growing insecurity.
“Take off the blindfold,” a woman said from a distance.
Venica slowly moved to perch on her heels. Her body expanded like a butterfly beginning a descent. She took her time, allowing the woman who spoke to watch her movements in all their simplicity.
After untying the knot, Venica pulled off the blindfold and placed it on the ground in front of her. Without a sound, she lifted her chest into the air, constricted her hands behind her back, and displayed her complete compliance.
“Very nice. Very sexy,” announced a soothing, charmed voice. From a dark corner of the room walked a tall woman that Venica estimated to tower her by at least five inches. Strutting from across the room, the woman’s heels clicked in rhythm with the sound of swishing latex. “Don’t look at me,” she hissed. “Sit there pretty or you’ll wish you had never come.”
When she reached Venica, she grabbed the back of her head, lifted her skirt, and pressed Venica’s face into her indecency. “Get comfy, slut.”
Venica did not fight her; did not pull away or strain or resist. She absorbed the pressure on both her face and her neck as if she were a sponge: living malleability.
The woman ran her fingers through Venica’s soft blonde hair, raking it out and dropping it over her shoulders in a cascade of weightlessness. She ran her nails atop Venica’s scalp with enough pressure to send tingles down her arms and back and said, “Suck me.”
She did. Venica ran her tongue through her lips and eased up, then down. Right, then left. She inhaled and exhaled a sigh, for she tasted clean and fresh and like that of a woman who knew exactly how sex should flavor a tongue.
“Harder.”
Venica pulled the woman into her mouth. Her tongue pulsed along the warm, plump endeavor, and as she tasted her, she felt moisture purge from her own womanly secrets, and she reddened from embarrassment.
“You may call me Miss Dolor. My function is to train the disobedient, cleanse the slaves, and explain the principles we teach.” She pushed Venica’s face into her wetness even harder. “That’s a good girl. A pleasing sight.”
Such a pleasing sight; yes, Venica knew she was a very pleasing sight to Miss Dolor. Her ankles were perfectly aligned, her hips square with her shoulders, and her arms lynched together by her own doing.
Venica’s presentation of herself was an art, a sculpted icon of true submissive order. She knew that Miss Dolor was pleased with her. A wave of pleasure entered and exited Venica’s chest and she was convinced, then, that she would soon revel in the emotional gratification of quality submissive behavior like a child, chocolate.
Miss Dolor moaned from deep within her throat. Her hips twitched and Venica felt a vibration rattle along her tongue. Her head was pulled from its crammed position.
“You do not get a reward for nothing.” Miss Dolor leaned down, eye level, and pushed her nose against Venica’s nose. Closing her eyes, she reached between Venica’s open legs and squeezed her wet insatiability. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Miss Dolor.”
She sighed and parted Venica’s mouth with her tongue. As their lips intertwined, she said, “This is a simple program. If you want to succeed here, you have to be willing to change everything about your life.” She pulled her face back and told Venica to steadily look at her as she fondled and pulled at Venica’s sensitivity. After a few moments, Miss Dolor kissed Venica on the right, then the left, cheek. “Do you want to experience the depth of subspace that true submission conjures?”
“Yes, Miss Dolor.”
Removing her fingers from inside Venica, she placed one finger under Venica’s chin and gently led her to stand on her feet. “We shall see.” As she walked behind Venica, she traced her body with nails that felt like talons. Then she proceeded to meticulously tie Venica’s elbows and wrists in thin rope. “Consider your choice before you decide. Red or blue?”
Venica twitched. “Blue.”
Miss Dolor bent her over and viciously smacked her buttocks, shouting, “Red or blue?”
“Blue!”
“Red or blue?”
“Blue! Blue!”
Miss Dolor took Venica by the ropes and growled, “I have something blue for you.”
The darkness was imposing. Shadows danced along the walls, calling to Venica, asking her to pay them attention as she was rushed along a tremendously distant concrete hallway. Gravel, still embedded in parts of her body, clicked and clinked on the floor as she was hurried along to an unknown place.
Suddenly, they arrived at a tiny, tiled room with a feathered cot. There was an open shower with a hose attached to a rusty spout and grooming items scattered around.
Miss Dolor said, “Get to your knees.”
Venica did as she was told. On her knees, she expanded her chest and watched as Miss Dolor turned on the water, prepping Venica for her cleansing.
“We have to make you beyond presentable,” she muttered, examining a sponge and a black, wire brush. All the while as she did this, even as she adjusted the hose and stomped on the drain, Miss Dolor accidently ignored the brilliant position which Venica presented for her visual enjoyment. “Domina wants every single one of her slaves to be perfect.”
Miss Dolor looked up and caught sight of Venica; caught sight of her magnificent and shapely demeanor, for while Venica’s elbows and wrists were bound, Miss Dolor saw that Venica was so very comfortable in that position that she did not look bound. She looked something different. She looked unique and unusual. Venica looked, yes- that was what it was, contented.
It enraged Miss Dolor, looking at such a lovely and presentable woman, bound, kneeling to her, patiently waiting to be cleansed. No one was ever to look that perfect.
Miss Dolor stared at Venica and wondered who she was.
Who was she to come to Bravada and take pearls of submissive fortitude without the due and proper honor of earning them? Venica was too beautiful, too enriching and she simply harmonized too well with the rope that lynched her arms. Miss Dolor hated and adored her, emotions seasoned with a dutiful entitlement of designing her for Domina’s approval.
She approached Venica with a face of dismay and looked down upon her mature, ripe body. “You will not be worshipped by me.” And then, without hesitating, she smacked Venica across the face with such force that Venica lost her composure for a split second.
If Venica’s face were glass, it would have shattered. If clay, crumbled. Venica closed her eyes and embraced the tingles that drifted down through her chest. She could not feel her face, not where she was smacked. She lifted her head, reestablishing her position, and thanked Miss Dolor for smacking her face.
“You should thank me,” she said, and quickly came another powerful smack.
“Thank you for teaching me, Miss Dolor,” Venica stated, prepared for a third smack in which she had fully offered up her cheek to receive.
Miss Dolor led Venica under the cold water and watched as she shivered, desperate to retain her composure. She lifted the unresisting tied arms, contorted the body, and used the sponge to wash Venica’s skin. After several groans, Miss Dolor said, “Stop whining and be quiet. I don’t care if you’re cold.”
Miss Dolor doused Venica’s body with the water that splurged from the hose, cleaning the outsides of her body along with the insides. Venica held her tongue between her teeth to remain quiet, though, she still helplessly screamed when the hose was inserted into her most sacred of areas, filling her buttocks to capacity with water.
Finally, Miss Dolor removed the hose and watched as Venica expelled the water from inside of her.
“Slaves have lost consciousness from that before.”
Soaking wet, Venica looked through the wrangled mess of her hair at Miss Dolor and felt an attachment to her. She said, “Thank you for washing me.”
As Miss Dolor began to reply, a perception shift occurred. Miss Dolor twisted her brow, befuddled at the realization that she did not loath Venica as she previously thought. She was, actually, quite impressed with the young slave, and she saw her as absolutely lovely and fragile.
A transfer of power occurred right then, from Venica thanking her so nobly to Miss Dolor sensing humility in the act of cleansing a slave of such worth. It was unspoken, unwritten, unrecognized but by Miss Dolor.
Miss Dolor nodded and said, “Come and lay here.” Moving the cot into the middle of the room, Miss Dolor placed a feather pillow on the end and motioned at Venica. “I shall primp you and groom you.” After untying her, Venica lay on the cot, attempting to relax, though she still shivered from the cold water.
A brush gently ran through Venica’s hair and a soft towel traced her hairline. Miss Dolor whispered, “Soon you will meet Domina.”
Time passed with guile and during that ageless hour or two (for Venica held no perception of time, whatsoever) Miss Dolor gave Venica a pedicure and manicure, laced her eyes and mouth with glamorous makeup, and oiled her skin with Italian fragrances and herbs.
As she bathed her body in syrupy lotions and softeners and perfumes, Miss Dolor talked to her in depth. She described the program of complete surrender that Bravada teaches the submissive and the slave.
“This is, actually, a very simple program. If you want to succeed here, you have to be willing to change everything you currently believe in and accept everything presented to you as being exactly what it is. Willingness is of utmost importance.”
Venica didn’t question Miss Dolor. She didn’t request articulation and she didn’t ponder her words. She simply lay in quiet, waiting patiently for her next order to complete.
Her next order to complete: yes, that was exactly what gave Venica peace of mind as she patiently waited. She held no responsibilities until she was commanded to perform and until that time presented itself she felt relaxed.
This place for Venica, this account-less zone of living, felt liberating and exotic. And that freedom from accountability, and the anxiety bred from the stress of every-day life, is what she enjoyed. A sensation of pure liberty was what pulled at her, drew her in, and embraced her right from the beginning of a session. For, when she was solely responsible to perform acts decided by another person, then she was absolved of all accountability to perform for the sake of her own interests.
How could anyone really abandon independence to gain freedom?
It was irrelevant to Venica: while she was fully aware of the paradox in which she lived, she had no interest in examining it.
Though, as her own person, one might think Venica would be concerned for her autonomy. However, Venica did not care to debate what she held as truth. And her apathy, she decided, was where the willingness that Miss Dolor described resided.
Yes, Venica was willing, for she was willing to give away all independence to acquire the peace she felt without autonomy.
“Almost done, beautiful slut.”
“Thank you, Miss Dolor.”
She patted Venica’s cheek and kissed her lips. “I’ll take you to The Grande Room and you will be introduced to Domina.” She leaned her head against Venica’s collarbone. “I have a lovely outfit for a lovely slave like you.” Miss Dolor pointed to the corner and there, hung on a single, gleaming nail, was a black cocktail dress.
Venica did not move. She was not required to move, for Miss Dolor ran black hose from her feet to her mid-thigh, strapped black heels with grey, pointed toes on her feet, wrapped her breasts in push-up lingerie, and slipped a short, backless, black cocktail dress over her shoulders. To finish, Miss Dolor pulled from a separate bag a thin black ribbon and, after pinning up Venica’s hair, she tied a bow around her neck.
She said, “All you need now is willingness.”
Venica looked at her, intently.
Miss Dolor hurried her up from the cot and said, “The size of a mustard seed. Now we must go to The Grande Room. You’re already late.”
Chapter 4
Miss Dolor chased Venica down the hall, shouting at her to hurry and to rush along. All the while, Miss Dolor swatted at Venica’s calves and ankles with a riding crop. As they arrived in The Grande Room, Venica saw a towering woman, wearing a black vinyl suit, dark auburn hair and brown eyes, formally stand over a group of slaves. They crouched below her, many trembling, as she said to them what sounded like the end of a speech.
The woman glared at Venica and said, “I am Domina. I own you.” She pointed to the ground and Venica rushed to the end of the group, kneeling with the other slaves.
Domina continued speaking to the slaves. “You will be broken of human luxury. Time. Taste. Hearing. Sight. Comprehension. Sleep. Food.” She paused as she walked along the three rows of three people, observing each in detail. “You will abstain from all things of pleasurable comfort, for no human luxuries exist here for enjoyment. No dogma will provide you comfort.” Clicking her heels on the tile, she stood motionless in front of a brown haired, white male in his late twenties, who wore a black scarf fastened around his eyes. Venica recognized him as the man who winked at her in the waiting room at the BFN office.
Domina spit on his naked shoulder. “You are disgraceful. Sit up straighter!” Her saliva dripped down his angular shoulder blade. “You are not worthy of any part of me, not even my air.” She turned her back to him and pointed toward a man whose tanned and oiled skin glowed under black leather straps and pants. Venica watched as the group of slaves adjusted themselves, ensuring they sat in a suitable upright position for Domina.
As the man approached, Domina said, “Get this piece of trash out of my sight.” She pointed behind him. “Take him to the training room and rack him.”
She turned and glared at the slave. “Master Troy, this pathetic excuse for a worm will be called Maggot from this day forth. And Maggot, this is Master Troy. He will be teaching you manners and then you will begin powerlessness training with the class.” She looked at Master Troy. “Get Maggot out of here.”
Master Troy took Maggot by the scruff of his neck. “Come with me, Maggot,” Master Troy said through gritted teeth. Maggot yelping from the stinging pain of his hair being pulled at the base of his neck as Master Troy lifted him to his feet.
Maggot called out, “I’m sorry, Domina! I’ll do better!”
She smacked his cheek. His head bobbed uncontrollably as the blinder and the smack left him dizzy.
She shouted in his face, “Do you think your pleading will change my mind? The submission from you that I seek is within your mind, Maggot! Not mine!”
Master Troy handcuffed Maggot and pushed him to his knees, saying, “You will not stand in my presence, little worm.”
Maggot’s chin dropped to the floor as he continued mumblings of his apologies. Master Troy removed a thick belt from around his hips and took a fist full of Maggot’s hair and led him, struggling, to the door. Everyone listened as Master Troy pulled Maggot from the room, while he beat his open back with the belt.
Domina silently strolled down the line. The whining sounds of Maggot eventually faded away. She asked, “What has Maggot taught us today, my slaves?”
No one answered. No one even looked at her.
“Were we not taught the importance of posture? The way a slave presents themselves aligns with the slave’s self-value. If a slave holds no self-value then they are worthless. The slave will not give entirely and will not be pleasing.”
Domina pivoted. She yelled, “Answer me!”
Venica watched as each slave responded in the affirmative. She quietly answered, for she was preoccupied with greater endeavors. Her thoughts were engaged with the fact that her body had responded to each lashing sound delivered by Master Troy. And at that moment, Venica was enthralled with the moisture that coated her lips.
Venica longed to feel fingers penetrate her as she sat in that particular stress position, presenting her torso and buttocks beautifully, and she began to wonder what, if any, would be the resolution of that stirring.
Her calves ached. Her thighs smoldered. Her hips dug into the sockets of her ridged joints and she felt her heartbeat magically pulse inside her stiff legs as she squatted, motionless. She watched as one by one, Domina verbally obliterated the slaves.
Domina walked row by row, spending ample time degrading each slave and renaming them according to her observations, as they knelt to her, helpless. Some she beat. Others she spit on. Each was then removed from her sight, drug away by whichever leather-clad Dominant was available to take them off to where, Venica wondered, would she eventually go, also?
The Dominants were few and that was a relief to Venica, for she believed she could learn them quickly that way. Her intention was to discover what they might expect and want from her during sessions. Her goal was to be a precognitive slave for them and that intention felt within her grasp. She would please them, Venica decided, as she listened to Domina pound the face of a young woman that knelt diagonally to her, and they would grow to crave her obedience.
Venica watched as the last slave exited, dragged out by Master Troy. The Grande Room was completely empty except for Domina, Miss Dolor, and herself. It felt imposing and haunted. She looked at Miss Dolor and watched her watching Domina who, Venica realized, was staring down at her.
Domina whispered, “Don’t look at Miss Dolor, slave.”
Venica dropped her eyes. “Yes, Domina.”
“You missed feeding because of your incompetence,” Domina advised. “I don’t have tolerance for unwilling slaves.” She ran her hands over Venica’s head, messing her hair by pulling it from the bun. She suddenly stormed away to the far wall of the chamber and upon reaching that area, where a wooden table stood tall and several plates rested, she called over her shoulder, “Venica, bella!”
Domina spun on her heels, exhilarated. “Yes, darling slut! That is your name from now on: Venica Bella.” She looked along the plates, disgusted, and snapped her fingers in the air. “Now, do as your name means and come here, beautiful.”
She called to her, “Venica Bella! Slow and sexy! Come to me on your hands and knees.”
Venica crawled to her, meticulous in her movements. She lengthened her right arm, compressed her left leg, then lengthened her left arm and compressed her right leg, in a movement so distinctly lovely that neither Domina nor Miss Dolor spoke. They simply watched and soaked in Venica, allowing their eyes to drink her.
Finally, Domina broke the silence by saying to Miss Dolor, “I shall keep this slave for myself.” She licked her lips in lustful hunger as she resumed watching Venica’s studious crawl.
After Domina’s words completed their soft echoing through The Grande Room, the lone audible sound was Venica’s shoes as they scraped on the stone floor. She gazed ahead, transfixed on her current path.
Her focus, though, was interrupted when a loud buzz burst through the air. One buzz, a single, muted tone, and it startled Venica. Her breast muscles convulsed and she shook her head, re-focusing, and continuing her slow crawl.
Domina said to Miss Dolor, “Look at Venica Bella. Look at her radiance.”
“It unnerves me,” Miss Dolor mumbled. She walked behind Venica and smacked at her buttocks. “This isn’t as sexy as a moment ago,” she complained. She dashed to the side of The Grande Room and withdrew a flogger that hung by a nail on the wall. Black and sleek, its spongy bristles announced their arrival before Venica even felt them address her open back.
“I cleansed you and groomed you,” Miss Dolor said, flogging her merciless. “Is this the gratitude you have to offer?” She pulled the flogger high and slammed it down on Venica’s back and buttocks. Leather abraded her oiled and seasoned flesh.
Miss Dolor was dutiful in her dominance role, yet filled with great sorrow for altering the divine look of such a pristine slave. She rejected her internal dispute. Miss Dolor beat Venica with impunity.
Venica continued to crawl, her muscles contracting with each pounding blow from the flogger. A small gasp escaped her parched lips as she struggled to endure the atomic wrath of Miss Dolor, but though she struggled, she was determined to persevere.
“I don’t like the seam of your hose twisted,” Miss Dolor announced as she walked ahead of Venica, handing the flogger to Domina. Miss Dolor bowed her head and asked Domina, “May I secure the other slaves?” Venica watched as Miss Dolor took Domina’s hand and kissed her palm. “I shall return with word of who submitted.” Chuckling, she added, “Or should I say, admitted.”
Domina pulled her hand from Miss Dolor’s grasp and shook her head. “No, don’t return. Guide the slaves. This one here,” and she pointed at Venica, “will need much work.” Brushing her fingers against Miss Dolor’s cheek, Domina thanked her for prepping Venica. “You are an artist, bringing of them such wonder.” She dismissed her with a wave and focused her attention back on Venica.
“Venica Bella. The name suits a slut like you.” She took a plate from the table and scraped the remaining food onto the floor in front of her. “Eat,” she commanded, pointing at the pile on the floor.
Venica bent down, fully lowering herself to the cold stone floor, and ate. It was a mixture of carrots and beans and fruit, some pieces of chicken and the crusts of bread. She took petite bites and chewed at a steady pace.
Domina stared down at her, occasionally telling her to lick the surrounding area. She took a cup of water and after she sipped it she asked, “Are you thirsty?”
“Yes.”
“Open your mouth wide,” she said, and proceeded to fill Venica’s mouth with water. “Hold it.” Domina laughed, humored. “Swallow.” Water spilled from Venica’s mouth, dripping to the floor. “Clean up your mess.”
Venica did. Once the liquid was gone, Venica continued to eat.
Domina walked to the far wall where various whips and floggers of grand and humble makings hung. Mindful of the fresh slave eating a make-shift dinner from the floor, she withdrew a thin maroon whip made of ox leather. The handle, a knotted entity in its own right, was thick and coarse, perfect for her grip and a guarantor of a blistering thrashing.
She walked directly behind Venica and observed the curve of her back as the slave arched her face into the pile of food. “Good girl,” she whispered, reaching to Venica’s buttocks and pulling the short, black skirt above her hips. “I see that Miss Dolor took very good care of you.” She ran her fingers along Venica’s exposed genitals, caressing her various openings. Then she blew air on her and watched as small chill bumps rose from her skin. Creamy liquid emerged from Venica.
In response to Venica’s arousal, Domina firmly smacked Venica’s sensitivity three consecutive times.
Venica shivered.
“Keep eating.”
“Yes, Domina.”
By looking between Venica’s shoulder and elbow, Domina stared at her profile through the small window opened by the positioning of her body. She described to Venica exactly what was going to happen to her.
“First things first,” she said, “I will pleasure myself inside of you with the handle of this whip.” She laughed and said, “Yes, pleasuring you in a place where nothing should ever enter. And you will squeal with joy.” Domina inserted her index and middle fingers into Venica’s womanhood. “And then I shall beat you until you have no conception of where you are or who you are.”
She removed her fingers and reached to Venica’s face. “Here is some salt for your meal, slut.” Domina smothered Venica’s face with her own moisture. She slathered the thin jelly on her lips, cheeks, and chin, and although it felt warm at first, it quickly dried into acidity.
Domina explored Venica’s exposed region with her fingertips. She smacked then caressed, then smacked again, her exposed buttocks and thighs. Venica continued to eat from the pile of rubbish.
“I can see how much you are enjoying yourself,” Domina whispered. “Which, is good for you, because the only lubricant we are using will be yours.” From her front pocket she pulled a condom.
Intentionally slow, allowing Venica to hear the wrapper tear open, she removed the condom from its packaging and securely fastened it on the whip’s handle.
She revolved the handle in and along Venica’s swollen lips, inserting the handle shallow then deep, wetting the entire shaft in preparation for the coming event. Domina told Venica again how she planned to beat her, how she planned to torch her flesh with the whip in ways Venica never considered possible. “I will wreck you,” she announced as she pulled the whip entirely from Venica’s hollowed cave.
The handle of the whip dripped Venica’s sweetness onto the floor. It was fully coated with her fluids, and this brought a smile to Domina. She placed the handle against Venica’s puckering vulnerability and began to sodomize her.
Venica gasped.
“Continue eating, slave.”
Domina sodomized Venica as she ate, her back curved at an angle so well proportioned to her hips that Domina shook her head, dismayed by her elegance. “You have been trained well.”
“Thank you, Domina.”
She did not respond. Instead, she pounded her harder by pushing the whip with her hips. After she had her fill of Venica’s buttocks, she removed the whip and began to lash Venica ruthlessly.
When Venica stopped eating, she screamed at her, “Are you finished with your meal?”
“Yes, Domina.”
“Have you no manners?” She continued beating her, whipping her reddening cheeks with force and strength.
“Thank you for feeding me, Domina.”
“Very good.”
She continued as she had promised and beat Venica for what seemed an endless array of lashes and spankings. Eventually, Venica could not hold herself up and she crashed onto the floor, her face resting in the remnants of food.
Domina gently massaged her shoulders and asked, “Red or blue?”
She inhaled a deep breath and squinted. “Blue.”
In response, Domina snapped the whip down hard along her buttocks and hamstrings and shouted at her, “Red or blue?”
Venica whimpered, “Blue.” She sighed and shuddered and then, like a robin flying swift to avoid a storm, her awareness began to collapse.
Domina continued on, transfixed on beating her, as the cloud of Venica’s reality lifted and she entered into a separate dimension of existence.
Subspace.
Yes, the divine state of subspace graced Venica. For when subspace was reached, Venica would have no return to normality. No, not until slumber bonded her, often against her will but bonded her nonetheless, forcing her into submission of the rot ways of commonness.
High. Lifted.
Elevated above the earth, Venica flew. Beyond the constraints of her physical body, an empire which kept her imprisoned, she floated. It was an existential dream of enlightenment. A place where heaven became tangible, solar atmosphere was optional, and the many independent fibers of her body melted into a tsunami of numbness.
Her eyes rolled in their sockets. With her mouth gaping open and her muscles liquefied, she embraced the demeaning lashes of Domina, wishful them never to end.
“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Domina.”
She slowed the beating, thus allowing the stray tails to sporadically land across Venica’s shoulders and glide diagonal, soothing her swollen and engorged back.
“Breathe, Venica.”
Markings began to surface across Venica’s body and Domina traced them with her fingertips. Chills of a frenzied burning sensation jolted between Venica’s shredded muscles. Domina was thoroughly pleased.
And what of Venica? She smiled broadly, her limbs twitching.
Domina’s hands roamed over Venica’s reddened shoulders. She whispered, “Shall I tell you something remarkable?”
Venica opened her glassy eyes, focusing, and adjusted her head where it rested on the floor. “Please tell me,” she slurred.
Domina separated Venica’s buttocks and placed the handle of the whip between her bruised, gelatin cheeks. After a swift pop and the engraving of spirals derived from Domina’s nails on Venica’s back, she slowly leaned around and looked into her eyes.
“Venica Bella. Come here, beautiful.” She laid her fingers along Venica’s jaw line and led her parched lips to her mouth. “You have no conception of your worth.”
Gentle kisses they were; amorous and loving; yes, that was what Domina gave Venica. Kisses delivered with raw sensuality, with silent expression of her deep appreciation and adoration of Venica’s persistence to be dominated, they were full and wholesome. Her kisses felt rewarding, as if a thief of zeal had captured her and charmed her; and they were lustful. Blatantly lustful.
And there knelt sweet Venica Bella, accepting Domina’s kisses without an edge of wonder. Domina kissed Venica’s face with the kindest kisses her lips offered, and she loved her, suckling here and there, on her cheek bones and on her forehead and even on the tiny and frail mounds that welted from being smacked repeatedly.
Domina withdrew herself and took a deep breath. With a serious tone, she said, “This hedonism of yours will never be satiated. You will never be satisfied.”
Venica giggled. She heard her but didn’t hear her. She comprehended her words, but was so filled with the quiet buzzing inside her mind that she did not understand the meaning. Instead of talking, Venica continued to giggle. It was not disrespectful, though. Venica giggled because she could giggle. She giggled because if she didn’t giggle she simply would have nothing for a response.
It was then that Domina lifted Venica and carried her from The Grande Room into a room located off a separate and darken hallway. She met Miss Dolor there, who tucked sheets on a large feather bed. One lit candle flickered through the stone room, casting shadows of imaginary creatures along the walls.
Domina laid Venica’s battered, shuddering body on the bed and looked at Miss Dolor. “Did the other slaves hit bottom?”
Nodding, she answered, “All of them, yes.”
“This one,” Domina replied, “didn’t.”
“She looks high.”
Venica groaned. Her eyes were glazed over and her pupils dilated.
As Domina crossed her arms she remarked, “She is high. Continuing was wasteful of her energy.” Looking at Miss Dolor she commanded, “Clean her and give her proper aftercare. Tomorrow morning will come early for her.” She reached down and ran her fingers over Venica’s breasts and stomach. “Direct Miss Vice to begin teaching young Venica about powerlessness and unmanageability early tomorrow morning.”
Miss Dolor nodded and gingerly began refreshing Venica’s limp body. She spread Venica’s legs wide and began to masturbate her. Domina took one last contemplative look at Venica and left, quietly closing the door behind her.
Chapter 5
Venica stirred on the feather bed, her body resting in the exact position that Miss Dolor had left her the night before. She lay on her right side with her face exposed to the open room. Her knees curled partially to her waist and her hands rested by her chest.
The room was encased in obscurity, except for multiple flickers of a candle that lit the room enough to resemble a coming dawn. She kept her eyes closed and nestled her cheek in the pillow; its scent a carnival of cotton and spring and lavender. It was a tranquil few moments for her as she basked in the soreness of her muscles and the tightness of her skin.
Aches of physical impairment surrounded her. Her body was a refuge for soreness associated with a long run or a heavy work out, combined with mild sunburn. It felt good to her, though. She felt she’d accomplished something, her body aching like that. Venica relished her soreness, recalling her orgasm from Miss Dolor as being one of the most intense in her life.
She stretched her arms and stretched her legs; elongated her back and clinched her muscles and buttocks. She felt good. Relieved. Alive. And as she began to sink in her abyss of satisfaction, anxiety filled her torso and brow.
Feeling the presence of someone, she thrust her eyes open and there before her sat an unrecognizable woman dressed in full leather regalia.
The unknown woman sat on a metal chair with her legs apart and her elbows resting on her knees. She wore tight black leather pants and a black leather vest that accentuated her breasts and muscular arms. Her face looked youthful, but irritated, and as Venica made eye contact with her, the woman stood, and slammed a manila folder on the side of Venica’s face and head.
Venica snapped back in horror.
The woman shouted at her, “Don’t you remember me? You little leach!” She repeatedly smacked her body with the folder as she commanded Venica to get on her hands and knees, with her buttocks facing her, on the bed.
The woman calmed as soon as Venica was correctly positioned. “We’ve met already but,” she said, carefully evaluating Venica’s intimacy, “you are too much of an idiot to recall even my name.” She smacked her buttocks like she were playing drums, beating her already sore skin with rhythmic timing. Roaming her fingers over the areas she slapped, she said, “Do you remember me now?”
Venica, disoriented from slumber, recognized her voice as the woman who disciplined her outside by the vehicle. She replied, “Yes, Miss Vice.” Blood drained into her head as she spoke, her voice cracking. “I remember you.”
She corrected Venica, saying, “I remember you, Miss Vice. It should be one full sentence.”
“I remember you, Miss Vice.”
“Good,” she responded. “We’ll get along just fine, long as you remember who I am.” She separated her buttocks and looked at her exposed body in its fullness. “Miss Dolor did not exaggerate when she said you were exquisite.” She stepped back and told Venica to get off the bed and bow at her feet.
Venica did. She moved swift yet graceful. And, once bowing at Miss Vice’s feet, she instigated kissing her black, single heeled boots.
The boots rose to Miss Vice’s knees, the heel marginal in height, the tip metal-plated. She bowed low, kissing her boots, smelling the leather scent, and as her senses filled with that particular, woody-sweet smell of leather, she began to moisten.
Miss Vice watched as Venica’s mouth made love to her boots. She stood there watching, with both hands on her hips, scrutinizing her, inspecting her.
Once bored, she said, “Stay right there.”
After she walked behind Venica she freed from her pants an appendage that she’d previously attached on her pelvis. “Think of this as a ‘good morning’ of sorts.” Miss Vice stirred along Venica’s private lips, which were sheeted with liquid cellophane, and began pumping her full of plastic.
Venica moaned. Her bladder was filled and her body was sore, causing her sensuality to heighten. She pushed back against the generosity of Miss Vice.
Miss Vice cupped her left hand under Venica, circling her throbbing bud, and with her right hand she grabbed a mass of her hair and pulled tight. “You’d better ask my permission to release.”
The penetration was deep and it filled Venica completely. She squeezed her fists together as she knelt, digging her nails into her palms. It was all she could do to preserve herself, as she listened to the leather pants of Miss Vice pop against her buttocks. She even heard the splattering of moisture that seeped from her body, lubricating the apparatus that entered her.
“May I please release?” she begged, as the firm fingers of Miss Vice revolved her swollen labia with speed and skill.
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