I didn’t get any pleasure or orgasms myself, but I hadn’t expected to. When it was time for bed, he got out the chastity belt, plugged me and strapped me in for the night. The lesson was obvious, even without his punctilious reminders: All my lust and attention was to be centered on him.
After that, he locked me into the manacles, and used rope to secure my wrists to his headboard so I couldn’t so much as turn over without him knowing it.
“Neither one of us is going to work for the rest of this week,” he informed me as he slid into bed beside me and took me in his arms. “You’re going to spend the next few days naked and on your knees. Do you understand why?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whispered, leaning my head on his shoulder. “Thank you. I want to belong to you.” I wasn’t just babbling what I thought he wanted to hear. I was babbling my real, true feelings, because the bitter truth was that I found security in being his slave. Anger, frustration, and panic bled away when I handed him the control, and the next couple days felt a lot like the first few days I’d spent in his home: strenuous but deeply rewarding.
In the beginning it had been hard to find the slavey side of myself, but now it was easier, like relaxing into a familiar bed after a long and trying day. I still felt guilty about Simon’s death, but I could process that later, when I could get some distance and perspective. The funeral was Thursday afternoon, near the end of this re-training odyssey, and maybe that would be the best time to deal with my pent-up feelings. If Simon’s funeral didn’t bring me peace, it would at least deliver some closure on that chapter of my life.
God, I hoped so, because Price was my future, and Simon needed to become my past for that to work. I understood all of this, even as Price went on and on about forward progress and self-respect during sessions over the spanking bench. You’re not that woman any more. You weren’t happy then. Your life was tied up in regrets and shame. I want you to let go of your past mistakes and reach your true potential. I want you to be happy.
Of course, he said this while he applied horribly painful clamps to my nipples, and whipped me, and sodomized me three times a day with miserly amounts of lube so it wouldn’t feel too good.
Re-training. Punishment. In the end, they were pretty much the same thing.
At least there was poetry. He wrote me some poetry the next day, and then set me to reading some of his favorite poets while he called in to work meetings. Byron, Eliot, Whitman, Browning, Neruda in both English and Spanish. I didn’t do any work for those days, aside from serving him, but design ideas flowed as I stroked over every line, slope, and plane of my Master’s body. I came up with concepts for new pieces, now that my mind was clearer and free of damned emotional clutter.
I belonged to Price. He loved me. It was so simple and safe and warm. He was concerned about me and wanted me to reach my true potential. I wanted to be happy because I knew that would make him happy, and nothing made me happier than my Master’s pleased smile.
I was tired by mid-week, and a little sore, but it all seemed worth it because things felt normal again, and there wasn’t a bunch of anger and tension standing between us. Then Thursday came, and I brought up Simon’s funeral.
Of course, it had crossed my mind that he might not want me to attend, but I figured I’d explain about rituals and closure, and he’d come to acknowledge my need to say goodbye. I imagined he might even insist on attending with me, so he could stand beside me and hold my hand through the most difficult parts, perhaps even brush away my tears.
All of this was so far removed from the reality of what happened, it might have been poetry in his leather-bound books.
“Do you really think it’s a good idea to go?” he asked, looking down at me. I was the supplicant, posed on my knees as he lounged on the couch.
“I think I have to go,” I said, as respectfully as I could.
“Oh, you have to go.” His arched brow and curt intonation told me this conversation was about to go awry. “I’m surprised you’d say that, after everything we’ve talked about this week.”
“I know, Sir. I know it’s my past, but that’s exactly why I need to go. I need to move on. I need closure.”
“Yes, you do need closure.” He reached to stroke my hair, a gentle gesture that belied the storm brewing in his eyes. “But I don’t think a PR-designed art world funeral is the place to find it.”