The Palace

The room was dim, shrouded in shadow. I shifted in my chair, tried to look around, but if anyone else was in the room, they were as quiet and still as I. No one wanted to be noticed. No one wanted to be first.

As if that thought had summoned him, a man appeared in front of me. "Come with me," he said.

No name. No introduction. He wore a white shirt and pants, more visible in the darkness than the simple brown dress I had on, the same as I'd worn every day of my life for as long as I could remember. The same as all girls wore. I couldn't remember ever seeing a man in white, though.

I followed him. I had to. I didn't know where I was or where I was going, and I would only delay the inevitable if I resisted. I'd been told that much.

He led me down a short corridor, eerily silent, and through a heavy door into a small, apparently empty room, as dark as the rest of the building. He closed the door with an ominous click, and I was seized with a paralyzing fear.

Well, this was the path I'd chosen. A woman who did not want to follow a traditional path had few other options, and the life of a laborer or maid held less appeal than motherhood.

There was a reason so few came to the Palace, though, and not only because of the whispers and rumors and mystery. The requirements for entry were strict and specific, and I met those criteria as much by pure luck as out of any desire to be selected.

The man in white carried a bag slung over one shoulder, and from this bag, he retrieved four leather cuffs, each with a metal ring attached that glinted in the low light. I stepped back from him by reflex, but he was unperturbed. There was nowhere for me to go. He fixed a cuff around each of my wrists, reached up into the darkness above my head, and brought down a metal hook until it dangled just in front of my face. I stared at it in confusion, until he guided each of my hands up and attached the rings in the cuffs to the hook. A crank on the wall raised the hook until my arms were stretched above my head. I didn't think to fight or struggle, too petrified and bewildered to do anything but allow him to continue.

Satisfied with his work and my cooperation, he went to one knee and removed my slippers and stockings, then fastened the other two cuffs around my ankles. From his bag, he pulled out two short lengths of chain, which he connected to the rings in my ankle cuffs. He forced my legs apart, as wide as possible while still supporting some of my weight on my feet, and attached the other end of each chain to a ring bolted to the floor near each foot so that I was held quite securely in place.

He studied his handiwork, inspecting me as one would inspect a piece of furniture for defects, then produced a knife from his belt. At that, I let out a gasp. He simply continued in his slow and methodical movements, a man just doing his job. He sliced through my sleeves, then down the front of my dress, and peeled it away from my body, leaving me in my undergarments. I shivered, though the room was not cold. Trussed as I was, I could only watch as the knife came toward me again, making swift cuts through the straps of my slip, then down the front, and peeled away as my dress had been, leaving my breasts bare. In these, too, the man seemed strangely uninterested, just two more breasts among the many he had seen. I, though, was not so sanguine, and wished to bring down my hands to cover myself. It was impossible, of course.

Once more the knife flashed, through the leg holes of my undershorts, then the waist, and those, too were removed so that I stood before him naked and bound, terrified. He paid me no more mind, simply gathered the scraps of my clothing, replaced his knife in his belt, picked up his bag, and left the room.

My hands tingled and my thighs ached with the strain of my bonds. I was not left alone for long. Another man in white entered the room, also with a bag slung over his shoulder. He said nothing at all, just slipped around behind me and began brushing my hair. This was unexpected, and the gentle touch was strangely soothing. He braided my hair into a long plait, then appeared in front of me again. From his bag came a small case containing several damp cloths. He cleaned my face, my underarms, then knelt to wash between my legs, igniting a fire in my cheeks at the impersonal yet intimate nature of his activity. He separated the cheeks of my bottom with one hand and cleaned me there as well. I squirmed but could not get far, and my strained thighs protested my movement.

He had one last duty, it seemed. He reached into his bag again and pulled out a long, narrow, black cloth, which he wrapped around my eyes and knotted in the back, leaving me in total darkness. I only knew when he left by the click of the door latch.

I heard the door open and close five or six times. I tried to keep count, but my fear and increasing weariness clouded my memory. No one spoke, and not even the rustle of clothing or soft footsteps betrayed anything about who may have opened the door and why. The knowledge that I stood here so exposed and vulnerable overwhelmed me, and I cried behind the blindfold.

I had withdrawn so far into myself that I was not aware someone was in the room with me until my hands were released from the hook and brought down in front of me. I swayed and could not control the muscles of my arms, but while one person held my wrists, another freed my ankles and helped me stay upright as I closed my legs, wincing at the pain in my thighs. A collar was placed around my neck, my arms were bent so that my wrists could be chained to my collar, and I was led forward by a leash. And still no one spoke. I was given no instruction, no information. As I began to walk, I found my ankles had been connected together with enough slack to take short steps so I could shuffle along behind my guide but could not kick or try to run.

We walked straight, then turned, then straight again, taking a winding path that I could not begin to track, and then the hard floor under my feet became soft rugs. I was urged forward by my leash a few more steps then suddenly lifted by the underarms and knees and placed on my back on some hard surface.

My wrists were unhooked from my collar and brought up behind my head and fastened there, and then my legs were forced to bend at the knee and my ankles were released and attached so that my legs were spread wide with my feet resting flat on the surface beneath me. To prevent me from allowing my legs to fall closed, further straps were cinched around my thighs, and those, too, were attached to the platform on which I lay.

What was to happen to me, that I needed to be restrained so securely? A simple order to be still would suffice, I thought.

Once more, I heard the latch of a door, and then the swish of slippers on carpet. None of the others who had attended me so far had allowed me to hear their footsteps. And then a male voice spoke, the first words anyone had uttered to me since I was led away from the entry chamber.

"Is it to be pleasure or pain this evening?" he asked.

I didn't understand the question. Was I supposed to answer? But he continued before I could form a response.

"That will be the question every night, of course." He tone was conversational. He was near me, standing to my left. I turned my head toward him, though my eyes were still covered. "It will be up to the whim of your master and never up to you. You can be assured that the evenings of pain will far outnumber the evenings of pleasure, so that you will welcome these pleasant nights, strive for them, yearn for them."

For the first time, I thought to struggle. The chains rattled but held fast.

"And you may be surprised to find that on occasion you may experience both. I suspect this will be such an evening. As long as you are cooperative, the pain should not be too great, though I cannot promise this will be so every night." He touched me then, a hand between my breasts. "I have the honor of being your first master, but that places on me the responsibility, too, of beginning your training." His hand moved to my face, caressed my cheek.

I became very aware of my nudity suddenly, and my helplessness. He frightened me with his talk of pain. What pain? Why? I was beginning to think motherhood may have been preferable to this after all. Until now, I had known nothing more about the Palace than what everyone knew: young women were selected to serve the wealthy men who partook of the luxuries here, and in return would never be required to live a life of hard labor nor endure the responsibilities of procreation and family.

It occurred to me only now that the "luxuries" may be the young women themselves, and horror overtook fear.

"You will never be permitted to see the faces of your masters. You will be brought naked and blindfolded, and you will be led away naked and blindfolded. You will know only your handler and the inside of your own room. You will earn privileges through good behavior and punishment when you disobey or at the whim of your master or handler. You will be fed well and kept healthy and beautiful so that your masters might enjoy your charms and your feminine ways." His hand slipped from my cheek to rest directly on my breast as he spoke the last phrase, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. "You may speak only to your handler or at the permission of your master, and when you speak your tone will be respectful and subservient or you will be gagged so that no impertinent word may escape your lips." He massaged my breast, and I whimpered and tried to shift my body away from his touch. He did remove his hand, but only to bring it down with a sharp crack against the same breast, and pain exploded through my chest and drew a shriek from my throat. "You must never recoil at your master's touch. Punishment is swift and harsh." He punctuated his lesson with a slap to my other breast. I sobbed now, into my blindfold, cursing myself for my naïve and selfish choices.

"I paid a great sum for the privilege of being your first. You are a virgin in all ways, innocent of a man's touch, and I do not take such purity lightly. But rest assured that by the time you are returned to your room, you will have been quite thoroughly introduced to the duties which will now be expected of you."

At this confirmation of my dark prediction, despair settled over me. I would not be opened by a husband, or a lover in the fields, or in secrecy behind the laundry bins, or in one of myriad other ways we girls whispered and tittered about as we approached adulthood. No, I was to be abused by this frightening and anonymous man who might choose to cause me great pain at any moment, who would take my innocence in exchange for coin.

And all because I did not wish to scrub floors or give birth. You spoiled, spoiled girl! I berated myself. But it was too late for self-recrimination, and it would do me no good.

"That's good, sweet girl. It is always better to give in and accept." He palmed my breast again, and this time I allowed it, biting my lip and making tight fists. "Some masters would choose to teach you punishment and pain first, so that you will be more malleable. But I prefer to begin by awakening you to the pleasures of the body, that you might anticipate all the more the reprieve of a night of enjoyment, and so that you will be more receptive to my touch and my instruction." He manipulated my breast, squeezing and kneading with his fingers and palm, and I found that it was not such a violation as I'd felt at first but actually fairly pleasant, and I let go of my lip and opened my hands, the barest glimmer of curiosity breaking through my terror.

He moved to the other breast, still massaging and caressing, and then the warm wetness of his mouth closed over my nipple, and I cried out in shock as he nibbled and sucked. But still he did nothing more than this, causing me no pain or fear, and a strange tug began between my legs and an itch spread through my chest. A sound escaped me, a moan that carried with it a desire for more. More of what, though, I did not know. I moved, not to escape but to encourage, pressing my body up to him, and he responded with a stronger suction, and he pinched my other nipple in his fingers, and the tug between my legs became a tightening that wished for still more.

He stopped at my next moan, and he laughed. "Well," he said, "you are more responsive than I predicted. Does that feel nice, sweet girl? Answer me."

I found my voice. "Yes," I breathed.

"Yes, Master," he corrected, and slapped each breast again as a reminder. The pain was all the worse for the contrast with his previous treatment.

"Yes, Master," I shrieked.

My obedience was rewarded, as promised, as his mouth returned to one nipple and his fingers to the other, resuming his previous activity. When I moaned again and fought my restraints, intending only to bring my hands down to soothe the heat building in my pelvis, the man ceased his touch at once, leaving me bereft, the tingling in my nipples and the fire in my belly now becoming torment.

"You have not earned satisfaction yet, sweet girl," he admonished. I sensed him moving, strained my ears for any hint of what was to come. He lay a hand on my foot, and the tension on my ankle was suddenly relieved. He straightened my leg. I dared not resist nor attempt to predict his next order. My ankle was again chained, and he released my other leg, straightened that, too, and restrained it once again. My legs were still parted, but I was far more comfortable.

He was not finished, however. Without warning, a sharp crack just preceded an explosion of pain on the sole of my left foot. Scarcely had I registered the agony when my right foot was given the same treatment. I didn't know what he'd hit me with or why, but the pain reverberated up my legs, and I screamed. The blindfold was quickly soaked with my tears, and my feet ached so that I wasn't certain I would be able to walk when I was taken away from this man.

"A taste," he said, "and to ensure that you will not be able to run when I release you from the table."

Release? My arms and legs were unhooked and freed, but I did not move, even to bring my arms down.

"Good girl. You learn quickly," he said. I didn't know what good disobedience would do, though a thought did cross my mind to lift the blindfold and catch a glimpse of my tormentor. I did not have a creative enough imagination to conjure up what he might do to me if I were to act on that impulse, however. "Now, turn yourself over and lie on your stomach," he ordered.

My arms were stiff, my muscles weak, but I scrambled to obey, terrified of inviting more pain. I settled myself on my stomach with my head turned to the side and my breasts pressed into the hard surface. My nipples were tender and sensitive, and I hissed and raised my chest to relieve the discomfort.

The slap of his bare hand on my buttocks drove the air from my lungs. He struck each buttock twice. "Down!" he demanded.

Contrite, I lowered my breasts to the table, and again I could not lie flat, as my sore nipples protested.

He spanked me again, three to each buttock, and the sting did not fade immediately. I cried out and tried to move away from his blows, but this only served to anger him. How could I be expected to lie still and allow him to hurt me so?

"It seems a punishment is in order after all," he said, as though scolding a small child.

"I'm sorry, Master, but it was very painful!" I whispered, hoping for mercy.

"You were not given permission to speak, girl." Not "sweet girl" any longer, I noted. Even as he berated me, he began connecting my ankle cuffs to the table. He pushed my shoulders down roughly and straightened my arms out in front of me, so that I had no choice but to endure the constant pressure on my nipples. Had I simply endured it to begin with, I would, perhaps, have escaped the pain to come. Stupid, stupid girl! I thought. Even in my own head now, I was only "girl."

Would he strike my feet again? They still ached, though the pain had dulled. Something cool touched the back of my neck, making a short line at the base of my skull. "Your master will mark the number of punishments you earn with him so that your handler can deal with you appropriately upon your return to your room," he explained. "This is the first tonight, though I doubt it will be the last. You have some spirit after all." He sounded amused by that.

He caressed my buttocks, still stinging slightly from his spanking. "These could do with some welts," he pronounced. "Consider this a lesson, sweet girl." Back to "sweet girl," perhaps because I had quieted. "It is always better to obey, even when obedience brings pain."

That seemed sound advice.

The same implement with which he had struck my feet now cracked against my buttocks, the pain as intense as before. Again and again the blows rained down. My throat grew raw with screaming. If I had thought the few times he had spanked me were too painful to bear stoically, this beating put that notion to shame. I would gladly take his open handed reminders over the bruises and welts he was surely raising on my naked bottom. I could not think, couldn't even form the words to beg him to stop. Even breathing seemed too difficult. I writhed, unable to escape him this time, and when the beating finally ended, I coughed and panted and fought for breath, my bottom on fire from the base of my spine to the tops of my thighs.

"That would be considered a fairly mild punishment," he said, "a mere twenty with the paddle. But I was merciful, because it was your first. Do not expect such accommodation in the future."

Mild! Had it been only twenty? It had seemed to be hundreds, to have lasted for hours. "Thank you, Master," I said.

He placed a comforting hand on my head. "Sweet girl," he murmured.

I should feel hatred for this man, who took such delight in hurting me, but I did not. I didn't know what I felt, but I knew that I would do anything for him to call me "sweet girl" and touch me so tenderly.

He again unhooked my cuffs from the table, and again I did not move. He patted my head approvingly. "Show me how good you're going to be for me, sweet girl," he said. "Up on your hands and knees now, and crawl forward until I tell you to stop."

Forcing myself up to my hands and knees was not difficult, but I moved my hand forward tentatively and realized I would have to trust that he would not allow me to crawl off the end of the table. But if I did fall, it would be because he desired it. I crawled confidently then, just a few steps, and he stopped me. My fingers curled over the edge of the table.

"Good girl!" He was pleased, and I felt pride. Pride! In crawling like an animal at my master's order, like a horse who would gallop off the edge of a cliff if his rider so wished it! "Open your knees so they are wider than your hips, and lower yourself to your elbows."

I followed his instructions mechanically, but the position was obscene, and I could well picture the view he must have of my private area. Only the soreness in my buttocks from my recent punishment convinced me I must hold this posture for him. And soon I no longer had a choice, as he again chained my ankles to the table. There must be rings all along the surface or sides of the table to connect my cuffs in so many different configurations. My wrists, too, were again restrained.

He was standing in front of me now, very close. The scent of fresh laundry from his clothing met my nose. "And now, sweet girl, you will give me pleasure. That is your duty above all, to please your master." He traced my lips with his finger. "Open your mouth." His finger intruded between my teeth, exploring. Why would he want to put his finger in my mouth? "You have three holes and two hands by which you might provide pleasure to a man," he said, like a teacher lecturing his class. "The first of these holes is the mouth, the soft lips and moist tongue, a deep cavern into which he might thrust. But the mouth, too, is an active hole, and you must use your tongue and your lips, your cheeks and your throat, to excite him."