Six 02

My Dear Mistress Diana,

I write to you from an old fashioned cage of thick iron bars, wide enough to sleep in if I'm partially curled or if I'm on my back and have my legs propped up on the bars, tall enough that I can stand, but with only several inches to spare. Samantha tells me it was designed to transport zoo animals early in the last century.

"You're joking," I said.

"No, I'm not," and from that sad, earnest look she had -- you know the one, when she has to absorb or deliver bad news or when she wants to apologize for something -- I knew she wasn't kidding after all. I suppose I'm the height of a tallish monkey or a diminutive bear.

Mistress Cecelia has had the cage decked out with soft thick blankets on the floor and a few pillows. I have my computer, my books, my pad and pen, a reading lamp, the g-string I'm wearing, and that's all. The cage is in some type of unfurnished basement with stone flooring, no windows, no decoration of any kind. My metal suitcase is in the corner along with a gym bag with toiletries and a few changes of clothes.

To tell you that I miss you is a darkly comical understatement. I ache for you body and soul and literally wept last night wishing that I could at least see you by video, but I knew better than to ask. I miss your stern and loving touch, your deviously imaginative discipline techniques, the way you humiliate and thrill me. But I know you don't like it when I get too flowery in my communication with you, so, per your instructions, I will relate in as straightforward a manner as possible my experiences during weekends and the occasional weeknight in the realm of Cecelia these last two weeks.

What little you hinted to me about her -- her absolute, unwavering command and her complete absence of sentimentality -- has proven to be shockingly true. She's a genuine, unabashed sadist. You are my mistress; she is my terrifying trainer. With you, there's always an undercurrent of tenderness and encouragement, even when you punish me. You seem to understand and believe in my potential as a submissive. She seems to doubt it and test it constantly. Her goal seems simply to shatter me and rebuild me, to make me a sexual servant without personality, to know my place, to be faceless and colorless. I do understand that. I even want it. But I also wonder -- I can't help it -- if that's what you truly desire from me. To bleed me of the person I was, the experiences I've had, my quirks and sensitivities. I know you've thought it through and feel that this is the appropriate next step for me. So I'll try to set aside any misgivings or second thoughts.

Beyond her general frostiness toward the world, I think Cecelia simply dislikes me and has from the moment she first laid eyes on me. Samantha didn't confirm as much, but she didn't deny it either. She just told me to see how things unfold and not to be too obsequious, which she said would only make Mistress Cecelia crueler toward me. Sam said she'd learned that the hard way -- that kissing up to Cecelia will only incur scorn. Do what you're told, do it without hesitation, do it with utter commitment, Sam said, and that's your best bet to eventually get in her good graces. Or not. Cecelia dislikes most people, Sam said (though Sam is clearly, at least at the moment, an exception -- Cecelia sometimes dotes on her). And Cecelia dislikes men particularly, Sam confided to me. The best I can hope for is to survive the month with my sanity and body at least mostly intact and to be the slave you've sent me here to become.

What you hinted about Cecelia's appearance was also on the mark. I love, as you know, your dark beauty and Sharon's -- forgive me, Five's. But Cecelia is stunning, too, in a very different way -- fair, tall, almost frighteningly thin, the steely way she holds her jaw and, so unlike you, never laughs or smiles, at least not around me. She can be tender, occasionally, Sam tells me, and I see little hints of it between Cecelia and Sam herself. But I foresee no tenderness on Cecelia's part toward me. She never raises her voice, but I'm finding that the quieter she gets, the grimmer and more painful is likely to be my immediate future. And when she whispers to Sam or one of her other slaves or trainees, glancing over at me in disappointment, I wilt. My worst fear is that I might fail in my time with her, putting at risk my future with you and Five. I vow every day to try, if not to win her over, than at least to pass whatever trials she has in store for me so that you and Five will tolerate me, and maybe even be pleased with me, when I see you again next month -- presuming, of course, that you will allow me to return. I understand that you haven't committed to that, that you need me to discover and fully understand my role as a submissive, as a slave. I understand that this period is a test. But I frankly couldn't bear it if you and Five turned me out. That would be unthinkable for me. Truly. I'd go mad.

*

My first Friday evening, after work, I took the commuter train to East Street Station. Samantha met me there, which is good because had it been a stranger, or even a friend I didn't know as well and under such particular circumstances, I would not, could not have done what was required of me. I'm a devoted submissive, after all, but certain common-sense cautions are hardwired within us all.

It was already dark. Samantha took me to the parking lot -- I rolled my heavy metal suitcase and she took my gym bag. We stopped at a commercial-looking black van. "Hop in," she said cheerfully. I got in the passenger seat, noting the darkly tinted windows up front and lack of windows in the storage area in back.

"So where are we headed?" I asked. "No address. No last names. This is like some kind of spy novel."

"You've known me for the better part of a year," Sam said, seriousness and worry casting an abrupt cloud across her face. "Do you trust me?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I consider you a representative of Diana, and a friend to me and Sharon. And you're my personal trainer. You've transformed me physically. I'm seriously grateful to you for that."

"To you and whom?" she said, with the voice of a patient grade-school teacher. "You said 'a friend to me and Sharon.'"

"To me and Five."

"And I am, all those things," she said. "Your friend, your trainer. But I'm also a slave to Cecelia and a domme in training with her. So I have dual roles here with regard to you during this next month. I want us, now and forever, to be friends and confidants. But -- and it sounds strange just to say it -- now that we are in Cecelia's neck of the woods, I need you to obey me the way you would her or Diana. Do you understand me?"

It made perfect sense, but I also felt a shift I wasn't prepared for in the gravitational field between us -- our friendship had taken on new and different hues, frightening but not entirely unpleasant.

"I understand," I said.

"It's really important that you do," she said, "because if not you'll be putting me in a very awkward situation. If you misbehave you won't be the only one to suffer the consequences. I will too. It will be seen as a failing on my part."

"I'll obey you. You needn't worry. I won't put you in jeopardy."

"Thank you," she said, looking genuinely relieved. "And in return, as I suspect you already know, I'll do my best to champion you and protect you and see you through this."

"You make it sound like I'm in for quite an ordeal this month," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

But she didn't reply, and that scared me the most.

"Are you waxed and shaved?" she said, impersonal and authoritative. "You need to be hairless except, if you like, for a thin strip of pubic hair. As with Diana, but Cecelia's even stricter about it."

"I am."

"What are you wearing beneath your jeans?" she asked.

"Black bikini briefs."

"Get in the back of the van -- here's the hatch -- and strip down to those briefs. You can put your clothes in your gym bag." With only the dim light from an overhead bulb, I did so. I was, predictably, erect.

"Do you have a condom?" Sam asked.

"Yes."

"You'd better put it on. I don't mind a little drippage. In fact, I think it's kind of cute. But Cecelia won't abide it."

I did as I was told so that no excitement would seep through my underwear, though the hardness of my cock was still embarrassingly evident.

"I'm going to help you into this," Sam said, pulling a leather straitjacket out of a sack. My arms bound crosswise, she tied it tight in back, pulled the crotch straps beneath me, and snapped them in back right above my buttocks. "Sit," she said. I lowered myself onto the seat.

Next, she rolled my heavy metal suitcase over, turned it on its side, opened it, and sifted through some items until she found the full leather hood, complete with snapped-on blindfold.

"This shit's getting real," I said.

"That's not an appropriate way to speak to me anymore, Edward. Be careful." She slid the hood over my head and started to tie it tight in back.

"Don't you mean Six?"

"Yes, I do, and you're still being impertinent. You don't correct me."

"Jeez, Sam" I said, "lighten up. It's me." I knew it was a mistake before the words had even left my mouth. But after all, this was Samantha. I'd had dozens of beers and intimate friendly conversations with her. As my gym trainer, she'd seen me through hundreds of sets of free weights and pushups and crunches and burpees. We'd had as many chats about whey protein and smoothies as we had had about S&M. But this was a different kind of training.

She firmly held my chin through the leather hood, and she slapped me across the cheek. Not hard enough to injure me, but definitely hard enough to get my attention.

"You said you understood the way our relationship has changed, Six. But you aren't demonstrating that that's true. You have to do better."

I could hear her rummaging through the items in the suitcase.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I really am. Old habits. It won't happen again."

"Not tonight it won't. Open your mouth. ... Wider."

She stuck the short but wide cock-shaped gag in my mouth and snapped it inside the hood. It wasn't long enough to bring about my gag reflex, thank heaven -- I hate that -- but it was definitely thick enough to shut me up and humiliate me. All I could do was moan, but I knew better than to make a peep.

"Let's buckle up for safety," she said, clicking me in like the helpless bound bitch that I now was. "We have about a 20-minute drive. I'm going to shut the hatch to the front. If you need anything just call." She let out a nasty little chuckle, a different tone than I'd ever heard from her. "Oh wait, she said, you can't." I heard the click of the hatch.

The engine started. The ride seemed much longer than it was because fear doubled the mental mileage. Toward the end the road got a little bumpy. The van slowed. Muffled through the thick leather, I heard gravel underneath the wheels.

The van stopped. I heard an automatic garage door. The van pulled forward. Sam killed the engine. She opened the hatch and said, "Sit tight. It might be a while."

And it was. Blindfolded and scared, my sense of time was off, but I think I sat there for a good 15 minutes or so. I heard footsteps and the van's back doors being opened. Someone unfastened my seatbelt and yanked me to standing. These were strong arms -- stronger than Sam's. And it was a man's voice, gentle but firm, that said, "Watch your step." He helped me down. Without the use of my arms or my eyes, that big step was harder than you might think. I felt a cold garage floor on my bare feet, then wooden flooring on some narrow steps as the stranger helped me down those. Then concrete again.

"Stand there," he said. "Don't move." To someone else, he said, "You have the other bags? Watch out -- the suitcase is heavy." I heard footsteps up and down the stairs, the familiar rolling of the suitcase, and then the latches as it was opened. "Lift your left leg," he said and slid on to me a knee pad. Then the other leg. "Are you hard constantly?" he asked, not rudely but out of seemingly genuine curiosity. I tried murmuring yes, but of course with the cock gag in my mouth the response came out only as a hoarse murmer. "Shut up," he said. "You may nod or shake your head to answer my question." I nodded -- yes, I was most often hard. For better or for worse.

"Kneel," he said. I did so, with his help. The pads protected my knees, but the tops of my feet felt the cold abrasive floor beneath me.

"Stay," he said.

On his way out of the room, he flipped the switch on a loud stereo system that started blasting some kind of heavy gothic metal. It was loud enough that I couldn't hear his footsteps as he left the room and closed the upstairs door behind him. Then again, maybe he didn't leave at all. Maybe he just stood there watching me. How could I tell?

Five songs. Six songs. Nine songs. Minutes ticking away until the ache in my legs and the discomfort of my feet distracted my body enough to draw blood from my cock, which withered, the now-moist condom clinging like plastic wrap to my member's diminished proportions. Sitting on my heels was uncomfortable so I sat up from them, but after a while I felt the muscle strain in my legs and my bottom and my abdomen. Without the use of my arms, balance was the sole responsibility of my lower body, which was taxed by the assignment. The room's chill intermingled with my fear and I started trembling, though my leather-clad upper body and head were sweating. In short, I was a little bit of a mess as the rock singer now screamed at me in German above fast guitar riffs.

The music stopped. I heard the sound of hard shoe souls, and then a soft voice through the hood. "Six, it's Sam again. I'm going to help you stand up. . . . Wow, a relaxed cock. That's rare for you in these situations. Perhaps the trick is to stress you out. Duly noted. C'mon now. I know, it's hard to stand after all that time kneeling. You must be a bit sore."

"Are you OK?" she asked. "You may nod or shake your head."

I nodded.

"Good. I'm going to help you up the steps. Listen very carefully to what I tell you. Do exactly what you're told. Don't do anything you're not asked to do. It's important. I didn't like our little moment of friction before, and I don't want it to recur. I'm the best friend you have here and you'll need me. Work with me. Nod if you understand."

I nodded again, vigorously. I could have cried in gratitude at her firm but gentle voice. I knew that, whatever was to come, I would need her guidance.

She helped me slowly up the steps. When she opened a door, I heard what sounded like some sort of cocktail party and some bebop jazz playing softly in the background. She led me into the room. There was a slight diminishing of the conversation, but then it picked up again, as if the entry of a man in a leather hood with blindfold and gag, his arms bound in a straitjacket, kneepads slipped on to his legs, and his groin covered with a minimal pair of black briefs was, if not an everyday occurence here, certainly not an utter rarity.

"I'm told you play the piano quite nicely." It was the familiar man's voice, close to my ear through the leather hood.

Still gagged, I could only nod.

"I'm going to remove your straitjacket to free your arms," the man said. "But be still when I do. Let them simply hang down by your sides."

He did so. I felt his warm knuckles brush the insides of my thighs as he unsnapped the straitjacket from my crotch. Then I felt a plush terrycloth towel wick away the sweat on my upper body.

"I imagine you'd like to take care of this next matter," he said, but not to me. There was a pause. I smelled perfume and heard a brief exhale, though I couldn't tell if it was impatience, pleasure, amuseument, or some combination. Thin fingers attached a wide collar around my neck and I felt the tug of a leash.

I was led to a piano bench and was helped to sit on it, the bench's cool leather refreshing through my thin briefs and on my skin just below my bottom.

"Can you play with a blindfold on?" the man said.

I let my hands drift over the keyboard, orienting themselves.

Again, the gag allowed me only a nod.

I played a few notes, some scales and arpeggios, which sounded a little muffled through my hood, but I could tell from the keyboard action and the tone that it was at least a baby grand piano, and a good one.

"Do you know anything baroque by heart? She likes the baroque." No mention of who she was. One could only assume.

Again I nodded, then launched into the Bach Prelude and Fugue in C-Sharp Major, a childhood favorite. I rushed it a bit out of nerves. Even a minor in music at a Northeastern college well known for that department hadn't prepared me to play it blindfolded and under such strange, kinky circumstances, but I made only a few trivial slipups.

When I finished, there was silence, then scattered applause.

Disoriented, feeling both humiliated and appreciated, my deep blush wasn't visibile of course through the thick hood, but I felt my whole body warm.

"You've done well," the man said. He patted me affectionately on the back. "But now it's time to hydrate you, shower you off, and return you to your cage. You have a big day tomorrow."

**

More soon, my dear Mistress Diana. There's so much else to tell you, but I've been summoned and you know what happens when one keeps Mistress Cecelia waiting. And please send my humble love to Five too. You left it, I suppose, deliberately unclear where she'd be this month, whether with you on your trip or elsewhere. It is not my place to ask questions. But if you do communicate with her, do, if you'd be so kind, tell her I am thinking of the two of you more longingly than you can perhaps even imagine.

Ever yours,

six

**

[Look for Six (Part 3) soon.]