The Ivy Ball

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Anita is owned
2.4k words
4.35
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Azhyre
Azhyre
1 Followers

Anita glanced around the amphitheatre, absorbing the sights around her. She sat on the very inner edge of the raised seating section- in front of her the floor sank to form a lowered stage, with a podium at its center. The ballroom had a number of entrances, each a lavishly decorated archway, with two matched grand staircases leading to the balconies in the center. Each balcony was packed with chattering laughing people, watching the stage in the center of the ballroom.

Anita’s friends were no different, hooting and squealing while watching the male revue, exchanging witty repartee about each stripper’s ‘assets’. Anita wasn’t paying much attention- unlike her friends; the strippers weren’t what she was here for. Anita wasn’t here to hoot and goggle at orange tanned slick oiled strippers. She wasn’t really sure why she was here, just that something about the elegant design and ivy and thorn motif of the poster she’d seen had hinted that there was something more to this event than others. Even the name, ‘The Ivy Ball’ had an elegant ring to it, so unlike it’s contemporaries- Desperate and Dateless, The Degenerates Ball, and any number of others. In observing the poster, Anita had had a sense of something bigger than just the Ball, a sense of something coherent and organized behind it. Perhaps it was just her overactive imagination, but she’d felt that this had a different quality.

The number of limousines and luxury cars that had pulled up outside when the doors opened seemed to confirm that. A score of other clues (some subtle, some not so) hinted at something more than the usual sex party fare. Anita, in her moments of observance, had noticed that each of the waiters bore an identical tattoo, of a black ivy leaf crossed by a blood red thorn. Anyone who bothered to notice would have known that was more than coincidence.

They could have been fake of course, but for some reason she doubted it. She hoped she had reason to doubt. Other clues, the manner of some of the guests, the unusual deference of the waiters, all hinted at something more like what she hoped for.

While most of the event had passed like any other, with strip shows, product demonstrations and so on, Anita held onto her hope that something more would happen. The only reason she had this hope was because when she’d purchased her ticket from the little boutique sex shop, the dark haired woman behind the counter had regarded her with a measuring eye, and said, “You’ll enjoy The Processional,” and refused to say anything more on the subject. Anita had hoped that was a sign, that somewhere there were people who could see what she was, what she desired more than anything, and respond to it.

Anita wanted to be owned.

She’d told people this, of course, and experimented (one doesn’t end up at events like this without a little bit of experience), but it had all seemed rather pale and unfulfilling, and, dare she say it, tacky. Nothing like her fantasies, the reality was pushy jerks that called themselves Doms, and thought that her submissiveness meant that she’d do anything they wanted, for nothing.

Anita had never met a man who could tame her. Not because she was particularly wild, it was just that no one had made her feel truly owned. Most were too tentative, too unskilled, men who had no understanding of how a woman’s body worked, and so couldn’t tease her, couldn’t reduce her to the begging whimpering thing that she so needed to be.

The way the man in the boutique had looked at her, a glimpse of a suspected ivy and thorn tattoo, the elegant invitations, had all suggested that there was something more here, something secret and hidden. Apparently the Ivy Ball was an annual event, held in a different city (and country) each year. It was only good fortune (or fate) that she’d discovered it when it was happening here. She’d talked her friends along, telling them that she wanted to go ogle, and possibly pick up the latest sex toys. They’d be shocked if they knew the truth. Anita stroked the dark velvet of her corset anxiously, her chocolate eyes watching the clock as the hour approached midnight- the time of The Processional.

The strippers on stage finished up, and the lights dimmed, and the crowd hushed, as if by magic. Anita searched the ballroom, trying to determine which of the seven arches The Processional would enter through. When she noticed that, the one at the far end was decorated with ivy and thorns she was certain. Music started playing, something deep and rich, and Anita’s eyes sparked with delight as she recognized the first creeping strains of Prokofiev’s ‘Montagues and Capulets’. A nearby rustle of fabric startled her, and she turned her head, and noticed immediately that the archway behind her matched the one she had picked for the entrance of The Processional. She stared as men clad in designer suits began to gather under it, each with one or more nude and bejeweled slaves kneeling obediently at his feet. Anita filled with longing, thinking to herself that she’d give anything to be part of that world. Her friends noticed the focus of her attention and stared with her, transfixed by the sight of so much naked flesh.

To Anita it was like a living fantasy: the setting, the clothes, the beauty of the slaves and their Masters…everything spoke of an elegance she adored. The music started in earnest and the Masters began to walk, the slaves at their side, moving in a human wave around the oval of the sunken floor.

Anita saw that a group of Mistresses with slaves had entered through the opposite archway, as she’d predicted, and were following a path that mirrored that of the Masters on the other side of the oval. The whole audience was awestruck, by these women in their lush ball gowns, with slaves at their feet- the vivid fabric contrasting with so much naked flesh.

Anita tore her eyes away from the Mistresses to gaze around at her friends and the people around her, their faces stunned, suddenly she was struck by the inherent silliness of the situation- the pomp and ceremony, the melodrama of the music, and she giggled.

“What is so amusing, if I may ask?” A cool voice asked. Anita jumped, startled. She turned to the voice, and found herself the subject of the Mistresses’ scrutiny- the whole procession had stopped to allow this woman to ask her question. When Anita looked up into the eyes of the woman in question a thrill ran through her body- it felt like a line of fire flamed from her eyes to lower things. She shivered.

“Well?” The woman demanded impatiently. Anita flushed, and toyed with the aubergine silk dupion of her full skirt, licking her lips before answering.

“Um, well…” she paused, afraid to call the woman Mistress, “it’s just that…it’s…” something broke inside her, and Anita flushed deeper, and fell into humiliated silence. A small smile curved over the woman’s lips, and she whispered in the ear of the Mistress behind her. When she turned back to Anita, she had a thick black suede collar in her hands, resting on the coils of a matching leash. Her smile grew, and she contemplated Anita for a moment before speaking.

“Would you care to join us?” She asked, her voice deepening to rich low tones that evoked thoughts of sticky sweet things that were inevitably fattening. Anita’s face flamed, and she stared around at her friends, who were watching her intently, stunned and strangely fascinated, expecting her to laugh and refuse. For a moment Anita had the urge to do just that- anything else, she felt, would lead to humiliation- her friends mocking her, being led around on that length of velvety suede.

She had a sudden feeling that this was her only chance, that if she made the wrong choice she’d forever regret it. She stared up at the striking woman in front of her, awaiting her response, and made the decision. Painfully, ever so slowly, Anita slid out of her chair, to her knees, to gaze up at the Mistress…her Mistress, for the moment.

“Yes,” she said, her voice tremulous, “I would.” The woman’s face broke into a knowing smile, and she leaned down, and buckled the collar around Anita’s slender throat. She finished, and a shudder of lust ran through Anita’s body, and the woman paused a moment to stroke her cheek with soft fingers.

“Beautiful.” She said, and turned away without another word. Anita crawled awkwardly behind her, trying not to trip over her skirts. She was peripherally aware of the stunned silence of her friends, but most of her mind was occupied by the flood of humiliation and lust running through her. She followed the pull of the leash through the archway, through the curtains just behind it, into a separate room full of other Mistresses and their slaves. In the room, Anita noticed that she wasn’t the only person who’d been taken from the audience- five or six clothed and leashed men and women were scattered amongst the crowd of nearly naked slaves. Anita’s Mistress turned to her, and tilted her chin up with a manicured fingernail.

“You didn’t really enjoy that, did you?” She asked, and there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. Anita looked stunned.

“I did, I did!” She protested, her eyes filled with fear.

The woman studied her, and Anita felt her body opening under that intense gaze.

“Prove it.” The woman said, and tossed the leash to the floor in front of Anita, turning on her heels to stalk out through the curtains, only stopping when she reached Anita’s friends. There she stood, her arms folded over her breasts, waiting. Anita’s friends recognized her and turned curiously to watch. Anita shuddered once more, humiliation burning through her veins, knowing this was her only chance.

She glanced at the slave the woman had left behind, who shrugged apologetically and gestured with a movement of her head towards the end of the leash lying on the floor. Anita glanced at it, knowing what she had to do. She leaned down, her breasts straining against her corset, and delicately picked up the suede of the leash in her teeth. The woman through the curtains watched, a smile hovering around the corners of her mouth. Anita gathered her courage, and quelled her fear, pulling her skirts out from under her knees so she could crawl towards the waiting Mistress. She made her way through the curtains, aware that every eye, in both rooms, was on her. Her friends stared, flabbergasted, as she arrived at the woman’s feet, and sat back on her heels, offering the leash. The woman took it, and smiled, her hand cupping Anita’s face.

“Good girl. I knew you could do it. You’re such a beautiful little thing.” She said, her voice purring. Anita shivered, pleased with the praise, and pressed her lips to the leather of the woman’s boots, inhaling their rich scent. She realized what she’d done and flushed furiously, and the woman laughed.

“Ah, delicious, you’re embarrassed. How delightful. Come, we shall get to know each other.” She walked back through the archway, Anita following hastily behind.

Her friends could only stare as the curtains closed behind her.

*****

Anita studied herself in the mirror, staring numbly at the bruises that trailed down her body. If you didn’t look too closely, it would seem like a shadow traced a path across her skin, but the ache told her otherwise. The trail of injuries started at her bottom lip, which was slightly swollen (well bitten), trailed down her jaw line, swelled at her neck, and then took a sinuous curve down the front of her body, traversing her breasts and belly right down to her feet. She followed its trail and shuddered, her hand tracing the path from her neck down. All of the shadows and curves of her body seemed to be emphasized, and her eyes told of a night of little sleep. Her hand came back to brush across the steel collar around her neck, and she felt weak at the knees, and that instinct was closely followed by the sound of the door opening, driving her all the way down. She lowered her head and knelt, not daring to look up to see who entered. It wasn’t her place to know.

She heard the muffled thud of high heels across the rich carpet, striding towards her, and felt a hand lifting her hair to expose her neck.

“Ah, beautiful.” A long elegant nail toyed with the shell of her ear, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Did you enjoy our time together last night, my pet?” The woman asked, the nail trailing down Anita’s neck and over the collar. Anita had to moisten her lips before answering.

“Yes Mistress.” She said, in barely a whisper. The nail ran across her shoulder and she trembled at its touch. Her Mistress’ fingers smoothed out across her shoulder and she leaned into the touch. The hand was abruptly withdrawn and leaning, she fell to the thick carpet with a thud. Her face flamed as she heard a chuckle from her Mistress. A leash was clipped to her collar and tugged sharply, dragging her to her feet. She was pulled back against her Mistress’ body, the velvet of the corset stroking her back.

“Look at yourself.” She was commanded; she had no choice but to obey. Anita stared at herself in the mirror, as she had been doing before the woman arrived, taking in her nude body, newly oiled and shaved. The woman’s elegant hands spread her thighs and two fingers were roughly thrust inside her, pleased to find her wet and ready. Anita shuddered, straining up onto her toes, leaning against her Mistress. She felt those soft lips against her ear.

“Look at yourself. This is what you are, and always will be. My hot, wet little pet. Understand?” The voice demanded.

“Yes Mistress.” She gasped and writhed at the fingers inside her hitting her sweet spot. Another hand snuck its way around her body to toy with her clit as teeth clamped down harshly on her bruised neck. She began to pant, forced to orgasm, her Mistress’ liquid voice echoing in her brain, telling her she was owned.

Finally, with a cry she shuddered and collapsed to the ground, where her Mistress left her.

Azhyre
Azhyre
1 Followers
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AnonymousAnonymousover 18 years ago
Lush

You balance finely on the edge between insufficient data and too much detail--terrific! Your story took me right to the scene: I saw Anita scurry over, leash in her teeth, and then the whole scene faded to black, then opened next morning on the nude and collared slave.

Your writing is a gift. Thanks.

Simon J

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