The Sex Rehab Diaries: Rachel

"Hi, I'm Rachel, and yeah... I guess you can call me a sex addict," I giggled as I looked at the expectant faces surrounding me.

I thought about that statement for a minute. Of course, I'd never called myself a sex addict out loud, but the idea of it sounded almost kind of sexy. Of course I knew I was supposed to be all serious standing there in the classroom at The Belleview Retreat for Sexual Health. But really, how can you find the seriousness of group therapy at all?

They were a miscellaneous collection of odd personalities from different walks of life sharing intimate and intense details of their sex lives with complete strangers. And we were supposed to be listening with rapt concentration, pretending that we were learning from all these stories, when it was clear that everyone was just getting more and more turned on. Three girls had already given their confessions before mine and they all seemed distracted, as though they were mentally reliving their own stories whenever there was a lull in the classroom or when we were on break. It seemed like sharing them out loud had given them life again, which seemed to be somewhat counterproductive to the point of therapy. It was a highly undisciplined group, and I guess that was where I saw the fun in it. The subtle flirting and long glances kept a high level of sexual tension in the room.

I was about to begin introducing myself when the unmistakable hum of a buzzing vibration broke the silence. Everyone began looking at each other with wide eyes and I could hear the various protests of "don't look at me, it's not me" ripple through the crowd.

"Wow, did someone bring their vibrator to class?" Brooklyn finally said with a sarcastic laugh. The edgy brunette was the owner of her own sex shop, and she certainly seemed to know her toys.

"Uhm, nah not a vibrator," came the voice from the least vocal member of the classroom. "Blackberry," he said, casually reaching into his pocket to check the screen display. "Can I take this?"

"No Dexter, you may certainly not take it," Dr Clark, our resident therapist, snapped. "Now let's redirect out attention to Rachel, shall we."

The offending member of our therapy group gave a rueful grin and stuffed it back into his pocket and pulled his cap down lower over his face. With his dark sunglasses that he refused to take off and his mysterious aura combined with a certain kind of standoffish arrogance, he definitely seemed to be the outsider of the group.

I might have been the only one that was intrigued rather than put off by him. I had always felt like an outside myself while I was growing up.

"Now Rachel, why don't you give us an idea of who you are."

I sighed and shuffled back and forth on my feet, wondering how exactly I was supposed to define myself to these strangers. Certainly there was the Rachel that they'd see just from outward appearances that was very different from the darker personality inside. I was a petite girl, a little over five feet tall with big blue animated eyes and an infectious laugh that some people tell me sounds deceptively innocent until they get to know me. I was born a blonde, but often colored my hair at whim to suit my mood, and now it was a fiery red and spilled just over my shoulders in waves. I liked being a chameleon of sorts that way. It helped disguise the real Rachel, because in the world I lived in, the real Rachel held no valid place.

I remembered when my father, the esteemed politician who had ambitions to run for Governor saw me come home from school one day with black spiky hair and a crystal nose-ring.

"No daughter of mine is going to run around like some kind of punk kid," he had roared. "Haven't you ever stopped to think how this will reflect on me and my campaign?"

I smirked to myself as I remembered that moment because certainly a daughter with a goth-punk look would be the least of his worries once I was done with exploring the darker side of my personality.

"You were such a lovely sweet little blonde angel when you were younger," he would say in a softer tone. "Where has that girl gone? No more costumes and piercings and trying to be something that you are not. Be who you are, Rachel, don't hide behind these masks."

Of course I would refrain from explaining the irony of the situation. That sweet little blonde princess he wanted me to be had been the biggest charade of all. Most of my high school years had been confusing times for me, having to live the farce of being the socialite daughter of an important political figure. My family was conservative and well bred, and always played by the rules. Unfortunately being the youngest of three girls, dirty little Rachel, did not.

I started to tell the class about my teenage years surfing BDSM websites and alternative porn online and my renowned bisexuality among the girls at the sorority my mother had insisted I join. I carefully hid every aspect of my secret life. My computer was password protected and I had a hollowed out bench that sat by my bedroom windowsill where I stored all the things I knew they wouldn't approve of. My sex toys, some pot and ecstasy tabs, a few wigs and role-play costumes, and fishnets and black latex panties with the nipple clamps. To say that I couldn't find what I sexually craved in our conservative community was an understatement.

But things changed the day that I saw the profile on the alternative sex site I frequented.

"Highly discriminating couple seeks obedient slut willing to devote herself to our pleasure and demands for one night of ultra-hedonistic slavery beyond her wildest imagination at our annual Nuit Noir Party. Obedient whores who are interested should be petite, beautiful, with a sybaritic spirit and well inclined to the pursuit of extremes."

I had soaked my panties well before I had finished reading the posting, and my mind began to spin as it always did, considering all of the delicious implications. At the time, I didn't even know what my limitations where (if any), but the idea of submitting myself to the unknown had heightened my curiosity. Like a cat playing with a ball of string, I was immediately lured into the fantasy.

Back in the classroom at the treatment centre, our therapist seemed perplexed.

"So, you were willing to just forgo any thoughts to safety and logical reasoning," Dr Clark deduced. She therapist crossed her long legs and looked down at the note pad she was writing on. She seemed suddenly uncomfortable, as though not wanting to meet my eyes. "Well, that's a classic sign of a sex addict," she went on hastily. "The willingness to pursue one's own pleasure at the cost of everything else."

"Well I didn't know the final cost of my decision, Dr Clark," I reminded her. "Not until that night was over. Sometimes I think about whether I regret responding to that ad. But if you want to know the real truth, I don't. It was the dirtiest and most erotic night of my life."

Dr Clark drew in her breath, and I watched her subtle movements with wide-eyed amusement as she shifted in the chair she was sitting on. I couldn't believe it! She was turned on by my admission!

"Well, I guess we'll have to hear your account of this... party," she conceded, "before we consider the concept of regret."

I opened the diary notebook we had been told to write our confessions into during orientation, and stared down at my girly scrawl. My pussy began to throb in instant response to seeing those words and knowing I was going to relive the story again by reading it aloud. The panties in my low-slung jeans were wet and I could feel the material rubbing deliciously against my clit, wishing I could slide one hand down the front of my jeans and masturbate while I told my tale. I guess I was an exhibitionist that way. And certainly that was part of what had made The Nuit Noir as intensely erotic as it had turned out to be.

I took a deep breath and began to read.

After responding to that online ad, and corresponding with the couple on MSN, we traded photos and eventually talked over the phone. It had become clear that I was meant to be their sex slut that night. The deep commanding baritone of Conrad's voice had tapped into my inner submissive side, and I was ready to devote myself to whatever their plans might be. He was pleased with the fact that I didn't ask too many questions.

"The key is to not question pleasure, but to submit to the experience," he had said. "When you place limitations and clauses on this pursuit, then you miss the startling beauty of it. The 'not knowing' should always be part of the thrill."

I had listened breathlessly on the phone while he detailed my instructions. I was intrigued by the location he gave to an exclusive part of town about an hour away from the city that housed the estates of the wealthy. Clearly they were in a far different echelon than my own family's upper class roots. Beyond that the instructions were simple. I was to arrive at dusk, and from there, the transformation would begin.

"From the moment you step inside our world, remember that we own you for that night; your body, your desires, and even your moral compass. You will submit to our demands and become our whore. And in turn we will provide you with pleasures you have only ever dreamed of. But for the seven days leading up to this night, you are not to touch yourself or even so much as entertain the idea of an orgasm. You will submit your entire sexuality to us, ripe and unaffected."

And indeed, during the nights leading up to The Nuit Noir, all I did was dream of what might happen. I was in a constant state of arousal. I didn't dare masturbate for fear they would somehow know, even though I knew it was irrational to think such things. Yet there was something about Conrad's demeanor that conveyed a sense of power that went beyond anything I'd known before. It was as intimidating as it was exciting.

On the night of the party I snuck out of the house and went to a local coffee shop to wait for the limo that was to pick me up and take me out to the estate. I didn't want to risk any member of my family seeing me. He said there would be something for me to wear once I arrived, so I was dressed indiscriminately in jeans and a tight black sweater, with my finger and toenails painted blue, and my red hair straight and slithering over my shoulders like a curtain of silk. My nerves were on edge, making me jittery on the ride through the city. The unexpected offered a sense of titillation but also a sense of anxiety. I had no idea what to expect, other than taking that first step into their world and knowing I had agreed to do anything they demanded of me. I would become their sexual plaything, but in reality what did that even mean? I could feel my heart pounding as we pulled into the long expansive driveway of one of the most exclusive estates I had ever seen. The house was large and imposing, made of dark brick with windows covered with ornate wrought iron bars. I felt even smaller and more vulnerable as I made my way up the cobblestone walkway. I lifted the doorknocker and let it fall with a loud thud, making me take a few steps back, anticipating what was to come.

The door opened slowly and there they stood, with slow easy smiles on their faces, as though their prey had just arrived at their lair. Conrad was an imposing man at just over six feet tall, strong, and with a musculature that reminded me of someone that might have once been in the military. He appeared to be his late thirties, and had a hard dominant energy about him, something that seemed far more masculine and overwhelming in person, than had been apparent in his photos. He had very short dark blonde hair and startling blue eyes, and wore dark pants and a black crew necked shirt that showed off the definition in his arms and chest. He spoke with a faint German accent, as did his wife Tamara who lingered behind him. She seemed close to the same age, if not slightly older, but was strikingly beautiful in an intimidating way. She was sinewy and long limbed, like an ex European fashion model with her short jet black hair and heavy bangs and perfect ruby-stained lips.

She smiled when she saw me, but I sensed that it was a smile meant to elicit discomfort rather than reassurance.

"We're going to have fun playing with you tonight."

Conrad moved back, and invited me to walk inside. Reluctantly I looked behind me as the cool October air swirled around me and rustled leaves along the grass. I don't know what I was looking for, in retrospect. Maybe I was hoping for a sign, or maybe I was just stalling for time. Yet the limo had already pulled away and there was no turning back now. I took a deep breath and reluctantly stepped inside their world.

The house was expansive and opulent and I could almost hear an echo as I walked behind them in my silver stiletto sandals. I watched the deliberate sway of Tamara's willowy figure in her black patent leather boots that put her almost at the same height as Conrad. I felt diminutive in their presence, further emphasizing the absence of any physical control I had over the situation, even if I were to change my mind along the way.

"First you'll hear the rules," Tamara said throwing me a glance over her shoulder. "You are only to speak when spoken to, and your interaction with our guests will otherwise be physical and initiated by them or one of us."

They led me into the library that was set with dark mahogany wood and walled with heavy bookcases. The space was lit by candle sconces and a blazing fireplace, throwing off enough heat to warm me in the otherwise cold estate. Tamara leaned against the desk and appraised me thoughtfully before perching herself on the end of it and crossing her long slender legs.

"You're a tiny little thing aren't you," she said as she raked her pale blue eyes over my body. "I'll bet you're tight in all the right places too."

A blush spread across my cheeks, as I stood there awkwardly in the room, uncertain as to what I was supposed to do. I tilted my chin downward, and glanced up at her submissively through long lashes. I could feel the dampness in my panties beginning to spread as Conrad deliberately walked in circles around me, appraising my every curve.

"Yes, as my wife has already wisely assessed, you are a striking little thing. Almost like a pixie or woodland sprite. It's almost as though you were hand drawn by an artist to the exact specifications of what we wanted tonight."

His hand reached out to stroke my flame red hair thoughtfully for a moment. "Now Rachel, we're going to have to prepare you for the party." He stopped to grin at me wickedly before tilting my chin upward to meet his steely blue eyes. "Take off your clothes."

I could feel the tightness in my belly burning its way down to my pussy that felt electric with anticipation. I don't know what I had been expecting, but as he stepped away from me to watch just as intently as his wife, I could feel my body reacting in response to their demands. There was a vulnerability to being naked, and I knew they wanted to establish their dominance immediately.

I unbuttoned my jeans and slowly slid them down over the narrow curve of my hips, revealing the tiny royal blue bikini panties beneath that were already quickly soaking through. I slid my jeans off as gracefully as I could manage, unnerved by the way they watched me, as though I was the most fascinating thing they had ever seen.

My breasts were firm and upturned with pert pink nipples that always seemed hard. They jutted out defiantly, as though seeking to be noticed. For that reason, I hadn't bothered with a bra that day, and in one movement, I quickly removed my top until I was standing there in just my panties.

"Take off everything," Tamara commanded before I had time to second-guess the original instructions.

My panties were soaked and I was conscious of no longer having anything to stop those juices from running down my thighs, which was probably their intention. I slid them off, and set them down beside my clothes on the floor. I began to turn around slowly as Conrad motioned for me to do, showing them my smooth bare pussy and round firm heart-shaped ass.

"Very nice Rachel," Conrad said approvingly. "Now get on your knees."

Obediently I sank down in front of them and sat back on my ankles, feeling the flames from the fireplace warming my naked body. Tamara took something out of a black velvet bag on the library desk and I watched it glimmer seductively in the dim lighting. It was a silver collar trimmed in what looked like diamonds and a long matching leash. She walked towards me purposefully and slid the collar around my neck, pulling it just tight enough for me to feel it squeezing at my soft skin.

"A little slut like you won't be roaming free tonight. No, we prefer our pets to be kept collared and leashed, and caged when unattended." She raised an eyebrow for dramatic effect when she felt me squirm at the mention of a cage. "Are you clear about the rules?"

"Yes," I whispered meekly, feeling the wetness coating the folds of my pussy, and feeling distinctly slippery with juices as I crawled after her obediently. She tugged on the leash, forcing me to keep moving down the long hallway as Conrad watched my bare ass from behind. She led me into what looked like a ballroom with dark marble floors. There was a bar set up and chaise lounges upholstered in rich velvet tapestries. I tried to take in more of my surroundings but every time I moved my head, Tamara snapped the leash and I could feel the bite of the collar tighten around my neck.

"Eyes forward, little slut," she demanded.

In the centre of the room was a small gold-colored cage, barred on all four sides, and not unlike a crate one would use for an animal.

She led me up to it and then stopped as Conrad moved to open the door, signaling that I was to crawl inside. Anxiety and arousal combined to flame within me and my heart was pounding loudly in my ears. With obedient trust in their intentions, I found myself crawling naked into the cage. The metal felt cold under my knees and I positioned them on the two small wooden slats that were obviously meant for that purpose. I looked out at my captors through the gold bars, hearing the latch close behind me, and effectively imprisoning me within it.

"We still have preparations to make," Conrad explained. "So we'll leave you to anticipate what the evening holds ahead."

He threw a large dark covering over the cage of a thin breathable fabric that mostly blocked out my ability to see anything around me, and for a moment I felt panicked by the sudden sensory deprivation. I could hear the sound of their shoes over the floor as they left me alone in the room. I knelt there, quiet with only my thoughts to distract me. My hands impulsively slid down to my wet pussy, slippery with juices, trying to resist the urge to rub my clit. I was already turned on, alive with energy and excitement and the waiting and orgasm denial suddenly felt excruciating.

I don't know how long I was in that cage, but eventually I began to hear noises as people began to enter the space surrounding me. There were heels clicking against the marble floors, and hushed voices and conversations going on around me, some in languages that I couldn't understand. The dark tribal house beats began to flood the room, creating a heavy rhythm that seemed to elevate my heart rate and instinctively create a kind of tightness in my belly. The music was aggressive and intense, and would potentially frame the activities of the evening. But what kind of evening awaited me? I had given myself over to become an enslaved slut; a spectacle for their hedonistic entertainment, but I still had no idea how far things would really go. It was a leap of faith I had taken. But I realized that without taking chances like these, how else can we really feel alive?