Labyrinth

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  I immediately turned my attention from Megan to the gist of Alec’s demand. Tie me down. This was ominous, though it generated a fine tickling sensation in my body that gave rise to renewed excitement. My first challenge. The words would continue to haunt me for the next amazing half hour.

  Unfortunately, by the time we were in Dominick’s kitchen and I was laid over a waist high slab of cold marble, my initial excitement was replaced by undisguised fear. Too stricken to object, I allowed myself to be tied down to the marble slab, my arms stretched out in front of me, roped at the wrists and tied off below the table; my feet similarly secured to the table legs. Just to be sure I was going no where, a hefty leather strap was secured around my waist. My head lay resting on the marble, turned in the direction of the two men.

  Every nerve in my body was fired up and ready for what I anticipated as a ruthless gangbang, the kind of initiation that one might expect after being ‘sworn in’ as a master’s newest slave. As it turned out, I was far off the mark about what the real challenge of my initiation would be.

  Once Megan stepped back, Alec moved in, pulling a stool to the table and sitting down so in my bound repose I could see his smirking face without straining. It’s a smirk that goes straight to my gut; no man I know has quite the gift for so many subtle forms of smirking, sneering and leering expressions. I grew to despise that face, yet it had the power to grab me by the crotch and shake the desire from my scared body—a phenomenon that has seemed to repeat every time since when I’ve been made to submit to the man.

  “You know you are beautiful?” Alec West said. One of his more charming lines, and it came off sounding like poetry.

  What exactly was he trying to do?

  “You’re beautiful, intelligent and very sexy,” he went on. His voice was so deep and so sonorous that I was strangely moved. “You’re going to make Dominick a fabulous slave. I’m sorry I didn’t get to you first, but, oh well…” He smiled again, while a hint of sarcasm crept into his voice. I’d learn not to mistake that stirring charm for genuineness. “But what I get to do now almost makes up for losing out to my friend.” He was blatantly sarcastic now, which elevated my fear. “For this, we like to return to the slavery of old when we mark our slaves. Gives authenticity to the process.” He waited while I absorbed this information then made his mission perfectly clear. “A simple brand is all that will happen tonight.”

  “What!” I’d suddenly found my voice, and knew exactly why I’d been tied down. My entire body struggled to come up off that slab and run for the door. But my escape had already been thwarted by the rigorous bondage.

  By then, I could smell the heat emanating from the fire—from the brick oven that had been installed in Dominick’s high-tech kitchen when the penthouse was built. How convenient! I wondered how many other women had been tied to that cold slab of marble for the same purpose—a dozen faces seemed to march before my mind as if I knew them personally. The intensity of the rising heat started to make me sweat; West’s face seemed to redden. I couldn’t see Dominick and Megan, they were behind, but it was just as well. I needed no further input at that point.

  When West abruptly moved from the stool to the oven, I started to cry. When my skirt was lifted over my ass, I began to sob. But when I looked to see Dominick standing where West had sat, his lofty presence looming over me, I stopped the balling and just stared into his beautiful eyes. He didn’t have to speak to calm me. Even in a moment so extreme, so rarified, I knew everything was happening as it should. I touched again that submissive place in me that had led me to that point, and for the next sixty seconds nothing threatened to sway me. All I wanted was for it to be over and become my owner’s slave.

  I still don’t know who actually placed the brand high on my left flank, West or Megan, though I’ve always assumed it was Alec West.

  I like to think that my scream went out through the kitchen, upward into heaven and down to the bowels of the earth, but I imagine that it was just those three witnesses who heard the bloodcurdling cry. My own ears were pierced by the noise, but as this was a shocking and immediate pain that lasted only as long as it took to sear the skin and deaden the nerves, that scream was short-lived. Here I’d geared myself up for something much worse.

  My first challenge was over and not only was I still alive, I was feeling a sweet throbbing in my crotch that would take me through the next few minutes.

  My further initiation was as straight forward as the branding: Alec first, his cock ramming hard into my pussy, followed immediately by Megan fucking me with a strap-on dildo mounted at her groin—an act that further confused my speculations about the woman. Except for a few grunts and groans as the two used my sex for their pleasure, all was silent in the room. When they were done, I sensed them leave the kitchen, not because my eyes were open, they weren’t, but because I could feel their potent energy depart the room. The lights then dimmed; I could see that much through my eyelids, and sensing the shift, I dared to open my eyes again in hopes of seeing Dominick’s calming face.

  Unfortunately, Dominick was already behind me, another silent assailant about to assault what I’d freely given for him to use. He could have untied me and I would have remained there immobilized, for this was the point, was it not? I’d become a sex slave, an orifice at my owner’s beck and call. The truth of this hit home, giving my savage sexual energy another booster shot.

  I expected Dominick to be as swift in his use of me as the other two, but unlike them, he reached out and tenderly caressed my bottom before he entered me. Just the touch of his fingers was all I needed to feel the depth of his ownership. It confirmed all that I’d been feeling, and this was nothing about sex, but rather a profound feeling of having become the man’s possession—like the apartment and the slab of marble to which I was tied, and the oven used to heat the branding iron and the bed we slept in. An object. Yes, I was an object, another of his many possessions. To understand that fact was the purpose of the ceremony and it had had exactly the desired effect.

  Certainly, my sexual arousal was also in play, although it had taken the second cock, Megan’s cock, before I managed to climax. By the time Dominick was settling in to use my ass, my body was a constant roar of tightening, clenching spasms that had a life of their own, relentless, vigorous and unceasing. All through the fierce impalement, through the hard thrusts and the squeezed ass cheeks, I felt a constant pleasure rising up alongside the accompanying pain. I came and came again until my owner rent my ass with his final thrust, and exhaustion found me lying limp against the slab with Dominick’s cum dripping from my backdoor.

  It took a while for him to speak. Enough time for me to recover some, for my body to start working again, for my ears to hear and my mind to engage. “Does that give you any clue how it feels to be owned?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, it does.” I breathed deep and sighed.

  “Very good.” His one hand grazed my sore ass cheeks—sore from being so brutally squeezed.

  I had no idea how long I was left bound on the table, but at some point I recall Dominick returning to the kitchen, his hands working swiftly to untie me, and his strong arms lifting me away. This time I realized that I had been drugged, and it was quite alright with me, although I wasn’t exactly sure when. But with my initiation to slavery over, I desperately needed a chance to rest.

  My life has turned out to be exactly as Dominick described. He didn’t lie. The luxury, the clothes, a high-end apartment, and a steady upward climb in the magazine world, from gofer to assistant editor, to editor, on my way to editor-in-chief, all occurred because of my hard work and natural inclination for the business. I knew I’d be a success, all I needed was for Dominick to steer me in the right direction, introduce me to the right people and give them a little nudge. Since he landed me my first solid job, what success I’ve had has been my own doing.

  With regard to Dominick, my status as his slave is a blunt truth that has become deeply ingrained in me. I feel the fact of it every
day in the many small ways he reminds me that I serve at his pleasure. The collar I’ve worn, the cage I’ve slept in, the harness, the piercings, the rigorous training that I was initially made to suffer have all given way to more subtle forms of surrender. I suppose that now I’m most reminded of my humble status when there’s a demand on my time that I wish I could avoid, or a sex act I’d rather not indulge in. Quite honestly, it’s usually a sex partner I’ve been consigned to pleasure that’s made be balk the most. Strangers, brutes, unsavory characters have all appeared at my bedroom door, where I’ve been forced to welcome them into the warmth of my bed. When faced with this situation, when confronted by the fact that I’m not at liberty to decline their sexual demands, I’ve learned to yield. The yielding brings resignation and the resignation brings on sweeping feelings of submissiveness that move through me in overpowering waves. My acquiescence turns to pleasure, and my pleasuring in a once detested sex act becomes a reward that can turn the moment into one I crave.

  Yes, of course, in moments of my profound distress, I’ve attempted to annul my slave contract, using every excuse and threat I can think up. But that contract remains enforced, as if it had been written in stone. First were the moments of resistance when I would openly balk at Dominick’s demands. He and I would go toe-to-toe, our eyes fusing for seconds of tense anticipation, waiting for one of us to blink first.

  Whether I blinked first or he did turned out not to be the issue, but for the record, I routinely wilted when I faced off against his uncompromising domination. He’s never had to raise his voice. Never have I seen a look of anger in his expression. With calm certainty, he’s stood his ground while mine shifted like inconstant desert sand.

  Never has he failed to punish me after such a rebellion, and never has he failed to use a cane or a stripped-down birch switch to lay on the retribution for my crime. Those particular implements had their purpose, making certain that I derived no physical pleasure in the punishment, no endorphin rush, and that for days after I’d have raw wounds to remind me once again of my lowly position. After a year or two living with the consistent message, I learned. Not as quickly as I should have, but I learned, and going toe-to-toe with my owner became less frequent.

  I have no choice but to back down, comply and submit when I’m given an order. That is a cold hard fact I’d learn fast, or find forced on me. When I found myself fighting off the dangerous urges to resist, I learned to let my natural submissiveness take over and give me pleasure. Fighting what’s become my truth soon became a useless waste of time; and in fact, yielding had its rewards. Although there were times early on when I refused to believe that this was possible; over the years, I grew to be content with the choice I’d made to become Dominick’s slave.

  Lust grew into love, devotion and true passion. In the best days of my slavery I hardly noticed that I was a slave at all. I was willing to do every vile thing my owner required. I even basked in the power I had to move men with my body. Soon, I made it my duty to see that Dominick was well served by my submission, and I took pride in the positive results. I would blame myself for faults and errors, and come to him chagrinned and humbled, demanding that he encourage me with the hard cuts of his cane. I dutifully presented myself for exhibitions before audiences of his sadistic friends who watched with boorishly arrogant expressions as I was demeaned before them. I crawled at their feet, sucked their organs on demand, and suffered through their insults, taking them in as if they were actually true.

  I came to relish the cruel treatment, the depraved sex and the feelings of abject surrender, and for several years, I believed myself lucky to have found a life that I loved in so many remarkable ways. I secretly cherished how I’d risen from the gutter to become a woman I could be proud of. No one knew the actual truth about me but the inner circle of slave owners, traders and users of sex slaves. To the outside world I was a successful rising star in the magazine world; to Dominick and the others like him, I was property.

  I’d joined that sorority of females who have made themselves slaves to their masters, cast myself in a bizarre but titillating world, and the deeper I moved into this incredible sphere, the more satisfaction there was to be gained. The titillation of slavery made it worth the terrible humiliation I’ve often suffered: the times I’ve been ‘outed’ before strangers on Dominick’s whim, or punished like a dog, or forced to suffer pain with no explanation.

  I have no right to explanations. I have no rights. Dominick can pull me up short with a sweep of his hand. He can startle me back to reality with a brusque putdown. Before a company of strangers, he can promise to beat me if I don’t behave and follow through with his threat. He takes great pleasure at my expense and he’s never apologized for that fact. What master would apologize to his sex slave? The idea is absurd.

  On occasion when I might become complacent, forgetting in the busyness of my life as a red-hot magazine editor that I am his slave, Dominick will find the time to rein me in, and with amazing swiftness, string me up, punish me with a cruelty that afterwards will make me weep. I am reminded that I am no more than a worthless object and I’d better remember that fact.

  In the early years, the meticulous training was important to the mental state that needed to be created, to the practices that would be required of me, until slavery was so ingrained in my psyche that it became as much a part of my make-up as the color of my eyes and the crimson hue of my flaming hair.

  Over the past ten years, I’ve played in so many ways with so many people, taken roles I would never have considered in any other place. Though the shackles are real and the submission enforced at the end of a bullwhip, my slavery has given me a feeling of freedom I could know nowhere else. Freedom. Yes! I understand that is a contradiction in terms: that a woman could find freedom within the bounds of slavery seems absurd. But this is a freedom of the mind and body and sexual expression, quite different than the freedom to do and choose as I please.

  Five years into my slavery I no longer questioned Dominick’s commands, or attempted to overrule his orders. The habits had become second nature, just as Dominick expected. And yet, there was a mounting restlessness in my soul that craved something more. I kept silent, gritted my teeth, moving forward as I’d been trained, hoping the feeling would finally go away. However, sometimes my mind wandered into fantasies where I’d be free of the restrictions that had been placed on me, where I’d be free of slavery altogether. Though I knew these were hopeless daydreams, they haunted my waking hours until I felt them torturing me as much as my slavery did.

  Then, as if Dominick knew some drastic change was needed, our lives took an unexpected shift.

  The labyrinth was born.

  When Dominick took me to that freakish masquerade ball—that very first convocation of kinky players—the sensation was like walking into a sexual dream filled with joy and excess and sensation unlike any I could find elsewhere. The labyrinth was like no other place on earth. I became profoundly under its spell, driven to new depths of desire and sexual extravagance.

  Even now I do not understand its hypnotic power. Part of the mystery is that no two females feel the same thing when they become part of the wild sex rites. Some argue that it’s just a charlatan’s trick that makes the experience so wonderfully mysterious, that sets the mind to reeling and the world to suddenly seem off kilter. Others believe that there is real magic at work. Still others insist we’re just expertly brainwashed into our surrender.

  I have my own point of view.

  As savvy and rational as you likely think I am after reading this account of my life, you might be surprised to know that I do believe there are mystical forces at work at those times and in those places where the labyrinth convenes. I’ve been bruised by entities, attacked by ghosts, driven into inhuman places that either condemn me as mad as the mad hatter or suggest that what I say is true. You don’t have to believe me, I certainly don’t expect a soul to buy my story. Though for me, the evidence of what I say could cover the bookshe
lves of a sizable library. I’m afraid the documentation is all locked inside my brain. If I were to have more time, I’d love to share with you all that I’ve witnessed and all that I’ve done, evidence that demands that I accept the labyrinth as a most ingenious force of nature. I emphasize ‘force of nature’, as opposed to a place that exists through the will of men. The labyrinth is hallowed ground, a sacred territory carved from the imagination, a place put into motion by unseen forces—perhaps the stars or the planets or wily conjurers capable of shifting the world into strange new ways. I don’t have all the answers, I even doubt that my rational mind is incapable of understanding the labyrinth’s obscure mysteries. However, I’m content to leave my speculation at that, and enjoy the experience without my brain pestering me with questions.

  An interesting fact that I’ve been privy to know—what I stumbled on through pure accident—is that the location for each gathering is determined not by a decision of men but by simple games of chance. About five years ago, a few Dom men, friends and associates of my owner, would gather together on occasional Thursday evenings for games of cards and darts at a tavern somewhere out in the country. This particular dart game was a one-of-a-kind creation that hadn’t been played for years in that old establishment. Instead of darts, small, sharp-pointed knives, known as daggers, were thrown at the target. And instead of the usual round target of concentric circles with the bull’s-eye in the middle, there was a detailed map of certain counties spread over a broad area that included parts of several northeastern states. Unusual to the map were the specific landmarks printed on the document. It was speculated that it had originally been created as a tourist map, pointing out unusual points of interest for curious travelers. The map had been produced in the 1920’s and had hung on the wall of the tavern for many years without much notice, as much of the odd paraphernalia on tavern walls often does. Sometime in the 1940s, a soldier home on leave suggested that it be used for playing darts, and the game became popular amongst the regular customers during WWII. At the time, the game spiced up the usual game of fine motor-coordination and skillful aiming. The first thrower would close their eyes and throw their sharp-pointed dagger at the map. Where that dagger landed would become the night’s target. The game was not all that inventive, but it offered a bit of theatrical fun to this simple pastime.