400 Days of Oppression (17 page)

Kenyatta invited her in, took her hand, bowed, and kissed her knuckles.

“Mistress Delia, you are lovelier than ever.”

She did the same, doing a little curtsy and kissing his class ring.

“Hello, King. You are still the most fuckable male in the BDSM scene. And your taste in subs is impeccable as ever. I cannot believe you are really parting with this lovely specimen.”

Kenyatta leaned in and kissed Mistress Delia on the lips. I saw him slip his tongue into her mouth and her suck it like it was his cock. Jealousy surged within me. My breath caught in my throat until their lips parted. Kenyatta patted her on her more than ample buttocks then squeezed her titanic breasts and kissed her again.

“Don’t go getting me all horny, King. I might take it out on your little Kitten.”

She swatted me on my ass with one of her meaty paws and gave it a squeeze. I smiled passively. The co-opting of the nickname Kenyatta had given to me, by this stranger. She had no fucking right to call me that as far as I was concerned, but my outrage was useless. It sat in my gut like bad Mexican food, churning, indigestible. 

“Don’t worry, Kitten. I won’t hurt you...too much,” Delia said with a wink.

I turned to Kenyatta, eyes brimming with tears, in one last, desperate attempt to save myself. I saw Angela sitting on the couch, rocking forward and back, biting her bottom lip and squeezing her hands between her knees, desperate to intervene but keeping silent. I couldn’t count on her for help. For all I knew, this had all been her doing.

Angela smiled at me and mouthed the words “I’m sorry” as Kenyatta placed an old suitcase on the front porch filled with my meager belongings. Kenyatta turned and brushed the hair from my face, blessing me, for what felt like the last time, with that radiant smile of his. I could see the sorrow in his eyes. The worry. He didn’t want me to go either. I could tell. So why the fuck was he sending me away? Was it just for the game, so I would experience what his ancestors experienced, or was he jealous of Angela? He couldn’t really think I would leave him for that hateful bitch. Even though she licked pussy like she was bred for the act, there was no forgetting the hell she had put me through. I didn’t trust her.

“You do what Mistress Delia tells you, okay? You are hers now,” Kenyatta said, sounding like he was sending a child off to college rather than giving the woman he claimed to love over to another.

There was a leash around my neck, the choke chain I’d worn the last time Kenyatta took me out, the night of the slave auction. Kenyatta placed the leash in Mistress Delia’s hands. I felt like my world was ending. The air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. My chest tightened and my heart raced. I began to hyperventilate.

“No. No, Master! Pleeeease!” I whined, feeling wretched, all self-respect gone. I dropped to my knees and clutched his ankles, kissed his shoes. Kenyatta lifted me back to my feet and tried his best to calm me, holding me close, stroking my hair and whispering softly, but I was inconsolable.

“Shhhhh. It’ll be okay, Kitten. I promise. Mistress Delia has a little vineyard and an orchard in Napa. It’s beautiful out there. You’ll love it. And there will be other slaves so you won’t feel so alone.”

I shook my head vehemently.

“I don’t feel alone! I have you! I don’t need anything else. I don’t want to be anyone else’s slave!”

The blow came suddenly and unexpectedly, catching me off guard and knocking me back against the wall. Kenyatta had slapped me. My face stung from the blow. I was shocked. Yes, I’d been paddled, whipped, spanked, flogged and even caned, but I couldn’t remember Kenyatta ever slapping me before, except once or twice during sex. He seized me by the throat and pulled me close so his furious eyes smoldered inches from my own.

“You are a slave. Don’t you get that? Do I need to remind you? You are property, a possession, like a pet. I can do with you whatever I wish. I can buy you, sell you, or give you away. Do you understand?”

I nodded. Tears spilled from my eyes.

“Now, I have given you to Mistress Delia and I expect you to behave. Understand?”

Again, I nodded, wiping away tears and fighting back the fit of hysterical weeping threatening to break free. Mistress Delia jerked my leash and I stumbled forward, tripping and falling against her. She dragged me down the steps to her waiting Escalade, popped the rear hatch, and threw me in the back with her dry cleaning and shopping bags.

I hugged my knees to my chest and wept as we pulled out of my Master’s driveway. The idea of spending the next few days (Weeks? Months? I didn’t know.) away from Kenyatta was terrifying to me. He had been my everything these last few months and now he was simply gone. It was almost inconceivable.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was bright, brilliant, the sky a pale azure with a smattering of wispy cirrus clouds. The city rushed by us in a colorful blur of the city’s eclectic denizens, stressed commuters hurrying to the subway or waiting for the bus, joggers sweating in designer workout gear, bicyclists weaving through downtown traffic or racing along the waterfront, shoppers lugging bags stuffed with designers labels, wide-eyed tourists ooohing and aaaahhhing and snapping pictures at all the sights the local residents took for granted, street performers entertaining crowds with frenetic enthusiasm, hippies, hipsters, homosexuals from the flamboyant to the conservative, black, Mexican, and Filipino thugs, and dozens of homeless on every street corner.  People of every size, shape, and color filled every available nook of the city. I felt so disconnected from all of them. Their lives were worlds away from mine.

We wound our way through the narrow streets, through the lush verdance of Golden Gate Park, and finally the awe-inspiring beauty of the Golden Gate Bridge itself, overlooking the San Francisco Bay. The bridge had always filled me with awe and wonder. I remembered a description I’d read of the bridge back in high school: “A necklace of surpassing beauty around the lovely throat of San Francisco.” That description had always seemed somehow sinister to me. Even then, it brought images of strangulation. Rather than a necklace of jewels, I had always imagined a garrote, cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen to a city struggling to breathe. And now, even as I watched the tranquil flow of sail boats, motorboats, fishing boats, yachts, jet-skiers, and surfers over the dark waters, I felt that same garrote constricting around my own throat.   

I struggled to breathe. My own turbulent emotions roiled in contrast with the calm waters below. The crisp clean air choked in my lungs as I watched the tourists who stood on the bridge taking and posing for pictures, joggers and bikers racing toward the Marin Headlands, lovers walking hand in hand, smiling, kissing, laughing, soaking in the sun. I felt lonelier than I could ever recall. Even when I was in the box for hours at a time, I always knew Kenyatta would be home soon to rescue me, feed me, fuck me. Now, I was going who-knows-where to do who-knows-what. For the first time in weeks, I thought about ending the game. I wondered if it had gone too far. I didn’t know if I had it in me to continue without seeing Kenyatta every day.

An hour after leaving Kenyatta’s house, I was driven to Mistress Delia’s home in Napa Valley. I had never seen anything like the vast twenty-two acre estate. It was like stepping into a Hollywood movie. An eleven-acre Cabernet Sauvignon vineyard sprawled out in back of a five-thousand square foot, six bedroom, two-story, custom built Craftsman home with a five-car garage, a 1,200 square foot guest house, and a 4,500 square foot, two-story barn in the back. A lavish rose garden filled the courtyard. It was truly magnificent.

There was a stable and a corral with three horses and two bare-chested men in tight blue jeans. One was white and the other Filipino. They both had athletic builds, not as muscular as Kenyatta, smaller, leaner, but nice...very nice.  

I couldn’t stop staring at the two stable boys as Mistress Delia opened the hatch of the Escalade and let me out. They both wore thick leather collars around their necks and wrists, making it clear that they were subs, Mistress Delia’s property. I wondered how many more slaves she had.

“Come on. I’ll have Constance show you to your room. There will be some new clothes for you there.”

She led me to the front door, and a tall, slender, light-skinned black woman opened the door dressed similarly to the two boys in the yard. She was topless, wearing a long, flowing, white lace skirt and the same black, leather collar. Her breasts were medium-sized, like two large apples, barely more than a handful, but with large dark nipples. She had wide hips and a slight paunch that somehow made her look even sexier. Just another curve on her lithe, sensuous, body. Her hair was put up in two big Afro puffs on either side of her head. Her smile was wide and genuine with a perfect row of sparkling white teeth framed by soft, pillowy lips. She bowed to Mistress Delia who smiled and kissed her on the lips. Then the woman turned to me and smiled.

“Hi. I’m Constance. Follow me.”

She didn’t wait for me to introduce myself, before she turned and walked away, revealing a tight and muscular, but still remarkably voluptuous, posterior that jiggled high on her back, putting mine to shame. I guess she must have already known who I was and why I was there. I looked at Mistress Delia who nodded and gestured for me to follow Constance. I was led to a small, sparse room with two bunk beds, two dressers, and one closet. There was an adjoining bathroom, but little else in the way of privacy.

“How many people stay here?” I said.

Constance shrugged. “Depends on the weekend. I’m the only one who stays here permanently. Everyone else is a tourist.”

“Tourist” was BDSM slang for those who were less hardcore, who played every now and again, but didn’t live the lifestyle twenty-four-seven. Most of the people I knew, including me before the game began, would have fit the definition. I had always questioned the wisdom, and often the sanity, of people who didn’t have a clear line between reality and BDSM fantasy role-playing, but now I was one of them.

“Some weekends, we have a full house. The men’s quarters hold about five and they can squeeze five or six in here if we double up. Then there are those who come up just for the day. Every so often, we get someone who stays for a whole week or two, and occasionally a month or more. Those tend to be the really rich folks, Europeans on holiday, Japanese businessmen, and the occasional bored millionaire out for a bit of kink. We get a lot of couples here, too.”

“So, this isn’t just a vineyard then? She’s sort of turned it into a little bondage business? A getaway for submissives?”

Constance nodded.

“And doms. If they pay enough. But don’t worry. Everything that happens here is safe, sane, and consensual. Even though a client pays, that doesn’t guarantee him or her someone to play with. The subs still choose who they want to top them. Sometimes people come here and all they get to do is watch, but they keep coming back.”

I tried to imagine someone paying hundreds? Thousands? To live out their fantasy of dominating a willing slave, only to be rejected by every submissive in the house. I would have been pissed. But I had never been much for spectator sports. I always needed to be in the action. That was the best thing about being a submissive. The true power, ultimately lied in the hands of the bottom, “topping from below” as they say. The dom could not do anything the sub didn’t want or allow to be done to them. And, usually, a good dom did everything the sub wanted, fulfilled every desire. If they were compatible, their fantasies and desires matched. When they didn’t match, there was always a safe word to abort the play. I wondered if I would get a safe word, other than the one Kenyatta had given me.

I put away my simple rags and Constance handed me my new “uniform,” a pair of black latex chaps, a red leather G-string, black, leather, open-cup, under bust, corset that lifted my breasts up to my collarbones. She gave me one of the thick, black collars everyone else I’d seen seemed to be wearing, and a long diaphanous white skirt like the one Constance wore. I wondered if she was similarly attired beneath her skirt.

Constance stood by to help me into my new clothes, applying liberal amounts of talc to keep the latex from sticking to my skin. After squeezing, tucking, and stretching myself into it, I had to admit, I felt sexier than I had in months. My breasts were pushed up, ass pushed out, and waist cinched in. All I needed now was someone to admire it all. Again, my mind drifted to Kenyatta, wondering if he was thinking of me and what he would have thought of me in my new outfit. I felt a pang in the core of me, a twinge in my heart. I missed him so much it was painful to think of him, and so, I determined to put Kenyatta out of my mind for as long as I was a guest in Mistress Delia’s home.

Constance gave me a head to toe appraisal, looking me over with naked admiration, a mischievous smile on her face and a salacious gleam in her eyes.

“You look wonderful. Really, Natasha. You do. I’d fuck you myself if I had a dick.”

I blushed like a virgin schoolgirl and let out an embarrassing high-pitched giggle that left me feeling mortified by my own stupidity.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

Constance smiled, clapped her hands and rubbed them together then pointed toward the door.

“Time to go to work.”

I looked down at my outfit.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re working in the kitchen with me today. Don’t get used to it, though. Tomorrow you’re out in the field.”