Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

“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?”