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In the main floor gaming room Spencer and Chondra calmly cruised the slave-pen. Though it was nearing three in the morning, the casino in this extremely private women’s club was crowded (as always on the weekend) with a smorgasbord of femininity. A half-dozen languages and different accents could be heard.
The majority of women were dressed to the nines in evening gowns and jewels, but quite a few others wore silk or satin pajamas and flowing robes. Those women were members on vacation and staying at the club. Boisterous gamblers were laughing and cheering at the craps tables, roulette wheels were spinning, blackjack tables were crowded, and the dining room was packed.
A few dozen non-submissive male guests were immaculate yet conservative in black tie.
Spencer and Chondra were imposing figures. Casually strolling around the pen; they wore matching black-linen dusters, their lightweight floor-length coats hanging open and billowing back as they walked.
Beneath her duster Chondra wore a pair of tight, black leather pants tucked into black, ankle-high, spiked-heel leather boots. Her top was merely a black leather bra supporting her firm fat breasts and leaving her torso bare. Clearly visible on her flat brown stomach was an oval six-pack of small solid muscles.
She also wore a black baseball-cap low on her forehead, dark sunglasses, and with the duster’s collar flipped up she’d slung a wicked whip over her shoulders. It was a lethal looking cat-o’-nine-tails with an aluminum tip on each lash. Known as a “stinger-cat,” or simply a “stinger,” in Isis the whip was only permitted in the hands of a registered expert. A stinger could cut to the bone if not wielded properly.
Beneath his duster Spencer wore no shirt at all. Hanging from around his neck on an 18-inch gold rope was an onyx-in-gold heart slightly larger than the average watch face. Centered in the polished black stone was a two-and-a-half carat, D-flawless, emerald cut diamond that twinkled as the black heart bounced against his hairless, muscular chest. He wore black designer jeans, snakeskin loafers, and his dreadlocks hung down his back as well as over his chest. Dark sunglasses hid Spencer’s eyes, and in his hand was a coiled chromed-steel leash snap-hooked to a black leather collar. Both mechanics wore black leather driving gloves.
The contrast between their attire to that of the formal wear the club’s revelers sported was striking. They were more in sync with the resident dominatrices, but not even those icy Vipers could match the nimbus of danger exuded by Spencer and Chondra. They moved with the confidence and grace of highly trained killers.
In the slave-pen, where only moments earlier it was lively with chatter, laughter, and milling about, it was now a scene of anxious silence. Dozens of submissives were struck by and drawn to the vibes of circling sharks. The males quickly ascertained it was not them being cruised and did their best (a few with obvious reluctance) to fade into the background; at least as much as possible in an area 20’x 20’ enclosed with 10’chainlink fencing. It was crowded but not uncomfortable. The females (all seventeen of them) held their heads lowered, eyes darting about; most of the subs now skittish as caged mice.
The pen was a melting pot; whites, blacks, Asians, Latinos, Italians, mixes; ages ranged from nineteen (the minim permitted inside Isis) up to their late twenties. They were a1l sneaking looks at Spencer and Chondra. Rarely did such raw power prowl the pen.
And there was the promise of that stinger-cat.
Chondra saw that a delicate young black girl caught Spencer’s eye, and knew it. The poor thing trembled like a startled doe, then, head lowered, darted over to one of the small padded benches and sat down. Amused, Chondra watched her begin studying the carpet, letting him know by body-language she would wear their collar (with the permission of her Mistress).
Her body-language was called “sub-speak” and was but one of several ways submissives opened the door of invitation. Speaking to cruising dominates was forbidden, but ultimately it would be the sub, one whose Mistress was not averse to sharing, who would make the final decision if chosen.
Now that one of the girls made a move the others began doing the same. Unavailable subs were rarely placed in the pen, and like moths to a flame, they began jockeying for position as if pulled towards the fencing; subtly vying for attention, sensing strongly that these two “tops” were offering something fierce, frightening, and fabulous.
A brazen, compact little blonde Chondra thought cute apparently decided it was a fine time to use one of the several kitty-litter boxes in a corner alcove of fencing. Chondra walked over and spoke to the sub while holding the thick handle of her whip. “Lucky for you, little vixen, that my King has eyes for another.”
The sub, kneeling on her haunches above the litter box, frowned towards Spencer, looked up at Chondra with smoky brown eyes, bit down on her bottom lip, and strained.
Chondra tried not to, but smiled. “You little hussy!”
She peeled off a glove, knelt, and placed her palm flat against the fencing, her forefinger poking through the chain link. “Suck on this,” she commanded, “while you do your business, nasty harlot.” The sub licked her lips and did as she was told.
Near the gate Spencer decided on the Hershey’s Kiss, who was giving him her profile with eyes lowered, knees together, hands on her thighs. He was swinging the collar from side to side by the leash, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a baldheaded number of questionable race scowling at his choice. She was a soft and sexy looking baby-fat beauty; olive skin like a well-roasted sunbather, heavy breasts, nipples pierced with gold barbells, and there was a crystal teardrop in her navel. She turned a piercing gaze on him and Spencer saw ice-blue eyes that gave her an exotic flavor made more so by her perfectly clean-shaven head. Around her neck was a sheepskin collar clasped with a tiny gold padlock. Well, look at you...
Aqua turned back to the posing black girl and smirked. Little Ms. Braids-And-Beads was hardly worthy of these two night-stalkers. She felt his attention, lowered her head and touched the thumb and pinkie of her left hand to her right bicep, letting him know she was Society. For her the medallion around his neck was a neon sign. She bounced her pinkie twice and her thumb twice; she and her Mistress possessed a Black Heart security clearance.
She raised her eyes, expecting to see the sign requesting her clearance-level, but instead Aqua saw the hint of a grin, the Society hand-sign flash, and then his forefinger - his trigger finger - tapping his chest. She lowered her eyes as her heart began to race. He’d just confirmed what she only imagined. Sanction-mechanics were stalking the Isis pen. Black Heart was here. What other man could hunt as if he owned this club?
Due to the nature of work her Mistress did for the Society, Aqua (a branded Odalisque) was required to attend special classes to obtain the necessary clearances to travel with her Mistress. Those classes included the protocols to be followed should she be confronted by a Black Heart agent. When identities were established, proper passwords and/or codes accepted, she was to follow orders without question if those orders were Society/Black Heart business. Not even her Mistress could intervene, and to refuse carried a possible death sentence. Such was the price of world travel with her patron, and, she always thought with pride, a fact of life for those privy to Society secrets. Not for a moment did she ever want to be anyone else.
Too bad there would be no intrigue, she lamented; no shootouts, car chases, wounded mechanics to attend. These two were only searching for a bondage-toy to play with. Aqua never met or served a real mechanic, but in her opinion none of these pitifully Isis trained slave girls deserved such an honor. They barely deserved to be called Odalisque. As usual she knew herself to be the cream of the crop in this sub farm, and it was a good thing for Isis that she was here. Only she could provide the perfection, the refinement, skill, and the heat his status required and called for. There being two of them did not escape her musing either. Two hard professionals Aqua knew instinctively would not hesitate to test the very limit of an Odalisque with her First Rank rating. She raised her eyes for a peek and quickly lowered them again. He was watching her. A delicious little shiver rippled down her spine. She served males. A few used her with thrilling skill - Sabastian Knight for one - but most were merely adequate. An interesting diversion. But this one ... This beautiful Black Heart beast of a man; he would make her sweat. He would, she imagined, reduce her to a quivering lump of breathless lust gasping and calling him My Lord. She’d never done so but just knew it would be him. Branded to her Mistress, Aqua would call no man Master, and the very best to date, Sabastian, she gave the honorific, Sir. This assassin at the gate though, he was radiating pure power and promise.
His Queen would exact tribute with her stinger. That would be both proper and exquisite. Head bowed, Aqua made her way to the small, ornate gate where the mechanic patiently awaited her invitation. Already she was seeing him standing above her, immense and dark and solid, his fabulous fountain of dreadlocks swaying while she served beneath him. Aqua shivered. She would be spread open on the bench, arms out, feet to the sky, immobile, helpless, her center smoldering, his for the taking, for the using. A gift from her Mistress to Black Heart.
And to me.
Subs stepped aside to let her through. Few people are more attuned to desire than lifestyle sexual submissives. To them, the air between predator and prey was crackling.
Aqua stopped just inside the gate and there she flowed down into a flawless sit, her head lowered in calm obedience.
Now it was the Hershey’s Kiss scowling.
Chondra saw Spencer give her the high-sign. The bald and branded honey in sit nailed him to the floor. Time to go. She would handle negotiations. With threesomes or moresomes it always worked out smoother when the women made the arrangements. Especially in this club. She doubted management was all too pleased with the entrance they made anyway, not that she cared one way or another. Everyone else seemed to approve; the subs for sure, and they were the only people who truly mattered.
She pulled her finger from the plump and smutty young thing’s wet sucking mouth, and decided that she would have her alone, and soon.
“With your permission, little heathen, I will make arrangements to speak with your Mistress. You bring out my dark side. I want you where nobody can see us and we have lots of time. Make sure she agrees.”
The sub’s face was flushed. She nodded her head.
Chondra, tingling all over, glared at a too handsome, too nosy male sub. She pointed at a blue box of Baby Wipes next to a small flip-top trash can. “Clean her when she’s done, busybody.” He actually sucked his teeth. “Do it with skill, slaveboy or the cost will be more than you’re willing to pay. I fucking promise you.” Her voice cut like a razor. “I don’t care whose collar you wear.”
He blanched and leaped over to the Baby Wipes. Nearby subs snickered.
Chondra motioned to a Viper. All Isis dominatrices were Society, and trained by Black Heart in hand-to-hand and small arms combat as additional security, and all Isis security personnel came through Black Heart. The leather-encased blonde, her hair in a tight ponytail, walked over, and Chondra said: “Hey, Ursa. I was glad to see you when we came in.” “Hello, Chondra,” the statuesque dominatrix said, her slight Danish accent enhancing her persona. “Forgive me. It is Donna tonight, Donna and David Mobley. I must say, the two of you have the subs in a frenzy, not to mention most of the house. Have you noticed the many patrons stealing glances at the both of you with the same terror-lust as the subs?” Chondra was a mechanic. They noticed everything. “That was the plan. We decided to give the upper-crust a thrill.”
Ursa laughed. “Welcome to Isis-At-The-Q.”
Chondra pointed over at the shameless sub now in First Position while being tended by one angry pretty-boy. “Annika,” Ursa said without further prompting.
“Twenty-two, German, non-Society but very much wishes to be. She is well trained. Full Spectrum S-and-M, which Isis does not offer, but Annika is a deviance slave and works in the harder fetish videos for market. She is here for the month, vacationing with her Mistress.”
“What’s her story?” “A low-level employee, perhaps two notches below that of a madam in importance. She is a supplier of deviance talent for the studios. I also scout and will be recommending the outright purchase of Annika. By force if necessary.”
“Whoa.” Ursa was not only a Viper; she was a Black Heart field agent. “What’s up?”
“Her Mistress is a money-obsessed pig I am currently tracking. I believe she has ties to the Russian trade.” Forced prostitution of East Bloc women. “She will rue the day when I find the proof.”
“How did the sow ever get into Isis?”
“I am also investigating that. I believe it was by means of a healthy payoff to a woman named Alicia Tremont, a vice president, but I am sure this does not interest you.”
It didn’t. “Is Annika legit? She’s not a victim, is she?”
Ursa smiled. “No, she is naturally ... deviant.” That’ll work. “I want her alone. All night. Sometime next week. If need be let the pig know what I do for a living.”
“Reach me here. I will see to it.”
They headed around to the front of the pen. “You know this baldheaded sizzler who hijacked Spencer from the pissed—off cornrows on the bench?”
“A splendid young hellion named Aqua. Home Island and First Rank. She lost her hair for slapping a male sub. He might have gotten a bit too friendly. She refused to say. Sub loyalty runs deep. Aqua is no toy for those she does not deem worthy.”
“Spencer made the grade by just standing there.”
“She is First Rank. She knows what she knows.”
“Good. We wanna play.”
“Aqua’s Mistress is in the dining room with friends. She is High-Society and one who may welcome the opportunity to serve Black Heart in such a way. I will whisper in her ear while you and your dread-lord wait where she can see you.”
“Ursa, I like the way you think.” They reached Spencer. “Hey, babe. I see you found us something tasty.”
“We found each other.” He leaned over and pecked the black-clad dominatrix on the cheek. “Ursa, you look hot enough to set off the sprinklers. Dammit bitch but you are one brickhouse of a whip cracker.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “Rude, crude, but a compliment I will savor. Coming as it does from a growler who has the pen ablaze with overheated subs.”
“I do have that effect.” He growled into her neck.
Ursa, laughing, pushed him away, opened the gate, and uncoiled her leash. “Come to me, lucky Odalisque. We shall pay your Mistress a visit.”
One floor up in “Heaven,” so named due to the god’s-eye-view provided by the many cameras overlooking the Isis casino, Celine Gastineau was standing behind a monitor station chair and watching two crudely dressed blacks talking to Ursa. “Mon Dieu,” she muttered in her native French. “What insane member has sponsored them in?” The question was rhetorical; none of the women watching screens would have that information, though one of them knew both Spencer and Chondra.
Celine Gastineau was a young and upwardly mobile (within Isis) black woman who didn’t particularly care for African Americans. Born on the French Riviera and raised among the idle rich, she found most blacks not of her class to be an embarrassment. “Street blacks,” as she thought of those who lived in the inner-cities, made her cringe. Presently training Celine Gastineau was a young and upwardly mobile (within Isis) black woman who didn’t particularly care for African Americans. Born on the French Riviera and raised among the idle rich, she found most blacks not of her class to be an embarrassment. “Street blacks,” as she thought of those who lived in the inner-cities, made her cringe. Presently training for a position in upper-management, she was the youngest but highest ranking member/employee on the midnight shift. The casino manager, a woman Celine thought rather pedestrian for such an important position, called her office about a pair of visitors who perhaps warranted her attention. The casino manager was vague on the phone, and Celine now understood the woman’s condescending attitude. Two low-life blacks managed to get in and that witch expected them to make fools of themselves, thereby making a fool of the only black woman of authority on the shift.
“How dare that woman bring her thug in here dressed like that! The both of them, I mean really, they look like a matched set of gang members!” Celine thought she was probably looking at a Rastafarian drug dealer and his rap star girlfriend some tasteless member signed in. Bringing celebrities was all the rage here in Las Vegas, she was learning, and obviously even those with no class whatsoever. Just look at them, she thought with growing anger, they were drooling over the subs like common perverts. “Those two have no business being in Isis,” she announced to no one in particular.
Sitting in front of Celine was Azzaria Martinez, who was becoming increasingly annoyed by this stuck-up little Isis princess. She manipulated the joystick on her console, slowly turned a dial, and zoomed in on Spencer Vaughn’s chest. She tapped the screen with a fingernail. “Do you see that, Ms. Gastineau?” she asked respectfully.
“What of it?” Celine said, unimpressed. She thought the chain was typical. Such people always wore flashy jewelry.
“He wears a black heart around his neck,” Azzaria said more forcefully. “You do understand the significance?”
That set Celine back on her heels. But only for a moment. Those two street brutes could not possibly belong to such an exclusive and powerful organization. If they did (though she found that unimaginable) she would have surely been informed. There were procedures ... “Nonsense,” she told Martinez, still unwilling to believe. “The fool has no idea what he wears.”
In here? Azzaria thought, rolling her eyes. You’re the fool, honey. Azzaria did have the advantage of being a Black Heart field agent. Simon Corvallis “slid” her into Isis using a casino security cover. She knew of two other agents in town on the slide, and just yesterday Azzaria thought she saw Joe-Joe St. Sinclair climbing into a taxi outside the MGM. Now, looking at Joe-Joe’s mechanics on her monitor, she knew for certain it was him. Something heavy was going to drop soon. She expected orders any day.
Celine leaned closer to the screen. “Zoom in on the woman,” she ordered, aghast. “Is that ... She has a stinger around her neck! Who are those people? Where are their visitor-badges?”
Azzaria decided to let her find out the hard way. Spencer did not suffer fools lightly, and Chondra didn’t suffer them at all.
Celine went to a wall-phone to call the front desk, but then she changed her mind, reluctant to draw any more attention to her concerns. This was a matter best dealt with privately. She would personally speak to these guests; enlighten them about where they were and how they would be expected to behave. She imagined they were already an embarrassment to every prominent woman of color that belonged to Isis and were in the casino. First though, prudence dictated that she discover who they were and how they got in.
She used one of heaven’s computer terminals to access the day’s member/guest list and identified them right away; the last entry and less than an hour ago: David and Donna Mobley/DOMS/EXPERT CLASS-A INSTRUCTOR RANK/V.I.P. MEMBER STATUS BOTH PARTIES/ALL ACCESS.
Both? This was appalling. It also explained the lack of visitor badges and her stinger-cat. Martinez must have been correct and the pair was Black Heart. It never occurred to her that blacks would be recruited. She was not Society - not yet anyway - but knew all about their secret police agency and its function in training Isis security personnel. Celine, ignorant to the existence of Pandora Knight, pursed her lips together into a frown. One would expect Black Heart to be more discriminating in whom they employed. But then, street gangsters undoubtedly had their place.
Celine double-clicked on SPONSORING MEMBER only to have a password-window pop up. She entered her own and access was denied. A first. She stepped back as if struck. The Mobley’s, she was forced to admit, probably were agents of Black Heart, and they had a powerful friend in Isis who thrust them on her. An enemy perhaps. Celine knew she made several of them as a result of her rapid rise and take charge attitude. Her Mistress warned her of jealous plots.
Celine returned her attention to Azzaria’s monitor and almost gasped aloud. Ursa was removing a sub from the pen, obviously for the Mobley’s, and it was a white girl. Typical. Seven dark-skinned girls and of course he has to select a white one. She saw the sub’s bald head and did gasp aloud. “Aqua!”
Azzaria tried not to laugh, but failed.
“I see no humor in this,” Celine snapped. Of all the subs in the pen, Aqua, the spoiled property of Constance DeNewberry. Celine knew the woman to be a very influential and demanding member vacationing at the club. This was becoming worse and worse; almost as if there was some kind of conspiracy designed
to bring her down. Black Heart notwithstanding, she would have to intercept them and see to it every black woman of Isis quality and sexual refinement, black women such as herself, did not suffer the personal humiliation these two thugs could inflict by acting ghetto; a place she’d never been and knew next to nothing about, and not that she’d ever heard anyone voice the same concerns aloud, but what woman of color would? She simply assumed they all shared the same shame.
Having jumped to a remarkable number of conclusions after mere minutes in front of a monitor-screen, Celine Gastineau strode out of heaven with purpose in mind, and proceeded to change her life forever.
Spencer and Chondra were waiting patiently beneath the carved rosewood archway at the entrance to the main floor dining room. They were watching Ursa walk their chosen sub to a far corner table where four women were having cocktails. Both mechanics couldn’t help but marvel at Aqua’s haughty prance through the crowded, noisy room. Tethered on the end of Ursa’s leash she held her head high, arms locked, and though down on all-fours her strides were long and evenly paced. Aqua’s buttocks were tan, taut, and each one branded with the initials CD the size of a thumbnail.
Constance DeNewberry was a well-known and popular socialite among the more decadent circles within the international jet set. It was a perfect affiliation. She was a Society real-world executive, and as a Quality Control Overseer, she traveled the world making unannounced visits to the Society’s exclusive and luxurious holdings. She was known to fine bordello madams thousands for unseemly stains on a bed sheet or a ring around the toilet bowl.
Tall, svelte, and high maintenance, Constance was 42 years old, her reddish/brown hair cut fashionably short and revealing diamond studs in her ears. Her face was sharp; chin, nose, cheekbones all crisp, eyes a soft brown, lashes long. She wore little makeup, though professionally applied. Wearing a gold silk pants-suit with black trim and a pair of black heels, she was an attractive woman possessed of a regal air that was natural and not at all snobbish. Fluent in several European languages, Constance DeNewberry thoroughly enjoyed her life.
“Sit,” Ursa commanded, arriving at the table. The beautiful, baldheaded sub dropped back onto her heels beside her Mistress’s chair, her head lowered, hands atop her thighs.
Constance took a sip of her martini and studied her Odalisque for a moment. Word rippled through the room faster than scandal about the pair of breath takers prowling the pen and sending the subs into a tizzy. Not only the subs, she thought with humor. Sanction-mechanics in the middle of the night at Isis! Not that anyone actually knew the couple to be professional killers. She reconsidered; a few undoubtedly did, but nevertheless, the vibes they exuded were hot with danger.
Constance sat back and crossed her long legs. “Well, sweetheart, you seem to have attracted a rather dangerous pair of admirers. The loss of all your wicked black hair has merely made you even more appealing, something I find quite frustrating.”
The hint of a smile from Aqua.
“Little minx,” Constance said with affection, knowing she could deny the girl next to nothing, not even those two killers, and Aqua knew it. Constance looked over her shoulder at the mechanics standing in the archway, so utterly at ease; gorgeous in the way of anything deadly and attractive both. Spencer she met once, but it had been many years since they last crossed paths. He’d taught her how to shoot a bow-and-arrow at a Home Island festival. She wondered if he remembered her. Vanity insisted he must.
“Gracious,” she murmured, “just look at him.”
“Why, Constance,” said a tablemate, mock surprise in her voice. “Whomever do you mean? Not that man?”
“Indeed I do,” she replied without shame. “Geneva, darling, attempting to break that stallion to the bit would be the ride of a lifetime, though a complete failure.”
Geneva, pleasantly tipsy, as they all were, nodded her agreement. “Lord yes.”
Another member of the foursome spoke up. “His queen appears to be a tad fierce herself. Have you noticed the stinger-cat?” “A perfect accessory for her outfit,” Constance said. “What a striking couple they make.”
Amid the laughter following that observation, she thought about Chondra. They never actually met but Constance requested the execution, public and messy, of a Society, Park Avenue, New York brothel madam who’d been secretly videotaping clients for future blackmail. Chondra, she later learned, was the mechanic responsible for leaving the madam dead and gutted in the high rise apartment elevator. Constance considered it a fine piece of work. Rattler, the sector chief called her, but she gives no warning before the strike.
Constance stroked her bondage slave’s bald head. “Aqua, my love, although I wouldn’t mind scoring a few points with Lady Gwyneth, whose creature the lethal looking number with the stinger is, you of course maintain your right of refusal. You do not have to do this and will face no negative consequences from anyone should you decline their invitation. I will turn them down flat.”
Aqua, perfectly still in her sit, softly said, “This I know, Mistress.”
“You wish to serve them?”
“I do, Mistress, yes.”
Constance glanced at the archway again (Chondra petted the stinger-cat). “Darling, I can promise you, they play rough. I presume you have considered that?”
“My fear, Mistress, is what it should be. Thrilling.”
Slaves ... “You are certain about this?”
“Yes, Mistress, I am certain.”
“Very well,” Constance said. “I have been a bit neglectful as of late. I must admit I’m happy to have it addressed by pros that will do so with ...”
“Vigor,” Geneva chimed in, shuddering with exaggerated pleasure at the thought. “I would just love to watch,” she added with hope.
Ursa shook her head. “They would not approve, madam, preferring to use her in private.”
“My,” Geneva sniffed, mildly affronted. “Your precious little Odalisque is in for a time of it.”
Constance looked up at Ursa. “If you don’t already know, her De Profundis is RELENT, but they can forget about her ever using it.”
A “De Profundis,” Latin meaning out of the depths, refers to the code word every lifestyle bondage-slave has as a failsafe. Should the De Profundis be voiced all action is immediately halted and the slave quickly released. If the subject is gagged, wiggling the pinkies will produce the same instantaneous result. To violate/ignore a sub’s De Profundis in Isis will bring about expulsion from the club.
To do so with a Society sex-slave can and has resulted in a death sentence; one of many reasons why natural submissives the world over seek Society membership. Even so, the best trained lifestyle bondage-slaves despise using their De Profundis, believing to do so reveals a flaw in their very character. It is a firm belief that has plagued masters and mistresses for eons. Aqua, like most Society First Rank subs, has never employed hers.
Constance sipped her martini, aware that her little joy was anxious to go, but would remain in that perfect sit indefinitely. Spencer and Chondra ... She could hardly believe her luck. Aqua needed and deserved the intense session they were sure to provide. The poor thing lacked a proper administering for months now; and with a male who could be considered worthy? Not since Sabastian Knight. Goodness, over a year now. Not a word of complaint. No wonder she slapped that stupid slave. The young fool was playing with a fire that would have burned him to a crisp. This really was a boon. Aqua would come away with the friendship and respect of not one but two Black Heart sanction-mechanics. Good for you, my love.
Well educated and traveled, Aqua was 23 years old and with Constance since age 17 (branded at 20) and she often acted as her agent. Accustomed to the finest luxuries, style, and service, Aqua possessed high standards, a keen sense of observation, and as a natural lifestyle submissive, she was able to provide a professional assessment of a club such as Isis from a perspective Constance could not achieve: down on all-fours.
Not tonight though, Constance already decided. For Aqua this tryst would be only pleasure. But, knowing Aqua as she did, the girl would still pay close attention to everything and everyone even remotely connected with the facility. Isis was located inside the “Q”. The “Q” was a Society entity.
Constance stood and motioned Ursa aside. “She is Home Island First Rank, Level-3 security clearance, Born and Bred.”
Ursa nodded. “Session restrictions?”
“Few. As usual for her status, she would prefer death over using her De Profundis, so caution will be necessary if blood flows. She is extreme full spectrum S-and-M, multi orgasmic, and using blinders will detract from her pleasure. She likes to see. She has not been used hard or been seriously manned for a long time and suffers from the lack. This session will be therapeutic for her. Please extend my gratitude.”
“I shall. Drugs?”
“She enjoys a bit of freebase, pot, and will function better with thirty mills of Xanax if the cocaine is heavy. Smoke only. Nothing up her nose or in her veins. No alcohol, and she does not enjoy ecstasy during a session. Drugs are not a necessity. She does not need them and would not miss them. A treat I recommend she earn first.”
Constance sat back down and waved them off. “Be on your way, and Aqua, at least try to be good. Don’t embarrass me.”
“Never that, Mistress.”
Ursa gave a gentle tug on the leash. “Come along, child.” (All subs are referred to as child.) Aqua went onto all-fours, wearing slender kneepads and matching gloves, and then she walked around to pause beside the Viper, head held high as required of a Society First Rank.
“Oh and Ursa ...”
“My little minx has been unruly and quite obstinate as of late. Please forward my request that this session be a severe one.”
“I will see to it.”
“Splendid. I will have attendants and a sauna awaiting her return.”
Off they went.
“Constance,” Geneva said, “I do believe your jewel grinned.”
“She did,” confirmed a woman named Deloris. “Right at the word ‘severe’. You must have your hands full with that one.”
The dining room quieted considerably; many heads now turned towards the archway. Aqua was again in sit, motionless while Ursa removed the DeNewberry collar and buckled on Spencer’s, officially transferring authority to the mechanics. While doing so, she explained the session particulars, then clipped Spencer’s leash to the collar.
“She is yours,” the Viper said.
“Would you like to assist?” Chondra asked.
Ursa smiled. “Is it so obvious?”
* * * * * * * * * * *
“Geneva,” Constance said, watching the archway, as were her tablemates.
“Where is that scrumptious sub of yours?”
“Arthur? Probably still at the “Q” casino pretending to be a wealthy playboy and losing large amounts of my money. I love that sweet, gorgeous man, but he couldn’t win a raffle if he bought every ticket. Why?”
“Might I borrow him for a few hours? I find myself feeling adventurous. I do promise to show him the error of his spendthrift ways.”
“Be my guest. You wouldn’t mind if I watched, would you?”
“No, not at all, but I have a better idea. Send for him, but order his Armani tux replaced with Wrangler saddle bags, which we will load with all the fixings for a martini breakfast. The four of us can make a meal of him.”
“A marvelous idea!”
“Shall I dust off my stinger-cat?” Deloris asked.
“Oh, indeed,” Constance said. “I haven’t wielded one in ages.”
She got off the elevator in the Isis casino outer lobby. The foyer also served as the club’s main entrance, and there she immediately ran into the very people she was on her way to see. The Mobley’s. They were with Ursa and Aqua (the sub was down on all-fours), and the young supervisor bristled at the sight. The big Jamaican stud was walking the DeNewberry Odalisque instead of the Viper holding her leash. Even this Donna Mobley woman would have been, at the least, acceptable. Men did not walk subs in Isis - or rarely - for that they should have gone to Club Eros in Reno. Why they couldn’t have gone there, she complained to herself.
Forcing a smile, Celine extended her hand. “Good evening. Morning actually. I am Celine Gastineau, your management supervisor here in Isis during these late hours. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Chondra removed a glove and shook hands, something she rarely did with women, and she thought this doll was a dead ringer for Halle Berry; if the movie star ever decided to wear a tweed suit and ruffled blouse, a choice Chondra could not imagine the actress making. “Donna Mobley.” She put her glove back on. “And that’s my King, David.” Spencer, having already removed a glove, offered his hand and Chondra was shocked to see the little bitch glance at him with a smirk, and then ignore him.
Spencer looked at his hand like it was a new model.
The dark sunglasses prevented Celine from seeing Chondra’s eyes narrow. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said King. I meant it. Take five seconds and think about that before you get stupid again, sugar.”
Celine was so startled she was speechless. Common sense told her right away that ignoring the woman’s King (she wanted to gag) was a mistake. Street people. Beyond irritated, she put her hands on her hips. Black Heart or not this was Isis and they would behave in a civilized manner regardless of who they thought they were. She ignored the stud because that’s what he was, meat, and you did not introduce your meat without first being asked too; even if he was filet mignon. These thugs obviously didn’t know it. They also thought they were special, which they were, she reminded herself, and with their type that promised some sort of trouble.
She looked down at Aqua, at the Jamaican holding the leash, and then she looked at Donna Mobley - a phony name if ever she’d heard one - letting them know she was none too pleased with the arrangement. “As a rule, men do not walk subs in here.”
“That one does,” Chondra said hotly. “Whose rule are you talking about, anyway?” She tried to rein in her temper, failing. “What, exactly, do you want? Is there some sort of problem?”
“That is precisely what I am hoping to avoid. Problems.”
“You’re off to a bad fucking start.”
Celine, quickly looking around the lobby, couldn’t have agreed more. Other than two female security guards trying to appear busy behind the counter, they were alone. Thank heavens it was after hours, she thought with worry, but the casino doors could swing open any moment and she did not want to be seen in a heated discussion with these people. Certainly not in front of a spoiled sub who was going to report word for word to her Society Mistress.
On the far side of the lobby was a no-frills office for anyone (member) who had need of a desk, phone, and relative privacy. “We should speak alone, Mrs. Mobley.” Celine nodded toward the office across the carpeted lobby. “Please come with me. Ursa will see to your husband and Aqua. We won’t be but a moment.”
“We won’t even be that,” Chondra said. “Goodnight, Miz Gastineau. We’re over.” She turned to Ursa. “Lead on.”
Aqua came up from sit to hands-and-knees.
“Mrs. Mobley,” Celine said sharply, “I insist we speak in private before I permit you to go anywhere with that sub.”
Ursa made to intervene but Chondra raised a hand, stopping her. “Insist all you want, Miss Management Supervisor, but speak your mind here and now or get somewhere. Feel me?”
Celine could hardly believe her ears. This gutter tramp cared nothing about anything she wanted to say, or who knew it. The situation went from bad to worse in moments, reinforcing her firm belief that the Mobley’s did not belong in Isis. “Ursa, please take Aqua and excuse us for a few minutes.”
“Sit,” Spencer said. The Odalisque did so instantly.
Celine glared at him, or tried to, but her frosty look was no match for the man standing there: long, thick dreadlocks, dark glasses, shirtless beneath the long black coat. He was completely at ease, his left hand holding his right wrist comfortably at his waist. He was merely ... watching her. She fought off the urge to shiver, and embarrassed, quickly turned back to the cause of all this trouble. She did manage to find a bright spot; Aqua would be reporting that skin color meant nothing to this management supervisor. Celine Gastineau did not play favorites.
“Mrs. Mobley, I do not know you and feel the need to explain that I am the person ultimately responsible for your actions inside Isis. Myself and whoever has sponsored you in.” She pointed down at Aqua. “Do you know who that sub belongs to?”
“Should I care?” Chondra asked, understanding this chick’s problem. The mechanic had met hoity-toity blacks before.
“Perhaps not, but it is my job to care, and I do. I am asking you and your husband not to abuse the privileges you enjoy, VIP status, and keep in mind at all times that you are in the most exclusive and prestigious alternative lifestyle women’s club in the world.”
Chondra’s anger was coalescing into pity for who she now saw as an overly sheltered and confused little idiot. A stone fox though. “What makes you think we would do otherwise?”
“Your attire, just to begin with,” Celine replied without hesitation. “Or the lack of it, I should have said. Our members prefer formal wear in club facilities such as the casino and casino restaurant. All you two have managed to do is make spectacles of yourselves.”
“Well, Duh! If you weren’t so blinded by fear and attitude you might have noticed that was the plan!” She was disgusted by this knockout of a black woman ashamed of being black. “Do I look like I came to play blackjack, dumbass? I have a stinger-cat around my neck for Christ’s sake. We dress for the subs, not the members, but speaking of them, I’m willing to bet everybody but you likes the way we look, and I know every sub wishes to be Aqua right now. Most of your precious members want to watch. Now, I’m about tired of you so stop dancing and get to the point. Say what you mean, what you really mean. What’s got you so all fired worried? I want to see and hear it come out of your mouth.”
Celine, having never been confronted in such a way in her life, was not prepared to do that. Simply hearing the woman’s demand right here in the lobby was unsettling in the extreme. She wanted to put a quick end to this. “All I want is to be certain the both of you remember where you are at all times, you are representing your sponsor, and you treat this particular sub with the utmost care and concern.”
Everyone present was surprised by her last remark; Aqua actually raising her head and scowling.
“Relax,” Spencer said, resting a hand on her shoulder. Aqua scowled at the carpeting. Chondra, curious, cocked her head to the side. “We will treat her no different than any other sub with her rating. That always includes the utmost care and concern, even when she drips sweat, tears, or blood. She is a First Rank bondage-slave, a branded Society Odalisque, honey. There is no better trained submissive anywhere. Both she and her Mistress know that me and David are serious pros who will put her to the test, in complete safety, and that is what Aqua wants, needs, and has trained years for. You insult all of us, for damn sure, Aqua. What I don’t understand is how you can prance around this place claiming to be Isis management and not know all of that?”
Celine felt like she’d been tricked somehow; goaded into saying something ignorant only to have it thrown back into her face like a pie. A nagging voice in her head was telling her she acted rashly concerning these people and she was beginning to make a fool of herself.
She faulted Donna Mobley. The woman knew exactly what this was about and for whatever reason wanted it out in the open, something Celine was very reluctant to do, especially in front of Ursa and Aqua who were both white (or at least non-black) and undoubtedly found this scene typical and quite beneath them. Mobley had no class whatsoever. Women of breeding know when a subject is better left unsaid.
“I believe you know what I meant,” Celine finally replied, and decided it would be better for all involved if at least she acted with maturity. She acquiesced. “If I have offended you please accept my apology. Simply put, I want no trouble. I am sure you understand my position.” There, she thought with satisfaction, surely even this barbarian could relate to that.
Chondra understood perfectly. “What you need to understand is that you’re a black woman acting a whole lot like a white racist. If David and I were Caucasian we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You wanna be a white woman, Miss Management Supervisor? You got it. A formal complaint will help you out. You’ll see how Isis deals with obvious bigotry towards guests, specifically, important guests whose asses you should be kissing instead of hassling, and doing it in front of witnesses I promise you will back me up.”
The blood drained from her face. “What? Wait!” She’d lost all control of the situation. “No, you have misunderstood me.” France could now be heard in her voice. “That was not my intention.”
“Bullshit. We are way too black for you, Mon Cheri, and you are scared shitless we’ll make you look bad by acting the way you think all black people act, however the fuck that is.”
“Watch your mouth,” Spencer said.
“Sorry. This bitch is on every nerve in my body.”
“I see that.”
Celine was on the verge of panic, and that made her angry. These were black people who cared nothing for her precarious role in being black in a white world. She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “You are refusing to see my position! As a woman of color I must stay on guard always in Isis.”
“On guard for what?” Chondra asked, now interested. She’d never seen or heard of any racism in Isis.
“I must worry about my own people, black people, acting like fools and humiliating the rest of us.”
Spencer removed his shades and looked closely at her. “Has it ever happened in here?”
“Of course not,” Celine snapped.
Without comment Spencer put his dark glasses back on.
Chondra turned to Ursa. “Who is responsible for this mess?”
“What mess?” Celine demanded.
“Alicia Tremont,” Ursa said. “This is her creature body and soul.”
Celine, shocked by how casually the Viper spoke rudely of her and the Isis international vice president, glared at Ursa, but before she could formulate a response the casino doors burst open and a boisterous group of members, walking a pair of male subs, spilled into the lobby. Cocktails in hand they were laughing, headed for the bank of elevators. Seeing Ursa’s group standing silent, tension thick in the air, they abruptly quieted. An uncomfortable hush fell over the plush, thickly carpeted lobby. The elevator doors slid open and the revelers hurried on amid a few giggles and whispers.
When the elevator doors closed, Chondra saw such shame and embarrassment in Gastineau’s pretty brown eyes that it touched her own heart with both pity and ice. She pointed to the office door. “Maybe you were right. Lead on.” To Spencer, she said, “Hold down the fort. Girl talk.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
Celine opened the office door, hit the light switch and stepped into the room. It was a good sized but sparsely furnished, carpeted office; windowless, a modern black mica kidney-shaped desk, console telephone, black leather swivel chair behind the desk and one in front of it and off to the right. Against the left wall was a black leather couch beneath a large oil painting of the Goddess of Fertility, Isis, scantily clad and clutching a lightning bolt in her upraised fist. The walls were otherwise bare and oak-paneled.
Chondra closed the door behind her, and when Celine turned around, about to speak, the mechanic slapped her in the mouth so fast and hard the management supervisor spun and went flying onto the desk, letting out a screech of shock and pain. Chondra was to her in a flash, yanking the girl’s head back by a fistful of auburn curls.
“That was for the way you disrespected my man. If you knew me even a little bit you’d know it was some crazy shit you did.” A six-inch stiletto blade shot up in front of Celine’s horrified face. “Listen up, highbrow little twit. You mistake me for somebody who gives a fuck.” She shoved her back down onto the desk, face forward, feet on the floor, then leaned over and gently kissed the shivering girl’s ear, the flat of the blade against a cheek. “I’m black all the way to my heart, silly rabbit. That’s Black Heart, stupid. You knew it but are too screwed up to care. Bad mistake. What you need to know is that you were out there whining about ‘you better behave’ to a bitch who will slit your fucking throat right here and now, leave you bleeding all over this desk like a hemophiliac, and do it without a worry in the world, feel me?”
“Oui! I do! Yes!” Celine was gripping the edge of the desk, her arms stretched up, and she’d been pushing and pushing the hidden button that would call security. She was in the clutches of a madwoman!
Sanction-mechanics are trained to miss nothing, and Chondra smiled, watching the rabbit’s knuckles flexing. A silent alarm under the edge of the desk? She decided to have a little fun and aid Ursa in her investigation. “We are going to have a talk, little rabbit. My French is decent if you prefer.” She stroked Celine’s cheek with the flat of the blade. “You will tell the truth, won’t you, enfant gate?” Spoiled child.
“I will! Yes!”
With a snick the blade vanished. “Good girl.” Chondra pocketed her stiletto and stood up straight, keeping Celine bent over the desk by holding the back of her neck. “First I need to show you something because you don’t seem to get it.” She turned to the door. “Hey babe!”
The door opened and Spencer stuck his head in, dreadlocks swinging. “You rang?” He was holding a bottle of Pepsi.
“The management supervisor would like to see someone from security.” She felt the little rabbit go rigid.
“I know,” Spencer said, leaning against the doorjamb. “Being so close to the casino the office is equipped with a hidden silent alarm that was activated. The security shift-supervisor is out here and awaiting my orders. For the time being I’m head of security for Isis. Is there a problem I should know about?”
“Is there a problem, little rabbit?”
Celine deflated. “Oui. The problem is me. I am a fool.”
“At least we agree on something.” Chondra turned to Spencer and shrugged. “A systems check. How was the response time?”
“Beats me. I don’t know when the button was pushed. All of a sudden a half dozen guards materialized out of nowhere, all of them armed. Pretty too. You know me, I love women with big guns.”
Chondra heard laughter from some of those women and she had to smile. A man assuming control of security in Isis (Spencer’s Black Heart classification outranked any Isis security personnel) and he had them laughing; Vipers, lesbians, bull dykes, and probably a few man-haters. “Okay, Smooth Louie, return them to their posts. I’ll be done here shortly. Think about how we can make up for the delay. Aqua is being very patient.”
“I’ll do that. Take your time. This lobby is better than a Belgium nightclub.” He closed the door.
Chondra turned back to Celine and applied some pressure down on her neck. “I want to know how a foxy, whining little race-traitor like you got jumped up so fast and so high above your station.”
Celine possessed the nerve and pride to be outraged. “Above my station!” She ignored the race-traitor remark, considering it accurate from her assailant’s point of view.
“You heard me,” Chondra said, squeezing Celine’s neck. “How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty?”
“I am twenty-three! Twenty-three!”
“Stop repeating yourself. It’s irritating. Are you a sub, dom, or what?”
“I am a lifestyle submissive.”
Mmm, goody. “Who the fuck is Alicia Tremont?”
Celine stiffened with dignity. “She happens to be the international vice president of Isis, she is Society, and she is my Mistress.” The latter said with obvious pride.
“That explains how you got to where you don’t belong. The bitch still has some explaining to do. Where is she?”
Chondra’s unimpressed lack of any respect for the VP told Celine much. Her initial shock and panic shifted focus entirely. “She is at the Isis Motherhouse. It is in the Netherlands.”
“I know where the Motherhouse is.”
“Yes, of course, but, please ...”
Sensing a dramatic change in the rabbit’s attitude, and finding it interesting, Chondra released her neck. “Don’t you fucking move.” She stepped back and enjoyed the sight of foxy Miss Management Supervisor bent over the desk. “But please what? Complete your sentences. Didn’t they teach you that in finishing school?”
Celine took a calming breath that didn’t work, the enormity of her mistakes finally taking root. “This situation is entirely my fault. I have made a terrible error in judgment. My arrogance, and yes, my prejudice has misled me once again. I have done this before, though never have I been forced to admit it. Please, I beg of you, Madam Mobley, punish me however you see fit, but do not allow my behavior to reflect poorly on Alicia Tremont. I will learn from this. She has given me everything, including this life within Isis. Her only mistakes were in bringing me to the States, where I have failed to fit in, and leaving me ill prepared should I have dealings with Black Heart. She has even sponsored me for Society membership. That is and has been my dream since I first learned of the guild many years ago. This lifestyle, this world, it is all that I am, and I owe it all to Alicia Tremont.”
Chondra was lost. For somebody as plugged in as Tremont, getting this girl into the Society would be as simple as signing her up for the Girl Scouts of America. What the rabbit was talking about made no sense. “I must be so bold as to ask, Madam Mobley, that you tell me now if my foolishness towards Black Heart, and your King, has marked me as unacceptable for Society membership?”
“Can the ‘Madam’ crap. I’m not a pimp, and no,” she added, amazed at how this girl was misled. “Not yet anyway.” The rabbit wilted with such relief that Chondra thought the girl might pour off the desk. “Sugar, you are not Society material.” It was a complete lie, but a shot in the dark.
“I know,” Celine said with quiet belief.
Bulls-eye. “That, little rabbit, is Alicia Tremont’s fault.”
“No, it is me.”
“And just what the hell is wrong with you, besides being a snobby bitch? Plenty of them in the Society.”
“I don’t know. Truly. My Mistress has tried but I have been rejected with the clause to try again next year. So far it has been the same result three times. She has not confided the reason to me.”
Because she’s full of shit. Chondra saw Celine as a young, intelligent girl, fabulous in the looks department, probably hotter than a Mac-10 after a drive by, loyal, and a natural born submissive who was lesbian and no doubt bi. Tremont lied, manipulated, and who knew what else to keep this package all to herself, under her control, and out of the Society. What was that about?
Chondra decided to use the rabbit’s bottom as a means to get on top of this mystery.
She shrugged out of her duster, tossed it onto the couch, and held her whip in both hands. Getting fired was no longer an option for the rabbit. To not be Society she probably knew a shit load of Society secrets. Celine Gastineau was a walking security breech. “Turn your head and face me but stay as you are across the desk.”
Celine did as she was told and Chondra immediately noted her reaction to the sight of the whip; sudden fear, but even under these circumstances, the sparkle of excitement no lifestyle submissive could hide from a true dominate. Chondra felt an unexpected but unsurprising ripple of thrill. This was going to be a blast.
“You’re First Rank?” she asked, toying with the whip.
“Oui ... Yes.” Celine’s voice was just above a whisper. She knew what was coming. “Isis. Tested at the Motherhouse.”
It wasn’t a Society ranking, but it would do. “Full Spectrum?”
“Isis does not rank Full Spectrum as few members encompass all it entails, but ... yes, I am Full Spectrum though it is unofficial.” She was eyeing the stinger-cat.
Alicia Tremont, Chondra thought, was chock full of interesting surprises. A Society level S&M sex slave who doesn’t belong to or benefit from the Society. “Celine Gastineau, I need for you to accept in your heart and mind that right now and for a concrete fact this is the most important conversation in your twenty-three years of living. If you tell me so much as one lie I will know it, consider you a serious problem, and you will leave this office in a body-bag. I don’t make idle threats, little rabbit, I mean what the fuck I say. Are you feeling me, girl?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Excellent. All you need to do is answer fast and with the truth. Do that and life could be peachy. Bien entendu?”
“Good Girl. Skirt up over your waist, pantyhose and panties down to your knees, then back over the desk you go. Be quick about it. Legs together, and I want you up on your toes.”
Celine did as she was instructed smoothly and fast. For her it would be aussitôt dit, aussitôt fait. No sooner said than done. Now was the time to do what she did best: obey. She could perhaps come out of this in a much better position than when it all began. This was the perfect opportunity to gain the Black Heart Dom’s respect, having just discovered with a jolt she truly wanted it. Celine would be what she was, or what she should be; her Mistress dangled it like a carrot before the horse. The Black Heart dom was dangling it as a whip behind the buttocks. This was her chance. In her heart of hearts Celine wanted to be a First Rank Society Odalisque.
“Grab the edge like before, only forget the alarm this time.”
Celine actually smiled, but then anger flared. Alicia should have warned her of Black Heart’s power within the club. Standing behind her buttocks was the most terrifying and awesome woman she’d ever submitted to. That slap in the face worked. It knocked her off the pedestal of arrogance and onto her knees, where she belonged. Where she was worthy of respect. Where she would earn it. This enforcer, she instinctively knew, would deliver peine forte et dure. Strong and hard punishment.
Celine reached forward and grabbed the edge of the desk, her breasts crushed on a Q-Castle ink blotter. There was no fear of ending up in a body bag, though she believed the woman quite capable and sincere. There would simply be no lies. She was on her own, as her Mistress left her, and she would make the most of it.
“Hold on tight,” Chondra advised. “Answer fast, and behave like what you claim to be.”
“Yes, Lady.” The proper response to one in control who was not her Mistress. “Eyes on me whenever I am in your line of sight.”
Chondra ran a gloved hand over Celine’s firm, round, chocolate-brown bottom. The rabbit quivered, looking every bit the naughty schoolgirl in a perverted principal’s office. This disaster of a sub, Chondra thought, was one sexy piece of work. She petted her rump, imagining CC branded on it; a natural, desired by every dom in the life. Chondra originally wanted a mere diversion, something to take her mind off another disaster, Donatello, and she also wanted to treat Spencer to some sizzle. With the addition of this repairable wench the sizzle might just snap, crackle, and pop.
Chondra stepped a few paces back (Celine, brown eyes intense, watching her every move) and she checked her distance by tossing the whiplashes out. Nine aluminum tips rained down gently on taut skin; not a bump or blemish to be seen on that smooth butt. Satisfied, she held the whip in her right hand, lash tips a few inches above the floor, and swirled it around, air-weaving the nine lashes together. Suddenly she slung it up, around, and snapped it back, the tight circle of aluminum tips cracking against Celine’s left buttock.
The rabbit, teeth clenched, hissed.
“Who trained you?” Chondra asked, her tone of voice mild curiosity. She was pleased to see a circle of small round welts raise. She air-weaved the lashes.
“Alicia Tremont!” Celine gasped. “My Mistress!”
“Stop shouting, slave girl. You sound like a novice.” The whip struck, cracking against the right buttock and producing a perfect match of welts. “How old is Tremont?”
“Thirty-something,” Celine answered carefully, clutching the desk. “I truly do not know, Lady.”
“That was much better.” The whip sailed, sideways this time, wrapping around Celine’s bottom like a nine fingered hand and sparking along the far side of her right buttock.
“Watch it,” Chondra warned, but was nonetheless impressed. The rabbit had not moved a muscle. Not bad. “With you and Tremont it began how? The short version.”
“My parents, they were caretakers of her villa in France. It was my home. My ma-ma met a man, my pa-pa had a woman. They went off and I did not. Alicia was Society and Isis even then, and away much of the time, but her home is where I was welcome.”
Simple enough. The whip struck, leaving its wicked round welts on the rabbits left buttock where Chondra could see them. The stinger-cat always made her feel like an artist. The girl gasped but held on without moving. Chondra brought the whip up then down for a flat lash across Celine’s entire bottom, connecting the dots. “How old were you when your parents abandoned you to Tremont?”
“Eleven!” she burst out, then tried again, breathing evenly. “I was eleven, Lady.”
The whip sang, the tips cracked, the rabbit screeched once but didn’t move. “Do you like the taste of my lash, little rabbit?”
Celine’s eyes were closed, and without thinking she lapsed into French. “Oui, mademoiselle ... En effet de maîtres.” Indeed masterstrokes.
Goosebumps raced up and down Chondra’s arms. “At age eleven they gave you to Tremont ...” Or sold you. “How long after did your formal training begin?” Probably the same day.
The question startled Celine back to the present. “Lady?” she asked, trying to think of a rejoinder.
The whip snapped, tips cracked. “Don’t ‘Lady’ me. I asked you a question. At what age did your sex-slave training begin?” Again the whip cracked.
Celine gasped. She thought to lie and report that her training began on her sixteenth birthday. It was a lie she told many times out of necessity, but she did not want to lie to this woman. The Black Heart dom would know and think less of her. But the truth would -
The stinger snap-cracked, but Chondra no longer needed an answer. Now what? “You choose to go de mal en pis?” >From bad to worse.
Celine made a solemn vow to her Mistress. She could not reveal the truth; a truth she thought to be as much her fault as Alicia’s, who never actually forced her to do anything. There was no need. After their first kiss and the promise of warmth and security within her arms, Celine was more than willing. “Lady, I have reached a wall of my own making.”
“I don’t think so.” As did all sanction-mechanics and other Black Heart agents, Chondra respected loyalty under the gun. Or the whip, she thought with a smile. “Your silence tells me two important things, little rabbit. Tremont began your training when you were just a homeless kid, and by the way that makes the bitch a child molester, I don’t care what you may think, and the second thing is you are someone who can be trusted. The first is not your fault and nothing to be ashamed of, which you’re probably not, and the second should make you proud, which I’m sure it does.”
Celine managed to smile.
“Now, where was I?” Chondra whirled the whip around, slung it up above her head, then standing on her toes she brought the lashes down with a flip of her wrist, palm up, snapping the whip out overhand sending the tips into a sparking arch of dot-welts up the rabbit’s left buttock, across her tailbone, and down her right buttock -
- the showy move called “El Matador” by professionals.
“Mon Dieu ...” Celine murmured in a lazy sounding whisper, her eyes closed. “Belle dame sans merci.” Beautiful lady without mercy. Bent over the desk, skirt up, panties down, she’d never felt so thoroughly dominated. It was accomplished with such speed, violence, and authority that she found it as chilling as it was seductive. Not even her Mistress, whom she obeyed without question, wielded the type of power this woman possessed; and, she thought fleetingly, a woman she was committing adultery with; in thought if not deed. Where, Celine absently wondered, was the remorse?
Chondra’s nipples felt like hot .38 caliber bullets. This girl was damn delicious. Her soft French mumbling was totally erotic. She knew that a lesser slave, and definitely a prisoner, would have screamed from El Matador, but her sexy little rabbit just sank down into the “sub zone” where the French pastry was now one-hundred and twenty pounds of warm goo on a slow burn.
Chondra petted Celine’s bottom. Not a single drop of blood. The stinger never broke the skin. Damn I’m good. A gloved finger found the girl sticky wet inside. The whip handle was a thick, glazed mahogany phallic-like shaft, the head a carved lioness, and Chondra easily pushed it in between panty locked thighs. She was rewarded with a soft sigh. Fondling someone’s sub without that someone’s permission (and the sub’s) was bad business, she knew, but having already taken a whip to the girl, and knowing her Mistress was in no position to do anything about it anyway, Chondra could not have cared less; not that she would have worried enough to resist. She toyed with the whip handle. “Are you a bi-sexual?”
“Oui, Lady, yes, some, somewhat. I have lived as a lesbian all of my sex life. It is the way for me, but -“
“Shush. You’re over explaining.” Chondra rested a gloved hand on what she imagined was a blazing ass, and with her other hand she continued playing with the whip handle. After a moment, a few finger flicks and the rabbit climaxed with a full body shudder just that fast. Spencer, she thought, would be in his glory with this smoker.
With the whip handle on a slow joyride, it was two dozen or so random sounding questions later when Chondra heard enough of Celine’s story. At least for now, and she didn’t much like what she’d heard. In the mechanic’s opinion the rabbit was no Odalisque, she was a slave, period.
Celine Gastineau was Alicia Tremont’s personal servant, sex toy, spy, and when the bitch thought it necessary, her whore, servicing the occasional doms Tremont wanted to impress with a beautiful S&M plaything. The little rabbit was hospitalized twice serving in that capacity; once when some sick sadist ignored her De Profundis, Tremont finding her bloody and broken. To Celine’s knowledge no action was ever taken.
Chondra felt a surprisingly strong desire to track down that stupid motherfucker. The second time Celine wound up in the hospital was after a pair of morons accidentally overdosed her on heroin while she was suspended by the wrists in the basement of a Copenhagen art dealer’s studio.
From what Chondra learned it was easy to see Tremont’s steady course of manipulation. The rabbit’s upbringing from eleven on was tightly controlled; friendships severely restricted, outside relationships non-existent. She lived a life of luxury and world travel with no one other than Tremont to share it with.
Sworn to secrecy, the rabbit was regaled with stories about life in the Society and on the Home Island (which she never visited), a blessedly private world of wonders she would belong to one day. Private tutors educated her, Tremont alone trained her (occasionally employing the help of others) and at present her main function was to assist Tremont in her steady rise to power within Isis.
Chondra patted the rabbit’s rump, and keyed a make believe walkie-talkie. “Earth to Celine, come in, little rabbit, over.”
“Celine giggled. “I am here, Lady.”
Chondra’s tone took on a serious note. “For a whole lot of reasons that are strictly self-serving, Alicia Tremont can never and will never bring you into the Society fold. Sorry, sugar, the bitch could have done so whenever she wanted, no problem.”
Celine let out a sigh and remained silent.
“But you figured that out already, haven’t you?”
“I suppose I have worked hard at not, as you said, figuring it out.”
That was easy to believe. “I am also pretty sure you’ve discovered I am no Alicia Tremont ...” Chondra was trying to figure out what the hell she was doing with this girl?
No, Celine thought, Alicia Tremont you are not.
Chondra buried the lioness until only the whipcord could be seen, the stinger lashes hanging down to the floor and looking like the naughty management supervisor sprouted an elaborate tail. “Don’t move, don’t drop my whip, and come up with a way to impress me when I give you the chance. Think hard and fast.”
Celine clutched the desk in silence.
Chondra pulled the office door wide open, and saw gathered together just outside were Spencer, Aqua in sit at his feet, Ursa, and three uniformed security guards, one of whom she recognized.
“I see you’ve met Mademoiselle Gastineau,” Azzaria said with a wry smile. Everyone could see Celine bent face-first over the desk, her skirt up, pantyhose and panties down around her knees, whip, and welts: “Been adjusting an attitude?”
They all laughed, including Chondra, who to Spencer, said, “Sorry. Got sidetracked.” She ushered everyone into the office, leaving the door open for the gathering audience clustered on the far side of the lobby in front of the now open casino double-doors.
In the office everyone stood behind Celine and admired Chondra’s stinger work. Ursa traced a fingertip over the arch of raised and angry red dots. “El Matador?”
Chondra nodded. “It is.”
“Nicely done.” Ursa petted Celine’s bottom, no management supervisor at the moment, and looked at her with new respect. “I am thinking there is more to this lovely young thing than I have given her credit for.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Azzaria, plopping down on the desktop and right beside Celine. “I’m surprised El Matador didn’t have her screaming out her De Profundis.”
“Not even close,” Chondra said, walking behind the desk and sitting back down in front of Celine. “Now that you mention it, I don’t even know what the little rabbit’s De Profundis is.”
“Tremont,” Ursa said, as if the name tasted bad. “That is her word of rescue.”
Chondra frowned. “That figures.”
“Though she hardly needs one,” Ursa added. “None of us here in Isis can claim to have seen her walked, much less used or punished. It is a management policy instituted by Alicia Tremont. Something perfectly ridiculous about the undermining of Ms. Gastineau’s authority.”
Chondra knew it to be deeper than that. The rabbit was a strictly private plaything.
“A sub is a sub,” Ursa said. “A supervisor a supervisor. Two entirely separate beings in one body. Any dom in Isis could administer a lashing upon Ms. Gastineau until she howled and her authority would not diminish in the least. Both beings should be deserving of respect and Tremont’s policy towards submissives in management is demeaning. It reveals a lack of confidence in us all, including her sub, who suffers from it in several ways I can easily imagine.” Ursa sat down in the chair near the desk.
“You don’t think very highly of Tremont,” Azzaria asked, “do you?”
A little late for that, Chondra thought, and she agreed with Ursa’s opinion completely. She knew slaves with serious power. Marco DeCoria came to mind, and Tata of course, who was nobody’s slave now, but that was probably her fault. What Chondra found most interesting at the moment was that Ursa’s little speech seemed to be for the rabbit’s benefit, who, she noted, was being a very good girl.
The two uniformed guards were both tall and severe looking blonds in crisply tailored black, skirts and blouses, wide black leather belts with cross sashes, black caps and black jackboots. Chondra thought the only thing missing were swastikas and lightning bolts. They were sitting on the couch and appeared to be merely enjoying the show. To Spencer, Chondra said, “Who’s the heat, babe? A good shift supervisor knows his cops by name.”
Spencer was on his feet and lounged back against the wall beside the door. He was holding Aqua’s leash, which while in sit held her head up and was paying attention (a breach of sub etiquette but no one seemed to mind). Spencer pointed to the guards. “On the left is Brenda, and that’s her partner, Roxanne. Call her Rox. They’ve been with me for a while now.” Both women smiled, and to them he said, “That’s my partner behind the desk.”
“Lucky you,” Rox said to Chondra.
“Lucky him,” Chondra countered.
“These two,” Spencer said, “volunteered for the midnight shift. They claim it’s when all the fun happens around here.”
My kind of people. Chondra petted Celine’s head. “Can’t argue with that.”
“Don’t mind us,” Brenda said. “We’re just being nosy.”
“I don’t mind at all. That’s why I left the door open. My little rabbit has a problem with appearances.”
Azzaria turned around to face Chondra and playfully slapped Celine on the butt. “I was about to ask, what exactly do we have here besides some expert stinger work and a strategically placed whip?”
Chondra wasn’t sure how to reply, and while wondering about it, Constance DeNewberry strolled in.
“Please forgive the intrusion,” she said with a brief smile, “but I find myself curious about the same thing.”
Chondra leaned back in the chair, looked around the office, and said, “What we have here is Black Heart.”
DeNewberry wasn’t fazed in the least. “Obviously. Who else would have the good humor and authority to rattle Alicia Tremont’s world? In Ms. Gastineau’s defense ...” She paused. “Does she require one?”
“No,” Chondra said, liking this woman. “Tremont will though.”
“That would be out of my league, none of my business, and about time.” She turned to Spencer. “We have met before, you and I. It was quite some time ago. I’m sure you don’t remember.”
Spencer, naturally, turned on the charm. “Madam DeNewberry, I never forget a beautiful woman who has spent time in my arms. I even recall the scent of your neck. I can’t name the fragrance, but I do remember breathing deeply.”
Constance, to her surprise, was flustered. “Oh, well ...”
Her friend Geneva, slightly inebriated, came bustling into the office. “You left that part out, dear. Time spent in his arms?”
“Hush! Am I blushing?”
“Red as a whorehouse lamp.”
Everyone laughed, and Constance turned to Chondra. “You have a dangerous man.”
“Now that’s a fact.”
Around Geneva’s wrist was a diamond-studded band trailing a chromed leash to her slave’s diamond studded collar. Arthur, naked but for his kneepads, gloves, and gold cock-ring, was a muscular and deeply tanned young man down on his hands and knees. He wasn’t fitted with Wrangler saddle-bags as Constance suggested. The Viper sent to fetch and prepare him instead strapped a small set of wicker saddle-baskets onto his back. His cargo consisted of a martini breakfast for four; vodka, dry vermouth, olives, ice, bread sticks, cream cheese, cutlery and martini glasses.
“Oh, for goodness sakes, love, sit! How often must I tell you? If you always wait for my command your knees will be mush before you’re thirty.”
Arthur went into his sit carefully, the saddle baskets designed to rotate on the harness so the submissive could obey without spillage.
“So it’s true!” Geneva announced. “That’s Alicia’s kitty cat! I can hardly wait to tell her how little Miss Perfect pooped. She will be angrier than a sub with a cancelled credit-card.”
“Geneva,” Constance said, “you will do no such thing.”
“Now you are pooping.”
Constance turned to Spencer. “Well, sir, thank you for the splendid compliment, even though I was a terrible archer.” She indicated her Odalisque. “Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.”
“Aqua?” Her tone was all the information needed.
Aqua, who’d dropped her head the moment her Mistress entered the office, looked up at her. “Hello, Mistress. I am fine and all is progressing as it should. The slave across the desk is undergoing a valuable learning experience all present have taken the time to teach. In our company each moment that passes she becomes more of who she wishes to be. Is that not true, Odalisque?”
Celine, her head on the ink-blotter, eyes closed, said softly, “Yes, Aqua, it is true.”
Home Island slaves, Chondra thought, are a trip.
“So you see, Mistress, I am right where I need to be, helping this pitiable slave become worthy of the company she finds herself in. I am performing my duty to my sister in the life.”
“You are? How?”
“By example. In me she sees perfection. Something to always strive for.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Aqua flashed a smile that beamed.
To Spencer, Constance said, “I apologize. Often I forget how talkative she can be.”
“I think I’m in love,” Spencer replied, and Aqua rubbed against his leg like a kitten.
Chondra was enjoying herself. “Does the pony-boy have an extra napkin? The little rabbit has done well with my stinger. For now.”
“OOH!” Geneva cried. “Let me!” She rifled through a saddle-basket. “Here we are ...” and handed Arthur a maroon linen napkin. Grasping the whip with one hand, she expertly brought Celine to climax (who gasped) in seconds, then she removed the whip and handed it to Arthur for cleaning. “My, this girl is bubbly as an active volcano.”
“Mistress,” Aqua said, “I believe it’s time you said goodnight, would you not agree?”
“I would, yes. We’re being rude.”
Chondra eyed Aqua with respect. It wasn’t every Odalisque who could dismiss her own Mistress from the room. DeNewberry, she noticed, listened without batting an eye. A smart and confident woman. These two were a hell of a team.
“We shall leave you to your pleasures,” Constance told Chondra, returning her whip, having retrieved it from Geneva. They headed out, Arthur leading the way.
“I love you completely.”
“I know you do, sweetheart.” To Chondra, Constance said, “Your stinger-cat would be an excellent reminder about speaking in sit without permission.”
“And so it shall,” Chondra assured her coolly.
It was finally Aqua’s turn to blush.
Azzaria caressed Celine’s bottom. “Back to my original question, what do we have here?”
“Looks to me,” Brenda said, “like a very obedient sub.”
“Hasn’t moved a muscle,” Rox added. “I thought rabbits trembled when trapped.”
“I’m not sure what we’ve got,” Chondra said, noting that Constance DeNewberry closed the door when leaving. “Let’s find out.” She sat back and crossed her legs, whip across her lap. “Okay, gorgeous, show me who you are.”
Celine overcame the belly-boiling humiliation some time ago. Having never been so publicly displayed and punished, her embarrassment was acute to begin with, but then it became anger, anger at her Mistress for many things, but specifically for denying her that which all lifestyle submissives took for granted. Celine learned a shocking truth; public display of her chosen submission had her loins ablaze; something she’d never truly believed occurred in such a stark setting.
The complete dominance and iron handling by this Black Heart enforcer - without a care about onlookers - was beyond thrilling. One touch from Lady Geneva brought her to climax.
Celine also determined that because of her Mistress she was denied an avenue of escape. Any sub could refuse to submit, but not her, not now. Walking out would not only be the abandonment of a lifestyle, it would be the end of her life. Thanks to Alicia’s teaching, Celine thought with irony, she knew too much.
Now she knew even more.
Long ago Celine convinced herself (with Alicia Tremont’s constant reinforcement) that she was above such public displays of her lifestyle. Hunched over a desk en règle (in due form) while being treated as any insolent sub might, the truth was undeniable: she’d missed out on much. It was clear to her why she often viewed the other subs with something close to loathing in her heart. That something was envy. This is what her life should be. Every person in the office was completely focused on her. Subs were always the center of everyone’s attention. Even when inside the pen laughing and gossiping among themselves (a gathering she never took part in) all eyes were continually darting over to them; the sex slaves. She felt no kinship.
No longer. These people were having their fun, yes, but their fun had a serious side that was all about showing her how to be the best at what she claimed to be; a First Rank Odalisque. Even Aqua, who called her “sister,” knew her role, and played it with pride and skill.
Celine knew that for dominates in the life, subs such as Aqua were the single most important people breathing. A Dom’s life revolved around perfectly trained sex slaves; the very core of a Dom’s existence. Tonight, the goddess Isis willing, she may finally and truly join that most elite group glowing bright and hot at the center of this world. Alicia kept her on the perimeter. This Black Heart warrior thrust her into the flames.
Celine felt nearly overwhelmed with gratitude.
Attempting to impress, she decided, would be foolish. She was no circus performer and this was no zoo. All she could do was reveal her true self, unpackaged and humble. She needed to do what was right. Drawing strength from the stinger’s bite, Celine rose from the desk carefully, and she hoped, with at least a small measure of grace. Standing with her head lowered, the office silent, she could feel curiosity and anticipation swirling about her. Piece by piece she undressed, making a neat pile on the desk. She found herself more vexed than when taking her First Rank exam at the Isis Motherhouse, and that was in front of a committee of fifteen.
Naked, Celine presented herself to Spencer, facing him from two paces away; legs together, arms at her sides, palms out, and head bowed. “Celine Gastineau nee Tremont. Submissive. Isis First Rank. Property of my Mistress, Alicia Tremont. I seek permission to beg your forgiveness.”
Aqua, having managed to transfer her sit to between Spencer’s legs, scuttled out from beneath him and back to her spot beside his right leg.
Celine went down onto her knees and bent over, palms on the floor, and touched her forehead to the carpet. It was an Act of Obeisance.
Celine came up, and back onto her heels in what was similar to a sit but she placed her hands on her thighs, palms up, fingers spread; open honesty. Nothing to hide. An Act of Contrition. She hung her head in shame.
“You have my attention,” Spencer said.
Chondra was impressed already. I’m getting soft.
As she was taught, Celine spoke to her open palms, visualizing the behavior that put her in Contrition. “Earlier this evening I disrespected you without thought or care. For that alone I should be whipped raw and banished. I beg your forgiveness. I know in my heart that from you I deserve nothing but disdain and perhaps even pity. I am arrogant, stuffy, old before my time, and friendless. I am not deaf to the whispers behind my back, or the comments to my face. I am Miss Perfect, as the Lady Geneva remarked with scorn. But the truth ... I am far from perfect.
“It has been said that I despise my own people, and this, I admit, is an ugly truth that, odd though it may sound, is no truth at all. That gives me heart. Tonight I took one look at you and your queen and all I saw was black, all I thought of was me, and all I heard were the remarks of people I was raised among, both white and black.”
Glaring at the palms of her hands she could see those very same people sipping sherry, eating hors d’oeuvres, the news showing riots in the streets, inner-city squalor: “They hate us,” she announced. “Not us, to be specific, no, just those of us, people of color, which are poor, uneducated, lacking sophistication ... Le mal vu!” she snarled into her open palms. “The disapproved of. An embarrassment. Especially to others of color, such as myself, who view the world from above the teeming masses of dark-skinned savages.”
Okay, Chondra thought, opened a can of psychological worms in here, didn’t I? This was one for the books.
“Oh, I heard them,” Celine went on, bitterly, “Often the whites would be speaking to me, so well I played my role as one of them. So insensitive ... They would forget the color of my skin when speaking to me. But, in this life race, it would seem, is meaningless to everyone but me.” She was quiet for a moment, tears streaming down her face. She would have liked to wipe them away but doing so was not allowed while in Contrition.
Celine sighed. “All I have ever wanted was to belong. I found my place on my knees. This is me. This is where I wish to be, and to live this life among those who understand and cherish us, the subs. When Aqua called me ‘sister,’ perhaps even in jest, it struck me with such a perfect and sweet sense of belonging that I now know without any doubt, even on my knees I am lost. I have scorned my brothers and sisters in the life, and all I truly belong to is my Mistress.”
Not any longer, Chondra thought, you belong to me. She wasn’t sure she’d go through with it, but, there it was.
Aqua smiled at Celine, reached out, and touched her shoulder. “Welcome, sister.”
Celine was startled.
So was Chondra, wondering for the thousandth time how subs did that shit. “Everybody out,” she said, standing up. “Ursa, take Spencer and Aqua upstairs and help him strap that little vixen down tight and obscene, the chatterbox.”
“It will be a pleasure.”
“On your way send me a Viper with walking gear for the rabbit. I’m hoping she’ll need it, but after hearing me out, well, we shall see.”
Ursa nodded. “One of my sisters will be just outside the door.”
To Spencer, Chondra said, “Feel free to start without me. I won’t be long.”
“Just make it snappy,” Spencer said, “I’m crazy about you right now.
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