Strange Days

Daniel’s Story, continued 

“No doubt exists that all women are crazy. It’s only a question of degree.”

— W. C. Fields, W. C. Fields and Me

“Noli de gratuito munere judicare et, ut vulgare proverbium est, equi dentes inspicere donati.” (“Do not judge free gifts and, as the common saying goes, look a gift horse in the mouth.”)

— Saint Jerome, On the Epistle to the Ephesians

After the CMNF party I was kept busy with exams and assignments. My social life, such as it had been, contracted further. While I got on well with Ben and Ricardo, they were my friends only by default. That was fine by me.

Indeed, the semester ended with me feeling pleased with myself. The nagging fear that I might have peaked in high school was dissipated by good grades. My truncated social life paid off. I went home for the midyear recess in a self-satisfied mood. But when I returned things were different. Laura appeared to have become more distant — reserved and reticent, very un-Lauralike. She mixed more with her own crowd; and while she was never rude to me, it seemed like she was avoiding my company. I suspected it might be fallout from the CMNF party.

But I started to blame myself, because my relationship with Caitlyn had also inexplicably cooled. I’d felt already that we were drifting apart, so I tried not to be sexist and blame feminine fickleness. I wondered if she’d uncovered my lie about the party and thought I still carried a torch for Laura. To be honest, however, I was not overly disappointed, because I hadn’t expected anything serious to develop. During the three week vacation I never visited her.

I decided to stay on campus for the September mid-semester break, as did many Lakeside residents. I planned to spend most of the time working on a research assignment. And that I achieved, despite a major distraction. For all over the campus the return of spring was a festive time, and on the first day of the vacation Lakesiders celebrated with a Beach Barbeque. We were a long way from the sea and the eponymous “lake” was in reality a large pond. But we embraced the other key B’s — beer, board shorts and bikinis.

That morning we also held our very last tute group meeting. All of us were there for the finale, sitting in a circle on the grass. It was a balmy Saturday morning. Rain that had earlier threatened to spoil the mood held off. I felt ridiculous, and Ben looked it, in our gaudy floral shirts and baggy boardies — not my usual style. The girls, on the other hand, were much more picturesque. Rachel was stunning in her canary-yellow string bikini. Michelle, whom I had never really warmed to, appeared to have shed her inhibitions with her clothing. She was much more congenial in a slender purple bandeau. Patricia had swapped her customary scruffy jeans and sweater for a butt-baring thong and a ribbon across her breasts that may have been held in place by friction alone. Kendra’s athletic curves swelled a scanty leopard-print. Even our esteemed leader Lorelei was delightfully disrobed. None of the girls minded that Ben and I ogled goggle-eyed.

(My roommate, who never wasted an opportunity to be obnoxious, had taunted me about missing the “Naughty Nightie” lingerie party in April. I magnanimously didn’t tell him about the CMNF party.)

The merrymaking began at noon, and I found myself admiring the pert élan of the Lakeside women, almost all of whom had entered into the spirit. Not all were supermodels or beauty queens, but bikinis were ubiquitous. It was not especially warm that afternoon, as the sky was cloudy, so it took some tenacity. I might even have felt bad for the women, which would have been illogical. There was no social or peer pressure. Some flaunted their assets; they strutted about and reveled in the attention. Some were shy but none seemed timid or embarrassed. And the celebration went on after the sun sank and goosebumps rose.

I saw but didn’t speak to Laura. She was achingly alluring in her barely-there cherry-red two-piece. As with Rachel, I had seen her in less, albeit not a lot less. But it’s one of the quirks of human nature that a little clothing can be sexier than none at all. I suppose we like secrets. When something’s kept hidden it’s more enticing. Caitlyn was there as well, with another guy. They weren’t showing any sign of romance, which consoled me a little, even if I saw no hope of rekindling our relationship. We didn’t speak. I don’t think she saw me in the crowd, and I didn’t feel like approaching her, afraid it might end in a confrontation. But it was hard to ignore her. Her bikini-clad body shimmered in the golden rays of the setting sun. And yet there was something unsettling about the vision. For I know that sounds crazy, but below the freckles and ponytail which made her the essence of innocence, the amber sheen of her skin and its scant covering of tiny triangles subverted that image. (I guess I was having a “gift horse” moment.)

The following morning I discovered that the swimsuit wearing carried on for the entire seventeen days of the vacation period. And despite becoming acclimated to the Lakeside lifestyle, there was a residual prudish part of me which found this disquieting. For I have no doubt that if the Hall had been run by “older and wiser” heads rather than its young and up-for-anything residents, such a wantonly nonchalant display of female flesh would have been curbed. Of course, that’s a what-if scenario, and I cannot say that the reality was displeasing.

The place was largely deserted most of the time, but those women present wore their bikinis (and a few one-piece costumes) in the dorms, the eateries, common rooms and study areas. And without the beach party pretext, some were coy at first; but before long all the ladies basked in the freedom, the comfort and the joie de vivre. So as at the CMNF party, I envied them, because they were feeling what we men were only seeing. And if that is a strange reaction for a heterosexual male with the normal range of penchants and proclivities, it helped me understand the personal paradigm shift about to change my perception of Lakeside Hall and its denizens.

Now as I’ve mentioned, in the spirit of cooperation, as well as affordable fees, all residents were rostered for catering and housekeeping chores. First-year students such as myself were assigned light duties such as cleaning the common areas and tending the lawns and gardens. The higher levels performed more skilled or time-consuming tasks like serving in the kitchen and cafeteria, laundry detail, etcetera.

One morning I investigated a noise outside my room. It was a squad of girls hauling clothes hampers. Residents left these in the hallway twice a week to be collected, so the communal laundry facility did not get congested. A few doors down the corridor, one of the workers was loading the baskets onto a trolley. She was bending over, her unadorned derrière giving my bleary eyes a treat. I was going to withdraw discreetly into my room, but as she straightened up she saw me.

“Hello, Daniel.”

“Hi, Caitlyn.”

She must have been on the job for some time because she looked tired and out of breath. She managed a tight-lipped smile. Her heaving chest strained against a sliver of Lycra. She wore a g-string that was drawn snugly between her legs, revealing her intimate contours and leaving her bottom almost completely exposed. She looked breathtakingly sexy; but the Caitlyn I knew before the beach party had been more demure. That’s not a criticism. It was her choice and that’s okay; but it bothered me. Had she changed when we were a couple, or afterwards? Had I been stifling her true nature? Or was I overthinking this? I never found out, because I never asked.

We exchanged trivialities, feeling awkward. As she picked up my hamper stuffed with clothes, she mentioned that it was nearly lunchtime. I made a lame joke I immediately regretted, that her own laundry for the two weeks could fit in a sandwich bag. She pretended not to understand, I got flustered and she smiled again, indulgently. For a fleeting instant I had the old Caitlyn back. But she returned to her toil and I went back to my books.

A few days later I was having lunch with Ben and Ricardo. We were in the cafeteria and Laura was on duty clearing tables. She was characteristically spectacular, in a minuscule, mint-green bikini. She paused for a brief chat, looking a bit frazzled. Incautiously she stood between my two besotted roommates. The side-ties of her panty slung low on her hips were perilously within reach of the drooling idiots, and I started feeling some big-brotherly protectiveness. However, indomitable Laura was in full control, unflinching under their lustful gaze but with her tray poised to deflect delinquent hands. Still, she must have caught my look of concern, because she winked and grinned. There was never any danger of mischief. No one at Lakeside Hall tolerated such nonsense.

In any case, my comrades were impressed when she asked where I would be after lunch. I told her: cloistered in the library. She nodded, and winked again as I ignored the silent supplications of Ben and Ricardo to be invited along.

“Found you!” she exclaimed, when she tracked me down.

I had no idea what she wanted; but she admonished me that I needed to broaden my horizons. Before I could answer, she asked me to follow her outside. In one of the small courtyards were sitting Kat, Rachel and three other girls I had seen at the CMNF party. They were wearing more than they had at the climax of that night, but not much more. Even after two weeks of observing bikini-clad bodies I paused to enjoy the scene. They graciously gave me time to savor the moment. All were older than me, second-, third- or fourth-year students. So now, as I gaped, I felt like a dopey adolescent caught with his porn stash by his big sister. (Is that creepy? I’m an only child.) I almost expected to get my hair ruffled.

Kat beckoned me to squeeze onto the seat next to her, and as she wriggled her backside to make room she made sure that her hips and thighs — sleek and bare all the way except for the spaghetti-thin strap of her T-back thong — rubbed against my trouser leg. I saw her licking her lips, but since this was out of the corner of my eye I couldn’t tell if she did it just to be provocative. Whatever; Kat was really something.

Laura waited patiently, then told me about the Empyreal Society. She invited me to join. The other girls nodded, except Rachel. She had a blank look, and I realized that this meeting was for the two of us. But I at first thought it was some sort of vacuous put-on. However, that was not Laura’s style. And so this is how I found myself a few nights later, standing in a hallway back in Charlotte’s house, draped in a cloak of crimson, wearing nothing underneath but a buckskin loincloth.

 

*** 

My return to Charlotte’s place revived fond memories, although this time I was more nervous than intrigued. Our mode of transport seemed quaint — a hackney carriage, like one of those black taxi-cabs plying the streets of London. Andrew, Tyler and I occupied the seats with our backs to the driver’s compartment. Across from us were Rachel, Molly and Francine. We hardly spoke, deep in thought and having second thoughts. The light was on but our eyes never made contact across the narrow gap.

We arrived shortly after sunset and James met us at the door. He was dressed eccentrically, in a puffy-sleeved, white silk shirt and shiny black trousers, with an ornate leather and silver-stud codpiece. He also wore a floor-length, bright red cape fringed with gold tassels. It was hard to hold back a laugh, but he grinned good-naturedly. He took us down a corridor which led from the living room. This had an eerie, almost creepy quality, in contrast to the chic suburban ambience of the rest of the house. The walls, floor and ceiling were colored in shades of red, the carpet was so plushly soft that it felt squishy, and the dim lighting reduced everything to a pink tinge. One of the girls whispered something. I think it was “vagina”, and that image got stuck in my head.

The passageway opened into a large, well-lit room, and there we were greeted by the congregation. The males were attired identical to James but with customized codpieces. The latter accoutrements ranged in design from understated to comical to grotesquely phallic. The females had on white dresses in individual patterns, short and long, snug-fitting and loose-flowing, but all décolleté — off the shoulder — and each wore about her throat a black leather choker embellished with a pink rosette.

Everyone, maybe forty in all, wore harlequin-style half-masks, also personalized but revealing enough face that I could identify most of the people present. Charlotte was there, naturally. So were Laura, transcendent in a shimmering satin slip dress, Kat and, to my surprise, Ben’s sister Emily. They formed a large semi-circle, in no particular order, with us novices clustered at its focus. James intoned a few sentences, none of which I recall, but there were no other formalities or rituals before Charlotte beckoned the six of us to follow her to an adjacent chamber. This was bisected with a bamboo screen. She directed Andrew, Tyler and me to the left of the panel. There was a table on which were three neatly folded capes, like that worn by James but without the golden trimmings. Next to them were three breechcloths, of mustard-colored buckskin with leather belt.

Andrew said something in a hushed voice that I didn’t catch, and before I could ask him to repeat it Charlotte’s voice resonated over the top of the partition.

“Yes, everything!”

I’d suspected this would be the case. Even so, the three of us felt, and looked, more than a bit silly. The sparseness and dullness of the loincloth contrasted with the size and crimson vibrancy of the cloak, which when draped over the shoulders hid all of our torsos but for a strip down the middle. And as we stepped back into the main room, I saw that the three girls wore similar red mantles but were naked underneath. Each held her arms in a way that the cape was drawn back on her shoulders to expose her breasts and pubes.

I found myself pondering how sexist was the difference between us guys and the girls. I berated myself, thinking once more of a gift horse’s mouth.

As we re-entered the main room, Charlotte lowered the top of her dress to her waist. I looked across to where the rest of the Society members were gathered, and all the women had already done the same. None of them seemed self-conscious being topless. Andrew and Tyler made audible sounds of pleasure. Somewhat prepared by the CMNF party, I managed to keep quiet.

I’d anticipated some sort of elaborate ceremony, with initiation rites, mystical sacraments and other nonsense. Instead our induction was very informal — notwithstanding the outlandish “uniforms” — and light-hearted, in keeping with what I learned was the philosophy of the Society. We were treated to a brief disquisition from James and Charlotte, who alternated at apparently random points of the presentation.

The name of the Empyreal Society refers to a celestial realm of light and creative energy, existing above and beyond the mundane world: “There are many happy sights in the inner heavens and many paths along which travel the fortunate gods, each doing their own thing. You can always follow if you are willing and able, for jealousy has no place on the celestial stage. But when you go to the banquet and festival, you ascend the heights of the Empyrean.” This is from Plato’s Phaedrus. Accordingly, the motto of the Society is “De gustibus non est disputandum — “There should be no arguing about tastes.”

(The Society loves its classicist pretensions. My only quibble was the barbarous mingling of Greek and Latin.)

The guiding philosophy of the Empyreal Society is that pleasure, in the form of satisfying intellectual, spiritual, physical and sensual desires, in no particular order, is the highest good and the proper objective in life. It is therefore the right of each individual person to freely choose his or her lifestyle insofar as it is mutually consensual with and not hurtful to others. And I could go more into Empyrean ideology; but there’s another old saying — “The devil is in the detail.” In truth, its practical expression was a form of hedonism with a strong emphasis on sexual themes. The members justified this focus as the most primal and fundamental but also the most sublime of humane pursuits. I never took this rationalization seriously. In any case, that one condition of admission was a medical exam including a check for “all communicable diseases” was an unambiguous clue about what to expect.

The rest of the evening passed unremarkably. I still felt goofy in my ridiculous garb. At least, unlike the female neophytes, I had something covering my genitalia; but they didn’t seem to mind; and those codpieces were just plain ludicrous. Many of the other women — by no means all but including Laura — stayed bare-breasted throughout. But it was all more sedate than the CMNF party (and therefore the naked boobs seemed, to me, rather gratuitous).

However, two weeks later we returned to Charlotte’s place. We wore normal clothing. The capes and other accessories were for inductions. In fact, on arrival we discovered that there had been another such occasion, to which I and the other novices hadn’t been invited; and one of the latest inductees was Caitlyn! She blushed as we met outside the house, and avoided me after that. But I could tell that she wasn’t hostile, nor embarrassed, just taken aback by my presence. And perhaps irrationally I resented that, as if poor dull Daniel could never get himself involved with the Empyreal Society.

Charlotte and James convened the meeting, again taking turns to speak, as if to emphasize their equality. Most of the members nodded throughout the presentation, which was obviously directed at us newbies. We were introduced to what the Society actually did. Charlotte called their activities the “empirical” expression of their philosophy; and it took me a while to recognize the play on the word “Empyreal”. My excuse for my slow uptake is that the things we were told were distracting, to say the least. I remained skeptical, as if the whole thing might still be some elaborate joke. The events of the following summer would have erased my doubts… but I didn’t have to wait that long.

With the formal meeting concluded, there was an hour of casual conversation. Then suddenly, on a cue from Charlotte, the women took off all their clothes. I would have been almost blasé. It’s amazing how quickly your mind can adapt. Anyway, having learnt the true focus of the Society’s activities I could hardly be surprised. Nevertheless, this was my first sight of Caitlyn naked in public; and I was rather disconcerted that she appeared undisconcerted. This was especially so since once again we males remained covered up; and even if nobody else seemed to regard this as an issue, it troubled me. Of course, one could write long essays on gender construction, how female and male nudity are perceived differently, etcetera. So perhaps to avoid the mental effort I convinced myself that my misgivings were simply more prudery.

And yet there was a curiously austere, anaesthetic, unseductive affectation in the girls’ nudity. Make no mistake, it was erotic, but it felt like we were in a role-play game. The girls might have been playing characters, divorcing their experience from in-the-flesh reality, the same way in a video game you can immerse yourself in the virtual world while still looking in from the outside — “This is not my real body; it’s my avatar.” As a result, the nudity had an almost sterile quality. There were no fetish items like stiletto heels, fishnet stockings or garter belts, just raw sexuality in a bizarrely banal setting.

But then it got surreal. As the six new female members from the two inductions were blindfolded, Charlotte led us six new guys to the smaller room. In the middle were five cosy armchairs, arranged around a queen-sized bed with lilac-colored sheets of silk or satin. Charlotte tied a blindfold over her eyes and then pointed in the direction of where we six were standing. No words were spoken but we understood. The nearest to the straight line from her finger was Andrew. I was glad it wasn’t me. She shuffled towards the bed, and when she made contact she lay down, on her back with her legs spread. Andrew knew what was expected, but hesitated — not out of reticence but unsure if he was supposed to undress. So she patted the mattress and all he did was unzip his trousers and lower them halfway to his knees. As he lay on top of her I looked away. The rhythmic squeaking of the bedframe and squishing of the mattress gained in tempo. He grunted and she moaned as their climax was reached. Yet without foreplay or any aftermath, the sex was brief and mechanical, more a ritual than an act of passion, not what I associated with a group that celebrated pleasure-seeking as the highest ideal.

When Andrew had finished and stood up, looking sheepish as he fixed his trousers, I jumped to my feet. It wasn’t that I was eager to go next. I felt squeamish about inserting myself into a vagina filled with several other guys’ semen. (Indeed it shocked me that condoms weren’t used, even more than the fact that this impressive, desirable woman was inviting half a dozen men quite a few years her junior into her body one after another.)

I knelt on the mattress between Charlotte’s thighs and fumbled with my trouser fly. Her lips curled into a smile as she pushed away my hands and completed the job, drawing down my pants. Her own hands were cold, but as I lowered myself onto her body it was warm as the blood rushed through it. When I pushed into her and began to pump, her breathing and heart rate increased dramatically. I could feel both through her heaving breasts. She licked her lips and blew out rapid-fire puffs of air. I peered at where her eyes were hidden behind her blindfold, wondering what she was thinking, and feeling. In other words, was she really being turned on? She lay passively, her legs never changed position, she rarely used her arms; so she was exercising formidable self-control.

Immediately that I felt my semen gush into her I stopped thrusting. The deed, so far as I was concerned, was done. I didn’t feel sated or gratified or contrite, but instead jaded. Whereas Charlotte seemed still fresh and earnest — which was a good thing, because four young men were awaiting their turn. As I lifted myself off her, I impulsively put my fingers into her vagina. It was hot, and moist from her own juices as well as Andrew’s and my fluids. Charlotte didn’t react. I ran them up her belly, over her breasts and around each nipple, across her throat and to her mouth. She sucked them but kept her teeth clenched. I caressed her cheeks and her blindfold. She now went tense, and for an irrational few seconds I thought I’d gone too far. But I realized that it was my show of tenderness which caught her off-guard. For as I crawled off the bed she stroked my arm in a gesture of acknowledgement.

As with Andrew, I didn’t watch the other guys having their way with her. When it was Oscar’s turn she started gasping. He was grinding her pelvis. He may have been insensitive but I think he was just clueless. Jonathan was rougher; and even so my impression was that none of us guys really knew the ins and outs of pleasing women. We were what no young guy wants to admit — rank amateurs.

So I didn’t feel good about any of it. It was a numbing, almost depressing experience. My takeaway was not elation or gratification, but rather awkwardness, remorse, even shame. Which should have made no sense. Charlotte was the one lying naked on the bed being fucked by six tyros. Yet she enjoyed it physically. At the end she seemed none the worse for the wear and tear but remained mentally detached (except for that brief moment of subtle intimacy when she touched my arm). But I think that was the point. We were being tested — we males, that is, even if an outsider might conclude it was Charlotte. As I had already discovered, first and superficial appearances meant nothing.

And if what I’ve just written makes no sense, this describes my experience in a nutshell.

As we went back to the main room it occurred to me that every male present had been inside Charlotte. The women were still naked. (I was hardly affected by that now.) The six new girls, no longer blindfolded, gave us funny looks and stared at sweaty and disheveled Charlotte. So at that moment my feelings of self-reproof returned. I searched Laura’s face for a sign of reproach or disappointment in me. Her inscrutable expression told me nothing but that she had seen all this before.

I don’t know how the new girls had been consecrated into the Empyreum. I never found out because nobody talked about it. Initiations are usually an ordeal. I don’t know why this has to be so, except that when you go through a lot to attain something like membership of a group, you value it more highly than if your admission had been easy. But in our case it was more about seeing how far we were prepared to go. More importantly, and ominously, it was a means of inducing conformity and guaranteeing secrecy. Certainly I had ventured into places where I would never have dared or desired to, before that night.

Yet for the next two months the gatherings of the Empyreal Society were almost conventional, even genteel affairs. Wilder parties were held weekly in Lakeside Hall. There was one more initiation, to which we neophytes were not invited, of all girls I was told. That being said, the real game was yet to be played.

 

Rachel’s Story, continued 

“When your footsteps and thoughts carry you down the same path your heart and soul are directing you, you will know without a doubt that you are headed in the right direction.”

― Molly Friedenfeld, The Book of Simple Human Truths

The drive from the campus took around two hours, although I could not be exactly sure. I lost track of time staring silently out the window, watching the houses rush by, then farms and fields, marshy scrubland and finally dense forest. We were travelling close to and parallel with the coast, and through breaks in the trees I caught fleeting glimpses of the ocean’s leaden glaze under an overcast sky. The only sounds I heard were the steady drone of the engine, the dreary hum of the tires, the dull, doppler-shifting roar of passing traffic, and from my seat near the back of the bus some of the conversation from the five young men occupying the rear bench. The nonchalance of their words was belied by the tremor of excitement in their voices.

None of us women (thirty altogether) spoke. It wasn’t that talking was prohibited. We were preoccupied with our thoughts. We sat with our hands under our thighs, between our legs, palms down, wrists crossed, as instructed. Our panties were bundled at our knees, and our skirts were pulled up so our backsides were naked against the upholstery; and the first touch of the vinyl, cool and slick, against bare flesh had been oddly titillating. I must have gasped because Francine, next to me, gave me a smug look, as if this was nothing new to her, or she was too tough to be affected. But all around us there were soft sighs of pleasure. Each time we hit a rough patch of road or rounded a bend, I felt a delicious tingle as my skin peeled away from the seat and clung again as I sank back down. It was weirdly erotic; and with our senses already heightened by exhilaration and apprehension, none of us could suppress the occasional gasp and moan. But our muscles started to cramp (not painfully, but unpleasantly) because we had to lean forward slightly, maintaining a stiff posture, to keep our hands in place beneath our thighs. Francine began to whimper and squirm, and I found some guilt-edged relief from my own discomfort in hers.

After a while my eyelids drooped, my mind went fuzzy. I’d spent weeks preparing for this, mentally and physically. I even stepped up my exercise program. However last night, knowing I would not sleep well, I had gone to bed early. That was a mistake. I lay awake through the hours, contemplating what lay ahead. Now I was starting to suffer the consequences. Francine was also beginning to nod off. As the bus veered off the highway, she lolled sideways until her head was almost in my lap.

We turned onto a narrow, winding, rutted road, and that roused me from my stupor. The woods closed in, and the rumble of rubber on asphalt was replaced by the crackle and crunch of macadam. The vehicle slowed but began to swerve and shake and rattle. We were jolted and jerked. My skin became goosebumpy. I felt the adrenaline surging through me. My breathing quickened. The tickle inside me built to a throbbing thrill. We pulled up at an iron gate. The driver alighted to open it. The gate was sturdily built and flanked by a grimly high barbed wire fence. Once we were through, we continued on our journey for a few more minutes before slowing down to cross a rickety wooden bridge over a narrow stream. As we did so, a few of the girls started whispering.

These were the first words any of us had uttered since our departure. Just a short distance away was a group of a dozen or so women. They were working on the edge of the creek, constructing a small dam. Some were digging and chopping, others hauling timber and pushing barrowloads of rock. Apart from sun visors, gloves and work boots, they were naked. Perspiration glistened on begrimed bodies which bore crisscrossed pink streaks. Each wore a thick leather collar; some, though not all, were shackled hand and foot. They discreetly lifted their heads and squinted at the bus as we went by. I knew most of those faces, strained by fatigue, smeared with dirt and sweat. Supervising them and languidly watching us pass from the shade of a flamboyant poinciana were two young men who relaxed on deck chairs, sipping drinks. Unlike the toiling women they wore clothes.

As we gazed upon this tableau, the murmur on the bus increased, but not from the males, who had contrarily gone silent. Though not unexpected, the scene was confronting, a daunting reminder and a tantalizing foretaste of what lay ahead.

Once we had climbed out of the gully we could no longer see the creek, the slaves and their masters; but through a gap in the greenery I caught sight of a sprawling estate. Beyond undulating meadowland loomed an imposing Georgian-style mansion. Four stories high, its stately scale and symmetry were deformed somewhat by a soaring, Gothic-style tower affixed to the east wing. We drove on, down an increasingly uneven road, until the bus lurched to a final halt in a clearing on the summit of a small hill. I could make out, in the distance, a cluster of low, white-painted buildings crouching atop a squat plateau. Recent rain had turned the surrounding fields into a gorgeous palette of vibrant colours — emerald-green grass, delicate white jasmine, lavender bellflowers, pink and orange gazanias, scarlet geraniums. On a terrace off to our right cattle grazed placidly. To the left were orchards and vegetable gardens, tended by several more nude women.

Enthralled by the scenery, I took a moment to notice that Francine was not sharing my interest. She was in the window seat and staring downwards. I shifted my attention. Standing on the gravel next to the open door of the bus were two men. There were dressed alike in khaki trousers and maroon shirts. Ominously tucked into the belt of each was a length of cane. One of them made a gesture and our five travelling companions rose from their places and sauntered down the aisle. Glances were exchanged with us females, seated in silence. They thanked the driver and disembarked, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, trying to conceal euphoria behind façades of causal calm. They were greeted with formal salutations and a cordial follow-up.

A few paces astern were four women, bare-skinned but for leather collars. With heads bowed, they stood with their arms folded behind their backs. Their bodies were slim but shapely, toned by an austere regimen of diet, exercise and hard labor. The skin hues of three were deepened by exposure to the sun, and showed no hint of tan lines. Their hair was tied back severely. The fourth had silky-smooth mahogany skin and glossy black, ornamentally woven locks. Each woman bore on her breasts, belly and thighs faint pink stripes and fading bruises like the marks on their sister slaves down by the creek. (I must confess, that made me cringe.) In the sunlight which shone through the scattering clouds onto their loins glinted silver rings which pierced their labia.

Because they were staring at the ground, it took me a moment to identify two of them. Elegant, enigmatic Claudia and audacious, avant-garde Laura were the cerebral and sublunary doyennes of the Empyreal Society, the woman of ideas and the woman of action. Their postures reflected their natures and motives. Claudia held herself in a rigid, disciplined pose. She had a delicate, brunette, blue-eyed beauty that made it hard to tell her age — probably late twenties. The exemplar of self-possession and sophistication, at Lakeside Hall she was like a housemother, always cool, sympathetic and soft-spoken, yet decisive and resilient. So it was something of a shock to see her so servile and wantonly displayed. But she truly believed in the hedonist philosophy of the Empyreans. Laura looked stressed, as if wanting to break free. She fidgeted, raising and lowering herself on the balls of her feet; but she could not suppress a wry smile. Laura was both charming and intimidating. She had a sugar-and-spice look of softness that was belied by a steely — one might even say flinty — persona. For her, I’m sure, all of this was a game and she was playing a role not much more extreme than her other devil-may-care adventures.

Once they’d disembarked the new Masters inspected the four women. The latter were older than any of the males and most of us waiting on the bus, a couple by several years. Each performed a graceful curtsey, keeping her eyes lowered as the males studied her body. One of the senior Masters (Brandon by name) said a few words and, in front of Laura, traced with his finger one of the pink lines which ran along her torso, diagonally across her right breast and down her tummy. He made a joke. Jonathan and Tyler smirked; Daniel and Andrew grimaced; Oscar’s expression was deadpan. I filed their reactions in my brain as useful information for the future. But Laura flinched and Brandon pulled his hand away.

The new Masters performed a double-take as they examined one of the slaves, the statuesque dark woman. She was proud, the only one of the four who lifted her head (if only for an instant) to return the men’s scrutiny. She had the sleek lines of a gazelle, and like a gazelle’s her eyes flitted about, as if constantly alert for predators. I looked harder and recognized her. Justine was a celebrity athlete. She was also a doctoral candidate at the Academy of Sport. But she’d traded public acclaim and Olympic gold for pubic silver, the thrill of the race for the sting of the whip. Next to her, the fourth woman (whose name I’ve learnt is Danica), was sultry and sensual. I hadn’t seen her or Justine at Empyreal gatherings, but I could be sure that, like the others, she had impressive credentials.

And even after my experience with the Empyreal Society, knowing what to expect, it felt strange seeing these women as they were now, humbled slaves, their naked bodies defiled, meekly awaiting orders from their lords. Yet though docile they were not degraded. Their bearing was one of humility but not shame. Each stood erect, impassive and inscrutable, drawing back her shoulders, pushing out her chest and thrusting forward her pelvis, in a silent, self-assured affirmation of her womanhood. The message was clear, not just to those of us still waiting on the bus but to the five neophyte Masters. It was a reminder that in the weeks ahead, the stars of the show would not be those who wore the clothes and wielded the whips.

I realized that these were odd thoughts to be racing through my head. But my senses had been honed. I could feel the unease emanating from the novice Masters. How bizarre, I thought, that they should feel so unsettled. After all, their summer would be a time of privilege, enjoying the service and obedience of their slavegirls. But they were aware that it would be, in an important way, more a trial for them than for us. My test would be one of endurance, and I knew I had the stamina to pass it. Theirs would be one of self-control, of deciding how far they could push their authority without crossing an invisible, imprecise boundary, of understanding the difference between Master and martinet. And that was what felt so weird. I and my fellow slaves were nervous, but juiced up, by what lay ahead for us. Our newbie Masters were just nervous.

That’s when I knew I had made the right decision. I was determined to not just endure the impending ordeal but to embrace the experience. I would not only be testing my own limits, I would be proving myself to my fellow slaves and to my Masters. Indeed, still sitting on the bus, I was getting turned on just thinking about the formidable challenges ahead. It was, in a way, flattering, to have been chosen, to have been deemed strong enough for this adventure. Beside me, Francine was breathing more heavily now. And I’m sure that all thirty of us had similar thoughts swirling through our minds and similar feelings surging through our bodies — dread and arousal.

My musings ended. The bus driver abruptly spun in his place and ordered us to “Get up. Strip.” He faced to the front again but watched us through the rear-view mirror as we took off our clothes. That was easier said than done. There was not enough room in the aisle for all of us, so some had to use the seating space as well. We bumped and jostled and there was the occasional giggle as we undressed; but no words were spoken. I folded my skirt and blouse and underwear and placed them on my vacated chair. I lay my sandals upside down on top. The others were doing the same. Then, awaiting our next command, I gazed wistfully at the neat, forlorn pile, my last connection to the outside world.

It surprised me that we had to strip on board the bus. I had not expected our initiation to come so quickly; but it was better this way, for anticipation is often more excruciating than the event itself. It was also our first practical lesson about the Summer Commune. Once she had touched the sanctified soil of the compound, a woman was forbidden to cover any part of herself. During my time here I would not be permitted to wear anything on my body. I would be on display; but our nudity meant more than providing a visual treat for our Masters. It was a reminder, to them as well as us slaves, to both sexes, of what we are and what we are not. But it also made us more accessible, more vulnerable. I shuddered.

“Line up and stay quiet,” the driver growled, not bothering to turn around. Selena, at the very front of the line, took a cue from someone outside and clasped her hands behind her head. The rest of us followed her lead. To fit our entire column in the narrow confines, we packed our bodies together until our contours dovetailed. It was an intimate squeeze. My face was buried in Jessica’s hair. I could smell her vanilla-scented shampoo. Francine’s bosom nudged between my shoulder blades. Her flesh was warm and moist, the nipples were hard. I could feel her rapid deep breaths and even her quickening pulse through breasts quivering with anticipation.