Strange Days

Daniel’s Story, continued

 

“It may be that all games are silly. But then, so are humans… And it is in games that many men discover their paradise.”

— Robert Lynd, Searchlights and Nightingales

We heard about the Summer Commune just days before the year’s final exams. I have no doubt that the timing was deliberate. We had enough important things on our minds without thinking too much or too deeply about what we were told. So when I signed up I really didn’t have much of a clue what it was all about.

With just a week to go I started having second thoughts, and expressed these to Laura. She gave me a long, hard look and explained the situation. When she finished it was my turn for the long, hard look.

“I don’t get it,” I said.

She seemed surprised. “What’s to get, Danny?” She rarely called me that.

“What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch. You can’t just accept it?”

“Would you?”

“Fair point.” She laughed. “But I thought you understood what the Empyreal Society is all about.”

“I do; and I can see why you want to try this… experience. It’s what you’ve always done, pushing your limits. It’s why I’ve always thought you were, I don’t know, special.”

She began to stammer. I think she thought I was fishing for a reciprocal compliment, so she stopped and I went on. “I’m just not sure what role we — the guys, I mean — have. It seems, well, one-sided.”

She smiled. “Don’t be so self-absorbed. It’s not about you.”

“That’s what worries me.”

She shook her head. “That’s you, in a nutshell Daniel, always looking the gift horse in the mouth.”

“Is that a mixed metaphor?”

She ignored my question. Then came the revelation.

Having known Laura most of my life, it was foolish of me that it took so long. “It’s a game, isn’t it? We’re playing roles…”

“Now you’re getting it.” She leapt to her feet and started to walk away.

“That’s it?” I called after her.

“So you’re in?” she said, looking back over her shoulder.

“Of course,” I growled. “Never said I wasn’t.”

And so I was one of those who gathered at nine o’clock in the morning, at a spot behind Lakeside Hall where a bus was parked. Charlotte and James got us organized; but the only other members of the Society present were the newbies. Laura, for example, I hadn’t seen for several days. The girls outnumbered the guys six-to-one. Rachel was there, of course, as was Caitlyn. We didn’t speak to each other. No one said much, to nobody’s surprise.

The girls boarded the bus first. Charlotte followed them, there was an interval of a few minutes before she disembarked and James said “Go to the rear, fellas.”

Once we were seated there were no spare places. I don’t know if had been planned that way, our numbers exactly right for the capacity of the bus. There were five of us males in the back. (Marcus, the sixth rookie, had for reasons unknown to me opted out.) As we moved down the aisle I noticed something odd about the way the girls were seated. Only when I passed Caitlyn and took more than a glance did I realize that they were sitting with their bare flesh on the upholstery. All had, apparently, been told to wear a dress or skirt. This was pushed back, and each girl’s panties had been pulled down to her knees. Caitlyn saw me staring and blushed.

“Well, this is going to be interesting,” I thought. I guess I’m the lord of the understatement.

 

*

 

As the girls shuffled in single file along the path leading to the compound, my job as a master — fancy that, a master! — was to keep them on track, steady and if necessary upright. Bound, gagged, blindfolded and tethered, and naked, they puffed and sweated and whimpered, and I felt guilty about having to occasionally prod one of them with my cane. But my fellow masters, Oscar and Jonathan in particular, were more severe. Every girl received at least one hard whack across the backside, because it was impossible for them to not falter at some point in their march.

I felt relief, though no doubt less than our slavegirls, when the slow-moving column finally reached the compound. This is a large rectangular area. A mess hall is located at the eastern end next to a smaller building that contains the administrative offices and the infirmary. On each of the northern and southern sides of the compound are six wooden barracks. Between the two rows is an open area about the length of a football field and a third of that wide. The huts are solidly built and well-maintained, but sit on a surface of compacted sandy loam with only a threadbare pretense at a lawn. The western end of the quadrangle is open. From here a path leads down the slope of the small, flat-top hill into a broad valley.

Around two dozen women and three or four masters were working at various tasks in the compound. The men wore the same uniform of khaki trousers and maroon shirt, and every one carried a cane tucked into his belt. Their slaves were, it almost goes without saying, naked. (During my entire time in the Commune I never saw a female body with any covering at all. When I travelled home at Christmas for a family get-together, it felt strange seeing the women wearing clothes. A mental image of my mother and aunts snapped me out of that.)

The thirty new girls were sorted into six groups and led off, still in their bonds, to the huts. We new masters went to the mess hall, where we were treated to a short, somewhat pointless address by Brandon, one of the guys who met us at the bus. Technically there was no hierarchy among us males. Decisions were generally made by vote if not by consensus. We wore a uniform, but that represented unity and equality, not regimentation. Obviously there were individuals with special expertise whose authority everyone recognized; but otherwise, there was no particular reason why Brandon had this assignment. Anyhow, I took an immediate dislike to him. His manner was irritating — grim-faced yet slightly pompous. The real briefing was delivered after his speech.

Olivia had been standing at the back of the room. Amidst all the gorgeous women in the Empyreal Society, she was a spectacular stand-out, tall and slim, sensuously curved with not an ounce of surplus flesh. Soft-spoken and refined, she had lucent sky-blue eyes and delicate features with finely sculpted cheekbones. Her golden-blond hair was cropped short. Her vulva was a pastel pink flush beneath a gossamer of tawny tufts and curls; and as on her fellow slaves her labia were pierced by a silver ring. I knew her from the Society, as a medical doctor pursing a postgraduate degree.

Naturally I saw her naked at my first Society meetings. Most of the female members seemed unaffected, almost blasé about their nudity, and Olivia epitomized their casual composure. She looked so at ease and innocent that I felt a bit sordid gawking at her. We had a conversation about the history of medicine. It was a subject she was passionate about, and she began waving her hands around, causing her breasts to oscillate in a most distracting way. I started to gibber and jabber and felt ridiculous. Yet only later did I realize that she didn’t have a clue why I was all of a sudden blathering — or she hid it very well. That she thought I was an idiot and not a pervert made it extra embarrassing! And that’s the point. Back then her nudity had been a proud proclamation of her feminine strength and dignity. Now it was a symbol of her submission.

I should have been baffled at seeing Olivia as she was now, not just exposed but meek and obeisant; but since Laura introduced me to this lifestyle nothing much could surprise me, least of all what I was learning about myself.

She came forward, keeping her hands behind her back. When she began speaking, she made sure to keep her gaze lowered towards the floor, occasionally glancing up but never making eye contact with any of her audience. Her talk was skilfully presented, as advice rather than as a lesson, since it would be highly inappropriate for a slave to lecture her masters. I had no idea how she would handle having to answer questions, especially dumb ones, but no of us had any.

The session lasted for the better part of an hour, and when it was over Claudia, who was one of the oldest slaves and very much like Olivia (elegant, enigmatic, perceptive), asked us to accompany her outside. Five women were waiting, including Laura. She came up to me, head bowed but with a faint smile and said “Please come this way, Master.”

It was the first time I’d been called that… and it came from Laura! I started to say something in return but the first word came out as a rasping croak, so I shut my mouth.

Despite my mental preparations and my experience so far, I was finding it hard to accommodate mentally to this version of Laura, so sweetly servile. I’d known her too many years to be fooled that this was anything other than a game. But as someone once told me — and yes, it was Laura — if you immerse yourself in your role-play, if you faithfully follow the rules, as she and her fellow slaves did, it becomes indistinguishable from, it is real life.

I followed her to one of the huts on the northern side of the quadrangle. The L-shaped interior is about the size of a large living room. The décor was spartan, with bare wooden floorboards and lighting provided by three windows, and at night by naked bulbs hanging from a low ceiling. Crowded along one wall were eleven narrow bunks almost touching, and four more occupied the opposite side. Each had a mattress and pillow but no sheets or blankets. The only other items of furniture were two cabinets, a bin and an armchair. There are two other doors. One opens onto a concrete deck with bathroom facilities. The other, on the opposite side of the hut, leads out into the quadrangle. Between the rows of beds a small room served as my personal quarters.

Six girls from the bus were already inside, each standing at the foot of her bed facing the wall, staring straight ahead, completely still and silent, stiffly erect except for the occasional twitch — they would have been like this for an hour — legs slightly apart, arms folded behind her back. Each wore a leather collar. Because the windows were shut it was hot and humid, and their bare skin glistened with perspiration.

“Turn around, please,” Laura said to the girls. It wasn’t a command. In the Commune all slaves were equal in status and service, those who were long-term members of the Empyreal Society and those who — like me — were naïve neophytes. So slaves didn’t give orders to slaves. They transmitted the masters’ orders and instructions.

The girls about-faced, and as they did so bowed their heads. Each appeared to pull back her shoulders to push out her chest. On cue the first in the line intoned, softly, “Slave Caitlyn here to serve and obey you, Master.”

I sucked in a breath. This as such a different Caitlyn from the girl I had known as both girlfriend and ex-girlfriend. I detected a quaver in her voice and wondered if she was afraid that, in my newfound position of power over her, I would get revenge for our break-up. She must have known I was not that petty; but power does change people. More likely, it was humiliation, and I confess that this aroused me. Indeed, I felt a little ashamed that I’d chosen her for my “harem”. But I’m human, after all. I wanted her to lift her head, to make eye contact so we could have the sort of connection we once enjoyed. I could have commanded her to do so, but that would be giving away my thoughts, and more importantly my feelings.

The second girl could not conceal a smile though she kept her gaze directed at the floor.

“Slave Rachel here to serve and obey you, Master.”

We had come a long way since our first tutorial group meeting nine months before. Oddly enough, I was still the apprentice, or at least that’s how I felt. For both of us it was our first time in the Commune, but she appeared so calm, so self-possessed, whereas I was tingling with nervous energy.

The other girls introduced themselves — Francine (haughty and passionate), Jessica (high-strung and impulsive), Layla (plain-spoken and impetuous) and Stephanie (tiny and free-spirited). It was a ritual. I already knew them. I’d had a part in the assigning of all the slavegirls to the five huts; but I’m convinced I got the best deal with my fifteen. For as long as we were in the Commune, I would be responsible for their welfare and discipline. They were, for all extents and purposes, my property, and that felt weird. The sudden realization of the weight of duty I’d assumed bore down upon me. How much had changed in my life — and my slavegirls’ — in so short a time!

These were, without exaggeration, the most beautiful women I could ever hope to meet, intelligent and accomplished as well. The oldest, Claudia, was ten years my senior; Sarah and Emily several years. (I was unsure how much my roommate Ben knew about his sister’s involvement in the Empyreal Society, if he was even aware of its existence. I don’t think he would have made a decent master. Yet for that matter, Oscar and Jonathan were not much different. I hoped I would be.)

Each of these remarkable women had her reason for being enslaved. Some were masochist, no doubt. Most were like Laura, testing their limits and limitations, searching for the most extreme experiences. And oddly enough, that gave me a hollow feeling. Though I would control their existence, and they would obey and serve me without question or hesitation, I knew that I was no more than a vessel for the fulfilment of whatever fantasies, challenges and desires had brought them here. Because I hadn’t earned my privilege; I was interchangeable with a thousand guys. My only qualification was to be born with a penis, to possess what my slaves, for all their other attributes with which I could not compete, did not. My only test would be one of self-restraint. I would have to repress the very passion to which the girls had submitted. Rather than their master, I felt like their minion.

Maybe I was overthinking this. In any case, what Laura did next changed everything, forever. It was a small gesture and I suspect not part of the ritual, just an impulse. She knelt before me, bent forward and kissed my feet. She remained in that position until I stroked her back. She rose and went to stand before her own bed, breasts and pelvis thrust forward. I noticed for the first time a glimmer between her thighs — the silver ring piercing the lips of her vagina, a barrier and a signpost at the entrance to her body.

She knew exactly what she was doing, as did I. She was redefining the relationship we had shared for almost two decades, in which I had always been the junior, and not just in age. The temple of Laura still stood firm, indeed more glorious, more proud, more dazzling than ever. But I was now the high priest…

“Damn!” I shouted to myself. Were those thoughts really mine? I was glad that all other eyes in the room were fixed on the floor, because I could feel my face reddening.

I retreated to my room. My bags were just inside the door. Modest enough, my quarters were luxurious compared to the girls’, with a proper-sized bed, a cupboard and a desk, furnished and equipped for the privileges of my sex, with space for my clothes and personal effects, which the slaves were not permitted to have. My uniform of black trousers and maroon shirt was laid out on the bed. Affixed to the wall was a plaque. It was inscribed with, of all things, a Biblical quotation — “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded.” In other words, with power comes responsibility. I hoped desperately that I could live up to the trust which these women had placed in me, that I could reciprocate with benevolence the unconditional service and obedience to which they had committed themselves.

Claudia’s voice politely interrupted my musings.

“Please, it’s time to go, Master.”

“Thank you, slave,” I replied. I quickly changed into my uniform.

I left the hut, left the seven girls each standing in silence and the end of her bunk. It was bright outside. The clouds had dispersed, the sun was beating down. It occurred to me that it was still just early afternoon.

“Let the games begin,” I murmured.

Claudia heard me and smiled.

 

Rachel’s Story, continued

 

“We do not remember days, we remember moments.”

— Cesare Pavese, This Business of Living: Diaries

The day begins for us slavegirls officially at sunrise. We don’t need a clock. As the first few awaken to the early birds’ chorus, they nudge those still sleeping on either side. This morning I am one of them. Our bunks are narrow and crammed together, so I can reach over and touch Caitlyn. She twitches and grunts. I prod, she sighs and sits up. On the other side, Francine brushes away my hand and emits a mournful whimper.

We affix our collars, tidy our bunks and exit the hut, all done quietly so as not to disturb Master Daniel, slumbering in his den. It’s light enough outside to begin our chores. The eastern horizon glows a mellow gold. Venus shines virginal white in the violet haze above, while the Dog Star still gleams in the western sky. We gather in the quadrangle. Girls are also coming out of the other huts and assembling. We stamp our feet and swing our arms. Although we haven’t worn a stitch of clothing for twenty days, we are not yet inured to the bite of the dawn chill on our bodies.

I don’t think any of us mind being up and about so early (except Sarah, who is not looking well). It’s a lovely time of the day, not least because we don’t have to deal with any of the Masters. That wouldn’t be a real problem (after all, it’s why we’re here), but it’s nice to take a break. Yet this is not a time to relax and socialize. Claudia assembles the hut leaders to give out assignments and instructions to the group leaders. Tasks are mostly the same each day but rotated among the five hut “harems”. The work is not onerous apart from kitchen duty; and this morning my group is on “prep” — setting up the equipment and materials for the morning’s activities. We collect cans of paint, brushes, rollers, scrapers, knives, buckets, ladders, tarpaulins, etcetera, from the storage shed, and set them in stacks beside each of the huts. So we know what today’s big job will be.

Before we begin, however, there is a matter to be taken care of. Four girls march into the middle of the quadrangle and stand rigidly to attention. One of them is Regina, from my hut. Claudia consults with Olivia, our resident doctor, then nods to Donna and Eliza, who step forward, their arms laden with heavy chains. These are locked onto each of the four girls’ wrists (in front) and ankles, and then linked to another chain which is attached to her collar front and behind. It runs down her chest and belly, between her legs and up her back. It is of a length that she has to stoop forward slightly to prevent it gouging her crevices. Each will spend as many days shackled as is warranted by her transgression. Regina spoke back to a Master, which is not a serious offense, so she will probably spend just two daylight periods working, eating and bathing in her restraints. But it’s not her first time, so the penalty may be more severe. She examines her fetters, shakes her wrists as if testing for weakness. Meanwhile incorrigible Katrina, who is used to wearing chains, caresses them. With a cheeky grin she stands bolt upright so the chain between her thighs tightens into her cleft. Some of the girls watching her wince.

The preliminaries take half an hour, towards the end of which a few of the males have emerged from the huts and are making their way to the mess hall for pre-breakfast coffee. They pause, briefly, to stare idly at us as we begin our chores. That’s when we cease any talk, straighten ourselves and quicken our tempo. We don’t acknowledge the men’s presence and take care to not make eye contact. But one of them, Jonathan this time, amuses himself by playing with us. He stands in the passageway between the mess hall and the administration building, blocking our path.

“Excuse me please, Master,” we say in turn, keeping our eyes downcast and the irritation out of our voices. While interfering with our work is frowned upon, it’s not forbidden. After three weeks, however, I would have thought they’d be tired of the game.

Groping is also discouraged, at least of the unauthorized kind. But Jonathan positions himself so we have to turn sideways to edge past him. My breasts brush against his shirt. He pretends not to notice, and his expression doesn’t change; but the same happens with Jessica who flinches and Caitlyn who grits her teeth. Layla doesn’t balk. She presses her naked chest and hips against his; and while keeping her head bowed she ostentatiously licks her lips. His face begins to redden. Coming after her is Stephanie, weighed down with two heavy paint tins. She squeezes against the wall of the building to avoid touching. I see her subtle smile; but it’s enough that she will likely and Layla will definitely pay for their insolence. And while we don’t always enjoy our punishments, we savor our acts of defiance, however petty and futile.

Breakfast begins at seven o’clock. The girls from H block are on kitchen duty. The men arrive intermittently over the next hour. There is a row of tables in the middle of the hall and for them dining is an informal affair. We, the slaves not serving, eat in two shifts, at tables placed at one end of the hall. For us there is no chat and no lingering over coffee, and no choice of what we eat or don’t. (As our physician and dietitian, Olivia insists that we never skimp on meals.) We take pride in sitting erect and silent, maintaining our discipline. We don’t look up from the table, even at each other.

(We sit on wooden bench seats. For no reason other than picayune malice, and to remind us, as if any reminding were needed, of our status, the cushions have been removed and our bare bottoms rest on the bare wood.)

Once we’ve eaten we return to our huts for a spruce-up prior to resuming our work. After all, slavegirls must look their best when toiling in the summer heat. We have time for just a quick grooming; but we must present ourselves always at our visually appealing best. There are cabinets with the complete range of toiletries — soaps, toothpaste, pads, perfumes, powders, deodorants, creams, balms, lotions, shampoo, clippers, razors, etcetera. The sole personal items we’re allowed are contained in a pouch containing a toothbrush, tissues, tampons and sanitary towels. Tampons are preferred for hygiene because they permit an unobstructed view of our genitalia. Of course, this is more important for us, the slaves, than for our Masters. The males have plenty of female flesh to gaze upon; but surrendering that last bit of intimate space to public view serves as another potent token of what we are and what we are not.

And on that topic, most of the girls are smooth down below, and these have chosen epilation over depilation (that is, long-term over short-term removal). I am in the minority. I have kept some of my pubic hair, albeit trimmed and thinned to a gauze of wisps and curls. However, in another respect natural beauty is the desired mode. For missing from the usual feminine accoutrements is make-up — no rouge, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, nail polish, perfume.

On the other hand, sunscreen is compulsory for all outdoor activity, in lotion and spray form rather than cream (for aesthetic reasons). For health and safety, when on work duty we have headgear and footwear, though with nothing in between except our collar.

Then it’s back to the mess hall; but we line up outside, along and facing the front wall, in the usual posture with feet slightly apart (because knees should never be pressed together) and arms folded behind our backs. We wait there, staring at the timber, joined by the second breakfast shift, for another half-hour. It’s tiring and dreadfully tedious, with no talking or movement permitted. This is one more of the gratuitous burdens imposed on us, serving no purpose but discomfort and humiliation. I occupy my mind reciting song lyrics in my head. Eventually, however, everyone marches off, leaving just Olivia and me.

The infirmary occupies a wing of the administration building. Master Andrew is waiting for us in the office. I first met him in the first aid class, when he was a junior student, I a senior and Olivia the teacher. Now the roles are reversed. Although he’s the least qualified of us in medical expertise, he possesses what Olivia and I do not, so he’s in charge. It’s a strange dynamic. Theoretically, she must ask his permission for everything she does; but most of the time his role is standing back to observe and ratify Olivia’s doctoring decisions with an occasional nod.

“We have a patient,” he says.

“Thank you, Master,” she replies.

In the treatment room, Sarah is perched unsteadily on the edge of the bed. She’s tiny (even smaller than itsy-bitsy Stephanie) and looks more fragile than ever. Her face is a ghastly pale as she offers a feeble, apologetic smile. She starts to get to her feet when Andrew enters; but he waves a hand and she gratefully sinks back onto the cot. Olivia diagnoses migraine, and Sarah painfully nods in agreement. It’s not her first attack. She’s embarrassed to be a nuisance (as she calls herself) and is worried she will be sent home. Olivia reassures her that it hasn’t reached that stage; but she’s in no condition to work and will be spending the day under observation. I feel awful for the poor girl, who is normally so full of obstinate spirit. Yet there is a moment when I can smile and reflect on the weirdness of our situation. Olivia draws a sheet up over the patient’s body, and Sarah flinches. It could be the unfamiliar sensation of fabric on her skin or the opprobrium of having her body covered in the presence of a Master; most likely both. In any case, he doesn’t seem to mind.

We haven’t received any other patients by mid-morning. (There have been no serious issues in the three weeks so far, just upset stomachs, trivial infections and a couple of minor injuries.) Olivia has paperwork to complete: updating records and inventory, and so on. Andrew can assist, and because a slave cannot be redundant or remain idle, I go next door to help out in the kitchen. The fifteen girls of Hut H are busy cleaning and preparing lunch, watched over by Master Oscar. He’s lounging in a camp chair in the middle of the room, sipping an iced drink, studying the bare backsides of a half-dozen slaves kneeling around him scrubbing the floor. He casually acknowledges my curtsey as I enter, then points to Cassandra, who is scouring the tiles near his feet. She’s one of the oldest slaves in the Commune, ten years senior to her imperious Master. She passes a sponge across to me without looking up. Beside her, Lucinda wiggles her bottom as she scrubs, reveling in the Master’s gaze.

All the girls are sheathed in a glaze of perspiration. I feel a bit guilty that my morning has (so far) been easy. Master Oscar, of course, looks relaxed and comfortable, enjoying the privilege of the penis. Getting bored, he goes over to where the rest of his troupe are making and wrapping sandwiches. Among these is Alice. Quick-witted and temperamental, back on the campus she’s a brilliant student, studying postgraduate mathematics. Notwithstanding her petite stature, she has an intense, intimidating stare. She’s also Oscar’s sister. He joins her standing at the bench and slaps her backside. She doesn’t react except to hold up a sandwich while staring straight forward.

There are four sets of siblings in the Commune. Layla and Katrina are sisters. But I must confess that I still feel a little queasy about the notion of a brother and sister in a master-slave relationship. In fact there are three such pairings, the others being Amanda and Andrew, Hannah and Nathan. In each case she is the elder, and that at least makes sense. A guy would be too protective of a little sister for her to be allowed to properly fulfill her duties. But I cannot imagine what it’s like to be the slave of your baby bro.

Around noon the Masters arrive sporadically at the mess hall, accompanied by the women they’ve been supervising. We in the kitchen grab nibbles between serving them. But halfway through Master Paul selects half a dozen of us to take refreshments to the slaves working on the dam. We’re laden with backpacks containing food and drinks and other supplies. The delivery, which could have been done in a few minutes by vehicle, takes us thirty. It would have been even longer, but we use a short-cut via a forested ridge which skirts the mysterious Georgian mansion. For no good reason (but the Masters need none) we are hitched to each other with a tether joined to our collars, an arm’s length apart.

As we leave the compound, we pass the girls from H block. Not yet called to lunch, they are working alongside some of the Masters, painting the end hut. The morning work detail is one of the few occasions where you may see both sexes sharing the load, except of course that the males are in charge. The Masters wear overalls to absorb the paint spatter. For the girls there will be much mutual scrubbing and scraping in the showers this evening. Emily sees me and in a whisper asks about Sarah. The other girls look up. Master Daniel starts to reprimand her but thinks better of it.

“Okay,” I respond, with a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile.

They go back to work.

Once we’re ascending the ridge, Master Paul doesn’t mind if we talk. But the climb is difficult because the track is steep, and after the latest rain slick with mud. My shoes are not designed for hiking, and as I slip and slide I’m too focused on staying upright to maintain a conversation, and getting quickly out of breath. My backpack is heavy. I must be carrying more than just lunches. Up front, leading Eliza on a short leash, Master Paul urges us to go faster. Since he’s not burdened like us, it’s easy for him to pick up the pace. Still, I’m not aggrieved. He could be more considerate, but it’s his privilege to not be.

The day has turned hot and humid. The threat of a thunderstorm looms on the western horizon. Inside the forest, however, it’s pleasantly cool. Water drips from the canopy and runs in tickly rivulets down my body. The giant leaves of elephant ears laden with raindrops droop across the path gently slapping my breasts, belly and thighs. It’s nice being bare-skinned. (Well, it’s never not nice; it’s part of being a slavegirl. I mean it feels good in the tactile sense.) Even so, by the time we reach our destination I’m puffing and sweating.

The fourteen women on the site are not working on the dam itself but clearing debris from the side of the road that leads to the rickety bridge we crossed in the bus. The creek is flood-swollen and fast-flowing, so they are keeping well away from its banks. Nevertheless their bodies are plastered and faces smeared with slimy, foul-smelling muck. Incorrigible Katrina is still in her chains and, I’m not surprised, is also gagged. I and my fellow beasts of burden deposit our loads and take out the sandwiches, fruit and juice. I finally discover what else we’ve been hauling: tools of all types. The walk back should be easier and quicker.

The two men in charge greet Master Paul. Their clothes are impeccably clean. After a few minutes they command their slaves to line up and kneel on the grass, awaiting permission to eat. They do so in silence, with heads bowed, taking prim little bites, and I wonder if they’re stretching out the time. Katrina looks stricken as the others begin, until she is allowed to remove her ball-gag.

The six of us who brought the food squat nearby, still tethered. Master Paul approaches Gabrielle. He unhitches her from her leash and she stands up. He touches her chin to raise her head, but she keeps her eyes lowered. He inserts a finger under her collar and leads her away, to behind a thick patch of shrubbery. A moment later we hear moaning. When they emerge there is still leaf litter adhered to her back and bottom. He kisses her and she returns to her place with the rest of us. (This might be disturbing to anyone who doesn’t know they’ve been in a relationship since long before she introduced him to the Empyreal Society.)

Master Paul confers with the other men and they call for Roxanne to join them. As in the infirmary, there’s a peculiar master-slave dynamic at the dam site. Roxanne is a qualified civil engineer. She is therefore the unofficial manager of the project. The two young males are nominally in charge, and her instructions are channeled through them. Sometimes other Masters come to provide extra hands, and it gets more complicated. But Roxanne is very astute, able to have her say and her way while maintaining proper humility. She receives her orders and organizes her sister slaves to collect their tools and stow them in a metal shed near the dam.

All twenty of us are now commanded to line up. Those not shackled or carrying packs have their hands tied behind their backs. Then we move off, heading back over the ridge to return to the compound. Roxanne leads. The thirteen whose hands are bound have to cope with the swishing of the leaves and branches that have invaded overgrown parts of the track. While there are no ticks or venomous snakes around these parts, leeches are lurking ready to attach themselves to unprotected flesh. We have lots of that; but this time we all emerge unscathed, unsucked. Katrina hobbles along in her chains at the rear of the column, trying to keep up and dreading a Master’s cane… or not; it’s hard to tell with her.

But the three men seem to be trailing a long way behind, out of range of sight and hearing; and we soon realize that they’re not following us at all. They’ve detoured for some reason, maybe heading down to the mansion. So for the first time in quite a while we are free from male supervision. We keep up our pace, but we’re able to chat and joke, mainly about our Masters’ facets and foibles. Gabrielle receives some good-natured teasing.

Suddenly Roxanne calls “Hush!” As our column goes quiet we hear, filtering through the trees and bushes, shouting, laughing and squealing. We are nearing the compound.

“Oh great,” the girl behind me groans. “The fun’s begun!”

On the field below the plateau everyone has gathered for the games. There are, altogether, a hundred people in the Commune. Slaves outnumber Masters three to one. I don’t know the selection criteria because in the Empyreal Society as a whole the sexes are roughly equal in number. The women are proportioned as thirty novices (serving our first summer in the Commune), thirty trainees and fifteen veterans or “graduettes”. Only five of the twenty-five Masters are rookies. They are assigned to the five huts, each supervising fifteen women (with three graduettes, six trainees and six novices). The other Masters reside in huts which each house four men despite being the same size as ours.

The event in progress is a sort of chariot race. The chariot, really a litter, is a triangular frame of sturdy wooden poles carried at the corners by three women, who are wearing bit-gags. It is ridden by one of the Masters who perches rather precariously in the middle. The course is a long figure-eight. As the rider urges on his struggling bearers, on the curves it is easy for him to lose his balance and fall out. He then has to climb back onto the frame as the girls strain their aching muscles to lift it, with his weight, back to waist height. At the end of the race they collapse and after a few heats the ground is strewn with exhausted naked bodies. Of course, to win a heat and advance through the run-offs means they will have to drag themselves to their feet and draw on their last reserves of energy. You have to be fit and unflinching to be a slavegirl in the Commune.

One of the Masters comes and speaks to Roxanne. I think he’s asking what’s happened to our three supervisors. She shakes her head. He directs us to drop our packs, sun visors and shoes in a pile, and then take up a position, remaining in our line, near the race course. I’m worried, being dog-tired, that we are going to be drafted into the game, but fortunately we’re able to sit it out, as spectators. The women from the dam site still have their hands tied behind their backs, and now we six are bound as well. To my dismay, Oscar and Tyler do the deed. They’re not exactly sadistic, but they relish their authority over us more than most of the Masters. Oscar wrenches my arms behind me and is rough trussing my wrists with a leather strap. He manages to fondle my breasts and my butt as he’s doing so. We are all then ordered to kneel.

Katrina, naturally, gets special treatment. One of the Masters grabs the chain that runs down her front and drags her across the field to where the other three shackled slaves are squatting. They are not permitted to rest on their heels, and so they are red-faced and swaying from the pain and fatigue. If any starts to totter she is prodded with a Master’s cane. Pride as much as the fear of a stinging whack keeps them from falling over.

The races, meanwhile, go on. Master Matthew’s team, which includes athletic Justine, crushes the competition. Everyone takes a fifteen-minute break. The girls are even permitted to sit together and talk. And when a couple of the men come over and untie us nineteen, we know it’s time for the next game. It’s race day, apparently. All the women are involved except Sarah, who is allowed to sit and watch.

This event could be called Crabs and Worms. The circular course is not very long, but we complete two circuits. On the first we move like a crab, facing upward, hands and feet on the ground. It’s a great way to firm up your arms, shoulders, abdominals, legs; and doing it nude puts all those healthy bits on display. The second time around we crawl on our bellies. The grass is short but prickly, and I dread that I’ll be itchy for the rest of the afternoon. It’s humiliating, and meant to be. (The games are supposedly not just entertainment for the men but part of our training. Layla’s sardonic “So what have we learned, ladies?” a week ago earned her a day in chains alongside her sister.) I wonder about the older women, Claudia, Cassandra, Justine, Olivia, Roxanne: how many degrading things they’ve been put through, how they cope, whether their motivations are the same as mine.

We all do our best to win, though there are no prizes and a victory in the heats ensures a second ordeal and even a third in the final rounds. You don’t spend your summer in the Commune if you’re a quitter. So I’m pleased with myself that I reach the semi-finals while content that I don’t make the last four. Not unexpectedly, Justine again wins the competition.

As a bonus event, the four chained girls hobble forward onto the circuit. They cannot crawl or crab-walk, but are not excluded from the fun. They complete the race on their knees and Katrina is puffing heavily past the edges of her ball-gag. She still manages to force out an “Is this the worst you’ve got?” laugh. I cringe. You can only take taunting so far.

More games have been scheduled, but a darkening sky and ominous distant rumbling intervene. The Masters confer and declare a halt to proceedings. We slaves are sent to get cleaned up.

The ablutions block adjoins the sleeping quarters. It is spartan in design, with a bare concrete floor and three shower heads in a single stall. The two toilet pedestals sit side by side rather than in separate cubicles. There is no privacy. This appears to be deliberate, because empty hinges reveal where doors had once been. The toilet seats are screened from the outside by an interior wall, but when we shower anyone can stare in at us. And I guess it shouldn’t really matter since we are nude all the time anyway. But it’s another reminder us that we have willingly forfeited our right to modesty.