Gentle Reader,

Introducing: “The Dominion.” And the dazzling, depraved and larger-than-life Masters, Mistresses and sex-slaves who live there. Comments and questions encouraged. Have fun.

~ P.M.

© 2022. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced without written permission.

SILENT AUCTION

Part One

I. The Stoop

BRITTLE RED LEAVES SKITTERED PAST ON THE SIDEWALK. The late-day Autumn chill closed in on her as Angel stood on the steps of the West Village townhouse, waiting for a reply to the doorbell she had just rung. The sun was low, and the slanting shadows of the roof-line across the way climbed the stoop where she waited, nearing her. Looking down the street, naked, dark-limbed trees lined the walk and branches stirred in the wind that pushed up the narrow lane.

A gust of chill raced up the granite steps, up under her coat, and licked briskly at Angel’s bare, excited but uncertain slave-cunt.

She shivered and gathered in the lapels of her coat, gripped the cowl-neck of her sweater tight to her throat. As she did, her fingertips brushed the hard, curved shape of the ring around her neck. Master’s Collar. She wore it with ‘slave-pride,’ and the sense of having earned it comforted her. The cobalt-blue steel, the elite Third-Collar, marked her elite achievement in slave-training; and how, by consent and by definition, she admitted to no limits – or ‘proscriptions,’ in the parlance of the Covenant – to her Master’s prerogatives of ‘Use, Discipline & Training.’ More to her satisfaction, though, it marked her as the owned property, ‘Slave in Body, Heart & Mind, Belly & Soul,’ of her Master Petros.

That’s what she was, at least, back home in Northern California. Here, what am I? That was what she was waiting, with conflicting pangs of dread and arousal, to figure out.

Angel felt the cold, but directed a wondered of bountiful gratitude Master’s way for the protections he had seen fit to permit her: the leather trenchcoat, kid-gloves, nylons and wool sweater. Underneath the coat, she wore a tautly-laced leather corset topped with firm leather demicups that lifted and compressed her breasts alluring, but with cut-aways that and left her nipples exposed – and erect, thanks to the brittle caresses of the rough-knit wool. Aside from the four garters of her nylons, she was naked and smooth at the hips, bottom and sex.

She danced her feet for warmth, clicking the spike-heels of her slave-shoes. These were conventional, black, four-inch party-pumps… but discreetly strapped at the ankles and insteps and secured by a tiny padlock inside at each buckle.

With study little rings, too, for hobbling…

How I wish! she giggled. That would have made for an interesting trek from SFO to JFK! Her first solo travel (since her enslavement) felt dissonant inside her anxious slave-belly; the freedom of person grated against years of conditioning for what ‘slave-transport’ should feel like. She wasn’t sure which was more jarring to her, the traveling alone, or the traveling not-hobbled (or, for that matter, not-restrained at wrists and elbows, muzzled, blinkered, harnessed, plugged, and tethered; Intermediate-Ponygirl, Section 3(e)). The independence and autonomy of her body, the absence of controlling hands, rattled her composure quite a bit before she got used to it and calmed down.

Still, it was bad enough the way it was. A different state of vulnerability. She was a gorgeous, forlorn young redhead traveling alone, rather petite, mysterious in her trenchcoat. No checked luggage, no carry-on, cellphone or purse. Not to mention the shoes, she wondered. Whether you noticed the little padlocks or not, they screamed ‘club-slut’ to anyone who happened to glance down…

She smiled. Thank you for those, Sir. It helped me to cope, imagining I was your owned whore, Sir.

Forbidden from reading the in-flight magazines, she spent the six-hour, cross-country flight staring out the window and meditating on unfamiliar territory. She started to work it out. Eventually, she came to find out the way Master had designed the vulnerabilities of her travel-orders and state of dress, precisely to push his slave flush against the limit of the insecurities she was able to bear. My Count and Master wants me powerless before the world, acutely mindful of it, and he thinks I am ready for the challenge.

In the end, she got through her “self-transport” ordeal thanks to that reassurance, and to her training; she did it by accessing her comfort-fetishes of humiliation and exposure – eroticizing these – and using them to cope with her anxiety, self-doubt and fear.

As trained.

(Will you be there, Master?

(Her question had come before he told her she would be going alone, a stranger to her destination, stripped of all choices except a narrow few he would go on to describe.

(No, he replied, watching from the bedroom settee as his grey-collared Novice Dina stood behind Angel wrenching at the corset-laces. You will represent me. So acquit my reputation well…)

She wanted that; oh, how she wanted it! She wanted the test, the challenge, the chance to make Master proud and esteemed in the eyes of the Dominion East. This motivated and excited her. But even despite her rigorous training, her excellence in it – and the physical and emotional stamina she had achieved under it – she was afraid.

How can I not be? She admitted to the weakness. But then, Master had built those fears into her limitations – what she was to possess, or not; to wear, or not; to know, or not.

(It couldn’t be simpler, Angel, Master glowered, subduing the questions in her eyes. Do as you are told, no more, no less. And no matter your fear, without hesitation.)

Her slave-belly simmered.

She was willing for that to start.

She turned back to give the doorbell another ring, and –

Oh!

She was transfixed by the pair of cool green eyes staring back at her from inside.

Seen through the bars that gated the inner door, the Mistress peered out from behind a purple velvet drape. Angel gasped; the woman’s severe scrutiny briefly paralyzed her – How long has she been there watching me? The next instant, she shook off her surprise and reverted to training: hands clasped behind her, she bowed her head, and waited.

(No, not ‘waiting‘… Introductory-Obeisance, three years ago at least, Master’s lecture: ‘Waiting’ implies the expectation of a future in which you get a thing you want. Even if it’s to be roughly used. Or punished.

(Angel knew the proper attitude, and she recited it for him, Your slut is a Collared Slave. She has no Desires of her own.)

(Teacher’s pet, he taunted her. She smiled back at him.)

The woman left Angel to shiver on the stoop for an interminable time. Eyes lowered, she had no gauge of the Mistress’s assessment of the strange slave-girl at her door, or her interest in it. What if she simply dislikes what she sees, and turns away?

What if? The wayward slave-girl would be stranded in Manhattan, friendless and phoneless, with night coming on and no other place to go, except here. She had cash for cab fare between here and JFK and back, no more, and a return ticket for Tuesday morning. And no means, not to mention permission, to rebook her return.

(You have a question. Master was indulgent that way in the early days.

(Your slut understands how the slave is to treat selfish, personal ‘Desire,’ Sir. What about fear, Sir?

(An excellent question. Fear is permitted – no, it is to be welcomed.

(How, Sir? It had given her trouble as a Novice, taking unpleasant feelings and learning to revisualize them in her ‘slave-belly’ as erotic fetishes. Sir, with what attitude?

(Eagerness for the challenge.

(His gentle knuckle lifted her chin. And arousal.)

II. The Vestibule.

At last, a buzz emanated from the door. Not looking up, Angel came through. The Mistress opened the inner door but stood behind the security gate. Angel kept her hands behind her, and she would have knelt then, by habit; but if this Mistress expected that of her, Angel would know it in no uncertain terms.

No more, no less.

“Eyes,” the woman commanded.

Angel obeyed and, face level, looked back at Mistress. Taking in all of her. Blue and black bodice, the corset-style waist-cincher of the aristocracy, generous show of cleavage; knee-length black velvet skirt with a graceful slit up to her hip; tall, laced boots. Blonde, her pretty face and complexion had a steely Nordic quality to them; her cool green eyes were unblinking, appraising.

“What do you want here?”

Angel expected the question, but still it startled her. Master said, First, the envelope; then demur, humbled, hold still for the next question. Angel reached into her coat pocket and brought out the only thing in her possession. She bent to present it according to training, offering the thing with neck bent, held above her head.

Parcel delivered, Angel returned her hands behind her and held the posture of stooping, slack at the shoulders; perfectly still, mind void of expectations, not ‘waiting…’

(If it’s not ‘waiting,’ Sir, what do we call it?

(‘Demurral,’ slut. Patiently, even eternally, the slave must ‘demur.’)

She was grateful for the brief respite. She exhaled, inhaled, held it… I have this. I know the protocols; if I can just remember to take my time, not get nervous and slip up – breathe through it – I might please this Mistress, and persuade her to take me in…

She exhaled.

Mistress crinkled the antique parchment of the envelope. She went through the airline ticket and cab-fare cash. STD-testing, contraceptive and vaccine certificates. Perhaps she thought about the two tiny, cryptic keys (so did Angel). Finally, the company card, a faint, interested hmm.

” Slave-named ‘Angel,’” she read, voice flat. “Sent by Count Petros. Redwood Manor…? Eyes!”

The girl straightened and leveled her gaze. Mistress stuffed the envelope down her bodice, reached through the grate, and pulled down the girl’s cowl. Noting the blue steel, she returned an approving nod. “Does the esteemed Count have in mind a function for you?”

The second question, this was Angel’s cue. Her mouth suddenly dry, though, she hesitated.

Mistress would have none of that. “Slave, you are here in service to the Bazaar, aren’t you? Tray-servant? Slave-ornament, painslut, pleasuretoy? Merchandise for the auction?”

Angel bit her lip, bristling at the suggestion of merchandise. She was the owned property of a Peer of the Dominion West; the notion that she was available for anyone else to sell offended her on behalf of her Master. Distracted by this, she lost more time to hesitation.

“I’m actually quite busy with preparations for the Bazaar. So speak up, worthless slut, which is it?”

(If anyone requires an explanation of you, Angel, Master said as he personally padlocked her into the corset, you may say one thing. One thing only.)

Angel met her Superior’s eyes and recited it, “Mistress, I am referred here by my Count Petros of Redwood Hall, with his compliments. I am a humble, obedient Gift to your House. Use me as it pleases you, Mistress.”

“Just what I need, more decisions!” Mistress rolled her eyes. “All right, come in.”

Angel exhaled. Mistress opened the gate and admitted her new charge into the foyer. “Quickly now, let’s see this Gift unwrapped.”

Angel shed and folded her coat, gloves and sweater and placed these neatly by the umbrella stand. Breathe. Don’t rush. Obediently, she modeled herself, her poise on exhibition as much as her slave-shape and ‘pelt. The corset flattered her waist and displayed her buoyant décolletage and stiff, pink nipples. Gartered black nylons; trim, athletic legs; locked slave-shoes. Bare, wax-smooth flanks, haunches and slave-cunt. Mistress stepped closer, inspected her ponytailed, coppery-red hair, eyed its razor-straight bangs, and –

And then, her attention was gone. A distinguished-looking older Peer came through the foyer, and Mistress turned away to stop him. “Viscount, a word. I need your decision.”

“Lady Greta?”

“Will we hold an auction preview before dinner, or not?”

As the two spoke, the Mistress – Lady Greta, it seemed – slipped casually behind her slave. Angel felt her hands brought behind and manacled to the restraining-ring in back of the corset; a second pair of cuffs yanked her elbows together; a shoulder-tap put her on her knees, facing away; her mouth was gagged with a snap-on service bit; and with a final tap, her face was tipped lower, more humbled than before.

The Lady turned away to continue her talk with the Viscount.

Angel’s mind swam. The brusque nonchalance of Lady Greta’s actions thrilled her belly, how neatly and swiftly she disposed of the nuisance who had blundered in through her door. Bound and silenced in punishment of that, Angel melted at the delicious humiliation of being shunted apart into a posture of anonymity, an object of indifference.

Mmmmh, plus – bound at the elbows – how that makes me feel weak as a kitten every time! No trouble eroticizing this little anxiety.

Surreptitiously, she lifted her eyes – not her head – at a sound from across the vestibule.

Her breath caught, How gorgeous. At the far wall, inside a recessed, arch-shaped niche, the curvy, brunette slave-girl knelt sideways on a velvet cushion, hung in user account and strappado, arms behind her at two o’clock, slave-haunches half-lifted. A handsome Black Master was putting the finishing touches to his flesh-installation, locking her ankle-cuffs to a hook in the niche floor behind the pillow. Her wrist-cuffs were tethered to an eyebolt at the apex of the niche. Her upper body dipped elegantly forward, head bowed toward her knees. She was “slave-naked,’ too – abjectly nude but for collar and restraints – and in this posture, her large breasts dangled gracefully below her chin. Her bondage just completed at her Master’s hand, Angel watched as she eased serenely into it, all the tension in her shoulders, neck and arms surrendering to compliance, humility, resignation.

A Slave-Ornament… so well-trained… how elegant, lovely and peaceful in submission to her designated use.

As a last adornment, her Master took a long-stemmed rose from his vest and slipped it into his slave-girl’s tight-braided French-twist. How romantic. Then as a final gesture, he slid his hands between her legs, worked her up into a mild lather of slave-scent, then left her.

How hot.

“Lady Greta, what is that?”

Angel felt the heat of the Viscount’s attention on the back of her neck.

“Just more help, Master Viscount,” the Lady replied. “A Gift from one Count Petros, a Peer of the Western -“

“I know who he is.”

“I was thinking we might use this one in the -“

“Spare me. You handle the help, you’re Reception-Mistress,” the Superior grumbled. “And don’t forget, I am Master of Ceremonies. So your preparedness reflects on me.”

“Yes, Viscount,” Greta sighed.

“And what reflects poorly on me, will came back around to you, I can assure you of that.”

“Yes, Viscount.”

His boots clomped away.

After a final sigh, Lady Greta stood in front of Angel, who saw only the toes of her boots.

Breathe.

“Stand.”

Angel rose seamlessly from kneeling to upright. She saw the Lady’s leash and drew back her shoulders to present the collar; she felt slave-pride in offering it on behalf of Master. The Lady clipped her lead to the ring, and at the clicking sound, Angel bowed her head in a gesture of obeisance.

Mistress motioned her head behind her. Toward the Opening-Night Reception for the House Albion Annual Slave-Bazaar.

“At heel.”

III. The Drawing Room.

Angel followed on Lady Greta’s tether, bound and bitted, out of the foyer and through a wood-paneled library. The pace of the Lady’s lead was a test for the slave’s grace and mobility in her slave-heels, but she passed it. Despite her evident stress, the Lady-Mistress chatted amiably enough.

“The endorsement of your well-regarded Count, not to mention the collar, encourages me to think you’ve been properly trained for whatever function I choose.”

Angel felt relief at the words, then gratitude, then – dangerously – pride, and finally, arousal.

But the pride is not mine. No, itis slave-pride, which is but directed outward with gratitude for her trainer’s excellence in the Beautiful Craft. This belongs to my Count, it reflects on him. The arousal, however, came from her own belly. But that, too, is my Master’s possession, and his to use, abuse, or give away to others.

“Maybe I’ll just put you in the kitchen,” Greta mused. They proceeded into a long, narrow service hall. “The scullery, I think. That would be easiest for me.”

Walking behind at heel, Angel’s heart sank. The scullery? How could she be expected to ‘acquit Master’s reputation well,‘ bring him pride and esteem, toiling away the evening aproned and work-gagged in the pantry? And, in this corset?

Breathe. Her slave-conditioned mind quelled the internal protest, or tried to; she felt so disoriented by the pace of things, it was hard for her.

Greta’s lead tugged as Angel fell behind. “Oh, for goodness sake, don’t look so nervous!”

Chastened, Angel lowered her eyes. Breathe. She tried harder and succeeded this time, swallowing her selfish indignation. Exhale. Instead, she fixed the image in her belly, eroticized it, and accepted scullery-slave as her fate. She felt better then, calmer.

“Honestly, Angel,” Lady Greta said, “your performance tonight reflects on me, so I’m gonna help you. For instance…” She indicated the corset with a wink. “The fine workmanship on that slave-livery of yours, I fancy that cries out for display. Your ‘shape is well-formed, I like it. Tight, girlish haunches… hmmm, and those boobs? Get rid of those silly demicups, dear, and yours are exactly the kind of firm, young tits I like to see trussed up in fine gold chain.”

She chuckled at a flash of inspiration. “I can think of a niche in the billiards room, in fact, where you’d match the color scheme, too!”

A niche?

She went on, “Your presentation is suited for tray-servant, as well. I trust your nipples are up to a plate of canapes, a bottle of bubbly and a couple of flutes, hmm?”

Angel’s teeth tightened on the bit at the thought of it. To encourage herself, she pictured a fat, red ballgag to go with her ensemble…

The two emerged from the hall into an empty drawing room. The chamber was a small, cozy respite between two segments of the long passageway that led back into the townhouse. In the middle of the room, Greta dropped the leash – Angel stopped where she was – and moved to shut the door ahead, crossed the room and closed the door behind.

“Knees there,” she pointed. “Face away.”

Instantly, Angel complied, dropping to the edge of the Turkish rug; but did not bow her head; Mistress’s hand did not instruct her. That left her free to look ahead at the spectacle of bound male slave-pelt before her.