Forced Submission (15 page)

M lay on the seat, which had converted into a quite
comfortable, if narrow, bed, and stared out the window at the night sky. It was
hard to believe she was high above the ocean, instead of back home in her sleep
cage, cuffed and chained. Sir was asleep beside her, the flight attendant
nowhere to be seen in the dimly lit cabin.

Mr. & Mrs. Hughes.

It had startled M to be addressed like that; to hear that
surname. Hughes. For a split second she’d had no idea who the flight attendant
was referring to, though she was too well trained to voice her confusion. But
as she’d mused on it, she’d realized that yes, of course, Sir had a name. It
was Hughes. And for purposes of traveling, he was calling her his wife. He must
have a first name too, she realized, but for the life of her, she couldn’t
recall it. He was
Sir.
He had always been Sir. And she had always been
M.

But had she? If Sir had to have a name, then didn’t she,
too, have one? Sir told her she was M. He told her slaves didn’t require names,
nor did they deserve them. She was M, and that was all. But had it always been
so?

She knew that it had not. There had been a time before.
There had been a different life. But each time she tried to recapture memories
of that time before, they always moved just out of her reach. Sir would not
want her to remember. To remember was to disobey. And to disobey resulted in
punishment.

Sir had been so good to her, especially these past few weeks
as they prepared for their trip abroad. She owed him everything. She would not
disobey. She would not think about that murky past that no longer had a place
in her life. She was M. She belonged to Sir. He was the Master of her body and
soul. He allowed her to serve him. She lived for him. Without him, she would
die.

M touched the silky turban that covered her head, wishing
she could take it off. The champagne and rich food they’d had for dinner had
left her feeling queasy. She wanted to visit the cabin’s bathroom, but didn’t
dare risk disturbing the sleeping man beside her.

When the flight attendant had first placed the trays with
the sumptuous fare in front of them, M had waited for Sir. He had tucked into
his food, ignoring her. She had sat quietly, her stomach growling as she stared
at the meal in front of her, wondering when Sir would give her a bite.

Brian, who had hovered nearby, leaned over them suddenly,
asking, “Is there something you needed, Mrs. Hughes? I can get you something
else if the food’s not to your liking.”

Sir had put his hand on her forearm, giving it a hard
squeeze, while he answered for her. “No, no. Everything’s fine. We’ll let you
know if we need anything else. Thanks.” He’d stared at Brian until the flight
attendant had moved away from them.

“Eat,” Sir had said in an undertone to M. “Use the knife and
fork and feed yourself. Go on. Don’t attract attention. Remember, things are
different when we’re not at home.” M had picked up the fork, stifling a sudden,
frightening urge to plunge it into Sir’s arm. The impulse had shocked her, and
her hands shook a little as she had cut and eaten the chicken in its heavy
cream sauce and sipped at the bubbly, cold champagne.

After dinner, Sir had read a newspaper while M stared out
the window, watching the setting sun splash the sky with vivid golds and pinks
that had darkened to violet, deep blue and finally black. Later in the evening
Sir had instructed her to go into the bathroom and masturbate, which she had
done readily enough, dutifully asking for whispered permission to come, even
though he couldn’t hear her. In an odd way, she believed he
could
hear
her, almost as if he were a god, all-seeing and all-knowing, even though she
knew this couldn’t really be true.

She enjoyed the release orgasms gave her, especially when
they weren’t accompanied by a whipping or other “erotic torture”, as Sir called
the pain he usually administered along with the pleasure. The orgasms Sir gave
her could be more powerful, but they exhausted her, whereas those given at her
own hand were sweet and simple, without cost.

Sleep eluding her, M continued to stare out the window as
she thought about where they were going. It was hard to imagine they were
flying all the way to Africa to find a sister slave. M’s feelings were mixed on
the matter. She was excited that she would have someone else to talk to and be
with, someone other than Sir. But she was also kind of jealous. After all, Sir
and she spent every moment together, except when he was called away for his
business or other obligations. As Sir often told her, they were closer than
vanilla partners could ever be. Theirs, he assured her, was the sacred bond
between Master and slave, one that could never be broken. How would a third
person fit into that equation? Of course, she never volunteered her feelings on
the subject, as Sir had never asked.

In the days and weeks that followed his first mention of
Prince Kamau, Sir had spent hours drilling M on proper behavior and decorum
once they arrived on the island. Over and over, he would say, “Tell me again
what your story is, if anyone asks.”

Dutifully, M replied, “I came to Sir seven months ago to
learn true submission at the hands of a Master. I came willingly and of course
I can leave at any time. Not that I want to. Sir is my Master, and he makes me
very happy. He takes care of all my needs and satisfies all my wants. I am
truly the luckiest girl in the world.”

M was vaguely disquieted by this script. She knew she hadn’t
come to him willingly, though the details of that were blurred in her mind, and
she knew she couldn’t leave at any time, though she no longer wanted to. After
all, where would she go? Her world was here now. Sir had become her world.

Sir had warned if she deviated from the script, she would be
severely punished. Then he would smile and tell her he was pleased to have such
an obedient slave girl, and he knew she would make him proud in front of the
prince and his entourage. She desperately hoped she would succeed, because she
knew the price would be heavy indeed if she failed.

~*~

Zahara stood still in front of the mirror as Jira carefully
applied kohl around her eyes, painted her nipples with rouge and dusted her
body with a delicately scented gold powder that made her skin softly shimmer.
The diamond nose stud the prince had given her for her birthday sparkled like a
promise. Today was the day!

The golden-haired, handsome American Master was coming to
see her. Of all the potential sub girls in Prince Kamau’s harem, the man called
Master E had selected her! If chosen, the amount of money that would be
deposited into her bank account boggled the mind. It was more than either of
her parents had ever earned in their lifetimes. The funds would enable her to
someday go to university to become a nurse, which had always been her dream.

Since Zahara had first discovered the prince’s erotic D/s
training school, or harem as he preferred to call it, when she was surfing at
an internet café in Maputo for job opportunities, her life had unfolded like a
magic folktale. A year ago nearly to the day, a private yacht had collected her
from the port and taken her to the prince’s magnificent and opulent compound on
the otherwise deserted island, and she’d never left, except to return to her
small village on holidays to visit her family.

Her parents and siblings were under the impression she was
still living in Maputo, and earning a living as a nanny to a wealthy British
family while studying English, a story she let them believe, as they would
never understand or condone what she was actually doing.

Along with the erotic training in D/s, which suited her
sexual orientation and temperament, Zahara had made real friends among the
women of Prince Kamau’s harem. Jira, the prince’s consort and lover, was her
closest friend, and the thought of leaving her behind, even for a handsome,
rich American, made Zahara sad.

“Don’t worry,” Jira said now as she smoothed jasmine oil
over Zahara’s long braids, “after the one-year contract with the American is
over, you can travel back to see us. Maybe he will even permit a visit before
that. And you have been chosen, Zahara! No more waiting and wondering if you
will be selected. You will know, at last, the joy of submission to a man who
will love and cherish you as you deserve.”

Zahara said nothing to this, not wanting to appear
ungrateful. The thing that bothered her about this American coming to see her
was that he already had a sub girl, one he already loved and cherished. Prince
Kamau had allowed Zahara to read the emails, and the American’s words were
still etched in her mind:
M will always be first and foremost in my heart.
She is not only my slave girl, she is my lover and my confidante. She is my
soul mate.

Though Zahara found the use of an initial instead of the
girl’s name peculiar, the man’s words made it clear he was in love with this
girl. Would there be room in his heart for another? When she’d voiced this fear
to Jira, Jira had smiled knowingly. “There is plenty of room in a man’s heart,”
she’d laughed, “and in his bed, too. Remember, the D/s relationship is not like
others. A Master can love all his sub girls, though he might love each in a
different way. Look at the Prince. While I’m his consort and his chosen
one”—Jira had beamed with that quiet, radiant joy she always exhibited when
talking about the prince—“he loves Aisha and Imani just as much. You will see,
dear one. Have faith. The prince will make sure this is the right man for you.
If not,”—she shrugged philosophically—“there are plenty more Masters in the
sea.”

Later that afternoon, Zahara knelt up on the silk cushion,
her back arched, breasts proud, eyes down. She was naked except for the thin
gold chains that hung around her neck and from her waist and the dozens of gold
bangles on either wrist, also gifts from the prince. Her hands rested, palms up,
on her spread knees. She kept her face a mask of calm serenity, though her
heart thumped in her chest. She wished she possessed the true serenity that
Jira radiated like a glowing aura around her person.

“You have more grace and serenity than you know,” Jira had
told her as she’d helped her into position on the dais in the corner of the
receiving room. “Remember what Kamau says—just be yourself. Your grace will
follow.”

She heard the rumble of the jeep arriving at the house, the
sound of the front doors opening and then muffled voices. She stiffened with
anticipation and then laughed softly at herself. “Relax. Remember your grace.
You have been selected for consideration, but not yet chosen. Show the American
you are worthy of his attentions.”

Zahara could hear them talking now—the prince’s deep,
melodious voice, Jira’s low, sweet murmur and another man, the American man,
his voice also deep and pleasing to the ear. She longed to hop down from the
raised dais and steal to the door so she could peek out and get an advance look
at the pair of Americans who had traveled across the world to meet her, but of
course she remained in position.

She would never dream of disgracing the prince or herself
with such behavior. She had been told to wait in the kneeling presentation
position, and that meant her eyes stayed downcast until she was directed
otherwise.
Soon enough
, she told herself, recalling one of her father’s
many proverbs:
A patient man will eat ripe fruit.

~*~

M felt as if she had arrived on a movie set. Though she was
exhausted from the long trip, she couldn’t help but gape in awe at her
surroundings. Though it was still winter back in the States, the air in Maputo
had been hot and humid, making her sweat beneath the turban, her feet chafing
in the high heels Sir had made her wear.

It was cooler on the island, which was like something out of
a travel catalog, the sand along the shore a soft pinkish white against the
pure, deep turquoise of the sea. A welcoming breeze blew in off the water. An
open jeep was waiting at the dock to whisk them inland along a narrow road that
led to walled compound. Once the gates had swung open, they entered lavishly
tended grounds, the colors lush and tropical, a wealth of exotic flowers
scenting the air. The huge house that spread out before them made even Sir’s
house look like a cottage.

At the open door stood a handsome pair who smiled in
greeting as Sir and M climbed out of the jeep and made their way up the path.
The prince himself was younger than she’d imagined, perhaps in his early
thirties. He wore a flowing shirt of white cotton open at the throat, the hem
of the sleeves embroidered with brightly colored patterns, and matching loose
white pants. His shoulders were broad, his tall, lean body muscular, but it was
his face she found so compelling it was hard to look away.

His skin was like smooth, dark chocolate over high, sculpted
cheekbones. He had a wide, hawkish nose, the nostrils flaring slightly over a large,
sensuous mouth that curved up in a wide smile, revealing very white teeth. His
large, expressive eyes were black, except for a curiously beautiful ring of
gold around each iris. There were laugh lines radiating from the corners of his
eyes and a genuine kindness in his smile that recalled someone or something in
her life, though she couldn’t remember what exactly.

The woman who stood beside him exuded elegance despite her
bare feet and the sheer silk shift she wore that did little to hide the graceful,
naked body beneath it. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her skin the color of
cinnamon brushed with gold, her eyes an unexpected and beautiful emerald green.
She wore a thick choker of beaten gold at her throat and her dark hair hung in
a long, thick braid down her back, plaited with gold ribbons. Each time she
moved, little bells tinkled on the gold bracelets she wore around her slender
ankles. M felt dowdy in comparison, despite the lovely dress Sir had bought for
her with its matching silk turban and the elegant, if uncomfortable, high heels
on her feet. She was relieved when introductions were made to realize this was
not the woman Sir had come to acquire.