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14 Mart 2023, 17:43
Eventually Doctor Riemen gave me permission to get up from my hands and knees. I was given the box that contained my personal effects and allowed to get dressed.
It felt weird getting dressed in the main lobby, with the receptionist, and other Vineyard employees watching me, but the Vineyard is a strange place. They don't follow the same rules that we're taught to follow in polite society. They target submissive people like me, and set up rules to humiliate us, degrade us, subject us to strict discipline and cruel punishments.
"How does it feel to wear clothes again, darling?" Christina asked, and I had to admit it felt odd. I had put on my bra and panties first, and was only slightly clothed, but even the tiny garments I was wearing made me feel different. The Vineyard had made me feel like being a naked slave-girl was my natural state of being. My polyester/spandex panties covered up my vulva and at least made a valiant attempt to cover up my buttocks. My bra completely covered up my nipples, and at least partially covered up my breasts. It somehow felt wrong to wear clothes. I felt like I was breaking the rules somehow by covering up my naughty bits.
"It feels wrong somehow," I said to my mistress, "It feels like I'm violating the rules by not being naked."
"Does that sound crazy?" I asked as I retrieved my dress shirt from the box and slid my arms into each sleeve.
"Not at all, dear," Christina's Aunt Ruth replied, "You're merely embracing your submissive identity. Submissives ought to never wear clothing. Sadly, we live in a society that doesn't permit submissives to display their true selves in public."
I continued to get dressed, and when I was finished, the ninja-photographer showed up, dashing across the lobby, and calling out my name, "Ms. Schön! Ms. Schön! Don't leave just yet," she called out.
The ninja-photographer was an impressive sprinter. Her feet barely even seemed to touch the ground as she flew across the lobby. She was graceful and fast on her feet. I'll bet she was on the track team in high school.
I froze in place and made eye-contact with her. As a submissive, I was naturally inclined to follow orders, so when she told me not to leave, I did my best to make it obvious I was doing exactly what she had told me to do.
She stopped all forward momentum when she was standing in front of me, and then she held up a manila folder.
"I finished processing your photos, and they got your membership ID finished," she explained, "I thought it'd be a good idea if you had it before you left the building."
I took the folder, looked her in the eye and said, "Thank you, Vivian."
I was really grateful I finally managed to remember her name. Calling her ninja-photographer would have just sounded childish.
I fished my ID card out of the envelope. It had my name, my date of birth, my membership number, my inmate number, and a photo of my face. It said MEMBERSHIP CARD, up near the top, but didn't elaborate anywhere on the card as to what club I was a member of. It also didn't list the Vineyard's address. Apparently, they were very serious about keeping the existence of the Vineyard a secret.
"Congratulations," Christina said, "You're now a card-carrying submissive. You can't get much more official than that."
* * * * * * * * * *
Christina drove me back home and I staggered into my apartment building. I was emotionally and physically exhausted from my first visit to the Vineyard and wondered how well I would be able to function if Christina kept taking me there.
Julie's energy was a sharp contrast to my emotional and physical exhaustion. She was like a tree squirrel on a double-espresso caffeine high.
"Gwen, you're home," Julie enthused, rushing over and giving me a hug before I had even made it three feet into our apartment, "I have great news!"
"Um, okay," I said uncertainly, "What news?"
"Lyndsay has invited both of us over to her place for a sleepover," Julie gushed, "You need to get dressed. Oh, wait, you're already dressed. Are you ready to go? You look like you're ready."
"Julie, you do realize that I'm twenty-one years old, right?" I asked my roommate, "A sleepover is something girls do when they're between the ages of eight and eighteen."
Julie took two steps back and gestured emphatically with her hands, "No, the definitions have changed," Julie insisted, "Nowadays when you invite somebody to your house for a sleepover, it means that you're inviting them over for sex, and it usually means sex with multiple partners."
I raised a single eyebrow, and said, "I think the word you want to use is orgy."
"Orgy?" Julie said, aghast, "No! That's archaic language! You sound like you're stuck in the 1970s! Nowadays, an all-night sex get-together is referred to as a sleepover."
I was too tired to argue with her.
"Okay, Julie," I said to my roommate, "I apologize for etiler escort (http://www.escortbayanistanbul.biz/Bolge/etiler-escort/) being behind on the linguistic rules. A sleepover is totally what adults do when they want to invite other adults over to their house for sex."
Julie smiled triumphantly and added, "And Lyndsay has invited both of us over to her house for a sleepover! This may just be the best weekend ever!"
Actually, Lyndsay is an exceptional sex-partner. She's younger than I am, but her skill at cunnilingus is extraordinary. She has the sort of skill that you'd expect would take decades of practice to achieve. I don't know how she got so good at it, at such a young age, but she was extraordinary. The only reason I was so lacking in enthusiasm was the fact that I was utterly exhausted.
"We'll take my car," Julie said, finally noticing my lack of energy, "You don't look very pumped right now. In fact, you look like you might fall asleep behind the wheel, so it'd probably be better if I drive."
I allowed myself to be led, and permitted Julie to drop my tired ass into the passenger seat of her impeccably clean Volkswagen GTI. I swear Julie must have some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder when it comes to cleaning. She'd been driving the same car for over three years now, and it was so uncluttered and spotless, it looked like she'd just driven it off of the dealership parking lot.
"Buckle up, Sweetheart," Julie said cheerfully as she sat in the driver's seat and started the engine, "If we get into an accident, I don't want you flying through the windshield."
I buckled my seatbelt, and it wasn't until about three or four miles later that I realized that Julie had called me Sweetheart. I had known Julie for years, and she had never called me anything other than Gwen. So, now after having sex with me just once, she was calling me affectionate pet names? Julie and I weren't supposed to be falling in love with each other. We were just supposed to be friends and temporary fuck-buddies until she and Gabriel got married. Was Julie not sticking to the plan?
Since Lyndsay and her mother live in the wealthy section of Fairhaven, we couldn't just drive up to their front door. Julie and I were stopped at a 10-foot tall gate and had to push a button and ask somebody to buzz the gate open. Dasha answered, and immediately recognized my voice. She knew that I was good friends with both Lyndsay and Lyndsay's mother, so I got buzzed in immediately.
"Who's Dasha?" Julie asked as we drove through the gate.
"Household servant," I replied, "Sort of like a maid. She lives there with Lyndsay and her mom."
"Live-in servants?" Julie asked, "That's posh. Just how much money do Lyndsay and her mother have?"
I didn't even want to do the math. Lyndsay's mom basically owned her own pharmaceutical company. And when you owned a pharmaceutical company, it was basically like having a license to print money. They had far more money than they would ever need.
Dasha was leaving just as Julie and I were arriving. Julie had a chance to exchange a few words with the poker-faced servant, and then Lyndsay enthusiastically greeted both Julie and me.
It was Julie's first time at Lyndsay's house, and she wanted the grand tour. Lyndsay gave Julie a hug and agreed to show her every room in the house. Somehow, I felt slighted. I had never gotten the grand tour.
Of course, she showed Julie the Olympic-sized swimming pool. And then she showed her the living room, which was almost certainly larger than my entire apartment. Then there was the laundry room (Julie and I must use a public laundry room down on the lobby level of our apartment building). Lyndsay's family home also had an entertainment room (with an overhead movie projector and a 240-inch movie screen that retracts into the ceiling). And then there was the exercise room with three elliptical trainers, a balance beam, a Roman chair, horizontal bars for gymnastics and a whole army of foldable exercise mats.
Moving on, the house had a total of five bedrooms, four bathrooms, an attic, an enviable kitchen, equipped with every modern baking, chopping, slicing, blending and frying device I could think of. Then there was the dining room, with a dining room table, capable of seating eight people.
I was starting to get a little bit cranky and resentful at how much more Lyndsay had compared to Julie and me, but after the tour, Lyndsay fed us. I hadn't had anything to eat all day and I was practically starving. Offering me food was totally the smart move to get me to like her again.
First, there was an extraordinarily delicious soup; with a name that I couldn't pronounce; served in white, porcelain bowls with gold detailing along the rim. Then there was something called bacon, gruyère and spinach quiche. And finally, there were strawberries
It felt weird getting dressed in the main lobby, with the receptionist, and other Vineyard employees watching me, but the Vineyard is a strange place. They don't follow the same rules that we're taught to follow in polite society. They target submissive people like me, and set up rules to humiliate us, degrade us, subject us to strict discipline and cruel punishments.
"How does it feel to wear clothes again, darling?" Christina asked, and I had to admit it felt odd. I had put on my bra and panties first, and was only slightly clothed, but even the tiny garments I was wearing made me feel different. The Vineyard had made me feel like being a naked slave-girl was my natural state of being. My polyester/spandex panties covered up my vulva and at least made a valiant attempt to cover up my buttocks. My bra completely covered up my nipples, and at least partially covered up my breasts. It somehow felt wrong to wear clothes. I felt like I was breaking the rules somehow by covering up my naughty bits.
"It feels wrong somehow," I said to my mistress, "It feels like I'm violating the rules by not being naked."
"Does that sound crazy?" I asked as I retrieved my dress shirt from the box and slid my arms into each sleeve.
"Not at all, dear," Christina's Aunt Ruth replied, "You're merely embracing your submissive identity. Submissives ought to never wear clothing. Sadly, we live in a society that doesn't permit submissives to display their true selves in public."
I continued to get dressed, and when I was finished, the ninja-photographer showed up, dashing across the lobby, and calling out my name, "Ms. Schön! Ms. Schön! Don't leave just yet," she called out.
The ninja-photographer was an impressive sprinter. Her feet barely even seemed to touch the ground as she flew across the lobby. She was graceful and fast on her feet. I'll bet she was on the track team in high school.
I froze in place and made eye-contact with her. As a submissive, I was naturally inclined to follow orders, so when she told me not to leave, I did my best to make it obvious I was doing exactly what she had told me to do.
She stopped all forward momentum when she was standing in front of me, and then she held up a manila folder.
"I finished processing your photos, and they got your membership ID finished," she explained, "I thought it'd be a good idea if you had it before you left the building."
I took the folder, looked her in the eye and said, "Thank you, Vivian."
I was really grateful I finally managed to remember her name. Calling her ninja-photographer would have just sounded childish.
I fished my ID card out of the envelope. It had my name, my date of birth, my membership number, my inmate number, and a photo of my face. It said MEMBERSHIP CARD, up near the top, but didn't elaborate anywhere on the card as to what club I was a member of. It also didn't list the Vineyard's address. Apparently, they were very serious about keeping the existence of the Vineyard a secret.
"Congratulations," Christina said, "You're now a card-carrying submissive. You can't get much more official than that."
* * * * * * * * * *
Christina drove me back home and I staggered into my apartment building. I was emotionally and physically exhausted from my first visit to the Vineyard and wondered how well I would be able to function if Christina kept taking me there.
Julie's energy was a sharp contrast to my emotional and physical exhaustion. She was like a tree squirrel on a double-espresso caffeine high.
"Gwen, you're home," Julie enthused, rushing over and giving me a hug before I had even made it three feet into our apartment, "I have great news!"
"Um, okay," I said uncertainly, "What news?"
"Lyndsay has invited both of us over to her place for a sleepover," Julie gushed, "You need to get dressed. Oh, wait, you're already dressed. Are you ready to go? You look like you're ready."
"Julie, you do realize that I'm twenty-one years old, right?" I asked my roommate, "A sleepover is something girls do when they're between the ages of eight and eighteen."
Julie took two steps back and gestured emphatically with her hands, "No, the definitions have changed," Julie insisted, "Nowadays when you invite somebody to your house for a sleepover, it means that you're inviting them over for sex, and it usually means sex with multiple partners."
I raised a single eyebrow, and said, "I think the word you want to use is orgy."
"Orgy?" Julie said, aghast, "No! That's archaic language! You sound like you're stuck in the 1970s! Nowadays, an all-night sex get-together is referred to as a sleepover."
I was too tired to argue with her.
"Okay, Julie," I said to my roommate, "I apologize for etiler escort (http://www.escortbayanistanbul.biz/Bolge/etiler-escort/) being behind on the linguistic rules. A sleepover is totally what adults do when they want to invite other adults over to their house for sex."
Julie smiled triumphantly and added, "And Lyndsay has invited both of us over to her house for a sleepover! This may just be the best weekend ever!"
Actually, Lyndsay is an exceptional sex-partner. She's younger than I am, but her skill at cunnilingus is extraordinary. She has the sort of skill that you'd expect would take decades of practice to achieve. I don't know how she got so good at it, at such a young age, but she was extraordinary. The only reason I was so lacking in enthusiasm was the fact that I was utterly exhausted.
"We'll take my car," Julie said, finally noticing my lack of energy, "You don't look very pumped right now. In fact, you look like you might fall asleep behind the wheel, so it'd probably be better if I drive."
I allowed myself to be led, and permitted Julie to drop my tired ass into the passenger seat of her impeccably clean Volkswagen GTI. I swear Julie must have some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder when it comes to cleaning. She'd been driving the same car for over three years now, and it was so uncluttered and spotless, it looked like she'd just driven it off of the dealership parking lot.
"Buckle up, Sweetheart," Julie said cheerfully as she sat in the driver's seat and started the engine, "If we get into an accident, I don't want you flying through the windshield."
I buckled my seatbelt, and it wasn't until about three or four miles later that I realized that Julie had called me Sweetheart. I had known Julie for years, and she had never called me anything other than Gwen. So, now after having sex with me just once, she was calling me affectionate pet names? Julie and I weren't supposed to be falling in love with each other. We were just supposed to be friends and temporary fuck-buddies until she and Gabriel got married. Was Julie not sticking to the plan?
Since Lyndsay and her mother live in the wealthy section of Fairhaven, we couldn't just drive up to their front door. Julie and I were stopped at a 10-foot tall gate and had to push a button and ask somebody to buzz the gate open. Dasha answered, and immediately recognized my voice. She knew that I was good friends with both Lyndsay and Lyndsay's mother, so I got buzzed in immediately.
"Who's Dasha?" Julie asked as we drove through the gate.
"Household servant," I replied, "Sort of like a maid. She lives there with Lyndsay and her mom."
"Live-in servants?" Julie asked, "That's posh. Just how much money do Lyndsay and her mother have?"
I didn't even want to do the math. Lyndsay's mom basically owned her own pharmaceutical company. And when you owned a pharmaceutical company, it was basically like having a license to print money. They had far more money than they would ever need.
Dasha was leaving just as Julie and I were arriving. Julie had a chance to exchange a few words with the poker-faced servant, and then Lyndsay enthusiastically greeted both Julie and me.
It was Julie's first time at Lyndsay's house, and she wanted the grand tour. Lyndsay gave Julie a hug and agreed to show her every room in the house. Somehow, I felt slighted. I had never gotten the grand tour.
Of course, she showed Julie the Olympic-sized swimming pool. And then she showed her the living room, which was almost certainly larger than my entire apartment. Then there was the laundry room (Julie and I must use a public laundry room down on the lobby level of our apartment building). Lyndsay's family home also had an entertainment room (with an overhead movie projector and a 240-inch movie screen that retracts into the ceiling). And then there was the exercise room with three elliptical trainers, a balance beam, a Roman chair, horizontal bars for gymnastics and a whole army of foldable exercise mats.
Moving on, the house had a total of five bedrooms, four bathrooms, an attic, an enviable kitchen, equipped with every modern baking, chopping, slicing, blending and frying device I could think of. Then there was the dining room, with a dining room table, capable of seating eight people.
I was starting to get a little bit cranky and resentful at how much more Lyndsay had compared to Julie and me, but after the tour, Lyndsay fed us. I hadn't had anything to eat all day and I was practically starving. Offering me food was totally the smart move to get me to like her again.
First, there was an extraordinarily delicious soup; with a name that I couldn't pronounce; served in white, porcelain bowls with gold detailing along the rim. Then there was something called bacon, gruyère and spinach quiche. And finally, there were strawberries