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I am so sore. I pass a very restless night. It is such a relief when the cell lights begin to fade up to signal a new day. But today, I shall have to see Dr Mendeleyev again and this time, with my bottom black and blue and striped with welts; the unavoidable, embarrassing, humiliating evidence that I have been disciplined by Neena.
Humiliation and humility. I have begun to think a lot about these two words. Similar words but significantly different. Humiliation is being shown - especially shown in front of other people - what you are and what your place is. Humility is taking stock and making a realistic assessment of who and what you are and behaving appropriately. If I can get ‘humility’ right, I might be able to avoid ‘humiliation’. I might just get just one step ahead of them. Perhaps I can avoid being tripped up so much. Perhaps even avoid some of the traps and ambushes they set for me. It might even help me survive, somewhere deep down as Jennifer. And yet, if I willingly search for the position they want me to occupy, will there be anything of Jennifer left?
Ssisma (I think it is) brings food – back to the usual plain but wholesome menu (but then what could I expect after my ridiculous attempt at an electronic escape?) – and a note in Russian which I am relieved I can read now, to tell me I will spend the day on cleaning duties – so what a relief! But Mendeleyev must know what happened. Surely. What was it he said? ‘I believe Neena has things to discuss with you.’ So the embarrassment is delayed but it will come soon. Inevitably.
In due course, another of the Domestic Team comes for me (I can’t remember what this particular one is called) and I have to signal to her that I need the toilet. They – the Domestics - are not collared, so there is a clear distinction between them and me. They must see it too. They must know that I am merely ‘property’ whilst they are ‘employees’.
She pushes me forward to release the anal bar and I re-live my embarrassment of yesterday but worse, because she can see the effects of my punishment. She giggles and traces the welts across my buttocks with her finger. I ‘perform’ and then get washed and after she has locked me up again, I am taken to the kitchen and begin cleaning the sinks, worktops and floors and all the time I am working, I think about the way she has a key to my chastity belt, as well as Gaspazha Neena. Another lesson. I am not ‘special’ to Neena, I am just another piece of equipment the Domestics can use if they need it. I think about the humiliation of my chastity belt and the things I have to do now – asking for the toilet and being supervised on the toilet – and everyone at the Dacha knows. It has all happened so fast! I was once was duaughter, then a wife. I once was a student, then a research scientist and then, in the twinkling of an eye life changed and I became a slave and a kept animal.
The kitchen is a large “professional” set up, so the owners, I mean my Owners – how that idea makes me angry and yet gives me a stab of sexual satisfaction at the same time - must be in the habit of catering for quite large parties of guests. I hope I am not on display when that happens, looking like I do at the moment. Imagine: hordes of smart successful men and women gazing at this naked slave with cane marks striped across her bum and thighs and Neena explaining in a happy relaxed tone to anyone who asked ‘Oh yes, this slave required discipline and she behaves so much better afterwards. How? I cane her, of course.’ It might be slightly better if they were holding a Kinkfest I suppose and in that case, the guests would want to take turns at beating me … which might be slightly more fun and definitely less humiliating. But I suppose I will just be kept locked away in my cell when I am not wanted.
As I move around the kitchen, I can feel my collar beginning to prick me as a warning to keep in bounds whenever I approach one of the kitchen doors.
The whole cleaning exercise takes a couple of hours and when I’m done Andrei takes me off to the gym for a weights workout. This is one part of my incarceration I really enjoy. I have become addicted to the way my body has changed and glad to see how the weights I can lift has steadily crept upward even though I am losing my femininity as a consequence. I don’t need a bra anymore. My pecs hold my breasts firmly up and out and my nipples stick up pert and cheeky. Then (as so often) there’s a stab of regret and sadness. I am sure must be unrecognisable to all my old friends; unrecognisable to Joe; even to my parents. That is the price I am paying. I enjoy the exercise but because I enjoy it, I have to pay. This time, the price is to become unrecognizable to all those I know and love. Jenny McEwan is now dead: she has gone and in her place is Vyerka, rabinya. When I have these thoughts I should be distraught, but when I’m in the gym, driving up the dumbbells in a shoulder press for example, all I feel is a sort of excitement, like skiing downhill, intoxicated by speed and wanting to go all the faster.
Then there is my skin colour. No longer a Scandinavian deep summer tan: more like an Indian girl. And all the time, the feeling of sexual arousal. An unscratchable itch. Literally unscratchable thanks to the chastity belt they make me wear. Its front plate curves perfectly over my vulva, covering my lips and my clit, leaving them to throb and itch and so I pour my energies into my work outs: sexual energy into physical performance. Physical satisfaction into muscular development. How I wish I could get my hands on Neena or even that Korean (or whatever she is) Domestic: I imagine tearing their clothes off, my lips sucking on their nipples, swirling around their belly buttons (I wonder if Gaspazha Neena is pierced there?) down between their legs, up and down there labia, across their clits and finally, finally, across their anal buds …..
Andrei brings my session to a close with a tap on my shoulder and a smile. He is pleased with my progress. I am pleased with my fantasies. I study his reflection in one of the mirrors which line the walls and catch him admiring my bum as he gets another injection ready. What is this stuff they give me? Actually I don’t care what it is, anymore. The thing which is fills my mind is sexual fantasies of serving strong attractive Doms and Dommes ….
Another day dawns and this time Gaspazha Neena comes to get me up: she is always so sexily dressed, to my eye, whether she is formal or casual. Today it’s smart casual. The black leather skirt again, the pressed white shirt, black tights and shoes, but from beneath the black nylon around her ankle comes the occasional flash of gold from her ankle bracelet. She carries a bag with her.
“Good morning rabinya Vyerochka. More intellectual work today. Under supervision.” She smirks as she stresses the word: we both know what she is talking about. She has used the name Verochka, so perhaps I am being given a chance to increase just a little in their estimation? For taking my punishment well? After all they have done to me, a simple change in the sound of the name they have given me, and I start to feel some responsibility to behave well, from their point of view. Am I really so easy to mould into the person they want me to be?
“Eat, then toilet, then get washed – and then get dressed,” Neena continues
Dressed? Now this is different. When I am ready she tips the contents of her bag on to the floor: dark cord jeans, a white T shirt, a dark blue polo shirt and a red fleece jacket, dark socks and black slip on clogs. These are the first clothes I have worn in ever so long. The material itches and scratches my skin for ages after I have put on the clothes and I really miss my nudity. Also putting on their clothes, dressing in the way they have chosen for me – it’s another watershed moment.
I mean, we are all so used to dressing the way we want – style, colour, design but I’m being dressed by other people without any reference to my wishes. Like being in prison. In prison – that’s what Gaspazha Neena said when she was punishing me: slaves are in custody. And look at the way I’m talking about them now. Neena is no longer the girl or Neena. She is now Gaspazha Neena. I don’t feel a surge of outrage anymore when they subject me to these various indignities. I just accept that this is how it will be. But I feel calm about it! The calmness is the only thing that is frightening me now. Like passengers clinging to the Titanic as it finally sinks beneath the sea: a dull inexorable final sense of inevitability. Dyes have been cast. Concrete has set. Molten metal has taken up its shape in the mould and cooled. They have taken me and made me a slave. Forever theirs. Forever their slave.
I am ready. Gaspazha Neena takes my hands behind me and handcuffs me. We march out of the building into fresh sweet air of a summer morning. It smells mild and damp and earthy. Our feet scrunch across gravel to a little convoy of three cars. A black Mercedes in front and behind and a people carrier in the middle. There are assorted men in smart black suits milling around. They climb into the two other cars after Gaspazha and I have been seated. My hands are unfastened and refastened to my seat. She leans forward and wraps a blindfold across my eyes. She converses in Russian to one of the men, some of which I can follow and much of which I can’t. Our convoy moves off, twisting and turning on the estate roads until eventually, we start to pick up speed and drive smoothly onwards, so I expect we must be on a motorway.
I can sense Gaspazha lean forward. She strips off my blind fold and I have to screw up my eyes against the brightness of the day.
“Time to show you something of your new country”, she says.
I peer out of the windows. I see what could be the suburbs of any modern European city. Houses, fields, some industrial buildings, bridges, some electricity pylons in the distance, other cars and commercial vehicles on the road - and the road signs: they are all in Cyrillic. As we drive on and the density of buildings increase so does the sense of being somewhere alien and it’s the mundane everyday details which make it so - such as the road signs, the way the buildings have been painted, the look of public buildings and the onion domes of the churches. As we get deeper into the city, the advertising billboards become oddly heroic. They stand is a carefully ordered line along the central reservation, each board rising from the ground on a single tall metal pole. For a moment, just a moment, my spirits begin to rise. One of the boards ahead has a very familiar name – it proclaims Marks and Spencer – and immediately my spirits fall because beneath it tells me I will find the store in Kiev Station Square … (1)
They are letting me see where we are going and they are not being kind. They are being clever and calculating and cruel. Rubbing my nose in the fact that I have been abducted and transported.
Look! they are saying to me, Look! You hoped it was some big pretence? Hoped that even though we said you were in Russia, you were actually in your home country? Well little rabinya Vyerochka, take a good look. Look with your own two eyes. What do you see? I see the vast Stalinist gothic towers of Moscow State University rising up in front of me. Dominating all the buildings around. The central tower soaring upwards, crowned with a red star. I feel like a criminal as she hears the sentence of the judge, telling her she will spend the rest of her life in prison. The rest of my life as a slave. Games are over. Now I understand. Now I know. This is the dreadful reality I must live with now! (2)
We stop. Gaspazha leans forward and removes my handcuffs.
“Now Vyerochka. I hope you are not going to try to run away? Do you remember what I told you about your collar?”
I nod my head.
“Look” she says. She tales out her mobile phone and presses ‘Contacts’. She scrolls down to BEPA.
“This word here? Do you know it?”
“BEPA? Yes, that says ‘Vyera’”
“No, I mean the word in front of BEPA”, Neena replies.
I shake my head.
“This word is ‘execute’ If you run, I will press ‘Execute BEPA’ and your collar will release the poison which will kill you. Do you understand me Vyerka?”
I nod dumbly.
“Good girl!” She says brightly. Just follow Pyotr – that’s the man in front of you. I will walk behind.
As we walk to the main door, a young couple saunters towards us. It could have been Joe and me. They are hand in hand, their bodies pressed into one another’s. She has wonderful luscious blonde hair, which shines and glows with health. I had hair once, but now it’s gone, for ever. I’m just bald. Smooth. Brown. Joe is gone too. The odd thing is my memories: these recollections should burn and sting - and they used to - but not anymore. I can revisit them in my mind and there is a eerie calmness. It is like remembering a favourite teacher from school days. The memory is nice but – it is just a memory. It’s power to affect who I am and how I feel now, has gone.
Neena is beside me now: “Tonight rabinya, you will visit my bed. I expect you to lick me to a delightful climax. I will not be satisfied with just one. I expect you to honour each and every erotic zone between my legs. Do you understand? I’ll spell it out for you: navel, thighs, labia, clit and anus. There is a nice broad leather paddle I would like to try on you. I’ll bring it up from the Punishment Room. You are going to feel that paddle – unless you are very good everywhere and I mean everywhere.”
(When Neena is really serious, she always speaks English, to leave no doubt. She is speaking English now.)
“Will you be good, rabinya? I mean will you be ravenous for another woman?”
This is the first time they have mentioned using my sexuality for their pleasure. I recall telling Josephine at Inward Bound that I was ready to let them play with my sexuality and how much more like a ‘real’ slave I felt afterwards. How much more ‘owned’ Now I am a real slave in the most complete and absolute sense of the word. An asset to be enjoyed and exploited.
I grin like an idiot and reply, “Spaseeba Gaspazha. I will look forward to that very much.”
“Good girl” replies Neena, patting my bum.”
We are going to see Dr Mendeleyev. When we reach his office it is clear that Neena and Dr Mendeleyev have more ‘things to discuss’.
“Vyerochka: We want you to go see Julia Romanova.” (Neena pronounces her first name “Yoolia”) “Just go straight forward down the corridor. Turn left. Her office is first left. Can you find your way?”
“Da, Gaspazha.”
“Will you get lost?”
“Nyet Gaspazha.”
“What will you do if you cannot find Julia?”
“Come back at once, Gaspazha.”
“Good girl. Off you go.”
Once the office door closes, Dr Mendeleyev sits down and folds his arms. He puts aside his avuncular air as he opens his discussions with Neena.
“So?”
“She is doing much better now. And she is great fun, from my point of view! She still has so much spirit. She puts her physical and sexual energies into her fitness regime in the gymnasium – physically, she is magnificent - and she still has resources left to learn her new language and complete the other tasks I give her. I am very pleased”
“At night?”
“Much better. The frequent panic attacks Vyera suffered from when she was alone in her cell and had time to reflect on her position; as she realized that time was passing and there is no sign of release; that she really was trapped in slavery and would remain trapped for the whole of the rest of her life, these are now much less frequent and the attacks she has, are less severe.
Overall, she is much calmer. She sleeps much more soundly. She no longer talks in her sleep; not even about Joe. She wakes much more refreshed. When we drove here, it was absolutely clear to her that all we had told her - about being in Russia - was true. She paid close attention to what she was seeing, but she had a calm, resigned air about her. Psychologically, she seems much more compliant.”
Mendeleyev nods slowly, evidently weighing Neena’s observations against his expectations and his experience. “So it seems to be working well”, he muses. He leans forward to glance through some laboratory reports: pink for haematology, blue for clinical chemistry. ”Analysis of the urine and blood samples Andrei has taken allow me to monitor her production of stress hormones. That is the sort of information which allows for a more precise titration of the drugs we have given her to the response she exhibits. It moves the whole training process to an higher plane.” Mendeleyev nods his head slowly. “Yes, our efforts have been well rewarded.”
“And then there is the propranolol she is receiving.(3) Effective at reducing blood pressure and equally effective in salving painful memories. You see Neena: our memories are not like photographs. Once taken, photographs remain unchanged. Our memories are more complex. They reform each time we visit them and they can be associated with different emotions on each occasion. Months ago, when this girl thought of her husband, it would be a happy memory. More recently, the memory would be associated with the sense of intense, painful loss. Now the propranolol has restored calmness to her. The memories of things past are no longer painful. Also her sexual appetite is increased by the melanocyte stimulating hormone. All her new memories and speculations about her future are coloured by sexual desire which is delightfully exaggerated by denial. Who would have thought that a chastity belt could have such an important adjuvant role in pharmacological psychology?”
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Footnotes;
(1) Marks and Spencer. A famous and revered British shopping chain. Branches abroad are a godsend for British ex-pats who can now buy exactly the same undies abroad as they buy at home! If you are searching for this particular branch, go to Kiev Station Square; it’s number 3 on the list of Marks & Spencer’s sites in Moscow!
(2) Moscow State University. An iconic Moscow building from the Stalin Era. One of the Seven Moscow Sisters built after the Second World war (known in Russia as the Great War Against Fascism) and sometimes referred to dismissively as ‘wedding cake architecture’
(3) Propranolol. A drug first used to treat the pain of cardiac angina but more recently used to treat patients who have persistent psychological distress from psychological trauma, eg: ‘post traumatic stress disorder’
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
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