Chapter 1

"No! I won't do it!" Marissa's lip trembled, but she stared defiantly at Tom. "You can't make me!"

"I don't want to make you," Tom said quietly, his voice rigid with self-control. Marissa was naked, kneeling on her knees in front of him. Her arms were wrapped around her torso in a protective gesture and her eyes were flashing. Tom sighed. Things weren't working out with Marissa, which was a shame, because he had to admit that he was enormously attracted to her, and desperately wanted to own her.

Looking down on the impossible, gorgeous creature at his feet, he sighed. Marissa's hair was thick and loosely waved, copper-colored in the flickering light of the many candles lit about the spacious master bathroom of Tom's penthouse. It was that hair that first attracted him at the party. It wasn't auburn exactly, and certainly not red. No, if it had to be defined, it was copper, burnished with gold and lustrously tousled now. Her skin was smooth and soft, and her eyes were large and dark as she glared up at him, daring him with her expression.

When she wanted to submit; when he 'ordered' her to do what suited her, Marissa could be very submissive, or at least compliant. When he shackled her facedown to a whipping board, legs lewdly splayed on either side, pussy spread against the leather-covered wood, so he could whip her with his new heavy-tressed whip, she obeyed without hesitation. And her moans and cries were so sexy as each blow from the whip forced her little pussy against the leather, the lovely sting of the whip mingling so deliciously with the mounting friction against her clit.

When he ordered her to kneel before him, naked, and hold perfectly still with her mouth open like a little bird's, she did so, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. She was like a statue of a goddess as he fucked her face, impaling her so that he knew she couldn't breathe until he pulled back enough to allow it.

But now, as he demanded something that she didn't already want to do, something that would actually require submission and not just the satisfaction of her masochistic and sluttish nature, she balked. As with each other task or idea he devised that didn't meet specifically with her own desires, she had resisted, and then refused him. When he had wanted to fuck her ass, Marissa had demurred, telling him she never 'allowed' a man 'back there.'

At first he had been challenged, and he had gotten a thrill from holding her down and 'forcing' her. He had taken her virgin ass, and she had cried out and struggled, but she had orgasmed, screaming his name, and he had realized pretty quickly that what she was after was the fight. She wanted him to present suggestions and ideas that she would refuse, so that he could then 'force' her to obey.

And it had been fun, at first. What a wild two weeks they had had since that first night he had brought her home. They had barely left the house, so focused on exploring each other that their bodies were raw from the passion; literally sore to the touch, and yet still the flame seemed to burn in him for her.

He still experienced a delirium of desire when their bodies came together, and he could feel her sweat-slick breasts and belly flattened beneath him. It was as if a bolt of electric current ran through both their bodies, and would only release them from each other when it ceased, leaving long shuddering waves of pleasure in its wake.

They had met at his friend George's house, where she had assured him that she was submissive and wanted, no, was longing for, a 'real' master to take her in hand. She had come with a group of girlfriends, but she had left with him. Against his own better judgement, Tom had taken her home that very night. What ensued could barely be classified as a Dominant/submissive love affair. From the beginning it was more of a fight, with him demanding obedience, and her refusing, or daring him to 'make her', which he would usually do, subduing her through sheer force. It had been exhilarating, leading to wild and clashing sexual encounters that left them both completely spent.

In a word, it was fun, but it wasn't what Tom was seeking. It was a game, and clearly that was what this mysterious young woman was interested in. A game of cat and mouse, where the mouse was completely in control.

Tom, on the other hand, wanted a truly submissive sexual slave who would obey his every command and comply with his every whim, however outrageous. Someone who would kiss the whip after he used it to flog her, someone who would live for the chance to serve him and ache for his tender words.

Somehow Marissa had burned her way under his skin in a way that was very rare for Tom, who liked to think of himself as surrounded by an invisible sheet of ice that kept others at a proper distance. How had she slipped under the ice? When he'd met her at the party, he had been ready to leave. Normally Tom was aloof at these events. His friend George held them several times a year at his country estate in Orange County . The guests were discreetly served by a household of slave girls and boys who saw to everyone's comfort, and also served as the evening's entertainment, if the guests weren't sufficiently titillated with each other.

Tom casually enjoyed the parties, the freely flowing fine champagne and the buffets piled with gourmet foods. The naked and semi-naked servants silently glided about the rooms, serving food and graciously submitting to the gentle and not so gentle fondling by the guests. He would usually pick a slave girl or two and take them off to an adjoining bedroom for a little rough play and sex. But it meant nothing to him. He wouldn't ask their names, and he rarely thought of them again afterwards. It was just a diversion, a relaxation after a hard week investing the money of certain wealthy New Yorkers, which was what Tom did for a living, a very lucrative one.

Now on this late spring afternoon, Tom sat on his balcony overlooking the city. He was nursing a gin and tonic; a rueful smile playing on his face. Marissa was still asleep in his big king sized bed, sprawled naked across the satin sheets. After the second day together she had essentially moved in and at the time Tom hadn't minded. She didn't seem to have a job, and told him she was 'between careers.' She didn't elaborate and he hadn't pressed. For the moment it had been enough to have this nymphomaniac angel slut in his bed.

Now he was growing restless. At 34, he found himself longing more and more often for something more than the one night stands, or the two week stand that this little adventure had so far turned into. Marissa wasn't his dream girl, at least she didn't behave like his dream girl, his slave girl, his submissive angel. He didn't want a little hellcat, however beautiful and erotic. This wasn't going to work, he could see that. Why postpone the inevitable?

He would tell her. He would tell her now.

"Marissa!" Tom called through the screen that separated him from his bedroom. No response. "Marissa! Wake up. Come out here. I need to talk to you."

"You come in here," came her sleepy mumble.

"No. I want you out here. Now." Something in his tone must have made it clear he meant business, because a moment later a sleep tousled and naked Marissa came sauntering out, pushing her hair from her face, totally relaxed in her nudity.

"What, baby?" Her voice was pleasingly low, still husky from sleep.

"I've been thinking, Marissa," Tom leaned back in his chair, shading his eyes as he looked up into Marissa's lovely face. The sun was behind her and he couldn't see her features. "Sit down," he said abruptly. She sat across from him on an overstuffed rattan patio chair, crossing her long bare legs.

"What have you been thinking, Master Sir?" This was Marissa's nickname for Tom. At first he had liked it, thinking she meant it as a term of respect. It had become clear though that this was her private joke. She was her own master, no question of that.

He pursed his lips a moment, wondering how blunt to be, and decided to hell with it. "That it's time for you to leave. It's been really fun, Marissa, but we both should be getting on with our lives now."

Marissa stared at Tom for a second, and then threw her head back, her laugh full throated and deep. "You silly," she said. When he didn't join in her laughter, but merely regarded her impassively, Marissa's laugh faltered and faded altogether. She paled and her large dark eyes seemed to grow even larger.

"But Tom," she began, her voice higher pitched than normal in her distress, "Why? We're so good together. Please! You're kidding, right? Say you're kidding." Her eyes pooled with unshed tears and she knelt in front of him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her bare breasts pressed sweetly against his knees.

Despite himself, Tom felt his body respond to her touch. Something about her electrified him; he couldn't deny it. But she wasn't for him; he knew this with certainty. She wasn't what he had dreamed of. He steeled himself against her touch and pried her fingers loose, forcing her to let go of him.

Marissa hugged herself, still kneeling naked in front of him. "What did I do, Tom? Did I offend you somehow? Please tell me. Let me fix it! I'll do anything. Anything to stay."

Please, I love you .

She didn't say that, and Tom realized suddenly that it was what he was longing to hear; what might have weakened his resolve and have made him want to keep trying with her. But she didn't say it. She had never said it, though to be fair, neither had he.

Sure she wanted to stay; who wouldn't? She lived in a cramped apartment on Broadway with three roommates. She had no job and no steady lover. Why wouldn't she want to stay in Tom's penthouse overlooking Central Park where a maid cleaned every morning and a cook made their meals when they didn't dine out?

Tom knew that part of his charm, indeed perhaps most it, was due to his wealth. His looks were nothing to speak of, certainly not in his own mind. About 5' 10", Tom had a narrow build, slim with long lean muscles and narrow hips. Glasses usually hid his rather beautiful brown eyes, and his dark hair was thick but fine, falling in a straight fringe that frequently got in his eyes. He didn't have a problem dating women, but he was never sure if they were attracted to him or to his money, and this only added layers to the ice he kept around his heart.
Tom stared at her, none of these thoughts articulated, until Marissa began to cry quietly, pretty little tears that welled over dark eyes onto smooth cheeks. Her tears tore at him, but Tom wasn't to be so easily manipulated. Abruptly he stood up. "Listen, I need to clear my head. You can stay here till I get back. We'll talk some more then. I'm sorry; I just can't do this anymore. It's a game for you, but I need more." He left her, still kneeling naked, 30 stories above the teeming city, her head buried in her arms.

Tom didn't go far. One block over and two blocks down, in a small, undistinguished brownstone nestled between large glass buildings was a discreet private club which sported the small sign over its locked doors that said simply, "The Club." Again, it was his friend George McBride who had invited him to join this exclusive group of self-professed dominants who lived or worked in the city and came here to unwind in traditional and less than traditional ways. The Club had the usual bar and tables for casual relaxation and conversation. But it also had a fully equipped dungeon, available by appointment for Doms and their submissives to explore their lifestyle in private, or public, as they chose.

As luck would have it, George was there now, sitting alone at a table, sipping a Bloody Mary and watching a football game on the wide screen TV that covered most of one wall. He gestured a greeting as Tom stood at the entrance of the club, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Responding to George's unspoken invitation, he joined his friend, sliding into an empty seat as a waitress appeared to take his order.

Small talk was exchanged, though Tom couldn't have told you a minute later what either of them had said. A gin and tonic appeared, smelling sweetly of fresh lime. He took a long drink before leaning back in his chair, staring moodily at the game on TV, seeing nothing.

"So what's up, Tommy?" George asked, his voice hearty and a little too loud in the intimate atmosphere. "You seem kinda bummed. Your newest toy break or something?" He laughed and winked but Tom didn't smile back.

"I guess you could say that," he said, the image of Marissa's tear-stained face crushing his heart like a vice.

"You're talking about the girl with the hair, right? The one you left the party with? That was your first mistake, old boy. Taking her home without checking her out first. Dangerous to think with your cock, though in her case I can't say I blame you!" George laughed suggestively. "She crashed my party, you know. I found out later she didn't have an invitation, but with a bod like that, who cares, right?" Again the wink and the insinuating grin, which normally wouldn't have bothered Tom at all, but for some reason today irritated him.

George plowed on, "So what happened? Did she find someone better? Or did you? Or are you just tired of that particular piece of ass and coming 'round here for a new one?" George laughed, his expression a leer of implied complicity.

Tom sighed, passing a hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back, though it immediately fell forward again. He was barely paying attention to George, but needed the chance to say aloud what had been torturing his mind for these several days now.

"Her name is Marissa, and no, I'm not tired of her, at least not physically. It's something else. I need more. I'm not so young anymore." He broke off as George started to protest. George was a good five years older than Tom and still behaved like a teenager, with no intention of 'settling down' in his game plan.

"No, please, George, you know what I mean. I want more. I want a soul mate. I'm tired of this casual sex and the loneliness the next morning, wondering who the person next to me is, and what they're doing there. I need a connection. I need a lover; someone who fits my groove, who is submissive to my dominant will; who not only understands what I need, but longs to give it. Lives to give it."

He stopped talking, realizing it was hopeless, foolish even, to share these deep feelings with George. George was the consummate party animal. And as Tom should have expected, he laughed derisively and said, "Tommy, Tommy, always the romantic. When will you ever learn? There's no such thing as a 'true submissive.' Your so-called slave girls only exist in erotica novels and porn movies. In real life there's just sluts looking for a good time. They all just want to get off in an exciting new way. And they want to do it in style, which we give them in spades, don't we, Tommy boy? In spades."

Tom looked at George, at his heavy face twisted in a conspiring grimace, the fleshy cheeks that would soon be sliding into jowls, the small pale eyes close on either side of his smallish upturned nose. There was high color in George's cheeks and Tommy realized he had probably had quite a few Bloody Marys before Tom had joined him. He recognized suddenly that he really didn't like George that much.

They had a long history together, having started out as roommates in graduate school, both hot to get their MBAs and make a killing in the financial markets, which both of them had done, with a vengeance. And while they shared a penchant for submissive women and whips and chains, that was really where their connection ended.

Tom retreated at that moment, inwardly angry at himself for having divulged his own pain to another man. He changed the subject to George, which was easy to do, as George's favorite topic was George. "Forget all that stuff. I'm just tired," Tom said, forcing his voice to a lightness he did not feel. "Tell me about you. What're you doing here today?"
"Thought you'd never ask. I'm meeting two hot little numbers in a few minutes, down in the dungeon. One is a professional dominatrix, and she's bringing me a new toy. A highly trained submissive slave girl who I'm gonna pay good money to play with and abuse. She takes a good beating, I'm told. I can beat her till she bleeds if I want to. Of course I'm paying her Mistress; not her. She's the object; I plan to be the subject." He grinned, obviously pleased with his clever turn of phrase.

Tom answered, "A submissive, huh? But you have to 'buy' her, so it's just a game."

"So what? It's all just a game to me. You know that. I know, I know," George put up his hand defensively, "For you it's 'real' - a 'way of life.' You want a 'relationship' with someone who will completely subjugate her will to yours. Well, good luck, buddy. I think that's just fairytale stuff, personally, but whatever floats your boat."

Tom said nothing, refusing to engage in this discussion, but silently wondering if maybe George was right, and his expectations were ridiculous. They watched the game on TV for a while, and then George waved over the waitress, settled his tab and said, "Well, Tommy, I'm off to have some serious fun. My girls are waiting for me." Tom watched his friend, a large man whose substantial muscle was just beginning to turn to fat, lumber toward the back exit that led down to the dungeon.

Tom sipped his drink, holding the cold glass between his palms, thinking of Marissa, and his own foolish dreams. He started when someone said, "Excuse me, but may I join you?" Looking up, Tom saw a slim, rather short man with dark hair, cut short, and a pleasant face, nose a trifle prominent, eyes kind and smiling.

Tom gestured toward the empty seat, curious as to who this person was. He hadn't seen him here before, which surprised him, as the clientele was select and rather small, membership fees naturally excluding most from its ranks.

"Thank you," the man said, and Tom observed a very slight accent, more noticeable as very precise pronunciation than as an actual, identifiable accent. It was slightly British in pronunciation.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is André Renaud." He stuck out his hand and Tom automatically took it, noting the firm grip.

"Tom Reed."

"A pleasure, Mr. Reed," André said, as he slipped gracefully into the offered seat. "I couldn't help overhearing a little bit of your conversation with your friend. Please forgive me if I am overstepping, but as we are all of a like mind here," he gestured vaguely around the room, clearly suggesting that they were all 'Doms' here, and rich ones at that. Tom noticed now the fine cut of the man's suit, and the emerald cuff links that were no doubt real.

"Not at all," he answered, wondering what was coming, assuming it had to do with money, as most things did.

"I do not mean to intrude, but I did hear what you were saying. About the longing for a connection; something real with a truly submissive woman." Tom colored slightly, embarrassed to have been overhead in such a vulnerable moment.

The man went on, "I only trouble you because I have the same feelings; the same desires, and know how difficult it is to make such a connection. Very few people are 'true submissives' as you say. Very few are born to it; but it is my humble opinion that they can be 'made.'"

Tom looked at him, confused. "I don't follow you."

"I mean that they can be taught. If a person, man or woman, has certain submissive tendencies, they can be taught to submit in a way that is pleasing and proper. Even if they have already exhibited clearly submissive behaviors, these behaviors can be refined and enhanced with proper training. On the other hand, if they are willful types, brats, I call them, who like a good fight and to be overpowered, they can be instructed in the art of submissive behavior. And in time, they come to actually incorporate that submissiveness into their natures. A good slave can be made, Mr. Reed." He sat back, clearly expecting a response.

"That's interesting. I'm not really sure what you're getting at, though, to tell you the truth." What was the man selling? Tom had a nose for salesman, and this was one, however refined and elegant he appeared.

"Forgive me; I am not being clear. Specifically, I run a little business." Ah, now for the pitch. "I prefer to think of it as a calling, really. A vocation. I have a small estate near Westchester that I've turned into something which might be of interest to a man of your tastes. A man looking for a 'true submissive' as I believe you said."

Tom pursed his lips, waiting for an offer to use this fellow's escort service, no doubt for a hefty fee. Though already skeptical and ready to dismiss the man, he listened politely, despite the caution bells in his head, as André elaborated.

"My little dream became a reality a number of years ago. I run a little establishment called Chateau L'Esclave."

" Slave Castle ," Tom interjected, having minored in French in college.

"Indeed," André nodded, a smile of approval on his face. "It is a very select establishment set up for the training of slaves of the highest caliber. Most of the slaves there already belong to a master or mistress, and have been sent to us to hone their submissive skills. We accept slaves anywhere from a week to a year, depending on their master's particular needs and desires. Slaves are trained in all of the submissive arts, up to the highest standards developed here and in Europe by some of the most prominent and successful trainers in the business. And of course, we work closely with the master to make sure their needs and desires are incorporated in the training."

Tom wasn't aware there was such a 'business' but he refrained from comment, further intrigued despite himself. "We also have slaves for sale. That is, they have a contract which can be purchased. The sales price and contract terms are negotiated with all parties, including the slave of course. In fact, most of the monies go to the slave, with Chateau L'Esclave naturally taking a fee.

"The slave is part of the negotiations, of course, since though they are completely submissive and 'owned' by their master or mistress, said ownership is completely voluntary. I suppose you could say the slavery is really a 'fiction,' since slavery on its face is illegal. But it becomes very real indeed, with the exchange of power nonetheless binding, despite its being consensual. "We also have a permanent staff of trained slaves, who serve the house with complete subservience. I say permanent, in that they live there, but of course in fact they are free to go."

Tom interjected, "Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You're saying you own this slave castle ? A place where real people live 'the life' 24/7? Where people send their girlfriends and wives for a little slave training?! Is this legal? Is this for real?"

"Completely legal and absolutely real," André smiled, sensing he had caught Reed's interest at last. He sat back, lacing his hands over his slim stomach. "It is all voluntary; no one is there against their will. I have an excellent attorney who has meticulously researched our options, and prepared contracts and disclaimers that fully protect all parties."

Tom's mind was racing, turning naturally to Marissa. Would she consent to such 'training'? Would it make a difference? He had to know more. Anticipating his concerns André said, "If this seems like something you might be interested in exploring, I would be delighted to set up a personal tour. I suggest only you coming first. If you have someone in mind that could use a little training, we would bring her along later.

"She would, of course, have to be totally comfortable with the program. It would never work otherwise. We have an excellent program for the 'brats.' You would be amazed at the change we can effect with the right, ah, incentives." He smiled, his eyes twinkling.

"And certainly, as I mentioned, we have slaves 'for sale.' Right now I have two very promising submissive young women who need placement. You could look them over, if you like, as well."

Tom started, suddenly entertaining the possibility of a slave for purchase. The stuff of fantasies, surely, and yet here was this dapper man, calmly informing Tom of his options in the slave market! He felt a little disloyal stab as he thought of Marissa, whom he'd left at home crying, waiting for his ultimatum to allow her to stay or force her to go.

Never a man to give away his intentions, Tom was noncommittal as he accepted Renaud's card. "I'll give you a call," he promised, now eager to get home to Marissa and at least float the idea with her. He realized the little flare of hope that had surged up in him was an indication that Marissa meant more to him than he had been willing to admit. He had to have her, but on his terms. Pocketing the little business card, he took his leave.

 

Back at the apartment Marissa was waiting, dressed now in a little sundress that made it clear nothing was underneath. Her nipples poked sweetly against the soft fabric, her breasts raised by her arms crossed protectively under them. Her copper hair tumbled around a face bare of makeup, with eyes reddened from crying. She sat curled in one of his large leather chairs, looking like a lost little waif.

"Marissa," the word was wrenched from his lips as he crossed quickly over to her, kneeling at her feet, dropping his head into her lap. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm sorry. I didn't want to make you cry. I just can't keep on how we're going. I don't want the games anymore. I need more."

"What do you want, Tom? Tell me what you want? I'll do it. I'll do anything." Tom felt her cool fingers smoothing the hair from his forehead.

"I want something I'm not sure you can give. And it isn't fair for me to ask it. I want a submissive slave girl. Not a willful sex kitten, I'm sorry. You are incredibly sexy and fun, but it isn't what I want in my life right now."

"Oh, Tom! I can change! I swear I can. I can be what you want! I want to be what you want. I want to be with you." Her voice was pleading, almost a whine.

Until that day, he would have rejected her promise outright. He didn't believe you could 'make a slave' as Mr. Renaud had staunchly affirmed. He believed it was your orientation, plain and simple, and while a slave could be 'trained', they could not be molded into something they were not. And yet here was his darling Marissa, so beautiful and vulnerable, pleading to keep a place in his life. Who was he to make the decree that she couldn't try?

And so, ignoring the little voice inside of himself that said it would never work, he decided to take a chance. Producing the little business card from his pocket, he silently handed it to Marissa.

"What's this?" she asked, taking it. "Chateau L'Esclave - by appointment only," she read. "What's that? Some kind of castle, right? Why are you showing me this? Is it a restaurant?" And so Tom explained about his meeting with the Frenchman, and about this supposed slave castle where they could take someone like Marissa and turn her into the woman of his dreams.

Instead of being offended that he wanted to change her thus, as he had half expected, Marissa seemed excited, even eager. "It sound exotic!" she said. "An adventure! I mean, it's safe, isn't it? They won't like hold me hostage or anything?"

"Not according to this guy. He said it's all on the up and up. Strictly legal with contracts and the whole bit. But I would want to go out there, of course, and check it out. See if I think it's something that we would be interested in. If you're interested, that is. I certainly don't want to force you into this, Marissa."

"Would you be with me? I wouldn't have to go alone, would I? Is it a real castle? Are there servants?" Marissa was sitting up straight now, looking as eager as a new kitten for a ball of twine. Another delightful game for this little Cinderella.

Tom smiled despite himself; she was impossibly charming. "I really don't even know what it is. It could be a big sham, or a cover up for prostitution or who knows what. But, I'm willing to go take a look, if you're interested."

Marissa looked at Tom through a thick fringe of lashes, consciously coquettish, her mouth a sweet little pout. "I'll do anything for you, Tom. Anything at all." She pressed her arms together, no doubt aware of how it pressed her breasts up and together to create a deep and alluring cleavage. His penis responded, now totally shushing any remaining little warning bells, as he took her in his arms, as firmly ensnared as ever.

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