{To Mastrovenice}

She was chained, wide open on the empty bed-frame, the space around her dark, isolated. Hours ago the room had seemed chilly, but now she was covered in a sheen of sweat. Her lips were swollen, her eyes glassy. She moaned. As if on cue, the vibrator started again. She began to shake and scream. Please, please. Please. Please let me come; please make it stop. There was no one to hear. No one was watching; no one to feel pity, or satisfaction, or delight. Just herself, and the endless torment. She was closer, closer, but it wouldn’t work. She could never find release this way. She screamed again. She was wetter than she'd ever been, her excitement leaking down her legs, onto the bed-frame, onto the concrete floor. The vibrator stopped.

It didn’t stop because she had screamed, she knew that. It was random, unfeeling, merciless. It would start again; sooner, later, it didn’t matter. How long had she been here?

* * * * *

The two women had arrived at the door almost simultaneously. Clara was petite, with long brown hair that fell in a straight line below her waist. Her tight breasts and pert ass were accentuated by her very slender waist. She wore a simple black skirt and a white blouse. Understated. Her expensive lingerie was barely visible beneath the sheer cloth of her top. Monique had a larger build. She stood a good five inches taller and packed a few more pounds. Her hips and breasts were full and heavy, her face open and clear. She wore a pleather miniskirt a few inches too short, and a bustier mail-ordered from Frederick's of Hollywood. Her light hair was cut in a somewhat unflattering bob that came to just above her shoulders. To Monique she looked like a stripper, white trash. They eyed each other with disdain.

“Fatty,” Clara thought. Didn’t people ever just look in the mirror? And what was this girl doing here?

The door opened. Standing next to it was a man who looked like a college professor, or a high-school math teacher. Bright blue eyes, dark hair just beginning to silver at the edges, wire-rimmed glasses. His face was youthful, with a hint of humor around the mouth, and she could see that he was toned, his muscles defined through the thin fabric of his button-down. “I’m Adam. You must be Clara and Monique. Come in, please.”

The two women followed him silently to the well-appointed living room. Dark greens and dark wood. He sat down thoughtfully in an overstuffed leather armchair. Monique began to sit on the couch. “Excuse me,” he said mildly. “Were you invited to sit?” Monique crimsoned as she quickly stood up. “No, sir, I’m so sorry,” she said, nervously smoothing her miniskirt. “That’s one,” thought Clara. If she and Monique were competing for the same position, so far she felt pretty safe. She was standing demurely with her hands clasped behind her back. Her face betrayed only the hint of a dimple. Adam met her eye and also flashed the slightest dimple. Then, quite seriously, he said, “You might follow the example of Clara, here. She seems to understand simple courtesies.” Monique lowered her eyes. “Yes, sir,” said Monique. “Thank you.” She looked ready to cry. "Loser," thought Clara. "You blew it."

“You are quite right to observe the formalities,” continued Adam, “but there are some I think we can dispense with. I’m Adam, you’re Clara, and you’re Monique. That’s easy, and I think no one will be confused about our roles. I’ll be the one with the whip.” He smiled, and Clara smiled back, but there was a hint of steel even in his smile that caused her stomach to clench suddenly. He had advertised for a slave, and she was feeling more and more that she would like it to be her.