As Liz tries to figure out whether to keep fighting her slavery or to accept it for now, she is sitting in the dark conservatory, looking at the stars:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Her mind drifted to imagining what it would be like to provide sex to the guests. Perhaps she would be pulled aside by Master Ryan while she was dusting, or serving in the dining room, and quietly informed that she had caught Mr. So-and-so’s eye and he would like her company tonight. She would be a nervous wreck as she took a quick shower and put on a clean dress, refastening the beautiful silver and gold collar once her hair was dry. The collar that told everyone that she was a slave, bound to do what she was ordered to do. The collar that held promise that she would be able to bring pleasure to someone in a way that perhaps he hadn’t had in a while, for Master Daniel’s slaves had the reputation for being the best trained in the province. She thrilled a little at the idea of kneeling at his feet, waiting to find out what her “companion’s” desires and requests might be – was he the kind of man that might take his pleasure by giving her orgasm after orgasm, even as he eschewed his own climax, and sent her back to her room almost too exhausted to walk, utterly spent, with a smile on her face as she fell into a dreamless sleep?
Or would he be the kind who couldn’t wait to turn her over his lap for an erotic spanking that left her bottom cherry red, her face streaked with tears, and her pussy as wet as a river? She might follow it with an enthusiastic blow-job given as thanks. Later she would lay on her stomach in bed, unable to roll over on her sore cheeks, and fall asleep with a smile at the memory of the explosive orgasm he granted her while still upside down on his lap – an orgasm unlike any of those at the hands of her old boyfriends.
Or perhaps – she shuddered – he might be the kind who loved to tease and torment and never let her have what she craved. She would beg and plead and serve him obediently and submissively to try to win his favor. And he would bring her to the edge over and over, but in the end he would send her back to her little room to lie awake for most of the night with a fire in her core that she couldn’t seem to put out, and she would struggle desperately to resist plunging her fingers between her legs, wondering if the penalty for masturbating that was whispered about but never spoken of directly might be worth it.
It was only two years. Less than that now. She could do it for that long. And then she could go back home and resume her life and if she wanted to forget what she had done here, well, she could do that too.