Part 1: Meetings

I was walking in some of those narrow streets on the left bank of Seine. It was late the evening, and I had finished the work that brought me to Paris and was just soaking in the atmosphere of the city. I heard a voice speak close in my ear:

"Pardon, monsieur. Où est l'hôtel Ritz?"

"Désolé, mais je ne parle pas français," I answered automatically, as I turned to look who had spoken.

I saw a thin woman of medium height with dark brown, almost black hair that fell just beyond her shoulders.

"Oh. English, then?"

Her voice carried the very faintest trace of an accent, so faint that it was hard to place. German or Dutch, maybe.

"Oh--yes. Where do you want to go?"

"The Ritz. I seem to always get lost on this side of the river."

I started to describe the bridges to look for.

"Would you mind terribly --I mean if you aren't busy--could you just show me?"

As she was talking I had a minute to catch up with the situation. I realized that I had initially mistaken her age. Although she could not have been much more than thirty, I had taken her for older. I realized that she was wearing clothes of the very best style of thirty years ago. They were apparently new and clearly expensive, but the mismatch in age gave the queer impression of an older woman.

As we walked, she asked what brought me to Paris.

"Work. I'm an IT troubleshooter. My company sends me around to various cities when something breaks that the locals can't handle."

She smiled.

"And do you like traveling so much?"

"Oh yes, I'm learning about all kinds of different places..."

As we chatted, we found ourselves at the Ritz. I had walked by it a few times, but had never been inside—its prices weren't exactly within my per diem.

"I insist that you accept a drink in thanks."

Her voice was subtly different. More authoritative.

The doorman seemed to recognize her, and when we sat down at a small table in the corner, she lifted a finger slightly.

To my surprise, the waiter arrived almost immediately with two glasses filled with a rich amber liquid.

"They know my order, here, you know. It's one of the reasons I come back. Cheers!"

I followed her motion, raising the glass to my nose. A rich smell, laced with hints of peat and seaweed, filled my nostrils.

"I mostly stick to the Islay single malts. Have you tried them before?"

I pretended a knowledge of Scotch well beyond my actually experience of a mistaken order of a double Glenlivet in college.

She continued to quiz me on my life, my job, my travels. Several times I tried to redirect the conversation to why she was in Paris or what (if anything) she did. But she always responded with a silvery laugh and another question of her own.

I let her guide me in the time appropriate for consuming a scotch, neat. After our glasses had been empty for a bit, I began to make noises about needing to get up early for work. Not that I was anxious to leave such a mysterious companion, but after all, I was just the navigator.

"Well, I can't have you being fired and lose the chance to meet up with you again sometime, can I?"

So saying, she took a small notepad from her handbag, together with what was soon revealed to be a fountain pen. She wrote a number on on the paper, tore it out of the pad and gave it to me.

"Keep in touch, my dear."

Part 2: Missed connections

That paper ate a hole in my mind, I must confess. After two days, I couldn't resist and sent a text inviting her to a bistro I had found.

"Thanks, darling, but I'm not in Paris any more. But tell me next time you are over here in Europe."

And so started a series of text messages. Two or three times, I tried to connect with her on various trips, but since I didn't know where she lived or what she did, the chances of anything coming out of this seemed remote.

At the same time, she was getting to know me, at least fairly well. Dating history (not much since Clara left me two days after I proposed, and she accepted), work, school, everything.

One day, she asked about art:

"Ever bought something at Sotheby's?"

On an IT consultant's salary?

"Since you will be in London, can you collect something for me? You can give to me when we meet up."

How could I say no?

I was sure they were going to call security on me when I walked to the auction house's front office. But they were exceedingly polite.

"Ms. Naomi has been waiting for this for a long time. Thank you for taking it to her."

And I walked out with a small, heavy, package wrapped in brown paper.

"Did you get it?"

"Yes..."

"Did you look at it yet?"

"Oh, I didn't think I was meant to."

"Of course you may—you might find it...educational."

It was a small painting of a woman in modern riding dress, holding a riding crop over her head with both hands. Her hips were jutting out to one side, with the crop held to the other. She looked like a woman you would not want to cross.

"Why this painting?" I asked her.

"Oh, it just spoke to me."

"So you like horses?"

"Not particularly."

Part 3: A second meeting.

I started to send her my travel plans further in advance when I could. Finally, she answered that she would be in London the same evening that I would.

We met around 9 for a late dinner at a small restaurant of her choosing. It was an odd place. No sign advertised its presence, and the furnishings, while of the highest quality, were dated and used. But no one would question the food or the service--I had a perfectly cooked steak, accompanied by a red wine that I had never heard of, but would have been happy to drink for the rest of my life.

I was cutting a piece of steak when Naomi asked:

"Have you asked for that promotion yet?"

The question surprised me, and my knife slipped, drawing a drop of blood on my left hand.

"Oh dear, let me help..."

For the first time since I had met her, I heard a note of excitement in her voice. As she used the napkin to clean the cut, I saw her finger collect a drop of blood. When she brought that hand across her lips for a moment, the drop vanished...

"You really should talk to Carl. You're doing two people's work and getting paid for three-quarters of one person."

Said with a knowing smile and wink. Even if she couldn't have been more than four years older, she somehow always made me feel young, inexperienced, naive.

I gave the painting into her keeping.

"Who knows? Maybe I'll find something similar for you to hang in your bedroom."

After dinner, she insisted on walking me to my hotel.

"We need to upgrade your travel options, but there's time for that."

We were walking down a narrow alley I had not ever noticed before when a voice called out:

"Ms. Naomi--can we get your box ready?"

I started: the voice came from a woman in leather trousers, a corset top and six inch heels. Her arms were bare except for a pair of spiked leather bracelets.

"Oh. Not tonight, Clarice. But enjoy!"

The woman looked me over with rather obvious distain, but said nothing to me.

"Ok. Sorry to miss you."

With Naomi, on the other hand, her tone was almost obsequious.

"Just an acquaintance," Naomi said, in answer to my questioning look.

"Still, you might enjoy it. Are you still in town tomorrow?"

When I told her I was, she sent me a code by text.

"It will only work tomorrow night; I'd better remind you of the address too."

Part 4: Observing

Heeding Naomi's advice not to be late, I was at the same door in the alley promptly at 10PM the next night. Clarice was there, and no more welcoming than the night before.

"Samantha, show this one to his booth."

Another woman, dressed almost identically, walked forward.

"Well, don't just stand there--chop chop."

She led me to one of a number of booths than opened from the back. Inside was just room for a chair and a table across the front. They faced an empty stage. The booths were constructed in such a way that while I could see the stage and another woman watching the booths, I could not see if any of the other booths were occupied.

"Your hands must remain on the table at all times. If you remove them, you will be escorted out."

She closed the door with a click.

A voice announced:

"Lot 72: Martin. Offered without reserve."

Onto the stage walked a naked man. He was probably in his forties, not in the best shape, looking at the ground. He turned so that all of his body could be seen from the booths.

"Thank you."

He walked off stage.

The voice continued:

"Please welcome Lady Christine."

Another tall lady in leather pants and a corset walked on stage. She led another man on a leash behind her.

This man was younger and in fantastic condition, thin but with sinuous muscles. The leash attached to a leather collar, but he was also otherwise naked. His body was hairless except for his pubic hair, which had been trimmed into a heart. It was somehow a perfect emasculation: taking the idealized masculine form and mocking it with a single gesture.

"Six!"

Hearing her voice, the man instantly placed his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked. He spread his legs so that everyone could see his cock and balls hanging openly.

Crack!

Without warning, the woman brought a crop she had been hiding at her side up and caught the man in the testicles. It was impossible to tell if the blow was actually that hard, but if it wasn't, the man groaned and tensed his abdomen in a very convincing manner.

"Four!"

The man dropped to his knees, hands clasped behind him. When she walked over to him, he bent over to kiss the top of her boots without ever releasing his hands. He then straightened up, holding his body core rock steady.

"Nine!"

This time he rose smoothly, then bent over completely, grasping his ankles with his hands.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

This time, the blows were applied to his backside--first one cheek, than the other. As they continued, I found myself holding my breath, wondering what the man would do.

"Four--hold!"

Without a sign that he had felt the assault, he was back on his knees, this time holding the kiss to her boots for what seemed like three or four minutes. You could see his bottom grow redder and redder as he knelt.

"Ten!"

He stood to attention, hands at his sides.

"Good boy. Follow."

She led the man off stage. There was no sound or applause.

I was beginning to get excited for the next display, but Samantha opened the door.

"Your invitation is at an end. You will leave now."

Without a further word, she led me to another door, which opened onto the same bleak alley. When she closed it behind me, I heard the lock click home.

Part 5: Going deeper.

When I arrived back at my hotel, there was a note for me, attached to a single deep crimson rose.

"I hope you enjoyed my little treat. But I don't want to hear that you've been trying to get back in there. Watching is too easy."

I thanked Naomi, promising exactly what she asked.

Her next text came two days later and was a cryptic request:

"Now I need a gift from you."

I had to answer with a question:

"What could I offer you?"

"Oh my dear, so many things. But today, I just want your fantasies. Write me a story. A story about what you're afraid to tell anyone."

It took three weeks, but I wrote her my college fantasy -- of the senior girl who invited me to her room and then locked my arms to her chair legs and made me eat her out for hours while she studied. Not an original story, but still.

"Just about what I expected. But still, a nice first effort."

I was a bit hurt that my three weeks merited a one line answer, but she wasn't done.

Two days later, she sent a link.

My story was on a website with full photographical illustrations. They followed the narrative perfectly and the two models were both beautiful and clearly not just pretending to carry out the events in my story.

"Be sure to look at the comments."

There were dozens. Probably the least offensive read:

"A slut like you should be plugged and caged before being given such a privilege. You'd best hope I don't get to do to you what I would do with you in this position..."

The only thing I could think to write in answer was:

"Dare I ask how you arranged this?"

"Oh, my dear. You know me. Lots of friends in dark places..."

A few weeks later, I received a card.

"A room has been reserved for you at Hotel an der GrünerBerg. You will need to bring only any required medications for your visit; all other necessities will be provided for you."

I was in fact traveling to Germany the week of the invitation, and knew I could easily rent a car for the drive over to the mountains.

"Did you get my card?"

"I did, but I don't think I understand."

"I'll just ask you to keep an open mind. I guarantee no one will ever learn a thing about your visit."

Her answer was not exactly reassuring, but somehow three weeks later I found myself guiding a rental car up a rather terrifying mountain road full of switchbacks, blind corners and stunning drop-offs.

Hotel an der GrünerBerg turned out to be a picture-perfect mountain lodge, with the slightly odd characteristic of having been built into the mountain in such a way that most of it would be in the shadow of surrounding peaks throughout the day. A sign in four languages announced that there were no vacancies.

The lobby was full of antlers, beer steins, and other almost trite Germanic knickknacks. But there was not rustic about the severe young man at the check-in desk.

"I'm sorry. The hotel is full."

"Ah...I have a reservation."

He actually blinked as I handed him the card. But I didn't like the smile he made after glancing at it.

"But of course. You'll find your reception room down the hall—third door to the right. Have you any medications? No? Very well. You may leave your bags, and we will bring them to you later."

The hallway in question was rather dark. The third room to the right turned out to be something close to a dressing room. There was a door in the wall at waist height, a full length mirror, and a bench with a folded pair of clothes, a pill and a note. The door had no lock.

The note read:

Welcome. Please read this carefully. If you do not agree to these terms, you may of course leave at once.

1) During your stay, you agree to undertake all of the instructions that your Trainer gives you. If you find yourself unable to do so, you will be most welcome to leave without any hurt feelings.

2) Please remove all of your clothing and place it on the shelf in the door to your left. It will be returned to you tomorrow upon your departure.

3) The pill should be taken at once. We have carefully checked, and it will not cause you any permanent effects.

4) When you have put on the clothes provided, you may ring the bell for your Trainer.

Why did I follow these instructions to the letter? Curiosity? Some latent obedience fetish? Who knows. But five minutes later, I was looking at myself in the mirror. I was dressed in a loose cotton one piece jumpsuit of grey and white strips. It was about the most unattractive garment imaginable. I heard the bell ring as I pressed it, my heart pounding wildly.

Click, click, click.

The door opened, and I found myself blinking twice. The woman in front of me was Samantha from the theatre in London. She was dressed in essentially business attire: white blouse, skirt, heels.

"Oh. You."

I didn't know how to respond.

"It doesn't matter. We have a lot to do. First off, you probably want to know about that pill. It's not what you are thinking. It just what you might call an 'anti-viagra.' Men like you will get overly excited around real women like me, and that's just, well, icky. Hence the pill."

She reached down and brought up a leather collar attached to a leash.

"You'll need to put this on--I wouldn't want you to think that'd I'd have the slightest interest in 'owning' something like you. But you'll need to learn to follow the leash."

For two hours, she taught me to follow her, never letting the leash go taut, but never letting myself approach her too closely, even if she stopped or turned suddenly.

"You have no real natural talents, but at least you do listen and try. Time for position training."

She led me to a room with a large poster. It showed the numbered positions I had seen modeled at the theatre. There was an empty boot in a raised position on the floor.

"If you are very lucky, you might be allowed to kiss my boot before you leave, but I wouldn't count on it."

We spent the rest of the day practicing the positions. I was not naturally terribly flexible and was definitely feeling every muscle by about 9pm.

"Bedtime."

Picking up my leash, she led me down a narrow staircase to a tunnel that seemed to have been cut into the rock of the mountainside. From a pocket, she removed a large, ornate key.

"You are not permitted to leave your room during the night except in emergencies. This level will release the door lock in that case. You will receive your meal in a few moments: you will have fifteen minutes to eat before lights out."

The "room" was cut into the rock as well. It contained an alcove with sink and toilet as well as a sleeping niche also cut into the rock. The air was chilly and damp, but the bed was covered with a soft, thick duvet. The door was just made of bars and anyone looking in could see the entire room, including the bathroom alcove, at a glance.

Samantha locked the door and left without another word.

A few moments later, another woman slipped a tray of food under the door.

"Eating must be done in position four."

And so I ate kneeling on the stone floor, its rough bumps digging into my sore knees. The meal itself was simple but surprising good: fresh bread, grilled vegetables, fruit juice and, oddly, a chocolate chip cookie.

I had barely finished my meal and evening oblations when, with a sharp "click" the lights went out and it became instantly pitch black.

Whether I was the only person in this subterranean dungeon or whether the walls were just too thick to hear my companions, the absolute silence was as eerie as the darkness. For lack of an option, I wrapped myself in the duvet and, despite the unnerving surroundings, fell asleep at after a few moments.

"Click"

The lights came on far before I was ready for them.

The day was a repeat of the night before: walking, positions with the added pleasure of ending with a hard workout on a treadmill, where my one-piece clothes got soaked in perspiration.

A bell rang somewhere.

"Finally. You may go. Your clothes are in room 27; you may also use the shower before you leave. You can expect my report in two or three weeks."

Part 6: Choices

"Did you have a nice visit?"

The problem with text messages is that its never easy to discern whether they are meant ironically.

"It was certainly a new experience."

"Don't worry, you don't have to give me the details. Samantha has promised me a copy of your report card. I hope your marks aren't too bad."

I wasn't sure I wanted to continue this conversation.

As promised, the marked arrived three weeks later.

Deportment: C

Physical fitness: B-

Tractability: B+

Flexibility: D-

Training for service: C-

Summary: "The subject is willing and generally obedient. He does not have the physical form to be a public-facing example of our processes, but could probably find a minor role where little initiative is needed. Overall recommendation: Further training suggested."

Included in the report was a guide to the positions and an exercise program.

"Have you been practicing?"

My attempts to distract Naomi from her interest in the class in the mountains had been entirely unsuccessful: instead she had needled and egged a full history out of me. And now she was continually asking about my practice and exercise routine.

That actually would have been fine except for one thing. I was practicing. One, sometimes two hours a day. Something had flipped in my head, and I just wanted to know those positions--to show someone (Samantha?) that I could do it. And, it was beginning to look like I could--and moreover, I had started watching myself take them in the mirror. Naked. Because the training routine was working too. I wasn't yet a chiseled god like at the theatre, but I was closer to that than the poor sale lot before him. What was I doing?

I had a chance to find out soon enough. A card arrived.

"You are invited to continue your training. After our full week program, you will have the skills and discipline to be a credit to any place you appear."

Please notice the following rules for this program:

1) Males will be expected to wear chastity cages at all times. A sizing guide is included so that we may have an appropriately-sized cage ready for you on arrival.

2) Clothing is not allowed for trainees

3) To improve your technique and foster a mind-set of obedience, physical punishments will be given by your trainer.

4) You may encounter other trainees and trainers. No privacy can be expected during the training sessions.

We await your positive answer by return mail."

Three weeks later, I was again watching my clothes disappear into the door in the wall at Hotel an der GrünerBerg. This time, there was nothing to replace them.

Without warning, Samantha walked in. Rather than the office wear of last time, she had the full fetish outfit: a leather bodysuit, thigh-high boots and fishnets. In her hand was a riding crop.

"Well, that's a disappointing start." Her voice was cold.

I realized to my horror that my cock had already responded to her outfit in its own way.

Smack!

I nearly doubled over as she directed a sharp slap to my balls. I would come to learn that it wasn't that hard a strike, but it certainly solved the problem.

"Position 6."

With my hands laced behind my head and legs spread, I could only watch as she fit the cage to my now limp cock, locked it on and hung the key around her neck. She said nothing, letting me stand there feeling the strange new weight attached to my body.

We spent that day in further training, learning how to move, stand and even exercise while wearing the cage. Shortly before meal time, she said, "You're lucky. Time for a relaxing spa break."

I looked at her, confused.

Without a further word, she led me by the leash to what was indeed the hotel spa and up to a woman in her forties.

"Full treatment, please."

Without a word, the woman pointed me to a bench.

An hour later, I had no hair from my eyebrows down, except for that little heart-shaped patch above my locked cock. I was sore, humiliated and tired. And the day wasn't done.

I was finally led to my cell four hours later. In the tunnel, we passed another pair: a beautiful woman and a pudgy, pale naked man. Both of us were caged and neither of us met the other's eyes.

The week continued. I was sore, but growing more confident in my movements, in my body being on display, in the control of my cock by the cage. And then all of that confidence evaporated.

Samantha was leading me by the leash through a corridor in the hotel. I heard a door open, but kept my gaze downwards as Samantha had taught me.

"Oh, you look just good enough to eat!"

Involuntarily, I looked up. It was Naomi, dressed as usual in perfect designer clothes from twenty years ago. She was looking over my naked form with frank interest, and I could feel every inch of my exposed skin go bright red. She laughed a silvery laugh.

"Thank you, Samantha. Would the two of you like to come in so you can report?"

"Of...of course, miss."

I was very surprised to hear anxiousness and deference in Samantha's voice—totally unlike the harsh, commanding tone she used with me.

The office was softly carpeted and lit by diffuse light coming through the mountain-shadowed windows.

"Four!"

I knelt down in the soft carpet. Samantha stood almost at attention, her neck oddly cocked to one side. There was a bit of redness on the exposed skin that I hadn't noticed.

"Report?"

"This subject is not slave material, madam. His fitness has improved and his obedience is reasonable, but I certainly would not be proud to have him leashed to me in public."

"Oh, my dear, no one is offering him to you..."

Naomi gave Samantha a pitying smile. Samantha went red.

"Well, keep up the good work and enjoy your stay."

Naomi smiled warmly at me, then rose and walked out, running her hands through my hair in a possessive way on her way out.

"Ten--march!"

I rose to attention and then followed Samantha out. She was in a very bad mood, and soon I was too. She cuffed me to a cross and proceeded to smack my bare bottom with a paddle for what seemed like an eternity. (Although I noticed afterward that she had managed to do so in a way that left no marks. I suspect that she didn't want to leave any evidence of this extracurricular discipline for Naomi to see.)

At the end of the week, I left, not having seen Naomi again. Samantha had regained her temper and almost smiled at me as she handed me the key to the cage.

"I make it a point to never unlock a man myself: I think it sets a bad precedent." And she left after giving an unmistakable wink.

Part 7: Forever.

I didn't hear from Naomi for several weeks after my hotel visit. I was on the cusp of contacting her half a dozen times, but something always stopped me.

"Dinner tomorrow night?"

Paris again, three weeks later. Her message arrived first thing in the morning.

"Sure. Do you want to choose or should I?"

"I will. There'll be a car waiting for you at 6."

When I returned to my hotel at four to dress, there was a garment bag waiting for me at the desk. Opening it in my room, I found a grey wool suit, perfectly cut for me. The only odd feature of it was that there were no pockets. Going down, I had to slip my room key card in the breast pocket along with a credit card.

The ride in the car was short and delivered me to a restaurant that I wouldn't have even noticed if the driver hadn't directed me to it. I was early, but Naomi was already at a table waiting.

"I think I like you better dressed the way I saw you last time." She smiled mischievously.

I blushed.

We chatted of this and that over dinner. She didn't bring up our last meeting again, and I certainly wasn't going to.

When dinner ended, she reached under her chair and brought out a small box.

"A little something for you—if you will have it."

For the first time since I had known her, I heard the faintest note of tension in her voice.

I opened in the box. Inside was another chastity cage. It had a huge diamond on the lock, and Naomi's name engraved in gold. My name was linked to it in silver with a little line of engraved chains.

"Will you accept this--and accept being my boy by wearing it?"

And I said yes. I said it without thinking, without meeting her eyes, without letting go of the box.

When I looked up, I saw her smile a warm, genuine smile.

"Great!! Come on!"

She led me to a small room next to the kitchen--I don't know how she knew about it. And right there, she locked the cage on me, kissing my forehead as she did it.

"Shall we go?"

"I'm sorry?"

"It's our first real night together--let's spend it somewhere special."

"Oh, I'd love too, but I need to get my things from my hotel."

"Umm, well, I actually already had them packed up for you—our car is outside."

I decided to just let her take control. Moments later, I was in the back of a Range Rover with darkened windows, speeding out of Paris. She left a possessive hand on my leg for the whole of the drive.

After an hour or so, we arrived at a beautiful house out in the country. To my surprise, the driver lift the bags into the hall and then drove off.

We ignored them and walked into the darkened sitting room. And thirty seconds later, I was kneeling next to her, wearing nothing but the cage.

"Are you ok?"

I nodded.

"Are you ready for the last secret?"

I looked at her, completely confused.

"Haven't you figured it out? I thought that's why you agreed to come..."

My expression must have shown her she was wrong.

"Haven't you wondered—about all these places you've visited? About me? About why Samantha is afraid of me? About those cells in the darkness? About who pays for all of this?"

"Well, I mean, yes, I wondered. But I just gave up after a while."

She smiled at me—a full, tooth-baring smile. And then, at last, I saw clearly, the two long, sharp, canine teeth projecting down, their tips glistening in the dim light.

In a flash, I remembered Samantha's neck, and the two almost invisible puncture marks my subconscious had noticed even as my conscious mind rejected the idea.

I tensed, wondering if I should run away, even naked and caged.

"Wait, please let me explain first."

She was breathing hard now.

"It doesn't hurt—it actually feels rather nice. And it won't kill you—far from it."

I waited, kneeling still.

"Ok. We vampires have lived among you all for centuries, of course. How old do you think I am? No, I will be 176 next year. With all of that time, we have accumulated: well, everything. Money, property--and people. People like Samantha, who are attracted to our money--our power. Honestly--I thought you were another like her. And I was willing to accept that, just to have you."

"So... So Samantha isn't a vampire?"

"No—or at least not a full one, yet. She wants to be. But to fully become someone like me, she needs to become truly dominant, not just aggressive and sadistic."

"But... you bite her?"

"Of course--she lets me feed on her, knowing it is a step towards becoming a full vampire."

"And... and what happens to you if you don't, don't feed on someone?"

"I age. Vampires age more slowly that humans, but we do age. But for every day I feed, I gain one more day of youth."

"And that's what you want from me—someone to feed off of?"

"That—and much more. But you still don't understand fully. Samantha looks twenty-eight—but she is sixty-five."

I blinked.

"It works both ways—every day I drink from you, you gain that same day of youth."

I stared at her, steadying myself with a deep, shuddering breath. Looking her in the eye, I slowly and deliberately barred the left side of my neck to her open mouth.

There was a brief, sharp pain, and then there was a strange, almost floral smell. I felt my body almost going limp, but my cock pressed hard against its cage.

After a moment, it was over.

"Will you? Will you go down the years together with me? Together like this—you kneeling forever at my side?"

I looked down. I saw my naked body, my locked cock. And I looked up at her and slowly nodded.