Summer’s warm breezes teased my clit as we crossed the sea of green. The setting over the trees cast long shadows over the noble house in the distance, a huge sprawling white whale that made me wonder for the first time since I’d been pulled from the box where exactly I’d been taken. Some place left over from a past glory?
I’d studied photographs of Hudson River estates in survey courses, those monuments to nineteenth-century certainty: marble staircases, iron fountains, manicured views that made the wilderness look obedient. This place was one of them, or something modeled on the dream of one — a Vanderbilt fantasy polished and sterilized for a century that worshiped something other than Nature as God. The windows were enormous, clear to the ground, reflecting the sky so cleanly the house seemed part of the approaching night.
In another life, I might have come here for a wedding or a symposium, balancing a flute of champagne, pretending to admire the architecture while wondering how many servants it once took to keep the façade intact. Now I was part of the décor. Or I would be. Perhaps even one of the servants.
Behind me, the stables gleamed with new paint, the brass fittings bright as jewelry. And the jewelry I wore now? I winced with each tug of the leash, tender flesh and the alternating pain and pleasure that throbbed with each step. What awaited me in the next hour, for the next few days, few weeks, I could barely even consider. What she’s said, implied — the implications of it hammered like my heart, the possibilities pulsed like my clit.
My head was still foggy from the hours spent under the careful eye of Mistress Naomi and her attendants in the preparation room. Chains clinked with each tiny step, the metal links between my ankle cuffs allowing only the smallest progress. My wrists linked together with metal behind my back. I shuffled forward to keep up as we marched, trying to avoid the sharp spike of pain in my nose each time Mistress surged ahead and tugged my leash. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes, bright with the pinks and reds of the oncoming sunset, taking in the sea of warm grass, the last few steps before the auction and what she promised I would become.
“A blank slate,” Naomi said, and the young black woman leaned back against the wall, pulling out her phone again. She nodded to the two men and the young woman who stood on either side and behind me, and they released me from the pole. Muscles screamed in protests and my arms fell to my side, tingling with bloodflow. My legs trembled as they pulled me to my feet, held me steady. “All of it,” she said, then turned away.
They led me to a shower, the water already scalding hot, thundering down like Niagara, and stripped, each of them naked, pulling me into the shower and back down to my knees. I shuddered when I saw the straight razor flash in the young woman’s hands, but the thick cocks presented to me held my attention. One, then the other filled my mouth as she shaved me, the blade sliding like a whisper over my skull, until every single hair was gone.
They held me up as she knelt, mouths on my mouth, my breasts, my neck and throat while the blade slid the length of my legs. I moaned when the cool metal kissed my cunt, leaving me clean, yet dripping from the sensations from stroke after perfect stroke. And then I was on my knees, worshipping the artist, my tongue pushing between her full lips to find her bud. I lapped at her folds, worshipping the creator of my new self. She came just before she took my eyebrows.
“It’s a simple role,” Naomi said.
I stood before her, stripped of everything that once defined me — my clothes, my hair, even the habits that told me who I was. A stranger in my own skin, yet anchored by the familiar need growing between my legs. Had I ever fantasized about what was about to happen? Could I ever have imagined it?
“Whoever you were before is gone,” she continued, her tone gentle but absolute. “Others will define who and what you are from this point on. You, my love,” she said, stepping closer, her perfume a hint of lavender, her smile there but her eyes soft now, “you will spend the next several weeks as nothing more than a mirror.”
Mirror.
The word lingered in the air between us like a promise I’d put out into the world. My fantasies playing out on the web, in the books I’d read, in the forums I’d haunted — none of them of my creation; all of them a reflection of someone else’s dreams and desires. My ache mirrored theirs. Never an original expression on my part — always a reflection of someone else’s darkness. When I read the stories, I was the one surrendering, submitting, relinquishing control. I was the one suffering the humiliation, the degradation, the words dripping from my lips like my need dripped from my cunt.
“A mirror reflects, does it not?” Naomi’s touch brought me back to the present. She traced the curve of my face with her fingers, cupped my cheek. “People come to the resort from far and wide for release. For relief. From their toil to dip into darkness and make their fantasies real. You will reflect that darkness. You will be the mirror to their unfulfilled desires. You will become the very thing that they fear to bring into the light, the part of themselves that terrifies. Taunts. Tempts. Their deepest fantasies come true. Their needs fulfilled, leaving them to return to their lives unburdened.”
She swallowed, taking a beat before circling, her voice enveloping me, shutting out the world, until there was nothing but her. “Our clients’ tastes are well known to us. They come here to seek solace, and we provide that solace. When they seek pleasure, you will reflect pleasure. When they seek pain, you will relieve them of their suffering. Where they seek release, you will give it to them in form and flesh. You will become the vessel that stills their nightmares, consumes their darkness.”
Naomi paused behind me; I could feel the warmth of her breath against my skin.
“And you will do this,” she said, her hand sliding like silk over my bald head, “by letting go of every instinct that bound you to yourself. To the woman you were.” She leaned close, her lips brushing against my ear, her voice barely a whisper. Her words sent a chill down my spine. “Today, you will take the first step in leaving Olivia behind and becoming something new.”
My name. How did she…?
The house loomed, its windows like mirrors, reflecting what I’d become. Who? My mind still reeled from the revelation from Naomi’s lips. How long since I’d heard my own name? Since I’d even thought about it? How long had I been ‘Cunt?’
I’d slipped so easily into that new wrapping, crawling like a dog because he’d seen me as such. I’d pushed my face into a bowl because he’d never once suggested I eat at the table like one of the residents. Like a person. I’d imagined myself as someone else so many times before, and when, without a single word, he’d suggested I was no one, I’d not once pushed back and declared myself, had I? Not once had I resisted, even considered balking, speaking out, saying, ‘No.’ I had simply accepted it, understood and even wanted it. The razor sliding over my head. My cunt flooding when he told me who I was and how I would cum for him.
From college professor to an obedient fucktoy in a day? Or had I been slowly letting myself slip away as I fantasized about what could be, how it would feel, who I might be if I let myself become -- this?
Naomi’s words followed me as we moved down the corridor, the rhythm of our steps swallowed by the hush of the house. Leaving Olivia behind. The phrase lodged somewhere between my throat and my chest. The hallway was little more than a blur as memories rushed forward -- lectures, student papers, and the fights with my ex. Amy’s quiet whispers, the touch of her fingers on my clit, the scrolling fantasies late at night as I left Olivia behind. Or wished her away.
We rounded a corner and stopped. Naomi turned, her eyes sharp, focused, taking in every detail as she leaned in to unclip the leash. I winced, feeling the tug of the new piercing, the way my clit twitched when I remembered the searing pain of the needle as I knelt on the floor in the preparation room. She’d pushed the spike of pain through my septum. A heavy silver ring slid through the hole, and she’d twisted the ball into place.
“You may or may not have a collar in the coming days, my love, but this will do, I think.” She’d smiled, touched an alcohol pad to my nose, dabbing around the tears that flowed. “Know that there can be no permanent marks upon your body, but temporary additions like this fall within the rules.” She left the implications of that statement hanging unsaid between us, and I swallowed, remembering the fear that had consumed me in the cage and how desperate I’d been to cum. How desperate so many women I’d read about had been to please, begging to become anything their masters desired, even to live their lives in everlasting denial and degradation.
I’d cum to those tales more times than I could count, and in that moment, all I’d wished for was for Mistress Naomi to stroke my clit, to tease me, make me beg and then leave me aching. Instead, she did worse. She ignored my pleading eyes and slipped a silver chain to my aching nose, then led me out of the barn and into the grass toward the grand mansion.
Naomi pressed her finger to her lips, and I nodded. The simple white door opened and closed behind me, the hush complete. I stepped into darkness, and for a heartbeat, I thought I was alone with Naomi, then she might turn and kiss me, command me, undo me. Then the lights came up, and I wilted under the stares of dozens — maybe hundreds — of eyes, and crashed to my knees. All of them waiting to decide what I was worth and what I could become.
“And now we begin the bidding on Lot 109.”
Author’s Notes: Admittedly, this was not the direction I expected this story to go in Season Two, but as I was writing the last episode, I suddenly decided to take things in a slightly different direction. Why? One, I didn’t want to go the ponygirl route that I had planned — not only did I just go there with Caroline in The River, but also, I wanted Olivia’s journey to be about her complete undoing, an assault, if you will, on her very identity. And two, I wanted to push myself and try something complete different — a personal writing challenge.
This won’t change how the rest of the story progresses because it allows for Seasons 3-5 to remain intact, but it is a new path to those narratives. Olivia’s journey is as much about the internal as the external, and I’m sold on telling not only the sexual side of her story, but also the emotional and mental side of it.
What happens when you realize that the thing you crave is to be completely undone? What happens when you cease to be yourself and you become whatever someone else has decided you will be?
I guess we’ll find out.
Stone, I need to catch up! 🔥
I loved the bondage and shaving 🪒