I pull my car into the visitor parking slot like I was told and kill the engine.  The house is some massive post colonial affair with colonnades of stone and marble.  It stretches on for a distance, a long distance, and wells up all around like a physical force.  Bizarre.  Totally bizarre.

       I check my watch.  Three minutes to spare; I do like being on time.

       It’s not like a house in the suburbs.  I can’t hear the bell when I ring but it must have successfully gone off somewhere; the door opens.  “Bang on time,” she remarks.  This is the voice of the woman I’ve spoken with on the phone innumerable times.  Prior to standing in front of her on an entry veranda that could seat hundreds I’ve met her only once.  It was in a family restaurant.  She wore jeans and a sweater.  I wore jeans and a T-shirt.  Today it’s jeans and a button down shirt—trying to fancy it up a little.  She’s completely transformed however.  An elastic looking ankle length rubber skirt hugs itself so tight to her hips and legs I’m not sure how she walked to the door.  An elaborate pair of black high platform stilettos with laces up her calves adorns her legs.  A tight fitting black leather corset cinches her midriff and her ample breasts over the top are covered by a rubber, to match the skirt.  (Some kind of top under the corset I figure)  Her long beautiful throat is adorned with a simple and understated choker; very patrician.  Her thick black hair that so captivated me in our first meeting is pulled up on her head in a severe style that accentuates her sharp cheekbones.

       “Anastasia, it’s good to see you again,” I say simply, trying to clamp my unhinged jaw back up into place and head off a stream of drool.

       “I’m glad you could make it,” she says, whispering my name almost theatrically, “it was easy to find?”

       “Yeah no worries.”

       “Well come in, let’s talk.” 

       Anastasia leads me in and closes the door.  She locks it swiftly with a practiced movement.  “Would you like something to drink?”

       “Maybe some coffee,” I admit.  “I forgot to bring a thermos on the road.  I didn’t think it would be so far out here.”

       The staircase we climb is like something out of Gone with the Wind.  Massive stone steps and a winding hand carved balustrade.  I’m suitably impressed.  Anastasia’s office is an expansive six room suite of offices really, up on the second floor.  There’s a colossal oak desk dragged out of the same place the Oval Office gets its furniture and several comfy looking lounge type chairs.  She motions me to one and I sit happily despite having been locked in the car for several hours prior.  She casually slides herself into the high backed executive chair behind the desk.

       “Welcome to the interview,” she says with a smile.

       “Thanks.”  I’m still waiting for the coffee.

       “I would ask how well you’ve done your homework but that’s kind of pointless.  There isn’t exactly a lot of information floating around to bone up on.  So I’ll fill you in now if you like.”

       I motion that this would be great.  The internet—my usual information font—has turned up virtually nothing on this house, Anastasia or anything to do with the either of them.

       “Artemis house was founded thirty years ago by a group of professional women looking to redraft the relationship stereotypes available to them.  Since then it has been maintained secretly and privately while adhering to its mission to make another way of life possible.”

       “And that way of life is obviously—” I interject only to be interrupted.

       “Yes, the training, keeping and use of male slaves for superior female dominants.  Here member dommes can leave behind the strictures of outside society and adopt a more fitting way of life for as long as they desire.  A day, a month, a year.  There are a few who live here full time.  Independently wealthy of course.”

       Everything she’s telling me though is stuff she’s already hinted at, alluded to and outright explained.  I’ve been talking to her for several months now.  She knows she’s just leading me down the path though, the goods, as they say, will be forthcoming.  I’m very patient.

       “So tell me why you’re here,” she asks me…again.

       “It’s like I’ve said, everything’s done.  I’ve worked, I’ve made some money.  Good good money.  I’ve traveled, eaten and explored.  This is all about keeping that discovery going,” I say cryptically.  “It’s something I’ve always wanted and I don’t think I can finish out my life without it.” Listen to me, I sound like I’m a million years old.

       “Good, that’s good.  You’ve obviously thought it out quite a bit.”

       “Oh yeahhhhh,” I mumble.

       “Well we’ve been talking for a long time but I know you want the details now.  And look at me being so nice, I’ll even give them to you.  There’s a lot of stuff you won’t need to know—ever—like who our members are or how they find us etcetera.  But I’ll tell you the stuff that directly affects you.  Let’s see, where should I start?”

       “The beginning?” I wonder out loud.  My coffee obviously isn’t going to be coming.

       “Sure.  If you enter this house as a slave you become the property of the house.  Complete property.  Your licenses, records and all that are taken and filed away; you lose your name and any and all rights.  What’s a good way to put this?” she wonders, “You become the house’s fuck slut.  That’s it.  Just a toy.  You don’t have any rights, especially the right to refusal.  There are no safe words and nothing we do here is play.”

       “Got it,” I say. 

       Anastasia reaches in her drawer and pulls out a pair of long rubber gloves.  Almost absently she begins sliding her fingers into them and rolling them up along her arms as she continues her explanation.

       “You have to understand that slaves here exist for the sole purpose of amusing and pleasing the mistresses.  Several of our slaves have been permanently…modified,” she says.  “Mostly it’s minor; pierced nipples, pierced cocks, waxed, branded, tattooed.  There’s one though I can think of off the top of my head that one Mistress took a particular shine to.  She had his front several teeth pulled and a spider gag permanently grafted into his mouth.  We feed him mush now through a tube.  Stuff like that.”

       “Sounds pretty extreme,” I admit.  My stomach is lurching a little.  I run my tongue over my teeth.

       “Sometimes it is; usually it’s not.  But I want to stress that there is nothing that slave could have done to prevent it once that mistress made up her mind.”        

       “Got it.”

       “Even how long you stay is no longer up to you.  There’s no contract, none of that 24/7 real time internet bullshit.  We’re big leagues here.  How it works is you’re brought into the house on a trial month.  After that the chair committee meets to determine if you’re what we’re looking for in a slave.  Usually it’s decided a slave will remain for a year, then three years, then ten years and finally a lifetime.  It’s not up to the slave; it’s decided by the committee.  And there are special exceptions and situations all the time.”

       “A lifetime,” I ask incredulously.

       “Yes.  Right now our longest serving slave has been with us for thirty years.  He’s not going anywhere,” Anastasia says with a small laugh at her own joke.  Her lips spasm into a cruel smile briefly.

       “Since the house started then?”

       “Yes, the whole time.  He’s getting pretty old now though, but he’ll be here ‘till he dies.”

       “I was wondering about that…” I say.

       “Yes about dying.  I bet you were.  Don’t worry, it’s forbidden for a Mistress here to kill any of the slaves.  Some have come close of course but we’ve never had any ‘accidental’ deaths either.”  She puts quotations around ‘accidental’ with her newly gloved and shiny fingers.  “Of course a Mistress can put up her own money and purchase a slave from the house for her own personal use.  What she does with him after that is her business.”

       “Does that happen a lot?”

       “We set the strike price pretty high for a slave.  Very very high.  Only the richest of the rich dommes could buy one outright and we don’t finance.  It’s happened once or twice though,” Anastasia explains.  “Of course if you’re a slave what do you care?” she winks.  I wink back.  I feel like we’re on a date.

       “Now we have several types of slaves here.  After the first month of initial we decide where you might fit best.  Some men become furniture slaves—”

       “Furniture?” I interrupt.

       “Yes.  They’re placed into complete bondage to become a table, a coat rack, a lamp, a chair; whatever.”

       “And then what?” I ask.

       “That’s it!  They’re ‘watered’ twice a day and freed for a feeding once a week before being set back up as furniture.  I know what you’re thinking and the answer’s ‘no.’ They’re never fucked, or beaten or anything.  They’re just furniture.”

       “What are the other types?” I ask.

       “There are toilet slaves too and that one should be obvious.  There are no toilets or running water in the house.  All waste is taken care of by the toilet slaves.  Water for baths, cooking, and drinking is brought in everyday from the well by house slaves.  They’re the third type; house slaves.  They do all the domestic chores like cleaning, cooking, laundry, whatever.  Sometimes a Mistress will have some fun and have one she likes clean the grouting on all the tile with a toothbrush for example though.  Oh yes, and then there’re the pain slaves.”

       “Oh that sounds fun,” I whisper sarcastically.

       “It is if you’re a masochist,” Anastasia says and I have to admit, she has me there.  “They’re simply used by our more…sadistic mistresses as whipping boys.  As I said, nothing is too extreme.  We have a trauma medic who lives in house.  She’s not a sadist; she’s into…other things, but she’ll patch up a pain slave so he can be strapped to a rack again.  And finally…there are the fuck slaves.  And that’s just what it sounds like too.  They’re the best of the best.  The best looking, the biggest cocks, whatever, it’s a pretty big list.  They’re kept in cages in the basement until a Mistress wants to use one.  That includes anything of course: restraints, whippings, wax, whatever she wants.  Sometimes you have to be a bit of a pain slut too to be a fuck slave it seems.”

       “How are slaves treated here?” I ask.  She catches my meaning.

       “Aside from the obvious they’re fed, watered, allowed to sleep…from time to time.  Obviously some last longer than others.  Toilet slaves for example have much shorter life expectancy, as do pain slaves.  If a slave is released after their time it’s in good health with no major deficiencies,” Anastasia promises me.

       “Wow,” is all I can think of to say.

       “Would you like to see the house and some of the areas?” she asks suddenly.

       “Yes please.  I mean, if you have time right now.”

       She opens her drawer again.  “Of course.  There’s one thing though.”  She gets up from her chair and half steps in her rubber dress to my side.  “In keeping with the house protocols you’ll have to be gagged.”  She produces a large black ball gag and dangles it enticingly in front of me.  I open my mouth obediently and she deftly pops it between my lips before cinching it tightly behind my head.  She runs a rubber hand over my face and leans down beside my ear.  “And on a leash,” she adds sensuously.

       Already her fingers are wrapping a thin black collar around my throat.  I feel the toggles catch at the back of my neck.  From the top of her desk she slides over a length of chain and clips it the collar.

       “There we are,” she says, tugging me up from my chair.  “Walk behind me,” she warns, “and don’t wander off,” she laughs as we walk out into the hallway.  As if I could.

       The house is a monstrous maze of rooms and half rooms.  Here and there men in skimpy French maid outfits flit around dusting and cleaning and carrying any number of assorted things.  Occasionally I see a chair or table that used to be a person.

       We go out a back door onto a sprawling garden that winds its way down the hill at the back of the house.  Marble fountains and benches dot the landscape between immaculately manicured hedges.  A man’s blistering and thankfully muffled scream wafts over on the air.

       “Shall we check it out?” Anastasia asks and pulls me in the direction of the noise.

       A man, obviously a slave by the collar he wears, is tied spread eagle between two marble garden pillars.  Protruding from his ass are four long arrows, each with their heads buried soundly in the soft flesh.  There is very little blood.  One that is bleeding, badly, is lodged in his right side, just above his hips.

       “My God,” I mumble into the gag.  A woman in a black sundress and wearing sunglasses stands several meters behind him.  She’s resting her weight on a heavy archer’s bow, obviously taking time to admire her handiwork.  A quiver of arrows, several left, lies at her feet.

       “That’s a pain slave,” Anastasia says idly.  I make some noise into the gag.

       “Don’t worry,” she says, “he has two kidneys.”

       We wander through the garden where another Mistress is walking a slave on a leash very similar to my own.  She and Anastasia stop and chat idly for a moment or two and then we’re off again.  We head back into the house through a side door and climb down a series of wooden and sometimes rickety steps.

       “We’re going down to the dungeon now,” she guides me; “you’ll get to see other pain slaves and their mistresses.  Oh that’s another thing.  Remember slaves belong to the house, so they can be used by any mistress at any time.  Just because one doesn’t brand you doesn’t mean another won’t.”

       “Sounds charming,” I mumble through the gag.  She obviously picks it up.

       “Well it prevents us as dominants getting pigeon holed.  We can use any slave’s hole however we want.  If I want to beat the shit out of a slave I’ll use a pain slave, that’s what they’re for; whatever one’s available that I like.  If I want to fuck with a slave I’ll use a sex slave that I like,” Anastasia explains.

       We walk down another set of dodgy stairs and through a heavy looking door.  Almost immediately the sounds of pain fill up the air around us.  Men screaming or groaning in cacophonous chorus.  It grows louder as we come closer.

       Around a corner, perched permanently under the heavy stone eaves of the cavernous basement roof is a sprawling dungeon, stretching into the shadows.  Fires—obviously for mood or something—burn in round brick pits scattered throughout.  Elaborate racks and torture apparatus dot nearly every square inch of space.  A few male slaves are strapped unceremoniously to them here and there.  One looks unconscious.  One man is suspended spread eagled facing down from the ceiling.  Thin sharp looking metal filament wire is looped through his skin all along his back.  There are so many he looks like a porcupine with his skin stretched up from his body and long metal ‘quills’ stretching to the ceiling.  It takes me a second to realize he’s hung from the ceiling entirely on the strength of those ‘quills’.  A beautiful woman with thick black hair and a small worry line down her forehead, joining to her nose, is concentrating intently on lashing his prone body with a multi-tailed whip.  Red marks cover nearly every inch of his exposed skin.

       When she sees us the domme stops her whipping and wanders over to us, a smile spreading across her face.  The worry line disappears. 

       “Anastasia, who’s this?” she asks lightly.

       Anastasia introduces me.  “He’s getting a tour,” she explains.  I extend my hand to this new woman who grasps it warmly. 

       “Mistress Vanessa,” she says, “you can call me Mistress, when you can speak at all,” she laughs.

       “He’s very cute,” Vanessa says, turning her full attention to Anastasia, “I wonder if you’ll leave him here with me for a little while.  Part of the tour,” she winks at me.

       “Just a tour right now,” Anastasia says, “if he hangs around I’m sure you’ll get your chance to sink your claws into him, don’t worry.”

       Very suddenly Vanessa walks sharply back to her hanging slave and with one quick controlled motion digs her finger nails into his lower abdomen, just above his crotch, and rakes them clear to his throat.  His rending shriek fills the cavern completely.

       Casually she strolls back towards us and displays her nails.  There’s a drop or two of blood resting on them which she just as casually wipes down my cheek.  I steel myself and deliberately don’t flinch.

       “Very good,” she purrs, “we’ll see if you’re so brave when it’s your own blood.”

       Anastasia leads me unceremoniously through the dungeon and into a large room lined with cages, stacked on top of each other.  It reminds me of an animal shelter.  No strays start barking at us however.

       She flicks the lights on.  Harsh industrial fluorescents come on over head.  I can see now that most of the cages are full.  A male slave lounges in most of them.  A few are empty.        

       “These are the pens; it’s where we keep the fuck slaves until we want to use one.  There are dungeons all over the house for that purpose,” Anastasia explains.

       We stroll between the cages.  “Come here,” she says, “I want to show you something.”  She pulls gently on my leash and leads me behind a stack of cages.  There are more cages here, but much much smaller.  Each one looks like it would only hold a man balled up tight.  Anastasia runs a gloved hand over one lovingly.  There’s a heavy steel ring of some sort on the end instead of bars all across and some sort of pipe rigging inside.  She opens the other end which is simply a swing door.

       “Get in,” she orders.  I look at the cage skeptically.  With a little bit of pull on the leash she lowers me to the door and motions inside.  “Obviously you’ll have to crawl,” she explains and slides the T-bar looking pipe structure out of the way to allow me to crawl inside.  It’s obvious I’m not going to fit before I’m even half way in.

       Unperturbed, Anastasia moves to the front of the cage and opens a lock of some kind and the heavy steel ring opens wider like a ‘C’.  “Put your head through.”

       I obey and she immediately locks the band again around my neck.  It’s doubly uncomfortable with the collar underneath.  Now I fit in the cage it seems, with my head hanging out.  She closes and locks the door behind my ass which is now pressed up against the bars.  I feel her just outside the cage rearranging the T-bar.  I feel it slip under my elbows, pinning my arms to the roof of the cage and forcing my back straight.  My hands hang down loosely by my ass, hands pinned between the sides of the cage and my body.  Wordlessly Anastasia reaches into the cage and undoes my belt and pants.  Almost gently she pulls them down to my thighs, briefs and all.  I hear another clanking and a ‘slopping’ noise.  Suddenly something cool touches itself to my asshole.  And before I can think about it further something long and lubricated slides forcibly up my asshole.  It tears a little.  I scream into the gag.

       Anastasia walks to the front of the cage.  My head is level with her heels and the end of her rubber dress.  “Perfect,” she whispers, almost to herself.  “I just wanted to see if you fit.”  She moves one foot close to my mouth.  “While you’re down there my shoes could probably use a cleaning.  Oh that’s right, you can’t,” she laughs and walks away.  A few clinks later I’m free of the dildo and the cage and am pulling up my pants.

       “Back to my office,” she says lightly and takes the end of the leash again.

       We climb back up into the house and up the monstrous staircase to her office suite.  I take my chair again but Anastasia stays on my side of the desk, leaning casually against it with her hip.  She reaches behind me casually and gently takes my hands in hers.

       “So I’ve been thinking,” she says.  I feel something tight slip around my wrists and suddenly I can’t move my hands; they’re bound palms together behind my back.  My heart picks up speed.  “I’ve got a proposition for you,” she continues, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

       I see something black being tossed back and forth in her hands and suddenly I can’t see.  Some sort of half hood slides down over my head, cupping my eyes completely.  Anastasia tightens it at the back of my skull. 

       “See the thing is…I quite like you.  I’ve enjoyed our talks and getting to know you.  I’m glad you came for this tour; it shows initiative.”

       I feel the collar slide off and something almost sticky slide completely over my head.  For a second I’m panicked and start to struggle before Anastasia calmly finds the two small nose holes for me in the latex hood.  The collar wraps back around, cinching the hood between it and my throat.

       “And I think that you would be a terrific addition to the house,” she continues calmly.  “If you were to contract yourself to the house I would see to it that you were turned into a fuck slave,” she offers.  “I’d make sure of it; you wouldn’t have to worry.  After your initial month trial of course,” she adds.

       Suddenly I feel myself being pulled out of my chair by the leash.  I feel Anastasia’s gloved hand push me over the desk.  Without my hands for support I quickly find my cheek up against the top of it.  Her hands are at my belt again and she drops my pants to the floor.  I help her pull off my shoes, socks and finally my pants and briefs. 

       “Stay there,” she orders and walks away.  I can hear her from across the room.  “So I’ve been giving it some thought.  Why don’t you stay here at the house for a special trial, say…oh…three days?  You could experience all the different types of slavery in that time.  I’d be your guide.”

       She returns and something heavy settles around my ankles.  Forcefully Anastasia spreads my feet apart and locks something stiff between them.  A spreader bar, I think.  My cock freefalls between my legs and is already mostly hard.

       “You could even start today,” she says enthusiastically.  I can’t say anything.

       “I’ll take that as a yes then?” Anastasia asks.  She wraps her fingers around my cock.  It’s all the way hard instantly.

       “So obedient,” she laughs.  “Well in that case why don’t you stay for the full month after three days if I like.  After then who knows…”  I feel something flat against my bare ass cheek.

       “I’m going to crop you now.  While I’m doing it I want you to think about how good a life you’re going to have here at the house.”

END