The Strange Desires of Madame Petra

It was stifling in the dungeon. Madame Petra gazed at her willing victim, mesmerized by the beauty of the beads of sweat upon his naked body, each drop reflecting the light of the dozen candles which were her dungeon's only illumination.

With an effort, Madame Petra looked beyond the beauty of the light to her bound victim...and with a sudden shock realized that she could not remember who he was. She rested her small hand upon his bare thigh and looked intently at his face, contorted by a bright pink ball-gag. His name was...?

Madame Petra shook her head, her long, snow white hair swaying gently about her beautiful, elfin face. No good, she thought. She'd known him for years, played with him many times, and yet...she had absolutely no idea who this man was. She fought down a feeling of near-panic and finished the scene, which she recalled was basic, routine cock & ball whipping and torture. Her victim gurgled and writhed, as all of them always did...and soon the scene was finished and she escorted him to the front door and sent him on his way.

Madame Petra removed her latex dominatrix attire, dropping it carelessly to the floor in the front parlor. Her trim body was drenched with sweat. Deciding that she was too warm for clothing, she climbed a four-flight circular staircase to her Victorian home’s turret, where she collapsed onto the velvet couch, rang for her slave, and lolled nude in the warm breeze entering through the large stained-glass windows, thrown open wide to greet the summer day.

Within seconds, Slave Marilyn was kneeling before Madame Petra, her dark eyes agleam with the desire to serve her mistress.

"Yes, Madame Petra," she said.

Madame Petra gestured at the couch.

"Please be seated, Marilyn. Rub my feet, if you would."

"Thank you, Madame Petra."

Slave Marilyn, wearing only leather wrist and ankle cuffs, arose gracefully and seated herself upon the circular sofa which ringed the inside of the turret. She took her owner's small feet upon her lap and began to massage them. A soft moan emerged from Madame Petra's throat. Slave Marilyn smiled, delighted that she was pleasing her owner.

Mistress and slave, dominant and submissive, owner and property. The two beautiful women were polar opposites in personality, yet were in many respects remarkably similar, even to the extent of having both been born on the morning of August 4, 1979.

Both Petra Kovacek and Marilyn Wu were just a shade under five feet tall, with small, slim, sexy bodies so perfectly matched that their wardrobes were utterly interchangeable. Long, wonderfully idle days tanning on the beaches of nearby Lake Calhoun had baked their bodies to the same golden hue. They each had long, straight hair falling to the small of the back; Petra’s as white as bone, Marilyn’s as black and gleaming as a raven’s wing. Their eyes differed as day and night; Petra’s as blue as a June sky, Marilyn’s as black as a December midnight.

Their body modifications, on the other hand, were utterly identical. When she had first been enslaved by Madame Petra, Marilyn Wu had had no piercings or tattoos of any kind, not even ear piercings. Her new owner had changed that forthwith. Inspired by her impish sense of humor, Madame Petra had had her new slave’s body decorated exactly as hers was. Their bodies were now adorned by numerous and identical piercings and tattoos, even including their eyebrows, which had been permanently removed and replaced by elegantly contoured tattooed replacements. Their intimates had noticed the intentional effect: from the neck down, the two women were indistinguishable, a result which Madame Petra had used to her advantage in BDSM scenes on more than one occasion.

Now, after several minutes of luxuriating in her foot rub, Madame Petra looked seriously at her slave’s lovely face and said, "It happened again, Marilyn."

Slave Marilyn looked with concern upon the face of her mistress.

"You forgot his name, Madame?"

Madame Petra closed her eyes tight and nodded.

"All of a sudden, I couldn't remember anything about him."

"That's four times, Madame Petra," said Slave Marilyn, worry in her voice.

"Six. It happened twice at Atomic Test last night. Two of my regulars...I couldn't remember their names, their tastes, their limits..." Her voice trailed away, then she suddenly opened her eyes and sat up, staring at her slave with fear upon her face. "Jesus, Marilyn, what's wrong with me? Am I going crazy?"

Slave Marilyn took her mistress's feet off her lap, arose, and sat down immediately beside her owner. She put her hands upon Madame Petra's shoulders and gently but firmly eased the other woman back down upon the sofa. She looked intently into Madame Petra's blue eyes; her voice was soft and loving.

"You're fine, Petra. You've been under a lot of pressure lately. You were in Tokyo a week ago and London just before that. You've got the Atomic Test Slave Auction in ten days. You've been domming a lot of clients lately. You're tired, that's all!"

Madame Petra shook her head doubtfully and clasped both hands of the woman who was both her friend and her slave.

“No, that’s not it, Marilyn. I’ve been busier than this. I’m not forgetting names at random, only client’s names. And I only forget their names during a session. I’m afraid I might be losing my mind.”

The slavegirl grinned impishly, hoping to divert her mistress.

“Shall I fetch your straitjacket, Madame? Perhaps my domina needs to be confined for her own good.”

Madame Petra frowned at her friend.

“Is that my slavegirl’s way of telling me that I’m overreacting? Or are you trying to distract me by getting me to spank you?”

Slave Marilyn’s grin broadened.

“Any reason I can’t do both, Madame?”

Madame Petra’s frown broke and she chuckled.

“All right, Marilyn, you win; I can use some fun, too. Go to the dungeon and pick out a paddle. Meet me in the gazebo. Move, girl!”

She gave Marilyn a quick slap on her butt and the naked slavegirl scampered away. Madame Petra got up off her couch, stretched, and went down the circular staircase, heading slowly for her backyard. The back was moderately screened from public view, so she again decided to remain nude.

The afternoon was warm and humid; she thought a summer thunderstorm would arrive before the day was out. Madame Petra was glad she hadn’t dressed; the day was far too sticky for clothing. She walked slowly through her garden, toward the gazebo near its center, enjoying her beloved flowers.

As she strolled, Madame Petra deliberately did not glance at the house next door. Her neighbor was a man named Paul Yeats, a dealer in antique jade carvings, rare stamps and coins, and a close and trusted friend. He was, in fact, her only close friend not in the BDSM world. He was a shy but remarkably attractive man, considerably older than Petra, and she got a definite charge from letting him see her naked. Since she was a domme, however, the rules of her world forbade her from admitting that she enjoyed flaunting her naked body before him. And so, she pretended not to see him watching…as he was today, from his library window on the second floor. Petra smiled to herself and climbed the three steps into her gazebo.

Slave Marilyn was kneeling in the center of the gazebo, head high, back straight, palms flat upon her thighs, holding an exquisite cherry wood paddle in her teeth. Madame Petra walked in slow circles about her, inspecting her slave’s posture. She nodded, satisfied, and took the paddle from her submissive’s mouth. There was a spot of saliva on the paddle; she wiped it clean and polished it with Marilyn’s silky black hair. She stood behind her slave and grinned.

“All right, slavegirl,” she said in a harsh tone, “put your face on the floor and your butt in the air!”

Her slavegirl obeyed instantly.

Ordinarily, Madame Petra would have warmed up Marilyn’s butt slowly with some softer strokes, possibly even barehanded swats. Today, however, she skipped the preliminaries and began pounding Marilyn’s pretty little butt with her full strength. This was not due to anger at her slave, quite the contrary. She knew full well that Marilyn had intended her mildly disrespectful remarks to bring on a punishment. She also knew that Marilyn had arranged this spanking for Madame Petra’s sake, and not for her own pleasure. The fact that Marilyn would enjoy the scene as well was simply gravy!

Madame Petra was frightened, and her slave and friend Marilyn knew it. Petra’s behavior in recent weeks had been odd, even erratic. She’d forgotten client’s names, missed appointments, exceeded limits on newbies, and gone far too soft on highly experienced painsluts. In her “normal” life, nothing whatsoever was wrong. In her BDSM life, very little was right. And she hadn’t the slightest clue as to why.

This paddling, though, was going right! Marilyn’s pose was perfect; her butt was high and inviting, her body as still as a statue. Madame Petra used all her tiny body’s considerable strength, landing blow after blow upon her slave’s docile body until finally, breathing hard from the exertion and from sexual release, she ended the scene.

Madame Petra bent over and kissed her slave’s perfect little butt. It was so inviting, so red, so warm beneath her lips! She patted Marilyn’s butt with her hand and said, “You may arise now,…uh….uh…”

Slave Marilyn stood and faced her mistress, grinning with all the sexual satisfaction a good spanking gave her. Her face froze, however, when she saw the expression of horror on Madame Petra’s beautiful face.

“Petra!” she gasped. “What’s wrong?”

Petra was entirely silent for a moment. Finally, she gained enough control of herself to look at her friend and speak.

“I…I’m sorry…oh, god, I’m sorry! I don’t know your name!”

Madame Petra dropped her paddle, turned, and ran through the garden and into her house. A look of genuine fear on her face, Marilyn followed her friend and mistress. In the gazebo, only the exquisite cherry wood paddle remained, forgotten upon the parquet floor.

Seated comfortably in Madame Petra’s turret, Paul Yeats said to Petra and Marilyn, now dressed in matching white terrycloth bathrobes, “And you say that this only happens when you do a scene. Hmmmm…let me ask…does it ever happen when you play the bottom? Or only the top?”

Both women stiffened at his words. Marilyn spoke up.

“Madame Petra is a domina, Mr. Yeats. She never submits. Never.”

Paul looked apologetic and absent-mindedly straightened his necktie.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I meant no offense. I thought I understood, though, that a dominatrix-in-training usually submits to a more experienced dominatrix as part of her education. Kind of an apprentice system.”

Madame Petra nodded while reaching out and touching Paul reassuringly on his forearm.

“That’s true, Paul, but also misleading. I did submit to Mistress Eleanor when she trained me…but it’s not the same as Marilyn’s total, lifetime submission to me. It’s….rather hard to explain to someone not in the scene.”

Paul Yeats grinned.

“Kind of like a CEO’s grandson ‘starting out’ in the mailroom for a couple of weeks before his promotion to executive vice president?”

Petra chuckled, the first time she’d laughed since the disastrous paddling.

“Something like that. And that’s why I need you here, Paul…I need someone who isn’t in the scene, someone with an outsider’s perspective…someone I respect...someone I trust.”

Petra, uncomfortable at admitting need, glanced at Marilyn and realized that her friend and slave dearly wanted to say something more. She patted Paul Yeats on the hand and nodded.

“Go ahead, dearest. Tell him.”

Paul looked interested.

“Tell me what?”

Marilyn looked somewhat abashed, but spoke.

“Mr. Yeats, you may not know enough of the BDSM world to know this, but to many submissives…to me…the words ‘top’ and ‘bottom’ are deeply offensive.”

Paul looked surprised.

“They are?”

“Yes, Mr. Yeats. I’ve known far too many dominants who have used ‘bottom’ as a derisive, contemptuous, derogatory term for me to ever accept it as a word for myself. I am a submissive by birth and a slave by choice. I am a fucktoy and a painslut and a cunt for my mistress and for whomsoever she may choose. But I am a ‘bottom’ for no one and for nobody!”

Paul looked at Marilyn in silence for a moment. Then he smiled in understanding and spoke.

“That which yields,” he quoted, “is not always weak.”

Marilyn grinned in sudden delight.

“You’ve read Jacqueline Carey!”

“Her first two books. I can’t wait for the next one!”

“Me, neither!”

They were interrupted by the sound of enameled nails drumming upon the marble coffee table. Marilyn and Paul looked at Madame Petra in embarrassment. She looked mildly amused.

“I don’t mean to be selfish, but can we get back to me? Not that the latent strength of slavegirls isn’t a fascinating topic.”

All three laughed, but Petra quickly grew serious once more, pressing her hand hard upon Paul’s open palm. He closed his hand upon hers and held it tight.

“What do you think, Paul? Am I crazy?”

He thought a moment.

“No, Petra, you’re not crazy. Another question: Out in the gazebo, when you looked at Marilyn, you truly had no idea what her name was?”

“Not a clue.”

“Did you know who she was otherwise?”

She thought.

“I knew we’d been friends for years. I knew that I trust her more than anyone else in the world. I knew that I love her dearly. But I didn’t know her name…or anything else about her.”

Marilyn was staring at Petra, her eyes brimming with tears. Paul released her hand so that Petra might put her arms around her friend.

“Please don’t cry, Marilyn. If you crack up, I’ll fall apart, too. Please, dearest, hold on to me.”

Marilyn obeyed and the two women sat close together, their arms tight around each other. Paul thought a moment.

“You knew your feelings for her…did you know her feelings toward you?”

Petra stared at him, her mouth hanging open in surprise.

“No,” she said slowly, hesitantly. “No, I didn’t.” And then, with sudden vehemence, “But I do! I know Marilyn loves me…she does! I know she does!”

Marilyn hugged her mistress still tighter. Paul Yeats considered a moment longer, and then resumed speaking.

“Well…Petra, I still think that this might be more of a job for a psychiatrist than for a rare coin dealer…or at least for someone who knows a lot more about the BDSM lifestyle than I do…but this is my best guess. I think you’re worried that you’re not seeing your submissives as people anymore. And your subconscious is telling you this by not letting you remember their names.”

“Is that possible?”

Paul shrugged.

“I don’t know. You could get the psychology I’m using out of a box of Cracker-Jack. But I think you should cancel your appointments for a couple of weeks. After all, Marilyn knows you better than anyone and she thinks you’re overworked. Is it possible to cut down for a while?”

Madame Petra considered this.

“Yes. I’m committed to the Midsummer’s Night Slave Auction at Atomic Test, of course.” She shrugged. “I created it and I’m the mistress of ceremonies, so I have to be there. I can delegate the arrangements, though.” She paused, thinking. “And I have an appointment in Atlanta I can’t get out of. That’s just a one-evening session, though. I fly in one afternoon and fly out the next morning. I can handle that. It’s a regular monthly appointment and I’d hate to cancel.”

“May I go along with you, Madame,” Slave Marilyn asked, “just in case?”

Madame Petra kissed her slave on the cheek and let her hand rest lightly upon Paul’s forearm.

“No, dear Marilyn, I need you here to take care of the Slave Auction arrangements. Nobody can handle that like you. I’ll be fine. It’s a simple session…I barely have to lift a finger.”

It was four days later, and Petra Kovacek was in a taxi in Atlanta, Georgia. Her friends and associates in Minneapolis would not have recognized Madame Petra. She was dressed in an ill-fitting brown polyester skirt & blazer, with a tan rayon blouse, low-heeled brown vinyl pumps, and a matching brown vinyl handbag. She wore no makeup and her long white hair had been tucked beneath a cheap, curly wig of mousy brown hair. She had no luggage in the cab; she had brought none with her. Petra looked like a desk clerk at a rundown convention hotel. All of which was as she intended.

The taxi pulled up in front of a large white house which stood two hundred yards back from the street, guarded by a high iron fence and gates. Petra looked at the meter and paid the cab driver, giving him twice the tip he’d doubtless expected.

“Thank you, sir,” she said meekly, and exited the cab, which drove away, leaving her alone on the quiet residential street. She walked up to the wrought iron gates and rang a doorbell on one of the gateposts. She waited.

After several minutes, a woman’s pleasant voice emerged from the callbox.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?”

Petra said, “Mistress Rose Thorne? This is Bagatelle. I’ve been a very naughty girl, Mistress, and I’m here to be punished, as you ordered.”

There was a long pause.

“You’re early, Bagatelle. You may pace the width of the driveway until I give you permission to stop.”

“Yes, Mistress Rose Thorne. Thank you, Mistress Rose Thorne.”

Petra walked across the driveway until she reached the luxuriant green lawn, then she spun on her heel and paced back again. Back and forth she strode in the afternoon sunlight, on a steamy July day in Atlanta. Within minutes, she felt her body heating beneath the airless polyester suit; she felt herself beginning to sweat. She continued to pace, obediently carrying out the pointless order she had been given.

Somewhat over an hour later, a buzzing sound came out of the callbox and the wrought iron gates silently swung open. Madame Petra…now calling herself Bagatelle…walked quietly up the long driveway toward the large white house. Her body and her clothing were drenched with her perspiration. Silently, the gates swung to and locked shut behind her. She walked up to the house, climbed the steps, rang the doorbell, and waited.

After perhaps two minutes, a voice came through an intercom.

“Were you given permission to enter through the front door?”

“No, Mistress Rose Thorne.”

“The servant’s entrance is in the rear.”

“Yes, Mistress Rose Thorne.”

Bagatelle…previously known as Madame Petra…left the shady porch and went back into the hot sunlight. She walked around to the rear of the house and knocked upon the back door. It opened instantly and she entered.

Mistress Rose Thorne stood within the kitchen, hands upon her hips, an angry expression on her face.

“You are late, girl!”

Bagatelle fell to her knees before Mistress Rose Thorne.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said meekly.

Mistress Rose Thorne was a slender, sexy woman in her mid-forties. She was a classic strawberry blonde with an angular, aristocratic face. She was only of average height but, wearing five-inch platform shoes and looming over the kneeling Bagatelle, she appeared as tall as a goddess. Other than her shoes, she wore nothing but a long, black strap-on jutting menacingly from her crotch. She held a pair of sharp, gleaming scissors in her right hand.

She looked at Bagatelle, kneeling quietly before her.

“You’re a mess, girl. How can you wear cheap, sweaty clothes like that to my house?”

“I’m very sorry, Mistress Rose Thorne,” Bagatelle said.

The taller woman grinned.

“You’ll be sorrier, yet, slavegirl. Come here.”

Bagatelle crawled toward the other woman. Mistress Rose Thorne examined her clothing closely, inspecting it with a look of disdain on her lovely face.

“You look like you dressed at the Salvation Army. Stand up.”

Bagatelle did so, and the taller woman walked in circles about her, her empty hand brushing constantly against Bagatelle’s tractable body.

“You are a very beautiful slave, Bagatelle.”

"Thank you, Mistress Rose Thorne.”

“This clothing is completely unacceptable, however. Stand still. I don’t want to cut you…yet.”

With long, steady cuts, Mistress Rose Thorne began cutting the clothing off the slavegirl Bagatelle. Her work was quick and practiced, and in less than a minute, Bagatelle stood before her mistress, nude except for her vinyl pumps. She gloried in the sensation of cool air on her skin; she felt relief that the itchy clothes were gone from her body. A selection of brown and tan rags lay scattered on the floor about her; Mistress Rose Thorne gestured at the scraps.

“Clean my floor, bitch.”

“Yes, Mistress Rose Thorne.”

Bagatelle crouched and gathered up the remnants of her clothing in her arms.

“Throw that mess in the trash, bitch. Your shoes, too. And your purse. And that god-awful wig.”

“Yes, Mistress Rose Thorne.”

Bagatelle disposed of the remnants of her clothing, unconcerned about how she would return to the world entirely unclothed, entirely without money. She now had no possessions with her whatsoever; everything brought to Atlanta by Madame Petra had just been destroyed or discarded. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her blood racing, growing hotter.

The taller woman again walked slowly about Bagatelle, allowing her full breasts and her jutting phallus to brush against the slavegirl’s naked body. She stood behind Bagatelle, pulling out her hairpins, freeing her long white hair and allowing it to once more fall freely about Bagatelle’s bare shoulders. As she worked, her cock pressed against the slavegirl’s bare flesh, and each time the black strap-on touched her skin, Bagatelle’s skin flushed and her breathing quickened.

“Kneel, bitch,” said Mistress Rose Thorne, and Bagatelle obeyed instantly.

“Pay homage to your Mistress, bitch,” the mistress commanded.

Bagatelle turned about and took the long black dildo into her mouth, tickling it with her teeth, caressing it with her tongue. The long black cock filled her mouth and tasted vaguely of licorice; Bagatelle found it enormously satisfying. She closed her eyes and blissfully licked her mistress’s cock; she could tell from her mistress’s moans that the cock extended deep inside the mistress’s pussy, and that the mistress was pleased. After she had serviced her mistress’s strap-on for long moments, Bagatelle felt a pair of hands grasp her head and bend it back. Her neck at an uncomfortable angle, the strap-on still deep in her mouth, Bagatelle opened her blue eyes and found herself staring up into a pair of warm green eyes. Mistress Rose Thorne smiled down at Bagatelle and caressed her cheek.

“I’m glad to see you, too, Bagatelle. Come, girl, our Master is waiting for us.”

Mistress Rose Thorne helped Bagatelle to her feet and hugged her tight. Then, arm in arm, the two nude women walked deeper into the house to discover their Master.

Mistress Rose Thorne took Bagatelle to a wide, open doorway leading to a billiard room, where a powerful man of medium height was shooting pool. The two women knelt side by side, palms resting on their spread thighs, heads bowed, waiting patiently and respectfully for The Master to take note of them.

The Master was in his mid-fifties, trim and muscular. He was dressed in dark grey trousers, a white oxford shirt open at the neck, and black dress shoes. His face was rugged and handsome, his iron-grey hair was cut short, his clear grey eyes missed nothing. He was shooting the table in order, one shot following the next without pause or hesitation. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction after sinking the fifteen-ball on a tricky two bank shot. He replaced his cue on the wall rack and turned at last to face the two kneeling women.

“Rose,” he said, “this is a delightful surprise. I didn’t realize it was yet time for a visit from our dear little Bagatelle.”

He offered his hand to Rose and assisted her to rise. The two of them stood above the kneeling Bagatelle, inspecting her nude body. The Master put his arms about Rose and held her tight, kissed her hard upon the mouth.

“Rose, a collar and leash for Bagatelle, if you please.”

“Yes, Master,” said Mistress Rose Thorne. She scampered down the hall, eager to obey her Master’s command. She returned in seconds with a fine leather collar with silver inlays and a lead chain of silver links, both of which she offered to the man. He shook his head and pointed to Bagatelle.

“Collar our slave, Rose. Bring her to the bedroom.”

The Master turned and strode down the hall.

Mistress Rose Thorne quickly collared and leashed Bagatelle. Then, without a word but with a sharp tug on the leash, she commanded the slavegirl to follow. On hands and knees, the former Madame Petra crawled along beside her mistress, at the order of their Master.

In the bedroom, The Master had already undressed and was sitting nude in a large armchair which faced the enormous four-poster bed. When Mistress Rose Thorne led Bagatelle into the bedroom, he simply pointed at the bed and said, “You may begin.”

Rose released Bagatelle from her collar and leash and the two women scampered atop the large bed. As their Master watched, Rose took Bagatelle tightly in her arms and kissed her softly on the mouth, teasing Bagatelle with the barest hints of her tongue. Bagatelle put her slender arms about her mistress’s body, squeezing her small waist, caressing her firm butt. She felt the other woman entwining her hands in Bagatelle’s long white hair, gripping her tightly, and then forcing the slavegirl’s body down until she lay supine upon the bed.

Rose moved atop Bagatelle, pressing her mouth to the slavegirl’s breast, biting one nipple and pinching the other with her strong, slender fingers. Bagatelle shut her eyes and lay back, reveling in her mistress’s attentions. She heard The Master’s catlike footsteps, and her body was gently turned over until her face was buried in the silken sheets, and she then felt soft ropes fastened about her wrists and ankles, pulling her tight, holding her taut, stretching her body until she was entirely immobilized. Her long white hair was gathered up and tucked neatly beneath her chin. A leather blindfold took away her sight, and Bagatelle was entirely defenseless.

She lay upon the bed for a long while, her cheek resting upon the cool silk, listening to the soft voices, hearing the occasional kiss, and once the slap of a firm hand upon yielding flesh. Bagatelle, naked, bound, and helpless, waited for what was to come.

Bagatelle cried out in pain and desire as a blow from a heavy leather flogger landed with a thud upon her back. And then another blow. And still another.

Bagatelle was whipped from her shoulders to her heels, each blow landing harder than the last, each blow seeming to resonate throughout her entire body. At first, Bagatelle gasped aloud with each blow that hit her. Soon, however, the sensation of the beating transcended mere pain and became glorious pleasure.

The slavegirl floated in her own private world, her mind a blank, her body a plaything for her captors, her emotions a whirling cloud of desire and confusion. Names and faces and bodies streamed past her tightly shut eyes: Paul Yeats, Mistress Rose Thorne, The Master, her clients, her friends, her family, and Marilyn. Again Marilyn. Always Marilyn.

Bagatelle submitted completely, her body going entirely limp, and became a piece of clay for her mistress and her Master to mold to their will. Her last thoughts vanished, and she became one with her emotions, one with her desire.

When the whipping had done and Bagatelle was released from her bondage, she reached up for her Master’s large cock, eager to please him. She felt Mistress Rose Thorne behind her, cupping Bagatelle’s breasts, kissing her neck, pinching her nipples and tugging at her nipple and pussy rings, as Bagatelle took the Master’s cock deep into her mouth.

Long into the night and well into the morning, The Master and his Mistress Rose Thorne fucked and played with their toy, Bagatelle. And, when at last they had finished with her, had bathed her and given her new garments and a ticket for her flight home, Bagatelle felt that she had found happiness.

But, Bagatelle thought to herself with a frown, she had not found bliss. And, as her taxi took her to the airport, Madame Petra’s face grew thoughtful. And more thoughtful still.

Madame Petra climbed the last steps into her turret and found Paul Yeats and Slave Marilyn sitting on the circular velvet sofa, deep in conversation. They turned when her head emerged from the trap door and they both grinned in delight.

“Madame Petra!” Marilyn fairly shrieked. “You’re early!”

Marilyn leapt upon her mistress as soon as the trap door was closed and hugged Petra until the white-haired dominatrix’s ribs creaked. And then a second pair of arms folded about her as Paul came up behind Petra and squeezed both women to him.

“Hmmmm,” Paul Yeats said, “I love girl sandwiches!”

Madame Petra, unseen by the others, flushed slightly.

“Me, too,” she said, “but I had a big breakfast.”

She squeezed out from between Marilyn and Paul and fell limply upon the sofa. Marilyn immediately removed Madame Petra’s shoes and began massaging her mistress’s feet.

“Hard session, Madame Petra?” she asked, poorly-hidden concern in her voice. Madame Petra smiled at her slave and answered the question that hadn’t been asked.

“No, it didn’t happen this time, Marilyn. Thanks. I didn’t forget anything. In fact, I may have remembered one or two things I’d forgotten!” She put her hands behind her head, gazed through the stained-glass window at the fluffy white summer clouds, and grinned at the world.

“I don’t think it’ll ever happen again.”

Paul Yeats sat down beside her and brushed a strand of her white hair away from her face. His bright green eyes stared intently into hers.

“Not to be overly realistic, but…”

Madame Petra interrupted him, mock-suspicion in her voice.

“Paul, why are you here, anyway? Are you trying to steal my Slave Marilyn away from me?”

Slave Marilyn began kissing Madame Petra’s feet passionately; Petra giggled and Paul Yeats grinned. Marilyn’s dark eyes gleamed with lust and good humor.

“Hardly,” he said. “Quite the reverse. I was conspiring with Marilyn to try to get my hands on you…but I realized in time that I’m far too old for you.” He grinned again. “I’m too set in my ways to become a proper slaveboy.”

Madame Petra closed her eyes and allowed her hand to softly caress Paul’s arm.

“Hmmmm…you should come to the Slave Auction, Paul.”

“How much do you think you could get for me?”

She smiled and took his hand in both of hers, kneading it softly.

“Just to watch, silly! You could learn a lot about my world. Marilyn,” she said, and the slavegirl looked intently at her mistress, “get Paul one of my personal invitations. Not now, but later.”

“Yes, Madame Petra.”

Slave Marilyn smiled at Paul and continued rubbing Madame Petra’s feet.

“You’ll enjoy it, Paul. It’s sexy and dramatic and funny and…and sometimes, it can be heartbreaking. But it’s never dull!”

“OK,” said Paul. “I’ll be there.” He watched as Madame Petra continued to caress his hand. Her warm hands felt wonderful in his, he thought. Petra spoke again, casually, almost offhand.

“You know, Paul, you’re wrong about your age. A lot of women really prefer a man to be considerably older than they are. A young man can’t even control himself…how can he control a woman? An older man understands strength, control, discipline…”

“An older man understands love,” Paul said quietly.

Petra nodded, her bright blue eyes still shut.

At Madame Petra’s feet, Marilyn continued her massage, her black eyes never once leaving her mistress.

It was Midsummer’s Night, and the crowd was gathering early for the Third Annual Atomic Test Slave Auction. The previous year, nearly $46,000 had been raised for Twin Cities food banks. This year, Madame Petra hoped to nearly double that.

The rules were quite simple, and were explained to each and every person entering the club before they were allowed to walk through the doors. Participants (slaves and slave-buyers both) were required to sign legal waivers acknowledging the rules, which began as follows:

1) Cash bids only.
2) The slave you buy is yours until the club closes…and no longer.
3) Limits will be respected…or else!
4) The purchased slave has the right of refusal toward any purchaser…this rule had been put into effect after last year’s nasty little incident between a recently-divorced couple.
5) You break it, you buy it!
6) And so on…
7) And so forth…
8) And such like…

Madame Petra and Slave Marilyn were in their glory. The club had been open for two hours, and it was time for the Slave Auction to begin. All the slaves to be sold had been rounded up by the tuxedo-clad bouncers, stripped naked, and herded up on stage, where they were crowded into a cage which was entirely and intentionally far too small for their numbers. The naked slaves were packed together like sardines and obviously enjoying every minute of it!

Madame Petra emerged from the luxurious dressing room, leading Slave Marilyn by a leash attached to the slavegirl’s pussy rings. The crowd parted before Madame Petra as she strolled about the club, making certain that every single person in the packed nightclub got a good look at the two of them. Then she turned and made her leisurely way toward the stage.

Madame Petra was in her most splendid attire. She wore her tightest black leather corset, hand made expressly for her by the finest of San Francisco’s corset-makers. Likewise, her matching thigh-high boots with their nine-inch stiletto heels were custom designed for her. Full-length black velvet gloves and a matching g-string completed her ensemble. A heavy flogger with soft, red leather tails hung from her hip. She walked through the crowd, greeting old friends and newbies alike with a cheerful smile. She watched unobtrusively for Paul Yeats, but did not see him.

Slave Marilyn followed obediently behind her mistress. She was also dressed beautifully, considering that she wore very little. Her only actual garment was a pair of full-length black velvet gloves, sisters to the gloves worn by her mistress. Atop these gloves was a pair of gleaming handcuffs custom made of finest silver. About her ankles were a pair of black leather cuffs, attached by a length of chain which limited her steps to perhaps six inches. Her feet were bare; her each and every toe was adorned by a ring. Her head was kept still and quite erect by a severe and beautiful posture collar, also of black leather. Her mouth was filled with a black ball-gag, strapped firmly in place. And her nipple rings had been decorated with tiny bells, which rang merrily with each step she took.

The makeup of both women was dramatic and identical. Petra’s white hair and Marilyn’s black hair had been also done up in a very elaborate and matching fashion. Mistress and slave were the most striking women at the Auction; all eyes were theirs.

Once they reached the stage, Madame Petra led Slave Marilyn up onto the dancer’s catwalk lining the wall perhaps twelve feet above the dance floor. She let the leash dangle from Marilyn’s collar for future use, unlocked one of her slavegirl’s handcuffs, wrapped the chain about the catwalk railing, and then relocked the cuff upon Marilyn’s wrist. Chained in place, she would keep track of the bidders and provide a beautiful bit of decoration.

Expecting her mistress to go, Slave Marilyn was surprised when Madame Petra suddenly hugged her, gave her a kiss upon the cheek, and whispered in her ear, “Whatever may come, my love, trust me. All things will be as they should.” Then she turned, walked back along the catwalk and down the steps to the stage. Slave Marilyn stared after her, baffled.

Madame Petra, the undivided attention of all in the club upon her, strode toward the center of the stage. Once there, she turned and surveyed the audience.

“All right,” she shouted, “who wants to buy a slave?”

The crowd roared.

Two hours later, the Slave Auction was both going beautifully and nearly done. Nineteen slaves had been offered, bought, and paid for. The proceeds for the food banks were far ahead of last year’s pace; everybody was having a damn good time!

And now the cage was emptied of its last occupant and the twentieth slave of the evening was brought forward. It was, of course, everybody’s favorite: the delectable submissive/dancer/poet/artist/novelist Lady M, nude except for a diamond-studded collar. As she was escorted to Madame Petra, Lady M was licking her lips and breathing hard in anticipation of being sold. At these auctions, her husband, Sir Charles, would never tell her whether he’d be bidding for her or not. One more way, he said, of making her squirm!

Madame Petra stood beside Lady M and grinned at her old friend, knowing how much this yearly ritual meant to the woman. She turned to the crowd.

“And I believe all of you know the beautiful and delicious Lady M,” she announced, “who will start the bidding at two hundred dollars?”

The bidding actually started at three hundred, as a man wearing nothing but a thong and a black cape jumped the gun. And the bidding increased dramatically from there, the crowd eager to bid, since it was the last slave of the evening…and since it was the desirable Lady M! Up on the dancer’s catwalk, Slave Marilyn was hard pressed to keep track of the bidders.

Upon the stage, Madame Petra made no effort at all to do so, having a more urgent task at hand. She looked up at the ceiling, glanced at Lady M, took four quick steps away from the submissive, and nodded to a slave handler in the wings, who pulled a cord running up toward the ceiling.

With a splat, twenty gallons of chocolate syrup suddenly plummeted down upon Lady M, drenching her in chocolate and spraying the audience liberally. She let out a shriek of terror, which turned to peals of delighted laughter when she realized that she was now utterly coated in her beloved dark chocolate. She began licking herself clean, laughing merrily all the while.

Madame Petra walked out to center stage and shouted to the crowd.

“I said she was delicious! Come on people, you get main course and dessert, all in one. And it’s for a good cause! Who wants to buy ‘Carrie’ for the evening? I have the latest bid at…” she glanced at Slave Marilyn, who signaled her with her fingers, “…at eighteen hundred fifty dollars. Who will say two thousand?”

Lady M sold for sixteen thousand, five hundred dollars to Molly, a beautiful young woman with her hair elaborately spiked and colored in the classic punk tradition. She wore black motorcycle boots and a short schoolgirl-plaid skirt criss-crossed with ammunition bandoliers. A black sleeveless t-shirt and a black leather collar studded with six-inch stiletto spikes completed her garb. She walked up on stage, grinning like a lunatic, and cheerfully paid for her slave. She shouted to the crowd, “I love chocolate!” before dragging Lady M to her all too certain fate.

And now, Madame Petra was alone on the stage. The slave cage was empty; the tuxedo-clad slave handlers had gone. The crowd watched her expectantly, waiting for her usual thank-you-very-much-and-now-let’s-party speech.

They didn’t get it.

“Now we come,” Madame Petra said, “to the last slave of the evening.”

On the dancer’s catwalk, Slave Marilyn looked confused and worried. Was her mistress’s memory failing her again? In public? She took a step toward the stage, torn in her desire to obey her mistress and in her desire to possibly save Petra from public embarrassment. Her handcuffs caught on the railing. Marilyn stopped, held fast by her chains, held fast by her mistress’s will.

The crowd, too, was confused. There were clearly no more slaves up on stage…who was going to be sold?

Madame Petra was slowly rolling one of her full-length gloves down her arm. She peeled it off and tossed it to the crowd. Its mate soon followed. Madame Petra unzipped her black thigh-high boots with tantalizing slowness and carefully stepped out of them, then threw them out into the audience. She unhooked her flogger from her hip and handed it with a wink to the man in the black cape, who was standing beside the stage, his mouth open in astonishment.

With some reluctance she unhooked her corset, gave it a last affectionate hug, and handed it respectfully to a redheaded drag queen near the stage, who clutched it to her chest as though it were the Holy Grail.

Madame Petra now wore nothing but a black velvet g-string. The crowd was silent. On the catwalk, Slave Marilyn was frozen in astonishment, a tear running down her face.

Petra rolled the g-string down her hips, stepped out of it, and tossed it to a group of frat-boys inappropriately dressed in Dockers and plaid shirts. She grinned as they scrambled for it. She stood in the center of the stage, completely nude. Madame Petra knelt, and beheld the crowd from her knees.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “dominants and submissives, drag queens and kings, master and mistresses, sluts and slaves. From this moment forward, Madame Petra is no longer a domme. Madame Petra is not retired…Madame Petra no longer exists. And so, I offer as a slave for auction: myself. What am I bid?”

The crowd erupted in a flurry of bids, as though a giant flock of birds had abruptly taken to the air. It took minutes for the first bids to be sorted out, so many voices were shouting at once. Finally, however, the room grew quieter as the bids grew more serious and the frivolous bidders fell by the wayside. After the twelve thousand dollar mark, only four voices remained in the running.

On stage, the once Madame Petra was in a daze. In a matter of a few seconds, she had irrevocably ended her old life and had begun a new one. Where this new road would lead her, she did not know. Who would buy her, she did not know. In fact, she was in too much of a daze to even listen to the bids, to try to determine who was trying to purchase her.

On the catwalk, Slave Marilyn’s eyes were blinded by tears. She had fallen to her knees and was sobbing uncontrollably around her ball-gag. Her mistress was gone, her entire world had just vanished, and she surrendered to her grief.

The bidding continued, but slowly, seriously. The amounts grew ever larger. And finally, there was only one voice left. Emerging from her reverie, Petra realized that the bidding was done, that she had been sold. She called forth to the crowd.

“Any further bids? No? Very well. I am going once, going twice, going three times…I am SOLD for seventeen thousand, nine hundred fifty dollars! Will my buyer please come up and claim his property?”

A man paid the cashier seated beneath the catwalk, accepted his receipt, and then came quickly up the stairs to the stage. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit in a stylish double-breasted cut. His shirt was white as snow; his tie was as red as sin. He wore a jaunty dark grey Borsolino on his head, and a red rose in his lapel. He strode across the stage and stood beside Petra, looking down at her.

Petra stared up at the man who had just bought her. She saw his hand reach down toward her; she allowed him to assist her to rise to her feet. Her mind cleared and she spoke.

“Good evening, Paul,” Petra said. “I’m so glad you could come.”

In all the great room, the only sound was that of Marilyn’s quiet sobbing.

It was nearly dawn. The sky had been brightening for some time and the last stars had vanished. The moon was pale and low in the western sky.

Inside the turret of Petra’s Victorian home, three people sat in silence. Petra and Marilyn were once more in their matching bathrobes. Paul still wore his suit, though his hat and necktie had long since been discarded.

Petra had a frown of intense thought on her face, as though she were trying to trying to play three chess games simultaneously in her head. Marilyn, lying limp in Petra’s arms, looked wan, drained, as though she had spent the evening in tears…as she had. And Paul Yeats’ face wore the stunned look of a duck hit on the head.

“I cannot believe,” Paul said, “that I just bought a slave.”

Petra reached toward him, rested her hand upon his. She spoke to Paul, but gazed tenderly upon Marilyn.

“Two slaves, Paul,” she said softly. “You bought two slaves tonight. I am your property now. Everything that belonged to me now belongs to you. Marilyn included.”

Marilyn’s face showed animation for the first time in hours. She stared hopefully at Petra.

“I’m not being released, Madame?”

Petra squeezed her tight.

“Never, my love. Never.”

Marilyn buried her face in Petra’s shoulder and began to cry softly, this time tears of happiness. Petra looked with surprise at Paul.

“I’m sorry, Master. Force of habit, trying to make all the decisions myself. You will keep Marilyn, won’t you?” The surprise on her face grew larger still. “You’ll keep me, won’t you? I mean…I know you’re not in the scene, but…I thought…”

Paul Yeats raised a hand to silence her.

“I didn’t bring thirty thousand dollars cash to Atomic Test tonight purely as a food bank donation, Petra. I brought that money there because I had a hunch you were going to do exactly what you did. I don’t know if I read your mind, or you sent me a telepathic message, or if was meant to be, or…I don’t know. It worked. That’s what counts.”

He took a deep breath and continued.

“I bought you, Petra, and I’m keeping you. I’m keeping Marilyn, too.” He paused and looked at the two women. “You two are my slaves. For real; for keeps. I’m in love with both of you; you belong to me now; you’re both mine!”

The two women spoke as one, enormous grins on their beautiful faces.

“Yes, Master.”

Paul cringed.

“Okay, that’s gonna stop right now. I’m not going through the rest of our lives with you two calling me ‘Master.’ You will call me Paul. If you want to feel more submissive, you may call me ‘sir.’ But no master, or milord, or any of that nonsense. And,” he held up a hand in warning, “if I catch either of you writing your names with that lower-case letter idiocy…well, then we’ll find out just how hard a newbie like me can paddle a slavegirl!”

The two women exchanged mischievous glances and again spoke as one.

“Yes, sir!”

He grinned.

“My god, you two are a matched set. This is going to take some getting used to!”

“Paul,” Petra said, a thoughtful look on her face, “your mentioning names reminds me. Madame Petra was a domme. I don’t believe it’s proper that I keep a dominant name. I think you should give me a new name…a slave name.”

“A slave name? I never thought of that.”

Petra’s face assumed a faraway look.

“I’ve always liked the name, ‘Bagatelle’.”

“Bagatelle,” Paul repeated. “It’s lovely. It means ‘trifle’, doesn’t it? Something of no account?”

“Yes, Paul.”

“Then it’s not right for Petra, is it?” demanded Marilyn. “She is not a trifle, Paul; no willing slave could ever be a trifle!”

Both Petra and Paul looked at Marilyn in surprise as she rejoined the conversation. Her face was calm and cheerful once more, back to her usual self, the emotional travails of the evening put behind her.

Paul grinned at his raven-haired slavegirl.

“You’re absolutely right, Marilyn, it’s not a proper name for my new slave. Do you have a new name for Petra?”

Marilyn giggled.

“Yes, sir! I have her name. In fact, I should say that mine is the absolutely perfect name for her!”

And, a moment later, the early morning quiet was shattered by the sound of three people laughing uproariously.

Three weeks later, Paul Yeats was helping his friend Sir Charles to load suitcases into Sir Charles’ new Range Rover. He and his two slaves had been astonishingly busy in merging their households and making all the changes forced by his acquirement of the two slavegirls, and they were taking a vacation trip to San Francisco to compensate themselves for all their hard work. Sir Charles and his lovely wife, Lady M, had graciously offered to drive the three to the airport.

The former Madame Petra had been especially busy, as her life was changing the most. She had required herself to personally visit each and every one of her clients to explain her passage from dominatrix to slave, and to acquaint the client with the various dommes she recommended to succeed her. Several of the meetings with long-time clients had been intensely emotional…she needed a getaway trip badly. They all did.

Paul Yeats quietly closed the rear hatch…all loaded, ready to go. He looked up at the two houses. Both were closed up tight, locked, alarms set. He had nothing to do now but wait for his two slavegirls to decide that they were ready. Sir Charles grinned at Paul and wondered aloud how it was that Sir Charles was married to a sexual submissive, and Paul owned two slaves, and yet it was the two of them carrying all the luggage! The two men laughed, and decided not to share the joke with the ladies.

Paul Yeats’ two ladies were on the sidewalk, chatting with Lady M. The delectable poetess was, as usual, elegantly dressed in a mixture of 1930’s finery and fetishwear, and looked utterly breathtaking. She had confided to Paul that it had taken three days before she and Sir Charles and her buyer Molly finally stopped smelling of chocolate; she sounded quite nostalgic about the experience. Paul hoped to get the rest of the story sometime. The moment Lady M had caught a glimpse of the two slavegirls, however, she could speak of nothing but their new and striking appearance.

The two slavegirls were now one. The best salon in town had dyed the former Madame Petra’s white hair the same beautiful shade of raven’s wing black as Slave Marilyn’s. Both women had then been handed over to premier stylists and had their hair cut in matching pageboy style. Identical makeup and faces which were not dissimilar allowed them to look as much alike as sisters, if not twins.

Paul had ordered them to purchase and wear identical clothing at all times. Today, they wore matching red vinyl hip huggers, a bright red bare midriff silk blouse, and red stiletto heels. They also wore matching sunglasses, though they weren’t necessary to complete the twinning. Paul had purchased both women a variety of cosmetic contact lenses in various shades, so that their eyes would always be identical.

All of their tattoos and piercings had been matching already, thanks to Madame Petra’s sense of humor. Now, Paul Yeats had taken that idea one step further. When the slavegirls turned and walked toward the Range Rover, Lady M saw that their bodies each bore a new tattoo just below the small of the back. They were lovely tattoos, graceful and elegant, and they placed the women’s names permanently upon their bodies.

On both women, the tattoo read, “Slave Marilyn.”

Lady M stared at the tattoos, baffled.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Petra, why are you both tattooed ‘Slave Marilyn’?”

The two slavegirls turned to face Lady M. They looked at each other and grinned.

One of them said, “Because we are both Slave Marilyn, Lady M. Petra was a domme. We are slaves. There is no more Petra, there is only Marilyn. And we are Marilyn.”

Sir Charles joined in.

“You mean you have the same name.”

“No, Sir Charles,” responded the other Marilyn. “We are the same woman.”

“Not yet,” Paul said, “but in time…you will be.”

“My deepest desire was to be a slave, just as Marilyn was,” said one of the slavegirls. “Only, I wished not to be like Marilyn, but to actually be her. It took me a long while to find the courage to admit to myself what I truly desired.” She took Paul by one hand and Marilyn by the other.

“And thanks to these two, the loves of my life, I have admitted my desires. I have everything I want now. I have Paul; I have Marilyn; I am Marilyn. I desire nothing more.”

“As soon as we’re home again,” Paul said, “I’m having both their names changed legally to Marilyn Yeats. And of course, there’ll be a helluva party!”

Sir Charles and Lady M gaped at each other. Lady M spoke first.

“Don’t you think people will find this a little…confusing?”

Slave Marilyn shook her head and grinned broadly.

“Lady M, you use at least four names yourself, bringing sex and confusion to the world. We’re only using one. Besides, names are the least of our worries.”

“Problems?” asked Sir Charles, always eager to help people in need of a sympathetic ear.

The two Marilyns split and moved to either side of Paul, each taking him fondly and possessively by an arm.

“It took a week to train Paul into handling two women in bed at once,” Marilyn said.

“But he finally came around,” continued Marilyn.

“And now he is absolute master of our bed,” said Marilyn.

“But he hasn’t got the hang of punishment,” Marilyn added.

“He doesn’t spank nearly hard enough,” Marilyn pointed out.

“Yet,” Marilyn finished.

Paul disengaged himself from his slaves and gave each of them two quick swats on their perky little butts. Both Marilyns cooed in pleasure.

“We’d better get going or we’ll miss our plane,” he said.

Everyone clambered into the new Range Rover.

“Does anybody know,” asked Marilyn, “if they allow threesomes in the Thirty Thousand Foot Club?”

THE END

©2003 David Gustafson