Chapter 13: A Day in Town

I am so sore. I pass a very restless night. It is such a relief when the cell lights begin to fade up to signal a new day. But today, I shall have to see Dr Mendeleyev again and this time, with my bottom black and blue and striped with welts; the unavoidable, embarrassing, humiliating evidence that I have been disciplined by Neena.

Humiliation and humility. I have begun to think a lot about these two words. Similar words but significantly different. Humiliation is being shown - especially shown in front of other people - what you are and what your place is. Humility is taking stock and making a realistic assessment of who and what you are and behaving appropriately. If I can get 'humility' right, I might be able to avoid 'humiliation'. I might just get just one step ahead of them. Perhaps I can avoid being tripped up so much. Perhaps even avoid some of the traps and ambushes they set for me. It might even help me survive, somewhere deep down as Jennifer. And yet, if I willingly search for the position they want me to occupy, will there be anything of Jennifer left?

Ssisma (I think it is) brings food – back to the usual plain but wholesome menu (but then what could I expect after my ridiculous attempt at an electronic escape?) – and a note in Russian which I am relieved I can read now, to tell me I will spend the day on cleaning duties – so what a relief! But Mendeleyev must know what happened. Surely. What was it he said? 'I believe Neena has things to discuss with you.' So the embarrassment is delayed but it will come soon. Inevitably.

In due course, another of the Domestic Team comes for me (I can't remember what this particular one is called) and I have to signal to her that I need the toilet. They – the Domestics - are not collared, so there is a clear distinction between them and me. They must see it too. They must know that I am merely 'property' whilst they are 'employees'.

She pushes me forward to release the anal bar and I re-live my embarrassment of yesterday but worse, because she can see the effects of my punishment. She giggles and traces the welts across my buttocks with her finger. I 'perform' and then get washed and after she has locked me up again, I am taken to the kitchen and begin cleaning the sinks, worktops and floors and all the time I am working, I think about the way she has a key to my chastity belt, as well as Gaspazha Neena. Another lesson. I am not 'special' to Neena, I am just another piece of equipment the Domestics can use if they need it. I think about the humiliation of my chastity belt and the things I have to do now – asking for the toilet and being supervised on the toilet – and everyone at the Dacha knows. It has all happened so fast! I was once was duaughter, then a wife. I once was a student, then a research scientist and then, in the twinkling of an eye life changed and I became a slave and a kept animal.

The kitchen is a large "professional" set up, so the owners, I mean my Owners – how that idea makes me angry and yet gives me a stab of sexual satisfaction at the same time - must be in the habit of catering for quite large parties of guests. I hope I am not on display when that happens, looking like I do at the moment. Imagine: hordes of smart successful men and women gazing at this naked slave with cane marks striped across her bum and thighs and Neena explaining in a happy relaxed tone to anyone who asked 'Oh yes, this slave required discipline and she behaves so much better afterwards. How? I cane her, of course.' It might be slightly better if they were holding a Kinkfest I suppose and in that case, the guests would want to take turns at beating me ... which might be slightly more fun and definitely less humiliating. But I suppose I will just be kept locked away in my cell when I am not wanted.

As I move around the kitchen, I can feel my collar beginning to prick me as a warning to keep in bounds whenever I approach one of the kitchen doors.

The whole cleaning exercise takes a couple of hours and when I'm done Andrei takes me off to the gym for a weights workout. This is one part of my incarceration I really enjoy. I have become addicted to the way my body has changed and glad to see how the weights I can lift has steadily crept upward even though I am losing my femininity as a consequence. I don't need a bra anymore. My pecs hold my breasts firmly up and out and my nipples stick up pert and cheeky. Then (as so often) there's a stab of regret and sadness. I am sure must be unrecognisable to all my old friends; unrecognisable to Joe; even to my parents. That is the price I am paying. I enjoy the exercise but because I enjoy it, I have to pay. This time, the price is to become unrecognizable to all those I know and love. Jenny McEwan is now dead: she has gone and in her place is Vyerka, rabinya. When I have these thoughts I should be distraught, but when I'm in the gym, driving up the dumbbells in a shoulder press for example, all I feel is a sort of excitement, like skiing downhill, intoxicated by speed and wanting to go all the faster.

Then there is my skin colour. No longer a Scandinavian deep summer tan: more like an Indian girl. And all the time, the feeling of sexual arousal. An unscratchable itch. Literally unscratchable thanks to the chastity belt they make me wear. Its front plate curves perfectly over my vulva, covering my lips and my clit, leaving them to throb and itch and so I pour my energies into my work outs: sexual energy into physical performance. Physical satisfaction into muscular development. How I wish I could get my hands on Neena or even that Korean (or whatever she is) Domestic: I imagine tearing their clothes off, my lips sucking on their nipples, swirling around their belly buttons (I wonder if Gaspazha Neena is pierced there?) down between their legs, up and down there labia, across their clits and finally, finally, across their anal buds...

Andrei brings my session to a close with a tap on my shoulder and a smile. He is pleased with my progress. I am pleased with my fantasies. I study his reflection in one of the mirrors which line the walls and catch him admiring my bum as he gets another injection ready. What is this stuff they give me? Actually I don't care what it is, anymore. The thing which is fills my mind is sexual fantasies of serving strong attractive Doms and Dommes...

Another day dawns and this time Gaspazha Neena comes to get me up: she is always so sexily dressed, to my eye, whether she is formal or casual. Today it's smart casual. The black leather skirt again, the pressed white shirt, black tights and shoes, but from beneath the black nylon around her ankle comes the occasional flash of gold from her ankle bracelet. She carries a bag with her.

"Good morning rabinya Vyerochka. More intellectual work today. Under supervision." She smirks as she stresses the word: we both know what she is talking about. She has used the name Verochka, so perhaps I am being given a chance to increase just a little in their estimation? For taking my punishment well? After all they have done to me, a simple change in the sound of the name they have given me, and I start to feel some responsibility to behave well, from their point of view. Am I really so easy to mould into the person they want me to be?

"Eat, then toilet, then get washed – and then get dressed," Neena continues

Dressed? Now this is different. When I am ready she tips the contents of her bag on to the floor: dark cord jeans, a white T shirt, a dark blue polo shirt and a red fleece jacket, dark socks and black slip on clogs. These are the first clothes I have worn in ever so long. The material itches and scratches my skin for ages after I have put on the clothes and I really miss my nudity. Also putting on their clothes, dressing in the way they have chosen for me – it's another watershed moment.

I mean, we are all so used to dressing the way we want – style, colour, design but I'm being dressed by other people without any reference to my wishes. Like being in prison. In prison – that's what Gaspazha Neena said when she was punishing me: slaves are in custody. And look at the way I'm talking about them now. Neena is no longer the girl or Neena. She is now Gaspazha Neena. I don't feel a surge of outrage anymore when they subject me to these various indignities. I just accept that this is how it will be. But I feel calm about it! The calmness is the only thing that is frightening me now. Like passengers clinging to the Titanic as it finally sinks beneath the sea: a dull inexorable final sense of inevitability. Dyes have been cast. Concrete has set. Molten metal has taken up its shape in the mould and cooled. They have taken me and made me a slave. Forever theirs. Forever their slave.

I am ready. Gaspazha Neena takes my hands behind me and handcuffs me. We march out of the building into fresh sweet air of a summer morning. It smells mild and damp and earthy. Our feet scrunch across gravel to a little convoy of three cars. A black Mercedes in front and behind and a people carrier in the middle. There are assorted men in smart black suits milling around. They climb into the two other cars after Gaspazha and I have been seated. My hands are unfastened and refastened to my seat. She leans forward and wraps a blindfold across my eyes. She converses in Russian to one of the men, some of which I can follow and much of which I can't. Our convoy moves off, twisting and turning on the estate roads until eventually, we start to pick up speed and drive smoothly onwards, so I expect we must be on a motorway.