Amity's Stories
Slave Camp - An Illustrated Femdom Fansty - Part 1
©2000-2008 All Rights Reserved
Chapter 1
"Just let them out," a booming voice called, "and continue on to the reception area."
The booming voice belonged to what could only be described as a beefy, sweaty, bald teddy bear who was not only directing traffic but also was directing the males that were being delivered for the three-day camp.
I
unlocked the SUV's doors so the boys could exit and watched as they were
corralled quickly away from my view. His rather large hand produced an
index finger that pointed "that-a-way" and I drove in that direction.
I was very glad that I read the packet of materials that urged me to drive
the SUV. This terrain was bumpy and the some of the roads weren't paved.
As I wound down the curvy road toward what had to be 'that-away,' I noticed the small cabins that surrounded a larger structure, sort of like how the wagons drew into a circle around the settlers. Everything about this place so far reminded me of colonial days - the days when life was bare and difficult but was also the stuff of our history. I almost felt like I was making history.
Not everyone gets invited to camp. You have to know someone who knows someone or you have to be a little famous yourself so they request your presence. And if they want you, they find you. In this particular case, I had been wanted - and received a gorgeous invitation on thick paper - and it felt very good. When the invitation arrived three months prior, I read it almost carelessly, but the photos in the accompanying pamphlet caught my attention and my eyes danced over the camp's features.
"…bring your boys for the ultimate training experience…"
"…individual males, boys or small groups welcome…"
"…only the finest equipment…"
"…first-class accommodations for owners, buyers and sellers…"
"…talented slaveboys available for your evening and occasional pleasure…"
I mean, what else could I want?
Eventually, I got around to reading about the training sessions, goals and strategies that the camp directors employed in creating the "perfect trained slave" suitable for "refined personal service," and I liked what I saw. Every male attending was there by his own choice, every trainer was well experienced and the three-day course seemed replete with the necessary modules for learning the particular skills I had chosen for my boys. After all, I didn't need 5 boys with the same skills; instead, I wanted two instructed to be houseboys, one prepared as a personal slave and two coached in the abilities that would make them sale-able or trade-able with others.
I like having new blood in my household. It keeps things fresh.
When I pulled up at the reception area, another brawny muscular male opened the car door for me and extended a hand to help me out. I had dressed as suggested for the terrain and had little trouble sliding gracelessly to the firmament. Being a vertically-challenged Domme makes traveling in SUVs a little challenging. He opened his hand in a manner that was clear. He wanted my keys.
He responded to my quizzical look with a statement that was so obvious I couldn't figure out why I didn't get it on my own.
"Two reasons, Ma'am," he stated. "I will unpack your luggage in your guest house. And we don't want any boys going anywhere."
It made sense, so I handed over my keys.
Another male appeared almost magically and handed me an insulated cup with ice filled with something intriguing. With another 'what-the-heck' moment, I sipped its contents and was rewarded with a strawberry margarita, which I recalled, much to my amazement, was a small item on a questionnaire I had completed prior to mailing in my boys' information.
If they didn't miss the small things, I was absolutely certain that the big things would be handled equally as well. I appreciate competence and thoroughness and so far things boded well.
I
was ushered into the main building by yet another large, almost bald and
husky male whose manner evidenced careful training, masculine grace and
excellent manners. The nipple clips he wore were a nice touch. Several
stations were set up around the perimeter of the large room and they were
clearly marked as to function. As I strode toward "Begin Here,"
two more males stood almost at military attention to greet my presence.
"Ma'am, we're so excited to meet you," one of them almost gushed in a non-irritating manner. "Please sit here," and he pointed to a chair that wasn't there just a moment ago. Figuring that "what-the-heck" would be the outline of my stay, I planted myself and listened to their welcome speech.
"Our camp is designed to train your males in the manner you wish," he began almost by rote, "but we are not a 'cookie-cutter' training center. Every stage of the training is subject to your approval."
I nodded and the second one spoke. "Ma'am, we're going to provide you the slaves or submissives you want with skills and abilities that will both amaze and hopefully, satisfy you. You will test them. You will determine if your needs have been met. The only person who must be satisfied is you."
A bowl of melon appeared. The watermelon had no seeds. I was absolutely certain this entire experience would be fabulous.
"Ma'am, please follow me to the next station," the first one said. He walked a step behind me as I approached the 'Courses of Study' registration area.
The personal slave assigned to me stayed with me throughout the registration process. I reviewed the selections I had mailed in and listened to his summaries of the various optional programs. He amended the form for me while I munched melon and sipped my margarita and finally ushered me to the final station in the process. This one was appropriately labeled, 'R&R.'
I think there were about eight of us who relaxed in the air-conditioned room as a cadre of naked, bald male slaves proffered hors-d'oeuvres and bottled water for our pleasure. We visited, got to know each other and played only one name game because the camp directors had thankfully decreed there would be no nametags anywhere on the grounds. I will admit that my head grew just a little bit when I saw what happened when others heard my name. Apparently, they knew who I was but I wasn't aware of any of their histories.
A low clanging ranch bell rang and we were informed that the ringing of the bell indicated it was time to change activities. There were no clocks and we had been discouraged from wearing watches. Time, they explained, had only one purpose: to train slaves. Time was 'up,' they said, when the slave was trained.
Each owner - I had met only one seller and one buyer in the group, but they were owners, too - was escorted to a private residence for the 3-day stay. Although small, the accommodations were suitable and I had my escort draw a whirlpool bath so I could wash away the dust and heat of the day before joining the others for dinner. We had been advised that fetish wear was appropriate for the dinner and I was eager to shed my jeans and boots for something that smelled and felt of leather.
"Ma'am, would you like me to send in your personal slave?" he asked quietly.
My response was terse but straightforward. "I didn't bring one," I informed him.
"Ma'am, we provide whatever you need," he replied and when I nodded, he pressed the wall intercom button and requested that one be sent to my residence. I couldn't have counted to ten before he walked to the door and opened it to reveal a stunning, albeit naked, male who carried an assortment of things that were sure to enhance my bathing pleasure.
My escort exited and the personal maid slave entered, almost in a tandem of liquid motion that spoke of their skill and training. Figuring this would be as good a time as any to test the quality of their personal service training, I stood silently as I looked the slave up and down. I wanted to see if he had either temerity and initiative or if he were waiting for me to give every single direction.
I hate doing that; it's tiring. I want subs who can think.
The boy busied himself setting out all the bath supplies and I was happy to see my favorite fragrance, gardenia, amply represented. It's a quality environment when someone actually reads the forms you fill out.
After the tools were ready, the boy approached me and spoke as his hands moved toward me.
"Ma'am, I am Luke and I am here to serve you," he said as he helped me off with my light sweater. "I have been trained to serve Dominant Women and hope to meet with your satisfaction."
He unbuttoned my jeans and helped me step out of them after kneeling gracefully to remove my boots and socks. That process left me standing in a very carefully selected bra and panties and the odd thing was that I felt totally alone, even with him in the room. It was as if he blended into the carpet and paneling. Unhooking my bra, he removed it with poise from my shoulders and pulled the panties toward my ankles with style. In a moment, I was naked but also within a sense of calm solitude.
He offered me a plush terry robe, which I declined, as he followed me toward the fragrant bath. My job, he informed me politely, was to relax. He would take care of everything else. When I was neck-deep in the aroma of gardenia-laced water and the pillow was carefully placed under my neck, I closed my eyes and allowed him to do his job.
It
was apparent to me in only a few moments that he had been excellently
trained. A large sudsy sponge graced all parts of my body and he massaged
by raised feet gently and carefully. Moving upward, he rubbed my arms
and shoulders artfully as I drank in his skill with eager anticipation.
Using an aromatic gel, he shaved my legs painstakingly and precisely and
when he approached my own decorated mound, smiled only briefly before
touching up my artwork.
I didn't want to get up. I wanted to stay in that bath forever.
"Ma'am, shall I dress you now?" he asked tranquilly so as not to disturb my coma like state.
"If you have to, you have to," I replied a little sarcastically and noted only the hint of a smile glance across his face. I rose and he draped the robe around me as I led him to the dressing area.
My
bags had been unpacked and Luke seemed to know, without being asked, what
I intended to wear to dinner. The garter belt was hooked and he knelt
to unroll my stockings up my legs and hook them comfortably. He helped
me step into the black velvet panties and smoothed them around my waist.
The leather skirt appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, and he cupped my
breasts into my shimmering black bustier with obvious skill.
"Ma'am, please sit at the dressing table while I do your makeup," he motioned toward the well-lighted mirrored area. I sat and he overwhelmed me with his artistry and skill. With a few twists of the curling iron and quick arranging, he added a drop of hair spray to finish the process.
"Ma'am, please walk this way," he motioned, and he sprayed my perfume as I walked through the mist.
At almost that moment, I heard the low clanging bell and knew it was precisely time for dinner to begin.