Appropriate Ceremony
Our guests fidgeted, as I waited for the woman who would spend the rest of her life with me.
Today would be the last day she would ever keep me waiting.
I smiled at the thought. My brother-the-Lord-Cardinal who would officiate the ceremony, returned my grin. He didn’t have to be a mind reader to know I was thinking of the future she and I would have, after this commitment was made.
My gaze wandered, crossing over the assembled great and not-so-good. On my side, brightly coloured cocktail dresses competed with pastel ruffled affairs and elegant taffeta ball-gowns.
These powerful, self-assured women didn’t follow fashion. They led it.
Most of the men wore suits, a few navy blues competed with a smattering of actual dress uniforms. Mostly it was a sea of greys ranging from silver to steel seasoned with a few tasteless blacks. This wasn’t a funeral, despite the insistence of some that what was about to happen was more of a ending than a beginning.
More than a few cast longing glances across the aisle. If dress was relaxed, the proprieties of the ceremony would be observed strictly. Even those slaves who’d come with their owners were restricted to the slave-bride’s side, ignoring the recent trend of shared seating to not separate masters and mistresses from their favourite toys for even a moment.
I didn’t see why they should get to play with their possessions when I had to wait.
Soon enough she’d be mine, and at the reception, my guests would be able to indulge themselves. I’m not a heartless monster, after all.
In the meantime the slave-bride’s side – her side – provided a tantalising buffet of eye-candy. I’d declared fetish-wear uncouth and unwelcome. Instead the women – the slaves were almost universally female – wore classy, revealing lingerie that drew the eye to half-hidden delights of flesh.
A statuesque brunette, with just a hint of Hispanic-coffee in her colouration was radiant in an elegant chemise of pale-green. It’s silk was sheer and transparent enough that I could tell she wore nothing beneath. She wore it with pride, her hips and shoulders forming a single erotic line. A woman’s slave, I rather thought, all about beauty and intricacy.
She was something her mistress could explore, lose herself in.
A complete contrast to... there. A short, bubbly blond, smiled vacantly at me from the outside row. I could see why she’d been enslaved – definitely by a man. There was nothing to her but hips and breasts, surprisingly perky and firm for their size, under a cute button nose and full lips made for fucking. Her lipstick, a colour with a name like ‘Va-Va-Voom Red’, matched her lacy bra and panties, and the six-inch heels over three-inch platforms she tottered on.
Perhaps she’d formerly been a lawyer or a doctor, but with looks like that... regardless of before, she’d been born to be a bimbo.
Quite a few of the women were gloriously nude, their nipples erect at attention in the coldness of the church. But that too was acceptable and elegant, if open to interpretation. Either a mark of their masters respect for me, or perhaps simply an indication that a few my guests hadn’t possessed nor been bothered to buy a suitable outfit for their pets.
Only a few of the slaves were mine.
Most were preparing the marquee, or the food, or the entertainment for the reception.
Or were preparing themselves to be the entertainment for the reception.
After the stuffiness of the ceremony, I’d felt that a little harmless mud-wrestling – complete with forfeits, punishments and prizes such as clothing privileges – would excite and satisfy my guests.
That was true until the front row, where the slave-bridesmaids sat.
It was just a name.
There wasn’t one of the women, not her best friend, not her room-mate, not her sister, nor even the mother of the slave-bride who I hadn’t fucked, mind-fucked and enslaved.
But, though all quite beautiful and quite talented, they weren’t up to her standard or mine. Her room-mate, perhaps, was sufficiently attractive to join the ranks of my house-slaves. Besides, the rent of their apartment would cover the cost of maintaining them. As for her mother, sister and best-friend they would lead their lives, much as before, but now submissively and obediently and entirely controlled my will.
Whenever I deigned to express it to them.
Had they been more beautiful I would have denied them clothing altogether, leaving their perfect forms naked for my guests to admire, as it had been with the most successful of my previous slave-bride ceremonies.
As it was I had them in garter belts and hose, the fabric sheer enough to tantalise yet thick enough to mask the worse stretch marks and blemishes could do. Heels accented their assets, and of course those assets – breasts and pussies and butts – were bare. That was the purpose of the slave-bridesmaids. They were the traditional entertainment for the owner’s guests, so that the slave-bride could focus on her new master to the fullest extent.
I didn’t rate them highly. Hence the marquee and mud-wrestling. They knew they would be first into the ring, after the speeches. They didn’t know that during the speeches, and after their matches, they would be anybodies meat. I expected that, and their later mud-bath, to spice these four rather plain dishes up in the eyes of my guests.
Cream elbow length gloves and chokers supplemented their look, and obscured a pair nasty scar along her best-friend’s arms. Idly I wondered if the woman, shorn of her best-friend, would again attempt to self-harm. If she did... well, no great loss.
I put it – and her—out of my mind. My brother-the-Lord-Cardinal nodded to the organist, an exquisite gospel-trained woman of Afro-Caribbean descent, and she began to play with her most-talented fingertips.
The wooden doors of the church creaked open. Silhouetted against the bright morning light stood my slave-bride.
She was as gorgeous as the instant I first laid eyes on her. The instant I knew I had to possess this woman.
Her outfit helped to sell the illusion.
Historically, the ceremony took place the instant a master saw a woman he desired as a slave-bride. The taking would be her first taking, and her mind would be broken as she stood before the altar in whatever she had happened to be wearing at the time.
In these more enlighten days a master or mistress could sample their slave-bride before the ceremony and subvert their mind at leisure. The woman entering the church would leave it no less free than she was at this moment.
That is, not free at all.
So it became tradition that slave-brides wore what they had when they first attracted their master’s attention. Or, more accurately, since that business outfit was rags against the wall of the alley where I’d fucked her, still in the first minute of our meeting, a replica.
A carefully modified replica.
The over-the knee skirt had shortened to brush her thighs. The starched cotton blouse had become sheer, semi-transparent silk, and every guest could tell that her bra had simply evaporated. Pantihose had been replaced by a garter-belt, flashing tantalising patches of skin as she walked down the aisle in heels that had grown from two to four inches.
I wondered if the slight worry and hesitation on her face was for the guests benefit, or if it was real, at being in this place, in this abomination of the last clothes she’d worn as a free woman.
I read her mind.
It was for me. It touched me, this gift of hers. She had almost nothing. Her possessions, her body, her mind and her future, I’d taken them all. Yet from some last portion of her soul she found the perfect gift for me.
I smiled at her, and she smiled back – a watery, weak thing. In fact, the jacket was an original part, but that unintentionally.
The tighter version my seamstress-slaves had prepared for my slave-bride’s thinner, more toned waist no longer fit over the beginnings of pregnancy’s bulge. But the same cause had too swelled her breasts, and the formally loose and businesslike jacket was delightfully snug.
Back then, her hair hadn’t been pulled – oh-so-carefully – into that sexless ponytail, her glasses had been in her pocket, not on her face, and she really had worn no make-up, not make-up so artfully employed as to push her near-perfection closer to divinity without even a hint that it was there.
It didn’t matter. Artistic license.
Then, hardly soon enough, she stood besides me at the altar.
“Do you who stand before us take this man, to be your master, to let him have and hold from this day forward, may it make you better or worse, richer, or poorer, to serve his sickness with your health, to love, to worship and to obey; from this day forward until death or his will may part you?” My brother-the-Lord-Cardinal intoned formally.
My slave-bride trembled as the words were said. A tear crept down her cheek. We both knew it was a liquid trail of joy. This formalisation of her being mine, she’d wanted it, more than anything in the world.
I’d given her no choice.
“She does,” I said.
“As I am commanded,” she answered, her words following hard on the heels of mine in her urgency, “so I do.”
“And do you accept the submission of your slave-bride?” My brother-the-Lord-Cardinal asked.
Seizing my slave-bride’s blouse between the buttons, “I do,” I replied, then in a shower of specially weakened stitching I tore both blouse and jacket from her. Her arms slid back, allowing the fabric to fall to the floor. My right hand slid down, whilst my left lingered to appreciatively squeeze a breast. She rose on the balls of her feet, arching against my touch.
My hand hooked into the fabric of her waistband, short skirt and lacy panties both. They tore along their seams, fluttered for a moment and were gone.
My slave-bride was naked, except for the flavouring of her garter-belt and hose and heels, clothing not to conceal but to excite. My brother-the-Lord-Cardinal and I shared a nod.
“Do you have the token?” He asked, turning to my best man.
The boy stepped forward, silver platter held before him. He was my eldest child. His eyes were riveted to my slave-bride. Across the fields of her flesh, they roamed freely.
It was an appropriate symmetry. Thirteen years ago, a sixteen year old boy had waited before this very alter for his first slave-bride. His father at his side, he had enslaved her. Not an hour later, he’d conceived his first son.
The same son who now stood beside him to assist in the enslavement of his father’s newest slave-bride.
At thirteen, my child was noticing my house-slaves and bed-pets only recently. It was time, I judged, to acquire for him a teacher, a woman less beautiful, less intimidating, less used to and in need of the strong hand of dominance that I provided.
Soon enough, I would stand besides him as his best-man, when he took his first slave-bride and the circle would be complete.
He proffered to me the platter, and from it I took the collar, it’s fabric metallised with gold, secured by a catch of leather. My slave-bride bent her head as I closed it about her exquisite neck.
“This ring is a token of my dominance. I enslave you with this ring. As a ring has no end, neither shall my control for you know no limits. I select you to be my slave-bride this day and forevermore,” I intoned.
Then I shivered.
The next words always excited me, no matter how many times I said them to a slave-bride. They highlighted the asymmetry of the relationship to come, the extent of my mastery and control.
“Unless and until I tire of you,” I said.
There are few things more erotic than power.
“I will forever wear this ring as a sign of my commitment and the desire of my heart,” my slave-bride replied. “I remake myself,” she said, tearing the band from her hair, so that it cascaded full and free across her shoulders, “in the hope that I may long pleasure you.”
Her fingertips traced across the arm of her glasses, as if she considered tossing them aside. It was purely theatrical. She indulged my fetish, knowing that I liked fucking her in them, and liking that I liked.
“Do you wish to use your slave-bride?” My brother-the-Lord-Cardinal enquired.
It was purely a pro-forma question.
I seized my slave-bride’s arm from her glasses and spun her, standing behind her as she faced the altar. My hand ran through that luxurious mane of free hair, the only thing about this woman that was free.
Then I forced her down, bending her across the altar.
It’s height had been chosen carefully, but centuries ago when women where shorter and high-heels non-existent. Beneath the linen cloth, I knew it had to stand on blocks.
They made it the perfect height. My slave-bride’s face and breasts pressed down into it, whilst her heels lifted her ass above it, presenting her neatly trimmed pussy for my inspection.
Her sex was already glistening.
My zipper purred as my best-man drew me out of my trousers, already firm at the sight of what awaited me. I positioned myself, savouring the anticipation, letting my slave-bride hang in the chains of need.
She screamed as I entered her, a single thrust that was dominance, parting her along the full length of her vagina till it bumped against the firm barrier of her cervix. The murmur of appreciation from the master’s side mingled with the mixture of excitement and trepidation from the slave’s side.
It was a good day, as I fucked the glorious upraised butt of my newest slave-bride, and I was feeling generous.
I nodded my permission to my brother-the-Lord-Cardinal, and seized my slave-bride’s hair, pulling her head back so her throat and full, fuckable lips fell on an axis across the altar.
We hadn’t rehearsed this – I hadn’t even known I was going to do it. Certainly on most occasions in the past, I hadn’t shared – and so my slave-bride gasped in surprise, almost cried out, before the thick rod of my brother-the-Lord-Cardinal slid into her mouth, enforcing silence.
My slave-bride moaned and shivered and shook as best she could, whilst the we fucked her, a pair of freight trains working a single helpless carriage.
For today, she had no orgasm trigger, or rather the simple feeling, the simple knowledge of my length in her was my slave-bride’s orgasm trigger.
With my every stroke, she came and came again.
Aside from my breakfast blow-job, and the traditional night before fucking of the slave-bridesmaids which had trailed on until the early hours, I hadn’t come yet today.
It took me barely sixteen strokes to waste my sperm inside her. Sixteen strokes during which she had over twenty orgasms.
I glanced at my brother-the-Lord-Cardinal, knowing he had yet to come. His fingers flicked no matter at me, as he pulled his saliva coated cock out of my slave-bride, and slipped it into the organist’s welcoming mouth. I hadn’t even seen her move to kneel beside him.
Apparently there would be no musical accompaniment to our exit.
I could forgive my brother-the-Lord-Cardinal that.
I peeled my slave-bride from the altar, clipping the leash my son handed me to the ring of her collar.
The near-naked crawl – as befitted her new station – back down the aisle was traditional, but in this case the face of a well-fucked woman told me my slave-bride would probably be unable to walk.
Guests clapped and cheered and threw confetti as we passed. A few of the more eager among the master’s side eyed the candy of the slave’s side, which responded with varying degrees of excitement to trepidation.
My newest slave-bride on her knees behind me, my next child bulging her belly, her leash held lightly in my hand, I stepped into the blinding light of the future.