The One

This story continues the emotional quest of a young woman who signed a contract and became a slave to an enigmatic man. This episode is intended to be placed after "Crime and Punishment". For better reading experience you may want to start with "My First Punishment" episode. The three episodes together form a short novella.

There is no cruelty in this story. All actions are performed by consenting adults.

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Part 1. The morning after

I wake to a soft, rhythmic sound -- he's snoring. Just a little, nothing loud. He's asleep -- good! I carefully slip out and tiptoe to the bathroom. I prepare carefully. He likes me obedient? Perfect. From today, I'll be the most submissive and most devoted slave he's ever had. I want that. I truly do! I know I can do it.

I step out of the bathroom -- it seems he's still asleep, though the snoring has stopped. He likes yoga? Wonderful -- so do I. I sit down in virasana and wait patiently. His eyelashes twitch -- he's waking up! I bow to him in shashankasana, a pose of offering, then shift slowly into the child's pose: pure surrender. It happens naturally, and bright anticipation swells through my whole body.

"Stand up!"

He lifts me up and presses me tightly to his chest. His gaze pierces me as if he sees everything, right into my furthest, most hidden corners.

I open myself fully to him. Let him see how much I love him. I'll fulfil any desire, just to give him pleasure. I tell him that:

"Good morning, Sir. Your slave is ready to obey your every command."

For a moment there is a sharp flicker in his eyes, but it fades. Now his gaze is soft again. I even see a glimpse of amusement in it, but he immediately puts on an air of sternness and grumbles:

"Slave, I don't like that you've made a habit of sneaking into my bathroom without permission. In this house, there's a special utility room set up for you. It has water and a trough. Go there and make yourself presentable."

Turns out I have my own space in his house! The teasing tone in his voice -- which I've learned to pick up on -- tells me this isn't just some "utility room."

"Forgive me, Sir. Your obedient slave accepts its punishment but it doesn't know where that place is," I reply in tone.

"I'll punish you, but not in the usual way. Today's punishment is that you'll accompany me all day. We need to buy some clothes for a slave. Now come with me. And take your bag and clothes." He nods toward the bag by the door. "And for heaven's sake, take that ridiculous pink toothbrush. It has no place in my bathroom. What are you waiting for? Follow the order!"

"Yes, Sir!"

I let the comment about buying clothes for a slave go in one ear and out the other -- what matters is that I get to be with him the whole day! I dash off to fetch my toothbrush, scoop up my meagre slave possessions, and follow him into the dressing room, burning with curiosity.

It's my first time here -- a spacious room lined floor-to-ceiling with wardrobes on both sides. Some of the sliding doors are mirrored, which makes it look even bigger.

"Your wardrobe is on the left," he says, leading me down the corridor, "and that's your kennel," he adds, pointing to a door at the far end of the dressing room. "You'll be downstairs for breakfast at nine sharp. If you're even one minute late -- I'll spank you right there in the kitchen."

"Yes, Sir!"

I fumble with the nice gilded handle and step inside keeping my eyes shut tight, close the door behind me and stand for a moment.

When I finally open my eyes, I drop everything in surprise.

My "kennel" turns out to be a bright, spacious boudoir. The soft morning sunlight spills through a huge arched window -- more like French doors, really, leading out onto a balcony. The furniture, walls, curtains, and upholstery are all warm soft beige colours. Delicate mouldings run along the ceiling. Gold accents catch the light. Landscape paintings hang on the walls -- Italian, I think. A crystal chandelier glitters above.

To the right of the entrance, half the wall is taken up by a frosted glass door etched with a delicate leafy design. I slide it open -- it leads into a spacious, cosy bathroom styled in the same soft palette.

A huge arched window with stained-glass edges floods the space with cheerful light. On the marble sill stands a magnificent orchid with large blooms in white, pink, and deep burgundy. Beneath the window, a graceful bathtub rests on gilded claw feet. This must be the "trough" my Master mentioned!

The shower is screened off with glass. It is smaller than his, but convenient. Beside it, a tall palm towers over the bath, its carved fronds arching above.

I open the cabinets to the right of the entrance. Inside, everything is neatly arranged: shampoos, little jars of creams, various boxes... Soft towels folded on the shelves.

A separate section holds carefully prepared packets of feminine hygiene products. I'll take a closer look later. In another compartment hang several soft robes. I pick one -- white with pink -- and slip it on. After so many hours of being naked, the feeling is sheer pleasure!

I sink into the cosy sofa. The big clock on the wall shows 7:45 ‒ I can relax for a while. I stretch out, close my eyes and let myself bask in comfort.

I begin to reflect. It feels like I've passed some important test and reached a new level in our game. Yes, I see it now: it is a game, but an adult one. What happens when he tires of playing?

I push away these pointless thoughts. It's Saturday, and I'll spend the whole day with the man I love -- what more could I want?

With purpose, I rise, shrug off the robe, and begin my usual morning yoga. My insides tighten and quiver sweetly as I ease into downward-facing dog -- a pose that now carries a whole new meaning for me!

Part 2. Breakfast with Master

Time is running short. I freshen up quickly in the bathroom. In the cabinet I find a box of shower caps -- no time to dry my hair, so I throw one on. A quick rinse -- it's already five to nine.

I panic a little: yesterday he specifically told me to get dressed, but today he only ordered me to be downstairs for breakfast. A robe feels inappropriate. Naked? No -- better the light cotton dress I brought with me. It's a bit wrinkled, but fine for home. Just in case, I skip the panties -- a compromise of sorts!

A wild thought flashes: "What if I arrive one minute late?" But no -- that would be manipulation. I'll follow his order to the letter. As I descend the stairs -- heart pounding -- the clock in the hall chimes nine.

He's at the stove, just like yesterday. He glances over his shoulder and gives me a slow once-over, then turns back to his cooking, saying nothing. I stand stiffly in the middle of the kitchen with arms at my sides like a tin soldier, awaiting instructions. The mouth-watering smells make my stomach cramp -- I've never been this hungry!

He finishes his latest omelette masterpiece. Washes his hands thoroughly. Then, in a distracted voice, says:

"Take off the dress."

Without hesitation, I obey -- standing there, dress in hand.

"Turn around and bend over."

I turn and fold forward, chest pressed to thighs. His hand glides gently over my bottom.

"You'll need to apply some ointment. You'll find it in my bathroom -- where you found the comb and toothbrush."

"Thank you, Sir. I saw it" -- I whisper: it is difficult to speak bent in this pose.

"Good. Do it after breakfast."

"Yes, Sir!" I hiss.

I hear dishes and cutlery clinking behind me, but he doesn't tell me to straighten or turn around -- as if he's forgotten me! I stand there in this humiliating pose... and feel something stir deep inside: arousal!

Finally, he remembers that I exist:

"Well, how long are you going to shine with your bare ass around like that? It's bright enough in here already. Put your dress on and sit -- the food's getting cold."

He says it in the most casual tone, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world: someone just standing every morning in his kitchen, showing off her naked backside!

"Yes, Sir!" -- I answer, dress quickly and sit at the table. My cheeks are burning. I start eating.

I feel his gaze on me and steal a glance at him -- his face is unyielding but there's so much hidden warmth in his dark eyes! He asks:

"Can you cook?"

"Yes, Sir... A little. Not as well as you, Sir. I really want to learn."

"Good. We'll start with coffee. Come, I'll show you how I like to make it."

His ultra-modern kitchen has many different useful gadgets, but no fancy coffee machine. Instead, he takes out an old, dented cezve.

Seeing my surprise, he explains that he bought it many years ago at a market stall in some African country. The old Bedouin who sold it to him assured him that coffee brewed in it protects against all ailments -- and then made coffee right there in that cezve, showing and explaining all the details.

Master shows me the whole process and then we silently drink the fragrant, bitter coffee. I am already addicted to it. How could I drink sweet coffee before!

"Tidy the kitchen and then you can do your own things. We leave at twelve. Dress like you did yesterday," he commands when he's finished his coffee.

"As you wish, Sir..."

"But don't forget to call your mother first. And take the pill that the doctor gave you. And treat your backside."

He leaves without looking back.

I quickly wash the dishes and tidy up. In such a gorgeous, modern kitchen, it's easy -- even pleasant. Finished in the kitchen, I run to my room. God, how amazing it feels to say those words -- even just in my head -- my room!

I unpack my bag and first grab my phone. It's nearly dead, but there's enough charge left for a quick call to Mum. She's doing well. I promise to call tomorrow.

Still plenty of time left, so I slowly put my things away on the shelves and in the wardrobe. It feels so satisfying, as if I'm quietly claiming this space as mine.

I head downstairs. He's ready to leave, and after glancing at my outfit, suddenly asks:

"Have you taken your pill?"

My breath catches. He can see the answer written plainly on my face, twisted in shame.

"I see. Did you treat your backside?"

I look up at him like a guilty little pup and sniffle. What an idiot I am! I swore to obey his every command to the letter.

"I'm sorry, Sir! I forgot. I'll do it now... I'll be quick..." I look at him, pleading.

"Bring it here."

I race upstairs, snatching up the blister and ointment with trembling hands and hurry back down.

He gives me an icy look.

"Is it really so hard to follow the simplest instructions? Does my word mean nothing to you? Answer me!"

"Sir, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I was in a rush... it slipped my mind... It won't happen again..."

He takes the blister and the ointment tube from my hands. Then, in a firm, judicial tone, announces the sentence:

"Face the mirror. Trousers down to your knees. Panties too. Hands on your butt. You'll stand like that for ten minutes."

I obey at once. He walks upstairs. In the mirror, I see myself -- frozen in this pathetic, shameful pose. My face burns with humiliation. I swallow back tears. I'd almost rather he had simply whipped me.

Ten minutes stretch into eternity. My mind dulls, slipping into a kind of trance. At one point, I nearly topple. At last, I hear his footsteps on the stairs.

His reflection appears behind me. He crouches, tube of ointment in hand. His palm glides gently over my bum -- and then... he kisses it!

His left hand slips around, resting firmly against my mound, while with his right he applies the ointment, rubbing it in with care and lightly slapping the cheeks. I feel his cooling breath over the skin as he patiently waits for the ointment to absorb.

Then he stands, walks calmly to the kitchen to wash his hands, and returns with a glass of water. On his palm lies the pill.

He hasn't told me I can move my hands, so I lean forward and take it from his palm with my lips. He cups his hand, pours water into it, and I drink. Another handful follows, and again I obey.

I try to make sense of the feeling surging inside me: is this degrading? Or unbearably intimate? I can't stop myself -- I cover his palm with kisses and press my lips into it. Heat stirs low in my belly, curling up and spreading sweetly.

With practised ease, he pulls my panties and trousers back up. Fastens the waistband.

"You're forgiven," he says quietly. "But if it happens again, I'll use the whip."

"It won't, Master" I whisper through tears.

He pulls me into his chest. I sob soundlessly against his firm, solid body. And just for a moment, through the warm mist in my mind, Dad's image flickers -- then dissolves.

He's my Master... My heart flutters. My head spins. Again and again, I repeat the word silently to myself: "My Master."

My Master wipes away my tears with such care.

My Master looks after me.

My Master loves me...

Part 3. Shopping

The car pulls up by a small boutique shop on a small side street. There are a few stylish dresses, shoes, and accessories displayed in the window. We go inside, and the shop turns out to be surprisingly spacious. A smartly dressed woman in her fifties greets my Master.

"What a pleasant surprise, George! Nice to see you!" she says with a distinct French accent.

"Bonjour, Sylvie!"

They hug and kiss in the French manner. Apparently, they know each other well. I stand humbly and listen to their friendly chatter as they get seated on a stylish leather sofa. Throughout this time, Sylvie has not even given me a glance.

"Nikki, coffee for me and my guest," she calls out into the depths of the showroom.

After a short while, a slender girl with a short, boy-style haircut appears with a small tray, kneels, and sets the coffee cups on a small table in front of them. Having done so, she freezes, looking down, apparently waiting for further orders.

"Nikki! Undress this one!" Sylvie casually waves her hand in my direction while continuing the conversation with Master. I blush and look pleadingly at him. He nods, ever so slightly

Nikki approaches me, and for a split second, our eyes meet. I do not see any disdain in her glance. She even gives me a fleeting, reassuring smile. Nikki unbuttons my blouse and removes it. Then she kneels to take off my shoes, carefully peels off the socks and reaches for the waistband.

I stiffen and feel that I blush even more. It is very humiliating -- to be so nonchalantly stripped in front of strangers!

Nikki gently pulls down the trousers and helps me out of them. I breath a sigh of relief -- she leaves the panties on, but my relief is short-lived -- Nikki swiftly pulls them down and I remain stark-naked in the middle of the shop!

At last, Sylvie gives me a long assessing glance. She slowly approaches me and touches the platinum collar.

"Excellent taste!" says Sylvie to Master. It's not clear if this refers to me or the collar. Probably latter, as she continues:

"Does it have a name?"

"She is Eliana," says Master calmly. "The one."

"Oh, excusez-moi!" Sylvie lifts my face by the chin and looks into my eyes with -- what appears to be -- some curiosity.

"Eliana! What a nice name. I am Sylvie."

"Pleased to meet you, Madam," I reply respectfully, trying to figure out what Master meant by his mysterious "The one".

Master comes near and makes a sign for me to turn around. The red stripes from yesterday's belting should be clearly visible to everybody. What a shame! I am on the brink of crying.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nikki. She stares at me with eyes full of -- what seems to me -- sincere compassion.

But Sylvie pays no attention to the red marks on my bum. Her glance is purely professional -- evaluating.

"Nice figure. Easy fit. So, what can I do for you today?"

"The full set, from lingerie to shoes and evening-wear, please," says Master.

The next two hours are a torture -- I have never tried on so many clothes in my whole life! Fortunately, the changing is done at the back of the showroom so it is not so embarrassing. Master examines each outfit as I march as if on a catwalk, discusses it with Sylvie, approves or rejects it.

Nikki is very helpful and efficient assisting me to change. She calls me "Madam" every now and then and looks at me with adoration. I notice that every time I have to flash my striped bottom she appears mesmerised by the sight of it.

At one moment, kneeling behind me, Nikki runs her tender palm over my buttocks. This feels strange, even intrusive. I turn to her, ready to rebuff, but see her desperately pleading eyes. She looks so pitiful -- like a beaten dog -- that I just gently caress her head instead.

"Mistress," she whispers kissing my hand.

This is so weird and unexpected that I do not find words to reply!

At last this tedious ordeal is over. Nikki brings more coffee. This time there is a cup for me. Master gestures me to sit in the armchair next to him.

"This girl, Nikki, I haven't seen her before," he remarks, sipping his coffee. "She doesn't have a collar."

"Oh, Nikki, la pouvre. She works for me. Walked in a few weeks ago miserable and hungry looking for a job. Said she would do anything. I took pity on her and do not regret it. She is a real treasure. Smart and efficient. I have a room to spare so she stays with me. She has a backstory, though," Sylvie calls out:

"Nikki! Come here!"

The girl appears and takes the submissive pose which I now well recognise.

"Strip! Inspection," commands Sylvie.

Without a slightest hesitation Nikki slips out of her small black dress and freezes in front of us -- legs apart, hands behind her head.

She does it so casually, without a flicker of emotion. It is me who blushes with shame feeling a sudden pang of excitement. But it turns into horror as I notice that her whole body is criss-crossed with scars.

One of her tiny breasts is almost gone as if it has been burned out. Even Master appears to be moved -- he tightly presses his lips and frowns.

"Nikki has had an unfortunate experience with a sadistic Dom," explains Sylvie. You would not like to hear the story. It was not submission -- sheer everyday torture. She endured but the bastard used her and kicked her out when she became a wreck.

"This is wrong. It is a Police matter," says Master.

"This is what I told her but she refused to file a claim. This is not the whole story, though. The worst part is that Nikki is no longer able to cum in a usual way. Extreme pain is the only trigger for her. This is really tragique. It's something I cannot deliver," Sylvie smiles and adds: "You know my tastes, George."

"Oh, yes! I do!" Master laughs. "I'll never forget that week in Paris twenty something years ago!"

"Perhaps, you can help her once you are here. It'll be an act of mercy. The poor thing suffers so much," Sylvia turns to Nikki.

"Relax! Nikki, would you like Master George to help you?"

"Yes, Madam but..."

"But what?"

"Madam, may I ask Mistress Eliana to do it?" asks Nikki and looks imploringly at me.

"Mistress Eliana?" Master cannot hold back a laugh. "Eliana is my slave."

"Sir, with all respect, she may be you slave but she is a Mistress to me." Nikki kneels in front of me.

I cannot believe what I hear! A "Mistress"? Me?

Master appears amused by the scene.

"Well, why not," he says after a moment's thought. "I too would like to check on something."

"Pardonne-moi, but I'd rather not see it," says Sylvie.

Part 4. Nikki's ordeal

Without saying a word, Nikki picks up her dress and leads us downstairs to the basement room which seems even more spacious than the showroom.

It is a showroom of sorts too -- a well stocked adult shop. In the far end there is an area stylised as a classic "dungeon play room" with an X-cross and other exotic equipment.