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A Sanctuary of One by LongDarkRoad Chapter 9 So Strange

A Sanctuary of One

By LongDarkRoad

Chapter 9 So Strange, The Way Love Comes And Goes

“My lord, look how Abigail is doing,” Daniel White commented as the girl rode in a circle on her pony. Della Ostrander, who had once trained Olympic riders and had a stable one acreage over, was working with both Abigail and Noah this early Sunday morning.

Mrs. White was smiling and sipping her coffee; the morning was beautiful and she always loved coming to this place, shared with Daniel’s brother and sister, although she (especially she) and Daniel were here much more frequently. Since none of them in the past had wanted to be outside New York for long stretches, all having access to this property made it feasible to keep all these years. Joyce however had begun considering making this their main residence. Time would tell.

But her grandchildren (Abigail most strongly) had been pestering for months about riding, and Ostrander had been able to finally secure the small mounts that made sense. “Abigail’s a natural, kind of like me,” Joyce White replied, watching how the girl was sitting firmly on the training saddle.

“And, I guess it’s good that Christopher and um, the wife, can have some time together on the weekend,” Daniel noted with a look at Joyce. “They’re both so …busy.”

“Yes, very busy,” Joyce smirked, an odd smile on her face.


Claire placed the plate on the table before Christopher. “I know your, house keeper, nanny, what-cha-ma-call-it is a great cook, but I hoped you’d be happy with this,” she smiled.

Dr. White regarded the two eggs, sunny-side up, the four pieces of crisp bacon, the hash browns and the whole wheat toast and smiled up at his assistant, who was wearing her bra and nothing else, and murmured, “Everything is wonderful, my dear Claire.” He looked down at her light brown bush. “Everything.”


Miss Courtney and Miss Gena were seated at the small glass table in Gena’s kitchen. They’d just finished their soft-boiled eggs and bran muffins, and were now drinking coffee; Courtney generally only drank coffee on weekends.

Below them on the floor, on her hands and knees, ‘slave-girl’ Julie was eating cereal from a large, metal, dog bowl. The bowl was embellished with the single word ‘BITCH’ in large, black letters. As the woman ate, Gena would dip her toes into the mixture and the slave-girl would clean them off as well.

“She’s done,” Gena now commented, placing two toes from her left foot into Julie’s mouth, as Courtney rubbed between the kneeling woman’s legs; from behind and with her bare right foot.

Courtney nodded. “Okay, follow me, Slave-doobie,” she commanded, standing and heading to the spare bedroom with Julie following, still on all fours. In a few minutes Courtney returned, resumed her seat, picking up her coffee cup.

“So what’s your plan, Miss Courtney?” Gena smirked, impishly, “your slave-girl has, um, devotion up the yin-yang, hey?”

Courtney smiled back; what Gena said was true and obvious to anyone who had watched the previous evening. Courtney was surprised herself with how Julie had responded to the ‘servitude’ and the punishment. The woman was, even as Courtney had joked about it, a true closet-submissive; someone who had sought submission instinctively but blindly and without result; until now.

As for Julie herself, tied now with her wrists and ankles to the four bedposts (Gena had ordered this style of bed on purpose; she wanted any slaves punished here to be tied in this classic manner; it was her favorite) she lay with her mind full of images, even when she was blind-folded, she knew how she looked. Why had she never realized this about herself?

Perhaps she had, only to deny it. What happened next? She should, she scolded herself, feel shame and regret. Common sense said she should fight her bonds and run away; but that was not what she wanted, at all.

She wanted to see Courtney’s face smiling down at her, she wanted to feel the woman’s soft hands caress her body; she wanted to please her, obey her, demonstrate her feelings to her, again and again.

This couldn’t be love, could it, she wondered again? Love could not be this strange.

Could it?

But then, she also wanted the other. The amazing way her dominants used pain was effective. There had been a point last night where Julie’s labia were being spanked, when the pain stopped, even though the rubber device continued to strike. The pain, or how it registered, had changed in some way Julie could not understand; but it somehow built into her arousal. She had begun arching her torso to meet the measured strokes, wanting them. The strong orgasm that had followed had washed over her; she had cried out and laughed and felt bliss. Bliss, not love. But who knew?

Now, as Julie lay bound and displayed on the bed, the two concepts, love and bliss, and their companions, pain and pleasure, came together.


“So,” Claire murmured, leaning against White as they sat on the couch. “when does…everyone, um, get home?”

“It’s actually going to be a little late, considering it’s Sunday. My parents will have the kids home a little before seven; that’s the plan. I’m thinking Julie will be home a little before that,” Christopher replied quietly.

They sat in silence for a bit. “You’re surprised that she’s with, a woman?” Claire murmured. White had told her a little about Julie’s…situation; what he knew, which wasn’t much.

White nodded his head. “Oh yeah, floored, really. This whole thing is crazy, you and me, Julie and her romantic interest. Crazy.”

“But,” Claire ventured, “you’re okay with what, um, you and I are doing?”

White turned to look at her, gently stroking her face. “Oh heavens, yes. This is amazing, like a dream. How do you feel?”

Claire nodded, “Like a dream is good. But it’s a dream I don’t want to wake up from.” She leaned over and kissed him; they held the kiss for a long while.”



“Right. I said, so, what are you gonna’ do with her?” Gena asked, still smiling.

Courtney looked up, “Why?”

Gena snorted, “We’ve known each other a bit here, Courts, and I’ve seen you with women. This one’s different, hey?”

Courtney contemplated. Julie was different, this relationship was…different. Just how and what that meant, Courtney had not decided. “You should move in here, Courtney.” Gena continued, mind working. “How much stuff do you have? Not much, I’ve seen your little box of a place. What’s your prob, don’t like hand-outs? Hey, tell you what, pay me whatever you’re payin’ now, don’t care girl what it is.” Gena said, rapid-fire.

Courtney regarded the woman, resting her face on her fist. She would die to live here; her place was an embarrassment. “Why would you want me here?”

Pausing, Gena then moved her spoon from one place to another, before looking up into those green-blue eyes.

At times, Courtney seemed like the wisdom of the ages,  at others, like a child.

“Take a look at this place, hey, twenty-four hundred square feet. You’ve got your slave in one spare bedroom; the room beside it has nothing but some empty boxes in it. My sked is flex and you’re gone all day, so not like we’re in each other’s business, right. But then, we have, um, our…hobby” She smiled at this and Courtney smiled, too.

It had been clear from the start that she and Gena liked doing similar things…to women. Hannah was different; quite different, and Dakota just followed along. But Gena was experienced and understood how to… Courtney pondered the word, ‘use’; that word made sense. Gena knew how to use a woman to please her; how much punishment, how much humiliation was necessary. Every submissive personality was different, but there were common traits, and Gena understood that.

When the two of them had worked on a woman, they hardly needed to talk; they seemed to be in sync, but Courtney was really just following the experienced lead. And since Courtney was…confused, about her feelings toward Julie White, having Gena with her made sense. And living here made sense; more than that. Why was she reluctant, she wondered?

“You know, she’s married, right?” Courtney said quietly.

“No shit,” Gena replied after a moment, one eyebrow raised.

“And she has two kids.” Courtney continued.

“Shit.” Gena replied, again. “Oh, and what the fuck’s her, like, real name, it’s not Doobie, I hope?” She asked mildly and with a grin, standing and moving to the sink.

“Julie White. Her hubby’s a doctor.”

Gena stood facing away, rinsing her hands, a small smile on her face. “No shit,” she murmured again.   ****

Claire wandered over and looked out the window; the view of the park moved her. How wonderful it would be to wake up and come and look out this window, she thought, considering her own home and the row of ordinary houses facing it. 

But it wasn’t just Dr. White’s wife who stood between her and this view; they had two children. “I should be rollin’, you know,” she said, as White entered.

“Let’s go grab a bite, my parents will feed the kids and everything, so the two of us could have an early dinner.”

She looked at him. “I could make us something.”

“You shouldn’t have to work; this is like a little vacation.”

She took a couple of steps to him and put her arms around his neck. “I want to, Sir. I like the thought of making you dinner.”

He looked down at her. “Hmmmm. That’s funny, because I like the thought of you making me dinner.” After the words had left his mouth he could not believe he had said them. Strange. But stranger still was that he had meant it.


Julie buried her face into the warm, tantalizing vagina of her…mistress. They had agreed that that was what Courtney was, and Julie was her slave. She had agreed to that, to those…words.

“What happens next?” Courtney had asked, after untying  Julie and bringing her to kneel in the living room. Julie had just stared; this was beyond her.

“What…do you want?” Julie had then asked, heart pounding as always and anxiety spreading though her, fearful that this beautiful woman would say, “Nothing, we’ve had some fun but it’s over.”

Except Courtney hadn’t said that; she had said, “What happens next depends on you, Doobie. I think we both know, like, what you are, and what we are. We’re not BFF’s or anything like that, right. You are on your knees, which is where you so belong, yes?”

Julie remembered the stab within her that these words had produced, and she had whispered, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Courtney had prodded.

“Yes, Miss Courtney, I, um, I belong on my knees.” And it was true; in this…relationship, she was very happy to be in this position, ready to serve her, it had to be said, mistress.

“So, I can use you how I like, right? As long as you are with me, you are content?” All of this was true, and Julie had nodded her head. “So, that makes you my slave, doesn’t it?”

Julie had looked at the floor silently, her insides in knots; she had been unable to speak, at first, just nodding her head once again, until finally Miss Courtney had pulled it from her, and Julie had said those amazing words, “I am your slave and will do what you wish; I am content to be with you. It is my place.”

Gena had gone somewhere, leaving these two alone to figure out their deal. When Gena returned, she had found Julie in this position, face pressed into Courtney’s crotch, tongue working to please her mistress. Gena stood behind the crouching figure and held up an object; a black leather collar with the word ‘SLAVE’ embossed on it.

“This works, she who must be obeyed?” Gena asked, holding the object, a twinkle again in her eye, as if she were enjoying a private joke.

Courtney laughed and nodded. “Yeah. Look, sweet doobie, we have something for you.”

Julie turned on her knees and looked up, then taking the collar that was handed to her. She held it for a moment and then put it on, the other satin one lying off somewhere. She then sat straight, as both Courtney and Gena took a picture of her with their phones.

“We’ll have our slave put out the food, hey?” Courtney commented, looking at the bag Gena had brought in, its aroma announcing Thai take-out. “We need to have her back home in a couple of hours.”


Julie arrived home just a few minutes before Mr. and Mrs. White dropped off Noah and Abigail, so Christopher and Julie had not been forced to go through an awkward ‘so how was your weekend’ scenario. Angel had stayed to help with baths and etcetera and then both parents spent time being regaled with the weekend’s adventures.

Angel then got a jump on Monday by making the kid’s lunches, and by the time the house quieted down, Julie was in the bath, with some wine, several candles burning and her device playing music for her to relax by.

Christopher poked his head in, “I’d come in and chat but you have Sarah McLachlan on again and that’s always a red flag.”

Julie laughed and waved at him, “Yeah, let’s just let things be for tonight. But we should talk tomorrow.”

Christopher looked at his wife, her head floating on a blanket of bubbles. “Yes, that works. But I guess the fact we’re both still here is good, right?”

Julie smiled up at him; he seemed happy, not just his usual calm self, but happy. “Yes, maybe we can have our cake and eat it?” She said and watched as he waved and then was gone. What would happen now, she wondered? Was there any going back from this?

She belonged to Courtney Farrell; belonged to her, was her property; there was no point trying to avoid that. She would do whatever the woman wanted. What now of her marriage, her children, her home? She was, and there was a surge of arousal saying this, a slave. She was Courtney Farrell’s slave.

Those thoughts should by all accounts have filled her with apprehension, regret, fear. But they didn’t; her mind was just on Miss Courtney’s lovely face, leaning in to kiss her good-bye; the soft fragrance of the woman, the wonderful feel of her lips, and the sound of her voice saying, “You belong to me, Julie White. I’ll be in touch, my love.”

My love, Julie pondered. Did that mean the same to that young woman as it did to her? Could it?

Courtney was taking a break; after sending her ‘slave’ home, she had accepted a half dozen boxes from Gena and headed back to her little basement suite; she had then begun to pack. She had made her decision and would move into Gena’s as soon as possible. Her place had only a month left on its six month lease, so she had no obligations.

Earlier in the afternoon she had received another offer from Marcie Woodhouse, a shoot for her, personally, for Wednesday afternoon; it was with an exclusive New York designer and could be the start of something. Maybe her life was changing course.

She sat down on her worn couch (she agreed with Gena to just give away most of her furniture, if anyone would take it, or it was off to the landfill) with her tea in hand. She sipped some and put down the cup, picking up her cell and opening the picture of Julie White, kneeling with her collar on. Damn, Courtney thought, that’s so, so cool.

She was startled however when her phone chimed a call, and even more startled to see the I.D.

It was her mother.


Julie was happy Monday morning when Jasmine came in with the acceptance of a campaign offer from a mouthwash company; work was necessary to keep her mind off ‘things’. Jasmine had some good ideas and it was almost eleven before Julie had a moment to herself.

Sitting here in her office, looking down over the busy street, it was possible to imagine that the last weekend had been some sort of movie she had witnessed, as opposed to a play that she had starred in. However, the image of Courtney’s face and the familiar reaction it provoked was all it took to remind her of the path she had begun walking down.

How do you break a habit? She pondered. Force of will for sure, but the problem with addiction was that the desired thing was usually compellingly sweet and filled some need in the addict.

Even now, sitting in her chair, Julie imagined herself naked and on her knees, licking her mistress’s shoes. Fighting the impulse for a moment, she gave in and took out her cell. “I wish I was on my knees with you, I am your slave,” she texted to Courtney, and then sat back, ashamed and aroused, fearful as always that she would be ignored, fleetingly angry at her weakness, but excited at the thought of her mistress reading the message and thinking of her.

And there was of course the truth that she really did want to be on her knees for this woman, and others. She had after all keenly served all four women on Friday, accepting, even wanting their abuse.

She was one sick addict.


Mondays were always busy at the shelter; weekend hangover, the workers called it. Courtney had been busy interviewing and processing four women, one of whom needed convincing to go to a clinic for some necessary attention. Not for the first time, Courtney asked herself if what she was doing made any difference. Only one of the four women seemed to be leaning toward leaving an abusive relationship, the rest were just seeking sanctuary.

It was past one before she was able to grab a bowl of soup and some salad in their volunteer-run cafeteria; how grateful she was for the ladies group that looked after this. The soup today was vegetable barley and was delicious. As she ate, images of Julie came to mind as well as the previous evening’s conversation with her mother.

It had started with the usual, “Haven’t heard from you for so long I thought you’d died,” and progressed from there. Even though her rape was now half of her life away, Courtney could not forgive her mother for leaving her, from her perspective, out on a very precarious limb. Even though the move to Buffalo ultimately proved positive in many ways, because it was done for wrong and poor reasons, it would never be okay.

“We really don’t have much to talk about, Mother,” Courtney had said quietly (so why call, she had thought). She didn’t hate her mother, not anymore, anyway; she simply felt nothing. There was no way they could ever have a pleasant mother slash daughter talk. Wasn’t going to happen.

“But I think about you every day, dear,” her mother had said, also quietly.

“How’s the job going?” Courtney murmured.

There was a pause here, as both women knew that particular question was code for ‘you screwed me over for your own gain’.

Mrs. Farrell sighed. “My job keeps a roof over my head and food on my table, Courtney, as it did for you for several years.” The two women sat, each hearing the other’s breathing. “There isn’t a day goes by I don’t remember what happened. I know I didn’t handle it well, but it was the best I could do. They would’ve destroyed you, Courtney, and me too. Sometimes you need to just take the best option and move on.”

Courtney began to feel anxiety rising; this always happened whenever the conversation with her mother lasted more than a couple of minutes. It was like she was tied down again and couldn’t get out. She could hear the laughter and the taunts, she could do nothing but endure whatever the boys decided to push into any of her openings. The taste of cum and the smell of beer-breath were things she would never forget.

But, sadly, she knew her mother was right; the two of them were nobodies and the one boy’s father was a wealthy and influential man, with friends in the police  force and on city council. The cum-stained panties her mother had given to the police disappeared, for example.

“I needed you to…comfort me, Mother. Whatever happened, I needed you to care for me.” Courtney was surprised that tears were now running down her face; she rarely cried.

Her mother took a breath. “I know, dear. I was unable to function. I don’t know w-why.”

The seconds ticked by. “What were their names?” Courtney asked; amazingly, she had never asked that basic question before.

“Why?” Her mother asked softly.

“I’d just like to know.”

There was a long pause. Sighing again, Mrs. Farrell said, “The only last name I know is Gilbertson, because that was the father.”

“Kyle…” Courtney had murmured.

Now that she knew, fourteen years later, did it matter?

She roused herself from her thoughts as a volunteer came by to collect her tray. She took out her cell again and read the message from her slave. “I wish I was on my knees with you, I am your slave.”

She smiled and typed, “That’s sweet, Slave, and correct. Have you typed up the agreement yet? Your ass will be punished one way or the other, but it’s always better when I’m happy.” Smiley-face emoji.

After sending the text, a thought came to her.


Julie was deep in thought about…mouthwash, when her cell vibrated. Picking it up with anticipation, she felt the surge when she saw who the message was from. Quickly reading it, she opened her desk and removed the sheet of paper she had printed off this morning. It was a detailed agreement between herself, as Slave and Miss Courtney, as Mistress. Reading the document over now filled her again with foreboding and exquisite arousal. (After creating it earlier, she had needed to escape to a washroom to masturbate; it was bizarre beyond belief but so…real.)

In the agreement she would be Courtney’s property on the weekends, from Friday at six p.m. to Sunday afternoon at four. She would dress however her mistress decided and would be used sexually as her mistress chose.

Her mistress could punish her, and here there was a list of all the various ways from hot wax to whips, with the slave having a safe word; ‘lipstick’, to stop the abuse. However, there was a comment warning that if the slave used the word three times in a single day, then the agreement was terminated and the Slave/Mistress relationship ended.

Julie and Courtney were to sign the agreement Friday at Gena’s, with her acting as a witness. Julie texted back that the agreement was finished. “You are a devoted little bitch, aren’t you?” was the response, and Julie’s hand shook slightly as she replied, “Yes, my mistress.”

She then sat back in her chair with her eyes closed; she would let Christopher know tonight. Well, not everything, but most things. How did this happen? She asked herself with wonder, even as she fondled herself through the fabric of her slacks, as a vision of herself on a leash came to her. How does anything happen?

There was a soft rap on her door which jolted Julie into reality, followed by the entrance of Jasmine, who stood with an odd look on her face.

“Yes?” Julie asked, flustered.

Jasmine came slowly to stand beside Julie, seated as she was. “I just received a, um, crazy-like text from Courtney Farrell,” Jasmine murmured, reaching down and grasping a breast. Julie started, but the mention of her mistress meant she moved easily into submissive mode. “Come with me…Slut-Slave.”

Her heart pounding furiously, Julie followed Jasmine’s round ass down the hall and to the washroom farthest from their office. Once inside, Jasmine spun Julie so she faced the wall. Without any discussion, Julie was soon leaning on the wall as Jasmine pulled down her slacks and panties. “Your mistress wants you to have some reminders of your place,” Jasmine whispered into Julie’s ear, before slapping her ass hard.

In a moment Julie was on her knees, her face between Jasmine’s thighs, buried in the thick tangle of black hair, her tongue busy as the young woman ground her hips into Julie’s face.

 (End of Chapter 09)

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