Final Farewell

Sometimes it just happens.

Passions cool.

Personalities drift.

Relationships change.

Sometimes people just stop loving someone, even when the other still loves them.

So it was with us.

I still loved Master. But he no longer loved me.

Cared for me, yes.

Looked after me still, yes.

But the desire, the interest in me was gone. He never had to say it, but it was there, after nearly 10 years this slave no longer could command his interest. Used up. Discarded.

And I knew that I could do nothing to change that fact, or even challenge it. After all I was his slave, and if he was no longer needing my submission, then that was his right.

But because he still cared for me, and because he knew me so well, he listened, and with out argument agreed to my proposal.

Slavery is for life.

And we had a contract, to be broken by death only.

But this was real, real life. You can’t just sell a slave. You can’t just “snuff” them. That is fantasy, and I have no desire to die.

But something was needed, something to denote; this marks the end of that life. It is finished.

So I offered. Death without dying, Mourning without grief. Freedom from contract but still in slavery.

He agreed.

Besides, he said, it would be a great party, a good scene. And a final test of my submission.

We made our plans. Gathered our friends. Came the day.

It begins simply, My deepest friend Mary, fellow slave, agrees to help. We are in the parlour, to one side of the main room, where already a low murmur of voices rises.

I am shaking badly.

“Are you sure you want this?” she asks, “ It seems such a risk”

I nod. My mouth is too dry to speak.

“ Ok, let’s do it”

I dress, a full-bodied wedding dress, white and flowing. It has a stiff bodice that squeezes my breasts, lace. White seamed stockings, suspender. No panties, as a slave requires none, ever. Very high, impossibly high heels. I have to lean on the wall. But I won’t be walking far.

A veil. I have never married, and briefly regret that I never have. But I quickly dismiss this thought. My life has been one for the rod.

A white leather belt is padlocked around my waist. Tight.

Today was the 1st day in 10 years I have not been bound in some way; I welcome the belt, welcome back my natural state.

Wrist cuffs, white, tight, attaching to the belt at the front.

Mary laces a beautiful bunch of carnations about my wrists, they hide my bonds, my hands.

Mary fusses. She smiles. “Ready?”

Yes. I have no other words.

Thank you Mary, and If I never see you again, never forget how you helped me.

The gag is a simple white ball gag, it seals my silence. I bite down, oh so used to the feel and taste of the submission it denotes.

Mary takes the lead from my Cleopatra collar, and leads me to the chamber.

The murmurs grow silent. I stare at my Master, looking deep, but there is no love there, just amusement. I am such a silly slave. I’m sure he can feel the heat I generate.

I kneel at his feet.

He speaks to the crowd, a short speech, retelling of a slaves training by her master, of her collar, her vow.

He explains what today means.

So it is finished.

Then he turns to me, and addresses me.

“Do you Slave accept your fate? Do you place your life into the hands of an unknown one here? Knowing that you are a failed slave, failed in retaining the interest of your master.”

I nod.

“Then I remove your collar, and consign you to your fate”

How I delighted I was the day we had purchased it, when Sax Leather was just a shop - not a symbol of our lifestyle.

But thats over now.

I cry a small tear as my neck sees daylight for the first time in oh so many years.

To lose his love is one thing.

To fail as a slave is another.

I will understand if nobody feels I am worthy of restoration.

I stand.

My coffin is startling white. It is not a casket, and it is not opulent. Just a traditional white box, cheaply lined. Only a silk cushion gives it any softness, and they hardly offset the stark white straps that festoon its interior.

But the lid is glass.

And 2 small hose connections incourougsly break the picture at one end, they disappear into the trolley the coffin rests upon. The banks of flowers surround it, and I know hide the hoses and small fan that will connect to the surface.

He nods towards it.

Now that the moment has come, I feel afraid. In fantasy it seemed so easy. Now it just induces a terrible freezing of my will. How I wish he would just hug me just once more.

But that is finished.

Until I (if I ever) wear a mans collar again, I am dead to the world.

And it is time for my burial.

I step into the coffin, lay down, it squeezes my shoulders, my head rubs the end, and my heels scrape the other. Mary fusses about as I stare sightless, at the ceiling. My dress billows, flows, it rustles as I settle into place. I feel nothing as the straps begin to hold me down, make me as one with my box.

Fantasy will not contain real panic.

I have ashamed my status enough, I do not intend to let panic, if it comes, to destroy my beauty.

Flowers fill the gaps, the scent is overpowering.

The lid is lowered; it presses the flowers down, almost touches my chest, sits millimetres from my nose.

I hear the sound of the screws tightening the lid into place.

The glass is thick, and heavy. It says finality.

Abruptly all sound ceases, only that of my breathing fills this box.

Confined now maybe forever.

I can feel a gentle breeze at my head.

Three days the air will last.

If I am not rescued by then, not felt worthy of the effort to dig six feet of dirt away, then I will not require anymore.

I am a failed slave.

The cart moves, wheeled through master’s house.

Familiar roofs. I sense our friends following.

We enter the outside air; travel across his manicured lawn; the box trembles and wobbles as we make our way across the uneven surface. I tremble with it.

The sun beats down, and the glass heats me. I sweat.

Reality of what is happening begins to grip me, involuntarily my body rebels. I can go no where, I cannot move, a white vision of lace and flowers, so stark against the dark hole I know we are now parked against.

Familiar faces of fellow slaves come into view. They will not look at me, one I see is crying.

I feel my coffin lifted, I sense an interruption to the airflow, then it resumes.

There is a long pause; I wobble, for a moment I am afraid that I will be dropped. I know that my box is being aligned with rails leading to the bottom, that the discreet hoses are being connected.

Master speaks.

“When a slave submits her will to him, she becomes his product. To do as he will. I renounce ownership of this slave, and in this ceremony I proclaim the disposal of an unwanted product. However, we bury this product today, in the hope that someone here will think it worth restoration. We bury her in the hope of a restorated life.”

I’m lowered into the hole, jerking slightly, descending from light into shadow, heat into cold. My grave will be cold, cold, cold.

Bottom.

I dug this hole, and made sure that my head will be higher than my feet. It is small comfort.

A pause. I look at the square of sky above me.

More flowers fall on the glass.

I look desperately for my master’s face, but never see it. And now I know for sure. Even this last act, this last submission was not enough for him.

I truly am lost, forever.

I close my eyes in sorrow.

The moment catches me by surprise, I never see the earth fall, just open my eyes to the thunder of the falling dirt.

Darkness. Instant darkness, only a glimmer of light towards my right cheek. More noise, and it is gone.

Frantically I listen to each load, each one fainter than the last. My heart beats frantically.

Now I try to scream, it strangles in my throat.

The silence, darkness is complete. My heart beats like a drum. My muscles are tense as solid timber, as solid as the lid above me.

I know now I am buried six foot down, a patch of disturbed dirt in an anonymous backyard.

Already I feel the stiffness that impossible bondage brings settle into my limbs. I know I am totally, completely held in captivity as I have never been before, a position only one born for bondage can understand, now totally dependant on a stranger to save me.

If one ever does.

I orgasm.

I have made my choice.

If I am worthy I will see the light again, if not, then this slaves submission is complete.

Entry from the SAX Leather, Grometsplaza & UtopiaStories Bondage Story competition 2005

03.08.07