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She carefully pricked her finger and squeezed the blood into the pot, before picking up the quill and placing a careful line through the line in the contract that allowed her a safe word to stop a scene. She didn’t want to wimp out, and trusted her Master to not kill or maim her. With her breath quickening, she signed her name, and handed the document back to her Master. ?Very Good Jessica, you are sure about having no limits?? she nodded her head, ?Very well, as you wish. From now on I will address you as Slave, or Slut, or any other word I feel like using, and you will address me as Sir, Master, Lord or similar. Do you understand?? ?Yes Sir? she replied. ?Thank you Sir?. ?It seems that half my work is done for me already? he said, smiling carefully at her, ?I think we will start off with a tour of the dungeon that you will spend the next few weeks in. Once you’re ready, I’ll show you the rest of the house and stables.? She nodded carefully, noting his. ” “It’s OK sarge. They’ll have you shipped in no time.” I love him. He’s a West Country man – unflappable – he knows how to work the boys – when to hurt them—when to let up – when to diss them – when to drop a kind word in their ears. We’re a group of terminal cynics. We have this constant love-hate thing. I try to distance myself from it all and let Riley do the close-in work. You have to keep your distance from the men because all they do is bitch and moan and if you get with them before you know you’re bitching and moaning yourself. We only allow bitching two ranks up. The men bitch about sergeants. Riley bitches about captains . . . I bitch about majors and colonels. Riley has a way of saying “saving yourself Sir” when we’re into the Johnny Walker and he’s diatribing every officer in the British Army. He lets me off lightly because I take the same shit as he does . . . and because so far I’ve kept everyone alive. I often wonder why I seconded to this mob from Canada. I guess.
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