Girl on the Net

Sometimes I hear stories about kinky events or places, and I often wonder if they’re urban legends. I want to dig deeper and find someone who’s been – to a BDSM training manor, or to the sex taxi which apparently used to do trips around London. Well, this week’s guest blog is from someone who has been – Kate Julia White is an author and submissive, and she’s recently released a memoir of her BDSM training.

Her guest blog focuses on ‘The Manor’ – one of those places I’ve heard about but never been able to go to. So, naturally, as a voyeur and lover of secret things, I was delighted when she offered it as a guest blog, especially because it focuses on something that other guest blogs have highlighted before – the build-up and anticipation prior to launching into something. If you like it, check out her book – Tough Love: The True Story of My Submissive Adventures – check out her blog, and follow her on Facebook.

BDSM training at ‘The Manor’

One day Jeff, my Master, asked me: “Have you heard about The Manor?” I answered: “I’ve heard of it, but don’t know it. Why?” He had it all planned: “It’s a training centre for both Masters and slaves. I’d like to take you there, get you properly trained in new techniques in an environment especially made for people like us.”

I was gobsmacked. It all seemed far too advanced for me. An estate on the East Coast of the US, where international grade kinksters were trained, educated and entertained. Surely it was all a myth?

But he had already made enquiries. “I’ve been in touch with them, they can host us in three weeks.” Clearly I had no say in the matter. I was shocked, intrigued and delighted. I’d have to trust his judgement. For him, it was simple: “Block these dates in your diary, and I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

Three weeks later, I was driving from NY, a reasonably familiar city, into goodness knew what. I was to arrive earlier than him, to be prepared and presumably relax a bit, get my bearings and for the staff at the Manor to see that I could hold my own. I had already been interviewed by the Mistress of the house and she gave a very good first impression; smart, service-minded both to the person paying and his guest, and with absolute integrity and professional pride. She asked me several innocuous questions about my lover’s habits and food preferences: theoretically to check the household were prepared, but in all likelihood also to check I wasn’t a one-off escort who didn’t know my travelling companion or what I was getting myself into.

After a very long and nervous drive, I found the place. I don’t know what I had expected – a highway sign declaring “BDSM Training – next right”

I parked and sat waiting in my car. After a few minutes, a stunning young blond man looking like a typical hipster came running from the house. “Excuse me, I hope you didn’t have to wait. I’m one of the house slaves. Let me get your bag.” I was stunned, but he yanked my hand luggage from me and trooped off with it. I followed, reluctantly leaving the relative safety of the car.

The slave repeated the simple instructions I’d agreed to before: “…no clothes allowed for slaves, appropriate positions at all times when addressing Masters and Mistresses, never look anyone in the eye or speak until spoken to…” I lost track. Jesus, the water felt very deep. But whatever was likely to happen, I wouldn’t die or come to any actual harm. Probably.

My bag and the handsome man disappeared into the house, and I was met in the door by two stark naked ladies. Both came with outstretched arms and inviting smiles, but the visual impression of so much pale naked flesh advancing towards me at alarming speed almost made me fall backwards. I physically willed myself to smile back, take their hands and try to memorise their names amidst the onslaught of impressions. I was struggling to answer even the most basic questions: “How was your flight? Would you like a drink?” It was all too much. I thought: “Damn you, Jeff, you must be pissing yourself with laughter. Moving me outside my comfort zone again. Bastard!”

I was manoeuvred into the house by the nude welcome committee, and saw my belongings being carried into an adjoining bedroom. In the short time it had taken me to enter, the hipster had undressed. His impressive cock was bobbing against his thigh as he carried his burden. I had already forgotten about my preparations… “Would you like a bath? Mistress is in session now, but will see you and prepare you to your Master’s specifications later. We will wash, shave and massage you now if you don’t mind. We must hurry, your Master will be here in a few hours.”

The female slaves bathed me in a large tub covered with rose petals – not very practical for washing away road dust, but I think the process helped ease some of my worries. As they shaved me and fixed my hair, they spoke of their experience at the house and asked me clever questions which they no doubt reported back to their Mistress. Many were about my partner rather than me, as he was the one in charge after all – the one whose plans and dreams they sought to fulfil in the first place. But they seemed genuine and very friendly.

It was easier than expected to get used to a house with both nude and clothed inhabitants, Masters and slaves. When my lover arrived later that evening and locked his stainless steel collar around my neck again, I felt much more at ease. I was ready and curious to learn what he had planned for the rest of the weekend.

This would include (amongst other things) outdoor bondage, exploration of the extensive dungeon, single tail whipping and needle play, as well as formal training to develop my identity as a slave. During that weekend, I cried tears of pain and happiness, sometimes at the same time, and learned more than I had bargained for. But there is still so much more to be explore and I hope that one day I will be standing in front of their gates again, ready to take the next step on my journey of exploration.