The hallway, though plush, is dark, as though it is a path through the underworld to the river Styx. And knocking on the door at the end of the hall, perhaps a visitor to this place would expect to be confronted by Charon, the ferryman of the dead, demanding coins for safe passage to Hades, the land on the far shore. When the door opens, a woman stands in perfect composure, definitely not Charon, though she emits a quality of otherworldliness. Perhaps if anyone thought to look closely, they’d see the marks left by the gag, or the lines of ligatures about her wrists. Her breasts are perfect, firm, perhaps a bit too high on her chest, which sets the mind to wondering the manner in which they must be bound beneath her loose tunic. Her nipples make dark smudges behind the thin fabric, leaving impressions that linger in the mind. She is the Master’s personal servant, one that he decided he would keep for himself. He trained her in the exquisite manner of the Japanese. She bows slowly, a slight crease at the waist, in honor of the disastrous courage she sees in the eyes of each female visitor. They come for instruction, for guidance, because of longings too deep to describe. They come to him wanting to learn how to give up, to submit, and in the submission, gain an unnamed something that escapes, as breath escapes, invisible, weightless. She leads these women into the Master’s chambers one by one, and invites them to kneel on the hard floor. And she looks them over. Tremor of nipples, shuddering of the breasts. Skin, limbs, necks. She apprises them according to the needs of the ropes, how they will grip the body, holding it still. She looks at their mouths, lips, thinking of gags. She wonders about those hidden openings, how they will manage the things he plunges inside of them as a way to teach them their duty. The Master teaches by way of absolutes, rope, chain, metal spreader bars, the stretch of the body, of thighs widened, giving unrelenting access, sting of the whip, breasts reddened by each strike. He makes use of all his instruments and devices, piercing them in the cunt, the ass, the mouth. He impales them upon a repetition of penis-like objects, stripping away pride, slicing open the ego and emptying, so that they hold back nothing, and are trained (by rope, strap, and whip) to give all. "I ‘encourage’ them," he says when he discusses with their owners the training these slaves require. As he speaks into the phone, he reaches down and caresses his servant, who kneels in perfect form beside him, her mouth filled with cloth, her eyes covered, her arms pressed to her body by many straps. He holds the end of her leash, keeping the choker collar about her neck taut. After he hangs up the phone, he stands for a moment in thought. "Heel," he says, increasing the tension about her throat.. She crawls beside him, her crotch scented and wet. She is thinking how she adores him, and how she longs for his touch, even the sting of the whip he keeps on his belt for use just upon her. These are the ways she knows of his care for her. He takes whatever he wants. She holds back nothing, giving all. The hallway, though plush, is dark. A woman stands in perfect composure, emitting an otherworldly quality. She's the Master's servant, trained in the Japanese manner. As she bows, I see the courage in her eyes. She leads women to the Master's chambers, where they submit and gain an invisible, weightless freedom. In this darkness, I find spiritual insight: true freedom lies in surrender, and the weight of submission can be a path to liberation.