The Vacation
by counterparts199
This is fantasy. Duh!

Week One

I can't believe this is happening. The ocean is so blue, and the sky so wide, as if mocking the true purpose of my visit. Over the edge of the peer, seashells are clinging for life to the shallowest rocks and rotting wooden supports. It's a perfect day for the vacationers. I suppose that means it looks like a perfect day for me too. I don't know. I suppose so, it being the fulfillment of some of those dreams in the back of my head. The Mexican sun is so perfect, and the sound the of the waves are hypnotically musical, like me, autopilot.

There, off to the southeast comes the boat. It's red, and I know that's my ship. Everything I own is in my duffel. Inside several pair of socks are sixty thousand dollar in relatively small bills; the sum of my worth, and more; a shoebox of laundered money passed on to me by the contact. I didn't look inside to find out how much was in the shoebox; I didn't want to know. Good thing it's easier getting out of America than in.

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I'd read about the Mistress in a femdom magazine. In fact, several of them had the ad, which ran for several months. To be accurate, the ad itself never mentioned the ship; that came later. Some lady was offering a 7/24 femdom experience on a farm in Kentucky. I remember seeing an ad nearly like it a decade and a half earlier. It could have been the same lady, because her new picture was very middle aged, which added to the sense of reality in my mind. I'd always thought a down home ad like hers most likely to be real. I mean, a woman who has found herself in charge of a farm by her lonesome would definitely be compelled to search out cheap labor. Most farms are at least a two person enterprise. A farm just seems the perfect haven for a practical femdom relationship to develop, assuming the owner was able to overcome the more conservative mindset of most rural people.

I'd just gotten over another failed marriage, and was looking for something completely unconventional. It was my third. I'd always wanted both things; a steady, loving relationship to save me from the kinky sexual moments. At first, that's the way it was, but then in all three marriages my kinkyness was gradually redefined as in the way. I'd compromise, and try to hide my compulsions more each year until the end. I guess a person either has one or the other, I was thinking when I answered the ad, though half expecting just another hooker reply to discard. I'd had half a life of normal, along with the turmoil of my fetishes being in the way. If that was such a failure, it seemed only right to just let the other side take over. I wanted to be a slave - not all the time - but if that was the best I could do, fine. At least when I wanted to be a slave, I thought I wanted to be one all the time, so maybe it had at least as much of a chance of working as the other thing.

The reply came with an offer for some weekend trials. Another hooker, was my first thought, but then the expenses seemed too low for that. I was to pay my transportation, and then only pay for my room and board, a modest fifty dollars for the whole weekend. There wasn't even a menu of kinks. I was just to show up and be ready to work. No call was necessary. If I showed, I showed. If not, no problem. I was kind of amazed. She sent a picture. The lady wasn't very good looking in the plain paper copy picture she sent. She was kind of odd shaped, to be honest, a little round in the middle, with large thighs, and everything else thin. She was only five feet two, and dressed down in jeans. Her face was a little wrinkled, and definitely over forty. I thought, wow, this is so unprofessional. I loved it. I just decided then and there I was going to go down to her place and check in, Kentucky being only one state south.

I followed the map, ending up down a mile of dirt road before finding her place. It was, incredibly, a farm. She had tons of corn, about a foot high. Off to the side, an acre of tobacco showed off its fat leaves. Imagine, I was about to bang on a female dominant's rickety wooden screen door, and I was thinking how immoral tobacco was. Well, I countered to myself, last time I checked, femdom hadn't killed four hundred thousand Americans a year. She came to the door in jeans, plaid shirt and an apron, drying her hands.

"Yes?"

"I'm here from the ad. I responded last week. Jackson," I said, not sure if I should be specific in case this was some former lover's idea of a bad joke.

"Oh yes. The prospective slave with the interesting comments about being married three times. Well, come on in. I don't bite ... at least not yet. Here. You might as well go ahead and take this for starters. I've been working myself to death lately," she said plainly, but with a decidedly Kentucky accent. She removing her apron and handing it to me. I took the gift, thinking her really comfortably informal as I was guided into the dining room and offered a seat.

"Why do you want to be a slave?" She asked when we were seated.

"I've tried regular relationships, and haven't been very good at it. I mean, to me I think I treat women well, but they just see that missing part of me, and rebel against being dominant. Women think they aren't wanted if they offer themselves up as equal lovers and it's seemingly not enough for them just to take on a more one sided basis. So that just widens until there eventually is nothing left. Well, that's a theory anyway. To be honest, you'd be doing the world a favor taking me out of circulation before I ruin some other woman's Cinderella dream. I mean, they all hate me, and I'm a peaceful person down inside, so that hurts to feel like I do about how I've changed them, if you know what I mean."

"That's really interesting that you've looked at it that way, and given it so much thought. Most men just want to have things done to them, you know, whips, heels, wax; stuff like that. I'm not promising anything specific like that, other than that I'll be the one in control. That's the boring basics and it's not negotiable."

"Sounds delightful."

"Well, OK then. Let's get started. I'll show you around, and clue you in on some of the work. You can call me Mistress Christina. I'll just call you slave fifteen. We'll see how things go," said Mistress Christina, getting up and signaling that negotiations were done.

I was ready. I got up and followed her around. She'd been doing dishes, and said that's why I needed the apron, and that was where I'd start. She showed me the cleaning supplies, and then the barn. There were tons of things to do in the barn, and she implied that, that was where she really needed the labor the most. I'd been right, I told myself; this was a practical setting for a woman to make good use of a man like me.

"What happened to slaves one through fourteen, Mistress," I asked a few hours later when she came to inspect my work mucking out the horse rental lofts.

"Don't worry about that. It's enough to know that those were the guys who made it. Maybe I'll fill you in when I decide that you're equally competent slave material. Fact is, most men do this for a day and just get in their cars and leave. They're married, or just looking for a new thing to do. If you do that, the next guy is slave fifteen too, cause I don't want to be calling anyone slave four hundred, sixty-three. It's kind of ridiculous. Just like everything else, you have to earn your number for keepsies around here," said the somewhat delightful Mistress Christina. I mean, I just loved the way she was so comfortable with this, and not all showy like some plastic professional on a video.

None-the-less, I never stopped wondering about where slaves one through fourteen were. I mean, I couldn't be the only guy serious about this; the ad had run too long in too many papers. And she was so easy to get along with, comfortable like a wife Mistress, my own prospective on utopia. I did suspect she'd been that same lady of a decade and a half ago. I guess they just got tired of it, or she of them, I convinced myself, tiring as well after a long first day of hard labor.

There was a bedroom for visitors, clean as was everything else, so I sacked out, and tense as ever, got up with the sun. She'd not spent any time on anything sexual, so I put on my apron, and went to work cleaning the already fairly tidy kitchen. After awhile I looked up and she was yawning at the kitchen door. Her hair was off to one side, and she was in slippers and a housecoat. Very cute for a lady who was at least as old as I was.

"You still here then?"

"Yes, Mistress Christina, as long as it's OK with you?"

"Oh, sure, slave fifteen. I've just had a run of bad luck. You really can't tell who will or who won't. I've seen every kind stay and every kind go. No FBI profiles on the physical first impressions when it comes to slave material, as far as I can tell. So, did you like working for me yesterday?" She asked.

"Oh yes. You know what I like the most about you ..." I started to ask, being interrupted.

"Don't get all mushy, lovie dovie on me, slave," she warned.

"Oh no. I was just going to say, Mistress, that I like the way you are casual about it. It's a very turn-on aspect for me personally," I confessed.

"Hum. Well then, fix me some eggs, and bacon, and two pieces of toast with butter. And a Coke. I hate coffee. I'll take it in the living room," she said, unleaning from the door, and walking away.

Oh god. This felt so perfect. I made her breakfast, and served her with a TV tray.

She said, after eating the first bite, "You have a little gut on you. All you'll need is some toast and water. I'll see if you have initiative and can figure out what on the list of things you did yesterday needs doing again today. After that you can get a rope, go down in that old well out back, and start cleaning that out. There's a flashlight in the shed. Oh, and lose the pants. I like watching a man's busy butt."

"Yes, Mistress Christina," I said, going to a second day of labor.

I worked in my socks, shoes and shirt, feeling ridiculous, but comforted by the fact that I was in the country at least. Then, that night, just before supper, she handed me my pants.

"See you next week if you like. If not, it would upset me, but I'd get over it. Just remember, it gets more interesting as it goes along, slave fifteen. There have been fourteen guys who can definitely vouch for that. Oh, and the fifty bucks. Here's my gas bill. Pay it instead," she said, showing me out the door.

I walked to my car, fidgeting with my belt, and opening the gas bill. It was for forty-three dollars; the budget plan. She definitely wasn't in it for the money. Then again, what exactly was I in it for? She'd not shown one inch of unorthodox flesh, and not even smacked me with a ping pong paddle. Just plain, Kentucky blue grass work. This was just so different, I had to think about it. Maybe it wasn't for me? I drove home, to my peaceful, now bachelor, pad, kind of glad to be home.

The Vacation Week Two

All week long I thought about it, and then found myself back on the highway south early Saturday. In Cincinnati I called her, and told her I was coming. She seemed a little happy to hear that, so I drove on, bingeing out on sweets all the way because I knew how one sided she had been with the good food last time.

"Come on in, slave fifteen. I thought you might be back," she said, already at the door; same jeans and shirt, but her hair up in a bun.

"How did you know that, Mistress Christina?" I asked, taking the apron and tying it on.

"Well, because you made the whole two days for one. So, let's have a talk, shall we?" she offered, leading me to through the dining room this time, and into the smaller and less formal kitchen. The place was not nearly as tidy this week, I thought as I walked through the rooms.

"Oh, take off your shoes, socks and pants. There you go. Oh, and the boxers. Hee. There we are. Lift the apron, will you, I want to see what you have."

This was a whole new side of her, I thought, lifting my apron, and immediately feeling embarrassed at this close range of scrutiny by this lady whom I was beginning to understand had several undiscovered gears in her.

"Not much there, I'm afraid. Huh. Well, let's sit and talk about what is happening," she offered, sitting down across from me at the little two person table.

"Uh, well," I began, when she didn't, and still a little embarrassed about the 'not much there' comment.

"How much do you want to be a slave, fifteen?" She said when I paused.

"I, well, a lot, Mistress," I said.

"I am recruiting a man who is willing to become a slave, body, mind and soul. Do you have any thoughts on that, slave boy?"

"You want the whole package; maybe someone you can trust, and who will be there for you, and who is willing to do everything you ask," I rambled.

"Very clich