I purposefully chose their most rigorous training and punishment regime for Butler. Leaving him there, I spend the next three weeks touring Italy with Heather, my girlfriend. We enjoy the best food and wine the country can offer. I enjoy training my sub, but it is sometimes hard work. There is something so wonderfully decadent about the idea of enjoying Italy with my girlfriend while some woman is pulling Butler out of bed at 5AM for a morning whipping, cold gruel, and heavy labor. Knowing what he is undergoing makes every bite of food and every sip of wine taste better.

After weeks of indulging myself, Heather returns home, and I slowly make my way back to the OWK. The slaves are in the courtyard working on some tedious task under the ever watchful eyes of the guards. I search for Butler, but my eyes slide over him a couple of times because of the changes he has undergone. Finally, I recognize him. In just three weeks, he is about twenty pounds lighter and much darkened by the sun. A good part of his body is covered by red angry whelps. His head has been shaved. His normal proud posture has been replaced with a humble bend at the waist. I can’t imagine what he’s been through, but it is obvious that he is healthy, if cowed.

In my fantasy, he sees me but refrains from crying out a greeting and rushing to my side because he fears punishment from his guards. Slaves don’t initiate speech with women at the OWK and he knows it. In return, I studiously ignore him. I know he wants to run to me and grab me around the ankles to beg to be taken home. Instead, I stretch my stay a couple more days to enjoy watching the training of the slaves. There is much to learn. I know it must be agony for him knowing I was there but refusing to see him. Finally, I permit him an audience.

I am sitting alone in one of the many salons of the compound. He stands in the doorway, dressed in the shabby prison rags of the lowliest of the slaves. A number marked on his forehead allows the guards permission to treat him as roughly as their sadistic bents lead them. I’m sitting on a cushioned chair dressed in one of my recent fashion purchases from Italy. It is a very quiet moment. There seems to be an enormous gulf between us of privilege and power. I hear the silk of my dress rustle as I cross my legs. Timidly, he steps closer with a bowed posture. He’s afraid to look me in the face without permission. The guards have left their mark on him psychologically and emotionally. His new training holds. He looks like he has been through a transformative experience.

Eventually, I snap my fingers and point at the floor in front of me. Instantly, he drops to his knees and crawls to me as broken as I have ever seen him. He places his forehead on the floor at my feet. I know what to do. I place my shoe on the top of his head. I watch him wait in silent supplication. Gently, I bid him speak. I know, he wants to go home but does not ask because he knows that what he wants no longer matters. Instead, he repeats his mantra. ‘I am only a slave, it is a privilege to serve.”

I encourage him to tell me a little about his last few weeks. No matter what he says, I allow it to amuse me. I laugh at his stories of suffering and humiliation. At first, I don’t promise to release him from his new situation as one of the lowliest of slaves. I can’t help but tease him about selling him to the OWK, but I finally agree to allow him to come home but only if he promises to maintain his deeper sense of submission. In response, he tries unsuccessfully not to weep.

On our journey home I note how tenderly he cares for me and how emotionally grateful he is for the tiniest bit of affection from me. He serves with a new gratitude and eagerness. It feels like a honeymoon for both of us. We have never been more in love. I let him know there will additional visits in his future. I see him tremble at the idea but surrender to it.