The Platinum Net

Could one man be perfect enough to earn the Mistress’s Platinum Net?

The Platinum Net

Journey to the Mistress’s Academy in 3 Parts

The Platinum Net – Prologue

THE ROOM WAS small and dark. He felt how close the walls were that surrounded him even though he couldn’t see his own hands he was pressing against his sides. Flesh against flesh. Nakedness wasn’t new to him; the bastards who kidnapped him kept him that way for more than a year. He knew why they took his clothes and it almost worked. When they sent him overseas and trained him day and night to be their spymaster, he learned how to dehumanize the people he was sent to interrogate.

Take their clothes first. Make them look and feel like animals.

He never got the chance before his captors locked him in a crate, shipped him on a boat and made him sit in his own pee and shit for a week. When he arrived wherever that was, they locked him in a small cell, beat him repeatedly, never telling him what they wanted from him. Their goal became clear when they used him — they targeted his mouth and ass — for weeks. Or months. His tiny cell had no windows and that was another technique they taught him in spymaster school. Take away any concept of time. When he tried to talk to others they abducted, men he could hear but not see, they beat him with a chain.

He had only one way out. His decision was based on the logic that made him the unconquered Seminole warrior he’d always been. If he couldn’t kill himself, he’d make them do it for him.

When he resisted their cruelty long enough, they hog-tied him and threw him into the pig slop. They didn’t even do him the favor of killing him first.

He wanted to die until three words from his past filled his head. He didn’t think they were real; that he was insane but the words wouldn’t stop. It was a vow he made and he’d never broken a promise in his life. His warrior’s heart and the Seminole blood in his veins urged him — demanded — to fight.

It wasn’t about winning; it was all about the fight. Never give up. Never give in. You descend from unconquered warriors.

A year after escaping one hell, he was thrown into another. He was stripped, put up for sale, and bought like a pig at an auction. He hadn’t felt human, much less a man, for so long everything inside him shut down. The screaming in his brain wouldn’t stop until one morning someone said he was safe. He was on his knees, surrounded by other proud warriors reassuring him he was protected now. All he had to do was open his eyes, leave the darkness behind him and step into the light.

The first step was the most difficult one he’d ever taken. Harder than leading men into battle. More agonizing than losing men in his unit. More excruciating than writing letters to their families. More painful than the kidnappers’ whippings that tore his skin or enduring their laughter when he bled.

The elders who lived in his memories furnished the strength he needed that day to take that one step. The rest of the journey was his to take or to stumble and fall back into the darkness. Each rung on the ladder he forced himself to climb felt like he was scaling a mountain with no summit in sight.

No matter how steep that journey was, the voice of the woman he made that promise to when he gave himself to her filled his brain and flowed through his heart.

“You own me,” he said.

He’d given himself to her with his full heart. It was his promise and he would die to keep it.

Her words kept him alive long enough for the forces of nature to return him to her world. For the first time since he plummeted into the abyss, he remembered what it felt like to trust someone literally with his life. He accepted her decision about who, where and when he’d spend the rest of his days.

The where was in that small, dark room where he stood on a platform with his back straight, chest out and head high. The who was the woman whose robe swished while she inspected every part of his body with her hands. Each touch set him on fire.

His where was the place she put him. He was the property of the woman she gave him to. He was the fighter he was destined to be, the product of his soldier’s heart and his heritage. She made him reclaim what he had been, a warrior who would never accept failure or compromise. The rest was up to him.

There was no yesterday or tomorrow for him. The unconquered warrior’s when was right now.

Amity’s Note to The Platinum Net

GIVING TOLE TO THE MISTRESS at her unique Academy was the right thing to do for him after the horrors he’d survived and the challenging ladder I made him climb after I bought him. I promised to rescue him but I knew and more importantly, Tole knew that I would never own him again. He had too much to offer the right woman and that wasn’t me. My Cop more than fills that space in my world and Tole deserved to fill it for the right woman. It had to be a perfect fit with an exceptional woman who’d treasure him as much as I do My Cop.

The first time I met the Mistress was as unusual as it was typical of what happens when women like us cross paths. One of her owned men was searching for tools online and happened across my website. He filled out a contact form to ask about quantities. The site wasn’t anything like it is today, categorized with images and videos behind layers of security and membership that has to be approved. When I saw the contact form, I had my girl reply with a phone number to discuss how many lockable electronic penis rings the buyer wanted.

The caller, a man’s voice, said his Mistress was interested in several items but needed certain numbers and colors. I don’t chat with the help; I told him to put her on the phone. He tried to tell me it was his job to get the information and his Mistress was busy with important matters.

That was his mistake. He needed to learn who and what was important. I pressed the red button and hung up.

Thirty minutes later, my girl said there was a call about ordering from the website and the caller asked if my developers could meet her need for multiples of each item she wanted and if they came in the colors she wanted.

I took the call because of one word my girl said. “She” wanted to know…

That’s the day I met the Mistress and learned about her Academy where she turned the men their spouses sent into perfect sex slaves. We talked for more than an hour.

That evening, I mentioned the call to My Cop who promptly set out to learn everything he could about her. There wasn’t much he could tell me the next morning. Her privacy was rock solid but he gleaned a few fascinating facts.

Her clients were women whose husbands failed to provide the services and sexual satisfaction they wanted. Actually, he said, the single brochure he found said women shouldn’t look at that as something they wanted; rather, it was what they deserved just like it was every man’s job, his duty, to provide it whatever, however and whenever she chose.

He said the training appeared to be brutal but very effective based on the few graduates he’d been able to check out. The men received noticeably more glowing performance evaluations at work after they were shipped home. As far as their outside lives were concerned, he said they left work, went directly home to make sure everything was ready before their wives arrived. Most brought gifts every night.

He shook his head when he said they did all that while they were naked and ringed with nets locked around their genitals that their owners controlled. They couldn’t wait to strip, be given orders and perform as they were told.

“Just like I keep you,” I remember telling him.

After my first Parlor when he fought off every challenger to win even though he didn’t know what the prize was because that’s who he is, he begged me to own him. He’s been mine ever since. There’s no time limit. Just forever.

What he told me about the men the Mistress transformed at her Academy was one thing. I wanted to know more about her and he was at a loss. He called it a tight ship with excellent security that thwarted even his research team. There was only one way I could find out more. I had to do it myself.

We had two more phone calls over the next few weeks while my developers filled her rather large order. She explained her coloring system for what she called her Greens, Blues, Whites and Golds. I number my property; she color codes them. She explained more about her methods, from the punishing intake every new entrant undergoes to the unrelenting, 24/7 training her Greens put them through, all the way to the way she promotes some of the men through the ranks. The ones who prove themselves exceptionally well and long enough, may become her Golds one day.

The men who earn gold rings she keeps in gold nets, something she called a controller, are similar to my exclusives, minus the amazing trips into the stars mine give me. She said that role was reserved for a Platinum. Only one man could fill that role and from time to time, she tested one but tired of the candidates she thought could fill that position but failed. She was selling one she recently rejected to a carefully-chosen woman who could manage property like him. Not every woman could, she said.

What interested me the most was her description of how she structured every minute of their lives from the top-level Golds down to the Green trainers who did the hands-on student training. When I explained my process, we agreed they were similar in that all men can be turned into what you want them to be but more importantly, they have to not just accept the new definition of themselves but internalize it as their lifelong work.

When I named Tole, I knew he was that kind of man, one who had the energy and power to wear her platinum net. The Mistress has been an excellent customer on my website for years. She doesn’t even ask for a discount coupon.

I finally visited the Academy when I gave her Tole. She set out to see if he could not just meet but exceed her arduous tests and earn her platinum controller. She tried one who didn’t work out, she said, but was selling him in a few weeks.

She looked surprised when I handed Tole over to her and said he was the last one she’d ever need to audition. The next morning, she said I was right.

Tole thought he’d fought and won the last battle of his life in my punishment building. He was wrong. The who, where and when of his future started the moment he was dragged into her Academy, dangling from his wrists and ankles on the conveyor belt that swept him into the utter darkness that would, if he was platinum worthy, wrench him into the light.

The fundamental principle she and I share is the same. Pain must always have a purpose and that purpose is always ours.

The purpose? To get what we want.