Emilia Cecil, Owned By Adolfo Largo

It took eight hours to drive from Naples to Milan, where they spent the night, and then another eight hours to reach Fontainebleau, where the couple once more stopped and slept. From there, it would be about an hour to reach Roissy. They could have flown from Malpensa Airport to Charles de Gaulle Airport in an hour and a half. But the weather was nice, Largo's 2020 Alfa Romeo 4C Spider was a convertible (the last of its breed), and the trip would give him and Emilia a chance to spend some time alone together before their two-week separation.

Adolfo was a big man, both in height and breadth, standing over six feet tall and weighing one hundred ninety pounds. He was forty-three years old, with a square jaw, hooked nose, and close-cut gray hair. He was also utterly ruthless in business.

Beside him in the passenger seat was the thirty-one-year-old Emilia, a loan officer in one of Milan's larger banks. She was thirty-one, five-feet-three, and weighed one hundred twenty five pounds. They had met at a party six years ago and had been together ever since.

"Worried about your stay?" Adolfo asked as they sped along A86. He had noticed that she had been unusually quiet this morning and was constantly playing with the signet ring on her left hand.

"No, not worried," she answered, ceasing her fidgeting with the ring to run her hand through her straight, mousey brown hair. It was blowing all over the place and she had not bothered to have it styled. She knew no hairdo could stand up for sixteen hours in a speeding convertible. "Just thinking about the other times I have been here. . . This is my fifth visit, you know."

"I know," he replied, taking one hand off the steering wheel to pat her knee affectionately. Possessively. She was wearing an ensemble more suited to the beach than the world she was about to enter. A sleeveless pink wrap around blouse with a floral pattern of large, muted roses. A sheer pleated skirt with an elastic waistband. No underwear. No female member of The Society wore underwear, except maybe stockings. Not pantyhose, but stockings. That was a rule.

It was also a rule that they could not have any clothing between their bare bottoms and whatever they might be sitting on. Which is why the back of her skirt was bunched up around her waist. Thank goodness she had a private office at the bank with a large desk.

Only the outlandish, multi-colored flowered platformed pumps with the five-inch heels looked out of place for the beach.

"I've often wondered why you did not introduce me to The Society in our first year together," Emilia remarked.

"I wasn't sure if you were ready for it," he said as they pulled up in front of the chateau. Two short blasts of the horn to announce his arrival brought a pair of valets scurrying out to greet them and help Emilia with her luggage. Leaning across the gear-box, Alfonso ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her. Staring into her eyes, he told her in a soft voice, "I love you."

She nodded, took his left hand in both of hers and kissed his ring.

When Emilia exited the car to follow the two suit-case laden valets into the Chateau, Largo called out to one of them. "Marcel, tell Madame Desclos that I want the two of you to take Emilia down to the basement before she is shown up to her room."

As the car peeled away from the building, its driver thought of how he would dearly love to see those two ravage her. But no Master was allowed to enter the Chateau while his submissive was serving as a Chattel.

That was another rule of The Society.