They’d been heading north for over an hour before the traffic finally, abruptly fell away. The contrast was such that Anders felt like he had the road to himself. He took a deep breath and burst into a sea shanty in a big Stan Rogers voice.
Maia offered a round of applause over the final note. ‘Sea shanties would roll out nicely over these pretty Muskoka lakes,’ she said. ‘Make all those weekend sailors feel tough and tarry.’
‘Uh-huh. A shanty is a great experience in machismo; take it from me.’
‘Are there Danish sea shanties?’ she asked.
‘Oddly, only translations of English ones. Danish sailors who worked on English ships brought them back and translated them.’
‘Strange. What did Danish sailors sing when they hauled up?’
‘No idea. I’ll have to ask Svend some time.’
‘I can still see you at the helm. With an evil look in your eye.’
‘Watch your words, wench, or I’ll put you in the hold on the return journey.”
“Yes, master. Did you live near the water in Copenhagen?’
‘Not far from one of the canals. We used to go to Nyhavn sometimes to look at the old sailing boats. There are wonderful houses there. Hundreds of years old. Svend would be trying to sneak onto the boats and I’d be staring at the houses.’ He swung into the left lane to pass a big tractor-trailer. ‘I lost track of him that way once; oh, man did I get in trouble.’ He grinned. ‘But of course we knew our own neighbourhood best. We used to tear around all the time, the whole gang of us, through our friends’ buildings, out the back through the basements and courtyards. All these secret routes.”
“Who were you hiding from?’
‘Adults, I guess. Each other – spy games and so on. A whole detailed geography that I knew like the back of my hand. I think I even mapped it at one point.’
‘That sounds like fun.’
‘It was. Great fun.’
‘We always lived in boring subdivisions,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember anything that exciting. Everything was so new and obvious. A few trap doors and creaky attics would have improved the ambience no end.’ She mused, stared into the distance. ‘I used to make secret worlds for myself with chairs and blankets and an old card table, down in the basement. And there was a crate, too. A friend and I used to hide in that. We turned it over on its side, and set it all up with little dishes and a toy stove and treats.”
“You envisioned yourself as a cook in those days?’
She laughed. ‘Apparently. I cooked a mean Oreo. I also made a little bookcase out of cardboard, and some tiny books to go on it. The blanket and card table construction was the rest of the neighbourhood, whenever my mother let us use the blankets. Little stores and so on.’ She was silent for a minute, thinking back. ‘God knows how much time I spent in there. My friend lost interest after a while, but I didn’t. Then my sister and her friends trashed it and I wanted to kill them.”
“What happened?’
‘I whined and complained until my mom said I should be outside, anyway, not lurking downstairs in the dark. I snuck back down and set it up again. Decidedly darker in theme, that time. I recall something about a chain off an old broken lamp, wrapped around my ankle.’ He laughed. Her leg was tucked up under her, and one ankle was within reach. He squeezed it.
The weekend was looking promising. A lot of potential in the folk festival lineup. Nothing worse than a few clouds in the forecast, and the temperature was hovering around 25 degrees Celsius. Perfect. High time they got away from Toronto and its hot summer smog. And sweet to go travelling with his little baggage.
He’d packed her up well before they’d left, in a tight new harness with many more but narrower straps. Just a few marks left from that major beating two weeks before; very pretty. Plus the usual ongoing ones. She sat there trading stories with him because he let her, looking lovely but otherwise unexceptional in her slender cotton dress and sandals. But beneath the dress was a little geography of bondage. One that he would have no trouble mapping from memory. In fact he had mapped it, in the process of designing and constructing it. ‘Did I tell you Val might come tomorrow for a little while?”
“Your friend Val from work?’
‘Yeah. There’s a blues singer she’s got a thing for. We’ll see if she shows up.’ Anders thought it likely. Val’s apparently casual questions about Maia didn’t fool him; she had been wanting to check the girl out for some time.
‘Why did we start so early if the festival doesn’t start till six?’
‘The traffic was bad enough this morning; can you imagine what it’ll be like later, on a Friday afternoon in summer? And I’ll bet by then there’ll be a huge lineup at the campsite. Anyway, I have one or two things to do.’ Her enquiring look got no response.
The camper trailer they were towing was on loan from a friend for the weekend. A functional little space. Anders had explored the tiny kitchen and bathroom, the storage in odd places and the double bed up a couple of steep steps over the hitch. It was fun seeing how it all fit together. An intriguing design problem; he wouldn’t mind designing one himself some time. By the time they arrived and got the trailer into the site it was after one. At once they took the sandwiches he’d packed and went for a walk toward the water, and then dawdled along the beach. The lake puffed its freshwater scents to them, or the exhaust and asphalt stink came from behind them, depending on which way the wind was blowing. But the water sparkled, the sun shone, and they ate their sandwiches and were happy. After a while there was a tranquil kiss that turned into an exploratory kiss that turned into something that was going to shock the children, so they disengaged and headed back.
Inside the trailer the air was warm and a little stuffy. Anders stepped past Maia and arranged the blinds, then looked at her where she stood hesitating by the door. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he said sharply. She stripped and was on all fours without a flicker of wasted motion.
He pulled collar and cuffs from a bag he’d stashed there, squatted down next to her and clicked each one shut. She raised her head, blindly seeking him with her face in the dimness. Anders raised her to her knees and touched the tip of his tongue to her parted lips, tasting her, and inhaling her eager breath. He kissed her. The flesh crossed and striped with straps was warm satin against his hands. He tightened the breast straps until the tits bulged, and then fondled the taut, swollen things.
Then he locked her hands behind her neck and kissed her some more.
Exploring the packaged flesh that was his belonging: all property, all his own. After a while he got up and lifted her onto the small table on her back, folded her legs back and unlocked the chastity shield. She was watching, breath coming short, painful hope showing in the shape of that open mouth.
He ran his fingers gently down the rings on either side of her vulva. Took out his cock, pulled the rings aside and pushed his way into her slowly, slowly. She knew all too well what was coming; he heard her whimper in familiar frustration.
Anders enjoyed her succulent hole for a while, staying back and watching the needy little clit, isolated and untouched in its fleshy shell. Then he withdrew, still hard, took a thick dildo from his bag of toys, and slid it where his cock had been, again very slowly. The little figure arched and panted, and then saw him reach for the shield again. ‘No. Please, master….’
The dildo base was narrow to fit between the fixed rings. He slid it into a groove that he was now making use of for the first time. He could have wished for more light, and the dildo teased her even more than he’d intended as he worked to get the two together. At last he succeeded, and pressed the whole up high into her cunt, got the labia rings through the slots and locked her up once more.
‘All right, hunhund.’ Hand in her hair, he pulled her up to sit on the table and then off and down on her knees in front of him. Then there was the hot, wet, eager mouth to invade and use, and when he’d had enough of that, the obedient throat to fill.
She was looking up at Anders, knees wide on the rough carpet, watching as he cleaned himself up. He stepped around her, and was rummaging in a bag when his cellphone rang.
‘Hello. Hey. Yup, we made it. All right. Just a couple of things to tidy up and I’ll be there. Is John coming? Good. Half an hour, then.’
Anders put away his boots, her clothes. Stood over her with a water bottle and gave her a drink. Unlocked her wrists from her collar and clipped on a short chain as a leash, then led her, crawling, first to the bathroom to pee, and then to a tall narrow door with horizontal slats. The wardrobe.
He opened it, took out a couple of old lumpy plastic bags, and nudged her in. ‘Sit.’ She sat, knees to chest, looked up at him and opened her mouth. Anders put a hand to it. ‘Quiet.’ He slid the hasp of a padlock through the rings at her wrists, her ankles and the end of the collar chain.
Then he bridled her, with a breather gag rather than a bit. Her eyes were wide between the straps as he closed the door.
***
It was almost completely dark. The closet was so small that the balls of my feet were against the door. The trailer door closed, and I moaned behind the gag. There was sweat trickling down my side already; it was hot in there.
A thump and a scrape sounded against the side of the trailer, and I shrank down. Who was out there? Only a thin skin of metal between me and the cheerful vanilla world. What if someone decided to visit?
The trailer door opened, and I caught my breath. A hum; something starting up. The door closed again. The hum continued; otherwise, silence. A hint of cooler air filtered through the slats in front of me. He must have hooked up the electricity and turned on the air conditioner. Sweet man.
The whole trailer lurched a bit, and again I cringed. Then I heard the truck start up and move away. He’d unhitched the trailer and left me alone in it. God, this was scary. If I didn’t trust him so thoroughly I’d be terrified.
Where was he going? Did he have friends here? Construction business to discuss? Surely anyone needing renovations would use a local contractor.
I tried to shift the gag a little with my tongue. My hands twisted, my feet crossed and uncrossed, trying to find the most comfortable arrangement.
I could just touch the padlock that linked all four cuffs and the chain leash.
This last was short; if I sat up straight I had to pull my heels right up to my ass. No way to extend my legs, even if the door had been opened. No way to exert any of the strength of my legs on the door. No way to reach the knob, no matter what contortions I might try.
‘Just a couple of things to tidy up,’ he’d said. I thought about luggage left till called for. I thought about a toy that was played with and then put away till next time. Squirming around the pole inside me, soaking wet, my bridled head rolled from side to side.
The experience wasn’t unfamiliar. I spent plenty of time under his desk, for instance, out of the way. But only when he was there. And he’d done the same thing with pieces of me, like when he stored me away on one side of the door while he used my breasts on the other. For that matter, what was being locked for hours to banisters and benches but storage? Just with a bit more of a view. And not in this strange new place, with no soundproofing to insulate me. There were voices outside. Children shouting. An engine starting up. Some women walked by, quite close, talking. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they couldn’t have passed more than a few feet from me.
My eyes were getting used to the dark; I could make out the lines of the louvered door in front of me. A few photons of sunshine filtering through.
My enclosure smelt like old musty clothes, with a slight, worn-out hint of cedar. I thought about the fresh breeze outside, the blues and greens, the sun’s sparkle on the lake. Not for me as it turned out; at least for now. I thought about exploring the town, checking out the bookstores. Not for me, either, apparently. I sighed. We were here for my master’s pleasure, I reminded myself. Any enjoyment the slave obtained was purely fortuitous.
Well, not entirely. I continued to squirm, and there was no question that the confinement was having its usual impact on me, on top of everything else. I could feel my nipple rings against my arms. One finger made it as far as the chastity shield, but of course could make no impression there.
My finger traced the hard, smooth metal, reading its implacable message. Who was I kidding? The dildo I was forced to sit on was not for my amusement, but for his. My arousal and frustration was his pleasure. And while this made my time in storage more bearable, in the long run it only meant more torment. Would I ever get to come? I was still hopeful, but there was no indication of when. Was there some kind of schedule in his mind, or would I have to earn it somehow? I hoped the requirement didn’t have to do with not begging for it, because if so I’d never get there. I had all sorts of inhibitions and reticence around my speech; I’d never been exactly fluent.
How on earth could I be such a motormouth when I was on the edge like that? No, so far it seemed to be simply for his own enjoyment that my master had continued to deny me. After all, when he had expectations he told me, in words of one syllable if necessary. He was getting more pleasure from denial than from allowing me orgasms, so of course he was denying me. His right.
And deep down, beneath the frustration and the crazy urgency, was a weird kind of delight. I was not, really not in charge. Not even subtly, not even as part of some covert negotiation. If he’d been doing things for my sake and not his own, I’d be having orgasms night and day. Not hardly.
I let out a long breath, and leaned back in my enclosure. Thought about my childhood games in the crate with the little lamp chain and the curved block shackles. Tipped my head back, trying not to drool. How long had it been? Ten minutes? Thirty? I presumed I’d be let out for the beginning of the festival at least; otherwise why buy two tickets? For the time being I was safe where he’d put me.
***
Anders turned back into the campsite from the highway, gravel popping beneath his tires. The meeting had gone not badly. He’d found a CD he’d been looking for. His slave was tucked away securely, just as she ought to be. Horny as hell, just as he liked her. In a world full of tragedy and injustice, was it wrong to be this pleased with life?
Inside the trailer he made some coffee, studied the festival program and made some notes. When he was ready, he went to the wardrobe and opened the door. How the little body glowed in its dark corner, dusty and damp though it was. She was looking up at him with those big eyes, just as she had when the door had been closed. He pushed the sweaty hair off her face.
‘Have you been a good girl?’ he smiled. She made a sound behind her gag which could have been anything: agreement, amusement, exasperation. She nodded.
‘Come on,’ he said, pulling out his keys. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’
This he did thoroughly, tying her up in the shower, taking everything off, drying her carefully, putting it all back on again. He hesitated over the dildo, strongly tempted to use it, but in the end removed it from the shield; they were walking, and he had yet to see how far she could walk in it without chafing.
Out the campsite gates and up the road they strolled, with some time to spare. It wasn’t more than a kilometre to the Mariposa site. The road was dusty and heavily trafficked, but there was a pretty view over a bridge; they stood there for a little, and he said, ‘I don’t have to tell you not to wander off, do I? Stay with me, unless I give you permission otherwise.’
He noted her look of guilt, and the anxious edge to her voice. ‘Of course, master.’ She moved in closer.
‘Damn it, sometimes I wish I could keep you on a leash in public.’
Maia nestled under his arm and touched his back gently; a consoling gesture.
‘Even if I couldn’t keep you naked. Just to be able to acknowledge the relationship.’
‘What about unwilling spectators?’
‘Oh, be damned to them!’ He smiled wryly. ‘Grow up, people!’
‘Even in front of children?’
He grimaced. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘even in fantasy I can’t imagine that one.’ He watched an approaching sailboat catch a breeze and heel to starboard. ‘But really, how different is it from gays and lesbians getting to hold hands in public? Probably no one thought that was okay in front of children either, a few years back.”
“You think we’ll go mainstream? I can’t picture it.’
‘Me neither. Nice fantasy, though, isn’t it? No wonder so much bdsm porn is set on millionaire’s islands. Or other planets. Where it can all be in the open. Socially sanctioned.”
“I guess that’s one reason for the clubs and scenes.’
‘I guess,’ he said doubtfully. ‘So much of that is playacting for an audience. Maybe there are couples who use it to get some – what? Some affirmation of their private reality? But how would you know the difference between that and games?’
They watched the sailboat as it passed under the bridge, directly under their feet. An odd satellite view of the deck.
‘But a leash, now…,’ Anders mused. ‘I could get one of those training shocker collars they have for dogs. The ones that give them a jolt if they go beyond a certain distance. I’d have to put it somewhere…discreet. But you’d be such a good girl I can’t imagine it would get much use.’
She shuddered. ‘No, it wouldn’t.’
‘Still….’
She looked up at him in some alarm. He steered her forward. ‘Let’s go.’
***
Anders bought us dinner at one of the food stands: chicken curry and nan. I stayed close, not wanting to encourage whatever those thoughts had been on the bridge. He settled us down on the grass by the lake to eat, and I drank in the view and the breeze. The water was a deep and playful blue.
The air smelled wonderful, unburdened by city smog. I’d almost forgotten what clean air smelled like.
We were joined by a middle-aged couple, Claude and Pam, whom I’d met once at the Toronto folk club where Anders played; they helped to run things there. I gathered from the conversation that it was them that Anders had gone to meet, along with some local people, and that they were trying to put something together at the club, some sort of workshop series for amateurs, taught by professional musicians.
‘I still say promotion is the problem,’ said Pam, her voice an echo of Edinburgh gone mid-Atlantic. Idly I wondered how long it had taken her accent to shift so far to the west. She’d been in Toronto a good twenty years at least, by my guess. ‘We won’t get the people we want unless we can show a promotion budget up front. They could finish up giving their time away for practically nothing.’
‘There are ways that don’t cost much. Or anything. Our website, other websites,’ said Claude, his Québec accent down to a few Gallic consonants.
He’d probably been in Toronto as long as Pam.
‘We may have to pay them a fixed amount, not a percentage,’ Anders said. ‘I think there are lots of regulars that would come.’
They argued amicably, and I tried to maintain a look of intelligent interest, deeply conscious of the big hand clasping my thigh, and of the fact that I’d spent their meeting time stored away in a closet. What on earth would these people think if they knew? This was a very strange life sometimes. Pam tried to get me to express an opinion on their plans, and gave me a couple of sharp glances when my eyes went to Anders and I deferred to their greater experience. She reminded me of my sixth grade teacher, another Scot, who was always at me to ‘Speak up, girl!’ I could almost smell the pencil shavings.
Anders secured us a spot halfway back from the main stage, and then took me with him as he wandered about, greeting people he knew. I waited while he talked to a couple of performers, feeling them out about the folk club’s project. Then he put his notes away in his knapsack and we settled down for the concert. Supposedly the evening lineups were the big name performers; anyway they had really big amps.
For a while Anders lay with his head in my lap, and I enjoyed the unaccustomed pleasure of stroking his hair, seeing the gleams reflected from above in the pale straight locks, so thick and fine against my hands. I also gently massaged his forehead and jaw with the tips of my fingers; his head grew heavy, and his eyes began to close. The sky was royal blue, shading above us through various fleshy shades of fawn and pink and orange, with rows of little parti-coloured decorator cloud frills. If you saw it in a painting it would be exceedingly trite. Up in the sky, with the changing quality of the light, it was gorgeous.
When it was really dark Anders shifted over onto his side, and leaned me back into the crook of his body. Under the loose overshirt he’d brought for me I felt his hand undoing a couple of buttons on my dress. The fingers slid across the shaped leather over my breasts, that kept my harnessed tits from looking obscene under my clothes. The closest thing to a bra I’d worn in months.
Some people walked practically over us, looking for a place to sit, and I hugged his arm, trying to look like what we were engaged in was a normal public embrace. ‘Uh-uh. Bad girl,’ he whispered.
My hands dropped to the blanket like rocks. Under cover of some loud drum work he unsnapped the bottom of each leather piece. The hand resumed its exploration. Then it began on my nipples. Tugging on the rings, squeezing, twisting. When my head rolled back he yanked harder and whispered an order not to move until it was time to applaud. Song after song went by like this, heard through a miasma of escalating arousal. I had never before found the twang of guitars so erotic. But the bass provided an anxious under-rhythm accompaniment that resounded between my ears and reverberated in my trembling belly: ‘Bad-girl, bad-girl, badgirl….’
As the concert drew to a close Anders withdrew his hand and slid something out of his knapsack. I felt it clip to one nipple ring, then through the ring at the front of the harness at my waist, then back up to the other nipple ring. Something elastic. Oh, god.
He pulled me to my feet. ‘Straighten up,’ he murmured. I winced a little at the tug. He made me fold up the blanket, which was an interesting exercise.
We walked through the crowd toward the gate, his hand on my shoulder, his thumb and fingers forcing that shoulder back whenever I slouched. Near the gate he ran into an acquaintance, some city councillor’s community assistant. A seemingly interminable conversation followed concerning supportive housing starts, noise bylaws and zoning for small concerts. I joined here and there as I could, smiling companionably, all the while being forced into upright torment by that apparently casual hand. The walk back seemed to take forever; step after step of aroused discomfort and apprehension.
At last we were at the campground, making our way through the rows of tents and vans and trailers. Rock music blared ahead of us somewhere, louder with every step we took. We turned a corner and found it was coming from the next door tent trailer, where a rowdy party was evidently in progress. I grimaced, and looked up at Anders.
‘Lucky me,’ he said. I thought he was being sarcastic, but he actually looked pleased.
Inside, I was on my knees and naked almost before he’d put his program down.
‘How shall I punish you, I wonder?’ he said, locking on my collar and cuffs, and unhooking my nipples. More punishment. I’d hardly recovered from the last time. Wretchedly I wondered what he’d had in mind if I hadn’t misbehaved. Some more teasing, no doubt. Far preferable to what was coming. ‘Do you know what you did wrong?”
“I held onto your arm without permission, master. I’m sorry.’
‘Those people weren’t going to see what I was doing. You’ll have to trust me better than that.’
‘I’m sorry, master,’ I said again.
‘And?’
‘I’ll try very hard to do only as I’m told.’
‘And?’
‘Please – please punish me, master.’
‘Right. Let’s just teach those hands to stay where they’re put.’ He fastened my wrists behind my back, then strapped my upper arms together as tightly as they would go. A chain from my wrists up to the ceiling forced me to bend almost double. He found things to tie my ankles to, wide apart, and tightened the wrist chain, and I was up on my toes, whimpering, mostly from terror. I’d seen the cane. Oh, god, all this for hugging his arm! Not fair! He took a handful of my hair and raised my head toward him. ‘Do you get to do what you like, slave?”
“No, master.’ My voice was a frightened creak.
‘Do you get to stop me doing what I like? Or even delay me, for the slightest part of a second?’
‘No, master, no, I’m sorry!’
‘No, you don’t.’ He raised my head higher, thrust a heavy gag into my mouth and fastened the strap. The pounding base from next door paused for a moment, and then started again in a new rhythm. There was a click, and a loud clashing rhythm; Anders had brought his own CD player. He turned it up louder still, and in my stretched state the drumbeats felt like blows.
Suddenly I was pushed forward by a real blow. The slice of the cane took a beat to rise to full force, and then I was screaming into the gag. I hadn’t heard it, or my own cry. I got four more, and teetered on my toes, howling soundlessly into the noise.
Anders turned the sound down by increments as I quieted. At last he turned it off, mopped up my face, then sat down at the table, looking at something, turning pages. My ass throbbed excruciatingly. Arms and shoulders and calves were aching. Tears were dripping onto the carpet, tears of guilt and chagrin as well as pain. When was I going to learn not to be so fucking impulsive?
After a while he released my ankles, and unhooked my wrists from the ceiling. But I was sent on my knees into the corner where I had to stay, arms still cranked behind me, nose to the wall, until it was time for bed.
The next morning we were up quite early. Anders gave me breakfast under the table at his feet. My ass was very sore, but apart from that I felt chipper enough. I’d been punished but it was over. Such things rarely continued into the next day.
I thought perhaps he’d been a little harsh, but I’d been warned: anything resembling resistance on my part was beyond the pale. When it came to punishment he always pushed the pain hard and fast, well beyond the level that would arouse me. As a result I’d been trained out of a lot of unacceptable behaviour. But clearly I still had a long way to go. It could be confusing, this shift back and forth between our public and private relationships, and sometimes I got muddled. But honestly, grabbing his arm when he was doing something to my body; how stupid could I be?
I was looking forward to my day with him, but that didn’t start quite as soon as I had hoped. The performances didn’t begin for another couple of hours, and apparently till then I was superfluous, and got put away in the closet as before. Damn. Was it more meetings or what? No one had mentioned anything like that in my hearing. Not that it was any of my business. But my sojourn in storage was a great deal less comfortable than the previous day, with my delicate behind wincing against the boards. The air and the time seemed to stand still. I sat, and waited, and squirmed, and waited.
Time began moving again, albeit very slowly, when I heard the trailer door open. For a while I listened to movement: little clunks and rustles, footsteps. I listened, and wriggled, tried to analyze what I was hearing, gave up and waited some more.
When Anders finally took me out, the sight of circuits, and a bunch of little tools made my legs shake.
I was on my back on the table again, wrists locked to neck, chastity shield removed. Fingers traced welts, making me yelp. There was the dildo again, being slotted into the shield. That had to mean I was going to have to wear it all day. My god. I’d go mad. I had no idea.
In, in, in it went. Pressure on soft, swollen tissue, rings shifted, the lock clicking shut.
Lubricant. Something probing my asshole, something very familiar. Oh, no…. I raised my head, alarmed, wanting to object, or at least to see what I was being subjected to. All business, he slid the thing all the way up, ignoring me. Straps tugged, clicked to my harness. I was lifted and rolled over, and there was another click in the small of my back. Then I was up, being pulled straight by a hand on my collar.
‘There you go, girl.’ He yanked a little on the rear strap. ‘That’s my remote leash. If you’re more than two metres away from me you’ll feel a buzz, just a light warning. More than three metres and it gets stronger. More than five metres and it’s going to hurt. I can override it whenever I like; I can turn it off, or I can use it to bring you in even if you’re only a metre away.
Got it?”
“Yes, master.’ I forgot all about the vaginal dildo. This was terrifying.
We drove to the park that day, for which I was grateful. Walking in all that equipment was bizarre enough over the short haul.
‘Did you find all that within driving distance, master?’ I ventured curiously. ‘I had no idea Orillia was so kinky.’
‘I already had most of it. Just needed to find some extra electronics.
And a pet store.’ So much for my curiosity.
I put on my collected public face, and hoped we looked like any couple so enamoured of each other that we liked to stay close, if not entwined.
Mostly he held my hand or wrist anyway, or walked with an arm around me.
But in the CD tent I fell behind, looking at a recording with ancient instruments, and got the warning buzz. I got another in the food area when a crowd got between us. I really wished then, like him, that he could keep me in public on a nice solid leash made of chain or leather; it would be so much easier. But I had to hand it to him. I felt inescapably, physically tied to him.
We settled on our blanket and despite the discomfort of sitting on hard ground in my condition, I heaved a sigh of relief. Silly me. During a long singer-songwriter ballad (which tended to bore him), I got an odd sensation.
For a moment I thought that now that I was no longer as anxious about the anal shocker, I was feeling the pleasure of the vaginal plug. But the feeling intensified. The thing was vibrating. I looked at Anders. He was lying back with his hand in his pocket, and was watching me under lazy eyelids.
The singer moved into yet another verse, and the vibration kicked up.
My breath started to quicken. A smile pulled at my master’s mouth. The vibration slowed, then speeded up again. I suppressed an urge to rock myself back and forth. When at last the song drew to its sad close and the applause was over, the vibration ended, too. I let out a big breath and looked to Anders for instructions. He was standing, evidently ready to move to another stage. Scrambling to my feet, I began folding the blanket, feeling a bit stunned.
In the artisan’s area I failed to notice when he had moved away from the quilts we were examining, and I got zapped. No warning, just a moderate jolt in my rear to remind me to pay attention. I hurried the few steps to his side, feeling like a dog being pulled to heel. Anders amused himself not just through boring performances, but also while we talked to Pam and Claude and the various other acquaintances that he was constantly running across.
During a drumming workshop my master played me along with the drums, keeping time: on, off, high, low. Given its location – vagina rather than clitoris – there was no hope it would make me come. It got me about halfway there. And it drove me mad.
