I sank to my knees, careful to keep my coat up, out of contact with my slushy boots. Hat, scarf, and coat went neatly onto their low shelf. Then the special twist with which I took my boots off without rising. I glanced at my watch as I removed it. Well within the time allowed, despite Vera’s sluggardly ways. Dress and slip were over my head with no effort but a shiver, and the moves to get stockings off were now second nature. I unsnapped the leather over my breasts and watched my nipples harden in the chill by the door. When everything removable was neatly shelved and behind doors that shut with a snap, I crept forward to don collar and cuffs, see what else was laid out for me, and read my orders for the afternoon.
Anders wasted no words. Each afternoon note was divided into three sections with thick horizontal strokes of his pen. The top section listed what was required before I left the bench. The middle part was what I’d have to do or put on once I’d eaten. And the last covered the final locking up to wait for him. I read it all carefully; errors were a stupidity that he never overlooked.
First was the nose ring, as usual. No attachments. Today he’d left a chain to run through the ring at the small of my back to each ankle. This was something he’d come up with that forced me to crawl from place to place, but also allowed me to stand on one leg to reach things like the kitchen sink.
After I ate there would be pots to scrub, furniture to polish, and the leather corset to be cleaned and conditioned, which, done properly, was going to be a long job. No reading today. Better get going. And when I was done? The orders concluded: Bridle. Mitts. Cage.
I looked at the little piles of black leather and metal on the bench, and they looked smugly back at me, their locks glinting. Soon they’d have me. I glanced off to my right at the uncompromisingly clean and rectangular lines of the cage. Soft and wayward flesh did its internal, shuddery dance.
Into the kitchen I crawled, chain jangling, clipped my hair back without a thought, and hunkered down on folded knees over my bowl, aware of the eye above me.
Distress over this routine was long since in abeyance; I was a creature that ate out of a dog dish, that’s all. A creature that had no right to eat any
other way. The occasional exceptions, like dinners out, and Christmas, only broke up the routine enough to maintain humiliation at a low but steady background hum.
I identified, too, with the creature that routinely used the litter box; I even embraced her. This was what I was entitled to, and I knew it. But the litter box was a more recent innovation than the dog dish, and the daily normalcy of the ladies’ room at work kept the humiliation fresh. I couldn’t keep my head up as I crawled behind the toilet and squatted, feet sunk partway into the yielding grit.
A few minutes later I was leaning on the sink on one foot, the other crooked up and dangling from the chain, hands in soapy water. Between pots I squatted down carefully to change legs, straightening one and folding up the other, the smooth chain running through the ring at my back. The big pots I saved for the right leg, which was stronger. Apart from a little hopping sideways with the counter’s support to put the pots away, all locomotion involved crawling; no way would I risk a fall, and in any case I’d been forbidden.
It was a struggle to get everything done with the required level of quality before four o’clock. By three o’clock my anxiety was rising, and I had to consciously slow my movements so as not to miss any of the woodwork I was polishing. At three fifty-six I was at the sink washing leather conditioner off my hands. Then I crawled rapidly to the bench and checked my orders one last time through the straps of the bridle I was arranging on my face. Once the bit was ratcheted carefully to the depth required, I pulled a mitt over one hand, snapped it shut, wriggled the other hand into the other mitt and, with the opposite wrist, manoeuvred the strap with the lock hardware into place and home. Then I was crawling for the cage, glancing at the clock. One minute to go. I hustled in and, using two mitts on a bar, shut the door behind me, and heard the clunk of the lock.
Done. In relief I lay back, then sat up again in panic. Had I remembered to put away the cloths I’d been using? Yes. I settled once more.
Reddish sunlight seeped through the blinds in the kitchen. No doubt the melted snow was re-congealing, smooth and treacherous. Icy roads, perhaps.
A momentary anxiety stirred about Anders, which I pushed out of my consciousness with a practiced mental flick. I pictured Vera walking out the door at five (right on the dot, I reckoned) and going flying, heels well over head. The Keystone Kops image was amusing for one second, then I visualized the landing and felt ashamed of myself.
Curled on my side, my head resting on my arm, I felt the slide of escaped saliva and tried to suck it back. The bit was the heavy, curved one that pressed my tongue; a domineering and intrusive object. My mouth didn’t belong to me, though sometimes I was allowed to act as if it did. But not under the occupation of this ruthless piece of machinery.
Orange light from the kitchen turned the honey-coloured wood of the fireplace to deepest amber, the varnish giving an illusion of depth. It was a beautiful thing, and I was proud of my part in bringing it to life. Now that it was in place, it was obvious that the room had been arranged around it, that this was the keystone, the one thing that the space had needed to be complete. I’d already spent some hours beneath Anders’ legs, feeling the fire’s heat on my flank and his on my back. Sadly, it wasn’t the open fireplace of my unconscious expectations. The reality was that those sucked heat out of the house. Also, wood smoke emissions had an impact on air quality. No, the beautiful art-deco fireplace framed an advanced-combustion insert. Lowest possible emissions. Guilt free (and soundproof).
Light from the kitchen suddenly faded as the sun slipped below the top of the back yard fence; now the room was full of shadows. One small lamp glowed, the only light my environmentally-conscious master allowed while I was waiting for him. The light wasn’t for my benefit, but so that the webcam could maintain its view of me.
An itch began to niggle beneath my harness at the waist, a place hard enough to reach with fingers available, impossible without. I wriggled, sat up, clenched my fists with frustration, stared at my useless paws, then wriggled again. Even animals had claws and teeth to scratch with, damn it! I recalled a Billy Connolly story about some drunk madly humming in order to scratch an itch inside his head. I tried it, but it only made my itch worse. It took some determined thinking about other things, but it stopped finally.
I continued to sit, crouched beneath the low bars, eyes on the place where my master would later appear. Would he take me out right away, or leave me in longer? Would he give me the focus of his eyes, the warmth of his voice and hands? Would he stroke or punish? Or would he ignore me like an unnecessary appliance?
Even in the short time since Christmas, the cage had transcended its novelty status, and had become established as the most basic of slave owners’ equipment. I’d spent many long hours kennelled: afternoons, evenings, weekends. The sound of snapping fingers, the casual pointing flick, and in I would crawl, hear the door clang behind me, feel the pull at my insides, watch my master go on about his business. I’d follow him with my eyes up the stairs until his feet ascended out of sight, or would watch for glimpses of his long back as he stirred and chopped in the kitchen. Or I’d gaze fixedly at the top of the basement steps and listen to his workshop noises. Or I’d watch him go out the front door and listen to the silence he left behind.
I felt in some odd way in the heart of where I was meant to be. This smaller strongbox within the larger one, nesting containers, with me the little doll in the inmost box. No freedom, none. Safe.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t hard. I was what I was, and this was where I belonged, but I was no puzzle piece dropped into its slot, no insensible wooden doll ensconced in toy heaven. Anders’ toy was a thing of longings and fears. At that moment, a longing for his presence. I wanted him. I took a deep breath to feel his web tighten around me, pressed a thigh against the bars, and felt a little better. Just another hour or so, and he would come.
Was he okay? Not icy roads this time, but mood. The stagnation on the supportive housing front was dragging on. Two of his homeless friends had been rousted out of a makeshift shelter under a bridge, with nowhere else to go but the hostels they loathed, where bedbugs reined and their stuff got stolen. It ate away at him, I could tell, though he tried not to show it. Anders did come at last, and I got a caress or two when he took off the bridle. Then he fed me leftovers on my mat in the kitchen while he showered. I ate mechanically, swallowing past a lump of disappointment. He was obviously going out for dinner, and I was not. I got to stretch a little, ankle chains off at last, and make use of the litter box. I got to whimper on all fours while the chastity belt was removed and replaced with both plugs. Then I was back in the cage. My master squatted down and looked me over, the hint of a smile on his lips. A big hand reached through to cup my cheek and run a thumb along an eyebrow. I kissed the palm, making an effort neither to pout nor to tear up. He knew what I was feeling; no point in making a nuisance of myself. But I couldn’t help pressing my breast into his fondling hand. ‘Have you been a good girl today?’
If I’d been bad enough would he stay home and punish me? I reported what little there was: I’d forgotten to tell a student about a scheduling change. She was going to be inconvenienced and probably annoyed, and I felt bad about it, but that was hardly major punishment material.
He tweaked my ear. ‘We’ll take care of that later.’ Once again I was nested in silence.
***
Svend scraped the last of the black bean sauce into the last half bowl of rice. Their change and fortune cookies lay between them on the table. ‘Well, when?’ he asked.
Anders’ face was expressionless. ‘That depends on what you’re prepared to see.’
Svend shrugged, swallowed. ‘Whatever you’re ready to show me.’ He eyed his brother. ‘Up to you. But you aren’t likely to shock me. I broke into your porn files years ago.’ Anders swore, and had a momentary urge to tackle the smirking face in front of him, get it into a headlock like in the old days. They looked at each other and laughed. ‘I really did corrupt you, didn’t I? Just as well. Have you been delving into kink behind my back, then?
Deeply debauched travel tales for me?’
‘No, sorry. It’s not quite the top of my list. A few very tasty encounters, believe me, and on one occasion two little French hikers at once.’ He bit his lip, eyes half closed and dreamy. ‘Wow. But no whips or chains, not one. I figured one of these days you’d give me an expert introduction. You or Karl.
‘
‘Oh, Karl would do a different type of introduction. Fancy demos and theatrical episodes. More suited to the sightseer, really.’ Svend said nothing but continued to smile; one ironic eyebrow fractionally raised. Anders looked at him carefully. ‘Not the top of your list, but you’re intrigued. Okay.
You’ll be sightseeing at the deep end if you come home with me tonight.”
“Oh, yes?’
‘Yes. You’re sure? Because you’ll have to accept the way I keep her, or out you go. No judgments.’
‘Since when do I judge? Come on.’
‘And she will be hugely embarrassed and shy. But that’s okay.’ Anders pushed his chair back, and said, ‘All right. Come see my new house and my new slave, and I’ll give you some coffee and mandelkager.’
***
The sound of Anders’ key brought me eagerly upright; I’d prepared myself for a long, lonely evening, and this was earlier than I’d hoped. There was a confusion of footsteps in the hall, and a murmur of two deep voices –
my god, he’d brought someone home with him! My first and instantaneous instinct was to shrink into the cage’s furthest corner, arms wrapped tightly about my exposed flesh. Three quarters of a year of obedience training kicked in, however, and with a great effort I held myself still to wait for orders.
The adrenaline sang in my ears and seemed to be affecting my hearing; the voices were clear enough but the words were not. Time was moving in tiny, crystal increments; in the next ticking moment I knew it wasn’t the adrenaline; they were speaking Danish.
Two long forms appeared in the doorway from the hall, so similar on first glance that I knew at once who this had to be: the brother, Svend, who had still been in Greece last I heard. Anders’ eyes went straight to me, but Svend scanned the room and had to glance at his brother and follow his gaze before he spotted me in the shadows. ‘Ah!’ he said, and smiled. A smile so similar to Anders’, and so different. A storm surge of humiliation was racing toward me. They continued their impenetrable exchange, and Anders gestured around the room. A brief circuit, starting with the fine rug, and then on to the fireplace, and some Peruvian jugs he’d bought. Anders took a minute to light the fire. Then they were both standing over the cage, looking down from their impossible heights. The hot surge of humiliation was now a cataract; my boiling face had to be as red as a baboon’s bottom. Anders spoke again, gesturing to me. I heard the word hunhund, saw the other man’s grin, and cringed a little, but there was no malice or mockery in my master’s voice. Just pleasure, and mischief, and a bit of pride. He won’t despise you.
My mantra.
‘I keep the finest thing well locked up, as you see,’ he said in English.
‘Slave, out you come.’ He unlocked the cage, drew me out by the collar, and raised me to my knees. ‘Present nicely. Good. This is my brother Svend.
He’s come for coffee, but I suspect that he’ll also require a beer or two before the evening is over. On your feet.’
I was held by the collar, turned this way and that; they looked me over, discussing me and my accoutrements, mostly in Danish. At least you’re not wearing the bridle. Be thankful for small mercies. The inner, crashing turbulence was flinging my thoughts around in chaotic whirlpools, and pressing the breath out of my lungs. I hung onto Anders’ relaxed pleasure like an anchor.
Svend made a couple of attenuated gestures that would have ended in a touch of some kind if they had continued. But he glanced at Anders and held back. This is like Graham, then, I reassured myself; you’re for display only, look but no touch. You can handle that. My hands when Anders uncovered them were shaking. ‘Go make coffee.’
I almost made the usual amount for one, just by unthinking, anxious rote. Then I corrected the amount of coffee grounds but forgot at first to add more water. The possibility of being punished in front of a witness made my ears sing.
Coffee and almond cookies were served as gracefully and silently as I could manage; I placed things far enough apart on the tray that my shaking hands wouldn’t make the china rattle. Then at a signal I settled on my heels at Anders’ knee, and felt him slip a finger through the ring at the back of my collar. The two men were deep in Danish conversation, Svend doing more of the talking, with wide gestures and a gleam in his eye. I caught the occasional place name. Travel tales? Probably.
Despite their long separation and the extremely odd threesome we were engaged in, the two men appeared instantly in sync, mirroring postures and gestures, the kind of instinctive synchrony that comes with a closely shared childhood. Shared genes, too, of course. I studied Svend as he talked. The resemblance to Anders, startling at first, wasn’t holding up under a feature-by feature examination. Different nose, different mouth. This new face was rounder, the whole long form more padded and smooth. Anders, in contrast, seemed made of whipcord and sinew. Svend’s eyes twinkled in my direction repeatedly, sky-blue rather than grey. The left eyebrow had a just-visible deviation in the middle where it stopped and started again; the remnant of some long-ago facial collision. With a start I remembered the runaway shopping cart. Here was the mark that corresponded to the one under Anders’ chin. How odd to know the history of a stranger’s scar.
The same colouring, except more sun exposure. The hair was the same; it would be hard even for a Mediterranean sun to bleach that blond any blonder, but Svend cut it shorter, and sported a little goatee.
Anders had described his brother as the nonconformist of the family, the one who’d reinvented his major every year of university, and was still making up his mind what to do when he grew up. His latest incarnation was as a writer. I’d seen a couple of the travel pieces he’d sent Anders; not bad.
The incongruity of this inward critique, given our respective positions, wasn’t lost on me. This strange/familiar man had first looked down at me through the bars of my cage, and I still hadn’t been allowed to speak in his presence. I visualized the friendly domestic scene from a little distance: the two brothers framed in overlapping pools of warm incandescent light, so alike, sharing stories after a year apart, one with a silent pet on the floor at his feet.
My head pressed against my master’s leg; I felt his fingers twining through my hair, felt him savouring the moment. He was very happy, and this reassurance spread warmth along my taut nerves. The storm surge was ebbing a little. Just enough to allow me to examine my own self-deception.
I’d lied to myself back there, just to get through the initial panic. Told myself I was for display only. Why shouldn’t Anders’ brother visit? Obviously he knows about our relationship and doesn’t mind it. He’ll come over like any brother; look but not touch; that’s all. Ha.
There was a sea change coming. I hadn’t missed the signs. Anders was opening up our small safe harbour, to what depth I didn’t know. My lungs slowly released a breath of air I hadn’t known I was holding.
I didn’t need words to read my master. So much of what he conveyed was by gesture or body language; my responses were conditioned and so immediate that they often bypassed my language centres altogether. But I could dredge up a translation if need be. When Svend had almost touched me, Anders’ body language had not said ‘no.’ The gesture had said ‘not yet.’
***
Anders listened to the tale of a sailboat cruise to Milos, and played with the dark ringlets at his knee. Svend kept glancing at the girl as if he was talking to her also, though he’d followed Anders’ lead and stuck to Danish, and was aware she couldn’t understand a word. Of course he was fascinated by the beautiful thing, the pretty tits pushed forward in the harness, waist tiny in the belt’s grip.
Her anxiety was diminishing; he felt her breathing it out, settling in.
One of the ways she had of adjusting to the inevitable. Anders’ fingers found tension in shoulder and neck; he gently squeezed and released, and felt rather than heard her sigh.
When the coffee was done, they went on a tour of the upstairs, Maia on her lead. Svend stood a step or two up on the stairs and looked out at the finished surfaces and clean lines of the ground floor. ‘Man, this place is too much. I knew you did this sort of thing for customers, but I wasn’t expecting you to be ready for hardwood floors yourself just yet. Couldn’t you wait until you turned thirty at least?’
‘Oh, go wallow in your anarchy and stained carpets.’
‘I intend to.’ He sniffed. ‘Christ, this place smells of furniture polish.
Even mom doesn’t keep the house this clean. Have you developed a compulsion of some kind?’
Anders smiled. ‘Maia has to have something to do in the afternoons.
And yes, the standards are rather high.’
‘Ah, that explains it. Hey, can I borrow her? Jesus, you should see my place after the mad tenant got through with it. He must have been having crack parties.”
“Yeah, no wonder. I told you to get references.’
Svend snorted. ‘C’mon, lend her to me, I could use the help. Just with cleaning, or whatever you say.’
Anders looked at Maia, who was aware she was being talked about, but not the content.
How lovely, Anders thought, the small, naked, vulnerable thing following at the end of her lead, straining her ears at speech beyond her comprehension.
‘Not on her own,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
In the bedroom Anders folded his slave over the footboard and left her motionless there, bottom up and hands locked back.
‘Have you talked to Karl?’ he asked. ‘Ria’s actually going to join him.’
‘You’re surprised?’
‘I never thought they’d make it through that separation.’
‘Why not?’
‘All those other sex partners to bond with. And I suppose…come to think of it, I never thought that two doms together were going to last.’
Svend glanced at the little figure on the bed. ‘You may have some bias on what works for doms.’
They talked over the renovations, and Svend described the retrofitting of an old boat he had worked on in Brighton, till at last he asked with some irony, ‘Is she comfortable like that?”
“Comfortable enough.’
‘Tantalizing, apart from that hardware between her legs.’ Svend adjusted himself, and returned his brother’s grin. ‘She hasn’t moved at all. Is she asleep?’
Anders laughed. ‘That’s very unlikely.’ He perched on the footboard and put a hand on one warm ass cheek, feeling the trembling alertness beneath her skin. ‘She hasn’t moved because I haven’t told her to.’
‘Jesus. Puppet theatre. All right. I guess she’s used to being put on display.”
“Only to me. Consider yourself privileged.’
‘Am I? Thank you. What a good brother you are.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘You’re still sharing your toys with me.’
‘Sure. Don’t want you complaining to Mom and Dad.’
Svend laughed. ‘Hey, I might. There was that robot that you’d only let me play with in your room, and never reprogram.”
“Very true. Even good brothers keep some things to themselves.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Svend’s eyes returned to the rear view of the still, harnessed little figure on the bed. ‘So tell me, what happens if she does what she likes instead of what you like?’
‘Well, mostly she likes to obey me. Or she wouldn’t be here.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But – ‘
‘But if she misbehaves, of course I punish her, and she learns to behave better. She tries very hard to please me, but it’s still taken a lot of training to get her to this point.’
‘To the point where you don’t have to punish her as often?’
‘Not for the same things. She needs a lot of punishment.’
Svend raised an eyebrow. ‘Needs?’
‘If she’s going to perform for me the way I want her to, yes. And don’t give me that ‘You hypocrite!’ look. Of course I enjoy it. Anyway, she was born with a guilty conscience; she really does need it. Do you want to see?’
‘Why not?’
‘Here, come into the other room.’ In the back bedroom, Anders took his girl by the chin. ‘What did you do wrong today?’
She bit her lip, and flicked a humiliated glance at their visitor. ‘I forgot
– forgot to tell Tania – that the schedule had changed – .’ She swallowed, glanced again shamefacedly at the witness, said what she was required to say. ‘I’m sorry, master. Please – punish me.”
“Certainly.’ He took a strap out of the cupboard, and continued in Danish to Svend. ‘This isn’t a major one, obviously, but she’s inconvenienced someone, which particularly bothers her and which I never allow. Over the stool, girl,’ he said in English, noting that this evening English had become the language for brusque, simple orders. The stool was a wooden one with rounded edges, high and smoothly sanded. She leaned on it, her arms still behind her, and her little bare feet clambered onto the low rungs. Anders took her by the arms and helped her up, arranged her hips over the seat, and fastened her collar and ankles to the bars.
At a gesture Svend moved in for a closer look at the marks from previous beatings, then stepped back to watch this one inflicted. After the first crack of leather on flesh Anders gave his brother an assessing look, and again when Maia began crying out. Svend looked back at him with a twist of a smile, and nodded. All that showed was mild fascination with the proceedings, the usual touch of irony, and a lot of arousal. Good. Anders relaxed, and returned to the beating with an easy conscience.
When that was done, he opened the drawer with the nipple jewellery in it, including every clamp, bell and weight he’d acquired, arranged in neat rows. Maia was shifted to the wall, where he hooked her elbows back over one of the short horizontal bars he’d installed on the wall, and locked her wrists to the sides of her belt. The height of the bar forced her up on tiptoe, and cranked her arms back. He looked back at Svend at the drawer. ‘Take your pick.”
“Some collection. What does this do?’
Anders demonstrated the adjustable C-clamps, and they experimented with weights and bells and other clamps until Maia was groaning and her calves trembled. Svend started out just handing things to his brother, like a surgeon’s assistant. Then he hooked a few weights on himself, and jingled a bell or two. Anders watched his slave slide deeper into pain and arousal. No longer blushing with shame at the presence of an observer, she was flushed all over, panting and clenching her thighs. His brother was swinging both chains of weights and bells, and she was moaning in time to the swings. ‘All right. Go for it,’ said Anders.
At once Svend slid a hand around one tit behind its decorations, and squeezed. Then the other. Maia whimpered her heat.
Anders stroked the thick hair back from her face. ‘You like that, girl, don’t you?’
She whispered, ‘Yes, master.’
‘Thank Svend, then.’
Hoarsely she said, ‘Thank you, S- Svend.’
‘For…?’ Anders insisted.
‘For – for touching me – for playing with my – tits and – hurting them.’
The man stepped back, not enough to lose his grip, just enough to give a little bow. ‘You are most welcome.’
Anders’ hand slid over her metal-covered crotch. ‘Tell Svend what state your cunt is in.’
A wince, a tiny whimper, and her head drooped. ‘So wet and swollen and – needing to come.’
‘You want to come all the time, don’t you, slave?’
A whisper. ‘Yes, master.’
‘And are you allowed to come?’ asked Anders gently.
‘No, master.’
Svend, who was seeing how far her breasts would move within the harness, looked up and said, ‘What, never?’
‘Rarely,’ said Anders. ‘Once in a blue moon.’
‘Poor little muffin.’
***
I was used for one more demonstration back in the living room: the
‘erector set’ as Anders now called it.
The two brothers had unquestionably a long shared history with construction toys. They fell instantly into a lively collaboration, and I was posed, arranged and manipulated into one weird position after another.
Although Anders naturally did a lot of directing, Svend soon had his own ideas. I began to feel like a kids’ action figure after the make-believe runs out and the imagination turns to how wide those plastic legs will go. Their final effort left me in a widekneed crouch with my elbows by my ears, hands pulled tightly back into a V behind my head, my tits stretched forward. As I was also modelling the hood and blindfold, I couldn’t see what they did next; my guess from what little I could hear was beer by the fire.
Internally, my immobilized body surged, its salty currents set in new channels. The sea change was carrying me fast into uncharted regions.
Another man had handled me at my master’s invitation. A stranger, amusing himself with my body. And I was crazy with lust. From the touching, of course, but even more from the knowledge that I was that kind of commodity. Something that could be shared, used, toyed with. No slightest need, not the shadow of a requirement, for my consent. The shame and fear made my pelvic muscles clench and grasp around their intrusions. Jaws sucked frantically around the gag. Nipples ached.
A voice of reason and convention spoke out from some orthodox alcove in the convolutions of my brain, shocked and admonitory, shaking its head.
Norms, proprieties, choice, autonomy, self-respect, all making their case in the courtroom of my mind, completely rational and utterly false. I was what I was, and I wished like hell to have the hearing over with once and for all, the sentence pronounced, condemnation complete; longed absurdly to have been a slave from birth, who would surely know herself unambiguously as chattel. Stupid, Maia. As if a born slave wouldn’t want to be free.
There was another dread that would hit me hard later, when the arousal seeped away, later when distractions faded: fear for the tight link between me and my master. Could this new element dilute it, perhaps even loosen and dissolve it? No, not now, I couldn’t think about that now. The hands were back, rescuing me from reflection, releasing me, pulling gag and hood away from my face, squeezing stinging breasts and buttocks. Then I was on the floor, drawn by the leash between two hard sets of knees, syllables deep and incomprehensible going back and forth above my head. An unaccustomed hand on my leash, conveying no subtle signifiers, no live link, only the obvious command. Hands unrolling a red condom. Cherry flavoured. I did my best, trying to attend to the needs of the man in front of me, tremblingly aware of the man behind my back. Serving two masters and not knowing how.
There was a moan and a shout and a shudder as I sucked out the last spasms. Then a long arm reached over and plucked the leash from a nerveless grip. I was pulled into a hard, safe harbour, every vein and sensitive nerve in the bare penis familiar and adored, every angle and thrust known and eagerly embraced. A higher pitch and fury tonight, caused by what? Jealousy? Or the use of a thing that could in hospitality be shared?
Down on my knees and elbows on the rug, tasting semen, and a residue of cherryflavoured latex. Leash lying in a limp, snaky curl by my shoulder.
A snap of fingers, bringing my head up. A flick, and I was crawling for my cage, leash dragging beneath me. Finished with. Cage door clanged. They were gone, through kitchen to basement. Deep voices through the floorboards, rising and falling; laughter shouting up. What’s the joke? I wondered wistfully. I turned, brushing my arms painfully against sore nipples. What was I now? All those standard epithets: slut, whore? These had no resonance. Slave, yes. That chorus of middle-aged females in my head that said I had choices; how I hated them. Every time my master locked me down another notch, took us another step in the journey, they were at me again, nagging. Shut up! I’m not like you!
Again I wished I could be wholly what I was, wholly slave, without the world’s righteous chorus in my head for counterpoint. A slave from birth.
And once again the real, terrible history of the world of exploitation and oppression made me wince away. A willing slave from birth was an oxymoron.
I touched bars on either side. Perhaps not so. Chorus or no chorus, perhaps I was as close as it came.
***
Anders slid into bed, slipped his arm around the taut little waist beside him, and felt the urgent, anxious tremor in the pressure of her body against his. He kissed eyes and brow, unhurried, and first one, then the other of the tethered hands. Methodically, one by one, he tested locks. She started to settle. But still the apprehensive eyes collected and reflected light. His hands stroked, slow and reassuring, along hip and thigh, breast and belly.
‘My fine piece of property.’ He kissed up her throat, the side of her face. ‘My own thing.’ His voice was a deep, unhurried chant in her ear.
‘You’re mine to lend, but you’ll always come back to me. You won’t belong to anyone else but me.’ A breath sighed from her, and her eyelids relaxed.
He continued to stroke and croon: an owner’s lullaby. ‘All mine. I’ll use you as I please. I’ll use you and lend you and take you back. Mine.’
