Backwater Bondage

by Reese Gabriel

  What a sport.

  He let her go, making her walk in front of him. To speed her up, he slapped her ass hard. When she reached the center of the circular weave rug, the same one Aunt Marianne had kept there for over forty years, he told her to take off the rest of her clothes and lay down on her back, legs spread wide.

  He made her go slow, so he could evaluate her body as she went along. It was like being in a trance. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Cynthia knew she shouldn’t be doing this. The rags of her blouse and bra came off first. He made her pause to pleasure herself. Using both hands, she was made to caress her own nipples, and he didn’t let her stop till he elicited from her a moan of frustrated pleasure.

  The shorts were next, and as they slipped down her tanned legs he let out a whistle. “You’ve kept in shape,” he said approvingly.

  “Thank you,” she blushed, stepping from the tiny scrap of denim, hating herself for needing a strong man so much. When she kicked off the panties, he snatched them up and put them to his nose. Her face deepened to crimson as he inhaled the moist fragrance, confirming just how much it turned her on for him to be so rough with her.

  Cal licked his lips, eyes burning her skin. “You can thank me after I’m done, sweet heart.”

  Cynthia lowered her eyes. “Cal, it’s been a long time for me,” she said softly, scarcely believing she was a thirty five year old woman, standing weak and naked in her aunt’s living room, hand over her dripping pussy, apologizing. “I may not be as good as I used to for you.”

  Cal was stripping his well-muscled torso. “You let me worry about that okay, sweet pants?”

  Mesmerized, she watched him undo his pants and pull down the zipper. The cock she remembered so well was ready to burst from his boxer shorts. But when he started slipping his belt from the loops of the jeans, that wicked look in his eyes, she got her back up.

  “What are you doing, Caleb?”

  “I thought I told you to get on the floor,” he said gruffly.

  “You did, Cal, but this is wrong.”

  He shook out the studded leather belt. When they were young, he’d used one just like it on her ass, the way parents do for discipline, except that with him it had been wild and sexual from the start. When she was into it, it had felt good. But she didn’t want to go there, not anymore.

  “I say what’s right and wrong, Sin. Now get down there and spread!”

  You don’t have to do this, said the little voice of reason in her head. You’re a mature adult; you have a grown child yourself. Just tell him to get out or you’ll scream for the police.

  But I’m already naked, said the other voice, the little slut that shared space in her brain. Better give him what he wants. Don’t cause trouble with a Trace, because trouble from them is the last thing you or Reyna needs.

  “I want you to play with yourself,” Cal said when she had laid herself into position.

  “I can’t.” She shook her head. Masturbating in private was one thing, and Lord knows she’d filled a lot of lonely years this way, but in front of a man, no way.

  “Do it, Cynthia. Put your hand in your pussy. That’s it. Your clit. Rub it.”

  Oh, God, she was going to come, right in front of him as he stood over her, straddling, watching. “Spread your labia, Sin, let me see it.”

  She obeyed, and the touch of her own fingers was enough to push her over the edge. Shamelessly, she stroked, bucking her hips, curling her toes into the fabric of the rug.

  “That’s enough, girl!” Wrenching her hand away, he pulled her suddenly to her knees. She wanted to cry out in frustration. He wasn’t letting her finish. He never did. “Hold still!” he commanded, positioning himself in front of her.

  She watched as he stroked his long, uncircumcised cock, eyes closed, absorbed in his own little world. Naked, burning, neglected, she waited for him to cum on her tits and face, his favorite target. Not even bothering to look her in the eye, he grunted and took aim.

  Just like old times, she thought sardonically as the warm thick spray drenched her face and breasts. Thorough as always, Cal made sure not to miss her hair or eyebrows either.

  “Welcome home, Sin,” he winked as he stuffed his rapidly shriveling member back into his underwear. Scooping the belt from the floor where he’d dropped it, he said, “Guess we’ll save this for next time, huh?”

  He slammed the door on the way out and Cynthia just stared after him, still on her knees, wondering what the hell had just happened, and more to the point, why had she let it happen? What had made her turn back into an eighteen year old after just one look from her long ago tormentor? And how could he still have so much power over her to make her that way after all these years?

  Upstairs in the shower, sometime later, Cynthia let the water run over her flush, sensitive skin. Time was passing, but she couldn’t move. She’d long since removed Caleb’s jism and yet she could still feel it pervading her skin. Pervading her soul. She’d let it happen all over again—let this same dark man back into her life to degrade her. Hadn’t she learned anything the first go round? Hadn’t she had enough of crying into her pillow late at night, burning from Caleb’s latest psychological abuses?

  She hadn’t even been good enough to take on dates. No flowers for her, no fancy dinners, no long rides in the country. She was there for one reason in his life: sex. And when he didn’t get it from his legitimate dates, he came to her. Long nights she would lie awake, waiting, dreaming, always lonely and always wet. One of these times, she’d always told herself, he would take her away, suddenly confess his love and carry her through the open window into his waiting chariot.

  She remembered now how as Aunt Marianne slept heavily; she would listen for his car engine, for the sound of him scratching at the window. She never locked it. Never locked her legs, either. Ironically, he only ever made love to her drunk. Sober, he only ever wanted her handcuffed so he could come on her body.

  The biggest rush for him was when he’d tell her to leave herself handcuffed to the bed. Her only way out would be if he came for her, using the key she’d left on the dresser. If not, it would be her saintly churchgoing aunt who would find her. Sometimes she would orgasm like this, without even being touched, just lying there, knowing how helpless she was, how in risk of being discovered as the slut she was.

  Later, she’d be so relieved, so excited to see him, and yet mostly what he’d do would be to burp on her, whip her a little with his belt and come on her. She couldn’t even cry out, on account of her aunt. And afterwards, she would have to beg, say terrible things, and agree to the most outlandish proposals just so he’d uncuff her before he left. Talk about head-trips; for all of Cal’s physical games, he liked to play with her mind best of all.

  The unwritten rule was she obeyed, and he was always pushing the limits of what she could bear. Like telling her he was thinking of making her go without underwear to church, so he could have her sit bare-assed on the pew. Or threatening to make her go and service some particularly vile town derelict. He never followed through on his worst ideas, though, and she was supposed to be grateful for that.

  In short, she got his leftovers, and he was proud of his ability to dominate her, to control her, keeping her on the ‘short leash’ as he called it. The day she annoyed him too much about coming to see her, for instance, he took her for a ride and made her go down on him in Founder’s Park. To this day, she wasn’t sure who’d seen her there on her knees in the grass, head bobbing.

  Cynthia slid to the shower floor, her back against the wall. The water came down like pellets, pounding her flesh. She couldn’t get clean enough. Couldn’t get it out of her system. Why had she come back here? How could she be so stupid? Unbidden, her hands slid down till the bar of soap was between her legs. She did not want to be as aroused as she remembered those long ago events, but she couldn’t help it. More powerful than the water, the memories began to wash over her, memories from before she’d ever even heard of Cal or Shep Trace. In an instant, s
he was back there, seventeen again, the new girl in town, having just lost her only parent.

  From the beginning, tall perky blonde haired Meredith Frisk had sniffed Cynthia out as a rival. Though the upstart Marshall girl couldn’t match her preppy clothes, in those days it was Izod and plaid skirts, nor the money her parents lavished on her from their successful furniture store, she had a natural style, and she was from the outside world, which the other kids thought was cool. Meredith was beautiful, of course, in that way only self absorbed blondes with great legs and good tits can be, but Cynthia had a body, too, and she could also laugh and dance and had none of the small town inhibitions of the others.

  In other words, more than her share of dates fell young Cynthia’s way in short order. Billy Watson, Sammy Hall and most of the football team liked partying with her. There was night bowling and school dances, the kind where it was still fashionable to dance cheek to cheek for Stairway To Heaven, and, of course, necking at Ziggy’s Drive-in on Route 26 or one of the old farms outside town. Cynthia knew how to have a good time, but she was holding out. Sure, a number of boys had seen her tits and played with her pink nipples. A couple had even inserted trembling fingers inside her. It was funny how they froze up, though, afraid to touch her wrong, faces pouring sweat as if they were playing a deadly form of the silly kids’ game Operation.

  Why she didn’t let them go further, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was what her mother had made her promise, towards the end, when the cancer had really taken its toll, leaving her in bed most of the time, under care of the visiting hospice nurses. Be true to yourself, her mother had said. Don’t give yourself away.

  The joke of it all was that Cynthia never even wanted to compete with Meredith. They were from two worlds and Cynthia never dreamed of treading on the footsteps of the other’s society. Meredith went to First Baptist; her aunt went to a little cinder block structure on Drury called The Holy Ghost Tabernacle. Meredith wanted to bed a Lancaster or a Trace, and she wanted... well, what did she want?

  Shep. Yes, at a certain point, she did want Shepard Trace. She learned this about herself the day she first saw him riding his horse, a chestnut gelding, out on the field where she and a couple of her friends were having a picnic. He’d ridden up, looking like a movie hero, with his denim shirt, ten-gallon hat and black boots. He had eyes like no one she’d ever encountered. Pale blue, like the sky, only more stunning, penetrating. When he took his hat off, he had the finest sand colored hair. And he was so tan.

  He spoke like a king or a prince, and she was just in awe, even though he was telling them they needed to move on, because this was Trace land. It was such a beautiful day, and she just fell into a trance. He was lean, too, and he had muscles under that shirt and jeans.

  As she and Rosa and Abby walked off together Cynthia made a point of wiggling in her bikini in case he was still watching. Dreamily, she asked the girls why they hadn’t seen this particular boy at school.

  “He goes away to school,” Rosa told her, surprised at her friend’s ignorance. “He and his twin brother Caleb both attend some kind of military school.”

  Cynthia wondered out loud if they were delinquents or something, and they just giggled and slapped her arm.

  “It’s a family tradition,” Rosa, the daughter of a maid explained.

  “He’s the nice one. If you want the bad one,” Abby, a nearsighted pharmacist’s daughter added, “look for his brother, Cal. They’re like night and day.”

  For some reason, Cynthia never wanted to see the other one, dark haired Caleb. But Shep, the fair-haired horseman became her obsession. She’d never really tried to get a boy to like her before, but she was determined with this one. Seeing him, however, was difficult enough, let alone winning him over. Months passed before she had a chance. Then came the Founder’s Day Picnic, the summer before her senior year. She wore her best dress, a very acceptable light colored print, along with the kind of flat, white sandals that were popular at the time. Her hair was meticulous, very wavy, very early eighties.

  Her friends didn’t believe she could pull it off, especially not with her reputation being so solidly in place as a lower class party girl. She reminded Rosa and Abby, though, that people were people and that in a town where churches still condemned dancing as the devil’s work, any normal, red-blooded girl was apt to be nicknamed ‘Sin’.

  She managed to run into Shep by the lemonade table. She offered a carefully rehearsed joke, telling him she hoped she wasn’t trespassing again. To her surprise, he blushed a little above the collar of his fancy western shirt as he told her he was sorry for having had to do that, but his father was very insistent about keeping ‘idlers’ as he put it, off the family’s vast holdings.

  Cynthia fingered her strategically empty glass, said it was all right. She could do things, even then, with her lips, making herself look pouty and so on, and this definitely helped. Plus she had new makeup on, much better than what she usually used.

  Next thing she knew, Shepard Matthew Trace III was getting her a lemonade and escorting her around the highly decorated town square, telling her all about the traditions, and how in the old days the cattle roundup went right through Main Street. Cynthia was still trying to absorb the idea that there were steers in Florida at all, but Shep told her it was one of the largest beef states in the country, rivaling even Texas.

  He really did have a lot of cowboy in him, too, especially his strong silent manners and his very strong yet gentle grip as he held her hand. She knew she was getting stares and whispers, especially from Meredith’s crowd, but she didn’t care. Meredith herself, they said, was fit to be tied, but it only served her right for not thinking of the direct approach herself. For all her bluster, Merry Frisk was quite unsure of herself, and she never really believed she was in Shep’s class, what with him being a descendent of the Eight Founding Families and her being only second generation Charred River stock.

  Cynthia and Shep spent the afternoon together and he even sat next to her for the Annual Rodeo. She liked it whenever he would lean over and explain things to her, like why the bull riders held on with just one hand and how the rodeo clowns weren’t just there to be funny, but that, in a pinch, they could save a downed man from a deadly goring.

  Cynthia even met Shep’s widowed father, along with his father, the venerable Shepard Trace the First. They seemed mildly amused by her presence, but they weren’t unfriendly. Aunt Marianne later told her that that was the proudest moment of her life, seeing her kin chatting with the Trace’s, right there in the middle of the town square.

  Shep saw Cynthia only twice more before returning to school. Once was for ice cream, the other was a delicious afternoon at a swimming hole where she strutted for him in her lemon yellow bikini. He seemed very shy and hadn’t pressed his advantage. If he had, he would certainly have been the first to possess her, instead of his brother.

  When fall came, Shep went back to school. She had yet to meet Caleb, who as it turned out, had never left school the previous spring, having drawn punishment duty all summer for his various offences during the year. It was Cynthia’s position that Cal was likely rebelling against their father’s strict rules. The fact that Shep had fought his own anger and was so full of quiet grace and stoic kindness, therefore, made him all the more a hero to her.

  The days dragged by interminably as Cynthia waited for Shep’s Thanksgiving break. He’d written her once a week and had promised to spend every minute with her he could. Cynthia had left off all her regular boyfriends, creating something of a party crisis at Pioneer High. But she was faithful and focused so she didn’t care. If only she knew the horror the season would bring!

  Meredith’s sudden friendliness that fall caught her off guard, but she never guessed how diabolical the girl’s plan was. The whole thing—sitting by her at lunch, involving her in after school trips to the skating rink, inviting her to the movies—all of it was designed to put Cynthia off guard so she wouldn’t be suspicious when Meredith offered
to host her birthday party.

  Cynthia’s birthday was the end of October, but Meredith told her how nice it would be to wait and have a party over Thanksgiving, when Shep could come, too. Meredith would sponsor it and naturally would cover all expenses. Cynthia was grateful and really wondered if she hadn’t judged the blonde all wrong.

  The beauty of the whole caper, from Meredith’s standpoint, was that, unbeknownst to Cynthia, there were only two people invited: her and Shep. Furthermore, they’d been given two entirely different arrival times. She was to come at eight, while he was not to arrive until ten.

  When Cynthia knocked at the door, noting how quiet the place seemed, she wondered if she had mistaken the day. All the window shades were down and there were no cars in the driveway. Meredith had been smart enough to send her family away, of course, to guarantee privacy.

  The door opened, but no one was there. Inside, all the lights were off. Through the patio door, there was moonlight, enough to guide her as she went to the center of the all white living room, feeling like she’d walked into some bad horror movie.

  “Surprise!” Meredith yelled as the lights came on. Cynthia was dumbstruck. Merry and three of her cheerleading friends were standing there grinning, wearing revealing leather costumes, complete with masks.

  Cynthia couldn’t help but laugh. “Is it still Halloween around here?” she asked gaily.

  “No,” Meredith replied, her voice sweet and sinister at the same time. “It’s Slut Day. Know what that is?”

  “I know,” said Candy, a frizzy blonde with big tits who was shorter than Meredith by five inches, and dumber by a half. “That’s the day we show Sin what a slut she is.”

  Meredith punched her in the arm. “I know that you know, you idiot! We were supposed to let her guess!”

  “Sorry,” Candy whined, massaging her bruise.

  “You two,” Merry said authoritatively to the others, whom Cynthia recognized respectively as Erica, a statuesque brunette from English and Kelly, a dark haired sweet figured girl from her chemistry class. “Strip the slut—our guest of honor, I mean.”