Backwater Bondage

by Reese Gabriel

  The most horrible times were after he’d been with someone else, because he wouldn’t clean himself up and then she’d have to taste the other girl, too. At first he only pulled this off on handcuff nights, when she was helpless to keep him going into her as he pleased. But as her dependency deepened she could be made to crawl to the window seat for abuse, even without the cuffs.

  “I had Mary Jane Louden tonight,” he bragged once. “She came louder than a squealing pig, that one. Cost me thirty-eight fifty at the steakhouse to buy my way in. Real tight pussy, though.”

  One hand in her own pussy, Cynthia remembered lapping at his cock and balls, cleaning them, removing the scent of the thirty-eight fifty back seat sex from him. Her reward was a dozen swipes of his new leather belt on her ass as she bent over the window seat. For an hour after he left she stayed that way, just as he’d told her to do.

  It had gotten worse and worse, eventually involving acts of public debasement. The final straw came after they found her in the boy’s locker room at the local athletic facility sucking Cal and two of his friends. Her hands were bound behind her with an athletic supporter and she had a belt around her neck, looped tight, which one of the boys was pulling on from behind like a leash.

  The facility director had wanted the matter hushed, because it involved a Trace. Since she was over age anyway, all parties involved—with the exclusion of Cynthia who had no vote—decided the best thing was for her to leave town permanently and quietly. If she agreed to go, they promised no one would have to tell her aunt. Unable to bear having her aunt suffer that kind of humiliation, she took their bus ticket and a one way ride to the station, compliments of the police department. The driver had been none other than patrolman Billy.

  She supposed she should have said no when Billy pulled the squad car over on the way, in a back alley, forcing her head onto his lap for a quickie. But it didn’t seem to matter anymore by that point. He came in seconds, watching the rear view mirror the whole time and she scarcely imagined he could have enjoyed it at all. For a long time afterwards, she wondered if he’d done that under orders from someone higher up. Either way, his attitude toward her last night and this morning had showed contrition. Though he hadn’t said it, she knew he was sorry.

  It was less than an hour after young Billy had dropped her off that day that she’d met Zeke and serviced him in the bathroom of the Trail King station in Jacksonville. For most of that ride up to Atlanta she sat with a blanket over her so he could keep a hand buried deep in her cunt. For some reason at the time she’d equated that kind of lust with love. Maybe in the way poor little Reyna thought this new Trace boy loved her.

  Cynthia applied herself more diligently now, because she noticed Foster wasn’t coming. She wanted to please him—needed to please him, despite the circumstances of their relationship. It was her nature, she supposed, to want to please men. She’d grown up learning that from her mother, Olivia, who made a living giving pleasure to men. Though it was never said, little Cynthia had eventually guessed the secret. It was hard to miss with all the male visitors coming at odd hours, so different than her friends’ houses. And the way the men all acted so friendly, like they owned the place, pinching little Cynthia’s cheeks, telling her how cute she was.

  She remembered one man by the name of O’Brien, who always brought her a treat when he came. He would keep it in his pocket and she would close her eyes, come up to him and grab it out. It was a very large coat he wore, and one night he must have gotten mixed up, because when little eight year old Cynthia reached in, she pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  Olivia was mortified, but O’Brien, a big burly man with curly red hair just laughed and laughed. “Sorry, little lady,” he explained. “That present’s for your mother.”

  Inevitably she’d asked her Mom what she needed the cuffs for. Pointedly, grabbing O’Brien and ushering him down the hall to her room, she said, “It’s a game for grownups, baby.”

  Irresistibly curious, Cynthia took the chance to do what she never had before, namely looking in the keyhole of her mother’s room. To her great amazement, she saw her pretty long haired mother buck naked, on her knees on the bed, leaning forward, her hands cuffed in front of her, over her head and attached through one of the rods of her brass bed. Kindly Mister O’Brien, still in his white shirt, but bare from the waist down, was standing beside her, striking her posterior again and again with a wooden paddle.

  Psychologists might have a field day over things like this, but for Cynthia that was just life. In her world, women existed to give pleasure to men and once she figured that out, she did her best to shine for mother’s guests, seeking in childish little ways to please them herself with songs and pictures.

  “This one’s going to be a chip off the old block,” they started to say to Olivia. To Cynthia this was a good thing, but it never failed to bring distress to her mother’s face. When she turned twelve, Olivia quit prostitution altogether and took on legitimate work. It took two such jobs to keep a roof over their heads and to this day Cynthia was sure the brutal schedule was part of what got her sick. Olivia had told her towards the end it was worth it to give her daughter a life of self-respect, but Cynthia wasn’t sure. How could she be, seeing her mother’s long locks fall out in her hands, seeing her smooth cheeks hollow and wither before her eyes?

  Foster withdrew now, popping from her sucking mouth like a cork. She was afraid she’d done something wrong, but she saw he had something else in mind. She stayed quite still as he stroked himself, less than an inch from her face. His cock was nearly purple and fully engorged. When he came on her, she opened her mouth to catch what she could. What he wanted, though, was her hair and face.

  He was quite thorough, splashing himself liberally. Naturally, she could not resist this affront, nor would she have attempted to if she could. It was disappointing when he wiped off on a rag, because she’d wanted to lick him.

  “Good girl,” he winked zipping up his fly. Leaving her for a few minutes, he prepared for the next round. Straining her back painfully, Cynthia drew her legs together, trying to rub herself to conclusion. The whole scene, the fearsomely rigid control delivered at the hands of a giant pussycat had made for a delicious aphrodisiac.

  If only he would free her, she thought, he would learn that he had no need of chains to hold her. Most willingly would she crawl to him, licking and kissing every inch of him, submitting herself to his every whim. He was a natural Master, this one, and she, Cynthia Louise Marshall, was a natural slave. A man’s slave. Meant to be pretty and sexy, a piece of property to be shown off, exploited and used precisely to the specifications of whatever man was strong enough to see through the veneer of her freedom, to laugh in the face of her petty resistance.

  Emotions welled inside, not least of which was sheer joy as the fullness of this realization about herself began to sink in. It was not abuse she craved, but a man’s loving control. If abusing her pleased such a man, then that was her pleasure, too. In no way, however, was she weak, as Cal and Meredith had tried to make her believe.

  The next event was hot wax. Melted from the tip of a candle and dripped precisely onto her breasts and belly. One. Two. Three. The globules of boiling liquid plinked upon her skin, rushing her senses like pure fire. Gritting her teeth, she felt them coming, on and on, like bites of molten lava. Thrashing her head, she lost count. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. A million.

  Cynthia rode the waves of the cascading invasion, pulling helplessly at her chained ankles and wrists, a naked, tortured prisoner, born to bear abuses from ancient lands, like an eternal penitent, from now till the end of time. All hope and every scrap of her will gone, she ran through her mind the million upon million of things she would even now be willing to do to earn the right to have a cock inside her. The ways she would abase herself so that she might find the only pleasure a slave can know.

  Like a revelation, the truth opened now over her head. It had been her stubborn pride that was the problem in the past. If only s
he had gone years ago to Shep and been honest, if only she had not tried to deny him what her body had owed him from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. Pride, that was the enemy. Not that she shouldn’t respect herself, it was just she had to know her true needs for submission in order to find her real joy.

  Foster had come down to her level now and she hoped it would be to penetrate her. His breathing had quickened, which made her think—hope—in some small way she’d gotten to him, because that was what she wanted and needed: for her body to arouse and satisfy a strong man, for him to do with her as he wanted, regardless of her own desires. She wanted—needed—to bring him over the edge, into a place of needing her too.

  Cynthia sighed happily. He was unchaining her, putting her onto her back into a place of aching openness so that she was able to take his re-aroused cock in a single thrust, bathing him in thick vaginal fluid. Studying him, she saw the closed eyes, the small slanted smile. Yes, for a moment at least, he was taking pleasure in his work.

  Beneath his massive sculpted form, she gave of herself more intimately than she had ever before been able, even with men she’d known so much better. For though he was a stranger, he had become to her at this moment the person most dear in the whole world. In holding the keys to her freedom, in bending her to his will, Foster had begun the unfurling of her heart, the flowering of her true femininity. Where the fullness of such an exquisitely delicate process could go, where it could take her, only time would tell. For the moment, though, she felt safe, safe and at home.

  Foster desired rest afterwards, and to her secret delight, he simply climbed off her, turned her to her side, reattached the hand and ankle cuffs and went himself to bed. Soiled, aching, covered in his dry semen, she lay that way, listening to the sound of his snoring, knowing that it was making her happier than any sound she’d ever heard before.

  Chapter Six

  Reyna slammed the phone down on Zeke’s answering machine. This made strike three. No mother. No father. And no Jason either. When she’d tried him, just a few moments ago, he’d been as good as not there himself, sounding as cold and distant as his ice queen of a mother.

  “I’ve got to clear my head,” he’d explained, the sound of rushing wind blowing around the speaker of his cell telling her he was out driving. “You know how it is.”

  No, Reyna didn’t know. How was she supposed to know? And exactly how was it supposed to be, anyway, when you finally take a chance on loving somebody and then they blow you off because of family issues?

  “Gotta go,” he finally told her, breaking the long silence. “See you around.”

  See you around. Like she was a billboard or something. Reyna hugged the pillow, digging herself into the old-fashioned four-poster bed, legs drawn up, like one of the rollie pollies her daddy used to catch for her when she was small. So this was how love went. No explanations, no warnings, just gone. She was so tired of men acting like little boys. They were all like that. Even her father. Why hadn’t he been there to answer? Where was he so early in the morning? she wondered. He never got up before ten.

  And where was her mother? What was all that about, taking off in the middle of the night, leaving her to clean up the mess, in a town that wasn’t hers with no more explanation than a stupid little note that said, ‘Be back soon,’ like she’d gone off to the store or something?

  Reyna pulled herself tighter, willing the pain to go away. The clamps, the whip and chains were nothing compared to this. It was ten years since she’d cried and she wasn’t about to turn into a baby again now, not after all these years. Why didn’t anyone understand what it was like for her? And why was she always alone, misunderstood, abandoned? Deep down, it ached. It was sexual, mental, all in one. She needed someone so bad.

  Someone to accept her, nurture her, make her feel alive. Make her feel normal. But how could she, with a whacked out mother who one minute was acting like a saint she could never live up to, and the next minute outdoing her in sluttiness? Right now, Cynthia was probably out partying, doing drugs even. What a joke! It had been her mother’s paranoia, her holier-than-thou obsessions that had driven her away to her father Zeke at age twelve. The last straw had been after she’d let a boy walk her home from school and had ended up submitting to full-blown search and seizure from the Cynthia Gestapo after he left.

  Reyna was supposed to be such a good girl. Serious, ambitious, studious. Perfect. The nagging was endless. Can’t you dress up more, Reyna? What if we joined a church Reyna, then you could go to youth group. Red isn’t a good color on you, Reyna, it gives boys ideas. Where’s the rest of that outfit, Reyna? On and on, till she couldn’t even think straight much less know what to be in her life.

  Zeke was cool and she was thrilled when he’d said she could come live with him. Cynthia took her to the bus station, never saying a word. At first she was in heaven. No bedtime, no vegetables, and no parent patrol. The kids at the new school were pretty cool too, for country folk. But then she started getting into stuff she couldn’t handle and pretty soon she was wishing for some rules, any rules.

  So back she went with Cynthia the next summer. There was a honeymoon, lots of mother-daughter hugs, fuzzy slipper times and brownie making. By fall, though, it started in again. All she could remember after that was fighting, and being so tired of it she could scream. It seemed like that’s all she did. Argue, fight, and get on another bus.

  Zeke was a drinker. She wasn’t a fool; she knew that made a difference. Though he never laid a hand on her, he could get sullen, withdrawn. He had a temper and bar room brawls were a pretty regular occurrence. On Friday nights, they had a routine so if he got arrested she knew how to get him bailed out. The bondsman was on a first name basis with her. Zeke also moved a lot. The last time she was with him he’d made it all the way up to Richmond, Virginia.

  She prided herself on fixing up all his places and sometimes she felt like his little wife. Zeke had lots of girlfriends, though. He wasn’t the best looking or most athletic guy (he had a skinny, small muscled build) but he was a smooth talker with a pair of blue eyes Cynthia had said were irresistible. The several-times-broken nose didn’t help much, but when his long hair was combed out, he wasn’t half-bad. Anyhow, in the circles he traveled, he was a regular Prince Charming.

  Their understanding was that Reyna kept out of the way when he had women over. In exchange, he kept well away from her business—not that this helped her much in the long run. There were a few of his ladies she liked, such as the halfway pretty, feathered blonde named Tonya, who was real petite and wore Indian jewelry and sexy dresses. She drank a lot, too, but she always asked Reyna about her schoolwork and boyfriends, which she liked. It was kind of nice to have a woman to talk to who didn’t judge every statement coming out of her mouth.

  Once Reyna saw Zeke and Tonya having sex. She’d been on the way to the bathroom of the single wide trailer he had at the time and it was hard to miss because both of them had been too plowed to remember to close the plywood door to the master bedroom. Tonya had nothing on but Indian feather earrings and turquoise cowgirl boots. She was tied up, on her stomach in what Reyna later learned was a hog-tie position, hands behind her back and secured to her ankles with bright yellow rope.

  The incredible thing was that Zeke had maneuvered her so that he was sitting with his legs on either side of her, pushing his pelvis into her face. The back of her head, the only part of her she could move, was bobbing up and down on him. Zeke had on his black cowboy hat, the one with the ostrich feather, and he was leaning back on the headboard, arms behind his head. His long curly mustache was kind of fluttering as he smiled, eyes closed, drawing in satisfied little breaths.

  Reyna was fifteen at the time and since it was the first time she’d seen sex, she kind of assumed that’s how everyone did it, tying the female first. A few days later, while Zeke was at work, laying some sheet rock at a new housing development, she explored the drawers of his tiger fur covered dresser and found the handcuffs, along with
a jar of Vaseline and an artificial penis, the purpose of which she grasped intuitively.

  The rope she found in the closet, but all of it terrified her so much, she never dared to look in there again. Every time she saw Tonya or one of the others, it made her giggle, knowing what Zeke was going to do to them. Especially the arrogant, snotty ones, the ones who thought a kid like her was beneath their dignity. She’d just smile, eyes flashing as she’d imagine her dad stripping one of them and putting her on her stomach, to be roped like a steer.

  It made Reyna hot, even now. Drawn by a force she didn’t understand, she climbed down from the bed and went to the full-length mirror. It was like there was a Voice inside her, not her own which she had to obey. The Voice had lots of ideas. First she had to strip down, pulling off the t-shirt so she was completely naked. This act alone made her hot, and as she began to stimulate her own nipples and touch her cunt. She felt so slutty she couldn’t stand it.

  The Voice told her to spread her legs now and display herself. Using her fingers, she opened her cunt lips. There was a dildo in a secret spot in one of her suitcases and she wanted at it real bad. Except the Voice insisted she be sopping wet first, dripping even. Massaging her clit, she achieved the desired end. Wanting proof, the Voice had her smear the glistening liquid on her belly and tits.

  ‘Very good,’ it soothed malevolently. ‘You may get the dildo. On your hands and knees, of course.’ Reyna crawled, head down, from the master bedroom to the room where her luggage was stored. The dildo was a semi soft kind and it had taken all her nerve to buy it before coming down here. Anticipating endless boredom, she’d looked forward to some intense scenes with herself.