Humm, my pretty boy wasn’t pretty at all… rough, wicked, taking risks he knew could hurt him, flirting with disaster. He was my man of the hour, my reckless cowboy on a binge. I didn’t get off. That was too much to ask, but I would soon, soon as he let me, or I was left alone long enough to do it myself. I didn’t care if he punished me for it. Coming would be worth it no matter what the consequences.
When he was done, he pulled gently from my body and slowly, erotically, removed the weights—to sudden shrieks of pain from me—and the rope that kept me one with the master’s desk. Lifting me into his arms, he carried me across the hallway to the bathroom, where the hot waters gushed into the toilet and I stared plaintively into his face, feeling little, miniscule, a fraction of the woman I believed myself to be. He looked back at me, sullen, sad, triumphant. I wonder if I’d been worth it.
That was my last night at the ranch.
The night following was black and moonless, starless, clouds covering every field of vision, dipping low in the sky to spread an inky fog in all directions. I was hustled from my cell, dressed in a pair of stretchy leggings and a skintight yellow t-shirt that hugged my breasts like skin. My nipples popped from the fabric like tiny headlights. Barefoot. The ground was cold. The air even colder. Goose bumps spread a red rash across my flesh, but there was no way to see how the elements effected me, no one who cared. Shoved into the back of a van, a pair of large hands greeted me. I didn’t recognize the face that owned them. Just as well, a blindfold was slipped over my eyes, my hands were tied behind me with rope, rags forced into my mouth and a leather collar buckled around my throat.
The collar served to tie me down like a fettered calf, and for a time, someone jerked my pants off my ass—I thought just to look at it. But there was more: a hasty, unknown inscription was written on the bare cheeks. Identification? Moral judgment? Playful musing? I never knew. It didn’t matter, I was anonymous Evie. No one knew me, even if they knew my name.
The van door shut with a terrible clank and the motor gunned with the smell of diesel fuel clogging my nose for a time. Heading out beyond the ranch into another unknown, I was too petrified to feel a thing. Time would eventually take care of that, time and lonely hours, time to think, remember, wonder at the swiftness of my leaving, remember the last hours with Jacob, my trainer cowboy, and the way he loved me after he carried me to bed.
I wondered then how he’d get away with sleeping in the master’s bed at my side. I suppose we soiled those silky sheets with my natty, slutty, sweat-soaked body, the cowboy with the gritty dirt clinging to his. They’d reek with our body oils, evidence of the multiple orgasms that made me scream that night, the hard humping, furious panting, wild-rodeo-style fucking.
I could imagine the master returning that morning, after we’d made an exit down the backstairs, seeing the messy cum and remains of our hasty hours of luxury. I could see the tempered fury in his eyes, a growing utterance of rage creeping to his mouth—what he would clamp down and contain, channeling into action. He would repair to his sacred library to see where our night began, as we flipped the bird in his face, leaving his desk smudged with body fluid, drippings on the carpet, and the fancy clock in pieces on the floor, with the big brass paperweight shattering its face. He’d stare upward at the camera, and move next door, replaying the tape we left for him, the bones in his face welded together like steel, everything in him trembling at such a pitch that only a trained eye could see. The tape could never lie, it always replayed facts, brutally.
I opened my eyes to the new dawn, crying because I wouldn’t see the cowboy ever again. But clarity again woke me from that silly melancholy. This was the way he wanted it, the way he planned in advance. He knew what would happen after that night. Revenge on his mentor was sweeter than loving me. I was just a means to a message, a tool, not an end in itself.
Her Master
They dumped her on him, after traveling for a day from to . She was obviously in pain, her body battered just from the ride, from the awkward position. The ropes cuts into her wrists and ankles, and her lips were chapped and parched with thirst.
Still, she was perfect.
He walked around her while she followed his eyes with hers. No. He was unalarmed when she stared at him vacantly. That would change. Her mop of blonde hair was now a mass of dull stringy curls; her face was streaked with dirty tears, her clothes covered with dust and grime from the van. She hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and her eyes were glassed over like she was ready to get down to serious sleep, something she hadn’t been able to do since she left the ranch.
The master, Gable, saw beyond the hair, the grunge, the soot, the sullen, weary eyes. She was as advertised. If she was half the girl he’d been promised, she would be enough to replace Tessy. Never saw that one coming: his latest plaything running off marrying one of his good friends and the two now living in France, a damned good slut reduced to playing housewife and mother-to-be. The marriage wouldn’t last more than a few months, an old guy’s dream and a young woman’s rescue. Gable figured she’d be back. She wouldn’t know how to act, even how to think, and Lowell, her husband, would soon tire of her.
Gable hoped for that much. He could also be practical, which was why he brought Evie to the house on the shore, the white mansion with the black shutters and wrought-iron gates and bars, the place by the water with the big green lawn, and willow trees that the sultry air could hide inside. Sometimes the views were clear as panes of glass, and some days everything moved: the air, the sky, the trees, the grasses, wildlife flitting until the landscapes blurred and everything was indistinct. Such a reminder that this was an inconstant world where nothing was fixed, not morality, not opinion, not rules, not a daily routine. The great house followed no protocol, except what spontaneously grew out of thin air and the mind of the man who owned place.
Gable was a jocular fellow, wavy brown hair, glasses, sporting a bit of a paunch to his otherwise decently normal build, and a way of cocking his head, as if that would help him listen—which it seemed he did attentively, though he never did. He was always looking for angles, his mind churning with thoughts he rarely shared. Inwardly, he was a mess of contradictions. He made up rules for no reason and then changed them on a whim as if the rule never existed in the first place. Sometimes he’d stumble, airing his contradictions for all to see. Most of the time, he kept the contradictions hidden behind his sociable manners, and if you didn’t know him well, you’d never know what you missed.
Gable was into the game of being himself at every hour, one minute discussing ancient history, stock prices, even sports, the next minute—told of some naughty indiscretion or worse yet the crabby attitude of one of his brood—forced to look hard and critically at the offending female, pass judgment and dispense appropriate punishment. He hated having to punish—that offended him most, angered him to the point that he’d brood, go off by himself as if he were reassessing his life, wondering where he went wrong to have fostered an imperfect offspring. They were his offspring, every one of the maids who worked his house, making it a gracious statement of risqué self-indulgence, like none other.
He was, above all, a hedonist, pandering to his sexual nature—and that of anyone who dared join him. At the hour of Evie’s arrival there were five permanent women in his custody: Alia his wife of two years, who was for the most part independent of him and rarely stayed around, unless she found some pleasing young man to play with; Georgie, a laughing, hugging, voluptuous cunt with a big mouth and regularly punished behind; Margery, the waifish one who was always scared—although she was always ready for Gable games, slipping into the spirit without anyone realizing she was there until she was coming, screaming; Tim, a dyke who liked sucking pussy and hated men; and Janice, another of the acquired properties, like Margery, schooled in submission at one of the covert facilities where the enslavement of women was the carefully kept secret. She was bigger, more robust, a buxom redhead with a broad ass who loved getting spanked.
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A variety of people came and went from the Southern genteel white house—from local politicians, doctors, lawyers and other professionals, to a rowdy theatre crowd, a few celebrities who enjoyed the benefits of anonymity the house gave them, to average sorts, and people on fringes or even deeply enmeshed in the fetish crowd. Gable was leery of some, however, as he was not too keen on the leather crowd with their funny clothes and jewelry. He liked to think he was the last bastion of decadence in the ‘Old Guard’ underground. The only jewelry he cared for were the girls themselves; they were his baubles and he never had enough to please him.
Although he was not given to the same kind of brutality that made other men horny, his style being quite unconventional, was just as extreme. He was the final destination in what could be a long line of buyers, sellers, trainers and abusers, who molded young girls into sex kittens, pain-sluts, ponygirls, serving wenches and personal slaves.
“She’ll work out just fine,” he told Alia, as they both viewed the young woman, recently pulled from the brown van. They weren’t the only ones to induct Evie into the rarified atmosphere. A least of half dozen malingerers were there observing, which became the perfect moment for Gable to put on his show. The day was warm, breezes off the gulf rained a pleasant wind on faces, blew through hair and tickled restless crotches. The hangers on wanted to see something outrageous, although most were ‘outrageous-immune’. They’d seen everything from Gorian, groveling slaves, to proper ladies turned into sex-sluts, to whimpering innocents, who denied their purpose at the Southern house and were shown the way to depravity.
“I’ll bet it’s been a rough trip for you?” he moved in on the girl close, just as her eyes were getting adjusted to the bright blue-sky afternoon. So many trees, so much green, the water, the grass the white of the house, its broad porch and rocking chairs—so many, like an old folks home. At nineteen, from an alien world, she would have no recollection of any place like this. Eyes startled, they roved the scene, until Gable captured her attention.
“Yes, sir.”
“She tried pulling down her hiked up t-shirt.”
“Oh, no,” he kindly said. “Why don’t we just take it off since it seems to be bothering you?”
It was as much a command as she’d ever heard in her short life as a captive, yet it rolled off his tough like a kindness in face of what had obviously been a tough ride. He reached to the hem of the t-shirt and slowly lifted it up her torso and off over her head.
He turned to his audience. “Lovely, isn’t she? This one’s from , a perfect specimen, perfect. We’ll have lots of fun with her, won’t we?” he smiled kindly at Evie.
She was still too stunned to say anything but, “Yes, sir,” which was all that was necessary.
“Very nice body,” he said admiringly as he ran his hand lightly over her breasts, for just a few seconds, seemingly so enthralled with her to the exclusion of everyone else on the lawn. “Come here, Evie,” he led her by the hand, down the pathway toward the brick patio. She gazed around at the eyes firmly fixed on her, her mind trying to fit into this strange man’s game. “We understand that she was taken out of , actually purchased in a detention center for wayward girls and then transported to a training ranch in . Her tapes are marvelous.” He made her sit on the ground at his feet, while running his hand through her hair, every once and a while, making a fist, jerking her face toward him so that he could have a better look.
He was all eyes, all smiles, all lust, almost slavishly appreciating her charm, even though so little of it showed. He caressed her face, her neckline, looking almost fatherly, until his hand was around her throat, holding it in an easy choke-hold, and she was gasping for breath. He released the pressure.
“The good news about your being here, Evie, is that you won’t have anymore tests, no more trials, training. All that his over. You’re here to play, that’s all, do what you love best.” He didn’t specify, but the facts were implied. You do as I say, enjoy yourself, that’s all that’s required. The real truth was, Gable’s training was probably the worst of all she’d face. Ruleless. Erratic. Unpredictable. Getting accustomed to the structureless environment would not be easy, and, yet she would be expected to understand its demands immediately, to blend into this strange community on instinct and careful study. Even that wasn’t spelled out, she’d have to figure it out for herself.
The bystanders looking for the extremes that day would be disappointed. Gable was too far into the girl to think about anyone around him.
After the initial presentation, which went by in a blur for the newest member of the household, Evie was pampered in the big round bath, where she scoured away the embedded filth from her first months in captivity. She exited to a huge terry towel, held for her by the strange relic of a man. He swabbed away every trace of water before he gently pushed her to the plush carpet that covered the tile floor. There she had her first taste of his prick. She sucked him as she’d been trained, lapping with relish the smooth tight member, drinking in the new aroma, and wondering at his shaved genitals—common for women, but less often seen in men—at least the men in her experience. Once his cock was big and proud, bobbing before her eyes, he pulled her to her feet and the two landed on the big master bed, having sex the way he should have with his wife. Afterwards, they napped, until he rose from bed, found a collar for her to wear and tethered her to the footboard of the bed. It was just in the evening when he left her to attend to other matters. She was clean, unfed, and horny, waiting, too worried at that moment to dare masturbate. As far as she could see, there were no cameras to record secret activities, but she hated the idea of being found out more than she needed to come.
For the first week, Evie slept naked beside Gable’s master bed, on a thin mat with a bare thin pillow for her head. It didn’t approach the comfort of a real mattress, but since this was all that was offered her, she learned to sleep when given the chance. When she wasn’t tethered to the bed, she was often caged in the attic and left for hours, or led to one of the house’s main rooms, and tied to a chair, table, doorframe, the floor, anywhere the master or his mistress decided. Alia took a backseat role in matters regarding the new acquisition—something Gable took care of. His fondness for Evie was clearly apparent to anyone who happened to be in the house at that time.
After a week, she got used to her nakedness, even when she wouldn’t see another naked body for days, and her lack of clothes make her stick out like an outsider, or an intruder. She could easily blush if someone stared at her, and though she was tempted to hide herself, instinct told her that wouldn’t be allowed.
A week of careful scrutiny revealed her master’s peculiarities, the warts, the inconsistencies, the obvious ambiguities. She caught him twice in lies. Not that she would tell him so, or anyone else; she simply observed his opinions to one friend were quickly contradicted when there was another friend to please. She didn’t understand him except to guess that he was more dangerous than the others, the trainers, the masters, the buyers and sellers that had previously had her in their care. She understood straightforward, uncomplicated behavior, but this man one had a diabolical streak that frightened her as much as it was confusing. She had no idea where his desires might lead, if anywhere at all.
***
Gable was enrapt, enthralled, obsessed by Evie. Other especially desirable girls had caught his fancy in the past, but not in the same way; his mind twisted in directions few would think of.
He planned her great initiation—something he avoided with the others, because he thought initiations too staged. And yet, that was exactly what the night ahead would be. Theatre, a theatre of the incredible. He had already decided in advance that Evie would remain a trinket. That would be her life forever. His body ached with lust as he thought of her in perpetuity as the naked slave, the naked whore, the anomaly of womanhood in the twenty-first century. Her quaint beauty, the exotic quality of her foreign heritage; her simple body, simple breasts, simple denuded pubi
c mound made her the one, above all the many others over fifteen years of holding women captive, most suited to his life long fantasy. It had been only a dream until he found her in the pages of the Ranch-Slaves website—and guessed what was behind the winsome smile, the engaging lips, the nubile body. He snapped her up at first glance, as if he’d discovered gold, discovered a gem that had been searched for a thousand years, hidden away until he stumbled on the qualities that few would notice as truly rare. Had he been the only one to note the unusual quality of that smile, her body, wit, grace and innocence? He wanted to believe that other men saw the possibilities, but were too scared to have what they wanted most.
An initiation… it was the only practical way to separate her from the common girls, who eventually graduated from their naked servitude to hold other roles at the house. She would never graduate. Never. Ever.
His heart leapt in his throat, crotch itching for pussy as he set his plans in motion. The feeling was at one time so strong that day, that he grabbed Georgie out of the kitchen and screwed her in the butler’s pantry, banging his over energetic cock into the mushy steel of her tight cunt. His thighs slapped her like he was spanking her, making sounds that could be heard through half the house. The ending was particularly abrupt, a quick grunt and he was finished. Afterwards, he pushed her away, made her suck the juices off his cock and dry it on her apron. He left her to get back in the mood of baking bread before she ruined her latest effort rising in the warm kitchen window.
“What is it you want of me?” he asked Evie in the bedroom before he led her downstairs for his exhibition.
She looked at the man bewildered by the question.
“Nothing,” she replied, flatly, hoping the answer was what he wanted.
He scanned her face, sure he could see the lie there. Then he made up one himself, when he couldn’t read anything but sincerity in her expression.
The Seller, Buyer, Girl and Her Master Page 11