by Anneke Jacob
"Damned straight. And?"
Once she'd thanked him adequately and promised better behaviour in future he took a few inches of chain from his pocket and linked her ankles with it.
"This will remind you not to run."
When she was off the table and upright again he directed her toward the kleenex and watched her shuffle gingerly over to blow her nose. The chain jingled. "All right, girl. You'll find the whole wheat flour in the right-hand cupboard. Green plastic container." He watched her move carefully and put her trembling hand where it was supposed to go. "Fine. Oven cleaner."
Anders made her struggle on, back and forth across the kitchen in tiny steps, continuing to punish her methodically for each mistake. As he expected, though she winced and whimpered, she managed to contain any further self-protective impulses.
Finally he looked down at her sitting on her heels by the baking tins.
"That'll do for now." He dropped the whip on the floor in front of her. Maia looked up at him, then down at the whip, and then she shifted her confined body like a fulcrum to bring her head to the floor, her ass high. Her mouth pressed itself to the whip. He put his foot next to it. With only a heartbeat's pause she kissed that too. Yes. "Good girl."
She pressed her face to his shoe, kissed it again and then looked up at him, eyes swimming. For a long moment their eyes locked. A shaft of sunlight linked them, dust motes vibrating golden, the air between them dancing. Slowly Anders reached down and took hold of the ring in her collar.
"Up." She had to use her hands, on his leg and the counter, to get to her shackled feet. "All right. I want some coffee, so make me some, and put it in 127
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this mug –" he said, pointing, "and bring it out on this tray – " pointing again, "so that if you spill any you won't burn your pretty tits or stain the corset. But you'd better not spill any." He went to his desk by the front window and sat down to do some work.
***
I did what I'd been told to do with the coffeemaker; luckily when he'd shown me that I'd actually been listening. The weals on my bottom attested to how distracted I'd been otherwise. This wouldn't do. I had to pay attention, no matter how distracting all these new sensations were, no matter how desperately aroused I was. No matter how much I wanted to be down on my knees begging to come. I couldn't serve him properly unless I listened to his every word, caught every nuance of meaning. And unless I actually remembered what he told me. Cheese grater there, pot lids there, and what was that thing in the fridge called? Oh, yeah, celeriac. I could think about mistakes like that, because they were minor compared with the colossal failure of trying to avoid the whip. I could hardly bear to think about it. How could I have done such a thing? After weeks of obediently presenting for it.
As I waited for the coffee pot to fill, I took a surreptitious look at Anders at his desk at the other end of the house, in profile against the light from the window at his side, just then pulling out a file drawer. In the process of renovation he'd opened up all the space downstairs; there was not even a counter between us. Nowhere to hide. No doubt that was the intention. I got out the tray and put his mug on it, noticing that everything felt different in a corset. But he was right; I was getting used to it. My breathing was all up in my thorax, but I was getting enough air. Still, the restriction, and my burning ass, and the scene upstairs, and every moment since we'd come through the door had me at a level of arousal that was very difficult to ignore. My pelvis pressed itself forward into the counter, then I pulled back. No. None of that. The chain caught my ankles and I caught the counter for balance. I'd forgotten the new restriction and my undignified new gait. Worse than crawling in front of him; I'd begun to get used to that a little, to the animal quality of it, and the feeling of his eyes burning on my rear end. Now I had to actually face him as I shuffled and minced and tripped. Was there any possible way to move gracefully like this? I doubted it. But every halting, hampered step communicated itself up the sinews of my legs, like hidden cords tugging at my cunt.
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The sliding doors to the back looked out onto a deck that was shaded with an overhead trellis of some kind. Weaving through it were thick branches not yet fully in leaf; an arbour then. Beneath it sat a sturdy lawn chair, and a small table holding three shallow-dished plants. Bonsais. There was the one with red clusters sprouting, the one he'd been working on behind my back while I stood in the corner steeping in sore humiliation. I glanced back at the corner, which though now clean and smoothly painted, looked like it was ready for me any time.
The rest of the yard was long, with a high privacy fence all around. It was full of plants and bushes, pale green, well short of their summer foliage.
A bit wild looking. I wondered whether I'd get to go out there much. Not dressed this way, presumably.
The corset's embrace felt like his big arms crushing me. And I had to admit that I loved it. Still, I could easily imagine that at some point I might, indeed, want it off. Would he release me from it then? What if he didn't? I'd never be able to get it off on my own, not without him knowing. Lacing it up again the same way would be impossible. I felt my back, curious to know what was stopping me from releasing the straps and undoing the corset.
There were no buckles, only those narrow metal rectangles, not entirely flat but slightly raised like tunnels, through which the straps passed. After a moment's exploration I located a keyhole in one of them. I was really locked in this thing. Really, truly locked and without a key. I took a fast, restricted breath, fought down my reactions, and decided to stick with the moment.
Despite my ineptitude with food, I did at least know how he liked his coffee – cream, no sugar – and I carried the tray in with great care, step by tiny, jingling step. He seemed to be adding up receipts. An offhand voice said, "On your knees." His thumb flipped up another page; he added another figure. I sank down gingerly, my eyes glued to the mug, very much afraid of a spill on the expensive-looking Indian rug beneath my feet. But I managed.
To my surprise, once he'd taken a sip he put the mug back on the tray, and went on with his work. I froze there, arms half extended, waiting for directions. None were forthcoming. After a minute he took another sip, and replaced the mug again, and I got it. I had been servant/slave, now I was furniture. Table space. I tried to keep as still as possible.
The desk was even bigger than I'd thought. It had looked lightweight from a distance, almost like wicker, because it was more or less that colour, 129
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and was supported by a kind of lattice work – narrow, vertical amber-coloured slats. But it was solid wood. He had a two-drawer filing cabinet under it on the left, and a wide shallow drawer in the middle, and that was it.
I had the feeling he'd built it himself; it was the right height for him.
His computer was on, some financial program. I felt a weird – no, an utterly mundane impulse to check out what kind of software he had, an urge to check my e-mail. Nerd that I was, I probably hadn't gone half a day without touching a computer in years. Most days I'd spent hours on there.
Now it was off-limits without permission. I couldn't quite take this in. Not that I didn't believe him; Anders always meant what he said. I just couldn't get my head around such a loss of autonomy; not all at once.
He took up the mug again, took a longer sip, and looked at me for a moment as he set it down. His hand brushed my cheek before he went back to the keyboard. The meaning was clear. Good girl.
Apparently if I just did as he told me and nothing else, I'd please him.
This small success gave me a bit of a glow, and gave my tiring arms a boost.
But another discomfort was growing, something I was trying to suppress because I wasn't sure how I'd get to deal with it. Would he unlock the ankle chain so I could get upstairs to the bathroom? Or would I have to creep up the stairs somehow?
At last, w
hen he switched from the financial program to a PDF form that said City of Toronto at the top, I ventured to whisper, "Master?"
"Yes?"
"I have to – may I go to the bathroom, please?"
"What do you need to do there?"
"I need to pee."
"Then you can use the chamber pot. There." He pointed at a squat white covered enamel bowl by the wall, in the shadow of a small table. On the table was a tissue box.
Oh, god. I'd seen the thing but it hadn't entered in. The tray was lifted off my hands. I could feel my face burning at the thought of squatting over that pot in plain view. The word "but…" was at my lips, but I bit it off; a conditioned reflex by now. By this time I knew that there was absolutely no percentage in questioning his orders, or in anything at all other than instant obedience. My hands went to the floor and I crept slowly up to the thing.
Positioning myself over it was an agony of awkwardness, the ankle chain 130
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helping not at all. And then I couldn't let it go for ages. I was almost in tears by the time I finally managed it.
I covered the pot and crept back to him, head down, unable to meet his eye. He gently pulled my head against his side. "It'll get easier, girl. You'll see." I buried my face in his shirt, but I could hear the amusement in his voice. "Before long you'll be completely housetrained." I wailed indignantly and tried to pull my head back, but he held it in a tight grip under one arm.
The other hand went to my breast and stroked soothingly. "Ssshh… easy, now… that's the girl…" I gave up my momentary struggle, feeling both lulled and humiliated. He was talking to me as if I was a flighty domestic animal. Which I suppose was the idea.
Housetrained… the word reverberated, racketing back and forth between the bones of my skull. In this house no clothes, no autonomy…. Be what I make you…. That wasn't going to be as easy as I'd thought. I was afraid...what was I afraid of? Stupid question; what wasn't I afraid of?
He was still stroking me. I sighed. After a minute he released my head.
"Under the desk, now, girl. I have to get some work done." The chair rolled back, one foot went up on the desk, and the other was used to gently shove me toward the opening. And under I went. No thought, no argument; I just did it. This of all things felt quite natural: to be at his feet.
It was a twilight world under there. Strips of light came through the lattice, which now, of course, resembled a cage. I was on the room side; the filing cabinet filled the side by the window. I could just see a little space behind it, past his feet. On my side the lattice continued along the front of the desk, up to the drawer in the middle and the space for Anders' legs.
Caged on three sides, master's legs on the fourth.
I could see the living room and kitchen quite well. One-inch spaces, one-inch slats. Wood surfaces sanded but unfinished on this side. No splinters. Hard, cool, clean floor beneath my knees; the rug didn't go this far.
The surface above my head forced me to crouch. But when I sat instead of kneeling I could just sit up. I touched the lath gently with one finger, ran a finger down it. Pushed. Pushed harder. No movement; solid. This man built everything like rock. After a while I leaned tentatively against his leg, and felt his hand briefly in my hair. So I stayed there, up against the warmth of him, and was happy. Listened to the keyboard sounds above me. Mouse clicks. He made a phone call, checking on someone's supply of 131
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underdecking, whatever that was. When his leg shifted I lay down on the floor. The corset made it hard to curl up.
I hadn't exactly gotten a lot of sleep the night before, and the dim light could have been soporific; still, I was wide awake. Looking at the very large shoe in front of me (size 14). Wondering if he'd mind if I kissed it. Thinking about the job I was starting on Monday, and how Anders might control me beyond these walls, as he was clearly planning to do. I hoped there'd be no conflict between the demands of the job and Anders' demands. Given how he'd handled me through school, probably not. But would I be able to use a computer at work without getting into trouble? I'd have to.
I'd had four interviews and two offers, one from a Toronto historical archive, the other from an environmental coalition's information centre. I still felt wistful about that archive job, with its subject matter safely in the past, its demands measured and scholarly. Helping people dig out material from past centuries: curious and mundane fragments of everyday life. But the hours were sporadic, and Anders said it was below my level of qualifications, which I had to admit was true. So instead of burying myself in nineteenth-century property assessment rolls, I'd be dealing with global warming, deforestation, and activists who needed their facts served up fast and hardhitting. All of which pushed my anxiety buttons like you would not believe. Fortunately it was only part-time, and I'd be able to bury myself back in the house in the afternoons.
The phone rang against the wood above me, making me jump. I listened to Anders' business voice, his polite silence.
"No," he said. "I can't do that; we're booked." A sigh. "No, I told you, we can't add any more to that contract. I've got to be out by the 23rd. I could schedule it for August." He paused, and then went on. "Because we're booked to do a job somewhere else." The feet stretched forward, and crossed. "Well, I appreciate that, but money's not the issue; I've got a schedule and I have to stick to it, or I'm screwing everyone else right down the line." Pause. "Yes, other contractors do it. And as a result they don't show up when they say they will." His voice shifted to a lighter tone. "By all means, find someone else to look after it." He said, "Good luck," under his breath as the phone went down.
He leaned down, took me by the chain between my nipples and drew me out steadily until he had me on my feet. I looked at him to see if the phone 132
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conversation had put him out of temper, but there was no sign of it. He sent me off to scrub vegetables and set the table – one place setting, of course. I did get smacked, but that was because the potatoes weren't clean enough. At last I obeyed a pointing finger and knelt down in the middle of the floor.
"Over to that mat, now, out of my way." I crept over to a mat in the corner, and felt his fingers on my collar, locking something to the ring at the back. My eyes followed the chain back to a ring at the wall; I was tethered again. With longing, I watched his long, triangular back and the muscles in his arms, listened to all the chopping and sizzling, smelled the savoury stuff he was cooking. Looked forward to the feeding ritual: kneeling at his side and being fed from his hand.
Anders turned with something bright red and rectangular, and set it down in front of me. A dog dish. Cubed bits of food in one side, water in the other. I felt a deep flush sweep its way upward as I stared at the dish. I wanted to shut my eyes, but couldn't. Couldn't move either. I felt him pull my hands behind my back and lock them there. My eyes remained locked to the red thing on the floor.
I was aware of him standing over me, watching. I was supposed to crouch down, put my face into that dish and eat from it. He expected that.
Obedience, without delay. And I wanted to obey. I needed to obey. I needed more than anything to do what I was told. I would eat from the dish, I'd obey. I just couldn't move.
He crouched down next to me, his hand on my shoulder. "What's the matter, girl?"
I stared at the dish. "I don't know," I whispered. "I will – I just can't – “
“Yes, you will. Start now."
I managed to close my eyes for a moment, but the dish was burned into my retinas, this time in green. I was still locked in an immobility I couldn't understand. Why this? Why accept everything else and not this? But I couldn't.
"Do you need some help?" His voice was quiet, but I could hear the undertones. I managed a slight nod. He went away and he came back, and there was a swishing noise and a line of fire across my ass that made me scream. I stumbled forward on my knees, released from
my paralysis, felt another strike and had my nose down in the dish, and I was crying around my mouthful when the third one descended. He watched me for a little, cane 133
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in hand, and then leaned down and drew his fingers through the lake that was my cunt. Then those fingers were at my lips. I licked up my juices, sauce for the food in my dish. Plenty of tears for the salt.
***
"On the couch now, girl, next to me."
Next to him? What now? I didn't believe he was going to let me sit with him and watch TV, even with my hands still locked behind me. I was drawn down and arranged on my back with my feet toward him. Thought so. He linked my ankles on short chains to rings at each side of my waist; the corset had a variety of such hardware. A cord, something elastic, from each ankle to each nipple ring held my flexed legs just a little bit tighter – just enough, as I soon discovered, to make each convulsive kick punishing, while the chains to my waist stopped me short of any damage.
Mostly he read. Something called The Grape Grower: Guide to Organic Viticulture. And though it was a good-sized book, one huge hand was enough to keep it steady. With the other, casual and cruel, he pinched, tormented and teased me. Long hard pinches on my labia. Tufts of pubic hair twisted and steadily pulled. Sudden semi-painful flicks on clit and anus.
After involuntarily yanking my nipples more than once I tried to stay still, but it was no use. He made sure I writhed, gasped, and writhed again.
When my whimpers and yelps took on the shape of words I got my thigh smacked, hard. "Who gave you permission to speak?" He rolled me off the couch onto my knees and I crouched there, face to the floor, unable to move. To my relief I felt him release the nipple cords.
"Go to the chest in the front hall. Open the bottom drawer."
I suppressed a groan and lurched forward on my tightly flexed knees, unable even to raise my butt much off the ground due to the ankle chains, burning with humiliation. The spots between my legs that had received his attentions ached and throbbed. When I had struggled all the way to the chest, it was necessary to crouch down and put my breasts to the floor in order to get my mouth low enough to grasp one of the knobs. Then, because I was pulling only from one side, it stuck. I had to shuffle sideways, crouch down, get my teeth onto the other knob and shuffle backwards again. Again it stuck. Back and forth once more, till I could grasp the middle edge with my mouth. All the while aware of my master watching this dreadful performance. In the course of one go from right to left my cunt brushed the 134