by Anneke Jacob
"Here's my little pup, just where she's supposed to be. Nice to be greeted at the door." He sat down on the bench, put the mail down beside him, and took hold of the chain. I could feel him testing the padlock between finger and thumb, counting links. Then he grabbed some hair, including the clip, and narrowed his eyes at me. "Not very difficult, girl.”
“I'm sorry, master," I whispered. Yup, I was in trouble.
"Let's take care of that first, then." He lifted me, whimpering, face-down over his lap, still leashed to the bench, and pulled my right wrist up between my shoulder blades. My god, he hadn't been in the door thirty seconds. I hadn't been wrong about the punishment, only about the instrument; he used his hand, which was almost as hard as a paddle. It was so painful that within three smacks I was leaking tears, as if the blows at one end were forcing liquid from me at the other end. "You've had this coming since two o'clock, haven't you?”
“Yes, master!" I gasped. "You got careless, didn't you?”
“Yes, master.”
“Are you allowed to use your hands when you eat? For anything?"
I choked out a "No, master" that wasn't clear enough, and had to be repeated.
By the time he was done, my backside was ready to burst into flames. I followed along on the chain, step by small step, as he inspected the areas I'd cleaned. To my vast relief I only had to straighten some furniture, and take some slaps to my thighs rather than my ass.
"Better, girl," he nodded approvingly. "You're learning." He took the chain up short and delicately licked my wet eyes, and then my neck above the collar. I moaned and tried to press myself against him, but the chain and collar pulled me back.
"Stop; I want to have a shower first. Come upstairs and keep me company." He drew keys jingling from his pocket, and unlocked the padlock at my throat. "I spent all day in a basement pouring concrete." A leash came out of the hall cabinet and was fastened it to my collar. "Had my head in the damned joists half the time." I looked up at Anders' silvery hair, darkened 159
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with streaks of dust. "I told them it needed digging deeper, but they didn't have the money. And they're short. Small, I mean. So it doesn't worry them."
He turned me around and locked my hands behind my back. "All right, short one, up you go."
I approached the stairs apprehensively. With my ankles so closely hobbled, there was no way up, walking or crawling, especially with my hands fastened behind my back. I looked plaintively up at him, and he smiled back, the glint amused and wicked. "Consider it the next instalment on your punishment. And a bit of exercise, lazy girl." I gave a broken sigh, half a moan, and lowered my sore butt gingerly onto the second step. Oh, for an elevator! I pulled my linked feet up to the step below me, shifted my weight forward and pushed myself up a step. I made the mistake of sliding myself back, and winced. There were sixteen steps. I'd had prior opportunities to count them. New tears began dripping onto my knees.
Anders had made me do this before, but not with a freshly-spanked ass. I had fantasies of him taking pity on me and lifting me over his shoulder.
Childlike plaints of "Carry me!" burbled through my head, though fortunately not out of my mouth. Although he let me stop part-way while he fondled my breasts, he seemed uninterested in any strong-man rescue.
At the top, feeling utterly grilled, breathless and full-out crying, I knelt, tethered, in the bathroom while he showered, watching his long form through glass. That exercise up the stairs had been 'the next instalment;' this was ominous. Evidently there was more to come. All that because I forgot to tie my hair back! It hardly seemed fair. 'Fair' being, of course, a laughable concept under the circumstances. He made the rules, he enforced them, he was judge, jury and executioner, just like Fury the Dog in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. The heat from my rear end was starting to have its usual after-effect, spreading outward in a heavy burn. Please, I thought, please use me, touch me, handle me, anything….
He slid the shower door aside and stepped out, towelling his head, and I leaned toward him so far I choked myself. He came closer and let me lick drops of water from his thighs, and then his hand was pressing my face hard against his body. I buried my face in wet pubic hair, licking fervently. Then he pulled me back by the hair, and smiled down into my face. "My eager little hunhund." He felt my red butt. "Definitely in heat. More of a monkey than a dog today." He finished drying himself, one step out of my reach.
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***
This was a fitting reward for a day in a basement, Anders decided.
Something out of a porn novel. His own luscious, well-spanked slave, panting and whining for sex. He fastened her face-down over the footboard, which was exactly the right height and thickness because he'd constructed it himself. And then he examined and squeezed and stroked, starting from the extremities and working his way in: small helpless hands, slender arms, straining feet up on their toes, trembling legs. He felt his way up her back and around her shoulders, pulling straps, checking locks.
The smooth, swollen tits were worthy of a good deal of attention; he squeezed and manipulated them for a long time. The reddened ass shuddered and clenched at his touch. At last he parted the slippery cunt lips and tested the salty sea of liquid there. Her panting immediately upshifted, taking on a pleading, frantic quality. He withdrew his fingers.
"Please…please, master…please…" she whimpered.
"Do you think you deserve it?" he asked lightly.
She groaned. "I don't know, master."
He pinched some ass flesh hard and she shrieked. "You know the answer, girl." His fingers tightened their grip.
"Ow!" she wailed. Her back arched and twisted. Then she dropped her head and whispered, "No. I don't deserve it."
"That's right." They had already agreed to this. If 'agreed' was the right term under the circumstances. She deserved nothing he didn't choose to give her.
He lubricated her asshole and slowly inserted himself, feeling her sphincter stretch around him. God, she was tight! Slowly, he pumped himself forward, inch by inch, until his belly was rubbing up against her punished flesh. Thrusting hard, then, he listened and gauged her pain, drank it in, prolonged it. He gripped a breast in each hand, felt her urgent body struggling. His cock was sliding, forward and back, through a dark, exquisite halo, hot and radiant, and he was gradually taking on that heat and turning it into energy. Adding to it, adjusting the currents just so. He slowed, to gather up as much of the charge as he could. There was a sparkling sensation, a tiny vibration somewhere behind his balls. Anders took a harder grip and felt the rush beginning, sliding past the point of no return, past anything that could stop him. Suddenly he was storming forward, surge after surge until he was 161
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exhausted, renewed, light as air. And there were hours of evening yet to enjoy, and more hours the next day and the next; no end to the delights.
Anders began to move his slave and himself on through their evening. There was a loose end that had dangled for a long while that he had plans to tie up.
But dinner first.
Anders chopped garlic and shallots at the counter, while his girl peeled carrots at the sink, her ankles again linked. "My brother emailed me from Toulouse," he said. "Lucky bastard. He's having a fantastic time."
"Still with the same friends?"
"No, he's sponging off some different ones now. He'd never be able to afford it otherwise." Anders rinsed off the knife and wiped the cutting board.
"Amazing how many people are willing to put him up and put up with him.
He must have charms I'm not aware of.”
“Did – did you go to that area, when you were there?"
"No, we went south through Germany." Right after university Anders had taken two friends to stay with some Danish relatives, then sent the friends off to try the Aalborg nightlife and North Sea beaches for a couple of days whil
e he and kinky cousin Karl enjoyed Copenhagen in their own way.
After that he and his companions had moved on southward. But the cost had driven them home before they were ready to go. "We got as far as northern Italy. I'd love to go back, but now, with my business, I'd have to plan a year in advance. And this isn't the best time." He bent and kissed her shoulder. "I think I have a line on that mantelpiece, by the way. Guy at the lumber yard says he's seen one.”
“Oh, terrific!”
“Did you get hold of your boss?"
"Uh-huh. She says I can put the catalogue together if I can find the time."
"Well, it would save time in the long run."
"Yes."
"Can you fit it in?"
"Here and there. Summer is supposed to be slower, so I might be able to finish it by fall."
"I'm surprised no one's thought of it before."
"Me too."
"But you're seeing things there with a fresh eye. My clever girl." He 162
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checked on the rest of her task, and satisfied, looked down. "You're getting carrot parings on the floor. And on yourself, hunhund."
She picked them up hastily, apologizing, and he gave her a casual, painful swat with a wooden spoon. Then he licked the traces of carrot juice off her breasts.
Anders ate his dinner while watching his slave eat hers, the top of her dark head hovering over the red dish, bound hands riding high on her tailbone. It was worth forgoing the pleasures of dinner conversation to see her like that, meal after meal, breasts lowered between folded knees, nose in her food. Repetition had not dulled the piquancy of this sight; the routine continued to add an indescribable savour to his meals.
Actually, the fact that it was routine was part of the joy. Although he allowed her to be human in conversation when he chose, when it came to mealtimes she was a dumb beast. It might have been a role for her to play. It might have been a game, if it happened less often. But three meals a day, week after week, can make any routine into the norm. Behaviour became identity.
After her meal, as he crouched to mop her up, he observed that the little face was, as usual, painfully abashed. He made her kneel up, facing him, and tugged on her nipple rings. "We have something to clear up, little girl. These piercings happened on your own initiative, if you'll recall." She looked up at him with instant, anxious comprehension. "Is that the way a slave is allowed to behave?"
"No, master." Pupils dilated, the brown eyes shifted fearfully to either side of him, then settled, intent on his face.
"You'll also remember I promised to punish you for that later. Now's the time. Get up." In the living room he released her from the harness, rubbed the pink lines it left on her skin, kissed a few. Then he held her two breasts as if they were small animals trying to escape. His fingers went through the rings, pinning the little creatures down. "You need to learn," he said, " that these belong only to me. Stay where you are."
He came up the basement stairs with an old eight-panelled door. The hardware had already been prepared to fix it solidly, if temporarily, between kitchen and living room. Anders had cleaned and varnished it, and made a few structural changes.
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side of the door, and cinched the waist strap he'd attached to keep her in place. Next her collar, its ring fastened directly to a ring in the door. Her arms were fastened to the surface at wrist and elbow. And then the point of the whole exercise.
He went round to the other side of the door and gently pulled the breasts through the panels he had modified. It had taken some time to find a door with a centre rail narrow enough. Anders had removed the two relevant panels, cut and lined holes for her breasts, and replaced them again. For a minute he thought that he'd miscalculated and made the holes too small, but patiently he worked the soft, pointed mounds toward him, until they bulged and distended gorgeously. He watched for signs that they were too restricted, but their colour remained good and didn't darken. Anders smiled to himself.
He was already thinking of them as disembodied objects; just the effect he'd hoped for.
Checking the other side of the door, he found Maia's head turned toward him, eyes glazing. Hands warm. The ragged breathing of arousal, not pain.
He went back to work. There was a little T-shaped construction he'd fastened to the rail between the holes, projecting forward parallel to the floor, with hooks on springs at the ends of the arms. A simple matter to hook the nipple rings to the springs and make the brown flesh stretch forward. Just enough and no more. There was a some hard breathing from beyond the panels. He stood to one side and watched her for a minute or two for signs of real distress, and saw none. She was staring at him, her mouth hanging open.
Good.
The release of her collar surprised her. Then Anders screwed the gag into place in front of her mouth. "Open up." She closed her eyes and stretched her jaws wide. Anders pressed the head forward over the wooden ball and fastened the collar again. Her nose tip was against the surface.
Could she get enough distance to disengage from the gag? He tried pulling her head gently back and to either side. But he'd estimated correctly; the ball was too big and deep to escape. He listened with pleasure to her stoppered moans, and stroked gently down her back, below the tight belt at her waist.
The striped buttocks drew themselves up tensely. "That's for another time, girl. Right now you're learning something different. Pay close attention to the message."
He snapped off the kitchen light and went to the other side of the door.
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Nothing visible but the pale wood and two conical hillocks of flesh, squeezed into bulbous shapes at the base, and stretched into points at the tips. He got out a light cat and applied it with care, creating slightly darker lines of pink. Pretty. Then he sat down to watch a documentary on medieval Islamic architecture.
When he went into the kitchen for a beer he caught sight of a slight movement; Maia was pressing her pelvis ever so slightly against the door.
He slapped her hard. "Bad girl!"
The drool from her gag had run down the door; she wept succulently as he spanked her, and then screamed at each impact of the cane. Anders mused for a minute, then inserted a thick horizontal bar of wood between her and the door at hip height, forcing her to arch her pelvis back from the door.
Once this was screwed in place he stood by her side and growled in her ear, "You weren't paying attention to your lesson, bad girl. Let's try again."
He unhooked the nipple rings and used a flogger on the isolated tits, hard this time. The leather tips hit the breasts and the door as well; he didn't need to worry about aim, or hitting anything he shouldn't. And the lovely bounce at each blow was mesmerizing. Once the skin was well-marked, and the rings rehooked, he got some tiger balm from the bathroom and rubbed it into the abraded nipples. The muffled howls from beyond the door went up an octave and became muffled shrieks.
After a while these subsided. He'd try the flogger and a tawse a little later. For now he practiced his fiddle for an upcoming folk club performance. His mind ran ahead of the melodic line, testing out the limitless variations and innovations yet to be tried.
***
I watched rain slide down the windows on the streetcar from a standing position, though there were seats to be had. I would probably stand all morning at work as well, for obvious reasons. My aching breasts and nipples felt a bit more protected beneath their leather carapaces. But carrying armfuls of anything, like those pamphlets on West Nile, might be something to leave to Vera.
The shift to my working persona was hanging partway, like a computer screen stuck between two programs. I seemed still half submerged in subspace. When Anders had at last released me from the door the night before, it had been a long, slow process to reconnect my synapses, especially 165
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those connecting my mouth to my brain. I thought I'd taken in, on some visceral level, the lesson he had been trying to convey, but I hadn't been able to articulate it for the life of me. He had held me gently and had allowed me to come up gradually from the depths, his hands describing slow circles on my back and arms and legs.
What had I said, finally? Something about slavery and objectification.
"This – isn't a human body," I'd halted at last; "it's a slave body." He'd nodded. "It always has been. Parts, whole, all of it." Long pause. "I can't – I mustn't ever think – I can decide about it. I don't own it; I don't own its parts.
I can't own – anything. It's all – yours." Words of one syllable. Inarticulate, even for me. My god, I must have been out of it. Had there been any sense in all that? Had I said anything that he hadn't already told me? He'd seemed satisfied, at any rate, and put me to bed. Perhaps he'd figured that was all the sense he was going to get out of me. Or perhaps he'd seen that whether it made sense or not, I'd felt what he'd wanted me to feel. And I still did. I'd spent ages in the dark, with my tits out in the light. They were in a different room, in a different space altogether, a place where my master was and I was not. Warmth, light, music and his hands. My breasts got plenty of attention, in that other dimension they'd been moved to. The rest of me was peripheral.
There was a story of Kafka's, about judicial torture and execution. I'd read it in English class one year, and I remembered being secretly enthralled by the bizarre bondage machine, whereas the torture had upset and preyed on me for days. The idea was that a prisoner, unaware of the crime for which he'd been condemned, was strapped into a mechanical contrivance of gears, wheels and knives. This machine, hour after hour, carved elaborate words into his flesh that explained his offence, going deeper and deeper, until he achieved enlightenment and died. Was that what Anders had had in mind, without the knives or the grisly ending? Enlightenment? Time, after all, was part of his equipment. A brief sojourn behind the door wouldn't have had anything like the same effect.