by Anneke Jacob
I thought a minute, feeling the weight of the chain on my collar. "Yes. I feel safer in a way. I know it's crazy."
He smiled. "That's okay. It's a crazy night."
I felt some compunction for putting him through all this. Like any good, card-carrying heterosexual male, the sight of a naked woman turned him on; that didn't mean he cared to see her in chains and leather with welts on her ass. "For you, too." He laughed. "A night to remember."
"I'm sorry – this must be – " I turned my head away. "I hope it's not horribly – ridiculous and offensive."
Graham shook his head. "No, no. I'm sorry if you're embarrassed, but really I don't – um – mind. Not at all." His head was down, but I caught a little glint in his eye.
He was into it; now I was sure. I really wasn't a disgusting object, thank god. "You do this too?"
His laugh had a bitter edge to it. "Only in my head. I'm married, and it's a good marriage. But my wife is…"
"Not interested?"
"No." He put his feet casually on the coffee table. "She used to let me play around a little, just for fun. But since the kids…no way." I sat silent.
Poor man. At last I said, "Is that why you're a locksmith?"
He blew out an amused breath, and his eyes crinkled up. "Aren't you the clever one? That's right." He told me how his original fascination with locks 258
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had translated into a trade, about the work he did on the side for the local fetish scene, and how he and Anders had worked out the designs for the metal I was locked in. He questioned me about the cuffs' comfort and fit, and had a little look to see how their lining was wearing. I could see he felt safer on his own professional ground; a familiar feeling. Something in his glance told me he would have been happy to have me review the chastity shield if he'd been able to think of a decent way to approach the subject. But I was thankful to be spared that one.
Graham looked at his watch, went into the kitchen and, turning his back, had a brief phone conversation; he said he'd have the repairs finished before long and he'd be home. There was a pause, and then he was saying good night to someone very young.
When he sat down again he focused rather fixedly on the books on the coffee table. There was a large illustrated volume on prehistoric flint tools that he opened and stared at for a while, without turning a page. The silence started to press on my ears; I dipped my head a little just to hear the soft drag of my chain against the rug. Abruptly, Graham shook his head and clapped the book shut.
"Anders should be here soon. Might as well enjoy looking at you while I can." Evidently his guilty conscience had been dealt with. He stood up, and his stare made me shrink. "Don't worry, I won't touch," he said with a grim smile. "Look at what a loyal husband I am. Besides, you don't belong to me.
If you did, believe me, you'd know it." He circled me, pausing to take in the view from different angles. Slowly I breathed and looked straight ahead, trying not to shiver, hoping he knew the cameras were there.
"That chain's too short for you to stand, but you can kneel up, right?" I nodded. "Would you mind doing that, please? Just as a favour."
Some favour. Ought I to be obeying this man, displaying myself?
Would my master be angry? Would he be angry if I didn't? Well, Graham wouldn't be seeing anything he hadn't already seen, with my master's prior consent. I knelt up.
He circled and gazed even longer this time. From behind me he said,
"That must have hurt. What was it?"
"A razor strop," I whispered.
"And that harness – he's got it very tight – it must be hard to breathe.”
“I'm used to it." I love it.
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He sat back down in the chair, adjusted himself surreptitiously and made a sound that was more groan than chuckle. "It's a good thing we're on camera. You're not the easiest thing to resist." I settled back down on my heels, but was unable to do anything else to reduce his temptation. "I'd better read more about banging rocks together," he said, "and see if I can calm down." He didn't pick up the book, however. Time to turn his thoughts elsewhere.
"How old are your kids?"
The eyes shifted away from me at last. "Three and a half and one.”
“Maybe once they're older, your wife will be more – "
"Maybe." The flat voice had a tone more like 'yeah, right.' "I don't ask for much. Some play on weekends, maybe. I'd never go as far as this. Day and night, it's kind of over the top, isn't it?"
"Kind of," I smiled. Damn. So much for distracting him.
He sat forward, elbows on knees. "I'm curious. What if I'd just told you what happened and unlocked you and gone away again? You'd have survived, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, of course. I would have been more worried, probably, but I'd have been all right. But he doesn't want me – just loose, you know. Or looking after myself."
"You don't want to be just loose either. Or you wouldn't feel safer locked up with a horny wannabe."
"That – doesn't feel all that safe," I said carefully. "But being locked up and controlled is – normal for me, and so when I'm stressed it feels safer.
Anders knew I'd be upset." I studied the pattern of the rug in front of me.
"Being controlled by him, even by proxy, means – means he's there to do it, you know?" The pattern blurred.
He looked at me for a while, considering. "He's making you good and dependent on him."
I nodded.
"Kind of risky, isn't it?"
"Not until tonight." Suddenly I could see a car racing through traffic, hear brakes squealing, that deadly bang of metal on metal. A chill squeezed my spine. Chance, chaos, randomness… Anders' anathema. That entropy against which he marshalled so many of his forces. He wasn't immune, Superman fantasies notwithstanding. "Things are what they are," I 260
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whispered. I wasn't sure if I was referring to the hazards of life or our symbiotic relationship. Neither was about to change its nature to accommodate the other.
A step in the hallway, and there at long last was my master. Long and rangy, weary and grease-stained. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. He was loaded down with various toolboxes and his laptop, all of which he dumped down so that he could come to me and hold my head hard against his thigh. Graham went out to bring in more stuff, and Anders squatted down, examined my face and kissed my eyes, which were streaming again.
"It's okay, baby," he said quietly. "It's all right."
I sniffed, and shook my head a little, trying to jostle some sense into it.
"Sorry, master. I was okay a minute ago. You're not hurt?"
"A few bruises; nothing. Are you okay?"
"Yes."
He stroked down my arms, took out his keys and unlocked my wrists. I flexed my shoulders forward. Graham came in lugging a radial arm saw.
"My pal left your hands locked behind you, I see. You bugger," he grinned.
"You wanted a better look, eh?”
“Hey, I just followed instructions." The man's eyes twinkled.
"I assumed you'd figure it was while she was eating. That's okay, fair deal. I owe you one.”
“Not any more. Fair deal, as you say, to get such an eyeful. You are one lucky bastard." That night, after a shower, Anders held me in his lap for a long time, deep in the bedroom armchair. I looked at his face, half lit by one bedside lamp; the rest of the house was in darkness. He had his robe on and looked just as usual. But I kept seeing his body as he'd undressed, his left arm covered in huge bruises where it had been flung against the door, his hip marked by the seatbelt. He'd shrugged it off. I stirred in his lap. "What happened to the guy who hit you?"
"The police were consulting with him. I think he would have absconded from the scene if his bumper hadn't gotten in his way."
"God. Was he drunk?"
"Probably." The voice was offhand, only a little
grim, but Anders loved that pickup. Knowing him, he'd kept his temper through the whole thing, but he must be furious.
"How bad is the truck?"
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"Bad enough. Still fixable. Could be worse. It's all on the right side, toward the back. I tried to speed up to get out of the bastard's way. Body work, back wheel, axle, god knows what else. The cover's toast. At least a week in the shop. Good thing my truck was a lot heavier than his car or I'd have been shoved over into the oncoming lane." I shuddered and his arms tightened around me. "I couldn't get a decent rental till tomorrow; I'll have to get over there early to pick it up.”
“Your arm's going to be stiff in the morning."
"Yeah; I'll supervise more and do less. Don't worry." He stroked my back. "Were you scared when I was late?"
I nodded against his shoulder. "Not at first, but then – I kept seeing you
– hurt or dead. A car accident being one of the visions." I pressed my forehead against his shoulder. "The curse of a visual imagination."
He caressed me in long, unhurried strokes. "It would take a lot to get through that truck. And I'm mister safety at work. Don't let this shake you.
I'll be here." Slowly I nodded.
"But I have to admit, things can happen. I don't manage to control everything. Much as I'd prefer it otherwise."
"I was thinking the same thing." I looked up at him. He was staring bleakly into the shadows. "Master?"
"Mm?"
"What was it? What happened? That you didn't control?"
He looked at me, startled, and then his agate eyes went flat. "I'll tell you sometime. Not tonight."
"Okay." We sat close and silent for a while.
"What did you think when Graham came in?" he asked.
"God. I was terrified. I wish – master, I wish you'd told me – "
"I should have. I'm sorry. I didn't want to scare you with the idea that something might happen to me, but that was stupid as it turned out, wasn't it?"
"It wouldn't have been quite so bad if it had been Val, say. At least I would have known her. Though – " I imagined Val coming through the door, sizing me up with a sardonic hazel eye. No, that would have been worse, much worse.
"She has a set of keys, too; she's first on the list but I couldn't get hold of her. So it had to be Graham. He's a bit more predictable about being home 262
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after work. And he has a pager." Val had keys, too. This was a revelation.
How many people knew how I was kept?
His eye flickered over my face, reading me. "Just the two of them so far.
If I decide to add to that I'll let you know. Was Graham okay with you?"
I described the evening. Anders didn't seem to think any of it had been a problem. So apparently it was okay for his friends to see me in full slave mode, at least in emergencies. I didn't know how to feel or what to think about this, except that it was unsettling in the extreme. I huddled into his chest again and closed my eyes.
"You know what?" he said, shifting me back again. "Tonight has been, to put it mildly, a royal pain in the ass. I think it would do me good to transfer a little of that pain to my slave's ass." The razor strop was still on the table next to him; he picked it up and flexed it. "My little whipping girl.
Fortunately, it's not my right arm that's bruised."
I submitted almost eagerly, glad to be of use. And thankful that he was alive to beat me. The unfairness of it felt surprisingly normal and reassuring, as did the huge and heavy cock that pressed against my hip. Once he had me crying he pushed me to the floor, gripped my head tightly by the hair on either side, fucked my throat, and made me swallow some part of his night's resentment.
***
Anders' pickup and his arm were back to normal by the end of a week.
The emotional impact on his slave took a little longer. He considered coming home earlier for a while, but decided against this kind of indulgence; the best reassurance would be sticking to routine. Each evening when he came through the door he found her body less tense, more like the eager puppy he was used to.
He, on the other hand, was mildly depressed. There was no obvious reason. He was busy as usual and things were under control, even the insurance and the police reports. Yet something inside him was off. How could a minor accident have this much impact? Shit happened, you dealt with it. But the mood wouldn't quite be shaken.
One night as he put Maia to bed he saw her watching him with a tiny line of worry between her eyes. Before he turned out the light he lay with his head propped on one hand, looking at her. "What's the matter, girl?"
Her eyes searched his face. "I was going to ask you the same thing."
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"Why?" He stopped himself. "No." Lying to her was ridiculous. "All right. I know. I've been a little down lately." Her eyes went dark. Anders at once caressed a shoulder. "It's not you, girl. It's not us. Something else. I don't know what."
Her face cleared. She was examining the lines of his face. "Since the accident, master. I think…"
"What?"
"I don't want to – to psychoanalyze you."
He smiled. " All-powerful gods don't require analysis, just worship, you think?" He ran his hand along her waist and hip. "Though it always seemed to me that for someone so all-powerful, the Almighty needed an awful lot of reassurance."
"Bad-tempered, too," she offered. "Jealous. You're much better at it."
He laughed. "Thank you, love. All tributes graciously accepted. So what clued you in?"
She looked slightly taken aback. "Well… Everything. Do you think I can't tell?" Anders shook his head slightly, and smiled. "I can list the signs if you want," she offered. "You've been going easy on me for one. Not like you.”
“Damn. So I have. Poor baby."
"I was kind of grateful for the break at first and then I started to worry."
"Turned out I was human after all, huh?"
"Master?"
"All right. I think I know what it is."
He settled onto his back and lay silent for a minute, looking at the ceiling. "The night of the accident, you asked me what happened that I couldn't control. It's old stuff; I thought I'd dealt with it. But it's taking me more and more effort not to think about it. I think that night got it going again." He turned and looked at her face. "You're not surprised."
She kissed his shoulder; her only caress with her hands chained. "No."
Anders stared at the ceiling some more. "I don't ever talk about it.
Which I guess means it's still more powerful than I want to admit." He let out a long breath. "All right. I had a very good friend in university. Guy named Sam. We were tight in first year; same dorm, same classes, same pubs. Camping a couple of times. A good guy. Quirky; very funny if you listened for it.”
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“In second year we rented a place near campus. Things didn't go so well. Sam started skipping classes. I mean, a lot. Important ones. And when he did show up he was a pain in the ass – getting off topic, irritating people.
That was new. He'd party for days at a time. A lot of drinking. Then a long stretch where he would hardly get out of bed.
"He'd been serious about school in first year. But it looked like he was regressing into stupid freshman stuff that had never interested him before. If he didn't shape up he was going to lose his year. I had to do something."
"What did you do?"
"Fuck," Anders sighed irritably, "what didn't I do? More and more as time went on. I started out just hauling him out of bed in time for class.
Trying to talk some sense into him. Then helping him with his papers. I thought it was temporary, you see; some stupid glitch that he'd get over.
After a while I was more or less running interference for him, working things out with people to keep him out of
trouble." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Superman protecting the weak.”
“Did he appreciate it?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes not. But everyone else was getting fed up with him. Avoiding him, because he was getting weird. I stuck by him."
"You don't quit."
"No," he said quietly. "You're right there. I'd never failed at anything before and I wasn't about to start. And as I said, he'd been a really good friend. A terrific guy." He felt a weight in his chest, and swore silently to himself in an attempt to make it lift. No luck. He went on with it still pressing, his voice sounding muffled in his own ears. "Eventually even I had to admit that something was wrong; I mean really wrong. Tried to get him to the university health service. I couldn't get him out of bed. I called his family. They made him see a doctor, but he wouldn't go back a second time.”
“What did the doctor say?"
"Depression. Gave him pills. And Sam got even crazier. He raved that his parents had always been out to belittle him and box him in, and he refused to talk to them. And if I talked to them I was another one. What did I know? I was a little weird by that time myself, just from the sleep deprivation. Sam wasn't sleeping much and I was starting to be afraid to leave him alone. He was getting harder and harder to handle. All these crazy 265
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plans, crazy outbursts. I was afraid he'd take off, end up god knows where.
Get hurt. Get his head beat in.
"I finally persuaded him to go with me to the hospital. I had to get him to a doctor somehow. It was all I could think of to do. I don't know if he had any idea where we were going; he hardly listened to me. We were heading up Summer Street. It was snowing like a sonofabitch. Sam was going on and on about tobogganing down Citadel Hill. He didn't have a toboggan.
Naturally. He started inviting passers-by to join him. Shouting to people in cars. They thought he was drunk. I just pulled him along; I'd stopped arguing with him by this time. And then he got away from me and I lost him." His eyes stared bleakly into the shadows. Maia waited. Finally she said, "What happened?"