by Anneke Jacob
373
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
" he picked up her hands by their thumbs – "any more than I want you speaking. Is that clear?”
“Yes, master." He wanted more than simple compliance now. "Is it?" he asked.
She took a deep breath. "Master, I've only been human when you allow it. Not otherwise. It's – its always been up to you where I am on the continuum. Animal to human. I know which – to which end I belong."
"Good. Now that you know my plans, back to question time. It has been a year. Tomorrow is the day we go to the bank and shift all your money into my account. And arrange that for all your future paycheques, too. That's pretty major. I'm also changing the question time intervals from three months to six. Yes, I know you hate this, but listen! One last chance. If you have any doubts at all about any of this, say so now."
She burst into tears and pressed herself into his chest. "No, master! No doubts! Please!”
“All right." He squeezed her tight. "It's all right. Shh. I didn't really think there would be, sweetheart. But I had to ask."
"Please, no more," she sobbed. "Please no more question time. I don't decide. I'm a thing; you own me. Please don't tell me I have choices."
He pressed her to him, tucking her head hard under his chin, feeling her sobs against his throat. "I have to know – have to know I'm not harming you
– " His voice shook a little. Her shaking, or his own?
"No, never," she said. "You must – must know by now – "
He grimaced, staring into space above her head. "I've been wrong before."
She pulled back and searched his face. "That was different," she whispered. "Not everything is – is controllable. Even you can't …." She closed her eyes and propped her forehead against his shoulder. "But me –
I'm getting – master, I need this. This is what I am. Please, no more question time…"
He pulled her back against him, and laughed a little, ruefully. "Do you think you get a choice about that, slave, any more than you do about anything else?" There was a tiny groan below his chin. "No, master."
"There's your paradox, then. Our never-quite-ending dilemma." She looked up again, sniffling. "But it's over for the time being, sweetheart, at least until November. I'll think about making it next May instead. If I see 374
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
fit." He tipped her head back and kissed her wet eyes. "Not exactly orange blossom and crossed whips, is it?"
She blurted a thick laugh, snuffled again, and scrubbed at the last of her tears. "You never did like formalities."
He reached a long arm for a tissue and handed it to her; she blew her nose. "The bank account is a bit of a formality," he said, "and a pretty major commitment on a practical level. If a bit cold."
Maia gave her head the hard little shake that meant she was back to normal. "Is it much?" she asked. "I've lost track. Anyway, it's yours, master.
Not much more than symbolic, I suppose, compared with what you make."
"Are you kidding? A year's part-time income, untouched. Very useful, believe me."
Anders sat for a while in silence, his hand slowly circling on Maia's back and shoulders and hips, gently smoothing her hair. Enfolding the skin, nerves, blood, bone and heart that belonged to him. Reading the thoughts behind the eyes so well now, sometimes better than he read his own. And how well did she read his?
His hands stilled. "I've been thinking about Saturday. What I said at the hospital. And it occurred to me that we'd had a conversation like that before.
When I told you about Sam." She nodded.
"You noticed that, did you? The egotism on my part. To think I'm the one in charge. That just because I set out to do something, I necessarily have the power to do it. Alone and unaided.”
“That's because you usually do. Have the power to do things."
"Maybe. And the responsibility. But I should be able to recognize my limitations. Because otherwise, when things don't go my way, I see myself as a – how did you put it back then? – as a god screwing up on the job."
"Yes."
"And then I'll stick to the plan in my head, even if it's a dead end.
Tunnel vision. Trying to be the hero."
"And disappoint yourself."
"Oh, yeah. Big time."
She ran a gentle hand over his arm. "It's odd," she said. "You're very creative." She mirrored his half smile, and went on, "I don't just mean with me. A creative problem-solver; I've seen it. Patient, too. And you don't work alone."
375
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
He considered this, then shrugged. "When it's easy, sure. When I'm calling the shots. Patience, creativity, all that goes down the tubes when I find out I'm not in charge. Especially when it's people's lives and I feel responsible."
She nodded. "You've been taking it on."
"Yes. As a personal failure."
"Instead of a national disgrace," she said solemnly. "Involving three levels of government and decades of societal neglect, indifference and scapegoating. Obviously all your fault.”
“Shit. Some ego, huh?"
She drew his long head down to her own and kissed it. "My Superman.
Maybe you're just Batman. No super powers, exactly, but one hell of a utility belt."
Anders' laugh exploded out of nowhere, from nothingness to nova in a picosecond like the Big Bang. There was no stopping it. He laughed until his stomach hurt and he'd collapsed over Maia's shaking shoulders.
At last he took a breath, said, "Wow," and wiped his eyes. "Just Batman, huh?" His still laughing slave got a stern look; he pinched her ass till she squealed. Then, smiling, he sat back and sighed. "Not enough tools on my belt for this particular job, as it turns out. I think it's getting through my head, not to treat everything like a nail just because I've got a hammer, but whatever the right tool is, I haven't got it. But like you said, maybe someone else does.”
“Like who?"
"I don't know yet. But I've more or less come round to the possibility. It doesn't seem so terrible now, for some reason." Slowly his palm circled on her left breast, and then her right. "Never mind, sweetheart. This is an anniversary; enough soul-searching for now. We should mark the occasion."
He dumped her off his lap, went to the dresser and picked up a small brown paper bag. "I won't mark that beautiful skin. Well, not permanently. But I did get Graham to make these up." He tipped out four jingling bits of metal, two small and round, the other two long ovals, somewhat curved, and held them out to her.
She examined the engraving. One circle and one oval said, 'This slave property of Anders Thygesen' and their Toronto address. 'If lost contact' and his phone number. The other two were the same, but with a rural route 376
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
address. She held these up. "The farm?"
"Yes. The round ones are for your collar, of course. The others are to set into your chastity belt." He yawned. "I'll do that tomorrow."
She ran her fingers over the engraving and looked up, smiling. "I'm touched."
He laughed. "So you should be, moppet. You can wear this one to bed."
He got the pliers.
377
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mouth like a glove
"All right. Lift."
Anders and Svend hefted the crate between them. There was very little shifting of the contents, which was a good sign. Out in the cool of a July dawn, they slid the crate into the truck bed and anchored it to the eyebolts on either side. Anders rechecked his own anchors and then checked Svend's.
Svend yawned until his jaws cracked, and rubbed his face. "Obsessive bastard. Jesus. Quarter to six. Wake me when we get there."
They loaded the last couple of bags and a cooler, tied a white canvas tarp over the load, and got on their way. It was a Sunday, too early for the cottage traffic, and the roads were practically empty
, which was the reason for Anders forcing his brother up at the crack of dawn. Less chance of accidents, less likelihood of his cargo overheating.
Svend was asleep again before they hit the highway. Maia had sat in that seat the summer before, heading up to Orillia. Trading memories and laughing, human because he had allowed it. But not this year. He'd miss that, but there were compensations. Other kinds of exchanges. And there were years before him, to listen to her human conversation whenever he chose.
What was this force in him to construct, this urge to actualize the blueprint in his head? Builder's hands, builder's gut. Force, preoccupation, perversion.
Hard sometimes, to be so driven.
Anders had a vision of his Lutheran forebears praying to their harsh god over him, appalled at the waste of his energies on bizarre lusts. He'd compel them to roll over in their graves if he could, with pleasure. But such flexibility was out of the question; those characters weren't about to change their positions for anything short of Ragnarök.
He had needed a lot more servicing from his slave in the last few weeks, just anticipating the summer. And Maia had been swimming in a remarkable state of aroused apprehension. That submissive DNA in full juice and flower. Her anticipation vibrated just below the surface of his own senses.
Whatever had made them like this, the pleasures to be had were extraordinary. A tractor-trailer loomed ahead, its huge load vibrating.
Anders eased his pickup past it. Safety. The webbing held her safely down 378
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
on her knees and elbows in the centre of the crate, so that even in a collision she would not be thrown against the sides. The whole inside was cushioned in crash-absorbing materials. Plenty of ventilation. The straps were cinched outside the crate so she couldn't trip a release with her little mitts. She'd be fine.
She'd crawled into the crate, padded webbing already circling hips and chest, crouched with her head low while he arranged her, her body pulled in little jerks to and fro as they'd cinched her tight. That bridled face had turned up for one more look as they closed the lid. So beautiful. His groin tightened.
Halfway there already. More traffic now, but still easy going. By the time they arrived at the farm, Rizal would be at that job in Scarborough; he'd call him then. The materials should be arriving by noon. Electrical would have to wait until Thursday when he could be there. He wasn't much worried about his absences affecting his business, but there was no question it would have some impact on his income. Fortunately the influx from Maia's bank account had put him way into the black.
Just him and Svend until Friday, when Karl would join them. Val not until the weekend after. He would pick Ria up at the airport a week Monday; she was flying in from Amsterdam. She and Karl could have the bedroom with the fireplace; the one in the living room would do for everyone else.
The chimneys were clear; he'd checked. No real environmental harm, a little smoke way out in the country. Smoke detectors and alarm system were all installed. Wiring in the whole place brought up to standard.
The vegetable garden would need weeding, and probably water. He'd gotten that in over a month ago: early producers that would come in handy by July and August.
The two little vehicles he'd made were in pieces in the truck behind him.
Basic harness ready. Despite his rejoinder to Ria, Anders had in fact been training his slave in various gaits. No dressage, no circus tricks, but clean and economical movement, proper display and increasing endurance. He'd also had her break in a slim but solid pair of boots – no heels to speak of –
that would protect her feet on the roughish dirt and gravel. The bumps that might trip her up were made smooth, gravel added where the lanes had gone muddy. He was looking forward hugely to the moment when he got into the pony trap behind her.
379
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
Almost there. Back roads now. Anders pulled up at a dusty gas bar and grocery store and sent Svend, now awake, in for milk and eggs. He got out himself and stretched.
When Svend returned he glanced at the truck bed. "She'll be wondering if we've arrived, won't she, and wanting to get off her knees?"
"Probably. But she'll last a while yet."
"How do you know?"
"Experience."
"Too bad we couldn't let her jump down on her leash and stretch out by the tailgate." Anders laughed. "Yeah. Some other world. Come on."
Down the bumpy, overgrown track, between long fields already high with grass and weeds. From the house and barn you could see anyone coming, ten minutes before they got there. They were on a bit of a peninsula between two fast waterways, one with banks steep and choked with undergrowth, the other too shallow for boats; access from the water was very unlikely. There were no easy ways in apart from this track, no hiking trails.
The farm wasn't on the way to anywhere. No reason for anyone to come here but themselves.
***
The bumping stopped at last. We must be there this time, I thought; that was no main road. And I could smell grass. Out, please! I was rather hot and thirsty.
For a time there had been the most persistent feeling that every following driver had x-ray vision and could see my naked butt. When that idea faded, what I envisioned was the highway cop's expression when he opened up the crate. I flexed and wriggled in the webbing, almost immobilized, like a fly in a web, but very safe. See, officer, we're actually obeying the seatbelt laws ….
And this was nothing but a distraction from my crazy anxiety about what was coming. Eight weeks. They were giving me eight weeks off; my boss had looked ridiculously relieved when I had asked for more unpaid time. They were even planning to close the centre altogether for two weeks in August, they were so short of money, though they assured me that this economy would mean my job would be there as usual when I returned.
The news had pleased Anders no end; he'd used me almost continually to skim off the overflow of his arousal. There was no skimming for me; I 380
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
was a pressure cooker with an inadequate lid, rattling with steamy fear and jets of excitement. Eight weeks without using words or opposable thumbs.
Eight weeks to sink into life as a dumb beast, a draft animal. Would I ever be able to climb out again? Worrying was pointless. He'd get me out if he wanted me out.
The tailgate went down and I heard the scrape of things getting shifted.
My turn at last. Tipped, swung, down. Terra firma. Bolts shot open to cracks of daylight.
The grass was warm and rough beneath my knees. I took a drink from the water bottle held for me, with a spout that I could manage despite the bridle. The house loomed, way taller than it had appeared in the pictures.
Svend was carting boxes up onto the wide porch. Anders knotted my leash to a little fence around what had once been a flower garden, and then went to heft some bags and a cooler into the house. I looked in surprise at that casual knot, and was disconcerted; metal locks that clicked were what I was used to, mere knots being insufficiently secure as far as my master was concerned. But then neither my fingers nor my teeth were available to undo anything. I shifted my head and gave the knot an experimental yank, just for the hell of it, and then sat back to wait.
When all the other luggage was disposed of, my master came back and untied me, and I crawled after him to a patch of dry, crumbly dirt between two sheds. The message through the leash was clear enough. I was being walked. In broad daylight. I stared at the ground, arranged myself, and let it go. Kicked dirt over it. Crawled some more. Didn't think. Animal. A cool doorway and straw-strewn floor. Inside were old wooden partitions that reached only partway to the high rafters. There was a row of five doorways, five empty stalls. In the last was a narrow window that showed blue sky; beneath the window was a pile of straw with an old blanket over it and the end of a chain trailing. There was that click I'd been expecting. I looked up the length of my master, to the light eye
s looking down, holding me in place more firmly than any lock would do. Those long, so familiar fingers stroked me, tugged lightly on locks and nose and nipple rings, and then were gone.
Another few inches took me to the end of my chain. The edge of the straw pile; no further. The blanket was old but clean. I settled down. I'd spent time on less comfortable surfaces. But almost never to sleep; would I have to sleep here? What about the press of limbs, the weight of his arm, his 381
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
hand on my breast, breathing in the smell of him, all part of my nightly security along with the locks and chains?
Here the smell was fresh hay, old wood, wafts of hot grass, and my own sweat and arousal. No sound. Yes, a bird. Two birds. Distant footsteps. A thump. That hot, middle-of-the-day high-pitched insect throb.
I examined my surroundings. There was that water bottle again, hung upside-down on the wall, like in a gerbil's cage. At the sight of it my thirst returned. I crawled over, insinuated the metal tube past my bit into the back of my mouth and drank. Below it was a shallow metal rectangle; a trough.
Empty. Anything else within my reach? Nothing; the place was bare. Hooks up on the wall, all empty except for a long carriage whip that hung by the doorway. Aerobics at home had turned into endless sessions of walking and trotting in a circle on a long chain with my arms folded and locked against my back. This gait, that gait, each movement precise; no shambling, no concessions to fatigue. Full-out running wasn't practical at the end of a chain; too confined a space. I thought I'd be off the hook for that until the summer. Then my master bought the treadmill. He was turning me into an athlete of sorts. No, that was a human term. Racehorse? Hardly. Useful mare? More likely. It can be trained.
I dozed off for a while; that had been a very early start. Footsteps awoke me, and the sound of clangs, clunks and Danish dialogue. Assembly noises.