by Trent Evans
The people around her pointed and murmured as Lacey toiled, no doubt savoring the display of subjugated femininity, her torment almost at an end, making their enjoyment of it that much more intense. To them, perhaps the last seconds of the woman’s ordeal were the sweetest of them all.
Then they reached the final part of the Walk, the monolithic stone gate passing over their heads as they strode out onto the broad summit of the hill. Though barely a couple hundred feet tall, the hill provided a striking vantage point over the town, the streets and homes spreading out toward the river, while to their right, the counterpoint of the vast untamed promise of the park spilled into the heart of White Valley.
The guides let Lacey go then, and she turned in place, as if disoriented, her head turning this way and that, her arms pulling at their bonds, her breathing coming fast and hard.
Mercifully, another black-garbed guide brought over a cloak or blanket made of some sort of thick material, the blue of the fabric seeming to collect the light around it, absorbing it and deepening its color. He waited while Lacey’s former tormentors made quick work of her bonds, removing all but her blindfold, the gag leaving pink lines at the corner of her mouth, her lips swollen. Her freed breasts revealed the marks of their bindings, the livid patterns ingrained in her skin stark, inflamed, as if a lover’s grip in the fever of passion had grown too bold.
She rubbed at her arms, then tested the soreness no doubt left behind at the base of each breast. She hissed as she touched them, Hunter wanting more than anything for those fingers to be his, to be able to coo at her as he soothed them, to whisper promises and threats into her ear as she shuddered in his arms.
Then the cloak was opened and it seemed to swallow up her entire form, closing around her, leaving only her blindfolded head still exposed. The breeze was stiffer up on the exposed point, quite cool, and Hunter suspected the heavy cloaks were a mercy to the women in more ways than one.
Lacey was ushered over to stand with the other Applicants for the Walk, the crowd stretching around them in a wide arc, a few more just slipping under the gate as the man in the black suit stood before the women, then turned to face the onlookers. Hunter could not remember his name, but would always recall the almost evangelical fervency of the man’s voice as he’d addressed the crowd pre-Walk that morning.
“Per our traditions, the Applicants will be displayed before the community that keeps them, before the citizens that cherish them — and in their natural state. This display will last one hour, during which time silent bids will be submitted. As is custom, Applicants successfully bid upon, shall be taken into the bidder’s household for a period no longer than one week. The Applicant shall be considered subject to the successful bidder’s rules, customs, and discipline during this time.” He looked back at the waiting women, a wolfen smile betraying something other than pious solemnity. “After the hour elapses, the auction commences.”
The black-suited men then led each woman into the throng, the mass of people parting as one, then another, passed. It was only then that Hunter noted the frames.
Arranged in a semi-circle, facing toward town, the weathered wood was festooned with chains, and lengths of leather swaying in the breeze. One by one, the Applicants were trussed up, though surprisingly, their bonds were simple, leather manacles slipped around the wrists, holding the hands together, their arms drawn overhead but not so high as to be uncomfortable. The position raised the hems of the cloaks just off the ground, exposing only the strappy heels, the Applicants’ bare toes still wriggling nervously in shoes far more pretty than comfortable.
What could have been a cruel torture all in itself was rendered in almost a merciful way.
However, as the throng pressed in amid the rising din of conversation, the onlookers surrounding the women, Hunter understood quite quickly. This wasn’t about mercy at all.
This was about showcasing the wares.
Chapter 10
After her insanely impulsive decision to agree to the Council’s deal, the last place she expected to be was back in that damned cell, her wrists and feet bound all over again. What had she expected though? What the hell did being a “ward” really entail? It sure wasn’t a grand tour of White Valley, that much she knew. But this? If she’d have known he’d just take her right back to the cell, her answer might have turned out differently.
Sure, Fal. Whatever you say.
He was sitting at his desk once more, typing away on his keyboard, his gun belt draped over the back of his chair, his black pistol, still in its gleaming leather holster, now laying atop his desk blotter.
Watching him in silence, she hoped he’d at least look over at her. She had a thousand questions. Unfortunately, he seemed perfectly happy to let her cool her heels in that jail cell, the both of them knowing he had as much time as he chose to take.
She sure wasn’t going anywhere.
Finally, the typing stopped, and he turned his gaze her way, his eyes cool, appraising. That look took on a whole universe of new meaning now that she was subject to any and all of his rules for the next month or so.
“It’s nice not hearing that mouth for once.” He was needling her and she knew it. Still, it was extremely hard not to take the bait.
“F— uh, you planning on letting me out of these anytime this century?”
“That depends,” he said, standing and stretching his back, the arc of his body emphasizing the taper from his wide shoulders down to his slim waist, the prominent bulge of his genitals, the immensely powerful thighs.
“On what?” Her mouth had gone so dry, her tongue felt stuck to the top of her mouth.
“It depends upon how well you take what’s coming.”
Oh shit.
He unlocked her cell, sliding the door aside enough to slip in, leaving the bars slightly open.
“Stand up,” he said, gesturing with a single finger.
She had to scoot her backside to the edge of the bed before she could find purchase on the floor. Rocking forward a few times, trying to ignore the movement of her breasts as she did so, she was finally able to shift her weigh enough to get to her feet. She felt absurd, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, peering up at him.
Taking hold of one of her arms he yanked her toward him. He stepped around her though, seating himself on the end of her bed, but keeping a firm grip on her.
“Hey — wait!” She made a surprised sound, the breath rushing from her lungs as he drew her down over his lap, her fingers and hands frantically pulling at the metal cuffs. She raised her feet, trying to drum her heels against his arm.
“You put those feet down or we’ll be seeing how well you can walk in a hogtie.”
Her feet lowered to the floor.
“This is… Ford, don’t do this.”
“What did I tell you about cursing and about the proper way to address me?”
“I’m not a child—”
“Answer the question, Ms. Moore.” He laid a palm on her bottom, the fabric of her pants unexpectedly rough against his skin. His cock was already swelling.
Goddamn it.
“You want me to address you as Ford or Sheriff.”
“And?” He squeezed one unexpectedly generous cheek. Already, he was irritated that her clothing prevented a full assessment — and enjoyment — of her charms. Soon enough.
“And… you don’t like cussing.”
“Almost, but not quite, Ms. Moore.”
He pushed at her hip, rolling her over just enough to access the button of her pants, quickly undoing it, her body stiffening the instant she realized what he intended. He pulled her zipper down, then slipped fingers under the waistband, pulling down the pants. They were tighter than he expected, her awkward position not helping matters at all, but he managed to pull them down until they bunched just below the swell of her buttocks. Rather than a thong, or boy shorts, she wore those simple full panties, white, with diagonal blue stripes he’d seen when he’d initially searched her. Quite pretty, actually.
Not the time to be admiring the sartorial taste of your prisoner.
He expected a storm of protest from her as he’d lowered her pants, but she’d surprised him with her silence, and relative acquiescence. Ford knew she had more fight in her though — a lot more. She was playing possum.
Smart girl.
Rolling her back over so that she lay fully over his thighs once again, he placed a hand upon one panty-clad cheek, satisfied at being able to finally feel the soft yielding of her flesh. Just as her outfits had hinted at — her choice of attire not fully successful at deemphasizing the shapeliness of her figure — her bottom was more generous than her otherwise slender frame would otherwise suggest.
“You managed to defy me on both in only two words earlier. I promised you we’d be settling accounts on that. Do you think ‘fucking asshole’ is the proper way to talk to me?”
She said nothing, her body humming now like a live wire, every muscle trembling slightly.
“I asked you a question.”
“I… I’m sorry, okay? Ford?” She tried to climb off, but he took hold of her cuffed wrists, hauling her back into position. He clasped her bottom in his other hand, waiting.
She made a tiny high-pitched sound, but finally stilled.
“You’re going to be here a while, if my guess is right. You’re too stubborn to do the right thing, the easy thing. But that’s okay. I’m someone who believes in boundaries, rules, expectations.” He squeezed her bottom cheek. “So we’re going to set a few boundaries now. What you’re about to get is what’s going to happen when you decide to go outside those boundaries.”
“Ford, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… said that.”
Now, her tune was changing, but it was too late for that. She needed to learn.
“Ready?”
“I’m not giving you a thing,” she snarled, her body writhing with a surprising ferocity, though his tight grip kept her easily in place.
“That’s what I thought.”
He smacked her full on her right buttock, the sound of the blow as sweet and satisfying as any he’d ever heard. It had been a while since he’d spanked a bottom — at least three or four weeks, an eternity in White Valley — and each time was as exciting and new as the very first. No woman reacted exactly the same to that inaugural, searing burst of heat, that embarrassing wobble of her flesh emphasizing her feminine softness, her vulnerability.
Falon didn’t disappoint.
“Ford — no!”
He laid down another hard smack, on the far cheek this time, the pain of it freezing her in place for an instant. Then, she writhed anew, her hands yanking at the cuffs, her feet up and waving in the air, as more curses than he’d ever heard from one woman poured from her lips.
Not as smart as I thought, apparently.
Left, right, left, right, he laid down swat after swat across her bounding bottom cheeks, the smooth panties seeming to stick to her flesh, the heat evident even through the feeble protection of the thin fabric.
“Ford, goddamn it. Stop!”
But he kept on, roasting the lower curves of both cheeks, then landing even harder blows across the upper part of her bottom. “Each and every time you fail to address me properly. Each and every time you decide it’s okay to curse, this is what you’ll get. Boundaries, Ms. Moore.”
She cried out then as he smacked her left cheek several times in rapid succession, repeating the same with her right, her body arching up as he spanked.
“Fuck you! That hurts!”
“Breaking boundaries has to result in negative consequences, doesn’t it?”
He kept smacking that soft, vulnerable bottom, silently cursing that the flimsy shield of her panties prevented him from gazing upon her blushing, hot flesh as he punished her. But it wasn’t quite time for that.
Clasping her warm buttock in his hand, he stilled, waiting for her squalling to cease. Surprisingly, she drew silent almost instantly, looking back at him over her shoulder, her face flushed a deep red, tears welling in her blue eyes.
“Since you can’t seem to remember to address me by the two choices I gave you, we’re going to reduce the selection.”
She stiffened again, her fingers pushing at the metal confining her wrists.
“From now on, you’re going to be calling me Sir. Three letters. Easy to remember.”
Her frustrated grunt was all the answer he needed, and he smacked her ass, the hardest blow yet, drawing a strangled cry from her lips.
“I want to hear you say it. When you do, I’ll let you up.”
“And let me out of these cuffs?” The eagerness in her voice made him smile. He wiped a hand across his face, hiding any outward evidence of his enjoyment of this.
Of course, you better hope she can’t feel your hard cock against her hip either.
“Nope, you don’t get out of those until I think you’re ready.”
“But I’m ready now!”
He smacked the other cheek, the sound echoing off the walls followed by her anguished squeal. “Well? I’ll keep going if you’d rather.”
“No! No, I’ll…say it.”
“Say what, Ms. Moore.”
“S-sir.”
“There, that wasn’t so bad. Now, ask nicely, and we can continue.”
“Continue? I don’t…”
“Your booking. We’ve barely started, Ms. Moore.”
He tapped her bottom with his palm, a warning.
“Please let me up… sir.”
Ford grinned, the sound of the word almost as glorious as the feel of her roasted rump against his palm.
He helped her to stand, holding her by the upper arms. A lock of her golden hair had come loose from her ponytail, the silken strands hanging down her cheek. He brushed them away and met her gaze, noting the tears that welled, but hadn’t quite fallen from her blue eyes.
The day is young.
“Now, time to get the rest of this done, don’t you think?”
Chapter 11
Ensconced once again in the back seat of Ford’s Tahoe, behind the steel mesh barrier, her hands firmly bound as usual, Falon stared at the dark smudges staining her fingertips.
She’d never had her prints taken before, nor had a mug shot, and though interesting in a purely informational, experiential sense, the process itself was dehumanizing in a way she hadn’t ever expected. That ink on her fingers was like the mark of shame, the Scarlet Letter of the modern legal system. Yes, it would fade away, with time, but the memory of it never would.
Thankfully, he hadn’t put her back in her ankle fetters, but he’d kept her cuffed during the entire booking process. He’d said almost nothing to her as he worked, only using the few words required to direct her here and there. The suddenly silent cop ignored any and all of her questions. It was as if he’d wanted to impress upon her that despite her deal with the Council, the law still considered her guilty, nothing more than a criminal — and a prisoner.
You are a prisoner, Falon… just not the sort you might have imagined.
But what did Ford think she was? Other than his ward — whatever that really meant — what did he see her as? Was she still the threat? Or the victim?
How about the plaything?
Heat bloomed between her legs at the illicit thought, one she ruthlessly suppressed, discounted. That wasn’t what was happening here, fantasies of big bad alpha male cops notwithstanding. She might have gotten herself out of some serious trouble with her little bargain… but she was facing an entirely different mess now.
If he really expected her to bow to him, to do whatever he said as if they were suddenly living the plot of one of the erotic fantasies she used to read as a hormone-addled teenager, the man was sorely mistaken. She’d play along as far as she needed to, but he’d see soon enough that she wasn’t one to just roll over when things got tough.
Quite the opposite.
“Where are we going?” She hated the way her voice sounded, almost submerged by the road no
ise as they drove through town. It was getting toward dusk, and she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to all of those onlookers, those poor, bound women being forced down their walks of shame. It had been so hard to peel her eyes away from the sheer over-the-top spectacle of it all. Men — and women — leering, doing nothing to help the plight of those handful of women on display like so many heads of cattle. She didn’t like to admit that the women were beautiful, alluring in their own way despite their humiliation. Somehow that made it worse, that they twisted such beauty around into something profane, degrading.
You mean you’re pissed that your pussy started to tingle as you imagined yourself in their place?
“No,” she hissed, shaking her head.
“What’s that?” Ford looked back at her through the rearview mirror.
“It’s… nothing.”
“Then it’s time for another rule. This one starts right now: no talking unless spoken to. Got it?”
“You’ve got…”
His eyes narrowed in the mirror, and she thought better of saying anything more. She tried not to think about what he might be capable of if he really was serious about the ward thing.
“Do you understand, Ms. Moore?”
“I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”
His fists tightened on the steering wheel. “Answer the question, or you’re going to be worrying about a lot more than what I choose to call you.”
“Yes, okay. I understand.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
Jesus.
“Sir.”
“That’s better. Don’t worry, Ms. Moore, I’ll help you remember how to address me.”
Her mouth suddenly dry, Falon tried her best to ignore what he might mean by that.
They followed the highway west along the river, the same one she’d first met the handsome Sheriff on. Though it was only handful of days, it seemed an eternity now. So much had changed, plans had been smashed to pieces, the very course of her life perhaps irrevocably changed. The sun, setting in the west had finally dipped below the cloud deck, gracing them with brilliant oranges and reds before it sank below the jagged crest of the Cascades, the waning warmth of the sunset bathing the flanks of the mountains in light one last time.