“I was so shocked by her that you should be pleased I didn’t pee down your chest, Buster,” she said, then giggled. “Jesus, that was a stunner.” She paused a moment, then chuckled. “Lucifer’s squeeze, huh?”
“More or less,” I acknowledged with a chuckle. “I’ve an idea to hatch on you, but for now, if I don’t find something to eat, I’m going to hair out and attack cattle on that pasture we passed on the way here.” My stomach uttered an angry rumble of protest as hers suddenly sang in chorus.
We turned off the shower and she toweled me off. “Problem is I don’t have much food here, Master,” Laura said. “I don’t know why I bought this huge damn house since I’m never here. Status symbol, I guess, like my car.”
“I have an idea about the house,” I repeated. “Get dressed and we’ll go out for lunch. There’s a place called Ernesto’s a couple or three miles off that has good Mex food.”
“I’ve seen it but haven’t been there,” Laura said.
“When we’re done, we’ll return here and put you back in your tee-shirt for the ride back to my house,” I said. Shit, my clothes are downstairs from me playing caveman, I realized with a mingling of annoyance and amusement. We’d sure given poor Marisol an eyeful.
“Yes, Sir,” Laura said. “May I retrieve Master’s clothing?”
“Yes,” I said, pleased that she’d read my mind.
We ate a hearty lunch at Ernesto’s, an enchilada plate for her and a carnitas plate for me, washed down with two margaritas for each of us. Keeping this all under wraps seemed like it wouldn’t be long-lived, though. I groaned as Tom approached our table with his arm slung around the waist of a pretty brunette.
Goddammit, that treacherous asshole was someone I hoped never to see again, much less while I was out on a date with Laura. But I softened a bit. He wasn’t treacherous so much as weak. One way or another, I didn’t much like him before he dimed me out, and certainly not since. He’d exhibited that he could not be trusted. It was that simple, and unavoidable.
“You got a minute, Keith?” he asked.
“No, not really,” I said, still annoyed with him.
“Please, only a minute, then Sheila and I will go eat elsewhere,” he said.
“Sure,” I grumbled. “Please pardon us, Laura.”
“Of course,” Laura said. “Won’t you please be seated while the men go do … whatever it is men do, Sheila?”
“Thanks,” Sheila said, looking uncomfortable.
“Man to man, I’m sorry, Keith,” Tom said when we stepped outside. “I … I got an offer from Johnsville EMS and told them today I’d accept. I picked up a snitch reputation when I let Lieutenant Samuels sweat me like he did, and Captain Briggs told me I’d be happier elsewhere. I’d already been looking for a better package, and Johnsville wants to send me straight into paramedic training, so I accepted and gave Captain Briggs my notice. I’ll be gone before you return. I fucked up with Samuels, and I just wanted to apologize.”
“Accepted,” I said. The truth was that I was nowhere close to forgiving him. But it made no sense to up the ante since he’d made himself a non-issue. Whatever political capital I had, which I’d planned to use to have him fired, could be held for another rainy day, thanks to Captain Briggs. We shook hands and went back inside.
“Sit with us,” Laura said to Tom. “It’s a big table and on me.” Tom looked uncertainly at me, and I gave a non-committal nod. “I didn’t know you two were seeing one another. Sheila is a tech in radiology, but seldom in the trauma center. I doubt you remember it, but she took some fascinating photos of your thick skull when you conked out the other day.”
She grinned and blinked a few times as I chuckled. But I seriously had no recollection of Sheila. Sometimes my focus was so great on my patients that I might not notice KISS playing a concert in the waiting room, though.
“I’m Keith,” I said, offering my hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” Sheila said.
“Sheila was asking me not to tell people at the hospital that she and Tom are dating,” Laura told me. “She’s worried about gossip and rumors.”
“Sheila’s right,” I said. “Look, it’s your business and not mine, so I won’t go blabbing. Just don’t go to smooching over a bleeding patient, is my advice.”
“Oh, Gawd,” Laura groaned, then chuckled as the waitress returned. They ordered their meals, and at Laura’s urging, margaritas. We didn’t talk shop, all of us seeming to understand that we shouldn’t gross out the other diners there. Tom and Sheila, oddly enough, hadn’t met at the hospital, but at the local Y, at an art class they’d taken six months or so before.
“I like painting faces, portraits,” Sheila said. “Tom is more about painting nature. We actually each have a painting going up for the auction to benefit Glen Hayes.”
“Excellent,” I said. Glen’s dad was a sergeant in the sheriff’s department. The little boy, four years old, was fighting … I think the flyers, which were all over town, indicated … non-Hodgkins lymphoma. The outlook was bleak, and the bills mounting, but there was a possibility he could be treated in some program that Texas Children’s Hospital and MD Anderson were doing in Houston. But getting him there was the issue, hence the auction. All sorts of goodies were going on the block. I made a mental note to take Laura there and part with a few dollars on something I’d probably donate to Goodwill on my way home.
“How’s your wound and head?” Tom asked.
“I’ve been hurt far worse,” I told him. “Stupid that I’m off work for two weeks, but I’ll milk it, and I’ve already gone fishing on their dime, so that’s good.”
“Catch a limit?” he asked.
“I never try to do that,” I said. “I freeze a bit of it, but prefer it fresh, so I rarely take more than two or three. Truth is, if you go fishing to catch fish, you’re missing the point, in my experience. I go just to get out on the water and relax. A bigmouth bass is an added bonus.”
“I haven’t wet a hook since high school,” Tom said.
“I never fished but get a kick out of water skiing,” Sheila chimed in.
The small-talk continued for an hour before Laura paid the check and we went our own ways. I drove us back to Laura’s house and had her put her tee-shirt on, then drove us back to my house, where she shed the shirt as soon as my front door closed behind us. I had her crawl to the dungeon and told her to wash all the furniture, which was covered in exterior paint, and would keep her busy on humble scut work. She was done in two hours and did well, then gaped as I opened the door to the cage, which was equipped with a canvas cot, a thin blanket, a spool of Charmin, a big blue Lowe’s bucket, and a flat of Ozarka water. She wept a bit as she crawled into the cage, then wept more as I locked her in.
“Spend this time thinking on the behavior I require of you,” I told her. “I think sometimes you’ll need this, time to meditate, reflect, and consider matters.” I turned out the lights, then went into the house, where I opened a drafting program on my computer, a hobby of mine, and did a rough of the upstairs of Laura’s house.
I know it wasn’t to-the-inch perfect, since I obviously didn’t have blueprints, but would do. In short, we could remove the hall door to the bedroom adjacent to Laura’s, and drywall it in, then put a hidden door between her bedroom closet and the next-door bedroom, then ta-daa, instant dungeon, just add kinky fuckery. From all she’d said, I was her decision-maker, her lord and master, but I’d only have her order this work done if it enthused her. But mastering her in a dungeon in her own home? God, it threw a thrill through me.
Around 6:00, I got hungry, so I fired up charcoal, and when it was ready, I threw on baking potatoes and, 45 minutes later, a pair of ribeye steaks, which cooked seven minutes on each side to a nice medium-rare, just how I liked them. Feeling a fresh burst of amused ornery, I cut her steak into bite-sized morsels, and unwrapped and smashed her potato with some cheese and sour cream, then skinned a cob of corn onto her plate. I set both our plates on my outdoor
table, then got her from her cage. I had her crawl to the table, then lie on her belly. I cuffed her hands behind her back, then set her plate beside her face. She looked at me in wide-eyed astonishment as I set a bowl beside the plate and poured green Gatorade into it, then sat.
“Eat, slave, and drink,” I commanded.
CHAPTER 35
I wasn’t completely sure what I’d thought of the cage. On the one hand, it was so fucking hot. I mean, seriously, he tossed me in there without a thought and walked away. There couldn’t be a stronger message as to what I’d become. The first few minutes in that cage, my pussy throbbed with an unrelenting ache thinking about his dominance and control, marveling at the cavalier way he’d locked me inside. I’d wanted to touch myself, and get some relief. He’d kept me wanting from the shower, and with this added on, I was a pretty hot mess and I needed to be fucked.
His words returned to me though. What I was and was not allowed to do. I knew if I disobeyed his command, I wouldn’t be sitting for a week. Which brought me to the next however many minutes, contemplating my place. Cages and confinement weren’t my thing, at least that’s what I’d thought when he locked me in.
But trussing me up and laying me on the ground? I would’ve been fine with that, until he put the plate and bowl in front of me, and barked at me like a dog.
Eat slave, and drink!
I rolled on my side and glanced up at him, feeling fire building in my body. I understood the cage. I even rationalized it in my head. There was a point to it, but this? This was degradation above and beyond anything remotely sexually hot.
“What the hell, Keith,” I said, or tried to say. I think I got to What the before he snapped to his feet.
He yanked on the cuffs, securing my wrists behind my back, pulling me to my feet. I wobbled there, terrified by the fury in his eyes.
“What did you say?”
The low, ominous tone of his voice lifted the hairs on my nape. All the blood in my body drained to my feet, leaving me shaky, terrified, and unsteady. My disrespect for him had been so profound, even I didn’t believe what I’d said.
“I’m sorry,” I begged. “Please, Master, I didn’t mean...”
He spun me around and pulled my wrists high up my back until I screeched with the pain. Then he swatted my ass, hard. These weren’t the taps of a master exploring the limits of his slave. These were brutal and meant to hurt.
“I see we have a misunderstanding.”
“No Master,” I began.
“Are you deaf?” he said, punctuating his words with an attention getting strike. “I told you to remain silent. How deep do you want to dig this hole?” He dragged me back to the dungeon, kicking open the door. “And here we were progressing so nicely.”
My eyes brimmed with tears. I wanted to apologize for my transgression. I wanted to reverse time. Maybe then, I would’ve thought before opening my trap. It was too late for apologies, because he pulled me to the spanking bench where he bent me over.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded. “And don’t you dare say a word.”
He bent down and secured my ankles to cuffs attached to the frame. Then he came around and palmed the back of my neck, pushing my face into the leather of the bench.
I wept with fear and with disgrace, but I didn’t beg for his leniency. First off, I wouldn’t receive it. Secondly, I’d done this to myself. And thirdly, shit, I’d really fucked things up.
He left me there, my torso unrestrained. I could have stood, if I’d been completely stupid, but I understood his silent command. I wasn’t to speak and I wasn’t allowed to move. My legs shook, the tremors so strong, my ass shook too.
My mouth had gone dry, and I licked at my lips. Over at the wall, by the racks of implements, he searched for something. I squeezed my eyes shut, because I didn’t know what he had planned, except he passed up the flogger, the quirt, and the tawse. He paused to consider the bullwhip, but moved on.
I was under no illusions I was to be punished. If he bypassed the whip, what the hell was he looking for? When he returned to me, I noticed the tremors in his hands. His fury soaked the air, and his silence couldn’t be more deafening. I wanted to apologize. I needed to grovel and beg for forgiveness. What the hell had I been thinking?
He held a thick strap of leather and slid it beneath my throat. I glanced up at him, but he gave a harsh shake of his head. He was beyond speaking to me. It was a thick leather collar that he secured around my neck, with rings attached to it. He bent down at the front of the spanking bench and the rattle of a chain sounded too loud in my ears. He pulled this up, then clipped it to one of the rings on the collar. Then he tightened the chain, effectively immobilizing me on the bench.
My tears broke into full-bodied sobs, because I knew this would hurt. I also knew I’d caused this. Perhaps, I hadn’t really understood my place? Because, what else could have been going through my head? This was the man who’d spanked me, whipped me, he’d flogged and fucked me more ways than I could count. I’d lowered myself to a position beneath him, willingly crawling and prostrating myself before him. What had it been about a damn plate and bowl that had set me off?
I didn’t know if he would ever forgive me, but I was certain I would hold my failure for the rest of my life.
“Try to move.” He barked the sharp command.
I wiggled my feet and tried to stand, but I was trussed up tight. With my arms cuffed behind my back, I felt off-balanced. I would’ve much rather had them cuffed under and around the bench.
He tapped something along the crease of my ass, something long, hard, and skinny. Oh no!
“This is going to hurt. It’s going to make you howl.”
I whimpered on the bench, needing to beg for mercy, even while knowing I could not.
He bent over me, his breath whispering across my cheeks. “I’m not playing at this, Dr. Laura Peters. You’re my fucking slave. That means you do as I say, when I say, and how I say it. If I tell you to eat at my feet, you’ll fucking eat at my feet. Do you understand?”
I nodded, unsure whether I was permitted to speak.
“Tell me, Dr. Peters, do you understand your place?”
Again I nodded.
“Where’s your place?” he demanded.
This required a response, and my insides shivered with my reply. “Wherever Master says.”
“And what is your name?”
“Whatever Master says.”
“That’s right. The high and mighty Dr. Laura Peters and her lippy mouth has no place here.”
My heart caved in, flooded with my shame, and I braced for what would come next.
CHAPTER 36
I’d selected a cane for this punishment, the so-called Victorian weapon of terror, an item used for punishment throughout much of the world. Those in the BDSM world were long-familiar with the cane, a thin rod of rattan, dense and flexible. As red and sore as her ass and thighs were, I was certain the cane would teach her a harsh lesson. I’d put food down for her as I had to ensure she knew her place. I guess getting to sit at a table and socialize with Tom and Sheila had brought on another uprising of her arrogance. But I didn’t think we were anywhere close to breaking Laura. I knew there were liable to be many such sessions over the months to come.
I really wished we had a good two or three months together, a boot camp to utterly immerse her in enslavement. Instead, she had a career and so did I, and I knew we were in for a good year of such sessions before she finally broke into her place, the slave every instinct I had told me she was.
“What I have is the cane,” I informed her. “You can’t DIY that, really. But do you know what the cane is, Dr. Peters?”
“Please, Master, even if you scar me … please … Laura, slut, bitch, slave … but not Dr. Peters,” she begged.
“Such honorifics are earned, Dr. High and Mighty, MD and a pot of alphabet soup,” I sneered.
The truth was, I wasn’t angry. She was like a wild horse that needed training, and, whil
e I couldn’t predict every time she’d try to buck and thrash, I expected that she would. Indeed, I’d have been suspicious if she didn’t, if the truth be known.
“Is this understood, Doctor?” I put emphasis on “Doctor” to make my point.
“It … yes, understood, Master,” Laura said, freshly weeping without a lash being laid into her.
“I haven’t lashed you yet,” I said. “Do you think the tears will buy lenience?”
“No, Master,” she said. “I … I deserve whatever you’re about to do. It’s … Jesus, it’s self-loathing. I’ve failed, and that’s bitter. The last time I cried at failure, I was a silly intern and blew a diagnosis.”
“I see,” I said, and I did. God knows when I first completed corpsman training, more intensive than paramedic training Stateside, I was a bumbling fucktard who couldn’t seem to do anything right for the first four months. So I understood the self-loathing, because I’d walked more than a mile in those shoes. It made a better corpsman and paramedic of me. It made a better physician of her. And it would make her into the best slave that ever shit between two shoes or she’d die trying, I knew. But as much as I didn’t want to do this to her, to shatter her like some Russian shot glass hurled into a blazing fireplace in Kiev, it was necessary, and I knew beneficial to her, and to our relationship.
“Have you been caned before, Dr. Peters?”
“No Master. My father took his belt to me when I was a kid, and four times he used a switch on me, until I started to develop. After that, I just got grounded or my computer taken away. But until you took me in-hand, no. I … the last time I got corporal punishment was when I was in fifth grade. The principal paddled me for … I can’t even remember what I did now … and called my parents, and my dad went over my ass with his belt that night, on my bared ass. But that was … other than the stuff I did DIY. But I got spanked then as a wayward girl. And my DIY stuff versus what we’re doing … that’s like comparing Sprite to Everclear. And now you have me. I’m … I guess I’m the potter’s clay, Sir.”
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