by Pascal Scott
Overhead, a sturdy beam reached across the twenty-four feet of the cabin’s length. A yard past its center and clear of the cage, I’d screwed in a heavy-duty eye bolt, through which I’d looped a three-eighth inch chain. The hanging ends of the chain were attached to a metal spreader bar. At each end of the bar was a trigger clip. I’d measured carefully. Standing barefoot on the wooden floor, Lucy should have just enough room to stretch her arms overhead in the classic bondage position.
Early that morning while she was still unconscious, I had stripped her of her clothes. All she had on now was the slave collar I had fastened around her neck and the bondage cuffs I had secured on her wrists and ankles. I’d relieved her of her hoop earrings and the Wiccan rings she had on every finger, including her left thumb.
At the far end of the cabin on the left was a cast-iron wood stove. I had a fire burning. On the floor to the right of the stove were a poker and brush for the fire; a pile of hardwood logs; a thick, red rag; and a lidded, steel canister. On a wall-mounted coat rack I’d hung a leather leash and my Taser baton. In the right-hand corner of the cabin was what passed for a sink- a galvanized pail placed on a tree stump, sitting directly beneath a single brass spigot. Another galvanized bucket, lidded, served as a trash can. It was Monday, the seventh of October, her first day as my slave.
Lucy was moaning, waking up. She’d been on her back, in the same position I had left her very early that morning. She was bruised. The boys had been rough on her. There was an ugly yellow-green discoloration over her right breast, about the shape and size of a boot. She was a skinny girl, thinner than I had remembered. Her ribs jutted out of her chest like a Halloween skeleton. Her breasts were disproportionately large for her small frame. Above the left one, up toward the shoulder, was a tattoo that spelled out in cursive, red letters BITCH. Her pussy was shaved.
Her eyes opened slowly and tried to focus. They were a dark brown, the color of black coffee. They found me sitting in a folding chair next to the cage door. She was not afraid, at least her eyes showed no fear that I can find. She stared at me, defiantly.
“You,” she said.
“Me,” I said.
She looked around, then directed her attention to the bondage cuffs on her wrists.
“Where the fuck am I?” Lucy demanded.
I ignored her and opened the book I had in my lap. I began reading:
Sex Slave Service Manual: A Guide for Sex Slaves and Other Submissives by Mistress Sinestra. LLPublications, 2010.
“You self-published. Didn’t anybody want your work, Lucy?”
She groaned, trying to sit up, finally managing by easing up on one elbow. I turned to page one:
“You are reading this manual because you have consented to be my slave. As my property, I will require you to have learnt all my rules and be able to follow them without mistake within one week of reading this book.”
“Learnt? A little pretentious, don’t you think? But no matter. One week. Or what, I wonder. What is the implied threat here? Learn these rules or I will release you from servitude? I will punish you by hanging you from a ceiling bolt? Or maybe the threat is I will make someone mad enough to kill you. Follow my rules or you’ll die.”
That got her attention.
“Rule Number One. The slave will conduct itself with absolute obeisance and humility at all times consistent with its inferior status”.
“I demand that you release me,” she said. Bold as a new day. I had to laugh.
“No, no,” I said. “You’re making me jump ahead.” I flipped the pages forward.
“Ah, here it is.”
“Rule Number Four. The slave will never initiate conversation unless it is imperative that it does so. At such time it will kneel and say, ‘Please, Mistress, this slave humbly begs permission to speak.’”
“Of course that will be, ‘Please, Master, this slave humbly begs permission to speak.’”
I looked at her and waited.
“Christ,” Lucy muttered.
I stood, setting the book on the chair. I took one giant step toward the cage. I was wearing my uniform: Harley boots with a chain under the left heel, 501s, a black T-shirt, and leather vest with a Folsom Street Fair patch that read Safety Monitor.
“You’re not quite getting this, are you?” I said evenly. “I thought you were smarter than that. Okay, I’ll make it simple for you. You are not in control here. In fact, the tables have been turned. Pardon the cliché. The point is, you’re my slave now. You’re my prisoner, my captive, my submissive to do with as I please. I am your Master, and you are my slave.”
She said nothing.
“So, if you wish to speak, you will kneel before me and say, ‘Please, Master, your slave humbly begs permission to speak.’”
She was staring at me, giving me a fiercely hateful look. I sat back down and opened the book.
“I judge by your silence that you have no comment. Fine. Change is difficult sometimes, I understand that. It may take you awhile to adjust. What is it you give your submissives, one week? Seven days, sounds fair. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, Rule Number Two:
“The slave will kneel or crawl in my presence with two exceptions. It may stand for inspection and it may stand for punishment. It will enter my presence by crawling on its hands and knees to my feet. It will kneel before me with its eyes on the floor and its arms straight out in front of it, the right hand over the left.”
Lucy’s eyes were burning with muted rage.
“Rule Number Three: When given a command, the slave will reply, ‘Yes, Mistress. As you wish.’ And, again, that will be, ‘Yes, Master. As you wish.’”
I flipped past Rule Four.
“Now Rules Five through Ten are about sexual service, which will not apply to our M/s. But I do want to mention something here. You write:
“The slave must understand that it is only an object to be used in any way that pleases me. The slave’s comforts and needs are of no consequence. If I am not pleased, the slave will be punished accordingly.”
“Now I know you meant that to refer mainly to sexual pleasure, but I’m going to take it a step farther. I’m going to interpret this to mean existential pleasure. If I as your Master am not pleased with you as my slave about anything, I will punish you accordingly.”
She was glaring at me.
“Did you ever study philosophy? Somewhere in your education? Probably not. I don’t see you as an academic type. I favor the ancients, the Greeks: Plato, Plotinus, Socrates. But I can appreciate the moderns. Post-moderns, I should say. Foucault. Ever read Foucault?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes narrowed into slits.
“I didn’t think so. Foucault said that BDSM is a game. It’s a game of domination and submission, winning and losing, life and death. Foucault said the game of BDSM can be won or lost by either player, the Master or the slave. I think Foucault was right about that. BDSM is a high-stakes, psychosexual game. But you like games. Games with an inexperienced player especially. Because those games are the easiest to win. Sexual hunters like you seek out weak prey. Don’t you, Lucy? Which reminds me. You must be hungry. I’m not being a very good Master, am I?”
From the steel canister near the wood stove, I scooped out a cup of kibble. I carried it carefully to the cage door.
“Wouldn’t want to spill,” I commented. “We don’t want to attract rats.”
At the door, I transferred the cup to my left hand while I opened the lock with a key hanging from the ring on my belt loop.
“Now, you’re not going to try to escape, are you? Because it won’t do you any good. We’re off in the middle of nowhere, so to speak. And even if you did find another cabin in these parts, there’s just no telling who you’d find inside. Might be some more good ol’ boys. And you’ve probably had enough of them.”
Lucy was sitting in the middle of the cage, her arms wrapped around her knees, which she had pulled up to her chest. Her knees were dirty, scratched, and bruised. She hadn’t bathed
in days.
“And screaming for help, just in case you’re considering that. That won’t do you any good either, I’m afraid.”
She watched as I poured the kibble into the dog bowl.
“Dinner,” I announced.
She didn’t move. Her mouth scowled in resentment. I knew better than to turn my back on her. I watched her as I ease out of the cage, stepping back on my heels. When I was fully outside the door, I closed and locked it.
With a rag, I opened the glass door to the wood stove and used the brush to sweep the coals to the center. I put two more logs on top and closed the door before turning again to Lucy. She hadn’t moved.
“I’m going now,” I said. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back tomorrow. Goodnight, Lucy.”
I had put a hasp and staple on the front door with a padlock to secure it from the outside. Nobody was getting in, nobody was getting out. I walked past a deer-drag sled I use to haul wood and a red-handled axe still planted in a tree stump. Lucy wasn’t going anywhere.
That night in my own cabin high on Savage Mountain, I slept well. For the first time since Skyler’s death, I slept the whole night through.
Lucy stared at me as I entered the cabin. This was day two of her slave training. She was in the far corner of her cage, sitting with her dirty legs spread out before her. I still had her in cuffs.
“Good morning,” I said. I took off my leather jacket and hung it on an empty wall hook next to the Taser.
Giving me a fierce, cold look, she said nothing. I checked the stove, sweeping the ambers into a pile and adding two more logs. I poked these until a spark ignited a splinter and the wood caught fire.
“I hope you slept well.”
I pulled the chair up to the cage. The kibble was still in her bowl.
“You weren’t hungry?”
She glared at me.
“You have to eat, you know. You’ll need your strength.”
A hard silence from her. I sighed.
“All right,” I said and began reciting. “The slave will crawl or kneel in my presence.”
Lucy didn’t move. I sighed again, more loudly.
“Oh Lucy,” I said. “I’ve tried to be nice to you. I’ve been trying to ease you into submission because I know this is difficult for you. But I can see that approach is not going to work.”
I stood to go the coat rack and pulled off the Taser. I tested it. It sparked with a ferocious buzz. I turned it off and walked back to the cage. Unlocking the cage door, I entered, closing it behind me. I stood directly across from Lucy, who was still sitting sloppily on the floor. Our eyes locked.
“Do you know what a Taser is? A Taser is an electroshock weapon that uses electrical current to disrupt your control of your muscles. What I have in my hand is a 75,000-volt Taser.”
I slapped the un-activated baton against my thigh.
“The slave will crawl to my feet and kneel,” I commanded.
She refused to move. I sighed a last time.
“The slave will crawl to my feet and kneel,” I repeated, more firmly.
Nothing. I pressed the on switch.
“Crawl!” I shouted.
She remained defiant, daring me with her arrogant brown eyes to exercise control over her, over Mistress Sinestra, Lesbian Lifestyle Dominant. I took two strides forward and slapped the baton against her neck, catching her on the tender skin above her shoulder. I held the Taser in place and let it spark.
“Maathaafuckaaaaah,” she howled, sliding to the floor. I didn’t stop. I let her ride the lightning. When I finally let up, I stood over her, watching her body jerk and twitch.
“You disappoint me,” I said, calmly.
Picking up the water bowl, I splashed the contents in Lucy’s face. I turned my back on her as I let myself out of the cage and out of the cabin.
“Crawl,” I said, my voice low.
I was standing in front of her, inside the cage, the Taser at my side. It was day three of slave training. Lucy stared at me with smoldering hatred and didn’t move. Some girls are like that, preferring punishment to obedience, lightning to light. She reminded me of the girls I met in Reformatory.
“Crawl,” I said again.
Lucy refused to obey. I had no choice. I watched her naked body tremble in pain as I stunned her-ten seconds, then I paused. Then I hit her again. Three times in all. When I was through, I leaned the Taser against the cage door and stepped to the corner. The piss pot was less than half full. No matter. I lifted it using both hands.
“Golden showers,” I said as I dumped the contents over her upturned face, being careful not to splash my boots.
I tossed the pot down and retrieved the Taser as I left.
“The slave will conduct itself with absolute obeisance and humility at all times, consistent with its inferior status.” I quoted.
“Inferior to you,” I said. “To Mistress Sinestra, Lesbian Lifestyle Dominant.”
I was sitting in my chair outside the cage. It was day four of slave training. The results had not been what I’d hoped.
“You’re not a true Dominant,” I told her. “True Dominants are all about the needs of their submissives. You don’t seem to get that. No, you’re a weak little ass-licking attention whore. A pathetic, cocksucking narcissist. Isn’t that right, Lucy?”
She kept her silence. I gave her that. She was stubborn.
“Who was it with you? Your father? Stepfather? Maybe your mother’s boyfriend? I assume it was repeated, probably over many years, not a one-time thing. You’re too damaged for it to have happened just once,” I said.
“Your mother didn’t rescue you. You needed her to, but she didn’t. In fact, she looked the other way. She let it happen. That’s why you have this rage against women. This need to dominate them and humiliate them sexually, the way you were humiliated. Is this hitting close to home, Lucy?”
“Fuck you,” Lucy said.
“Fuck me?” I said. “Fuck me? No, no. I’m afraid you’re the one who is fucked.”
Wynonna
Tax Records showed that since 2001, Brett had owned a Residential Improved Property in Hemphill County on four point eight-seven acres. The Old Dwelling on Savage Mountain was purchased in 2002 for $50,000 and now, in its improved state, assessed at $698,500.
There was more. Records showed that Brett recently purchased a forty-two-acre parcel of vacant rural land for $420,000, also on Savage Mountain. Using the lot number, I found the location on a plat map. It was marked Woods, and the only way in by vehicle was a private road off Metcalf Creek Road. I decided to leave Woods for another day. First, I would visit Brett’s residence on Mountain Cove Road. I still had her number in my contacts although I wasn’t going to call ahead. I was just going to drop in, unexpected.
“Howdy, stranger,” I said when she opened the cabin’s front door. I regretted it as soon as the words left my lips. What was this? Mayberry?
“Wynonna,” she said. “Hey.”
“It’s Deputy Sheriff Fletcher today,” I said. “I’m here on official business.”
I wasn’t. I was investigating Brett on my own, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Oh? Come in.”
I wiped my boots on a roped welcome mat.
“Nice place,” I said once inside.
“You want coffee?”
“Sure.”
Brett poured us each a cup from an old-fashioned percolator in the kitchen.
“My mama had one of those,” I said, nodding toward the coffee maker.
She smiled at me. I remembered that smile. I reminded myself to stay objective.
“I found it at the Habitat store. Makes the best coffee.”
“It does,” I agreed. “Sometimes old is just better.”
She grinned. “It is. Cream or sugar?”
“Splenda, if you’ve got it.”
She reached into a cupboard.
“I like to keep it on hand for guests,” she said.
I’ll bet you do. Girl gu
ests watching their weight. She sat down at the kitchen table. I took off my leather jacket and draped it over the top rail of a wood chair. I was out of uniform, in jeans and a black Tar Heels on Wheels T-shirt, my riding gear.
“So, Deputy Sheriff Fletcher,” she said, taking a sip. “What can I do for you?”
She blew on her coffee to cool it. I took my notepad and Zebra pen out of the jacket pocket and sat down.
“Lucille Lyon,” I said. I studied Brett’s face, the thin lips, the high cheekbones, the startling blue eyes. Her expression didn’t change. It was an intentional blank slate.
“Lucille Lyon,” she repeated. “What about her?”
“She’s missing. Since October two. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
I tasted my coffee. It was strong-strong and sweet, the way I like it.
“Why would I?” Brett countered.
“Because, if I recall, you mentioned Lucy Lyon to me. Lucy Lyon and Skyler Leppard.”
This got a reaction. I watched emotion flicker through her irises like little sparks of light. Her cheek flushed slightly.
“Skyler is dead,” she said, her voice flat. “As I’m sure you know. She died in a terrible accident.”
“Accident. Is that what you call it?” I asked.
Her eyes met mine.
“What do you call it?” she challenged.
I accepted the challenge. “I call it murder.”
“Well,” she replied, looking away. “Whatever it’s called, it has nothing to do with me.”
She sipped her coffee. I sipped mine.
“So, you have no idea where Lucy Lyon might be.”
“No,” she said.
Her hand went to her mouth as if to cover it. Instead she rubbed her lips. A tell?