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“Hands behind you,” he says settling back into a post-cum trance. He sounds less cruel.
I wait, letting my humility shine. My body pulses longing for its own satisfaction, but I fear it might be some time before the master gives me any pleasure at all. My head is bowed, looking to one side at the shiny leather boot that was pressed to my neck, while my breasts protrude proudly with my hands bound by his command. My feet begin to ache as my ass presses against them. I can feel the juice between my thighs become sticky. Though I’m naked, my body burns hotly.
I expect another brisk command, and am surprised to hear his tone change. He leans forward in his chair, and reaches for my chin. Raising it, he gives me permission to look him in the eye. “You’ll find my dinner in the kitchen. I’ll eat there, set a place for me.”
I hesitate. I have no idea where the kitchen is, though I suppose that wandering the rooms behind this one I’ll find it. Lockhart seems to read my mind, however, and points behind him. “Though that door.”
Jumping quickly to my feet, I find the bright yellow and black kitchen is far beyond my expectations for this old house. It’s sleek and updated, as though the master of the house enjoys preparing food himself.
There’s a fine looking roast warming in the oven, potatoes and winter vegetables on the side, all simmering in juices that make my mouth water. I didn’t think I was hungry, but the desire to eat suddenly grinds at my empty stomach. I find a tossed salad in the refrigerator, cutlery in a drawer near the table, and because the upper cabinets have glass fronts, I can easily find a dinner plate and glassware. The old dinette is vintage, a yellow laminated table trimmed with chrome, and four pale yellow vinyl chairs that look
as though they were purchased just yesterday—if the year was 1950. I glimpse my collar in the chrome and remember how naked I am. There’s a steady pulsing in my body making every nerve-ending jump with fire. I have Lockhart’s dinner on the table in five minutes, and find him striding through the door just as I fold a linen napkin and set it beside his fork
“Sit,” he orders me.
I have no idea what to do with my hands. They feel foolish the way they rest uselessly in my lap. Under normal circumstances, I’d be eating along with him. But that wouldn’t please him. He wants to feed me, bite for bite. I take each one he offers, savoring the taste simply because I’m not certain if I’ll have another one. Heinrich did this with me for one long week two years ago—when I complained because I was gaining weight—and tired of hearing me grumble, he took over my food. Not a scrape, not a bite, not a single morsel crossed my lips unless it came from his fork. I was miserable though Heinrich was amused. And I never complained to him about my weight again.
In Lockhart’s house, I’ll need to squelch my urge to panic. Perhaps it is just this one meal he intends to dictate.
For two weeks, I serve Lockhart slavishly. His demands and rules are numerous, and I’m prone to forget—or even question if he’s given me instructions. It’s a good deal to remember especially when my most important task is to surrender to him. He’s says it will get easier—usually after I’ve been punished for some breach of his rigorously imposed slave etiquette.
He wakes me at dawn, before the sun has a chance to grow pink in the sky. Since I’ve been bound before I sleep, he needs to free me from whatever restraints he used the night before. Often, it is just my collar tethered to the footboard of the bed. I sleep on a mat with a thick comforter to cover me. My bones seem to grind into the floor because the cushion is so thin, but I haven’t had a problem falling asleep. I’m exhausted by the time I can finally rest. Sometimes he binds my ankles and wrists—this when he thinks I’ve been especially lax.
I wake with my eyes peering through the darkness, assaulted by the light of the candle he holds before my face. Other days, I’m driven from sleep by the blaring light in the hall, and my whole body instantly comes to attention. As soon as I can move, Lockhart pulls me over the end of the bed and flails me with a thick bundle of lashes. By the time he’s laid several dozen strokes on my shoulders, thighs and ass, I’m wide-awake. A cold shower follows this morning ritual. When my master removes my collar and thrusts me under the icy stream of water, the opposites of hot skin and cold water collide, sending rivers of sensation careening through my veins, so much I can hardly stand them. Afterwards, I stand under intense heatlamps as Lockhart dries me with a warm bath towel. Once he replaces my collar, my day begins.
I’m a scullery maid, serving wench, and housekeeper, working twelve hours a day. I break to eat what Lockhart’s content to give me, and to satisfy him sexually—which might mean passionately making love in his bed, or being used in the mouth or ass as briskly as he can get off. If I cum, he seems pleased, though he makes no effort to see that I’m satisfied.
There are a thousand rules to remember, how to wash his clothes—taking care to separate them properly, look for stains and scrubbing certain items individually. His kitchen is a deathtrap for a negligent slave, full of pitfalls everywhere I turn. He has a place for every item—the system carefully coded in his head. But with no written instructions, I have to go on memory. I try making pictures in my mind of where things belong so I won’t forget. There are specific ways to wax and polish his floors and the thick oak banisters, as well as explicit instructions for washing the windows and disinfecting the bathroom. I wonder if he has some obsessive/compulsive neurosis that demands all this—or if it’s just because this serves his purpose in training his sex slaves. There are so many things to remember and work to accomplish every day that I don’t have the time to think of anything else.
At any moment, I might find myself hauled over the back of a chair, the sofa, his lap, or just ordered to bend and touch the floor. He’ll deliver a thorough spanking, paddling or caning on my ass—I swear the implement has no particular meaning. It’s simply the one that’s most available at the time. Once he’s finished, he tells me how I’ve erred. A glass out of place, a banister too dull, a floor left wet, a speck of dust here or there. I can never be perfect, and after several days, I realize that is not the point. These practices put me in Lockhart’s world so the details of his life consume me—the way I’m delivered from my own life into his. I’ve quit thinking of myself because I have no time for anything that frivolous.
My day ends near ten p.m.—sometimes before, if I look especially sleepy. There is no relaxation planned, no television or books, just an endless amount of work until he tells me it’s time to stop. If he wants to use me sexually before I sleep, he takes his pleasure. But always, before I’m bound and tethered for the night, I go over the bedrail and take another punishment. In the morning, he always uses the lashes, which do nothing more than warm my skin to a sensuous blaze. But at night, the implements vary just as they do the rest of the day. He’s seems fond of a school paddle with holes, or the cane if he plans to be particularly vicious. On lighter days, he’s satisfied with a belt or other lengths of leather—straps, tawses, and whips.
There are no S&M scenes in this painstaking ritual. There seems no need, since he sees no specific reason to give me any pleasure. I trust this will change. For now, however, he is training me to serve him. Though his demands are great, and the punishments alarming in their number and severity, this structure for my days has certain merits. I tend to drift, to lose myself, to think of nothing but my master and his next demand.
***
I wake on the fourteen day, knowing that only because Lockhart pointed out the fact the night before when he put me to sleep, as though this is the hallmark for something special. Though, the same ritual of punishment and cold shower begins my day, when that’s finished he leads me to the bright sunroom where he pierced me and sits my bare ass on the table. He has generally ignored my piercings since I came here—except to make certain that they are properly cleansed. He plays with them now, as though he’s considering what he plans to do with them. Finally making his decision, he opens each of the five rings, removes the additional beads that weight them down and adds new, heavier ones.
“I think you’re ready for these,” he tells me. I feel the change immediately, the way they tug so heavily. I’m reminded of the weeks I enjoyed the feel of the fresh piercings while I waited for them to heal.
“I’ll add even more soon. Get used to them.”
I spend most of the day in the kitchen. He has a special dinner in mind and I help him with the cooking, though this feast is his creation, not mine. He talks some, and I answer when asked. This has not happened in all the days I’ve been here, and it seems a little strange. It takes some time to answer even the simplest questions, as though I’m reentering the real world again. What conversation we have is so completely different than the master/slave conversing we’ve done, it takes time for me to think. Nearing the dinner hour, Lockhart dresses me in a short leather skirt, lacy thigh-high stockings, and a leather halter with zippers to expose my pierced nipples—all in black. Later, when his guests arrive I realize his purpose for the meal, my dress, and the more normal conversation.
Five gentlemen join Lockhart for cards and other diversions every Thursday evening. They talk, joke, tell stories, and occasionally shoot pool—so I’m informed—though this doesn’t happen the first time I serve the party. After several rounds of cards, it’s nearly eleven o’clock and I’m growing weary. Occasionally during the evening, I’ve been asked questions which I’m obligated to answer. Most of these are quite personal—some especially about my decision to be Lockhart’s slave. One man in the group has a slave like me at home, while the others are simply content to observe what their friends enjoy so much. There is enough double entendre to assume that I’ll be serving them all personally before my relationship with Lockhart ends.
On this particular night, they’re easy on me. Just one, a very horny man with horn-rimmed glasses takes me into the sunroom—now dark with shadows—and plants a rigorous but not hefty dick into my ass. He holds my head by the hair—something that would have been nearly impossible for me to endure a few months before.
I am exhausted, but a little troubled by the time I go to bed. I see things changing and worry what that change will mean.
It’s time to return to the shop and what I believe to be my home, though I’m not really sure right now what home means.
“You’ve done well, Anna,” Lockhart tells me as he leads me to my car. “For a time, your life will become more normal, but it’s imperative that you do not forget the lessons that you’ve learned while you were with me these two weeks. You’ll need to remember everything I’ve taught you, for the same demands will apply when you return to my house. For just an instant, the man I first met in his house and at the shop, who pierced my nipples and returned to nurture them, appears again. The mild-mannered kindness and gentle eyes hearten me. I wonder about who he is, even though I know it’s not good to speculate or even try to pry.
As I leave, I’m drained, but entirely at peace, jarred by my swift return to a more civil world.
Chapter Thirteen
