by Aya DeAniege
Books By Aya DeAniege
Contracted
Contract Taken
Contract Broken
Coming Soon:
Contract Renewed
Coming Next Year:
Masked Intentions
Prototype*
At Death's Door
Contract Broken
Aya DeAniege
Copyright 2016 Aya DeAniege
Front Cover Design by Christina Quinn
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
While the idea of sub-space in this book does reflect, in some part, the way the mind reacts in an abusive relationship, it has been altered in some chapters from its true form to suit a means to an end.
Introduction/Preface
They split my story.
Now they’re bickering about some movie deal. I don’t get it. I haven’t had enough popularity for that. Perhaps it’s that age old cliche of books being made into movies that has suddenly taken off. Popular culture has been remaking movies of old and turning books into movies of late.
None of them are worth the time.
Certainly not this. How much could even be shown on the big screen? Porn and smut and not being able to capture the genuine feeling. Or perhaps it’s simply to drive the readers out and into the public.
I’d threaten to beat all three of them, but two would take it as an invitation and the third? Well, I don’t want to try his temper. He takes after his grandfather—nasty, beast of a man—I think is his problem.
Fantastic publicist though.
They didn’t tell me until after it was published that they had broken up my story. It is their right to do so, I suppose. It will make me more money, they claim. Not that I need the money, mind you.
Editors like to change things on me, however. After the first edition was a hit in the community, I was convinced to publish the book at large to the public. To do that, I sent it to a proper editor, someone with years of experience. He came back and told me that I had to change the ‘cleave.’ Almost everything could remain the same, but I had to change what happened to me those two weeks I was away.
It was unbelievable he said, poor writing, he said.
Of course, I had submitted the book under a pen name.
After several emails back and forth where he told me to change it and I told him where to go and what to do in the politest way I could, I got fed up. How dare the man tell me I couldn’t tell my story the way it happened. I walked into the office he held so dear and asked him if he knew who I was.
He had no idea.
Colour me surprised.
I explained who I was and he very carefully explained why he wanted it changed. Because no one reacts well to that sort of thing. For about two seconds I considered what he said, then I dismissed it entirely.
I have seen so many subs abused by Doms because the sub didn’t realize. They thought it was normal and acceptable behaviour. My book was so popular amongst the community that all new members were ‘strongly encouraged’ to read it. We saved several subs from bad Doms when they came to me, trying to tell me it was all wrong. I told them it was, then sat them down and talked about what they should watch for in their chosen partner, the red flags if you will, of a bad relationship.
Predators walk amongst us, using the community kinks as a way to hide. Do not fall into the trap of a predator, but if you do, know that you can get free, no matter what he tells you. You do have a choice, and you’re not selfish for having cravings of your own, or for asking why in a situation that you don’t understand.
Safe, sane, consensual, I cannot stress that enough. And being true to my story has helps us illustrate that point. It was an extreme, after all, the community had been built to keep Nathaniel’s father from hurting more people, but it is still a very real possibility.
The first portion of my story revolved around my signing a contract for the Program and spending two weeks with Nathaniel Edwards in his estate. We played a few times, had fantastic sex, and then something really confusing happened where his father came in and then took me away.
If the man hadn’t been provided with photographic evidence, he wouldn’t have been able to take me away. If someone hadn’t been loyal to him, even though Nathaniel and Mr. Wrightworth both believed Elaina was loyal only to herself? I would have been fine.
I would have remained with Nathaniel because, despite everything, he did know his father very well. He knew that his father was spouting nonsense and hoping to catch him or me in a lie.
We did very well. For all that was said, all that was done, until that image arrived, we were in the free and clear. Nathaniel’s father would have eventually left empty handed.
I don’t recall a great deal of what happened afterwards. Perhaps that was one reason for the break, to explain the sudden change. Some have complained about not understanding, to which I’ve given them polite instructions on where to go and how to get there.
Nathaniel’s father took me to one of his buildings. It was sound proof and rather small, it really only had one purpose. There were cameras everywhere so that he could watch everything over and over. As much as he liked doing what he did, Nathaniel’s father could not make someone disappear whenever he pleased. The government kept a very careful watch on everything and everyone.
Rich people were excluded from the constant surveillance because they paid to be excluded. They also recorded everything in their homes in order to keep the servants trustworthy and to catch their own family doing whatever illegal things they did.
At any time the government could, and had before, demand access to that footage. Anyone who signed a contract, or inherited one, immediately signed over their rights for anything to do with the one poor person who signed the contract. This meant that at any time Mr. Wrightworth, or any other person from the Program, could log into a rich person’s security system and watch anything to do with a poor person.
If that poor person happened to help Nathaniel undress, if that poor person happened to be engaged in sexual activities with a rich person.
If they were strung up like an animal waiting to be slaughtered.
The Program saw it all.
The problem they had with me was that after being removed from Nathaniel’s home, they had no idea where I went.
Rich people paid for anonymity. Until they are found to be in possession of a contracted debtee, they cannot be watched short of a court order.
No one saw me go in with him, no one even saw him go in.
Mr. Wrightworth tried, I know he did. I saw the files and the favours he called in, in his attempt to find me. Not because I was special, not because he liked to hear me scream in pain or because my terror put a particular heat to his blood, but because I was a poor person who had signed a contract. He had sworn to protect us all, to care for us and, if need be, to step in when we should have withdrawn consent.
Nathaniel’s father was very good at what he did. I was not the first person to disappear into this building of his. I might not have been the last either. We don’t know for certain.
The moment I left Nathaniel’s sight, I went numb. I dropped emotionally. The effects of discipline had been put off while he had been spea
king to me, but with him out of sight the world was suddenly very real. What was done to me was real. I was in a state of numbness as I was pulled through and then out of the estate. I didn’t put up much of a fight as I was stuffed into a car.
I don’t... I don’t really remember arriving. But some nights I wake, almost certain that I could feel it still, could see it still. The terror grips me tight and there’s nothing I can do but rock myself as it passes over me and my mind fully wakes up, as I realize that I am no longer there.
Sometimes I’ll see his face. You can’t exactly make a man like that just disappear. Can’t lock him away forever or rid the world of his image. When I see his face, it always takes me back and once more I am terrified and I am weak, afraid of what will happen to me and of all that has been done to me since then. The world appears all too large and I swear the very ground will simply open up underneath my feet and swallow me up.
Once a year on the anniversary of my being taken I ... well... I pretty well lose my mind. Each year I hold onto just a little more sanity. Each year I try once more for freedom and am reminded of how much control he still has over my life and actions because once, decades ago, he had me caught for two weeks in a secluded location where no one could hear me scream.
As part of my rehabilitation I had to watch some of the tapes. To come to terms with what was done to me and to fully understand that, yes, this did happen. I wasn’t imagining it, I didn’t make it up and I didn’t want what was done to me.
Some have said that because I was a part of the community, that I submitted to Nathaniel, that it was all right for me to be treated like that, that obviously I wanted it. To those people I asked how, or why, they believed that it was acceptable to do that to someone when they clearly said no, stop, begged and pleaded for their lives?
As I was raped the first time, I screamed. It wasn’t pain, it certainly could not be mistaken for pleasure. The sound of my voice wasn’t that of a victim suffering. It was the sound of an enraged woman. I had fought him for days but that was the point where I broke.
He did as he pleased for two weeks, give or take.
And then like clockwork my period started. Thank goodness he was so utterly disgusted at my bleeding and him not being the cause, because if it weren’t for that, I never would have been left alone.
I never would have escaped.
Chapter One
The following is mostly transcription from phone records, mingled with the small fragments I recall and what sounds I picked up on in the audio recording. I’ve never watched the tapes on Mr. Wrightworth’s side of things because it’s just never felt right to do so. I viewed the phone call on my end, but it was in a numb fashion and years later. It’s as if anything to do with that call has been completely erased, or like I wasn’t really there for it.
Perhaps I wasn’t. What kind of crazy person escapes their bonds and then picks up the discarded cellphone of their captor to make a call when they expected him back at any moment? If I had been caught on that phone... I still shudder to think about what might have happened to me.
“Hello?” Mr. Wrightworth demanded.
“Mr. Wrightworth?” I whispered.
“Izzy, Izzy, where are you?” he said, I could hear the furtive sound of his fingers being snapped. I can picture it in my head, having been in that room myself, the flurry of activity that was going on in the silent moments as I struggled on the other side of the line.
Just trying to hold on a little longer.
“I...I don’t know... he took me somewhere.”
My voice was breaking. There was no denying that my stability was slipping away. The sound of my voice was thicker than normal, like my throat was closing up, or my tongue was swollen. In reality, it probably sounded like that because I had been strangled more than once, and had been crying on and off before the call. I was on the verge of tears once more and that, in itself, can change the sound of my voice.
“I’ll come and get you, I—”
“He hurt me, Mr. Wrightworth,” I said, sobbing into the phone.
“Darling, listen to me,” the concern was gone, only a commanding tone, then a moment of hesitation to allow me to comprehend that what he had just said went beyond the words. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, Mr. Wrightworth.”
“Are you alone right now?”
A sniffled, the phone shifted as I wiped my runny nose with the same hand that held the phone. “Yes, he left some food and didn’t tie me well enough. He could be back any minute.”
“How much food did he leave you?”
“An apple and a sandwich.”
“Okay, you’ve got a bit of time, breathe.”
It didn’t occur to me until years later to actually ask how Mr. Wrightworth knew the man wasn’t going to be back for some time. Even after the events that were to come in the following months, I never asked Mr. Wrightworth about it. I should have, I should have known better.
Nathaniel’s father had left his cell phone outside of where I had been tied up, but still just laying around. Rich people can be a little stupid like that, not thinking about the expensive items they can replace at the drop of a hat.
“I just—”
“You’re doing fine, Darling, listen to me. I can come and I can get you, but I need you to do something for me and I’m not allowed to tell you what to say.”
There was panting, then a sudden quiet. If he had told me what I had to say, law enforcement might see it as him coercing me into saying something that wasn’t true. I’m sure I struggled to figure out what he wanted, but it came to me eventually.
“My name is Isabella Martin,” I stopped to sniffle as my voice broke. “I’ve been taken from my contract holder. I’ve been raped and tortured.”
And then just tears from my side. Little sounds from his as he was moving and people were running around him. I believe he told me later that he had me on speaker phone. Everything’s recorded no matter what call you make, so that wasn’t even their concern.
“Good, good, now I need you to do something else, for your safety.”
“What?”
“I need you to delete this call from the phone, in case he does come back early. Then I need you to put the phone back where you found it and go back to where he had you. However you were restrained, put it back on. Can you do that, for me?”
“Please don’t make me go back there.”
“If you don’t go back, he’ll know what you’ve done. You’ll be gone before I can arrive.”
“Please, Mr. Wrightworth.”
“Darling,” a frustrated growl through gritted teeth. “That’s a command. Do you understand me?”
Another sniffle, then, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’m coming, Izzy.”
It took them sixteen hours, between that phone call and them finally arriving. I screamed at them all, wouldn’t let anyone touch me. Perhaps I thought Nathaniel’s father was making good on one of his many threats. The man had an active imagination and a way of convincing you that what he was thinking about doing to you was very possible, that he had a list of men, dogs, and whatever else he could possibly want to fuck you with.
Not because he was into those things, but because he loved to see women degraded. Anything that disgusted me suddenly caught his attention.
I still didn’t know his name.
Mr. Wrightworth had to force his way into the room. He wouldn’t let them wrap me in the blood soaked sheet. I remember him snarling something about it not being a photo opportunity. Instead he slipped off his tailored suit jacket and dropped it around my shoulders.
He took my chin between two fingers and lifted my face. My whole focus was on him as I almost sniffled, but ended up shuddering and letting out a little sound instead.
“You need to hold yourself together until we get you to Medical. Understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
And then he picked me up and carried me out of there because I wouldn’t let anyone
else do it. I wouldn’t let them put me on a stretcher or in a wheelchair either. They walked me out past Nathaniel’s father, talking to two police officers as if he were innocent. I keened and tried to get out of Mr. Wrightworth’s arms. I wanted to run away.
“Damn it, Nicole, where have you been?” he snapped as something pricked me.
“I’m sorry that my life didn’t stay on hold for sixteen fucking hours. Some of us can’t just sit around fantasizing. It should kick in in just a ... there it goes.”
They kept me sedated for three days, performing their tests while I was out. Even Mr. Wrightworth said that the trauma I had suffered was enough, and I didn’t need to be awake for the rape kit.
He’s a firm believer that everyone should be awake for everything that is done to them. In his defence though, I probably would have just screamed bloody murder through the whole thing and no one wanted to hear that.
When I finally did fully wake up, I was restrained to the bed. I don’t recall it, but apparently it wasn’t the first time they tried to wake me. Mr. Wrightworth had a scratch on the side of his face, Nicole a black eye. Both were there when I woke up, and they didn’t mention that I was the cause of the bruise or the cut.
Mr. Wrightworth sat to my right, Nicole stood to my left, her hands on the railing of the bed.
“Good morning, Isabella,” Mr. Wrightworth said, reaching down to take my hand. “How are you feeling?”
Weak, tired, that was the first almost lucid moment I had since Nathaniel had sent me to write in my journal. There was a cloudiness to my mind that didn’t seem to want to lift, making it hard to think. I couldn’t seem to recall how I had ended up where I was, or why I was there.
For me, one moment I was with Nathaniel, the next I was waking up in medical.
“Did I break the contract?” I asked weakly.
