Backwater Bondage

by Reese Gabriel

  Your body was made to please this man, she thought, the oddly phrased remark coming to her twice in as many days, filling her every nook and cranny till it obscured all else, a mantra to still the agony, the struggle. Please, she begged, please.

  ***

  “You are mine for the next two weeks,” the silver blonde woman said, looking at Ashley from across the mahogany desk. “And according to these papers, I am allowed anything, anything at all, with the exception of vaginal penetration.” She took off her glasses, put them down on Ashley’s folder. “You do realize,” she said, leaning forward, her face a mask of deadly seriousness. “That I am going to break you?”

  Ashley stared at her shoes, the same ones she’d worn to the secret slave hotel. It was the same dress, too, because he’d never let her change, but had had the driver take her upstate, up a long winding road, well off the highway. Another of his men, clearly there for security purposes had ridden along. Rice had been a perfect gentleman on the way, though she’d wished otherwise.

  “I want to see Simon,” she said, holding her back straight and proud. “I belong to him and him alone.”

  The woman, who was wearing pearls and a gray skirt suit and whose hair was high up on her head, and who was pretty enough to work in real estate, inclined her eyes very slightly, signaling something to the two guards who were standing behind Ashley. The men were dressed in riding boots, khaki pants and white shirts, open to the waist. They had wide leather belts, with straps across the shoulders. The woman reached out, slapping Ashley, just hard enough to get her attention.

  “That, my dear, was a love tap. Don’t try to keep on my good side, I don’t have one. My job is to train female slaves and I am quite good at it. When I’m done with you, you will think, speak, act and respond as a slave. You will come like a slave, fellate like a slave, look like a slave. The pleasure of your superiors will not only be the first thing on your mind, it will be the only thing. I can assure you, your days of eating at tables, sitting in chairs and shopping for shoes are at an end. Whoever ultimately buys you may feel differently, but so long as you are here, I will see to it you are taught slavery. Consider that slap a little gift which you can’t possibly appreciate right now. I won’t ask if you understand. You can’t, and it wouldn’t matter if you did. The important thing to remember is that things will be done to you, things you will be powerless to prevent. Your three rules are submit, submit and submit. That is all.”

  She inclined her head to the guards once more, causing them to seize Ashley’s arms in a grip of steel, pulling her back to the door. “One more thing,” the woman called out. “These men are called Handlers. They will handle you. I am the Keeper. I will keep you. From this moment on you will not speak.”

  Within minutes of hearing the Keeper’s words, Ashley was learning her first lesson, naked, on all fours, the scraps of her torn clothing around her as the two Handlers worked her, one making use of her mouth, the other her anus. After awhile, they switched places, though neither one ejaculated inside her. Instead, they taught her to kneel up, a technical position where the girl squats on her heels, head raised, alert and ready. The legs must be kept spread, a rule she learned by the corrective presence of the riding crop across her shoulders and the instep of one of the Handler’s boots at her crotch, widening her stance.

  Ashley could imagine a number of purposes to the position. In this case, it allowed both of the men to ejaculate on her face. Because the girl’s hands belong behind her head, she is unable to interfere with whatever may be happening. They made her wait like this, the come drying on her face, as their erections subsided. This complete, the penises were again aimed at her head, only this time the stream was warm, liquid, gushing on her cheeks and breasts and trickling down her belly.

  And how now she was just kneeling there, legs spread, waiting for the leash and collar so they could lead her, crawling to a tiny cage where her only bath would consist of a hosing, daily administered to the girls in their cages. What kind of girl would submit to this and did these men enjoy it or was it a job? Sleep, she needed sleep.

  The cage wasn’t so terrible. It was secure and quiet. It must be very late at night, she decided, for the other girls, the other new slaves, were sleeping. There were seven other cages she could see, laid out across the room. High fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling, but these were turned down as soon as they had put Ashley in place. She had to enter the cage on her hands and knees. She’d heard one of the Handlers laughing about her ass, and how there was come on it, oozing out. To hurry her in, a whip was applied, lightly, just hard enough to make her feel like a slave.

  She could have sat up, but she chose to lay flat, curled up. She laid her head by the empty water dish. Thoughts flashed through her mind, images of the swirling days that had passed since she’d seen Tom and Andrea together. That seemed a lifetime ago now. Really, she had them to thank for helping her discover her true identity. How jealous her mother and sister would be now! Ashley, the naïve one, surpassing them both, attaining the level of a full slave. Lifestyle slave as it were.

  Simon’s slave, though she might never see him again. She hadn’t asked and nothing was said the entire ride to the Center. It wouldn’t have seemed fitting. He’d simply left her at the door, his face expressionless. Such a proud man! Such an enigma. How she loved him so. Enough to obey him, enough to fulfill her own destiny.

  A slave’s lot is hard, Ashley hears in her sleep, as she slips sweetly into the land of her other existence. A slave’s lot is indeed hard. She cannot help but love her master, and yet the master, to be worthy of the name, cannot overly care for her, or allow his will to be shaken. These words were spoken to Tia, by an ancient one, one of the old pirates, who spoke grandly and effusively from the bottom of his bottle of rum. He alone among the pirates takes the time to speak with her, and though she must serve him sexually as all the others, he is content for her to stroke him lightly, spilling his paltry seed upon the ground. He is nearly blind, wizened, his skin brown and shriveled like a raisin. In his prime, he was a captain, the mentor of her Pirate Lord.

  At the moment, Tia hates her lord, for he has just announced at the feast that they shall set sail, once again upon the deep seas. It is the hunting season, when once again the ships of Spain, fat and slow, laden with gold, plod their way across the billowing waves. Tia will not go. She is to be auctioned off at a nearby island, where there is a market for rare and exotic goods. Ivory from the sun drenched plains, jade from the east, savory spices from India, and females, lithe and vital, sluts of every race, whores who dance to the lash and kiss the feet of strong men.

  Tia weeps. Upon her knees, her hand on the old man’s cock, cheek upon his bony thigh. A sip of rum he gives her and a song, an ancient song, sung by the seafarers of the ghost ships, lost in the recesses of time. His ancient hand upon her back, gives comfort. She has been whipped tonight, by her lord, on account of her begging to stay with him. He brooked no weakness, no sentimentality, and he was merciless with her. By the hair he dragged her, to man after man of the drunken lot, till one would take her and fuck her. With the whip he struck her, seeking her humiliation. Only the ancient one would take her tonight. He alone holds his liquor, proud and strong, perched upon his log, like a parrot, like an old sea dog.

  Tia goes to sleep at his boots, beside the log. In his day the old man would have ravished her, she knows this. But now, all is sweet sleep. In her cage, at the fulcrum of her life’s journey, Ashley sleeps as well. She smiles, knowing that contrary to what the Keeper says, she will not be broken. For she will be Tia and Tia will be her. And together, they will find their peace, embracing their fullest captivity in the arms of their true masters, whomever they may be.

  ***

  Falcon returned to the hotel well past four in the morning. He had a vague sense of guilt for leaving Andrea so long. It had been necessary, of course, because a woman like that, so headstrong and passionate would have interfered, distracted, ruined complet
ely his chances to learn anything about the last known whereabouts of her twin, Ashley.

  Was the twin as beautiful as Andrea? he wondered.

  There was a strange thought. The kind of voice that comes to you in the wee hours, when you know you’ve stayed up too late. He punched in the number on the elevator. Andrea was a very sexy girl, no doubt. An incredible combination of innocence and wanton sensuality. A little girl, in a woman’s body, with the desires of a thousand year old whore. Women like this were dangerous. He’d had his fill of taming them for one lifetime. If he had a nickel for each one—well, you know how that story goes.

  She was a submissive. She had that much right about herself. It was just she hadn’t really touched her own core. And she had an imagination too, and spunk. The man who claimed her would have to give her lead, allow her certain freedoms. Ten years ago, maybe he’d have done it. But he was too old. Thirty-eight, to be exact. That sounded young sure, but he’d seen too much, gone too far.

  He found Andrea asleep on her belly, one leg dangling on the floor. Her ass, round, and lean was fully exposed and it looked like she had been struggling to the end. The crazy kid had red marks all over her wrist, like she was actually trying to slip the handcuff or remove her own hand. He ought to wake her, tell her what he’d learned, that he now had a pretty good idea where Simon Rice had taken Ashley and that come morning he was going to check it out, bringing a couple of well muscled buddies of his.

  Breaking into an operation of Rice’s wouldn’t be easy. And if anyone should know, it would be John Falcon, his former chief of security and number one slave hunter. Andrea proved to be a sound sleeper. The little thing had worn herself out. If only she knew how adorable Falcon found her, with her haughtiness and sluttiness and false bravado.

  Damn, he was tired. In one night, he’d gone from the Edge to a bistro on the south side and finally to a stakeout a discrete distance from 234 Central, headquarters of Trident, in which Rice kept a secret penthouse, a location known only to his top operatives. It was hats off to the working men of the world for giving him the clues he needed to follow Ashley’s trail thus far. The bouncer at The Edge had seen Ashley—whom he mistook for Andrea—take off in Rice’s limo and had overheard him tell the driver to take them to Cirelli’s.

  According to a bartender there, one of Rice’s security men had bragged that when the boss got this new little cookie home (she was apparently drugged or in a trance) he was going to dip his wick for once, too. The man had mentioned Trident, and that was when Falcon remembered the penthouse. Staking it out revealed nothing. Rice was no fool. What he would be able to find at Trident tomorrow, he had no idea. Ashley could be anywhere by now. A brothel in Singapore, a cheap nightclub in Tijuana, or in the private dungeon of a Japanese executive.

  He hadn’t the heart to tell all this to Andrea. Which was odd, because in his line of work he was anything but sentimental. Taking the case had been odd, too. Sure, he could pad up a pretty big bill, just to tell them in the end what he already knew—the girl was long disappeared into the fleshpots of the 21st century slave trade—but that wasn’t his style. So why didn’t he just tell Andrea to piss off? And why in blazes had he told her—pretty damned near promised her—he could find her needle of a twin sister in a haystack?

  Falcon looked down, realized he’d taken off the girl’s shoes, covered her in the comforter and taken off the handcuffs. Christ, was he going to tuck her in now, too. Time for a drink, he decided, time to raid the wet bar and remind himself what he was: a has been, a drunk of the worst kind, the sort who lacks not only his present dignity, but even any record of past dignity. Swallowing the tiny scotch bottle whole, Falcon made his decision. He was going to take himself off the case. A note would be best. “Thanks for thinking of me, but go hire yourself a real detective,” or something like that.

  “Falcon?”

  John heard the forlorn whisper. Something gripped his gut. Failure, guilt, or just plain lust, it was all the same at this point. “Shh,” he soothed.

  “But my sister.”

  Andrea had gotten out of bed and come to him. She had tears in her eyes. She’d read his lack of hope, written all over his face and her balloon had crashed, her crazy soaring hot air balloon, in one fell swoop. Blast it, was he really all she had? “Andrea, it’s all right, kid. We won’t give up.”

  Tough, ready-to-play Andrea was a blithering mess, sobbing out parts of the story, indicting herself all over again, consumed by her own overwhelming helplessness. Without really thinking about it, he found himself lifting her into his arms and bringing her back to bed. Her eyes were big and shy, emptied of bravado as she asked if he would lie with her, just a little while. It was no game now, just the little girl in her, the barely adult woman up past her bedtime, in over her head.

  He felt like a babysitter. Or was it more than that?

  She read the struggle in him as he laid her down, intent on leaving, on fighting his feelings. “Please, Falcon. I’m a brat, I know. But I’m so goddamned scared right now.”

  He touched her cheek, drawn in like a moth to her flame. Andrea was an easy kisser, as he’d expected. She reached up, molded her lips to his with art and flair, and she held nothing back. God, what a nymph, he thought, a total and utter nymph. She wanted this, willing her body to press against him, but still, he ought to know better, ought to be thinking for the both of them.

  “This dress,” she said huskily, “get it off me. I hate it.”

  Andrea put her hands over her head, arched her back, so the latex rode up in one easy motion. When it reached her wrists, he left it there, using his hands to hold her this way, breasts proffered, body still and pinned for his pleasure. He had a condom in his pocket—hell, he had everything in these pockets. She took him in like a tidal pool, like he’d been her master of a thousand years.

  “Yes,” she moaned over and over, sucking in tight little breaths through teeth clenched lower lip. “Harder. Do it harder.”

  Falcon reared back his head and roared like a lion. It had been too long; forever in some ways. Unable to hold back, he drove her onward, towards climax. He’d come inside her, he took her head upon his chest, sweet breath blowing the curly hairs, lulling them both to sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hello, Libby.”

  Elizabeth Van Voorst blinked her tired eyes, bloodshot, cried out from days of a mother’s worst nightmare. A disappeared child. “Hello, Malcolm,” she replied, just that simply, having no emotion left to respond in any other way, even to this man, her best friend, her long lost love and the source of the greatest pain a woman could ever have. “Would you like to come in?”

  She’d been expecting Andrea. Her daughter had been excited on the phone, saying there was a breakthrough, that the detective she’d hired had a lead on Ash’s whereabouts. On a whim, she’d given the servants the day off and told Andrea to drive over, so they could talk. It was long overdue. But now it seemed it would have to wait a little longer.

  “I would, yes,” he nodded, a quite routine smile on his face as though he too had no extraordinary reserves of energy on which to draw. Ashley was his daughter, too, after all. He’d as much right to be upset as she did.

  “I can put some coffee on.”

  He was following her, and she wished he wasn’t. In these little shorts, her top consisting of a halter, she was far too vulnerable to be under the man’s gaze. Even after all these years, and even in the midst of the greatest crisis either had ever faced as parents, she was still feeling a surge of libido.

  “I don’t want to trouble you,” he said, taking a place at one of the two islands in the newly remodeled south kitchen.

  She smiled, tried to concentrate on the details of the coffee making. He hadn’t lost a beat in twenty years. The way he filled his jeans, the way his forearms peeked out below the rolled up cotton shirt, the dimpled chin, the eyes, the hair, barely gray at the temples. This was still a magnificent specimen of manhood, she decided, ungluing her ey
es, reaching for the coffee.

  Tiptoes. She was putting herself on tiptoes. Her bare feet tingling on the tile. Having to reach back, further and further. Why couldn’t she reach it? Why had someone pushed it so far back in the cupboard? The price of living with so many servants, she supposed.

  “Allow me.”

  Libby drew a ragged breath. He had come up behind her, his hip against hers. So different, so strong against her softness, and yet such an excellent fit after so many years. Libby turned, and he was waiting, coffee in hand, his arms positioned just so. How could she not obey the gravity, the logic of his being like this? How could she deny the inevitability of a kiss?

  “We shouldn’t,” she whispered, shaking her head, her breath leaking into his mouth. It wasn't hypocrisy, really. She’d neither sought him out nor fought him off. Damn it, he should know better. He was the dominant.

  When he reached for her again, she slapped him. Libby regretted the action at once. It was wrong, against the nature of things for her to do such a thing. Kneel, Libby, came the voice, deep from within. In your shorts, and halter, nearly naked for him anyway, kneel as the wench you are and beg forgiveness. Do it, Libby, now, before he puts you over his knee.

  “It’s all right, Libby.” His hand on the side of her face was there to soothe and reassure her, she knew it. “We’re both worried sick about Ashley.”

  Libby put her head against his chest. There were things they could never sort out, never repair. Even an ordinary, vanilla relationship after all this time would be impossible—both of them being different people, half a lifetime having passed them by. Stony seconds of silence passed, his body stiff, not engaged, and then slowly, agonizingly, his hand came to rest uneasily upon her back, upon naked skin.

  Libby tensed now. He is doing a male thing, generic, she thinks, something written in the genes: woman melts and shivers, man protects. But he has to know the symbolism between them—how could he have forgotten the meaning, the sacred truth between them concerning this very contact—male hand on small of female’s back. Malcolm and Libby. Master and slave.