by Anneke Jacob
When it was really dark Anders shifted over onto his side, and leaned 224
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me back into the crook of his body. Under the loose overshirt he'd brought for me I felt his hand undoing a couple of buttons on my dress. The fingers slid across the shaped leather over my breasts, that kept my harnessed tits from looking obscene under my clothes. The closest thing to a bra I'd worn in months.
Some people walked practically over us, looking for a place to sit, and I hugged his arm, trying to look like what we were engaged in was a normal public embrace. "Uh-uh. Bad girl," he whispered.
My hands dropped to the blanket like rocks. Under cover of some loud drum work he unsnapped the bottom of each leather piece. The hand resumed its exploration. Then it began on my nipples. Tugging on the rings, squeezing, twisting. When my head rolled back he yanked harder and whispered an order not to move until it was time to applaud. Song after song went by like this, heard through a miasma of escalating arousal. I had never before found the twang of guitars so erotic. But the bass provided an anxious under-rhythm accompaniment that resounded between my ears and reverberated in my trembling belly: 'Bad-girl, bad-girl, badgirl….'
As the concert drew to a close Anders withdrew his hand and slid something out of his knapsack. I felt it clip to one nipple ring, then through the ring at the front of the harness at my waist, then back up to the other nipple ring. Something elastic. Oh, god.
He pulled me to my feet. "Straighten up," he murmured. I winced a little at the tug. He made me fold up the blanket, which was an interesting exercise.
We walked through the crowd toward the gate, his hand on my shoulder, his thumb and fingers forcing that shoulder back whenever I slouched. Near the gate he ran into an acquaintance, some city councillor's community assistant. A seemingly interminable conversation followed concerning supportive housing starts, noise bylaws and zoning for small concerts. I joined here and there as I could, smiling companionably, all the while being forced into upright torment by that apparently casual hand. The walk back seemed to take forever; step after step of aroused discomfort and apprehension.
At last we were at the campground, making our way through the rows of tents and vans and trailers. Rock music blared ahead of us somewhere, louder with every step we took. We turned a corner and found it was coming 225
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from the next door tent trailer, where a rowdy party was evidently in progress. I grimaced, and looked up at Anders.
"Lucky me," he said. I thought he was being sarcastic, but he actually looked pleased.
Inside, I was on my knees and naked almost before he'd put his program down.
"How shall I punish you, I wonder?" he said, locking on my collar and cuffs, and unhooking my nipples. More punishment. I'd hardly recovered from the last time. Wretchedly I wondered what he'd had in mind if I hadn't misbehaved. Some more teasing, no doubt. Far preferable to what was coming. "Do you know what you did wrong?”
“I held onto your arm without permission, master. I'm sorry."
"Those people weren't going to see what I was doing. You'll have to trust me better than that."
"I'm sorry, master," I said again.
"And?"
"I'll try very hard to do only as I'm told."
"And?"
"Please – please punish me, master."
"Right. Let's just teach those hands to stay where they're put." He fastened my wrists behind my back, then strapped my upper arms together as tightly as they would go. A chain from my wrists up to the ceiling forced me to bend almost double. He found things to tie my ankles to, wide apart, and tightened the wrist chain, and I was up on my toes, whimpering, mostly from terror. I'd seen the cane. Oh, god, all this for hugging his arm! Not fair! He took a handful of my hair and raised my head toward him. "Do you get to do what you like, slave?”
“No, master." My voice was a frightened creak.
"Do you get to stop me doing what I like? Or even delay me, for the slightest part of a second?"
"No, master, no, I'm sorry!"
"No, you don't." He raised my head higher, thrust a heavy gag into my mouth and fastened the strap. The pounding base from next door paused for a moment, and then started again in a new rhythm. There was a click, and a loud clashing rhythm; Anders had brought his own CD player. He turned it up louder still, and in my stretched state the drumbeats felt like blows.
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Suddenly I was pushed forward by a real blow. The slice of the cane took a beat to rise to full force, and then I was screaming into the gag. I hadn't heard it, or my own cry. I got four more, and teetered on my toes, howling soundlessly into the noise.
Anders turned the sound down by increments as I quieted. At last he turned it off, mopped up my face, then sat down at the table, looking at something, turning pages. My ass throbbed excruciatingly. Arms and shoulders and calves were aching. Tears were dripping onto the carpet, tears of guilt and chagrin as well as pain. When was I going to learn not to be so fucking impulsive?
After a while he released my ankles, and unhooked my wrists from the ceiling. But I was sent on my knees into the corner where I had to stay, arms still cranked behind me, nose to the wall, until it was time for bed.
The next morning we were up quite early. Anders gave me breakfast under the table at his feet. My ass was very sore, but apart from that I felt chipper enough. I'd been punished but it was over. Such things rarely continued into the next day.
I thought perhaps he'd been a little harsh, but I'd been warned: anything resembling resistance on my part was beyond the pale. When it came to punishment he always pushed the pain hard and fast, well beyond the level that would arouse me. As a result I'd been trained out of a lot of unacceptable behaviour. But clearly I still had a long way to go. It could be confusing, this shift back and forth between our public and private relationships, and sometimes I got muddled. But honestly, grabbing his arm when he was doing something to my body; how stupid could I be?
I was looking forward to my day with him, but that didn't start quite as soon as I had hoped. The performances didn't begin for another couple of hours, and apparently till then I was superfluous, and got put away in the closet as before. Damn. Was it more meetings or what? No one had mentioned anything like that in my hearing. Not that it was any of my business. But my sojourn in storage was a great deal less comfortable than the previous day, with my delicate behind wincing against the boards. The air and the time seemed to stand still. I sat, and waited, and squirmed, and waited.
Time began moving again, albeit very slowly, when I heard the trailer door open. For a while I listened to movement: little clunks and rustles, 227
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footsteps. I listened, and wriggled, tried to analyze what I was hearing, gave up and waited some more.
When Anders finally took me out, the sight of circuits, and a bunch of little tools made my legs shake.
I was on my back on the table again, wrists locked to neck, chastity shield removed. Fingers traced welts, making me yelp. There was the dildo again, being slotted into the shield. That had to mean I was going to have to wear it all day. My god. I'd go mad. I had no idea.
In, in, in it went. Pressure on soft, swollen tissue, rings shifted, the lock clicking shut.
Lubricant. Something probing my asshole, something very familiar. Oh, no…. I raised my head, alarmed, wanting to object, or at least to see what I was being subjected to. All business, he slid the thing all the way up, ignoring me. Straps tugged, clicked to my harness. I was lifted and rolled over, and there was another click in the small of my back. Then I was up, being pulled straight by a hand on my collar.
"There you go, girl." He yanked a little on the rear strap. "That's my remote leash. If you're more than two metres away from me you'll feel a buzz, just a light warning. More than three metres and it gets stronger. More than five m
etres and it's going to hurt. I can override it whenever I like; I can turn it off, or I can use it to bring you in even if you're only a metre away.
Got it?”
“Yes, master." I forgot all about the vaginal dildo. This was terrifying.
We drove to the park that day, for which I was grateful. Walking in all that equipment was bizarre enough over the short haul.
"Did you find all that within driving distance, master?" I ventured curiously. "I had no idea Orillia was so kinky."
"I already had most of it. Just needed to find some extra electronics.
And a pet store." So much for my curiosity.
I put on my collected public face, and hoped we looked like any couple so enamoured of each other that we liked to stay close, if not entwined.
Mostly he held my hand or wrist anyway, or walked with an arm around me.
But in the CD tent I fell behind, looking at a recording with ancient instruments, and got the warning buzz. I got another in the food area when a crowd got between us. I really wished then, like him, that he could keep me in public on a nice solid leash made of chain or leather; it would be so much 228
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easier. But I had to hand it to him. I felt inescapably, physically tied to him.
We settled on our blanket and despite the discomfort of sitting on hard ground in my condition, I heaved a sigh of relief. Silly me. During a long singer-songwriter ballad (which tended to bore him), I got an odd sensation.
For a moment I thought that now that I was no longer as anxious about the anal shocker, I was feeling the pleasure of the vaginal plug. But the feeling intensified. The thing was vibrating. I looked at Anders. He was lying back with his hand in his pocket, and was watching me under lazy eyelids.
The singer moved into yet another verse, and the vibration kicked up.
My breath started to quicken. A smile pulled at my master's mouth. The vibration slowed, then speeded up again. I suppressed an urge to rock myself back and forth. When at last the song drew to its sad close and the applause was over, the vibration ended, too. I let out a big breath and looked to Anders for instructions. He was standing, evidently ready to move to another stage. Scrambling to my feet, I began folding the blanket, feeling a bit stunned.
In the artisan's area I failed to notice when he had moved away from the quilts we were examining, and I got zapped. No warning, just a moderate jolt in my rear to remind me to pay attention. I hurried the few steps to his side, feeling like a dog being pulled to heel. Anders amused himself not just through boring performances, but also while we talked to Pam and Claude and the various other acquaintances that he was constantly running across.
During a drumming workshop my master played me along with the drums, keeping time: on, off, high, low. Given its location – vagina rather than clitoris – there was no hope it would make me come. It got me about halfway there. And it drove me mad.
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Chapter Seventeen
Andersday
"So this is the little prize." A woman stood, hands on hips, looking down at me with an expression of friendly irony. Anders had never told me what she looked like, but this had to be Val. Something direct and no-shit about her, from the short brown hair to the firmly planted boots.
"Hey, Val!" Anders said. "Good timing. That blues act should be on in about twenty minutes."
"Here?" She was riffling through her program.
"No," he leaned over to look past her and pointed, "that stage down there. But sit down for a minute."
She settled down cross-legged beside me on the blanket. "So," she said before I could gather myself to speak, "how's slavery working out for you?"
I gaped and a laugh blurted out of me; my hand went to my mouth.
What was the woman doing, channelling Dr. Phil? All I could think of to say was an inane, "Good. Really good," while I looked around hastily to see who might be within earshot.
She grinned. "Glad to hear it. I notice you said that without looking at the big guy first. That's a good sign, though I don't know if he'd agree." My eyes went to him then; he was grinning, too.
"I haven't actually implanted any recordings yet. She's still speaking for herself.”
“Are you?"
I tried not to look at my master. He had implanted a couple of other things that morning.
"Um. Speaking, yes."
"But everything else is under orders."
"Pretty much. Well, I – I do my own work, you know."
"Information girl. Environmental stuff. Hey, can you find out which motorcycles have the cleanest exhaust systems?"
Anders tsked. "Val, I thought you were saving for a truck so you could abandon me and take my customers away." He held up his hand. "Wait, I know – crew of one on the seat behind you, parts and lumber tied to the handlebars – no, sticking out the side car…." He lay back, snickering away 230
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to himself.
"The truck'll be first, boss man. The bike will be one of my many rewards from my outstandingly profitable first year in queer renovations.
Once I'm no longer a wage slave." Her hazel eyes twinkled in my direction.
"So, can you find out? I like my fantasies to have a solid basis in fact."
I nodded, relieved to be on my own turf. "Sure. Repair records, too, if you want. Though the information might be out of date by the time you buy.”
“That's cool; I'll just get you to do the research all over again."
There was the sound of fiddles tuning up from the stage. Val looked down at the one she was interested in, shading her eyes. "Hey, I think they're setting up over there. Come and listen to some real music, not this deedle-eedle shit."
"Nah, I'll catch her later on," said Anders. "Take Maia if you like. She could use the education. All she listened to before I got hold of her was baroque recorder quartets." This was a slight exaggeration. I had also listened to baroque string quartets and Medieval dance music.
"Baroque! Holy shit, she's worse than you. Come on, girl, let's introduce you to a later century."
I turned my eyes to Anders and got a reassuring nod; he was taking his hand out of his pocket. It still felt dangerous moving away from him, even with permission. Up and sauntering toward the distant stage, Val gave me a sideways look – she was taller, but not by a lot – and said, "So, it's all okay with you? Still?"
I knew what she meant, but I had trouble meeting her eye. "Yes. It's still okay. Really; more than okay."
"That's not the brainwashing talking, is it?" I frowned down at the path in front of me. "Or wishful thinking? He's a good guy, you know, Anders, I'd trust him a long way, but he is a man. They have their limits. Especially with really getting it when it comes to women."
I didn't know what to say to that. As master and slave Anders and I were so entwined, so engaged within each other's heads, that Val's observations seemed to be coming from some other planet altogether. A planet where men were dumb guys for whom foreplay was big news, and whose height of culinary skill was remembering to take the plastic off the frozen pizza before they put it in the oven.
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"I – don't see him hitting any limits like that, to be honest with you."
She laughed. "He's got you good.”
“He does."
"But you could get loose if you needed to, right? This isn't some brainwashed abused woman thing here, I hope, because I'd have to start trying to rescue you and my job might get a little tense. Not that that would matter; just say the word."
I gaped at her again. Her bluntness was bowling me over. There was no sensitive manoeuvring here with a potentially vulnerable stranger. No matter; I had to appreciate the gesture. This woman was perfectly willing to put her job at risk to pull another woman to safety, should that be required.
Could I get loose if I needed to? Not long
ago the question would have been disturbing, might even have given me nightmares. Much as I had avoided entertaining the thought, the possibility had existed. But months of lockstep control, training, obedience and mercilessly swift punishment had tightened the web; each strand had acquired the tensile strength of Kevlar.
The concept of walking away was now so unreal as to be meaningless.
Today it seemed especially inconceivable.
In the abstract I knew it was possible. Not believable, not for me. Not from Anders. But possible for someone else, maybe, in the same situation.
"Val, I really don't need that or want that; I swear. But wow! That's really kind, thank you."
She eyed me silent and sidelong with an odd smile. Techies were still moving things around at the stage when we arrived. A guitar twanged. An amplified voice said, 'Check.' Val took a rug out of her pack and squeezed us into a space in the centre of the audience, already big and getting bigger. She observed the careful way I sat down, and gave me a knowing grin that embarrassed me no end. I wondered how much she knew. But there was no room in that crowd for any more true confessions. We watched the singer and her backup arranging themselves.
"This is fabulous blues. She's cool to watch; real gritty and tough. Great guitar picker." Val looked around at the cheerful scene, toddlers rolling in the grass. "You'd get the idea better in a smoky bar than out in daylight like this."
The set started, and Val was right. It wasn't my favourite kind of thing –
I would have preferred the very structured Celtic fiddle tunes Anders was 232
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listening to – but it was good and raunchy, and the guitar was amazing.
