Owned and Owner

by Anneke Jacob

  My loss of control created constant fear, especially early on when I didn’t know my master well enough to trust him. But it created the most profound excitement, and it felt right. As if the ship had reached her mooring.

  I still struggled against it. No matter how much I wanted this, I couldn’t make myself give up any attempts to do my own navigating, not all at once. Trying to do things of my own volition, however, was a lot like coming up against the end of my chain, over and over. Like that creature in the vet’s waiting room, I had to learn that I wasn’t going anywhere.

  One day it came to me that this might be just as well. I was in my master’s study, a chain between my nipple rings passed loosely through a ring on the side of his desk. It was a bit like being chained to the side of a house. He’d been working there for a while, and I’d been able to watch him, the perspective from the floor making him seem monumental in size, like a live statue in the park. I loved looking at him. His calm face generally changed very little, but I was becoming aware of slight changes around his eyes or mouth that signaled pleasure or amusement, or more frighteningly, disapproval. I watched his irises flick as they moved rapidly from one display to another. The light of the displays played over the bones of his face, making colored shadows below his eyes and along his throat. His hands moved quickly and with precision, never a wasted motion, no tapping, no hesitation. Just watching the long-boned fingers at their work made my breath come faster.

  I tried to concentrate on his hands and face mostly, and ration my glances at the rest of him. Henth has a warm climate, and the men don’t wear a lot – shorts or light trousers, loose tunic shirts, sometimes less. At home, working, my master might wear little more than a light robe. And if I looked too long at the incredibly long and muscled thigh nearest me, or the chest and shoulder in the colored shadows of the display, I did more than breathe faster. I wasn’t able to contain myself.

  I did my best to keep still while he worked, as when he was busy any of my fidgeting or bids for attention got me into trouble. The chain between my nipples was a dead giveaway, because it made noise at my tiniest move. Too many disturbances and I ended up in solitary confinement. I was already quite familiar with the interior of a nearby cupboard. Just the other day he’d locked my hands behind my back, shoved me onto a shelf and closed the door. And it was an awfully long time before he took me out. Who knows how much time I’d missed in his proximity? So I tried to keep still while he was working.

  Anyway, as I was saying, I was alone in his study, still chained to the desk. He’d been gone for a while, and I’d stopped watching the door for his return. I was looking around at the room instead. The holo above his desk still glowed: a russet field of plants, wet and dripping. From my angle, I was down among the roots looking up at a deep turquoise sky through the stalks; a pleasant illusion. I could see a few of the controls; they reminded me of the time I had sabotaged the holo net for an entire sector. I’d done it twice, actually, before they figured out it was me. That created a fruitful amount of chaos. On a more mundane level, there was a sink in the room that reminded me of some magnificent flooding I had caused in the town hall. They’d had to replace half the meeting room ceiling. And all I had needed to do was open up the water valves…

  A yank on my nipples brought me back to myself with a start. I had gotten halfway up to my knees before the pain stopped me.

  I sat back and interrogated myself fiercely. What was the matter with me? What did I think I was doing?

  That irresponsible girl had certainly not been the real me; I’d invented her. An elaborate charade of the complete young delinquent. Prior to that I’d been a mouse of a child – self-effacing and compliant, too cowardly to put a foot out of place. Living entirely in my head. I suppose I thought of this as the ‘real me’, whatever that meant.

  But was it? That delinquent act took up a third of my life, my whole adolescence. Every criminal stunt saturated in raging hormones. Could that be enough to imprint the behaviors on my brain? Had the role invented me a little?

  They’d called me impulsive, which made me laugh. If anything I had ruminated endlessly on every course of action, every thought and meaning and emotion, driving myself crazy. When I decided to change my persona it took an enormous effort of will to act rather than analyze. I got paralyzed at the planning stages; once I stopped to think I was stuck; game over.

  So I began to act first, think later. I acted reflexively, doing whatever my brain conceived. And it had worked. I suppose I’d also found out how much fun impulsive behavior could be, especially when you quite literally hate the world you live on.

  The adults had pleaded with me to think about consequences, and I had dug in and been sullen. I knew the long-term result I was aiming for, and refused to care about what happened in the short term. I did what I had to do. But that was all over, now that I was where I belonged.

  Well. Not really over, because my shipment to this place was supposed to be my punishment for all that, and a way to make sure I couldn’t do it again. And that move toward the sink made me wonder. I suddenly recalled a therapist they had dragged me to, rather a nice person, really, if she hadn’t been such a threat.

  ‘Tell me, what goes through your mind before you do these things, Etrin?’

  ‘I think of a good prank and I do it,’ I’d answered tonelessly.

  ‘So you never stop and think.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you used to think before you did things; why not now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I did know, but she was a professional therapist who would understand sexual perversion if anyone would. She’d probably want to cure me.

  ‘Etrin, let me tell you something about the brain. Any normal brain has ways to control impulses, to say “no” to things that will have bad consequences. You obviously have this ability; you used to use it. But if a person stops using that mechanism, after a while the brain can lose the capacity. It may be a question of “use it or lose it”. You might want to think about that.’ I had, of course, been staring sullenly past her at the time, plotting my next calamity, but for some reason I had actually thought about that; briefly, anyway.

  I looked down. My nipples were still stinging. I suddenly visualized myself at the sink, opening taps over blocked drains, and adrenaline leapt in my veins. My heart started beating like a monkey’s.

  Ow! Damn. Nipples again.

  I soothed the twice-yanked nubs with my fingers and pleasure surged. I ran my fingers along the chain, which was small but very solid, and touched the rings in my nipples, which didn’t open. The sink was across the room, and I was here. My heart calmed down. Excitement and a strong thin undercurrent of fear slowly seeped away. My thoughts began to revolve.

  I tried to sort out my two personas, the brainy mouse and the destructive brat. All the contradictions made my mind whirl. Which part was real? How could I tell? I had to arrange them safely into the slave I needed to be. How could that happen? I had to work on this…

  A last slanting glimmer of sun edged the books with orange light. The room darkened, and the field in the holo display brightened in contrast. The words revolving through my head were swinging through longer and more erratic orbits, until I hardly knew their meaning. Gradually, leaning on the desk, I let my eyes lose focus and my mind also. I was at the bottom of a field of plants. A bright and incongruous chain held me safe.

  Arleben walked into the kitchen and stopped dead.

  ‘Pav, are you feeding that female again?’

  Pav straightened up, looking sheepish. ‘Just a taste. See? She likes it.’ The slave settled down on her mat by the wall, licking her lips. ‘Who’s a good jeedy, then?’ Pav said in a cajoling tone.

  ‘Of course she likes it,’ Arleben said, nettled. ‘She’s not supposed to have it.’

  Pav went back to the stove. ‘It won’t do her any harm to have something with some flavor occasionally.’

  ‘Her diet is perfectly nutritious. If it’s plain, that’
s the way Garid wants it.’ Pav was humming as he stirred, and didn’t answer. ‘You’re spoiling her, you know,’ Arleben said grimly. ‘She’ll get out of hand if you let her stay in the kitchen all the time.’ The woman curled up on her mat, her chain jingling softly.

  Pav opened the oven door and tested something. The smells in the kitchen became richer and more complicated. ‘Garid said she shouldn’t be left alone all day. She keeps me company. Much handier than a cat; they’re always getting under my feet.’ He eased the door closed, and adjusted a control. ‘And when she needs to be walked I get a chance to get outside for a change.’ He looked over his shoulder at the little creature. ‘Don’t I, little one?’

  Arleben eyed the woman sharply. She responded to Pav’s words with bright eyes and a pleased wriggle, but didn’t make any attempt to verbalize. Pav looked at Arleben, and sighed with exasperation.

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t taught her to speak.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Arleben said repressively. ‘She can’t be trusted not to use Ranize either, remember.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Pav stirred. ‘When I was plugging her yesterday she let out a squawk that sounded like one of her words. So I muzzled her and told Garid when he got home. I know what’s what, you don’t have to lecture me.’

  ‘You should have punished her. She’ll never learn otherwise.’

  ‘Garid took care of it. I leave it to him; you know he enjoys it.’ Pav began grinding a supply of takt meal for the woman’s porridge, and said above the machine’s hiss, ‘Look, I’ll take care of any harnessing, plugging or hobbling you like. But I’m not going to hit her.’

  ‘You cannot train an animal without striking it.’

  Arleben had looked after both dogs and jonthes – he had even helped train a very rare horse – and used corporal reminders as necessary when training them. When the woman misbehaved he had no compunction about giving her some carefully placed blows. He left the more severe punishments to his employer, of course, who tended to do the job all over again when he got home.

  But he knew Pav’s stubborn look, even from behind. Remembering his errand, Arleben found the solar screen repair file he had left on the sideboard, and went back to work.

  An hour later he was back with a package in his hand. The woman was on her hands and knees, sniffing the air and looking at Pav, who was paging through holos of a variety of appetizers, all in reddish hues. There was a party coming up, and Pav liked to color-coordinate his dishes. The holos each had their own aroma, and the air was a wild confusion of garlic, redfish, cinnamon and chili peppers. Pav went to check ingredients and absently patted the slave’s head as he passed her. Arleben frowned thoughtfully, and decided to have another go. He was a persistent man.

  ‘Pav, have you read the file on her?’

  Pav emerged from the storage cupboard. ‘What? Why? No, not as such. I know what’s in it, more or less.’

  ‘She’s a criminal, Pav. She’s very destructive. We simply cannot let her get out of hand.’

  Pav sat down at the holo controls again. ‘She’s on a chain practically all the time; how can she get out of hand?’

  ‘She’s just biding her time.’

  Pav snorted, and moved on to another display. Horseradish. Arleben sneezed. ‘If you indulge her she’ll think she can get away with anything,’ he insisted.

  Pav shook his head. ‘Honestly, man, you’re paranoid.’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously enough. Garid knows what he’s doing.’

  Pav hitched his chair forward a little, and didn’t answer. There was a rigid set to his shoulders. Arleben pursed his lips, and then shrugged. It wasn’t their first disagreement; they’d been at odds many times over the years.

  He pulled a chair up next to the slave, the mitts in his hand, and said, ‘Paw.’ She held out her right hand at once, and he tried the new mitt on her. He made sure all her fingers were neatly and separately slotted, adjusted the brown leather around her wrist, and locked it on. Then he began with the other mitt, while she turned her hand around and tried to wiggle her fingers.

  ‘What’s that?’ Pav asked. ‘New mitts?’

  Arleben glanced around. Pav was coming out of the pantry again. ‘Garid and I have been designing them for her. I’ve just got them from the fabricator.’ He took off the second mitt and handed it to Pav, who peered up inside it.

  ‘I see. A glove inside, fastened to the palm.’

  ‘And the palm very stiff leather. She won’t be able to touch her fingers together at all, even inside the mitt. “No opposable thumbs”, that’s what Garid said.’

  Pav bent down and felt the hand that was already confined in its mitt. ‘That’s what he’s getting, all right. This ought to make you feel safer from the Ranizen terror.’

  ‘It does indeed.’ Arleben accepted the teasing with good grace. ‘And the mitts will protect her hands when she crawls. Which will be most of the time, if Garid keeps these kneepads on her as much as he has been.’

  Pav frowned. ‘Surely it’s not healthy for her knees to be kept bent all the time?’

  ‘That depends on what sense you mean,’ said Arleben. His voice took on a pedantic tone, and Pav smiled wryly. ‘On a physical level, no, it wouldn’t be healthy all the time. But we put her joints through the full range of motion every day when she’s exercised. And we’re scanning her body on a regular basis to make sure there are no problems.’ He began installing the other mitt. The woman was on her knees holding her hand out submissively, her eyes following the conversation, but with no light of comprehension on her face, Arleben was glad to see.

  He continued, ‘On the other hand, yes, I think it is healthy for her to be kept down on the floor. She’s an animal on this planet, and the sooner she understands her status, the less likely she will be to create trouble and disrupt the household.’ He had fumed when he read of the woman’s wanton destructiveness on Raniz, the blatant disregard for property and good order. Punishment was important; control was vital.

  Pav was back at his pots, and Arleben could tell that any further efforts would be wasted. He made a final check on the mitts, got up and put the chair back where it belonged. ‘After you walk her, bring her into the view room, will you? Garid will be home in an hour.’ Pav nodded.

  It was easy to see that the woman did crawl more readily now that both knees and hands were protected. She used the area reserved for her, and obediently kicked dirt over the wet patch. Pav noted that it was about time to till the area and bring in fresh soil. The garden was doing well from the manure she was providing.

  Later the two men stood back and inspected the creature fastened spread-eagled against the wall in the view room, her toes just off the floor. They’d followed Garid’s instructions to the letter. She was tightly harnessed. This included a narrow crotch strap that held dildos in both orifices. Her labia, opened up by the strap, were hung with weights, as were her nipple rings. A snug bridle encased her head, and held a ball gag in her mouth; dark straps framed her feverish eyes.

  ‘There,’ said Arleben, running an eye down his list, ‘we’ve taken care of everything.’ He examined her engorged nipples and labia closely. ‘That’s quite a reaction.’

  Pav smiled. ‘She loves it, no question. You know, I’m glad Garid’s found what he wanted. I used to wonder…’

  ‘You used to have your eye on him; don’t tell me.’

  ‘Don’t tell my cluster, either.’ They laughed. Pav pulled the waist strap another notch tighter, smoothed it out and said in a different tone, ‘I don’t mind doing this for him, do you?’

  Arleben said thoughtfully, ‘No. It’s a little bizarre, of course. I don’t think I would do it for an employer I didn’t know well.’

  ‘Me neither. But we know he’s a good man, no harm.’ Pav looked the woman over from head to foot, and shook his head. ‘I still don’t get the attraction.’

  Arleben shrugged. ‘I know. Why people like what they like. I knew a man who was aroused by the machine
s at building sites…’ They left the room. The woman attempted to wriggle against the straps that held her; her chest heaved. She tried to move her hips but they were fixed too tightly to the wall. A whispery moan escaped her, and vanished into the empty room.

  Garid was right that she was always in heat. The level of arousal ranged from mild to volcanic, but was never wholly absent. And increasingly Garid did not allow her release. In fact, he had begun teasing her for longer and longer periods, delighting in her helpless urgency. That evening he kept her close to the edge for hours, till she was crying and only the gag could keep her from pleading with real words. In these states she often became frantic enough to disobey him, or to scream through her gag if she was too restrained for disobedience. The stripes he applied then were even more fuel to her fire. He satisfied himself as frequently as he liked in her mouth, and watched her simmer. That night again she knelt, tightly bound between his legs, labia and nipples still hung with weights. Her flesh was marked and red, tears of hunger and frustration traveling down her face, her mouth full of him.

  The Sound of the Lock

  As time went on, my master seemed to focus more and more on arousing me, and less and less on satisfying me. It was torture, exquisite and unbearable. The first few nights that he chained me up in my kennel without making me come I stayed awake for hours, sure he would come back.

  So it was not surprising that I began to play with myself, when I thought no one was looking. Mind you, after an intense session I was always prevented from touching myself; my hands were chained to my collar, my knees spread, sometimes my nipple rings tied to the ceiling of my kennel, I suppose to torment me further, and to keep me from turning over and humping the floor. They didn’t try to keep me immobilized all day, however. I did get a terrible whipping the day my master noticed my juices soaked into one of my mitts. After that I knew he was looking for evidence, and I began trying to be careful. I could sometimes manage it against my forearm, if my mouth was free to lick the evidence off afterwards. But Arleben or Pav caught me more and more frequently as they began watching for the infraction. The result was always immediate immobilization, sometimes some painful swats from Arleben, and angry scolding that I imagine consisted of something along the lines of, ‘Just wait till your master gets home!’ When he did get home the punishment generally included the offending area, and was very unpleasant. The beatings were enough to make me very, very sorry, and to make me decide that the pleasure was simply not worth the punishment. When he applied hot sauces to my cunt, however, and left me writhing in torment for hours, and burning afterwards for a day and a half, I was truly convinced.