“Master, I’ve been thinking, and today gave me more thoughts,” Laura said. “One thing we doctors do is invest. Four years ago, I bought a section of land, 648 acres, at the suggestion of my accountant. It had been a ranch until the 1950s or 60s, when the owner died. His heirs held the place but didn’t do anything with it. There’s a simple house on it that was built around 1894, high ceilings, the whole schmeer, a Victorian loaded with potential. It needs one hell of a lot of work, but the house is set back a good quarter-mile from the road. The original idea was to sell it to a developer, or maybe develop it myself into a neighborhood. But … a year after I bought it, an archaeology professor from the university tracked me down and got my permission to do a field trip there. They found a five-acre cemetery at the northeast corner of the property.. The newest grave was dated 1905. They believe it’s a slave cemetery perhaps dating to 1830 or so. It made a bit of a splash in the local news, but my name was kept out of it. I didn’t want to be associated with owning a slave cemetery, and now here I am, enslaved and taking delight in it. Life has its ironies, right?”
“I suppose so,” I chuckled.
“I parceled off that land, had a stone wall built to bracket it off, twelve acres in all, then donated it to Holiness Church, a mostly black church a couple or three miles away from the property,” she went on. “They worked six months on weeding, landscaping, beautifying the place. I bought an easement from there to the highway and had a road dozed. Upkeep is on them, and I got a good tax deduction. They’re planning to put a museum on the grounds as well, but want to add my name to it and have me at the ribbon-cutting ceremony. You told me doctors don’t believe in God, but I do, and once in a blue moon I attend Sunday services there. But that’s all beside the point, Master. I’d like us to go see it. It’s about twenty minutes from your house.”
“Then let’s drop off the boat and go,” I agreed, enthused. “What are your plans?”
“I was thinking, instead of altering my house, why not spend the money there, a dungeon getaway for us, where you can work me hard, whip me hard, keep me naked at all times, although I’d ask for footwear,” she said. “I can sell my house and we can live there, you the master of the plantation and me its slave.”
“Let’s go,” I repeated, loving the idea.
On the drive home, my phone rang and I answered.
“Keith, this is Captain Briggs. I know you’re on leave healing up, but get your ass to my office at 9:00 Monday morning. Samuels just resigned and you need to fill out the paperwork to take the lieutenant’s exam so I can promote your sorry ass.”
“Resigned?” I said, shocked.
“Between us girls, it wasn’t altogether voluntary,” Briggs said. “Put a point on it, I told that simpering shithead to get lost on his terms before I fired him on my terms. The only ones who qualify to take the exam are you, Lisa Johnson, and Mike Bennett. Lisa’s about to retire and told me she’s not interested, since she’s gone in four months anyway, and Bennett … face facts, Keith, he’s dumb as dirt, a skilled medic, but not a leader. What I’m telling you, dummy, is that about all you need to do is put your name on the fucking test and you’re a lieutenant when you return. It’s a nice pay bump and inflicts more sanity on your life. You’ve done your time in the trenches.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, excited.
“You’ve been seen here and there in the company of a beautiful blonde, I hear,” Briggs chuckled. “Did you hypnotize her or something? Have fun, son.” He ended the call and I chuckled.
“Congratulations,” Laura said. “He seems fond of you.”
“Captain Briggs is one of the good guys, and … yeah, we’ve liked each other from the get go,” I agreed. “I guess he’s become a surrogate father to me over the years. He’s got a soft spot for grizzled old corpsmen.”
“Grizzled, yeah, right,” she said. “More like chiseled.”
The property was out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forest in all directions. The house needed work, I could see instantly, at the very least, one hell of a lot of paint. Indoors, the house needed help, but I sensed it needed cosmetic help and probably not structural. The kitchen was huge, and I could see the propane tank behind the house, through the window. The parlor and all four upstairs bedrooms had fireplaces in the unfurnished house. It wasn’t as big as Laura’s palace, but bigger than my simple house. A barn was out back that looked in decent shape.
“Jesus, I love this,” I said.
“Follow me,” she told me, and we walked down a winding path to a clearing, in the center of which was a stout post, cedar, and I could see we had the same thought. A whipping post awaited my wayward slave.
“Yeah,” I said.
“It’s not particularly more of a drive for me,” Laura said. “I don’t think for you either, Master. Do you want to do this?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ll call an engineer to ensure the house is stable,” she said. “I’ll get people started on working on the barn, fresh paint, a new roof. Your dungeon and my prison when I’ve misbehaved. Thinking on it, your jail … do you put me in there primarily to take me away from you?”
I nodded.
She gaped a moment. “Holy shit, I understand it now. I love you, Master. There, I said it, so ninny ninny boo boo. I love you, and that’s the third time that pays for all, right?” She grinned and stuck her tongue out at me, and in a moment, her tongue was dancing with mine in a passionate kiss.
CHAPTER 41
We had a great time exploring that parcel of land. There were a few year-round creeks crossing the property. Keith’s eyes brimmed with excitement as he checked out potential fishing spots. The property had a fair sized stock pond on it. I thought it was a lake. Keith informed me of the differences between stock ponds and lakes. He asked if it was stocked, but I had no clue. I think he was making a list of things to do, and I loved seeing his excitement grow.
“If there ain’t fish in it, we can bring ‘em from the lake, a few bass, catfish, bluegills,” he said thoughtfully. “I like it, a fish dinner a couple hundred yards from the back porch.” Just then, a large bass leapt from the water in a graceful arc, catching a dragonfly, and Keith laughed in sheer delight. “It seems that won’t be necessary, huh?”
Meanwhile, I plotted my doom. Meaning, I had him drop me back off at the house, while he went exploring in his truck. While he was off, I returned to the clearing with the pole. Trailing my hand across the wood, I imagined all the fun we would have here. Keith and I seemed so incredibly in sync. He whipped me for his pleasure as well as mine, but he also dispensed heavy discipline. There was more going on between us than two people enjoying kink. We were defining our roles.
It wasn’t enough for me to surrender to him. I needed him to truly take the reins. He’d done that in spades, and my love deepened with every passing day. In my limited interactions with men on the romantic front, I’d decided most were pussies, too afraid to take what they wanted. Keith had no problem with that. I think he’d been born to rule.
A quick trip to the barn had my imagination overflowing. There was a part of me that wanted to plan it with him, but another, quieter part, felt I shouldn’t be involved. The dungeon would belong to him. His realm. His rule.
He’d seemed excited about the plans for my house, but those had been shelved after I showed him this property. I would use the same contractors, but ask them to come out here instead of my house. We seemed to be moving away from separate residences, joining our lives together. I liked that. I didn’t want a His and Hers. Ours sounded quite nice, although there was a long road to truly unifying our lives. In the end, it would all be his. As the slave, I would own nothing of it.
It scared me a little, to be honest, because I would have no respite from his control. Every moment of my life would be spent beneath his thumb. Of course, there would be work. The realities of life demanded no change there. I had loans to repay. I think he was better set in life than me. He’d mentioned his ho
me was debt free and, if I remembered, he’d said something about an inheritance. Funny how he’d been worried about the disparity of our jobs. It seemed he’d done much better in his than I had in mine.
Of course, I spent more than I should, and saved less than was wise.
Moving to the property meant I’d lose my dance studio. I needed to speak with him about that. Dance was my escape from work as much as anything else. Hopefully, he enjoyed my dancing. The house on the property needed a lot of work. Unlike the dungeon, I had a vision for this place. A wide-open kitchen flowing into the greatroom. We’d only need one bedroom, something large for a massive, and sturdy, four-poster bed. I’d seen pictures of bondage beds online. Never had I considered buying one, but I think it would be easy to talk Keith into one. He seemed to enjoy restraining me while I slept.
My insides fluttered with all my plans for our future, and I twirled around the place, feeling at peace. The rumble of his truck pulled me from my reverie. I went out to greet him, eager to hear what he thought.
He rolled down the passenger side window of his truck. “You hungry? Or do you want to stay and look around some more?”
My stomach surprised me by rumbling its need. “Whatever you please, Master,” I said, “but since you’ve asked, I’m a bit hungry.”
“Then hop on in.”
He took me to a steakhouse where we devoured our meals, then we headed back to his house. I stripped upon entering, my nakedness feeling more normal than ever before. We didn’t make it far before he had me on my knees performing a little worship of the man I loved and the master I served. He fucked my face with a ruthless possession, then emptied his load down my throat. After that, he headed to the living room, where he flipped on the television and sank into the couch. I crawled to him, and took my place on the floor. There I curled against him, laying my cheek against his knee. His fingers ran through my hair as we watched some cop show on TV. My life was too busy for TV and I had no idea what the show was about. Not that it mattered. I snuggled against him, perfectly content.
Our lives settled into a comforting routine. Eventually, I headed back to work. Keith did the same. He took the test for lieutenant, and we were simply waiting for the results. The promotion meant big things for him. My days went back to chaos, stirring up my mind with stress and what-ifs. I struggled to be less of a bitch to those at work, but as my stress levels rose, my patience disappeared.
Every time I returned home, Dr. Laura Peters shed her position at the door along with her clothes. With Keith, I was simply me. His slave. Only one purpose filled my life. I was his to use however he saw fit. Most days, we lived simple lives, laughing and having fun while we cooked our meals. We spent our evenings watching TV. I sat at his feet, reading a book, while he saw to his shows.
We fucked nonstop, slow, easy, hard, and rough. I kept a ledger at work, listing my transgressions. He reviewed my sins each night, punishing only those he deemed required correction.
Bruises marked my skin, proof I had much to learn. We played with pain, exploring the limits of my masochism and his sadistic desires. It became clear his needs ran deeper than mine. I called red a few times too many, which led to an honest discussion between us about trust. My safeword had been removed for discipline, but he took it from me for regular play as well. People at work kept asking if I was getting a cold. I had to lie and say the hoarseness of my voice was from laryngitis. They didn’t need to know it came from my screams.
When I was at work, Keith spent his time at the property, meeting with contractors about the house and the barn. We discussed floor plans and general decorating for the house. My input regarding the barn was never solicited. This made me worry, especially as Keith explored our boundaries.
We were to head out there after our shifts. Keith still had a few calls running his rig before he took over as Lieutenant. I prayed our paths didn’t intersect at work. I didn’t think I would be able to call him by name. It seemed terribly disrespectful, but he insisted we act as normal as possible in public. I feared making a misstep, calling him Sir in front of others.
It was a disaster in the making.
I’d made it through my entire shift with only an hour left. I was at the end of a twenty-four hour call, while he was in the middle of one of his two-day marathons. It had been a tough call for me, and my frustration level had reached a peak. Keith had been working with me on being less of a bitch at work, but my Please and Thank yous had simply run out.
I should have kept my mouth shut. I knew better than to yell, but fatigue and frustration pulled me back to an older version of me. He’d told me to use his name at work. Well, I used it.
Dr. Laura Peters version 1.0 spit out all her frustrations and laid into one Keith Evans, the man, who in the heat of the moment, I forgot was my master.
It turned out to be a horrible mistake.
CHAPTER 42
I took her tirade silently, looking straight into her eyes while she railed at me like I was some stupid-ass rookie because my patient, who had severe blunt trauma to the chest and abdomen, had only a 22-gauge IV in her. For trauma, an 18-gauge or bigger was the standard. Laura knew that. The thing was, so did I, and she knew that, and damn well knew if I had such a small line going in this girl of about fifteen years, I had my reasons. In this case, the kid had small and shitty veins. I’d tried an 18-gauge and then a smaller 20-gauge on her left arm, both of which blew, then established the 22-gauge on her right.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said. “Tell ya’ what, Dr. Peters, why don’t you stick an 18-gauge in her, and if you do, I’ll eat my hat, Doc. I’ll stone guarantee I’ve started a thousand or more IVs than you have, but be my guest, Doctor. Show me how it gets done, since I’m not capable of sorting that out.”
Throughout, I kept my eyes on hers and my tone conversational. The sudden widening of her eyes told me she got the message, but I wasn’t done.
“Tellya what, Doc … Since you seem to know how easy it is, why don’t you ride a shift with us next time I’m on. Four days sound good?”
In short, I threw down the gauntlet, and wondered if she’d pick it up. It had been a terrible day and I wasn’t in the mood for anyone’s shit, maybe most especially hers.
She looked a bit cowed. “I’m working in four days. How about five?” Good, I thought. School is in session.
“Station Three, at Main and 16th,” I told her. “Get there at 7:00 AM, please.” Soon, we’d be getting an influx of students from the university, but not for another three weeks.
“I’ll be there,” she said, still haughty and arrogant.
I recognized the signs of her fatigue and was willing to cut her some slack, but only some. I’d whip her soundly for this, perhaps on that post at the new place, where work was going slower than Christmas. It had been electrified probably when Thomas Edison was still shitting in diapers the first time around, and the insulation on all the wiring was crumbling, and new standard Romex wiring was going slowly.
The barn was coming along nicely, and she’d ordered a building for her dance studio with an amazing sound system. It even had a three-foot stage under its twelve-foot ceiling. But one way or another, she could be put on that post for a long and harsh whipping. This was Friday at oh-dark-early and I’d be off-shift in two hours.
She was off at noon, since Dr. Mawson was going to be in late. He’d flown to some CE conference in Miami and his flight got scratched due to weather, a chain of violent thunderstorms crossing southern Florida that knocked out power to thousands of homes and otherwise wrought havoc.
As it was, he’d drive straight from the airport to the hospital. I was exhausted and so was she, but we’d venture over there as the workmen were striking the band near 5:00. She could spend a couple or three hours on the post, then the whole weekend in the cage.
Besides, I’d been working on a surprise, and would have time to pursue that work. The house was uninhabitable at this point, but a huge garage had been built. It took three trips, but I
’d moved my array of tools there, and kept the garage locked. Only I had the key. There was also another building that would be my man cave, where I could watch ball games and smoke cigars while being a general Philistine. I held the key to that building as well. Like her dance studio, the man cave was electrified and air conditioned.
Her tirade threw a wet blanket over the news I’d gotten. I was to be promoted to lieutenant in about another month, after some administrative work got out of the way. Lieutenant Samuels had departed, along with Tom. Neither of those luminaries got a going-away party.
Oddly enough, at that auction, Laura bought a piece Tom did of a couple in a fishing boat on a pond, the woman grinning as her rod arced. It was reminiscent of Norman Rockwell’s work and would look good in the parlor of the ranch house.
I bought a few bits of bric-a-brac, which indeed went to Goodwill on the way home, but had purchased a painting Sheila did of a horse at full gallop, its cowboy rider racing like hell on it, something that looked reminiscent of Remington. That would go in my man cave. The truth was, Tom and Sheila could both pursue art full-time. They were legitimately that good. But “starving artist” is a cliche for a good reason. Many are called and virtually none chosen.
Off Duty Page 18
