Lana's Awakening

by Kristin Elyon

  She hadn’t previously believed it possible, but she tightened her grip on the bat further as she pulled it behind her shoulder, doing her best Babe Ruth impression to get the most out of her impending swing for the proverbial fences. She intended to make the Sultan of Swat himself proud as fuck with one swing.

  Less than two seconds, though it felt to Lana like an eternity, after she had almost ruined the whole thing and slammed into the wall, the lock made a clunking sound and the door swung open in front of her. She had just enough time to see the side of his face before the bat connected squarely, smashing his nose and sending blood splattering against the far wall. He tried to scream out in pain, but a second homerun swing crashed the bat into his mouth, stifling his protest. The Whiffle-Ball bat was small and light, but the plastic was a bit more solid than other kids’ bats, even if only a little. And while it would have caved in on itself against a real baseball, it proved to be more durable than his nose and lips.

  As his hands instinctively went to his face, Lana stepped around the door hoping to get past him and out of the room, but he was still in the doorway, blocking her path. Desperation, mixed with fear and rage raised her leg without any prompting and her shin connected squarely with his crotch, sending him to his knees before rolling onto his side. Lana stepped beside him and started for the front door she could now see across the cluttered living room. But as she reached for her second step, a longer stride which would have transcended into a full blown sprint for the door, she felt his hand wrap around her ankle. His grip was not enough to stop her momentum and hold her in place, but he managed to hold onto her just long enough to cause her to stumble. She went headlong into the back of the couch.

  As she clambered back to her knees, she glanced over shoulder in time to see him crawling toward her. She instinctively rolled onto her back and just as he reached for her again, slammed the heel of her foot into his nose again and knew immediately with some satisfaction that if it hadn’t been broken before, it was now. He had been on his hands and knees as he approached her, but the force of the blow sent him backward, causing him to fold over his own legs and landed his shoulders on his own heels, his back arched in a painful looking position. Lana quickly rolled back onto her knees and regained her feet.

  She expertly avoided the remainder of the furniture and crossed the room in what should have been considered record time, taking notice of the three deadbolts as she approached the door. She slammed hard into it, not wanting to slow her pace, with one hand and the attached shoulder stopping her momentum with a thud as the other grabbed the first lock and turned it violently to the unlocked position. As both hands found their way to the two remaining locks, an explosion of pain erupted from her left calf, putting her back on the floor. He had thrown something at her, and as she rolled to stand, again reaching for the locks, she had just enough time to see it had been a small, but obviously heavy metal lamp, its glass bulb now shattered on the floor beside it.

  She tried to stand, but her leg screamed at her when she tried to put her weight on it and she collapsed to the floor again. Shifting her weight to the other leg, and using the door handle for leverage, she pulled herself back up, knowing the lamp had caused some serious damage. Uncaring, she leaned against the door to support her weight and reached for the locks again.

  But just as she turned the tumblers, his hand wrapped around her hair and she was pulled backward, feet leaving the floor and hitting the door painfully. Her shoulders and the back of her head hit the floor hard. The words, “fucking whore” floated somewhere in the air above her, mixing with her own scream of pain as she reverse head-butted the carpet, causing the adrenaline to flood out of her almost instantly. Had he really called her a whore? Really?

  Lana soon became aware of the pain in her scalp as he dragged her across the floor, looking like a caveman looking for a little action. Still bent over some from the blow to his groin, he looked the part more than not. As they crossed the threshold into the bedroom again, she regained her fight, never wanting to set foot in the room again, she began clawing at his arm in an attempt to free herself from his grip. She brought blood and found herself momentarily free from his hand, but as she tried to get up, he hit her across the side of her cheek, sending her down violently into a heap. She was battered and bleeding with very little fight left in her.

  Strapping her back onto the bed would have been easy enough at this point, but he had moved past requiring her mere submission and was now clearly intent on beating the shit out of her. He jerked her violently from the floor, pulling her by a regained grip of her hair, straight into his other hand as it streamed toward her head open palmed. He did this repeatedly, slamming her face into his hand until the pain began to slip away into numbness, as she quickly toppled head over heels into a complete apathetic state, no longer fighting, and no longer even noticing she was being beaten. Sweet lucidity welcomed her as she hungrily threw her hands around it and squeezed it hard, never intending to let it go. It was all she had. Any fleeting hope had headed for the hills with no intention of looking back or returning.

  But just as she thought she had successfully hidden herself from the beautiful truth of the moment, eagerly welcoming unconsciousness or perhaps even better, death, she was brought back to the life she no longer wanted, cold water breaking across her face before flying into her mouth and up her nostrils. She snapped her eyes open wildly, gasping for breath.

  “Not this time,” he said, snarling at her, his face inches from her own, “You’re going to feel every bit of this.”

  Unable to lift her arms or the knees which were dangerously only inches below his surely still hurting crotch, Lana tried to lift her head toward his, biting at the face she now recognized as evil, but she fell short, sending him into a snorting fit of laughter. Hysterical with power and lustful rage, he grabbed each of her tits and squeezed, leaning back at the same time as if he was trying to rip them from her chest. When she screamed out, he laughed harder.

  “What?!” he yelled at her. “You don’t like that? How about this?”

  He let her breast fall back to her chest and then leaping off of her in one twisting motion, landed on the floor beside her. With an open hand, he began slapping her pussy, seemingly as hard as he could, laughing uncontrollably as her pussy swelled and cried out for help in its own language, a language only Pentecostal preachers and psychopaths could understand. Consciousness still flirted with her, but stayed just out of reach like a stripper retrieving single bills from hopeful drunks with her tits.

  It was through a veil of blissful, near eternal sleep, mixed with an unrecognizable reality that she saw him walking toward her. She hadn’t even noticed when he had left the room. But she caught a vague glimpse of him now as he approached her, holding a knife in his hand. She saw him coming, she heard him mumbling something about fucking her with the knife, she still didn’t move. She was beyond caring. Though her lips were silent, her mind was screaming for him to kill her; it was the only plausible escape she could bring herself to hope for.

  PART TWO

  ONE YEAR LATER…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lana Martin hurried about the chore of preparing dinner, painstakingly vigilant in every last detail, most especially the error. It had to be perfect, the proper foods, the proper timing, everything. He liked his meal ready when he returned from work, and she had no intention of disappointing him in that aspect. It was Friday, so the menu was beyond contestation: barbecued ribs, baked potato and a salad. The error was a different story all together. While it would not be bad enough to show incompetence, not to mention outright disobedience, the lumps in the homemade potatoes would undoubtedly be enough to warrant a good spanking later. He would eat without a word, but after dinner he would punish her properly.

  She glanced at the clock in the adjoining dining room. A quarter after six, time to put his plate on the table. The silverware was already in place, cloth napkin folded neatly underneath. The salt and pepper shakers woul
d be at the two o’clock position when he sat down in his chair. His evening reading material, a three page short story she had written for him, was on the table to his left.

  She heard the recognizable sound of the Ford as she reached the front door. Her hand on the doorknob, she waited. As the door of the car being closed outside drifted into the house, she turned the knob, and as he opened the storm door, she opened the wooden door to let him into the house, standing to the side dressed in appropriate attire, white, long sleeved shirt buttoned up to her neck. Below that was the small, frilly apron, barely covering the black panties.

  She smiled at him as he paused just long enough to place a hand behind her neck and pull her in for a kiss. A finger trailed along her cheek as he walked past her and told her she should follow. Lana closed the door and fell into step behind him, taking the briefcase from the hand he held behind him, and putting it on the roll top desk which sat on the boundary between the dining room and living room. As he took his place at the table, she went to the kitchen and made her own plate, smaller portions than the one she had prepared for him.

  As Lana took her place across from him, she found she was impatient for him to read her story. Monday, Wednesday and Friday were story days, with Tuesday and Thursday being reserved for poetry. The stories were a bit tougher for her than the poetry, but he had insisted, telling her she had more to give than she believed, more to share with him. The idea of constructing a story line rather than simply letting the words flow had taxed her to some degree, but she found a sense of pride like she had never known when they were completed. But still, they required a lot of thought. He had seemed genuinely interested and happy with each one she had managed, his approval meaning more to her than she could have expected. Each week, as she explored her own thoughts and fears, transferring them to the story, he was always in the back of her mind. Not whether the story itself would be to his liking, but she waited to see if he appreciated what she had shared within each story, the little hints of her own voice, her own soul intertwined between the words.

  “This is good,” he finally said, lowering the pages enough to meet her eyes with his own. “I like the scene at the carnival.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” she answered. “I had hoped you might.”

  The man was him, at least a version of him. The undeniable control and confidence she had come to love about him was evident in the character in her story, as he worked his way up from a simple carnival ride operator to full-fledged partner with the owner.The roles she and he had taken on in their home had transferred over for him into his world outside. The Wholesale Warehouse had gone through a complete shift in management when Ron had been fired, and when the upper management from corporate had held a meeting and told them all they would be bringing in a new manager from another store, Sergio had stood up and told them it was a mistake. He talked about the community, the close-knit bond among the workers and that someone from within the ranks would make a better choice.He had taken control of the meeting, not by yelling or screaming, but simply by showing them a better option, one which would allow the corporate giant to remain as hometown store in the eyes of the employees and public. They had been impressed and after many in the meeting voiced their approval of his suggestion, they told him they would think about it. Two days later, they called and told him he was the man for the job.

  Now, a year later, he was pulling in an envious salary. Lana had not been able to go back to work for some time after her ordeal, so Sergio had taken it upon himself to take care of her. She had not felt safe in her own home, so she had moved in with him. Over time, she had turned more of her life over to him, gratefully allowing him to take charge and blossom into the thing he had seemingly been afraid to become on his own. He was a born leader, it turned out, and she welcomed his instruction, his nurturing correction.

  The transition into the roles had been easier than she had imagined, even with everything she had been through. It had actually taken Sergio by surprise when she had begun to show signs of submissive behavior. He had told her he was concerned the psycho had damaged her, making her believe she was worthless, etc. She had explained it as best as she could, assuring him it was quite the opposite, as she had come to recognize during that time, something primal inside of herself. Sure, sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night, shaking, afraid she was back there, but this was something different. She had recognized a need for servitude inside herself, a primal need to please another. She had explained it to Sergio, by using a religion analogy. She referred to the man who had held her prisoner as an evil man, and she had told him that one does not simply discard her faith just because she had encountered the devil. There was still a need to worship, to serve. It had taken several conversations, but eventually, he had warmed up to the idea of filling in as the god she needed in her life. It had started as a careful game, but now he too was transforming into what he had been born to be, her loving, caring God. Of course, he didn’t know about the hood she had made, and now kept hidden.

  The one with the blowjob hole?

  Yea, the one with the blowjob hole. It was what it was; she didn’t know why she had made it, or why she kept it from him. All she knew was that she only got it out on very rare occasions, and then only when he was not at home. She was certain he wouldn’t understand it. Hell, she didn’t understand.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  His question startled her back into the present. She forced a little smile as she took up her utensils and started toward her plate with them before answering.

  “Nothing worth repeating.”

  The potatoes had brought the result Lana had hoped they would. He had quietly eaten his dinner, and it was only after reading her story a second time that he had made mention of it.

  “With everything else so perfect,” he began, his eyes unable to hide the playful smile behind them, “I find myself wondering if you did it on purpose.”

  There was no need for him to explain; they both knew perfectly well what he meant, just as they both knew perfectly well she had indeed done it on purpose. But still, the game had to be played out.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sir.”

  “Of course. When you have cleared the table, bring it to me.”

  She wasted little time finishing her dinner and clearing the table. The dishes rinsed and put in the dishwasher to be completed; she went to the bedroom and retrieved the thing he wanted. Or perhaps more correctly, the thing she wanted.

  It was called The Merciful One, a wooden paddle small enough to be used by one hand, light and thin. Smaller than one which might be found in a principal’s office, but more sturdy than those which came with a string and ball attached. She had made it for him, at his request, and from her own experience, she knew it was perfect. It stung like a son of a bitch when applied properly, but at the same time, it wasn’t heavy enough to cause an actual injury.

  “Thank you, Sir,” she said as she placed it in his waiting hand. Lana then pulled the only other chair from under the table and placed it in the center of the room. This one he had crafted for their special sessions. Once a hard backed dining chair, he had removed most of the back. Now, above the chair’s seat, only the two supporting posts remained, along with the very top plank of what had once been the back support. Sitting in the chair, the remaining support would touch her just below her shoulders, but she never sat in the chair. It was designed specifically for two positions. One was the main reason for the chair’s modifications. If she lay on the chair, with her head and shoulders between the supports, it was the perfect size to allow her knees to be pulled up over her head and tied to the top, leaving her in the most intimately vulnerable position. The second use for the chair was what it was to be used for this night.

  Lana lay sideways across the chair’s seat, resting her stomach on the soft padding, her arms and legs dangling from either side. She waited as patiently as she could, but with some difficulty. He would take his time because he k
new she wanted this. He would tease her before he began. It was more torturous than anything he would do with the paddle itself. The thought of asking him to hurry never entered her mind. The wait was hell, but what a delightful hell it was. Her dark prince knew her sins and exactly how to celebrate them, incorporating her punishment into her heavenly reward.

  His hand on the small of her back told her he was ready, gently holding her in place with the warmth of a deep embrace. His free hand slid behind her, his fingers protruding past the paddle’s handle, gliding lightly across her skin. The first swat stung deep, sending rapid shockwaves through her body, and causing her skin to tingle ecstatically beneath the paddle. Her legs began to tremble immediately as she allowed her head to hang motionless beneath her.

  “Thank you,” she managed, trying to make the strain in her voice sound, at the least, like it originated a bit more from pain than pleasure. But was often a trick harder than she could manage. All he had to do was let one finger slip, and touch her there, and he would know damn well how much she liked it.

  A second swat came harder than the first, sending an echoing ‘smack!’ bouncing off the walls before returning to her welcoming ears. Even the sound of the paddle as it quickly reddened her ass caused a barely controllable urge to beg for more. A third swat, then a fourth and fifth came in rapid succession, stealing any delusions of control from Lana’s body, her mouth. She moaned loudly as Sergio applied the wood again and again, any semblance of displeasure lost to her completely. When she felt the handle of the paddle placed into his left hand on the small of her back, she could not hold back the whimper.

  “Yes,” she said, knowing he would now know her desire, her appreciation. His finger slid effortlessly inside her aching opening, the sopping sound it made only heightening her desire, her need. A second finger found no further resistance than the first, as he quickened the pace, plowing his fingers inside her again and again. It was only when a third finger was added, that the pace slowed, her pussy tightened around him hungrily.