As She's Told (25 page)

Each day after my stop at the bench I was expected to take my covered red dish from the fridge, settle down on the mat, fold my hands behind my back and eat my lunch. I'd spotted the webcam in the kitchen without difficulty. Still, performing in this way in an empty house wasn't easy. I kept wanting to use my hands. As that was forbidden, I found myself occasionally wishing for the convenience of a snout and a very long tongue.

The webcam's eye felt palpable that day. I had a 'watcher' now for sure; 154

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that self-conscious sense of being observed by a critical eye had been made entirely manifest. Kind of like being a bit paranoid and then finding out that there really is a conspiracy against you. Alone in an empty house, I felt like a specimen under glass. I seemed to be stuck in performance mode, embarrassed to scratch my butt for fear of spoiling the display.

Still, I wondered what my all-seeing master actually saw. There was no way he could monitor me more than occasionally from work; if he did he'd never get any work done. And he couldn't possibly be reviewing four or five hours of recorded footage every evening. He must be spot-checking, and focusing on key bits of obedience, like the front hallway, and these meals, for which he had to trust me not to use my unlocked hands. He didn't trust me very far, did he? Wise of him, all things considered. I honestly didn't know if I'd be so obedient if there was no evidence to catch me. Perhaps he was watching at that moment. My hands gripped each other more tightly, and I dug deep into my bowl. Ack! Hair in my mouth. I'd forgotten to tie it back. I shook my head in an attempt to dislodge it, but in the end had to use my hand or choke. He'd left the hair clip right on the counter for me. I was going to be in trouble when he got home. When I had dutifully licked the bowl I got up and washed it in the sink, along with my sticky face and the pots and pans he'd left for me, splattering hot soapy water on my harnessed breasts. Wondering what deficiencies his inspection would reveal this time, and how I'd be punished. I could still feel his hand in my hair, and taste the soap and vinegar from the other day, on the floor that hadn't been clean enough. Bleah. Apparently he chose non-toxic cleaners for this very purpose.

But no matter how meticulously I worked to meet his standards, there would still be plenty of time to wait for his return. Today I would have to go back to the bench and lock my chain to it 'at the eighth link,' according to the instructions. As usual, not enough length to stand. A couple of times I had crouched on knees and elbows for hours in front of the couch, a footstool waiting to be used. Other days I had waited chained at the foot of the bed, or had stared into corners, locked to the wall by waist belt and nipple rings –

those locked rings I couldn't open. There was always a moment, an instant of hesitation before I took each irrevocable step, before I pushed the closet door home and lost access to my clothes, before I marked myself a captive in hard collar and cuffs, before I closed a padlock and ended all possibility of 155

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escape. A moment when I took a deep breath and then did his bidding. I glanced up at the camera and wanted to make some kind of obeisance to him.

If he observed the hesitation, did he think of it as a moment of choice: to obey him or not, to continue all this or not? Did I?

No, not any more. My hesitation was only the reluctance of the moment, to commit this irrevocable thing upon myself. Something like the breathless feeling before the first leap into the pool. You want to be in the water, you know it will feel good once you're in there. It's the irreversible plunge that's so scary; the surrender to a different element, that enveloping cold clasp.

I did my best with the cleaning, rechecking the corners twice and three times. I visited the chamber pot. Then I made my hobbled way back to the hall bench and knelt down. Counted links once, twice. Neither seven nor nine; exactly eight. Pushed the padlock through and (pause) home. Settled back on my heels and stared through the glass of the closed vestibule door, watching the front door through which my master would come eventually, and bring the evening with him. The evening, that last and best and scariest segment of each day, the time when the hands I'd felt on me all day took possession in the flesh. I wanted urgently to serve him, touch him, feel his hands on my flesh …. I could hardly bear to wait. But having no choice, I waited. Every evening had been unique so far, though there were patterns developing. The harness came off, but the corset usually replaced it, tighter every time. And my constant bondage of the afternoon felt like freedom once Anders opened that hall cabinet. I'd spent part of one evening hogtied on the floor, another under the desk, gagged and blindfolded. His cock was down my throat at least once every night, in the mornings as well if we had time. I loved to show my devotion in this way, especially when he came really hard and I could hear it. The flavour of him haunted me all day.

Impatiently I wriggled, and grabbed my chain to stop it banging against the bench.

I'd found that there was only so long I could sit still. Inevitably I began fiddling with the chain, testing the locks. I sat, lay down, knelt again. Stared at the door. Thought about what he might do when he walked in. Thought about work, and where the household guides to energy conservation might have got to, and where to get more if they were gone. About the group of junior high kids coming the next day, and just how awful they were likely to 156

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be. I noticed that the bars of light on the living room floor had shifted a couple of feet to the left, and were now lighting up the deep reds of the rug.

Evenings had their mundane elements still. Anders would tell me about his day, and have me tell him about mine. There would be discussions about my work, usually during preparations for dinner. He did plenty of task structuring, similar to the ways he'd handled me around schoolwork. I told him what I had to do, he kept tabs, and if I made a mistake I got thwacked. I also got praise, good advice, and the underlying message that I was good at what I did. Sitting still, I listened. Silence. The soundproofing worked both ways. The only noise came from my chain, still swinging, and the tiny friction of my body against the floor. Nothing I'd notice if I'd had anything else to listen to.

What was happening outside? What were free people doing? They'd be finishing up at work, or out walking, going on errands, visiting stores.

Calling friends, making deals, making dates.

Nikki had tried to make a date with me for lunch the other day. I'd told her I'd have to ask permission first, and she'd started lecturing me as if I was seven years old. My age apparently dropped to about four when I got back to her and told her that we'd have to wait a few weeks; Anders wanted my routine well established before he would allow any variation. I listened quietly, some imp in me wanting to try an automaton, brainwashed voice on her: 'Master decides all things. I will give my life for Master,' just to hear her hit the roof. But I didn't really want to upset her, and anyway she might take me seriously and call the cops, or the deprogrammers, or both. Nikki seemed to be getting more vanilla by the day. She kept trying to tell me that bdsm was for play parties, and that anybody who said they lived it for real was merely getting their rocks off by broadcasting their fantasies as if they were facts. Nikki the conspiracy theorist. She believed the moon landing was a fake, too.

There was never a clock in sight when I was chained. My watch, of course, was locked away in the cupboard. Time stretched on before me like a prairie highway, and my helplessness expanded like the fields on either side.

I felt a faint vibration through the floor which increased for a while until I could almost hear the low, rumbling rush of a train going by. An afternoon GO train heading out to Pickering. I tried to see how long I could sense the vibrations; that lasted a while. Then I began wriggling, tugging at harness 157

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straps, flipping idly at my nipple rings. I listened for the sound of a key in the door. I adjusted the clip I'd put in my hair, too late, and tried not to worry too much about punishment.

But I knew it was coming. Probably a whipping. Wincing, I ran my palms lightly over my already sensitive buttocks. Escape urges ricocheted around my skull in lightning bursts, seeking a way out of my dilemma, like a mouse careening frantically from one stopped hole to another. I pulled away from the bench and felt the now-familiar pressure of the metal collar against my neck. My fingers examined the locks again, and the solid built-in bench.

There was no escape. Anders was on his way home. When he came home he'd punish me. Simple; inevitable, inexorable. It would hurt, probably a lot.

Anything I did or said would only make it worse. I began to pant.

I was already soaking wet, my cunt unfurling, right there by my hand. I imagined touching it, sliding my fingers through soft folds to the firm, velvety clit; the breathless, acute pleasure of each tiny stroke, the build-up….

No! Even if the camera didn't catch me, the guilt would. I had a terrible longing to disobey, followed immediately by a deep-down feeling of panic.

But oh, god, how I wanted to! I was spending each day back and forth over the borders of lust, trying so hard to behave, to pretend that my pussy was on some other planet. Remembering that enormous hand gripping it, that deep voice saying, "This belongs to me." It's not mine, I kept saying to myself.

I'm not allowed to touch it. I knelt and pulsed in the silence: no distractions now, no outward face to maintain, no clothes, no escape, no choice but to suffer and wait.

Knees under me, face-down on the floor for a while, head on my arms, I tried not to think ahead or back, tried not to lust, tried just to be. That level of zen was beyond me, however; my thoughts continued quietly squirreling away around the edges, and the lust continued unabated. When I sat up the light had moved off the rug and onto the wall. I stared at the door longingly.

When would he come? My whole body, each erogenous zone sectioned off and presented for his pleasure, reached toward the place he would materialize. The collar pressed on my windpipe and I sat back, sighing.

Patience.

Then the key hit the lock, and suddenly there he was, all six-and-a-half feet of him, filling the inside doorway, flipping through a handful of mail.

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My heart seemed to leap right out of my chest and then spring back again, like an Animaniacs cartoon. The door thumped closed; the long legs were within reach, smelling of dirt and concrete. I looked up, longing to wrap myself around a warm leg, but waited for orders like a good slave.

"Here's my little pup, just where she's supposed to be. Nice to be greeted at the door." He sat down on the bench, put the mail down beside him, and took hold of the chain. I could feel him testing the padlock between finger and thumb, counting links. Then he grabbed some hair, including the clip, and narrowed his eyes at me. "Not very difficult, girl.”

“I'm sorry, master," I whispered. Yup, I was in trouble.

"Let's take care of that first, then." He lifted me, whimpering, face-down over his lap, still leashed to the bench, and pulled my right wrist up between my shoulder blades. My god, he hadn't been in the door thirty seconds. I hadn't been wrong about the punishment, only about the instrument; he used his hand, which was almost as hard as a paddle. It was so painful that within three smacks I was leaking tears, as if the blows at one end were forcing liquid from me at the other end. "You've had this coming since two o'clock, haven't you?”

“Yes, master!" I gasped. "You got careless, didn't you?”

“Yes, master.”

“Are you allowed to use your hands when you eat? For anything?"

I choked out a "No, master" that wasn't clear enough, and had to be repeated.

By the time he was done, my backside was ready to burst into flames. I followed along on the chain, step by small step, as he inspected the areas I'd cleaned. To my vast relief I only had to straighten some furniture, and take some slaps to my thighs rather than my ass.

"Better, girl," he nodded approvingly. "You're learning." He took the chain up short and delicately licked my wet eyes, and then my neck above the collar. I moaned and tried to press myself against him, but the chain and collar pulled me back.

"Stop; I want to have a shower first. Come upstairs and keep me company." He drew keys jingling from his pocket, and unlocked the padlock at my throat. "I spent all day in a basement pouring concrete." A leash came out of the hall cabinet and was fastened it to my collar. "Had my head in the damned joists half the time." I looked up at Anders' silvery hair, darkened 159

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with streaks of dust. "I told them it needed digging deeper, but they didn't have the money. And they're short. Small, I mean. So it doesn't worry them."

He turned me around and locked my hands behind my back. "All right, short one, up you go."

I approached the stairs apprehensively. With my ankles so closely hobbled, there was no way up, walking or crawling, especially with my hands fastened behind my back. I looked plaintively up at him, and he smiled back, the glint amused and wicked. "Consider it the next instalment on your punishment. And a bit of exercise, lazy girl." I gave a broken sigh, half a moan, and lowered my sore butt gingerly onto the second step. Oh, for an elevator! I pulled my linked feet up to the step below me, shifted my weight forward and pushed myself up a step. I made the mistake of sliding myself back, and winced. There were sixteen steps. I'd had prior opportunities to count them. New tears began dripping onto my knees.

Anders had made me do this before, but not with a freshly-spanked ass. I had fantasies of him taking pity on me and lifting me over his shoulder.

Childlike plaints of "Carry me!" burbled through my head, though fortunately not out of my mouth. Although he let me stop part-way while he fondled my breasts, he seemed uninterested in any strong-man rescue.