As She's Told (38 page)

"I might shorten the leash tomorrow. I really do prefer keeping you where I can find you. The proverbial short lead." She bit her lip. "Scared, love?"

"Yes."

"Good. Just learn to pay attention." He braked for a van that was backing out in front of him. "I could have used something like that a couple of weeks ago, eh?" Maia's head drooped. It was fortunate that he didn't need to punish her that night, because the rowdies next door had gone on to destroy the peace of some other campground, and despite its uses, loud rock music got on his nerves.

It wasn't only his slave who'd spent the day in a state of arousal. Anders had several times considered taking his slave to the truck for a quick blow job. Would have, if the music hadn't been so good.

He tightened Maia's harness several notches all around, fastened her hands behind her, and put clips on her nipples. Then he used the remote buttons and a word or two to direct and correct her as she serviced him, a kind of game of 'hot and cold.' As long as she removed his clothes with her teeth and did it gracefully, kissed his feet with the proper attitude, licked and sucked his body reverently enough in all the right places, he kept his finger on the dildo remote. If she got distracted by her own arousal and strayed from her task, if she was clumsy or imperfect he shocked her. He kept her at it for a long time. She knelt between his legs, then knelt over him on the bed, her soft mouth eager, worshipful. The noises she'd been suppressing all day were to him a delicious auditory accompaniment: soft whimpers, catches of breath, little shrieks. He felt he was running her like a remote-control robot with his buttons: reward, punishment, pleasure, pain.

At last he directed her mouth to his cock. The first come was like a 237

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geyser, the pleasure so intense and single-minded that for a while Anders felt emptied of everything but the echo. When he stirred again he was, of course, hungry. He rummaged around naked in the kitchen, rooting out bread and cheese. The naugahyde benches looked uninviting to a naked butt; he climbed back into bed. His slave was kneeling there where he'd left her.

"Here, lie down. I don't want to get crumbs in the bed." She lay on her back as he directed, and he put the bread and cheese on her body between the straps. There wasn't much space in between, but her lower belly was largely clear. As he ate he resumed his game with the vibrator. And once he finished and brushed her off, tipping her carefully at the edge of the mattress so that he wouldn't be sleeping on crumbs, he put his ear to her belly and felt the vibrations for himself.

Then he played with the nipple clips, on and off, pull and twist, and she squirmed and twisted in response. Her legs were splayed wide, the desperate cunt locked to its shield. He turned the vibrator up to high, and watched her strain and shake helplessly. She began to beg.

He smiled down at her.

"Do you think the shield is coming off tonight? Really?"

She looked ready to cry. "No, master."

Anders was hard again. He sat behind her head, turned off the remote and said, "Open up." She opened her mouth, puzzled, then slowly arched her back as far as she could to take him in. It was worth the awkward position to see her straining so hard to service him, and when he came he had to use what little consciousness remained to keep from collapsing on top of her.

The next day they got to take their time; no purchases to worry about or hardware to modify, and he was going to make her walk. Just a minor adjustment to the remote. "About a metre and a half for the warning, girl.

Two for the stronger one, and four for the punisher.”

“Please, master, can't you – can't you just hang onto me?”

“I will sometimes. But it would look a bit odd all day.”

“Doesn't it look odd – me running to you?"

He chuckled. "Probably. If you have to do that, try to make it look natural – like you've thought of something you just have to tell me. Don't leap, whatever you do." He took hold of her hair at the nape of her neck.

"Better yet, try to remember that you're on a leash, and then the problem won't arise, will it?"

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Anders had his fiddle, as there was going to be a chance to jam in the afternoon. Music on all sides was terrific, but it made him itch to get his own hands on the strings.

Maia was starting to pant, he noticed, and was a step behind. He slowed down, and took her hand again, amused. Unconsciously he'd been challenging her to stay close enough, speeding up to something more like his natural pace. Poor little pup.

Three more performers to talk to this afternoon. They'd gotten a raft of

"maybes." Only the young and local were pretty sure bets. What he'd really like to arrange, he thought, would be a series of workshops, with lots of musicians mixing it up, trying things out, creating something new. He loved getting the chance to play with people he'd never played with before; he always got fresh ideas. Maybe they could do that next year. Or if the teaching series didn't work out. Her hand was sweating; he slowed a little more. They were almost there. No one would guess, looking at her, how complexly this woman was accessorized. Simple clothes, low heels, no jewellery, not even makeup. Of course she turned heads anyway, though she didn't seem to notice. In the spring she'd been a able to fly under everyone's radar. Now she glowed as if the sun was on her wings. Clipped wings. He'd been growing to fit his own skin, and he rather thought that she was doing the same. Reaching out to fit inside his restraints. And hell, she was probably trailing pheromones. No surprise there.

That day Anders held onto Maia whenever he was feeling merciful. And when he wasn't she tried very hard to stay at his side, much like a dog that has learned to heel. But given the large crowds and the short leash, inevitably she got caught here and there. She was particularly vulnerable when he'd been using the other remote.

At last, teased to distraction, she went the wrong way round a smaller stage. Anders watched her as the warnings hit. Her eyes searched for him, the wrong direction at first, and then he saw her take the shock. She went completely still, a response out of the e-stim training he'd given her. Then she turned, saw him, and made her way through the rigging and past the sound booth, taking the most direct route. There was a sandy area that bogged her down, and when she reached him her sandals were full of it.

Kindly he paused while she took them off and cleared them out. She was breathing a little hard. "Did that hurt, sweetheart?" She pressed her lips 239

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together, and nodded.

"Better be more careful, then." She nodded again, and reached a little shakily for his hand. He took it. "Come on."

As the leash was so short and swift to warn her, Anders hardly had to override it at all to keep her where she belonged. He still chose to give her a yank or two amongst the artisan's booths – the crafts distracted her – but conditioning was starting to tell; she was staying within a metre of his side almost all the time.

After lunch they sat in the grass waiting for a Klezmer band with bluegrass elements, or a bluegrass band with Klezmer elements; he was curious to see how this mix would turn out. The program notes didn't give him much to go on. Suddenly they were joined on their blanket by a small crawling body clad only in diaper and t-shirt; a single-minded little juggernaut intent on some distant objective. Both parents were in pursuit, but were hampered by having to step around the people and the beach chairs, an inhibition not shared by their offspring. The baby took the direct route over Anders legs with the efficiency of an expert crawler and escape artist, and then decided to use Maia's shoulder to stand up. Perhaps he was scouting for the posse. She looked, startled, into the round, rather sticky face, suddenly inches from her own. Anders laughed at this odd confluence, and picked the baby up; the little guy seemed quite fearless, and pulled experimentally on his captor's nose, before being returned to his father's arms.

"Bold little bugger," Anders said admiringly as he sat down again.

"Fast, too. He seemed to come out of nowhere." She craned her neck, watching the family retreat. "You seemed to know how to handle him."

"Pick 'em up, hand 'em back; you can count on me anytime."

She grinned. "Did I tell you I'm going to be an aunt again? Luisa emailed. She's having another one."

"How many's that, two?" She nodded. "Are you missing them at all?

Wanting to see the babies?"

"I suppose I'll have to one of these days." She looked at him, puzzled.

"What, do I want to go to baby showers and dandle little relatives on my knee? Not especially, why?"

He gave this a minute's thought, wondering if he really wanted to pursue the subject. How bizarre to do so now, in the middle of a day spent playing with her like a toy. But then, every day was like that. It had to be faced 240

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sooner or later. "I just wondered," he said carefully, "how you feel about them. Actually, what I wonder is whether the urge to reproduce is going to be a spanner in our works some day."

She looked uncomfortable. "I hope not. Why, do you – do you want them?"

"No. I don't."

Her look of relief was a relief to him.

"Thank god for that," she said softly. "Neither do I. And imagine me raising children. All that comes to mind is the Old South and mammies." He laughed, but she looked serious. "Really. I couldn't bring up kids," she said,

"like – like this." She waved her hands toward her body, which gesture he understood to comprise not merely her concealed accoutrements but also her state of subjection. "We're – too extreme. I also don't want to, but even if I did –.”

“Well, couples do manage it. They have to tone things down, I suppose.

Compromise. Conceal, lock their bedroom doors and so on. They must really want kids." It would have to be a hell of a procreative urge, he thought, before he'd make that kind of compromise.

"Sometimes they have the kids already, before they get into it," she reminded him. "That's true.”

“I can't imagine keeping up that level of pretence, year after year."

The set started. Anders listened on one level, and on another he was exploring the release of a vague tension he hadn't been aware he had. As far as he could see, no amount of ownership and control would root out the urge to reproduce, if it was there. In those who had it, it seemed to be as basic and instinctive as the sexual urge which should, biologically speaking, be secondary to it. An urge like that could have been a deal breaker over the long term, but it looked like they'd be spared that complication.

At the jam session he adjusted the remote so that Maia could sit at the front of the audience. The fiddles were fast and furious for a while; he got to throw in some Scandinavian variations that were new to people, and that was fun. One guitar player slowed them down (ballads again), but then Val's blues guitar picker joined the group. She was phenomenal as it turned out, and the pace picked up again. Anders did some backup, then took the lead on a 30's jazz violin piece he'd picked up from a Stephane Grapelli CD.

Then he picked up the bodhran when a pennywhistle and banjo needed some 241

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percussion.

Through all this Maia kept her eyes almost entirely on him, whether or not he was front and centre. The other musicians received glances and applause from her, but her real focus, he could tell, was only on himself. She gazed at him, mouth a little open, as if he was a rock god and she was a schoolgirl. Lord of the Dance, in fact. He was certainly the lord of her dance, wasn't he?

He looked again at her face. Those weren't just schoolgirl-crush eyes.

He was being worshipped.

What an odd feeling. His woman thought he was a god. Larger than life somehow. Perhaps it was inevitable. But weird nonetheless.

And yet wasn't that how this music made him feel? Senses expanded by all the interplay, by being part of the weave. He became bigger than himself, his mind quicker, his hands more sure. Was that what she saw with those eyes?

He wondered what part of the pantheon she had him pegged for. And whether they'd name a day of the week after him.

The blues guitarist took the lead again, and the group started improvising around her bad luck song, each instrumentalist stepping forward one by one to do their solo. When it was Anders' turn he made the fiddle wail just like Maia when he locked her down. Would she recognize it? She did; she was blushing. The flute picked up on the sound of frustration and heightened it, and the banjo and mandolin followed suit. Unbeknownst to anyone, the song had turned into the 'My Daddy Won't Let Me Come Blues.'

He caught Maia's eye; like him, she was trying not to laugh. Andersday.

Very nice.

The guitarist packed it in, and the traditional fiddles started playing jigs.

Fun for Anders, and easy. A couple in the audience broke into a dance. Then two more. The tune ended to much applause, and then one of the other fiddlers began one that Anders didn't know as well. On a wicked impulse he set his fiddle in its case, and stood in front of Maia with hand outstretched, glancing with a smile toward the dancers.

She looked so horrified he had to laugh. Taking her hand in an uncompromising grip, he pulled her toward the dancers She knew how to jig. The fact that she had ever only done so naked under a whip was neither here nor there. The tight harness, the plug in her rear, the dildo and shield 242

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held on only by rings in her labia, these were just one bonus after another.

Why be the Lord of the Dance if you can't make your subject perform at your command?

At first she did a delicate sort of jig opposite him. He gave her a warning glance and tapped his pocket, and she danced harder. But she still wasn't giving it what he knew she was capable of. So he gave her a medium jolt, and she gave a little cry, shook herself loose, flung out her arms, and danced.