Freeing Lana (7 page)

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 would 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 knew 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.