Owned And Owner (28 page)

Even the dildos were transparent, and hollow. Sometimes my master would thrust his finger into the one in my cunt, look me in the eye and smile. I could just feel the heat of his hand as he stroked in and out of the hard plastic, pleasuring the unfeeling belt, showing me what I would have felt if I had been a good girl who deserved it.

My master seemed to enjoy looking at my flesh squeezing around the dildos, while he flicked my inner thighs with whips, or lashed my ass. The suspension equipment was ratcheted up higher
now,
I’m sure so he could get a better view. And when he brought me to the edge of orgasm and let me writhe, he would sometimes leave me hanging upside down, the hollow dildos full of ice.

But I got used to it, more or less. I had worn a chastity belt for so long that it quickly became part of me, as the old one had. I was familiar with its pressures, the way it stimulated and prevented sensation at the same time. I knew how to sit and lie in it fairly comfortably, how to avoid the twisting motion that might pull on the labia rings and hurt me. I had a very clear understanding of where the locks were, for some reason. I had always been terribly aware of my cunt in the old belt, but from the inside, you might say, since I never touched it from the outside myself. The new belt added a tantalizing view, an extra layer of enjoyment for my master and frustration for me, and more humiliating exposure when we went among people. My needy cunt was that much more sensitive when it was exposed, cleaned, tormented, teased, inflamed, and abandoned, one spark short of a conflagration. That agonizing moment was preserved daily, pressed in glass like a museum exhibit, the subject more than alive inside.

The belt was rarely off for more than half an hour or so, for that washing and torment, or the use of my asshole. Although I was unceasingly, constantly aroused, my helpless body desperately wanting to climax, I was well beyond expecting or even hoping for it. What I longed for was to feel my master’s touch, and to give him pleasure. By this time I understood that the body I occupied didn’t belong to me. I understood this from the inside out, from the bottom up and every way you can think of.

My body, though often stiff and sore from punishments and close confinement, was also flexible and resilient from all the forced exercise. But even though I had the feeling of inhabitance that goes with the racing of nerves and the feedback of sensation, I had lost any proprietary sense about the flesh I lived in. Someone else owned it, owned what my body did, and was made to feel; all but the most minor movements and sensations were governed from outside. I had become the apparatus of someone else’s will.

I lay thinking about this in my cage one day. When I had run away into the basement and then the garden, I had been awkward and clumsy, very out of practice at doing things for myself. Since then I’d been confined much more thoroughly, and it was hard to imagine how I’d managed to act on that opportunity. How did I direct myself without a leash, or reins, or a huge hand telling me where to go? How did I take hold of objects with my mitts? No, they’d left my mitts off. Still, how did my eyes and hands coordinate well enough that I could pick up the wine bottles? Most important, how did I manage to make a decision on my own? I didn’t know anymore.

I looked at the smooth, undifferentiated forms at the end of my arms. I walked on them, or shifted myself around in my cage with them. I often rubbed at my nipples with them. I might plead a little by putting one through the bars when someone came by. I could use them to push the hair out of my face, or keep bits of food from rolling away in my cage, or rub at an itchy spot. But that was about it. The mitts created a serious sort of sensory deprivation. I couldn’t touch my fingers together at all, even inside the mitts, and though I could feel pressure through the padding, I couldn’t feel much else. They left the mitts on even when they tied my hands behind my back. Only when I was bathed could I count on feeling the nerves in my fingers, and you’d be surprised how exquisite it was. I liked it. I also started to use my feet to touch the bars of my cage or the walls of my kennel. I liked that, too.

Pav
was baking, and the rich aroma drifted in through the bars and curled up alongside me. I breathed it in with pleasure, my mouth watering around my gag. The smell was all I’d get, so I made the most of it.

I had endless time to think in the cage. I thought about all sorts of things. I thought back to what I had been like on Raniz, that bad girl sneaking out at night. The time I unbolted an entire wind generator at its base, and watched the storm capsize it.
Hard to remember my hands doing things like that.

Wearing clothes, going to school – being expelled. I remembered lying in bed and masturbating, imagining myself as a slave. My leather paw rubbed across my hard plastic crotch at the thought. Was this what I had imagined? I could still remember the images that had so intensely crowded my room, those naïve creations of mine. Far more vivid was every moment and impression of that first day with my master.
That first orgasm.
Feeling it had all been worth it, all the shame and the pain and the struggle, to feel like that.

It was different now. My master kept me very aroused but never allowed me to come. He played with me and let me suck him, but he had never let me sleep in his arms. I was treated like a dumb animal, and I had become one, one that was worked every day until she collapsed in exhaustion. And a lot of the time I was simply locked up and ignored.

There was one particular very small circle of thought that I often turned around in, like the space I had available to me inside my cage. My master treated me this way, therefore I deserved it. I deserved
it,
therefore he treated me this way. I know the logic sounds astoundingly stupid, but I knew it was true. He was right, and I was happy.
Sore, lonely, helpless, tormented, and happy.

My master’s rare smile, that had puzzled me long ago, I now understood very well. He smiled that way when I was at my most abject and humiliated. It was a smile of deep satisfaction at something accomplished well and thoroughly. Another milestone, another piece in the construct locked home, another lesson he had imposed on me that I had taken in with every cell in my body. And while I writhed, I felt the same sense of fitness, and I was glad.

My master had taught me a great deal, far beyond my childish imagination. One thing he taught me was that I had been completely wrong about what I’d wanted. I didn’t really want my
Ranizen
fantasies. Behind every one of those was a mind and an imagination – mine. Every one had a star, bound, abused, and brought to ecstasy – me. I was the center of those fantasies; I controlled them. I controlled the outcomes. I made them safe and sexy and orgasmic even while I made them scary.

I had fantasized about losing control, giving up autonomy, always to a man who would want what I wanted and give it to me. It wasn’t losing control at all; it was choosing the plot by inventing my own cast of characters.
Playing at helplessness.
But my master didn’t give me what I wanted; he took what he wanted. And I was utterly, completely grateful and happy that it was so. All I needed to know was what he wanted from me. All I had to do was
try
as hard as I could to please him.

How many times had I been like that stupid animal at the vet, coming to the end of its chain and looking surprised? I didn’t choose. I was an animal – less than that – a slave of an animal that had less than an animal’s autonomy and less than an animal’s rights. Even pets get off the leash from time to time. I had no rights to attention, no rights to orgasm,
no
rights to anything at all. My master had bought every privilege I ever possessed.

I had been halfway there, that night in the tool shed. I had reached the point of resignation. But now I think I’d reached the point of joy.

Going Visiting

‘I’m going to
Drelbe
this afternoon; do you want to come?’

‘
Drelbe
?
Oh, you mean
Cerivar’s
place. Why?’

‘Just visiting.
I like to see what the other owners are doing with their slaves; it gives me ideas.’

‘And some nice scenery.’

‘Sure.’

Garid had been working long hours, reworking an old agreement that was falling apart and threatening a crucial piece of reclamation. This time, despite his workload he’d been careful not to neglect his pet, and she had continued bright-eyed and eager. But he could use a break.

‘All right.
Are you taking
Vizay
?’

‘No, she’s with
Miseko
this week. Why do you think I’m looking for alternative entertainment? What about your little
jeedy
?’

‘She’s better off where she is.’

‘Where is she?’

‘In her cage where she belongs.’

‘Can I see?’

‘Sure.’ Garid switched the video feed to the kitchen monitor, which was aimed at his
jeedy
in her little cage. She was wearing the usual belt, bridle and mitts, and was lying on her back with her feet up, flexing one foot so as to stroke a bar gently with her toes.
Pav
walked through without looking at her, and her eyes followed him. Garid zoomed in to give his friend a better view, and Therin noticed the fine chain running between her nipple rings and up to her bridle, tight enough to make any movement of her upper body uncomfortable.

‘Are you punishing her for something?’

‘No. The cage is where I keep her during the day. I told you. Unless I want to use
her,
or she’s being walked or exercised.’ He looked her over. ‘Oh, you mean the nipple chain? Just a reminder; she was trying to rub her nipples on the bars.’

‘What a bad
jeedy
!’

‘Incorrigible.’ They laughed.

When they got to
Drelbe
, they flew over what appeared to be a hobby farm. There wasn’t enough acreage to make a living, but there was a small herd of cows and a big garden. Therin murmured his envy over the nice long pony track, winding through trees and along a picturesque stream, and said he’d have to bring
Vizay
there for a drive some day.
Cerivar
was a doctor and had made a lot of money over some new medications he’d developed, but the farm was obviously his major hobby – apart from his slave, of course.

Cerivar
was waiting for them at the door. ‘Hello! Hello! You’re just in time.’

‘For what?’

‘Come out to the shed, I’ll show you.’ The shed was a long one for milking, with dividers all along it, and tubes and shining canisters.
Cerivar’s
farm manager was just herding the cows in for milking, and they were taking their places with bovine calm and without hurry. ‘I’ll get the other one,’
Cerivar
called to the manager, and the man nodded. Inviting his two visitors to follow him,
Cerivar
went to a stable nearby, passed some stalls, and opened a box. His slave Teats was haltered there and was looking up with apprehension. She was a little blonde woman with a lush body and lightly freckled skin.

‘Is this where you keep her?’

‘Sometimes.
Sometimes I want her in the house. More comfortable there, if you know what I mean.’ He unlocked her collar and led her out of the stable and into the milking shed. She hung her head and held back, looking over her shoulder at the two men, and
Cerivar
urged her along, pulling inexorably on her leash. Step by reluctant step she followed him, passing all the cows with their udders being wiped and attached to apparatus. At the last stall she balked, turned her head and dug her heels in. The manager, finished with the cows by that time, came over to help, and he and
Cerivar
each took an arm and hauled the slave up onto a pair of raised narrow platforms which were about the men’s thigh height, one supporting her left leg and hand, a parallel one supporting her right, so that she was spread on all fours with a space below her middle. There was straw on the floor beneath her. Each platform had a high inside edge, which delayed the woman’s escape attempts long enough for the men to quickly lock her flailing hands into raised cuffs fixed into the platforms, and push her head forward, face angled down into a metal frame. She balked again, but the manager expertly forced her mouth open around a bar, and
Cerivar
closed another one behind her head so that she couldn’t pull back.

‘Aah!
Aaah
!
Aaah
!’ she yelled around the obstruction in her mouth, and she struggled so determinedly she shook the platforms.

‘There!’ panted
Cerivar
. ‘Always a fight when there are visitors.
And half the time when there aren’t.
Stupid cow.’
He grinned, and more relaxed he strapped down Teats’ ankles and her legs right below the knee. ‘She even kicks sometimes.’ The manager began wiping her breasts off with a cold cloth.
Teats was
completely unable to move, but yelled her incoherent protests and shook all over.

‘Come around this side,’ said
Cerivar
, and introduced them to the manager,
Kolyrik
, who could now take a moment to greet them.

‘She’s a fighter, all right,’ the man said.
‘Doesn’t seem to stop her milk letting down, though.
Put the cups on them and out it comes.’ He laid a casual hand on one of Teats’ large breasts, hanging pendulous over empty space, and gave it a pull and a squeeze. Milk streamed out in straight lines, and hissed into the straw. Teats complained loudly again, and the men laughed.