Archive-name: Slaves/ficta.txt Archive-author: Archive-title: Ficta The door was open, and she had seen him drive off. Surely he would have a copy of his own books in his home! Why, she could slip in and take a look, and leave again, and he would never know. She did not know why this idea slipped into her head. She would never have thought of such a thing, usually. But it was true: here was an opportunity to read the very works she had been so frustrated in trying to find. A silly thing, to be unable to buy or borrow books, the author of which lived in one's own town. And it wasn't as if they were cult books, for which doing such a stunt would be attractive and daring, and something to brag about. They were on history, and academic theories; slightly dated texts at that. But what she heard of them hinted at great ideas which fascinated her. And the more trouble she had finding them, the more she wanted to see them. She walked right up to the front door, and went in. There was a study like area near the kitchen, lined with bookshelves. There, the texts of many authors were arranged in alphabetical order by authors name. For one brief moment, the name of the author whose house she was now in escaped her mind, but then, her eyes fell upon his name in the H's, and she beamed with pleasure. They were humbly categorized with the others, and were not set apart. They were slender, oversized books, hard cover in cloth, and they reminded her of the music scores she got from the library. She took the set from the shelves and carried them into the dining room. On the way there, she noticed a storage room, or pantry, and thought ``should he come back, I can hide in there.'' She tested the door, only to find that it could not close all the way. At least it would block her from view from the front door, and if he walked without looking backward, she should remain hidden. She then went to the dining room, and spread out the books. She took the first one in the series, and began skimming through it. Ah, but they were fascinating! She was soon drawn into the texts, reading them passages hanging on every word, gazing at the color plates of manuscripts she had never seen before. And his theories delighted her mind, she felt like singing, like crushing the book to her head as if she could push all the words into her brain at once. One part of her demanded she keep reading the way a thirsting man's body demands drinking; another part of her was so over charged with ideas and thoughts, she needed to lay the book down to digest and ferment the kaleidoscope in her mind. Then she heard him at the door. For a moment she thought of restoring the books to their place that he not suspect an intruder, but she realized she had no time for that. She whisked herself into the storage room, and pulled the door as shut as she could. She dared not look out the doorway, for fear he would she her as well as she saw him. She heard him enter, and sure enough, he walked by. But now he was in the kitchen, and could see the door to the pantry through the open-work bookshelves between them, and he had a clear view to where she stood, were he only to turn towards her. He could turn at any moment, or perhaps even see her reflection in some stray kitchen utensil. With that thought, she broke for it. She exploded out of the pantry, and in a few steps gained the door. He whirled as he heard her, but he was much older than she, and slower. The screen door crashed shut behind her as she burst from the house. She crossed the driveway, running along the house, and it was in her mind that she go around the house to the woods in back to make her escape. But then as she rounded the garage a dread thought came to her: he was a hunter, and he owned rifles, and kept them handy. Would her shoot her? Her skirt was white, like a swan; she remembered a story in which an archer shot his true love while she wore the guise of a swan, and in truth she did not know why she thought of that story in that second. But moved thus, she darted into the cluttered garage, to hide. He entered the garage, searching, and she could not catch a glimpse of him for fear of betraying her location; she could only crouch and wait. At last she decided she would break for it again. She sprang up...and found herself face to face with him, and he stood between her and the road. His face was lined, and weathered, his hair was white; his face showed no emotion. He seized her right arm, and pushed her towards the door to the house. She entered the house again, this time by the kitchen door to the garage. But to her surprise, there were people there, idly chatting and sitting about and browsing thought magazine on the coffee table. Perhaps they entered with him? He did not get a chance to say anything, for he was immediately hailed, and corralled by guests who just *had* to speak with him. And more people were entering. She found herself unescorted again. She wandered about, acting as casual as she could manage. After a while, she worked her way back towards the front door, and she espied a woman calling a cab company. She requested, in her most offhand manner, if the woman could ask that they send a cab for her too? And the woman did indeed. It was a short wait, when she saw a cab down the street. She stepped outside, unhindered. Walking down the driveway, someone asked, ``Do you know how to get to Civic Center?'' She wracked her brains; ``I'm sorry, I've been away from the area for quite a while, and I can't remember the names of the highways...are you familiar with the county? You know the triangle? And the 23 runs along here,'' she illustrated in the air, ``Right here is the Civic Center.'' ``Thank you.'' At the end of the driveway, there were three of her friends. They hailed her, and looked surprised to find her there, but she did not get a chance to speak with them for the cab pulled up, and she wished to dally no longer. She did not know why she returned, but she indeed found herself at his house again. Some part of her, a part which staunchly would not talk to her conscious mind, guided her limbs to convey her here again. Some vague and nebulous, unnamed emotion roiled in her mind: a desire? a wish? a certainty? Again the door was open, and again she entered. She saw the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the pantry, the book shelves were his works rested. This time she passed them by, and went further into the house. She left the darker, wood paneled rooms, and came to a chamber where the walls were painted the faintest shade of blue, and the floor was carpeted in thick off-white pile, and gauzy white drapes hung along the windows. Nothing like furniture was in this room, but there were two manacles set into the floor, several feet apart, and two manacles hung on rods from the ceiling, above the ones on the floor. Nothing else disturbed the emptiness, the stillness, of the room. She examined the manacles; they were cleverly designed. They all lay open, each one a half ring, hinged to its other half, which in turn was fastened to a ceiling rod, or to the floor by a shorter rod. In the second half-circle lay a lever, such that if on should put one's limb into the embrace of the connected half, the other freely hinged part, would be snapped up, and over, and around one's limb, to lock into the closed position. And moved by what she knew not, she did this. First she removed her sandals, and stepping out of them, she walked to a place between the manacles. She spread her legs, and set one ankle against the inner arc of a manacle, and as she pressed *snap!* the other half closed about the end of her slender leg. She then reached up, and pressed the wrist of the same side into the hanging mechanism, and it too closed with a satisfying //click//. She reached her other leg towards the respective bond; only with much straining was she able to reach far enough to set her other ankle in. But now, the last manacle hung on it's rod above and beyond her reach. She pulled towards it, but the spread of her feet kept her from attaining the last ring. Then, there were hands on her waist, from behind, lifting her up, lifting her strongly, so that the steel at her feet pulled her legs unrelentingly to earth. And with that, she set her wrist into the manacle, and it clicked home. She hung there, most of her weight borne by her arms, her feet barely touching the floor, imprisoned. He walked around her, to stand before her. His gaze took her in, and she looked back at him. He wore nothing but billowing draw-sting pants. Though his hair was gray, right down to the wisps on his chest, his muscles were still defined, and he had lifted her with apparently little effort. She could not guess his age; she knew those books had been published a long time ago. Now his weathered face bore a pleased smile, and shone with warmth. His eyes were a very clear blue. She was young; just a woman, but definitely a woman, having left adolescence behind for good. Her dark hair hung in a sea of waves about her pale neck, her shoulders hidden in all but curve by her blouse of deep electric blue. Her cheekbones were faintly defined, and her jaw like the line of a heron's wing bounded her oval face. Her arms, too, where like wings, stretched out and taught, or like the arms of an angel raised in supplication or adoration of heaven. Her ankles were slender and delicately curved; a long white starched skirt hung from her slender waist. Her eyes were black like night. Her eyes rested on his face, as with a tug he loosed the drawstring of his pants, and they felt to the floor; his gaze did not leave her face. She heard a crinkling, and rubbing sound. He lifted her white skirt, and with a pair of scissors he materialized from where she knew not, he snipped her plain white underwear from her body. He stepped up to her, his body touching her. He reached around her and gripped her thighs from behind, and lifted her again, stepping forward as he did, and setting her onto him, her cunt driven down onto his member by her own weight. Breath escaped her lungs like an unarticulated sigh. Now she gazed over his shoulder, but sight was lost to her as all her attention was drawn to her nerves, inside and out. In some distant part of her mind the thought flared ///A condom! How good, and kind, and caring he is of me! How fine he is!/// Then there was no more effort left for words in her mind, as he began to stroke into her. She could not effectively move with his rhythm, for she had no manoeuverability to balance, but he steadied her with his hand on her thigh, and his strong steady pushing into her accounted for all the motion that was needed. It reminded her of oars, pushing against the sea. When he came, she knew it by the tightening of his muscles, but he was silent save the single hard expulsion of breath. His worn cheek lay against her own smooth face for some moments longer, then he withdrew from her body, and stepped back. Her skirt fell about her legs again. He spoke. ``I set a suggestion into your mind, a vision, before you left here. To this you could have two responses. You could flee from here in fear, forever shy of this place and of me, never to trespass again. Or you would return. The suggestion was this: were you ever to enter this house again, you would become mine forever. The choice between these two would lie in your own nature.'' She said nothing, and her face showed little, but he knew his words spoke into the heart of her and she understood and followed everything he said. ``What is your name?'' ``I do not remember, Master,'' she answered truthfully, ``But I know I am your slave.'' ``And what is my name?'' ``I do not remember that either, Master.'' She added after knotting her brow briefly in thought: ``I call you by the title `Master' because it is what you are to me.'' ``Good, my dear. I think you shall find me a pleasing Master. I have never been exceedingly lusty, and I have somewhat less interest than I did when I was younger. But I still desire the use of your body, and you shall not go without. I seek to have, also, a woman who body I may play with, experiment on, toy with. There are many things which I wish to do to your flesh, and to your mind. I will reprogram you mind so that you will unable to disobey me; what I say will be like your own will in your body. '' He paused a moment. ``Does this please you?'' ``Yes, Master, it pleases me.'' He smiled warmly at her. ``Good, my love. Let us begin.'' He left the room, and she hung there patiently. When he returned, he wore a white robe which hung to his ankles, and he carried a ring of keys and more manacles in his hands. He unlocked her ankles, then her hands, carrying her limbs down to ease the pain of their release, stiff and sore he knew they would be. He kneaded her shoulders for a moment, then he brought her wrists together behind her back and locked them that way. He fastened a loose loop of chain about her waist, from which hung another length of chain to her knees. He put a manacle about each ankle, and these were connected by a chain in the middle of which met the length from her waist; in this way the chain of her hobbles would be lifted from the floor so she would not trip. Then he locked a wide steel collar about her neck, and from this collar was a chain leash. With one hand at her lower back, and one hand holder her leash, he steered her out of the room by way of a doorway on the other side from which she entered. They passed through a small hallway with pleasant small floral print wallpaper, a small antique table with a vase of flowers, all reminding her of an apocryphal aunt's home, and then they came to another room. This was about the same size as the last room, but far more cluttered. This seemed more like a study, and bookshelves overflowed with papers, loosely bound texts, bric-a-brack and personal artifacts. There were cabinets along another wall, and there was a desk mostly covered by paper. But also on the desk was a computer, and around this computer was clear of the general clutter. He left her standing in the center of the room, while still holding her leash, and opened up a cabinet. He pulled from it a large device of wire and metal rods and plastic bands. He set it precariously on a stack of papers on the desk, and closed the cabinet. He fastened her leash to a ring set in the desk; he had her kneel. He fiddled with the device for a moment, then it opened up, in some fashion, and he set it about her head. The thing reminded her of a halo brace, and indeed with the twisting of knobs, the screwing of cranks, and the snapping of snaps the device gripped her head firmly, and pressed against her skull in numerous places. A large multi-colored ribbon of wires ran from the device to a pronged end, which he plugged into a box attached to the computer. She merrily laughed inwardly to find that she would be re-written on an Amiga. He sat himself at the desk and began to type at the keyboard. Kneeling by his side, she laid her head against his thigh. He grinned at her, and reached through the wiring to rub at her jaw line for a moment, then returned to the machine. As she lay there, she felt dancing on the inside, like a flight of butterflies in her heart, but she had no inclination to move from her position against her master. After a few more commands, he looked at her again, then tapped one last keystroke. She felt a fleeting feeling across her mind, like a high cloud scooting across the sky, a feeling that was more an awareness than an emotion. She neglected her vision, her hearing, and all her outward senses, turning all of her awareness to what was happening to her mind. She opened up all of her mind to this faint thing. She felt as if she were in midair, falling or flying, then. And she felt as if there was someone who's thinking she could hear, or feel, or know. Then, instantaneously, with not transition, she knew she would not disobey. She could ///remember/// being able to disobey, but she no longer could. And it was not even a realization about whether or not she *could*, but rather the understanding that never in her life would she disobey her Master. But she had not wanted to then, and was no longer capable now, and could not longer conceive of herself disobeying. Freedom from his will passed entirely from her understanding and ability and desire and all her soul. Then there came into her mind another understanding, or rather, there passed from her other knowings. Gone was the worry that she might leave, gone the idea that she someday would not be his slave, gone the concept of being not his, gone the idea of having an identity of her own. All questions of permanence fled: she knew she was once something else, free, but she could no longer imagine it, or hold such an idea for herself in her mind. Certainty came to her next of his love and caring for her. It was eternal, and undivided by any other loves he indulged in. She knew this, and became removed from any jealousy. She came to know that he was capable in what he promised her, and would not fail her. Of these two things trust is made, and forged in her was an absolute and unquestioning trust in him. She knew, for instance, that she would have no desire to preserve her life should he tell her it was to end. And she knew then, that he *understood*. He understood her need for pain. He understood that every blow and every cut would convey love as a kiss does, and she understood that every blow and every cut was a gift of infinite loving. Every agony he inflicted would be his gift and his testament of love to her. She knew she would be made to suffer beyond her ability to endure, because he cared. She knew that he would understand every scream and every whimper to be not a wish for the pain to end, but a sound her body demanded she make; she knew she need not be silent for fear of making his ministrations cease. It was a promise written on her soul, ``No matter what you do, I will not stop, you cannot make me stop. I will make you *hurt*.'' He watched on the screen as the machine wrote in her mind what she shall be for the rest of her life. There was a gauge that showed her resistance to the imprinting: in truth, there was no resistance. Her mind welcomed these thoughts, beliefs and tenets with complete acceptance. He watched as the machine remade her mind, with a delight and awe he rarely felt. She wanted to be his as much as he desired to own her. It seemed to him to be a miracle, and he felt a desire to thank some nameless deity that such a creature could exist, that a creature existing could be so perfect for him, could be his true mate. He did not have to reprogram her. She had fallen in love as he took her in the chains. She would have obeyed as best any natural creature could physically obey. But then again, he did need to reprogram her. They both needed it. He needed to know her faith and love were absolute; that is what his heart needed. And it was also his gift to her. The programming went well beyond her consciousness, circumventing her own thoughts. Things she would have been physically incapable of doing at his order, such as ``Go to sleep'', her new programming would obey; he was programming the controls to her body, not just her mind. If he did not do this, she would fail, and it would wrack at her, and grieve her; now she would not have to endure failure at what she wished to be able to do. He scratched her scalp idly as the machine whirred away. Then it was done. He shut down the master program, and unplugged the headset. She lifted her head from his leg, and looked up in his eyes. He released her head from the mechanism, and set it on the desk. Her eyes were choked with emotion, but were dry. With a soft rustle of a voice she said, ``Thank you, Master. Thank you for making me this.'' He lifted her up and kissed her then, and she responded with all the ardor in her overwhelmed heart. He took the chain from the desk, and lead her forth again. This time, the came to a room that looked of japanese style; two walls were of rice-paper panes in wood. Racks lined the other austere, white, walls, bearing all manner of instruments. A pallet lay on the hardwood floor by one wall. A low table held a lantern, a sprig of flowers, a white cloth, and a pitcher with a glass. He unlocked her hand from behind her back, and helped her strip off her clothing. Folded these were put on the table, with his robe. He locked her hands to a sturdy chain from the ceiling. He took the white cloth; with one hand gripped her hair and pulled back her head, and with the other he forced the cloth into her mouth. There was much of it, and it would not all fit in her mouth. He pulled it out, and twisted one corner, and forced it back into her mouth. ``Swallow,'' he commanded, and she let the cloth into her throat. This time he was able to press all of the fabric into her. She gagged fiercely against the mass filling her throat, but so tightly was the cloth packed she could not even vomit, neither could she move her jaw at all. He took a roll of tape and a squeeze tube from the wall; he smeared the substance in the tube on her lips, then sealed over her mouth with the tape. The distress of gagging against the cloth surged adrenaline through her, and her breath came ragged and panicked through her nostrils. She managed to control this quickly and her body stopped spasming as violently. He took a heavy stick from the wall; it was black and had a grip at one end: a billyclub. He met her gaze once. His face was filled with a zen-like calm. She matched this within herself. Then he broke gaze with her, and raised the club. With a snap of his wrist and flex of his shoulder, the club hit her with a meaty ///thunk///. He was older, but he was not weak. That blow summoned more force than she had ever seen used against a living person; nothing was held back. Wasting no time, he recoiled, and clubbed her again. Her breath was forced from her lungs. He proceeded to beat her. Each blow was a study in technique, a perfect culmination of study and skill in force and aim. Tears tracked down her cheeks, and she grunted and moaned and shrilled and gurgled in pain around the gag but all of these sounds were muffled almost beyond his hearing. He walked about her as he beat her, being careful not to do any severe trauma to delicate areas, such as her kidneys. Blows fell across her belly, across her shoulders, her thighs, her breasts, her ribs, her calves. After a while, he ceased, and poured a drink of water for himself from the pitcher; he sipped at the water for a time. Then he began again. She passed beyond tears, grunting faintly only because some blows pushed the air past her vocal cords. All of her awareness compacted to the immediate room. Her mind filled with the perfection of the connection between swinging hardwood rod and her flesh. Each swing was a need, and that need was fulfilled by her soft body accepting and intercepting the motion, stilling it and absorbing it. Each volume of her body was a need, and the force of each impact dispersing deep throughout her muscle was a fulfillment. She did not realize when he stopped, for her body hurt so. But it was the jingling of the keys and he reached up and unlocked her that alerted her to the end of the ordeal. The manacles fell from the chain and she collapsed into his arms. He bore her down to the pallet, and cradled her in his arms. He smiled at her. ``See,'' he said stroking her throat, ``You no longer gag.'' She nodded faintly, her head resting against his chest. He ran his hands over her bruising body. Her breath wheezed in and out of her constricted air passage, but it no longer distressed her. He pulled the tape from her mouth. Then he pulled the damp wadded cloth from her mouth. She gagged a bit as he drew the last of it from her upper esophagus. He massaged her neck around the collar, then sat her up. He ran a short chain though the loop about her waist, and fastened each end to a wrist manacle. He stood and donned his white robe; holding her leash, and said, ``Come with me.'' He stopped in the hall to open a closet and get a pink shift for her to wear. It was light and pleasant against her skin. Then he lead her to the kitchen. It seemed strange to be in this place again while in chains, but strangenesses were no longer her concern. He rummaged in the refrigerator, and put a handful of vegetables on the counter. He leashed her to the counter. He got a knife, a parer and a cutting board. ``Wash, skin and chop these,'' he instructed. She went to her task with a will. Her motions were clean and efficient, and she was capable with the knife; but she found the limits on the motion of her hands to make her work challenging. She did not let it deter her. He prepared meat and when they were done, he began cooking it, and she set the kitchen table. Together they worked. When it was done, they brought the food to the table -- her chain reaching that far where it was fastened, and sat to eat. She found his cooking very pleasing, and ate with a relish and a gratitude she could not remember ever experiencing before. When she had cleared her plate, she realized that her Master was still eating. Her mind reeled for a moment: had she erred? He laughed softly at her like one laughs at the timidity of a child. He picked a slice of carrot from his plate and held it forth to her. She took it delicately in her teeth, and chewed it slowly and thoroughly; it hurt her abuse throat a little as she swallowed. She licked his fingers clean. He laughed merrily, and slapped his thigh in summons. She fell to her knees at his side, and as he ate he would occasionally feed her from his hand. When he was done, he had her lick the dishes clean; she closed her eyes and hummed with pleasure as she did. They finished cleaning in a more ordinary manner, with a dishwasher, and put everything away. He brought her back into the further reaches of the house, and they came to his bedroom. He stripped her of all but her manacles and collar. He laid her down in his bed and locked her leash to the headboard. He laid down beside her, and pulled the covers over them. He took her in his arms, pulling her back to his chest, and curling his knees against the backs of hers. ``Did you like that?'' ``Yes, Master.'' ``Would you like to do that every day?'' She thought about the question for a moment. ``I would like to feel like that every day, but I would be afraid I would become acclimated to it, Master, if it were always the same.'' ``I have many, many ordeals to put you through, dearest. Go to sleep now, and tomorrow there will be new acts to endure.'' He kissed her behind her ear, and with his face buried in her tresses, she fell into a peaceful slumber. --