Authors: Anneke Jacob
As She's Told (33 page)
"Not a vegetable night, I think," he murmured. "I'll just see where the mood takes me." A finger ran down the line of my wet inner flesh, and I twitched involuntarily, feeling the pull of the labia rings as I did so.
A soft flutter on one inner thigh, and then a sting. A flogger; I knew it well. Six blows there, six more on the other side, making thigh muscles flinch, making labia rings pull and pull again. Six more on that soft and delicate skin, closer and closer to my crotch, back and forth. I was panting now, my arms pulling at their cuffs. The corset caught and prevented every deep breath; ribs rebounded back to their small compass. The flogger stopped, and I felt something go round my thighs just above each knee. At the next blow I knew they were connected to the nipple clamps. I had learned to keep still, and for the next few blows I did just that. But he wasn't going to let me get away with that. My ankles were released and then linked 204
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together.
"Spread your legs, girl." Gingerly I relaxed my thighs, until I felt the nipple clamps' painful pull.
"More." I moaned, and let them fall another inch or two. I could feel my nipples stretch; they were aching fiercely.
"Hold that."
"Yes, master."
The flogger fell again, harder now. The inside of my thighs were throbbing with pain and heat, and were trembling with the effort of holding the position. Each blow seemed to force them down; I couldn't pull them up without disobeying. Tears began dampening the blindfold. I could feel the arousal spreading, blow after blow painting my skin with it.
Then the whipping stopped, and I felt the tails brushing my exposed cunt flesh. Threatening up and down, back and forth.
"No. Please, master," I whimpered, very scared now. "Please…."
The leather brushed my clit, dragged along soaked flesh. Inner thighs sent flaming licks; my back tried to arch toward the frightening sensation. A little flick sent me retreating again. Then a warm tongue against the same taut nerves. A moment later, another, more painful flick. I writhed and took the consequences in burning nipples, pulled labia. Tongue again. Whip again. Tongue again. I was beside myself. The yanks and pulls, yes, they were incendiary now, oh yes, friction sparking…. Past and future nonexistent, hard-learned lessons forgotten, only the moment, this moment.
Now. Now, his tongue, staying in place, sweet; so, so sweet; there were hands hard on my thighs, thumbs chafing sore flesh. My breath caught, my back arched and I began to howl. And then he stopped.
Through all my tears and cries and begging his hands were there, gently stroking my thighs – the outer, unmarked regions. When at last I quieted down, I heard the laughter in his voice.
"Just relax, sweetheart." He removed the nipple clamps, and loosened the labia rings. "I'll be back later, and we'll do it again."
***
Something that had been for him a serious hobby now seemed to be transformed into a skilled and dedicated vocation.
Right to the edge, a hairsbreadth from the precipice. Tying me into 205
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fanciful positions, using elaborate hardware, or very little but his own body and canny, sadistic will. Like the times he chained me to the bed and made love to me, carefully, carefully, his timing and technique improving daily, until the margin between his orgasm and mine became that of a scalpel's edge, finely honed.
He didn't trust me an inch, not a millimetre. The decision was never left to me. If straps didn't tie me down, his body did. And if I wasn't absolutely helpless he watched me like a hawk. He'd wait a little, till I was no longer hovering, and then he'd hang me out over the edge again. Each subsequent session brought me quicker to the verge. I'd shake, and strain, and whine if he let me, and beg if I wasn't gagged. I couldn't know; he might relent, and anyway the words just seemed to tumble out of me, like a cascade of stuffed toys bouncing ludicrously down a rocky hill, amusing and futile. When it was time to take him into my mouth, whimpers and moans bubbled up around his cock. My lips and tongue felt soft and engorged; my throat opened eagerly, as if I could take him all the way down, all the way down, and at last be satisfied.
"Please?" I whispered on one occasion, as he slumped back on the couch, his thigh muscles relaxed beneath my cheek, his maddening body radiating fulfilment. "Please, master, please?" One lazy hand toyed with a lock of my hair. I kissed his wrist and thigh with trembling lips, my hands writhing behind my back. "Please?" I murmured, a little louder.
"No."
My neglected cunt throbbed harder, like a swollen heartbeat. "Please, why…why not?" I wailed suddenly, then stopped my mouth against his thigh, frightened.
But he laughed, deep in his chest, and didn't smack me for my impudence. "We've been over that, little girl. Because I enjoy you more this way. Deprivation improves you – taste, texture, smell. A much juicier product."
A sound spilled from me.
"Enhanced audio, also."
I bit my lip and silenced myself. The sulkiest attempt at revenge. The lazy smile on his lips just got wider. And then he was running a finger around the rim of my ear and singing blues again. Damn it! The infuriating man sang blues when he was happy. And what made him happiest was 206
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turning my body to an agonized, needy jelly, and my life into something harder than the hardest luck song.
And the song was, of course, 'Beggin' Woman.' One of his favourites.
He leaned down and kissed my eyes and the bridge of my nose, still smiling.
A typical evening would wind down with me crouched at his feet on knees and chest, hands fastened behind me, my whole urgent body throbbing, supporting the weight of his long legs, those comfortable limbs pressing heavy and relaxed against my ass. Somehow without moving, my body was straining forward, trying to find the spot or place in my world that would bring me to climax, seeking contact, my eager flesh encountering nothing but teasing air currents. When he'd finished his chapter or watched the news, when he'd judged that I'd cooled down enough to be touched, he'd fit the shield back over my simmering cunt, lock me up again, kiss away the fresh flow of tears, and put me to bed.
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Out of bounds
The streetcar swayed around me, chunking over switch points, making its electric hum as it braked and stopped and started again. My eyelids drooped. I felt the car's vibrations through the shield between my legs. The sound and rhythm of the car were mesmerizing.
Three times the night before I'd been taken all round an orgasm, circling that illicit miracle, disturbing its delicate fronds with my breath, almost allowed that moment that would swallow me whole into its depths. Almost, but never quite.
He had me. My god, he really had me.
You would think that it would be orgasms, that summit of purest pleasure, that would tie me to him. A conditioned response bringing me always back for more.
But after fulfilment one can move on. Make weekend plans. Read the paper. Go out for sushi. Or at least get on with one's slavegirl day. Not me. I stood, trapped at that barred threshold, unable to see any other path, much less take it. In the absolute grip of the gatekeeper. Why weren't we moving?
I opened my eyes again, and examined a long row of shops, all Chinese signs, vertical, horizontal. A moment of confusion. and then I was on my feet in panic. How the hell had I ended up on Dundas? And deep into Chinatown, going west instead of east? Oh my god oh my god…. The car was a human traffic jam, through which I struggled. The streetcar must have short turned and I didn't even notice! Jesus Christ I'm going to be late!
"Please, can I have a transfer?" I panted to the driver. "I should be on the College car." Praying this wasn't one of the hardasses who refused because you were supposed to get a transfer when you paid your fare.
The driver sighed wearily to his windshield. "Made an announcement back there." He handed me a slip with the gesture of a man who's just been robbed of his last faint hope for humanity.
The car jerked its way through traffic, start and stop as if to spite me, several minutes just to make it the one block to Spadina. All my anxious body language was insufficient to get him to let me out between stops. I raced north toward College, back almost to where I'd started, ignoring the 208
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tight harness and the metal between my thighs, dodging around delivery trucks and vegetable stands and agonizingly slow elderly shoppers. My feet teetered on the edge of curbs, waiting for lights to change. I was thinking all the while that if they wouldn't take my transfer I'd be in even worse trouble; I had no more tokens, no money, nothing. My god, walking would take an hour, maybe more….
The driver on the College car took my transfer without comment. But the car stuck fast, over and over, at crosswalks and behind cars turning left.
God damn them! Move! Oh god, I'm incredibly late! At my stop at last, I ran all the way home, knowing it was no use. It was one minute to two by my watch, fourteen minutes beyond the latest time I should have been through the door.
I scrambled through my chores feeling stupid enough to be used for bait, and wishing I could just curl up in a corner and hide my head until my master came home to beat the hell out of me. It wasn't until I had finished my work and locked myself to the banister that the true extent of my idiocy hit me.
I hadn't called him. I'd been out of my route and late. And I hadn't called. Not only did I not call when I got off route, I didn't even call when I got home. The phone was off-limits without permission, but that would surely have been a lesser sin. God almighty. How could I fuck up this many ways in one day?
***
She hadn't called, either. He checked his phone messages to be on the safe side, but no. Nothing. What the hell had she been up to?
"Oh, little girl," he murmured to the image on the screen, "you are in deep shit."
***
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
wrists chained to ankles, once again trying to droop forward to hide her head. "Look at me!" She reared back. Anders kept his eyes on her wretched face as she told the story again. "How the hell did you manage not to notice when the streetcar turned?"
"I don't know!" she wailed. "I think I have to try so hard to focus at work – I'm so – aroused that I – when I'm on the streetcar I – relax."
"You go into some kind of space-cadet trance, evidently."
Maia looked up at his unsympathetic face, and swallowed down rising sobs.
Once again he interrogated her over where she had got to, how long it had taken her to run back, what she had seen on the way. It all had the ring of truth, but the phone call, or lack of one, was hard to swallow.
"How could you possibly forget to call? The cell phone is in your bag.
You've got me on speed dial." She cringed and winced at the end of every sentence, as if his voice was a slow lash. He considered her tear-swollen face. "When there was that construction delay last month you called me from the streetcar. It's not as if you don't know what's expected of you.”
“It – master – it wasn't – that time it wasn't my fault. This time it was. I was – I don't know, frantic. All I could think of was getting home as fast as I could and getting my chores done. I didn't think of calling till it was too –
too late – ." Sobs choked her.
"Well, that was pretty damned stupid, wasn't it? Who would have thought a smart girl like you could be quite so dumb?" He took her by the hair and forced her to look at him. "Did think you might get away with it?"
His hard voice cut like a knife. "That I might not notice?"
Her eyes widened and spilled over again. "No! No, master, no!" She wriggled desperately in his grip. "I swear!”
“Would you have told me if I hadn't known?"
"Yes! I couldn't – not have told you." She took a huge breath. "I need to be punished, master. Please! Please punish me!" He released her head and instantly her face was on the floor between his feet and she was grovelling, belly to the floor, knees spread wide.
He looked down at the harnessed little body, which seemed to be trying to wriggle right into the floor. This was no unwilling ritual to appease him.
He couldn't mistake the need in her voice. And he'd seen it on the tape; she'd been radiating frantic guilt all afternoon.
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Of course she had. Outside the boundaries he'd laid down, both of time and space. Stupid, careless inattention. Her own internal world taking precedence over the most basic obedience. Carefully he examined his internal thermostat. Irritation, not anger. Well-controlled. Safe to punish her.
He hauled his slave off to the corner and chained her nose ring to the floor, then went to start dinner. As it cooked he made some arrangements.
This was an opportunity to use equipment he'd been saving, that had felt too punitive for everyday use. He felt his groin tighten in anticipation. A bright side to everything.
Maia lay belly down, head in the corner, legs flexed back to meet wrists.
Anders took his time eating. Then he made some saltless porridge, loosened her chain a link or two from the wall, and shoved a flat little tray under her nose. "Lick it up, slave."
She did the best she could, neck straining upward, tongue reaching; she cried and tried not to jerk when the whip slashed her thighs.