Owned And Owner
by
ANNEKE JACOB
Owned and Owner first published in 2003 by
Chimera Publishing Ltd
Waterlooville
Hants
PO8 9FS
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman, Reading.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Anneke Jacob
The right of Anneke Jacob to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
OWNED AND OWNER
Anneke Jacob
This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex
His giant penis was in front of me, so frightening still. I couldn’t believe that a few minutes ago it had been inside me. Surely I hadn’t… I didn’t have that much space inside… He pulled my head toward it, and said what I thought was ‘
lick
’ again. Tentatively I put out my tongue and ran it along the hard silken surface. He seemed to approve, so I washed it again and again, reaching as much of it as I could. Finally he pointed it at my mouth, and I began to suck on it. I tried to get the huge knob in further, but my teeth touched it. At once he yanked me back with a hand in my hair, and pulled me up over his lap. His hand crashed down on my ass. The pain of this on top of my welts was a terrible shock; I couldn’t get my breath. When I finally did, I wailed. He spanked me twice more, holding me hard by the waist while I kicked and struggled. Then he placed me back down in front of him. Again his penis was at my lips. I breathed hard, swallowed a sob or two and opened my mouth, very wide this time, trying hard. My ass felt like it was on fire
.
Prologue
I crawled across the floor and picked up the whip in my teeth, gently so as not to leave a mark. I was careful also not to get it wet; either of these mistakes would cost me. I crawled back to him, and he took the whip from my proffering mouth, replaced my bit, and arranged me on all fours in front of him.
Then he settled back to read, his feet heavy on my back. The tip of the whip rested lightly on my ass; it felt like a live thing vibrating, tickling me a little,
flicking
me whenever I breathed more deeply than usual through my bridle. Gradually his weight pushed me down, solidified me into a bundle of strain and endurance. He shifted occasionally, crossing one leg over the
other,
or putting one foot flat on the side of my ass.
I don’t know how long I managed to stay completely still; time isn’t something I’m ever in a position to track. But inevitably I failed; my elbows buckled. It was only a little, and I recovered immediately, but the whip’s reaction was instantaneous, and quite painful. I didn’t manage to contain the little whimper in the back of my throat, but I did manage to stay rigid and not flinch, not incur another stroke. That time, anyway.
After a while I was tired enough that it took several strokes before I could contain my reactions and stay still. My ass throbbed, and I put all my effort into being furniture. I tried to think like furniture: heavy, solid, without nerve-endings or an awareness of time. But after the fourth time I couldn’t help it, my head drooped, and tears dripped to the floor. He switched hands and flicked my breasts, and I raised my head again obediently. I would endure this. I was glad I wasn’t impervious. He was touching me; I could endure anything for that
.
The Third Option
I sat on my bed, waiting.
‘I am going to men to be owned, to be owned, to be owned…’ The words drummed softly but insistently through my head. My need for drama amused me. Still, I had to find some way to convince myself. There had been years of fantasies, some of them so intense they felt much more real than this. ‘This’ was a small locked room, hanging in space, waiting. Not much different from the cell I’d lived in for
months,
or for that matter from my room at home.
So although my rational side – such as it was – told me I was really on my way, there was some level on which I simply didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe that the world outside of me was finally going to match what had been going on so violently inside my head all those years. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to, which didn’t help. All I had was some official information, meant to put me off, and the pictures they had shown me briefly, six weeks before.
I could have cried when they took them away. If only I could have had them all to myself for a day or two! Instead I had to look at them with that dour, gray woman standing over me, muttering her disgust. I sat there trying to conceal my excitement, feeling almost paralyzed by the throbbing between my legs, pressing myself helplessly against the hard bench while trying to seem casual about my movements, my hands trembling as I turned over the pages. I suppose they were hoping I’d be appalled. As soon as I’d glanced at them without a word, the woman snatched them away, not looking at me as she marched out, locking the door behind her with a clang. She wasn’t stupid. I’d proved myself once again to be beyond the pale. My shame made me long for the punishments I’d seen in the pictures.
I sat on my bed trying to remember details in those pictures. What did the man look like who held the leash? The woman’s expression – I’d not had time to read it. The surroundings, were they familiar or strange? What was I in for? What had I done?
The judge had been gray, but not dour, a perceptive woman. I knew she had seen me as sullen throughout my trial. That was my defense, at least in the psychological sense. In the legal sense I didn’t have any. I’d had such an attitude toward any authority figure that all of them – mothers, aunts, teachers – had given up in despair. I raised sullenness to an art form. I raised a lot of blood pressure, too. There had to be no chinks to my inner life. It was so habitual that the effort to drop it was wrenching, when that ultimate moment came in the courtroom.
‘You have been determined to be incorrigibly irresponsible toward yourself and your community,’ the judge pronounced. ‘I cannot recall a worse case. You have made nothing but bad use of the privileges this society accords its members. At every opportunity you have demonstrated that you cannot be trusted with citizenship status. You know your three options: rehabilitation, exile or slavery on Henth. What is your decision?’
I hung suspended in a tight, strangling web of silence. After a life of concealment, three words were going to show everyone my dreadful colours. I had rehearsed my answer for months to prevent myself from chickening out at the last moment. I tried to say the words by rote, without letting
myself
think or give them meaning. But my answer had to be forced through my constricted throat, and was addressed in a hoarse whisper to the table in front of me.
‘Slavery on Henth.’
There was a sharp murmur behind me in the courtroom. No one had chosen the Third Option from my community in living memory. After a few moments the initial disbelief gave way to a roar of indignation. I clenched my sweating hands together, eyes fixed in front of me, my back to the crowd, trying not to cower. This was even worse than I had imagined. I was afraid they were going to lynch me.
‘
Etrin
Aboia
, let me be sure the court is not mistaken. State your choice again clearly and fully.’
I swallowed, and looked down at my hands. They were clenched together, but the thumbs made a small upward gesture, as if to tell me to get on with it. I took a deep breath, raised my head and made my hunched shoulders drop. A kind of desperate calm came over me. For once I was going to say the truth about myself and not be ashamed. I forced myself to look the judge right in the eye. The room went quiet.
I thought,
this is it.
Do it right,
Etrin
. I heard my voice ring low but clear across the court. ‘I,
Etrin
Aboia
, choose the Third Option, slavery on Henth, as punishment for my crimes of irresponsibility.’ The voice sounded like it knew what it was talking about, and I was grateful. I could see by her expression that the judge, at least, knew the truth.
Still, I had to wait the required twenty-nine days before my choice was considered final. Twenty-nine days of hell. At first I was elated at my emergence. I felt buoyant, without that leaden weight of constant concealment. I actually thought it might be possible to be who I was and say so. But my family was let in to plead with me, and their horrified reactions shut me down pretty fast. I went from glee to defiance, through to anger and resentment, then down into guilt. Soon I had to resume my sullen front, my only defense against their outpourings of grief and fear and anger, and my intense shame. By then I felt horribly naked and exposed, like a
calibspod
out of its shell, and I did my pathetic best to get my shell back on in a hurry.
Radiating disapproval, the authorities made sure I knew exactly what the Third Option meant. Although I heard some interesting details that I had not been able to pick up before, and I was more scared than ever, I didn’t change my mind. The warder brought the photographs,
then
took them away again. Doctors made me go through another battery of tests to assess my sanity, very short with me for fooling them the last time. Sorry, sorry, sorry. They kept commenting on my intelligence, as if that mattered.
My family would have tried round-the-clock brainwashing techniques if they’d been allowed. The ten hours they had each day were bad enough. They were losing me forever, and I should have been gratified that they found this so awful, in spite of everything I’d put them through. But at the time I attributed it to their embarrassment over my appalling choice. Then of course I could reject them for their conformity to public opinion – a gibe that led to such a fight that the warders had to intervene.
Secretly, I suppose I wanted someone to understand and acknowledge my choice, someone to accept me as I was. Laughable when you think about it. Pathetically
unrealistic,
and far more than I deserved. I was bound to be disappointed on this one, because I was way too defended to convey just how long I had felt this way (forever), and how much I needed to go to Henth (indescribable). They thought it was just one of my self-destructive whims. The finality of it terrified them. Understandable; it terrified me, too. I spent a lot of time with my arms crossed over my chest, glaring at the ceiling while they railed and pleaded. If even one of them had sat down and listened, I might have been able to tell them the truth. At last, driven to desperation, I grabbed one of my sisters by the shoulders, looked her in the eye and shouted, ‘I’m doing what I must; let me be!’
Too little, too late.
It didn’t help. No one really heard me. They didn’t leave me alone until the very last minute of the very last day.