Owned And Owner (16 page)

Garid watched his pet carefully over the next weeks and months. At times he could still sense manipulation, resistance: the subtle drive of muscles under
her own
command, the guerrilla flash of eyes half hidden behind their lids. Her voice would carry a barely perceptible undertone, an urge to accomplish her own secret will and not his own. Gradually, though, this slipped away. More and more often her trembling flesh fit perfectly in his hands, malleable and yielding.

Mostly he would just accept her acceptance, let her surrender and suffer. Once in a while he would surprise her.

It was hard enough just getting used to moving in the belt, especially when they exercised me. They had always forced me into some form of physical activity, anything from fancy treadmills and exercise machines to locking me to a long bar on a post and whipping me around in circles. Well, actually, they whipped me on the machines, too. I had been sedentary for a long time in prison and on the ship, and at first it was pretty easy to exhaust me. They always seemed to push me further, get a little more out of me than I thought I could possibly endure. The whip was a fair motivator, of course. And sometimes they would reward me with pats, even the occasional nice rubdown.

I noticed that they were careful to put my joints through the full range of motion every day and to make me stretch. They came up with some fairly ingenious racks and pulleys for the purpose. The difference from longer-term bondage was that I was only kept in the positions long enough to stretch the muscles, and not long enough to cramp and tense. They’d hang me from my hands on tiptoe, pull my arms up high behind my back, pull my legs wide apart, force me to stretch my hamstrings, and all slowly and inexorably, without undue force. Then would
come
the real exercise.

I can’t describe the sensation, my body locked and forced and punished into activity. Fastened by the wrists and neck into the treadmill, my mouth stuffed with an air hole gag, I struggled with my restraints and my weak muscles, each sting of the whip producing a little shot of adrenaline. The frustration and strain in my thighs conveyed a tension to my cunt, often teased with a small dildo and tightly pressed by the metal belt. The dildo in my rear was almost always there also, making me feel dirty and bad and hot and invaded. Inevitably the friction and stress made me achingly aroused. There was a frantic quality to each session, a rising and overwhelming helplessness as I struggled until I was exhausted, worked up and sweating and desperate, and then struggled some more. The whip would become more and more insistent, driving me on, the whole region from my waist to my knees feeling congested, heavy and hurt, suffering with strain and need. I was beyond thought; I was part of the machine, a cog built into it, forced to motivate the mechanism, my lack of choice not relieving me of one frantic instant of exertion.

There were more playful times, too. Sometimes they just chained my collar to a long cable on posts that ran the length of the yard, and encouraged me to trot back and forth. Given the distance I was able to tease a bit, stop out of their reach, and then dance away again. I only did this when it was
Pav
or
Arleben
, of course; I tried it once with my master, and the consequences weren’t worth it. But the others, especially
Pav
, would indulge me a little in my naughtiness. In the end they always pursued me until I got a good run out of it. There was no escaping them when they really wanted to catch me, naturally, and if I was too bad,
Arleben
at least would punish me.

It’s odd, but
Arleben’s
punishments were more likely to make me ashamed of myself than were the much more severe ones from my master. I think it was because they were simply another chore for him.
Arleben
administered beatings disinterestedly and almost mechanically, and his cock didn’t press against his clothes while he did it. His slight frown conveyed that I was a bad and stupid animal who was wasting people’s valuable time with her misbehavior. After such punishments, if I could, I would whine and push my head low against his leg, to try to show him that I was sorry. His disapproval sometimes took a while to abate, particularly when he was busy. He would always forgive me in the end, but he never got fond of me the way
Pav
did.

Disaster

I had been a slave for a long time, half a Raniz year, perhaps. I was feeling more secure and safe, even protected, certainly cared for. I missed my master when he went away, sometimes for days, missed him so much it made my belly ache, but he always came back. And when he did he used and punished me, let me pleasure him and allowed me to lie at his feet.

Pav
and
Arleben
took care of me, but my master seemed galaxies bigger. When he was in the room he took up all the space: his size, his hands, his eyes,
his
cock, all of him. And his will, especially his will, which had such a presence in that house that I could feel it pinning me down, even when he wasn’t there. I was unequivocally his belonging. Every touch or blow from his hands was an acknowledgement of my existence. His seed in my mouth felt like grace.

But then he wasn’t there for longer periods than usual. And when he was there, he didn’t want me. He was in meetings, or alone in his office. Strangers came through the house to see him, and he didn’t show me to them. He hardly glanced at me on my mat by the wall, when he strode through the kitchen looking for his staff. I didn’t even get to kiss his feet at night before they chained me up in my cupboard under the stairs, much less worship his cock. Although I continued to live in my chastity belt, there were no dildos, no nipple clips, no tortures or torments. I felt I was dying for a touch. I was adrift, no point to me. Only my chain anchored me, leashing me to the wall, day after day. That felt real.

At first
Pav
was sympathetic when he saw me despondent, and gave me extra pats and soothing words. But then he and
Arleben
got busy also. A lot of the activity was centered on the house, and they both began to have a lot to do.
Arleben
spent hours on the com screen and seemed to be dealing with massive lists.
Pav
cooked and fixed and rarely sat down. They barely had time to clean or exercise me, and I puddled on the floor more than once because
Pav
forgot to walk me. I began crying myself to sleep.

The activity reached a crescendo one beautiful day, when the sun shone warm instead of hot, and streamed through the windows with a cheerful look that didn’t reach me. By that time there were several important looking men staying in the house, being catered to by
Pav
,
Arleben
and some additional staff. Everyone looked dressed up. In the middle of the morning
Pav
, looking a little harried, hauled me out of my listless position on the mat and walked me in the garden, jerking my short leash to hurry me. As we returned to the house, one of the new staff put their head out the kitchen door and spoke in urgent tones.
Pav
handed my leash to him and ran for the oven, unmistakably cursing as he wrenched it open in a cloud of smoke. The new man pushed me over to my mat, hurriedly unclipped the leash, and hooked the wall chain onto my collar. He ran to help
Pav
, and others joined in.

It wasn’t until half an hour later, after all the excitement was over, that I felt my collar and noticed he had neglected to snap the lock shut.

My world turned over.

As if at a great distance I heard the constant arrivals and noise. A luncheon meeting got underway without further mishap, tray after tray of food traveling out of the kitchen. The clink of cutlery and the murmur of deep voices dominated the house, rising and falling, my master’s voice clearly discernable. I felt a pang knife through my fog every time I heard him. I felt abandoned. No matter how abject I was, there was meaning to my existence when he made use of me. I had given away every particle of autonomy, every atom of freedom, to belong to him. He had to replace that with his attention, to shape me with his hands and blows, or I was nothing.

And now I wasn’t even locked up properly. No one cared enough to make sure I was safe. I began crying again out of self-pity. No restraints but my collar, chastity belt, and the usual cuffs on my wrists and ankles, useless, not even attached to anything. If they had even bothered to put on my mitts, the unlocked chain would probably have held me.

I had freedom. I hadn’t had any in half a year. I could get up and move around on my own, if I was careful.
If I was sneaky about it.
Would I? Did I want to? What could I do? I began in a bitter way to get excited at the prospect.

A moment later a wave of panic swept over me and I cowered. I clenched my hands between my knees to keep them away from my collar. What was I thinking of? I’d be terribly punished.
Arleben
would be outraged, and even
Pav
would be horrified. My master would… my master would… what would he do? He would do
something
. He would have to.

That decided me there and then.
But…

But uncharacteristically, I hesitated. I knew it was wrong to take advantage of their mistake. They were busy; they forgot to check on me. I could tell there were a lot of important people in the house – to make a scene now would be awful – couldn’t I be responsible about this? I shut my eyes tight and clenched my fists.

Uh-uh. No. I couldn’t.

These restraints were not intended to teach me responsibility. They were meant – among other things – to control my impulses. And they weren’t doing their job. How dared they leave me free?

It was time for me to cause some trouble.

Everyone was out of the kitchen serving dessert when I slipped the chain off my collar, laid it down gently, and got to my feet. I sidled carefully out a side door into the back hall, away from all the fuss. I felt oddly clumsy and had to make a conscious effort to direct my limbs, so unused to doing anything on my own initiative. I didn’t know how long it would take before they would notice I was missing. It might be a very short time. Or it might be quite a while, if everyone assumed that someone else had taken me somewhere. I felt I had to work fast, in any case. The passage had a couple of doors on each side, which turned out to be uninviting – storage cupboards, which were nothing but dead ends. The open door at the end turned out to lead down to the basement, however, which was far more interesting.

First there was a workshop. There was plenty to spill in there; rivets, magnetic fasteners, vats of liquid
stoneform
. The tubes of fixative were good for decorating the walls. The ball bearings made a beautiful mess all over the floor. I considered the paint, but decided that the fumes would hit the ventilators and call attention to me too soon. I tiptoed as best I could around the ball bearings, picked a few out from between my toes, and slipped into the next room, which turned out to contain laundry equipment and piles of clothes. I was just considering whether I should go back for the liquid
stoneform
, or look for something new, when I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Diving behind a machine I huddled in a dark corner, biting my knuckles and trying not to whimper with fear. The monumental stupidity of what I was doing hit me, and it began to feel like I was in some kind of a nightmare. How could this be happening?

Maybe I could sneak back upstairs and lock the chain myself – a perfect alibi. Yes, that’s what I would do, if only no one found me…

Whoever it was went into the room opposite the laundry. I heard the clinking of bottles, and then the footsteps moving smartly back up the stairs. Without further thought I jumped out from my hiding place and ran into the room opposite.
A wine cellar.
Perfect. I grabbed two bottles that were off by themselves and took them across to the laundry room. Opening them took some nerve, as in the end all I could do was break the necks. I muffled the noise as best I could with laundry, and ended up wielding both sharp glass and red wine on the clothes.

Looking back from the laundry room door, I felt satisfied with my accomplishments so far.
Still no outcry from upstairs.
Of course, they would probably search for me quietly so as not to disturb the guests. I looked around for more opportunities for mischief. There was an area near the front of the basement with transformers and ceramic conduits. I didn’t recognize most of it, and I was afraid to touch it. But there was a screen with characters moving across it. I couldn’t read them, but I began tentatively to tap at the keyboard. Suddenly the display went black. I waited, breathless, for any reaction, an alarm, anything. Something in the house felt different, but I couldn’t identify what. Had the voices stopped?

There were a few switches near me, and suddenly reckless (in contrast to the wonderful judgment I’d shown so far), I pushed them all over. All hell broke loose. Alarms started beeping, voices were raised in consternation above my head,
footsteps
started moving rapidly. There was nowhere to hide where I was. I ran to a side passage I hadn’t explored, and found it led up some steps to a door into the garden. I struggled frantically with the stiff locks, made for someone much bigger and stronger than myself.

At last I pried the door open and slid through it, then sidled along the wall close to the house. It was very odd being outside without a leash, even odder than it had been in the house. I wanted to cry. I wanted my master. I wanted to run. I wanted to be punished. I wanted to throw myself at his feet and let them fasten me so tightly I couldn’t move. But I was still free, and part of me was still looking for trouble. I was just kneeling down and examining at the plants to see if there was anything I could pull up, when I heard voices right in front of me. A couple of men were strolling out into the garden. They were familiar – friends of my master. I had miscalculated; I was too near the meeting room, which had a door to the outside. In the moment before they saw me I sensed their enjoyment of the chance to take a break; evidently I hadn’t spoiled everyone’s day.