Authors: Anneke Jacob
She tucked her head into his neck. "Only to surprise you. Only to make you happy. I wouldn't keep secrets otherwise, honestly, master."
He squeezed her again, set her down, and took up the slab, expertly estimating the job. Was that old paint in the pores? It would need a good cleaning and maybe stripping. And the finish would need to match the rest of the piece…. "Come downstairs. I have to try it on the other part." There was no question that it fit; all the carving matched. They spent some time enjoying the complete object. "Just think," he said, "I'll be able to use you as a footstool in front of a cosy fire."
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"Mmm. Hey, I might have been able to use that lump of coal after all."
He groaned. "Naughty, naughty," he said, and tugged her back up the stairs. "So much for your angelic status. Santa has ways of dealing with naughty creatures like you. Open that red one."
It was an expensively stitched leather whip which fit nicely into Anders'
hand, and made pretty marks. Maia gulped and thanked him, and then at his direction reached into one of the baskets of chocolate hanging from the tree, extracting a small box wrapped in gold foil. Inside she found a pair of silver filigree nipple stretchers. He unlocked her nipple rings, squeezing an inch or so from the tip of each breast into the narrow cones, and then locking the rings through holes at the tips. She was immediately panting and ready to climb him, as if she hadn't been sucked and fucked all the way to oblivion just the day before.
"Down! Uh-uh. No more Valhalla heights for you, my little thrall.
Down you go. Next!" Next was a full leather hood; he set this aside for the moment. Then he had her open one of the big boxes. She stared at the metal contraption within, without any sign of comprehension. So he put the thing together in order to demonstrate.
"Just another way of making sure my cunning property stays where it's put. In whatever position I put it in. A bit like a mannequin, really. Or maybe animal models. Taxidermy. But with a live hunhund."
As he fitted joints together, he caught her eye and a corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, yeah. New toys again."
She looked down, smiling, but she was breathing very fast.
"Well, what else is Christmas for, if I can't play with construction toys?
Gives a new meaning to the term 'Erector Set.' Which I always found suggestive, frankly."
He had her stand on the heavy base, and locked her waist, chest, legs and arms to the metal posts that rose from it, using the rigid metal straps and cuffs attached. "No end to the positions I can put you in. Hours of fun. Now let's see, shall I leave you in the stretchers?" He decided to remove them, and squeezed a trembling breast.
"All this hardware manipulates and reprograms your software, little one.
This kind," he squeezed again, and then tapped her head, "and the neural pathways, too. Don't think of underestimating it." Nipple clamps, rigidly set, made her newly stretched breasts part of the sculpture he was forming.
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She whimpered a little. "No, master. I wouldn't. Believe me." A shadow of mischief crossed her face. "And how about wetware?”
“Oh, I'll bet. But we're getting too cute for the room. Hush up now."
He fitted the hood and its blindfold over her head. One of his armature's extensions rose up to her face and ended in a gag, which he fastened deep into her mouth. She was half bent; he loosened a couple of joints and lowered the chest and gag rods to take her down to a right angle. Unfastened her legs to spread them, then tightened the joints again. Adjusted the angle of her neck so that her blank face was visible. Her arms were bent out to the sides, as if she was about to take wing. "There. A work of art." Anders walked around her, examining her from all angles. "What a good position for a beating." He hadn't fitted the earpieces into the hood; she could hear him, and she groaned.
The expensive whip was well worth it, he decided; it traced and caressed her ass with more finesse than anything else he had used on her.
When his slave was moderately marked he tried a few more positions, finally leaving her on display, on her knees with her back a little arched, her tits still stretched, while he got himself a proper breakfast. She could survive on buns, but he needed more.
As he ate his mind dwelt with delight on the mantelpiece. Why had it never occurred to him to ask her to find it? He'd asked her to find information a couple of times, on environmental standards and new materials; that kind of research had seemed more in her line. But clearly he had been underestimating her potential. Astonishing that she could manage all that from her desk. Yet he knew positively that she hadn't gone out herself in search of it. And what was her recompense for all her determined, loving effort? Anders glanced at the immobile figure. There was an irony there to enjoy, and enjoy it he did.
"Want to open more presents?" The fixed object made an indeterminate noise of agreement, and he extracted her from the hood and the armature, played with her sore and swollen tits, and watched her squirm.
"I think you're hoping to come again. Aren't you, hunhund."
The big eyes searched his face, some spark of hope indeed lurking. "N-no, master –" There was just the slightest upward lilt to the last word, a hint of an inquiry to which he didn't bother to respond; he just fastened her hands back, unlocked her belt and listened to tiny, irrepressible, eager whining 309
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noises. Then he slotted the two plugs into the belt and locked her up again.
The eager whining downshifted to groans and broken sighs.
Anders opened the next package for her: a miniature sleigh he'd put together; just a low, red-painted wooden box on flat, padded runners, with a couple of shafts. He harnessed her, with sleigh bells and nipple bells and nose bell and all, got her down on her hands and knees, and fastened her to the shafts at the waist. Her heaviest bridle went on, with reins. Not much could be done indoors, but he cleared a path and picked out a long whip, then sat in the box and made her crawl, saying, "On, Vixen!" She had to struggle to drag his weight, with a squeal and a wriggle when the whip urged her on; this was entrancing, but didn't cover a lot of ground. He stood in the sleigh for a bit, with a better view, but this was precarious. It became a bit like the Iditarod, with one foot on the ground for balance.
Next he tried piling weights in the sleigh and walking beside the thing, oxcart fashion, with the reins in his hand and a much better angle to ply his long whip. Maia crawled for a while, and then he arranged her upright with her hands tied back, and continued his experiments, adding more and more weight. The small restricted shoulders struggled, the little body strained and trembled and strained again, and her cringing thighs and buttocks clenched and juddered. When his cock was ready to burst Anders drew her hard by the reins over to the couch, the sleigh still fastened behind, and then down to her knees. Her mouth with bit removed was hot and urgent. He didn't even try to hold himself back. It took him a while to recover, and when he did, he was still holding the motionless head to him by the bridle.
Slowly he relaxed his fingers and sat her back on her heels, removed the bridle, released her wrists and the shafts from her waist, and gently wiped the saliva from around her mouth. The body he was handling was pliancy itself, moving as he moved it and no further, but Anders knew her frantic inner vibrations. He settled her between his knees and stroked her hair.
"Let's see. Housebroken. Broken to harness. And now broken to cart work,"
he mused. "It can be trained."
She hid her deep flush against his thigh and he felt her breasts and belly press themselves forward against his leg, slowly, inexorably, as if pulled by a rope. Indulgently he let her rub herself against him: breasts, belly, side to side, up and down. The eyes unfocused; those tiny catches of breath slipping past a closed throat. Was that a slight urging of the metal curve over her 310
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pubic bone against his calf? He leaned down and caressed a welted buttock, and she whimpered and urged herself harder.
"Ah," Anders murmured, licking her neck and shoulder. "Needy pudding. So sweet." Slowly he stilled her helpless squirming, pried her back from his leg and began to stroke her breasts. This didn't reduce the arousal, naturally, but it did tend to soothe her. Her panting breath slowed; a few deep sighs shed tension on the exhale. At last he kissed the tousled head that leaned in the crook of his arm. She was shamefaced, but focusing and responding now. Good.
It was past time for lunch, but a few more presents remained for her to open. Up against the remaining large box were packages containing a red metal dog dish (plastic being out now, as Anders explained, and stainless steel in) and a pair of thumbless mitts. She laid these out on the coffee table.
"All right, girl. Last one."
He watched his slave crawl slowly to the big rectangular object, her face almost hidden by hanging hair. The thing was perhaps four feet long, under three feet high and three wide. Her hands hesitated and fumbled with the heavy paper and the light cardboard beneath. Unlike the object she had packed, this one was the shape of its container. At the first sight of bars she stopped dead.
There was silence; not a breath. The strips of paper in her hand didn't even rustle. Several long seconds ticked by, with his slave quite motionless, as if she had crawled into a painting and been suspended there in oils.
"Keep going."
Slowly the hands came back to life. Maia uncovered the metal bars, the heavy wooden frame. Then she knelt back on the cardboard and stared into the cage.
Finally she looked up at him. Little coloured tree lights reflected in her eyes' moist glaze, tiny stars orbiting in their twin galaxies.
"It's somewhere to keep you, my needy pudding," he said. "Somewhere to keep you very, very safe."
***
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
dishes.
Although I had no clear sense at that stage of the implications of my fantasies, by instinct I kept them secret. There was nothing in that crate but a few scraps that could easily be mistaken for our usual random toy-strewn flotsam. Some curved blocks and the rubber bands that, round them, made them into shackles; that chain off an old lamp; a piece of ribbon. One plastic dish and cup left over from the crate's previous incarnation. Over the open end of the crate I hung my ragged baby blanket, striped in faded pinks and blues, so thin and soft and worn as to be completely translucent, with little rents and holes that let some dim light into my cell from the basement's high window. For hours I could be a prisoner, unable to emerge unless rescued.
Which I never was. When my mother called me for dinner, or when a visit to the bathroom became inevitable, I would slip my bonds while, so to speak, looking the other way, and on my return it was as if I had never left.
But as the years went on, my fantasy life became unable to sustain itself in the face of hard reality. Or maybe normal cognitive development took me out of the stage in which children's games can be all-consuming. I remember we went on a vacation one summer, a long drive through the American southwest. And when I came back, impatient to be alone for a change, my first priority was to sneak down and visit my crate. The familiar enclosure took me in, forcing me to duck a little more below the low planks above my head. But the thrill was gone. The items inside, so passionately imbued with meaning, were suddenly flimsy and babyish and disappointing. Real prisoners couldn't get out when their mother called them. Real prisoners were in cells that locked from the outside.
This might have been the end of the prison game. But my secret obsessions, far from being dissipated, suddenly acquired a more focused and concentrated flavour, and it dawned on me that these feelings of mine went way beyond games. Did these insistent fantasies mean I wanted real imprisonment, real helplessness? I felt the familiar contraction in my belly, and then the fear.
We'd been learning about the Civil War and slavery in school, and I knew that slavery was evil and brutal and wrong. Not only had I learned it, I believed it. My parents knew Central American refugees, torture victims, people damaged and destroyed for life. How could I imagine wanting to be such a victim? How could I even play silly games about it? Was I insane?
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Was I sick?
I didn't know, but fantasy had to be okay; it was all I had. In fantasy I could be powerless and still not come to harm. And no one needed to know what went on in my head. We moved again a year later, and my crate was used for packing china. The first garbage day at our new house I saw it thrown, empty, into the maw of the truck and slowly crunched. The horror-movie thrill and the sudden, unexpected wrench of loss kept my eyes on the crate until it was digested and gone.
And now in some weird sense it had resurrected itself, perfected itself, become redeemed from the ignominy of being nothing but a plaything. Same proportions. Same size in relation to my grown-up body. Smoother and harder, finished and full of light and air. The realization by an architect of a child's crude crayon sketch.
My master lifted the cage off the cardboard and arranged it by the wall, out of the way. Then with one long finger he directed me inside. The act of crawling in felt both new and utterly familiar. I turned to watch his hand close the door, and heard a heavy, solid clunk. The door I had crawled through was locked behind me. My heart pounded. No slipping out. I watched his long back bend and straighten as he folded cardboard and paper.