Authors: Anneke Jacob
I really did do my best, tried to obey all her directions, attempted to do what I would like if it was me. Got my ear yanked and little patience when I messed up. But before too long I was sucking her wholesale into my mouth while I flicked her with my tongue, and she was jerking her hips hard. It wasn't all that awful. I wouldn't have minded, if only my master had been there and in charge.
At last Val relaxed and loosened her grip. "Huh," she sighed. "Not so bad. We'll get you trained up." She pulled the film away and gave me a sharp look. "Anders know you're not bi?"
"Yes, Val."
She crooked a smile. "Oh, well. You wanted to be a slave."
Upstairs Anders released my arms, and Svend made me upend myself 338
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so he could examine my red ass.
"How come I never get to spank her?" he complained.
"You never asked," said Anders. "Here, let me have a look." A stroke over scorched flesh, and a hard pinch. I cried out. "She can take more than that." A pathetic whimper escaped me. "Use that chair; it's better."
Svend's hand was nowhere near as calloused as either of the others, but it was big and enthusiastic. When my voice and limbs became frantic he paused, and Anders suggested shifting the target down my thighs. Soon I was frantic again, and Svend was obviously close to coming, because suddenly I was on the floor and he had his cock covered and down my throat. Knees and elbows, staring at the carpet. Ass and thighs swollen and hot. A familiar hand pulling on my leash. I crawled to my master, ready to bury myself in his arms. Instead he turned me round.
"Pretty enough as shades go," he said, thumbing me painfully, "but it needs a few stripes to liven it up." I looked back at him, incredulous. "Fetch the crop, slave," he said, his voice grim. "A little extra to sharpen up your response time." Hurriedly I crawled, trying not to whine as each leg's advance stretched scorched skin, trying not to see the extra eyes watching me. Anders took the crop from my mouth. "And the bridle with the ball gag.
I'm tired of listening to you." I caught back the clamour that was rising from my chest. Back I went, feeling little flicks along my forearms that were tears dripping, and brought the bridle, dangling from my mouth by the thick ball gag. Oh, this was it. How much more could he humiliate me in front of these people? I tried not to look at them from my shameful animal face.
Riding high across his lap, right arm cranked behind me. Crying even in anticipation. A blow seared across sore flesh, and made me shriek into the gag. Pain communicated, consumed. In the space of a single blow I became utterly an object: a receptacle for anguish. A thing held between thighs and arms as unyielding as oak, under that relentless hand. Trapped between my slave's nature and his ruthless will. Submission, agony without options, seemingly without end. Eons later I was sobbing between his knees, gag released from the bridle. Taking him into my mouth with the most abject, eager, yearning desire to please that had ever consumed me. His blows still existed, resounding and echoing through my flesh. Pain circled, communicating through me and back to him, distilled into the most concentrated, exquisite pleasure I could offer.
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His orgasm was quiet, but so intense it shook us both. He slumped and held my head, and time and the universe were outside; we were suspended in a galaxy of our own. Music played out there, guitar and harmonica, coming from some other time, some distant dimension. At last my master stirred, zipped, took me by the jaw, pushed the gag back in and engaged it in the bridle. Dismissal: a directing push. He picked up his fiddle. "Anyone know
'Sweet Mistreater?'" His bow was already scraping over the strings as he followed me, pushed the cage door closed with his foot, and went back to his friends.
***
"Oh, man, do I know the feeling!" she said. "I didn't sit or wear underwear for three days after that Valentine's party. Jesus, I thought Victor could use a paddle, but Lady Kate is something else."
"Mm."
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Come on; what?"
"Doesn't it matter to you – who it is?"
"Tell you the truth, honey, I'm a bit of a slut that way. As long as they listen up front and know what they're doing, I'm happy. The right voice helps, too. Why?"
"I just – I don't know – I'm not…" Sudden words leapt out of me. "I don't want her telling me what to do!" My hand flew up, too late to stop the words that had already escaped my barn door of a mouth.
Nikki lowered her fork and stared at me, and then said ironically, "Well, what do you know!"
My appetite was gone. Cutlery suddenly looked as if it was beyond me, as intimidating as a chain saw.
"I thought what you wanted wasn't supposed to matter," she said flatly.
"Its – it's not," I said, surprised and uneasy. I'd expected her to push support and submissive rights on me. Instead she looked pissed off. At what? Me? "It doesn't. But – "
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"But what? Are you going to walk out on him for this?"
The absurdity made me go blank for several seconds, trying to make this question compute. It was like trying to divide by zero. Then I laughed.
"That's not even … don't you see…? He owns me, Nikki. We're so entangled, that's – it's not conceivable. I might as well rip myself in two and lie there bleeding as even imagine it."
She snorted, gave me a pitying look. "Well then. It's not like you have a choice, is it? You'll have to take orders from her if he tells you to. It won't kill you."
"Mm."
Don't tell me what to do, Nikki.
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Maia was overwhelmed, Anders thought. Like a nervous dog made fearful by a crowd of visitors, too many feet going in all directions; afraid of being stepped on. But also like a well-disciplined animal that obeys its conditioning. Was the rapid breathing due to anxiety or the tight corset?
Though her hands shook, she served smoothly and well: taking jackets, bringing drinks, kneeling at attention when not required. He glanced at the small figure in her place by the wall, bars of afternoon sunlight turning her skin to honey. She was listening to the impenetrable flood of Danish, alert for an English command.
"So on Monday we'll start out for the festival in Halifax, and see if Ria wins a prize." Karl hugged Ria to him fondly, not that they'd had any space between them before. They were obviously still making up for past deprivation, and looking rather smug and pleased with themselves. "What do you think, three days driving? Four if we stop to look at scenery?”
“Please, darling, no side trips," said Ria. "We can do that on the way back. I must meet with Biruta and others before the festival." She turned to Anders and Svend. "They were crazy about Woman Fish. I think it might be picked up by Doctober, and Amsterdam is taking it for sure. Two of the captains I filmed are going to sail into Amsterdam for it; they are asking whether they should pretty themselves up or go in oilskins."
Ria had a new colour scheme since the last time Anders had seen her; hair blue-black, a dramatic look against white skin, and eyes a startling and artificial green. He saw his slave blink, startled, as a wineglass passed from her fingers to Ria's.
Karl, who looked just as gaunt as usual, but happier, nodded at Ria's glass. "Your own vintage?" He and Svend were sticking to beer.
Anders was amused. "From that little arbour? No. In fact they were table grapes, and sour at that. I threw a few into my stewed pork, but they were hardly worth the trouble. I probably pruned the vines too late." He looked at the bags by Ria's side. "Did you enjoy your downtown walk?"
"Some good shops," said Ria. "I'd been looking forward to Northbound; not bad." She held up a thin, slinky leather dress, waved a flogger. "But it's 342
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very dirty, your city."
"Yonge Street is rather grim," Karl agreed, frowning. "And so many begging. I was expecting it to be better than Chicago but it is not. I don't understand how it's permitted, to leave people on the street in this way, in such a wealthy country."
"Complacency,' Svend said. "No one sees what they don't want to see."
"People see plenty," his brother objected. "It's failure and lack of impetus at the government level. Poverty has to be dealt with systemically –
a national strategy – look at what Ireland did – ." This was an old argument.
Svend shook his head. "You can kiss any real national strategy goodbye.
Look how many benefit from the status quo – ."
"Why do you not have the votes to put the left wing into office? There is responsibility at all levels here, not just at the top," Karl said.
When they had gone round the bases, Anders caught Ria up on the local housing issues. The others, knowing the topic all too well, took themselves off into the kitchen for more beer.
"Practically no funding to build anything," he said. "There were some hopeful messages in November, but it's come to nothing. Sixty-seven thousand families on the waiting list for lowincome housing. The money's been legislated but it's never actually allocated.”
“You think it is hopeless, then?" said Ria.
"Possibly." Anders felt the usual grinding frustration in his chest, now reaching into his gut, transforming into something he could hardly stand to recognize: failure.
"Well, you must fight. All your groups must fight. Get together and keep up the pressure. Do you lead this kind of thing? You'd be good at it.
You speak so clearly, and that deep voice carries conviction."
He laughed. "Good at it? I can't stand it being around it. Coalitions, rallies, speeches? Committee meetings, ye gods! Give me something to build with my hands and I'll build it. All the political manoeuvring is beyond my patience."
"So, what then? You wait for others and get nowhere?" She looked at him with slender brows furrowed.
Russ, Beemer, Jo-Jo, still on the street. Wendy, Keswick, Ti-Jean.
Anders took a deep breath. "I do what I can for people, Ria."
"Individuals, you mean? A one-man charity concern?"
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His lips tightened. "No. There are community workers and so on.
Volunteers, others. If I help anyone it's not in isolation."
Svend called from the kitchen, "Ria, tell him he should be offering beds himself; he has plenty of room."
Anders' smile was pained; he shook his head.
His brother came in and sat down. "Good thing he's got a secret life to protect, or he'd be running a hostel here for sure."
Ria laughed. "I would understand that. It is very hard to pass those faces. I have supplied myself with – what are they called again?" She reached into her purse.
Karl, settling next to her with his beer, glanced and smiled. "Loonies and toonies, I believe."
"Yes, why on earth? Explain, please."
Svend pointed out the loon on the dollar coin. "It would have been much cooler to call the two dollar coin the doubloon, but toonie is what caught on."
Anders noticed the flicker on Maia's face; she had caught the familiar words in the sea of Danish. He sensed her, neglected in her corner, shifting imperceptibly from knee to knee, held a hand out to her and clicked his tongue. She crawled rapidly to his side and settled on her heels where he placed her, snug against his leg. The others eyed her with some expectation, but he just gripped the hair at the base of her neck and went back to the subject at hand.
"A dollar here and there – we're left with no choice, but what does it solve? But if you give one person enough help to get back on their feet; at least one life is improved."
"No, look, charity is only dragging out the agony," Karl objected. "The more the reliance on voluntary handouts, the less responsibility your government has to take."
Ria made a face. "You may be right, but these are human beings, and they are miserable; it is wrong to pass them by."
"You talked about public responsibility, Karl," said Anders. "That's the level it's at. There's a program now to get individuals back into the system and housed one by one, which has the kind of benefits I mentioned. Helping individuals is important. But they've only got existing housing stock to place people in, and for low income that stock is appalling. The underlying causes 344
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– you have to understand the careful manipulation behind the public attitudes that prevent any kind of focused effort to address poverty – Ria, do you need more wine?"
His slave was quickly up and serving. Ria, holding up her wineglass, wrapped the other hand around the breast of the leaning figure. The bottleneck rang very slightly on the rim of the glass, but nothing spilled.
Maia froze; only her hand moved, bringing the bottle upright.
The seated woman sipped, her fingertips stroking the flesh pressed high by the corset. "Pretty," she commented. She set her wine down, felt over the corset, turned the girl and looked over the locking arrangement at the back.
In English she said, "This slave must have naughty fingers, with so many locks needed."
The frozen quality persisted in Maia's face and neck. A long slender hand, with fingernails a green to match the eyes, was now lightly pinching a buttock. Anders could see thigh muscles outlined that were normally only visible when the girl was exercised. She gave him a haunted look, which was also an instinctive check for any sign from him, then turned obediently enough, and spread her legs for an examination of the belt.
"Fine quality," Ria commented. "Go stand there, girl." She pointed at a spot a few feet away. "She stands well, but why barefoot? Heels would be a great improvement, no?" she said to Karl, still in English.