Chapter 1: Lebewohl
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual, DomSub, MaleDom, Rough, .
Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1: Lebewohl - This is a BDSM story. If you don't grok that stuff, you won't like this story. It is not a happy-happy spanky story, or how wonderful sub-space is. *You have been warned* It is about abuse, deceit and what two people decide to do about it. --- Extra credit if you can figure out what the chapter titles refer to.
After spending yet another week at the office, he decided to take Friday afternoon off – perchance to enjoy the woman he lived with for several extra hours. He was a well-paid, if much too young, senior partner and he worked far too many hours; the 'senior' was probably because of family affiliations, but nevertheless ... He was very good at what he did and had designed two of the downtown's newest hotels, earning quite a bit of filthy lucre for the firm. The second had just had a ribbon cutting this morning. He was entitled to a little time off.
He arrived at his home in the suburbs of Dallas at 1:30. Some would say it was ostentatious, but those who would say that didn't live here. He did. It served his purposes: six bedrooms upstairs, four 'living areas' downstairs, a pool and tennis courts in back, and, he reminded himself, a padlocked playroom in the (rare to the Dallas area) basement.
"Karen?" he called.
There was no answer. Oh well, she was out obviously. She'd be home eventually. He went to the bedroom, where he tossed his charcoal grey suit on to the bed. She'd clean it up later. He put on a pair of butter-colored chamois pants and a dark brown golf shirt. In the kitchen he poured himself a large glass of Burgundy and went to the living room. Crossing his legs at the ankles, he stretched out on the couch, took a sip of wine, put it on the coffee table, and promptly nodded off.
He awakened sometime later as the front door rattled open. Karen was trying to be very quiet as she tiptoed across the carpet towards the hall and tried to quietly head up to her own room.
Through slitted eyelids, he looked at her. She was carrying a Neiman Marcus bag, and was wearing a mid-calf skirt and a blouse with ruffles down the front and at the wrists.
The boots came, apparently, to her knee, and had a two-inch squared off heel. They were brown, in the style of a man's riding boot.
He watched silently as she crossed the living room, and was about to go upstairs.
"Karen," he said loudly. "Where are you going? And where have you been?"
"Oh, hello Sir!" She turned toward him, with a bright smile and an eager expression. "I was trying not to wake you."
She knew that they both knew it was a lie. A lie was one of the worst things she could do. She was trying to get upstairs to get into one of the many 'outfits' that he had selected and approved of.
"Most importantly, what are you wearing?" He picked up the wineglass and spoke to her in a very soft and quiet tone of voice. She knew that meant he was very angry – very angry indeed. He had not used that tone in the eight years they had been together – not since he had taken her as His.
"This is just something I was wearing and..." she began.
"A second lie," he interrupted. "And you were trying to hide your 'clothing choice'..." the quotation marks in his statement were obvious from the tone of voice. " ... from me. That's three. I think you should stop talking now, before it gets worse."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."
"That's four," he interrupted again. "You DID mean to wear it and to hide it." His voice got softer and quieter. She knew this was trouble. "I said you should stop talking ... Take it off. Everything. Leave the boots on, and stand with your nose on the knob of the closet door."
He went to the kitchen again, to refill his wine glass. Looking back toward the living room, he could see the pair of long scars that crossed her back, and the third that crossed her ass. Remembrances of the time 'before.'
He sat on a stool at the breakfast bar in the eating area of the kitchen and though about the first – and last – time he had seen her wear boots.
TEN YEARS EARLIER
Robert Houston Ellis was a fourth-year student at the University of Texas, a participant in the accelerated five year program to produce architects. Yes, he was a member of 'that' Houston family. A distant cousin perhaps, but the oldest male in his branch of the family tree. Unlike so many Texas rich-boys, he didn't spend like a like there was no tomorrow. He was conservative in thought and deed, just not in politics: didn't spend much, expected women to be women. Bob Ellis was just a tall, good looking son-of-a-gun, who swam for exercise, played semi-decent tennis and had the occasional girl friend. He found the women disappointing: they seemed to be at UT only for the chance of getting an 'Mrs.' degree. He lived off campus and drove a two-year old Honda Accord. His father would think he was a do-gooder, which was fine with him ... he was.
On the Saturday before Christmas break, he found himself at a frat party with a big, black football player, one of his few friends. Shaun was an offensive lineman, a brother in the all-black fraternity and was drunk out of his mind. Good thing he wasn't 'offensive' when he was drunk.
"Hey Bob," Shaun said, laying a big paw across Bob's shoulders. "You wanna get a piece?"
"A piece of what?" asked Bob. He was not so much wasted as pleasantly buzzed.
"A pussy. You know ... a girl. You DO like girls, right? HAHAHA," He was into Bob's ear, like he was whispering ... but he said it in full voice. "Only you can't get no pussy." It came out in one long, slurred 'word': Onlyyacaitgitnopushy.
"Shhh!" he continued. "'s a secret. Jimbo's got hisself a sex slave. Got 'er chained to the wall ... C'mon. I'll show ya."
Leaning on Bob, Shaun led them outside, to the frat house next door.
"We'll jes' sneak in, so nobody'll see us. Shhh!"
And with the stealth of rhinoceros walking through a forest of Chinese gongs, the 6'5" Shaun, black as a moonless night, led them into the pale enclave of the white footballers.
There was a party going on here too, and almost everybody was seriously wasted. Saturday before a vacation on frat row ... go figure. There were men and women in various states of 'interfacing.' A couple of his teammates recognized him. "Hey Shaun! Wassup, dude?" It was Willie Jeffries, a safety, and he spoke in the too-loud voice of inebriation.
"Shhh! 's a secret." Came the slurred reply. "I'm takin' my man here up to see Jimbo." He thumped Bob's chest with a big paw.
"Okay, man, have fun!" was the whispered reply. And he turned to the passed-out half-back on his right, who was snoring loudly. "Shhh!"
Shaun led them upstairs and up another flight of steps to a door that had a mountain of a defensive tackle leaning on it.
"Hey Jimbo! I thought I'd buy my man here..." he pounded Bob's chest with a paw again " ... fifteen minutes wit' your skank."
Jimbo laughed. "I don't take no money from no niggers what can't block worth a damn."
"I put you on yore redneck back, dinnit I? Cain't block. SHIT! ... Now tell my friend here the story and then let him have some time with her."
Jimbo explained: "The bitch shows up at a party over Thanksgiving, after the game, yaknow? We usually don't have no volunteers, except for girls who want some, right? So she picks me out of the crowd and comes over and says 'I'll do whatever you say.' And she's rubbing herself all over me, see? So I says, 'Kneel down and suck some, bitch. And then suck the rest of the team, too.'
"So she does and somebody gives her a beer. And somebody else gives her another, only this one has some roofies in it. And I don't mean just one. So, when we all sucked out, we take off her clothes and SURPRISE! She's got some goddam motherfucking belt contraption on. It's metal and it covers her pussy and her asshole and it's LOCKED.
"We was all pissed, I'll tell ya. So we had her locked up in this room, chained to the wall by her motherfucking chastity belt, for four weeks now. We keep feeding her liquor and whatever drugs we got handy, and use her as a cum dump and a piss dump. We take her to the bathroom and hose her off once a day. She craps on herself, yaknow ... can't take off that damn chastity belt, see? She don't have no key, except maybe it in her pussy ... we couldn't check there." He laughed.
"That's about it," he finished. "Don't know what I'm gonna do with her over the break. Maybe sell her to some pimp or somethin'."
Bob took this all in, getting more and more sober as the story progressed.
"Tell you what, Jim," said Bob. "I'll give ya $300 sight unseen for her. I always wanted a slave girl." Whether she was a townie or a student, she didn't deserve the fate that was staring her in the face. The money meant nothing to him. He'd clean her up and get her back to ... wherever she came from.
Jimbo thought that if $300 was the opening bid, he could get more. "I dunno," he said. "There's a pimp I know who'll prob'ly pay at least $400 for her."
"Okay, Jim. $500 is my final offer, but that includes whatever you got for clothes and you gotta help me get her into my car."
Jimbo looked down, and Bob was holding out five hundred dollar bills, and an empty wallet.
"Deal," he said. "But all we got lef' is her boots."
The door opened and there she was, almost completely out of it, on the single bed. She was naked except for the chastity belt, which was chained to the bed. She was fairly tall, blonde and had a crisscross of welts on her body, from the neck down. One eye was bruised purple and green. The two men struggled putting on her thigh-high boots, convinced Shaun that he shouldn't help. Bob could see a thick leather strap hanging from a hook on the back of the door. Jimbo got her up on his shoulder; her head was hanging down his back, and he was carrying her like a beach towel. Bob was appalled at the welts that appeared on her shoulders and back to match the abuse on the front of her.
"She's marked up," Bob said in a soft and quiet voice. Jimbo didn't know what 'soft and quiet' meant to Bob, and Bob didn't think that this was the right time to truly express his rage.
"Yeah," he said. "Some of the boys didn't like that she wouldn't give over the key. So they bruised her up a little."
"That's more than a little," Bob said as they marched down the stairs.
"So what? She's just a skank. Your skank now." He laughed again.
Bob lowered the back seat and expanded the Accord's 'trunk' into the passenger compartment. She was completely unconscious. Jimbo carefully lowered the girl and she sprawled out across the car's interior. As he got into the car, he looked at her for the first time, under the glare of the interior car light. Her face was nearly beautiful, if you could ignore the abuse it had taken. He breasts were firm, not sagging at all. She was a little overweight, showing a bit of a paunch above the ridiculous chastity belt. The belt was black steel – wrought iron perhaps, he wasn't sure – two inches wide and a half an inch think. It was hinged in the back and the two 'wings' that encircled her waist tied in to the lock mechanism. There were scrape marks where someone – perhaps several someones – had tried to just slide it over her hips. But her hips were wider than her waist, and the belt was snug around her waist. There was a keyhole just below her navel. The chain that had kept her in the room was looped through the crotch piece.
He shook his head and started the car. He had no idea what he'd do with her, but she wasn't going to be sold off to some pimp. He looked at her again: couldn't be more than 18 or 19, he guessed. What was she thinking, going to that frat house all locked up like that? Those 'good ole boys' wouldn't be taking any prisoners, especially after the Oklahoma game.
With a rueful half-smile, he thought, 'Maybe they WOULD take a prisoner after all.'
By 2:00 a.m., he was still a little buzzed when he got her home and into his apartment. It was half a house, owned by his family, and the other half was empty – the other tenant had left for Christmas/January break already. He dumped her on the bed, wrapped the chain around his hand, plopped beside her, and went to sleep.
He had gotten himself under control once more. He looked down at the still-full wine goblet, and poured it into the sink. He couldn't afford to be impaired in any way, just now.
On reentering the living room, he walked up behind her. She was still in the same position: naked, bent at the waist, with her nose against the closet's doorknob. He ran a hand over the raised scars on her back and bum. She flinched a bit at the surprise touch, then she moaned softly.
He crossed to an armchair. "How much did they cost? The boots I mean."
There were still tears in her voice as she answered, "These b-boots c-cost four hundred f-fifty-nine dollars, M-M-Master." She sobbed.
"Almost as much as I paid for you," he said with a tone of disappointment
She started at the comparison. He never – NEVER – mentioned those events of the 'before' time. She sobbed again, but had the sense to not talk. That was one of his rules: when she was being punished – and she was SURE that she was being, or about to be, punished – she was not to speak without permission.
"And how long have you had them?"
There it was. A simple question. The answer would reveal the depth of her betrayal. She, of course, knew the answer and knew that he knew. If she didn't answer right away, it would mean she was considering another lie. She answered quickly, crying throughout the reply. "M-Master, I b-bought the b-boots last Auuuugust." The word came out as almost a wail.
"So almost six months then," he said quietly to himself. "Tell me, on the day you bought them, was it particularly cool or rainy?"
"N-N-No, Master. Master, I..."
"Karen, I didn't ask for further explanation," he interrupted again.
She gasped at that. 'Karen.' He never used her name during punishment time, or play time either. It was 'bitch' or 'cunt' or 'slave' or 'slut' – or 'my girl' if she had done well – something that re-enforced her position. She didn't know how many punishment or play sessions there had been over the years. He had never used her name.
"This skirt. Mid-calf if I remember it correctly from the brief moment I saw you in it." He fingered the garment. "It seems to be a very nice item ... silk? Where did it come from?"
"From a little boutique downtown. 'Hers For Him.' It is silk, sir." She tried to keep the volume of her voice up, so he could hear. He hated it when she couldn't answer loudly enough to be heard.
"What about panties? I don't see any here."
"No panties, sir. I'd never wear them, per your instructions, sir."
He was quiet for long minutes. "Why? Why choose that rule to follow? You chose to not follow my direction for footwear. You chose not to follow my direction in the type of skirt or dress to wear. You chose. You chose. YOU. Perhaps I was not clear. I thought we had decided that I would make certain decisions in your life."
"Y-Y-You DO, sir. Master." She hesitated a second, but he had asked 'Why?' So her explanation would be allowed. "I wore no panties because of the rules you gave me. They couldn't see anyway. That's why I bought the skirt and the boots – and the other things. Because they said that it wasn't 'proper business attire' – wearing the short skirts you approved and the high heels that you bought me. I-I-I'm sorry, Master. Please..."
"So you were ashamed to be seen as I wanted you to be seen. I see."
He hadn't asked a question, but she sobbed a "Nnnnnnnnnnooo" in reply.
"There would be others of course," he said almost to himself. "How extensive is this 'other wardrobe' of yours?"
"There are s-several items, Master. Maybe there are ... m-many. I don't know exactly."
Again he was silent for a long time. He rose and was pacing across the living room. "Punishment is over, Karen." She visibly flinched again at his use of her name. "You may dress in 'that garment, ' but not in any of the ones I have chosen for you." He paused as she rose from the position he had her in. She turned to look at him, her face red and blotchy, tears and mascara streaking her face. There hadn't been any punishment at all. That worried her.
He looked at her, but did not meet her eyes. "No, that is not correct. You may wear any of the clothes YOU choose. You have been doing that for a long time, it seems. They are all yours, after all. It is entirely your choice. In fact, I will remind you that your time here has always been your choice. Each day, you make a decision to stay or to go. Oh, and you will not call me 'Master.'"
She fell to her knees. "No, Ma – Sir! Please. Pleeeeeeease. Don't do this."
"I have done nothing. You chose to discard the rules I have given you. Perhaps you'd like to think about the time 'before' my rules ... when you did what 'THEY' said to do. Before I gave you the rules you USED to follow." His voice was not 'soft and quiet' any more. The anger had washed out of him. There was disappointment and resignation in his voice now.
This was worse than any punishment he ever imposed. Any that he could ever impose. She had disappointed him, and that hurt worse than any spanking or whipping. Now he was ending their relationship.
No, she realized at last. SHE had ended it. She hadn't intended to, but she had.
"Please, sir." The words were muffled because her face was in the carpet now, as she bent over, arms outstretched toward him – in a posture reminiscent of some ancient abject pose of pure submission: face down, kneeling, her butt on her feet, arms stretched before her. She stayed in that pose for a long time, hoping that he would see ... would feel how truly sorry she was.
He had left the room long before she rose.
TEN YEARS EARLIER
He woke late the next morning, and for a moment he remembered nothing. Then he felt the chain wrapped around his fist, and noticed the girl in the bed next to him.
She could be really beautiful. Model beautiful. Supermodel beautiful. She'd need to exercise, get the fat off the middle, tone and firm muscles. But you can't invent or sculpt the underlying beauty. How could she have winded up in this situation?
One other thing she'd have to do: get rid of that damn chastity belt. He couldn't even attend to her scrapes and bruises with that thing on.
He sniffed the air, then lifted the sheet. Wash. She'd have to wash. He sniffed again. She had soiled herself during the night. So ... maybe he'd have to housebreak her, too.
He pulled her up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. She 'clanked' as the chastity belt hit the bottom of the bath tub, and he gently laid her back. He didn't have a hose for the tub, and so turned on the water. It was cold, and he turned the faucets to a warmer setting.
She barely responded to the icy water splashing over her nude body. He stripped and stepped into the shower. Water was splashing out of the tub on the bathroom floor as they showered without a curtain, but he didn't notice. He was busy hauling the dead weight of the girl into a standing position. He let the water hit her back and sluice down to her ass, where the mess was. 'Mess' was the polite word for it. It was shit, pure and simple.
He mixed a little antiseptic liquid soap in his hands and began to run them over her back. A couple of the welts would remain, nasty cuts that had not, would not close over. Between the soap and the gallons of clean water, eventually the shit was washed down the drain. He did his best to make sure the tub was clean before he lowered her to the ground.
Sitting behind her, he decided that she needed her hair cleaned. He didn't have any fancy, 'girlie' shampoos or conditioners ... just the family sized bottle of generic brand green shampoo. It would do.
He sat behind her, his legs around her torso, and washed her hair. It was 'up' ... sort of. More likely, the good ole boys at the frat house had put it in two pig tales ... handles really, so they could use her mouth easier. He took out the rubber bands, and knew that he caught some hair as they were badly tangled. She didn't even register a complaint as he pulled them off.
She just sat there, slumped forward under the cascading water.
Bob dumped too much shampoo on her head and rubbed it in. This was no sensual hair washing, each partner enjoying the feel of fingers on scalp, the gentle caress of lovers touching. This was more like a car wash ... rough and done with the goal of getting the gunk off. Washing the dried splooge out of her hair. He used the antiseptic soap on her body then, undoubtedly there was an accumulation of who-knew-how-many ejaculations on her face and chest area too.
But he couldn't deny the feeling of a female body and female breasts in his hands. He looked down at his erection and said to himself, 'That's for another time, guy.'
He reached forward and turned off the water. Then he got the towel off the nearby rack and started to dry her off. One towel wouldn't do it. So he got out of the tub, laid her back, and went to the small linen closet for all the towels he had. He dried himself off and then went to town on her. It's hard to dry somebody off and keep them standing at the same time.
Finally he got her mostly dry and over his shoulder again. He put her on the floor, while he changed the sheets. When he picked her up to put her on the bed, she opened the eye that wasn't purple and green and swollen-shut and mumbled, "Am I yours now?" And then passed out again.
He shook her and eventually had to slap her face to get her to wake up again. "Don't crap on yourself again! Do you understand?"
"Yessir." Then she was dead to the world again.
He went to the computer room and fired up his laptop. There in a file named 'ConFil' was a list of confidential people that his father said could be trusted to do their job and keep their mouth shut in the area he was in; he'd never had to use it. The password to the file was his NRA membership number backwards. It contained a limited list of people in the area: lawyers, doctors, private investigators, nurses, veterinarians, hotels, restaurants ... Ah, he found what he wanted: a locksmith.
He called, introduced himself as Robert Houston Ellis, and the locksmith said he'd be over in about forty minutes. Bob hung up the phone and had a second ... then a third ... thought. He called a doctor who said he couldn't make it for a couple of hours. Then he called the local 'to be trusted' lawyer, who could come over – for a Houston – on a Sunday night.
Bob struggled with the inert girl but eventually got one of his T-shirts on her. Bob covered her face with another T-shirt and explained to the locksmith that his girlfriend was embarrassed that one of her little games went overboard, and could the locksmith please pick the lock.
She was awake by now and heard. Her hand found his and squeezed it a little when he said 'girlfriend.'
The lock was quickly opened and the technician said they should be more careful, and for $20 he could make some extra keys. It would take about fifteen minutes, he said. He'd need to take the chastity belt out to his truck, so if the girl would just lift up ... and it came off. He looked at the scrapes and bruises and then at Bob.
"Not my doing," said Bob. And the elderly black locksmith nodded.
He presented his bill for $220 and handed over the belt and two spare keys. Bob handed over a check for $500.
Bob went in to the girl and she was now sitting up. "You're awake! What's your name? I can't keep thinking of you as 'Girl'," he said.
"You can call me anything you like. I'm yours now. But my name is Karen."
Karen then began her story. It was a long story and was interrupted several times by her falling asleep again and again.
It was also interrupted by the doctor's visit. She was unconscious at the time. That worthy announced that she had been beaten savagely. (No shit, doc!) There didn't seem to be anything broken and that she was still a virgin. (That was a surprise to Bob.) He left Bob with some antibiotic and cortisone cream for the welts, but couldn't do much else. He took a blood sample, and filled several vials with blood – to test for STD's, for drugs, for anemia and for anything else he could think of.
He advised good food and plenty of rest. He also advised Bob not to have intercourse with her until the blood work was back and she had recovered.
"She's a stray I found in an alley, doc," said Bob. "Not someone I'm likely to see as a romantic partner."
"Good," said the doctor. "She a survivor, at least she's got that going for her."
Her story sounded like a fairly typical x-rated fantasy story – with some kinky and abusive sidelights.
She was the daughter of The Rev. and Mrs. Ezekial Worthy, of Lawton, Alabama. From the time she had started to menstruate, he had forced her to wear a chastity belt. It seems the good Reverend was a skilled metal worker. He would replace the 'wings' around her waist as she grew. She wore it every day, under her dress to school. She was indoctrinated into a life of submission, brow-beaten and mentally conditioned to accept instructions from every and anyone who would give them to her. She was physically beaten as well, but the good Reverend was skilled in not harming her in any way that showed, and never broke a bone. Contusions that wouldn't show – his specialty.
In her first few days in High School, she met an upperclassman who told her that she would give him a blow job. She didn't know what that was, but she knew what the tone of voice meant. It meant that she would do it. Soon she was doing it for the entire football team. The team was displeased at finding her in a chastity belt, but HEY! Any blowjob is a good blowjob. She became quite good at it. Then it was the basketball team. Then the baseball team.
She was a bright girl and soon came to the realization that the ideas expressed by her father did not match the 'teachings' he delivered upon her body and soul. She spent as much time as possible in the library, looking up topics like 'mental abuse' and 'physical abuse, ' like 'submission' and like 'women's liberation.' She didn't like what she was reading. And every day, she would go home to her father, say 'Yes, Sir' and 'No, Sir' and 'Thank you for the spanking, Sir.' She became very confused.
But Karen was a very good student and graduated in only three years. She was sent to Texas Christian University, in Foat Wuth, Texas. She took her chastity belt with her but never wore it. She survived the first year, and kept her virginity in tact by the simple method of never accepting a date. In her second year, she met Brian 'Big Boy' Rollins.
Big Boy spent a couple of weeks taking her around and showing her off – he didn't ASK her for a date, he TOLD her she was coming with him. One day, he told her she was going to take a motor cycle ride with him, she was going to wear a skirt and no panties, and she was gonna cum. She understood that tone of voice again. It meant she was going to do it. She understood what 'cum' meant. It meant that the penis in her mouth was going to ejaculate and she was going to have to swallow it. She couldn't understand how SHE was going to do that. But she had to follow Big Boy's instructions.
With one minor addition. You see, she could guess that this event would probably lead to some sort of sexual encounter – she wasn't stupid after all – and she wanted no part of that. But she couldn't just say 'No' to someone who spoke to her in THAT tone of voice. It was a command, right? So she put on her chastity belt and left the key behind in her dorm room, under the mattress. She didn't wear panties, because he told her not to, and after all, he hadn't told her NOT to wear the chastity belt.
So she got on the motor cycle. It was a big, noisy Harley Davidson. When she got on the 'cycle and they motored down to a party Big Boy wanted to attend at UT, the vibrations of the machine got to her. It was particularly bad because part of the chastity belt was pushing on her clit. She didn't really know that part of her anatomy, or anything, but it was. And vibrating. She got all hot and bothered on the couple of hundred mile trip.
They stopped for gas on the way and Big Boy pulled her into the men's room and told her to blow him. She knew what that was, of course, and did her best. He bent her over the sink and flipped up her dress, and SURPRISE. The 'No Entry' sign was clearly displayed. Big Boy was not pleased to say the least, and backhanded her across the soft section of her stomach. More contusions that wouldn't show. He didn't want to mess up the only functioning hole she had, you see. He decided to deliver her to the fraternity where Bob had found her. Big Boy told her to go up to the biggest guy she could see, rub herself all over him and say she'd do anything he told her to do.
Karen phased out at this point, unconscious again.
Bob called out for some pizza; the lawyer and the pizza delivery arrived at about the same time. He explained the situation to the elderly lawyer, and asked what his legal obligations were.
"None, really. Nobody knows she's here. You have options: you can call the police, you can get her back to TCU, you can just dump her on the curb. But you don't have any obligations." So said the lawyer.
Bob decided then and there that she couldn't be left on her own. Somebody would find her – like the boy in her High School, or Big Boy, or her father, and she'd wind up 'following instructions' again. Then she'd get pregnant or get an STD or wind up as a whore somewhere – or all three, most likely.
The doctor called the next day and said she had an amazing array of drugs in her system. Her alcohol level was 1.6 – very high considering she hadn't had any alcohol in twelve hours when he drew the blood. She had cocaine, meth, several kinds of date rape drugs in her – and a couple of kinds of anabolic steroids, too. The doctor advised rest and supervision. Close supervision.
She didn't need to go back to her regular life just to be snapped up by some dominant personality. She needed a protector. Bob Ellis decided that would be him.
Karen rose from the floor and looked around the living room. HE was not here. She panicked a moment at the thought that he would not be her Master any more.
She took off the boots and threw them across the room. Why had she decided to buy them? WHY? Stupid boots! They weren't even comfortable. Plus she knew that whenever she wore them she was breaking one of his rules. She had worn them forty-two times in the six months since she'd bought them.
He had taken her, formally, eight years ago. For eighteen months, after he found her, he hadn't known what to do with her. She rebelled, she fought him, she wanted to resume the drugs and the liquor. She wanted his permission to go do those things. She wanted to give him blow jobs – the only thing she knew how to do. And he resisted all of it with the patience of a Ghandi.
He stood his ground. He didn't let her have drugs, or liquor, or the freedom to do whatever she wanted, or even to give him oral sex. All this time he simply used his disapproval of her bad actions and offered to let her leave. But, he'd said, if she left, he'd never take her back. It was his rules or nothing. He left the door open for days at a time, when he went to classes. But she was scared to leave. She didn't want to leave. She was afraid that 'out there' was someone who would take her, use her. She knew that he meant what he said. She also knew that she loved him in ways that were beyond counting.
Finally, she couldn't take it any more. One afternoon, shortly after his graduation from UT, when he was packing to come to Dallas, she fell to the ground at his feet. She had healed, grown her hair again, exercised at the gym he'd found. She was the kind of beauty that would turn heads. She could, and did, go out of the apartment, just not to do any of 'those' things. She had learned to take care of herself. She hadn't learned to obey yet, though.
"Oh, Sir," she cried, for she had not learned to call him Master yet. "What do you want from me? I will do anything. Anything. Just tell me what you want."
"I want you to be what you can be," he's said.
She'd thought about it a long time. "I want to be ... yours."
"And I want you to be fit and beautiful and strong and sexy." He had thought about this. He knew it was coming. "I will accept you..." She smiled. " ... but know this: the door will always be open. You will decide each and every day if you want to stay or you want to go. If you stay, you will abide by my rules. You will wear clothes that I select for you." He raised a finger as he ticked them off. "You will work for whom I say. You will get the education I will specify. You will perform the sexual acts that I require. You will obey me as you have never obeyed another." There were five rules, five fingers that he closed into a fist.
"Do these things and we will never speak of the time 'before' there was an 'us.'"
She nodded her head and rubbed herself against his shin, as a cat would.
That was all the contract that there ever was between them. Five rules. And she had broken two of them.
Now what was she to do?