Jim's Story
Copyright© 2025 by Kevin Jay
Chapter 2: Life Begins
BDSM Story: Chapter 2: Life Begins - Jim has lived alone for many years. For more years than he cares to remember. The past is closed to him, too painful for him to go there. Then a friend from that time contacts him and asks for a favour. Could Jim take someone in for him? Jim is reluctant, but his friend is desperate, so Jim agrees. Then she arrives.
Caution: This BDSM Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual NonConsensual Slavery Heterosexual Fiction BDSM DomSub MaleDom Light Bond
Wind hammered the windows. Jim woke with a start and lay still for a moment, listening. Snow was supposed to come later, but nothing had fallen yet.
He looked back at the bed, and there she was. He still couldn’t believe it. His woman. His ... slave. She slept with one arm draped above her, head resting upon it, her breathing steady. The metal cuff on her wrist stood out against the pale sheets.
He glanced at the bedside clock. It was already later than he’d wanted to wake, and the morning was slipping away. He needed to wake her, but she seemed so peaceful as she slept; maybe at peace for the first time in two days; maybe longer than that. He considered leaving her to sleep, but he remembered her reaction to the mere thought of being left alone last night, and he absolutely did not want her to wake up alone and descend into panic. Instead, he pulled the wooden chair away from the dressing table, sat beside the bed, and watched her sleep. She was so beautiful, but also half his age.
The clock ticked past 06:30, and she slept soundly on. Sitting there, he became almost mesmerised watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing, so he forced himself to stand and wandered back to the wooden dressing table. He pulled open the top drawer and inspected the miscellaneous items he’d dumped in there the previous evening. He picked up the objects, turning each one over in his hands as he tried to work out what they were for. “I must ask her,” he muttered under his breath.
He heard a rustle behind him and spun around. She was awake, stretching sleep from her limbs, the duvet flung aside. She writhed slowly on the mattress, naked apart from the metal collar and cuffs. The short chain connecting her ankle to the bedframe rattled as she shifted. Something about the movement struck him. Graceful. Instinctive.
She looked up at him. Her eyes went first to his face, then to the door, then back again.
Jim sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Hello again,” he whispered.
Her look of confusion faded into a tentative smile of recognition, though she didn’t return his greeting.
“Time to get up,” he announced, standing up.
She didn’t move a muscle. He pursed his lips. “Do you remember my orders from last evening?”
The movement was so fast that he barely had time to react. She dropped to the carpet on her knees, forehead on the floor, arms in front of her, hips in the air. Jim stared at her. He had no idea what she expected him to do. “Forgive me, master,” she whispered.
He reached down, took her trembling shoulders in his hands, and pulled them up from the floor. “Forgiven,” he told her as she looked up at him from her kneeling position, her face now close to the growing tent in his boxer shorts. She opened her mouth as wide as she could and stuck out her tongue. Jim stared at her for a moment until realisation dawned, swiftly followed by disgust. Not at her, but at her training. He fought to keep the emotion from his face; he didn’t want her to think he was rejecting her, but he couldn’t take her up on her “offer”. With a forced smile, he reached down and pressed a finger under her chin to close her mouth. “Not just yet, but thanks for the offer.”
From the trousers he’d worn the previous day, he pulled out a small, shiny key and unlocked the padlock securing the chain around the foot of the bed. He pocketed the key again and gathered up the loose chain. He handed the slack to her, leaving it attached to her ankle cuff.
“Come on,” he instructed, heading purposefully out of the bedroom. She followed.
He left her waiting outside the master bedroom, then returned a few minutes later, fully clothed and carrying the laptop he’d abandoned there the previous evening. He took a few steps toward the main stairs, then half-turned. Crooking a single finger, he beckoned her after him, then turned and descended the stairs. They went through the wide hallway and emerged into the kitchen. He plonked the laptop down on the large kitchen table.
“Can you cook?” he asked her.
She tilted her head slightly to one side, repeating the action from yesterday when he’d asked about something from the past.
“I...” She clearly found this simple question difficult. It seemed to Jim that she’d lightened up a little last night, but had regressed again this morning. “I ... think so.”
Maybe breakfast would help. Something ordinary. Something she knew how to do. At least he hoped she did.
He gathered what he needed from around the kitchen—eggs, bacon, mushrooms, beans, oil—and carried it all to the central island. Natalie hadn’t moved. She watched him from beside the door. He switched on the griddle and beckoned her over. When she arrived at his side, he took the chain from her hand and, using the padlock from his pocket, locked it around the sturdy metal leg of the breakfast bar.
He chopped the mushrooms and handed them over. “Cook.” She looked at him. “No pressure. Edible will do. We can always have cornflakes.”
She picked up the bacon hesitantly and laid it on the hot griddle, then reached across for the eggs. Jim was emptying the baked beans into a saucepan when he heard a shriek. He whirled around to find her standing back from the smoking griddle, clutching her left breast, pain clear in her eyes.
Jim cursed under his breath—he should have known better than to let her cook bacon unprotected. He turned on the cold tap and held a clean dishcloth under the flow until it ran icy cold.
Turning to her, he gently moved her hand away from her breast. The burn didn’t seem severe. A blotch of red against her pale breast; second-degree, he guessed. For a moment he wanted to kiss it better, but the need to do something more useful dispelled that thought, and he placed the freezing cloth over the burn. After holding it there for a few seconds, he carefully folded the cloth into a tight ball and began dabbing softly, wiping the now-cooled fat from her delicate skin. Her nipple stiffened, growing longer and hard. Her other nipple was stiffening just as quickly. He frowned. Was that normal?
He had finished wiping the fat away now and was holding the soothing, cold cloth firmly against her breast, drawing the heat out of the burn, cupping it in his hand. And then she gently ground her bare arse back against his crotch, her eyes tightly shut and with quiet purring noises deep in her throat.
He knew very little about the grim reality of sexual slavery, but arousing a woman and then denying her an orgasm seemed unnecessarily cruel in the current situation. But he was completely unready to ... well ... use her.
While he held the soothing cloth to her left breast, he reached around with his free hand to cup her other breast. He massaged that breast slowly, playing with her hardening nipple, gently tweaking it, pinching it softly, and rolling it under his thumb. He was almost on autopilot, directed by memories from long ago. Memories he’d deliberately suppressed, but now he drew on them again.
Her hands remained by her sides, but her legs trembled under his attention and the intense sensations he induced in her. She was much shorter than he was, and he found himself almost holding her upright by her breasts alone. He bent his head down close to her ear and whispered, “Finish yourself off.”
Her hands flew down to her pussy, and she began to play with herself. Her breathing came faster and faster. She took one hand away and reached awkwardly behind her. Finding Jim’s now-erect cock through his cotton shorts, she massaged him through the material. Then she shuddered and let out a low, guttural groan. Her legs gave out, and, just in time, Jim shifted his hold and caught her under her arms. Steadying her, he swept an arm behind her knees and lifted her. He carried her to one of the wooden chairs he kept in the kitchen, the one where he sometimes read the morning paper with his coffee. Her chain barely reached. He set her down, checked she was unharmed, and hurried back to the cooking island.
The first batch of bacon went in the bin, too burnt to eat. Jim fetched more and started again. She needed something to drink, too. Something safe. Coffee, perhaps. Cappuccino. Every woman he’d ever known seemed to like cappuccino. Admittedly, that wasn’t a particularly large sample. A coffee pod clicked into the machine. Soon, breakfast was ready and, as those television cookery shows insisted on calling it, he plated up.