Chapter 1: Lebewohl

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.

And boots.

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.

TODAY

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.