tagNonConsent/ReluctanceChanges Ch. 03

Changes Ch. 03

byAmeaner©

The next day, I brought the Monza into the shack and began preparations for a complete paintjob, simply because I now had nothing better to do and I had to keep my mind off things.

It wasn't working.

For the first time, I began to really doubt my ability to get out of this. I mean, the damned woman had control over cops! Cops that raped and degraded me worse than she had and then laughed about it. And how they degraded me, or me myself, maybe. I could see how I'd enjoy the sexual act itself, what man wouldn't? But the circumstances, how they scared the shit out of me and,... fucking laughed. Bitch pigs.

After they left, I crawled into the shower and actually cried in the bottom of the tub with the hot water needling me, dashing away the evidence of my degradation at theirs and Dagmar's hands, wishing it could wash away this whole situation and whatever screwed up interest Dagmar had in me for whatever warped reason. It was just all so unfair; why did my life have to be ruined? I never did anything at all do deserve the turn of events forcing the changes in my life that I was powerless to stop.

At least I didn't get myself off after they left.

Once I got the Chevy safely up on axle stands, I went into the house for the bottle and brought it out to the shop with me, sitting at my workbench, sipping and smoking a cigarette before I got started.

With a lighter mood, I walked out of the shop later that afternoon, intending to go into the house for a bite of food. I saw the black car immediately, just as quickly noting the distinctive, kidney shaped, two piece grille with the famous blue and white roundel.

I walked closer to it, slowly, as though there may be a bomb, looking over the sleek BMW 7 series sedan and then looking around to see if there was someone in the yard.

After warily approaching and entering the back door of the house, I performed a careful search, brandishing an old metal ladle, leaping around corners and into rooms, whipping open closet doors but, finding no intruders, I returned to the car.

I carefully tried the driver's door to the twelve cylinder Corvette killer and was somehow not surprised to find it unlocked. I sat behind the wheel, left foot still planted on the dirt driveway, and saw the now familiar memo stickit on the steering wheel right away. Removing it, I turned it over and read the single word printed there in Dagmar's hand.

Trunk

It was full of boxes. A large manila envelope was taped to one of the boxes on top and I tore it free, opened and emptied it out on the large box top.

Two sets of BMW car keys, one cell phone, one Rolex watch, one quite expensive looking dog collar (?) and a folded piece of paper. I unfolded the paper and found it was a note from Dagmar.

boy,

#1 You work for me now.

#2 You will at all times keep this cell phone turned on, charged and on or near your person. You will answer it immediately, should it ring, and respond in the manner instructed. This phone can call out for my convenience, meaning that it should never be busy when I call unless you are doing my bidding.

#3 This car is mine and not yours. You will always use it when I summon you and when you are about my business. I expect you to keep it properly clean and to familiarize yourself with it right away.

#4 When I summon, you will always dress appropriately, sometimes as I instruct.

She didn't sign it, but then she didn't have to, did she?

I took a closer look at the dog collar. Did she expect me to get a dog, or what? It was made of separate metal pieces, silver it looked like, that were actually very detailed little roses, her trademark. It was about one and one half inches wide with black silk on the inside and had a clasp, not a buckle, and she didn't expect me to get a dog. I'd forgotten, she already had one.

I shoved the degrading collar back inside the envelope along with everything else that came in it, save for one set of BMW keys and the phone. I flipped it open, checked for a dial tone, and slipped it into my pocket along with the keys.

I opened a few box lids with a pinky finger. Suits, shoes, jackets, vests, long coats, ties, shirts, everything. It was all in either gray or black, with the exception of some white shirts and red ties. Some of the articles also had her emblem professionally stitched into them.

She had to be crazy. Stylishly crazy, yes, but crazy nonetheless and, obviously, very wealthy with no small amount of power in her own circles, whatever those circles might be.

I lugged all the boxes inside, hung the clothes that ought to be hung, drawered the ones to be drawered, etc., and left the collar in the envelope on my dresser along with the rest of its contents. I went back outside, fishing the keys to the big black car out of my pocket to 'familiarize' myself with it.

Later that evening, I stood in my room, covered in bright orange sanding dust, looking at the collar that I'd shaken out of the envelope on my dresser. After going to the bathroom to wash my hands and neck, I went back in and picked it up. After a few moments hesitation, I fit it around my neck without clasping it, just to satisfy my great curiosity about whether or not it would fit, or something.

It did. Perfectly. I walked to the mirror in the bathroom to look, still holding it up and around my neck, the only clean spot on me. My orange smeared face under my longish, dark/ bright orange hair held no expression as I at first looked at it, but that changed as my dick began to rapidly harden. I don't know if it was the look of it on me, the feel of the satin on my neck, or what the thing meant, but the reaction within me was intense enough to make me remove it and hurriedly return it to the dresser. I left my room as though I were snooping in my parents' bedroom, suddenly realizing how wrong I was to be doing so.

Back in the garage, with loud music and the reality of familiar, dirty, honest work, I took a large drink of the bottle, trying to think of dead kittens.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Another late afternoon, (Saturday) another hangover defeated. I was in the shop, buzzed on rye again and willing myself to not go inside and put the damned collar on, applying spots of finish putty here and there with a palette in one hand, applicator in the other. The door opened behind me as I scanned intensely for pits that needed filling, spilling temporary sunlight into my fluorescent world before it was shut again.

Earl, a semi retired delivery guy who worked for the parts supplier I dealt with, was an all right old feller. It was just that being out where I was, I was usually the last stop on his route and he had an irritating habit of hanging around to jaw with me after our business was settled. (I'd had to learn a few tricks to politely get rid of him) I smiled a little as I thought of the grinder I'd set under the car after putting in my order that morning.

"That little Toyota's gettin' slower every week, Earl. What the fuck kept ya?" I joked.

"Excuse me?" Dagmar's cold voice asked.

I just about shit myself. I whipped around without even collecting my composure first.

"Dag- Mistress!", I hastily corrected.

She looked so different. Her hair was completely down and full, makeup flawlessly applied, red lips, black eyeliner and nails. Most eye popping was the white dress that looked like a light, long sleeved, turtleneck sweater, showing almost all of her legs and holy moly! This was a completely different Dagmar from the one I knew at work. This Dagmar was just something else and I stared, stunned for a moment.

"I,... thought you were,... someone,... Jeez, you look just,... Wow!"

Hey, despite all she'd done and those two pigs that visited me the day before, she just did and it had to be said. Like I mentioned, it would have been a lot easier to hate her completely, the way I wanted to, if she was an ugly old bag or something. But then, nothing about the situation was straight forward, uncomplicated, or fair.

She grinned and Answered, "What a nice thing to say, boy. And a smart thing. Thought you'd pull a fast one the other day, huh?"

"You can't blame me for trying." I managed in a small voice, looking into the dollop of mixed putty on the palette as though some redemption might be found there.

"Oh, I could. But I won't. Complete acceptance can't be instant in your position; I can well imagine how I'd feel in your place, after all. Besides, maybe it's just as well. Now you see how useless it is to defy me, don't you?"

I closed my eyes, reminding myself that, as far as I was concerned, the jury was still out on that one, but said, "Yes."

"And I think you've already been punished enough for a first offense.", she added, spinning on her white high heels and wandering further into the garage, looking around herself as I went back to applying putty.

"I might have known. I'm surprised there wasn't a mutt tied to a pickup and a refrigerator on your back step."

"What do you mean?" I asked defensively.

She picked up a telescopic grabber tool from the workbench, pushing the button and spreading the claws at the other end, watching with a widening smile as they closed, retracting into the telescopic tube when she let go.

"Well, you know, you being a Maritimer. French and Indian is a nice mix, though, at least with you. Too bad it has to come with such an uncultured, provincial mindset. Hey, I could really have a great time with this! I'll bet it opens far enough to grab a tentacle!"

"Please forgive my lower breeding, Mistress, I'll do my best to pretensify myself in your presence." I gloomed, scraping the applicator across some light rock chips at the bottom of the driver's door.

" ... Watch your attitude, boy. I'm in a good mood today, don't ruin it, or you'll be the one who pays. And if you think Constables Gordon and Raitt were bad,... Do you need this?"

"When I need it, yeah. Look, if you promise not to break my balls with it, I'll buy you your own brand new one.

She laughed at this, saying nothing in reply.

"Y'know, I'm not having a very good time with this.", I said frankly, taking my chances as I scraped the remainder from the palette before tossing it on the bench in favour of a rag to wipe the applicator off with. "And you might want to do something bad to me when I say this, but,... I don't even want to leave here. I don't want to face people because of you. I can barely look at myself in the mirror and I don't know what to think of myself anymore. And you gotta know I hate you for what you've done to me. There, I said it."

She'd looked sharply up at me, an intensely focused expression that I couldn't read crossing her features as she started moving towards me, then froze in mid step as the door opened.

"How the fuck are ya, kid!?" Earl wheezed at his usual loud volume.

He was loaded down with a box of auto body supplies, huffing and puffing his oxygen through a nicotine stained, whitish gray beard and mustache. A NASCAR cap sat atop his head at a jaunty angle, which also proudly advertised the outlet he worked for and some connection it had to someone named Dick Trickle.

He deposited the box on the floor, just inside the door, straightened and started heading for me with the bill in his hand, moobs jiggling obscenely under his shirt, when he saw Dagmar. Immediately forgetting about me, he altered course for her, expression brightening considerably, and extended the nicotine stained fingers of his right hand while openly leering at her luscious body as he introduced himself.

"How ya doin there, pretty lady? Name's Earl, and am I ever pleased to meet you!"

Getting no response, he finally looked up at her face. Her upper lip was curled in complete disgust as she, in turn, looked him up and down. He didn't seem to get it.

"Don't like shakin' hands, pretty lady? I'm a lot friendlier than that pup.", he informed her, jerking his head back at me while his eyes returned to those great boobs, laughing at his own joke. "I'm a better kisser too."

Her lip curled even further and I remembered when she told me that she didn't hate me. I had no trouble believing that at all then, not seeing that expression on her face at the time. This man, she hated. I tried to think of something I could do to prevent the impending train wreck, but my mind could only draw a blank as it all happened right in front of me.

"Have you never heard of knocking!?" she snapped in his face. "It's a little fucking thing that civilized Humans do when they're a visitor! Put your fucking hand down, you disgusting piece of vermin feces! And if you call me 'pretty lady' one more god damned time, I'll have my 'pup' break you in half and dump you out on the road as the garbage you are!"

Earl was wide eyed, mouth agape in shock, almost bending backwards as she stood over him with her superior height. I could only wait helplessly now, wondering how far she'd take this as Earl's dazed expression made me think of a prey animal on those wildlife videos after the lioness has clamped her jaws down firmly on the back of its neck. Under other circumstances, it would have been pretty comical.

"I was in the middle of a personal and private conversation when you barged in on me, you boorish, retarded oaf! And how dare you ogle me as if my sole purpose for being on this planet is to be eye candy for some inbred, mutant, retarded farm animal like you!! Your employer can expect a very unpleasant email about what an uncouth, disgusting lower primate he has delivering his products to his clientele! Perhaps I'll even send one to his wife! Now, you see to whatever little business it is that a little man like you could have with my 'pup', and then get out! Get out of this building, off this property and you never come back! Do you understand, you chimp!? You stain on the asshole of Humanity!!?

She stepped around him and walked for the door with a mean expression, snapping at me, "Get rid of this garbage, finish up what you were doing here and come inside! Don't keep me waiting long, boy!"

"Yes."

She stopped up and, without looking over her shoulder, spat, "Yes, what?"

" ... Yes, Mistress." I mumbled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, Mistress." I said clearly, after which she was satisfied and left the garage.

Hurricane Dagmar had been and gone, leaving as suddenly as she'd arrived, in her wake a trail of the usual Human devastation and misery. Earl was still immobilized, his shell-shocked visage pale and blank. Jaw agape, he looked from the door to me, back to the door again.

Having been through this and worse on account of her, I was able to adjust to the aftermath faster, taking advantage of Earl's mental lag time. I took the bill out of his hand, along with the pen he was still holding, and hastily signed it on the roof of the car before stuffing it untidily into his shirt pocket, carefully avoiding his moob before kabobing it (the bill, not the moob) with the pen.

Doubly glad I'd plugged in and set the grinder ahead of time, I got underneath the car and began grinding on the edge of an exhaust clamp for no reason other than to make it easier for him to just go away, hoping to God he'd do just that when he came around.

After about thirty seconds, he did, but I kept on grinding for another minute anyway.

Around three quarters of an hour later, I stood on my little back porch, willing myself to go in while ignoring the anxiety that was screaming for me to run. Who knew what kind of temperament she had now? And dam that moronic Earl, anyway! With any luck, her mood would have abruptly swung back to what it was when she arrived. At last, I went in, figuring that if she was still in a bad mood, it might be possible to charm her around.

"How long were you going to just stand out there?" she asked without looking up or turning from my computer monitor in the living room.

"Just hoping you'd be in a better mood, Mistress." I said truthfully.

A short laugh ejected from her mouth before ordering, "Make me something to eat, boy."

I shrugged, went to the kitchen to wash up and started on my only real specialty, (besides bachelor gruel) a little dish I called 'fluffed eggs'. I was extra careful to have the pan at the right temperature, always stirring and turning over the eggs so they wouldn't brown or stick, throwing some shredded cheddar on at the last minute and dumping it into a plate I'd pre-warmed in the oven. I slapped two pieces of perfectly browned toast on the edge of the plate, buttered with real butter, and took this out to her with a fork, returning to the kitchen for the cup of coffee I guessed she might want along with it.

I waited at her side, anxious to hear her approve of her meal.

"Why isn't there any salt and pepper?"

"Oh,... sorry, I forgot, just one second,..."

I hurried back to the kitchen, cursing myself for having forgotten that little detail. This was turning into a bit of a stress trip as I remembered how expensive her tastes were. I couldn't do any better than 'fluffed eggs' and was, myself, satisfied with any nutritional meal regardless of taste and never usually bothered with condiments in any case.

I brought the shakers, salted and peppered the plate for her while she made a sour face at the coffee.

"I'm sorry, I only have instant."

"That's no excuse." she replied, digging into her food.

I was, for some reason, so concerned about her approval of my efforts in the kitchen on her behalf, I forgot to take note of what she was doing. She'd plugged a removable drive into my computer and was copying everything from my IP address to every detail of my banking, bills and everything else.

"Give me your wallet and any paperwork you have concerning your finances."

I did what I was told because, of course, what else was there? At least she seemed calm. She quickly sorted through everything, removing my credit and debit cards before giving my wallet back.

She went on searching for God only knew what through this program and that as she ate, still not commenting on whether or not she even liked it. As simple as it was, I was practiced with this dish and I knew that I'd done this one extra well, but after finishing the eggs and toast, she took another sip of the coffee, making another sour expression as she glanced at me, and got up, looking around.

"This place is a dump, by the way. I may move you,... Anyway, get a garbage bag. A big one, I think we'll need it."

"Yes, Mistress." I toned.

Two minutes later I was following her around my painfully humble, unofficially condemned trailer with the garbage bag whilst she grabbed things, putting them into it, sometimes simply pointing, indicating that I should do it. I was utterly stupefied at the time, unable to get over the limits to which this woman would so casually and habitually take things. She never ceased to amaze and mortify me in so many different, albeit always domineering, ways.

I didn't have much to begin with, so she started at the front door where I lost a dirty, ripped old work coat that was very warm and comfortable in the winter along with an old pair of sneakers. On to the kitchen, she started trashing foods and condiments that I could only assume didn't meet her standards for whatever reason and, after an ensuing, short search of the bathroom, I found myself at the end of the shortened hall, watching her inspect the rough piece of plywood.

"What's this?" she asked.

"It's a barricade." I answered. "The Master Bedroom's back there."

"Why is it barricaded?"

"The supports under the trailer have rotted at that end, so the floor's separated from the walls and the roof's opened up in a few spots. It's basically uninhabitable back there."

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