The Accidental Master Ch. 01

“Oh, great,” I thought without opening my eyes. “Bet it’s a cop telling me to move along.” I opened my eyes and sat up, looking out the driver’s window.

To my surprise, Susan was standing there in the same white dress she’d worn dancing with me. She shivered, although the night wasn’t cold. I opened the door and got out.

“Not that I’m not glad to see you, Susan, but what are you doing here?” I asked. She stepped closer to me, as if seeking protection.

“Sir, it’s the car. All the tires are slashed, and I have no way to get home. He won’t be happy if I’m late,” she said jerkily.

I looked at the only other car left in the parking lot. Even from here, the two tires I could see were flat, and nobody carries more than one spare. I looked down at her.

“This isn’t the golden coach you deserve, Cinderella, but I would be happy to take you wherever you like.”

I led her around to the passenger door, unlocked it, and handed her in as if she was a queen I got back behind the wheel and started up. Susan slid across the bench seat and wrapped both hands around my right arm, sitting very close and whispering directions to me as we went.

We ended up on a country road where the houses were not very close together, a mixture of postwar construction and ticky-tacky 1980s developments. When I gently detached her hands and put my arm around her to draw her close, she didn’t resist. She leaned into the embrace and laid her head on my shoulder, seeming to draw comfort from the contact. I could feel her trembling; why, I didn’t know. A twenty minute drive brought us to a 1950s house on a couple of acres set well back from the road, a gravel driveway leading up to it, with no neighbors within 150 feet and a dilapidated pole fence defining the property. I turned off the road and went up the driveway, the crunch of the gravel announcing our approach.

As we neared the house, Susan said softly, “Please stop here, sir. He’ll be angry at my late return as it is. No need for you to be part of it.”

She took my hand, squeezed it tightly for a moment, and then kissed my palm as she had done before, sending a thrill straight to my groin. She opened the door and got out. I could see her clearly in the headlights. Every step she took was filled with apprehension. Waiting as any good taxi driver would to see her safely enter the house, I cranked down the window to better observe. Something didn’t feel right here.

As Susan opened the front door, I saw a man’s hand flash out and grab her by the vee of her neckline. A fist punched her squarely between the eyes. She screamed as she was dragged inside. The door slammed.

I was out of the car and at the door in an instant. I could hear the high, thin whistle of a whip and the sickening crack as it landed.

Susan was screaming, “Pickles!” I had no idea what that was all about, but I didn’t hesitate. The door wasn’t locked. I twisted the knob and stepped in.

“What the hell is going on here!” I shouted as I took in the sight before me.

Susan was lying face down on the rug, sobbing in pain. The back of her dress wasn’t white now. It was striped, red, wet, split and torn. The cause was instantly clear. A black-haired, balding man with a satanic beard, the same one I’d noticed down front while Susan was dancing at the club.

He was dressed in the white silk jabot shirt, skintight trousers and black riding boots of a Regency dandy... and he was holding a bullwhip. His dark eyes glittered nastily, the pupils contracted to pinpoints. From my days at sea, I remembered the symptoms of drug use. This guy certainly had them. I stepped between Susan and the dandy with the whip.

“Don’t hurt him, Master!” pleaded Susan from the floor through her tears. Part of my mind rewound and replayed an earlier comment of hers. It hadn’t been, “Matt isn’t going to like this at all;” it had been, “MASTER isn’t going to like this at all.” I looked at her master with the steady look of warning that sometimes calms some that is high so you can speak rationally to them.

“Hit her with that whip again, and you will regret it,” I said in a tone that brooked no argument. He grinned evilly and threw the whip, the tip cracking an inch from my head. I noted with detached analysis that this whip was no toy for someone with delusions of Indiana Jones-hood. It had a metal tip and at intervals down its length barbs were knitted into the leather. It was a weapon for inflicting maximum pain and physical damage in minimum time.

“Get out of my way,” he snarled. “I’ll discipline my slave as I see fit!”

“I don’t think so.”

The whip lashed out and hit my face. Red exploded across my sight, and time ceased to have meaning. My memory went on hiatus.

When I came back to myself, the whip was clenched in my right hand. Susan’s master lay on the floor, curled around himself, gasping for breath. His dandy’s outfit was in shredded ruins, the cuts and welts inflicted by that torturer’s implement visible through the torn cloth trying to absorb the blood oozing from them. Clearly he was no threat just now. I looked over to where Susan was up on hands and knees. Her sobs had stopped, and she was looking at me with something like wonder on her bruised face.

“Susan, do you want to continue to be with this… animal?” I asked, my words harsh in a dry throat. She looked up at me from underneath disheveled hair wet with painsweat, tears and drops of blood.

She shook her head and mumbled, “…no.”

“Say it again, louder!” I demanded, the authority learned in years as an officer returning to my voice.

She looked me square in the face for the first time. I don’t know what she read there, but she repeated, clearly, “No. No, sir, I don’t.”

“Good. You have one minute to gather anything you absolutely can’t live without and get back here. Move!”

She staggered to her feet and went up the stairs that came down into the living room where we were. The monster at my feet groaned and started to get up. Without a thought my boot slammed into his gut, knocking the wind out of him again.

“Move without my permission, you miserable sack of shit, and I’ll cut your cock off with this whip!” I snapped. I seemed to be standing behind and to the right of my body. Part of me knew this for dissociation. The rest, enraged, simply didn’t care.

Susan came back down the stairs clutching a lumpy pillowcase and an athletic bag trailing a couple of sleeves from its unzipped top. Plainly, she had taken me at my word about one minute. She was moving better now but still painfully.

“Set that stuff down and come here,” I commanded. Obediently, Susan set the bag and the pillowcase by the front door and came to stand next to me, head down, hands clasped neatly in front of her.

I looked at her beautiful face, disfigured by raccoon-eyes from the punch she’d taken, then down at the man who had done it to her. I tossed the whip behind me and slid the fingers of my left hand under her collar. My right fished in my back pocket and came out with my pocketknife. Its razor-sharp, serrated blade is tough enough to cut through a car door. I flicked it open with my thumb, and carefully slipped the knife between her neck and the collar. Ignoring the lock set into the collar at the back, I picked a spot between two of the steel diamonds. The blade cut through the leather like soft butter. I folded the knife and put it back into my pocket.

Drawing the collar from Susan’s neck with my right hand, I reached down with my left, hauling her master up by the throat and holding him against the wall with his feet off the floor. He seemed weightless. I glared at him and spoke, my voice cold and distant in my ears, trying to keep my rage under control.

“Listen very carefully. As of now, Susan is free of you. This is by her own choice. She is lost to you, now and forever. You abused the most precious thing a woman can offer, her trust. When you broke that trust you broke the bond that bound her to you. Do not try to find her. Do not try to speak to her if you ever see her. She no longer exists for you. Do you understand me?”

He said nothing. I slashed the broken collar across his face, rocking his head, the raised letters gouging his cheek.

“Answer, you bastard!”

“Yes,” he croaked through the windpipe that I had started to choke shut. I let go of him and he fell to the floor.

“Let’s go,” I said to Susan. Without a second look, she started for the door. I took a look around the room, for the first time taking in the glass table in front of the couch. I could see a pill bottle on its side, a couple of capsules lying loose on the tabletop, a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a glass. I looked down at the man who until moments before had been Susan’s master.

“I don’t know what your scene is, but pills and booze sure as hell don’t mix with it. Get some help before you kill yourself or someone else.”

He’d managed to get up onto his hands and knees. I didn’t want him trying to reopen the issue so I dropkicked him square in the balls, lifting him and dropping him back to the floor in a fetal position, hands clutching his groin and eyes squeezed shut in agony. Partial repayment for what he’d done to Susan.

I walked over to the door, picking up the whip as I passed, motioned for her to open it and went through. She closed it behind us. We went to the truck, its motor still running, got in, backed out of the driveway, and headed down the road. I was running on autopilot, adrenaline still flooding my system, heterodyning with the anger I felt over what he’d done to Susan to produce a towering rage. I was peripherally aware she was in the cab with me, sitting close, her legs almost but not quite touching mine as we reached the highway and got up to speed.

For fifteen minutes or so, time seemed to move at a crawl. As the anger and the adrenaline bled off along with the endorphins they produced, the world seemed to speed back up and return to normal. I became aware of my throbbing hands with their white-knuckled grasp on the steering wheel. I had to consciously ease my grip, letting the right go from the wheel and shaking it to get the blood flowing again. Susan caught it in both of her hands.

She looked at me with bowed head and said, “If you’ll permit me, sir?” and began to massage it. Working her way outward with her thumbs from the middle of the palm, she took the pain away, leaving a feeling of ease behind. She turned my hand over and worked on the tendons for a bit, flexing the fingers and watching my face for signs of discomfort. She replaced my hand on the wheel and wordlessly reached for my left. She slid closer and repeated the process. Soon I was able to hold the wheel without pain. She made no move to pull away from me. I lifted my right arm to hold her as she seemed to want. As I laid my arm across her shoulders, she whimpered. I released her at once.

“It’s nothing,” she said, trying to smile. I wasn’t buying.

“Turn and let me see your back,” I ordered.

Susan slid away on the bench seat as I switched on the cab light. I winced at what I saw. There were four bloody rips in the back of her dress, and I had put my arm down right on one of them. The pain must have been agonizing. I turned the light off.

“I’m sorry,” I said, embarrassed at what I had done. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She slid back next to me so our thighs touched again and leaned on my shoulder, holding my right arm gently in both hands, leaning forward so her back didn’t touch the back of the seat. I could feel her warmth through the reaction chills that always accompany the end of an adrenaline rush.

“Don’t be sorry, sir,” she said. “I know you’d never hurt me unless I deserved it. You’ll be a good master, not a bad one.” She reached out, took my right hand, and continued to massage, starting up my forearm, apparently content just to be next to me.

Say what? I couldn’t have heard right. In any case, the first thing to do was to treat her injuries. From past trips over this highway I knew of a small picnic area with permanent bathrooms and running water. At this hour of the night, it would probably be deserted. When we reached it no one was there, for which I was grateful. I pulled in so that the headlights lit one of the picnic tables. I turned to Susan.

“Take off your belt and go lie across that table. I’m going to take care of you.”

She obediently did so. I opened the rear doors and took my medic’s kit, a souvenir of my seagoing days, and went into the bathroom to get water. I carried everything out to the table where my beautiful patient waited. Setting up to do what had to be done, I selected what I’d need and laid everything out on the bench, the instruments soaking in antiseptic. As I prepared, I talked to Susan, explaining what I was about to do.

“Brandy or morphine would make this easier, but you’ll just have to endure it. We have to get that dress off you and treat those cuts before they get infected. Bite on this if it gets too bad.” I put a bitestick, normally used for epileptic seizures, into her mouth.

“Scream if you must, but don’t let go of that stick. Are you ready?” She looked at me trustfully and nodded.

I reached out and gently brushed her eyelids, indicating that she should close them. Then I gritted my teeth and began.

The blood had clotted and stuck the silk to the wounds. I took the antique pitcher I had filled and soaked the back of the dress. Susan’s head came up, her jaw clenching on the bitestick. I gently pressed her head back down and stroked her hair to soothe her. After a minute, I poured on some more water, took the dress at the hem and eased it up over her hips, past that narrow waist and up to the gashes. She lifted herself cooperatively.

Knowing what this was going to feel like, I took a deep breath, grasped the fabric and yanked sharply. The dress tore free of her back, up over her head and onto her arms. Susan reared up, eyes wide with pain, the cry she made muffled by the bitestick. I finished skinning the dress off her as tears trickled down her bruised face from the pain I was inflicting.

It tore at me, so I said harshly, “Lie flat on the table and spread your legs and arms out. I still have things to do.”

She obediently assumed the position. I caressed her for a moment to reassure her. I went back to the truck and brought out the digital camera I carried in my ‘just in case’ box. I shot half a dozen pictures from various angles and set it aside. Insurance for later, but there was work to do now. I got to it.

I had to pick bits of cloth out of all four gashes. Fortunately, the cuts those horrible barbs had made were ragged and likely to knit without leaving scars on her silken skin. From time to time she whimpered as I probed deeply to make sure everything was out but I ignored it, as I had to. When I was satisfied the wounds were clean I swabbed them out with antiseptic. Susan groaned at the antiseptic’s bite and squirmed.

To take her mind off her back, I slapped her buttocks sharply and growled, “Hold still, wench!” Her head went down again and the groan that she made wasn’t one of pain.

I squeezed antibiotic ointment into the cuts and used butterfly closures on the worst ones, following up with a topical anesthetic to dull the pain before applying adhesive gauze pads and bandaids. Finally, it was done. I reached around and took the bitestick out of her mouth.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Please, sir, I was disobedient, moving when you wanted me to lie still. Please punish me. I deserve it. Please…” her voice trailed off as her buttocks wriggled enticingly.

I had some inkling of what she was about. The trick of overlying pain with something pleasant is an old animal training trick. If this was her idea of pleasure, I’d oblige her.

I hauled off and spanked her, gently at first, then up to strokes that stung my palm. Susan cried out in pleasure, her hips bucking. With one last slap, I stepped in behind her, reached around and pinched her clitoris gently. She pressed back against me, her climax wetting my hand as she collapsed onto the table, moaning sensuously.

As her breathing returned to normal, I said, “Now clean up every bit of paper trash. I don’t want anyone to know we were here.” She went to work, naked except for her high heels.

I went back to the truck and brought out my leather car coat. It came to mid-thigh on me; on her, it would do for a mini-dress. Ordering her over, I told her to put the trash in the back of the truck and come to me. When she returned, I held the coat out for her and helped her into it, tying it tightly at the waist.

She took my hand, kissed the palm, and said timidly, “Sir, may I serve you by tending your own wound?” and gently touched my left cheek.

It was the first time I remembered the lash I had taken in her defense, despite the blood that had dribbled down my face and ruined my shirt. The bolt of pain that shot through my head wiped out any endorphins that might have been left in my bloodstream. I reeled away from her.

When I could talk again, I said, “I think you’ll have to. But before you start, take a couple of pictures of it.”

I walked with her to our impromptu operating room and sat down, closing my eyes against the glare of the headlights. Obediently, Susan snapped three pics.

I took the bitestick and bit down, anticipating the pain and not welcoming it. What happened next didn’t qualify as agony only because I expected worse. Susan didn’t help by flinching away each time she had to touch the welted slash.

I took out the stick and snapped, “Dammit, don’t try to be gentle! Just do what you have to and get this over with!”

Biting down again, I held still while she cleaned and bandaged the cut. Cleaning up the debris without being told, she wouldn’t meet my eyes. Finally, I caught her arm and pulled her into an embrace, tipping her head up to look at me.

“You did fine,” I said gently. She huddled against my chest apparently reassured by my words.

We finished up quickly. I handed her a coldpack to hold against her face to slow the bruising and ease the pain. A minute later, we were back on the road to what I hoped was safety. There in the darkness, I wondered what might come next.

With a throbbing gash on my face that would probably leave a scar, a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde snuggled into my arm on the seat next to me that I didn’t even know, whom I had rescued from an abusive bastard and a relationship I couldn’t even begin to guess about, whose history was a mystery, my life had surely taken a strange turn. Next stop, the Twilight Zone? Worry about it later. First, I had to get Susan to a safe place.