tagBDSMHela Ch. 02: Asgard

Hela Ch. 02: Asgard

byEmirus©

This trilogy is about five days in the life of Hela, each story written to show a different side of her personality which is, like that of many people, complex. The first chapter, Retribution, dealt with Hela in her role as a professional assassin, at which she is very good, but a job about which she is ambivalent. This second chapter in the trilogy is about what she likes to do in her leisure time. How she likes to play! Also where she came from and why, and how, she became the person she is today. I would suggest you read Retribution before Asgard but either can be read as a stand alone story.

***************************************************************

Within a few minutes of leaving daddy I was on I-59 south, down past Hattiesburgh,Mississippi. I had avenged the death of my mother, the person in my life I had loved more than any other living soul, and who had been taken from me too soon as a result of the abuse by that despicable man, my biological father.

If my mother was still with me my life would be very different.

My mother had made me promise that I would never return to our home town. She knew that there would be a desire to visit my grandparents, and other relatives, who I had never met but told me it would be too dangerous. She told me that the man she had married was not the man she thought he was.

I honoured my promise. So it was fate that brought him and I back together. I didn't see that taking him out because of my job was breaking my promise, even though I took satisfaction from avenging my mother.

********************

I was ten years old when my mother gave me the answers. The answers to all the questions I had been asking since I was old enough to realise that my life was different from the lives of the children I had made friends with, in all the places in which we had lived.

But after kindergarten I became more aware, as children do, of what was happening in my school and home life. I began asking my mother why we kept moving from one town to another. Sometimes a big town, sometimes a small town, but always a long way from the last school and last town.

Eventually she gave in. After my tenth birthday party, when my friends had gone home, she sat me down and told me the truth as to why our lives were unconventional.

My mother had thought my father was quite a catch, but many thought that he had got the better deal, when they were married not long after finishing school. They had gone through school together, with her the academic one, graduating "magna cum laude," and him the star of the football team. First they became friends, then boy and girlfriend, and as soon as they left school they became engaged to marry.

Everyone, including my grandparents, their friends and relatives, thought they were the original "golden couple." My father's family owned several businesses and he went into the family businesses. At first it seemed an idyllic life.

It wasn't long before things started going wrong with the marriage. My father became jealous of my mother's friends, whether girlfriends or guys they both knew from school. The regular get togethers with her girlfriends had to stop. He accused her of having affairs with other men, despite there being no evidence to support his paranoia. He started being abusive to her. Not just verbally, but physically abusive. Sometimes her injuries were so serious that she was taken to the Ochsner Medical Centre in New Orleans.

She also discovered that the family businesses were not all legitimate. Her father-in-law was not the law abiding citizen so many people thought he was, and the intention was that my father would eventually take over the family business.

The turning point was when my mother became pregnant with me just over a year after they married. The abuse didn't stop and she fled afraid, for not only her life but, for the life of me, her unborn child. As far away as she could go, with the few thousand dollars she had taken from the safe in their home.

I was born a few weeks later, fortunately healthy, despite the beatings my mother had endured. Knowing my father would send someone to find us she left hospital, and began the first of many moves that would happen over the next ten years. Somehow, despite several schools of varying standards, by the time I became a teenager my mother was telling me that I was just as clever and articulate as she had been at my age. I used to swell with pride when they said I looked exactly like my mother. The one thing, the only thing, I got from my father was my athleticism and my liking for sport, particularly the multi discipline heptathlon.

We stopped running when my mother was twenty nine and for the first time she could look for a long term job instead of the temporary ones she'd had for the previous ten years. There was a branch of Macy's in town and she got a job as a counter assistant. With her academic abilities and people skills, plus being lucky in bring in the right place at the right time, she was the store manager three years later. Our life improved dramatically and we were very happy. Her job often meant she had to work late and I began taking judo and karate classes most evenings.

One evening I was at home, wondering why my mother was late, when the police called to take me to the local hospital. My mother had been mugged and shot when going to her car in the underground parking lot. A few hours later she passed away just short of her thirty fifth birthday.

The police arrested the mugger and he was prosecuted. But with a good lawyer, and a lenient judge, he received a suspended sentence despite a prior history of of similar offences. In my mind he was a man like her father and I took revenge. I was surprised how easy it was to take a life. I didn't need a gun. I didn't need a weapon of any kind. My strength and athleticism were all I needed. Darkness, a quiet place, and my body. That was all. Afterwards I felt nothing. No guilt. No elation. But I had the satisfaction of taking revenge on the man who had killed the mother I loved. The mother who had been taken from me for the sake of a few dollars.

After the death of my mother, because I was still technically a minor, I was taken into care by social services and moved from one foster home to another.

The death of my mother, the injustice of it, the disinterest of the police, and the impotence of the judge all had a profound effect on who I was and my behaviour. I changed from a happy girl to one who was aggressive, angry at the world, foster parents and authority figures in general. On my 18th birthday I announced to my latest foster parents that I was moving out the following day. I had got a job as a waitress in a downtown restaurant and the owner, as part of my wage, was going to let me stay in some empty accommodation upstairs. My foster parents didn't object, they were just glad to be rid of me.

The restaurant owner couldn't have been a better employer. He knew of my background, as did many people in town, and over time he became more like a kindly uncle to me than an employer. He encouraged me to go back to my studies and over the next couple of years my life, and my attitude to life, changed for the better.

I went back to my self defence classes, and because he thought it important the way the world is today, he taught me how to handle a gun. He said I showed an immediate aptitude not just for a handgun, but also for a rifle. We travelled to different gun show competitions and I soon became successful.

In the restaurant I was smart enough for Uncle, as I now began to call him, to recognise I was good with customers, even the objectionable ones, and business steadily improved. I began to take more of a role in running the business, continuing to live in the apartment above which was now looking much better than when I had originally moved in.

I realised myself that I was a completely different young woman than the objectionable girl I had been after the death of my mother.

Then it happened. Uncle was visited by two men offering an insurance policy. They would ensure, in exchange for regular payments, that the restaurant never had any difficulties with the local authorities, such as environmental health, or any other problems that might hurt the business. The implications were obvious. They didn't need to be explicit. But Uncle refused.

The following night, after the restaurant had closed, I heard raised voices downstairs. I opened my bedroom door and recognised the voices of the two "salesman" and Uncle. Creeping downstairs to the stockroom I saw one thug holding Uncle whilst the other one was hitting him, again and again. I launched myself towards him and he turned to defend himself, but I was too quick and caught him with a kick to his gut. As he collapsed the other thug released Uncle and went for me. I turned to face him, and as I did so, the first thug hit me over the head with a bottle. I collapsed, dazed, and they ran.

The following evening, just after the restaurant had closed, we were fire bombed. The restaurant was quickly engulfed by flames, and Uncle ended up in the emergency room with third degree burns and died before the dawn broke. I was lucky. My burns were mainly superficial. I recovered fairly quickly, found the thugs, and made sure they would never hurt anyone ever again. I found the man who had given the order and dealt with him.

I wandered for the next year. Although the police were, no doubt, grateful for what I'd done I knew that wouldn't prevent them from arresting me. So I moved around, taking a job for a few weeks, and then moving on again.

I well remember the fateful day that changed my life.

I was approaching a diner when I heard the thwack, thwack, thwack, of a bust tyre and realised it was me. I pulled into the parking lot, got out, and surveyed the damage.

Another car pulled into a nearby space, the driver emerged, leaning up against the hood, watching me. Stamping my foot in exasperation, I opened the trunk, and lifted the spare. I turned with the tyre in my hands, and he was right behind me. I took a pace back, gave him a suspicious look, ready to fling the tyre at him.

But there was something about him that stopped me. Something I couldn't put my finger on.

I remember the conversation and what happened that day so clearly. As if it was yesterday.

"You seem to be having a little trouble, young lady, can I be of any assistance?"

Young lady? What the fuck?

"No. I'm fine. I'm perfectly capable of changing a tyre by myself. I don't need any help."

"I'm sure of it. But if you are as hungry as I am I'm also sure you want to get inside the diner as soon as possible. Also two pairs of hands are quicker than one."

"Ok," I said.

He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice. But I thought, if this guy wants to help, then why stop him? I'd not had many people, since the death of my mother, volunteering to help me. But I was still wary of him.

He produced a pair of black leather gloves from his jacket, pulled them on, and got to work. He noticed me staring at his hands, and offered, by way of explanation, " I always keep a pair of gloves handy, you never know when you might need them, such as changing a tyre without getting all messed up."

For the first time I took a good look at him and, although casually dressed, he was wearing clothes that had obviously not come from a "nickel and dime" store. Once again I felt there was something about him. He'd not attempted to ingratiate himself with me. Admittedly we had only met a few minutes before, and he was a lot older, but that hadn't prevented men of his age, and older, from hitting on me.

The wheel replaced, we headed inside, got our food, and selected a quiet booth far from the door. I don't know, even now, why I opened up to him. It just seemed so natural. For the next hour I went through everything that had happened in my life up until then and he sat listening, occasionally interjecting but mostly sitting quietly while I told my story.

"You've had a shit life, Hela. Some happy years but they've been cancelled out by the bad ones."

That was when I asked the question that changed my life.

"What do you do for a living? It must be well paid, looking at your car, and your clothes didn't come from a Thrift store."

As soon as I had spoken I thought I'd overstepped the mark. But he just smiled. Then laughed.

"I'm what you might call a troubleshooter, Hela."

That was how our relationship began and my life changed. Mentor and protege. He taught me all about his work, and I eventually went on jobs with him. Until one day he went solo on a job, and never returned. But by that time, not only was I proficient with my skills, I was efficient and deadly, and I had all the contacts.

********************

The road ahead was clear for as far ahead as I could see. I slid a cd into the player and Nancy Wilson's dulcet tones rose above the throbbing music. I was reminded of my dear daddy and rammed my foot down on the gas pedal.

If looks could kill

You'd be lying on the floor

You'd be begging me please, please, please

don't hurt me no more

If looks could kill

Ninety minutes after leaving I was pulling up outside a 19th century mansion, at the end of a mile long secluded driveway, on the edge of the De Soto National Forest. On my way up the drive I had gone past a small timber clad dwelling that had always been empty, but the exterior had been smartened up considerably, and it looked as though someone lived there now.

I walked towards the front door and, before I could get there, it opened and there stood Alfred, the butler-cum-everything for the house.

"Hello Miss Hela, it's good to see you again. The Mistress and Mister Alexander are in the library, eagerly awaiting your arrival. If you'll follow me please."

His imperious bearing, together with his cut glass English accent, would frighten the life out of most people. But I wasn't most people and I knew what lay behind the mask. I also knew what lay beyond that front door. He led me down the hallway, walking on the lush red carpet and past the oak panelled walls, to the library doorway.

"Miss Hela," he announced.

The room's occupants swiftly covered the floor between us and both embraced me with real affection.

"So good to see you again, Hela. We've missed you."

Freya turned to Alfred. "Take Hela's bags to her usual room, Alfred, and then bring in the snacks you've prepared."

"We were surprised to hear from you, so soon after your last visit," said Alexander. "How long will you be staying?"

I gave a rueful laugh. "Only overnight, unfortunately. But hopefully I'll make the best of it."

"We will make the best of it!" retorted Alexander. "We'll not have you come all that way and leave disappointed. It's one hell of a drive from where you live to here."

"Oh, I didn't come down directly. I drove down to Meridian yesterday, because I had some business in that area."

Freya and Alexander nodded, understanding what I was saying. They knew what business I was in even though we'd never discussed it openly.

Just then the sandwiches and coffee arrived and for the next thirty minutes we chatted away, like the old friends we were, and then Freya, just finishing her coffee, inquired, "Everyone ready to go downstairs and have some fun?"

Alexander and I were on our feet immediately, before Freya had chance to put her empty cup on the tray.

Alexander unlocked the connecting door and we walked down the stairs into their private dungeon. I say private but in fact they allowed several friends to share it with them. Freya and Alexander accessed the dungeon through the door we had just used, but everyone else accessed Asgard from a door on the side of the mansion. There was a large room in which to change if you hadn't done so before you arrived. Modesty doesn't apply considering what they and their friends got up to behind the walls of Asgard. Naturally the slave's changed elsewhere.

Everyone who was a guest at Asgard was either a domme or a sub. I was the odd one out. I'm a switch. But I'm only submissive to Freya and right now I was going to be a sub. I was always a sub after a job. Some kind of psychology test required? Must go to see a therapist. Someday.

I changed for the session. That was easy. I had to be naked. Freya changed into a pair of knee high red leather boots with 4" spike heels, coupled with a red leather skirt above which was a black silk blouse. The skirt was short enough to hint at what it was hiding, but long enough to keep her treasure hidden. The blouse was, naturally, designer and showed off her breasts to perfection.

Freya and I entered the dungeon proper together and her first words were, of course, "on your knees."

I crawled behind her, as the dutiful sub, as she crossed the room towards the St Andrew's Cross. I waited for her to say if I would be facing the cross, or back against it.

"Alexander," she called. "Come!"

Alexander had been patiently waiting just out of sight until his mistress wanted him. Now he stepped into view, naked except for the stainless steel cage encasing a cock that was struggling in a vain attempt to break free.

Freya had specially fitted him, as a present on his last birthday, with a made-to-measure spiked cage. When you first see it the immediate impression is that it's too big. It's much bigger than a CB-6000. But as soon as it's locked the blood rushes in and the forty internal spikes dig into the skin, and the blood can't get back out. The cage can be worn for longer periods of time because of its open ended design. It's hygienic, allowing the wearer to fully urinate, the penis is easy to clean, plus the metal doesn't rust or tarnish. Alexander loved his birthday present.

The problems arise when removing it because the spikes don't want to let go and have pierced the skin. Freya has found that the best way of removing it is for Alexander to sit in a bath filled with ice cubes, only for a short time, and then remove the device before his body realises and he grows again.

Because of the damage it causes she allows him to have it removed for longer than with other devices he's worn over the years, giving his penis longer relief and time to recover and repair itself. Unfortunately for Alexander, if he misbehaves and has to be punished, she makes him wear it longer than other devices in the past. But in reality he loves his cage because wearing it pleases Freya. Even in a completely vanilla world she would be the love of his life, and that was true because before they opened up to their desires, a vanilla life was what they had.

"Fasten the bitch with her back to the cross!"

Freya loved to play the sadistic dominatrix with me and liked nothing more than calling me a bitch, and treating me as one. As for me, I loved our role play to take exactly the same route. Freya was really good at being an evil and harsh mistress.

Alexander had only taken one step into the room when she hissed, "Down on your knees. How dare you enter upright without being granted permission. You will be punished later for your impudence."

I knew Alexander had done it deliberately, because he liked nothing better than for her to use the leather strap on his back, ass and thighs. Sometimes, however, she chose to punish him in some other way and when that happened you saw the disappointment in his eyes.

"Stand with your back to the cross, Slut," she commanded.

Alexander connected a three foot spreader bar between my ankles, and then shackled them to the legs of the cross. As I lifted my arms, he pulled them apart and fastened my wrists to the cross, above my head. Meanwhile I watched Freya walk across to the the wall that held her various whips and paddles and select a multi-tailed flogger. I suddenly got a feeling of deja vu. I hadn't got a cock like my daddy, who I'd used a similar flogger on earlier that day, but I knew where the tails of this particular flogger were going.

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