I Belong to the Living Dead Pt. 02

Feeling like a vial without a stopper, Kaye decides to draw a bath. She folds her clothes carefully and rests them on the bed: it's an elegant blue dress he gave her, every inch of it following the outline of her body, the smoothness of her curves. She sets her stockings beside it and her shoes on the floor. There's no underwear in her outfit to speak of.

Kaye lowers herself into the steaming water and sighs as it kisses her bare skin. She closes her eyes, a smile on her lips.

Just then, her phone rings.

For just a moment, Kaye's stomach dives. He couldn't be calling now? But she glances at the phone screen and sees it's only Usara, her co-worker at the firm. She works only two days a week now since he started caring for her - he had said she should quit completely, and she told him that she wanted to work, that it made her feel more confident. She picks up the phone, blinking twice as she tries to remember the Rules.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, hi, Kaye, it's Usara," the tense voice at the other end of the line says. "I'm sorry to bother you on a day off like this, but I was wondering if you remember working on the Scaarsgard account?"

"I did. In the first cycle."

"Right, well, now Hannah is working it." The irritation in Usara's voice is audible as she says the name. "So, like, nothing happening on it."

"Sort of like the Bordsen file?"

"Exactly. Exactly. Anyway, I'm calling you because I know you had this account, and Hannah doesn't know the answer. Do they get a quarterly report?"

"No, I spoke to Brent. She's only interested in the...semester reports."

"Sememster?"

"Twice per."

"Ohhhh, okay, twice per year," Usara says.

"Yes. She doesn't need more."

"See, Hannah said she didn't know," Usara says, the tension leaking out of her voice. "Okay, that makes perfect sense. Right. Okay, I'll let you get back to your life." Her tone changes, becomes more friendly. "What are you doing right now, by the way?"

"I'm in my...me-time."

Usara laughs bitterly. "God you're lucky. I'm gonna be here 'til 8pm tonight just picking up after Hannah. Well, anyway, I'll see you later. Bye, Kaye,"

"Goodbye."

She hangs up the phone and exhales loudly, laughter bubbling up from inside of her. An entire conversation without the letter A. He sets rules for her speech, of course, just like everything else. The thrill she gets from obeying - the undeniable sense that he knows, that somehow he heard and knows she was good, that she behaved, that she's been a good girl - sends enough excitement coursing through her that her face begins to ache from smiling, and her shoulders shift downward into the warm water until it's up to her chin. She wants to pleasure herself now, just to the idea of him looking at her, of his eyes while she speaks: how the light in them dances between reproach and approval with each word, how he is deep in her mind, as deep as any cock has ever been or will ever be inside of her, in any hole.

She moans softly, and her fingers go to her warm and aching sex, but once her hands touch her thighs she balls them into fists. No. Not allowed. She gives another shudder of pleasure, and says the words aloud just to hear how they sound in the empty bathroom.

"Not allowed."

The taste of them is delicious.

At noon, she eats a modest lunch: enough to keep her strength up, but to leave her hungry. Then she goes to her bedroom, removes her clothes again, and does her yoga routine in the utter nude. Her body quivers and strains with the effort of each pose. Every muscle that is called upon is full of yearning. When she's done, she takes opens one of her top dresser drawers and is met by rolling and clattering sounds. She plucks out another butt plug, this one dark and made of silicone. It has a tag tied around the narrow stem that says, "2pm to 3:30pm." It's larger still, and looking at it makes her stomach drop. Then she removes a small tube of lotion from the same drawer - the only lotion she's been allowed, and god help her if she should ask for more. She smiles wryly to herself as she applies the clear fluid to the tip. She puts one leg on a chair and the other on the floor, reaches behind herself, rests her wrist on the crease between her thighs as she presses the cool, wet rubber against her, whimpering as it enters, her knees shaking as it passes the midway point and is swallowed. She heaves a sigh and drops her leg, the sensation of having both feet on the carpet again like the feeling of coming down from a fantastic high. She feels the pliant silicone moving inside of her and laughs sharply, then covers her mouth.

She dresses again, adds a turtle neck sweater to her ensemble, and goes for a walk.

This quiet town is mostly empty on weekday afternoon. Kaye ambles along, admiring the changing colors, the briskness of the wind, the smells of autumn. She goes into a corner store and buys a new notepad, as her last one is running low on empty pages. She sits on a park bench with her legs crossed, trying not to squirm or cry aloud. Either from the coldness of the air or the tightness in her bottom, her eyes begin to water. She goes home at 4pm, practically skipping with happiness.

Then it's time for another half hour of reading, this time with a bar restraint cuffing her wrists and her neck. She can lock the restraint herself, but she needs someone else to unlock it for her, so it's the ultimate act of trust. She has to turn her entire body, swiveling on her narrow waist, to turn the page. She reads in her kitchen, taking sips from her lemon water through a long straw.

Here's the tricky part: at quarter after seven, it's time for dinner. Still wearing the bar restraint, she uses her foot to pull a dish full of dried food from the kitchen closet. Slowly, carefully, she gets down on her knees and begins to eat, savoring every bite and licking the bowl clean when she's done.

And then, when the clock strikes 8:30pm, it's time for her to go to her bedroom and assume the position. She climbs onto her mattress and kneels on all fours, resting her elbows on the sheets and looking straight ahead. Her dress rides up the back of her thighs, and the plug in her ass aches. This is always the hardest part: the waiting. She isn't allowed to have her phone in front of her, so she can never tell how much time is passing while she's waiting like this, on all fours like a dog with her head in a wooden bar restraint that clacks each time she tries to shift her weight from knee to knee. She never knows if the guide arrives on time, or even what time he's supposed to arrive. She only knows to start waiting for him at 8:30pm. Whenever he comes, he comes. She closes her eyes and the pattern of the sheet is imprinted on her eyelids. Her breathing is heavy, and it warms the fabric before her, warms her lips. To make the time pass faster, she imagines him, imagines his cock throbbing, the feel of it on her tongue, against the inside of her cheek. But that proves too much for her, as her loins start to burn and ache with desire, and she has to wriggle desperately to keep her position. She's a human metronome, ticking between pleasure and pain at an infernal rhythm. The boredom makes her mind reel. She whispers a soft, nonsensical prayer.

At last, the guide arrives. Her ears, well adjusted to the silence, prick up the moment he touches the handle to her front door. He takes forever to get to her room, forever to open the door. She wants to cry aloud, to beg him to Hurry!, but she knows she could never. She hears the swish of his coat, followed by the click of the lock at her ear as the bar restraint is removed. In its place, he clasps a silver collar around her tender throat. She winces as she feels his fingers on her hindquarters, finding and lifting the hem of her dress. She braces, clenching her teeth, as his fingers tap the base of her plug, then wrap themselves around it and work it free from her still-too-tight behind. She growls into the pillow as it comes loose, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes.

Then she hears a jangling and knows that he's taken her by the leash of silver chain. He leads her to her front door and into the street. It's dark - the sun has set already, and the night air is cold. She wishes she still had her turtleneck, but all she's wearing now is that same blue dress without any underwear, sheer stockings and bare feet. He walks her across the street, the asphalt rough on her soles. Stars are just beginning to peek out in the sky above through a gray film of clouds. Anyone who saw them would think they were a man and a woman out for a walk, side by side. They wouldn't be able to see the thin silver chain dangling from her neck, or the way the guide clutches it with both hands.

Soon, the chapel stands before them.