Salvage Ch. 01

"And you didn't leave any for me?" He smirks. "Quite the hungry girl aren't you, Ruby?"

"I'm sorry, I couldn't eat anything yesterday," I say. I already screwed up. "I won't be a greedy pig, sir, I know I'm fat, give me a chan--MMMMPPHH"

"Slave, the woman who was Kimberly's mother is not an authority on your weight." His hand clamps so tight over my mouth. "You are Ruby. You are my slave. If I decided you were overweight, rest assured that you would be whipped into shape. Literally. Understood?"

I whimper through the hand gagging me.

"Alright. It will take you some time to adjust. I will be patient." His hand lifts away. "Now, the present accommodations seem dire. If you wish to improve them, then proving your obedience to me will mean an improvement in your living situation."

"It's a little basic, sir," I say. "But really, less is more, huh? There's no pink. Distinct lack of ruffles. Or a giant portrait of her and my stepfather on the wall. Because somehow that's family."

"I prefer a mid century modern look," he says. "No pink."

"Oh, that's a great scheme for these bungalows, sir," I say.

Oh. His eyes are a cool gray. I can tell because his face is right in front of mine now.

"How do you know this is a bungalow?" he asks.

"I--I heard the last station inside the pack, sir." The breakfast is about to come up in the express lane. "Tallman. I've bicycled around this neighborhood. It's full of those Chicago-style bungalows. The shape of the basement fits, it's skinny but long like the lots--"

"You're a perceptive girl." He pats one shoulder. "So you can tell me what you have been doing wrong this entire conversation."

"I'm sorry, sir, this is all new to--" I wince. "Right. Slaves have masters."

"I prefer 'my master," Master says. "Of course, in informal situations, you may refer to me as Lord Humungous."

I stare at him.

"Tough room." Master reaches out to place his hands on me. "You have good instincts. But you should spread your thighs wider--"

He forces them apart until the muscles of my inner thighs strain a bit.

"--back arched to present your breasts--"

One hand presses between my shoulder blades, molding me like clay.

"--and your hands rest palms down on your thighs." Master positions them just so. "This is the position you assume when I enter a room. You will not break it without permission. Understand, Kimberly?"

"Yes, my mas--"

I realize I screwed up a half second before each of my inner thighs feels like a hornet stung them.

"I am not your parents." Master lays the riding crop across his lap. "Correction will be immediate and sharp. This was an honest mistake, so it was minor discipline. Actual defiance will mean time spent under the cane or tawse, Ruby."

"I apologize, my master." I throttle the outrage before it shows. I read about caning in Singapore. "Will I be beaten, uh, recreationally?"

"Yes. Never out of anger or pettiness." It is terrifying how Master answers this without any shame. "No scars or permanent damage. Now, birth control, Kimberly?"

Fool me, twice...

"Ruby?"

"Copper IUD. Mo--Kimberly's mother arranged it when she was fifteen." I grit my teeth at the memory. "Said if she was too stupid choosing to go to school on transit than getting driven, then relying on her to take pills to stop her from popping out a kid when she inevitably got raped by a homeless guy was too risky."

"How charming." Master's fingers on the shaft of the crop go dead white. "Experience?"

"A few times this summer. One of the sons of Kimberly's stepdad's clients." I close my eyes. "'His father is very important, keep the kid happy'. I just lay back when he wanted it. He never lasted long."

"You will find me more demanding," Master says. "Still, we have a lifetime to instruct you. I won't demand perfection right away. We should begin your training now, actually."

I nearly break position when Master stands up. Those three months dating Brandon were among the worst of my life. Thank God that asshole ended up in a coma after a street racing crash. But I have years of the same with Master. And it starts down here. I am confused when he goes to a closet to take out a blue gym mat. Why not just use the air mattress? Then he locks a leather belt padded on the inside about my waist. He secures a chain to a steel loop in back--this is a prison handcuff belt--whose free end he snaps to an eyebolt in a ceiling beam. He takes the neck chain off my throat before handing me a grey exercise bra and matching gym skirt. Grey yoga slippers go onto my feet. I stand there, bewildered, while he wheels out a TV with a DVD player plugged into it. The screen comes on to the menu screen of an aerobics DVD already inside.

It's not rape. It's gym.

For a moment, I can't decide which is worse. Then the DVD plays. The crop flicks under the hem of my skirt. I rise onto tiptoe with a cry before following the instructions of the spandex-clad bimbo on screen. The burning welt on my right buttock where ass meets thigh is strong encouragement to not slack as I did when mom forced me to go with her to spin classes. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on my skin as I aim for a medium pace that is enough to keep up with the instructor. It is a pretty intense routine. Master pulls out an aerobics step and even weighted bracelets that he locks on my wrists. I am one tired slavegirl when I collapse onto the mat after the DVD finishes the cool down.

A yoga video is next. It feels so good to stretch out my muscles. I flush when I glance at Master. He has a great poker face. But his cock is tenting those swim trunks. He's...big. My throat goes dry when I realise how the sweat-drenched exercise clothes cling to me. He chose me. The idea startles me. He stalked me. I was the girl he obsessed over. I'm not some cumrag that Brandon used after my stepfather all but pimped me out to. He risked his life for me. It's terrifying. And...just a little bit hot. I arch myself a bit more than I really need to. It's naughty to give my rapist a show, isn't it? I should not be dripping under the skirt. Oh, god, what's wrong with me? This must be Stockholm Syndrome.

The chain goes back around my neck the second the yoga routine ends. The other end is coiled about his wrist when he takes off the belt. Every moment of my life after the bridge means being under some sort of restraint. He guides me into a new position: "table". I must go on my hands and knees with back straight and head down. He smacks one asscheek when he finds my thighs too close together. They must be far enough apart for his palm to cup between my legs. My mound is squeezed. His fingers stroke my bare cunt lips. Mo--Kimberly's mother always nagged her about staying neat down there. So Kimberly decided to have everything brazillianed away one day at the stylist her mother nagged her into going to. Anything to get her mother off her back. She stuck with it even if it hurt. I whimper when two fingers slide into my dripping pussy. I wait for him to laugh like Brandon if he would have found me like this. He doesn't. Master is...gentle? Tears of gratitude fall onto the mat as Master's fingers explore me carefully. My hips push back at them. I don't care how much of a slut this makes me.

It doesn't matter.

Master owns me. He owned me the second I decided to chuck my life away.

I can't feel shame for what he forces me to feel, can I?

It doesn't make it any better. It doesn't make it right.

It's still comforting in a twisted sort of logic.

His fingers leave me. I'm panting as if I had run five miles. My hair hangs around my face, cutting off my sight, as the leash about my neck jerks in time with his movements. What's next? Oh. A damp cloth wipes down my sweat-drenched skin. Brandon just tossed me a wad of kleenex to clean up after. This feels as if I am some prized animal being groomed. I know he showered me when he brought me into his home. I vaguely remember white tile and a clawfoot tub before passing out. I stretch out one leg, then the other at his command. My breasts fall free when he undoes the front zipper of the sports bra. I have always hated them since they started sprouting at thirteen. I secretly planned a breast reduction later this year before I decided to check out. But I can't be ashamed of them now, can I? These are Master's tits now. I still can't stop flushing all over when Master spirals the washcloth around each breast. My nipples could cut glass by the time he's done. I am shaking enough to almost break position when he pressed fingers to the corners of my jaw. He gives a brisk brush and flossing before making me rinse with mouthwash sipped from a cap. I spit it out into now empty mug.

He jerks the chain. I follow like a pet crawling on my hands and knees on the bare concrete. I wince at the light scraping the latter gets. This might be the incentive for me to be a good slave girl to escape this hole for better quarters. I crush any idea of escape. That is a long, long way away. Beneath the windows at the end of the basement at the front of the house is where my...training is going to begin. It is a black metal bed frame that looks like it came right out of military surplus. The railings at the head and foot are like ladders laid on their sides. Metal slats underneath the mattress creak when I climb onto it. There are already restraints on steel chains locked in place. The crop lightly taps one breast when I hesitate. My hands work through the already buckled pair of leather cuffs at the end of a short chain in the middle of the head railing. Fake fur on the inside cushions my wrists. Master tightens them both before snapping padlocks through the buckle tongues. A tap on one hip has me rolling onto the back. I stare at the ceiling when he puts on the leather shackles chained to each corner of the bottom of the bed frame. There's a fair bit of slack. It allows me to lie with my knees bent with feet flat on the mattress. My leash is locked to the right corner at the top of the frame.

This is the third position: "submission", ready to serve Master. I bite my lip when the blindfold goes on. It is thick leather in the form of a sleeping mask. Foam padding on the inside seals out all light. I can only listen and feel. I jerk lightly against the restraints. I'm loosely bound compared to the backpack. I won't be going anywhere soon. Clothing slithers off skin. What feels like the sweatpants rolled up are slid under my ass. My hips are arched up. The hem of my exercise skirt is folded up to be tucked into the elastic at the waist. I break when I feel his weight settle on the mattress between my legs. I can't help it. I say no no please no not like this no I don't want to be a slave please. His hand clamps over my mouth. Not that it matters. If he has me down here ungagged, then he isn't worried about anyone from outside hearing my screams.

Then he is in me. All thought leaves my brain as his cock enters me inch by inch. So big. It almost hurts. Almost. He is not gentle. But he is so very controlled. His other hand holds me down by my stomach as he rocks into me. Each thrust sends the tip of him deeper until I feel his balls slap against my ass. My traitor of a body presses up to meet him when Master rocks in me. Oh. So different than Brandon. This is almost...dignified? I'm not face down on the fake leather of a back seat waiting for my "boyfriend" to pump in five times before leaving stickiness on the back of my thighs. I sigh into the handgag when Master bends down to kiss and lick my heaving breasts. My back arches when lips and tongue tease my nips. There's pain and pleasure when he love bites them. Being blind, every other sense is heightened as I am taken. I am owned. Master chose me. He stalked me. He looked at a broken girl and thought she could be salvaged.

I'm on the bridge looking down at the abyss. I imagine my empty room at mom's and my stepdad's that I will never see again. I imagine the empty desk at school where I will never have to endure another class that seems so pointless. I scream as I let go. It's terrifying. But Kimberly is dead. There is only the slave now who falls and falls into the darkness. Master is grunting as he pistons in and out of me. My ears are filled with the rattling of chains. I smell his musky scent coming off the man lying on me. The slave hits the water. What is left of Kimberly shatters in a million pieces as she is dashed on rocks and spun about in whirling currents before being pulled under. Drowning is a peaceful end, they say. Then scaly arms seize her. It's a monster. It is a hideous thing. But it drags her out. It seals its lips on hers. I kiss Master back as he half-bruises my lips. The monster pours its breath into the girl who dropped. It binds her before carrying her into the hoard where it keeps the precious things that come from the world above.

The dream becomes reality as I awaken to Master gripping me by the hips as his cock thrusts hard and fast. The bed creaks under the strain. It holds. So do I. I am unashamed as I moan under his assault. His rape. It feels so good. It feels so right. I don't have to think. He will take me however I feel about it. But he will care for me. His lips are close to one ear. I listen. Good girl. Beautiful girl. Not whore or slut or entitled bitch. My eyes roll back under the blindfold when my body reaches its limit. I beg Master for release. I don't even know if I need to ask permission. It feels like I should. There's pain from his relentless fucking and pleasure from the same. It all mixes together. I think I am being trained to need both. I am being conditioned to crave hard rape. Existence goes white when all the stimulation sends me over the edge. Master snarls when I clamp down on his cock in the midst of the most intense orgasm yet. Another, then another. I lose count before Master finally drives deep into me, going rigid, before unleashing a torrent of his seed into me. Even at the end, he is still erect and semi-hard when he pulls out. A command of his permits me to collapse on the bed. He lies beside me as he strokes my shivering body.

"Very good, Kimberly," Master deadnames me.

"She's gone, my Master." Blind, I lean over to kiss his shoulder. "There is only your slave."

"And such a lovely one she is making out to be." Master touches my clit. "I think we'll have a hood piercing. Your nipples as well. Perhaps a nice 'slave brand' tattooed just above your clit."

"I--" I swallow. "Master will do this?"

"No, this is something that a professional must do." Master rubs me through the hood. "Silence can be bought. Perhaps I shall find someone from Saudi Arabia or the Gulf States where girls like you are kept."

"You're rich, my master." My mind whirls. "Um, inheritance? No, like from that book, you won a lottery--"

"Rather more than the pools that Clegg won." Master laughs. "In fact, your stepfather's firm handles some of my lesser finances. He might even work on my file in some capacity."

My heart pounds at the idea that Master chose me when I was at that office because my stepdad wanted to show me off.

And then the possibility of some tiny measure of choice comes to mind.

"My Master, may--may your slave ask if she can suggest a name?" I lick my lips. "Ruby is such a pretty name. But there's another that might be even prettier."

"Oh?" Master stills. Is he angry? I can't tell like this! "Ah. 'Miranda'. An ominous name, slave. I don't think you want to end up like her under my flower beds."

"I'll be the one you can teach, my Master," I say.

"It is a much prettier name." Master presses a thumb to a spot just above my slit. "But when you are branded, it will be a ruby here encircled by chain."

"Thank you, my Master," I whisper.

"Good girl, Miranda." Weight shifts. He is straddling me. Slick wetness coats the valley between my breasts.

His hard cock rests between them while he folds my breasts around it.

"Now, let's teach you about titfucking."