The Executive

The Executive: or, How to Break a Slave in Seven Days

* * *

MONDAY.

"Jesus Christ, lady," he choked. "Is that thing real?"

I blatted the stun gun just under his nose. He recoiled, scattering papers across his desk.

"Look, this is a business. You can't just come in here and--"

"Kidnap you? Why yes, yes I can. In fact, you've been asking for it for months, haven't you, slave-boy?"

This brought him up short. Birds twittered outside his office.

"Oh, yes," I assured him, "I know all about your little online persona. It wasn't much work to track you down. Don't complain. I'm giving you what you want."

"That was," he said weakly, "that was just a joke. I didn't really mean it. Look, I like to complain about my workload--"

"Yes, you have the Baxter meeting in twenty minutes. Better start moving. Come with me, little man."

"How did you -- no. No! I'm not going anywhere." He grabbed for the phone. An elbow in the nose dissuaded him.

"Jesus!" he yowled, clutching at the gush of blood. As he drew a great breath to scream for help, I landed a knee to his balls. He folded and collapsed with a bleat, and I was on him, jamming the stun gun to his gut.

As the electricity ripped through him, he convulsed, useless and unable to fight back. He whined like an injured animal on the plush carpet.

"I really need to teach you to be less blasphemous. But we'll get to that. Yes, yes, I'll stop. I wouldn't want you to wet yourself. It's such a mess to deal with." I leaned in close to his face, whispering, "This is the lowest setting, you see. Imagine what I can do with this little toy if I turn it up and aim at your heart, hm? Nighty night, white collar boy. You are going to cooperate with me, aren't you?"

He whimpered, shaking and glazed.

"That's a good boy. Come with mama."

I hauled him to his feet, where he continued to shudder like a fish hung to dry. I held him while his legs tried to remember how to stand.

"Now, we're going to walk down the hall arm in arm all civilized like, and you're going to act as if nothing's amiss. We're going out to a nice business lunch, that's all. Repeat after me, busin--"

He groaned, awkwardly trying to shake me off. I pointed the gun at his temple. He froze, his eyes nearly cranking out of their sockets.

"Now, now. Remember those pictures you took last week? Oh yes. Those pictures. I have them right here. I'm sure you don't want H.R. to see them. Aw, don't look like that. Would I hurt you? Here, I'll even clean you up, see? Much better. Now, where were we going...?"

"I, I d--"

"Lunch. Llll..."

"Lunch," he panted.

"Good boy."

He swallowed, wild eyed. About thirty seconds left before he got his wits back, I estimated. I steered him to the office door. The stun gun pressed insistently into his hip through his coat pocket.

This next bit was always the most thrilling, strolling through Corporate with the freefalling sensation of adrenaline pumping, waiting for something to go wrong, ready to talk my way out or sprint to a predetermined exit...

...but the hall was empty. Well, good.

No one was in the parking lot except for a landscaper blowing some leaves. My captive twitched, fixating on him.

"Pictures," I reminded him.

"Screw your pictures!" he yelled, shoving me away.

The gun zapped empty air, and the ground slammed into me. As I scrambled to my feet, I saw him gesticulating wildly to the man with the leaf blower. Drat. Well, at least there were no security cameras on this side of the building. I darted away.

"Where did she go?"

Dashing footsteps. "I think I saw--oomph!"

Prada oxfords scraped across the asphalt.

I popped the van doors.

"Discreetly, I said," I frowned.

"Sorry, Señora."

"That's good, right there. Fine." I hopped in after the body. "Just follow us to the turnpike. I'm good after that. See you Thursday, Pedro."

"Yes, Ma'am." The doors slammed.

I wrapped my captive's arms first with duct tape -- a very unwieldy way to fight, but this hunk could probably manage it -- and strapped them to his belt. I had just cinched down his second ankle when he stirred.

"Oh... God..."

"Tsk. No more cursing or I'll give you something to curse about."

"My head..." he moaned. "What the..."

"I don't like your tone."

"You don't limmmph!"

"This was on your list of fetishes, wasn't it, dear? You never did say which kind of gags you like...."

The reality of his situation sunk in as he pulled short against the bonds. His eyes grew huge over the ball gag and he thrashed, screeching at the top of his lungs.

I popped up to the driver's seat, cranking the ignition and my stereo. "Death metal. Nice, huh? Sing along, kiddo." More screeching. "Hey, you're pretty good..."

I climbed back for one last check of his bonds. He flopped wildly, straining to break free. I added a few more rope wraps for good measure, until he was simply straining in place. Excellent. He'd exhaust himself before we even got to Route 70.

"Do you get carsick, dear? Hm? I'll take that as a no. Duct tape, I've found, can loosen if you sweat enough, but medical tape! Medical tape holds a blindfold on nicely. There we are. Ready? I'll take that as a yes." I patted him and heaved to my feet.

I demurely obeyed the speed limit all the way to the warehouse.

* * *

I shut off the engine, listening to the ticking as it cooled, distant highway drone, birdsong, and my captive's raw breathing. He lay still, conserving his energy. He'd managed to work one foot's carabiner free of its hard point, but since his legs were lashed together, it did him little good.

"Whu eye mmm seh..."

"Hm?" I hummed absently, unhitching his other ankle.

"Whu heyemm esseh?"

"Ah. It's," I checked my watch, "one oh five."

A whimper.

"Yes, you're late for your meeting, poor boy. It's okay, I'm sure the other partners will handle it."

A pained noise.

"Now, I'm sure the other reason you're asking is to give the police a search radius, hm? Except that we're not to our destination yet, oh no. I'm simply transferring you to my other vehicle. You'll like it. Very spacious. In fact, you'd better like it, because you'll live there for... oh, a few days, at least...."

I tugged him out the back doors, carefully balancing him on his feet. He would be able to waddle forward if he tried, but not much else.

He threw himself to the ground, kicking blindly.

"Oh, for Pete's sake." I ran a hand through my hair, stepping out of range. "Look, the sooner you start to cooperate, the sooner you'll start to enjoy this. Don't tell me I got a bottom and not a submissive. Do you know how much work those fellows are? Very unrewarding..."

He froze.

"Hmm? Oh. You're feeling it. Yes, that was the hardest part, spiking the coffee. I had to make sure the sedative only ended up in your cup, you see. We wouldn't want everyone in your office driving home early for a nap. Very dangerous for pedestrians..."

"Craayee bikh!"

"Come now, that was uncalled for. I made sure you had no contraindications first. Remember, about a week ago, the dominatrix you were chatting with in Milwaukee? No heart conditions, no diabetes... oh, and my safeword is Red."

"Reh! REH!"

"That's right! Aren't you clever. Hold still, now..." Of course, he began to struggle reflexively. I laid a hand truck on its side behind him and methodically lashed his rope harness to the uprights.

With one heave, I had laid my captive on his back. I wheeled him over to my moving van. He dragged his feet ineffectually, meowing grievances, as I pulled him up the ramp. The hand truck rumbled over the ribbed steel floor.

I lashed the whole contraption to struts against the trailer's forward wall. My prisoner sat bound upright, hands stuffed between his lashed thighs. His ankles didn't need the floor anchor, I decided.

I yanked off his blindfold. Sweat streamed free. He studied me, eyes vague and bloodshot. "Reh," he protested.

"I'll let you call red after you've started to enjoy yourself," I avowed. "We haven't even gotten started yet, dear. You signed up for a full week."

He shook his head. "Ouh!"

"Oh, yes," I corrected him, extracting the papers from my cleavage. I unfolded them and pointed. "For a period of at least seven days, with amenities, holding harmless any--"

"Ouh!" His head shaking grew more emphatic, and he panted.

I learned forward. "Think about it, dear. How many times in the past month have you clicked 'I agree - Enter' without reading the fine print?"

He blinked once, slowly. Then offered, "Eh uh eher seh uh eh orrd..."

"Of course it would stand up in court. Do you know how many lawyers I have on retainer, dear? Some even from the same firms. Pro bono." I smiled pleasantly at him. He blinked again, struggling to concentrate on my face.

"Eh ohees..."

"No police. No, no one's going to come looking for you. You sent out a company email saying you've been called away for several days."

"Gk!"

"Facebook, too."

"Gh..." Drool dribbled down his chin. He dragged his eyes open.

"You're all set for a nice vacation, wouldn't you say? Might as well enjoy. Think about it."

"Mmph..." he murmured, drooping.

"Sleep tight, toodles." I rolled the rear panel shut, sealing him in darkness.

* * *

TUESDAY.

"Morning, sunshine. Brought you something..."

He blinked into the square of sunlight, looking rumpled, miserable, and still thoroughly bound. The swelling of his nose had gone down, but an angry purple ring had started to expand around the edges.

"Bet you're thirsty, huh?" I waggled a water bottle at him.

He squinted at it suspiciously.

"Oh, it's just water. Want some?" I unbuckled his gag and peeled it free. "Say please...."

He worked his jaw. "Let me go," he croaked.

"No? All right then." I downed the bottle. He swallowed dryly, watching.

"I need to get back," he rasped. "I'll lose my job if I don't get back soon. Please..."

"Your job is fine."

"But--"

"I'm not going to talk about your job anymore. You work for me now, slave boy."

"You're crazy!"

I sniffed. "My therapist says I'm getting better, thanks. So. As a slave, you're going to beg permission to earn every little thing I can give you. Like bathroom breaks. Past time, isn't it?"

"Red! Red already!" His eyes searched for escape. Too much mind at work, in there. I would fix that.

"I told you, no safewords until you start to enjoy yourself."

"But I'll be fired!"

"I said we're not talking about that anymore," I gritted. "That's it. I'm done with the orientation part of our tour."

I fished at the back of my belt. My hand returned full of Glock 22. The heft felt beautiful. So did the change in the air.

"Oh, God," he whispered.

I backhanded him. "What did I tell you about blasphemy?"

He shook, working his mouth silently.

I grabbed a fistful of hair -- I could feel his body shuddering all the way past my elbow -- and brushed his cheek gently with the gun. "So much more effective than yesterday, don't you think? But a lot less legal. Now, open wide," I invited.

Unsure and unable to resist in any other way, he pathetically sealed his lips shut. I responded by wrenching the sight through and past his teeth. I pressed the barrel deep, until my trigger finger nestled at the corner of his mouth.

With a ripping sound, the scent of warm urine filled the trailer.

Lovely.

"Now, are you going to do as I say, slave?"

He nodded, urgently and minutely, eyes huge.

"Fellate."

He gulped, at a loss and desperate to obey.

"Fellate! It's a verb. Why doesn't anyone... urgh. Here." I pumped the shaft of the barrel between his lips. His eyes rolled white, quivering. I guided him by the hair. Then he understood, thrusting back.

He sobbed, sucking off my instrument of death.

"Very good! I knew you were a good submissive boy."

He pumped harder, encouraged.

"I might just keep you around. You'll have to convince me. No, not that way. Enough of that." The Glock slid out. "Now, see? Aren't there much more important things in life than work?"

"Yes," he quavered, an unspeakable look in his eyes.

"Yes, Ma'am," I corrected.

"Yes, Ma'am. Ma'am," he babbled.

"Good! Now, let's see. Your bathroom break is all taken care of. How about that drink?"

He agreed.

"No, idiot. Beg."

"Please, Ma'am." He shivered. "May I... have a drink of water, Ma'am..."

"Fool. Do you see any water around here? All I see is a mess that needs to be cleaned up."

"Please, no..." he whimpered.

I cocked the Glock. "Beg for it."

He jerked. "Please, Ma'am. May I... clean the floor..."

"Don't be a damned pussy. Say it right."

"May I... drink my urine, Ma'am?"

"Why yes! Yes you may." I purred into his ear, "Now, what do you say...?"

"Thank you, Ma'am?"

"Mmm. Yes." Somehow, this little murmur seemed to reach him as nothing else had. He took a wet and shuddering breath.

I unlashed the cords binding him to the hand truck. Slight mobility. But he was as useless as a sodden paper bag, all trussed up like a caterpillar. When I tugged the last cord free, he tumbled onto his side.

He stared up at me, then at the rivulets seeping across the floor.

"Here." I tapped a toe.

He wriggled into place.

"Lick."

He licked.

"Not enough enthusiasm." I pressed my foot to his head, demonstrating. It rocked as he obeyed. "Yes... Use your whole mouth."

I circled.

"Slurp."

Slurping noises.

"Good. Clean it all up, now. We don't want this place stinking for the next week, do we?"

"No Ma'am..." he agreed.

"Good."

He writhed along, inch by inch, following the dark trail across the floor. I settled on my heels for a better view.

He paused, panting, at a puddle in the corner.

"Did I tell you to stop?"

He buried his face. The pool slowly ebbed.

"That's a good boy."

He moaned.

"The odd thing about penises," I mused aloud, "is that they don't grow erect only when sexually excited. Fear also causes it." I studied my captive as he sucked away. "What a sick little pervert. Could you even tell me which it is, right now?"

Unsure of whether I wanted an answer, he continued his work. I waited until he was reduced to licking bare floor.

I grabbed him by the hair, lifting his face. His eyes were far away.

"Beautiful."

He waited for my next command, gazing up at me, eyes unfocused.

"Oh, lovely. Very pretty. Did you happen to notice that I touched your nasty body fluids with my boot? What do you think needs to be done about that, hm?" I released his hair, and he dropped with a thunk.

He squirmed right into place and aimed with his tongue. I drew my foot just out of reach.

"Oh, that's good. But," I sighed, "I'm afraid I don't want your filthy mouth soiling this footwear. It will end up even dirtier than it started. And do you really imagine you cleaned that floor so well this place won't be reeking in a few hours? No, I have a better idea." I rose.

When I returned with the hose, he was still in place. Odd. I would have expected him to at least roll over and have a look out the back door at escape. When I rolled him with a foot, he had the same vacant stare on his face.

"Open your mouth."

This time, his mouth went wide.

I filled it with spray, then hosed off the front of his suit. He sputtered, curling in on himself for protection. I rinsed down the rest of his body thoroughly, just for the sheer joy of watching him cringe. I wiped my feet on his clothing. Then I paced around the perimeter for a quick wash of the floor.

"There. Now you have some more to lick up. Get to work, kiddo." I slung the nozzle over my shoulder.

"Ma'am..."

"Mm?" I paused, hanging from the door.

"May I... Thank you, Ma'am."

I stopped. "Well. That's nice. What were you going to ask?"

"Nothing, Ma'am."

"Huh."

I sealed him in darkness, making sure he heard the massive clunk of the lock quite separately from the rumble of the door.

* * *

"So, what's he doing?" I snagged some Cheetos and spread out on the couch.

"Hasn't moved yet," my boy answered. "Wait, no, there he goes."

On the monitor screen, my captive stretched as much as he could. A green glow spotlit his body as bright as day.

I watched as he rolled to face the door. "Ha," I grunted.

He laboriously wrenched himself toward the back of the trailer. Some wriggling assured him that the door wasn't going to budge.

After a few minutes of recuperation, he worked his way back to his original position, a sodden lump. His dark form contorted as he attempted to discover the locations of his knots.

"God, I'm hot."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

"Cute."

"May I..."

"We'll see." I smiled and stretched, catlike.

The dark lump began to move again, inching his way along the walls. Searching for weaknesses. Hoping to find some sharp point to rub his ropes against. As if I would be that sloppy.

He lowered his face again at a puddled corner. He drank.

"Huh."

"I'll be damned. Is he cleaning?"

"Might just want to clear his mouth. Might fear what I'll do to him if it's not done by the time I get back. I don't know, though... maybe..." I closed my eyes, savoring the vision of snot lubricating his lips as I thrust the gun.

I would give him a few hours to think about the same thing, I decided.

I sat up. "Fetch my red bag," I directed my boy. "You're going in."

* * *

When I rolled the trailer door open again, my captive lay shivering against a wall. Right under an anchor point. Lovely.

"Miss me, dear? No, stay right there. This is Grunt. He'll be your partner today. Grunt, slave boy," I introduced.

My captive eyed my towering barbarian warily.

"So rude. It's 'nice to meet you,' dear. Grunt, hoist his feet."

Grunt lifted him like a limp kitten.

I affixed the ankles to the wall, leaving slave boy staring up from his back. I peeled the remaining tape from his hands.

"Look, Grunt, he got a head start. Eager for this, are you? Do you know what happens to little boys who try to get out of bondage?" To demonstrate, I punched him in the nuts.

My captive flopped once, knees arching, unable to curl in on himself, and bellowed.

"Yes, it's a built in discipline tool. And people say that male doms are the natural order of things. Heh." I busied myself encasing his paws in puppy mitts. "No, no, make a fist. Like this." I punched him again. He squealed. "There we go..."

I locked the mitts on tight, humming. "Perfect. No more fingers. Now you only have your mouth free for doing whatever I say. Well, I happen to like that."

He shuddered. "Please..."

"You don't have a say in this, slave boy, so keep your mouth shut."

He whimpered.

"Manacles," I prompted.

I put one went around my captive's neck, then one on each ankle. He tracked my movements uneasily.

"Chains."

I locked his wrists together as one unit, then chained each limb to the hard point, leaving just the right amount of slack to keep him in position.

"Knife."

My prisoner's eyes widened, his lips working a protest. I touched the edge to his throat. He froze.

I worked the tip of the blade beneath his collar and pulled toward his shoulder. The fabric split.

"My suit!" he wailed.

I slammed the breath out of him again. "Gag. No, the ring gag..."

My captive struggled, twisting his head away. I hooked two fingers up his nose and pulled him straight. He yowled in pain. The ring scraped into his mouth, prying his teeth apart. He protested wordlessly as I buckled the straps tight.

He thrashed, howling, eyes glassy and mouth gaping like a fisherman's catch of the day. I sighed, holding my knife aside so he wouldn't be gutted.