The Light Between the Trees Ch. 17

Author's note: Traumatised by being held hostage in the cafe siege, Chloe has chosen a new direction in her life. She gives up her steady boyfriend and stable job to seek out new thrills in risky encounters. Covalent has laid out his plans to make her disappear and Chloe finds herself spiraling deeper and deeper into his fantasy of total control.

The story contains themes of female submission, edge play and autassassinophilia. Discretion is advised: please check the story tags to see whether this a series you'll enjoy.]

---

PERFECT

I'm running late and I hurry through the front doors, passing customers at tables. Camille rolls her eyes at me from behind the bar but when I smile at her, she smiles back.

"Natives are getting restless," she tells me, but I'm already past her, heading towards the female bathrooms to change.

I peel off my jeans and strip my t-shirt, stuffing them into my bag along with my flats, swapping them for the stiletto heels that I pull out. I check myself in the mirror, tugging at my lace panties and adjusting my stockings. I need to touch up my make-up and then I run my hands through my long, blonde hair until it falls in just the way I want it to over my shoulders. I adjust my basque, pushing my breasts together into a modest valley of cleavage. There's a sore spot on the tip of my left nipple from where the ring has picked up a little sensitivity, but the right is now healed fully. The rings don't show through the material, but I'm sure that's part of the future plan: to have me wearing something that clings tighter, showing off the outline of the metal that's been fixed in place through my skin.

My belly button has a little silver chain dangling from it and when I open my mouth there's the glint of my tongue piercing, a little stainless-steel stud that Covalent had placed there to enhance his sensations when I take his manhood into my mouth, altering me to give him more pleasure.

What isn't immediately visible are the three rows of piercings through my labia where I'm laced closed with a fine steel thread locked into a little silver ball that hangs down just below my lips, his last little specification in his modification of me. The piercing holes are no longer bothering me after six months and it almost feels natural to be closed-up down there. Covalent has the key, of course, and he makes sure that I earn my unlocking. It also means he's happier about sending me out as a blonde bimbo lingerie waitress into a bar full of guys. I'm happier about it too.

I adjust my panties again, making sure they're sitting neatly. The tattoo of a sunflower peeks up from the edge of the material, done in beautiful, intricate monochrome ink that matches the bird across my back, wings spread across my shoulder blades. The regulars think it's a raven because of my name, but only Covalent and I know the origin of the design he chose to decorate me with: it's a phoenix. I take a deep breath and open the bathroom door, emerging onto the floor of the bar in my finest lingerie, ready to take lunch orders.

The old me would have been mortified at having to strut between tables in high heels and fishnets, nodding and smiling at the regulars, picking up the food from the service hatch and clearing the used plates. This was part of Covenant's plan for me, to make me endure the degradation of being stripped to nothing, transformed into a dumb blonde who serves men in their lunch hours. I get tips, working steadily through my shift, feeling eyes on my body as I display myself. My IQ is probably higher than anyone else in the bar, and yet I smile and nod mindlessly, my bleached blonde hair bobbing, my hips swaying, bringing in the lunch crowd for Camille just like Covalent said I would when he offered my services as a lingerie waitress to her months ago.

My watch buzzes and I look at the screen. He's sent me a little smiley face. My heart rate, my blood oxygen levels, the number of steps I'm taking, they're all being relayed in real time to the app he controls; I can imagine him sitting at his desk watching the graphs as I get on with my shift. He will have seen the spike at the start as I stepped out of the bathroom, my body reacting to the way he's putting me on display. I have a master's degree in software engineering, and yet he's turned me into a bimbo underwear waitress in a bar just off the main street of a little town up the coast.

I'm doing this work because I need to earn money to pay Covalent's loan back. The cost of the work done on my body, then the maintenance treatments, they're all accumulating into a debt that's going to take years to pay off at this rate. He doesn't need the cash; he's already got plenty of money stashed away in the secret rainy-day account from his previous life, but it's part of the control he has established over me that I need to earn my freedom from his debt. Until then, I will remain in my current position, as his slave.

He bought us a nice house on the coast, up the hill with a view across the sea. He's set up a good life for us, wearing a wedding ring that matches the one on my finger, the one I flash whenever a customer gets too friendly. We're not married in reality, because technically we don't exist, having perished without trace in the fires. Our neighbours call me Raven and use his surname because I don't have one of my own.

I only have what Covalent has given me: a roof over my head, a transformed body, a place to work that doesn't involve thinking, and the opportunity to show me off. I get paid cash in hand, which he keeps because I'm not permitted to have money of my own. I'm not allowed to own anything because you need to be a person to own things, and I'm just property. But, everything is provided for me. He insisted on being in complete control financially as well as physically, and I've accepted it, letting him own me.

It's been six months since we walked out of the firestorm, hiking along the road through a landscape of ash and smoke for hours until we got picked up. A rescue patrol found two people with nothing but a blanket and a pair of jeans between the two of us, covered head to toe in soot. The house was gone, the car a burned-out shell, phones, wallets, everything we had was wiped out by the flames.

Starting again from scratch in a little town on the coast has been hard, forging a new life and a new identity. Strangely, accepting my position in our relationship was the easiest part, submitting myself to his complete financial and physical control felt, I dunno, just... right. It's been six months now since he told me we would be transitioning to an oral-led relationship, where I meet his needs each day while I go without for myself unless he unlocks me, which is rare. We're through the tough part now, and as he predicted, I find that I now look forward to feeling that glow inside when I service him, that compersive thrill of helping him achieve orgasm even though I'm prohibited. It's ironic that at the start of all this, the old me was seeking sex every day, often multiple times a day, and now I've been turned into a creature who goes completely without and adores the feeling it gives me, to be kept denied and chaste for him.

I've gotten better at the bimbo, too. I don't slip up these days like I did at the start, coming out with a smart comment unexpectedly. Now when Camille's computer crashes, I just stare at it blankly and ask if she's switched it off and on. I can get into a heated argument about geopolitics with Covalent at breakfast and then be waltzing around the bar prettily in my underwear by lunch. No-one needs to know what goes on beneath the bleached-blonde hair.

My phone buzzes again as I'm taking an order for burger and fries, standing close to Jim, who comes in every Thursday for a beer and a meal. I give him my nice smile, because I know the old guy by now, I know that his wife died and he's on his own. I put the order into the kitchen and check the message. I need to grab my phone and respond to the alert.

"Busy today," Camille says, "How's tips?"

"Good," I reply, giggling happily.

I dip into my cleavage and pull the money out, stuffing it into my purse. Covalent will count it and knock it off what I owe him, but really, I'm under no illusions. The balance of what I owe goes up again every time he books me in to be waxed or for a pedicure, or to get my hair done, or my nails coloured in the way he wants. The nipple rings came out of that total too, as did the artwork on my skin. He's been talking through something for my stomach, flipping through a few designs until we find something he'd like on me. I'm being made to fund the modifications to my body, put to work in a mindless job where it's the way I look rather than the way I think that earns my wages.

I'm used to being the smartest person in the room and now my worth is measured exclusively by how pretty I am, with my high heels and rigorously toned body, my bronzed skin and my long dyed-blonde hair. I barely recognise myself, but I don't think that's a bad thing. The job is so low paying that realistically, I'm never going to earn my freedom from the debt he's holding over me, which is how he intended it.

"Burger's up for table five."

I look up from my phone screen and nod. I tap a few controls on the server control panel and deposit my phone back into my bag. I've argued Covalent around to fund the upgrade on the server hosting plan, allowing me to increase burst processing capacity when the lunchtime traffic comes into the service.

The new AI I've built isn't using up nearly as much power as the Everything Engine did back at Kikster because I've been creative in the neural map optimisations strategies, but we're getting better results with just the team of two of us than I ever did with an entire engineering crew back at the old place. I really think I've found a better direction in connecting people to things they want to find, and judging by the growing number of sign-ups to the service, it's working for them too.

We're not making a fortune, not yet, and the revenues go straight into the business account that Covalent set up specifically for this. I'm forbidden from access, of course, since all financial decisions are his sole prerogative, but I don't mind. He controls our little business in the same way as he runs his own consultancy, in the same way as he provides a roof over our heads and food in the pantry. I have accepted my position and relinquished my rights to become one of his possessions. He sealed my fate with the ring on my finger.

Everyone assumes that we're a normal, happily married couple. We attend barbeques with our neighbours, or go out to dinner with our new circle of friends. None of them suspect what we get up to behind closed doors, or that I'm forbidden clothing as soon as I'm safely ensconced in our home again, or that he's taken me completely into his life as his willing sex slave. I play the part of the good wife and he plays the part of the doting husband, walking around with the key to my pussy in his pocket.

I finish my shift, slipping my jeans and t-shirt back on and swapping the high heels for my flat shoes again. I'm not allowed to use the car, but that doesn't matter, since we only live twenty minutes' walk away and it counts against the mandatory period of physical activity he makes me do each day to keep my body fit. I know he's tracking my position, like he's watching over me. I know that he'll be waiting at the door as I arrive.

I get home and he greets me with a kiss. I'm forbidden to speak until he allows it, so I strip off in the hall, even removing the stockings and the basque, to be properly naked before him. He makes a show of inspecting my body then he kisses me again and I know I have been dismissed to begin my house chores.

After he's finished his work, as we're curled up together on the balcony to watch the sun go down into the sea, he stretches and taps me on the shoulder. We're in the part of the day where I'm permitted to hold a conversation with him, to discuss my day or issues or what's just generally on my mind. It's in these quiet moments when we're cuddled up together that I'm allowed to be a person and we talk to each other as equals, before he signals that we're moving onto the next phase of the night and he turns me back into a thing again. I used to struggle with that, but now it just feels natural to let him put me back in my place. We've grown used to the imbalance, to the rights that he enjoys over me.

"The traffic's up again," I say.

"I noticed. More to the point, people are starting to notice."

"I'd like an exemption from service for maybe a couple of days."

He smiles at me, and I know I'm going to have to bargain.

"You can have me all day afterwards," I offer.

"I already do."

He grins, because he knows there's nothing I can offer that isn't already his to take.

"You want to work on something? What?" he asks.

"I just need to get my head into it. I've got a new idea with the adversarial feedback strategies I want to try out. I just need to crunch through the training data."

"Oh, and you don't want to get distracted?"

There's a glint in his eye, which means he's already decided, but we still have to play it all out. I wait for his answer.

"Sure," he concedes, "I'll give you from eight tomorrow morning, how's that? You can have a complete exemption from all duties for forty-eight hours."

He wraps his arms around me. "I'll even cook."

I give him a kiss. "I'll still cook. You suck at it. You nearly killed us both with malnutrition back in the woods."

"So harsh."

"But accurate."

I rest my head on his shoulder and look out at the sea, just enjoying the peace at the end of the day.

"I've decided about the laser treatment," he tells me, "I've booked you in."

I'm quiet for a moment. "Did you find out about the effects?"

"Yes."

I need to press him further. "And?"

"It's permanent, eventually," he replies, "Though it can take several sessions before they kill off all the hair."

I don't trust myself to answer him, feeling a familiar submissive thrill at acknowledging his plan for me. It's not as radical as piercing my body, or scribing designs on my skin, and I think that was also part of his plan. He made me accept the big changes first so that now everything else seems like inconsequential steps.

"I'm thinking that we do your legs too. It's not usual, but I like the idea of you being permanently hairless from the neck down, everywhere."

I want to ask him if there's more to his plan, whether he's going to shave my head again, or whether he's going to stop at permanently removing all my body hair, but I dread the answer. I dread what even asking the question would reveal about me.

"Okay," I reply, feeling the submissiveness bubble up from within me.

"I'll be adding this to your loan, of course. You might have to pick up extra shifts to pay me back."

"I dunno if Camille has any more shifts."

He shrugs. "Then you're going to need to make the money up some other way. I'm also going to start charging you interest on what you owe me."

"Uh, how much?"

"I'm thinking ten percent."

My eyes go wide. Would he really do that?

"How am I gonna make it up?" I squeak, fearing what he's going to make me do.

"I was thinking we set up the spare room like a studio, get in a web cam. You could make money that way."

"You want me to show myself off online?"

"It's an idea. It's better than the alternatives."

He doesn't elaborate, but he doesn't have to. I feel myself going weak in his arms, imagining being pimped out to strangers, my body sold, being forced to debase myself by giving oral to the men he finds for me. I'm almost certain he'd never do that, but putting me to work on the cams might not be so unlikely. My tightly-locked pussy begins to tingle in anticipation, slowly driving me to distraction, an itch that I'm no longer able to scratch, but that he's free to stoke on a whim.

"We could get you a range of toys and you could learn how to use them on camera. I think you'd be good at it. You'd have to fund them out your debt too, but it's all just initial outlay. Once you have your fans and you're doing regular shows, I'm sure you'd make it all back. What do you think?"

I stare at him, speechless.

"That's right, babe. You don't have to think, you just have to look pretty."

He gives me a quick kiss, leaving the words to sting my sense of self-worth, demeaning me and reinforcing my role as his blonde, clueless bimbo. He slides off the seat and stands up. Despite myself, I slip back into my submissive character, like he's just flicked a switch and turned my intelligence off. It used to take a full session to drop me, back when we started out, but now he can do it with just a few trigger words.

"I'll get dinner ready," he says, "I'll try to make it edible. What would you like?"

"Whatever you're having," I mumble, still imagining what he could make me do, tingling inside at the awful, enticing thought of being put on display in front of an audience of strangers.

He just nods and gets up, passing through the sliding doors. My mind begins to empty and I want to touch myself. I need to give myself relief because of the thoughts he's triggered in my head. I cup my crotch, pressing my palm against the unyielding steel thread lacing me up. I want to grind the heel of my palm against my pussy but I know it'll just make me worse, bringing me to the edge without letting me tip over. He knows this too. He's watched me trying to masturbate, smiling at me in my self-inflicted torment as I just never quite get up enough sensation to reach my climax, no matter how hard I grind. He views it as entertainment, seeing my desperation.

Reluctantly, I get to my feet and follow him inside instead. In the kitchen area, the box is ready, as usual, and I kneel down with my back to it. I shuffle backwards, getting my bottom in first, bending my neck to fit. I pull my legs in, wrapping my arms around my shins, and reach out to pull the door closed. It's tempered glass, so I can see out and he can see in, admiring the view of his property caging herself, naked, knees tucked against my ears. The door latch clicks shut and I still get that little thrill, after all this time, knowing there's no way out for me now, the only hope of escape is if he flicks the latch on the outside of the door.

He puts his hands on the outside of the box and I can feel myself moving, being wheeled into place. Today, he's turned me around so that I'm facing into the space under the kitchen island bench that the previous owners reserved for a wine fridge. It fits me perfectly, and everything goes dark. I listen intently and am reassured by the sounds of a knife chopping vegetables, the scrape of a pan.

He's still there, cooking, as he said he would. He hasn't walked out. He hasn't left me trapped and helpless in my tiny box, unable to escape. The house is fully paid up, so there's no mortgage. He could just leave and come back in a year, and no-one would discover my neglected body sealed tight inside my little storage container. I want so badly to touch myself, but I can't: my elbows are pressed against my waist so I can't reach. All I can do is wait, and think, and hope for his mercy.

---

I guess we need to do one last check-in to see how you're feeling, don't we? That's my story, you've got it all. So, did it go the way you thought, with the relentless boss bitch finding love and quite frankly blissful happiness as Covalent's property? Did you predict the two of us forging a life together, despite our demons and the burden of our pasts? Do you even believe we deserved happiness after the unforgiveable things that we each have done?

Maybe as you read this, I'm somewhere up the coast in a nice house, with a couple of kids, and a husband who likes to put his wife away in her box on occasion. Or maybe not.