Authors: Anneke Jacob
“She means well. I think. You wouldn't think so, but she's not quite sober. Another one who can't stand dependency. Don't let it get to you."
The music had descended to sixties pop, which made me wince, but which was at least not as loud as the band's previous efforts. These had been nothing but noise to me. (Oh, for a Telemann gavotte!) I spotted Graham and Kristin managing some kind of ballroom dance in spite of the music, making their costumes fly.
A visit to the Ladies was not a simple matter; the thick narrow skirt took some lifting, and no matter how moisture-proof you're assured electrical equipment is, it's always a bit nerveracking to let one's bladder go. In the course of repairing my makeup, I got into a conversation with two other California transplants. One was the harem girl and the other had gotten herself up as the Roxie Hart character from Chicago. We were trading Canadian midwinter deep-freeze stories when I felt a powerful buzz in my rear. Not a warning; more of a Get back here! It was all I could do not to leap and scuttle for the door. I contained myself, and brought the girls back with me as evidence of my bona fides, but as soon as they saw Anders'
hands on me they drifted off. Later I saw the Wookie chasing the harem girl.
During a slow dance Anders turned the vibrator up a notch. I risked my renewed makeup against his tunic, he hugged me close, and we moved slowly around the dance floor. "Having fun?"
I nodded. He squeezed me a little tighter and turned the vibrator up full.
I groaned and he hushed me.
The music stopped and a microphone squealed. Up on stage someone 276
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started a little speech, welcoming, thanking and alluding to the work of Habitat for Humanity. I caught maybe thirty seconds of this before Anders had us backed through the crowd and right out the door. The cool air of the corridor would have been welcome, had it not been full of cigarette smoke blowing in from the group that was clustered around the outside door.
"Prizes yet?" asked the Tin Woodsman, peering in.
"No. Speeches," grumbled Anders. I looked up at his disgusted face and laughed. He glowered at me, though there was an answering twinkle in his eye. "Well, I know what he's going to say. Everyone does. What the hell is the point?"
"Um, let's see," I said. He'd turned off the vibrator and my brain was firing more or less normally. "Inspire the crowd. Rally the troops. Create –
what's the word? Cohesion and – um – collective will and purpose. Twang the donation guilt strings."
His snort had a laugh lurking in it somewhere. "Preaching to the converted. It's not this crowd that needs to hear it; it's the goddamned housing ministry."
He turned the vibrator back on again when I won the Most Exotic Costume prize. Did his batteries ever run down? I had to go up onto the stage in front of everyone, vibrating away, and be ogled in order to collect my prize, which was a $50 gift certificate for Home Depot. Very appropriate. I gave it to my master, who tucked it into his belt for safekeeping. Anders didn't win anything, to my disappointment. Best costume went to a walking breathalyzer, who had been circulating the crowd giving readings to those willing to blow into the tube at his shoulder. I hoped the prize had been worth being basically confined in a cardboard box all night. Although I was hardly the one to talk. The guy turned out to be an alcohol researcher who'd incorporated his actual equipment into his costume.
Many avoided him like the plague, but some (Bart and the Wookie included) seemed to be vying with each other to produce the highest readings. At last we said our goodnights.
In the truck Anders parted my jacket and squeezed my breasts through their thin coverings. "I've been wanting to do that all night," he said, "like everyone else." Carefully, with a ripping Velcro sound, he pulled the edge of the cloth out from under the edge of the bodice until he had it removed entirely. I shivered, kept my hands at my sides, and watched his beautiful 277
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long head, sans beard and helmet, half shadowed by the streetlight. He kissed and fondled my naked breasts, his mouth warming the shrinking skin.
Then he clipped a leash onto the rings, closed my jacket up a little and did up my seatbelt. I saw the handle over his wrist as he drove, and when he turned a corner I felt the pull. The leash stayed on beneath my jacket as he led me up the dark walk.
***
Then when his guard was down Val managed to lever out of him some portion of what he had been doing to Maia, both at the folk festival and at the ball. She laughed her guts out. "You and your hardware fetish! Did you find that at Home Depot? No wonder the girl looked like she was on a skewer."
"Pretty, wasn't it?"
"Very. What a lucky little subbie she is."
"Slave. You think so?"
"Sure. She's happy as a clam. Well, more of a barnacle. Is there such a thing as a sentient shellfish? Guess not. She's happy as one, whatever it is."
"Good to have independent corroboration; thanks."
"I hope you're making enough off these jobs to keep her in the manner to which you've made her accustomed. You must be spending a fortune on this little hobby of yours." She folded back a building supply catalogue she was holding and waved it. "The soundproofing alone didn't come cheap.
Even if it was just the materials.”
“Don't start channelling my grandmother now."
"Sorry. I've got money on the brain. By all means, spend away. Go to it.
An honest workman deserves to enjoy himself."
"Val – '
"Hey, that money was earned by the sweat of your brow – and that of several others, I might add. It should be used for fetish equipment; why not?
Our sweat to make her sweat.”
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“Val, is this a manifesto about the decadent bourgeoisie and the exploitation of labour, or do you need a loan?"
"Ah, shit, boss man." She sat back grumpily, crossed her arms and stared out the windshield. "Fine. I happened to see the truck I want and I can't afford it yet and I'm pissed. And no, I don't want a fucking loan."
Anders bit back a word or two and drove in silence. Val had been getting more and more prickly as their working relationship drew to a close.
He shrugged inwardly, and in a growly voice began to sing an old Jimmy Reed song, 'Big Boss Man,' about the boss not being so big after all.
"Oh, shut up!" said Val. But she was fighting a smile. "You think this is about you? Egocentric bastard."
"No, I think it's about you worrying about money and whether you'll make it all right.”
“Can't you save your mind reading for your little barnacle at home?”
“You admit I'm right, then."
Val ground her teeth, and after a minute said, "All right, I'm a little tense about the whole thing. What's it to you?"
"Waste of energy. You'll do great. Your plan's well thought out and I can think of any number of people who'll be glad to hire you. You should be worrying about leaving my sorry ass with the likes of Mike and Eric. And whether I'll survive without your so patient and diplomatic assistance." She snorted.
Anders took the Trafalgar exit and drove up through dull subdivision sprawl. Not a spark of visible creativity for miles. How could North American developers have taken this dreary turn? Greed and mindless expedience. A lingering cultural belief that land was infinite and every rugged individualist had the right to stake his claim. It infuriated him.
Val was silent the rest of the way, but when it came to negotiating the job she took charge, as they had agreed. She was unusually patient and diplomatic; in fact, she thoroughly charmed the owner, who acceded to the need for greener materials with hardly a protest. Anders watched her, amused, and then sighed and wondered how the hell he was going to replace her.
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Val was right about the money Anders' little hobby cost him: thousands.
Without some discounts on materials and the use of his own labour he'd hardly have been able to afford it all. And there was always more to come.
That evening after dinner he walked his slave to the end of the yard, as was his habit. It was above freezing, but not by much. All he could see of her was the white glimmer of her haunches in the November darkness.
Above the waist she wore tight black lycra with the breasts cut out. And lately he'd let her wear thick black stockings to above her knees. Though Anders could see so little of her, he could visualize the shrivelled nipples on their twin tether, pointed toward the grass. He leaned down to feel the cold curve of her ass, thinking of Lady Chatterley's chilled, naked haunches in the woods; once again he felt like a perverted D.H. Lawrence. At his touch the creature paused, and pressed shivering against his leg. She crawled on in answer to his tug on the nipple leads, her hands and knees rustling through dead leaves, the chain making its little jingle. Then she squatted carefully.
He could feel her tremble through the leash. There was the sound of urine hissing.
He took her straight back in; no lingering sojourns now, sniffing the night air or looking at stars. The walks couldn't be prolonged much longer.
But Anders enjoyed them so much that he'd go on till frostbite threatened.
He took off Maia's doggie sweater and stockings, rubbed her warm again and leashed her to the banister. As always, after being walked she was deep into abject animal mode, so shamefaced that she could barely meet his eye. Anders never spoke to her at these times, not more than the commands or encouragement or reprimands he'd use on a dog, and he didn't require her to talk herself. He'd found she was barely capable.
But after twenty minutes or so she was making eye contact again. He took her down to the basement, sat her on his workbench and shifted a few things out of the way. Signs of old and new projects were everywhere: extra tiles from the bathroom in a box on the shelf, the door with its two round holes leaning against the wall, a wood and metal construction half finished in the corner, brackets, rivets, extra wiring, hardware of all kinds. His slave 280
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followed his eyes and then looked back at him inquiringly.
"Look at all this stuff. A good seventy-five percent of it is for you one way or another. What an expensive little dolly you are."
She looked abashed, and then concerned.
"No, money is not a problem. Don't start offering me your bank account.
I said a year and I meant it."
She dropped her eyes and murmured a form, "Yes, master."
"I love having all this to use on you." He kissed the delicate skin of her inner arm above the cuff. "Interesting how much hardware I need to keep you in line." She dropped her eyes. The box he'd picked up at the post office the day before came out, a curve of metal emerging from the open flaps.
He'd been assembling already. As he took the thing out he watched her face: curiosity, fear, confusion, recognition. Then a kind of shamed excitement.
"You know what this is."
Her eyes travelled the connecting metal curves, caught on the complexities. Smooth silvery metal edged in black. "A – a chastity belt, master?"
"That's right. It's been a long time coming. I measured you for it in the spring, remember?"
"You're kidding."
"That day I gave you the theory lesson. When the your landlords showed up at the door.”
“My god. Why so long?"
"A lot of negotiation by email. Special adjustments. The guy also disappears for months at a time, and he's not quick when he is around. But he is good, I think. We'll see."
She peered at the box coated with unfamiliar stamps and labels. "Where is he?”
“Germany.”
“Wow. Not exactly local. I guess Graham doesn't make them."
He locked her wrists to her neck and spread her legs. "No. We thought about trying it. But without experience we would have run into all sorts of difficulties. I decided it would be better to get hold of a real one and work from there." He ran his fingers up and down the shield between her legs, then sorted out the key and inserted it. "I'll miss this, you know. Seeing this thin little shell clinging to your needy cunt." The double bar slid smoothly 281
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from the rings. "But it's not quite up to the job, is it?"
She swallowed. "No, master."
Anders tipped the thing away from her moist, be-ringed flesh, and again ran a gentle finger up and down, now on her sensitive labia. Her thighs tensed, and he stroked those, too, then went back to the soft little pillows between her legs. She began whimpering almost immediately, and he smiled and stopped.
Then began the work of fitting. There were adjustments to be made in the waist belt, a bit of reshaping, options for this hole or that to try. He had her stand and respond and give feedback. When he was satisfied with the waist belt for the time being he laid her back on the table and started on the crotch piece.
"See, sweetheart, there's an inner shield, very light mesh, with slots for your rings. A nice deep curve. Should clear the crucial bit. I had him add the slots, since despite his assurances I'm not convinced that you wouldn't be able to pull yourself out from under otherwise." He pressed the shield down over her rings, frowned, pulled her butt forward on the bench, frowned again and took the belt off to move the crotch piece up a notch at the back. When he tried again the rings went in easily. "There we go." New little bars slid through to hold the rings in place, one on each side; he snapped them down.
"No need to lock them, you see? The outer shield's going to cover them."