As She's Told (51 page)
Authors: Anneke Jacob
As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
other way. The occasional exceptions, like dinners out, and Christmas, only broke up the routine enough to maintain humiliation at a low but steady background hum.
I identified, too, with the creature that routinely used the litter box; I even embraced her. This was what I was entitled to, and I knew it. But the litter box was a more recent innovation than the dog dish, and the daily normalcy of the ladies' room at work kept the humiliation fresh. I couldn't keep my head up as I crawled behind the toilet and squatted, feet sunk partway into the yielding grit.
A few minutes later I was leaning on the sink on one foot, the other crooked up and dangling from the chain, hands in soapy water. Between pots I squatted down carefully to change legs, straightening one and folding up the other, the smooth chain running through the ring at my back. The big pots I saved for the right leg, which was stronger. Apart from a little hopping sideways with the counter's support to put the pots away, all locomotion involved crawling; no way would I risk a fall, and in any case I'd been forbidden.
It was a struggle to get everything done with the required level of quality before four o'clock. By three o'clock my anxiety was rising, and I had to consciously slow my movements so as not to miss any of the woodwork I was polishing. At three fifty-six I was at the sink washing leather conditioner off my hands. Then I crawled rapidly to the bench and checked my orders one last time through the straps of the bridle I was arranging on my face. Once the bit was ratcheted carefully to the depth required, I pulled a mitt over one hand, snapped it shut, wriggled the other hand into the other mitt and, with the opposite wrist, manoeuvred the strap with the lock hardware into place and home. Then I was crawling for the cage, glancing at the clock. One minute to go. I hustled in and, using two mitts on a bar, shut the door behind me, and heard the clunk of the lock.
Done. In relief I lay back, then sat up again in panic. Had I remembered to put away the cloths I'd been using? Yes. I settled once more.
Reddish sunlight seeped through the blinds in the kitchen. No doubt the melted snow was re-congealing, smooth and treacherous. Icy roads, perhaps.
A momentary anxiety stirred about Anders, which I pushed out of my consciousness with a practiced mental flick. I pictured Vera walking out the door at five (right on the dot, I reckoned) and going flying, heels well over 320
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head. The Keystone Kops image was amusing for one second, then I visualized the landing and felt ashamed of myself.
Curled on my side, my head resting on my arm, I felt the slide of escaped saliva and tried to suck it back. The bit was the heavy, curved one that pressed my tongue; a domineering and intrusive object. My mouth didn't belong to me, though sometimes I was allowed to act as if it did. But not under the occupation of this ruthless piece of machinery.
Orange light from the kitchen turned the honey-coloured wood of the fireplace to deepest amber, the varnish giving an illusion of depth. It was a beautiful thing, and I was proud of my part in bringing it to life. Now that it was in place, it was obvious that the room had been arranged around it, that this was the keystone, the one thing that the space had needed to be complete. I'd already spent some hours beneath Anders' legs, feeling the fire's heat on my flank and his on my back. Sadly, it wasn't the open fireplace of my unconscious expectations. The reality was that those sucked heat out of the house. Also, wood smoke emissions had an impact on air quality. No, the beautiful art-deco fireplace framed an advanced-combustion insert. Lowest possible emissions. Guilt free (and soundproof).
Light from the kitchen suddenly faded as the sun slipped below the top of the back yard fence; now the room was full of shadows. One small lamp glowed, the only light my environmentally-conscious master allowed while I was waiting for him. The light wasn't for my benefit, but so that the webcam could maintain its view of me.
An itch began to niggle beneath my harness at the waist, a place hard enough to reach with fingers available, impossible without. I wriggled, sat up, clenched my fists with frustration, stared at my useless paws, then wriggled again. Even animals had claws and teeth to scratch with, damn it! I recalled a Billy Connolly story about some drunk madly humming in order to scratch an itch inside his head. I tried it, but it only made my itch worse. It took some determined thinking about other things, but it stopped finally.
I continued to sit, crouched beneath the low bars, eyes on the place where my master would later appear. Would he take me out right away, or leave me in longer? Would he give me the focus of his eyes, the warmth of his voice and hands? Would he stroke or punish? Or would he ignore me like an unnecessary appliance?
Even in the short time since Christmas, the cage had transcended its 321
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novelty status, and had become established as the most basic of slave owners' equipment. I'd spent many long hours kennelled: afternoons, evenings, weekends. The sound of snapping fingers, the casual pointing flick, and in I would crawl, hear the door clang behind me, feel the pull at my insides, watch my master go on about his business. I'd follow him with my eyes up the stairs until his feet ascended out of sight, or would watch for glimpses of his long back as he stirred and chopped in the kitchen. Or I'd gaze fixedly at the top of the basement steps and listen to his workshop noises. Or I'd watch him go out the front door and listen to the silence he left behind.
I felt in some odd way in the heart of where I was meant to be. This smaller strongbox within the larger one, nesting containers, with me the little doll in the inmost box. No freedom, none. Safe.
That didn't mean it wasn't hard. I was what I was, and this was where I belonged, but I was no puzzle piece dropped into its slot, no insensible wooden doll ensconced in toy heaven. Anders' toy was a thing of longings and fears. At that moment, a longing for his presence. I wanted him. I took a deep breath to feel his web tighten around me, pressed a thigh against the bars, and felt a little better. Just another hour or so, and he would come.
Was he okay? Not icy roads this time, but mood. The stagnation on the supportive housing front was dragging on. Two of his homeless friends had been rousted out of a makeshift shelter under a bridge, with nowhere else to go but the hostels they loathed, where bedbugs reined and their stuff got stolen. It ate away at him, I could tell, though he tried not to show it. Anders did come at last, and I got a caress or two when he took off the bridle. Then he fed me leftovers on my mat in the kitchen while he showered. I ate mechanically, swallowing past a lump of disappointment. He was obviously going out for dinner, and I was not. I got to stretch a little, ankle chains off at last, and make use of the litter box. I got to whimper on all fours while the chastity belt was removed and replaced with both plugs. Then I was back in the cage. My master squatted down and looked me over, the hint of a smile on his lips. A big hand reached through to cup my cheek and run a thumb along an eyebrow. I kissed the palm, making an effort neither to pout nor to tear up. He knew what I was feeling; no point in making a nuisance of myself. But I couldn't help pressing my breast into his fondling hand. "Have you been a good girl today?"
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If I'd been bad enough would he stay home and punish me? I reported what little there was: I'd forgotten to tell a student about a scheduling change. She was going to be inconvenienced and probably annoyed, and I felt bad about it, but that was hardly major punishment material.
He tweaked my ear. "We'll take care of that later." Once again I was nested in silence.
***
Anders' face was expressionless. "That depends on what you're prepared to see."
Svend shrugged, swallowed. "Whatever you're ready to show me." He eyed his brother. "Up to you. But you aren't likely to shock me. I broke into your porn files years ago." Anders swore, and had a momentary urge to tackle the smirking face in front of him, get it into a headlock like in the old days. They looked at each other and laughed. "I really did corrupt you, didn't I? Just as well. Have you been delving into kink behind my back, then?
Deeply debauched travel tales for me?"
"No, sorry. It's not quite the top of my list. A few very tasty encounters, believe me, and on one occasion two little French hikers at once." He bit his lip, eyes half closed and dreamy. "Wow. But no whips or chains, not one. I figured one of these days you'd give me an expert introduction. You or Karl.
"
"Oh, Karl would do a different type of introduction. Fancy demos and theatrical episodes. More suited to the sightseer, really." Svend said nothing but continued to smile; one ironic eyebrow fractionally raised. Anders looked at him carefully. "Not the top of your list, but you're intrigued. Okay.
You'll be sightseeing at the deep end if you come home with me tonight.”
“Oh, yes?"
"Yes. You're sure? Because you'll have to accept the way I keep her, or out you go. No judgments."
"Since when do I judge? Come on."
"And she will be hugely embarrassed and shy. But that's okay." Anders pushed his chair back, and said, "All right. Come see my new house and my new slave, and I'll give you some coffee and mandelkager."
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***
my god, he'd brought someone home with him! My first and instantaneous instinct was to shrink into the cage's furthest corner, arms wrapped tightly about my exposed flesh. Three quarters of a year of obedience training kicked in, however, and with a great effort I held myself still to wait for orders.
The adrenaline sang in my ears and seemed to be affecting my hearing; the voices were clear enough but the words were not. Time was moving in tiny, crystal increments; in the next ticking moment I knew it wasn't the adrenaline; they were speaking Danish.
Two long forms appeared in the doorway from the hall, so similar on first glance that I knew at once who this had to be: the brother, Svend, who had still been in Greece last I heard. Anders' eyes went straight to me, but Svend scanned the room and had to glance at his brother and follow his gaze before he spotted me in the shadows. "Ah!" he said, and smiled. A smile so similar to Anders', and so different. A storm surge of humiliation was racing toward me. They continued their impenetrable exchange, and Anders gestured around the room. A brief circuit, starting with the fine rug, and then on to the fireplace, and some Peruvian jugs he'd bought. Anders took a minute to light the fire. Then they were both standing over the cage, looking down from their impossible heights. The hot surge of humiliation was now a cataract; my boiling face had to be as red as a baboon's bottom. Anders spoke again, gesturing to me. I heard the word hunhund, saw the other man's grin, and cringed a little, but there was no malice or mockery in my master's voice. Just pleasure, and mischief, and a bit of pride. He won't despise you.
My mantra.
"I keep the finest thing well locked up, as you see," he said in English.
"Slave, out you come." He unlocked the cage, drew me out by the collar, and raised me to my knees. "Present nicely. Good. This is my brother Svend.
He's come for coffee, but I suspect that he'll also require a beer or two before the evening is over. On your feet."
I was held by the collar, turned this way and that; they looked me over, discussing me and my accoutrements, mostly in Danish. At least you're not 324
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wearing the bridle. Be thankful for small mercies. The inner, crashing turbulence was flinging my thoughts around in chaotic whirlpools, and pressing the breath out of my lungs. I hung onto Anders' relaxed pleasure like an anchor.
Svend made a couple of attenuated gestures that would have ended in a touch of some kind if they had continued. But he glanced at Anders and held back. This is like Graham, then, I reassured myself; you're for display only, look but no touch. You can handle that. My hands when Anders uncovered them were shaking. "Go make coffee."
I almost made the usual amount for one, just by unthinking, anxious rote. Then I corrected the amount of coffee grounds but forgot at first to add more water. The possibility of being punished in front of a witness made my ears sing.
Coffee and almond cookies were served as gracefully and silently as I could manage; I placed things far enough apart on the tray that my shaking hands wouldn't make the china rattle. Then at a signal I settled on my heels at Anders' knee, and felt him slip a finger through the ring at the back of my collar. The two men were deep in Danish conversation, Svend doing more of the talking, with wide gestures and a gleam in his eye. I caught the occasional place name. Travel tales? Probably.
Despite their long separation and the extremely odd threesome we were engaged in, the two men appeared instantly in sync, mirroring postures and gestures, the kind of instinctive synchrony that comes with a closely shared childhood. Shared genes, too, of course. I studied Svend as he talked. The resemblance to Anders, startling at first, wasn't holding up under a feature-by feature examination. Different nose, different mouth. This new face was rounder, the whole long form more padded and smooth. Anders, in contrast, seemed made of whipcord and sinew. Svend's eyes twinkled in my direction repeatedly, sky-blue rather than grey. The left eyebrow had a just-visible deviation in the middle where it stopped and started again; the remnant of some long-ago facial collision. With a start I remembered the runaway shopping cart. Here was the mark that corresponded to the one under Anders' chin. How odd to know the history of a stranger's scar.
