Ficta · Part 1

Ficta · Part 1 (1/2)
Next

The door was open, and she had seen him drive off. Surely he would have a copy of his own books in his home! Why, she could slip in and take a look, and leave again, and he would never know.

She did not know why this idea slipped into her head. She would never have thought of such a thing, usually. But it was true: here was an opportunity to read the very works she had been so frustrated in trying to find. A silly thing, to be unable to buy or borrow books, the author of which lived in one's own town.

And it wasn't as if they were cult books, for which doing such a stunt would be attractive and daring, and something to brag about. They were on history, and academic theories; slightly dated texts at that. But what she heard of them hinted at great ideas which fascinated her. And the more trouble she had finding them, the more she wanted to see them.

She walked right up to the front door, and went in. There was a study like area near the kitchen, lined with bookshelves. There, the texts of many authors were arranged in alphabetical order by authors name. For one brief moment, the name of the author whose house she was now in escaped her mind, but then, her eyes fell upon his name in the H's, and she beamed with pleasure. They were humbly categorized with the others, and were not set apart. They were slender, oversized books, hard cover in cloth, and they reminded her of the music scores she got from the library. She took the set from the shelves and carried them into the dining room.

On the way there, she noticed a storage room, or pantry, and thought “should he come back, I can hide in there.'' She tested the door, only to find that it could not close all the way. At least it would block her from view from the front door, and if he walked without looking backward, she should remain hidden. She then went to the dining room, and spread out the books. She took the first one in the series, and began skimming through it.

Ah, but they were fascinating! She was soon drawn into the texts, reading them passages hanging on every word, gazing at the color plates of manuscripts she had never seen before. And his theories delighted her mind, she felt like singing, like crushing the book to her head as if she could push all the words into her brain at once. One part of her demanded she keep reading the way a thirsting man's body demands drinking; another part of her was so over charged with ideas and thoughts, she needed to lay the book down to digest and ferment the kaleidoscope in her mind.

Then she heard him at the door. For a moment she thought of restoring the books to their place that he not suspect an intruder, but she realized she had no time for that. She whisked herself into the storage room, and pulled the door as shut as she could. She dared not look out the doorway, for fear he would she her as well as she saw him. She heard him enter, and sure enough, he walked by. But now he was in the kitchen, and could see the door to the pantry through the open-work bookshelves between them, and he had a clear view to where she stood, were he only to turn towards her. He could turn at any moment, or perhaps even see her reflection in some stray kitchen utensil. With that thought, she broke for it.

She exploded out of the pantry, and in a few steps gained the door. He whirled as he heard her, but he was much older than she, and slower. The screen door crashed shut behind her as she burst from the house. She crossed the driveway, running along the house, and it was in her mind that she go around the house to the woods in back to make her escape. But then as she rounded the garage a dread thought came to her: he was a hunter, and he owned rifles, and kept them handy. Would her shoot her? Her skirt was white, like a swan; she remembered a story in which an archer shot his true love while she wore the guise of a swan, and in truth she did not know why she thought of that story in that second. But moved thus, she darted into the cluttered garage, to hide.

He entered the garage, searching, and she could not catch a glimpse of him for fear of betraying her location; she could only crouch and wait. At last she decided she would break for it again. She sprang up…and found herself face to face with him, and he stood between her and the road. His face was lined, and weathered, his hair was white; his face showed no emotion. He seized her right arm, and pushed her towards the door to the house.

She entered the house again, this time by the kitchen door to the garage. But to her surprise, there were people there, idly chatting and sitting about and browsing thought magazine on the coffee table. Perhaps they entered with him? He did not get a chance to say anything, for he was immediately hailed, and corralled by guests who just *had* to speak with him. And more people were entering. She found herself unescorted again. She wandered about, acting as casual as she could manage. After a while, she worked her way back towards the front door, and she espied a woman calling a cab company.

She requested, in her most offhand manner, if the woman could ask that they send a cab for her too? And the woman did indeed. It was a short wait, when she saw a cab down the street. She stepped outside, unhindered. Walking down the driveway, someone asked, “Do you know how to get to Civic Center?''

She wracked her brains; “I'm sorry, I've been away from the area for quite a while, and I can't remember the names of the highways…are you familiar with the county? You know the triangle? And the 23 runs along here,'' she illustrated in the air, “Right here is the Civic Center.''

“Thank you.''

At the end of the driveway, there were three of her friends. They hailed her, and looked surprised to find her there, but she did not get a chance to speak with them for the cab pulled up, and she wished to dally no longer.

She did not know why she returned, but she indeed found herself at his house again. Some part of her, a part which staunchly would not talk to her conscious mind, guided her limbs to convey her here again. Some vague and nebulous, unnamed emotion roiled in her mind: a desire? a wish? a certainty? Again the door was open, and again she entered.

She saw the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the pantry, the book shelves were his works rested. This time she passed them by, and went further into the house. She left the darker, wood paneled rooms, and came to a chamber where the walls were painted the faintest shade of blue, and the floor was carpeted in thick off-white pile, and gauzy white drapes hung along the windows. Nothing like furniture was in this room, but there were two manacles set into the floor, several feet apart, and two manacles hung on rods from the ceiling, above the ones on the floor. Nothing else disturbed the emptiness, the stillness, of the room.

She examined the manacles; they were cleverly designed. They all lay open, each one a half ring, hinged to its other half, which in turn was fastened to a ceiling rod, or to the floor by a shorter rod. In the second half-circle lay a lever, such that if on should put one's limb into the embrace of the connected half, the other freely hinged part, would be snapped up, and over, and around one's limb, to lock into the closed position. And moved by what she knew not, she did this.

First she removed her sandals, and stepping out of them, she walked to a place between the manacles. She spread her legs, and set one ankle against the inner arc of a manacle, and as she pressed *snap!* the other half closed about the end of her slender leg. She then reached up, and pressed the wrist of the same side into the hanging mechanism, and it too closed with a satisfying //click//. She reached her other leg towards the respective bond; only with much straining was she able to reach far enough to set her other ankle in. But now, the last manacle hung on it's rod above and beyond her reach. She pulled towards it, but the spread of her feet kept her from attaining the last ring.

Then, there were hands on her waist, from behind, lifting her up, lifting her strongly, so that the steel at her feet pulled her legs unrelentingly to earth. And with that, she set her wrist into the manacle, and it clicked home. She hung there, most of her weight borne by her arms, her feet barely touching the floor, imprisoned.

He walked around her, to stand before her. His gaze took her in, and she looked back at him.

He wore nothing but billowing draw-sting pants. Though his hair was gray, right down to the wisps on his chest, his muscles were still defined, and he had lifted her with apparently little effort. She could not guess his age; she knew those books had been published a long time ago. Now his weathered face bore a pleased smile, and shone with warmth. His eyes were a very clear blue.

She was young; just a woman, but definitely a woman, having left adolescence behind for good. Her dark hair hung in a sea of waves about her pale neck, her shoulders hidden in all but curve by her blouse of deep electric blue. Her cheekbones were faintly defined, and her jaw like the line of a heron's wing bounded her oval face. Her arms, too, where like wings, stretched out and taught, or like the arms of an angel raised in supplication or adoration of heaven. Her ankles were slender and delicately curved; a long white starched skirt hung from her slender waist. Her eyes were black like night.

Her eyes rested on his face, as with a tug he loosed the drawstring of his pants, and they felt to the floor; his gaze did not leave her face. She heard a crinkling, and rubbing sound. He lifted her white skirt, and with a pair of scissors he materialized from where she knew not, he snipped her plain white underwear from her body. He stepped up to her, his body touching her. He reached around her and gripped her thighs from behind, and lifted her again, stepping forward as he did, and setting her onto him, her cunt driven down onto his member by her own weight. Breath escaped her lungs like an unarticulated sigh.

Now she gazed over his shoulder, but sight was lost to her as all her attention was drawn to her nerves, inside and out. In some distant part of her mind the thought flared ///A condom! How good, and kind, and caring he is of me! How fine he is!/// Then there was no more effort left for words in her mind, as he began to stroke into her. She could not effectively move with his rhythm, for she had no manoeuverability to balance, but he steadied her with his hand on her thigh, and his strong steady pushing into her accounted for all the motion that was needed. It reminded her of oars, pushing against the sea.

When he came, she knew it by the tightening of his muscles, but he was silent save the single hard expulsion of breath. His worn cheek lay against her own smooth face for some moments longer, then he withdrew from her body, and stepped back. Her skirt fell about her legs again. He spoke.

“I set a suggestion into your mind, a vision, before you left here. To this you could have two responses. You could flee from here in fear, forever shy of this place and of me, never to trespass again. Or you would return. The suggestion was this: were you ever to enter this house again, you would become mine forever. The choice between these two would lie in your own nature.''

She said nothing, and her face showed little, but he knew his words spoke into the heart of her and she understood and followed everything he said.

“What is your name?''

“I do not remember, Master,'' she answered truthfully, “But I know I am your slave.''

“And what is my name?''

“I do not remember that either, Master.'' She added after knotting her brow briefly in thought: “I call you by the title `Master' because it is what you are to me.''

“Good, my dear. I think you shall find me a pleasing Master. I have never been exceedingly lusty, and I have somewhat less interest than I did when I was younger. But I still desire the use of your body, and you shall not go without. I seek to have, also, a woman who body I may play with, experiment on, toy with. There are many things which I wish to do to your flesh, and to your mind. I will reprogram you mind so that you will unable to disobey me; what I say will be like your own will in your body. '' He paused a moment. “Does this please you?''

“Yes, Master, it pleases me.''

He smiled warmly at her. “Good, my love. Let us begin.''

He left the room, and she hung there patiently. When he returned, he wore a white robe which hung to his ankles, and he carried a ring of keys and more manacles in his hands. He unlocked her ankles, then her hands, carrying her limbs down to ease the pain of their release, stiff and sore he knew they would be. He kneaded her shoulders for a moment, then he brought her wrists together behind her back and locked them that way. He fastened a loose loop of chain about her waist, from which hung another length of chain to her knees. He put a manacle about each ankle, and these were connected by a chain in the middle of which met the length from her waist; in this way the chain of her hobbles would be lifted from the floor so she would not trip. Then he locked a wide steel collar about her neck, and from this collar was a chain leash.

Ficta · Part 1 (1/2)
Next