Reckless Endangerment (closed)

[ezwriter]

He's had them out there in colder weather than that. One in February when she used her fingernails. Before she lost them. Like an igloo her body heat would soon warm the small close space around her. The blanket and her shivering would get her through the night.

After nightfall he'd take the car up to Bridgeport - exchange it for another. If he had to dump her and replace her he'd need another car - maybe head across the state line this time - not worth risking being caught in the city again, though the hunting was better. College girls, smart, pretty, easily scared.

She was. This Regan. Scared but acting brave. Wanting to go down with her pride intact. If she was easy to break it wouldn't be this much fun. But there was a difference between a girl who'd been broken and a girl who was broken. She was worth being careful with. Now, he drove the Chevy down the winding gravel road past a hole, where she shivered in the black cold Earth.

He figured this would break her, but had plenty more up his sleeve if he didn't. A slivered moon dug into the hills as he wheeled out on 395. The desert hills lined either side. Plenty of room to bury another bitch.

An hour up the road he pulled off an unmarked exit onto an unpaved road and followed it up through clouds of dusts around a bend. Guys with crappy cars asking no questions - you just assumed the worst and changed license plates as soon as you could. He knew whatever they assumed about him, they were short by half. Gas station robberies, drug hauling - fucking lightweights. He drove home with a 2003 blue Nissan Altima - kept a little over the limit. No one out here tonight and the Highway Patrol weren't gonna bother you for 10 miles over as long as you kept it in the lanes.

The sky was dawning as he opened the gate and pulled up the drive, bringing his new vehicle around back. She'd hear him coming and parking and wonder if it was someone new, someone else? He'd let her think about that for awhile too. He'd let her wonder if there was another day ahead of her in there.

He could wait. For her it had been a bad night. A good night. A very bad night. It was all in her hands. He put coffee on, made himself some breakfast, then headed out to the shed to prepare it for her return.

 

[saysalice]

She has to pee. It's not a pleasant thought, but she knows by now that unpleasantness doesn't matter in inevitabilities like this. It's been a long time since he let her use the bucket. She doesn't want to move from this spot against the plywood to step deeper into the hole, but she doesn't want to stand in a puddle, either. Gingerly, she pulls the blanket up to her knees and duck-walks into the darkness with her head bent low and one hand outstretched before her. When she can hear the sound of her breath echoing off the curved inner wall, she hikes the blanket up around her hips and sinks into a squat, feeling the chill of the earth so near to her bare haunches.

She won't allow herself to imagine what else might be sharing the dark with her - pale, glistening, corpulent grubs, rooting along into this unexpected empty free-fall; sheeny black beetles, logy with the frost, catching on an edge of her blanket; bloated furry brown spiders with a dozen eyes, stumbling out of hibernation to drop onto her and find a nice warm crevice to curl up in. In a fit of nerves, Regan scrambles out of the hollow, flapping and shaking the blanket violently, losing all the body heat she might have trapped therein. At least, she admits grudgingly, nothing will get tangled in her hair.

It's better, somehow, to stay near the entrance. To listen for him. She pulls the blanket back around her shoulders - hard, until it feels like binding, or a noose. After a moment, she makes herself unwind the tight twists and wraps herself up carefully again. Don't die here. He'll be back - he's said he will come back. It's cold, and he hasn't fed her since the toast, this morning, but - he doesn't mean for her to die out here. Right? He won't leave her here. Not forever.

She hugs herself through the blanket and begins to rock, following the curve of her spine against the plywood. She never could have imagined missing the shack, longing for the bed he's fucked her on so many times. She won't wonder how cold it might get at this elevation, underground, in November, or how many hours of air she might have, in this dug-out space. She won't try to remember how many days a person can go without food or water. It won't be days - it won't. She won't think about Keith again, or of her mom.

Grasping for something inane with which to distract herself, she recalls a nursery rhyme her mother taught her as a girl and recites it silently, mindlessly as she rocks:

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
Alice is marrying one of the guard.
"A soldier's life is terrible hard,"
Says Alice.​

Relieved to have something to focus on, something vaguely comforting, she runs through all the lines that she can remember, then jumps to another favorite, from the same book:

There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)​

She pauses. She hasn't considered that there might be mice. Running across her face, nibbling at her toes painted like juicy red fruit if she falls asleep. She tucks her feet more firmly into a fold of the blanket.

A sound makes her sit up and press her ear to the rough wood - a car. Coming or going, she can't tell - she's all turned around - but she must assume that he is leaving. To go where, at this hour, she wonders, with no way of knowing the hour. The sound is very loud past her hole in the hill, and she beats a palm against the wood again - he might hear her, too - but the sound rushes by without slowing.

He'll be back, her mind insists stubbornly. He said. But - would he be? If he wanted to get rid of her, what would be easier than to just dig a hole and put her in it? All the way up here, without anyone for miles - just go away for a few days, a long weekend, and by the time he comes back... problem solved. Just cover her over. Get another one.

She shivers, still listening, though he is long gone. No. No. He said he would come back for her, he gave her the next word, and she will say it when he comes to let her out. But...what better way to make a girl step willingly into her own grave, than to promise her it's anything but? Promise you'll be back, even as you seal her in with rocks she has no hope of moving? No fighting, no screaming and yelling - he hates yelling. She'll just sit and pine away here gradually, waiting patiently for his return. What could be easier?

No, she tries to murmur - the sound of the word will reassure her - but her voice is still gone with the strain of the day and the damp night air. She turns her thoughts away deliberately, and makes herself remember another nonsense rhyme:

Emmeline
Has not been seen
For more than a week -​

- no not that one, she thinks abruptly, fighting a sudden dangerous welling in her throat. Not that one.

 

[ezwriter]

He waits another hour... until she feels the daylight warm the top of the hole and knows that morning has come... and wonders if she's be another day down there.

Around ten he puts his cigarette out in the sink and moves out into the bright morning, dropping down and around the hill, where a scree of heavy granite chunks is piled high against the entrance of the hole. When the plywood door is clear, he pries it off, standing clear in case she is waiting with a desperate punch or she's located a rock inside the hole to throw.

He calls inside. "What's your word, rabbit?"

When he hears it, he says, "Throw out the blanket." And then, "Reach your hands out and grab the threshold.

He sees her hands grip the wooden frame and approaches. Her eyes blink rapidly from the light though the sun hasn't cleared the hill yet. Out of the uncertain glare comes a black shape suddenly, and once more her head is shrouded inside the tight woven black hood. He pulls her by the wrists now, sliding her out from the cold dirt of the hole onto the cold wet grass of the culvert.

His knee is on her back as he fastens a rough wide leather strap around her neck and cinches it tight. There is the click of a metal clasp springing closed. He rises to her feet and tugs the leash.

"What's the word?" he seethes in her ear, leaning over her as she's pulled to her hands and knees.

Again and again she's forced to call it out - as she's pulled on all fours up the grassy slope, across the rough terrain pitted with gopher holes and cold sharp stalks of grass. It's not easy with her hoarse, strained voice muffled by the tight enclosure of the mask.

As they approach the shed there's several feet of granite and then two concrete steps up. Then he has the door open and she's back on the concrete slab floor of her shelter. She is moving further in the room and must suspect she'll be tied again to the eyelets in the floor and the cable from the cieling.

But instead he orders her to her feet and presses her back against the iron railed footboard of the bed. There he has waiting stiff velcroed cuffs, binding her arms behind her back to the horizontal frame and now wrapping a cuff around each thigh to secure it to a vertical bar. He's lashed her standing to the bed with no give whatsoever. At least flat on her feet for now, at least her nipples are unclamped this time...

She notices a faint metallic burning scent in the room. He moves away to close the door and returns. He moves back beside her and yanks the hood from her. Of course, she's tied directly facing the mirror. The leash dangles from the clip in her collar. He takes hold of it and pulls it behind her, straight down to loop the end through the top of the bedframe, holding her neck still, her spine straight.

He stands beside her and paws her absently. "Glad to be back inside, rabbit?"

"What's your one word?"

"It's not monster, is it?... No."

"What's your only word?"

He moves away and slides the folding chair beside her with his foot and then retrieves something from the top of the cabinet. The soldering iron trails an extension cord from the wall. Its a wand of warmth, the sweet smell of smoldering flux remanants wafts past her as he takes his seat and scoots it forward a foot from where she's tied.

His hand reaches to wipe the dirt from her belly - midway between her navel and pubis, the natural outlines of her bush filling in with stubble after two days without grooming.
The iron is about a foot in length - the electric cord attaching to a red plastic grip that he holds like a large pen. A steel rod extends from the handle, tapering to a chiseled tip, which emits a dull red glow a localized burst of heat that is approaching her smooth pale belly.

"What's your word, Regan?"

"Yes. Now take this like a big girl, you hear me? If you have to anything, you know what you can say."

The tip contacts her flesh at a diagonal. It hisses as it singes her flesh and she gasps. She cannot help but hold still, bound as she is. The diagonal continues, angled toward her vagina, but then reversing direction, angles back up and away, until a V shape is seared in bright pink. He presses the tip to the apex of the V and now slides a short downward stroke. It's the Y. About an inch high.

She knows she will endure four more letters. Her word. His word. Take shape reversed in the mirror, hopelessly blurred without her glasses. But reading it in her skin. The agony, the burning, the smoldering scent of her own flesh continues until he's finished the S, claiming her body, her pussy, her womb. Forever.

YOURS

"That looks nice," he tells her and stands and replaces the red-hot iron rod in its stand on the counter and unplugs it. He brings her her glasses and slides them over her ears, sitting them on her nose.

"You must be hungry," he tells her and leaves her there to look at what he's done, to see what she is.

 

[saysalice]

Sometime in the hours before dawn, she sleeps. She only knows it in this world of black on black, eyes opened or closed, because the roar of his car passing the hill startles her badly awake, and leaves her to sit watching the pale thread of light grow gradually brighter, defining her hole. He hasn't left her for good, then. It doesn't mean he will come back for her, but at least she can hope that he will hear her scream. If she begins to panic, and decides it's time to scream. For now, she waits.

The first sound, the scrape of the rocks against the plywood so close to her ear, makes her jump. She is more than ready to leave the hole, but she scrambles back away from the entrance as she hears his progress. When he slides the plywood away, she is squinting up at him, a few feet inside the hole, still huddled inside the blanket.

What's your word, rabbit?

She's afraid that her voice won't carry, that she won't be able to make herself heard on this one, all-important word, but she wets her lips and answers very clearly, averting her eyes from him and the brightness of the morning: "Yours."

Wary, they are wary of each other. He won't come in after her, and his demand for the blanket confuses her, until she slides it from her shoulders and remembers her similar motion, getting out of the car on her first night. When she'd had the shoe ready for him in her hand. Maybe he remembers it, too. She tosses the blanket to him and crawls forward hesitantly, reaching up to lean with both hands against the threshold, feeling very exposed as she steps into the light, blinking.

She yelps as he pulls the hood down over her face again, but is not truly surprised. Only now does he take her hands and pull her out of the hole onto the grass, and his knee is in the small of her back to make her drop, the clothed weight of him against her naked body, this immediate physical dominance somehow sexual as he forces her down. She stiffens as she feels the loop of leather tightening around her throat - this is new - and then the tug of a leash and his voice very close, chilling, and knows he has not forgiven her.

"Yours," she says again, but he is not satisfied. He must make her say it again and again, gulping and gasping as she blunders along blindly on all fours, tearing her knees up in the gravel, stubbing her fingers on rocks, scrambling up sudden enbankments and dropping into hollows without warning, feeling the dry grasses whipping at her, razor-sharp. All the while, answering him with that word, struggling to make sure he will hear her, whether he is repeating it for his benefit or her own.

She pants, feeling the rough concrete under her knees and shins as she hears him opening the locks again. She hasn't had time to consider where he might be taking her, and she is at the same time is comforted by the familiar sounds and apprehensive to be returning to the shed. There are dangers here; she is not safe here - she is only a little more acquainted with this place.

He leads her inside the door, and she waits to be tethered and strung up again, but can tell that he has led her past the eyelets set in the floor, and feels the cold iron frame of bed pressing into the small of her back as he pulls her up onto her feet. She is quiet and passive as he wraps the restraints around her arms, fastening her to the frame, and then the cuffs wrapping her legs her to the bars. It seems like a merciful concession on his part, to allow her such comfort even as she is bound tightly. Perhaps he's not angry with her anymore.

Her nose wrinkles now that the door is shut, and she realizes there is an unfamiliar scent in the room, but she can't place it. He tears the hood from her when he has her quite immobilized, and she watches him move around the room restlessly and glances at her fuzzy reflection in the mirror. She catches her breath as he takes the leash and pulls it through the bed frame, tying her firmly with it, as well. It makes her nervous to be unable to move at all, but she makes herself breathe, knowing it is a gesture, a measure of control.

His fingers on her skin as he looks at her in the mirror are a small comfort, and Regan attempts a silent nod in answer to his question, feeling the leash catching and nearly choking her, knowing she is allowed to answer, but afraid to say any word other than the one he has assigned to her. As if testing her, he demands it again, and she can see her mouth move in the mirror as she answers immediately, meekly, "Yours."

She feels a faint blush warming her cheeks, feels her uneasy guilt as he reminds her of the word that upset him so much last night. She is not safe here. She is alone with him here and that strange hot metallic smell, like his calmly smoldering rage. She tries to shake her head, but the collar and leash do not allow it, and she murmurs her belated agreement: "No," and is quick to answer eagerly, "Yours," as he steps away again.

He returns with something in his hand, something on a cord plugged into the wall, and the smell is stronger as he approaches her with it and sits close in his chair, and she tries reflexively and can't move in the restraints. He slides in next to her and she can't pull away as he reaches with his other hand to stroke the smooth flat expanse of her stomach, just above the stubble between her legs. She wants to whine, but is too afraid. He asks her again, and she looks up at him with pleading eyes, her face frozen in fear as she tries to draw in her abs to keep away from the instrument in his hand.

"Yours," she whispers, and then folds her lips closed on a whimper, "P....pl..." She doesn't dare say it.

Take this like a big girl. Something about the admonishment twists her up inside, even through her terror - as if it's a just punishment, as if she should be reasonable. He hasn't gagged her for this. You know what you can say.

She wrenches violently as he moves the tip of the iron closer, but only succeeds in hurting herself, stretched tight like a canvas for him, and she mewls desperately, "Yours - " a second before it touches her and she screams, feeling the tip of it sink into her, too intense to register as pain, at first - just the parting and immediate sealing of her flesh with horrible ease as she sweats and squirms and cries out over his bent head. Then the pain. And a smell that makes her retch, feeling the muscles of her stomach contract under his tool, feeling him move without pause towards her snatch. She has time to gasp as he lifts it to make a second line, and then a third, working quickly.

She can't make sense of it until he begins the O, and then the meaning of it, and the knowledge that he is not half finished hits her, and she fights in a panic until the collar cuts into her throat, strangling her as the tears run down her face and she chokes back the words: "D - d - ... oh, pl - naaa - " You know what you can say. It takes all of her control, but the terror of him so close with the red-hot iron keeps her from finishing the words. He begins the U, right under her nose, and the smell of her scorched flesh fills each snuffling breath between her screams.

After another tearing bout of dry-heaves, she manages to whoop raggedly: "Yours - yours!" as he lifts the stylus again - the R will be terrible. "Yours!" she insists vehemently - he doesn't have to do this - but it sounds disturbingly like her agreement, her endorsement of this branding, his claim on her. He doesn't hesitate, and the R is the worst with its little lines and shapes, and she sobs at the sick horror of it.

He is careful on the S, it seems to take the longest of all the letters, and she hangs from the bed frame, wet all over with sweat and tears and spittle as she wails open-mouthed, but refuses to say the word again. He stands, and compliments his own work, and then puts her glasses on so that she can see herself clearly in the mirror - the angry scabby red of his neat lettering through her tears.

She listens to him leave, but her eyes are glued to the mirror, and her face crumples as soon as the door is closed behind him, and she bawls hysterically until she can't see herself anymore, keening, completely irrational: "Mom....Mom...? Mom!!"

It scares her. She makes herself stop. He can't hear her in the house, he said, but if he's only making toast...she has to stop. "Stop - stop," she blubbers at her reflection. He'll be back soon. No one can hear her. He'll expect her to eat. Her stomach kicks painfully in objection, but he'll require her to eat - and to say more words, probably.

His letters burn and itch just below her navel, just above her sex. His word, burned into her, because her body belongs to him. It will be a long time before she can forget it.

 

[ezwriter]

She hasn't eaten in a while. Milk will be the best thing to restore her strength. Besides he doesn't have much more left from his shopping trip on Saturday. It'll be a few days before his government check comes. He has a few dollars and can go into town today. Later. Buy some food and boost some more. He's got his winter coat with pockets on the inside.

He pours her milk and washes the straw he's been using and returns to the shed where she's shackled to the foot of the bed, back straightened by the leash wound around the railing. He sees her eyes in the mirror as he steps inside. Sees her imprint singed red in her belly.

"What's your word, pig?" he asks as he approaches.

He watches her say it in the mirror. Reaches out to stroke his girl, her body parts, her brand with the fingers of his free hand. His. Property.

His hand drops down to his pants to flick open the button of his jeans and now to open the fly. His cock is hard inside his briefs and now it's out. The straw is proffered to her lips.

"Drink it," he bids her.

She closes her mouth around the straw as his hand presses her sex. Warm but dry. He slips the glass away and tells her to "Open". She can't move her bound legs at all so he must mean her mouth. His fingers enter her mouth to swipe the thick milky saliva from her tongue and apply it to his gorged knob. He gives her the milk to drink again and enters her.

His. To fuck and to feed. To fatten. And to breed.

 

[saysalice]

With her teeth clenched, she can stop herself from wailing, but not from crying. Tears flow hot down her cheeks as she stares at the word in the mirror - backwards writing, written for himself, not for her. Even when she closes her eyes, she can feel the letters throbbing with her pulse. With every heartbeat, she is his.

She screams once more at the thought - a ragged, wordless sound that is interrupted by the door opening suddenly, and she ceases at once, as if choked off by a firm grip around her throat - she can almost feel it. Her heart pounds in her chest as her gaze flits over him, but if he has heard it, he seems unperturbed. He steps into the room carrying a glass of milk and nothing else, as if he knows that she can't eat.

Or as if she doesn't deserve it. Pig, he calls her. Regan winces in spite of herself. No one has ever called her that, and she glances at herself in the mirror, at her body - womanly reaction. Pig. Before, it was rabbit, or little bird - pretty animals - now she's pig. It makes her uneasy.

"Yours," she reads quietly from her belly, keeping her eyes on the mirror as he moves in closer to her, trying not to shiver. She watches his hand nearing her body, as if it's happening to someone else, until she feels his warm fingers stroking her skin. Can't even flinch, the restraints prevent it. She sees the face she is making as he traces the raw letters burned into her, and tries to compose herself in the mirror.

She hears his zipper. Tethered by the leash she can't lower her head to look, but she knows, even before a glimpse of flesh in the mirror confirms it, that he's got his cock out. She bites her lips hard to keep from moaning, and must open again almost immediately as he brings the straw to her and tells her to drink.

Choking a bit on the first mouthful of milk, feeling his hand between her legs and his fingers probing into her before she has time to swallow. New, this is new - he has let her eat and drink, before - he has kept it separate. Open, he says, and she swallows and parts her lips obediently, unable to stifle a brief retch as he touches her tongue with his fingers and then reaches below his waist.

The glass is in front of her again, but before she can catch the straw with her tongue, she feels the thick head of his cock forcing itself into her. She clings with her lips to the straw to smother the sound that rises in her throat. The milk slime isn't enough, and the friction of his cock as he jam - jams himself inside her makes her gasp and whine over a froth of white bubbles in the glass. Her whole body tenses with each thrust as he works himself deeper, and she can't get away. Ever.

His hips meet hers finally, so that at the same moment she feels the ache of him slamming deep inside her, she can feel his body against hers, his pelvis grinding into her, chafing the red letters of that word burned between them: YOURS.

Not MINE, she notes. He is using her again like a sex toy, and she imagines she can feel each letter of the word. Words are important. Not MINE, so that he can look at her and say to himself: she's mine. He wrote: YOURS. So that he can make her say it to him, so that he looks at it and his actions are validated by herself, or by a higher power. Affirming for him - yes, this is yours.

Maybe she's reading too much into it. Into him. Maybe he didn't want her to look in the mirror and read the word MINE, to think that she retains any ownership of her body. Does it matter? He's burned the letters into her flesh. He might do anything to her - anything. She shudders violently, and it becomes a sex act, quivering on his cock.

His cock is inside her. It means that she is still alive. It's all that matters.

 

[ezwriter]

He's filling her with fluid. The milk she needs to sustain herself. It will be weeks yet before his seed takes inside her. Until the hormones from the birth control cycle out of her.

For now it's fine that his ejaculate forms pearlescent rivulets on her thighs, dripping to her knees. Better than fine. Exquisite. Her shaved head bowed, stubbly with a few days' dark growth, eyes cast down to the floor. Her womb branded, labeled. Her body cinched tight to the frame of the bed. His, grotesquely. He's replaced the bucket between her legs.

For now Yours can stand there until he thinks of something worse to do. After a few hours standing, she'll miss the cave as she missed the bed as she missed the car as she missed her clothes.

He is touching her everywhere again... letting his fingertips graze over body tied tight. The feel of the flesh... it's temperature and it's textures and again the letters that define her. "That makes you so pretty. You are the Monster's now."

...As she misses Keith.

That is all behind her. What's ahead of her? The lights switched off.

"...You're Mrs. Monster now. ...For now."

The door shutting and bolting. Footsteps receding toward the cabin. And Yours will wish the random events that turn our pinball life went differently. In that they're the same.

 

[saysalice]

He's pressing against her, into her, his sweaty body against hers so that the letters of that word sting. Her chin rests against his shoulder, chattering and bobbing as his thrusts become more urgent, and she watches herself in the mirror, dead eyes over his shoulder, naked body lost under the frantic grinding shape of him. He is deep - deep - but she has stopped wincing with each snap of his hips and begun to relax around him, limp and resigned, hanging from the bed frame as he rams into her. At this angle, the jut of his cock inside her...she holds her breath and tries to deny it - it almost - almost feels -

He stiffens and shoves his body up into her with a hoarse bark, and she holds her breath, lowers her eyes and waits. Yes, she thinks. Yes. Because he has finished again. She waits, keeping her eyes downcast as he disentangles his limbs from hers and she feels the cool air against her damp skin. The clang of the bucket against the cement floor, between her feet, and the almost immediate ping of something dripping into it. She can't look at herself in the mirror.

His fingertips trace the stippling of gooseflesh, the clammy expanse of her flat stomach, the raw letters he has scorched across her pelvis. Regan ventures a glance up at him, attempts something like a smile when he tells her how pretty, and waits for him to allow her to speak another word.

He doesn't.

You are the Monster's now.

He's turning away, and her lips part anxiously as he slaps off the lights and opens the door - it is late morning now, or maybe noon - but in the windowless shack it is always midnight, and he's going to leave her like this. She wants to say wait, she wants to say please - or even: yours - but he has not invited her to speak again.

Monster, Mrs. Monster - he'll never let her forget it. Will he ever trust her to speak again?

He shuts her in without looking back, and she tugs compulsively against the restraints, feeling his come running down her legs, feeling the strain in her muscles, and knowing it's no good. It is such a miserable tease, to be strapped to the bed when she has been on her feet for hours and hours. In the dark, she can only focus on her discomforts - the jittery fatigue of her calves and thighs, the tender just-fucked feeling between her legs, and the burning itch of the letters - she can read them, even in the dark.

YOURS, not MINE. You are the Monster's, Mrs. Monster. She wonders suddenly if she has had him all wrong. If it's YOURS, so she can say it to him...and so he can say it to - another. Another presence. The Monster. He can say: She is Yours, and turn his back on whatever the Monster might choose to do to her.

She can't stop shivering, she can't stop feeling that word. She mustn't ever think she knows him, she reminds herself - she has never had him figured out, he is something worse than she can imagine. She'll make herself crazy, trying to understand. She's got to keep it together.

She makes fists in the dark, squeezing tight for as long as she can stand. Trying not to think of anything, trying not to hear the hollow plip of his come dripping into the bucket. He can't hear her in the house, but she has nothing to say, just now.

Monster. She can still hear his voice on the word. He'll never let her forget. As long as she lives.

She's said quite enough.

 

[ezwriter]

Keeping creatures of any sort requires upkeep - feed and shelter and the like. His disability payment barely covered his needs. And now he was feeding two and soon three or more.

If he wasn't breeding her he could bring her down to the canyon Thursday nights. Put her torso in a pillowcase, tie her arms behind her back. Open the passenger door and stick her ass out. Twenty bucks a fuck. Thirty in the ass. Cashed in on the fat girl like that before he took her to the river.

Even if the Princess was a keeper, that didn't mean she couldn't earn her way. There's one thing that will always make money so why not take advantage of his own little profit center. He waits until nightfall to go for groceries. On his way back he stops at Target.

It is night when the door of the cabin opened again. It's been eight or nine hours she is tied there upright. He flips the light switch on and watches her head shudder as her eyes flash closed from the fluorescent barrage.

He has a small cup of milk for her to drink and stands close - touching her tits and watching as she thirstily sucks it down through the straw.

When she finishes he sets the cup down.
"More later," he tells her.

She can see him heading toward the cabinets where the "play" clothes had been and reaching for a wig - short black hair closely cropped somewhat like hers had been. He returns and slips it on her. Straightens it.

Now he settles onto his haunches and loosens the ties lashing her legs to the bed frame. Not off her feet but at least she can reposition them, still bound by her arms and her neck to the cold hard metal footboard.

She tries to watch in the mirror as he rises and disappears behind her for a minute. He tears open the cellophane wrapping of a Value package of cotton bikini panties - 8 to a bag in assorted colors and patterns. These will do for now, until the money starts coming in. He selects a pair in a crimson color with a small white bow at the front of the waistband.

Returning to her he crouches and commands her to lift her foot and then the other as he slides the panties up her legs. They are high enough so the front panel covers the branding, a narrow strap at her hips. Clothing at least.

He moves away again and returns with his phone to snap a picture of her - face to thighs.

"Do you want to eat, pig?" he challenges her. He's way too close to her but only she has bounds and he doesn't have to ask real questions anymore.

His hand is on the crotch of her panties, his long powerful fingers are pressing in, massaging the cleft.

"You cum for me. You make these panties nice and juicy. Then we'll both eat good." His feet are between her feet and his hand is a steady undulating pressure against her twat. Rough and foreign, pressing the cotton panties into her.

So close he can hear the modulation of her breath and her efforts to control it, the steady acceleration of air flowing in and out of her nostrils.

"I have all night, pig," he tells her. His rough hand gouging into the private space he has laid claim to.

It's like milking a cow.

HIS

hand in her cunt.

There's a phrase - Animal husbandry.

He has all night. But he will soon feel the fabric moisten at his fingertips, seeping through. Give the customers what they pay for. Give the boys a thrill.

Good girl. He slips the moistened panties down her legs and lays them on the bed to photograph.

She's rewarded with another glass of milk and fried eggs and toast. Then he unleashes her. He shackles her to the bed so she can lie down once again, then he locks her in for the night.

He will post the photographs in an ad in a porn chatroom labeled BUY MY SLAVE'S PANTIES $30. With a Paypal account he can collect anonymously. He gets three inquiries that night.

 

[saysalice]

She is weak and limp, aching all over, hanging from the bed frame when the door opens at last and she opens her eyes to see that it's night - and then is blinded by the flourescents as he snaps them on. Wincing, squinting, bleary, she makes herself open - open and look - what's he got? What's he got this time?

Food? Her stomach roars to life at the mere thought, but when she can see, she sees that it's only another cup of milk. Still, she opens her lips for it eagerly when he holds the straw for her, and drinks noisily, barely aware of his fondling.

Just milk. That's all. Pig. She wonders if he's starving her.

More later, he says. She wants to believe him.

She wants down from here. She needs to sit - to stretch - to lie down, even on the concrete - kneel for him - anything. He hasn't invited her to speak, but she whines at him, pitching it a little louder as he steps away, past her to the dress-up cabinets - yes, she'll play his games, even, if he'll just take her down from here.

He returns and pulls a wig down over her bald head, tugging at it fussily until he's satisfied, and she catches her breath excitedly as he sinks into a crouch in front of her and begins unfastening the restraints at her ankles. She tells herself she doesn't even care what this game is, the name he wants to call her, what he wants to do to her, as long as -

She glances up at herself in the mirror and her face goes white. She's looking at herself. It's her hair...almost. Almost, she assures herself desperately - the color's not right, the cut is a little outdated - not quite right. Not quite right, her mind screams calmly. Still, the effect is jarring. She's looking at herself again, the self she was before he took her, naked with the word - that word - branded on her now, and her body trembling with severe fatigue.

Why does he have a Regan wig?

Just coincidence? Did she look like whoever this is (or was), when he saw her at the bar? Is that why he took her? Or will he plop this wig on the next girl's head and say, "Now you're Regan. That Regan was some fucking bitch. This game is called Monster - now take this like a big girl..."

Shaking, she is shaking.

There is a crackle of plastic behind her and she tries to watch him - what's he got, what's he going to do? He returns to her with a pair of cheap cotton panties, still creased from the package. New. She remembers the blue ones in the drawer, the taste of them, as he helps her step shakily into this pair and slides them up on her hips. This pair fits her. He's bought these for her.

He holds up a cell phone and snaps her picture, and she blinks belatedly, after the flash. Why a picture, when he can look at her any time he wants to? Something to remember her by? Is this it? She shakes her head reflexively, hurting herself - she must stop being so morbid.

Then his hand is between her legs - gently, at first, as if he is checking the fit.

Do you want to eat, pig?

She stares at him. She has just started to nod when she feels his fingers dig into her suddenly and she stiffens - tries and fails to pull away.

You cum for me. She gasps as he works his fingers deliberately, determinedly into her cunt, finding her clit and making her gasp again as he rubs the flimsy cotton panties into her. She squirms and can't get away, and the frantic movements of her hips only make things worse. No - no - no! His face is close to hers, watching her pinched and pained expression, close enough to feel her harsh breath on his cheek, and she can see in the mirror that it is her face, and she can't turn her head to look away.

She's getting wet - not very, her mind screams - and she moans through clenched teeth at the realization. She's a smart cookie, she knows it's just biology, anatomy, a bundle of nerve endings. Press this sensitive button enough times - she strains to try to pull away from his insistent fingers - and of course, of course - it's just - anatomy... But in the mirror, it's her face flushing with this shameful pleasure. At his hands.

I have all night, pig.

She knows he does, and she knows he won't stop - she is shuddering on the thought, trembling in her exhaustion, and it only heightens the sensations - he'll wear her down, he will have it. So why is she fighting so hard to resist this? She can feel the panties clinging to her - cheap thin panties, it won't take much. She is so tired, and it's just a reflex - ah, my God - as his fingertips curl into her again and again, now returning to rub at her clit so that she twitches with the shock of pleasure - it's just an orgasm, why fight? Why not let him have it?

"No-oo," she groans through her teeth, though he has not invited her to speak. He has taken so much from her - taken everything, and taken his pleasure in so many horrible ways. She won't give him hers. She is sweating and itchy up under the wig, teeth clenched and fists clenched behind her back, but even saying the word excites her somehow, and it is less than thirty seconds after, that her hips start bucking. She is grinding into his hand, crying out harshly in a mix of frustration and ecstacy as her pulsing cunt gushes into his hand and her whole body tenses in the restraints at the height of her throbbing climax.

She hasn't even finished completely when she feels him peeling the sodden red panties from between her folds, pulling them down her thighs and off again. Her cunt is still twitching as she watches him in the mirror, taking a picture of them. When will she stop trying to understand?

He leaves her, and she won't look at herself. He still hasn't let her down, and she can feel a heavy, hopeless weariness settling into her bones. When he returns he has food, like he promised. They are both silent as he feeds her, and then he surprises her by taking her off the bed frame and fastening her so that she can lie down. Rewarding her. As if she's obeyed him, to please him...as if she had any choice in the matter.

He leaves again, and that is a reward, too. Regan knows she will burst into humiliated sobs the minute he closes the door - but she doesn't. In spite of her exhaustion, she is awake in the dark, staring at nothing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing for a long time.

*

At 3:00 am his phone buzzes, vibrating loudly on the night stand, waking him. He almost ignores it; he and Regan had just had this conversation the other night at the bar - that people are such slaves to their cell phones, that if there's one place they most certainly should be ignored, it's the bedroom. He turns over and pounds his pillow with a sigh. The other night at the bar. Before the shit hit the fan.

Regan.

His eyes snap open in the dark and he gropes wildly for it. It's been three days since he's heard from her. He's started to worry, a little. Even for her, that's a long time. She likes to get the last word in.

The text is from Zach:

Fucking sweet, man. Knew you'd break that frigid little bitch!! Knock $10 off for a friend???

Is he drunk?

Keith texts back: WTF? We broke up.

A minute passes. Then:

Oh shit. Awkward.

Keith frowns.

What is?

Now several minutes pass. Finally, Zach texts him the link.

*

He has the message composed, but his finger hovers over the Send button.

Classy, babe. Way to slum. Your parents must be proud.

He tells himself he is furious. He can't stop looking at the picture. Yes, it is her - and look at her! Welts on her thighs, dirt ground into her skin, touseled hair, naked except for those cheap panties...those panties. MY SLAVE. Tied spread-legged to the end of the bed - dirty sheet on the mattress - so that her breasts are pushed out, like an offering. To everyone.

She was never into that sort of thing, with him.

He's furious. He is. He taps the Send button decidedly.

Sending...
Sending...
Sending...

He glances at the picture again. It's so unlike her. It's so like her. Classic rebound move.

Sending...
Sending...
Sending...

He drove her to this. In his mouth, he can taste sour grapes.

Sending...
Message not sent. Try again?

Feeling the guilt on his face, he hits No. Message not sent. Where the fuck is she?

He makes himself look at the picture again. S&M - it's a classic rebound move. It's so like her. But - what if it's not? The way she's been bound to the bed...kind of overkill, isn't it? Would Regan ever give any man that much control? It's so unlike her. But what if it's not? What if he's pushed her to this?

White knight syndrome - they've had this conversation, too. How she would laugh at him, if he came rushing to her rescue, if she doesn't need it.

But what if she does?

Something gnaws at his subconscious, won't leave him alone. The dirt, maybe. The cheap going price of the panties. Her face, half hidden by her hair - even her hair bothers him, for some reason. This isn't his Regan. Except that it undeniably is - he knows that body, he's kissed every inch of that body. But what if he doesn't know her at all?

He needs to talk to her. He needs to hear the derision in her voice and know she's alright. But she won't return his calls, and now she won't accept his texts. He looks at the screen again - just at the ad, this time.

It takes him five minutes to open a new account, just a string of random characters @gmail.com. If she's in on it, and she sees his name, he's sure they won't answer. He sends a message directly to the vendor.

Hot slut. I'll pay $$$ if she'll meet and take them off for me. Discretion assured. Name your price.

He hesitates again before hitting Send. She'll kill him. But something about the picture makes his heart hurt. He wants her to kill him.