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Archive-name: Slaves/ficta.txt


Archive-title: Ficta


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



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



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



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



``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.


With one hand at her lower back, and one hand holder her leash, he

steered her out of the room by way of a doorway on the other side from

which she entered.  They passed through a small hallway with pleasant

small floral print wallpaper, a small antique table with a vase of

flowers, all reminding her of an apocryphal aunt's home, and then they

came to another room.


This was about the same size as the last room, but far more cluttered.

This seemed more like a study, and bookshelves overflowed with papers,

loosely bound texts, bric-a-brack and personal artifacts.  There were

cabinets along another wall, and there was a desk mostly covered by

paper.  But also on the desk was a computer, and around this computer

was clear of the general clutter.


He left her standing in the center of the room, while still holding

her leash, and opened up a cabinet.  He pulled from it a large device

of wire and metal rods and plastic bands.  He set it precariously on a

stack of papers on the desk, and closed the cabinet.  He fastened her

leash to a ring set in the desk; he had her kneel.  He fiddled with

the device for a moment, then it opened up, in some fashion, and he

set it about her head.


The thing reminded her of a halo brace, and indeed with the twisting

of knobs, the screwing of cranks, and the snapping of snaps the device

gripped her head firmly, and pressed against her skull in numerous

places.  A large multi-colored ribbon of wires ran from the device to

a pronged end, which he plugged into a box attached to the computer.

She merrily laughed inwardly to find that she would be re-written on

an Amiga.


He sat himself at the desk and began to type at the keyboard.

Kneeling by his side, she laid her head against his thigh.  He

grinned at her, and reached through the wiring to rub at her jaw line

for a moment, then returned to the machine.  As she lay there, she

felt dancing on the inside, like a flight of butterflies in her heart,

but she had no inclination to move from her position against her

master.  After a few more commands, he looked at her again, then

tapped one last keystroke.


She felt a fleeting feeling across her mind, like a high cloud

scooting across the sky, a feeling that was more an awareness than an

emotion.  She neglected her vision, her hearing, and all her outward

senses, turning all of her awareness to what was happening to her

mind.  She opened up all of her mind to this faint thing.


She felt as if she were in midair, falling or flying, then.  And she

felt as if there was someone who's thinking she could hear, or feel,

or know.  Then, instantaneously, with not transition, she knew she

would not disobey.  She could ///remember/// being able to disobey,

but she no longer could.  And it was not even a realization about

whether or not she *could*, but rather the understanding that never in

her life would she disobey her Master.  But she had not wanted to

then, and was no longer capable now, and could not longer conceive of

herself disobeying.  Freedom from his will passed entirely from her

understanding and ability and desire and all her soul.


Then there came into her mind another understanding, or rather, there

passed from her other knowings.  Gone was the worry that she might

leave, gone the idea that she someday would not be his slave, gone the

concept of being not his, gone the idea of having an identity of her

own.  All questions of permanence fled: she knew she was once

something else, free, but she could no longer imagine it, or hold such

an idea for herself in her mind.


Certainty came to her next of his love and caring for her.  It was

eternal, and undivided by any other loves he indulged in.  She knew

this, and became removed from any jealousy.  She came to know that he

was capable in what he promised her, and would not fail her.  Of these

two things trust is made, and forged in her was an absolute and

unquestioning trust in him.  She knew, for instance, that she would

have no desire to preserve her life should he tell her it was to end.


And she knew then, that he *understood*.  He understood her need for

pain.  He understood that every blow and every cut would convey love

as a kiss does, and she understood that every blow and every cut was a

gift of infinite loving.  Every agony he inflicted would be his gift

and his testament of love to her.  She knew she would be made to

suffer beyond her ability to endure, because he cared.  She knew that

he would understand every scream and every whimper to be not a wish

for the pain to end, but a sound her body demanded she make; she knew

she need not be silent for fear of making his ministrations cease.  It

was a promise written on her soul, ``No matter what you do, I will not

stop, you cannot make me stop.  I will make you *hurt*.''


He watched on the screen as the machine wrote in her mind what she

shall be for the rest of her life.  There was a gauge that showed her

resistance to the imprinting: in truth, there was no resistance.  Her

mind welcomed these thoughts, beliefs and tenets with complete

acceptance.  He watched as the machine remade her mind, with a delight

and awe he rarely felt.  She wanted to be his as much as he desired to

own her.  It seemed to him to be a miracle, and he felt a desire to

thank some nameless deity that such a creature could exist, that a

creature existing could be so perfect for him, could be his true mate.


He did not have to reprogram her.  She had fallen in love as he took

her in the chains.  She would have obeyed as best any natural creature

could physically obey.  But then again, he did need to reprogram her.

They both needed it.  He needed to know her faith and love were

absolute; that is what his heart needed.  And it was also his gift to

her.  The programming went well beyond her consciousness,

circumventing her own thoughts.  Things she would have been physically

incapable of doing at his order, such as ``Go to sleep'', her new

programming would obey; he was programming the controls to her body,

not just her mind.  If he did not do this, she would fail, and it

would wrack at her, and grieve her; now she would not have to endure

failure at what she wished to be able to do.


He scratched her scalp idly as the machine whirred away.  Then it was

done.  He shut down the master program, and unplugged the headset.

She lifted her head from his leg, and looked up in his eyes.  He

released her head from the mechanism, and set it on the desk.  Her

eyes were choked with emotion, but were dry.  With a soft rustle of a

voice she said,


``Thank you, Master.  Thank you for making me this.''


He lifted her up and kissed her then, and she responded with all the

ardor in her overwhelmed heart.  He took the chain from the desk, and

lead her forth again.


This time, the came to a room that looked of japanese style; two walls

were of rice-paper panes in wood.  Racks lined the other austere,

white, walls, bearing all manner of instruments.  A pallet lay on the

hardwood floor by one wall.  A low table held a lantern, a sprig of

flowers, a white cloth, and a pitcher with a glass.  He unlocked her

hand from behind her back, and helped her strip off her clothing.

Folded these were put on the table, with his robe.


He locked her hands to a sturdy chain from the ceiling.  He took the

white cloth; with one hand gripped her hair and pulled back her head,

and with the other he forced the cloth into her mouth.  There was much

of it, and it would not all fit in her mouth.  He pulled it out, and

twisted one corner, and forced it back into her mouth.  ``Swallow,''

he commanded, and she let the cloth into her throat.  This time he was

able to press all of the fabric into her.  She gagged fiercely against

the mass filling her throat, but so tightly was the cloth packed she

could not even vomit, neither could she move her jaw at all.


He took a roll of tape and a squeeze tube from the wall; he smeared

the substance in the tube on her lips, then sealed over her mouth with

the tape.  The distress of gagging against the cloth surged adrenaline

through her, and her breath came ragged and panicked through her

nostrils.  She managed to control this quickly and her body stopped

spasming as violently.


He took a heavy stick from the wall; it was black and had a grip at

one end: a billyclub.  He met her gaze once.  His face was filled with

a zen-like calm.  She matched this within herself.  Then he broke gaze

with her, and raised the club.


With a snap of his wrist and flex of his shoulder, the club hit her

with a meaty ///thunk///.  He was older, but he was not weak.  That

blow summoned more force than she had ever seen used against a living

person; nothing was held back.  Wasting no time, he recoiled, and

clubbed her again.  Her breath was forced from her lungs.


He proceeded to beat her.  Each blow was a study in technique, a

perfect culmination of study and skill in force and aim.  Tears

tracked down her cheeks, and she grunted and moaned and shrilled and

gurgled in pain around the gag but all of these sounds were muffled

almost beyond his hearing.  He walked about her as he beat her, being

careful not to do any severe trauma to delicate areas, such as her

kidneys.  Blows fell across her belly, across her shoulders, her

thighs, her breasts, her ribs, her calves.  After a while, he ceased,

and poured a drink of water for himself from the pitcher; he sipped at

the water for a time.  Then he began again.


She passed beyond tears, grunting faintly only because some blows

pushed the air past her vocal cords.  All of her awareness compacted

to the immediate room.  Her mind filled with the perfection of the

connection between swinging hardwood rod and her flesh.  Each swing

was a need, and that need was fulfilled by her soft body accepting and

intercepting the motion, stilling it and absorbing it.  Each volume of

her body was a need, and the force of each impact dispersing deep

throughout her muscle was a fulfillment.


She did not realize when he stopped, for her body hurt so.  But it was

the jingling of the keys and he reached up and unlocked her that

alerted her to the end of the ordeal.  The manacles fell from the

chain and she collapsed into his arms.  He bore her down to the pallet,

and cradled her in his arms.  He smiled at her.


``See,'' he said stroking her throat, ``You no longer gag.''  She

nodded faintly, her head resting against his chest.  He ran his hands

over her bruising body.  Her breath wheezed in and out of her

constricted air passage, but it no longer distressed her.


He pulled the tape from her mouth.  Then he pulled the damp wadded

cloth from her mouth.  She gagged a bit as he drew the last of it from

her upper esophagus.  He massaged her neck around the collar, then sat

her up.  He ran a short chain though the loop about her waist, and

fastened each end to a wrist manacle.  He stood and donned his white

robe; holding her leash, and said, ``Come with me.''


He stopped in the hall to open a closet and get a pink shift for her

to wear.  It was light and pleasant against her skin.  Then he lead

her to the kitchen.  It seemed strange to be in this place again while

in chains, but strangenesses were no longer her concern.  He rummaged

in the refrigerator, and put a handful of vegetables on the counter.

He leashed her to the counter.  He got a knife, a parer and a cutting



``Wash, skin and chop these,'' he instructed.  She went to her task

with a will.  Her motions were clean and efficient, and she was

capable with the knife; but she found the limits on the motion of her

hands to make her work challenging.  She did not let it deter her.  He

prepared meat and when they were done, he began cooking it, and she

set the kitchen table.  Together they worked.


When it was done, they brought the food to the table -- her chain

reaching that far where it was fastened, and sat to eat.  She found

his cooking very pleasing, and ate with a relish and a gratitude she

could not remember ever experiencing before.  When she had cleared her

plate, she realized that her Master was still eating.  Her mind reeled

for a moment: had she erred?  He laughed softly at her like one

laughs at the timidity of a child.  He picked a slice of carrot from

his plate and held it forth to her.  She took it delicately in her

teeth, and chewed it slowly and thoroughly; it hurt her abuse throat a

little as she swallowed.  She licked his fingers clean.


He laughed merrily, and slapped his thigh in summons.  She fell to her

knees at his side, and as he ate he would occasionally feed her from

his hand.  When he was done, he had her lick the dishes clean; she

closed her eyes and hummed with pleasure as she did.  They finished

cleaning in a more ordinary manner, with a dishwasher, and put

everything away.


He brought her back into the further reaches of the house, and they

came to his bedroom.  He stripped her of all but her manacles and

collar.  He laid her down in his bed and locked her leash to the

headboard.  He laid down beside her, and pulled the covers over them.

He took her in his arms, pulling her back to his chest, and curling

his knees against the backs of hers.


``Did you like that?''


``Yes, Master.''


``Would you like to do that every day?''


She thought about the question for a moment.


``I would like to feel like that every day, but I would be afraid I

would become acclimated to it, Master, if it were always the same.''


``I have many, many ordeals to put you through, dearest.  Go to sleep

now, and tomorrow there will be new acts to endure.''  He kissed her

behind her ear, and with his face buried in her tresses, she fell into

a peaceful slumber.


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