Jim's Story Ch. 02

Chapter 2 - Life Begins

Wind hammered the windows. Jim woke with a start and lay still for a moment, listening. Snow was supposed to come later, but nothing had fallen yet.

He looked back at the bed, and there she was. He still couldn't believe it. His woman. His... slave. She slept with one arm draped above her, head resting upon it, her breathing steady. The metal cuff on her wrist stood out against the pale sheets.

He glanced at the bedside clock. It was already later than he'd wanted to wake, and the morning was slipping away. He needed to wake her, but she seemed so peaceful as she slept; maybe at peace for the first time in two days; maybe longer than that. He considered leaving her to sleep, but he remembered her reaction to the mere thought of being left alone last night, and he absolutely did not want her to wake up alone and descend into panic. Instead, he pulled the wooden chair away from the dressing table, sat beside the bed, and watched her sleep. She was so beautiful, but also half his age.

The clock ticked past 06:30, and she slept soundly on. Sitting there, he became almost mesmerised watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing, so he forced himself to stand and wandered back to the wooden dressing table. He pulled open the top drawer and inspected the miscellaneous items he'd dumped in there the previous evening. He picked up the objects, turning each one over in his hands as he tried to work out what they were for. "I must ask her," he muttered under his breath.

He heard a rustle behind him and spun around. She was awake, stretching sleep from her limbs, the duvet flung aside. She writhed slowly on the mattress, naked apart from the metal collar and cuffs. The short chain connecting her ankle to the bedframe rattled as she shifted. Something about the movement struck him. Graceful. Instinctive.

She looked up at him. Her eyes went first to his face, then to the door, then back again.

Jim sat on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"Hello again," he whispered.

Her look of confusion faded into a tentative smile of recognition, though she didn't return his greeting.

"Time to get up," he announced, standing up.

She didn't move a muscle. He pursed his lips. "Do you remember my orders from last evening?"

The movement was so fast that he barely had time to react. She dropped to the carpet on her knees, forehead on the floor, arms in front of her, hips in the air. Jim stared at her. He had no idea what she expected him to do. "Forgive me, master," she whispered.

He reached down, took her trembling shoulders in his hands, and pulled them up from the floor. "Forgiven," he told her as she looked up at him from her kneeling position, her face now close to the growing tent in his boxer shorts. She opened her mouth as wide as she could and stuck out her tongue. Jim stared at her for a moment until realisation dawned, swiftly followed by disgust. Not at her, but at her training. He fought to keep the emotion from his face; he didn't want her to think he was rejecting her, but he couldn't take her up on her "offer". With a forced smile, he reached down and pressed a finger under her chin to close her mouth. "Not just yet, but thanks for the offer."

From the trousers he'd worn the previous day, he pulled out a small, shiny key and unlocked the padlock securing the chain around the foot of the bed. He pocketed the key again and gathered up the loose chain. He handed the slack to her, leaving it attached to her ankle cuff.

"Come on," he instructed, heading purposefully out of the bedroom. She followed.

He left her waiting outside the master bedroom, then returned a few minutes later, fully clothed and carrying the laptop he'd abandoned there the previous evening. He took a few steps toward the main stairs, then half-turned. Crooking a single finger, he beckoned her after him, then turned and descended the stairs. They went through the wide hallway and emerged into the kitchen. He plonked the laptop down on the large kitchen table.

"Can you cook?" he asked her.

She tilted her head slightly to one side, repeating the action from yesterday when he'd asked about something from the past.

"I..." She clearly found this simple question difficult. It seemed to Jim that she'd lightened up a little last night, but had regressed again this morning. "I... think so."

Maybe breakfast would help. Something ordinary. Something she knew how to do. At least he hoped she did.

He gathered what he needed from around the kitchen--eggs, bacon, mushrooms, beans, oil--and carried it all to the central island. Natalie hadn't moved. She watched him from beside the door. He switched on the griddle and beckoned her over. When she arrived at his side, he took the chain from her hand and, using the padlock from his pocket, locked it around the sturdy metal leg of the breakfast bar.

He chopped the mushrooms and handed them over. "Cook." She looked at him. "No pressure. Edible will do. We can always have cornflakes."

She picked up the bacon hesitantly and laid it on the hot griddle, then reached across for the eggs. Jim was emptying the baked beans into a saucepan when he heard a shriek. He whirled around to find her standing back from the smoking griddle, clutching her left breast, pain clear in her eyes.

Jim cursed under his breath--he should have known better than to let her cook bacon unprotected. He turned on the cold tap and held a clean dishcloth under the flow until it ran icy cold.

Turning to her, he gently moved her hand away from her breast. The burn didn't seem severe. A blotch of red against her pale breast; second-degree, he guessed. For a moment he wanted to kiss it better, but the need to do something more useful dispelled that thought, and he placed the freezing cloth over the burn. After holding it there for a few seconds, he carefully folded the cloth into a tight ball and began dabbing softly, wiping the now-cooled fat from her delicate skin. Her nipple stiffened, growing longer and hard. Her other nipple was stiffening just as quickly. He frowned. Was that normal?

He had finished wiping the fat away now and was holding the soothing, cold cloth firmly against her breast, drawing the heat out of the burn, cupping it in his hand. And then she gently ground her bare arse back against his crotch, her eyes tightly shut and with quiet purring noises deep in her throat.

He knew very little about the grim reality of sexual slavery, but arousing a woman and then denying her an orgasm seemed unnecessarily cruel in the current situation. But he was completely unready to... well... use her.

While he held the soothing cloth to her left breast, he reached around with his free hand to cup her other breast. He massaged that breast slowly, playing with her hardening nipple, gently tweaking it, pinching it softly, and rolling it under his thumb. He was almost on autopilot, directed by memories from long ago. Memories he'd deliberately suppressed, but now he drew on them again.

Her hands remained by her sides, but her legs trembled under his attention and the intense sensations he induced in her. She was much shorter than he was, and he found himself almost holding her upright by her breasts alone. He bent his head down close to her ear and whispered, "Finish yourself off."

Her hands flew down to her pussy, and she began to play with herself. Her breathing came faster and faster. She took one hand away and reached awkwardly behind her. Finding Jim's now-erect cock through his cotton shorts, she massaged him through the material. Then she shuddered and let out a low, guttural groan. Her legs gave out, and, just in time, Jim shifted his hold and caught her under her arms. Steadying her, he swept an arm behind her knees and lifted her. He carried her to one of the wooden chairs he kept in the kitchen, the one where he sometimes read the morning paper with his coffee. Her chain barely reached. He set her down, checked she was unharmed, and hurried back to the cooking island.

The first batch of bacon went in the bin, too burnt to eat. Jim fetched more and started again. She needed something to drink, too. Something safe. Coffee, perhaps. Cappuccino. Every woman he'd ever known seemed to like cappuccino. Admittedly, that wasn't a particularly large sample. A coffee pod clicked into the machine. Soon, breakfast was ready and, as those television cookery shows insisted on calling it, he plated up.

She watched him from her chair as he set both plates of food on the breakfast bar, fetched the cutlery and assorted sauces, and finally brought over the two steaming cups of coffee. He pulled up two tall wooden stools, one on each side. "Come on," he told her, gesturing to the empty stool. "Sit there."

She rose and sat opposite him, rigid and staring down at the hearty fare before her. He pushed a plate of food and a mug of coffee closer, then picked up a knife and fork and held them out to her. She took the cutlery tentatively but seemed unsure what to do with it.

"Have you used a knife and fork before?" he asked gently.

Her head tilted again. "I think so," she answered.

Left-handed or right-handed? Probably right-handed. Most people were. He took her hands and put the fork in the left, the knife in the right.

He gently covered her hands with his and guided her to cut a piece of the crispy bacon, dip it into the runny egg yolk, and lift it to her mouth. She obediently ate the mouthful. He let go of her hands and whispered, "Carry on." She stabbed a quarter of a mushroom and ate it.

He returned to his stool and sat down, gesturing encouragingly to the coffee cup. "Yours," he said. "Try it. Whenever you are ready. It is hot." He watched her fingers tighten around the mug, and she took a cautious sip. A strange, fleeting look flashed across her face.

They ate together in comfortable silence. Questions kept crowding into his head, but he pushed them aside. She needed to concentrate. She explored the flavour of the individual elements, then in various combinations, pausing from time to time, head tilted to one side, analysing. Maybe remembering.

They finished eating, and he gathered up the dirty plates and cups, depositing them in the dishwasher along with the rest of the cooking utensils. She watched his every move. He turned the dishwasher on and returned to her, sitting on his stool and leaning across the counter toward her. "Remember what I said last night," he said gently. "Remember it at all times. I need your help." She nodded.

"We have a very busy day today," he told her, pulling away to give her space, "and we need to go places, see people. You will need clothes." He paused. The only way she was going anywhere right now would be naked underneath that heavy overcoat she had arrived in. He wasn't having that, but he had no idea how to measure her for clothes. Over to the laptop again.

He quickly found the information he needed. "Wait," he told her, then went to the adjacent utility room and rummaged through drawers until he found what he was looking for: a flexible dressmaker's tape. He stared at it, and a sudden flash of a painful memory crossed his own eyes.

Back in the kitchen, he told her to stand. He stooped in front of her and looked closely at her left breast. A small, angry red patch marked where boiling fat had splashed onto her, but there was no sign of blistering. He'd ask Kate about it later. His keen eyes spotted several other faint marks on her breast. Thin, faded lines. A few circular patterns. Otherwise, the skin he could see was flawless.

He unrolled the old tape measure. Chest, waist, hips. The rest was less straightforward. He'd always called it an inside leg; apparently the internet preferred 'in-seam'. He held the brass end of the tape firmly to her groin. "Hold this here," he instructed; she obeyed, and the heavy musk from the earlier intense "excitement" invaded his senses. He pulled the tape down to her ankle bone. The metal cuff made the measurement slightly awkward, but he moved on to measuring her bare feet, and then the task was done.

The clock on the kitchen wall read 07:30, and the only place he knew would be open right now was the massive hypermarket on the edge of town. The impersonal nature of shopping there offered some anonymity, especially if he used the self-checkouts.

"I need to go to the shops," he told her.

Her face changed.

"I will only be gone an hour or so."

She was shaking now.

"You cannot come. You only have a heavy overcoat and boots."

More panic. He sighed.

She'd ridden a train for several hours yesterday, but now, less than 24 hours later, she was apparently terrified of being left alone. What had happened to her? Sedation? Conditioning? Something else? And the thought that she might be starting to see him as her owner made his stomach tighten.

The only person who might have had the answers was Charlie, but he wasn't here and hadn't answered emails. So he and Natalie had to deal with a bizarre situation as best they could with very limited information. A thought struck him.

He walked over to the stainless-steel kitchen sink, picked up the still-damp dishcloth he had used to treat her burn, grabbed a fresh roll of cling film, and returned to her. He stood in front of her. "Open your mouth wide," he ordered. She did. He balled the damp dishcloth tightly and pushed it into her mouth, carefully keeping the bulky corners at the front to minimise the chance of triggering her gag reflex.

He tore off a length of cling film and folded it into a broad strip. A few seconds later, the dishcloth was secured across her mouth. He stood back and surveyed his handiwork. Was she smiling around the improvised gag? Her mouth was too full of cloth to be certain. She blinked rapidly, dispelling a tear that threatened to form at the corner of her eye.

He bent down, unlocked the chain from her ankle cuff, took her by the hand, and led her out of the kitchen and into the utility room. He headed straight for the adjoining garage, but a mundane item on the utility shelf caught his eye. Wooden clothes pegs. He pocketed two.

He pushed open the heavy fire door to the garage and led her through into the enormous space. She stood up on her tiptoes, bracing for the concrete floor to be freezing cold. He saw her look down, genuine surprise sparking in her eyes when she found the floor was pleasantly warm. "Underfloor heating," he explained, answering the question she hadn't asked. "The entire house is heated that way. It is admittedly a bit of an extravagance having it out here as well. But I like to tinker with the cars, and I am not keen on being cold."

He stopped at a small, heavy steel safe mounted on the wall and punched the code into the digital lock. It clicked open, revealing several sets of keys hung on little hooks. "Faraday cage as well as physical security," he told her. Her expression didn't change.

He chose a set of keys and guided her to a small, practical hatchback. Hitting the remote central locking on the fob; the car chirped open, and he popped the rear hatch to reveal an almost pristine cargo area. Calling it a 'cargo area' was a massive overstatement; it would barely fit a large suitcase.

"Climb in," he told her. "You can come with me, but you have no clothes; this is the only viable way."

She clambered into the tiny boot space, sitting up rigidly against one side, her knees bent tightly so that she would fit.

"I am afraid not," Jim said. "Lie flat on your stomach."

She manoeuvred in the tight space until she lay flat, knees bent and feet in the air. He left her like that for a moment whilst he walked across to one of the stocky wooden workbenches at the back of the garage. He returned holding three heavy-duty, galvanised padlocks. The rugged sort you would use to secure an outside gate. They were certainly nowhere near as well crafted as the bespoke padlocks she had arrived with, but they would do the job.

He used the first to join her ankles, the second for her wrists, then connected the two. By the time he was finished, she was folded tightly into a hogtie. He'd learned how to do it online the night before. He hoped he'd remembered correctly."

He reached up and grabbed the hatchback door, then paused. He had forgotten something. Allowing the hatch to rise back up on its pneumatic struts, he reached back down to Natalie, sliding his hands gently under her, placing one hand on her far shoulder and the other on her far hip. He pulled back, rolling her onto her side so that she faced him. He took the wooden clothes pegs from his pocket, opened each in turn, and clipped them onto her nipples. As each wooden peg bit into the sensitive flesh, she screwed her eyes shut tight in a brief flash of pain. When both were secure, he stepped back and looked at her.

She'd stopped trembling. Jim rested his hand briefly against her shoulder, then he lowered the hatch.

Darkness swallowed her.