A Slave`s Life
Prologue
It was only a fluke that Jamie noticed the diskette in one of the dresser drawers of her
hotel room. She thought it was odd that the maid missed it, but then again, it was wedged
way in back and its dark color blended in with the wood.
She pulled it out and looked it over. There was no label or other marking on it at all.
It looked new, unused. Briefly, she considered tossing it in the trash; for all she knew,
it might contain a virus. But in the end, her curiosity got the better of her.
Soon her laptop was started, and she was checking the contents of the diskette. It
contained only a single item, a text file named "slavesstory." Without
hesitation, she clicked it open. She read the opening chapter heading, blinked and read
it again. What was she getting into? She looked around as if someone might be reading
over her shoulder, then continued. She did not stir again until she came to the very
end.
This is what the file said:
Chapter One
Kidnapped by a Madman
The harsh buzzing of the alarm awakens me from a peaceful dream. In the dream, I was
once again free; once again my own person. I don`t remember much about the dream except
running barefoot through an open field, feeling the grass between my toes, enjoying the
warmth of the sun on my face.
Unfortunately, it was only a dream. Not so long ago, my life was not unlike that dream,
although I didn`t appreciate it at the time. Waking up usually meant getting ready for
work during the week, or running errands on the weekends. But if I really wanted to run
through a meadow on a sunny day, I could arrange it. Now, waking up only reminds me of
the soft leather cuffs locked onto my wrists and ankles, the loose chains connecting them,
and the collar around my neck. And, of course, there`s the small cell, which has been my
"home" for the past several months. At least I think it`s been months, not
having any way to keep track of time.
You see, I`ve been kidnapped and turned into a madman`s vision of a sex slave. I have no
freedom over my life at all, and am forced to do his bidding, quite literally at all
times. I sometimes muse that, unlike similar kidnappings I`ve read about, at least I`m
allowed to have clothing most of the time. Right now I have on a simple white slip and
white panties. It`s not much, but it`s something.
Suddenly I realize I must get up and get ready. I rouse myself from my pointless musings
and begin to make myself presentable. I only have a few minutes to wash the sleep from my
face, brush my hair and assume the "slave" position before the madman who calls
himself "master" enters the room. I kneel in the center of the cell, sitting
back on my heels. As long as my arms are only loosely chained, as they are today, I can
leave my hands at my sides. Sometimes, though, my hands are left tightly bound, either as
punishment for some transgression, or simply because it amuses him. I cast my eyes
downward when I hear him on the stairs. He enters. I must wait for him to speak first,
then respond in the respectful manner he has trained me to use.
"Good morning, slave."
"Good morning, Master. Your slave awaits your command."
"Good girl. I have your breakfast here. You may arise and eat."
"Thank you, Master."
This little ritual is so automatic for me now, I no longer notice how demeaning it is.
Once we finish our set lines, I retrieve the breakfast tray through a special opening in
the bars of the cell and proceed to eat the first of the two meals I receive every day.
He watches me eat for a few minutes, and then, without another word, he leaves, presumably
for work. Of course, I remain alone in the cell for the day. I have no TV or radio or
other link with the outside world. The only amusement I have is the stack of bondage
magazines and books he commands me to read. Other than that, my world is just a ten by
twelve foot cell with sink, toilet and cot. Once he leaves, I won`t see him again for
many hours, when he returns to "play" with me. This daily routine has been my
life since the day I let down my guard in a dark parking lot.
That day, I had just left a late meeting at the department store where I worked. I was
stressed and harried, and just wanted to get home as soon as possible. I know now that
he`d been watching and waiting for just such a time, when I was preoccupied with other
matters, to make his move. He approached me looking agitated and worried. He said his
car had been stolen, and asked if I had a cell phone he could use to call the police.
What I saw was a perfectly normal looking middle-aged gentleman, well-dressed, apparently
in trouble, and needing my help.
It`s funny now to recall my first impression of him. I remember thinking he was rather
attractive, and I wouldn`t mind if this chance encounter led to him asking me out. I`d
broken up with the latest in a long string of losers about a month before, and was more or
less ready to try again. In that first instant, I`d already decided I`d let him buy me
dinner to thank me for helping him out.
But as I searched my purse for the phone, I suddenly was aware of the pressure of a gun
barrel against my head. The cold steel sent a shiver down my spine. His quiet voice
whispered in my ear, assuring me that I`d be all right if I didn`t make any noise and did
what he said. He told me to put my hands behind my back, and quickly snapped a pair of
handcuffs on my wrists. Then he had me get into his car, which turned out to be right
next to mine the whole time. He drove a short distance to a deserted alley. He kept
talking to me in this gentle voice, assuring me that he wasn`t going to hurt me, that
everything was going to be all right. He only needed to "borrow" me for a
little while, that it wasn`t what I thought. In the alley, he forced me to get into the
trunk of the car, which was conveniently equipped with straps he used to secure me firmly
in place. Then he shoved a small rubber ball into my mouth, sealed it in with tape, and
slammed the trunk closed. I was left with no way to move or shout or otherwise call
attention to myself.
He drove for what seemed like hours. I`ve never been so frightened in my life. I was
certain I`d be dead before the night was through. The fright soon led to anger. Anger at
this man who suddenly turned my life inside out. Anger at myself for letting him. I told
myself I should have screamed, struggled, anything. So what if he had a gun? A quick
shot would have been better than what I was sure would follow. The anger soon turned to
fear again. A blind panic engulfed me. It was unlike anything I`d ever felt before. It
twisted me in knots inside and made me nauseous. I couldn`t help crying, off and on, even
though it made breathing difficult.
By the time he finally stopped and turned the car off, I was almost relieved at the
prospect of being freed from the confines of the trunk. The trunk lid opened and there he
stood, looking down at me. I could see that we were in a typical garage much like you
might see anywhere in the country. My mouth was still gagged, so I couldn`t talk, but I
still tried to plead with him to let me go. It`s almost funny how you do things like
that, even though you know it`s pointless. Of course, he didn`t let me go. Instead, he
shook his head and unfastened the straps. Then he taped my ankles together, lifted me
bodily out of the trunk, and carried me into the house.
Inside, the house looked normal enough – dishes in the sink, pictures on walls, books on
shelves. He carried me through the kitchen and down a hall. He sat me in a chair in the
den and proceeded to explain that he`d told a few "fibs" along the way. He had
not just "borrowed" me, but had effectively stolen me. He`d kidnapped me, not
for ransom, but for other, much more sinister reasons. I was only dimly aware, through my
fright, of everything he said, but slowly the realization came to me that he was carrying
out some kind of master/slave fantasy. As he spoke, he retrieved various lengths of rope
from a drawer and proceeded to tie me more completely to the chair.
With one rope, he tied my elbows together. At first I thought he had the rope in the
wrong place. I`d never heard of tying elbows before, but I soon realized how effective it
was at rendering me helpless. It was also quite painful to have my arms pulled back so
unnaturally. I renewed my muffled pleadings, but he continued to ignore me. After
binding my elbows, he removed the handcuffs but immediately re-secured my wrists with
rope. At that point, he stopped to explain that I would never again have the complete use
of my hands or arms. He said I would always be fettered in some way except for very brief
periods to dress or the like. Then he tied my knees together and replaced the tape at my
ankles with rope.
When he was finally satisfied with the way I was bound, he proceeded to give me what he
called my first "slave lesson." He told me that he knew my name, but from now
on would only address me as "slave." He said I did not need to know his name,
and that I must always address him as "Master." Furthermore, he told me that I
must never use the words "I" or "me" or "my." Referring to
myself in the first person like this was forbidden. Instead, I must always refer to
myself as "your slave." He said that I was now a slave, and not a person, so I
was not entitled to be an "I."
This first "lesson" ended with a list of his basic ground rules. I must never
speak unless spoken to, or unless I first ask (or rather "beg") for permission
to speak. He gave me several phrases to use when addressing him. Speaking in any other
manner would be punished. He then spent several long tedious hours forcing me to
"practice" my lesson. He removed the gag (having assured me that screams could
not be heard by anyone and would be severely punished), and began his drill:
"What are you?"
"Your slave"
"Who am I?"
"You are the Master."
"How do you ask to speak?"
"Master, your slave begs for permission to speak."
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