**This is a non consent bondage story...for now. Go to page 2 if you want to skip the build up. This is my first story. Please give me any feedback you can. If you think this is good or bad please let me know why and I will make sure I improve for next time.**
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Sand and grit swirled within the cutting wind that rampaged across the road. There was nothing for miles around in either direction save for the husks of cars that had broken down long ago, never to be repaired. Despite the emptiness and hostility of this large swathe of desert, two figures marched down the cracked road, against the bitter wind.
The person at the back, a woman, was head-to-toe in beige traveller's gear. A hat, a bandana across her face, a light cloth all-in-one boiler suit and brown work boots. She had a rifle over her shoulder, the barrel of which was partially covered by her medium length brunette hair. What was intriguing about the woman, if there were anybody within miles to observe her, was the chain leash that she held. The man in front was the 'owner' of the other end of the leash. It was placed tightly around his neck, chafing at his sun-bleached skin. He was less appropriately dressed than his counterpart, with torn jeans, a ripped checked shirt and no head protection whatsoever. His lips were cracked and bled slightly from their dryness and his eyes squinted and watered as the rough air peppered him relentlessly. His short black hair was almost blonde from the sand that had buried itself within. His black boots were still functional, but his movement was restricted by the two ankle chains that linked his legs together. A similar set of handcuffs were around his wrists with a long chain that connected the two together, requiring his hands to be no higher than his chest while walking.
It had been hours since their last break, and although the black-haired man considered himself strong mentally, his legs soon gave up on him and he crumpled to a heap on the scorching tarmac. His breaths were short and ragged.
"Devin! Get up. Now." The woman's commanding voice echoed across the wasteland.
The man, Devin, turned his head weakly. The sun was behind the woman now, creating the appearance of a bright, shining halo above her head. He laughed awkwardly but ended up in a fit of dry coughs. She may be on the right side of the law, but she certainly was no angel. She quickly closed the gap between them and rammed her boot into his right shoulder, spinning him painfully onto his back. He groaned in discomfort but took the moment to regain his breath.
"Something funny to you, prisoner? You not learned what happens when you laugh without my say so?" He winced and clasped at the fingers on his right hand. They had only just mended from when she crushed them under her boot. "Uh huh. You remember." She smiled smugly with her almost perfect white teeth and full lips. Why would such a wicked person be graced with such fine looks?
"Now stand the fuck up and keep walking." She jeered.
"Please, I just can't walk no more, my legs they -" His thin raspy voice was cut off by the woman's boot connecting with the side of his knee. He screamed out in pain.
"I don't need your excuses, prisoner, I need you moving forwards. Now if you ain't doing it by foot then you better do it by crawling." Devin would have argued, but weeks of imprisonment had taught him that the longer he argued, the worse it got for him. He would just have to keep going until he passed out, or worse, he died.
It was another four hours before they reached a natural stopping point, an old deserted diner. It stood a few dozen yards from the side of the road and had probably been disused for the best part of a century by now. Devin was almost in tears of joy in his pain induced state of delirium upon sight of the diner. He had collapsed three more times and on the third he had been reluctantly handed a few mouthfuls of water. He turned to look at the woman, whose eyes were darting from side to side, rifle in hand, scanning the diner for signs of bandits. She seemed to be satisfied as after a few seconds she gestured for him to move inside. He gingerly lifted his legs over the smashed plastic door and entered the diner.
The diner was a generic All-American affair, with predictable red leather stools and checked floor. It was probably outdated even when it had been in use. On any other day, when he was a free man, he wouldn't have given a care for what the place looked like as long as it provided shelter. However, compared to the harsh desert Devin had been subjected to, this place was like paradise and he soaked up every detail. As if sensing he was enjoying himself too much, the woman tugged on his chain knocking him to the floor, clutching his throat. He heard a click as he turned to see her lock him to the underside of one of the counters. She gave it a good shake to see that the counter would hold firm and seeming satisfied, she turned to Devin.
"Don't move an inch, I'm going to clear out the rest of the place so I can lock you away somewhere out of sight." He nodded, closed his eyes and lay down on the comparatively cool dust-caked floor. He had learned that taking every possible moment to rest would leave him as strong as possible for the next day's travel.
It was barely minutes before she came back to rip Devin from his sleep.
"The kitchen is clear, I'm moving you there." He wasn't surprised, she never missed an opportunity to have him behind a locked door in addition to the chains. You can never be too safe he supposed.
The kitchen was completely empty, which was to be expected; this place would have been scavenged dozens, if not hundreds, of times since the war. It consisted of a row of appliances on the left, sinks at the back and counters and cupboards everywhere else they could fit. He was led to the back, near the sinks and was locked to the middle of the back counter. The woman was always on guard and never gave Devin and opportunity to get the better of her. Years of practice being a cold hearted bitch would do that to you, he thought.
"Get a few hours rest, we leave as soon as the sun shows it's pretty face again." She smiled and tilted her head in mock sweetness. Devin smiled back as convincingly as he could, knowing better than to ignore her. "I'll be back for you soon, don't wander off too far." She dropped a quarter full bottle of water and some small pieces of stale bread by his feet, walked out of the room and slammed the door shut. He heard a bolt latch into place as it locked.
Finally, Devin was alone. He looked at the bread discarded carelessly on the floor and quickly snatched at it, pushing it into his mouth. At least it was in reach this time. Once the bread was devoured he sipped at the water. He knew better than to drink the whole lot all at once, no matter how dry his throat was; it needed to last the night. He then started his daily ritual that he performed every night before sleep: an attempt to escape.
Devin spent half an hour pulling on his chains, pulling and pushing counters and scratching at the floor before he finally gave up. Yet again, for the 53rd night in a row, she had secured him in a position that allowed for not even the slightest hope of escape. He stared carelessly at the inside of the counters which naturally were completely empty. There was nothing within reach, as expected. He was about to close his eyes when he saw something slightly out of place. Hope. Was it his delirium or had he actually spotted something?
The back panels of the counters were all completely identical, sheet metal with 4 screws in each corner. However, the one closest to him was very, ever so slightly, different from the others. The threading on the screws, the parts that the screwdriver head would sit in, were all slightly more weathered than the others. He looked at the four directly in front of him again and then looked at the four on either side. It was true. The panel closest to him had been taken off and put back on a few times carelessly.
Why would that be the case? Was there piping behind, accessed for maintenance or was there something more, something that Devin could use? He placed his rough fingers around on of the screws and tried turning it, the metal cutting into his skin. It moved about a millimetre around. His breathing sped up as his excitement increased.
Was it worth sacrificing what little sleep he would have for a shot at escape, however slim it was? The answer was very clearly a yes, as his fingers wrapped themselves back around the screw.
Outside in the front of the diner, his captor sat within a booth, listening to her prisoner struggle. He did that most nights, but she had learned over the years to push that kind of noise to the background. If she did her prep work right, which she did, all the struggling in the world wouldn't get Devin free. She could rest easy.
She had been in the business of shipping prisoners from one end of the state to the other for about 4 years. It was legal, at least within the eyes of Anvil Security, the prevailing lawkeepers in the state of Nevada. Criminals were caught and then sent north to a prison to work off their sentence. The journey was long by foot and took 3 months but prison labour was vital and therefore it paid well enough for the trip to be worthwhile.
She didn't exactly enjoy her job. It was lonely; her only source of conversation was convicted felons, most of which could be quite unpleasant to talk to. Devin was one of the better criminals she had spent her time with. He was quiet and rarely did anything that caused her stress. However she knew that it was still vital to keep mistreating him, so that he would be too weak to cause her any trouble in the future. It seemed impractical to her at first, mistreating the people she didn't want to rise against her. However, she soon realised after a few close shaves early in her career that no matter how you treated prisoners they would always try to escape. It was better, she thought, to keep them weak and treat them like animals to break their spirits. Plus, she liked the feeling of control. To have complete control over someone was invigorating.
She had often wondered what it was like for her prisoners to be chained up, completely lacking in control. It was true that she relished control, but she often imagined how they must feel being her captive. The idea of being kept on a leash and ordered around was completely opposite to her personality, but it didn't stop her from being curious as to what it would be like for them.
Her name was Hayley Fisher and she was 22 now, though despite others in the same line of work, her insistence on using protective face wear meant that she still looked her age if not younger. She was the type turned heads whenever she entered a town and she knew it. A strong independent, pretty, young woman was sure to raise draw some attention. Her toned, athletic figure from all of the walking certainly didn't hurt either. However, she brushed off any and all advances; the world was a harsh place for a lady and she didn't trust anyone to let her guard down enough for them to take advantage of her. It was a lonely life, but she knew that when she met somebody that she could trust it would all change. She was young, and in a world as barren and desolate as this, it paid for girls like her to be cautious. It hadn't failed her yet.
After about 6 hours of uncomfortable sleep, Hayley awoke and decided that they had rested for long enough. She picked up her rifle and walked up to the kitchen door. She unbolted it and took a step back with her rifle aimed as she opened the door. It swung open and, meeting her expectations, Devin was curled up asleep on the floor, right where she left him. She slung her rifle over her shoulder and shouted out his name. He awoke, startled and looked up at her groggily. As she moved closer, about 4 feet away, she gasped as he revealed a 9mm pistol from under his body, aimed at her head.
"Hands up bitch!" He shouted. She held out her arms as an instinctive defence mechanism. She was still in shock.
