Tethered

1

Like him, his pace was cruel.

When she slowed too much for his liking, he jerked the leash, propelling her forward on the cracked road. The collar chafed her neck. The makeshift footwear blistered her feet. Her stomach cramped, and her dry throat begged for just a sip of water. The unrelenting sun burned her skin and conjured sweat that stung her eyes and the fresh lashes on her back.

Fifteen feet ahead, rifle slung over his shoulder, the handle of her leash entwined in his fist, he sang a meandering tune, unconcerned with her anguish.

Oh, how she hated him.

The road was slowly being overtaken by vegetation. Pebbles the size of acorns hid beneath the tangle of encroaching vines. Just off the road, a vast swath of volunteer corn swayed in the breeze. She longed to stare into it, let its hypnotic rhythm transfix her and give her respite from the torture and tedium of their endless journey. She couldn't. She kept her eyes on her feet, so she didn't slip on the rocks and stumble. Her knees were bruised enough already. History told her he wouldn't halt simply because she'd been careless and misjudged her footing. Staring daggers into him, she fantasized about scooping up one of the larger pebbles and cranking it off his skull. A sinister smile spread on her face, but she wiped it away quickly. History also told her he had eyes in the back of his head.

They'd been walking all morning. Wind whispered through the corn, but it offered no refreshment. It was hot, like air jetted from a blow dryer, and it carried the faint hint of decay. She sighed. It wasn't the smell of the dying land that bothered her. Long ago, that had become as inseparable a part of life as hunger, as isolation. No, it was the thought of a blow dryer. More so, what traditionally came before the need of such a wondrous device. A long luxurious bath. A tub filled with steaming water and fragrant bubbles. Soaking away a hard day with the scent of flowers and a glass of red wine.

The blissful thought twisted in her mind, warping into something ugly, crass, wicked.

A hard day? What the fuck had any of them known about hard before all this?

Hard wasn't having to take a test you'd forgotten to study for. Hard was going three days between meals, because your last two cans of food had somehow spoiled. Hard wasn't getting yelled at by your boss, because you'd lost an important client file. Hard was spending four harsh winter days holed up in a drafty shack with pneumonia and no medicine, knowing your chances of seeing the next sunrise were negligible. A three-hundred-dollar speeding ticket was a hell of a lot easier to deal with than watching three of your only friends in the world snatched from their beds, bound, and thrown in the back of a semi-trailer. Hard was...

He jerked the leash, and she lurched forward, arms flailing for balance. He didn't bark a command. Didn't even glance over his shoulder. Bastard. He just kept walking, kept singing, as if she didn't matter at all, as long as she wasn't an impediment to his pace. As if she were just some thing he'd acquired. A thing he owned.

Which, of course, she was.

2

Her stomach was in knots. She needed something to eat. She knew better than to ask.

Her blistered feet were killing her. She needed to stop and rest. She knew better than to ask.

Her bladder felt like an invisible hand had gripped it and twisted. She needed to pee. She knew better than to ask.

Damn him, they'd been walking for hours. How did he maintain such a brisk pace, never slowing, never tiring? Maybe because he wasn't being dragged along like a fucking dog on a fucking leash. She wondered -- not for the first time -- how he'd like it. How well would he cope if he were on the opposite end of this length of frayed rope? Would he sing so sweetly if every time he slowed just the tiniest bit, he was wrenched forward, angering the hypersensitive abrasions on his neck? Would he be able to keep his mouth shut as instructed, never voicing his opinion, never arguing, never feeling like he had any control? How still could he stay, on his knees, on the floor, taking lash after lash after lash? Could he serve her damn coffee just right, never faltering, never making the slightest mistake? Could he stay his tears, until she gave them permission to fall?

Not a chance. He'd crumble before the end of the second day. And why? Because despite that smug aura of confidence, he wasn't as strong as he let on. He could take down a deer for their evening meal. He could fight off anyone that tried to take what was his. He could slap around a helpless girl when the need struck him. But could he bend to someone else's will? How would that effect his precious ego? Could he swallow the humiliation of being stripped of his innate need for self-reliance?

Not a fucking chance.

She wanted off this leash. Now. She couldn't take it a single second longer. Her throat was tight. She felt the rough leather like choking hands on her windpipe. The wind whipped up, causing the corn to hiss. Her skin prickled. She wanted to scream. The sounds within the corn filled her ears, echoing in her brain, mocking her. She wanted to cry out. Heavy scents -- musty, pungent, decaying - clogged her nostrils, blocking her airways. Her eyes bulged and grew wet, hot.

Let me go

,

you sadistic asshole

.

Take this damn thing off me

.

Right

.

Fucking

.

Now

.

He stopped.

Her jackhammer heart did the same.

"Break time, my little treasure," his sultry voice said.

Fuck. No. Please, no

.

Vines crunched under his feet as he walked toward her, the sound like impending doom. Reaching her, he lifted his hand to her throat. She flinched away from him, but one strong hand captured her by the back of her neck. The other found the clip attached to the ring on her collar. She sucked in a deep gulp of air, a drowning woman about to succumb and go beneath the waves. She heard the tiny metal click of the clip setting her free, and instantly couldn't breathe. Lungs that had moments ago been gasping for relief seized up.

A carrion bird shrieked somewhere high in the blinding blue sky. Brush rustled in menace. The soft, purposeful patter of clawed feet just beyond view assaulted her ears.

Her breath returned, quick and ragged. It was as if she'd been traveling with a dark hood pulled over her head, and it had just been jerked away. The sun was too bright, the sounds of the thick brush too loud. Her eyes darted at each new sound, searching for the danger she knew awaited just out of sight. Her legs, strong from endless daylight walking, were suddenly the consistency of cooked pasta. She started to buckle.

The hand gripping her neck held her upright.

She lunged for the sanctuary of his chest, threw her arms around his waist, tried to burrow into his bones. In an act of uncharacteristic indulgence, he drew her trembling body to him. The feel of his rough hand stroking her hair calmed her, if only a little.

"Ten minutes," he said.

"Five, please."

The stroking ceased . "Do not argue with me again."

She relinquished her hold on his waist, let her arms fall to her sides. "Yes, Master."

He motioned to a clearing in the brush just off the road, opposite the corn.

On unwilling legs, she struggled from the road and into the ankle-deep grass. Her eyes searched the thick grass for any signs of movement. Every swish against her bare ankles felt like a threat. She reached the center of the clearing and simply stood there, clutching at her throat where the leash should be attached. She felt she was a small boat, lost in an angry ocean, untethered and alone. She kept her eyes down, unwilling to take in her sinister surroundings, forbidden to look to him. Shivering despite the heat, she hugged herself tightly. Her arms felt nothing like his.

When had she become like this? When had she become so afraid, so dependent?

Later. Later, when they were boarded up for the night, when she was nestled safely at his feet, she would think on this. For now, it was all she could do to stay upright.

She counted the seconds in her head.

One, two, three...seventy-five

. The escalating numbers felt as if they would stretch on through eternity. Eternity, the concept, had always been a terrifying prospect to her. It spoke of endlessness, nothingness. What did anything matter if it went on forever and ever, no end, no reprieve? Anything, she'd learned, could be endured if you knew there was some finite end. The most dreadful nights out here ended at sunrise. Always. His most vicious lashings, even those eventually came to an end. Sometimes when he knew she'd had enough. Sometimes only when he had. But they ended either way.

Ninety-nine, one hundred...one hundred and forty

. Her chest fluttering, she stopped counting and began reciting.

I will address Him only as Master.

I will have no name.

I belong to Him - mind, body, and soul.

He will use me in any manner He desires to fulfill his pleasure.

There were more. So many more. But these four, she clung to. She chanted them under her breath like a mantra. Far from stilling her turmoil, the words at least gave a measure of calm. Not the tranquility she experienced at his feet, her cheek on his lap, his hand on her head. Not even the clarity that came in the midst of his beatings. But a passing calm, tenable for the time being. Manageable until...

"Return," he called from the road.

Five years ago, she would've been appalled at herself. Even two years ago, she would've at least hesitated. Not now. She ran to him. Ran as if Old Scratch himself were fast on her heels. She collided into him, trying with all her might to fuse their bodies into one whole. She couldn't release him, until she heard that familiar metal click.

He held her briefly, chin on her head. He sighed into her hair, then released her and returned to his trek along the winding road.

She relished the tug of the leash at her neck. Her heart swelled with love for him, his guidance, his strength, his nurturing. She looked up to the blue heavens and thanked them for him with all her heart.

Concentration heavenward, she didn't see the rock. Her ankle turned and sent her tumbling. She let out a feckless yelp as asphalt bit into her knees. Splayed on the vine-choked road, she had only a couple seconds to groan before the slack of her leash ended. The tight leash urged her forward. Quickly, she rose to hands and knees. Not quick enough. A forceful tug jerked her forward onto her belly. She rose quicker this time, gaining her feet in time to be lurched forward once more.

Fire flushed her cheeks. She fumed, giving intense consideration to jerking the leash backward. Maybe she'd catch him off guard. Maybe she'd send him sprawling on his ass. Bet he wouldn't like that. Nope, not one little bit.

She managed to fall in step, her leash slacking between them now.

He returned to whatever tune he'd been singing before their stop. That voice. That beautiful voice. How she hated it.

Blood boiling, keeping his cruel pace, she watched her feet as they took step after step. Whenever she spotted a particularly nasty-looking rock, she wondered what delicious sound it would make if she hurled it at the back of his skull.

3

The barn was a pile of ashes and rusty nails, but the modest farmhouse remained.

Her master unslung the rifle, propped it against the wall, and set about securing the doors and windows. She began her nightly tasks.

She had a routine, and she followed it unerringly. Deviations were not allowed.

Their worldly possessions were meager, whatever could be carried in their backpacks. She hoisted both onto a dining table coated with months of dust. His was heavy, mostly weighted down with canned goods. She didn't envy him that burden day in and day out. Her back hurt just thinking about it. From it, she took a small pot, a bag of dwindling coffee grounds, rope, a thermos filled with water, a mug, two spoons, a metal rod ten inches long, a Bic lighter, and a cigar almost burned to a nub.

Thankfully, the farmhouse had a fireplace. That made things so much easier. Outside, accompanied by the sounds of hammering, she collected firewood, using the front of her dress as a makeshift basket. Aided by handfuls of dry hay and the lighter, she soon produced a crackling fire. She poured water into the pot and placed it on two parallel logs. She frowned at the dwindling bag of coffee grounds, tipped an inadequate amount into the boiling pot.

His work, as always, was finished well before the sun was down. He slumped down on a moth and rat-eaten couch without a word of complaint, only his sweaty brow giving away his hour of toil.

She knelt at his feet, offering the steaming mug in just the right way: a foot away from him, handle pointing exactly to his left. She kissed the hot rim before offering it to him.

He took it without a word. He blew lightly at it, took a sip, gave an appreciative sigh. She knew it was merely for her benefit. Their supply was so low, it barely made more than brown water.

She waited in silence as he enjoyed his coffee.

Since he hadn't instructed her to keep her eyes down, she stared at him in the flickering light. She tried to recall his face from before. That she found it difficult made her sad. To her, he was still devastatingly handsome, but his cheeks hadn't always been so sunken, his angles not so sharp, his eyes not so tired and grave. But she'd adored this man for years, and it wasn't his looks that hijacked her every waking thought and filled her with unquenchable desire. Well, not only his looks.

Had she been given permission to speak, she might've asked for a story from their past. Often when she did, her request was met with silence, sometimes a stern no. But when the mood struck him, he painted such wondrous pictures with his words, and she could slip into the comfort of his voice as if it were a warm blanket.

After he'd finished his coffee, he took his book from where she'd dutifully placed it on the arm of the couch. She watched to see if he'd nod toward the stubby cigar, her signal to light it for him. He didn't nod, merely opened the book to the page he'd finished on the previous night. She waited for his lips to part, for him to begin reading aloud in that soothing voice. No sound filled the room beyond the popping and cracking of the fire and the whistle of wind seeping through the planks he'd fashioned to the door and windows.

The silence stretched on. He wouldn't allow her into the story tonight. She understood, or thought she did. Sometimes he needed the quiet, needed to keep his own council, needed to wind down from the day in his own head. On nights he didn't speak to her or even acknowledge her presence, she assumed that was why she wasn't gifted even a gentle hand on her head. She assumed, because he'd never deigned to explain himself to her. Not before, most certainly not now.

Despondent, but resigned to her fate, she arched her back and settled into her proper kneeling position. If he needed her, here she would be.

She knew what he expected of her - strict obedience, unwavering patience, complete submission. She was his property, a thing he owned. A most treasured thing, but still, a thing. Things didn't have needs. They didn't have opinions. They didn't argue. They made no choices for themselves. The measure of comfort these facts gave her was incalculable. If she never made a choice, then she couldn't be wrong. And while wrong in the old world might've meant drinking too much at a party and suffering through a hangover at work the next day, wrong in this world meant dead. Better to suffer than cease to exist.

Of course, if she was honest with herself, it wasn't all suffering. With him, there were moments of happiness, joy, and such exquisite pleasure that she wept. And even when it was torturous, no matter how extreme, her body often betrayed her mind. Suffering at his hands, be it a lashing, a slap across her face, or suffocating between his legs, was a heaven she'd never known before him.

The waiting, though, never got easier. The extended silence gnawed at her like hungry rats burrowing into her brain. Her flesh tingled. Her muscles tightened. Her head felt as if it weighed three times too much. Exterior sounds were like explosions, far too loud and terrifying. She longed for a gentle hand that didn't come.

Fine. A thing she might be, but she was a strong thing, resilient and resourceful. She could get lost in herself just as well as he could. In the dank chill of the dark room, she checked her pose, willed her muscles to maintain, and allowed her mind to wander up and up and back.

4

She'd been his only three months when he first took her to a party. Since she'd decided to dip her toe into this beguiling world, then subsequently dove into the deep end, she'd been to many such engagements, with many different men. This was the first with her new master, though. As such, it felt wholly different. Not surprising, as he was wholly different from any that had come before him.

Before he rapped his gloved knuckles on the door, he fitted a silk blindfold over her eyes, leaned close, and breathed a command in her ear. "You will conduct yourself like a proper lady this evening."

"Yes, Master," she answered as she heard the click of her leash being fixed to her collar.

The door opened, and he exchanged pleasantries with the host. Neither man acknowledged her presence. At the tug of her collar, she followed him inside.

Dulcet piano music greeted her ears. She breathed in a heavenly mix of good scotch, good chocolate, and good cigars. The room hummed with lazy conversation. Utensils tinkled, clinked. He led with confidant ease: leash tight, keeping her close, allowing her to focus on the heated mix of sensations and not her footing. She felt his control as if it were a warm light pulsating around him, and she was perfectly at ease within it.

She heard a bang, followed by a squeal, followed by a haughty laugh. One of the blindfolded slaves had been knocked into something, either by carelessness or malicious intent. She stiffened at the coarse round of titters, imagined the flush coming to the offended slave's cheeks. She'd been on the receiving end of such theatrics a time too many. And while she had to admit that some base part of her had been turned on by the degradation, she'd always viewed such treatment as contemptible, trashy.

Her master wouldn't steer her wrong. Of that, she was certain. It would be undignified.

He came to a stop, and she heard the moan of cushions as he took a seat. He tugged twice at her leash, her signal to kneel. She did as instructed, finding his leg and curling into it, laying her head on his lap. As he conversed with a pair of men and a woman, he absently stroked her hair. He spoke rarely, but when he did, his words were chosen with care and the small group hung on each one. They prattled, he listened.

A deep calm engulfed her. She was idly aware they were discussing some new play, but she couldn't latch on to it. The gist of the conversation was meaningless to her. She merely listened to the low rumble of his voice, the authoritative inflection.

At some point, the soothing weight of his hand left her head. She heard the distinctive sound of him unzipping his pants. A sudden feeling of shame clutched her, almost as intense of the heat surging through her.

He was already hard when he forced himself into her mouth. With an almost bored, yet emphatic motion, he gripped her by the back of the neck and pressed the head of his cock against her lips, until they parted and he filled her to the back of her throat.

Never relinquishing the stern grip on her neck, he moved her up and down. The table conversation never stalled. There were no awkward pauses from the other three, who knew exactly what was going on under the table. The tenor of his voice never rose, never fell. It seemed to go on a very long time. She didn't care. Even as she resisted the urge to squirm. Even as she tried, and failed, not to picture the lecherous smirks of passing party guests. Even as she attempted to calm the flush spreading over her skin like wine spilled on a white tablecloth. Even with all those and a hundred more embarrassments, she never wanted it to end.