A damsel in distress finds her champion.
*
Author's Note
This is another one of my slice-of-life stories that chronicles events taking place over a twenty-four hour period. It's also a bit of a sad tale with very little sex in it, so if you're looking for wham-bam hot monkey love, you'll need to look elsewhere.
I would like to thank TrueMort for giving me permission to use the characters Alex and Zabi. They are a really fun couple and I'm happy I was able to include them. Check out TrueMort's stories for more of those two.
There are some scenes of dominant-submissive behavior in this story. In this tale it's used as an example of what not to do, so it's not really meant to be sexy. However, if this type of behavior offends you, please find something else to read.
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Cut My Hair
I stand in front of the mirror, hating my hair. I liked it so much better when it was short, and all I had to do was run a comb through it. Now I have to brush it all the time, not to mention piling on the products every morning and spending my days worrying over split ends.
The worst part about my hair is that it's not quite long enough to tie back yet. It's still in that annoying in-between stage, and I can't seem to do a damn thing with it. If it were up to me, I'd chop it all off, go back to the way it was before. But it isn't up to me. He likes it long, so I'm growing it out.
If it were up to me, I'd be soaking in the tub right now, preparing for an early bedtime and a date with a good book. But instead, I stand here in front of the mirror primping for an evening at the club. I'm wearing the slinky red dress that he bought for me. I want to rip it to shreds.
I used to think it made me look cute, but not tonight. Tonight I feel bloated, tired, and my head hurts.
I reach into the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Tylenol. I look longingly at the Advil -- it'll do a much better job of curing what ails me -- but ultimately decide against it. Ibuprofen thins the blood and causes me to bruise too easily.
Not that he minds me with a few bruises. He just doesn't want them to come too easily.
I lift the hem of my dress a bit and look at the latest mark on my thigh, the one I got when I asked to renegotiate my contract. It's turning an ugly shade of purple with tinges of yellow and green around the edges. And it stings like fire when anything brushes against it. But that's the idea. It was put there to serve as a reminder to not ask again.
I have no way out of my contract and he knows it. I've dropped out of school, overstayed my welcome on a student visa, and I've got nowhere to turn for help. There are only two ways out of this toxic relationship for me now.
One is to get busted by Immigration and Customs Enforcement and be shipped back home. Unfortunately, that option is the only thing worse than the mess I'm in now. The other way is so far fetched, that I hesitate to pin any hope on it at all.
There is this woman at the club, a safety monitor. She is tall and strong, with beautiful blonde hair, like a Nordic warrior-goddess. She could save me, and in my dreams she often does. There's only one problem with this option -- we've never spoken, and I don't even know her name.
So for now I am stuck. Stuck with a man, a former professor of mine, who lured me into this kinky relationship. A man who made me sign a contract stating I would do certain
things
-- things I no longer wish to do.
The contract we have is not legally binding, not even in the slightest, but that does not matter. He knows it and I know it. I have no legal status in this country, not anymore. That safety net evaporated when my visa expired and I became undocumented.
So when he fastens the collar around my neck and asks me if I'm ready to go, I have only one answer to give.
"Yes, master."
*
"Go get me an iced tea, girl." He doesn't even bother with please, or call me sweetie like he did in the beginning. I'm lucky that we're at the club, because at home when it's just us, he calls me much worse.
"Yes, master." I scurry off to the kitchen.
My eyes wander to the other girls as I pass. They are dressed in skimpy clothing like me, sitting at the feet of their masters and mistresses. But they are smiling, these girls -- having their cheeks caressed, their breasts fondled, or their hair stroked -- obviously objects of tender affection.
I turn my gaze away and continue on to the kitchen to fetch my master's drink.
As I hand him the glass, he says nothing, simply points to the floor in front of the chair where he sits. I kneel. A part of me wishes I could drape my body across his lap, make him see me the way he did in the beginning -- to receive his affections, to feel his hands caress my skin, to be smiling like the other girls here tonight -- but I know those days are gone. I don't even get a pat on the head.
I'm nervous about what comes next, after he finishes his tea. I've been formulating my escape plan for a while now, but as the time grows nearer, I begin to question my ability to actually go through with it. Will this finally be the night, or will he take me home worn out and crying yet again?
I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking, as I envision all the things that could possibly go wrong.
It's a busy Friday night and people continue trickling in. Others are already milling about, sipping drinks and chatting, waiting for the real fun to start. Waiting for something, someone, worth watching -- someone like me.
I usually attract an audience here -- my brown skin is exotic, and I have a tendency to scream when I orgasm. I still attract a crowd most nights, but lately I've been screaming for completely different reasons. But I need that audience -- my witnesses -- and tonight most of all.
He sets his empty glass on the side table. "Get up."
The Tylenol's not really working for me at this point, and it's only going to feel worse when I change elevation, but I do as I am told. Hopefully for the last time.
My temples throb as he leads me to the room with the benches and straps me down. It takes a great deal of willpower to stay still and let him immobilize me, but it's a necessary part of my plan to be here. This is where the people are watching.
When we first started coming to the club it was easier. He would take me to one of the benches for a bit of spanking or a light flogging, before complementing me on my lovely pink bottom and letting me up to play with some of the other girls.
Looking around now I see there are two other girls strapped down like me, and a safety monitor. I don't recognize the girls, but I have seen the safety monitor before. She's my blonde warrior-goddess and my ticket out of here. At least I hope so.
The two girls are panting and moaning, eyes glazed over as their mistresses alternate bare-handed swats and tender fondles. I remember those halcyon days, when I was so full of naïve wonder, and my master was eager to show me new heights of pleasure.
I watch him pull a fiberglass rod from his bag and I am reminded that tonight will be nothing like the idyllic past. I feel a chill run through me.
I look over at the safety monitor. She must stand a little over six feet tall; she's taller than the man I call master. And the series of stars tattooed on her muscular shoulders seem to twinkle with every shift of her stance. She is strong and beautiful, so different from me.
In my dreams she takes me away from this place, to a lush green meadow where we lie together. But in reality I have only seen her from a distance, and I've never actually observed her intervening. But I have to trust that she will. It's her job. And it's my way out.
The rod lands, and I scream.
The room begins to fill with people at the sound of my cry. Sadistic bastards. I wiggle my legs as much as I am able, in an attempt to shake out the pain. It helps, but only a little. I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes tight to deal with the rest. I force myself to take slow, measured breaths.
The rod lands a second and third time in rapid succession, and I begin gasping again as I feel the heat rising on my backside. In the beginning I was putting extra effort into my screams, but I don't really need to anymore. And I've already attracted enough witnesses.
Through tear-stained eyes, I see that the safety monitor's curiosity has been piqued and she's moved a little closer. Good. It's time.
"Red." I croak. She turns her gaze toward me. "Red!" I repeat.
The rod pauses, but still my buttocks throb, anticipating another blow. From the corner of my eye I see my master draw his hand back again, but the safety monitor is already on her way over. I do hope I have judged her correctly.
"The lady said stop." She places her body between the rod and me, looking him squarely in the eyes. He moves toward her, but she does not budge. He's not backing down either. "Why don't you go get a drink and cool off," she says.
My master's face is bright crimson. I imagine it must burn him up to be told what to do, particularly by a woman. But when she points to the door, he drops the rod on the floor and heads out of the room. He's a sadistic son of a bitch, but not stupid. He doesn't want to jeopardize his club membership.
"You OK, honey?" She brushes a stray clump of hair out of my eyes and strokes my cheek.
"Maidali," I manage as she unstraps me and helps me to my feet. "Thank you." I hug her tightly as the tears flow. She hesitates for a moment, and then I feel her strong arms surround me. I know now that I have made the right choice.
"Kjersten," she says.
My master enters the room again, only slightly less red-faced than when he left. "Let's go, girl. I will deal with you at home."
Still safely in Kjersten's embrace, I look him in the eye. I'm shaking uncontrollably, and would probably collapse if not for Kjersten's strong arms, but this is my best chance and I've got to take it. "No," I say, and begin to unfasten the collar from around my neck. "I'm done." I choke back a sob. "I break my contract with you."
The room has gone deathly quiet and collar lands on the floor with a dull thud. Everyone is looking at us, and he seems to be stuck in a moment of indecision. His face has gone a deeper shade of red now, but he does not make a move toward me. He knows the club management has a zero-tolerance policy for those who break the rules, and Kjersten has already proved that she won't be intimidated.
I've cast my lot with her now -- Kjersten, my champion -- and I'm counting on my former master's interest in retaining his club membership to win out over his desire to put me in my place. He locks gazes with Kjersten. She stands with her arms folded over her chest and does not back down. My gamble has paid off.
"You'll regret this." He picks up the collar and stomps off. I'm not really sure which one of us he was addressing, but it doesn't matter. He's gone now.
*
