An Accidental Slavery

An Accidental Slavery

Chapter 1 - The accident

I had been dating Max Young for about two months. He is an author; his first release, Future History was surprisingly successful. I really should get around to reading it. He'd recently received an advance for a sequel.

My arduous work had finally paid off; I was offered a prestigious position as a violinist at the Metropolitan Orchestra! My career was finally on its way! Max offered to take me out to Mi Thai for dinner. Hopefully, it would be as marvelous as we anticipated. We'd driven by the place a few times. It looked so festive and authentic from the street with the columns supporting the fancy peaked roof. We hadn't had the chance to stop in yet. Tonight was the night!

The winter chill hit us as we left my apartment building. Max and I huddled up in our jackets as we headed down the worn stone stairs toward the street. It was so unseasonably cold and wet out here, but this didn't dampen my giddiness.

Suddenly, my feet slipped on the ice. I wobbled and went flying down the steps! I plummeted toward the sturdy stone wall where the stairs made a turn. I frantically thrust my hands out to catch myself. Pain shot through my fingers due to the horrific impact on the hard wall. I slumped down.

Max hurried down as fast as he safely could. "Andrea! Are you all right? That looked horrible!" He looked over my face.

My hands hurt severely. I tried flexing my fingers. I winced and yelped as it felt like I was being stabbed. I stammered, "I can't move my fingers..."

Max helped me to my feet. He escorted me to his aerocar, and went around to his side. I looked helplessly at the door, pondering how to open it without using my aching fingers.

After a moment, Max graciously strode over and opened the door for me. I got in, and he fastened my seat belt. I think Max derived twisted pleasure in strapping me into his aerocar, knowing I was unable to release myself. Since Max and I started dating, it didn't take long for me to realize he liked to be in control, the more the better. Max consistently pointed out the occasional sightings of owners with their slaves on a leash; he was jealous of them but too proud to admit it. Max openly yearned for a slave of his own.

It had been over 10 years since "Kira's Law" was enacted. It was landmark legislation allowing people to willingly become slaves. Most chose a duration. Some to resolve a debt, others for payment. Some did it for fun. However, permanent enslavement appealed to others.

Consent was crucial to enforcement. The owner had to be able to prove the slave implicitly submitted. An owner couldn't use "the three D's" - Drunk, Drugs or Duress.

To me, the fantasy was erotic, but I wasn't prepared to sacrifice my independence to become someone else's possession. At least not 24/7. An evening or maybe even for a weekend perhaps. Time would tell.

That isn't to say Max's desires were ignored. Our love-making quickly morphed into regular bondage sessions, with me tied to the bed. Our erotic games involved me being a "bedroom slave." I called him "Master", role-playing what it would be like to be owned and in a proper control collar. Max really got into it and enjoyed the intense sessions before he released me and we became equals again.

Max fantasized about vacationing in Ecstasia, the adult-only island city. I heard that people with alternative tastes went there for wild vacations or flings. Among other fetishes, some people chose to wear control collars with transponders for what they were into. Dominants used apps to scan for the available slaves they wanted for a while. It seemed like a wild way to hook up with someone from some other part of the world to use for a while.

Some vacationers chose to have access to their own collars. Others limited their ability to modify their settings, locking them in position for a predetermined time. Urban legend tells of some who just set their collars, permanently locked with extensive public access. They could be dominated by whichever vacationer happened to want to use them.

A proper control collar is a pricey thing. We might be able to afford to rent one in Ecstacia, but owning one was out of our budget.

Every so often, we saw a Master walking down the street with a slave on a leash, or shopping in a store. Max always pointed them out in admiration. He tried hiding and denying his jealousy, but it was quite apparent. Apparently, dressing slaves in latex catsuits was "a thing." They were shiny and showed off their curves, but the shimmering garments just weren't worn by anyone except some slaves.

The aerocar glided to a stop in the closest available spot at the Suburban Memorial Hospital. Traffic had gotten a lot easier since the auto-nav system became mandatory; whatever road conditions were noticed in one car were automatically accounted for in all others. Accidents, drunk driving, speeding, and so many other issues became moot overnight.

Max came around to my side, unbuckled me, and led the way into the emergency room.

We walked up to the desk, where a young man and woman were talking. I quickly explained what happened, and the woman responded "OK. I'll see you in room two." She waved her hand, and we followed.

The modest room held an exam bed, a small cabinet set for supplies, and two chairs. A blank display screen was hooked onto the wall. The woman said, "I'm Cindy. I'd shake your hand but well, perhaps later. Are you able to move your fingers?"

I performed only the slightest movement, then winced from the jabbing pain. "Not much."

Cindy said, "OK. I'm going to feel around. Just tell me if any of this hurts."

She lightly felt around the back of my left hand. I responded with a wince and "Ow." She moved elsewhere, and another "Ow." She tenderly repeated the process on my right hand, and even her light touch felt like stabbing pain.

Cindy's concerned expression made me worried. "Let's take an X-ray and see the results." She positioned my hands on a small plate on the counter and escorted Max out of the room. Five seconds later, I heard a brief electronic chirp. The screen came to life showing the x-ray. A few seconds later, Cindy and Max returned. Cindy peered intently at the image, shaking her head back and forth. Even with an untrained eye, I saw some small bones were fractured on each hand.

Cindy said, "You really did a number on both hands, your carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges." Cindy started pointing to the x-rays as she spoke. Each touch left a red circle on the x-ray image. "You have a clean break to this proximal phalange, a crack to that metacarpal. That's a spiral fracture. Your scaphoid is broken both at the head and the shaft. Transverse fracture to this metacarpal." The list went on. When she finally concluded her diagnosis, the image of my hands had so many circles that it looked like Cherry Cheerios.

I looked at her in disbelief. "I'm a professional violinist! I just got my first gig with the Metropolitan Orchestra. I need to be able to play in only six weeks!

Cindy looked at me and paused as she took a deep breath. "For the fastest, most stable treatment, I will wrap your hands in twin thumb finger spica casts. However, it will be quite restrictive. Do you have anyone that can take care of you?"

At the mention of restrictions, Max's expression lit up from concern to eager delight. Having me bound and helpless for weeks seemed like a dream for him. I nervously nodded.

Cindy seemed relieved. "OK, let's get your scanned up then! Hold out your hands."

When I did so, Cindy carefully slid the jacket sleeves back to my elbows, exposing my arms. She took the plate from the counter, tapped a few buttons on the back, and slowly rotated them around my hands. I had no idea what was happening; I'd never needed a cast before!

Once both arms were scanned, Cindy pulled out a pillow and set it on my lap. She gingerly guided my hands to rest on the soft cushion. She asked, "OK, what color would you prefer? As if on cue, an array of images of arm casts appeared on the screen. Each arm was covered in a black cotton sleeve. Over that, a matrix of plastic bars wrapped like a spider web around each hand. They extended from the palm past the wrist almost to the elbow, with generous holes for the thumb and fingers to poke through.

I was relieved. "I'll go with the pink." I made a rough gesture to the picture. "Those pictures don't look as rough as your description. I've seen others survive them just fine. I can too."

Cindy said, "Due to the nature of your injuries, your cast will also cover your fingers." She hit the command button and said, "Add finger spica. Add thumb spica." The pictures on the screen morphed as the web of plastic grew to encompass the thumb and all of the other fingers, ending up like a rigid mitten.

I stared at the picture, stunned. With my fingers like that, I wouldn't be able to grip anything with either hand. I wouldn't even be capable of hitting buttons! I turned to Max. He was looking at the pictures with an eager grin on his face. My accident was his dream came true; I would be helpless and at his mercy. He enjoyed control, and I would be helpless for the next month.

Cindy happily said, "I'll put this right in for you, and they'll be ready as soon as we can!"

Max wrapped his arm around my shoulders, then slid down to massage my back. His smile as he looked into my face came through as caring, with an underlying enjoyment. "I'll take care of you. We'll get through this together."

As the time passed, Max kept looking from the pictures on the screen to my hands, as if visualizing the casts locked in place.

Before too long, Cindy came back, holding black cotton and the printed matrixes of rigid plastic. She carefully picked up my right hand and slid the cotton liner over it. Cindy tenderly brought my thumb through that portion of the sleeve, then meticulously smoothed out every wrinkle. She picked up one plastic part and slid my thumb through. It rested from the bottom of my fingers, along my palm, and down my forearm. It fit admirably, precisely custom formed to my shape. It evenly supported my hand and fingers.

Cindy brought the mating part to match. It covered the back of my fingers, hand, and arm. She lined them up and gently pressed them together. I heard a pair of definitive "clicks" from either side of my fingers as the halves snapped together. Cindy shifted her grip down to my wrist and wiggled the two halves a bit until another pair of clicks heralded her success. Finally, she pressed the two parts together at the base of my forearm until they too snapped shut. Cindy smiled, "Don't worry, we have a specialized tool to separate the halves when the time comes."

I looked down at my rigid mitten, humbled that it would require a particular tool to release me. Tentatively flexing my fingers yielded no success; they didn't move at all.

Cindy subsequently picked up my left hand and repeated the process of encasing it in the web of rigid plastic. Once that was firmly secured around my hand, Cindy examined it closely, looking through the multitude of holes verifying fit and spacing. At last, she proclaimed "Yep! It all looks good! How does it feel? Not too tight, nor overly loose, more like a firm hug?

I considered. "Um...yeah. It is like an immobile grip."

Cindy responded, "Good! Don't struggle to lift anything. Don't do anything with your hands. If you want to play the violin for the orchestra in only six weeks, you need to let them rest and heal. You are going to have to truly rely on your support network."

"Someone else can wash them with water, no scrubbing. Make sure to get them really dry afterward. You should be all set; we'll see you in a month!"

I looked at Max. It felt like the trust-building exercise in which you close your eyes and fall backward, depending on your partner to catch you. This was a lot to dump on a boyfriend of only two months!

On the way to the car, we walked hand in hand. Rather than be put off by the feel of rigid plastic instead of skin, I spotted Max rubbing his fingers along it, perhaps caressing my casts. I couldn't feel anything through the rigid casts.

Max mused, "As I'll be taking care of you for the next month, it's easiest if you move in. We'll just stop by your place to pick up some things, then head home."

I'd spent the night over at Max's place a few times. Moving in for a month was going to represent a monumental shift in our relationship. I really had to make this work. What would I do if Max dumped me? I was at his mercy!

Max opened the door for me and buckled the seatbelt into place. I turned to him. "Thank you, Master." The term just slipped out. I called him "Master" during bedroom play, but this was the first time in public. Did he catch it?

Max stopped and looked at me as his smile grew. "I'll be doing so many things to take care of you in your helplessness. You are utterly dependent on me. I think it's only right that you refer to me as 'Master' for as long as those casts are on."

I felt myself slipping into the delightful sub-space reminiscent of the best bedroom fun time. "Yes, Master."

He drove back to my apartment where this all began. We both climbed up the snowy hill instead of repeating our risk on the icy stairs.

As we entered, I paused and looked at the large waterfall landscape that my mother painted. She was a talented amateur artist and seeing the painting always put me at ease. Meanwhile, Max started picking out which clothes to pack. He went through all of my outfits, selecting the ones with the lowest, most dramatic necklines. Having a boyfriend comb through your underwear drawer is a humbling experience. He started looking from bra to bra. Max spotted the Invisibra™, made from transparent fibers. This bra provided support, but visually it made my boobs look glossy without obstructing the view. I noticed Max only took that one.

I protested, "I need more than one bra! I can't wear the same bra every day!"

Max firmly responded, "Slave, come here." He took out one of my white satin bras and held it up on the wall. "That was no way to talk to your Master. Put your nose on this bra and hold it in place as you think about the proper way to behave."

I snapped into subspace and meekly put my nose on the bra. Master walked away. I could hear him sorting through my things, but all I saw was my bra and the wall. My emotions swirled. I felt castigated in an erotically humiliating way.

Max guided my hands together behind my back. "Hold this." I couldn't discern what it was through the casts. I could hear Max puttering around my apartment, packing what he chose. I considered saying something, the words and messages jumbling around my head in a chaotic cauldron. I was already in a hole, so I stayed silent. Discretion is the better part of valor.

Finally, Max came and said, "You may drop your bras to the floor. We're ready to go.

I gratefully took my nose from the white satin bra, seeing it drop to the floor. I was incapable of picking it up with my hands immobilized the way they were. I turned to face him with a renewed sense of humility. I saw he had one large suitcase and a backpack but had no idea of the contents. It was humbling that I couldn't even open my drawers to check for things or grab anything on my way out. "Yes, Master. Thank you for packing for me Master."

Max grasped my casted hand as we walked to the aerocar. His face was beaming as he assured me, I'd be taken care of. My head was filled with swirling emotions. This was all happening so fast! Two hours ago, we were headed to a celebratory dinner, now I'm physically broken. Thankfully Max is staying with me instead of dumping the handicapped girl. He stepped up and will take care of me, and apparently in all things! My injury really sparked his love of control! In an odd way, his reaction excited me. I truly needed someone to take care of me. Being without the use of my hands for a month provided a compelling reason for Max to have such control. I could explain to friends and family that it was medically required. It was becoming clear that Max was seizing full advantage of this situation. Did I have a choice? Did I want one?

Max drove us back to his basement apartment. He shared the floor with the boiler and other facility rooms. Being right next to the central heating, his apartment was perennially warm. It had a separate entrance, an undersized flight of steps below street level. His lone window overlooked his entry pit next to the door. The doormat gloriously proclaimed, "The man cave." Given his bachelorhood and the apartment below street level, the name was appropriate.

As we walked in, he said "It's too late for Mi Thai, and neither of us has eaten. I'll quickly make up some pasta." Max headed into the kitchen, and I meekly followed. He started up the cooking. While the water was heating, Max asked for my private information. I zoned out as he set me up with the hospital patient portal, insurance, and other paperwork. It's not like I could fill out forms in my state! I couldn't even use a touch screen!

In short order, Max was adding some zesty seasoning, and the aroma of dinner pervaded his apartment. Max made two bowls and then we stopped and looked at each other. How could I eat without my hands? Max grinned mischievously. He sat down at the table and set my bowl on his lap. He started in on his and bade me to "Come on over while it's hot!".

I considered having a fork or something stuck in my casts to get the spaghetti, but I lacked the dexterity. Besides, they needed to be kept reasonably clean; they would be on for four weeks! Would it be better if the bowl was on the table? No. Perhaps this was the easiest way.

I meekly knelt down at his feet bent over and put my face into the aromatic cuisine. Max made a tasty delight! It was humbling having to eat like a pet, but as the saying goes, any port in a storm. Max helpfully guided my hair out of the way, and clear of my dinner. He lovingly ran his fingers through the strands, gently caressing my scalp in the process. This was very reassuring when I needed it the most.

Approaching midway through the bowl, I realized what I was slurping up was right on top of his penis. Going up and down, licking and sucking the pasta was providing appealing and erotic ideas. I'm sure Max had the same thought.

When I had finished, I looked up at Max. He was gazing down with a mixture of love, caring, and admiration. It was a beautiful expression; I wish I could have taken a picture of it.

After a moment, he said, "It's been a long day. We should both be to bed." We went to his bedroom, and Max enjoyed helping me to undress. As his apartment was perennially warm, both of us slept in the nude.

Chapter 2 - Healing

The next morning, I woke up, happily in his arms. I was grateful that his apartment was so warm. I would have been hard-pressed to do anything as simple as pull up a blanket during the night.

I watched the show as he got dressed. I admired his body as he, unfortunately, concealed it one item of clothing at a time. Then it was my turn. Max pulled out my Invisibra. I rolled my eyes; I saw this coming. He came at me holding it awkwardly. Clearly, he was more experienced in removing bras from women than putting them on.

I feigned a brave smile. "This will have to be a team effort. Hold it up." When he did so, I slipped my arms through the holes. I bent forward a bit. "Line up the cups with my boobs." It took a few tries, but he eventually maneuvered both breasts in their cups at the same time. Max seemed to savor his repeated manipulations of my boobs.

"Now hold the strap kind of taut against my chest. Run it around to the back, and use the middle hooks." I sometimes wondered why bra manufacturers designed the fastening in the least convenient spot on the body, but that's where they always are. Max got the hooks into the frustratingly tiny eyes. It's dramatically easier for him when he can see what he's doing. I often thought that if men had boobs, bras would be so much better designed.