Chapter Four
Gage couldn't believe the audacity of the woman that held him prisoner. After
her statement giving permission for Deacon to feed him, she risen and moved out
of the room. Deacon had disappeared for a short time as well before reappearing
in his limited line of sight. He slid gracefully into a cross-legged, Indian
style position in front of Gage's hog-tied form and began to undo the buckles
that held the ball-gag in his wide-open mouth.
Even with it removed, the straps of the accompanying harness kept his head
pulled backwards so that he was unable to lower his head. "Man...get me out of
this..." were Gage's first words as the ball was popped free. "That woman is a
psycho..." he added, shifting his eyes upward to lock with Deacon's as he
renewed his efforts to free himself.
"Shhhh..." the man named Deacon cautioned him. "If she hears you talking out of
turn she'll punish us both. Now be quiet and eat while you can..."
"PUNISH US!" Gage bellowed. "WHAT THE HELL!" he added a second or so before he
heard the telltale click of shoes on the hardwood floors of the hallway.
"Awwww shit..." Deacon muttered, setting Gage's plate on the floor just inches
from his nose as he quickly shifted up into a kneeling position. Laying his
shackled hands on his muscular thighs, he bowed his head until his chin touched
his chest and softly whispered toward Gage. "Now you've done it."
"So..." she said slowly from above and behind him. "It seems our guest is more
interested in talking than eating yes?"
Gage could just see Deacon slowly nod in the growing shadows of the room. "Yes
Mistress."
"Hmmm..." she said as her feet appeared at the corner of his limited line of
sight.
"YOU FUCKING BITCH...LET ME GO!" Gage bellowed in rage, struggling to move, to
lash out at her in anyway he could, which amounted to nothing more than words.
"Deacon..." she commanded softly and Gage was surprised to see the other man
jump to do her bidding even though she hadn't said more than his name.
The ball to the gag was forced back between his teeth. Despite his efforts to
keep them tightly clenched, Deacon merely sighed and pinched his nose shut.
When Gage opened his mouth to take in a breath of air the ball slid in with
little effort. Buckled back into place he growled loudly, struggling again to
move, to lash out angrily as a nearby lamp switched on.
Dispelling the shadows of the evening, he blinked a couple of times in the
brightness then glared angrily up at her as she moved a chair into his line of
sight and slid gracefully into it. "I would have thought that a convicted felon
such as yourself would have learned that your actions have consequences." She
stated knowingly.
"MMMMPPHHHTTTT..." he growled up at her, shaking angrily against the cuffs and
ropes that held him.
He realized slowly that she'd changed clothes. The tight leather pants she'd
worn earlier in the evening were gone. In its place was a soft looking, full
skirt of blue silk that perfectly matched her eyes. A modest looking pair of
heels, died to match the skirt adorned her feet, and a tight corset looking
thing hugged her upper body, pushing up her well-endowed chest. Her tanned legs
peeked out at him from underneath the long hem and he realized she wasn't
wearing stockings. Her hair had been coiffed atop her head, with soft tendrils
hanging down to frame her face.
She smiled slowly, the same honest one he'd been admiring sometime before, and
despite the anger in his eyes he felt his large heart skip a beat and slam
painfully against his ribs. Once more he found himself wishing for different
circumstances. Found himself wishing he wasn't a convicted felon, lying
hog-tied at her feet, but was instead the man he'd been before...before...
He cut the thoughts off and grunted angrily again as she spoke, her soft voice
filled with disappointment. "Well Gage Weston, you will learn that such
behavior does have severe consequences in this house."
She rose then, moving away from him and he grunted out something that could have
been a pleading whimper as he struggled to move.
"See to him Deacon..." he heard her command after a moment.
"Yes Mistress." Was the other man's reply.
"You know where I'll be if you need me tonight." She added and Deacon's muffled
grunt responded.
A door opened somewhere nearby and there was a moment of clinking chains,
snapping padlocks, and muffled grunts. A muffled groan and a whimper followed
just a moment before he heard the front door open and softly close. Deacon
reappeared in his line of sight and flashed him a momentary look of anger, as
Gage was able to take in what the Mistress had done to him.
Gone were the chains that had allowed him some movement. In their place was a
dastardly looking corset of leather. It hugged Deacon's wide, well-muscled
chest like a second skin. Cuffs had been attached to his upper arms and were
held in place by tiny, silver padlocks. Another lock bound each of his arms
tightly to his sides at the elbows and wrists ensuring that even if he wanted to
lift his arms he couldn't. Strong mittens covered his hands, balling them into
tight, useless fists.
A large O-ring had been shoved behind his teeth, propping his jaw even wider
than Gage's own. A pair of hard looking leather biker shorts had been worked
over his legs, covering his once naked thighs and pelvis. Sewn together, they
held his legs tightly closed with the top disappearing beneath the equally stiff
corset. A strip of leather had been worked into a hole in front of the knee
length shorts and was tightly padlocked at the back, looking like it was trying
to cut the poor man's ball sac in half.
Gage groaned in sympathy and felt his own, undiminished erection remind him of
its presence with a painful jerk against the floor. He shifted again, trying in
vain to gain his relief against the carpet. The heavenly scent from the plate
just inches from his face wafted up on an unseen breeze and invaded his senses
again, momentarily cutting off his need for orgasmic relief in exchange for the
craved sustenance of the food.
He lifted his eyes upwards to where Deacon still stood and pleaded as best he
could around the gag, dipping his eyes toward the plate in indication. Deacon
could only shrug his wide shoulders before hobbling off out of his line of
sight, as if to say, ~Sorry, I can't help you...but you brought it on
yourself...and me...~
Gage heard Deacon move into another part of the house, leaving him with only his
thoughts, the painfully growing erection, and the heavenly smell of the food for
company.
Deacon moved about the house, feeling utterly useless. Normally when the
Mistress went out at night, which was often, she merely locked his hands
together in front of him, with a short chain to the ever-present belt at his
waist. His hands were free though, as well as his feet, though they too were
usually chained together. But tonight, as his own punishment for not telling
Gage the rules and letting him talk out of turn, he was bound as tightly as the
new addition to their family.
He flopped his mitten-covered hands against his thighs in frustration, yanking
uselessly at the sturdy locks that held his arms immobile. Granted his feet
were free of their usual chain, but he still wore the permanently welded ankle
cuffs. Beneath the cuffs on his wrists, the same sturdy, permanently affixed
silver bands felt comforting against his skin.
He sighed as he wandered about the house, trying to use his tongue to move the
O-ring in his mouth. It was as useless as being able to free his arms but, like
Gage, he felt the need to at least try. His wanderings took him threw every
part of the house, except for the living room, and he sighed with the pleasant
memories each room brought.
He realized as he passed her home office and glanced at the calendar that he'd
been with The Mistress for almost a year now. He smiled softly around the
O-ring and stood leaning against the doorjamb, staring into the room. The large
oak desk in the center of the room was as grand as the woman that often sat
behind it. Polished smooth and clear of any paperwork, its surface glittered at
him beneath the small lamp that illuminated it. His own hands kept that surface
clean and polished to a high shine on a daily basis.
Her computer sat quietly on the desktop, turned off for the moment and he
groaned as his eyes roamed to his own computer, sitting in the far corner of the
room. Over the year he'd been living with her, she'd made special
accommodations that befit his situation. Because he was kept in chains, day in
and day out, she'd commissioned a specifically designed desk just for him. It
was short, just high enough off the floor for him to slide beneath it in a
kneeling position. The rolling keyboard slid in and out on hidden tracks and
was long enough that no matter how short the chain she put between his wrists
and his waist he'd be able to type. The monitor sat at what would be his eye
level and the cordless, track-ball mouse had been permanently affixed into a
slot that was usually within easy reach of his bound hands.
If she was feeling particularly devilish and cuffed his hands behind him, she'd
even designed a stick that fit into any one of half a dozen gags he was known to
wear so that he could still type, albeit very, very slowly. Special eyebolts
had also been fitted into the floor at various angles around the desk, so if
needed, or it pleased her, she could bind him tightly into position until his
work was finished.
He'd spent many an evening, after dinner had been served, learning to master the
art of "stick typing" as he called it, and could now type almost as fast with
the single implement as he could his own fingers. He still tended to stumble
when using the mouse, but he was learning.
He sighed around the O-ring in his mouth again and thought back over the last
year. Deacon's case was special and he considered himself extremely lucky.
He'd met The Mistress about a year and a half ago at a society party given by
the Mayor of Chicago himself. It was a charity function; something that had
bored Deacon to tears for many a year, but this night had been different from
the very beginning.
He'd shown up on time, looking dapper and handsome in his tailor made tuxedo.
He'd given the perfunctory greetings to those in attendance; then moved off to
find a quiet corner and a much needed drink. He'd had a rough week all together
and really, honestly didn't feel like attending, but as his secretary had
reminded him, it was his duty as CEO of one of the largest electronics companies
in Chicago to at least make an appearance.
So he had. Immediately he was bored to tears as the conversations around him
went from polite greetings threw the gamut of weather, politics and finally
settled on the inevitable, the economy. Like just about everyone else in the
room, the firm was hurting in the declining state of the Union and just
beginning to waver under the pressure.
He knew, deep in his heart, that if things didn't change and soon, himself and
the 10,000 other people that worked for him would soon be out of a job. His
family had owned the company for more generations that even he could count and
he felt horrible that it was going to be him to loose everything. At the time,
he'd just been promoted to CEO, his own father hoping that a fresh perspective
could and would turn things around, despite the failing economy.
But try as he might, even with all his college education, Deacon just couldn't
seem find the one thing that would make the difference between success and
failure. That was when she had walked into the room...and his life.
From the moment he'd seen her descend down the three small steps at the front of
the room and head toward the Mayor to make her greeting, he'd been in love. Or
at the very least, lust. She was gorgeous, but not in the 'classic' way most
thought of as beauty. Overly tall for a woman, her broad shoulders, trim waist,
and long legs testified to many a year of exercise. Her hair, like earlier
tonight, was coiffed atop her head with soft tendrils hanging down past her
shoulders and well-endowed breasts to frame her plain, but beautiful face.
Every male eye in the room turned at her commanding presence as she moved among
them, smiling and nodding to those she knew. Her dress that night had been a
soft looking green that screamed out to be touched. Similar to the one she'd
left in earlier, it fluttered about her feet, softly trailing out a few inches
behind her and giving the impression that she should have been at a cotillion in
the deep south 100 years ago, instead of at a high-society charity function in
Chicago in the year 1998.
Deacon slowly closed his eyes and relived that night as he had so many times in
the last year and a half. She'd made her greeting to the Mayor and his wife
then moved off further into the room, stopping at the groups that had formed and
speaking softly with those she'd nodded too as she arrived. Without realizing
it, he'd pushed off the wall and made a bee-line right for her, his intent to at
least know her name, if not ask her out for dinner.
Like bees drawn to a flower the men of the room began to flock around her, as if
she alone was the Queen of all she surveyed and they were there to do her
bidding. As he jockeyed himself closer, her twinkling laughter reached his ears
and he knew, deep within his heart of hearts, he was lost. Completely and
totally lost. All thoughts of his life simply vanished, melting away with that
one simple, yet brutally honest sound.
Eventually he'd managed to work his way to the front of the growing crowd of men
and he came to a shuddering halt at the edge of the inner circle. She was even
more beautiful to him up close, but in her presence now, he found himself simply
unable to speak. It was as if, without a word, she managed to command him from
that moment forward. That first night she never even looked at him. Didn't
even speak in his general direction, but her tone of voice, simple, strong and
brutally frank with those she did speak too, was enough to give him vividly
erotic dreams for weeks afterward.
That night, as he'd stood there just watching her, he'd known somewhere deep
inside that she had exactly what it was he'd searched for all his life. Even
though, in all reality, he wasn't able to say exactly what 'that' was. Just
that she had it, and he was almost desperate to get it.
The rest of the night he was never more than a few feet from her, content to
just watch and listen to her voice. Thoughts of his failing business never
entered his mind in those hours, never crossed the plane to his consciousness as
the party wound it's way into the history books. Each time she laughed he felt
a shudder course the length of his spine, each time she smiled he felt his heart
skip over itself, each time she spoke, her smooth, deeply rich commanding tones
sent a warmth like he'd never known coursing through his very veins.
He didn't even know her name until a few days later when a mysterious package
had shown up on his desk. It was devoid of the usual shipping marks and was
addressed in a bold, flowing script with only his name. For just a brief moment
he'd been terrified. With all the recent events in the world's history, the
bombs, the attacks upon US citizen's on foreign soil, he'd thought it might be a
bomb or something, but then her scent had wafted off the package and he'd known.
How she'd gotten it past his secretary and into his office, he never did know,
but he didn't honestly care in all truth. It only mattered that it was from her,
nothing more, nothing less he mused as he ripped the plain brown wrapper away
from the box and it's contents.
A low whistle of appreciation escaped his lips as he lifted the hinged cover of
the black velvet box. Inside, two highly polished silver bands sat nestled in
more soft looking black velvet. They glinted at him in the early afternoon sun
streaming in the windows behind his chair and gods help him tears pooled in his
eyes at the beauty of the gift she'd given him. Each of the bands was about two
inches wide and lay open as if merely waiting for the right wrist to lock
around.
A folded scrap of paper, tucked neatly to the inside of the lid caught his
attention and he reached for it with shaking fingers. The air left his lungs as
he unfolded it and read the decisively bold, flowing script.
"Snap these around your wrists and come to me...Mistress Elaina," was all the
note had to say.
He gulped, hard, feeling as if he was precariously balanced upon a great chasm
and the next decision he made would be his last. With only the briefest of
pauses he reached out and picked up the first of the two silver bands. Sliding
it over his skin, he gave a slight shiver as the coolness of the metal invaded
his senses, but snapped it closed with a decisive click of finality.
He struggled now, visibly shaking himself out of the memory and straining
against the locks that held his arms immobile in an unspoken need to touch the
gleaming silver at his wrists. But he couldn't and he groaned dejectedly,
wanting for a moment to kick himself, not to mention the man hog-tied in the
living room, a few good times.
He pushed himself off the doorjamb though and began his useless wanderings about
the house once more. The months after the day he'd snapped the silver around
his wrists, had been a slow, but steady journey into full out slavery and
submission. As the time had passed, he'd found out exactly what the 'it' was
that she had and he wanted.
Control.
A stern, seemingly endless, control over everything in her life. Including him.
After that day, the weeks had turned to months and slowly he found himself
spending more and more time at her feet, instead of running his business.
Surprisingly enough though, his business didn't suffer in the slightest.
Instead it improved...vastly improved, for with a simple word from her contracts
began to flood in. From every corner of the market, the government, private and
corporate orders began to boost his business beyond even his modest dreams. And
she began to take over more and more of his day-to-day business dealings,
leaving him more and more time to become the slave to her he found himself
craving to be.
Content to be chained, hand and foot, gagged more often than not and puttering
around her home. Their home, actually, even though he still legally kept a
condo on the upper west side of the city. He couldn't remember the last time
he'd stepped foot in the place, but he knew she went there frequently to host
parties and entertain clients when the need arose.
That was where she'd gone tonight, to entertain a group of English businessmen
about to give the company another large contract with the British Airways
Corporation. If she gained the contract, which he knew she undoubtedly would,
it would just be another feather in her cap. Not his.
And he was content with that, for she'd done a far better job of running things
than he ever had. Even his father thought so, as he'd eluded too at one of
their monthly 'dinner' meetings the week before.
"Boy son, that Elaina sure has a head for the business...Good thing you put her
on the staff as a VP." The older man had stated simply.
"That she does father..." Deacon had replied simply, then moved the subject
matter away from his Mistress.
To the outside world, Deacon had become an elusive recluse, with all business
matters being sent through Elaina. To his family, his father in particular, he
was always available, though the older man didn't know that his phone calls were
forwarded to Elaina's home instead of his own office.
The only one within the corporation that knew of his and Elaina's special setup
was his most loyal secretary, Joselyn. She was paid quite handsomely for her
silence and had developed a wealth of lies and sidetracks for anyone that came
looking for Deacon personally. A beautiful young woman in her own right, the
other perk to her continued silence was that she was often invited to their home
to be serviced by Deacon himself at the bidding of his Mistress.
Deacon truthfully didn't mind, because he'd always liked Joselyn on a personal
level anyway, and if his tongue and hands ensured her silence, then it was all
the better for him because it meant he could and would continue to stay right
where he was. Chained, gagged and helplessly devoid of all control over
anything at all.
