Mistress Cali: My year as slave #4

Chapter One The Trip to Martinsburg The one-way bus ticket was $109. I only needed one-way. It sounded like such a great deal when I bought it, but never realized ‘super economy’ on Greyhound was as bad as ‘coach economy’ on the airlines. As I took my seat, directly over the back wheels and with the Greyhound equivalent of a port-a-potty directly behind me, I wondered if it was worth it. But with my duffle bag already stored in the cargo bay beneath me a change of heart would be difficult. Besides, I had everything I needed for my trip in my knapsack on the seat next to me; a little money, a change of clothes, medications, snacks, water, my laptop, and a copy of ‘f**k the Roses, Give me the Thorns’, neatly hidden under a book cover with a more publicly acceptable title. No sense letting everyone on the bus I was a pervert. Everything I own in cargo and everything I need beside me. Boy was I wrong, but wouldn’t realize exactly how wrong for three days. My bus ride started at the downtown Fort Worth bus terminal at 1:30 in the afternoon on Wednesday, January 3rd. My actual trip started at 9:00 AM, when I checking out of the Cloverleaf motel on Lancaster. I hitch hiking to the Trinity Railway Express train station — it was more hike than hitch, but I expected that. I shoved a $5 bill into the ticket vending machine, several times before it was accepted, and bought a full round trip ticket, but I would never use the other half. I boarded a west bound commuter train; destination downtown. I arrived with plenty of time to type is note on my laptop as I slumped on the steel bench with my feet propped on the duffle. Battery at 92% — not bad. I ate an apple as I tried to memorize my itinerary and tried to figure out exactly when this lifelong flirtation with b**m really began. Boy scout camp 1962; tied to a tree all night long as initiation into the Order of the Green Knights, a secret, unofficial group within the troop, where ropes and knot tying had taken on a whole new meaning. The test was this; if I could find my scout jack knife, hidden somewhere in the forest leaf litter within reach, cut my ropes and make it to flag pole hill before revelry, I was in. If I failed to escape before the bugle sounded, I would receive three swats from all the other Green Knights. I only knew of four Green Knights in the troop, so either way, it couldn’t be too bad. Besides, if I didn’t find the knife, I could always untie the ropes — or so I thought. As it turned out, my jack knife was hidden in the rusted tin can I found and discarded. This was very early in the evening. By morning every leaf, twig, and branch had been swept away from the tree I was tied to. While my hands were tied together behind a choke-cherry tree, my feet were not, so I kicked off my boots and searched the area with my bare feet hoping to feel the cold steel of the knife. At least that was the plan. By morning there was a five foot diameter circle completely cleared of every organic — except me. As it turned out, there were 31 members of the Green Knights and I missed breakfast while, one by one, in the back of the woodshed behind the old abandoned cabin, my ass was thoroughly reddened. The leader, David Egbert, added an extra seven to make it an even 100. “Now boarding bus 1620 to Texarkana and points east” announced a Greyhound employee over a loud speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, this bus is nearly full, so if you do not have a ticket, step up to the ticket counter on the upper level.” I had a ticket, so everything was cool. I forgot about the boy scouts and got in line to board the bus. A porter weighed my bag before putting it on the bus. “That will be $10. You’re are overweight.” I thought it a little rude, this 350 pound mountain of a man commenting on my less than trim physique, then realized it was my duffle bag he was talking about. I paid him $10, and asked, “will I be charged another $10 for each leg of my trip?” He said, “I don’t make the rules, and I can’t take cash. You gots a credit card?” I handed over my VISA card, the only one that wasn’t maxed out and he swiped on a portable reader. “You’ll get a receipt by email. Enjoy your trip, mister Maxwell.” I thought, that’s a switch. Nobody had called me ‘mister’ in over a year; not since my on-line training had begun. It was always ‘b***h’, ‘slut’, ‘worm’, or ‘slave’. Actually, I sort of liked ‘slave’. It implies that I am valuable enough to be owned. So many of the ‘Domme’ I had met on the internet, assuming exchanging emails is the same as meeting, were thieves dressed in black leather costume holding a riding crop, and posing for the camera. Mostly, they want to infect your computer with a virus designed to steal banking and credit card numbers. Thank god for real-time virus detection software. Mistress Cali was different — she didn’t try to s**m me, infect me, or blackmail me. A saint, among on-line sinners, at least relatively speaking. The trip to Texarkana was uneventful. I had to put my backpack on my lap to make room for a fellow traveler; a guy in a blue wind breaker who hadn’t shaved or bathed in a week. He did share some of his whiskey, in trade for a package of Hostess Twinkie’s. Old Crow and golden yellow sponge cake. How ironic that I would bring a box of phallic shaped, cream filled snacks on a trip to meet my Mistress. Don’t get me wrong, I love Twinkie’s, but my c**k hasn’t been that long in years and as for the cream — nada. I typed on the laptop and the bum next to me snored and stank most of the way to Texarkana. Actually, he stank all the way, but only snored part way. He eventually awoke and asked for more snack cakes, but since his pint bottle was now empty, he had nothing to trade. Next leg was to Little Rock. I had a 20 minute layover as Greyhound switched the bags to another bus. Thankfully, no added $10 overweight fee. The men’s toilet in the bus station probable smelled as bad as the bum I sat next to, but after 210 miles, my nose had be completely de-sensitized. After a potty break, I charged the laptop as long as I could. it was down to 30%, and I’d need all the juice I could get to make it to Little Rock. We had a different bus, but same bus driver, but the bum in the blue wind breaker was gone — replaced by a kid with earbuds and an iPhone game and a bottle of Yoo-Hoo — imitation chocolate milk. He likes Twinkie’s, too. I should have brought two boxes of Twinkies and a bib. When the bus hit a bump, the kid spilled half of his drink on me. That was another reason not to be wearing the Armani suit I had purchased from a consignment shop in Dallas. It was a real steal at only $250, plus the cost of alterations. Deep charcoal grey, silk/wool blend, lightly worn and gorgeous. It was safely rolled and packed in my duffle bag — out of the range of the kid’s Yoo-Hoo. I wanted to look my best when I met Mistress Cali. From everything I had read, when a Mistress or Master takes a new slave, there is a public ceremony, much like a wedding. What guy wants to wear a cheap suit in his wedding pictures ? Not me. The layover in Little Rock was 40-minutes and the toilets were cleaner. Must be something Bill Clinton got right when he was governor. I got a full charge on the laptop and found a Wi-Fi signal to check my emails. I promised Mistress I would check in with her when I could. She wasn’t on-line but had sent me an email with a tease; a naked picture of her, this time it was from the back. God does she have a nice ass, but before I could send her one of my self bondage photos, the bus was leaving, and so was my Wi-Fi connection. The bus to Memphis was bad. No, the bus was fine, I was the one who was bad, or at least my digestive track was bad. Ever since the surgeon removed my cancerous colon, my digestive system oscillates between constipation and diarrhea. Good think most people were asleep and I was seated next to the toilet. I took two Imodium and hoped for the best as well as hoped the bus had more toilet paper, because I was going through this roll fast. Eventually, I crapped in my panties. The bus’s toilet was occupied by someone as sick as me, only his was coming out the other end. had anticipated such an accident and related poopy panties with a fresh pair from my knapsack. The soiled ones I had to toss into the trash. Too bad, they were one of my favorites — the ones Mistress told me to buy right after she accepted me as a slave trainee. The bus rolled over the Mississippi at dawn. There was a three hour layover in the Memphis bus station, which was a hornet’s nest of activity. Buses coming and going every 10-minutes as well as the city’s mass transit buses. I tried to sleep, but the commotion was too much. I worked on my travel log — the story you are presently reading. No new emails from Mistress. I bought a large cup of coffee and a danish from the coffee shop next to the bus station. Not smart. My stomach was gurgling just as the new bus departed for Nashville. The one and only nice thing about the Nashville leg was there were only a dozen people on board, so the likely hood of me finding the toilet occupied was much lower. I took another two Imodium and that stopped everything. What a wonderful medicine. I don’t care if they say it is habit forming, I can’t live in a toilet all the time. Through the use of anal plugs and forced starvation, I had hoped a b**m life style would cure me of my excessive bowl function. It was 2:00 PM when I arrived in Nashville. I had gotten some sleep and had another email from Mistress. Apparently, Tennessee is full of lots of Wi-Fi hotspots with little or no security. We chatted a lot between Nashville and Knoxville, or at least we tried. For a while, we would have signal, but then lose it, and after another five miles, I had signal again. Being interrupted so often was rather frustrating. I could tell Mistress was not happy. She kept on asking me when I would arrive, and I kept telling her 11:00AM tomorrow, just in time for my collaring. I’d tell her how much I want to be her full-time slave, and how much I want to please her, and how much I want to suck on her toes, and p***y and anything she wanted. I don’t know if she got any of that. The signal abruptly died, and I was typing away professing my gratitude and devotion, but she may never have gotten any of my sweet words. I crashed in Knoxville — I did — not the bus, that would be later. Sleep was easy. Knoxville is a sleepy little town, compared to Memphis and Nashville. Someone in the station nudged me awake just in time to make it on the bus. I guess I had told them where I was going, and I was going to get married when I got to Martinsburg. As I boarded he said, “you look like hell, son. No groom should look this bad even after the bachelor party the night before his wedding.” I thanked him, but it really didn’t sink-in at the time. I went back to sleep in the back of the bus and dreamed of kneeling at my Mistress’s feet. In my dream, she was wearing studded black leather, skin tight leather pants, a crop in one hand and my leash in the other. I was in a white see through gown and presenting my ass for her crop as I licked her spike heeled boots. The next thing I knew, I was jammed against the windows of the bus, with a screaming Hispanic lady was on top of me and there was a crying child on top of her. Everyone in the bus was either swearing, crying, or calling for help. After a while, men with flashlights started pulling people out the sideways emergency door at the very back of the bus. The normal doors were useless. There was three or four inches of snow on the ground. The whole scene was bathed in blue and red flashing lights. I heard someone say “black ice” and that was all. Some people were being packed into 4-wheel drive ambulances and some of them were bleeding. Apparently, somewhere near Roanoke, the bus had skidded into the median ditch and there we were. I didn’t see the driver. I hope he is okay. After standing around, shivering in the snow, I started walking back to the bus. Short steps, because it was quite slippery and with a pronounced limp, because of my arthritis, which I’m sure was aggravated by the cold. Also, I was wearing tennis shoes and my feet were half frozen. A fireman stopped me saying, “where do you think you’re going?” “I need to get my computer and backpack. I’m a writer and I have three novels on that laptop ready for publishing. I can’t lose my laptop.” “Okay, once we get everyone off, I’ll send a man in to find it. Where were you sitting?” “At the back. It’s an older HP model and has my name, Maxwell, etched into the bottom near the serial number.” It occurred to me, my next computer would have ‘slut’ etched on it, assuming my Mistress allowed me to have a computer. But this one also had several stickers with account names and passwords on the bottom, too, but the fireman doesn’t need to know that. “My laptop might be in my backpack — dark green nylon with leather trim. It has a cardboard tag with my name. I think the tag was from American Airlines,” I said as he moved me into the warmth of a police car. “Stay here Mr. Maxwell and don’t close the door all the way. You’ll never get out,” said a State Trooper. A local police man handed me a handkerchief containing a snowball. “Lean your head back, put this over your nose and if the bleeding doesn’t stop, well take you to the hospital. Other than the bloody nose are you okay. I couldn’t help but notice that limp.” “I’m fine. I always walk like that.” The bleeding had stopped pretty much; maybe from the compression, maybe from the snowball. In any case the officer didn’t ask for his handkerchief back. After two hours, another bus came and took us; those of us who hadn’t been carted away by the ambulances, on to Roanoke. They put us up in the fire station, which was comfortable — not a four star hotel, but comfortable. We took turns sleeping in the firemen’s bunks and on their couch. There were 30 of us stranded travelers in the fire station, which really surprised me since there couldn’t have been more than a dozen on the bus. Then it dawned on me; the rest were other accident victims. Travelers whose cars had spun out, but not badly hurt and not in need of medical care. Eventually, a fire truck came and piled a mound of suitcases and luggage on the floor. He was followed by an official from Greyhound who started filling out paperwork for lost, stolen or damaged property. They found my laptop, but the screen had separated from the keyboard — a complete loss. There was blood, probably mine, on the corner of the keyboard. (At the time, I wondered if a good repair shop would be able to recover my files. Since are reading this, they did.) The man from Greyhound said, “Our company slogan is ‘leave the driving to us’, so we will get you to your destination. Of course, you are free to make other arrangements. Just let us know of your plans, but it’s just going to take us a little time for the roads to clear and find another coach.” ‘A little time’ was something I didn’t have. It was 11 AM and I was supposed to be in Martinsburg, being collared by the most beautiful Mistress in the whole world and starting a new life as her #1 slave. To make matters worse, I had lost my cell phone in the melee. I arrived in Martinsburg at about 8PM the next day — nearly 33 hours late. I found an old fashioned pay phone; complete with rotary dial and coin slots and called. She answered “Hello”. “Mistress Cali, I’m so sorry I’m so late. There was an accident and . . .” The automated voice on the pay phone said ‘please deposit another fifty cents for the next 2-minutes.’ I found my last two quarters and fed the phone. There was buzzing and ringing, then Mistress said “Where the hell are you, slut?” “Yes, I know I’m late, , ,” “No f*****g kidding. Just come to the Rose Garden Hotel on Rosemount Avenue — the place where our, your collaring was supposed to take place — you know — like yesterday. It’s not far from the bus station. You can walk, if the bus didn’t break your legs. Ask someone for direction. Just get your ass over here as quickly as you can, or there will be hell to pay.” Click — the line went dead. The clerk at the bus station pointed me in the direction of Rosemount. I shouldered the knapsack and the duffle and if I had a parrot on my other shoulder and an eye patch, I’d have looked just like a pirate coming home from the sea. Martinsburg hadn’t had the snow that Roanoke had had and what little there may have been, was all melting. It was, however, beginning to re-freeze so my progress was slow. I found the Rose Garden Hotel after 20-minutes and with the help from a passerby. I walked straight past the front desk in the direction of the ballroom. The desk clerk said, as the doors swung open, “they were expecting you, slut, but started the party without you,”