Sincerely, A Slave

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

The Road Taken

I got away from it all, into the mountains. Up and up a thin two lane ribbon of blacktop which wound back and forth with short, faded yellow lines which more and more often turned into a double solid; a warning not to make any dangerous moves on the way to my ultimate destination.

It had been seven years; seven plus years since my wedding day, the last four of which alternated between a neutral let’s-just-get-along and a living hell. Now, as of today, it had been two full years of freedom. Freedom in a cramped apartment in Granada Hills, but the anger, the doubt as to how much of my marriage’s failure was my fault, still kept gnawing at me in those quiet moments. And there were a lot of them. Then I got a call from my friend, Maribeth, with a proposal. She owned a B & B and needed an inn sitter.

“Aw, c’mon, Sloane, it’ll be fun,” she said over the phone.

“I don’t know the first thing about keeping an inn,” I said.

“Who said anything about an inn? It’s a bed and breakfast.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really. But that’s beside the point. You’re still recovering from Mr. Wrong. And you’ve finally quit that dull office job, so it’s not like you don’t need the money. So, take advantage. A paid vacation. And there won’t be anyone else around. All you have to do is just watch over the place until I get back. Keep it from burning down.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “All alone up there? What if it rains? Or even snows? Shades of The Shining.”

Maribeth’s exasperated tone was obvious. “You won’t be up that high. And it’s the wrong time of year anyway. Not that you might get a flurry or two. But hey, even Miami got snow once.”

“Yeah, once. The way my luck’s been going lately I’ll probably get a blizzard.”

Maribeth laughed. “Just think, more fun.”

Fun. What was that? After months of struggle I needed to chill out, find out what I wanted to do, and not bend to someone else’s demands. And with no one else around, in a nice, forest setting, maybe I would. So I said yes and two days later shoved the car into gear.

My small Chevy hugged the curves, the engine strained against the grade, but I knew I would make it. I had been up this road before, had visited Maribeth at her getaway several times, initially as a guest, then lately as a friend. Now, more like an employee.

***

The Oak and Pine B & B wasn’t all the way at the top of the mountain, but it was up high enough. Above the smog of Los Angeles, away from the noise that sometimes wouldn’t allow you to even hear your own thoughts, and even beyond cell phone range. As I turned off the main road the car’s tires scrunched over pine needles on the dirt lane that led to the B & B. Through the open window I breathed deep of invigorating pine tree resin while the tall trees on either side acted like solemn, silent guides with their lower branches that resembled a protective archway over the lane. A couple of broad turns led me into a large meadow in front of the Oak and Pine.

It looked small at first glance, even with a second story, but the cabin just kept on going back and back. On my first visit I was surprised at the real size of the place, and even more astonished that there were four other cabins spread around the property for those who wanted a bit of privacy. I preferred the big house myself, with the echo of far away voices and smell of prepared food like fresh cut greens, sizzling steaks, or luscious chocolate chip cookies floating throughout. It took me back to simpler times, helped relieve my complicated stress and just plain smelled good. But now, as I turned the lock, no warm aromas greeted me. Instead, my only welcome was silence and a certain mustiness.

My shoes echoed on the foyer’s hardwood floor and then in the kitchen as I surveyed the full larder. The drive was long and my hunger almost overwhelming. Only too eager to get away that morning I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Now I threw canned meat and vegetables on the butcher’s table and had just about got a decent meal ready when I heard approaching tires and the unmistakable sound of an engine coming up the lane, then silence.

I froze. What the hell? Did someone follow me here? Some crazed killer who saw the single woman on a mountain road and thought she was easy pickings? My city instincts took over and I grabbed a knife. Nothing too big, but not too small either. My hand gripped it tight behind my back as I made my way to the front porch.

A single man. That figured. Only he wasn’t coming inside. At least, not yet. He stood at the trunk of a white, four door sedan, unloading not one or two, but four large, wheeled travel bags. He closed the trunk, then saw me standing at the door. Most things about him were neutral, like his stance and expression. But the eyes, it was the eyes that spoke of a deep experience. Clear blue ice stood out from a somewhat craggy, handsome face. Wide shoulders with well-developed arms terminated in large hands that, while maybe he didn’t use them so much to make a living, weren’t unused to hard work.

“Hello,” he said. “I know I’m late, but it was a b***h getting here.”

I just stood there. What was he talking about?

He shut the trunk and then grabbed the two biggest bags. “Well? Shouldn’t you show me to my room?”

His room? “I think a mistake has been made. There aren’t supposed to be any guests...”

That stopped him. That handsome face kind of clouded over but I didn’t get the feeling that he was angry. Instead, he reached inside a shirt pocket and, at the bottom of the porch steps, held up a folded piece of paper. I took and unfolded it with my free hand, all the while keeping the knife in my other hand out of sight.

A reservation for Ryan Thompson. For today? It was the fourteenth, sure enough, but then I took a closer look.

“This is for next month,” I said.

“What?” he said. He took back the paper and scanned it. His face set. “Crap.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You can come back next month." I really did feel sorry for the guy, who knew how far he had driven to get here?

He stood there, head down, hands on hips, probably embarrassed at his blunder. The silence stretched and at last he said, “Sorry. I get dates mixed up sometimes.”

I gave a short, nervous laugh and threw him a bone. “Hey, who doesn’t?”

He kind of snorted and kind of smiled. Then the phone rang inside and I excused myself.

“Great, you made it!” Maribeth said at the other end. “I just wanted to tell you -”

“There’s a customer here,” I said.

“What! Who?”

I gave her the particulars. Maribeth groaned.

“Oh, god. That Ryan! Yeah, he has a habit of sometimes mixing things up, if it weren’t for Janine... Look, he’s a really good customer and I don’t want to turn him away like this. Could you...”

“No way!” I said. “He can’t stay...”

“He’s harmless. Really. And he’s been through a rough couple of years, kind of like you. And I’m afraid that he’ll never come back and I could really use the money.”

“Ah...”

“And it’s late in the day and I know he drove a long, long way. Please, just tell him he can stay a night, maybe two? And make his meals; he’s just helpless in the kitchen. Just a little gimme, pleasepleaseplease.”

Aw, s**t. What could I say? “All right,” I said. “But you tell him he’s got to go day after tomorrow.”

“Sure, sure!”

I carried the cordless outside and handed it to him. He said hello, mainly listened and nodded, then stepped away for a level of privacy. He spoke at some length in a hushed tone but I still heard the name Janine mentioned several times. Then he beeped off the phone and handed it back. “So, you’re Sloane. And you already know my name,” he said. “Thank you for letting me stay. I’ll just find a room and you won’t even know I’m here. Besides, I’m not sure I want to hang with a serial killer.”

“Huh?” I said.

He pointed around my back at the knife. “Saw it when you went to answer the phone. Can’t say I blame you.”

He hoisted the two large bags up the stairs and I stood by, the knife in my hand. This guy Ryan Thompson maybe got confused about dates and numbers, but he sure picked up on things fast. He tramped inside and I shrugged and stuck the knife’s pointed end in the porch’s wooden railing, then realized he might select a room that I wanted to sleep in and hurried after him.

He seemed to have a particular room in mind because he passed by several without even a glance. I heaved a slight sigh of relief when he passed by the one I wanted on the east side that let in a lot of the morning sun. He wound up at the far back of the inn, at a large room set apart from the others. “I would’ve chosen one of the cabins,” he said, “but that wouldn’t be fair to you. Besides, I have fond memories of this room." He started to lift a bag up on the wide, wood framed king bed.

I moved to get the other one; after all, I was a kind of hostess, right? When I lifted the bag to place it on the bed I got a sense it was full, but not as heavy as I expected. But I didn’t get a chance to finish the move as he wrapped his arms around the bag. “I’ll take care of this,” he quickly said. “There’s still a couple more out at the car. If you want to help, please get those.”

I wasn’t sure if I liked the way he phrased that as a semi-order, but I did go to the car and retrieved the two smaller bags. When I got back the large bag that he had taken from me was nowhere in sight.

“Thanks again,” he said, taking the small bags. “What time is dinner?”

Again, that slightly arrogant attitude. “Look, man, I just got here myself,” I said.

He paused. I guess my own attitude surprised him. “Right. Okay. If you need help, I’ll help, but I’m not much good at it. But one thing. My name isn’t ‘man’. It’s Mr. Thompson. My friends call me Ryan. How about we say we’re friends?”

“Well, well, okay. Ryan.”

“And I’ll call you Sloane, since I don’t know your last name. Or is that your last name?”

“No. No, it’s Carter.”

“Sloane Carter. I like it. So, when will I meet you in the kitchen, Sloane?”

I remembered what Maribeth said about his, I mean, Ryan’s, non-abilities as a chef. “Uh, don’t worry. I’ll tell you when the food is ready.”

He smiled, a genuine one this time. Wide and open. “Good. That’s good. ‘Til dinner."

***

So I made him dinner, all the time thinking ‘Well, there goes part of my paid vacation’, and also that Maribeth was going to owe me, big time. I mean, c’mon! This guy couldn’t be totally helpless in the kitchen. But I had already told him I’d take care of dinner, so the only person I should be mad at was myself. And boy was I ever.

I kind of (not kind of – definitely) slammed around a bunch of pots and pans, opened several cans, all the while making sure my own food stayed hot without getting overcooked. Finally, I dished everything up, some kind of corned beef hash, green leaf lettuce and a fruit cup dessert, then turned away from the hot stove to call him for dinner.

“Ry...”

There he was, practically next to me, standing in the frame of the kitchen’s swinging door. Startled, I stepped back. He was way too close for comfort.

I reverted to my inside voice. “How long have you been there?" Accusation.

He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got a lot of anger.”

Thwack. The acute comment went through me like an arrow. I opened my mouth for a quick come back, but nothing came out.

“I know how it feels,” he said. “But it fades.”

I found my voice. “What do you know about...”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t. I’m not the one you’re mad at, and I shouldn’t have intruded. Let’s just eat.”

He turned away and the door swung clump clump on its hinges. Through it I saw him take a seat at the head of the unusually large and high dining room table. Again, that touch of arrogance.

Fine. He wants to play that way, then let’s go. I gathered up the food and too daintily placed everything just so in front of him. “Will there be anything else, my lord?” I sing – songed.

“Yes,” he replied, ignoring my sarcasm. “Join me. I detest eating alone.”

I almost told him to get used to disappointment, but I sure didn’t want to eat my own dinner standing up, out of a pot. So I dished up my food (better and tastier than his) and wound up in a seat to his left.

We ate in silence. I wolfed down my dinner, not wanting to spend any more time than necessary with him. I even started to gather up my plate and cutlery but a light, yet definite grip on my forearm stopped all that.

“Stay.”

That’s all he said, and I didn’t pull away my arm. He wasn’t even halfway through his meal. Then he let go and I remained seated.

He returned to eating, not rushed, but not taking his own sweet time either. When he was nearly done he said, “This is very good.”

“Oh, I’m so glad it meets with your approval,” I said.

Ryan’s spoonful of fruit stopped halfway to his open mouth. He closed it and just gave me the look. Not a look, but the one that said, “You just screwed up. I’ve given you a sincere compliment and you aren’t even gracious enough to accept it." Ryan slowly lowered the spoon.

Crap, crap, crap! Why did I do that? Suddenly, I was back in my marriage, just weeks after our big catholic wedding, and Jim and I were already exchanging snipes at each other across the dinner table. The signs were there, but neither of us wanted to confront the problems. The wedding was so big, and my father had wrangled the local cardinal into doing the ceremony, that to say the whole thing had been a huge mistake would have been disastrous. What was I thinking? The whole thing was a disaster. Jim would go out, not come back until late and I would... No, let it go. Let it go! But even when we were civil one of us would still find a way to ruin a halfway decent day between us. The anger over my failed marriage flooded back. And not only anger.“I’m sorry,” I said.

Ryan didn’t move. I couldn’t look him in the eye. The silence lengthened. My heart pounded and my face warmed into a nice shade of pink.

“Please,” I whispered, almost a croak. “May I be excused?”

Ryan gestured to both our plates. “Go ahead.”

I piled his on top of mine and practically ran into the kitchen. I threw the plates in the sink and turned the hot water on full. Steam rose into my face, formed water on my cheeks and ran off back down into the sink.

***

All right. Okay, you made yourself look like a jerk. But he’ll be gone soon enough, you won’t ever see him again and you can bury this whole embarrassing f**k up way, way deep in your mind.

So I told myself as I stayed in the kitchen way after I finished cleaning up, waiting to hear those heavy feet tramp down the hard-floored hallway and his bedroom door shut. When it finally did I peeked my head out from behind the kitchen door, made sure the coast was clear, and scurried to my chosen room, several rooms away from his.

Quickly, quietly, I shut and locked the door behind me. All right, good. He’s way down there, and you’re safe in here. You even have a small bathroom, so there’s no need to even go out until he’s up and gone. Just turn down the sheets and forget about –

It lay on the bed, hidden for who knew how long between the sheets. Shiny, silver rings hung down from a circular piece of black leather with soft fur on the inside portion and a large buckle to receive a thin, multi-holed strap. I jumped back and my hands flew up to my mouth to cover a half-scream, like I had just found a rat. In my sudden fear I half-expected it to leap up and wrap itself around me.

I had seen something like this before. A kinky couple that Jim and I briefly knew showed off some of the more weird stuff that they used. This was something like that; it was a cuff for the wrists, maybe the ankles, or maybe even a “slave” collar. It lay before me, inert, but still my stomach flipped.

With just two fingers I picked it up and dropped it on the dresser, then backed away, sitting on the edge of the bed, but never taking my eyes off it, afraid that it would leap at me, like something alive, and permanently wrap around my neck, choking me. But the collar remained where I had left it, dark black polished leather and shiny silver steel rings that plainly spoke of things, deep, dark things that I would never speak about, not even in a confession booth. Of punishment...

With a sudden jerk I was off the bed, grabbed the collar and was headed down the hall. My mysterious guest was behind this. Oh, sure, he got the reservation dates mixed up. Not! He must have known there wouldn’t be anyone else up here, so he hatched some kind of twisted plan to just drive up here and take advantage of a semi-isolated woman and tease the little p***y into spreading her legs. Well, guess what, I’ll show you just who’s going to tease who.

At the thin, light door I raised a fist, ready to bang it open and throw the collar in his surprised face but I stopped. Inside the room I heard a noise I hadn’t expected; not snoring, not even the shuffle of heavy feet going to and fro; it sounded like a series of sniffles, followed by the soft blowing of a nose. Then muttering. Was he saying “sorry” over and over?

I backed away; slow, slow, don’t make a sound.

I retreated to my bedroom, turned the knob on the closing door so even the latch didn’t disturb the dead silence. I glanced down at my hands, the forgotten collar still there, no longer held like a diseased animal, now just a thing such as a common household object. And like a common object I just placed it back on the dresser, still wondering how it got in my room. From a previous guest? Not likely, Maribeth was pretty good about going through a room after they left to make sure nothing was there for the next guest to find, especially anything too personal or embarrassing. So it had to be planted there, by Ryan. But as I turned off the lamp and the little silver rings gleamed in the moonlight through the big window, thoughts of Ryan were chased away by other, darker dreams.

The collar wound about my neck, held in place by a small but sturdy lock at the base. I knelt in a cavernous hall, lighted candles all around yet doing nothing to dispel shadows just beyond my reach. Dark faces gazed down at me and I found myself on my knees. A cold draft wafted over me and then I realized I was naked. I tried to cover up, but my wrists were shackled overhead. Unable to stand, a leather strap pressed tight behind the bend in my legs and both ends were connected to a ring in the floor. Then the faces parted and a robed, masked man stepped into the light.

“You must pay,” he intoned, like a religious ceremony. “You know what you did.”

No, no I don’t know! I tried to say, but it came out all garbled. Something filled my mouth.

“Admit your sin,” he demanded.

What sin? What did I do?

“Do not lie!”

Please, I don’t know!

“Yes, you do!”

A satin gloved hand stabbed out, grabbed my crotch. The fingers shoved their way past my now spread open legs, up, up into my slick p***y.

Oh, f**k!

Suddenly I’m rocking with the thrust of his fist. I want to scream, beg forgiveness for whatever I’ve done, but the robed man’s other hand clamps over my mouth, now free of anything inside it, but not for long. He shoved his hand past my lips, down my throat until I’m sure I’m about to choke. No, no! Stop, please stop!

Coming! I’m cooommming!

Released from the restraints, I flopped around on the cold floor as orgasms ripped through me. Now at last I can talk, but all I do is scream as pent up secret disobediences formlessly issue from my mouth, to flow into those of the hungry, dark faces like so much forbidden fruit. And then at last, my shell of a body emptied, the faces bent down and kissed me, one at a time.

From out of the depths of sleep I struggled awake. My hand was wet, and the light that was off was now back on, and the collar that I had left on the dresser was now around my neck.

Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

I tore it off. Flung the collar back across the room. What just happened? What?

You know exactly what happened. Don’t lie! And you have no one else to blame but yourself.