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From: [e-mail] (Joshua A Laff)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: ARCHIVE: ficta.Z
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
Date: Wed, 12 Jan 1994 09:16:06 GMT
Reply-To: [e-mail]
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Organization: University of Illinois, Dept. of Comp. Sci., Urbana, IL
Lines: 585

This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information.


>From: [e-mail]
>Subject: Story: Ficta (part 1 of 5)
>Date: 3 Jun 91 11:11:53 GMT
>Lines: 570

//Archive-name: ficta
//Author: wi.279
//Title: Ficta (parts 1-5)

NOTE:  all wizvax.methuen.ma.us references shoud now read
n7kbt.rain.com

WARNING!  This work of fiction contains descriptions of sexual
practices some people might find disturbing to read about.  If you
find that certain types of descriptive passages cause you extreme
distress, press ``n'' now!  You have been warned!

This work copyrighted, 1991, (name withheld).  Electronic transmission
is permitted and the printing of hardcopy for personal use only is
permitted, so long as the text is not altered, including disclaimers,
and it is attributed to the alias Ladyhawke.  Flames to
[e-mail]
**************************************************************************

Ficta (Part 1 of 5)

The door was open, and she had seen him drive off.  Surely he would
have a copy of his own books in his home!  Why, she could slip in and
take a look, and leave again, and he would never know.

She did not know why this idea slipped into her head.  She would never
have thought of such a thing, usually.  But it was true: here was an
opportunity to read the very works she had been so frustrated in trying
to find.  A silly thing, to be unable to buy or borrow books, the
author of which lived in one's own town.

And it wasn't as if they were cult books, for which doing such a stunt
would be attractive and daring, and something to brag about.  They
were on history, and academic theories; slightly dated texts at that.
But what she heard of them hinted at great ideas which fascinated her.
And the more trouble she had finding them, the more she wanted to see
them.

She walked right up to the front door, and went in.  There was a study
like area near the kitchen, lined with bookshelves.  There, the texts
of many authors were arranged in alphabetical order by authors name.
For one brief moment, the name of the author whose house she was now
in escaped her mind, but then, her eyes fell upon his name in the H's,
and she beamed with pleasure.  They were humbly categorized with the
others, and were not set apart.  They were slender, oversized books,
hard cover in cloth, and they reminded her of the music scores she got
from the library.  She took the set from the shelves and carried them
into the dining room.

On the way there, she noticed a storage room, or pantry, and thought
``should he come back, I can hide in there.''  She tested the door,
only to find that it could not close all the way.  At least it would
block her from view from the front door, and if he walked without
looking backward, she should remain hidden.  She then went to the
dining room, and spread out the books.  She took the first one in the
series, and began skimming through it.

Ah, but they were fascinating!  She was soon drawn into the texts,
reading them passages hanging on every word, gazing at the color
plates of manuscripts she had never seen before.  And his theories
delighted her mind, she felt like singing, like crushing the book to
her head as if she could push all the words into her brain at once.
One part of her demanded she keep reading the way a thirsting man's
body demands drinking; another part of her was so over charged with
ideas and thoughts, she needed to lay the book down to digest and
ferment the kaleidoscope in her mind.

Then she heard him at the door.  For a moment she thought of restoring
the books to their place that he not suspect an intruder, but she
realized she had no time for that.  She whisked herself into the
storage room, and pulled the door as shut as she could.  She dared not
look out the doorway, for fear he would she her as well as she saw
him.  She heard him enter, and sure enough, he walked by.  But now he
was in the kitchen, and could see the door to the pantry through the
open-work bookshelves between them, and he had a clear view to where
she stood, were he only to turn towards her.  He could turn at any
moment, or perhaps even see her reflection in some stray kitchen
utensil.  With that thought, she broke for it.

She exploded out of the pantry, and in a few steps gained the door.  He
whirled as he heard her, but he was much older than she, and slower.
The screen door crashed shut behind her as she burst from the house.
She crossed the driveway, running along the house, and it was in her
mind that she go around the house to the woods in back to make her
escape.  But then as she rounded the garage a dread thought came to
her: he was a hunter, and he owned rifles, and kept them handy.  Would
her shoot her?  Her skirt was white, like a swan; she remembered a
story in which an archer shot his true love while she wore the guise
of a swan, and in truth she did not know why she thought of that story
in that second.  But moved thus, she darted into the cluttered garage,
to hide.

He entered the garage, searching, and she could not catch a glimpse of
him for fear of betraying her location; she could only crouch and
wait.  At last she decided she would break for it again.  She sprang
up...and found herself face to face with him, and he stood between her
and the road.  His face was lined, and weathered, his hair was white;
his face showed no emotion.  He seized her right arm, and pushed her
towards the door to the house.

She entered the house again, this time by the kitchen door to the
garage.  But to her surprise, there were people there, idly chatting
and sitting about and browsing thought magazine on the coffee table.
Perhaps they entered with him?  He did not get a chance to say
anything, for he was immediately hailed, and corralled by guests who
just *had* to speak with him.  And more people were entering.  She
found herself unescorted again.  She wandered about, acting as casual
as she could manage.  After a while, she worked her way back towards
the front door, and she espied a woman calling a cab company.

She requested, in her most offhand manner, if the woman could ask that
they send a cab for her too?  And the woman did indeed.  It was a
short wait, when she saw a cab down the street.  She stepped outside,
unhindered.  Walking down the driveway, someone asked,

``Do you know how to get to Civic Center?''

She wracked her brains; ``I'm sorry, I've been away from the area for
quite a while, and I can't remember the names of the highways...are
you familiar with the county?  You know the triangle?  And the 23
runs along here,'' she illustrated in the air, ``Right here is the
Civic Center.''

``Thank you.''

At the end of the driveway, there were three of her friends.  They
hailed her, and looked surprised to find her there, but she did not
get a chance to speak with them for the cab pulled up, and she wished
to dally no longer.

    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

        End of part 1 of 5

            (Ficta, part 2 of 5)

At the end of the driveway, there were three of her friends.  They
hailed her, and looked surprised to find her there, but she did not
get a chance to speak with them for the cab pulled up, and she wished
to dally no longer.

    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *


    She did not know why she returned, but she indeed found
herself at his house again.  Some part of her, a part which staunchly
would not talk to her conscious mind, guided her limbs to convey her
here again.  Some vague and nebulous, unnamed emotion roiled in her
mind: a desire? a wish? a certainty?  Again the door was open, and
again she entered.

She saw the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the pantry, the
book shelves were his works rested.  This time she passed them by, and
went further into the house.  She left the darker, wood paneled
rooms, and came to a chamber where the walls were painted the faintest
shade of blue, and the floor was carpeted in thick off-white pile, and
gauzy white drapes hung along the windows.  Nothing like furniture was
in this room, but there were two manacles set into the floor, several
feet apart, and two manacles hung on rods from the ceiling, above the
ones on the floor.  Nothing else disturbed the emptiness, the
stillness, of the room.

She examined the manacles; they were cleverly designed.  They all lay
open, each one a half ring, hinged to its other half, which in turn
was fastened to a ceiling rod, or to the floor by a shorter rod.  In
the second half-circle lay a lever, such that if on should put one's
limb into the embrace of the connected half, the other freely hinged
part, would be snapped up, and over, and around one's limb, to lock
into the closed position.  And moved by what she knew not, she did
this.

First she removed her sandals, and stepping out of them, she walked to
a place between the manacles.  She spread her legs, and set one ankle
against the inner arc of a manacle, and as she pressed *snap!* the
other half closed about the end of her slender leg.  She then reached
up, and pressed the wrist of the same side into the hanging mechanism,
and it too closed with a satisfying //click//.  She reached her other
leg towards the respective bond; only with much straining was she able
to reach far enough to set her other ankle in.  But now, the last
manacle hung on it's rod above and beyond her reach.  She pulled
towards it, but the spread of her feet kept her from attaining the
last ring.  Then, there were hands on her waist, from behind, lifting
her up, lifting her strongly, so that the steel at her feet pulled her
legs unrelentingly to earth.  And with that, she set her wrist into
the manacle, and it clicked home.  She hung there, most of her weight
borne by her arms, her feet barely touching the floor, imprisoned.

He walked around her, to stand before her.  His gaze took her in, and
she looked back at him.

He wore nothing but billowing draw-sting pants.  Though his hair was
gray, right down to the wisps on his chest, his muscles were still
defined, and he had lifted her with apparently little effort.  She could
not guess his age; she knew those books had been published a long time
ago.  Now his weathered face bore a pleased smile, and shone with
warmth.  His eyes were a very clear blue.

She was young; just a woman, but definitely a woman, having left
adolescence behind for good.  Her dark hair hung in a sea of waves
about her pale neck, her shoulders hidden in all but curve by her
blouse of deep electric blue.  Her cheekbones were faintly defined,
and her jaw like the line of a heron's wing bounded her oval face.
Her arms, too, where like wings, stretched out and taught, or like the
arms of an angel raised in supplication or adoration of heaven.  Her
ankles were slender and delicately curved; a long white starched skirt
hung from her slender waist.  Her eyes were black like night.

Her eyes rested on his face, as with a tug he loosed the drawstring of
his pants, and they felt to the floor; his gaze did not leave her
face.  She heard a crinkling, and rubbing sound.  He lifted her white
skirt, and with a pair of scissors he materialized from where she knew
not, he snipped her plain white underwear from her body.  He stepped
up to her, his body touching her.  He reached around her and gripped
her thighs from behind, and lifted her again, stepping forward as he
did, and setting her onto him, her cunt driven down onto his member by
her own weight.  Breath escaped her lungs like an unarticulated sigh.

Now she gazed over his shoulder, but sight was lost to her as all her
attention was drawn to her nerves, inside and out.  In some distant
part of her mind the thought flared ///A condom!  How good, and kind,
and caring he is of me!  How fine he is!/// Then there was no more
effort left for words in her mind, as he began to stroke into her.
She could not effectively move with his rhythm, for she had no
manoeuverability to balance, but he steadied her with his hand on her
thigh, and his strong steady pushing into her accounted for all the
motion that was needed.  It reminded her of oars, pushing against the
sea.

When he came, she knew it by the tightening of his muscles, but he was
silent save the single hard expulsion of breath.  His worn cheek lay
against her own smooth face for some moments longer, then he withdrew
from her body, and stepped back.  Her skirt fell about her legs again.
He spoke.

``I set a suggestion into your mind, a vision, before you left here.
To this you could have two responses.  You could flee from here in
fear, forever shy of this place and of me, never to trespass again.
Or you would return.  The suggestion was this: were you ever to enter
this house again, you would become mine forever.  The choice between
these two would lie in your own nature.''

She said nothing, and her face showed little, but he knew his words
spoke into the heart of her and she understood and followed everything
he said.

``What is your name?''

``I do not remember, Master,'' she answered truthfully, ``But I know I
am your slave.''

            End of part 2 of 5

            (Ficta, part 3 of 5)

``What is your name?''

``I do not remember, Master,'' she answered truthfully, ``But I know I
am your slave.''

``And what is my name?''

``I do not remember that either, Master.''  She added after knotting
her brow briefly in thought: ``I call you by the title `Master'
because it is what you are to me.''

``Good, my dear.  I think you shall find me a pleasing Master.  I have
never been exceedingly lusty, and I have somewhat less interest than I
did when I was younger.  But I still desire the use of your body, and
you shall not go without.  I seek to have, also, a woman who body I
may play with, experiment on, toy with.  There are many things which I
wish to do to your flesh, and to your mind.  I will reprogram you mind
so that you will unable to disobey me; what I say will be like your
own will in your body.  ''  He paused a moment. ``Does this please
you?''

``Yes, Master, it pleases me.''

He smiled warmly at her.  ``Good, my love.  Let us begin.''

He left the room, and she hung there patiently.  When he returned, he
wore a white robe which hung to his ankles, and he carried a ring of
keys and more manacles in his hands.  He unlocked her ankles, then her
hands, carrying her limbs down to ease the pain of their release,
stiff and sore he knew they would be.  He kneaded her shoulders for a
moment, then he brought her wrists together behind her back and locked
them that way.  He fastened a loose loop of chain about her waist,
from which hung another length of chain to her knees.  He put a
manacle about each ankle, and these were connected by a chain in the
middle of which met the length from her waist; in this way the chain
of her hobbles would be lifted from the floor so she would not trip.
Then he locked a wide steel collar about her neck, and from this
collar was a chain leash.

With one hand at her lower back, and one hand holder her leash, he
steered her out of the room by way of a doorway on the other side from
which she entered.  They passed through a small hallway with pleasant
small floral print wallpaper, a small antique table with a vase of
flowers, all reminding her of an apocryphal aunt's home, and then they
came to another room.

This was about the same size as the last room, but far more cluttered.
This seemed more like a study, and bookshelves overflowed with papers,
loosely bound texts, bric-a-brack and personal artifacts.  There were
cabinets along another wall, and there was a desk mostly covered by
paper.  But also on the desk was a computer, and around this computer
was clear of the general clutter.

He left her standing in the center of the room, while still holding
her leash, and opened up a cabinet.  He pulled from it a large device
of wire and metal rods and plastic bands.  He set it precariously on a
stack of papers on the desk, and closed the cabinet.  He fastened her
leash to a ring set in the desk; he had her kneel.  He fiddled with
the device for a moment, then it opened up, in some fashion, and he
set it about her head.

The thing reminded her of a halo brace, and indeed with the twisting
of knobs, the screwing of cranks, and the snapping of snaps the device
gripped her head firmly, and pressed against her skull in numerous
places.  A large multi-colored ribbon of wires ran from the device to
a pronged end, which he plugged into a box attached to the computer.
She merrily laughed inwardly to find that she would be re-written on
an Amiga.

He sat himself at the desk and began to type at the keyboard.
Kneeling by his side, she laid her head against his thigh.  He
grinned at her, and reached through the wiring to rub at her jaw line
for a moment, then returned to the machine.  As she lay there, she
felt dancing on the inside, like a flight of butterflies in her heart,
but she had no inclination to move from her position against her
master.  After a few more commands, he looked at her again, then
tapped one last keystroke.

She felt a fleeting feeling across her mind, like a high cloud
scooting across the sky, a feeling that was more an awareness than an
emotion.  She neglected her vision, her hearing, and all her outward
senses, turning all of her awareness to what was happening to her
mind.  She opened up all of her mind to this faint thing.

She felt as if she were in midair, falling or flying, then.  And she
felt as if there was someone who's thinking she could hear, or feel,
or know.  Then, instantaneously, with not transition, she knew she
would not disobey.  She could ///remember/// being able to disobey,
but she no longer could.  And it was not even a realization about
whether or not she *could*, but rather the understanding that never in
her life would she disobey her Master.  But she had not wanted to
then, and was no longer capable now, and could not longer conceive of
herself disobeying.  Freedom from his will passed entirely from her
understanding and ability and desire and all her soul.

Then there came into her mind another understanding, or rather, there
passed from her other knowings.  Gone was the worry that she might
leave, gone the idea that she someday would not be his slave, gone the
concept of being not his, gone the idea of having an identity of her
own.  All questions of permanence fled: she knew she was once
something else, free, but she could no longer imagine it, or hold such
an idea for herself in her mind.

Certainty came to her next of his love and caring for her.  It was
eternal, and undivided by any other loves he indulged in.  She knew
this, and became removed from any jealousy.  She came to know that he
was capable in what he promised her, and would not fail her.  Of these
two things trust is made, and forged in her was an absolute and
unquestioning trust in him.  She knew, for instance, that she would
have no desire to preserve her life should he tell her it was to end.

And she knew then, that he *understood*.

            End of part 3 of 5

            (Ficta, part 4 of 5)

And she knew then, that he *understood*.  He understood her need for
pain.  He understood that every blow and every cut would convey love
as a kiss does, and she understood that every blow and every cut was a
gift of infinite loving.  Every agony he inflicted would be his gift
and his testament of love to her.  She knew she would be made to
suffer beyond her ability to endure, because he cared.  She knew that
he would understand every scream and every whimper to be not a wish
for the pain to end, but a sound her body demanded she make; she knew
she need not be silent for fear of making his ministrations cease.  It
was a promise written on her soul, ``No matter what you do, I will not
stop, you cannot make me stop.  I will make you *hurt*.''

He watched on the screen as the machine wrote in her mind what she
shall be for the rest of her life.  There was a gauge that showed her
resistance to the imprinting: in truth, there was no resistance.  Her
mind welcomed these thoughts, beliefs and tenets with complete
acceptance.  He watched as the machine remade her mind, with a delight
and awe he rarely felt.  She wanted to be his as much as he desired to
own her.  It seemed to him to be a miracle, and he felt a desire to
thank some nameless deity that such a creature could exist, that a
creature existing could be so perfect for him, could be his true mate.

He did not have to reprogram her.  She had fallen in love as he took
her in the chains.  She would have obeyed as best any natural creature
could physically obey.  But then again, he did need to reprogram her.
They both needed it.  He needed to know her faith and love were
absolute; that is what his heart needed.  And it was also his gift to
her.  The programming went well beyond her consciousness,
circumventing her own thoughts.  Things she would have been physically
incapable of doing at his order, such as ``Go to sleep'', her new
programming would obey; he was programming the controls to her body,
not just her mind.  If he did not do this, she would fail, and it
would wrack at her, and grieve her; now she would not have to endure
failure at what she wished to be able to do.

He scratched her scalp idly as the machine whirred away.  Then it was
done.  He shut down the master program, and unplugged the headset.
She lifted her head from his leg, and looked up in his eyes.  He
released her head from the mechanism, and set it on the desk.  Her
eyes were choked with emotion, but were dry.  With a soft rustle of a
voice she said,

``Thank you, Master.  Thank you for making me this.''

He lifted her up and kissed her then, and she responded with all the
ardor in her overwhelmed heart.  He took the chain from the desk, and
lead her forth again.

This time, the came to a room that looked of japanese style; two walls
were of rice-paper panes in wood.  Racks lined the other austere,
white, walls, bearing all manner of instruments.  A pallet lay on the
hardwood floor by one wall.  A low table held a lantern, a sprig of
flowers, a white cloth, and a pitcher with a glass.  He unlocked her
hand from behind her back, and helped her strip off her clothing.
Folded these were put on the table, with his robe.

He locked her hands to a sturdy chain from the ceiling.  He took the
white cloth; with one hand gripped her hair and pulled back her head,
and with the other he forced the cloth into her mouth.  There was much
of it, and it would not all fit in her mouth.  He pulled it out, and
twisted one corner, and forced it back into her mouth.  ``Swallow,''
he commanded, and she let the cloth into her throat.  This time he was
able to press all of the fabric into her.  She gagged fiercely against
the mass filling her throat, but so tightly was the cloth packed she
could not even vomit, neither could she move her jaw at all.

He took a roll of tape and a squeeze tube from the wall; he smeared
the substance in the tube on her lips, then sealed over her mouth with
the tape.  The distress of gagging against the cloth surged adrenaline
through her, and her breath came ragged and panicked through her
nostrils.  She managed to control this quickly and her body stopped
spasming as violently.

He took a heavy stick from the wall; it was black and had a grip at
one end: a billyclub.  He met her gaze once.  His face was filled with
a zen-like calm.  She matched this within herself.  Then he broke gaze
with her, and raised the club.

With a snap of his wrist and flex of his shoulder, the club hit her
with a meaty ///thunk///.  He was older, but he was not weak.  That
blow summoned more force than she had ever seen used against a living
person; nothing was held back.  Wasting no time, he recoiled, and
clubbed her again.  Her breath was forced from her lungs.

He proceeded to beat her.  Each blow was a study in technique, a
perfect culmination of study and skill in force and aim.  Tears
tracked down her cheeks, and she grunted and moaned and shrilled and
gurgled in pain around the gag but all of these sounds were muffled
almost beyond his hearing.  He walked about her as he beat her, being
careful not to do any severe trauma to delicate areas, such as her
kidneys.  Blows fell across her belly, across her shoulders, her
thighs, her breasts, her ribs, her calves.  After a while, he ceased,
and poured a drink of water for himself from the pitcher; he sipped at
the water for a time.  Then he began again.

She passed beyond tears, grunting faintly only because some blows
pushed the air past her vocal cords.  All of her awareness compacted
to the immediate room.  Her mind filled with the perfection of the
connection between swinging hardwood rod and her flesh.  Each swing
was a need, and that need was fulfilled by her soft body accepting and
intercepting the motion, stilling it and absorbing it.  Each volume of
her body was a need, and the force of each impact dispersing deep
throughout her muscle was a fulfillment.

She did not realize when he stopped, for her body hurt so.  But it was
the jingling of the keys and he reached up and unlocked her that
alerted her to the end of the ordeal.  The manacles fell from the
chain and she collapsed into his arms.  He bore her down to the pallet,
and cradled her in his arms.  He smiled at her.

            End of part 4 of 5

            (Ficta, part 5 of 5)

She passed beyond tears, grunting faintly only because some blows
pushed the air past her vocal cords.  All of her awareness compacted
to the immediate room.  Her mind filled with the perfection of the
connection between swinging hardwood rod and her flesh.  Each swing
was a need, and that need was fulfilled by her soft body accepting and
intercepting the motion, stilling it and absorbing it.  Each volume of
her body was a need, and the force of each impact dispersing deep
throughout her muscle was a fulfillment.

She did not realize when he stopped, for her body hurt so.  But it was
the jingling of the keys and he reached up and unlocked her that
alerted her to the end of the ordeal.  The manacles fell from the
chain and she collapsed into his arms.  He bore her down to the pallet,
and cradled her in his arms.  He smiled at her.

``See,'' he said stroking her throat, ``You no longer gag.''  She
nodded faintly, her head resting against his chest.  He ran his hands
over her bruising body.  Her breath wheezed in and out of her
constricted air passage, but it no longer distressed her.

He pulled the tape from her mouth.  Then he pulled the damp wadded
cloth from her mouth.  She gagged a bit as he drew the last of it from
her upper esophagus.  He massaged her neck around the collar, then sat
her up.  He ran a short chain though the loop about her waist, and
fastened each end to a wrist manacle.  He stood and donned his white
robe; holding her leash, and said, ``Come with me.''

He stopped in the hall to open a closet and get a pink shift for her
to wear.  It was light and pleasant against her skin.  Then he lead
her to the kitchen.  It seemed strange to be in this place again while
in chains, but strangenesses were no longer her concern.  He rummaged
in the refrigerator, and put a handful of vegetables on the counter.
He leashed her to the counter.  He got a knife, a parer and a cutting
board.

``Wash, skin and chop these,'' he instructed.  She went to her task
with a will.  Her motions were clean and efficient, and she was
capable with the knife; but she found the limits on the motion of her
hands to make her work challenging.  She did not let it deter her.  He
prepared meat and when they were done, he began cooking it, and she
set the kitchen table.  Together they worked.

When it was done, they brought the food to the table -- her chain
reaching that far where it was fastened, and sat to eat.  She found
his cooking very pleasing, and ate with a relish and a gratitude she
could not remember ever experiencing before.  When she had cleared her
plate, she realized that her Master was still eating.  Her mind reeled
for a moment: had she erred?  He laughed softly at her like one
laughs at the timidity of a child.  He picked a slice of carrot from
his plate and held it forth to her.  She took it delicately in her
teeth, and chewed it slowly and thoroughly; it hurt her abuse throat a
little as she swallowed.  She licked his fingers clean.

He laughed merrily, and slapped his thigh in summons.  She fell to her
knees at his side, and as he ate he would occasionally feed her from
his hand.  When he was done, he had her lick the dishes clean; she
closed her eyes and hummed with pleasure as she did.  They finished
cleaning in a more ordinary manner, with a dishwasher, and put
everything away.

He brought her back into the further reaches of the house, and they
came to his bedroom.  He stripped her of all but her manacles and
collar.  He laid her down in his bed and locked her leash to the
headboard.  He laid down beside her, and pulled the covers over them.
He took her in his arms, pulling her back to his chest, and curling
his knees against the backs of hers.

``Did you like that?''

``Yes, Master.''

``Would you like to do that every day?''

She thought about the question for a moment.

``I would like to feel like that every day, but I would be afraid I
would become acclimated to it, Master, if it were always the same.''

``I have many, many ordeals to put you through, dearest.  Go to sleep
now, and tomorrow there will be new acts to endure.''  He kissed her
behind her ear, and with his face buried in her tresses, she fell into
a peaceful slumber.

            End of _Ficta_, Part 5 of 5

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