Finn Ch. 13: Chaos

The pull had started on his way home as it often did now. The closer he got to where she was the farther from the vanilla world his mind went. Now, as he knelt down on the floor of his bedroom waiting for her to get home, he was trying his hardest not to disappear into the fog. Not the white haze drifting into the orchards surrounding her house, but the fog inside his head.

His eyes wandered around his room, over his bed with the blankets smoothed down and the pillows perfectly positioned. It was the way he left it every morning. Before coming here he hadn't made his bed since eighth grade. He had been disappointed when she hadn't allowed him to continue sleeping in her room even though the floor was uncomfortable.

His neck collar was sitting on the nightstand where it always was when he came home. Even though he had his twenty-four/seven collar, he still missed the feel of the leather around his neck.

The dresser. Home to all the various toys and instruments of control she owned. He had never looked in any of the drawers, but nothing made his heart pound faster than the sound of one of them sliding open. It was a different feeling now than it had been his first few weeks here. What had started out as fearful apprehension had now turned into eager anticipation. If she pulled her strap-on out of the dresser, it didn't matter. If she took the leather strap off the top of the dresser that was okay, too. He was hers to use as she pleased.

He rocked back when he heard the front door open. He was lost already, his mind in the land of no return. He wiped his mouth, concerned he might be drooling, and realized he better make a conscious effort to keep it closed. His peripheral vision caught a glimpse of her moving past his door into her own bedroom. Drawers opened and closed, there was shuffling and footsteps, then she was there, leaning against his doorframe. He didn't look up but kept his eyes on the black leather of her boots when she walked towards him.

She sat on the edge of his bed, a small red bag hanging from her wrist. "A couple things are going to change," she said, leaning forward to buckle the collar around his neck.

"Yes, Mistress." The words sounded so far away he wondered if he had even said them out loud. He glanced up, his eyes instantly noticing the bare skin starting just above her knee where the leather of her boots ended. It continued almost all the way up her thigh until the black lace of her dress interrupted the perfect view, replacing it with teases of pale flesh visible through the delicate material.

"From now on I won't be tying your hands at night. I want them available for use if I choose to allow you to use them." She shuffled around in the bag then looked up, waiting for his answer.

"Yes, Mistress." He wanted to beg her to continue chaining him up. He loved the sound and the feel of their restriction. But as long as he was still double collared at night he could learn to sleep without them.

"From now on this will be your nighttime collar." She pulled a medium-sized plug out of the bag that was the same color as his skin. Then she pulled out a small remote and pushed the red button in the center. The plug began quietly vibrating in her hand.

"Yes, Mistress." He stared at it, trying to get his eyes to focus on it.

"When it turns on I expect you to be by my bed within two minutes." She held it out and he took it from her.

The vibration made his hand tingle and he was surprised by the weight compared to the one he was currently wearing. "Yes, Mistress." He handed it back, keeping his eyes on it while she balanced it on its base and left it sitting on his nightstand.

She clicked the red button again and it turned off. "From now on there will be a punishment session once a week on Tuesdays regardless of your behavior."

He felt a jump between his legs when the word "punishment" came from her lips. "Yes, Mistress."

"What's today?"

"Tuesday, Mistress."

"That's right." She stood up and headed towards the dresser. "They may be more than once a week if I choose, but they will be at least every Tuesday because I prefer to keep you marked."

"Yes, Mistress."

"You're not allowed to come during punishment sessions, so don't ask." She reached into the dresser and began pulling out various crops, whips, and canes, throwing them on the bed. "What are you supposed to say if you're reaching the point of no return?"

"Break, Mistress."

"Good boy."

The words pulsed through him and he wiped his mouth again. The fog was so thick if she told him she had decided to castrate him he was positive he would just reply "Yes, Mistress" and probably even climax when she did it.

She moved back to the bed and shuffled through the items on it. "You're going to pick what you're punished with...Well, you're cock is." She grabbed a leather crop and turned to face him, smacking it down into the palm of her hand. "Okay, not this one," she replied when his erection remained still. "What about this one?" She smiled, holding a black cat o' nine tails up between her hands. When his body remained motionless she put it down and tapped her finger against her lips.

"Hmmm..." She turned away from him to rummage through the items on the bed, then put her hands on her hips and began glancing around the room.

His eyes followed her when she began pacing, slowly dragging her boots over the floor then clomping them down. His heart jumped every time they hit the floor. When she reached the closet she paused, glancing inside from the cracked open door. She pushed the sliding door open farther then reached into his laundry basket. The pants he had worn that day fell to the floor when she pulled his leather belt free from them.

The brain between his legs was becoming the ultimate traitor. It jumped hard when she doubled the belt over in her hands. When she pulled the slack out, bringing on a loud cracking sound, he almost asked for a break. She was going to whip him with his own belt, and it was going to hurt. The traitor jumped again at the thought, leaking into her hand when she reached down to reward it with a caress.

"Bend over."

He got into the position he found himself in often now, pressing his cheek to the floor and leaving his other end open for use. A pang of emptiness ran up his spine when she pulled his collar out. His fingers began rubbing the leather around his neck to counteract the emotion.

"Don't worry," she whispered, leaning down towards his ear while she let his belt run over his bare back, "I'll make sure we don't forget you're owned."

"Owned" was another trigger word, one the traitor responded to with enthusiasm.

She pulled a black Sharpie pen out of the dresser then walked back over to him, kneeling down behind him. "O-W..." she said out loud while she wrote the letters across his right cheek, "N-E-D. There. Now we won't forget."

"Breathe," she said, pulling his hands behind him to fasten them behind his back.

He didn't have time to respond. His belt came down hard, whistling through the air before it landed on his upper thighs. He sucked in a gasp, shocked at the afterburn. The next blow landed in the same spot, the sting bringing tears to his eyes.

"This is making very nice marks," she commented, running her fingers over the angry red stripes.

He couldn't see them, but after each contact he knew they were there by the burn that continued to radiate from them. It went straight from the point of contact to between his legs, causing him to clench and drip. He hadn't been counting the strokes but thought he made it to around seven before he needed a break.

She moved to the side and backed up a few steps. He turned his head so he could look at her. His eyes were at the same level as her feet. They moved up the length of her black boots, over the bare skin at her thighs, to the lace of her dress hiding her hips and waist. Her nipples pushed out against the sheer fabric and the rest of her breasts pushed out over the top of it. His belt was doubled over and taut between her hands, her eyes assessing the damage she had already done. She had never looked more beautiful.

***********************************

He watched the rain drip down the windows of the limo from his place on the floor. She wasn't there with him, but he didn't feel comfortable sitting on the seat. The afterburn from his belt was unforgiving against the rough carpet but he remained still, accepting the pain as a reminder of his place.

The drops were getting heavier, louder against the roof. Unless there was an emergency, rain always cancelled his workday. Since his mistress didn't want him sitting at home doing nothing of use all day, he was on his way to the château to assist with preparations for a weeknight workshop. Before he walked out the door she had told him not to panic, they wouldn't be participating. He wasn't sure why she felt the need to tell him that. He was hers to do with as she pleased, whether it pleased him or not.

After the thirty minute ride he saw the château come into view through the side window. It didn't seem as intimidating as it had in the past, even with the dark clouds hovering above the roof. He pulled the collar of his shirt down, exposing the collar around his neck. There was nobody to hide from here.

"Hey, what's up?" Ian greeted him from the front door.

"Hey," he replied, stepping by him through the entrance. He followed Ian through the double doors to the left, the same ones he had followed his mistress through the first time he had come here. The red couches he never got to sit on were still poised in the center of the room. His eyes passed over the floor where she had chained him down. It was a place his mind often wandered back to during the night, reminiscing about the first time he had been at her mercy. He remembered his heart pounding as she ran her hands over him, and the silent pleas that took over his mind begging her to push her finger inside him.

"We need to make sure everything is disinfected for the workshop. We brought in all the furniture last night," Ian said, gesturing to the various spanking benches, racks and St. Andrew's crosses positioned throughout the room. "Then we need to set out the supplies."

"What kind of workshop is it?" he asked, taking hold of the box of alcohol wipes Ian handed him.

"Ever heard of RACK?"

"Like that kind of rack?" he asked, pointing to the wooden stretching rack behind him.

"No. R-A-C-K. Risk Aware Consensual Kink."

He shook his head and waited for Ian to continue.

"It's where you get into more dangerous play like cutting, piercing, branding, autoerotic asphyxiation, stuff like that."

"Oh..." He started scrubbing the St. Andrew's Cross next to him, making sure to get all the straps and buckles. She had told him they wouldn't be participating, and he wondered if this was another line she didn't cross. He still had no idea what her limits as a domme were. And what were his limits? He enjoyed the pain of being whipped, but being cut was a different pain entirely. But then again, when it was being inflicted by her, all pain seemed different somehow.

Once he was done with the cross he moved to the bench next to it, running the wipe over the leather and watching the wet streak it left behind evaporate into the air. The bench was more elaborate than the flimsy one she had hidden in the closet at her house. He could pull and struggle against these chains and never manage to break free. It would feel so good to be bound and helpless, listening to the sound of her boots circling him. What would she do? Whip him? With what? The burn from his punishment session still made the traitor press into the fabric of his jeans. What would the burn from a brand feel like? In the cowboy world a brand was the ultimate symbol of ownership. Would she use her initials? Would she proudly burn them into his skin so her ownership of him could never be forgotten? It would be painful, more painful than any item she could find to whip him with, but the pain would be exquisite.

"Finn!"

He jumped and wiped his mouth, scolding himself when drool covered the back of his hand. "Huh?" he mumbled back in reply, keeping his eyes poised on his work. He scrubbed harder, trying to force his thoughts back from the dark place they had been.

"Hey!" Ian prompted again, snapping his fingers in front of his face. "What's your name?"

"Huh?"

"What's your name? Full name. Quick!" Ian's fingers continued to snap in front of his nose, making his eyes blink with each sharp sound.

"Finn..." he started, trying to remember the rest.

"I said full name."

"Finn Jonathan Dawson."

"When's your birthday?"

He looked down, trying to think.

"Quick!" Ian drilled, his fingers still repeatedly snapping. "You should know your own birthday."

"August eighth."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty...one."

"What's your favorite color?"

"I don't know." He shrugged and nervously clenched down on his collar. "Green?"

"What street did you grow up on?"

"Olive."

"Ok. Good." Ian dropped his hand and stared at him for a minute. "Quick, what's your name?"

"Finn Jonathan Dawson." This time his name wasn't hidden in the fog.

"Birthday?"

"August eighth."

"Age?"

"Thirty-one."

"Favorite color?"

"Green."

"Street name?"

"Olive."

"That's better. Welcome back." Ian reached across the bench and put his hand on his shoulder. "Every time you get that feeling just ask yourself those questions over and over until it goes away."

"What if I don't want it to go away?" he asked, surprised at Ian's concern.

"Subspace is a beautiful place, but it isn't always a safe place," Ian replied, his mouth set in a firm line. "You need to have some control over it, especially if it's psychological."

"Why?" How could Ian of all people think subspace was a problem? Ian probably got to spend half his day lost in subspace.

"Because it leaves you too vulnerable."

This was ridiculous. Being tied down wasn't a concern but being in subspace was? "I'm a slave. I'm supposed to be vulnerable."

"No, you're supposed to be obedient," Ian corrected him. "It's okay to be vulnerable if you're with a domme you trust, but—"

"I trust my mistress. She knows what's best for me." And whatever she chose to do to him was her decision.

"What if you're with a different domme? One you don't know as well?"

"You mean like if she decided to share me?" He hadn't thought about the possibility of her sharing him or loaning him out.

"Finn..." Ian's eyes moved to the floor, and he began chewing on his lower lip. "Mistress Morgaine has not taken ownership of you. You're not wearing her collar around your neck, you're wearing a training collar. You decided you want to be a slave, and you're still free to decide if you want to be owned by one mistress or by the community, but even if you choose to be owned by one mistress, that doesn't mean Mistress Morgaine will make you her own personal slave. She may give you away to someone else."

He wished Ian hadn't said the words out loud even though keeping them silent wouldn't have made them any less true. "What if I don't want to belong to the community or be given away to another mistress?" He had been shared his entire adulthood and throughout most of his teenage years. He was exhausted. He liked knowing what she expected and the rules he was required to follow. He liked knowing exactly where to kiss her and how to touch her. There was peace in sitting on the floor at her feet every night and laying his head in her lap while she watched TV. There was comfort in the feel of her hands running through his hair and the praise that came from her lips.

"Then you better work extra hard to keep Mistress Morgaine happy." Ian replied, picking up the box of disinfectant wipes. "And FYI, most dommes don't mind their slaves being incoherent and drooling in private, some may even find it cute, but no woman finds it cute when you're out to dinner or anywhere else in public for that matter."

He nodded his head knowing Ian was right. Ian had managed to become Madame Lexi's personal slave and also managed to get her to wear his ring, both of which couldn't have been easy to accomplish. He vowed to himself to work harder to get the subspace under control, not for himself but for his mistress. He had to please her, and not just sexually. So that's what he would do. He would please her better than he knew how. He would make her proud of him, and proud to have him wear her collar.

But she said she didn't keep slaves. She had told him that on his first official day of training. Back then he didn't think twice about the statement because he had no intention of becoming a slave. Now, as he nervously clenched down on his collar, the statement haunted him. But she had been hunting him for fourteen years. Her drunken admission ran through his mind over and over. She chose him and went and got him. She could have chosen anyone else but he was the one she came for. It couldn't all be for nothing.

The door creaked open and Ray sauntered towards them wearing nothing but a neck collar, his tattoos and his cage. Numbers were written in black on the inside of his thigh next to his sac. It looked like a date but it wasn't today's date. If it was a date, it was a little over two weeks away.

"Why's everyone so serious in here?" Ray asked, assessing the silence.

"We were just talking about stuff, that's all," Ian said, turning away to grab another box of alcohol wipes out of the cabinet.

"About what?" Ray asked, taking the box from him.

"Finn's just trying to decide what route he wants to take. You know, owned by one or owned by all," Ian replied.

"Why would you want to be owned by only one domme?" Ray asked, looking at him with wide eyes. "I never understood that. You could be tied down with a domme fuckin' your face, a domme fuckin' your ass and a domme fuckin' your dick. Do you know what that feels like? I do and let me tell you, there's nothin' heaven can offer me that these dommes can't."

Ian rolled his eyes. "He could be owned by one domme but shared. Just because he's owned by one doesn't mean more can't enjoy him."

"Ya, that's true," Ray said, then caught his eye. "But not Mistress Morgaine. She's not the kind."

"She's not what kind?" he questioned, regretting the defensive tone marring his words.

"The kind to share," Ray replied.

"How would you know?" Ian intervened. "She's never kept a slave, and I've seen her share her slaves in training."

"Trust me, I know women. And I know if you want to know about a woman you look at who she's close to, and Madame Lexi doesn't share, either."

*************

He stared at her long raincoat, watching the beads of water drip down the fabric. Her long hair swayed gently across her back with every movement, and he imagined how it always felt tickling his skin. The haze in his head was getting thicker, and when she turned to look at him it took him a minute to process the words coming out of her mouth.

"What do you think?" she asked, pulling a strappy black dress off the rack next to her and holding it up.

Finn Jonathan Dawson... August eighth... thirty-one... "It's nice." It would look very nice from his knees... green...Olive... And be easy to get his head underneath... Finn Jonathan Dawson... August eighth...don't drool...thirty-one...green...Olive...

She draped the black dress over her arm and continued pushing hangers down the rack to see what else was hidden between them. He glanced around the store at the endless displays of clothing, wondering if she intended to go through each and every one. He hadn't been to a mall since high school, and even back then he had only gone to charm his way into the pants of city girls. The feed store in town sold enough button-up shirts and jeans to keep him clothed.