The Wedding Makeover

The wedding went as weddings do: Leela had a tantrum and dumped her basket of rose petals in the aisle, sat down and cried. At the reception a drunk Uncle Phil collided with a drunk Aunt May on the dance floor, setting off a mini firestorm until both had fresh drinks, kissed, and made up. Kind of creeped me out. The fact that they were siblings, I mean. And it was a serious, and I mean serious, kiss. Well, the jury was still out on that. And Uncle Earl, the official family photographer, ran out of film. Hey! Earl! One word: Digital!

But after the obligatory last circuit of the ballroom, Dennis and I left. I have to tell you I was as nervous as a bride on her wedding night. I wasn't about to lose my cherry. Lost that years ago. I was about to lose something else - and, truth be told, gain something more.

Dennis had parked his truck in a dark, back corner of the lot. My car was the decoy, parked under the light at the front of the lot. It was festooned with TP and shaving cream. Ha ha. Funny. But, truth be told, we both laughed.

Dennis lifted the lid on the truck bed. The cover was off the box. I climbed in.

It was smaller than a coffin and it took Dennis a few minutes to press, and shove, and worm the trail of my gown into the box. But he did. I was packed like a sardine, so tight I couldn't move.

My world went dark. I heard to screech and clatter of the screw gun as he secured the lid.

On this day, I not only became Dennis's wife, but his property - literally. I had signed the paper giving up all rights as a free woman an hour before I said, "I do". The past few hours were my last free hours on Earth, ever.

The trip took I don't know how long. I know I peed myself - twice. I know it got warmer. We were obviously heading South.

I felt the turn off the interstate, the drive on rough pavement, then the bounce of a truck on a dirt track. The truck stopped.

My world tilted, settled with a thump, tilted again, was dragged, settled with another thump. There was the scratching sound of dirt being shoveled over the box, then - nothing. Absolute dead quiet. I dozed. I won't lie, I was frightened, but the booze and the jostling trip had taken their toll. I slept.

How long I slept, I don't know. How long I was buried in my box. No clue. But eventually there came scritching sounds. My world upended, settled with a thump. There was the monkey screech of a, well, monkey bar. I'm a tomboy and a daddy's girl, so I knew these things. Light flooded in.

Dusk.

Dennis pulled me from the box, sliced my clothes from me. He took off my jewelry, even my wedding band, and dragged me to the ATV. He threw me across the back, bound my wrists and ankles, cinched another rope around my waist. There was the pop of a torch being ignited. I cringed. Like I said, I know these things.

The pain was, well, I don't know. I remember hearing the echo of my scream, but I have no memory of being branded or even where I was branded. I'd figure that out later, much later.

I watched through teary eyes as Dennis kicked my gown into the box. He pushed it into the hole, covered it, shoveled dirt over it. He untied me.

Dennis bound my wrists, tied the end to the ATV, and putted off into the night. I stumbled behind.

South, we were definitely South. The track was warm and sandy, soft on my feet. I was bound, branded, I had just been unearthed, a rebirth? The symbolism wasn't lost on me.

I stumbled though the moonlight, my brain totally fried. I remember, eventually, we came to a gate. Dennis led me around it. Then there was the house. Not a house, a trailer, a mobile home. Something small with a bit of a front porch. Dennis untied me.

He took my arm and led me into the house. By this time I was totally out of it. A good thing considering.

He laid me down on the coffee table. I felt the pain in my hip. I now knew where the brand was.

He tied my wrists and ankles to the table. Tied my knees, spreading my legs. He pierced my clit. Well, not my clit. I mean it felt that way at the time, but he did a triangle piercing, drove the ring under the clitoral bundle. I wouldn't know that for a day or so, all I knew is it hurt and I screamed like hell. He pierced my nipples and my septum. Nothing says "owned" like a nose ring - and I was owned, seriously owned.

He finished with a collar.

Oddly this last affected me the most. Kind of like holding out my hand to have him place a ring on my finger. Clothing would hide the piercings, but the collar? I was owned. Owned for all the world to see.

He set a couple of bowls on the kitchen floor, poured water into one, poured something I hoped was beef stew into the other. I didn't care, I was starving, I'd eat a shoe. He untied me. I crawled over to my bowls and ate. He led me to my cage (Where was all this "my" stuff coming from?), I crawled in, he flipped a blanket over it and locked the door. I slept.

"Here's the deal: You are property, not a wife, not even a slave. You are an object, a thing I own. I may want to keep you as a slave or as a wife, but for now you ARE nothing, DO nothing and I mean NOTHING unless I tell you. Understand?

I nodded and said, "Yes, Master."

"No! You are not a slave, not even that. You call me 'Sir'."

I nodded again. "Yes, Sir."

He kept me at his feet for the next week. I think it was a week. I crawled about the house, planting myself whenever he stopped. There was a litter box outside and he brought me out a couple of times a day to use it. He fed me chunky soup (yes, it was) and water. I ate kneeling, pushing my face into the bowls. He bathed me, outside, with the hose every day. It wasn't much of a bath, but it washed the sweat off.

On the following Monday, at least I think it was Monday, could have been Wednesday. Being in owned, pet mode had messed with my head. Crawl, eat, pee, shit, crawl some more, eat, pee, welcome to my world. But I think it was Monday when he said, "You are my slave."

"Yes, Sir."

"No. Yes, Master. I 'm going to keep you as my slave, so I am your master."

"Yes, Master."

"I've been taking care of you for a week, but, now, as my slave it's you're responsibility to take care of me, to anticipate my needs and desires and see that they are met. Understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"No, I don't think you do. I'm giving you the gift of initiative and responsibility. Use your initiative, take responsibility. To quote that TV program, when you see something that could use your attention: Make it so. I'm not going to micromanage you. Learn what needs doing, see that it's done."

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."

I've learned.

Thankfully, Master is a low-maintenance owner. I don't kneel at his feet much any more. Well, not often and not for long. He finds it tedious. I find it boring.

He cooks. I clean. I crawl under the covers each morning to wake him with my mouth. He fucks me to sleep. Well, not fuck me to sleep, but fuck me 'til I'm too spent to lie awake for very long.

I keep the place clean. It's a small double-wide. Technically a trailer, a manufactured home, but more like a real house. You'd never know.

We're settled in the tail end of a creek. I have to keep an eye out for gators. Seen a couple down by the cove, but none here - yet. We're in some sort of nature preserve. Master is the caretaker. It pays the bills and the house is free. We live cheap. Life is good.

He leads me on my leash, through the brush, along the sand trail, twice a day for exercise. He chains me to the back deck and I sketch. It's what I do. I'm an artist and Master sells my work to the local shops. Sometimes he takes me into town. No one questions the collar, or the fact that I call him "Master." We're surrounded by a bunch of hippies and everybody seems cool with just about anything.

It's not the life I envisioned. I knew I wouldn't end up a Suzy Homemaker type; that's just so not Master, thankfully. I thought we'd end up in the burbs, Master doing his computer thing, me doing I had no clue what.

But now, I am owned.

Like I said, life is good.

28.11.11