Workman Chapter 2
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Thoughts tumble through her mind. "Am I supposed to cry out? Am I supposed to beg to stop? Why am I having to go through this? Does Stephen still love me? Did he love me at all? Why cant I--"
Seth was jerking her up by her collar. Her knees were still weak. She barely had time to compose herself, to calm herself down.
Seth took her collar off, tossing it aside. He pushed her to her knees, pushing her face down. He pulled her hair up, clasping a posture collar around her neck.
With this new collar, she found that she could not lower her head. Was she supposed to keep her eyes on him? Was she to witness this new torment? Why is she wearing this?
He pulls her back up by her hair. He grabs her up by the single ring, making her stand on the bed. He grabs some rope off the table, throwing it at her feet. He then climbs up on the bed, pulling the chain that was dangling a good foot above her head.
There was a clasp on the end, and Seth clasps her to this chain. He then grabs Sophies arms, bringing them behind her. He binds her wrists tight. The rope was thick, and he knotted it three times.
"Try to get out of this, girl."
She squirms her hands, trying to rotate her wrists. She moves her hands across each other, but, they are bound tight.
Her head is being held high, shes eye level with Seth. She locks her eyes to him, clear, but still puffy. He walks around her, spreading her ass, slapping her thighs. He walks in front of her, spreads her legs, examining the fresh bruises lined perfectly on her inner thighs.
He raises her breasts, pinching her nipples hard. Hard enough to bring a moan to her lips.
He turns to Alex, leaving her hanging there, on tip toe, trying to balance, with bound wrists. She finds herself swaying.
"These walls are cork-lined, yes?"
"Of course they are. This is the room best suited to whipping, because I dont care for silence. I love nothing more than seeing a marked up, screaming, sweaty bitch under my hand."
"Perfect! Gentlemen, I will now ask that you leave me to her."
The three men walked out the door, through the hallway.Alex set up drinks in the living room, flipping on the television, to drown out the noise from the back room.
Sophia was staring at him. She did not flinch, as he screwed the metal nipple clamps on her. He turned them each three times, making her nipples turn a violent purple.
He pulled the chain a little further down, giving her the balance she needed. Now standing on her feet, she instinctively spread her legs three inches apart.
He walks over to the table, and picks up the slim handled riding crop. He brings it to her lips, running it across them. It felt stiff, cold. The slapper didnt give when she kissed it.
He then raised his arm, and struck her left breast. She tried to sink to her knees, but was held tight by the chain. She cried out, softly, bringing a sting to her skin. A clear red welt was already taking shape. He struck her other breast, watching her intently.
"Are you ready to beg, Sophia?"
He walks up behind her, striking each cheek, with the welts forming, such a bright red against her pale flesh.
He put the crop back, and ran his fingers across a smooth rattan cane. He instead opted for the black knotted cat o nine tails. He gently drags it across her back, watching the chill bumps break out on her skin. He drags it down her thighs, her calves. She wiggles under the soft caresses.
He drages it across her breasts, down her stomach. She lets out soft moans, wimpering under the touches.
Bringing the handle to her lips, she kisses it. He then slid the handle into her mouth, making it slightly wet. He then inserted the handle into her. She lets out a low, gutteral moan, biting on her bottom lip. He twists it, deep inside her, causing her to become wet.
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IV. The big fat middle of nothing. Outside the bus window the night was something solid and impenetrable, not a star to be seen, only an occasional porch light burning on some farmhouse miles in the distance. For hours now they'd been passing through endless blind tracts of dark country, where shockingly few people lived, but Phoebe could still feel the cows out there in the night, watching, chewing, uncomprehending. Cows, cows, and more cows, that was her impression of the great...
V. The diner on memory lane. The last time Marcia had spoken to anyone in her family it was to her brother Matt. That would be winter five years ago. They met in a 24-hour diner by the side of a highway in Metuchen, New Jersey. Pointedly, it was a restaurant Matt had never visited and no doubt never intended to visit again. Through a series of emails and two brief phone calls, she had explained the general situation and Matt's reaction had grudgingly advanced from "this has got to be...
VI. The perfect pie crust. The windows were dark, covered with condensation. Inside, at the kitchen table, Marcia pressed the heel of her hand against the back of the santoku knife and cleaved the apple in half. Fuji, this time. There were five other apples prepared on the cutting board, skinned an unearthly greenish-white, already tarnishing. She was making an apple pie for the Blue Cat. "I still don't understand," Grace had said. "What you've got against birthdays. What's so...
VII. A bicycle built for two. Everyman's Cycles looked like a bicycle field hospital. Wherever you looked bicycles, or parts of bicycles, stood, leaned, or lay in various states of distress, awaiting Walt's attention. He'd get to each of them, eventually, in his methodical, patient way. Walt took in stray bicycles the way crazy old ladies collected cats. Most of them were rescues. Bicycles he found abandoned in fields, weeds growing through their spokes. Or locked for months to streets...
VIII. Snowballs in paradise. Grace was unpacking a snow-globe collection from all fifty states that Mavis Pritchard had brought into the shop the day before. "Look at this," she said, holding one up with a hula girl and a palm tree inside. "There's even one from Hawaii. "Hmph. Snow in Hawaii. Who would imagine something like that?" "Someone who'd never been to Hawaii?" Marcia suggested. Grace turned the globe over. "Made in China. Well that explains it, I guess." She gave it...
IX. The momster. Her whole life Phoebe's biggest fear was that her Mom would die suddenly and without warning. Even as a little girl, she was kept awake with nightmares that seemed to foretell his horrible event in detail. She remembered anxiously watching her mom sleep, afraid that she might stop breathing, nudging her awake just in case. How cranky she would be! "What!" she'd bark, snorting and spluttering. "What's the matter with you? What time is it? Why aren't you in bed?" It...
X. The amoeba life. In the stories of people she admired, there was always a defining moment, a dramatic event that summed up their lives to a critical point and provided the pivot for a new life to come. Marcia would like to have had a similar "defining moment" in her life, but it struck her that her life not only lacked a defining moment, but that it really didn't have any definition at all. It was a more amorphous thing, her life; if it advanced, and that was often in doubt, it...
XI. A ghost and a riddle. Night again. Bus travel made her sleepy, but only during the day it seemed. She traveled through the night hours wide awake. Phoebe could see her reflection like a ghost super-imposed over all that limitless darkness. She felt like a ghost, too, like something not quite real, a figment of someone's imagination. But who's? She was a ghost floating across the countryside to haunt a person who'd run as far away from her as possible. What brought her back...
XII. Mirror, Mirror. The woman framed in the glass wore a flower-print silk skirt, a white blouse, and a light black sweater cinched tight above the waist. It was the sixth outfit she'd considered that morning, not counting the dozen or so she'd tried on mentally, rejecting them one after the other with a shudder of second-guess horror before they even made it out of the closet. "What do you think about this? Too frumpy, right?" Walt was sprawled on top of the bed, head propped on...
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XIV. Gimme shelter. "You live in a garage?" They were standing on the little concrete square outside the front door, staring up together at a tidy two story structure that, modifications notwithstanding, still, in fact, looked very much like a garage. "Well, it's not exactly a garage. Actually, It's a converted carriage house. I'm just renting. The woman I work for owns it. She lives in the main house across the garden." "A carriage house? What's that?" "It's where they used...
XV. Breakfast club. Sunlight poured through the checkered curtains of the kitchen window. The sliced bananas and butter were simmering on the stovetop. Marcia added to them spices she'd already toasted--cinnamon, nutmeg, clove. Together they filled the carriage house like incense. This was the Church of Home and she was performing the celebration of Good Morning. She measured out a half-cup of white flour and poured it into the mixing bowl. In another bowl she whisked three eggs, a...
XVI. Buried Secrets. First thing I do on that first day is I take a detour through town to check out this totally demented store where Marcia mentioned she has a job. What kind of a job, I can't quite imagine. From what I can tell, it sounds like something super low-ambition, some not-trying-too-hard menial position that can't possibly pay very much. Given my main reason for showing up here in Hope Crossing, that doesn't bode well for the future of yours truly. You can imagine my...
XVII. Hell's Angel Walt was in the workroom of his shop when she called. He was putting new brake cables on a Rivendell Sam Hillborne. He was customizing the bike for one of his more well-heeled patrons, a dentist who fancied himself a cycling aficionado. He was the kind of guy who outfitted himself like he was racing in the Tour de France just to tool his way through the park. He always bought the very latest, most cutting-edge gear. Everything high-tech and top of the line. But he spent...
XVIII. Beauty and the beast. So I finally got to meet the boyfriend. Surreal! He was one of those big, burly, biker-types. His arms (and who knows what else) covered in tats, the seriouso kind. I'll bet anything some of them are prison tattoos. Long gray hair tied back in a grizzled ponytail. Grizzled beard, too. He was exactly the kind of guy that every dad shudders to imagine his daughter will bring home one day. And here my dad was bringing him home to me! See what I mean by...
XIX. First draft people. An occasional bat flickered across the stars overhead. The gardenias and hibiscus had long drawn in their petal- awnings. Across the lawn, the hunched bushes looked like a queue of black-robed monks marching back to their monastery. And in the middle distance, fireflies marked a secondary night-sky of transitory constellations in what might have been an even more unpredictable universe than the one we find ourselves inhabiting, one that blinks in an out of...
XX. Glass houses. To the sadly uninitiated, a bicycle is simply a convenient means of transportation, low-tech, eco-friendly, inexpensive, ultra-democratic. For the fitness conscious, it's a superior form of practical exercise: you could get your aerobic workout and run errands at the same time. For others, the bicycle endures as the conveyance of childhood memories--tricycle, Big Wheels, training wheels, scraped knees and paper routes. However to someone like Walt, a bicycle was all...
XXI. Full Xanax moments. Her heart skipped a beat before her brain was fully conscious of the reason. There'd been a total communications blackout between them of several years running but Marcia recognized Claire's old email address immediately. She remembered, too, clicking open the message, the standard post-divorce tone of Claire's emails: terse, authoritative, and demanding. Then, as now, Claire communicated with Marcia as she would with a subordinate whose compliance was taken...
XXII. The x factor. It was a strange council they made that evening sitting on Grace's porch. Walt and Marcia, Claire, and, of course, Grace herself, puttering about busily, trying to make everyone comfortable. It brought to mind those old photographs of Yalta, where Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill posed with forced congeniality for the camera, the most unlikely and unnatural of allies, each of them knowing full well that their cooperation was only temporary. That the moment the...
XXIII. Strange geography. They really should teach more geography at school, that's what I'm thinking. I mean, I've got to get to New Mexico, but I'm not even sure where it is. In the Southwest, somewheres, which is good enough to say, if you're living two thousand miles away in New Jersey and have no intention of ever actually going there. I don't even know if it comes before or after Arizona. I'm in Oklahoma now, a really godawful place from what I can see of it, which isn't...
XXIV. Cactus country. The day was cool and clear. An auspicious day for new beginnings. The cloudless sky stretched tight, a blue tarpaulin snapped to the horizon. It was almost enough to give Marcia a feeling of hope. Between all the preparations, hastily made as they'd been, throwing together a pair of travel bags, gassing up the truck, collecting maps and whatnot, they were on the road a little later than they'd planned. Traveling south on I-640, traffic was still light but picked...
XXV. Who's your daddy? When they asked me at the hospital who my parents were, who my emergency contact was, I guess you can say that I kind of panicked. They were making it pretty clear they weren't going to let me out of here on my own, no way, so I had to come up with someone. Who could I finger for the honor? Mom was out of the question, at this point, and once Marcia found out that I'd lied and basically stolen her money, which I'm sure she must have realized by now, she wasn't...
XXVI. The great escape. One could imagine a thousand things going wrong, but there was no hitch at the hospital. Their quickly improvised charade worked like a charm. Walt's performance as Phoebe's concerned but understandably angry father was spot-on. Marcia, in her supporting role as distraught mom, hadn't had to act at all. There were the usual papers and forms to sign, a brief interview with a representative from the Chupadero police department and another with a representative...
XXVII. Just south of normal. For the next month, they very much resembled a real family. In the meantime, peace talks with Claire continued, though they were touch-and- go. Grace had gently offered to help mediate and Marcia gratefully accepted her offer. Grace was making progress, working her indelible magic, but it was magic in slow motion. In Claire, she'd met her match, a woman as resistant to miracles as they come. Marcia's ex was angry and would likely remain so, on some level,...
XXVIII. Departures. It was one of those mornings that seem unable to decide what it wants to be. Halfway to the airport, a fine rain blew up against the windshield of the pick-up. A few miles later, the sun unexpectedly broke out from a temporary gap in the impregnable line of gray clouds massed like battleships laying siege on the horizon It had finally been agreed that Phoebe would return to New Jersey and sign in to an outpatient rehab clinic. At the same time, she would take...
XXIX. When cows fly. There are no cows outside the window at thirty thousand feet, no oil drills, no billboards, no fast food chain restaurants either. Nothing but space, space, and more space. You always expect to see things clearer on the way back from a journey. I'm not sure if anything is really different than it was before, but I do see it differently, and maybe that makes all the difference. We'll just have to wait and see. I'm not so mad anymore, I guess. That's one thing...
XXX. Book of changes. One morning Marcia came into the Blue Cat and found Grace packing up the snow-globe collection. She carefully wrapped each plastic globe in newspaper before nesting it inside a box beside the others. "What happened? Did Mrs. Pritchard have second-thoughts about selling?" Marcia's eyes widened in disbelief. "Don't tell me you got a taker for the entire collection?" "Neither, I'm afraid," Grace said. Marcia began setting out that morning's baked selections....
XXXI. The wisdom of ghosts. Edgar Birdwell was an awful poet. There was just no two ways around it. It wasn't only that his language was stilted and clunky, antiquated even in his own day, or that his themes were self-censored, disguised in tortured euphemisms to the point of utter obscurity. He was simply a bad writer. There was a good reason he was self-published. Who else would? Birdwell had an ear with more tin in it than a can. Marcia's fantasy, ex- graduate student of...
XXXII. Welcome home. Autumn was now more than just a hint of wood-smoke in the nippy air of a summer evening. The trees had turned and the leaves were in free-fall. In the night sky, the constellations had subtly shifted position. The stars were sharper. The frogs and crickets had grown quieter. "Good evening ladies." Walt waved to them as he cruised passed the porch on the tandem. He was showing up all over town lately riding solo on that bicycle. He was becoming famous for it....
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pretended he was the boss. I was ok with him telling me what to do though, maybe it's because I'm submissive. It was 11:50Pm, I had counted down my till, put the cash in the safe and clocked out at 12. I watched Kris drive off. It was time to walk home. After being on my feet for nine hours, I was tired. My aching feet made me decide to walk in the grass on the way home. The grass path takes you away from the road. A group of trees blocks the view from the road. I crossed the street and...
I grab her arm then close and lock the door. Then forcing her into the back storage room. I force her aganist the wall. I stare at her; she was lovely. Long black hair, silky tan skin. Wearing a white sleeveless button down blouse and khaki shorts, I stroked her legs while my cock grew rock hard. I just smiled as I knew that sweet pussy of hers was going to be all mine tonight.... I quickly undressed, standing there naked and my tool throbbing achingly. Stroking my cock, giving her time to...
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