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MasterCaneman -> Kept, Part 1 (3/24/2013 1:08:23 PM)
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Here is a sample of my writing. I mainly write for myself, as I can't seem to find anything that appeals to me. Comments, criticisms, and suggestions gratefully accepted. I have a thick skin, so don't hold back. Enjoy...
Kept
Caneman 2013
All characters, names, and situations depicted are fictional. Any similarity to persons, names, and institutions are coincidental and unintended.
ONE
The coffeeshop hadn't been updated since the eighties, from the look of it. The slender blonde sitting across from the heavyset man had a wary look on her face. "No one's gonna know my name, right?" she asked for the tenth time. The man sighed and tapped the release form he'd brought with him. "Yeah, yeah, I know about that. I know all about contracts, mister," she said quietly. "The people who run this...thing...they have ways of making sure secrets stay that way, understand?"
The writer cocked an eyebrow at that, but it was of no matter. He'd already sat down with Russian, Asian, and street gangsters before, and her story about an underground white slavery society still seemed a little dubious. But hell, he thought, it'd make a great read if any of it checked out. He still wasn't sure if it would be a fiction, biography, or investigative piece yet. From what she'd told him already, it'd make a halfway-decent porn novel (although he hated writing under a psuedonym). "No one will know, I promise. The name I'll use for you will be as far away from your real one as I can get, and I keep everything encrypted on my computer. It's not like they go around killing people over this, do they?"
She sighed. "No, as far as I know. Murders get more attention than a missing hooker or two, you know. I wouldn't put it past them if someone got too close, but that's not what I'm afraid of. Before my last owner freed me, he told me very clearly what happens to chicks who go and tell the cops about what they're doing. It's not a shallow grave outside of town, but some brothel in South America or Asia that they send put you in, and there's no leaving those places. I suppose they just do it to keep their hands clean, but that's the catch to them letting you go after your 'contract' is done."
Both chilling and fascinating, the writer thought as he thumbed her diary. It was a mess, a collection of small scraps of paper with very small writing in pencil and inks of several colors. She'd told him it had been started shortly after she'd entered into the arrangement, and she'd managed to keep it concealed throughout the last four years she'd spent in captivity. Post-it notes, receipts, shreds of computer paper, whatever she could lay her hands on and was around the size of a playing card it seemed. He'd need a good magnifier and patience to sort that mess out. Another conundrum was her refusal to allow him to use a recorder of any kind so she couldn't be tracked by her voice. A pain, but not one he couldn't overcome in time. "Again, no one will know a thing. If it makes you feel better, we can discuss this somewhere private."
She'd agreed to that, and although my motel room was no great shakes, it did have a decent table and was quiet. She began to speak, and over the next three days he heard a story that normally isn't told....The writer had agreed to name the woman "Mary" for no other reason than the fact he had to call her something in this story, which finally gave her the courage to go on.
She only touched lightly on the hard-luck childhood and her early adult years. It was the usual story he'd heard from strippers (writers like it too, folks), physical, mental, and sexual abuse ending up in a drug and/or alcohol problem by the time she was twenty. She'd had two kids by then, both before she was of the age of legal consent, both taken by the state because her family dysfunction. The last kid took away her ability to have more, thanks to an untreated infection that nearly killed her. Cast out at eighteen, she struggled with a string of menial jobs before succumbing to the allure of the pole and the escort services. Within a year she was shaking her moneymaker at a string of clubs outside Chicago. Most girls there were part of a pimp's stable, but she remained independent as long as she could.
For a time, she was having a ball. Coke, meth, pills, and booze in any amounts and any time she wanted it. Men willing to pay righteous bucks to have her bump and grind on them in the clubs, and later in their hotel rooms for even more. She'd been lucky not to have run into any psychos, but she didn't care at the time. She had roof over her head (for the most part), cash, dope, and parties every night. This went on for about a year, she guessed, until one summer evening the eventual fall began.
Unlike many of her colleagues, Mary had managed to fly under the police radar, even when she was in full party mode. She attributed it to a sixth sense that told her somewhere was not where she wanted to be. The ironic thing was, she wasn't dancing or tricking when it happened. It happened around three in the morning on a warm summer night. The john was dropping her off at one of her 'safe' houses she cultivated around time. A safe house was anywhere she could go, at anytime day or night, when she couldn't make it to her apartment for any reason. He was an older man, typical midlife crisis candidate. Married, unhappy, with disposable income to burn. She'd turned tricks with him several times before and he'd earned her title of 'white knight', a customer who would do things for her without expecting pussy. Maybe he thought she'd become his personal mistress or something, but that was never to be. Overweight and out of shape, his body was in no condition to process the cocaine, booze, and sexual stimulants he had been binging on, and at a red light a few miles from her destination, the his overworked heart called it quits.
To her credit, she tried to help, but had no training in it. By the time the paramedics got there, he was done. Of course, the cops were there as well, and as they were interviewing her it became apparent to them what she was. What started out as a discreet end-of-the-night trick and ride home turned into an all night ordeal. It was around ten the next morning when she was able to leave the station. She hadn't personally been holding, but they found his stash right away, and she was high when they got there. With no outstanding warrants, they had no choice but to let her go, but she knew that from then on, she'd be on their radar. Like a dumbass, she kept her client list on her phone, and it was the first thing the detective took from her before they started questioning her. It would only be a matter of time before they either started talking to her clients or they decided to come back for her.
Still wearing her club clothes, a skin-tight spandex dress, platform boots, and a leather jacket, she had no problem getting a cab, although that was small consolation. She preferred to be as anonymous as possible with her business, unlike many of her peers. The chick who showed her the ropes taught her to take her time and make connections face-to-face whenever possible and use the thin ruse of dancing for private parties as much as possible, but now with her name attached to a dead guy, she'd be bad news wherever she went. With trembling hands she lit a cigarette and started to think hard.
There were only two things she could do: leave town or go legit. Neither appealed to her. Leaving town meant she'd have to start all over again, with the attendant risks of connecting with safe clients. Yes, dancing was good money on its own, but turning tricks was where the real money was. Not to mention that she also had a couple of bad habits to feed as well, and getting a steady source was also a major pain in the ass. It hadn't been the first time she'd taken a break from her poisons, but it was usually after a major binge or an illness. Just to add to her troubles where the fact that there were no less than three dealers on her phone, and they weren't going to happy at all the cops had their numbers.
The cab dropped her off a couple blocks from where she was staying with another dancer. She'd managed to keep that a secret from the cops, but she wouldn't be able to stay there much longer. Tanya (her roommate), was still sleeping when she came in. She tried to be quiet as she went through her things. Despite all the money she made tricking and dancing, she had only a few hundred dollars in her secret stash, along with some blow and pills. Clothes and shoes weren't going to be a major problem, because her 'working clothes' packed light and small. Tanya had told her she liked some of her shoes and boots, and as consolation for getting stiffed two weeks rent would be getting the lion's share of her stuff. One small duffel bag and her big purse was it. One last look around and she was gone, dressed more appropriately for the daytime world in jeans, boots, a sweater and her leather jacket.
All she needed now was a plan. Planning wasn't something Mary was good at, she was better at going with things, but now she really needed to think ahead. As she walked, she made calls, and each time was hung up on. Bad news travels fast, and people she thought were friends slammed the door on her. Three numbers left, and they were the last ones she wanted to call. Two were dealers, and the last thing she wanted to do was to call them after getting out of jail. That just left The Kinky Guy. He was a pretty decent customer, always good for an easy five hundred or a grand, but... definitely not a white knight.
Normally, she just did straight-up, but he paid good, so she let him do a little light S&M with her. Nothing scary, dog collars and handcuffs, that sort of thing. Outfits were easy, a leather bikini, spikes or boots and he supplied the rest. Last time was a two grand night, and he'd hinted at making a deal with her. A lot of guys tried that, making noises they wanted a sugar baby, but she wasn't interested in that. Now might be a good time, Mary thought, lighting another cigarette as the phone rang. He picked up. "You're a popular girl, aren't you?" he said. "Don't tell me, let me guess. You wanna talk. Good timing. I'm at the church now. Lose the phone before you come, okay? See ya." Short and to the point, as always.
That was one of the few reasons she kept him as a client. He didn't bug her much, paid well, and except for the thinly-veiled offer before, didn't try for freebies. Like herself, he used a burn phone to cover his tracks, which meant that trying to call him back would be pointless as she casually dropped her phone into the next trash can. "Church" actually meant the tavern he owned, a gloomy little place that catered to Goths, leatherheads, and bikers. She'd only been there once to meet him, and it freaked her out a little with the shit she saw, but right now he was about it for outside help and she needed someplace safe.
It was across town, so she hailed a cab. Twenty minutes later, she had him drop her off a few blocks away and walked the rest. The place was on a corner a few blocks off a major street, an old brick two story joint from about a hundred years ago. She let herself in the back door and to the office, a tiny room behind the bar. The bartender, an old biker named Mark, simply nodded to her as she came in. Kinky Guy was waiting for her. "Close the door and have a seat," he said without looking up from his computer screen. "I heard about Stan. Too bad. I met him a couple times. How are you doing?"
"Okay, I guess..." Mary replied. He knew it'd be an act if she turned on the tears. "I tried to help and I didn't leave him. Maybe I should have."
He looked up. "No. You did right. People have been telling that fat asshole for years that shit'd catch up to him someday and it did. And what happened to you afterward was going to sooner or later. We don't hang out with saints, honey. You've just been lucky up until now, which brings us to what you wish to ask me. Go ahead." Direct. She respected that. Most people in her world lied for practice, including herself. She hated playing word games with them to find out what they wanted. From day one, this guy told her directly what he wanted, how he wanted it, and what she'd get for it. The only problem now was what did she want from him? He sensed her hesitation."My offer still stands, but with a few conditions added owing to recent events. Actually, quite a few conditions, if you want to walk away from this unscathed."
"Conditions. Yeah, I knew you'd say something like that. What are they?" It wasn't too hard to figure out what he would want. He smiled at her.
"A couple at first, and those are mainly for your benefit. First off, this becomes your new address. I can't help you if you're out and about like you're used to. Second, you have to break off contact with everybody you know who's remotely involved with this shit. That means no phone calls, no email, no Facebook or Craigslist. We'll start with that for now. I've got a few more for you later, once I work 'em out. You do what I say, you come out the other end smelling okay. Maybe not like a bouquet, but a helluva lot better than what could be in store on your own. What do you say?"
Mary wrinkled her nose as she thought. She was young, but she knew better than to accept something as drastic as that right away. "I don't know. I mean, that's how I make my money, you know?" He laughed.
"You mean that WAS how you made your money, hon. You're damaged goods now. Once the nice detectives over at Vice and Homicide start makin' calls from your list, you won't be allowed within a mile of anyplace you used to do your thing. I've already had three calls about you, you know what? I'm taking a fuck of a risk just having you here and I own this joint. A lotta people are gonna get nervous and we both know what can happen then. Only other choice you got is to get out of town and stay away, but again, a lot of things can happen between here and the bus station, train station or airport. You know that." She suppressed a shiver at what he was alluding to. He wasn't exaggerating, either. Some of the guys who were involved with those places would have no qualms about making her disappear if it meant their own asses, and who would really miss another stripper who turned tricks on the side?
Her eyes went down to his desk. On it was correspondence from someplace called "The Sanctuary". Despite the restrictions he wanted to give her, that was what she needed right now. Originally, her plan was to make a run for one of the coasts, but he was right about what would probably happen. If there ever was a window for her to do it, it had already closed by now and she was trapped. There was a tight little knot in her stomach and she began to feel panic setting it. "Fuck..." was all she managed to say.
"Sorry I had to put it that way, but it is what it is. I will help you, but you're going to have to do exactly as I say if its gonna work. It won't be easy, but hell, you may end up liking it if you let yourself. Before I can, you need to agree to what I do. No bullshit, no backing out, no up and leaving if you don't like it. You're fucked and you know it. I can help you if you do things my way, every way. Take it or leave it. The offer leaves if you do," he said calmly as he watched her. On his wall were pictures of women in various forms of bondage, some costumed in leather or latex, others buck naked. Most were from magazines or printed out from the internet, but some looked like they were home made. Oddly enough, in many of those pictures, the women were smiling or laughing unless they were gagged or wearing some sort of headgear. From somewhere inside her head she heard a weary voice telling her to give up and go with it.
"What do I have to lose, huh?" she said defeatedly. "Fine. I agree, if you help me out, I'll do whatever you want until this shit is over. And then?"
He smirked at that. "And then? You get to walk away. First, you gotta make it through the 'now' part of the equation. This," he said, opening a folder and pulling out a document, "Is your new now. Read it before you agree to anything. I have it pretty clearly laid out there, and while technically this contract isn't legal, there are others that will be. This just explains it more clearly. Take your time, I need to go get something. If there's anything on that you won't agree to, be gone before I get back." He handed it to her as he rose from his chair.
Mary waited until the door closed. On the top in fancy script were the words "Slavery Contract", and for a moment she considered doing just what he said. The thought of who might be out there waiting for her brought her back and she studied the papers. Reading wasn't one of her strong suits, and some of the words made no sense to her, but enough of the others did. The first part was a statement saying that she freely consented to the terms of this contract for an unspecified period of time. The second were the terms and conditions. Some of them actually sounded kind of fun, especially the parts about being possible sex acts and dress and appearance, but others were troubling. It was one thing for handcuffs and spankings, but some of the things sounded rather extreme. She'd never heard of the term Total Power Control before, and here it was being spelled out for her. In a weird way, it sounded exciting, but it wasn't until she got to the second page that she decided to sign. Titled simply "Escape Clause", it was a promise that at any time she wanted out, all she had to do was ask and it would be granted. However, if she did, any promises, gifts, or agreements she'd had with him were revoked and she'd be put out with what she came in with. He returned holding a small leather pouch.
"Well? What's your decision?" he asked. Without a word she picked up a pen and signed her name to the bottom as he watched intently. She looked up at him and he smiled. "Now what?" she asked. He opened the bag and took out a collar, leash, and a pair of handcuffs. "Of course..." she sighed, holding her hands out.
"Stand up and turn around. Don't worry about your things, they'll be fine right here," he said, taking her arms and cuffing her snugly before putting the collar around her throat. "For the moment, we're just going to keep you incognito downstairs. I have a little place all fixed up just for these occasions, but you probably figured that out already. It'll give you some time to collect your thoughts while I put things in motion," he said with a smile.
His office was down a little hall and she noticed the outer door was closed. Instead of going out that way, he opened a door she assumed to be a closet. Instead, it was a dark, narrow hallway that led to a flight of stairs going down. At the bottom was a locked steel door that opened onto another dimly lit hallway with doors on either side. Each door was steel with a padlock on the outside and a little barred window. As they walked, she could hear faint clinkings and other sounds as they passed, her heels clicking on the bare concrete floor. It was cool, but not too cold. Finally, they stopped at the very last door. "Here we are. Inside and face the wall, please." The room was windowless and small, with an old steel army cot bolted to the floor, and a combination toilet and sink that looked like the one she saw in the holding cell at the precinct. She did as he told her and he freed her hands but left the collar on. Hanging from the wall by under the vent was a long chain with an open padlock. First, he freed her hands and ordered her to strip nude. Once she was, he took the chain and fastened it to something on the buckle of her collar. "It's cold in here," she protested as he stepped back to look at her.
"You'll get used to it in time. On your knees," he commanded, unzipping his pants. She gave him a fiery look as she sank to the cold concrete floor. His cock was already hard, and she knew what to do. First, she began to lightly kiss and nibble the head as she gently massaged his shaft and balls. Then, she slowly took him in her mouth, not all the way at first, deeper and deeper as she hummed softly. "Good, good. Hands on the back of your head now," he said. With his cock in her mouth, she laced her hands behind her head and slowly bobbed back and forth. She could feel him tense up and then he came. Sucking eagerly, she swallowed his entire load. Pulling out, he was breathing heavily. "Excellent start. I think this is going to a great decision on your part," he said, slightly breathless. Mary gave him a coy smile as she licked her lips. Swallowing wasn't something she liked, but it was better than having a load shot in her face.
He dug in his pocket and took out a cigarette. Lighting it, he took a long drag before handing it to her. "Enjoy. I'll be back later and we'll begin this properly," he said with a smile, before stepping outside and locking the door behind him. That was her first day as a sex slave. "You know how many times I got fucked that day?" she asked, taking a light drag from her cigarette as she sat across from me in that barroom. "Seventeen. Most people don't fuck that much in a month. I'd been pro for awhile, and I'd never handled more than two clients an evening. Kinky Guy did me five times before he let some of his buddies have a crack. Suck, fuck, up the ass, you name it. And they weren't nice about it, either. I had some bruises and welts from that night, and I was gonna call him on that escape clause thing. The weirdest thing is, I didn't seem to mind like I would have just a day or two before. In a heartbeat, my world was broken. Not that it was a great life, but it was gonna happen sooner or later. It must have been after sunrise before they let up on me," she said, with a rueful laugh.
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