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From: dbetger@tiac.net (Donnie B.)

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Subject: {A.S.S.} NEW! Owning Corey (A different sort of D/S story) Part 8 of 9

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Date: 29 Jul 1997 22:24:06 GMT

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Message from the author:

Please don't read this story.  You're far too young and it's 

got grown-up stuff in it.  If you read it, you could get in 

trouble, and so could I, and then I wouldn't be able to post 

more stories for you not to read.



This work of fiction is the property of its author and may not be

used for profit without written permission.  Otherwise, you may

reproduce and distribute it unmodified, or place it in an electronic

archive, if this notice is attached.









                        Owning Corey 





         Fiction Copyright (c) 1997 by Don Boettger









                             12.



Corey came crunching up the drive looking blissful, toting a

couple plastic bags.  The walk in the fresh air seemed to do her

a world of good.  I met her on the porch and she dropped the

bags and melted into my arms.  "It's so beautiful here," she

said.



"It is now," I said.  I was thinking about the fall color, but

also about having her around.  I don't know if she understood,

but she hugged me harder.



God, it was going to be tough to do what I was planning.  Well,

it didn't have to start yet, not until I got Jack' package and

had a chance to check through it.  "Tired of walking?"



"Uh-uh."



"Then let's put this stuff inside and take a walk."



It was a perfect day.  I took us down a little-used lane.  Corey

bounced along beside me.  We held hands like teenagers.  I was

practically weak with delight.  We were silent sometimes, other

times we chatted about nothing.  I pointed out an owl's nest I'd

spotted earlier in the summer.  It seemed deserted now.



At one point she said, "The cops stopped me on the way to the

store."



"Oh?"



"Uh-huh.  Pulled up and asked if I needed help.  I said I was

staying with you, I hope that's all right."



"Sure, of course it's all right.  Which cop was it?  Young, or

middle-aged?"



"Youngish."



"That was Rick.  I'll bet he had more on his mind than public

safety."



Corey smiled.  "Should I have offered him a blow job?"



"If you did, we'd be able to count on instant 911 response from

now on."



What a musical laugh she had.  I wondered if Jack had ever heard

it.



The rest of the day went much the same.  The intensity, the

emotional extremes of the recent past were gone, and I felt we

were becoming comfortable with each other.  Good, that would

make tomorrow's shock more effective.  I hoped.



We didn't have sex at all, after the morning's episode.  Not

even in bed that night.  We kept waking each other up with

elbows and knees, though.  By morning, the smell of coffee

wasn't enough to rouse me.  She did it with her mouth instead. 

I felt like a kid again, having a wet dream, except this dream

was warm and alive and real.



The call came at 10:30.  Good old fed-ex.  I told Corey I had to

run in to work for a couple hours, and she looked unhappy but

didn't complain.  Clouds had come in overnight, and there was a

chill in the air that hinted at snow.  I felt nervous on the

road, yelling curses at truck drivers for no particular reason.



I was amazed at the size of the box.  I ducked out back with it

to avoid any chance of running into Patricia.  I moved the car

into the far corner of the lot next to the dumpster to make sure

I wouldn't be disturbed.



God, what a collection.  Jack must have put an item in his

budget for film.  He had pictures of her in positions I'd never

imagined, in ropes, in chains, in leather.  He'd made her put

the most outrageous things inside her.  She looked absolutely

miserable in every shot.



What stunned me most were the injuries.  The stripes I'd seen on

that first day were nothing.  Some pictures showed her so

covered with welts and bruises that I literally could not see

any undamaged skin.



There were pictures in there that explained the soft, hairless,

stubble-free skin around her vagina.  I'd never seen

electrolysis equipment, but the series of Polaroids made it

obvious what was being done to her.  She'd never get her pubic

hair back, except for the patch he'd left on her mons.  I found

myself having to wipe my eyes.



I was stunned by other images as well.  It seemed I hadn't been

the first visitor Jack had favored with Corey's services.  She'd

used her oral talents on at least half a dozen others -- and

that was just one session.



Some of the pictures showed her nearly bald, a rough, uneven cut

probably done with scissors.  In others she had long hair. 

Those were probably the earliest.  Then I found a shot which

confirmed that.  She was tied up with neckties, on the same bed

I'd first shared with her, arms drawn out and back, knees made

fast to elbows.  She was a mass of hot welts from head to toe,

and, most sickeningly, bright angry red between the legs.  She

still had pubic hair then, matted down and dark with moisture so

it didn't match the long pony tail that hung rattily over one

shoulder.  There was a great dark stain under her, and a tie was

stuffed in her mouth.  Her face was awash in tears, turned to

the side as if trying to hide.  Her expression was pitiful.  It

had to be that very first day.  I brought the photo to my mouth

and kissed it.



I got to the bottom of the box.  There was a manila envelope. 

Inside were some negatives, and some prints, and a note.  The

note said, "That's everything, son.  Then again, you'll never

know that for sure, will you?  Have fun with Missy.  I was bored

with her anyway."  It was laser-printed and unsigned.



I looked at the pictures.  They showed an old man, surprisingly

old.  He must have been in his late forties when Corey was born,

assuming these shots were taken about three years ago.  I

shivered a little, looking at what those photos revealed.  He

was tied up, with a red rubber ball in his mouth and some sort

of leather contraption laced around his penis and testicles. 

The parts of those organs that protruded were swollen, dark

purple, and stretched taut.  He was wearing a collar and was

held immobile by a chain that disappeared out-of-frame above. 

There was another man in some of the shots, dressed in skintight

leather which left his erection exposed, holding a riding crop. 

In a couple pictures the crop was pressed against the device on

the old man's groin, and his eyes were wild with some strange

emotion.  In the last picture he was bent over with a very large

dildo buried in his ass, with some sort of rope tied to his

genitals, pulling them back between his legs.



God, no wonder Corey had been shocked out of her wits.  Her

Fundamentalist father was a gay bondage boy.  She would have had

absolutely no context to interpret what she saw, other than

stunned horror.  Maybe she thought he was being held hostage.  I

bet that's what she thought.







                             13.



It took me a long time to calm down after going through the box.

I piled everything back in, except the picture of Corey's first

beating, which I slipped inside my shirt.  When I trusted myself

to drive, I headed back home.  On the way I called Patricia and

told her voice mail that Jack had accepted and she could send

off the contract for his signature.  I hated doing that, but I

had no choice.  He was a monster, but now he was our monster.



There was a very uncomfortable wetness in my pants.  It was

impossible to deny that my body had responded with excitement to

the images that made my mind sick.  It was not a pleasant

revelation.



The pictures also made me reconsider my un-master plan.  Corey

had already suffered so much.  I just couldn't add to that awful

weight, not if I wanted to sleep again.



Besides, what was so bad about the way we were right now? 

Yesterday had been wonderful: peaceful, comfortable, untroubled.

If Corey wanted me to be her master, what was so terrible in

that?  I wasn't keeping her against her will, she could serve me

in her own way until distance eased the scars and she healed

naturally.  Eventually she'd be strong enough to stand on her

own feet.  It would just take time.



But that was a rationalization and I knew it.  Even if I was a

good and kind master, I was still reinforcing her mindset,

snarling her in ever-deeper emotional bonds.  It might even be

worse this way.  It would be so easy for her to go along like

this, no responsibilities, no hopes or desires to go

unfulfilled, and with me as her master, no pain or torment

outside of some playful bedtime butt-slaps.  She had no

motivation to change.



I set my jaw grimly.  I had to take it forward.  It was now or

never, she had to reject it.  I had to make her reject it.  Even

if I lost her in the process.



Corey was outside when I pulled up.  She smiled and waved and

started to come over.  I got out quickly.  I couldn't let her

see the box.  Not yet.



When she came up to me, she said, "Hi.  Everything okay at

work?"  She leaned forward as if to kiss me.



Here we go.



"How dare you?  How dare you speak so freely to me?"



Her mouth dropped open, staggering back.



"You're wearing clothes."



She looked down at herself, then back up at me.  Her eyes were

brimming.



"I... I..."



"Drop your eyes!"  I pointed at the ground in front of my feet.



"Yes, Master.  I'm sorry, Master.  I won't forget again..."



"Silence!  Did I give you permission to speak?"



"No, Master," she whispered, in the voice of someone who awoke

to find her sweet dream was false and her waking life was the

nightmare.



"You're still wearing clothes."



"But... but..."  She glanced around, sadly noting the neighbors'

distant windows.  She reached down and pulled her sweatshirt

off.  The T-shirt came with it, and she was naked from the waist

up.  She kicked off her sneakers, risked one pitiful glance at

me, then unfastened her jeans and pushed them down and off.  Her

hands trembled as she stepped out of her panties.



"Come, slave."  I grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged her into

the house.  She was crying now, quietly.  It might have just

been the pain from her scalp, but I hoped not.  I pushed her

roughly to the carpet.  She moved in slow motion, righting

herself until she was on her knees.  I saw her mouth work, stop,

work again.



"You know the way I like it," I growled.



"Yes, Master," she croaked, and spread her knees apart, arching

her back and hiding her hands.



"This is your ready position.  You will remain in this position

whenever you are in my presence, unless I have given you other

orders.  Understand?"



"Yes, Master."



I walked around her, adjusting her, making her arch her back

harder, pull her shoulders back, push her breasts out more,

clasp one wrist firmly with the other hand.  "Remember.  If I'm

not satisfied with your stance you will be punished."



"Yes, Master."  The voice had dropped to a whisper.



"I can't hear you."



"Yes, Master!  I'll remember."



"Good.  Go get your collar and chain, put them on, and return

here."



She sprang up and ran to her room.  Again I saw her glance at me

as she resumed her stance.  "Unauthorized eye contact will be

punished," I said.  I reached down and grasped both her nipples

and gave a sharp twist.  She drew an abrupt, hissing breath.



"Hand me your leash."



She did, looking pointedly at the floor between us.  I took the

free end, ran my fingers over the leather strap, then flicked my

wrist to slash it across her face.  The blow was not hard, but

she blushed scarlet, and I had to take a deep breath to keep my

resolve.



"Now, about punishments.  You will be spanked or caned daily,

unless I decide it's not worth the effort.  Any infractions of

the rules will earn you more severe corrections.  That's true

even if I haven't told you the rules yet, to help you learn them

faster.  Come."



I dragged her by the chain.  I took her back outdoors, under the

blank windows which I knew, but she did not, had no eyes behind

them.  I stopped at the shed and grabbed the pruning shears,

then led her back to the edge of the yard where the woods began.

There was a stand of young birches there.



"Pick out a switch.  If I don't like your choice, I'll wear it

out on you and then you'll pick again until I'm satisfied."



She seemed confused for a moment, but then started searching for

saplings.  She found one about half an inch in diameter, ran her

fingers along it, and then looked me full in the face.  She was

crying freely, and her eyes held a pleading expression.



I refreshed my resolve.  "That will cost you five strokes," I

told her.  She looked back down, trembling, shivering with the

autumn chill.  She let go of the sapling and found a bigger one.



"This one, Master."



I handed her the shears and held my breath.  Would she do it? 

Without hesitation she cut the switch and handed back the

shears.  "Strip off the leaves."  She did, though the sapling

shook as though a gale were blowing.



I yanked the leash.  "Back here, cunt.  We'll see if you made a

good choice."



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