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Allison Crocker sat on the floor. It would have been much more comfortable to lie on the bed or sit in any of the many chairs in the room but Allison was not allowed on the furniture. The shag carpet was itchy against her bare skin, especially her tattoo. She rubbed at it, a thing she did countless times a day as if somehow rubbing would make it go away. It was a rather large tattoo; bold script letters spelling the words “Connie’s Girl”. It was emblazoned on her ass.
She pulled at the chain locked around her throat, shifting it from one side of her neck to the other. The chain was not particularly heavy - far stronger than she could break, of course - but heavy enough to be a constant bother. It was secured around her throat by a padlock, the other end bolted to the floor. It was long enough for her to reach the bathroom but no windows or doors. Not that that mattered; even if the chain were to magically fall away Allison would remain exactly where she was.
It had been more than two years ago, though to Allison it was another life. Beth’s fourth birthday had been two weeks away and Allison had spent the morning making arrangement for the party. Allison wanted it to be an extravagant affair people would talk about for months. She wanted it for Beth, of course, but also because Ted, her ex, would be there and she wanted him to see how far in the world she had come without him. She had just booked the ponies and the hot air balloon when the phone rang. It was a client, which was odd because the call had come in on Allison’s personal line, a number she had given only to her parents and the administrators of the pricey day care that kept Beth and Morgan – Allison’s youngest, while she was at work, so in case of an emergency she could be reached immediately.
“You represent the Eastman estate,” said the woman without preamble. “I have the financial means and I am very motivated. Meet me there in ten minutes.” The phone went dead.
Allison was a little put off by the woman’s abrupt manner – she hadn’t even given her name. She was tempted to just ignore the call, but on the other hand the Eastman place listed for over two million and those kinds of buyers were few and far between. A two million dollar sale carried a hefty commission.
Allison arrived at the Eastman home right on schedule. It was a secluded place near the river, obscured by the surrounding trees and kept private behind a tall brick wall. Allison had assumed she had the only key so she was surprised to find the driveway gate open. There was a battered old pick-up truck parked at the front door. The gardener, she assumed, as she parked her Mercedes behind it. The driver’s door of the truck opened and a man got out. No, it was a woman, but decidedly masculine, right down to the crew-cut. She was in her mid-fifties perhaps, and large – large as in brawny, dressed in baggy combat pants, heavy boots and a tee shirt stretched tight over a lot of muscle. She strode directly towards Allison.
People who could afford houses this nice wore designer clothes and drove status cars. Allison had reasoned from the phone conversation the buyer was probably a tad eccentric – “eccentric” as in crazy but rich, and maybe her GI Joe get up and the truck were just some of the symptoms.
Everyone said Allison had a million dollar smile and at that moment she turned it on. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m Allison Crocker.”
Without a word, without a flicker of expression, the woman took Allison’s hand in her own…and yanked. Hard.
A jolt shot through Allison and for a moment she was stunned helpless by shock and pain of a dislocated shoulder. The woman pulled again, this time dislocating Allison’s elbow. She reached over and took Allison’s left arm and yanked it from the shoulder socket as well. Amazingly, Allison remained on her feet, too shocked and paralyzed by pain to move. A voice in her head urged her to scream, but everything, including thought, was swallowed by the torrent of agony.
The woman moved aside Allison. She lifted Allison’s dangling right arm and tucked it under her own and went to work on Allison’s fingers, dislocating them joint by joint.
When this was done she moved to the left hand. the second hand.
Somehow – certainly because the woman wanted it so - Allison was on her back on the drive. With the passionless efficiency of a craftsman plying a well practiced trade, the woman raised Allison’s right leg and twisted and pulled, breaking her thigh from her hip socket. The sound was sickening. The pain was far, far worse. Again that voice in Allison’s head said “scream!” But nothing would come. The other leg followed. The woman pulled off Allison’s shoes and began on the toes.
The woman paused for a smoke. Allison lie there helpless, commanding her limbs to move, flail, flee, but they merely quivered like slabs of boneless meat. The woman flicked her cigarette away then knelt over Allison and went to work in earnest.
Her fingers would seize a joint, probe at the nerves beneath the flesh like a ferret sniffing prey and then stab and the pain would erupt like some ugly symphonic crescendo. The small voice in her head stopped asking her to scream and began asking “why?” But any answers were lost in the cascade of agony.
Finally, ages later, the woman stopped for another smoke. When next she bent over Allison it was to put her back together again. The pain of re-assembly was even more maddening, the searing jolts, the gunshot cracks of joints being slammed back into place. When she was done she looked down at Allison and smiled and her smile said “I can take you apart and when it pleases me I can put you back together again.” Using her words, she said, “Get up.”
Allison was surprised she could do just that. She struggled to her feet. Her face dripped with tears, snot and vomit..
“You’re a mess,” said the woman. “Get naked.”
Ten minutes earlier the words would have shocked and appalled Allison, but now, if the woman had handed Allison a knife and said “Slit your own throat”, Allison would have instantly complied, anything to avoid a repeat of suffering she had just endured. Allison fumbled out of all of her clothes.
“Get in the truck.”
Allison did. The life she had known was now over.
Allison tugged again at the chain around her throat and shifted her position on the hard floor. This was her life now, naked except for the ridiculously high platform shoes - chained in this room, day upon day of relentless, mind-numbing boredom.
In less than a week Beth would begin school. There would be lots to do – a wardrobe of school clothes to buy, and supplies! And of course, little Morgan could not be left out! And certainly she wanted to make a good impression on Beth’s teacher and…No! Allison tore her mind from that track. No! No!
For the first several months Allison had broken the boredom by imagining she had never gotten that mysterious phone call, never gone to the Eastman estate to meet the nameless client, had not – like a meek and obedient little puppy - peeled off her clothes and gotten into that truck. Instead, she would pass the time pretending her life was just as it had been, still living in her fine home with her two young daughters, still a successful business woman with a rich social life and lots of good friends. In her pretend life she had even married Rod Harper, her boss and the two of them were deliriously happy.
She had gotten so good at pretending – it became so real – that the room, the floor, the chain would disappear and as if by magic her old life would materialize around her so vivid and rich she could feel the silkiness of little Morgan’s cheek as she kissed it and see Beth’s blonde hair take on a shine as Allison lovingly stroked it with a brush. It was wonderful. Better even than real.
But then – always – the door would swing open and ugly old Connie would walk in and the imaginary world would come crashing around her in jagged little shards.. And it was just as if her life had been torn away again, the pain as fresh and vivid as the first time, and Allison would curl into a ball and weep bitterly.
Stricken with guilt, Connie would try to console her, but it was always so awkward it only made it worse. How do you console someone whom you kept naked and chained – someone with your name tattooed to their flesh?
Connie would make a valiant effort of it anyway, sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing Allison’s shoulder and apologizing profusely, for everything.
“Just a stupid phone call,” Connie would say, “In a moment of weakness. Believe me, if there was any way I could undo it.”
And there it would be, the pause, the ugly unspoken truth, the fact that Connie could undo it. Always at that instant Allison wanted to scramble to Connie’s feet and swear on all that was dear to her – the lives of her children even – swear that if Connie were to let her go Allison would say nothing, would concoct some story about depression and running away and spending two years in a remote cabin, and now she was healed and had returned to resume her life. But she could not. Maxine’s lessons were a part of her now, as much a part of her as her as the bones beneath her flesh and the rules said you did not escape and you did not ask.
After an hour or more of rubbing Allison’s naked shoulder Connie’s lust would be up. “We should get some sleep,” she would say, “Tackle this problem in the morning when our minds are fresh.”
Allison would climb to her feet, stumble off to the bathroom in those ridiculously high heels, the chain trailing behind her. There, she would brush her teeth and wash the tears and snot off her face. Then she would return, climb into the sheets and spend the next hour licking Connie’s wrinkled old pussy.
By the next morning Connie’s guilt would have passed and all discussion of freeing Allison would be forgotten. Connie would leave for work and Allison, alone, naked and chained, would slip back into the seductive warmth of her dream world.
Many hours later Connie would return and the whole ugly scene would play itself over again.
Until one day, instead of consoling her, Connie threw up her hands in frustration. “I’m out there busting my as so the two of us can have a good life, and this is the thanks I get! All I want when I get home is just a tiny hint of appreciation, may a little ‘Hello, how are you?’ But no! All I get is weeping. How do you think that makes me feel?” Her arms flaying wildly, Connie’s eyes locked suddenly on the phone. “Maybe I should phone Maxine.”
Allison’s heart froze. This time she did fall at Connie’s feet and swear on the lives of her children this would never happen again, from now own she was going to be happy. And make Connie happy. Deliriously so! I swear! I swear!
The only way Allison could keep this promise was to relinquish her dream life, let it go once and for all. So she did.
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