Legacy

Everything changed when Master Lockwood arrived. For one thing, everyone at the lodge referred to him as Master—same as someone might say Doctor to a doctor—as if it were the most normal thing in the world. For another, Dakota very quickly realized that he was. He was a master. That was his very nature.

He wasn't particularly tall or handsome. His graying hair was thin on top, his eyes were soft and round behind very round glasses, and his build was understated and typical of any man on the back side of sixty after a life as a weekend sportsman. He wore a sweater vest and brogues, and he was accompanied by a stunning blonde with a splash of freckles across her nose. She worshiped the very ground he walked on, and it was easy to see why. Every other man Dakota had ever known seemed eager to have her approval. Master Lockwood was willing to make a woman work for his instead. Then, not long after arrival, Lockwood's assistant—but really his slave—took ill.

Dakota brought her an infusion of eucalyptus, chamomile, and lemongrass. She almost sobbed in her gratefulness, and Dakota added cough drops and Tylenol to the shopping list for next time. The assistant looked dreadful, and of course she could do nothing for Master Lockwood in the meantime. Poor girl. Poor Lockwood! But Lockwood noticed Dakota.

"Excuse me," he said when he joined her in the great hall one evening.

She set aside her book and sat up. "Yes, Master?"

"I'm feeling peckish."

"I'll run and fetch the chef."

"No, no," said Lockwood. "Nothing so serious. French toast would be lovely. Do you know how to make it?"

Butterflies appeared in her stomach without permission. "Yes, Master."

He said nothing else, but only looked at her.

"At once, Master."

She prepared French toast and bacon and scrambled eggs. She made the eggs extra-fluffy, the way her stepfather used to. She didn't know whether he would want the bacon. Who wouldn't want it? A vegetarian, of course—and not the eggs, either. He didn't look like a vegetarian, but he didn't not look like a vegetarian. The butterflies were transforming into hornets. She put the bacon and the eggs on a separate plate and glanced around the corner to see whether he'd smelled it—to see if she could detect any hint of distaste. He wasn't paying any attention. She steeled herself, took both plates, and went out.

"Oh, heavenly!" he murmured when he saw. He set aside the magazine he was reading—a journal of some kind—and breathed in the aroma of bacon and eggs and toast. "Thank you."

She knelt beside his chair as he ate, keeping her eyes down but her head erect.

"Would Sir enjoy a drink?" she said after a while—very, very softly.

"Not until after," he said. "But then, bourbon with a splash." She must have looked stricken, because he added, "That means you should add a little water. It helps the flavors come out."

She felt terribly small and young and inexperienced next to him, but she waited until he looked ready to set down his fork, and then she hurried back to the kitchen to make the drink as he'd requested. How much water, exactly? She didn't know. She poured a little in a shot glass and literally let some splash into the tumbler, and then she agonized over that just as she had over the bacon and eggs. In this case, she took a sip of the drink—it was liquid fire as it scorched her throat—and poured it out and started over with a clean glass. Hopefully this was what he meant.

"Ah, very nice," he said after a sip. She waited until she was certain he was satisfied before taking away the plates and washing them. She returned as soon as she was done, and once more she knelt beside his chair, quietly, almost out of sight, head erect and eyes down.

"Your form is good," he observed without so much as glancing at her. "Someone has trained you thoroughly, perhaps. Or perhaps you are merely observant. I would prefer your knees a little farther apart. Bring your cunt nearer to the floor."

The hornets became dragons. Or bigger hornets. Something like that. She moved her body, shaped herself to his desire. Color rose in her cheeks, because she had no training in any of this at all. Was she observant? She didn't think so.

"I love to walk in the woods," he said after another sip of bourbon, "but my feet ache these days. Never grow old, my dear—it's hardly worth it."

"May I rub your feet, Master?" she asked.

Immediately afterward, she second-guessed her phrasing. She could have said—maybe should have said—that she could rub his feet. A statement of fact and, in that sense, an offer. What she had done instead was to ask permission, which was an expression of desire. Was it wrong? She might have agonized over this, too, had he not answered her quickly.

"Please," he said.

She really didn't know how to do this, either. She watched his face as her small, strong, delicate hands moved over his fuzzy wool socks, pinching and kneading and caressing. When he winced, she noticed. When he looked at peace, she noticed that, too. He sometimes gasped in what might have been pleasure. She hoped that it was.

"Ah," he sighed after a long while. Her hands were sore. "Thank you. What is your name?"

For a moment, she forgot. Then, "Dakota, Master."

"It's been a long day, or perhaps..." His voice trailed off. "No. Better not say it. I'm not as young as I was. You make a man think strange things, Dakota."

The butterflies came back.

"My assistant will need a chance to rest," he continued. "Would you be willing to come with me to Innsbruck? There are matters I should tend to, and I cannot delay—but I would prefer not to travel alone."

She thought of stammering an answer about how she'd need permission and—

"I will, of course, clear this with our fine hosts."

"Yes, Master," she whispered.

"Will you come with me?"

"Y-yes, Master." That's what she had meant the first time. Perhaps she'd been getting ahead of herself.

He smiled. Then he offered her his right hand. "Kiss my ring, little cunt," he whispered. "Then you will go to bed. We'll rise early tomorrow."

She almost didn't sleep. She spent the evening worrying about every detail. Running through it all in her mind, from the book she'd been reading to the way she'd been reclining to the clothing she had worn and the way she had said master and everything in between. And she didn't have a passport, so Innsbruck was out of the question—that was Austria. She'd agreed without realizing that he was talking about a trip to Europe, and now she was going to have to tell him that she was a fucking moron and a waste of his time, and when she woke in the morning she felt terrible. At least she hadn't caught the flu from the freckled blonde, but she almost wished she had.

"Pish-tosh," he said in reply as he ate breakfast. He fed her from his own plate, laying an extra one in front of her and giving her sausage and eggs and a strip of his bacon. "Eat. The helicopter will be here soon."

She ate and then returned to the bathroom to try to make herself presentable. She was already as presentable as she was going to get—she had spent almost a half hour on this before joining him in the kitchen—and she returned to him to wonder what she ought to pack. He laughed and shook his head.

"When does your cycle begin?" he said.

"It just... finished," she said, blinking in surprise.

"Then you won't need very much."

The helicopter brought them to the airport in Denver. She expected to go and sit in the concourse and wait for boarding, but that didn't happen. They landed close to a private plane sitting on the apron, and they went across to it while the blades were still turning. Other than the pilots and a lone stewardess, they were the only people on board. Dakota sat facing Master Lockwood and fastened her seat belt for takeoff. Then, as the plane climbed, she squirmed in discomfort. It was difficult—physically, or so it seemed—to sit across from this man as if she were his equal.

He gave her a gentle smile. "Wait until we've reached our cruising altitude," he suggested. "Then it will be safe for you to move around. Just a few more minutes."

Cocooned within the private cabin, cradled by luxurious wood and leather, Dakota waited until the jet at last leveled off. Then she unfastened her belt and slid into the floor, reaching back to remove her heels and then smoothing her skirt as she knelt. She didn't presume that she could be naked, but a part of her wanted to be. It seemed only right—although the cabin was cool, and she doubted that it would be comfortable for long.

"You may remove your clothes, if you like," he said, continuing his habit of reading her mind from where it was written on her face.

She did. Once again she agonized over whether to fold them or throw them onto the floor somewhere: did he value speed or organization and neatness? She tried to be quick and efficient, but her nervous fingers kept fumbling with her blouse. At last she was on the floor in only her stockings and garter, because they were so fiddly to get on and off, and because maybe he would like her in them. She bowed her head as she knelt and shivered as her hair tickled her shoulders. Then the stewardess came in.

Dakota thought she might be having a heart attack.

"Thank you for joining us, sir," said the woman. She set a tumbler of something on the tray by the master's side and handed him that same magazine he'd been reading yesterday.

Dakota wanted to kick herself for not having thought of that. Then again, she hadn't known where his luggage had gone, or even that he'd brought the magazine. She needed to pay better attention.

"Our flight time to Innsbruck will be about eight and a half hours, and we'll be arriving at 1:30 AM local time. Should you need anything at all, don't hesitate to ask me..." The stewardess glanced down at Dakota. "Although it looks as though you'll be well cared for," she added with just the ghost of a smile.

She wanted to die and then maybe melt down into the carpet where no one could see her. She thought her cheeks might catch fire. She'd never felt so humiliated in all her life. It was all her fault, obviously; he'd only offered her the option. He hadn't ordered her to do anything. She couldn't blame Master Lockwood for this at all. In fact, if fault lay with anyone, it lay with her for feeling this way in the first place. A true slave wouldn't hesitate to—

Dakota hiccuped. Then she blushed even more, if that were possible. She hadn't hiccuped like that—a good old fashioned stress hiccup—since a piano recital when she was twelve years old.

"You poor dear," said the stewardess. "Let me get you some water."

"Thank you," said Lockwood, being polite on her behalf. "You're very sweet, dear. I wonder if you might do something for me."

"Yes, sir."

"When you return, would you please be nude as well?"

"Certainly, sir."

The stewardess returned with a cup of water. Lockwood accepted it. Carefully, he brought the water to Dakota's lips and permitted her to drink, but very slowly. Something about the slowness of it was calming, maybe. Or it might have been the fact of the stewardess's naked body hovering near them. She was pleasantly plump, but not especially pretty without her clothing. She didn't wear stockings. She was naked save for a silver necklace that might have been an understated collar and for the watch on her wrist. But in truth, if Dakota was calmer now, she thought it was because he took the time to give her water—him, personally, holding the cup to her lips and making her swallow slowly, carefully, without hurrying or rushing or agonizing over anything, because He was the one acting. Not her.

Dakota settled back when the water was gone. She pushed her knees apart just a little more, brought her cunt nearer to the carpet beneath her, and was then viscerally aware just how soaked she'd become. She couldn't blush any brighter anymore. She could only sit with that fact and let it be.

"Thank you, dear," said Lockwood to the stewardess. "If you wouldn't mind leaving us in private for a while, I would like some time with this one."

"Yes, sir."

They were alone. Dakota's mouth was open just slightly, as in the story she'd been re-reading last week. Her lips were parted. She tried to keep them wet, but her mouth was dry. Kneeling before a firing squad wouldn't have been more terrifying than this, and yet for now she found herself in the eye of the storm: a place of momentary calm. She kept her eyes down, centered on the shiny caps of his leather shoes, and her body erect. As she thought of it, she arched her back a little more, pushing her small breasts up and forward, and for a moment her gaze fell to her own nipples—like mountain peaks, hard and sharp.

She thought he might fuck her, but he didn't.

Master Lockwood set aside his magazine and folded his hands one over the other, and he gazed at her for a long moment. She could feel no lust in that gaze, but only a sense of being measured. Being weighed and tested. Being examined. Smutty novels often featured men who looked at women like a cut of meat, but that wasn't Lockwood's style. He examined her whole being, and not just her flesh. Then, when she had given up hiding any part of herself from him, he spoke.

"While we are traveling together, there are things you should understand," he began. "Others will know you are with me. Even if we are apart, they know who brought you. They know under whose protection you fall. They will know who is responsible for you, always. And that means that your behavior, the way you conduct yourself, will always reflect on me."

Dakota started to say yes, Master, but she lifted her eyes to his face first and saw that he hadn't done speaking. She tried to focus herself on what he was saying instead, closing her eyes rather than zeroing in on his every movement. Then she realized how rude it was not to look at someone who was talking, and she went back to staring at his shoes. Why did she have to make everything so hard?

"For this reason, to safeguard your reputation as well as mine, there are a few rules I would like you to observe. The first of these you follow instinctively, it would seem: you are to keep your eyes lowered, and never to look a dominant in the eye. Such a gesture gives the appearance of arrogance: it says that you believe you are the other person's equal, even when you are not."

"Sir? How will I know a dominant?"

"It can be difficult. The best policy is for you to keep your eyes down at all times." He smiled. "Do I even need to mention that you should speak only when spoken to?"

"Sorry, Master!"

"No, no," he said with a laugh. "Not to me. You will speak to me when you believe it is important—like when you think my feet need a rub. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, Dakota. You know how to recognize what matters and what doesn't."

Dakota bit her lip and tried not to look too stunned by his words.

"You will need to apply that kind of discernment to all of my instructions," he continued. "There are, after all, quite a number of them."

And then he began to teach her in a way that no one ever had: carefully, explicitly, patiently and in detail. Not a lot of random don't but a framework made of do. She was to walk two steps behind and at his left side; the right was reserved for his body slave, and he had never taken one; she was to face him at all times when in his presence, even when carrying out other tasks; upon entering or leaving his presence, she was to bow her head, and she ought never to sit without his instruction, but rather wait until he gave her his pleasure.

She was not to speak of herself in the first person, but to refer to herself as girl or Your servant. He told her that there were a host of rules relating to how she ought to speak to him, but that she didn't need to hear them, because she already knew them by heart. "The only exceptions are for how you should speak of me to others, but I won't mention them," he added. "You are never to speak of me to others. You will communicate my will to them when I request it, and I know you will do it well."

No contractions, no um or uh. Once more he complimented her on her collected manner. She didn't say to him that she only seemed collected because she so often feared to speak at all. He used the stewardess as an example of how to offer him anything he might request, and then her own: the French toast from last night, and especially the bacon and eggs. "When you would offer me a thing, present it to me," he said, "just as you did. The decision is mine. The service is your privilege."

Dakota swallowed. "Yes, Master," she breathed. He was saying to her things she had always known, or always longed to know. These rules were like an embrace—like a welcome to a place she was always meant to go.

"If you sense a need that you wish to fulfill, ask me," he said. "Again, it's a rule you know by heart. I very much like that about you." He paused and pondered and asked himself, "Now, is there anything I've forgotten..."

The intercom made a soft tone, only just audible above the white hush of the engines—and also, Dakota realized that there was an intercom mounted in the wall between them.

"If I may, sir?" said the stewardess, her voice small and respectful through the speaker.

"Yes, please!"

"Your girl will need to know how to make requests for her own sake. Water, the restroom, etc."

"Ah, of course!" said Lockwood. "Thank you, thank you. Easy to forget these things—they become very important when in close quarters like an airplane." To Dakota he said, "It is my responsibility to provide for your needs; it is yours to ensure that I am made aware of them. You must be respectful of my other responsibilities, and I must be attentive. And always remember, when not stuck on a plane together, that absence makes the heart grow fonder—or at least it might make your master less annoying in the event you'd like a snack. Now, is there anything you're wondering about?"

Dakota shook her head. He and the stewardess had addressed things she would never have thought to ask. It was impossible to imagine that—

"Always yes, Master or no, Master, please. There is no need to shake your head unless I have asked you to remain silent."

"No, Master," she said. Immediately, she regretted it. "Er..." She broke off and swallowed.

"Ask," he implored her. "I'm only too happy to answer."

She swallowed. Again, she became all too aware of just how sodden she was. She wondered if her cunt slime were dripping into the carpet. "Am I—" She stopped and bit down on her lip. He half-concealed a little grin and beckoned her onward. "Is Your servant allowed to masturbate, Master?"

"When you are in my presence, with my permission, yes," he said. "Otherwise, you are left to your own devices—perhaps literally. I have brought you with me primarily as my assistant. Absolute and unconditional control over your sexuality is not, to my mind, within my purview at present. Would you like to masturbate now?"

Even if Dakota could have thought of an answer, she had no air in her lungs. It all vanished the very moment she heard his words—it just went out of her, as if it went to get a gallon of milk and then forgot to come back. She lifted her eyes to his face for one instant, uncertain whether he was serious or teasing her. She felt it when a long strand of her cunt sludge dribbled and clung to her, just for a moment, after it hit the floor. The sensation made her shiver. She swallowed, and licked her lips, and her mouth was still dry.

"Th-this girl believes, Sir," she began, struggling to piece together anything that sounded like a sentence even in her own head, "that she might better focus on Your words if..."

"I would like to watch you," he said. "I think, in fact, that Cindy would also like to watch. Will that be all right?"

Dakota swallowed again, but she nodded. Then she remembered: "Yes, Master—please, Your servant only hopes that You will both enjoy."

Dakota thought—in fact she hoped—that, afterward, she would be permitted to suck his cock. She wasn't. Neither was the stewardess.