Page 94 of There's a Way

Chapter 43

Two Months Later

Will

It was my fault. I’d been busy working on the business end of putting out new music and hadn’t given Davy anywhere near enough time. There was so much to do, organizing things so I could be gone for our extended honeymoon, dealing with all the legal stuff around new music and new videos, making sure new material would go live on every freaking platform at the same time when the first of it released in a few weeks, and those are just the highlights. Davy knew what I was dealing with and he hadn’t complained, and yet, he was clearly feeling the lack of attention.

It wasn’t that he was beingbad. He’d done nothing to warrant a punishment, but looking through his workout numbers, I saw a slave who was doing the bare minimum. I saw the same when I looked at the bed. He’d made it up as required, but it felt like he was just treading water. His heart wasn’t in it. The special touches were gone.

I considered sitting him down and talking to him about it. Logically, it was the best plan. I’d neglected him, he’d neglected me. We just had to stop doing those things, right?

But my instincts told me talk is cheap and I should just fucking fix it. Micca was working long hours somewhere far far away, and it was clear on her brief phone and video calls, shewasn’t getting much sleep. I had no idea what she was working on, but it seemed to be really getting to her, whatever it was. Mostly, we talked over video while she ate, which assured me she was okay. Not great — stressed and exhausted — but otherwise fine.

So, it was up to me to straighten our boy out. He wanted my attention? It was time to give it to him. We were two weeks from the wedding, so ten to twelve days of boot camp should do it. It was Friday, so after we ate dinner that evening, it was time to start.

Davy thrives on routines and repetitions, so I started him off with a toothbrush and Comet, cleaning the grout in all the bathrooms.

And then I went to bed, giving him a time limit so he’d be pushed to finish in time. Stress and physical exhaustion were an excellent way to start.

A spanking was followed by a caning the next morning before I fucked his ass and drained my balls. He’d gone back in his cock cage the week before, so no orgasm for the slave.

Micca and I had looked on a calendar and made it so he’d be out of his cage for the wedding and the beginning of our honeymoon. We’d ended up with a three-week schedule to make it happen. The rules were that he’s in it for his schedule no matter what happens, in for three weeks and out for three weeks. He doesn’t know we changed it around a few months ago, from two weeks to three weeks, so he’d be out for the wedding.

I put the electro-plug in him along with a few electro-pads on his balls, and then we went to see how well he’d cleaned the bathrooms.

He’d done a decent job, but there were a few places I wanted him to redo, and I hit him with a five-second TENS pulse every thirty seconds he worked on them. He yelped and carried on while the juice was on, but he didn’t slow with the toothbrush.

Later, we went for a run on Stringer’s Ridge. He’s fine running with the cock cage so long as he wears runner’s shorts under regular shorts. The tight, stretchy fabric keeps the cage from bouncing up and down, and the gym shorts keep people from seeing the outline of the cage on his cock.

A seven-mile run with our guards, a quick shower and change of clothes, a fancy brunch, and then I trussed him up, sitting at a writing desk with a huge plug in, bound to the chair so he couldn’t move around a whole lot, and gave him a writing assignment.

“Turn the paper over to read the instructions once I’m gone.”

Pen and paper, tell me what you want to have in your slave vows to us. Two responses. The first, what would they be if it was just the three of us with no witnesses. The second, what do you want to say in front of the wedding guests. You know the rules — make sure all words are spelled correctly and your grammar is correct. Rough draft and final copy. Use the dictionary. Untie yourself and push the button in the jail cell when you finish, and then assume the position on the bed until I arrive.

I may or may not include his wishes in the vows he would give, but I wanted to see his ideas in black and white.

I’d discovered that having him write lines is an excellent punishment. He’d had to write three hundred lines a day, every day, back when Micca first came to us, when we were still dealing with him keeping his grandfather’s letter from me. I’d reduced it to a hundred lines a day when he’d gone back to work, but back up to three hundred on the weekends. When we’d gone on trips, he’d been able to do extra in the days leading up to it, but he still had to keep the average at the correct level. I’d kept it up for nearly three months before I’d let him stop.

Twice since then, he’s had to write hundreds per day — enough it averaged around two and a half hours a day when he wasn’t working, and an hour on the days he worked — fora month or two when I thought he needed a reminder of how important he is to us, or a reminder of a particular rule.

We sometimes include them as part of his boot-camp days, but I really prefer the essay type assignments for those.

I used the app on my phone to look in on him when I got to my office two floors above him. He was busy writing, totally absorbed, so I settled in to get some work done, reading through contracts as well as scrutinizing what my attorney had written about what should be further negotiated. Mitch had made some notes as well, and I also included those in my final analysis.

Hours later, when Davy rang the bell in the jail cell, I spent about fifteen minutes finishing up and saving my work, and then I made my way down to belt and fuck my boy before we shared a meal and then I sent him off on his next project — washing every car we owned while wearing a heavy plug and a ball separator. He’d have to be dressed while outside, but there’d be no forgetting the fact he’s a sex slave to a sadist who loves him more than words can say.

* * * *

Micca

Drake Security had been called in when a billionaire’s daughter had been kidnapped. There was a one-hundred-million-dollar ransom for her, and I was traveling with my mobile lab, collecting forensics from her bedroom on Long Island, and her car, to get an idea about parts of her life her parents might not know about. I also gathered evidence from the place a few towns over where she’d been abducted, and then later, once our geeks had researched to find the places we knew her abductors had been earlier in the day and week.

I felt like I knew the sixteen-year-old. Ballet dancer with strong gymnastic skills, excellent student, skilled equestrian who loves her horse, and by all accounts, a kind person. Therewere no selfies with just her. All of her selfies were ones of her and her friends, or her and her horse. She was beautiful, and she clearly understood how to use makeup to fit into society as expected, but it wasn’t her focus.

When I’d exhausted every idea I had in my mobile lab, I sat down with the techs going over the video and audio of the teen telling her dad her captors’ ransom demands.

We had it narrowed down to an eight-block area of New York City, but there are a whole lot of people in that amount of real estate. We had to be able to narrow it down more.

---