Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Protecting Heather by Stephen Smith (C)2014

   **This is a work of fantasy and fiction.  The author does not condone
any sexual activity among persons under legal age in real life.

   -------------------------------------------------------------

   Ch.  5

   Oliver busied around getting the girl's breakfast ready, when through
the portable monitor he heard Heather begin to shuffle around.  Looking, he
noticed that she was moving.  He watched, fascinated, as she surveyed the
room, tried out her bound limbs, and then, the look of fear and resignation
on her face.  He was sorry, for the moment, for the fear that he had put
there.  Then he gathered up breakfast, and, steeling himself for
introductions, he went down the stairs, and through all three doors to be
in the playroom.  Tray in hand, he paused a moment to collect himself
before he entered the apartment.

   With one deep breath, he opened the door and walked over to the table,
where he set down the tray.  Her eyes were on him immediately, her body
tensed.

   When Heather saw the man walk in with a black leather hood on, she
thought immediately of executioners she'd seen on TV.  She was instantly
terrified, feeling frozen from head to toe.  She tried to make herself
smaller, as if by avoiding his gaze she could make herself safe.  She was
convinced this man had come here to kill her.

   Oliver walked over to the bed and sat down on the side of it, as she
quailed before him.  He reached over as she cringed, and with one finger
moved aside the stray hairs that lay across her nose.

   "Good morning" he said gently, looking her in the eye.  She glanced
away, but said nothing.

   "I'm sure you're wondering where you are, and why you're here."

   Again, she gave no response.  She was too afraid of saying something
wrong, anything at all.

   "There are some things you need to know.  I'm sure that you know Mr. 
Byrd?  T-Bone, he calls himself?  Well, as you may or may not know, Mr. 
Byrd wanted you.  And as you probably also know, your mother was in big
trouble with him.  In fact, Mr.  Byrd ran out of patience for his money,
and wanted you as payment instead."

   Heather gasped, struggling in her bonds.  (Oh no!  Could it be true?  Oh
mom... ) But in her heart she knew that it was at least possible.  More
than just possible.  She knew that some very bad things had been going on
lately, and given her circumstance... the worst must be true.  Her mind
teetered on the depths of despair.

   "No!  Oh, no!  OH let me go!  Please?" She pleaded desperately.  "I
don't want to be with him!" she wailed, and started crying in earnest.

   "Now, now, take it easy.  Listen now, this is very important" Oliver
said to her, taking her head gently in in his hands and directing her gaze
to him.  She calmed marginally, but shivered as he cradled her head.  When
he was sure she was listening again, he continued.

   "What you don't know, is that I became aware of what was going to
happen. Where you are right now has nothing to do with Mr.  Byrd.  In fact,
it would be impossible for him to find you.  As long as you're here, you're
safe from him.  I've taken steps to make sure that he'll never find you."

   Heather absorbed this, and allowed herself a moment of hope.  (Not
executioner, but... What then?  I won't be forced to do those things, like
mom has to sometime.  Broken, degraded, forced to....  But wait.  )She
paused, and confusion washed over her.  (If I'm saved, why am I still tied
up?)

   As if reading her thoughts openly on her face, he laid one hand on her
hip, gently, but slightly possessively.

   "Instead, I brought you here.  If I hadn't, then it wouldn't be long
before Mr.  Byrd got you.  He would break your will with threats, drugs,
beatings.  He'd use you for his pleasure.  You'd get addicted to the drugs.
I'm sure he would insist on that.  And then, he would turn you out onto the
streets for his profit.  Anyone with money who desired a cute, innocent
young girl might find his way into your bed.

   But that's not going to happen here.  You're safe.  Ok?"



   "....  Ok." She whispered, looking at him doubtfully.

   "What I would like to do is to release you so that you can be more
comfortable, have something to eat, and get a bath."

   Heather started crying again.  Everything was confused, and it was still
hard to think.  But tied up as she was, and now that she could smell
breakfast, she allowed her hunger and discomfort to win out temporarily.

   "There are a few house rules.  This room will be yours.  With permission
and when I request it we'll go into the room next door.  Beyond that is a
back yard that eventually you'll be able to use.  I know that right now
everything is very confusing.  It's all new to you.  But I'll also expect
you to do as I ask, when I ask it.  It's my hope that you'll come to know
me for my kindness.  However, misbehavior may be subject to punishment.  I
am a reluctant disciplinarian.  Do you understand so far?"

   Heather could barely stammer out the words "Y-y-... Yes." But she was
only giving him the answer that he wanted to hear.  Inside, she was not
understanding very well at all.

   "Take a deep breath, girl.  Let it out.  There, that's better." He said
soothingly.  " Are you ready for me to release you, and have some
breakfast?"

   "Yes, sir" Heather said, a fresh set of tears springing from her eyes.

   "Ok then." He put his strong hands on her waist and smoothly turned her
face down.  She heard a jingle of keys, and then felt his hands at work as
he released her hands from their cuffs.  She awkwardly twisted and
stretched the knots out of her shoulder and arms, as she felt the belt
between her knees unbuckled and released.  She wanted to see, but did not
dare to raise herself from the bed.  Two clicks had her feet released from
their strong leather cuffs.

   Oliver unlocked the chain from her collar.  "There, all done.  Stretch
out a bit, and join me at the table?"

   "Ummm... sir?  What about... this?" she asked, indicating the collar.

   "We can leave that on for now." He said as he placed the cuffs aside and
then took a seat at the table.

   Mortified, she considered the collar, how it made her feel like... a
pet. It was a reminder of what she was now, or maybe what she was to
become. Finding no hope in the man's expression, she hopped off the bed and
came over to have some breakfast.

   Heather hesitated to sit next to this big, strong man with the black
mask on, but drawing in a big breath, she decided to be brave, and made her
way over to the table.  Oliver watched her walk, the curve of the small of
her back, her legs like a dancer.  She moved with a sure grace.

   With a flourish, he lifted the silver lid from the tray, revealing
scrambled eggs and toast, bacon, and waffles, and orange juice.  Heather
tried the orange juice and knew right away that it had vodka in it.

   To her raised eyebrow and questioning expression, he answered "I thought
that this morning would be difficult for you.  It's a drink called a
screwdriver.  It will help make you feel more relaxed."

   Heather had had alcohol before when her Mother was not around.  One of
her friends could get some regularly from her old man, who often failed to
keep track of exactly how much he'd had himself, especially when he'd drunk
himself to incoherence.  On those occasions, she remembered how it had made
her feel so light and free.  Like she could float above the city and go
somewhere else.

   She took a long sip of the drink, wincing slightly from the warm bite of
it, and set it aside while she sampled everything.  The food was actually
really good!  She hadn't eaten in over a day, and didn't realize just how
hungry she was.  (Mom could never get something like this together.  If
wasn't for the meal program at school....  )She reflected.  This led to
thoughts about her mother.  (Is she alive?  Is she looking for me?  ) She
felt a heavy feeling, remembering her mom's pale and blue cast from the
night before.  Her mind's calculation was adding up a sum that she did not
want to face.

   With a visible effort, she pushed those thoughts away, trying not to
wonder where her mother was now, or about her classmates, or how today
would have gone if T-Bone had got her instead.  Somehow she suspected that
waffles would not have been part of the deal.

   Across the table, the man her mind had already nicknamed the Mask pulled
out a newspaper and started reading through it.  It all seemed so oddly
homey, at once strikingly strange to her and yet also familiar, like some
odd version of the way families were supposed to linger over coffee and the
morning paper on Sunday.  Outside of television or movies, this was an
experience that was alien to her.  Life with her mother was a stumbling
shamble between drama, tragedy, and hopeless loss.

   Having breakfast lifted her mood immensely.  Yet as she surveyed her
strange surroundings, and felt anew the collar she wore, she became
unnerved a little again.  (Good day or bad day, collared and kept is still
`tied up'!) She downed a good portion of the screwdriver.  It warmed her
insides, and she hoped that was a good thing.

   After her meal, she became curious about the room she was in.  She
walked all around it, looking at everything.  The TV really WAS that large.
She wasn't sure if there was a special name for TV's that were so big.

   (Theater, maybe?  Home Theater?  Wow...)

   Under the TV she found banks of cabinets and a bookshelf that contained
a sizable collection of books, all geared at her reading level.  There was
a copy of "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe", a book which she
esteemed above all others.  (How did he know?  I mean, not just a small
reading library, but my favorite book!  ) She picked up the old, heavy book
and opened the front cover.  (It's signed by C.S.  Lewis!?  Oh!) She shut
the book quickly, her heart beating faster.  Cautiously then, she flipped
past the inside cover and realized that she was holding a first edition. 
(Even *I* know that's something really rare and special.  )She noticed,
looking down, that all seven books in the chronicle were there.  She'd
never even seen most of them before because her underfunded school library
only had two beat up copies of half the collection.  (If those are signed
too, I'm going to be too afraid to read them!)

   On an instinct, she checked two other books, which turned out to be just
what they looked like... Books of the regular variety.  Not signed.  Not
first editions.  New off the shelf.  They even smelled of strong coffee
like you'd find in one of those fancy mall booksellers.  She closed her
eyes, nose just over the slowly fanning pages, and for a brief moment could
clearly recall one of the many times she had stood in such a store, holding
a book just to inhale the smell of paper and coffee.  Looking but never
buying, and the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach as she knew that
she would have to put it back on the store shelf.  Now she felt the warm
echo of that empty feeling, warmth spreading through her body from the
wonderful breakfast, and in no small part, from the drink.

   Oliver watched from the table, making himself inconspicuous, as the girl
explored the small library, and tried out the TV.  He had locked it down to
some teenage oriented channels, satellite radio, and a few that ran those
low-budget reality mill TV shows.  Plus what few educational channels of
merit that still remained, and had not sold themselves out to airing police
car chases.  When the airwaves were free of any stories about her mother's
death and Heather's subsequent disappearance, he would unlock the local and
cable news channels as well.  So far, there was only grazing mention of
events on the local news.  (I'll have to let her know that her mother's
passed.  I need to find the right time though.  She'll be very fragile for
a bit.)

   He continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye as he pretended
to read yesterday's edition of the local paper.  She fascinated him, in a
way he had never expected.  He had actually expected petulance, screams,
tirades, pleading, waves of tears....

   Instead, she reminded him of a housecat that, although confined to the
insides of the house, nevertheless asserted ownership of its domain. 
Behind her eyes, and the way that she went first to the books, he detected
in her a strong native and unnurtured intelligence.  Maybe this girl,
having survived the life she'd lived, was made of stronger stuff regardless
of how fragile she appeared to be.  Mentally he gave her several points for
poise.

   Heather was feeling a slight buzz now from the drink, and could feel
some of the tension unwind a bit.  She wandered over to a small stack of
current magazines and pulled out one of the fashion oriented ones.  As she
kicked back on the poofy overstuffed couch, she could feel herself sinking
comfortably and even, protectively, into its embrace.  She turned on the
TV, the volume set low, as she started leafing through the pages of the
magazine.

   (Incredible, ) Olliver thought.  (Now this place feels alive.  )

   He left her for a bit, attending to some tasks but mostly getting out of
the way of her taking possession of the room.  After a few hours, Oliver
returned and sat beside her.  She noted his presence but kept her eyes on
the magazine.

   "Heather..."

   "Yes?"

   "It's time for you to wash up.  Please take off your clothes and leave
them here.  I'll have a warm robe and a towel waiting for you when you're
done."

   Heather gaped at him.  (There's no way... )

   "Heather.  Come sit on the coffee table in front of me please."

   Heather didn't move.  She felt frozen.

   Oliver sat up to his full height and assumed a voice of calm command. 
"You will come and sit here, now.  Please."

   Heather weighed her options, realized that she had none, and slowly got
to her feet, then sat before the Mask.

   "When I ask you to do something, I expect it to be done." He calmly
explained.  "I'm making allowances for you right now, but please don't test
me.  Now, give me your hands, my girl." She looked at him a long while, her
every sense cranked up.  He calmly waited.  Reluctantly she placed her
hands in his, poised to pull them back any second.

   He gentled his tone.  "I want to be clear about something.  Here, there
is nothing you need to be ashamed of.  You are a perfectly lovely girl, and
it would make me very happy to look at you.  I understand it will be a
little difficult at first.  In time you'll get used to it." Putting as much
gentleness as he could into his voice... "Can you take off your clothes all
by yourself, or would you like me to help you?"

   Heather sobbed, and taking her hands back, she began to lift her shirt
off.  She hesitated, then up and over her head.  She was wearing a sports
bra.  Her mother reasoned that at the rate she outgrew her trainers, she
might as well give up on buying them.  (That was almost a year ago.) By
now, she had long concealed a substantial amount of growth.  She knew that
as soon as she took it off, one of her secrets would be `out'.

   Biting her lip, she hooked her thumbs under her bra and pulled it up and
away, freeing her B-going-on-C cup breasts from their strict restraint.

   Oliver was surprised.  He thought the girl was fairly flat, as would be
expected, and he was not disappointed with her in the slightest.  It was
obvious now that she had successfully hidden a fairly good pair of breasts.
They jutted out proudly as he marveled at her light pink areolas that went
so well with her fair complexion and dark hair.

   She undid the top button of her jeans, started pulling the zipper down.
Her hand started to tremor, and her resolve crumbled.  Against her own
will, she started to cry.  She looked at the Mask, and her eyes conveyed
her utter misery.

   "It's ok, dear.  Don't be so upset.  If you can't do it, that's alright.
Let me help you." He reached for her, pulling her closer, and turned her
around.  Somehow, then, it was easier for her to just stand with him behind
her where she couldn't see him.  She stared straight forward and didn't see
as his arms embraced her.  She did not look as his hands found her zipper,
and lowered it.  She sobbed a little while she felt the alternating tugs as
he worked the jeans off of her.  She automatically stepped out of the jeans
when she felt them pool at her bare feet.  He steadied her by a shoulder.
She bit her lip as his hands traced their way up the outsides of her legs,
and his strong thumbs hooked into the top of her panties.  She felt her
sharply indrawn breath as he smoothly slid them down and away.  As they lay
on the floor at her feet, she numbly stepped out of them.

   His strong hands turned her to face him once more, and she stared at the
ground.  He lifted her chin with a finger until their eyes met again, and
he gently moved a few stray hairs back behind her ears.

   "I know this is hard for you, but you did really good.  Come with me,
lets get you in that warm bath."

   And she was grateful that as he spoke to her, he had not stared at her
body, but only into her eyes.  Grateful, for the moment, that he led the
way while she padded behind him in her nakedness.  He filled the tub with
hot water, adding some bubble bath to it so that it was like stepping into
a warm cloud.  He held out his arm to steady her while she stepped in, but
she noted, he averted his gaze as she did, and she felt a little bit of her
dignity return.

   "I'll come back in a little while.  You sit back and relax.  I'll
shampoo your hair when I return."

   As she settled back in, the heat of the water worked it's magic on her,
and the vodka's residual effects returned in full force.  Laying in the
bath, she took her hands and slowly moved them over the now released mounds
of her breasts, cupping them and then pulling her hands away to try and
visualize how big they'd gotten in the last year.  Letting her hands sink
back down into the hot relaxing water, she shed a tear... He hadn't even
looked.  (I've been working so hard to hide these.  How the other kids had
stared at them.  Grown men even.  )It had made her feel so... on display.
Like her mother.  Somehow, though, he'd made her feel less exposed.

   After some time, he came back.

   "Have you had a chance to scrub yet?"

   "No... sir." she said.

   He found a luffa, and reaching down past the dense suds, found her feet.
At first she pulled away, shocked.  No one had given her a bath... ever? 
Not that she could really remember.  Let alone a strange man!

   "It's only a wash.  Now give me your foot back." He chided her.

   Reluctantly she did.  He began to work over each of her feet in turn,
massaging, scrubbing, around the arch, her heels, between her toes.

   She guessed instinctively what he was doing.  (He's taking possession of
what's his.  Of me.  )A little sob escaped her, as she looked sideways at
the tile work.  (Do I have to give him... everything?  )

   He resumed kneading her ankles, and she took a deep breath, trying to
relax.  Eventually, she allowed herself to let go of her tension.  He
scrubbed up her legs, and she tensed as he moved his attentions northward.
Deftly though he avoided her private area.  He scrubbed her arms and hands,
leaning her forward he did her back and neck.  Then he worked down her
clavicles, and inexorably across her breasts.  With quick efficiency he
cleaned her breasts, scrubbing deftly across them.

   Heather, however, felt her nipples react as the luffa scrubbed over her,
standing at immediate and painful attention.  (OH!  ) She was glad for the
foam of the bubble bath, thinking that it hid her painfully protruding
nipples.  She struggled to hide her reaction from her face, but it sent an
electric feeling all through her stomach.  A few more passes of the luffa
across her chest and she felt her stomach clench, the skin of her nipples
hardening quickly like someone tightening down twin screws.  She wondered
at how it made her feel so good, and was somewhat excited then when the
luffa continued down her stomach, making her ache.  As he did her sides she
became incredibly ticklish and she giggled and then screeched with
involuntary laughter as he worked over her underarms.  He grinned and
playfully did her sides one more time, eliciting howls of laughter as she
struggled to escape his grasp.  She forgot herself for a moment, playfully
responding to the tickle fight.

   He allowed her to recover while he applied shampoo, working in the soap,
massaging her scalp as he went.  She was suddenly so overwhelmed with
sensation and the sudden relaxation that she could not suppress the huge
yawn that followed.  He grinned at her.  "Stay with me, sleepyhead.  Almost
done."

   He pulled the drain plug.With a hand shower adjusted for hot water he
rinsed out her hair and then played the spray down her body, rinsing away
all the suds.  He directed the warm spray across her breasts, and he noted
the fully erect nipples as the suds disappeared, her slightly indrawn
breath and the way she scrunched her eyes tight as the strong pulsating
spray worked across her chest told him that she was enjoying the sensation
that her now luffa sensitized nipples were sending through her.

   He washed the rest of her off, decidedly paying no special attention to
her crotch or butt... He pulled from a drawer a very plush terrycloth robe.
He held it out before him, so that she stepped from the bath and, turning
her back to him, put her arms into it.  He enclosed her in the robe with
his arms, embracing her deliberately across her breasts with his arms,
pulling her in tight.

   Heather felt completely drunk with sensation, and yawned deeply again.
In the warm embrace of the robe she felt protected, floating with the
effects of the hot water, the vodka, and the startling sensitivity of her
glowing and radiating nipples which even now were poking out into the
fluffy terry cloth.  He dried her body through the robe, and she delighted
when he groped her breasts in the interests of drying her off.

   Oliver quickly dried her hair with a towel as best he could, then
wrapped her hair into a towel bun.

   "I saw those huge yawns, young lady.  What you need is a little nap. 
You've had a stressful morning."

   Forgetting her situation completely for a moment, she looked over her
shoulder at him and gave him a warm blissful smile.  Oliver felt his heart
melt and ache at the same time.

   "Ok, get on up in bed." Oliver said as he turned down the comforter. 
She dragged her way over to the bed and then made her way under the covers,
feeling very tired.  She was aware that Mask had moved to the other side of
the bed.  She felt him reattach the chain from the bed to her collar. 
(Yes, I'm his pet, now).  She was drifting off yet again when she felt him
draw back the covers from her feet, and she did not pull back or even
complain when he reapplied the cuffs firmly to her ankles and connected
them together.  He pulled her feet downwards towards him, stretching her
out a little, and then she heard and felt the click of the lock that
secured her feet to the chain.  He replaced the covers.  She wiggled her
feet and pulled up experimentally and found no play there.

   Movement on the bed told her that Mask had gotten into bed behind her.
He sidled over and lay down behind her, and then he put his front to her
back, spooning her.  He embraced her around the waist with one arm, pulling
her close to him across her chest with the other.  She lay there, waiting,
wondering and fearing what might come next, but the only thing he did was
hold her close to him.  Eventually she heard his breathing even out, and
knew that he was sleeping.  With another huge yawn, she decided that she
was safe enough for the moment, or at least, that there was nothing more
that she could do about it in any case.  She allowed herself to drift off
as well, feeling her neck secured to the headboard, her feet bound securely
to the footboard.  Warm in her terry cloth cocoon with her skin still
radiating excess heat from the hot bath under the covers, with the large
strong man's arms pulling her in tight, protectively wrapped around her. 
Drifting off to a sound sleep, she was not aware when she placed her arm on
top of his.