Elena and the Contract Ch. 02

Bound spread-eagle over a pit, snakes with Mixon's face were leaping at Elena's breasts and nipping fiercely, but all she could do is scream obscenities at them in pain and frustration. Then a monster in her gut growled at them angrily, and they scurried away just as she snapped awake.

Fucked-up dreams, she grumbled to herself, as again her stomach rumbled in need. The lie she'd told last night about her hunger was coming back to bite her, but... Someone's cooking. She opened her eyes: the sun was close to rising, her room a dim blue. The smell of food was distant, but unmistakable.

She sat up but groaned as her breasts shifted with ache. They were peppered with little bruises; Elena wrinkled her nose, wondering if she'd be waking up in pain every day. But the smell of food drove that thought away.

She grabbed at the sweatshirt thrown over the chair. Shrugging it on, she glanced at the pants, but decided the sweatshirt covered most of everything anyway, and the panties had been clean yesterday, right? Might as well get used to parading around at least a little naked, she grumbled inwardly. Grabbing her glasses she wandered toward the scents and sounds of food.

As she padded barefoot out of her room, it again struck Elena that this apartment must cost more than the combined value of much of her hometown of Burton, Indiana. Blue light from the gigantic windows splayed over the area where last night she'd received all those bruises; she grit her teeth at the memory and kept moving.

The kitchen was around a corner off the hall opposite the large central area from Elena's room. In it bustled a round, heavily tattooed man singing low to himself as he worked between an island counter full of food opposite several different pans on a huge stove. It was a cooking area much bigger than she'd expected; Elena guessed this kitchen could probably double as a small restaurant in a pinch.

The chef was nearly dancing between his work on several different creations simultaneously. A red bandana was tied around his head like a pirate, holding back a shoulder-length mop of strawberry-ginger hair turning white. His huge red shirt labeled TEAM SHATNER was tight on his bulk, spotted with grease and food stains. Fat and not tall, Elena thought he would probably roll if pushed over, but shoved the notion away as too mean. Instead, she grinned at his off-key warbling and evident joy in his work.

Her stomach was quick to remind her of the mission, and drew her attention to the island. She gawked at the food splayed around the counter until she could resist no more, and stole forward to snatch a small chunk of fancy French bread. Her movement caught the portly cook's eye: his singing faltered as his smile fell, and he stood still, frowning.

"You're the girl," he said flatly, his eyes thinning. At least he looks me in the eye, Elena thought as she nodded and chewed.

"Not supposed to talk to you," he sighed.

Elena merely stared back, munching the bread; she had no answer to this. After swallowing her mouthful, she replied "Okay," and perched herself on a tall dining chair. "Smells good," she added, chewing another piece of the hard crust.

His stare was unending. "I'm Tort. Tortoise. I do," he waved at the stove full of cooking food, "the prep. Old friend. He likes my sauce." He scratched at his beard and kept looking at her strangely, like he was trying to decide something. His wild assemblage of tattoos, everywhere and each a different style than the one adjacent, was dizzying.

She nodded again. "Smells good," she repeated, chewing the last piece of the bread and staring him in the eyes. "I'm Elena. And I'm hungry, Tort."

His eyes narrowed again in irritation, but it was fleeting; he sighed, coming to his decision. "I can't let an Elena go hungry, for sure. Sandwich, yeah? You want fast, or good?"

She blinked at him a moment before comprehending. "Good," she said with a slow smile.

"'Kay," he said in resignation, but wagged his finger at her. "He won't fire me for this, but don't push it, okay? No talking."

"Whatever," she exhaled, accepting that in this apartment, everything was just gonna be strange and alien for, maybe, ever. She hugged a knee to her chest, pulling her hair around to fidget with as Tortoise resumed his work. With her present, though, his mood was subdued, without the singing or dancing. He tended the cooking food on the stove as he added some meat, onions and an egg to the grill.

She watched silently for long minutes, toying with her hair and ignoring her protesting stomach. As he cooked Tortoise seemed to relax a bit and began humming to himself, intermittently assembling her sandwich between poking at the other cooking food. He held up pickles, baby spinach, mustard and mayo for her approval, and she silently nodded to each. Finally he pulled a long knife from its stand, and with a 'watch this' waggle in the air, tossed it end over end and caught it perfectly, making Elena giggle and clap. Extracting a plate from a cabinet, he transferred her sandwich to it, then cut it diagonally. With exaggerated aplomb he shoved it towards her with a bow and handwave.

"Thanks," Elena grinned as she grabbed the sandwich and took a big bite. Nodding, he pulled a water-filtered pitcher from the imposing refrigerator and poured her a glass. She tried to say "thanks" again around a mouthful of food but mostly failed. Closing her eyes she savored the mix of flavors rolling around her tongue: this was indeed a damn good sandwich. Beats my usual bologna on Wonder Bread, she thought pleasantly.

Opening her eyes again, she was a little disturbed to see the rotund chef continuing to stare at her; she searched his eyes for a reason why, but his gaze was inscrutable. Before too long though, the smell of the stove behind him jerked him out of his reverie, and he turned back to his work.

"Good sandwich," she muttered between bites; he only grunted in return, focusing on the stove. Elena ate and let him work, though the happy humming was replaced by a weird tension. Sated, she downed the glass of water and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she stood up. "Thank you. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cause you trouble."

"It's no trouble --" He turned to face her, but stopped, seeing something over her shoulder. Elena looked behind her to see Ru staring at them in mild annoyance.

"You're up," he said. Was he irritated? He stood there in that electric blue tunic or whatever you call that shirt; stock still, hands clasped behind him, he had the air of a man used to authority. His face was blank, but his tone suggested he wasn't thrilled with seeing her here.

"I was hungry," Elena said meekly, unsure why she felt intimidated by the exotic manservant. No, that seemed disrespectful; her mind cast about for a better word than 'servant.' Perhaps, majordomo? Is that what that word means?

"She was hungry," Tortoise repeated, almost pleadingly. Ru glanced between Elena and the cook, before his face softened a bit and he gazed steadily at the teenager.

"Your outfit for the day is hanging at your room," Ru said, in that unusual melodic cadence. "You have an early gynecological appointment." The syllables in the last came out individually and deliberately, like a verbal gatling gun. "We leave in thirty minutes."

Elena stared at him with wide eyes for several seconds, until she realized he was waiting for an acknowledgement. "Uh huh," was all she could muster, and he turned on his heel and left.

She pushed her glasses up her nose and turned back to glance at Tortoise, but he was busying himself at the stove once more, so Elena turned to go, but not before she heard him speak under his breath.

"So it begins."

"Excuse me?" Elena yelped at him in angry surprise.

"Nope, I said nothing." Elena could barely hear him above the sound of the food on the stove. "I didn't say anything at all," he practically whispered, keeping his back to her.

Elena stared at him, pissed; but, whatever. It was a good sandwich. With a shrug she ambled toward her room. Early morning sunlight was pouring into the large room, with its expansive wraparound view still impressive as ever. Not so bad living here seeing this, she thought again, continuing towards her room. Turning the corner she spied her intended clothes hanging from one of the bolts over the doorway.

She stared at them for several long moments. A note was taped on the t-shirt with two words: NO BRA. Elena could only glare and whisper to herself.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck...."

--

After wordlessly transporting Elena to the gynecologist's office on his moped -- her thoroughly embarrassed to press her braless chest into his back, him seemingly indifferent -- Ru had checked her in, then told her to wait here after her appointment. Which was done fifteen minutes ago.

The waiting room had a few other women waiting their turn. She thought they kept eyeing her legs; this was helping to keep Elena on edge and annoyed. She crossed her arms tight over her chest, pulling at the shirt hugging her ribs. Her bare legs were crossed as well, the cutoff jeans pressing uncomfortably into her (currently, very lubricated) crotch. Which, congratulations to her, now contained a ring she'd be removing every twenty-one days.

Her first gyno appointment ever had been a whirlwind of prodding, questions, information and awkwardness, though the kind young doctor did try hard to make her comfortable. Elena could sense the woman's concern, especially as the doctor discussed STI's... Or maybe this was her imagination. After a lot of questions followed by a thorough exam -- and that was certainly something, wasn't it -- Elena opted for a hormonal ring she could attend to herself. She felt confident she could keep track of dates, and handle mucking about inside herself after the initial plunge. Oh yes, dates she could handle. The date was very important to her now, for the rest of this year.

Date, and time. She looked at the wall clock again.

Increasingly irritated, she flipped through the materials the nurse had handed her. Among the various pamphlets and printouts was a leaflet from a crisis center: the word "trafficked" leaped out at Elena like a whip, causing her to glance sharply at the staff behind the waiting area. Did they know why she was in New York? Was her status as Mixon's... sex slave, I guess... Was that something everyone here knew? Certainly this outfit wasn't gonna convince any of them otherwise.

She bit her lip and looked down at her chest again, lifting slightly her crossed arms. The plain white t-shirt was tailored unlike any she'd ever seen, much less worn. Its shape provided a slight shelf for her tits, though still compressed them in a manner Elena considered obscene. Beyond obscene really, with her nipples incredibly obvious through the thin material. The neckline plunged wide and deep; the waist came in tight and stopped early, her flat tummy and belly button visible above the ridiculous cutoffs. The pants -- daisy dukes, did they call these? -- had decency enough to cover her sex but no more. And without panties they were a lot less than comfortable. The entire ensemble, and its effect on her large braless chest, was designed for someone a hell of a lot more naturally provocative than Elena. The black Chuck Taylors on her feet didn't match the rest of it, but at least they were familiar and comfortable.

And yet... On the way here, she had collected so many stares. Being noticed by pervs was not a new experience for the well-endowed young girl, but never had she been so... On display. As what, Mixon's idea of a sexpot?

The moment she thought his name, the door opened and Mixon appeared. He wore a yellow bike-racer's hat perched at an odd angle, but otherwise appeared pretty non-descript in a blue button-down and jeans, a satchel over his shoulder. He grinned and waved to Elena, holding the door; her irritation finally peaking, she rose with a sneer and joined him walking out. The eyes she felt on her of the other women and the staff only put her further on edge.

It hadn't struck her last night, but he was almost a foot taller than her own sixty-six inches. His frame, so much larger than hers, probably carried twice her own weight, probably more. The size difference made her shudder and blanch for a moment, imagining him on her as Rick had been; but she clenched her fist and calmed herself, willing her legs to keep moving. Columbia.

At the elevator door, Mixon opened his satchel and held out his hand toward the papers Elena had been given. She scowled at him. "These are mine, am I gonna get them back?"

He looked hurt. "What? Of course you will. They're yours, your medical information. I wouldn't do that to you. I'm a sadist, not an asshole."

"Uh, disagree!" she snarled. "Exhibit C," she waved the papers up and down at her super-slutty attire in annoyance. "Exhibits A and B are --"

"Under the shirt," he finished with her in unison, nodding with a smirk. "Okay, I'm an asshole, but I'm not the kind of asshole who'd pull shit like that. It's just easier to carry in this, yeah?" He gestured again for the papers; she finally shrugged and handed them over. He placed them with care inside, then withdrew a leather collar, handing it to her and gesturing at her throat.

Elena narrowed her eyes at him. Somehow she knew this was coming. Sighing, she took the collar. "I guess I can't speak freely anymore, that was a one-night thing, right? Am I gonna get punished for talking now?" she asked as she snapped the collar in place.

He cocked his head to the side and smiled. "Actually, I kind of like you mouthy," he replied.

"No shit," she retorted, her voice flat.

"Yeah. The whole against-your-will thing, it's turning me on."

Weirdo, she thought, instantly struggling to keep the idea from registering on her face.

If he noticed he didn't let on as he continued. "There'll be a point where I tell you to shut your mouth, and you'd best do it."

It was weird the way he'd say things like that, with a smile on his face.

"Til then, fire away," he waved his hands expressively, like a symphonic conductor, then pointed at the collar. "The ring goes in the front, by the way."

Huh. Unexpected. "Really, fuckface?" She giggled despite her fading anger as she twisted the collar into position.

"Careful," he said in that low rumbly tone. But the smile didn't go. His eyes, behind those coke-bottle lenses, had this weird sparkle sometimes.

She allowed herself one more giggle. "Okay, okay. Eff why eye, you can't fuck me for seven days. I'm not a hundred percent on when my last period was. I had, uh, a lot of other shit going on."

He straightened his head and nodded, his look mock-solemn. "Noted. No vaginal, seven days."

"Wait, what?" she gasped at his specificity, but the elevator opened and he stepped in.

Of course he'd do something else to her besides straight fucking, she chided herself. New York sex is just weird, she thought, shaking her head as she followed him.

Emerging into late morning sunshine, he strolled (with Elena trailing at a pace a little brisker than she found comfortable) to the corner, crossed the street to a subway station and down the stairs. She had jolt of provincial excitement realizing the subway would be another first; she hadn't expected so many people though, and kept close to Mixon through the crowds underground. She resisted being overwhelmed by the clamor of squealing trains and stenches particular to Manhattan subway stations. Altogether this day, combined with her goddamn tits being out there for everybody, was A Lot for the midwestern teen.

They stood on the platform and she fidgeted, again crossing her arms in front of her all-but-exposed chest. But Mixon tapped her forearm and shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted not to smirk and couldn't help it.

Elena glared at him, put her arms behind her back and jutted her boobs at him. He brightened, smiling broadly now, ignoring her scowl. He's trying to give me positive reinforcement, she noted with scorn. "Am I gonna have to go out without bra and panties every day?" she inquired with pique.

His eyebrows shot up. "I didn't say no panties," he answered brightly. "I said no bra, not no panties."

Her mouth dropped open, closed itself, and repeated that process a couple times. "I... Fuck," she sighed. He giggled, staring at her in something between confusion and awe. It was almost endearing; but the no-underwear thing, despite being partially her own fault, was pissing her off.

"Where are we going," she blurted finally. The displeasure was back and getting stronger, and she steadily grew more annoyed at his inability to look away from her boobs. She mock-preened a bit back and forth a bit, and watched his heart skip a beat, his pleasure plain on his face. Perv.

"Shopping," he said to her chest. After one last look in her eyes with a half-shrug he gave up pretending, unable to hide his fascination and openly gaping. She considered grabbing his head and jamming it between her big tits, bouncing back and forth against his head with force, relishing the feel of his face against what he was so enamored of.

Wait, what the fuck, no! She frowned at her runaway thoughts; he took that as annoyance at his stare, looking in her eyes once more and returning her frustrated look for a second. Then he gazed around the platform at the other riders.

"If you're good, you can get whatever you want," he murmured airily.

"Whatever I want, huh?" she pulled her arms back to her sides, the thought of buying things improving her mood significantly. "Wait," she countered herself, "What are we shopping for?"

He craned his head back around to her, a jeer of superiority in his eyes. "What am I and all these other bastards staring at today?"

She gaped back at him in confusion. "...My tits?" she exclaimed in a whisper, involuntarily glancing around at the other riders nearby... Yup, she was getting looked at. A lot. Shit. Her impulse was to cover herself, but she fought it down, instead focusing on Mixon, the jerk, who stared at her with that lopsided grin she was starting to hate. "What about my tits?" she demanded sotto voce.

In amazement he stared back at her. "What do they need?" he asked incredulously, as if she should've figured this out a while ago.

Maybe this tight shirt was affecting her brain somehow, because it was hard to see where he was going with this. Until she got it. "Bras! We're going bra shopping, really? Is it somewhere nice?" He nodded vigorously, pleased she'd gotten there. "And anything I want, as much as I want, really-really?" She bounced on her toes and felt her chest jiggle. He noticed, and suddenly she didn't mind so much, so she did it again just a little bit.

"If you're good on the way there," he mumbled as he waggled his eyebrows, obviously trying to insert something cryptic into his voice.

Elena's hackles went up, suspecting fuckery, but still -- new bras! Lots of them! Bras that fit! From a place that had professional fittings! The idea brought a big smile to her face as the train pulled in.

Mixon reached for her hand, and after a moment's hesitation she took it as the crowd pressed in to board. She felt, but struggled not to look like, a total noob stepping from the platform onto her first subway train. Mixon pulled her to stand near him away from the door, and she grabbed a pole to steady herself as the train pulled away, releasing his hand.

"Somewhere nice, right? Super-expensive-nice?" she leaned close to ask.

"Uh huh," he replied, but he was rummaging in the satchel for something. "Proper measurements. Brands they can't pronounce in Indiana. Band sizes for smaller bodies, with cups for bigger boobies. Ah, here it is," he breathed in triumph, pulling out a spray bottle. Then he was pointing it at her. And the look on his face --