Confused, I am unsure what to say, so I stay silent.
“That’s my name, but you will address me as Master unless I specifically instruct you to call me by my first name,” he tells me, not bothering to look up at me.
After taking off, the unbuckle light comes on, and he comes over and unlocks my handcuffs. “There is a bathroom in the back of the plane; please shower and dress in the clothes set out for you. I expect you to look presentable. There are hair tools and some makeup in there as well. You have one hour,” he says as he pulls me up from my seat.
Not knowing what to say, I respond quietly, “Yes, Master.” I start heading to the back of the plane. Relieved is an understatement. I'm eager to take a hot shower and feel like myself again.
I reach the bathroom door and turn on the lights, scared to look at my reflection, but I make myself do it anyway, wanting to get it over with.
I see myself in the mirror, and my jaw drops at the woman looking back at me. My face is thinner, I have bags under my eyes, and my hair is tangled and matted. I slowly take off the hospital gown I have been accustomed to wearing and inspect my body.
I gasp as I see the bruises, welts, and healing scratches on my backside.
My throat has the newest bruises that look grotesque. I could try to cover some of it up with some of the makeup in here.
First things first, I start the shower, letting it heat up until steam forms.
I moan internally. I’ve missed a hot shower. Before this, I would have thought nothing of it, but now it’s a small luxury.
I hop in and notice the nicest shampoos, conditioners, and soaps from France, recognizing the French words on their labels. They smell amazing. This guy has to be rich beyond belief.
I use every single one and finally step out, sighing deeply and feeling refreshed. It felt good to wash away old blood, bodily fluids, grime, and other things I’m not entirely sure about, but I know that some scars from that place I will never be able to wash away.
I get to work with a blow dryer and curler while also applying my makeup, trying to cover up all the bruises that would be visible with clothes on, focusing on my throat.
I look over at the outfit hanging in the little closet in the bathroom. It is a little black dress that’s going to hug all of my curves, and it's so short that I’m afraid if I bend over, my ass will show. Sitting underneath it are black high heels with red bottoms.
There are no undergarments, which makes sense since the dress has a plunging neckline. But no panties? I shiver at the thought.
I finish getting ready and look at myself one more time in the mirror, shaking slightly at my new reality.
Telling myself I can get through this, I open the door and move back to my seat on the plane.
My master hasn’t moved, but he notices my presence as I take my seat, still not looking directly at me.
“I hope you like steak and potatoes because that’s what they are about to serve us,” he says.
My mouth salivates at the thought. The flight attendant wheels out our meals, and the aroma reaches my nose. I have to fight back the urge to jump on the table and shove my mouth to the brim.
A table slides out from the wall beside me, and a plate is placed in front of me with silverware. The flight attendant then serves us the meal. I look over at Martin, and he’s looking at the meal, and then looks over to me. “You may eat.”
I try to be as mannerly as I can muster as I cut every bite into small bite-like pieces, and I can’t help the moans that come out of my mouth as the steak melts on my tongue; it is cooked to perfection. The only thing that is missing is a good glass of red wine. As if reading my mind, the flight attendant places wine glasses in front of us, showing the bottle to Martin. He nods, and she fills them both to the halfway point.
I gulp that down. Only having minimal water for multiple days, I would have gulped down anything they put in front of me. I barely even tasted the red wine; it just hit the back of my throat.
I finish my meal, wipe my mouth with the napkin, and lean back, feeling completely satisfied.
Martin looks over at me with an eyebrow quirked and laughs.
“You must really like steak,” he says to me.
“You could say that.” I chuckle back.
“Dessert will be served at my house; we will be descending there in about fifteen minutes,” he announces.
I simply nod once, not knowing what to say as we embark on my prison. Martin doesn’t seem that bad. Maybe I lucked out and got one of the better masters who just wants companionship.
As the plane descends, he steps ahead of me and offers me his hand, and I take it as he helps me down the stairs, careful not to trip in these heels.
