Keepsake

You know his name. Of course you know him. All of America knows him, or thinks they do because he's in their homes once a week, at least. My claim to fame is that only I know him inside and out, through and through. So why can I say what I just said, about America's favorite comedian and writer? Because he owns me, and won't let me leave.

There. That's Jay for you. Jay Kingly, the funniest man on two legs. Also the dominant sadist of every masochist/submissive girl's dreams. That's the part I know. Of course, he wasn't always a selfish bastard on top of everything but they say fame does go to your head. I digress.

We met, oh... seven years ago. Before he was anyone but a struggling humorist. He would occasionally sell jokes to others, and the odd (in both senses) piece to humor magazines online. But that was it. Of course that's how we met. There's a whole underworld out there. If you have a fetish you can find a website devoted to it. Even find dating sites. Jay did. I did, back when I was Ellen Macy, late of Los Angeles.

He was everything I had ever thought of wanting in a man who would take control, give me permission to be my true self. Tall, dark and handsome as the cliché goes. He was a walking cliché in that way. He was also every so slightly nerdy, with a well-kept beard and an uproarious sense of the absurd. I wanted to be his; god how I wanted it.

So I moved in. We had the typical American D/s relationship. I would go to work everyday at my job as a womens' accessories buyer for a Rodeo Drive boutique. He would work on his writing and take editing jobs on the side for money. He'd do a gig at open-mike comedy nights now and again. When we were home, I'd kneel by his chair, naked but for a collar of intricate design. Waiting for his words, his orders, the kiss of his lips, or his riding crop. He could drive me to an aching, a pleading, a wetness, a whole, seriously ALIVEness like no other. Sometimes a single word from him, whispered quietly in the bar at our favorite restaurant would make me squirm for hours. Until he gave his permission to cum. And after, he would hold me close, whisper into my ear again soft words, gentling me... ahhh.

That was my idea of heaven. A sheer sexual paradise, with a funny and genuinely warm and caring man.

And so it went, until he sold a humorous piece on the differences between men and women. That piece became a movie (Vistas, you might remember it... that title was shortened from "Vistas from Penis Mountain and Vaginal Valleys"). Jay played a minor character in the movie, and caught fire, as they say. Suddenly he was the hottest thing in Los Angeles. There was money, there was celebrity, there was a period of blooming self-confidence and a different sort of paradise. One with a pool and six bedrooms, and the pool-house. Which was converted to a playroom. And now a prison.

How can that be, you ask. We'll get to that. Right now, I am strolling through a garden of memories. Let me be there for a bit more. Please. (You see I am nothing if not polite.)

Jay went on tour. I did not go with him. When he came back from that tour, his first, he was exhausted. But he brought back new toys to play with, a new crop, a bull-whip... costumes... His imagination soared. And while he was able to be genial and sweet and funny to the rest of America, with me he grew darker, more impatient, quicker to punish than to reward. One night, after a yelling match with his manager, he beat me senseless. When I awoke, I was where he left me, on the floor of the playroom. There was blood streaked all over. His cum leaked from my pussy. The realization that he had fucked me while ... I was in tears.

Eventually, he apologized. Bought me a more elaborate collar, with a single sapphire set above the leash-ring. Because I was so valuable, he said. And I forgave him. He also gave me a ring, and we had a small, quiet wedding ceremony, after my wounds had healed.

And life went on, though he frightened me in a way he hadn't ever done before. Life grew more complicated as he grew more famous. I had quit my job right after the wedding. There was press and paparazzi around most of the time. Jay told them I was shy and reclusive. I stopped going out.

At first, that was fine. I really didn't want to become a "celebrity wife" and lead a rather vacuous life of shopping and scrutiny. Jay was enough for me. As long as I was his "sweetbabyslut" I was fine. He indulged my tastes in books and art supplies. I kept myself supple and thin by a rigorous exercise program he designed.

Tour after tour. Stress after stress. He grew violent and uncaring. I grew frightened and sad.

Then his own show, last year. He kept me in the playroom for a week, once, leaving behind completely the rules of safe, sane and consensual. I cried myself to sleep every night that week. His cum dried on every portion of my body, even my eyelids. He would not allow me to wash it off, explaining that it was a valuable gift that I should treasure. Finally, at the end of the week, he came to me as the Jay I had known. Contrite, caring, lovely, charming... but I could not forgive him this time.

I asked to return his collar. And his wedding ring. Nothing belonged to me in that house, I said. I would take nothing except some clothes and the money I had saved from my job. Our secrets would remain our secrets. America could still laugh at his jokes, laugh with him, this genial bearded comic. He smiled sadly. Allowed a tear to drop from his eye, and nodded. "I'm so sorry," he said. "So very sorry. But...the answer is no. You are mine, my precious slut, my property. No one takes you from me, especially not you. No. Never."

He's not home 100% of the time, you say. How did you not simply walk out?

Remember the earthquake? That 8.7 quake that caused so much havoc? I "died" in it when the pool-house sustained damage. There was a huge amount of damage, and publicity. A body... I have no idea who, or how, and the idea of ever finding out makes my skin crawl... was pulled out of the wreckage. Jay had the place rebuilt while I was locked in a soundproof recording room, chained to a pole by my neck.

It looks just like the original pool-house. But it has no windows, no visible doors... there is a plaque above where the door once was: Ellen Macy Kingly: Rest, My Love.

It's where I live now. Jay comes to me almost every day.

When he branded the words "Forever Mine" on my left breast, he tended my wound sweetly and tenderly. But I am dead to the world.

I wonder when...

Los Angeles Times, headline, May 30, 2032: Jay Kingly, Dead at 65.

Los Angeles Times, headline, June 22, 2032: Body Found at Kingly Estate -- Identified as Ellen Macy Kingly -- Mystery Deepens