The Farmer

By Ashley Zacharias

Hey, you know Marty Miller? Lives on that old farm with his brother, Dennis? You heard what he did? He got himself a sex slave. That’s right. Some young woman says that she’s giving herself to him for the whole summer. He can do whatever he wants with her, as long as she’s still alive and healthy at when the summer’s over. Nobody knows why a young beauty like her would do it, but she did. It’s getting everybody riled up, but what can we do about it? Near as the sheriff can tell, they’s not breaking any laws. Marty has a contract that says that she consents to any sex thing that he wants to do with her. Anything. I tell you, I ain’t heard such a scandal in all my days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Zacharias
• Release date: May 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370958627

Ashley Zacharias

I am a post-modern woman who lives a vanilla life but fantasizes about adventures in masochism. I appreciate readers who purchase my books but, more than money, I need your honest response to my writing. Review my books or contact me at ashleyzacharias.com and let me know what you think of my stories. Good or bad, as long as you are not indifferent, your honest response will help me to write more and better stories.You can find my thoughts about my own stories athttp://ashleyzachariascommentary.wordpress.com/Yours, Ashley

Book preview

A GIFT OF HERSELF, BOOK ONE: THE FARMER

by Ashley Zacharias

Copyright (c) 2018 Ashley Zacharias

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, either in whole or in part, in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy.

Chapter One

Nobody saw the woman walk down the dusty lane in the dappled shade of the overarching beech trees. It was midday, so Marty and Dennis were eating lunch in the back forty.

The woman was dressed for summer; her white sundress and sandals shone in the noonday sun. In her mid-twenties, with long blonde hair and a clear complexion, she was pretty, even compared to the prettiest girls from big cities. Her body was slender, but not skinny, with full breasts and a nicely rounded ass. Fit would be the best description.

She carried a black canvas bag with the Whole Foods logo printed on the side. It bulged in odd places from a heavy load that jingled slightly as it swung from her hand.

No one knew where she’d come from. She didn’t look like she’d been walking far, not the ten miles from Barricksberg, the nearest town, nor even the three miles from the nearest bus stop. Maybe someone had driven her to the end of the lane, dropped her off, and left, unnoticed.

She looked calm and composed, but she must have been excited, if not scared stiff, by what she was about to do.

When she reached the farm house, she pulled a white, letter-sized envelope from the bag and slid it through the mail slot in the front door. Her heart skipped a beat when it slipped out of her reach. She could have turned and walked away, leaving the brothers puzzled and disappointed by her letter, but she would not. Though not yet physically restrained, leaving the letter where she could no longer retrieve it made her feel irrevocably committed. Having made a promise, she always kept it, and she considered this letter to be more that a promise. It was a binding contract.

A big old Gravenstein apple tree stands in the middle of a broad green lawn at the side of the house, opposite the bulk of the farm land. It’s been growing there for a hundred years, at least, and has never been pruned for harvesting. Now, it’s too tall and the branches spread too broadly for anyone to reach most of the fruit. For a century, it has been a shade tree where folks spread a blanket on a hot summer Sunday afternoon, pick a few apples from the lowest branches, and laze around, content after a six-day week of hard work in the fields. In the autumn, when the apples finally drop, the Miller brothers rake up the windfalls and compost them for their vegetable garden. For the most part, the tree is more effort than it’s worth, but they keep it around for sentimental reasons. It’s the playground that they’d loved the most when they were boys.

After today, they’re going to look at that tree with more delight than they’d ever thought possible.

The beautiful woman paused just outside the spread of the branches, fifteen feet away from the sturdy trunk. Here, she set the bag down and kicked off her sandals to stand barefoot on the lush grass. She breathed deep, trying to still her pounding heart, and stared at the tree for a long moment, savoring her last minutes of freedom.

Then she pulled the dress off her body, folded it neatly, and set it next to the bag.

She wore no underwear – neither bra nor panties – so, she rendered herself nude with that act. The sun was warm on her pale skin. Her nipples stood tall in the slight breeze and her fine pale pubic hair fluffed in a profusion of curls.

She is a natural blonde.

She retrieved the jangling bag from the ground and walked to the gray trunk.

Standing close enough to touch the bark, she pulled a wide, two-foot-long, red velvet ribbon from the bag. Rooting around for a moment, she dug two keys from the bottom of the bag and threaded them onto the ribbon. One key was a small, simple tab on a hollow shaft. The other was a standard serrated padlock key.

She tied the ribbon about her neck like a choker, fastening it in a large, neat bow. Her body was a gift and this ribbon would be her only gift-wrapping.

Her heart was pounding like a pile driver in her chest. A drop of sweet sweat trickled from her right armpit, to pause on a rib by her breast and slowly evaporated. Her breath was coming faster now.

She drew ten feet of chromed chain from the bag and walked an end in a big loop around the tree trunk. She wrapped a small loop around her left ankle and threaded the hasp of a padlock through the link at the end and then through the chain close to her ankle, forming a loop too small to slip off her foot. Then she took the long end – the one that was wrapped around the tree trunk – and threaded it through the hasp.

She took a deep breath and clicked the lock closed. She was now bound to the tree with a figure eight of chain, the small loop around her ankle and the big loop around the tree. She could move no more than three feet from the tree in any direction.

She drew a pair of handcuffs from the bag and clicked one side closed around her left wrist, letting the other cuff dangle free for a minute.

The heavy leather blindfold was gratuitous – the chains and handcuffs would be sufficient to bind her irrevocably to the tree – but she wanted a feeling of complete helplessness that would come only with the deprivation of sight. She would not know who was around her, nor know what they were doing, until she was touched, manhandled, and physically forced to submit.

She would depend on the mercy of fate and the kindness of strangers. She knew both to be fickle and uncertain.

She had chosen a blindfold with a double strap to ensure that she could not scrape it off by rubbing it against the tree trunk. Once it was buckled tightly around her head, the lower strap passing below her ears and around the base of her skull and the upper strap passing above her ears at the widest point of her head, it was going to stay in place until someone else removed it.

This was the last instant when she could still free herself. Only one wrist was cuffed. She could still reach up, unbuckle the blindfold, untie the ribbon from her neck, unlock the padlock that chained her ankle, and walk away.

She would not.

She paused to savor the commitment that she was about to make, to breathe one final sweet breath of freedom, to reaffirm her decision to put her destiny into a stranger’s hands.

Then she put her hands behind her back and clicked the other cuff about her right wrist.

It was done.

She moaned with instant of regret.

She could no longer reach the keys that were tied around her neck. She could no longer move more than a few feet from the trunk of this big, old apple tree. She could no longer determine her own fate.

She was entirely dependent on the good will of a man that she had never met.

A man who was soon going to use her body freely to gratify his every sexual desire.

She sank to the cool grass, leaned her back against the rough tree trunk, and waited for someone to come and take possession of her.

Chapter Two

Al Karplus had been delivering mail to the Miller brothers for twenty years – ever since he’d finished a four-year stint in the navy and come home to take a job with the post office.

All the other farms in the county had mailboxes by the road. At those farms, he drove up to the box, reached out the window of his van, and shoved the mail in. But not at the Miller’s. They were a special case. He had to put their mail in a slot on their front door.

Their farm, being the first in the area, had begun receiving home delivery more than a hundred years ago and that tradition persisted to this day. Back in the twenties, the Millers’ great grandfather, Carl Andrew Miller, commonly called Cam, had been a big wheel on the city council. He had struck a deal with the Post Office for continued delivery to his door. Though the special treatment irritated most of the farmers for miles around, it still held. The oral history of the town included a number of stories about corruption and double dealing by old Cam. They weren’t all wrong.

It helped salve some the mailman’s annoyance at the Millers’ need for special treatment that Marty Miller never failed to include a hundred bucks in his Christmas card.

Al could drive his van into the laneway to reach the house but usually he didn’t. The lane was narrow and turning around was difficult, especially when the Millers’ cars were parked by the house. It was easier for Al to park the little van on the road and walk up the Miller’s laneway than to drive in and have to jockey the van around with a series of short jerks and sharp turns to drive out again.

He would do all that if the weather was poor, not when it was dry and clear like today.

Al got a surprise halfway down the lane.

At a distance, he thought that the blonde must be wearing a beige body suit so that she could practice yoga on the lawn. As he got closer, he realized that she was not. He could see a blonde thatch between her legs and rosy nipples capping her ample breasts. The woman was naked, save for a big red velvet ribbon that was tied about her neck and a big pair of sunglasses.

When he got even closer, he saw that those weren’t big sunglasses covering her eyes. She was blindfolded.

As long as he stayed quiet, she wouldn’t know he was here. He could stare at the nude beauty to his heart’s content.

He crept to the edge of the lawn, the Millers’ mail still clutched in his sweaty hand, and looked the woman over from head to toe and back again.

She was not only blindfolded; she was physically restrained. Her ankle was fastened to the old apple tree by a chain with a heavy padlock. Unless she could gnaw through the trunk like a beaver, she wasn’t going anywhere.

He crept around the edge of the lawn to see her from behind. Her hands were locked behind her back with a pair of gleaming chrome handcuffs.

She couldn’t cover her breasts and crotch with her hands, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t seem to. She stood passively, oblivious to everything, waiting patiently.

Al knew that he should call out to her and ask if she was okay. But he didn’t. If he made any noise, then she would know that he was here and might object to him ogling her.

Besides, she looked okay. She was clean and her hair was recently brushed. She wasn’t dirty or bruised. She wasn’t complaining or struggling against her chains. She was just standing calmly, enjoying the dappled sunlight on her skin.

Al was sure that the Miller brothers weren’t sadistic kidnappers. He’d known them since they were children. Marty, in particular, was straight as an arrow. And Dennis didn’t have to kidnap women, he had his pick of any woman in the county. And had picked up most of them already.

After a bit, having seen all that there was to see, Al sighed in contentment, returned to the Miller’s front door, and shoved their mail, now damp with his sweat, through the slot.

Chapter Three

The bound woman didn’t feel as calm as she appeared. Dread surged through her in waves; the troughs between the peaks were filled with sick sexual excitement.

What had she done to herself? She had never felt so helpless. She couldn’t move more than a few feet from the tree trunk; she couldn’t do anything useful with her hands; she couldn’t see even a sliver of light.

Sooner or later, a man was going to touch her, grab her, and take possession of her. Own her.

She had done what she could to bias events toward the right man, the one that she expected, but that wasn’t certain. The wrong man could stumble on her first and then she would be enslaved to some random person for the next three months.

She had designed her surrender to allow exactly that possibility. She had her reasons. But if it happened like that, her plan would fail. If the wrong man took possession of her, he could turn out to be a sociopath.

What would the probability be of that? What proportion of the American male population were sociopaths? One in a hundred? Or more? Maybe one in twenty? As high as one in ten? She didn’t know. She only knew that, as nearly as she could determine, the Millers were not sociopaths. But even that was only an educated guess. Maybe they were good at hiding their evil inclinations. She’d done what research she could, but her investigation had been superficial at best.

She couldn’t know what darkness hid in Marty’s and Dennis’s hearts. Not until it was too late.

She’d calculated that the odds in her favor and then rolled the dice. Now she could only wait and see if she’d rolled snake eyes despite her best estimates.

And if her best guess turned out to be correct? How much better would that be than her worst fear?

Before darkness fell, she was going to be fucked by some stranger as much as he wanted in any way that he wanted. Would he lay her down and spread her legs? Bend her over? Skull fuck her? Pound her in her asshole? All of the above?

Even if her plan worked exactly as she anticipated, she was likely to be fucked multiple times in assorted ways before morning. Possibly by more than one man.

And that was just the first of a hundred nights to come. A hundred nights of being fucked over and over again.

The sun shone through the apple trees, warming her skin, while another wave of dread washed through her gut.

Her crotch was so wet from anticipation that it was overflowing.

But with her hands cuffed behind her back, she couldn’t wipe the slickness from her inner thigh.

She could only wait.

Chapter Four

Marty and Dennis Miller returned to the house early. The alfalfa had been planted two weeks ago and, thanks to generous rainfall last week, was germinating on schedule. The corn was growing just fine. The vegetable garden was under control. Now that spring planting was over, tending to the crops was only a minor chore. Mother Nature would do the heavy lifting for the next three months. Hard work wouldn’t be required again until harvest time.

Not that Marty and Dennis had to work particularly hard at the best of times. The farm was largely a hobby. They rented out most of the fields to larger farms. That earned enough revenue to pay taxes and upkeep on the property. They supported themselves by working at lucrative day jobs.

Their day jobs were flexible. Marty was a freelance computer programmer and Dennis sold Cadillacs at Sean O’Brien’s dealership in town. That allowed them to put in time on the farm during planting and harvesting, as well as spend most warm summer days puttering around. They didn’t keep animals so they could shut down the farm during the winter months and work full time at their day jobs. It was a good life.

As was his habit, Marty checked the mail as soon as he came into the house. They were fortunate that the mailman came all the way to their front door to deliver; most farmers in the area had to go out to the road to check their mail box.

Today, he was surprised to find a plain white envelope underneath the usual assortment of advertisements. There was neither an address nor a stamp. On the front, a feminine hand had written, Martin Miller: Please read this immediately.

The envelope wasn’t sealed. Inside, he found a handwritten letter:

Dear Mr. Martin Miller (or whoever finds this letter):

You will find me chained to the big apple tree beside your house. I am giving myself to you for the summer as a gift, beginning today, subject to the following conditions:

1) You may use me sexually in any way that you wish as often as you desire.