Practice
by BluRider
"Abed, madem... richto!" cried the student, his frustrated scowl revealed in the light of the few feeble flickers he managed to produce. The motes of green light quickly died away.
In the corner, his master sat, and watched. He didn't move, or avert his gaze. There was no sign that he had seen the student at all. He just got up slowly, turned, and walked away in the darkness.
The student, angry, called after him. "Why -?" he managed to say, before his form was racked with painful red lightning, and he fell shrieking to his knees.
The master had merely turned to look at him - it was as though the pain spell had cast itself. Still with no expression on his face, the master spoke one word:
"Discipline," he said. Throwing his hands up in a rare gesture of frustration as he left, the master asked himself silently, just how do I teach this boy discipline?
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Old man Foster was crazy. Everybody knew that.
Foster's house was largely ignored. He spoke to no-one and rarely emerged. Neither paperboy nor postman even stopped at his house any more. Letters and papers would pile up without Foster bothering even to toss them away.
Nevertheless, Stacey thought, even crazy people have to eat. Filled with the brash confidence of a twelve year old who had sold every cookie box she had offered, the girl scout walked up the gray, untended lawn to a door that hadn't opened in weeks. She straightened her uniform, which had become somewhat too small for her, and ran a hand through her blonde, shoulder-length hair. Putting on a winning smile, the scout then rapped on the door.
The sound was soft, but seemed to echo inside. A little edgy, Stacey took some five seconds to decide nobody was home, and turned quickly to leave. Then, she heard the door's lock click. Moments later, it opened.
Smiling again, and holding out one of her boxes, Stacey watched the door slowly open, butterflies in her stomach. Foster was as gray and hunched over as his dying lawn and his dilapidated residence. His rheumy eyes took a moment to focus on her, though he didn't say anything.
Suddenly tongue-tied, Stacey gulped, then held out the box. "Would you like to buy a box of cookies, Mr. Foster? I'm raising money for -"
Foster moved to shut the door.
"They're very good," Stacey added, leaning around the shutting door. "I made them myself!"
The door stopped closing, and slowly reopened. Foster looked her slowly up and down, as if for the first time. She felt a little uncomfortable, but waited, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
He looked thoughtful. Moments passed uneventfully, and Stacey began to think that maybe he'd forgotten she was there.
"Mr. Foster?" she asked quietly, jolting him from his thoughts.
He looked both irritated and confused, and his eyes roamed, snapping to the cookie box she was holding out. "Ah, cookies, yes..." he muttered in a thick accent.
He took the box, but Stacey held the other end, and for a moment, they pulled against each other. Embarassed, Stacey stammered "$6 a box, or $10 for two."
The man looked almost surprised, then said "Mm, yes, 'f course. My apprentice will pay you."
Stacey let him have the box, and wondered who this 'apprentice' could be. Did Foster live with someone?
Her question was answered when the old man shuffled inside a few steps, and called "Roland!"
For a little while, Stacey thought there may be no Roland. Maybe the old man had just made him up. Nevertheless, a young man, no more than sixteen years of age by her guess, was soon coming down the stairs.
Stacey looked up at him as he came down. He was pale, raven-haired and seemed very surprised at seeing her in the doorway. He looked to old Foster, who said, simply, "How are your studies proceeding?"
The young man seemed unsure how to answer, stammering "W-well..." as he looked at her. She was starting to feel a bit out of place.
Foster looked at Stacey then too, but spoke to his apprentice. "Show me."
The girl scout took an involuntary step back, out of the doorway. Then, berating herself for displaying fear of the crazy old man, who probably didn't know what was going on, she stepped back into the doorway, and said sweetly to the young man "$6 for the box, please," gesturing to the one the old man held.
Foster was still looking unsettlingly at her. Looking nervous, the young man came to the doorway, fumbling in his pocket. Stacey held out her hand, eager to leave. With one more look back at old Foster, who continued to stare implacably, the young man withdrew his hand from his pocket. It was full of sand.
Stacey had barely the time to make a small, confused noise, before suddenly Roland sprinkled the sand over her head, speaking a weird, hypnotic chant.
The sand seemed to transform into small fireflies, which fluttered around her face. She saw the lights dancing around her, saw Foster stare eagerly at her, and felt a sudden wave of fatigue flow up her body, and yawned aloud as sleep welled up to take her, soon, she could only see the lights. All else was grey. She began to give into it, her eyes fluttered closed.
Then, suddenly, she remembered where she was, what she was doing. She wrenched her eyes open in panic, and saw Foster's face turn angry. He glared at his apprentice. "Study!" he shouted, increasing in volume with each word. "Practice! Discipline!"
Sarah did not know what was going on, only that the young man had drugged her or something. She shook the fatigue from her legs, and fled, dropping her boxes.
Neither man pursued.
She was panting by the time she rushed off his lawn, and she looked fearfully back. The open door revealed Foster grabbing Roland, and forcing him to watch the old man's movements carefully. Her terror flooded back as the old man finished a bizarre group of movements by pointing at her.
Roland whirled to look at her. She was turning to flee once again, to run even further, out of sight of these men. Then, she somehow heard the last words the old man had spoken. She didn't understand them, but something happened to her. She felt a sudden jolt course up her spine. She felt small, insignificant and numb. A voice rang in her mind, a strange word she did not understand. Suddenly, her body snapped rigid, her hands locking to her sides. Her eyes went wide in alarm, but she couldn't stop herself. Suddenly, she could not control her muscles, which had gone stiff and still. Stacey stared blankly at the street, and saw a few people; she wanted to call for help, but found she could not move her lips.
Panic raced through her heart, and her fingertips tingled as she tried to clench her fists, or move her arms. Nothing. She stood, still as a statue. Her eyes, open blankly, wanted to cry. They could not.
As Stacey tried to force herself to move, she heard the voice again. "Come!" she heard it say. Not say, she realised a moment later. Command. She realised, when her legs started to move. Her hands starting to raise, somewhat zombielike, Stacey watched helplessly through her own staring eyes as she moved back across the lawn to Foster's house. Foster said again, "Come!", and she realised that his was the voice in her head. It was irresistible, and she found herself forced to obey the command. Soon, she was standing directly before Mr. Foster, as Roland slowly shut the door after her. The young man watched, fascinated with the spectacle - with her! - as she stood, softly swaying, before Foster, the man whose voice she could hear in her head.
Foster looked at the apprentice, noted him watching the little beauty, enthralled. As though he had planned this, the old man's face cracked in an ugly smile as he turned to Stacey again. His gaze flicking again to his apprentice, he said to her "Undress!"
Stacey jerked straight, an outraged, terrified expression on her girlish face. "I- No! You can't - I won'-" she stammered, suddenly realising she had regained her voice. She was about to scream when Foster, still smiling, said again "Undress!" Except this time, she heard the word boom in her mind, and her hands trembled as she fought the compulsion to do it. Shutting her eyes tight, she tried to retreat into herself, tried not to listen. But she could not stop her hands. She reopened her eyes, in a silent struggle with herself, as she began, with slow, trembling hands, to take off her uniform. She shuddered, though, as she realised there was nothing she could do to stop it. Her uniform, slowly but surely, came off, revealing inch after inch of the helpless girl's soft, pale skin to the staring apprentice and the old man.
When Stacey was half-naked, standing before him in her underwear, Foster's voice ordered her to stop, and her hands fell to her sides. Then, he made her kneel before him. Before she knew what she was doing, or had a chance to resist, she was on her knees before him, looking up at him. In a monotone voice, staring blankly up at him, the young girl said "Master, I am your helpless slave. Your wish is my command. I must obey."
She heard every word as she robotically recited it, and trembled, knowing its truth. He was her Master, now.
Feeling another compulsion, she spoke again. "Master, I wish to obey you. I want to take my clothes off and give my body to you, my Master."
"Plleeasse..." the enslaved little girl scout breathed, her voice husky. "t-taake mee..."
Her hands were already inching toward her underwear, almost completely out of her control. Stacey could not hold them back much longer. The apprentice was staring with almost pathetic eagerness, taking in every word.
Then, suddenly, the compulsion was gone. Stacey breathed easier, before the control reasserted itself. Then, she stood up again and turned entirely rigid. A few short commands later, Stacey had put her scout's uniform back on, and collected her boxes. That part of her mind which wasn't asleep was whirling with questions. What were they doing now?
Whatever it was, she thought, quivering, I won't even be able to control my own body.
She had, with her own hands, taken off almost all of her clothes. If Foster hadn't stopped her, she knew she'd have been naked before them. It seemed there was nothing they couldn't make her do. Then, she tensed, and a shuddering went through her body as she watched Foster start to chant, his hand raised above her forehead. A ray of light shot from it, into her open eyes. She managed a short, stifled scream. Then, her expression went vapid, her face blissful, her eyes unfocused.
"Forget everything that happened to you today," Foster rasped. "But come back tomorrow, at exactly the same time. Now go!"
Still wearing that ecstatic expression, Stacey immediately turned on her heels, opened the door, and left. Obediently, she forgot everything that had happened to her, and her thoughts remained blissfully blank.
Soon, her personality returned, and Stacey noticed she no longer had her boxes. She wasn't sure what had happened, but remembered selling some. She didn't seem to have enough money, though, when she counted it. A slightly weird blankness came over her as she looked at the money. If she hadn't raised enough money, she thought, she'd just have to bake more and go sell them tomorrow.
Stacey rushed on home, to make another few trays of her cookies. She already looked forward to tomorrow.
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In the grey darkness of his house, all was truly quiet for Master Foster for the first time in many months. "Study, practice, discipline..." muttered the old man, sinking into an armchair. Upstairs, the young man was finally heeding his advice. Having seen the gorgeous young girl scout turned into a plaything by Foster, Roland had taken to his training with renewed vigor and dedication. Whenever he was flagging in his efforts, Foster knew, his student could just think back to the expression on the face of the half-naked little Stacey, and his lust - lust for power, and simple lust - would drive him to study and practice.
As a Master, Foster knew many good ways of inspiring discipline. He had found the right one for his student. That was all Foster cared about - the girl could be controlled every day and still not remember a thing. She made a good target to practice on, and that was all he cared about. Later, when her will grew too weak, he would find yet another.
He was glad she had come to his door.