There were only three incidents by which Valerie Norton became a fixation in my mind. The first was when she was twelve and I had just turned twenty. Up until then I'd scarcely noticed her. I've forgotten what errand took me to the Norton home, but the door was opened and a very feminine voice said, "Come on in." What I beheld is as vivid in my mind today as it was then.
We lived in small town informality. The scene I walked in on was far less remarkable then than it would be now. Mother and daughter faced each other in unmistakable confrontation. Even then, Valerie showed the promise of the poised beauty she has since become. Her cheeks were flushed, her chin rebellious. She did not turn, conceding her mother the floor.
"Ah, Garret, we'd like to ask a favor of you."
I guessed instantly. Mrs. Norton was holding a switch of trimmed willow-gauche and unprepared. "I'm intruding," I stammered. "I'm sorry."
"Not at all, Mr. Burgoyne. In fact, Valerie has something to say to you. Go ahead, dear."
I won't pretend I was not intrigued. I was! Valerie half turned to me, and after a small stubborn silence, recited what I realized was a set speech memorized from other occasions.
"I have misbehaved, Mr. Burgoyne. I'm to be punished by having my hands switched." The young voice was strangely without emotion. "Mother believes it is good for me to be shamed by a witness. We would be pleased if you would watch."
"That was well said, dear. You won't mind, will you, Garret?"
I was still young enough to be shocked and embarrassed and as pink as Valerie. Half of me longed to turn and run, but the other half did not, and Mrs. Norton had a commanding presence. I did my best.
"Well, if s that what you'd like, but I really don't think-"
"Garret is being kind, dear. Hold out your hand."
Only a faint hint of disobedience could be detected in the slow raising of the young arm and the stretching of feminine fingers. The blow was vicious. My own gasp matched that of the girl who had receive it.
"Now watch your manners, dear."
The manners of the youthful delinquent were impeccable. No writhings or contortions, only regular breathing and the thrusting of her wounded palm against a slender hip. Then there was the slow raising and extending of her other hand to receive another cut as unkind as the first. This time Valerie placed both injured members within her armpits and hugged them tightly. Her eyes caught mine only briefly, but I knew they held a message I could not read.
"Valerie has been unusually difficult, Garret. She is to receive two more."
Mrs. Norton's authority was as compelling on me as upon her daughter. I stood rooted, shamingly conscious of a flood of lust such as I had never known.
"You've had a short rest, dear. We may as well get this over with."
I watched in disbelief. The girl's hands must have been hurting abominably, but Valerie delivered them to the willow with the same studied calm as before. Her tears were unostentatious, staining her cheeks in lieu of pleadings. A swift slash hit her, then another.
"Thank you, Mother."
"You're welcome dear. And what about Mr. Burgoyne?"
"Thank you, Mr. Burgoyne. I'm sorry to have bothered you."
The second instance by which Valerie Norton was etched upon my mind came two years later, this time by phone. It was the girl herself.
"Mother wonders if you'd drop over, Mr. Burgoyne." A pause. "I'd be so grateful if you would."
Valerie met me at the door, a sleek slenderness now hinting at a maturity not far distant, cheeks pink, eyes brightly troubled.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Burgoyne. But Mother wishes-"
"Don't let it bother you. I'm sorry too."
Mrs. Norton's maternal authority was very much there, but as gracious as ever. This time two switches were draped across a chair.
"Good of you to come, Garret. Now, Valerie, please."
"I've grown up since last time, Mr. Burgoyne, and I'm taking piano lessons, so Mother thinks it shouldn't be my hands this time. I'm terribly ashamed about where I'm to be punished."
"Please don't be. I'm sure Mrs. Norton knows best."
My heart was thudding like all get-out as maiden panties were tugged down over lush young legs. The girl's face was set in grim determination as she set the flimsy thing aside, then bent over and touched her toes, knees as stiff as rods, bottom reared. Her final motion was to flip up her dress and gather it above her waist.
At that age and in that place maiden derrieres had rarely come my way. The taut twin cheeks now exposed to the air and to my startled gaze were exquisitely round, possessing a blush all their own. I was not then as familiar with the female anatomy as I am now, and standing discreetly to one side I failed to observe those girlish secrets so beloved in Victorian reference. But what I did see impacted with a surge of passion similar to my memory of that other time. This was vivid stuff.
f "You will hold that pose, dear. Wriggle as you wish."
"Yes, Mother."
Again the swift, enigmatic glance came before Valerie fixed her attention on the rug. The willow whined its song and bedded itself for a moment in virgin skin. Hips swayed, young lips gasped, and a sob acknowledged agony. I watched, enthralled, as Valerie absorbed six strokes upon bare skin not normally exposed to public view, skin which now bore six shameful scarlet stripes.
"You may stand up, dear."
"Thank you, Mother."
I recall being amused by a young girl drying her cheeks with her panties before tugging them back up on her wounds. Nor was I forgotten.
"Thank you for watching my punishment, Mr. Burgoyne. I really am sorry to be so much trouble, but Mother thinks it will shame me more if whoever watches is not too old. I mean, you're only-"
"Mother asked me to enquire if you'd join us for coffee."
The third encounter came by pure chance, but left me more puz-zled about this girl than had the first two. Valerie must have been seventeen or eighteen. I was home on vacation from my training for the Agency, and that had already modified my capacity for shock.
I was seeking nostalgia by a ramble through a favorite bit of deserted woodland when I heard the voices. Unblushingly, I spied.
Valerie was totally naked. Her hands were tied and drawn up above her head to a handy branch. She was being laughingly whipped by three girls of her own age, two with switches, the third with a belt. From neck to knees the tied girl's skin bore blushing evidence of what was being done. I was about to stride angrily to her rescue when she turned to show a face as gaily involved as those who punished her.
"See, I haven't screamed. You can't make me."
I recalled the covert glances. Was this their answer? Here was a game between girls in which I had no place. I watched the playful whipping of the naked Valerie Norton before I stole away. But I carried with me a memory of ineffable beauty. I have it still.
The Agency absorbed me. The Agency has no official name, and the things it does have no names either. It's best that way. I had been lucky to qualify. The Agency picks its young men with care. The years slipped by, and my visits home were few. Except for those three incidents, the Nortons faded into limbo. I was thirty-two when I saw Valerie again.
I hadn't known she was in Washington or in the service. Why should I? She was one of thousands, just somebody's stenographer. But the moment I caught sight of her I knew. Among a multitude of girls she had a quality of her own. I knew what that quality was. I knew right then that Valerie belonged to the Agency. I had been looking for a girl.
"Why, Garret, how wonderful!"
I kissed her, and it confirmed what I had known. I studied her as we talked. She was perfect.
I suppose I'm a bastard, but in my work you see and do a lot of things, and you come to know that the end justifies the means. What's one single girl count in the stakes we play for? And after-wards she would be glad it had happened. At least I thought she would.
For Valerie Norton I was the Agency, and what the Agency wanted it took. The following day I arranged for the taking of the girl.
CHAPTER TWO - Valerie Norton
IT happened in that little street joining Prowse Avenue and Latimer Drive. It's so respectable, no one ever there-just parked cars and me. It was dark and I was late, hurrying on my way. I never saw who did it. I still don't know, but he was strong and he held the pungent pad over my face while I fought and faded. I've just woke up.
This can't be true. I'm naked!
My feet are joined by anklet and a chain.
Naked means a boudoir or a brothel. Chained feet means a dun-geon. This place is neither. It's a pleasant, well-furnished lounge. There's even a bar. But the windows are barred and well up in the air, and the door won't open. I've tried it. And it's the weirdest sensation trying to walk with these things on my ankles, sort of like a kid's game we used to play. They won't come off; I've tried that too.
I've been kidnapped. What else! It could be a joke, but I don't think so. There's someone coming. Good gosh, suppose it's a man! And there's not a rag in sight, and I've never been naked with a man! It's a girl. Well, thank goodness for that! A very lovely girl too, and she's got a bit of paper from which she reads.
"Why, hello! I looked in earlier, but you were sleeping. You're Valerie Norton. I'm Opal Rennie. Isn't this nice-just the two of us alone? Let's see, you're twenty-four, aren't you?"
She's a bit breathless. I suspect I'm a job of work for her. She carries on.
"You were with the Department of Cultural Services as a steno, eh? Well, the boys will easily look after that."
"Who are the boys?"
"Oh, well, they're the Agency, of course. You'll have to get used to the Agency."
"I don't have to get used to anything. I want to go home. I want clothes, and I want these things off my feet."
"Yes, of course." I can see she thinks I'm a nuisance. "That's the way I felt, but that's more than two years ago." She looks at me brightly. "Two years is all we have to put up with in this job. My term was up a month ago."
"Term?"
"Well, sentence, if you prefer. I'm afraid you're a prisoner. I'm terribly sorry."
"You're sorry! What about me?"
"I do understand. I mean, I've been there." She looks distressed. "I'm no good at this, but Garret asked me to drop by."
"Garret?"
"Mr. Burgoyne. This is sort of his department. But you won't see a lot of him. He's so involved-"
"You mean, Garret Burgoyne had me kidnapped?"
"Well, yes. That's the way it happens with us girls." She actually chuckles. "None of us are going to say yes to a proposition like the Agency makes."
I take a very deep breath and wonder how much Garret remembers and if there's a connection. If he's in on this, there can't be very much wrong. It could be a joke on me, or the department, and Opal seems fun. But just the same!
"Why are my feet chained, Opal, and why am I naked?"
"An introduction, dear. Get you in the mood."
Oh, damn, she's taking it for granted I know things, and she's so sweetly patient. The only thing I know is those two times with Garret long ago. But surely he never guessed, and I'm certainly not going to speak of it. I'll try and be patient too.
"Opal, set me free-let me go. There's still time before I get angry or the police are involved."
"It's good you're not too frightened, Valerie. They try so hard not to frighten us at first. I remember I was only puzzled and angry and frightfully embarrassed. And that reminds me... " She shuf-fles in her bag and produces handcuffs, at the sight of which I cringe. "I'm supposed to put these on you. You won't mind, will you?"
"Of course I'd mind. Put them away."
"I'm afraid you have no choice."
There's something in her voice. Maybe I'm in trouble, more than I think. Desperately, I complain, "This whole thing is silly. It's kid stuff. What can you do if I refuse those handcuffs?"
"Whip you until you accept them."
I know I heard that, but I don't want to believe it. "You and who else?" I demand with more courage than I feel.
"Valerie, please! Let me put them on. They don't hurt."
"Opal, no!" I look at her askance. "I'm not that much of an idiot."
The long lean riding crop is withdrawn from beneath the couch apologetically, but it slashes across my naked shoulders with ex-cruciating pain. I leap up, but instantly fall flat, tripped by my chained feet. Before I rise I am cut again and again until I yowl in anger and frustration, and leap once more to try and grab the crop. Once more I fall and the awful slashes continue until I gasp, "All right, all right, I'll do what you want."
"I'm terribly sorry, dear, but look on it as lesson number one." Opal gazes remorsefully. "Hurts horribly, doesn't it?"
What am I supposed to do! This place and the girl defeat reason. She's just whipped me with the same patient air as if offering coffee or modeling a dress. Now she's looking at me with a raised eyebrow while she fiddles with those horrible shining things she wants me to wear. I hold out my hands.
"Behind your back, Valerie."
I pull my hands back as though bitten. There's no way I'll make myself that helpless. Good gosh, with her arms in back, a girl's a nothing. I suddenly feel all breasts.
Resentfully, I whisper, "No, please don't. Please don't make me do this."
"It's orders, dear. You simply must."
Smiling her winsome smile, Opal reaches for the crop. My weals still scorch. I turn and deliver my wrists to cold steel and a series of metallic clicks. I face her once more, helpless.
Sulkily, I ask, "Why? What good will it do?"
"There's a reason, Valerie. Garret will be here any moment now. He wants to talk to you."
I freeze. It can't be possible! My hands are behind my back, and I can't cover a thing, and I'm naked. It is borne upon me that my hands are fighting a battle of their own, tugging and twisting.
"You can't get free of them, dear. It's no use chafing your wrists." Opal is sweet reason personified, gazing at me in rueful admonition.
"But Garret's a man!" I exclaim stupidly. "I'm naked! He mustn't see me like this."
"He helped me remove your clothes, dear. He wanted to confirm his original assessment. You're a lovely girl, or haven't you realized?"
So Garret's seen me naked! All I have left to lose is to be raped.
But I'm not even a virgin. Oh, shit! Opal's back with her bit of
paper.
^ "It says here you're sort of into the scene, that you've been tied up and whipped, and, well, you like fun and games."
Damn Garret Burgyone! He's stripped me more than naked. But I'm not going to tell him a thing. He only saw me those two times with Mother, and they don't prove what he's thinking.
For Opal's benefit I mutter, "So what?"
"Valerie, you're halfway there. You won't need nearly as much training as I did. You're not going to throw hysterics and think everyone's insane. Gee, I think it's wonderful."
Opal's sweet, even though I'm still scorching from her crop. Before I can dampen her enthusiasm, the door opens and in walks Garret. The son of a bitch's smile is warmly welcoming.
I'm on the rug, sitting back on my heels. The only way I can hide my important parts is to stretch out flat on my face and talk back over a bare shoulder. But that's too high a price to pay for modesty or purity or shame. Piss on it! I turn, my breasts in profile. I take a deep breath. At least he can't see my sex.
"Opal briefed you, sweetheart?"
"She's told me some things, and I'm not your sweetheart. Look here, Garret-"
"Run along, Opal. Best I talk to her alone. I'll ring when I need you."
Opal quietly exits. I'm alone with a man, and I'm naked. What's more, I don't even have hands. Vehemently, I hiss, "I never thought you were like this."
"Like what, sweetheart?"
"That'd you kidnap me, and strip me naked, and chain me."
Garret holds up a warning hand. Damn him, he's got the nicest smile, and I'm wondering what he remembers. He's almost laugh-ing. "All in the line of duty, Valerie. You've been chosen."
"Why me?"
"I like you. You're what we need. The Agency approves."
"You know what you can do with your Agency!"
"Oh, sure. Thing is, what's the Agency going to do with you?"
I am conscious of breathing heavily under this man's unabashed interest in all I am. This is something new. I've been blushing since he walked in. Sulkily, I retort, "So, all right, what is it going to do?"
"Keep you prisoner for two years. Salary one hundred thousand dollars per year. Your duties mostly hurt."
"Thanks, but I'd sooner go home."
"You can't."
We stare. I understand why they gave me the handcuffs. They reveal me totally and make me helpless. Probably the most perfect way for a man to interview a girl. My store of courage wanes. It's not a bit hard to let a tear trickle down my cheek.
"What was that quote?" Garret waves a careless hand as though to pluck some word of wisdom from the air. "If ye have tears, prepare to shed them now." He grins disarmingly. "I suggest you do this, sweetheart. The Agency has got you for two years. Your duties are to entertain VIPs, regardless of their tastes."
"Be a whore?"
"That will be the lesser of your chores."
I'm too angry to sit here on the rug. I scramble erect and discover it's no longer that easy. But now my pubic patch stares Garret in the face and he stares back. I plump myself in a chair and cross my legs.
"You're a very beautiful girl."
"Thanks. I still want to go home. And, as for being your whore, hire a call girl. They only charge a hundred."
"Valerie, get your head out of the sand. This isn't a bad dream, and nothing's going to go away." Garret's voice has turned sober. "I want you to look straight at where you're at and take it from there." His grin returns. "Oh, and you don't have to cross your legs. I've seen a good many of those little facilities you're trying to hide."
"You're being a bastard."
"No. I could have a plug ugly in here who'd beat you around until you'd agree to anything, and be more respectful to boot. Would you prefer that?"
"No." I look at him distractedly. "But we knew each other when I was still a kid-"
"Try thinking of the hundred thousand a year for a change."
"I can't. It frightens me. For that they must expect something awful. And why this two years business?"
"We figure it's the two best years of your life. You're the perfect age, and our VIPs recognize quality. And you're right-we do expect a lot for the money." Garret sighs. "But remember, you're selected. You don't have any choices any more."
"All right, tell me what your lousy VIPs expect."
"The whole spectrum, short of injury. Mostly they're addicted to the whip or the crop."
"So I'm picked because you watched my mother cane me a couple of times! Garret, for god's sake-"
"I watched some girls string you up to a tree stark naked and whip you. It was in that patch of trees we called Apache Wood."
Oh, shit, what else does he know! Bitterly, I accuse, "What you spied on was fun-this isn't."
"Your mother really hurt you. That wasn't fun."
Damn him, I'm almost panting. "You saw me being punished, and it hurt like all get out. Since you've already guessed-sure, it made me hot between my legs. There's lot of things that make a girl hot down there. They don't make me eligible for your VIPs."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Okay, by your standards, I suppose. Garret, you're being mean. Take these beastly things off my hands and feet."
"And have you flouncing around as though you owned the place? Hell no! Those bits of metal and your nudity are the only reasons you've listened thus far."
He's right, but there's no way I'll admit it. I almost wish he'd sent in his plug ugly first thing. By now I'd be broken and bleeding and saying yes to anything. I can go on quibbling this way all the rest of the day, but I don't suppose he will. I'm about due to get some sort of boom lowered. Slowly, I sum it up.
"I'm kidnapped. I'm sentenced to two years servitude. I have a job, which demands that I submit to punishments from guys I've never seen before. And, as a bonus, I get raped."
"Excellent!" Garret gently applauds. "On the rape, though, it's only about half. The rest are impotent."
"How lucky can I get! And if I refuse?"
"Opal told you. In fact, I notice she's given you a sample. You get whipped until you realize what a wonderful position you've been offered. We're making it as easy as we can."
That's the hell of it: I suppose he can. These cains say it's real, and the scalds left by Opal's crop still hurt. Well, I can't deny it happened. But I have to wonder about a girl who didn't know Garret or who'd never had my mother.
"You start work in five minutes, sweetheart."
The bomb is deliberately casual, but it hits me like a blow. My ironed wrists tug, and my ironed feet uncross themselves in shock. If he sees my pussy, so what!
I muster all my appeal and say, "Garret, you're not going to toss me to the lions, are you?"
"He's not a bad guy. Perfect English, though goodness knows what he is. We've told him he's your first."
"Rape of the virgin, huh?"
"Well, you know about that, sweetheart. Oh, and he's got a thing about caning hands and soles of your feet. Hope you don't mind."
"Garret, you're being a bastard."
Once again we stare. I seem to have progressed since last time. I am on the payroll and have a job. I expect I'll come to know this is for real, right now I'm not too sure. Garret helps.
"Would you like me to fuck you, sweetheart? I always think it helps."
"Don't be disgusting."
"Four letter words bother you? Why not pretend it's rape? It'll salve your conscience in case you enjoy it."
"Garret, you're giving me some sort of shock treatment."
"Anyone ever take you forcibly?"
"Yes. It happens toe very girl-until we know the signs."
"You see, you're halfway home. Let's get you started."
This is it! It's happening! There's always this moment in every-thing. Garret picks me up with frightening ease. Cradled in his arms, I am kissed again and again. I kiss him back, hoping for a reprieve and because I need comfort. It is good to be carried in male arms, but for me there is no reprieve.
"Miss Valerie Norton, may I present Mr. Fazwiri Atollah."
"Call me, Bill," Mr. Attolah says wearily. "Saves a lot of trou-ble. I hear you're a new girl. First time, eh?"
I may as well tell him yes. I stand, naked and feeling foolish, for his approval. I wouldn't stand this way if I wasn't scared I'd trip. And, oh gee, I'm so damn helpless!
He nods, and I'm piqued by his apparent boredom. After all, he's got a naked girl-me! "I'd offer you a drink, Valerie," he continues, "but I want you alert-your sensations acute. Do you understand?"
"I think so. You're going to hurt me."
"Right, but I'll fuck you first." He beckons. "Come here, I'll take those irons off your feet."
I could not obey more gratefully. When the second anklet falls away, I leap for the door.
I hadn't noticed the whip. I notice it now. Mr. Atollah uses it with skill and vigor on my naked skin. I scream in anger and pain, but wherever I turn the snaking lash follows, blow after blow. When he seizes an opportunity to cut it up between my legs, I sob in hope-lessness and lay on my cuffed arms on the rug, my feet widespread. I am trembling and sweating with fright.
"That's better, Valerie. Now I'll give you five for not being sensi-ble in the first place. Don't move or it becomes ten."
I don't know how I stay still, but I do. I'm shockingly frightened about my breasts. Laying on my arms makes them stick up. But it's my belly, my loins, and my thighs where I am punished. I close my eyes and clench my teeth.
"Hmmmm, not ad. I think you've been whipped before."
I quietly sob while he strips and mounts me. He has a good body. His lips are amused. I suppose I could fare much worse. But I have to keep telling myself this is truly happening to me. Mr. Atollah thrusts deep inside me as though assuring me of the reality of rape. But is it rape? I don't suppose it real is. it's just a prelude to some-thing worse. Mr. Atollah kisses me with surprising gentleness. In gratitude and because I'm so damn scared, I try to put my arms around his neck, but I can't. I'm handcuffed with my arms behind my back and laying on them. I'm lost, just plain lost. How the hell can I rationalize while I'm being rapes! But I'm feeling excitation. It's beginning. He knows what he's doing. I'm lost.
In the quiet aftermath, Mr. Atollah mixes himself a drink. I do not yet rate one. Perhaps later. He instructs me about kneeling, so I kneel before his chair in the fashion he approves. He keeps the riding crop where I can see it. I broach what is most demanding in my mind.
"I suppose there's no use asking you to help me escape?"
"None at all, my dear." He chuckles. "You belong to the Agency, don't ever forget it." He cocks an enquiring eye. "Don't suppose you've had any training?"
"I've only just been kidnapped. I don't want training there could be to this. I'm kept naked and chained and used."
"There are nuances and subtleties, my dear. Stand up."
I can see what's happening. An order here, another there. First thing I know I'll be their good little puppet. I ought to reject Mr. Atollah's peremptory demand that I stand. But there's the crop, and I'm naked, and it hurts so damn bad! I make my awkward motions of rising and feel ashamed.
"Step close. Spread your legs. They're not chained for the moment. Protrude your pubic area for my attention."
My blush must reach my breasts. Mr. Atollah's demand is some-thing I cannot possibly do. It's a hateful obscenity, an indecency for whores. Hands twisting unhappily against steel cuffs, I plead with him.
"Please don't make me do things like that. It demeans us both."
Mr. Atollah reaches for his beastly aid. That's exactly what it is: an aide in the control of girls.
"Nonsense, girl. It's in your mind." He flexes the crop. "I could just as reasonably plead with you to not compel me to use this on your pretty skin."
"But I'm so helpless."
"What's that go to do with it?"
"It means that if I could, I'd run out of her so damn fast!"
"Still irrelevant, Valerie, Obey!"
"I'm sorry. It's something I can't do."
The whole thing flows in a horrible sort of slow motion. I know what's going to happen, but there's nothing I can do. When Mr. Atollah rises, I make a frenzied look around without the faintest hope of escape. Then, in desperation, I sink down and flatten myself face down on the rug. I'm so scared for my breasts, so terribly frightened they'll be cut. I sacrifice the rest of myself in their defense. My fists clench tight with their bracelets.
"A defensive posture, eh, Valerie?" I swear he's laughing at me. "I could make you stand, you know, but this will do for starters."
I thought he'd use my bottom, but he cracks a fearful blow across my shoulders where my cuffed arms aren't much help. I absolutely curl up and writhe in animal agony enabling Mr. Atollah to cut me here and there in places I'd never have dreamed. I can't lay still and take it, simply can't. When he finally uses my bottom and slices me from hip to hip, I scream and scream and scream!
The whipping stops. "You've forgotten why you're being whipped," the suave voice reasons. "But I haven't. Shall we take a moment to reflect?"
I can't stop jerking and twitching, but I cock a curious eye at the man who stands above me with the crop. He is plainly amused by my behavior. Now the whipping has stopped. I have the most urgent wish that it not be resumed.
"Please don't whip me any more," I whisper humbly.
"As you wish, my dear. I will count to twenty." He resumes his seat, the crop draped across his knees.
The clever bastard! Pain to dissolve shame, marks on my skin to counter modesty! I have been conditioned. I scramble back on my feet, toss my hair from my face ,and stand in front of this influen-tial male with my feet a mile apart. I lean back and thrust my pelvis hard at him. I hope he likes what he sees; he's getting a better look at it than I ever have. I suppose he gets a kick out of knowing he was in there. Mr. Atollah has taken me a step downhill.
"Charming, quite charming. Stay as you are for a moment, Valerie. You are remarkably well formed."
He's probably seen a hundred girls like this. I'm annoying myself by feeling proud that he thinks mine is nice, and I'm hoping I don't have to stay like this for too long. Without hands, it's hard to balance. I am smitten by the hateful realization I could have done this in the first place. Mr. Atollah reads my mind.
"Don't worry. You salved your conscience. You made me whip you first. Okay, stand easy."
I do as I'm told, my whip marks burning. I don't feel the least bit sassy. Mr. Atollah is a lucky man. I stand before him naked with my wrists handcuffed behind my back. He can do what he likes with me. What incredible power this man wields!
"Now, my dear, you must ask me politely to suck your nipples." Oh, for Pete's sake! Can't this idiot think of something sensible? But this isn't supposed to be sensible. It's an indoctrination to make me understand my body is not mine any more, but will always belong to somebody else. I suppose, after awhile, a girl's mind remains detached while she's raped and whipped and whatever else some man expects. Mine hasn't got there yet; I'm still thinking I'm me. I look Mr. Atollah in the eye.
"If I do that, I think we are both going to feel silly."
"You're missing the point, Valerie. Sure, we'll feel silly, but we're going to do it just the same. It's not worth getting yourself thrashed over."
Damn it, I'm agreeing with him! Sure, it's one more step down, but it's certainly nothing to get myself thrashed about, not with a man who's just been nine inches inside my body. My words come to my ears as from some total stranger.
"Please suck my nipples, Bill. I want you too."
Mr. Atollah actually does it gracefully, neither too much or too little, simply enough to get my heat started. He resumes his chair, leaving me with wet breasts on which the air is chilly. He tosses a cigar on the rug.
"Return it to me."
I look down at the innocent object. The act demanded is not sex-ual, simply humiliating. My only decision is lips or fingers. The easiest is lips, but that might sully the virgin leaf. I get down, sit, and hunch to where my fingers can reach the cigar. Then I stand again and turn to offer the cigar from a handcuffed hand.
"Excellent. Now light it."
He holds it, waiting while I search the bar. I surprise myself by what I can do with wrists cuffed behind my back. I strike a match I cannot see, then twist and contort to offer Mr. Atollah the flame. By the time his cigar glows red my fingertips are only slightly burned.
"Surprising yourself, Valerie?" He laughs, reading my mind. "Doing things you never thought you could, eh? You'll be doing them for a couple of years."
"Please help me get out of here. I'm sure you can."
"You're wrong-I can't. You're in a fortress. By the way, I'm supposed to report such importunities. I believe they carry penal-ties."
I stand before him, breathing heavily in disgust, sick at heart. Penalty! Punishment! That's all my life holds now. Yesterday in the department office with my typewriter... and now look at me! Listlessly, I concede defeat.
"All right, Bill, I'll lay off. But you can understand how hard this is for me. It's just too much too soon. I don't know why I'm not in hysterics."
"Thank the Agency... and me. We're breaking you in easy. Here's my glass; pour me another drink."
I stare askance and tug at my joined hands behind my back. I state the obvious. "Bill, I can't. It's not possible."
"Do it."
This will be another excuse to whip me, I can see it coming. But I remember the match. I make my right hand tug my leg as far as it will go. I twist to help it reach. I clasp the proffered glass. I march to the bar, wondering how many strokes I'm going to earn. I hate the riding crop bitterly. It diminishes me.
"Don't hurry, take your time."
I expect he's laughing to himself, knowing I'm going to blow it and be punished. How wonderful to be a man! I do my twist, my turn, my tug. Suddenly the impossible is modified to a tension of hope. If only I don't spill the glass or drop the bottle! I am shamed by my fear. It now appears a handcuffed girl can do more than I ever dreamed.
The handcuffs are without mercy on my wrists, but I manage to hold the filled glass by a strangely contorted pose and a cautious placing of my bare feet. When it is taken from me, I know victory.
"You see, it was possible."
"Are you trying to tell me something, Bill?"
"Only that whatever is done to you here can be coped with. You won't believe so at the time, but it is so."
"Some men will torture me."
"An ugly word. I hope to be one of them."
"But why? What good does it do? What does it prove?"
"I think you know the answer to that." His eyes drink me in while his lips sip from the glass. "You're talking about the oldest instinct in the world. By the way, mix yourself a cocktail."
"Thank you, but I can't get it to my lips. I'm handcuffed."
"Mix it, then kneel beside me. I'll raise your glass."
I fight down overconfidence. I complete my assignment and then kneel. Oh, damn this whole thing! It's as though I've been chained like this forever and expect nothing but subservience to men. And I'm forbidden to ask for help. Everything I want is denied, and it might as well be forever. Two years is forever. Damn Garret Burgoyne. Damn him, damn him! And just because Mother used a willow switch on my bare bottom when I was fourteen! I drink thirstily.
"There's a bowl on the counter by the bar, Valerie. Go get it."
I'm getting good at rising and kneeling with my hands behind my back. I suspect this is the training he mentioned earlier. It is not hard to get the bowl. I simply back up, then carry it behind my back. I stand.
"Put it on the rug."
I hope this isn't going to be what I think it is. If it is, I'm sunk. I can't possibly do it with him watching. I get it properly placed, my feet helping.
"Pee in it."
Oh, sure, I guessed. I say flatly, "I can't. I never have been able to do it with someone watching. I tense right up."
"Try it. There are two ways: standing or squatting. Take your pick. Your feet aren't chained, so it should be easy."
Oh, damn, I'll never convince him! And this is certainly not a thing I'd invite the whip over. I'd do it for him if I could. My inhibitions seem to be rapidly disappearing. I kneel astride the thing into which I must urinated, my clenched fits pit themselves against shining steel in a longing to obey. Nothing happens.
I knew it would be this way; I told him so. This is so damned unfair, and it's not really my fault. I don't know where to look or turn my head. Mr. Atollah is watching intently and getting a big charge out of what he'll consider feminine silliness. Damn him, I'll change from kneeling to squatting, and he'll love every awkward revelation of my sex. I hope I can balance without hands.
"Perhaps a small incentive, Valerie?" Mr. Atollah suggests gently. "Let us say ten with the crop if the bowl remains dry at the end of five minutes."
"Oh, please! You must know how these things are. I simply can't help this. I really am trying."
"Try harder, my dear. Perhaps a little walk or jumping about will help. You have five minutes."
"Please don't whip me for this. You've got me scared, and that makes it nearly impossible."
Flushed, I rise and walk around, assuring myself that if only I can close my mind. If I had my hands, I'd get ice from the fridge and hold it against myself. But I don't have hands; they're still tug-ging against their bracelets, and it probably wouldn't do any good anyway. I go back and face my VIP.
"I'm sorry. You might as well whip me now and get it over with."
Mr. Atollah shrugs. "As you wish, my dear. I'll whip your cunt, of course. Only appropriate."
I am suddenly squatting, my urine striking the empty bowl with a force to make it ring. Soon it foams and I am scarlet-faced and shamed beneath a man's amused regard of my graceless pose. When I finally stand, I mutter, "I don't understand. I mean, what made it." My face is stricken in appeal. "You won't whip me now, will you?"
"Hmmmmm. A judgment for Solomon, my dear. I suspect you owe your foaming waterfall entirely to my threat. What do you think?"
"I-I... Oh, please! How can I know! These things are so crazy. I don't want to be whipped."
"Of course, of course. So let us compromise. Five only, and on your delightful bottom instead of your guilty slit. Agreed?"
"I suppose I have to agree."
"I'd have liked a bit more spontaneity, Valerie. Kindly remove the bowl. The bar sink will suffice for disposal. Then kneel where you now stand."
It's always going to be like this, always one more humiliation or another pain. What Mr. Atollah has set me now in an almost impossible task, I'll have to plan each move. I bet if I spill it, I'll really be in trouble. I kick an ottoman over beside what I must carry, then hang down and fish behind my back. I lift the bowl onto the ottoman and carefully sit beside it. Once again I connect, slowly rising with my bowl of urine gripped in a fettered hand. I walk cautiously to the sink.
"Resentful, Valerie?"
I gaze up at Mr. Atollah from where I kneel, waiting to be whipped. He is taking a genuine interest in my reactions. I'm sure he's savoring my nakedness and helplessness and those contortions I went through in disposing of my pee, but there's more to him than that. He's an intelligent man who's been given a girl virgin to pain. I'm sure I'm interesting, and I envy the son of a bitch. I'd change places anytime.
"Sure, I'm resentful! Nothing personal, but yesterday I was a free girl doing a respectable job. Now look at me!"
"I find you beautiful."
"And I find myself disgusting. I'm so frightened of that riding crop I've done these beastly things for you. I hate myself."
"Then look on this as expiation." He's flexing his lousy crop back and forth enjoyably. "Bend all the way down and rest your forehead on the rug. You will hold the pose throughout."
I do as I am told, hating it, but my cuffed hands defeat me. I lose balance and fall sideways to make a fine display of feminine secrets. Mr. Atollah is not too perturbed.
"Hmmmm, let's give you a bit of freedom and do this properly. Come here."
It would be easier for him to come to me, but that is not the way things work any more. I am not a lady; I am a female. But, glory, I'm going to get my hands!
"I don't suppose you'll be silly, will you, Valerie?"
I scarcely hear him, it's so wonderful to stretch my arms. Mr. Atollah, with a beneficent eye, watches me exploit this freedom. Strangely, I have little thought of escape. Even if I knocked him on the head, I'd still be locked in here with his corpse. There's nothing for me but obedience.
"Forearms flat on the fug, knees hard against elbows."
I've never crouched like this. It's wicked. My bottom rears, and my pussy peeps above my thighs from within its cleft. No girl should ever have to strike this pose, not even to be punished. I press my forehead hard down and clench my teeth. Damn it, I'm twenty-four years old, and I'm doing this!
"You must not fall; you must not rise."
I am enveloped in flame. My skin is so tight where I'm hit that the pain is atrocious. Shock anchors me. With the second awful impact it is fear. I must not earn more strokes than this five, I simply mustn't! Strange sounds come from my throat as I am cut again. My hips are weaving, but I hold my pose. Two to go. Only two more. They bed themselves searingly across my proffered flesh.
"I'd say you did damn well, Valerie. Okay, you can move as you wish."
I stand and unashamedly rub my scalded cheeks. They glow with enough heat to cook something. Not much caring, I mumble, "Am I supposed to say thank you?"
"We can dispense with that. Come and get yourself handcuffed again when you're ready."
Whey I'm ready? I'll never be ready! What idiot wants to be hand-cuffed! But there's a small subtlety here which Mr. Atollah is enjoy-ing. He'll watch for the expedients I use to prolong this gorgeous use of my hands. I know a sudden poignant longing they be not chained once more.
"Must you handcuff me, Bill? I'll obey."
"My time's up, sweetheart. I have an appointment. I'll put the irons back on your feet too."
"But I thought-I mean, aren't you going to torture me?"
We recognize the absurdity of my question. He laughs, and I laugh too. Under this spur of something shared I go to him and turn my back, flipping my hands for his attention. Mr. Atollah circles them with the steel, still warm from me, and closes the jaws firmly around my wrists.
"Have to have them tight, you know. Nothing sloppy."
"Yes, of course."
We share another smile over this polite exchange while my wrists complain of their new captivity. At his invitation, I sit for him to shackle my ankles. A man kneeling at my feet reminds me of buying a pair of shoes, something I may never do again.
Awkwardly, I say, "I think I owe you thanks for not being more cruel."
"Cruel enough for your first trip?"
I look down at his busy fingers as they circle my ankles with the metal bands and squeeze them tight. I am expected to get used to this-being a pretty object to be controlled and sued. I suspect this man has been kind go me, but my bottom and several other bits of me are scorching denial. If Mr. Atollah has been kind, what then of those who will not be? The visions are horrendous.
Sadly, I blurt out, "What will become of me? You won't help, and I don't suppose anyone else will. If I'm whipped every day, I'll die."
He laughs at my dolor and pats what is available of my bottom. "Look at Opal. There's your answer." He kisses me lightly. "I'll turn in a good report on you. You're a sweetheart."
"If you do that, they'll never let me go."
"They won't let you go anyway. Whether you fight every time or become docile, they win either way. Try and roll with the punches. There's nothing you can do to make yourself undesirable or without interest to a man." He lifts me to my feet and kisses me properly. "Goodbye, Valerie. I'll try and see you again before your time's up."
Mr. Atollah has gone. I stand in my nude near helplessness and mourn his passing. His kiss lingers on my lips as a contradiction to the way he hurt my skin, there is something in this contradiction I must put my finger on if I am to survive. There was a song: "We always the hurt the one we love," but I don't think that's got any-thing to do with it. Deep down inside I know the answer, but I'm scared to drag it up and have a look.
I try out my handcuffs. I think Bill's locked them on me a notch tighter. I drag one hand around to where I can twist and look. I wiggle my fingers at myself in sardonic greeting, but what's the use? It's just the same with my feet. I kick the chain joining them and it snubs me back. I can imagine it laughing.
I step my short metallic paces to the door. I turn backwards to test the lock. I'm locked in for sure, but even if I got out of this room, I'd still be chained. I'm foxed! My links sing their song of mockery as I walk back to a chair.
The word for Honour Wilson is severe. Her clothes are becom-ingly austere. Her features are a ascetic and a trifle bored. I don't suppose she's more than a dozen years older than I, but she probably regards me as a stupid snippet of a girl who deserves all she gets.
"Opal Rennie sends her regrets, Valerie. In the meantime, you will obey me." Her eyes are pinpointing every bit of my nakedness, and I can tell she's jealous of my breasts. "You will find me a reasonable woman. Feel free to ask questions."
"Will you help me get out of here?"
"That was purely facetious." She looks around. "There should be a riding crop here somewhere."
"Oh, no!" My plaint rises to a wail of dismay. "Please don't use that beastly thing on me."
"Bend over."
"I won't. You have no right-"
"Your breasts then, since you prefer."
I bend over, blinded by tears of injustice. Honour Wilson slashes me twice where it hurts the most.
"Stand up, Valerie. A mere couple is nothing to cry over. They'll teach you to be civil. Here, let me dry those tears."
I am led by fingers grasping my bare arm. Honour Wilson is strong. I can feel the force in her. But she is tolerant of my short hobbled steps, and I guess I look bewildered and cheesed off and close to more tears. In the tone of reading me my rights, she says, "Things look bad to you right now, Valerie, but the pieces will soon fall into place. I want you to remember you will neither die nor be a hospital case."
"But men are going to hurt me horribly. One has-"
"You are a beautiful girl."
That's it! Beautiful girls get hurt. For Miss Honour Wilson it's a simple equation, and I'll bet she thinks we deserve everything we get. Resentfully, I blurt, "And he fucked me too!"
"Disgusting!"
I don't find out if it's me or Mr. Atollah she considers beyond the pale, the passage ends, and I gasp at what is there waiting. "That's a prison cell!"
"A reasonable facsimile, Valerie. It will keep you safe."
"But I haven't done anything."
"As I told you, you're a beautiful girl. Surely that's enough."
"What have you got against beautiful girls?"
"Their mere existence is an affront. My experience with them has been far from happy." She unlocked and opens the massive door of bars. "Please step inside."
I've been irritated by this in the movies. The prisoner walks right on into something they can't possibly want. They don't fight, they don't run, they don't argue. The open door beckons.
My wrists try to twist within the cuffs. My foot tests its chain. The very last thing I want to do is walk in behind those bars confront-ing me with massive malevolence. My mind is working in a frenzy of dismay.
"I don't have all day, Valerie."
I walk into prison. Horrible sounds announce the locking of the door. I turn to gaze through bars, my hands tugging.
"But, Miss Wilson, I'm still chained!"
"You will be restrained for the first days. Things will be done for you. I will be bringing you food."
"But I can't feed myself!"
"You will be fed."
She's gone. I'm alone. The concrete and the bars mock nakedness.
CHAPTER THREE - Mother's Darling
THE dream is intermittent. Or should I say it is the memories coming fitfully to mind as I toss on the cot and seek to find comfort for my chained arms. I have never tried to sleep like this before, not behind the bars of a prison cell.
There were significant small things as far back as I can remember, but it was not until I was about eleven that the kids tied me to a tree and played cowboys and Indians with me as the captive maiden. After that I was conscious of the thread.
I was very much a girl, finding only a disjointed curiosity in little boys who wanted to "cop a feel" and might rough up any girl they caught alone. Mostly we went in pairs for protection and someone to whisper to and exchange furtive looks at the slit within our crotch. As yet we had caught only a few glimpses of a monster called sex waiting in our future.
I did not let myself be tied willingly. The ferocious "Indians" had to deluge me with clutching hands and drag me back against the sapling where, with the giggling aid of a couple of nasty little girls, they tied me tight enough to hurt. I knew right off I would never manage to struggle loose. Fearfully, I heard their gleeful threats.
"We can leave her there all night."
"Shouldn't we start a fire around her feet?"
"Let's fuck her while she can't do nothin'."
"How do you do that? I'd like to see."
I was femininely vocal with threats which made up in vehemence what they lacked in conviction. Traitorous small girls stood by and enjoyed my helplessness, even to the point of offering expertise in the matter of pinning up my dress and baring my pussy for all to see. It was this act which taught me the potency of bonds. I could not stop them. I could not do a thing. My sacred little pussy was betrayed to the chill of air and eyes and sinister intent. I was felt inquisitively by all present while I tugged and heaved and surged to no avail.
We were not then concerned with nakedness. It was still a year or two away. Our prurience was confined to one single part. Boys exposed themselves just to hear us giggle. But all things seek a begin-ning. Mine was there, tied to the tree, my pussy bared and suspicious of the summer wind.
Mother was there from the beginning. She believed in repentance for female flesh and made certain mine did indeed repent my sins. The first punishment Garret witnessed came soon after I had gradu-ated to the willow switch from the palm of her hand. While I was well aware of it, I still had no inkling as to the meaning of the tumescence in my loins when I was thrashed. Puberty is vivid with sensation, and that was one of them, but the whipping of my palms imposed a most poignant potency I feared yet loved. The extending of my arms for the agony my hands must bear became a moment to be cherished. I approached it in a cringing welter of emotions. Retrospect was colored by my still burning members which could be hugged beneath my armpits, and later in my bed comforted between heated thighs.
The baring and whipping of my bottom soon followed. The minor wounding of my hands had become a nuisance, interfering with my tasks. But my derriere could be punished endlessly without interfering with anything but my sang-froid. It was not always com-fortable to sit, but sit I did. Garret saw me punished in this way too.
I did not realize how much more punishment I received than other girls. I know it now.
Right up to the age of sixteen I was bending down as a matter of course for Mother to switch my bare skin. But the severity and number of strokes I must receive had burgeoned out to the point where I was driven to plea.
"Mother, couldn't you fasten me some way when I'm punished?"
"Self-control is good for you."
"Yes, I know, but when I bounce around because you hit me so hard, you allot me extra strokes, and they make me bounce some more, and... Mother, I just can't cope."
"Hmmmm. You mean you wanted to be tied up?"
Her words released within me a flood of lust I could recognize but not understand. I was still young enough to be ashamed of my trembling eagerness I masked with diffidence. "Yes, I suppose that's what I mean. That's what you'd have to do."
"You'd get panicky-become hysterical."
"No, I wouldn't-honest! Mother, I've been ashamed the way I annoy you since you've taken to hitting me so hard."
"You're past sixteen."
"I know. That's why I don't want to go on behaving like a silly kid."
"I'll think on it, Valerie."
Our house was one of those with a full concrete basement. A few days later after school I went down for something, and there it was! Mother have spent money and had someone do it for her- or for me! A heavy timber came down from the joists above, at its end a crosspiece. They were ironed and bolted like a bridge. I knew for sure the crosspiece would be at exactly the right height. But it was what it held at each end that fired my flame: broad supple straps and buckles for my wrists. Going back upstairs, I was trem-bling, but I didn't say a word to Mother.
I was not stupid enough not to recognize the frequency with which Mother had been punishing me over the past several years. A broken dish or poor marks in school would bring it on. Deliberately, I made a shambles of my room, so the next day we went downstairs. I was trembling, but not with fear. The tremors of my flesh were sparked by purest joy. I stood and stared in ecstasy at what should have made me turn and flee. Instead, I had to modify my tone. "Thank you, Mummy."
"Hmmm, you could be right about it-at your age, Valerie." Mother allowed a perceptible pause. "Strip!"
I turned in shock. It was one of those moments in life. Our eyes met in a way I did not remember from before. We drank deeply of what we saw. Each of us knew; we knew beyond any doubt at all.
In slow motion, I removed my clothes. I knew myself mesmerized by a power beyond us both, a power that had been there always, waiting. It was a demanding and possessive power I adored. I took my panties off last of all and faced my mother, nude. She had not seen me naked like this for several years.
"You have a beautiful body, Valerie. Remember that."
"Yes, Mother."
"It can make you rich or get you into a lot of grief."
"Yes, Mother."
"You know where to put your hands."
Yes, I knew. I turned and raised my arms. Everything was exactly as I had known it would be: right height, right spread. Mother stood on a box to buckle the straps. The expensive leather nestled around my wrists in a manner to fan the embers of my fire anew. I was almost panting.
"You're a big girl now, Valerie."
"Yes, Mother."
"Know what you're going to get, don't you?"
"I think so."
Her fingers played up and down my back. "Never whipped this before, as I recall."
"No, Mother."
"Good time to start. You're sixteen, and you're marked well enough below. Okay by you?"
"Yes, Mother."
"I'll use a strap. You've outgrown the willows."
"Thank you."
' ....
...
"Oh, it's going to hurt. You'll find it different. Don't want to use a whip on your back yet; you're too young."
I had no answer. I was a traveler in a land only dimly perceived. But I was not frightened. I found assurance in the cliche "Mother knows best." I remember I looked back across a bare shoulder and said, "Mummy, I'm terribly grateful."
Crazy? Okay, it was crazy. But that was Mother and me back then.
It hurt real bad, but I had figured it would, and Mother was right: it was a different kind of pain, a sort of adult agony, quite different from my bottom. I knew for sure I could not have taken it without the lovely straps tight around my wrists. At that moment, as the awful pain seeped through every part of me, I knew I had grown up.
As Mother whipped my back, I knew I'd never been this helpless since the day the kids had bound me to the sapling and bared my sex. As the blows slapped across my naked skin with a truly horren-dous sound, I knew I'd been right in wanting to be tied. Sure, I was a big girl, but I could never have managed without those straps. The supple leather around my wrists marked the end of kid's stuff. Sure, I'd be punished, but never again as a child. I moaned in the agony of what Mother was doing to me, but I did not scream. I writhed and kicked like crazy, but I did not scream. I was agonizedly happy.
Mother whipped me often. We understood each other. One or the other of us would signal our need, the rest followed. But no matter how I writhed or kicked or struggled in my pain, those tim-bers held me. Mummy never told me who made them for her, or whether it was he who affixed the straps, but he did a good job. At the end of my teens, my whipping frame was as solid as when I'd first set eyes on it.
It was somewhere in this period that Garret saw the incident in the glade with the girls. They had been mad at me about something, so I gave them a dare, not believing they'd take me up on it. But they did, and the result for me was a new excitement, a mix of fear and laughter. It was a passing incident for them, but for me it was one more step along a road I was beginning to recognize: helplessness subject to the will of others, my body bared, the bitter but exciting pain of punishment. All these added up to discoveries about myself. As I had grown and become more aware of sex, I found this other enlarged itself to where the two were intermingled. I did not mind. It seemed most natural.
The first time I earned punishment after my twentieth birthday Mother and I went downstairs as usual. I stripped, and Mother strapped my wrists above my head. I stood there trembling with my usual mixture of emotions, waiting for the pain.
"No more strap, Valerie. You're close to being a woman."
I shivered. I knew what she meant. For the first time she was going to use a whip on my bare skin, a real whip.
"Bought it awhile back-been keeping it for you. What do you think of it?"
Mother's whip was not a dramatic cat-o'-nine-tails or a Russian knout. It was deceptively slender, with a single thong, but I knew it was going to hurt me more than I'd ever been hurt before. I quailed at sight of the heavy supple leather, even as I was irradiated and demanding joy.
All I could manage for response was to breathlessly moan, "Oooohhh, Mother!"
"It's the real thing, Valerie. I hope you'll never do anything bad enough to make me use it all out on you."
"I hope so too, Mother."
"But I've been wondering, Valerie. For a girl like you-a girl your age-there are different kinds of punishments. They don't always need to mark your skin to be effective."
I remember the deep breath I took, my mind going right along with hers. I knew, and Mother was aware of my knowledge. I looked at her around my raised arm with respectful attention.
"Could simply leave you there the way you are," she said.
I wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. It was so beauti-fully obvious. "Yes, you could," I admitted slowly, wondering if I really wanted such an ordeal. "Guess I'd get to hate it after awhile."
"Let's find out, Valerie."
Mother carefully placed the whip where I couldn't help looking at it. She kissed me and went upstairs and closed the door. I heard her lock it, something she never did in daytime. I was alone. I was also cringingly happy. I refused to think too far ahead, savoring only the moment that was now, making an erotic assessment in my mind. I was naked. My wrists were tightly strapped to compel my arms well up above my head. I stood and would continue to stand. There was nothing else I could do. The whip mocked me. I couldn't be sure whether it would be used on me that day or not. I gazed up at my pinioned hands and saw them for the first time as a punishment.
It was yummy. I was shivering with a delicious eroticism. To truly explore my condition I struggled with all my strength against the straps holding my wrists. It was as though I dared them to hold me any longer. But they laughed at my brief frenzy, holding me with ease. When I desisted, I was panting and knew for sure I could never free myself. I settled down to stand out my penance while the joy of being thus subject to Mother's will seeped into every crevice of my being.
I had no way of knowing time, and Mother left me strictly alone. I think I passed my first hour very happily, my second with only slightly less sensuality. By the end of the third I was tired and wished I could sit down. After a couple more I was very tired indeed and wondering if Mother had forgotten me and gone off someplace to visit.
I started to compute and to do a guessing game which was mainly a game of hope. Mother had strapped me here before noon, and surely by how the afternoon must be well advanced. 5:00 p.m. couldn't be far away, and she'd be sure to loose me by then. Wouldn't she? But suppose she left me here till bedtime? That was 10:00 p.m. and a long time after five. That would mean I wasn't even halfway through, and I was already shifting from foot to foot in increasing weariness. I started to worry.
I've discovered since that not knowing the time is a punishment all its own. It unsettles you and leaves you not knowing what to think or judge. It doubles the impact of captivity. About then I was seriously considering calling out for Mother, and to keep on calling until she came down.
But I did not call. I wasn't a kid to panic and go hairy. Suppose Mother had company, and me down below calling for help! It didn't bear thinking about, so I kept quiet and cherished what little erotic-ism was left down in my pussy. By now it was a pitifully small flame, and there was nothing I could do to build it up. I longed passionately for a hand.
When Mother finally came, the first thing I saw was bad news. It was a glass of water. If she was going to free me, I could have got my own. She was disarmingly cheerful.
"Five o'clock, Valerie dear. Brought you a drink."
Five o'clock! Was that all? I was positive it was way later. In desperate gulps I downed what was held to my lips. Anxiously, I said, "Thank you, Mummy. Please let me loose."
"No, dear."
They were the most final words ever. "But please! Please, I'm so tired of standing like this."
"I'm sure you are. But was that not the idea?"
"Well, yes, but it's been so long. I thought-"
"A mere six hours, Valerie."
The way she used that word "mere" shocked me. If what I'd gone through rated only a "mere," my prospects were dim. Agi-tated, I tried to impart my distress. "But, Mother! It's been forever, and I don't know the time. I've been scared to call. This is so fright-fully tiring. Please unbuckle the straps?"
"No."
"But I need to pee in the worst way!"
"I'll hold a pail for you."
"You know I can't do it like that. I never have been able-"
"The floor is concrete. You can hose it down tomorrow."
"But you're not going to leave me-"
"Indeed I am. I'm so pleased we've discovered an effective penance for you. I'd think you'd be pleased too."
"Well, yes, but I never thought all these hours-"
"Yes, you did, dear. Don't be silly."
It was total deflation. I stood there naked and with my arms up in the air, and I knew for sure I was going to go right on standing. Mother and I exchanged another of those looks, and I realized how well she understood what made me tick. Because of this knowledge of me, I could never expect mercy.
"Could I be whipped and set free?" I asked wanly.
"My, my, we are sorry for ourselves!" She bestowed a maternal kiss on my sulky lips. "It's the coming hours that will do you the most good, and I've got company this evening. Don't you forget."
I let her get away without another plea. I had lots, but I was too shocked to blurt them out. I heard the locked of the door at the head of the stairs. I then got to thinking that Mother would likely give her visitors a lunch after the bridge game, and it would be at least eleven before they'd be gone, more likely midnight. Six hours, maybe seven to go on standing in my penance. My flame went out. I cried. It was easy to wipe away my tears against bare arms.
It wasn't only being tired, but my shoulders were screaming their dismay and my arms were lead. The leather around my wrists had become used to me long ago. I'm sure they absorbed a lubricant from my skin to keep them supple. But they were tight, tight, tight. I was sure my wrists were swollen and chafed. I was altogether a sorry young lady, and I was bitterly certain Mother would chuckle quietly whenever she remembered her punished daughter in the base-ment. I could have wept buckets.
I heard the visitors depart. It was a welcome sound, and I knew the time was late. When Mother unlocked the basement door, I for-got everything except the jubilation of release. The first thing I saw was the glass of water.
"You can't leave me here any longer! Oh, Mother, you simply can't! I'm in agony!"
"You just think you are. You're bored. Here, drink this."
I drink it to the last drop. Panting, I pleaded again, "Please, Mother, I'll do anything you want, but please let me go."
"You know you wouldn't miss the drama of what's still ahead, Valerie-not for anything."
"Mother, not all night! Please! Not all night! You simply can't!"
"Why not, dear? It seems most logical."
"But it isn't. It's awful, and I don't want to stand here any longer all alone in the dark."
"Don't tell me you haven't had suspicions?"
"Well, I suppose so. I haven't anything else to think about. It's terrible standing the way you've left me. You can't possibly leave me here all night as well."
"I can and I will, dear. It's close to midnight already. The time will soon pass."
"It doesn't soon pass; it goes on forever."
"Come now, you're being sulky. Let me kiss you, sweetheart. You've really been a very good girl, never calling out to attract attention."
"If you leave me here, I'll howl all night long."
"Then perhaps I should stuff your panties in your mouth."
I recall the thrill I got out of the quiet suggestion. It was erotic as hell! But my wail was prudent. "Noooo! Oh, no! I'm sorry, Mother. I won't make a sound. Mother, please!"
"See you in the morning, dear. It's Sunday, so you can sleep all day."
I was kissed and left alone. When Mother got upstairs, she flipped the switch to leave me in the dark. My flame was burning once again, and I didn't know why.
It was a new punishment, and I knew I wanted it again. I was recognizing what Mother already knew, a regeneration after some-thing I'd thought I could never possibly bear. But before I stood in my basement penance once again there was something new.
I'd seen the room Mother had cleared so it was clean and white and sterile. Before I had a chance to ask, I discovered its purpose. It was a domestic prison.
I can't say it was exciting, but I took off my clothes with the usual thrill. I was curious, so I didn't say I word. I only obeyed.
"Hands behind your back, dear."
The heavy cord was a surprise. It bit at my crossed wrists with a competent intent far beyond my memory of the kids or the girls those times before. I realized I'd scarcely been tied up in con-ventional ways at all. Here was something new. I stood erect and breathless while Mother robbed me of my hands. When she patted my bare bottom and made for the door, I ventured, "Is that all? I mean, isn't there something else?"
"Be thankful for what you've got," Mother chuckled and locked me in.
There I was, a naked girl with no place to go. I backed up to the door and tried the knob with one of my bound hands. No dice. The window was high in the wall. That about completed my inven-tory, so I turned attention to my hands. After I'd hurt my wrists for five minutes I gave it up with them just as tight as when I'd started. I stood and looked around. It took maybe two minutes to get the message.
I'd read about confinement in a room like this, and of its effect on subjects locked in them. Sometimes the door wasn't locked, and they were never tied. They were just left alone in a quiet bare room. Most failed the test. Well, I knew Mother wasn't trying to send me around the bend, and I knew I wouldn't go anyway. I'd lost enough liberty from time to time to be inured, and this was simply one more way to punish a naughty girl. But one thing was for sure: I'd be bored to tears.
There was nothing to sit on, and I wasn't desperate enough to try the bare floor, so I went to a corner and leaned my bound arms against the wall. Compared to this white room, the basement was vivid drama. Mother was outdoing herself on my behalf.
First thing I thought of was I didn't need to be naked to be tied and locked in with myself for company. But since the first time my wrists were strapped my nudity had become implicit to what Mother and I did together, and I didn't complain. The next thought was how long would this last and would I get whipped. I had no answer.
Mother and I had contrived to reach a total understanding without ever speaking of my need. That's how I saw it: a need. I needed to be frequently punished for something real, no matter how trivial, but I had to be guilty of something. The something was never diffi-cult to bring about. Mother loved punishing me. We were a perfect pair. If we were a couple of kooks, then we were a couple of kooks. We couldn't have cared less. I knew I wasn't a masochist. What I wanted was the hand of Mother's authority. And Mother was most definitely not a sadist. We didn't bother our heads about such Freud-ian nonsense. We were happy.
After awhile I got tired of my corner and tried another. The view was the same. My nose itched constantly, but I had no hands so was forced to rub it against the wall. By the time I'd tried all four corners, I was wishing Mother had thought up something else. She was right about boredom-holy cow!
It was understood that I couldn't be constantly whipped, and neither of us wanted to return to the strap of adolescence, so these punishments by frustration held some logic. During some of them I could have jumped up and down in sheer exasperation. Mother was amused, and I could never say the fire in my sex burned any less bright. But usually in the second half of them I mourned the whip, and I always mourned the absence of a clock. Often enough, to keep me on my toes, they dragged on all night, and I was sure I never wanted another. But when I woke after the sleep which fol-lowed, the regeneration process told both of us I was ready for the next time.
I realize now the degree by which the games Mother and I played supplanted my desire for male attention. It was there, but I could never imagine it being half as exciting as my punishments. I tried it a few times, but found it untidy and a poor substitute for the clear, clean aestheticism of the whip or one of Mother's cute ideas.
By now I had exhausted the fourth corner of my prison and had little hope of any significant passage of time. Time was my enemy. In a way it was the essence of my punishment. I had been relegated into limbo. In cynical resignation I slid down to the boards and sat where I had stood. It would have been nice if I could have played with myself, but Mother had taken care of that. What I had was a great deal of nothing.
There were variations on the theme. Glancing into the white room one day after work, I noticed Mother had been busy. The virgin walls now boasted metal rings. When I tested them, they were implacably anchored. I wondered how I'd be attached, but I didn't care. Mother thought of everything. I soon found out.
"I thought these would be a nice change, dear."
If I'd been a simpering Victorian miss, I'd have swooned with joy at sight of the shining chrome Mother took from the prosaic box. I'd never seen handcuffs, and these were exquisitely fashioned, most certainly expensive. Playing within the confines of our game, I made my exclamation plaintive.
"Handcuffs! Oh, Mother, how could you! I can never get out of them."
"You don't get out of anything anyway, dear."
This was true. I never did escape from anything Mother did to me. I looked down at the lovely shining things and knew ineffable happiness. The next day I gave her an excuse to use them. But noth-ing is ever the way you think.
I'd stripped and made a bundle of my clothes. Mother was finger-ing the steel circlets by which I would soon be made helpless. I backed up and crossed my wrists. It was pure habit. My right wrist was instantly captured by steel jaws. I thrilled to the series of clicks by which it was made to nestle snugly in my flesh. Then my arm was pulled so I must back up some more. Once again the clicks. Mother walked away. I looked down at my right hand. It was hand-cuffed to a ring in the wall.
"Quite painless, Valerie. What do you say to twenty-four hours?"
"Mother! Oh, no!"
"You can or stand. You might even lay down."
"But I feel so silly." I pulled and twisted the shining bracelet on my wrist, then looked at Mother, half laughing. "It... it... well, it doesn't seem possible. I mean, having to stand where this thing on my wrist tells me to."
"I put it there, dear. Would you sooner be whipped?"
The offer to whip me had become a commonplace choice I often had to make. It dated from the first time my back had been scored by its bit and I had discovered it as something I couldn't cope with, at least not willingly. I had to be strapped tight for it, and Mother used it on me with judgment. But it was a potent test of my sincerity. I'd have to hate something pretty bad to say yes. I didn't yet hate the handcuffs. I secretly thought them cute, in fact.
"No never mind, Mummy. I'll put up with this. You're not seri-ous about twenty-four hours, are you?"
"We'll see, dear. Be a good girl. I'll drop by with water."
So there I was once more-foxed! Trying not to laugh at my inno-cent predicament, I knew I would eventually cry. A fully grown young woman of over twenty, standing naked and attached to a wall by a ring of steel around one wrist-it was unreal but true.
It was the most frustrating thing Mother had thought up yet. There was no pain, not even discomfort, but I couldn't move from where I was. The ring held me tight. I shrugged and leaned against the wall, dreaming. After awhile I sat on the floor with my cuffed wrist up a bit above my head. Curiosity drove me to try laying down, but even stretching my prisoned arm way as high as I could, the handcuff denied me by two or three inches. With one hand up beside my face, I leaned back and dreamed some more. After several hours I knew for sure I was going to get increasingly mad at Mother's recent purchase.
That one lasted the twenty-four hours Mother had promised. In the dark I let my cuffed hand hang limp, supported by its chain. I managed a lot of cat naps. I was really grateful for the one hand I still had to use.
But the white room's intentions for me were not exhausted by that one time. It was only a beginning. I got cuffed to every ring there-hangs high or low. The ones where I couldn't sit down were bad, but I always had one free hand, and my fire burned unabated through it all. Just after my twenty-first birthday Mother was killed in a traffic accident, and I came to the city and got the job with the Department.
Punishments were past.
CHAPTER FOUR - Nobody's Darling
I hate this place. I bet this beastly cell was brought here from some prison they demolished, a place for male prisoners. These bars are absurd to hold a girl, they're so massive. But they'd be absurd for a man too. They'd defeat an elephant. They must create cells like this for the mental effect. It tells me I'm a nothing and can't ever get out, not ever. But Miss Wilson was honest about the handcuffs and leg irons. They're simply to be mean and bring me down a bit closer to where they want me. Gee, I wish I had my hands.
And this rotten little cot! Sure, there's a mattress, but it's hard as a rock, and I have to lay on my breasts because they've locked my arms behind my back. And what's happened to Opal? I liked Opal. She's a girl like me. But Honour Wilson's a prison wardress, pure and simple. She'll look after me but good! And what's going to happen to me?
I bet Garret Burgoyne's lousy Agency is one of those all-powerful monsters that can do what it damn well pleases with a girl like me. I bet no one outside the Agency knows about this cell or who gets put in it, and they probably buy their handcuffs by the gross. I simply don't have a chance.
I really don't have choices. They can make me do whatever they want. But maybe I can decide whether I'll struggle and be sulky, or simply make the best of a bad situation and pretend I'm enjoying the whole silly business. But they likely won't stand for even the sulky bit. They'll whip it out of me.
And the enjoying? After what I've been remembering all night, it seems impossible that I won't sometimes get a hot crotch out of what these fool men will do to me, or even out of this cage I'm in. But I'm frightened. That kills it. And I'm pretty sure it was Mother's maternal magic back then that generated the flame I loved. I never wanted a man to touch me, or another woman even, and I don't want Honour Wilson touching me now. But she has to, the way she's got me fixed. Oh, damn!
"Good morning, Valerie."
It isn't Opal, and it isn't the Wilson woman. It's Garret Burgoyne. He's holding a tray in one hand and fumbling with keys with the other. The awful door swings open.
"Nice to see you naked, sweetheart. I've brought your breakfast." Garret is pleased with his quip. He admires all of me, particularly my breasts which I can't hide. "Here, I'll unlock your hands. Damned if I'm going to feed you."
I say a meek thank you. I am very much on guard. It's so wonder-ful to get my hands back, and the food smells yummy. I lap up coffee with a sudden feeling of immense well-being, holding the mug in two hands no longer joined. Garret is immensely good to look at.
"Getting used to being naked?"
"Yes."
"Honour Wilson treat you right?"
"I suppose so. You'll notice I haven't escaped."
"Don't like her, eh?"
"She frightens me, that's all. I expect she's all right. Garret, please give me back my freedom."
"You'll ask that a lot the first while. Only natural. What you've been promoted to demands a lot of adjustments."
"All made with a whip."
He shrugs and grins. "Bitterness is a part of it. Work it out on me. I really am a bastard. But, Valerie, level with me. You got the hots out of those incidents I witnessed long ago, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"So, okay, doesn't that get you home free in what you'll be doing for the Agency?"
"If the Agency is going to allow me to be tortured, and then keep me chained in this rotten cell, the answer is no."
"That isn't really an answer, Valerie."
"I've never understood it, Garret," I tell him sulkily. "It's never mattered, and it's none of your business. It didn't give you the right to kidnap me and chain me up."
"Come on, sweetheart, you're trying."
"It was only with my mother. She understood me. She was tremendously tolerant. Even when she punished me real bad, we never took it seriously."
"So why now?"
"Like I said, it was with my mother. I wanted to feel the weight of her authority. Oh, Garret, go and ask Freud or Jung or some-body!"
"They're both dead. What about those girls I saw whipping you?"
"It was just a fun thing-an experiment. I never did it again."
Garret sighs in faint exasperation. "All right, Valerie. So what about right now? Come on, be honest."
I kick my chained foot and sulkily admit, "Yes, I'm in heat. I expect it's the food and your company."
"That chain you kicked-nothing to do with it?"
"Yes, it's got something to do .with it."
"Well, we've made a little progress. Feel better?"
"Yes, I feel better. It's having my hands free. I hated them behind my back."
"Pity I'm returning them there."
"Do you have to?" I demand sulkily. "I'm damn sure you don't. You're the boss here. You don't need to be mean."
"It's not mean, just giving you a thrill."
"Do you have to harp on that? I suppose you want me to turn around."
"How about we try them in front for a change?"
"That's the same as saying we don't need to cuff me at all. Do I hold my hands out now?"
"Please."
I watch as I am handcuffed. Garret does a most careful job of locking my wrists in bondage. Tersely, I tell him, "You'll ask, so, yes, I got a thrill out of it. And, no, I don't know why."
I have to share his grin, I can't help it. Pink-cheeked, I raise my ironed hands and examine their shining bonds in playful simulation of trying to get loose. With masculine decision, Garret takes posses-sion of his work and unlocks both bonds. He returns the silvery things to a pocket. "Got a kick myself," he admits. "But it came mostly from your submission because you're so damn beautiful. You are, you know. I don't think you realize it."
"May I submissively request the removal of the chains on my ankles?"
"You can ask, sweetheart, but it won't do you any good. There are limits to my largesse."
"Have you a very important torturer desiring my body today?"
"I'll take that bit of sarcasm as a sign of progress. Yes, I've got one on tap for you a bit later."
"What's his specialty, flaying me alive or toasting my feet over hot coals?"
"My, you are feeling better."
On sudden impulse I launch my nakedness between his knees and use my freed hands to clutch him imploringly. I guess it's because we knew each other when I was a child, and because I'm a frightened girl, and because Garret's an Aqua Velva man, and I want him to be kind to me. My voice is muffled against his jacket.
"I'm not feeling better, I'm not! Garret, be nice to me-let me go!"
Garret strokes my hair gently. It's very comforting. He also fin-gers the nape of my neck, which is more comforting still. I forget I am in a prison cell and have chained feet. I nestle against him like a kitten seeking warmth. If I could only purr, "Sweetheart, you know I can't do that. We've gone into this before." His tone is as gentle as his hand. "The Agency is aware of you; you're on the books. Honest, it's not going to be that bad."
"That man yesterday, Mr. Atollah-I know he was being kind in his own fashion, but he hurt me terribly. You can see the marks. Is that what you call not that bad?"
"Well... "
"It is, isn't it? That's about the least I can expect. You gave me to him so he could break me in easy."
The hand goes on stroking my hair. I don't want it to ever stop. If things had been different, I might have married this man and slept with him every night. Now he's going to have me mildly tor-tured in the line of duty. He is also waiting for my weakness to pass so he can kiss me and lock me up again. I expect he's busy.
"There's a shock factor, Valerie," Garret continues slowly. "When you've discounted it, you get a truer perspective. But I can't deny you'll get a lot of pain. While it's happening I want you to think about that two hundred thousand dollars that's waiting-"
"Don't say at the end of the rainbow."
"No, it's no rainbow path. I won't kid you. But the money is real. It's there. There are girls who'd volunteer, but they never qualify."
"What have I got that they haven't?"
"Beauty. I've told you that you're a knock-out. And you have education, poise, purity-"
"I lost the first installment of that yesterday. Your Mr. Atollah lost no time getting between my legs."
"Some girls can be violated a hundred times and remain immacu-late. You're one of them. Sweetheart, I've got to run."
It happened the way I knew it would. I am kissed and locked in. But he forgot to handcuff me. I suppose it's a small mercy. Any-way, it's a small mercy the Wilson woman soon deals with.
"Good morning, Valerie. I trust you slept well."
"No."
"Mr. Burgoyne brought you breakfast, so I haven't bothered."
"Yes, he did."
"I suspect he removed your handcuffs, didn't he? Trust a man to be sentimental. I always carry an extra pair."
I turn. She handcuffs me in the back. I'm sure the needless act makes her happy, but it does nothing for me.
"I'm sure he didn't bathe you either, so come along."
None of my fetters are removed. I am sure Miss Wilson savors every helpless motion I make. I stand, chained, in a foaming tub. I am soaped and laved by a prison wardress for whom I am just a job of work in her daily duty. After she has washed me raw, she comes up with a surprising talent for making my hair attractive. She really works at it. I can't help. She wants me handcuffed, so I have to let her go to it.
"The gentlemen appreciate a good hairdo, Valerie."
"So they can muss it up, and me with it."
"You'll get over the bitterness after a week or so, Valerie. I won't punish you for it."
"Punish me!" I am consumed with outrage. "This whole thing's a punishment!"
"Not really, my dear. I am authorized to punish you for a number of misdemeanors. The Agency insists on submission to authority. I will tell you now that any attempt to escape will not be tolerated. It will be drastically penalized."
"Escape! I've about as much chance of escape as the tiger in the zoo."
"I will try and keep it that way for you."
The bitch!
* * *
He is black, but his voice is exquisitely Oxford. His interest in my nudity verges on the clinical. I suspect he has a thing about nude white girls. He laughs when he says he has no name, and that I must simply call him "Sir." He is amiable and cruel.
Why shouldn't he be amiable! He's been made a gift of me to torture, and he's already announced his intention of doing the other thing to me as well. I'm surprised he didn't do it first thing. He showed me a gargantuan erection, but put it back in his pants. I think he regards it as his rod of authority, or maybe he wants me to keep thinking about it while I'm being hurt.
I don't know how long Sir has had me hanging this way. He was all ready for me when Miss Wilson inserted me and closed the door behind my back. In quick succession I was felt, kissed, shown his phallus, lost my handcuffs, and made him a drink, which I had to serve while kneeling. I was then ready for amusement. His, that is-not mine.
"Ever been suspended by your wrists, Valerie?"
His voice is deep and rich and full of power. It is colorful with interest in what he is about to do. With real zest he produces long strips of chamois leather.
"No, sir, that's never been done to me. I'm afraid I'm not experi-enced."
"Excellent. Brought these with me." He exhibits a pale yellow strip. "Rope's best, or rawhide, but we're an effete lot these days, and your feet are going to be off the floor awhile if we're to have a decent chat."
I have an almost comforting feeling of being powerless but in good hands. My slender femaleness is but a sliver of white against Sir's immensity of black. I watch him use the chamois strips to bind my wrists to each end of the bar by which I will be raised. Sir uses time and skill. He has lots of both. He also has me.
When he is finished with the soft bands, I flex by fingers and try to twist my wrists, but the bar and I have become one. We are welded together by the expensively tanned skin of a mountain goat. The ensemble raises slowly until my toes are off the floor and I am panting in my first shock with my new penance.
Sir nods approval. He circles my suspended nudity, patting this and that as though to make sure all my parts are present. Thought-fully, he unlocks the chains from my ankles.
"Better effect if you're really stark naked. Don't want to spoil the composition. You're extraordinarily lovely."
Should I say thank you? What the hell is there to thank him about! On the other hand, I expected to be whipped. He hasn't done that yet, but he still could. Gosh, to be whipped while I'm stretched like this!
"Kill your panic, girl. I can see it gathering. You'll suffer no harm like that while we talk."
Sir is perceptive. Probably I'm only one of many girls he's done this to. He also has a gift for lounging gracefully. He places a big armchair and drapes himself on it with his drink so he can view my hung-up female body to good advantage.
"Finding it difficult?"
I don't know what to tell him. Sure, it's difficult, and if I talk, the stress will show in every word. I don't seem to be able to catch up on my breath. It's a steady gasping against the way I'm fixed. A single word is all I have to give: "Yes."
"You'll find you will settle down. Always a shock at first."
I can't stare at Sir all the time, but I don't know where else to look. He fills my view. I bow my head as though in shame. I raise one leg up and down, exploring its useless freedom.
"Look at me, girl!"
I snap back up. I hope I look as unhappy as I feel, while I mutter, "I'm sorry. I'm not a bit good at this."
"Temporary? Once in awhile?"
Sir's probably having fun with me. But I now have no trouble focusing on his intent regard. He has captured my interest in a way I needed. He is seeing more in me than my patch of pubic hair.
"Yes, I suppose so." My eyes widen in distress. "But don't you see, I don't have decisions any more. I'm only a naked girl who's imprisoned in chains to amuse men like you who can do somebody a favor." My voice gains conviction. "If you think you can take me back to Africa with you, go ahead."
"Desperation?"
"Yes, I suspect that's what it is. But if you torture me only once a week, and I get tortured here everyday-"
"The lesser of two evils?"
"I don't want to use that word. I think you're probably a pretty good guy."
Sir shows interest. "Good guy? Hanging you up the way you are? I'd have thought-"
"A lot of men would hang me up this way if they could. You happen to be privileged. This thing-what they've done to me- has upset my values."
There's a silence while our minds explore. I hang limply and without much hope, appalled by what I've said. Take me to Africa! I must be crazy! It's because I'm hurting and hanging and scared. Sure, I've got a tiny fire burning. With Sir looking straight at my sex, why wouldn't I? Oh, damn this whole thing!
"I've been looking for a girl, Valerie. I haven't found it easy."
"Why don't you hire a call girl? They'd go along with what you enjoy for a few hundred dollars. Of course, this is free."
"Don't be absurd."
"I'm sorry. I only thought-"
"I want more than what you and I are doing now. The Agency saw a quality in you. I see it too."
"You mean, Garret told you-"
"Burgoyne told me nothing. You were tossed to me as a dog gets a bone. But I'm not ungrateful." Sir eyes me sharply. "Was there something to tell?"
"Not really. Garret thinks I get a sexual arousal out of what you men do to me, being chained in a cell and all."
Sir concedes the obvious with a wave of the hand. "Of course. Do you think I don't sense that too?" He laughs and comes to where his hand can knead my sex. He shows me my own wetness on his glistening palm and makes me lick it dry. He flicks my hard nipples. "You give yourself away, girl."
"Is that what you want of me?"
"I suppose it's something any man would treasure, Valerie."
"I'm not in perpetual heat, if that's what you're thinking. Hurt me or frighten me enough and it's gone. I told Garret I can't explain it, and I never thought it mattered."
"It matters. Never sell it short, girl. It means you're female."
"Anyway, they'll never allow you to take me to Africa." I hesi-tate. "I suppose you wouldn't like to let my feet back on the floor?"
"You're right, I wouldn't."
Sir is enjoying his power. I can feel it. He exudes it like a force. To this man, girls should be slaves. My wrists and shoulders are going to have to put up with this for a long time. They are not a bit happy. Sir refills his glass and resumes his chair where he has the lovely view of my fleshly secrets.
"I'm debating how to handle you," he continues chattily. "Have to break you down a bit before the wedding; you're still opin-ionated."
"Wedding?"
"A white wife-poised and educated-will be a great asset for my position." He frowns. "You've probably never heard of me."
"I'm afraid not. I'm sorry."
"Antawba's a modest little state with big neighbors. But I rule it, and I'm going to keep on ruling it. The oil and uranium they've just discovered are getting me Uncle Sam's protection. With you as my wife, I'll gain credence."
"But that's nonsense! You can't afford a wife you keep hung up by her wrists, who you whip and goodness knows what else."
"Why?"
"Well, because-"
"You're wrong, Valerie. You're ideal. Without realizing it, you've been leading a double life since you were an infant. With me you'll have very private punishments."
"Sir, you're just fantasizing. If we're going to talk, won't you please let me stand? I don't mean free me, just let me have my feet on the floor. This is so-"
"I said opinionated. You're downright pushy, girl."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be, but I'm hurting and bewildered and-"
"I'm going to whip you."
"No! Oh, please don't! I don't want to be whipped. I hate being whipped. I said I was sorry."
"Are you quite sure about either?"
"Yes, yes. I really am! Please don't frighten me more than I am already. I'm so terribly helpless like this."
He seems not to have heard me. He knows where the whips are, and he makes his selection. I gaze at it in a horrible fascination, but it's not the worst of what he might have chosen.
"Ten strokes, Valerie, to teach you manners."
I don't even plead. There's something about Sir, an inevitability. My eyes follow him back and back to where he will stand to whip me. This is going to hurt!
It hurts brutally, abominably, sickeningly. But I do not scream. I haven't screamed in this place yet, and I dread starting. I am superbly postured for response. I kick and writhe and twist. I sacri-fice my wrists to the pain, and the chamois is soft and kind. I feel sure I disgrace myself as the thong bites again and again. I expect the cut up into my crotch is a reprimand. When I am close to break-ing, the lashes stop.
"Congratulations."
I am panting too hard to pay attention. A male hand seeks my sex, and I know what it will find. I don't see that it matters. But the hand stays there and my flame responds. Shamed, I plead, "No. Oh, please don't-please don't make me."
The hand makes me.
In the still panting aftermath fingers find my nipples and I flame again. I'm so helpless. Anyone in this place can do anything they want with me. Sir is enjoying turning me into an almost hysterical bundle of female sensation-whipped skin and frictioned sex. I open anguished eyes and his are close. They are very close indeed. Deep dark eyes in which a girl could drown. I am kissed again and again until I no longer feel the pain.
But I am not released.
Sir gets himself another drink, then grins and holds it to my lips. I drink and choke and drink again. I have never felt more helpless. When Sir makes himself comfortable in the chair to give me his full attention, I feel I certain I must look a mess. The whipping and the orgasm have reduced me and ruined my hair. I want a bath, and I want to cry.
"Your beauty is enhanced, Valerie. Girls should be whipped fre-quently." He chuckles. "Disappointed I don't free you?"
"Yes." I gaze at him frankly. "I'm hurting and tired, and I don't see what good I do you hanging like this."
"If you could see yourself, you'd know." He sips in meditation. "As part of your training before marriage, I think it a good idea to display you as you are in some of my more remote communities. You'd be anonymous, of course, and convicted under some local law. I'd arrange it as a useful demonstration of impartiality."
"You mean hung up like this in public-naked!"
"Of course. My people in such places are still primitive. Delin-quent girls are often confined and displayed in small cages. These simplicities are far more effective than an expensive penal system." Sir sounds as though he's talking for real, but I suspect he's fan-tasizing or doing some wishful thinking. But he's touched me with visions of a shame and indignity to fan the embers of my heat. I'd have thought him whipping me and doing what he did with his hand would have quenched it entirely. But it's still there. I never dreamed that what Mother and I used to do would ever get me into this, and I wish Garret wouldn't tell people. When they know, they can strip me more than naked.
"A girl bound to a centrally located stake is in much the same circumstances. A guard is posted to ensure she is not molested. You should experience this also."
"Why are you frightening me like this, Sir?"
I am not frightening you, and you know it. You're picking up excitation. Anyway, you don't believe it will happen."
He's right, of course, and I guess this cozy chat is better than hanging in dumb misery all alone. There's things more cruel than this, but it's a rotten way to treat a girl. If I was left to hang long enough, I'd be reduced to babbling compliance to anything. This is only my second torture since the Agency got me. That means I still have seven hundred and twenty-eight days left to serve. It's not possible!
"There's some primitive stocks and a pillory. Nicely public. I suspect the Europeans introduced them."
"Please! You know I'm not going to marry you, but if I was, I don't see how all these punishments would help."
"By the time you'd endured them all you'd have become an Antawban. As you hang by your wrists or stand in the pillory you'll have a marvelous insight into my people at work and play."
"If you say so."
Sir picks up the genuine weariness in my tone. A limp and listless girl lacks appeal. Surprisingly, he returns my feet to the floor and unties my hands. I brace myself for something worse.
"Get a drink and sit at my feet."
No handcuffs! No chains on my ankles! I am promoted. I say a most heartfelt thank you and obey.
"It's one way of getting out of here, Valerie."
I have already thought of this. In glorious freedom from bonds, I seek intoxication, but state the obvious. "The Agency limits me to two years, sir. In Antawba I'd be a prisoner for life."
"Not a prisoner beyond the first few weeks. After that you would be my queen."
I have a vision of dead bodies and insurrections, but think it wise not to mention such topical items from the press. This man has a dream I'd best not mess with. Most cheerfully, I agree.
"I haven't anything to say about what's done to me. So, if you take me to Antawba, then you take me. It's that simple."
"Do you want me to take you?"
"Yes."
Boy, am I taking a chance! But the Agency won't part with me, so I'm safe. And if I say no, I'll make him mad, and he'll hang me up again. He probably will anyway. We have lots of time before I have to go back to prison. I try to show interest.
"Are you going to torture me more, Sir?"
"Maybe an hour for you in that pillory over there. It's all I have time for. Don't use that word, though. If I was torturing you, you'd know it. Take your time. I'm not in a rush."
I take my time and begin to glow. It's so wonderful to have my hands and feet. Permission is graciously granted for a second cocktail. I glory in this brief freedom. When I've prolonged it as far as I decently can, I go to the stark and solid pillory, arranging myself within its timber clutch. Sir lowers the top half upon my neck and wrists, inserting the padlock but not pushing it shut.
"If you can reach it, Valerie, you can get out."
I cannot reach it-there's no way I can reach it. I look up at Sir woefully and admit my incapacity.
"I'm getting another nice effect out of you. You'll breeze through this hour. How's it feel?"
"Like I'm divided in two. I can't see most of me. I'm shockingly helpless. The parts of me out back feel lost and scared."
"So they should. I'll demonstrate."
Sir is gone from sight. I wait, quivering. The single lash stroke cuts the length of my back like fire. I yelp, and that part of me which protrudes behaves outrageously. I chafe wrists and neck within the wood.
"You were nicely positioned for that, girl. Now... " This damn thing is getting lower. The upright post is sinking, and the crosspiece sinks too. I slowly bend and have to spread my legs to accommodate the change. When it stops my hips must be well exposed, and I know what else is exposed as well.
"Don't be alarmed. Put you back up in a little while."
It happens! Sir is doing it to me. I've already seen it so I'm pre-pared for shock. If he rammed me first thing, I'd tear, but he's an expert. He has me just right. His fingers find every erogenous zone I have, except for the soles of my feet. I am soon panting and wishing I could see, wishing that I had my hands and my neck. Now it's way deep inside me-deeper and deeper still.
I start to moan...
It's Honour Wilson, and it wasn't only an hour. It must have been several hours I've been standing with hands and feet locked tight. When Sir was through with me, he raised me up again, patted my bottom, and departed without a word. I didn't know he'd gone. I was still coming back from the wonderful world he'd taken me to. But, boy, am I glad to see her now.
"I left you an extra few hours, Valerie. Mr. Masawa was through with you early, and I thought you'd be just as well off here as in your cell."
Just like that! I bottle up explosive indignation. She's making no motions to release me. I'd best be careful. "It isn't much fun stand-ing in this thing," I venture timidly.
"I'm sure it can't be too bad, and it gets you out of the way.
It's all good experience for you, dear."
She's not being sarcastic; she means every word. She's left me locked in the pillory in the same ay she'd set aside a dirty dish. I wish she'd let me out, but she's not showing signs.
"I expect it's past five," I say politely.
"You have no concern with time, dear. I'm saving you a long boring evening in the cell."
While I'm putting this together, she vanishes in back and returns with a glass of water and a straw. My heart sinks.
"You'll have to suck it up through the straw, Valerie-the way you're positioned."
I suck it up real quick, then make my pitiful query. "Aren't you going to let me loose?"
"There's really no reason to, dear. Your services are not required at present. As I said, you're nicely out of the way here."
"But this is a punishment, and I haven't done anything."
"Don't let's quibble, Valerie. I don't think you've realized yet what a lucky girl you are. That huge sum of money you'll get at the end of your service will make you quite comfortable."
"I'd sooner go home. Please, Miss Wilson, let me out of this horrible thing. I'm so tired of standing like this."
"You must never indulge in self-pity, Valerie. This is most important in the work you're doing. A bit of pain or discomfort, and you feel sorry for yourself. Watch it!"
"But couldn't you unlock the pillory for me? You can chain me or something instead."
"Don't be importunate. You will stay exactly as you are until I decide to release you."
I might have known! The bitch! But I have to be so goody-goody or she'll leave me here all night. She easily could. I politely mutter, "Yes, Miss Wilson, thank you."
"That's better." I can't see her now. Her voice comes from the back. "I suspect Mr. Masawa had intercourse with you, eh? Ah, yes, I see that he did. These men, it's so important to them. Quite absurd."
It suddenly dawns upon me that Honour Wilson has never been fucked and has given up all hope of ever receiving such favors from a man. That money burns her up too. She'll never have two hundred thousand dollars in her whole life. It's given to girls with nice breasts and slim waist and lots of pubic curls. So she takes it out on beautiful girls by being cruel to us. I wish Opal looked after me instead.
"It's been done to me both times," I admit. "I'm ever so grateful that you give me the pill every night."
"It is one of my duties to ensure you do not become pregnant. You girls are ridiculous. All a man has to do is wave that thing at you and you start to swell up like a pig." Her tone is one of acid impatience with femininity.
"It seems to be the nature of girls," I suggest. "I think we all wish it wasn't."
"Don't tell me you don't enjoy that beastly act. All girls like you do!"
She's quite hopeless. But I'd sooner she stayed here and talked to me, even as caustic as she sounds, than to have to stand in this thing alone and in silence. I take a conversational shot in the dark.
"Do you prefer this work to what you used to do in prison, Miss Wilson?"
"The pay is better here, but the prison offers a woman far more scope. If I had you in the Women's Correctional Institute for a month, I'd make a new girl of you. You think you have it bad here-nuts!"
I just bet she would make me regret my crime. I inject fresh inter-est into the topic. I mustn't let it die. "But don't they restrict you terribly in the punishing of girls? All those do-gooders?"
"Oh, them! Yes, we had to cope with them." Honour Wilson's tone is bitterly animated. "But we had our ways, yes. We had a floor of cells they never got to know about. Sooner or later we got every pretty little slut up there for a few days. We had a solitary confinement cell and a whipping post. We had the most polite and respectful bunch of inmates in three states." She snorts out a bitter laugh.
"But didn't they complain? I mean, if you whipped them, there had to be marks. Look at the marks on me!"
"A month before their release we stopped whipping them. There were other things we could do if they deserved something." She sighs nostalgically. "I certainly do wish I had you there now. You'd be wearing a neat tunic, except for when you were punished. And you'd do everything by the book-or else. It's a wonderful way to condition a girl."
"What about these lesbian stories, Miss Wilson?"
"Yes, it was rampant. But wherever we found it we whipped it out of the bitches and added a few days in solitary. I lake it you've never been in solitary confinement, Valerie?"
"Gosh no! Except the cell you lock me in."
"That's nothing, honey. You're almost comfortable in there. In true solitary, the girl is stripped, her hands are bound behind her back with good honest cords-no handcuff nonsense-and she is placed in a lightless cell. It's totally bare. The only thing there is the girl herself. When the door is locked, she's in total darkness."
"I don't think I could bear that. I'd go crackers-I'd climb the walls!"
"You'd climb nothing, girl. The walls and floor are smooth. There's no window either, and remember, your hands are tied behind your back. We discovered the girls hated the binding of their hands that way. They couldn't explore the confines of the prison, and, more importantly, they couldn't play with themselves. The denial of their clitoris and nipples worked wonders on the little strumpets. They emerged amazingly chastened. Some crawled out. We found no girls we could not tame."
Ugh! She sounds so damn thrilled about it. I can see why she keeps me chained. It's the least she can do. I bet she envies what the VIPs do to me, but she's not allowed to do the same. Holy cow, am I ever in a spot!
"How long do you want me to stand in this pillory, Miss Wilson?"
"None of your business, girl. Don't ask so many silly questions. I'll be leaving you now. A longer stint in the pillory will do you good, and I don't want to hear any complaints."
I can't see her go, but I get she struts out of the room like a drill sergeant or something. I'm too scared to utter a peep, but I am deso-late. To stand and stand locked tight-wow! And I've been here so long already. The power the woman has over me is frightening, and nobody knows. Garret probably thinks I'm locked in a cell.
The awful thing is she doesn't realize-she doesn't think she's cruel. I'm a pretty girl, and she hates pretty girls, so she wants to hurt me. She really believes I'll derive benefit from being locked in this damn thing. I'm simply a female object to punish. I don't suppose she ever looks at a girl with any other thought in mind. Our breasts and our youth condemn us.
My thoughts drift back to Sir. Evidently his name is Masawa, and I seem to have heard it in the news. If this is how the Agency and Miss Wilson are going to treat me, I'm better off without him. At least he doesn't treat me as an object. I'm a person to him, and he's really terrific at sex. Seems like I have to think about sex now in a way I never had to in freedom. Most of the men are going to do it to me regardless. My pussy is one of the Agency's gifts. It would be better for me with just one man, and he's so super! I keep trying not to remember each year has three hundred and sixty-five days, and that a man will use me on each day. A different man! It's positively bizarre.
So the pillory keeps me nicely out of the way. What a hell of a thing to tell a girl who hasn't done a thing to deserve it! I could tell Honour Wilson thought it real sensible, and I ought to be pleased, but I'm sick of changing from one foot to the other and wiggling my fingers and weaving my hips. It's the damnedest thing, no matter how I struggle I can't even make it shiver. It holds me like was a doll. I ache, and I've got a kink in my back. I must have been locked in here five hours.
The things Sir said he'd do to me didn't sound like fun: locked in a tiny cage and tied to a post! Gosh! But they wouldn't be a bore, and I bet I could sweet-talk him out of a lot of such notions. I'd have to be sweetly submissive, of course, but maybe that's what I am anyway. When I think back to Mother, I never contested any-thing or struggled. I can see that now. Back then I never even thought of it; I simply did what Mother told me. If I'd have rebellion in me, it would have come out that first time I was properly whipped of my bare back.
I'd had time to think about it. The first time was a dummy run. She made me helpless, then showed me the wicked thing, but that was all that day. The time when it would be used on me was set forward a whole week. "Give you time to think about it, dear. I'll be interested in comments."
I didn't have any comments. All I was concerned with was that it happen, that it be done to me because of Mother's overweening authority. I wanted to drift and have it happen, like birthdays or going to the dentist. I thought about it a lot and shivered deliciously. I was terribly frightened, but knew it had to happen and knew I wanted it to happen. The immutability of authority kept me in breathless suspense.
When the day comes, I let my mind run riot. I'd pack and leave home. I'd tell Mother no, I was too old now for this sort of authority. I'd fall on my knees and beg her not to whip my bare back, but to use the strap on me like other times. But the one I liked best was where I looked her calmly in the eye and inserted my wrists within the leather loops, then shared the wise and knowing smile we saved for such occasions. It was the last one I did. I guess there'd never been a doubt.
I'd always thrilled to the tugging of the buckles and the tightening of the bands around my wrists. It was a tremendously potent and symbolic act for us both. It was our entry to a kingdom we shared with no one else. I remember Mother held me very close after she'd made me helpless. We kissed and kissed. It's strange to kiss someone you love when you have no hands. You have to put everything you feel into your lips. I strained at my bound hands, longing to use my arms in an embrace, but the denial was a part of what we were doing. I was naked and helpless. I was going to be whipped in a way I'd never been whipped before.
"You're trembling, dear. Frightened?"
"Yes, Mummy, I'm frightened."
"I'm wondering about screams, Valerie."
I was wondering too. I'd managed to cope with screams up through the years. It was a matter of pride for us both, but now I was scared. I knew how close I'd come to screaming so many times. Shame-faced, I whispered, "Mummy, I've never been gagged. Do you think-"
"Do you want to be?"
"Not really but-"
"I'll gag you after your first scream, dear. How's that?"
Mother always had an answer. I told her that would be fine, and that I'd try to bottle up my noises or tone them down. There was between us the most extraordinary rapport. I think, had Mother lived, the time would have come when she would have made me whip her so she'd know the whole spectrum of our erotic world. And if she'd lived, I wouldn't be locked in this damn pillory right now.
It was a very different pain. A girl's back is no way as erogenous a zone as her bottom. The cheeks of our bottoms seem purposely designed for punishment, but our backs are for love. To whip a girl's bare back is a violation of everything she is. It is pure refined punishment without the sustaining sensuality of sex. While Mother whipped me, my fire did not got out, but it shrunk to the tiniest of flickers.
The shock of the first cut across my shoulders was vivid. I'd known it would be, but this was worse than I'd dreamed-not so much by the pain's intensity, but by its quality. It was a different agony to anything before. I danced my usual motions and clenched my teeth against the welling scream I most passionately did not want to make. There would be the shame of it, but also there would come the gag, and I wasn't a bit sure how I'd handle a gagged mouth. I managed two and three the same way, but the revolt of my flesh was building. With the fourth stroke squarely across my back I screamed. It was a really all-out scream in which I found relief, but even as I pealed it out, I knew it would be my last.
"I'm surprised you held out this long, sweetheart." Mother had things comfortably in hand. There was a wetted wad of rag I was sure my mouth would never take. It filled my cheeks and compressed my tongue. "Clench your feet, dear, and close your lips tight."
I didn't dream of disobeying. I made my lips real tight together for the wide strip of silver adhesive she plastered over them, molding it securely to the contours of my face. When she stepped back, satis-fied, I tried to say something appropriate, but nothing came out. I shook my head against this new bondage and tried again, but I was mute.
"Try the loudest noises you can manage, dear. You can't talk, but you can make some sort of sounds."
She was right, I could. It was a sort of humming noise, but I instantly discovered it could be used to express affirmatives and negatives. I practiced these a few times with a lot of head shaking. We both laughed at that. At least Mother laughed. All I could do was crinkle my face. She then went back behind, and I closed my eyes.
Mother whipped my bare back. It was a genuine whipping, but neither of us equated it with what criminals used to get, or with any kind of torture. I was simply a delinquent daughter receiving a painful maternal reproof. The only factor open to question was my age. I was almost a woman, but never once while she striped my back did I ask myself why I let it happen. There was simply no question about that. Mother was Mother, and we had long since come to a tacit acceptance of the fire we kept burning within my loins.
I found I owed Mother's gag a debt of gratitude. It did not stop the relief of screams. They simply died back there behind the wad and the tape. I screamed and screamed to my heart's content. The sounds emerging from my nose were a sort of urgent acknowledge-ment of what was being done to me. With Mother that was wonder-ful. I wouldn't want it here.
"Ah, here you are! Honour said I'd find you." Garret walks within my range, grinning at my predicament. "Damn it, you look charming in there."
"I don't feel charming. She's kept me like this for hours and hours. Please let me out."
He takes his time, walking slowly around my pilloried nakedness. I gasp as he feels me here and there in back where I can't see. I suppose I'll have to resign myself to this casual use of me and the omnipotent obliviousness to my comfort or rights. But I don't have rights any more! It's so hard to remember.
"How was your day, Valerie?"
"Horrible. It still is."
"I was referring to Mr. Masawa."
"I've almost forgotten him, I've been made to stand here for so long. That Wilson woman's a bitch. Garret, please don't tease. Let me loose."
"Mr. Masawa enjoyed you."
"Yeah, I bet! He hung me up by my hands and whipped me. He also put me in this beastly thing. Honour Wilson simply left me here. Garret, don't be mean-unfasten me."
"You sound as though you need help with a corset, Valerie. Have patience. All in good time. Honour suggests you stand there all night."
Woefully, I look at him smile. I can't think that he'd be this mean. But I can't be sure, and it's the not knowing that's so bad about belonging to the Agency. I'll never know about anything. I hated that cell, but it would be good to be locked back in there. Miserably, I say, "If you leave me here, I'll fall asleep and break my neck."
Garret let me loose. I can scarcely believe it's happening until I can stand erect and stretch in all directions. Girlishly, I throw my gloriously free arms around his neck and kiss him in gratitude. I look back at the opened pillory and stick out my tongue. Gosh, it feels so good!
"What, no quick leap for the door?"
"Oh, Garret, I'm not that silly. I know I can't escape." I put my hand on his arm and look as sweetly submissive as I know how to. "But please don't tie or chain me for a few minutes. This feels so good!"
"Walk around, sweetheart. I'll watch."
I do as he says. It's a silly and pathetic little liberty, but it's all I'm going to get. It's a lot more than I'd get from Honour Wilson. I can tell Garret's enjoying my nakedness. Damn! The Agency gives him more power over me than any ancient king had over his slaves.
At least that's the way it feels to me.
Garret finally beckons. In docile resignation, I allow myself to be led back to the cell, hoping he'll forget the chains, but there's a shock waiting for me. Boy, is there ever! Opal Rennie is sitting on the cot. She is naked. One of her hands is cuffed to the anchored metal frame. Garret handcuffs one of my wrists to the opposite end and leaves, locking the door. He bestows a sardonic wave of his hand in farewell and is then gone.
"I'm terribly sorry about this, darling."
Our hands reach and touch in a comforting communion. I don't know why she's sorry any more than any girl would be sorry to be in the jackpot we're in. Stupidly, I say, "Are those marks from back when you were the way I am now?"
"Those?" Opal shrugs it off. "Yes, of course. There's always some guy who overdoes it. I'll bear some of them for a long time."
I stare. Opal is beautiful, her nakedness superb. The two years of servitude hasn't taken her over any hump. She's breathtaking. Now she's laughing at my puzzlement.
"Garret didn't tell you?"
CHAPTER FIVE - Prison
I'm picking up vibrations. Something's happening. Something's happened or is about to happen. There has been a change. Could it be that Opal is staying and they're going to let me go? The steel cuff on her wrist no longer makes sense. Cautiously, I ask, "Are you being sweet enough to come and keep me company?"
She rattles her small metal bond against the rail and laughs. "Here's your answer, darling. I'm keeping you company all right. I'm a fellow prisoner."
My unease grows. Opal is so damn cheerful and is obviously bub-bling over with secrets she can't wait to divulge. I look at my own pathetic hand chained to its own rail and can't believe the news is good.
"Darling I feel so silly telling you. You'll think I'm out of my mind." Opal beams her own particular radiance. "I've signed on for two more years."
It's no great shock. I'd sort of seen it coming. Dully I say, "You're right, I think you're nuts." My handcuff allows me to turn and show my back. "Look, there's only two days, and both guys figured they were being kind to me."
Opal's hand pats her sympathy upon my skin. She nods her under-standing and her tone becomes serious. "Valerie dear, you're look-ing at the Agency from the perspective of two days. With me it's two years. I survived once, so I know I can survive again. In be-tween being terribly hurt I had a lot of fun."
"That's not the reason. Why-"
"Money, darling." Opal stares at me sheepishly. "I sort of got the props kicked out from under-"
"You mean, they didn't pay you?"
"They paid me all right-such a huge lovely check." She tosses the hair from her face as though baffled. "I took it to the bank where I've always dealt. I had an account there before I was kidnapped. I asked the manager about investing it. He was real excited telling me all the things I could do with it." Her face becomes shadowed and rueful. "Darling, what I found out is simply for the birds."
"Taxes take it all?"
"Well, there's that too, but I wouldn't get all that much in the first place." Opal grins distractedly and rattles her handcuffs. "You see, dear, what I wanted was independence. That's how I saw that two hundred thousand. But by the time the manager had done his figuring, it only gave me about half a decent income."
"Good gosh, you mean-"
"Yes, I was shocked the same way. When I thought of going back to a nine-to-five job, I balked. I told the manager to invest what I had, and I came back to Garret to tell him I wanted to earn two hundred thousand more the same way. That would give me lots. With that I'd really be free. You see, I sold myself back into slavery."
I look at her aghast and slowly think aloud. "There isn't enough money anywhere to induce me to endure this if I could escape. I've longed for escape from the moment I was grabbed. Damn the money."
"Well, yes, I know. I was the same way, but I sort of learned to roll with the punches, and it's not every day you're stuck with a VIP. Garret's easy, and I got so I could soft talk Honour Wilson. Most of the time anyway. And they got so they gave me a lot more freedom than a girl gets at first."
"But the VIPs-they're so cruel!"
"They're basically what we get paid for, dear. But I learned how to soft talk them too. It worked enough so that I got by." Her grin is almost apologetic. "Guess I got used to being whipped. I'm sure my skin toughened up. Yours will too."
I'm letting it sink in. I'm not sure it will. If I had Opal's chance, I'd be gone so damn fast. But I'm sure there's things I still don't know. The way Opal's fixed right now, for instance.
"If you've returned voluntarily, Opal, why do they make you a prisoner like me?"
"Insurance, darling. They won't take the risk of me changing my mind or running away. I argued the point, but they do make sense." She laughs. "There were lots of times I'd have run if I could. I guess there'll be lots more. I'm not an iron maiden."
We pause. I gaze at Opal in despair. She is beyond my compre-hension. She grins at me in amusement. Impelled by the same thought, we test our handcuffed wrists.
"This is one of Garret's teases, Valerie. We'll have to half tear our arms out to do anything. There's just a chance he'll relent after we've been fed."
I don't feel much like doing anything, but if Opal's gorgeous nakedness stays close, I'm sure I will. We're picking up each other's scent. But I still have a question.
"But, Opal, if they have you, why do they need me?"
"I was working up to that, darling. Seems like I came back exactly right. The Agency is going to trade you to Masawa for some sort of concession."
I freeze in shock. Opal says it so casually, but she's just disposed of my life. I should have known. I guess I have known. There was that something about Sir that gets things done. He wanted me, so he got me. Simple! But did I want him and his Antawba? Sure, I'd seen it as a way out, but this cell seems suddenly warm and safe. And Opal's adorable. Even Garret's an old friend, although he has turned out to be a bastard. Out where I'll be taken by Sir there'll be dust and flies and heat and a tiny cage. My exclamation is involuntary.
"Oh, no! Opal, they can't!" I gaze at her, stricken. "Don't I have anything to say about it?"
"Of course not, dear. Neither of us have anything to say about anything." She grins companionably. "I thought you'd be pleased. Garret thought so too. You haven't been exactly happy here. In Antawba, after Masawa's been mean to you for a month or two, you'll become sort of a queen."
"In a palace without plumbing."
"Garret says the capitol city isn't that bad." Opal is viewing my dismay with sympathy. "Darling, think: one VIP instead of hun-dreds."
"Why don't you go-take my place?"
Opal giggles. "Don't hate me, darling, but I did ask. Seems that Masawa wants only you. My nipples don't suit his fancy or some-thing. Darling, you've made a conquest."
I sit down hard on fear. That's what it is: fear of the unknown. I'd seen good in it before, and I should see it now, but I am sad.
"When does it happen?" I ask unhappily.
It is not Opal who answers; it is a brisk male voice from beyond the bars. Garret is busy with the door. He wheels in a trolley.
"Tomorrow is the big day, Valerie. Tonight we feast. Thought I'd join you two-charming company, I must say."
We do indeed feast. He's brought just about everything, including wine. He sets up a TV table for each of us and loads it lavishly.
"Garret, give us our hands," Opal insists with an easy familiarity. "Let's do this right."
"I refuse to be outnumbered. You can eat and drink with one hand, and I don't want any complaints."
Opal and I share a shrug. Garret is right-we can get by with a single hand. We proceed to do so. Admittedly, the situation is piquant. Garret is king; he can do with us as he likes. We pay him homage with our fettered hand.
"So you've sold me into slavery?" I accuse bitterly.
"A deluxe version, sweetheart."
"Masawa's going to put me in a cage and exhibit me."
"You'll be a roaring success, I'm sure."
"Garret, don't tease. You're messing up my whole life. Since Opal's back, you could easily let me go. You don't need me any more. I promise I won't say a word to anyone."
"Don't look at me." He shakes an admonitory finger. "You belong to the Agency. It's the Agency who traded you."
"It was you who kidnapped me."
"If I hadn't, you'd never have become an African queen."
"You could let me stay here with Opal. When one of your rotten VIPs whipped her into the hospital, you could send me in with a fresh whip to fill in."
"Ha-ha, very funny! Valerie my girl, I'm giving you a kingdom, and you make snide remarks. Really, you girls!"
The wine is hitting my empty tummy most beneficially. I decide not to mar this occasion with sulks. I drink some more. It's wonder-ful what a girl can do with only one hand. Opal and I keep tugging at our chained wrists to show Garret how mean he is. He couldn't care less. After more wine I am willing to believe it is not his fault that I'm being sold into slavery in a black African state I'd never even heard of until yesterday.
There comes a tense moment when our host gets ready to depart. He makes no motion to free our hands. As he pushes out the trolley, Opal becomes forthright. "Garret, don't be so mean. You know damn well we both need to pee."
Garret makes a big deal of pretending he forgot. He unlocks her cuff from the rail, turns her around, and captures both her hands behind her back. Her wail of disappointment is petulant. "Garret, you don't have to handcuff us at all. Couldn't we be free in here for just one night?"
"Girls should always be handcuffed. Besides, I know what you want to be free for."
"You're a real bastard."
"Come now, poppet. How'd you like to stand against opposite walls for the night?" He chucks her under the chin. "Kiss me and say thank you."
She does both, not unwillingly. They are old buddies in her bizarre captivity. She knows Garret better than I do. It is now my turn to have my cuff unlocked from the rail. I do not complain. Opal and I may flounder like otters, but we'll have a lot more fun than the way we were fixed before. "This is in the name of purity," he claims solemnly as he draws us together and inserts my free arm between hers that are captive. The handcuff ratchets click swiftly around my wrist. Moments later our door is locked, and he and his trolley are out of sight.
Realization is not quite instant. Opal and I are locked together, and this need not be too bad. We kiss experimentally and stand side by side. We take turns on the toilet. One sits while the other turns her back to lift joined hands beneath an armpit. We discover unexpected dexterities. We lay on the cot and discover we must sleep back to back, but we will sleep. We then get to the sixty-four dollar question.
We can hear Garret laughing as we twist and turn and tie ourselves in knots. Our nipples are easy, but our coy little slits nestling beneath our pubic hair are not. We discover an approach, but it is so strained and hurts our tugging wrists so bad that we reject it in disgust.
"The rotten son of a bitch!" Opal is mad.
"It wouldn't have hurt him to let us enjoy ourselves," I mourn. "He must be one of those men who hates girls being together, and it's our last time together too."
We sit disconsolate, side by side on the cot. It's not exactly com-fortable, but our only comfortable position is to stand up back to back or lay down the same way, and that's a terrible loneliness we don't need. We want to see each other. We want to kiss. But kissing and nipple play gets us excited, so what's the use? We sit and burn. Boy, do we ever burn!
"Enjoying togetherness?"
It is half an hour before the glib male taunt disturbs our gloom. Garret is enjoying us from beyond the bars. The only answer he gets from either of us is a disdainful sniff.
"I'm in the doghouse, eh?"
We maintain our silence.
"I've decided you can stand against the bars all night. You girls are never satisfied." He's unlocking the door. Opal and I tense, feeling the tug of prisoned hands. If Garret locks us to the bars, we'll be the sorriest girls in the U.S.A. We are both trembling as he unlocks one cuff from one of my wrists. He extracts my arm from its interlock with Opal and cuffs my wrist again. This leaves two naked girls with their hands behind their backs but otherwise free.
"Couldn't have slept for thinking about you."
He pats our bottoms and goes back outside. By the time he's locked us in we realize his kindness. "Darling, I take back all I said," Opal says fervently.
"Thank you, Garret. We're terribly grateful." I make mine simple. The thought does flit through my mind of the incongruity of gratitude for being chained and naked in a cell. But the rationale does not apply to us. I go and kiss him through the bars.
Garret does not leave. He leans negligently against metal and peers through the bars at his two captives. Opal and I look at each other, embarrassed in our need to be alone. We look at our sardonic jailer in silent reproof.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" he taunts.
"Don't be so mean, Garret. You know perfectly well what we're waiting for."
"Do you mean you want me to leave!" He sounds truly shocked.
"If you wouldn't mind."
"But I do mind. I want to watch."
Opal and I look at each other and blush. It might not be so bad if we had our hands, but with them cuffed behind our backs we are going to get into a lot of awkward and unfeminine contortions. We do not need an audience.
"We were thinking of going to bed. Garret."
"Sure, go ahead."
Opal and I snuggle close. We have to; the cot is narrow and designed for one. I wiggle my cuffed hands at him and say, "Good night. Garret." We bury our faces in the covers and giggle.
"Don't try to be clever, girls. I know what you're up to." We tense at his announcement. "You can either go to work or stand cuffed to the bars."
We get to work.
Garret watches and is presumably much edified. After awhile we forget he's there.
I have not yet graduated to clothes. Instead, I have acquired shackles on my feet. My wrists are handcuffed conveniently in front. These bits of steel on me constitute my traveling costume. I am on a private jet, with a man I call Sir, headed for a place called Antawba. It is all very cozy, and the crew treats me with respect tinged with faint pity. My master, Masawa the Antawban ruler, is happy. He is going home and taking with him a prize. The prize, of course, is me.
Sir is using the flight time to deal with documents. But often he raises his eyes to let them dwell on me in a pride of possession I cannot fail to feel. He is immensely handsome. Power emanates from him in a smooth flow. His voice has a richness all its own.
"Handcuffs bother you, Valerie?"
He isn't going to take them off, I'm sure. I tell him simply, "Of course they do. They make me do everything twice and stop me from being graceful."
"But apart from that?"
"No, they don't bother me that way. I've used to them now."
"You'll have to wear them. They please me. If they rob you of one grace, they add another. Frightened?"
"Yes."
"The public displays?"
"What girl wouldn't be? It's only a few days since I was just another girl in a government office. Now I'm naked and chained and on my way to a strange place where I'll be put on exhibition like an exotic animal."
Sir is amused. "You are an exotic animal. I'm seeing you with a golden collar, golden armlets above your elbows, and a golden circlet around your waist."
"To set off my purple whip marks?"
He laughs. "Of course. Don't think you won't have any."
Sir is easy to talk to. Between us is a strange rapport I can't ex-plain. He's promised me enough ordeals to send me into hysterics, but so far they have done no more than to fuel my flame and excite my curiosity. None of it is easy to believe, but my handcuffed wrists and the chain between my ankles tells me it is true. My leg irons are a metal worker's extravaganza and must have cost a fortune.
"But, Sir, what will I achieve for you by being punished through the hinterlands of your kingdom. I can't-"
"It is not a kingdom, Valerie. Antawba is a republic. Remember that. Your quite endurable sufferings will add one more jewel to the crown I do not wear. I live by charisma, and that charisma will be enhanced by your penances."
"Kicking the white folks in the teeth?"
"Oh, sure, there's that too."
I frown in puzzlement. "And then you marry me?"
"It was an ancient tradition of our tribe that our queens be cap-tured. They were the spoils of war."
"Then shouldn't I be led through the streets of your capitol in chains? Do you have a chariot?"
He's crinkling the corners of his eyes at me. I amuse him. I have to pray I keep on amusing him. I hate to think what might happen to me if one day he fails to laugh. "You intrigue me, Valerie. I believe you'd like that," Sir muses, seeing visions. "It's a superb idea, but it wouldn't blend with the Coke signs and the IBM advertisements. Still, when we're out of Nagota, the capitol-ah, then!"
These violent fluctuations of my fears on one hand and erotic excitations on the other are ridiculous, but they are there from deep inside. I am consumed by desire at the vision of myself in golden bangles and barbaric chains stalking haughtily between the jeering throng behind the chariot of this magnificent male by whom I am now owned. The vision sets me aflame.
"I don't want to be whipped," I slowly confess. "But this other thing-it grabs me. Am I crazy?"
"Just beautifully female, Valerie, and very honest."
"Talking like this-it makes the whole thing come alive. I'm traveling centuries as well as miles." I meet Sir's intent regard. "You can make it happen-all of it. Do you realize what this knowledge does to me?"
"Tell me, Valerie."
"It makes me a slave."
Sir shakes his head. "No, not like that. You were born to slavery. I simply take you home."
Again the blaze of heat. The Agency, the department, Miss Wil-son are all slipping away beneath the wings of Sir's planes into a limbo already half forgotten. It is natural I be chained like this. The metal marks me for what I am. I cannot escape this speeding plane, so the links and the bands are redundant, but by them I am clothed in my own consequence. Slavery is an ancient institution inherent in mankind. No slave need feel shamed by the chains upon her limbs. The metal on me now can share my heat.
We have been aloft a long time. The music of the motors change as we descend. The flight attendant takes my arm, and Sir nods approvingly from his papers. I was carried aboard in a box. I will be unloaded in the same way. It is a remarkable box. To outward view it is strict utility, but within it is a molded foam, molded pre-cisely to me. It fits my female contours like a glove. I lose my metal, but am far more lovingly embraced by the shaped hollows into which I now nestle nakedly. So closely to me is it designed that it would not accept clothes. It has been made only for a nude me. I try not to giggle as I fit myself where I must go. The attendant smiles and nods goodbye. The top half descends and I hear the snap of locks in my near darkness. I try to move but cannot. My arms and legs are prisoned in the contoured grip of foam. A soft compulsion circles my neck, and a pressure its own frictions my nipples. I am freight, ready for transport.
It is a strange feeling. Sounds are muted, but I can follow my progress by my sense of motion and the occasional bump. Even the biggest bump or thud fails to move me in my tight cocoon within which I am a prisoner. It would be easy to panic and become claustrophobic, but I am alive with an excitation of all the emotions. When I am returned to life, I don't know what I'll see or where I'll be. Sir did not tell me, and I forgot to ask. Will I be inside his home, or will the little cage be waiting? It is neither. Slave girls are not supposed to know their fates.
There is a soldier and a woman in a uniform. There is heat and a strange smell. I sit up and am immediately handcuffed. I sense their uncertainty about my temperament and status, but I am care-fully aided to stand erect. The soldier holds me while the wardress kneels and snaps a second set of handcuffs on my ankles.
"I'm not really that dangerous," I venture timidly.
They gaze at me with dark suspicion. Two servants carry away my lovely box, and I wonder when it will hold me next. My arm is releases from the male grip, and the soldier leaves. Everyone is black, but at least I am now alone with a member of my own sex.
"You are Miss Valerie Norton?"
It is a statement as much as a question. I cannot even walk, so I stand awkwardly while she seats herself behind a desk and fiddles with papers. We appear to be in her office.
"You are in Nagota Prison, Miss Norton. Do you intend to behave while you are with us?"
I hold up my joined hands and motion with a fettered foot. I manage what I hope is a pleasant smile. "I sort of have to, don't I?"
"A prisoner can always make herself a nuisance and earn punish-ments. I take it you have more sense." Her English is perfect; she's educated. She is also feeling her way. I am an enigma she has yet to comprehend. "You are to be kept naked and secured. It appears you have already earned punishments."
She makes notations on sundry sheets and forms while I digest this news of my nonexistent delinquencies. Sir has set the stage for me, and I wonder if the pain I will receive here will be worse than the VIPs meted out at the Agency. I must not panic.
"My name is Nancy Richards. My father was English. I am not your social inferior, Miss Norton."
"I never said-"
"No, but you thought it. You are now informed. You will address me as ma'am. Incidentally, I have been given complete authority over you, subject to special orders. You are now in my care."
"I'll try to be a good girl, ma'am."
Nancy cocks an eye. She has picked up sarcasm I should have kept to myself. She does not seek an instrument of punishment. Instead, she says, "Watch your tongue, girl. Say that again properly."
Oh, damn I'm not sure I'm going to enjoy Nancy Richards. I ladle out gobs of humility.
"I'm sorry-honest. I really will try not to be any trouble. If you tell me what to do, I'll do my best to obey."
She nods, satisfied. "That's better. Sarcasm spells revolt. I'll pick it up every time." She stares at me assessingly. "You are indeed a very lovely creature."
"Thank you."
I stare at a woman who holds a frightening authority over me. Nancy Richards stares at a nude girl for whom she must feel a grudge of sour grapes. I am a naked prisoner, but I will not remain so. This bothers her. Likely she will vent her spleen on me while she still can. I am abundantly aware of the two sets of handcuffs by which I am made helpless.
"You will have your own cell, Miss Norton. You will participate in some of the prison routines. You are not the only white female behind bars. You will see others, but you are forbidden to speak. They have been told to stay away from you."
I shrug and feel the prison closing in on me. I cannot help but voice my main concern. "You spoke of punishments, ma'am?"
"They will be done to you soon enough; don't ask for them." She makes some notations before pressing a button. "I'll have a man carry you to your cell."
"I'll gladly walk if you'll take away the handcuffs from my ankles."
"They stay on. You will have no need to walk."
Once more the claustrophobia comes. I am reduced to infancy. A soldier good-naturedly picks me up.
I am grateful to the Agency. Its cell conditioned me for this. But everything is so ugly. At least it's clean. The mattress on the narrow cot looks hard. This iron and concrete cage I am to be locked in is, for some reason; segregated. The prison sounds muted by dis-tance. The soldier stands me erect in the center of the floor and departs, grinning.
"There is also this. I cannot expect you to like it."
The wardress came too. What she holds for my attention affronts me less that it would have done a week ago. She expects me to struggle. "You don't need to chain my neck to the wall," I tell her dolefully. "I'm already helpless."
"A special order, Valerie. Stand still."
If the iron collar and chains are from Sir, I'll wear them with less distaste than if Nancy Richards had thought of them herself. I tilt my chin and gather up my hair. Iron circles the tenderness of my neck, and there comes the hated snap of the lock. I allow my hair to fall and finger my new bond. Its chain is heavy, and my joined hands seek to ease its weight.
"You have been a prisoner before, Valerie?"
"Yes, ma'am, for a little while."
"I can see they knew how to treat you. I can tell you are accustomed to restraint."
Am I ever! I have a job on my hands right now. I gather the heavy links of my new tether, hop to the cot, and sit down. My ankles hurt. They are not as kind as my lovely shackles. Cold fear grabs me by surprise. Nancy has seen what I have not. The Agency is far more powerful than any consulate. They would tell me to return to Sir, or call the Nagota Police to come and fetch me. I am utterly alone. Sir can hold me even without my chains. In Antawba, Sir is my only friend, and it is he who will have me punished. I am trapped in a circle of the Agency's convenience. It is so outrageous that I manage a smile up at the woman who controls me. Nancy Richards is a handsome creature I'd be scared to tangle with, but she is smiling. She has followed my thoughts.
"So, okay, you open the door and I run. But there's nowhere for me to go, so I come back inside and ask for my chains. Is that the way it is?"
"You would also be terribly punished." She looks down at me reflectively. "You will never be given a chance to escape, but if you discovered one, I counsel you not to take it. The price is far too high."
I watch her depart and lock me in. I don't think Nancy Richards will be deliberately cruel, but she will be stern. I wonder if it is she who will whip me when I am whipped. Most of all, I am won-dering about Sir. I wish he did not insist on this period of punish-ments. I see no good in them. But I am biased, I guess. Perhaps they will mold me into an image of his desire in a manner nothing else will. He has likely molded a lot of females to his wishes. I flare in jealousy.
Suppose there is some secret manner in which Sir can observe me, doubly handcuffed and chained, in this dismal cell. I cannot discern a way, but he must at least be deriving pleasure from me by his knowledge of my plight. He will cherish his inward vision and throughout the day will return to it with satisfaction in knowing it true, that a naked white girl is locked for his delection inside his own prison. I sense again the power of this man. When I look at the steel upon my limbs and finger the metal collar on my neck, the embers of my fire burn hot.
I am too hyped up to placidly sit. I long to run, to leap and kick and jump. I have a compulsion to do everything my chains deny, but I can hop and crawl. Both are awkward and a little painful, but I try them out. The crawl is best, but it's a sad sort of motion in which I rest on one hip and thigh, propelling myself forward by a caterpillar-like unfolding. When my head is a foot from the bars, the chain to my collar snubs me short. I cannot do the prisoner's peering act. I can stretch and grasp them, but that does not improve my view. The tethering chain will have been carefully measured, of course, and someone somewhere will be laughing at my frustration. I am halfway back to the cot when I become aware of a presence.
She is white, about my age, and her sole garb is a pair of soiled panties. She is frightened. Her whisper is urgent.
"We know about you. Do you want to escape?"
I stare in dumb shock. I notice whip marks on the pale bare skin and chafed red wrists. She is pretty and has a tangled mane of tawny hair. Involuntarily, I blurt the obvious. "Of course I want to escape."
"There are four of us." She looks to either side in apprehension. "Some soldiers will help-it's all fixed. But we have to pay them with ourselves-with our bodies. Would you be willing?"
I close my mind to everything but freedom. If I keep it closed, it becomes easy to say a simple yes. I have enough sense left to add, "But I'm chained. Can't you see?"
"They'll have keys, don't worry." Again come the frightened glances. "Sometime tonight after dark." She is clasping the bars and gazing between them in a way I envy. "My name is Amy."
She is gone in the same sudden silent manner of her coming. I stare at the bars she had gripped and ask myself if she was real. But she was very real indeed and has left me something else to worry over and one more reason to be scared. By the time I have returned my fettered nudity to the cot I am cursing myself. What the hell have I let myself in for? Fearfully, I recall Nancy's advice about the high price of escape. I am beset by horrific images of Tess opening my cell door and the two of us being pounced upon by guards. I wonder what they'd do to us! Another set of images depict equally horrific probabilities.
I sit and shiver in the oppressive heat. I long for freedom, but in this place and in this bondage it seems far too remote, whereas the penalties for seeking it are not remote at all. When Nancy brings me food, it is hard to remain composed, but she notices nothing of my inward turmoil.
"You get exercises in the yard with the other girls tomorrow, Valerie."
"How can I, chained like this?"
"You'll be given enough freedom during the period."
With luck I won't be present, but it is wise to show interest. "Is that where I'll see the white girls I mustn't talk to?"
"Yes, and don't get any ideas. There's a high stone wall."
"You mean I'll be free-not chained at all?"
"Some special shackles have been provided for your ankles." She pauses. "There is no reason I can't put them on you now. I'm sure you're tired of those handcuffs."
Nancy does not bother to lock me in while she is briefly gone.
I can see the convenience of having me chained to the wall. I look at the open door in longing and tell myself not to be ridiculous. Still, an open door, any way you look at it, is an open door. I sigh and return to my dinner. When my jailer returns, she carries the lovely silver shackles the Agency had first locked on my ankles. Sight of them triggers memories. While I continue to eat, she kneels and makes the exchange. I lose the close tight handcuffs and get instead the relative freedom of a fifteen-inch chain of heavy silver links. I am sure they are not silver, but they look like it. I say a heartfelt, "Thank you, ma'am."
Nancy Richards stands back and admires my Agency leg irons. "Someone paid a heap of money for those things," she opines in grudging tribute. "And someone thinks you're very special. You're a lucky girl."
It is not until after she has gone that I realize my would-be rescuers will not have a key to fit what my feet now wear. I shrug. It's all too much, and I can cope with nothing. It has been an exhausting day. I arrange my chain upon the hard little mattress and go to sleep.
I awake to breakfast and broad daylight. I have slept deeply, and the dark has brought me neither visitors nor escape. If Nancy notices my shock, she gives no sign. When she leaves, she unlocks the collar from my neck.
It is half an hour later when the soldier comes for me. He unlocks the handcuffs from my wrists and leaves them beside the open collar on my cot. About them is a smirking assurance of my return. I am picked up and carried. The distance is evidently too far for patience with hobbled steps.
It is a large high-walled yard alive with females in every stage of dress and undress. Most are completely free, but a few have shackled feet, all of common iron. The fresh air is glorious. I drink it in with avid gulps and realize the freedom I have lost.
Soldiers marshal us. Most of the prisoners are familiar with rou-tine and fall easily into well-spaced lines to face the drill master on his platform. My soldier places me where I must stand. Girls look at me without curiosity. None speak. All have color. I cannot see any white skin anywhere except for my own.
The drill is wonderful. How far down the ladder I have gone to find pleasure in this regimented exercise! But to spread my arms and go through the motions of a drill is a joy I can't deny. Those of us whose feet are ironed stand, embarrassed, while our com-panions spread or kick their legs in obedience to the barked com-mands. By the time we are through I am sweating and loathing the idea of returning to my cell.
What comes next is heartbreak. Four white-skinned girls, among them Amy, are led into prominence. Their hands are tied behind their backs, their faces woebegone. They are led to objects I had seen but which, without the presence of girls, had imparted no mes-sage. Their function now is all too clear.
The four delinquents are now stripped of the trifles they had worn. There are enough soldiers around to ensure obedience, but the girls are cowed and without hope. The first of them goes to the opened cage, steps inside, and sits in crouched discomfort, knees up, hands still bound, while the top is fastened down above her head. She can move, but only enough to make futile strivings for a comfort she will not find. I pray fearfully this is not the tiny cage Sir has mentioned for my future punishment.
The cage into which the second girl now inserts her tied nudity is different only inasmuch as her head stays in a strange freedom, her neck circled by segments of the adjustable top. When the boards are slid into place, she has lost her body. She is just a wan, dejected face and a swirl of blonde hair.
Without the girl it was a vertical post with a crosspiece at its top, but when Amy's hands are retied in front and she is suspended from the limit of one arm it becomes a gibbet or a whipping post as is desired. Amy's toes stretch longingly for the sand they cannot reach, her strained nudity ready for an interminable suspension or for the whip. I can tell she is gasping in a new anguish.
The last girl is simply dealt with. Facing the post, she is thrust hard against the wood, a rope cinching her waist and her hands raised to the limit of her arms, then tied. Her back and bottom gleam whitely in a stark, cruel invitation to the lash.
The female assembly is marshaled from the scene. My soldier picks me up and carries me to a wash house, where I am stood against a concrete wall and hosed down with cold water. I am thank-ful for the hot climate. After the first gasp the jet is bearable. He stands there at his ease with the hose while I soap myself and try to avoid the concentrated jet pinpointing my sex. At the end is a very rough towel and another military carriage back to my cell. There he handcuffs me and locks the collar and chain back on my neck. After he has locked me in he gives a smart salute. The whole thing is crazy.
Nancy Richards is not far behind. Thoughtfully, she checks my handcuffs and tightens one wrist another notch to her satisfaction. I could care less. Even if I thought I could wiggle out of them, I wouldn't bother. Compared to the rest of my imprisonment, they are only a trifling reminder of the man who keeps me here.
"You saw the four girls, Valerie?"
"How could I help it?"
"They planned an escape."
The words hang heavy. I wonder if Nancy knows. I say something real quick. "Is that their punishment-what we saw?"
"It's the beginning. They will still be there tomorrow."
It's so damn cruel! But I dare not say anything except, "It's a terrible punishment for a natural act. Every girl in this place must want to escape."
"And they are witness to the penalty. Think about it, Valerie, you could be out there with them." She pauses. "There is still one arm of the gibbet vacant and waiting."
"Well, are you going to hang me from it?" I stare her in the eye. "Even though I haven't done anything?"
My heart thuds. Whether Nancy knows or not, I'm playing with fire. I have no wish to join them, but I feel so terribly sorry for those girls. And I also feel sorry for myself.
"What happens to me, ma'am? I'm not going to stay a prisoner in this cell forever, am I?"
"You've only been in it for twenty-four hours, girl. I'd have thought you'd be grateful for not hurting. If you're bored, I can easily make you hurt."
"Those punishments I've been told about-will they really be done to me?"
"Of course."
"That little cage I've just seen-that isn't the one I'll be exhibited in, is it? It's so tiny."
Nancy Richards laughs at my concern. "Probably not. they'll want more of you visible. The girl in there now is just a bundle. Will you want a ribbon in your hair?"
The crisis is past. I am once more a neatly restrained prisoner awaiting unearned punishments. Then comes the kicker.
"I have to take you to another cell, Valerie. I'll free your collar."
Nancy and I stare, she with knowledge and me with apprehension. I stand and bow my head, shifting my hair. It always feels good to get rid of the iron collar and its lumpy chain. I ask no questions. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough what lies in wait. I allow myself to be led, my short steps mechanically musical.
If it is a cell, it is a very deluxe cell. It seems more like a lounge. I am forcibly inserted and the door slammed at my back. On the bed, Sir sits enjoying my surprise. I hobble to him and sink to my knees. I can't tell whey I do this; it just happens.
It seems we don't need words. Sir is very gentle and very strong. He takes my handcuffs and the Agency shackles from me. I am gloriously free. Soon he is as naked as myself. I behold the immensity he will sink within my sheath. I moisten it with my lips and tongue, but only in homage. The place within me where it will penetrate is already wet. Sir carries me to the bed.
I am taken to a land where I am thoroughly ashamed of my acquiescence to escape. I belong to this man. I am his property. I cannot dispose of myself in answer to my own or to any other's wish. But I give this absurdity little thought. I am far too occupied with intensities of sensation beyond my grasp. I do not recognize the moans and gasps, but they are mine. I often cry aloud in poignant ecstasy and am grateful for my limbs. They pay their own tribute to my master who is called Masawa the Ruler, and I know myself a slave girl born only for his joy.
It goes on and on forever.
But forever is not enough; it ends far too soon. I lay, sweating, beneath this magnificent physique until I feel the swelling within my heat, my loving sex that has never been assuaged, Slowly, the rhythm starts again. I would willingly bear this man's sons.
Masawa is enormous.
But my belly takes him all.
CHAPTER SIX - Caged
I am drained but replenished, satiated but tingling in every nerve. My heat glows. I have never felt more submissive in my life. I kneel before this giant who has made me thus and bow my head.
"Give me your hands, child."
His whisper is sibilant. Without demur I obey. I watch my wrists locked once again in steel, but know only joy that the steel is Sir's. "And your feet."
I obey. The command means he will not use me more. I obey. Sir locks my ankles to make me a shackled slave. I am outrageously content.
"Tomorrow you will be whipped, child."
"Yes, master."
"Why do you call me that?"
"I do not know; it just happens. I will remember to call you only Sir."
"When it pleases you to call me master, do so. You have my permission."
I slip again to my knees, separating them for his pleasure. It seems wrong for any girl to consider such exposure obscene. I simply show my master what is his. Without curiosity, I enquire, "Will it be Nancy Richards who whips me?"
"Yes, but not here. It would be wasted here."
I look up into my master's eyes. We share a smile of understand-ing, like back at the Agency. "I am to enhance charisma, sir?"
"Indeed you will."
His fingers fluff my hair. I am in Nirvana. My confession follows as the night the day. "Sir, I accepted an offer to escape."
"It is known."
"Am I to be punished?"
"The punishments I have for you are more than ample. Consider one to be for that alone." Sir strokes me lovingly with magic hands. "Your weakness is understood, child. Believe that. You will bear punishment for it, but it is understood."
I am absurdly happy. My fire flares. My gratitude is selfish. It comes without volition to my whips. "Sir, fuck me again."
Sir does my bidding. For an hour I am his queen in chains, but the chains do not matter. They should impede us but they don't. I wonder if I am the first queen to be thus ravished. I surrender myself to glory.
It is Nancy Richards who escorts me back to my cell. I walk on air despite my hobbled feet. Nancy locks the collar back around my neck and whispers, "It will hurt as much as if you were not loved."
I do not care.
My cell fails to nourish euphoria. Sitting collared on the cot, I feel its malign purpose erode Sir's magic. I want him terribly. He has planted a hunger within me. Once I would have been shamed by it, but not now. I am a little girl, far from home, and while my agonies will come from Sir, so will the only love I will find in this foreign land. I wish his purpose made more sense to me. I endure the deadly tedium of my imprisonment until Nancy brings supper, then plead with her for credence.
"It is simple, Valerie. Masawa is proclaiming law in a land that knows little of either law or order." She laughs bitterly. "And it's suspicious of what it knows. The common people believe the rich and the whites are beyond judgment. Masawa will use you to prove them wrong."
It is indeed simple, but I detect a flaw. While I use my linked hands to feed myself, I argue the point. "But should there not be a crime? Do I not need to be punished for a purpose?"
"But of course!" Nancy laughs at what she knows. "You have been found guilty of crimes. Posters proclaiming them will be posted in public wherever you are punished. Since most cannot read, there will also be public announcements at the time you are placed on view." Consolingly, she adds, "Soldiers will be present to ensure your safety."
Strangely, I feel better about what I must suffer. I am suffering for Masawa alone, and damn his hot and dusty Antawba. I suppose he has not told me the simple facts so that I not think less of him. But damn analysis! Things will happen to me, but now I'll know why.
"You had best sleep, Valerie. Your journey starts early." I think of Sir. I sleep.
* * *
I belong to the Antawba Army and the Antawba Police. Nancy Richards is smartly uniformed to match their splendor. Only I am bedraggled in a soiled and tattered white shift which I wear for effect. I am a bad, bad girl who is getting her just desserts. It will be something to rip from my nakedness when the crucial moment comes.
My hands and elbows are tied. I guess they could be tighter, but they're tight enough to hurt as it is. It is important that my face bear the lines of guilt and suffering. I am a deplorable creature all around, and don't merit the refinements of handcuffs or such modern amenities. I am bound with rough sisal rope, and there's a tether of the same stuff around my neck. The other end of it is held impor-tantly by the sergeant on my other side. There is no comfort for a girl whose hands and arms are tied behind her back. I would like to cry.
Nancy tells me we have come a long way and are nearing the community which is to be edified by seeing me whipped for some-thing I have not done. All I can say for the land I see out the windows is sad. I suspect it needs water and tractors and fertilizer. The people we pass seem sad too. Let us hope the spectacle of watching me being punished may brighten their day. Bitterly, I offer my opinion.
"It's not funny," Nancy chides. "You really will boost their morale. They've never seen a white girl whipped before."
"Most people haven't. Bully for them!"
"This is no time to start feeling sorry for yourself, Valerie. Are you going to make a fuss when we get out of the car?"
"How can I when there's a noose around my neck?"
"Well, you could." Her tone becomes reflective. "I mean, we could let you struggle and kick. I'm inclined to think it a good idea. Makes for authenticity."
"Oh, all right, let's do that." I have realized I'm supposed to be on Sir's team. No one expects me to enjoy being whipped, but I am supposed to be making a heroic sacrifice in his cause. Anyway, I must stop nagging and sounding bitter. But it's not easy!
"You very good young woman," the sergeant says approvingly. "You kick me all you like. Everyone very pleased. No one love sergeants."
My heart warms to a kind word. Perhaps before the pain I can have some fun, even if it's brief and gets me bruised. A glance shows me we are already within a community. There are house and streets and children. Everything is duty and dejected and sun baked. If I lived here, I'm sure I would find the whipping of a white female criminal intensely diverting. I see few adults, but, upon reaching the central square, I discover them waiting for the show. There are a great many of them. As our car comes to a halt and the sergeant gets out, I leap out and flee.
My escape attempt is a great success for everyone but me. I find it peculiarly difficult to run fast with my elbows tied tight to meet behind my back, and the surface of the town square is unkind to bare feet. My speeding legs evoke howls of delight from the assem-bly. It sounds somewhat like a football game when a favorite player has the ball and is well ahead on the field. I understand now why my shackles were removed.
The sergeant and Nancy pant convincingly behind and grab me just short of the ragged line the soldiers have maintained. Nancy gets an arm, and the sergeant gets my hair, my feet kick at nothing, and I am brought low upon the sand. To sounds of vociferous delight I am pulled by my hair towards the waiting gibbet. Being pulled along by my hair is a new experience in helplessness, in the course of which I lose my tattered shift and return to stark nakedness. The pathetic scrap of white lays back there on the sand. The citizens applaud its loss.
Reaching the place where I am to be suspended for the whip, I must be untied before being bound again. Our trio turns the moment to good advantage. I kick the sergeant, I kick Nancy, I run. Unhampered by bonds, I do better and dive headlong into the crowd who manhandle me joyously and return me to justice. I kick several men in just the right places and land another on the sergeant before I am dragged back to the stark structure erected for my public correction.
"You do most fine, young lady," the sergeant says.
"I'm going to have to watch you, Valerie," Nancy says in grudg-ing admiration. "I'd best keep your feet shackled."
A ladder rests against the gibbet's protruding arm, on it a grinning constable with rope. My wrists are individually strapped with soft leather to tell me someone is being kind. The constable's ropes draw my arms high and wide apart. The sergeant grasps a huge handful of my crotch and lifts, the ropes tightening. When everyone stands away to survey their work, I am suspended by my wrists with my toes six inches off the ground.
"We'd take you higher for the crowd to see," Nancy explains, "but you can't be properly whipped up there. This will have to do."
"And you are free to kick," the sergeant assures me. "Is no doubt very good to kick while ass is whipped."
"We'll be back in an hour to whip you," Nancy says matter-of-factly. "Have to let the taxpayers get a good look at you first."
I watch them go. The utter helplessness of suspension makes me moan in disgust, anger, and fear. To hang like this a whole hour before anything starts ought to be punishment enough without being whipped as well at the end of it. I look up at my strapped wrists and protest. My pubic hair is beautifully displayed.
The soldiers admonish the spectators into a slow parade. Demo-cracy demands fair shares for all. It would not be right to regale one half of them with a vista on my back and bottom, and the other half with a view of my breasts and pubic patch. In this slow march all of them will have a chance to memorize every crevice and curve of the bad, bad white girl they have come to see punished for her crimes against their country. All I wish is to be safely back in the Department with my typewriter.
I wonder whose idea this is to make me hang and wait. It's cruel. But I've read of it, and I'm damn sure that for a guilty conscience it would make you wish you hadn't done whatever it was you're going to be whipped for. It's a time for sober reflection, and I find myself thinking of the cell and the collar and chain as a nostalgic memory. In fact, anything looks good compared to the way I am. My shoulders are complaining, and my breasts burn under the con-centrated interest of a thousand eyes. I can't hide a thing-nothing!
Nancy Richards has picked up American colloquialisms. When it comes time for my pain to start, she shows me the whip and then walks around back. "Sorry about this, Valerie," she says, then lets me have it flat across my back.
I need simulate nothing. I kick and writhe. I scream out yelps and howls of anger and agony as my skin is marked in tribute to an African state I'd never heard of a week ago. In the midst of my fervent reactions I hear Nancy's whisper: "Don't think I couldn't hit you a lot harder." I gain small solace from this. It hurts enough. It hurts terribly. I allow my flesh full license with my voice to make a Roman holiday. But the inmost me closes my eyes and wills me to endure and endure, knowing this must end. Not now but some-time-it has to end sometime! But the snapping cuts continue on my skin.
It ends.
My dazed mind flirts with stupid computations of a hundred strokes... two hundred... three hundred? It seems that many, but I know it is less. I slowly return from my misty refuge and hang limp and passive. Nancy is there. She still holds the whip.
She rearranges my dank hair which has become sadly awry.
"There, there, Valerie. It's all over now. Wasn't so bad, was it?"
I try to tell her how bad it was-how terribly awful-but the words won't come. Sadly, I hear my own voice betray me. "No, I guess not. Thank you."
"There will be other times, so we have to save bits of you for later." She turns caustic. "Of course, if you're not satisfied, I can always whip you harder."
I praise her work and assure her that she whips wonderfully. My back screams out "Liar!" but it is true. Nancy Richards has success-fully served two masters: Masawa and the crowd that still stands gaping. I'd have thought they'd had enough by now. I slowly grasp the truth. Nancy's voice confirms my fears.
"An hour before and an hour after, Valerie."
"Oh, no! Nancy, please-no!"
"Sorry about that too. It's the rules."
Nancy departs. Surrounded by a multitude of black faces, I am alone in my pain. I suppose the pain could be worse, but it is not good company.
I am a road show on tour. There is no lock-up, so I am housed in a bare room. In the middle of its floor is a post supporting the roof. I am chained to this post by my neck and waist-just lengths of chain tightened around me and padlocked. My hands are tied with raw leather strips I can't undo, not even with my teeth. It is a local touch to emphasize what I have become. I can stand or sit against the post, or lay down on the single blanket provided. Nancy tells me I have to be uncomfortable as part of my contribution to the cause.
"You did well, Valerie."
"Thank you." I wrinkle my brow. "Did I really?"
"Your contortions and the sounds you made-no girl could have done better."
"I wasn't acting. That was for real."
"Now if you can do as well again tomorrow... "
"Oh Nancy, you're not going to whip me again, are you?"
"I'm tempted. You suffer so swell. But I suppose a change is called for. No, don't ask what it is. You'll find out in the morning."
Nancy is right-I do find out. I am so damn glad to get rid of all this chain and the padlocks. I get my wrists and elbows tied the way they were the day before, but it's not so bad. My neck gets the noose for the sergeant to hold. Once more I sit between my guardians in the car's backseat.
"We think you fine young woman like good Antawba girl." The sergeant tugs my tether affectionately. "You got sore ass?"
I assure him my frictioned seat gives me pain. I also put in a word for my elbows. They hurt like fire.
"Is very good to have rope bite deep in skin," I am earnestly informed. "Many peoples see weals yesterday and were much pleased you kept safe prisoner."
"Were they scared I'd bite if I wasn't bound?"
"That will do for the sarcasm," Nancy says tartly. "If we can't punish that out of you, you'll make someone a terrible wife."
I shut up. I can't think of a thing to say that won't sound sarcastic or complaining, and nobody will give me any real information. Our course follows the same pattern as the day before. So does the town and its people. I can do no less than put on a good show. By the time I am dragged by my hair to where I must go, I have kicked no less than four sets of testicles, the sergeant, and Nancy. The audience is convinced that, no matter what is done to me, it will be less than I deserve.
It is the cage.
There is an inevitability about it, as though it's been waiting for me all my life. It stands isolated upon four posts three feet off the ground. It is of heavy metal mesh with a frame of angle iron. Its door is framed in steel.
"Is costing much work and money," the sergeant says proudly. "You not like it much inside."
It is the understatement of the century, followed by Nancy telling me, "I'll have to tie your hands with the rawhide, Valerie. You can't be free in there."
"That's silly. I can't possibly get out. Look at those padlocks."
"Just the same, you have to be tied," she says patiently. "Cross your wrists."
"You mean you won't tie them behind my back?"
"I'm being kind. But remember, if you play with yourself, you'll have an audience."
I cross my wrists and watch. Nancy ties them tight with skill. The knots are where I can't reach. Anyway, this stuff is hopeless. I won't get free, I know. When it is done, I look again at the waiting cage and have a genuine desire to run like hell.
"You may as well get in, Valerie. No use standing around."
The sergeant holds open the tiny door. Because of bound hands, I need his aid to insert my nakedness inside. Once more his huge hand cradles my crotch to propel me up and in. The door slams and I hear the snap of locks.
"It's bigger than the one you saw for punishment, Valerie."
Maybe it is, but not by much. I am busy untangling myself from an undignified entry. I landed on my knees, so I now clutch fingers full of mesh and drag my nudity to crouch on one hip, feet drawn up, and gaze dolefully at the pair who are surveying me with interest. The sergeant says it all.
"Is not much room for nice young lady."
"She's not suppose to be enjoying herself," Nancy chides. "She's being punished."
"I'm glad you told me-I'd never have guessed!"
'That bit of sarcasm will earn you something, Valerie. It can wait for now."
"Thank you. I'll look forward to it."
"That will earn you something else."
"Gee, I'm so lucky!"
The sergeant saves me from further indiscretion. "Is much best you keep pretty mouth shut," he warns. "Miss Richards romp on nice round ass with cane."
"He's giving you good advice, Valerie. Meanwhile, I'll keep a tally."
"I'm terribly sorry. They sort of slipped out. I'm not very happy in here."
"Bit late for sorrow. I'll make you sorrier still after you get out of that cage."
"If I ever do-oops!"
"Duly noted," Nancy says briskly. "It's best we leave before you get in any deeper."
"And so you got an ass to sit on," the military adds sagely.
Their departing backs tell me my punishment begins. I have never heard of punishment by cage, but that's what it's going to be. I already hate this beastly little grid of mesh I can't escape. Clutching with my bound fingers, I turn and twist, but there is no comfort. My best bet is to sit with knees drawn up so I can rest my head on them and get my tied hands over to hug them close. I can't stretch, I can't raise my head. If I want to ease my bottom, I can go back on a hip or take it on all fours. That's about the extent of it.
But I sure do have a view. I can see everyone, and they can see me. The soldiers are up to their tricks of yesterday. The crowd can approach and circle me and my cage at a distance of ten feet. We get a real close-up. I am not interested in them, but they are definitely interested in me. I separate my feet so they can look up between. It's what they all want, and if I don't oblige, they'll probably compel me. I am sure my cunt is being compared to cows and goats and camels and their wives. I rest my cheek upon my knees and close my eyes. Fuck it-let them look!
Seems like girls in cages don't get fed. Before dark I am given water and juice, which I have to suck through a straw from a mug held against the mesh of my cage by a giggling girl. I've known all along I'll be kept in here all night. It's such an obvious punish-ment. What I'm concerned about is what happens then. The cage lacks the short drama of the whip. Its instrument of torture is time. They could leave me in here for a week or more. Oh, shit!
The African night claims me in my cage. None but the giggling girl have come near. The soldiers keep their distance. I am a naked girl condemned to suffer in a cage too small for her to stretch or even properly kneel. I can see the world, but I am not a part of it. The mesh separates me from life. I serve a sentence without knowing its span or time, without knowing how much of my life will be taken from me in this cage. I cry.
Through the night I've explored all the positions, but always come back to this hugging of my knees, my poor knees that scream in silence for their right to stretch. But they cannot stretch. Nothing of me can stretch. This is my punishment. The cage mocks me. The rising sun shows me all alone. There is a sentry, but I think he's fast asleep. Will they leave me in here all day and night?
"You look very beautiful in there," Nancy says when she comes. "Feeling the pinch?"
"Nancy, how long?"
"You are not to know."
"Then take me out for a rest, please! Let me walk."
"You know better than that, Valerie."
"Of course I know better," I tell her bitterly. "But I have to ask. I doubt you know how bad this is in here."
"Of course I know." She is laughing at my dolor. "When I joined the force, I decided to find out for myself what punishments in-volved, and a girl's ability to bear them." She comes close, and I know she would touch me if she could. "I had myself whipped and all the other punishments. One of them was this cage. I spent twenty-four hours locked inside, so I know how you feel, Valerie-believe me."
I gaze through the mesh at my jailer with enhanced respect. Nancy Richards is no ordinary woman. I am in safe hands. But the very competence of those hands ensures the severity of what I must endure in my service. But it will be a severity I can survive-I hope!
"Nancy, you're wonderful." I pay my respects with deep feeling. "But I still wish you'd let me out to stretch."
She shakes her head, so I add, "I promise I'll behave. I'll crawl back in anytime you say."
Perhaps Nancy remembers her own time, or maybe it's the appeal in my eyes and voice. Whatever it is, she unlocks the door and helps me from my prison. I am close to rigor mortis, so I need all the help I can get. I manage to stand and drink the air of freedom. It is the same air as I breathed in the cage, but it sure tastes better now. My breasts fall in gratitude as I take my stiff-legged steps around the cage.
"Thank you, Nancy. Oh, thanks a million!"
"I am being silly and allowing you to get the best of me."
"No, you're not. You're just being kind."
"I shouldn't tell you, but your time is not yet done."
I shrug. "I know that, Nancy, but this now is so damn good!"
"Why do you not run? You could."
"I'm neither silly nor ungrateful, that's why." I hold up my bound hands and giggle. "And I suspect these have something to do with it too."
"Get back inside, Valerie."
I am devastated, but stick my head and bound hands inside the mesh. I will not renege. But Nancy's laugher stops me dead. "No, never mind. I was just testing you. You are a most obedient prisoner. Continue your walk; it won't last long."
If it lasted hours, it would still be too short. I am back inside the cage, once more hugging my knees and looking through metal squares at a freedom from which I have been taken. But I am grate-ful, and my knees are grateful. A prisoner lives upon the smallest of gratitudes, and mine are large. Before Nancy leaves me for my day, I sincerely tell her, "Nancy, if you desire me, I'll give myself to you willingly."
"Even with your extra punishments, Valerie?"
"Yes, of course!"
She gives me an enigmatic lift of an eyebrow before she leaves.
Goodness knows, I'm the least isolated girl in the world. I'm naked in a cage, and everyone is having a good look at everything I have. I contrive an isolation of my own. I rest my head against my drawn up knees and close my eyes. But, before she left, Nancy locked an iron collar around my neck and put the lovely shackles back on my ankles. They are quite useless in this cage, but they amused her then and amuse me now. My bound hands have some-thing to finger. I hate iron collars and spend a lot of time trying to make the beastly thing comfortable. So far as the chain between my ankles goes, I'm seeing it as an old friend, my last gift from the Agency. I play idly with the heavy shining links, like a nun fingering her rosary beads. I am sure both these tribulations have been fastened on me to show an admiring populace how competently their ruler deals out justice to naughty girls, especially naughty white girls. I wish I knew what the silly grinning twits are saying about me as they stare.
I am awakened from my drowsy discontent by the sound of a vehicle. It is a small, busy little van with official markings. It hurries towards us, scattering citizens, and backs up to my cage. A pair of smart soldiers leap out. One gives my sentry a slip of paper, and the other throws open the van doors to disclose a small bare interior. The two of them pick up my cage, with me inside, and deposit it inside like a neat package of freight. The doors close and the motor roars. The whole thing can't have taken more than two minutes.
This is for the birds! I mean, what goes here? It wouldn't have hurt somebody to tell me something. There's enough light to look around, but there's nothing to give me a clue. There's a little window to the cab, but nobody's looking. I might feel better about this if I wasn't in this damn cage. It's the weirdest feeling, like I'm live-stock going to market. And I wish my hands weren't tied. Having them tied the way they are is a real bummer. I sure could use them to brace myself. Antawba roads are not exactly the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
I do some quick addition: Nancy's raised eyebrow, the way she's locked this collar and the shackles back on me, the single sentry, her kindness in giving me that bit of freedom to get my knees work-ing again. Does this add up to something? I can equate it to nothing. But either Sir had made a change of plans for me, or I've been stolen.
Stolen? I suppose it's the way it's been done, but the word kidnap doesn't seem to fit. This cage turns me into female merchandise. I can be picked up and carried around. If I struggle, I will only cause amusement for those who carry this damn wire prison. It feels like it's a coincidence I'm inside. Oh, damn!
It's been hours and hours, I'm sure of it. I'm getting better at guessing time, and there's been those two rest stops where I suck water avidly through a straw, and the soldier grins, telling me, "It's a long, long way, missie. Is so sorry." They seem amiable enough, but it would be hard to rape me in this cage.
Now there are street lights, and they are too bright and too numer-ous for Nagota. We must have crossed a border and entered a neigh-boring country. My cage and I aren't being rattled around any more. We are on paved streets. There is a pause, and I think we are driving into an underground garage. The van stops.
They are spoilsports. They toss a blanket over my cage like quieting a noisy canary. I am picked up and carried. The men share chuckles over me. My cage is placed solidly, and I hear retreating footsteps. I wait. Good gosh, what's going to happen to me now? I'm far too scared to cry.
The carpet must be plush, muffling steps, or maybe they have sat quietly awaiting the unveiling of their prize. Either way the blanket is suddenly gone and I find myself blinking up into the smil-ing face of Garret Burgoyne.
"There she is gentlemen-mint condition."
There are two others, both gravely middle-aged. They stare. One of them asks, in a Southern accent, "You got keys. Garret?"
Garret has keys, but does not hurry to use them. He simply dis-plays them on their ring. Wanly, I plead, "Please let me out of here, Garret! Please!"
"Gal wants out," says the Southerner. "Can't get a look at her in there-not that I don't think that cage is a mighty fine idea."
Garret uses the keys. The tiny door opens. If only these men knew what that small opening means to me! But they do not. It is Garret who handles my naked body with firm strong hands. The cage is on a table, so I am close to helpless in emerging. He smells gor-geously masculine and American as he draws me forth and stands me on my feet. In the process he kisses me gently and pats my bot-tom. Antawba vanishes.
The Southern voice belongs to Clarence Gaffer. The other gentle-man is the local consul. His name misses me, but I get the idea he disapproves of whatever is taking place. He tries hard not to look at my cunt and tits. Garret helps his purity by draping a tiny white cloth around my hips. He has come prepared.
I am very far from prepared. I stand, naked, and allow my physical assets to be scrutinized while I use a pair of captive hands to do my best with my hair. My principle emotion is one of over-whelming thanks to be out of that cage. It stands behind me, open and empty, like a waiting threat.
"This whole affair is deplorable," the consul says.
"Don't see much wrong with it myself," Gaffet drawls.
Garret smiles winningly at all present. "I am sure Valerie will try and explain. Won't you, sweetheart?"
I do one more swift assessment. For sure I can't escape. For sure I must not antagonize Garret. For sure it is good to be back among Americans. For sure I need all the friends I can get. At the moment I feel sorry for the poor consul. I bet he's never even heard of the Agency. I know how he feels.
"I belong to the Agency-to the organization Mr. Burgoyne is with," I explain gently. "They sort of own me and use me for their assignments."
"Of your own free will?"
"Well, not exactly."
"You are kept a prisoner?"
"Well, yes, I guess I am." I catch Garret's warning eye and hastily add, "But please don't worry about me, sir. I'm very well looked after."
"So I notice." His tone is as acid as his eye which is taking sharp inventory of my shackles, rawhide, and iron collar. He rises. "Very well, since my objections seem pointless, I will wish you all a very good evening." At the door he turns. "You are positive you do not require assistance, Miss Norton?"
"No, sir-really. But thank you."
"Quite incredible," he mutters, and then he's gone.
"Asshole," Garret says in swift summation. "Don't know why we brought him along. Fucking protocol!"
Garret pours me a drink. On my empty stomach it will make me instantly tipsy, but I just don't give a shit. I accept it with a tightly bound hand.
"Damn nice effect there." Gaffer is studying my rawhide-bound wrists as I empty my glass. "Hey, girl, can't you get them hands loose?"
"No. I've tried for hours. My teeth won't touch the stuff, and I can't find the knots."
"Leave the child tied, Garret. She can get herself a bath. Best feed her too. Them hands won't bother her none for eatin'."
I stare at Garret in disbelief at what I now suspect. He shakes his head and grins. "We're treating you like bastards, honey, but there's been a change in plans. Clarence here will be taking you home with him."
"But I belong to Masawa!"
"His charm grab you? Look, sweetheart, I'm grateful for the way you've just got me off the hook with our departed friend."
"Well, there's no way I can escape, is there? Not even with his help." I shrug, resigned to my situation. "And I'm not sure I want to escape in this place. I've had a bellyful! of Africa. Please take me home, Garret."
The answer to my plea comes from Gaffer. "That we will, gal- that we will. Fill that glass again for her, buddy."
The drinks are potent. I accept the second glass, giggling under the compulsion of crossed wrists which allow me to use only one hand at a time. Alcohol gives me the temerity to ask, "Couldn't I have my hands untied, please? They make me feel silly."
"Leave 'em alone, Garret. She acts real cute that way."
I try again. "What about the shackles on my ankles? Don't they belong to the Agency?"
"They're part of the deal, honey. They stay right on them pretty little feet."
"But they'll make a frightful clatter in the bath."
"We'll be listening, sweetheart. Make all the clatter you want."
I am now sufficiently tipsy that nothing matters. I clink my captive way to a gorgeous bathroom with gorgeous hot water and gorgeous smells and gorgeous scents. I am told to limit my feminine incli-nations to one hour, but this is ample. I deliberately make a shocking rattle with the chain linking my feet. My crossed, bound wrists are a handicap the cocktails sweep into oblivion. Maybe I'll get ring around the collar from the iron band circling my throat, but what the hell! When I emerge back within male scrutiny I am proud.
But the cage is still on the table. The men look at it. They look at me. They smile. My exclamation is involuntary.
"Oh, no!"
"Can't resist it, honey. You and that there cage go together like peas in a pod."
"It makes me feel like a pea in a pod. Oh, please!"
"Pop her in there, Garret, and let's get out of this dump."
Garret meets my stricken gaze. I can tell he's asking for help. Clarence Gaffer must be a VIP indeed. I shrug and ask, "Which end of me first?"
Before they lock me in and cover the cage with the blinding blanket, they give me a package of sandwiches. We are evidently in a hurry. I eat them hungrily while my cage and I are carried to the plane.
Enormous wealth is wonderful. If a man owns a jet, he can kidnap girls and take them anywhere in the world he pleases. My cage holds me neatly with little space to spare. When the blanket is removed, I find myself in the main cabin of the jet. Garret sits close by and has the grace to look ashamed. My new owner is back a way and busy with papers and a phone. No doubt he will make several more millions on our way home.
"The same two year deal exists with Clarence, Valerie, in case you're wondering. The Agency will keep you in view," Garret tells me placatingly. "You'll find Connemara a remarkable experience."
"Connemara's in Ireland...?"
"Not this one. It's the name of Clarence Gaffer's plantation. It's a little kingdom all his own. He maintains a menage patterned on pre-Civil War days. He's married and has one daughter."
"And a whipping post?"
"Well, yes, there actually is one."
"And a pillory?"
"Yes, that too. Look, sweetheart, I know it's rough-this whole damn deal is rough on you-but you must keep thinking of that two hundred thousand at the end of it all."
"Yeah, sure. That's about seven hundred whippings away. I'll be lucky if I'm still alive."
"You know it's not that bad, Valerie."
"This cage tells me it's not likely to be good."
"Valerie, there's no use beefing. One more complaint and I'll throw the blanket back over you."
I look at Garret reproachfully, but I shut up and bury my face against my knees. I cry. I hope he hates my tears.
Connemara? Oh, shit!
CHAPTER SEVEN - Twin Slavery
I am lonely.
They must have cut the connecting link between a pair of hand-cuffs to enable a cuff to be fastened at each end of the crossbar on top of the post. They gleam bright silver, and each of them is notched tight around one of my wrists. My breasts friction the heavy vertical timber as I stand with arms outstretched and slightly raised. They haven't tied or chained me any other way. They don't need to. I can't get free.
I've been standing here with my arms out to either side like wings for quite some time, and no one comes. Connemara's whipping post is discreetly out of sight of the big house. There is another one, along with the pillory, in the main plantation yard. That's for when a slave misbehaves. But I haven't done anything bad, so I am politely disposed of here to await a whipping I don't deserve.
"Be your first at Connemara, Valerie gal." Gaffer is forever jovial. I wish someone would whip him so he'd know how it feels. "Ain't going to be hard on you, girl. I'm lettin' the missus use the whip. She's got a real tender heart."
There are three of them: Mrs. Celie Gaffer is a comely thirty-nine years old and scared of her husband. Tess is an eighteen-year-old menace I'm not sure about. They were interested and involved when I was taken from the cage. My nakedness, my iron collar, and my tied hands and shackled feet were no more than to be ex-pected in a recently purchased slave.
"What a charming woman, Clarence. Shouldn't we untie her hands?"
"Oh, Daddy darling, she's gorgeous! Can I have her?"
That about summed it up. Clarence Gaffer was an indulgent father bringing home the bacon. I was the bacon. My collar was real handy. By it I was chained in a slave pen through the night in the company of a pair of black maidens who fed upon me ravenously and then retreated beyond the tolerance of my chain to giggle together.
"Hello, Valerie dear. I hope you didn't think you were forgot-ten." It is Celie Gaffer. She has a whip and a smile. She seems sure I'll be pleased to see her. She adds a clincher. "I don't really like whipping girls, dear, but Clarence insists. He says it's good for my self-confidence and for the girl's disposition. I expect he's right. Clarence is always right."
"If you don't like whipping girls, Mrs. Gaffer, please don't feel obligated in my case. I don't want to be whipped, not in the least." I look back over a bare shoulder. "Being whipped hurts terribly."
"I know it does, dear. Clarence sometimes whips me when he thinks I've been silly." She comes close and kisses me. "But I've brought along a whip that doesn't hurt too bad. I mean, not like some of them. I don't suppose he'll mind."
"What am I being whipped for?"
"Just because you're a girl, dear. Girls do get whipped, you know. Clarence insists they need it at least once a week."
"Would you be offended if I asked you to let me loose? Do you know that I've been kidnapped? I don't want to be a slave or a prisoner or any of this stuff."
"Yes, of course I know. But how else can Clarence get girls? That nice Mr. Burgoyne was so kind letting us have you."
This mild-mannered woman is for real! This whole scene is nuts! And I'm so damn helpless. I just stand here with my arms stuck out and a beautiful bare back and bottom waiting for what I'm pretty sure I'm going to get. But Celie's nice. She's really a sweet woman, but is she ever brainwashed! Boy! She'll whip me with the same tender loving care she'd bestow on a new dress.
"Garret Burgoyne gave me to you in return for favors," I tell Celie bitterly. "I'm being used as merchandise. Please don't whip me."
Once more she is close and kisses me in a way to make me aware of a heating sex. I tug fretfully at my ironed wrists as she patiently explains the situation.
"All of us females are merchandise, dear. That's just the way it is. Being whipped is simply a part of it. Please don't be frightened. You're in good hands. I can see Clarence and Tess coming."
By straining against a cuffed wrist I can see them too, father and daughter coming to watch the marking of a slave girl's skin. They are in excellent spirits.
"A lovely girl, Celie-properly secured. She'll give you no trou-ble."
"May I whip her too, Daddy-just a little? Please?" Everyone is happy except me.
With the first lash I know Celie Gaffer is kind. Sure, it hurts, but not more than I can bear. Her husband confirms the mercy of her arm.
"Bit harder than that, Celie my pet. She scarcely felt it. Connemara's watching, you know."
Number two is harder. Is it ever! I'm wondering about screams. Do I gain points by suffering in silence? I'm not sure. I'll simply behave a well as I can. These people will respect fortitude. I bite back sound as number three slashes my bottom. The pain is as I remember the last time, but not as bad. I am thankful for Gaffer's approval.
"You're doing fine, Celie. Keep it right there. Gal can take a lot like that. Spreads it out nice."
"And you're making the loveliest marks, Mummy. See, they take a few moments to come up to their real color. Oh, Daddy, I can hardly wait!"
I am a great success but feel no joy. All I feel is the sickening bite of each stroke across my bare skin. It's a hateful scald every time. There's nothing good about being whipped-nothing. Poor Celie, she would like to be kind, and she is trying. I strive to reward her by remaining mute but tugging at my cuffed wrists and kicking with my feet, from which the shackles have been removed. Even though I tried not to do these things I would do them anyway. Maybe one day I'll manage to stand still and mute while I am whipped, but I cannot now. I yelp angrily as a thong tip bites my breast.
"Oh, Daddy, before she's whipped too much, may I please whip her too?"
I suspect Tess can do anything she wants. Her parents dote on her. When the blows pause, I can guess it is her turn to weal my flesh. I cringe.
"Not too hard now, sweetheart. None of your tricks." The father's voice is stern.
"Oh, Daddy, as if I would! You know I whip beautifully."
"As long as I'm watching. Go ahead."
Celie had been diffident. Father's little pet adores slashing my skin. The thong's impact on my bareness takes on new authority. The pain is different. Quite soon Tess has me screaming-not with every stroke but enough to tell I'm hurting.
"She's just doing that, Daddy. Girls always scream if they think they can save themselves a few strokes."
"Tone it down, Tess."
Tess tones it down. I can picture her pout. In gratitude I take the next half dozen in silence. But soon enough I am making sounds again. I go on making them and can see blood on my wrists before Gaffer intervenes.
"That's enough, Tess my gal. It's her first time. We'll treat her kindly."
"Oh, Daddy, she could easily take twenty more-please!" I shiver and hate teenagers, but I perk as I sense something untoward.
"Seems to me you're forgetting something, young lady."
"Must we? Oh, Daddy, really!"
"Don't question your father, dear. You are well aware of your disgraceful behavior."
"But, Mummy, with Valerie watching?" It's a cry of agony.
"Makes an extra touch of discipline. Come now, off with 'em."
This is too good to be true. I can hardly believe it. I strain against my bonds, forgetting pain, to catch a glimpse of domestic drama. Daughter is facing father in confrontation. Slowly and in shame, Tess drags at the fastenings of her dress.
"Hurry up. None of your tricks."
"But, Daddy, couldn't we do it another time? Not in front of-"
"No."
"Do as you father says, dear."
I could hug myself! This is priceless, too good to be true. I wish I could stand away from the post to get a better view, but no one seems inclined to unlock my cuffs, and I'm scared to ask. I content myself with peeping where I can.
"Look, she's watching! Please don't make me-not now."
"Tess, you misbehaved."
"Well, yes, but just the same-"
"Strip!"
Tess removes her clothes. It is like peeling a reluctant orange. She looks back at me resentfully and sticks out a rebellious tongue. Her body is as petulant as her face, her breasts pointing up like firm defiant cones, her absence of belly a thing to wonder at, her pubic hair a blush redundant patch luxuriating beyond her age. With satisfaction I note her firm round ass. I would take pleasure in whip-ping it myself.
"Come on, don't dawdle."
"It is for your own good, dear. You do know that."
With a toss of her head, Daddy's little darling strides manfully to the post and arranges herself exactly as I am fastened. I hear the clicking of the cuffs and the youthful protest.
"I don't see why I have to be locked to the whipping post."
"You know perfectly well you can't possibly stand still, dear. You'll be glad you can't disgrace yourself."
"Oh, Mother...!"
Tess's protest ends in a yelp of dismay. The whip, wielded by her male parent, has cut across her bare shoulders. Tess's face is close to mine on the other side of the post. I hear her gasp, but I bet she won't scream. Oh, damn, I wish I had a better view! "Daddy, please not so hard-please!"
"Your behavior was atrocious, Tess-you must remember that."
"But, Mummy dear, couldn't I just be whipped on my bottom? It doesn't hurt nearly as bad on my behind."
The only answer Tess gets is another stripe across her back. It evokes a lot of noise from her cuffed wrists and some heart-rending gasps from her lips. I can't believe she is being whipped as hard as I have been, but she's still getting an honest-to-goodness whip-ping. This is incredible. When I hear the leather impact again, I cringe in sympathy. The daughter of Connemara and I have become sisters in distress. I pull urgently at my prisoned wrists.
"Do you think Valerie should be freed so she can see properly, Clarence dear?"
"No. She stays as she is. I may give her a few real strokes as a lesson, not any of this naughty girl nonsense."
The whip resumes its snapping cuts on teenage skin. Tess's anguish, mental and physical, reaches me through the post to which we are both locked. I can guess how she is striving for a stoic silence as befits the daughter of the house. But her voice oozes reproach.
"I think you're being terribly unkind. I didn't do anything this- oooohhh!"
Her answer is a blow to extract her first yelp. It is not a scream but comes close. When the even cadence of her punishment con-tinues, she bears it in silence, but her lithe nudity swings back and forth to where I can see her bare hips and a pointed breast. Tess has a positive genius for making heavy breathing and agonized gasps sound pitiful. Vicariously, I feel each blow.
It ends swiftly and sweetly. The whine of the whip stops, and Gaffer's gruff voice demands, "Well, what do you say, girl?"
Tess has her answer pat. "I'm sorry I was naughty, Daddy. I won't do it again. Thank you for whipping me."
If I wasn't hearing and seeing this, I wouldn't believe it could happen. Both parents now kiss their errant child. I can almost feel the flow of warm affection. Maybe they've got "something here!
I am now chucked under my chin by a fatherly finger. "Only five, Valerie, but you'll remember them."
"In case you're ever tempted to be a bad girl," Celie says with concern.
I thrust my breasts hard against the post and close my eyes. Clarence Gaffer is a big strong man, and I am naked. He is right, I will remember this always. For the space of five lashes I enter a world of pain such as I have never known. But because a limit has been placed on this strange punishment I clench my teeth in silence and allow my plunging kicking nudity and my ironed wrists to bespeak my anguish. It is not until the last stroke sweeps up between my thrashing legs that I scream. I bestow upon the Gaffer family a real lulu of a howl. By the time I am through panting and sweating, Mother and Father are halfway back to the house.
"Were those five very awful, Valerie? I've never had 'em yet, but I expect I will."
We strain against a wrist and manage to see each other. I tell her how bad the five hurt, then get curious.
"Why have they left us locked here together, Tess?"
"Oh, this." She actually manages a giggle. "Daddy is a real stickler for the old ways. Seems like when a girl got whipped back then it was a twenty-four hour affair. We'll have to stand like this all day and then spend the night chained in a slave pen. This sleeping in the straw in the barn was a way of telling a girl not to get uppity."
"All day-like this!"
"It won't be so bad. Mummy will bring us something to drink, and we have each other to talk to. It's a real bummer to be chained to this damn post all alone."
"Can't you get loose?"
"Gosh no! My cuffs are as tight as yours. Daddy never gives me favored treatment, except maybe not to whip me quite as hard. You hurt your wrists, didn't you? While I was watching I saw blood. It does help-I mean, to leap around as much as we can."
"But why do you stand for it? You're eighteen, and you're their daughter."
"I've always been whipped, ever since I was a child. Daddy whips me almost every week. I'm used to it." She giggles again. "I've figured out it's a good way to get things or do things I want."
"You mean this you're putting up with now it sort of payment for something?"
"Sure! It's really bitchen! 'Course I don't let on to them. But, Valerie, if you wanted a mink coat or a couple of nights with a guy who turned you on, wouldn't you figure this was cheap?"
I guess that's okay for Tess, but it's not for me. I lean against the whipping post and try to save my wrists from getting hurt any more than they already are. I think of Antawba and Sir. I think of Nancy Richards and Opal Rennie and all the rest of this night-mare. But it hasn't all been a nightmare. I let my mind dwell on Garret and Masawa. I wish one of them would come and take me away.
Connemara's slave pens are simply big cages inside an old barn. I get locked in one and Tess is put next door. A tether chain is locked to my collar, but Tess gets a belt around her middle with her tether locked to that. When we try to come together at the bars, we find ourselves snubbed short. We can look but not touch.
"They're being mean," Tess pouts. "I was hoping they'd lock us in the same cage."
"I'd have liked that too. You're very lovely, Tess."
"So are you, but it doesn't do us any good." Her petulance changes tone. "Look, Valerie, you'd better get this straight: when I'm not being punished, like now, I'm a real little bitch."
"I guessed that."
"I'll punish you every chance I get. I love whipping naked girls."
"Well, I can't stop you, so there' no use in me worrying about it."
"Just thought you ought to know."
"Gee thanks!" We share a laugh over this absurd exchange. I confide a thought never far absent from my consciousness. "You see, Tess, I'm suppose to be hurt. That's why your father bought me. If it isn't you or your parents hurting me, it would be someone else. I've been sentenced to two years of this sort of thing, and there's not a thing I can do about it."
There comes a silence. Tess stands, fidgeting with the belt tight around her waist. I can almost hear her thoughts. "Valerie darling, what you just to me-it's out of this world. I wish it was happening to me." Tess's voice holds a poignant longing. She's in a world of turgid dreams, rose-colored by unreality. I try to shatter her mood with bitterness.
"Tell that to Garret Burgoyne. Maybe he'll let you take my place."
"Oh, would he!" The young voice falters as her face clouds. "But I can't-I'm already here."
"Your father enjoys whipping you. Right now he's got you locked in a cage. I have to wonder why he wants me."
Sorrowfully, Tess gazes through the bars. "I guess it's because he wants to be cruel to you in a way he never is with me." She gestures vaguely. "We never speak of it, but he and I understand each other. He knows I get a real charge out of punishment like now, but he loves me too much to be really cruel."
"You'd hate it, Tess. Just look at me." I stand, fingering my collar. "I know I can never escape for two whole years. I'm always kept chained or tied or caged, and all that time I'll be punished." I raise a leg to display the angry red from that last blow up inside my crotch. "You wouldn't want this, would you?"
Her silence is not of decision. Tess has decision, but is scared of what I'll say or think. Finally she says, very simply, "Yes, that's what I want." Her eyes appeal to me. "Don't tell me I'm crazy."
What of myself! I cannot be the pot calling the kettle black. Shamefully, I admit, "I wanted it too, but in this enslavement they hurt a girl beyond what she can bear. They go on and on until you scream."
"But, Valerie, that's the real thing! Don't you understand-it has to be beyond bearing to make it real. With Daddy I can talk my way out of things-I twist him around my little finger-but I get you can't."
"You want to be helpless and hopeless?"
"You make it sound so grim. But yes, I do. I want it the way you are." Tess makes a small moue of disparagement. "When I saw you in that cage-all bound hands and shackled feet and iron collar-I had to go to my room and give myself an orgasm."
"But your parents-they'd never agree to their daughter becoming a slave."
"But if I was kidnapped, what could they do?"
The bars and chain and our whipped backs make this real. In another place or time such talk would be nonsense. Most ardently, I long for this vivid creature to take my place and bear my punish-ments. Feeling like a bitch, I ask, "Can you get in touch with Garret Burgoyne? It's for sure I can't."
"Of course I can." She is suddenly avid. "What do I tell him?"
"Same as you told me. Tell him I want out and that you'll take my place."
We sleep, chained, on our straw. Our minds are alive with dreams. Suppose they come true!
Masawa the Ruler is taking inventory. The same shackles on my ankles, his own iron collar around my throat, his own rawhide prisoning my crossed wrists. I am also in his cage. Garret Burgoyne and the Agency have contrived a miracle. Sir and I glow with pleasure. But I would like to be released from the cage. I have been locked inside for many hours.
But the piece de resistance of my return to Antawba is not me. It is Tess Gaffer. She lays on her breasts upon the rug. She is ex-quisitely hogtied and bowed. She is in real pain.
"So now I have two of you." Sir is enjoying his power. "Garret Burgoyne is a remarkable man. Our youthful maiden is delightfully trussed, and you, my dear, enhance my cage." He turns to Tess. "I trust you are in pain my child?"
"Of course I'm in pain! I've been this way for hours in the plane. Untie me." As a cautious afterthought she adds, "Please?"
"You will stay are you are, my precocious baggage. Valerie and I have matters to discuss."
"Look, you idiot, you can't possibly leave like this. I hurt and I can't move."
The poor darling glimpsed reality, and reality hurts, especially for slave girls. I keep a discreet silence. I have aches of my own. Bu I have learned my lessons. If Sir wants me inside a cage, that's where I'll be. But my heat glows as the padlocks are unlocked and I am withdrawn to stand with his arm around my waist. I know what Sir is going to do to me. He lays me on the carpet, removes my shackles, and then fucks me before a pair of outraged teenage eyes. His conquest of my sex goes on and on!
"I think you're both disgusting," Tess declares with vehemence.
Sir sighs. I gasp as he withdraws. He has given me two orgasms, but I am hungry for more. I watch, in flaming jealousy, as he dis-solves the lovely hogtie and frees Tess's feet. He positions her on her bound arms, then spreads her legs.
"Don't you dare! You've just been inside Valerie with that- that thing!"
Indeed he has. His weapon glistens with my secretions to make me proud I was first, and I think that perhaps he will return, but now he makes a fresh entry within a maiden sheath, and I have reason to doubt Tess's assurance about fellows who are turned on. I suspect Clarence Gaffer has guarded his daughter's virginity, so that only now is her holy membrane meeting its Waterloo. She screams and ceases to look in my direction. When, in half an hour, Sir comes back to me, Tess lays there panting and conquered and without reproach. I know just how she feels.
When Sir is satisfied, he locks my shackles on Tess's ankles and leads me to a private place where I use bound hands to make our drinks, then kneel in front of my master to learn my fate.
"The girl is a bonus. I'll teach Burgoyne to steal my slaves."
I had guessed as much. Sincerely, I declare, "Thank you for want-ing me back, Sir. Am I to be punished?"
"Perhaps. But it is Garret Burgoyne's gift who will take your place around the towns and villages." Sir chuckles. "Garret has told me of her desires. I'll make sure she gets them."
"She is very young, master."
"Not too young for heated loins and a sharp tongue. I'll make sure both are appeased."
"May I see here sometimes, Sir? She will be lonely and frightened."
"Perhaps. Surely you do not wish to share her penances?"
"Only if you desire, Sir."
"Ah, I detect desire in you. Is that not so?"
"Because I feel for her, master. She is so young and made her own choice."
"You wish to be whipped and caged beside her? Will this lessen her pain?"
"It will lessen her loneliness. Forgive me."
Masawa the Ruler laughs at my humility. "I'll give you pain enough, girl. You'll be punished in some way daily until our wedding."
"Thank you, Sir."
"There is more enjoyment in you than in six ripe virgins."
I thrill and secrete like crazy. I should be ashamed, but I am not. Blushing, I say, "Garret gave me to another man as a slave. I did not like it. He whipped me and kept me in a pen."
"You will suffer worse from me."
"Yes, but my pain will be from you. I did not want his pain."
"You like mine?"
"Before and after, Sir. I do not like it while it's being done to me. I don't think any girl enjoys it then."
Masawa is laughing at me. There is something about me that amuses him. I blush. Then, catching the glint in his eye, I dispose myself upon the rug, my bound hands at the back of my neck. There is a glint in my eye too. I am beautifully and gorgeously ravished.
"Would you wish to spend the night with Garret's gift?" It is the aftermath. We lay together letting the heat absorb our sweat. "You fear for her loneliness, beloved girl, and we have made our love." Sir's question is tender but amused.
I suspect I am being played with, but I do not care. I am deliciously content. Masawa has freed my hands, perhaps as a reward. Dutifully, I say, "If it pleases you, Sir."
"It pleases me."
Goodness knows what I have let myself in for, but I am busy with my fingertips arousing my master once again. It is nice to have my hands back and to use them thus. We are both insatiable and I have no shame. Masawa's tone is reflective.
"The girl Tess will take over your itinerary tomorrow. I have had a second cage fabricated."
"That means you will continue to lock me inside the first one?"
"Why not! It makes a girl convenient to transport."
Why not indeed! I quell the jealousy ready to flare had that out-rageous little mink inserted herself within the metal mesh designed for me. I wonder wickedly how well Tess's tumescence will weather Antawba's stress. The damn girl is a ravishing beauty, and I am already jealous that she is here at all.
"If Tess takes my place, why must I be punished daily, Sir?"
"Because it pleases me."
It is reason enough.
Once again I am most splendidly fucked.
"This really is for the birds, Valerie. I've been tied here ever since you and his majesty went away to make love in private."
Tess's tone is not entirely plaintive. I am sure there is a dampness below her pubic patch. Nancy Richards must have taken a lot of trouble with her, because she is most exquisitely bound. "You know you enjoy it. Isn't this what you wanted?" I ask irritably.
"Well, yes, I suppose so."
Tess is still the daughter of Connemara. Antawba and the cage will cure her, but it will take some time. The poor girl fights a losing battle against the heat of her demanding sex. I must not be mean. After all, I am bound here to give her solace through the night. "Nancy Richards could have made things much worse. She's tied us to these two posts where we can see each other, and we haven't been gagged."
"You mean she's allowed to gag us?"
"Why not? We're captives."
"And outside in this courtyard I bet there are all kinds of snakes and bugs, and we're both naked, and anybody could come in, and it's too scary, Valerie."
"It's all part of being a slave girl, darling."
"Valerie, why do men love punishing us?"
"Ask yourself. You love whipping me."
"Oh, all right! But, Valerie darling, I can't see down there. Did that damn girl thread a rope inside my pussy?"
"You'd know if she had. No, there are two strands, one on each side of your labia, cinching you back to the post."
"I bet they're holding me open." Tess tries to struggle but does not move. "It feels funny down there, and it's starting to hurt. All of me is starting to hurt. When I breathe, these ropes crisscrossing my breasts bite at my shoulders."
"That's the way it's supposed to be, Tess."
"Well, don't sound so complacent. You've got it good. You could even sit down."
"No, I can't. My wrists are handcuffed behind the tree, and the link between is wired to the trunk. I have to stand the way I am. You can probably sleep. The ropes will hold you safe. But I can't. I'll have to stand and look at you all night."
"Darling, is it that bad? I'm so sorry. You look so sweet and free."
"That's a word you'd best forget, Tess. You're not going to be free for two whole years, and neither am I."
"I know. I keep thinking about it. It arouses me shockingly, but I can't really believe it's true. Will I be allowed to phone Mummy and Daddy again? Garret allowed me a call after I was hogtied for the plane. I had to be so careful."
"You'll have to ask Nancy or Masawa."
"But, Valerie, they're going to take me away on some sort of something or other, and I'm going to be put in that cage."
"All right, I'll ask for you. Look, Tess dear, you've let yourself in for things you may not like. Remember, it's not forever."
"Garret talked to me about that. The money doesn't mean a thing to me; Daddy's got a mountain of it. But there's a thing I've just thought of. I'm quite a bit younger-"
"So?"
Tess tries to wiggle, but she's tied so she can't even twitch. Her tone is uncertain. "Darlin, don't you see? After two years I'll still be only twenty. I'll be good for two more, and maybe even two more after that. I'd still be only twenty-four."
"Don't worry about it until it happens."
"Well, yes, but will I be given a choice? I mean, will I be asked if I want another round or want to go home?"
Damn! Tess is making me think about myself. If Masawa actually does marry me-or if he does not! This whole thing is crazy, and Tess and I will be swept along in a tide we can't control. I shrug my captive shoulders. "Are you sure you're not doing some wishful thinking, Tess?"
"Yes, I know I am." She offers me a gamin grin. "I'm sorry I was rude while Masawa was fucking you. He's so wonderful. I mean, after I got past the pain. Do you think he'll do it to me again?"
"If Mawasa doesn't, you can be sure someone else will."
"And will I always be naked?"
"I guess so. I've been kept naked." I grin at her concupiscent curiosity. "When I asked why, I was told I was more convenient to bind and punish without clothes, but I expect they enjoy our breasts and things."
There is a reflective silence before she ventures, "Are you quite sure you can't get loose, darling? I mean, I can't see a thing holding you. You look so lovely standing there."
"I can't turn the tree around for you to look," I tell her snappishly. "But, no, I can't get loose, and, yes, I'm safely fastened. If we did get loose, what would we do?"
"Well, wouldn't we escape?"
"This is what you wanted, Tess. Why would you run away?"
"Oh, Valerie, you make me feel so silly." She gives the matter some thought. "Am I silly?"
"Of course you are, but don't let it bother you."
Tess tosses her hair. It is the only motion she can make. Every other part of her is tightly corded. She also sniffs. "You're annoyed with me, darling-I can tell. I bet you asked to be put out here with me so I wouldn't be scared in the dark, and now you're wishing you'd kept quiet."
She's shrewd, but I have to laugh. "Masawa suggested it, sweet-heart, but I didn't complain."
"I really am grateful, Valerie. I'd hate not having you."
"I just wish Nancy had tied me the same as you so I could sleep. Now I'm not sure if she thought she was being kind or just having fun."
"But won't someone come?"
"I don't suppose so. Why would they? They know we can't get loose."
The poor kid! I ought to be kind instead of cross. She can't help being a little bit scared. I was. I still am. We are a pair of naked girls very far from home. Gosh, Tess really is a beauty. Her curves are accentuated by the bite of ropes. If a man saw her like this-wow!
"Valerie, what does Masawa want with the two of us? Does it take two girls to satisfy him?"
"He's going to use you politically. You'll see, dear. But you won't be hurt any more than me. I'll be punished every day too, but my punishments are just to give him pleasure."
"You're in love with Masawa."
"Am I! I wish I knew."
"I bet you're scared you're only worshipping his enormous- uh, whatever they call those things. That's what I'd be frightened of. When he was inside me-oh, Valerie!"
"You're awfully wise for a teenager."
"I'm not wise, I'm simply female. I bet you were wise too when you were eighteen. Darling, if Masawa asks you to marry him, what would you say?"
"I wouldn't be given a chance to say a thing. I'd probably stand at the altar in handcuffs and be promised a whipping if I didn't say yes."
"But seriously, darling-don't joke."
"You know damn well what I'd say. I wouldn't dare refuse, and I wouldn't want to."
"You're so lucky, Valerie. I wish I was twenty-four."
"You don't need to wish that. You're a delicacy the way you are. Suppose Masawa asks you instead of me?"
"I'd say yes right quick-in case he changed his mind."
Tess falls asleep within her ropes. I lean against my tree and wish I could walk away.
Night claims us.
CHAPTER EIGHT - Return to Punishments
Nancy Richards is amused. She has let me sleep tethered in the cell. Now she brings me food. "So I am to punish you daily for two whole years," she says briskly. "You shouldn't have run away."
"I didn't run away; I was kidnapped. Two men picked up my cage, with me inside, and carried it off. I didn't have a chance to say boo. You can't punish me for that."
"I can punish you for anything, and you know that." She smiles and sits on my cot. "Eat your breakfast."
The chain and the collar are heavy on my throat. I rearrange them and eat hungrily. A bath follows. Handcuffed, I am led to where I will suffer pain. Strangely, I feel no resentment. This is Antawba and the way things are.
The room is new to me, and so are the things it holds. I am sure I will hate them all. While I gaze around, my hands are taken from front to back and clicked extra tight. Nancy does everything to me with an air of laboring in a good cause.
If it had the right holes, it would be a pillory or a set of stocks or something. It comes barely to my shoulders. It is the usual mas-sive wood, and in its crosspiece are a pair of deep hollowed out depressions for a girl's breasts. Within them, its purpose obvious, is a tiny hole. I am thrust hard against the structure, a strap circles my back, as it tightens, my breasts nestle within their small smooth prisons. As Nancy tightens the strap with one hand, she kneads and persuades my breasts with the other until all of their curves are hidden within the timber and their nipples peep shyly into the open through their holes. Nancy busies herself with a strap and firm fingers. I can't do much of anything at all except look down and observe my nipples getting larger and harder under the thrusting pressure against which they have no say. Finally Nancy is satisfied and walks around to view her work. "Two lovely protrusions, Valerie."
I look down to behold the two most demanding nipples of my life. They are asking for trouble. I hope she won't give me orgasms all day. If she frictions them the way they are, I'll explode. Doubt-fully, I say, "I'm glad you're pleased with them."
"So innocent, Valerie. Don't you think they need something?"
My tummy knots inside. Bravely, I retort, "No. I think they are sweet the way they are. Is this my punishment-to stand?"
"Come now, you know better. See what I have for you?"
It is instant loathing. The two objects nestle in Nancy's hand, pregnant with purpose-two office type paper clips with a spring to open and close their ugly little jaws. And there's not a thing I can do except tug at handcuffed wrists and strain back against a strap that will not give an inch.
"I'll put them on you now, dear. I want you to enjoy watching."
I watch. I could not look away or close my eyes if I tried. In a fascinated mesmerism, I look down at the open jaws slowly approaching my pink and pleading bud. I gasp my way through a seemingly endless adjustment before I cry aloud when the jaws close.
"I can't stand it! Take it off! Take it off! Oooohhhh!"
Nancy does not take it off. Instead, she puts the other one on. I can't move a thing. The timbers and the strap laugh at my strug-gles. "Nancy, you don't understand. They're too much-too much," I moan in anguish.
"I think they're delightful, dear. You're a lucky girl."
"Don't be silly. You should wear them with pride."
"I can't! I can't!"
"When I unbuckle the strap, you'll be on your own, Valerie. Aren't you the luckiest girl?"
The full impact of what I am up against takes a moment to register. "Nooo!" I plead. "Ohhh, noooo!" But it is blithely ignored. Nancy tugs at the buckle behind my back.
It is so cruelly simple. My nipples can enter the small holes to be teased and made hard, but clipped they cannot withdraw. They will hold me against this timber contraption more surely than a hun-dred chains. As the strap slips from my flesh, I thrust myself hard against my prisoned breasts.
"Of course, if you unclip them... "
"Don't be mean. You know I can't. Oh, Nancy, please take them off. Whip me or something instead-please?"
"That comes later, dear. A test of your control now."
"You don't mean you'll whip me as well?"
"Of course I will, dear. Be a good girl and enjoy your punishment."
My nipples burn like fury. It is a steady, insistent scald of bitter pain, and I can do nothing about it. Behind my back, my hands share my anguish as they tug uselessly at their metal cuffs. I gaze imploringly at the smiling regard of Nancy Richards and gasp, "Oh, no, no, no!"
She nods brightly. "Nothing much more I can do, Valerie. Have a nice day." She kisses me and turns towards the door.
This can't be true! It can't be happening to me! How can Nancy possibly leave me alone in this frightful predicament? I dare not move. If I withdraw my nipples the tiny bit the clips allow, they will hurt worse than ever, and I may not be able to push them back. I'm foxed!
I stand. It is as infuriating as leaning against that damn tree all night watching Tess sleep safe inside her ropes. I can't keep from looking down at the beastly little jaws biting avidly at my flesh. They are so small but not tiny enough to draw back through the holes. Their control of me is total. But even if I could pull them back, what good would it do? They would still bite busily, and I couldn't get them off. Standing like this is only an extra penance. Oh, damn!
Girls get used to anything. When I think back over all that's been done to me since I was kidnapped-and now this! It's wonderful and frightening. When Nancy clipped my nipples a little time ago, I knew for sure I couldn't bear it, but I am bearing it. After the first horrified shock I've settled down to the steady nagging pain enveloping my breasts without let-up. It doesn't get better or worse. It just keeps right on hurting. I could swear the clips wink at me every time I look down.
When Nancy comes back after hours and hours, she carries a switch and a glass of water. Gratefully, I drink, but I wish she'd left the other thing behind.
"Ready for a whipped bottom, Valerie?"
"No, I'm not. Nancy, you don't need to whip me. I don't see why you can't let me loose. I've been like this for ages."
"Be a good girl and don't complain, and you haven't been here for ages." She taps my bottom playfully with the switch. "How's your nips?"
Before I can tell her how my bad nipples are I get the first stroke. I freeze hard against the timber, thrusting my breasts into their hol-lows in grim determination not to move. I dare not dance around the way a girl normally does when she's whipped.
"Didn't hurt, eh?"
"It hurt terribly, Nancy-you know it did. I'm scared to move."
"Life those hands up so I can get at you properly."
"Nancy, no! Please don't whip me!"
My plea is urgent, but I lift my hands to give her easy access to my cringing cheeks. Nancy cuts at them instantly with her switch. This slash is harder.
"Please! If you have to whip me, please unclip my nipples so I don't injure them."
"You won't, dear-you love them too much. You'll hold still."
"But suppose I can't?"
"You will. You can always try harder."
Nancy is right. I try harder. I stand while she carefully switches away at my two helpless cheeks. She chuckles. "Pain in four places at the same time. It's what I wanted for you. You're doing fine, Valerie."
Happily, she whips away at what I cannot protect. When I drop my hands, she cuts their knuckles to send them back up. When she hits me really hard, I life a sulky leg. It is the only movement I dare make. I try to close my mind to agony and thrust hard with my breasts. I must not tear a nipple, I simply mustn't! If only Nancy would buckle the strap across my back again, I'd be safe. But she won't, I know she won't! Oh, damn and double damn! I bet she's getting a charge out of this jackpot she's put me in.
The hell of this is we both know I'm not being flogged. Nancy Richards is cautiously striping my bottom only as hard as she knows I can handle. I almost wish I couldn't handle it, and I have to wonder how long it's going to continue. Optimistically, I moan and gasp and flinch, but she is not impressed. The switch slashes my bottom with steady measured strokes to match the joyous bite of the hateful little monsters feeding on my breasts. I stand and stand and stand.
"Wasn't all that bad, was it?"
The switch has stopped its rhythm on my flesh. My bottom burns to match my breasts. I know it could have been worse, but she's whipped me bad enough. Sulkily, I concede, "No, I suppose not."
"A few more then, to make certain, dear."
The few more come and are harder than before. Petulance is a luxury I can't afford. When she pauses for the second time, my tribute is hasty and sincere: "Thank you, Nancy. You've been very kind."
"Amazing what a little whipping does for a girl."
"Yes, Nancy, amazing. A month ago I wouldn't have believed-"
"And those clips on your tits?"
"Oh, for sure, them too."
I pray she detects no sarcasm to earn me more stripes. We are now more or less back to square one. I stand. I bet no girl ever stood as good as I stand now. I am a very well behaved young lady.
I do not cry until Nancy leaves me alone again. My tears fall where they please; I cannot touch them.
* * *
It is good to lay on the bed to await the coming of the man who owns me. Nancy has fed me and bathed me and done my hair, but never once unlocked my hands. They are still behind my back. She has also locked the tethering chain to my collar. I will not escape. She has oiled my burning breasts and massaged them gently as with love. She is a creature of caprice. I fall asleep.
"Been a naughty girl, eh? Got your bottom whipped."
It is Sir. He is chuckling over my striped skin. I cannot tell him fast enough about my day. He listens judicially to my torrential plaint.
"Hmmmm. Want me to have Nancy punished, sweetheart?"
Sir's nonchalant query shocks me to the core. Whip Nancy! And I make the decision! It would seem as plausible as whipping the Queen of England-I'd never dare!
"Master, you mustn't! Gosh no!"
"She's treated your tits badly, beloved girl. They are mine too, you know. She would understand."
"Oh, no!" I am truly anguished. "Master, we sort of like each other now. Sometimes I think we like each other a lot. But if she is punished because I've tattled, she'll hate me." I gaze at Masawa appealingly. "I can't afford to have Nancy hating me."
Sir chuckles, delighted by my concern for the woman who, by his orders, will punish me daily. "Self-interest? Thinking of your skin?" He laughs at my naivete. "I will order her whipped. Every woman needs whipping occasionally."
I think he's teasing, but I'm scared he's not. I try to throw my arms around him beseechingly, but am foiled by handcuffs. I try to kneel at his feet, but the damn chain is tangled, and my throat is snubbed. We end up by laughing at my pathetic condition, and he unlocks my hands.
"Very well, beloved girl, Nancy's skin remains unmarked. If she is unkind to you again tomorrow, you can console yourself by knowing it's your own fault." His eyes are glinting in a way I know full well. "And now ...!"
I lay back joyously upon my whipped bottom, opening my legs for male entry into my belly. Deep within me, he frictions my nip-ples, and I am consumed. Between whipped skin and tender tits I am positively glowing with sensitivity. Sir makes me climax again and again as he gazed down at my shameless submission. I am his slave-conquered!
There's one nice thing about my condition: I can sleep late. Even when I wake, my collar and its chain tell me I can't go anywhere, so I doze and dream and luxuriate in comfort while I have it. My pain, later on, will be worse by contrast, but a slave girl gets her pleasure where she can. When she finally shows up, Nancy packs a surprise.
"Masawa the Ruler has told me." Seeing my lack of compre-hension, she adds, "You did not want me whipped."
I blush. I'll be damned if I know why. "It's not fitting," I tell her.
"It is fitting in Antawba, child. I owe you gratitude." She bends and kisses me. My free arms reach for her.
"I do not want you punished, Nancy."
"I will give you love, dear girl, because of this, but I will not show you mercy."
"Of course not. I really do understand, Nancy."
She kisses me again and unlocks the chain from my collar.
My day begins.
Masawa's house has many rooms. The features of this one are few, mainly Nancy and me and a hole in the wall. The hole is a sizable neat oblong. I am sure it bodes me ill. I am guided to it, my iron collar is removed, and Nancy's firm fingers position me as though I am a limp rag doll. I find myself bent over to look at the room next door. It is bare and empty and without interest. With certainty, I declaim, "I'm not going to like this."
They slide up from below and down from above. They are the missing segments of the wall. When they close, my neck and wrists are within their grasp. The orifices are neat and hold me tight, seal-ing away my body and leaving me only my wiggling hands for com-pany. Absurdly, I wonder which of the room I can be said to occupy.
Nothing happens.
I stand uneasily, expecting pain. I test my prisonment, but that is hopeless. I am firmly held. I envision impending horrors. The naked me is back in another room, and anybody can do whatever they please with it. I am positive Nancy will do something. This can't be all there is. In shivering anticipation I wait.
This bare clean room my head and hands are in is daunting, leav-ing me no conjecture. The parts of me likely to be punished are elsewhere, severed at my neck, my hands lopped off. I can't quite envision what my decapitated torso must look like. This is unreal. If there are sounds back there where my body is, I cannot hear them.
It seems hours before the pain comes. My feet are kicked apart and I am whipped inside my thighs. I close my legs and they are kicked apart again for another cut close up against my sex. It is a game I cannot win. I long to scream, but the thought of pealing out my anguish to this empty room seems obscene. I content myself with letting my nakedness fight the whip with its writhings. But whip wins. My most tender flesh is slashed six times. Then comes silence and the frightening vacuity of nothing.
My thighs smart, but I have to comfort their distress. Perhaps someone looks at them, computing how many marks my skin will bear. I shift my feet uneasily beneath a scrutiny that may not exist. Oh, damn! This is the stuff of hysteria and blind panic, but I am subject to neither. I wonder how often I will be whipped throughout my day.
The door opens. Nancy carries in a chair. She kisses me and arranges my hair. Eons have passed, but she tells me I am not yet halfway through my day. She sits herself comfortably and says, "Tell me about it."
I tell her. I am most articulate on the subject of being divided into two parts and my desire to be punished in any way but this.
"It's not so bad, Valerie. Only six strokes so far."
"It's awful. I hate it. I'm frightened all the time because of the rest of me in the other room." I take a deep breath to truly expound my plaint, but use it instead as a gasp of pain as my thighs are viciously circled by a whiplash. I have held them close, but the thong laughs and cuts them both.
"I have a helper, dear. I don't want you bored. Besides, the expression on your face-"
"Nancy, please!"
"She'll hit you again in a minute, but I can't tell any better than you."
The searing blow comes instantly. Nancy Richards, interestedly, watches my features depict the pain. The girl in the other room will be getting a good view of contorting nudity. My legs are kicked apart, and a shrewd cut bites up at my most secret place to yield me bitter pain. Angrily, I realize I have no secret places any more-all of me is bare to public gaze.
"Suspense bother you?"
I am busy telling Nancy about the suspense and the hateful pain when I gasp once more at something new.
"Don't want to get in a rut with the whip, dear."
This is not the whip; it is a girl's hand caressing where the thong's weal burns. I freeze in shock. The hand is femininely wise. Nancy laughs delightedly.
I am sensitized by fingertips and lips. I suspect two girls possess the other part of me, but I can't be sure. It does not matter. I am taken into the land of rainbows and delight. I climax but receive no rest. Tumescence mounts. The hot flood gathers me and takes me to the stars. I explode in pure orgasmic lust. The fingers and lips persist. I cannot escape their wisdom. Dimly, I am aware of Nancy, but I no longer care about the story my face must tell, or for the clenching and splaying of helpless hands. My journey to Nirvana is longer this time, but no less certain of its end. The moans I hear are mine.
I come back slowly. The hands are gone, and so are the lips. I don't think I could have borne them had they stayed for one more time. My nipples, still tender from yesterday, are wet, as are my breasts. The air reminds me of their vulnerability. I gasp and look shame-faced at the woman in the chair. My silly little exclamation says it all.
"Oh, Nancy!"
"You are ready to be whipped again, dear?"
"If that's what you want for me, yes."
I should watch my tongue. What have I just said! I am not ready for the whip at all-I never will be. But those hands bewitched me. I would say yes to anything.
But there comes no scalding pain. There is something else. It electrifies me in horror. There is something crawling up my leg!
I stare at Nancy and become aware that she knows. I kick fran-tically, but the small feet only pause, then continue their climb. By the time I think to use my other foot it too has company. The parts of me in there next door take frantic evasive action.
"Bogoti beetles, dear."
"What the hell are they? Get them off! Nancy!"
"Quite harmless, dear."
"They are not! They feel awful. Oooohhhh, Nancy!"
"They'll go as far as your pussy, then feed. If they are not dis-turbed while feeding, they won't sting. You can spare a tiny bit of blood, dear."
"I can't! Get them off-I'll do anything!"
"You don't have to do anything, Valerie. Just stand still."
I can't. Will they go up inside me?"
"Not unless I put them inside."
Nancy may be laughing, but I have visions of scorpions. The beastly things have scented me and make a steady climb toward my sex in spite of any motion I can make. I'm none too sure about Nancy. Suppose they do insert themselves between my lips there and claw their way inside. If that happens. I'll go absolutely insane.
I am panting but stand transfixed. Whatever bogoti beetles may be, they have reached the warm moist place I want them least. When their probes penetrate my skin in search of blood, I yelp and heave against the wall.
"Don't begrudge them dinner, dear."
"Oh, please, Nancy! I beg you-take them off!"
"Too late. They must not be disturbed."
"Kill them! Do something! They're eating me!"
"They'll go away when they're finished. Enjoy the sensation while you can."
I stand and pant, a quivering nudity of feminine sensation. On each of my pussy lips a beetle is having lunch, and the lunch is me! I can't do a thing. I can't see a thing. It's all happening in the next room while I hold still in shivering suspense. Nancy maybe thinks this is fun, but I'd sooner be whipped.
"Such lucky beetles! You're the best dinner they've ever had."
"Nancy, you're being mean. Haven't you any idea how awful this feels to a girl? I want to scream and scream."
"Go ahead, they won't mind."
I give my guardian a most reproachful look. The first awfulness of shock has gone, but there remains a steady burn where the little beasts feed on me.
"All right, I won't scream," I tell Nancy. "I'll suffer in silence, but please, Nancy, punish me some other way. Couldn't you put me in the little cage?"
"No."
"It's really uncomfortable inside the cage. I would cry, I'm sure."
"No."
"Whip me?"
"You always ask for that. The answer's still negative."
"Hang me up by my wrists?"
"No."
While I search my memory for more discomforts, Nancy picks up her chair and leaves. With the closing of the door I cry. The beetles burn me busily with their probes.
Everything ends. Gorged with my blood, the bogoti beetles leave. I wonder if there is anyone there to take them away or kill them, or will they return to feast again? Desolately, I realize my day has far to go. I am a girl being punished, although I don't know why.
It is mid-afternoon when I feel the thing. Silence defeats me. I have no warning of anything which can happen to me next door. The thing is a nuzzling snout, probe, or knob separating the cheeks of my bent bottom, presumably with a view to entry. I come alive, tense and alarmed. I kick out savagely.
My reward for the kick is a swift slash of a switch across the calf of my leg. It hurts horribly. I do not repeat the action. The snout thing goes away, but comes back-greased! I moan in know-ledge-it is a dildo. I am too scared to protest the separation of my legs.
I have only heard of dildos and seen pictures. My imagination blossoms, fertile with fear. These things can be huge, and this one is nuzzling where it should not go. When it enters me, I simply moan. What the hell else can I do?
I wonder if it is Nancy. Whoever it is is skilled. The instrument of my degradation is twisted and turned to insinuate, its length slowly but surely within the forbidden place. It is a beastly feeling to make me gulp and swallow and tense. But my thighs are slapped apart, and I know it is desired for me to relax. I do my best. What do they call this-the anus something or other? When I am wondering how much of it there is, the penetration stops. Whatever its length, I have it all inside me. I don't have any tears left of I'd cry.
But there is more!
I am nuzzled again. This time there is no doubt of the target. I expect Nancy is amusing herself with me. I cannot yet complain of dire punishment, but I am penetrated enough and want no more. The vitality I wish to conserve for Sir this evening will become exhausted if I cannot be punished in other ways than with these sexual monstrosities. But I am aroused and receptive. The invader slips within me easily. I am impaled twice!
Having filled me with her oversized prongs, Nancy ensures their lodgement where I am warm. A belt is buckled around my middle, and a strap goes down between my thighs and back up. When it is cinched, the intruders within my womb are there to stay. Another heavier strap is used to thrash my punished bottom: five resounding impacts to cement what has been done. I flare with heat and pain, weaving my pain in mute protest. After a few minutes I sense I have been left alone.
My flesh is now my enemy. It is not long before I feel the stirrings of an awareness of these beastly simulations of the male. But I do not want an orgasm thus induced. My orgasms are for Sir. Even though I am helpless, I see this blossoming within my loins as an infidelity. I shift unhappily. But this is not wise. I had best keep still. I am a girl in the beginnings of a strange rape. I reflect as to whether Nancy or these things within me-these prongs strapped hard and fast into my sex-are the rapist from whom I cannot escape. But what does it matter? There is little I can do to stem the tide.
But I can think. If I stop thinking about the fire spreading to con-sume me and turn my thoughts elsewhere, it may inhibit the sensi-tivity of my sex. I consider Garret Burgoyne.
I am going to be married. It will happen. It will be done to me whether I want it or not-much in the manner of whipping me or feeding me. This is the way of Sir and of Antawba. I do not care what form it takes, only that I will truly share Masawa's bed. I do not even know if there will be chains and punishments after I am his true consort. I suspect they will still be there. Wouldn't it be something to spend my honeymoon fastened in a way such as this, with a burning bottom and a tender pussy? My flesh instantly responds to such thoughts, and I back hastily away. I consider Garret.
If this was fiction, I would inevitably fall into Garret's arms in the final chapter. He would rescue me from the chains I owe to him and return me to respectability and the U.S.A. But this is no fiction, so I ask myself why I can regard him as a husband when he has been the beginnings of all my whip marks and my lost liberty. I suppose it is because of that childhood memory with Mummy, and because he smells tweeedy and of after shave lotion. There is no way Garret can fuck me as gorgeously as does Sir.
These reasonings are silly. They have done little to quench my fire. I search for more sterile subjects less heating to my puss. Before I find one I am gripped by awareness. Someone is in the other room where most of me is prisoned and on display. Someone is looking at my bottom. I tense. There comes the murmur of voices and an exclamation, but they are whispering, and I cannot catch the words.
The hand is eloquent. It is large and male and fondles my breasts and fingers the straps binding my sex. I suspect someone laughs over my impalements. They will be laughing over visions of rubber prongs probing and nestling deep within my flesh. No doubt they will be considering replacing them with their own erection. I do not recognize the hand.
The cut across my bottom is cruel. It is the thin crop. I know it is. But whatever it may be it drives me into the avid clutch of my hovering orgasm. I gasp wildly and surrender my body in the other room to obscene writhings. Another searing cut upon my flesh ensures an explosive tribute to my prongs. I stop thinking and, for a few moments, become a thing. There are no more cuts, and soon the door to the room containing my head and hands is opened, and I hear a step and a gasp. I gaze up sideways, chafing my prisoned neck. I am incredulous!
It is Clarence Gaffer.
CHAPTER NINE - Garret Burgoyne
The Agency has made me blase about being a bit of a bastard. But at this moment my conscience is salved by my knowledge of complicity in the two subjects currently in our employment as "re-wards." That's as good a name as I can find for them. "Bait" fails to please. In the past, the two hundred thousand dollars has, in the end, made them as compliant as the whip, but it does not work this way with Valerie and Tess. Valerie is by way of becoming some-thing of a queen, and Tess's old man has more money than he knows what to do with. I also comfort myself with the knowledge that they adore what is being done to them.
I am looking at Tess. Why not-everybody else does! She is easy to look at. Her nubile youthfulness of breasts and belly are altogether charming. There is not much room in her cage, but her slender suppleness enables her to move around within the mesh in a manner an older girl could not. Rawhide binds her in front but fails to impede whatever motions she desires. She clasps the heavy wire with the captive fingers of bound hands and has hunched her nakedness around to glare at me. Her voice tells me she does not mean what she will say.
"I think you're being terribly rude, Garret, staring at me like that."
"The locals are having a gander, so why not me?"
Tess sniffs and looks around at the African interest which is view-ing her hungrily but with respect. "Well, they don't know any bet-ter, and I'm here on display especially for them. I'm not tied in this cage for you."
"I have to talk to you. I can't help it if you're naked."
"Oh, very well." She sniffs again. "If you want a good look at my cunt and pubic hair, you'll have to look in at me from the end. I'll spread my legs open for you if that's what you'd like." Tess pretends to be annoyed. "Come on around and let's get it off your mind."
"I didn't come to look at your pubic bush, you little idiot. I came to tell you your father's here in Antawba."
"Daddy! Oh, shit!" The nymphet stops wriggling. "What the hell does he want?"
"Well, he is your male parent," I point out reasonably. "He's picked up rumors about his dear little Tess."
She considers the intractability of parents. "But it was my idea to have you kidnap me," she complains. "I suppose I should have left a note or something." She giggles. "Why didn't you have some-one phone and ask for ransom? It would've put off the scent."
"That's over and done now. The thing is, what happens now?"
"Don't you dare let him see me in this cage! I'd die. Besides, he'd absolutely have kittens."
"But he did the damnedest things to you in Connemara. What's so bad about this? You're obviously enjoying yourself inside that cage."
"But I wouldn't be if Daddy was looking. I'd curl up in knots." Tess glares at me accusingly. "You're used to doing awful things to girls. You don't understand. The way I'm tied and caged like this is right out of the world for most people. I don't see why I have to have my hands tied like this. I've tried to untie them with my teeth, but I can't do it."
"It's appropriate to the situation, sweetheart. It goes with the territory. Don't kid me that you don't like that too."
She shrugs disdainfully. "Oh, all right, so I don't need hands in here. But I'd like to cheat that old goat out there who's trying to get a good view of my cunt. You have no idea how hard it is for a girl inside this cage to hide her cunt, Mr. Burgoyne. Whichever way I twist it pops out somewhere.
Tess is letting off steam. I feel no guilt. In fact, I am aware of an increasing tightening behind my zipper. This maiden is altogether too beautiful. She sums it up with a giggle: "You're getting an erection, Mr. Burgoyne. I can see it under your pants. You're just like all the rest."
Tess is a dish. I am glad she is inside a cage. I can't help laughing as I admonish her. "What you need is a good thrashing."
"Oh, what a simply gorgeous idea!" She twists and turns within her mesh prison. "You're right. I need to be thrashed real bad. Please do it to me now."
No man can cope with this ebullient nymphet. A brute would flog her until she breaks, but what a waste! The public whipping she is to receive at the end of her time in the cage is going to be bad enough. "Your father's got wind of what's going on here," I tell her in a stern return to business. "I'm not sure we can stop him from finding you."
"Well, don't give him a key to the cage. As long as I'm inside and he's outside, I'm safe."
Tess's world is simple, but mine is not. "He's bound to find you," I explain patiently. "What we want to do is get you out of that cage after sundown, dress you exquisitely, and have you visit him so you can explain what a wonderful time you're having in Antawba and ask him to go home."
"But it isn't really me he wants. I'm just an excuse. What Daddy is looking for is Valerie." Tess stares reproachfully. "That Agency of yours sure does fuck things up."
"You shouldn't use words like that."' She sticks out her tongue at me. "You'd have to take me out of this cage to punish me, so I'm quite safe." She wrinkles her nose. "Try this on for size, Mr. Burgoyne: fuck, fuck, fuck!"
The local populace is not without some English. They are enjoying our exchange. Tess's last words evoke a small round of applause.
I tell the nude captive in the cage I will see her later, then make a dignified retreat to the car. It is a good thing Antawba is not a country of vast distances. My next mission is with Clarence Gaffer.
Masawa awaits me. He is amused. After all, these troubles are not his-they are the Agency's. And I am the Agency.
"Your Clarence Gaffer bribes heavily," he informs. "He has managed to reach Valerie. The dear girl is in no condition to receive visitors, and Mr. Gaffer has no key. He is now arguing with Nancy Richards. He is suffering a fine American indignation that she is not susceptible to bribes." Masawa smiles at my obvious annoyance. "Let us join the happy trio downstairs."
The sound of Southern disapproval reaches us first. Clarence Gaf-fer is in full stride.
"What I mean, honey, is you gotta take the hundred bucks. Come on now, I'll make it two. We just gotta get the little lady out o' that there fix you got her locked in."
We enter and receive a basilisk glare from way down South. The Civil War is about to start over. "Oh, it's you, Garret. 'Bout time someone showed up. Look, boy, I want my property. That gal's got her ass in one room and her head in another, and she's locked tight."
"A small pleasantry of ours, Mr. Gaffer," Masawa says. "We take very good care of Miss Norton."
Gaffer glares and asks me direct, "Who's he?"
I introduce the opposing teams to each other. It's easy to tell that Gaffer deplores the whole idea of civil rights and integration. "That there Agency of yours has made a real screw-up, boy. That pretty little ass we're all looking at belongs to me. They got her head next door. Damn cute idea, 'cept she's tight locked, and I ain't got no key. Was it you who kidnapped my daughter?"
Valerie's exquisite derriere is hard to ignore when it weaves sexily as she changes weight from foot to foot. I am aware of arousal. But this is absurd. Two men are looking at me, expecting the Agency to smarten up. Lamely, I tell the man from Dixie, "I'm afraid Miss Norton is the property of the ruler of this state, Mr. Masawa."
Gaffer opens his mouth, but his offensive is cut in the bud by Masawa's silky interjection. "Miss Norton belongs to none of us, gentlemen. She is now the property of the Republic of Antawba. Criminal charges have been made."
"What charges?"
"Prostitution, obscene behavior, and an outrage to public decency," Masawa declares. "Her sentence can hardly be less than two years penal servitude. Similar charges are pending against your daughter. They appear to be a precocious pair."
I could have hugged Masawa, and kissed him to boot. He got me and the Agency off the hook. But Gaffer is gasping, angry and frustrated.
"Do tell! You mean that little so-and-so of mine has been peddling her ass?"
"Alas yes." All the sorrow of the world is in Masawa's voice. Gaffer was viewing the ruler with fresh interest. "Antawba authori-ties have been shocked by the reports of their behavior. My people are deeply moral."
"Like what? I mean, what the hell were they handing out besides some tail for money?"
"I cannot speak of it. Let us draw a veil."
If Hollywood could be present, they would grab Masawa on the spot. He is truly magnificent. He is so good he has aroused Gaffer's carnal curiosity.
"What you aim to do to them gals, Masawa?"
"They will be incarcerated in Nagota Prison and suitably chained."
"Suitably chained?"
"Heavily. Our prison structure does not hold with current Ameri-can prison reforms and liberalism."
"You mean they just have to sit in a cell and wear a lot of hard-ware?"
"They will be whipped weekly. It engenders a proper humility and counters ennui."
"Well, I'll be damned!" Gaffer is half shocked and half intrigued. His concern for young Tess is less than paternal. "Any chance of watching? I mean, when you whip 'em, can I watch?"
"I fear not. In any case, it would not be wise. The press might make capital out of your presence."
"But that youngster is my daughter! I ought to do something about this." Gaffer meditates. "You ain't flogging Tess to draw blood, are you?"
"Absolutely not."
"Huh! Might do the little trick a world o' good. Pity I can't be there to watch." Gaffer turns to me. "Garret, you're an asshole. Do you realize I'm ending up with sweet Fanny Adams on this whole thing?"
I am painfully aware of the truth of what Gaffer says. He could still be useful to the Agency. He will be a constant nuisance here. Inspired and hoping the girl has not been pledged elsewhere, I play the only trump I have. Brightly, I assure him, "Mr. Gaffer, on the day of your return to Connemara a delightful young woman will be delivered to you by the Agency. She will be suitably re-strained and very willing to please."
Poor Clarence. I am sure he feels cheated. He is suspicious. "You'll kidnap her back the day after delivery," he opines heavily. "I'm getting tired of the way your outfit does business." He ponders doubtfully. "This gal-she a looker?"
"She is exquisite." I take a deep breath and decide to go whole hog. "She has been superbly trained in obedience. She is most emi-nently whippable. Her skin is flawless. Her name is Opal Rennie."
Gaffer buys it. Thankfully, I escape. I leave my Southern problem to Masawa and the best Scotch whisky.
* * *
Valerie has been crying. She turns her prisoned neck hopefully when I enter. When she learns I have no key, her dolor returns. Her tone is fretful. Who can blame her?
"I've been forgotten, Garret. Everybody went away and left me. I'm so damn helpless. You have no idea how helpless this makes a girl, especially when she's naked."
I do have an idea, but I do not quibble. I feel an ineffectual ass at not being able to release this beautiful nude from her absurd im-prisonment. Valerie flutters trapped hands and complains.
"I've been held like this for so long, Garret. And that awful Clarence Gaffer-he did it to me! I mean, he did it in the other room where the rest of me is. The bastard actually did it! When I kicked back, he whipped me to make me hold still." Her blush deepens. "It's not that it hasn't been done to me before-but never like this! He took a mean advantage and raped me."
I feel more inadequate than ever, but have to repress mirth. The picture of a naked girl thus divided and thus used does have elements of humor-so long as you are not the girl! Petulantly, Valerie adds, "Then he had the nerve to come around in here and perpetrate the most awful pun." She tries not to snicker. "He came up with this: 'Half a rape is better than no head.' Someone should shoot the ass-hole!"
We share wry and rueful grins while I consider the outcry a rape sparks in the American press. But this sweet girl accepts it only as a disagreeable incident in a bad day. Valerie is a treasure and far too beautiful to be fixed the way she is. My heart overflows. I kneel to clasp her hair and implant a kiss upon her sulky lips. She responds, and for several moments we weld ourselves mouth to mouth. I sense the futile tugging of her hands for the freedom to go around my neck. I hear my voice-a strange and distant voice-plead, "Valerie, I want you to marry me."
There is a shocked silence. After it has lengthened, I stand awk-wardly and gaze down upon the lovely head to which I had just proposed marriage. It cannot look up enough to meet my eyes, so I once more kneel. Valerie is crying, her tears plopping to the floor beneath her helplessness. I have no key-damn it, I have no key!
"I wish you hadn't asked that, Garret." Her voice is husky and very feminine as I dry her cheeks. "You know I can't marry you. I'm a prisoner, and you belong to the Agency. Masawa's going to marry me sometime when he thinks the time is ripe, and he'll do it by force if I don't do it willingly. This is Antawba."
"Which of us do you love, Valerie?"
"How should I know!" Her plaint rises to a wail. "I've been kidnapped and whipped and chained and tied up so damn tight I couldn't twitch, and look at me right now! Just look at me!"
I dry more tears and kiss her again. Antawba laughs. I feel dis-tinctly like a non-hero. Unintentionally, Valerie compounds my futility. "I love you enough to want you, Garret. Go in the other room and take me. Go on-don't be shy. I want you to."
I am shocked. This girl is far ahead of me in these things being done to her each day. The Agency and I have closed our eyes, not wanting to know. It is Valerie who has dealt in our realities. I am aware of an unaccustomed humility in the face of this girl's courage. Without volition, as though she leads me by my hand, I rise and go around into the other room.
Valerie is there. This is all quite unreal. Her feet are braced well apart to accommodate her bowed down posture to where her wrists and neck disappear into the wall. Her naked breasts are taut and her bottom protrudes invitingly as though she offers it in love. I am sure she does, and it is at the correct height.
I have a raging erection but know defeat as I gaze upon this gor-geous helpless nakedness which is all mine. But for how long? I shame myself with a male distaste. The loveliness before me, which I desire, was possessed and used by Clarence Gaffer not much earlier. My inhibitions and an absurd fleeting memory of this girl's mother rise up and turn me back to the door. On my way past Valerie's head and hands I pause long enough to say I am going to find Nancy Richards and the key.
Antawba laughs indeed.
CHAPTER TEN - The Whip And I
It was good to be back with Tess. The smell, the bars, and the clanging doors of Nagota Prison failed to dampen our pleasure in each other. I had been curious as to whether the fire between her legs burned as persistently as mine. Evidently it did. She had survived the cage and come up from it with the flare still fierce. It was fierce enough to spur her exclamation.
"Nancy, you don't have to chain us to opposite walls! Give us a break. I've been in that rotten little cage, and goodness knows what's been happening to Valerie."
Nancy smiles. She locks our collars and chains to opposite walls. We are evidently not suppose to feed. She clangs the door shut with a daunting sound, but blows a kiss before she is gone. Tess and I stare and burst out laughing.
We have only one thing to laugh about. Nagota Prison is not con-ducive to merriment, but is treating us royally. This is no pokey little cell, but one to accommodate two cots, one by either wall. Our tethering chain links across its spotless sheets and pillows to find the ringbolt in the stone wall. It is all very sanitary and sterile and clean. But Tess and I cannot touch.
Our laughter is for our chains. Considering we are only girls they are unreal. They would have immobilized a dozen criminals. Upon our nudities they are grotesque. They start with the iron collar around our neck. Our middle is looped and compressed by an iron bolt. From it are shackles for our hands, hands already shackled together and tethered down to the metal bands around our ankles, which are themselves joined by a span of links. We hold our chained wrists in front as though making an offering, but they are useless, we can move them but little. To compound their immobility another shackle joins our elbows behind our back. The weight of all this metal is stupendous. These chains hold us more captive than captive.
Our fetters have one more daunting quality. They do not lock, they are not subject to a key. We have been taken to the prison smith and he has riveted the whole ensemble on us as though for life. Each metal band around wrist and ankle and neck tells us its implacable message. Girls who are chained thus are chained for life. Tess and I gaze at each other in rueful disbelief. There is a touch of hysteria in our hilarity.
"Darling, we can do the Anvil Chorus." Tess shakes her hands as best she can and also kicks her feet. I do the same. The result is a metallic melody. It is no laughing matter but we laugh. Laughter is better than the tears we might so easily shed. We sit on our respec-tive cots and play with our links. We shrug and grin.
"I suppose they will take these off after awhile," Tess ventures. "If I don't think about being chained this way for life, I can keep a wet puss." She experiments. "Darling, I think if we stretch like crazy, we can play with ourselves." She wrinkles her nose at the bars. "But with everybody looking...!"
I need to reassure Tess and myself at the same time. The weight of links and bands riveted on me is scary. We could be left in this way in this cell forever. I am sure it will not happen, but that's the effect. I reach a captive hand down towards my puss and decide I did not want to play with myself after all.
"We can thank your father for all of this," I tell her with a jauntiness I do not feel. "You and I are on display. Be sure and lay on the repentance in great gobs."
"Oh, sure, but how long do we have to wait? I'd sooner be put back in my little cage than stay in jail. Gosh, darling, just fancy being locked in a cell in this smelly place for months or years!" Tess wrinkles her nose. "It's funny. I want to cry just thinking of it, but at the same time I'm hotting up and secreting like mad."
"You'd be a sad little girl if you didn't," I tell her. "So would I. But I suppose if it was not for those little fires inside our bellies, we wouldn't be here."
Our discussion ends. There are sounds. Captive girls locked in cells in prison are much attuned to sounds. The sound also has a voice.
"Didn't suppose you had nothing like this," Clarence Gaffer booms. "That little gal o' mine is going to be real impressed. I like these bars. Them gals you got behind'm can't hide nothing."
The father of Tess comes into view. He is accompanied by Nancy Richards. He is obviously enjoying himself. He glares through our bars at our chained penitence with delight. He slaps his thigh.
"Well, I be go to hell!" He turns to Nancy. "You aim to keep 'em chained up this way the whole two years?"
"That is their sentence, sir. I simply execute it."
"Won't all that iron get in the way of them whippings I been told about?"
We obey Nancy's command. We turn to display our bare backs and bottoms. Our impediment of chains is all in front. Our visitor is reassured. "Ah, I see you got things figured," he concedes. "Not that I'm pushing for it, you understand, but I'm a great believer in a few stripes across a gal's skin, and them little asses is just askin' for attention."
"Thank you, sir."
Tess is feeling ignored. We turn back around and she proceeds to give her father the full treatment. "Oh, Daddy, I'm so terribly sorry for being so naughty. Please forgive me."
Tess offers pursed lips between two bars and is well and truly kissed. "Don't see why you needed to paddle that little ass of yours," her parent admonishes. "You gals got other ways."
"Yes, I know, Daddy. I'm so ashamed." The little minx manages a tear which she shakes from her cheek since she has no hands. "I'm sure this punishment I have to suffer will make a much better girl of me."
Gaffer gives his little girl a shrewd glance. "You wouldn't be having me on, young woman, would you?" he asks darkly.
"Oh, no, Daddy. I really mean it." She glances around our cell, the bars, and at my chains. "I think it's this prison and the bars and all these chains they've riveted on us. I've been doing a lot of thinking since I was arrested." She rattles her links. "These make me realize how lucky I was with you and Mummy at Connemara. When I've served my sentence, you will take me back, won't you- and whip me often?"
I don't think I'd have bought it myself. I wasn't sure Gaffer did either. But maybe Tess was where he wanted her. Me too, for that matter. We must have made a damn erotic picture behind those bars, wearing the scanty little tunics Nancy had given us. They seemed expressly designed to give peep shows of our pussies every time we moved. She would have them off us in no time once he'd gone. He raises his eyes from my crotch to my face. "Just plying your goods, eh? I might have guessed. You didn't have to teach young Tess."
I'd love to slap his silly face. But I take a leaf from Tess's book. I get as dewy-eyed as I can manage and give him both barrels.
"I'm terribly ashamed too, sir. This punishment is making me think. I'll never do that beastly thing again, not even for a lot of money. Of course, if you could use your influence to get me out of here, I'd be glad to-"
"You propositioning me, gal?"
"Well, I would be ever so grateful. Id do absolutely anything you want."
"Would you take a whipping?"
"Gladly. Whip me all you want, sir-even my private parts."
The poor idiot is ready to explode. Desire for me flames rampant on his face. Nancy saves him from a stroke.
"Valerie has been sentenced, sir. She is chained to the wall. You could not take her from this cell. The U.S. Consul will not intervene in matters of this sort."
Our Southern gentleman deflates. But he is sure to win. The whip-ping he would love to give me he will inflict on poor Opal who is my surrogate. I wish Garret had not promised such a darling girl to this oaf. But it is done. Tess intervenes.
"Daddy dear, I expect you'd like to whip me, and I'm sure I deserve it. Perhaps if you talk to Miss Richards nicely-"
"Impossible!" Nancy retorts. "I would lose my job." Clarence Gaffer surrenders to feminine guile. He is surrounded by it, and in the distance but unseen is Masawa. I am sure he is now turning his thoughts to running back to Connemara and Opal. But his only daughter is chained in prison. He must put on a show.
"No danger of these two gals being fucked along the way, is there? I mean, the warden and the guards-that sort of thing." Nancy is shocked. "This is Antawba," she says coldly. Gaffer nods. He has done his duty. Another paternal peck is accomplished through the bars with his loving daughter. I get a dis-interested nod. Clarence Gaffer departs.
Tess and I sigh in relief. We look at each other and giggle. But our mirth cannot defeat the cold austerity of Nagota Prison. The weight of our chains also is defeating. We are glad when Nancy returns with two members of Antawba's armed forces, a soldier for each of us. They pick us up and carry us to the blacksmith.
The irons are stricken from us as easily as they had been riveted on. It is the strangest feeling to be rid of the weight and to stand naked and free. Our tunics are over Nancy's arm. Evidently we do not need clothes. We touch our bare skin, wonderingly, and touch each other in a new discovery. "Bind the younger one. We can take her." Nancy's command to the soldiers means I have seen the last of Tess until her time in the cage is done and she has received her public whipping. But she is exuberantly cheerful. I think she likes the cage. Certainly she can twist and cavort in it far better than I did. I would hate to be locked in it again. As her wrists and elbows are tied behind her back, she stands erect and excited and talks to me.
"Don't forget, darling. I'm just going back to square one." She gives me a sly sideways glance from twinkling eyes. "We know where you're going, don't we? I bet Masawa's waiting to take you to bed."
"Never mind about me and Masawa. You sure you'll be all right?"
"Of course I will. Then, at the end of my caged tour, I have that gorgeous public whipping to look forward to. Will you be allowed to come and watch me scream?"
"Maybe I'll be screaming right beside you," I chide. "This is Antawba, remember?"
"Darling, are you being bothered over Garret?"
Tess's question startles me. I blurt out a hasty negative.
"I've decided to marry him. That's why I ask." She twinkles at me over a bare shoulder. "He'll suit me fine, and you have Masawa."
"But you're only a child!"
"If I'm old enough to be put in a cage and then publicly whipped, I'm old enough to get married."
"Has he asked you yet?"
"Of course not. He doesn't even know. But I'll get him. Just leave him to me."
Poor Garret! I can well imagine his fate is sealed. Few men would have the capacity to resist this naked nymph who is now tightly bound and ready for transit. In a preoccupied manner she is testing her ties. I know how she feels. I tell her I will visit if I am allowed. I remind her I am a prisoner even more than she. We are allowed to kiss before she is marched away.
"You're lucky she came on the scene," Nancy says. "She got you out of the cage, and she's going to take your whipping." She fingers one of my bare shoulders while the blacksmith looks on in envy. "The least I can do for you, Valerie, is make you uncom-fortable."
"Right now?"
"No. Right now you are to walk completely alone and completely free to the master's house and kneel before him in submission. Your only bond is his collar on your neck."
"Walk alone? Free and naked!"
"If you want to run away to freedom, you can," she says, tossing me the tunic. "Here, this will make you respectable."
"But free and covered! Who's idea-"
"The Ruler's. Perhaps he is testing you."
It is strange. It is delicious. It is frightening. I have become so used to bonds that their absence is terrifying. I am also mantled in a vast blush of embarrassment as I walk in Nagota's dust with my bare feet and scanty covering. But if some of the males can catch a glimpse of my pubic hair, good luck to them! Antawba has taken away my shame, and I am grateful. Resolutely, I close my mind to escape. Escape to where and to whom! For me there is no escape, not ever. I do not care. Halfway home there comes an American voice.
"Going someplace, sweetheart?"
It is absurd. I want to laugh. We stop and chat as though we had met on Third Street in Wichita, Kansas. Garret is embarrassed to begin with and I pile it on. "Now's our chance!" I exclaim urgently. "I'm not bound or chained. Take me away."
Garret is appalled. He does not show it, but I know it is so. Masawa is his hard place, and the Agency is his rock. Between them he squirms and looks at me appealingly. I am merciful.
"Okay, okay, I know we can't escape. At least I know I can't. I won't burden you with a female fugitive from Masawa's wrath who'd be risking the headman's axe. Have you seen Tess lately?"
"Well, yes, I have."
"As soon as she's set free from this jackpot, take her home to Connemara and marry her. She adores you."
"Yes, but-"
"If you don't want to whip her yourself, you simply take her back to her father. He will tie her to his whipping post and lace into her good for you. Wonderfully, convenient."
I give Garret my nicest smile and leave him standing, his mouth only slightly open. I feel as though I have wings. I smile at everyone I pass and some smile back. I am radiant for the sentry at the gate and bask in the glory of his salute. I wonder if he sees me as his future queen or as a favored slave girl. It does not matter.
I get the handcuffs after our kiss. Kneeling before him, I extend my wrists and watch them braceleted in silver. I have learned to make love marvelously with linked hands, and Sir adores them. When he carries me to his bed, I am radiantly happy. He is immensely potent and subdues me totally.
When I lay quiet, he locks the lovely shackles on my ankles. I know a great content as we drift into sleep. When we wake we talk. I ask if my daily punishments are to continue. Masawa instantly divines my true question.
"Nancy being cruel?"
"No, never cruel, but sometimes I cry."
"That is as it should be. I have given Nancy carte blanche with you. But sometimes I watch when neither of you know. You are heartbreakingly beautiful in your punishments."
"If they please you, Sir, I am content."
"They more than please me, child. They nourish me and make me strong. The analysts can chew on that as much as they like, but it is so. I have decided that before I marry you I will order you most cruelly whipped. It is a compulsion within me."
"I'm sure it is, Sir. I thought it was ordained."
"Perhaps. I forget. But you are to be whipped most ceremoni-ously. My bride will be wealed and striped."
I flare. Listening to Sir's quiet words, I can hardly wait. I long for the cut of thongs upon my wrists as I am bound and for the murmur of the crowd when I am stripped. I admit this longing to my lord.
Masawa laughs. He knows me too well. "It will come soon enough," he assures me. "But in the meantime, you have Nancy."
I have Nancy. I am sure she and Sir have a secret understanding about me. Her quiet little smile tells of complete authority. It would be more truthful to say Nancy Richards has me.
I suspect Nancy enjoys having me free to run. She employs this treatment again as we walk the Nagota streets. I am not even hand-cuffed, and the shackles are gone from my ankles. She tells me I am to be cruelly shamed.
She is right. The pole awaiting me in the marketplace is as public as you can get. Above the level of a girl's head it bears shackles for her wrists. "You won't need your tunic, dear."
This is indeed shameful. I stand, whitely naked, amidst a multitude of black faces. True, most of them wear scant clothing, but I am the most naked of all.
"Back against the post, dear."
"Nancy, am I to be whipped?"
"Don't ask silly questions. There, that's right. Now get your hands and arms well up."
It seems I am not to be whipped today. It also seems the post is especially mine and the shackles too. They are new, and they shine, and they fit. They close about my wrists with a most satisfying snap. I stand, naked, surveying Nagota's marketplace. My hands are fastened above my head and well back so I cannot turn and face the post. I cannot get them below the level of my hair, but nothing about them or me is taut or stretched. This means I will stand thus for a long time. I know the signals.
Perhaps the lovely shackles were taken from my ankles to spare me the ignominy of walking here with snubbed chained feet. Nancy puts them back on me. This may be to complete my ensemble, which I know it does, or maybe to prevent me from kicking someone who gets too close. An extra chain, which I suspect is for snow only, is padlocked from the stake to my collar. I will not run away.
"You look simply marvelous, Valerie."
I'm sure I do. I am equally certain that a great many others are going to form their own opinions as to how I look. Anxiously, I plead, "Nancy, you're not going to leave me-"
"A soldier will stay. He will make sure you are unharmed. He will be replaced by another when his shift is done."
As I watch Nancy merge with the market's crowd, I strive to count my blessings. I have a post to lean against. I am not going to be whipped. But there I am stuck. I don't appear to have any more blessings. But my travail is all too obvious. I try not to think about it, but I feel the suffusion of my blush as my breasts and genitals are examined and discussed at close range. However, this places me in the category of a curiosity. lama panda in their zoo. I can't cover any part of me. I could cross my legs, but that would be too absurd and provoke fresh ribaldry. Oh, shit!
I stand here with my arms above my head and the collar around my neck. I am sure I am a pretty picture, but I evoke no response from those who see my nakedness. Their interest in me is not aesthetic, it is carnal. My soldier watch's carefully and grins.
My situation is impossible. It can't possibly be happening. But it is happening. This is worse than the little cage. In the cage I could crouch and dispose myself in a ball and hide most of my interesting parts. I cannot do that now. I stand, a blatant exhibitionist, even my armpits on view. I try staring back at the curious eyes. I cannot stare down all of them. My other choice is to bow my head as though in shame and close my eyes.
I test the shackles of my wrists. They are snug. I cannot reach my throat to finger the collar and its short chain. I am simply a nicely arranged exhibit for the pleasure of the populace. Anyone in Nagota can see a naked white girl free. I kick a shackled ankle fretfully and wonder if Sir is out there somewhere savoring his power over me. I am his. The soldier is his. I expect the post is his too. I am most definitely owned.
My thoughts drift to Sir's promise of the whip. I think he sees something symbolic in this final awful lashing he has promised me. After it has been done to me I will become his wife and this slavery will be over. But will it be over? Sir has said nothing to that effect. It is my own assumption. If these daily punishments of mine please him, then why stop? We both believe our lovemaking is better because of them, after this day of shame I will go to his bed in joy.
My fire burns now. The dark eyes feeding on my bare sex feed its flame. I can well believe these intent scrutinies have the power to scorch. My breasts tingle and their nipples are erect and hard. I know enough of the dialect to be aware these manifestations of female response have been noted and approved. Their own women find sex commonplace. Thus, I who am white, and supposedly immaculate, become a dainty tidbit. But I still suspect they would sooner see me thus or see me whipped than see me fucked. But what do these things matter? I am thinking them to pass the time.
He is a little man, a gnome, hawk faced and beady eyed. He speaks to me in English, which my sentry barely understands. His regard tells me I have been expertly assessed. He speaks as though a century old, but comes straight to the point.
"You wish to escape, dear child?"
It is unexpected. I flounder. Escape to what? He reads my mind. "I can arrange for you to be taken from Antawba, child. You would not be chained as you are now."
"How would I be chained?"
He shrugs and waves an impatient hand. "It does not matter. You can never escape chains. But mine are easier to bear than this."
I am sure I should not bandy words with this little man. But he will pass a little time for me, and my day is long. My response is wary.
"How would I be better off? What do you offer?"
"I am a businessman. I quote you in American dollars." His wrinkles cooperate to produce a smile. "In the next state I own a house where men come for pleasure. They pay very high. I split with you half and half."
"I am not a whore."
"Mine is no whorehouse." He is indignant. "It is a place for refined pleasures. Men pay one thousand dollars to whip you cunt. Your share is five hundred. Is very finer offer, no?"
"If you pay your girls, why must they be chained?"
"You are a most wise young lady," he cackles gently. "Getting parts whipped is most painful. Girl easy change her mind and wishes go home. Chains prevent. Can make one or two year contract. When it is over, you become free with much money."
"But if a girl is whipped all the time, she would be dead in a month!"
"Is not whip all the time. There are many things men like to do to girls and pay much cash. Whip only twice a week. Whip on ass five hundred dollars Whip breast is one thousand." Hastily, he adds, "Is one thousand for each breast separately. Is nothing cheap."
"How much for my back?" I ask innocently.
"Back is much best by stroke," he assures earnestly. "With ordinary whip is thirty dollars a stroke. With real bad whip is one hundred. You take flogging you get one thousand. But must not faint. Fainting is bad."
This is as crazy as the rest. The black Africa of ages past is close around me. I feel a bit of white flotsam in a seething ebony ocean. I ask the obvious.
"If you keep me chained, how will I be sure you will release me when my service to you is done?"
He stiffens, his prune-like features becoming stern. "I am Iben Ben Hadjik," he declaims proudly. "You have my word. I hold twelve white maidens in chains, and none are cheated. But can use many more. There is much demand." He looks me up and down with special attention to my breasts and pussy. "You would become most popular. Have lovely cunt."
My next question dies unborn. A bayonet and a rifle interpose between this merchant of female flesh and me. My sentry has seen and heard enough to be suspicious. Mr. Hadjik departs scowling, a bayonet prodding at his rear. I breathe a sigh of relief and listen respectfully to my guard.
"Is bad old man. He take you, you die."
I shudder. Masawa's love has shielded me from the dark depths awaiting girls in this ancient place. Even though I am not for sale it is fitting I be thus chained in this old and dusty marketplace. I am merchandise, the most costly merchandise of all. I am female flesh.
My guard returns to his chosen spot. I do some shifting and twist-ing to relieve tired muscles. The crowd nods its approval of my capacity for pain and discomfort. I lean back to think of Mr. Hadjuk and his captives. But not for long! This time it is a she, a handsome black with the imperious mien of money.
"You did well to repulse him, child. Why not consider me?"
I begin to feel I am actually available for sale. Chaining me in this market may have been a mistake. I tell her so, adding that I am the personal property of the Ruler.
She laughs. "Rulers come and go, child. Money and your mouth are immortal. Be my slave."
"I cannot."
"That thought is in your mind. I can steal you away from your present captivity. It would not be too hard. I desire you."
"Why do you desire me? I mean, what would you do to me?"
"Poor child, you are obsessed with punishment. I want your lips and tongue. Surely you know that. I would whip you only a little when you disobey and chain you lightly."
My sentry saves me once more. My visitor glares her hatred, but respects his steel. I bow my head and close my eyes. My day drifts slowly by.
Antawba is never dull. Its contradictions will keep me baffled the rest of my life. Well into my afternoon when I droop wearily, an ancient ambulance nudges its way into the market and comes to rest beside me. My soldier springs to attention and salutes the white-coated medics who emerge, a man and a woman. Without preamble the woman presses an ether-soaked pad over my face. My weak struggles are short lived.
* * *
The place where I awake is very white and sanitary. It smells of hospital. I float in a delicious cloud and am content to remain thus forever. But it is not long before the drug fades and Valerie Norton's consciousness registers anomalies. I try to sit up but cannot. I reach out with my hand, but my hand will not reach. It takes me a little while to understand that my wrists are strapped down to the cot on which I lay, one on either side. There is no way I can free them. I have no hands.
My next discovery is of my feet. I do not have them either. They have been spread apart and are strapped to either side as with my wrists. If this was not Antawba, I would now panic. Instead, I raise myself up as best I can. My nudity is covered by a sheet which drapes everything. I relax back on the pillow and wonder how many times I have been raped.
My nurse is the same who pressed the reeking pad upon me in the marketplace. She is black. She smiles. Her voice is professionally pleasant. She tidies my hair and asks, "How are you feeling, Miss Norton?"
"Dopey and frightened. Have I been raped? Has Masawa-" Her laugh cuts me short, but it is tolerant and understanding. She assures me I have not been raped and that I am where I am with the full sanction of Masawa. It is by his wish. But my voice accuses. "You've operated on me some way!"
"Not internally." She pats my cheek and asks, "If I unstrap you r wrists, will you behave?"
"Of course, why shouldn't I?"
She shrugs. "You are a remarkable young woman, Miss Norton."
She frees my hands. I hold them close, but there is nothing to see except the neat pink bands of the restraints. I raise myself on my elbows and look down at myself as the sheet falls away and my breasts emerge. But they look just the same. Nothing has been done to them either.
"Well," I demand, "it must be my feet! What's been done to them!"
I amuse my nurse. She chuckles at my bafflement and suspicion. Smiling still, she produces handcuffs. "First these, Miss Norton, if you don't mind."
I expect it is hard for her to understand how and why I do not mind. For answer I simply offer her my wrists and watch as they are braceleted. I am sure my nurse would not wish to be handcuffed, but I find the familiar linkage comforting.
"I think you like being handcuffed. You wear them with grace." she pats my cheek. "I will leave you now. Do not try to free your ankles-you cannot. You may make your own discoveries."
I am femininely curious and anxious about blemishes. Something must have been done to me or why all this bother? I sit up, awkward and still woozy. I tug away the shielding sheet.
Nothing!
There is nothing untoward to see except the leather bands around my ankles. I cannot see their fastening. It must be well down out of sight and reach. I am still very much a prisoner. But then that is the nature of my life since I became Sir's property. My pubic bush is still intact. I had expected it might be shaved. I edge up and allow my joined hands to fall to my lap. I am instantly galvanized.
It is an iron ring to match my collar. It is immense. It enters me on one side of my labia and emerges on the other. The incisions must be deep, but as yet I feel no pain. My fingertips hesitantly broaden my search, and the discovery is simple: my pussy has been ringed. No man can enter it, not even Sir.
I lay back and cry. My grief is that of mourning a lost maiden-hood. I shed a lot of tears before realizing this huge ring must be a temporary punishment. Sir would never bar his own entry into me for life. I must cherish curiosity and wait. I can understand why my ankles remain strapped apart. It will probably be painful to close my legs. Suddenly, my tears give way to pure lust. I cannot yet feel my ring, but I can feel the fire burning hot within my belly. Thought of what has been done to me is shockingly arousing. Like a naughty little girl, I whisper under my breath, "My cunt is ringed, my cunt is ringed, my cunt is ringed." There is an iron circlet through my puss which will compel me to chastity. Entry within me can be only by a place I will not name.
When my ankles are released I am told there will be little pain, they will use needles as required. I must walk carefully, caring for my ring with every step. The hospital corridor and the passageway to my prison cell are testing grounds. My back is patted, I am told I will be okay. I say my farewells and thank yous and Nancy chains my collar to the wall. I sit on my cot. I am back to normal. I am told twenty-four hours have passed since I was chained in the marketplace.
Nancy Richards is intrigued. She is positive I have been greatly honored, but is not sure how or why. She admits no man can fuck me, but is sure it is for the best. One at a time she brings the entire prison staff to witness my shame. They assure me it is not shame at all but an honor in which they take a vicarious pride. When eve-ning comes I am taken to Sir's bed and chained there in the old familiar way. The lovely shackles, taken from me at the hospital, are now locked back upon my ankles. Ever, thing is back to square one except my pussy. I wait.
Sir and I are like a pair of kids: shame-faced over something bad. I sense his impatience and arrange myself obscenely to provide him with the best possible view. Solemnly, I flaunt and he examines. But, suddenly, we are both laughing. They are really belly laughs from real hilarity. My master takes me in his arms and hugs me tight. After awhile he kisses away some tears which have come from nowhere and whispers, "Forgive me?"
I would forgive him anything, and he knows it. I tell him of for-giveness and whisper in my turn, "But now you can't fuck me, Sir."
"It will not be for long, beloved girl. Stand and look at me. Per-haps I will have fashioned a ring so fabricated I can take it on and off, placing it within your flesh as my whimsy may dictate. Would you like that?"
My heaving breasts are his answer. I can scarcely believe this metal nestling within my crotch. But my thighs confirm its presence. It is most definitely there. I wonder if the one to be made for me will be of gold or silver or simple iron. I do not ask. It may be my wedding ring.
Sir makes himself naked for me. This is far from the first time I have done what I am about to do. Demurely, I ask, "Since my cunt is locked, master, may I give you pleasure with my lips?"
Sir clasps my head and draws me close.
I give Sir all the pleasure my heart holds for him.
Later, Sir plays with me. His fingers hold magic. They drive me wild. I moan and climax, moan and climax again and again. His lips and tongue are as magic upon me as mine on him. We laugh and agree my ring could be left as it is forever.
"I have told Nancy to be kind to you for whatever time it takes for the incisions to heal about your ring," he informs me. "I am told you will be running painlessly in a couple of weeks."
I do not wish to sit chained in my cell for such a time. I tell Sir so and plead for punishments. I am sure I sound absurd, but I would far sooner bear punishments than the boredom of the bars. He nods and smiles and calls me his little masochist. He tells me, too, I will have punishment enough when my ring is healed. It is then I will be whipped. I have a feeling of events closing in on me, but sleep happily within my master's arms.
Nancy is as good as Sir's word. My punishments now are mostly by frustration and I am not left alone too long. The first of them is to make me stand against a blank wall, one wrist cuffed to a ring in the concrete, the rest of me free except for my shackles. So I stand nakedly and dream. I cannot sit or move away. My captive wrist mocks me, but it does not hurt. When my wardress appears, I stick out my tongue like a naughty little girl, but I cannot provoke anything more interesting, not even a mild whipping.
The next day I must stand against a post. My neck is tied to it by one single strand above my collar. Not too tight but snug. The loops makes a complete circle of my throat and are knotted some-where behind me out of sight and beyond reach of my hands. This is worse than the day before. Before the afternoon has waned I shed a few tears which Nancy interprets as a successful day. Next time I may lean against the wall, but standing one on foot only. The other is chained up to keep it six inches above the floor. All the punishments are a frustrating freedom to make me think longingly of my cell.
My pussy heals.
By now I have become accustomed to my ring. It never allows me to forget it is there, but we are now friends instead of enemies. At least we were until right now.
Our car was stopped a mile distant from the village in which I am to be whipped. I dismount. I am stark naked. Before we started on our journey a long nylon leash was affixed to my ring in a manner I cannot free. The leash now runs from me to the hand of a mounted solider upon a horse. For this last mile I am to know the deepest shame. I will be led captive, a conqueror's prize, to the place where I will be whipped. Sir kisses me, pats my bottom, and gets back in the car which roars on ahead. It leaves me alone with a soldier and his horse and a ring in my cunt. Wherever my tether goes I will follow.
I think this must be the most awful thing to ever happen to me. I am totally nakedly free but have no freedom. Freedom is taken from me by the slender nylon between me and the plodding horse with which I can, most thankfully, keep pace. But I am imbued with but a single thought, a thought to drive my whipping from my mind and absorb me in a dither of anxiety. The horse must not increase its speed, and I must not stumble and fall. I am filled with a passionate desire that my ring be not torn from its anchorage within my flesh. Where the soldiers leads me I will go.
I am not allowed to gather up a handful of my leash. It is explained that if I do, my hands will be cuffed behind my back so I cannot repeat this small protection for my puss. So I walk in humility as I am told and see frightful visions of losing my arms and, worse still, of the soldier's horse taking off while he handcuffs me. Such thoughts are horror. I will be a good little girl and walk in perfect time to the tension of the leash upon my cunt. I am sure the multitude who gather to see me whipped will be delighted by my entry into their midst. Was ever a maiden brought more low?
This all means something to Sir. For he and his people there is symbolism. I doubt if I have seen the last of it. I should forget what happens to me now and think only of coming out the other side. Perhaps this travail is my conditioning to become his queen. The tether tightens on my ring and I leap forward fearfully. So far as shame is concerned, this freedom mantles me in a greater shame than if I was stringently bound. This vagrant thought is silly, but sometimes cords are kind.
I try and stare stonily and haughtily ahead, but this I cannot do. I search for Sir and am distracted by the babble of the crowd which follows us. I remember tales of girls being whipped while bound to a cart's tailgate as it plodded through the streets of ancient times. My whipping surely waits and will be all the worse for the waiting.
It is, of course, a post. What else? A bare stark timber is waiting for me within a circle kept clear by the military. If soldiers spell protection, I am safe. But my skin will not be safe. It crawls with terror. I try to close my mind to what soon will be done to me here. But the post will have none of that. It possessed a cruel forbidding eloquence to tell me my time is near. Desperately, I look around for Sir, but he is nowhere to be seen.
The horse has stopped. My soldier dismounts. The leash draws me to where I must go. It is passed around the post many times to accommodate its length. Hammer and staples are then used to ensure my fingers can not prevail against it. I stand, leashed to the post by thirty inches of nylon cord. Suddenly, I am terribly alone.
This is cruel, cruel, cruel! I can guess this best is designed for the future queen. I am denied the comfort of bonds. My wrists will not be roped-no tight bands clamp me to the wood. I will be free to do anything but grovel on the ground or go away. My leashed ring will hold me more compellingly than even chain could do. I can face the post or set my back against it and bear the agony of my lashes as best I can.
The crowd has slowly quenched its clamor. A hungry silence is upon us all as I stand nakedly and assess my plight. They assess it too, but adore it, reveling in my dilemma. I look down at the ring which proudly proclaims itself below my pubic patch and at the thirty-inch tether against which my fingers are powerless. Angrily, I turn and thrust my back against the post in a defiant pose. Let them look! I reach behind me to clasp the wood. I spread my legs to the limit of the chain upon my ankles. The slender cord trails across my hip from ring to post. I am an erotic picture, I know I am, so let me flaunt my loveliness while it is still intact. Soon I will scream.
My eyes rove, but Sir is not to be seen. Perhaps he is having me whipped for reasons I do not know, and he does not wish to watch. In a way I am glad. I know I am going to disgrace myself and have no wise for him to behold that disgrace. It is after I have been lashed that I will need his arms. He will chain me to our bed. He will stroke my throbbing weals and fuck me forever. I must remember this and find what courage I can in it.
The military is impressive. They keep good order and provide raise seating for the VIPs. There are several VIPs, among them women. They regard me proudly as an example of the Ruler's power and good judgment. It is now that the crowd divides in order to permit entry to a pair of soldiers who carry by an arm apiece a naked, sulky, sultry Tess. Our glad smiles meet and fall, shattered before what we see. Tess beholds my ring! There is another like it through her nose.
It is methodical and quick. A short stake is driven in the ground by massive blows. Tess is tethered to it as I am tethered to my post, but her cord is longer than mine. She can stand or sit or take a step either way. It is a limited freedom as cruel as mine. We gaze at each other, stricken. But we do not speak. What we would say is for our ears only. It any case, we have no need of speech-we know! Tess stands as I had stood, uncertain what to do with the freedom of hands and feet. She makes tentative tugs at her tether and fingers the ring which hangs heavy on her upper lip. She sits down upon the dust, clasps her knees and rests her chin upon them to wait as I wait too. I wonder if she is to be whipped the same as me.
Antawba allows me one single mercy. It is Nancy Richards who comes now with the whip. Her entry is impressive and almost regal. She walks up close until we are face to face.
"I am glad it is you," I tell her gently.
"I will be no more cruel than I must. But what I do will be bad enough. You understand?"
"Of course. I'm just glad it's you. I'm going to scream and make an ass of myself anyway."
"You had best hug the post, darling. It will protect your breasts."
"Would you strike them if-"
"If you turn and thrust them at me, I will have no choice."
"What of Tess?"
"Tess will not be whipped. She is here to learn a lesson by watch-ing you. Her skin is virgin from the cage. Her ceremonial whipping is yet to come. It will be done to her in a different place."
"The ring in her nose-why? It is cruel."
"It is no more cruel than yours. It is the Ruler's wish."
We stare for one silent moment. I sense her distaste for what she is about to do to me. I have the wit to ease her hesitation. "It is time I turned, isn't it? This is it."
"Hug the wood tight, dear child. Do not fight the screams."
I have been whipped so much I should be used to it, but I am not. The first cut across the bareness of my back is awful beyond words. Unable to reason, I turn and face the whip in a primitive anger against a primitive pain. "It's too hard-too hard!" I gasp. "I can't possibly bear-" The second stroke curls around my belly. I have been offering my breasts, but Nancy has been kind. I emit a primitive howl and swirl back around to hug the post to which I am tethered as though it was my dearest love.
My whipping has begun.
I scream and scream. I scream more than I need, but there is a pitiful release in screaming. Sometimes my voice is still pealing out agony when the next blow falls. After that first frantic notion I do not turn again. I will offer only those parts of me best able to accept the weals. These blows Nancy is planting on my skin would be appalling across my breasts. In a fearful search for comfort and protection, I take chances with my ring and thrust hard against the timber to which I cling. My shackled feet prevent me from finding the comfort I desire. The ring is still tender in my flesh. I blank my mind to horror.
But the ring in my pussy gains me a small mercy as Nancy con-tinues her painful strokes. The upward slashes into my crotch are missing. Nancy will not risk injury. Instead, she cunts the thong into the crease where my bottom meets my thighs. It is a wickedly tender place and drives me wild.
I steal fleeting glances for Tess. She has dropped her post and now rests on one hip. She gazes at my punishment in a stark supposition that she is next. The ring in her nose fascinates me.
My screams grown weaker as my pain increases. I am afire with pain so that Nancy's voice comes to me as from a distance.
"Step away from the post, Valerie. Clasp your hands behind your neck."
It does not occur to me to disobey, I clink my shackled feet back twenty-five of my tether's thirty inches. I relinquish my embrace around the post and lock my fingers at the back of my head. My trust in Nancy is implicit, but I am terribly afraid. I close my eyes.
It is a blessing the slash drives me forward instead of back. It is the most wicked stroke of all, curling its bite in a circle all the way around my middle. In desperation I clutch the wood again and sob in a desolate lonely grief. "It is over, Valerie-all over."
I want so much to believe what I hear that I do not believe it at all. Nothing so awful can ever be over. My wealed skin is one huge scorch. I continue to sob. Stupidly, I reach down and clutch the ring embedded deep within my sex. It is still there. I am still prisoner to the post. I sob more and send the hand searching for my weals.
"Valerie dear, that was the last stroke."
Nancy's hands are upon me. I come alive. I turn and clasp my arms around her neck. I do not care that she whipped me. Her fin-gers return me to life. I am so hungry for Nancy I forget my obscene tether until warned by my ring that the cord is tight. I forget the multitude. I smile only at Tess who now stands staring in concern. The poor darling must be having terrible visions of the whipping she too must bear. The populace applauds.
The applause is not for me, though; it is for Sir. Nancy pushes me back against the post and steps away to stand attentively in wait. Sir enters the cleared space around me and my post. He is accompanied by guards, one of whom carries something I think I recognize. There is a military precision about everything. Sir puts a hand on each of my bare shoulders and kisses me. I kiss him back. There is more applause. I sense that this is an occasion-an event. Something is about to happen.
Sir takes from the soldier's hand the gaily painted tool I think I recognize as bolt cutters. My heart floods with joy and almost stops as Sir positions the open jaws upon my ring and uses his great strength. The soft iron dissolves beneath the shining steel blades. It is cut twice with great care and caution as I hold my breath. The iron I had thought to bear for life falls inertly to the dust. With an inarticulate sound of happiness. I also fall. Kneeling, I clasp my master's knees and dry my tears upon his military pants. I do not care for anything except this great thankfulness. Those watching seem overjoyed. Tess watches with wide, enigmatic eyes. She seems to envy me my current submission.
Sir fondles my damp hair before he raises me erect. I am still inclined to tremble, so he thrusts my back against the supporting post. From his pocket he brings forth a ring, a beautiful thing of shining silver as large as the coarse iron thing he has cut from my sex. He holds it aloft for all to see, then places it on my hand. I gasp. This silver ring is so much lighter than the iron. Perhaps it is of aluminum chromed or plated with this silver sheen. Dazed, I return it to his waiting hand and watch Sir use the strange small sliver of steel as a key. The silver ring opens. Sir kneels and his fingers are sure and strong. Sure, it hurts me, but I do not care. With every nerve I have I feel the ring snap shut. I am once more ringed, but this time as a queen! Sir holds the sliver of steel for me to see, winks, and puts it away where it is safe. This time my leash is of shining links. Sir snaps it on my silver ring and leads me proudly to the waiting car. The crowd makes way for us as I clink my shackled feet beside my lord. Verily I am the humblest of slaves. But there is no one present more proud than I. I flaunt my striped nakedness. I flaunt my ringed cunt. I flaunt the silver shackles on my feet. I am beautiful. I know I am the most beautiful thing in the world.
In the splendiferous bathroom Tess attends to me. After our first embrace she becomes shame-faced and terribly conscious of her ring. I tell her to forget it. But what girl can forget a ring pendant from her nose, affecting her voice as it falls upon her lip?
"Why couldn't they have put it through my pussy like you got?" she mourns. "I think yours is absolutely darling-even that old iron thing. But in my nose...!" She cannot repress a giggle. "Wouldn't Daddy have a fit if he could see?"
Tess has been told to bathe me and do my hair. But she is almost as dusty as I, so we share the tub and spend half our time examining and exclaiming over our rings. We are obsessed with these metal circlets in our flesh.
"You're going to be fucked to bits in a little while," Tess opines wisely. "That's the reason yours unlocks. How about asking him to fuck me too? I fell awfully out of things. Gosh, darling, your poor back! You've been whipped terribly. Did being whipped that bad make you horny?"
It is the ringed nymphet who is most urgently horny. I appease her need, then become more horny myself because of what I do, but my lust is for Sir alone. I am content to wait. After a very long while we both emerge from our female sanctuary, positively glowing. We make our way to Sir. I get a wink and confidential nod. Tess gets the shock of her life. "Valerie and I are to be married." Sir's eyes linger on her nym-phet charms approvingly. "I make my wife a gift of you as her personal slave. You will obey her implicitly."
The poor child's ring impedes her pout. I am sure that being my handmaiden is not why she seeks captivity. Doubtfully, she asks for how long and is gravely told her servitude is for life.
"But I can't possibly! I do love Valerie, but that wasn't what I wanted. It's been so groovy being tied in that little cage and know-ing I'm going to be whipped." She eyes us in distress. "Besides, I'm going to marry Garret Burgoyne!"
Tess is so young and so spoiled. I feel maternal, but dare not say a word. It might be fun to own her, but she would be very rebel-lious. She is rebellious now, even after Sir explains the facts of her enslavement. "I won't, I won't, I won't!" She stamps a pretty foot in a burst of temper, then becomes wide-eyed in dismay.
Nancy Richards deals with Tess with calm competence. It is only moments before orders are given and a haughty but alarmed Tess is tethered and led away. When she is returned to us, her back and bottom are most shockingly marked. Nancy has used a cruel whip. My nymphet weeps.
"Oh, all right then." Tess glares at Nancy. "That hurt something awful." She turns to me. "Okay, Valerie, so I'm your slave. I'll obey you. What do you want me to do?"
"You will be put in a cell, girl," Sir declaims grandly. He waves to Nancy. "Take her away and chain her heavily. She must be taught her manners. Whip her as needed."
We watch the departure of my sobbing slave. I wish I could com-fort her and tell her it will not be as bad as she thinks, but Tess is in good hands. If she gets whipped now, it will be her own fault and perhaps it is something she needs. I look at Sir and we dissolve in laughter. "I am very proud of you."
Once more I am on my knees. I am glowing. I clutch and clutch. I am raised erect to be kissed. "Tomorrow you will marry me."
"Yes, master. Will you fix things with the Agency?"
"They are already fixed. They can kidnap another girl."
"And when I am your wife, will I till be punished?"
"What do you think, beloved girl?"
"I think I will still be punished."
Masawa picks me up and tosses me to the bed. He turns me over and examines my seared back. His voice is tender. "You have been superbly whipped, child. It was a pledge."
"Yes, Sir."
"And now you will be superbly fucked. Turn over onto your whipped back and spread your legs wide."
I flip myself over with shameless speed. Nancy took my shackles from me before the bath. I wantonly expose my ringed sex beneath which my fire rages in an incandescent need. My scorched skin feeds this flame. The friction of the sheet upon my weals is pure aphrodisiac. Sir produces the steel sliver and bends to his task. The ring snaps open and I adore the agony of withdrawal. I watch Sir strip. I am quiveringly happy. Our eyes meet and exchange a mes-sage, and I know myself already wed.
How wonderful it is to be fucked by Sir! Sir does it to me again and again, but my whipped back replenishes us both. It keeps me constantly afire, and when his hand seeks beneath my arms, I smile a vagrant thought that all brides should thus be whipped before this nuptials. Sir is right: it is a pledge. It is also an infinite joy.
I nestle nakedly, my head comforting upon Sir's massive arm. Sir plays meditatively with my nipples and keeps my fire smolder-ing. Sir muses drowsily.
"I could wish you chained for the ceremony, Valerie."
"Of course! I wish it too."
"But it cannot be. Ours is a most public wedding. I will flaunt you at the world." Sir pinches me to make me wince. "Your only reminder will be the ring locked within your lips. I will make sure its silver nestles in your bush. It will be the most valid of the wedding rings I place on you."
"May I always call you Sir? I have become so used-"
"Always. I will insist on it."
"Is there a honeymoon, Sir?"
"A most blatant one. It is for the media." Sir chuckles quietly. "But I will be sure and pack handcuffs and the silver shackles. Oh, and I suppose a whip of some sort too. We will have a little privacy."
"If you did not pack them, Sir, I would."
Sir's arm tightens. I am adored. "The Agency assessed you accu-rately, beloved, did they not?"
"I'm afraid they did. Garret knew. I am outrageous and incorri-gible. When you are involved with affairs of state, you had best hand me over to Nancy to keep me well behaved."
"Nancy is already instructed on what to do to you, darling."
