I am a non-heroine. I am a girl who likes being a girl. At the moment my hands are tied tight behind my back and I'm embarrassed all to bits. If there is something decisive I should do I wish I knew what. I am still panting from the tussle with Peter Croal and I expect my hair is untidy, but there's nothing I can do about it--not having hands is the strangest sensation. My wrists are hurting because my hands don't seem able to stop twisting to get free. I tell them to stop but they pay no attention.
I am being allowed to keep Grandma's rocker. It's the only piece to remain. The Movers have their instructions. So that's what I'm sitting in, and Peter Croal has fastened my tied hands to the back some way in which I can't find the knots... Really!
The men are incurious. I suspect they are Peter Croal's men. Polite, but walking in and taking away in their van all evidence of my life and the life of my family. Grandma's rocker and me will be all that's left. I watch the manhandling and departure of my piano, my father's desk, my mother's cherished bedroom suite. If my hands were not tied I'd cry. But I cannot sit here weeping when I have no hands! Anger helps me blink back tears.
If I asked one of these men to untie me, I expect they would. I am not sure they have all guessed my condition. I think the foreman knows I am tied, but he is discreet. I just sit. They have no need to refer to me. I am only a girl sitting in a rocker and watching them strip a house that once was mine. I fight a constant battle to find the courage to ask their help. But the courage does not come. If one of them unties me the word will be all over Innsfield in an hour. I can hear the delighted queries: Who? Why? What's she been up to? More to this than meets the eye! No. Far better I await the return of the man who tied me. I don't even know why he did it. To humiliate me? Getting his own back for the things I've said...? More likely it's his idea of humour, a great big laugh at my flushed cheeks and resentful eyes.
I didn't make it easy for him. But Peter Croal is a bewildering male creature I can't cope with. He treats me as though I'm thirteen and makes me feel exactly that. Except for my breasts! He never lets me forget I have two breasts whose contours he admires. He is one of those irritating men who can get away with the outrageous.
"Lovely boobs, Ilona! Look ater 'em for me."
I do not answer. I pretend not to hear.
"Are we sleeping together tonight, or was it next Tuesday?"
He knows I'm not amused. But I suspect he talks that way to all the girls. Some like it. And Peter Croal's made all the money...! I never really had a chance against him. He scooped up my family's fortune and took over The Innsfield Bugle in the same casual manner in which he offers to take over Me--and if sitting with my hands tied to the back of grandma's rocker isn't a takeover...! But I won't go to bed with him... I just won't! I'll sit tied here forever if I have to... Really!
And the way he went about tying me like this...! I hadn't the faintest idea. He'd been telling me, just as though it didn't matter, how the furniture was going to the auction place and the house was already listed with the Realtor. Without a pause he went on to say that since poor little Ilona Paisley was at a loose end he'd pick me up on the way from his office and take me home.
"I no longer have a home." I told him tartly. "You've got it."
"I'm taking you to my place, 'Lona. You're long overdue for a screw."
Peter Crowle isn't vulgar, the word was deliberate. I had no trouble sniffing disdainfully and saying: "Drop dead!"
"You need someone to look after you, 'Lona. You make a hopeless botch of things. If I wanted to coin a pun I could say you really blew the "Bugle"."
Peter is right, of course. I blew everything after Daddy had the stroke. I'm no good at anything except being a girl with firm breasts, a narrow waist, the loveliest triangle of black pubic curls, and good legs. Is that conceited? Anyway, that's Me.
"There's no need to be unkind." I haughtily poured on the acid. "Look after Gladys Talbot, she'll get into bed with anything."
"Still aim to peddle your shape in Hollywood?"
"I certainly can't peddle it here."
"End up a chippie on Hollywood and Vine?"
That was where I slapped his face. I should have done it long ago. But I should have done it in public, not where Peter had me all to himself. In ten seconds I was face down on the rug with his knee hard in my back. When he pulled the cord from his pocket I knew he'd planned this all the time, and I knew I ought to scream but, somehow, screams seemed silly. Not that they'd be any sillier than what I came out with. Trite... Really!
"Let me up! You S.O.B!"
"Your first lesson, 'Lona--"
"Stoppit'! Don't you dare tie my hands!"
He did not answer, but went right ahead binding my crossed wrists. I was kicking at nothing and trying to buck. But Peter's knee stopped me doing anything
and I'd lost my hands. But I could still talk: "You mustn't! You absolutely mustn't tie my hands--and get off my back."
He actually got off. But only because he had me tied tight. He lifted me as though I was a small girl and set me on my feet. I stood, pink and glaring, and tugging at my hands. I did think of running for the door, but he could catch me easily, and then he'd tie my feet. I just did not want to be tied. Its the damndest sensation! It makes me all goosey and little girlie.
"Never seen you look prettier." Peter was admiring me all the way up and down. He left nothing unnoticed. I suddenly realised I'd got no hands and he could touch anything. "Can't wait to get your clothes off."
"If you don't untie me I'll scream--"
"Go ahead."
I longed to murder him but I didn't scream. I really am an idiot. I mean I'm not screaming now! Peter Crowle laughed at me while I fumed. I was snapping sharp retorts, all ineffectual, when he picked me up again and dumped me in Grandma's chair. Another bit of rope fixed me so I can't get up. I just can't, and its aggravating me to pieces. He kissed me in a fatherly sort of way, and I couldn't even stop that, then sauntered out of my stripped house to his car.
And here I am!
It's a funny feeling. But I had the comfort of knowing five P.M. a long way off so I had lots of time to get my hands free and go someplace I'd never see Peter's knots. It might take me twenty or thirty minutes but I had the time. A bit of cord was scarcely likely to prevail against adult ingenuity. I stopped angry tugging and settled down to a reasoned approach, fingers cautiously exploring
My clock had gone along with everything else, so I couldn't tell the time. By the time I'd chafed my wrists and realised I could never get my hands free or get out of that rocker I guess an hour or two had slipped away. I was hot, bothered and untidy. I wanted to cry. But, like I said about tears...! I was actually panting. So I let myself go limp in the chair and sort of drooped. You might cal it the end of phase one.
I could not get loose, so now I buoyed up my depleted courage with plans. When Peter Crowle released me I'd tell him a few things before I stalked out of his life. My stuff was packed in the motel, and I could go straight to the Greyhound. At thought of a new and exciting life I felt better. There was only a couple of thousand in the bank, but it would see me through. This was phase two and it lasted quite awhile.
The annoying thing about rope is our own superior conviction we can beat it. An adult human held captive by a twist of cord...! I mean, it doesn't make sense, does it! So I tried again. I tried in disbelief that I was having no luck. It seemed so obvious that a bit of something wrapped around my wrists could not possibly keep me in that chair. No way...! I could understand why I couldn't do a thing with the bit of rope Peter had used to fasten me to Grandma's rocker. He'd taken it down back and tied me to a rung where I couldn't reach. So that was out! but my hands...? There had to be a way...!
That got rid of another hour. My wrists were really cheesed off by the time I gave up for the second defeat. I sat awhile in a misery of humiliation. I mean, think of it: Peter will come back, grinning from ear to ear, and I'll still be sitting here like a good little girl, a pretty little package to be picked up. But, along with chagrin, was panic. My mind leaped to possibilities, and I was helpless, helpless...! I started to shout for help--damn their grins and my shame. I wanted out!
No one came. I screamed. Nobody answered. When I came to think, I realised a scream inside a big house probably doesn't reach the front fence. I stopped screaming. Did you know real screams hurt a girl's throat. I suppose this was the end of phase three, or was it four! It did not matter. Actually it was the end of hope. There was creeping into me a primitive female fear. I had become prey, and I was helpless.
So I sit. I don't struggle any more. I give my wrists a break and let them nestle within the bands by which they are joined. I wait and wait and wait. Nobody comes. I will be an easy pickup for that good looking S.O.B. who now owns everything I once owned. The hateful thought arises that, sitting tied in this chair, he also owns me.
"Still sweet and pretty. Still in the chair. Had a nice day, 'Lona?" Peter Crowle is bright, breezy and brisk.
"My name is Ilona, and I have not had a nice day." I glare frostily.
"I tie good, don't I? Couldn't get loose?"
I sniff, and do not answer. I have discovered this annoys men. I refrain from tugging against his damn rope. I'll give Peter Crowle to satisfactions, and I'll get out of Innsfield so damn quick!
"I'd say you were in a bit of a spot, Ilona?"
He's telling me! And I don't like that proprietary look in his eye. His voice is shamelessly amused.
"I'm going to be the real oldtime villain, Ilona." He's mocking me, enjoying every moment. "I've got the family money and the family house. Now I'm going to get the family daughter, dear little Ilona."
I'm scared, I'm frightened. My roped hands prevent me being Me. Having no hands and being tied to a chair puts everything out of whack. But, gosh, I don't want to be trite and tearful and little girlish. Somehow I have to stay away from the obvious cliches. But I'll be damned if I know how. I eject a cool sentence.
"If you want to take me out to dinner we can discuss whatever it is you're talking about?"
"Good try, 'Lona. I wouldn't see you for dust."
"Very well then, you tell me." I give him another sniff. "It wouldn't hurt you to get me out of this chair. Haven't you any decency?"
"None, sweetheart, none." He goes in back and frees the bit of rope I've been fighting all day. "There, that better?"
It is better. I stand. Peter Crowle steadies my arm. I am absurdly off balance and trembly. Politely, I remind: "My hands are still tied." I turn my back and wiggle my bound wrists for his attention.
"Why, so they are!" He affects surprise. He turns me back around as though I was a Barbie doll. "Best way to have 'em. Keeps you from doing the things you're thinking about in that pretty little head of yours."
"Please don't call me sweetheart and little. I'm neither." I manage to stare at him levelly. "Will you stop this unkind teasing, or do you want me to cry?"
"I'd like you to cry, sweetheart."
His scrutiny becomes hopefully expectant. I am so angry the tears won't come. Impulsively, I kick hard with the heel of my shoe and score a bull's-eye on his shin. It is my turn to look interested while he hops and curses. Then, too late, I leap for the door. Peter Crowle catches me easily and tosses me back in Grandma's chair. The bastard is actually laughing. I sit and glower. A tear trickles down my cheek, and then another. They signal defeat.
"More to Miss Ilona Paisley than meets the eye." He is rubbing his kicked shin but enjoying this whole thing immensely. "I'm going to really enjoy fucking you when we go to bed."
I am devastated. I don't sleep around. The way he said that beastly word is something I can do without. I ignore it, hoping it will go away. Instead, I ask politely: "I'd really appreciate it if you'd untie me?"
Peter Crowle straightens up from his rubbing and eyes me gravely. "Look, Ilona Paisley, I'll level with you. Your hands do not get untied. I'm taking possession of you. Fm keeping you prisoner, and I'm going to do whatever I damn please with that body of yours. my plans include fucking you, but good!"
I have to believe. The way he's looking at me helps. Cold hands clutch my spine while my heart thumps. I want to say all the pleadings a girl is supposed to come out with but they'd sound so trite, they'd simply add to his enjoyment of Me. I tug tied hands fretfully, feeling like merchandise about to be unpacked. Tearfully, I blubber: "I don't want to be raped. Please, Peter, don't rape me." I put my heart into my plea. "Please untie me, I just can't ever get loose?"
Peter does not untie me. what he does do is shock me to bits. He drags off my shoes and nylons. With one nylon he ties my ankles, with the other he binds my elbows together, clamped so they meet and hurting. Deftly, his hands slip up under my dress to grasp my panties and slither them down over my knees. He says a heartfelt "Damn" as he finds he must untie my ankles to get possession of the bit of stuff hot from my hips but, havening them, he swiftly reties my feet. Then, in a single flowing motion, thrusts my panties between my surprised lips to fill my mouth with my own pungency and ties it there with his own large handkerchief. I am too busy coping with my overcrowded mouth to decently struggle, I make some sounds but they are so demeaning I soon stop. I have become a package. Mute! Peter Crowle picks me up and carries me to the garage. His car is inside, its trunk open. I am deposited within and the lid is slammed to leave me in the dark. I can't struggle much, my elbows hurt too bad and I can't breathe properly. I subside in misery. The motor starts.
I am in the midst of motion. Below my bound darkness is the song of wheels bearing me gleefully to dishonour, the whirr of gears, the thrusts of motor and shafts. All of this is a part of Peter Crowle, including Me. The ride seems longer than it is. The dark trunk is wickedly claustrophobic. I cannot move, I cannot scream. My journey into captivity steals the last of my hope. This is no tease.
The room is strict utility. It has been created for a purpose and that purpose is Me! The S.O.B. is actually prepared. He's known all along--unless there's been other girls...? I stand and teeter while my ankles are untied. The large room is fairly bare but well lit from a high barred window. The odd furniture it contains adds one more cold hand to my spine. I can guess its use. Peter Crowle is President of this and that and Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce. But he is also nuts. I've been kidnapped by a kook!
"For good behavior, you can get to sleep upstairs beside my bed.' Peter stands and grins. "Mostly this will be your address." he takes my arm. "Come and admire."
All I admire is his gall and ingenuity, he shows me all sorts of things designed to hurt girls. But his pride and joy appears to be at the far end. There's a cell, a plain ordinary prison cell that's so real to the movies it sends shivers wherever I can shiver. It contains, toilet, washbowl and cot, everything is basic. There is a high grating, heavy with iron. It is not dark as the cells at Alcatraz. I can't make a comment, I am still gagged with a mouthful of myself.
The next door he throws open is a shock. Inside is a super deluxe bathroom also designed for girls. In it is all my own toilette articles and cosmetics from my home...! The bastard had thought of everything. It would appear I am to be a prisoner alternately pampered and punished. I wish Peter Crowle looked as crazy as he has to be, but he does not. "There'll be days when I give you free run of the main room." He explains grandly. "Lots of stuff to keep you amused."
I shake my head. I wriggle. I make indignant small sounds...! know I should not do this, but I have to do something. Besides, my tied elbows hurt. Peter Crowle watches my efforts in an interested sort of way, then retrieves his handkerchief and pulls my panties out of my mouth. The first thing I say is; "Please untie my elbows?"
"What, no thank-you!" He gives me a reproving raised eyebrow. "I could put it back in, y'know." He holds up my, now sodden, pussy-protector and shakes his head solemnly. "Does far more good in your mouth than covering your pubic hair." He is being mean and vulgar on purpose. He wants to shock me, get my reactions. I mutter a hasty, Thank you', and add a silly: 'I'm terribly sorry, but my elbows sure do hurt... Really!"
"They're supposed to, that's why they're tied." Peter chucks me under the chin and pats my cheek. "You haven't said a word about these nice premises I've prepared for you?"
"Am I supposed to say thank you for a prison! I want to go home not be put in a cell behind bars."
"You don't have a home, Ilona."
"Thanks to you. I'm staying at a Motel."
"You were staying at a motel! You've been checked out. I have your luggage upstairs."
This hits me hard. I need a bright spot to tell me this isn't a nightmare, or maybe it's a big tease...? But there aren't any.
Peter Crowle is dead serious. This hateful place is specially for Me. As though I've been tortured and can't take any more, I snap: "So alright! What d'you want?"
"You. But I've got you, so that's that."
"You can't be serious...?" My look should melt his heart. "I mean... this sort of thing... It's outdated, you can't possibly make me into a pet prisoner."
"I've done it." He is giving me a cute sideways grin. "Haven't I?"
Damn him, he has! I'm a prisoner right now, and no one but he an I know. I don't even think this is where he lives. It will be some place he owns where he can lock me up with impunity. Nobody's going to pint a finger at Peter Crowle. Sullenly, I ask: "O.K. You've got me. What now?"
"Preparations, sweetheart. I fuck you later."
"Preparations?"
"Sure. Get you naked and chained so you'll be comfortable."
"Have fun." I give him another sniff and a twist of my bound arms. I mustn't let him know my tummy's tying itself into knots. "But aren't you being a bit silly?"
He seats himself carelessly on one of his contraptions. There is nowhere for me to sit, so I stand and am burningly conscious of my breasts. They protrude outrageously because of my bound elbows. There is no way I can dispose myself except to stand and let him enjoy my flustered disarray. "Not silly." He assures me earnestly. "But I am trying to give you a chance to adjust yourself before I get rough." I get another pat on my cheek, and he even tidies bits of my hair before he continues his bad news. "You have a choice here and there, Ilona. For instance, would you like to undress yourself, or d'you prefer me to strip you?"
"Peter Crowle, you're being ridiculous. I'm properly impressed and I'm properly scared. So now, if you'll just untie me--" In one savage rip the shoulder of my dress had gone, my bra' strap broken. Part of my left breast sees daylight and Peter's interested scrutiny. I wrench at my arms and know I'm tie for sure. I am panting.
"We have to stop nattering, and get down to cases." He says blandly.
"If you think I'm going to strip naked for your benefit--!" That's as far as I get. My poor dress is tugged and torn down over my hips, my bra is tossed aside to bare my breasts totally. I kick savagely, but Peter grabs my ankle and a moment later I am on the floor. I have already been robbed of panties, so all he has to do to make me naked is to pull the remnants of my dress down over my feet and throw it to join my bra'. He steps back to enjoy my pink dismay. His voice is hushed: "Lovely, lovely, lovely...!"
I roll face down to hide what I can of Me. Bound arms make it difficult. I seem to have nothing to say. My whole consciousness has become a single burning awareness of being bare.
Peter Crowle lifts me to my feet. "Stand still, you little idiot." He commands tersely. He goes to a rack and selects a beastly looking riding crop thing which he flexes to make me cringe, he slashes the air to make a frightful sound as he charmingly explains: "This little item will be a part of our conversation from now on through you training period, 'Lona. I guarantee it will get your attention."
It has my attention now. To be hit with it--and on my bare skin...! It is unbelievable! But I'm trapped, he is laughing enjoyably at my wild glances in all directions, I know my pussy patch and my breasts are glaringly on view, but to turn my back on this outrageous male is too cutely coy. I don't have to apologise for being naked, not to him! Besides, its best I don't expose my bottom to that thing he's swishing around, there's no sense asking for it. I hear a little girl timidly ask: "You wouldn't really hit me with that thing, would you?"
He hits me with it! Seems like you don't have to go round behind a girl to whip her bottom. You stand smiling at her and snap your whip across her hip and it curls round and bites one of her cheeks at the same time. The pain is just too much. I hop I bend, I contort, and the same little girl, between gasps, is accusingly indignant: "That's not fair. I didn't do anything!"
"Care to turn your other cheek, 'Lona?"
"No, I wouldn't! That was mean."
He circles me with obvious intent. I circle too. I cannot win. Facing him, I offer my secret places, if I turn I get another cut on my seat. Peter stops, I stop too. suddenly he is laughing and I'm conceding a rueful grin. This whole scene would be farce if my slashed hip and my tied elbows weren't screaming outrage. Slyly swift, his arm flashes to plant the crop on my derriere to give each side a matching wound. I provide a repeat performance of pained pulchritude. He enjoys every twist and gasp.
"We now understand each other." He says cheerfully as he sits back on his contraption. Demandingly, he adds: Don't we?" I daren't be haughtily silent. I don't think he'd go for it. But it's bitter gall to speak: "I say what you want or you whip me? Is that it?"
"You will also do what I want, 'Lona."
There's something I won't do, not even if he whips me. But I let that one ride. It's best I don't get myself whipped any more right now. "Makes it easy for you." I blurt out resentfully. "You swish the whip and I dance--" I catch a look in his eye. "O.K.- O.K... I'll obey you--don't hit me...!"
"That's better." Oh, damn his complacency--and there's nothing I can do! "A few swats with a crop does wonders for a girl." He becomes very earnest. "You do see the logic, I hope?"
"Yes, I see it."
He is pleased, he has me. I feel his jubilant vibrations. Quite suddenly, he is untying my wrists. I stand in rapture as the cords peel away and he gently rubs the weals they leave behind. Then, there comes the cold clutch of metal and a lot of strange clicks. I have been handcuffed!
"More civilized, and you can't get out of 'em, 'Lona."
Damn crafty! The S.O.B. he's left my elbows tied while he makes my hands safe. If he's this cautious there's no way I'm ever going to get loose. He'll keep me stymied. The scary thing is he had the handcuffs bought and waiting for me. Lamely, I retort: "I thought they were just for criminals?"
"Some of the best girls have worn them, 'Lona." Peter is now busy with my elbows. "When a girl becomes prisoner for life a certain amount of comfort is essential."
I let that one pass too. I'd be nuts to cross him before he's untied my arms. When my elbows spring apart there is a moment's agony and then bliss. Peter massages gently. I inhale rapturously and stand very still.
"Another phase, sweetheart."
With a firm grip on one of my rope burns, Peter propels me to the cell. The handcuffs have demoralised me to where I don't even think of struggling. I allow myself to be thrust behind bars. I turn to watch my hands, so cannot clutch the bars as prisoners are supposed to do. I look pathetically through them.
"Try it out for size, 'Lona."
As Peter Crowle turns away, I call to him not to leave me. But he pay no heed. When he shuts the door of the big room I am alone in a cell of concrete and steel. I remember a tour of Alcatraz and how sure I was I'd sooner die than live inside one of those iron cages. But here I am...!
I explore the handcuffs. I am ashamed of them, they're for criminals, not for girls like me. By twisting I can get a look at them, but the snug clinging chrome scares me. Behind my back I tug and pull. But I can never get out of them, so soon desist. I then push at the bars with a bare shoulder. They are very solid. I back against the washbowl and turn on the tap. Awkwardly and wetly I manage to drink. I look round my tiny prison, then sit on the hard mattress of the cot. There is no blanket. Slowly, I start to cry.
My tears are company in my solitude. I cannot dry them but it does no matter. I they cease I will rub my cheeks on the mattress. As I sob I try and nourish a tiny hope that what is happening is Peter Crowle's idea of a joke. Or perhaps I'd made him mad at me sometime and I'd never known. Being tied up all day doesn't have to be the en of everything for a girl, does it?
But I'm feeling the handcuffs and looking at the bars
and I'm naked! I'm naked!! My small hope dies. I'm a prisoner for whom Peter Crowle has a purpose. And I can't escape... No way!
When my captor returns I am so damn glad to see him I could kick myself. It is like a return from the tomb, I am no longer buried in silent loneliness. I have been thinking about how I should act, and I honestly don't know, Like I said, I'm only a girl. I'm not specially clever or brave, and I'm horribly scared of what Peter may do to me. I can think of things...! Boy, can I ever!
"How's solitary confinement?" He asks cheerfully.
"I'm frightened."
"What the devil you frightened about?"
"You."
Peter Crowle chuckles. Damn his good looking face and his sleek executive assurance--and me like this! "What's worrying you most, 'Lona, being fucked of being whipped?"
"Go together, don't they?"
"What you're saying is the Paisley Pride will insist you take a whipping before you lay down and spread you legs? Just to keep the Paisley conscience intact and show what a bastard I am?"
"Something like that. Peter, why am I handcuffed?
"Conditioning, sweetheart. Handcuffs are potent on a girl. Oh, and by the way, I know you're not a virgin." I don't know how he knows. But he's right, damn his smiling satisfaction with this whole thing. I'm not a silly little girl, but that's the way he makes me feel. The only reason I'm not screaming hysterics is he's so bloody normal, so cheerful and correct. It just isn't possible he'd whip me, but he's already done it twice, my hips are horribly marked, forlornly, I ask: "Peter, take me out of this little cell. Please?"
"I like you inside. You look well in there."
"But it frightens me. Look, take me out for a minute or two, just so I know it's possible? You can lock me back in after, but I'll feel better."
"Mild claustrophobia, 'Lona." He consults his watch. "A Bit late but how about dinner?"
I perk in joy. That one word, so beautifully normal. I am suddenly hungry. But I am naked in a cell, my hands chained behind my back. Fearfully, I venture: "I'd love dinner. But, Peter, the way I'm fixed...?"
He is unlocking the door. I walk through it in a daze of thankfulness. My arm is gripped and I am led through a big house to an Arabian Nights bedroom. There is a key in my handcuffs and suddenly I have hands and arms. I am thrust into the bathroom.
"Thirty minutes, 'Lona. I'll expect you beautiful. If you decide to fight now you're free you'll go straight back in the cell."
It is heavenly luxury, gorgeous, beautiful...! I am a girl again instead of a soiled Barbie Doll. I close my mind to everything except the bath, the scents and perfumes and Me. There are no clothes in evidence, but I manage a nice effect with a towel round my hips. I walk out to the strangest meal in my life.
Peter is waiting. He strips away my towel, tosses me on the bed and uses the handcuffs, this time on my ankles. He picks me up and carries me to the Dining room. It is intimately candlelit and dauntingly splendid. I am dumped in a chair at my host's right hand.
"Too damn far apart at opposite ends, 'Lona. I want to see your tits."
He can certainly see them. I fight back an urge to cover them with my now free hands. The bite of steel on my ankles councils caution. "But, Peter, I can't possibly have dinner like this!" I look down at my nakedness. "Your servants?"
"Only one. You'd best get used to Becky. She'll be your part-time jailer, and she's seen a lot of naked girls."
I get used to Becky right quick, Becky is black and busty. I bet she is five times as strong as Me. She beams goodwill, her eyes twinkle at me knowingly as she dispenses the shrimp cocktail. Introductions are instant.
"Becky: Miss Ilona Paisley. Becky, you'll make sure Miss Paisley does not escape our hospitality."
"Sure will, sir." The voice is not as black as the rest of her. When she smiles at me I, again, shrink to small girl size. "Kin I beat on her ass if I have to?"
"You must and you will, but only as she deserves. Take no nonsense."
"She's a real good looker, sir. I'll keep her pretty."
"Miss Paisley is certain to offer you bribes and inducements, Becky. There will be tears and pleadings. You will report these to me so I may assess her punishment."
"She's bound to try, sir. You'll get your report."
Peter Crowle deigns to notice me. "You understand, Ilona?"
"Oh sure, I understand!" I can't refrain from petulance. "If I try to escape I get whipped. Nice of you both to set me straight."
"She's bein' sassy, sir. You want I take her downstairs?"
"Never mind, Becky. She's new and she'll learn, and it's getting late. I do believe this sauce is your best yet."
I swallow pride along with the shrimp. The shrimp is good, my pride is bitter gall. I have a vision of me stalking haughtily to the door, but my ankles are handcuffed, I can't even walk. I am foxed. Savagely, I tell myself: don't think. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy...! I submerge emotions beneath my pleasure in Becky's skill.
"I'm planning some pleasant social contacts for us, 'Lona." Peter Crowle is politely possessive. "You'll need a bit of training, but that's no problem. Once you're emotionally adjusted I'll open up a whole new world for you."
"I don't want a new world. I want to be free."
"Nobody's free, sweetheart. Freedom's a mirage."
"But what am I?" I pose the question, shrimp poised on for my eyes imploring kindness. "What are you turning me into: A Prisoner, a female pet, a slavegirl, a Mistress who has to jump when you whistle? Are you punishing me for something?"
"For now, a prisoner. For the rest... We'll see what you rate."
"Kidnapping me doesn't bother you? You're messing up my life. And what about the police, I'll be missed?"
"All taken care of. Innsfield has lost a daughter. Your departure for California has been will documented. Except for your presence here at my Dinner table you don't exist."
Oh wow! The prison door clangs, steel on my ankles mocks! Yesterday I was Miss Ilona Paisley about to leave for California--and now? Meekly, I venture: "It's all too much in one day. Can't you understand how impossible this seems? I mean, I'm only an ordinary girl?"
"You are not ordinary. You amuse me. You have one of the most perfect bodies extant. I have plans for you."
"Down in that cell? Handcuffed? Naked?"
Peter grins charmingly. "You have to admit, a damn piquant situation for a girl."
"It's frightening and cruel."
"A state of mind. It will pass."
We move on the next course. Becky eyes me maternally. I suppose she's going to be a benevolent "Mama" with a whip.
When she leaves I tentatively ask: "I suppose this does something for you, having a girl like me in the spot I'm in?"
"Most definitely. Every man's dream, 'Lona."
"You couldn't get away with it if you weren't so damn rich. What are these plans you have for me?"
"Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart. Don't ask questions. My only immediate plan for you is for tonight, and you know what it is."
I know what it is. But I don't want to put it in words. I am hoping that if I don't speak of it, it will go away. Instead, I ask: "Are you always going to keep me handcuffed?"
"Mostly. Except when we're out and around." Peter laughs at my surprise. "You're thinking the 'out and around' spells escape. Forget it, 'Lona, you'll never escape."
"But, I don't understand. If you let me out in public I'll make sure you never see me again?"
"Something for you to ponder, sweetheart. I enjoy conundrums."
The S.O.B. He's going to keep me guessing, off balance, teetering between hope and fear. I suppose it figures. "How long is this sentence of imprisonment I have to serve?" I enquire politely.
"Life."
I know he's kidding, but he doesn't sound like kidding. Anyway, I refuse to allow him to spoil my dinner. I kick my ankles back and forth in their handcuffs to assure myself this isn't a silly dream. "Not much for me to look forward to." I venture casually.
"Would you like to marry me?"
That's a heart stopper for sure! Mine's leaping around like crazy. I'm going to flatten his ego, but for brief moments it's so gorgeously alluring. Peter Crowle is the catch of all Innsfield. Most girls would already be kissing him and exclaiming fervent affirmatives. Gosh, the life he could give a girl! And he's such good company when he's not kidnapping you. I want something devastating, but all I manage is: "That'll be the day!"
"You mean, you refuse to marry me?" He professes shock. "Not if you were the last man on Earth."
Golly, am I hot on the cliches! Peter Crowle nods patiently. "I wasn't asking. Just wanted to know if you would if I did."
"I'd have to be crazy to marry a man who'd keep me locked up in a cell and whip me when I argued."
"I'd let you out for the ceremony, and maybe week-ends." He is being cheerfully sarcastic. But I can't quench a vision of myself lording it over Innsfield society as the young and beautiful Mrs. Peter Crowle. Girls are incurably romantic, and I'm a girl. But I think of the cell. It enables me to be bitter, "I suppose it would be unique for me: the only wife in America kept in chains."
"Nice idea. It might catch on. But you don't rate yet, 'Lona."
"I'm not applying for the position. Could we switch the subject to letting me go free? I don't want to be a prisoner or a slave or a Mistress" I pause. "Or maybe there's other things...?
"Other things may evolve, sweetheart. You have to admit we're making splendid progress.--only your first day...?"
So, O.K., I can't get the best of him! I can't run, and I have to be cautious what I say. He's got it good. I'm a nothing. I turn to Becky's goodies and lose myself in the pleasure of eating. I was hungry. We manage to chat pleasantly about Innsfield. This whole thing has to be nuts! Dinner over, I am carried to an arm chair in the lounge and given brandy. I am sure it is old and expensive. I stretch out my legs and admire my steel circled ankles. No other girl in Innsfield will have handcuffs on her feet. I wish the adventure would end right here.
It does not end. Lovely conversation, three potations. I am picked up and carried, and there's no way I'm going to struggle and make an idiot of myself. A girl with handcuffs ankles can forget self defense. And, anyway, this is just the prelude... I think!
I am tossed on the bed like a sack of potatoes. Peter Crowle is being masculine and giving me a chance to be female. I squash a hysterical giggle as to how he expects to do what he ahs in mind while my feet are joined. He backs away to enjoy my nakedness on his bed. I sit up and glare.
"Going to relax and enjoy, 'Lona?"
"No."
He nods. From a cupboard he produces another thin and wicked riding crop. He seems to have them all over the place. I eye it askance. I don't believe it's made for horses at all, I think it's made for girls who don't have any clothes on and have their feet chained so they can't run. He swishes it and laughs at my wince. "Say the word, sweetheart, and I'll unlock those handcuffs so we can enjoy ourselves?"
"No! Oh, Peter, it would still be rape. I don't want to be raped. Can't you understand?"
"And I intend to fuck you. I'm sure you understand that." He bestows a quizzical grin. "I could tie you down spreadeagle and put a pillow under your pretty little ass. But that's unsporting. Much better you have hands and feet."
"Peter, please don't! Not this way! Oh, it's all so wrong...!"
"So what I'm going to do, Miss Ilona Paisley, is whip you just the way you are until you decide that spreading your legs is not such a bad idea."
There's no shock. I've seen this coming. I don't know what to do now anymore than I did when Peter first used that ugly word. He's going to fuck me. He can easy use force. I'm only a girl. But that's not Peter Crowle's way. He's savouring me as a tasty morsel he's about to eat. He wants submission. I look down at my steel locked ankles and want to cry--It's so damned unfair.
"I don't really mind which you choose, sweetheart."
He's just too much! He goals me, laughing at the way he's got me helpless. There's a small chair close by--If I can reach it and use it as a club?
I'm furious with fear and anger. I do a mermaid act to get off the bed and lunge--But what's the use. I do manage to grab a chair leg before my own are grasped and pulled. I am sliding backwards on my tummy, arms flailing at nothing, the carpet harsh on my naked breasts. All I know now is fear. I scream out at the pain. The whip has cut me laterally down my back. I envision a gaping wound. I have never even imagined pain like this. It's too awful to believe if I wasn't feeling it. Peter drops my feet. I do another mermaid flounder to get away. I am not governed by reason, only by pain. The whip slashes square across my bottom. I scream once more.
I know I should give in, but maybe he'll respect me a bit if I hold out--if somehow I can get it into his head he shouldn't do this to me, touch his chivalry. Agonized and yelping, I roll, I twist, I hump my joined legs to use them as a kangaroo uses its tail. The carpet frictions me as I contort across the big room. But there is one thing constant, it is Peter's whip. No matter where or how I turn it cuts me with the same ease as if I was standing still, except this way it bites me on whatever parts I offer. Desperately, I hunch myself into a bent over ball to shield my breasts and pussy. But this gives the whip the full expanse of my back, my bottom, and the bare soles of my feet. I endure only a few terrible strokes before I resume my shameful and hopeless writhings to escape. My skin is on fire everywhere. I pant. I sweat. I hear a small girl's voice pleading for the whip to stop. That yes, yes, yes, I will spread my legs...!
"Damned interesting, 'Lona. Wouldn't have missed it."
I have again been thrown on the bed. Peter sits beside my nakedness and examines it thoughtfully while my hands seek my wounds. Whipping me seems to have confirmed something in his mind.
"You had to do that, sweetheart."
Damn him, he's right. I've just got myself whipped to salve my conscience. This way I can be fucked and still be a good girl. Gosh, there's so much attached to being feminine! It's the feminine Me who now accuses: "You enjoyed whipping me."
"Right. You respond exquisitely. I'll do it again soon." Peter winks as though sharing a confidence. "I'm unrepentant, 'Lona. Lost to shame. You're so eminently whippable."
My heart thuds as Peter unlocks my handcuffs. I spread my legs in unseemly haste, I want no more whip. As Peter Croal pierces me our eyes lock and hold as his penetration deepens. We both know where we're at. I am prepared to hate every thrust by which he conquers me. But I cannot. Peter Crowls is too clever, too skilled, too male. I abandon my principles and behave outrageously. My whip weals scream with joy as a man frictions my most secret femaleness. I adore every moment of a long, long time. When I am exhausted Peter handcuffs my wrists and carries me to the little cell. I am dumped on the cot and something is thrust into my locked hands. When the door has clanged shut on me I look at the round bit of plastic and the small red pills.
No wonder Peter Croal is a successful man!
CHAPTER TWO - I AM PUNISHED
I am all mixed up. I wanted desperately to remain in Peter's bed against Peter's heat. But, strangely, this little prison does not seem as evil as it did. My hands are fastened in front and not behind my back. Perhaps this is a promotion. More likely it is because I have to swallow a pill! I do so, blushingly. I am glad Peter cannot see me blush. He would laugh at how silly a girl can be. But I am tremendously grateful. I'd supposed risk of conception implicit in rape, a sort of extra punishment for being a girl.
Morning surprises me. I've slept all night. No tears, no shaking at the bars, no screams. I've slept bare without a blanket but am not cold. My cell is warm. I don't know where the heat comes from but it is here. My handcuffs allow me to get a drink of water without contortions. I have no idea of time. As a sort of duty I push and pull the steel barred door. It does not move. I am alone in a metal and concrete cage and must await the convenience of others. I sit back on my cot.
I am shocked with disappointment that it is not Peter Crowle who eventually comes. It is Becky. But I should have known. Peer Crowle is a busy man, and I am only his prisoner. He knows I can't escape. Becky, smiling through the bars, exudes a proprietary air.
"You going to act sensible, Miss Paisley?"
I hold up my handcuffed wrists and manage a grin: "I have to be sensible, don't I."
"Thass alright then." She unlocks the door. "Ain't no sense you getting your ass whipped. Looks like the Boss done a job on you last night."
"We's havin' breakfast in my kitchen, Miss. I got things sorta' handy for you."
She certainly has. I am thrust onto a chair at the table and a chain is locked round my neck. From it a chain loops to a ring in the wall. The weight of the links tell me I cannot reach the door. I want to tell Becky how heavily they drag at my throat, but I suspect that's intended. I am a prisoner who must not escape.
"Bet you got fucked good last night, Miss Paisley?"
"Yes."
"Good at it, ain't he!"
So he's done it to her too! I must not show the jealousy in which I burn. Offhandedly, I retort: "You didn't need to chain my neck. The handcuffs are enough."
The pouring of coffee ignores my plaint. It is good coffee, the food is deluxe. We exchange polite words as we eat: as strangely assorted a pair of females as Innsfield could produce. Over the second cup Becky laughs. "You ain't the first, y'know, Miss Paisley."
I should have guessed. But jealousy scalds me again as I try to sound nonchalant: "I didn't suppose these facilities were just for me. Where does Mr. Crowle mostly kidnap his girls?"
"You's the first kidnap, Miss. Usually he pays 'em. Lot o'gals put up with a sore ass if the money's right."
The band round my throat seems suddenly warm from the flesh of other girls who have sat here chained as I am chained. I can understand their motives. But, Peter's...? "What's Peter Crowle get out of that?" I ask bluntly.
The answer is as terse. "Gets to whip 'em and fuck 'em whether they like it or not." Becky sees my shock. "All men's the same, honey. Owning a girl makes 'em feel real big."
"But why me?"
" 'Cos you's Miss Ilona Paisley. Them other gals' weren't nothin'. " It adds up. I am the fictional orphaned heiress who the villain ruins and seduces. Victorian readers would drool. Without thinking, I say: "It's so damned unfair to a girl! I want out so bad!"
" 'Bout half the little cuties the Boss picks up want out after the first day, honey. But they've signed a contract and Mr. Crowle and me, we make 'em stick to it. After a few days they sorta' get resigned."
I think of resignation and cringe. I can see myself falling prey to it. Peter Crowle's charm, his potency and his whip devastate a girl. But it mustn't happen to me... it mustn't! Impulsively, I plead: "Becky, let me go? Set me free? You can--" I break off, realising what I've said. The silence is unbearable as we stare at each other in a terrible knowledge. I break it with stuttering dismay: "I--I--I'm sorry, Oh, Becky!"
"You shouldn't have said that."
"I know I shouldn't. It slipped out and I'm really sorry. Please don't tell Mr. Crowle?"
"You shouldn't have said that either, Miss Paisley."
The chain on my neck weighs a ton. My handcuffs hurt. The prison walls close in. I am trapped. I've trapped myself. Oh damn! I take a deep breath and curl up at the resignation in my voice. "What happens now, Becky?"
"You gonna' do the dishes."
"Is that my punishment?"
"You know it ain't. The house cleanin' you're going to do ain't your punishment either. Just keeps you from gettin' morbid in that little barred box downstairs. Mr. Crowle, he'll tell you 'bout your punishment."
"He'll whip me, won't he?"
"Not necessarily, honey. Lotsa' ways o' punishin' a gal'." I'm sure there are. But I don't want to know. In a shock which is partly amused I look down as Becky irons my feet. I think that's the term, isn't it. She does it with a lovely new and shining pair of steel bands on my ankles, wide and wicked and connected by a heavy chain. "Just so you don't decide to run, Miss." She says good-naturedly. "Won't stop you working." She unlocks the collar from my neck and pats my cheek. "There you are, Miss Paisly, the detergent's under the sink."
I hold out my handcuffs and ask, prettily, "Please?"
"No. If you break a dish I whip you right now."
I suppose it's a challenge. I've been surprised at what a girl can do with handcuffed hand. Promise of the whip is a titillation for Becky but not for me
Or is it! It certainly adds spice. I turn on the tap and gather dishes. Becky disappears, but returns in time to show me the vacuum, the mop and the broom. The chains on my ankles make me walk with little snubbed steps but don't stop me doing a thing--except run away! It's the same with the handcuffs. I become a housemaid, anxious to please, I know what will happen to me if I don't. From time to time Becky checks on me to keep me on the ball. At midday I am told to make sandwiches and coffee! I expect she's right: it's better than the cell. But, oh gollies, I feel cheap."
It's crazy how I can be chained and naked and still gossip about this and that the way females do. Becky's sweet. Neither of us can help it if she's my jailer. She is a mine of startling revelations. They come casually as we sit over my sandwiches and coffee.
"I sells myself to M r Crowle once, Miss, my folks need money so damn bad. Three thousand dollars for a month of getting whipped every day and roped tight every night. The screwin' come whenever he feel like it." She chuckled. "I wanted out too, 'bout the fourth day I figured I couldn't take no more. But he don't pay no attention to the way I beef and moan." She pauses and sighs. "He sure do fuck good, and gettin' her ass whipped makes it better for a gol'. Come the end o' that month he offers me a job, and her I is. Fact is, we sorta got used to each other." She grins confidentially. "He still whips me when I screw up."
I am enthralled. Alice in wonderland had nothing on this! "But how can you do anything wrong?" I ask, puzzled.
"Do it on purpose sometimes. I know when he's horny."
"But you--?"
"I'm always horny, honey."
Becky's so beautifully honest and uncomplicated. I think of Innsfield society and the things it never says. Holy cow, if some people could see me now! Shatteringly, Becky returns me to reality. "You want to eat my cunt, Miss Paisley?"
She can see how she's devasted me, and laughs. "O.K., O.K., another time. You're young and you're new. Maybe I'll whip you until you're tickled pink to kneel between my legs. But not right now."
We gaze at each other. Sisters? Two women? Or maybe a woman and a girl. Becky's a century older than I am in what she knows. I feel a naive child with chained feet, chained so she has to work, so she can't dance and play or run away. Wanly, I admit: "I don't know much about it, Becky. Go easy on me." I manage a girlie grin. "I'm in enough trouble already, aren't I?"
"You gets a nice quiet afternoon, child." Becky's maternalism towards me is becoming more pronounced. "Come along, I locks you in your cell."
I do not protest as I am thrust behind the bars and the door gives me its metallic message of imprisonment. My feet are chained. My wrists are handcuffed. But I can use my hands in a wry motion of farewell. Becky grins and waves a hand which is very, very free. She goes away. She slams the outer door to tell me I'm alone and can expect punishment when Peter Crowle learns delinquency. I stand and look through the bars for a long, long time. There is nothing else to do, and with being handcuffed the way I am I can clutch a couple of bars in the approved manner of a girl in jail. It is absurdly comforting. I refuse to think about the whipping I have earned.
I have been Peter Crowle's prisoner for ages. Thirty-six hours ago I was a free girl, now the cell, the handcuffs and nakedness seem forever. I have also lost some sort of slavery. But there still lurks the hope I will suddenly and laughingly be set free, that this will turn out to be an unkind joke, an erotic amusement for a rich man.
I'm surprised about my nudity. I've got used to it. Becky doesn't matter. But, after the first awful shock, I don't mind Peter frankly and lustfully looking at my breasts and between my legs. A clothed girl on the street is mentally undressed by half the men who pass. You get used to it. I know my body's lovely.
But what bothers me most is that nothing's ever going to be the same. If Becky set me free an hour from now I'd never see men the way I used to, and I'd be changed. I can't figure just how. Sort of like Eve eating the apple, I guess. I've been shown something I never knew existed. I'll never see a man or a girl without envisioning them in the roles Peter Crowle and I now play. Suppose
I mean, just suppose this is reality, and what's out there on the street isn't! Boy, am I mixed up!
I won't think any more. I go round in circles, so what the hell...! I raise my feet to the cot and take a real good look at the beautiful shining metal locked on my ankles. The effect is heavy but sleek, the banks are wide and snug, the weighty links are cunningly crafted. They are costume jewellery designed for dungeon wear. Someone was paid a lot of money to ensure I walk with short steps and do not run. Peter Crowle is taking me seriously, for sure.
He wakes me up. Becky's housework must have tired me, or maybe too much thinking. He is very businesslike as he unlocks my cage, my handcuffs and my leg irons. "How was your day, 'Lona?"
"I guess it was O.K. Thank you."
I'll be politely cautious. I'm pretty sure that being free the way I am now is bad news. I notice the room door closed.
"Over here, sweetheart. I'll position you--" He's playing it cute. I walk to the metal frame. I let Peter push my legs apart and strap my ankles to a crossbar close to the floor. I hold out my hands and watch the leather wristlets buckled tight, each bears a ring. Peter goes in back and pulls my right arm down and to the side. A snap clips the ring, when my left arm is similarly secured I am leaning back across a bar. The bar is hard. I cannot part company with it. My hands cannot reach other-No way! My hands can't do anything at all. Peter makes two adjustments so I lean back in more of a bow. The bar above my hips becomes an enemy. It is easy to surmise I am going to be left like this.
Woefully, I ask: "Is this my punishment, Peter?"
"Hmmmmm, a sort of prelude, sweetheart. You're thinking of your indiscretion with Becky?"
"It slipped out. I forgot."
"Well, now you'll remember."
"I've been expecting you to whip me."
"You're nicely marked now. Pity to spoil the effect. You're not going to enjoy this little situation you're in."
"I'm not enjoying it now. Peter, please don't go away and leave me like this."
"Solitude and suffering, 'Lona. Builds character and teaches bad little girls to be good."
"Peter, Really!"
"You'll find the position gets worse--" I'm panicky. I don't want to be alone like this. I et its going to hurt more and more. "But is this really my punishment?" I plead. "Is this because of what I asked Becky?" I heave against my wrists but cannot move. "You're not going to whip me as well...?"
"Would you sooner be whipped, 'Lona?"
"I don't know! I don't know anything except I'm hurting and scared and I can't move. Peter
Please...?"
"You don't have to know anything. Just relax and suffer." The bastard's voice actually sounds kind. Again, he's making me a naughty little girl who needs discipline. Peter chuckles. "Of course, I can always do this
" Oh damn! What he's doing is cupping my pussy in the palm of his hand. He kneads it gently to make me aware of my outrageous vulnerability down there. My legs are wide. My pubic patch and my puss below must be my most prominent feature, positively inviting male attention. I gasp and am about to protest. But its a human contact, a lot better than being left alone. I can't look down and see, I'm bowed too far back. I just moan and shake my head to let him know he should not be doing what he's doing.
"Like it. Don't you, 'Lona?' Damn him, yes! I like it a lot. But I am female, so I say: "Stoppit! Peter, don't! You mustn't...!"
His hand is gone. His voice concerned: "You really wish me to stop?" But I keep a sulky silence and work out my frustration on the wristlets by which I am held. I am ashamed of my gladness when his hand returns and a finger finds entry within my lips. I gasp and close my eyes and forget I am also being mildly tortured. When I reach the brink of fulfillment the hand and the finger go away. By the time I struggle back into the world their owner has gone too and the door is closed. Miss Ilona Paisley is alone and her back is slowly breaking. She is also hot and bothered and furious.
Knowing the time would do me no good. But I am concerned with time. I convince myself I cannot bear this bar in my back for long. Thirty minutes? An hour? Surely one hour is the longest possible time! I try and tick away the minutes as the pain gets worse. But they go on forever. How right they were about there being other ways to punish a girl instead of whipping her! This is one for sure. If I was given the choice right now I'd take the whip. Maybe I have to stay like this all night? I shudder and cast the thought away.
I am whimpering steadily, sad little sounds without a name. The feminine responses of a nude girl being punished. I am not struggling any more, it hurts too much. My neck joins the small of my back in distress. I can raise it or let it fall all the way back. Either way is bad. There isn't any good way, I have to hurt there too. My breasts are tautly flattened. I have to shake my head to rid my eyes of tears.
Its so simple and so devastating. I probably look erotically beautiful bowed back like this. Strips of leather on my wrists and ankles, and here I stay!. I cannot move. Escape is a silly dream. If I am freed before I die I'll remember, for sure, to do and say what I am told. I'd have to be nuts to invite any more of this.
I am half unconscious when I feel the tugs on my ankles and my feet are freed. Awareness tells me I have exchanged leather for steel, my leg irons are locked on me again. I am still helpless. I moan dismally and don't bother to raise my head. When the wristlets are unsnapped a hand is comforting against my back to aid me in straightening up against agony. My spine screams. But I offer a weak: 'thank you' and extend my hands for them to be rid of leather and locked back into the familiar handcuffs. I open my eyes to Peter Crowle's smiling regard.
"Learn a lesson, sweetheart?"
"Yes, oh, yes!" I am suddenly on my knees, clutching his leg with my chained hands. I abandon shame and pride and everything else as I blubber in ridiculous humility: "Not any more, Peter. Not ever again...? I'll do as you say. I promise."
I am raised by strong hands. I am kissed, a brotherly kiss without passion. A hand on my bare arm guides me slowly form this place of pain out into the passage. The clash of links from my shackles are a song of thankfulness that I can move again. My short eager steps are the limbering my spine most needs. By the time we reach the lounge I am back in Peter's world.
"You can serve the drinks, Lona. We don't need Becky."
I discover I am pleased. The fewer people who see me in this aftermath of agony the better. I fight fumbles, seeking to perform my task gracefully in chains.
"When you hand me mine you'll kneel."
Two days ago I'd have slapped his face. Now I do as I am told.
I try to do it prettily against the nag of pain and the snub of metal locked upon my limbs. Peter is pleased... I can tell. "Kneel there. Sit back on your heels. Drink your own." Feudal? Barbaric? Mortifying? I simply don't care. I kneel as I am told and down half my drink in a single gulp. Within my tummy it works its miracle.
"Didn't like that, eh."
"Gosh no!" I gaze up woefully. "You can't know how awful-"
"Good. Better than whipping you again. Gives you perspective."
"Peter, I'll never do anything I shouldn't--"
"Of course you will, sweetheart!" He is so heartily assured he makes me wilt. "Bad behavior is a girl's natural condition. Don't worry about it."
"But if I'm always being punished...?"
"Forget that too. Get yourself another drink, I know you want one."
I'll forget nothing, and I hope he doesn't notice how strong I've made this drink. I kneel again and am willing to believe I'll live. Hesitantly, I ask: "How long was it--?"
"Your little penance?" Peter laughs, enjoying Me. "You'll never believe. Exactly forty minutes." As though apologising for the brevity of my torture, he adds: "We still have to eat Dinner, y'know. And after that there's the bedroom."
Our eyes meet. I blush. I gulp alcohol to disguise my shameful curiosity. Greatly daring, I enquire: "Do I have to be locked in the cell?"
"I take it you wish to be fucked?" My confusion is tickling him all to bits. "And probably fucked several times?"
"Please, Peter, that beastly word--!"
"I like the way you sort of wriggle when you protest, 'Lona." He shakes his head in mock sorrow. "You have to realise a good fuck is a privilege for a girl. Its a reward for good behavior."
I cringe in shame. Whatever I say now is going to sound wrong. I want to go to bed with him so bad it hurts, but I mustn't tell him so. I'm genuinely ashamed of myself, but I can't tell him that either. I don't think its any use playing haughty indifference, he knows better and it might irritate him into punishing me. I try a compromise- "So, alright, I misbehaved. I've said I'm sorry, and I've been punished--" I look up winsomely "But do I have to be chained in that cell?"
Peter Crowle laughs expansively at my act. It has not deceived him. He leads me in to Dinner. Becky beams at us both. She had done her duty. I'm not even sure if I'm still delinquent.
The rope is something new. It trails across the bed and on the floor. It has to be for me, it just has to! But why in Peter Crowle's bedroom? Briskly, he clues me in. "You've never been properly tied up, sweetheart."
"I have so! All day in Grandma's chair. I couldn't even get up."
"Oh, that! My day with tied hands is dismissed as trivial. "I'm thinking of a good hog-tie and time to think."
"You keep me handcuffed." I'm trying to be reasonable. "What's wrong with handcuffs? I can't get out of them."
"That's a point, 'Lona. Tied with rope you've got a sporting chance."
"Yeah, I bet." I give him my soulful smile. "Please, Peter, keep me in chains, I just hated that rope and stuff."
"We'll call it the balance of your punishment. You'll be home free."
It's hard to argue. I never have been tied up the way he's talking about, maybe it's not so bad. I switch to my other concern. "Aren't you going to--I mean, don't I get--?"
"Fucked, sweetheart?" He shakes his head sadly. "No. You've been a naughty girl." The S.O.B. laughs at the chagrin I cannot hide. "I'll deny myself in the cause of discipline. Maybe I'll drop in on Becky."
I'm so furious I could cry. I'm a frustrated spinster, and this idiot's going to give Becky what I won't tell him I want. Damn! I stand in haughty silence, very erect, chin high, while he ties my hands behind my back. I'd love to tell Peter Crowle what he can do with his old rope.
Now my elbows. Oh damn! I hated having my elbows tied before, I'll certainly hat it now. I sniff, and I'll swear he knots me tighter. I won't sniff again. No way!
Peter lays me face down on the floor. I am just a bundle now.
He ropes my ankles, then my knees. I really have to sit hard on my beef when he ties my feet back up to my arms. He pushes my bent knees and pulls the rope until I'm nicely bowed and as helpless as a girl's ever likely to be. I just have to speak. "I guess you know this hurts?"
"Interesting."
"Oh, don't be mean. Just because--"
"You complaining, 'Lona?"
"Well...." Oh shit, I have to be so cautious. "I thought you ought to know I can't move at all and I'm going to get awful cramped."
"Thanks, sweetheart. That's about what I had in mind for you. Oh, and that sporting factor--if you can free yourself during the night you can walk out of this house a free girl."
"You know there's no way I can get loose. And, Peter, for goodness sake
not all night like this?"
"It's called a hog-tie, 'Lona. You make a pretty little porker."
"I don't want to stay like this all night."
"Did you say something?"
"No, I guess I didn't. Sorry."
"That's better. You're learning well. I'm pleased with you." It's hard to look up. But I manage a sideways appeal that strains my neck, "Please, Peter, don't be too unkind to me." He gazes down at me, hand to chin, meditating. "You sure do talk a lot, 'Lona...?"
I get the message instantly. I exclaim: "Oh no! Oh, please, no! I promise I'll keep quiet. P-L-E-A-S-E...!"
I guess I don't deserve an answer. I don't get one. I know nothing of gags, but this is new, no doubt purchased specially for me. It looks expensive with soft leather and a bulbous rubber tongue for inside my mouth. There's straps and buckle, all nicely finished for only the better type of girl. Abjectly, I mutter: "Please forgive me. I won't do it again."
The rubber wad has to be thrust between my teeth. It feels enormous. I obey a male command to clamp down and compress my lips. The soft leather possesses my mouth and is drawn tighter and tighter... I've spoken my last word, that's for sure! Oh damn, why couldn't I have shut up!
"Be back after awhile, sweetheart. You sleep where you're at."
The absolute bastard! I'm so mad...! He hasn't said he's going to Becky but I bet he is. The thought makes me struggle to get loose, but I soon give that up to debate whether I wouldn't be better off laying on my side. But if I flop over I'll never get back up, not the way I'm trussed. Oh shit! And I'm all alone, alone, alone! And I hurt, hurt, hurt. I'll never break Peter Crowle's rules again.
I hate my gag. I hate this whole thing. I can't move. I want to die. Oh jeepers...!
I don't know what time it is when he comes back, and I can't ask. He lays me on my right side and pinches my left nipple. He doesn't say a word, not anymore than I do. He gets into bed and goes to sleep. I lay on the floor and fume. I mean, think of it! On the floor! And beside his bed! His bed where he's nice and soft and warm and fast asleep while I lay here on the carpet in agony... or almost. It just isn't fair... Really!
Mine is not a fun night. Between naps I think about Peter Crowle and this jackpot he's got me in. Peter Crowle is about all I have to think of in my life right now. He's got me, he's got me good. Everything else I ever was has vanished. I'm angry at the way Peter taxes me. He knows just how far to take me into fear or pain, and stops just short of taking me over the brink into some sort of heebie jeebies he wouldn't like any more than Me. I'm cleverly controlled and it just burns me up.
I can't hate him the way I should. I ought to hate him so damn bad. But Peter Crowle is Innsfield, and Innsfield's my hometown, and he's spoken of marrying me, and he's sort of sweet in his way. I mean, what a helluva' mix-up for a girl, especially when she's always naked.
That bit about getting loose from these ropes and being free to go is a come-on. Oh sure, he'd keep his word-if it happened! But I can't get loose. I'm as fixed as the Statue of Liberty. These ropes aren't all that thick and they bite into me like crazy. I bet they leave worse marks in my flesh than a whip. I don't even want to struggle, I'm beat.
I wonder why Peter didn't whip me today? I figured that's what I'd get. Gosh, I wish he had. It would have been better than this and being bent over that damn bar. Of course, I don't know much about being whipped either. Maybe that rolling around on the floor yesterday wasn't a good sample. Hitting me that way seemed terribly cruel, but I suppose it could be a lot worse if a girl's specially tied up for it and just has to stand still while he laces into her on whatever female part he wants. Gosh, if I could tell some of the girls I know... they wouldn't believe a word.
Thank goodness he's an early riser. The night's been bad enough, I wouldn't want to be like this half the morning while he snores. I expect he was wise about the gag. There were times during the night...!
"Well rested, 'Lona? No, don't bother to answer."
He grins down at me while he dresses. I can tell his pleasure in my body, he adores it, he's fascinated by my curves and my pubic triangle. But the bastard doesn't unbuckle my gag. He leaves me as I am while he goes to the bathroom. Damn him, he even decides to have a shower... Really...!
When he reappears he immediately frees me of the gag. I utter a heartfelt: 'thank you' and immediately blow it by saying: "I hope you realise I've been in agony all night."
Peter instantly puts the gag back in my mouth and buckles it tighter than it was. I mean, what the hell else did I expect! But my tears are involuntary, they are terribly real. Getting the gag back again is just too damn much. I don't have to open the floodgates, they open themselves.
Strong fingers take the gag from me a second time. Peter's query is an insouciant as always. "You were saying something, sweetheart?"
My denial is interspersed by sobs. "No. Nothing. I've forgotten. I was being silly," Hastily, I repeat: "Thank you for taking the gag out of my mouth."
"My pleasure. Would you like to be untied?"
I want to be untied so bad I could scream, but I have learned where to lie. "Only if you think I've been punished enough."
I have been punished enough. I am untied. I lay here on the floor in the agonized bliss of ropes peeled from chafed wealed skin. I think how gorgeous it would be if Peter Crowle now took me to bed. But that's something that isn't going to happen.
It happens. Boy, does it ever happen! I am led through a cosmic glory to explosion after explosion of utter joy. When I sit up, blinking my way back into Peter's bedroom, I am kissed in a busy sort of way and told to go and lock myself in my cell, and be sure and wear the leg irons and handcuffs. Dazed, I obey. Right then I'd have walked across the Atlantic if so ordered. I took delight in clanging the cell door shut on myself and in making sure the handcuffs were one notch too tight. I flop down on the cot. I'm beat. Instantly, I sleep.
The note between the bars tells me to meet Peter for lunch at Mateao's at one P. M. It is Peter's writing so its his own idea of a joke. But the cell door is open, so I clink my way to the kitchen and Becky. From that moment on I know I'm still asleep in my cell and dreaming...
It's the fastest bath and beauty treatment I've ever had. I can ever help... no handcuffs, no chains on my feet. I know it's too good to be true, but if Becky and Peter want to ignore the fact of me escaping I'm not going to harp on the subject. I only make one try: "Becky, you sure about this?"
"I'm sure, Miss Paisley. You's goin' out to lunch."
There is only one more puzzle. It's the steel belt. It looks awfully small. But Becky's grin's a mile wide. "You tuck your tummy way in, child--" I tuck my tummy. The sleek metal caresses my waist and, most audibly, snaps shut. When I relax it is into me deep enough it is hard to see. But I finger it wonderingly, knowing it too tight on purpose but no tighter than I can bear. Becky tells me to ask no questions. Then she dresses me in splendor. Suddenly I am the richest and most beautiful woman in Innsfield--I am free!
Freedom is heady stuff, and I'm in an absolute dither. I arrive at Mataeo's before realising I should be running for my life. But nobody can kidnap me in public, not even Peter Crowle. I catch the eye of the Maitre-D' and smile.
It's all so rich and gorgeous and everything girls love. The Paisleys had never been poor, but the 'Bugle' had never made us rich, and this is rich, rich, rich. My clothes, with Me inside, draw appraising stares as I am grandly led to the table of Mr. Peter Crowle. Maybe he owns the place the way he owns everything.
Peter Crowle admires me too. His eyes see me clothed in the splendor he has paid for. His mind sees me naked. I suppose it's things like that which spell power to a man. But I'm a girl and I'm quivering and thrilled to bits. I absorb two more assessments from his companions, a middle aged and stoutish Benny Anselm and a younger, and more carnal, Tommy Ramone. If I was for sale they would undoubtedly buy me. But it's lovely the way they all stand for the introductions while someone pushes a chair against the back of my knees.
"Glad you could make it, Ilona."
"Sweet of you to ask me, Peter."
We sparkle at each other. I am utterly at sea, but he is not. We have fired the first shots, the battle will soon be joined. But, in the meantime, we down cocktails and glow. We are rich. We are fat cats, and I am beautiful. Silently, I tell prudence and caution to go away and stuff it.
It is a business lunch. Millions roll back and forth across the spotless napery. Bonds and debentures polish the knives and forks. I am not sure if I am scenery, or here for a more sinister purpose. But Mataeo's food is out of this world and I have had no breakfast. If the metal ring round my middle gets tighter, so what! The fiscal fusillade crackles over my head as I eat. I give up listening until Benny Anselm comes up with: "Then we'll assume Miss Paisley is available as required?"
"You can count on it."
Tommy Ramone leans over and pats my hand. When he speaks his rapt attention rises reluctantly from my breasts. "You are a very lucky woman, Ilona Paisley-"
"We'll keep the name." Says Mr. Anselm.
I manage to look brightly attentive as though I knew what they were talking about. They excuse themselves from the brandy and depart. I turn to Peter's amused regard.
"Don't say it, 'Lona. You're going to ask: What's that all about?' "
"Well, yes. Shouldn't I?"
"Not right now. We'll put Benny and Tommy on ice. They'll surface when needed. Enjoying yourself?"
"Immensely."
We sip coffee in silence, tinglingly aware of my freedom hovering like a huge question mark. There's a missing link somewhere, it leaves me at a loss. If I think beyond this pleasant moment I'll get myself in a dither. Femininely, I wonder if those who see us now think I'm Peter's wife... Mmmmmmm!
"Better than your cell, sweetheart?"
"Oh, Peter, of course it is" I wriggle awkwardly, then place it on the line. "Peter, you know I won't go back in there."
"No?"
I can make anything I want out of that 'No'. I'm being played with, of course. Peter's been playing games with me ever since the rope and Grandman's chair. I bet he's waiting now to wee what I'll do. Impulsively, and with a nice shade of sarcasm, I say: "Thank you for the steel ring round my tummy. What's it for?"
He shrugs as though not caring less. "Same principle as the wedding band, I guess. Man owns woman."
"Peter, you've owned me for two days. You've treated me outrageously. I ought to go to the police."
"Never seen you look more ravishing, sweetheart."
"Sure you don't mean ravished!" I make the query tart. My heart thuds at what I must ask now. "If you'll give me the key I can take the ring off here in the powder room."
"It's back at the house."
I take a deep breath. Peter is going to be awkward. "Then how am I supposed to get it off?"
"Becky can unlock it for you."
"I bet she can--and bung me in the cell too."
He shrugs in the manner of a man compelled to dither in the obvious. "What's wrong with that. Becky likes you, you like Becky. What else do you suggest?"
"Peter, you're teasing me, you're being deliberately difficult. The ring's about three sizes too small and its hurting."
"I'll be home at five, 'Lona. You can amuse yourself around town until then. I'll unlock your ring before Dinner."
"By then you'd have chained my feet, handcuffed my wrists and stripped me naked."
"Naturally. Gosh, sweetheart, you do carry on so about nothing."
"It's not nothing to be cut in two be a metal loop. It really does hurt. I shouldn't have eaten lunch."
Peter muses absently so I'll know how trivial a matter my tummy is. "There's garages and machine shops, they'll have tools. They'll cut if off for you." He grins helpfully. "That is, if you really feel you must escape."
The vision is horrendous. I'll wear his belt forever before I'll bare myself for a file or a hacksaw in some filthy workshop. Petulantly and irrelevantly, I snap: "If you want to marry me and support me in this sort of luxury I'll say yes?"
"Luxury...?" He pretends to grope. "Oh, you man the belt!"
"You know I don't mean the belt. I mean this gorgeous place and all those millions you've been batting around."
"Hmmmmmmm." He makes a wry grimace. "Female avarice! I might consider marriage if the ring stays on to keep you slender and I whip you once a week to keep you in a reasonable frame of mind."
It is the last straw. I boil. I want to slap his face, kick his shin... scream! I cannot do those things here but I am suddenly inspired. I rise grandly and clothe my words in frost. "Thank you for a lovely lunch, Mr. Crowle." I pause for effect. "I don't suppose we'll meet again. Good-bye." I make a magnificent exit.
But, out in the street, my eyes are filled with tears.
Unless you have business or want to buy something, cities are for the birds. I want out. I open the bag Becky gave me with these clothes. I make a desperate search and find seven dollars. Strong with resolve, I march to the Bank where I keep my account. I'll withdraw my trivial balance and be in California tomorrow.
You know how it is. The teller looks at your withdrawal slip and then at you. Something is wrong! Your hair needs washing or the Bank's gone broke, or something...!
"If you'll just come down to the end counter...?"
He is one of those bland urbane types who chill beefs. It appears there has been something highly irregular about my deposits. My account has been sequestered. He beams benevolence and says, vaguely: "I believe you know our Mr. Crowle--?"
"I didn't know you had a Mr. Crowle."
"Mr. Crowle is our President and major stockholder."
My tummy flips, its ring forgotten, this is like throwing back the bed covers and finding a coiled rattlesnake on the sheet. Weakly, I admit having met their chief Executive.
"I am sure if you phone Mr. Crowle you'll find him anxious to be of assistance."
The smooth S.O.B.! He looks at me knowingly. I'm surprised he doesn't wink. Stormily, I flounce from his marble mausoleum and back to the street. Somewhere Peter Crowle will be laughing.
It is a nice little park, too small for the usual propositions. I sit and look at the trees while my mind computes. California is out. I have no relatives. I have girl friends who can lend me a hundred dollars, but what good is a hundred bucks! I have no skills, I can't even type all that good, and I can't ask for a job on the strength of allowing 'The Bugle' to go belly up. I wonder what it's like to be a prostitute. I am in that bitter frame of mind where I'm sure my first customer would be a cop.
Where's my guts!
I'm sure I have some courage someplace, but it's driven away by my whole consciousness being steeped in a vision of Peter Crowle's smile and the touch of Peter Crowle's hand. Not to mention--oh well, never mind that! I'll swear the ring round my middle is tightening. It can't be, that sort of nonsense is only in books. But still...!
I wonder if I went back and Becky unlocked the belt? Would she let me go again? I could fight, but she could easy get the best of me. I can hear the click of handcuffs. Oh shit, I suppose I'd best not take the risk. Of course, I can go to the police? But that's out of the question--No way!
Have I got the hots for Peter? There's all sorts of cases where girls fall in love with men who treat them horribly. I expect Freud would explain it. Sure I'd marry him if he asked me seriously, but that's only a part of his fun thing, playing with me. but why would I marry Peter? Love? Security? I'm a masochist? Because he's fabulous in bed--he really is! Oh shit, how the hell do I know! What a jackpot! And I've got seven dollars!
If I go back, the first thing Peter will do is whip me for being snooty and saying good-bye as though he smelled. At least, I suppose he would...? On the other hand...?
Is it so good in bed with him because he does it to me right after I've been punished? Being wealed and tender and hurting does add something, I'm sure it does. But he's awful good.
The chains never mattered all that much.
I wonder what the three of them were planning for me at lunch. I'll never know now, will I--all that money!
After that first time the cell didn't seem so bad.
His punishments are scary. I wonder what the rest are like, the one's he hasn't used on me yet? There's quite a lot of gimmicks in that room. I thought I'd die over that bar, but it's funny how soon a girl forgets. I suppose if I really hated him...!
He says I've not been properly whipped, and I don't suppose I have--I wonder what that's like?
I mean, it all boils down to can I take it or not. Or do I want to. Or why should I. Or is the bed worth the rest. Or what will I do if I don't.
Really...!
The ring hurts me worse. There must be something about it I don't know. Or maybe its been on me too long, perhaps a girl's only supposed to wear it this tight for an hour or two. I bet its all been neatly figured...! It's a persuader, that's what. If it's on a girl long enough she'll do anything to get it off. I haven't quite got there yet.
Suppose the damn ring wasn't made for me. Suppose its been locked on other girls, and that's the reason it's too tight! But she'd sure have to have a narrow waist... I've scarcely got any tummy and it's way into me. It makes me walk funny like a floosie. Damn! If I could get it off I'd be able to think straight. I bet Peter knows.
There's a service station a block away. Maybe I'll try. I fight my lascivious hips every step of the way. I am already blushing when I ask: "Have you some sort of tool that cuts metal?"
"Gotta' torch, lady. Goes through metal like it ain't there."
"Well, I dunno'." He scratches his genitals. "Let's have a look."
I can't go through with it. I mutter nonsense and drift away. When Becky opens the door it is as though I have not been away, not a single sneer. I adore the woman.
"We'll have coffee in the kitchen, Miss Paisley. It's been 'bout time."
I follow until she hints: "Them clothes look silly in my kitchen, child."
I go to the bedroom and strip. I don't know if it is my bedroom, Peter's bedroom, or ours. I do not care. Bare, I admire my ring in the big mirror. Its effect is cute, utterly feminine. I am a lovely wasp. Inconsistently, I no longer wish to be rid of it. It seems not to hurt so much now I'm back. But Becky shows me the bit of steel by which I can be freed. While she uses it she chuckles: "Brought it back, didn't it."
"Is that why I had to wear it, Becky?"
"Sort of--" She pours coffee. "You think of other reasons you come home?"
"I'm so mixed up, Becky. You tell me?
"Go get your handcuffs. You're not supposed to sit around like this. Run."
I run the errand, uncaring of protocol. I hold out my hands. Becky puts handcuffs on me so absolutely right, never sloppy. I watch her now, quivering. I have to be nuts or something, but the steel on my wrists feels so damn good. It goes along with what she said about coming home. Becky pats my cheek and pushes me into the chair so she can lock the collar on my neck. That feels good too. I finger it in feminine concern while she says: "Ain't no mystery 'bout you and me, ain't there? Like today?" She pats me again in the lovely maternal way she has. "And you'll never get a fuck as good as his. I know. I've tried. But you ain't told me 'bout lunch. How'd it go?"
I tell her about lunch. But I see the with self analysis and a need to put things in their place. "Becky, if I asked you to set me free right now, would you?"
"Hell, no!"
I wave my handcuffs. "But why? I was free a few minutes ago?"
"Miss Paisley, you obeys your orders, I obey mine, makes life simples. It's one more reason you won't run away."
"But if I won't run away, why keep me chained?"
"You oughta' be able to figure that, child. There's always goin' to be times you'll want to run. You's happy right now, but 'spose you knew you as goin' to get the damndest whipping when the Boss comes home? Would you wait around for it?"
"I honestly don't know. I suppose--"
"Best you don't have no choice. Becky pours more coffee and becomes earnest. "Best reason for you bein' chained and locked in that cell is 'cos you're gonna' get mad 'bout things you thinks unfair. Like when he whips you and you ain't done nothin'--Oh sure, he does it! Or when he sleeps with me instead of you. Or when he don't sleep with either of us and goes out on the town--"
"Oh, Becky, really?"
"Like the time he brings home a cute little black filly and screws her all night while I lay hog-tied on the floor beside the bed. I got so all fired mad...!"
"Will he do that to me?"
"Can't be sure of nothin'. For all I know he might marry you tomorrow. You'd like that."
"Wouldn't you!"
"It ain't goin' to happen to me. But it could to you. You got 'bout everything Peter Crowle wants, he don't need money."
"Except for the usual female parts I don't see I've got much?"
"Child, you scream real beautiful, you get sarcastic, you beef, he can keep you in a dither of indignation. You have to be good in bed or he wouldn't bother, and you wear chains and ropes better than any other girl he ever had. That do you for now?" It does me for now. It has to. Becky does not want an audience while preparing Dinner. I get my feet chained and am led, clinking musically, by the chain tether up to the bedroom where there is a ring in the wall I had not noticed previously. My chain is locked to it. I am kissed. I am left to await the pleasure of the master of the House.
It's a change from the cell. I would like to go to sleep, but I can't lay down. The ring is too high and the chain too short. The best I can do is sit with my back against the wall, hugging my knees. I begin to perceive how all these little frustrations have been carefully designed for sulky girls in chains. I wonder how many other naked damsels have sat where I sit now.
I play with the links of my leg irons like a rosary. There are thirteen of them. I am sure this had been figured out too. Fingers busy, my mind turns to Peter Crowle and what I can say to him. I'm not going to be humble if I can help it. I must keep intact the girl who is Me.
The big question is will he whip me for my cold hauteur in the restaurant? I honestly don't think he will, and anyway it was a calculated risk I took when I came back. I am discovering that girls have built in defense against pain. We don't believe it will happen We ignore it. then, if it does happen, we absorb it and vent as much of it as we can in screams.
This is my third day of captivity, yet I am replete with wisdoms. They are female wisdoms about Me and about girls, particularly about girls behind bars or with chains on their limbs. I have learned of nakedness. A naked girl is not as other girls. Being kept stripped is a bit like losing one's maidenhead, you're not much different but you've moved on into a changed world: not realising at first it is you who is changed.
I feel I have been a slave for a Century. I scarcely believe in the Me who existed up to three days past. She was such a pale creature, devoid of the intensities of feeling I now enjoy. For her, there was no titillating anguish of suspense about being whipped, or strapped on one of Peter's punishment contraptions, or the glorious reward of being taken to his bed. That poor girl would have been horrified about this whole thing--so why aren't I? Is it the male magic of Peter Crowle, or was this lustful slavery latent in me always? Maybe Peter knew.
I should think up some smart quips, feminine sarcasms for the man for whom I am chained. I know he likes them, even though he may punish me. What I must remember now is that he does not know my agonies of the afternoon, the awfulness of decisions. I certainly don't want him to think I'm back here because of a too tight ring round my tummy. But, for sure, he must not believe I am here because the two of us fuck so well together. He can think what he likes but I won't tell.
Peter mustn't ever know about the girl talk between Betsy and Me. He can guess that too, but I won't admit to discussing him, or to the wisdom Becky has given me. In accepting these chains I am betting a sixty/forty chance between joy and anguish. In there someplace is the Jackpot prize of becoming Mrs. Peer Crowle. I know I'm utterly shameless, he can whip me all he likes if he'll marry me afterwards.
That's silly. It presupposes I have a choice. I have no choice.
I hear sounds. Whatever is going to happen to me will happen to me will happen now. I make a quick tidying of hair. The handcuff's link snags itself below my nose.
CHAPTER THREE - I AM WHIPPED
I'm scared silly. I'm down in the punishment room. My wrists are strapped to a bar above my head, my ankles are well separate and tied down to rings. I can sort of undulate. That is all. I am waiting to be whipped. I guessed things all wrong. My cold farewell really burned him up. That moment's triumph in the restaurant gets me whipped. I suppose it serves me right--that thing about 'Pride cometh before a fall'.
"I was proud of you, sweetheart, right up to where I got the cold shoulder."
"You provoked me. And, anyway, I'm back here, aren't I! I came back of my own free will."
Peter is tightening the straps on my wrists, he raises my arms and tensions me to suit his taste. I am sure he is a past master in the whipping of girls. He's a trifled puzzled.
"You had me fooled, 'Lona. I thought you were off and running."
"After you'd stolen my Bank account? And with a belt cutting me in two!"
"That why you're back?"
I sniff and complain: "I don't deserve to be whipped."
"That's my decision, sweetheart. You made yours when you decided to be snooty."
"I wouldn't have come back if I didn't like you." I sniff again. "And it's hypocritical to call me sweetheart and then whip me."
"What d'you want me to call you?"
"I don't know. You're going to be real cruel, aren't you. I can tell."
"A short sharp lesson, sweetheart, before dinner."
"I won't be able to eat. I'll be unconscious."
"My, the way you do twitter! You're nicely fixed like that. I'll be back in a minute."
Its been a long minute. The suspense is crinkling my spine. But, of course, he's making me wait on purpose. He knows I can't think of a thing except I'm going to be whipped on my naked skin and I have to stand here and take it. I can wriggle a bit, but that will give him pleasure. I am to be formally whipped. None of this rolling around on a rug while he takes snap shots at me with a riding crop. This is the real thing... I am managing to shiver and tremble at the same time.
"All set, sweetheart?"
"Yes... I suppose I am."
The pain erupts bitterly across my shoulders. I go berserk. "You put on a marvellous show, 'Lona." Peter says admiringly, then stripes me again, all the way round my bottom. "And you come up with the most artistic weals."
"Forgive me--!" It emerges from me as a choking gasp. "I'll never do it again. I promise!"
"Haven't I heard that before?"
"I mean it - I honestly mean it. Ohhhhhhh, Yahhhhhhh!"
The third curls round my waist. I'll die. I'm ashamed of the awful scream I let loose. Oh gosh, if only Peter knew how it hurts! If he did know he wouldn't hit me so hard, I'm sure he wouldn't! Maybe I'd better scream louder.
"Would you like the gag, sweetheart?"
Oh shit, that's his way of telling me not to split his eardrums. I am about to tell him no, no, I'll keep quiet, when I realise what a blessing a gag might be. Besides, it will make him see how mean he's being to me. I make my voice more tremulous than it already is.
"Yes, I'd like to be gagged. If you're going to hurt me so terribly I have to be gagged or you'll get angry at the noise." I glance back over my shoulder. "I can't help screaming. You'd scream too "I think I'm getting a snow job." Peter complains cheerfully. "But gags become you. Which kind d'you want?"
"I don't know anything about gags, Peter. But those they use in the movies, a bandage over a girl's mouth...?"
"You could deliver Lincoln's Gettysburg address in one of those."
"I don't know then. Whatever you like."
It starts with a rubber sponge. He goes into my cell to wet it under the tap. I know my mouth can't possibly take it all but it does. I am told to close my lips, and then a broad band of silver adhesive is thumbed and moulded over my mouth and back close to each ear. I am completely sealed. I say 'thank you just to try, but nothing comes out. I suppose this could be fun some other time.
"You look cute as all get out, sweetheart."
I make adenoidal sounds of gratitude, and wonder what I might do to delay my next weal. Passionately, I do not want to be whipped any more--but that's dreaming. There comes a quick searing scald across my back and another on my rump. The leather round my wrists creaks against the bar as I heave in anguish. Silly negative noises recoil from the sponge and seek a limited release through my nose. I shake my head savagely in a female denial of pain. I have received five strokes.
"We should do this more often, 'Lona."
He stands with his whip facing me, missing nothing of how I must appear. Certainly he can see all of me. I am utterly bare. I have a fleeting curiosity as to what the whipmarks look like on my skin. But the moment when I can admire them in a mirror is still far away--if I live that long!
"You glisten with sweat, sweetheart. There's a droplet running down your flank from your armpit. Dammit', girl, you're a bundle of delight."
I would sooner be a bundle in his bed. I'd tell him so if I could--I'm not sure this gag is a good idea. Oh, jeepers, that whip hurts something awful!
"A stroke or two between a girl's legs is considered highly professional... What d'you think?"
0-H... N-O-O-O-...No! That can't be possible, it surely can't! But my feet have been tied well apart...? Oh please, not in there on my--!
I suppose the upward cut, impacting my pussy and splatting its tip up my belly is highly skilled. But who cares! The straps, the ropes, and my gag absorb my female fury as my crotch screams fire.
"Beautiful... beautiful...!" Peter's voice is genuinely hushed in worship. "I wish you could see."
He resumes work on my back. Such bitter wicked cuts! If only he knew how they hurt! But he doesn't. How can he! Although surely the marks...?
"Never realised how much smaller a girl is than a man." Peter's voice is quietly meditative as though discussing his collection of stamps. "Every man should whip a girl at least once to know how beautiful she is."
From Peter Crowle it makes sense. These are not the mouthings of a sadist, Peter is enjoying Me. He pays tribute to a beauty I am able to evoke for him alone. I just wish it didn't hurt so bloody awful. Dismally, I realise I don't know how many strokes I'm going to get from that blasted whip--don't suppose I can hope for less than twenty...?
My crotch is sliced again. If someone told me I am split down there I would believe. Me and the gear that holds me work overtime. This one is the worst of all.
"Ten."
So what! I could wish the next ten would kill me or drive me into unconsciousness, but I know they won't. My struggles and responses may get weaker, that's all. I'll get all the hurt of every stroke.
"Think you've had enough, 'Lona?"
He's teasing. Being cruel. But I nod like crazy."
"You deserve twenty, y'know."
I don't know what I deserve. I just want not to be whipped any more. I'd give ten years of my life for the whip to stay away. A burning brand burrows into the cleft of my thighs.
"But you're new to it, sweetheart. Have to break you in easy."
He mustn't be teasing, he mustn't! Not this cruelly? But, until he's unfastened me, I can't be sure. His fingers are busy with my gag, I flood with hope.
"You'll have time for a quick bath and fuss-up before Dinner."
Just like that! What's one flogging more or less to a naked girl. The adhesive has gone and I don't begrudge the short sharp pain. Male fingers tug out the sponge. It is so huge I feel I've given birth to something. I way: "Thank you, oh, thank you!" and mean every syllable.
"Did you find it an experience, sweetheart?"
"Oh, Peter, did I ever!"
"Going to be cold and frosty to me again?"
"No! Never! I promise."
"Hmmmmmmm. Just give your tongue a bit of time."
"No! Oh, honest! I don't ever want to be whipped like this again."
"Well, you mean that now. It's progress."
Peter stands back to admire Me again. He evidently finds me aesthetically pleasing fastened the way I am. I long to be untied, but dare not ask. Someway I've lost the status by which I could urge him to hurry-up. So long as I'm this invitingly spread out and can't move there's a danger I'll say something dumb and get myself whipped again. Unconsciously, I blurt out the best thing I could say.
"Thank you for whipping me, Peter."
"You're quite something--" Gently, he kisses my lips, then my eyes. Peter loves kissing my eyes. He slips to his knees and tugs at my roped ankles. When he unstraps my wrists my arms fall naturally around his neck.
Why don't I hate him? He's just flogged me!
I don't care.
Bath. Hair. Lipstick, and an ecstatic admiration of my wounds in the big mirror. Eight perfect weals clearly delineated on back and bottom, plus the two sears of scarlet coming up through my public patch to mark my tummy. I have to be crazy, but I find an exotic beauty in these man made markings on my flesh. Or is it that my whipping is over and they'll soon stop hurting. But I must hurry, there is Dinner. But, more importantly, there is the afterwards...!
The afterwards is agonizingly wonderful. Each of my whip- weals screams its own ecstasy in unison with my whipped pussy. My frenzy infects Peter. We writhe outrageously, and I glimpse the tiny line between pleasure and pain. Jeepers, I wish he'd marry me. You're a remarkable girl, 'Lona." Peter sighs contentedly.
What I want to be is a remarkable wife. But I say a polite: "Thank you, Peter. You're riot so bad yourself."
"No, I didn't mean it that way. I'm talking about an all-round girl. You're coming along nicely."
Coming along? Am I? I bite his ear. "You mean that training thing? Peter, am I really being trained?"
"What else would you call it?"
"I thought you were just sort of having fun with me. Am I really learning something? I mean apart from being very polite to you?"
He laughs as though I've come out with a real zinger of a joke. Suddenly we are making love again. My advice to frigid females is to get themselves whipped as soon as they can. I am insatiable. When I am again resting on his arm and my heart is finding its rhythm again, Peter plays idly with my nipples and asks: "Didn't today teach you anything?"
"It taught me I was a little girl alone among the wolves."
"That was your idea, you little idiot. Nothing else's "That damn ring round my middle
"I ponder the ring's potency. "It was as though there was a chain
linking me to here. And it was hurting--Peter, you really are an S.O.B. You knew all along the effect it would have."
"Good. I'll use it on you again. What else?"
"You know perfectly well what else. You just want to make me say it. I suppose I'm in love with you."
We make love again. Really...!
When I get back to where I can talk I toss caution aside. "Peter, I wish you'd marry me. But, if you don't want to , then tell me I'm a slave. I expect I'd be a lot better behaved if I knew where I was at."
"You're doing fine, sweetheart. You don't need a label."
"Yes I do! Oh, Peter, you make me so mad--Ooops!" I cock a timid eye. "Do I get punished for that?"
"Not now. I can't be bothered."
"Well, don't leave it hanging over my head. If you want to punish me, do it now."
"Masochist."
"No, I'm not. But it's awful to know I'm going to be punished but not how or when."
"O.K. Fifty strokes on Friday."
"P-E-T-E-R!"
"Alright then, you're forgiven."
"I really don't get punished?"
"Not for that blooper. But pay attention to the word 'forgiven'. It implies a misdemeanour. Only my affection saves you from penalty."
"Thank you, Peter. You've only had me a few days. I'll learn." He sighs ecstatically. "A month. A year...! Think of the polished product then."
I snuggle close in a saccharine lethargy. "I'm falling asleep, Peter, you've played me out."
"O.K., sweetheart." His voice betrays no hint of what is coming. "Go lock yourself in the cell--leg irons and handcuffs. Oh, and there's something else on the cot."
I rise in feminine indignation. The cell! After this! After being whipped! And then to lock myself in! Chaining myself is the ultimate humiliation I don't need. It's so damn unfair.
Peter lays still. He knows every word I think. He is picking up my vibrations. He is waiting to sentence me after I've exploded. But his warning comes softly.
"Remember your training."
I remember it. I remember it bitterly. My explosion of female outrage dissolves. I kiss Peter's forehead. I leave Peter's warm bed where we have shared love. I go downstairs. I am crying. Inside my little cell I close the bars softly on myself and make sure the lock snaps home. In the manner of a girl putting on her shoes, I shackle my ankles with the costly steel. When my hand roves out for the handcuffs it discovers something else.
It is the ring, crafted for my waist.
I tense in shock. The steel belt is Peter's presence. It tells me something, why else would it be here. I have locked my cage, I have ironed my feet. Now this! This is punitive, and after I've been whipped
and loved! I just don't need the ring, I don't! I won't be able to sleep with it biting at me steadily. Of course, on the other hand...!
Are females devious? Female prisoners are. Peter did not name what he had left me on my cot--maybe I didn't see it in the dark! Peter didn't tell me to put it on--I could say I failed to lock it round me thinking it only a tease! Or, better still, I can snap it on in the morning and pretend I've worn it all night! Couldn't I?
But any of these things can be construed as major Sin. Disobedience! For a slave to flout and disobey her Master...! Jeepers, he'd give me at least fifty strokes. I know what's expected of me. Peter knows I know. And suppose he or Becky checks? Oh shit!
I pick it up. Sleek. Cruel. Unforgiving. Designed to make a girl conform. With this dividing her, dead centre, she won't argue. She will do what she is told, hoping someone will turn its key.
If I was going to ring a slave I would make this steel circlet a thing of love, caressing her softness with only enough authority to remind her she is owned and she is loved. But I dream in wishful thinking. This ring is not of love, it is to punish, to subdue. It is a Ring for tears. Resolutely I wriggle my waist within its tiny circle. I exhale, contracting muscles, adjusting the polished metal to the slimmest part of what is Me. With a determined hand each side I thrust it shut. The click of its lock is a cry of triumph.
But not for me.
I pick up the handcuffs and close their jaws on my wrists. The act is perfunctory, automatic. I have come by a fondness for my handcuffs, unless they are being my back. I am suddenly very tired. My day has been an emotional vortex. I won't be able to sleep because of the ring that bites me lovingly and will not come off. But I curl myself on the cot and arrange my chains, just in case. I am instantly in the land of dreams.
It is not Mataeo's. It's one of those outdoor places where you sit under a gay umbrella and order stuff that's bad for you but tastes good. I look around and complain: "I've been demoted."
"It's cheerful and a change." Peter is admiring me.
"To keep me off balance. You do it on purpose."
"Right. I want you pliant."
"Well, considering the things you do to me--" I make a petulant grimace. "I want you to- know I'm wearing your horrible ring round my middle, I won't be able to eat."
"O.K. I'll make you down six Burgers."
I refuse to starve. So I let him order, not six but one. And, anyway, I'm unsure about my ring. I am not in agony. I begin to suspect...?
"Peter, this ring you made me put on last night? It's a size larger, isn't it?"
"For good behavior, sweetheart."
"You mean, you're more sure of me. You think I'll go back to my cell like a good girl."
"Well... won't you?"
"O-H-H-H... P-E-T-E-R...! You make me so mad!"
"All part of your conditioning, 'Lona."
"I don't want to be conditioned."
"You sure about that?" Peter points an admonishing finger, he sounds a little like a lawyer briefing a client. "What you and I have going isn't ordinary, it's probably unique. But let's face two facts: Number one, I'm a real son-of-a-bitch. Number two, you can walk away from here and never see me again. Right?"
"Yes, but--"
"Never mind the 'but'. I've got a purpose for you. If you fail to walk away you become a part of that purpose."
I ruffle my feathers, or I would if I had any. I'm so damn lost, and I expect it shows. I pout. "You won't marry me. You tell me I'm not a slave. So what the hell am I? Peter, what's this P-U-R-P-O-S-E thing? If you'd only tell me--?"
"Mmmmmmmm, it's half make conceit--Mine! Ever hear of Pygmalion or Dr. Svengali?"
"Oh, Peter, of course, and you've already made me over--"
"What, in four days! 'Lona, you've a long way to go."
"I'm ashamed of how far I've gone already--the way I do everything you want. I'm a doormat."
"No you're not. I haven't given you any choices, except for these trips out to lunch with me."
"Well, don't give me any more. These decisions bother me to bits."
"Good. They're supposed to. I want to take you to the point where there won't be any decision. You'll come and go without even thinking what a good girl you're being."
I see a vista ages long. Peeved, I retort: "If you didn't whip me and things, it would make it easier."
It wouldn't be valid unless you know you're a captive subject to punishment."
Oh shit, I hope he knows where he's going, I'm sure I don't. And he doesn't have to be so damn ponderous. I look at him sternly and give it to him straight.
"I'll make you a deal, Peter. Marry me and I'll be anything you want. Svengali me all you like."
Peter sighs. He does it beautifully. " 'Lona, as of right now, the word marriage will cost you ten like you got yesterday."
"Cheap at the price." I am in a silly mood. "Peter, please marry me?"
He looks at me in exasperation. Suddenly we are both laughing. I do so a little ruefully, remembering past and future pain. But Peter concedes a point. "Alright, you ridiculous female, I can see what's bothering you, you want status. You want a name. O... , again as of now, consider yourself enslaved. That excuses everything, even me. I'm a slave owner, a real bastard. How's it feel to be a slavegirl?"
"Peter, it's wonderful. You should have told me before." I look sweetly demure. "Have I really earned ten strokes?"
"Females, always bargaining!" He shakes his head in mock sadness. "You've earned 'em alright, you were deliberately provoking. But they're forgiven. You start your enslavement with a clean sheet."
Why this sudden flood of happiness. I want to dance round the table and kiss Peter Crowle over and over and over. I am absurd. I have just entered into a ridiculous, and probably illegal, pact to make myself slave to a man who was my enemy a week ago, and I'm tickled to death. It isn't exactly marriage, but it's a start. I know I'm looking at him like an adoring sheep, but I can't help it. Now, I have to try and not sound soppy. "Thank you, Peter. Honest, I really am grateful."
"And I'm curious." He stops attacking his hamburger, and gazes at me as though I've got a new hair-do, or something. " Does being a slavegirl make it easier to go back to your cell?"
"Why, of course--!"
"Gosh, sweetheart, the way that popped out! You're quite something."
"I'm just a girl who wants to know where she's at. Now you've told me where I'm at I'm happy. You've no idea--"Would you waltz back home if I told you I'm going to tie you back across that bar tonight?"
"Oh, Peter, don't be so difficult. But yes, I would."
"Hmmmmm, confirms my original estimate. 'Lona, I'm a very lucky man."
" Aren't I lucky too?"
"Yes. More than you know. More than I can tell you right now."
"It's those two men yesterday, isn't it? Peter, you're not selling me to them, or something weird...?"
"Not the way you're thinking. No more questions."
So alright, he won't tell me. I'm not sure I want to know anyway. I'm bubbling over with the way we are right now. Peter's slave! It makes me hot under the panties Becky won't let me wear.
"Peter, should I call you Master?"
"No." He sounds firm about it...."You've been on the verge several times, I've heard it hovering. I wouldn't mind at special times between the two of us, it's really what I am to you. But it would get to be a habit you'd let slip in public. I want you seen as the rich and beautiful Miss Ilona Paisley. I'm not going to lead you around on a metaphorical chain. It's important."
So it's important! Him and his silly distinctions! But I'm too happy to care. I'll stop while I'm winning. "Well, now all that's settled." I say it brightly without anything being settled at all except I'm a slave, "What would you like me to do now?"
"Anything you like, sweetheart." He pushes across a hundred dollar bill. "Dinner at the usual time."
I push the bill back. "I don't think I need this, Peter. Don't give me money." I snicker. "Barefoot and pregnant: isn't that the way to keep girls in line. I'll moon around town a bit and then go home."
"Becky will probably put you in the cell."
"Alright, I'll moon around in the cell."
Gosh, isn't it wonderful!
CHAPTER FOUR - I AM WHIPPED AGAIN
Peter hasn't whipped my back for three weeks. I suspect there's a backless gown in my future. My bottom is not equally virgin. He has cropped and caned and strapped my derriere to make it a many splendored feminine facility beneath the stretchy lycra nestling on it like a second skin. The Lycra is white, he says its to accentuate my innocence.
I can almost believe that innocence. It's simply ages since Peter kidnapped me, and when I think of all the things Peter and Becky have done to me I surely must possess some quality of innocence to be the way I still am: in love with Peter Crowle and pussy heatingly happy to belong to him. I really must truly belong to him or I wouldn't be doing what I'm doing now.
I'm scared silly. I'm quivering and trembling under my expensive clothes. I am walking blithely towards some sort of test. Something that means a lot to Peter, but about which I have no clue. He wouldn't tell me a thing except it was a challenge and I wasn't going to like it. When he kissed me and patted my wealed behind he said he was sure I'd know what to do... Really!
Andromeda Productions must have a lot of money. They have inserted themselves in Innsfield's best and added a vulgar richness of their own. I could believe huge Nubian slaves and dancing their own. I could believe huge Nubian slaves girls in gauze and girls in gauze pantaloons, at any minute I pantaloons, to hear cymbals and gongs. But the thing to set my girlish heart to any minute I may hear cymbals and gongs. But the thing to set my girlish heart to racing is the evidence on every hand of Andromeda being in the Movie business. Placards beneath potted palms proclaim films, films, films. If there is such a thing as the scent of sex, I smell it now.
I am expected. Doors open, custodians bow. I am aware of being an item of interest, an interest discreetly envious of privilege. I suspect any protege of Peter Crowle's will always walk on red carpet. My tremblings subside as I am ushered from sanctum to sanctum. I have become a queen. Ahead of me is the throne...!
It is not a throne. It is Tommy Ramone.
He is effusively glad to see me, and stripe me at a glance as though disposing of the first order of business. Considering the extraordinarily gorgeous bevy of secretaries who have wafted me in his direction, I don't know why he'd bother with me. One of the houris bring us coffee as we face each other across about half a mile of uncluttered desk.
"We are so pleased to have you, Miss Paisely." Tommy Ramone flashes white teeth. "Mr. Crowle thinks you're tops."
Now that he's stripped and docketed my female assets Tommy Ramone seems less obnoxious. He oozes a sort of confidential warmth as though we share unmentionable secrets. He fits into this decor like one of the potted palms. The coffee is superlative. "Now you can tell me why I'm here, Mr. Ramone." I venture brightly.
His wink is broad. Undoubtedly there's a secret, except I don't have my half of it. "Call me Tommy, Miss Paisley. I'll be calling you Ilona. I do want to tell you how much I admire what you're doing."
"What am I doing?"
"It opens up a great many doors, Ilona. This could be the best day of your life." He hands me another wink. "Except for the main course, maybe."
"Alright, what's the main course?"
"Bound to be a certain amount of suspense, Ilona. You'll handle it. We're having a girl work with you. She's experienced. You can just let her take over." He looks at his watch. "Guess we may as well get started."
Petty Strauss is one of the beauties who'd smiled and opened a door. She's very, very yummy. But at close inspection is a year too old for the camera and about fifty years wiser than Me. I glimpse what Peter means about innocence. But her hand feels right in mine as she says. "You're a brave girl, Miss Paisely." Her smile is sincere as her hand. "But, congratulations!" They're having fun with me. Next comes the blindfold and turn around three times...!
It's a stage. The curtains are down, so I can't see beyond the footlights. The boards are bare. No props. Petty's approach is casual.
"There's a dressing room, Miss Paisley."
I strip naked as she suggests. But I don't peel off the lycra, its virgin whiteness shields my weals and smoothes my sex into chaste contours. I look around enquiringly for my costume. There is not costume.
Instead, there are cosmetics. Petty is skilled with them. I hope the camera does not see me as the harlot I behold in the mirror. "Am I getting a screen test, Petty?"
"You could call it that."
"Is a girl always naked her first time?
"Depends."
"Petty, I'm awfully tired of double talk. What goes?"
"You mean, you don't know?" Petty is gazing at me with amused incredulity. "Well, I suppose that figures. They'll go to no end of trouble to get an expression on a girl's face. You'll catch on real quick in a minute." She pauses, eyeing me searchingly. "This is something you want, isn't it? You're not being forced?"
"I'm doing whatever it is for Peter Crowle. He sent me here."
"In love with him, eh."
I laugh. "Gosh, is it really that bad?"
"Yeah, you'd have to love a guy a lot."
"I don't mind having pictures taken of me in the nude. I'm used to being naked. That's what it is, isn't it?"
"Sort of. Come along, Ilona, I'll show you."
I tense. "It's not porno'--?"
"Hell no, honey, it's not porno'." She takes my hand.
Centre stage. I am standing on a circle. Maybe it goes up and down. From above, there now descends a submarine periscope column, except there's a crossbar instead of something to look into. Petty positions one of my hands at each end. I begin to comprehend.
The twine is puzzling. No rope, cord or strap. "You're going to tie my hands?" I ask pleasantly. I have to show Petty I'm not entirely dumb.
"You guessed it, Ilona. Not your first time...?"
"No. But why twine? I've never been tied with twine. Won't it cut?"
"It probably will. But it has to be done artistically. Hold still." Petty takes great care. Round and round my wrists go the slender strands, over and under and across, so they become woven to the metal. Twine is strange and wicked, far more cruel than rope. Fearfully, I watch the bar, my hands, my arms, rise up before my eyes. If I am suspended...!
But I am not suspended. The column stops short. I simply stand erect, slightly stretched. I can change weight by standing on my toes.
"Shows a girl at her very best, Ilona. Comfy?"
"Well...."
"Of course you're not, You're not supposed to be." She walks slowly round my nudity. "You're a very beautiful girl." She inserts fingers beneath my lycra. "May I?"
"If you want."
Petty pulls my panties down to my thighs. I hear her gasp of pleasure at what she has uncovered. She fingers my wounded curves with magic fingertips. "He must love you a lot, Ilona." Sincerity or cynicism? I can't be sure. I gasp myself as she again moulds the lycra to my loins. Prompted by a vague memory, I ask: "This isn't one of those films where they just have girls all tied up, I think they call it Bondage?"
"What, Andromeda!" She laughs my query to scorn. "Andromeda's big time, honey. And anyway, we don't do much real filming here. This Auditorium's not that big. It's mostly for auditions." She pats my cheek. "Here, I'll show you something really cute."
Patty has pushed switches. But it is several moments before I realise I am moving. The column above and the circle below are imperceptibly turning. Helplessly, I must turn too. Every two or three minutes I will reveal every secret of my nakedness to whoever may be watching from the seats beyond the curtain. Tremulously, I ask: "Is this all, Patty? Do they just want to see me naked?"
"You know it's not all, Miss Paisley."
Sure I know, and it's a terrible knowledge. I blurt it out woefully. "I'm going to be whipped?"
Petty joins me on the moving circle. She clasps my waist and thrusts her sex against mine so she can lean back and watch my face. "I'm a bitch, Ilona... not telling you until I've got you tight."
"No, you're not, I sort of half guessed. Even if I'd known I'd have let you tie me anyway."
Petty shakes her and steps back. "Which is it, Ilona, Peter Crowle or you want to star in movies?"
"Peter Cowle."
Petty laughs bitterly. "A million girls want stardom, and you get it on a plate without asking."
I am beautifully helpless. I am not moving fast enough to matter. Wryly I admit: "I wanted it once. It seems kid stuff now.." I tack on, ashamedly: "If they whip me I'll just go crazy. I can't bear it. I won't look a bit pretty. I won't be going to Hollywood."
I am kissed pityingly on one cheek. "There's more hanging on you now, honey, than just that. I don't know it all. But you're a mighty important girl."
"No, I'm not. I'm only girl skin to be marked."
"Don't say that! It's me who whips you. I won't go easy. I daren't. Please forgive--?"
"If it wasn't you it would be someone else. I'd sooner be whipped by you than Tommy Ramone."
"Oh, him!" Petty laughs Tommy into limbo. "Don't worry about Tommy, he's strictly for bedding. Whipping a girl doesn't do a thing for Tommy."
"How many men like to see us whipped, Petty?
"Most. They won't admit, it you have to watch the erection in their pants." She is suddenly diffident. "I've got to leave you awhile, honey--sorry."
Petty has gone. But in her place is the sound of motion, the curtains are parting to reveal the stage on which I am the only player. Irritatingly, I am facing the wrong way. I have to look back over a bare shoulder... Suddenly the lights change. I am bathed and saturated in spots but the auditorium is a stygian pit in which I can discern nothing. Perhaps there is nothing there, the play has not commenced, I cannot tell. Slowly I revolve until I stare straight into the dark. I struggle a little to show I'm alive. Shatteringly, there comes from the blackness the faintest of handclaps. I am approved.
But now I know I'm watched I have no peace. What am I supposed to do! Struggle, stand still and helpless, bow my head in shame, kick? I wish I was bound so I could not move. There are rings in the circle to which my ankles could be tied apart. If I couldn't move I wouldn't have to wonder. Oh shit! I compromise by slow writhings against my tied wrists. The twine hurts but that goes with the deal. I make my fleshly protest as sinuous as I can and a few sexual thrusts with my hips. I've learned a lot about being female.
Petty is back. She must have been to Mars or Venus or someplace. Vinyl and latex transform her into a tigress, a tigress with a whip. She is beautiful and deadly, her bare arm unhampered for the task ahead. She lifts the pliant snake to my lips. I kiss it dutifully. She waits until I face whoever enjoys the agony of girls, then strikes me my first stroke.
I have vowed to go berserk with pain. But upon me is a heavy hand of compulsion to be a heroine and show those who watch the quality of Peter Crowle's slave. I must do him honour. Against the outrage of my flesh I stifle screams, my writhings become heavier and more urgent. I toss my hair this way and that, and I raise and lower one leg in sympathy to the scarlet wound across my back. If the bastard in the dark doesn't like this he's dead.
Petty is impersonal. I could swear she aims to make me scream. Perhaps she has orders to make me scream - if they didn't want screams they'd have gagged me. But I will not scream, it would be a too terrible sound pealing out into the emptiness. I am diminished enough now in the centre of the spots, slick with sweat, jolted and jerking under each blow as Petty measures distance and splats the thong across the wetness of my flesh.
I have counted. At ten my whipping stops. I reject hope. They will demand more of me than this. I stand, my arms held high, panting, breasts heaving, my head shaking slowly to proclaim surrender. I have had enough... But if this is only an interval I am grateful.
Petty spreads my feet. She uses the wicked twine to tether my ankles to the rings well apart. I am sure I cannot break the twine. It would but me in two first. Maybe she is being kind by using so many strands to secure me helpless. Whoever watches must have a thing about twine in a girl's flesh. I believe it holds me more fearfully than rope. I know for sure my whipping will continue.
The belt is an innovation, Segmented metal of dull pewter. It is of fiendish concept. Its first linkage round my waist makes it tight enough but that is only its beginning. There is a screw arrangement, and Petty has a key. However, before I am pinched in two the column above tensions me more until I am truly stretched. My wrists scream and my ankles are bitten by twine as my heels leave the floor and my foot tugs against its leash. If I move now it will be only the involuntary rebellion of my flesh against the lash.
The key is neat. But I wish it was used elsewhere than on me. I am already stretched so my ribcage expands and my tummy contracts. I have very little tummy, and soon I will have less. The belt tightens and tightens until I must moan that I can hardly breathe, and to please stop--please--please! When the constriction does stop I must I must be bisected as a wasp or an ant, a specimen for an entomologist. But I must also be an exceedingly erotic target for a whip. Tautened as I am the thong will cut me with a doubly deadly pain. Gently and with care and firmness, Petty bandages my eyes.
It's twice as bad. Everything is doubly awful. The first stroke is, unexpectedly, up the softness inside my thigh. I don't have to wonder about screaming. I scream. But I scarcely move at all. I am held. When I gasp with pain the belt bites back with double venom.
It is not Petty! I am sure I am not now being whipped by Petty. I bet I'm blindfolded so I won't see who is whipping me now. Perhaps he is ashamed of whipping a naked girl who's in the fix I'm in. That's a good word for it, a fix! The next cut is on my back to nip my starkly stressed ribs. Oh damn whoever's doing this to me, damn him, damn him...! But suppose its a woman! It could be. I wouldn't know. There is something feminine about the manner in which I suffer now. Oh, gollies, I wish it was Peter... I wish it was Peter...! I wish I was back home in my cell.
My crotch seems inviolate. The lines beyond which I may be whipped is delineated by the lycra. Whatever I have beneath the stretchy stuff in not for now. But, for the rest of me...! Being whipped within the inside of my thighs... It's too awful! I don't have the words. I wish I'd never got into this, I wish, I wish... I scream in great bursts of anguish as my poor stressed nakedness yields its secrets to the whip.
I am whipped for a long, long time. It is not the brutality of a flogging, it is not the rhythmic blows of an ordinary whipping of a girl. This is infliction by a connoisseur of feminine anguish. He or she knows where it hurts the most, nor do they want me unconscious. The blows and cuts are only hard enough to extract my scream. They are not the all out impact by which I would soon cease to be sentient and amusing. This whipping on my belted and bound nudity is a work of art. I am a canvas to be treasured about the brush strokes must be there. I bet my back is really something.
I think its ended. I'm wavering, not quite with it. I've been whipped so much by Peer, but never this way, never with these beastly refinements. Some kind soul releases the tension enough so I can stand naturally. It feels so damn good. Once more, from out there someplace there comes the gentle clapping of a pair of hands. I derive an absurd comfort from the faint applause. It means I have not disgraced my master.
I am untied. The belt is taken from my waist. I stand in a fleshly bliss at freedom and the absence of bonds, when my hands raise to the bandage on my eyes they are slapped down. I must remain blind. A hand takes mine and I am led I know not where. My bare feet tread the plush of costly carpet, my nostrils flare at the scent of money. I am frightfully sore and tender and we seem to walk a long way. I hope I am not being looked at by the staff. A chair is thrust against my knees and I sit down. A door closes to leave me in silence.
It is a little while before my courage is equal to the bandage. But there are no slapping hands. I unwind the black clinging stuff from my eyes. I am alone in an office even more ornate than Tommy Ramone's. My clothes are on a chair over by the wall. I get up and, dazedly, examine my nakedness. I has been terribly punished. I wonder why and what good can come of all these marks on me. I sit again, I lean onto the shining desk, I bury my face in my hands and weep.
A little time has passed. Quietly, the feral responses at the nape of my neck tell me I am not alone. I have heard no sound but there is a presence with me in the room. I could care less. I raise my tear streaked face. Mr. Anselm hands me a spotless square of cambric and says quietly, "Please continue crying, Miss Paisley."
I stop my tears. I suspect they stop themselves, not wanting Mr. Anselm to see reddened eyes and stained cheeks. Gratefully I use his huge handkerchief, cocking a dubious eye to gauge his reaction to me the way I am. Mr. Anselm seems a much more portentous figure here than in Mateao's. He is paternal.
"A trying time for you, my dear."
"Someone was being mean--" A fading sob punctuates my assertion. "They didn't need to do all those things to me."
"But you have emerged triumphant, Miss Paisley. Everyone is proud of you."
"I don't feel a bit proud. While I couldn't see... they made me scream horribly. I didn't want to scream."
It is a long reach across his desk to pat my hand, but Mr. Anselm manages it. "You did better than you think, my dear. You accomplished a great deal."
"I don't know what." I sniff. "Is that--that what they did to me what Mr. Crowle wanted?"
"It was by his consent. There's a purpose--"
"Have you seen the marks on me?" Forgetting I am naked, I rise stormily and turn my back. I lift a leg to show him my thigh. "I wouldn't have minded if they hadn't gone up between my legs."
Mr. Anselm is embarrassed. I realise he is older than I'd first thought, he is probably a good Jewish husband with a plumpish wife and several children. But suppose it was him who whipped me in my darkness! It could be! Everything's so crazy. Uneasily, he exclaims: "Thank you, thank you, Miss Paisley. As you say--Er--have you forgotten you are not wearing any clothes?"
Sure I've forgotten. What do clothes matter to a whipped girl. I mutter an uncaring "Sorry. Yes, I'd forgotten. D'you mind if I dress?"
"Please do." He waves grandly. "There's a bathroom." There sure is. The Queen of Sheba would have loved it. When I emerge I'm ashamed of the way I went in. I strive to be Me again.
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Anselm. I mean, being such a mess. I've never been whipped like that before. It threw me."
Benny Anselm laughs, pleased by a return to normalcy. His attention makes a closer scrutiny of my face than it had done of my nakedness. "You are indeed a lovely young woman, Miss Paisely. I can understand Mr. Crowle's concern." His paternalism beams. "Does Peter Crowle whip you often?"
When I was naked the question wouldn't have mattered. Now it's Me who's embarrassed. I make a shy little moue and confess: "Yes, quite a lot. Whenever he thinks I deserve it."
"Well, yes. I forget--and I talk too much."
"But don't these punishments impair your affection for Mr. Crowle?"
"I'm afraid not." I actually giggle. "We aren't a bit ordinary." Mr. Anselm nods: a wise Buddha-like man behind a desk. "I must not pry, Miss Paisley. The two for you are a remarkable pair, quite remarkable. Peter Crowle is to be envied." He sighs, and reaches into a largish box behind his chair. "These are just off the Press, so he hasn't shown them to you." He hands me one end of a rolled up poster which he draws out and flattens on the desk. "These are a reward for your recent... discomfort? Preliminary Artwork, of course, but I'd like your comments." It has to be a joke. I'm being played with again. It is gaudy as poserts are, the girl it portrays is Me. The block print says that Andromeda's latest success: 'Miss Abbotsford Dines will soon be in general release. The stellar role played by the inimitable Ilona Paisley opposite the male lead of Mark Randell.
I absorb the impact, breathing heavily. Mr. Anselm is an inscrutable Sphinx. After reading every word and examining my face in glorious Technicolor, I say flatly. "It isn't possible."
"Mr. Crowle has made it possible."
"But films cost millions!"
"They have been made available."
"I can't act."
"You are a superb actress, Miss Paisley." My hand gets another paternal pat. "You may trust my judgement."
"Has my being whipped got anything to do with this?"
"Yes indeed. But let that ride."
I let the paper re-roll. I sit back and gaze across the desk. "It's crazy. Somebody's dreaming."
"Fortunes come from dreams, Ilona."
He's right, of course. Mr. Anselm will always be right, he's that sort. I stare stupidly and say: "I don't want to."
"What do you want?"
"To marry Peter Crowle."
He laughs delightedly. "But he doesn't want--?"
"If I'm left alone with him long enough he will. He'd marry me right now, except he likes to be difficult. He won't be pushed. I push too hard."
"And get yourself whipped?"
"No. I don't think that's anything to do with it. In fact, I believe wanting to marry him the way I do keeps him amused. " I stare "Why the devil am I telling you all this!"
"Because I'm going to make you famous."
I fee! a sudden alarm. "That being whipped, Mr. Anselm? Will it be done to me again if I don't do what I'm told?"
My concern intrigues him, I can tell. He dismisses it genially as little girl nonsense. He places more posters on the desk. Looking at them, I know Andromeda is giving me what a million girls would give half their lives for. I can't help feeling excited.
"We'd like you at the Burbank Studio within three or four days, Miss Paisley. Tomorrow, if you wish?"
"May I talk to Peter?"
"Peter Crowle will wish to talk to you." Mr. Anselm is gazing at me with a small tinge of wonder. "May I suggest you owe him a debt of gratitude. He's rich, he's powerful, but even so...! He's spending millions. He must be very fond of you...?"
He doesn't know the half of it-or is he probing? I can't feel any of the joy he's expecting. Maybe it because of the way I've just been whipped, and I'm scared, and I'm tired. All I can come up with is: "And you think he's crazy?"
"I didn't say that. In fact, absolutely no! You've got a quality, Ilona...! If you were not Peter Crowle's girl I'd make you an offer."
He's making me an offer anyway, I can feel it. But all I want from Andromeda Productions right now is escape. I wonder if I should say thank you. I mean, what would I be thanking him for? The use of his handkerchief? For being whipped? Well anyway, he's been kind--"
"Thank you, Mr. Anselm. I'm sure Peter will call you."
He kisses my hand.
At the door a limousine is waiting.
* * *
Becky does not put me in my cell. She takes pity on me as she takes my clothes and tightens the handcuffs on my wrists. She clucks, clucks, admiringly, over my whipmarks and the fiery circle round my waist. But I am not yet proud of those marks, and I remember that pinching cinch only with loathing. We have coffee, and then I immerse myself in a bath until Peter is due.
We are shy of questions and answers, both uncertain. I ask, very simply, "Why was I whipped, Peter?"
"Part of the package, sweetheart. A stipulation."
"Seeing me whipped gave pleasure to someone who mattered?"
"Yes." He eyes me hopefully. "I'm sorry."
"It wasn't you, Peter?"
"Good Heavens, no! I can whip you here, Ilona. Why would I go to all that trouble!"
"It was a staged performance... clever. I didn't have to act. The whip made me do what they wanted." I gaze at Peter unhappily. "I don't want to go to Hollywood. Oh, Peter, I just don't--"
"Oh, I know that, 'Lona, I've known it for quite some time." He kisses away my surprise. "Trouble is, it's me who wants you on the screen. I want a movie Queen for my slave. What a honey of a situation--"
"P-E--T-E-R...!" I wail my protest. "If that's all you want, surely with all your money...?"
"You mean, give Sally Saracen a million, tax free, to whip her ass." The picture evokes a chuckle. "No way! She might just go for it, but it wouldn't be any good. I get you free."
"No you don't. I'll cost you millions."
"I'll get 'em back double. Sweetheart, you're going to be a wonder girl."
"I don't want to be a wonder girl. I want you to marry me. You can whip me all you like after we're married."
"I'm whipping you all I like now, 'Lona. Or hadn't you noticed?"
"Well... yes, I suppose you are. But out there--! Peter, we'll be a thousand miles apart!"
"Three hours, honeybunch. You'll commute."
"But-but--?"
"Tell 'em you're coming home to be fucked and beaten. They might even believe you."
"P-E-T-E-R...!" I look at him askance. "You really mean that."
"Dammit', Girl, I've been doing it to you for quite awhile!" Of course he has. I'm being silly. Unwillingly I glimpse the erotic punch for a man in Peter's fantasy. He is one of a small number in the world who can make it happen. I look at him glumly, seeing the petals of my orange blossoms falling. "Suppose I just sit and refuse to go?"
"I will then make you increasingly uncomfortable until you plead for your plane ticket."
He could and he would. Oh, shit! "Couldn't you ask Anselm to give us a week together before I have to go?" I ask plaintively.
Peter laughs and takes me to bed. It is not bedtime, but I forget about Andromeda and that pit of blackness from which someone watched me tortured. The pain Peter and I bestow upon my wounds blends with the ecstasy of our passion and becomes one. For the second time this day I touch the furthest peak of intense sensation. I can't leave this. I can't, I can't, I can't! Oh, glory, glory, glory...!
Dinner is only a pause. We don't talk a lot because each of us is contemplating the strangest relationship a man and a woman ever had. Its only happened because Peter guessed me right. I never knew I was like this...! But then, I'm not... only with Peter. After the brandy we go back to the bedroom. Have you ever made love wearing handcuffs? Its gorgeous! We are both so played out we fall asleep and don't wake 'till morning. It's the first night I have slept with my master in his bed.
I think it's a mistake to analyse too much and dissect every step of every path. I've got a pretty good idea what Peter's up to. But I don't say a word as he does what he wants to with me and dashes to the office. I've seen the pillory before, but we never got around to it. I am in it now, and its for the birds. Jeepers--!
I can sure see why they used to figure the pillory the real thing for naughty girls, that an hour or two, locked safely in it, would make a bad girl good. I've been in this one about one hour and I'm prepared to be very good indeed. It's the most infuriating thing, and a bit frightening with all this wood clamped on one naked girl. I feel small and hopeless and alone. I'm beginning to ache and I'm sure it will all get worse. I simply stand, my neck bent into its slot, and a hand each side with this damn great timber yoke neatly clipping the whole ensemble of Me into place. I can't do a thing except stand.
I can get mad. I can get scared. I can shed tears of self pity. I do them all. But they soon pall, and here I am sort of lopped in two. Head and hands one side, the rest of Me in behind somewhere. I can't see most of myself but I'm there and bare and available. Oh damn! How did I get myself into this! Why must I always argue and have to be taught lessons! And we do it all so casually.
"Nice quiet day, 'Lona love."
"Thank you, Peter. Are you sure I won't die, or something?"
"Can't tell about the 'something', but you won't die."
"Will Becky let me loose so we can have lunch?"
"No."
That 'No' is bad. Ugh! It means what it says. "Couldn't we negotiate something?" I ask hopefully.
"No."
"I don't think I'm going to like this, Peter."
"I'm sure you won't. But you're a brave strong girl."
"My pussy's itching. Would you mind rubbing it."
"You're being punished. No comforting of cats."
I get well kissed. Then he's gone. My pussy actually does start to tickle. I can't touch it so I wriggle around with hips and thighs and one knee without much benefit. I look back and forth at my hands. They are strangers, unable to help. They mock me being yoked the way my neck is yoked. I'm foxed.
Boy, have I got time! There's no view. There's nothing but Me. I start sticking one foot out front so I know I'm all still here.
I shift my weight and sway my hips. Peter's fixed me for sure. I'm a frustrated female with plenty of places to go but unable to leave this blasted ton of timber into which I'm welded tight. I think longingly of my dear little cell.
They won't put me in a pillory in Hollywood, and I don't suppose they'll lock me in a cell. I'll miss my handcuffs terribly. Thought of their loss generates my first tears. Sure, sure, I know this love of mine for my enslavement to Peter Crowle has to be nuts. But, so what! I'm stuck with it. I don't suppose it's any sillier than a girl smoking cigars. I've been so marvellously happy, and now it's all coming to an end! A tear trickles down my nose and splats on the floor below. I watch it dismally, but it's something to look at.
When Becky comes she tells me I've been locked in this contraption three hours. It's not really good news. I thought I'd stood here closer to six. Most urgently I want everything she's allowed to do for me. I don't want to be left alone again. "Becky, why did Mr. Crowle put me in here?"
"You know why, honey. You's gettin' softened up. He's being sorta' mean, but you surely do look sweet."
"Please, Becky, standing like this is driving me nuts. Let me loose for a few minutes... even one...?"
"Honey, I can't. You can see that great big padlock." She pushes it into view. "I don't have no key. Mr. Crowle took it with him. Said he knew I'd feel sorry for you."
"But there's hours and hours yet before he comes home!" Becky is a dear. She goes in back. Her hand finds my pussy. I spread my whipped thighs. For a little while I'm not a pilloried maiden at all, I'm the luckiest of girls. But it is all too short. When I have climaxed and been patted, caressed and kissed, I am still safely locked in Peter's Pillory--and I bet he's out there laughing. Exasperated, I demand. "Becky, what's wrong with me that I put up with this?"
"You's in love. That's all, Miss Paisley."
"But any other girl who's in love and found herself locked in something like this would run away, screaming, and never come back."
"Honey, I ain't got no magic word for it. But may as well be honest: you like it."
"I do? This?"
"Sure you do. When I got hold of that little puss of yours it was as excited as all get out. You was ready."
I suppose she's right. Funny how I fight shy of admitting I adore everything Peter does. "Well all right." I concede grudgingly. "But enough's enough. All day in this thing's too damn much."
"Ain't never goin' to hit nothin' right on the line, child. It's always too much or too little. Most men either fuck you to bits or don't even bother. What you gotta' think of in the bad times is the fun you have with the Boss man in bed."
"I've still got a crick in my neck and I can't scratch my nose."
"I bet if you was propositioned to stand a day like this for a night in bed with the Boss you'd say yes right quick."
I am too transparent and Becky is too wise, Peter reads me like a book. I am indeed a little girl. Gosh, what would Mr. Anselm think if he knew about all this! But maybe he's got a basement room too, and a girl in it. That awful whipping he arranged for me didn't faze him even a little bit. Oh jeepers...."I'll bring you coffee at noon, Miss Paisley."
"Becky, d'you have to leave me alone... it's awful?"
"Sure do. I got word. 'Sides, you're supposed to be alone, it's part of the treatment."
If she'd stuck around I'd have told her I didn't want any more treatment, and couldn't she work on the padlock with a bit of wire or something. But Becky is gone, and I'm alone, and there's hours and hours. But I feel a bit better. Becky's wonderful.
I sip my coffee through a straw from a cup Becky holds. Gosh, what a hell of a note this is! And Peter having a splendid lunch in some splendid place with goodness knows who. I'm getting into a frame of mind where I don't expect ever to move again. I'm a fixture. Oh damn! It would be just like Peter to leave me in here and do it to me backwards--I wonder how that would work...!
Coffee in the afternoon too. Becky's a dear. She offers me another pussy perking, but I tell her no, I'm saving my resources for bedtime. By now, I'm really getting tired. She playfully amuses herself with my nipples to show me I don't have anything to say about anything. Anybody could do anything they wanted to me. I can't see what's cooking in back, but I sure can feel. When I start panting she goes back upstairs with the empty cup.
I ache my Pilloried path through several centuries before Becky comes back. She wears a big grin and holds a key in front of my face. I am flooded with an immense joy. This moment of release will be worth all those hours of standing still.
"Think I should let you loose, Miss Paisley?"
"Becky, don't tease."
It's pure glory when the padlock snaps open and the oak is raised. I extract my neck and wrists and stand erect in wonder. Every nerve and muscle is jubilant. Becky smiles like the divine creature she is.
"Where's Mr. Croal?"
"Mr. Croal just stop off long enough to give me the key, honey. He say to give you his love and he might be late."
"Late for Dinner--or for--?"
"Just plain late, child--not that it's going to matter."
Her vibrations are telling me things I don't want to know. Sympathy is in every line of her face. "Becky...?" My voice is trembling, "What's wrong? What else did he say?"
"Child, seems like you ain't through yet. What you got to do is go use the bathroom and them come back down here."
"Becky! No! Not to be locked in the Pillory again--?"
"No, it ain't that. But you run along. I'll wait here." She kisses me sadly. "If you don't come back down, I'll understand. Guess Mr. Croal will too."
This is a strange little pilgrimage I make. I am bereft and anxious. My mind seethes with awful decision. Why don't I dress and go! Why go back down and be punished again! But that's silly. If Becky's got a hot coal waiting I'll still go back. This house is my home. It's mine, mine, mine! If sometimes it hurts--So what! Besides, I have to show Peter I'm sincere about not wanting to go romping off to Andromeda. I use my lovely bathroom and wish I could have a bath. But I forgot to ask permission--Oh well
But I'm honestly trembling as I go back down the stairs.
"This one's not all that bad, honey."
I refuse to think. I sit on the low bench and, cringingly, insert my ankles into the half circlets. I watch Becky lower the yoke to imprison my feet in neat circles of oak. I watch her affix the absurdly huge padlock, and I hear it snap shut. I am sitting in a set of good old fashioned stocks. Except for my prisoned feet I am entirely free.
"Not much fun for you through the night, Miss Paisley."
I freeze, horrified. "Becky, you never said--?"
"Thought it best not."
Oh well, I'm idiot enough to have come down anyway. After the Pillory this is a comfort to sit down. It's crazy the consolations a prisoner can find for herself. But this is a long way from Peter's bed, and it isn't even bedtime. Doubtfully, I ask: "All night like this? I won't be able to sleep, will I?"
"You likely will, Miss. But I ain't never tried--"
"But, Becky, if you've got the key--and Mr. Croal's away for the evening-?"
"What's you sayin', honey?"
I am instantly ashamed of taxing poor Becky's divided loyalty. I hasten to make amends. "O.K. I shouldn't have said that, I shouldn't even thought it. Becky, I'm sorry."
"Me too. It gets you something else."
The something else is my handcuffs. But not in front where I love them. My wrists are gathered and locked behind my back. So now I've lost my hands, and it serves me damn well right. I really am an idiot. But I accept this steely censure without complaint. I even manage a consoling: "Thank you, Becky."
"You're very welcome, Miss Paisley."
We laugh at each other, tension eases. "You needn't have had them handcuffs, honey, not it you'd had any sense."
"Don't worry, Becky. One of these days I'll learn."
We kiss.. It's a real shared kiss. We understand each other. I wouldn't change Becky for the world. At the door she lingers. "I'll be back last thing. Try not to fret" I can't even wave her good-bye.
Marshalling my resources in this new punishment, I realise first thing I can't play with myself. If I can't have Peter it would have been nice...! But I blew it, the handcuffs won't let me. when the padlock snapped I consoled myself with the thought I had my hands. Now I don't have them any more... Really...!
Something else I soon discover is, that with my hands where they are, I can't shift position worth a damn. With hands I could have eased my bottom. Now it has to sit and sit and sit on solid oak until it gets numb. I suppose I deserve that too. Jeepers...!
These sort of punishments are supposed to give a girl time to think, and they sure do. But what do I think about except I wish I was in Peter's bed, and I don't want Andromeda. If I go out to be a movie star I'll only make a fool of myself in some damn studio, and what happens to me then. Sent home in disgrace? Tossed into the street? Punished? I don't want to be subject to punishment out there far away from Peter Croal. I can't forget that little theatre and me whipped on the stage. If some tycoon enjoyed watching me whipped that way once he'll want it twice... and three times!
Right in the middle is Peter. He wants to make me a star. It means a lot to him, and he's betting on me. I owe him my best try. I couldn't bear to blow it and come back to him a failure, a flop. I'd sooner be whipped a dozen times--Oh shit, I'm stuck, aren't I! I'm trapped, I'm neatly boxed in. There's just the one hope I can convince him not to send me West in the first place. Show him I'm so unhappy about leaving him he'll relent and let me stay as I am. I think he's going to be awful mean to me to make me say 'yes I'll go', but if I can only hold out long enough...? It won't be much fun: the way I'm fixed right now isn't much fun... Jeepers!
Men are such idiots. Peter thinks I'm going to get on the plane in a frame of mind where I'll be thinking: Well, I don't have to stand in the Pillory any more, or sit in the stocks, or be whipped...! But it isn't going to be like that. What I'd be thinking about is him. He hasn't included himself in what he believes I think. He sees himself as an omnipotent manipulator of silly girls. He doesn't understand how good it is for me to be in bed with him, or even to be chained beside his bed at night, or have his arms around me, or how he can make me laugh. Men throw away so much that girls wave in their faces. Damn!
So here I am sitting in the stocks. I feel sillier than anything he's ever done to me. They used to sit a girl out in public like this, and the good citizens were allowed to throw things at her while she had to sit and ward off rotten fruit and vegetables and eggs and things with her free hands, but at least she had something to do. I expect she felt a lot of shame when friends walked by, or she saw one of them taking aim with an over ripe eggplant, but I don't suppose she was exactly bored. About all I have to do is view my ankles disappearing into the wood and my toes peeping up on the other side. There's no way I can ever get loose.
It's a funny sort of feeling, like getting your foot caught in something and having to stop and untangle it--except here I can't. My feet are in two little prisons all their own. I don't have 'em any more, but they sure do have me! I guess those girls in olden times were allowed to wear something. I mean, their pussy would be covered up. But mine isn't, and these stock things spread my legs well apart and my furry patch is in full view. Gosh, I was fool to get my hands cuffed! I sure could use them.
It isn't Becky who shows up, it's Peter. He kisses me beautifully and burbles: "And how is my gorgeous girl enjoying herself?"
"She isn't. Please take her to bed."
"Snappy and decisive. I like that." He kisses my eyes for a change. "You're already in bed, sweetheart. Such a lucky girl!"
"Stop teasing. Let me loose. You've punished me enough." His voice is quietly suggestive: "The little matter of a plane ticket-?"
"You know where you can put it. At least be chivalrous enough to unlock the handcuffs."
"No reason why I should. What d'you want your hands for anyway, 'Lona?"
"Never mind. But if you insist on being cruel to me, how about a cup of coffee?"
"No good, sweetheart. You couldn't hold the cup."
"You could hold it for me. P-E-T-E-R, don't be so mean."
He sighs soulfully. "You look so lovely like that."
"I don't, and you know it. I look a mess, and I'm not decent, and there's nothing I can do about anything--my hair-"
"Which hair, sweetheart?"
"You're being deliberately unkind. Please take me to bed. Please, please, please!"
"Sorry. Don't have the key to that thing you're locked into." He shakes his head sadly. "I'd love to take you to bed. Mine is the greater loss-having to make do with Becky."
"P-E-E-T-E-R! You're being absolutely beastly. After what you just said I'll never go out to the Coast. Never, never, never. I don't care what you do to me."
"Temper, temper!" He kisses me again, and I can't stop him. "I might consider taking you to bed for thirty minutes and then locking you back in the stocks?"
"Don't bother. And anyway, you don't have the key."
We glower at each other. Then burst into laughter. Everything is suddenly absurd, delicious but absurd. It is while we are still laughing that Pete goes away. Madly, I hope he's gone for the key. But he doesn't come back. The minutes pass, and I just sit here helpless and hoping. After the hope had gone I cry.
Becky comes. I have no idea of time, and what's it matter anyway, I seem to have lots of it. Immediately, I ask: "Have you been in bed with Peter? Are you sleeping with him tonight?" My concern earns a huge grin. "That man been teasing you, honey. Nice idea but I ain't heard nothin' 'bout it. I brought you some hot chocolate."
Becky is so sweet. Why should I begrudge her a little time with Peter. But I do. I'm a greedy little girl who wants it all without really owning any part of him. Our relationship boils down to him owning Me. I sip at the cup she holds to my lips. I venture: "He said he didn't have the key to this thing I'm in?"
"If he ain't got it I don't know who has, child."
"He refused to let me loose or undo the handcuffs or anything."
"Well, I 'spose--" She is unwilling to repeat I am sentenced to spend my night like this, and there's nothing she can do about it. Doubtfully, she offers: "Guess I can take them handcuffs off, Miss Paisely. Make it a bit easier for you?"
It's a blissful idea. But if Peter comes back and finds what she's done he'll e mad. "It's not safe, Becky." I say sadly. "He's seen me like this. But thanks a million."
She does not answer. Becky simply unlocks the handcuffs and hands me what's left of the hot chocolate. I drink it with tears in my eyes, you've no idea how good it is to have my hands back in this damn thing by which I'm being punished. I am kissed a lot before I'm left alone in the dark to sit and dream and tug at my feet that won't respond. It's quite a long time before my fingers steal down below my pubic hair.
It's a lovely orgasm. I've been wanting it so bad, and if only Peter could know the things he's been doing down here where I'm being punished. I'm sorry it has to end, it's like a lovely dream. I wonder if I should allow myself others like it...? I mean, sitting here in the dark and not able to move my feet. It's going to be an awful long night if I don't do something.
I sleep. It's crazy. I wouldn't have believed it possible, but the Pillory made me so tired, and I've got all these anxieties... I rested my elbows just above my knees and cupped my chin in my hands... Just like that. I was thinking of some more things to do with Peter, and suddenly I was gone.
I'm so glad about these stocks, about knowing. I mean, if I have to be punished I'll vote for the stocks every time. Sure they were just cat naps, I woke up often, but I always fell asleep again after I'd eased my numb bottom.
I never did get that other orgasm.
CHAPTER FIVE - AND WHIPPED ONCE MORE
I suppose I should have known. It gets worse. If I had any sense I'd realise I can't possibly win. But I must try. I must, I must, I must.
We had breakfast together. Peter released me. He never said a word about me not being handcuffed. I sort of suspect he was glad Becky had given me the chance to sleep in the stokes. I don't know how I'd have managed it with my hands behind my back. All of a sudden I was free and in his arms, and then running like crazy for the bathroom. There's so many good moments in this whole thing I'll never escape, not ever!
I've had a bath and fixed my hair: my hair bothers me so much when I'm being punished. I don't see why a naked girl being punished shouldn't look her best. But anyway
we play our game: "Any plans for California, Sweetheart?"
"Hadn't thought of any, master. You know how it is out there: Muggins, earthquakes, smog, and all those brush fires--?"
"But not painful, sweetheart." I am enveloped in his most concerned smile. "Not painful the way it sometimes is in Innsfield."
The S.O.B., he's playing with me again. I ought to get up and walk out. I could. There isn't a rope or chain on me. But I won't. Oh shit, I'm all mixed up. "A girl has to expect a little pain, master." I say demurely. "After all, I'm only a girl."
"For such a beautiful girl the pain becomes more severe."
"I suppose she just has to put up with it."
"She doesn't have to."
"She does if she's in love."
We sort of stick there awhile. I mean, it's a lovely breakfast and we ought to eat it. After awhile he says: "You're going to hat me."
"You know I won't."
"What I have in mind is most unkind."
"It's on your own conscience, so why should I bother." I rather like that line, so try another. "You could have all my love and all of my pretty puss if you'd stop chasing a dream. I won't be a bit better fuck when I'm a movie star than I am now. It will still be the same little do-funny between my legs."
Peter takes me to bed. I really must have got to him. The little do-funny between my legs is very happy and so is he. We have the loveliest time, and I don't see what else he can possibly want. For me, it's so out of this world I'm floating...! Oh wow! "Sweetheart, I'm going to have to rush."
I wonder how many girls have heard that one... afterwards! I say, quite simply, "Well, if you must--" But is isn't that simple. As if I didn't know!
"We've an appointment downstairs, 'Lona."
I don't protest. It's not as though I don't know. Pathetically, I ask: "Do you have to, Peter?"
"Absolutely."
So here I am. It's that damn frame he used to bend me backwards. But there's initial chit-chat. "Peter dear, I can't possibly be suspended with my wrists in handcuffs--I'd have no hands."
"Cross bridges when you come to 'em, sweetheart."
"But the way you're going--"
"Quiet, girl, quiet. Up on the box. One leg over the bar."
"But, Peter, I'll die. The bar's so small. It's that 'Horse' thing all over"
"Not quite. Give me credit for a bit of originality."
"Beef, beef, beef! Would you like to be gagged?"
"I'm sorry, Peter. I'm just scared."
I am very obedient. My handcuffed wrists are way up above my head, the bar is beneath my crotch. I suspect I'm going to have to sit on it, and that's going to be awful. Being naked leaves a girl no defences at ail.
"Lona', dear girl, I'm going to take away the box. Have you any thoughts about plane tickets?"
Oh shit, how did I get into this! If he takes away the box on which I'm standing I can either sit on the bar or hang on to the chain tether by which my hands are raised. I'm not going to like either. I try and be feminine. "Peter dear, you hold all the cards. You're not being a bit chivalrous."
"I'm pure bastard, sweetheart. I've often said--"
"I won't be able to bear it, master.
"The Airlines will be glad to know. Should I phone for a reservation?"
"P-E-T-E-R... don't be so mean--Ohhhhh Ouch!"
The box has gone. My legs dangle, one on each side of the bar. The handcuffs hurt my wrists so much I let myself down, but then my pussy screams under all my weight on the narrow bar. Dear Peter, thoughtfully, snaps handcuffs on my ankles. He goes away and shuts the door.
That's where I am right now. Not anywhere at all, really. Just betwixt and between. Dear thoughtful Peter has left me with a choice. I can hurt my wrists or my pussy, or I can make them take fifty/fifty each. I'm so lucky... the most fortunate of girls. Oh shit, and my day stretches endlessly ahead.
It is all cleverly thought out. There will be long intervals between Becky's visits. If I decided to change my mind right now it wouldn't do me any good, I'd have to wait hours for her to show. I get panicky thinking about it. I mean, if I just can't stand this any longer...! Or suppose she doesn't have the right keys, and I have to stay like this 'till Peter comes home. I am already gasping with the stress of exploring some way of disposing my nakedness so I can bear the pain, or discomfort, or punishment, or whatever! It would be easy if Peter hadn't cuffed my ankles, but with my feet joined together I can't get 'em on the bar, or my knees, or any other bit of me except my pussy. My pussy's on it right now.
And then, using handcuffs on my wrists... Really! If I put all my weight on the handcuffs I won't have any wrists in an hour. The hell of this is I can probably get by if I make my hands take half my weight and my pussy gets the rest. But, gollies, what a way to spend the day! I heave up and manage to grasp the chain by which I'm suspended. I can hold it briefly until my fingers get damp and slip on the links. But it's a break for my poor wrists and a rest for my pussy. I could hold on to it better if it was rope, but I guess that's been figured too.
There's a feminine something at work in me which says 'Bear it, bear it... hold on!'. Peter will be ashamed of how mean he's being and he'll relent before I surrender. Then we'll both go up to bed and live happily ever after. I suppose this just might happen. But, the way I'm fixed at this moment, it's hard to believe. Oh damn, why did I ever mention California!
Becky comes and tells me I've been in this jackpot two hours. "You sure is a sad looking little girl, Miss Paisley, you sure you're being sensible?"
"No, I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything except I want to get loose."
"If I was you, honey, I'd go and be a movie star."
"But, Becky, if I let him hurt me enough he's going to feel sorry and let me stay... Won't he?"
"Wouldn't bet on it. You sure you want to stay hinging that way?"
She's tantalising me on purpose--Or would she do that! It would be so lovely to put my feet on the floor and walk around. It's hard to believe I was ever that free... or could be again. Why won't that female hope let me surrender! Why, why, why...!
I let her go. I'm alone. I've condemned myself to some more hours of this. Then I'll condemn myself again, and again...? Oh shit, if only I can be unconscious when Peter comes home! That ought to do it... shouldn't it?
I do not become unconscious. I don't suppose I've ever been more vividly conscious in my life. My pussy and my wrists are angry with me, I'm angry at myself. I've fallen back on making strange sounds, rebellious ventings of anger and distress, small squeals, grunts and moans. But I'd best not let Becky hear. I don't want to be gagged. Gosh, no!
Becky comes again. This time she says it's past noon. Before she says another thing my own words explode like bullets from a gun.
"I've had enough. Oh, Becky, all I want is to be freed. I want forgiveness and to be let down. I'll do anything or say anything Peter wants. I'll even go to Hollywood... hurry."
Suddenly I possess hands and feet. Strong arms are round me to lift me sideways from the bar. On my feet, I hug and clutch and cry on a beloved shoulder, blinking malevolently through tears at the beastly frame on which I've had two bad times. I'm going to ask Peter to dismantle the hateful thing and put it in the garbage. Gosh, this is wonderful, it feels so good. I massage my pussy comfortingly, then hold out my hands to have them handcuffed. It's sort of like coming home.
It's time for coffee. I am led to the kitchen and sat on the familiar chair to have the familiar collar locked round my neck and the familiar chain attaching me to the wall. It's all such a relief I want to cry again. But I've shed enough tears, so I sit in pure euphoria and watch darling Becky as she bustles with perc' and cups. Being handcuffed this way doesn't stop me rubbing my pussy some more. My pussy's so damn grateful...!
It's lovely to sit chained here in the kitchen and talk about Peter while I sip Becky's coffee. Nothing can possibly be this good in Hollywood. Sure, sure, I have to be crazy to delight in a Koffee Klatch where I'm handcuffed and tethered to the wall by a chain. But it's a lovely safe feeling and I like it. The three of us have got things so good here, I don't see why it has to be spoiled. But, what's the use--!
"I'll never forgive you, Peter." I say dreamily as I snuggle my nakedness under his arm and rub him with my left breast. "That was awful the way you chained me today."
"Got results, sweetheart." Peter gives me a reassuring squeeze "But if you won't forgive me I won't fuck you any more."
"You're forgiven. Can we do it again?"
"You mean, you'd like to be hung on the bar again?"
"Don't tease. Please fuck me."
"I've fucked you three times already, 'Lona, and we've only been in bed a couple of hours."
"But I need you at least three more times!" I make it a wail of enticement. "It's going to be so long."
"I can arrange for Tommy Ramone to pinch hit for me--?"
"Don't be horrid!"
"Or the male lead is probably a pretty good lay?"
"Peter, I absolutely don't want to be fucked by anyone but you!"
"Then you'll have to wait for the times you come home to be whipped. I'll make sure they're frequent."
"I don't see why we can't just--" I break off in confusion, and offer a very humble: "Oops, sorry!"
"I know what you were going to say. The answer is no."
"I'll forget what it's like to be handcuffed... and loved."
"Good heavens, girl, you'll be back every week or so. If you want, I can whip you so damn hard then you'll be glad to miss a trip."
"I never will. I don't care how man you are. May I e fucked again now, please?"
I am fucked again. Peter is so marvellous. In the lovely afterwards he suggests: "Do you want me to arrange with Anselm to keep you in a cell? They can lock you in after each day's shooting, and collect you in the morning?"
"P-E-T-E-R...!" I am blushing at the thought of Mr. Anselm solemnly inserting a key in a cell door, with me inside, naked, and holding on to the bars. "I'd simply die of embarrassment." Peter bites my ear. "I rather like the idea. Nice homey touch. But I'm the only one who whips you. Remember that!"
I sniff. "One thing I'm not going to do out there is wander around looking for someone to lock me up or whip my bottom."
"Marvellous publicity! I'm a good mind to arrange--"
"Don't you dare!" I suddenly see the headlines and Tommy Ramone's smirk. "If you stop teasing I'll promise to behave."
"I'm not teasing, sweetheart. Andromeda may surprise you."
"I'd sooner be surprised by you. Peter... let's do it again?" We do it again, beautifully. But this time, in the afterwards, he picks me up and carries me downstairs. I do not protest. Peter needs some sleep and I should have some too. In my cell he dumps me on the cot. I lift my hair for a collar round my throat. I hold out my hands for the cuffs taken from me when we made our love. I stick out my feet for the gorgeous leg irons.
When the door has clanged and he is gone I sigh in deep satiety. My cup runneth over--at least, until tomorrow! I arrange myself in my chains and go instantly to sleep.
* * *
It is a lovely feeling, this knowing things have happened and that you are on top of all of them. When Hollywood is kind the effete is intoxicating. I am rich. I am a name. I have a picture under my bed. "Miss Abbortsford Dines" is a roaring success. It is hard to believe any of it but it is true.
When I sit in the plane, returning to Los Angeles, my bottom is a constant reminder of where I've been and what Peter does to me. My bottom is very tender from his crop. But that is as it should be too. I nestle sensuously into the seat, hurting myself deliberately to keep a memory alive and my pussy warm. I have returned to Peter only three times to get myself whipped during production. On each occasion he has been exquisitely cruel, but is careful never to mark me where Andromeda wants my skin to show. He is so cruel to me that our love-making becomes incandescent, to leave our bed a ruined shambles for Becky to cope with in the morning. I shiver at the thought of it, but am satisfied to await my next return to Peter's cell and Peter's arms. Hollywood, too, is a drug.
It is a place of names. I get no time for scenery. To Benny Anselm and Tommy Ramone I have added Mark Randell who had loved me for the camera's eye, and Fergus Burland the Director who weaves us into the fabric of his dreams Andromeda sells around the world. Mr. Anselm is paternal and knows far too much. Tommy Ramone intends to fuck me whenever the moment is opportune. Mark Randell is a heady cocktail that's gone without headache when the glass is empty. Fergus Burland is Svengali. It is Fergus Burland I think of most.
Fergus Burland is a questions mark. Ansell and Ramone know about Peter and Me. Mark Randell doesn't matter, he has three mistresses round and about and, offstage, is much preoccupied. But Burland looks and looks at me from under his black and bushy brows. If he learns about me it will not be by word of mouth but because he has divined something for himself. He is a dark heavy man who moves like a cat. He is pleased I am afraid of him.
Fergus Burland directs me again in the second picture, in which I am to play opposite Colin James. I am so lucky, I get nothing but the best, but it was not Anselm who briefed me, it was Fergus Burland himself. Spreading out the gaudy posters and the advance blurbs across the table, he demanded abruptly: "You're Croal's property, eh?"
"I know Peter Croal."
"And you owe him." He makes it a statement. "D'you sleep with him?"
"Yes." I am no longer easily fazed by Fergus Burland. I manage to ad an implication of' 'So what!' to my affirmative. "Does it matter?"
"It can. I'd sleep with you myself, but it's not a good idea while we're working."
Fergus works with the tactics of shock. He makes them pay. But I am getting used to him, and whatever ideas he may have about me don't really matter. Even if Anselm has told him the degree of my enslavement it won't affect our work. But it would pique his curiosity. He is supposed to have mentally dissected every girl he ever made a star, and I can see this may pay off too for both of us. but I simply won't tell him a thing.
"What d'you think of the title, Ilona?"
It is blazoned across the highly coloured prints "CAPTURED." My heart skips a beat, but my questions remains casual. "Who gets captured? Or is it symbolic?"
For answer, he spreads another huge sheet. It shows me tied to a tree. I am wearing more rope than clothes. My facial expression registers dismay.
"Like it?"
"Old fashioned melodrama, Fergus? Why not have me on a railroad track, or does that come later?"
"We sent the script to Croal. He approved it."
"But you're the Director, what do you think?"
"I like it. A good deal of it's outdoors, some damned erotic situations. You'll earn your percentage, you get treated rough." Darling Peter! He'll be chuckling while villains do me wrong. Looking at these posters I can understand his approval. They show me just the way he likes me. I sort of wish they didn't. Too many people may get a message. I have a notion Fergus has picked it up already. Without much interest, I ask: "Who wrote it?"
"I did." I am getting his full beetle browed appraisal. "Wrote it awhile back. Been waiting for the right girl."
"Why am I right?"
"Sure you don't know, Ilona?"
"Why should I?" I'm about to add that I've never been captured. But why tell a lie over the title to a script. With complete sincerity I add. "I'd trust your judgement ahead of anybody's, Fergus. I'm grateful for what you did for me with "Miss Abbotsford Dines". I don't pretend to know about these things."
Burland doesn't push, neither do I. He'll use me to turn out a money maker. All I'm concerned with is how careful Peter has to be when he marks me with a whip or his riding crop. Sure, sure, the makeup girl can iron out almost anything, but I don't want that. I nurse a query and save it for my next sojourn in my cell.
I adore these returns to slavery. Since they are less frequent than planned they carry a greater impact. I come close to orgasm on the plane and wonder if the stewardess can tell. I mean, thinking about what's going to happen... Wow! I'm a kid, an absolute child going home for the holidays.
We avoid cliches and the obvious. Peter does not meet me at the airport. Nobody meets me, I take a taxi to where Becky will open the door.
"Why, Miss Paisley, who'd have thought...! You get yourself upstairs, now, and get rid of them clothes."
We hug and kiss and I scamper up the stairs to strip in the bedroom that is still Peter's room. Before dashing back to Becky I, pantingly, check my nakedness in the mirror to make sure the makeup girl's miracle survived the flight. I rouge my nipples and my cunt... what the hell!
And now the really cunt crinkling part. Becky looks me up and down approvingly. "You got a pair of hands, Miss Paisley?" I give them to her gladly, I am enveloped in euphoria and so grateful to be Me. I watch the handcuffs circle my wrists and click, click, click. It is a gorgeous sound, pussy wetting
"One more click, Becky, please."
"You're a little mink, Miss Paisely, you never get enough of nothin'." Good naturedly, she clamps the shining steel more firmly on my wrists. I bask in bliss. "You don't deserve it, honey, but let's go to my kitchen."
It's all so beautifully unchanged, except my collar. I look at the new shining metal for the encirclement of my throat and I crinkle up and down my spine.
"Can't let you get in a rut, child, not after all them high flyin' folks out the Coast. Lift up your hair." flyin' folks out the Coast. List up your hair."
I use my handcuffed hands to bare the nape of my neck. I hold my chin high. My heart is pounding with the strange excitement I always feel in these moments when something is being done to Me. I can't analyze it, other than to believe it an act of love.
"When I tell Mr. Croal 'bout our coffee times he had this specially made, honey. I 'specks you goin' to know you got it on."
I know. Oh, do I ever know! Not because of weight, though it is not light, but because of the intimacy of the sleek polished band seeking my flesh and moulding itself thereon as though it was alive and can feel every tendon and muscle beneath my skin. At the precise moment I think it too tight there comes the tell-tale click to let me know I'm collared and do not have the key.
"Really does something for you, Miss Paisley. Gee whiz...!"
It is a broader band than the other, but not as thick. My fingers tell me it nestles close enough to appear a silver strip painted round my neck. Its edges are buffed and rounded so they do not cut. But, because of it, I will carry my head high, my chin arrogantly raised. I think if I wore it forever I would always be aware of it.
"Got a new chain too. They sure go well together on you."
The chain is deceptive. It must be some kind of alloy. It appears as implacably heavy as does the collar, but its weight is bearable. Burland would approve its photogenic sneer at human strength. I am now comfortably captive for my coffee. Becky beams.
"That right, Miss Paisley, a girl has to get herself fucked to get someplace out there?"
Her curiosity is cute. But it's a question I cannot answer. The name of Croal protects me better than any belt of chastity. I could easily make a gift of the facility between my thighs, most of the males would accept it with varying degrees of boredom or lust. But I have clearly discerned I will not be impaled against my will. Becky nods as I explain.
"Mr. Croal, he's a might powerful man, honey. You still aimin' to marry him?"
"Yes. I wish I knew how."
"Wish I could tell you, child. He holds all the cards. Only one you got is just being You. I thought him bein' so cruel to you last trip meant somethin'." Becky shakes her head in puzzlement. "But I figure he aims to give you another bad time now."
"I'll just have to take it, won't I?"
"'Spose so. You sorta' boxed in, child. Them chains I just locked on you don't hold you half as tight as all them millions." She grins knowingly. "And there's that little slit between your legs. Could be it holds you tighter than the chains."
I don't know and I don't care. The world has become a wonderful place for Ilona Paisley. The less I push, the better it is. I bask in the rich warmth of possession. I clink my chains and sip my coffee. I want to ask Becky if Peter fucks her often while I'm gone. But, somehow, I can't. I guess I don't want to know.
Peter has not dismantled the frame. It is still prominent in the big room as Becky marches me by and on into my cell. The collar there, waiting for me, is a replica of the one, still warm from my flesh, in Becky's kitchen. It binds my throat lovingly, its chain is long. I sit on my cot and stretch out my legs for their irons. They are as beautiful as ever, and as implacable.
"He's thought up somethin' else, Miss Paisley. Gosh, the way these men flip over our bits o' skin."
It's a belt, identical with my collar. They match. Some magic hand has fashioned it to show as a painted silver band around my flesh. So now I have two symbols of my captivity to Peter Croal. When the belt is fast locked I take a deep breath to thrust my muscles against its steely bind. My excitation builds.
"I gotta envy you, Miss Paisley." Becky sighs wistfully. "If a girl hated all this it would be damn awful for her. But you...! You loves it all, don't you."
'"Fraid so, Becky. I know I'm ridiculous."
Becky clangs the cell door on me in amused bafflement. She turns the key to make a beautifully audible sound of imprisonment clink my way to hold on to the bars and watch her depart. At the door, she turns. I stick out my tongue in impudence. We both laugh. Mine must be the strangest captivity in the world.
I have plenty of time to test the tether of links which bind me to the wall, they are very ample for my little cell. I am going nowhere. I kick the irons on my ankles to watch the swirl of chain. I finger, lovingly, the new bright smooth steel upon my throat and waist, I hold my handcuffs up before my eyes. I have taken inventory of Me, and I like Me very much. I am happy.
There is now the stillness and the waiting. But I am an experienced prisoner. For me, no tears. Only a welling joy that sometime Peter will come. He will probably be deliberately late, but so what! I clutch the bars and look out into the room where he will punish me. There is a new wooden something in a far corner I do not recognize. But the frame I had hoped dismantled is still there, mocking me with its versatility of pains. I shrug. Peter will hurt me in whatever ways may please. I am lucky in not having to decide which one's to use. I lay down on the cot and go to sleep.
After my long freedoms with andromeda it is a strange moment when I awake in chains. A brief panic, replaced by tenderness, and then the rebirth of the hot longing for the man who keeps me thus. In a pleasant lassitude I lay in his chains and wonder what he will do to me, torturing myself with erotic images until I feel guilty at being such a randy bitch. As a discipline, I turn my thoughts to Fergus Burland.
Burland is a force. I suppose the brutal power he exudes is what makes him a Director. He is never to be ignored. I think it would please him to see me as I am here in this cell. Not for the motives that please Peter but for motives of his own; probably a primitive masculinity. For him, a girl in chains would simply be getting her just desserts. What else...!
He and I will start this new picture with its evocative title and gaudy posters which may mean nothing or a great deal. It is so vastly different from "Miss Abbotsford Dines" that I see pointing fingers all over the place. But they don't matter. What matters is how many pictures will Peter compel me to make and when will he marry me.
I drift into sleep again and dream of us being married by me joining hands with him through the bars of this cell, and the minister is a prison wardress in full uniform.
* * *
I am shivering with fright. I am strung up naked to be whipped. The straps are buckled tight on my wrists, my toes just barely manage to rest upon the floor. My fear is not wholly for the whipping Peter is going to give me, but also for Fergus Burland. I don't think Fergus is going to be happy with skin as marked as mine is soon to be. Peter has discarded his crop, my bottom is to receive only the same stripes as my back. The decision seems definite. It was discussed at Dinner.
"But, Peter, this new film? Half the time I'm almost bare--?"
"It will gross a fortune, sweetheart."
"I don't think you care about the money. You're amused over tossing me to the lions."
" 'Lona, you've become a small miracle out there. Have you any idea how much money is falling into your account?"
"Slaves don't need money. They shouldn't have any. You own me, so you get my share."
"O.K." He accepts my million or so without concern. "You're right. I do own you. And don't ever forget. This evening you get whipped."
"Burland will blow his top when he sees me--all marked."
"How will he see? You sleeping with him?"
"No. But we'll be shooting before my weals can fade." My voice shivers along with my flesh. "Peter, supposing I slept with Fergus, would you mind?"
"He won't fuck you while he's shooting. I know him. I'd actually recommend a good fucking somewhere along the line. Gets rid of tensions. If you feel you'd like to I'll forgive you once."
My sniff tells him I am piqued. Gosh, I must indeed be a slave to have my sexual facility dispensed with such largesse. I ooze feminine dignity: "Dammit', Peter, I've been saving all of Me for you, but if that's all you think of Me "Don't be childish. I said once. If you let him fuck you twice I'll give you the damndest thrashing you've ever had--and don't think I won't find out!"
I feel much better. I want a jealous Peter, not one who hands my sex around on a plate. I advance to my next concern: "Peter, why "Captured?"
"Huh, why not?"
"It ties me up all over the place, well stripped."
"I like you that way. I'll keep a copy of the film to look at in old age."
"Will I be there to look too?"
"Depends on your behavior." He affects a judicial mein. "I suspect you'll be eternally young, looking nineteen when I'm ninety. Andromeda will immortalize you."
"Oh alright, have your tease.," I pout my prettiest and clink my handcuffs. "But are you sure you have to whip me this trip? Couldn't you do something else...?" I have a sudden vision of the frame, so add anxiously: "I mean, I don't mind ever being whipped by you, Peter... I'm thinking of Burland and the weals...?"
"Fuck Burland!" My owner cocks an eye at me across the table. "See here, sweetheart, anytime Fergus Burland gets possessive I'll brand my initials on your skin. How's that grab you?"
"I wouldn't mind, Peter. Honest, I wouldn't. I think It's a lovely idea."
I've actually got to him. Peter is staring at me hard, and his voice comes out all different. "You mean that It's like he's groping in the dark. "You really mean it, Ilona."
"Of course I mean it. What's the difference to the way you're going to whip me, and love me, and everything. I said it was lovely because the mark would be yours and it would never come off."
"It would hurt like all get out!"
"I expect I'd live."
He's thinking about it, I can tell. Peter is seeing a vision of a bit of me with his initials burned in me to stay. I see the vision too and am enveloped in lust. I'm outrageous, the way my heat flares between my thighs. I hope Peter has more sense, and will let the notion drop. I'd look cute in 'captured' with a 'P' and a 'c' indelibly printed on me someplace. I'll have this well enough alone. Both of us are thoughtful, suddenly preoccupied with food.
Anyway, here I am all nicely strung up with rope on my wrists and ankles outside and tension in my tummy. I sure would like to be whipped sometime right away instead of being tied ready and then left alone to think about what's going to happen. I admit there's a part of this waiting that perks my puss--I mean, think about it: I'm naked. I'm helpless, and a whip is going to lick away at my skin wherever it likes. I guess I can be excused for shivering.
My owner bustles in as though he's real busy. He is irritatingly cheerful with his: "Well, sweetheart, ready to be whipped?"
What a hell of a question to ask a naked girl! But I politely state the obvious: "Yes, I'm ready, Peter."
He is kissing me. It's a gorgeous kiss and I give it all I've got. A girl can't do her best kissing when she's tied up and doesn't have hands. It's so important to have hands and arms when you're kissing a man, but anyway I do my best. Peter palms my pussy and says that yes indeed I am ready. This is a silly notion men seem to have that if a girl has a damp cat it means she's aching to be shipped... Really!
"Want to be gagged, 'Lona?"
"Well, what kind have you got?"
"The whole collection."
"Yes, I'd like to be gagged. Screaming's so awful. Just so long as it's not that rubber ball between my teeth. It makes me drool, and it lets me make a lot of noise." I eye him dolefully. "Oh, Peter, you're going to whip me real bad, or you wouldn't have thought of the gag."
"Right. Call it a message to Burland, sweetheart."
I am resigned all round. I don't know what Fergus and the make-up girl will think but I no longer care. Right now I don't care about anything except wishing it was over. I watch Peter rooting around in a box. Good gosh, fancy asking to be gagged!
It's a pretty thing, filling my mouth with sponge rubber, then binding my compressed lips tight with soft leather. It is a distinctly deluxe appliance for the muting of a girl: no doubt intended for only the better Ballrooms. Peter buckles it very tight at the nape of my neck; from somewhere there comes a most impressive click.
"Locks on so you can't get it off, sweetheart. Our collection needed one."
I suppose the lock doesn't make it any worse. But it imparts a delicious panicky feeling as I shake my head like a bridled horse. Gosh, I'd best keep that work bridle' out of future conversation or 'ill get a bit in my mouth! Surprising he hasn't thought of it already.
"I hate that damn cliche about the moment of truth, 'Lona."
Peter sounds pleased with himself. "Where we're at is stripe number one. Oh, and incidentally sweetheart, that gag becomes you. I've never seen the ensemble that's Miss Ilona Paisley look lovelier."
I thought I was ready. But the cut would have driven me up the wall if there had been a wall and I was free to climb. I curl up inside with the pain and make the straps round my wrists and the rope on my ankles earn their money. They creak and bite back.
"Should have a scene like this in 'Captured'." Peter says thoughtfully. "You do everything so right."
I try and answer but make no sound. The whip curls around me for number two. I scream without noise. It's eerie and frightening to be thus robbed of speech. But I have other things to think about. My heaving breasts send their message of anguish down to where the silver belt is still painted round my middle. No matter how I convolute it remains a living reminder of authority. Its shining metal is very much Me, and I wonder about Fergus if it won't come off. But now I am immersed and deluged in pain as number three thwacks itself across my skin.
Peter whips me with slow methodical enjoyment. He whips me hard. He pauses often to make me wince as he draws his finger across a weal or to walk round front so he can kiss my eyes above the soft leather. He makes a point always of feeling the pulse between my thighs. Its only my pussy but it gives him some sort of message...! Because I cannot speak or scream I am divorced from communion. I do what I can with my eyes and motions of my head. But, mostly, I'm a beautiful female body that's being whipped for the pleasure of its owner and the edification of Me.
My neck is still collared. The steel band chides me gently as I toss my head from side to side. Surely this shining metal does not stay on me when I return to the Studio! I could never bear the embarrassment of being wealed and constricted for Fergus's sardonic eye. But the thought vanishes under the impact of another blow across my shoulders
If my feet were not tied down I'd raise myself level with the bar to which my wrists are strapped.
We have intermission. I am sure I have been whipped for hours, but anyway, Peter now stops striping my skin and does a bit of pontificating. He's quite serious about what he tells me.
"This is it, 'Lona. D'you see the grandeur of what I'm doing?: I have the privilege of whipping the naked body of the hottest female name in Movies of this whole decade. I've got you. If you cost a fortune, which you haven't, this moment would be worth every penny. There's not much more a man can ask of life. It's glory, glory, glory."
I can't reply, but I understand. I'm one of Hollywood's sex symbols. I can believe the average Joe would adore seeing me stretched naked for his pleasure. I'm not sure if they'd all want to whip me but I bet half of them would. Peter's right, he's got something. I don't mean just Me, but the word he chose about hits if off. Glory! I expect the way I am this minute is a sublimation of everything a man feels for a woman. He's got no further to go. This is tops. I guess some would exclaim about love and caring and bed. But Peter gets all those tossed in as a bonus. I can well imagine how we I'll behave in bed tonight, if I ever get there! Whipping a naked movie star has to be some sort of peak transcendent.
Peter is frictioning my nipples and biting my left ear. The attention is highly therapeutic. I forget pain. I am sweat stained and I'm exuding a shocking amount of female scent which I hope excites him into taking me to bed instead of whipping me any more. The hope soon dies as he backs away and examines all of Me with approval.
"Feel you're suffering in a good cause, 'Lona?"
I nod vehemently. I am anxious to please. And I do understand. Being gagged doesn't seem to matter. I can nod or shake my head. Maybe that's all a girl ever needs to do. But Peter has picked up the whip again and I can't keep from looking at it. Oh damn!
"Sweetheart, you're one in a million. If I'm not careful I'll fall in love with you."
Peter goes in back where I don't want to look and starts whipping me again, hard and steady and with a sort of measured purpose. The straps and ropes acknowledge my surging and heaving anguish with a mockery all their own. I scream and scream and scream. My gag laughs.
Peter carries me upstairs. It's not that I can't walk. But this is part of our scenario. I am a maiden whipped into submission. Soon I will be tossed onto the bed and ravished--it's too gorgeous for words! But, first, we take time to stand me in front of the big mirror. I gasp at Me. I am tumescently, erotically enthralled by my striped torso. Burland will blow his top, but who cares about Burland! I am picked up again and positively thrown to sprawl naked on the covers and gaze up adoringly at my laughing conqueror.
This one's different! I thought he'd forgotten my gag, but he hasn't. It will remain locked over my mouth while we fuck. I won't be able to kiss but, wow, the sensation! It crinkles me up and down and sideways. But my Master is still not done. My ankles are grasped, I am dragged to the rug, my neck is locked in the collar and chain by which I sleep beside his bed, but allows me only a couple of feet of freedom before my throat is snubbed. The rest of me bears no bonds. I am a nude and naughty maiden ready for my romp in the hay. The carpet will be cruel to my wounds but we both know the effect of that. It will drive me crazy, crazy, crazy into Climax.
We should have done this before. It's hilarious! Peter fucks me every way he wants, so I am forever writhing this way and that within the tolerance of my short chain. It snubs me constantly as I turn and twist for our mutual lechery. I tear at it with free hands, just as I tear at the gag locked on my mouth. Bit I waste my effort, my fingers are better employed on the hot nakedness of my love.
I gasp and gasp into climax after climax. I splay my legs and raise my knees. I roll over and raise my rump to Peter's demands. Often it is he who turns me like a doll. In his hands I am weightless and utterly pliant. We hump our way into orgasmic splendor. Sometimes we sleep. In the morning we are both still there. My neck is punished by its collar and chain. But I would change nothing.
Before breakfast my ankles are ironed. I am handcuffed. Why not! I think they're beautiful. Having them locked on me goes along with my bath and doing my hair. I twist and cavort in front of the mirror far too long but I am fascinated by my weals on back and bottom. They are quite beyond belief and have about them the lovely awareness of having been whipped and it's over and done with. They are like a used plane ticket, vividly coloured and full of memories. The West Coast has vanished from my mind. Over breakfast Peter brings it back.
"Glad to be going back to Andromeda?"
"Good heavens, no! Keep me here."
"You mean, that whipping had no effect?"
"It didn't have that affect. Was it supposed to? Anyway, I want to stay here with you."
Peter sighs dramatically. "Well, sweetheart, we've still got all day today. All night too, for that matter."
He means I'm going to be punished. I know that already, so what he's getting at is how glad I'll be to go back to the studio after he's done with me. I'd best play dumb, it may be less painful. I pick up toast and candidly concede: "Whatever you want, Peter."
It is the right note. We discuss 'Captured'. Peter will do whatever he wants with me anyway, regardless of how I plead. I wish he'd marry me but he'll get around to that when he feels like it. I sure am having one hell of a time getting to be Mrs. Peter Croal.
The moment comes. I am escorted to The Room. I clink metallically and go where I am led. I look at my cell with longing but it is not for me today. I am relieved of handcuffs, I am freed from leg irons. I stand, a naked girl, awaiting punishment. With immense relief I watch Peter push the metal frame back against the wall. I have enough sense to keep quiet. If he wants to dismantle the damned thing he will, but I don't think he's going to. I am a girl with a frame in her future. But for today...!
It's the wooden thing I saw through the bars. It looks as though it belongs in a barn, but has an appearance of costly hardwood. Whatever it does to me I can be sure I will not escape it's clutch. It is heavy enough that I, stupidly, help Peter push it to centre stage.
"You'll love this, sweetheart."
Why the hell don't I run, scream, batter this complacent male with angry fist! Well... you tell me! I stand and gaze at an instrument designed for my own agony and, innocently, inquire: "What will it do to me, Peter?"
"Make you glad to go back to Andromeda."
"I sort of gathered that. But, upside down, sideways...?" Peter does things with timbers. I pick up clues. I'm not sure whether this is good or bad, but it is probably better than being whipped all day. Tentatively, I venture: "That would hold a horse, wouldn't it? I'm only a girl."
"Ah, but what a girl! Nothing but the best."
Peter is in a pixie mood. I suspect I'm going to get laughed at.
When he steps back and offers a chivalrous wave of his arm I step forwards to my doom. Hopefully, I venture: "Don't be too mean to me... Please, Peter." It ought to melt his heart but I don't suppose it does.
It is a sort of stocks affair, but more of it. A sort of convenience model where you can clamp a girl's ankles or her wrists, whichever pleases the Master. This is a lot better than hanging in mid air at the end of a rope or some other similar diversion. I am almost cheerful as I sit on the bench and place my ankles in the slots. The sturdy oak comes down on them and I am fixed for sure.
"Neat, eh!"
Peter beams down between my sundered legs. My feet are held wide apart so as to make my pubic hair a prominent feature of the scene. He pats my hair lovingly, then busies himself in the lumber business. There are adjustments, and suddenly I realize what I'm in for. I can't kick or run, I just have to sit and watch it happen.
"Not really a new invention, sweetheart. Probably as old as the Pillory."
I stare in distaste at the bit intended for a girl's hands. It is now closer and lower than it was. Its two round holes laugh in my face invitingly. They are not there to be used instead of the foot stocks, they are there to be used right along with it. I wait my dismay.
"Ohhhhhhh, P-E-T-E-R... No, No!"
"Saves you wondering what to do with your hands, 'Lona."
He's enjoying the look on my face, damn him. My wail continues: "I know what to do with my hands. If you have to be mean, can't you handcuff them, or something?"
"This is the 'or something' sweetheart. You'll probably love every minute."
"I won't! I'll hate it. I hate it already." I put my arms defensively behind my back and glare.
Peter raises the bar and looks at me with pure love. "Don't tell me you're going to make a fuss--?"
"Oh alright!" I say it testily, but my heat below tells me I am protesting for the sake of protest. "After the way you whipped me yesterday, this is being unkind." I lean forward as I must and place a wrist in each of the tiny half circles. The other half comes down on them and there is the usual play with a padlock and sinister sounds. I am fixed, but good!
"Makes a nice change for you, 'Lona. Peace and quiet."
"Very funny."
"Some interesting historical facts about these things." Peter has come behind me and is playing with my nipples and tickling the nape of my neck. I cannot move. "Seems like men were locked in them, with a more severe bend than I've given you, for long periods. No plumbing, more severe bend than I've given you, for long periods. No plumbing, no maid service. The poor bastards had to sit in their own excrement."
"Don't be disgusting."
"Well, it's a historical fact. Of course, in your case, Becky will look after everything "I don't want to hear. You're being horrible on purpose. Do you realize I can't move."
"There's recorded cases of people sitting the way you are for weeks and months." Peter is putting on a straight faced tease. "Some famous names here and there. If they were of the nobility they were allowed to wear their pants."
"Look, Peter, I can't possibly hold this position all day."
"You don't hold it, it holds you."
He's right about that. This is the damndest spot he's put me in. Right now it doesn't hurt but it's going to, I just know it is. Of course, with what he's doing to my nipples...! I am breathing heavily as I plead: "I have to go back to Andromeda tomorrow. Can't you take today off and we'll spend it in bed?"
"Sorry, 'Lona, duty and all that "You could fuck a movie Star all day?"
"I thought you disapproved of that word?"
"I've got used to it. It's the most explicit of the lot. Peter dear, please fuck me?"
"I bet you're not the first girl to offer her body for release from one of these gadgets. Aren't you ashamed?"
"No, I'm not. I don't want to sit like this all day. In an hour I'll be going nuts."
"Got to go now. 'Lona. I'll let you loose for a lustful couple of hours at bedtime, then put you back in for the night. You can sleep on the plane."
He kisses me and is gone before I can think up the right thing to say. But there isn't any right thing. Nothing's right when a girl's locked into a blasted oak tree and can't move. Dismally, I look at the closed door, then down at my imprisoned feet. Unhappily, I face the blank surface of the wood before my eyes, into which my hands have been taken from sight as though severed at the wrist. I try to wriggle, but anything I do by way of asserting freedom only hurts my wrists. I suspect my wrists are going to hurt a lot.
I suppose I've got lots to think about, but only one thing matters. Peter surely must be joking about all night? It was bad enough in the foot stocks, but this! There's no way I can sleep bent forward and strained like this...! But then, I thought the same about the others. But to sit like this all day, then be given a gorgeous time of love and lust, only to be inserted in this oaken horror for the night... Jeepers!
Becky oozes sympathy. She brings me water and coffee more often than she need. She knows I'm stifling pleas for release, and fondles me tenderly. Except for my pussy, which I'm sitting on, my nakedness is very available to any fingers that wish me well.
Becky has wonderful hands
I bet I'm the first girl prisoner in these strange stocks ever to get a climax with her coffee. I don't know how I'd survive the day without Becky.
"He don't aim to be cruel, Miss Paisley." Her fingers seek and solace my sensitivities. "What I think is you're always so beautiful. Some girls would look untidy and lose their shape the way you're fastened, but you don't. I ain't never seen you when you don't look good enough to eat. Hell of it is, rope and chains and things all do somethin' for you. I mean, they make you twice as lovely as though you was born for 'em."
"You mean, homely girls don't hurt?"
"Guess so. Bet you're glad you're hurtin."
I am glad. But, still, I must ask: "Becky, will he lock me in this thing all night?"
"Fraid he aims to, Miss Paisley."
Oh well, I'm Peter's slave. One day he may marry me. And if, in the meantime this gives him pleasure, I expect I'll live.
Becky's fingers are exquisitely wise...!
I'm going to climax again.
CHAPTER SIX - I'M FRIGHTENED
I am not embarrassed after all. My weals are chastely hidden while they fade. I cannot hope the marks of Peter's affection will be completely gone by the time we start shooting, but for now we are having arguments, meetings, conferences and lunches in which everybody polishes their own image whilst smirching others. I am called on to attend some of these absurdities. But I wear clothes. My shame is hidden. I bet Peter knew about this delay all the time.
Colin James is nice. He says we should fuck a little before the picture so's we can get to know each other. But I explain about my heart belonging to Daddy, and he seems to understand. Probably he puts my pussy on some sort of deferred list. The studio should provide chastity belts for its female staff.
Fergus Burland is brutal as ever. The first time we're alone in his office, he barks: "Take your clothes off."
Good gosh, can he tell! But he eases that anxiety when he grunts. "I'm going to see a lot of you when we shoot."
"That's soon enough. You can ogle me then."
"I want to plot the angles. O.K... with you, it's curves."
"No."
"Scared?"
"If you want me naked you can clear it with Peter Croal." Fergus nods. "The bastard owns you." He shoots me one of his broadsides. "You don't want me to see the marks."
"What marks, Fergus?"
He waves me away in disgust. "You damn females! Run along."
I am glad to escape. If he insists on seeing me naked I'll have to strip. I'll shrug off my whipmarks and tell him they're none of his business. He can make me as naked as he wants on the set. That doesn't seem to bother me. But, alone in his office...! Piss on him.
Mr. Anselm is next. He gets me alone in his office and gives me his usual paternal pat. "You're not letting Fergus bother you, Ilona?"
"Not more than anyone else. He's naturally abrasive. It's probably what makes him good."
Mr. Anselm is pleased, but delivers his message. "Burland's good with the new girls, Ilona. But the second time round he thinks he owns you." Mr. Anselm twinkles at me. "Do as you wish. You're a free agent. But you don't have to get in his bed, and you're under no obligation to spend a week-end with him in Acapulco. If he barks at you, bark back."
I am grateful and say so. "Burland's good for me, Mr. Anselm. I'm. I'm a little scared of him, but that's good. I really owe him for that first picture."
"We'll make "Captured" an even bigger hit." He looks at me shrewdly. "I hear you're nervous about the script?"
"I'm not a bit prudish over it, Mr. Anselm, but don't I get stripped a lot and tied up a lot? I mean, won't the audience get bored?"
His laugh is genuine. "Bored with your body! Oh come, Ilona, you know better than that."
"Well yes, I suppose. But all the times the villains tie me up? Isn't it terribly dated?"
"You're thinking of the heroine tied to the railroad track, or the great big saw getting nearer and nearer to poor Vera." He leans a bit forward. "Do you realise those sure-fire winners are several generations past. Most people under thirty-nine never heard of them."
I suppose he's right. I feel a silly girl. But we are suddenly looking at each other without subterfuge as his paternalism puts its finger on my tender spot. "You're worrying about it being too close to home, Ilona."
"Well, yes."
"Don't. Peter Croal chose that script." His pause is for effect. "I'm sure you understand that, even if the script was poor, we are under an obligation to use it. But it is not poor. I have every confidence in 'Captured' and Burland and you."
He's sweet, and Peter's a real bastard and I bet he'll get six erections out of me in 'Captured'. "I've known Peter's approval, Mr. Anselm. But I'm bothered about the bunch here figuring out about me and Peter. About--well, you know what."
"You forget you're a star."
"Fergus guesses something."
"Oh sure, he wants in on anything that's going. Fob him off, he's used to it. What he doesn't know won't hurt him." Benny Anselm's eyes twinkle again. "I'll make a guess that you're well whipmarked right now."
"Yes, I am. Peter's outrageous."
"Not if you love him. Not if you like it."
We face each other with something shared. It is as though I have known Benny Anselm all my life. He is comfortable and kind. He enshrines our intimacy with tact and, casually, comments. "You're getting used to the way we behave here. Change, turmoil, second thoughts. Don't worry about that script. If it gets kicked around, it's no more than happens to all of 'em." I get another paternal pat and exit like a Queen.
We have all been told to go to bed early and alone. Tomorrow we shoot. I stand in front of my mirror and stripe. What greets me leaves me scared. That whipping Peter gave me was hard. A week has gone by and I still bear the marks. They are past their prime, but no one can doubt I have been well thrashed. Feverishly, I dash to the make-up girl. I pledge her to silence, I bare my flesh. She laughs delightedly and assures me there will be no problem. She demonstrates. It is miraculous what she can do.
My next concern is the new script. The poor ragged thing gets amended daily. I had best be up to date. I manage another sigh of relief when I discover my nakedness will not likely be revealed for several days. Most films start out respectably. I thumb through to the end, but suddenly gasp and retrace the typescript. In a dither of concern I head for Benny Anselm. But he has gone home. I turn and speed to the office of the man who matters. Being who I am, I get instant entry from the receptionist and a surly grunt from Fergus Burland. I thump the script on his desk and point.
"Look, Fergus, this isn't even possible."
He scans the item of my dismay. He looks up blandly. "Makes a marvellous sequence. 'Lona. What's the beef?"
"You can't possibly strip me naked and whip me on the screen."
"Don't see why not. It belongs. It makes the action flow."
"Fergus, there isn't a censor anywhere who'll pass--"
"Don't see why not. We'll stay away from any frontal shot." He leers. "Just your back and your rump. They're the only part of you that gets whipped."
"But F-E-R-G-U-S!"
"We'll break every box office record with this one scene alone."
"No you won't. Fergus, you know damn well there never has been a girl whipped on the screen without silly simulations that leave the audience laughing. I won't have that."
"You're not going to have it, pet."
He stares. He leers. He's envisioning me naked, tied to a tree and being whipped in vivid technicolor. Gogh, think of the posters! I flame at him angrily: "You know damn well nobody's figured a way to whip a girl realistically on film. It can't be faked. It's always a flop."
"It isn't going to be faked, not with Ilona Paisley."
It's a confrontation. If Fergus can't get me one way he will another. His smile is grandly omnipotent. Flatly, I tell him: "If you think I'm going to allow myself to be whipped naked so the weals show for the camera you're out of your tree."
"The sequence was sent to Peter Croal for approval. Miss Paisley."
His formal use of my name is bad news. It means he knows he's won. I am panting and at bay when I demand. "Who are you going to get to whip me?"
"I'll do it."
"You! The Director! Like hell you will."
"Suitably made up and attired for the role. Remember Hitchcock? He inserted himself into every film he made."
"Get rid of it." I say it decisively. "I won't play it."
"Don't kid. You know you will."
Damn him, he's got me panting. Fergus sits there smiling. He's the omniscient male, tolerantly amused by female frailty. I storm out of his presence, and he knows damn well where I'm going.
Peter listens to about four dollars worth of my distress over the phone before he interrupts. " 'Lona, I approved that scene."
"That's what Burland said, but I didn't believe him."
There comes a short silence before Peter admits: "I wrote the damn addition in myself. It will add a million to the gross."
I give A.T.&T another four dollars worth of indignation. But all the time I'm realising that if I can take a whipping at Innsfield I can certainly take one in California. But I play my best card.
"Peter, you said you'd never allow anyone to whip me but you. You even warned me...?"
We share another expensive silence before his casually amused voice agrees. "O.K., sweetheart, we'll stay with that. You're right. I said it."
I send breathless relief back over the line, but am interrupted: "I'll come out there and whip you in that scene myself--a wig and a bit of make-up--"
"P-E-T-E-R! Nooooooooo--NO. I'd die."
"Don't see why."
"It would tell about us. Everyone would know."
"Good. They'd know Peter Croal owns a movie star. Marvellous for my image."
I know its what he's wanted, and I can understand why. Most men would see our scene as a pinnacle. I mean, how can a guy step any higher when he's reached the top. But Jeepers, with the whole crew watching and Burland mad as a hornet--and then the whole world seeing the film...! Weakly, I moan: "But, if we do it right, there isn't a censor anyplace who'll pass it."
"The way you and I do it they will." Peter's voice takes on that casual tone which always means something. "Figured it as a grand finale. 'Captured' will be your last film."
"Why?" I feel more bereft than I could have believed. "P-E-T- E-R...! What have I done--?"
"You've done fine, 'Lona. You've made a dream come true." My hot spot flares again, and he's put me in the damndest dither between wanting to get into bed with him and having him whip me in public and being told I'm starting my last picture. I mean, I'm only a girl
Really!
"But, Peter--Andromeda--and my career--?"
"Mrs. Peter Croal will have no time to be an actress."
My tummy ties a double not. Ridiculously, I quaver: "It sounded as though you said-there must be something wrong with the line?"
"You know perfectly well what I said, sweetheart."
"You mean you're going to marry me...?"
Good gosh, I've made the most graceless response to what I want most in the world. But to get it over the phone--!
"Of course, if you're going to be difficult--"
"I'm not, I'm not--Oh, Peter!"
"I suppose a Minister could officiate while you're tied to a tree."
"Yes, oh yes! Oh, Peter, anything! I'll grab the next plane--"
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You'll go to work tomorrow, and you won't say a word to anyone."
"Oh, alright then. But--"
"You're on probation. Disobedience leaves you a spinster. The phone booth is suddenly cloud nine, I walk on air. Peter can whip me in public all he likes. He's going to marry me. Oh, wow!"
* * *
Fergus must have had a phone call. He is annoyed with me. He grunts and glowers fearsomely, and 'Captured' gets off to a good start. With the Director in a mood, no one quibbles. The cameras whirr like pleased cats purring.
But I am in disgrace.
I suppose I have to be flattered that two men of such consequence wish to whip me, and that the most powerful of the two actually will. But Fergus is a thundercloud to the point where I am almost tempted to give him a consolation prize in private and between the two of us. I'm so happy about Peter and Me I have no judgement at all. I am an excited little girl with a fire between her legs, prepared to nobly give her all to any man to whom it means that much. But I am already well marked! I must be a little kind to Me. With the great big awful whipping scene coming up in 'Captured' I have to show some sense.
I've wondered about Peter's permission to sleep with Fergus Burland once. He called it therapeutic Tail, which is vulgar but cute. But now Peter's going to marry me I don't want to do even that. My pussy belongs to Peter. I don't want a mental picture of that hairy ape, Fergus, plowing away at me and gasping in my face. I just can't imagine him fucking a girl gracefully.
Fergus Burland can't order me around off the set. But I get a summons to his office. Fergus is not one to let things drop. I'm positive he's pleased with today's shooting, and with my part in it. But I can tell he's carrying a pretty picture of me, naked and suitably bound, being whipped by Fergus Burland in the big scene just before the End. He'll be composing credits and posters while he licks saliva from his chops.
He is charm with a sneer. I don't want the drink but he makes it a pally affair by having one himself before I get the broadside. "Big beef to Daddy, eh."
"Well, you wouldn't listen. What ingenue wants a public whipping from her Director on the Set!"
"Wouldn't exactly call you an ingenue. Since you're going to get whipped anyway, what difference does it make?"
"You know the answer to that, Fergus."
"Sure I do, you're in love with the sonofabitch." The sneer comes on heavy. "The bastard owns you. Peter Croal owns you both ways from your pussy."
I almost feel sorry for Fergus. He's got a fix about Me, and I know how these things can hurt. I try and be sweet. "But what does it matter. I can't be owned by two different men. But, honest, I want us to be friends."
"Friends my ass!" He is impatiently angry, a male in rut. If you're my friend, strip and spread out on the desk."
With a masterful arm he consigns the several items on the polished surface to the floor. He glowers broodingly. "You got the guts?"
If only Fergus Burland wasn't such a bull! If he'd shown any tenderness, or even straight masculinity, I think I'd be tempted to make myself a consolation prize. But the way he's glaring at me kills impulse. Most of what he feels is not desire for me but jealousy of Peter Croal. I'm trembling, but get to my feet. "It's best I go, Fergus--another time...?"
He is lightening quick, grabbing me, holding me helpless. "You'll not scream." He says contemptuously. "I'm going to fuck you out of my mind. If you want to struggle enough you can make it a technical rape." He grasps the back of the flimsy thing I wear.
He's right. I won't scream. I'll take what medicine I must. Fergus has spoiled it for me, but perhaps not for himself. Before I can say I'll remove what I wear he has clawed me bare to my hips. He's turned me by a clutch on one arm and is staring at my back with some fixed emotion I cannot name.
"You little bitch! You've taken a flogging."
"Yes."
"And from that asshole with his hundred million."
"Peter Croal's much richer than that."
"And that's why--?"
"Fergus, you know better."
I am suddenly flung aside like a discarded rag. Fergus Burland is fascinated by the whipmarks Peter has etched on my skin, he cannot take his eyes from them. They are what he wants but another male has beaten him to the whip. "Get out, you little masochist." His voice is a hoarse threat. "With those marks on you, you'd no call to beef."
"Dolly, the makeup girl can hide them beautifully."
"But I've seen 'em, and it wasn't me who put 'em on you. That's what counts."
"Fergus, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry--"
"Get out!"
I arrange tom bits and pieces, keeping a wary eye on lechery. But, to Fergus now, I am unclean. I'm soiled. He has never possessed me except in his mind. But whatever vision he may have beheld is now cast into darkness. I am safe. Without haste, I remove myself from sight.
We are both professionals. On the set there is no word or glance. We behave remarkably well. Whatever Burland's feelings are for me now they have created a chemistry to extract and inspire my best. Probably it's just wanting to show Fergus I'm not fazed, and cherishing the lovely thought of being Mrs. Peter Croal. I want to make 'Captured' the best film ever.
Our weeks of work go like crazy. I am not granted time to go back to Innsfield and get whipped and loved. Neither Peter or I push it. We know it best for me to have a flawless back when the big scene comes, the sequence in which Peter dons his wig and grease paint and whips his wife to be in living colour.
Fergus doesn't forget. He lets me know he is without illusions. 'Captured' is the sort of story in which the heroine has a real bad time with being bound and gagged. Ordinarily, most such scenes are faked. The girl puts her arms behind her back or behind a post and her hands aren't tied at all. The audience may suspect, but it can't be sure. But now. with Fergus, Andromeda Films comes by a passion for authenticity. There are going to be no doubts as to whether Ilona Paisley is truly tied up. The cameras record every rope and every chain. When I am gagged they zero in to show compressed lips and cheeks and my genuine wide eyed dismay. I suffer in the name of fidelity so the world's best Director can get his jollies free.
Fergus knows about me and rope. He couldn't score by just having me tied up. The way he gets at me is to be always picky about the job some extra does on me. He has it done over and over. Tighter, tighter...! Then, in feigned exasperation, does it himself to make certain I'm in pain. Everyone's scared of him, so he gets away with it. I'm sure he wants me to make a fuss, but I fool him by pretending indifference as though the ropes don't hurt. It becomes a contest in which he makes it doubly painful for me by endless retakes as more and more bits of covering are torn from my nakedness. I'm always waiting for him to tear away the bit over my pussy, but he never does. What he gloats over most is to get the lens in close to show my skin turning purple around the indentations of the cords.
I could complain to Anselm, but I don't. If this is my last movie I'll win my own battle. I'll admit to a small fire burning in my loins because of these intimacies of Fergus's ropes and, in my own way, I'm a stickler for fidelity too. If I can make 'Captured' a roaring success it's worth all the pain and bruised flesh he wants to make me bear.
He has another way to make me aware of his displeasure. This one carries a tinge of shame and embarrassment. At the end of a take he'll leave me tied up and forgotten while he natters and argues. If someone leaps to set me free, and there's lots who are willing, he barks at them to leave me alone: he may want stills or a remake with another character or some changed dialogue. Director's are deities, so if he wants me tied and left all day nobody's going to cross him. It's sort of petty but it works. He never frees me himself but has one of the stage hands do it, as though I'm one of the props that might get left behind.
Lonnie's an amiable guy who is constantly cluck-clucking over my rope weals and the way Burland treats me. He unties me with great care, covers me up respectably, offers me his arm and fetches drinks. On those occasions when he gets the job of tying me he's pathetically apologetic.
"You could tell Burland where he gets off, Miss Paisley. Why don't you?"
"We're past half way, Lonnie. I'll make it. Besides, it is beautifully real. I hate simulations."
"I'm not trying to be mean when I tie you--"
"I'd sooner you tied me all the time, Lonnie. Do it the way Fergus wants, then we'll all be happy."
Half the shooting is outdoor stuff. We are on location in Simcoe Park where there's lots of big old trees. We've been here two days and everything's going fine except for this spot I'm in right now. It's typical Fergus. My hands are tied and I'm hanging from a tree. Not really hanging at the moment because, while Fergus and Lonnie have gone back to the camp they left me a box to stand on so I'll be all ready for the camera. I'm not hurting, so I stand and dream.
The jeep comes slowly out of the trees. It is driven by a dark haired girl I haven't noticed around. Without haste, she turns and backs up to where I stand. She even jars my box before killing the motor. Behind me, Lonnie's voice comes cheerful as ever.
"Gotta' make a change, Miss Paisley."
It happens swiftly. Lonnie mounts my box, and a moment later I am gagged, a moment after that I am blindfolded by swarth after swarth of bandage. Someone handcuffs my ankles.
Something is wrong. I'm picking up bad vibes and there's an air of haste in what is being done with me. This is not vintage Fergus. Suddenly the box is gone, I hand suspended as per the script. But the jeep backs beneath me an I am lowered to crouch within its cargo space. There is no conversation. I am pinned face down while my hands are untied, but only so they may be handcuffed behind my back. My feet are dragged up to enable the two sets of cuffs to be crossed to leave me painfully and hopelessly hogtied. A covering has been thrown over my wriggling nudity. The jeep slowly, and with little noise, slides away I know not where. I have been captured.
It's damned uncomfortable. Fergus would be delighted. Sure, there's a blanket under me and another on top. But the ground is rough and the jeep gradually gathers speed to make my blind, mute impotence a jolting misery. It seems a long time before we reach the smooth surface of a road. But, even then, I don't have a thing to be pleased about. If they'd wanted me hogtied they could have used rope, these handcuffs hurt--and they're scary, there's no way I can get out of handcuffs. It means they want to be damn good and sure of me.
I suppose I'm kidnapped. Even Fergus wouldn't waste this much of Andromeda's time and money in a practical joke. I'm sick in my tummy about Lonnie. It has to be him who got me into this, he's had it all figured. He's been able to snatch me from under Andromeda's nose. I don't have any feeling he's in this jeep. He'll be back in Camp and when they discover I've vanished he'll be as shocked as anyone. It's perfect.
The timing is perfect too. With the picture where it's at it will be cheaper for Andromeda to pay my ransom right quick rather than argue. I wonder how much Lonnie is asking for me. I suppose this bitch who's driving is some sort of girl friend. Oh damn, damn, damn! I sure could have done without this.
I try and get loose. I always try. It's a vent and fills up time. But with handcuffs there's nothing much to explore. One set is threaded over the other, my hands and feet are touching. I'm laying on my side and can't do a damn thing except work on the gag and blindfold, but they're too tight and too clever. Oh shit!
Whatever they've wadded into my mouth is strapped in tight. It's beastly. I can't make a sound. I can't move. I can't see. I'm reduced to an absolute nothing. I don't have a chance. Even if this girl and I are alone she can handle me as easy as a kitten. I bet it's just she and Lonnie. Its been so simple for them I could cry. I've probably been the easiest snatch in history.
I cry often from hurt and misery and thinking about what I've left behind. I have plenty of time for tears, this damn ride goes on and one. From the sound of the motor I'd guess we're slowly gaining altitude, there isn't much coasting, just a steady whirr of power taking me into a new captivity I no way want. When we finally stop I'm so damn thankful... Its been hours!
The girl's pretty enough. After she's taken the bandage from my eyes we assess each other. Immediately she unstraps my gag I demand: "O.K. How much money d'you want for me?"
"Lonnie's figuring on a million, Miss Paisley."
Her voice is ordinary. She is nothing out of the way. She seems to have more interest in my doubled up helplessness than in money. Briskly, I say: "O.K. Get me to a phone, I'll arrange it. I absolutely must be at work tomorrow."
"Lonnie's looking after that end, Miss Paisley." She grins companionably. "I'm looking after you." She reaches in and fingers my handcuffs. "I bet these hurt."
"Yes, Horribly. Please unfasten me."
"I have to keep you prisoner, Miss Paisley. I can't take chances. I guess you understand."
"You're not going to leave me like this!" I'm horrified.
"Gosh no. But I'm telling you, I can't treat you all that good."
"Look, I'll give you my parole, my promise not to try and escape." I tell her patiently. "I'll do whatever you tell me while the deal is made. If you'll let me go to a phone I can likely speed things up."
She does not answer. I have the feeling that what I've said does not matter. Thoughtfully, she unlocks my feet and helps me sit up. "There, Miss Paisley, that better?"
"Gosh yes. Thank you."
"You can call me Margie, Miss Paisely." She helps me slither out of the jeep to stand and look around. "Your hands will have to stay the way they are."
It could be worse. I do not complain. I stare at the impressive mountain Lodge before which the jeep is parked. "Where are we, Margie?"
"It doesn't matter, Miss Paisley. Lonnie sort of borrowed this place. It's nice and isolated for you an me while we wait. It belongs to some rich guy he used to work for." She giggles. "He don't know what we want it for, he thinks we're just screwing." She takes a length of rope from the seat. "This won't hurt none, don't be scared."
I don't feet easy at having my neck circled and knotted with rope. Sulkily, I complain. "You've got my hands fixed, I can't fight. You don't have to rope my neck."
"Sorta' handy, Miss Paisley, and we'll get along better if you don't beef too much."
Its a tether. Margie leads me by it as though I'm a puppy dog. I can see her point. For her, it's handy. A nice easy control of a captive girl. As for my hands, I kissed them good-bye way back in the jeep. Whether I like it or not I belong to this girl who probably has not told me her real name. Obediently, I follow where I am led.
I am given the grand tour. The Lodge is rich, rich, rich. But it has a downstairs that's not so nice. It has empty rooms and barred small windows. "Guess the guy never got around to doing anything down here." Margie surmises. "Let's go up to the kitchen and I'll make coffee."
I remember Becky and am close to tears as my tether is tied to a table leg and I'm invited to sit down. It's hateful being this helpless, I can't stop pulling at the damn handcuffs, but I'm glad it's a girl who holds the key.
"I wouldn't bet on going home tomorrow, Miss Paisley." Margie rattles spoons. "Lonnie's got his own way of doing things."
Fear puts its cold clutch on my spine. I've been away from helplessness long enough to make these handcuffs claustrophobic. They make me so shamefully helpless... and the rope round my neck! What girl wants a rope round her neck!
And there's something different from my other captivity back in Innsfield. There I was a prisoner because a man desired me. Here there's some deadly intent. Kidnappers sometimes kill their victims, and I can almost believe Margie knows. Her casual indifference could stem from having already written me off.
"I'll lift the cup for you, Miss Paisley. I'll have to do most things for you. I don't dare let you have your hands."
"Can't I sometimes give you my word?"
"You'd be crazy not to break it. I can't take the chance. I really am sorry, Miss Paisely. I have to take real good care of you."
"Does that mean you'll always keep me tied up or chained some way?"
" 'Fraid so. Lonnie figured you wouldn't mind too much."
"I suppose handcuffs won't kill me. But, Margie, behind my back? I can't do a damn thing for myself?"
"And if I let you have 'em in front you can do too damn much. Sorry, Miss Paisley. I can't be watching you every moment."
"Then handcuff my ankles and bring my hands in front? Wouldn't I be helpless enough like that?"
"No way. Hell, you could jump me. Lonnie and me, we figured it all out. You'll have to get used to being a prisoner, and I want you to shut up with the complaints. Understand?" Margie helps my thinking by producing a couple of willow switches and demonstrating how they cut the air. I tell her, yes, I do understand.
"I don't mind a bit using these on you, Miss Paisley. In fact I'd get a bang out of whipping a movie star's ass." She grins confidingly. "So best you don't tempt me. Here, more coffee."
I spend the rest of the day tethered to anything high enough so I can't reach it with teeth or fingers. She has to move anything I can hook a foot into and might use to stand on. I can see myself becoming a chore she'll tie up tight to save trouble. I become disgustingly polite and helpful just thinking about it. If I can keep her happy with me I will.
She's lonely and insecure. I soon sense it. She takes me with her round the Lodge and we walk around the yard. We put the jeep in the garage so as not to disturb the air of desolation clinging to the whole place. No one comes or passes by. I'm ready to scream if someone does but Margie obviously doesn't consider it a possibility. I am not gagged, but maybe that's because she wants to talk.
"Lonnie got the idea for this out of the way you're always getting tied up in that picture you're making."
"It could land you in jail, Margie. If you'd let me use the phone I'd arrange for payment and for you to be safe from prosecution?"
"Oh, I couldn't do that. It wouldn't be fair to Lonnie. I say, Miss Paisley, is it right you girls who've made it on the screen get fucked a lot?"
Margie is basic. Simple. Uncomplicated. I tell her, no, we don't spend half our time on our back, but I can tell she doesn't believe a word of it. Then I get to thinking about Andromeda and the bunch on the set, and about Peter and 'Captured' and I feel so damn sick about this whole thing. It's messing up everybody, and goodness knows what it's costing. And all because of two shining bands of steel round my wrists. If I had my hands I could cope with Margie--It's so bloody awful frustrating. Imagine: the hottest female star in movies being led around on rope.!
I've been wondering about the night. Now it's here I get the very thing I've seen lurking in Margie's eyes all day.
"You a lesbian, Miss Paisley?"
And I can't do a thing, not a damn thing except mutter a sulky: "No, I'm not."
"Just you and me, Miss Paisely. No men?"
"I can wait."
"Could be quite awhile." She looks at me broodingly. "You're going to sleep with me--leastways, in my room."
I dare not complain. If I beef too much I'll get locked up in some black hole and tied so I can't move. These handcuffs are driving me up the wall, compelling me to do whatever this damn girl wants. I can't think of a thing to say except a dull 'Thank you'.
"Well, don't sound so all-fired happy about it." Margie is miffed. "Come on, I'll show you."
It's very deluxe, an enormous four poster and ensuite plumbing. To establish a nice rapport, Margie finds two more of those switches and a riding crop which she leans against a chair so I can see 'em and act accordingly. She then wriggles out of her clothes until she's bare. She waltzes around and asks: "Like me?"
I tell her she's got a lovely body, and it's true! Margie may not he all that exciting up above, but what she's got below her neck makes Lonnie a lucky guy. For something to say I ask if she sleep naked of wears a nightie.
"You crazy?" She looks at me as though I may be. "Now I gotta' get your things off and give you a bath. You can't manage, can you?"
"Give me my hands for a little while? Please, Margie? I'll let you fasten them again. It's a promise."
I am pushed back into a chair. I lose my shoes, my nylons and my panties. My dress is already tattered because that's what the script demanded. What there is of it is now torn away by strong girlish hands, my bra straps are broken to free my breasts. I'm naked.
Margie stands me up and exclaims: "Jeepers, you're a honey, Miss Paisley. You make me look like nothing!" She pinches one of my nipples in a lingering thumb and finger grip and looks straight into my eyes. "Can't stop me, can you." Her voice is loaded, she does a repeat on my other breast, watching me intently for reactions. I breathe heavily.
We share our bath. I am well soaped in any part of me likely to excite. I react. I'm a girl. Margie is pleased. Me and my handcuffs are lovingly dried, the rope tether is knotted back round my neck. Escape is a dream.
Back in the bedroom, Margie wastes no time. Before I can say a word, she grabs a switch and slashes it hard across the front of my thighs. I squeal and dance. It hurts like all get out.
"Just so you know, Miss Paisley." She's so damn smug I could scream. But she's got me, got me good. I'll be damned if I'll let myself be cut to bits over the use of my tongue--at least her pussy's been well washed. I look, miserably, down at my slashed thighs. They are fiery red and still hurting. I hear my own voice, hatefully abject: "Tell me what to do... The way you want me, Margie."
I am told. I obey. My tongue and lips find it no more a fate worse than death than being fucked. Margie pushes me this way and that. I learn a lot. She makes me climax again and again. I can understand what she means about two girls alone in an isolated Lodge. Somehow, what we do together in Marge's bed removes me even further from Andromeda and Peter Croal. When my captor's tongue is probing in my flesh this is forever.
I am laying in Margie's bed, damp, ashamed, handcuffed. She is comfortably naked beside me. My tether has been cleverly wound round the rail of the bed, then tossed beneath to be tied on the other side. There's no way I can possibly reach that knot. The rope irks my neck but I suppose I'll get used to it.
"That was lovely, Miss Paisley." Margie sighs dreamily. "You taste gorgeous. How about me?"
"I liked you too."
"Don't be so cautious." She clasps my pussy and squeezes hard. "I like this sweetheart a lot. It's a honey." She pauses. "Look, we ought to get some sleep. If you've got any ideas about escape while I'm asleep forget 'em. If you give me static I'll tie you to the bedpost and you can sleep standing up." She gives my puss a final pat and twines a leg round one of mine. She's lonely for sure.
It's a strange feeling. We are two naked girls in bed, satiated with lesbian love, our mouths still savouring the lingering taste of our secretions. But my arms are handcuffed behind my back, my neck is tethered within the range of my pillow. Margie can do anything she likes with me. I cannot do a thing to her she does not permit. While I am like this she owns me. I am a captive pussy for her pleasure. I have a feeling she isn't much concerned with my ransom, what she values most is Me. I go to sleep thinking of Peter Croal.
The morning tells me there's something I don't know. It's no more than a feeling arising out of Margie's lack of concern, her complete disinterest in my kidnapping. There's no sign she's waiting for the phone call with the good news they've got their million. She won't allow me to talk about it, the subject's taboo. The switch cut across my thighs is now purple, so its not hard for me to do as I'm told. I'm a mixture of frustration and resignation. That's the effect these handcuffs are having on me. There's just no way...!
Margie does use the phone. But, when she does, I'm taken to a far room where I can't hear a word and tethered there until she decides to release me. Sometimes it's quite awhile. She never says a word about the call, it's as though it had nothing to do with Me. Maybe it didn't. Maybe I'm just a trivial incident in Margie's life. But it's hell not knowing. It's going to drive me nuts. If I ask questions she starts flexing the riding crop and looking at me like a cat looks at cream. She carries it with her most of the time. She also keeps me naked because it hurts more on bare skin. She made a big deal out of having me watch her burn my panties and bra'. I think she was giving me some sort of message but I don't know what.
Jeepers, I don't want Margie whipping me.
I'll behave.
CHAPTER SEVEN - I'M ALL SCREWED UP
I'm tied to a tree! Why the devil would Margie want to tie me to a tree! But she has. It's nuts! It also hurts, she's tied me so damn tight. And she's done it all with a pleased little smile as though I ought to be tickled pink. I'm pink, but it's from the constriction of the ropes.
I'll admit its a change. She's had me prisoner three days and I guess we're both tired of her leading me around on a rope. I'm ashamed of the fun we've had in bed. I haven't had much choice about it, not really. But still...! Its had the good effect of keeping us friends. I think Margie feels sorry for me, and I'm not sure about that either. I'm not sure of anything.
There's quite a lot of trees and not much view. The tree I'm tied to isn't very big. My hands go behind it easily, and they're tied there tight.. At first I thought I was going to have a chance, but no way! Margie cinched my waist first, then my knees and ankles. By then she could unlock my handcuffs without worry. I couldn't do a thing except wave my arms. She let me do it a minute, just to see what it felt like again. But then I had to put my arms in back and keep still while my wrists were corded. She took a lot of care over my wrists, they're important.
Everything's so tight. She refused to loosen a think. She's even tied me over my breasts and above my elbows. She sure isn't taking any chance. I suppose she doesn't dare. Lonnie would blow his top if I wiggled free and ran. But if I managed that he'd be in jail right quick, wouldn't he. Good gosh!
"I thought you'd be grateful for a change out among the trees, Miss Paisley. But you're miffed?"
"I'm sorry. But you've made the ropes hurt, they're so tight. But it is nice out here. Thank you."
"Lonnie said I was always to let you know what you are. I think he means you're only a kidnapped girl and not the wonderful Ilona Paisley."
"Margie, I'm only just plain girl. I don't want to be a prisoner. I don't want to hurt--and I am being obedient. I don't give you trouble."
"You would if you could, Miss Paisley, it's only natural." She gives me that confiding grin again. "But I got to admit I enjoy doing things to you. You're beautiful, you're famous, and you're all mine."
"That's fine, Margie. But for how long?"
"If it wasn't for Lonnie and his lousy million I'd keep you for always." She looks at me yearningly. "I want to whip you so bad it's hurting."
"Everybody wants to whip me." I tell her wearily. "What is there about me?"
Margie shrugs, unconcerned. "Not sure I know. It's like getting hot pants for a man. You know how it is."
I suppose I do know. There's Peter and there's Fergus Burland. But I don't want Margie whipping me. It wouldn't be the same as Peter, I'd hate it. I can't imagine it making me hot behind my puss. Glumly, I complain: "If you're going to whip me anyway, what's my inducement to behave?"
"Just so you don't get whipped some more."
She has her answer pat. I suppose it's logic. I feel terribly, terribly naked, my breasts are sticking out from the way I'm tied. I say the only thing I can think of: "Please don't whip me, Margie." I smile wistfully. "I really do understand about the pleasure it can give you, but it hurts so damn bad."
"Tough."
"Please, Margie, don't?"
"Sorry, Miss Paisley, I've sort of made up my mind. I want to just as badly as you want me not to. That leaves us even. I'll leave you tied here awhile, then I'll come and whip you." She giggles. "Don't worry, I'll turn you around."
I can't figure her. In trembling apprehension I watch Margie disappear among the trees. She's going to whip me, and I've done nothing to deserve it. I'd like to think she'll do it out of erotic caprice and that maybe she won't strike too hard with her switches and crop on my bare skin. But suppose whipping me spells out an underlying cruelty, something ruthless I haven't seen in her before? She's only had me as her prisoner three days. I suppose what we do in bed doesn't count. I can't claim to know Margie at all.
I feel the creeping hysteria of panic. Being tied to this tree isn't a fun thing any more. It started out as a change of pace and scene for captive Me. But now I'm not so sure. The ropes are cutting into me viciously, the one above my breasts and the cinch round my middle hurt every time I breathe. In desperation I twist my wrists against their cords, my fingers fluttering and searching for knots they cannot find.
I thought I knew enough about being kept helpless. But this is something else again. It's total. I'm part of this damn tree. Miserably my mental vision scans the full awfulness of what's happened. Peter will be a raging lion, Andromeda will be screaming costs while Fergus Burland will be furious over the shattering of his schedule. He won't care about Me, he may even feel a quiet satisfaction over my distress. But his precious movie is in jeopardy. I can only hope he rages in and out of enough offices to speed my ransom.
I don't know about my ransom, Margie won't tell me. Suppose Lonnie's made it so high no one will pay! Suppose they're arguing? Suppose the F.B.l. are in on the deal? Suppose, suppose!
I can find no comfort anywhere. There's been enough time! In resentment and frustration I send my hands to work. When my wrists hurt too much I start to cry. The hours of my sylvan solitude slip slowly by.
Even though she will whip me I am glad to see Margie. I have had enough of my tree and my thoughts. Surprisingly, she kisses me. "Ready to be whipped, Miss Paisley?"
"I suppose so."
"Gosh, that's lukewarm. Would you sooner I left you here?"
"No!"
"That sounds better. I really think you're pleased to see me?"
"Yes, I am." I try and shrug but can't. "You wouldn't like this being alone and helpless either."
She kisses me again and pats my cheek. "Poor little movie star, you've been crying. Cheer up."
"What have I got to cheer about? You're going to whip me and I'm a prisoner, and I can't ever get loose."
"There, there--" Margie tidies my hair and pats my cheek again. "I'd have thought you'd have noticed something by now?"
I look around, bewildered. Margie laughs delightedly. "I'd have thought you'd see I don't have a whip." She pouts. "Lonnie phoned. When I told him my fun thing about whipping you he blew his top. "Seems like I mustn't mark up the merchandise."
"Oh, Margie, I'm so grateful. You can't know how much. I'd hug you if I could."
"Guess you owe that hug to Lonnie." Her grin is apologetic. "I'd still love to whip you, Miss Paisley. Am I real bitch?"
"No, you're not." My thankfulness is welling up all over the place. "I do understand about the whipping. I know about it, a lot. And, Margie, I'm so damn glad to see you--."
Margie goes in back and tugs at my hands. As she unwinds the cords she cluck-clucks a lot and sounds genuinely sorry. "You poor .dear, you must have struggled like crazy. Your wrists! Gee, I didn't know you'd be that scared."
The tree still holds me, but I have hands and arms. I rub my eyes and scratch my nose, finding ecstasy in something we always take for granted. When the rope falls from my breasts I am made to bend forward so Margie can gather my arms and click the handcuffs back on my wrists behind my back. It's crazy, but the handcuffs actually feel good after the rope. Even the leash round my neck seems a return to normal. When the last rope has been taken from me and I stop away from the tree it's as though I'm getting ready to go home. This being a it's as though I'm getting ready to go home. This being a prisoner gets a girl to thinking in the queerest ways.
"No hard feelings, Miss Paisley?"
Margie sounds anxious as though she cares. Maybe it's a good sign, maybe she's been told about my release. I am stupidly happy as I am led back to the lodge and tethered in the kitchen to be fed. Once more we are two girls together. I'd love to ask questions about that phone call, but dare not. I look down to where I am circled by the red markings of the rope. Margie raises coffee to my lips.
It is the fourth day. Margie and I are pleased with each other but bored. Two girls alone in an isolated Lodge, we expend ourselves each night in bed and do not rise early. I remain helpless, she refuses to unlock my hands from behind my back, and thus must tend me totally. But there is much time to fill and Margie sees me as an amusing possession she may soon lose.
"I simply must do something to you, Miss Paisley. That being told not to whip you was a real turn off. I'd got myself hepped up."
There are many ways of hurting, I am on delicate ground. Margie is childlike in her sexual affection coupled with an absence of conscience about inflicting pain. When we are not doing our girlie girlie thing she sees me as a lovely toy. Striving to foster friendliness. I make a tentative suggestion.
"You could chain my feet, Margie, or hobble them with rope. I'd have to take short steps or hop skip and jump."
"Good try, Miss Paisley." Margie is gazing at me intently and thinking hard. She suddenly brightens. "I know what I'll do. It's the cutest thing."
I am led to where she has rope scattered on the floor. I am told to stand with feet apart and to hold still. Margie selects the length she wants, her cute idea begins.
"I've seen it in pictures." She giggles delightedly. "It won't even stop you walking." She giggles again. "I mean, it saves you from being entirely bare."
Oh shit, I know what she's going to do! I've seen pictures somewhere myself. A tight roped tummy and two strands between my legs and up front. Margie elects to position one on each side of my pussy, then heaves so it's hard to stand against her tug. The neat ensemble is completed by knots below my navel. The cleft in my bottom doesn't like it, my pussy complains bitterly, my waist is a band of fire. I look at my pleased companion and exclaim: "But--but--Margie, it doesn't do anything--except hurt?"
"That's right, Miss Paisley, it doesn't stop you doing a thing. It's just a pretty little punishment. Every time you move you'll think of me. It won't even stop you having a pee."
"Oh, Margie, must I really walk around like this? It hurts."
"It doesn't hurt that bad." She poses in an affectation of deep decision. "What it needs, Miss Paisley, is a balance, something up above. How'd you like clothes pins on your nipples?"
"No! Oh, no please!"
"But yes. It's a scrumptious idea. Hold still."
Margie vanishes, mischievously enthused. I could almost laugh my self if it wasn't that I'm going to hurt in several different places. I take short cautious steps back and forth, my hips swaying outrageously and the mound of my pussy protruded by the cord biting at it on each side. Well, anyway, it's better than being tied to a tree.
"Here we are, Miss Paisley, you're going to love these."
I do not love the clothes pins, but my radiant jailer is intrigued. I consider a struggle. But what's the use! My handcuffed wrists are the arbiter of my destiny. They tell me to stick my breasts out and behave.
"I want them on you so they stick up and jiggle when you walk."
Margie's experiments on my helpless nipples hurt. The pins are clipped on me this way and that until she achieves the desired result. I am an interested witness to this small torture, wincing and yelping at unfamiliar pain. When she stands back, satisfied, I have to admit the perky flaunting of these additions were on someone else. I stand and absorb my pain, wondering if it will become numbed or get worse.
"How about one on each ear and one on your tongue, Miss Paisley? Oh wow -!"
Margie vanishes. She has forgotten to fasten my leash. My bare feet make no sound. I slink through doors and run.
It is instinctive, primal. Once started, my flight becomes panic. I am absurd. What hope have I got! But the rope round my neck trails innocently behind, and a girl does not need hands to run. I grit my teeth against the pain of my roped loins and clipped nipples.
Escape! Once outside the lodge escape becomes real. I leap down the faint track made by the jeep, and on into the trees. It will lead somewhere. It must! Even if it's miles and miles.
In a swift flash my mind computes my chance. If Margie searches the Lodge first I have a hope. If she leaps instantly outdoors that hope becomes very small. I am betting my all in following the track, hoping she will believe it too obvious. If she follows in the jeep, I will hear her coming. It will be time enough then to hide. Before I plunge out of sight into the trees I look back. Margie is not to be seen. Hope soars. I run and run and damn the pain. My tether trails me like a flag of victory.
The further I leave the Lodge behind, the more my enemy becomes pain. Bare feet on twigs and stones, the clips on my nipples bouncing up and down with each step, fire from the two ropes between my thighs. But, soon, one of the clothes pins flips itself off my rosebud. It is not long before the other follows. Gosh, what a relief! It's a good omen, it just has to be! I run and run.
Eventually I have to walk. I'm panting heavily. I stand a moment to listen, but there is only silence. I strain my fingers to seek the knots of my torture rope. But Margie was too clever, I cannot reach them. Perhaps if I took a lot of time and really worked at it...? But I do not have the time. Sweating, I job along at the most comfortable pace I can contrive. It is quite a few miles before I reach a clearly defined dirt road. I follow the angle of it which will lead me furthest from the Lodge.
I've plodded along for an hour. The sound is the first vehicle I've seen or heard. When I'm sure it's not Margie's jeep I step out squarely in the middle of the road. I've totally forgotten what I must look like. The old sedan slows to a halt to allow a heavy middle aged woman to stick her head out of its window in a shocked stare.
"Please help me. I've been kidnapped. I'm Ilona Paisley."
Dammit', my plea should have got instant results. But it falls on deaf ears. A grating voice sums me up succinctly. "You brazen bitch standing there nekkit!" She takes a deep breath and adds, darkly: 'I know your kind. I read the papers. Playing your filthy games! Look at you -- disgusting!"
"But I'm Ilona Paisley--"
"You're the Devil's daughter as far as I'm concerned." She shifts gears and spins her wheels. I stand in her dust and watch her vanish down the road.
Oh damn, in my anxiety to escape I've forgotten the hazards. My roped loins will convey the wrong sort of message. Handcuffed the way I am leave me fair game for any male who enjoys an easy rape. What I need is a civilized married couple. I'd best be choosey. I hide from jeeps and trucks. It's late afternoon before there's another sedan for me to plant my nakedness in front of. This time its new. It purrs to a halt, nudging me. The door opens and Fergus Burland steps out onto the dusty road. His greeting is vintage Fergus.
"Having fun?"
"Oh, Fergus...!" I don't care if he hates me. He's Andromeda and rescue. "Oh, Fergus, thank heavens--!" I throw myself against his masculine bulk, lay my head on his shoulder and weep in gratitude for salvation. His arm circles me and pats my bottom. It feels wonderful.
Fergus holds me out at arm's length for a good look. "Gosh, you're a mess, 'Lona."
"Fergus, I'm handcuffed. Have you a key?"
"Of course not, Why would I!"
"Well, it doesn't matter. But please cut these ropes off my hips."
"You mean off your cunt. Huh, they look good on you."
"Please, Fergus, I'm hurting. But, gollies, you don't know how glad I am to see you. Please hurry." Ridiculously, I add: "I've been kidnapped."
"Hmmmmmm, out jogging?"
"Fergus, please don't tease. I managed to escape like this.
I've been running for miles."
"Congratulations. "
"There's an isolated Lodge--a girl kept me prisoner."
"How'd you manage?"
"She forgot to tie my leash--this rope that's trailing from my neck. Please cut it off, Fergus, I'm so sick of it."
"Ah...!" Fergus cuts the world from beneath my feet with a gentle query. "What d'you think of my rural retreat?"
There's one thing about real friends and real enemies. You don't need words. It takes me two seconds to pick up what Fergus has said. I stand, stupidly, staring up at his amused scrutiny. Enjoyably, he watches a tear trickle down my cheek. I expect he sees it as the pearl the poets rave about with maiden tears. But I can't stop, the whole thing's just too cruel, cruel, cruel...! I don't deserve this. My voice trembles: "I wasn't kidnapped...?"
"Abducted. No fiscal profit."
"Lonnie and Margie--?"
"Lonnie and Margie belong to me, 'Lona."
"Then I belong to you too?"
"Good girl! Couldn't have put it better myself."
I look up and down the road--Nothing! I'm roped and bound, chained and naked. It's no use running, Fergus has me. He stands complacently, savouring victory. I can just imagine how good he feels. I ask what I must know! You'll keep me prisoner?"
"Yes."
"It was all planned?"
"Yes."
"But Andromeda... and Peter?"
"They're going nuts, so is the Press. No ransom note, that's what gets 'em. There's a school of thought figures you've quietly walked off on your own. Your precious Peter's doing some tall wondering about his slavegirl."
"Fergus, it's too cruel. It hurts too many people."
"Not half as bad as it's going to hurt you, my pet."
I can take his threat for granted, it will keep me trembling. But I search for his soft spots. "Fergus, the picture? What about 'Captured'--it was going so good?"
My new owner nods soberly. "That one hurts. I'll take it out of hide." Fergus opens the car door and motions me within.
I look my last at free sky, at a desolate road, at this beetle browed male. I shrug helplessly and settle myself in the front seat. I'm surprised he hasn't put me in the trunk. Before he starts the motor I plead: "Please take these ropes off me, Fergus. They're not doing a particle of good. I can't possibly escape." Surprisingly, he tugs at knots. He frees my neck, then says an abrupt "Get out," and opens the door. I stand in thankfulness as he strips the hateful strands away from my secret place and around my waist. It hurts, but it's a lovely hurt. When I am free of everything except the handcuffs I am impelled to sincerity: "Thank you, Fergus. I'll always be grateful whenever you're kind to me."
"You offering me your body?"
"It's not mine to offer, Fergus. You already own it."
He is pleased. I have nothing to be pleased about except the glory of being free of chafing rope. I am going back into captivity. Fergus will take out on me every frustration he's ever had. I will be horribly whipped. I wriggle my chained arms into the corner. The car wheels turn. As we gather speed Fergus asks: "Margie treat you O.K.?"
"Yes. Except for notions about hurting me she's sweet. Was it you who stopped her whipping me yesterday?"
"Of course. I want your skin virgin. Flawless." I get his sideways glance. "Haven't you wondered why Margie didn't catch you?"
I curl up inside at the very thought. "You mean, my escape was a put-up job, she let me get away?"
"Correct. A small refinement, 'Lona."
"It's a big cruelty. Fergus, why d'you have to be so mean to me?"
"It's a gift, a natural talent."
"There was a woman in a car. She refused to pick me up. If she'd taken me to the police, where would that have left you?"
"Luck of the Irish, Pet."
Fergus Burland's star is in the ascendant, he has his world by the tail. He has Me. He frankly gloats.
"We'll do your big whipping twice, 'Lona. I'm thinking of something ritualistic, a long drawn out affair, at the Lodge. A punishment I can lick my lips over. When I get you back in front of the camera you'll take it according to the script. Croal can use my leftovers."
"You mean you'll take me back? We'll finish 'Captured'?"
"I've got it in mind. Don't hold your breath."
"But, how can you? After what you've done, what you're doing right now?"
"No problem. I'll have rescued you. Made my own search, routed your kidnappers. It's an easy script. Right now you think you'll blow the whistle on me, but you won't.".
His assurance is frightening. He's a scary brute. The handcuffs on my wrists feel tighter and tighter. But he's offered hope! Casually, he snatches it back.
"That's one scenario, pet. The other is I just keep you so anytime I have a lousy week I can come to the Lodge and whip your ass until I feel better. Your week-ends will be something to look forward to. Fucked and flogged! How's that grab you?"
"What you're saying, Fergus is you'll steal my life?"
"Mmmmmmm, I'll go along with that. You have to admit you've got a few punishments coming."
I flare in anger, I can't help it. "What d'you mean, punishments? I've done nothing to deserve any of this--except love Peter Croal. You're jealous."
"Pile up the demerits, pet. You're doing fine. I'll make you a sorry little girl."
I lapse into a sulky silence. I can't fathom him. Surely Fergus Burland can't be this mean, this petty. But the best I can hope for is for him to whip me bad enough he'll feel better, and maybe sorry. I can bet on being fucked for sure. Perhaps if he does that to me enough it will ease the pressure. He's an unexploded bomb.
Fergus hands me back to Margie like a bag of groceries. She searches my face for forgiveness, knowing how I must feel. His order is concise. "Clean her up, Margie. Leave her handcuffed and naked. Bring her to the lounge for cocktails."
We are not long constrained to awkward silence. Safe in the bathroom, Margie takes me in her arms and I weep on her shoulder. "I'm awful sorry, Miss Paisley. This whole thing's sorta mean. But don't get too scared of Mr. Burland, I figure he barks a lot and them bushy eyebrows...!" She gives me an extra hug. "But I gotta' do what he says, and you'll have to behave." She gives me a girlie, girlie kiss. "You may as well figure on getting fucked a lot, I think that's half his trouble. I mean, why he's such a bear."
I am filthy. The bath is good. Margie's hands are magic on my skin and in my hair. My own hands belong to my handcuffs behind my back, I do not even think of them anymore. I am shining sleek and wickedly perfumed as Margie leads me to the man who owns us both.
"Stand her in front of me, about eight feet. You, 'Lona, stay where you're put, separate your legs."
Gosh, Fergus must be happy. I stand in front of him, naked, my legs apart to show my pussy, my hands chained behind my back. I can cover nothing. My breasts and every bit of me is his. It's hard to appear unconcerned, I'm almost panting as he burns me with his eyes.
"Nice, very nice." Fergus is the Grand Master. "Margie, paint her nipples scarlet. Then, for Pete's sake get us all a drink. I need one. So does our prisoner."
I shrink at the ugly word. But I suppose a prisoner is what I am. I stand and look at a make believe horizon while my nipples are gaudily painted. Under Margie's rapt attention my fire ignites. I can't imagine getting sexually excited over Fergus Burland, but girls are nuts.
"Make her drink the whole thing down, Margie. You can't stand there with her while she sips, and I want her standing."
I gulp and gulp. With fire in my tummy I stare at this beetle browed male who can do what he likes with me. Oh sure, I could run! But where? And what would he do to me when I'm caught! I stand erect.
"A few rules, 'Lona. Get 'em straight." The Great Director glares. "Total obedience to Margie and I. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Escape attempts will be punished. You'll wish you'd never tried."
"Yes, Fergus."
"No sarcasms, no beefs, no asking to be freed."
"Gee thanks! May I breathe?"
It slipped out. I could kick myself but I actually said it. Woefully, I see Fergus licking his chops. His command is a declaration of war. "Margie, get me a riding crop."
I stand, looking at Fergus wistfully. I'm panting now for sure. But I got myself into this one, there's no one else to blame. He rises negligently and accepts the beastly thing Margie proffers. "Get your hands up out of the way, 'Lona. Don't move."
They are swift and deadly and devastating. Two shocking cuts bedding themselves into the flesh of my bottom. Unimagined pain. I manage to keep still for them, but as their agony spreads I slip, whimpering, to the rug and writhe shamelessly. I may be the hottest star in films... But I hurt, Oh how I hurt...!
"Get up and show me your rump, idiot."
It's hateful and way I obey. While Fergus holds that crop obedience is my only concern. Scarlet and shamed I offer my posterior for his approval. I wince as his finger follows the puffed ridges of his work. He cropped me cruelly, the worst I've ever known. Ruefully, I mutter: "I'm sorry, Fergus. I'll try and remember."
"You'd better. Now, back up a pace and kneel, facing me. Stay put."
Dumbly, I obey. Even with punishment I'll have the damndest time adjusting. This man and I have worked together, been normal. How the hell can he expect me to be a doormat and suddenly stop being Me. If I act half way natural I'll be punished to pieces. I'm trembling and my bottom burns steadily.
"Another drink all round, Margie. Then leave."
I gulp gratefully but don't stop hurting. Margie downs hers swiftly and departs. I kneel before my Master. We are alone. "It's good seeing you like that, 'Lona."
I not cautiously as though in full agreement. Boy, is Fergus on top of the world! He's got no place else to go--Or has he?
"Your whipping won't be right away quick, 'Lona. I'll want us to talk about it so you get maximum suspense."
"Yes, of course. I understand."
"Have you been thinking about it?"
"It keeps me shivering all the time--Oh, Fergus...?"
"Is that a beef?"
"No! Oh, no! I'm sorry."
"While you're waiting there can be lesser punishments. I'm thinking of one a day. Can't have you bored." He lets the good news sink in before adding: "Want to hear about 'em?"
I'll never make this! He's too much. I look up into his fierce eyes and say, flatly: "No, I don't want to hear the ways you'll hurt me. But I know that's the wrong answer. So I'll say 'yes please', I'd love for you to tell me my punishments."
It's a borderline. While I tremble he wonders if he has an excuse to use the crop on me again. He decides against it, and asks. "Ever hear of the bastinado?"
"Yes. It's where they whip the soles of a girl's feet."
"Right! Aren't you going to ask me not to do it to you?"
"No."
"You're doing fine. What about riding the rail?"
"A girl is tied so she has to sit naked on something hard and sharp. I suppose it cuts her crotch in two."
"Well... more or less. Then, there's suspension?"
"I'm not sure. Is it where I'm hung by my thumbs?"
"Good girl! Now you tell me one."
I'm damned if I'm going to tell Fergus about Peter's little tricks. Diffidently, I vouchsafe: "I'm not a student of such things, Fergus. I've never even seen a thumbscrew but that's all I can think of."
"Good try. Now another?"
I am not yet broken. I flare. "Don't be hateful! All this talk of torture because you've got me naked and helpless--it's disgusting... horrible...!"
I've done it again. Oh damn and double damn! The way he's flexing that crop... and staring."
"Don't get up, 'Lona." His voice vibrates with quiet satisfaction. "Bend forward and press your forehead on the rug."
The son-of-a-bitch! Jeepers, this is awful. My bottom's a mile high and all stretched and tight. The crop's going to hurt it twice as bad. But I'm being obedient
I'm obeying.
"Possibly the best position of the lot." Fergus's voice is cheerfully musing as he taps where he's going to hit and uses the crop to push my joined hands further up my back. "Feeling repentant, pet?"
"Yes, very."
Two strokes. Such pain shouldn't be possible, it's more than a girl can bear. It explodes me into agony. If he'd spaced 'em I couldn't have held tight for number two. As it is, I scream and do another writhing contortion on the floor. I'm ashamed of myself but I just don't care. When I finally struggle back to my kneeling pose I'm sobbing, hard dry sobs that bounce my breasts and signal my defeat. Fergus's query is heavily patient.
"Can we continue our conversation, 'Lona--politely, that is?"
"Yes. Oh, yes!"
"We'll drop your trifling tortures for the time being, pet, and get around to your sexual behavior. I'm assuming you deliver a competent fuck?"
"Yes."
"You will position yourself to be fucked whenever or however I indicate."
"Yes."
"I could appreciate a bit more warmth in those affirmatives."
"I--I--I'm sorry, Fergus. I'm all upset."
"Four trivial strokes on your bottom, and you forget what you are?"
"They weren't trivial! They were--Oops, sorry! Oh, Fergus, what d'you want me to say -I hurt so damn awful I can't think."
"We'll let that one pass, my pet." Damn him, he's oozing omnipotence. "I'd like you to recap the instruction about our coupling, if you please?"
I hope he doesn't see me gulp. This is pure hell, grinding my nose in the dirt. But I'm putting all the life I can muster into my abnegation. "I'll position myself for you to fuck me whenever or however you like, Fergus. Just tell me what to do."
"Nice." He grunts approvingly. "I suppose you know what a blow job is?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Why afraid?"
"I'm sorry. Yes. I know what a blow job is. It means sucking your cock. I'll do it for you whenever you tell me."
"Above and beyond the call of duty!" The bastard's surprised. "I suppose you're aware that all bodily orifices may be utilized?"
"I expect you're talking about sodomy, Fergus. I don't know anything about it but I'll position myself for that too."
"Excellent. Come close so I can stroke your hair."
I shuffle forward and am suddenly enveloped in man smell: cloth, tobacco, leather and maleness. It is a safe and comforting scent for a hurt girl. Suddenly, my face is buried in his lap and I'm crying again. I can't help it. His hand is strangely gentle in my hair, his fingers comb it lovingly. After awhile my voice comes, muffled in his pants. "I'm sorry, Fergus."
"Don't be." He leans down and unlocks my handcuffs. I'm so shocked at having hands it takes me a little time to catch on. Then, my fingers fly to his zipper. "No, don't!" His command is abrupt. "Stay as you are."
I'll never understand Fergus, not ever.
There is a beautiful silence. One of my freed hands rests on Fergus's thigh for support, the other gently strokes up and down his trousered leg while he plays with my hair. We are like lovers. In a little while we'll become sexually aroused. Guiltily I start to break away but his hand is a command to keep still. It is quite a little while before he speaks again.
"You'll be fastened a lot. You have to be."
"You mean tied and chained? Yes, I understand."
"Not practical to grant you freedom."
"No, of course not, Fergus."
"Sometimes, like now, it will please me to have you free. But when the time comes for you to be handcuffed again I want instant compliance. No beefs."
"Yes, Fergus. I promise." I kneel back and show him my hands as though they're a curiosity. "I'm so terribly grateful to have my hands a little while. Its been so long
Thank you."
"You'll be bound--and you'll stand still for the binding."
"Yes. I will."
"And for chains and straps, you'll put your wrists and ankles where they have to go--without me asking."
"Yes. I'll remember. Honest."
"Go and make us each another drink. Serve mine on your knees."
It's wonderful! It's crazy! But I've got two hands, all mine, use them to mix the cocktails and to finger my wounds. Gosh, I'm welted! But I'm more concerned right now with keeping this mood going. I do a really beautiful slavegirl pose as I kneel and proffer his glass. Then I sit back on my heels for more instruction. If I'm to avoid being cropped I'd best know it all.
"Delightfully civilized, 'Lona." Fergus takes a sip. "We're communicating. I want your punishments to be interspersed by interludes like this." He sips again. "But you do have to understand that these pleasant times together, and anything sexual, won't change the fact of your formal whipping which we'll get around to sometime. It will be there waiting."
I suppose I'm disappointed. That damn whipping has faded a bit this last while. But, jeepers, anything can happen
and he hasn't even taken me to bed yet. I put on a brave show. "I know it will be, Fergus. I know I have to get that whipping. It's something you absolutely have to do to me. I'm not complaining.' From his look I wonder if I've overdone it. Too much humility becomes sarcasm. But he's pleased. Fergus likes everything sorted out. He's told me what sort of a slavegirl he expects me to be, so now we talk about 'Captured' and Andromeda and the bunch we know. He lets me keep my hands. Gollies!
Margie announces Dinner and we go to it chatting busily. It's not until I realise I'm using a knife and fork that I wonder if he's forgotten. Margie looks, pointedly, at my free hands but says nothing. I decide to play it safe.
"Fergus. I'm not handcuffed. Should I be?"
Fergus grunts. I think he's forgotten but won't let on. He waves away my feminine concern. "Nice for you to feed yourself sometimes. Enjoy while you can."
For good measure--I mean, real slave stuff, I ask: "I'm loving this, Fergus, but would you like to cuff my ankles? Just so I don't get ideas?"
He's puzzled, just as I'm puzzled about him. He can't have any idea how that riding crop hurts me. He doesn't give it credit for my anxious behavior. Bruskly he warns. "Enjoy Dinner. Stop being cute."
Bedtime is something else again. Fergus drank quite a lot of wine, and I'm still a free girl. I wonder about making a run for it but once a day is enough. I'm already naked so I await M'lord's orders. When they don't come I lay on my back on the bed and spread my legs. I'm not going to get whipped if I can help it.
Fergus turns out the light and undresses in the dark. He gets in beside me and draws up the covers to our chins. He draws my nakedness to him and holds me tight. My hand searches and finds only flaccid flesh. Suddenly, I understand a lot.
CHAPTER EIGHT - I'M SCREWED
He'll kill me.
"Impotence is the most awful thing for a man, and I know about his. He can't ever let me go. Maybe Fergus is laying here beside me and giving me the blame for not turning him on. Oh shit, why did this have to happen on top of everything else! I've still got my hands, maybe I should take a chance and run. I'm still debating this when I feel something wet on my bare shoulder. Fergus Burland is crying.
I turn and give him all of me. Dammit', I'm supposed to be the most beautiful girl in movies, it ought to work. It doesn't! I know this is crucial for me. I've either got to make a break or get him an erection. If he handcuffs me I'm lost. I thrust my breasts hard against his chest and whisper, urgently, in his ear.
"It's alright, Fergus, It's alright. There'll be something. What is it?"
He cuddles me, wiping wet eyes on my bare skin. I'm not practiced in this. Peter never had this trouble. But, before I end up in chains in a dungeon, I have to try. I make my voice eager: "Tell me, Fergus, tell me. I'll love it."
I've unlocked his tongue, but I don't like what I hear. "The whip, 'Lona. Not the crop, the whip."
"O.K. I don't mind. Tell me where it is."
Fergus tells me where it is. I speed on my errand. Both of us have forgotten about my handcuffs. We both have to be crazy. When I come back with his beastly whip he's standing naked, a considerable chunk of man, waiting. I kneel. I kiss the damn whip, I offer it to him. That's the way I've read...! Jeepers, I hope this works. Huskily, I ask: "How do you want me, Fergus?"
"Hold on to the bedpost, 'Lona."
This is better than when he cropped me. Now I've something to hold on to and, boy, do I need it. I wish I was tied so I can't play the foot, but it seems like we're in a hurry.
"Hold tight, 'Lona. Cover your breasts."
No bedpost was ever so loved. I positively wrap myself around it when Fergus's first stripe cuts my back. I whimper, then clench my teeth. I'm into something I have to try to win. There's no way I want to be a prisoner in Fergus's Lodge for years and years. The second stroke is so damn bad I make inarticulate sounds, a cry of female pleading. With number three I scream.
I am wrenched from the post. I am clutched to weld two nudities as one. Between my legs is something hard and fierce. When I am thrown on the bed I play my part, but Fergus explodes before I'm half way. Not that it matters. Fergus is what matters most to me. I want him to like me and be pleased with me and be kind. I don't want to be kept in chains all week and whipped every week-end for the next decade.
Now comes the strangest thing. He ought to be glad, and maybe he is. But we speak no word. I await a cue, but there is no cue. Fergus arranges my back against the massive post of his bed. With great care be binds me to it, a tight rope for every bit of Me. When he is through I am a work of art, exquisitely bound, utterly helpless. He has even contrived ropes tugging my pussy back against the wood. I cannot move. Fergus throws himself into bed and is instantly asleep.
I guess I'll never understand Fergus.
I try to wriggle but can't. My wrists are crossed and tied behind the post, my elbows are tied to it. I'm foxed. If I struggle too hard I'll wake Fergus up and he'll be mad. Hell, what's the use anyway! Dolefully, I look back at my day and wonder if I could have done better. I wonder about Fergus and about Me, and why he's tied me this way. Gosh, it was nice not to be handcuffed...! But I am tired. The ropes support me totally. I go to sleep standing against the post.
It's morning. I'm alone and still tied tight. Maybe Fergus is shamed of last night and his macho image. Gosh, I hope he isn't upset about what we had to do. That thing's so important to men. If he's hurt and chagrined he'll take it out on me. But his erection, when he got one, was something he doesn't have to be ashamed of. If he and I can get it up once we can do it again and maybe he'll appreciate my part in it and be kind. But, supposing I have to be whipped every time as a prelude...? Jeepers...!
It's Margie. She grins at me and at the rumpled bed and at the whip. I guess the picture tells a story. She admires Fergus's ropework and asks if I'd like to be untied.
"Quite a night, eh, Miss Paisley. Get yourself well screwed?"
I tell her, yes, but without detail. If Fergus has slept with her she must have something I lack. But it's dangerous ground. I limit myself to fervid assurances of my most earnest wish to be untied. When enough rope has been stripped from my flesh I lean forward and position my arms behind my back.
"Sorry about the handcuffs, Miss Paisley. Seems like they're the best." She clicks the steel snugly round my wrists.
"Sure, Margie, I know. I don't mind. But, please, not that rope on my neck too?"
"Mr. Burland bought you a collar, Miss Paisley. Look, isn't it really something'!"
It is really something. Shining metal that locks a long expensive leather leash. Seeing it and feeling it clasp my throat starts my fire. I really am absurd.
"Mr. Burland had to leave. He'll be back midday sometime." Margie looks at me sympathetically. "I guess you're in for a weird time, Miss Paisley." She tugs away the ropes below my waist.
I step away from the post. Wow, the motion feels good. Wryly I look down at my ropemarks, they're vivid enough to be fancy dress. Forthrightly, I put it to Margie straight. "Look, no ransom. I'm not being held for money. How much do you and Lonnie want to set me free?"
She wriggles unhappily, her eyes pleading.
"I'll pay you anything. So would Andromeda. So would Peter Croal."
"I just knew you'd ask that." She sounds exasperated. "Mr. Burland said you would, and I'm supposed to tell him when you do. Lonnie says we've made a deal with Mr. Burland and it's a good deal, and we have to stay with it." Her expression is pathetic. "I'm so sorry, Miss Paisley."
I'm sorry too, especially if she goes and blurts it out to Fergus. He'll see it as an excuse to punish me. I make the only pitch I know: "One million dollars, Margie?"
She's so distressed I feel a bitch. Margie positively squirms. "It's no good, Miss Paisley. Please don't but me about getting free. It's all been talked over and decided. It won't be all that bad for you here, will it?"
"Burland's going to torture me and give me some lousy awful whipping. Please let me go?"
"He's all talk, Miss Paisley." Poor Margie is breathlessly unsure. "He'll only do 'bout half them things. He's mad at you for something but it'll pass."
"O. K., Margie, keep me prisoner. I won't give you a bad time. But please don't tell Fergus what I've just said."
Margie is actually shuffling her feet and looking unhappy. Her voice is frighteningly sincere. "I've got to, Miss Paisley, I promised. Lonnie says it's important. None of us must cheat."
"He'll half kill me with some sort of punishment."
"Anytime he half kills you I'll set you free. How's that?"
It's a victory. We kiss on it. I am hugged. I don't have hands so am back to what passes as normal in this captivity. I am bathed and fed, I sit at Margie's kitchen table, primly leashed. For sure I will never escape by my own efforts; never, never, never! It is over our last cup of coffee she breaks the news.
"I've got to tie you up, Miss Paisley, all ready for Mr. Burland when he gets back."
I tug my handcuffs and shake my head against its collar. "You mean I'm not fastened enough?"
"No, it's not that. It's so he can do something to you."
"For Pete's sake, what?"
"Well, never mind. He'll tell you about it. I'm not sure I know. Mr. Burland just showed me how he wants you tied."
She knows. But I won't push the poor dear. I begin to feel sorry for Margie, and maybe I'll be happier if I don't find out. I shrug and sit and watch her wash the dishes. I can't help, and she won't dare take off my handcuffs. We talk awhile until she's suddenly in a great hurry to get me fixed.
The sheet of plywood is in the middle of the lounge. Someone's put it there, so it has to mean something. I am quite sure it means Me. Bolted at one end is a metal frame. Not all that big. Innocent. Uprights a yard apart. Two feet high. A crosspiece at the top and another further down. Simple. Margie spreads, not one but two, bright red blankets on the wood. She oozes apology.
"You have to lay face down, Miss Paisley. I'll help."
I need her help. When a girl has no hands she flounders like a fish. I end up on my breasts with a close view of red wool. Margie works hard with tugging and pulling, some of it on me. I keep quiet.
"I'm not sure when Mr. Burland will show, Miss Paisley. I'm real sorry if you have to wait."
I must be innocent. It's not until my left ankle is firmly tied to the frame that I realise what I'm in for. By then it's too late. What the hell can a girl do with one foot! And its no use pleading. Fergus Burland is going to beat the soles of my feet.
Without hands and arms it's difficult, but I look back as best I can and watch Margie prepare me for something that scares me silly. Each of my legs have been bent back at the knee and my ankles tied a foot apart to the top bar. She's now working on my knee hollows, cording them tight to the lower crosspiece. She uses a lot of rope, nicely banded and very tight. She's finished my right leg and I can't move a thing from my thigh up except to wriggle my toes. My left gets the treatment too and I'm fixed, but good! The soles of my feet are flatly exposed, pointing straight up--almost pleading. Oh shit...!
"You're always so lovely when you're tied, Miss Paisley." Margie walks slowly round and round my helpless nudity. She collects the leash from my collar to leave it tastefully coiled to one side. "I've used two blankets, it shouldn't be too hard." She bends to kiss the nape of my neck below the collar. "I'm sorry about this the waiting and--and "And me getting my feet whipped." I finish for her bitterly. "Margie, I'm scared."
"Well... I don't know what it's like." She makes ineffectual motions. "But Mr. Burland may not whip the soles of your feet too hard. I think a lot depends... It may be bearable."
"Anyway, you've done your duty." I erase the bitterness. "I feel about seventy percent soles and thirty percent tits on the blanket." I wriggle fretfully. "Have you any idea how uncomfortable this is?"
Poor Margie! She kisses and fondles me, then goes away. I'm sure she's glad to escape. But she says Fergus wants me tied alone to await his august presence. Oh, damn, damn, damn!
With one cheek on the blanket it's not too bad. If I wasn't so frightened I could go to sleep. But my poor feet, he can cut them to bits if he wants to. All I can do is scream. Why, oh why, oh why!
Fergus is beautifully relaxed and cheerful, as though I'm simply resting on a rug. He ignores last night. He is very macho. I suspect he has an erection. Margie serves drinks. She has to tug up on a handful of my hair to pour mine down. Fergus settles in an armchair and slowly sips while he admires his creation. What I mean is, he looks at me.
"Margie's done a nice job on you, 'Lona."
"Yes, hasn't she."
"I intend to whip the soles of your feet over quite a long time, pet. I hope you don't mind?"
"Not at all."
We have to be nuts, but that's what we've just said. I suppose it does me as much good as a lot of arguing. But I sure wish I wasn't in this fix.
"You will be forgiven after you've been punished, pet."
"Please forgive me now?"
"No."
"I'll behave terribly. It'll hurt so much. I'm afraid I'll scream and scream...."
"I have an excellent gag, 'Lona. You'll love it." Fergus sighs happily. "I suppose we might as well get started. Because of the unusual nature of your punishment I'll space it out."
"Please, Fergus--!"
They are my last words. The rubber fills my mouth, the leather compresses my lips, the strap is buckled. Fergus holds before my eyes the thing he will use on my feet. It is thin and wicked.
"The Arabs use rods, 'Lona. But we want no broken bones If I could scream it would split the room apart. Fergus has cut me the full length of one upturned sole. I go as crazy as I can, which isn't much, while he resumes his seat and his drink. "An excellent cure for boy friends." He says equably. "Gets rich upstarts out of a girl's mind."
The S.O.B. This agony! And because he's jealous...! Oh damn, I'm in trouble. There's no way I can make enough noise or motion to let him know how impossibly painful this is. I may never walk again. I lay on my tits, moaning into my gag, and wait for number two while Fergus is loving every minute.
When my other foot receives its stroke my head flails wildly, my shoulders rock from side to side on the twin softness of my breasts, my fingers claw at my handcuffs. That's all I can do. I hope the sounds coming from behind the gag and from my flared nostrils will touch pity in this outrageous man who watches be broodingly while he sips. This way Margie's tied me leaves me so damn helpless. The way my feet stick up offering themselves reminds me of how children in school used to have to hold out their hands to be caned. It's as though the soles of my feet plead to be whipped.
"We have plenty of time." Says Fergus. "I'll give you another stiff drink after the tenth."
I make my ineffectual protests. They are worse than nothing.
"You could have avoided this by saying, yes, a couple of times." Fergus continues admonishingly. "But, oh no, you have to be the noble maiden dedicated to her Peter Croal." His tone becomes a sneer. "I'm sure nobility will enable you to bear these small discomforts I'm imposing."
The smug bastard! If Fergus has any chivalry it's not showing. I'm sure he can't know the awfulness of what he's doing to my feet. He probably thinks it just hurts enough to make me squeal and feel sorry for myself. He's crass. He doesn't know damn all about girls.
"You can sit on the edge of a plant tomorrow, Lona. Give you a nice rest."
Piss on him! I wish I could die. He's going to kill me anyway. I hope he takes me over the brink before we reach the big whipping scene he's so taken up with. I mean, I won't have a think to look forward to" I go as crazy as my bonds permit as number three slices itself lovingly on top of number one. My feet don't even move.
"I rather like this." Fergus observes musingly. "You're in a properly humble posture and, judging by the signs, you're deriving benefit. Are the strokes generating virtue in your soul, pet?"
What a beast of a question! But I nod, I nod hard. I get number four on top of number two as a reward. What's the use! What's the use of anything...!
"If I do decide to take you back to Andromeda to finish 'Captured', 'Lona you'll be the most tractable star the camera's ever seen. You'll be knowing this could happen again."
He's crazy. He'll never take me back, he won't dare. I bury my face and sob into Margie's blankets as the soles of my feet are slashed again and again. When my head is dragged back and raw spirit burns my throat I can't believe I've had only ten strokes. The gag goes back in my mouth before I can say a thing that matters.
"You're a lucky girl, 'Lona. You're getting something you needed badly. Are you grateful?"
What a brass bound bastard! But I give him all the nods his heart can desire. Grateful...? Good gosh...!
"Peter Croal doesn't understand you the way I do, pet. He'd never look after you as well as this."
Fergus whips my feet, whips them, whips them whips them terribly on and on. I wallow in agony. But, even in its depths, I realise he is not hitting me all out. I suppose if he hit me a lot harder the way he could my feet would come apart. I begin to sink away into a pain wracked limbo. But, before the numbness comes, there's an exclamation as a knife slices away my bonds in four swift cuts. My nakedness is positioned on the blankets by rough demanding hands so I lay on my back upon my still joined arms. I see Fergus's beetle brows coming closer and closer and, suddenly in one brutal thrust, I am pierced. Fergus is not impotent. He ravages me like a bull.
It is better than being whipped.
I don't know what's happened. I guess the pain, and then Fergus's huge phallus ramming and ramming into my swollen sex climaxed me over into some sort of nothingness. I'm still on the blankets. I'm still handcuffed. I'm cold. Fergus has gone and I've no idea of time. Very cautiously, I sit up on one hip.
My feet tell me I am not dead. They cry out to me with a strange anguish like no other pain I've known. My legs keep twitching as though shrinking from a needle. I am scared to look.
It's ironic, and probably deliberately mocking. But, the way I am, I could make another run for freedom. My feet are free, my leash still neatly coiled. But suppose I can't walk...!
I can see they are swollen. Without hands it's difficult, but I wriggle and strain until the sole of my right foot stares up at me with a scarlet and purple blush. It's mostly purple. I stare, fascinated. Then turn it down upon the wool. I can bear the resultant pain. I'm getting used to pain. I manage to kneel, then hobble on my knees to the wall so I can raise myself gently with its support. I stand, panting and sweating, as my feet scream. But I stand. I can flop later if I must, but I need to know how badly I'm wounded. Bitterly, I shrug away all visions of escape. My feet will keep me prisoner more surely than if they were chained. I stand, breasts heaving, absorbing my punishment while I stare in loathing at the frame to which I was bound and the severed bands of rope by which I was held. My leash still trails from the collar round my neck and my handcuffs tell me firmly I'm still slave. I start a painful pilgrimage to find a girl.
Margie enfolds me. I weep. She pets and pats. I sit and am leased to the ring. Margie lifts my feet and examines the punished soles. She kisses each one tenderly again and again. She points out that if I can walk to her kitchen they can't be seriously damaged. I suppose she's right. But, oh, how good her coffee tastes now, how warmly comforting like her arms. It is normalcy. I wish Fergus would go away like a bad dream.
* * *
I am replete from being fucked by a man I do not-love. I lay beside Fergus in his bed and know I will never understand him. From the whipping of my feet he has gleaned a fierce potency against which I cannot be frigid. He has made me writhe and scream in orgasm after orgasm. He has been enriched by his conquering of my flesh.
And what can I do about any of it, I'm only a handcuffed girl. "I want you to marry me, 'Lona."
I tense. He can feel me go rigid. I think it's from fright. I mean
What can I say?
"That's just because we've had a good time in bed, Fergus. You're in love with my breasts and pussy, not me."
"Can't believe I love you, eh?"
"Fergus, after what you've done to my feet!"
"That's a part of loving you, 'Lona. Don't pretend you don't know--Croal whipped you."
I'm on thin ice. I'm trembling, and Fergus can feel I'm trembling, and with my feet the way they are I'm more helpless than ever. Wanly, I ask: "Take my handcuffs off, Fergus - if we're going to talk?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Well... If I was your wife? Would you keep me naked and handcuffed and whip the soles of my feet?"
"Sometimes."
"Oh, F-E-R-G-U - S... you can't be serious!"
He laughs at my dismay. "Look, pet, you'd better have a look at yourself." He counsels soberly. "Without me or Croal, and a pair of handcuffs, you'd be a lost little girl."
Damn him, I suppose he's right. I just can't envision what he's suggested. I'd be hammering at Peter's door until he let me in. I wouldn't care what he did to me once I was inside.
"Well...?"
"I'm only a girl, Fergus. You've got me all mixed up. Why don't you take me back to Andromeda so we can finish 'Captured? Be kind to me and see what happens."
"I know what would happen - Croal."
"Well, I can't just erase him!"
"Tell you what, pet." Fergus is thinking hard. "We go back. But it's not Croal who whips you in the big scene. It's me?" Freedom's hovering. I'm desperate. I make my voice glad. "Yes, of course. Why not! I'll have to think up some story, but I expect I'll manage."
The man beside me puts his big hand on my fur as though to claim ownership. His outrageous suggestion comes slowly: "Take your choice, 'Lona. Marry me now and stop arguing. I won't punish my wife any more than she needs, for the first month I won't punish you at all." He chuckles and kneads my captive pussy with strong fingers. "If you don't want that, then we'll do it your way. But first, there's your feet. They need to heal for the camera. Let's say two weeks, and each day of those two weeks you get punished while we wait?"
"P-U-N-I-S-H-E-D!! Like today?"
"Don't dramatize, pet. It makes you a volcano in bed."
He's right again, and I have to remember it's my freedom I'm bargaining--almost my life! If only I can get back to Andromeda and Peter on any terms... no matter how false!
Resignedly, I sell myself to pain. "O. K., Fergus. You've still got me in the damndest dither, but I'll say, yes, to number two." Fergus fucks me again. I think it's a sort of victory march into my womb. I wish I could hate every thrust, but he's become too good. I am now a captive maiden, gorgeously raped.
Thank goodness Fergus has let me have a night's sleep. Last night, after he'd had enough sex fun, he fastened my leash some way to the bed and let me stay. Jeepers, it felt good. But what I'm into now doesn't feel good at all. You'd have thought, after the way we shared his bed, he'd be merciful...!
I've lost my handcuffs. My wrists are crossed and tied with cord and then dragged up behind my back to hurt my shoulders. My ankles have been banded and they're tractioned out to either side as though I'm doing the splits. Maybe I am. This rests all my weight on the edge of a plant that pushing its way into my pussy and cleaving my crotch. I'd be screaming steadily if I wasn't gagged.
I can't compare punishments. While each one happens its everything. Yesterday and tomorrow vanish. What counts is the pain right this moment, and the pain I'm getting now is awful, awful, awful beyond words. I mean, my poor pussy! The cleft between my thighs... They don't deserve this. Neither do I.
Two weeks. That means I've got thirteen more days of this sort of think, and I know I can't possibly live through it. But then, I knew that yesterday while my feet were whipped. I'll know it again tomorrow... and I won't die. Oh, damn Fergus and this whole rotten misery. Thirteen more days to freedom... Freedom! Hang on, girl, hang on. You can't possibly marry Fergus to get loose-- you just can't Fergus doesn't mind me screaming. I think I'm gagged to prevent me pleading if His Majesty deigns to visit or poor Margie comes to check. They check often to make sure I'm not dying. I'm valuable. I forgot to ask how long I have to sit like this. It's probably all day but I'll kid myself that in an hour, or two, or three, they'll let me down. Every time one of them comes my eyes will plead... anguished! I suppose this gives the soles of my whipped feet a chance to heal. For sure I'm not standing on them--I wish I was!
I can't move, except my head, and even that's awkward. I strain to look up now as the door opens. It's Margie, and I can't even say "Hi." She stands and gazes at my contorted nakedness, putting herself in the spot I'm in... and wondering. Gee, I wish I could speak!
"Gee, that's awful, Miss Paisley. Your poor--!"
She doesn't say 'cunt' but can't think of another word. Her eyes are focused on my pubic hair. Down there is where its at. I make sounds through my nose. Even I don't know what they mean.
"He shouldn't gag you, Miss Paisley. I'd like to take it out awhile, but Mr. Burland's still around someplace. Gosh, that must hurt. I mean... sitting on it like that?"
I nod. Boy, do I nod! My vehemence sparks something to bring tears to my eyes.
"I can't bear to see you like this, Miss Paisley. And Mr. Burland's got all sorts of other things like this--I sometimes wonder about Mr. Burland, he's sorta' sweet and sour. I can't figure him." Margie becomes urgent. "Look, he's hurting you too much. How'd it be I let you loose first chance I get? I mean, help you get clear away? We'd have to take the jeep -?"
Tears come to my eyes. I can't help it. They stain my cheeks as I shake my head in negation. Fergus would half kill us both...? I can't let Margie take the risk. But she moves close. She tries the salty drops. Under a sudden impulse she takes away my gag. All I can think to say is: "Oh, thank you, thank you, Margie. But no... Oh no, no, no! He'd have us both sitting like I'm sitting now."
I'll take the chance, Miss Paisley. I never figured on Mr. Burland being this mean to you."
We kiss and kiss. I desire her terribly. I think of Margie's tongue inside my slit instead of this two by eight, or whatever it is. It seeps into my pain filled mind I'm being offered freedom
or the best chance of it I've had since I was kidnapped. With Margie and the jeep...! I stop thinking and ask, simply, "When?"
"He'll want to fuck you some more tonight, Miss Paisley. But I figure tomorrow he'll go into town. That's when. It's a cinch." We both become aware of the presence at the same time. Fergus is surveying us from the doorway. We've been crazy- careless, and it's all my fault. In dumb misery I watch the phenomenon of feminine defeat.
"Off with your clothes, Margie."
She does not demur. Margie is scared. She is quickly naked and awaits orders. I suspect this may have happened before. She looks wanly at me and shrugs. Margie tossed a coin and lost. She's resigned.
"Give me your hands."
Margie holds out her hands to be bound. It is only a minute until she is hanging, naked, with her toes a foot from the floor. Fergus turns to me and says grandly, "I want you to watch this." What the hell else can I do but watch! I can't move much but I can certainly be a cringing audience as Margie is whipped. I watch the weals spring up on her pale skin, the scarlet lines become purple. I can watch her sway, her legs flail, her body writhe. I watch her lift herself by her bound hands in a useless effort to evade the lash. Her nakedness circles back and forth under the impacts of leather on flesh. Fergus whips it as it turns. It is quite awhile before Margie starts to scream.
"Stoppit'," I say in anguish. "I'll do anything, I'll be whatever you want."
Fergus spares me only a glance of surprise. "Don't be silly, 'Lona, you're already doing what I want." He resumes his work.
The whip makes sickening sounds on Margie's skin. I wonder if it is the one he will use on me. I do not forget the agony in my loins but I am distracted and distraught until the final blow.
"Well?"
For Margie, swaying, sweating and sobbing, the single word means a lot. She knows her answer.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Burland. It won't happen again. I promise."
"Hmmmmmm, Lonnie's going to hear about this, Margie."
Her sobs intensify while Fergus searches. What he finds he locks on the suspended ankles. Margie's feet are ironed, the span of links fall in a loop until she tests her loss of liberty by raising a knee. Now, neither of us can make a run for freedom. Fergus lowers her to the floor, unties her hands, pats her bottom and tells her to go about her business. Margie, still sobbing, says: "Thank you, Mr. Burland", gathers her clothes, and clatters and clinks her hobbled footsteps from the room.
"She's a good girl, actually." Fergus says reflectively. "A whipping usually keeps her in line a couple of months. I hope you're uncomfortable?"
"I'm in a hateful fort of agony, Fergus, and you know it. Give me a break?"
"I should give you the same whipping I gave that stupid girl; and for the same reason." He slowly circles me, drinking in every cruel contortion of my femaleness. "But you're not well positioned for it. The only break you'll get is I may take you off there at four P.M. instead of five. I've got the damndest urge to fuck you."
"But, Fergus, that's hours and hours away?"
"An eight hour day for delinquents, 'Lona. It's about right. Now, where did that fool girl put your gag?"
"Ohhhhh, noooooo... not that again." My wail is anguished. "Fergus, there's no one to talk to. There's no need The wad is thrust between my teeth and over my tongue, the strap is buckled tight. Being gagged is hateful and Fergus knows it. But I can't move. His fingers explore me here and there before he leaves. Alone, my pussy screams more urgently than before.
"You mustn't feel badly, Miss Paisley." Margie's voice drags me back from semi consciousness. "I've been whipped before, and maybe Lonnie won't be too mean."
She is dressed and normal, even to shoes. I suppose chained feet don't stop a girl doing anything except run. She is surveying me mournfully. "Mr. Burland says I can give you a drink of water, Miss Paisley, but I'll have to gag you again after?"
I nod vehemently. Margie tugs the hated thing from my mouth. I drink gratefully. Even drinking isn't easy, the way I'm fixed. I moan: "Oh, Margie, I'm so sorry and your feet chained!"
"I'm afraid he's going to chain yours too. Don't look like you're ever goin' to escape."
"I can't stand thirteen days more torture like this, Margie. I'd sooner die."
We gaze at each other mournfully. We belong to Fergus: it's just that simple. Unhappily, she says: "The gag, Miss Paisley...? I gotta...?"
I am about to open my mouth when it hits me like a hammer. I mean, the idea hits me. I have to be desperate or I wouldn't consider anything so selfish. I blurt it out: "Margie, untie me quick. Let me loose now before he chains my feet. It's my last chance." She's looking at me askance. "I'll drive the jeep. Never mind my whipped feet, I'll manage."
"But I'd have to come with you, Miss Paisley--?"
Of course she must. Oh damn! but hobbled feet won't stop her sitting beside me, her chain won't get tangled. She voices what is in my mind: "I guess it's a better chance. Mr. Burland will be figuring we won't dare. 'Cept for my chain it's better--!" It is a beautiful exciting agony as I am freed. My legs come together in disbelief. I use my own hands to life my pussy from her bitter perch on the sharp edge. I stand erect. My whipped soles are wickedly tender, but compared to the rest are as nothing. We kiss and hug. I promise Margie a million dollars. We decide she will take Fergus a drink in his study while I limp to the jeep. For her to clink in and out of his presence will seem normal. He will see her chained feet as security. She can then join me.
I pray and pray as I slip silently to the back door. I don't think of clothes. I forget the collar and leash still on my neck, and anyway, I can't get it off. I dare not open the big garage door until the last moment But I seek the key in Fergus's big car. It isn't there. But the key is in the jeep. For the first time in a long while my spirits soar. We're going to make it... Freedom!
The wait for Margie is excruciating, I tremble and shiver the whole time. But, soon, there comes the clink of her chain. We kiss again. She lifts per partial helplessness into the seat while I heave up the door. The motor starts. Keeping the throb of pistons as low as I can, we slink our four wheeled flight into the trees.
"If he catches us we're dead. He'll whip us to bits." Margie says cheerfully. "But we're going to make it. There's a shorter trail through the trees, but it's awful faint."
We are two frightened girls, we play it safe. We decide on the known track. It bumps and jolts us enough before we come to the dirt road and heave two girlish sighs of immense relief. I turn our jeep into the direction Margie points, I step on the gas, hard. A mile down the deserted road our motor starts to cough.
We are out of fuel.
CHAPTER NINE - I'M CAPTURED
The next best thing to gasoline is the police. I don't mind this uniformed man seeing me naked if it gets me back to Peter Croal. But this chap has a funeral air about him I don't like. He listens, he looks. He decides we are either lunatics or the leftovers of a wild and kinky party someplace. He writes down the license of the jeep.
"You'll have to come with me, ladies." He finds a blanket for me in his car. He produces handcuffs. His judgement is firm: "There's something screwy about this whole thing."
We submit to the handcuffs. My right wrist to Margie's left. It could be worse. Maybe he has a superior officer with brains.. He ushers us into his blue and white, separated from him by wire mesh. The back door has no inside handles. We are in a cage. Margie and I look at each other and grin ruefully. At least we won't be raped.
It is a very small town and a very small Police building. Our gloomy and doubting upholder of the Law locks us in a ceil while he goes to get bolt cutters. When he has neatly snipped Margie's chain from her ankles he solemnly puts the cut links and two padlocks into a small sack, no doubt as evidence. I mention our right to a phone call but he does not appear to hear. He uses the phone himself.
"That jeep you were driving belongs to Mr. Burland." He accuses through our bars. "Just checked the license." He projects heavy disapproval. "We think a lot of Mr. Burland in these parts. I'm giving him a call."
Our hearts sink. We can't think of a convincing lie. I've told him my name but I guess he doesn't go to the movies. Margie and I are still linked by his handcuffs and seem likely to stay that way. Oh shit! Our little cell becomes horribly menacing.
"Plain case of auto theft." Sourpuss informs us primly. "Mr. Burland's on his way. He says if you don't lip off too much he'll drop charges and take you back. Damn white of him, I'd say, after that wing-ding of a party you threw - he says he trusted you." Fergus has things so well figured I could weep. Margie does. It appears our loving husbands will be at the Lodge this evening, ready to forgive and take us home. In the meantime there is the matter of our recalcitrance. Would the officer mind if the handcuffs stayed on our wrists? They will be returned later. "This man's kidnapped me." I state flatly.
"She never gives up." Sighs Fergus.
"Both of us are marked by his tortures--"
"These parties, officer." Fergus sighs more heavily still. "The things they get up to are beyond belief."
Fergus substitutes a blanket of his own for the one I'm wearing. We are ushered to the car. Goodwill flows. Male goodwill, that is. It appears Fergus's Lodge pays lush taxes. Handcuffed together, Margie and I return to prison. Fergus Burland's Cadillac becomes a paddy wagon. On the outskirts of town he stops and uses his own handcuffs to join our still free wrists behind our backs. We are foxed for sure. He kisses us both before he starts his car. I could swear his eyes glow red.
Dammit', I'm like a naughty wife returned to the fold. I lay beside Fergus in his bed and it's all so damn familiar. My wrists are handcuffed behind my back and the leash is my umbilical cord to the bedpost. Fergus has been fucking me intermittently for a long time. My escape and recapture are an aphrodisiac. I have not yet been punished: that's what he's talking about now. "I can't help being hurt, 'Lona."
"If you hadn't been so cruel I wouldn't have run away. I was willing to stand quite a lot, Fergus. But whipping my feet and then sitting me on that
whatever it is. You don't understand girls at all."
"Oh sure, I'm the prize bastard." Fergus is ponderously puzzled. "But, Lona, it was only for two weeks...?"
"You don't understand the agony of these things you do to a girl. I mean, you've never tried 'em out on yourself, have? I'm frightened you could kill me."
"Bullshit."
His exclamation is without conviction. Maybe there's hope. I spread myself thick. "Fergus, I want to be fond of you, you won't let me. In bed with you like this I get to thinking you're kind and a bit in love with me, then tomorrow there'll be some medieval torture to make me scream."
"You'll have to be punished for escaping, 'Lona. You know that."
"Oh sure, sure. What do I get for that?"
"I'll figure something." He's still coping irritably with what he sees as feminine intransigence. "But you made a deal--."
"Not with Torquemada, I didn't. I thought you'd keep me tied and whip me sometimes, and we'd have nice... Fergus, don't you realise that if that policeman today hadn't been a total clunk you'd be behind bars?"
"Yeah. So I was lucky. I'll make damn sure you never escape again. I'll fix Margie "Load me with chains? Beat that poor girl senseless?"
"You're not being fair, 'Lona." Fergus has turned plaintive. "You've taken a hell of a lot from your Holy Croal. He's made you scream. So far as what we like to do to girls, lover boy and I aren't that far apart. But when it's me who gives you a bit of pain...! Dammit', girl--all this drama!"
How the hell can I tell him! His pain and Peter's pain both hurt me the same. But Peter's pain has a before and after that isn't there with Fergus. The difference is love. But how can I make this aggrieved and injured bear beside me comprehend! I can easy hurt his ego so bad he'll take me straight down to the torture chamber. Gosh, I sure don't want to sit on the edge of that damn plank all night. Wanly, I ask: "What do I have to do to get out from under all these punishments, Fergus? They're piling up on me. I'm like a bankrupt who can't pay all her debts."
"Trying to weasel out?"
"I suppose so. You going to punish me for that too?"
Fergus is remembering the policeman. He's weighing risk against his longing to have me erotically hurting in the room downstairs--and he's enjoying me in bed, surely that counts? But his grunting reply is bitter.
"There's one punishment you're not getting out of."
"Yes, I know. The big whipping scene. I'm resigned."
"You know you got it coming, et."
"It's not that, Fergus. It's simply these other awful things... After them, being whipped doesn't seem so bad."
"I'll make sure you don't enjoy it."
I make a desperate bid: "Can I pay off my debts by marrying you? I mean, no whipping, no nothin', just Me?"
Fergus grunts. "A helluva' proposition, that!" He glowers. "Look, you'll serve the thirteen days that's left of our deal. But I'll go easy on you. Maybe you got a point." Abruptly, he barks: "Stick your feet over the side."
I say a tremulous 'Thank you', and extrude my swollen feet. The man who owns me finds leg irons. I watch him lock them on my ankles. His command is curt. "You can go and say goodnight to Margie. No shenanigans."
"Shenanigans!" I pull at my handcuffs and kick the chain between my feet. I shake my head at the collar on my neck. "Shenanigans... like this?"
"Sure, like that? You're escape prone. Make it snappy."
It's funny being hobbled. It didn't seem to bother Margie too much but it sure bothers me. Chained feet diminish a girl. Suddenly, there's a lot of things she can't do, one of them is walk. My ankles get snubbed each step. Running is out. I'm going to have to learn to walk all over again. My steps downstairs are cautious. If I trip I have no hands. My links of chain clunk leadenly on the concrete. My clattering progress down the passage is enough to waken Margie from her haze of misery.
Fergus has suspended her again. Tied her hands and raised her from the floor. He's whipped her more too, I can tell. Her ankles are chained the same as mine. As escapees we're a bust. Seeing my helplessness, her flash of hope dies. I kiss her nipples, I cannot reach her lips.
"It's no good, Miss Paisley, we can't escape. We mustn't try again."
We share female grief. Margie says Fergus sent me down just to show how he's got us both fixed. It's for sure I can't help her, and she says not to mind. I kiss her pussy, and clatter back to Fergus.
"I thought you'd both be off in the jeep by now." He says sarcastically. "Just as well you came back though, I've got the damndest hard."
He unlocks my feet and leashes me to the bed. Without complaint I turn my attention to his erection. It's what I'm for, isn't it... part of my scene... and I don't have to have hands.
More sarcasm for breakfast. "Since you're not escaping today." Says Fergus heavily. "We may as well do the big scene. You've had a good night's sleep and a good mean-."
"It should strengthen me enough to scream all day." I finish for him. "My back's virgin but I'm afraid you've marked my bottom. How do you intend to position me for your triumph?"
"Spread. Standing. Accessible."
Margie serves to a clatter of chain. Fergus hates cooking, so rose in the night while I was asleep and freed her from punishment. She knows what is to be done to me, I can tell from the pity in her eyes.
"I was the audience that time you were whipped on Andromeda's stage." Fergus confides abruptly...."I insisted on it before I'd direct you. I'm telling you now so you'll know what this means to me."
"You're lucky, Fergus, to be able to flog a girl whenever you wish, or if you need an erection. I can understand why you don't want to let me go. But wouldn't any girl do just as well? We all scream?"
"You're under my skin, 'Lona."
I'm frightened. He's so intense. This means so much to him. This is one time I'm going to get whipped unconscious. I'm all shivery.
"Margie's been instructed how to tie you. I'm assuming you intend to obey?"
When I go downstairs to be flogged it's the most shivery thing yet. Fergus has thought of the ultimate cruelty. I am naked and, except for the collar on my neck, free. Handcuffs, leg irons... they're all gone. I must walk to this ultimate punishment alone and free to make a run for it, if I'm that crazy. I am almost exhilarated by the thought of how impossible this thing is that I'm doing.
Margie is a surprise. Naked. Leg ironed. Her gag padlocked. Maybe it's best we can't talk. She guides me with hands and eyes. Fergus stands to one side, aloof, remote, omnipotent.
I don't know why my wrists are not strapped to the bar, but Margie ties them with cord. I expect so they'll hurt more. She ties me very carefully and very neatly and terribly tight. She's frightened too. The trapeze bar takes my hands and arms aloft. Margie kneels to where the two rings in the floor await my feet. When my ankles are corded to them I am well spread, all of me open to the lash. Under Fergus's directing hand the bar raises slowly until I am stretched, tummy concave, breasts well out. I wonder if Fergus will whip my breasts this time? Most certainly he intends to lash the femaleness between my legs. Margie is dismissed. My Master has me to himself.
"No tears, 'Lona?"
"Please don't gloat over me, Fergus."
"One stroke, 'Lona'. You wait for the rest."
It figures. I dare not reply. I stare at the wall.
It is devastating. The cut of the whip across my back is everything that should not be done to a naked girl. The pain burns, it sears, it consumes. I have a vision of my bare back, sliced with crimson. Shock mutes me. When I am able to scream I am alone. The flogging of Miss Ilona Paisley by the noted Director, Mr. Fergus Burland, has begun.
It is a bitter, bitter time, this waiting. I have been given a sample of my agony to come. Fergus will be savouring his conquest of unwilling female flesh. Poor Fergus... even if I loved him I would still be bound exactly as I am.
I consider men and women. In a little time we've come so far from hoeing potatoes and baking bread. We get bored and lost
But I suspect men have always whipped us, the lucky men with the aid of money or power or The Law. The Law whipped females lustily right up to recent centuries. It would do a lot of girls good if it still did. But... not me not me! And yet... with Peter...?
I am stretched so I ache. My wrists are unhappy in Margie's cords. I am fretful and inclined to tears. The scald across my back has generated the beginnings of fire in my sex, but it does not prosper. I want someone to cut me loose and tell me I can go home... How crazy can I get! It's in keeping with the rest that I hallucinate. I can here Peter's voice.
"Beautiful composition. Have to give the guy credit. He's a damn fine director. I hope you can't get loose, sweetheart?"
I flavor our kisses with the wait of tears. A girl must cry sometimes, and this is one of the times. Peter's arms around me are close to heaven, the friction of his sleeve across the wound on my back is simply gorgeous. I have no breath for speech, but Peter's words drift comfortingly into the roseate world I know inhabit.
"A couple of large men in white coats have taken the poor bastard for a ride. It can be hushed up that way. Much better than the police."
"Oh, Peter...!"
More kisses. My ear is bitten. Again, the beloved voice: "There was this foot of a woman who remembered turning you down on the road and an equally damn foot cop "Oh, Peter, Peter, Peter...!"
"We didn't suspect Fergus until Lonnie broke down. Seems like Fergus whipped his girl friend."
"I love you so much--and its been so awful."
"There's a girl upstairs, she's got chained feet?"
"She's Lonnie's Margie. Don't have her arrested, Peter, she's been so sweet to me."
"Today's some sort of occasion, eh? You really are beautifully tied?"
"Peter, he was going to whip me. It's a fantasy he has. He's searching... I was to be whipped worse than any girl ever."
"The guy's nuts."
"No he isn't. It's just that he's an absolute cluck with girls." We kiss some more and my pussy gets rubbed before I remind him: "You love whipping me too."
"Mmmmmmm. Glad you mentioned it. I'd almost forgotten. Supposed to be good for a girl's circulation."
"I think that depends on who does it."
"Every woman has her favorite doctor. Are you quite sure you can't get loose?"
"Peter, the way I'm tied is forever."
"Good. I wouldn't want you escaping?"
"Please make sure I don't."
"Struggle a bit, 'Lona. I want to make sure."
Peter steps back. I struggle like crazy without moving much. He nods in majestic approval. "Nice job. You're well held. Now, in regard to this whipping you were about to get...?"
"Fergus said I deserved every stroke--terribly."
Peter is considering the matter. His eyes glow. "I suppose the man might have a point, 'Lona?"
"Well perhaps--"
"We think alike, sweetheart. Is there a chance he has a kinder whip than this lethal object on the floor?"
"Over there, in the cupboard."
"Ah, thank you! You're an admirable girl."
"I think you're nice too."
Trembling, I watch this marvellous man make his selection. The sleek and slender object of his choice will not kill me. It appears I have no will to ask for pardon, reprieve, forgiveness, or mercy. I palpitate with lust. Most certainly I now deserve whatever I am about to get. Peter's so wonderful...!
"Were you sentenced to anything specific, sweetheart?"
"Well... all day--"
"Hmmmmmm, a bit severe. Not sure I want to wait that long. Of course, I expect we could manage... the way you are?"
"If you untied my legs it might be yummy."
"Women are so practical."
"This one's terribly, terribly thankful, Peter."
"And grateful for what she's about to receive, even if it hurts?"
