Burdock is not insane. What he's doing is for the birds, but Burdock is as sane as I am--or as sane as I was! When I look along the corral rail to where my outstretched arms and hands are securely tied, I do have to wonder. But there they are, capably and neatly tied at wrist and elbow like a bird with outstretched wings. I keep wriggling to get loose--there just has to be a way--but so far I've only chafed my skin. The rest of me is free; it is also very bare. He let me keep my panties and bra but that's not much, not on a ranch.
Boy, did I take a wrong turn! Go west of the city, they said, forty-five miles to the Calloway turnoff, then head south. After awhile you'll see the sign: "The Big C Dude Ranch." You've got it made, they said.
There was no sign, but there sure were a lot of little trails leading off to goodness knows where. After I'd driven a lot longer than I figured I should, I picked a likely looking track and turned off the main road. If I met a human being, I could ask. I hadn't seen one yet, but there was enough evidence to keep me from getting scared. Everyone had told me I was crazy to take a vacation all alone in the Canadian Rockies, but so far there'd been nothing to cause alarm.
But now I'm frightened.
The sign said it was the Big T Dude Ranch and that visitors were welcome. The buildings were in good repair, the ranch house almost pretentious. I don't know what makes cowboys look like cowboys, but the one who sauntered from the house looked the part--lean and rawboned. He sort of took me for granted and said he'd just made coffee. His name was Dudley Burdock.
Burdock was amusing. There was an even flow of talk while he assessed me. I must have been lonelier than I'd thought. The coffee and companionship were comforting. When it came to registering, he asked a lot more questions than any desk clerk would. He said his whole staff was off to the city for some sort of Western function. They'd be back and on the job tomorrow. I might as well see my room.
That's when it began.
The room was fine. Canada is not nearly as uncivilized as we think. I then got the grand tour. Leaving the big barn, I noticed Burdock was carrying a few loops of rope. Passing the corral, he slipped me the bomb.
"I'll have to ask you to take your clothes off now, Miss Pendleton."
"What!"
"Right here will do fine. I'm going to tie you to a rail so you can settle in easy."
I was still staring in disbelief when he barked, "Do it-- now!"
"You're joking?"
His hand was big. Impacting my unsuspecting cheek, it knocked me sideways. I sat on the dirt, shaking my head and looking up at Burdock in pure horror. In my whole life no one had ever hit me. My first thought was he'd mistaken me for some other girl.
"Girls need knocking around a bit," he said without emotion. "Gentles 'em. Get up, I'll hit you again."
I did not get up; I sat rubbing my cheek. My head was still ringing from the blow. Burdock stood me erect as though I was a doll, then hit me the same way on the other cheek. Once more I was dazed and on the dirt. The U.S. and home seemed far away.
Stupidly, I asked, "Why--?"
"Breaking you in. Can't abode argument."
I leaped. I ran. Burdock caught me in ten paces and dragged me back. This time he held me for a double hander, letting me fall on the second blow. I started to cry, keeping a wary eye on Burdock's lean menace.
"You have to do that a few times. Don't hold it against you. Want to try again?"
"No. If this is rape, you don't have to worry about me fighting."
"No rape. Was hoping you'd begin to see sense."
"There isn't any. This is insane."
"Stand up, Miss Pendleton."
I managed to obey and was instantly knocked down again. I was sobbing and tearful. Burdock's blows were hateful against a girl. They also hurt. I was trembling.
"You've heard of the mule who had to be hit over the head with a two-by-four to get his attention? Well, that's just what we're doing."
"I'm not a mule."
"And I'm not a guy who enjoys batting girls around the way I'm doing. I'll be glad when you graduate to getting your ass whipped in a civilized way."
Burdock and I stared. I wanted no more clouts on the side of my head. I hated the admission, but he was getting through to me. The city I'd left three hours ago was now infinitely distant in space and time. Dudley Burdock could do what he liked with me, of that I had no doubt. It slowly crept into my comprehension that I had no decisions to make; he would do that for me.
Cautiously, I asked, "Are you kidnapping me?"
"Sooner call it changing your occupation, Miss Pendleton." Burdock was still frankly assessing me--a businessman's assessment, not a leer. "Seems to me we were discussing clothes."
I undressed. A few men had seen me naked; now there was one more. Down to bra and panties, I asked, "Can I please keep these?"
"Okay, you've got a good build. They'll come off when I say so, but you can wear 'em for now. Fold the rest."
It was a pitifully small parcel I laid neatly on the grass. I looked at Burdock. I had lost initiative.
"Back to the rails," he ordered.
The corral was constructed of slender poles. I shrugged in resentment but thrust my bare back against the peeled bars. Obediently, I extended my equally bare arms out along a horizontal rail at the level of my shoulders.
"No fuss now! Just stand there."
I watched my wrists bound tight, then my elbows. The rail and I were one. Burdock took a remarkable amount of care and trouble in making me secure. Evidently, there was skill involved in this tying of a girl. The circlets were tight and even. At the finish of each binding the whole thing was cinched by a band of rope between my flesh and the wood, tugging the strictures punishingly tight. When my right wrist had been secured in this manner, I made the mistake of complaining.
"You don't have to tie me this tight. I'm not an animal. In fact, you don't have to tie me at all."
Dudley Burdock looked at me in an interested sort of way, as though I was a rare specimen. Thoughtfully, he dropped his rope, went to the closest willow tree, and cut and trimmed a switch. I gazed at the swishy object in pure horror.
"You're not going to hit me with that?"
He did not bother to answer, but proceeded to slash at whatever part of myself I cared to present. He was aiming for my bottom, and most of his cuts landed there while I was frantically tugging at the bindings on my wrist. I still had a hand free and felt sure I could undo what he had done. While I tugged and fumbled, Burdock swished steadily at my seat. When I turned to expostulate he swished across the front of my panties and the top of my thighs. He spoke no words but I sure did. In between yelps and moans of disbelief, and an actual scream here and there, I blurted out, "Stop it! You mustn't! Oh, not there! Don't hit me on those places!"
"If you'd stick your ass out, that's where you'd get it. But as long as you're jumping--" I stuck out my ass, but the steady cuts on it were more than I could bear. I screamed in anger and outrage and fear. I suppose, by his standards, he was not hitting me hard at all, but you couldn't prove it by me.
Soon I was bleating capitulation: "I'm sorry--I'm sorry! Please! I'll do what you want. I'm sorry I spoke."
The swishing stopped. I suspected it was more because of the fraying of the switch than because of my moans. Without waiting for an order, I put my free arm in place against the rail. Panting and shedding a few tears, I watched the completion of the knotted strictures in my skin.
"Give us a chance to get better acquainted," Burdock said easily, as though my behind was not scorching from his switch. "Nice scenery around here, if you take a look."
He was tight about the scenery; it was the kind you couldn't ignore. Beautiful and cruel, the mountains gazed down at us from each side of the treed valley. But I'd seen it on the way up. What I wanted was answers, but I was scared to ask the questions. I was still smarting.
With an air of afterthought, Burdock pushed the cups of my bra away. He surveyed my breasts frowningly from every angle, then cupped them back out of sight.
"Nice."
The word and the nod of approval were high praise. I know I've got good breasts; I'm proud of them. When he pushed my panties down over my hips halfway to my knees, I raised my bare foot to kick, but thought better of it. I stood, blushing, while he fingered the right fronds of my pubic hair and thrust a searching finger below. Once more he nodded. I gathered I'd scored high with him. He pulled the covering of my sex back over my hips, fussily arranging it. His whole mood was thoughtful.
"Bother you to have a man do what he likes?"
"Yes."
"First time?"
"I've never been tied before. I'm not thrilled about it."
"But you have been fucked?"
He used the four letter word without emphasis. My blush deepening, I conceded his statistic. "That's a lousy word for it, but, yes, of course it's happened. I am twenty-five-years old, y'know."
"Nice age. The young'uns are all cunt. No mind." Burdock nodded his approval of me and my condition. "Expecting a phone call. I'll be back." He turned away.
"You're not going to leave me here like this, are you?"
"Why not?" He was impatient.
"But I'm helpless, and nearly naked!"
"That's the way I want you."
He said it with a total finality. He walked away. Undoubtedly, the matter was settled. I stayed tied to his damn corral. There was something elemental about Burdock. He was a force. I shuddered. It was probably no more than an hour since I'd driven though the gate of the Big T.
I sighed in exasperation. I could never get loose from Burdock's tight cords, but the way he had me bound was not like the memory I had of playing cowboys and Indians as a child. I was not swathed in rope. Most of me was free. But the pole and I were inseparable. So far as my own efforts were concerned, I would stand with arms outspread forever. I could not fail to glimpse an artistry, a striving for effect in the neat, cruel bands by which I was held prisoner. Maybe Burdock would stroll out with a camera and I'd become "The Barnyard Bride" or "Captive of the Corral." But I was not laughing. I was scared.
I had nothing else to do, so I took a second look at what I could see of the scenery. You could call it wilderness, but it's only about seventy or eighty miles from a big city. Still, this was Canada, and I had been told laughingly that all Canadians hugged the international boundary in an attempt to keep warm, leaving the rest to Indians and animals. The further you got from the U.S.A., the thinner the population. Tied to my rail, I was aware of a vast brooding isolation.
I could not be traced. I had left no traces. Burdock could kidnap me easily. No one would ask about me, except back home when my vacation was over and I did not return. But back home was a couple of thousand miles away. I tugged rebelliously, moving nothing. I felt shamelessly exposed, and thought of animals, particularly bears.
The Indian was part of the scenery--blue jeans and a checkered shirt, his horse plodding a bored and silent progress on the dirt road--but my heart leaped in hope. True, he was already on Big T property, but surely for a new dollars-- I called out a cautious "Hi there!"
Nothing happened except for the turning of his head. The Indian surveyed me impassively for the moments of his passing. I implored, I offered bribes, I mentioned considerable sums. His horse cocked a floppy ear but that was all. They did not stop. I watched them until they were out of sight, going towards the house. I'd received some sort of message, but its effect was only to scare me more. I had become terribly alone. After awhile the slow march past was reversed. I was stared at with grave attention but nothing more. As horse and rider vanished into the trees I shed a few tears of rejection. I was on my own.
Burdock's jibe was in place of a greeting. "Had a visitor, eh?"
"An Indian rode by. He would not speak to me."
"Heard you offered him money."
My tummy curled. There was that something in Burdock's voice. "Of course I asked him to free me," I said resentfully. "What girl wouldn't?"
"You'll have to learn not to, Miss Pendleton. On the Big T escape is worse than any four letter word you ever heard."
"I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"I have to make you really sorry so you'll remember." Burdock cocked a dour eyebrow. "Got any suggestions?"
I didn't pretend not to be scared. Urgently, I pleaded, "Please don't beat me again. That was horrible--and how was I to know?"
"You knew." Burdock stated it flatly, leaving me no defense. "What you think I got you tied here for if any passerby can cut them ropes?"
"Honest--I've said I'm sorry. Don't hurt me. I get the message."
"Maybe you'll remember it better bare." Burdock wrenched away my bra with a single powerful tug, then pulled my panties down and lifted my feet out of them. "I've got a notion you're not too crazy 'bout being naked."
He was right, I wasn't. My protest was instant: "Ohhh, please! Not like this. Don't leave me naked. The way I am--"
"Sooner be switched?"
"Nooo!"
"Well then, be grateful. Losing them little things off your tits and twat doesn't hurt you any. If you'd soonered have your panties back and get your tits switched instead--"
"No! No, I'm sorry."
Burdock was looking at the new totally revealed me with critical interest. I was mystified about not getting raped, but I'll be damned if I'll ever ask for that! What's so pigling is Burdock himself. In anything he says and does with me there's no animosity, not even with the switch. But he was bored; he'd done all this before. After all, I'm just one more girl. I didn't know how to ask him about that either.
"You're good quality," he said casually. "Glad you dropped by."
"Look, you've got me totally naked. You can't possibly leave me here, tied and helpless, in this awful exposure!"
"Sure can," he said, amused at my concern. "Get you used to it."
"And these ropes are hurting. You've tied me so tight!"
"Get you used to that too. Don't come easy for a girl like you, but you've got all day. Just relax."
I asked the fateful question--I had to know: "What are you going to do with me, Mr. Burdock?"
"You'll find out. Don't want everything all at once." Then he actually smiled. "Your name's Patsy, isn't it--Patsy Pendleton? Got a good ring to it. I'll mostly be calling you Patsy from now on."
"I was a patsy to ever drive in here!"
"Now, now--easy. May turn out the best day of your life. Oh, by the way, there's a little social affair here tonight. You'll be our honored guest."
"Like this?"
Burdock laughed at my shock. "Hell no! We're civilized. You'll have a chance to pretty yourself up and wear a few bits and pieces the house provides."
A picture formed, one I did not like. I would not like anything about the Big T. Once more I dared not ask. But a social gathering--surely I could find a rescuer or make a getaway.
As though reading my thoughts, Burdock suggested, "I'd go easy on the escape attempts if I was you."
Burdock left me alone with the questions I hadn't dared to ask. At his party I would be expected to entertain, and I really have no talent. Would I be compelled to serve as a free whore for his friends? I refused to get hysterical about something I could not change. But I was aware of heat between my thighs, the heat of apprehension every female knows. Or perhaps it would be innocent enough--a cigarette girl or perhaps simply a guest. But I would have signed his register; he could have had me for a guest without doing to me what he had done. I changed from one foot to the other, I tugged and squirmed, and then I stood still and very, very naked in Burdock's ropes. I was sure even the squirrels in the trees were chattering about my pubic hair and the lips of my sex.
Slowly, desolation set in. The mountains were frightening. Above the timberline only cold bare rock was visible. There was snow on a couple of peaks and what looked like a glacier in the distance. It was unfriendly country--rejecting man, offering itself for a quick glance by summer tourists, enduring snapshots with faint tolerance. I had been one of those tourists, but I had taken the wrong turn, and now I was held captive. I felt sure they were enjoying rumbling chuckles at my expense. Perhaps Dudley Burdock changed into a mountain himself in the full of the moon. Most certainly he belonged there.
I shook my head against such fancies. I was a girl tied naked to the pole of a corral, and very far from home. I could not get loose, but things would happen by which I might escape. It was still incomprehensible that escape was impossible. My main concern was as to how many people would see my breasts and pubes before I managed it. I supposed when it happened I should head straight for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But they didn't wear scarlet any more, and I knew for sure I couldn't get south of the border quick enough.
It had still been morning when I'd been tied. I stood through the hours of midday. Burdock brought me a drink and some good advice: "Relax, Patsy, you can't change a thing by fretting."
"Please let me go. You've had your fun, you've seen me naked. Oh, please! I promise I won't go the police."
He chuckled. "No, you won't be signing a complaint. None of 'em ever have. You'll find out why."
"Why can't you be a little kind and tell me something? I'm frightened."
"Sure, you are, Patsy. But think of this: I haven't fucked you, and I haven't hurt you more'n needful to get you to behave. You got a better view standing here than you'd have in the ranch house bar. Come to think of it, sweetheart, would you like a drink?"
"Can I go to the bar with you to get it?"
"No."
I was going to say, "Then you can keep your lousy drink," but somehow the words came out as, "Okay, I'd love a drink."
Burdock strode away. He always had the appearance of a man of affairs bent on business. He was soon back with a double something, or maybe it was a triple. It gave me the nerve to ask, "You've had girls here before, but they didn't all just drive in here like I did, did they?"
Burdock grinned in recollection as he tilted the glass against my lips again. "You're right, Patsy. Had to bring most of 'em in from the city or up at the resort. Girls at a resort act plumb crazy."
"You drug them?"
"Getting nosey, aren't you?" He laughed at my flinch. "You'd be surprised at how easy it is to kidnap a girl. No trick at all."
"So I notice." I permitted myself sarcasm. "What happens to us after we've served your purpose? Or are all the rest in a cage somewhere around?"
"That's a nice idea. I mean, about the cage. Hadn't thought of it. Go over big, it would." Burdock gave me another of his appraising surveys. "You'd look pretty in a cage. Boost the price."
"You're going to charge for me?"
He laughed. "Not the way you think. Nothing's going to be the way you think. Believe me, you're starting a remarkable career."
I couldn't start anything. I couldn't move from where I was. Alone again, I had to satisfy myself with the scenery and speculation. What bugged me most was being naked but not being raped. You take a girl's clothes off for sex, right? If there wasn't any sex, why bother! I had to admit my bareness had an effect in making me more vulnerable and more cautious about blowing my top. The willow switch was associated with it too. That switching over my clothes would not have amounted to much, but on my bare skin--wow! But there was also the knocking around. I did not have to be naked for that. There was a missing link somewhere.
And not telling me anything--was it that the less I knew, the better it would be for Burdock? Or was it that he considered it best I didn't know what's ahead? By stripping me and whipping me he had certainly captured my attention. I was listening respectfully and giving him no smart-ass lip, but what was really bothering me was the next day and all the days after that. If Burdock let me loose, I would have gone straight to the police. He had to believe that's what I'd do. That means he dare not let me go--it screams loud. Oh, shit!
Surely they don't use a girl for whatever it is they want and then kill her! I've heard of such things but Burdock's not the kind. No, the Big T does something else with us, and that's where my concern has to be. I suppose they could put me in a brothel!
I'm splendidly on view. My outstretched arms offer a welcoming gesture to anyone who's interested in any of my parts or, for that matter, the whole ensemble. I've been like this for hours and hours, and a car has just driven by with a fellow and a girl. I think they were Chinese, probably members of the Big T staff. The road in is not far from where I'm tied. No one can miss me. They must be really blase about naked girls at the Big T; none of them come over for a closer look. The Chinese guy actually did stop the car, and they looked over at me, said something, and then drove on. I'm a bit piqued by how little I seem to interest the locals. But mostly I'm scared. If stripped maidens are commonplace, it can only mean there have been a lot of us--and where the hell have they gone! The desolating thought spurs me to try my ropes again. I heave and tug. It relieves tedium and frustration, but changes nothing. I start to cry. I suppose the tears are of anger and fear, and the nagging reprimand of where I might have been by now if I had not followed that particular track off the main road. That one really burns me up! I walked right into this, like I had a date or something! Oh, damn!
Burdock hasn't come around for quite some time. I expect I'm getting the silent loneliness treatment to soften me up. Boy, does it ever work! These mountains are fearsome; there's something malign about them. I bet when night falls they become predators, gobbling up naked girls. That's why it's so lonely; people are scared of them. But I'm tied. I'm the virgin sacrifice who's fastened so she has to watch whatever it is that's going to come and eat her. Holy cow, this is the effect this place has on me with the first shadow! If I'm left tied here til dark, I'll be in screaming hysterics.
There's a river way over on the other side of the ranch. I crossed a lovely bridge over it after I left the main highway at Calloway Crossing. Then, quite a bit further on, there was a huge lake where they'd dammed the valley for hydro. The works of men are evident enough but there are no men. The bridge could have been somebody's mistake, and the dam and its lake were probably controlled by wire from some distant place. There was no sign of life anywhere. It was like those TV shows about after the Bomb. It's as though the valley bears malice, and living things should stay away. This conclusion makes the Big T doubly sinister.
The first visitors come in later afternoon when I'm about ready to scream. There are three men in a car They actually stop and walk over. My speech is prepared.
"I've been kidnapped. Please untie me. Do please hurry!" They are not a bad looking lot. But no one moves, no one speaks, so I try again.
"I don't want to be naked. I don't want to be tied like this. I want to go home. Please, please help me."
It was as though I had not said a word. Dispassionately, they discussed my merits as a female package. They had the manner of seasoned judges of feminine pulchritude.
"Nice, eh? Lovely tits."
"Trust Dudley--he never lets you down."
"Nice plump cunt. Get your legs apart, girl--right now!"
I parted my legs. I wanted to cry, or shrivel out of sight, or break my bonds and run. But they looked like respectable married types. There had to be a way to touch them.
Resentfully, I implored, "How'd you like to see your wife tied the way I am?"
They guffawed, delighted. "Damn fine idea, kid. We'll give it some thought."
"It won't hurt you to let me loose. Please! Untie me!"
"You asking us to dirt on Dudley Burdock, girlie? No way!"
"But I'm kidnapped! You can all go to prison!"
"Oh, yeah? We'll put you behind bars first, kiddo. Boys, just look at that waist--she's a honey."
"Them boobs is what I like--terrific! Where did Dudley pick you up, babe?"
"Right here. I thought this was a dude ranch."
They found this hilarious. I pressed back against the poles, mantled in shame. These men would not free me. It was hard to believe but they would not. I realized it was for their pleasure I was thus bond. I did not plead again. After a further discussion about my most intimate secrets and some speculation as to how good a lay I'd make, they went back to their car and drove on to the house. I stayed where I was, aching for a freedom they'd denied. It was hard to believe one of them had not felt pity.
A couple more cars drove by as darkness fell. They paused to glance at the naked girl tied to the rail, but were not interested enough to come over. Nude females were a drug on the market here. I would have supposed this wilderness place would provoke either lust or sympathy. But the male response so far was simply indifference.
One more car stopped. It held a single occupant. He sauntered over to examine me in the gloom. I made my usual pitch. I simply had to! He listened in silence, nodding quietly. I realized he was younger than the rest--good features, nice personality.
"I can't possibly free you," he told me gravely. "You would do well not to ask--not just me but anyone."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "It could be used as an excuse to punish you."
My tummy tied its now familiar knot. Still, I could not resist going on. "I'm just a girl who was driving by. Surely I don't deserve this. Can't you understand? I'm scared to death!"
Again the grave nod, the silent survey of what would once have been seen only by my own eyes. Unexpectedly, he said, "I'm David Herron. Kill the panic--it'll do you no good. And you'll soon be taken in where it's warm." He went back to his car. It was not until then that I recognized it was a Mercedes.
I've never felt more alone.
Burdock came before the panic really set in. While he unchained one of my wrists, he jovially said, "Hear you've been having yourself a bit of chit-chat out here with the boys."
"Tied here, they could hardly miss me."
"Right. Having met 'em, you won't feel so strange about what's going to happen. It's worked out best to leave you tied here. It's still not late. We'll give you time to eat, bathe, and dress."
I never had a doubt about what I was going to do when Burdock got me untied. When the last knot fell, I leaped like a startled dear. I knew Burdock would catch me--and soon --but I couldn't face living with myself if I didn't at least try. I'd never forgive myself for following him back to the ranch like a docile puppy. When he grasped my bare arm and swung me around, I flinched for the blow I expected to be coming. Instead, Burdock laughed.
"Had to do that, didn't you, girl? No hard feelings--I understand how it is."
I am pathetically grateful for absence of a blow. In humble silence I allow myself to be led to a back door and up to my room. I am now grateful for the room itself. My day tied to the corral has made me grateful for almost any break I get in this place.
"Have a bath and pretty yourself up, Patsy. The clothes you'll wear are laid out on the bed. Daisy will bring you some food. Give her any trouble, though, and you'll be whipped."
Burdock locks the door. The window is barred. I wish he'd said more, but what he said was enough, especially about the whipping. Good gosh, what have I walked into? But the bathroom is nice and well equipped for girls. Powdered and perfumed, I go to the bed.
There are shockingly skimpy scraps I am forced to wear. I suppose they are better than nothing but just barely. While I put on the revealing costume, Daisy arrives with the tray.
"I am Daisy Ho, Miss Pendleton. You will call me Daisy, and I will call you Patsy. You will please behave yourself and obey me."
I bet she's never seen Hong Kong. She's a Canadian product and has a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. It prompts me to prod.
"What if I don't?"
"I will whip you."
"You and who else?"
It is shaming--Daisy quickly has me face down on the bed and unable to move without hurting me.
Releasing her grip, she blandly orders, "You will stay just so, please."
I do not stay just so. I am mortified, and I bolted for the door. Daisy promptly returns me to the bed. Curious, I watch as she gets the cane from a drawer, but there's no way I'm going to stay still with my bottom up in the air for that thing. We have a replay of the earlier escape attempt. This time I end up with five fresh and smarting weals across where I sit. They are no big deal, but Daisy has proved her point. I am utterly chagrined.
"You see, it is best to be a good girl."
"How the hell did you do that!"
I stand and rub the scorching marks she has placed one me, and glare at her.
It is best you do not know, Patsy. Please now, you eat something."
I do not eat standing. Piss on that! I plump my burning bum on the bed and turn my full attention to the tray. Daisy watches. She is one of those girls who appears amused by everything. She giggles.
"You know what's going to happen to you tonight?" she asks.
"No, tell me."
"It is forbidden."
"Tell me anyway. You must want to or you wouldn't have mentioned ft."
Daisy savors my curiosity. She knows, and she knows that I do not know. I am sure she gains satisfaction from this. She tells me nothing.
Instead she asks, "You going to try to escape?"
"I'd be crazy not to, wouldn't I?"
"You crazy if you do."
"But it can't be impossible."
"It is not possible. It is foolish to try. You will get whipped."
"What I want to know is, do I get--you know?"
"Do you get fucked?" Daisy shrugs it off casually. "It is bound to happen sometime." Her eyes sparkle, and she adds, "Even to me."
That was as far as I got with Daisy. But we liked each other.
Her use of the cane on my derriere had been peculiarly personal. She passed Burdock on the way out.
"Ready, Patsy?" My sparse coverings got his usual close scrutiny. "You'll serve drinks to start with. You've done well with yourself."
"Why not dress me as a maid?"
"It's been done too often--a bit hackneyed, y'know."
"I suppose you realize I don't want to do this. You're using coercion."
Burdock grunted. "You'll do it so as to not get your ass whipped."
No one appeared to notice me when I came into the room. I was no longer naked and thus undeserving of attention. I am led to center stage and Burdock calls the group to order.
"Her name's Patsy," Burdock informs the group, as though displaying a dog. "The usual things, of course. Here, Patsy, up with your chin and out with them tits." He places a hard finger beneath my chin to cock it haughtily, and then he squares my shoulders and pulls my arms in back to protrude my breasts. Inevitably, I blush.
I am now noticed. Evidently, the tilting of my chin was some sort of signal. Burdock shows me the bar and the mixes. He pats my bottom.
"Don't be shy with the boys," he says. "Look 'em right in the eye."
Urgently, I whisper, "Look I don't know anything about this."
"That's why you're here, sweetheart."
I am alone with a vast array of bottles. I do a few mixes I'm familiar with, then walk into the crowded masculinity with the tray. I was immediately possess by David Herron and his grave courtesy. He introduced me to every man present, and by each I was received differently. These were no ordinary men. They did not all bespeak culture, but they did smell of money. These men held power, but each deferred to David Herron in a way to speak volumes. He was the unostentatious kingpin of them all. Some kissed my hand, others took a drink and nodded. One pinched my bottom so it hurt, and with one enthusiastic member David took my tray while I was soundly hugged and bussed as by a fond uncle. The whole effect was bewildering.
I am starting to think of him as David, not Mr. Herron, but he has told me again that he will not aid me in an escape, so he must be my enemy. Yet I cannot think of him as my enemy. What I need most urgently is a friend here. I have no friends at the Big T. Whenever my mind turns from this moment that is now, I am immediately engulfed by the most terrifying loneliness.
Davie relinquishes me to my tray, my drinks, and the other guests. Burdock mingles, but he keeps an eye on me at all times. My behavior is unpredictable. My wish to toss a drink into a male face and then run is hard to control. But I must base an escape on more than that. Cautiously, I sound out the mostly middle-aged faces that I serve. I ask for help. They appear not to hear my pleas, or they give me an emphatic no. I realize the Big T has a use for me beyond what I am doing. I would like to think I am just a pretty girl at a stag party, but I know that I am much more than that. When Burdock grasps my arm again and sets aside the tray, my heart begins to pound.
I am now in the center of the room again. This time the men dispose themselves comfortably in a circle around me. The show begins.
"Take 'em off, Patsy, and stand pretty."
It is useless to pretend I don't understand this command. It is equally useless to try to run. I suppose there are worse things than to stand naked before a group of men, but right now I don't know what it could possibly be.
I look up at Burdock and whisper, "No, please don't make me--please!"
"Do it, Patsy, and do it pretty. No sulking."
I make myself naked for them. The scraps I wear drop to the floor from my trembling hands. Burdock's finger again tilts my chin. He turns me slowly to display what I am and to show the red where I was switched. The handclaps are discreet but emphatic.
Burdock's voice is relentless: "She bother any of you about escape?"
The show of hands is silent but deadly. I am thus condemned.
"Usual treatment, I suppose?"
The nodding heads and the raised hands are without mercy. I am about to cry out at them when Daisy joins me. She carries rope and a riding crop--not the swagger kind but a slender length of wickedness. Her eyes warn me but I heed them not. I have guessed what is about to be done.
"No! Nooo! You mustn't. This is all wrong."
My protest is absorbed by silence. Burdock is over by the wall, manipulating buttons. From somewhere above a two- foot bar of wood lowers slowly before my stricken gaze. It stops at waist level."
The day has softened me. I do not fight Daisy. I watch my wrists as they are bound by nimble Chinese fingers, one wrist at each end of the hardwood. Tightly corded, they accompany the bar on its way back up. When the whirring motors stop, I am standing taut and shamingly conscious of my armpits as one more erotic disclosure, along with the rest of my nakedness.
"Ankles tied?"
The vote is almost even. Daisy has to kneel and tie my feet. She ties them far tighter than I think she needs to. I am now delectably displayed for everyone's pleasure--everyone except myself! The shining crop which Daisy holds seems to mock me from the floor.
"Want her tighter?"
It appears I am satisfactory as I am. I gain knowledge from the responses. If my arms are raised more than they are now, it will flatten my breasts, and this is not the desired effect. Also, I will provide more erotic enjoyment when I am whipped if I have a modicum of freedom in which to writhe. These men are connoisseurs of the pain of girls. I am becoming more and more frightened. Nobody would go to all this trouble just to give me half a dozen licks. It is now I realize that I am in deep trouble!
I am also beautiful; this pose displays me beautifully. My breasts are at their fullest curve, and my nipples are rampant. I don't know why they are becoming so excited. I have never seen them so large or so erect. They point at the male audience and receive comments of admiration. I blush with two emotions: pride and shame. It's crazy, I know, but I think pride is the strongest.
To look is not enough. One at a time the men come forward to trace the contours with worshipful fingertips. Nor is it just breasts and pubes they admire. Every plane and curve of my femaleness enraptures them. Tied feet rob them of easy access to my pussy. But there is no lust in these caresses. This is strange, but I would feel it if it was there. One man delicately fingers my dark hair, rearranging fronds behind my ears. His fingers find the nape of my neck and in slow motion find the skin beneath my hair, delivering me to ecstasy. I don't want him to stop--I want him to go on doing it forever.
I return to the world of Daisy Ho. She teases my nipples and whispers, "I must whip you. Hate the pain, but do not hate me."
Silence is total.
The willow switch was my first time. Those were the strokes on my bottom Daisy had punished me with. I am now grateful for those small preludes, but this is different--this is a symphony. I can scarcely believe such pain is real. I tighten, I tug, I throw my head back in a muted scream. The cheeks of my derriere are scorched by fire. I hear the exaltations of bated breath around the room.
I clench my bottom, but the second stripe lands across my shoulders at the level of my breasts. The tip comes close to one taut cone but bites only at its base. I sense I am in good hands. Daisy has whipped girls before.
My gasping plea is instinctive: "Not so hard! Ohhh, please, not so hard!"
The next cut tells me to keep my mouth shut. It is cruelly severe. I yelp in dismay and writhe as best I can. If my ankles were not tied, I'm sure I would go absolutely wild. This is a sort of pain that's new to me, and it's beastly, and it's on my bare skin!
As Daisy whips me there is silence, a kind of reverence for my torture. I would have expected ribaldry from these men, but there is only rapt attention. The sounds I make myself become stark and shameful. But I cannot remain stoically quiet while Daisy stripes my tender skin with methodical care. I never know where she will strike me next. It is an absolutely cringe-making sort of agony beneath my armpits and across my thighs. But mostly she concentrates on my back and bottom. The back and bottom of a girl offer a lot of space for the lash of the whip.
I am not being punished. It hurts terribly, but I know these men get something more from watching me being whipped than just teaching me a lesson. The escape thing was just an excuse. I expect female guilt adds a piquancy. I mean, I don't know what I'm guilty of, but I must have been a naughty girl to get this. In Queen Victoria's day I would have been made to lower my knickers and bend over to be caned on my bare bottom. But we have progressed since then. I have been naughty, so I am whipped. I am not sure I even matter. It is the whir and impact of Daisy's instrument upon my naked flesh that matters. It is there that the answer lies. I hear myself scream. It is a most terrible sound.
"Would you like her gagged, gentlemen?"
The ayes have it. My screams must offend these gentlemen watching my whipping. Daisy produces a horrendous looking thing with straps and a buckle, but before it is tightened around my mouth I plead with her again: "Please, Daisy, don't whip me any more--not any more! Oh, please, Daisy, please!"
I suppose the gag is a work of genius. It is made of soft, expensive leather and shining chrome. The rubber pad to compress my tongue and fill my mouth is an integral part of it.
Eye to eye, Daisy whispers to me, "You do so well. Bite down when your mouth is full."
I whisper back my last words before the gag is buckled tightly: "Isn't it nearly over yet?"
Daisy shakes her head. I bite down and close my lips so the wide leather can capture and compress my lips. Daisy buckles the straps back across my cheeks. It is very tight. My mouth is full. I am gagged. Daisy picks up the whip. The eyes of David Herron dwell upon my nakedness with dark intensity It is born upon me that this is not a flogging. I am being bitterly hurt but without malice. Daisy holds her arm just short of drawing blood. I am glad I am gagged. Words and screams would shame me, and I can still make sounds which find approving ears. I vent my agony into those sounds and in the writhings by which I pay tribute to each of Daisy's lashes. I do not hate her, and I wonder why. Her whip cuts me with fearful precision.
There is an intermission. Yes, really! But I am not freed. I am only a whipped girl, doubtless unworthy of a break in my punishment. But Daisy does unbuckle my gag and pour brandy down my willing throat. I gulp all she will give me, but I only get these gulps between the male guests, for Daisy must tend them as well. Such comments as they now make are in whispers among themselves. Burdock is talking with David Herron, so I get scant attention from either of them. I stand with my arms held high. I look up to where my wrists are tied. It is hard to believe those strands of cord can compel me to stand here and be whipped. But it is also hard to believe that yesterday I was a free girl driving my car along a tourist highway. I am not free now!
I wonder what I look like. I bet my hair's an awful mess. I glisten with sweat, and I can feel it trickle down shamefully from my whipped armpits. I--suppose it's from the and fear. This is all so strange and new and horrible. Fancy a girl standing naked and sweating within a circle of busily chatting men! If I wasn't hurting so bad, I wouldn't believe it myself. It's like a bad dream.
I catch Daisy's eye imploringly. She hurries to me with another drink. I wonder if it would hurt less if I got drunk. While she holds the glass of brandy to my hurt lips, she tells me, very quietly, that I am a great success with the guests, but not to expect my whipping to stop yet. It still had quite awhile to go. I could not drink and ask questions at the same time, so Daisy kept my mouth as full as possible.
Finally, it was Burdock who put the gag back in my mouth and strapped it on tight. I bet he's afraid I'll drink too much and get sick. But he tells me sincerely, "You're doing fine, Patsy."
In the silence heralding the resumption of my whipping a single exclamation from an anonymous guest says it all: "She's beautiful!"
It did me no good to be beautiful. Daisy's whip still snapped at me with the same venom, and I made the same shaming noises and motions. But the enchantment did not pall. The male eyes adored me and the marks now latticing my skin. In my twistings it is inevitable I turn and display my back in place of my breasts. None are cheated. All of me is there for all to see. I scream and scream against the gag. When Daisy strikes me, there seems to be no part of my nakedness which does not hurt worst of all at the time of impact. But then it is the next one, and the next, until I know that each blow will hurt me worst of all.
The whipping has to end or I will die. So it ends. Now I have no need to scream, so my gag is taken from me. The men are having one last drink for the road, and I get one too. But I am not released. I stand nakedly with my whipped skin and my arms held high while I am gravely examined and my weals traced with enquiring fingertips by the appreciative guests. Several of them meet my eye and frankly say, "Thank you, Patsy." Their tributes comfort me. It's silly, I guess, but they do.
David Herron breaks away from Burdock long enough to say good night, and he adds, "I like you, Patsy. I intend to see you again--soon." I know it's strange, but my heart skips a beat at the prospect of seeing this man again.
When Burdock and David Herron leave, Burdock disposes of me casually. "Daisy, look after her. You know, the bedroom, and then take her to the chicken house." I was suddenly alone with a bright-eyed Chinese maiden who was laughing at my bewilderment.
"Chicken house?" I asked, puzzled.
"Do not laugh about the chicken house, Patsy. It is you who are the chicken."
I shrug it off. Bemused, I ask, "Why didn't I faint? Why don't I faint now?"
"Fainting is for worse whippings--much, much worse. You have no blood at all from this first time." She kneels and unties my ankles, but binds one of them again, and then the other. I am hobbled. "You must not fight if I fix you so you cannot run. It is best."
I do not mind. And she is right--it is best that I do not run. Running can only get me into trouble here. I kick a petulant foot to discover even my walk will be snubbed. From my well of loneliness, I plead with this beautiful Chinese girl: "Daisy, hug me for a little while, would you? It would mean so much right now. Please."
She understands instantly. She clasps my gleaming nudity in ardent feminine arms--the arms that had hurt me and now love me. And she kisses me again and again--the lips she had gagged. There is a hunger in her too. But our time is not now. Daisy's hand steals down between my legs and cups my hot pussy. It is a wonderful, magical hand. But while I gasp she tells me softly, "It is best you save it. You will find out why very soon." She goes to the buttons on the wall. The motor whirs, and my hands descend.
My shoulders and arms are grateful. They sing their sensory joy while I watch as my wrists are untied.
"Please don't make me hurt you," Daisy says. "And you cannot run."
The bedroom and bath welcome me. Daisy plays lady's maid. I am well lathered and laved, but my ankles are not untied. Alone, I could untie them easily, but I am not alone, and Daisy does not turn her back. Finally, I am prettied up enough.
Daisy's voice holds laughter as she taunts, "And now the chicken house, darling?"
"Can't I wear something?"
"Nothing."
"But I'll freeze!"
"You will be wanned in the chicken house, Patsy."
I follow where I am led. The rope snubs me warningly at every step.
It is actually a chicken house! There is evidence of feathers, and there is straw covering the floor. But in one corner there is a bin. It swings aside to reveal steps. We descend into the darkness. There is a short passage and then bars. I am sure I am dreaming. It's as though Aladdin has rubbed his magic lamp.
They are very beautiful. There are three of them. They lounge on cushions by a swimming pool. They are bathed in light, but it is not the sun. Each of them is as naked as I am.
Daisy unlocks a barred door and thrusts me swiftly within. The door slams shut again. My arrival lacks drama.
"Gosh, got another one, Daisy. Poor kid."
"Where do you find us all? I know where you got me."
"Daisy, how about letting us loose? We'll make it up to you."
"You are all very silly girls," Daisy chided. "This one's name is Patsy. Be nice to her."
We stare at each other. I felt as all new girls must feel. But they were bored. I was one more like themselves. One said, with kindness, "You can untie your feet now. You don't have to stay tied in here."
I untied my feet. When I tossed the rope aside, I was enveloped in female arms and lips and the scent of girls. I do not fight. I am so damn grateful after all those men. I closed my eyes and let them do whatever they liked with me.
"This one's okay. But look how the poor darling's been whipped!"
"No worse than us. We all get it. Spread her legs."
"Gee, she smells good!"
"She's just had a bath, idiot."
"Are you hurting bad, darling?"
I was a girl again. It felt so damn good.
CHAPTER TWO - GIRL CAGE
Our stories were the same. They varied only as to where the Big T had picked us up, that was all. I listened avidly to the others' stories. This huge apartment was underground. We could not be found; we could not escape; we were prisoners. There was only one way out: Somebody would buy us.
I was for sale!
They gave me the tour. The place was gorgeous but they had become cynical and resigned to their surroundings. One had been there three weeks, another only four days. They had seen captive girls like me come and go. They were blase. Each attributed her failure to appeal to a purchaser to some personal factor like red hair or short legs. They longed for a buyer the same way I longed for freedom. Soon I would be like them.
"It gets to you, Patsy. We can't get beyond those bars."
"They're asking too damn much for me," wailed one golden haired beauty. "No guy in his right mind is going to pay a quarter million dollars for a girl!"
Our price explained the Big T Dude Ranch's immunity. Big T girls would be imprisoned all around the world, their owners enjoying them. Some might even find happiness in submission to wealth. But I still had to escape this underground paradise. I absolutely have to. The girls read my thoughts and laugh.
"It's not possible, dear. Daisy never opens the door. You can see the small opening where our food is pushed through."
"They've got handcuffs if we're taken out for exhibit."
"This apartment is completely self-contained. It has everything, even a kitchen."
"And it has some cute little gadgets for punishing us if we don't behave. We get whipped enough at the stag parties." Four girls in a cage! That's really what we were. It is a beautifully luxurious cage, but its iron bars mock our nakedness. It am told that once inside we have seen the last of clothes. Slyly, it is suggested I pick my own room or, if I prefer, my own girl to sleep with. None of us are lesbians, but the isolation of this plush captivity changes us, and our bodies are so blatantly displayed! I have just eaten these girls and am again ravenous.
Over breakfast we discuss Daisy. We desire her. I am told she will sometimes handcuff a girl and take her away for an hour or so. It is an honor we all covet. Giggling, they tell me her flavor is of honey and almonds.
"But don't ever make her angry. She has permission to punish us."
"That girl who called her a lousy chink--wow! I've never seen such stripes!"
"She's really a sweetheart."
"Goodness knows what Burdock pays her. She's absolutely loyal. The Chinaman's her brother, not her husband. She's a bit of a puzzle. I know she sometimes gets whipped, but she won't talk about it."
The swimming pool is heated. We play in it like kids. If Daisy opens the door to take one of us out, the rest must stand visibly in line and way back from the door. Daisy takes no chances.
It is easy to fall into the routine. I adore the pool. I soon adore the girls and don't want them to be sold. My whipmarks fade rapidly. I am told it is because of a special whip. We think it is killing us but it cuts no skin. Laughingly, they tell me their whippings make them horny and they can't wait to get back into the cage. Sometimes a client will fuck us and we must submit. It does not happen often. Sex is secondary at the Big T. It is the snap of a whip on feminine flesh for which they pay.
It is evening when Daisy calls me to the bars. The other three dutifully back away and stand like nude soldiers on parade. I learn a new drill. I must thrust both hands between two bars so they may be handcuffed before the door is opened. Daisy makes the steel bands bite. When I walk through the door I cannot fight. It is easy to understand why there is no escape.
He waits for me in what I'd thought was my bedroom. I recognize him as a male whose eyes had hungered for me the night before. I do not hate him, but it is just as well Daisy had briefed me on our journey from the chicken house. When she leaves us alone I sink to the rug in front of the omnipotent male. I kneel. I spread my knees. I bow my head. I hold my cuffed hands below my breasts. I am a slavegirl awaiting her master's orders.
He says gently, "Hello, Patsy."
"Greetings, master."
I have been told I will be terribly whipped if I blow this scene. I do not want to be whipped.
"You may remove my clothes, child."
I try not to giggle. The things men wear are so silly. I remove them slowly. I am in no hurry to be fucked by this nondescript man whose name is Mr. Gentry. I wonder what he pays for the use of my sheath.
Mr. Gentry is tremendously excited. He is hard and erect. He adores my hands upon him anywhere. He is breathing heavily but jokingly says that if I don't mind he'll use the bathroom first. I do not mind at all.
My adventure starts.
Mr. Gentry vanishes. I leap for the door. It is not locked. I close it behind me soundlessly. I know the way. My handcuffed wrists don't matter.
The mountain dark hits me like an icy shower but my blood is hot and my heart is racing. I speed down the dirt road in leaping bounds. I am alive in exaltation. I have a good start. If I hear a vehicle behind me, I will hide behind a bush. When I reach the secondary road it is like an old friend. All I need now is the lights of a car. I run in the direction I had come from yesterday.
My feet are bare, and the asphalt imparts a cold that is almost painful, but I cannot run through the brush with bare feet. I would be lamed in the first minute. My feet flash forward.
There is no car. There is nothing except me. I am naked and the air becomes an enemy. It absorbs my body heat faster than my heart can pump. I reassure myself it is August. It cannot possibly get dangerously cold in August--can it? But I have forgotten--I am in the Canadian Rockies! I remember being tied to the rail and having the mountain watch me broodingly as its prey. It is from that mountain's glaciers this cold has come. I shiver at the thought and run harder.
There are no cars. There is nothing. In desperation I turn off along another dirt track. It is warmer in the trees and the dirt is kinder to my feet. But I run and run and find nothing. After a mile or so the track ends. I can see no reason for its ending but it does. I stand there, panting, the mountain's air icy on my hot skin. I am surrounded by forest and am suddenly frightened. I weep wailingly.
My walk back to the road takes forever. All that running has tired me. I sit for a moment but the cold spurs me on. When I reach the asphalt I also reach decision. The cold mountain air makes it for me. I can stay here and die, or I can retrace my steps. Sobbing, I walk back the miles I had so blithely run. My handcuffs remind me of what I am and what I may expect. They too are cold.
I am a sorry girl indeed when I reach the ranch house and its doors are locked. I must knock like a supplicant and beg for mercy. It is Burdock who answers. I throw myself upon his strength and nestle against his shoulder, absorbing heat. My tears dampen his shirt. He dries my cheeks and pats my bottom. His greeting holds no reproach.
"Bit chilly, eh?"
"I'm frozen. I'm so silly." I start to shiver violently.
"Get in here by the fire."
The logs blaze in the huge hearth. Gentry is there, sipping whisky. His reprimand is gentle: "You'd have been dead before morning, child."
I am gulping whisky in huge swallows. Heat embraces me. I have never felt so comforted or so graceless.
Burdock bends and feels my feet. He grunts. "Run up and soak in a hot tub," he orders. He slaps my bottom hard to start me on my way.
Halfway to the door I turn to Gentry and stammer shyly, "If you would like to wait, Mr. Gentry, I'll do anything you want after my bath."
The bath is bliss. It is almost worth the venom of the mountain. My feet return to life. As I wallow in sensory felicity I conjecture on my condition. I am still handcuffed. Perhaps that has no significance; they don't seem to stop me from doing much. I am puzzled by my welcome back. It is kind. I am puzzled by Burdock and by Gentry. There was a touch of humor about the way they spoke. But I expect that's because I'll be punished. I'm bound to be terribly punished. I'd best not think about it. By the rules I am guilty. Thought of the cold out there almost makes me believe my guilt. I will deserve punishment. Good gosh, what a way to think!
But I have learned a lesson: I must escape in sunlight.
When I dry and pretty myself, I emerge to find Gentry waiting on the bed. He is without clothes again. He sits with his feet on the floor and tells me I must kneel between his legs and pleasure his phallus with my tongue and lips. He calls it "giving head." I have never done this for a man but I do it now. I would do anything rather than face the cold again. While I work my mouth full of man, Gentry plays lingeringly with the weals upon my back. I realize I am making him tremendously happy. For this moment I am more powerful than he. I suck his strength. When, after a long time, he is satisfied with me, he fondles my handcuffs while his gentle voice explains how I had fallen victim to a trap. I'd been set up. He says Burdock had considered slamming the door in my face and leaving me out to freeze for another hour, but that I was valuable merchandise, too valuable to risk. When he gave me his final pat, Daisy was waiting.
"You're a damn fool," she said as we went downstairs. "I warned you."
"But I didn't know!" I wailed. "It's August!"
"Okay, so you don't live in the mountains but now you know." She thrust me out the back door. Cold grips me like an icy hand and I am fearful she will lock me out. But she just laughs and we run to the chicken house. She uses keys. Two minutes later I am back with the girls. The handcuffs stay; I have been naughty. I ask them to bury me under female flesh, and this they do most willingly. They keep me warm.
We all get into the same bed, and I tell them my story. In the morning I learn I must be punished.
My punishment has a most pretentious beginning. My three companions are made to thrust their hands beyond the bars. Daisy links them with handcuffs so they must stand while I am dealt with. My penalty seemed simple. The girls had laughingly shows it to me. It was sort of a pillory thing, most firmly a part of one wall by the pool. It opened top and bottom, and I had to back into it against the wall. When the two yokes were closed on me and loudly locked, I was standing with a prisoned neck and a prisoned hand well out to each side of my face. My ankles were also encased, a foot apart, in hardwood, and that's that.
I stand.
"It serves you right, Patsy," Daisy tells me as she puts the final touches on my immobility. She kisses me. "I could give you something much worse, but the cold is punishment enough." She teases my nipples and glints into my eyes. "You must also be whipped--all girls who attempt escape are whipped--but you must await an audience. The Big T never wastes the whipping of a girl."
Daisy is sweet. I watch her lock us in. I watch as she releases my companions from the bars. They flock around me joyously.
"You're the first girl we've seen in that thing, darling."
"Think what we can do to you!"
"I bet you hate the thing before you get out of it."
It seems so innocent. I stand naked in the clasp of cleverly carved wood. The orifices for my neck, my wrists, and my ankles are snug. It is designed for girls. If I lean my head against its grip, I can get my chin on the hinged and locked plank above my shoulders. My fingertips can reach it too. But what good is that? It holds me prisoner, mocking my efforts to move. Oh, sure, I can wiggle my hips but what the hell! One of the girls points out something we hadn't thought of: "Daisy could have made you face the wall, darling. That would really have been for the birds."
I am most grateful for facing out. So are the girls. They give me an orgasm and promise more. But as time drags on the thing I am most aware of is boredom. I stand, arms raised, neck collared, and watch them play in the pool. That's it.
I admit the orgasms helped. They are something to look forward to. We are not allowed watches or a clock, nor a radio or TV. There is no sun. We do everything by instinct. When the girls are obliged to feed me lunch it is hilarious. But when suppertime comes and I must be fed that too I am too tired to laugh. I am sick to death of standing and keeping my chin up and my arms. Daisy simply laughs at questions. Maybe I have to stand here all night. But at bedtime Daisy hands them the key and gets it back when I am unlocked. She blows me a kiss.
The girls allow me to sleep alone. I am exhausted.
It is the next day. Two of us have been sold. Daisy tells us the gorgeous golden hair fetched three hundred thousand, the other girl a mere two. When I ask my own price I am told I have to be punished before it will be set. I sense a hesitation. I sure do hope I'll be sold instead of kept prisoner to be whipped every so often for the entertainment of the boys. To be sold sounds awful but I'll take a chance. Suppose David Herron bought me--oh, wow!
My fellow prisoner is Candy. We clutch a lot in a terrible loneliness. We are aware of the mountain and of the hot intent regard of men. Candy is taken from me for an evening and returned with her whipmarks freshly renewed. She is crying. I comfort her with arms and lips. I pleasure her with my tongue. What else have I to give? Tomorrow it may be me.
We are absurdly obedient. In the morning, told to thrust our hands out between bars, we watch the handcuffs bite our wrists. Daisy gives no reason. She does not have to. She watches us finger the steel bands around our wrists. Her eyes glow. I am sure we wear the bond because of caprice. We do not love her less for it. Who cares about handcuffs! But they set us apart from the new girl.
It is evening when Terry is pushed though the door to share our captivity. She has just been whipped before the men. She weeps. We dry her tears and tell her what she needs to know. She is petite and pert and pretty. She was kidnapped in a town hundreds of miles distant. She is as lost as I had been. Candy and I feed upon her hungrily to still her fears. We have become outrageously skilled. Terry's tears stop almost instantly. We share a single bed. We need each other.
It is the next evening I am whipped.
I am glad the time has come. It is hateful to have it hang above one's head. Perhaps, watching the striation of my skin, a man will be sufficiently aroused to pay my price. I remain handcuffed, but carry my tray and mix my drinks with a fresh assurance. I am a graduate. I discuss my fading whipmarks and the fresh etchings to be made upon my skin tonight with an easy aplomb. David Herron is here. We watch each other constantly, but Burdock has warned me to stay away from him. I must obey.
I am whipped upside down. I mean, why not!
I do not at first realize my fate. But when Daisy makes me sit on the rug I watch my ankles bound to the bar in growing apprehension. Daisy tells me the belief in death from what is to be done to me is only a legend. I will not die.
It is pure nightmare. Everything is wrong. I see feet instead of faces as I circle back and forth. My hair falls from my head and brushes the carpet but that is all. My handcuffed hands can touch nothing. They are, in fact, a bit of a nuisance. I don't know what to do with them. My pussy is blatantly on display. I want to be whipped hard and steadily and get this over with.
Daisy is so slow. They are all enjoying me as I am before I am wealed. From what I can see I appear extraordinarily distorted. I am not a girl or a man. Everything looks wrong. Everything except David Herron. I manage to focus on him as I turn. He is as grave and intent as ever but he will not meet my eyes. I hold my handcuffed wrists against my navel. I hope I don't look silly upside down.
To be whipped like this is the strangest experience of my life. Being upside down I seem to have lost all my usual parts, but the scorch of the whip across my bottom tells me it is still there and more vulnerable than ever. The next stroke is across my back and the effect is the same. I have lost my parts but I have not lost their pain. As I slowly turn as I am whipped, I glimpse a new dimension. It is my opened crotch. I pray she will not cut me within the cleft upon my pussy, but I know she will. Everyone else knows too. They watch in silent absorption, knowing it will not be long.
It comes. I scream in outrage. A girl should not be whipped in her most private place. I tell them so. I am immediately gagged. Valued clients must not be harassed by maidenly mortification. My lips sealed, I make the other sounds and hope someone will feel ashamed.
Daisy whips me with competence and imagination. I am a truly gorgeous subject. With my pussy open between the cleft of my thighs I offer everything. None of me is unavailable. I howl and howl against my gag as the whip licks and cuts and sears. For my bottom, Daisy has a soft flat strap. It makes the most atrocious sound upon my flesh and hurts the same. Her blows keep me slowly turning for all to see.
The leather strap is a great success. There is muted applause as it smacks my buttocks again and again. I cannot move them; they are simply there. In the desperation of pain I reach my handcuffed hands up to the bar holding my feet. I am surprised at how far I can get up there. But to what purpose? All I achieve is to place my bottom in greater prominence which the strap instantly recognizes. It splats upon my tautened skin with a gleeful smack and I relapse into my limp suspension gratefully. I will make no more contortions. The strap or the whip will use them all. It is best to hand and clutch my tummy.
I do not know if my whipping today is more or less. I am sure it is hours before I am lowered to the rug, my gag removed, and a glass of brandy thrust into my hands. As I drink I scan the assembly. David Herron is not there. I don't much care about anything else.
"Want to run away again, Patsy?" Burdock sounds jovial. "No! Never!"
The emphasis I place on the two words draws laughter. My bottom burns, my back scorches as I sit and sip. I cannot be positive my punishment is over. My eyes seek Burdock's in piteous appeal. Most ardently I do not wish to be hoisted again and whipped some more. But they are merciful. My feet are released and I am given back my tray. It hurts now when I walk. My puss is swollen and my crotch is sore. But I am grateful my punishment is over. I offer my wounds to be felt and my puss to be explored for such secretions as pain may generate within my sheath. They nod wisely. They make their comments. My strapped bottom is patted in approval. If the patting hurts, that's my hard luck. I am only a girl from the chicken house. I will be whipped for their pleasure often.
Terry and Candy make a great fuss when Daisy returns me to prison. I am outrageously horny, and they solace my swollen pussy with tender tongues. Poor little Terry is frightened by my weals, forgetting her own. She cannot believe they will ever fade. She thinks all three of us are marked for life. Panting beneath their faction, I wonder if the Big T actually wishes to turn us girls into lesbians. They certainly go about it in the right way.
On the following day I am sold.
The Big T got as much for me as they did for golden hair. I am immensely flattered. Beneath every girl is the bitch. I would have been cruelly hurt had I fetched less.
First Daisy took me to Burdock. As usual, he was very matter-of-fact. "You're a good girl, Patsy, even if you did take a powder. I'd keep you for the shows, but the boys want constant change. Sorry!"
"Who has bought me? Is it David Herron?"
"You want him so bad it hurts, don't you, girl? I've watched your face. No, it's not David."
My heart slowed. No one else mattered much. But there I was wrong. Morosely, I asked, "Will I know him?"
"I doubt it. But he watched you whipped last night. After that he didn't care about money."
"I suppose he's rich?"
"Loaded."
We have known each other such a short time--Burdock and I--but there is a bond. His cruelties have never been personal. My pains and punishments emanate from the Bit T which is itself the product of a group, the focal domicile of the fantasies of fifty men. Selling us keeps us safe. The money we fetch is incidental. Burdock speaks of it.
"I'd like to give you a sizable chunk of your take, kid, maybe a hundred thousand," he says, shrugging, "but you can't use money in your new position. You'll probably never need money again."
This is a cold comfort. I motion distressfully. "What must I do now?"
"The cage. You won't be taken until night." Burdock's grin is almost apologetic. "Murchinson's so damn happy about buying you he's throwing a shindig here. He's blowing a wad. And you're the star attraction."
My audience is over. Daisy returns me to prison. She clamps black steel handcuffs on my wrists. I scarcely notice. But the wide leather collar she locks around my neck raises my eyebrow in alarm.
"Why the collar?" I ask anxiously.
"Because you are sold, Patsy." Daisy laughs at my exploring fingers. "Wear it with pride. You cannot get it off."
The collar isolates me. The three of us make love through the day, but tomorrow I will be gone, and Terry and Candy will be alone. Soon their turn will come. My collar warns us all of transience. I remember the Roman gladiators, and Murchinson is my area. We speculate on what will be done to me at his party.
"They can't possibly whip you again, not after last night."
"Maybe you'll just be the hostess and serve drinks."
Maybe, maybe, maybe! I muster no optimism from their solaces. Girls are usually packaged and whisked away at time of sale. I have picked up vibes. Murchinson will be a hearty extrovert. This sharing of me with his friends is unlikely to be without cruelty. Some way has been thought of to hurt me. I feel sure of it.
We wet our bare skins with tears when Daisy comes for me. She is annoyed. I must look my best. I retire to the bathroom for repairs. I wave to them jauntily, but handcuffs inhibit, my collar cautions. I am marched from the chicken house, perhaps for the last time.
"This Murchinson is an asshole," Daisy warns.
I find it hard to smile.
The tray awaits me. I am now experienced. I realize what an erotic thrill it must be for these men to accept a glass from a girl who soon will scream in pain. They may gaze upon my bare flesh and savor sensuality in knowing it will soon bear marks. They can examine the marks I already bear and speak of them as communal property.
James Murchinson shakes my handcuffed hand and says he hopes we will be happy together. He is plumpish and middle- aged. His protuberant eyes positively eat me alive. He says he is sorry about tonight but he is sure I know how it is. I tell him I do not know at all. He treats this as a big joke and assures me I will soon find out. David Herron is nowhere to be seen.
I want to cry.
I must not be unkind about James Murchinson. I suppose he owns me now, and I'd better watch out. He is no worse than half these men here. There are others I'd prefer, but if David Herron doesn't want me, none of them matter much. Daisy has warned me not to wish Murchinson impotent or make him so by my behavior. She says it is better for him to work out his dreams inside my sheath than to carve them on my back. Gosh, what a choice!
About the time I am getting adjusted Daisy shows up with the odds and ends she is going to use on me. I try not to look. The arranging of chairs and the sudden hush tell me my time has come. Why the hell can't these idiots watch a movie, or go to a hockey game, or something! Why me? But girls are man's ultimate sport. There is nothing better than girls. I dispose of my tray and march out to center floor. I don't know why I don't go into screaming hysterics.
James Murchinson makes a speech. He cuddles me and pats my bottom and tells how he wants to share his happiness. He manages to mention my price; it spells prestige. He piously says that what is about to happen to me will be extremely painful but he knows I will bear it in good heart for the noble cause of their enjoyment. Modestly, he explains they are about to witness something new. He returns to his seat amidst applause. I would like to die.
And I still can't see David.
That Daisy gags me first thing is a bad sign. It means I will scream from the start. She changes my handcuffed wrists from front to back. She whispers for me to kneel, then helps me slide forward to lay face down. The carpet frictions my nipples and rasps my chin. I am getting less happy by the moment. I wish this was happening to Murchinson instead of me.
I hear the whir of the motor. A moment later Daisy is busily tying my ankles to the bar. She takes a lot of trouble over them. The cords are painfully tight. I suppose this means I'm to be upside down again and my pussy's probably the target. Whipping a girl's pussy is just about Murchinson's speed. I hear the motor again. Up goes the bar and my feet go with it. I can understand why I've been gagged right quick.
The motor stops. It does not start again. I try and look back. I strive for comfort but there's no way! My feet are raised only enough to get my pussy off the rug and put a kink in my back. I long for hands. I am laying squarely on my breasts, crushing my nipples. If I had my hands, they could ease my weight, but my hands are ironed in the curve of my back. Oh, shit! And I can't turn over. I can't do anything.
My world explodes.
The cut of Daisy's crop upon the upturned sole of my bare foot envelops me in pain so great I cannot comprehend what has been done. As the fire lances into every crevice of my being I am overwhelmed by a need to tell of the impossibilities of bearing another such blow. I must make these men and Daisy understand such agony is beyond bearing and will surely kill me. I buck and heave. I tear at handcuffed wrists in pure frenzy. It is so clever and so wicked, this way I'm fixed. I squirm and flounder. While I am still agonizing as to how to get my message past my gag Daisy whips my other defenseless sole. I work defensively to turn, to get into some position where I can make them understand, but I cannot turn. When I get halfway I flop back like a floundering fish. I am controlled sufficiently to offer the soles of my feet to Daisy's crop and to struggle enough to make a pretty spectacle of a girl in agony. But I can do nothing that matters--nothing!
It don't believe this, not after last night! I have been at the Big T only a little while, and already I am being tortured. This is torture. But the gag divorces me from anyone who might help if I could speak. I just cannot speak. I make the obscene sounds as I twist and flop. But they have heard these sounds before. They speak of girlish agony and are to be desired. Probably they are being taped. Again my foot explodes and I go berserk.
Murchinson sentenced me to this, and I belong to Murchinson. That means I will suffer this often. Murchinson has bought me. He has paid three hundred thousand dollars for a girl to torture. He will whip bits of me horribly until I die. If they let me speak before he takes me away, I will plead in such ways to make them understand he must not have me. If Burdock is watching, surely he will not allow Murchinson to take me--not after this! The fourth stroke bites my sole and I do everything all over again.
How many?
If they stop now, I will live. If it goes on and on and on, like my other whippings have, I cannot believe in life. Now five. Now six. I will never walk again. I have to tell them I will never walk again. I have to ask Murchinson if he wants a girl who cannot walk. But perhaps he does! Perhaps he wants me forever on my knees. I thrash my legs wildly but I soon tire. Daisy waits patiently.
It does not end. We are past ten now, and I have lost count. If I could struggle enough, I'd make it difficult for Daisy to plant a solid thwack upon my bare sole. But in my writhings I have only to pause one second and the crop bites again. My feet are whipped both lengthways and across. It is getting so I cannot tell. The mounting stripes upon my soles are building to a vast orgasm of agony, a terrible crescendo in which there can be no sexual response. My pussy floats. I am tied so it cannot touch the rug. I struggle to make contact but the rope wins. I expect that bit of me down there is visible to all in some distorted fashion. I do not care.
I am slipping away. There are moments when the rug before my eyes begins to blur and I lay limply for the next blow. When it comes it galvanizes me again. But I know I am close to passing out. I will be so grateful when I sink into the darkness, when a blow will no longer make me writhe. I cannot simulate, the agony is too devastating. But I am going--I am hallucinating.
I can see David Herron.
CHAPTER THREE - WHIPPED FEET
I don't know where I am or what's happening or anything. I don't care. Perhaps I am dead and the hazy floating images are some sort of afterlife. As I blink them into focus I become certain I've been drugged. My feet don't hurt. I cannot feel them at all. Perhaps they've been amputated.
"She's coming around, David."
The image to which the voice belongs comes into focus. It has a nice face and a stethoscope. It nods encouragingly. My cheek is patted.
"She'll be all right, David, stop worrying."
"But her feet--" It is David Herron's voice.
"They look terrible but no bones broken. In a week you can take her dancing. Someone was a real bastard to her."
I am propped up with pillows. My vision clears. As brightly as I can, I say, "Hello, David Herron, where am I?"
The doctor answers: "You're in my clinic, young lady, and you'll be here a day or two, okay?"
"Whatever you say. Why don't I hurt?"
"You're sedated." He grins charmingly. "But you're going to live." He pats my cheek again. "I'll leave you two alone." We stare. There he is, this gorgeous hunk of man. It's a miracle. All I can think to say is: "Where's Murchinson?"
"Why are you interested?"
"I'm not interested, I'm frightened. May I call you David?"
"I intend to call you Patsy. Murchinson's gone. Forget him."
"But he bought me!"
"And I bought you from him. Don't worry, it was all by the rules."
This man is a god! I gasp, "Three hundred thousand dollars!"
"Four."
"But why?"
"Murchinson liked you. He didn't want to sell you." David laughed. "Oh, you mean, why did I buy you at all?"
"Yes, why? That's--that's a fortune!"
David sat on the bed and took my hand. I'm so happy I could cry, and I did so. He gently dries my tears.
"Forget the money. Everyone at the Big T has a lot of it. This is the city of oil, you know."
"I'm in the city!"
"It's where I live."
David plays tinglingly with my hand. He does not know what a fire he kindles between my thighs. Gravely, he continues, "I wasn't invited to Murchinson's shindig. I should have guessed. But I didn't until it was too late. Murchinson's a clod. Damn sorry, Patsy."
I cannot feel my feet. I am on cloud nine. I am not sorry at all. But David has not answered. I try again.
"You didn't have to buy me. Why did you?"
"Damn it, girl, that idiot was about to tie you up six ways from Sunday and take you to where he lives. He'd have had you chained up in a cage by now."
I shudder. I can see myself nursing wounded feet behind bars or wire mesh. There is also the rattle of chain. Wanly, I enquire, "You only bought me out of kindness--humanity?" David chuckles. I am not fooling him. He kisses my forehead and, more lightly, my lips. "I like you. I told you that before. If it had been another girl, I might not have done it. Even for me, that's a fair piece of change. "
"I can't possibly be worth all that. I can't ever make it up to you."
"Any girl's worth it if she wants to be. Most of the poor creatures don't know how. I suppose it's all relative. Comfortable?"
"This is heaven."
"Doctor's a friend of mine. Those feet of yours would be hard to explain in most hospitals."
David has the air of a man about to leave. I don't want him to go. I stammer, "The--the Big T--I mean, how--?"
He shrugs. "A private club for satiated men. Include me in on that. Burdock thought it up. He runs it. By the way, he was called to the phone or he would never have allowed your feet to be beaten. Poor Daisy was in tears when we left. She thought she was doing what was wanted, and so far as Murchinson goes, she was. He lapped it up." David paused. "I had to talk Burdock out of putting her in your place." He grins. "Then we gave the bunch of them a roasting. There's no need to go that far with our girls."
"What I got--was that the bastinado?"
"Sort of, but that's a light rapping over a long time. It likely becomes painful. But it doesn't injure." He looks down at me with his grave amused smile. "Look, Patsy, I don't want you having any doubts about this, or putting me on a pedestal. I'm right in there with the rest of the boys. I suppose we're a lot of prime bastards together. Sometime I'll try and explain."
"I'm not sure I want to know. David, you've bought a girl. What are you going to do with me?"
"I'm damned if I know!" He laughs at his own dilemma. "You're right, I've bought a girl. Now what the hell do I do with her?"
"Don't you want me?"
"For Pete's sake, don't get feminine with me, Patsy girl. Sure, I want you, but I've stayed away from relationships. They don't fit my lifestyle."
"Would you like to let me go home to the U.S.? I expect my car's still at the Big T." I smile as bravely as I can. "I'll send you as much as I can every month to pay off--" My hand gets kissed and squeezed. It is very nice. I wish these small demonstrations were a prelude to something else but I don't think they are. After all, this is a hospital. But my fire is burning brighter than David knows. He shakes his head.
"I can't let you go, Patsy. You'd head straight for the police."
"No, I wouldn't. I'd head straight for the border."
"I may believe that, sweetheart, but no one else will."
I see his problem. But he has called me sweetheart!
"We drew up rules and we took an oath," David continues soberly. "There's no way we can let a girl go free."
"Don't you have a house you can keep me in? I won't be demanding."
"A girl's very existence is a demand, Patsy." I think I am being laughed at. "No man could possibly ignore you. Sure, I've got a house, but I'm only there half of the time."
"I'll wait."
We share a laugh, he knows I want to get into bed with him. He chides me gently. "I can't possibly leave you chained or in a cage. It would be a hell of an existence, worse than a real jail."
"You could buy another girl to keep me company. Then you'd have two of us."
"Huh! Might as well board you out at the Big T."
We stare at each other in surprise. He has hit on a solution. I am not anxious to be locked away while David travels the world. At the Big T I'd have company. But there's a shocker of a snag.
"You'd have four hundred thousand dollars locked up in a dead asset," I mourn. "Oh, David, please keep me with you. I won't mind being led around on a leash in Saudi Arabia or Tulsa or Dallas or any of those places."
"I can just picture us."
"You could marry me."
"I can tell you're feeling better," David tells me. "You deserve your bottom spanked for that last suggestion." His kiss remains big brotherly. "I'll see you later."
The nurse is bright-and young and very brisk. She tells me right off where I'm at. "Look, Patsy, I know the whole scene.
I know how your feet got the way they are. I don't want to talk about it. Okay?"
"Okay. Can I have a look at them?"
"I wouldn't advise it."
There's a sweetness about her. I get to thinking I'm just a damn nuisance up here in Canada, especially for David. Suppose I solve the problem for everyone? Next time she visits I ask the nurse straight.
"I can't do it myself, so would you mind phoning the U.S. consulate for me?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Mind telling me why?"
"I need to get back home. Mr. Herron's spent too much on me already. Please?"
"Huh." She looks at me intently, and then says, "Well, well."
I have made a blooper. Oh, shit! I watch her go to the drawer. Dismayed and shamed, I see the locking of the cuff to the bed rail. My unresisting wrist is then placed inside the cuff and that's locked too. It is very snug. I blush guiltily.
"Just your left hand, Patsy. Won't bother you much. Save us all a lot of trouble." She flounces away.
Why didn't I keep my big mouth shut? I examine by bond. It is strong. It is secure. There's no way I can wiggle out of it. It is also comfortable. I seem to have heard of hospital restraints, and now I've got one. Have I ever! I don't mind the damn thing all that much--and I suppose I sort of asked for it. But when anyone comes I'll be embarrassed to bits. When David finds me with my wrist strapped to the bed I'll absolutely die.
My nurse is cute. She is amused but adamant. I wish to escape, so I get the strap. She calls it a restraint but it's the same thing. I plead, and I paint harrowing pictures until she asks if I would like my right wrist strapped too. Then I shut up. I can feed myself the way I am. I don't want to be fed like a baby.
The doctor pretends he does not notice the manner in which I am restrained. He is tact itself. I don't mention it either but, boy, is my face red! It is the next day when David comes, and I really squirm. I am grateful for the silly hospital shirt thing that comes up under my chin--at least he can only see the top half of my blush.
Guiltily, I blurt out, "David, I'm so ashamed!"
"What for, Patsy?"
"They must have told you, and there's this." I point to my captive hand.
"I'd have thought less of you if you hadn't tried, sweetheart."
He is so wonderful. I wish he'd take me home to bed. My feet wouldn't stop a thing except running away.
"David," I say, "I can't run away, you know. If you took me home, you'd still have me quite safe."
"Hmmm, maybe. You're better off as you are for awhile."
"Will you make them unstrap my wrist?"
"No, I certainly won't. Besides, I like it the way it is."
If David likes my strap, I will wear it forever. "What are they saying about us at the Big T?" I ask demurely.
"They think I'm nuts. Big laugh, you know."
"Don't any of them think we're in love?"
"Two or three, one of them being Burdock. He was chuckling about you before this happened."
"I'm sorry I'm so silly, David."
"You're not silly, you're pure delight. I was talking to Burdock about looking after you in the times I'm gone."
"Yes?"
"Oh, he'll do it all right--he likes you too--but he suggests the easiest way out is to make you available for sale. " My world slides from beneath my feet. In open-mouthed dismay, I stare at this man who owns me. My heart pleads. "Don't sell me. Oh, David, please don't sell me. I don't want to be sold. I'll be so good for you."
David laughs. But he has picked up something from my voice, a terribly real part of me. I get patted. He plays with my hair as he looks down at me. He has thought this out. "Okay, sweetheart, no sale for now. If there ever is a sale, Burdock and I will make sure it is not to some asshole like Murchinson."
"Don't sell me ever." I rub myself like a cat against his arm.
"I don't mind you hurting me for pleasure--I want you to."
"What about the American consul?"
"I did that because I thought you didn't want me. I know I won't go to the police. Nobody else will believe that but I know. I'd have phoned so you'd know you hadn't a thing to fear."
He nods, believing me, and I am happy. It isn't victory but it isn't defeat either. We leave it at that.
I must not prod.
With my wrist restrained, I cannot easily get to look at my whipped feet. The nurse says that this is good. I expect she knows best. As the days passed my soles stop hurting and become simply I tender. I become lazy and don't want this sweet captivity to end. Everyone is kind. The nurse and I have a real thing going over my strapped wrist. She kids me that I have formed an addiction for restraints. We laugh a lot.
I think a lot--I think about men and how they really have it good over us girls. I do not think specifically of David or those at the Big T, but of all men and of all us girls. The way we have to look to them for most of what we want is something to wonder about. Women's lib and legislation have made us their equals, at least theoretically, but we're just as dependent on them now as we ever were. David owns me utterly, and I look to him for everything right now. It is a rich and lovely feeling. And I think about what I'd do if he freed me. I'd just go back home and pick up my little life. Fellows would make passes at me, and I'd sleep with some of them because it's nice to be desired, and I'd get married to one of them--but what then! A girl simply cannot escape the male. He waits for us everywhere. We gravitate to him. Don't ever talk to me about women's lib--bah!
The day has come. I lose my restraint. I walk very carefully and gingerly. David has bought me a complete outfit. The nurse helps me dress and fix my hair.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?" she asks, matter- of-factly.
"Yes."
"Can't blame you, Patsy. I'd marry him like a shot. But do you think he'll marry you?"
"No, he's too busy."
"Hmmm, you could probably fix that. Get him at the right moment. Anyway, I wish you luck. I have to handcuff you-- do you mind?"
"I don't mind."
Amused, I watch her click the familiar bands around my wrists with her own brand of clinical precision.
"I frankly don't understand this bondage business," she admits, "but I am intrigued. What do you get out of it?"
"Maybe David Herron."
"There's more to it than that, isn't there? "
"A lot more. Some of it hurts."
"Yes, I saw your back. The marks are about faded now." She frowns. "You know, when they gave me those handcuffs, I went to my room and tried them on myself. I got the damnedest vibrations. There has to be something to this."
I told her about the Big T but she already knew. She was what David would have called "safe." I held up my hands in sudden realization. "I can't possibly walk through a hospital like this."
"You don't walk, I push you in a wheelchair--regulations. We can drape a scarf over your bracelets."
It works fine. David and the doctor are waiting by David's car. They pluck the covering from my captive hands and laugh delightedly at my chagrin. I am lifted to my feet and demonstrate how I can walk. The nurse kisses me. The doctor kisses me. I am installed in the front seat.
"David, if you don't marry this girl, you're crazy," the doctor says.
I exit blushing.
In this city of oil everything is new and extravagant. David's house is the same. He carries me across the threshold, and I'm so outrageously happy! He gives me the grand tour, which is a little sad because I can tell he only uses about three rooms. The place needs a woman--it needs me! David unlocks my handcuffs and dangles them before my face.
"You understand what's behind all this, Patsy?"
"I understand."
"I'm as bad as any of them."
"You're better than any of them. And, David--" I begin, staring at him frankly, "I don't mind. Do you understand--I do not mind! Some of it makes me horny."
"Take off your clothes. To hide that lovely body of yours is sinful. You won't have it always. Let's enjoy it while we can."
I can't get undressed fast enough. I mean, after what he's said! It's crazy but now I feel more at home. I pose for David. After all, I am his property. I wonder if I'll ever get to see that huge check he paid Murchinson for me. I'm so excited and so horny I'm trembling. David takes my hands and locks them together again. He picks me up. He takes me to bed.
It last four days.
Every evening I am freed, dressed, and taken out to dinner. We do it all in splendor. Never once do I think of escape. The rest of the time we make love, or sleep, or sip cocktails or coffee. I have so much happiness I cannot hold it all, it overflows. Except for dinner, he keeps me handcuffed. There are also collars for my neck and strange, exotic harnesses for my body. But these are our affair.
The phone rings a lot. What I overhear tells me David is very rich and very powerful. Finally there comes the call which sunders us.
"I have to go to Saudi Arabia, sweetheart."
I clutch at him and cry. I know something awful will happen. I don't want to be alone.
"David, please take me with you."
"I can't sweetheart. It's not practical, and you'd probably hate it."
"Then let me look after this house until you return. You can leave me naked and handcuffed. I promise I'll be a good girl."
"Patsy, you don't have to promise--you are a good girl, the best ever--but you'd go around the bend in this place all alone. I thought we'd agreed on the Big T. It's not forever, you know."
I am being female and silly. I know I am. I've thought about the Big T a lot. But, compared to David's house with David in it, well, it doesn't stack up that high. But I can't have everything. His fingers caress my hair.
"I'll come back to you sweetheart," he says. "I promise."
"At the Big T--will they whip me?"
"No."
"But they'll want me to do shows?"
"They may want you to, but you don't have to." He chuckles. "You'll be a prisoner who'll do whatever you like except escape."
"A hotel with bars?"
We laugh. I know it will not be so bad. The chicken house apartment is pure luxury, and there are the girls. I do not need lesbian attention right now, but if I am imprisoned long enough, I'm sure I will. I wish I could be happier about going back but there's a resentment. Maybe it's only the memory of my feet being whipped.
"I have to hurt you, Patsy."
"You mean you'll whip me before taking me back?"
David enjoys my dolor. I get kissed. "You're getting morbid on the subject of whips," he chides. "Forget it. You're my property, remember? You'll be a very privileged girl."
It is easy to forget. The kisses have inflamed us both. I am taken to bed. Then, after we have bathed, I found out about the pain. David takes away my handcuffs and ties my hands behind my back instead. While he ties my elbows, he explains, "Burdock likes his girls delivered as a pretty package. He's a good chap. Let's please him."
It's okay with me. I stand in docile acceptance while my elbows get closer and closer until they meet and are knotted tight. They will be hurting quite a lot by the time we get where we are going. Then David ties my ankles. I am the pretty package Burdock desires. I am sure other men would desire me too. I am carried to the car.
I can tell Burdock is honestly pleased to have me back. Our feeling for each other is just one of those things. He inspects my bindings with approval but frees none of them. I am left to stand, teetering, while the two men excuse themselves for a few minutes. When they return David kisses and hugs me and makes a hurried getaway. We both know it is best he does not linger. Burdock unties my feet.
"Glad to have you back, Patsy. If we had a royal suite, David would have got it for you. You won't mind being with the girls?"
"I want to be with them." I hesitate. "Has he told you about whipping me and all that?"
"He's told me about not whipping you." Burdock winks. "But don't try my patience. I think a girl needs to be whipped every so often. Ready to go downstairs?"
I get my first shock. It is not Daisy who takes my arm, it is Candy. I do not ask to be untied. They will untie me when they wish. On our journey to the underground apartment Candy tells me nothing. All I get is giggles and smirks. She says I will soon find out. When I am thrust inside the bars, she locks the door behind me with herself on the other side. She gives me a parting chuckle and departs.
I stand, very bare and very helpless. I am surveyed by two girls I have never seen before. Terry has been sold. These are new. Naturally they are beautiful. One has golden hair like the one who was sold, and the other is chestnut. They view my roped arms with suspicion.
I smile brightly and ask, "Would you please untie me?"
They seem shocked. One turns and shows me a whipped back. "That's what we get for doing things we're not told," she informs me. "If they'd wanted you untied, they'd have untied you."
"As far as we're concerned, you can stay tied until Candy comes back. She'll show up sometime," the other girl tells me. She too turns. She also has been whipped.
I can see their point--they are scared as I was scared--but this is not the triumphant homecoming I'd been looking forward to. I am piqued. Besides, my elbows hurt like fury. "I've been here before," I tell them. "Didn't anyone tell you about me?"
Nobody had. I am still suspect. One whispers to the other, "I wonder if the Chinese girl--" Daisy is in one of the bedrooms. She is as naked as I am and tied much the same way. She lays pathetically on the bed, hands and feet joined in a hogtie. Her face lights up in radiance when she sees me. We cannot embrace. All we can do is kiss. We do that passionately. Having the use of my legs helps a lot. The other two watch our antics uncertainly.
"You may untie Patsy," Daisy tells them. "She is not being punished. Untie her quickly."
"But we were told not to untie you." Their whipped backs have indeed made them cautious. "We'd better not untie her either."
Daisy's eyes flash. "Do as I say! Remember, I will not always be like this."
They shrug. They must know something of Daisy's status. Doubtfully, they tug at my knots. I am soon free and rubbing wealed flesh gratefully. My thanks soften them up and they manage pale smiles. I know how they feel. They don't have much to smile about. I turn instant attention to poor darling Daisy.
"No!"
Three negatives strike me in unison. Chestnut and Golden Hair look horrified.
Daisy explains: "I am being punished. I must lay here like this every day and be chained at night. I was a foolish girl."
"You--foolish?"
"I whipped your feet. I should have known better. I allowed James Murchinson to instruct me. Mr. Herron was terribly angry."
"They've kept you tied like this ever since--?"
"Do not fret, Patsy. I deserve this. I hurt you terribly." She smiles brightly. "I think I can walk again myself now."
I get the whole thing. I look at the soles of Daisy's feet. They could well be my own. With Oriental resignation, she continues. "I did not know how terrible a punishment it was until it was done to me. They made poor Candy do it for a show the following night."
"But to tie you like this every day!"
"I could not walk after I was whipped, Patsy. If I was not hogtied, this would not matter much. But to be hogtied is very bad."
"But Candy--how come?"
"They gave her a choice. She could have the soles of her feet beaten too or assume my duties while my feet healed. Poor child, no one had bought her, so she jumped at the chance. When my punishment is done, she will come back to the cage."
"Your punishment is done right now." I tug at the knots. Despite a chorus of protest I soon have Daisy free. I massage the furrows in her flesh until we are breathing heavily. Then we feed on each other. I cannot help it. The compulsion of this place and this girl defeats my preconceptions. Daisy and I couple outrageously in joy. Soon, Chestnut and Golden Hair are on the bed beside us. Imprisonment makes girls love girls. It's that simple. After a long time we are all girls together. Barriers have vanished.
Daisy has pert Oriental breasts and the hairiest black bush ever. It is close and thick, like a small triangle mat. I find myself not wanting her to return to her duties. But when Candy comes and sees Daisy walking, she simply shrugs, opens the door, and motions our Chinese darling out beyond the bars. As she passes, she hands our mistress the key. Daisy grins happily and locks us in. This time Candy stays inside. Gigglingly, I wonder how long it will take Daisy to realize she is naked. Nudity grows on a girl. It appears Candy never did graduate back to clothes.
We are four girls again. This is nice. We swim, we swap stories, we make love. Candy says she is glad to be back in this plush cage. She found authority hazardous and never saw a chance to escape. She wants to be sold, she wants it so much. Murchinson has been expelled from the Big T. The soles of our feet are safe.
On the following day I have to put my hands between bars to be handcuffed. When I retrieve my metallically joined wrists Chestnut and Golden Hair view the snug bands and their single link in pure horror. They appear to think I must be in pain. When I laugh and jiggle the silver circlets they look at me oddly. They are finding the Big T difficult. But they will soon be sold. They are beautiful. Daisy tells me I have to go upstairs.
Burdock is socially inclined. We sit in his office and sip Canadian rye. I notice how his eyes constantly follow my handcuffs. If I can give this much pleasure to a man so easily, I will stay handcuffed forever. But at the Big T, Burdock spells authority. Looking at me with dour enjoyment over the rim of his glass, he brings it to the surface.
"So you don't get whipped any more, sweetheart?"
"That's what David said."
"Did he now? And no participation in our shows?"
"He promised not that either."
"Well, well, privileged little girl, eh?" Quickly, he adds, "Not that I mind. I like having you around."
He is working on something. But I am enjoying the rye and the change of scenery, so I won't push. At times like this, I realize how cloyingly female it is behind those bars downstairs. I cannot envision a world without men. Men desire me, it makes things so easy. I smile brightly and match him sip for sip. If I get tipsy, it does not matter; they can carry me back downstairs. I make a glinting display with my wrist restraints. "David mention punishment?"
Burdock drops the small bomb between us with a thoughtful air. I feel the knot in my tummy begin to form. I don't want to be whipped. Jeepers, I don't want to be whipped!
Relying on the rye for casualness, I am able to say, "Punishment? No, not a thing."
"Hmmm. Pity--girls always misbehave."
"I won't. I don't have any reason."
Burdock refills our glasses--very slowly, very deliberately. I know I am being played with--or is he simply enjoying a naked girl? His tone gives me no clue.
"You sure do look good in handcuffs, Patsy. I'll keep 'em on you. Shame not to."
"Thank you. I've got so I like wearing them."
"It shows. Have to get you a collar and a bit of harness." He chuckles. "Nothing that'll hide anything. By the way, Daisy was hogtied when you went downstairs, wasn't she?"
So that was it! I don't have a leg to stand on. Wanly, I say, "I'm sorry. I guess I got carried away."
"At the Big T it's me who decides when a girl gets hogtied and when she gets unhogtied."
"Yes, I know. I said I'm sorry. If you want to punish me, I can't stop you. I'm guilty."
"You're a damn remarkable girl."
Sure, I am. But I'm also scared, and tired of this cat and mouse game. I simply ask, "Would you like to whip me now, or will you save me for one of the evenings?"
Burdock waves the idea into limbo. "You've got whipping on the brain, girl. Not that I blame you, you've had a bellyful. But the way I see it I've got the right to punish any girl I want to on the Big T. Do you think David would agree?"
"I think he'd have to, if the girl gave you good cause. Is it me we're talking about?"
"I guess it is. Want a refill?"
I say an eager yes. If I am to be punished, I can use all I can get. But we both have to laugh.
"I want to straighten this out," Burdock says slowly as he deals with our glasses. "David should have thought of punishment when he gave me the terms of reference about looking after you. Or maybe I should have thought of it. Got any ideas?"
I like Burdock. I plunge in. "Okay, punish me when I deserve it. I promise I won't say a word to David."
Burdock looks at me, nodding slowly. I know I have pleased him. He comes out with, "How about I give you the run of this place some days? Handcuffed, of course. Be a change from cunts."
He is throwing me off balance on purpose. But the rye has me in a nice glow. "Thank you, I'd love that." Perkily, I add, "Please tell me what my punishment is about Daisy. It's got me all bothered."
"You name it, Patsy girl."
Burdock is smiling, but I am instantly in a dither. I walk into my first inspiration. "I let her loose from a hogtie. How about having me hogtied the way she was for a day?"
"You got yourself a deal, Patsy." He cocks his head. "You ever been hogtied?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Well, never mind. How about tomorrow?"
"Sure." I sip with fine bravado.
"Patsy, how about I fuck you?"
The word always shocks, especially when it's aimed squarely between my own legs. But I've used it at times myself. Apart from the rye, there is only one answer. I make it cheerfully feminine. "Of course, if you wish. In any case, you'd have the droit de seignure, wouldn't you?"
Burdock carries me upstairs. He is very strong. This is going to be a lot better than the girls!
* * *
When Daisy arrived with the rope the next morning I felt silly and she looked guilty. Candy shrugged it off. But Chestnut and Golden Hair had their worst suspicions confirmed. However, they managed to survive Daisy's hogtie, so would no doubt survive mine. They kept assuring all of us they would never dare, or even think of, untying me. I guess their backs were still sore.
It is always a pregnant moment when I stand erect and put my hands and arms in back. I think it's the ultimate submission, far more so than any of the others. I discover my breath comes faster. When Daisy places my hands palm to palm I know I'm in for a bad day. She very quickly has them cinched, then moves up to my elbows.
Elbows are murder.
Poor darling Daisy, she glames herself for the whole affair, but she has a job to do, and she's a good girl. I brightly and cheerfully tell her to tie whatever way Burdock would want. That means the most painful way there is. Burdock is likely to come and inspect her work, so we'd best be careful. She does this. Daisy is very, capable with tying. My elbows clamp together. I think of David. I am sorry he is not here to see. My breasts are magnificent under stress. Chestnut and Golden Hair are staring as though expecting them to burst.
Now I sit for my ankles. They are easily bound. Then I am helped to lay on my belly on the bed and Daisy does the real killer bit. My feet come up and my hands go down and down. Even for them to meet is not enough. They go further. Soon I am bowed. You could rock me like a chair. I am so damn helpless!
"I am sorry, Patsy."
"Don't be. Will I please Burdock?"
"You will please him very much. Oh, poor darling Patsy!"
"You were like this for a week, weren't you?"
"But I deserved it, you don't. And now bad news."
"What now?"
"Candy has been sold. I take her with me."
What a strange group we make: Candy overjoyed as she is handcuffed, Chestnut and Golden Hair baffled, me punished, Daisy busy as a bee. Candy and I kiss a lot. It is all we can do. I wish her luck. Her new owner will at least be rich. He may have more time to spend with her than has my own. She is led away. I notice her hands are behind her back. What a strange greeting it will be with the man who has purchased her. I hope he will be kind. Men have such power over us.
I am left alone in this glorious expensive bedroom in which I sleep. Its appointments mock me. The cover on which my nudity lays must have cost hundreds of dollars. But I am bound. I am bound in the same manner as girls captured in battle, or girls who are impossible to control. The hogtie is the most reverenced of all, and I am hogtied. I make a few testing motions but give them up. There is no way I can get free, and what good would it do anyway? I hurt, and my day has just begun.
I think it is about noon when Burdock comes. He stands, looking down at my bent and bowed condition in somber satisfaction.
"Worse than you figured, Patsy?"
"Much, much worse."
"Yeah, it's a bad deal but you chose it."
"Don't think I'm not fighting not to plead!"
"Yeah, I guess. I told you, you're extra special."
I am in misery, but this praise rejuvenates. He is the omnipotent male and he is pleased.
"Must I stay like this all day?"
"You're near halfway through, Patsy dear."
"It's agony."
"Likely so. There's worse things than being whipped, you know."
"Could I be untied and whipped instead?"
"Just like that, eh? Willing to lose the hours you've invested?"
"Yes."
"Sorry."
He kisses me and leaves. It is the story of my life. I wish he'd turned me over before he left. Maybe I can talk the girls into giving me that much of a break. But, as usual, they're scared and absorbed in their own tribulations.
"We don't dare touch you, Patsy. We've just been told they're using us in a show again this evening."
"What's that got to do with turning me over?"
"We don't know, but everything gets punished here. Look at you!"
They have a point. I wish I could become unconscious for the rest of my punishment but that won't happen. I wish I could ease their fears, but what could I tell them? They will almost certainly be whipped again in some way this evening. I wonder if I can get to watch! They are such a pair of spineless twits that I'd almost like to. I shed my tears and feel better.
I am untied at five. I know this is preferential treatment. Punishments mostly run to bedtime. Daisy has to rub me and rub me before I can function. I will never ask for a hogtie again. I whisper in her ear, and she says she is sure it can be arranged. I feel like a bitch, but sure I have something coming.
Daisy and I call them the twins. They aren't at all, and they were abducted from widely separate places, but they are equally timid, their beauty hides only a small intelligence. They understand nothing about the Big T. They see it as a monster likely to gobble them up, the way some small girls view the dark of night. Anyway, Chestnut and Golden Hair are good for laughs.
Daisy handcuffs them. Reluctantly, they hold out their hands as though doubtful they will ever get them back. Their lovely features become masks of loathing as the ratchets click and the steel bars tighten. No martyr went to the stake less willingly. After Daisy has tightened the wristlets to her satisfaction they hold up their hands and gaze upon their shining bracelets with such distaste that I have to laugh.
"They won't bite you," I say.
"They're horrible, shameful! What have we done?"
"They're for criminals--people in prison!"
They stare at our smiles as though we are heartless and do not understand. They now become afflicted by a need to hide their shame but they are naked. Their hands go here and there, seeking an impossible oblivion. Chestnut wipes away a few tears.
"They won't hurt you, darlings, and they scarcely stop you from doing anything. " Chestnut gives me a hurt look. She sniffs. "How could I possibly explain them to Mother? She'd think I'd done something awful."
"You won't have to. Our mothers aren't here."
They turn to Daisy, their pleas in unison. "Oh, please, take them off! Please, please! We'll do anything we're told."
"I take them off at the show this evening. You have to get used to them sometime."
They get the message. Their united wail is of pure agony. "You mean--?"
"Those awful men will see us like this!"
"What can they possibly think?"
They stare imploringly. Their joined hands seek a sanctuary they cannot find. They hide the offending metal between their thighs, and stand bent over until the absurdity of the posture is too much even for them. They tug, they pull, they twist. Golden Hair says she's read that if you soap up your wrist and hand-- They vanish to their room. Daisy and I hug each other in delight. When they reappear, looking sheepish and with very clean wrists, the handcuffs are loving them as tightly as before. They are haughtily miffed.
"We think you're horrid."
"It's nothing to laugh about."
They sit and stare sulkily at the bars. Daisy departs. I go to my room and fall asleep, most gloriously stretched out.
Burdock is as good as his word. When Daisy comes to take us upstairs, she has a collar for my neck and a glittering harness for the rest of me. We titter constantly as she busily tugs at buckles. The twins stop sulking and view what is being done to me with great interest. I am sure they hope it hurts.
The collar is metal. It locks. Steel sparkles, gems glint mischief. It feels so good it is a part of me. It marks me as a slave, but bears no rings for chain or cord.
All the harness does is accentuate that about me which is female. To this end it is tight, tight, tight. It is as though an artist has traced a heavy line to draw attention to my breasts, my bottom, and all the rest of my sexuality. Even that portion of it which goes up between my legs does not cover my cunt, but nestles thin strictures beside each lip to make my pussy pout and enlarge my Venus mound. My breasts become firm, protruding enticements, and my waist shrinks beneath the leather's bite. It is hard to move at first, but it eases into my flesh as I proudly walk. Its effect is to make me horny.
The twins feel cheated.
We try and explain my status but they don't believe a word. We tell how strictured flesh hurts more beneath the lash, but they sniff this away as sophistry. They hammer their plaint that they haven't done a thing to deserve the lash, and as to why they are going to be whipped and I am not.
"It's not fair."
"I bet she sleeps with that Burdock man--ugh!"
Daisy links them with a chain from neck to neck. Why not! We are three and she is one. I catch her eye, and am then included as number three on the small coffle. The chain and padlocks are cumbersome around my neck but it is in a good cause. Daisy unlocks the door.
We march upstairs.
CHAPTER FOUR - PLUSH PRISON
I get my tray. I move along among the now familiar faces with a sense of belonging. I have paid my dues. The greetings are warm and sincere. I glow. My harness is much admired. If it were not so tight into me, it would be fingered. A hammer could not drive a nail between me and the leather. Some of these men saw me get my feet whipped. Curiosity is rampant. Obediently, I display my healed soles on which there are still marks. I feel the heat of their loins as they peer at the punished innocence of my flesh. I get more and more horny.
The twins fare less happily. They have been told to mingle and get acquainted. They are for sale and should animate and sparkle. That any man present might buy them is beyond their comprehension. They don't believe I have been sold. Men are beasts who adore the screams of girls and lust after their bodies. They sniff their way from introduction to introduction, pleading with each man for aid in a possible escape. On my rounds I edge close and whisper, "For Pete's sake, shut up." But, in spite of my punishment through the day, they suspect I work for the management. They are still handcuffed, their necks linked. Their blush of shame seems permanent.
At Burdock's command, Daisy unlocks their necks. With one finger hooked to the link of her cuffs, Burdock drags Golden Hair to the center of the floor. There he extols her all too evident virtues of breast and buttocks and pubic hair. She squirms in outrage and seeks to hide each of her assets as it is named. But her hands are chained and she wants to hide them too. The result is a twisting, shrinking demonstration of maiden lubricity to heat the heart. Burdock steps aside to leave her in full view. Golden Hair is a charming picture of shamed innocence to delight an artist's eye. An enthusiast among the audience makes a bid on the spot: one hundred thousand dollars. The shock of such a sum--enough to make almost anything respectable--leaves Golden Hair in a state of suspended motion.
I watch Chestnut. Her features are torn between horror and envy. When another male voice shouts, "Two hundred thousand!" envy wins. The poor kid probably thinks Golden Hair gets to keep the money. There had been no intent of an auction, but Golden Hair is admittedly a beauty, and Burdock recognizes a situation too good to pass up. He becomes the auctioneer and finally knocks the prize down three hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Golden Hair actually smiles and tries to cover no more than her pussy. However, Burdock explains that the girls are the evening's entertainment and being sold does not release them from this obligation. Golden Hair stops smiling.
Chestnut is all set to march to center stage and see if she can't up the ante but she is ignored. She would be an anticlimax. Burdock knows his market. He will likely sell her later while she is still panting from the whip. Now he comes to me for a drink. Agonized, I impart my shameful tidings: "Burdock, this harness--it makes me so damn horny."
He understands. He wastes no words. Separately, we saunter away to meet in the same room as yesterday. I stand with feet wide apart while my cunt is freed from the cutting strips of leather. It feels so good but makes me hornier than ever. In indecent haste I dispose myself upon the bed and with the aid of pillows offer him the facility he has just freed. Burdock takes possession and gives me three orgasms before we decide we should rejoin the company. We giggle some more as he straps me up again. I don't know how it works, but there is a sweet piquancy about the strong fingers of this big rangy man adjusting my cunt lips to get the straps back where they belong. He is stronger than Daisy, so I get buckled up an extra notch. I do not mind. It is a delicious hurt as I walk back down the stairs.
The twins will not be whipped. The Big T is versatile, and their backs are already well marked. They are made to stand back to back while their wrists are freed and retied to the bar above. When it is raised their arms raise too. There is some debate as to how taut they should stand, but it appears some degree of stretch is desirable for what they must endure. Daisy passes a strap around the concavity of their waist and buckles it cruelly tight to weld the lovely nudities as one. Then their ankles and knees are strapped. With arms held high and the innocence of armpits revealed, they make an exquisite picture. I am sure they do not think so.
They are on their toes, but they brace each other and are supported from above. They scarcely move. Daisy wheels a small trolley in front of each. On them are strewn a wonderful assortment of clips, all the way from plain old domestic clothespins on up to the adjustable kind with joining silver chain. I get the message instantly. I cringe. It takes the twins a minute longer. They lodge a decisive protest.
"You can't possibly use those things on us. It's indecent."
"Yes, thank you, but we prefer to be whipped."
"Those things for hanging out clothes--really!"
Everyone adores them. Chestnut will fetch a huge price. They say all the wrong things at the right times. I analyze their complaints as tolerance for the costly but rejection for the plebeian. I am vastly intrigued when the first member of the audience selects a plain old wooden clothespin and approaches Chestnut's left nipple with open jaws.
"Don't you dare! Take that thing away!"
Chestnut makes the most frightful fuss. I can't possibly believe it hurts as much as she lets on. The pin sticks out from her nipple most engagingly at the apex of her breast. It quivers with her indignation.
"Take it off immediately, I insist. It will injure me."
No one pays her the slightest attention. Enraptured silence accompanies the second gentleman's careful selection. Golden Hair does not wait.
"You need not think you're putting any of those beastly things on me." Her apprehension throbs against memory of her price.
The member chooses an office paper clip, the kind with a spring and two handles you pinch, I cringe with Golden Hair. But it is small, and her nipples are erect and hard. It becomes the story of the reptile and its prey. Fascinated, Golden Hair watches the approach of her nipple's punishment. When it closes on her bud of flesh, she gasps. We all gasp. It is a moment fraught with much emotion.
They know damn well it is useless to beef every time a man approaches with a small but wicked jaw. The twins assume a haughty but suffering silence as their nipples are clipped. Each man has his turn. The biting of maiden flesh is long prolonged. While the session lasts, four bits of metal or wood stick out jauntily from four maiden breasts. It is a matter of pride for each man to make his clip perkily protrude. It must not sag. This often takes several tries which I am sure must hurt. The twins' wails confirm this.
"If you can't do better than that, leave me alone!"
"Fumble fingers! Stick it on your own tit!"
Poor dears. I know they're absurd but still--! I watch a small conference among members. Two of them approach expectant breasts smirking with intent. Chestnut is relieved of clips, but is then doubly endowed with the silver beauties from which a silver chain loops charmingly between her curves. Each man adjusts a clip. They place the tiny silver jaws with loving care. The bites are simultaneous. Her moans are genuine. I know all about moans.
I have to admit she looks dressily delightful. Another conference results in a similar embellishment for Golden Hair. The two girls stand with pendent chains between clipped nipples. They are gasping. Their agony is real. I hope this will never be done to me. But they do look so terribly sweet. It is hard to relate such beauty to such pain. The modest handclaps are obviously sincere. Intermission is declared. We will all enjoy the twins' exotic jewelry while we sip. The twins keep very still. Movement hurts. The scene should be immortalized in oils.
I am very busy with my tray. Burdock whispers. I carry a fine array of glasses to the bound sufferers. They raise despondent heads and gaze at me from faces lined with pain. But they let me hold a glass to their lips. No doubt I am an agent of the enemy but they need me badly. I have to ignore their furtive whisper to "take them off." I gag each of them with a glass.
Burdock takes me aside and whispers again. I stand, appalled.
"You can do it, Patsy."
Burdock has his own magic. Pride replaces my first shock. I am female and there is a female challenge in what he wants. Besides, if the members have all asked, what can I do! I knew I was sunk the moment he asked. I tell him okay. Our eyes meet in a shared knowledge.
Surely this room knows enough of hushed silence. There is another as I walk out to stand with the twins. But I am not bound. I position myself so they can look sideways and behold what I must do. I have already captured their curiosity, competing against clipped nipples for attention. I stand erect. I raise my handcuffed wrists above my head and back to clasp fingers at the nape of my neck. I look up boldly to a horizon none but I can see. I know I am beautiful.
I wonder how they chose the two men. Perhaps they thought of me first. They go to one of the trays, their selection preordained. As they turn and come to me, I die a thousand deaths.
The twins are bound but I am not. I must not move. I can still run, or I can pretend to faint, but I will not let Burdock down. I close my eyes. Damn it, it's bad enough to offer my tits to the lousy clips without having to watch it done but these boys are wise.
"Open your eyes, Patsy, you have to watch."
So, okay, I go hole hog. I look down at my breasts. It is not hard because the harness sticks them out enough. My nipples are well ahead of all of us, engorged and flinty firm. The shining jaws and joining chain approach. The boys take careful aim.
I greet the agony with a giant inhalation. It swells my breasts to make the silver chain acknowledge it is on a living girl. The men go back to their chairs. The twins gaze upon me in disbelief. No doubt they suspect my clips are harmless. I wish they wore them. They have been adjusted to give me their maximum pain. I raise my head and once more stare into a distance I do not see.
The way I stand makes me a living statue. The silver on my breasts is an erotic embellishment by little boys. After a minute I turn to face another line of interested faces. No one must be cheated of this pain of girls. I wish the twins knew that I share it with them.
The way I stand with my hands in back of my neck makes it worse, I'm sure it does. It swells my breasts thrustingly and the nipples too. My nipples are far too enterprising for my liking. I wish I had control of them or could tell them to shrink to half their size but I stay put. The men are enjoying me and my pain. I must not cheat them. Faithfully, I turn and turn again to ensure fair shares for all. Fiercely, I wonder how long they will make me endure these two venomously burning fires on those parts of me intended only for love. My pain from them burns brighter all the time. Surely there must be a plateau but I just stand and stand.
My breasts burn cruelly.
It is Daisy who unclips me. She whispers how it will hurt but I have already guessed. The two sharp, startling agonies are tempered for me by relief. I take my hands from behind my head and smile around the room at the applause. I leave the stage to Chestnut and Golden Hair. My heart bleeds for them but there is nothing I can do. I seek seclusion and a chance to feel the damage. But my nipples are as perky as ever, they are simply outrageously tender. They are adoring my fingertips when Burdock's voice is by my side.
"Thank you, Patsy."
"You're welcome," I say, glaring with female outrage. "Do you have any idea what that's done to me?"
He laughs and picks me up.
Later, on the bed, Burdock plays very gently with my hurt nipples, and says, "Shouldn't we stop, Patsy? Once or twice was one thing, but this--" He grins at my nakedness. "David is my friend."
"I know," I admit glumly. "I'm a bitch. I don't know what's got into me."
"It's the Big T that's got into you--no pun intended. I'd have been surprised if you hadn't got horny, standing out there with your tits clipped."
"You know how I feel about David. Now look at me! "
"I'll take half the blame." Burdock raises my chin to make me smile. "The other half comes from David refusing to marry you or take you with him, and the intensely erotic nature of this place. You're constantly subjected to sensuality, even those handcuffs."
"You love them on me."
"Sure, I do, and on you they'll stay, sweetheart, but let's do make this the last time, okay?"
"No!" I fling myself on him in a frenzy I do not understand. "No, no, no!" I beat my linked fists upon his huge chest. "I need what you give me. I wouldn't want it from anyone else. But with you and me, and in this place--oh, Burdock, you must keep loving me."
"Was that loving you--to send you out on the stage to be clipped?"
"I'll do it again right now if you ask."
Burdock cradles me like a child. I know I am overly excited. In the comfort of his arms I tell him what I intend to do. "I'll confess to David. I'll ask him to punish me."
"He's not the punishing kind. Besides, I'm in this too."
"You won't be. I'll name another man who doesn't exist."
"That leaves me enjoying you and you paying whatever price he makes you pay."
"Isn't that what females do all the time?"
"Not with me they don't!"
"Burdock, don't stop loving me--please!"
I am patted and made fuss of. We do not fuck again because of time. When Burdock stands me up, he tells me we will talk of it again. The fire inside my loins has subsided, so I say okay. We go downstairs.
The twins have lost their silver jewelry and have been demoted back to wooden clothespins. They look appropriately dejected, even though the domestic appliances perk prettily from their breasts. But there is now about this sequence of the party an air of dissolution, a coming to an end. Burdock whispers to Daisy. She collects the pins from the girls and wheels the trays out of sight. She then unties and releases the sadly dejected players in the evening's entertainment. The twins stand nakedly in the center floor and hold their arms across their wounded breasts, rather like a pair of shivering girls protecting themselves against the cold.
Golden Hair's delivery is now announced. It is to be an occasion. The beaming buyer tenders his check. He is presented with rope, handcuffs, tape, and an impressive looking whip. He chooses rope. He ties Golden Hair's hands behind her back and leashes her neck. He gags her with the tape. He is now ready for the road.
It is a poignant moment. The twins have come to rely on each other and are bereft by this parting. Golden Hair can no longer speak or act, she is a package in transit. But Chestnut clings to her in a fervor of affection, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, anything except the tape across her mute mouth. She has to be forcibly removed. Her own sale is pending. I look at Golden Hair as she is led away. She faces the greatest loneliness in the world. She has become a slave.
Burdock is in his stride. One down and one to go. He picks up the whip the buyer didn't want. He says gruffly, "Hey you, girl, come out here!"
Poor Chestnut! I wish I had been more kind. She is only a girl, kidnapped and far from home. She advances to meet her master in the spotlight, obviously trembling. I know how she feels.
Burdock is ringmaster. He has to keep his audience off balance and excited enough to bid. He has to present Chestnut as a female to be desired, which at the moment she is not. He is more than equal to the challenge. Chestnut will be drilled.
"Get that chin up, girl! Stick your tits out!"
His whip snaps across an unsuspecting rump. Chestnut gets her chin up and her breasts well forward in a hurry. I can tell she is frightened. Hell, why wouldn't she be?
"Tummy in. Legs well apart. Hands behind your back." The lash cuts smartly across Chestnut's shoulders. She quivers but obeys.
"The pose of submission. On your knees." The whip circles Chestnut's waist.
She does it all beautifully. Someone must have shown her. I share the gasp of admiration that sweeps the room.
"What am I bid for her?"
Burdock sweeps the room like a buccaneer demanding tribute. Chestnut keeps her head bowed and her knees far apart. The weals upon her skin are like beacons in the night. The first bid is predictable.
"One hundred thousand dollars."
I see Chestnut flinch. It is the first link by which her slavery will chain her for life. The next bid also could be foretold.
"Two hundred thousand."
I wonder how she feels. She is worth a fortune and won't get a cent of it. I remember Murchinson and shudder. What happens now is devastating. It is a youngish man with a Texas drawl. He stands and takes a step forward to demand attention. What he says is shattering.
"Ain't much interested in this here young lady, folks, but I sure do want to make a bid on that there Patsy girl. I ain't messin' around--one half million."
Even Burdock is stunned. Chestnut glares at me indignantly. At first I am not at all sure he is talking about me at all but he is, of course. Burdock says stiffly, "The young lady you mention, sir, is not for sale."
"Everything's for sale--at a price." The Texan knows his stuff.
"Patsy is already owned. She was recently sold. I'm sorry."
"What's she doing here then?"
"Visiting."
"With nipples on her tits! Like hell she's visiting--and them handcuffs!"
"Sir, take my word for it, Patsy is not available."
"One million dollars American!"
The room gasps. I thought longingly of the cage beneath the chicken house. It was a safe and comforting cage. It was not that this brash Texas was repulsive--he was not--but he made himself a caricature, and I could see myself with clips on for life.
But Burdock was equal to the contretemps. Easily, he explained, "Patsy's owner is out of the country at present. If you will allow me time, I will pass on your offer. I acknowledge it as generous."
The Texan returned to his seat. He had been hornswoggled but was not sure how. He conceded he would wait a day or two. His eyes positively burned my breasts. He wanted me bad.
Attention returned to Chestnut. I could understand her chagrin at the interruption. Why hadn't the damn guy bid on her? But the Texan had stirred things up. These men were not pikers. If this stranger could bid such sums, so could they. The bidding on the kneeling Chestnut resumed at three hundred thousand, then moved to four. She was sold for five hundred and one thousand dollars to an inoffensive little man who had topped every bid by one. Amidst cheers and jeers, he was evidently well known. He tied Chestnut's crossed wrists behind her back. He also tied her elbows but not to join them. He brought his rope several times around, over, and under her breasts. She was very helpless and very pretty. Boy, does she know it too! Her neck is leashed. She is led away amidst applause. The boys slowly disperse. I suspect most of them return to wives who think they've been at a business meeting. Suddenly, Daisy and I are alone. Burdock has disappeared and must not be disturbed.
Daisy and I stare at each other and grin. It has been quite a day. Tentatively, she asks, "You want to go downstairs, Patsy?"
I envision the emptiness and shiver. But where else is there for me? Sadly, I bemoan, "All alone? All by myself?"
I am in Daisy's arms. She is smaller than I but her strength is great. She whispers, chuckling, "The girls are all sold. I have no one to watch over except you. Tomorrow there may be new girls, but tonight you and I will share your bed." She pauses, as sad as I. "You must not forget--I can be lonely too." Burdock has gone to bed. The Big T is ours. Daisy escorts me to the chicken house as though I am still a prisoner. But, of course, that's just what I am. She locks the ranch house door behind us but laughingly leaves all others open. The apartment is silent, but the two of us clatter around in it to give it life. The open bars of its door is an invitation I ignore. I could not care less. I would not go out again into the Arctic night for anything. But I think of all those girls who would have given so much to see that open door. I had been one of them.
We sleep.
It can not have been long since we entwined ourselves in exhaustion when the earthquake comes. The earthquake is our Texas member with all the money. Daisy and I are so drugged with sleep we are an easy prey. Texas was competent and well prepared. Daisy's hands are tied behind her back, my handcuffs had been looped and drawn down between my legs. The rope had come up behind and was tied around my neck. If I tugged at my hands, I strangled myself. Real neat.
"Couldn't let you get away, honey. If a man wants a girl, grab her--that's the way I see it."
Texas beams a smile and chucks me under a chin his rope has already raised. I feel foolish and awkward and very helpless. I watch him tie Daisy's feet to the bed. She is spitting in fury and thrashing around in frustration, but when her feet are tied that's all over. She sits and glowers.
"Should take you too, kiddo," Texas tells her expansively, "but I ain't no thief. Made an honest bid on little honey bunch here, and I'm leaving my check. Okay by you?"
"Burdock will kill you!" It is an Oriental hiss.
I am no longer half asleep. If I lay on my back and raise my legs, I should be able to slip the rope over one cheek of my behind and get loose. I immediately try. It is not easy. With time I could do it but I have no time. Texas diverts his attention from Daisy to my struggles and enquires blandly, "Aiming to go somewhere, sweetheart?"
"I'm choking."
"Keep them hands down and your chin up and you'll be okay." He surveys me critically. "Guess I can do a bit better for you, though. It's them handcuffs that's the trouble. Oughta be in back."
I am so furious I could cry. Texas can hold me with one huge paw while he arranges me with the other. I lose his first tie but get my elbows roped instead. This leaves me with handcuffs biting my wrists beside my navel. I suppose it's better than a roped neck.
"I'll be carrying you, baby. No need to walk."
I am pushed over onto the bed. I kick for all I'm worth but they are token kicks. Rope bites my ankles and that's the end of that. I am now a package. Texas tosses me over one shoulder. I have become booty, the spoils of undeclared war.
"Aiming to go someplace?"
It is Burdock's voice. My heart is bursting with thankfulness. Texas stops dead.
"I'm a-takin' the little girl. My check's on the bedside table."
"Put her down."
I am seeing upside down. When I am dumped onto the bed, I wriggle around to get perspective. Texas and Burdock are facing each other like cowboys in an old Western.
"See here, Burdock, I'm paying big money. Don't want no argument."
"I've got more money than you have." Burdock's tone is icy. "There's the door. Get out."
"But a cool million!"
Burdock takes the check and tears it into four pieces. They flutter to the floor. It is a good thing I don't want to go to Texas. Robbed of ammunition, Texas realizes he is far from home. He looks down at my tied nakedness.
"Honey, ain't you got nothin' to say about this?" he asks.
"No, nothing. I'm already owned."
I find pleasure in telling him I'm another man's property. He visibly wilts. He brings up more ammunition.
"I'm a reasonable man, Burdock. Two million?"
My eyes widen in shock. Am I worth that? Obviously, to this man, I am. The vast sum shatters against Burdock's granite strength. But his tone is kind. "I know how you feel about Patsy--you're not alone--but there's new girls coming tomorrow. Have a look at them. Now go home to bed." - They measure each other. But Texas decides it might be another Alamo, and there's always another day. He winks at me and grunts his way back upstairs. Burdock follows to see him off the premises. A hundred years ago they'd have pulled guns but those days are past. I turn to Daisy but she does not share my joy.
"Oh, Patsy, I am now in such trouble. I was so foolish to lock nothing." Her pert prettiness is woebegone. "Now I will be punished."
I see the quicksand of Burdock's wrath. Daisy is in it up to her neck but when Burdock reappears he is chuckling.
"That poor guy's got it bad but the cold has cooled him off. I'd have thought he'd have had more sense." He gazes from one to the other of our stricken faces. "I'd have thought you'd have more sense too."
"It is all my fault," Daisy says bravely. "I did not use the keys."
"It's as much my fault as hers," I vow sternly. "We weren't either of us paying attention. We were too damn tired."
Burdock views us gravely. I am sure we are a sad looking pair. "Made a damn good job of tying you, eh? Those good ol' boys from Texas really know how."
We do not reply. He has said it all.
Daisy gets the blast. "Think you deserve to be punished, Daisy?"
"Yes."
"Then so do I," I retort sulkily.
"Have to get your nickel's worth in, eh, Patsy? Good God, you girls are something else!" The sweep of his arm consigns us to oblivion. "Tell you what--Texas fixed you good. How about I leave you til morning and we'll call it even?"
We accept his offer gratefully. As punishments go, it is mild. Burdock makes some impressive sounds with the barred door as he locks us in. Daisy and I debate trying to free each other, but we are too damn tired and too well tied. We stay where we are. Sleep is instant.
Burdock is marvelous.
* * *
I have only been a prisoner a little while, but I begin to be blase about girls. Beautiful girls tend to look alike, and the Big T only deals in beauty. If their hair is different colors, it helps, but the two who are delivered the next day simply have lovely brown hair which is unremarkable. Their names are Gladys and Effie, which I am sure their purchasers will change. When Burdock releases us in the morning and sends Daisy scurrying upstairs, he tells me that since I am now the senior captive I might as well answer questions and talk the newcomers out of' hysterics. Why not? It will fill a bit of time.
I start from scratch. To begin with, they are both still clothed. They are gagged, their hands and elbows tied and their feet hobbled. They are scared to death. When Daisy has locked the door behind them, winked, and gone away, they stare at my nudity and handcuffs askance.
"If you'll promise not to scream or be abusive, I'll take your gags off--okay?"
They nod eagerly. I extract wads. I hold water to eager lips.
I thrill with a sense of power in the trivial authority I briefly hold over these poor maidens. I cannot really help them. For them, as for me, the die is cast.
"We feel sure there's been some mistake," Effie ventures.
"If you'd untie us and get us to a phone, we would be most grateful," Gladys says.
I briefly outline the facts of their new life. They obviously think me insane. "I think you ought to put some clothes on," Gladys tells me severely. "It's not a bit nice, going around the way you are. We could never possibly do that."
"And those handcuffs!" Effie reeks of virtue. "We have never been in trouble with the police."
"Neither have I."
"You must have or they wouldn't have handcuffed you." She looks around, puzzled. "I'm not a bit sure this place has a thing to do with the police."
I untie their elbows. Cordiality blooms. They are fresh and sweet, not innocent perhaps as they are each twenty-four. They were abducted from the same bar.
"We thought it was a rum and coke, dear. When we woke up we were on our way here in a panel truck. "
"We've never been tied up before. It feels so cold. I mean, a girl can't do anything."
I untie their hands and take them to a bathroom. They are shockingly embarrassed.
"Can we untie our feet, please?"
"They aren't tied, only hobbled. Leave them alone."
I am being a bitch, asserting authority. But what the hell! It isn't every day a slave gets this opportunity, and the poor dear beauties have so far to go. When they emerge, looking much better, they have obeyed. Their feet are still hobbled. They have evidently whispered to each other.
"We think you're nice, but could we speak to someone in authority?"
"I'm you authority--be grateful. If you insist on a man, he'll be carrying a whip."
"Whatever for?"
"There has to be some mistake."
I read them the next chapter. They do not believe a word. I now understand why Burdock believes a girl must be whipped before she listens. I like Gladys and Effie, but if I had a whip, I'd be inclined to give them a few licks right now. But I sweetly tell them, "I'll let you untie your ankles if you'll undress."
"Don't be disgusting."
"We couldn't possibly consider it."
I sigh. I've met the breed before. These were special sweet Canadian girls who believed sex was filthy, but who slept around with a small, select circle of males. It helped with the groceries and they wished to be sophisticates. I explained.
"If you won't do it willingly, I'll have Daisy send a man down. He'll have you naked in no time flat."
"Don't be silly."
"Look at you, you're handcuffed--giving orders."
Daisy must have been listening. Suddenly she was at the bars. "How you making out, Patsy?"
"They don't want to take their clothes off."
"Oh, that again. Want me to send a man down?"
"Guess you'd better."
"Wait a minute, hold on." Gladys was viewing Daisy with more respect than she accorded me. Daisy was dressed, and she was not handcuffed. "If it's only between us girls--"
"We don't mind too much if it's just in front of you." Effie was right in there. "With men we couldn't possibly."
"Do you see any men around?" I asked, feeling like a bitch. They did a lot of blushing and fumbling while Daisy and I watched. They got the rope off their ankles in a hurry but slowed for the rest. If they'd only known, it was a superb strip job! Naked, they did more contortions to cover things up than a serpent: crossed legs, crossed arms, the lot.
"Push your clothes through the bars," Daisy said casually. "But we'll be needing them!"
"No, you won't."
Confrontation! Gladys and Effie were now taking the Big T seriously. But they fought until the end.
"We prefer to keep our clothes, thank you," Gladys sniffed.
Effie put her panties back on.
Daisy winked at me. She came in, being very careful with the door. She was carrying her favorite riding crop. The neophytes viewed it with alarm. Without any waste of words, she proceeded to mark virgin skin. When they sought to jump her, she used her karate I remembered so well. Results were almost instant.
"All right, all right--you need not be nasty!"
"Stop it! Don't do that! It hurts. Here's my clothes."
They paused long enough to get a couple more apiece. Their pelts were becoming pretty. Then they were at smart attention.
Tits out, bellies in, hands behind their heads. For the first time I realized how beautiful they were.
Daisy was in full stride. Her crop advances and touched the pink bud upon a breast. "What's this?"
"My nipple."
"Ahh!" The pointer sank down between the spread legs. "And this?"
"It's my pubic hair."
"Try again."
"Well, I suppose it's my vagina."
"Is that what you and your boyfriend call it?"
"No, not really."
"What do you call it?"
"Look, is there any point--?"
The crop cuts her sentence off like a sharp knife. Effie yelps and beats bare feet on the carpet but returns to her pose. She sniffs. "Very well, if you must, I call it my pussy."
"What's your boyfriend call it?"
"Really, this is absurd--oh, wow! Oh, damn you, he calls it my cunt."
Effie is nicely striped now. She would like to rub them but dare not. About her there is now an air of attention and respect previously missing.
"Would you care to rephrase that, Effie?"
"Oh, all right, it's a cunt--and I'm sorry I said 'damn you.' But it's that horrible whip thing--it hurts so bad."
Daisy turns her attention to Gladys. Gladys is ready. "Nipples and cunt," she says defensively. "I don't want to be hit any more with that beastly thing."
"Of course." Daisy's voice is a wicked whisper. "But do tell me what your boyfriend does to you."
Gladys knows but promptly says, "He takes me out." The crop cuts her in sharp admonition. She yelps and kicks but hastens to amend. "We have intercourse, that's what he does."
"And that's what he calls it?" Daisy asks threateningly. "Well--he fucks me," she shamefully says.
"That's much better." Daisy is not the drill master type but is putting on a wonderful act. "Now turn and cross your wrists behind your backs."
"But we've only just been untied!"
The crop cuts its own caustic comment on the protest. Four wrists are obediently crossed above two pretty bottoms.
Daisy explains, "I won't have you jumping Patsy. You'll do what she says."
They will not jump me. I watch Daisy's cunning knotting of rebellious fists. She ties the poor dears carefully and cruelly. Maybe it is best. I should not have untied them. I'd make a rotten mistress. Daisy hands me her crop on the way out. It is a great honor.
Gladys and Effie wriggle and twist until convinced they cannot free themselves. I notice they do not ask me to either. Perspiring, striped, and weary, they sit and dangle their feet in the pool. Musk emanates from them in waves. They are very female.
Although they have not yet figured me out, one asks, "When will we be sent home?"
"Never."
"That's silly. Please be serious. We're frightened."
I retell my story, adding pertinent bits here and there. The lovely stripes on their skin encourage them to believe about half of it. Their exclamation is obvious enough.
"But that would make us slaves! Are you a slave?"
"Yes."
They digest their new status and me. They wriggle fretful wrists. They are curious. "Who's that awful man we saw on the way down here?"
"Oh, Burdock--he's the boss. If you don't get sold quickly, he may fuck you to relieve the boredom for you. Waiting to be sold is a real drag."
"That's disgusting."
Mischief prompts me to say, "If you get bored down here, just say the word and I'll give you the loveliest orgasm."
"Don't be disgusting," says Gladys.
"Would you really!" exclaims a bright-eyed Effie.
I take Effie into my room. I stroke her gently with the crop to ease her conscience. I lay her back on her bound hands. Her cunt is very sweet. It is an unwrinkled girlish slit encroached upon by thick black curls of pubic hair. Her cunt's flavor is sweet and subtle and could become habit forming. It has known neither female lips nor female tongue. I drive her into the wildest of ecstasies in which her cries bring Gladys to invade our privacy. But she backs her bound arms against the wall and stares.
There is now the beginnings of rapport. Effie gazes upon me in wonder with wide doe eyes. Her breathing does not return to normal. After an hour, Gladys remarks that the apartment is indeed splendid but a bit of a bore. After two hours, she flounces and fluffs, and says, "Oh, very well, if you insist." She then marches before me to the bed.
I only hint about the evening shows and the whippings. There's no use having a pair of trembling novices on my hands all day. I try and convey the idea that our main ordeal is to be gazed at while we are naked by a host of lustful millionaires.
They can comprehend this.
"Will they feel us up and things like that?" Effie asks hopefully.
It is late afternoon when Daisy calls me from the cage. The girls watch me go, puzzled. They cannot place me. I am not sure they don't believe I am on my way to execution. My handcuffs, of course, are a standing stigma.
"I've been thinking about you and me, Patsy." Burdock hands me a glass as a matter of course, and it's about that time. "Want to move upstairs?"
"Gosh, yes! May I?"
"Those two pretty little cunts down there now must be driving you crazy."
He is right. Being here with him now tells me how right he is. The female musk of the apartment can reach a point of cloying nausea when viewed from where I sit. Even if my tongue is nimble, I belong with men. But I have to ask, "Would David approve?"
Burdock likes to be deliberately coarse. It is part of his image. "We're not telling about our fucks, Patsy. That only leaves security."
I hold up cuffed hands. "Are these enough?"
"Hell, they don't stop nothing. Not that you need anything. You can run free as far as I'm concerned. But you're right about David. We both owe him. I suppose chained feet would be best. How'd you like some nice leg irons?"
The way David asks makes me tingle. I think of the pirate's captive and walking the plank. Burdock is nine hundred percent male. But I also consider myself and this whole picture of which I have become a part. Yes, it is best to take decision from me. I don't want to escape. But suppose I am tempted or provoked! Without hesitation, I laugh. "I think they'd be fun. But if they're riveted on me, what about bedtime?"
"Chain will be long enough. You'll kick it around every time you take a step."
"Put them on me now! You can admire them while we finish these drinks."
Burdock picks me up. He rarely lets me walk. Being in his arms imparts a female knowledge of belonging. If men could carry their wives around, there would be more happy marriages. But they don't make enough Burdocks. I'm lucky. I know Burdock is not the marrying kind but I'm still lucky. I'm horny again.
The Big T has a forge. The embers glow. I suspect Burdock is way ahead of me. The irons are thrillingly authentic but have been polished up. I sit on a box and place my ankle across the anvil. If I was horny before, I am doubly so as I watch the rivets inserted and then splayed flat with the splat of a hammer. Nobody but nobody is going to get me out of this. Heat from the hot rivets spread through the snug anklet that weighs a ton compared to handcuffs.
"All fixed. Try 'em out."
I refuse help. I stumble. I trip. I stride towards the door and make such an appalling clatter of iron we both laugh. The chain swirls. I am by no means sure these leg irons are any more effective than are the handcuffs. But most certainly they stop me from running. Nor can I hide them. Boldly and noisily, I walk by Burdock's side back to our drinks. The lounge smells excitingly of cigars.
"Here, Patsy, let me take those cuffs off."
"No! Oh, no!" I pose defensively by instinct. I inflict my most winsome smile. "Let me wear them. I don't even notice them any more."
"You'll notice them leg irons, girl."
I snuggle in the leather chair, now armed by my own flesh. I bear iron on hands and feet but scarcely know the difference. Burdock's eyes rarely leave my metal bonds. He loves them.
Secure in promotion, I enquire, "What about the phone. If I can get to the phone--" Burdock laughs. "Want to close all the doors, eh? Lead you not into temptation? No way! You'll answer the desk phone as a job. Give you something to do."
"I could phone the police or the U.S. consulate."
"Go ahead."
I sigh. I sip. What does anything matter when this is so beautiful? Burdock stares so much at my irons, and I get hotter and hotter from the feel of them, that eventually I am picked up again and taken to his bed. Burdock is right about leg irons on a girl. They don't stop me doing a thing. When he snags a foot in my chain, we think it is hilarious. We are not drunk. We are happy.
When we return to the lounge and Burdock refills our glasses, I sit and wallow in felicity. I am about to ask if there are not matching irons for my hands when the phone rings.
When he returns from the phone, he says heavily, "That was my man in London. Patsy girl, the news is not good." Burdock stares pointedly. "David Herron is dead."
CHAPTER FIVE - MAIDEN FLESH
What do I say? What is there to say? Burdock fills his glass, then mine. In the same heavy tone he says, "May as well tie one on. No sense in nattering." As he hands me the glass he stoops and kisses me.
My mind is numb. The only thought that penetrates is "Who owns me now? Who?"
We do not get drunk. I have lost a love, and Burdock has lost a friend. These are facts of life. They do not prohibit Burdock from admiring my ironed feet or me being aware of his regard. I make the small motions I am able with a view to pleasing him. I had done this before the news, and I do it now. I need Burdock's strength.
"Too late to cancel tonight," Burdock says broodingly. "No need. Half the boys only knew him by name. Besides, those two downstairs need whipping into shape."
"The boys will love them. They're ridiculous."
Burdock is cocking an eye at me. "How about using the whip? Give Daisy a treat. Take your mind off things."
He is so wise and so kind. I leap at the chance. I do not wish to think of the grave smile and the features I will not see again. "Both of them?" I ask. "Same way as I was whipped?"
"Yeah, that ought to do it. If they like playing coy, give 'em a chance. Like you say, the boys lap it up. " We share a silence, we have our own communion. I examine guilt. Should I be in hysterics, soppy with tears? But David would not want that. Burdock would be disappointed with me. Then what about the two girls? I am going to whip Gladys and Effie who are innocent of all but hypocrisy. What about guilt there? I cannot feel any. I think it will do the pair a world of good.
How much am I in love with Burdock?
"Have to unlock those handcuffs, Patsy. Can't use a whip with 'em on."
Damn it, he is right. But their loss will only spoil the image of me as I see myself. Besides, he can put them back on me after. Burdock laughs, reading my face. "Hate to lose 'em, eh? Don't worry, that hardware on your ankles more than compensates. Make it clink for the boys. Might spark a sale."
"If you sell these two, you won't have a performer left."
"You're forgetting something, sweetheart."
He's right--there is always me. I don't know what my status is any more. But if Burdock wants me to go out on the floor, I know I'll do so. There is scarcely a mark on me now. Think what Daisy can do with all my virgin skin. I am sure this drink helps my casual acceptance.
"Of course! I'd forgotten." I glint at Burdock. "You can put me back on the treadmill anytime." I shiver deliciously.
We sit, pondering the situation. Because I flit with guilt, I lack Burdock's swift perception. He slips me the zingers slowly, one at a time as I seem to him able to absorb them. He leavens them with humor.
"Guess you're up for sale again, Patsy."
The thought shatters me. The panic on my face brings a wave of Burdock's hand and his reassurance. "All right, all right, hold it. You're not going up for auction. I'm just thinking aloud."
He must not sell me! He simply must not! I'd die. But there's that damn Texan out there with his million bucks. How can I talk against a sum so large? And Texas is not Murchinson; he won't flog my feet. He's a tit man. All I'd get out of him is tender nipples. I try and put my feelings into few words.
"Keep me as your slave, Burdock. I want that."
We get more drinks. They are only our third. There is a delicious intimacy about the way we are. Burdock does not have to marry me. If only he will keep me as a I am!
He slips me another zinger. "Been thinking, Patsy--you're bought and paid for, and David's dead, so I guess you're free to go."
I view the incredible but I remember. "David thought I couldn't, but can I be trusted not to spill the beans?"
"Yeah, I know, the oath--the Big T." Burdock is looking at me somberly. "Suppose I say I trust you? I give you your car and your things and kiss you goodbye."
He is offering me the world, and I no longer want it. I want only the safety of his presence like I have it now, leg irons and all. Most certainly I want my handcuffs. I tell him so as simply as I can.
"We're getting too damn serious," Burdock says. "Drinks sometimes have that effect. Tomorrow we'll laugh at ourselves." He pauses. "So, okay, you're just a slavegirl. You've fallen back into my lap. I can do what I damn well please with you. It's wonderful. Just let me savor it awhile."
I want him to savor it. What he's really doing is savoring me! My mind slips back to my old life south of the border. But compared to the Big T, it's a waste of my life. Even with these leg irons on my ankles and my wrists handcuffed, I'm more meaningful here. Good gosh! How many days ago was it I first drove into this place?
"See here, Patsy, we've got lots of time." Burdock has reached a decision. "I'm fond of you. You know that. How about we lay off until tomorrow? Let's have dinner."
Dinner at the Big T is really something else. All I'd had was the bits and pieces sent downstairs. The cook is not in evidence but Daisy waits on the table. The cloth is Irish linen, the goblets crystal, and the food makes me wish never to eat out again. Like I said long ago, anything a girl gets comes from a man.
The evening belongs to Daisy. All I have to do is whip two naked backs and a couple of bare bottoms. The girls don't count. Daisy does the work. Goodness knows, she's had the experience.
Gladys and Effie arrive chained neck to neck. I notice a few crop marks not there earlier. Daisy's crop leaves lovely scalds upon a girl's skin. I should know! An audience inspires our naked merchandise.
"Please call the police. This is all against our will."
"There has to be gentlemen among you who won't tolerate this."
It would appear our membership's tolerance is great. None come forward. Daisy calmly waits while her chained and bound beauties orient themselves. Gladys and Effie tug at bound wrists and snub chained necks while looking appealingly at those who look at them.
"Please untie us. This is all against our will."
"Please don't let these awful girls whip us. We haven't done a thing, and this is all wrong."
The poor darlings are completely shocked by the lack of response. I walk out to center floor languidly, links clattering, playing with my whip with hands now free. I hear the indrawn breaths, the sighs of longing. There must be something about my curves.
Effie and Gladys have to stand, arms raised, ten feet apart, to be whipped. I help. Daisy has to make several marks on their skins before the desired result is achieved. Gladys and Effie really are a gorgeous pair. Their curves make me horny-- and I'm only a girl. I envision the erections all around the room.
The girls stand, barely on tip-toe. They have adequate freedom to respond as I whip them. They are in the hands of girls who have been whipped themselves. For them, that's bad.
"Surely you can't just sit there and see us treated like this!" Gladys is vehement in her conviction of male succor. "In case you haven't noticed, we're both naked, and we don't want to be tied like this, and these girls don't have any right to whip us."
The silence is a tribute the poor dears cannot comprehend. Daisy steps aside and I take over. The girls view me with distaste.
"This girl is not to be trusted," says Gladys. "Please restrain her. I think she intends to whip us."
"She's been led astray," says Effie. "Look at those awful chains on her feet."
Everyone looks. My leg irons are a great success. I walk around my suspenseful victims with a fine clinking of swirling links. I am grateful for this erotic adoration, but I do wish they did not all want to fuck me. But the Big T has its rules. I am safe. Without prelude, I cut Gladys across her lovely round rump. I admit I like Effie best.
The wail of maiden outrage is magnificent. I glow in an incandescence of carnality I don't pretend to understand. I watch the exquisite line form across the exquisite derriere. I watch Gladys kick and writhe. I hear her plaint.
"You see, she hit me! It's just the way I said. Please stop her. Please call the police. "
"Please don't do that to me," says Effie.
I do it to Effie. The mark I place upon her rump surpasses all others previously received. She does a little dance, a stamping of her feet in quick tattoo. It is positively cunt crinkling. I shudder to think what it must do to men. She lives up to expectations.
"Oh, please, stop her! There must be a gentleman among you somewhere!"
There are no gentlemen. Gentlemen, presumably, do not frequent the Big T. There is, instead, a gentle clapping of hands. Gladys and Effie should be flattered but they are not. Without further ado, I whip them with serious intent. They make sundry sounds and writhe delightfully. But it is not until I bring my thong up inside their thighs that they get articulate again.
"You see what she did! She whipped my--stop her!"
"I don't think that's a nice place to whip us at all," says Effie. "You made it cut up my--you know what!"
I move up to their backs. I get in several lovely swift licks before the deluge.
"That's not the right place. You're doing it all wrong. Oh, wow!"
"Aren't you satisfied with just my bottom?" Effie reproves. "You don't seem to have any idea how much this hurts."
I have an idea. I know. But vindictiveness does not spur my arm. I am driven to be cruel by the beauty of these writhing nudities and their pathetic plaints. I whip them joyously. The audience approves. Within my mind the picture of David recedes.
"Spread your legs, dears--open wide." I am surprised by the authority in my voice. I encourage obedience by swift snaps that curl upon unsuspecting breasts. Four legs spring instantly apart in perfect inverted Vs. I send my lash inside each crotch. It does not bother me to punish innocent cunts. Mine too was punished once. I am rewarded by vocals but they are not articulate.
"One hundred thousand."
We turn to the bidder in amusement. He has not named his choice. My whipped girls gaze upon him in disbelief.
"Which one are you bidding on Homer?" another member asks derisively.
"Any one of the three. I'll take 'em all at that price."
"I just bet you would." It is Burdock's voice. "Best be specific."
"Okay, I think her name's Gladys. I bid one hundred thousand dollars."
There's no accounting for taste. Gladys looks both shocked and pleased. I recapture her interest with a real beauty up between her thighs. It splats upward on her belly in front. Its impact has the most interesting wet sound. She howls in outrage.
"Two hundred thousand."
I catch Burdock's eye. He nods approvingly. I realize it is my play with the whip that provokes the bids. I pass Effie up and snap another dowser frankly into Gladys's cunt--or her vagina, or whatever she wants to call it. She goes gorgeously wild.
"Half a million for the girl in irons!"
Oh, shit! That again! I don't need that. What the hell is there about me? But I have a protector.
"Patsy is not for sale, sir. An offer of a million has been refused."
"Okay, two million."
Everyone pays attention, even the girls. I am sure they think me overpriced. Damn! Why did this have to happen at such a time? The bidder is a square-jawed oilman. They are a recognizable type. The way he looks at me crinkles my spine.
"If you don't mind, sir, we will confine the bidding to the girl named Gladys." Burdock's voice is adamant. "Whip her some more, Patsy, to show the members her quality."
I am sure poor Gladys feels the whip unnecessary. She would show these men anything for such sums as are being bandied around. I cannot tell her she does not get the cash. I whip her thighs and get a truly inspiring reaction. Gladys kicks and lunges and hates me bitterly. When her yelps verge on screams, I stop.
"Two hundred and fifty."
I am surprised the Big T ever sold girls by private treaty. This is undoubtedly the way to liven interest. I deliver a final lash squarely across Gladys's bare back. It is as though her scream unlocks the purses of those present. Bids fly like bullets.
Poor Gladys. She looks up at her tied hands and the rope compelling her to stand so taut. She stares at me and the circle of male faces. The bidding has stripped her twice naked. I am sure she envisions the thrusting phallus behind the cash, and she thinks I whip her because I'm mean. Effie, who is every bit as beautiful, is ignored. She simply stands with her arms held high and her skin redly striped. Both girls have abandoned the crossing of their things. Each puss peeps prettily below its pubic hair.
Gladys is sold for four hundred and fifteen thousand dollars. The sum appears to have dried up the wish to spend. No one mentions Effie or me. The two girls I have whipped continue to stand in all their glory beneath the lights. When members feel them they do not protest, but maintain a haughty silence as their nipples are pinched and their pussies probed. They have come a long way since morning.
Gladys has become the property of a large hearty man who, as the party dies, hogties her neatly and carries her to his car as he would a suitcase, grasping her bonds with a single hand where her wrists and ankles are joined. For him it is effortless. Gladys is obviously not pleased. But it is Effie I feel sorry for. Tonight she will be fearfully alone.
I sleep with my master. What else is Burdock to me if he is not that? But we do not make love. There is a decency upon us. David Herron is in both our minds. We are also exhausted and forget to joke about the metal on my feet.
Burdock eats formally. I clatter downstairs for a ranch breakfast which Daisy serves. I suppose I am absurdly middle class or suburban or something, but it is all so cozy and intimate that I can't help wishing Burdock would marry me and keep me here forever. But he does not have to marry me to do that. I'm so silly.
I am sent to the apartment to make sure Effie does not go hairy down there all alone. I get Daisy to lock me inside with her. We share coffee. I remain an enigma, but she bombards me with questions. Why was she whipped? Will she be whipped again? Why are my feet so heavily chained? Do I belong to Burdock? Will she ever seen Gladys again? I am in the middle of coping when Burdock himself unlocks the door and picks me up. As he locks Effie in I manage a smile and a wave. She stands by the pool alone, a sad naked beautiful girl, completely lost.
"Damn it, Patsy girl, got to get those irons off."
"But you only just riveted them on me. What's happened to David need not--"
"There's a man coming. You'll have to dress. We don't have much time."
I am fearful in the forge. I have worn Burdock's irons with such an excited pride. Now I watch them clatter to the ground beneath his hammer's blows. It takes so little time. We leave them by the anvil as he picks me up again. He tells me nothing. I am fearful I am sold.
The lawyer is a brisk scrubbed man in a hurry but he is deferentially polite. He and Burdock know each other. "It's about David," Burdock tells me. "The reports are in. Go ahead, Winston, you tell her."
I am dressed. I bear no chains. I am not even marked by a whip. I am a free girl and a lawyer wishes to speak to me. I feel about the way Effie does--lost!
Guerillas had mistaken David Herron's group for someone else and opened fire, killing them all, and then vanishing. Identifications were complete. It was a deplorable fait accompli. Only legalities remained. In his will, David had bequeathed me his beautiful house and one million dollars with which to sustain it.
I sit in silence. Beside me Burdock is granite. The lawyer enjoys the sensation he has caused. Burdock's summation is terse. "You're a wealthy woman, Patsy." I sign a lot of papers Burdock scans. Winston assures me he will be back with more from time to time. Meanwhile, if I want to use the house, there will be no objections. He shakes my hand, already regarding me as a potential client. He leaves.
Burdock leads me from his office to our favorite lounge. I feel frumpy in clothes. My mind is racing. I wish it was not too early for a drink. To relieve the tension, Burdock muses, "If I was a real S.O.B., I'd keep you here and make you sign the whole thing over."
"Why don't you? I'm too stunned--"
"Not that much of a bastard, I guess. Besides, I need it like I need a hole in my head. But don't you knock it, Patsy. It puts you sitting pretty."
"Look, Burdock, for right now, may I get rid of these clothes and get those irons back on my feet?"
My absurd request is surveyed with affectionate amusement. "You're running scared, Patsy. The answer is no. Simmer down."
"I can't simmer down in all these clothes."
Burdock nods thoughtfully. "You need time to think," he says slowly. "Right now you're scared. Damn it, girl, do you realize all your options?"
"They frighten me. All I really see is I'll be alone."
"Don't suppose that'll last long."
"Yes, it will. It's you I want, not some idiot after my money." I am struck by a sudden whimsy. "Look, Burdock, if I ever go and live in David's house, can I afford to buy Effie for company?"
"She's yours as a gift, sweetheart." Burdock chuckles. "How will you handle her--keep her on a leash?"
I shrug poor Effie into the discard. She is not practical for a lonely girl. I voice what would have been obvious at the start. "I'll go back south for a week or two--stop my folks from worrying. May I have my car?"
"Sure. But about David's house--you can always sell it, you know. Get yourself out from under the whole thing."
"I'd feel like a bitch. He must have wanted me to have it. We were terribly happy there--for four days. Jeepers!"
"Tell you what, Patsy girl, you're all in a dither." Burdock's voice tells me is making a decision for me. "I'm going to cool you off in the cage--you can keep Effie company--but I won't tell you how long I'm leaving you there."
"Isn't that what I asked for?" I'm all aglow with relief, but I stubbornly repeat, "And I want those irons back on me."
"It's a deal."
I suspect Burdock plays with me. But I want him to play with me. He is my safe harbor in a stormy world. His abrupt command tells me we are back to normal. "Get those clothes off, girl."
Delightedly, I strip.
"Your hands?"
Burdock handcuffs me. I quiver like a bowstring. He picks me up and carries me to the forge. The irons are still there. I think they are laughing, knowing I've returned. In a very few minutes they are again riveted on my ankles. I am picked up and carried to the cage.
Poor beautiful Effie! She stands, wide-eyed, as Burdock stands me by the pool. Her eyes widen even more when he taps my bare shoulder and tells her, "This young woman owns you, Effie. She'll explain everything." Chuckling, he leaves and locks us in.
I can't explain. Last evening I whipped this girl. Now I am dumped on her like this. I wish Burdock would do the explaining for me. Maybe he could get around Effie's one track reiteration.
"But, Patsy, those terrible iron things on your ankles--and now you're handcuffed again. I don't see how you can possibly own me." She pouts. "Besides, owning girls isn't a bit legal. I'm sure that man who took Gladys will end up in prison."
I sigh. But explaining to Effie will give me something to do. I expect Burdock has that figured. I must regard Effie's bafflement as therapeutic. She will take my mind off my house, my money, and what the hell I'm going to do now. I take a deep breath.
Effie is not dumb. She has simply had too much too soon. Little by little, I put the pieces in place for her. With each bit of understanding, she views me with a kinder eye. After hours and hours she clings to only one thought.
"You really own me, Patsy?"
"Yes."
"But you can't! You're in chains and I'm free--except for being in this prison."
"When the time comes it's you who'll be chained and I'll be free."
"But you'd have to keep me chained all the time or I'd run away."
"That's right."
Poor dear. She's thinking hard and seeing vision of a forlorn captive girl. Brightly, she suggests, "But suppose I promise I won't run. Suppose I promise to do what you tell me? Would that be all right?"
I have a feeling of being back at square one. Effie's problem had once been mine. In a way it still was. I put it to her straight, "You could never keep such a promise. No one would expect you to. Besides, it would frustrate you to death."
She thinks it over. Her nod and her shrug are rueful in realization. She sees the point as I once did. My chained feet now have logic. Effie is halfway to slavery. But my feet bother her. "That must be terribly heavy when you walk, and it must make such a noise."
"Yours will be lighter. These on me are old fashioned leg irons; they don't even lock. Burdock put them on me for fun."
"Fun! Good heavens!"
I leave it at that.
In the middle of the afternoon Burdock takes me to bed. I am gloriously glad. It means he wants me. He misses me beside him in bed. He plays with my irons and with me and we have a wonderful fuck. I think of that word all the time now. It's got a zing. All others seem indecent. When we are happily relaxed afterwards, he abruptly asks, "Forgot about this evening, Patsy--how do you feel about it?"
"I told you awhile back--use me."
"Your skin's virgin, sweetheart."
"I expect it will get virgin again." Lightly, I add, "Besides, what's virgin skin for if not to whip?"
Burdock belabors no points. He'd offered me a way out. I hadn't wasted it. We are both happy. That I will be whipped this evening is something so abstract right now I could care less.
Safe in Burdock's bed and in his arms, I tell him frankly, "I wish you'd marry me, Burdock. You might just as well."
"I've told you, sweetheart, I'm not the marrying kind."
"All right then, keep for your slave. I'll be satisfied with handcuffs."
"Persistent little trick, aren't you?" He bites my nipple gently. "You forgetting you're rich?"
"It's remembering that makes me want to stay with you. Let me?"
"What you're going to do, sweetheart, is go and see your folks. Don't imagine you'll stay. Then you're going to live in that house awhile. After that we'll talk again."
Burdock's word is law.
When the crowd gathers in the evening, I start to get qualms about what's about to happen. Any way you take it, a whipping hurts, and I hadn't been whipped for a long time. I have a passionate wish not to be weak in front of Effie. I debate the gag. Daisy solves the problem. Effie and I will both be gagged. There will be no points to win or lose.
I lose my handcuffs. Effie and I serve drinks. Burdock announces there will be no selling of maiden flesh tonight. Daisy is the lady with the lash. Texas is here but he is polite and normal. He looks at me but not too much. He looks at Effie too. I am glad he gives most of his attention to the men. I have been buckled into the girl harness; it will make the whip hurt more. But, boy, do I look good!
Effie cannot make me out. I explain that I am volunteering. But she cannot imagine ever volunteering herself to be whipped. She thinks it unfair to be whipped again tonight. I explain I did not whip her severely nor will we be flogged tonight. But it is going to hurt. Daisy has told me it will hurt. I make her drink from one of the glasses on her tray. When her time comes, she allows Daisy to bind her wrists, but with a winsome air of martyrdom which remains as they rise before her eyes. But tonight she is not stretched on her toes. We are to be given plenty of freedom in which to writhe and kick. It is one of those nights. I would much prefer to be stretched tight. I fear I will disgrace myself before my slave.
When I swirl my chain to where I am to be punished, there is polite applause. I am becoming known and my back is beautifully ready to be etched. Sweetly, I cross my wrists and offer them to Daisy to be bound. Effie watches in disbelief. Her nudity is exquisite. My hands rise but stop lower than I like, just above my head. It is cruel to make a girl stand this way to be whipped. I can wriggle all over the place. They do not tie my feet. I wonder who thought this up.
Now our gags! Daisy makes this strapping of our lips a beautifully ritualistic feast of shame. Effie and I stare dolorously above the soft leather molded above our chins. We each raise a sad eyebrow. We cannot get loose but we can turn full circle if we wish. My most urgent wish is not to turn my bottom from the lash, or the cane, or whatever Daisy uses. I flex my arms. I am vulnerably ready.
Effie is first. As the whip snaps across her skin, she does everything I do not wish to do. Her head rears, she turns all around to take her flesh from Daisy. She stares at Daisy accusingly. As a reward for such conduct, she gets a lash across her belly she need not have had. And after all I've explained to her!
For me there is the cane. My harness plumps up my bottom to make it a delectable target. It will mark superbly. I allow myself one more regret about being so stupid as to let myself in for this. Then I close my mind. From now on I will be concerned only with being stoic for dear Effie. An hour ago I could treat this whole thing as abstract. But now! Daisy has discarded the whip and picked up the cane. She looks at me with love. Sure, I know it's crazy!
Oh, damn, it hurts! Tears come to my eyes, and I feel sorry for myself. My heroism vanishes. I have returned to being a mostly naked girl who is being punished, and my punishment has only just begun. I have kept still. I absorb my pain with only gasps. But soon there will be a second stroke, and then a third.
Daisy returns to Effie. This time the lash sweeps across Effie's naked back, and once more Effie swirls and twists and tries to remove her vulnerable portions out of range. But all of her is vulnerable. She learns this fact most painfully. She is now in tears. They will pass as the more serious pain increases. Our evening has begun. Momentarily, I catch the eye of Texas. He is smiling broadly.
Daisy must not play favorites. And anyway, she's told me I am a delightful subject to whip. But she seems mostly concerned with my bottom. It's that damn harness! Thank goodness she is not going to whip my breasts. They are as plumply protuberant as my rump. Her second cut lands square across both my cheeks. I thrust my face hard against one bare arm. I quiver from head to foot but manage to stay as I am. In outrageous bravado I stick my derriere out for number three. I have discovered it hurts no more when you invite it than when you don't. The audience approves noisily.
I do not expect number three so soon. But it cuts an inch from the stroke before. If I was not gagged, I'd scream, I know I would. Daisy is giving the audience its money's worth tonight, and Effie and I will foot the bill.
I fight to keep still as I am whipped. It does not hurt more than presenting writhing, contorting bits of ourselves for punishment the way Effie is doing. But, oh, it is so hard! It's against nature to keep still. To stand with my hands up while my bottom is caned flouts every instinct. But if I writhe and twist, I will get cuts across my hips and my thighs which hurt much worse. But I cannot tell this to my derriere. As the cane bites it again and again, I long to give it solace, to rub my fingers across the burning stripes, to try and tell it what I do is best. But it is deaf. It rejects stoicism, it wants to turn and run. So do I! This gasping twitching immobility is for Effie. I suspect Daisy and the boys know this. Burdock watches sardonically. I feel sickeningly sorry for myself.
I asked for this. I asked for my hands to be tied above my head and my nakedness bared to the cane and the whip. Do I stand like this for Burdock, or to make the death of David more remote? Do I challenge Daisy to make me squirm? What a messed up mind I have as Daisy impacts her beastly cane in a steady procession of cuts upon my harnessed curves. I suppose this gag in my mouth is good. It mutes the shame of screams. But I want to scream so damn bad!
There is a tiny pause as Daisy sets aside her cane and picks up the whip she has been using all the time on Effie. It has been used on me; I know it well. But when it strikes across my back, I shudder, and my head rears. I shift from one leg to the other and back again. I press my strapped cheek even harder against the perspiring bareness of my tied arm. I am only halfway through.
In the sweating, panting aftermath of being whipped, Effie and I stand, still tied, for the delection of our guests. Daisy is busy with her tray, but she spares us moments in which to unstrap our gags and hold a glass to our lips. We gulp greedily. The gags are not replaced. Some member may wish to speak to use as they pinch our nipples or cup a cunt in the palm of a large male hand. We are very much available. In the glorious relief of knowing our whipping is over and done with, we do not complain of indignities we would have become hysterical over in ages past.
Texas suddenly materializes to take his turn at me. He clasps my nipples between thumb and finger but does not squeeze. He looks me in the eye. "I'm in love with these little beauties, honey. How you doin'?"
I say I'm doing nicely. I'm scared he's going to pinch my nipples. I can tell his interest in me has not died.
"That was a damn fine show you put on for us tonight, kiddo. Musta been rough, not wriggling your ass."
His hold on my nipples does not change. He's getting a thrill out of them. A current from him enters me through these points upon my breasts. He is raping me as I stand nude and bound and he makes polite comments. Thank goodness we are not alone.
"Sorry I didn't get to buy you, honey." He moves my nipples slowly from side to side and round and round within the compass of half an inch. He does not hurt, but he is getting me excited, damn him! I shift feet and twist restlessly against the intimacy he takes. He laughs knowingly. "Like it too much, eh?" He makes one rough upward clutch between my thighs. He winks, and then moves on to Effie.
I expect him to return to the apartment but Burdock takes me to bed. He refuses to handcuff me; he wants my hands. I use them joyously as he envelops me in the most savage love, grinding my whipped back upon the covers and clutching handsful of my caned cheeks. In a glorious abandonment to my senses, I make the cries I could not make when I was whipped. The second time is more gentle. We are both afloat on a halcyon sea. Fleetingly, I think of Effie alone with her whip marks behind the bars.
"Couple more girls coming today," Burdock tells me over breakfast. "Be company for Effie. I don't want you down there."
I don't want to be down in the lovely apartment either. It has become claustrophobic. I am not much interested in the girls. If they are cleverly whipped during an evening show, they will soon be sold. I tell Burdock of Texas and the night before. I suggest, "If one of the new girls has interesting nipples, why not invite him for a preview? He's cuckoo about girls' nipples and breasts, and his million dollars is still hovering around."
"Don't need his million," Burdock says offhandedly. "What that bastard wants is you. You're under his skin for sure. What do you want to do about Effie?"
"You'd best sell her. With my sort of between freedom and slavery, I don't know what I'll do with her."
"You won't stay this way. You'll need her. She can stick around. She's good for a show once a week. Her back can stand that."
How casually I have come to the disposal of girls. My conscience is flogging me but I pay it no heed. I am glad I drove into the Big T that day. Most of the captive maidens who go through the apartment will look back in the same gratitude. The slaveries they are sold into are far preferable to their silly little lives as bank tellers or clerks in supermarkets.
"I'll owe you for Effie's room and board," I say. "I'll have to get used to the idea of owning her. "
"You don't owe me a thing, sweetheart." Burdock pats my head. "That show you did for us last night laid all the boys on their ear. How in hell do you manage to stand still with Daisy lacing your butt?" Burdock then thrusts a package across to me. "This is some money. You'll need it. Probate of the will may take time. No need to go short."
I get a message. Suddenly desperate, I plead, "Don't strike off my leg irons again. Please don't!"
"Can't very well wear 'em on your trip south."
"That's what I mean. Oh, Burdock!"
Burdock laughs and pats my head again. Two hours later I am in my little car and headed for the border.
I forgot to say goodbye to Effie.
CHAPTER SIX - COLLAR AND CHAIN
I suppose going back home always has something to do with that law of diminishing returns. Hugs and kisses at the start, and then a creeping realization of going different ways. The folks could not understand my determination to go back to Canada. Probably the stories I thought up for them weren't all that convincing. They suspected a man in the picture somewhere. They were right, but I did not tell them Burdock's name.
At bedtime my resolve waned, but in the sunlight of morning I discovered an increasing excitement about David's house--now mine! I found myself giggling about Effie and how I'd have to whip her bottom to make her behave--or more correctly, to make her understand. Overshadowing everything was my feeling about Burdock. I could always go back to the Big T and take Effie with me. I was increasingly aware of being a lucky girl. Burdock had been right--I needed this break to gain perspective. I had the damnedest time preventing anyone from seeing my back--they'd have had kittens!
A couple of weeks was a long time. I had grown up. I had a million dollars and a marvelous house. If I found that not enough, I would go and be a slavegirl in the apartment below the chicken house. I did not expect to choose that. But still!
Within the framework of my life in the good old U.S.A., the Big T and all that went with it was purely incongruous. I'd like to talk about it but how can I? They wouldn't believe me, or they would think I was nuts. So I comfortably nurse my secret and embrace total freedom. I was in no way restrained. In privacy I wave my arms and legs around, and think back to the times when I couldn't do either but would have dearly loved to. Some way it wasn't all that exciting.
I realize I want Burdock. I miss him terribly. And, to a lesser degree, I want Effie, simply because she's mine, and I've never done a thing with her except whip her in a show. Owning Effie should be a real hoot. I can't talk about that either. Fancy telling the folks I own a slavegirl--wow!
By the time my whip marks are nicely faded, I know my visit home has drawn to a natural end. We reverse the process. More hugs, more kisses. First thing I know, I'm heading my little car back north. It has been hard to explain I do not need mukluks or snow shoes, and there's actually plumbing north of the international boundary. Really!
Sure, I'm a horny heifer! But I repress carnality. If I go first to the Big T, I'll dive right back into not knowing what the hell I want. Of course, if Burdock was going to marry me, that wouldn't matter. I set the Big T aside. I expect I'll get there soon enough but for today it's David's house. I'll think of it as my house after awhile but not today.
It's a glorious thrill. The huge garage, the huge everything-- I take a grand tour all by myself and savor the richness of David's bequest. I go to the corner grocery. I make coffee and have a sort of picnic in the splendid kitchen. I admit I am awed by it all in a way I wasn't when David was here. When his ghost intrudes too heavily upon my consciousness, I phone Burdock. I mean, it's just a phone call--it doesn't mean a thing--and I've already told him when I'll be back.
Burdock's voice is glad. I am glad. I tell him, No, I didn't bring the family back, and, yes, I'm all alone.
He says, "I'll be right there."
"Oh, Burdock, I want you so bad. If you come here now, I'll go straight back to the Big T with you."
"You stay put, do you hear? Won't take me long."
When I start to tell him it's early evening, the phone is dead. I have to make some more coffee to brace myself. What's wrong with early evening? It's visiting time. I thrill!
Burdock has keys and a garage door opener. When I hear the motor I go down to meet him, feeling like a bride. I must put a brake on myself and not lead him straight to a bedroom. But if he wants to pick me up and carry me, well, that's something else.
Burdock emerges from the car in all his granite masculinity. There's a glint in his eye when he sees me. But he is not alone. He holds on a chain. On the other end of it is Effie. He has had her blindfolded for the journey, so she can't recognize the house. Now he takes it off. Sardonically, he offers me her chain.
I don't want Effie, not right now--I want him! My hands and arms are gloriously free. While Effie is still blinking in the light, I throw them myself into Burdock's arms. I climb all over him the most shameful way until he gathers me in his giant arms and hugs me like a child.
"Goodness gracious," says Effie, "I'd never have dreamed--!"
Effie is naked. I realize again how gloriously beautiful she is. Her wrists are handcuffed behind her back, around her neck is a black iron collar, and from it a chain, the tether which Burdock holds.
Jovially, Burdock asks, "Do I smell coffee?"
We retire to the kitchen. There I see something I had not noticed before: It is a steel ring in the wall at a level slightly above my head. Burdock snaps the end of Effie's chain to it. "There, that looks after her for now," he says conversationally. "Did a bit of work while you were gone. You'll find rings in most places. Makes Effie real handy to look after."
Effie grins ruefully and shrugs. "May I sit down, Patsy? My chain's plenty long."
We all sit down. I busy myself with coffee and telling of my trip. Conscious of ownership, I ask, "Shouldn't we take her handcuffs off? She'll need her hands for the cup."
I can always rely on Burdock. He places a new padlock and keys on the table. "Go ahead. But if she has her hands, she can unsnap herself. You'll need this."
I'm so damned excited! So is Effie. I discover, at the end of her long leash, a big snap which secures her to the ring. I unsnap her, insert the padlock in the final link, then close it with a gorgeous click upon the ring. Effie is foxed. I take the handcuffs from her wrists. She says, "Thank you, Patsy." I have a feeling she's got a jump ahead of me while I've been away.
"Mustn't make hard work of her," says Burdock. "If you decide not to sell her, maybe you should buy her a cage."
Effie is obviously glad to have her hands back. She uses both of them to hold her coffee after she has fingered the iron around her neck. Her voice is delicious. "You two have me confused," she admits. She looks at me directly. "The way you flit around! Am I supposed to call you mistress or something?"
"Call me what you like, dear."
"No, make her call you mistress," Burdock admonishes. "You'll have to keep her in a proper frame of mind or she'll get the best of you. But I have to admit, she's a sweetheart." Both his eyes are glinting now as he gazes into mine. "Shall we?"
I do not have to answer. Burdock scoops me up as though I'm a small child. This is how it should be between a man and a woman. Effie is not shocked. Placidly, she advises, "Do have fun. Don't mind about me, this chain is plenty long."
Was ever a girl so blessed as I?
We have gotten better, I'm sure of it. Our love is fierce with a new passion. But it does occur to me this is our first coupling without me being in some way chained. I am totally wanton, casting all inhibitions to the winds. I wonder, as I suppose other girls must wonder too, if Mother ever made love like this. I am sure she did not.
Poor Effie! Here and there I wonder how many cups of coffee she consumes to kill the time. I wonder if she envies us. But of course she envies me! What girl would not envy my possession of Burdock's passion? It is delightful to know how her chain and collar keep her safe--safe for me tomorrow and always. I'm so damn lucky I could cry. Instead, I go down and seek Burdock's erect phallus with my lips. It is my homage to the male.
Honest, it is something new for me to take the hot, thrusting rod within my mouth. There is wonder when I realize the flavors I now taste are mine. Burdock has been beautifully immersed inside me and now returns my own. Men are gorgeous, wonderful, marvelous! Or is it this one single man? Maybe I should suggest to him that he honor Effie with his love too. The poor girl deserves something. But then I remember that there is me! She, too, is lucky.
Burdock and I erase our sheepish looks when we rejoin my slavegirl much, much later. Effie is brewing a fresh pot of coffee. She refrains from comment. I glance at her bottom to see if she has been thrashed to bring her into line. But her skin is not unduly marked. It is possible she is meekly resigned to captivity. After all, the Collar around her neck and the chain from it to the wall must tell her something.
The ring in Effie's room is strategically placed to allow her access to all she needs. We padlock her safely and leave her to her own devices. I know how frustrated she will be with the links she cannot cut. When I try and talk to Burdock about the things that matter, he puts his finger on my lips and tells me to give the house a chance to exert on me whatever magic it may hold. I suppose he's right. I promise not to phone him for one whole day.
The combination of the house and Effie recaptures me anew. Both hold treasures. Effie's first fluffy coyness has bee replaced by a measure of feminine pragmatism. She has done a lot of thinking behind those bars downstairs under the chicken house. On this first morning, I find her primping in the bathroom, her chain almost at full stretch.
"Good morning, mistress," she says provocatively. "I'm so hungry."
"For Pete's sake, Effie, don't call me that--use my name. You can call me mistress when you feel guilty of something.
Look, dear, I have to unlock your padlock and take you downstairs. Are you going to give me trouble?"
"I could, couldn't I, Patsy?" Effie turns from the mirror. "Mr. Burdock explained the problems you'll have in keeping me safe." She makes a gesture of disparagement. "I won't kid you about escaping. If I can, I will."
"The only way I can be really sure of you is to keep your hands behind your back."
Effie shrugs. "That's what you'll have to do then, but don't think I'm not grateful for the freedom of this chain and collar. It's a marvelous idea. Your only hazard is moving me from ring to ring."
"I'll be forever locking and unlocking you." I know what she's scared to say--that it's me who wanted a slavegirl, so I'll have to put up with the trouble. "But, okay, Effie, we'll start out that way. Hands behind your back."
Effie is very sweet and very rational as I handcuff her. This is going to be more of a challenge than I've supposed. Trouble is, I don't want a prisoner, I want a companion. I now unlock her padlock and lead her by her tether downstairs. In the kitchen I do it all over again. By the time I have her padlocked to the ring and her hands free, she is grinning all over.
"I'm sorry I'm such a nuisance, Patsy."
"No, you're not, you're laughing. You're as good as free-- go make the coffee and toast while I do the rest."
Effie is deft with her hands, quick and neat. Working, she blandly says, "I can hit you with the coffee pot or one of these heavy dishes, or stab you with one of these knives."
"Do it. Don't tell me first."
We grin at each other; absurdity disarms. Effie says flatly, '"I can't, and you know I can't."
I know she can't. She might overpower me if she could but that's all. Teasing her, I remind, "I whipped you."
"You had to, and you didn't whip me all that hard, and anyway, that's different."
We stare at each other and laugh again. I think we're making progress. I discover I own two entities: Effie's beautiful body and Effie's unfolding mind. She begins to excite me.
Effie is what I need.
As we eat, I find in this female slave much of the overjoyment Burdock finds in me. Sight of her chain and collar, and her constantly shifting of the chain, in the manner of a girl tossing her hair, intrigues me. Effie becomes erotically disturbing. She is also inclined to think a jump ahead of me.
"Patsy, I know you've got whips and canes and things, and a punishment room for me," she says, smiling in diffidence, "but I don't want to be punished. Tell me the things I'd better not do."
For the life of me, I can think of only one, and I offer it lamely, "Do not try to escape."
"But that's not fair. Any prisoner has a right to try."
"Call it a deterrent."
"Well, I suppose. What else?"
"I don't know what else. If you behave this well all the time, you'll never be punished."
"Don't you like punishing me?"
"Well, yes, a little. Maybe up to five strokes."
"Oh, and that reminds me, Patsy, must I always be naked?"
"Anything as gorgeous as you should never wear clothes."
"That's so nice. But it makes escape a bit more of a problem, and everything hurts so much more on bare skin."
"Good enough reasons for keeping you bare, pet. I'll never let you dress."
"But I don't see why you're naked, Patsy--not now."
This has to be crazy but I've forgotten. I stripped right after I arrived. It was such a beautiful feeling after two weeks loaded down with clothes, and I wanted to be ready for Burdock. It never occurred to me to dress again.
Effie adds, quaintly, "I mean, Patsy, if you own this lovely house, and you own me, and you have a lot of money, shouldn't you wear a little something?"
"Like what, Effie?"
"Maybe panties? It would cover your, uh, whatsit."
"I don't want my whatsit covered. It's real handy like this."
"But you're not going to be whipped ever again--are you?"
I've asked myself this, and I know if Burdock wanted me for a show, I'd do it. I tell Effie this, and I add, "And I'll lend you to him too if he needs you."
She sort of winces. "I don't think that's a bit fair. I'd thought I'd got away from all that, being brought here to you. That Chinese girl is too clever with her whip. She always hurts me something awful."
"Then just hope it never happens."
I think Effie is ticking off a mental list. She comes up with, "I suppose you realize how hard this has been for me. That awful ranch place, and now this." She picks up a length of her chain and examines it ruefully. "And this chain and collar on my neck all the time." She smiles placatingly. "I was a private secretary before I was kidnapped with Gladys. It was a good job. I had quite a bit of authority--now look at me!"
"Hike you better this way, Effie."
"I expect you do. But what happens to my love life? I've- been thinking, if you keep me for always, like you say, I'll never have a boyfriend or anything."
"I'll turn you into the most gorgeous lesbian."
"You sleep with Burdock, I know you do. It's easy for you."
"You hinting I should lend you to Burdock? I won't."
"You mean to be serviced? No thanks." Poor dear Effie sighs woefully. "I'm just trying to get things straight. I suppose a slavegirl ought to know where she's at."
"Would it help if I whipped you, dear?"
She looks at me reproachfully. "I'm not sure if you're joking, Patsy, when you come out with something like that. Or maybe you're thinking the pain will take my mind off my troubles. But thanks, I'd much rather not."
"Just a thought. You haven't learned yet how therapeutic a whipping can be for a girl."
Effie looks at me doubtfully. "Aren't there other ways of punishing us besides whipping and caning our bare skin?"
"Of course there are, dear. Want to sample a few?"
"Oh, Patsy, please! You make me shiver. If I'm going to belong to you, I want to love you too. I haven't a thing against girls and girls. Gosh, I'm getting all twisted!"
We'd finished breakfast and done the dishes. Our day loomed as large as my house. But there was one job I had to do.
"Look, Effie, if we're going to eat, I have to go shopping." Effie looks wistful. She fingers her collar. "Can I come?"
I shrug. "Tell me how it's possible."
My slavegirl twists. She shifts her chain and looks at me appealingly. "If you'll let me dress, I'd really love to go with you. I'll make whatever promises you want, and I'll keep them."
"You'd be in agony. You could never keep such a promise. You could simply walk away."
She looks so dejected I could cry. She adds, "I'll take an oath on a Bible, Patsy."
"No."
Effie shrugs. She had not expected I'd say yes anyway. "What will you do with me while you're away?" she asks resignedly.
"Pick your ring, Effie. That's where you'll stay. I'll leave you some magazines to read."
"My bedroom, I suppose--where you chained me last night." She looks at me pathetically. "Patsy, I do understand. I can see I'm a problem. I'm not mad at you."
I kiss her and give her a hug. Effie is sweet. I am becoming interested in discovering how the two of us will adjust to being mistress and slavegirl. Like I said, I'm sure I'll be a rotten mistress. But Burdock has emphasized Effie must not escape. She absolutely must not. I owe Burdock that.
Without enthusiasm, I tell her, "Okay, I'll take you up there now."
Effie promptly turns her back and crosses her wrists. She does this so beautifully the tears leap to my eyes. I am remembering when I once did the same. I handcuff her with love.
I go naked to the car--I forgot! I go back and put on some clothes and try again. I must tell Burdock; he'll get a laugh. The garage door works so wonderfully, the driveway is so wide, it's all so functional, and it's all mine! But I'd be lost and scared living with David's ghost. Effie is a blessing. One day I'll take her shopping, I really must. I owe the poor darling something.
I adore supermarkets. I always buy twice as much as I need. Now I have Effie and I think, she'll like this or that, and I pop it in the cart. Deliciously, I think of her with the iron collar locks around her neck and the trailing chain. Wryly, I think, "Never did so little metal hold so much girl." It's cute, I'll tell her.
So I load up. When I reach my driveway I stop the car and gloat. It's a gorgeous house. All the houses on this street are gorgeous but mine is best. They are well spaced for privacy, and there are trees and shrubs. I've noticed this is rare in Canada. They have all the space in the world, but they all live sort of in each other's pockets, their houses jammed together or built in one long row so the developer can make that much more profit. Canadians go for it. But not the rich. This street is for the rich, and this is where I live. I let my little car roll down the driveway to the door. The drive is such an immaculate stretch of concrete.
My car is wrenched open. I turn, alarmed, and almost fall out. A huge hand and a reeking wad are thrown into my face. I slip away into darkness.
* * *
There is a presence. It is something huge but I have no wish to look. I want to stay in the darkness. I don't like what I'll see, so let me not look. My senses tell me I am naked and bound. I won't attract attention by struggling, but I think my hands are tied behind my back and my ankles roped. When the big thing speaks, I have to grope around in memory.
"Okay, Patsy gal, I know you're awake. Come on out of it."
It is the voice of Texas.
Inside, I curl into knots. Outside, I make an instinctive tensing against cord. I am tied tight. I am helpless.
"Stop kidding yourself. You're not going anyplace I don't say." The voice is far from hostile. It reeks of complacency. He's got me! I open my eyes.
"That's better, Patsy girl. Let's say howdy proper. Name's Homer Wyant. Call me Homer."
There he is, all of him! I am on a bed in a bedroom. Homer Wyant sits beside me like a visiting physician. I was right, I am naked. I am tied the way I thought I was too. Homer is lapping it up. I don't try the usual "Where am I?" but instead accuse, "You've kidnapped me."
"Tried to be honest, kiddo."
Why argue? Either way, he's got me. I'm tied so tight I know he's got me good.
I mutter, "How long have I--?"
" 'Bout twenty minutes. Long enough to make you safe." Shock hits me. Effie is chained. She has everything but food. Burdock and I had agreed on no phone calls today. It will be at least tomorrow before Burdock finds her. She'll be frightened but she'll live. I'd best say nothing or this bastard will go and get her too. I'm sure he'd figure four nipples better than just my two. I know what he wants me for.
"Ain't nobody going to find you, honey. I rented a dumb little suburban place to keep you in. They can knock at my door all they want. The gal I keep there thinks I made a quickie to Dallas. I got all the time in the world, just for you."
"How long will you keep me?"
"Don't matter. Until my business up here's finished. Maybe couple of months." Homer almost drools. "Unless I take a likin' to you. Got me a private plane. No problem takin' you south."
I want to cry. It's so damn unfair--Effie, my house, and everything going right, and now this clod comes along with his one track mind which begins and ends with my tits! I wish he'd look at my pubic hair sometimes but he doesn't bother. Homer reads my mind.
"I'll get around to fucking you, honey, don't you fret. I got ways of tying you proper for that."
I bet he has! He'll have a way of tying me for eating a doughnut, and everything else too. I'm sunk but good! Hopelessly, I plead, "Will you let Burdock know I'm not dead or something? He'll worry."
"Hell no, kiddo! Can't do nothin' these days without leaving a clue. Honest, I'd do it if it was safe but it ain't. I'm not a real asshole, y'know. I aim for you and me to like each other." Oh, shit! Can my stock go lower than this? I'm sure Homer's right, he oozes Rotarian goodwill. He is going to hurt me cruelly but wants me to love him at the same time. He is really something! I mean, I think there's a bit of this inconsistency in all men but I've got the granddad of them all! Or he's got me! The hell of it is I can't think of a thing to say. We understand each other.
"I ain't offering no millions any more, Patsy gal. Got it throwed in my face last time, so now I get you free and for nothin'. Honey, you ain't cost me a dime, 'cept what it cost to have this house watched."
"Congratulations. I suppose you know these ropes are hurting?"
"You're just beefing, kiddo. I can tell. Little pain never did a gal no harm. Tells her where she's at."
My captor picks me up, as though I weighed fifteen pounds, and sits me on the side of the bed, my feet dangling. He holds my shoulders while my head clears and I stop feeling sick. My voice is glum. "Any chance of going to a bathroom?"
Homer beams goodwill. "You think I don't know a girl has to pee, honey, you'd be all wrong. You gotta be mobile, and I'm all ready."
He sure is. It's like being tended by a large amiable puppy, but in a couple of minutes my ankles are free, except for the red furrows in my skin from the rope. Now there's a surprise-- I suppose it's good.
"Had 'em made special, honey. Never did like them leg irons they had on you at the ranch. These here look good, but there's no way you're getting out of 'em. Ain't these anklets something?"
Damn him, he's right. If a girls has to have her feet chained, she couldn't find anything nicer. Around each of my ankles shines a wide silver band of metal. It isn't heavy, it's thin, widening a bit for the lock. The chain between isn't exactly a watch chain, but it's a mile removed from Burdock's leg irons.
I'd explain about Burdock's leg irons, but I doubt if Homer would understand. Anyway, what I've got on my feet now is much better than expected. I manage a fervent thank you.
"Like 'em, eh?" Homer is pleased. "See that there chain-- every link curved. Ain't no bolt cutters will touch 'em."
"They're beautiful. May I try to walk?"
Homer lifts me to my feet, I take snubbed steps. I am accustomed to being chained, so it's no big deal. I won't run, I will walk slowly. The chain makes a new and different sound, the sound of money. Homer leads me proudly to the bathroom.
"What about my hands?"
"They're okay."
"No, they're not. I can't use them, and they're still hurting."
"Well, I can't be tying and untying you all day!"
"A girl doesn't go to the bathroom all day. Haven't you any handcuffs?"
"Them things! They don't stop nothin', 'less they're behind your back. Your hands are behind your back now."
"They sure are! Leave them this way long enough and they'll drop off. You could leave me handcuffed forever and they'd do no injury."
"I like you tied, kiddo. Something honest about a good bit of rope."
"But I feel messy. Let me have my hands. You can tie them again afterwards. You've fixed me so I can't run."
He actually does it. Once more my thank you is sincere. Homer insists on rubbing my wrists. He wants the feel of me. I stand passively. It's like being massaged by a rock crusher. When I get inside I find the window boarded up. It does not matter. I know for sure I'm never going to escape. Homer Wyatt does things right. When I go out he's there with his rope. I turn and cross my wrists.
"Please, Homer, not so tight. Not if you're going to keep me tied."
"Honey, you ain't never going to get away from me."
His tie is still severe. I don't test it, I know. Forlornly, I enquire, "What are you going to do with me now?"
"How about lunch?"
I agree instantly. Anything to delay Homer's appointment with my nipples. I don't even ask for my hands, but allow Homer to feed me in a docile acceptance of my condition. If I can maintain goodwill it may hurt less. But I can't resist asking, "Homer, is there something I can do or say so I don't get what I think I'm going to get?"
"You mean them lovely tits?"
"Yes."
"Hell, honey, I ain't gonna cut 'em off, y'know."
"I know you won't. But they're such a private thing for girls. Couldn't you whip me instead?"
"You mean, you'd sooner--!" Homer is genuinely staggered. "You want to tell me you prefer them whippings at the ranch to a little bitsy clip on your tit?"
"I'm afraid so. I don't want either. But you know that."
"Honey, I sure do appreciate you offering like this. It's real sweet. Now, if you got a hankering to be whipped as well as the tits--"
"Not as well, Homer. I mean instead of."
"Honey, I think you got things wrong way 'round."
"But a girl's breasts are so tender!"
"Ain't that the point?"
This man who owns me shoves a sandwich into my mouth to shut me up. He is adamant about his obsession. I'd best watch I don't rile him. I chew and contemplate a pain-filled time ahead. But for the moment Homer enjoys fussing with me. I get all the tidbits and the hottest coffee. But I do not get my hands. No way! When we are through eating I do not get to do the dishes. He makes me stand to one side of the sink. I just simply stand.
"You got no idea how pretty you look, sweetheart. Them little hands in back and what I got locked on your ankles-- mmmmm, that million wouldn't have been a penny too much. There's just something about you!"
There must be! If all Homer wanted was to see me naked and with my hands tied behind my back, I'd be more than happy. I'd stand all day like this if only he wouldn't touch my nipples. But he fusses the last dish into the cupboard and announces the grand tour.
It sure is a plebeian little house but it's good enough to keep me prisoner in. Canadian houses all have concrete basements. Homer has barred off one end of this one to make a cage for me. Or maybe it's a dungeon. For sure I don't want to be locked inside, but Homer makes a point of telling me it's only for emergencies or to punish me if I'm bad. I strive to show no interest in case he mistakes it for enthusiasm. I just admire the massive bars and wonderful door. Ugh!
But what Homer calls the workroom is not below. It's a converted bedroom upstairs. Recognizing its sparse furnishings, I can't resist saying, "So this is where I get tortured."
"I sure do wish you wouldn't use that word, honey. Ain't no way I'd want to torture you."
What's in a name? I keep prudently silent while I am shown the hoists and all the other things to hold me in positions to be hurt or fucked. It's a large room, and all the stuff in it gives me a hope I may get a bit of time suffering apart from Homer's main theme. I can't say I'm anxious to sit with my feet in that set of stocks over there, but surely they can't hurt anything like the other.
"Well, honey, I guess you'd like to get started."
That's Homer. It's not a question, he's telling me. And what a hell of a thing to say to a girl anyway. I tug at my wrists. Without trying to be too bright and cheery, I tell him, "Whatever you say. You're the boss."
I guess it was the right thing to say. Homer pats my bottom and leads me over to stand beneath the hoist. He is anxious I should be a participant.
"To start with, Patsy, I want you the same as that girl at the ranch--nice and simple, arms up."
"Don't you want me to do it for you the way Burdock made me?"
"No, for me the girl's got to be tied. Don't make sense if she's got her hands."
I suppose he's right. I stand limply while I'm untied and tied again to the bar. As my hands rise, I estimate they're two feet apart. When I begin to tauten, Homer stops the motor and walks around and around my tractioned nudity. He is breathing heavily. It's quite something what this means to him. He almost has me feeling I'm glad to be of service.
My hands and arms go up and down. What concerns Homer is the contours of my breasts. He wants me stretched, but not enough to do more than flatter the twin parts of me he's going to hurt. It's hard to see Homer as an artiste. But in this he is! Finally, he gets me the way he wants. It is beautifully simple. I stand with my arms up and my breasts well out. Chained feet prevent me kicking.
"You're the most beautiful girl in the world, Patsy."
Maybe I am. But it's not going to do me any good. Using thumbs and forefingers, he captures my nipples and asks, with little boy eagerness, "Remember when I did this as the Big T?" He sighs ecstatically. "That's going to stay with my all my life, and now I've got all of you."
He sure has. I'm quite helpless. Homer lets go of my rosebuds and solicitously enquires, "You can look down and see your nipples--get a good view of 'em?"
"Yes, I can see. Homer, please be kind to them."
"Of course I will, sweetheart. Figure I'll start you out easy. Just a pair of plain old clothespins like Mama used to use."
I can make it difficult for him to clip them on me. I can twist and turn. I'm surprised he hasn't tied me more rigidly, but this was the way it was done at the Big T, so I guess it sticks in his mind. But it's probably best I keep still. If he's making jabs at a moving target, he'll hurt me more. Besides, he can always whip me to make me obey. I don't have any illusions about the spot I'm in.
"I want you to keep quite still, honey, and I want you to look down and see them go on. Okay?"
I scarcely breathe as the first clip rises to my breast. It looks so damn innocent but I'm sure it's not. This is the moment-- right now!
"Get 'em just right and they stick straight out, Patsy. That's the way you're going to wear 'em. " I look down. I have to. I'm fascinated by Homer's careful alignment and the tentative touches that spur my breath. Suddenly, without fuss, I am wearing a wooden clothespin on my left breast. It sticks out saucily and moves as I breathe. It hurts like fury.
"Not so bad, eh? Nice effect."
"It hurts like crazy, if that's what you mean."
"And now--hold tight for number two."
They are both on me now, two venomous small jaws, biting me savagely. I can't touch them. I simply stand with my two burning breasts and suffer for Homer's pleasure. I think of Burdock and Effie and my house, and I want to cry. This is so damned unfair and such lousy luck. The pins quiver delightedly as Homer flicks them with his finger.
I mustn't kid myself about this. There's worse pain, there's greater cruelty. But there's an unremitting animosity about these little things feeding on my flesh. They just never let up. They bite and burn without pause. They do not tire.
"Honey, I gotta thank you for this--the picture you make, just the way you are."
Some men smoke, or drink, or climb a mountain, or go fishing. Homer's inmost need is to hurt a girl's tits. He's got both of mine! Oh, damn these ropes around my wrists! I can't move a thing that matters. I lift a chained foot, then put it down again and try the other. Starry-eyed, Homer watches everything I do. I can give him intense pleasure by any movement causing the pins on my nipples to quiver or bob. Provoking the agony I can do nothing to stem, I deliberately do this and am rewarded by his quick indrawn breath. Homer is missing nothing.
"Just a sweet little preliminary, Patsy. I sure am enjoying this."
"I wish I was."
"Well, it's not forever, honey. I'll make it up to you some way."
"You're only just starting on me--you said so."
"Well, yes, that's so, but you know what I mean."
"I know I'm hurting."
"You'll handle it okay. Now, honey, I've sort of got this particular tie out of my system. I sure wanted to do it, but now it's time to move on. There's so many things I want you to try out."
Homer lets my hands down. He unties me. They rise instantly to my breasts.
"No! Don't touch 'em. They're coming up with some good effects as you move."
I bet they are! It's the hardest thing I've ever done to keep my hands down as I am led to one of Homer's treasures. We stand and look--a sort of T affair, but its vertical is broken by metal rod and strips. I can pick up clues, and the damn thing's just my size. When I'm backed up and my arms stretched out along the crosspiece, Homer straps them tight. There is a wide strap for my tummy. I can't move above my hips.
"This is for the more serious stuff, Patsy. Now watch this!" Homer is turning a handle in back somewhere. I can't really watch anything. But I am suddenly aware of tension. My hands and arms are hinged at my shoulders, and they're moving slowly back. Oh, shit, this is it with a vengeance.
"Quite something, eh, Patsy? Look at the way your breasts come forward as your arms go back."
I'm looking! The clothespins are far out and quivering. At least I don't have to worry about touching them now. I can't touch anything. Homer takes them off, and I gasp in pure anguish.
"Give 'em a rest while I'm getting you adjusted."
The pins are gone but my nipples burn. I long to touch them. But I am now concerned with Homer's adjustment of myself. This thing he's got me strapped to has versatility. He is bending and bowing me so my poor breasts are simply imploring attention. When he stops his cranking, I can't move either of them a fraction of an inch.
"What you think, Patsy? Good, eh?"
"I can't move. Is that good?"
"You bet it is. And there's a surprise."
I don't ask. I'd rather not know. Dolefully, I watch my amiable torturer wheel up a tray. On it is every kind of clip ever invented, including the silver ones joined by a chain.
"There! What do you think of that?" Homer is pleased as punch.
"They're horrible. Put them where I can't see them."
He actually does. The guy's a strange mixture. But he knows I'm not likely to forget what I've seen. He returns with two gaily colored things of twisted plastic covering spring. "Executive paper clips," he exults proudly. "Use 'em in offices. Just watch." I obediently watch the executive paper clips adjusted on my nipples. I am detached. I cannot influence my breasts or nipples. Homer can do what he likes with them, they're sticking out all ready. When the jaws close fully on my flesh, I pay the tribute of a moan. I can't keep quiet, I simply can't. The pain is bitter.
"A bit more severe than the others, Patsy?"
"Yes, oh yes!"
Homer enjoys his two new toys for a minute or so before telling me, "I'm going to leave you alone awhile with these, Patsy. You can sort of savor them. Tell me about it when I come back."
"No!" The negative pops out of me like an explosion. "Oh, Homer, don't leave me like this. I can't bear being alone with these things biting at me."
"New experience, sweetheart. I'll want to hear about it." Homer has gone. I stare in horror at the closed door. I look down in even greater horror at the beastly things on the tips of my breasts. I could almost swear they are small living things feeding on my nipples. The pain is hateful.
I suspect Homer is well aware of the subtle cruelty of leaving me alone like this. He'll know I'll be wondering if it's for a couple of minutes or all day. He knows I'll be frightened because I can't move, and if something goes wrong with my breasts, he won't be here to look after it. I don't know what could go more wrong than the way they are now but the fear is still there. Or suppose the agony makes me hysterical--he won't even know.
I take a grip on myself. I'm simply a naked girl tied to a post, and a mischievous boy has clipped spring things on my nipples and gone away. That's all it is, that's all! I discover I am crying. If no one is watching, I might as well. Soon I am sobbing and my cheeks are wet. But the pain on my nipples goes steadily on and on. I can't cope with it. I sob distractedly and cannot dry my tears. I am still sobbing in the grip of this paroxysm of desuetude when Homer comes back in.
"Patsy girl, what the devil--!"
Homer actually has a clean handkerchief. While he dabs at me, I sob, "They hurt so much--and you went away."
"You mean the clips hurt you more when I'm not around?"
"Horribly!"
"But that's not possible, sweetheart."
"Yes, it is. I ought to know--it's me that's hurting. Homer, take them off. Please take them off."
"You know I can't be doing that all the time."
"Just give me a break--please!"
"You know better than to ask, kiddo."
His tone has hardened. I must ease up. He's right. If he unclips me every time I ask, he just as well not bother at all. I nod dejectedly and give a damp sniff. Abjectly, I tell him I'm sorry.
"Ever hear of a counter irritant, Patsy?"
"Yes. I don't want one. I'm hurting enough."
"Might be good for you, right about now. Told you I'd got a surprise. I invented this thing myself."
What's the use! I keep quiet while Homer does some more cranking. The metal contraption down below pushes a pad into the front of my crotch squarely on my pussy. Homer gives me a couple more turns, then takes the band from around my tummy. It's not needed now. The small of my back is pushed hard, back and up, against this post to which I'm strapped. There's a bit of a pad to ease my backbone.
"Mustn't push you out too far, Patsy. Don't want to break your spine."
Homer thinks he's being jocular, but it's all too real for me. Miserably, I grasp the point of what's being done. It's simple --my bottom is being pushed out and out behind. The pressure is irresistible. Now I can't move a thing there either. My legs are the only part of me not held rigid. When I moan against the thrust, Homer stops and does his circle tour. "You're beautifully fastened, Patsy."
"What you've just done--it makes my arms worse."
"It's a sort of ensemble. Marvelous curves. That harness you wore at the ranch gave me the idea--protrudes your ass. Them little pink cheeks is tight as a drum. Cane should hurt real good."
"Not that as well. Ohhhh, Homer--please!"
I can't see my bottom, but it must be sticking up like a sore thumb. The pressure is tight. I can't move a thing down there any more than up above. Two parts of me are now exquisitely postured for punishment. Homer's going to cane my bottom to take my mind off my tits. Jeepers!
"How's it affect your pussy, Patsy?"
I'd never have mentioned it. I'd just as soon Homer didn't know. But this thrusting pad--wow! If he canes me like this, I'll pop. I tell him so frankly.
Homer's intrigued. He would be! It's something female and all his. "I'm going to cane your ass anyway," he assures me. "But I want your nipples to look dressy while I'm doing it. Here, I'll take these off."
Two more gasps. Another intense longing for my hands. Now he shows up with the silver chain ensemble. If my nipples could scream, they would as bitter pain engulfs them once more. I sure do hope the novelty of this wears off for Homer after awhile so my rosebuds can get some rest. I look down at the silver chain looping from one of my nipples to the other. It's erotic as hell. Oh, damn!
"I'd never have thought of caning your ass, Patsy, if it hadn't been for the Big T. That girl did a job on you I won't forget."
"Please don't cane me. I'm--I'm sorry if I make a fuss about my nipples. I'm trying not to but they hurt so bad. Caning my bottom won't help."
"Might surprise you, honey. Wait til I show you."
Oh, gosh, it's a terrible thing--thin and long and limber, and it's been sized and polished. Oh, jeepers! I dare not plead. I'm sure it wouldn't be a good idea to beef. But the two punishments at one time--my breasts and my bottom! I know I won't die, but it's so wickedly unfair. Homer is feeling the tight contours of my derriere with anticipatory delight. This is going to hurt like hell.
It does! He cuts it square across the first time. My bottom does not move, but my feet beat an anguished tattoo as I explode in orgasm, an orgasm which wracks and tears at me in my body's immobility. I'm supposed to writhe, to bend and bow with the cyclone of my senses, but the straps and the pad hold me. The chain joining my breasts shows tremors and vibrations. The other chain between my feet clashes in metallic sympathy. A terribly cry wails from my lips, but I cannot tell to which of my agonies it pays tribute.
There is a long pause. I don't have much interest in anything except where I hurt. My bonds hold me. I let my head fall forward. I am conscious of Homer making his inspections, but I am absorbed by my pain. It's all I can pay attention to. I start into vivid awareness every time my bottom is slashed. After a long, long time Homer unstraps me and eases my hurt nudity to the floor.
I just lay there. I'm past caring. I have my hands, but it's quite awhile before I realize my nipples are still clamped. Homer sits watching me with total absorption. No matter my condition, it affords him delight. When I sit up and reach for my breasts, he makes no demur.
The beastly clips are locked some way--not a key thing but you have to do something right. What I am doing hurts me more. But surely I can find the trick. It's just in knowing how. My nipples hate me as I experiment.
"How'd it be, honey, you wear 'em if you can't get 'em off?"
I spare my master only a brief glance to tell him I've heard his threat. I'm in a real panic. If I can't figure the damn things out, my nipples could stay clipped for hours and hours. I have visions of my breasts being chained all night. That would amuse Homer. Oh, damn!
"Hear tell you can just pull 'em right off, honey--one quick tug."
They can stay on me forever before I'll do that. I'm not a bit sure they'd come off that way anyway. I'd more likely tear my nipples. I keep right on looking down and fingering. Suddenly, a clip falls away, then the other. I no longer care about the pain of parting. I gasp in ecstasy and clutch my breasts as though hiding them from view. It is so marvelously wonderful to have hands again. Homer looks and looks. He cannot get enough of me. He is entranced. Meeting his regard, I mutter, "Thank you--oh, thank you." I don't know what I thank him for.
"You done real good, kiddo. You sure do make a guy happy. It ain't going to be this rough every day, y'know."
"I'd be so grateful."
"So you shall be. Get your smile back. I'll let you nurse them tender tits awhile. But what say we knock up something for supper?"
I'll agree to anything that doesn't hurt. I am coming back to life and the thought of coffee is good. I massage my hurt breasts steadily. He's liable to take my hands away from me anytime.
"C'mon, kiddo, you can help."
Homer pulls me erect. He does not mention rope. I clink beside him to the kitchen and am there employed. "Good you have your hands sometime, Patsy. Makes it worse when I tie 'em again."
That's Homer. I can't even be sure he intends to sound mean. He makes himself hard to love, but we manage a pleasant enough camaraderie as we work. My feet are safely chained, so he doesn't have to worry. It's annoying how, when you work with someone, they become human. Maybe Homer's trouble is he's made a lot of money and figures girls have to expect a bit of pain. So what the hell! He worships me! Not as a person, but as a girl. He's worshipping me now as we work, I can feel it. It's more than sex, and a girl's always grateful for being worshipped. We've made some real tasty dishes, and I've had two cups of coffee. I feel a lot better. But now it happens.
"Times up, Patsy gal.".
I am too depleted to demur. I turn and cross my wrists.
"Got us some new kind of cord, kiddo. Let's try it out."
The new cord is vintage Homer--it hurts. There's no use protesting the inconsistency of binding my hands just when I need them most. I've realized Homer adores feeding me. It accentuates my helplessness and dependence on the male. I have to sit close beside him to be fed. This whole deal is for the birds. I have to wonder why, with all this erotic stimuli, I don't get raped.
My offer to help with the dishes is refused. It's too much trouble to untie me and then tie me again. I sit in sad impotence while my master works. One thing about Homer Wyant --he's always chatty.
"No more punishments today, sugar."
This perks me up. I'd expected something. I give him another of my thank yous.
"Sweetheart, you and me got lots of time. Apart from them tits of yours, there's a whole slough of things in that room to try out. I sure am glad I got you."
"I'd be a lot happier if I knew how long I'm going to be your prisoner. You do want me to be happy, don't you?"
"Sure, I do. Won't always be easy, but there will always be good times in between."
He means in between his hurting me. This has to be nuts about being happy, but I've sensed his longing. He'd have hurt me more today if he hadn't been scared of taking me over the edge, rtf get more out of this big lug by being his sweet little obedient captive girl than I ever will by fighting. Humbly, I repeat my question: "How long will you keep me, Homer?"
"Don't know--maybe for life. Shut up about it."
That's that. I've been put in my place. I guess there will always be the iron fist in the velvet glove. My thoughts flit to poor Effie. By now she'll be frantic, tugging at her chain and using bobby pins on the padlock. Burdock won't find her until tomorrow or the next day. I long to tell Homer the problem, but he'd go scoop up Effie and she'd be right here with me with her hands tied behind her back and with sore nipples.
We watch TV. Yeah, it's crazy. Domestic as hell--like we're Mr. and Mrs. Wyant. I have to sit on the floor and recline against his knee. Homer plays with my hair while we watch Dallas. When he figures it's bedtime, he carries me up and dumps me on the same bed in the same room I'd woke up in. I am easily disposed of. He unlocks one of my anklets, passes it around the bedrail at the bottom of the bed, then locks it on my ankle again.
"There you are, honey--nice and easy, nice and safe."
"What about my hands?"
"Stay as they are, of course. What you need hands for?"
Why indeed! How silly can I be! But after Homer has given me an awkward kiss and departed, I discover a bleak choice: I can lay on my bound arms or on my punished nipples. I never even consider the idea of freeing my hands. I know damn well I can't. Awkwardly, I sit up to examine my feet. I can't even get them on the floor.
I'm foxed but good!
Striving for comfort, I compute chances. Homer can't spend every day with me, not like today. He's up to his neck in business--Burdock told me so. Could he get tired of the bother I cause and let me go? But I suddenly remember the barred area in the basement. He could keep me down there forever without any trouble at all. I don't seem to have any future at all.
I'm Homer's plaything.
CHAPTER SEVEN - NAUGHTY NIPPLES
"The way I figure it, Patsy Gal, is any guy can get a piece o' tail most anytime." Homer beams at me. "But it takes a bit of time and ingenuity to think up something new. Gals must get tired of being screwed the same old way all the time. " I try and look politely interested. It would appear I am close to rape. Standing, feet chained and hands tied in back, I look around the workroom and see no sign of a bed.
"Would you like me to lay on the floor?" I ask helpfully. "Hell no. You and me are going to do better than that, sweetheart. What's more is I'm a believer in doing it first thing while we're fresh. What you say?"
"Yes, of course. I do belong to you, y'know."
"You ain't being sarcastic, are you, kiddo?"
"No, honest. I'm completely available to you--that's all I was trying to say."
"Good. Now the door's locked, Patsy, and I aim to untie you. No shenanigans, huh?"
"I'll do what I'm told, Homer."
Breakfast is done. He has brought me to this room for my day of pain. But first comes his pleasure. I am not sure of sharing it. Once more I get the use of my hands and feet. I stand nude and free. I'd be out of my mind to fight this huge man. I await instruction. .
"First off, we put these on you, Patsy. You can put 'em on your ankles--good and tight, mind! I'll help with your wrists."
Soft wide leather wristlets and anklets--I buckle my ankles as tight as I can, then hold out my hands. Soon, my wrists are circled with bands of their own. Each band boasts a ring.
"Now we back you up against the wall, honey, like this."
I begin to pick up clues. There are double straps and buckles with a snap for each ring. I have to lift my hands breast high. Homer scoops my feet from under me and snaps them to two stanchions set wide apart in the floor. He pulls straps and buckles to his liking.
"Isn't that a dowser, kiddo?"
I am sure it is, but I'm gasping in shock. I am suspended and spread in four directions, my feet obscenely far apart. The straps tightened on my wrists lift my head and torso above the level of my loins. I can see how convenient I am for coupling. I am a floating sexual convenience.
"Now that ain't all, Patsy gal. Wouldn't be complete without these here." Homer holds up a pair of wooden clothespins. "Got extra strong springs, these have. Let's try 'em on for size."
I could moan and scream and beat my fists--if I was able! He's so damn pleased with himself and with me. He stands close beside my tractioned nakedness and clips a pin on each of my nipples with a deft and delicate surety. Between the tenderness left over from yesterday and the extra strong springs, I can't help but moan. The pain is beastly.
"Atta girl. Them little tricks are going to bounce around on your tits real pretty while you're fucked. Won't take me long."
"Homer, please!"
"What?"
"Never mind. I'm sorry."
"You really are a good kid. Can you see them pins on your tits okay?"
"Yes, I can see them."
I am bottling up screams, hoping the pain will ease a bit as my nipples resign themselves. This is awful. Isn't this the way they stretched girls on the rack? Oh, golly, my breasts burn something fierce!
"See here, honey, what do you think of this!"
It points at me like a gun. I am perfectly postured for it. I tell him things are always bigger from Texas, but he isn't a bit bigger than Burdock. That doesn't mean that he isn't big, though.
It's so simple. Huge pointing cock in hand, my rapist advances between my widespread legs. My pussy must be wide open for him and at the right level. Homer impales my sheath, then grasps my hips to draw up close. He thrusts. The pins on my nipples bounce. He thrusts again. He is far inside me, but he thrusts to see the clips quiver on my tits. I provide Homer Wyant with double delights. I suppose the figure should be three! He thrusts into me hard to get the impacts by which my breasts will bounce and their adornments respond in seeming joy. Homer is very happy.
My workday has begun.
If I was being mean to a captive girl, I'd keep her off balance with things she doesn't expect. It would be amusing to watch her face. So I can understand Homer doing it to me. Looking down stupidly at the stocks, I exclaim, "You want me to sit on the bench and put my feet in those holes!"
"Sure do, kiddo. Guaranteed painless."
Homer has got me so I don't know which end is up. I've just finished the hour I had to stay suspend and stretched after being fucked. The pins are still on my nipples, but I've been told not to touch them. My hands and feet are absolutely free, but my feet won't be free for long. The stocks have an air of invitation I can't ignore. Homer's hand is on my arm. It guides me down upon the bench. Gingerly, I place my ankles where indicated. The bar is lowered on them. They are secured tight and snug. There is a padlock.
I must look absolutely pathetic, sitting here with my feet out and well apart, resting some of my weight on my hands. This bench is hard and I may not have my hands much longer. Homer is unpredictable about hands. But foremost in my consciousness are these pert and bouncy pins biting my nipples.
"Nice easy day for you, Patsy."
"Yesssss--thank you."
"Something on your mind, kid?"
I wail my plaint: "You know what's on my mind! The pins on my nipples hurt so damn bad, and they've been on so long!"
"Prettiest sight I ever did see, Patsy."
"Yes." I shift uncomfortably and try to think of something to add.
"Tell you what--let's make it a sporting proposition. Take 'em off. Go ahead, take 'em off."
I take the pins from my nipples, moaning with the pain of each, cupping my poor hurt breasts with tender hands. Homer watches avidly. I look up at him without much hope. These things my feet are in seem too good to be true.
"So what we'll do is give you a choice," Homer says expansively. "You just sit there nice and comfy. I'll drop in once in awhile. When I do, I'll expect to see those pins well places on your nips. If they're not, you'll wear 'em a long, long time, and get whipped to boot."
I stare up at his smile askance. "But--but I'd have to wear them all the time or you'd catch me."
"Guarantee I won't come more than once an hour. You should be able to hear me opening the door. Nice long rest periods."
"But I've no way of telling time."
"You sure do beef a lot, honey." Homer contrives to look aggrieved. "How'd it be I tie your hands and put the pins back on right now?"
"No!" I explode with concern. "No, please don't do that. I'll--I'll try and play it the way you want it."
"That's my girl." Homer stoops and kisses me. It's as though he really cares. "Be seeing you." He purposely makes a lot of noise with the door from the other side.
I sit alone.
In my hand are two wooden clothespins. I feel like throwing them far out of my reach and thus ending the suspense. Instead, I place them beside me on the bench. This is a really mean one Homer's thought up. I don't think I can possibly win. That means my nipples get clipped again and I get whipped as well. A real fun day!
If there's a streak of meanness in what he's doing to me now, it probably stems from Homer having had what Grandma would have called "his way with me." Some men are like that. Having got what they want, they can't be mean enough. I wouldn't have picked Homer for one of them, but here I sit and beside me are the pins.
I contort and stretch and manage to touch the wood beside my prisoned ankle. It does me no good except to emphasize the skillful fashioning of this thing I'm locked in. It holds my legs way out so as to display my crotch and pubic hair to anyone interested, but this means my ankle enters its slot at an angle. That's been figured too. The two orifices in which I am secured have been cut and finished to accept a girl's ankle off center. They slant. It's scary to think Homer's spent all this money to keep me around, or to punish me, or whatever. Damn, I wish Burdock would walk through that door right now!
Burdock will find me, I'm certain he will. But he's got no clues except his knowledge of Homer Wyant. To connect Homer with this house may take time. I can imagine a detective shadowing Homer's regular home, waiting and waiting. It would not be so bad if I was just a prisoner, but I'm a tortured prisoner. I must not use that word of Homer but it's true.
These stocks are going to be worse than I thought. My feet are so stretched out, and the only relief I can get for my bare bottom on the hardwood is to use my hands to lift my weight. But then it goes right back down on the same place. I don't suppose that pillory over by the wall would be any better either. Oh, damn and double damn!
I bet girls play with themselves a lot, locked in these things. There's nothing else to do. I don't feel like it after what's already been done to me, but if I'm here long enough--! What bothers me most, apart from the pins, is if he ties my hands behind my back. To sit here like that would be pure misery.
If only I could lay back, or forward, or anything. But I can't. I'm sitting the only possibly way my captive feet will allow. Gosh, I hope Homer doesn't get playful and tickle my soles. I could go plumb nuts.
I've picked up the clothespins. That means I'm getting anxious about time. I am also anxious about my ability to clip myself. To lift one of the hateful things and adjust it on my nipple and then let go--wow! I mean, it's against nature. I know I ought to practice so I can do it quick when I hear him. But all that pain--and for nothing. I could easily clip myself half a dozen times and still miss the right one. But that's the name of Homer's game. I bet he's laughing right now.
I can't win. I'm holding a clip at the ready, and it's been halfway to my rosebud several times before I realize the noise I thought I heard wasn't Homer. But any delay between me and punishment has to be good, so I'd best play this rotten game for all it's worth. Maybe I can gain two or three hours without hurting.
Oh, damn! I've got both the beastly things on and they're hurting like crazy. Maybe I haven't got them clipped on my nipples properly, but there's no time to play around. I sit, tense and listening. I'm sure I heard the door. Glory, glory, I was right. Homer walks in, beaming. His eyes focus instantly on my breasts.
"Well, well, honeybunch, you've won the first round." He is suddenly anxious. "Say, you haven't been wearing them all the time, have you?"
"No, honest. I've just put them on me when I heard the door. Oh, Homer, they're hurting something awful."
"Your tits are going to have to get used to them, Patsy gal. You know it's one of the reasons I've got you."
"Yes, I know," I admit dejectedly. "How long were you gone this time?"
"Little more than an hour. Take 'em off, honey, you won the round."
Two gasps and then the nursing of breasts. Curious, I ask, "Do you like having me sit in this thing? Do you get a charge out of it?"
"Do I ever!" There can be no doubting Homer's sincerity.
"I sure do wish you could see yourself--pretty as a picture."
"From the Middle Ages. I feel so silly." I'm working for the right tone. "You've seen me naked lots, Homer, but if someone else walked in and saw me with my crotch wide open, I'd just die."
"Want me to get someone? Be a thrill for you, kiddo."
"No, but thanks just the same. What happens now?"
"How about a drink?"
"What--this early in the day?"
"Coffee, kiddo, not booze."
"Thank you, that would be nice."
, I hug myself when he has gone. This is all time when I don't really hurt. This leg stretch in these stocks doesn't count. I am captive to the strangest man--strange because he's an overgrown boy. I bet Homer grew up on a farm. His obsession with female nipples probably comes from never having seen any the first half of his life.
The coffee is good. Homer does things right--all the way from coffee to kidnapping. He places a stool where he gets a good view of my cunt and sits down. We sort of glow at each other. I am careful not to spoil his vista of my tits. If I can keep this man happy without hurting, I'd best do so. I've got so used to my most private places being stared at it no longer matters.
"How'd it be if I took you to Texas, honey?"
I tense. My mind floods with a hundred negatives. But I have to be careful. Homer may be looking at my cunt but he's alert. I shrug. "You own me, don't you? You can take me anywhere." I motion to my prisoned feet. "I can't argue."
"Sure, sure, but do you want to go?"
"Not really."
"We're both Americans. We're foreigners in this asshole place."
"I've got a stake here."
"Think you'll get to see it again?"
His voice is casual, but he's playing with my life. I look to where my ankles are clasped in wood. I gaze down at my pubic hair so blatantly displayed. I don't have my life; Homer possesses me. I think of Burdock and Effie and my wonderful house, and I feel desolate. "I can ask you not to take me to Texas, but you'd take me anyway. For what you do to me, is there any difference between the two places?"
"Sure is, honey." Homer is enthused. "Along with the oil wells, I got me a tool plant, a hotel, and as a fine a ranch as you'd look for anyplace. I'd love to see you tied to my corral."
"Burdock tied me to a corral rail at the Big T. I expect he'd have let you tie me too, if you'd asked."
"Huh, that Burdock--you're sweet on him."
"So?"
Homer waves and becomes businesslike. "Honey, everything else apart, there's one damn good reason to get out of Canada: Up here they have the damnedest winter you ever did see. Even with the furnace on full blast you'd be shivering, just the way I've got you fixed now." His jaw sets. "Ain't no way you're ever getting to wear clothes again. So we'd best head for Texas before the snow."
"Couldn't you amuse yourself with me until that time, then let me loose?"
"Honey, you ain't never going to get loose." Homer collects the cups and departs, slamming the door. I look at my captive feet. I am sure he's right.
I muse on the subject of lost freedom. I'll never get away from Homer, not ever. He can keep me helpless with much ease. If he gets me down to Texas, I'll vanish completely. Burdock will never find me. I feel the knot tightening in my tummy. I tug angrily at my feet. They do not move.
What happens is inevitable. I cry and sob my way through a patch of desolation. I make useless plans and hope useless hopes. I consider playing with myself but pass it up. I forget time. Out of nowhere comes Homer's voice. He has been craftily quiet.
"How you doin', honey?"
My hand flies to the pins, but is arrested by his chuckle. Chagrined, I face up to his smile. "I'm--I'm sorry. I was daydreaming. It gets so lonely."
"Well, you got by a couple of hours, sweetheart."
"Yes."
"Not much to say, eh?"
"No, I guess not," I say wearily. "I've lost a bet. Do you collect now?"
"Might as well."
I cross my wrists behind my back. I feel the bite of Homer's special cord. I want to cry but have cried myself dry. Soon the pain will start.
"Glad you ain't complainin', honey. Thought you might. But you're good stuff. Fall in love with you first thing I know."
In spite of his love he ties a savage knot. My wrists are clamped. I won't even try to free them. Homer places a forearm under my chin from behind and pulls me back. My breasts rear. Carefully, he adjusts a clothespin on each of my nipples and lets them close their jaws. Holding me thus, he can feel my wince each time. He goes back to his chair with a view.
"Don't mind if I sit a spell? You're making mighty pretty scenery right now, sugar."
"Of course I don't mind. I want you to stay. It's terrible to sit here all alone. Now I've lost the game it's going to be worse." I look down at the perky pins on my equally perky nipples. "I'm glad you're enjoying what you see."
Homer's voice tells me he is very happy. It is faintly serious. "I am enjoying you. It means the world to me to see those little things on your tits. Patsy gal, I want you to consider that there million bucks. Never came to nothing, but it was an honest offer. I was willing to pay a million dollars to have you just the way I have you now. " My breasts burn and burn. But I must not let them stop this talk. I most desperately don't want to be alone. I fix my mind on what he's said. For me, his million was always abstract. But it was there. It was real. I am humbled by realizing how many girls would consent to having their nipples clipped in various ways for a week .or so in return for such a sum. I think back. There was once a girl named Patsy Pendleton who might have considered such a sacrifice for such a price. But, of course, in Homer's game--or Burdock's--it is not the girl who gets the cash; she just provides the tits. I wriggle mine just enough to make the wooden pegs vibrate and give Homer pleasure. Then I ask the obvious.
"But you could have got a girl with nice nipples anyplace for a lot less than that--why me?"
"Who the hell knows, Patsy?" His disgust is feigned. "That's a man for you. We'll do it every time. It has to be you."
I look down sadly at his two reasons for wanting me. They seem, annoyingly, pleased with themselves. Perhaps, in the mysteries of human chemistry, it is I who feel their pain. They are obviously responding to erotic excitation as does a male cock.
"Mind you, Patsy, I don't want you to think it's just your tits alone. Now that there little ass of yours--" I groan inwardly. I'd forgotten. I have to be whipped as well as sit like this, and it's those five welts he gave me yesterday that's making this bend so rough. Homer sees the fleeting expressions of dismay cross my features.
"Bet you'd forgotten. Shouldn't have reminded you til the time came."
"It doesn't matter, Homer, it will hurt about the same."
"Give you another choice, honeybunch. Want it on your back or on your ass?"
"I'd prefer it on my seat, if I don't have to sit in this thing afterwards."
"Hard on the rump?"
"I don't think you've any idea about how any of this hurts. Yes, if you lave me tied like this, it's going to get worse and worse."
"You're feeling sorry for yourself, kiddo, that's all."
I sure am! I long to ask for how long I must suffer like this. But I know he won't tell me, and he may get mad. I change the question: "When will you give me my other penalty--my whipping?"
"Resigned to it, eh? Damn it, gal, you sure do look sweet. Oh yeah, the caning of your ass--I'll get to it before bedtime." He hasn't told me a thing, and it doesn't matter. Homer kisses me goodbye again. And he's improving. He ambles off, leaving the door wide open. Why shouldn't he? I'm safe.
Now is the real beginning. I have to live with three parts of myself which all hurt. They expect help. But I can't give them any. My hands are tied. Idly, I wonder about the common expressions. If you are busy, you're "tied up." If you're under a prohibition, your "hands are tied." Sometime long ago they must have used a lot of rope.
I consider screaming. With the door open, he's bound to hear me. But he'll bring the gag and strap it over my mouth. I'm strapped and tied and stocked enough already. I sit morosely and wait for the hours to pass. The clothespins bite me joyfully. I could swear they are endowed with life. They are one more reason for not struggling against the cords on my wrists. When I do, they bite my nipples with an even greater ferocity. In loneliness I make small moaning sounds as I breathe.
I have been resigned to hours and hours of this, perhaps all day. But I was forgetting Homer's absorption with me and my nipples. When I am lonely, he is lonely too. There's a phone, but there's no way this little suburban place can keep him amused. He got it for me, so he has to use me. It's not much more than an hour before he returns.
"How's that little ass, sweetheart?"
I am startled. Despite pain, I sit erect. The pins quiver on my breasts. Homer's eyes glow. My reply is pathetic: "It's hurting, but it's supposed to hurt, isn't it?"
"And them lovely tits?"
"They hurt too."
"That's what I figured," Homer says expansively. "How'd you like a break?"
"I'd like it a lot if it didn't hurt."
"Now don't quibble, honeybunch. I'm figuring on a bit of pleasure for you too."
Talk is rhetoric. He'll do what he wants with me anyway. I use soft soap. "Thank you, Homer, I'd love a change."
It shows how deep I'm into this when I feel guilty when free. I've stiffened up in the stocks and with bound hands, so I stand nakedly and rubbing rope marks and looking down at the stocks which no longer grip my captive feet. I'm sure I don't look my best. I have to remind myself to square my shoulders to protrude my tits and their bobbing clothespins. I want Homer to be happy.
"Ready for the cane, sweetheart?"
"Yes."
"Sounds lukewarm, Patsy."
"Well, if I have to sit in the stocks again, I'd sooner get my back whipped."
"It's the cane for you, sugar. No more stocks today."
I am led to a horizontal bar. I bend over it and touch my toes. Homer ties each of my wrists to an ankle. It is simple and efficient. My bottom rears. If I bend my knees or struggle, then the bar cuts into my tummy. It's another of those deals where I have to stand still. Looking from upside down, I behold Homer fondling the shining cane he used on me yesterday. I long to get rid of the clothespins. What girl wants to be clipped and whipped at the same time? But I dare not ask. No female was ever more vulnerable than I am now.
"Want to know how many, sweetheart?"
"Yes, if you don't mind."
"What do you say to thirty?"
I bet he sees me cringe. Sadly, I mutter, "It seems like an awful lot."
"If I said ten, that would seem a lot too?"
"Yes, I guess so. Don't pay any attention to me."
"That's my girl! Want the gag?"
"Yes, please."
My cheeks are filled, my lips compressed. Homer buckles me tight. I am now ready for my bottom to be caned. Thirty strokes--holy cow!
"You lost out in a game, Patsy. Remember?"
I nod. The cane cuts me from hip to hip. My head rears in agony, the pins go crazy. Strange protesting sounds come from behind the soft leather so tight across my lips. I hear Homer breathing heavily. He fingers my pussy as though surprised to see it sticking out back with my bottom. He lashes me again.
I have not had thirty strokes, but I am being freed. At the tenth stroke Homer took the pins from my tits. At twenty he must have decided I'd had enough. My mind is hazy, flirting with darkness. The pain has torn me apart. Receiving the gift of my hands, I feel my ass. It is ridged and puffed. Homer is ashamed.
"Kiddo, I'm sorry. I didn't think thirty--" I nod. I try to smile. I rub my bottom most tenderly. It has never been hurt this bad before. I am crying.
"What you need is a cup of coffee, sweetheart. " I am carried to the kitchen. I don't want to sit, so I stand and watch Homer fuss. I don't offer to help; I am too dispirited. My free hands soothe my wounded derriere without cessation. Returning strength prompts me to say, "I suppose you know I'm entirely free? I'm not tied or chained."
"Stay that way awhile. But nice of you to remind me."
He knows I'm beat. He pours the coffee. "Sit down, Patsy gal."
"I'd rather stand."
"Sit down!"
I sit. Homer enjoys my pain, evidenced by one wince and then another. My ass will simply have to put up with the distress. If Homer wants me sitting, I'll sit. I gulp coffee as though it is the elixir of life.
"That there gag was a mistake, Patsy. Let a girl scream-- you know where she's at."
He's right again. I sure would have screamed. He'd have known. In a pale, thin voice I say, "Please don't hurt me this bad anymore. Make me last. If you're going to keep me always, you won't want me to die, or be crippled, or get sick." Homer makes a tremendous fuss. He's really concerned. He's miffed with himself because he went too far. He makes toast. He finds ham and cheese and pickles. We feast. I am soon back to normal. So is Homer. He is looking at my nipples hungrily.
"Sugar, about them tits of yours--"
"Yes, Homer?"
"They're why you're here, y'know."
"I know."
"Look, if I don't hurt you bad in other ways, can you sort of put up with having them clothes-pinned. I do dearly love--"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Well, not really." He is gazing at me owlishly. "But if I throw away all the rest 'cept what you've just wore and that set with the chain, think you could smile a bit and ask me to use 'em on you?"
I'm staring. What the hell does Homer expect? He adds bait.
"It sure would mean a lot to me, Patsy. Ain't that much interested in whipping you ass."
I'm free. That has to mean something, and Homer's regret about caning my ass is sincere. Like I said, there's a simplicity. I turn my thoughts to my nipples. I'm sure they do mean a lot to him. He'll keep me prisoner on their account. But they mean a lot to me too. Still, I have been hysterical about them. They're such a feminine intimate part of my breasts. Have I over-stressed the agony? Getting my ass caned a little while ago makes whatever my nipples have had to put up with seem trivial. If I had to choose between getting my bottom caned again or getting the clothespins on my tits, I'd choose the clothespins every time. And he's got it down to clothespins and the silver chain.
Homer's trying.
"If only you don't hurt me too bad--" My voice falters.
"Just them clips on your tits, honey. Anything else I do to you ain't going to be real pain. What you say?"
I have to say something. Pleasing Homer is what I have to do. My choice becomes simple. I surprise myself with the smile I contrive. "If you're going to keep me prisoner, Homer, I'd like you to use the clothespins and the silver chain to clip my nipples all the time."
There--I've said it! I wouldn't have believed it possible.
"These clothespins with the special strong springs, sugar?"
Good old Homer! Right in there! But he's not asking for anything I haven't managed to bear. I boost my smile. "Of course, master, the clothespins with the special strong spring."
His enthralled sigh almost ruffles my hair.
We prolong lunch. It's not that late. Homer hasn't mentioned rope, and it's so glorious to be free I haven't mentioned it either. But there's something else on Homer's mind. As we do the dishes his query is casual though vulgar. "Enjoy that piece of ass we had this morning?"
"Of course I did!" I know enough of the male ego to lie. "Figured we'd do it again--one of the reasons you ain't tied."
"That will be lovely."
Homer detects no falsity. We saunter back to the workroom, and I ask, "Couldn't we do it on a bed, Homer?"
"Nah, that's kid's stuff. Way we done it this A.M.--it's got everything else beat by a mile."
It hadn't really hurt, so I can't complain. I manage to remain smiling while my wrists and ankles are strapped. Homer is not in such a big hurry this time, so I'm certain I'll be a work of art. When I am spread in suspension, he takes a lot more time with the adjusting straps. I get more taut, my pussy becomes outrageous, and I certainly will have a good view of everything done to me.
"Girl needs to be standing or sitting up for the chain," Homer muses. "Mind if we use the good old clothespins?"
"I don't mind a bit, Homer. Whatever you like."
Girls must be natural liars. Homer believes me. I look down the nude length of my stretched body and admire his cleverness. The way I'm suspended and exposed is remarkable. I have to wonder if any man, other than Homer, has ever entered a woman in circumstances like this. My mind is jerked back to reality by what Homer is holding for my attention."
"Seen these before, sugar?"
"Yes, they're the ones with the extra strong springs." I take a deep breath and add, "Please clip them on my nipples, Homer."
We get used to anything. Yesterday they were unbearable, outrageous, a cruel agony. Today they are a couple of steady burns upon the points of my breasts. It was the cane on my bottom that made the difference. I feel childish and silly. But I had best smarten up. I am about to be fucked.
"If I had to choose between fucking you and putting them pins on your tits, I'd forget the fucking, sugar." Homer beams.
"You're a lucky man; you get to do both."
I make another discovery. It's the same with fucking as with pain. You get used to it. You get interested. You see the other person's point of view. I watch the emergence of Homer's weapon in total unconcern. It has entered me before and I have taken its measure. I can handle it. Even my unconventional positioning prompts a hope of sensual pleasure. I don't see why not.
"Aiming for a little different technique, sweetheart."
Well, maybe. But right now Homer's cock points straight at me--or more correctly, at my slit. It contracts. It enters. It thrusts. I pay my maiden tribute of a moan.
Homer grasps my hips. He thrusts within me as deep as he can. His voice comes as from a distance. "I'm goin' to stand plumb still, honey, and I'm movin' you."
He can do it. In my suspension there is enough slack to enable him to move me back and forth as a sexual convenience. I become a hot, wet sheath lubricating his cock as I move to and fro along its length. The frictioning is tremendous. My first moan becomes a continuous ululation of female ecstasy. I control nothing. I am myself controlled. That which is within me governs my world. The clothespins on my nipples bob back and forth in their own polka of punishment. Homer and I explode.
Slavegirls must not be spoiled. When bedtime comes I do not go up, I go down. I stare at the barred cage in bleak dismay.
"There's blankets and water, honey, and there's a pail." Homer is unfailingly cheerful. "Damn sight better than being chained to a bed."
It's in the point of view. He's chained my feet already, so that's no advantage. When he says he'll tie my hands, I turn and cross my wrists. But he turns me back. "You're going to have to do things, sugar. Cross 'em in front."
I watch them tied. Homer takes time and trouble to do a job on me. When he ties his knot, he seals it with pliers and wire. "You think your teeth will get you free, you just try, honey." Homer propels my reluctant steps through the barred door. I turn to watch myself padlocked safe. There are two padlocks. I really must look woebegone to make Homer apologize. "It ain't as bad as you figure, sugar. You can walk around, lay any way you like. Hell, you oughta be grateful."
"I'll be all alone."
"You was all alone last night." He comes to the bars. "C'mon, gimme a kiss."
It is a royal command. I press my face against the hateful bars and kiss my master dutifully. He says, "See you in the morning, Patsy." Then he goes upstairs.
I survey my kingdom. I walk around. There's room for half a dozen girls, and I wish they were all here. I long most ardently for Effie. She should be rescued by now, but I am not. The chain joining my feet is familiar; it does not bother me. But my hands are something new. They are crossed and beautifully bound. I wonder why Homer takes the trouble. In a little while my teeth will have sawed through a strand and I'll have them free. It amuses me to leave them tied as they are for a few minutes before I start to gnaw.
I might have known! I bet Homer's laughing his head off upstairs. My teeth won't touch whatever it is he's tied me with. I've been chewing for an hour and haven't made a dent. My hands will have to stay tied and I'll do the best I can with them. But it feels so funny. I suppose it's the first time. I'd a lot sooner be handcuffed.
I let my corded hands fall. They convey an impression of trying to cover and protect my pubic hair. I take another walk around my cage, and I remember the animals in the zoo. When it comes to sorting the blankets, I discover that having my wrists crossed and bound this way gives me only one hand to use at a time; the other twists ineffectually against the cords. I crawl into the nest I contrive. We sure do go to bed early in this house.
The floor is hard.
CHAPTER EIGHT - BOUND IN DARKNESS
I've wondered about prison. I expect we all do. The idea we can be put in a cage and kept there under the compulsion of someone else has always seemed bizarre, as though civilization had taken a wrong turn somewhere. The implacability of the bars prisoners clutch and gaze through longingly at freedom-- ugh!
Now I know what it's like.
Homer Wyant is a businessman. I'm surprised he hasn't had to run off before. But he has to now. At the start, it's him looking through the bars at me. "Honey, I just gotta leave you today. There ain't no better place to leave you than right where you are."
"In a cage!"
"Ain't exactly a cage, kiddo. You got lots of room."
"All right then, a big cage. Oh, Homer!"
"I'm damn sorry, sugar. Hadn't figured on leaving you this way. But it ain't forever. Be back around five."
"You're going to leave me here? I won't get out until evening?"
"Give you a rest, sweetheart. Your tits should be grateful. Here, I'm shoving breakfast and lunch through under the door."
I pull the trays inside with a fettered hand. I suppose Homer's right, it will give my nipples a break. But I don't want to be left in a cage all alone. I most desperately don't want to spend all those hours and hours behind these bars. I'd sooner be on the other side of them and have some pain. I tell him so, pleadingly.
"Sooner sit in the stocks, sugar?"
He's got me! There's always something worse. I'm being silly about these bars. I expect they hold a criminal connotation and I'm socially conscious. I shrug it away like I shrug everything else away. I hold out my crossed bound wrists. "What about these, Homer?"
"What about 'em, sugar? Look damn good to me." His eyes twinkle. "No luck with your teeth?"
I sniff disdainfully and shrug off tied hands along with all the rest of my freedoms. I'm trying to think up an effective beef when I get the royal command. "Kiss me goodbye, honeybunch." We kiss through the bars. Homer beams. He waves goodbye as he mounts the stairs. A door slams.
It's the most awful feeling.
I make breakfast last as long as I can. Boy, do I have time! The plastic knife won't touch the cords any more than would my teeth. Oh, shit, I'm foxed every which way. After I've eaten and shoved the tray back outside, I walk up and down testing the bars and the door. The whole thing must have been designed for elephants. I can't get a shiver out of anything. But the chain on my ankles clinks merrily as I make my try. In the maddest of moods I return to my blankets and shed a few tears. There's not even a magazine to read--and I forgot to ask.
Damn, damn, damn!
In the evening, instead of freedom, there is a brief announcement. Homer is still busy and has to leave right now. I will stay where I am. More food is shoved at me. I forget to ask for books again, and Homer forgets to give me any. I'll be alone in this silly house all night and all tomorrow, and I can't get out! This time I cry and cry and cry. I am a sorry little girl. Only my tits are pleased.
"Honey, you done damn good--forty-eight hours." Homer beams through the bars. It is early evening and still light.
"Damn glad I fixed this up for you. How do you like it?"
"Homer, it was forty-eight days, not hours. Please let me out--I don't care what you do to me."
"Well, well, like that, eh? I wouldn't have thought--" When he unlocks the door, I'm in such a hurry to get out I trip on my hobble and sprawl against Homer's pants. I clutch at him with my bound hands and sob. "Don't ever lock me in there alone again--please!"
He riffles my hair with his strange tenderness, then lifts me up and holds me like a child. "Honey, it wasn't ever that bad, and now it's over." He gently pats my wealed bottom. "Here, I'll carry you."
It's wonderful. I lose my cords. My wrists are as ridged as my rump but I do not care. I clink my chained feet as I help to make our supper. Homer is really curious about my imprisonment. I please him with a graphic account of solitary confinement and its traumas. I know damn well he'll put me in there again sometime, but I make it sound very, very bad. Anyway, the clothespins haven't surfaced yet, and as we sip our coffee Homer slips me another casual bomb.
"They got a show at the Big T tonight."
"I don't want to hear about it."
"Figure I should go, sugar. Be real innocent about you. Act like I'm shocked when Burdock tells me you're missing. Might seem suspicious if I stay away."
"Oh, sure, I know, but please don't put me back in the cage while you're gone."
"Figured you might like to come along."
There is dead silence before I exclaim, "You're setting me free! Taking me back to the Big T!"
"Never said that, sweetheart. Just aim to take you along for the ride. Want to come?"
"Yes, oh yes! But how--"
"Never you mind." Homer's really enjoying my bafflement. You just say you'll come and leave the rest to me."
"Of course I'll come."
I get my ass patted again. I seethe with excitement as we do the dishes. I'm not so dumb I don't know there's a kicker to this, but it will be so good to get out of this lousy house. I am told not to ask questions.
It is very simple. I clink with my pleased owner to the garage. My hands are placed palm to palm behind my back and neatly tied. Then my elbows.
"Got some special soft rope for your elbows this time, Patsy. You ain't being punished, just kept still."
My excitement is holding. I do not complain. His rope sure is soft as it welds my forearms and juts my breasts. This is all too familiar. Suddenly, I am confronted by the gaping maw of the opened trunk of Homer's car. My wail is involuntary: "Noooo, oh nooo! Homer, don't put me in there!"
I am silenced by the gag. It is thrust within my protesting mouth and tightly strapped across my lips. I will have no more to say.
"Sorry, Patsy gal, but there ain't no other way."
He's right again. He can't let me sit in the car with him; he might as well set me free right there. I stand in glum and helpless silence as I am lifted onto a nest of blankets in the trunk. The lovely shackles are taken from my feet.
"Got me a new idea, sweetheart--should be more comfortable."
_ I cannot easily see, but it feels like a block of wood bolted to the floor. There are slots, same as with the stocks. My ankles are fitted inside them and straps come across and are buckled tight. I can't move my feet. I can't move anything. I lay on my bound arms and stare up at my pleased master in dismay. I should have stayed in the cage.
"You sure do look sweet, honey. Them straps for your ankles is the clear rig. Can't move, can you?"
I shake my head. I am desolate. I am even more desolate when I see what Homer holds. I should have guessed!
"While I drive, I'm gonna enjoy thinking of you wearing these, Patsy gal. Give you something to think about too. Now, when I ask the question, I want you to nod for a real good yes."
The idiot--why can't he lay off me awhile! But he laid off me while I was in the cage all that time and I didn't like that either. Oh, damn! My breasts are pointing to the stars.
"Would you like me to clip your tits with these here clothespins, sugar?"
I nod vigorously. I am bitten twice with sudden agony. The lid slams down.
It's dark in here. I am prisoner inside a metal monster alive with power. Its vibrations and bumps are transmitted to the clips on my nipples. They respond joyously. They are sticking straight up, and quiver, as does the car, under the motor's thrust. I try and move but can't. I strive for sounds but the gag laughs. My breasts burn.
I don't think Homer believes he's being cruel. He thinks this is a great big joke which I should enjoy too. But all I want to do is weep. I am going to have an evening of being so near and yet so far away. I may even hear Burdock's voice or Daisy's. But I'll lay here like this, without movement, without a peep. If I ever get to speak again, I'll tell Homer what I think of this lousy visit to the Big T.
All I've got is ears. They tell me when we park. There are indistinct greetings. Doors open and close. There's quite a lot of this as the crowd assembles. They don't know their star attraction is bound inside Homer's trunk. I drive myself crazy trying to make motions or sound. But having my ankles strapped the way they are is a real killer diller. I'm immobilized from there on up. My elbows aren't happy either. But Homer was right about the clothespins giving me something to occupy my mind. They sure do! They work steadily at providing this diversion. I dream of plucking them from my breasts and hurling them into the darkness. It's a lovely dream but they still hurt.
I don't suppose Homer has much interest in the show. He's got me. But I lay, bound and naked, in this damn trunk a hell of a long time before I hear a few goodbyes and slamming doors and revving motors and then, finally, Homer's voice. I tense with hope. If anything happens, it must happen now. But Homer's motor starts, the clothespins quiver, we back and turn for home. Or should I say prison?
My evening's drama waits until we arrive. We are in the garage, and Homer has lifted the lid to grin down at me when the doorbell rings. Homer mutters, "What the hell!" He gently closes the lid on me without a sound; it does not latch.
"What the devil! You follow me back here?" Homer sounds angry.
"Sure did, Wyant." It is Burdock's voice. "Where have you got Patsy?"
Homer's clever--I've got to hand it to him. Under the good ol' boy is steel and a sharp mind. I listen to what I can hear of his snow job with sinking heart. Homer leaves no doubt he would produce Patsy Pendleton if he could.
"Mind if I look around, Homer?"
"I don't take that kindly, Burdock, but go ahead. You'll find traces of girl; I get one over when I've got the time. I can phone her now if you want a bit of fun."
"Never mind."
I can imagine Burdock's forceful entry and Homer's beaming smile. I pick up bits of their journey around the house.
"That's a prison you got downstairs, Wyant."
'"Just a girl cage. I like to see 'em looking through the bars."
"It's for keeping a girl prisoner a long time."
"Have it your way."
Burdock is searching this garage. He is only feet away from me but I'm so damn helpless. The car has just come back from the Big T so is not suspect. I heave and surge my nudity and make a small, pathetic sound through my nostrils.
"What's that?"
"Didn't hear nothin', Burdock. Look, you want to search the garden? You might as well." Homer's voice is heavy with sarcasm. "I might have your gal tied to a tree or in the tool- shed. Don't miss that tool shed."
The smart S.O.B.--he's cleverly diverted Burdock from my only hope. I lay in frustrated misery while I hear Burdock leave and Homer lock the doors. He does not come to me at once. He gives Burdock time. When he lifts the lid his smile is jubilant.
"The son of a bitch--he followed me back. He's as suspicious as hell. Figured he would be but this was close."
I am lifted out. In a preoccupied manner, Homer Wyant takes me to where I can be spread and suspended. He fucks me with a savage vigor to jounce and bounce the things upon my breasts. Still preoccupied with his own thoughts, he takes me to where he sleeps. He frees my elbows and takes the clothespins from my nipples, then shackles my feet to his bed. I lay on the floor. If I move more than twelve inches, I'll have to take his bed along too. I don't even get a blanket and dare not ask for one. What's he mad at me for?
We sleep.
I am not allowed to help with breakfast but I may sit and watch. My hands are still tied behind my back, as they have been all night, and my ankles wear the lovely shackles. By Homer's standards for a prisoner, I am decent. He's not mad at me, he's worried.
"That snooping bastard!" Homer growls indignantly. "I gotta get you out of here, Patsy gal. This place ain't safe no longer."
"But you knew Burdock would suspect you."
"Didn't figure on being followed home. Damn, that wasn't smart."
"I'd think you'd be pleased. He's searched and hasn't found me. Why would he search again?"
"Them bars downstairs, they got him curious. I ain't sure he bought my story."
"If Burdock was coming back, he'd have been here by now."
"Sure, sure, kiddo--do a snow job on me so you'll be right here for him to find anytime."
"So, all right, I want my freedom! Can you blame me? Look, Homer, why not set me free? You've got a lot of mileage out of Patsy Pendleton. From now on she'll only be a damn nuisance." I take a deep breath. "Let me loose. Burdock and I won't say a word. How can we? We're all in this together."
Homer slows down the burners and turns to me like a battleship with all guns pointing. What he has to say is almost a confession. "Sugar, I'm goin' to tell you something--if I don't get you, nobody gets you. For sure not that smart-ass you're in love with."
"Homer, don't be mad. I don't hate you. In some ways you're kind."
"I'm goin' to show you a little something I've figured out. You know I love them tits of yours, right?"
"Yes, I know."
"Everyone else loves 'em too. Now you sit right still." Considering how he's got me fixed, there's not much else I can do. I am sitting in a kitchen chair. I look up at Homer with all the girlish appeal I can muster. He's showing me some thin thread stuff he's tugging to show me how strong it is.
"Surgical thread, honeybunch. Damn good stuff."
He's playing with my nipples, so I can guess what he's going to do. As my tits get hard and swell, I wonder how it's going to hurt. It will hurt bad. I'm not going to like this. I watch him make the first loop of thread and slip it over my rampant nipple to its base where it joins my breast. Slowly, Homer Wyant pulls the two ends to noose my cherished rosebud, then keeps right on pulling until my engorged nipple swells up fit to burst. I squeal in pain and dismay. Homer knots his work tight and clips the ends off short. I look down at the cruel constriction. The thread is buried deep into me. My nipple's base has become only the tiniest link with my breast.
"Cute, eh? Now hold still for the other."
I am not yet in agony. I watch the repeat performance. When Homer unties my hands, I am at a loss. I know there's more.
"Okay, get it off--free your tits. Use a knife--anything." Homer turns the jets back up and resumes cooking.
I cup my breasts in protective concern. My nipples are so rock hard with blood and so swollen I cannot even see the thread. I pick up a knife but put it down--it's useless. "I can't," I admit plaintively. "I don't know what I can do."
"That's right, sugar, but keep trying while we eat. Here, we're all ready."
I'm not sure what he's up to. I'm being teased, but the tease will soon become cruel. I keep touching my tied buds, but they respond with pain, and I'm scared of doing injury. I eat and drink, but am constantly aware of what he's done to me. Homer watches me and my chest. I can tell he's pleased.
"I can't get the thread off. After awhile my nipples will die. Is that what you want?"
"You know it isn't. Just want to make a fix in your mind." His jaw hardens. "Anytime you try and escape, or if I get so much as a smell of someone finding you and taking you from me, these threads go on your tits. Understood?"
"Yes! Oh, Homer!"
"Don't have to happen. But I want you to know." He gestures wearily. "That's how much I'm in love with you."
Dead silence. Oh, jeepers, am I in trouble now! He's in love with me! I'll never get free of him, not ever. My breasts throb.
"I've loved you since that first time at the ranch. You're everything I've ever dreamed of. Sound crazy--after the way I've hurt you?"
"No, it's not crazy. I'm grateful."
"That's what's behind my promise to hurt only your tits, Patsy. But I can't give them up, not any more than I can part with you." He stares at my breasts owlishly. "Understand--I can't stop what I'm doing. I just can't."
"I've told you before--I understand."
Homer comes alive. "Here, I've been talking. I'd better get them threads off. They hurting?"
"They're throbbing horribly."
I guess it's good old Texas know-how. Homer glows and holds up a sliver of shining steel. "Had it made special, honey. Hold real still and stick 'em out all you can. It will only hurt a minute."
A minute seems a long time when my nipple is pushed deftly to one side to aid the probe to find the vicious thread. My master has surgeon's hands. For one moment the pain is intense. Then the thread is cut. It's the most wonderful feeling in the world. I protrude its twin. When that too is free, I weep. There is only the tiniest spot of blood.
Stretched and spread for what appears to be my twice daily intercourse program, I am grateful for the hour which has passed since the cutting of the threads. My nipples are back to normal and so am I. My interest in the clothespins is only cursory as Homer adjusts and lets them close upon my punished buds. I wince twice. I gasp twice. That is all. I pay attention to the man about to pierce me.
"Way I figure it, sweetheart, we may as well enjoy ourselves while we can." Homer flips the pins to make me wince again. "I think we got ourselves a day or two before snoopy tries again. He'll be finding out about this house and doing some research."
"Yes, Homer."
I actually said that. It shows the hold this guy has on me. I'm getting to think this sort of thing, like now, is normal. What I'm really doing is making the best of things.
"I'm aiming to put you in that there pillory today, sugar. That don't break my promise about hurting. All you do is sorta stand."
"Yes, I guess that's all."
I want to stand in that damn pillory like I want a hole in my head. But what else is there to say? If I had the faintest chance of escape, it would be different.
"I'll use the chain on your nipples for that, honey. You'll be stooped a bit, so we oughta get a good effect."
"Yes, that'll be fine."
"I'm going to be a bit more gentle screwing you today."
"Thank you."
This has to be the craziest coupling ever. The way we talk! The way I'm strapped and spread! The clothespins on my breasts! Now I'm watching the weaponry designed for my impalement. It is seeking my cleft more cautiously than usual. It rubs into my secretions, then enters me to its full length. I moan.
This will happen again this evening.
After he has planted his sperm inside me, Homer lets me stay as I am awhile so he can admire me and I can admire myself. This has to be the craziest bridal couch ever, and me the craziest bride. But three men and a girl have taken me along the strangest paths. This posture makes me a bit breathless but it's possible to chat.
"Okay then, what are you going to do about Burdock?" I ask innocently.
"Take you to Texas."
I shouldn't have asked. I'd be happier if I didn't know. Now I have to stand with my neck and wrists in that lousy pillory and think about this, about losing everything I want.
"Trouble is, Burdock will be having my plane watched, even if I have it taken to another airport." Homer muses aloud while he stands beside my tractioned nakedness and flips my clips, "'bout all I can figure is to give him a wild goose chase with the plane while you and me go by car."
"Me tied and strapped in the trunk?"
"Not all the way, sugar, that's too much, but maybe to get us across the border."
"Customs will search your car."
Homer smiles a quiet little smile. "I can likely deal with that, honey. I been going back and forth." He shrugs. "Leave it be. I'm still giving it thought."
I leave it be. No girl will ever have gone to Texas under less favorable auspices. For me, getting there will not be half the fun!
"Sugar pie, you're so damn sweet today I got me another hard-on."
Homer is right, he sure has! Well, I don't have to say yes or no. I am most beautifully available. I watch Homer's entry, then close my eyes as my nipples spring to life. Gosh, twice already, and it's not even ten A.M..
This time Homer does not dally in the aftermath. I would like to--Homer is a bit exhausting--but my feet are freed, so I have to stand while he gets rid of the anklets and puts my shackles back on. I don't know where he thinks I might run to in the pillory but never mind! I stand with my wrists loosely strapped while my master looks me over.
"May as well change these now while you're standing easy."
I lose my clothespins. I look at the silver chain and the silver clips resignedly. I knew they were coming. It's real hard to stand like this--sort of half free--while my nipples get the change. It hurts both ways. I have to force my hands against the wall while I look down at the lovely chain looping between my breasts. In a minute it will loop even more.
"Guess you know what to do, sweetheart." Homer lifts the top half of his damn contraption invitingly. I walk the few steps I must to this machine which will hold me tight and firm. These brief freedoms are hard to cope with. They are loaded with temptation. As though anxious to put myself beyond temptation's beckoning finger, I bend my neck into captivity, arrange my hair to fall beside my cheek, then place my wrists where they must go.. Homer lowers the heavy solid wood and I am captive.
"Not too tight, sugar?"
"Tight enough but, no, I'm okay."
My prisonment is closely inspected. It meets with approval. Most of me is back the other side where I can't see. I can't see the chain on my breasts, but Homer tells me he is more than pleased. He unclips it and clips it back on to compensate for a changed angle. It hurts extra, but my master admires my gasps and the tiny moan I can't choke back.
"Very lovely. Gosh, you're beautiful!"
I cannot miss the adoration in his voice, nor can I ignore the thrill I get from it. I am female! Homer's in back, playing with my welted ass. I look to either side and behold my hands. I make them wave to me. It is a small wave, but at least they move. I devoutly hope he won't punish my nipples for the whole time I have to stand here. But I must not mention this. It's a subject that's taboo.
"I've been thinking, honey." Homer comes back in front where we can see each other. "If I get this whole thing straightened out and you safe down in Texas, there's something you might sorta like."
My tummy tightens, but I bravely ask, "Yes, Homer, what is it?"
"How about rings in your tits?"
Just like that! And while I'm standing in this damn pillory and can't hardly move! Jeepers, what next! Sweetly, I point out, "Wouldn't that be bad for clipping me? Or would you sooner have the rings?"
"Or we could have one big ring in your nose, sugar--always wanted to see that--and leave your tits the way they are." Suppose he gets me down there and manages to keep me for good! Just suppose! I'd hate to have my nipples ringed, but if it stopped them being punished all the time, I'd be way ahead.
"Whatever you want, Homer. I don't want to say yes or no to a thing like that. Have me the way you want me."
Horseshit! Sure, it is. I just have to pray for Burdock to get me before it happens. Texas is a long way off. Homer is still a bit distraught. He wanders off and leaves me.
I try and shift, but I don't have much luck. I'm getting cramped already. Holy cow, and there's still all day! I kick one foot just so I hear the clink of my shackle. A girl's far gone when she has to do a thing like that to make sure she's still all there. My nipples burn as busily as ever. I wonder how it feels to have them ringed!
Homer is ill at ease. I've been standing in this thing quite awhile when he wanders back in and stands admiring me. He circles the pillory and me a few times before admitting, "Honey, I miss you. You ain't doing me no good standing there unless I stand here too."
"That's right. I miss you too."
I'll have to go easy on this soft soap. Men like it, but Homer's no fool. I've been positively nauseating in my compliance this last while. It's a damn thin line I have to tread, and I'd sure be glad to get out of this awful thing. It holds me so totally it's frightening. I get to wondering if I still stick out behind. What's worse is it makes me so damn anxious to please. Of course he's promised not to whip me any more. But I'm beautifully held for it.
Suddenly I'm free.
Homer disgustedly lifts the bar from my neck and offers me a hand in case I'm too stiff to stand. I say thank you and ask how long the pillory held me.
. "Couple of hours. How'd you like it?"
"I didn't. That not being able to see myself--it's creepy. Homer, what's wrong? There's something--"
"Nothing, nothing!" He gestures disgustedly. "I been on the phone. That bastard Burdock--he's hot on my trail. That's all. Honey, you ain't safe here."
I'm hoping I'm not safe but do not say so. I'm enjoying having my hands, and I wish Homer would keep on talking. If only he'd unclip my nipples! As a gentle hint, I finger their silver chain as though I'm admiring it.
"That's cute, Patsy, the way you do that."
Embarrassed, I let my hand fall, but am instantly told to start over. Absorbed in his obsession, Homer has forgotten Burdock and is seeing only my nipples. But I've done the wrong thing. He'll never unclip them now.
"Sugar, go on over and sit in the stocks. I'll try that on you for awhile."
I obey. Homer imprisons my ankles, then leaves.
Something is wrong.
CHAPTER NINE - THREADS
Someone's done a lot of work to get me fixed like this. It would be sort of cute if it wasn't so damn tragic. Every revolution of the wheels is taking me away from Burdock. He missed me. He didn't find me in time. Now I'm on my way to Texas.
Money is wonderful. Homer must have bought this panel truck and had it fixed to accommodate me in one hell of a hurry. He thinks he knows what he's doing. I hope he's wrong.
I didn't get any traveling clothes--I'm still naked--but my situation is deluxe. For a girl who's a prisoner, that is! Against the side of the panel, behind the driver, a real plush seat has been installed, and I'm in it. It's a fixture; it's solid. A strap around my middle is a dual purpose safety belt. It keeps me safe two ways. There is padding behind my back, and I'm held tight against it by the straps. My tummy and above my breasts. My arms extend out from either. My wrists are strapped to e side and so are my elbows. Homer has made a really marvelous job of me. In the floor in front there's a grid, especially welded in for me, of course. My legs stretch out to it so my ankles are just right to be tied. Homer has my ankles still shackled, I suppose as an extra safety feature, but that doesn't stop them being tied down as well. What with one thing and another, I can't move. Homer hasn't gagged me yet, but he'll have to. I don't see how he can kidnap a girl to Texas if she can scream.
At the right moment, of course.
"You okay, sugar?"
"Sure, I'm fine. I can't move."
We haven't been on the road long, but I think that's the fourth time he's asked. I don't know where this palsy-walsy, lovey-dovey stuff is going to lead us. I'm simulating most of mine but Homer isn't. His is for real. It I got a chance, I'd run, and Homer knows I would, hence the beautiful bondage. I'm not able to be trusted even though I am loved. This is a weird situation all around.
I'm half resigned to Texas. Burdock is going to have to get me awful quick or I'm gone for good. Something new has been added for me about Texas. I'm scared if Homer gets me there okay, he'll marry me whether I want it or not. He's got friends and influence there. I can just see us in front of some helpful hot gospeler--me tightly bound and making the responses at the tip of a whip, and Homer having to untie a part of me so as to get the ring of my finger. I'm not laughing. It could happen.
Homer is still talking about that surgical thread. He's got some along as though he fears disaster. Then, as a last resort, he'll use it on me. It's frightening, a dark well of morbidity I cannot face.
Homer is counting the towns. They're small western places and we don't have to stop. I dare not scream as we traverse their two block main street. I don't think anyone would hear or do anything about it anyway. I've been threatened with the most awful punishments if I do, and afterwards I'd be gagged. I have every inducement to behave. But it's hard to see people so close and yet do nothing. I get a quick flash of each place through the windshield over Homer's shoulder as we make our slow passage within the speed limit. Homer tells me he's experimented and made sure I can't be seen.
The border is only a couple of hundred miles south of the city. The towns tick off the distance. Each of them gets Homer closer to where he wants to be--and me farther away. The towns thin out, and Homer picks an isolated spot to pull off to the side. It's dismal prairie country. We can see a long way, but Homer is not concerned with the view.
I should have guessed right off. Homer's been feeling better and better with each mile. Now he's back to normal. He holds up the little twin horrors and beams his biggest smile. "Figure the clothespins are best, sugar. They stick straight out and vibrate with the car."
I just bet they will! But we seem to have established a pact: Homer doesn't whip me, but I act cheerful about getting my nipples clipped. I know they don't hurt a bit more if I smile, but, gee, it's hard to grin and make jokes. I content myself by remarking, "I've been wondering when you'd remember." Homer comes in back with me and takes his usual care. A minute later the two clothespins, with extra heavy springs, stick out jauntily from my breasts like small cannons. My nipples are engulfed in flaming fire.
"Thank you, Homer."
"You're welcome, Patsy."
I suppose it's natural to make our amusing play with words. Or should I be hysterical, or sulky, or mute and indignant? I could easily be all those things, but he'd whip it out of me, so what's the sense? Besides, we're together so much, and Homer's been fucking me twice a day, and there's a spirit of adventure in what we're doing now. Sure, I want it to fail, and he knows I want it to fail, but there's no animosity between us. Our divergent desires add spice. Homer flicks the pins and is delighted with their dance. I bear the pain.
"Won't be long now, Patsy. Gotta admit I'm a bit hyped up over what's ahead."
"What will you do if the officers find me?"
"Suicide, I guess." He grins. "How about you telling them it's a private joke you're enjoying?"
"I'd do that, rather than have you arrested."
He nods slowly, his eyes still on my breasts. "I almost believe you would, kiddo." He gives me a Texas kiss. "Don't you think I'm forgetting the strain you're under about now. Loverboy's close to his deadline. Don't look like he's gonna make it." He climbs back into his seat.
Here comes my gag. The sign says the border is just down the road, so I know I have to be gagged. There's nothing else the poor guy can do with me. But I'm grateful Homer didn't drug me and put me in a box. This is best.
"Sort of a big wad, sweetheart. Play it safe." He tickles my nose. "I'll get it off you right quick after we get by."
I open my mouth and get it full to bulging, and the straps are buckled extra tight. I twinkle my eyes at my kidnaper. One of us is on the verge of winning. Homer goes back to his seat and starts the motor. I've never been more tense and excited in my life.
Homer pretends he's not interested in crossing. He just wants to speak to a friend in U.S. Customs. He pulls the panel truck off to one side and walks away. Before he goes, he catches my anxious eye and winks.
This would go Over big on TV. All around me are uniformed men, and the cars of travelers come and go. I can't see anything, but I have a tremendous sense of things taking place. The panel truck and I are right in the middle of happenings.
And I can't move!
I try. Oh, how I try! With Homer gone I can give the straps my best shot. They hold, me effortlessly. They don't even creak. I am only a naked girl. No matter how I strive, nothing even quivers except the clothespins on my nipples. If only someone would come and look at them, I'd willingly bear the shame. But no one comes. Panel trucks like this are a dime a dozen. I scream and scream and scream but make no sound. After a couple of minutes, a tear trickles down my cheek.
Oh, Burdock, where the hell are you!
Homer's face is a thundercloud. His friend was taken to the hospital last night. For Homer this crossing is now not so safe or easy. Muttering to himself, he backs and turns. We now head north.
"The son of a bitch! When I think I've got that plane and here I am assholing around in this goddamn truck!"
I've won this round. But I feel sorry for Homer. I begin to feel sorry for myself too. Homer has forgotten I'm gagged. He's forgotten I'm clothes-pinned. I expect he's forgotten I can't move too. I don't think I'm worth all this trouble he's taking. But his jaw is set. Homer Wyant has just started to fight.
After awhile we stop. Homer turns. "Want to pee, Patsy?"
I glare indignantly and nod. My pins nod too. Homer laughs and says he's sorry. He takes away the gag, but he still doesn't remember the clothespins.
"What about the pins, Homer?"
"What about 'em!"
I shut up.
The straps enable him to free me easily. While he gets the rope off my ankles, I massage my marks. My feet remain shackled, so he picks me up and deposits me on the prairie grass.
"Pick your bush, sugar."
This is a desolate place. I shiver but not from cold. How strange it is to walk my shackled steps to a clump of greenery. I am sure Homer is enjoying his mastery over me. It is his chain that joins my feet. I cannot run. I have never been aware of hobbled feet as I am right now. My clothespins bob. I do not touch them.
"There's a small place a few miles east, honey. I'm going to sound it out. If it's no dice, we'll go back home." Homer lifts me back inside.
I arrange myself and am strapped tight, my feet tied. There is a sad air about our expedition now. Homer tells me he knows it's rough on me too, all this tension. But he does not free my nipples. I suppose the poor guy needs a little something for his morale. In spite of his preoccupations, his eyes are constantly on my breasts.
It is the same story. We find the crossing, but Homer scouts it out and senses it unsafe.
"I'm damned if I'll run the risk of losing you, Patsy," he tells me morosely as we start north again. "It's that lousy Burdock. There's police there, waiting."
I do not think they wait for us, but I don't say that to Homer. He is thoroughly pissed off and inclined to be snappy. In any case, I am still gagged and cannot say a word. We are halfway back to the city before he remembers and gives me back my speech. Neither of us use it. We are tired.
Even though I am still a prisoner, I am glad to be back in my prison. I know where Homer keeps the brandy. While my hands are free, I get it and two glasses, and take them to where he sits slumped in the tiny lounge. I pour lavishly.
"Who told you to do that, sugar?"
"Nobody. I figure we both deserve it," I tell him decisively. "You can punish me later."
We both gulp. He mellows. "Honey, you're one in a million. You can take them pins off your tits now."
Instantly, I give myself two awful moments of agony. But they are a small price for the relief which follows. I even put down my glass to cup my breasts. I then refill.
"Honey, you ain't tied up no way."
"My feet are shackled. You don't have to worry."
"Damn good, that chain on you," he says, chuckling. "Kept you behaving out there on the prairie."
I suppose he's right. A few links of chain kept me captive. If I could have run, he would never have caught me. He would not catch me now. I give a petulant kick at my shackle and it snubs me instantly.
Emboldened by the brandy, I repeat my oldest plea: "Homer, why not just let me go? Why go to all this trouble for me?"
"Because I want you more than I want anything else, sweetheart."
"But you run such risks!"
"Hell, that wasn't nothing today. Just a waste of time. What I'll do now is keep you in another house. I've got one Burdock don't know about. I'll give him enough false leads to keep a hound dog sniffing for a month." He muses quietly. "I'd a lot sooner get you down south, but we ain't going to be able to make it. Not right now anyway."
Homer is an immovable force, but an idea blossoms in my mind. It would have seemed crazy once but not now. Despite opposing interests, this man and I have become close, so it's worth a try.
"Homer, I've been thinking about you and me."
"Girls ain't supposed to think, sugar."
"Well, no, but, Homer, you know how you adore those bits of me--you know, the ones that stick out in front?"
"Tits and boobs, honey--good, honest words. Sure, I like 'em."
"You like mine well enough to kidnap me and keep me your prisoner."
"You aiming to slip me a kicker, Patsy gal?"
"No, I'm thinking of my freedom."
"Forget it! No way!"
"I'm thinking of my freedom in relation to the two of us. Homer, if you'll turn me loose, I'll come to you once a week and--"
"Hell, Patsy gal, it ain't just a piece of tail that I want from you."
"And that's not what I'm offering. I wish you'd let me finish."
Homer is now happy and at peace. My feet are shackled so I don't cause him anxiety. Soon he will tie my hands. For the moment he beams nothing but benevolence. "Shoot. Let's hear this idea of yours."
"I'd come to you once a week. I'd take my clothes off. I'd let you tie me any way you wanted and then punish my nipples to your heart's content."
"Your tits?"
"I'd let you whip me too, if you wanted. But I'm awful scared of being whipped. It hurts so damn bad."
"You got enough of that out at the Big T, huh?"
"They never whipped us all out. It hurt something fierce, but we could sort of handle it."
Thank goodness he's tired. Thank goodness for the brandy. Talk about tension! Homer's actually considering it. He's giving it a good hard look. I refill our glasses. The look he turns to me is positively reverent.
"You'd do it too, Patsy, wouldn't you? I'll be damned!"
"Yes, I'll do it. I won't renege."
"You thinking of this in terms or weeks or months or years?"
"For as long as you want."
"You're a damn remarkable girl. That's one hell of a proposition."
I glow. My heart leaps. Freedom has seemed so impossible, but I'm catching a glimpse of something in Homer's eyes.
"It does away with the risk," I say gently. "This affair today is a pain in the ass for you. And there's so much work, just keeping me a safe prisoner. I often feel like telling you I'm sorry for all the trouble I cause."
"Any trouble you cause is trouble I want, Patsy. You know that." I am eyed speculatively. "This idea of yours--you'd be bucking the community."
"So I buck it! I live in my own house. I can do as I please."
"You sure do want to get away from me, sweetheart."
"Not so much from you, but away from rope and chain. I won't say cane, because you don't use it on me any more. Homer, I have affection for you. Surely you can tell. I'm sorry it's not love."
"So am I." Homer broods for awhile. Then he says heavily, "Come close to taking you up on that, Patsy gal, but I can't, and you know why."
"Yes, you can, and I don't know why."
"His name's Burdock. There ain't no way Burdock's going to let you loan me your tits once a week. He'd figure I was getting a piece of ass to boot."
"I'll throw that it too--you know I would. And the way you like it."
He is holding up a warning finger, and his chin juts out. His voice sharpens. "That's enough of that. Let it lay."
I have lost.
I fight back tears. This must not change the good between us. Why should he let me win? He has me, and I am what he wants. I expect he's right about Burdock. I'd almost forgotten about Burdock. I also forgot about the possibility of Burdock still finding me. Anyway, I can still be kind to the heavy figure slouched in the chair.
"You've had a rough day, Homer. Let me make supper."
"Like to use your hands?"
"Yes. I don't get them all that much."
"Okay, you got yourself a deal. I'll sit awhile and do a bit of thinking. Damn that Burdock!"
Flitting with my short chained steps, I gather the glasses and head for the kitchen. But Homer is right behind me.
"You ain't figuring on running around loose while I drop off for a nap, are you?" he enquires without rancor. "That drive and them drinks made me sleepy."
Of course that's what I was figuring, but I pout and say, "My feet are chained. Isn't that enough?"
"You know damn well it ain't, honeybunch. I'll be right with you."
He sure is. And with a metal collar and long chain. Nothing I can cut, of course.
"You don't mind this here?" he asks amiably. "Won't stop you doing nothing."
"You kidnapped me into this life, so I have to get used to it," I tell him with equal amiability. "Go ahead, chain me. I'll still make you a good supper."
I gather my hair and lift it to expose my neck while my master collars me. It's a heavy circlet and the lock is strong. The other end of my leash attaches to the wall. I am now safely secured.
"No hard feelings, sugar?"
"I never expected to be free." I kiss him lightly and propel him from the kitchen. He seems glad enough to go. He is very tired.
I finger the metal around my throat and get it to where it bothers me the least. There's nothing in its drag on me to ever spell comfort. But I do have my hands. I'd choose to be collared anytime rather than have my hands tied behind my back the way Homer likes them. I go to work. For a short time I'll be happy.
Homer is right--my shackled ankles and tethered neck don't stop me from doing anything except escape. Metallically, I clink and clatter my way back and forth. My feet get snubbed a lot, but in a kitchen it does not matter. I'll prepare something extra special for the tired man in the lounge. I chuckle mischievously--he's forgotten to pin my tits.
When supper is ready, I have to drag Homer from his sleep. But he is refreshed and once again the good ol' boy from Texas. He eats with gusto and is loud in his praise. I intercept his gaze upon my bare, unpunished breasts. I shrug diffidently, and he beams.
"You deserve a break, honey. Your tits don't get clipped again for awhile." He chews thoughtfully. "Got me a little notion for after we eat."
I wish he hadn't mentioned the little notion, but I guess a girl can't have everything. It's certain to hurt, so why bother to know? I ask about my new prison and when he'll take me there.
"Maybe the middle of tonight, Patsy. Strap you in the van. Real handy."
But there is something else on Homer's mind. While I'm doing the dishes, I find out what it is.
"Honeybunch, that sleep and that there food done me real good. I'm horny."
I can see what it is with wives. Men can be so crass. No loving, no tenderness, but then suddenly he wants to fuck you!
I suppose I'm only a slave, an available receptacle, but if a husband came across like that, I'd bop him. With Homer, I only shrug.
"You own me. What's it to be--bed or bondage?"
"That's real cute, Patsy. Damn it, you're a fine girl! I'll never let you go. Bondage, of course."
"Right quick, or do you want to sit awhile?"
"Booze or food--they both work the same. I'd just go to sleep."
"I'd wake you whenever you say."
"Hell, Patsy, I ain't leaving you chained in the kitchen this way. Damn dull way for a girl to pass the night."
"I could make coffee."
"Hell no! I want a piece of ass, and I want it now! We'll have coffee later."
I am an obedient slave. I lift my hair again to be unleashed. I lead the way to my martyrdom. Slavegirls are expected to show pleasure when their master rapes them, and I cannot deny Homer's ability to excite me erotically. I smile as I back against the familiar wall.
"Always hate to take these shackles off," Homer grumbles as he kneels. "These here chains sure do set you off. Pretty as a picture."
I stand in my ready nudity and watch this square, determined man buckle me in the straps. Repeat performances have made this outrageous coupling as commonplace as a wife disposing herself upon a bed. If I ever escaped, I'd miss it--I know I would. There comes the snapping of the harnessed clips and the lifting of my feet. For several moments I am a distorted tangle until Homer connects one ankle and then the other to stretch me wide.
"I tell you, honeybunch, you're a sight for sore eyes--you surely are."
I can believe I'm a sight all right, about ninety percent cunt. I'm wondering if he's forgotten about the clothespins completely.
"Honey, I got me a hankering I don't want you getting mad about." For a man who's horny, Homer is taking his time. He stands close beside my stretched nakedness, his fingers gently playing with my nipples he so dearly loves. My tummy tightens. "That time I was showing you the thread--" His voice becomes reverent. "I ain't never forgot. I never did see anything as lovely as your tits were then."
"Please--you showed me! Not again!"
"Why not? Don't hurt you none."
"It's the beastliest feeling. It scares me."
"That's just because you're thinking of 'em being tied for hours or days until they fall off. I noose 'em now. You ain't coming to no harm while I fuck you." His voice turns wistful. "Mean a lot to me, it would. Something I want."
Importunate males! I know about them! Homer will do this to me regardless, so I might as well smile about it.
"Okay, okay, go ahead and tie my tits," I say, my eyes locked with his. "I don't mind, Homer--honest."
He is so intent, so absorbed! By now my nipples seem an inch high and hard as flint. Homer's surgeon's hands loop the first of my buds in his snare of thread and slowly pull it tight, tight, and tighter until I moan. He knots it firmly. He snips the end.
"Most beautiful thing in the world," he whispers slowly. It is as though I am not here and he is alone with my breast. He turns to my other perkily expectant tit.
It is the strangest of sensations, the weirdest pain. I gaze down at my engorged rosebuds in a fascination to match that of the man by my side. They are neither beautiful nor ugly; they have a quality all their own. I wonder if he will bother to fuck me now.
Homer fucks me.
But in the stark carnality of the act there is now a reverence we both share. My tied nipples are unique in the annals of copulation, we are sure of it. They are Homer's masterpiece, his legacy to the conquest of a girl. I go as berserk as he himself when we are possessed by orgasm. Throughout all our thrusts and moans his eyes have remained focused on the enpurpled points of my breasts.
He does not hastily withdraw from within my sheath. It holds him as a heated fleshly vise. Why should he hurry? He can look down at my strapped nudity and behold his heart's desire. I do not mind. Homer Wyant has made me content.
But the time comes. We smile again as he leaves the shelter of my loins. We will not forget this moment. But, strangely, I have forgotten my bound nipples. Their burn is now a part of me as the clothespins have become. Homer owns my breasts. He owns all of me.
He unstraps my feet and aids me in the awkward scramble to stand. We are face to face when I feel his fingers relax their grip. He steps back and looks at me in mute surprise. His arm gropes vaguely but falls inert. I reach, but my hands are snubbed back by their straps. Homer Wyant, the good ol' boy from Texas, folds slowly to the floor.
Oh, damn, I'm still fastened! The straps hold me loosely but they hold. Homer has had a stroke. If he is not dead, he needs me, but I cannot touch him. I tug uselessly. I should know better but I always tug. Fighting panic, I turn and examine the way in which I'm secured. It is very simple. The wristlets are tight. From them are straps and a buckle to the wall. My hands are far apart. They cannot aid each other. I cannot reach them with my teeth. It is a comfortable and relaxed bondage, but it is still bondage. I can't get loose. I look down at Homer and want to cry.
It takes a chaotic minute for the true horror of my plight to strike home. I have a dead or dying man on the floor. I have two nipples tightly bound so they will die if not released. I have two hands safely strapped to the wall. What the hell do I do now? I turn to the straps. I have to get out of them, they are my only hope. I know a moment of elation at the thought of freedom, but I have to achieve it first. The lovely leathers mock me. I stretch, I reach, my fingers slide on nothing. I can't touch a thing that matters. My only chance is to rub what I can against the wall. If I can loosen a single buckle, I'll have it made. Homer shackled my feet again before he stood up, but my feet don't matter--it's my hands!
I have a choice of buckles. Each wristlet and each tether has one. They defeat me one by one. Tears wet my cheeks as I claw and rub. My frantic motions do not help my tits. My breasts throb and throb. I concentrate on what seems my most likely bet. I develop a technique. Breathlessly, I watch a strap respond. I guess it's taken me half an hour to get free. The pathetic figure on the floor dulls my joy.
Homer Wyant is dead.
I try everything I know, but Homer is gone--he has joined the riders in the sky. He will never tie my hands or hurt my nipples again. My tears are now for him.
The glory of freedom is diminished by urgencies. There is poor Homer. I should phone Burdock. I must find the key to the shackles on my ankles. But, overriding all else, I must free my nipples. If I do not free them, they will die, or I think they will anyway. Burdock has to take time to get here. I give my breasts priority.
It is hateful to search a dead man. I hate to heave and push poor Homer's bulk to find his pockets. In them are all sorts of things, but no key to my chain and no shining sliver of steel by which my tits may live. My search becomes frantic. In desperation, I tear and probe. My breasts throb terribly as though aware.
I stand and gaze around. I kick in irritation with a chained foot. I cup my tightly bound, hurt breasts and nurse them tenderly. But I have seen the cupboard and the drawers. I leap for them in hope, but stumble, sprawling under the reprimand of chained feet. Damn, damn, damn! I curse again as the drawers yield nothing I need. The shining cane is there, lots of clothespins, and an assortment of clips and several whips--but I do not find what I need. They will be close and obvious when discovered, but I cannot find them now.
I find the phone. Rescue will take a couple of hours, and in the meantime, my poor nipples will hurt horribly. Burdock can solve anything but he is not here.
I hear Burdock's voice on the other end of the phone. It has a tone to make me tingle. It is affectionately irritated. "Where the hell are you?"
I tell him where I am. I plead for him to hurry and to hurry quickly. I tell him of poor old Homer.
"Stay put. I'll fix everything." He is as terse as ever. "When I get you back here, I'm going to whip your ass--getting yourself kidnapped, for Pete's sake."
"Yes, Burdock."
"By the way, I've decided that I love you, you infernal nuisance."
"Yes, Burdock."
"We can get married tomorrow."
"Yes, Burdock."
The phone goes dead. I stand, enthralled. My throbbing breasts remind me I forgot to mention them--or my nipples, or the twine, or my chained feet. I will continue my search. It will fill my time until Burdock gets here. For a few moments I cup my breasts and test my inflamed rosebuds with a fingertip. They are excitingly sensitive.
