When the sexual act was complete for both of them the man heaved himself erect beside the bed and gazed down at the nude girl whose hands were still tied to the far corners, arms stretched. Her feet had been released on the score of goodwill and co-operation prior to the actual rape.
"Not bad for a first time."
To Ingrid Ranier it sounded condescending. Her retort was bitter, "It wasn't my first time."
"Virgins are a bore." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Ran- nock made a good choice in you. I'm pleased."
"Are you pleased enough to untie me?"
Instead of answering, he queried: "Neat pickup, eh?"
"I suppose you bribe the policeman? What do you do with all the girls he arrests for nothing?"
The man nodded in approval of something she did not understand. "Tell me how Rannock handled you? I'm curious."
"He flagged me down on the highway. Said I was some girl whose name I've forgotten, and was wanted for a hold-up job in Michigan."
"You didn't resist?"
"Resist a policeman, and in a police car!" Ingrid Ranier's exclamation was loaded with disgust. "Why would I? I thought it mistaken identity, something easily dealt with. I made a fuss about the handcuffs but it didn't do me any good."
"Didn't make you suspicious?"
The naked girl stirred restlessly against tied wrists. "It was hateful being handcuffed like that, especially behind my back. But I've seen it done so often on T.V. No, I wasn't suspicious until he turned off onto the dirt road."
"Yes? Go on?"
"There's nothing to go on about. Your policeman paid no attention to anything I said." She sniffed disdainfully. " I fought handcuffs enough for him to stop the car and click them tighter on my wrists. After that I was too frightened to say much."
"Painless abduction. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes, I suppose so. Clever idea if you can get away with it." Ingrid made her voice decisive. "Now I've been raped, please may I be untied? I'm not enjoying being spread out naked like this.
"No."
"You intend to rape me again?"
"Yes."
"Well look, I'm not surrendering or complying or telling you I'm a pushover, but a girl doesn't have to be tied down to have sexual intercourse. I'll promise not to fight."
"What we're doing is an introduction. It's not the reason you're here." Soberly watching the impact of what he had said, he added: "My name is Brice Ireland. It doesn't matter that you know my name or anything else. Oh, and we'll use first names: Brice and Ingrid."
The nebulous had become real. It must have a name. Fighting the paralysis of fear, the helpless nude demanded. "What, are you one of those who can't make it with girls? You have to keep one tied up around the house so she's handy?"
The man smiled and shook his head. "I can make it with girls.
It's a good guess. But no, it's not that."
"There's no money, so it can't be ransom. How about white slavery? Is this a high priced brothel?"
"Try again."
"A secret admirer, you want to marry me? This is your idea of courtship?"
The man laughed, pleased by the absence of hysterics. "You're alright." He conceded. "We'll get along. I can't tell you what I want you for, not yet. For the time being try and see yourself simply as a prisoner."
The girl tugged at bound arms, her tone bitter. "That shouldn't be hard." She grimaced ruefully. "I've already had the fate worse than death... at least that apprehension's been removed. Does my imprisonment have a period?"
"Mmmmm... say fifteen years."
"For as long as I'm sexually attractive? That's it?"
"That's it. Why aren't you screaming?"
"Because it wouldn't do me any good, and I wouldn't like the sound of it. Look, can we come to some sort of agreement about me being tied up? I mean--"
"We're in agreement now. Get used to it."
"Oh, come off it, Brice Ireland, you can't possibly keep a girl trussed up like a --"
"You're not trussed up, and yes I can."
"Aren't you forgetting bathrooms?"
His grin was Ireland's only answer. He slipped into clothes: pants and a checkered shirt, shoes. "I haven't forgotten bathrooms. I'll be right back."
A time to struggle. Ingrid went berserk, uselessly. Wrists hurting, she composed herself for the male return. Then watched, wondering as her bare feet were gathered on a male lap.
"Simple and convenient. Something more sophisticated another time." Female ankles were joined by a fourteen inch span of rope. Brice used wire and pliers to seal each knot. He freed two captive hands. "There you are, lady. You can use the bathroom door."
It was good to sit up, to move. The captive looked at her hobbled feet in rueful dismay, then lowered them to the rug. "Can I have my clothes, please, Mr. Ireland?"
"My name's Brice, and no you can't."
"But I'm naked!"
She did not push. Ireland was an unknown quantity. Men who kidnapped girls sometimes killed them. Ingrid Ranier took short hobbled steps to privacy. Achieving it, her fingers tore urgently at rope.
It was useless. Ingrid was defeated by the wire, twisted tight and snipped off short. For the moment she would do no running and would walk slowly. The word 'prisoner' floated tantalizingly in her mind. Reluctantly she dismissed the hope of a practical joke or cynical use of her body. The ruggedly attractive male beyond the door was an enigma. He wanted something, but what! Fifteen years captivity had to be nonsense. He would either release her or she would escape. Girding her loins to do battle she returned to Brice Ireland.
He snatched the towel from her hips instantly. "You stay naked. Understand? Don't ever cover yourself."
Ingrid shrugged, heart thudding, but wondering why she was not more frightened. "I understand what you say. I don't like it."
"You've got a beautiful body. That's reason enough. How's it feel to be hobbled?"
"Stupid. Humiliating. Look... Brice, what is this place? Tell me something sensible so I don't go crazy."
"Oh... this old place! N ice, eh. It was an old Spanish jail and army post. Most of it was demolished, but the jail was done over and incorporated into a modern country home. It's a bit isolated off the hardtop. I got it cheap."
"For me?"
"Mmmmmmmmm... essentially, yes. Care for the tour?"
"I can't walk." Ingrid lifted a roped foot to demonstrate restraint. "And I'm not interested in dungeons."
"I'll hold your arm. You won't fall."
Sulkily, Ingrid Ranier took the hobbled steps and, surprisingly, discovered beauty. Whoever had improved on the Spanish fort had done so with feeling and flair. It was a place of serenity and repose, expensively appointed. The ancient cells of the small prison might harbour ghosts behind their heavy bars and iron gratings but they were not visible in the hot daylight from large high windows in the walls.
"Bit more cheerful than it was." Brice commented dryly. "This one over here contains the museum pieces."
Ingrid surveyed chain, iron and timber with distaste, and exclaimed the obvious: "That stuffs all new!"
"Mmmmmmm, some of it. The rest's been refurbished in your honour."
The stillness seemed frozen. Ingrid had been given a message. It translated into a scared fascination with the objects beyond the bars. All of it was designed to steal freedom from hands and feet and neck. She saw now what she had missed at first glance: the metal circlets were small. They were crafted for a girl. Her response was tremulous.
"I suppose you know you're frightening me." She shivered and added. "I've been fighting hysteria ever since I was brought here. The girl you've raped and made prisoner isn't really me. I'm underneath somewhere, not believing any of this."
"Would a drink help?"
"Temporarily."
They sat in the patio, its verdant growths filling the warm air with the scents of life. "This could be a happy moment if I was clothed." Ingrid mused thoughtfully as she sipped. "The way you've got me makes me feel like a whore you've paid to stick around."
"Nudity that devastating?"
"You know it is. What girl wants --!"
Ireland's voice, breaking into her plaint, was coldly incisive. "Girls are miserly with their bodies because they're scared of giving something free, something that's a bargaining lever or good for cold cash."
"A girl saves herself for marriage --"
"Horseshit! The certificate the parson hands her is her payment for the wedding night."
"So you hate women. Is that why my feet are roped?"
"All men hate women. Trouble is it's subconscious. Superficially we adore your tits, your breasts, your cunts and little rumps. After we've fucked you we see you as you are: an object d'art and a bloody nuisance."
"I've been fucked. I'm a nuisance. Let me go... O.K.?" They were suddenly laughing. Ireland gestured diffidently. "I sound off. You'll have to get used to it. Look, Ingrid, I'm curious. You're sitting there in the nakedness you claim to hate. But I'm not picking up vibes of embarrassment. How come?"
"Rape. It broke the ice. Raped girls expect torn clothes, or none at all. Then, when you made it clear I was staying naked, I started fighting my hands. You've no idea the battle I've been having to stop them coyly trying to hide the bits of me you like most. But I refuse to be coy, it's playing your game. Look and be damned."
Ingrid accepted the refill, her mind racing to exploit this tenuous rapport. "It's nice we can talk this way." She conceded slowly. "So now... How about telling me of whatever service you're going to demand of me before you'll set me free?"
"You're not ready."
"You mean... it's that bad?"
"Right now you'd think so. Give yourself a break."
Ingrid lifted a roped foot until it snubbed. "I'm a prisoner. You've raped me. You've had a good look at me naked. I don't see where else we have to go?"
"Shut up."
It was a crisp command without anger. It tensed the nude girl's tongue. Ingrid Ranier gulped hastily from her glass. In this pleasant place it was hard to see menace. But the rope chafing her ankles told her it was there. Her eyes pleaded.
"You damn females." Ireland resumed disgustedly. "You've got a built in nag. Men are to be exploited with the gimmie', gimmie' play." He gestured irritably. "For years I've been squiring dames and kicking myself--hell, you go pick 'em up. They come waltzing out, taking it for granted you pick up and deliver, taking it as their due you should buy the tickets, the dinner, the wine, and tip the waiter. All along the line they're damn they're doing you a big favour. Talk about whores...!"
"You didn't have to. Did they twist your arm?"
"They don't need to twist arms. A man's glands do it for 'em, and the little bitches know it. Implicit in the whole nonsense is their thought: 'What do I get if I take my clothes off?"
"You've got a Thing about feminine nudity. Most of the poor girls get a messy hour on a couch, and some get a baby. The vocational risks of being a girl makes us what we are."
"Yeah... fully clothed."
"So alright! If we have to be naked, you've found the answer. Kidnap a girl."
Ingrid paused, flushed, breasts heaving, suddenly fearful of having uncovered something best hidden. Brice was laughing at her with amused approval.
"You said it, Ingrid, I didn't."
"So, now you're going to vent all your resentments on me. Lock me in a cage, rope my feet... and that stuff you showed me. Oh, and of course, rape as required. I get the feeling the rape is a bonus to the main package."
"Y'know... I'm damned lucky, getting you. You argue well enough to justify beating the contrariness out of your hide."
"I suppose being contrary is when I don't see things your way." Ingrid paused before a suddenly glimpsed abyss. "You're not serious about beating out my convictions...?"
"Dead serious."
They gazed at each other, gauging intent until Ingrid exclaimed. "But if I can't talk you're robbing us both, taking away the fun --!"
"Fun?"
She flushed, annoyed with her choice of a word. "Yes, fun. Up to now I haven't been able to dislike you. You're attractive and amusing. But no girl's going to like a man who gags and whips her."
"How d'you know?"
"Because...!"
"But interesting. We'll explore it."
Ingrid took a deep breath. She felt herself drifting rapidly on a tide Bride Ireland controlled. She made her tone femininely patient. "Look, Mr. Ireland, if you've been reading those books where the Heathcliff hero beats his girl into abject submission so she licks his boots and adores every attention he deigns to give, like a whipped cur--hell, you don't really believe that stuff --'?"
"We'll explore it together." Brice was equally patient.
"But it's well--it's self defeating. I mean... when you bring out the torture instruments I'll be or do or say anything you want--I'm not crazy. But it won't be me. It will be some submissive creature of your own creation."
"A man would sense play acting. You'd give yourself away somewhere along the line. No. In there someplace is a moment of truth."
"O.K. then. But what about me? Where d'you get the idea you' right --T She stopped short, glaring.
"Power. Male force. Money. The status quo. Take your pick, Miss Ranier."
Ingrid sniffed disgustedly. "Hold all the cards, don't you. But it's unsporting and damned unfair. I'm... I'm --"
"A prisoner." He was amused by her vexation. "I believe I mentioned the word 'prisoner' before."
Caution compressed her lips. The roped girl veered from danger. "Am I going to perform the housekeeping duties? I haven't noticed staff?"
"We're on our own for awhile. There's a Mexican girl lives in. When she comes back she won't help you escape, but if she was around right now you'd be climbing all over her." Brice paused, savouring a thought. "Damn cute idea of yours--hand you a broom! Can you cook?"
"Some things. I've never cooked under the threat of a beating. By the way, what do you beat me with?"
"A whip."
"How civilised. I'd feared a club, or your fists."
"Touch of sarcasm there. From you it's appealing. Ordinarily it would be a no-no. I'll get you a list of prohibitions and penalties when you're ready."
"Are you telling me I get punished for being human?"
Brice ignored the question. He was searching for reactions. His command was quiet. "Go to the mezzanine, Ingrid. There's a small table with only one thing on it. Bring me the one thing." She had no wish to obey. On the other hand... ? "You mean, you trust me out of your sight? All I need is a knife to cut this rope, and I'm gone." Ingrid eyed him levelly.
"Thanks for the warning. Run along."
She felt a child, handled and managed. But she was curious. With seeming indifference she took the first short snubbed steps of her errand, not bothering to stop for his jibe.
"I'll say good-bye, Ingrid, in case you don't come back." He was so damnably complacent, the typical male. Chagrined, Ingrid discovered locked doors, barred windows, and a total absence of anything sharp. She took her time, searching, but her feet remained joined by rope. When she came to the small table she viewed the object she must deliver with an infinite distaste. Handing it to her amused captor on her return, she caustically inquired.
"Buy them from the policeman?"
"Your hands, Ingrid."
She resisted the temptation to slap his face. She was being altogether too pliant, too willing to follow sweet reason rather than the smoldering anger deep inside. But so long as Ireland's demands were not impossible... ! Miss Ingrid Ranier held out her hands and watched her wrists locked in steel.
"Tremendous convenience, handcuffs."
"For you, yes." The captive held up her linked hands to view, then fingered them in the curiosity of a strange sensation. "I suppose, in front like this, they're symbolic? They deliver a message?"
"Yeah, but do you get it?"
"I got it when you took my clothes. Loud and clear. I don't have anything to say about anything."
'Mmmmmmm, good. It's a beginning."
"It's an end."
"Sit down and listen." Brice said irritably. "That's better. See this as a beginning, because you're going to start watching what you say and do. You're going to ask yourself each time if it's normal to your new condition or whether you're harbouring an additional resentment."
"Couldn't you get a domestic pet or a bird in a cage? That's the sort of thing you want, isn't it?"
"You know better than that little sarcasm."
"I think you want something to own." Ingrid stopped playing with the handcuffs long enough to bestow a hard stare. "With what you've got you could get a hundred girls, but none of 'em would want to be kept in a cage." She held up her cuffed hands. "Or wear these."
"Right. You're getting to the nub."
It was a nub Ingrid did not want to face. She supposed she should feel grateful for being allowed to grope into confrontation by her own deductions and the lubricant of repartee. Brice Ireland had not yet been brutal, but she had given him no cause. Conscience nagged that she had not fought. But to fight, knowing she could not win... ! It just wasn't sensible. At nineteen she would have fought, at twenty-six she'd play a game of wits.
"I think you want some sort of submission out of me." She ventured slowly. "But why not beat me, or use your whip? I'm sure I'd come crawling about the third blow?"
"Hackneyed. Too obvious. Crude. No fun, no refreshment for the spirit."
"Are you lonely, Mr. Ireland? Is that it?"
"No surnames. I've already told you." He eyed her keenly. "You're perceptive. Yes, I'm lonely. But not in the way you're thinking. A man can be intimate with a hundred girls and lonely with every one of 'em."
"But that's life. Why d'you suppose it might be different with me?" .
"Luck of the draw. Besides, none of the hundred got themselves arrested in Gaines County."
So, she was an experiment! Desperately, she propounded the practical. "Beu... Brice--my friends? And there were men in my life? What about my job? And the police--I mean the real one's and the F.B.I.? Am I worth what they could do to you?"
"You simply vanish. No body, no ransom. They'll write you off as being with a man someplace."
It was like watching the construction of a fence with herself inside its circular impregnability. To kidnap a girl was obviously the simplest of crimes. "I expect you're right." Ingrid agreed soberly. "But it's frightening... like closing walls. May I have another drink?"
"Help yourself. You can. Bring me one too."
Snubbed steps. Hands coping with an unfamiliar link. The bite of chrome on busy wrists. Ingrid obeyed, consigning the nag of conscience into limbo. Conscience was not handcuffed or its ankles roped. Conscience did not understand. She served her captor first, disdaining sulks.
It was the strangest day of Ingrid Ranier's life. Impossible but happening! Drinks led to dinner. The naked girl, still handcuffed, helped in its preparation and ate it in a shared intimacy of candlelight. She was then freed of steel and rope and taken to her captor's bed. She judged it midnight when she was led downstairs, her pleadings to sleep normally in bed ignored. "Another beginning, Ingrid. Don't moan."
The lighting was clever. Each segment of the old prison took on the atmosphere of a stage awaiting the players. The perfection of each setting robbed it of malice. The captive girl, entirely free of bonds, watched the unlocking of a barred door.
"I don't want to walk in there, Brice."
"You won't be the first. Go ahead."
"I'll get the heebie-jeebies in there. I'll scream. Brice, you've been kind this evening. Why this now?"
"Dammit, girl, I'm not going to torture you. Get in there." Naked Ingrid took the fatal steps into a small world of stone and bars, looking around in wonder that this could happen. Yesterday was sundered into limbo.
"More symbolism, Ingrid. Stand still."
A shapeless pile of metal and links became endowed with life in Brice Ireland's hands. Rusty, it would have held menace, shining and sleek it possessed a beauty all its own. Bare ankles were shackled before their naked owner realized she might have fought or run.
One central ring. From it ran the chains to wrists and ankles, which were themselves joined. Pulse throbbing, the captive girl held out her hands and watched the metal bands lock snug upon her wrists. She could separate them by no more than twelve inches, and raise them no higher than her navel.
"But I can't do anything! I can't even touch my face!"
"They took no chances in those days, didn't want a prisoner bopping the jailer."
"But that's absurd! I'm only a girl, and I'm naked. Brice, these things are unreal on me. Take them off." - "If you sit and raise your feet your hands will be free to tidy your hair. Very practical."
"For felons, not for me. Brice... ? Please?"
"Symbolism! Your own word, remember?"
"Well, yes, with handcuffs. But this... ! I'm dressed in links and metal bands, and I can't do anything, and it's all so heavy. I can't possibly sleep --"
"You can. You will. The house provides a blanket."
The newly chained girl turned to the narrow cot. On its thin mattress a woolen blanket was neatly folded, that was all. Behind her the door clanged shut and Brice's sardonic 'goodnight' was lost in the surrounding dark as the prison lights went out, leaving only her own barred cage with a comforting yellow glow. Ingrid's instant cry of: 'Brice, come back!' echoed through the bars and died against the closing of a door. Miss Ingrid Ranier was alone.
She was also locked in a prison cell, she was naked, she was chained in a medieval set of shackles. She was scared. Primal fear bristled the nape of her neck and tied a small knot in her tummy. In a forlorn hope she clanked her way to where she could grasp the door in fettered hands and test its lock. It was solid, she could not even extract a rattle or quarter inch of play. Undoubtedly the old Spaniards had received modern help in making this a prison for a girl.
She sat on the cot and lifted her feet to where her knees were beneath her chin. It was true: this way she had hands. They were by no means free but could serve a need. She fingered the wide bands locked tight on wrist and ankle as though tailored to fit. She could never free herself, and it would be some present day craftsman who was laughing, not a Spanish smith long dead.
It was then Ingrid Ranier noticed the tiny basin and taps and the unobtrusive toilet in the corner without direct light. Sight of such modernity made her want to giggle, and seemed faintly obscene until their full significance struck her like a blow. She could be locked in here forever. She had already seen the narrow orifice in the bars through which a plate could be passed... Her feet fell to the floor with a clatter as she tore furiously at her chains.
It was easy to cry. Fear, frustration, naked and alone in a cage, fettered by irons... ! Once more, the captive girl raised her feet so as to bury her face in her chained hands and weep. She knew now she would never get free, not ever. The manacles on her now were more than symbols of captivity, they were captivity In them she was helpless. Even if the door opened magically she could make only a pitiful attempt at flight.
Brice Ireland was her nemeses. He was not insane. He was not an enigma. He was simply a man with power. Lots of men wanted to own and subdue a girl. Money kept most of them from doing it. But, judging from this house, Ireland was not short of money. She was kidnapped by a man who would use her in ways to please himself. He was an adult man, no callow boy with fervid fantasies of lust. Ireland possessed his own subtleties. He would test her, taking her to the brink of screams and then stop. He could be listening now, she was so utterly at his mercy. Idly, she wondered why they were so good together in bed, and did it have significance. It might be a sop, a sedative to keep her under control. She had read somewhere that tortured girls made good bed partners.
Ingrid Ranier arranged herself and her chains upon the cot. The blanket proved absurdly difficult for chained hands.
She slept, and dreamed a dream.
CHAPTER TWO - THE DREAM
Avilar motioned impatiently for the opening of the cell door. "Get her out of there. Get her covered, I can't drag her to the ship naked."
The Countess Ingrid Del Torres wound the proffered sackcloth around her nudity and tied it at her waist with string. It was too low above and too high below, but it was the best covering she could expect. She looked Avilar evenly in the eyes and asked: "Do I go to be burned? Is it the stake for me?"
"You heard me say the ship." Avilar was curt. "If you're burned it will be by his majesty's wish in Madrid. More like, it will be chains and a dungeon." He chuckled, "Or a brand and a brothel where a girl can earn her keep."
"You've made me earn mine here."
He ignored her bitterness. His command to the jailer was curt. "Bind the bitch, and make a job of it."
The Countess Ingrid had given up fighting. Being a tigress with claws only got her pain and more brutality. Passively, she allowed her arms to be gathered at her back, her hands placed palm to palm and her wrists tied with a strip of hide far too raw. "It will shrink." She protested. "You know what happens."
"Oh, aye, we know." the acknowledgment was indifferent.
When a second rawhide looped her elbows her plaint was instant: "I'm not an animal, Avilar. You don't have to bind my arms."
"You're worse than an animal, you're a woman, and a tricky one... " Avilar sneered. "Cord her arms tight, jailer, but use a dozen loops. We don't want her arms falling off before she's safe delivered... "
It hurt, and would hurt worse. But there was naught she could do. Spanish prisoners were lucky if they lived or were imprisoned without torture. She had not been tortured yet. Avilar's hide strips would be torture enough in the name of keeping her safe. Ingrid knew her breasts protuberant and heaving. She would be lucky if they did not escape their covering. But they were there, she could not reduce them a single inch. Men had adored her breasts, but now... !
Avilar and his man took her to the wagon, but not within. When another strip of the untanned hide circled her throat she knew her fate. "You'll make a Countess walk barefoot in the dust with a leash on her neck like a cow? Avilar, your surpass yourself."
"Still your moans, girl. When you're safely ironed in the brig of his Majesty's ship you'll be glad you had the exercise." He laughed shortly. "You'll get damn small chance to use those pretty legs aboard ship, except mayhap to wrap 'em round the Captain's back. But that won't be easy if he irons you well."
Ingrid stood, as helpless as she had ever been, the hide from her neck trailing to the wagon gate. Avilar bowed mockingly. "Adios, Countess. I mourn our parting."
"You can use an Indio girl instead. You'll find she's made the same as I am. I hope you rot."
The start of the wagon jerked her neck. The Countess Ingrid Del Torres took her first unwilling step towards the justice of a Spanish king. She took other hurried steps to gain slack, lest she stumble. Captain Avilar receded in the dust. She did not look back.
It was a bitter trek. If she fell, no one would know and she would die. The dust was relentless in the hot air. The Indios watched her pass with their deep black impassive eyes. There would be no rescue.
By mid-day the bindings on Ingrid's arms had reached the point of torture. The wet hide had shrunk wickedly in the hot sun. When the corporal of the small guard behind the purple flesh he sliced away the strictures and peeled them from his captive's arms and wrists. Concerned, he inserted a finger beneath the noose on Ingrid's neck, then cut that too.
"But you must be bound, Senorita. You understand?"
"Yes, if course, but I'm terribly grateful."
She was allowed to eat and drink and to massage her wealed skin. She sat with the soldiers and the driver in unconcern that their eyes should seek the scantily hidden secrets of her body. In Avilar's prison she had been kept naked and well used. She wondered now if these men would use her before resuming the march. But she was untouched. When the time came she turned and crossed her wrists to have them bound.
"I am sorry, Senorita."
"Thank you. I don't mind... really! This is so much better."
"I will not tie your arms, they are too wounded. But, you neck --" The prisoner raised her chin for the loops that were only snug, not tight. "Why cannot I ride in the wagon, Corporal?"
"Alas, my orders were specific, Senorita. I fear you are being punished." He shrugged. "For what, is not my concern."
"I would arrange a great price for my freedom."
"I am a soldier, madam."
Ingrid let it pass. The corporal had been kind but might feel a duty to punish her if she became importunate. She trudged behind the wagon, more comfortably but knowing herself condemned. Yet surely... ? Somewhere between this moment and a Spanish port... ?
The Galleon's Captain was Castillian. Hawk eyed, ascetic, cold. His interest in his captive's near nudity seemed negligible. "Your guilts have been explained to me, Countess. I do not judge. I transport you from the New World to the old, that is all. I will be obliged if you'll comport yourself with decorum."
"Decorum! Kept half naked! Bound!"
Captain Serra's retort was dry. "Prisoners cannot expect freedom. Countess. You will be housed in the ship's brig, and well ironed."
"Ironed!" Ingrid's exclamation was of genuine disbelief. "But, Captain, I'm only a girl. To put me in irons... what purpose would be served? I cannot escape a ship at sea."
"It is the custom, madam, a rule of the sea. More august rank than yours has known the hammer of our smith. You will not die."
"Can I be properly clothed?"
"You are properly clothed--for your condition."
It was no use. If there was pity in Captain Serra's heart she had failed to find it. Choked with indignation, the Countess Ingrid Del Torres allowed herself to be led below by the rough hand of a grinning seaman.
"We'll get thee some pretty bracelets, M'Lady."
"So I understand."
"Oh aye, and a collar for thy neck."
"I am a fortunate girl." Ingrid wondered if the sarcasm was lost on him. "What other delights have you for me?"
"A good flogging for disobedience or a saucy tongue."
Fear clutched viciously, but her question remained jaunty: "And who will tend my prisonment?"
"Likely me, ma'am. Name's Pietro. I can be kind or cruel--"
"I'm familiar with the cost." She sneered bitterly. "A standard price, I've no doubt."
"I've took a liking to ye, maam. I'll see ye eat well." Pietro squeezed her bound arm. "And here's the jewelry shop."
The smithy was on a deck open to the sea. A fire smoldered in the forge. The smith leered a bucolic goodwill. "We've expected thee, M'Lady, and I've forged thy thinkets. You're not our standard size."
Ingrid saw them on the floor. Fresh links, smoothly filed bands and circlets, absurdly small. Dejectedly, she said to the watching men: "You don't have to hold me while it's done. I won't struggle."
A lifted eyebrow bespoke disbelief. They sat her on a box and placed her foot across the anvil. Male pleasure was tangible as the calloused blacksmith hands fitted heavy iron around a slim female ankle. A white countess was better than a port trollop any day.
Despite dismay, their feminine prisoner watched, fascinated, as rivets were inserted in ready made holes. Ingrid winced and cringed and was glad of Pietro's steadying hands when the hammer rose and fell to splat the softer metal into a seal none but a smith could break. The blows fell shrewdly until the bead was well mashed, a file left smooth bright metal. Two rivets to one anklet. They would have held a mammoth, let alone a girl.
The tethering chain was too short to allow the captive foot a return to the floor while its twin too was ironed. Ingrid sat with both feet raised while the second anklet was welded fast upon her foot. When she stood to test, it was as though she was anchored to the world itself. Her steps were small and weighted.
"So ye'll not swim to shore, lass."
They made her kneel for her wrists. She watched their banding and riveting in the cruel knowledge of liberty lost and a sure and certain delivery to the mercy of a King. Her sentence might be death or the mortification of her spirit by travail. But as the hammer rose and fell she knew herself forsaken to The Law. If she seduced a seaman into aiding her escape they would be helpless without the connivance of the smith. Each metal circlet on her limbs seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
It took rough hands and a fresh arrangement for height before the slender neck of the Countess Ingrid Del Torres could be placed on the anvil for its iron ring. She clutched at the block below with newly fettered hands.
"A pretty necklace, maam, for a sweet neck. I've taken care in its making. Ye'll wear it with pride."
Ingrid doubted the pride. Each hammer blow spelt degradation without hope. The sacking had slipped below her right breast and she could do naught to put it back. Damn them, let them look! She would be surprised if she was not naked in a few days. Men loved a girl's nakedness and hers was protected by a string tied shred.
"No gems, M'Lady. But, for the rest, there's no lady at Court with a better collar--and two more rivets to keep it safe. Twill not come off."
Nothing would come off. Ingrid knew it well. She would wear these irons until delivered to the executioner or to the prison where she would weep away her life... perhaps not even then! Once more she was glad of helping hands. Then, stood, uncaring of carnal eyes, while she fingered in wonder the metal and the linkage which had become a part of her beneath the hammer blows.
"'Tis strangely heavy at the start, M'Lady, but that will pass. Ye're well ironed, but there's little they'll stop ye doing. Even without 'em you'd do little running in the brig."
He could have carried her. But Pietro made her walk to her prison. "Be grateful, maam. There's little walking ye'll be doing.
It was a shameful journey. The heavy chain swirled and snubbed. The men they passed sneered and made lewd comment. Doubtless she was the prime topic on the ship. But Pietro's firm grip on a bare arm ensured delivery. She was a female package, handled, made secure.
Stout timbers, heavy iron rings, a wooden bench, a pail. The Countess Ingrid Del Torres surveyed the narrow space against the ship's hull with distaste. The pail was there but she refused to see it. From one of the rings dangled and trailed a chain. Pietro locked it to the ring in her collar.
'"Les I assault thee?" Ingrid mocked.
"There's some that would." Her jailer growled. "But you're our first woman. We'll follow custom."
They stood, awkwardly, as though something need be said. Ingrid lifted the weight of the newly locked chain and tested its tug against her throat. Every motion elicited a metallic response, her chains would signal every move she made. "I'm glad it's you." She said simply. "I have a feeling you'll be kind."
"What if I fuck ye!"
She shrugged. "I'm a girl." She held up chained wrists. "What can I do! I don't want to be violated, but I won't fight where I must lose."
Pietro approved. She was safely his and could be pierced at his pleasure. She had good sense. She'd make the voyage memorable if the Captain did not interfere. "I'll not leave thee alone too long." He told her soberly. "'Tis a bad thing to be too long alone in irons. Ye may ask for what ye want, but I'll not promise ye'll get it."
The door was as massive as the hull. The thud of its closing sent shivers up the captive's spine. Now that there were none to watch, Ingrid turned her attention to the metal in which she was confined. She cherished the prisoner's perennial hope of finding a way... there had to be a way... ! But there was none. Every band and link and lock was implacable. Avilar must have sent her measurements ahead to ensure such perfection of snug bondage. She could never escape her chains... never!
The bench was narrow and hard. No mattress, no blanket. It bespoke punishment rather than prison. Presumably anyone locked in this small prison must be already condemned as guilty. For the Countess Ingrid Del Torres the voyage would be long and of an infinite tedium. She would sit and play with her chains as a nun might tell her Rosary. For awhile she wept. Then experimented with her irons upon the bench. She would harangue them in convenient ways for sleep. As yet, she was defeatingly aware of their weight all the time. Yet, in truth, they stopped her doing nothing, there was nothing to do.
It was the fourth day before Pietro took away her sackcloth and lay with her on the bench. The chained girl, in the process of her rape, could not deny his strength, his vigor, and a strange gentleness for which she was grateful, and in which she found a female comfort in the release from tension and the ego sustaining assurance of male attention. If that made her a slut, so be it! Ingrid had been well broken to the male thrust in Avilar's prison. It was powerless to give her more than pleasure, and if she was going to die... !
Their sexual congress became a daily event behind a rigidly closed door. Ingrid made no pretense about opening her arms and her legs to a man she might, in other days, have scorned. Pietro gave her solace, he was a happening to break the claustrophobic monotony of her ironed bulkheaded prison. Some days, by his captive's own request, he carried her to the deck where she stood whilst anyone who cared threw pail after pail of water to burst upon her nakedness and make it clean. Captain Serra watched, but from a distance.
It was the second week before Ingrid dared to ask.
"Pietro, if you could, would you free me?"
"I can't. I'm not allowed the smithy."
"I didn't mean that. Any smith anywhere can strike my chains. But, if you could pick me up and carry me to freedom, would you?"
"If you'd be my woman."
Always the price! Ingrid sighed and said, gently: "Yes, Pietro, I would be your woman."
Each was aware of a hurdle crossed. But the man was uneasy.
"Tis dangerous talk, this. We'd best watch our tongues or there'll be one of us each side of the mast for a flogging." Ingrid shrugged. She toyed with the long chain from her collarring. "You could leave the chains on me." She suggested mischievously. "That way I'd be completely yours."
"Oh aye, I could that." She saw his maleness harden and the hunger in his eyes. "But what's the use, lass! You're the King's prisoner, not for the likes of me."
"If you helped me escape, the King wouldn't matter. You know what he'll do to me if I'm delivered."
He nodded soberly. "The stake or the dungeon. 'Tis not right for such as you." He gazed down at her as though seeing her beauty for the first time. "Say naught of this, lass. Let me think on it. If there be a chance...?"
Under a fierce compulsion they once again made love. As had been said, Ingrid's chains stopped nothing... save escape. When Pietro went away she wept. But her tears were not of grief, they were for hope.
Captain Serra took his time. Ingrid had lost count of days by the time he entered and stood looking down at his chained female captive. His thin features were impassive.
"You are well treated, girl?"
She gestured with a shackled hand. "If this is good treatment, yes."
"The man, Pietro? He treats you well?"
"Yes. I think he tries to be kind."
Serra allowed a silence to lengthen before he said quietly. "I am well aware he sleeps with you."
Ingrid tensed. If the Captain noticed he would know. But perhaps he was guessing, setting a trap. "What, with me ironed like this!" She made the exclamation as scornful as she could. "Your chains hinder nothing."
"Is rape the common lot of a female prisoner aboard ship?"
"You are the first I've carried. I do not deal in women." They stared, each one well aware of knowledge. Serra's tone was heavy. "I have watched you dowsed with water on the deck. 'Tis a poor way for a Countess to take her bath."
"'Tis better than stinking."
"You are very beautiful. Far too lovely --"
"You desire me, Captain?"
Ingrid asked it mockingly. But was shocked by his answer. "Yes."
Serra said it somberly as an admission. In the same tone he added, "Holy Church would have me with you at the mast as a harlot."
"A difficult choice, Captain?"
"Not for me, M'Lady, for you."
Ingrid gazed up in his hawk eyed regard, surprised. "You are not ill favoured, Captain. You underrate yourself, you do not need a whip."
"That says you're a harlot."
"Not so!" She stood erect, making such motions as to demonst ironed condition, the chain trailing from her neck. "Look at me, Captain. A girl thus ironed, and like to die at journey's end has no conscience about her flesh. It's already condemned."
"I will use you for the rest of the voyage."
"Very well. You are the Captain. But what of your men: of Pietro...?"
"You are my perquisite. They will not question."
"Is it that the time between ports is long. Captain?"
He shrugged. "That is always there. But, no! It is that I find you entirely too beautiful."
The chained girl sensed his need, his hunger. Again, in mockery, she flaunted her shackles. "And these my bridal gown, Captain?"
"The smith will strike them from you."
"You mean, you'll give me the freedom of your ship?"
"Mmmmmmm... When we're not together I'll have your hands tied at thy back. It will keep ye out of mischief and tell the men you're captive."
"Tied like that I can do nothing --"
"You'll have freedom enough."
It was incredible. The prisoner could scarce believe her fortune. She would be partly free--and if the Captain was as human as Pietro there might be fresh hopes... ? thoughtlessly, she asked: "What of Pietro? He has been --"
"Ah, so he has been thy lover, and the men will know." Serra frowned, thinking hard. Ingrid trembled. "It is best then I have ye whipped as a jade. T'will give a semblance of justice and a warning."
"Warning! To me?"
"Nay. To the men. Seeing you striped will tell them you're to be left alone. They respect the whip. You'll get that benefit from your pain."
It was unjust. Unfair. But caution and awakening hope stilled the girl's protest. Avilar had once sentenced her to a whipping. She had survived. It would be nothing new. Femininely, she quavered: "It sounds so terrible to be whipped, Captain. I am only a girl. What will it do to me?"
"Mark your pretty skin for a week." Serra was dryly unconcerned. "I'll not have you flogged. No metal, no knotted thing. We'll find a ladies lash, or make one."
"Thank you, Captain." It sounded absurd, but the words had come. "I would wish it to be you who wields it."
"It would not be seemly, Countess." Was there a touch of malice in the cold voice! "Perhaps Pietro...?"
The smith was cheerfully amused. But, in the Captain's presence, watched his words. Competently he struck the blows by which the irons fell from Ingrid's limbs. All but the collar. She dared not question why--most likely a reminder of what she had become. For the first few moments the absence of the weight of chains was euphoric. The whip and the Captain's bed mattered little compared to liberty. Docilely, Ingrid allowed herself to be led to the satisfaction of Captain Serra's lust.
Perhaps Pietro would have done the job anyway, but the girl to be whipped could not but wonder if Pietro's hand on her arm as he led her to the deck and to the mast was not some piquancy of Castilian humour. The Captain's revenge for not being the first to take her. Their time was short, their words urgent.
"It changes nothing, Pietro, except that he has taken me for his own pleasure. He will keep me bound."
"It robs me." Pietro growled. "Curse his hide. D'ost still want to be my woman?"
"Of course." Her hand caressed his. "If we enter port, miss no chance. As for the Captain's bed, what choice have I?"
"Oh aye, and you're being whipped to save the Captain's face." Pietro's voice sank to a deeper growl. "And it's me who must whip you, and for the same reason."
"It doesn't matter, Pietro. Whip me as lightly as you dare, and as hard as you must."
They had said it all. Their brief exchange was a bond. Bitterly, Ingrid considered the two men on whom her hopes must lie. Perhaps one of them... ? She could believe her prospects better than on that day when first she had been ironed.
She must be shamed as well as hurt. The crew were well assembled. There was the youngster with his drum. For the first time her whipping became real. She was a girl, naked under many eyes. She was about to be whipped at the behest of a man to whom she had given her body not long since. Her world was crazy.
The rope was long. Ingrid's wrists were knotted a yard apart. She pressed her bare breasts against the mast as ordered, she raised her arms. The rope was tossed round the mast and tugged tight. That was all. It was enough. The Countess Ingrid Del Torres stood naked against the mast of His Spanish Majesty's galleon. Her hands were high and wide. She was helpless. Her naked back was an invitation to the last. Fearfully, she looked from side to side. There were only leers, the interested regard of men who were prepared to enjoy her pain.
Captain Serra did things with style. He read aloud the scroll by which she was condemned. It appeared she had bartered virtue for favor, her body for privilege. She was lascivious and lewd... ! There was quite a lot of it and none of it mattered. What mattered was the roll of drums, the rat, tat, tat which would signal the beginning of agony. It came. It beat its way to where her heart must surely burst in suspense--and then the sudden silence!
It hurt enough, wealing her back. The punished girl thrust hard against the wood, shielding what she could of her nudity. Her wrists would soon be chafed by their battle with the rope they could not defeat. The Countess Ingrid Del Torres did not scream.
During her whipping she looked back once, to behold Pietro's visage as agonized as her own. They shared the same anguish in the giving and receiving of her pain. Captain Serra's aristocratic features betrayed nothing, he was there to witness his own justice consummated. But the captive eyes sought little of the men by whom she was surrounded. Her teeth bitterly clenched, Ingrid thrust her forehard hard against the mast as the leather bit her flesh. It was soon easy to scream, and she knew it wise to scream in tribute to Pietro's lash which could be used more cruelly, yet still was cruel enough. In the same wisdom she tore frantically at her bound wrists, her arms rigid above the writhings of her nudity. The whip was hurting enough that she need simulate nothing. If a Countess was expected to display a greater stoicism when whipped... well, so be it! Ingrid did not care.
"Enough!"
Captain Serra turned and walked away. A monotonous voice had been counting. It told the tied girl she had received twenty strokes. She supposed it humane. The whip had seared and burned enough and was hurting still. But she had no thoughts of death or injury. She was only a naked girl who had been whipped as punishment, and now her whipping was done. She let herself hang limply from roped arms.
"You're to go straight to him." Pietro's whisper rasped in her ear as he reached to loose her bonds. "Can you walk alone? Them's his orders."
"Yes, oh yes! Oh, Pietro, I'm so grieved at what I must do."
"Aye, and I by what I've done. Ye bore it well."
Ingrid turned and faced the eyes and was much shamed. Hungrily, they burned at all her femaleness. She suspected they had been warned to keep her from the rail and a leap to suicide. She flashed back at them scornfully and marched with measured paces to her master's bed. But, despite pain and shame, she exulted in the freedom of her limbs. If ravishment would buy her liberty it was a small price.
The Captain's prowess belied the aestheticism of his fine boned face. Serra was as hungry as his men. Ingrid sensed his awareness of her whipped back and the added potency it endowed. Wealed flesh, burning beneath her weight, induced new and vivid sensualities of her own. Laying beside him afterwards she wondered why this simple act should be clothed in mystery and armoured by prohibition. The sheath between her thighs had been used so much she had ceased her initial concern. It was her only weapon. Without it, she would have been executed long since. But her indictment and transportation prolonged the benefits it could bestow on those who held her prisoner. Captain Serra was lucky. Perhaps, if her moist flesh became an addictive drug... ! Ingrid nestled sensuously. This was better than the brig.
"T'would be a cruel and senseless thing to burn ye at the stake, girl." Serra stood, looking down at the living beauty he temporarily owned. "Are ye sure...?"
"The stake or a dungeon... and heavier irons." Ingrid gazed back at him admiringly. "This is what I am told."
His Majesty would never permit --"
"He could give me to the Church. They'd soon torture all the confessions they wanted out of me. My end would be the same."
"I cannot believe... you're too beautiful --"
"Yet you'll have me safely ironed and delivered, as is your duty, Captain. Will ye not?"
Serra started, as though awakened from sleep. "Aye, I have no choice." He admitted slowly. "But I'd find no joy in it."
"You found joy in watching me whipped, and in laying with me after. Think, Captain, ye can have me whipped daily and sleep with me each night of this voyage... ? But what then?"
"You're deliberately wanton."
"I wish to live."
They understood each other. Serra would commit himself no further as yet, he would take time to think. But the girl before him was of surpassing loveliness... ! Gruffly, he ordered: "Get up. Drape something round your hips before I bind your hands. I want no man looking --" With feminine skill, the whipped girl tore and folded to make a brief covering for her sex. It was good to have it covered. Flaunting her pubic hair could lead to naught but trouble. Tentatively, she asked: "My breasts...?"
"T'would look silly, girl. Leave them bare."
"Must my hands truly be bound?"
"Yes. You're a prisoner. Tis best for all to know, including yourself."
"Does not the iron collar on my neck tell my condition?"
"'Tis a symbol, and it becomes thee. Turn round."
Ingrid turned, arms at her back, wrists crossed. It was an exercise she knew all too well. She stood stiffly erect as the Captain's cords circled and bit and were knotted tight. When she turned back to face him again she said, simply: "Thank you. Captain, I'm sure you know best."
"No suicidal nonsense, no throwing yourself overboard?"
"No. On my honour. You don't believe that of me."
"My ship is yours, M'Lady."
The Countess Ingrid Del Torres walked out into the sunlight. Her days were breathless, her nights a vivid clutching at the straws of life. She spent much time in the open air, strolling the deck, hands tied behind her back to keep her helpless. Ingrid had long since ceased to care when hard male eyes stared at her bare breasts. A girl's breasts were a fact of life. If hers gave pleasure she could feel pride. On the afternoon of each third day she was whipped.
Ingrid accepted her whippings as needful. They served some code between the Captain and his crew, tempering lust with justice in a way she did not question. Even had she been whipped, he would prefer it to the brig. By Navy standards her lashes were light, she was by no means flogged. Perhaps it was Serra's way of sharing her. The whipped girl believed Pietro's blows grew more severe with each infliction. But she bore them without complaint: Pietro was a much frustrated man.
There was always the ritual in which she walked alone to the mast, tossed aside the covering of her loins, then stood naked against the huge timber to be bound. She knew each movement, performing them passively, but screaming lustily in tribute to Pietro's skill. When her twenty strokes were done she no longer went to Serra's cabin. But was left bound to the mast for a full hour. This, too, was some sort of ritual she did not understand. But it did not matter, she was not going anywhere, and it gave the crew a good look at her well marked back. When her arms grew tired of being stretched above her head she allowed her wrists and the rope to take their weight. It was on the fourth such whipping, when she was being untied, that Pietro's growl was urgent in her ear.
"Tonight, lass. When the Captain's asleep come out on deck. I'll be waiting--and there'll be a boat."
They dared not confer, there was no chance to talk. Pietro had given her the bare bones of escape. Ingrid could take or leave them as she chose. Her heart thudded painfully for the rest of the day, her tied hands twisting nervously in their knots. She had her heart's desire... and was frightened.
Ingrid, strangely, suffered the pangs of disloyalty, of betrayal of the man who had freed her from the brig and from the irons which would have made escape impossible. In the morning Serra would awake to an empty bed and dishonour. To allow the Countess Del Torres to elude The Law would be a black, black mark indeed. She hovered close to tears.
But, on the other hand, Serra had said nothing of escape or the freedom he might connive for her. She knew he thought of it. But that he should say nothing... ? The freedom Serra might, or might not, bestow was nebulous. But Pietro was positive. With Pietro in the small boat the galleon would soon be lost in the darkness and a new life begin. There would be no burning at the stake... ! When Ingrid considered it, there was really no choice.
It was in the nature of the perversity of life that the Captain's lovemaking that night should be unusually passionate and highly skilled. Ingrid knew herself torn by tumultuous emotion but was heartbreakingly sure she felt the stirrings of something more than lust in his arms as they clutched at her and would not let her go. She felt unspeakably vile in her care and caution to arrange their close nudity so there were no arms or legs prisoned beneath the weight of coupling. Sensing these guilty stirrings, Serra laughed and demanded: "Get thy cord and give me thy hands."
Fearful and trembling, she obeyed. Did he know? Did he guess? She posed her nudity conveniently for him and crossed her wrists in the familiar way behind her back, wincing at a tight knot.
"I'll keep ye safe 'till morning."
There was gentle raillery in his voice, no trace of suspicion. When he had kissed her soundly and been kissed back with equal fervour Serra relapsed and went to sleep with nothing more than a hand upon her breast.
Tied hands did not matter. Ingrid had learned to do much with tied hands. When the sea air struck cold on her heated skin Pietro was there as promised. He took no time with her bound hands but carried her bodily to the rail where he roped her beneath her breasts and lowered her to the waiting boat. "Make no sound." He cautioned. "I'll be but a moment."
It was more than a moment. The nude girl shivered at the immensity of the sea, the bulk of the Galleon, beside which the tiny craft in which she sat, bound and helpless, seemed a frail shell. The pistol shot and the scream came as no more than a part of the nightmare. A black bulk hurtled over the rail to splash heavily and sink. Pietro was dead. The Countess Ingrid Del Torres looked up fearfully, knowing what she must see. Among the several male faces peering down at her there was only one that mattered.
It was Captain Serra.
CHAPTER THREE - INGRID
You know how it is when a dream won't let you go. I woke up in Brice Ireland's Spanish prison, but a part of me was still back there in that little boat, tugging at my tied hands and knowing my world had come to an end. It took me a minute as the mists faded to realize I was pulling at the steel of Brice Ireland's shackles and not at Captain Serra's rope. I shivered. I suppose the cell I was locked in was better than being burned at the stake. But, either way, my future wasn't that rosy. I sat up and gazed at metal bars, cold stone, and morning. It didn't seem possible I'd slept all night while locked in all those shackles, but I had. I clattered over to the washbowl and had a drink.
The girl was Mexican, pert, pretty, young. She probably did more for the man who had me prisoner than clean his house. She held a tray and surveyed me with bright interest through the bars.
"Senor Ireland, he is gone for business. He says apology. He says for you to be good girl and do what I say. He calls me Trixie which is not my name. I bring you breakfast." She delivered her package with smiling complacency and thrust the tray through the slot provided.
"Why don't you open the door?"
"There is no need. You take the tray before I let it drop."
I took the tray. It was within range of my chains. I set it on the cot and hunched myself up beside it so as to get enough slack chain to use my hands. The coffee was hot- and good. My Spanish galleon sailed out of memory and was replaced by Trixie.
"Is very cute, the way you sit in chains."
"Try it sometime. You can have these."
"You are such a pretty bird in a nice cage, Miss Ranier." She giggled happily. "I watch you through the bars. You do not mind?"
"Would it matter if I did? Trixie, how much money do you want to set me free?"
The little so and so sighed in mock sorrow. "Such naughtiness! You must never ask for escape. You will be much sorry."
"I'm much sorry now."
"You do not like being Mr. Ireland's captive girl?" She managed to make me sound an ungrateful bitch. "Is not many girls so lucky."
Trixie was bright and cheerful. I was ashamed of her seeing me all chained up and naked, but I didn't want her to go and leave me alone, so I asked: "After breakfast, can I have something to wear please?"
"How you put clothes on, the way you fixed? And anyway, clothes is forbidden. You must be always naked."
"O.K.. Now, tell me why Mr. Ireland wants me a prisoner like this?"
"Because we girls are so difficult for men. They do not understand us. So it is much easier for Mr. Ireland to keep you here like this. If you argue he will punish you, so you become very good girl just the way he wants. You will not complain of headaches when he wish to fuck."
Trixie had all the answers. Irritably, I asked: "How'd you like it if you were chained in here instead of me?"
She sniffed as though I'd said something silly. Her eyes flashed. "You think I have not been! When I am bad Senor Ireland puts me in his prison down here and I have to wear all sorts of things he locks on me. He also whips my bottom very hard. I cry and cry."
"Why d'you put up with it?"
Her reproach made me feel an idiot. "Mr. Ireland fucks so well, and he pays such high wages... " Trixie giggled again. "And does to a girl is no more than she can bear. I do not mind." She sobered slightly. "There was once he kept me in prison a whole week. I did not like that much and I cried many tears. But I had been very bad, and when he set me free he was so sweet."
"He says he's going to keep me in chains and locked up all the rest of my life--and I haven't done a single bad thing."
"You should not listen to men. What they tell us girls, it is poof... such hot air."
"I'm so helpless. That's what bothers me." I told her seriously. "I can't ever escape unless someone helps me. Please, Trixie, help me? You could!"
"Then it would be who sits chained behind the bars, and with a very sore bottom.
"No you wouldn't. You can run away with me."
"And lose all that lovely money--and a guy so good in bed!" She almost withered me with contempt. She made me realize what a spot I was in, and no way out. No way!
"I've finished eating." I said humbly. Come and get the tray."
"You want me to open door. You think I take you for walk, or maybe make love. No! You stay locked inside.
The little bitch was adamant. It made me cringe to be so much at someone's mercy. I pushed the tray back through the slot and wondered if I'd be doing the same thing twenty years down the road. "Thank you for a nice breakfast." I said wanly. "I wish you'd help."
"You are very sweet and very silly, Miss Ranier. But I like you very much. I will only whip you lightly so you don't scream."
Turning to leave, she added, "There is nice surprise coming. It will not be long."
It was a terrible feeling, knowing I could not follow her, that all I could do was go to the door and clutch the bars with my chained hands and look through them as though there was something to see. For something to do I went to the bowl and tried to wash. It wasn't a bit easy against the pull of my chains, and I got myself wet in the wrong places and had to try and dry myself with the blanket because there wasn't any towel. As a wash, it wasn't much. But it kept me occupied and angry until a female voice shocked me half out of my skin.
"Miss Ingrid Ranier, I believe? You can call me Liz."
Johdpurs, a white silk shirt, riding boots like polished mahogany, -a riding crop. Liz was expensive and beautiful and maybe thirty-seven. Impulsively, I said what seemed to make sense.
"Oh, thank goodness you've come! Please get me out of this mess. I'm all chained, and the door's locked."
Her laughter was a trill of delight. "Of course the door's locked, you poor sweet thing. And, of course, you're chained. And no, I'm sorry but I won't get you out of any of it. I think it's delightful."
"A man named Ireland --"
"Yes. He's a constant diversion. Damned amusing idiot. He's asked me to look after you while he's away. I intend to look after you beautifully."
I just stood there, fists clenched, pulling at their chains, and said, stupidly: "You mean, you won't help me?"
"You don't need help, dear. You're a very lucky girl."
I was stuck. It was alright for her, she was free and on the other side of the bars. I must have sounded bitter: "Lucky! I wish you'd tell me how."
"You mustn't be peevish, I don't like peevish girls, dear. As for luck... Why, it's Brice Ireland and all his lovely money who's got you... and there's me... and darling young Trixie.
You're going to have the time of your life."
"I want to go home."
"Believe me, Ingrid love, that rotten little apartment of yours was never farther away. You and me and Trixie are going to nibble each other to bits. I'm going to whip you, and we'll sort out all those lovely chains and things Brice has collected and we'll make you simply gorgeous in them. I don't see why you'd want to go home."
"I do want to--more than ever."
"You'll feel better after I've whipped you, dear."
Liz was like talking to a concrete wall. But she was so bright and sparkling in her enthusiasms. Baffled, I tried again: "Please don't be unkind. Being whipped can't possibly make a girl feel better --"
"Ah, but the way I do it...!"
"You've no right --"
"Think you can stop me, dear?"
"Probably not." I gazed dolefully through the bars and rattled my chain. "I can't stop anybody doing anything." I added pathos: "Please, Liz, give me back my life."
"A touching line, dear. I must remember it."
"I don't understand any of this." I rattled my chains angrily. "Who are you? Who's Brice Ireland? Why am I a prisoner?"
"Temple, temper!" Liz shook a mischievous finger. "Gosh, there's no mystery... Brice is rich. He gets bored. I'm rich enough myself that he can't put me where you are--not that he hasn't tried! Anyway, he decided to acquire a totally unknown girl and keep her in a cage, whether she liked it or not. It turned out to be you." Liz smiled affectionately. "Just the luck of the draw, sweet thing."
It hit me. Like when you break a leg. It's happened and you can't go back and un-happen it. I was in Brice's cage and couldn't get out. Both Liz and Trixie seemed, genuinely, to think freedom for Ingrid was purely a silly non-event. They weren't going to help me.
"Oh, alright." I conceded ungraciously. "But couldn't you let me out of this cell? I could shuffle around the house with you and, chained like this, I can't possibly escape or do you any harm."
"Lovely idea, sweetness, but I've got a better one."
The better idea was Trixie. She and Liz smiled at each other in a way to tell me I was in for the high jump. But when they unlocked my cell door my spirits rose.
"You can fight if you like, dear, we really don't mind." They unlocked the awful chains. I felt as though I had wings as they led me to where they were going to be mean. When I realized what they were up to I fought like a wildcat.
"We know a few Masonic grips, dear. Do tell you when you're ready to be a good girl."
Liz was twisting one of my arms, Trixie was twisting the other. Both hurt, and I couldn't do a thing. Quick and shamed, I said: "I'll be a good girl--I will--I will!"
They put me in the center of the room, the chamber, the big cell, or whatever you want to call it. They tied my hands way up above my head but said I could have my feet because they wanted to see what I did with them. I remember gasping. "You're going to whip me. It's not fair. It's cruel... and I'm naked."
"Ever been whipped, sweetness?"
"Of course not! Girls don't get whipped --"
"You'd be surprised." Liz sounded very happy. Trixie's eyes were shining but it was Liz's show. She nodded and said: "Go ahead, Trix', get her in the mood."
I could have kicked but I'll admit there was no way I wanted to thrust my heel into the smiling face that knelt close and gathered my legs into loving feminine arms. I was still preoccupied with my tied wrists and a brand new sort of helplessness. But I soon exclaimed: "I'm not a lesbian! Leave me alone."
"You're so lucky," said Liz.
Trixie separated my thighs, her mouth, a rich, hot fervid mouth, enveloped the lips of my sex, her tongue sought and found entry...
"When I whip a girl I do it right, dear."
Sure, sure, I still could have kicked. But I didn't want to. And anyway, I couldn't get loose. I also had the feeling I'd get whipped a lot worse if I did lash out and landed a solid kick someplace it hurt. I was sort of stretched... and with what Trixie was doing... ! Well, anyway --" It was a new and awful sort of pain on a part of me where pain had never been. A hundred scorpions had suddenly bitten a streak across my back. I was still gasping and trying to adjust when they bit me again."
Such lovely marks, Ingrid dear!"
I don't know how I'd have acted if Trixie's mouth had not possessed me between my thighs. It was controlling me down there as effectively as the ropes did up above. I was stretched and delivered and gasping from two vivid fleshly responses I could not control and which were oceans apart but strangely similar. I started to moan, and I bet it sounded awful.
"You see, Ingrid, you are lucky. Where else...?"
I'm ashamed of the whole thing. I behaved disgracefully. Between them they could make me say anything they wanted. I became a palpitating gasping bit of female who hurt like crazy from the scorpions above, and was thrust into a lovely pit of passion by Trixie's mouth below. Trixie's tongue apparently knew every crevice inside of me and made its most skillful thrusts just when Liz's whip cut my back or my bottom. The whole torment was interspersed by Liz's conversational pleasantries.
"I have a nice flexible cane for your bottom, dear. Do try this and give me an opinion."
I tried it for sure. I had to. I muttered something about being cut in two. Liz thoughtfully cut me again on the same spot while Trixie's tongue had found exactly the spot. I exploded into such an orgasm as no girl ever had, it was cosmic, a total eruption of all of me. I moaned out extraordinary sounds.
"Still think you're not lucky, dear?"
There was no way I could do anything about anything, certainly not about Trixie and Liz. There was only the briefest of intermissions while they both admired my writhings and sound effects before returning to their task of reducing me to a nothing, nothing. For a little while Trixie's tongue was the worst, but that didn't last. As the scorpions stung me again and again I heard myself saying: "Please... anything... ! Tell me what you want I'll do it I'll do it."
"Still thinking of escape, dear?"
What a question! Before I could think up a good lie or a smart crack Liz planted her worst cut yet across my rear end. It made up my mind real quick. I couldn't get my behind out fast enough.
"No! No! Ohhhhhh... Noooooo!!!"
Another fearful impact and the kind suggestion. "Let's try that again, Ingrid love."
"No, I don't want to escape--I don't want to! Please don't ever let me escape or set me free." I don't know what else I might have come out with if I hadn't climaxed right there again. Liz whipped me vigorously all the way through my gasps and moans and constellations until at the end of it I just hung there limp, panting and wet with sweat. Trixie's tongue was just gently licking my lips. Once in a while she plucked one of my pubic hairs from her mouth.
"Do you see what I mean about a nice whipping, dear?"
"Yes--oh, yes!"
"I knew you would. Changes things, eh?"
"Yes... oh--oh--oh...!"
The hell of it was she was right. I wasn't thinking the way I had an hour ago. I don't mean I was broken by the lash or any such melodramatic slush, but something had changed. The something was me, but I couldn't really give it a name. I was also still naked and firmly tied. My whipping might resume. Trixie's tongue was still at work but not it was only a gentle tantalization. Liz's query came with equal sweetness.
"Shall we say another ten strokes, dear?"
"Oh no! Oh, please not any more."
I got the ten. Slowly, and so they hurt real bad. Trixie was no longer between my legs. She was standing to one side watching me with deep, dark interested eyes. I now understood what they meant about my legs, I kicked like crazy. I also screamed.
"In case you're curious. Dear, we're training you to obedience. It's quite difficult to learn, y'know."
At that moment I knew I'd be the most obedient girl in the world. I also knew it wouldn't last. Liz knew it too.
"We'll whip you often, dear, it has such a beautifully salutary effect, and you'll be whipped as punishment when you forget. I do so want you to realize how very lucky you are."
"Yes... oh, thank you -- yes!"
I still didn't think I was lucky. If it hadn't been for Trixie's tongue I'd be having screaming hysterics. My scalded back and bottom were doing some screaming of their own. But I sure got those words of gratitude out in a hurry. I'd have said anything.
"I don't believe a word you say, dear. But that's all right for now. We've made progress. Trixie will until you now. Tell me, what's the first thing you'll do?"
"Should I kneel, or crawl, or something...?"
"Goodness, what naivete! Trixie and I are going to take our clothes off. Does that give you a clue?"
I got the clue. I didn't want it. But I was still tied and naked, and Liz still held the whip. In a pale small voice I said: "Yes, I understand--but I'm not experienced."
"Yes you are. Besides, we'll teach. The main thing is to be willing to learn. Would you like me to whip you some more, dear?"
"No, er, thank you. I'll really try."
It felt so good again to be free. I can understand how they brainwash prisoners with the alternate kind and cruel treatment. I could feel myself respond. But I suddenly found myself looking at a pair of the loveliest female bodies I'd ever seen. They were quite different but each, in her own way, breathtaking. Especially since I knew what I was expected to do with them. Liz and Trixie looked at me expectantly and I could swear their pussies peeped at me hopefully too. I fell on my knees and quavered: "You'll sort of have to tell me--I mean, just how you want--I mean, the position --?"
They were delighted with me. I was a living Barbie doll to play with. Trixie got me first. She said there were lots of ways but she was going to stand with her feet apart and hold on to a handful of my hair and I'd better be good.
Well, I'm not dumb and I'm not all that naive. I know about pussies. But I'd never stared a pussy in the face in quite this way. In a real close-up they look different--and knowing you're going to get right inside... ! Trixie had the thickest black bush I'd ever seen. Between the Spaniards and the Indios they'd bequeathed her the most impressive thatch ever. In a quick determination not to be whipped any more I buried my face in it.
"Isn't she sweet!"
"Uhhuh." Trixie widened her feet another inch.
I did it! The pungency of Trixie's sex did not defeat me as I'd feared, and she actually had a taste. It was a lovely, exciting taste. I hate to say I lapped it up, but I did. Her hands and voice guided me and Liz, with her whip, flicked my back as a reminder and offered suggestions of her own.
"Subtlety, precious girl, don't make hard work of it." Trixie got her orgasm. She said it wasn't the best ever but was not the worst. She would not have me whipped. I said "Thank you" and looked dubiously at Liz.
"I'll lay on the bench, dear. You arrange me."
It was like arranging Tiffany's best, such a wealth of gorgeous flesh. I was terribly embarrassed about tugging Liz's hips this way and that and kneeling between her spread thighs. She hadn't spread them, I had. I was obliged to in order to get my mouth where it had to go. I figured Liz as way out of my class and approached her pussy almost with reverence. It was exquisitely perfumed and I kissed it first as a sort of homage. If I didn't please her I'd be whipped. Knowing that made it all so simple.
It was the prelude. I'd made two females happy. Now all I had to do was walk to the next room and still while I made them happier still. At least, I was out of where I'd been whipped. I wouldn't get taken back there if I could help it.
Brice Ireland must have spent a fortune. His collection of objects by which a girl could be hurt or made helpless was out of this world. Liz and Trixie fitted and tried out enough pain givers to satisfy De Sade.
"This belt for her middle, Trixie. It's got little spikes --" They were so happy. I wished I was happy, too. When they tired of me they'd lock me back in the cell, the same as putting their Barbie back on her shelf. I tucked my tummy in as ordered and stood apprehensively as the jewelled metal circle was locked round my middle. When I let my muscles go it felt like all the scorpions were back at work. Hastily, I tucked my tummy back in and complained: "I can't possibly wear that, it hurts something awful, there's needles...!"
"God for posture, dear. Don't complain."
"And here's a collar, Miss Liz."
I raised my chin obediently for the collar. It was almost as bad as the belt. If I sagged or let my chin drop the little needles went to work. Two serpents had been locked on me and I'd better be a good girl. I wished I wasn't a prisoner and we were just girls having fun.
"Look, a chastity belt--two of them!"
They debated whether I should be locked in the one with the prong or the conventional item for flighty wives. I might have known --!
"Here's some grease, Miss Liz... and we'll have to sort of push it in gently --"
"Open your legs, Ingrid. Don't look so martyred."
It was enormous, an awful black thing--hateful! I did everything I was told and ended up with the whole twelve or fourteen inches up inside. I wouldn't have believed... !
"It's gorgeous the way it hugs her hips and curves for her crotch, it's so beautifully snug on her groin."
It was. It fit me like a glove. I would certainly remain chaste but, also, I wouldn't be able to pee. I wanted to giggle and cry at the same time. I mean... they shoved so much at me."
"And there's this for her breasts. She's got such wonderful breasts."
I wanted to cry. Everything hurt, but not enough to make me scream. It was clever. I suspected I was being tested. I plucked up enough courage to venture: "Please don't injure my breasts."
"As if we would, sweets." Liz sounded sincere. "But we simply must try this."
I've got lovely breasts, and this thing was designed for lovely breasts. It circled them with rich metal and costly jewels in a sort of open bra without shoulder straps. It joined at my back. "You see the sort of screw thing, Miss Liz... "
Liz must have seen it. The bra tightened. My breasts hardened and thrust themselves defensively through the costly circles which got tighter and tighter until it began to hurt to breathe. By that time my breasts were engorged and huge and stuck out in front of me like beacons. My nipples were the same, I'd never seen them so rampant. It was like wondering about the frontal equipment of some other girl.
"That's enough, the poor darling's starting to hurt. Is there anything in the pile for her nipples?"
Sure there was. I could have bet on it. If you're going to hurt a girl never forget her nipples. It isn't just the hurt, it's the terrible fear... ! In this case they were neat little butterfly clips.
"We won't leave them on long enough for your tits to fall off, darling. Don't be scared."
I winced and gasped with each of the little horrors. Liz clipped one on my left nipple and Trixie clipped my right. I didn't do any evasive action, I was still remembering the whip. I stood very still and tense as the butterflies bit my breasts. I wanted to cry, there seemed no end of the things they could do to me, and they were so terribly happy... there'd be no stopping...
"Gosh, she's lovely!"
"Isn't she a honey, the way she's standing."
"Please," I said humbly, "give me a break."
"Are you hurting that bad, dear?"
"Well... yes."
"Not too sure though. Trixie, what else has Brice got?"
"Just chains and suchlike, Miss Liz--unless we gag her?"
"That would be nice. But it stops her talking, and I want her to be able to tell us how it hurts." She turned brightly to me. "You do hurt a little, darling?"
"I hurt a lot--oh, Liz!"
"Walk round and round the room, dear, until I tell you to stop. Walking makes it real for you."
Did it ever! The prong inside me was suddenly a ramrod, a pole, a live thing responding to every motion. My engorged breasts bobbed and the butterflies on my nipples danced and fluttered. My metalled hips and loins protested every step. The needles in the collar and belt stung rhythmically as I took my obedient steps. Soon I was dabbing at tears. I knew I looked beautiful and erotic and exciting, and Trixie and Liz wouldn't believe about the pain and how helpless I felt with everything locked tight on me, but it hurt, hurt, hurt...
"She's crying. How sweet."
"Keep very erect, dear, things won't bite so much and the effect's positively delicious."
I went on being delicious for them for quite a long time. I sniveled and wept like a kid. All the things fastened on or in me were so personal and unkind. They'd left me my hands but all I could have done with them was unclip the butterflies from my nipples. But I didn't dare do that. Gosh... no way!
Finally they got bored and let me stand still. I felt silly and lost and frightened, and far more in bondage than if I'd been in chains. I couldn't breathe without everything telling me it was there and had me safe. If I'd had to fight or run I couldn't have... I just couldn't. Liz and Trixie had me beautifully foxed.
"Let's take this lot off her and try out the gags."
Sure, why not! Liz and Trixie laughed and giggled every time I winced as something was unlocked or extracted. But I stopped crying and said I was sorry about the tears. They kissed and patted me and told me to open wide.
I might have known there'd be more to it than simply getting my mouth plugged and my lips sealed. Both of them were truly interested in the amount of real sound I could get past any one of the gags. To prove it, they strapped my wrists up high again and tied my ankles so I was real tight and stretched.
"I'll whip you real mean, dear, and we'll see how much sound gets through."
I guess it was an interesting experiment for them, a real giggled. It was more pain. Only one or two strokes with each of the half dozen gags, but Liz laid them on across my back or bottom with an outrageous zest to really make me squeal--if I'd been able. They got a point system going so they could rate each gag according to the noise I managed to make in response to getting my skin scalded, burned and striped. The winner was a beautiful thing that filled my mouth and then sealed my lips with a band of soft leather. It was buckled on me very tight and then padlocked. Each of the gags could be locked on a girl so the only way she was going to talk again was if someone had the key. They found a pair of ordinary handcuffs in the pile and used them to clip one of my wrists to the bar of a cell, then they went away laughing their heads off.
I stood. I mean, what else could I do! They'd cuffed me high enough I couldn't sit down. I could see what a handy place this small prison was for keeping girls like me under control. Everywhere I looked reeked of possibilities. I knew I was fixed this way for fun... theirs! I was going to be punished by frustration. One wrist! But I couldn't free it. A hand and an arm were all mind but all I could do with them was finger the handcuffs and the padlock. The padlock dangled at the nape of my neck and positively mocked my exploring hand. There was no one to talk to but I wanted to talk. The padlock laughed at that, too. It had me foxed. I soon discovered that a gag does more than keep a girl quiet, it's a punishment in itself. There's no fun in a bulging mouth, bruised lips, and tight straps across my cheeks. I stood and fumed. I leaned against the bars. I didn't cry, I was too damned mad.
After a very long time Liz came back alone. She carried a tray with coffee and juice. She was very matter-of-fact. "I'm going to make you completely free. We'll have coffee together. Then I'll tie your hands behind your back. Understood?"
I was being beautifully managed. But I said yes, I understood and I wasn't going to fight. Gosh, the coffee was good! There's times when coffee's right out of this world.
"I'm a good mind to steal you, Ingrid, you're so yummy."
"I wish you would. I don't like this prison."
"Getting resigned?" She eyed me shrewdly. Deciding to make the best of things?"
"I have to, don't I? I've no choice."
"Mmmmmm, I suppose. Ingrid sweetness, I like you."
"Then set me free. Let me go --?"
The words popped out of me. I couldn't have stopped them if I'd tried. I looked at Liz's lovely face and couldn't imagine she'd refuse. She'd whipped me and hurt me but there was something joyous about Liz. She was wrinkling her nose.
"Ethics, pet. Can't betray a trust. You belong to Brice."
"I don't really belong to anyone. Brice kidnapped me. Look, when he comes back, buy me, or make some arrangement...?"
"My, you are hot to get out of here." She patted my arm. "If you persevere with being a pretty little prisoner you'll have Brice eating out of your hand in a month. But remember, the female's more deadly, especially to other females... I'm female and so are you. If I owned you, you'd have a lot of tender skin."
"I don't care. I'd like you to own me."
"You wouldn't get fucked, y'know--unless I loaned you to the occasional guest. How'd that be?"
"As long as I'm a prisoner I don't know how anything would be," I said desperately. "You keep me helpless and hopeless--I don't have decisions."
"My, you do feel sorry for yourself. Should I whip you a little? It's a wonderful tonic?"
"No. Please don't. I'm behaving. I'm being a very good girl, I don't deserve to be whipped."
"Deserving doesn't always have anything to do with it, pet. But, yes, you're being a good girl. Stand up and put your hands behind your back."
I stood for Liz to bind me. I didn't have a thought about fighting. I felt her cords criss-cross my wrists and get cinched tight, then the knot, well placed so my fingers couldn't reach.
"I think it's nice for a girl to be tied a lot, Ingrid dear. Having her shackled makes her hopeless. But, with a bit of cord, she can spend hours trying to get loose and never really lose hope."
"You know I can't get loose from this, Liz."
"No, I don't. You just might. Now, I want you to kneel out in front of me, be comfortable, sit back on your heels. We'll talk." I obeyed. It wasn't that hard or that bad. But it sure told me where I was at and what I'd become. Anxiously, I asked "If I'm completely obedient and do everything right can I avoid being whipped and... and hurt?"
"No, dear."
Gosh, it wasn't encouraging. "That means I don't have anything to look forward to." I rejoined plaintively. "It doesn't seem fair."
"Slavery doesn't pretend to be fair, sweetness."
"Is that what I am? A slave?"
"Can you think of a better name?"
Pretenses tossed away, we stared. But I still liked Liz. There might be a striking cobra behind her ebullience, but laughter clung to her like a summer dress. Surely somehow sometime I could talk her into opening the door to my cage... ? Slowly, I ventured: "I think I know the things you'd do to me, Liz. But I'm not sure about Brice--he's sentenced me to life?"
Again the silvery trill of laughter. "Don't take men too seriously, Ingrid dear. They're so silly with their erections and fetishes. But Brice and I are a pair of mild sadists. We just adore making lovely girls squeal and beg forgiveness. I suppose it's a vice, but it's so much fun."
"But what about me?"
"You don't count, dear."
I almost loved Liz for her honesty. I can't imagine Brice telling me that clearly where I was at. "But I thought people were often kind to their slaves?" I ventured.
"I'm being kind to you now."
I was naked, I was kneeling before her, my hands were tied. But I suppose Liz was right. I wasn't hurting. I might as well be kneeling like this as tapping a typewriter or walking in the park. Actually, this was more exciting. Liz was exciting. But, puzzled, I fell back on pathos.
"You'll never let me marry or have babies?"
Liz laughed in real amusement. "D'you want to?"
Without intending, I was laughing, too. Domesticity had become absurd, not to be considered. I said, "Well alright, no wedding, no babies. Are you giving me something else?"
"A total absence of boredom, sweets. Think of it. It's unique."
"But, being chained and locked in a cell... ? That's a deadly kind of boredom."
"No. Be honest, You're resentful, your angry, maybe scared." Liz laughed at my woebegone puzzlement. "If I lock you in here right now you'll spend a dramatic afternoon trying to free your hands."
"No I won't. You've tied me good. I won't even try."
"O.K., I'll give you an inducement. I will lock you in, but I'll leave the key where you can reach once your hands are free. You open the door. The one to the outside won't be locked. You're home and away. How's that for a sporting proposition?"
I came alive, unbelieving, but vividly tense. Liz had that quality. There was something about Liz. I did my thinking out loud. "There'll be somebody waiting--and I'll be punished?"
"You mustn't be negative, dear."
"Brice wouldn't give me such a chance." I twisted my hands in their criss-cross of cords. "And anyway, I can't ever get my hands free. I'll still be here in the cell... "
"Gosh, you're a dismal little prisoner." Liz kissed me hard and cupped my pussy in her hand. "Cheer up. The least you can do is try. You owe me...?"
It was the kiss. Or her hand on my puss. I don't know. But Liz had magic. I knew I could never get my hands loose. But just suppose... ?
"What have you got to lose, precious girl?" Liz was reading my thoughts and mocking them.
"If I get the key and then blow it you'll whip me terribly?"
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
We gazed at each other. She was a witch. I knew I was going to try. Quaintly and simply, I said: "Thank you, Liz." Just as though I was already free.
"You may surprise yourself, dear."
She gathered up the tray and left me alone in my cell. She locked the door on me and used a bit of string to tie the key high on a bar where I could never reach it without hands. It would dangle there tantalizingly while I chafed my wrists and fumed. A few moments later I was alone in the quiet stillness, the brooding solitude of the old Spanish prison. I could understand about auras, this place had one. I had a fleeting vision of other girls Who might have been locked and chained in here. Bits of my dream became vivid as life. I shuddered.
There I was! the key beckoned. All around were bars and stone and I was naked with my hands competently tied behind my back. I spread my fingers and twisted. At least I tried to twist but I was tied too tight. After an impatient struggle I was chagrined enough to sit on the cot and vow not to bother with Liz's cruel little game. But I soon got bored. There was nothing else to do but try and get free, absolutely nothing. So I went back to work. There was always hope. For a prisoner, hope is the cruelest thing there is.
It was the damndest afternoon. Liz was right about my tied hands. If I'd been shackled I'd have been bored, but her rope round my wrists was like a living presence, a part of Liz herself and, somehow, I had to get the best of it. I'd look at the key, mocking me up there on the bar, and then I'd twist and tug and strain until I was tired and my wrists complained. Then I'd take an irritated and angry rest and vow not to bother. But I always did. Like I said, there was nothing else to do. By evening I could actually feel one of the knots with my middle finger.
Trixie fed me. She refused to untie my hands and tie 'em after. She said I had to stay as I was. She examined my bindings and did a lot of chuckling. She also fed me and held the cup to my lips while she explained I still had all night. No one was going to untie my hands for me, I had to do it myself. If, come morning, I was still tied, I'd be whipped. Giggling like crazy, she said Liz thought this would keep me interested. She took another look at my tie, kissed me, patted my puss, and departed happily after tying the key six inches higher than before. I felt like crying, I was so mad. And then to be whipped in the morning because I couldn't do the impossible! It burned me up. I stamped a bare foot on the stone floor and flung myself on the cot.
I must have been exhausted. I didn't bother with my wrists anymore, they could damn well stay tied. If I got whipped, well then I got whipped... ! To hell with it all!
I fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR - THE DREAM
Captain Serra found sleep impossible. The hurt, frightened eyes of the naked girl he had left bound to the bench in the ship's brig haunted him reproachfully. His bed was empty and barren without the warmth of the girl who had shared it for so long. He wanted Ingrid Del Torres so badly it became a spiritual anguish as much as a physical ache. Bitterly, he reflected on the old precept that a woman aboard a man's ship was bad luck and spelt trouble. It was right. He had lost a valued man and was faced with a dilemma.
Tomorrow the Countess Ingrid Del Torres would be taken once more to the smithy and ironed. This time with a weight of irons to totally preclude escape. In the grip of the heavy iron riveted on her everywhere she could crouch dismally on her bench and wish she'd had more sense. In the first flush of anger, at what he saw as betrayal, he was still considering having her flogged before being sent to the smith. For her to have sought escape with Pietro when he himself was planning her salvation from the King's justice... ! Serra's Castilian blood was hot with outrage.
Yet the girl in the brig was infinitely sweet, her flesh an endless delight. To behold her in penitent white bound harshly to the stake, and to watch the mounting flames... ! He shuddered. Punish her, yes. The whip, the scurge, the irons... But to see her consumed by fire! It was unthinkable, it must not be. He would get what sleep he could this night and speak with his prisoner in the morn.
Ingrid was bereft. Pietro was dead. The ship would see her as a witch, a creature of ill omen, betraying their captain. She was abject in shame, in guilt, in contrition. She had, moreover, spent the most miserable night of her life. Her feet and hands had been tied when joined in a manner to bow her back in stretched misery, breasts thrusting, pubic patch exposed. Her neck had been looped several times with rope and fastened down to the bench on which she lay. Everything hurt and escape was a silly dream. When, in the early morning, the door opened and she beheld Serra's brooding face, she said instinctively, "I'm sorry... I am truly sorry... Oh, Captain --!"
"Sorry for what?"
"For Pietro. He was a kind man. His death is on my head." Ingrid tried to move expressively but could not. "And for you... I have hurt you cruelly--and without intending. You have been more than kind... "
"I should have you flogged."
"Of course." The bound girl gazed up earnestly. "How could I expect less."
"You're damnably calm and cool about it, girl."
"How else can I be, Captain. I have done something I should not have done. I have sinned --" Serra waved an impatient arm. "You're no penitent and I'm no father confessor. Humility becomes you ill. Our concern is what the devil I do with you."
"Have me flogged. You have just said --"
"I do not want you flogged. Rage passes, and you are infinitely fair."
"Thank you. I--I--I do not want to be flogged."
"I can weigh you down with the heaviest of irons--"
"Thank you, Captain. I must forget escape."
"Damn your thanks! Your escape plagues me. But I want no hundredweight of iron in bed."
The bound beauty on the bench was sure her heart stopped. Captain Serra still desired her! It was more than she deserved or had dared hope. Was there still life for her! She looked up gratefully.
Serra was sorely taxed. His crew were aware of the abortive escape and of Pietro's death. They would expect the guilty maiden punished. The Law of the Sea demanded... ! Bruskly, he slammed tight the door and sat beside his cruelly bound captive, his hand finding solace in her hair before his fingers sought the knots upon her throat. "I want neither of these things for you." He said simply. "But you cannot go without penance."
"I know," Ingrid accepted. "There is the crew. You must punish me... and I will bear no malice--I am soon to die."
"No!" Serra's utterance was an explosion in the brig. "I do not want you dead either. I curse myself I did not let Pietro consummate his plan. But it is hard to throw away the thing you love--and there was no time for reason."
"You love me!" Ingrid was incredulous.
"Damn you, yes." His words were without heat. "I'd have thought you guessed. Am I that cold?"
He was! But she dared not say so. As her ropes were slowly loosed, the bound captive knew herself in the grip of deep emotion. Slowly, she admitted, "My heart is overfull, Captain. But I think it the greatest gratitude I have ever borne a man. I fear to call it love. I wish I had more to give you than what is not already yours to take."
"You've given it, and it's enough." He kissed her gently, pulling slowly at her bonds as though loath to set her free. Reflectively, he suggested. There's a punishment comes to mind. It will not mark thee, and 'tis less cruel than to be flogged with the cat. But 'tis cruel enough... "
"I accept. What is it?"
"To hang thee from the rigging for the day."
"I know naught of it but I trust thy judgment. Captain. So have it done to me and the matter's dealt with."
They stared, bleakly. Each seeing beyond that day and that moment. Whatever plan Serra might have for her eventual deliverance he kept to himself. Ingrid well knew her docility arose from her constant vision of the stake or the dungeon. The ship was close to port, and whatever the king did with her was frighteningly near, overshadowing all else. The punishment just named might, once, have sent her groveling in supplication. Now it was only one more travail to be done with as soon as might be.
"So be it then." Serra hesitated morosely. "I wish it was otherwise." Abruptly he was gone.
The two men who came for her were curious and amused, but they accorded nobility its due of courtesy. "Your hands please, M'Lady." They shrugged diffidently. "We do but follow orders."
Ingrid watched them bind her wrists. They did it with much cord and much care. She could well imagine why. Pinioned arms held awkwardly in front, the Countess Ingrid Del Torres walked between them to her punishment.
Ocean air and glinting eyes made the bound girl twice naked. When the hanging rope was tied around the bond between her hands her fate became cruelly real. For several moments she was left, shrinkingly alone, before her tether was jerked taut and her bound arms leaped towards the sky. When her feet left the deck she knew terror. Twenty feet in the air she swung in the huge arc of a human pendulum as the ship beneath her rolled in the swells and troughs so that, looking down, she beheld only green water instead of the familiar deck. When she was hoisted high to the spar from which she was suspended the arc lessened but was replaced by a dizzying height from which one single glance was enough to make Ingrid Del Torres clench shut her eyes and pray.
Her hands were shrewdly bound. For the first time, Ingrid was thankful to be securely tied. Looking up to the taut stretched her arms she drew a strange comfort from the punishment of her wrists. The strands were biting deep, her hands were not slipping from the loops. She took one more swift glance below. The ship seemed tiny, the ocean immense and hungry to receive her should she fall. In the final span of each swing she was well out over the waves.
It was a cruel punishment for a naked girl, infinitely worse than hanging quietly in the stillness of a room. She was constantly in motion in a predictable swing back and forth, the varying limits of which were governed by the waves below. Ingrid was certain the pains and stresses of this suspension were worse than any other. Added to them was the terror and lonelineeming a fixture in the sky, a bundle of femininity to hurtle into the depths whenever a strand of hemp might choose to break. The only virtue of her distance from the deck was the handicap it imposed upon the crew in making an intimate examination of her femaleness. They looked up at her often enough but the attributes they sought were stretched tight in a sanctuary of solitude.
In early afternoon Ingrid was lowered to the deck, given water and a chance to stretch. Her hands were left tied and tethered in what was the greatest cruelty of all, the knowledge of a return to punishment after brief ecstatic minutes. Captain Serra was nowhere to be seen. When the tied and naked girl was once more hoisted to the spar she wept in desolation, finding comfort only in a vision of her bloodied back had she been flogged.
It was dusk when she was lowered, her sin expiated, her punishment over. Serra carried her semi conscious nudity to his cabin, and there tended her in grave concern, excusing and lamenting nothing save the wounds upon her wrists. Under his hands and eating the food he had waiting, Ingrid came alive in a great welling of gratitude and thankfulness. When they came to the making of their love she threw herself into a participation more intense than ever before. She became a pulsating nakedness so vividly sexual as to lead the man into a wonderland of delight and to obliterate from her own consciousness the dark images of a justice waiting for her when they docked.
On their last day they talked. Ingrid lounged across their bed, her hands tied behind her back as had been their custom since she was relieved of irons. It did not occur to either of them to free her. It did not matter, it saved tying her again. In such things they had become practical in their intimacy.
"I must deliver thee," Serra growled broodingly. "The crew can testify ye have not died or drowned. If I am to save thee it must be after you are taken from this ship."
"But not at the risk of your life."
He shrugged. "Nothing is without risk. Yours is the greatest. But somewhere between the moment when the guards take you and your eventual sentence I will contrive something. I cannot yet tell what it may be. I will confer with friends and seek the counsel of such influence as I possess."
"Against the King, and Holy Church!" Ingrid shrugged despondently. "It seems hopeless. What can either of us do."
"We can keep hope alive to your trial and beyond. There may be clemency."
"More likely torture."
"No. You are denying nothing. They need no confession. Avilar's documents condemned ye long since. All that's left is the formalities and such mercy as the King may bestow." Serra waved disgustedly. "A ship's captain has no access to the royal ear, or I'd have ye free in minutes."
They made love, clinging to an idyll soon to end. They had become accustomed to each other, the girl's punishments seeming to do no more than cement a bond. After each one Ingrid came to Serra's bed with a renewed fire, a pent up need of a man's arms and the security of male authority. They spoke not of love. Each had seen their union as an evanescent flare of passion. But now, as it neared an end, they knew it more lasting, its continuance much to be desired. Their carnality had become increasingly erotic, its burgeoning fostered by her punishments and the need of keeping Ingrid bound that the crew might not wonder on, and resent, her freedom. It was thus now.
"Leave my hands tied. I will lay on my bound arms. The thought excites me."
Serra took her gratefully. There had been women in his life, mostly captives, but none like this. Ingrid's vision of the stake, the dungeon chains, plus the memories of what had been done to her in the prison of Avilar, all these combined to make her a pulsating female body seeking the ultimate in passion to cheat the flames of Holy Church.
"I'm damned if I'll let you burn." Serra was savage in his declaration. "I'd never have believed this of me but I'd give my life for you. Here, let me untie your hands."
"No, don't!" The bound girl scarce understood her own vehemence. "Give me no freedom. I'll get none where I'm going. You can love me bound. I adore it when the ropes are yours."
Captain Serra took his prisoner again, knowing it a part of a long farewell. Each time he possessed her his passion grew. Perhaps the Countess Ingrid Del Torres was indeed a witch...
He did not care.
When the time came, Ingrid plied needle and thread upon the shift with which Avilar had covered her nakedness. Neither the Church nor the King wanted a female prisoner naked in public. She donned the washed and mended scantiness and then turned and put her hands behind her back. Her voice was resolute.
"Tie me. Let us give them no cause for complaint."
Serra kissed her savagely, then bound her crossed wrists behind her back with an equal savagery. It was as though the knotted cords placed an emphasis on their parting and thumbed their noses at the king. She should have been delivered in chains. But, for Captain Serra, a length of rope was enough.
They made their way to the deck in silence, their minds seething. In Ingrid's was a certain knowledge. Her trial had begun.
* * *
The voice of Enriquez Escobar was as gentle as a snake's hiss, and as deadly. It held a musing quality of courtesy and kindness as enigmatic as his saturning features. He was not of Holy Church but had a habit of holding his fingertips as though in prayer.
"I trust you have been well treated, Countess?"
"Yes."
Ingrid stood before him in the condition of her delivery to the law. The shabby shift, the piece of string for its belt, her hands still bound behind her back with Serra's rope. She was still hot from the shame of her march through the streets in the center of the Guard, jeered by the passers by as a villainess delivered to her just desserts. Now, standing before the Castellan responsible for her custody, she could think of nothing worth saying. "You were not ironed aboard ship, m'Lady?"
Alert to menace, Ingrid had a ready answer. "I was too heavily ironed to walk. It was a cruel weight the smith put on me. I was freed of it and tied as you see me now for the convenience of my delivery to your men."
"Ah yes, most thoughtful." The deep eyes glowed. "You are a remarkably beautiful young woman, m'Lady."
"Thank you. I do not feel beautiful."
"Far too beautiful to burn."
The captive tensed, sensing intent. "I neither wish to die nor to spend my days chained in a dungeon, senor. But what hope is there for me?"
w "Alas, little." Escobar's somber regard searched his prisoner from untidy hair to bare toes. "But for such as you there is always hope. You'll tighten the reins of those who judge you, so they'll have no wish to waste your flesh--except for Holy Church, they'll waste anything that screams."
"Can you advise me, senor?"
"Scream adequately, then confess."
Horror was a cold hand. "But, senor, I refute nothing. My guilt is documented. I would be foolish to plead otherwise. There is no need to--to--"
"Subject you to torture?" Escobar smiled grimly. "It is a formality, m'Lady. None escape."
"But to what purpose when I already confess?"
"It surprises even me, madam, what detailed information is added to a testimony under The Question."
"You mean, I cannot escape... torture?"
"None do." The Castellan motioned diffidently. "His Majesty is with the Basques, hunting. He has left instructions for you to be made amenable before his return. The Church would take you willingly, and they'd make you scream enough before they burned you. But our King has placed you in my care. His Eminence the Bishop may hammer at my door but he'll not get you."
"You seem kind. Cannot you show me mercy? I'll give ye confessions enough. Please, I beg you?"
"My torturer's a man. The clerk and I will be present as you are dealt with." He paused, shrugging. "Or I could hand you to the Sisters of Modragel if ye prefer a feminine touch with the scourge and the screw. Tis a choice you're allowed."
"But when --?"
"His Majesty's absence will be long. You'll have time enough to think. But I'll keep ye secure, never doubt it." For a moment Escobar's features softened. "Seeing thee, Countess, I've decided to bring in a female to tend thy needs and give ye comfort."
"Thank you... thank you."
Escobar went to the door and called an order. When the jailer came, the Countess Ingrid Del Torres made no demur. She could not fight. It was shameful to plead. She was bitterly frightened.
"Another pair o' wings to be clipped, eh!" The smith eyed the bound girl with approval "You're a pretty piece. We'll make sure ye stay in your cage."
Ingrid, her hands still tied, watched the hammer reduce the glowing iron to neatly bite her slender ankle. When both circlets had been fashioned, tempered and cooled in the butt of dirty water, she went through the now familiar motions to enable the shackles to be riveted fast upon her flesh. They were cruelly heavy, far heavier than need be for a girl. Sardonically, she agreed. "You are right, I will not fly my cage."
The irons they fastened on Ingrid's wrists were heavy enough but nowhere near as cruel. The joining chains of both feet and hands was long. When she questioned the length of links there was laughter.
"'Tis a punishment, girl. The bolts of the door would hold thee, but these many links speak of thy sin, whatever it may be. Besides, if a man should lay thee, you've space to spread thy legs." The men chuckled. "As for the hands: you can do what ye must with 'em. They'll make a pretty music when ye move. You're girl."
The jailer carried her, making jest of the weight of metal he must lift. To his captive's surprise his steps went up, not down. They ended in a tower room, its grim stone brightened by sunlight, its walls and floor dry, retaining warmth. But it was dungeon enough to provide an iron collar for her neck and a great length of chain by which she was tethered to the wall. It stopped her doing nothing, she knew it was one more penance. She said a bitter 'thank-you' to the man who clipped the crude lock she must carry beneath her chin or at the nape of her neck, and added: "Now I will not fly away between the bars."
Alone, and sitting on the hard bench to be her bed. Ingrid assessed her new condition. At first glance and weighted with chain it seemed hopeless. But Enriquez Escobar had left enough unsaid to encourage a faint hope. Cold and distant as he might seem, he had still admired her beauty. The girl in his chains was indisposed to quibble over a lusting for her flesh. Male hunger for what a girl hid between her thighs could be a key to turn a lock.
Woefully, she girl prisoner made a clinking circuit of her stone chamber. She was well and truly fettered and could forget flight or the defense of her virtue. Her steps dragged, her hands were heavy. The chain from her collar would stop her going through the doorway if the door was open, apart from that improbability it was no more than an extra shame to bear. Wistfully, she stood at the bars and gazed at freedom. But, at least, it was better than a below ground dungeon, and for this boon she felt gratitude.
The next day she was taken again to the smith. Without explanation the irons were stricken from her wrists. An hour later after the collar was again locked on her neck she had a visitor. It was a girl in her teens, timid, shy, and anxious to please.
"I am sent to tend thee. Lady."
"Why are you frightened, I cannot harm you."
"You are of the nobility, madam."
"I'm a prisoner. Nobility has not excused me chains."
"My name is Tina, m'Lady. I have a command --"
"Well, what is it?"
"I wish the Castellan had told thee, mada. Tis to strip thee naked."
Ingrid laughed. "'Tis easily done, I am scarce covered now. Is it that I be bathed?"
"It is more than that. I must take what ye wear with me when I go."
Ingrid wondered if this was why her hands had been freed. The shift was of little value but could now be removed without tearing. But she asked the obvious thought: "Am I being stripped for torture?"
"I have not been told that, madam."
To end the child's anxiety, Ingrid slipped out of her covering and tossed both garment and string to waiting hands. "There. Surely now I am bare enough for anyone's pleasure."
"You are exceedingly beautiful, m'Lady."
There were pails of warm water, bowls, soap and towels, and other things a female loves. Wonderingly, Ingrid asked: "Why this for me? Is it done for other prisoners?"
"I think it just for you, m'Lady." Tina blushed and stammered. "'Tis not often the Castellan has a girl both beautiful and of the nobility in his dungeons."
"This is no real dungeon."
"It is of stone and bars, m'Lady, and you are chained. I would be most fearful to be so prisoned."
Ingrid bitterly reflected the manner in which she had become accustomed to captivity, resigned to the chains and the whip. Three months ago she had been a proud and naughty woman of consequence. But now... ! It seemed impossible but it had happened. She allowed her grief and resentment to seethe away under the ministrations of sweet girlish fingers that knew their task.
It was another hour before Escobar paid his respects.
"You are comfortable, m'Lady?"
"I am naked. I am chained. I sleep upon a bench, senor. Apart from this I am grateful for this chamber and for the girl." His nod was per functionary. "I have had ye stripped for my pleasure." He admitted without emotion. "You are possibly the most beautiful thing I will ever see."
Such absence of hypocrisy was a thing to be grateful for. "Thank you for admiring me," Ingrid said simply. "See, I do not use my unchained hands, I cover no part of myself. Do you wish me to further separate my legs?"
Escobar's eyes narrowed, seeking a sarcasm he did not find. Ill at ease, he waved away her offer, saying only, "I find you lovely enough as you are."
Provocatively, the naked girl raised her arms and clasped her hands at the nape of her neck. She took a deep breath to expand her breasts while she contracted the muscles of her stomach. Ingrid Del Torres had no illusions about the perfection of her body. Her voice was dulcet: "Thank you, senor, for removing the irons from my hands. I could not have done so much for you were I still chained."
The man stood in silence, drinking in his dream. Enriquez Escobar knew he played with fire, longing with a great hunger to warm himself at its flame. Hoarsely, he demanded, "Turn round."
The girl did so, gracefully. Her foot fetters swirled, her fingers shifted the collar and its chain to accommodate the new pose. Once more she compelled her figure to give of its best. Ingrid stood, a chained statue, until the soft voice insinuated.
"I suspect ye well aware of your power, m'Lady."
"Yes I am." She turned and faced him frankly. "And why should I not be. 'Tis the only weapon I possess."
"It defeated Avilar and Captain Serra?"
Ingrid flashed back, hotly: Avilar is my accuser, he kept me in his prison. Captain Serra fastened me in a weight of irons I scarce could bear... " She paused, panting, beholding the cynicism in Escobar's eyes. Her admission was grudging, shamed: "Very well. Yes. Both used me. It is not hard to take a naked girl when she is chained or bound. Because they used me they gave me decent food and let me bathe." She stared defensively. "But I am here, chained in your cell. Their loyalty was to their King, not to me." She sneered bitterly. "A girl's cunt earns her but a little price."
They stood and stared. Ingrid remembered Avilar and Serra. With all these men she had reached confrontation, with neither had she contrived escape. With Serra she had discovered I e, but in spite of that love she remained chained. But perhaps with Escobar... ? Listlessly, she demanded, "What is it you desire of me, senor? I can deny you nothing."
But Escobar had gone.
The following day the smith struck the irons from her feet.
Returning to her stone room, the collar was locked again upon her neck. In the opening of the door the collar and chain would hold her safe. The freedom of her limbs would have a purpose all its own. Under Tina's ministering hands, Ingrid demanded, "You are bedecking a bride?"
There were titters, that was all. The girl would say nothing. When Escobar himself came, his demand was simple. "Lay down, girl."
"No bargaining, senor?"
"Save for thy neck ye are free. Is that not enough."
"Aye, it would be generous payment, senor, were it not that I behold torture and the fiery stake. I am sorry, but these things possess my mind." The Countess Ingrid Del Torres smiled brightly. "But fear not. I will give ye pleasure most happily." Escobar accepted Ingrid's gift, using it carefully as of great value. Both were sufficiently aware to know they were being taken seriously. Time was set aside. But, at the end, the girl asked anxiously: "Did I give thee pleasure?"
"Aye, indeed. You're highly skilled."
"I have been a prisoner for a long time."
Escobar nodded, catching the inference. His comment was dry: "You render unto Caesar...?"
"What I render can be a poor thing or something with joy in it."
The Castellan rose and offered his hand. The linkage from his captive's collar gave them music as the nude girl stood erect. Without hint of bargaining, she asked: "Will you allow me clothes?"
"No. There will be only the girl and myself to see."
"Must I wear collar and chain?"
"Without it you could overpower the child and leave this room. You understand the exigencies of imprisonment."
"Yes... yes, of course. I will not be demanding. I want you to find pleasure in coming to my prison."
"You use the words and the skills of a whore, yet you are innocent. I find you remarkable." Escobar bestowed a small, dry laugh. "I know you will use me if ye can, but that's fair enough. With you, a man could wish to be of use."
Once more alone, the nude girl knew elation. What had taken place was a victory. Her nude body had captivated Pietro, Serra, and now Enriquez Escobar. The three men were utterly dissimilar except in their worship of her femaleness. Two had plotted her escape, perhaps the Castellan might do the same. But she was still collared and chained to the wall. Her fingers rose and played with the iron band upon her neck and the links that fell from it, wondering what must still befall before someone turned the key to set her free.
Ingrid was cautious. The man who held her now was no fool. Her only weapon with him was to bestow delight, and this she did to the limit of her witchery. She gave her all and was careful to demand nothing. Escobar came to her prison daily, and sometimes in the night. Without the man and without the girl, Tina. Ingrid's days of waiting would have been hard to bear. But the time came when her youthful feminine jailer was ill at ease.
"I have been given an order, m'l.ady "Obey it, then."
"It is to tie your hands and noose thy neck and lead ye hence for some short while."
It was a surprise. But even such a thing as this was welcome in the boredom of being caged. Ingrid laughed, turned her back and crossed her wrists. "There, Tina. Do what you must."
It was a competent tie, there would be no escape from it. Tina must have bound other hands before. The rope noose round her neck tightened easily and gave control to girlish fingers. When the collar fell with a clatter to the stone Tina's tone was apologetic.
"You need not be hurt, m'Lady, but I am shamed --"
"Then let us be shamed together. Lead me to where I must go" Their steps led down. Naked, Ingrid was prepared to shrink from lewd male eyes but there were none to see. The noose on her neck was held tight; Tina was frightened. No doubt the child could not understand the obedience the older girl had learned. They sped up their journey like pale ghosts.
"It is the torture chamber, m'Lady. I am sorry...!"
It was unmistakable. The bound girl shivered. They were the only occupants of the grim place, but a fire shone red in the forge, and there was no atmosphere of disuse. This was a place where pain was suffered daily.
"I am to show you the things by which a girl can be hurt." Tina's voice was uncertain. "I do not know them all but I will do my best." She pulled gently on the leash.
Ingrid was uncertain of intent. To show a bound and naked girl these instruments must inevitably frighten her. Perhaps this tour was a softening up process. She was alarmed enough already but obeyed the soft tugs upon her neck.
"It is the rack, m'Lady. A girl is bound and stretched... "
"I know. Never mind the details."
"And here the bones of a girl's foot are slowly broken." Tina hurried from piece to piece, but their speed was too slow for her prisoner. It was a hateful place containing hateful things. The details of their use on female limbs tied knots of fear in female stomachs and conjured graphic pictures in the mind. Ingrid well new that one or all of them might be used on her, if not now then soon. In a sudden prescience she demanded: "You've been tortured, Tina, haven't you?"
"I was so ashamed, m'Lady. I screamed so much."
"That's naught to be ashamed of. But why a child like you?"
"It was deemed I knew something very bad." Tina shivered. "They made me take off my clothes until I was naked like you. It was the first time I had been bare for men to see. I was terribly frightened. I cried so much but they paid no heed."
"They actually tortured you...?"
"Oh yes, of course. They tied my hands as yours are tied and used the rope to raise them higher and higher until my toes were off the floor and I was sure I would die. A man with a quill and parchment kept asking me silly questions."
"Could you tell him nothing--?"
"I had naught to tell. So they raised me higher and higher and then let me fall. I was sure my arms would be pulled from me. While I hung there like that, screaming, they whipped my bottom with thin canes until it bled."
"Poor Tina... ! And then?"
"They got busy with someone else, so decided I knew nothing. They sent me home. I still dream of it in nightmares... " Tina's voice trailed away in retrospect. "It was in this place... Oh, m'Lady, I'm so sorry for you--you are too lovely... "
They hurried back to Ingrid's tower prison. It felt good to be back. The bound girl lifted her chain gratefully for the collar and its chain. When her wrists were freed her fingers rose to the metal round her neck as to the greeting of a familiar friend. Idly, she wondered if a girl could ever again live without a rope or a chain fastening her somewhere. It would seem almost unnatural.
Impatiently, the captive girl awaited the Castellan. When Escobar came he held up a warning hand. "I know, I know! You are wondering." He frowned irritably. "It is simply that the time has come. I cannot delay your torture forever. The scribe keeps records and questions the delay. He wants you disposed of-- and your signed confession."
"There is no way...?"
Escobar shrugged. "I could set you free and take your place."
"You must have made Tina take me down there for a reason?"
"I am going to run a risk with the scribe. You will be tortured on One instrument only. You will babble confessions to your heart's content and scream as you please." He paused unhappily. "But your torture will be real. The scribe and the executioner will be there and cannot be deceived. I will end your agony only when I think them convinced --"
"But... with Tina? Why?"
"So ye may choose that on which you're to suffer."
It was horrific, bizarre. Dully, Ingrid said, "How can I know? I have never been tortured in such ways."
"There are two things I have considered for you." Escobar spoke slowly. One is the rack--I can order it stopped short of dislocation. The other is the water. You are bound fast, a funnel is strapped in your mouth and water poured therein."
"The water sounds... easy --?"
'"Tis insidious and cruel enough. It is administered in two afflictions. The first pours a certain number of measured pints into the funnel. It is considered only the beginning, a confession made in that phase is invalid. It is only when the second group of pints is administered that you are deemed to be under torture and credence given to what you confess."
She stared, uncertain, trembling. "I fear the rack, I have heard so much of broken bones... "
"So be it." Escobar was decisive. "The water leaves no visible marks nor will it cripple thee." His voice halted, then added: "I am no happier with this than you yourself."
"When is it to be?"
"Now."
"Now!" Ingrid was aghast. "Without warning --V "It relieves you of apprehension and suspense--and since it must be done--"
"Yes--forgive me. The shock...!"
"We will go down together, there will be no need of bindings." Escobar coughed diffidently. "I will leave you alone, briefly. Relieve yourself. We must seek every advantage."
Blushing furiously, the girl about to be tortured stared at the closed locked door. Her hands sought the collar round her neck and the chain therefrom. She stepped slowly to the window and stared between its bars into the sunlit world beyond which girls confessed to nothing. Chagrined and shamed, she obeyed Escobar's instruction.
There was a spotless white shift which it seemed she must wear in their short journey to where the executioner would take it from her. Ingrid donned it without gratitude.
"A penitent's smock." Escobar growled apologetically. "'Tis considered seemly."
Without chains, it was strange to walk beside her guardian in seeming normalcy, stranger still in her knowledge of torture to come. The Countess Ingrid Del Torres asked herself why she should be so pliant to man's will, why she did not flee in screaming hysterics. True, it would avail her naught, but it would be more natural. It would be an affirmation of innocence she seemed powerless to make. She said, simply, "I do not believe this is happening."
The clerk was bored, anxious to have done. The hooded man in black was more courteous. "Your gown please, m'Lady?"
Ingrid made herself naked, handing him the soft white folds of penitence. In this place nakedness became a fearful thing.
"Thank you, madam. And now... ! Please allow me to arrange you."
It was outrageous and impossible. Ingrid gazed at the horizontal ladder in disbelief. But when strong arms cradled her and laid her gently on the rungs and made no demur, she knew herself in the grip of a force she could not stem.
"The bindings must be exceedingly tight, m'Lady."
The executioner was right. There was a rung for every portion of a girl. Ingrid's hands were drawn back above her head and bound fast, her ankles were tugged and bound tight below. One by one the strictures mounted the ladder, tying her nudity rigidly to each rung until the body of the Countess Del Torres was tautly delineated by neat spacings of cord indented flesh-- all save her stomach. Her still concave stomach bore not a single bond. Beneath the watching eyes, Ingrid tested but could not move.
"If ye have aught to say, madam, ye had best say it now."
The bound nudity saw the thing in the ready hands, she knew herself lost. Her eyes sought those of Enriquez Escobar in wide appeal. But all she could think to say was: "Thank you... please show me mercy..
The funnel was also a gag and obscured vision. Ingrid opened her mouth but the metal distended it further still before it was strapped down immovably to the rung below, and thus her head was held in the same immobility as the rest of her for the convenience of her questioning.
"Madam, we begin."
Courtesy and cruelty! They seemed to compliment each other. Escobar's voice was urgent. "Swallow normally. It is much the best."
With the first trickle came a panic, a fearful surge against the cords, achieving nothing. Under a most urgent need, the bound girl concentrated all her awareness to what was happening in her mouth. She swallowed anxiously, glimpsing how easy it would be to drown.
"My compliments, madam. You do well."
The second pitcher was less easy. She had had enough but the insidious flow continued, not in a thoughtless flood, but directed by a watchful eye and cautious hand. The hooded man had skill. Torture was a waste of time unless the subject was brought successfully to where a confession might actually be truth.
The inundation went on and on. From time to time a male hand tested the growing spread of her belly, patting its stretched curve in a strange reassurance which could have been for himself and not for her. Ingrid longed to see her distention but the funnel blocked her view. She lost track of the containers which were poured into the funnel and with which she strove frantically to cope. But, now, there was pain with her distention, a terrible awareness of something beyond control, of things to stretch and tear and break.
"We will give thee a small aid, madam."
The ladder tilted, Ingrid's head raised. Now the funnel must be adjusted by male fingers as it received the fluid Ingrid believed spelt death. Under the compulsion of a terrible fear she made such sounds and motions as were possible. The water paused.
"She wishes to confess." The executioner said blandly. "What are your wishes? She had but one more pitcher to swallow before the second stage."
"Let her speak." The scribe was impatient. "It need excuse her nothing."
Immediately the funnel was taken from the lovely mouth Ingrid Del Torres poured forth in urgent sentences the full confession of what had already been reported by Avilar. She hid nothing, coloring and embellishing wherever she believed it added credence. Not until she stopped, gasping for air, did she spare a glance for her swollen belly. It was disappointing, nowhere near as distended as she'd supposed. She moaned in desolation and let her head fall back.
"Please have mercy... please? I can stand no more."
"Funny how they always say that." The clerk was writing busily. "I must say she's done well by us--unless it's a pack of lies."
"It is corroborated truth." Escobar spoke heavily.
"One pitcher still to be swallowed," the executioner insinuated blandly. "The lady will then be into the second phase."
"I can take no more," Ingrid said flatly. "If you strap that funnel in my mouth again you'll kill me."
"I've heard that before, too." The scribe's quill did not pause in its recording of a girl's guilt. "But her belly's far from bursting yet. We'd best make this legal with a few more pints."
"So be it." Enriquez Escobar was fighting for composure. "Take special care. I do not want her drowned."
What Ingrid might have said was lost in the funnel as it again penetrated her mouth and robbed her head of motion. What she was doing now was the impossible. Whenever she choked, her eyes distending, the ladder was deftly raised until the torturing water found its way within. Thus the final pitchers did their task, confounding its recipient's belief in the impossible.
"The second phase, gentlemen." The hooded man had a sense of theatre, setting aside the emptied flasks ands raising the new and brimming container with the reverence accorded old wine. "After her first swallow she speaks truth."
"Feminine truth!" The clerk was a cynic. "I'd prefer her belly twice that size."
The ladder tilted back. The flow continued. Ingrid scarce could swallow, her whole system rebelling. But the hooded man was equal to his task, gauging the girl's breathing, he poured carefully to match the spasms of her throat so the water found its way to its destination without aid. When she choked, the ladder was raised or lowered to prolong her life. Ingrid could not move, she could not speak. Her eyes stared in horror at what was being done. When a black hand held aloft another empty flask she once again went through the sounds and motions of confession.
"Too soon," said the clerk in dry cynicism. "She just thinks it a good time to try. Give her another."
She was in agony now, flirting with death. Half way through the flaskful she choked and heaved to the point where Escobar commanded.
"Enough! Have done. Let her speak."
Almost uncaring now, the bound nakedness repeated its confession. At the end of it Ingrid moaned dismally, "That's all there is. I have nothing more to tell. If I had, I would tell it gladly now."
"Hmmmmm...!" The clerk was skeptical. "Almost word for word. The damn girl's memorized it."
"The law is satisfied," Escobar said coldly."
"Well... perhaps." The clerk was suddenly finding pleasure in Ingrid's bound nakedness, he had finished writing. "But I'd feel a lot more certain if we touched a hot iron to the soles of those little feet."
"No." Escobar's voice was a threat.
"Oh, very well. She makes a good confession," the scribe admitted grudgingly. "It should ensure her the stake. I must be sure and be there to watch her burn." He folded his papers and departed.
"Free her." Escobar was relieved to have him go. "If clerks had their way we'd have naught but dead bodies to stand trial."
Suddenly, the ladder to which she was bound was tilted back so that Ingrid's head was close to the floor, her bound feet high. Water gushed from her mouth in a stream. Once she would have been shamed, now she gave the flood every aid she could. Wracked in agony the tortured girl ejected gout after gout in a purging rejection. By the time deft fingers had loosed her cords she could believe she might live. Faintly and with gratitude she said to the black clad man, "Thank you... oh, thank you," as Escobar picked her up and carried her back to her prison.
CHAPTER FIVE - INGRID
Somewhere in the middle of the night I woke up, terrified. It was that damn dream, of course. I was still swallowing and gulping for air. I even went into panic about my hands, I'd forgotten they were tied--or maybe I thought I was still tied to the ladder. The mists of the Spanish torture chamber vanished slowly in the darkness of what must once have been Avilar's prison. It held me now. I was willing to believe ghosts were sympathizing, or maybe laughing grimly at my terror. The aftermath of nightmare is horrible. This one left me without desire to return to sleep. I was scared. I didn't want to go back into that Spanish torture chamber or to find out about being burned. By the time I'd sorted the whole thing and stopped trembling I was wide awake.
It took me another minute of feeling sorry for myself before I remembered Liz and the deal on my bound wrists. It was too dark to see the key and its bit of string up there on the bar but, for sure, my wrists were still crossed and tied behind my back. I considered not bothering... but I was awake and rested! I let my fingers go back to work. The first thing they discovered was a knot.
I was instantly suspicious. But of what! Imprisonment and being whipped, plus that shocker of a dream, was making me paranoid. Maybe I'd unconsciously worked on my bond while asleep, it would have been in keeping with my dream! I sent my fingertips back into the fray.
The knot was tight but not hopeless. After half an hour of panting effort the first bit of it came free, then the next... and the next! Liz had made sure there were enough of them. I could picture her laughing, and was all ready to run up against a twist of rope I couldn't handle, but at the end of about an hour the knot dissolved and there were loose ends... ! By the time I'd twisted and tugged my hands free I was sweating and panting and in a fine old dither of excitement.
The key was there. With it in my hand I felt a surge of power and knew my doubts and suspicions only a carryover from my morbid memories of slumber. I put it in the lock and opened my cell door. It was wonderful. I was the happiest and most surprised girl in the U.S.A.
It's never totally dark outdoors. The night air was kind on my bare skin. On the right side of the back door, I looked at freedom. I found it frightening. I was naked and alone and had no money. Where did I go! Once more I could hear Liz chuckling.
In its own way, being naked is as bad as being bound. It stops a girl dong all sorts of things. If I'd been clothed I could have run to the road and flagged down the first car--but naked... ! I was scared. I thought longingly of my apartment, my home. But it seemed a million miles away. Cherishing a faint hope, I walked round Brice Ireland's house.
The little Datsun was there like a dream come true. It waited outside the front door like a parked puppy. Probably it belonged to Liz or Trixie. I couldn't care less. What mattered was the key. When I found it in the lock I had qualms. This was too easy, too much like a trap. But a trap for what? Once on the highway in that little car I was free. I started the engine and headed for the road.
Driving naked is strange. I felt all wrong and delinquent and wondered if my naked breasts showed above the door. But it was night, and in the dark it should be a cinch to get home without detection. Until I got out of Gaines County my real enemy was the police. I drove as fast as I dared. My luck held, and was still with me when I sought the unlocked window. Within a couple of hours of freedom I stood in my own apartment, radiating joy, thankfulness, and wondering if I should call the city police. I didn't. It was something for tomorrow. I flopped into bed, emotionally exhausted.
I awoke to sunlight and that gorgeous drowsiness where you know everything's alright and wonderful and you don't have anything to worry about. A sort of Saturday morning waking up. But I was soon excited and curious and hungry. Joyfully, I leaped out of bed and fell flat on my face.
There was a moment of dazed bewilderment before the pain from my left ankle told me what to expect. I sat up and angrily surveyed the length of chain, one end padlocked round my ankle, the other end padlocked to my bed. I was once again a prisoner.
But whose? And how?
Half fearfully, I shouted out: "Alright, you've had your fun. You can come out now."
There was no answer. My words were lost in an empty apartment. There was no one there but me. And I was locked to the bed. In bitter disappointment I edged to where I could test the locks. They were expensive padlocks; I could do nothing without the key. I got back on the bed, the chain around my ankle felt like someone was holding on to me: Liz, Brice... ? I shuddered in memory of my dream. There was something supernatural about the whole thing. But, obviously, I had slept sound enough for someone to steal in and make me prisoner. Bitterly, I supposed my wrists and ankles were now so accustomed to bonds it felt quite natural to them. Damn!
The bedside phone was gone, along with everything else that might have helped. I was a naked girl on a bed. That it was my own bed in my own apartment didn't seem to matter all that much. I couldn't get away any more than I could have got out of Brice Ireland's chains. The tether on me now was too short to let me do a thing except stand.
I sat and sat. I played with the chain. I shouted some, but my voice in the empty rooms was scary and my apartment was soundproof. I thought of throwing things through the window, breaking the glass. But there wasn't a thing to throw. I tried beating on the wall but it was solid concrete. So I sat there like a bird in a cage and wished I could go to the bathroom.
I sat and sulked, but not with apprehension. The spot I was in wasn't all that good. Alone and helpless: those words have an awful sound. It had to be Liz or Brice. It just had to be! But suppose it wasn't them? Or suppose I was to be left like this for a week as a lesson... ? Anyway I looked, there wasn't anything to be happy about. I hated the chain on my ankle and its two padlocks with a bitter hatred.
I don't know how long it was before I smelt cooking. There's something potent about bacon... ! I sniffed it like a hungry dog. There were now faint sounds and then the clatter of dishes. When Trixie walked in her smile was as bright as the chrome of the handcuffs she carried in a careless hand.
"Mornin', Miss Ranier."
I was shamingly glad to see her, but I'm female. I continued my sulk. "If this is a joke, Trixie, let's call it quite."
"You're going to let me put these handcuffs on, Miss Ranier?"
"Certainly not. Don't be silly."
"Don't you want to pee, Miss Ranier?"
"Of course I do. Let me loose."
"Not without you wear these handcuffs. You let me put 'em on you and you can go pee and come eat breakfast."
"Trixie, I'm not that crazy--" She turned to go. "O.K. Miss Ranier. I'll close the door and come back tomorrow--"
"No! Hold it! Stop!" I was suddenly in panic. I just could not sit there another twenty-four hours. No way! You know how it is when you have to pee--and there was that bacon smell... ! Pathetically, I surrendered. "Oh alright, Trixie, go ahead." I held out my hands.
"Behind your back, Miss Ranier."
"Ohhhhhh nnnnnnoooooo... ! D'you have to? I'll be helpless."
"That's right." She bestowed a comradely grin, we were two girls together. "I want you to lay over on your face and put your arms in back." She giggled. "That way you won't grab me."
I lay as she wanted. When the handcuffs clicked and I felt their bite I knew it was the end of my short freedom. I'd had the biscuit. When she cuffed my ankles too I felt like crying.
"There we are. I've unlocked the padlock. Miss Ranier. You can hop to the bathroom, the door's open."
I hopped to the bathroom. For what I had become, everything was back to normal. I longed to kick something, but I couldn't even do that. Then I hopped my handcuffed way to the kitchen and was fed a really super breakfast by the girl who now- held me captive. Trixie had to do it all: a one for me and one for you affair. But I was hungry and the bacon, toast and coffee did a bit to offset the handcuffs and lost freedom. Trixie was cute. I couldn't hate her. I don't think she'd ever seen me as a real live girl like other girls. What she'd seen was a beautifully nude female figure that had to be kept tied or chained or locked behind bars, and from time to time whipped. I think she'd reconciled this comfortably in her mind. For her. Miss Ingrid Ranier was back the way she belonged.
"This was a set-up, wasn't it, Trixie?" I asked resentfully. "I walked right into it."
"Well, sort of--"
"When does Liz arrive? Or are you taking me to her?"
"Miss Liz ain't comin', Miss Ranier."
"I suppose this whole thing gives her an excuse to punish me, eh?"
Trixie giggled cheerfully. "She won't be punishing you, Miss Ranier."
I picked up vibes, the wrong kind. I took a deep breath and demanded: "What else happens to me?"
"I wash up and then we has a bath and I makes you beautiful. I mean, extra special beautiful."
"Why? Is Mr. Ireland coming?"
More giggles. "No, he ain't comin', but someone else is." My alarm became strident. "Who? And why must I be tarted up?"
"Someone's goin' to buy you, Miss Ranier. Got to have you looking good to get the best price."
"Who? Tell me who?"
She shuffled shyly. "Sort of a friend from back where I come from."
That meant a Mexican. "What's he want me for? I insisted. "You're going to be a real high class whore, Miss Ranier."
"T-R-I--X-I-E...!" I was aghast, staring in terror, tugging at my handcuffed hands. "You wouldn't--T' "It ain't so bad, Miss Ranier. You get to be fucked by a whole lot of different guys and you'll have the loveliest clothes to wear. It's going to be a whole lot nicer for you than that prison of Mr. Ireland's."
It was absurd. But I could see Trixie's point. By her set of values she was doing me a favor. Perhaps if Brice kept me in his prison long enough I'd come to see it her way. I was in a spot, I had no bargaining power at all. I was helpless, the two sets of handcuffs fixed me so I could be handled like a child. Dismally, I asked: "How much money are you getting for me, Trixie?"
"Ever so much. I'm not sure yet."
"Trixie, I don't want to be a whore. Please...?"
"You sooner spend your life in Mr. Ireland's cells?"
"I don't want that either."
"But, Miss Ranier, you gotta' have one or the other!" Trixie was looking at me reproachfully as though I was being unreasonable.
"I don't see why. There's no good reason--"
"But, Miss Ranier, you're handcuffed. You can't do nothin'-- don't you see... T I saw alright. I could be disposed of with the greatest of ease. I was packaged for delivery. I cursed handcuffs and padlocks and all the assorted hardware by which a girl can be conveniently made helpless. It was all so unfair. But what scared me most was Trixie. She couldn't see anything wrong with what she was doing. So she'd do it. It wasn't that she didn't like me, it was just the way things had worked out. If it had been her in the handcuffs she'd have understood that too.
"But, Trixie, couldn't you be kind?" I pleaded. "Unlock me and go back home. That way no one gets hurt. Please...?"
I got another look of puzzled reproach. Trixie obviously thought I wasn't being realistic. "But that's silly, Miss Ranier. There's no reason why I'd do that... is there?"
"To be kind. Isn't that enough?"
"But I am kind. I like you a lot. I won't whip you, or anything... not unless you act up."
"So alright, you're going to sell me. Trixie, that could get you in prison for half the rest of your life."
My ridiculous captor giggled happily. "But I won't get caught. There's no way--! Only you and I will know, and down where you're going they won't let you loose." Trixie came up with a winsome smile. "Try and cheer up, Miss Ranier, this is such a good deal for both of us."
I watched Trixie do the dishes. I couldn't help. I couldn't do anything except wait to be sold to a whorehouse. I kept wondering what it was going to be like to have dozens or hundreds of men use me. Sitting there in my own kitchen the whole thing was just too weird. But when Trixie showed me the riding crop she'd borrowed from Liz I just had to take things seriously.
"You'll have to do what I tell you. Miss Ranier," she informed me diffidently. "If you make a fuss I'll whip you with this. It really hurts a lot."
"I know it does." panic was creeping up my spine. "Look, give me a break. Let me go. I'll give you half my paycheck every month for years."
"No you wouldn't. You'd go call the cops."
"No. I promise. Look, why don't you sell me back to Mr. Ireland or Liz? I'd sooner go back to them than to a whorehouse."
"Gee, you're crazy." Trixie gazed at me in sorrow. "All the things they'll do to you! You're better off my way."
"Please don't make me a whore... please?" I bestowed a girl to girl appeal. "You wouldn't want to be a whore."
"I bin' one. It's O.K."
I couldn't think of anything else to say. Trixie was impregnable behind her own brand of logic. As usual, I didn't want to get myself whipped. Sulkily, I hopped to the bathroom and let her make me what she called: "Real pretty." She was good with hair and cosmetics. Looking in the mirror, I could well believe I'd fetch a good price.
Mr. Silvera Martinez was a sleek, well muscled pimp. The girl with him was a sleek well muscled whore. They appeared to be strictly business. I was instantly assessed.
"Ain't she sweet?" Trixie displayed me proudly.
They seemed less concerned with my sweetness than with my bonds. My twin handcuffs were examined and tightened up a notch all round. The girl used a probing finger to make sure their key was not secreted in my sheath. My breasts were mauled sure they were all mine.
"We can go in the next room, Mr. Martinez, so's you can pay me. " Trixie suggested brightly. Her eyes were shining.
Mr. Martinez and his whore bound Trixie with neatness and dispatch. Prudently, they removed her panties and stuffed them in her mouth, then sat her in a chair. Trussed at wrists, elbows and ankles there was not much she could do but glare. In spite of my own negative prospects I could not help being amused. What was happening to Trixie was, by her own standard, simply logic.
"Get used to the idea, kid," said Mr. Martinez helpfully.
"You give us static, girl, and I'll hurt you real bad," promised Mr. Martinez's lady friend.
"You let out a peep, and you'll be sorry." Mr. Martinez informed suavely as he pulled Trixie's panties from her mouth. He turned to me and added: "Same goes for you."
"Look, you owe me--" Trixie's plaint died under a slapped cheek. "Don't owe you a thing, kid. You're a no account piece of ass runnin' round loose. From now on you're working for me, same as the pretty, pretty in the handcuffs. Where's her key?"
"Piss on you, buster, let me loose--" Another slap, a yelp, and a grudging: "It's in my purse. If you'll untie me--"
"Baby, you ain't never going to be untied again. I'll buy me a ball and chain for you."
I'd been sitting, dazed, in my handcuffed bondage. But I had to make a try at something. Weakly, I said: "I think there's someone who'd pay a ransom for me--"
"Shut up." The girl's palm stung my cheek. "We'll tell you when, and nix on the ransom. You'll make us a million on your back."
I was still working on a quick compute as to how many men I'd have to have inside me to make that million, when Trixie says: "You can't possibly kidnap us both. We're not going to walk--"
"Service elevator to the garage, kid. Then the trunk of my car." Mr. Martinez flashed white teeth. "Hell, you don't have no idea how easy it is to pick up a broad--a man 'ud have to be loco to pay money--" Mr. Martinez stopped in mid-sentence. Liz had walked in and hit him hard with the heavy butt of a crop. She was nattily attired for the horses, and lost no time in dealing blow number two so as to send the pimp's boss lady to her knees, groping...
"On your face, bitch." Liz was authority.
I watched, delighted. But the handcuffs told me that, either way, I'd lose. So I simply became an interested spectator, very interested indeed, while Liz knelt on a supple back and tieds together a pair of feminine thumbs. She used thin cruel twine and tugged it tight. I was glad it wasn't me. Next, she did the same for Mr. Martinez. Searching them both, she collected two automatics, two switchblades, and an assortment of cash. She got to her feet and sighed as she gazed as Trixie and me with complacent reproof.
"I can see why parents don't want girls," she said cheerfully. "Girls are a pain in the ass, always in trouble. If I'd had a daughter I'd have kept her little rump well striped, it's the only way."
"It's all a mistake," Trixie said mendaciously.
"Damn right it is, and all yours." Liz glared balefully. "I suppose you can guess what's going to happen to you when I get you home, young lady?"
"Yes'm." Trixie cherished no illusions.
Liz turned to me, but less ferociously. "I'll warm your little butt up too, Miss Smartass."
"But I haven't done anything!"
"I've heard you say that before. Don't you count this screwball escape of yours?"
"You set that up."
"No. It was young Trixie loosened the knots while you were asleep, and it was her Datsun. Sure, I tied your hands, but you'd never have made the getaway without help. It was Trixie's trap you walked into, not mine." Liz grinned happily. "D'you still think you're innocent?"
"Prisoners have a right to try and escape," I said petulantly. "I don't deserve a punishment."
"Then we won't call it that, dear. We'll call it a deterrent.
Make you think twice before your next try."
"There ain't no way she won't whip you, Miss Ranier," Trixie consoled without sympathy. "You and me's in for a bad time." Liz turned her attention to distressed sounds coming from the floor. "You can get up," she said abruptly. "And you can go, you'll make out somehow. I'm not untying you, and I'm keeping your hardware." She held open the door invitingly. "Vamoose. Pronto!"
My kidnappers departed without gratitude. It appeared I was not to be a whore after all, but I suspected my salvation, whilst less degrading, would hurt worse. Liz would see feminine frailty as a wonderful excuse, I could almost feel the whip. Pathetically, I pleaded: "Liz, this is my home, it's where I belong. Unlock me and let me stay."
"No."
"But Brice says he'll keep me prisoner for life! What good will that do you?"
"Oh, I'll visit and tan your rump from time to time, dear. You'll probably be glad to see me. I do admit that prison of Brice's can be a bit of a bore. I'm not sure I'd want to be locked in one of those cells too long myself, especially the way he loads you with chains."
"Well then, can't you feel sorry for me."
Liz was suddenly maternal. "Sweetheart, you and I are the same except for one big difference. You've got a lot more years to live, about ten of 'em. You can spare Brice a few."
"But he's going to imprison me for life. He's told me so!"
"Tell you what, dear," Liz is suddenly kind. "If you're still in one of Brice's cells in a couple of years I'll buy you from him. I won't set you free right away but I'll make a nice change."
"You could set me free right now. It wouldn't hurt you."
"That will get you a punishment for nagging, Ingrid, you don't know where to stop. I'll teach you."
I was suddenly contrite, and blurted out urgently, "You're sweet. I really am grateful."
"She'll whip you just the same," said a disgruntled Trixie. "Miss Liz, she don't stand for no girlie, girlie stuff."
"I'm a good mind to make a deal on you with Brice, and toss you into a dungeon for a few weeks, you little idiot," Liz told her severely. "You're one of the little snippets who needs her ass sliced daily--"
"You's just jealous 'cos we's young." Trixie shifted resentfully against her Mexican bindings. "I know you're going to be real mean to me, so I don't give a shit."
"You will."
It was all sort of preordained. Liz always knew what she was going and did it right. I got my elbows tied together to make me a bit more helpless, but the handcuffs were unlocked from my ankles. Then we both got gagged. Because I was naked, Liz took off her own panties and stuffed them in my mouth. She tied them in with more of the thin cord. It hurt my cheeks. She then did something that might have been cute if it hadn't hurt. She clipped my left nipple, and from the clip there was a cord... ! "You'll do what I tell you, Ingrid?"
"Yes... oh yes! Oh, please don't pull it," I said into my gag. That looked after me. Liz bared one of Trixie's breasts and clipped her nipple the same. When she'd untied Trixie's feet she led us by the nipple tethers from my apartment to the service elevator. I said a sad and silent good-bye to the home I'd never see again. Neither of us gave Liz trouble. We were scared of what those clips could do to our nipples. Trixie and I were the best behaved little girls in the U.S.A. But we were not lucky. Nobody saw us or came to our rescue. Liz led us silently to life imprisonment down the service elevator and to the car. There was no sign of my two Mexican abductors. I could well imagine a pair of tied thumbs wouldn't hold them long. Whenever we hesitated our nipple got a sharp tug to make us hop. Soon we stood unhappily looking into the bare interior of the trunk of Liz's Cadillac.
"Get your little asses in there, you don't need help. Trixie, you first."
Liz was right. It hurt going over the edge but we made it. Liz took her lousy cord and tied my right toe to Trixie's left and vice versa. We lay breast to breast. But she had the decency to unclip our nips. Liz was like that. Whenever you got to hating her she did something kind. It was all very defeating, and when the lid slammed down I cried on Trixie's cheek and she cried on mine. We were a pair of girls without much to look forward to--and we couldn't even talk about it.
The rest of my return to prison was sort of routine. Trixie and I were helpless. We did what we were told. Brice's prison looked just the same. A good name for an art study would have been 'Sunlight through bars.' There sure were a lot of bars. Liz locked me in my old cell and locked Trixie in the one next door. She said she was going upstairs to make coffee, and paid no attention when I asked her to untie my elbows.
"We're in deep shit," said Trixie against the bars. "Especially me. Miss Liz will whip me to bits."
We'd lost the panties, so could talk. But I found it hard to console my fellow prisoner. For sure she was going to be whipped, and me too! But I held on to the smug hope she'd be whipped the worst. It seemed only fair. Forlornly, I suggested: "Maybe, instead of being whipped, she could do something else to us? We could ask?"
"Like what?"
It was real bad. I mean, I couldn't think of a thing that wasn't as bad or worse. What girl wants to be hung up by her thumbs or made to sit on a sharp edge all day. It's hard to believe but there are worse things than being whipped. You don't believe that while the lash is cutting away at you, but it's true.
Liz held cups to our lips through the bars. Coffee is wonderful. Under its stimulus I asked forlornly, "Couldn't we be ever so humble and ever so contrite and ever so nice to you instead of being whipped?"
"You're going to do those things anyway, dear, and be whipped as well. But a nice try."
"Yes, I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. In case you're bothering you can set your mind at rest. Trixie gets it worse than you do."
I felt a bitch. Trixie was in the next cage, listening. Some-how I couldn't hate Trixie any more than I could hate Liz. Abjectly, I asked: "Couldn't we forget this whole thing, Liz? Trixie and I are both scared half to death. Isn't that enough?"
"You know it isn't."
"I don't think Trixie understands things the same way as we do --"
"She will when I get through with her."
Liz took the coffee things back upstairs. Trixie looked at me and shrugged. "I sure did blow things, Miss Ranier." She bestowed a pathetic look. "I bet you're mad at me too?"
"I ought to be. I don't know why I'm not. But we're two girls in the same boat now. Do you want me to back up to the bars and try to untie you?"
"No way!" She was really jittery. "We're in enough trouble already. If Miss Liz wants me tied this way I'll have to stay tied. And I can't get you outa' them handcuffs."
"Will she really whip us, Trixie?"
"You better believe it." My fellow prisoner's voice was heavy with woe. "What I'm scared of is what she'll do with me after--I mean, after I've been whipped. Maybe I get a life sentence same as you--"
"It would be no more than you deserve, you little Mexican menace." Liz's voice broke on on our exchange. "I'll suggest it to Brice. I wouldn't mind slicing that pert bottom of yours once a week for the next five years."
"Oh, Miss Liz--P-L-E-A-S-E...!"
Liz went and selected a crop. Every one of them hurts horribly so it didn't really matter which one. She then unlocked my door. "I'm going to cuff your ankles, Ingrid. You can behave, or you can act stupid and collect extra stripes. I don't mind either way."
I behaved. I was so damn helpless. The handcuffs clicked and bit at my ankles, and when Liz forced me to hop to the big cell where we'd be punished they cut at my tendons with every hop. I was glad to get there and stand still while she free my arms. "Go ahead, dear, massage for a minute."
Liz was being kind again. It's a wonderful way to throw a girl off balance, and massaging feels so good after tied elbows. I had one ecstatic minute before I was told to hold out my hands. I watched her tie my wrists and, from the way she did it, knew she was going to hang me up. Being suspended, naked, makes a girl most conveniently whippable. When my struggling toes were a foot above the floor she snubbed the rope and left me swinging like a pendulum while she went to get Trixie.
Trixie wept bitterly in great gusting sobs while she vowed to be the best behaved Mexican girl in California. Her pleas for forgiveness touched my heart but left Liz cold. I watched, from between my tractioned arms, while the dusky ankles were locked together and the bound arms freed.
"Get your clothes off, you little asshole."
It was the slowest strip ever. But a few motions with the crop made it happen. Trixie's body proved as impudent as her face. Tears trickled steadily while her hands were re-tied behind her back.
"Get your rump down on the floor, Trixie."
Trixie had to obey. What else could either of us do? Liz had us both. But good! Trixie then lost the handcuffs on her feet but gained straps to attach her ankles to the ends of a heavy bar which, when it went up in the air took Trixie with it. When only her shoulders and bound hands remained on the floor, the motor stopped.
It took a minute to grasp. But Trixie knew right off. Her wail was pure anguish. "Oh, not my pussy! Don't whip my pussy, Miss Liz. P--L--E--A--S--E... "
Poor girl! Trixie's pussy and pubic hair had become the most prominent feature in the cell. They looked up from between her widespread thighs in an innocent appeal for attention. They could not have been postured more conveniently for the whip. I felt my own tummy curling up at the prospect the same way hers must be. Liz exchanged her crop for a shining buggy whip, a long thin wickedness more slender than anything I'd seen. I could imagine it snapping and curling into the folds of skin, the damp lips, the hairy mound--and supposing I got it there too! I swung around unhappily while my wrists hurt and hurt and hurt. It's not fair to whip a suspended girl, being hung by her wrists out to be punishment enough.
"Nice to have you so penitent, Trixie." Liz's tone was slightly acid. "Feel free to scream, but if you overdo it I'll gag you."
"I'll be ruined, Miss Liz. It won't be no good no more."
"Don't be silly. A girl's pussy is indestructible. A hard whipping probably does it good... " As though to prove her point, Liz swished that awful whip hard between Trixie's strapped out legs.
I was fascinated. I fought to control my pendulum motion so I could watch. I'm ashamed but that's the way it was. I'd never seen another girl's pussy spread out to view and, for sure, I'd never even dreamed of seeing a female crotch whipped with a buggy whip while its owner alternated urgent promises of good behavior with quick sharp screams. The awfulness of it was it didn't stop. Liz cut away with a determined arm and compressed lips, stroke after stroke to redden and make purple Trixie's secret place and engorge the punished lips. It seemed too cruel...
"Liz, stoppit'!" I heard my own voice, frightened and not knowing when to shut up. "You shouldn't whip a girl there. It's awful."
Liz turned leisurely to cock an enquiring eyebrow. "And where would you suggest, deal?"
"Well... isn't our back and bottom supposed to be the places?" I ventured lamely, knowing I'd boobed.
"Then let's try them, dear."
It was my own fault. I clenched my teeth while the buggy whip cut at me again and again. Four across my bottom, lapping my hips, four across my back. The last one got a scream out of me.
"Now, don't tell me you wouldn't sooner have had them on your cunt, dear?" Liz made it sound maternally solicitous. "Yes--oh anything! Yes, yes! I'm sorry. I'll keep quiet."
"Thank you, dear. You're so sweet. I'm sure Trixie will be grateful her punishment won't be interrupted again by silly remarks.
Liz sure has a way with her, always the last word. She turned from my scarlet streaked skin and patted Trixie's inflamed puss. "Ready for another dose, Trixie my pet, you're nicely warmed up?"
My Mexican companion in distress pleaded, she yelped and howled. When her nakedness contorted too violently beneath the buggy whip, Liz cut it a couple of times across the pert and defenseless breasts to elicit a fresh flood of vocal distress.
"I want your cunt quite still, Trixie. When you go crazy like that it spoils my aim--or would you prefer I whipped your breasts?"
"No, Miss Liz. OHHHHHHHH... NOOOOOOO--h...!"
"I can give you full suspension with your head off the floor, dear. That way your cunt is better under control."
"No! No, I'll be good. But oh, Miss Liz, it hurts too much."
"Indeed!" Liz's tone was icy. "In that case--" It took only a few seconds for the motor to whirr Trixie aloft. When it stopped she was as much in the air as I was, except upside down. Her bound hands were groping for something that wasn't there and her black hair fell to the floor in a cascade of distress. She writhed and doubled up, pleading constantly for forgiveness, but the moist plump lips for which she sought mercy moved but little. They were exquisitely available to the buggy whip. Again, I was thankful they weren't mine. Liz proceeded to whip them steadily for what seemed an awful long time.
"Intermission." Liz paused to evoke wincing and moans by palming the soft hot mound swollen by her efforts. She was breathing heavily. "Stop snivelling," she admonished irritably. "You girls... really! I'm going to be worn out by the time I've attended to you both. I need a drink."
"You don't need to bother with me no more, less'n you want to, Miss Liz." Trixie sobbed hopefully.
"Don't be absurd. I've only got started--"
"But not upside down, Miss Liz!" The young girlish voice rose to a wail. "I'll die... I know I'll die."
"I'll come to your funeral, Trixie. Right now, I want a drink." Alone, we exchanged wide eyed stares of hopelessness and helplessness. We were the sorriest girls in California, sorry for ourselves and each other. "She's goin' to kill me." Trixie prophesied dolefully. "Miss Liz don't know when to stop--and me upside down! A gal didn't oughta' be hung upside down this way... oh jeepers!"
I wasn't sure about the upside down. I seemed to remember that if the girl was left that way long enough she died. But I wasn't going to tell Trixie. From the way she was twisting and turning right now she seemed very much alive. I tried to think of something cheerful to say. But there wasn't a thing. We were a pair of naked girls in deep trouble. Maybe we deserved to be? I wasn't sure about that either.
"Nice to see you both still here." Liz loved her sarcasms. "I was afraid you might have decided to leave."
We both left well enough alone. We were in no position to make clever quips. But I'd seen the tray with three glasses and a bottle, which could mean Liz was going to be a little kind.
"Dear Brice has the most marvellous taste in brandy." Liz poured herself a stiff potion. "I don't suppose you two feel like a snifter?"
We politely said we would like one very much, and thank you kindly. Liz considered our response, and improved on the occasion: "Before I feed you Brice's brandy, dears, I do think it would be nice if you confessed your sins and asked to be punished." Her voice dripped honey.
Trixie and I flashed a quick glance. We were stuck with contrition. We'd best be humble. Liz helped by smiling at me. You first, Ingrid, I'm sure you'll do well --" Naked and suspended! What could I do!-I tried to make it good so I didn't have to do it over. "I've been naughty, Liz." I confessed demurely. "I tried to escape from this lovely prison. I really do deserve a punishment. Will you please whip me?"
"Not bad!" Liz was pleased. "I'm not sure about the word 'lovely' but I'll let it pass. Now, Trixie, let's hear yours."
"Poor Trixie! It was not her cup of tea. She sort of undulated in her upside down condition and came out with: "I guess I bin' real bad, Miss Liz. I fix it for Miss Ranier to get away, and then I go and make a deal on sellin' her." She paused, obviously groping. "I 'speks I deserve to get my cunt whipped."
"Is that all, Trixie?"
"Well, I guess I should get my bottom whipped too--?"
"Is that all, Trixie?"
"Guess I oughta get my back whipped, too."
"Ah, I knew you could do it!" Liz was triumphant. "Now, all you have to do is ask... "
"Please, Miss, Liz, I'd like for you to whip my bottom and my back... ? I been real bad... "
The brandy was wonderful. Liz must have known how I was feeling. She held the glass to my lips until it was empty. She gave less to Trixie... maybe on account of our social positions, or perhaps because she was upside down. Liz then sipped her own and surveyed us with satisfaction. I envied her, she had power, she could do what she liked with two naked girls who had to be very polite and say please and thank you. Liz had things good. The scarlet of Trixie's whipped pussy and cleft was like a flying flag, you had to keep looking at it. I did so in the knowledge my bottom and back would soon look the same.
"I suppose enough is enough," Liz said regretfully. "You can sit on the floor, Trixie, while I attend to little Miss Escapee." She shook an admonitory finger. "But don't get any ideas I'm through with you."
"No, Miss Liz, I won't--and thank you--" I could imagine how good it must feel for Trixie to be right side up again, even though she was still terribly helpless. She sat awkwardly on her whipped loins, her hands tied behind her back, her feet still strapped far apart on the bar. Liz wouldn't have to worry about her little Mexican girl while I was getting mine. I was getting all shivery about what was going to happen.
"Another drink all round," Liz pronounced grandly. "Here, Trixie, a real bracer, it will help you howl." She turned to me. "Same for you, pet. I hat buggy whip I'm going to use on you hurts like all out." She held the glass for me. I gulped and gulped... longing for an oblivion I wasn't going to get.
Liz whipped me. I don't really know how anyone describes a whipping. I mean, when it's you yourself who's being whipped it's all so different. It hurts so much and you're so scared and panicky you can't think straight--except you want to plead for the strokes to stop, stop, stop! But you dare not, you're supposed to say how grateful you are for all the trouble they're taking you good and hard so you'll learn a lesson and not be a bad girl again. Bullshit!
The buggy whip was awful. It just wouldn't let me be heroic. Almost from the start I made noises, sounds I hated but couldn't help. Yelps and moans and weird exclamations, and then some full throated screams with my mouth wide open and giving it all I'd got. But I hate those screams like that. They scare me, and did not cause Liz to pause in one single stroke. That beastly whip curled all around me everywhere and cut like a knife. It was a quite different impact and pain to the other whippings I'd been given. Like always, I knew I'd die.
"Do you think you're likely to be escaping again soon, deaf?" Liz's query was loaded with motherly concern.
I was still writhing, moaning, pedalling with my feet and hurting my tied wrists. It takes a girl a little while to realize her whipping has actually stopped. But my shameful response came automatically.
"Oh no, never! I'll never try again, never, never, never!" And then, in wilted misery: "I'm so sorry--"
"I'm sure you are, dear. But I think perhaps a little sorrier yet, don't you?" Liz did not wait for my opinion but resumed my punishment with a curling lash around my waist. Then, on and on and on for what seemed forever. The buggy whip cut into every curve and crevice I possessed. I knew I must appear a pained pupped leaping crazily at the end of its string, flailing and writhing and making hateful sounds. I did not care.
"Well, Trixie, ready for a second dose?"
The cheerful words dragged me back from utter anguish to where I might hope my whipping was over. My skin was afire from my knees to my neck, but if the buggy whip had gone away I didn't care. I was ready to put up with anything so long as Liz stopped whipping me. I sagged, sweathed and panted back into Brice Ireland's world. The world which held me prisoner.
Trixie was without hope. She kept silent while her hands were untied from her back and retied in front. With her spread feet still captive to the bar, she was dragged and draped over a bench, her tied hands fastened and a belt strapped round her waist to cinch it down tight. Once more she was helpless, her back and bottom pleading.
"I'll leave your legs spread out by the bar, Trixie. That way I can give individual attention to each of your bottom cheeks, they're nicely apart."
Trixie was sobbing again. I couldn't blame her. I knew I'd be sobbing too if Liz came back and started in on me a second time. Being whipped just wears a girl out, like taking out all the starch. I watched Liz trade the buggy whip for a slender yellow length of cane. It seemed to me I'd sooner have the whip on my bottom than what Trixie was going to get right now.
"I do think a change is as good as a rest, dear--this lovely cane...!" Liz flexed it joyously and struck.
Trixie couldn't move much from her waist up, but from her waist down she went berserk. It wasn't that she could do much, the waist cinch and the foot bar controlled her beautifully, but her bottom sort of took over in revolt against the awful weal springing up across its right cheek, it humped and twitched, its muscles writhing... The strapped legs did what they could, but it was hopeless. Trixie's muscular mutiny simply told Liz the cane was a great success. She cut it down sharply across the left half of the protruded bottom. Trixie screamed.
While Trixie's bottom was caned and her back whipped, I just hung there like washing on the line. I hurt all over, including my tied wrists and stretched arms and shoulders. I couldn't be sure if I was still being punished or was sort of parked while Liz was busy. Then, right off, I started to worry. If I'd had my punishment what happened now? What would Liz or Brice do with me? Even though the things happening at the moment were bad, I could almost believe I preferred them to being shackled and locked back in a cell and just sitting and sitting. Solitary confinement is the ultimate punishment.
Liz could create atmosphere. She was suddenly motherly and busy. She departed to make coffee, but left us both the way we were.
"If I ever get untied. I'm gone so damn quick--!" Trixie exclaimed cautiously. "She won't let you loose but she might me-- I'm supposed to work here."
"She almost has to keep you prisoner until Mr. Ireland comes back."
"Maybe. But not if I can sweet talk my way out... gollies!"
"I'll never get out of here," I mourned. "You're lucky--" We watched our whispers, we were still scared and quivering. When Liz came back with the coffee she found a pair of silent and attentive young women. She smiled knowingly and lowered my feet to the floor and gave me my hands so, even though they were still tied, I could hold my cup. After being suspended and whipped, that hot mug in my hands and its contents in my tummy was a purely sensual experience in which I seeped my whole attention, revelling in something that felt so good. My ankles were still handcuffed but there was nowhere to walk. I stood and sipped in a saturation of relief.
Trixie got the same. Two pairs of tied hands held two cups. Two pairs of wide eyes focused on our mistress. We were a couple of whipped and cowering bitches anxious for approval.
"You two have given me a lot of trouble," said Liz.
Ardently we murmured contrition.
"You can work out your penitence on the chain gang, dears. I need diversion."
The chain gang turned out to be getting my hands untied in front and promptly tied again behind my back. The handcuffs stayed on my ankles. Trixie was detached from the bar, then fixed the same way. We could flop about like a pair of seals but without their flexibility. I just stood and waited.
"Upstairs, pets. I'll be right behind you with the cane. Come on... hop... hop."
We hopped. It's surprising what a girl can do when there's a cane hovering over her bare bottom. We'd both had all we wanted of being whipped. We surmounted the stairs in a series of contorted wriggles, mostly backward. It wouldn't have hurt Liz to let us have our feet, but I suppose then she'd have had to worry about us getting our hands loose. For Liz, peace of mind meant a couple of helpless girls.
It was two flights of stairs, not one. The cane guided us to Liz's bedroom. When she tossed away her clothes we knew what we had to do. The rest of us was handicapped but our mouth was free.
"I don't suppose I need to draw a chart, dears." Liz positioned her nudity appropriately on the bed. "I expect a good performance. Slacking gets the whip. But good!"
We did not slack. We hopped and flipped and twisted our bare helplessness to get our lips where Liz thought they belonged. Trixie and I took turns with our mistress's nipples and her hairy patch below. She was obliging enough about posturing bits of herself wherever they were likely to get our best attention. Even when she closed her eyes we continued to give her of our best. Roped and cuffed, we were absurdly helpless. But there was lots of time. I had all the rest of my life.
Liz was insatiable, seeming to possess an endless supply of orgasms without exhaustion. Trixie and I tired from the constant strain of tied hands and chained feet, our duty was difficult. But the nude woman on who we worked with lips and tongue smiled her way from one glory to another. We knew for sure we wouldn't get any joy ourselves, evening using our own lips. We had been bad girls and were being made to pay for our delinquency. When Liz drifted into slumber we did the same, three exhausted nudition on one bed. Trixie and I didn't think of escape. Even if we'd got our hands loose, where were we going to go with locked feet!
"I'd keep you in bed with me, pets, but I can't trust you," Liz sighed at bedtime. "So you'll have to spend the night in the cells." She chuckled. "And, no, you don't share one. I'm going to keep you separate."
We did not argue. I stood in the passage and watched Trixie get the shackles I'd worn. Hands and feet and then both linked together. The captive looked at me through the bars and shrugged. Our whippings had softened us up, we were totally docile. Trixie tried out her chains by shuffling noisily to the cot and sitting down. Liz clanged the door shut and turned the key before giving me her attention. Automatically, I started up to hop into my cell when something like an unseen hand kept me where I was. My cell was suddenly full of menace. Inside there in the gloom my dream was waiting, and my dream was a vividly real horror from which I shrank. Timidly, I asked: "Please, Liz, could I be put in another cell?"
She stared in surprise. "What's wrong with this one?"
"I--I-I don't know. But there's something in that that makes me dream, awful stuff about torture and death, a nightmare."
"Fiddlesticks."
"No. I mean it. Oh, Liz, if you only knew. Something happened to a girl in that cell once long ago--I just know it did, and the memory of it's still there."
"You want me to put you in with Trixie so you can feed on each other. I wasn't born yesterday."
"No. Honest! Be real mean to me if you want to. But in another cell?"
The cane cut me hard over one hip. I started to hop. The cane kept biting at me until I was right up against the cot, the cot of my awful visions. "That's better," Liz approved. "Such silly nonsense from a girl like you, and trying it out on me! I'd make you squeal if you weren't so well marked already." She shook her head in disgust. "Sit down and stick out your feet."
I obeyed. Liz unlocked the cuffs from my ankles, then told me to lay face down. When I did that too she tightened and retied the cords round my wrists. "There," she exclaimed busily. "Just the way I left you tied before. But this time no sporting proposition."
I played what should have been a good card. I said, "Thank you, Liz. But if you leave me in here Trixie can reach through and untie my hands."
She sighed. Without a word she got my collar and chain. When they were locked on me I couldn't get anywhere near Trixie's bars. It was my turn to sigh and say, "I'm sorry."
"Satisfied?"
"Yes, thank you."
Liz slammed the door on me and, snappily through the bars, said "Pleasant dreams."
"You sure blew that one," Trixie observed from her cell.
I lay back down and cried.
CHAPTER SIX - THE SENTENCE
The girl and the man made a striking tableau in the sunlight of the stone prison. The Countess Ingrid Del Torres stood by the bars of her window, her chained hands clenched, links drooping to a loop. She gazed at Enriquez Escobar in a mixture of jubilation and dismay.
"Then it is certain they will not burn me?"
"Aye. Unless fresh evidence comes forth." His sober mien belien satisfaction at his ward's deliverance from the faggots and the stake. "But what they intend for thee is a thing I cannot countenance."
"The heaviest of irons, and the dungeon for the rest of my life?"
He nodded absently. '"Tis no real mercy. His Majesty wanted naught of thy case. He spared thee from Holy Church but consigned thee to a life of fettered darkness. No one of rank rose in thy defense. There was a sea captain protesting your innocence, as did I. Our supplication was disallowed."
Ingrid's heard glowed. Serra had not forgotten. Uncertainly, she ventured: "At least I will be alive." Her voice trembled. "When am I to be taken to... to the place?"
"I cannot part with thee." Escobar was more vehement than she had ever seen. "I won one small victory. You do not go to some foul hole in an isolated keep, you are consigned to the custody of the Sisters of Modragel. They'll not be kind... but they are female."
"I owe you so much--"
"Nay. What I want for you is freedom."
"But that's impossible. If I am condemned--?"
"I want you." Escobar's eyes were brilliant. "Nunnery doors open more easily than those of his Majesty's prisons. Somehow, and before the dungeon spoils thee, I'll have thee free and in a safe place. I swear it."
"But you'd risk everything--your life!"
"Willingly, to possess you."
Ingrid's fingers rose to the clasp of her shift. It fell encircling her chained feet, to leave her nude. Chains clinking, she disposed herself upon the bench. "Come," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "Let me give you what I can of myself while I still can."
He took her hungrily.
The captain of the King's Guard laughed sardonically. "Damn me, Escobar, but you've got the lass well ironed."
"I've taken no chances--if she's a witch as they say--!"
"There's no broomstick can carry that weight of metal... I'll report thy diligence. But now...!" The King's man rubbed a stubbled chin.
Ingrid was trembling. She and Escobar were playing roles. Those who took her now must see Escobar as the implacable custodian, a man who had kept her unkindly confined. She stood, chained, attired scantily in her prison shift, looking from one man to the other as though judging her fate. The captain was bluff and hearty, proud of his position, overly assured. Perhaps he was the one they had prayed for. She said: "I will be glad for ye to take me, sir."
"Mayhap. But you'll no ride a horse like that, girl, and we've far to go."
"We can strike what iron ye wish from her. Captain," Escobar was bored, glad to be rid of a burden.
"Hmmmmm, I'd feel easier with none. Strike 'em all and tie her hands behind her back. One of us will lead her horse."
They took her to the smith. Ingrid had become accustomed to repeated visits. Whether the striking hammer freed or riveted her fast it made no difference, she remained captive. She had come to know her irons as punishments, hammered on her limbs to proclaim man's dominance. She positioned herself as need be, her thoughts elsewhere. When she rose, waiting, she was air.
"A pretty wench." The captain had an appreciative eye. "Slip out of that rag, girl, and let's have a look."
The condemned girl obeyed, standing and turning for their pleasure. She had long since lost concern over hungry eyes feasting on her naked loveliness. When they were appeased she resumed her shabby shift, and turned and crossed her wrists. That motion, too, was piercingly familiar.
"Ye've got the lass well trained, Escobar. Is she as amenable on her back?"
"No doubt you'll find out, man." Escobar was bitter.
Ingrid stood, compressing her lips against the bite of cort and tug of knots. She would be helpless in the journey still to come. Mounted, and at the gate, she stared at the lined features of the Castellan, her eyes giving a greater message than her tongue. "Thank you, sir. You have kept me captive, but you've been most kind."
The small troop of guards led the Countess Ingrid Del Torres from Escobar's keep, through the streets for the citizens to stare at bound hands and scarce concealed nudity, and on into the country. Ingrid's bare thighs were cold on saddle leather but grew warm as they chafed. By night they might be sore. She sat erect, staring into a distance she did not see.
The day was long. The badinage of the troop bawdy, but impersonal as befitted their prisoner's rank. Ingrid suspected the men felt sorry for her in a fate lacking the drama of the stake yet piteous in its theft of her youth and of her sentient life. There were stories about the Sisters of Modragel... ! At night they camped in a wooded glade. Ingrid's hands were freed but her ankles bound. No man in his right mind took chances with a witch. At night she was to be tied to a tree. In the meantime she could feed and tend herself.
It was a strange company. They sat in a wide circle round the fire, Ingrid to the captain's right, her long hair and bound feet the only division between herself and those who guarded her. It was an easy duty without risk or danger. Seven men and a girl, and at the end of their journey the nunnery where the girl would find chains and a dungeon and an uncertain mercy. The captain voiced her prospect with diffident concern.
"I'd let thee slip away, lass, if ye were not the king's prisoner. I've no liking for what awaits thee."
"Is Modragel that cruel to its captives? Surely women--?"
"Bitches, more like. They're bored with their vespers and their shaven pates. You'll make a tasty tid-bit."
"But am I not sent there to be imprisoned? I am not sentenced to cruelty?"
"Aye--if they know the difference. I'll wager you'll have a well striped skin before the first day's one."
The captive pulse quickened. Covertly, she examined the rough, good humored face: where there was sympathy there might be more. Her feminine whisper was direct.
"Give me freedom, Captain, and I'll gainsay thee naught." Male eyes glinted in a quickened interest, but the voice was bitter: "And lose my head over it!"
"You can think of expedients, excuses, blame my disappearance on witchery? Please... ? I do not want to go to Modragel."
"For an hour's pleasure...?"
"Nay! Make me your own prisoner somewhere for as long as you want. I can accept thee lovingly as against the stake or the nuns."
The captain was impressed. This girl had suffered enough to make her amenable to men, she had no illusions. She was also of the nobility: an erotic package of female to be treasured. The Countess Del Torres would be wasted in the cloisters of Modragel. But, kept safe for his own pleasure... ! The prospect was alluring. Staring hard, he said gruffly: "I'll take that as a pledge. Let me think of ways... " He considered quietly. "You'll be tied to the tree tonight there's the men to consider. But, after that... after that I'll think of something. Will you trust me?"
"I am giving you my life."
"And I'll have no need to beat thee...?"
"If you do, I'll not complain."
They understood each other.
The bindings of the Countess Ingrid Del Torres to her tree seemed unduly harsh. But she was a witch! Wryly, the captive girl sensed the fear and respect of those who bound her tight. The captain wanted no part in her securing, delegating the task to two of his men and turning his attention elsewhere. Fearing the hours of darkness, and longing for elusive sleep, the prisoner begged: "Please, not so tight. I'm only a girl--"
"You're a witch, m'Lady."
"No I'm not. Suck talk is foolishness. There's no need of all this rope... you've got it cutting at me everywhere."
"And thus ye'll be here come morning."
"If you tied my hands behind the trunk it would suffice. I could not get them free."
They enjoyed her pleas, taking male pleasure in the tugging of strictures above and below her breasts and within her crotch. Shrewdly, they knotted her to become one with the bole against which she stood.
"You'll sleep well enough, ma'am. Ye cannot slip. The ropes will hold thee like a lover's arms."
Ingrid did not answer. When the soldiers turned away she flexed and strained to discover utter helplessness. A girl labelled witch could expect little comfort in her prisonments. She was thankful the captain lacked superstition. When he came to inspect her before sleep she played the sulky female role of a girl condemned to match his own gruff cruelty. If soldiers listened they would hear only words such as might be expected."
"Captain, I am bound too cruelly. I am in pain."
"Maybe a witch is safe when she's hurting."
"I'm no witch, and there's no need to bind me thus. I have a need of sleep the same as you."
His laugh was cynical. "You'll sleep well enough, cradled by a tree and held by loving arms of rope."
"The ropes are cruel. Some cut me where no rope should touch a girl--" He sidled close, his whisper urgent. "Sleep if you can, you must be weary. I have considered well... and sometime in the night... !
Ingrid nodded in silent gratitude as he turned away. The ropes had lost their power to give her pain, she could bear their bite well enough for what hours she must. She watched the passing around of the flagon of wine, the banking of the fire, the lapsing into sleep by men who saw no menace in the wood or from a girl bound fast against a tree. Her eyes grew heavy...
Her awakening was sudden. It came in the knowledge of having slept a long time, and of a presence... ! The Countess Del Torres raised apprehensive eyes to the face of the man who stood before the tree to which she was bound. She gasped in disbelief.
It was Captain Serra.
They kissed fiercely, uncaring of words or explanations. His voice was urgent. "I'll untie the ropes, let them think ye loose by a witch's magic."
Free, and trembling in joy, Ingrid fled silently with her rescuer to where the horse was tethered. There would be time enough for explanations and for the acts of love when they were leagues away. Mounted, they made a slow and silent way along a scarcely discernable path until Serra deemed it safe to use his spurs. In a loping gallop they left the soldier's camp behind.
Ingrid Del Torres would remember it always as the most poignant moments of her life. Her arms around the waist of the strange ascetic man she had come to love, she felt certain their excitation transferred itself to their stead. Its hooves pounded, its nostrils flared. In the darkness of the Spanish night the horse and its riders felt the heady ecstasy of freedom. For the first time in months Ingrid's limbs were without restraint. Her pulse surged joyously.
The badger hole was fate's own trap, instantly lethal. The horse fell in a tangle of legs and gear. Ingrid struck the ground, to lay dazed in concussion until, minutes later, she thrust herself dazedly to her knees and surveyed the wreckage of hope. The horse was gone. Beside her lay the prone figure of a man. She knew instantly Serra was dead. Clutching him in wild dismay, she found the slackness of his broken neck. In a wild sorrow she hugged and kissed and implored. But her sea captain was gone to where he could aid her no more. Sobbing and remembering, Ingrid fled into the night.
The recapture of the Countess Ingrid Del Torres was as un- dramatic as it was inevitable. She was a fugitive without friends. She was lost and barefoot and without gold or silver. Whether she traversed a farmer's field or trudged a country lane she was conspicuous. The captain and his small troop found her easily and took her back into custody before the sun was high at midday. She had no defense, no excuse, no story they would believe. Ingrid stood in sullen silence to be bound.
"So you truly are a witch." There was a bitter disappointment in the captain's accusation. "None but a witch could have freed herself and fled so far in the dark of night."
"I am not a witch. I was freed by a friend."
"And where is this friend?" The captain's question lacked sympathy. He was seeing himself as a man ill used. "Would he have cloven hooves and horns perchance?"
"He is dead. The horse fell."
"And he disappeared in smoke and brimstone...?"
"Please, Captain, do not mock me." Her eyes, fastened on his, were piteous. "I am in no way changed. I am the same girl I was last evening by the fire."
"But I am not the same, m'Lady. I sneered at witches then. But you've made me a convert to the faith. You area witch. The fact grieves me but it is so."
"You will deliver me to Modragel?"
"Aye." His tone softened. "What else can I do?"
The fugitive girl understood the man's dilemma all too well. He was hurt, fearful of whatever power he thought she possessed, mindful of his rank and of the king's wrath. The idyll they had planned was shattered into fantasy. Seeking words with which to bridge the gap between them, she pleaded.
"Please don't have me bound. If one of you holds the reins to my horse I cannot flee."
"D'you think me a fool, girl?"
"But I have no magic. I'm only a girl, helpless within your ranks." Her voice trembled. "The bindings hurt so bitterly when I ride... I'll even give you my word."
Her custodian made an impatient gesture. He was irritated and wished to save face with his men. The captured girl looked askance at the cord in the soldier's hand but turned and stood sullenly as her hands were placed palm to palm and brutally bound. When a second rope circled her elbows she pleaded in bereft sincerity.
"Not my elbows, too! Oh, please, Captain, don't have my elbows tied. To ride so constrained is torture."
None answered. Elbows firmly knotted, wrists clamped by cord, the Countess Del Torres was lifted into the saddle. A noose was placed around her neck and used as a leash by he who held the reins. In a bitterness of spirit and a nagging grief, Ingrid sat erect, her breasts made arrogant by the bindings on her arms as the troop resumed its task of delivering her to a lifetime of irons and walls of stone. The heat of a Spanish sun and the scent of flowers made her condition look all the more harrowing by contrast. The captain took the lead and did not look back.
The convent housing the Sisters of Modragel was a place of beauty. Old mellow stone, ivy and litchens, gardens, and around it all a wall no girl could climb or no intruder scale. The great gates opened to them ceremoniously and closed behind them with a thud that, to Ingrid, was a knell of doom.
It was a strange reception. A young woman, a novice, of sober mein and troubled eyes, took possession of the leash from the captive's neck, and asked bluntly: "You will be obedient, Countess?"
Ingrid shrugged wracked shoulders. "What else can I be?"
Doubtless there were eyes, but their owners kept well hidden as the two girls traversed the patios and passages, over which there hung a hush of silence almost tangible. Before their parting, Ingrid had sought the captain's face, but he would not meet her gaze. Probably she would never see him again, nor any other man either save a priest. No doubt the Mother Superior would serve him wine and listen to his story of a witch.
The stone chambers had a grace and symmetry and were well lit. They descended no stairs, but no doubt the dungeon would come soon enough. The vaulted room which was their journey's end held but three things, a desk, a chair, and, hanging from above, a rope.
"I must untie you... ?" It was a question.
"I will not fight you."
"My name is Inez. The Holy Mother will speak with you soon, now it is I who tends thee. Please bear with what I must do." There came a gasp as nimble fingers sought the knots of pinioned arms. "You have been bound most cruelly, madam "
"The soldiers believed me a witch."
Ropes and cords were peeled from hurt skin. Feminine hands and fingers gave comfort to the wounds. Then, when the bonds had become loose loops upon the stone, the two girls stood in a diffident silence, shrinking from words in which there was no comfort at all.
"I am instructed to tie you again, Countess. But more simply and without cruelty...?" Once more the statement was a question.
"Yes, of course. I do not expect freedom."
Ingrid held out her hands and watched the crossing of her wealed wrists, and a fresh criss-crossing of cords stricturing them tight.
"You tie me with skill, Inez."
"Aye. Being bound is one of Modragel's punishments. We become accustomed to the use of cord. I am a novice and am punished often for my sins--and now, Countess, if you will forgive me--?"
The rope suspended from the ceiling had been warning enough. Ingrid made no demur when it snared her tied hands and lifted them above her head, stretching her to stand erect. Inez's regretful voice held apology.
"There is one more thing I must do. Please forgive me." For Ingrid, nakedness had become commonplace. But here, in this place, it came as a fresh shock as the novice's fingers stripped her bare. Robbed of all covering, her nudity graphically exposed, the tied girl asked timidly: "Why must I be naked, I thought this a convent--?"
"It is a place of women, no man will feast on you."
"But is not nakedness sinful? I thought--"
"If the Reverend M other wants you naked, then naked ye will be." If there was cynicism in the young voice it was well hidden. "Mayhap she wishes to examine thee for marks of Satan." The voice turned wistful. "Thou art most beautiful."
"I am fastened thus to be interviewed?"
"If a girl has naught to hide she has naught to fear."
"But anything can be called a witch's mark, even a girl's nipples, a mole... the score of a whip on her skin...?"
"With thee she has no need of such expedients. Are ye not already condemned to one of Modragel's dungeons?"
"Yes, for the rest of my life."
"Should I get to tend thee I will make what easement I can." Inez fell silent, as diffident and shamed as Ingrid herself. Suddenly, she kissed the captive lips and fled, to leave a naked girl perplexed and anxious to await the advent of the woman who henceforth would hold her inthrall... ! She shuddered. A perpetual prisoner... ? It seemed impossible. But the rope compelling her to stand there naked spoke all too clearly of bars and bolts and irons.
The Abbess of Modragel took her time, and when she came her entrance was undramatic. Shrewd, enigmatic features which, out of the concealing coif might have been beautiful, surveyed her nude and trembling prisoner with an intent and thorough examination before she took her seat behind the desk. "You are well favoured, Countess. A beautiful woman."
"Thank you."
"Too lovely to waste in my dungeon."
"But I am sentenced--what else--?"
"Oh, I'll find uses for you, never fear. The court in which you were condemned lies far from Modragel. Have you been properly whipped?"
"Yes, aboard the ship that brought me back to Spain."
"Hmmmmm... and ironed?"
"Heavily ironed, all my limbs, my neck--"
"And they kept ye naked, I've no doubt?"
"Yes, always I was naked."
"Tortured you too, eh? The water?"
"They refused my confession without it."
"I'm sure they would." The tone was dry. "A naked woman, pregnant with water, is a rare sight for a man. I'm sure you gave them sport. And now, what have they told you of this House of Woman?"
"That I would be treated cruelly."
The laugh was genuine, without rancour. "Well... I expect they're right. There's music in a girl's screams. But what of your magic? Your escort confirms you as a witch."
"I am no witch. I have no magic. I am a naked girl, tied for your inspection."
"For my pleasure. You're a pretty sight. My novices are mostly bags of bones." The abbess leaned forward, intent, serious. "Tell me child... ? You are sentenced to a life in chains an dark of a dungeon. What of thy feelings?"
"Had it not been by the stake and the fire I would have chosen death."
"A proper answer. Tis what I'd have chosen, too... " Dark eyes glinted. "But now, you're sweetly alive. What say you to a whipping as Modragel's welcome?"
The demand brought no shock. The manner in which she was bound had been a warning, and to be whipped was very much a part of the life of captive girls. Ingrid's reply was forthright. "Yes, if it pleasures thee. I will try and not scream too loudly." She made a small disparaging moue. "I cannot promise not to scream at all."
"Well said!" It was a woman's delighted laughter. "I guessed you'd possess quality... But that you'd have such a body with it... ! I'd say that Modragel was greatly blessed this day." Another chuckle. "Don't you want to know why you're to be whipped?"
"Is it not for your pleasure?"
"Ah, ha, so you are wise, and well trained. I am most fortunate." The voice of the abbess had become vibrant. "Watch now, child, and tell me if you are also not greatly blessed."
It was impossible but was happening before the bound girl's eyes. The M other Superior of Modragel cast aside her habit and the few scanty things beneath, she kicked away her shoes, then discarded her coif...
"But, madam, your hair... ? So much lovely hair...?"
"And you were expecting a shaven pate! Poor dear child--" The abbess laughed delightedly at the amazement on Ingrid's face. "There is much about Modragel the King and Holy Church don't know." She posed seductively in a mature nudity to contradict her office. Her eyes sparkled at her helpless charge. "Well... ?"
"You are more than beautiful. More beautiful than any woman--"
"Too beautiful to whip thee?"
"No. Oh, no--" Ingrid knew that if either of them was a witch it was the woman at whom she gazed in awe. The dark beauty, so starkly and wantonly revealed, sent her pulse to racing. Instinct told her what would follow the whip. Perhaps the whip would be a small price... ! The world of men was fading from her mind, her wrists had ceased to hurt. In wonder, she gasped: "I do not understand. Oh, please--"
"You will learn in time, there is no hurry. When we are alone you will call me Ramona, it is my name. I will call you Ingrid. But these are intimacies for the two of us alone and in private. At such time ye need have no fear to call me by name, even while I whip thee or give thee joy."
It was another discovery, one more reversal of fate. The tied captive thought back across the succession of those who could have destroyed her but had foreborn: Avilar, Serra, Pietro, Escobar... and now this glorious creature... ! Ingrid thrust awaought that she herself was perhaps indeed a witch--to so inspire mercy. But it was too soon. The mother superior was still an unknown quantity. It would be small comfort in a dungeon to know her wardress beautiful... and the whip would hurt the same! In an urgent longing for reassurance, she asked timidly, "But, madam... Ramona... what of my sentence... the dungeon?"
"It awaits thee, child. Have no fear." The abbess laughed at her prisoner's chapfallen countenance. "You hoped I'd tell thee it did not exist? Come, is that not so?"
"I am so fearful... the chains and the dark... and alone."
"Modragel has several dungeons and a multitude of irons for pretty hands and feet." Ramona chuckled. "As for loneliness, there's enough sin among the novitiate to keep thee company. The King's writ said naught of a sweet nudity to help ye clank a chain." The abbess shook a warning finger. "But enough of dungeons. We've better things... "
Ingrid tensed against her rope as she watched the opening of a cupboard door and the selection of a whip. Her nakedness and helplessness became most vividly real. Ramona had her, and she had yet to discover Ramona's mercy. The whispered tales of Modragel could scarce all be false.
"You are sweetly open to my whip, child. Do ye cringe?"
"I cringe. I am sorely afraid."
"And so you should be. My whip bites well the skin of girls. But remember, this is a whipping of welcome to your new life. There will be no blood." Ramona kissed her trembling victim gently on the lips, then stepped back--.
It hurt with all the awfulness of remembered thongs, a hurt you knew you could not bear. Ingrid clenched her teeth and twisted her hands against their cords. What mattered if whether she screamed or kept silent... ? But she did not want to scream...
"You are of a quality, child--to bear it so."
"I wish to please thee."
"For fear of my anger?"
"No! Not that--. For a reason I do not know."
The abbess struck the ivory back again. The captive head jerked back in agony between bare tractioned arms. Within the responsive gasp there was a whisper.
"You loins, Ingrid? Do they acknowledge--?"
"They pay you tribute with longing--I do not know--"
"Scream now, child."
Ingrid screamed. The lash cut her shoulders, lapping an arm pit lovingly in bitter pain. Ramona reversed her stand and cut again to implant a similar bite within the stretched privacy of the armpit's twin. Both flattened hollows bore a scarlet badge to attest the welcome of Modragel.
"I had not hoped for anything so lovely." Ramona's comment was reflective. She was beholding visions. "Do you understand, Ingrid, why I've stripped as bare as you?"
"Is it not to better wield the whip--?"
"That, too." The abbess kissed the hot, dry lips of the girl in pain. "But I want you to hunger...?"
"I hunger. You are so gorgeously formed--" The captive's sentence was broken by a scream as the thong planted itself deep in the soft cheeks above her thighs. Gasping with the pain of it, Ingrid added: "But it is more... much more. I do not have the words."
"You adore my whip?"
"Yes, oh yes!"
"Because it's mine?"
"Because it's yours. Yes... yes!"
"Then scream again."
It bit her belly, making a snapping circuit of the slenderness of Ingrid's waist, a band of fire to blaze her loins to fury. Her cry was animal and savage.
"Open your legs, Ingrid."
There was no thought of disobedience. The slender ivory columns spread invitingly, but only enough to allow passage to the lash. The bound girl made a long, long undulation of anguish as the scoring leather impacted her wet lips and splatted its force upon her pubic triangle. But she made no plaint. She was in the grip of sensations and agonies such as she had never known, but was strangely at peace. Her world was shattered but was being erotically reborn.
"You have never been owned by a woman, child?"
"No... oh, never."
"You are now." The abbess stood erect, breasts taut, the thong sliding through her fingers like a seeking snake. "Ingrid, how old am I?"
Again, the thought of witchery in the captive's mind. "I--I--I cannot tell, Ramona. You seem so young to be--too lovely--" A thrill of laughter. "I will not tell my age. But I am of the nobility as yourself. Perhaps that helps, or perhaps the blood within me does not age." Dark eyes sparkled. "Or maybe I am a witch? The thought has crossed your mind."
"I do not care--"
"To be whipped by a witch! Is the thought not piquant?"
For answer, Ingrid screamed as the leather sought and seared her once again in shocking scald. She knew herself writhing, legs flailing, lifting her nudity from the stone by bound wrists, pealing their own protests against a punishment unearned. When she again stood erect, motionless but panting, Ingrid's voice was an erotic whisper.
"You are a witch, you must be. This is like no other whipping I have known. I cannot bear it, but I cannot bear that you should stay thy hand."
"You have spread your legs again. I did not tell you to."
"I--I did not realize. You make me wanton. I would fain--" The tied beauty screamed again as she was sliced within her secret cleft. The abbess watched the exquisite convolutions of feminine limbs and the tossing of feminine hair. Her eyes glowed in fulfillment, her own breasts were rising and falling tumultuously. She was fiercely happy.
"Woulds't have me whip thee into the darkness, child?"
"If it please thee. I have no will--" Ramona set aside her whip. Hungrily, she clasped the helpless nakedness she had so vividly marked, thrusting her own dew to mingle with the wet sweat of Ingrid's agony, breasts flattening on breasts, and heart thudding against heart. "Supposing I leave thee hanging like this forever?" she whispered.
"Yes! Yes, oh yes... oh... oh...!"
Lubricated flesh sank lower, the clasping arms slid easily over the curve of buttocks and the well wealed hips. They embraced soft thighs which widened at their touch. The abbess of Modragel buried her face within the scented forest of her captive's hair, her eager lips seeking those now swollen by her whip, her tongue a serpent close upon its prey. Far above, beyond taut belly and stretched breasts, the other lips of Ingrid Del Torres moaned and moaned...
The kneeling woman spent time lavishly, her lips and tongue finding their nourishment with an infinite cunning. Ramona gripped knees and thighs and sometimes raised her arms to splay her fingers upon the wounded curves behind so as to pull closer to her mouth that which was in front. The abbess possessed a palpitating plentitude of female flesh, and fed upon it thankfully.
Ingrid's own thankfulness was for being bound, helpless and nude, for the pleasure of the woman between her legs. Her sensations were of a self immolation so exquisite she had no wish for it to ever end. She had never known her body respond with such a richness of giving. Her sounds and motions at the end of her tethering rope were little different from her tributes to Ramona's whip. Her ecstasy reached such peaks as to make her whipping a thing to be much desired as a prelude to her joy. But, no doubt, she would be whipped again... and again... ! She closed her eyes and swayed into the roseate world of Ramona's lips and Ramona's tongue. Ramona... Ramona... ! The name repeated itself in her mind, over and over, in discovery.
Perhaps she slept, or slipped into unconsciousness, or magic may indeed have been at work. When Ingrid opened her eyes she beheld the abess of Modragel coifed and habited and surveying her with a bright maternal eye.
"Have not your hands been raised to heaven long enough, Ingrid?"
The bound girl did not want release, she feared it would break the spell of glorious lassitude in which she stood without pain and knowing only a pleasant sensation of being owned. Her wrists hurt but it was a hurt she cherished. Simply, she said: "I am content to stand thus, Mother Superior."
"If you call me that again, Ingrid, I'll punish you."
"But you are dressed--!"
"You've seen what my habit hides, child. You'll see it again. I'llre you garner a mouthful of hairs from my pubic bush. But I cannot walk the halls of Modragel as naked as you--and we have a journey."
"But, Ramona, the nuns? Should they see me thus?"
"Delinquents are made naked for their punishments. You are considered delinquent, you poor darling. My convent will not be shamed."
"Ramona... ? Do you punish other... girls?"
"Jealous, little one? Oh indeed, I punish. Modragel is never short of delinquent flesh. It is seldom of your quality, but still...!"
"Will others punish me here? Please, Ramona, only you...?"
"Have no fear, I'll not waste your screams. I alone will punish. Others may tend you in your desolations. That is all."
"Ramona...?" Ingrid's voice was tremulous. "I have never felt as you have made me feel. I have never been so possessed. Are you... are you truly...?"
"A witch?" Ramona laughed delightedly. "You may name me witch to Holy Church. After they have put me to the question ye may see me burn."
"Don't say such things." Ingrid twisted distressfully against her rope. "You are far too beautiful, and I would never... "
"But I am cruel to you--am I not?"
"No."
"But I must be... soon."
The abbess was an enigma. Ingrid knew herself afloat on an uncharted sea. She gasped and her shoulders protested as the suspending rope allowed her hands to fall. When a noose was fastened on her neck she could guess what was to follow.
"Your hands stay tied for a little while. Inez will attend thee, and for her you must be bound. You will be amused, Ingrid, by the ways she will keep you helpless." Ramona chuckled. "If the poor dear allowed you to escape she would be guilty of grievous sin. She is not like you, she finds no splendor in my punishments."
Ingrid sank to her knees, her tied hands striving to embrace the feminine contours beneath the black habit, trying to raise the drab cloth that she might, in her turn, employ her lips in the arts of female love. She felt immense gratitude for Modragel and to the woman who ruled it. But the noose on her throat tightened demandingly.
"Not now, dear girl. The time will come. For now, I must deliver thee."
It was all a part of the roseate dream. The kisses, the wise feminers, the demanding small tugs at her captive throat. Dazed by Ramona's magic, the tied girl allowed herself to be led to where her leash was placed in the hand of a bright and anxious to please girl who viewed the stripes upon her skin with the comprehension of experience.
"Take her, Inez, you know what to do. You may punish her if she does not behave."
The naked captive wondered if Inez caught the laughter in the last adjuration. She and the mother superior exchanged a covert glance of complicity, utterly feminine, before the abbess swept her way towards other duties, to leave the girls alone.
"You have been whipped, m'Lady... " Inez was embarrassed.
"My welcome, Inez. You must have known."
"I am so sorry for you. It hurts so terribly... Although... " The girlish eyes were puzzled. "The Reverend Mother did not stripe thee as severely as I thought."
"She has promised to whip me again."
The novice nodded. These were matters she understood. In sweet simplicity she agreed. "You are so very beautiful... she will whip you often."
Ingrid smiled at the serious young face. Laughing, she promised: "As for my obedience, I promise I'll obey. But you must tell me what to do."
"You are very sweet, m'Lady. But, even with your promise, I must keep thee tightly bound. Forgive me."
The rose hued mood endured through the bath. The captive allowed her elbows to be tied at her back to make her more helpless and get her tied hands out of the way. When she was seated before a mirror and an array of cosmetics, while Inez brushed and combed and applied wise female skills, the naked girl asked in wonder: "But this is a convent... ? Here, girls should not be made lovely? Is not our beauty a fleshly thing denied?"
"You are not a nun, madam, you are a prisoner."
"But are the prisoners of Modragel allowed these arts? You make me a bride...?"
"It is a cruelty, m'Lady, as is the rope biting thy elbows."
"I do not mind... but I do not understand?"
"It is like the welcome of the whip." Inez patted and smoothed consolingly. "I do indeed make thee as a bride, but the altar to which I must lead thee will have little of love about it."
How strange it was! Bound yet partly free! Nude and groomed but destined for punishment. Obedient yet helpless to be aught else! Her mentor a girl younger than herself, a girl who grasped a whip and tugged a leash upon a girlish neck! And then the stairs, the downward steps... and the knowledge her time had come.
'"Tis a sad and loveless place down here, m'Lady."
"His Majesty the King has sentenced me."
"I wish it was otherwise, madam. But I must do what I must do."
Dark stone, dark walls a tiny aperture to the light, heavily barred and higher than a girl could reach. The door was a massive bulwark of timber, its bolts and locks frightening to behold. As the naked culprit passed through its portal she felt the chill of doom. Inez radiated apology.
"The chains are part of thy penance--"
"I know. They were specifically ordered in my commitment."
"How can you be so calm, so serene? If it was I to be ironed thus in this place I would be weeping."
Ingrid knew herself still under the spell of magic, but did not say so. She shrugged hopelessly: "I have known for months that I would be burned at the stake or fastened in such a place as this. Horror wears itself out." She gazed around the gloomy stone of her new prison. "I suppose this is no worse than I had pictured. Am I to be chained to the wall?"
"I will not do it now, m'Lady. I have not been told. 'Tis a small thing to be able to move about this place but it is better than sitting hunched in a corner."
"Have you ever been punished in this manner, Inez?"
"For a little while once, when I was very bad. I was sure I would die. At night there are ghosts." The younger girl contrived to look woefully forlorn. "And they locked a wide iron collar on my neck. It made me raise my chin and would not let me leave the wall, save for a few feet of chain. I sat there in the corner, trembling, weeping... I cried out for forgiveness but no one heard." Inez looked sadly at the beauty she had helped create. "And now, m'Lady, it is time I locked the irons you must wear. First, your feet--?"
It was unreal. They were both being so sensible. There should be screams and struggles... But the girl to be restrained watched her companion drag forward the mass of metal which, apparently, was to be the only clothing she would wear. Her tied elbows made her helpless, there was nothing she could do but watch and submit.
The irons were heavy. The girl who played jailer dragged ratheifted the bulky links. The shackles were bands of iron cruel enough to daugnt the courage of any girl. Sight of them made Ingrid cringe. She bit her lip as the first one circled her ankle and was thrust shut with a metallic snap.
"There are only girls in Modragel, m'Lady. Our irons are forged to fit. If she who wears them is sturdy they will hurt. But you are slender... On you they are snug."
A rasp of links and another shackle. The feet of Ingrid, the Countess Del Torres were joined by iron. She could take only a hobbled step.
"Now, since ye cannot flee--" Voice and fingers were apologetic as Inez freed the captive elbows from the cut of rope. "And now your hands--?"
It was like the obsequious milliner fitting a gown. But, here, there was no mouthful of pins, no deft tucks and shrewd clips. Ingrid held forth her arms and saw the heavy band circle her left wrist... When it was locked fast upon her there came the sudden weight of links as her right hand was captured and prisoned in iron. To raise her weighted forearms to examine her new bonds took a conscious and determined effort of strength. She looked at her female jailer in a disparaging acceptance of her new condition. "They are indeed hard to bear, Inez," she admitted wanly. "Are these all...?"
"Alas no, m'Lady, and what is still to come is but unkindness. Already you cannot flee, but it seems your penitence must wear a hair shirt. I must lock this above thy hips."
It seemed an innocent circle of iron, surprisingly small. Holding up the weight of chain upon her wrists, Ingrid looked down and beheld it clamped around her middle, compressing the concavity of her waist to an even tinier dimension than it naturally was. With the click of its lock she felt both its grip and its weight, both were startling... and to wear it always and forever! She shuddered.
"And for your neck, m'Lady...?"
It seemed impossible her neck could be so small. Ingrid looked in dismay at the iron collar fashioned by some brawny smith. But she raised her chin to receive its chill clasp upon her pulsing artery, and made no demur as it closed and snapped upon her flesh. Inez rearranged hair, fingering the wicked necklace in a wonder of her own.
"It does not harm your breathing, m'Lady?"
"No. I expect I'll get used to it." Ingrid shook her head in an unhappy testing of punishment by iron, her fingers sought the band embedded in her waist. "I hate both these things you have locked on me, and I'm fearful I'll hate them more. Surely there cannot be others?"
"There are others," the novice informed sadly. "Your knees, your elbows, and a bridle for your breasts, all most cruel. But I have not been told to place them on thee so I forbear. The irons on your nakedness now will tax you most sorely."
"Then this is my punishment?" The condemned girl stood erect in her chains, gazing dolefully at stone walls and at the sympathetic features of her girlish jailer. "And this my prison?" Her voice came close to breaking. "For all my life."
"Yes, m'Lady."
The two girls kissed and there were tears. Ingrid could do nothing with her arms but was warmly hugged by girlish arms still free. Fearful of weakness, Inez disengaged and fled. The great door thudded shut and bolts shot home with the sound of cannon in the dark of the quiet dungeon. Ingrid took a tentative step with shackled feet, then another... Iron held her everywhere, and the iron was hurtful. To breathe brought an admonishing response from the metal belt her belly must forever wear. The broad metal round her neck denied relaxation, her chains made a mockery of motion. With a sob of surrender the naked girl sank to the stone in the center of the grim chamber in which she would spend her life. She arranged her chains as best she could but found no comfort.
Ramona's magic had not died. Somewhere in this grim place of nuns and penances she would be smiling quietly and remembering. She would be aware of the chained girl incarcerated far below, and she would do something... ? Something! Ingrid knew not what the abbess of Modragel might or could do, but the whipmarks on her skin told her of the reality of the spell in which she still felt hope. Ramona would rescue her. Perhaps in an hour she would come, laughing, having had her fun, and to behold a much chastened captive clothed in irons. Ramona would not desert her... ? Surely... ?
But suppose the door did not open! Suppose this was truly the beginning of the king's sentence! The irons bit with double savagery at the thought. Suppose... suppose... suppose... !
CHAPTER SEVEN - THE WHORE
My waking up was pretty much a continuation of my dream. My eyes were wet with tears and I could not move. Liz had tied me tight and I hadn't tried to get loose, I hadn't moved. I was stiff and in a daze of wondering where I was at as though I had a choice between the dungeon at Modragel or the barred cell where some poor girl must once have cried herself to sleep. Maybe I was that girl? It was all so crazy and sea rev and way out.
My tied limbs didn't really want to move. They protested against chafed skin and the uselessness of trying to defeat Liz's rope. But I made an effort and heaved myself up on the cot and looked around. Everything was quiet and still, and the cell next door was empty. Trixie was gone. To make quite sure, and to wake myself up, I hopped my bound feet half way across my cell until the collar and chain on my neck snapped me back. I'd forgotten all about it but it was still there. Anyway, I could see Trixie's cell was empty, so I changed direction and hopped to the toilet bowl. The chain just barely let me get that far. Then I hopped back to my cot and sat down. I didn't even spare a thought to getting loose. It was hopeless and didn't matter anyway.
The dream still had me. I kept shaking my head and rattling my chain to bring me back. But I wanted Ramona so damn bad... ! I wondered if Ramona was Liz and Inez was Trixie, but they didn't really fit. Then I considered about being drugged. I must have been dead out not to have wakened when Trixie was unchained and taken from her cell. That could not have been done silently but I'd remained at Modragel. I fluttered my shoulders fretfully against my tied hands -asleep or awake I was always fastened some way helpless. Being bound or chained had become the one constant factor in my life. I remembered the time I'd escaped and my limbs had all been free. It seemed unreal. I could no longer imagine such freedom.
I sat there and gazed down at my roped ankles. As sleep receded I found myself resentful of the dream or whatever influence inflicted it on me. It was a horrible dream. They'd been so cruel back in that time. The dream never gave me any hope, and simply accentuated the fact that I didn't have any hope now either. In both conditions I was sentenced to life imprisonment. It was nuts! It had to be nuts! But my tied feet and tied hands told me different--to say nothing of the collar on my neck.
"How you doin', Miss Ranier?"
Trixie's cheerful greeting brought me awake for sure. Here was something else that had gone crazy while I slept. "You're supposed to be chained up in the next cell," I accused irritably. "What goes?"
"You ain't goin' to believe a word of it, Miss Ranier." Trixie giggled happily. "But seems like I'm a free gal."
"Congratulations. How about freeing me?"
"I ain't foolin'--honest!" She glowed at me through the bars. "You was sleepin' like crazy. But when I woke up there were two keys square in the middle of the cell floor. One took off all them chains I had on me and the other unlocked the cell door." She paused for effect. "And there ain't no one upstairs. Ain't nobody here but us."
There was something wrong, there had to be! I could feel it. Trixie was fully dressed, she wasn't naked any more the way I was. She was bright eyed and eager. "Hop over to the bars, and I'll untie your feet."
"You can come in and untie me."
"Well, I could, I s'pose." The indecision on her features indicated a ponderous question. "I'd a lot sooner you backed up against the bars."
"What on earth for?"
"Well... that way I can untie you and you're still safely locked inside. I can tie you up again the same way."
"T-R-I-X-E...!"
"Don't say it like that, Miss Ranier. I got a real good idea."
"And it means keeping me prisoner?"
"Well... sort of."
"There's no 'sort of about it. You're either going to let me loose or you're not. And anyway, I can't hop to the bars, my chain and collar won't let me."
"Oh shit!" Trixie wrinkled her brow. "Well, I s'pose... But I'll only untie your feet, your hands will have to stay the way they are."
"Gee thanks! I suppose you realize Liz is playing tricks. There's no way she and Brice will let us escape out of here."
"I dunno 'bout that, Miss Ranier. For sure we can walk outta' here right now."
"With me on a leash? Trixie, I thought we were buddies?"
"We are, sort of." She wriggled awkwardly and got pink. "It's just that you've got such silly ideas. It's best I look after things." My heart sank. Trixie was sweet but, in some ways, dumb. I cursed my helplessness, the damn girl could do anything she liked with me. Whatever Liz was up to I was going to be the goat either way. Tense and anxious, I watched the girl who had been my fellow prisoner unlock the door and untie my feet. "I've made breakfast," she said consolingly.
"How do I get upstairs to eat it with my neck chained to the wall?"
"Oh shit!" I was giving Trixie a bad time all round. She grimaced in irritation. "Maybe I can find the key... "
I hoped she could. What girl wants to stay, chained by her neck, in a cell where she has nightmares. I watched hopefully while she searched. When she found it she was still cautious. "You not goin' to beef 'bout your hands stayin' tied?"
"Oh, alright."
I followed Trixie upstairs. My tied hands told me to behave, so I did. She was a cute kid and maybe I could talk some sense... ! Breakfast was wonderful and made me feel better. At the end of it I asked, plaintively: "What do I have to do to get free, Trixie?"
"You do what I tell you, Miss Ranier, and I get you good and free and rich."
"T-R-I-X-l-E...!"
"I will so," she wriggled defiantly. "I'm goin' to sell you to that Mr. Martinez. But this time, after I get the money. I'm going to rescue you and we'll split, fifty-fifty."
"You're crazy. You know what happened--"
"It ain't going to happen this time. I bin' talkin' to him on the phone, and I got Mr. Ireland's gun. He'll pick you up and pay the money--and no funny stuff."
"You're nuts, girl. He'll take you, too, and we'll both be whores."
"I got me a plan." I would have locked to kick the complacency from her perky face as she enthused: "I know where he'll talk you. It will be a cinch to get you out. You won't be there long enough to get fucked more than half a dozen times." Trixie sighed ecstatically. "And all that money...!"
"How much?"
"Fifty thousand. See... you're excited about it, too."
"No I'm not. I'm just wondering how crazy you can get. Trixie not fair, keeping me helpless like this."
"Well, it's the only way you'll act sensible, and it's only your hands tied behind your back."
She made it sound entirely reasonable. But I'd never been more frustrated in my life. About three feet of rope between me and freedom, yet I was just as helpless and defeated as when locked in the cell. My only hope was my tongue and trying to make Trixie see sense--it wasn't as though she didn't like me; we'd been fellow captives. But fifty thousand dollars was going to take a lot of talking... ! I was a bit shocked by the size of the amount, but I guessed it was only bait. My deluded captor would be no match for Mr. Martinez when it came to glib lies and the bottom line. I tugged at my tied wrists fretfully.
"I suppose you know the rope hurts. My hands have been tied since last night."
"He'll be here soon, Miss Ranier. He may as well take you just the way you are."
"Handcuffs would be a lot more comfortable."
I didn't get handcuffs. What I got was a leather collar, quite lovely in its way. It neatly prisoned my neck, from it trailed a leash. "Does he lead me off down the street?" I asked bitterly.
Trixie giggled unabashed. That fifty thousand was shining in her eyes. "I expect he'll tie you in the trunk of his car, or maybe he'll bring a van," she offered cheerfully.
"I hope he puts you in there with me," I told her sourly. "It would damn well serve you right."
"You'll get used to the idea. 'Sides, it's a lot better than havin' Miss Liz whippin' your ass every day." She paused, doubtfully. "Can't help wonderin' 'bout Miss Liz and Mr. Ireland. Hope they don't show up at the wrong time."
"I hope they do."
"Well, if it's only Miss Liz I got that figured. I mentioned it to Mr. Martinez. He says he'll take Miss Liz along with you. He says she's got quite a few years good fuckin' left... but he wouldn't pay me nothin'. He says takin' hers just an accommodation." Trixie grinned brightly. "Might be nice for you to have her along."
"Oh, sure, we can compare our daily take for the house."
I was puzzled about Liz and Brice, their disappearance made no sense unless they were planning something or playing a joke. My trouble was Mr. Martinez. They wouldn't be figuring on Mr. Martinez or Trixie's trading instincts. I could be whisked away under their nose. I felt like crying over my tied hands, that bit of rope round my wrists was going to ruin my life.
"I can hear a car," said Trixie excitedly. "Come along."
I was sold in the little office off the main hall. I stood in center stage, tied, collared and leashed. Beside me was the desk where Trixie sat importantly with Brice's revolver prominently on view. Martinez laughed when he saw it.
"You don't need that, kid." He tossed a package across the oak surface. "Here's the bundle. While you count it I'll look after the merchandise."
Mr. Martinez wasted no time with the merchandise he had just purchased. He tested my tied hands and my collar. He then, quite brutally, tied my elbows together. I'd come to realize by then that it's a good way to control a girl. It makes her terribly helpless and it hurts. The effect is to subdue. I was well subdued. When I opened my mouth to tell him I'd be a good girl and there was no need to be rough he shoved a wad inside me and gagged me with bandages over my lips. My status in society was slipping badly.
"She been fucked much?" Mr. Martinez asked affably.
"Oh sure, she knows all the tricks. You won't have to beat her," Trixie assured him earnestly. "She's the best lay ever."
"I always beat 'em," Mr. Martinez reproved with equal sincerity. "Girls ain't worth a shit unless you stripe their butts regular, and their backs when they don't pay attention to business." He eyed me lewdly and winked, "You got a lot to look forward to, honey."
I shook my head and snorted. It was as close as I could come to a negative. But I was scared, damn good and scared. Trixie had counted her money and my new owner was making small tugs on my collar.
"You're crazy not to come along, kid. I'd make you a good deal."
"I'd be crazy if I did," Trixie affirmed. "Besides, I don't want to be a whore."
"All girls are whores," Mr. Martinez said with conviction. "They who keeps up with 'em is the pimp. We got 'em figured."
"Good-bye, Miss Ranier. I'm sure you'll be O.K." My betrayer a little tremulous. "Mr. Martinez runs a real good place."
I did not ride in state. It was the trunk for me. Mr. Martinez dumped me therein and tied my ankles as tight as he'd tied my arms. He then cinched me in a hogtie and winked. "You're going to love it, honey, not a thing to worry about." He slammed the lid.
The darkness was bad. I could not move. I hurt. The motion of the car told me I was on my way to a fate far worse than whoredom. Whores got paid, I would not. The term "white slave" fitted me admirably. I wondered if I'd fight, just out of disgust or to appease my conscience. Even under the certain threat of the whip a girl shrinks from laying down and opening her legs without a peep. I felt so sorry for myself I let the tears come, hoping I'd feel better for a good cry. But I didn't. I fought the ropes for a minute but gave that up, too. It was all hopeless. I was on my way to be fucked by a hundred men, maybe a thousand, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I'd fight at first and get myself whipped, and that would be the end of Ingrid Ranier. I'd probably be referred t by a number.
I had no faith in Trixie. The silly kid might try to help me escape, try would fail and she'd end up as a source of revenue for Mr. Martinez herself. He'd never allow her to get away with that money. A couple of thugs were probably waiting to jump her right now. I took a vicious pleasure in the thought of Trixie tied the same way as I was.
Brice and Miss Liz were the puzzle. But they would return to an empty house and barren bars. I would have vanished, leaving no trace. They'd blame Trixie. But there would be no clues. I could picture them shrugging off my memory and kidnapping another girl to take my place.
It was a long ride. Even when the car stopped there was no lifting of the lid. I remained hogtied in the dark. From the sounds I could guess we were in a garage. That meant I'd be working in a bordello without even knowing what it looked like from the outside. I felt as though I was encased in a steel automotive womb--and I could not move: No way!
The man and the woman were nondescript. They peered at me in the trunk without interest. I suspected I was one more chore. They loosed the hogtie, lifted me out, then untied my feet. I was so stiff I staggered. But that was no problem, they each grasped one of my bound arms and propelled me to my fate. I could not speak, they said nothing. I suppose, from their point of view, there was nothing to say.
It was a long and lofty stone chamber, a vaulted ceiling, windows along one wall. But the windows were high. It would have been a rather beautiful place had it not been for the cots and the naked girls. The girls lounged in various poses along one wall. They could not leave, a collar and chain ensured their loyalty to their cot. They looked bored.
M y iron collar and its weight of chain were locked on my neck without delay. I was untied. The man's injunction was terse: "You not behave, you get whipped." They departed as though having better things to do. It took me a whole minute to realize I had hands and could remove my gag. None of the other girls were gagged, so I took a chance and peeled away the tape and dragged the wet wad from between my lips. I actually felt good. The car, the ropes, the gag were all gone, and it was not the first time I'd worn a collar padlocked round my neck. I fingered it without much curiosity, I knew I couldn't get it off. The other end of its eight feet of links was welded to a ringbolt in the floor beside the cot. It gave me enough freedom to do whatever Mr.
Martinez required of me.
"I suppose you know you're going to get fucked?"
The casual girlish query came from the girl on the next chain. She sat and eyed me with amusement. There were seven more girls down the line, all collared and chained, all interested in a new arrival. They came in all colors.
"It's best not to make a fuss. They whip you if you make a fuss about anything. And don't worry about escape, there isn't any escape. I've been here more than a year." She giggled. "My whip me all faded."
"I'm not a whore," I said flatly. But she was likeable, so I added: "Were you kidnapped or purchased? How did you get here?"
"Purchased!" Her laughter derided the idea. "They don't have to buy girls. It shocked the pants off me the way it was so easy for them to pick me up. It's the same with the rest. We've all been kidnapped."
"They purchased me."
"Huh, I bet the deal was phony. Look, sweetheart, when your first man comes you do what he says and what he likes. That's good advice... O.K.?"
"Why should I? I'm not helpless."
"You got a collar and chain, haven't you! How far d'you think you're going to run?"
I didn't have an answer. I didn't need one. At that moment a man drifted into our stone prison through a curtained door. He was ordinary and had the appearance of a regular. I actually felt pique when he looked but passed me by to choose the third girl up the line. They talked for a minute, there were giggles, then I was privileged to witness a pornographic performance a lot of film makers would have paid money for.
"See what I mean?" My neighbor was anxious I should miss nothing of this object lesson. "See how Winnie performs! When she first came they had to whip her for a week. Oh, and call me Gertie, everyone else does."
Winnie was worth watching. She was an erotic bundle dedicated to the joy of men. I wondered if I could manage those contortions and if my mouth had the same capacity. Bemused, I asked the obvious: "This isn't an expensive whorehouse, is it? No privacy... all of us in one room...?"
Gertie shrugged. "I simply don't know. I was as innocent as you when they grabbed me. I suspect we're down in Mexico and this may be par for the course. But what's it matter, we don't get the money."
"But what happens to us, after a few years...?"
"We all ask that. None of us know. When we ask Mr. Martinez laughs and slaps our bottoms."
Fascinated, I watched Winnie's prowess and her client's virility, both were remarkable. I just couldn't picture myself... ! Unhappily, I asked: "Martinez said he always whipped his girls, that we needed whipping. Does that mean...?"
Gertie chuckled. "The first few days are bad, Ingrid. A girl either acts up and earns her own whipping, or she behaves herself and gets a sort of goodwill flogging to help her settle down. I got both. I can almost bet you will, too. the way you're pulling at that chain spells rebellion."
I dropped the iron links. I hadn't realized... ! But she was right. I did not want what was happening to Winnie to happen to me. Some way I had to make Martinez understand he had the wrong girl. But how... ? I could almost feel the whip slicing my skin. Meanwhile, my stricken gaze remained focused on Winnie's whole hearted effort to please. She was tremendously supple, adept and inventive. The client was obviously getting his money's worth. Gertie read my mind.
"Yeah, we get so it's a relief from boredom--so long as the guy's not an absolute asshole."
"But, one after the other! Like that...!"
"Why not! If you've had one you've had 'em all. At first you expect to become one big hole down there, but you don't. A cunt's the craziest thing a girl has. I doubt if mine's much bigger than when I came."
Winnie was industriously employing her lips. Her versatility prompted my question: "Does a girl have to do... everything... every time?"
"Yeah, mostly. The guy's paying."
"Do they ever want to... hurt--?"
"Oh sure. But they charge quite a lot for that. Most customers can't afford to whip us. If there's a sudden demand we have to share the strokes around the bunch. If he's paying for fifty we get seven or eight apiece." She laughed. "Don't look so shocked, it doesn't often happen. We're not one of those exotic places. Fucks and blow jobs, that's us--and don't forget to smile."
I thought of the smile and what went with it. I walked to the end of my tether, testing its tolerance in all directions. To all intents and purposes I might as well be locked in a cell behind bars. The collar and chain controlled me beautifully. With that iron round my neck my free hands and bare feet wouldn't be much help. Gertie chuckled cynically. "That's it, sweetheart, a couple of steps each way, maybe three. You and I can touch but we mustn't eat. Fun between our legs is forbidden. We have to save everything for the customers--" The curtain swayed aside to admit another male, he was sleazy and lewd-eyed and happily expectant. He walked the whole line, and as he approached each girl stood respectfully for his attention. Mr. Martinez's training was obviously effective. He exchanged a few words here and there, then drifted back to me. His English was basic.
"You no stand?"
"I'm sorry, I'm not well today."
"You tell big lie."
"No... honest! My stomach's upset. I'd be no good to you."
"You new girl. You shy. I fuck you good, you feel better."
"No, I can't. I couldn't possible--" I caught a glimpse of Winnie, still busily doing her duty, then focused on Gertie's almost imperceptible shake of the head. But there was no way I could open my legs to this unprepossessing lecher. "Please take one of the other girls," I pleaded selfishly. "Maybe some other time--?"
"I take you. Now!"
It was absurd. I retreated to the end of my chain as he approached. When I couldn't back away any further he pinched one of my nipples... I slapped his face.
"It pretty well had to happen," Gertie said consolingly as we watched my frustrated client go back behind the curtain. "You'll have to take your medicine, Ingrid, and write it off to experience."
"You mean, I'll be punished?"
"Well, what do you think! Here they come now."
"You wish to be whipped, Miss Ranier?" Mr. Martinez could not have been more polite.
"No... no, of course I don't. All I said was--I,I mean, I'm not ready--"
"A girl is always ready, Miss Ranier. Now, if you will just step forward--?"
My chain was taut and I was hard back against the wall when Mr. Martinez's helper and my rejected client each took one of my arms and set me in position against the end of my cot. Mr. Martinez himself knelt and strapped my ankles, one to each leg. I found myself standing, legs far apart, facing the wall. I was holding on to my chain as though for support, there seemed nothing else to do with my hands. I was peculiarly helpless and frighteningly vulnerable at the rear.
"We will first use a riding crop across your bottom, Miss Ranier." Mr. Martinez sounded almost clinically kind. "You will find the effect most helpful."
I couldn't get away. I couldn't do anything except stand there to be whipped. I noticed similar straps at the foot of each cot. No matter how I writhed or contorted my bare skin would be conveniently available. My free hands were annoyingly impotent. I found myself agonizingly imbued by one single thought. "I don't want to be whipped." I complained absurdly. Please don't whip me. You've no right--"
"You may stripe her rump, Felipe," Mr. Martinez offered grandly. "Try this thin crop, the little dears hate it. Lay it on well... "
I was looking back apprehensively over one shoulder as Felipe accepted the hateful length with which to make me scream. Amiably, he asked: "I guess you sorry girl now?"
"Yes--yes, I am! Oh, please, you don't have to--"
"Yes he does," said Mr. Martinez, "and so do you."
It was worse than I expected, a flaming scald. My hands flew to my wound, seeking blood while I busily choked back a scream. But there was no blood... however, my hands stayed there too long and received Felipe's next stroke across their knuckles. It was a beastly hateful kind of pain. I made pathetic noises and compressed my blazing hands beneath my bare armpits. The involuntary act bent me sufficiently forward to add inspiration to Felipe's next slash across my bare and defenseless cheeks. It was a wicked awful cut, it extracted the scream I'd been trying to hold in check.
"You could be having nice fuck if you were sensible girl," Felipe chided helpfully.
"She needs her ass sliced--they all do," Mr. Martinez counseled firmly. "Don't worry about the noise she makes, they all make that too."
I was pulsating with pain. I twisted helplessly to look back. "Please don't whip me any more," I begged childishly. "I'll be good, I promise I'll be good--" I was able to see the blow, the swift arc of arm and withe. The pain was so bad my hands flew to my seat again. Felipe, with pixie joy, cut them again with deliberate purpose. His admonition was stern: "You leave little ass alone for whip."
"Attaboy," cheered Mr. Martinez, "you got the right idea. Lookit the way them weals come up on her--wow!"
"It hurt you now to lay for fuck," said Felipe, and struck again.
I was distraught. I mean... I was standing there as though I was inviting what was happening. The fiery impacts followed one another, as did my yelps and screams, and there was nothing I could do, not a damn thing. My feet were strapped too wide apart to allow me to weave my bottom, and my hands... ! My hands were driving me crazy. Sure I had them but what good were they? Defensively, they clutched the chain from my collar, it kept them out of the way. Twisting and writhing, I implored: "Please stop... oh, stop! You've whipped me enough "
"Have just started, much more whippings--"
"O-H-H-H-H... NO-O-O-O... ! Oh, stoppit! Alright... I'll let you fuck me--"
"Is now too late. You silly girl. I fuck another nice cunt. But you, I keep on whipping."
"You tell her, Felipe!" Mr. Martinez encouraged. "Give her a good sore ass, and don't forget her thighs."
Felipe forgot nothing. He lashed my seat from one side and then the other. It seemed to me to go on and on forever. In my frenzied motions I caught sight of Gertie's commiserating gaze and the rapt attention of the other chained girls- all except Winnie, she was still busy. When I knew I was about to die, Felipe paused. He seemed to sum up his situation pretty well.
"Much work, much fun."
"Take a rest, Felipe. Ranee is about through with Winnie, he can spell you off. Hey, Ranee...!"
Miserably, I saw it was true. Winnie was assiduously performing the last rites on her client. Both seemed well satisfied, but all I could see was Ranee's strong arm, more muscular than Felipe's. Distractedly, I implored: "No, don't! Don't have me whipped again, I've had enough. I've promised--"
"You want to be gagged, girl?" The Martinez tone was sharp.
"No--oh, no--!"
"Then shut your yap, Miss Ranier. We're tired of that little song you sing. We'll stop beating your ass when we're damn good and ready. Here, Ranee, lace into her."
Ranee had finesse. He made me bend forward to place my hands on my cot. It gave them a useful purpose but protruded my bottom more lavishly than before. And I had to keep quiet! Except for screams... !
I screamed. The crop was definitely worse now my skin was stretched. To stretch it more, my head was thrust down on the thin mattress between my forearms. I knew for sure my pussy was sticking out behind. It was an utterly wicked pose, compelled to offer everything she had. Thoughtfully, my face was thrust hard into the mattress to muffle my screams as my most private lips received the impacts of the crop. "Getting her where it counts," Ranee said cheerfully as he cut and cut again.
The men walked away, chatting casually. I remained, strapped, crouched, and sobbing, until there was the clink of chain and Gertie's hands raising me to stand erect. I had never loved a girl's hands so much.
"Hold still. I'll unstrap your ankles--"
"No!" I gasped the exclamation in alarm. "You mustn't! I'm being punished--"
"Oh, I think they're through with you, Ingrid. Martinez won't want your bottom in any worse shape. Our bottoms are worth a lot of money, y'know." With sisterly tenderness she took me in her arms. "You can lay on one hip, sweetheart, you won't want to sit for awhile."
Our chains clinked and rattled against each another as we clung. Having patted and whispered my sobs to silence, Gertie flitted back to her own space: our owner must not see us in an intimate female embrace, he might draw a wrong conclusion... we'd be whipped.
I lay still. All I wanted was peace without pain. My wounded cheeks throbbed horribly, a fingertip on them drew a wince. My pussy throbbed, too. I clasped it lovingly with a shielding palm. I didn't care about my collared neck or its chain, I didn't care about anything, there wasn't anything to care about any more. I think I slept a little before Ranee's amused male voice dragged me back into a world I had ceased to like.
"How about a good fuck, girlie?"
It was pure nightmare, but I knew what I had to do. Gingerly, I stood, smiling a false smile, my voice trembled but it said the right words. "Of course. Thank you for choosing me. What which way--I mean... how would you like me?"
Ranee burst into delighted laughter, slapping his leg and regarding me with pure enjoyment. "You're a real little honey." He told me enthusiastically, "Just shows what a whipped ass does for a girl. You wouldn't have been that willing an hour ago--would you, now?"
"I--I suppose not," I eyed him dubiously, "but I'll do whatever you tell me."
"D'you enjoy wearing that chain and collar on your neck?"
"Not really. But it's better than being tied up."
"How'd you like me to unlock that padlock?"
He was getting at something, but I didn't know what. My reply was cautious, remembering my flaming bottom: "I-l'd have to ask Mr. Martinez. I don't think I'm supposed to be free."
Ranee unlocked the padlock at the nape of my neck. The chain rattled to the floor but the iron circlet stayed. "Come along," he said cheerfully, grasping my bare arm. "Someone wants to talk to you."
I was scared. My whipped skin told me nothing good could ever happen here. But Ranee was cheerfully amused. I had not earned more stripes. He thrust me through the curtain and said: "First door to the right, sweetheart, go on in."
I was free. I was alone in a bare passage from which there were doors. Ranee had not followed me through the curtain, but I had no thought of escape, the Martinez treatment had been effective. I opened the first door to the right and went in. It was an office. Behind the desk sat a man, a man immensely amused over me.
It was Brice Ireland.
"Lovely to see you, Ingrid. How's that little whipped ass?" I stood like a dummy, burning with indignation but scared. Brice got up, turned me around and examined my wounds. "Lovely job," he enthused. He took one of my hurt hands and thrust a pair of handcuffs into my palm. "Put these on please. In back. Tight."
My mind was a whirl of resentment, but I did as I was told. Standing, naked, before his desk I strained and twisted to get my wrists tightly circled in steel behind my back. It was a fumbling task awkwardly achieved, but I click, click, clicked until the cuffs bit. Without being ordered to, I turned and demonstrated my helplessness.
"Good girl! Missed me?"
"Yes."
"Enjoy Liz?"
"Yes."
"Hear you went home for awhile?"
"Yes."
"Cat got your tongue?"
"Not really. I'm just scared."
Brice rose again. I stood passively while he put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me, kissed me hard. I pulled at the handcuffs but the gesture was involuntary. I needed to put my arms around his neck. I stood, and gasped appropriately while he frictioned my nipples. "There! Feel better?" He was the same old Brice.
"Yes. Thank you."
"My! So formal!" He returned to his chair. "What d'you suppose I have in mind for you?"
"I believe I've been sold to a whorehouse, a Mr. Martinez." My caution amused him. "Martinez is the manager." He explained briefly. "This establishment belongs to me--just a part of the diversification of Brice Ireland Enterprises. Think you'll enjoy working here?"
"No."
"Sooner be back at the Hacienda?"
"Brice, don't be so mean. I don't have a thing to say about anything--do I?"
"Well, in a way," he became blandly judicial. "I told you of my penchant for experiment, and you girls are a fertile field, infinitely diverting in the things you choose and the way you try and twist the male."
"We're simply a bore," I sulked huffily. "All you have to do is whip our bare skin and we'll do whatever you want. I've just been horribly whipped and so I'm quite willing to obey you. I won't like it but I'll do it."
Altogether too simple. No finesse." Brice waved a hand. "It's the feminine mind that counts. There's far more pleasure in a female's mind than in her cunt."
"Help yourself to either. I seem to be available."
"Are the handcuffs hurting, sweetheart?"
"Not more than I can bear."
Countering my sulkiness, Brice suggested brightly, "Maybe we should do something about that." Once more he rose, turned me, then clicked each cuff one more notch. I'd had them tight, now they actually hurt a little, even without me struggling. "Wonderful things, handcuffs. Think they'll keep you in a proper frame of mind, Ingrid?"
"I didn't know whores wore handcuffs."
"An innovation for the oldest profession, my dear. You wear them well."
"Do I make out as best I can while being violated?"
"That's right. The house charges extra. Oh, and by the way... " Brice smiled charmingly, "you don't absolutely have to be a whore, y'know. There is a choice."
I knew I was being played with, tested, examined. But there was nothing I could do about it, and I'd best not be too sulky. The handcuffs were hurting enough to remind me constantly of what and where I was. Without enthusiasm, I asked: "Tell me more?"
"Simple. Be my total voluntary slave at the Hacienda, obeying me implicitly, enjoying what freedoms I choose to give you, yielding yourself to the chains and the cell when we return from a holiday, and not beefing about your imprisonment, even if it's a month at a time."
"Oh, B-R-l-C-E...!" I was thinking of the shackles and the bars and the cell. "And I suppose it's for life?"
"Of course."
I twisted miserably while my owner sat and drank in my dismay. He could easily read my mind. But I could understand, too, how it might intrigue a man to discover the fate I'd choose. I said the first thing in my mind: "If I choose to be a whore, Brice, it's about the worst insult I can offer you?"
"Yes. But there are compensations. You'll make me a lot of money."
"You don't give me much of a break." I shook my head impatiently against my collar. "I'd easily choose you and the Hacienda if it wasn't for that beastly cell and all those irons locked on me. I don't think you've any idea how awful that imprisonment is for a girl. It's the being all alone, and not able to do anything."
"You can dream, can't you?"
I tensed. "How'd you know about the dream? It's a nightmare. It's horrible."
"Other girls have told me. Damned interesting."
"I don' ever want to be locked in that cell again!"
"Well then, I'll have to make sure you are. I expect whores dream the same as if they were pure."
"Brice, don't be so beastly."
"All part of a grand experiment, sweetheart."
I glared at Brice's smiling features. He had me. He had me good! I didn't want either of his offers. Forlornly, I asked: "What will you do to me if I refuse to make a choice?"
"Nothing, sweetheart, absolutely nothing. You return to your chain and your cot and ply the oldest profession--subject to the house rules, of course."
"Whipped and fucked?"
"You put it so well, dear."
"If I make a choice, then find I can't hack it, can I change my mind?"
My owner laughed in genuine pleasure, I suppose I sounded naive. He was really getting a charge out of the spot I was in. "One thousand percent feminine, Ingrid. You always want it both ways, your cake and eat it... Suppose I make you a whore for a month, then ask again?"
"Would you want me after I'd been... used?"
"Why not! It doesn't wear out."
Brice would always have an answer. I was handcuffed and naked. It was so damned unfair. So I could try being a whore for a month and see if I liked it! Damn big of him! And if I didn't, there was the cell. As though reading my mind, he said slyly: "You're overlooking the fringe benefits of the Hacienda, Ingrid my sweet. I'll take you to town, I'll wine and dine you. There would be holidays, damned expensive holidays."
"But I'd have to voluntarily return to the bars and the shackles make a single peep?"
"Don't harp on 'em. Be positive."
"And I'd be whipped?"
"Of course you'd be whipped, you little idiot. What d'you thinkre for?"
"Yeah, we're for screwing and whipping and crummy experiments... " The words got out of me before I could stop. I stood aghast. Then I tried to rebuild the bridge I'd shattered. I threw myself at his feet and nestled my head into his groin, it's a nice soft place for a girl's head to go--and I couldn't use my hands. I didn't have any. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry... oh Brice...!" I was actually sobbing. "Why can't you be nice to me? Why can't I just be your girl? Can't you love me instead of putting me in prison?"
"This is loving you." His voice was gruff. I couldn't see his face. "Dammit, Ingrid, if you really tried I'd marry you eventually--you were doing fine with Liz... "
Gosh, had I blown it that bad! Or was he still playing his game? I'd never know. I knelt back on my heels and looked up at him with brimming eyes. "Alright," I said wearily, "I say all the wrong things, and I don't seem able to decide between being a whore or a convict. I don't see why you can't simply let me loose, I'm o good to you. Do what you like with me."
"You're one helluva lot better than you think you are, my pet."
"But I still can't make a decision. If you want to marry me I'd say yes right quick. But you'd only pop me back into the cell after our honeymoon--wouldn't you?"
"Fishing again? I'll only tell you it wouldn't be a dull marriage."
"You'd have made an honest slave out of me? Is that it?" Brice pressed a button. When the hired help came, my owner made a tired gesture with a tired hand, my arm was grasped... As I was led away I did not look back.
As strong male fingers padlocked the chain back on my collar I noticed a change. Gertie was gone. There was a woman... ! It was Liz.
CHAPTER EIGHT - THE STRAPS
We didn't say a thing right off. When the man had gone, leaving me safely chained, I stood there stupidly and gawped. My hands were still handcuffed behind my back but, compared to Liz, I was almost a free girl. Liz was stark naked and fastened spread out on Gertie's cot. A broad strap was tight on each of her wrists at the top and her ankles were similarly strapped and spread to each side at the bottom end. She couldn't move much at all. Her lovely hairy bush proclaimed her sex and condition blatantly, her strong and surprisingly youthful nudity was straining furiously at her leather bonds.
"The son-of-a-bitch, I'll kill him for this!" Liz's proclamation was for the world, not just for me, but she now focused on my own helplessness appreciatively. "Gosh, honey, he's got you fixed almost as bad as me, but will that chain allow you to back up and undo one of these straps?"
"Liz, I wouldn't dare."
"You mad at me?"
I turned and showed her my bottom. I wiggled my chained hands. "No, I'm not mad. But if I do what you want you'll have a bottom like mine and I'll be whipped again too. Females get whipped for everything here."
"I'm going to be fucked!"
"So am I."
We surveyed each other in forlorn female dolor, sisters in distress. Maybe Liz had whipped me, maybe she had chained me in the cell. But she had also been kind and amusing. I found myself more fond of her than I'd thought. "But how...?" I stammered, "why...?"
"Him and his lousy games. I should have known." She struggling and grinned confidingly. "It's not as though I don't know Brice's little tricks. I just never associated myself with the other end of the stick But now I think of it...!"
"But you're beautiful and not that old." I gazed down with lesbian appetite. Anyway you took her, Liz was a dish. "I'd eat you right now if we didn't get whipped for it. Girls on girls is a no-no here."
"We won't want to eat each other after we've been screwed by half the state." She mourned sadly. "Oh shit! Why in hell did I let this happen!"
"How did it happen?"
"A knockout in my coffee. That simple. He says he's going to keep me prisoner in this place for a month to see how I react." She snorted indignantly. "The bastard thinks he's god. He says he'll then send me home, a well fucked female, to pick up where I left off."
"But you'll go to the police--!"
"No I won't, and he knows I won't. I'll be made as a hornet, and I'll feel soiled as hell until I've had a dozen douches and gone to the doctor. But I'm not going to squeal--good gosh, can you imagine the grins on the cops' faces! I'd feel an asshole all round."
She had it well figured. She and Brice were a pair in their own special ways. But, doubtfully, I suggested: "A month... ? Supposing... are you sure?"
Again, Liz heaved irritably at her straps, I'd hit a nerve. "No, I'm not sure, I'm not sure about Brice anyway at all any more. I may end up the same way you are. He's got a fixation about putting females behind iron bars--"
"But we're not going behind iron bars. He's making us whores."
"He'll get tired of just having us screwed. He'll want more action, something more personal. It's the cells for us. You see if I'm not right."
She probably was. But I was more worried about right now. I felt almost nauseous at the thought of what we were both in for. I didn't have a single hope of escape for either of us, the idea just was not there. I was chained and she was strapped. Even if we got loose, where would we go, and how far! Miserably, I asked: "Why has he had you strapped down like that, he didn't do it to me?"
"Hell, you can't get away, either--that collar and chain... ! You look damn sweet in it though." She gave another snort. "The S.O.B. says he's being kind, having me strapped down. He says I won't have t be whipped into submission, I'm already wide open." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "What'll you bet I don't get myself a whipping by tomorrow?"
I shrugged hopelessly. "Mr. Martinez seems to think girls ought to be whipped daily. He'll probably have me whipped again right along with you." I looked down sadly at the stretched loveliness. "I'd best tell you, Liz, I'm already broken. They hurt me so damn bad. I'll be hatefully obedient. It will turn your stomach to see and listen to the way I offer myself. It hasn't been done to me yet, but I'm primed... I don't want any more whip."
"Huh, maybe the bastard's right, maybe I'm lucky to get it this way. For sure I can't kick a rapist in the nuts. Oh damn it, Ingrid, I'm so lasted helpless! My cunt's there for the taking." She sighed. "That advice about relaxing and enjoying it... it ain't going to work."
I was trying to think of something helpful when the curtain was swung aside. He was a rangy type from outdoors. Liz and I eyed his advance cringingly. When he returned us an approving smile we knew he was for one of us--or maybe both... ! It was the damndest feeling. I'd always wondered about virgin brides on their wedding day, and all the smirks they got and how their pussy acted. Now I knew! Liz and I weren't virgins, but, also, we were not whores... yet!
"I'm afraid my wrists are handcuffed behind my back." I apologized demurely. "I hope you don't mind?"
"Wouldn't have 'em any other way." Our rangy type assured us affably. "My name's Brick, and I surely do get a hard on ever a well tied gal." He looked from me to Liz and back again. "Don't see why all the joints don't tie their gals. That chain bother you any?"
"No, I can manage."
"Atta' girl! They tell me they beat your ass?"
I turned and protruded my suffering seat, then gasped as rough fingers explored my weals. "Lovely job, that," Brick acknowledged. "Pity I wasn't here to watch."
"I understand girls can be whipped here for an extra charge."
"Yeah. But it's damn good and extra. Outta' my class." He gave my bruised bottom a final pat. "Recent, ain't it? Hurt much when you sit?"
"Yes. I was whipped today, and you're right, it hurts... bad!"
"Get some good action outta' your ass then?"
"Yes. I--I expect so."
"You mean I'm the first?" Brick exuded satisfaction. He turned his attention to Liz. "Take it you ain't broke in yet?" he enquired genially.
"You fuck me, and I'll bit your tits off," Liz affirmed with equal fervor. "Take your cock on up the line."
Brick nodded. "'Bout the way they explained." He agreed without rancour. "Point is, which one of you am I going to stick it into?"
"I've been whipped, and I'm first in line," I offered with outrageous submissiveness. I felt sorry for Liz, she hadn't been a slave like I'd been. But I dared not catch her eye. As an added attraction, I added: "I'll be very well behaved."
"You ain't said nothin' 'bout givin' me a good time?"
"I'll give you the best time ever. Honest!"
"Hmmmmmm." The poor guy was undecided as I'd been myself. He was obviously pondering. "She can't move none but you can...?"
"Yes. Even without my hands I can do quite a lot. I can give you a--a--I can take your cock in my mouth?"
Brick chuckled. "You mean a blow job, but you don't like saying it. How you going to unzip my pants?"
"I'll try and do it with my teeth. I expect I can."
"Ingrid, you disgust me," Liz said resignedly. "Kick the son- of-a-bitch where it hurts."
Our client eyed us both with amusement. "Only difference between you two is one of you's had her ass whipped and the other still has it coming." He stepped over and pinched one of Liz's nipples. "I could arrange myself so's you could do a blow job on me just as good as the kid."
"You put your cock in my mouth, and that's the last you'll ever see of it. I'll bit it off."
I wanted to giggle. Copulation under these circumstances became absurd, it lost its glamour. But, somehow, I had to stop Liz getting herself whipped. I shrank from telling her to shut up, but she was almost asking for it. I felt sure I'd sunk far down in her estimation. I clutched at a stray. "Perhaps you'd like me backwards?" I asked Brick coyly.
"Dog fashion? Baby, you got somethin' there."
"Slap her foul little mouth for me, will you?" Liz demanded morosely. "She's only trying to seduce you to keep you from getting on top of me."
"What's wrong with that?" Our ravisher was puzzled. "Well, she shouldn't. You shouldn't. I shouldn't. If you were half a man you'd let us loose and take us out of here. We've both been kidnapped. I could make it worth your while--?"
Liz would get herself whipped for sure. I had an inspiration. I knelt on my cot and bent down so as my forehead was on the mattress. My whipped bottom reared invitingly. I couldn't think her thing to offer. I wiggled my handcuffed fingers enticingly and held them as far up my back as I could to give Brick a clear field for my ravishment.
"Dammit, that's one sweet ass and cat, girl!"
Our client's tone was reverent. I looked back to see him flinging aside his clothes. Appealingly, I sought Liz's angry face. I winked. It was not a very good wink. She wrinkled her nose. "You got a real double feature, kid. Holy cow...!"
I gasped at the intrusion. I'd never had it done to me this way before. I gasped again as my rapist leaned forward and arranged my chain and collar more comfortably. "That better, kid?"
"Oh yes... thank you."
"You're welcome, honey."
He was enormous. He entered me gently and continued right on up, I could only guess how far. But it appeared my penetration was but a prelude. Brick's voice reassured. "Got to get him lubricated, honey."
I guess I deserved the shock, I'd sort of asked for it. I couldn't blame him for choosing the facility I hadn't even thought of. My first instinct was revolt. But what the hell... ! There'd be others. I might as well get used to a man using my anal orifice. I believe it's quite common, I tried to relax and hold my pose.
"Bit of juice sure does help. You're taking him real sweet, honey. I won't start plowing you right off."
I was being sodomised by a gentleman. I was sure I should be grateful. But it sure was a damn strange feeling. If he'd rammed me first off it would have hurt like crazy. But he broke me in slowly. My worst tenderness was from my frictioned weals. My bottom must have wondered what she'd done to deserve it all. I gasped and moaned and did not look at Liz.
My rapist was versatile. About the time he had my thingummy stretched and receptive he withdrew and turned me over. This was closer to my previous sexualities, but I had to lay across one arm and plump my scalded seat on the mattress. I yelped at the friction and lifted it back up.
"That's my girl! Not your first time, is it? That was a honey of a push-up."
I wanted to laugh and cry and scream. My whipped bottom had won me points, it was absurd. Gingerly, I tried to keep in rhythm with my ravisher's thrusts. My hips became extremely busy, my cropped cheeks glowed.
"Lovely... lovely... " Brick was well away.
Our next act was predictable, it had inevitability. I had to kneel and accept a huge mouthful of male virility. It distended my lips and compressed my tongue. It was difficult not to choke... ! I have to admit it wasn't my first time, I'd done it before. But this was different, the taste I now had to savour was partly my own. Between Brick's flavor and mine I had a potent feast. But that, too, came to an end. "Finish us off the old fashioned way," said Brick.
It could have been worse. What was worse was Liz's reproachful eyes after my client had departed. I couldn't evade them forever so I met their accusation head on.
"You enjoyed it."
"Liz, I didn't! You ought to know that. I just saved myself from another whipping.
"Horseballs!" Liz was really put out. "You ought to have seen your face, and the way you humped your ass."
"Well... my seat's tender, you know that."
"Not even protesting when he went up the wrong way."
Right there I saw Mr. Martinez's point. His reasoning was sound. Until a girl has had her bottom whipped she refuses to face reality, she cherishes all sorts of reservations. I could not have made out with Brick half as painlessly if it hadn't been for Felipe and the crop. I felt like telling Liz, but there was still an air of authority about Liz, even strapped down to a bed to be violated the way she was. Petulantly, I asked: "Well, what do you expect me to do?"
"Kick his balls."
"Oh, Liz... r She was suddenly crying, and I was on my knees beside her cot, cursing Brice and my handcuffed wrists. I couldn't help Liz much, I couldn't really help her at all. I just rubbed my lips back and forth over her nipples and kissed her lips hard, again and again. "We're prisoners." I whispered urgently. "We can't escape. I've been a prisoner for so long this isn't as bad for me as it is for you. Remember when you kept me locked and chained in a cell?"
"It was a fun thing."
"Not for me. It was real, and for life."
"So alright, Ingrid, I was a bitch." Her tears gushed afresh. "But I don't want to be fucked. I don't want to be a whore."
"If I weren't chained here I'd go and speak to Brice. He shouldn't do this to you, you were a friend."
"I'm so bloody helpless, I can hardly move."
"They'll probably only keep you like this for the first time. They know how angry you are."
"I won't like the second time any better than the first." I felt her tense, her voice changed. "Honey, it's maybe our only chance--eat me."
It was a plea and a command, touching me with a double poignancy. I nipped her closest nipple hard and said: "We'd be crazy--absolutely nuts."
"I don't care. Do it!"
"But I'll get punished, too!"
"Don't you want me, Ingrid?" Her plaint was a forlorn moan. "I want you so damn bad it hurts. Please...?"
There it was! The curly shining fronds of Liz's pubic patch and the pouting lips below. I had loved them once, could I do less now! Furtively, I looked back at the curtain. It was motionless. I leant down and began my prelude to an utterly female symphony.
My face was buried in Liz's moist warm pungency. She probably had her eyes closed. Neither of us heard a sound, but when our feasting was done I raised my head to discover Brice and Mr. Martinez regarding us with rapt attention. They'd probably watched the whole thing. My handcuffs hurt more than ever and the collar round my neck suddenly Weighed a ton. "Nice work, Ingrid."
I could tell Brice was pleased. Mr. Martinez had the appearance of a man with an erection. I'd been caught in the act. I was guilty!
"Don't blame her." Liz was vehement. "I ordered her to do it."
"Interesting situation." Brice was savouring every word. "Care to suggest a punishment?"
"Don't punish Ingrid, punish me--if you must."
"Oh indeed, I must!" H is exclamation was silky smooth. "But you both get the same, y'know. Only fair to the rest of the girls."
"Fuck the rest of the girls!" Liz was desperate. "Have some decency, Brice. Let me loose."
Our male owners exchanged glances of complete understanding. Brice's query sounded routine. "What d'you say, Martinez, backs or bottoms?"
"Back for the girl, rump for the woman."
I stood and watched, angry but sorrowful for Liz, fearful for myself. My back was going to be whipped. It wasn't anything to look forward to. But it seemed Liz was to get hers First. A wooden hurdle affair was dragged to the center of the room, Liz was unstrapped and, in spite of a marvellous struggle, strapped afresh across the timber frame. I began to pick up a purpose. By the time the two men were through with ropes and leathers poor Liz was fixed in an utter indecency: her feet far apart, hands equally outstretched and tied down, her hips and groin compressed across the top bar so as to point her bottom to the stars. They even had a strap round her waist to cinch it down and down to make sure her pussy went back and back. By the time they were through tugging, her plump lips and a good deal of pubic hair had been transformed from front to rear. I must have looked like that part of the time with Brick. I blushed for both of us.
"You'd best watch, sweetheart. Good for the soul."
I said nothing. I don't think condemned people say much. I stood, stiff and trying not to cry, while the key turned and my chain fell to the floor. I was still collared and handcuffed, still helpless. I let myself be led to the best vantage point possible. Every chained girl in the place was staring. No doubt this was an object lesson from them, too.
"You crop her, Martinez. I'll belt her," Brice commanded cheerily. "Gives her a nice diversification that way. Liz, you're a lucky girl."
"Don't do this, Brice. P-L-E-A-S-E...!"
Poor Liz! There might be a poetic justice in this, but still it seemed a lot more cruel than she deserved. The only good thing about it was that after it was over she'd likely be a lot more sensible about being a slave and a whore. I cringed at sight of what she was going to be whipped with. Martinez held the thin crop they'd used on me, Brice was lovingly fingering a supple strip of heavy leather, flat and narrow and wicked. The whip to be used on my back later was off on the floor to one side, it wasn't a bit comforting.
"You first, Martinez. I'm not sure which of these our darling girl's going to like best."
I hadn't been able to see the crop cut my own skin, but I sure could see it bite the helpless cheeks that could not even move under its impact. Then, the white line, the red, the scarlet, the raising weal... Liz moaned. "You bastards... you rotten bastards!"
"It's too cruel," I protested lamely. "Brice, she was your friend--!"
"Still is, pet. So are you. Don't fret, your turn's coming."
I watched Brice swing on the ball of his foot and plant the flagellum squarely across the feminine curves. Liz screamed. I tore at my handcuffed wrists. My owner grinned at my efforts, he nodded as though accepting my approval, then readied himself for Martinez's whirring impact and his own next stroke with the leather. I wanted not to look--but I looked.
It went on far too long. The gorgeous taut curves became a lattice of welts before it became a purple bruise. Liz screamed steadily and I winced with every blow. The whole thing was beastly, and I was thankful to be led back to my cot and padlocked to my chain. Evidently my own punishment was to be delayed. "A nice preliminary for the dear girl," Brice assured me. "Your turn will come."
It was not over for Liz. I suppose, for delinquent whores, not ever really over, our profession itself was a punishment. I stood and looked at the bent over nudity and wondered what they could do to her next. I might have guessed!
The first man parted the curtain and advanced with purpose. Brice and Martinez departed, I hoped they felt ashamed. Liz was bent over enough to look back between her spread legs and watch the advance of her shame. A zipper zipped, her hips were grasped, the hard firm maleness made its choice of entry. She did not say a word--what was the use!
I counted the men. Ten of them. They must have been marshalled and waiting. They, too, were part of female punishment. I wondered if I'd get the same and how it would feel. Liz moaned when they changed from one orifice to another, that was all. When the last man had gone Liz remained bound and strapped tight. The chamber was silent save for the furtive clink of chain. From the far end of the line Gertie stood and waved at me but I could not wave back, only nod.
It was a long time before they loosed my fellow culprit. The hired help did it, the masters couldn't be bothered. The man led her back to me, fitted the iron collar round her neck and snapped the padlock. Liz was too stricken to care about the ignominy of chains, she relapsed face down upon her cot, her bottom a blazing beacon worse than mine.
My heart skipped a beat when my own padlock was loosed. I wondered how they'd tie me to whip my back. The hurdle thing didn't seem appropriate. But, instead, I was led back through the curtain.
"I'm open to comments," Brice said. "Have a drink."
"I can't. I'm handcuffed."
He took the cuffs from my wrists and left me with scarlet weals instead. "Pour your own, sweetheart. Make it a double, you'll need it."
"For my whipping?"
"Right."
I massaged my wrists and filled my glass. It might be a good idea to get drunk--if he'd let me! "What's the use of comments?" I asked listlessly. "You wouldn't listen."
"Try me.
"O.K. then. Set us free. You've had your fun."
"Couldn't possibly, pet. You have to be whipped."
"O.K. Whip me, and then let us go?"
"Sorry. We need you both for the evening trade. Besides, your back doesn't get whipped until tomorrow."
I downed my drink and asked: "May I have another?"
"One more now. You'll be whipped sober."
I savoured freedom. The collar round my neck was the only iron I bore. The alcohol was warm and comforting. Reflectively, I said: "I think I'd do anything to escape the two fates you insist on for me, Brice."
"Define the anything, sweetheart."
"I can't. A girl who's a prisoner or a slave has to listen to a man's demands and say, yes she'll do it or, no she won't."
"I've told you what I want."
"But you've made it so impossibly impossible!"
"Still bothered about the cell?"
"Yes."
"Bothers you more than being a whore, eh?"
"I just don't know. I can't answer that. They're both too damn awful and you shouldn't compel a girl--Brice, why are you so mean to poor Liz?"
"Poor Liz my ass! She's only getting what you get and it will do her no end of good. If I don't marry you I might consider marrying her."
"The way you talk about marrying girls is horrible. Strip us, whip us, have us violated--a sort of gang rape... bah!"
"You've got a lot of spirit. You're an admirable subject."
"It's not my spirit, it's the drink, and I don't want to be a subject in an experiment. Brice, can't you offer me another alternative, I want out so damn bad?"
"Hmmmmm... well, suppose we cut the cell down a bit. I've said no more than a month at a time. How'd it be if I cut it down to a week?"
I felt an absurd surge of hope. It was still awful, but not as awful as it had been. The stuff in the glass gave me courage.
"I don't see why I have to be imprisoned just for the sake of imprisonment," I said slowly, thinking hard. "Why can't you chain me in the cell as a punishment when I've been bad or disobedient? It would make more sense."
"I could easily make it amount to the same thing." He was watching me with keen enjoyment. "Thirty days for pouting. Thirty days for poor performance in bed. Thirty days for spilling your coffee. Thirty days for--"
"Oh, shut up! Supposing I don'-t do those things?"
"Then thirty days just on general principles."
"But I'm not good to you behind bars. Don't you want me in bed? Won't you want to whip me...?"
"I'm away on business a lot, Ingrid. You know that. Those are the times you'd be shackled in the cell."
"But then you wouldn't be able to see me, to gloat, to get an erection out of my helplessness--"
"Like hell I wouldn't! I'd be thinking of you in there all the time I'm away, knowing you're safe, knowing how good it's going to be to come home and fuck you and whip you and take you out to dinner."
"Brice, most people hearing that would think you insane."
"You don't."
He was right, damn him! But if he'd been nuts the whole thing might have made more sense. But I was now clutching a concession. One week's imprisonment for a girl was a lot better than a month, and maybe I could persuade him to lock me in a different cell to get away from the Dream. There was also something else.
"Would you promise not to leave me in Trixie's charge? She'd sell me again right quick."
"Those sales of your sweet person were a put-up job, pet. Sorry! Don't worry about Trixie. She likes you almost as much as she likes me."
"Could I--could it start... right away?"
"Oh no you don't!" Brice laughed at my crestfallen face. "I told you before about those feminine tricks. "You've earned a punishment and you're going to get it."
"Oh alright," I agreed testily. "Give me my whipping... but, start me off then?"
"Not that either. You have to learn you can't turn a man down or quibble and get away with it. You'll stay here for the same month as Liz."
"Collared and chained by that lousy cot!"
"Don't beef. I'll forgive you the handcuffs."
"Thanks, that's big of you. But if I'm chained there I'll be fucked?"
"A source of revenue, pet. Pay for your keep and accessories."
"What accessories? You keep me naked?"
"Chains, whips, straps, rope... " His voice was dreamy.
"Brice, you're a bastard."
"Only my mother could tell," he said suavely. "Come along."
CHAPTER NINE - THE CELL
The chain and padlock had become a part of me. I didn't expect anything else. I stood meekly for the snap and click, then sat on my cot and damned the tenderness of weals. I was grateful for my hands, having them locked behind her back frustrates a girl to pieces. But hands only meant I could give better service to the clients and scratch my nose. An enslaved whore's privileges are small. The chained girls down the line watch my return with what might have been envy or disappointment. Two of them were extremely busy plying our profession.
"So, what's the deal now?"
I'd thought Liz asleep, pain wears you out. But she wriggled to face me, careful to stay on one hip and an elbow. The iron collar suited her, set off her nudity. But I knew she wouldn't want me to say so. Instead, I told of the concession and the whoredom to which I was sentenced. Then, I offered sympathy.
"Hurt bad, Liz?"
"You should know." She grinned her old grin. "Look, forgive anything I said. This hasn't been easy for me, I don't have your experience and, boy, I've never known what it was to be screwed 'till now. Those sons of bitches... both places!"
"Has it made you--?"
"Oh sure. A whip and ten fucks and I'm tractable as hell. You won't have to look so anxious--say, I thought you were getting whipped on your back--something special?"
"It happens tomorrow. Brice says we'll have a busy evening. I guess they want me to be able to lay on my back."
"Huh. D'you realize we've only been here a day? It seems forever, the things they've done to us."
"How's it going to be between you and me, Liz, if Brice takes me back to the Hacienda?"
"I keep offering to buy, but he won't sell you." She shook her chain distastefully. "Not that I'm in any shape to buy anything right now."
"Would you whip me--and all the rest?"
"Sure... unless the next thirty days changes me."
I considered my life. There would never be escape or freedom for me, not ever. Even when someone was fond of me they would still keep me chained, and whip me as the mood took them. The hell of it was I was beginning to take it for granted. This was my life, there wasn't going to be any other. Brice, Liz, Trixie, Martinez... they all saw me as a prisoner. They'd consider freedom for me as pure waste. And as for escape... ! Well, I hardly ever thought of it. I wished I could talk to the other girls chained down the line, but our collars held us apart. I'd have liked to know how they saw things.
My reverie was broken by a male voice. "Good evening, ladies like a fuck?"
He was very ordinary, except for the rope he carried. Neither Liz or I liked the look of that rope, but we stood up and smiled and kept our legs far enough apart for bait. I said the first thing I could think of.
"Good evening, sir. I hope you like me."
He looked me over, felt my breasts, then gave his attention to Liz. She stood submissively but said no word. With the air of a specialist, the client palmed and kneaded her pussy thoughtfully before moving on. We saw him go without regret.
"D'you have to invite the bastards?" Liz asked dismally. "If you look so all fired pleased about it you're certain to get fucked more."
"He didn't pay much attention to me, he's gone. But I think we both have to show willing. If we look sulky we'll only be punished."
"You sure he's gone?" Liz was sardonic.
He had not gone. He sauntered back slowly, examining pubic hair and breasts, until he once more stood before me. I could see the bulge in his pants. His voice was coaxing.
"How'd you like to be tied up?"
"Of course, anything you want."
I could almost hear Liz snort. Without conviction, she offered help. "I don't mind being tied up either... sir."
H e spared her only a cursory glance. I could well see how girls could get jealous in this business, especially if there had been money... ! But, for slaves, there was only ego and pride. I had to admit the way he was looking at me did a lot for mine. "Just say the word," I told him sweetly. "Would you like my hands first?"
He was pleased with my marked wrists, the grooves from the handcuffs were still plain to see. He fingered them lovingly before crossing them and binding them tighter than I liked. He pushed me back on the cot and tied my feet, then picked me up and set me on my knees. He knew what he wanted. A rope from my hands went between my legs, drawing me down and down until my face was on the cot and my forearms back between my knees. He cinched my bound hands to my bound feet, and there I was, trussed and ready the same way I'd offered myself to Brick. But this was different... !
"Had your ass whipped, eh?"
"Feller pay for it?"
"No, sir. I was punished for bad behavior."
It was not a conversational posture, I wobbled. My client looked after this hazard by impaling me without delay and clutching two handsful of my breasts. After a little time I asked, hopefully: "Wouldn't you like to tie me another way now, sir? There's lot of ways...?"
"Can't afford more'n one tie today, gal'. Maybe next time." He thrust me hard to demonstrate good intentions.
"How much did they charge you?" I enquired timidly.
"Hundred bucks."
I wondered if Liz felt as outraged as I did. Brice was making a fortune and his help was free. Our plight seemed more unfair than ever. I clenched my teeth and held on until my rope artist panted his way back from whatever fantasy was in his mind. When he zipped up he said simply, "Thanks, kid." And walked away.
"Hey, you've forgotten your rope!"
"Keep it, it ain't mine."
I was thankful for Liz. She untied me, muttering. It was a strange little encounter, leaving me more sorry for the guy than for myself. But the evening was now hotting up, the way Brice had promised. Several men were up the line. Our main concern now was to hope for customers who just wanted it the old fashioned way.
"Assholes," said Liz.
"You and Brice kept me tied up," I pointed out reasonably.
She let it slide, nodding dourly towards the curtain. "Look what we're going to get now."
He was young and fresh and smiling and he carried a whip, a real whip, not a riding crop. "Hello," he greeted brightly. "They told me you two love being whipped? That's my thing."
Liz and I looked at each other askance. "We've already been whipped today," she told him shortly. "Try one of the others."
"No, it's you two," he insisted firmly. "Surely you don't mind?"
"In a pig's eye we don't--!"
"Of course we'd love you to whip us," I interjected hastily.
"Which of us do you prefer?"
"You."
It was hard to smile. Brice would be laughing. My bottom this morning, my back this evening, and tomorrow... ! I was about to give him some more sugar when Liz took over. What she said and did left me standing in admiration.
"I'd love you to whip me, sir," her voice was honeyed. "Ingrid has to be whipped for punishment tomorrow. You wouldn't want to whip her as well today?"
"Don't see why not. She's a damn pretty girl."
"She's not prettier than I am." Liz stood erect, her hands clasped at the back of her neck, her breasts out a mile, her tummy vanishing to a flat plane. "Look... aren't I nice? I bet you've never seen pubic hair like I've got."
"You're O.K., but--"
"C'mon, hold my chain. We're all collared and chained so we can't run away. Don't you like that?"
"Yes, I do. But--"
"You can whip me a little, then fuck me a little. You'll love my mouth--and look at this."
The boy gasped as she slowly turned. I gasped, too. Liz was really a beautiful creature, she could turn her body into a dream. Softly, she enticed: "Think of the whipmarks you can put on my back."
She had him. His eyes glazed as he took her chain, hefted its weight and ran links through his fingers. "You really are prisoners," he said wonderingly. "This is for real." He fondled her collar and padlock reverently. "All of it. I'm tickled I came."
My heart went out to Liz in gratitude. I sure did not want to be whipped tonight and tomorrow too. But it was evidently something that could happen. Brice was giving me no breaks. I stood, panting, while my fellow captive explained about the straps.
"They keep my ankles firmly apart while you whip me," she explained helpfully. "And there's rope on the floor if you want to tie my hands. Anything you want, sir."
He was entranced. He said his name was Basil and that he thought we were wonderful. He strapped the lovely ankles tight enough to make their owner wince. When he picked up rope Liz promptly held out her hands. Basil tied them loosely but lifted them back over her head to tie them to her collar. This tie was tight, she would not get loose.
"You look really lovely like that, miss."
"Thank you, sire."
Basil reached around the creamy armpits and fondled the arrogant breasts, frictioning their nipples to evoke response. "Do they let a fellow whip these?" he asked hopefully.
"I don't think so. But you could ask. I expect the charge would be very high."
She was an exquisite nude statue. I knew Liz was giving the pose all she had in order to hold his interest. Until he'd given her the first stroke he might change his mind. She was smiling but her eyes were stonily fixed on the wall, awaiting pain.
"You've both had your bottoms whipped, haven't you?"
"Yes. It was done today."
"Some fellow--T' "No. We misbehaved."; "That's too bad. They told me not to whip your ass. But I'd sure like to. Another time maybe?"
"We'd love that. We take about a week to heal."
"I betcha'! Guess I ought to get started whipping you. You ready?"
"Of course. You've tied me beautifully to be whipped. But would you be a dear boy and gag me, screaming makes such a noise?"
"Swell idea." Basil looked around. "Say, I just thought of something else. How'm I going to fuck you, strapped the way you are?"
"Why, afterwards, of course. You'll be all ready."
"I'm all ready now." It came as an admission. "I ain't goin' to hold out while I put all them marks on that lovely back."
Two pairs of female eyes flashed a message. "You can fuck me anytime you feel you have to," I offered grandly. "You can fuck me and whip her. You're lucky."
"But then they'll want me to pay for two girls?"
"I don't know about that. But wouldn't it be worth it?" For answer, Basil shucked his clothes. He held up his briefs for inspection. They were a small size and needed washing. "Can I gag you with these?" he enquired anxiously. "I'd sure like to."
Liz swallowed hard. So did I. "That's a splendid idea," she lied nobly. "I'll open my mouth for you."
Basil was not rough. He stuffed his most intimate garment into Liz's mouth with solicitous care, then used his tie to bind it in place. Liz gurgled but let it go at that. Basil had her properly foxed. I wished I could ease things for her. At least, I could absolve her from her fucking. "Please don't whip her too hard," I coaxed. "She's so sweet and she likes you, too."
Basil braced himself. I could see it was a big moment. His phallus was rampant. I could see what he meant about waiting. Prudently, I arranged myself on my cot, my legs well open. "Whenever you want," I told him coyly. "But please be kind to Liz."
It was the first time he'd whipped a girl, I was sure of it. He was as scared as he was excited. He swung the whip to slash with a fearful sound across the lovely shoulders. Liz went as crazy as she could and made what sounds his briefs allowed. But the most dramatic effect was on Basil himself. For moments he stood transfixed to stare at the reddening wound he had created. Then, with a strange sound of his own, he leaped on top of me and thrust hard into my readiness. A couple of thrusts and he moaned his way to climax.
"I--I'm terribly sorry, miss, II" I clasped him in my arms and held on tight. I wasn't going to let him go before he'd got a message. "You're wonderful," I "We won't tell anyone. Go and whip Liz gently, then come back."
"You're wonderful, you're both super." Basil returned to his self-appointed task. "I sure am glad she's gagged," he admitted. "I'd be awfully embarrassed if she told me she didn't like it." Now he whipped Liz cautiously. It was not exactly gentle, and it enticed a pair of passing clients to stop and watch. His arm swung and Liz writhed, her chain clattering. But it took only six strokes to restore his erection. He whipped her once more, then transferred his attentions to me. His audience jeered, but this time Basil managed to stay inside me a lot longer. When he returned to punish his bound and naked choice he was well and truly limp.
Basil bestowed twenty lashes across the lovely back, admiring each weal as it took color and form. He found relief in me four times. I suppose a whore would have charged him extra but it didn't matter to us, we were there to be used. So what!
The nice thing about chain is it lets a girl do things. While Basil was tugging straps I took his disgusting briefs out of Liz's mouth and untied her hands. Her whipped back was quite beautiful, far different from our bruised wealed behinds. If she had to be whipped it was about as good a deal as she could have got. "Thank you for whipping me, Basil," she acknowledged prettily. "You do it very well."
"Thank you, too," said Basil. "But I want to whip her next time." He motioned in my direction. "I hope you won't mind?"
"Me jealous of Ingrid! Don't be silly, Basil, Ingrid's a darling. Whip either of us any time."
"It will take me a couple of weeks to save up--"
"We'll wait, we'll wait."
Goodwill flowed. Basil staggered to the curtain. It seemed too much to hope he would not return.
From then on we were just whores. Men chose us. We could not run, so we surrendered. Our bottoms got so they accepted male thrusts without complaint. We learned how late it was from our customers, we got five or six more apiece before the lights went out. To the clink of chain we fell asleep.
Morning brought chores. As each girl was unlocked she was instantly collared as part of one long chain, the slaver's coffle. When we were all linked we carried our covered pails with us to the washroom. Our bathing was simple and beastly. We were hosed as a group, then given soap. Lathered, we had to stand in a corner and get sprayed. The woman who did the job was thorough and her water was cold. It was a gasping agony as the jets struck and we were made to spread our legs for the sake of hygiene. The man stood to one side with the crop: that and the chain deterred any thought we might have had about flight.
We - ere helpless as ever. Dried with a rough towel, we rattled our way back to stand at the foot of our cots with the empty pail until our own personal chain was safely locked to our collar. We were now ready for business.
All but me.
My padlock was left open and empty while I was led to the now familiar office. I was glad Brice was alone. He motioned to the sideboard. "Coffee, toast, juice?"
"T hanks, I'm not hungry."
"Butterflies in the tummy?"
"A whole flock of them."
He nodded understandingly. "Yeah, perhaps it's just as well not to eat."
"Is it going to be that bad?"
"Mmmmmmm, yes. We make a bit of a ritual of this one. It's sure to impress the girls. They get to watch."
"How nice."
"Cheesed off, eh?"
"Is a naked girl about to be flogged supposed to be cheerful?"
"You won't be flogged, you'll be whipped. And, yes, we expect you to show a reasonable resignation to well merited punishment."
"What a mouthful! You put it so well. You're going to make an example of me? That it?"
"Right. I'll have a girl fix you up a bit. We find it's far more effective to punish a beauty than a delinquent who's untidy."
"You don't have to punish me at all. You know you don't."
"I do if I'm going to be fair to Martinez and the girls. What you did is forbidden, they saw you do it, they saw us catch you in the act. You sure you don't deserve it?"
"It doesn't matter, I'll get it regardless."
"You did well yesterday. Martinez was pleased with last night."
"I'm sure you can use the money."
"My, my, you are in a foul mood. How about a fuck?"
"You mean you'd go inside me after all those... others!"
"Well... maybe not."
My flare of hurt surprised me. He'd rejected me as unclean. Maybe I was unclean, I'd been well pumped. Doggedly, I asked: "Could I have a drink?"
"No. You get whipped cold."
"Its effects would be worn off by the time I'm tied and ready. I could sure use it now. I'm scared silly."
Brice's face softened, so did his voice. "Oh alright, go and make yourself one. In return I'll expect a decent performance."
"Do I have to make a public confession, or something?"
"That's right. Full detail. The girls will lap it up." He watched me pour the biggest shot I've ever had. "We want you to march out to... the place of your own free will and offer yourself to be tied."
"Where do I make my confession?"
"We'll have a box for you to stand on."
I swallowed and swallowed but did not ask for more. Brice and I shrugged at each other. What else was there? I followed the girl from his office. The bathroom she led me to was better than the hose.
The big chamber was very quiet. If a slave moved the sound of her chain was magnified. In all my naked beauty--and the girl had made a good job of me, I walked to the box. I did not look at Liz and I pretended not to see the scaffold. I got up on the box and faced the line of chained girls. They seemed fascinated. Their number was augmented by the staff, edging along the other wall. I took a deep breath.
"I am going to be whipped," I told them pleasantly. "It is a punishment I deserve. I accept its justice. I disobeyed an important rule of this house. I ate a girl. For many minutes I was a lesbian."
You could have heard the proverbial pin.
"Mr. Martinez and Mr. Ireland are very kind in punishing me. It will teach me a lesson, so I will not disobey again." I took another breath and delivered the punch. "I want you to watch me whipped and to understand that you will be whipped the same way if you do the bad thing for which I'm guilty."
Applause was not appropriate, but I felt it was there. I was rather pleased with myself. If you're going to rub your face in the dirt you might as well do it right. I slipped off the box and walked in majestic solitude to where it would be done to me.
The scaffold was not for hanging. My wrists were strapped, one to each end of a bar. The bar went up. When I was on tiptoe my ankles were looped and drawn off to each side. I was barely suspended, beautifully stretched, the whip is extra cruel to stretched skin.
"Thirty strokes."
It was the voice of Martinez, somewhere distant. The scaffold and I were pushed to center stage where the box had been and I was alone with the person who would whip me. It was the muscular woman whose name I never knew. Her first act was to tell me to open my mouth. I was grateful for the gag, my stuffed mouth, the straps. I didn't want to scream in front of such an audience. Screams echoed horribly in this stone place. I remembered Liz. I remember, also, being grateful to Brice and the rest of the men for staying away. I didn't want to be gawped at too closely as I writhed.
I was whipped cleverly. I suppose that's why they chose a woman to mark my skin. She knew all the places where I didn't want the thong. She snapped it into or across them with vicious accuracy. Thirty strokes! After the first half dozen I didn't believe I could possibly make it.
I suppose it was slow, but it did not seem so at the time. She started out on my flattened armpits, then lashed between my legs. I wanted to tell her it was my back she was supposed to whip, my back, my back... " But I couldn't tell anybody anything. All I could do was toss my head back and forth and writhe against my bonds. I couldn't even do much of that. After a group of strokes they shifted the scaffold so as to give everyone a good look at both sides of me as I was whipped. It was a brief respite each time. I sought eyes as I was turned, but my own were too pain misted to see properly, maybe it was tears. When the woman started to whip my back the relief lasted only a couple of strokes. It was just as bad. It hurts a girl terribly to be whipped on her bare back. I tried hard to tell her not to strike me so hard, but nothing much came out. I was choking on the screams I could not voice. After several centuries she stopped whipping me and went away.
I just hung there... stretched.
* * *
It is a wonderful thing to have a man take you when you lay on a cropped bottom and a whipped back. In Brice's bed I discovered constellations and sexuality beyond dreams. He used me steadily through the day, always on my back, never allowing me to turn or try another way. After the first explosive time he handcuffed me in front. It did not matter, I did not complain.
My mind was full of the scaffold and a faint hope. Brice had taken me to bed. Sure, I was still collared but he had not sent me back to my chain.
We slept late. My owner's first remark in the morning didn't do much for my morale. I was still shivery and tender. "Well, back to the old grind, eh? Feel better now it's over?"
"Yes."
"Cautious affirmative. I'll have someone padlock you back where you belong. Liz will be wondering."
"Must I go back and be a whore?"
"Of course. Why not?" Brice affected surprise. "Thirty days, wasn't it? You've done one and a half."
"I hoped you'd forgive me?"
"Nothing to forgive now, pet. Your slate's clean. Isn't it a lovely feeling to know your punishment's done with and that you're going to be such a good girl you won't earn another?"
"Well... yes, it is. But if all the customers want to whip me...?"
"You're such a delectable dish. But I'll give orders you mustn't be whipped for several days."
"How many days?"
"How about three?"
"I won't be healed. Oh, Brice...!"
"Hush now, we'll have them use a kinder whip."
"There's no such thing as a kind whip."
"In that case we'll use the regular--"
"Brice, please stop tormenting me. Do I really have to go back chain?"
"Yes, and with handcuffs. Shining steel on a whore's wrists really grabs the boys. You'll be too busy to worry."
"I'll hate myself after thirty days, and so will you. I'm already picking up all the tricks whores use. A week on that chain and I'll really be one--and after thirty days... ugh! Is that what you really want for me?"
"I did make you an alternative offer."
"I accepted it, but you said I had to do the thirty days."
"You accepted the amended offer you chiseled out of me. You know, the week in the cell instead of the proper month. I expect the original is still hanging around... but, of course, you don't want it."
The S.O.B. He always had me foxed. I was made and disappointed. Tartly, I said: "You don't need someone to chain me. I'll go down and padlock myself. I know the way."
"Have a good day."
I was so damn mad, and hurt. I stalked my way to the cot, and Brice let me go. Liz watched me padlock myself in disgust.
"I hope a whip never makes me do that, Ingrid."
"It's not the whip. I'm just mad."
"Screwed to a frazzle and couldn't get a single concession?"
"Yes. How'd you guess. We're both going to be whores and we can't ever escape." I burst into tears on her shoulder.
She patted me gently. Liz called to someone, but I could have cared less. When the woman who had whipped me came, Liz made it brief. "Hee, take this absurd girl to Mr. Ireland. She has a message."
Brice made no pretense of surprise. H is query was terse. "Is it the thirty days, pet?"
"Yes," I agreed abjectly. "Thirty days in the cell whenever you want--and the shackles."
"Good. I had Trixie come. She can take you back to the Hacienda. I'll follow in a few days. Now let's have breakfast."
I loved breakfast. I loved Brice. I loved Liz. But I was not in love with me. I was bitterly ashamed of myself. I'd surrendered, and on the enemy's terms. I was back to being a prisoner for life. But the food was marvellous. I'd been whipped, maybe someday I'd be Mrs. Ireland, but that was crazy. I was also handcuffed and strangely happy. I even asked my favorite question.
"Are you sure Trixie won't sell me to somebody before you show up?"
"Positive."
"I suppose I'll be chained someway, handcuffed, tied...?"
"Naturally."
"Then I'll be helpless and she can do what she likes with me."
"She'll do all the right things. You'll be beautifully safe."
I had to be satisfied with that. What I really wanted was Brice to take me home. But if it was only a few days... and Trixie was a sweet girl, and if she'd never sold me at all... ! Maybe everything was wonderful.
Trixie was so pleased to see me I lost my fear. The way I was hugged told me I was safe. After all, we'd been prisoners together. We kissed and kissed. Trixie tied my hands behind my back, then my elbows, then my ankles and knees. It felt like old times. Brice carried me to the car and sat me in the front seat with a rug so nobody would see me naked. I couldn't move that much, but I hadn't expected to, and I didn't mind. Trixie had a big responsibility in me. She'd take no chances.
"I'm so happy you're back, Miss Ranier. That whore deal was a bust. I'll keep you safe."
"Can't I persuade you to set me free?"
"We gone over that before. I'm Mr. Ireland's girl. I gotta tell him every time you ask that so's he can punish you." She gives me a sideways grin. "He says I can punish you myself, and I will if you act up. We start counting from right now."
I looked at the road, the car, at Trixie. After the whorehouse this is like being reborn. "Don't give me a chance to act up." I tell her firmly. "I'm only human. Can we go to bed together when we get home?"
"Sure thing. If you hadn't asked I'd have made you. You can't do nothin' I don't say."
"You mean, we don't get punished for it?"
Her grin is wide and wicked. "Not if nobody catches us, Miss Ranier."
"Couldn't you call me Ingrid now? I'm only a slave, you don't need to be formal."
"O.K. You'll only be Miss Ranier when I whips you. It hurts more that way."
I am back together with a girl my own age, it's a good, good feeling, even though I am a prisoner. I'll always be a prisoner, I've got used to the idea. It's not so bad really, apart from the cell. Quite a lot of things happen to girls who are prisoners. Being in this car with Trixie is a happening right now. I flex against her ropes. They are very tight, and my elbows hurt, but I
know by now it's to keep a transported girl from getting ideas.
II
you hurt enough you don't think of running.
The Hacienda takes me as its own. My ankles and knees lose their rope but get a chain instead. My hands are untied and handcuffed. I am neatly under control, so Trixie frees my elbows and takes me to her kitchen for coffee, and then to bed. I am quite helpless and she uses me happily like I was a Barbie doll. The day is well along by the time we are exhausted. We sleep. Afterwards, I am told the time has come.
"Don't chain me in the cell, Trixie. Not yet."
"I got to. Mr. Ireland says so. He says for me to tell him every time you try and weasel out. You just gotta keep quiet. We don't count this time, but he's got a whole list of punishments for you giving me snow jobs." She kisses me. "He knows I got a hankering for you."
We go downstairs, me clattering like crazy. There's the bars and the stone... and on the bench my shackles. We laugh at the caution Trixie takes in changing my bonds. She tells me she will never trust me out of bed, and even there... ! I shuffled and feel the weight of my irons. I will always wear them, but they are no worse than I remember. I clink and clatter up and down the passage. Trixie laughs, her eyes glow. She has me safe. We both know what we will do until Brice comes.
"That's enough. In you go." She pushes the cell door wide.
"Do I really have to?"
Trixie finds the riding crop. I rattle my way into the cell, it accepts me like a womb. It is as though I have never been away.
The door clangs shut, the lock turns. Trixie laughs through the bars and goes away. It is night, and when she switches off the light it is dark. I am alone, the cell has me. I lift my hands against their chain, but they will not come. I stand, naked. I belong to Brice. Well... I chose this, didn't I... didn't I... !
I am heavily ironed and in my owner's prison. I am safe.
I am locked in the cell. Suddenly I remember the dream.
