Nora's cute, but she pokes too much at Angela and me. She is forever insisting that I am a fraud and could get free any time I really tried. She says we are a couple of lesbians who put icing on our cake by Angela keeping me prisoner and me not being able to escape. Well, Nora's welcome to her opinion. She's never been Angela's prisoner, so she doesn't know anything about it. I know she gets a charge out of seeing me the way I am, but would not visit as often as she does and Angela would not have given her a key. I'd think she has to be jealous about Angela inheriting Remplehaven, but if she is, she doesn't show it. After all, she's got things pretty good anyway. She's just left, and I've heard the front door slam and the turning of the big lock. I twist my crossed wrists against the thin rope Angela tied them with today. It only takes a few moments to assure myself that I cannot free my hands. They will stay tied like this until Angela returns. Because Nora kidded so much and made such a big thing out of nothing, I am mentally reviewing the possibilities of what she has assured me I ought to be able to do with the greatest of ease. I've often suggested that she put herself in my place for awhile. I'm sure Angela would oblige, but she just sniffs disdainfully at that and says she's not an idiot like me. So now I do what I have done a hundred times: take a short inventory of possibilities.
First off, my hands. Nora hints about kitchen knives laying around and pairs of scissors I could work away with to get free. Well, she's wrong about this. The kitchen is locked, so I can't get in there. And Angela makes quire sure there are no sharp edges left around any place. They're safely locked away. While I think I twist, but Angela uses some sort of a pet tie on me I've never got the best of. In any case, she wires the knots together with a pair of pliers and a bit of wire so I don't really have a hope at all, not any more than I do with the handcuffs which she uses about half the time. I never know on a morning just what's going to happen to me, and this is the way we agreed. Absolutely no habits, no ruts, no prescribed rituals. Everything happening to me will be a surprise to keep me from getting bored. Angela says it's most important that I should never be bored, and I do agree with this, and I don't want Angela to be bored either. Nora doesn't matter.
Well, anyway, that looks after my hands, at least as far as I'm concerned. I don't know any other way I could possibly get them loose, and I long ago stopped chafing my wrists raw trying. But I can run around the house. I can run around anyway I can get to, and this seems to bother Nora. Angela and I know it's the way it should be. So if I can walk freely around, I can get at all the doors and windows. But the doors are locked and the windows barred. I've thought this out carefully and realized that if I was dead serious about freedom, I'd find some way to break the glass and call out for help until someone came to my rescue. But Remplehaven is one of those older houses in Beverly Hills, surrounded by foliage. From the road you can only see the roof and chimneys, and from the windows all you get is a view of our own grounds. But, okay, suppose I try. I break the glass and do my shouting out past the heavy solid bars which were built along with the house because Beverly Hills is a marvelous place for burglars when they can't be seen from the road. Privacy works both ways, for and against you, and Remplehaven is most completely private.
So now I've got the window broken, and I'm calling for help, at least that's the way Nora sees it. But she forgets I am naked.
Angela insists on my being nude all the time, and I've got so used to it I don't notice any more. But in this rescue business, it could be a bit awkward. If it's a man who answers my call, all this bare skin might give him ideas, and if there's one thing I can do without, it's being raped. Of course, to do it, he'd have to break through the bars or break down a door, and that would mean a big repair bill. But let's picture me having received this male attention and being left exactly as he found me. I'd still be naked, and my hands would still be tied behind my back. But I crawl through the window the way he got in, and I walked out into the road. And what happens then? Even if it was nice, friendly people who came to my aid, they would almost certainly call the police, and this is something I just don't want. What Angela and I have going here is awfully hard for anyone else to understand. I'm not sure I understand it myself except it makes us both happy. So I wouldn't want the police barging in and hauling poor Angela off to jail and leaving me wondering what to do next. So that's the reason I let Nora sneer all she likes, and the way I see it, I'm as fast a prisoner as if I was locked in some beastly dungeon some place. But it is not like that-- mine is a rich and gorgeous captivity.
Angela keeps busy bolstering up the family fortunes, so she's away most every day, and I'm a lonely prisoner in Remplehaven. That is, unless Nora comes and makes a nuisance of herself. On the days when Angela handcuffs me instead of using rope on my wrists, she gives me little chores to do because handcuffs really do give a girl an awful lot of opportunities, even when they're tight behind her back. But when she crosses my wrists and ties them back there, I'm pretty well limited to the TV and books. I manage pretty well because if I need something off a shelf, I can climb up on a chair and turn my back and sort of fishing with my pinioned arms. I can also use the telephone in a frightfully awkward sort of way, but it does work. I have to turn my back to it and twist to look sort of down over my shoulder at what I'm doing. Then, when I'm talking, I turn around and kneel and leave the receiver on the table where my mouth and ear can get to it. Nora laughs about this too and says why don't I simply call for help. But the reason are just the same for my not breaking the window and running up a bill for broken glass, but I do admit my activities in Remplehaven while I'm alone are limited. I sleep quite a bit, and this is good because Angela often keeps me busy quite late, and sometimes when she wants to be mean, I hardly sleep at all during the night. This state of affairs has been going on for a couple of years, and Angela and I see no reason for it not to go on forever.
There are what I call "my punctuations." These are simply the times during the day when I suddenly think of Angela, and for a purely erotic thrill, twist against my bonds, which she has place on me, in a futile attempt to free myself. All this does is tell me I belong to Angela completely and she can do whatever she wants with me. When you consider this, it's quite a concept. We have decided not to use the word slave in association with my condition. I am not a slave--I am a prisoner or a captive, of if you prefer the ancient, I am a thrall. Angela and I don't use the term often, but it carries its own potency, and since we believe this thing of ours must have started centuries ago, it is therefore apt. I am a thrall. Isn't it wonderful? Anyway, these punctuation pauses have sustained me through the whole of the two years in which Angela has kept me bound. Their effect upon my libido never weakens. My hands can busy themselves with a futile impossibility while my mind roves deliciously back and forth over the subject of Angela and me. I have a girlish hot spot down there where my thighs come together and the curly fronds of hair assert themselves. The heat my thoughts engender are my guide to how long these punctuation pauses ought to last. I have learned not to push my luck.
Our beginnings go way back, even before the two years. Angela and I had a thing going in our early teens, and it's been going on ever since. But one day a couple of years ago, Angela said she was going to tie my hands any time she made me make love to her. Not that any compulsion was needed, but she saw it as a novelty--a thing. I loved her so much that I'd have let her do anything she wanted. Getting my hands tied behind my back seemed a mere trifle, and somehow it fit in so absolutely right with what we did and what we were. I had never seen myself as submissive, but when I read a story which used the term, I realized it could apply to me. It certainly did not apply to Angela, so there were our roles clearly defined for us. We had been making love, and I had no clothes on, so we rustled around, got some string, and I turned my back to her and crossed my wrists. Right there I was lost, but it was the most beautiful surrender I have ever known. I still remember standing there very erect with my chin in the air and my pulse beating hard while the heavy string was wound around and around my wrists and cinched and tugged and knotted. There was no suggestion I need struggle or even could get loose, no suggestion that I would want to, and when Angela had finished with me, there was just no way I could ever get my hands back again by virtue of that bit of string that now belonged to her.
"There you are, Felicity. How does it feel?"
"Glorious! Oh, Angela, I simply had no ideal" I was busy trying to get loose, just like a captive girl who really wanted to get loose and had a need to get free. I twisted and tugged and made stifled little exclamations as I dealt in an entirely new dimension of experience. My fingers worked frantically at nothing, and after awhile, pink-cheeked and slightly perspiring, I looked at Angela and said, "I can't get loose. Angela, I can't do a thing!"
"You're not supposed to, dear."
We stood and stared. I realize now it was one of those turning points in a life which we don't recognize until they've passed. My struggles against Angela's strength had left me flushed and strangely hot. "Let's make love again, darling," I said.
It was as though I was a seal or any of those aquatic creatures that flop around, half helpless, on dry land. I sure did miss my hands, but not nearly as much as I expected. I flipped and flopped and struggled, and at the end of it all, we both exploded in a climax absolutely special. If that was what a piece of string could do for lovemaking, I was all for it.
"Gosh, Angela, that was marvelous. " I was still breathing heavily, and I was distinctly moist. I went to Angela and turned my back and wiggled my bound hands. When nothing happened, I turned around inquiringly. Angela wasn't even there--she was busy with the bed. With heat starting afresh, I ventured, "Angela, my hands are still tied."
"I know they are, darling."
I got the message. I could have gone through a long argument, but that would be silly when I was loving every moment. I was also increasingly curious as to what Angela would do to me next. I soon found out.
"Come over here, darling."
I obeyed and was thrust down on the newly straightened bed covers, and my ankles were tied like wrists. I was now completely helpless, or at least I thought I was. I did not know then how difficult it is to rob a girl of every faculty. Later, I was to discover I could pleasure Angela as well with my feet bound as I had done with tied hands. It was a day of discovery and a night too. Angela kept me bound like that until the following morning and then only untied my feet. It was then she told me I would never be free again.
Money is wonderful. It simplifies so much. It simplified my transition from a free girl to thralldom. I had no close relatives, and those I had were easily placated. While I was still breathless in disbelief and still spending most of my time tugging at bound wrists, Angela made all the arrangements. When she was done, I was most effectively her property. She broke the news to me gently.
"I've been planning this for a long time, Felicity dear. You're perfectly designed for it, you know."
"But, Angela, the string--it's so tight. I can't get loose! Untie me for awhile so we can talk about it."
"Oh, come now, Felicity, I wasn't born yesterday. From now on, all our talking and everything else will be done with your hands tied behind your back."
"But I won't be able to do anything!"
"You'll be surprised, dear. I've read up on the subject, and when we were kids, I used to practice on Nora. She's probably forgotten, but I haven't. Isn't it fun?"
At that moment, I was not so sure. It was so much, so soon, and the strangest of sensations. I'd lost my arms. I had two hands, but , they weren't doing me any good except I could wiggle my fingers as much as I liked, but there is not much profit to a girl in wiggling her fingers. I remember saying, "But, Angela dear, you can't possibly. Tell me you'll let me loose sometime during the day or the vest longest at bedtime." I looked at her adoringly and added, "Please?"
Angela clasped my face in her two hands and kissed me hard. She was as naked as I, and our breasts frictioned our nipples against each other. Instinctively, I pushed a knee up between her thighs, but she pushed it away and gently chided, "The initiative isn't yours any more, darling. It's mine. I'll tell you when to be naughty and when to be good."
Angela can get me so excited so easily. She did it then. She can do it now. I'm really ashamed of the way I felt when she touches me. But so far as responses go, she's almost as ardent as I, except from that day on I've not been able to take much of a lead in anything. Of course, I have discovered sly little ways I can provoke, excite, or get her going, but the possibilities are limited. Until you lose your hands, you don't realize how much they did for you. I said--and I really believed it at the time--"But I'm bound to lose sometime, Angela. I don't seem able to right now, but there's bound to come a time."
"Is there, Felicity? Are you quite sure?"
Angela might be in a mischievous mood, but she had put her finger on the crux of our situation. I was not quite sure, not by any means, because by then I'd been tied a long while and she'd already been looking after me in all the things I couldn't do for myself. She had even given me a bath. It had been a big giggle, but had been a shrewd accent of my condition.
"There are bars on all the windows, Felicity, and locks on all the doors. You'll do a bit of thinking while I leave you alone, and because you're a sensitive girl, you'll arrive at the same conclusion I have, namely that there's no way you can escape. Breaking a window and shouting for help will get us both in trouble, and you won't do it."
"But I'll ask Nora to let me loose."
"Please do, Felicity darling. I'll be interested to hear what Nora says."
Angela had that fixed too. Not that Nora would have done much for me anyway. She's too damn mischievous and contrary. When I broached the subject the next time I saw her, she simply laughed and assured me I had it coming and could damn well put up with it. She said it was entirely my own fault and if she'd been in Angela's place, she'd have done the same thing.
So that was that. I spent my first full day alone thinking over ways and means, but I also indulged in a great many punctuation pauses as I battled the cords on my wrists and looked for one of those sharp objects they show you in the movies, but which never seem to be around when you need them. When Angela returned in late afternoon, she had a package which she insisted I watch her open. In it was a pair of shining chrome handcuffs, at the sight of which my tummy did a somersault. I said, with total finality, "You're not going to put those on me."
"Yes, I am, darling. They'll be much more comfortable than what you're wearing now."
"I refuse. They're for criminals, not for girls. I simply won't wear them."
Those handcuffs were a real shock. Up until that time, I had a lingering expectation of freedom just around the corner. Angela was having fun. But those chrome circlets and there were two keys with them made me positively shiver. String left me a little hope but handcuffs would heave none at all. Flatly, I asserted, "Angela, get rid of them. I absolutely can't let you--" My struggle was not play acting, it was for real. I realized I had to make a stand somewhere. Sure, this was a wonderful game, but Angela was carrying it too far. I supposed at the bottom of my revolt was an instinctive loathing for something I associated only with criminals. That those shining metal bands should be clasped around my own wrist was an unthinkable outrage. They would carry a stigma I could never forget, so when Angela tried to turn me around, I kicked and fought for all I was worth. I really did put up a marvelous show and got Angela quite peeved with several kicks I landed effectively. Halfway through, I thought I'd won. In a huff, Angela said I could practice kicking the bed while she ran an errand. When she came back, she had another package.
If I'd thought the handcuffs were bad, what she now unwrapped was worse. Angela sweetly explained they were called leg irons and would lock on my ankles the same way the handcuffs would on my wrists. There was no way I could get them off, but she would have the keys. I stared and stared, realization creeping in upon me like an icy hand upon my spine. This shining steel was for real in a way no string or cord could ever be.
"What I plan is to keep your hands fastened behind your back, Felicity dear," Angela explained patiently. "But I want to change the method of keeping your hands fastened. One day it will be twine, and another it will be handcuffs. In order to enable me to make the exchange without you proving too difficult, I will always chain your ankles first. That way I can always get the best of you in a tussle. Don't you think that's a wonderful idea, darling?"
"No, I don't. Really, Angela, I think you're going too far." We started our battle all over. It ended with me flat on my tummy on the floor and Angela's knee hard in the center of my back, one by one the silver cuffs were clicked tight upon my ankles. When I was allowed to rise, I discovered I could take short, hobbled steps, the chain between my feet clinking amusingly but preventing my raising any effective opposition to anything.
"Are you going to be sensible now, Felicity?"
I was not sensible Directly, the string was peeled from my chafed skin, and my hands flew to my defense, but that effort ended real quick with me tripping over my hobbled feet and ending up just as flat on the floor as previously, beating the carpet with clenched, impotent fists and striving ineffectually to unseat the girl whose weight I bore. I soon tired, and Angela then had little trouble pulling back my arms and clicking the cold metal wristlets above each of my hands. I heard it as the knell of doom.
Everything is in the mind. I now feel silly at all the fuss I made about those handcuffs and leg irons. They weren't the end of the world at all. They were a new beginning. But I angrily hobbled my way to the bed, flung myself face down on the covers, and wept as though my loss was of far more than my freedom. I sobbed and sobbed until Angela took me in her arms and comforted me in ways I could not ignore or be ungracious about. After awhile she sat me up and I discovered to my surprise I could do a lot more with handcuffed wrists behind my back then if I had been tied with string. I could not get out of the steel circlets, but there was a link of chain between which enabled me to twist and reach in a way previously denied. When the leg irons were taken from my ankles, I entered a whole new world, a strange modem version of an old captivity. Angela dried my eyes, told me I was a silly girl, and asked if I felt better now. We ended up having a good laugh about the whole thing, but my hands remained chained behind my back.
It took me a long time to break myself of the compulsion to struggle every time Angela changed my bondage. I felt it a sort of moral duty to regain freedom. I expect it was some sort of conditioned reflex, but I didn't bother to analyze. I just fought whenever my hands were freed. I never won. I couldn't possibly win with my feet chained as closely together as the leg irons compelled. After a couple of these futile fights, Angela showed up with another of her surprise packages, this time containing a long, lean, wicked- looking riding crop which I viewed in the strangest mixture of terror, fascination, and a truly shocking surge of lust. Angela assured me she would mark my skin with it only if my behavior was too unreasonable, but even in that first moment of glimpsing the gorgeous wickedness of the thing, I knew deep down in my heart I would compel her to use it just out of female curiosity. At that time, I had no conception or previous experience of pain. I sure was a dummy! As though the sight of Angela's purchase had sobered me, I stood obediently while I was unlocked and retied, this time with rope. Angela had bought an assortment of ropes and cords especially for my benefit. She had also bought a pair of pliers and some wire, and explained to me how, after she had knotted me tight, she would make doubly sure by wiring the knots together. By that time the whole thing was academic to me, so I just told her I hoped she was having fun. But I can never fool Angela.
"You can't fool me. Felicity. You love it."
"So, okay, I love it. But, Angela darling, this whole thing makes me feel so hopeless and helpless."
"Leave it at helpless, Felicity dear. You're actually bursting with hope all the time wondering what comes next. When I leave you for the day, you'll be hoping all the time for me to come home and feed you a lovely dinner. Sweetheart, from now on, you're going to absolutely live on hope."
Angela was right--my life since that time had been one long quivering hope. I'm always hoping for something which mostly doesn't happen. So far as the helplessness goes, I've conceded that right after the first couple of days. If I hadn't believed in helplessness when tied with string, the handcuffs and leg irons made sure I did now. I had to revise all my thinking about myself and my life to comfort to the knowledge of those steel circlets I could do nothing about. When you consider this, you'll see what a vast change this entails in the thinking of any girl. It was like being reborn, not for better or worse, but simply to a new dimension of existence. If babies were born without arms, they would adjust some way. Well, that's what I did. With my hands locked behind my back, I can now make breakfast. I can't do it if they are tied with cord, but with handcuffs, it's a breeze.
I ought to be pissed off at these chores. When Angela first inflicted them, they seemed outrageous, inclining me to tears. I was still thinking so much of all I did and all I was in terms of storybooks. In fiction, if a girl's hands were tied behind her back, that was the end of it. She was no longer an effective entity. But the riding crop soon taught me this was not true. I could do a little with bound hands and a lot with handcuffed wrists. After my first indignation at this subsided I became grateful for something to do while Angela was absent. The TV's mostly rubbish, and reading is awfully difficult when you have to keep turning around to move up a page. It's not too bad with handcuffs, but with corded wrists, it's a real chore. Little by little, I've come to prefer being handcuffed. I got over the stigma about convict and prisons and such, and now regard them the same way Angela does as a real facility. She and I now chuckle when we wonder how people of ancient times controlled their thralls without them. I bet there were a lot of abortive attempts to return home to mother.
The riding crop put an end to my struggling for the sake of struggling. After its purchase, I asserted my moral right to freedom only once in a struggle which was more of a nuisance to Angela than with any hope of doing me any good. While I stood, naked and trembling, she got the awful object, and when I turned to run, the hobbles on my feet tripped me to the floor in a perfect position for her to use it. I will never forget that first awful searing strike across the cheeks of my bottom. I was positive there would be blood all over the place and was actually a trifle disappointed when Angela backed me up against a mirror and all I saw was a vivid scarlet stripe turning to purple. I said what I again thought was with finality, "Please never use it on me again. I'll behave."
I really tried. It was easy to turn my back on an impossible escape. My efforts there had been no more than the first fluttering of a caged bird, but I now discovered Angela had other ideas as well. I had to do this, and I had to do that, and above all to her satisfaction. This especially applied to the jobs she gave me to perform during my captive day. A broken dish or a dropped mess I had not been able to clean up now promised a painful sequel. I could run around the house all I liked, and at the start I did a lot of running, but she followed me, taking her own time, and sooner or later, I cornered myself in this way or that, and the posture I assumed determined where the riding crop sliced me. Angela did it with a casual competence which doubled the impact of her blows. I could never accuse her of being cruel. I always surrendered before that point. It only took two or three good swishes to where I would promise anything if only she would stop. I tried to keep these promise, but you know things are. There was always one more accident, or one more forgetfulness. It became rare for my bottom to remain unmarked--it still is. But a girl adjusts to anything. If I go a week without beings swished, I count myself lucky. Angela assures me I am indeed fortunate, but it is not her bottom she's talking about, it makes a difference.
There was always one more accident, or more forgetfulness. It became rare for my bottom to remain unmarked--it still is. But a girl adjusts to any thing. If I go a week without being swished, I count myself lucky. Angela assures me I am indeed fortunate, but it is not her bottom she's talking about, it makes a difference.
Nora has remained intrigued by the crop, but Angela refuses to give her permission to use it on me. Angela is a real sweetheart about this because she's subjected me to an awful lot of plausible demands by her sister. Nora lives here half the time and drops in and out as she pleases during the other half. She probably feels a part interest in my person as though of a part ownership. She has assured me quite frankly she intends to use the riding crop on me should the chance occur, but I am safe from her as long as Angela is in the background somewhere. If Angela should take a vacation sometime without taking me around, I shudder to think...!
Nora is an amiable girl. She says Angela and I are nuts, and need our heads examined, but just the same, Nora is fascinated by my handcuffs and leg irons. They thrill her in a way the string never did or the rope does now. My wrists get roped often enough to keep Angela in training and myself slightly miffed and hoping for a return to the handcuffs I once abhorred. Nora says I ought to be tied up in a lot of other ways too. For instance, my feet, or to a post, or to a chair. She is full of brilliant ideas for me which Angela treats maternally with a patient smile. Angela is older than Nora and treats her with an indulgent eye. I don't share her confidence.
"Felicity dear, Nora won't hurt you. She won't do anything she hasn't asked me about first. Be nice to her."
So I am nice to Nora and very polite. We converse freely, and sometimes enjoy the talk. I would enjoy it more if she did not bring up the subject of copping my bottom. It's a subject which seems to fascinate her endlessly. There is a mischievous quality about Nora I do not trust. For instance, there was the day when, pretending to examine my handcuffs, she clicked them both a click or two tighter and then said how sorry she was for causing me pain, but she didn't have a key. With typical Nora insouciance, she assured me she was certain I wouldn't mind the discomfort until Angela got home. I wanted to tell her just how much I did mind, but when a girl is a little bit in pain, she becomes careful what she says. In the meantime, I comfort myself with delightful fantasies of Nora securely bound, getting various parts of her person well thrashed by her senior sister. These dreams heat up my hot spot gorgeously.
I get to share Angela's bed. The reasons are obvious, but while Angela admits she might be better serviced if I had my hands, she refuses to give them to me. I guess this goes to prove just how serious she is about my captivity. When we go to bed, she puts the leg irons on my ankles so I won't roam around in the night while she's asleep. Unless I'm tied with cord, I have a duty every morning to get up and make breakfast, since I am chained with metal bonds that present no danger of escape. It's amazing what a handcuffed girl can do. But when my hands are tied behind my back, it is Angela who has to rise and make our food. On these occasions, she unlocks one of my ankles and locks it again to the rail of the bed. It is very frustrating.
Nora complains and says Angela is stingy about me. Nora doesn't see why I could not be loaned to her on occasion just so she could see what it was like to own a girl the way Angela owns me. I suppose under the circumstances, the request isn't all that unreasonable, but I'm thankful Angela does not accede to it. I hope she never will. But from what I say about Nora, it mustn't be thought she's a little monster, because she isn't. She's simply sweet and mischievous and with too much curiosity for my good. I can just imagine her doing what she calls "putting me through my paces" if she had the chance. If it ever happens, I'll be as obedient as I know how, but I doubt if it will do me any good. Unless Angela is watching, Nora is certain to give me the works. I wish she would get herself a boyfriend or something, but she's all too fond of Remplehaven and Angela, and maybe me.
I sit now, enjoying one of my punctuation pauses. I am tired of books and TV, and have allowed my mind to wander through the past two years, but what I think about most often is Angela. I have never ceased to adore Angela, an adoration which endures through all my punishments, my penances, and the hazard of Nora hovering off to one side. Angela is so beautiful When we lay naked together in bed, our feet entwined, her arms around me in a comfort I cannot return, I know for sure I never, ever wish to escape. For me to run away from Remplehaven would be insanity. It would be emotional starvation to be deprived of Angela's tummy. I cannot crop Angela's pubic patch, as she does mine, but I play with it lovingly whenever I get the chance. It is a really gorgeous bottom, although she assures me mine is more firm and resilient, but I'm sure she is only comforting me against the crop. Sometimes, lying there in bed, I dispose myself so I can nibble those delectable pink cheeks. Any girl who has failed to nibble another girl's bottom is missing out. But it is when my darling lies upon her back, feet outspread or knees raised wide, that I come into my own. Angela has her own perfume and her own flavor. She manufactures both somewhere in the recesses of her being, and it is I who am privileged to feast. It has been hinted that should my feasting fall short of expectations, I might receive the crop. So far it hasn't happened, but there could always be a first time. Angela's nipples are an endless delight. I think they can tell when I look upon them. They instantly respond in the same way as if I used my fingers or my tongue. When my mouth lowers itself upon her breast and my tongue performs its duty, I always find them flint-hard and gorgeously erect. I suppose they are like myself--preconditioned. Goodness knows they should be. I bestow my skills upon them every night. If I am allowed to bestow my favors long enough, I can compel my darlings to climax before I sink below into the potent perfume of her thighs.
CHAPTER TWO - CROPPED
For a naked girl whose wrists are crossed and tied behind her back, waiting is not easy. I have switched the TV on and off several times today, but there's never anything worthwhile in the afternoon. I am also weary of reading. I suppose what I'm really tired of is the gymnastics of constantly turning around to flip over a page. I can't get into the kitchen because it's a cord day and the door is locked. I'm getting so I wish Angela would not tie my hands, but would use the handcuffs all the time. I've told her this, but she just laughs and goes ahead doing what she please. I have to admit I get a thrill out of this, but I do not tell her so. In a way, this waiting as I am now must be pretty much like the women used to endure when the breadwinner was out to work and wouldn't be home for a long time. Of course, they wore clothes and did not have their hands tied behind their back. At least I think that was the way it was for more of them, but from I read, I can't be sure it applied to all. It is not impossible some Tudor, Georgian, or Victorian maiden found herself in much the same spot as I am. But that's beside the point. I'm waiting now for Angela to come home, and I'm hoping she won't notice the broken ornament off the mantle shelf. I had a hell of a time getting it back up there and putting the two pieces together in a way I hope that will stay. Anyway, it's a good thing I don't have to cook a husband's dinner the way I'm fixed.
I've had to take silly little short steps all day because my feet are hobbled. When Angela changed the bondage on my wrists this morning, she forgot to take the leg irons from my ankles and I forgot to ask. I've got so accustomed to things like this that I now take them for granted. It hasn't mattered much about being hobbled because I haven't been going anywhere. It simply makes my excursions around the house that much more difficult and slow. As a result, I've slept more than usual, and I'm now wide awake and thinking how nice it would be if Angela would take me out to a lovely restaurant to dine. This is something we've talked about a lot. It would amuse us, but we've never been able to work out the mechanics. You see, it would have to be valid, not make believe. That would kill it. The best we can contrive in social eating is to feed Nora once in awhile. On days when I'm usually bored, I'm actually glad to see her. She is a voice from outside in the world, the world I haven't seen for a couple of years and may never see again. Gosh, that sounds dismal, doesn't it? But I'm not dismal, just waiting, and if I could use my hands, I'd help myself to a drink at the bar to help the time along. Of course, I hate to think that Angela would do to me if she came home and found me drunk. I probably wouldn't sit down for a week.
The last time I was naughty was very, very bad indeed. I knew what I'd done rated more than a few casual swishes. It was really awful sitting in a sort of vacuum waiting for punishment to come through the front door. I will say this for Angela: She listens to excuses, although she doesn't often pay much attention to them. In this particular case, she considered them pretty poor and told me I'd get extra because of them. It long ago transpired that if I offered an excuse, it had better be good. I remember sitting and quaking, getting myself all worked up to the point where I actually considered breaking a window and calling for help. I didn't do it because I had a vivid vision of me howling my S.O.S. and then having Angela walk up the path and get the full benefit of my vocals. Angela discovered my sin right away. It was something I hadn't been able to hide, not with tied hands, maybe not anyway. She stared at me and I stared back until I finally shrugged and said, "Oh, all right, I'm guilty. What are you going to do to me?"
"How about ten. Felicity?"
"Couldn't you make it five, Angela? I've never done anything this bad before--I'm scared."
Angela reduced it down to eight. She's terribly sweet, but even eight scared me. I'd never gone above three or four before, and that had been bad enough. Hoping for a further reprieve, I ventured, "I'll never be able to stand still for that many, Angela. I just know I won't."
"You won't have to, darling. I'll fasten you so you don't have to say or do anything about anything." She smiled benevolently. "But I will allow you to scream. Isn't that nice of me?"
Angela's idea of fastening me so I couldn't do anything was very simple: She put the leg irons on my ankles and then freed my hands. This is always difficult because we're both wondering if I will or should put up a battle. I don't any more, but I used to. Anyway, she then tied one of my wrists to each of the bedposts of our big four-poster bed. I stood at the bottom end and was attached dead center between the two posts. I'd been palpitating with a queer sort of excitement all the time she was doing this, and then, when I was tied good and tight, I did sort of take stock of things and look back over my shoulder. I'd never felt more vulnerable in my whole life, and if I could have called the whole thing off, I sure would have. Gosh, it was awful. I mean, think of it: There I was standing absolutely naked with my arms stretched out on either side and unable to do anything but wiggle. I could weave my bottom around a bit, but that wouldn't do a bit of good. I was a very sad, sorry little girl.
"Ready, darling?"
I said I was ready, although I certainly wasn't. I wouldn't ever be ready, but before I had a chance to say anything more, Angela's first stroke bit into my shoulders and the tip lapped under a raised armpit to make me squeal, as much in shock as in pain. There was a bit of anger in it too, but I think this is always true of a girl when she's being whipped. She always feels a terrible injustice about the whole thing, no matter how she may deserve it. You see, I'm talking just like Angela when I talk about deserving it. Good gosh, right at that moment, I didn't think I deserved anything.
"You'll be so proud of the lovely mark, darling. You have the most beautiful skin I've ever seen. You're so lucky I don't use a whip that would cut it. This crop just hurts."
Did it even I was almost grateful for the times I'd been swished before. It had sort of got me used to it and taken off the rough edges. The next stroke was across my bottom, and I found myself trying to climb up onto the bed to get away from what came next. This was absolutely crazy, because my feet were chained, and the chain was short. There was no way I could get up onto that bed, but I sure did try. Pain simply pays no attention to reason.
This was the first time Angela deliberately whipped the inside of my thigh. She sees an opportunity while I was weaving and kicking to slice a quick one in where it hurt the worst and where I felt certain it had cut my twat. This time was purely ridiculous. I actually jumped up and down as though I was bouncing on my feet. I couldn't do anything effective, so this was the next best thing. "Angela, please, not so hard. Not so hard, please. Angela, not up between my legs." I don't know whether my plea did any good or not, but anyway, she didn't cut me up inside again. Maybe I didn't give her a chance. I was real busy keeping my legs tight together, and this isn't a bit easy when a girl wants to kick like crazy because of the pain. I was so busy yowling and making a fuss I completely lost count. When Angela stopped cropping me, it was a real surprise. I thought she'd forgotten something and would be right back, and it would go on and on. Those eight strokes had taken on a magnitude in my mind, as though it was a hundred. Even when she put her arms around me from behind and began to play softly with my nipples, I still thought it was only intermission and she was bracing me for the second half. I guess by whatever standards govern these affairs I was terribly naive. When Angela convinced me it was well over, I broke down and cried. Yes, I actually cried and let her wipe the tears from my eyes and cheeks. It came most naturally for me to assure her I would never commit the same sin again.
"I won't always crop you, Felicity dear." Angela's voice was thoughtful as she untied one of my wrists. "There's all sorts of ways to punish a girl, you know. After awhile you'll get bored with being whipped and want something new."
"No, I won't. I don't want anything at all. Oh, Angela, can't you be satisfied just keeping me prisoner?"
"Don't be silly, Felicity. You know you have to be punished from time to time--every girl needs it. Probably I need it too, but since I'm the boss, it isn't going to happen. But you're not the boss, are you?" Her hands once more busied themselves upon my breasts to make me gasp and moan and then mutter, "No, I'm not the boss.
I haven't anything to say about anything. Oh, Angela, please don't stop."
Angela immediately stopped. She does these things on purpose, and I've come to recognize they sort of pinpoint my status. I never dare complain because if I did, she would pick up my punishment where she left off. I'm terribly dependent on Angela--it's really shocking.
When Angela untied my other hand, I was in a fine old sweat, a most extraordinary mix of emotions in which I'm ashamed to admit lust headed the list. I was horny as all get out. My sexual arousal almost blotted out my pain, resentment, and anger about the whole affair. I was a raging, palpitating package of female, and as Angela crossed my wrists and corded them once more, I actually orgasmed without her even touching my puss. This has left me a lot to think about. I'd never been whipped that hard in my life and yet there was the end result. It was absolutely contradictory, but I had to put it down to being a part of the entire scene, I'm going to have to expect this sort of thing. The trouble is Angela will get wise, and then when I'm really hoping for it to happen, she'll make sure it doesn't. But that is part of the whole scene too. It was plumb crazy, but it honestly felt so good to have my hands tied behind my back again and feel sure nothing worse was going to happen. Waiting for Angela to come home and then anticipating those eight strokes had got me so wound up I didn't know if I was on my head or my heels. But I shouldn't have ever started thinking about that because it's pretty much the spot I'm in right now. I'm waiting, and I'm a bit scared. I can easily hope Angela won't notice that little thing on the mantle shelf, but she just might, and I can't tell how many strokes she'd rate it at or whether she'd try something new on me such as she hinted about. I mean, she could hang me up by my thumbs or something.
She's at the door now. She comes in looking as radiant as ever and gives me a sharp glance before we kiss. "Felicity, you're looking guilty. What have you done?"
I start to cry. It's so damn silly I could kick myself, but I can't help it. I'm sure it's the waiting and getting all tensed up and evidently I worry more about getting myself dropped that I think I do. Mendaciously, I manage to mutter, "I've been missing you so much, Angela. I'm so glad you're back. It was one of those afternoons."
I am gorgeously hugged, my pussy is felt and my nipples are gently kissed, one is nipped. So far so good. But Angela now holds me at arm's length and looks at me with a studied regard I cannot meet. "Come on, Felicity, out with it. You've done something." I'm an absolute idiot. I mean, I can't hide anything. Angela reads me like a book. I simply can't bear this suspense any longer so I tell her my sin. She goes to the mantle and confirms it as I've confessed. When she turns, she cheerfully says, "Well, darling, it's no the end of the world. What do you say to five good ones up between your legs?"
That's the way Angela is. Nothing's ever the same. Everything comes as a surprise and a shock to leave me scared to death and longing to get on my knees or do something silly. Anything at all to avoid being punished. It is pure panic, and I know it's pure panic. So does Angela, but she loves every moment. She will savor it to the full and let me make as big an idiot of myself as I'm willing to do. Still cheerful, she says, "You had a stroke up there the other day so you know what it's like. It's not all that bad, is it?"
"It's terrible, it's awful. I can't possibly bear five up there where a girl shouldn't ever be whipped at all."
"But, darling, I'm not whipping you. I'm cropping you. There is a difference."
I'm being played with, I know. I wish now I hadn't said anything about that damn ornament. I should have kept quiet. I might have got away scot free finally. As it is now, I'm undoubtedly for the high jump, I can just already feel that horrible crop slicing up inside my legs. It shouldn't be allowed.
"Felicity, you little idiot, you look as if you've received the death sentence. Come on, smile for me."
I smile. It is a sad little smile. Forlornly, I plead, "Angela darling, can't you forgive me? Please, I'll buy you a new one."
"You can't. You're naked. Your hands are tied, and you're not allowed out of the house. Don't talk nonsense. You ought to be grateful it's only five with all this fuss you're making. I could raise it to ten, you know. In fact, I think I will."
My wail of dismay surprised even me. I outdo myself in my panic. I can't stand ten--I simply can't. There's no way. Ridiculously, I fall to my knees in front of her, because of tied hands behind my back I cannot grasp her as I wish to do but goodness knows this posture ought to be humble enough to soften anyone's heart. It does not soften Angela's.
I am trembling, my mind absorbed totally with impending pain, but within a few moments, fond hands commence playing with my hair. Any part of me Angela plays with always has a most soothing effect, my trembling stops and does not resume even when Angela grasps a handful of my crowning glory and uses it to tug me erect. She laughs gaily at my woebegone features and upsets my equilibrium once more. "All right, you little ninny, no whip. You tease so beautifully I can't resist." Once more she holds my cheek in her two hands and kissed me savagely. "You see, I can be merciful too."
I wish I had my hands. It is terrible not to be able to clasp her in gratitude. I have never felt more love for Angela than I feel now. Whether she was teasing me or not, it was, for me, terribly real. I lay my head upon her shoulder and try to tell her of the depth of gratitude I feel.
Angela allows me to rest a few moments before thrusting me back with a hand on each of my shoulders as she says seriously, "But you do have to be punished, darling. You do understand that, don't you? I've let you off the whip, but there are other things... " I don't think my heart can sink any further. It simply thuds unhappily and waits for the worse. What she says now leaves me supposing it is still a tease, it is so very childish. "Since I'm not going to whip you, Felicity dear, I'm going to stand you in a corner as though you were a little girl in school and you will stay there until I tell you you can turn around. Does that make you happy?"
"Yes, oh yes." I am overjoyed.
Angela is smiling as though she knows something but what is there to know about something so simple as standing in a corner. Anxious to please, I inquire, "Do we start right away, darling, and which corner do you want me in?"
Angela picks my corner. Her voice is brisk. "Go on, get in there --well in with your face right into the angle of the wall and no turning around." She gives me a gentle push to start me towards what I now see as a penance and not a punishment at all. "But remember this, darling, you must never, never, never turn around. You have to keep looking at the wall. If I catch you turning around, we revert to the ten strokes."
I wish she hadn't said this, but I suppose it's reasonable enough. Almost light-heartedly, I trip across the rug to the waiting crevice in the wall. I insert myself in as far as possible, then turn to glance back and ask, "This okay, Angela?"
"If would be if you hadn't turned around." She laughs at my stricken expression. "All right, we won't count that one, but get yourself in there and don't make that mistake again. The real punishment is you won't know whether I'm in here watching or you're all alone. Goodbye, Felicity sweetheart. Be a good girl."
It sounds so simple and seems a bit silly for an adult. I gaze at the angle of the painted wall and realize I'm going to get tired of the view. I close my eyes, but that affects my balance, so I open them again and resume my examination of the patient. It is a lovely color when you stand back away, but I am far too close. If I had hands, I would use them to lean against the wall. But I have no hands. I suppose I can amuse myself in whatever time I am compelled to stand here by my usual twisting and tugging to get free. Come to think of it, that is about the only exercise I am permitted. I listen intently to the sounds of Angela's presence, but they do not last long, and then comes a silence in which she may have left the room or may be standing admiring her handiwork which is me. I catch a hint of something I'm not going to enjoy.
I am positive Angela is there, watching. I mean, it's the most natural thing for her to do. She will understand my wish to turn to make sure, and she'll be waiting to catch me. In a sudden realization of the twisting and tugging at my corded wrists, I stop the motion instantly. For Angela to watch me doing this is some sort of indecency, giving way to what little part of myself she does not already possess. I bow my forehead against the wall and press hard. It is an anchorage against temptation.
It is now my penance begins. I understand it is not so much the standing in the corner as the not knowing. I've only been here a minute or two and already the need to turn is irresistible. I can only cope with it by trying to slip into my fantasies or do a bit of quiet reasoning. But I am defeated here too. In the center of my back there now makes itself felt a twin smoldering fire upon my bare skin. It is the focus of Angela's eyes. But suppose Angela isn't there. I chide myself for an overactive imagination. I stand and stand while the hours, or is it only minutes, slip by on leaden feet. From time to time, there are sounds, some recognizable. They tell me of Angela's presence busying herself with this or that. I endure the first couple of times, but then can no longer contain myself. Humbly, I inquire, "Angela dear, may I please speak?"
"Silence. I forgot to tell you, Felicity dear, you mustn't speak. You have to stand there in silence. Don't feel bad about it. Half the time I'm here to talk to."
The order is like that first time I was compelled to strip. I'd done it as slowly as I could and had got down to the last little scrap of covering which I still hoped I'd be allowed to retain. But when the order came to remove it, I did so with a terrible hesitation in pulling it down slowly across my knees and then stepping out of it to leave myself bare and with absolutely nothing. It is like that now. I stand in this corner and have nothing--absolutely nothing. I can breathe, I can look at the wall, I can twist my hands, but that is all. My hands have got to twisting themselves since I stopped them last time. I stop them again now. I bet Angela is having the time of her life watching me and guessing every thought in my head. My hands would tell her a lot if I would let them, but I won't.
It is silent again. Savagely, I tell myself to forget Angela. I have to stand here awhile, and that's all there is to it. I was grateful at first and glad I would not be whipped, but my gratitude has slowly dissolved. I want to cry and a tear actually does trickle down my one cheek, a tear I can do nothing about except rub it against the painted wall, which I dare not do for fear it could be misinterpreted as a backward glance.
Hours pass. I'm sure it is hours, although daylight lingers. I am suddenly prey to the possibility of being compelled to stand like this all night, even to stand until midnight would be too, too much. I worry about this possibility awhile, but it is one more of the things I am not to know unless it happens. I weep dejectedly and let my tears fall where they may.
I suppose it was inevitable. I had not even considered it at the start. It would have seemed silly, but little by little, some demon in my mind prompts me on. The terrible thought is nurtured by the fading light, I can no longer ignore the fact that it is early evening, even if my imagination is fervidly heated I cannot ignore that I have been like this a long time... too long. I have lost track of Angela's comings and goings. I suddenly realize I have heard nothing for quite some time. As far as I know, I stand alone in this darkening room. I quiver at the thought of impending night. I'll swear it is without volition, but I suddenly swirl around to face Angela's grinning regard and to burst out with the exclamation, "All right then, punish me; I can't stand it. Oh, Angela I can't." I am alone.
The relief is tremendous, but is instantly superseded by the question of "what do I do now." Damn it, Angela has me foxed every way I turn, I can't do anything right except go back into my corner and hope she wasn't within earshot. I look at the place where I have stood so long and hate every inch of it. I look at the open door, open so no sound would inform me of Angela's movements. In desperation I pace swiftly around the room and then joyously again. The motion and my control of it feels so good. I look at the open door and wonder if I have the courage to pass through it and confront the laughing girl who possesses me totally. I suddenly realize Angela may not be in the house. I could be alone in Remplehaven. She may have gone on an errand wondering what she would find on her return. I look again at my corner, I shudder, I walk forthrightly through the open door straight into Angela's waiting arms.
Sometimes it is terrible to be tied. This is one of those times. I ought to fight, but I can't. Angela can do whatever she wants with me. "You've been watching and listening," I accuse. "Oh, Angela!" Angela finds my mixture of emotions amusing. "No, honest, I wasn't in there watching, but I was coming, and when I heard your exclamation, I peeked to see you walking around the floor, and now here you are. What do you suggest I do with you now, Felicity?"
"I don't care what you do with me, just as long as you don't send me back in that corner. I won't got"
"You will if I tell you to, Felicity dear."
We stare. I suppose it is a battle of wills, but I am defeated before I start anything. A girl with her hands tied behind her back has no will to assert anything. I listen, with a flaring sense of injustice, as she quietly tells me, "Felicity, stop being silly. Go back in your corner like a good girl and you won't be given extra punishment. I thought you'd learned obedience, but I see you haven't. Run along."
I don't exactly run, but with a silly sob I can't control, I turn and march back to what, at that moment, I hate most in the world.
I once more insert myself and push my forehead against the paint. For good measure, I thrust my breasts in there too and as much of my pubic hair as I can manage. I hope I leave a stain.
It only lasts a minute. I suppose Angela stood there admiring her handiwork, which is me. I'm sure I look humble and contrite and probably desirable. She's only seen my back, but I suspect it's betraying all these things. Suddenly she grasps one of my bound arms and drags me around. She bubbles over with laughter. "All right, Felicity dear, that's enough. You're forgiven. You did remarkably well. You were standing there just over four hours. I never dreamed you'd manage it that long. Come on, you've done your penance now--I'll feed you."
I am in a daze of happiness. I love Angela with all my heart. Nora is in a playful mood. I was glad to see her when she walked in, but now I'm not sure. I have endured her playing with my nipples and her using the palm of a mischievous hand to perk my pussy. Nora knows all the tricks, and I cannot stop her doing anything she wants to me. Sure, I could make a fuss and run around, but it wouldn't do me any good. "I simply adore having you like this, Felicity, all naked and helpless and absolutely mine."
"I'm not yours--I'm Angela's."
"Angela isn't here. Think, darling--no one to rescue you from my evil purposes. Want an orgasm?"
"No, thank you. Nora, don't be mean. Couldn't we just talk or have coffee or something?"
"Yes, if you like. What's she got you in today? Oh, the handcuffs, eh? That means the kitchen door will be unlocked. Come along, you can make the coffee. I love to watch you doing it when you're wearing handcuffs behind your back. You look so damn cute." I am about to protest, but think better of it. If I can get Nora sipping coffee and talking, I'll be safe. You see, it's not as though she loves me as Angela does, for Nora I'm just a naked girl with her hands fastened behind her back, something to have fun with. It's an odd sort of role I have to fill with her.
There's a bit of the bitch in Nora. She sits and happily watches all the contortions I have to go through to make the coffee with the handcuffs on my wrists behind my back. I'm sure it's very funny if you're watching and not trying to do it the way I am. I even have to stand on a chair to get into one of the upper cupboards, and she never makes a move to help. She simply watches with glowing eyes, eating the whole thing up.
"I've had the most marvelous idea, Felicity. I'm going to ask Angela to give me permission to punish you. I think that would be so much fun, don't you?"
"You know I don't. Anyway, Angela won't let you. Nora, don't be so mean."
"She may not say yes right away, Felicity, but she's got you for life, hasn't she? There's lots of time."
I sniff unhappily, and ask Nora to lift the cup to my lips since I can't do it myself. She can't think of a reason to refuse, so does as I ask, but diminishes her act by suggesting thoughtfully, "I should have poured it into a bowl on the floor so you could get down and lap it up like a pussycat. I'll remember next time."
I let it pass. Nora is secretly piqued by Angela's refusal to give her real authority over me. She makes up for it by these cute suggestions. I would ignore them happily if Nora was not Angela's sibling and may wear Angela down to where she exclaims, "Oh, all right, Nora, go ahead if that's what you want so much. I don't suppose it will kill poor Felicity."
So much of my life is conjecture. Nora adds another big of wood to my fire of apprehension. "Do you remember Paul Garrick, darling? He's that nice fellow Angela allowed me to show you to." She giggles. "You sure hated to have him see you naked."
"Of course I remember. I wanted to die. It was awful. Why, are you going to marry him?"
"Not exactly. I just sort of keep him hanging around. Men are often so useful, so long as they aren't married to you." Nora contrives an artificial sigh. "It must be wonderful being a lesbian, Felicity. I do envy you two. If darling Angela would only loan you to me for a night or so, I'd try it out, but right now I'm happy with a man. I'm sort of shopping around."
"Well, what about Paul Garrick?"
"Oh, sorry, I forgot. How would you like to sleep with him?"
. Oh, for Pete's sake, what's this impossible creature got in her wicked little mind now. I think it, but utter no word. I simply say, "No, thank you, Nora, that's not for me."
"But, darling, it would be for you if you were tightly tied spread- eagle on a bed." Nora slips me one more giggle. "That's the way Paul Garrick wants you."
"What do you mean he wants me? He wouldn't if you hadn't put the idea in his head." My breasts are suddenly heaving at a vivid mental vision I cannot repress. "I bet he never thought of it at all."
"Yes, he did, Felicity dear. It seems you made a tremendous impression that day when you bared all your secrets for his benefit. Of course, I do realize you were tied up so you had nothing to say about it, but just the same, it was a revelation for the dear boy. You're so dreadfully beautiful. He wants to. There's a beautiful four-letter word for it I won't use. He wants to do that to you. He's real good at it--I know."
I am sure she does, but no one holds that against a girl these days. I am doing some quick figuring on possibilities. If Nora succeeded in sparking mischief in Angela's mind, she might just say yes. I mean, it wouldn't be my first time, and it wouldn't kill me. I'd simply be embarrassed all to bits and hate every motion. I affect a carelessness I do not feel. "You can pick up girls to do that sort of thing to all over the place, and you wouldn't have to tie them down to the bed. I think they only charge a hundred dollars."
"But, Felicity, I get you free, and tying you down to the bed is half the fun. Paul loved the way Angela had you tied that one and only time he saw you. You really did look yummy." Let her have her fun. I think she's just fantasizing at my expense and probably getting warm in her crotch as a result. I'm sure Angela would never consent to what Nora has just suggested. It's unthinkable. But Nora reads my mind and comes up with another bright thought.
"There's another delightful situation, Felicity. That could be even more amusing. We simply lock you naked in a bedroom, then give Paul the key and carte blanche. How does that one hit you?"
"It stinks. It's the sort of thing they used to do in brothels."
"That gives me another idea." Nora is relentless. "Suppose on an afternoon like this I line up half a dozen guys and charge them a hundred dollars each? I can get Paul to help me tie you out on the bed and there you are. You can't do a thing about it except to make me six hundred dollars. It's not the money so much, but I think we'd both find it wonderfully diverting. I'd insist on watching, of course."
"You know what Angela would do to you if you did?"
"But, Felicity dear, I'd simply deny the whole thing. It would be your word against mine, and Angela would think it too outrageous to believe. You'd just have to grin and bear it, and forgive me if I spell that b-a-r-e."
I am in no mood for Nora's puns. There is just enough plausibility in what she says to make me squirm. If Nora ever did get authority over me, I could count myself lucky if all I got was the riding crop or some lousy whip. All her other ideas are out of this world and simply sink. I wish she'd keep them to herself. They make me uneasy. "Can I have another cup of coffee, Nora?"
"Of course, darling. But this time it will be in the bowl on the floor. You'll make a lovely pussycat."
"Never mind, thank you. Just forget it."
Nora relents. She pours me a cup and adds the cream and sugar to my taste. She is like her sister, full of surprises, and I suppose I do pose a small threat in that Angela will listen to me, and if she believes me, she could get real mad at Nora. I suppose this is better than a boring afternoon, but I'm not all that sure. "Does it hot up your pussy, Felicity, to know someone could do all these things to you and you're helpless to resist?"
"Oh, Nora, stop it. You're just getting yourself all worked up into a lovely blow of eroticism. Think I don't know? You'd better go and visit your Paul Garrick and get it attended to."
Nora carries on until she gets bored, then pinches my nipples again and plays with the wicked riding crop, but decides not to use it. Then she says she'll be running along. When I hear the front door slam behind her, I find myself exactly where I was when she arrived, a naked girl whose wrists are handcuffed behind her back.
I look at the cups she refused to help me with. I go to work.
When Angela comes home, I ask her if she can stop Nora from throwing these scares into me. They may divert Nora immensely, but they do nothing for Angela or me. My owner laughs and agrees that Nora is a problem. Thoughtfully, she tells me of something I had not known. "I've often thought of doing something about Nora, Felicity dear. If she wasn't my sister, I would have. It would do her good to put her in your place for awhile, maybe a week, but let her think it longer. She's had everything too much her own way."
"Could you do it?" I am breathless. "I mean, could you handle her alone?"
"I don't know. It would be a battle for sure. My best bet would be to put something in her coffee, but that seems so mean and sneaky. I suppose that's why I've never bothered."
"But, Angela, couldn't you bother now?" I have a sudden inspiration. "I could help you. Why don't you untie my hands, but keep the leg irons on my ankles? I'd be a big help that way." Darling Angela is impressed. She pats my cheek. "My, my, she has got under your skin, Felicity. I'll remember your offer." She pauses deep in thought. "I suppose you realize this could work both ways. You could help me or you could help Nora. I'm not a bit sure that little minx wouldn't like to get me in the spot you're in with her holding the whip."
"But don't you trust me?"
"Of course I do, darling. I'm just thinking out loud. With Nora, a girl has to think ahead and keep her wits about her. The more I think of putting her in your place, the better I like it."
"Would I be free while you kept her helpless?"
Angela laughs at me impetuously. "You know you wouldn't darling. Your imprisonment is for life--it's total. I'd have to do a bit of thinking about whether you should be with her or I should keep you both separate and apart. " Angela puts a finger on her chin and pretends to ponder. "Of course, I could sort of mix the two of you for maximum results."
"If you whip her, could I watch?"
"Felicity, I'm surprised at you. Don't tell me you hate the poor girl?"
"Not really, but she thinks up all these horrible things and they are for me. It has to mean something that her mind is so full of it. Angela, don't ever give me to her--not even for a day."
My plea is being taken seriously, I can tell. I am not too reassured by which she now says. "I wouldn't do it thoughtlessly, darling, but it could work out very well if you had earned a punishment. I mean, a really drastic one." She laughs at my concern. "I do realize that a day with my sister would indeed be drastic, although if you exert your charm on her the way you do on me--" The incident passes. At least I think it has passed. I return to my daily battle with my books, the TV, and the kitchen when I can get into it. Angela alternates my handcuffs with my cords but never in any strict rotation. I can never be quite sure what I'll get today. But it does not matter. If seals can do without arms, I suppose I can too, although they do have flippers. But the pleasure she and I get from my bound hands, safely behind my back, never dies or weakens. We often talk about it and wonder, but we do not analyze too much. We are too happy with it as it is. If I am crazy, all right then, I'm crazy! Having been scared half to death by the threat of those ten strokes between my legs, and then that awful time standing in the corner, I am now a very well-behaved little girl. I break nothing and am careful about what I say. After I have gone ten days without a punishment of any kind, I begin to suspect that both Angela and I feel a trade of boredom. It is a terrible admission, but my punishments are, for Angela and me, the icing on our cake. I am quietly thinking of what I might do to earn just a small, not too painful a punishment when the dream comes true.
Angela was sly as a box, my first knowledge of what had taken place was the sound of loud voices in her bedroom. This wasn't remarkable. I knew Nora was visiting, and Nora often got vociferous in the telling of a story or the making of demands. My feet were not chained, so I went upstairs. Nora was sitting on the bed, starkly nude, twisting and tugging at hands I divined would be handcuffed behind her back. Her was the loud voice. "Angela, I'll never forgive you. Unlock these things immediately That was the rottenest trick, slipping that bag over my head and tying it around my neck so I couldn't see. You'd never have been able to do this to me if you hadn't been so sneaky. Don't you dare let Felicity see me like this."
"But, Nora dear, you're going to be like this for a long time. Felicity is bound to see you. I'm going to make sure she does."
"You don't mean that, I know you don't!" Nora is breathless and more alarmed than she lets on. "You've made your point, so now you can unlock these things off my wrist and let me go. I promise I'll never annoy you or your pretty little possessions any more. I suppose I have been a bit mean the way I've teased Felicity."
"You've been uppity all around, dear. But don't worry, I'm not going to keep you prisoner forever, just long enough for you to learn a lesson."
"What's that? The freshly stripped captive on the bed was doubly alert. "Look, I don't need any lesson. All you have to do is tell me what you don't like and I'll conform. Don't be so mean. Felicity may enjoy the way you've got me fixed, but I sure don't." Nora glowers. "You've got Felicity, you don't need me, and anyway, I'm not a lesbian and don't ever forget I'm your sister!"
"My little sister, dear. I'm simply doing what Mother told me-- looking after you. You ought to be grateful for the trouble I'm taking. That was a hell of a tussle to strip you and get you handcuffed even with the hood over your head. We're now off to a good start."
"Angela, I'll murder you!"
"Now, now, no threats. Nora, you'd best start remembering you're not in any position to make threats or demands or anything else."
"I don't see why not--you don't intend to gag me, do you?"
"That's a lovely idea. I never thought of it. Thank you."
"Oh, stuff it! Look, Angela, you've had your fun. Now let me loose. You know I can't get out of these handcuffs without a key."
"That's right, dear. Isn't it lovely?"
"Oh, shit!" Poor Nora squirms and twists ineffectually. She looks up at her elder sister in wide-eyed uncertainty. The magic she has used before may not work now. She is beginning to feel the effects handcuffs have on a girl. In a much subdued tone, she concedes, "Oh, all right, I've offended you. I have to be taught a lesson. So now, Angela, for Pete's sake, tell me in what way you want me to humiliate myself, and let's get it over with. Can I say I'm sorry?"
"You're sorry for yourself, Nora, not for your behavior. Sure, you can say you're sorry, but that's just the beginning."
Nora catches sight of me. "There's Felicity now!" she exclaims in alarm, striving furiously against her handcuffs. "Angela, I asked you not to--"
"Stop being silly, Nora. Felicity is a fact of life at Remplehaven. Seeing you naked is no big deal for her."
"Maybe it isn't, but she'll die laughing over these handcuffs. Take them off!"
"You may as well come on in, Felicity, as stand there peeking," Angela tells me mischievously. "Nora says she'll die if you see her the way she is. We can both go to the funeral together." Nora gives me a stare. "I hope you're happy. This is what you wanted, isn't it? I bet you put Angela up to it. I'll murder you both if I ever get the chance."
Angela has been busy. From what she laid out upon the bed, I gather clues. Her voice is sweet. "Over here, Felicity. I need you." I sit on the bed close to Nora's seething indignation, and she edges away as though I'm infectious. Angela fits a silver metal collar around my neck and locks it snug. From it trails a chain. It is not until she produces the second collar that Nora gets the message. "Don't you put that thing on me!" she exclaims vehemently. "I'm not a puppy dog like Felicity. Stop it! Don't you dare!" It is delightfully simple. I'm not sure I will enjoy it, but it certainly is cute. Nora and I now wear identical collars. Between them is a span of links maybe four feet long. Nora and I are inseparably joined, the padlocks at the napes of our necks laugh at us with their forbidding solidity. Nora edges away even farther. Angela pats my cheek. "There you are, darling. You can give Nora whatever hints she's curious about. I've got an errand to run, so I'll see you later." Nora is crying. I know they are tears of self-pity and mortification.
I would put my arms around her in comfort if I could. I know how she feels. I expect being collared and tethered to me is, for her, some sort of last straw, a final indignity. Gently, I point out, "It isn't all that bad, Nora, and there's nothing we can do about it. Here, put your head on my shoulder and cry it out. Come on."
"I don't want to put my head on your shoulder. I bet you're laughing. You're glad to see me like this. Oh, damn, if I ever get my hands on that girl!"
"But I'm fixed the same way," I reason gently. "Angela's only having fun with us."
"You get a hot twat out of it--I don't." Poor Nora's voice is full of hurt. She must have some weird idea of what Angela will do to her. "It's not that bad being chained together this way," I continue reasonably. "There's nothing we could have done without being tethered that we can't do now."
"Yes, there is!" Her voice is suddenly jubilant in discovery. "We can't go to the toilet, that's what."
"I don't see why not."
Nora is outraged. She glares at me as though I am unclean. "You're crazy. You don't think I'm going to sit there, do you? There's no way, not with you having to stand right beside me. Oh, damn her, this is so mean." Poor dear, I remember my own first day. Of course, it was different with me, and Nora now emphasizes that difference. "It's fine for you with your hot box all the time, but mine's stone cold. This doesn't do a thing for me except make me so damn mad!" I stand up. The chain from my collar to hers clinks musically and forms a loop between us. "How about we walk around a bit?" I ask helpfully. "It will sort of get you accustomed to the way we are."
"Piss on the way we are! I don't want any part of it."
I take a deep breath. Being chained to Nora may not be as much of a cinch as I supposed. Where one of us goes, the other goes too, or conversely, if one sits down and refuses to move, the other is anchored to her. That's my situation right now. Placatingly, I suggest, "You love to watch me make coffee, so come along. I'll make some. You can have the fun of watching me fumble and then enjoy the coffee too. Come on, Nora, it's something to do." She looks up at me pathetically. I see her cheeks are tear-stained and turn away to get a handkerchief, but all I do is snub her neck and mine with the tether I'd forgotten. "You see how cruel it is," Nora says to no one in particular. "It's horrible. It's beastly. There isn't anything we can do without breaking our necks." She bursts into another flood of tears.
Her sobs break my heart. I'm an idiot about tears. I shed them as easily as any girl, but I hate to see another female cry. Tethered, I look around distractedly. There just has to be something. I pull back a corner of the sheet and back up against the weeping girl.
! I hold it while she rubs her face against it. It is the best we can do. For Nora, I'm afraid, it is only another accentuation of our helplessness. "Thank you," she says crossly. "You see, I'm right--there's nothing we can do that isn't ridiculous. I wish I was dead!" I do not share Nora's wish. I softly edge away to tighten our connecting chain. When she feels its tug upon her neck, I repeat, "Come on, Nora, be a sport. Let's go make coffee."
She actually comes. I wonder if she has learned a lesson or I have scored a victory. Either way, it doesn't amount to much. We are a pair of helpless maidens in a house from which there is no escape. Going down the stairs, she points out, not unreasonably, that if she fell because she had no hands, she would probably break her neck. It is a relief to reach the kitchen.
It is not until I have the coffee nicely perking that I realize what we have both forgotten: Neither of us have hands. How then do we drink? I giggle when I mention this, but Nora does not think it's funny. "You see, I told you, there's nothing we can do. That absolute twerp has foxed us but good. There's no coffee for us. You may as well turn the heat off."
"We could use bowls instead of cups. We could have them on the table instead of on the floor the way you wanted for me that time."
"Huh? And get our chains and noses wet?"
"Well, it's not the end of the world, Nora. Let's try it. We can dry ourselves on a dish towel. I think a cup of coffee would be nice."
"A cup?" Nora's exclamation is one big sneer. "You mean a doggy bowl. I don't see how you can be so calm about all this. If I could just do something--" She gazes around in fury. "One day I'll get Angela in the fix. You just see if I don't!" I silently pray she never does. If she had Angela, she would also have me, and I'm getting quite enough of Nora as it is. I would sooner be chained to the wall than to this seething bundle of indignation. Forgetting what Nora professes to be, or not to be, I innocently ask, "Would you like me to play with your nipples for awhile, Nora dear? I mean, with my lips or my tongue. There's so much fun we could have if we're not angry all the time." She sees me as a viper. Her glare is devastating, her voice adamant. "You can play those horrible tricks on Angela if you want, but you won't play them on me, Felicity. You ought to be ashamed."
"Well, it's sort of nice. I thought you might enjoy it. It's wonderfully relaxing."
"I don't let girls play with my nipples. I'm strictly for me." Nora is almost a puritan school marm in her admonition. "I know what happens once a girl starts that. One thing leads to another, and the first thing you know--well, you need not think you're going to get me started down that path."
Good gosh, she sounds like the Salvation Army! Nora manages to make a bit of innocent tit-nipping sound like one of the seven deadly sins. I abandon her top half and innocently inquire, "Well, all right, but what about your pussy? Must I not touch that too?"
"No, you can't touch it." She was again jubilant in discovery. "Your hands are fixed the same as mine." She sniffs disdainfully. "Maybe it's just as well. I wouldn't be safe with you. If we have to stay like this a long time, I'm going to ask Angela to fix you so you're not a menace. Felicity, you're absolutely outrageous!" So I'm outrageous. I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and anyway, there is something delicious about Nora's indignation. I suspect she is like the pullet that wonders how fast she ought to run. Gently, I suggest, "If you want to lay down on your back, Angela has made sure the tether between us is exactly long enough. I could probably do you some good."
"I knew you'd get to that. " Nora is once again the school teacher of another age. "You needn't think I'm going to lend myself to any of your lesbian tricks. I'm surprised at Angela. She ought to know better. But as for you--"
"Okay, so I'm beyond the pale. But my offer still stands. Don't be such a prude--you're only putting it on."
We wet our chins and noses and share laughter as well as the tea towel in drying them. We discover the best way is for one of us to hold the towel in chained hands and the other to kneel and rub her face against the dry cloth. Captives have to get used to this sort of thing, and Nora is learning quickly. When our faces are dry, she pulls a female act one me. While she is headed for the door and my collar is getting jerked in compulsion to follow, I realize I may have made a point. Obediently, I trail behind the length of our tether, and when we reach the bedroom, I make it possible for Nora to stretch herself out upon the bed on her back. It is the strangest of seductions. I have no way of knowing if it is a deliberate experiment or something she has long desired. But I perform my trained seal act for her benefit. Between her outstretched legs I exhibit all my skills. I soon have her gasping, and when the orgasm blossoms and flowers explosively, I am there to ensure every last nuance of sensation. When Nora has moaned her way into oblivion, we go to sleep.
We are still asleep when Angela returns. I can picture her silently stealing into the bedroom and gazing down at us tenderly in understanding. Two naked girls, their hands safely cuffed behind their backs, their necks and collars tethered by a four-foot chain.
I am sure we make a pretty picture.
It was Nora's beginning. Since I belonged to Angela, I'm only an extension of her. I have taken her sister into the kingdom of gasps and moans and endless rainbows, but I perform this task for Angela all the time. It is nothing new. What is new is Nora and her reactions. When the two of us wake up and behold Nora's sister gazing down, Nora's exclamation runs true to form. "Angela, she seduced me! You should have known this would happen. You shouldn't have left me chained to her. Please let me loose--please!"
"You enjoyed it, Nora--don't tell me you didn't."
This seems a possibility Nora had overlooked. She examines it now and comes up with this: "Well, I suppose it has some sort of sensory gratification, but I don't want it done to me, and what I do want is to be let loose. Angela, stop playing games and unchain me!" Poor, dear Nora. I don't suppose it matters whether I have seduced her into lesbianism or not. She's one of those who would vote the Republican ticket regardless. I can see in our tethered intimacy I'm going to be guilty of all her faults. I find myself hoping Angela will whip her hard and soon. Wanly, I look up at the girl who holds my life in her hands and plead, "Angela, Nora's terribly difficult. Everything is so new to her, and she hates it all. Do I have to be chained and collared to her? It's no fun!"
"Of course you do, Felicity. I'm relying on you. This is what you wanted, isn't it? Nora's bound to be fractious. I'm not going to whip her right now. I don't want to inflict too much too soon."
"Whip me!" Nora sat up and regarded her sister in pure dismay. "Angela, I didn't hear that right, did I? Whip Felicity all she wants--she deserves it--but don't carry things that far with me!"
"Tomorrow, dear." Angela's voice is honey. "That will give you time to think about it. I mostly give Felicity time to think about it too. It makes it so much worse."
"I bet it does. Angela, you're fooling--tell me you're fooling!"
"Sorry, dear, I'm deadly serious."
Poor, dear Nora. I suppose I'm privileged to watch what is happening to Angela's kid sister. It is like a movie soundtrack speeded up to cover events faster than they happen. I just wish Angela hadn't thought of this collar on my neck. It reduces me to Nora's level, a novice wondering what's coming next. Goodness knows I should be an experienced prisoner, but it isn't working out that way at all.
I beef too soon. Angela has matters well in hand. Nora really must have gotten under her skin. The deft fingers of authority posses my collar and padlock. A moment later it is gone. It hangs suspended from Nora's neck. Angela retrieves and leads her younger sister out away from the bed to where there is a ring deeply imbedded in the floor. I know that ring! I watch, fascinated, as the padlock taken from my neck secures Nora's tether to the ring and clicks heavily shut. To do this it has been necessary to reduce Nora down upon her knees, but this is not difficult with a girl who has no arms. Nora kneels, gazing from Angela to me in distracted concern, and she states as newly discovered something we both know.
"You've got me chained to the floor. Angela, do you realize what you've done?"
"Yes, dear. I've fastened you for the night. I'll give you a blanket later."
The enormity of what has been done to her holds Nora speechless. She looks at the ring, then looks at me, and finally at her big sister. She says emphatically, "It's Felicity who ought to be chained here, not me. Angela, I give you one more chance--let me loose!"
"Give me one good reason."
Nora gazes around as though good reasons hang from the ceiling or the walls. If she has a good reason, it eludes her. She falls back on platitudes. "Angela, I'm your sister. You shouldn't be doing this to me. If you didn't have me handcuffed this way, you wouldn't be able to. That really was a shabby trick you played with that thing over my head. I'll never forgive you."
Dear, darling Nora, she will take as long to get oriented as I did. She sees an out because Angela is her sister. That was something I did not have. All I knew was that Angela had me. I sighed sympathetically, but most of what I was feeling was thankfulness I was no longer chained to such a bundle of rebellion. Both Angela and I had underrated Nora's practical mind. She reminded us now. "If you leave me chained like this, how on earth can I go to the bathroom?"
"I'll take you, dear." Angela's voice is very much the big sister. "You'll have fifteen minutes, but if you ask a second time, you won't have any minutes at all. It won't be granted."
"It would serve you right if I made a mess on the carpet."
"It would sere you right in such a case if I whipped your bottom. Nora dear, you always have a choice."
She could feel the chains and the captivity closing in on her. I was watching it happen as it had happened once to me. It is very frightening to a girl to realize the implacability of chain or the equal implacability of someone else's will, and to be subject to both. Angela said briskly, "Come along, Felicity, we'll make supper. Nora can stay here."
I suppose Angela wanted to accentuate Nora's punishment by being kind to me. She clicked the leg irons on my ankles, then unlocked my wrists. It felt very, very good and was as close to freedom as I would ever know. I stretched my arms luxuriously and then went about the kitchen tasks allotted. Someone once said work cures everything. I expect they were right. I forget about Nora and me, and when the smells of cooking permeate the whole kitchen, I suddenly realize I am hungry.
Angela decided it would be me to take Nora her dinner. I would be clad only in leg irons, but my hands would be free enough to aggravate poor Nora's assessment of her own condition. When I showed up with the tray, she ran absolutely true to form. "You can take that away, and you know what you can do with it. I couldn't eat a mouthful."
I set the tray down where she cannot kick it. I set myself down in a friendly manner. What is on the tray smells delicious, and I can tell from her flared nostrils Nora is getting the full effect. Crossly, she says, "There's no use leaving that there on the floor, Felicity. My hands are cuffed, and you damn well know it! I can't lift a single thing to my lips, and I'll be damned if I'm going to do the puppy-dog act for you or anyone else."
I saw this as progress. We had disposed of the prelude. I picked a tasty morsel from a dish and held it to the captive lips. There came an awful hesitation before Nora gulped it greedily. After that I had no trouble. It was not long before the plate was bare and Nora's attitude softened.
"Felicity, how long do you think Angela will keep me like this?"
"Maybe a week," I said cautiously. "A week's not all that bad."
"A week?: Good gosh, Felicity, that's forever!"
"No, it's for only seven days. It's me who's forever. Nora, honest, it won't be that bad."
Nora surveys me in a more friendly manner. After all, we are maidens in the same distress, and for us, there is no escape. From the first moment she was handcuffed, I don't think Nora has ceased for a moment to twist and tug and writhe against the steel circlets on her wrist. She is by no means reconciled to anything. I owe her servility now only to the food and drink.
"Felicity?" She is looking at me with a terrible solemnity. "Angela won't whip me--not the way she says?"
Poor girl! But why should I lie? I frankly admit, "I can't answer for Angela--I never know what she's going to do--but if I had to bet on it. I'd say she will whip you. She's got a conviction about whipping a girl. She thinks that we don't get any sense or behave with any decorum until after we've been whipped. I'm afraid she has a point."
Nora stares at me aghast. She has not wanted to believe it until now. Again, she humbly asks, "Felicity, I've never been whipped--does it hurt?"
"Terribly."
Nora is stricken. I kneel upon the rug, regretting I have only bad news. I offer the consolations and warnings of a captive of long standing. "Nora, if I were you, I'd be careful about what I say. If you make Angela angry, you can double or triple the number of strokes she will give you. It's frighteningly simple math."
"Strokes? You mean I get sentenced to a certain number of strokes? You must be kidding!" I explain about being whipped. It should be a very simple explanation, but it is not. Being whipped is dependent on a great many circumstances only an experienced prisoner understands. At first a girl has only a terrible sense of injustice, of not being properly understood, of being refused an opportunity to make her case. I tell Nora all about this, but it is little comfort. The fact remains that Nora is going to be whipped and that is all she understands. She is still groping. "You mean on my bare skin? Felicity, is that the way it's done? I mean, that I have to be naked and whipped. It must hurt shockingly!"
"Yes, it does."
Somehow the single affirmative seems appropriate. It neither adds nor subtracts, but tells a stark terrible truth. Sometimes the truth is best. I watch the play of emotion across Nora's face. In it are all the things I know so well. Those agonies have also been mine. But, in loyalty to Angela, I have to maintain perspective, so I brightly point out, "Nora dear, you mustn't be too concerned. It's not the end of the world. It hurts, but it also passes, and when it's over, you feel a lot better."
"You're talking about your hot twat," she says resentfully. "I told you, mine will be stone cold."
I pick up the tray. "Angela will be expecting me," I explain. "If you want to feel bad about something, feel bad about me. You'll be a prisoner for maybe a week, but you know I'll be here for life. " Nora stares. She is suddenly contrite. I seen the tears forming in her eyes, and because I now have hands, I kneel and fondle her as I might a child. She is a child compared to the period of my own imprisonment and to Angela's implacable determination she is a waif lost in a storm beyond her comprehension. I clasp her hand and friction my nipples against hers. I find her lips with mine, but when at last I rise and take the tray once more, she says hopelessly, "You're going away and leaving me chained here like a dog."
Nora has put it into simple words. I have nothing to add. Angela accepts the tray and tells me I can do the dishes before being chained once more. I clink my leg-ironed steps to the sink and go to work.
When I have completed the task, I ask no questions. I simply go to this girl who owns me utterly, and I turn my back to her and put my arms behind for her convenience. A moment later, I am once more tightly handcuffed. It is all wonderfully simple.
The business of going to bed is cruel. Angela pretends indifference and feigns to be unaware of the sister chained to the ring in the floor. It is easier for me. All I do is what I'm told, but I can't get rid of compassion for the girl upon the ring. I am aware of Nora all the time I service the girl I must obey. Poor Nora is watching and listening, and is by no means silent.
"Go ahead and enjoy yourselves--don't mind me."
"You're a pair of bitches, that's what you are, treating me like this. Don't you realize this chain is too short to even let me stand up?"
"I wouldn't treat a dog like this, and that's just about what this amounts to. You've turned me into a dog with a collar and a chain on its neck."
Angela sighs, she thrusts me away and rises. She goes to a cupboard and when she turns again, I become aware of Nora's fate. I suppose a gag is no more than she's asked for, but I hate gags. They're horrible things in a girl's mouth. Stricken, I watch the play as Angela abruptly demands, "Open your mouth, Nora!" Nora has never seen a gag in her life, but it is easy for her to figure what she's looking at. She does a bit of quick figuring and realizes she cannot remove it once it's strapped in place. Her handcuffed wrists deny everything. With a terrible humility, she pleads, "I'm sorry, Angela, I really am. I didn't mean what I said, honest. Please don't strap that horrible thing on my mouth."
"It's not only on your mouth, dear--it's inside your mouth as well. Open up."
It is so easily done that Nora dares not protest. Perhaps she sees something in her sister's eye I do not glimpse. She opens her mouth to accept the hateful wad of stuff which fills her cheek and compresses her tongue. In obedience to a sharp command, she closes her lips tight for the compression of the soft leather band over their contours, the straps are tightened and tightened again to ensure her silence. Tears well from her eyes, but Angela pays no heed, and I am helpless on the bed. Nora can relapse helpless on the rug and sob to her heart's content. Nora is a prisoner.
I suppose I'm an unfeeling bitch, but I am happy between Angela's legs and then in her arms. I have given her total appeasement, but there is none for me. Like Nora, I am a prisoner, and prisoners don't rate. I simply cuddle close, flesh against flesh, skin against skin, our heat igniting within our loins.
Nora's punishment grants dividends to me. The girl in the collar and chain is totally ignored when we go downstairs. Once there my ankles are ironed with the leg irons I now regard as friends, and my hands are freed. It appears that after Angela and I have breakfasted I will be privileged to again take the prisoner her rations. Angela is quite explicit. "You wanted revenge, darling, and now I'm giving it to you. Don't be too soft-hearted. Nora deserves everything she gets. Even if you didn't belong to me, I think I'd still be doing this to her. She's a regular little pain in the ass."
If Angela says this, it must be so. I forget guilt and enjoy our breakfast. Angela and I are wonderful together; we don't need Nora. But when Angela goes about the affairs of making money for Remplehaven, I contrive a generous tray and take it up to the forlorn prisoner in the bedroom. I get no thanks.
"Well, you took long enough about it. Do you realize how bad I have to pee?" I have been entrusted with a key. It is not the one for leg irons on my ankles, so I remain a prisoner, but it enables me to lead Nora to what, at that moment, seems her heart's desire. I have only freed her neck, so when she is through with what she must do, she remains with her hands still locked behind her back and there is no way I can free them. I lead her back to the ring and the rug, and quite surprisingly, she allows me to chain her once again.
CHAPTER THREE - DISTRESSED DAMSEL
I have a pleasant feeling of seniority. It won't last long because it arises from the supervision I am allowed to give Nora. Right now I feed her breakfast which she accepts sulkily. Now I am no longer chained to her I can find her development from free girl to prisoner interesting. Leasing her after the bathroom was the first concrete evidence of resignation to captivity. We kneel together on the rug and there comes into being a faint atmosphere of togetherness, we are two damsels equally distressed. Nora's promised whipping is not far distant, and this preys upon her mind. "Felicity darling, you've told me Angela really does mean that about the riding crop and me. Please let me loose before it happens. Your hands are free, there just has to be some way you can get me out of this." She bestows a winsome smile upon me as encouragement. "If you'll do this for me, I promise I'll never tease you again."
"Okay, Nora, would you set me free?"
"I can't do that--it would be too disloyal to Angela."
"I can't be that disloyal either," I explain gently. "I know my feet are still ironed, but she is sort of trusting me right now."
"Are you sure that key to my collar won't fit my handcuffs too?"
"I'm quite sure. Angela isn't dumb."
I leave poor Nora chained upon the rug. I take the tray downstairs.
When I have washed up and tidied the kitchen, I do my usual homage to Angela: I go, turn my back, and cross my wrists. She can tie them or chain them as she pleases. With Nora in the picture, she would be prudent to use the handcuffs, and that is what she does so busy little fingers can't get me free of the cord. She turns me around and kisses me. "Look, darling, I absolutely must go to the office, but I'll be back after lunch to give our little darling her whipping. Is she in much of a stew over it?"
"She's scared to death. She implores me to set her free, as if I could."
"Good, if we're getting results this soon, she will be a marvelous girl inside a week." Angela eyes me shrewdly; "You're feeling sorry for her, aren't you?"
"Well, a little. She reminds me of my own first days."
"Silly girl, you ought to be enjoying this whole thing. I know you're tender-hearted, but remember all those horrors she hashed up for you. You'd have gotten every one of them if I'd given her permission."
I am kissed again, my handcuffs are inspected and tightened one more notch, and I am told to keep the key to Nora's collar and let her walk around if she wants to. I am left alone with Nora.
Nora is kneeling pensively upon the rug. She eyes me without optimism, but when I ask if she would like to get rid of the collar, she brightens into instant surmise. "You mean you're going to set me free after all, darling?"
Nora digests my negative morosely, then snaps, "You couldn't do anything anyway, now that your hands are chained behind your back. You're almost as bad off as I am."
"I'm holding the key. I can easily back up and deal with your padlock."
"Oh, all right--thank you. I'm sorry I'm so bitchy. I do think you could have prevailed upon Angela to forgive me that damn riding crop thing. She's in love with you, so she'll do things to you."
"She will also use the crop on me if I'm not careful what I say." Nora's collar falls with a tinkle to the rug. She instantly gets to her feet and shakes herself like a dog just out of water. "Ugh! I hated that thing." She eyes me hopefully. "Look, Felicity, we're both almost free. There just has to be some way out of Remplehaven."
"If there is, I haven't discovered it in two years. Angela keeps me the way we both are right now, and I'm as much a prisoner as if I were locked up in a deep, dark dungeon."
"That's nonsense, Felicity. Look, I can jump around and kick and do almost everything, and you just unlocked the collar even though you don't really have your hands. Come on, think of something!"
"You can break a front window and shout for help. If you do it long enough, someone may hear."
I watch the wheels revolve. Nora's contemplations of a possibility slowly die. She actually looks at me with faint sympathy. "It's too damn frustrating. I don't know how you can stand it, Felicity." She laughs suddenly, remembering. "But, of course--you like it! And you're in love with Angela, just like she is with you." She brightens suddenly in inspiration. "I'm a dummy, Felicity. I've got a key to the front door. It's in my clothes. Come on."
"Angela has locked your clothes and the key safely away, Nora," I tell her softly. "Angela thinks of everything."
We don't really need lunch, but it's a way to pass the time. The menu is limited because neither one of us could reach everything in the kitchen, and a prolonged exploration inside the fridge threatens to freeze a naked girl solid before she finds what she wants. But coffee is an old friend, and I make it now with only scant attention from my companion. Nora is busy breaking up bits of stuff she likes onto a plate which will stand beside the bowl in which we will lap up our coffee. Since a prisoner's main concern is getting rid of time, these antics are fun which even Nora cannot ignore. We do a lot of giggling and spill stuff all over. I can tell Nora is deep in thought about what Angela will do to her, but she asks no more questions. I bet she's concocting a heart-touching prayer for mercy.
Angela is on time. She immediately propels us to the room in which she has caused the ropes, pulleys, bits of woods, and things by which a girl may be punished for her sins. I have tried them all, and don't care for any of them. It is now Nora's turn to sample at least one. When Angela approaches with leg irons, Nora lets loose the flood gates of her meditations.
"You wouldn't treat me like this if Mom and Dad were still alive."
"I never thought you could be this cruel."
"Look, I know you're only teasing, so let's stop now." Angela pays no heed. She kneels and locks the leg irons on her sister's slender ankles. They must be special girl's size because the ordinary ones would hang loosely on Nora's slenderness. But these are tight and spur Nora on to fresh lament.
"I'll never speak to you again."
"Why don't you whip Felicity instead? She enjoys it."
"If you put a lot of horrid marks on me, I'll take them straight the police and have you arrested."
Angela appears to be deaf. Her preparations continue at a leisurely but deliberate pace, all designed to inflict the maximum cringe upon her palpitating sister. The focus of her activities is upon a pretty little pedestal topped by a pretty little saddle. A girl bends over it, her hands are fastened down to the floor, her feet can be tied or left free to kick as desired, no matter how she weaves or tugs she cannot get out of the contoured clutch of the saddle. It will thrust up into the intimacies and softness of her tummy. The darling cheeks of her bottom rear invitingly.
"Sorry you were a naughty girl, darling?"
"I wasn't a naughty girl. You've got Felicity's word for that. Angela, this has gone far enough."
I have stood quietly by watching Angela's deft disposal of her complaining sibling. She made very sure Nora had no chance to make a quick dash for freedom. She stands and complacently surveys the pink-cheeked victim of her skill. Nora has not yet fired her last salvo.
"I'm all stretched. It will hurt terribly, and I think I'm sticking out behind."
"Angela dear, if you have to do something, do something else.
This is too degrading."
"I never thought you'd treat me like this!" Angela is flexing back and forth the slender length of almost nothing with which I am all too familiar. Even though I know it is not to be used on me, I wince at the mere sight. It inflicts its own peculiar kind of pain, and I'm glad it isn't me! It is wickedly fascinating to watch. I feel like a bitch. Because my feet are free, I can move back and forth for the maximum view, and this Angela approves. She nods and smiles at me, and suggests, "Tell the silly little ninny it doesn't hurt, at least not much." I cannot be a Judas goat. I think of George Washington and the cherry tree, and I feel this is a lie I dare not tell. Striving to straddle a fence, I mutter, "Well, it does sort of scorch a bit. Please don't be too hard on her, Angela. Nora's a very nice girl when she wants to be."
That is enough of the preliminaries. Poor Nora has been well conditioned and is obviously palpitating in horrific expectation. The beastly crop cuts the air with a sort of snickering whine, then impacts upon the waiting cheeks to leave a white streak which becomes pink and then scarlet while their owner kicks, wriggles, and laments. She gives her wrists a real bad time, tugging at a part of herself she cannot free. The saddle holds her loins exquisitely.
It is a sweet little cameo of a naughty. My hands tug and twist at my own handcuffs in sympathy. I can almost feel the sear and instant burn of each blow. But this is secondary, the real show is Nora herself as she kicks and wriggles and turns a frantically distressed and very pink face this way and that to gaze upward in wide-eyed appeal as she advances reason after reason for the cessation of her punishment. She sure does take advantage of being Angela's sister. I would never dare come up with some of her dillies.
"You don't know how this hurts, Angela. You just don't. Be a sport and let Felicity give you as stroke or two just so you'll know how cruel you're being."
"If you keep cutting away at my bottom. I'll faint. Maybe I'll die. You'd be in a final jackpot then, wouldn't you?"
"Angela, if you'll only stop right now--please! I'll give you that bracelet you've always admired, and the green dress with the matching shoes. Please! Oh, Angela, stop it!" Poor dear, she has only had six. But what am I saying! I've never had more than six myself, and I thought I'd die then. I was sure I wouldn't survive, and here now it is all too obvious Angela is preparing to start off on a fresh round. Her pink-cheeked sister gives on agonized look at the backward swing, then turns hastily to gaze down at the floor, her bottom cheeks clenched in fearful anticipation. Angela stops at ten. She pats the scarlet wealed cheeks and says, "Nice little streaks of purple showing up here and there, Nora. When you back up to a mirror, you'll be ever so proud of what you see."
Angela plays the old trick of leaving us to stew. This is not so bad for me, but Nora is once more outraged.
"Where's she gone? Is she leaving me like this? Oh, Felicity, are you sure you can't unlock my handcuffs?"
"Of course I can't."
"Oh, this is awful! Felicity darling, does she leave you like this after she's whipped your bottom?"
"Yes. It's part of the punishment."
"Do you think I could sort of hunch myself up and flop over forward and fall on the floor? My feet aren't fastened--"
"I wouldn't if I were you. You might hurt yourself, and anyway, you'd still be handcuffed to the floor so you'd just have to wait for Angela, and she'd probably be real mad."
"But this is awful hard on my tummy!"
"Not nearly as bad as if she starts whipping your bottom again. She could, you know. Angela loves to put a girl in a fix like this, just to see what she'll do."
Time drags on and on until I allow myself to be persuaded to knee! and bend over so Nora can get her feet up on my back and thus give her the elevation needed to thrust forward and take a headlong dive over to the other side of the floor where her hands are cuffed. I wish she wouldn't do this, but she wants to so bad.
I tell her we'll probably both get punished, but she says she doesn't care and I shouldn't care either. The operation is successful to leave Nora squatting on the rug with her hands held close down to the floor by the handcuffs and their ring. She wriggles and twists to get a glance at what she calls "her wounds." What she sees causes her to moan in indignation in which I detect a trace of pride. I know how it works. When Angela returns, I expect the thunderbolts to strike, but she appears not to notice. Perhaps she expected what she sees. Her two captives kneel and, I am quite, look both guilty and contrite. Without a word, she kneels and fits a key. A moment later Nora is freed. She stands up, wondering, rubbing her wrists, uncertain as I am also uncertain. "There you are, poppet. You've I been punished enough for now." Angela's tone is brisk and cheerful, f "Don't ever forget, it could happen again."
Nora, still rubbing chafed wrists, looks from one to the other j of us. Then, as though scared her sister would changed her mind, ! she flees swiftly from the room. Angela laughs. "It may not have done her a bit of good. You'll have to tell me, Felicity. She'll be a perfect angel while I'm around."
What can I say? Nora, free or chained, is simply a bundle of mischief tinged with malice. But my doubts are set aside by Angela's next announcement.
"I'm taking the little darling out to dinner to make amends." Her smile takes on all of Nora's pixie mischief. "Want to come along?"
I am shattered, unsure if I have heard right. Stupidly, I mutter, ; "I can't, Angela, I'm chained. I don't have any hands."
"I can fix that, you idiot. You deserve something too."
I am sure I do. I twist in sudden awareness of handcuffed wrists, not believing I could possibly be set free. Freedom means something different to me than to Nora. But, oh gosh, it sure would be nice to go and have a marvelous dinner in a marvelous restaurant and be admired.
"You'd have to dress, darling."
It is indicative of how far we have come that dressing suddenly seems a frightful chore, but I am female and am soon wondering about what I'll wear. As though an afterthought, I look up and explain, "But, Angela dear, if I am free, I could go away--I could leave you!"
"Will you do that?"
"No!" I say vehemently.
"I've thought about this often, dear, but I've always felt it would place a terrible stress on you. Sure, you could give me your parole, but just the same, I'd think the element of decision would spoil your dinner. On this occasion with Nora, I don't think it will. But, Felicity, be sure. I don't want to spoil anything between us." Angela watches the shadows cross my face as I stand. She is certain to read my mind. I remember so clearly the first day or two when she made me captive long ago. I would have given so much for this opportunity then. Angela would have lost me, but I would have lost Angela. Unconsciously, I have taken pride in this period of years in which I have had no hands, to break this chain now for a few hours of pleasure seems completely wrong, it would be like throwing away in one act the savings of a lifetime. Quietly, Angela suggests, "Darling, if I free your hands, would it help you see this more clearly?"
I go to her and nestle my head against her shoulder and gently bite her ear. It has become easy for me to make the decision. "No, Angela, just leave me here the way you always do. There's no way my going out with you for the evening would not affect what we have here together. If I can be a free girl once, then I can be a free girl twice or three times or four times, and then there's no end to it." I kiss the warm softness of her neck. "You made me your prisoner years ago, and you've kept me your prisoner ever since. You've never given me the least possibility of escape. Don't do it now."
She understands. Angela is very wise. She turns me around and fingers my handcuffs, closing one of them another notch. If I am to be a prisoner, she will make sure I am aware of it. We smile and dismiss the whole thing, and I sit upon the bed and talk to her while she dresses for the evening. I have done this many times. It is nothing new and carries no more heartbreak than any other. But heartbreak is not the word I should use. There has been no heartbreak between Angela and me, not here. It sounds like a silly song, but I can easily say that whenever she chains me and leaves me alone I have the delicious heat between my legs to keep me warm. It will be so now.
But I am a girl and I am human. When the front door closes behind Angela and I am alone in Remplehaven in the familiar silence, my unsuspected tears decide it is time they should be shed. I run back upstairs and fling myself upon the bed. It is easy to deal with tears when I can rub my cheeks and eyes against the coverlet. It must be simply from habit that I twist and tug my cuffed wrists. I don't want or expect to get them loose, but it was Angela who locked them on me so snug and tight. To strive against them makes her still a presence in the room. I refuse to think of the pleasures I have tossed away, but what is done is done, and I have no regrets. I go to sleep.
My waking is sudden. I sit up, alert, uncertain if I dreamed of the quiet opening and closing of the front door, but the hair at the nape of my neck tells of danger. A quick look at the clock tells me it is far too early for Angela and Nora to be back. I twist my hands as though to reassure myself of helplessness. I quietly stand erect and listen intently. I am positive someone is in the house.
It is a man, a man who I do not know. But then, I have seen no men in more than two years. He stands in the doorway taking stock of me as I of him. I resist the temptation to fling myself face down upon the bed to hide as much of my nakedness as possible It is much best for me to stand erect and face whatever danger there may be. At least I can kick. It is a pathetic solace.
"Nice, very nice indeed. I've been wanting a look at you for a long time." He nods approvingly and steps forward a pace or two for a better view. "Nora may have mentioned me. My name is Paul Garrick."
I'm about to condemn the girl who's been my fellow captive. This is what Nora had teased me about, to put me naked in a room with a man. But my visitor's next words reassure. "I had a copy of the key made a long time ago. I had a chance to extract it from Nora's gag while she wasn't looking. I've been keeping it around for an opportunity, and tonight's the night."
I am not reassured. I don't like the look of him. He is brash and probably sells things on commission for a living. In a voice I find hard to control, I suggest, "You have no business here, Mr. Garrick. I suggest you leave."
"All alone, eh?" His eyes rove up and down the frontal view I cannot avoid giving him. I can almost feel his smirk like a hot flame. "And I bet the reason you're holding your arms is that your hands are tied."
"That is none of your business, Mr. Garrick. Please go."
"Makes you good and helpless, though. lust the way I want you. I bet you're wondering if you can kick me in the balls."
Oh, damn, I'm so infernally helpless! The handcuffs I adored an hour ago are now my enemy. Angrily, I retort, "You've had a good view. Take another good look at me. It will save you the cost of a strip bar. Then you had best leave."
"And if I don't?"
I do not answer. What is there for me to say? He knows, and I know, that I am his natural prey. The girls won't be home for hours, and I cannot possibly keep him at bay that long. His voice is almost laughter. "You know what I'm going to do to you, don't you?"
I know! Boy, do I ever know! This man is going to rape me, and I'll just bet he keeps on doing it until the girls are almost due, and then he'll simply put on his clothes, thank me for a pleasant evening, and saunter out in the same way he entered, and I'll be left with an unlikely story I wouldn't blame either Angela or Nora for failing to believe. I am a beautiful facility he will use for a little while and then leave where he found it. I have never felt so flustered. I am also deadly scared. My defense sounds futile even to me. "Is there any use asking you not to do what we are both thinking, Mr. Garrick? There are four people involved, and in the end, it will do none of us any good, including yourself. You'll lose Nora for sure."
"No great loss--I'll bear it. Now, you--your name's Felicity, isn't it? Turn yourself around and let me see how your hands are fixed."
I do not move, and then the fun begins! I am sure it is fun for Paul Garrick, but with me it is a deadly game for the preservation of my virginity. Angela captured me before I had been soiled. I do not want to be soiled now, certainly not by an oaf like this! As he approaches, I step back and then up upon the bed and over to the other side. He stalks me with a most evident enjoyment, casting off his clothes as he follows my retreat. I long for hands, but my hands belong to Angela. I do not have them any more.
"You know that oldie about relaxing and enjoying it, sweetheart," he suggests glibly. "What I've got for you is a damn sight better than Angela's tongue. By the way, I should tell you I have her full approval for raping you. We won't use that ugly word, though. Let's call it penetrating, shall we?"
"I don't believe it."
"Go ahead and phone. I'm sure there's a number where you can reach her. May as well do this thing right."
He's lying. He has to be. Or he's trying to trick me into something. But he has retreated backwards and waves me invitingly to the phone on the low table within my capacity to dial. My terrible need to have Angela's reassurance against this lout compels me to shrug and go to the waiting instrument. Paul Garrick watches appreciatively as I go through the absurd contortions and gyrations by which a naked, handcuffed girl can dial a number and then use the receiver. I have become adept at it, but nonetheless, I am sure the performance must be sexually provoking. My twists and turns will please a man immensely. I am grateful for the handcuffs. With corded hands, it would be more difficult. As I go through the motions, Garrick's eyes never leave me. They are the eyes of a ferret or a fox assured of its prey. When I have dialed and have placed the receiver and knelt to listen and to speak, my heart is beating so hard I will choke on words. I am about to make my plea to the suave polite query at the restaurant when Garrick's hand comes over my shoulder and makes a disconnect.
"I wanted to see you do that, sweetheart. It's just as well for a man to know what a girl can do when she doesn't have hands. You put on a damn good show."
He's no more than I suspected, so my disappointment isn't great, but I suddenly realize he now has me almost totally in his power.
I am kneeling on the rug. He stands above me. I cannot possibly get away. Garrick confirms this by clasping a handful of my hair and tugging me erect. "Nice try, sweetheart."
I want to cry as he thrusts me down upon my chained arms upon the bed. He has bits of cord with which to tie my feet so I cannot protest his attentions. He ties off to each side so that I am obscenely spread and as though to confirm his victory, he thrusts a couple of pillows beneath my hips. I could imagine what I look like. If I could kill him, I would.
Garrick is in no hurry. He is savoring his position of a girl. This gives me time to savor the opposite sentiments. I am here, helpless and about to be ravished. There is nothing I can say or do, and I debate the beastly names for what is about to be done to me. I am sure I will hate it, but I have to wonder at all the drama invoked by this simplest of all acts between the sexes. The thing which elevates this above a casual coupling on a couch are the strictures' on my ankles and the ruthless separation of my thighs I cannot fight, laying on my handcuffed wrists makes my posture doubly uncomfortable. When the now naked Paul Garrick kneels between my knees, I cannot avoid seeing the hateful object with which I am to be impaled. Angela and I have made fun of these things so often it is iron that now I am to be its victim. I am sure in my present state of mind it is going to hurt. But Paul Garrick is evidently a master of these situations. Perhaps he contrives them often. If every one of his victims feel as easily as I, he could satisfy his lust endlessly. His fingers now begin to play upon me as though I was a musical instrument seeking out my erogenous zones and alternately the fingertip touch with the probings of his tongue and lips. If he keeps this up long enough, he will most certainly change my mood, but I would suppose it would rob him of valuable time he does not have to spare.
"No dry holes for me, sweetheart. I know what you're thinking, but you just lay still and let me do the work. I may surprise you."
He does surprise me indeed. I suppose it is purely mechanical and I need feel no disloyalty to Angela or to my sex. The ropes and handcuffs ensure my lack of guilt, but my body is a mechanism I cannot always control. Garrick uses his skills upon my body and the first thing I know I have emitted a long drawn-out moan which could be ecstasy or anguish, I do not know. When he arranges himself and enters me, I am a fallow field, most abundantly ready to receive him. I close my eyes.
The son of a bitch, he's not satisfied with once or even twice, but works away at me for a third time in succession. The pauses in between have been brief and have been used to maintain my arousal. I am prey to a tremendous thankfulness when he removes the pillow and unties my feet. I am bemused and defeated to a point where I care little when he turns me over on my face and proceeds to tie my ankles tightly together. I assume it is just one more of his erotic thrills.
The sleeping bag is a shock. He must have brought it with him. He places it beside me, and despite my struggles, rolls me into it and zips it up. I thrash and writhe and contort to my heart's content as it is unzipped and buckled all the way to put me into total darkness. My lethargy is gone. I am an animate wild creature trapped and frightened out of my life. For this man to rape me is understandable. He may carry all sorts of hang-ups about Nora and Angela and even myself and have been simply venting them on a handcuffed lesbian unable to resist. But this! This is something else again. I can picture the consternation of the two girls on discovering me gone, and I realize with pure horror that Garrick will have left no clues. The rumpled bed and tossed pillows might tell a story, but there is a short period in which do my struggles in the dark upon the floor and during which he is no doubt covering every angle.
I am then picked up and carried down. The front door opens and then closes locked behind us, and I am dumped into what I presume is a trunk of a car. The lid slams. I can make no effectual motion at all, and inside the sleeping bag it is becoming hot and stuffy.
I lay still in terror as the motor starts, and we are on our way.
The ride is long, even allowing for terror and claustrophobia it is a considerable span of miles. By the time I am taken from the trunk and the bag around my head I am gasping for air. This idiot who has kidnapped me evidently has never heard of suffocation. I am blinking and trying to think of something to say when a band is wound around my eyes putting me back into darkness, but leaving my mouth free to breathe. Strangely, I have no thought of speech. I have nothing to say. Until Garrick gives me some clue as to his intentions, I may as well remain mute. I no longer struggle. I am too tired and in the depths of despair. I don't know what else he can do to me any worse than what he has already done. I am dumped in a chair and told tersely to keep still. I listen to a number of sounds I cannot entirely place, but Garrick sounds busy, and it is only several minutes before the bag is stripped from me like the skin of chrysalis. I am lifted up and placed erect and standing, a collar around my neck and clicked shut. I hear the clinking of a chain. Without warning, the bandage is taken from my eyes.
I blink and stare. It is a beautiful room, a truly magnificent room, speaking fluently of wealth. The words "hunting lodge" spring instantly to mind. I stand upon the brick perimeter of a huge fireplace in which a log fire is just gaining momentum. Soon it will be too hot to stand here, but for the moment, I am grateful for the warmth. In the trunk of the car I was shivering. If not with cold, then with fear. To one side stands Paul Garrick surveying me and the entire tableau with an immense satisfaction. I would believe he was gloating and hugging himself in glee. Well, why shouldn't he? He's got himself a girl! I have to be careful. My feet are tightly bound and I have no hands. I am still naked. I suspect I am likely to remain so. The collar on my neck attaches me to the stone fireplace by a generous length of chain. A ring is deeply imbedded in the stone to provide this facility. I suspect this is not an impulse thing, but one of long preparation. I catch his eyes and ask without hope, "Well, Mr. Garrick, what happens to me now?"
"Nothing, sweetheart. This is it. Nice, eh? By the way, stop calling me Mr. Garrick, what happens to me now?"
"Nothing, sweetheart. This is it. Nice, eh? By the way, stop calling me Mr. Garrick--call me Paul."
A second look confirms my first. We are in a place of luxury and comfort, but there are anomalies. On the opposite fireplace there is another heavy ring bedded into the stone, but this one has no girl attached to it. Perhaps it is intended for me on some other occasion. I look beyond and note other similar rings here and there as far as I can see around the walls. Interpreting my glance, Paul Garrick laughs. "You'll find them all around the house, sweetheart. A girl can be tethered almost any place. It's damned handy." Finding me reluctant to comment, he continues, "Place belongs to a friend of mine. He's loaned it to me for a week or so. It's perfect for a spot of kidnapping. There's usually a girl attached to one of them somewhere. When he showed me, I naturally thought of you."
"Why? You'd never seen me."
"Ah, no, but I'd heard about the prisoner of Remplehaven. Actually, you're quite famous within a limited circle." He comes close and starts playing with me again. I try to shake his hand away, but I am helpless. "Do you think dear Angela might spring a little ransom money?"
"Certainly not. Not when she's learned you've raped me. If it was ransom you wanted, then you've soiled your own merchandise. Look, Mr. Garrick, be sensible--let me go before this thing gets worse."
"What thing?"
"This whole kidnap plot you're involved in. Don't you understand you could go to prison for half your life for what you're doing to me? Take your hands away!" He actually does step back, I suppose for a better view. My nakedness is still new to him, and I cam tell he is enjoying me.
I feel like a butterfly on which the net has descended and I cannot get away. Instead, I ask, "Would you untie my feet, please? There's no sense in them being tied, I can't get away."
"No, I won't. I'm enjoying the effect. By the way, I don't have !. a key to those handcuffs, so you'll be wearing them for awhile. They won't stop us from doing anything."
The bastard holds all the cards. He's got me stymied in all directions. He's even safe from the police. Neither Angela nor Nora will go to them about what has taken place thus far. "Mr. Garrick... Paul, I could easy fall over. You've tied my ankles so terribly tight I'm just sort of teetering and they hurt like crazy, and you don't need this collar and chain on me as well."
"The whole thing is for effect, sweetheart. You're damned erotic like that, and with the flames reflecting off your bare skin. Lean back against the stone--you're safe enough."
Am I ever safe? I do as he says about leaning back, but my eye lingers longer on the nearby armchair which my chain might just allow me to reach if I had this bastard's permission. He interprets that glance too and blandly assures, "You'll sit there in a minute, but for as long as it please me, you'll stand exactly as you are. By all means struggle if you want. I find that a delightful effect too." I judge myself to be prisoner to a vulgar man who by chance has come into possession of premises he could never normally afford. He said a week or so. I wonder if that is the sentence I must endure. If he violates me every day before sending me back to Angela, I will feel too terribly soiled to walk back into my former imprisonment. What Angela and I had was so innocently lovely I could not bear to sully it. Glumly, I stare down at my feet, excluding the blatant male. I want no part of him. The trouble is he wants me. "Get your head up, Felicity. Look at me properly. I'm here, so don't try any iron-curtain nonsense."
I detect a trace of anger, so I obey. I am in no position to argue, that's for sure. He has made me helpless in three separate ways, so all I can do is try and stare him down while the open palms of my cuffed hands are thrust against the stone; For tow years I have not had those hands, but oh boy, what I would give to have them now! Abruptly, he barks, "Sit down!"
"Thank you, but would you mind helping?"
"You don't need help. You can hop that little distance. When you get to the chair, I don't want you to sit immediately. You will stand and turn and face me and await my permission."
Oh shit, what the hell am I into? Is this guy a sadist, a kook, or just a woman-starved idiot? I suppose I am about to find out. Awkwardly and dangerously, I begin my hop, hop, hop to the waiting chair. It would be so easy to fall and every move I make is accompanied by the rattle of the chain by which I am trebly held captive. Fortunately, it is long enough, and I reach journey's end and turn, and with a touch of defiance, turn and face the male. I am sure he's woman-starved--he can't keep his eyes off my breasts.
"Very good, Felicity. Sit."
I sit. It comes much closer to a flop, but it feels so good, and my ankles are so grateful for relief. I look up at this oaf who has mastered me and I wait.
CHAPTER FOUR - DOMINANCE AND SUBMISSION
The firelight is our only illumination. It lends a touch of the macabre to the standing man and I who sit naked and helpless in his chair. Making the best I can of it, I say quite simply, "Thank you for letting me sit down. My ankles were hurting real bad. But, Paul, about this ransom thing, if you really expect to get money from Angela in return for giving me back, you'll have me for a long, long time. She'll know what you'll have done to me, and she won't want me any more. What will you do then?"
"Keep you, of course." He grins at me in an almost friendly way. "Hell, I can afford to keep a girl who doesn't cost me anything in the first place. I'll get a key to those handcuffs and keep you chained around. My own place isn't as good as this, but it'll do. If I can't get a ransom for you, I can always sell you. Did you know there's a thriving market in girls? They fetch a damn good price."
"Well, thanks for telling me. At least I know my future. I don't have much to look forward to."
"You'll get fucked a lot, sweetheart. Isn't that something?" This man is irrepressibly cheap and vulgar. There's no quality about Paul Garrick. He belongs in pool halls and taverns, being noisily one of the boys. I suspect he has had few dealings with the female. Where on earth would Nora pick up a creep like this?
Blandly, I ask, "Where did you meet Nora, Paul? Why didn't you kidnap her?"
He grins. "Figure she must have been slumming, eh? Well, I suppose by your standards she was. I picked her up at a disco. She was a little tipsy, and I had no trouble inflicting my charm on her. I've kept her on the hook. She's useful when I can't get another date."
Gosh, how I wish Nora could hear him say that. Before I can think further, he answers my second question. "The only reason I didn't kidnap the silly twerp is she doesn't have any money. It's Angela whose got the money, something to do with someone's will, wasn't it? Anyway, I couldn't do any more to Nora if I kidnapped her than I can letting her run around loose, so that looks after that."
"Angela would be more likely to pay ransom for Nora than for me--Nora's her sister."
I have no sooner said than I feel like a bitch. Nora may be a little idiot, but she doesn't deserve to be kidnapped, and I don't want to put ideas into this idiot's head. Irritably, I try to ease the tongue on my neck from the tethering chain. It is only just long enough to let me sit where I am, but its pull is incessant, and if Garrick was even half decent, he would ease the strain for me or take the damn thing off altogether. I shuffle my helpless nakedness around in the chair and do the best I can while I stare at him trying to make him feel guilty. It is a waste of time. He has noted my endeavors and says brightly, "Tough to be a prisoner, isn't it? Don't stop wiggling, sweetheart--you do things for me."
I had best get accustomed to shocks. They will be a part of my life as a kidnapped prisoner. Angela used to slip me quite a few , but they were done with love, and this is not. Anything this man does to me will be because he derives an erotic thrill or is determined to give me no opportunity of escape. Unexpectedly, he now kneels and unties my feet. It is an equal surprise that he massages the weals his ropes have made, but I realize he does this not to ease my discomfort, but for the feel of my hurt flesh beneath his hands. When a man seeks eroticism, a naked girl offers endless possibilities, especially if she is helpless.
"That feel better?" he inquires in a fine brotherly tone. "I intend to hurt you quite a lot while you're in my possession, but I won't overdo it. Mustn't spoilt the merchandise, you know. I don't suppose you're one of those gifted girls who can write a letter with her toes?"
"No, I'm not. And I'm not writing any letters."
"Well, probably that's true, although that was one of the reasons I wanted to see you use the phone over at Remplehaven. My friend tells me it's surprising what a girl can do with cuffed hands, and he was right. I was surprised. " He looks up at me in complete innocence as his fingers minister lovingly to my ankles. "I left a ransom demand in a little note for dear Angela while I was over picking you up. What she'll need now is reassurance that you're alive and well. Would you sooner write a note with your hands cuffed behind your back the way they are of speak to her on the phone?"
"On the phone, please!" I leap at the offer. Paul Garrick laughs at my eagerness and says easily, "Don't get any ideas about instant release, honey. Think about it. There is not a single detail you can tell her which will help her discover where you are. The only thing you have to watch is my name. You will not mention it. You will not mention Nora. As for the rest, be my guest. Say what you like. But I'll be standing right there, and the first wrong word my hand goes over your lips and the other cuts the connection. Understand?"
"Yes, I understand." I am in a mood to accept half a loaf as better than no bread at all. "I won't speak your name, but can I really talk to her? I mean, just between us, girls."
"Sure, you can. But remember this: The purpose of the call is to make Angela understand you truly are a prisoner and she's going to have to pay for your freedom. I'm going to make the amount small enough that it becomes easily possible for her. One hundred thousand dollars. How's that?"
I suppose it is moderate as such things go. Wishful thoughts flit through my mind, but what's the use in wishing! Paul now adds a footnote I cannot ignore. "I'm expecting some sensible cooperation from you. If I don't get it--if you jump over the traces-- you'll get punished and the easiest way to punish a girl is to whip her ass. So if you want a sore seat, you can just play the fool and get one. Do you understand?"
It is all very clear. Paul is nothing is not explicit. I know exactly where I'm at. He's even provided an inducement to me to do as I am told. He may not amount to much in the human scale, but he is no fool. He's got me but good! Eagerly, I ask, "When can we make the call? It's past bedtime, but I bet she's still up and worrying."
For answer, he picks up the telephone and places it upon the arm of the chair in which my nakedness sits bound and at his disposal. He dials, then listens intently until both he and I can hear Angela's agitated voice. He holds the receiver to my ear.
"Darling, it's me," I exclaim hurriedly into the mouthpiece. "I've been kidnapped. Did you find the note?"
Angela ignores my question and demands, "Felicity, where are you! Tell me where you are. Are you all right?"
I tell her I'm okay, that I'm a helpless prisoner and don't know where I am, and that I'm instructed not to speak the name of my kidnapper. At this point, a male hand roughly grasps my mouth, and the mouthpiece is pressed against Paul Garrick's leg for silence as he hisses, "That was a deliberate lead! It will cost you. Watch out, sweetheart."
Oh damn, he's too smart altogether! By indicating my kidnapper as someone whose name I knew and she knew too, I gave her what I hope is a strong clue. If I have to pay for it, well, perhaps it's worth whatever pain is involved. But now the receiver is once more in place against my ear and lips, and I continue. Angela's alarmed voice is urgently demanding. "Felicity, what is it? What happened? Did someone do something to you?"
"Well, yes, but it's okay. Darling, you mustn't worry about me. I think I'm going to be fine. I'm not enjoying this the least bit, but I'm not being treated with real cruelty."
"But you are a little, aren't you?-I can tell."
"Well, I suppose so, yes. I don't think we should talk about it. Look, Angela darling, I'm told a hundred thousand is the price of my release. But I can understand if you can't or don't want to pay that."
I hear her laugh. It is a bitter laugh, but her voice is warm and tremendously reassuring. "A hundred thousand for you? Why, Felicity darling, you're worth a million! I'll never willingly part with you, I'll get you back. I'll get you back some way." Then, to my surprise, he said, "It's Paul Garrick who's got you, isn't it? I can figure it out. You don't have to say a word--just keep silent for a few moments and I'll know I've guessed correctly." My heart leaps, and I hope my features betray none of my joy. I keep the requisite period of silence as though I grope for words, then I strive for innocence in what I say. "I'm being kept prisoner in a really lovely place, and I'm sitting in front of a beautiful fireplace and a roaring fire of lovely logs."
Once more the hand clamps my mouth, and the procedure is repeated as before. This time Garrick's hiss in my ear is decidedly angry. "What did I tell you, you little bitch! Lay off descriptions. If you have anything else to say, you'd better say it quick, because I'm going to hang up."
"I've just been told I shouldn't have said that, Angela dear," I explain urgently. "I think we're going to be disconnected--please hurry and get me back."
Paul snatches the receiver. He fits a peculiar little object over the mouthpiece so that when he speaks into it, his voice sounds unreal and metallic. "She's okay. You heard her speak. You've got the note which tells you how to deliver the hundred thousand. If you value your little sweetheart's hide, you'd better do it quick. If you don't put the wheels in motion, or should you go to the cops, your little darling will be thrashed regularly until you come to heel. " He slams the receiver down with a forceful gesture, but his voice to me is back to normal. "That tells her, honeybunch. Let's hope she isn't in too much of a rush with the cash. We've scarcely gotten acquainted."
I can't say I am much reassured. It was glorious to hear Angela's voice, but I don't see how the exchange of money and me can possibly be affected without endangering Garrick's safety, and he certainly won't go for that. I have a terrible suspicion that even if the money was laid in his hands right now, he would still keep me awhile for his own pleasure. I am pretty sure I am a unique experience for this man he will not relinquish too quickly. But I am completely helpless, so what's the use of me speculating about anything? I am in the hands of a man at this moment, and my future is in the hands of a girl I adore.
"There's this little matter of you learning your lessons, Felicity." Garrick's voice is quietly sinister. I look up in alarm and know it is useless to make pretense of ignorance. He's going to punish me. "You made two bloopers, and I'm damn sure they were deliberate. You thought I'd be dumb enough not to notice. Kneel down and bury yourself into the chair."
Should I protest or plead! I should, but I already know it would be useless. Perhaps it may serve me best if I am meek and quietly passive to his will. I don't know how to handle men. I've had nothing to do with them. If I ever get out of this, I never will again. What is happening to me now confirms every preconceived idea Angela and I have had about them. I turn and slip to my knees with my thighs against the front of the chair seat. I lean forward to bury my head against the cushions, and then I keep still, fully aware of the terrible nakedness of my bottom. It sticks out and demands attention most outrageously. As though I am not helpless enough already, Garrick threads a rope into my handcuffs and lifts them back up as far as they will go, and he fastens them in some way so the rope is good and tight. I am now doubly expose and doubly helpless. Confined by the lovely big armchair, I can go neither forward nor backward. I simply wait for what he will tell me.
It hurts in a beastly, horrible way. It's a sickening sort of pain I can't quite believe, but it cuts deeply into my skin again and again. I can't help struggling, but I am quite helpless. I can certainly move enough to visually demonstrate my agony, but I can do nothing to change anything. Paul Garrick has cleverly made me subject to his will. He tells me casually he intends to mark me well so I may learn to behave myself in the future. I do not answer. I am too busy making inarticulate sounds into the cushion. Whatever he is using on me--I think it's some sort of riding crop--slashes the air again and implants its kiss upon my glowing cheeks. In a measured, thoughtful cadence, the blows follow one after another until I am choking back screams. Garrick must sense their welling in my throat and suddenly desists. I have lost count of the strokes, and anyway, it does not matter. All that matters is the awful pain. My breasts are heaving against the rough cloth, and I am panting into the crevice of the cushions.
"Kneel there awhile, Felicity. I'm enjoying watching the scarlet possess your rump. It's a real education watching the colors change and the lines form. I'm no expert in these matters, but I'd say you have a truly explicit bottom. The scarlet is becoming more pronounced, and I'm waiting for a touch of purple."
The son of a bitch! I'd like to get up and kick him where it hurts, but I can't do a thing except what he wants. I have to kneel like this, and I have to let him look, and I have to keep still and quiet while he starts fingering. I might have known he'd do that! He runs a sensitive finger up an down the even more sensitive wounds he has placed upon my skin. His touch carries a terrible potency, not only of pain but also of the erotic heat which I have to recognize as present in my loins which are thrust hard against the edge of the chair. I have never felt more female in my life.
I give him time to enjoy me fully before I can contain myself no longer. "Oh, please, Paul. Please, stop that. It's horrible. You've hurt me, and now you're gloating over my wounds. Please, leave me some scrap of decency."
I am given permission to kneel erect, but remain kneeling. The bandage is once more wrapped around my eyes as he explains, "Bedtime, sweetheart. You know what you're going to get and I don't want any complaints. I also don't want you memorizing the premises, so I'll carry you upstairs to the bedroom. Isn't it romantic?"
Oh damn, this whole thing is hopeless. The son of a bitch can do what he likes with me! He picks me up and carries me with surprising ease. He is evidently stronger than I would have supposed. We mount a flight of stairs and traverse a hall. I am tossed onto a bed in a gesture now becoming familiar. I could flop around, I could kick, but I am still helpless with my hands behind my back, and I'm in darkness, so what the hell! I simply lay waiting for what will happen.
"This time you'll get it in the dark, sweetheart. I'm curious to see how you respond. Lay on your back, or should I say, lay on your handcuffs. I'll get you in the mood before I start. I'm nothing if not a gentleman."
I wish I could see, but I suppose it will be no worse or better in the dark than if I could observe what was going on. What I am most conscious of is a smarting bottom. The covers feel rough on my whipped flesh. It is an entirely new experience. I wish it did not generate heat, but it does. The sensation generates a great deal of heat, far more than I desire. Male fingers now take up the task of my arousal. Sure, I could turn and twist in evasion, but I don't want to be tied out and spread a male wide any sooner than I need be. I keep passively silent, and without any more emotion than the rise and fall of breasts. I can't help my breasts; I have to breathe.
Wrists handcuffed behind my back make me helpless enough, but when I lay upon my joined arms, I become doubly impotent. I am a fish out of water, awaiting disposal. My bottom burns, and from the sounds I hear, I would suppose Paul Garrick is removing his clothes. The rape of Miss Felicity Fenwick is about to happen once again. But I suspect a rape, too often repeated, takes on an aura of respectability. I expect it might be promoted now to simple intercourse, a horrible word which has always sounded to me like some sort of international accord. I think longingly of Angela.
My conqueror is versatile. I feel the looping of my ankles with his rope, but they are not drawn out to either side. True, they are wide spared, but they are fastened now high up upon the twin posts at the bottom of his bed. He drags them up high and ties them so tight I know this one is going to hurt. If for no to her reason than there are now no pillows to raise the area of my impalement or offer stability to my punished bottom. When Paul Garrick positions himself between them, he thrust hard against my crotch to assure himself the maximum space of the performance of the act.
Girls are a sad lot. Everything works against us and to our disadvantage. The way I am bound now, with my heels up high and my bottom barely touching the covers, should detract from any eroticism in my mind, but I discover the burn of my roped ankles gives a new dimension, as does this fresh new exposure of my sex itself. I have to wonder if Paul Garrick has not done these things before. I may easily be only one of a long line of bound and chained maidens who he has disposed on this or other beds. It is a hateful thought because it reduces all of us females to nothing more than a receptacle for sperm. The true act of love demands both feet and hands. I have been robbed of both.
I try to will myself against orgasm. I tell myself over and over savagely that I will not climax, I will not climax, I will not climax! But it is my mind which says these words. My body pays no heed, but goes blissfully on its carnal course to betray its owner, which is me. I explode, and I fell his laughter upon my flesh as he starts my rhythm all over again. Perhaps it is just as well he has the bandage on my eyes. I am sure I blush. Wanly, I exclaim, "My ankles hurt! They hurt terribly!"
My words are lost in the ebb and flow of what is being done to me. They recede from my own consciousness, their place being taken only by one more growing awareness of impending surrender. If Paul Garrick thinks I moan for him, he's a mile out. Not that it matters. Nothing matters very much right now.
You'd think the bastard would let me sleep decently after what he's stolen from me. I won't pretend I've given him anything, because I haven't. He has simply taken from me what he's wanted. When he unties my feet, he shoos me into the bathroom and says cheerfully he presumes I'm well able to look after myself with handcuffed wrists. Unfortunately, he is right. I have become very adept at doing most things with my hands joined by a link of chain and two circlets of chrome steel. When I emerge, he loses no time in seating me on the bed and tying my ankles just as tight as previously. I protest, but he appears not to hear.
"There you are, sweetheart--already for bye-byes. I bet you're a tired little girl. " The son of a bitch! He's priding himself about my weariness, thinking it purely a result of his attentions, forgetting the emotional trauma of a girl being kidnapped and losing those she loved. I honestly think he doesn't comprehend this one little bit. I am a beautiful body designed for his enjoyment and pleasure. He sees no reason to seek beyond and there to find a girl. He rolls me under the covers and tells me should I need the bathroom in the night, I can very easily hop, just as I hopped to the armchair in the huge lounge. I'm sure he takes his suggestion as offering me comfort. Perhaps that's the way I should take it. Things could be worse!
I sleep. I suppose I owe my ability to do this to my long imprisonment to Angela. Handcuffs no longer bother me. I scarcely feel them. All I am bothered about now are the tight strictures around my ankles, but I suppose I am getting accustomed to them too. Goodness knows I should! In the night I feel him stirring and his hand reaching out for what he has denied himself by his own cords. Thank goodness he is too sleepy or too lazy to untie my feet and start in all over again. I am not naive enough to be unaware of other ways a girl may please or satisfy a man, but evidently he is too weary for them too. I drift back into slumber, and when I awake, it is morning.
Being bound is an experience of comparisons. When Paula unties my feet, I feel completely free. I am not aware of my handcuffs at all, and I rise and kick vigorously to restore circulation and to come back to life. I do hop, skip, and jump around the bedroom, which amuses my jailer immensely. He makes me do it over so he can watch. He then instructs me for his inspection of my bottom. He wants to see the weals and make comments. He then leads me to the big mirror arid turns me about so I too may appreciate the color and markings of his work. Both are vivid. I am superbly marked. I guess it's not as bad as being branded, but the effect is similar. I am then pushed into the bathroom and told to amuse myself for an hour while he makes breakfast.
A girl and a bathroom go together, so I have no difficulty in passing time. I even actually do have a bath and contrive to dry myself after a fashion. It is a technique I have long developed. I don't pretend it's either easy or satisfactory, but it gets me by. I feel more and more grateful for Angela's imprisonment of me and all I have learned. When Garrick unlocks the door, he nods and sniffs approvingly, then blindfolds my eyes again for our journey to coffee and croissants in the lounge with which I am familiar and where my eyes need not be bandaged. While we eat--that is, while he eats and I am fed--he tells me he has already phoned Angela and ascertained my ransom will go forward as planned. He also tells me that after we have eaten, he is going to tie me up in various ways that have always interested him, but which he has not had an opportunity to practice on a real live girl. He says he will not complain if the ransom arrives late.
This whole thing is crazy. There are moments when the two of us approach a state of normalcy. He is Mr. Garrick, and I am his wife. The fact that my hands are cuffed behind my back is incidental, perhaps a punishment for a delinquent maiden discreetly ignored. But Garrick is deadly serious about tying me up. He wastes no time in going through the gamut of possibilities. I don't suppose he even touches on them all, but he does well enough. I am trussed in a hogtie, I am bound tight to a pole, I am seated in a kitchen chair and immobilized with cord after cord into my most intimate crevices. I cannot really call it cruelty, but I do not enjoy it. Paul Garrick enjoys it immensely. He becomes pink-cheeked and perspiring in his efforts to immobilize me by innovative creations of rope and cord entirely his own. I do not complain. I let myself become a Barbie doll with which he plays happily. If my release does not suspend me with my feet off the ground. He's just getting around to this and discussing with me the most practical method of suspension for a naked girl when there is a loud ringing at the door.
We are both startled. From Garrick's point of view, it's fortunate my feet are tied. He can leave me without worry. He does so. In the distance, I hear the opening of the door and the murmur of voices which come closer and closer. Evidently, our caller is someone Garrick knows.
He is a stocky middle-aged man with an eagle eye and a paunch. He wastes no time, but walks round and round my nakedness, makes me spread wide my legs, and open my mouth as though I was a horse. He is intent and deadly serious, and when he is done, he turns to Paul Garrick who appears to me to be anxious and concerned and says abruptly, "Okay, one hundred and fifty."
It takes some more words and a few moments for me to realize the figure he has quoted is not a hundred and fifty dollars for using my body as I had originally supposed, but is a bid of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to purchase it. Paul Garrick and darling Angela have been outbid.
I suppose the decision is inevitable. In fact, there is no decision. The sum of money mentioned has made decision irrelevant. It overcomes everything. The disposal of Miss Felicity Fenwick is instant and abrupt.
"How do you want her, Benny?" Garrick inquires.
"I'll take her right now. I didn't bring any dope, no use putting them on dope any sooner than need be. We can tie and gag her so she can't move or make a peep. Let's get with it."
They "get with it" in a way to daunt the courage of any girl. Benny produces a coil of wire and a pair of pliers. "Don't need to bother with her wrists since she's already handcuffed, but I'll do her thumbs. This wire keeps 'em in a proper frame of mind." I am turned around to be presumably "wired." I take the opportunity to ask, "But what about Angela? Paul, you made a deal with Angela--you can't renege."
"He sure can, honey, and he's going to. Believe me, he is." Benny is emphatic and informed. I fall silent.
It is really fiendish, but I can understand its practical application. A girl well wired will make few motions to escape. My first introduction is with my thumbs. They are placed together and neatly wired above the knuckles. The pliers pull and twist and snip, and even if nothing more were done to me, I can tell for certain I am utterly helpless and likely to be in tears from the pain of it before too long. But Benny must have dealt with many rebellious maidens in his time and takes no chances. The next part of me to be so cruelly wired are my elbows. Garrick thrusts them tightly together and holds them while they are circled, this time with two bands of wire. Once again the tug, the pull, and the twist of the pliers and the fateful snip by which no loose ends are left for either the girl or a possible rescuer to turn. I am most effectively "wired"!
Next my ankles, then my knees, then the inevitable blindfold. If I am ever rescued, I can tell my rescuers nothing of where I have been. But all I think of now is the awful cut of the awful wire. I hear myself saying most urgently, "Please, not the wire. Please, why can't you use rope? This wire will kill me in an hour."
"Not if you don't struggle, honey. That's the bottom line. Remember, don't struggle."
They pick me up and carry me to the waiting car. The disgraceful dumping into a dusty trunk, the slamming of its lid. Within minutes I am on my way to a fresh captivity no one will ever trace or know about. Garrick made me the invisible girl once. Benny is doing it again. Even should Garrick be confronted by my kidnapping and an angry Angela, he has only to shrug his shoulders and invite inspection of his premises. No one will know a thing about Benny or the brothel to which he is taking me. By the time we get there the blindfold on my eyes is wet with tears.
It is another long drive, and from the sounds I pick up we are back in the city. When we reach the final point where I am stood erect and the bandage taken from my eyes we are in a bedroom, not a bad bedroom, a trifle seedy perhaps but still usable. There is a woman, the female counterpart of Benny himself. They cut away the wire except for the tiny band around my thumbs. I expect they leave that intact for emphasis.
"There she is Emma. What do you think of it?"
Emma gives me the same scrutiny as before, except she goes a step further in widening my legs and then probing my pussy. I can almost hear her assuring a patron her girls are all "inspected." While she plays experimentally with my nipples to see how erect they will respond, I plead unhappily, "Please let me go. I won't be a bit of use to you in the way you want. I can just tell that right now. I'll just disgrace you."
"Not if we beat that little ass of yours enough, honey." The woman chuckles into my face, not unkindly. "You beat a girl enough and she'll do anything. Believe me, honey, I know!"
I bet she does. I can well imagine that once when she was a girl someone had brought her to this place with her thumbs tight wired and earnest assurance of a beating every time she disobeyed. I expect she is advanced through the ranks and is now the madam. I'm sure someone would call her career an American success story. But anyway, she now has me and has to do something with the new merchandise. She looks at Benny and inquires, "I suppose she's all broken in?"
"I got her from that guy Garrick. You remember him? She's been a lesbian, but he assures me he gave her a thorough going over." He turns and winks at me. "You got it good, didn't you, honey?"
"Yes, I got it good, damn you!" I would not have answered him, but he invited words already on my lips. I add to them. "You may as well let me go. I can probably get your money back if you let me make a phone call. Please, it would be much the best for all of us."
"Well, I'll be damned! Lippy little bitch, ain't she?" Emma is amused. "Honey, a hundred and fifty thousand grand don't mean nothing where a girl like you is concerned. We might get that much for you in a week if a guy wanted you bad enough. You're quality stuff."
In bitter silence I reflect upon the price of beauty. I can see these people's point and understand it fully. They make their living buying and selling girls. I am a girl! The trouble is they have already bought and paid for me. Their clients will offer a far more sure and certain return of cash than a dubious ransom negotiation. I am lost! Oh, damn! It's all so bloody simple, and yet so total. Felicity Fenwick has disappeared. I wonder if they'll give me a new name.
I am given into the tender mercies of a tired but still quite beautiful whore. "I've left her thumbs wired, Millicent, so she won't give you no trouble." Emma informs, she seems already preoccupied with other matters. "You know what to do with her. She's been well broke in and this isn't the first time she's been a prisoner. Bring her to me when you're through."
"Your first time in a whorehouse, honey?" Millicent inquires as she seats me before the big mirror of the dresser. "I can remember my first time, I was scared shitless."
I admit to being a novice. I ask if I should not be bathed before I am "tarted up."
"Nah, you don't need no bath. You don't smell none. In fact, you smell real good, and it's your own smell, and that's always something with a gal. I'm going to fix your hair and tart up your face. You're a real looker already, so you don't need to worry about me laying the paint on too damn thick. Where they pick you up?" I explain about where and how I was picked up. I see no reason to hide anything. I add that if Millicent would like to make an extra hundred thousand-- Her reprimand is instant. "Don't you never talk like that, honey, not to me or any of the other girls. You talk like that and you get your little ass whipped, and your back too. I mean it. You take a tip from a friend, honey--ain't no girl ever escapes from Emma's Place."
"All right, and thank you," I say miserably. "Is there any use asking you to get this wire off my thumbs? I'm already handcuffed. I couldn't possibly be more helpless."
"Don't have no pliers, honey, and it ain't no job for fingers. If you show Emma you can behave, she'll likely cut you loose. But I do mean behave!"
"Does that mean simply do what I'm told, or is there something else?" I ask innocently.
"Doing what you're told will be okay. They'll make allowances if you've never been in a house before, they'll break you in easy. "
"Break me in?" I know well enough what she means, but I want her to put into words. "You mean the work they'll want me to do for them, giving myself to men?"
"That's right, honey. You ain't so dumb. I can tell you've been around. Most of the guys are middle-aged, and they want a real kick. They get it out of us in a hell of a lot of ways, and most of them hurt. Get ready to do a bit of screaming. They pay for that too."
"But won't any of the fellows who come in here offer to help a girl? What's to stop me asking them to call the police or help me get free?"
"You try that, honey, and your backside will be blistered so damn bad. In fact, you'll be lucky if that's all they do to you. There's all sorts of things they can do to a girl that don't show too much for the clients." Millicent regards me with obvious sympathy. "And it ain't a bit of use you beefin' the first time if Emma wants to spread you out on the bed and tie you down. It's the usual way, and mostly it's best. A girl don't have nothing to say about nothing. It eases her conscience and saves her one hell of a lot of being knocked around. The guy can saw off his chunk with you without getting no kick in his crotch, and if they gag you too, he won't get no lip. Understand?"
Do I ever! I understand the whole thing all too well. For me a whorehouse is going to be an endless repeat of Paul Garrick. Holy cow, it's not much to look forward to. Once more I think longingly of Angela and Remplehaven. They seem so far away. But if I ever do get free again, I am certainly going to let Nora know what I think of her boyfriend and choice of companions. I'm sure she's not a bit guilty for what's happened, but if she'd behaved herself, nothing would have happened. I'd still be back with darling Angela. Oh jeepers, I'll never feel a woman's lips again.
When I am "tarted up" to meet the standards of the house, Millicent says I might as well get broken in and we can go to Emma. Emma says exactly the same thing and tells me we may as well go to one of the rooms. Thoughtfully, she picks up a pair of pliers and we are on our way. I am in the grip of the strangest of spells. It is as though I have done this all before. I suppose I actually have.
I walk between Millicent and Emma. They are my guards. My hands remain behind my back as they have been for more than two years. If, in the room to which I am led, I was to find Paul Garrick smirking at my nakedness and ready to impale me once again, nothing would have changed. Without love, the place of her ravishment matters little to any girl. My mind is in a dither of all I have been told and a congestion of hopes and fears, one of which is a tremendous query as to whether it will be better for me to get pleasure from a girl's pain. Even there I will have no choice, what will be done to me will be according to the cash Emma receives. It is all delightfully simple for everyone but me.
The room is pleasant enough. I expect the clients pay well for the services they receive here. It contains ordinary bedroom furniture which includes one of the vulgar brass bedsteads now so much in vogue. I realize instantly in spread-eagling and binding down a girl for the ancient sacrifice. They go about this with reasonable caution. I am told to sit and spread my legs, each one of them grasps an ankle and binds it to a lower bedpost. I am surprised they do not have shackles or straps in readiness but evidently the client prefers rope and it is with rope I am now secured. Next is something in which I am keenly concerned. I am going to lose Angela's handcuffs, the handcuffs which have been with me for two whole years and more. I will be glad to get rid of the binding wire, that is a pure agony which cannot end soon enough. I hold very still while Emma uses the pliers and I gasp with genuine relief when the wire is peeled from within the grooves it has made above the knuckles in my flesh. For the life of me I cannot avoid saying a spontaneous thank you.
"You're welcome honey. You ain't going to be that badly treated so long as you're sensible. Remember that, sensible's the word!"
I am very sensible indeed. Under instruction I lay down and extend my arms, once more my two jailers possess each one a limb and this time with cord proceed to bind me fast to the upper post of the absurd brass bed. I am not tall enough for my wrist to be pleased against the post and bound thereon, my wrist is first of all looped several times and securely tied. It is then tethered out to either corner and pulled taut. I am very helpless and outrageously exposed. I wonder if there will be a pillow!
"You going' to have Hank do it to her, Emma? He's an old hand with girls what wasn't had it here before," Millicent says. "Hank mostly does a damn good job."
"Hank ain't available. I don't tried to get him, but no dice. What I do have is something this gal may really want. It's a new one with a cock a foot high and hard as a rock. He's especially asked me getting a new one. He says any time he's had a girl what's new to a whorehouse, he finds he can screw her three times running' in a way he can't do with no other little cunt in the place. Says his name is Jake--I just bet it is!"
The two of them give final touches to my hairdo. Emma even has a hairbrush with which she lovingly brushes my pubic hair to achieve some desired effect I cannot know. She locks Angela's handcuffs above my bound foot to the brass bedpost where I can see it and yearn and do all my remembering. Hanging there with one cuff wide open and dangling it loses all its potency. No one seeing it could possibly guess its union with my flesh and with my love. It is a part of Angela which has been torn from her just as it has been unlocked from me by Emma who seemingly possesses everything including a handcuff key. I wonder if I will ever feel the bite of its chrome steel again.
Satisfied with my exposure and pleased, and perhaps a little puzzled by my absence of pleadings or threats, Emma and Millicent pat my cheeks affectionately and tell me to "be a good girl. " They will return to visit me after the first client has departed. I gather from that there is to be more than one while I am thus helpless and conveniently spread wide.
When they are gone, I want to cry. It is all just goo, too much. I have to wonder if Paul Garrick knows to what he has condemned me, and I have to wonder if Angela has picked up any clues as to my whereabouts. But all this is cut short by the opening of the door and the advent of my first client. I have not been instructed as to how I should regard him, as to whether he is mine or belongs to the house. I don't know if I should address him as Jake or sir. I decide on the latter; it is far the easiest and is likely to flatter him.
He is not as old as I expected. Evidently not all the clients of the house are middle-aged, pot-bellied men. This is a quite well preserved and presentable youngish man, perhaps forty years old. As he leisurely removes hid coat and tie and shirt, he takes up advantageous positions from which he can view my nakedness and all the physical assets I possess. I suppose I will have to get used to this. These guys pay money and want to get something in return, presumably most of them do not see a naked girl all that often and I am most certainly naked and well spread out for their approval.
"Been at this job lone, honey?" His tone is casual, no doubt he says it to all the girls.
"No, this is my first time." I infuse my information with bitter acid. "As you can see, I'm well tied down so I can't give you any trouble. Help yourself, I'm all yours."
"Didn't come here of your own accord then, eh? Someone brought you here."
"That's right, I was kidnapped. That's the only reason I'm here. It's certainly not any idea of mine." I look at him longingly. "I've been told I must not ask you for help. I must not ask you to inform the police."
My client nods. It is evident he has heard and seen this all before. But he's getting what he asked for, a new girl who it is true may have been violated or shall we say engaged in intercourse previously but who has never been bound down for a man's entry. Abruptly, he demands, "What's your name?"
I am a trifle surprised, but after all, names do matter if a man and a woman are to be together in the greatest intimacy possible for perhaps an hour. I tell him my name and give him Angela's address. It is no more than casting my bread upon the waters, but who knows!
The client of the house listens attentively and his eye catches sight of the handcuffs on the brass rail. "Those belong to you? I mean, were they on you when you were brought here?"
"Yes, they were on me. They held my hands behind my back." I stop short of telling him the rest. He does not need to know.
He nods, concerned but little, but he extracts from somewhere the magic key and unlocks them from the rail. He examines them, tests their weight, and then tosses them on the bed beside my nakedness. He reaches into a pocket and extracts a wallet which he flashes before my eyes. "I'm the police, honey. Your troubles are over. Just give me a minute to get you loose."
I know a joy so complete I could choke on it. Tears of relief well from my eyes. I will soon be back within Angela's loving arms. I do not care whether I am clothed or naked, bound or free, when I am delivered back to Remplehaven. Ail I want is Angela, and as a purely secondary ambition, to give Nora a piece of my mind. But for this moment I am awed by the omnipotence of this detective, or whatever he is, who is my savior and will deliver me from carnal captivity. I hope most ardently I will have been pierced by the last phallus of my life. It is obvious the officer is unconcerned with interference. He has no cause to be alarmed. As he untied one knot after another, and I flex the freed limb, he says casually that there's a couple of cars waiting, one on each side of the house and Emma is known to them all and will receive a slap on her wrist for failing to ask the true origins of her merchandise. That is all. It is very, very simple, and I suppose it is only one incident in his busy day. I ask between sobs how many girls he has rescued from this room. The question amuses him. "There's been quite a few , honey. We don't shut Emma up because mostly she runs a sensible business and knows the limits to which she can go. Just happens in this case she wasn't too sharp about making inquiries. "He chuckles. "We'll have a talk with her and put her wise, if she continues the way's doing with you she might end up with Bo Derek in here, or one of the other big names if they should happen to be kidnapped sometime. Surprises me it hasn't already happened, all things considered."
The last rope and cord fall away. Gleefully, I sit up and then swing over my bare legs to the floor and stand erect. It is one of the most glorious moments of my life. I am free, not only of the bonds but of Emma and all she stands for and Paul Garrick. This man with me now has eliminated them from my life. I stand before him without consciousness of being naked, but my nudity evidently bothers him. He plucks the one and only cover from the bed and wraps it around me. Before he does so, he retrieves the handcuffs. While I clutch the cover around myself without any particular thankfulness, for goodness knows I am so accustomed to nakedness I no longer feel a need of covering, he then says diffidently, "Would you mind if I put these back on you, miss? I'll have to take you back down to the station and check you out. The girls we pick up from here aren't always what they seem. Some of them have got quite a history behind them. From what that girlfriend of yours tells us, I'm pretty sure you're okay. The genuine article. But would you mind?"
Would I mind! Good god, I can hardly shuck off the covering quick enough and turn my back to him and extend my wrists. He probably wonders what goes and makes a mental reservation in his policeman's docketed mind. But I do not care. I care about nothing except getting back to Angela, and to have Angela's handcuffs once more locked upon my wrists is close to total fulfillment. I stand quivering while he fits the metal and closes each band pleasantly snug. He probably thinks he has locked them tight and is being unnecessarily mean, but I know different. I turn around and regale him with my full frontal view. I am totally wanton, but say demurely, "Oh dear, I've lost my hands. Would you mind?" He does not mind. He picks up the discarded cover and once more drapes it around me and puts the loose ends helpfully within my captive fingers. I say thank you again and we go downstairs. I presume someone else is talking to Emma, for we see no sign of life and I am taken to a blue and white car without interruption and there have the whole back seat to myself and am able to cuddle my captive arms comfortably into a corner. I want to sing and kick myself.
Before he starts the motor, my guardian turns to smile. "Look, miss, you don't have to be handcuffed. I was curious to see how you'd react. Want them off now?"
"Oh, no!" It is almost an exclamation of alarm. Then I catch his eye and we both smile. This man is wise. He nods understandingly when I say in some slight confusion. "They're okay the way they are. They're fine."
The only casualty is Emma's. She has lost her coverlet.
CHAPTER FIVE - PERENNIAL PRISONER
My first reaction is one of pure horror. My second is to laugh. My third is sympathy tempered with amusement. Nora stares at me in faint reproach and without hope, her limp eyes gazing fearfully through the close mesh. But her pose, her position, and her imprisonment are all eloquent of resignation. Angela has outdone herself. I step forward for a better view.
Nora cannot speak, so my inspection is carried out in silence and without interference. Her eyes follow me as I circle her situation while her wrists, crossed and neatly tied behind her back, work feverishly for a release they do not expect to achieve. Angela must have been shopping for something special.
Nora stands naked and erect, her hands behind her back, her ankles with the familiar chains, but the piece de resistance is the circular cage enclosing her features, a cage which locks securely and snugly around her neck and from the top of which a few chain links rise up to make contact with the heavy bracket from the wall. It is a cage for a girl's head, within it now stares Nora unhappily in my direction, her lovely hair awry and compressed within the mesh which is presumably a hinge to open into two halves or to close thus upon the delinquent head. Its base is an iron collar stoutly padlocked.
But that is not ail. The true punishment Nora is suffering arises from the small door in the front of her tiny prison. Extending backward from it is an iron rod which disappears within her closed lips. I can tell from bulging cheeks that the end of the rod must contain or inflict some mouth-filling horror by which her tongue is compressed and her cheeks bulged. She appears to feel some obligation to speak or at least to make a sound of greeting, and this comes out pretty much as "Mmmmm, mmmmmmmm." Helpfully, I reply, "You look delicious, Nora. Don't try to speak, just nod or shake your head."
The delinquent damsel who has invoked Angela's wrath stands passively while I finger the atrocity locked upon her head. It is both beautiful and horrible according to the point of view. I am sure Nora is not enjoying it. There is no possible way I can get it off. It is most solidly locked around her neck, but the little door in the center front intrigues me. I fiddle with it and discover it is not locked and may be opened. Gently, I free its fastening and pull it slowly out. As I do so, Nora's mouth opens, her lips come apart, and from within there now emerges the wad of rubber by which she has been silenced. When her mouth is completely free of it, she gasps in a tremendous relief and mutter with dry, parched lips, "Oh, Felicity, please forgive me. I was so damn silly, and Angela's so terribly mad at me."
I cannot kiss her lips, so I do the next best thing: I kiss her nipples. I tell her not to worry, and ask if she would like me to see if I can get her loose.
"No! Oh, Felicity, no! You mustn't. Angela told me to tell you that if you wanted to do that, she's got another of these wire cages waiting for you. I don't know where she got them. They're horrible."
"But why?"
"Well, don't you know? It's because I was fool enough to make a friend of Paul Garrick and give him a chance to get a key to this house. Angela's so mad! She's had to change all the locks and she was absolutely frantic over losing you." Two girlish eyes survey me wistfully. The slender girlish nudity wriggles and twists in embarrassment. The young voice is determined. "I deserve this. You mustn't try and get me free. I deserve every bit of what I'm getting. I was an absolute idiot over that guy." The young eyes plead. "I'm so terribly sorry for what he did to you, and I'm quite wiling to stand like this for as long Angela wants. It's horrible, but I'm sure I deserve it. She's talking about making me stand this way a whole week."
She is very sweet, a delectable morsel. Even the cage upon her head detracts nothing from her deliciousness. If anything, it enhances it. Hastily, she urges, "You better put that horrible thing back in my mouth. Angela told me to warn you if she comes and finds us like this, there'll be trouble."
Reluctantly, I reverse the contortions by which I had opened the little door. Fortunately, I am only handcuffed, and standing on a sizable box, I can contrive to deal with the beastly little door. Poor Nora opens her mouth, and I push, and the wad of rubber disappears behind her teeth, her lips close on it as though determined to suffer their full martyrdom. I snap the latch and get down off the box and kick it aside. We are back to square one, but if Angela should make an appearance, we are safe.
It is very neat and tidy. Nora simply stands, her arms behind her back, the chain above her head linking her immovably from the top of the head cage to the bracket from the wall. It gives her only an inch or two of leeway, and within this tiny tolerance she must stand erect. I sure wouldn't want to stand like that, not with my mouth full of rubber and my head inside a cage. But the whole ensemble is wickedly effective. The disappearance of the metal rod within Nora's mouth and her bulging cheeks make it very difficult not to snicker. It has its own elements of macabre humor. I seem to have read somewhere of a thing called a brank which was used in ancient times as a reprimand upon wives who talked too much.
I wonder where Angela picked this up--it belongs in a museum even though its whole structure is modern shining steel. Playing it safe, I ask if she is really there for seven days and further if there is anything I can do. I get sad little head shakes and nods in reply, but that is all. I tell her about Paul Garrick and what he did to me.
Nora listens and looks both guilty and unhappy. Anyway, I can't stand there all day carrying on a one-sided conversation, so I assure the delinquent damsel I will visit her again, then go in search of Angela.
"But, darling, she must be punished." Angela is emphatic. "I've allowed her to run loose far too long. The little so-and-so deserves a lesson. Don't you dare be kind to her." Angela shakes an admonitory finger.
It is not difficult to be obedient when I am naked and my wrists are cuffed behind my back. I must admit to having no wish to stand as Nora stands. In all this hubbub of being kidnapped I must not forget I am Angela's prisoner. I am still blushing in memory of my parting with the policeman. He drove me directly to Remplehaven, and I'm sure got a tremendous charge out of the whole affair. When Angela opened the door, his demand was brief and brusque.
"Do you know this young lady, ma'am?"
Angela enveloped me in loving arms, and we kissed and kissed and kissed. Through our breathlessness, she assured the law that she did indeed know me and that I lived at that address.
"Very well, ma'am. In that case, I will remove the handcuffs."
"Don't you dare! Leave them exactly as they are. I like her that way. Besides, she deserves some punishment for getting herself ; kidnapped. I'll pay you for them."
"No need, ma'am, I understand they're your property." Angela turns me around and unclasps my fingers from the coverlet so she may examine her hardware. The coverlet slips to the ground around my feet, but no one appears to notice. Joyously, Angela j exclaims, "Why, so they are! They are the same ones I always used on her." She flushes and momentarily looks embarrassed. "It's a little game she and I play. I hope you don't mind."
"The thing is, miss, do you mind?" He's looking directly at me for confirmation.
"Of course I don't mind. I live with Angela. I wear handcuffs j a lot. They're fun."
The cop sighs. I expect he sees and hears a great many things he can scarcely believe. He looks at both of us approvingly. Angela asks if he would care to come in for coffee, and he agrees with alacrity, pointing out his need to obtain a statement.
Angela makes the coffee, and I answer all his questions. One of my cuffed hands is freed so I can sign the statement. It is then snapped tight again. The policeman does all this himself, brushing aside Angela's efforts to regain control. I suspect he would willingly lake me home with him, and after innumerable cups of coffee, Angela has to almost shoo him out of the front door. She tells me I am quite impossible and deserve a punishment from my obvious enjoyment of the male. She looks at me demandingly and says she hopes Paul Garrick has not been habit forming. If he has, she is prepared to whip my pussy until I forget about his entry within my female seclusion. I am out of bounds for any male whatsoever, including policemen.
I feel guilty. I liked that policeman a great deal more than I liked Paul Garrick. Forlornly, I inquire, "Angela, are you going to punish me for being kidnapped?"
"Don't be ridiculous, darling. You had nothing to do with it. It just happened." She gives me a sharp glance. "That was the way of it, wasn't it?"
I give darling Angela the assurance she desires. I tell her that if she ever wished to punish me terribly, she could do so by giving me to a man, particularly Paul Garrick. I do not, however, add that if she wanted to give me a present sometime, she could give me to a nice a policeman, whose name I do not even know.
"Okay, Felicity, we're back to where we were before that whole sorry affair started. Nora gets punished for as long as I think she deserves. I'll fix her every day in some way you can't do anything about. I know your kind heart, you'd have her free in no time if I gave you the chance. I'll leave you free except for the handcuffs so you can talk to her all you want. She's already becoming delightfully humble, there's no telling what I may make of that girl yet." It is pleasant to slip back into my old captivity. Angela kisses me goodbye and runs off to the office and leaves me in Remplehaven alone but with chained hands, sometimes by feet are also chained as though to keep us both in practice. I do not mind. But I have to wonder if things will ever be quite the same again. I am a girl who has been kidnapped by a man and ravished by a man, ravished again and again until I have had to know there is indeed pleasure for a girl in being violated by the male. This is a realization I do share with Angela. I have no idea how she feels about it, but suppose her reaction would be five hundred percent negative. If I don't want my bottom cropped, I had best keep these thoughts to myself.
It is Angela who probes. She nags at me until I reveal every detail of my shame. She still holds me guiltless, but her lips form a hard thin lip warning of no good for someone. On the following day I discover who the someone is. I might have known!
"She says it's because Paul stuck his thing into you so many times and then sold you where you'd get a lot more stuck into you too." Poor Nora's tone is plaintive. "I don't know where she gets these contraptions. I didn't know she had them."
The "contraption" is a simple piece of mechanism, a small pedestal rising between Nora's slender legs, her ankles chained loosely to either side of it. She sits upon a tight, small little saddle which the central rod of the pedestal thrusts hard up into her female crotch to compel her to stand upon her toes. I suspect it sustains almost all her weight, chained ankles prohibit dismounting. "Yes, it's in there, Felicity, you guessed it! If it was any longer, it would come on up through my mouth. It's a beastly horrible thing, and I wouldn't have dreamed it was even possible to get it all inside if it actually wasn't happening. Angela was a real bitch about it. She greased it up, then levered it an inch at a time on inside me.
I don't know where it's got to. I'm full of it."
I stand in futile sympathy. I cannot help. All I can do is vicariously share her pain and shame. As though anxious to extend her martyrdom, Nora informs, "It's bloody awful on this little saddle thing. It's not nearly big enough, and it's sticking into me like a knife. Angela's just let my big toes touch the floor so I'm constantly tantalized. As if this wasn't enough, she's also corded my wrists together with that horrible thin cord and tied them down to the back of the saddle. I'm fixed but good." A pathetic tear steals softly down a pathetic cheek. Neither of us can wipe it away.
There is not much I can do. I kiss and tongue her nipples as my only means of giving her pleasure, but soon I raise my lips to hers and we kiss longingly. I was never close to Nora, but now there is a tremendous affinity as though Paul Garrick had unwittingly brought us together. Nora moans anew, "Angela says I've got to have this thing up inside me because of all the times Paul screwed you. Did he really go after you that much?"
"I'm afraid he did."
"Did you like it?" Her eyes are suddenly avidly curious. Nora wants to know. Perhaps she wishes to share further something she dare not speak of to her older sister. I simply tell the truth.
"Not at first. At first I hated it, but he made me like it. He kept on at me until I couldn't resist any more. Surely you know the way it is with us girls."
"Oh, sure, I know," the delinquent captive says mournfully. "He's done it to me enough, and I was fool enough to let him. I wish he was sitting where I sit now, but the he couldn't, could he? He's a male!" She suddenly manages a giggle. "Of course, I could think of a way of doing it, but it's terribly indecent."
"Don't worry about it, it's not going to happen. Paul Garrick's home free. There's nothing we can do to him."
"Felicity darling," the youthful slenderness says, wiggling awkwardly upon her painful perch, "do you realize you can untie my hands?"
Of course I can untie her hands. Why have I not thought of it before! I suppose it was Angela's assurance she would fix Nora so I could never get her free. I can't free her now, but I can certainly back up against the pedestal and untie her corded wrists. If I do this, it will enable her to use her hands to thrust down upon the saddle and bear some of her weight. Her punishment will hurt less. "But you'll still be sitting there when Angela comes home. You can't get off that pedestal."
"Yes, I suppose so. Everything's hopeless, isn't it?" Nora says in agreement "Never mind, sorry I asked."
It is just too much! I feel a bitch. I can help, but all I do is quibble. I know how I would long for help if I sat in that horrible little saddle with that beastly thing way up inside. Without another word I go to the pedestal and back up against Nora's bottom. Our hands are not exactly level, but by straining I can reach the cords around her wrists. I go to work. It takes a long, long time and a great many expostulations from the punished prisoner, but in perhaps thirty minutes her hands are freed, she is rubbing her wrists gratefully and expressing a verbal volume of appreciation. She then uses her hands to ease her weight. It remains awkward and partly disappoint, but she tells me it does help a lot. I step back to view the results of my merciful efforts. I have silently admit Nora does not look half as enticing as she did when fully bound. There is an untidiness about the contortions by which she seeks to ease her pain. Strive as I will, I can find no other way to help. Nora's chained ankles defeat us both, they will keep her upon the pedestal for as long as Angela desires. The punishment prong within her sheath is out of sight and out of touch.
It is an awkward day for both of us. For Nora, because of her punishment, for me because of my helplessness. I cannot even fall into my normal meditations or casual occupations while she is suffering in the room of punishment. I feel the least I can do is spend the time with her, but it is hard to carry on a conversation with someone enduring pain. Nora does her best, and I know she is grateful for my presence, but along toward the end of that afternoon, we are both increasingly aware of something we fear to voice. Finally Nora says unhappily, "I don't suppose there's any way you can tie my hands again so Angela won't know. Is there, darling?"
"Not a chance in the world. Don't worry, Nora, she probably expected me to free your hands anyway."
I put on a brave front for Nora's benefit, she has troubles enough without worrying about me. But I worry about me a lot. I have done something I should not have done! There will be a price to pay. At this moment my main concern is that it should not be another of these pedestals or perhaps this same horrible little mechanism which I .will occupy or which will occupy me tomorrow. I have not long to wait.
"Haven't you any sense, Felicity! I told you not to help that fool girl, and here you go and untie her hands. Really, you're the world's prime softie. You know what you've earned yourself, don't you?" I know, but I do is mutter, "But, Angela darling, it seemed so unkind just to stand and look at her when I could help. I think you're being terribly severe with Nora, it's really all the fault of Paul Garrick and not her at all. It's the old story of the female being punished for the sins of the male."
Angela sniffs and eyes me with what she no doubt considers righteous exasperation. I am taken early to bed, and there is an effort to mend my bridges. I work extra hard to give pleasure to this darling girl who holds my life in her hands. I exhaust myself and take only a passing interest when Nora is dragged in and collared and tethered with a short chain to the ring in the rug. I have been there. It is much better than sitting in the little saddle. Everything in Remplehaven is normal for the night.
"Do you want to be whipped, Felicity? If you do, you can keep on looking sulky and worrying about that little idiot I'm punishing." Angela angrily scrubs my back, she is giving me my morning bath but instead of being pleased and happy the way I usually am, I can't forget poor Nora. Her day has started early. She is already firmly ensconced upon the little saddle, and this time not even her big toes can touch the floor. I go with Angela to breakfast, killing my sulk but remaining pensive. I sense a cloud in my future.
"If you want to worry, I'll give you something to worry about," Angela tells me ruthlessly. "You could worry about yourself for a change, you little ninny."
The impaled damsel on her pedestal takes a hand in the argument. Nora says without much hope, "Angela, you mustn't punish Felicity. All she was trying to do was help. It's all my fault, you can punish me extra if you want to."
It is useless. My punishment awaits. I don't know Angela keeps these treasure but now there stands not too far from where Nora suffers another pedestal quite obviously for me. I look incredulously at the vast rubber phallus rising flexible from the saddle seat up into what seems to be my awestruck eyes. It is immense. I hear my voice proclaim, "Angela, that's impossible. I can't possibly sit on that thing, and I don't have room for it. Please don't be silly."
I am rewarded by a swift stroke of the riding crop which Angela now carries as her badge of office and to enforce compliance. I note a couple of scarlet streaks glaring from Nora's skin, evidently she too argued. A second unexpected cut causes me to dance in pained dismay and I hear my voice again. "All right, all right, I was only trying to be sensible. I'm sorry. Just tell me what to do." As always, I am helpless, and as always, heat generates within me in my knowledge of having to obey whatever Angela demands. I watch her place a chair to either side of the pedestal designed for me. I now see how the impossible will come to pass."
"Up you get sweetheart, legs apart."
I take my shameful stance. My eyes meet Nora's and I shrug, there is nothing either of us can do or say. At least Angela is not punishing us separately. It will be nice to have company in our misery. We manage rueful grins. Nora does not shrug, it would hurt too much. Angela is busy greasing the horrid head of the monster on which I am to be impaled. There might be girls who would welcome the atrocity, but I am not one of them.
Artfully, Angela slowly and cautiously takes each of the chairs on which I stand and pulls them out and out, one at a time, the whole effect bringing me lower and lower as my legs widen their separation. When contact comes, I gasp in desolation. The operation is far from simple for Angela. Now, having gotten me into this precarious position, she places a small box between each chair and the pedestal, and I am told to cautiously step down upon them. The effect of this is obvious. It is to bring me down lower and lower upon the probing phallus which will be my punishment for the day. She steers me cautiously, giving me much needed support in almost fearful change from one bad thing to another. From the boxes it is only one more motion to the floor. The enemy is now well up inside my sheath. Bitterly I long to ask her to leave it as it is. I want no more of him.
I am now flat footed on the floor, penetrated more than I desire. Angela now locks a shackle on each ankle to compel me to stand astride the little saddle I will come to hate. My handcuffed hands reach uselessly for nothing. It is they who are eloquent in protest, not my lips. Slowly, the tiny saddle rises to brush my thighs and enter my most secret female place. When it thrusts upward snug against my flesh and my miraculous femaleness has accepted the outrageous length of the punishment prong, Angela steps back to view her work. She circles my helplessness and observes brightly, "There, you see, it's not nearly as bad as you thought. If Nora can take it, I'm quite sure you can too." Her voice takes on a tinge of bitterness. "After all, Mr. Garrick did give you some practice." My skin scalds from the blows of the crop. I am a most unhappy girl. I shift my feet awkwardly, and within a very small scope, knowing it is probably the last motion they will make. Small as the movements have been, they evoke an instant response from within. I know it a prelude of worse, or should I say better, things to come!
Plaintively and imprudently, I exclaim, "Don't be so mean, Angela! How could you like these awful things up inside you!" Her answer is swift, the crop cuts my shoulders as being that portion of me most abundantly available. It slices across, above my pinioned arms and is followed by her sweet and honeyed query, "Would you care to rephrase the question, darling?"
"Thank you for being so sweet to us both," I said tonelessly. I hate myself!
"That's better." Angela consults her watch. "I'll now get your pretty little toes up off the floor and run on down to the office. I'm already late." She swishes the crop suggestively in the air and asks, "I won't be needing this again, will I, darlings?"
I assure Angela she will not be needing it. At that moment I would not say boo to a goose. I wouldn't say boo to anything. I am a much chastened maiden and Nora is the same. I content myself with moaning unhappily as the pressure within my secret place increases steadily and little by little my toes say farewell to the rug. When I am firmly in the saddle without hope of easement, the mechanism within the pedestal ceases its lethal work and there I am! At this moment I am too busy hurting and trying to rearrange my disorganized emotions to pay much attention to anything. It is not until I hear the glug-glug-glugging sounds that I gaze at Nora to behold the gag thrust between her lips and the leather band strapped tightly across her mouth. Our final punishment is to be silenced for the day. It is too, too cruel!
"Don't do that, Angela!" I exclaim demandingly. I am horrified. "Please don't gagged us. Please let us talk. It's going to be bad enough anyway without being gagged."
Languidly, Angela completes the task of rendering Nora mute. She tugs quite savagely at the strap and buckle, and I see my companion's eyes widen in response. She lifts an eyebrow in surprise at my vehemence. "Did you say anything, darling?" she inquires with a cool politeness I know all too well.
"Yes, that's what I said," I admit unhappily, wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. I suspect I am now in deep trouble. On the other hand... ? Placatingly, I mumble, "Please be kind to us. You don't have to gag us as well as this other. Please, Angela?"
"You would prefer a whipping?"
Angela's voice may be icy cool, but I know she is enjoying herself and savoring every word by which I am to be reduced to tears or worse. With such bravado as I can muster, I retort, "Okay, okay, I've done and said everything wrong. I'm sorry. Do you want me to open my mouth?"
"But, darling, there's no need to open your mouth. You're not going to be gagged. You've chosen something else." She smiles benignly. "Or did I misunderstand you?"
"No, you didn't misunderstand me. I'm sorry I make such a mess of things." I know she can tell I'm blinking back the tears. "Do what you want. I'll keep quiet."
Angela wastes no time. She unstraps the gag from Nora's lips. The first word my fellow prisoner ejaculates is, "Oh, Felicity darling, you shouldn't have!"
As though to emphasize her total control of us both, Angela now raises each of us one more inch. It makes no difference to our plight, it hurts the same but it like putting a couple of exclamation marks at the end of an utterance. She kisses us both lovingly, then goes away and shuts the door. Nora and I are alone with silence and pain.
In the soundless room and under Nora's wise and knowing eyes, I become aware of internal tremors. The whole business of being cropped and suspended in the saddle has diverted my mind from the obvious. The phallus deep inside me must be laughing! It now proceeds to have its way with me.
"It's no good, darling!" Nora wails. "You'll have all sorts of orgasms, and there's nothing you can do about it. I did yesterday, and they just about wore me out. But even again today I know it's going to happen. " She pauses to share my lament with her stricken eyes. "When it comes and while it's happening you think, oh isn't this wonderful and you're quite sure you'll be able to get through the day easily with such glorious sensations happening every so often. But when it's over, all you can see is the bleak stretch of hours and hours and hours, and you stop believing in orgasms. It's an awful moment, don't let it get you down."
I am not concerned with afterwards, I am concerned with right now. I'm sure everything Nora says is absolutely right, but I can do nothing about anything, and things are happening to me. I could swear the thing within me is alive, a vicious serpent twisting itself for my arousal. I move my feet fretfully, but soon desist, moving my chained ankles simply makes things worse. It is best for me to sit in the saddle like some Western song and hope for the best, or should I say the worst! I just don't know about anything any more. When I explode, I am totally shattered with sensation through which I sometimes behold Nora's understanding gaze. Throughout this day we will be a mirror of each other to ourselves. I am wracked and torn by the monster I must cherish in my womb, my hands tug in a frantic wish for a freedom they'll never know. Another thing I will never know either are the frightful sounds, which I suppose are of ecstasy, I utter continuously and cannot control. They rise to a crescendo to keep pace with the victory of the phallus. After it is all done I sit limply on my punishing perch and droop like a wet drenched bird. I am wet indeed but my own sweat, my seat is now slippery beneath me on the saddle. But my prong within and my chained ankles without will keep safe exactly where I am until Angela comes home.
Nora and I ignore each other's orgasms. They are a private thing we understand and need. Neither explain nor apologize. They intersperse our day much like a sneeze or a cough, while it happens the other looks the other way.
"I bet she'll feel sorry she's done this to you, Felicity," Nora opines. "I bet she comes home early and lets you loose. She won't let me loose, but she will you."
"You seem to forget I have to be whipped," I tell her without enthusiasm. "Do you think she'll forgive me that too?"
"Oh gosh, I forgot." Nora wrinkles her nose in disdain. "Angela never forgets anything, but don't feel too bad, darling. The chances are she won't whip you hard. If it's not too hard, it's not too bad." I touch on something I feel puzzling. "Nora, you're her sister. I don't see why she treats you like this. I could see maybe one punishment, but day after day, you don't deserve it."
"That's easy to figure. She's mad because you've been soiled. Paul Garrick has soiled you, he's made you unclean. I know it sounds silly, but I just bet you Angela thinks you're being cleansed by being punished. Not just you, but me as well, we both make atonement. She loves you a lot."
"What are you going to do about Paul Garrick when Angela lets you free and you pick up your life again?"
"But, Nora, I bet he hunts you up first thing. I bet he's prowling around looking for you now. He gets too much fun out of us to relinquish us easily."
"If he walked in right now, I wouldn't even ask him to let us loose. I'd spit in the bastard's face. Felicity dear, I was going to ask you about Angela and me. Has Angela said anything about letting me free again or what she intends?"
"Not a word. Won't you simply go back to the way things were?"
"I don't know. While I've been putting up with these punishments she keeps inflicting on me, I've thought about it a lot, and it occurred to me she doesn't have to let me loose, not any more than she needs to let you loose. She's got us both, and there's nobody going to come looking for us who matters or who she can't send away with any kind of a story she wants. I haven't dared ask her, but I've had a queer sort of feeling about the way she's looking at me now. If she can keep you for always, why not me too?"
We survey each other mournfully. The question is rhetorical, we cannot answer it. Angela will do what she wishes with both of us. Thought of this generates my heat to a point where I know it is going to happen to me again. I mutter a ridiculous apology and then enter the preliminary throes. I gasp and writhe and wish I was anywhere but where I am. The live serpent within me indulges in the most outrageous strictures and contortions, they may be in my mind but are nonetheless real. I am sure I disgrace myself with vocal effects. Oh, damn!
By the end of the afternoon, we are both drooping. We sit listless and uncaring, and from time to time we shake our heads in hope of keeping our hair in some semblance of order. We cannot slump too much forward because of that which is within us and because our bounds hands are tied down to the back of the saddle. We are compelled to sit erect, but it is our heads that are bowed in fatigue and in the shame, the shame that comes from orgasms of which there have been far too many. We do not often meet each other's eyes. When Angela finally returns, we give her a cautious but heartfelt greeting, and then, in trepidation, await her pleasure.
She is deliberately brisk and businesslike. As though collecting her thought, she says to Nora, "Let's see now, I leave you right where you are. Your day isn't finished yet, you can suffer a little more." She turns to me and continues, "Now you, Felicity, let's see. I'm going to let you loose now, I think you've had enough of this for the day. But you have to be whipped, don't you? I'd almost forgotten."
I know she is playing with us. Angela is enjoying herself. We are her property, she owns us, she will do as she pleases with us, and there is nothing we can say. But it is with a tremendous thankfulness that I start to reverse the obscene motions by which I was earlier impaled. First the little boxes and then the chairs. With the final plop of withdrawal, I am positive I will never be the same again. I have been ravished by a monster and probably should never again refer to my dear "little" pussy. But when the pedestal is lowered and my ankles unchained, I throw my freed leg over the pommel and thrust my head upon Angela's shoulders to wet her frock with tears of thankfulness. It feels so damn good!
I am led away, but it is to the kitchen for coffee and not to another room in which I will be punished. Angela is quite severely cross. "You little idiot, why can't you keep quiet? You practically asked to be punished. Felicity, you're impossible. I don't want to whip you, but I'm going to have you, you know that?"
I shrug and admit indeed I know. I have broken the law and the rules, the holy code must be maintained so I will be punished as surely as if I had been before a judge in a court of law. Angela does things right, my bottom cringes, my heat flares. Blithely, I retort, "Angela, stop worrying, I'm resigned to it. I don't mind."
"You'll mind while it's happening."
"Of course I will, but right now I'm loving the smell of coffee, and I'm looking to the time when my punishment is over and it doesn't hurt any more. I'm such a lucky girl."
I get a sharp, shrewd look, but Angela judges what I have said correctly. It was not true sarcasm. She pours the coffee and fixes mine the way I like it before holding the cup to my lips. "I suppose you realize I'm going to punish you while Nora looks on," she informs me still cross. "I'm going to make an example of you. Really!"
If my imprisonment to Angela was new, I would not enjoy my coffee at all, but as things are I enjoy it very much. I refuse to think about what she is going to do to me. I keep cherishing the comforting thought of the afterwards and how nice it will be when it's all over. At any rate, when we have finished our coffee, Angela sighs and says, "Well, come along. Let's get it over with." I allow myself to be led without demur.
Nora views our return with little hope, but much curiosity. She does not speak; she senses this is not her concern. But I am terribly aware of her eyes upon me when Angela gives the verdict. "Darling, you may bend and touch your forehead to a chair and keep still for five, or you may choose to be bound for ten. If you choose number one but fail to hold the pose, you will get ten anyway."
For me it is not as difficult a decision as might be supposed. I ask to be tied. I do not want the messy business of failing to hold position and being made to take strokes and receive an additional sentence. If I can't move, well, then I can't move, and that's the end of it. If I'd known exactly the way Angela would fasten me, I might have chosen differently.
"Okay, sweetheart, I'm sure you know best." Angela pushes a chair between me and Nora's pubic patch, then gathers the full swath of my own hair from the top of my head and knots it so she can use it as a means of tethering me tight. Her hand pushes against my back to lean me over the chair and then pushes down my head so that my forehead is close to Nora's knees. She then ties me fast, using the rope firmly fastened in my own hair and from which I cannot possibly withdraw. I am thus awkwardly bent forward with my bottom well exposed. I realize I have a Choice of kneeling, laying across the chair, or simply bending over as I now an, with my head tied down to the pedestal between Nora's naked legs. I lose all my calm assurance and wish urgently this was not happening.
"I'm not going to use the riding crop on you, Felicity. I think you're getting used to it or maybe even like it. I'm going to use the most outrageous strap--look at it. Isn't it beautifully limber and limp? And it's quite heavy. It will make the most wonderful sounds."
She is right. It does indeed make a most wonderful sound. The cheek of my bottom Angela has chosen for her first stroke explodes under the impact which results in a noise absolutely spine chilling. It combines the sound of every whip, strap, and crop ever invented. It is a vast resounding splat, and the pain of it is a different pain from any I have known. In the deliberately drawn-out pause between strokes, I take a quick, fearful look at it dangling from Angela's hand. It is everything she said it was and more. And there are nine more strokes!
I cannot look up at Nora. I can't do anything effective. I can hurt my hair by tugging, but what's the use? My wrists are already handcuffed behind my back and play no part in this new game. I clench my teeth again for number two.
It comes. It is as shocking as the first. Pain extends from the place of impact into every crevice of my female being. It is a pain such as to generate fresh heat within my loins, yet at the same time dissipate erotic yearnings. All I wish is that it stop. I know it will not stop--I have eight more strokes to go. Angela's cheerful voice comes from somewhere at my rear. "I expect you're feeling this just a little, aren't you, darling?"
I do not answer. I do not need to answer. Everyone present knows how it hurts, and it hurts abominably. I wish now I had chosen the five instead of the ten. I slump down upon the seat of the chair so that my breasts are hard thrust against it solid surface. My feet thrash, and my hands tug at cold relentless steel. But none of this improves my position, my bottom is still cruelly thrust out. I am still exquisitely exposed for whatever the name of this new implement of a girl's punishment may be. Later on, Angela will tell me it is called a flagellum, and was used on disobedient slaves in ancient Rome. I wish they had kept it there, I have now received the fourth stroke and have six to go. I am trying hard to avoid the shame of screams. After stroke number five has filled the room with sound and imparted its scalding heat to my flesh, Angela elects to pause. "Feeling it a bit, darling?"
"Angela, it's awful. It's too awful. Please forgive me the rest. Can't we stop where we're at right now?" I put everything I have into the earnest plea.
"You know we can't, darling. You were sentenced to ten." Angela's voice is dulcet. It asks a question of the prisoner of the pedestal. "You do agree, don't you, Nora? Dear Felicity should have the full ten, shouldn't she?"
"Leave me out of this," Nora says decisively. "Whatever answer I give is bound to be wrong, and then I'll get punished too. I'd like to ask you to stop whipping Felicity right now, but if I do, you'll consider it some sort of disobedience. Sorry."
"But you've just said it, Nora dear."
"No, I haven't. I said I'd like to say it. There's a difference, you know."
"Seems the same to me," Angela says cheerfully. "Where will you have them, darling? There's not a lot of you in very good shape now." She pretends to muse and consider the problem. "I could give them to you across your tummy, or I could give you one on each breast. After all, I'm only going to give you a couple, or how about across your shoulders?"
"I don't want them at all. Angela, don't be so mean--I'm having enough already."
To me, who is bent so low and helpless I can see nothing but Nora's feet and the floor, the two blows sound like pistol shots cracking across poor Nora's flesh as though by an explosive charge. At the first, she yelps in shock, and at the second, she screams aloud, a scream of anger. "You rotten bitch, Angela. You didn't need to do that. You're being terribly mean to both of us."
I can almost hear Angela smile. Her voice is the voice I know, the honeyed voice which carries a warning in every word. "Would you care to rephrase what you've just said, Nora dear?"
Poor Nora evidently realizes she has gone too fast, too far. Her apology is instant and abject. "I'm sorry, Angela. Honest I am, that slipped out. I do apologize, please forgive me." It was stereotyped and false, but it was exactly as any book would demand. The elder sister can find no fault with it and lets the matter drop. She returns to me and gently massages the scalding surface of my two bottoms. Her hand feels gorgeous and it feels awful, I am not sure which.
When Angela begins on me again, I start to cry. It's just too much. I have even forgotten what it was I said or did to earn punishment in the first place, and now, even though the total I must bear is only ten strokes, the remainder of them stretch out into infinity. The terrible thwack upon my defenseless skin galvanizes me into an absurd struggle with my bonds, a struggle I cannot possibly win and which bids affair to tear my scalp from my head. I make sad, disgraceful sounds and motions for the rest of what I must endure. When it is at an end, I have never been more thankful in my life.
I slump in seeming lifelessness across the chair which Angela has used to compel my forward bend. She takes it from beneath me now so I must kneel in mock penitence before the feet of the punished prisoner upon the pedestal. Angela goes away and leaves us. It is a tried and ancient ploy.
"Darling, I'm so terribly sorry. Oh, Felicity, it must have hurt wickedly." Nora's voice held genuine concern. "And she's tied you in such a rotten way. You can't even look up at me, can you?" I thrust my bound hair against the pedestal and hunch up my knees to bring myself into whatever comfort I can find. It is pitifully little. If it was not for the binding of my hair, I'd be okay, but that is an unkindness with which I cannot cope. All I can do with it is endure. I'm surprise girls don't get tied this way more often. It makes us completely helpless and shockingly anxious to please. At this moment I'd do anything Angela ordered if only it would get me free.
"I can get a look at your bottom this way, Felicity." Nora informs morosely. "Gee, you ought to see it, talk about a sunrise. Gee whiz, I hope she never uses that horrible strap on me. I thought the riding crop was awful enough."
Our conversation is far from edifying. It is a maiden lament. We long for liberty and easement of our pain. We love Angela, but wish she was not so strict. Nora voices a fear we both possess. "She's getting worse, y'know. She's trying tout new ideas on us. She's got lots of money, and she can have anything she wants made to order. I bet she ends up with a real old-time torture chamber. Oh, Felicity, jeepers, surely there's some way out of this."
If there is a way, it is one I do not know.
It is the following day. I am returned to normal, but Nora is not. Nora's big sister has caused to be fabricated a grim and frightful replica of an ancient pillory. It is magnificent in its authenticity. It dominates the punishment room in which it stands. It has been fast anchored beyond the strength of a dozen men to move. Against it a naked girl is totally impotent. The only fault in its reproduction of an ancient instrument of discipline lies in the size of the three orifices. The center for the neck and the one to each side for the wrists are exquisitely shaped but tiny beyond belief. They are for girls! This pillory would be useless for a man. But there can be no doubting all its implacability is designed for female flesh and female punishment. It will hold a maiden firm in punishment immutable.
Nora stands locked within it now.
I feel a bitch over being curious, but this is out of our world.
I circle it several times and in so doing full note of Nora's nudity so firmly held and cruelly displayed. She has no knowledge of what may or may not take place at her back. She can see none of it. All she can see is the opposite wall and the floor ahead of her feet. She can strain to look straight up at me or I can ease her situation by standing to one side so she may turn her imprisoned head. She does this now. "You see, I told you, Felicity, she's going to think up all these awful things. I bet she's been reading books about it and I'll bet this beastly contraption cost enough to buy us both a wardrobe full of lovely clothes." Nora sniffs disdainfully. "And I have to stand in it all day, and there's no way you can help me, not even a particle."
"I can kiss you?"
"Well, yes, that's it. But, darling, I don't feel like kissing right now. Let's save it for emergencies."
Poor child! She seems no more than that as she stands so forlornly with arms wide spread and tight held. Her slender nudity subtracts whole periods of years. She has become a delinquent maiden of some long dead family of medieval times. Perhaps it was her father or her mother who sentenced her to stand thus and to endure the jeers and taunts of her peers and companions. She would have been one huge blush, but she blushes now not at all. She looks at me forlornly and asks, with a terrible vehemence, "Felicity darling, what are we going to do? I asked Angela when she'd stop punishing me like this, but she wouldn't answer. She never gives me a chance to escape--not ever!"
Nora's position in the scheme of things and my own are so vastly different it is hard for me to rationally advise. All I can do is ineffectually suggest that Angela may tire of this part at any moment and Nora will be a free girl again. I myself will never be free, but that's another story. Without answers, I step close to the imprisoned neck and captive wrists. I admire the workmanship by which the heavy timbers have been shaped to possess and hold a girl. It must have been done by actual measurement, and with some relief I realize this beastly machine of oak and bolts and locks is probably too small to hold me as it now holds Nora. But of this I cannot be sure. Perhaps the day may come. But for Nora it is tailored tight, too tight even for her to struggle and chafe her skin. Its occupant says warningly, "You'd better watch what you say, Felicity dear. Angela's on the war path, and it could easily be me today and you tomorrow. I bet she's having something else horrible manufactured for me right now. Gosh, I wish I could get loose. I've forgotten what it's like to run and kick my heels."
I examine the padlock. It cannot touch it, but I nudge it around with my chain to no good effect. I make another circle and discreetly refrain from comment on the vulnerability of Nora's bottom as it sticks out in back as though waiting for something to be done to it. I come to a full stop in front of the whole contraption and stare unhappily at its captive maiden. "I don't know what we do now," I said drearily. "We are both so damn helpless. The best thing I can think to do is drag in a chair and sit with you."
"Like a patient in a hospital," Nora said acidly. "If I ever get free of this, I'm certainly going to tell Angela what a bitch she's being. Look, Felicity, don't bother with me. I know that you usually spend your day reading or watching TV or doing some small job or other that your handcuffs allow. Don't feel you have to be right here with me all the time. It's me who's being punished, hot you."
"What, and leave you alone all day," I exclaim indignantly. "I know how horrible that is. I hate being fastened so I can't move and then being left alone. It's horrible. I expect we'll find something to talk about."
I find my chair. I can't drag in anything really comfortable, so it's just a plain ordinary kitchen chair which I drag behind me as though holding along a reluctant dog. Handcuffs are not conducive to the handling of furniture. I set it to where the prisoner in the pillory will have her best view of me and then sit down. The sitting down is a sort of anticlimax. The necessity to talk leaves both of us tongue-tied. Conversation must be spontaneous and not contrived. We stare. We do our best to shrug. We exchange wry grins.
"I've always wondered how you've put up being a prisoner the way you do, Felicity," Nora says without much interest. "I'd think you'd go crazy staying in this house with your hands chained behind your back or maybe tied with a bit of rope everyday and all day. Why do you put up with it?"
"I don't have a choice, silly. After Angela first trapped me, she never gave me a chance to run away. My hands have always been handcuffed or tied behind my back. I've always been naked." I sigh wearily. "Look, Nora, you know perfectly well what goes with Angela and me. She loves ownership of a girl, and I love being owned. I thought you understood the whole thing. When you were free and used to come and go from Remplehaven, you always refused to help me escape."
"Well, yes, I know. I got a kick out of frustrating you. In a way, you were my prisoner too, but darling--" She gazes at me in sudden animation. "Never to have a man, to always have to service Angela the way she likes it. Never have a man hold you in his arms or take you to bed! Jeepers, I couldn't stand it."
"She has a way with her. She gets boyfriends out of a girl's mind real quick. When that boyfriend of yours, Paul Garrick, stole me, I hated it so damn bad!"
"I don't want to hear about him," Nora says crossly. "Look, Felicity darling, there absolutely must be some way you can do something. You're only handcuffed. It's not as though you're helpless like I am. You can walk around and do things. Get me out of this--please!"
Poor Nora. She's not like me. Perhaps if Angela keeps her prisoner long enough, she will come to understand, but I doubt it. Nora wants a man, and there are no men at Remplehaven. I look at the pretty head with its curls awry and the pathetic hands to either side, their fingers playing at nothing in the air, and my heart bleeds for the pretty prisoner of the pillory. I realize all too clearly Nora may be my fellow prisoner for life. Unless she wants to, Angela has no need ever to set her free. She can keep her just as she has kept me. Nora would a rebellious prisoner for far long than I rebelled against female authority, but in the end would become resigned and adjust to the loss of hands and hobbling of feet, with an occasional punishment thrown in to alleviate boredom. Angela really has things good!
"Do you think she'd free me, Felicity, if I promised to service her the way you do?" The query is plaintive and pathetic.
"I honestly don't know, Nora. You could ask her, but it's a touchy subject. Remember, you're her sister."
"I bet my tongue's just as good as yours."
Poor Nora, she is indeed scraping the bottom of the barrel of hope, but I am sure that horrible thing she is locked into would have the same effect on me. I consider trying to give her pleasure, but how the hell do I do it without hands? The way she's fastened, I can't even get at her nipples with my mouth The idea of backing up and trying to use my imprisoned hands is too ludicrous to consider. Unhappily, she asks, "I suppose it's impossible for you to get me a drink of water?"
Nothing is impossible to a handcuffed girl. At least it will be something to do. I go to the kitchen, select the largest glass I can find, and fill it half full to obviate spillage in the awkward manner in which I must carry it. I go back to my sad companion and kick my chair into position, mount it, and contrive to get the rim of the glass to Nora's lips. I admit I get a kick out of this. It is really a remarkable achievement of which I am proud. Her thank you is sweet and ample reward. I giggle and say, "I've never thought of this, but why don't we both get smashed? I can easily hold a glass to your lips. I know where the liquor is. Angela often has me make her a drink, and I can pour my own drink into a bowl and lap it up like a cat. What do you say?"
I suppose it is indicative of our dolor that she brightens and sees virtue in my suggestion. I close my eyes to thoughts of Angela returning to find us both drunk. I can't imagine her being pleased, but that is a bridge we can cross when we come to it. I put the glass safely on the floor and go off in search of a battle of Southern Comfort and a suitable bowl. Southern Comfort is ideal for sipping, and sipping is what we're going to do. I am tremendously encouraged by Nora's show of interest and begin to feel excited myself. Gosh, we must indeed be cheesed off to have to get drunk in order to make our day tolerable. Jeepers!
We do a lot of giggling. It is actually a great deal of hard work for me to twist and turn and contrive. But I slop some Southern Comfort in a glass and repeat the performance I had done with the water. Nora gulps gratefully and asks for more. I then decant a generous libation into the bowl and emulate a cat or a puppy dog in lapping it up. It will probably be wise to get Nora well along the way before I myself go too far. Balancing on that chair will be no feat for someone who is soused. About the time neither of care much about anything, I discover the bottle is empty. I have brought the wrong one by mistake. I know where the full one is, so I turn to go and get it. But I never reach the door. The door opens while I stand transfixed and Nora gasps. Into our room of punishments now walks the pleasant policeman who had rescued me from Emma's house and brought me home. He grins and gives me his broadest smile. His words shatter us completely.
"Good afternoon, Miss Fenwick. You are both under arrest."
CHAPTER SIX - DIVERSITY OF CAPTIVES
What does a helpless, naked girl do when her world is snatch abruptly from beneath her feet? She stares, eyes wide, mouth slightly open in an exclamation for which she finds no words. I don't know about poor Nora, but that was the way I felt and acted. I stared and stared at Mark Stevens in all the grim regalia of his uniform. His leather harness held all the paraphernalia you would suggest, including a gun and a pair of handcuffs. I stood like an idiot, trembling. I have never been arrested in my life.
"Cat got your tongue," he inquires amiably.
"You get out of here, you're not supposes to be seeing us girls naked!" Nora's voice holds both outrage and authority. She is the younger sister of Remplehaven and her wrath surmounts the pillory and all it implies. Lamely, I add my bit.
"Aren't you supposed to have a search warrant or something? And anyway, how did you get in."
He waves a couple of sheets of paper at me. "Here it is," his voice remains even and amiable. "I came prepared. As for getting in, we police people do have our own ways. A man doesn't have to be a burglar to open a door." He looks from one to the other of us and adds, "It appears I am just in time."
"You're not in time for anything," Nora snaps. "You're trespassing, and the sooner you leave the better. As for your silly old arrest, all I can say is phooey!" She tries to toss her head disdainfully, but cannot move.
I realize the presence of an empty bottle of Southern Comfort upon the floor must attract his attention. Unquestionably its effect upon Nora and myself has been beneficial. It has made her highly vocal and me slightly numb. But I have enough wits left to haughtily inquire, "What are we being arrested for?"
"Kidnapping. Holding a person or persons against their will." He intones it with a shocking finality as though there is nothing more to say.
"We haven't kidnapped anybody, you idiot," Nora declaims magnificently. She is suddenly stricken by an idea and adds, "If you're so damn good at picking locks, can you get me out of this contraption?"
"You wish to be releases, Miss Remple? That is your name, isn't it?"
"Of course I do! Don't ask such silly question. What girl wants to stand in this thing if she doesn't have to! Get with it now--make yourself useful."
Our minion of the law bestows his attention on me. I am terribly aware of his nicely arranged features. He and his uniform suit each other, but what he has to say does not stop the quivering of my flesh. "Just as I expected. You are holding this young woman prisoner against her will."
I seethe with indignation. Most eloquently I turn my bare back and my bare everything else in his direction and wiggle my handcuffed hands. "How the devil would I do that!" I demand angrily as I turn once more to face him. "When we met before, I thought you had more sense and understood the little game we play here."
"Ah, that!" He nods in confirmation. "I had my doubts then, and I can see they were well justified. There's something wrong in this house, and I'll get to the bottom of it."
"Look here, asshole. Are you going to get me out of this pillory or aren't you?" Nora is sailing high, and her voice is indignant in demand. "We don't pay taxes to have you stand and gawk at a couple of naked girls. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"Oh, I am," he assures her earnestly "But if wasn't me who took your clothes off. By the way, I notice both of you have certain marks."
I am becoming more and more uneasy. I can well see we are objects of suspicion. Hardly anyone is going to understand Angela's little game or my willingness to play it. Most certainly Nora is where she is against her will, and I am sure our uniformed visitor has already noted this fact. I can see things going from bad to worse. Our Southern Comfort speaks again.
"Those marks on Felicity and me, they're none of your business, but if you must know, my sister put them there when she was... well, let's call it 'persuading' us to do things."
"So you are being compelled to certain acts against your will?"
"Of course we are, you blundering screwball. At least I am. Felicity likes it. Look are you going to get me out of this thing? I think you're simply being mean making me stand here like this and looking at my pussy the way you do. Haven't you ever seen a girl's pussy before?"
Mark Stevens has the grace to blush. He hastily removes his attention from Nora's pubic patch and turns to mine instead. I suppose it is difficult for a man to be surrounded by so much pubic hair and pretend he doesn't notice it. There is also the matter of our breasts. There are four of them, and I am sure he feels no matter where he looks, one of them is bouncing around for his attention. But I most earnestly do not wish to be taken to jail, and I don't like the way things are shaping up. Almost anything we say is going to be used against us. I take a deep breath and am about to give him a real broadside of suburban disapproval when Angela walks in. Once more I stand and stare.
Mark Stevens is in full command. He obviously sees Angela as the missing link in his chain of evidence. She is clothed, she is free, she is the owner of this house. It takes him a scant couple of minutes to read her her rights and handcuff her wrists behind her back. She is far too shocked to offer effective resistance or complaint. In any case, Mark Stevens is a decidedly large and muscular young man.
and his harness and the official blue of his uniform is daunting to any citizen. I suppose poor Angela realizes, just as I do, the guilty appearance of everything this man sees.
"That's my sister you're manhandling," Nora accuses. "You've no business handcuffing her like that. Take them off immediately!" Our visitor turns his attention to the pillory. "Was it your sister-- this woman who has entered the room--who locked you in there in the first place, Miss Remple?"
"Of course it was, you asshole. I couldn't do it myself, could I? Hurry up and get me out--I'm dying!"
I moan inwardly. I am not sure where I stand in this puzzle, but I am quite sure everything Nora says gets her big sister in deeper and deeper. Forcefully, I say, "Look here, officer, you're being silly. This is our home--we are three girls who play a game together. You happen to have caught sight of it and suspect something sinister. There isn't anything--absolutely nothing. If you ask me if I wanted my hands unlocked, I'd tell you no."
Poor man! I am sure we represent a problem. But, also, I am not a bit sure he is without ulterior motivation. He hasn't a hope in the world of making a kidnapping charge stick in court, but he most certainly can cause us the most frightful embarrassment. I can just see the headlines.
"This is my house, and I don't appreciate what is taking place in it. " Angela has regained her poise and her authority of possession. "I suggest to you, officer, unless you free us all, or more importantly, myself, you'll find yourself in serious trouble."
Officer Mark Stevens unperturbed. "Ma'am, police officers are always in serious trouble with somebody, but at this moment, you are in more trouble than I. What I need is answers."
It is easy for me to see and share poor darling Angela's agony at being handcuffed the same way I am. It would be bad enough for it to happen to her somewhere out of sight, for her to be thus demeaned, shamed, and humiliated in front of her perky younger sister and the girl she possesses so utterly must be a bitter pill to swallow. I try once more. "Neither the girl in the pillory nor I will make a complaint against Miss Remple. We have nothing to complain about."
"What do you mean nothing to complain about!" The Southern Comfort is still influencing Nora's judgment. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes flash fire. "Look, one of you--and I don't care which--get me out of this blasted pillory! Can't you understand--I want out!"
"You are holding this young woman against her will. You have placed her in restraint, Miss Remple. This alone justifies your arrest and substantiates the charges in the warrant." Mark Stevens surveys the three of us with urbane satisfaction. "What I should do is call the wagon and take all three of you in for questioning."
"Don't you dare!" Angela's nostrils flare at the man smell she is picking up in a room previously entirely devoted to the female. She wrinkles her nose in distaste. "Look, you--I've forgotten your name--take these handcuffs off me. I have never been in such a degrading situation in my life."
The poor dear girl is struggling, as I have often struggled, against the steel circlets on her wrists. She cannot believe it is true--that she, the Mistress of Remplehaven, should have her wrists handcuffed behind her back. I am willing to bet Angela has never been handcuffed in her life. I realize how ineffectual I must seem. There is nothing effective I can do. Mark Stevens totally ignores my logic and bestows his attention elsewhere. Once again I pick up the vibrations of a motive not yet disclosed. Nora's voice is once more aloud in its appeal to Southern chivalry. "Get me out of this blasted thing! I want to pee."
Nora has hit pay dirt! The male is defenseless before her feminine requirement. He looks appealingly at Angela. "Do you have the key, Miss Remple?"
When the yoke is lifted from Nora's righteous neck, it is I who am delegated to accompany her to the bathroom. Even Mark Stevens's courage fails before such an ordeal. He says crisply that he expects us back within a couple of minutes and there will be trouble if we do not appear.
I think he has forgotten I am handcuffed and therefore helpless to be of any aid to Nora in this present endeavor, but I trot along at her side just to show willingness and to make an effort to stem the devastating tide of our Southern Comfort. When we are out of earshot, I hiss savagely, "Nora, you idiot! Stop getting Angela in dutch. Everything you say convicts her of some sort of kidnapping or coercion. Give her a break."
Nora titers. The Southern Comfort is still flowing in her veins and she is ready for a fight. "Serve her right," she says jubilantly. "It will do her a lot of good to be hauled down to jail and locked away in some rotten cell. I hope they keep her handcuffed too." She sighs wistfully. "I expect it's too much to hope they'll take her clothes off."
Nora has her pee to which I am an uninterested party. On the basis I might as well get one in where I can. I replace her on the seat and have one myself. This is a real girl thing with a couple of females giggling together. Mark Stevens would be totally out of place. But we voluntarily return to him and poor Angela. There really is nothing much else we can do.
Our policeman bristles with handcuffs. He takes another pair from his belt and invites Nora to submit to her wrists. He is remarkably self-assured. I suppose he does this sort of thing all the time. He probably regards anyone not handcuffed as morally delinquent and a danger to the public good.
"You are out of your mind!" Nora says, staring aghast. "You don't really expect me to turn around and let you put those things on me the same way you got them on darling Angela and poor dear Felicity?"
"I certainly do, Miss Remple. I trust you will not compel me to use force."
It is a battle of wills. Nora stands resolute, looking from me to her sister as though in hope of aid or moral support. But we have none to give. We ourselves are already handcuffed and helpless. But she glares at the waiting officer and scoffs. "You know what you can do with your goddamn handcuffs! I'm not Felicity, and I'm certainly not my sister. I do not like handcuffs, and I refuse to wear them."
"The decision is not yours to make, Miss Remple."
For answer, Nora leaps toward the door. She is captured before the halfway mark. There ensues a most dramatic, and slightly amusing, battle of flying arms and legs. At the end of the breathless battle, Nora stands erect, her cheeks flushed, her breasts rising and falling at an accelerated rate, and glaring angrily at the conquering male. "I did warn you, Miss Remple."
Nora is full of surprises or perhaps it is the Southern Comfort still at work. She is tugging fretfully at her steel-clad wrists, but there is a different tone to her voice. "That was fun. Let's do it again." She turns and wiggles captive hands. "You can unlock these now and we'll start all over. I enjoyed that a lot. You smell nice."
"Nora, behave yourself!" Angela is outraged, but she turns her anger upon the waiting male. "Release my sister. You cannot possibly charge her with anything. I demand the removal of these horrible metal things you have placed upon our wrists, both Nora's and my own. You can leave Felicity as she is. Felicity is another matter entirely."
"Felicity, Miss Fenwick is a prisoner just as was your sister. This leaves a dual charge of kidnapping against you, Miss Remple. I'm afraid I have no option but--" Nora kicks the law in its stomach. It is a swift and unexpected assault. Momentarily, the law bends double in distress but recovers in time to grab Nora was taking the opportunity to flea toward the door. I do not know what she expected to gain from flight, a girl without hands can do remarkably little against the law. Mark Stevens shakes her playfully as he would a kitten. "Naughty, naughty. I'm holding you as a material witness. I suggest you behave yourself." For an onlooker it would be a remarkable tableau. Three girls, two naked, one clothed, their hands inextricably cuffed behind their backs, all of them confronting the smiling male. It is Angela who possess the instant perception. She says quietly, "You want something, don't you? You're not going to take any of us down to the station unless you have to. You can easily justify your warrant and the arrests, but none of it will hold up. You know this, so you want something. What is it?"
It seems to Mark Stevens regards my owner with increased respect. It is slowly borne upon me he indeed does want something, I listen to the thing he wants in almost total disbelief. Without emotion, he says, "I want the girl you call Felicity. I am going to take her away with me. If you object or make a fuss, I will place the charges against you. Neither you nor your lawyers can be sure they won't stick."
It is out. It is in the open. I am the prize this man seeks, and all I can do is get hotter and hotter between my thighs and stammer ineffectually, "I refuse to go with you. I belong here. You cannot take me away."
"Want to bet?" His smile tells me of his total mastery of all three of us. I am terribly ashamed, ashamed of the fire he has set to blazing within my belly. I dare not look at Angela. At this moment Nora does not matter. She is firmly in the control of Southern Comfort and is likely to do us much more harm than good. I bet if this policeman were to leave me here to confront Angela's wrath, it would be terrible indeed. But I instinctively know he will not do this. He will take me with him, and his wish will be my command. I am flooded with guilt, but I am female flesh and cruelly susceptible to this man in all his harnesses and the authority of both his uniform and office. He will do what he likes with me. I become fearful of an orgasm while the three of them watch me in contempt.
"I suppose this is a shakedown?" Angela's voice is bitter. She is still twisting in disbelief at the metal on her wrists. "Very well, how much?"
"No shakedown, Miss Remple. This is genuine. Think what you wish about my motives, but I am taking Felicity Fenwick with me when I go."
"You son of a bitch!" Angela looks at me in anguish. "This makes you the kidnapper. All you wanted from the start was to take this girl away with you. You're a kidnapper. You're as bad as you say we are."
Poor darling Angela, she cannot shatter the male composure. Mark Stevens's voice has the tone of "couldn't care less." Placatingly, he assures, "Please don't worry. I will unlock your handcuffs before I leave. You will suffer nothing."
"I'll suffer the loss of the girl I love! You bastard, I suppose we both know what you intend to do to her."
"That's something I suspect you could not understand." Mark's voice is sympathetic rather than contemptuous. He knows what he is doing. He is prepared to go through with it. I am as good as kidnapped already.
I step forward to where I cannot be ignored, and tell him forcefully, "I don't want to go with you, but thanks for the offer. I know you mean well. But you've misunderstood everything. I belong to Angela. I won't be happy belonging to anyone else."
"That remains to be seen, Felicity." Mark Stevens is openly laughing at all our protests. He is the kingpin in the deal. He can do what he likes. I wish this knowledge did not excite me in the outrageous way it does. I have the absurd conviction I could somehow cope with this situation if I had my hands. I really don't know how they would help, but there is. The way I am now I am anybody's for the taking. Angela is helpless, and Nora is helpless, so that only leaves Mark Stevens. I separate my legs as much as I decently can, and I strive for pure thoughts to stem my rising tide of incandescence. Most ardently I wish Angela could tie me somewhere and whip this outrageous lust from my consciousness. But that is dreaming.
"Well, all right then, you great big son of a bitch." Nora's voice is triumphant with the Southern Comfort which appears to remain as potent as ever. "I bet you've got an erection. Look, I'll make a deal with you. You can fuck me all you like. That's what you want, isn't it? I'll lay down on the floor and you can really have fun. But I'll only do it if you take those handcuffs off Angela's wrists." She glares down the law defiantly. "Well, is it a deal?"
"Nora!" Angela sounds as outraged as a Victorian matron. "I won't allow you to be defiled by any man." She turns to the officer and says in faint apology, "I'm sorry. She's young--she doesn't know what she's saying. I would hope you would see this as some measure of the distress you are causing. Please unlock my hands." We are going around and around. But I begin to realize Mark Stevens is feeling out and making assessments of this unusual female trio. He's going to take me, this I feel positive. But when he does take me, he wants to be certain of his grounds. He is stealing a girl, and he wants to assure himself of her availability. In the condition we three girls are now, I am quite frighteningly available, but I am not frightened. Casually, he says, "Felicity will not need clothes, but if you have a kimono or something, she can wear it and sit in the front seat with me instead of being tied in the darkness of the trunk."
We all keep silent. I refuse to betray or be disloyal to Angela by offering any suggestion for my own benefit. Damn the kimono, he can do what he likes with me. I close my mind to the knowledge I will enjoy anything he does. If I have to lay bound and naked in the trunk of a car, I will do so in gladness at the vision of what awaits me at the end of the journey. Once again I have a sincere and ardent wish for Angela to take me and thrash this eroticism out of my being. I am ashamed.
Now it happens swiftly. Briskly, Mark demands of Angela, "I suppose you've got a handcuff key around, don't you?"
In response to her curt affirmative, he takes me by the arm and leads me from the room. Over his shoulder he says jauntily, "You girls will make out. I'll allow Felicity to phone you. If you're sensible about this whole thing, I'll allow a certain amount of visiting. I'm not a total bastard.".
I am a bundle of excitement. My heart pounds, my flesh thrills to the male touch. Mark's grasp upon the bareness of my arm is by no means gentle. It is beautifully and wonderfully male, and has about it a touch of authority of the force he represents. For all I know, nothing awaits me but prison bars, finger printing, and the cold shower before I am locked inside a cell. But this is the threat. The reality is different.
"Think I'm a real bastard?" Mark eyes me with an amused sideways glance and we traverse a city street. The kimono only partially shields my charms from his approval, but does make me respectable in the eyes of those who pass. I am a girl seated beside a man on the front sear of his own unmarked car. Mark has thought of everything. "How guilty do I need to feel over wresting you away from those female arms you've been in for so long?"
"You are not a bastard. But you should feel all the guilt there is over stealing me," I tell him soberly and very honestly. "Now that you've got me, what next?"
"I keep you, of course. What else? I've got myself a girl."
"You could have got yourself a girl in any bar. You could have got yourself a wife in any single's drinking place. You didn't need to steal me."
"Ah, but I did. Come off it, Felicity. You know as well as I do that I'm into the same thing as you and that delightful female we left behind. I adore a submissive girl in chains, and that's exactly what you are. Maybe for a bit of zest sometime in the future we'll steal that Angela for a bit of diversion for us both, but that's not now. Right now it's you and me." He is refreshingly honest. I suppose I really don't need to ask questions or to have doubts, but a girl always likes to be sure, so I prod.
"You're going to fuck me, aren't you?"
"Of course, that goes with the scene, doesn't it?"
"I suppose so," I bitterly agreed. "From the male point of view, any situation should always end with that. You should make allowances for us girls in feeling as disgusted as we do. It's not that we don't enjoy it, but there are other things--"
"Such as?"
"Don't ask stupid questions. I don't know what other things-- just things. I'm trying to enjoy sitting here with you in the front seat instead of being handcuffed in back the way you had me last time. Don't spoil it for me."
"But you're still handcuffed, sweetheart. I'm willing to bet those handcuffs haven't been off your wrists since I put them on. Right?"
"Well... yes. Look, if you're just interested in my body, why don't you take them off? If all you want is to couple, there's no need to keep me handcuffed."
Mark chuckles delightedly. I have amused him. "Couple? What a delightful term! Yes, I'm going to couple with you, and what's more, I'm going to keep you handcuffed. Your girlfriend has kept you handcuffed for a couple of years, so I'm not going to break the chain. " He glances at me shrewdly. "Would you want me to?" He is having everything his own way. I feel a female urge to reduce him to the imploring male, but he is not the type. What this man wants, he takes. For instance, he took me! With keen enjoyment, I accuse, "You are the pot calling the kettle black! You're one of us. You're the same as Angela and me. I've been stolen. It's just that simple. I've been stolen! You've stolen me from Angela because you want for yourself everything she and I meant to each other. You see yourself replacing Angela as my mistress and making yourself my master. You're a thief!"
"That's right, Felicity." His voice is unusually somber. "I'm going to do the same with you as Angela did. It's a delightful arrangement. I go to work everyday, and while I'm gone, you remain within our domicile handcuffed or bound or caged in whatever way it pleases my erotic fancy. While I'm dispensing law and order in the city, I will think of you constantly in whatever condition I have left you. I'll have an erection half the time." He laughs heartily at his own humor. "You see the power you girls have over us? We men don't have a chance."
I don't really want to argue. I snuggle into the seat and work at my chained hands out of pure habit and to assure myself this man truly owns me. What I want most of all is his arms around me and his man smell enveloping me an aura of masculinity. I expect this is traitorous to my female love, but I can only tell it or think it as it is. I quiver deliciously at the thought of whatever bonds or restraints he may employ upon my person. I'm quite sure he will not be satisfied with handcuffs alone. He can always handcuff someone he arrests. He does not need to bother to steal a girl for only that.
There is an old house, with a garage attached. No one observes a girl clad only in a kimono escorted by a policeman into what may very well be oblivion. As with Angela, I cannot tell the term of my imprisonment, or in this case, my servitude to a man. My greatest concern at this moment is that I do not orgasm before he possesses me carnally. I quench my fire as best I can and let him lead me from the car and from the garage into what he tells me is his ancestral home left to him by his dead parents. I'm quick to realize its suitability for his purpose, and his purpose is me.
Mark's movements are swift and sure. He takes me to a lounge and lights a blazing fire of logs within the old stone hearth. I stand diffidently and awkwardly while this is done. It is one of those moments when handcuffs defeat. You can do nothing to help, so you stand and watch. In this case, I stand and watch and also wonder what he will do to me. For all I know, he is a sadist who may flog me to bits. But this I do not believe. This man is essentially kind. If he whips me or punishes me in other ways, it will be within the context of this complex emotion which has governed my life since I met Angela. The heat of the fire stops my quivering. I accept the drink he raises to my lips. It is not Southern Comfort, but some fiery concoction of his own. After a few drinks of it, I am ready for anything. I suppose I was ready from that first moment when he took me.
Men are different from girls. I know that sounds silly because it is so obvious, but I'm trying to say is that what Mark does to me is so vastly different to what I do for Angela. Of course, with Angela, she deliberately refrains from giving me the same pleasure I give her. She maintains the mistress image. When she does pleasure me, it is as a reward for something I have done or perhaps something I have failed to do. But to be ravished by Mark Stevens, to have him possess me utterly and with an animal carnality, is something else again. I emerge from it limp and passive and totally conquered. I am also very happy. He did what he did to me with my hands still cuffed behind my back. They are like that now as I lay supine upon his bed. Probably he will use me again in a little while, but for now I savor the sensations of the female who has captured and used by a warrior of another tribe. All of me is tumultuous with vivid sensation. If Mark were not still in the room, I would sleep.
It is pleasant to lay like this, eyes closed, and hear the small intimate sounds of man within the room. I am most definitely not alone. I think perhaps the beginning of what we call love may be nothing more than the discovery of someone else with whom to share the essential loneliness of life. It is good to know he is close by and will compel me to other acts from which he will derive pleasure, but at the same time he will protect me from the world. I am loved.
But the ointment of my content is not without its fly. I dare not think of Angela. If I do, I shrivel up and want to cry. I comfort myself with the knowledge that I have been helpless throughout. I have been used and stolen and moved around like a pawn on a chess board. But just the same, my conscience tells me I should not be as happy as I am. I should not have responded to Mark Stevens as I did, and as I will again. I am disloyal. In ancient times I would be a slave whose mistress would thrash her half to death upon recapture. Mark leans down and kisses my nipples awake.
It begins again.
"I'll be gone to work before you need get up," Mark tells me before we sleep. "I'll leave you exactly as you are. You can look after yourself in the same way you've been doing for years. Is that okay?"
He should not have asked me. He should have told me. Chivalry emasculates. But I do not mind. I tell him that will be very okay indeed. Archly, I inquire what he will do if he returns to find me gone.
"I've thought of that," he agrees soberly. "How would it be if I tie you so you don't have a chance? Have you ever been really and truly tightly tied?"
His question and the thought intrigues. The only binding to which Angela subjected me was that of my crossed wrists. She had a tendency to scoff at the swathes of rope often implored in the movies. I hadn't thought about it much, being quite content with what she did with my hands, but I thought about it now. Suppose it was the strong sure hands of Mark Stevens who tugged the ropes and knotted them beyond my reach! Here was a new dimension of experience, a depth of eroticism previously untouched. I make my frank admission: "I think I'd like that. It might be fun. Let's do it." I twinkle up at him, then add, "Just once!"
"If I do it once, I may do it a hundred times, sweetheart. You'll have nothing to say about it. How's that grab you?"
It grabs me! It is like his hand upon my spine, his lips upon every part of me. Teasingly, I retort, "Go ahead, don't tell me a thing-- just do it."
"You'll have to get up early."
"I don't mind that." I am suddenly stricken with panic. "But suppose halfway through the day I can't bear it any more and want to get free?"
"You'll be on your own, sweetheart. That's the essence of being bound. This wanting to be free yet helpless to bring it about. When I come home in the evening, you can tell me all about it."
We go to sleep.
Mark wakes me in the morning, and I know he does so with regret. But in discarding sleep, we have discovered laughter. We do the things we need to do in a sharing of his bedroom. He takes a few minutes to help me with the things I cannot do myself. His touch starts the tremulous quivering of my expectant flesh. I refuse to think. I am perfectly happy to be a naked girl to whom something is going to happen--something nice!
I do not lose my faithful handcuffs. I know how I never will. It appears also my binding is not to be the conventional cowboys- and-Indians stuff. Mark Stevens holds a roll of wide adhesive tape. He uses some sort of special grip to compress my forearms to make my elbows touch, then winds the tape deftly with his free hand. The first encirclement of a band of tape renders me helpless. My elbows cannot part company. He is now able to use both hands to complete his task. He winds band after band carefully to ensure continuance of circulation. When he snips the final band and almost lovingly compresses it tightly beyond my ability to touch and then steps back to view what I have now become, I know I am in the hands of a master. I have never been bound like this before. It does thing to me. The first evidence of what it does are my two breasts. They now protrude outrageously as though I am deliberately thrusting them into male attention. Their nipples are flint hard and larger than I have ever known. I cannot move my arms at all. They are clamped tightly together, but when I do strive to influence them, the only result is a fluttering of my bare shoulders. My fingers above the metal cuffs flutter in their usual demonstration of impotence.
Almost reverently, Mark Stevens breathes, "You look very beautiful, Felicity. We must do this often."
"I feel shockingly helpless," I tell him slowly as I strive against his bondage. "Is there any more?"
"We're just beginning, sweetheart. You don't expect to get off this easy, do you?"
Mark sits me on the bed and uses nylon cord to bind my ankles. I can watch this being done. It is utterly fascinating to be witness to my journey into a helplessness beyond any I have known. Next it is my knees, cord bands above and below to neatly frame them in an immobility especially their own. Mark has been kneeling to perform this function and he now laughs up into my earnest regard. "The next bit is just plain naughty," he informs me genially. "You probably won't like it is. It's the discipline part of bondage and discipline. It is designed to keep a good girl good."
I do not demur. I am consumed by an erotic curiosity so compelling I would complain if he were to cease his bindings now. I want it all! The cord is thicker now, but it is soft and gentle upon my skin until it is tugged too tight. Mark contrives a belt of it by strand after strand around my waist and below my pinioned arms. It is a belt and nothing more. Not yet anyway. He has taken the precaution of placing beneath the now terribly tight strands a vertical rope without seeming utility. But now, beneath my navel, this rope is drawn into a double loop which is taken down and thrust between my tightly clamped thighs. His firm male hand performs this task unblushingly. He even looks deep into my apprehensive eyes and at my fleshed cheeks as he pulls and pulls to ensure that the doubled rope captivates my pussy with a nylon stricture to each side of its hidden lips. He stands me erect and pulls and tugs some more to ensure he has absorbed and discovered every particle of slack which might, later in the day, give me comfort. The double rope is now drawn up between the cheeks of my bottom in a harsh penetration and beneath the belt at my waist. It is then tugged again and again to make me squeal before it is finally knotted. Mark agreeably explains the knots are in a sufficient proximity to my cuffed hands that perhaps I can free them during the day. If I can, I'm welcome to do so. I stifle an acid response. At times like this, a girl must watch her tongue.
There is now a collar. Mark places it prettily around my throat and buckles it snug. From it a ring hangs pendant and I can guess its function. He knots a rope in it, a long, long rope which he then attaches high on the bedpost beyond my reach. It would appear he intends to give me freedom to hop or roll around the bedroom as I please. At this moment I cannot imagine so useless an activity, but who knows! He steps back to view his work in the same glowing approval as before. I stand, teetering, certain I am going to fall. If I do, I will land with a shocking thump. I can do nothing to aid myself in anything.
"You're the loveliest thing there is, Felicity." Once more his voice is truly reverent. He picks up and stands me in front of the big mirror. "Have a good look at yourself. Don't you agree you're something special?"
I am indeed. I am a package of female with skin indented at ankle, knee, waist, and elbow. Mark has taken so much trouble with his nylon strands they become almost formulized as a type of dress. In all they cover about as much of me as would a bikini, but the thing which rivets my attention above all else are the two ropes which lose themselves within the mystery of my sex beneath my pubic hair. It would be an amusing speculation as to where they terminated if I did not already know. I am fully aware I will become more and more intimately acquainted with this binding of a portion of myself which needs ho binding whatsoever. My pussy has been treated as though it had the power to detach itself and walk away. If it could have done it certainly can't not now! The two ropes burn on each side of its unprotesting lips and from deep within the crevice dividing my derriere. Puzzled, I ask, "But, Mark, what's the use of these two ropes you've got going down between my thighs--I mean, what good do they do?"
"Keeps you submissive, sweetheart. Every time you move they'll remind me of you. It's like having my hand on you all day. Don't tell me you don't appreciate it?"
All I can say is, "Mark... oh, Mark...!" And in so doing I realize I am breathless and almost panting. What I desire most of all is not freedom but for Mark Stevens to take me back to bed. I tell him this with an utter female frankness. He is delighted and pats my bottom reassuringly. He grabs his jacket, his harness, and his cap, and suddenly is gone. I stand admiring his handiwork in the mirror. This is about as strange a situation as I have ever known. I gaze and gaze, and know he spoke the truth. I am indeed most beautiful.
But playing Narcissus sustains me only briefly. I marvel at me thrusting breasts, my concave tummy, and my lovely belt of nylon stands. I become aware of insecurity. I stand erect. I am compelled to stand at military attention by the bands across my elbows. They have remarkable influence upon all of me. I suspect the time will come when I wish them gone, probably I will wish the whole thing gone inside a few hours, but after all I did ask for it. Undoubtedly my best bet is to sit or lay upon the bed, but I look at the floor space between me and that haven of possible comfort. It is long. I can hop, but suppose I fall! I shudder to think of the impact when I hit the rug. My other choice is to lower myself as gently as possible and roll over to wherever I wish to go. The rope tether on my neck will only prevent me leaving the room. Otherwise, It permits freedom of movement from place to place if my bonds permit. But if I get upon the floor, the question arises as to whether I can raise myself up upon the bed or will have to spend the rest of the day on the rug. These mundane questions seem silly, but they occupy my serious attention. I am a tied-up girl!
I decide to hop. I do so and am rewarded by a pain in places I had never dreamed of, principle the cut of cords within my crotch. Those two wicked little ropes from front to back tell me with a gleefully agony they disapprove of such an exercise. They burn, they scorch, they scald. But I am a swimmer out of her depth, and I persevere with a most ardent determination to reach sanctuary. I flog upon the bed in tremendous thankfulness, I have gauged my enemy and discovered the animosity of Mark's rope. The question now is can I deal with it! I lay here panting to discovery I have unleashed a small demon within my loins and cannot be rid of him.
His effect is dual. The scald and scorch without and the flaming heat within. Mark Stevens has made quite sure I will have an interesting day.
Every rope hurts, my ankles real bad. The hop to the bed imposed a tremendous stress upon them. One would not suppose my knees vulnerable but they are, they hurt too. None of it is agony but will, I fell sure, relapse into a steady ache which will constantly increase. I wriggle enough to discover I cannot ease what Mark jokingly describe as "the crupper cords." They are there to stay and seem to me to burrow deeper and deeper all the time. I am tremendously thankful for the adhesive tape around my elbows. It would be unbearable to be roped or corded there, but even so, the stress is irk- I some and will get worse. I am a most brilliantly and magnificently bound young woman. I almost have to wonder if Mark does not practice on some of the female prisoners. But this is fantasy and I quench the thought. Absurd as this sounds, I lay quietly on Mark Stevens's bed reveling in the sensation of being totally tied.
I dare not think of Angela, but it is all too easy to think of Mark. I have to wonder if he will bind me like this again tomorrow and the day after and so on and on? Then I ask myself what I will do if I am not bound but left with the freedom of his house with no more than handcuffs on my wrists. Quite obviously I could escape. It would be an escape fraught with possible embarrassments but nonetheless would en in a freedom more total than I have known I since Angela first captured me. I can almost laugh in thinking of j my nakedness and the embarrassment of whoever I appeal to for rescue in my handcuffed condition. The police would inevitably enter the picture and I get a giggle out of thinking of Mark Stevens's expression when he sees me hauled into the local precinct minus clothes and minus everything else! I find the thought delicious, it removes decision from me and places it squarely upon him. Of course, if he is not around when I make the explanations and am presumably given my freedom, there would be little else for me to do but go back to Angela and tell her the whole story. I am assuming someone would provide me with covering, and from there I get another giggle as to whether they would allow me to leave with the handcuffs. It would be difficult to explain they were mine. In fact, I would be obliged to concoct an entirely fictions story if I was to keep both Mark Stevens and darling Angela out of the clutches of the Law. Bound and utterly helpless, I nonetheless savor a feeling of power. The day will come when I can make things happen.
By noon I am just playing hurting. It's still not agony, but it surely is a nag, nag, nag. By that time too I am aware of the bathroom and my need to hop or roll toward its invitingly half open door. I decide to hop, and damn the pain. I push my bound feet over the edge of the bed and manage to get myself erect. I start my journey, but halfway there the fatal stumble traps me and I thud to the carpet. It is not as bad as I feared it might be, or maybe I'm just lucky. It makes everything hurt a bit more, and I can almost feel the little demon inside my sex gleefully rubbing his hands. Miserably, I continue my journey in various serpentine motions interspersed with just a plain old roll over and over and over. Reaching my objective, I am again confronted by the necessity of getting to my feet. This is not easy, far more difficult than flopping on the bed. Here I have no wish to flop at all, and in fact, had best be careful not to. Plumbing is particularly unkind to female flesh. By the time I am once again recumbent on the bed, I have shed a few tears which I dry angrily against the coverlet. It is at that point I realize a possibility I had overlooked. Mark had laughingly told me to free myself of the cutting cord between my thighs so I now kill time by that endeavor. If my elbows had not been taped tight and close, it would have been something I might easily achieve, but not the way it is now! I spent a futile and painful hour before giving it up and once more solace in tears. By now I am frankly asking myself why the devil I got into this jackpot in the first place. If I can talk my way out of it tomorrow, I most certainly will.
I think even Angela would have been thankful to see Mark Stevens when he arrives after his day. I am so thankful all I can do is cry like a baby and tell him how much I wanted him and will he please never tie me like this again. He promises me nothing except he will untie me now and to do this he wants me in front of the mirror so I may behold myself being what he describes as "peeled." Even though everything hurts and will hurt more, I could not be happier. I stand, breathless and gasping, while he deals with the knots and (hen slowly and ceremoniously unwinds his nylon cords and ropes so I may behold the scarlet indentations in my skin. They are horrific and beautiful according to the point of view. By the time he gets up to the crupper cord, my legs, knees, and ankles are free, and I can spread them to ease the pain of being relieved of something Mark Stevens should have been ashamed to put upon me in the first place. My pussy and I are both so damn grateful! By the time Mark approaches the lengthy process of unpeeling my belt, I stand in the comparative freedom of having lost use of only my hands and arms. My tired, thrusting breasts and wracked shoulders cry out in praise of all policemen when he snips away the adhesive to allow my elbows to resume their normal shape. The removal of the adhesive tom my skin is done with short, sharp, decisive motions to minimize the pain. My cuffed hands are gently patted in approval but left exactly as they are.
We share a picnic lunch. The coffee is marvelous and miraculous, lam reborn. We both know what happens next so do not speak of it. When it comes, it is superlative and I wander in whirls of render to discover a splendor no lesbian can ever know. It goes on and on, and again and again. We both wish it was forever, but to our best! The collar remains buckled around my neck. I do not notice it.
In the morning I do not have to ask--Mark knows. He puts an end to my anxiety with cheerful and portentous words. "No rope, sweetheart. Today you stay exactly as you are." He laughs straight into my eyes. "Puts a bit of decision on you."
Does it ever! This is most definitely "it." This is that old hackneyed phrase "the moment of truth"! We kiss goodbye, my bottom is affectionately patted. I am left standing alone in the hallway of Mark Stevens's house after he has slammed shut the front door. My man has gone to work, and I am the little woman "ho stays at home, probably the first little woman to have her hands chained behind her back and to be totally nude. I stand and savor the situation. I know it to be unique. This may never happen to me again, and I had best get all I can from it now.
Everything palls. Little by little, the old house tells me it is watching and wondering what I am going to do. I wonder myself. To delay decision, I walk aimlessly from room to room and hall to hall. I mount the stairs and repeat the process there. I go to the kitchen and experiment with making coffee. It is not that I want it or need it, but it is something to do, and it is just as well I discover its possibilities before I am gasping for a drink. With the aid of chairs and stools and the use of my now considerable skills, I achieve the impossible. I get water in the pot, I get coffee in the cup, I manage to place the cord. In a little while the percolator is bubbling cheerfully as though pleading with me not to upset the status quo.
The sugar is almost as much trouble as the coffee, with the cream all I have to do is get a frozen bottom from the fridge as I back up within the open door to fumble and to reach. If I essayed a bit of housework, I could totally fill my day!
I lap the coffee from my bowl. I dry my chin on a towel I have placed in readiness. The handcuffs laugh at this, but my wrists laugh back at them. They are too well endured to captivity. By being very slow in everything I do I manage to delay decision most of the morning. But I know it is there. It hovers constantly, and finally it makes me unhappy and disturbed enough that I start in motion a train of events I may later regret. I go and easily unlock the back door. There was nothing heroic about it. Mark had left the key. He had, in fact, left me in possession of his home, the only anomaly being my handcuffed wrists. They set me apart from any other woman in the world.
I cannot clothe myself. I make tentative efforts to drape something over my hips or breasts, but no one has any idea how nearly impossible such an act is when you have no hands. I decide whoever confronts me in my bid to freedom will damn well have to put up with looking at my tits and pubic hair. After all, I will still be the same girl when they have done this as I was before. Two years of Angela's imposition of nakedness has robbed me of any inhibition I ever had.
The next thing is money. If I have money and was lucky enough to hail a cruising cab, I could be taken to Angela's home with little embarrassment and much dispatch. I could tell the cabbie any cock and bull story I wished. I then consider adjacent homes, I could go to any of them but they carry the hazard of being confronted by an undesirable male or unsympathetic female, the law would be evoked. I decide my best bet is out in the open with a passing motorist. I pray most ardently for it to be a cab. I search and find folding currency which I suspect Mark has placed there for exactly this purpose. I think Mark has something up his sleeve or perhaps he is only making an experiment in feminine psychology. What will a naked girl do if... ?
I am able to fix the back door lock so I may reenter the house should my need compel. I close it behind me and walk forth naked into the sunlight. My reaction is not of embarrassment or of fear but only of joy in the world, a world I have not wandered in for more than two years. I am Eve in Eden. It is with an almost insouciant abandon that I take the tiny path to lead me to the front gate and whatever lies beyond.
We are indeed on the outer perimeter. Reaching the road, I behold no single vehicle, nor is there a pedestrian. I am in sole possession. I look back at Mark Stevens's house and feel a pang of regret at what I am doing. This house could be my home, I am sure. I could marry its owner and live there forever. For a naked girl totally devoid of assets and with her hands chained behind her back, this is a pretty good deal. It tell myself I should retrace my steps and wait like a good little girl for my master to come home from work. I can always look at the TV.
I do not do this. I suppose with all captives there is some instinctive inherent atavistic compulsion to escape. I remember as a little girl being locked in a room and told I would have to stay there for half an hour. The panic possessing me with the closing of the door and the click of the lock was total. I just had to get out of that room and my screams were loud enough to bring me the desired release. I suppose the simplest compulsion is to be made to stand in the corner and face the wall. After awhile the simple exercise becomes intolerable and the need to turn and see what you cannot see now becomes imperative. At any rate, the compulsion is on me now. I am a captive girl for whom has opened an avenue of escape. In quick summation, I realize an element of chance if this escape takes me back to Angela, to Mark Stevens, or to some vague and menacing option.
It is not a cab. It is a perky little car, and inside it a perky little woman who eyes me with disapproval as she brings her vehicle to a halt at my side. Her first words are not reassuring. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young lady! Are you drunk or on drugs?"
"I'm afraid I'm the victim of a joke," I explain bravely. "Some friends of mine--we got a little tipsy at a party, and they took my clothes, and they handcuffed my hands behind my back. Would you please help me?"
She softens. After all, the story is not all that implausible. I am obviously sober and perhaps she has some knowledge of drugs and considers me without guilt in that direction. She opens the far door and says crossly, "For heaven's sake, get inside where people can't see you! Really, the things people do!"
I obey. I hope into the little car like an oyster returning to its shell. The obvious respectability of this woman clothes me in a vast relief. I give her Angela's address, the proffer money. I've been holding it in my hand all the time, but she regards it with disfavor and suspicion. It is obvious to her that naked girls would not carry cash in a cuffed hand. She tells me that she will drive me to the destination, but she disapproves of the whole thing, and I should still bow my head in shame. She exclaims about the rope marks still vivid in my flesh, and I tell her that before I had been cast adrift, the party people had tied me up for their amusement. She sniffs, and I begin to feel I lose credibility. After all, I am foreign to her world.
She introduces herself as Miss Bessy Boker, a social worker on her rounds. I am an interruption to her day. I give myself a fictitious name and tell her how grateful I am to be rescued by a person as nice as she. Miss Boker is faintly mollified.
We are halfway home when Miss Boker swerves her little car around a wrong corner and heads in the wrong direction. She is nothing if not direct. "I've decided to take you to the police. They will know what to do with you, and I'm more and more convinced that this whole matter needs a proper investigation. " She observes my stricken features and adds comfortingly, "If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear. The police will look after you. They will provide you with clothes. They will take you home. I believe it the best service I can render and one in keeping with the position I occupy."
Piss on her position! I can tell she's a consequential little trick who will stand on her dignity at the least provocation. I humbly plead. I tell her of Angela and our happy life together, and how Angela will answer every question. But she is adamant. She is one of those people for whom the police are the answer to everything. I expect social workers get that way. If only she knew how her decision changes the direction of my life!
The law enfolds me. Miss Bessy Boker is relieved of responsibility and departs in an aura of immense virtue. The policeman examines my private parts with evident approval, but he is unfailingly polite. I am taken in a little room and given coffee I don't particularly need. They then go in search of clothes. I rather suspect every feminine visitor of the force is coerced into parting with something or other by which I may be made once more respectable and hopefully virtuous. By the time I have finished my first cup of coffee, I become clothed and respectable once more. Needless to say, my handcuffs were the first thing they deprived me of. They lay upon the shining surface of the austere table, no doubt a damning piece of evidence some person of persons unknown.
I am steering a different course between Angela and the nonexistent party and am about to be asked to sign a statement when Mark Stevens walks in.
It is the end of me as a person. I become an object referred to as her or she. I am fully discussed. From the start Mark Stevens quite obviously belongs to the winning team. He doesn't seem to possess any impressive rank, but he is listened to with great respect and so intimately I can be released into his custody. He can take me home to Angela. After all, am I not respectably attired and just another young woman who has made a damn nuisance of herself! Once more I walk into the sunlight, but this time a man's hand grips my arm in firm possession, a possession I do nothing to dispute. He leads me to his car, then at the end of a couple of blocks he turns into an alley and produces my handcuffs, dangling them in front of my nose enticingly and mockingly. He is enjoying my subservience to his will. "Turn around, sweetheart, or don't you want these on?"
I want them on. I don't know why, but I do. I turn. Once more the familiar steel possess me. I am whole again. I nestle into the seat and ask defiantly, "Okay, you've got me--what's my punishment?"
"No punishment, sweetheart. I trapped you into this. Surely you must have realized I would foresee what has happened?"
"I suppose so." I am distinctly miffed and let him know so. "You aim to do this again?" His inquiry holds both menace and concern. "I mean, if you're going to make a habit of it, I'll have to do something."
I know what he can do. I think of yesterday and being tied so I can't even twitch. Stiffly, I retort, "No, I'm not going through this again. Good gosh, I thought I was getting a life sentence." I turn toward him and dubious and pleading eye. "Mark, please forgive me?"
I am not forgiven. Soberly, Mark Stevens tells me of his plans to make me his wife. What has happened today was by his own contrivance. When he left me standing in the hall, I had a choice, and I made a choice. I tried to escape. His voice trails on and on to tell me of what he must do now. He may give me another chance, we can start all over. He understand the tax and stress upon m in all that's happened. The other option is to keep me tied tight as of yesterday and make sure I never escape again. In the same sober tones he explains his understanding how difficult such decisions can be for me and perhaps it is kind for him to relieve me of them, all he needs is a few yards of cord and a roll of tape. As he drives his car toward his home, the home I could have called ours, his sober tones continue and tell me he thinks we had best revert to square one.
There is much to be said for an old house; it is versatile. In my fast exploration I had forgotten to enter the basement. I'd looked at the downward flight of steps, but being repelled, basements are all the same: plumbing and concrete, perhaps a musty smell. But I have now been brought here by a firm male grasp upon my bare arm. Mark Stevens has gone to work long since, but I remain. I will remain here forever unless he frees me. In the meantime, I am unsure whether I am relieved or despondent by or in is method of inhibiting my wanderlust.
Basements have vertical pillars or posts to support the structure above. This one is no exception. The vertical supports are heavy timbers, and to one of these I am tied. Boy, am I tied! Mark made no bones about it, but told me in simple terms of his determination to hold me even against my will. He assured me that henceforth I would be robbed of all decision. I was a very lucky girl.
I expect he is right, but at that moment I am not too sure. I've never been tied to an immovable object, and this is something new. The post, and I am sure it supports many tons above, is a daunting balk of timber. I am bound to it by the now familiar cords and ropes in much the same way and in all the same places as the day before yesterday. I can't move--I'm fixed for sure! Mark has tied my ankles, my knees, my waist, the now familiar crupper cords, but my hands are cuffed behind the post and my elbows in an appropriate position by a rope. There is no adhesive tape anywhere upon me. Good gosh, there's no need of it, this is bad enough the way it is.
The post and I are one. Ankles, knees, waist, shoulders, arms, and my cuffed hands are behind the stout, implacable chunk of wood. There is none of such totality, but I realize I am being tested. I am being compelled to sample the nadir of existence, much like a raw recruit in boot camp. Being bound thus should send me screaming from the house when I get the chance, or swooning into my master's arms. At this moment, I cannot be sure which I would choose if given the chance. The thought does nag that Angela treated me this rough, but Mark Stevens is male and his treatment of a girl is bound to be different. He probably thinks I need "breaking in." For all I know, he could be right.
This ought to be worse than laying on the bed, but it is not. The post holds me immovably, thus relieving me of the stress of futile motion. My breasts are not unduly stretched, but I must confess to some discomfort. I can't seen down to my pubic hair, but I am sure it is blatantly in evidence. And that's about it. Unless he intends to whip me, Mark Stevens has gone about as far as he can go. Once more I consider being left alone in this house only with my handcuffs. What will I do! There is no doubt in my mind that this decision will confront me. Mark is going to make quite certain that our eventual union will be based on a trial and error. He may take me down a painful path I have not yet seen. For Mark Stevens it is all so simple; he does not have a beckoning Angela out beyond the confines of his home.
There is nothing Angela or Nora can do now. They have had their ultimatum and will now be worrying only about me. I suppose in the final analysis their main concern will be that I should marry Mark Stevens, with or without my consent. Perhaps not Nora, but most certainly my darling Angela. For her I might as well be cast into a fiery furnace as into bed with Mark.
I amuse myself twisting and tugging, surging against my ropes. This is all futile, but I find some comfort in my self-assertion by which I may keep some dignity. In the course of my mental wandering it occurs to me that Angela used the riding crop and that terrible flagellum on me in ways she deemed essential, but Mark has not yet placed a scarlet line on my skin. I wonder if he will.
I cannot fool myself that the whip upon a girl's flesh is a most potent argument she will not gainsay. I will not mention it, but should he think of it, I am in trouble.
It is at this point that Paul Garrick saunters back into my life. All of a sudden he is standing there regarding me with interest and without concern. Casually he says, "Hello, Felicity, nice to see you again."
It is a good thing I am bound. Were I free, I would clench my fists and beat them against his smiling face. As it is, I know only a profound horror to see him standing there in total command of a situation. In a jumble of words, I fling my sentiments at him in a volley. "Get out of here--you're trespassing. I don't want to see you or walk to you. Go away!"
"I'd hoped for a kinder welcome," he says, quite unperturbed. "Haven't you anything nice to say?"
It fling caution to the wings. I let it fly: "This house--and me too--belongs to a member of the police force! I don't know how you got in here, but I suppose it's not that difficult. Get out of here while you can and while you're safe. Leave me alone!"
Paul Garrick nods as though expecting every word I've said. For all the attention he pays, I might as well not have uttered them. He comes close and grasps my helpless nipples between his fingers, then inquires politely, "Would you like me to give you an orgasm, Felicity?"
I want to die. I want freedom. I want to batter this smiling son of a bitch to pieces with my fists. I want Mark to come home and reduce Paul Garrick to the nothing that he truly is. But these are wishes and will not come true. I have a problem. I quail with a new and terrible fear. This man sold me to Emma, but there are a hundred Emmas and after he has used me he will sell me to one of them. The scenario is already written, I have no doubt. But since they are the only weapon I have I use them. "What do you want with me, Paul! I'm no good to you. If you sell me, it's a criminal act. In fact, I'm surprised you're not already in prison." I glare defiantly.
My words fall, shattered. He shrugs and says as in speaking of something of no account, "I'm fond of you, Felicity. You do things to me. I want to fuck you for a month or a year or whatever it takes to get you out of my mind. " He negligently shrugs. "I could always sell you. For the next five years, you'll command top dollar." At least he leaves a girl without illusions. I know where I'm at. The things is now can he get away with it! He can easily cut the ropes, but what about the handcuffs? Does he have a key? The bastard disposes of this question instantly by producing one. He also produces a pocket knife which he opens. "I'm damn if I'm going to untie all those knots, Felicity, and I came equipped with a key. I can pretty near bet on finding you handcuffed to something."
He unlocks a single cuff to leave the other dangling. He slashes busily at the rest of my bonds, all except the crupper cord. I might have known this might have intrigued him and be something I could not escape. "Whoever it is that has you prisoner here, Felicity, certainly knows how to tie a girl," he says grudgingly. "It's a policeman, isn't it? It had to do a bit of tracking down to find where you were. By the way, I thought it best to take young Nora as a hostage. I have her safely tied, much the way you were here. I've got myself a nice quiet house without nosy neighbors. You and she will be real comfy before I sell her." He sees the horror in my eyes and adds, "Not much else to do with her, you know. I'm not in love with Nora the way I am with you, and I can get enough cash for her to set us up comfortably in our own little nest."
I spit in his face. It is close enough that I score a bull's-eye. Paul Garrick responds by slapping my cheek, first one way and then the other. He says evenly, "You need lessons, Felicity. I'll give them to you!"
I want to cry. This is too, too cruel. All I was debating previously was the manner in which I would provoke Mark Stevens. Now I face a beastly enslavement and an eventual sale as an inmate of a brothel. My whole world is shattered in the space of moments. Without hope, I plead, "Paul, won't you take money? Won't you take me back to Angela? She'll give you money for me. You don't need me--it's just a silly something in your mind."
I get slapped again. Paul tells me if there is a silly something in his mind, it's his affair and not mine. He suggests I had better watch my words. Without haste, he positions my arms and relocks the wrist he had previously freed. He can do anything he wants with me, and we both know it!
"This time you get to ride in the trunk, sweetheart. I'm not taking any chances with you, and I don't want you familiar with my address." He chuckles. "There's enough bits and pieces of rope laying around that I can make sure of you. Just stand still."
It is all so easy--so damn easy! I think if I were a male, I'd make a business of kidnapping girls. There's nothing to it--you just pick your victim and pick her up at a convenient moment. You are stronger than she is, she can't possibly win in a tussle so you tie her up or handcuff her or whatever, and you pop her in the trunk of your car and drive away victorious. That is exactly what happens to me now. I takes no more than a few minutes before I am laying uncomfortably in the dreary darkness of the trunk of his car and testing my bonds. Even if there wasn't much rope left after he had slashed away to get me free, there was certainly ample to render me as helpless as I am now. I struggle, but all I do is hurt myself. I scream, but the scream if muffled and lost within the confines in which I am locked. I don't even know where we are. I shed my tears as the wheels whir their love song of victory, but my tears are not solely for myself. They are also for Mark Stevens and for my darling Angela. If this son of a bitch Paul Garrick tells the truth, I will soon be seeing Nora.
Nora is naked. She is hanging suspended by bound wrists. She swings slowly as might a pendulum. When she sees me, it is without surprise. In a maiden lament echoed up through the centuries, she greets me without shock: "Hello, Felicity. He told me he was picking you up. Go easy with this son of a bitch. He doesn't know what mercy means."
My life becomes rapid. I am taken to his bedroom, and there Paul Garrick extends his sperm within me in thrust after victorious thrust of pure lust. I lose count of time and orgasms. What do they matter! Sometime later I hang as Nora hangs and close enough to her that by extending a foot I can touch the warmth of her female flesh. It is the smallest of consolations, but I cherish it.
"I suppose you've been fucked to a fare-thee-well," she says without warmth.
I can tell she is tired and has been hanging thus far too long. Her head is bowed and she spares me only a cursory glance. What has been done to me can be taken for granted. She already knows that. Perhaps it has been done also to her! Wanly, I inquire, "How did he get you?"
"It was easy. Everything's easy with this bastard. Angela sent me down to the corner store, and he was waiting. All he had to do was grab me and put me in the trunk of his car. Nobody was looking, and so here I am." She shows a faint animation. "It doesn't matter how he got either of us. What matters is how the hell we're going to get out of here. We'd best kill the bastard or he'll be kidnapping us the rest of our lives."
"Angela won't even know I'm not in the possession of Mark Stevens?"
"Of course she won't. Not that it matters. Poor Angela is helpless in a spot like this. I don't know what she can do. I suppose she can track down both the houses these two swine own, but what good will that do? If she ventures into either one, she'll just be caught and end up like us."
It seems a reasonably summation. It is terminated by the advent of the man who owns us. Paul Garrick is as casual and self assured as ever. What he needs is Mark Stevens to beat him to a pulp, but that will not happen. In the meantime, he's got Nora and me.
"Ready to be whipped, dear girls?" he asks pleasantly as though offering a sandwich.
"What on earth do you want to whip us for!" I exclaim aghast. "Paul, be sensible. You're punishing us enough the way we are, and even for that I don't know why."
"Because you're girls. All girls need punishing constantly, and I rather suspect both of you are a bit behind in this attention. I'm simply going to catch up. You are permitted to scream."
We would gladly scream, but we are too dispirited. Paul has left nothing to the imagination. We see the dreary road ahead. It will be time enough to scream while his whip marks our skin. Neither of us doubt this will happen. In full command, his tone one of mockery, he gives us the bad news.
"I'm going to attend to your back and your bottom, both of you. You're a snotty pair who needs bringing down a peg. I intend to do this. I will use a riding crop upon your rumps and a pretty little whip upon your backs." He chuckles lewdly. "Your fronts I'm leaving for another day. I'm sure you're aware of their possibilities."
We are aware! But what is foremost in our conscious is now! We are to be whipped. It is not enough for Paul Garrick that we hang suspended by our wrists, our shoulders racked, our wrists themselves on fire and both of us fully shamed by this ugly exposure of our femininity. It is in my mind that since things can get no worse, I might as well give him a blast of condemnation for what he has done and what he does now, but prudence prevails. In this matter of punishment there is always something worse. A girl is always at such a disadvantage when she is suspended naked before male regard. It is hateful to hang as Nora and I now must endure. There is nothing we can do about it. We are utterly helpless. Our nakedness hangs from the tether above as though we were twin sides of beef in a refrigerator. We are inert, impotent, and utterly at the disposal of the male. I long to cry out at the injustice but keep a wary silence.
Paul is well aware of possibilities. He will do nothing in a hurry. He will extend his attentions and our frightful anticipation for as long as it may please him. He owns Nora and me as he might own a pair of puppy dogs. With bright interest he now holds a hand against our bottoms while his other hand explores the frontal areas of our sex. He plucks one or two strands of pubic hair, he inserts an inquiring finger but finds us dry. From there he turns his attention to our narrow waist and navels, and then to our breasts and nipples. These two features so arrogantly feminine intrigue him immensely. He lingers, he makes us squeal by pinching first one nipple and then another. Was any man before ever so fortunate as to be possessed of four breasts and four nipples in such close proximity and such total helplessness? We belong to Paul Garrick as surely as had he purchased us in a pawn shop.
"I'm a lucky guy," he admits without hesitation. "You are probably two of the nicest pieces of ass a man is likely to find any place, and you're mine--all mine! How does that grab you?"
We keep silent, that is how it grabs us! If I had the courage, I could plant a good kick against his chin, but I am naked, I am suspended, and even though I landed my heels squarely on the target, it would carry little weight. What I yearn for is a baseball bat or a man's fist. Instead, I humbly plead, "Don't be mean to us, Paul. I promise we'll do whatever you want. We'll be absolutely obedient." After I have said it, I could kick myself, but it is then too late.
"After I've given you both a good whipping, obedience comes automatically, doesn't it?" he inquires blandly. "That's part of the reason for whipping you. It's not only that it's fun to have you scream and wriggle all over the place as the scarlet comes up on your skin, but it improves your behavior enormously. You've absolutely no idea! By the time I'm through with you, you're going to be an absolutely model pair." He turns his attention to Nora alone. "And as for you, the brothel I'm going to sell you to will pay a bonus for someone as amenable as you are going to be." There it is! All in the open, everything understood. Nora and I know what awaits us, and we long to die. Still trying to do the best I can for us, I plead again, "So, okay, Paul, you're going to whip us, but please use something humane--don't cut us to pieces." He laughs and bites my nipple so it hurts. He says, "You sure do try, don't you, Felicity? You're really a wonderful girl, and I should appreciate you. It won't hurt a bit to sell Nora, but I'll never, never sell you." He positively leers. "Just think, dear girl, after I've whipped you ten or twenty times how happy we're going to be together. Never a cross word, never an argument--just 'Yes, Paul' and 'No, Paul' for the rest of our lives." He leers again and chuckles at a sudden thought. "Maybe I'll go to whatever brothel Nora happens to be in and I'll buy a piece of her for an hour or so just to keep in touch. I can easily report to you."
It is useless and hopeless. Anything I say will only prolong this agony of hanging by our wrists. Abruptly, I demand, "Very well, Paul. Now please whip us and be done with it. We ask you, we wish to be whipped."
Paul Garrick simulates astonishment. As though puzzled, he inquires, "You actually mean you want to be whipped? You want me to start whipping you now?"
"Yes."
He shrugs as though in resignation. He goes to the rack and selects the implement he will use upon us first. It is a beastly limber thin riding crop which will cut like a knife and leave marks we will wear for weeks. Nora and I look at it in dolor but say no word. We are resigned.
Paul whips us both with a sort of nonchalant vigor. Each swing starts casually enough, but always ends in a swift acceleration to impact his pliant instrument of pain upon whatever portion of us meets his fancy. Nora and I swing and turn without control from the tethers above. My wrists hurt hatefully. They are bound only with rope, and that the full brunt of my weight and my contortions, from one of them still dangles the handcuffs Paul was forced to lock to hang me as I am. Evidently they are to be used on me again.
Everything stops. It's as though the world has ceased to revolve. At first it is a mercy beyond belief. I am certain the strokes will start again as will my screams. But credence comes with the lowering of our feet back to the floor. We stand now with our arms above our heads, our hands beyond our reach, but we can bend our elbows and flex our tired, straining muscles, our feet are planted firmly on the floor. It is a wonderful feeling, but I am too frightened to be sure of anything. With someone other than Paul Garrick I would say thank you, but not to him. He stands away a short distance to watch our disbelief and to enjoy our sweating nudity. A droplet of sweat forms within my armpit and travels down my flank. I do not care.
"Scared you, eh?" Paul's voice reeks of satisfaction. He thinks he's being clever. "You're valuable merchandise, you know. I can't do all I'd like to without cutting your price. But never mind. There are other times and other days, and I do think the whip is a bit passe, don't you agree?"
I would agree to anything. Now Nora knows she is not to be cute to pieces, and accuses reproachfully, "You said you loved me, Paul. You said you wanted me. You never did things like this to me before."
"I do love you, and I want you, but I love Felicity more. If you were to give it a bit of thought, you'd realize I already have you. You'll have to get used to the idea of someone being loved more than your pretty little self."
Paul Garrick gives one final nod of approval at our plight, then saunters from the room with his usual careless gait. We are alone. Nora and I gaze at each other in surmise and dismay. Her first thought is feminine. She turns and asks, "Am I badly marked, Felicity dear?"
She is indeed badly marked. Because we have not received the promised quota, the lines of scarlet are widely spaced upon our flesh and thus are more cruelly evident. I tell her this and turn myself so that she may view my weals as in a mirror of her own. We are like two girls for whom unattractive garb has been purchased and which we will be compelled to wear whether we like it or not. Having disposed of that preliminary, our gaze inevitably goes up to our bounds hands. We tentatively twist and tub, but this hurts far too much. Our poor wrists scream out in protest. They have had enough! It is quite hopeless. We can't get free. With one last longing look at my handcuff dangling from my left wrist, we abandon hope and resign ourselves to standing as we are. We are beautifully exposed for Paul's enjoyment, but at least we do not hurt.
"He won't do all those awful things he's promised. Felicity dear... will he?" Nora's voice is almost a wail of agony.
"I don't know any more than you do. He was you friend, Nora, not mine."
"Well, how was I to know!" she retorts irritably. "He used to act sensibly. I bet it's finding out about Angela and you that's set him off the tracks. The bastard's whip happy. Gosh, that hurts!"
"He could come back and start in on us again," I warn gently. "We're nicely fixed for it. There's no way we're going to get loose, not if he left us like this for a week."
"What about darling Angela and that nice policeman of yours-- won't they do something?" Poor Nora's voice quavers. "Oh, Felicity, I don't want to be put in a brothel!"
"Neither did I, but that's where I ended up before Angela got me back."
"I know what they do to girls in brothels. I mean, the thing that the people get paid for. But how do they keep us? I mean are we tied up or put in cages?" She pauses and manages a grin. "Or do they stretch us out on a bed and tie us there spread wide for the customer?"
"You're fantasizing," I admonish her. "As far as I know, a girl simply does what she's told there or gets beaten. It's very simple."
"But all that lovely money! It doesn't seem right. I mean, we don't get a penny of it, do we?"
"Don't keep saying 'we,' dear. It's you he's going to sell, not me."
"That's just what he's saying," Nora declaims almost hopefully. "I bet he won't be able to resist all that lovely cash. I bet he sells both of us. Felicity darling, I don't want to go to a brothel all alone. Will you ask him if you can come along too, please?"
Nora is Nora. There is no use in me getting upset about her naivete. She sees nothing wrong in what she's asked, and I'm inclined to feel the marks upon my skin well deserved. I am trying to think up a suitable retort when Paul walks back in. This time he is not alone.
She is another Emma. I suppose these women all get to look alike because they deal in the same commodity and face the same problems and rewards. Paul appears on the best of terms with these females, so I have to suppose he's done quite a bit of whore house exploring in his time. The middle-aged trafficker in girls surveys us brightly and asks, "Which one?"
Nora is examined. It is much like a cattle auction or an immigration clinic, probing impersonally. Poor Nora spreads her legs and opens her mouth upon demand. She is as frightened as I. This is the real thing. The woman represents for her and perhaps for me a line of demarcation, from beyond which there will be no return. Satisfied with what she sees, our visitor turns abruptly to look at me. "Why not this one too?"
"I'm keeping her for domestic purposes," Paul assures cheerily. "Nice bit of stuff, eh?"
"I'll make you get a price on the two of them. They'll behave better if they're together."
"Sorry, Lil, just the one this time. Damn it, I have to have some amusement."
"Okay, how much for the young one?"
"Fifty thousand."
Lil's answer is a real snapper. "One hundred for the two of them."
Nora and I stand together in shock. Such huge sums of money for girls these people do not even own! It is not possible to own a girl within civilization. Or is it? If huge sums like this are to be exchanged for us, we haven't a hope in the world. We will be like costly jewels locked within a safe. Too precious to risk. Paul is unperturbed.
"Lil, I told you--the young one only. Her name is Nora." We cannot fail to note the short, cruel whip pendant from Lil's waist. Sight of it inhibits our protests and accusations. I can tell Nora is close to tears, she is being sold into a brothel by a man who had once professed affection. It might be a bitter shaming blow. But it is I who am now the center of attention. Lil prods and pushes, and in spite of Paul's protests, gives me the same minute examination as with Nora. I hate my helplessness. It is awful to have to stand like this naked and be assessed for sale. Lil's tone is curious. "Why the handcuff on her wrist?"
"Damned interesting that. Grabbed me right at the start, believe it or not. This girl has had her hands cuffed behind her back for a couple of years, or if they weren't cuffed, they were tied. She probably finds the way she is now a pleasant relief." Paul chuckles. "Just to keep up the tradition, I aim to keep those cuffs on her whenever it's convenient to my purpose."
Lil nods. She understands everything. She has seen it all. Her next query is practical. "They've both been whipped. Why?"
"Just for my pleasure," Paul affirms unblushingly. "Nothing like the sound of a good crop on girlish skin."
"It marks 'em!"
, - "Ah yes, but most artistically. I'll enjoy watching the colors change."
"That would cost you extra at my place," Lil snickers. "You've got expensive tastes."
Another voice interposes. Nora has been eyeing Lil as though the woman was a dinosaur from a previous age. There are tears in every word she utters. "Paul, please! Don't sell me to this woman. Don't sell me to anybody. I don't want to be sold as... as a--"
"The word you're lookin' for, dearie, is whore," Lil informs genially. "There's quite a lot of other names for it, but that's the best of the lot. Don't you worry your little heart about a thing, I'll look after you."
"But you'll make me go to bed with me!"
"That's what being a whore is all about, honey. That and getting your pretty little ass whipped. But, like I say, we charge extra for the boys who treat you rough."
"But you get the money, not me!" Nora's voice is heavy with indignation.
Lil is amused by Nora's revealing exclamation. "Honey, the last thing you're ever going to need from now on is money. You don't wear no clothes, or if you do, you don't go places. And you don't pay no rent neither. Sweetheart, you're going to have it good." Poor Nora, she gets the picture. She remains unhappily silent while Lil reverts to me. She is persistent, and I am again shocked by her abrupt offer. She looks me up and down in a total assessment of my nudity and barks, "One hundred and fifty for the two!"
"Sorry, Lil, but no."
"Two hundred thousand for this one alone. Let's say I've already bought the younger one for fifty."
We are all stunned. I spare a thought for what Nora must feel at the disparity in our values in Lil's eyes. She goes for fifty thousand, but I get two hundred! It must be a bitter pill to swallow. But Paul has his difficult decisions too. I think he is accustomed to a million dollars for two girls who cost him nothing and who he can easily replace. Lil's mind must be on the same track for she now suggests, "Look, Garrick, there's one more girl in this scene, the one who kept this handcuffed beauty prisoner. How about grabbing her? She appeals to my fancy too. Let's say half a million for all three."
"Best leave Angela out of it," Paul says with decision. "She's got money and friends. She'd be trouble."
"Hell, man, you've just sold me her sister for fifty thousand! What are you scared of? Girls just simply disappear. Nothing's ever done about it. They vanish!"
Paul has to be tempted. I'm pretty sure half a million means a lot to him. He is gifted and experienced in the craft of snatching young women. I have little doubt that if he put his heart in the job, he'd have darling Angela standing with us here naked and with her hands above her head the same as me. Irrelevantly, I suspect he is chagrined by quoting only fifty thousand for Nora. Nora's a beauty, the same as her sister. The best he can come up with is, "The two girls aren't the same. It's Angela who's got the money. This one here is the poor relation. There will be a fuss about her disappearance, but nobody is going to trace her to you."
"Yes, they will," Nora affirms stoutly. "The best thing the two of you can do is let Felicity and me go right now. That way you both won't go to prison."
"Chirpy little bird, ain't she?" Lil suggests conversationally. "Wouldn't happen to have a gag around, would you?"
"I could get one, but is it really necessary?"
"Well, not really. I'll give her a taste of what I give all my girls one time or another." Lil reaches beneath her dress and plucks forth a pair of outrageously pink panties, which are badly soiled. "Here, have a taste of me, honey," she remarks pleasantly as she stuffs the offending intimacy into Nora's shocked mouth. Her fingers prod, Nora's cheeks bulge, and her eyes widen in disbelief at what is happening. She makes a few choking sounds and then gives up. She tosses her head and contrives to look remarkably pathetic and ill used. If it was another place and time, I might be inclined to laugh. I do not laugh. I have troubles of my own.
"Kidnap yourself another little filly. Paul," Lil suggests amiably. "Let me have this one here. I've taken a real liking to her. I'll up the price too."
"I don't see why you want her so badly. What is there about Felicity?" Paul sounds aggrieved.
"She's prime stuff, that's why. I can tell these little tricks, your Felicity would be good in bed with me or what a man and you can't always get that in one girl. Three hundred thousand for her separately."
"No."
"Four hundred thousand."
"I must admit you tempt me," Paul admits slowly as though thinking deeply. "But how the hell would you get your money out of her, Lil? Even at a hundred bucks a toss--"
"You're not up on the market. I thought you knew better," Lil says sagely. "It's oil that does it. There's oil men from all over the place. The damn stuff appears to be everywhere, and they've all got so much money that a million don't mean a thing. I won't promise to keep Felicity pure for sale, I'll put her to good use while waiting for a buyer, but what do you say we ask a million for her and split fifty-fifty? Damn it, man, no pretty piece of tail is worth half a million dollars to any red-blooded American man who can put his finger on it all over the place."
The room is silent save for the thudding of my heart and the sound of Nora breathing through her nose. Paul Garrick looks at me, and from the yearning in his eyes, I am lost. His words confirm it. "Damn you, Lil. Why can't you leave a good thing alone? But, okay, Felicity is yours for half a million."
"Good! I knew you'd be sensible. The damn girl might be lucky and end up better off than either one of us. Some of these rich idiots treat them real well." She chuckles ominously. "Of course, that don't apply to every one I sell. There's on hell of a lot of ass whipping in private that no one knows about." Lil solemnly pokes her astonished host in the chest and demands, "Now, what about the younger one's sister? The one you call Angela--I want her too." Nora flings herself about with negative motions we should admire if not otherwise occupied. She puts on quite a show with shaking head and snorting nostrils, but these dramatics pass unseen until she once more slumps into hopeless helplessness. At least she has got her wish. Where she goes, I go too.
Paul Garrick looks unhappy. Lil beams.
CHAPTER SEVEN - BORDELLO BOUND
It is an old scenario too often played, this lying bound and naked in the trunk of a car. In this instance, Nora is beside me, all of her curves thrusting deep into my flesh, but we are totally robbed of initiative. My handcuffs have been replaced behind my back, my elbows tied tight with ropes that hurt abominably. My ankles are bound and tugged up to the handcuffs so I can hardly quiver. I am also gagged, not as Nora is gagged, fortunately for me Lil wears only a single pair of panties, but under pressure, Paul provided a commercial item which is buckled harshly within and across my mouth, it is buckled far too tight. In the darkness I wriggle to try and place at least a finger or two upon Nora's captive flesh, just a small motion to tell her I am here. But I can't manage it. I can't do anything! I am glad she cannot see me cry. Nora has been sobbing in desolation from the time the lid slammed shut.
I suspect Paul got gypped. Nora and I are not separated. After an endless drive we are lifted from the trunk by a husky, muscular male who I suspect is the bouncer of the "joint." We are taken to a truly magnificent bedroom and dumped upon the bed. After awhile a girl comes, she frees our feet and elbows, but does not remove our gags. I expect she wants no questions. New girls would certainly utter the same maiden laments over and over forever. She guides us into the bathroom where we are bathed and made beautiful. There is nothing we can do about it, but it is nicer for a girl to feel herself attractively presented rather than as a solid slattern. Before she leaves she unbuckles the gag from my mouth. She takes it away with her, but she takes Nora too. Presumably we are not to share a room, but I suppose, considering the manner in which we will be used, privacy is of the essence. What man desires an audience when he busy with his rape!
I don't have much time to think before Lil comes to check. She turns me around a few times and gives me a cold, shrewd scrutiny. "Did a good job on you, Felicity," she concedes. "This can be your room until you're sold, and customers can use you here while we're waiting. Don't tell me this is anything less than luxury." I have to agree it is luxury indeed. "Won't I be able to see Nora again?" I ask sadly.
"Oh, sure, we'll put you together once in awhile," Lil agrees expansively. "I guess you got the wrong idea about these places. They ain't torture chambers, not unless you insist on it that way. We can be real kind to girls who play it cool."
"I suppose the door will always be locked?"
"Sure, it will honey. What else do you expect? It's a damn good lock too." She shrugs and motions. "Maybe you haven't looked at the window. They're all barred. You're a damned expensive bit of fluff, and I have to look after you. Oh, and by the way, you'll wear those handcuffs. Paul's story tickled me. They're also so damned effective. One of the girls can look after you as needed, and you can certainly oblige the customers the same way you've been looking after Paul. Honey, you ain't the first girl that's had a piece of tail with her hands tied behind her back. The men mostly like it, it raises your ass."
We stand and stare. Two women! I think aloud, "It's hard for me to understand. I mean, that I'll never be free again, that men can come in here and do what they like with me--that I'll never have clothes or money or anything."
Lil kisses me. It is a maternal kiss that could become more ardent if we kept it up. But Mark Stevens' influence is still potent upon me. I want no truck with females. If I am captive to one, so what! But I have no hunger for her loins. Diffidently, Lil explains there are magazines, books, and a TV. If a man come in, I had best be nice to him. "Whatever he wants, honey, we got a tariff for everything, and there ain't no bit of you he won't pay for. Pretend you adore his prick. They all like that." She looks at me with faint sympathy. "I'd best warn you in case you feel like kicking him where it hurts: We've got a couple of cells down in the basement, and there's no way you'd enjoy being in either one. Remember that."
I stand naked and alone after the snap of the lock has told me of my imprisonment. The only comfort I have is the handcuffs on my wrists. Nothing in here but me. I look at the barred windows. I actually go to the door, turn and test the lock with my prisoned hands, but it holds as firm as a brick wall. I need have no doubts about being captive. I take an inventory of the room itself and its contents. I will not be bored. This is not truly a prison. The term "house arrest" flits through my mind. But terms don't matter. What matters is I have lost my freedom and may never get it back.
I think of Angela. She has lost Nora. She has lost me. There is no other injury Paul Garrick can do her other than carry out his threat of the kidnapping charge. But we are now kidnapped for real! Angela can go to the police herself and ask their aid in our discovery But I wonder what Paul Garrick will tell her when he makes the inevitable phone call. Poor dear Angela, but at least she has her freedom. But, considering Lil's offer, I wonder if she will have it long! She will not know there is a price on her head. She will not take precautions. I cannot warn her. Oh, damn! This will be the tenor of my life. I can do nothing save what others want. I am a whore!
I am too dispirited to seek amusement. I want no magazines, books, or TV. All I want is freedom, and freedom is as distant from me as it has ever been. I lay sulkily upon the bed and wonder what the first man is going to be like. I can well imagine as time goes by the faces merge as they peer down at me in expressionless lust as they pump away within my sheath. The whole thing is animal-- disgusting! It has nothing to do with Mark Stevens or darling Angela. It is as far separate from what they have done to me as are the poles. It might be an hour before the door opens.
It is now a trio. There is, of course, Lil. She looks pleased. There is a largish, very handsome man with a twinkle in his eye. I suspect he is finding amusement in something new. With them is a teenage girl. I wouldn't give her a day over fifteen, and she might well be less. She is bubbling over with excitement and is quite obviously an adored daughter. Obediently I stand to place all of me on view. "This is the girl I told you of," Lil says warmly. "Charming, very charming indeed," agrees the man.
"Oh, Daddy, isn't she gorgeous!" the teenager says in genuine delight. "Oh, do buy her for me. I absolutely must have her." What the hell am I into now! Goodwill is rampant. I am regarded with immense approval by all three. Feeling I should not stand and appear stupid, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "My name is Felicity Fenwick. I've been kidnapped and am held prisoner against my will. How do you do?"
It appears I have said something funny. All of them laugh, even Lil. The teenager does a little dance around my nakedness and fingers my handcuffs as she passes. She asks if I can get free of them, and when I tell her no, she is once more in an ecstasy of delight. "I absolutely must have her, Daddy. She's handcuffed back there, and do you see how polite she is? She's not a bit like that other one you've just bought. Daddy, please?"
"Her price is too high, child. We've already made a purchase and you have no need of two." The man turns to Lil and courteously says, "But thank you for showing us. She is indeed superb."
"But, Daddy!" The adolescent wail is genuine distress. "You mustn't just leave her here, and anyway, we can use two girls. You can have that other one you've just bought. I know you take girls to bed, and she'll do very well for that. I'll have this one." She rubs herself against him enticingly. "Daddy... please!"
If she were mine, I'd whip her little bottom. She is precocious and outrageous, and I suspect she gets everything she wants. I see no evil in her, only an immense vitality. Her eyes shine with the excitement of the chase. For this child I am the quarry. I don't know what good I can be to her, but evidently she does. What I am beholding now opens up a whole new vista of enslavement.
"I might go to a million and a half for the two of them," the man says gravely, patting his daughter's head in seeming approval of her exuberance. "As I said, we really have no need for more than one."
He is forgiven. There is a slight indescribable intonation in his voice. The girl is obviously American educated. I expect Lil is right about the oil. "She'll make the most wonderful pet," says bright- eyes with fervor. "Daddy, don't bother about silly old money- just buy her!"
I almost feel sorry for the poor guy. He would strike a far harder bargain without his daughter's contributions to negotiation. But he grins and makes a motion of acceptance with his hands and turns to Lil. "It appears we have a deal," he says without visible regret. "I'll have my men pick her up in the van. They can take them both at the same time."
I have been sold! Talk about a quick turnover! Lil has made herself a fortune in a couple of hours, and Paul Garrick hasn't done so badly either. Before departure, the youngster had romped up to me and tweaked my nipples before rising on tiptoe to kiss my lips. I am left, a puzzled and perplexed female. This is something new.
Lil returns. She is in high good humor as indeed she should be. She confirms that it is indeed oil. The man calls himself Jules Nagrib, and his daughter is Orchid. Whether they are true names or not doesn't seem to matter. Lil shrugs the whole affair off as one of the quaint offshoots of her profession. She asks me what it feels like to be a pet.
"But they've bought Nora too, haven't they!" I exclaim. "It isn't just me, is it?"
"That's right. It's a good day for the house," Lil agrees amiably. "I suspect the young madame has things figured about right. One of you girls will end up in Nagrib's bed, the other one will afford some adolescent entertainment."
"I bet she'll be cruel," I affirm desolately. "She's all together too much of a going concern."
"Honey, I just don't know," Lil says without concern. "You could be in for the time of your life with that little witch. But I bet she'll make you mind your Ps and Qs. If I was you, I'd do what she wants and do it damn quick. As far as I know, they've got a place here in the States and another one somewhere over in the Middle East. Could be you'll do a bit of traveling. At your age and with your looks, you'll amuse them for at least five more years. Providing they don't feed you too heavily, I'd make that ten."
I have moaned before about how easy it is to kidnap girls. It carries less trouble and risk than any other crime. Nagrib's van is an unmarked but very costly vehicle waiting for us in the garage of "the House." It is discreetly invisible to public view. On each side is a bench, and on one of these Nora sits in morose nakedness, her wrists firmly handcuffed to a ring in the side of the vehicle. There is another such ring on the opposite wall for me. One of my cuffs is unlocked, slipped through the ring and fastened tightly again upon my wrist. I sit down. I look at Nora and am surprised we are not gagged. Surprisingly, Lil kisses us both before leaving. The two male servants are as indefinably foreign as their master, but speak perfect English. They tell us to sit still and enjoy the ride. They laugh as though they have said something funny.
The van rides smoothly and at speed, the bench on which we sit is hard but gives no pain. Our posture is awkward, in that we must hold our hands at just above waist level and hard against the metal framework in which the holding ring is securely affixed. If we wish to scratch our noses, we must bend down. "Oh, darling, I'm so glad we're together," Nora says with unusual affection.
Poor Nora! She has been an irritant in the past, but my heart bleeds for her now. She is quite a bit younger than I and is without the eroticism I carry within my loins. There is no way I can explain this to her so she'll understand. She is aware of Angela and me, but shrugs it off. The poor dear cannot know how it actually has sustained me in these tribulations and changes of fortune. At this moment I look down at my chained hands and feel my heat flare between my thighs. The old familiar handcuffs hold me as helpless as they have always done. But this is a new position and I therefore get a new thrill. But this is separate and apart to what is being done to us. I must cherish it within my own loneliness. We do not talk much. We would have to raise our voices above the echo of the van and then the men could hear. We do not want them to know our female secrets or carry them to our new owners. I think of Angela and Mark Stevens, and I want to cry. The handcuffs bite my wrists as the van swerves around a corner.
Our ride is long, the van has no windows and our view over the shoulders of our guards is minimal. We spend most of the time gazing at our chained hands or exchanging glum questioning looks with each other. Fervently, I pray for an accident and the police.
At an intersection we scream. It is a terrible sound within the van and avails of us nothing. One of our guards turns a smiling face and dangles for our inspection a commercially manufactured gag complete with strap and buckle. We gaze at it in loathing and relapse into silence. Like I said, kidnapping a girl is the easiest job there is.
Our destination is a garage within the confines of a house. We will see nothing and will not be seen. Our handcuffs are unlocked from the side of the van, but immediately locked upon us again. I'm curious why they are not behind our backs, but we do not ask. We are blindfolded and carried to whatever fate lies waiting. Soon we stand erect, our hands raised above our hands, and we hear the wicked snap of a lock. Our blinds are whisked away and our guards depart, laughing at the way we blink and stare around. Nora and I stand in exactly the same condition as Paul had fastened us in his own premises. The same naked postures of helplessness in which Lil had viewed us and made her purchase. I look up, my wrists are firmly handcuffed well out of reach, a padlocked chain rising from them to the ceiling. It is simple and efficient. Nora and I will stand thus as an introduction to our new captivity. Nora looks at me with a wry grimace. "Out of the frying pain and into the fire," she intones morosely. "Oh, Felicity, we're never, never going to get free, are we? I just know we won't. Look at the way we're fixed right now." She struggles ineffectually. "Oh shit, this whole thing is for the birds!"
It is Jules Nagrib who enters first. He nods pleasantly as to a pair of old friends. He makes the usual circling inspection to which we are now inured. We simply stand and hope he likes what he sees. He is a handsome, authoritative bastard, and his daughter will take after him. At the moment she is only a precocious brat.
"I owe you some explanation," Nagrib's voice is almost placating. He turns from one to the other of us so that neither of us feel ignored. "You will have deduced I have purchased you for the amusement of my daughter Orchid. I owe you an apology for this, for I feel certain no young woman such as you desire to be the plaything of an adolescent." He repeats his smile and back and forth gaze. "But that is what you are going to be. It pleases my daughter to possess you. Our ancestors would have said Orchid has been given the gift of a pair of girl slaves. Today you must think of it in whatever terms please you, but that is essentially what you are. Would it have been more gratifying to your female egos to have been purchased for the pleasure of a man?"
What a hell of a question! I'm not sure I even know the answer. But Nora can always be relied upon for a retort. "I hope you know you and your Orchid will both go to prison for what you're doing with us," she points out with cold reasoning logic, although with a quiver in her voice. She's totally ignored. Mr. Nagrib's concern is riveted on me.
"Orchid has fallen in love with you, Felicity," he informs without the flicker of an eye. "She is a wayward child. I have spoiled her totally. I intend to continue doing so. She afford me much amusement. But I should warn you it till be best to be very obedient to her. This will not come easily to a girl your age, but I have given Orchid permission to use a whip, not with undue cruelty but it will hurt. Am I understood?"
Nora and I exchange another of our baffled glance. Wearily, I say, "Yes, we understand. Will she whip us whether we obey or not?"
"Possibly." This man is still assessing us. I can almost wish he would tell Orchid to take a running jump and divert us to himself.
Ordinary men are so simply in what they ask of a girl, and I'll bet you this is an ordinary man who goes to his office every day and gives no ground. I have no doubt that what Orchid will do to us seems entirely normal. But I quench these negative thoughts. Perhaps Orchid will not be too bad at all. It will gall me to butter her up, but buttering people up is a part of every day existence. If Orchid proves to be kind, it could be fun!
"I have come here to tell you to refrain from negative attitudes," Nagrib smiles at our plight. "I can understand that standing as you stand now it is hard to be optimistic about anything, and my purchase of you opens up a whole new life. I ask you to accept it with tolerance."
He makes it sound not too bad. I am certainly not going to argue, but there does remain a question Nora and I have to face. "Will we always be kept chained?" I ask politely. "Will we be given any freedom, or always be kept in restraints?"
"Ah, my dear, that is between you and Orchid. If Orchid wants to set you free and show you an open door, she can do so. You two are a birthday present I have promised for a long time. Orchid has just turned fourteen."
Jules Nagrib is likeable. He possesses charm, he speaks of the impossible as though it is an everyday occurrence, and with Orchid as his daughter, it probably is! I make a shrewd guess that while we belong to Orchid, this man will take a keen interest in observation. If our skin is marked, he will wish to see those marks, or if our bonds leave weals, he will take a vicarious pleasure in these also. But Orchid... and with an open door! "Isn't your daughter young to possess either of us?" I inquire in as even a tone as I can contrive. "I realize she is unusually mature, but is she responsible?"
"It is not for you to ask these questions." Nagrib frowns. "Orchid owns you, and you will obey her. Orchid is a sensitive child, and the pain or pleasure you derive from her ownership will depend upon yourselves. Forgive me if I do not take this incident too seriously, but Orchid has been given many toys." He nods affably and departs.
"I'm in trouble for sure," Nora affirms with certainty. "I'll never be humble to a little fourteen-year-old trick who needs her bottom spanked. She'll be on my neck full time."
I am inclined to agree. The discrepancy between Orchid's ages and my own is even greater, and will impose a humiliation I must resent. Before I can add to Nora's lament the object of our discussion walks cheerily into the room. This Orchid is a shock. She wears Eastern garb. The tiny vest which flirts with immature breasts that are budding sufficiently to demand attention, her waist is bare, beneath is an almost transparent miniskirt beneath which I am positive she wears no panties. This quaint mixture of East and West is suspended from her hips by a narrow belt and from this belt there hangs a small but wicked whip. Orchid may be only fourteen, but there is nothing missing. Her dress may be scanty, but she is clothed in the aura of immense wealth.
"I asked Daddy to have you both fastened like this," she tells us nonchalantly. "I think it's a lovely way to chain a girl when she's naked." She circles us a couple of times and then adds, "I can do anything I like with you--it's the yummiest feeling!"
We stand silent for her approval. There is nothing to say. We have a lot to learn about Orchid, and it is best to be cautious. "Cat got your tongue?" she demands sharply. "I don't want to be stared at--I want responses."
I get in a jump ahead of Nora by saying, "This is new to us. We didn't know how to act or what to say. We have been told we must obey you, but that is all we know."
Orchid giggles. "I bet Daddy had a few words with you. He always has a few words." She giggles again. "I don't always pay attention, but there have been times when I've had to listen. The times when he's had me whipped." She looks from one to the other of us brightly. "He has one of the woman servants whip me, but it never hurts too bad. I want to whip you a lot more just to see how you act."
So far, so bad! I still don't know what to say or ask. A quick glance shows me Nora's nostrils flaring in suppressed anger. Orchid's pert instructions let loose the flood. "I want you both to address me as Mistress," she tells us gravely. "I hope this will annoy you, but you'd better do it--or else!"
"Up your ass, you pompous little bitch!" Nora snorts in a fury. "You needn't think I'm going to kiss your furry fanny for a bit of brown-nosing!"
There is not exactly silence. Nora is panting heavily in both anger and apprehension. Her chained hands are clenched into fists, straining against the metal circlets which deliver her to Orchid's pleasure. Orchid's smile is radiant. Nora has played into her hands exactly as desired. She unhooks the little whip from her belt and says, almost with love, "This won't kill you, but when you want me to stop, all you have to do is tell me and call me Mistress."
Oh damn, this is a bad start, but I suppose no more than I might expect. Orchid has an excuse for using her beastly little whip, but I suppose she doesn't really need one. It just makes her task easier. She circles Nora's cringing nakedness and suddenly, without warning, slashes the impotent globes of a captive bottom.
I feel absurdly maternal to Nora, no matter how Angela and I may have been irritated by the little so-and-so, it is hard to stand as I must stand and watch her whipped for an understandable outburst of petulance. Common sense tells me to snap at her to behave and do what she is told, but in me there is also pride. What I behold could just as well be me on the receiving end of the vicious little whip. My own tongue is not always prudent! I stare in bitter fascination, my own fists clenched and my nudity taut in protest. I hope, with each carefully placed stroke Orchid inflicts, it will be the last and Nora will be sensible and accept an admission of slavery which after all is nothing more than a few words she does not have to mean. But Nora chooses martyrdom, her lips tight, her body as taut as mine. She scarcely moves beneath the blows and makes no sound. She is making a declaration of a war she cannot win.
The little whip is busy. It seeks out all the unkind places and is used with tremendous verve and vigor upon the maiden derriere so that after awhile Nora's hips begin to weave and she bursts out uncontrollably, "Stop it! Oh, stop it! You rotten little bitch!"
I moan silently. But Orchid takes a fresh stance and addresses her attentions to fresh parts of a naked girl who cannot move from where she stands. Nora can turn and twist to her heart's content, but she can place nothing of herself beyond Orchid's range. The end is inevitable, when Orchid herself is beginning to pant with the exertion, Nora manages a gasping exhalation. "Stop it, oh please stop, please don't whip me any more... Mistress." The last word is like the extraction of a tooth.
"Well, that's that," says Orchid companionably. "You had to get that out of your system, didn't you. I really have enjoyed whipping you. This is a lovely little whip. I've never used it before, but it lets me go all out. Did it hurt much?"
"Yes, horribly!"
"I'm so glad," Orchid infuses. "It hasn't made any real weals on you, but you're beautifully scarlet as though you're blushing all over. I expect there'll be a few marks tomorrow, but nothing bad. In any case, I'm going to sort of put you in cold storage-- unless Daddy wants you. You're sort of extra. The girl I really want is Felicity."
Nora and I have food for thought. She about the cold storage and me as to why I am thus desired. We now have an example of fourteen-year-old authority. One of the guards is summoned and in brief competence he frees Nora but locks her hands behind her back in the familiar captivity I know so well. He leads her from the room. She does not struggle. I suspect his grip on her bare arm hurts. At the doorway she holds back to turn and say, "Thank you, Mistress," before she is dragged from sight. Even I cannot tell if she was buttering up Orchid or offering an outrageous sarcasm. Orchid is puzzled too, but has other things on her mind. She fetches a chair, a comfortable armchair, and curls herself within its lap, drapes her little whip suggestively over one thigh, and eyes me with immense approval. Her eyes tell me I am most surely owned.
"Do you know why I want you, Felicity?" The demand is direct and abrupt.
I see no sense in being coy or in beating around the bush. I might as well offer my own theory. "It's probably because you are at the age to resent adult direction in your life... Mistress. I am a fully grown girl, fully developed and supposedly mature. It will please you to own me and reverse our roles. You will make me do your bidding, knowing all the time how I must resent and chafe against the authority of a girl of fourteen years."
Orchid nods. It would appear I have hit the right note. But now she comes up with, "That's good, but there's something else, and I bet you know what it is."
"I think I do. I believe you see me as a lesbian, and you want to play lesbian games. Keeping us as helpless as we are, you could compel us to whether we wanted it or not, but you'd sooner have a girl who's willing."
"You see, I knew you were the right one. But, Felicity, don't ever look at me as just a fourteen-year-old moppet. I'm as ancient as the hills in what I know and what I want. Do you like pain?"
"Not really. Sometimes when I've been whipped by a girl I've loved, I've had an erotic thrill from it. But never if it is inflicted too hard or lasts too long. I'm only a girl, you know. There's just a span of years between the two of us, essentially we're the same... Mistress."
I take the last word on in unseemly haste.
"Bother you to call me that?"
"Not really. You see, I belonged to a girl for more than two years. She's a lot older than you, but essentially, there hasn't been that much difference. I never called her Mistress, but that's really what she was."
"I sensed it in you. I'm sure you're wondering, so I can tell you what I want you for. I want to whip that beautiful maturity, those curves which have reached their complete fulfillment, you will never be more beautiful than you are now, and I possess you." Orchid's face is dreamily content. She is seeing visions. "But there's the other thing too. The lesbian thing." She giggles naughtily and is once more fourteen. "It's frowned on terribly back home where we really live. I'd be whipped to pieces if Daddy really knew or any of our relations suspected. What we are going to do together, the things I make you do to me, is just between us girls. Understand?"
"Yes, I understand, Mistress." Do I ever!
Orchid is pleased. She uncurls her supple youthfulness, her fingers flash, and a moment later she stands before me nude. I am no authority on fourteen-year-old pubes, but Orchid's match the intense blackness of her hair. She is a beautiful girl, and I cannot imagine her becoming more beautiful with age, except perhaps her breasts. They are still young cones with a little way to go. Abruptly, she demands, "Felicity, tell me what you see!"
I discard the trite. I simply say, "I see a woman."
Once more it is the right note. Perhaps this girl possesses some prescience, or perhaps we are simply attuned and in rapport. Being Orchid's slave may tax me to my limit, but I feel only an excited curiosity as at the beginning of a new adventure. She puts her tiny garments back on, then conies to me and gently fondles my breasts, her eyes searching mine in dark assessment. "May I whip one of these. Felicity?"
Why would she ask! She can do what she likes with me. She can whip both my breasts, and there's nothing I can do about it. But this girl is constantly in search of something, something which has eluded her up until now. Very simply say, "Yes, please choose which one you like, Mistress."
"You're very sweet. I will probably adore you and spoil you utterly, Felicity. " Her fingers continue their exploration on my twin mounds. "I'm only going to give you one, and I want you to stand just as you are now, as though we were talking. " She pauses, and at the end of the pause kisses my lips. "You've no idea what this means to me."
It is a swift, sharp, very accurate slash. The thin thongs splay out to encompass the treasure I cannot shield. Pain burns bitterly, but I have steeled myself to immobility and silence. Orchid and I savor my anguish together, each in our own way and in a perfect understanding of what and why. I am deeply thankful it was only one. It hurt!
"You took that perfectly, Felicity." Her lips are very close, and she speaks in whispers. "May I call you darling? It is one of the Nordic endearments I approve of. You are a darling, you really are."
"I want you to call me that." I am becoming a little breathless. Orchid exudes vibrations in shattering waves. She also exudes a delicious girl smell. "I will always try and remember to call you Mistress. " I even manage a gay little laugh. That's actually what you are now. You have me helpless."
She kisses me, and I kiss back hard, straining at my chain. I have not yet asked her to free me, and I wonder if I dare. Instead, I plead, "Mistress, please don't be unkind to Nora. She's just a girl, and often she's a very silly girl."
This note is definitely wrong. The vibrations tell me so instantly. Orchid's whisper takes on a new tone. "You shouldn't have asked that, darling. You must never presume on my affection to seek favors for yourself or anyone else. You must never impose, and don't ever try to manage me. I absolutely will not be managed! You know I'm going to punish you."
I know! I nod and ask as though I had read her mind. "My other breast?"
"How did you guess!" Orchid's laugh trills like silver. "This time, because you've been bad, it will be very, very hard. Keep still."
I close my eyes, pain seeking and finding me in the darkness. It is a pain about which all the adjectives might be used. They skim through my mind as though I hold tensely still and very silent while my body and every part of me absorbs this agony of my breast. As though in regret of what she has done, Orchid's fingers once more take up their play upon my curves. Pain vanishes. She has the magic touch.
"We have come a long way in a little time Felicity."
Orchid is standing back to get the full frontal view of the nakedness her father has purchased for her pleasure The little whip is fingered and drawn back and forth across her hand. She is eyeing me with what is undoubtedly love. Orchid is a duality, the mischievous moppet and the mature reasoning woman. It may tax me to the full to keep pace with her flitting back and forth. She whispers as though in awe, "Was that as wonderful for you as it was for me, darling? Just think, a fully developed woman's breasts, and I whipped them! And I can whip them again and again and again. It makes me feel almost humble. It's so much what I've always wanted. Will you hate me?"
It is my own voice, but I am not conscious of forming the words. "No, I won't hate you, Mistress. I belong to you. I must never, never hate you."
We are back in the right groove. What matters a pair of burning breasts? Orchid's lips find mine again while her hand steals down to possess another part of me, her grip firm and strong and demanding. But she is still in a playful mood. "My bush isn't nearly as thick and long as yours, darling. Will mine grow some more?"
"Yes, Mistress. Mine grew after I was your age."
"I want at least as much as you have," she sighs wistfully. "I wish I didn't have to wait."
"You're beautiful the way you are, Orchid."
"Well... I suppose. Darling, would you like me to shave your pussy bare?"
"If it was a punishment, I'd hate it."
"But you'd part with it willingly for love?"
"Yes, I guess I would. But, Mistress, I don't want to be shaved."
"If you were bad and I wanted to truly punish you, I'd have one of the men do the shaving. Wouldn't that be a real gas to be tied down with your legs wide open and have a man in there with lather and a blade? Does the idea burn a fire down inside there?"
The girl is wise. My fire is blazing. Not because I want a man to shave my pussy, but the whole atmosphere and intent of her whispering is so wickedly female. Orchid can sense every reaction I may possess. Her palm has become more gentle in its kneading of my flesh. "You will give me an orgasm if you keep that up, Mistress," I warn.
"Think I don't know that, darling? I'll stop. It is for you to pleasure me, not the other way around. But you can't do a thing now, can you? You're so gorgeously helpless. I do love having you chained the way you are. But that brings up two more questions. You'd better answer truthfully."
"I promise, Mistress."
"If I free one cuff to let your arms down, will you allow me to cuff you again without a struggle?"
"Yes, Mistress." I meet her eyes frankly. "I won't be a heroine about this. I'm quite sure there are men who would come should you call. Perhaps you know karate tricks I do not. I simply think I would be a foolish girl to try to prevent you fastening me any way you want."
Orchid nods approvingly. "You're so sensible, Felicity. I suppose some of it's rubbed off from the other girl by whom you were owned. I'm going to love unchaining you and then chaining you in some different way. I'll use cords on you too. I can make cords so tight they almost vanish in your skin. I can make you yelp when I tug the knot."
"Yes, Mistress. It has been done to me often."
"Then there's the question of what we are going to call this little object here." She pats at my pussy with firm authority. "There's a lot of names for it, and most of them are disagreeable. The best one of all is the four-letter word which is so beautifully explicit. But it is so commonly in use by the rabble--the people who don't count--that I don't like it." She giggles archly. "You wouldn't like me to call it a pudendum, would you?"
"I never discovered a name I've wanted to use myself," I admit thoughtfully. "I always fall back on pussy. I know it's a little girl thing carried forward from school, but what the hell!"
"Yes, that seems the way of it. I suppose we may as well use whatever comes to mind. Look, darling, one more question. " She cups my face in her hands, and I smell my own girl scent so close to my nostrils. "Will you eat me without having to be whipped into submission?"
"Yes."
Orchid giggles delightedly. "I was right, wasn't I?"
"Yes, Mistress."
We understand each other.
Orchid does not release me. I am left to stand with arms upraised and shackled wrists. She curls again into the big armchair and plays absently with the little whip. "I'm thinking about that silly girl, Nora," she says reflectively. "She's locked in a cell downstairs right now, but I don't know what to do with her." She gives a chuckle. "I suppose I could use her. She'd be handy if I got really made at you. I could go down there and whip her instead of you. " Orchid's eye is suddenly shrewd. "That would be a sure and certain way of having you behave, wouldn't it, darling?"
Abjectly, I agree, then cringe as she outlines a further thought. "I suppose we could use her as bait for capturing her big sister. Do you think this Angela of yours would come running if she knew dear little Nora was tied naked to a tree somewhere?"
I shrink at the thought. It has a terrible plausibility. I don't suppose I reveal state secrets when I say, "I think arrangements have already been made with Paul Garrick by that woman Lil. She wants Angela as bad as you do. She's made him an offer. I'm frightened for Angela. She won't understand her danger."
"But she'll be frantic about little sister, eh?"
"Of course." I pause in consternation. "I suppose you'd whip my breasts again if I asked you to leave Angela alone? I'm sure there's nothing you can do to her you cannot do to me."
Orchid follows my reasoning, but has a ready answer. "Darling, I'm surprised you wouldn't understand. You're a perfect submissive, and while I haven't met your Angela, she almost has to be a dominant. Just think of the pleasure I'd find in whipping a dominant who'd hate every stroke and who'd hate me too."
"But Angela isn't like that," I protest. "She isn't dominant at all. It's just that she and I loved each other. What she and I did together was a thing for laughter."
"All right then, Felicity, if that's the way it is. " Orchid is flexible in her desires. "Imagine the happiness I'll get out of watching your face while I whip Angela, or perhaps vice versa. I can play the two of you off against each other. I could even make big sister whip little sister." Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "But I'll bet little sister would whip big sister with a lot more enjoyment. Am I right?" Orchid is greedy. I wish she'd be satisfied with having me. She said I was what she wanted, but now she wants Angela too. I couldn't bear to see Angela bound or chained or whipped, or anything like that. Angela is made for love, not slavery. But I am helpless. All I can do is hope Angela is too smart for Paul Garrick. I can't imagine he could take her easily.
"Felicity, have you ever been really and truly tied up tight?" Orchid is once more the eager child. "I mean, so tight the ropes leave marks?"
Orchid is a delicious bit of female. While I tell her of the ways in which I have been bound, I examine all of her I can see. She is female, she is feline, she is extraordinarily plaint, her body motions almost fluid. My heat burns strong in anticipation of what she will compel me to do to her. But is compel the proper word! Whatever this nymphet tells me to do, I will most certainly do. I have no doubt of it. My skin feels a delightful scorch under the intensity of her regard. I wonder if pets feel this way when their owners look at them!
"Your first test, darling. I'm going to free one cuff." She grins a pixie grin, no doubt spoiling for a fight. I would not suppose Orchid could get the best of me, but who knows? Demurely, I say, "Thank you, Mistress. That will be nice."
I find myself excited as I watch Orchid unwind herself form the chair. Something is going to happen, and I don't know what, but suppose it is something nice. Suppose this shining jewel of a girl gives me the right orders. Suppose she sets me free! Anything could happen. Ashamed, I realize I am trembling.
Orchid stands on a low chair, her breasts enticingly close, her pubes, though hidden by her tiny skirt, send me vibrations of their own. We are tremendously conscious of each other as she fits the tiny key and my arms become suddenly my own again. I go through the usual motions of comforting both ache and chafe. Orchid steps down, watching me, alert but bright eyed. She says very simply, "Turn your back to me, Felicity, and put your arms behind."
I have done it many, many times, but never with a thrill such as this!
"Kneel, Felicity. I'm going to make you a slave."
I obey mechanically. It is as though my body had awaited this command. I will resent humiliations, but I am intensely curious.
For a moment nothing happens, then she kicks my knees apart wider and wider until she is satisfied at the exposure of my sex. "Now sit back on your heels, Felicity. You'll see how wonderful you are. " Orchid is excited too.
It is a perfect pose. When Orchid thrusts my head forward and down, I behold what she can see and know myself female indeed. With my head bowed in total obedience, my hair falling down beside one cheek, I must be the most submissive creature in the world. "Darling, you are so beautiful I can scarcely bear it. Can you understand?"
"I understand, Mistress." My voice is a husky whisper, but Orchid can hear.
"You want me to take you to bed, don't you? I can tell. I want to take you too, but it's far too early. What I'm going to do now is take you down and show you dear little Nora. But not right now-- stay as you are. I'm loving every moment of that pose."
I love it too. I hold it until her order comes for me to rise. I stand before my adolescent mistress, naked and with my hands demurely behind my back. When Orchid says, "Come along, darling," I walk passively at her side. We go downstairs, but this is a place of sunlight--there is no gloom. Orchid leads me to a passage on one side of which are bars. Behind the bars are small prisons. In one of them is Nora. She has been placed against one barred wall of her cell, her hands and feet spread wide and bound. She is a lovely butterfly impaled upon a wall, her legs so wide apart that the exposure of her sex is faintly obscene.
"Isn't she sweet, Felicity? I had our man tie her this way especially. It's another of those dreams I've had, and now it's true. Let's go inside."
Orchid unlocks the heavy bars of the door, and I follow her inside.
I wait and wonder what my mistress is going to do.
"Eat her, Felicity. Go ahead, she's all yours."
Nora and I stare aghast in shock. It is so totally unexpected, yet I suppose in character for this fourteen-year-old who owns us both. The last thing I wish to do is kneel between Nora's wide spread legs and put my lips and tongue to work. Nora is Angela's sister!
"What are you waiting for, Felicity?" Orchid's tone is brightly expectant.
I turn in distress. "I can't. Mistress. Nor;, is Angela's sister--it wouldn't be right."
"It is right if I tell you to. Darling, you did hard my order, didn't you?"
"Yes, I heard." I am suddenly twisting against my handcuffs in a way I had not wished to do. My eyes widen in dismay. "Please, Mistress, don't make me do it. Keep me for yourself."
"Oh, I'll keep you, darling," I am assured. "But right now I've given you an order." Orchid unhooks the little whip from her belt, and three girls stare at each other in a terrible knowledge. With a silent moan, I slip to my knees and shuffle myself into position between the bound ankles of Angela's sister.
The little whip does not have to be used on me at all.
I do my work too well. Nora is still panting, her head hangs wearily down. She lets it as the door clangs shut and gives us only a perfunctory glance before allowing herself to go limp once more.
"I got a tremendous thrill out of watching you and Nora, "Orchid confides seriously. "I think it must be really wonderful to be spread out and tied the way I have Nora and then to know what's going to be done to you and hating every part of it. It must be the grooviest feeling when the other girl is forced to kneel between your legs and do what she is compelled to do. You couldn't see darling, but there were a few moments when Nora really struggled. We'll have to do that again. I don't think it would be any use tying you that way and having her do it to you because you're really half a lesbian already. But some time in the future I might let one of you tie me that way and use me as the victim. What do you think, darling?"
"I don't think you'd ever dare put yourself in that position." I tell her laughingly. "You bound tight and Nora and I free to do what we liked to you! I don't think it will ever happen. But sure, I can see what you mean."
Orchid lets it drop. She leads me out into the gardens where the sun is bright and warm and we are alone and unseen. There is a tree, and Orchid drags a garden chair to the spot of her choice, then compels me to adopt the kneeling posture I have been taught. She sits, I kneel.
"For the first while I'm going to be gorgeously curious about you who are a fully grown and fully developed girl," she tells me, her eyes bright. "You're the first one I've owned, and the idea of me doing anything I want to you simply crinkles my little- well, whatever you want to call it. I've got a sort of image of you, properly tied and me caning your bottom. I think the cane has a quality all its own, and on your fully grown bottom it's going to make the most wonderful thuds and clunks and splats. You're two lovely round bottoms will absorb it in a way mine won't. Mine's too small, yet everything's so yummy and so absolutely right about a girl whose full grown like you."
I have an awful feeling of something building up which my bottom and all the rest of me will have to bear. In the meantime, I simply kneel.
"Do you see that tree over there, darling? I'm considering having you bound to it late this evening and leaving you there all night. Will you enjoy that?"
"I can't imagine I would, Mistress."
Orchid nods. She is pleased. We both know she is savoring her power over me.
"In a little while, darling, I'm going to take you to a more secluded place, and I will position myself properly so you can service me the way you did funny little Nora. Will you like that?"
"I will like it. Mistress."
"You see, darling, I give you both pain and pleasure. I'll try and never make it all one or the other--that would be a bore. I bet your darling Angela went all one way. I bet she never had you tied to a tree, did she?"
"Well... no. That wasn't her thing at all."
"Well, it's mine! I do hope whoever's kidnapping her hurries up about it. I want to have her tied up in the most humiliating ways and then have you look or watch or just walk by."
Orchid is hard to cope with. Carefully, I suggest, "Mistress, if you have all three of us girls, why don't you let Nora go free? You don't like her, and you don't want her, and I'm not a bit sure your father is interested either. You're already thinking up the most interesting things for me alone."
"Free!" She laughs in my face. "You have got to be kidding, darling. You'll never be free again. Should I tire of you, which isn't likely, I'd just have you shipped over to where we come from and sold there." She giggles. "Daddy would get his money back and more."
"Your father and you could free us if you wanted to."
"Of course we could--you belong to us. I'll sort of dangle the idea in front of your nose like a donkey in front of a carrot, but there's no way I'm going to let you loose or give you any chance of escape." Orchid pauses in sober reflection. "Are you still of the same mind to let me fasten you any way I want whenever I've preciously freed you for some purpose?"
This is a bad one. I say, quite simply, "Yes, I will keep my promise. I will let you do whatever you wish with me." I am led into seclusion. It is a privacy to be desired in what we are about to do.
"I'm going to free your hands, darling. I desire your hands as well as your lips. This is your first test. Turn yourself around." I quiver with delight. I am free, free, free! I wave my arms like windmills. Orchid disposes of what she wears and then arranges her nakedness for my convenience. I sink down upon her loveliness like a bird upon its prey. I am so glad she has given me my hands. The two cuffs glisten on a single wrist. I will use my hands to pleasure her.
I go to work.
CHAPTER EIGHT - ROPE WITHOUT A KNOT
It is late afternoon before she tells me, "That will do for this time, darling. You are wonderful. I'm not going to give you pleasure. Does that make you angry?"
"it disappoints me, Mistress." I hold up my wrist where upon both cuffs are clasped. "While I wear these, I must not permit anger."
Orchid is tremendously pleased with my reply. I turn my back to her and cross my wrists, but she laughingly slaps one of my bottom cheeks and says, "Don't be silly, I'll tell you when you're going to be fastened again. Right now you're going to be fed and bathed. Come along. " I am bathed magnificently, and the two of us eat alone in splendor. I am then delivered into the hands of the two servants I already know. The man and the woman who impassively possess themselves of one of my bare arms apiece and lead me to where I must spend the night. Robbed of Orchid's glowing and redundant presence, I am scared. When we emerge into the walled garden and the summer twilight, I am just plain frightened.
They lead me to the tree. They turn me about and thrust my bare back hard against the trunk. They take my arms behind the trunk and put my handcuffs back into use. I cannot possibly escape. I cannot leave the tree. This strange imprisonment is something Remplehaven did not provide. They have tied my arms, but have put no further bonds upon my wrists except the familiar handcuffs. I can move my hands, but for the rest of me I struggle frantically but do not move. I am an exquisitely bound girl.
It is Orchid who comes to release me in the morning. She trips gaily in my direction, but stops a few feet distant to enjoy the view. Her question is spontaneous: "Does it hurt real bad, darling?"
I nod. "Real bad."
"I'm so glad. I told them to make sure it did. Darling, they've done such a beautiful job I hate to untie you."
I must expect to be teased. All I say is a very meek, "Yes, Mistress."
Orchid is suddenly a whirlwind of fingers and biting teeth. It seems a long time before the ropes fall and only the handcuffs are left. She unlocks one of the handcuffs from a single wrist. We hug and purr at each other like kittens. When she turns me around and locks both my wrists behind my back, we say no word. The act deserves no comment.
Orchid giggles incessantly as she feeds me, but I am willing to bet she will soon tire of this exercise and give me my hands so I can feed myself. After I have been bathed and fed, I am led by my adolescent owner to where her prisoner languishes in what she describes as a cell, and that is exactly what it is.
Nora is not happy, but is better off than when I saw her yesterday. Her hands are behind her back the same as me, but upon her neck is an iron collar. The chain from it is far from light. It trails its many links to a ring in the wall. It snubs poor Nora short when she delightedly leaps forward to meet us at the bars.
"Oh, Felicity dear, am I glad to see you! Look what's done to me. I've been this way all night. I can't even move around this horrible cell without half breaking my neck. " She turns her attention to Orchid. "Please unlock it from me... Mistress?"
Orchid appears not to hear, but she does unlock the door and leads me inside. I kiss Nora. I feel like a bitch that my neck is not similarly collared.
"I have been giving her lessons," Orchid says placidly. "Show Felicity how you've learned to kneel, Nora. Do it now."
The sad, young prisoner looks back and forth, then backs up to gain some slack from her chain and slithers herself to the floor where she repeats the process Orchid has already taught me. Nora becomes beautiful.
"Up on your feet, little slave girl. I want you to demonstrate to Felicity how well you have learned to love the cane." Orchid's voice is silky with venom.
She does everything very slowly, as though hating everything she is compelled to do. I watch Nora select a suitable portion of the cell floor, and then, with feet well apart, bent forward toward the floor and invite without enthusiasm, "Please, Mistress, will you cane my bottom?"
"You see, Felicity, isn't she sweet! Since she's asked so prettily, I absolutely must give her just one."
Nora's features register faint relief. Orchid selects a cane from out in the passage and comes back flexing it in her fingers. It is a cane Orchid wishes to use on me. As though it was a perfectly natural act, Orchid takes her stand, swings the yellow cane in a wide arc, and snaps it forward upon Nora's twin globes. Nora squeals and yelps, but does not move. Evidently there has been some training going on here.
"You may stand up properly now, Nora."
"Thank you, Mistress." Nora's hands seek to give comfort to the vivid weal just implanted on her flesh. Her gaze is desolate as she watches us depart.
"That was the yummiest feeling," Orchid confides when we reach her bedroom. She bites one of my nipples playfully. "Didn't you feel it, darling, that glorious thunk."
I had felt it! When she produces another iron collar similar to the one on Nora's neck, it comes as no surprise. I tilt my chin and hold still while the heavy metal encircles my neck and is clicked tight and snug. It is horribly heavy. She hooks a finger into the ring and says, "You see, darling, I can leash you and lead you around like a puppy dog, or I can tether you some place and there you are. Do you like your lovely new collar?"
"Not really. It's heavy and sort of frightening."
"Goody, goody, that's the effect I want, darling. I think I'll keep a collar on you always." She snaps the leash upon the ring and leads me to the wall.
The little demon is going to confound all normal precepts. I stand, I simply stand. Orchid tethers me with no more than twelve inches of slack, she leaves my hands cuffed behind my back. She runs her hands across that part of me she intends to cane. Over and over she exclaims, "Oh, darling, you're so beautiful. You'd best scream real loud or I'll never stop caning you."
The awful whistle of sliced air tells me the moment is right now. It is a brutal, searing pain no girl could possibly enjoy. It splats across my taut cheeks fulfilling every promise of venom. I contrive a funny sort of grunt, I cannot possibly keep entirely silent, it is accompanied by a gasp of pain which I am sure gives pleasure, but not to me! Behind me Orchid's breath is as fast a mine, her voice infinitely tender in excitement. "Oh, darling, it's simply gorgeous. You've no idea!"
I have an idea, although I do not tell her so. I endure number two with what stoicism I can manage. Again the whir and the awful thud, at least it sounds like a thud to me. I do everything I had made up my mind to forswear. The collar and leash laugh at my efforts, but enable me to contort outrageously. Orchid stands breathless, then says, "That's all, darling. If I caned you a hundred strokes, you wouldn't be more beautiful than now." She giggles delightedly. "Besides, there's something else I've got for you. A little surprise."
I am blindfolded and Orchid leads me from the room.
The blindfold is snatched from my eyes. I blink in the sudden light and try to orient my gaze, but nothing is right. It takes me moments to recognize what I behold. I am staring at a female groin and a heavy thatch of pubic hair.
Between widely stretched bare thighs, I behold the circlet tightly clamped upon two lips beneath a Venus mound, following the strand to where it joins an iron collar upon a female neck, I find myself staring face to face with Nora, her eyes are as wide as mine, her lips as silent. We are tethered inescapably to the pussy of a girl. A girl whose legs have been ruthlessly dragged apart and thus bound. We know instinctively her name.
It is Angela.
"I promised a surprise," Orchid's voice thrills happily from behind. "You can talk now if you wish. Angela was delivered early this morning. I'm such a lucky girl."
Angela is bound standing. She is naked, her arms and hands stretched high and wide as are her feet. We are attached to her by the tiny tether which denies us movement beyond a few inches. We kneel before her loins. All three of us are strangely silent in this momentous reunion. Now all three of us belong to Orchid. Damn, damn, damn!
"I'm going to leave you alone for a little while, darling," Orchid tells us happily. "I'm sure you've got thing to say and you can't be quite sure I'm not listening outside the door. Oh, and by the way, I'm going to cane the bottoms of you two older girls later on. It will give you something to talk about."
When we are alone, I tell Angela, "She's told us to be polite. It's best to be careful. Please forgive me."
I'm sure we make a pretty tableau. Angela is the central focus of the picture. She cannot move much, but tells us cheerfully about leaving clues which surely someone will follow before the three of us enter permanent enslavement. She no longer complains when Nora and I both use our cheeks and lips in the only expressions of love our tether permits. We are thus busily employed when a male voice ejaculates, "Well, I'll be damned!"
It is Mark Stevens. His harnessed maleness dissipates the femininity of Orchid's dream. We become three silly girls caught in naughtiness. His laughter tells us of his enjoyment in our plight. "You've got the damnedest gift for getting in trouble, haven't you! I'm surprised at you, Miss Remple. I thought you were above all this."
"Please unfasten us, please get us out of this." Our three voices strike him in unison. We all say exactly the same thing.
Policemen are wonderful--they are everything. It is little more than moments before all three of us are free. Nora and I still wear our iron collars, but that is all. Mark takes me in his arm and after we have kissed and kissed says bluntly, "I'm going to have to marry you, Felicity, to keep you out of trouble." He pats my bottom possessively, then adds. "That pretty little teenager is crying her heart out downstairs. I almost feel sorry for the kid, and her old man's too damn big to prosecute over a piece of nonsense like this."
"This is not a piece of nonsense--it's kidnapping," Angela says forcefully. She turns to me. "Felicity, you had better tell this young man whose property you are. He appears to be under a misapprehension."
Oh, shit! What am I into! Mark Stevens sets me back and himself steps aside so all four of us may view each other without hindrance. I am terribly aware of the focus of their eyes. I am in love with Mark Stevens. I adore darling Angela. I can feel the tension build. Nora is just an avid spectator, but the other two demand decision. My familiar handcuffs dangle carelessly from Mark Stevens's fingers. It is as though they are waiting for the wrists they have clasped so long. But they were Angela's handcuffs. It was Angela who kept them on me! The silence is a leaden wait upon my heart.
