Drusilla

11 Behind Bars

“It is the male prerogative, Drew.” Quigley’s voice was gentle.

“I don’t care!” Drusilla’s retort was petulantly resentful. “I don’t want to be—let’s call it by its proper name—I don’t want to be—fucked!”

“You really have nothing to say about it.”

“Perhaps not. But I’ll turn myself off—be no good!”

“Drew, don’t be silly. There are ways—!”

Drusilla wanted to cry, to beat her fists, to stamp, to scream. She was being reduced to a nothing, a neat parcel still bound with a man’s tie around her wrists. The knots had been examined and found adequate to keep her helpless. She supposed she was to spend the night thus secured—in Quigley’s bed. Her responses were sulkily defiant.

“You mean you can torture me until I spread my legs nicely?”

“No problem about spreading your legs, Drew,” Quigley was trying to be patient. “You’re helpless. I can tie you spread-eagle... I can even put a pillow under your bottom.”

“I’m sure you can.” Drusilla wrenched angrily at her fastened wrists. “But I still won’t make it good for you. I’ll hate every poke.”

“Diana made you that much of a Lesbian?” Quigley’s tone was cooling.

“Does it matter? I just don’t want to be fucked—not by any man.”

“But a woman’s tongue’s O.K.?”

“Well, why not! It’s my cunt, isn’t it? I ought to have something to say about what goes inside.”

“Drew, you’re forgetting.” His voice was blandly final. “You’re a slave.”

“Oh, that—horseshit!”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“I’m kidnaped. Quigley, I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“Would you like me to take you back downstairs?” Drusilla’s heart missed a beat. She most ardently did not want to return to The Room and its myriad of possibilities of pain. “All right then.” She surrendered listlessly. “Go ahead and use my cunt to plant your seed. I can’t stop you. But don’t expect love as well.”

“I expect something more than sulky hostility from a slave girl.”

“Piss on your slave girl business!”

“You are one!”

“All right, so I’m a slave. Go ahead. Use me.”

“I want more from you than that. We’ve known each other a long time. I’m fond of you.”

“Damned funny way of showing it.”

“I intend to have intercourse with you often.”

“That word makes it respectable? Quigley, be a dear and chain me up or something for the night and let’s both get some sleep.”

“Not until we’ve settled this.”

“If you insist on love along with your tail, you’d better take me downstairs and start whipping me—or whatever.”

“Drusilla! ! !”

“Well, I can’t help it. You ask too much. I used to like you—”

“But you don’t now?”

“Dammit, Quig’, you’re talking about torturing me! What d’you expect of a girl?”

Quigley Albertson eyed his recent acquisition with exasperation. Drusilla’s constant strivings against her simple bond kept him persistently erect. She was beautiful and responsive enough to offer him more than an opened crotch. But he found the idea of whipping her into a tearful or hysterical submission displeasing. He was more irritated than angry with her obduracy. His possession of this entrancing creature would be long enough to ensure a final victory. But the events of the evening plus the sight of her tensed nudity had excited him to a demanding need. She was his! She was here—helpless! And yet...?

“Drusilla. Be a nice girl. Be sensible.”

“I am a nice girl.” She shrugged disdainfully and hoped he could not discern her fear of the downstairs room.

Quigley sighed and said: “Very well, Drew—” She almost felt sorry for him.

A girl’s hair was a great convenience for slave owners, Drusilla reflected bitterly, as a male hand gathered hers and led her to where she had no wish to go.

The Room had been cleared. Its party over, it had resumed its functional appearance. To the naked woman with bound hands it seemed trebly bleak. Drusilla was trembling.

“I shall cane your bottom. You can tell me when to stop.”

It was uncomfortable and demeaning to stand with her arms dragged high to an unseen pulley. Obeying the compulsion of wracked shoulders Drusilla bent forward, her hair falling to the floor. It was very simple. Quigley was seeking a quick and easy disposal of her intransigence. Her protruding bottom was helpfully available for the convenience of the cane.

It was like an internal explosion. The flash of fire, the scream of every nerve. On top of her day, it was too much. Drusilla wailed and wept. Her tears were unashamed.

Quigley surveyed his prize in dismay. Whatever reaction he had expected, it was not this. Tears were Minnie’s last resort. They left him disturbed and uncertain. “Stop that blubbering,” he admonished crisply.

“I can’t!” More tears.

“If you don’t stop crying I shall strike you again.”

“If you hit me again I won’t be able to stop crying.” Quigley observed logic. Quigley, too, had endured a long and tiring day. Bed loomed invitingly. “You’re not going to get away with this,” he declared ominously.

“I don’t expect to,” Drusilla sniffed sadly and waited for her next cut.

It did not come. Instead, her arms were lowered and loosed, leaving her still prisoner of the foulard. Without hope, she watched Quigley gather rope. When he repossessed her hair, she made no protest.

“I do this to Minnie,” Quigley said gruffly. “It gives excellent results.”

Drusilla supposed it might. It was not until she had been backed against the tree and belted to it with rope round her tummy that her wrists were freed of their male adornment. It was instantly replaced, this time with her hands behind the slender trunk.

“It’s quite a big garden and lots of trees. No one can see.” Quigley did not pause in his task of welding her nakedness to the trunk. The rough bark hurt her back, but it was better than the Whip. Drusilla kept a discreet silence while her feet, her knees and her shoulders were securely roped. When Quigley was done with her she could scarcely twitch.

“I don’t suppose you’ll enjoy spending the night like this,” he said dourly. “But it gives you a chance to think. I’ve found it a wonderful softener with obstinate females. You may even be glad to see me in the morning... Oh, and by the way, there’s this.”

The small ball went into her mouth easily. Straps held it there.

“To gag you properly the ball should be much bigger,” Quigley explained. “But this prevents you screaming or calling for help, whilst allowing you to breathe properly.”

Drusilla made sounds. They were small and absurd.

Quigley nodded in a satisfied way. He turned and left her.

It was a summer night without chill. But the woman tied naked to a tree had never felt so bare. The night stretched endlessly. Her tummy flipped at thought of small rodent creatures, Of beetles, or a dog! There would be the cold of morning. There might be mosquitoes... Drusilla’s mind roved and found easy visionings of horror.

She struggled. With all this rope, surely there had to be a bit of slack! But Quigley’s competence was soon manifest. The rope bands upon her nakedness were neat and very tight. Before morning they would hurt. There was no escape from them. Each was carefully cinched. She was captive without hope.

The gag was a punishment. She was hating it more with every minute. It made her drool and turned her experimental screams into tiny mockeries of sound. There could be little doubt the rising sun would find her as tightly secured as when she was left alone. She uttered a heartfelt but silent “Damn!”

She could have been warm in bed! The price of that comfort began to seem small when compared to her present plight. Quigley knew his stuff. She could well picture poor Minnie or herself greeting him tearfully and gratefully when he deigned to release them. Drusilla tossed her hair in bitter frustration. It was the only motion she could make.

She was a slave! And this was the sort of thing a slave might expect. Slavery to a Master would bear little resemblance to slavery to Diana. Only the rope would be the same. Resentfully she faced the certainty of becoming amenable to her Master’s love-making. Quite probably she would eventually be grateful for his attention. He would never allow herself and Minnie... !

The sound was faint, but it was there! She tensed fearfully within her bonds, envisioning creatures of the night. But the sounds persisted and became more positive. Someone was exploring the Albertsons’ garden. When the shadow became real before herself and her tree, she was too petrified to do more than whimper into her gag. Under its prolonged scrutiny, she cringed in total impotence.

“Why, Mrs. Hammill!”

Petty Prentiss’ voice was thrilled and intrigued. At the sound of its youthful excitement, the prisoner of the tree exhaled a great sigh of thankfulness...

Young but nimble fingers brought blessed relief from a hateful gag.

“Petty—Oh, thank God! Oh, Petty -!”

Petty tittered. “Is this for fun, Mrs. Hammill, or should I let you loose?”

“Let me loose! Oh, darling, quick!”

“I thought something was wrong, so I broke a window and got in. Ginny was locked and chained in the cell and I had no keys. But she told me where to come; to come and see if I could find—! I say, Mrs. Hammill, should I have gone to the police?”

“No, dear, no. You did absolutely right. But please oh, please untie me.”

“And Ginny didn’t know about Mrs. Winslow. Is she there?”

“She will be when we get there. You will help me, Petty?”

Petty giggled. Evidently she had never been tied to a tree. “Of course I’ll help, Mrs. Hammill. I’m so thrilled. I told Mummy I was spending the night with Ginny—it’s not really a fib.”

“No, of course not! Oh, Petty, I’m so glad you came. Hurry!”

“You do look nice like that, Mrs. Hammill. I do envy you and Mrs. Winslow and Ginny. Is Mrs. Winslow tied up somewhere?”

“Petty! Please! Get me loose!”

“Oops, sorry! But, like I said, you do look so sweet—” The young fingers had trouble with Quigley’s knots.

Drusilla needed all her fortitude to fight back panic while they fumbled. If her Master returned and found them—! She longed to help but could not. She was totally helpless. With the falling away of each rope her suspense deepened. So much to lose! So much to gain! When, at last, she was joined to her tree by no more than the foulard on her wrists, her rescuer paused and became thoughtful.

“I say, Mrs. Hammill, what are we going to do?”

“Get me loose, that’s what!” Drusilla knew herself still helpless.

“Yes, for sure! But I mean... You’re naked.” Petty desisted in her endeavor and returned to view, obviously puzzling. “I mean, back at Ginny’s place, do we break in again?”

“Yes. Oh. Petty—!”

“But suppose we get captured?” Petty sounded hopeful. “We won’t! But if someone grabs me, you run for the police, O.K.?”

“O.K. Oh, Mrs. Hammill, this is so gorgeously exciting! But what about the keys to the cell and an that?”

“I think I know where to find them. Petty, are you going to untie—!”

“Oh, wow, I forgot! Just a moment.”

It was more than a moment. Drusilla could believe it hours before the adornment for a male neck was peeled from her damp wrists and her hands became her own again. She massaged in an ecstasy of thankfulness.

“Isn’t it lucky I’m wearing panties and bra, Mrs. Hammill? You can have my dress.”

Petty’s slender covering suffered in the exchange. But it rendered Drusilla’s breasts and pubic hair into a tenuous privacy. They traversed the midnight streets like active moonbeams, hiding when they must, running gleefully when they could.

“It’s the little window by the back door, Mrs. Hammill.” It was still broken, the sash still raised. They climbed into the familiar utility room. Stealing quietly downstairs into the passage, they heard a familiar voice.

“Mumsy, don’t take on so. If it wasn’t for these handcuffs behind my back I’d—” There came the murmur of another voice, low and lost.

“But, Mummy, will it be for always? Won’t she ever let us free?”

Diana’s voice became clearly audible. “Ginny darling, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Mrs. Pendleton can go home to her own place every night, just like now, and come back to us during the day. It looks foolproof. I think she’ll keep us a long time. We’d better resign ourselves to that.”

“Why does she handcuff us? We can’t get out of the cell.”

“It amuses her—and keeps me so I can’t do anything.”

“You mean, like fight? And she didn’t have to hang the keys on the passage wall where we can see ’em but can’t reach. ”

“It doesn’t matter where they are, Ginny.”

“Yes, it does, darlings. It matters a lot.”

“Drusilla! ! !”

Two captive faces turned eagerly to the bars.

“And Petty!!!” Two voices spoke rapturously in unison.

Then exclaimed in amazement, “You’re not handcuffed!”

“Free as a bird,” Drusilla gloried in their joy. “You mean it’s over?”

“Your slavery is. In the morning we’ll catch Belinda unaware and give her a taste of her own medicine. Three of us should be able to handle her.”

“Make it four?” implored Petty.

“Oh, Drew, I do love you!” Ginny was once again the joyous moppet with sparkling eyes.

“It’s Petty you have to thank.”

The keys were used to the accompaniment of delighted chatter. When Ginny’s handcuffs were removed, her bottom was patted and she was told to go and find clothes and make coffee. There were hugs and kisses and a scampering of youthful feet. When the Mistress and her slave were alone in the suddenly empty cell they stood awkwardly in indecision.

“Am I still handcuffed on purpose, Drew?” Diana’s voice was wary.

“Yes.”

“You’re going to reverse our roles, darling? Maybe you should.” Diana sounded weary. She grinned wanly at her erstwhile slave. “That bitch spoiled things. I feel soiled, and cheap, and ineffectual. I’m no Mistress.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I screamed... ! Oh, Drew!”

“I’d have screamed, too.”

“But I’m me! At least, I was me! Now I don’t know. Drew, leave me handcuffed. So long as it’s you—”

“I intend to.”

Diana tensed, her head reared, then drooped. “I don’t mind. I’m glad. Keep me always—the way I was going to keep you.”

Drusilla became a whirlwind of arms and lips. “Silly, silly! Ginny can’t possibly have a slave girl for a mother.”

They looked at each other and laughed. “I’d forgotten that,” Diana admitted. “But you’re keeping me handcuffed for something. What is it? Tell me?”

“You’ll stay handcuffed until I’m sure you’re going to be sensible.”

“Drew darling, if you mean being your Mistress again, I can’t. It’s ruined. You saw what Belinda made of me. Everyone saw. I’m just Diana. That’s all.”

“Then you can stay handcuffed.”

“But, Drew... ?”

“Ginny can have one key and I’ll have the other. We’ll keep you as a pet.”

“Drusilla!! !”

“Yes, darling?”

“We can’t! I’d love it, I’m shamed! But there’s Ginny.”

“I knew I’d have this trouble with you,” Drusilla said cheerfully. “If you won’t have me for your slave, I’ll make a present of myself to Ginny. She’d put my handcuffs back on in two seconds flat.”

“And cane your bottom to boot, I’ve no doubt.” Diana managed a wry grin.

“Well, what’s it to be? Want me to call Ginny?”

“Oh, Drew!” There was infinite longing in the words.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“You’re too beautiful. Too perfect. I don’t deserve—”

“I also love you.”

The pause was brief. Diana turned her back. “Unlock me.”

It was a precious moment. When Diana turned again, her slave girl held the handcuffs and the key. They looked deep into each other’s eyes before she proffered them. When the Mistress took the familiar metal in her hands, she asked softly: “Front or back, dear?”

“In front, Mistress,” Drusilla requested demurely. “I have to lift my coffee cup.” She knelt and raised her hands. The shining steel was warm, prisoning her wrists with its own special sounds, tightly and forever.

“You look so sweet,” said Ginny from the door. “I told her the same thing,” said Petty proudly.