Slave Girl and the lash

I can't explain me. I don't want to. Explanations savor of apology. I am not making one. I like me the way I am. I wouldn't change me even if I could. Yolanda would not change me. Yolanda paid a great deal of money for me. I feel guilty sometimes about how much. But she just laughs and says it makes my belonging to her legal. I don't suppose it does, but the psychological effect on me has been total, far more real than a chain on my wrist or my ankle or my neck. But the chain is there too. While I'm thinking about how I'll write this and what I'll say, I'm being punished. Nothing very terrible, but enough to impress me that a slave girl does not talk back. I'm not exactly in a dungeon and not quite in a cell. We call it 'Turpitude Tower', Instead of going downstairs to the dark and scary places I get put in sometimes, we go up. It's still all stone and a bit grim, but castles are like that, even small ones. The Tower room is circular and has a stone pillar in the center. The door is thick and heavy and closes with a spine crinkling thud and it's got big bolts on the outside that thunk into their sockets so that the girl inside positively curls up at the edges at the sound. There is a lovely window and a view, but it has lovely bars that even a very slender naked girl can't begin to wiggle through. I'm naked. Right now, for me, the door and the window are symbolic. I can't get near either. I have to stand against the pillar because there is a metal collar locked round my throat and it's attached to a ring in the stone at the level of my neck. The chain is only a foot long. Figure it out for yourself; I'm not going anywhere. I just stand. Yolanda thinks it's a big giggle. I can even laugh about my plight when she's here, but when she goes away on the other side of the thud and the thunks and I'm all alone, and naked, and chained, my fingers fly to my collar and tug and twist and then explore the chain and the ringbolt as though making sure they are real. I always do this. I know I can't free myself, but the frustration is so great I have to do something. So much held by so little — that's me! I suppose if you're to understand the cloak and dagger and the screams and the terror and the… well, never mind, you'll have to understand me. None of it could have happened if I didn't adore being captive. I love being tied, tight, tight, tight! I love being chained. I can't wait to get incarcerated in dungeons and cells and this lovely 'Turpitude Tower'. I cannot envisage life without being owned. I mean it! Enslaved! The way Yolanda owns me. I even cherish being whipped… up to a point! You are thinking up the names, aren't you! I know! I know them all. Keep 'em, they are not for me. All I know is a dream of beauty. It has always been there. It is the most permanent, real and vital thing in my psyche. It is a forest glade dappled with the misty sun of a June morn. It is a Grecian temple by a Lake. It is the ocean surf glinting and frothing as it spends itself upon a sandy beach. In each scene I am tied to a tree, chained to a column, or fettered to a rock to await the Sea Monster as was Andromeda long ago… And, of course, Yolanda. Take it or leave it. I squirmed, now, in pure sensual enjoyment of my punishment. Yola had not handcuffed my wrists behind my back the way she usually does so as to stop me from playing with my puss. My fingers were half way there when I remembered the Reception. She'd have to let me loose in time. Five, at the latest six p.m. I let my arm fall, I'd keep all my eroticism for the evening. I adored playing second hostess and watching the startled eyes focusing on my chained wrists. But that was hours away. I guessed the time as about an hour past noon. I would stand against my pillar a dreary span. I wished my chain was long enough so I could sit on the floor, but it wasn't, so that was that! Idly, I allowed my fingers to instinctively friction across my nipples, both at once. But it was too wickedly arousing, so I stopped that too. I could imagine Yolanda laughing… Yola is clever with me. She knows exactly where my adoration of the rope and of the whip dissolves into distress. She can detect the difference between my moans of joy and my moans of anguish. When she punishes me she simply uses excess. I am like a tennis player who finds zest in three hard sets, but make it six, then nine, then twelve, and you just can't take it. Right now; against my column, I am tingling with what I secretly call my 'nice feeling'. It will last an hour, perhaps two. But then I'll get tired and lonely and begin to wonder how long it will last. By the time another hour has gone I will be wishing I'd been a good girl.

"Oozing virtue and good intentions, I hope?" It is Yola at last. I must try and hide my relief. My column and I seem to have been together for ages. I have learned not to be flip at such moments. A witty bit of bravado can get me left here for the evening and maybe even the night. It's easy for me to smile in gratitude at her arrival. Even if her coming meant trouble I'd still be glad to see her. I always am and she knows it. So I smile brightly and exclaim: "I'll be ever such a good girl, darling, I promise." It sounds a bit trite, I know. I don't suppose I will be a good girl all that long. I am not reformed, just chastened. We both know this. But the niceties of our relationship have been observed, I will not go to the reception with a smarting bottom.

"You don't deserve to be let loose, Phemie. Just a bare four hours… " We both ignore the pun. We have discovered it's impossible to say much about me that does not have a bit of the risque surfacing somewhere. Incidentally, my name is Euphemia Carstairs. But after all! There are limits, aren't there. I make a very nice Phemie. We're both pleased with it.

"It's seemed the longest time."

"Don't try and con me. You know you're getting off easy. I shall expect some proper behavior this evening. Tease all you like, tell nothing."

"Yes, Mistress." I am sweetly demure.

"Save the Mistress bit 'till later. And I didn't like the way you said that, you're being sarky. You do ask for it, y'know."

"Yes, darling." Butter would not melt in my mouth. Yolanda loves it. It is a game we play. A Russian roulette of repartee with an unknown punishment for me instead of the bullet. It is gorgeously cunt warming because I am forever on a brink. Only Yolanda knows where the precipice is. By the time I have located it I may have stepped over too far and collected half a dozen nice scarlet stripes. I'm terribly lucky.

"If it wasn't for your entertainment value I'd leave you locked here," Yola threatens as she inserts the key. I step away from the pillar, for which I now feel an absurd affection. I rub my chafed neck and savor freedom. In a genuine rush of feeling I sink to my knees and clasp the beloved legs and rub my cheek against them hungrily. But when I raise her skirt and lift my lips, Yola slaps away my hands, laughing.

"No. There isn't time. We now make ourselves incredibly beautiful and decide how much of maiden charm we're going to cover, especially yours." We both know how lucky we are about breasts and tummies and mounds and curves. Ours are so very right! We are breathtakingly in love with each other's body, and with each other. We assuage our hunger in ways and times Yolanda chooses. If I am to be punished, mine is not assuaged at all. I am left with my fire burning in my sex so that I am almost consumed by its heat. As I said, I'm lucky.

"The silver lame's for you, with the matching wrist chains and the emeralds." Yola examines my bathed and perfumed nakedness with a professional eye. "You'll keep every man rigid all evening. I don't know how they keep their hands off you."

"They don't!"

"Watch it! If I catch you leaving the room except for the loo it means a hundred strokes and a week in the dungeon." My heart misses a beat. She means it, every word. Yola is beautifully jealous and protective. But what she orders isn't all that easy. I will indeed watch it. I don't want those hundred marks or that dark chained week any more than any other girl would. But men are so persistent and some of them are nice. "I can't help it if they paw me," I defend myself without sulkiness. Slave girls have to be awfully careful about the sulky bit and keep it for just the right moments.

"You provoke them. You deliberately exude eroticism." Yola is not angry. My eroticism is her favorite theme. Fortunately I affect her as drastically as I do the males. I can't explain that either but it's nice. "If you put a half naked girl whose hands are chained together with silver jewelled shackles into a room full of cocktail sippers she's bound to get a bit of attention." I point out reasonably. I am still thinking of the hundred stripes and the dungeon — some of the men are so terribly persistent!

"Confine your responses to repartee Phemie darling." Yola grins at me lovingly. "I'd lock you safe away if it wasn't that you're my star turn. Half the men only come because you're on display. Not even the females have quite convinced themselves about those chains."

"Can I let them finger them, darling? They all want to just to test if they're real."

"Oh, I suppose so. But don't let them move on to your breasts. You can explain your breasts don't lock and don't have keyholes. With you one thing leads to another; you just stand there starry eyed."

"You said to be nice, darling." This is the way it is with Yolanda and me. It's lovely. Do you sort of get the idea? If you haven't yet, you will. I love her terribly. I don't want her ever to sell me; I think I'd die. We make ourselves gorgeous and giggle about all the erections we'll generate. We are not a bit silly about such things. We know! The silver lame has just enough material to cover part of my curves and to justify the claim that I'm actually dressed. But, looking at me in the big mirror, I palpitate between my legs. It's beautiful and so am I! I want my Mistress to take me to bed right then, but she refuses. Chaining my hands is a darling moment. It's a ritual between us in which we stand close enough to touch and to make our hearts pound with longing. But we can't be nibbling each other constantly, so I just hope the trifle I wear between my legs won't show the stain of my wet, and hold out my hands. I am melting with obedience. I'm terribly proud of how much my chains cost. They are like me, a shocking extravagance of Yola's. The silver bands 'round my wrists are broad and heavy. The metal is cleverly chased and set with emeralds. They lock tight, but the lock is not visible, they become a part of me. The silver links that join them at an eight inch span are not silver at all but some shining wicked metal that won't cut. No one can get them off me except Yolanda. I sigh in pure ecstasy as the gorgeous things snap tight and captivate my wrists. When it is done I test and tug while our eyes sparkle at my lost liberty, then we kiss. We kiss a long time. My prisoned fingers have just enough freedom that they can find my darling's breasts. At last she slaps them away laughingly. I deliberately clink my chain as we go to meet our guests. They are a varied lot. Before Yolanda's parents died and left her all that lovely money their interests had roved over a wide periphery. They ran from the stuffy to the way out. It gave me a nice feeling between my legs to know they were all here because of me. Yola insists they only come to try and discover if I'm really real. Mrs. Pomfret-Jones is one of the stuffy ones.

"Still wearing those silly things on your wrists, I see," she admonishes gruffly. Her approach to any subject is always faintly accusing.

"I'm a slave girl," I tell her brightly. "Slave girls always have chains."

"Stuff and nonsense!" She dismisses all slave girls into the limbo beyond social acceptance. "Why don't you wear some clothes you're scarcely decent?"

"Slave girls don't wear much. It makes it simpler to whip us if we don't behave." I am exquisitely demure. Butter would not melt in my mouth. This is a game we play on every social occasion that brings Mrs. Pomfret-Jones to Castle Glynt.

"Humph! Mind if I have a look at those things?" I offer my chained hands and submit meekly to her tugging scrutiny of the lovely metal. Mrs. Pomfret-Jones worries at my chain in much the same manner as a dog with a bone. "You sure you can't get 'em off, some trick lock?" Her eyes accuse. I shake my head happily. "Only Yolanda." She dismisses me with a doubting "humph", and returns to her safe world of fox-hunts and recalcitrant tenants. The men are much more fun. I manoeuvre myself within the orbit of Major Sprigett and clink my chain.

"Euphemia the slave girl!" he beams, "Is our hostess in a mood to sell you to me today?" I think it is a game with the Major, but I'm not quite sure. He is not stuffy, he is delightfully carnal. "I am not for sale," I tell him primly.

"Think she'd rent us a bedroom?"

"You could ask her."

"I did. She said you were beyond rubies. That's Shakespeare, isn't it! Is it true she whips you?"

"Of course!" Yolanda and I have made our first score for the evening. His erection is visible to the practiced eye.

"Mind showing me some marks?" This is fun. I glow. Pretending a feminine fumble I contrive to give him a quick glimpse of flesh below my hip where Yolanda's whip had curled and bit. The scarlet wound is rampant on my white skin. I hear his indrawn breath. "I can't very well bare my bottom for you here," I apologize naively.

"Good lord! What about your back'?" His hunger is heartbreaking.

"You can see most of it, Major. It only gets whipped in between social functions." He is a nice man. I feel guilty at his burning eyes. He desires me so much he hurts. If it was not for Yolanda's injunction about leaving the room I would lead him by the hand and show him paradise. Yola is right to be strict with me. I am wanton. But a nice wanton.

"I want to plant my seed in you more than I have ever wanted anything in life." His declaration is utterly sincere. It infects me with a flame between my legs. His eyes adore and demand. I begin to wish I had stayed with Mrs. Pomfret-Jones. I tell him of the hundred lashes and the dungeon that will be my lot if I do not behave. I can hear his heart thumping — or is it my own! Gently he takes the chain of my fetters and examines them with a more informed eye than that of Mrs. Pomfret-Jones. When he relinquishes the gleaming silver he shakes his head and grins ruefully. "You are real. I've never been too sure. How much did Yolanda Harding actually pay for you?" My price is between Yolanda and me and… well, never mind. I do not want to discuss my purchase. But I unbend a little. "Fifty thousand pounds."

"You're kidding!"

"My bottom has a lot more scarlet stripes than the one you saw," He nods in understanding. Whipmarks and money, there is an affinity. The Major has been around. "I'll accept it that your chains are real, I don't believe you can get 'em off. Most people think you and Yolanda play some kinky game. But that mark!" He sighs. Raising my chained hands he kisses both, then merges back into the crowd. My eyes know tears. Molly Vinter is me or Yola without the curves. Not that she's bad looking, but she misses by small margins. She writes bits for newspapers and tries to be frightfully 'with it'. She picks up with me where she left off last time we met. "You and Yola do tongue each other, don't you?" she eyes me quizzically. "Or does the slave girl only serve her Mistress'?"

"I do whatever I'm told." I clink my links.

"You're a masochist."

"No I'm not! And if that's all you have to say I'll go and hand some drinks 'round."

"Don't get shirty. I'm just curious. You do get punished though, don't you?"

"Sure I do, but it doesn't make me that beastly word."

"It's the whip, isn't it? I'd suppose with a girl she'd either loathe it or love it?"

"Alright, I love Yolanda to whip me… a little." Molly Vinter gazes at me without defense. "Can you understand when I tell you I'm envious?" My understanding is vivid. To have a need of Yolanda yet to be out in the cold alone! My sympathy wells, but I must be sensible. "Most people think these chains on my wrists are fake and that Yola and I just play a cute game."

"If Yolanda would put chains on me I'd… I'd… I'd give up everything." In a surge of pity I reach out to enfold her. But with chained hands I cannot. I compromise by touching her arm with the age of old gentleness of feminine compassion. Suddenly I glimpse a thousand Molly Vinters around the world seeking a purchaser for something they cannot sell.

"She doesn't need to buy me like that story about you. I'd give myself. I'd sign a paper. Anything… " She is pathetically vehement.

"Why not ask?" I have no sooner uttered the words than a terrible jealousy flares within at thought of a companion in chains. Yolanda is mine just as much as I am hers! Yet suppose… Molly in her passionate need has become more female. I find myself stripping her and assessing her nakedness.

"I did ask. She said you were handful enough," Molly sniffed. "I could tell she wasn't interested."

"You might not like it. I'm always chained or tied, and I get whipped quite a lot. It hurts more than you'd believe." I have said the wrong thing. Molly is suddenly avid. "I would, oh I would!" Her hand is on my arm now. Curious eyes focus on us in the passing crowd. She becomes aware of them and lowers her voice. "Ask her. Oh, please? She loves you! If it's you that asks." It is very sad. I only tell it that you may get a picture I am trying to paint. I make a promise that will be hard for me to keep. I watch Molly Vinter fade away among the guests. I am wishing I had stayed with the men. Their little boy appetite for my puss is much easier to cope with.

"A touch of emotion, I suspect?" The voice was very male and very nice. Such man sounds make me think about my breasts and my pussy and my behind and hope they are all arranged to the best advantage. The tone of this one crinkled my pubic hair. It sounded faintly amused. He is even better than his voice. He was brand new. "The name is Pollard," he said gently. "Please call me James. I'm a gate crasher. I came because of you. May I shake your chain?" He did the proper male thing. Without waiting for me to say a thing he raised my left hand to his lips. My right hand had to follow, so he kissed that too. His fingers traced a path across my wristlets. "I recognize the workmanship," he said conversationally. "I don't have to ask if they are real." I was almost panting. I felt ashamed of myself. I'm not usually that susceptible. "Perhaps you'd like an introduction to your hostess?" I manage breathlessly.

"I have met Miss Harding elsewhere. I came to look at you."

"You make me feel like something in a cage."

"You are something in a cage." He is the right height, his eyes are the right color, I long to play my fingers through his hair. He is so perfect I can only adore and have no words. I am positive I will forget the hundred strokes and the dungeon if he leads me from the room. Yola should have left me chained to the pillar in Turpitude Tower.

"Does the delectable Miss Harding occasionally unlock you for an afternoon?"

"I can't go to bed with you. I'm terribly sorry," I utter the denial in self defense. I am trembling.

"You are utterly charming." He surveys me with a look I cannot fathom. It is not the stripping naked look. There is more to his regard than salacity. I am being weighed in a balance.

"You've had your good look at me. Perhaps you should go." He does not bother to answer such a puerile femininity, but takes me by the arm and guides me to the bar. A double Scotch is poured on top of another double Scotch and the reinforced potency is placed within my chained hand with a preemptory: "Don't sip. Drink." For me this is an enormous intoxicant. I dare not look for Yolanda. I am supposed to ask her permission. James Pollard takes one single Scotch and clinks my glass in a toast: "To more and better chains!" There is a small boy insouciance about him I cannot resist. Against all good judgement I swallow an enormous gulp. I am already on fire. The alcohol will only start a second flame. He sips and smiles at my adoration. He is quite shameless in his next remark.

"You're not wearing much, but it is an impediment, y'know."

"You mean you want to see me naked?"

"I'm sure you will survive the test."

"There isn't going to be a test." He touches my arm. A current runs all the way up and down to my puss. Without volition I gulp a second time and an astonished at how little is now left in my glass. I swallow that too as though in need. I am in need! More in need than I have ever been in my life. "I'm very nice naked," I tell him innocently. I hear the words as though someone else had uttered them.

"Will there be marks?" His lips have a sly twist I long to kiss away. Does everyone know Yolanda whips me? I do not care. I know I should flee, but have no such intent. "They're scarlet and purple," I admit brightly. He replenishes my glass. "On your bottom?"

"She couldn't use my back because of today." I sound apologetic, but hastily add in explanation, "I got them yesterday."

"Not an isolated punishment?"

"Oh no!" I giggle and boast. "I get whipped quite often."

"And you enjoy every… er, stroke?" I giggle again. "Well, the first few anyway."

"You scream?" Even to my pixillated mind his questions seem unduly probing, but I do not care. I compound my indiscretions by admitting I try not to make loud noises while Yolanda whips me, but that if she punishes me long and hard enough, I break down and howl with the best of them.

"I expect the dear girl had other, more inventive, inflictions?"

"You're being nosey. I shouldn't tell you." I giggle happily. "Ever seen a girl sitting on the horse?"

"I wouldn't have called riding-"

"Not that kind of horse, silly! I mean the narrow bar I have to sit on with my feet spread and tied so all my weight rests on my poor little puss." I make some more tipsy sounds and add: "It hurts."

"I am sure it does. I seem to have read somewhere — you enjoy this quaint exercise?"

"It isn't an exercise at all. I just have to sit… for the longest times."

"But there is a thrill?"

"There's a thrill between my legs." The whole scene strikes me as absurdly humourous. I give him my best giggle yet and admit sadly: "I usually end up in tears. How'd you like to have to sit on your whatsit like that!"

"You are usually… er, fastened for these fun and games?"

"I'm tied or strapped or handcuffed — it's really none of your business, y'know. Yola would murder me."

"Academic really," he assured me cheerfully. "What d'you say we adjourn?" Right at that point I should have marched up to Yolanda and demanded to be locked up for my own safety. That word adjourn! It flashed danger signals. But as this story progresses you'll see what an absolute idiot I can be sometimes. All thought of the awful penalty was driven from my mind by the positively cunt quaking smile James Pollard bestowed on me and by the vibrancy of his fingers on my arm. When he said softly: "You're terribly sweet, Euphemia." I was totally lost. I expect Einstein could explain about the space and time, I can't. By some sort of magic I giggled our way to my bedroom, the one I use when Yola doesn't want me for the night or I have a cold or something or maybe I'm downstairs or up on the Tower. I don't remember the journey, but there we stood looking at each other expectantly.

"And now you want to see me naked?"

"I would esteem it a privilege, Miss Carstairs."

"Don't be sarky. Suppose I call for help?"

"I would gag you and tie you on the bed."

"Oh, would you!" The heat between my legs was almost too much. The glad eagerness escaped into my voice. Caution was gone. "Spreadeagle and taut?" I was quivering.

"Taut as a bowstring and spread wide. Now, off with those clothes!" I did it prettily, wishing I had more on to take off. Watching me strip crinkles Yolanda so I could imagine what it was going to do to Mr. Pollard. Dear James! It was as though I'd known him a long time. He stood intent and absorbed, but never lost the little boy look and the nice smile. Taking off my panties I had to make a handful of the wet stuff so he wouldn't notice how sopping he'd made me. When I'd thrown them aside I was as naked as a girl can be. I posed with my hands up high and standing on tip toe and asked roguishly: "And how do you like your girls served, sir?"

"Phemie!" Yolanda's outraged voice dissolved the Scotch, my courage, and the lovely dream. I slumped down on my heels and, quite absurdly, covered my puss with my chained hands. But, finding I had to bend forward to achieve chain between my wrists was just long enough.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Yola was furious. Dejectedly, I let my fettered hands fall to the level of my navel. It seemed as good a place for them as any.

"Be so kind as to leave." Yolanda turned her anger on the man who still stood, unperturbed by her fury. "Get out before I call the police." My sudden prescience of the dungeon and the whip did not divert me from the cause of my disgrace. James Pollard's cheerful insouciance absorbed Yolanda's onslaught without a quiver. He assessed her now in the same intent manner in which he had assessed me. His little boy innocence was a bulwark shielding him from scorn. He shrugged deprecatingly as one whose position is indefensible, tendered by fuming Mistress a small courtly bow, gave me a jaunty motion of the hand and a knowing wink, and sauntered from the room. I stood, naked and bereft. Yolanda's breasts were heaving. She glared at me with infinite impatience. "Don't think I'm going to forgive you."

"No, darling."

"Phemie, you're impossible." I could tell Yola was sorry about the awful punishment she had set as my penalty. She would inflict it rigidly, but was wishing it was less severe. I hiccuped.

"And you're drunk! Oh Phemie!"

"I'm sorry, darling." I really was sorry. I love Yola so much. What I'd done with James Pollard was an infidelity.

"You belong to me. Haven't you any will power with men at all?"

"I'm an idiot, darling. Don't let me loose at any more parties, keep me locked up. I'd much sooner-"

"You'll go to my parties and you'll behave." Yolanda's voice was vehement. "We, both of us, go right back down now before we're missed. You'll act normally and be nice and amusing. When the last guest has gone I take you to the dungeon. Understand?"

"Of course, darling." She surveyed me in exasperation. "Aren't you going to ask me to let you off the punishment because it was all the fault of that… that… whoever he is?"

"No darling. His name's James Pollard." I wanted to add: 'And he's awfully nice!' But thought better of it. I'd hurt my darling enough. I began to fumble with the silver lame.

"And naked for him!" Her voice held a vast disgust. "Here, let me help, I'm not going to unlock your hands." The party enveloped us. With the aid of coffee I managed to divert the influence of the Scotch to silly giggles and rapt attention to inanities. People fingered my chain and dropped their hints and queries to which I responded only with a "Wooooo!" or a "Mmmmmmmm!." Cocktail parties are not really all that difficult for a slave girl. But through it all my mind was occupied with two separate visions, one of Yola's whip, and one of the smiling countenance of the boy who had tempted my downfall. Strangely enough, it was the memory of James Pollard that got most of my attention.

"You don't deserve the Tower, Phemie," Yolanda said crossly. "You're going downstairs."

"Of course, darling." I said it blithely, but I was trembling. I was about to start payment of my penalty. I am only joyous about such matters to a point. Going downstairs whittles that point to almost nothing. Going downstairs means the dungeon.

"Naked, Phemie. I won't even leave you those soaked panties." I'm always naked when I'm punished. The dungeons have some cunning heating ducts Yola had installed. You can't see 'em but they keep a naked prisoner from catching pneumonia. But it's the stone that gets a girl. Bare, cold stone! I shivered as I let the silver lame fall to the floor for the second time that evening. My hands were still chained, and Yolanda was not helping. I found my panties were still wet — that makes me awful, doesn't it! I can't help it, I just am.

"Over in the corner." Yola's crisp order means the metal collar and the chain that links back to the ringbolt in the wall. I stand passively while it is locked around my neck. It is very heavy. It does nothing for the spot between my legs.

"Ankles, too." I am indeed in disgrace! They are the beastly heavy shackles that tell me what and where I am. I spread my legs a little as they are fastened with solid ominous snaps.

"Your wrists can wear what they have now." I nod without happiness. My bonds could be much worse, hut they are bad enough. The weight of the metal on my neck will nag and nag.

"It's past midnight. You can spend the night and the day as you are. On the day after you will get your whipping."

"Thank you, darling."

"Oh, don't be so bloody humble! Don't you think I feel badly enough as it is'?"

"Honest, I didn't mean! Oh, darling, I'm so sorry." The chains hold me. I cannot touch my darling or give her the heat of my flesh and find comfort in hers. I do take a tentative step, but it is too absurd. I am weighed so that motion is like wading in mud; the links from my collar warn they will soon snub me. I hold out my joined hands in supplication.

"Phemie!" There is an ocean of yearning in Yola's voice. She too takes a step, then determinedly backs away. "If I touch you I'm lost. It's best I go. I'll leave you the candle, it will last most of the night."

"Can I have a blanket?"

"No. You don't deserve that either. I'll leave it folded on the big chest. You can look at it and yearn. If it hadn't been for your James Pollard and your own stupidity you could be warm in bed with me." My angry darling is punishing herself as well as me. She wants me. I know, just as I long for her with a terrible anguish. But the penalty denies us both, and I must serve it. She flounces in exasperation from the dungeon and thuds shut the door and the cruel bolts… In the sparse light of the candle I cannot reach I survey my plight. It is not the first time I have stood thus in this spot. I know the feel of stone and the clutch of chains. I long desperately for the blanket I can behold but am denied; it is part of my punishment. I shrug and sink cautiously to the cold stone. It will take a little while for my body to warm it enough that I can sleep. It is a hard bed for a naked girl. But I am not angry. I deserve this. I do! I do! What is done is done. It is over. At least I thought it was. I did not know then that it was not over at all. It was just beginning.

A girl in chains wakes early in her dungeon. For her there are no delightful stretchings and turnings and relapsing into slumber. You dare not move an inch from the stone now heated by your flesh. It has become precious. You cherish this spot of the exact dimension of your contact. The candle has burned out, and the bit of daylight seeping through the brutal bars of the high recessed small window is more gloomy than its artificial glow, but it is enough for me to see the blanket so neatly folded to torment me. I long for it and rack my brain for expedients by which I may reach it. There are none! Chains are implacable. A chained girl need not deal in hope. A chained girl thinks. It is all she can do. I thought about the whip. Yolanda might not come to my dungeon for a long time, so I speculate as to how she may possibly modify the awfulness of a hundred lashes on my bare skin. I will get the hundred alright, but perhaps she may not make them as hard as if I was to bear a smaller number. It is a small hope, but unlikely. Yola is a stickler for discipline and your word being your bond. I had best not build false optimism. I ponder what I may say or try and do to touch her compassion and her love. But I have both already. I have a sort of pact with myself that I will not make my punishments more painful for my darling than need be. I will keep my tears and my pleadings until desperate pain releases them past the determination of my will. Yola and I have never discussed my pact, but we both know it is there. There is, of course, what we call 'weaseling,' This is any sly bit of conniving by which I may artfully reduce my pains. It is a fun thing we both recognize. It will not do me any good in the penance which confronts me now. I twist my chains this way and that. The night has made them chafe. The collar on my neck is an enemy, It is alive and malignant with the pull of its tethering chain. The collar makes a mockery of the dungeon door, if it was wide open I could not reach it. The chain from the ring-bolt only gives me three or four shuffling paces, I move the metal bands that circle me and find a little easement here and there,I think of the whip curling round my hips; it is part a memory. I have been whipped so often. Sighingly, I wait. I wait a long time. Here and there I know that panic which is implicit in my plight. Am I forgotten? Will I just lie here in these chains! Helpless. It is useless to cry out, my voice will not penetrate the stone. As the light increases I know the day no longer young. I am hungry. When Yolanda comes she is a small, female whirlwind exuding disturbance. When she clasps and kisses me it is as though we face a sundering. Her lips arouse me so that I strive to clasp her too, but my chains deny. For urgent moments we feast before she uses her keys to free my neck and my ankles. Her orders are breathless.

"Bathe and make yourself pretty, Phemie. Rush, rush!" She is half way to the door when she remembers and turns. "Oh, and put something on." In the scented warmth of the bath I forget the dungeon and the whip. I am pleasantly excited. Whatever portends now is certain to be better than what was promised. In my room I hastily garb myself in such lovely expensive trifles as my chained hands will allow me to fasten. I have just brushed my hair when Yola enters. I pose for her.

"Good!" Her eyes sparkle. "Oh, Phemie darling!" She lets the sentence die while she finds the chains for my feet, the ones that match those on my wrists: costly, gorgeous and cruel. I am still admiring them and kicking one foot tentatively to get their feel again when she unlocks my linked hands and replaces the sapphire bond with shining functional handcuffs. "I'm striving for a certain effect-" She backs away and surveys her work. I walk beautifully with chained feet. I've had lots of practice. The handcuffs give me only slightly less freedom than the metal they replaced.

"You poor darling! Hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good! Lunch is ready. We have company." I clink my way beautifully. I am secure in the knowledge that nothing of my slavery can embarrass me any more. I ask no questions. I am savouring the surprise I know Yolanda has prepared me for. The surprise is James Pollard.

"You wear handcuffs with a flair, Miss Carstairs." He has risen from his seat and now takes my cuffed hands and kisses each. An old world courtliness goes along with his boyish grin. I stand, nonplussed, and look to my Mistress for help. "Mr. Pollard is an associate of Roland Bolling, Phemie dear." She breaks the news as though it explains everything. I am about to ask who he is when he's at home, when I remember: Roland Bolling is famous. He makes vast sums from vast enterprises. Yola's father had known him.

"Mr. Bolling has heard of you," says James. I am not interested in Mr. Bolling. Hunger makes me aggressive. "Do you know what you let me in for yesterday?" I demand sulkily.

"I have already told him." Yola dismisses the subject. We seat ourselves for the lunch which I attack in a most unladylike manner until I catch Yolanda's eye and slow down. Mr. Pollard keeps an interested eye on my handcuffs as though wondering how I'll manage.

"I plead ignorance of your penalty, Miss Carstairs," James says without contrition. "Had I realized… " He embraces us both with a glowing smile. "I am endeavouring to incline Miss Harding to leniency."

"Phemie will receive her punishment in full, the fault was hers." Yola is keeping well on top of things. James might have been speaking of the weather. "I was wondering if her penalty might be reduced to… shall we say… a bare fifty." He is amused by his own pun, then adds: "With me watching, of course." I cannot explain or understand why I am suddenly one huge blush. Mr. Pollard examines this maiden manifestation with the same intent interest he had devoted to me from the start. Yola and I use Eliza Dolittle's famous exclamation in unison: "Not bloody likely!" He deals with his lamb chop unperturbed. "All in the way of business, of course," he says casually. "We'd expect a demonstration." Yola and I exchange a mystified glance. Her voice holds ice. "What on Earth are you talking about?" He is enjoying himself, he affects surprise. "Why, Mr. Bolling, of course. He wishes to purchase Miss Carstairs " It is a small bomb. Even I stop eating. "Are you trying to be offensive?" Yolanda is giving Mr. Pollard both barrels. "The suggestion you have just made is not funny." My blush has vanished. With sudden certainty I know Yola is afraid. We feel each other's vibrations. I too feel a cold hand upon my heart. James Pollard no longer seems a boy.

"No offense intended." He waves airily. "Business is a nosey influence. It is known that the delightful Euphemia has been purchased once. So why not twice? It's an honest approach."

"Euphemia is not for sale."

"Does she have anything to say about it?"

"No."

"She really is a slave then?" His voice is eager.

"Mr. Pollard, you are a guest here because Roland Bolling knew my father. May we, please, talk of something else?" Their use of my full name made me feel like merchandise. I was actually scared of something I could not name. "Go away, James Pollard," I said as coldly as I could manage. "All you do is get me into trouble. I'd never dream of leaving Yolanda. If she threw me out I'd come back. Whatever's between us is none of your business."

"You enjoy your chains?" His voice is mocking.

"Go away."

"And you'll enjoy your hundred strokes with a whip on your bare skin?" He was pushing hard.

"Oh stop it! Yola, make him go." It was as though I had said nothing. His voice was suave as he turned to my Mistress: "We were thinking in terms of seventy-five thousand pounds, Miss Harding. Money is terrible, you can't ignore huge sums. The silence was hard to bear. I dared not look at Yolanda.

"Cash, of course. Immediate delivery." He was intent as ever. My darling is disturbed, her fear comes to me in waves. I realize there is something I do not understand. "What do I have to say to stop this nonsense?" She asks. Her voice sounds tired.

"Just the single word, 'Yes'." He says it as though no other word could possibly be used. She stares him in the eye. "The answer is no. The discussion is ended. I mean it. No!"

"One hundred thousand pounds, Miss Harding." I gasp. My darling seems to freeze. James Pollard calmly spears a potato. The atmosphere is electric. The cold hand clutches me more tightly. "Why?" Yolanda puts all our puzzlement into the single word. He shrugs. "You've a right to ask that." His grin encompasses us both. "Fairly simple really. Money is only tokens in the world of Roland Bolling, but Miss Carstairs is quite unique. He believes he can use her talents and her temperament to advantage."

"How?"

"As a bribe."

"Loan her out to some old lecher in return for a business advantage? Is that it?" He had the grace to squirm. "Substantially yes, though you do underrate the charm of those she would divert."

"Does she divert them in bed?"

"Primarily, no."

"They would torture her?"

"You spread things a bit thick," he complained. "I am under the impression the dear girl is spiritually attuned to such a role."

"I absolutely refuse," I tell him firmly. He gives me his full attention. "Your ankles are chained, your wrists are handcuffed, Miss Carstairs… " His implication is obvious. I am a slave and have nothing to say about my disposal. The knowledge that he views me as such thrills me with an excitation I know well. I will not admit it to him, but I am what he believes. But with the thrill there comes the fear I sense in Yola. "You'd keep me chained up in between tortures?" I enquire icily. James Pollard dismisses the whole conversation with a disgusted wave of the hand. "We're snipping at each other. Suppose I've shocked you a bit. Working for Bolling I'm inclined to take things for granted. Sorry and all that. Should have wined and dined you a bit first."

"But whatever made you suppose I'd sell Phemie?"

"Double your money. Nice profit."

"How do you know-" Yolanda intercepts his involuntary glance at me. "Phemie, you told him? Oh Phemie!" I have hurt my Mistress. I long to die.

"My fault. I made her drink too much," James intervenes. I look at Yola, bereft, desolate, putting all my message of penitent love into my eyes. "Add it to my list," I implore contritely. "I deserve anything." I will not name a punishment before the male, but my Mistress will understand. Pollard laughs at us. I expect we look a dejected pair. "Eat and drink a bit," he advises cheerily. "And before you toss me into the street figure it out for yourself: Beautiful girl wears chains at receptions and parties. Chains are for real. Beautiful girl is owned by a beautiful Mistress who paid a lot of money for her because of unusual circumstances-" He raised his hand to check protest, "Yes, we know the story of the purchase. Nothing to be ashamed of. Then add to that the recent admission of a hundred lashes about to be administered to back and… well… to the person of said beauty. It does add up, y'know."

"But it's our own affair! I'll admit we've got a bang out of how people are mildly intrigued by Phemie's chains. But what you are asking is pure presumption."

"If I made you an offer to buy Castle Glynt you would not be offended by an honest approach."

"That's different!"

"It isn't, y'know. Principle's the same." I had become more and more aware of my chained feet and the handcuffs on my wrists. I wished I could shed them. Their prisonment of me gave validity to James Pollard's argument. The motions of the lunch table caused my handcuffs to glisten and clink. Another time I would have been proud of my skillful coping but now I longed to hide them in my lap.

"You're scared, aren't you?" He had sensed my disquiet.

"That means Miss Harding actually could sell you and you're nervous."

"Any girl would be scared of what you want her for."

"If you can contemplate this… this… I suppose it's a punishment for yielding to my blandishments yesterday. I don't see why Bolling's offer should appall. Sounds damn grim to me."

"You can't he such an idiot as to fail to realize Phemie and I love each other?" Yolanda accused hotly.

"Can lesbian joy match fifty thousand pounds profit'!"

"That's beastly! Besides, I'm rich. I don't need your money."

"You mentioned love. Does she love you while you're plying the whip?"

"Of course I do!" I exclaim angrily. "I deserve to be whipped and chained in the dungeon. If any girl ever asked for it, I did."

"Must guilt be present for the thrill to be sufficiently erotic?"

"Phemie, keep quiet! I'll deal with Mr. Pollard."

"Call me James." He was infuriatingly bland. I relapsed into sulky silence. Our guest intently examined my breasts. My Mistress marshaled her heavy artillery.

"Save the blast, Miss Harding. I'll take no for an answer." James Pollard's voice was quite without rancour. But he added: "For today." He was again the nice boy over whom I had made an ass of myself the evening before. The cold hand and the fear receded. But Yolanda was breathing hard. I could tell she wished to be rid of him. James must have felt it too, he waited only for dessert and coffee before making his farewell. Left alone, I again became aware of being a slave girl in sad disgrace. Meeting Yola's hurt eyes I could manage only an inadequate: "Oh, darling." Suddenly I was enveloped in scented beauty. Yolanda hugged and kissed me in a frenzy of emotion that instantly drew its own response from me. Somehow I got my cuffed hands over her head so that I too could embrace. For several minutes we were locked together as one. What we did afterwards took much longer, it was terribly beautiful. You are thinking about forgiving and forgetting, aren't you! My slavery does not work like that. Lying replete on Yola's bed I felt her playing with my hair and heard the words now overdue: "There's still your punishment, Phemie."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Why, oh why are you such a silly girl! I don't want to hurt you the way I'm going to have to. Telling him your purchase price. Oh Phemie!" I kiss her and nibble avidly at the perfumed flesh. I will soon be immured away from love. That knowledge is almost worse than the whip. "Punish me for that too, darling," I plead. "I want you to."

"No. Enough is enough." For me there is a glowing eroticism in being punished by Yolanda. I would loathe it from anyone else, but with her it is a tremendous sharing of love. I will scream and plead and long for it to be done, long for it to stop, stop for any reason at all. But my puss will swell and secrete its wet, and here and there while the things are done to me that must be done. I will know joy ineffable. So great is this fire of sensuality that under its influence I will plead for what I fear. I do so now.

"Darling, I was outrageous with Pollard. I'm worse than silly. I must be punished, I must!" Yola knows me. Her voice is tolerant. "Oh, very well, idiot. But you'll be sorry." Of course I will be sorry! I know I will. But this is how it must be. Yolanda rarely weakens, but when she does it is I who must be strong. We must never allow the beautiful wonderful thing we share to be eroded by casual mercy. Thus it is that an hour later I am in the dungeon. Its gloom is chastening, but I am buoyed by the close memory of Yolanda's flesh and Yolanda's lips.

"This is it, Phemie darling, the thing you asked for." I lose my handcuffs and am told to place my hands behind my back, palm to palm. I am already naked. I quiver at the knowledge of what my punishment is to be. I had not guessed. I will be a sorry girl indeed, but I stand in blithe acceptance as my wrists are tied with the cruel thin rope. Yola ties me slowly and with care.

"Want to call it off, puss-cat?" I will long to call it off when it is too late, but not now. I am in a throbbing ecstasy and my voice is husky when I whisper: "Oh no… oh no… no." My gasp could be of joy or agony as the rope circles my elbows. 'Round and 'round! There will be a number of the snug bands so that none will cut off circulation. Yola says I have rubber shoulders because my elbows meet so easily at my back. They meet now as she cinches and tugs and ensures even pressure. I will be well and truly tied. For poor silly Euphemia there will be no wriggling loose. My forearms are welded as one. My fingers, already searching, can find no knot. I am to be tantalized. The chains are taken from my feet, but a shackle is clamped upon my left ankle, from it trails the inevitable chain that tethers me to the wall. Like the one from my collar the previous night it will not permit me to reach the beckoning blanket. My Mistress clutches my nudity and kisses me fervidly. I cannot clutch but I can kiss. The emotion is too great; she runs for the door. I notice that this time she closes it on me gently and I can scarcely hear the sliding of the bolts. I am alone within the walls of stone that are my prison. I am tethered to the wall by the chain on my ankle. I am painfully tied. It is the cord around my elbows that will punish me for my indiscretion, the punishment my own tumescence prompted me to plead for. It will bed itself deeper and deeper into my flesh until my mind is filled with the single wish to be free of it. But I will bear it through the night. It will scorch and burn and mock me and I will come to hate it. But I do not hate it now… not yet! Tonight my stone bed will be doubly hard because of the way in which my shoulders are wracked back. I look down at my jutting breasts and reflect ruefully how even they will be hard to lay upon in their taut prominence. I allow myself a single glance at the blanket, then drive its mockery from my mind by a vision of the 'morrow, a vision in which I am bound and spread and helpless to await the whip, a vision of my writhings as it curls lovingly upon my skin. I chide myself for the vision, for it is not in fear or apprehension, instead it feeds the fire between my thighs. I cherish it. I shiver in exquisite helplessness. In turgid transport I sink down on the stone and seek a comfort I will not find. My mind roves backwards into what I call my 'dungeon dreams'. I think I was eleven the first real time. My body had changed enough that I was shyly aware of the parts of it I must keep covered. Even though it is what I call the first time, it was not the beginning of me. The 'me' I am trying to tell you about had been there from the beginning back there in my mother's womb. The experience and I were like two twigs in a stream that the current brings together briefly with an impact by which their course is forever changed. Miss Hilde was a nice teacher except that she caned our hands a lot. She caned the small open palms, tentatively and shrinkingly extended for punishment, hard enough to ensure tears and defeat bravado. We learned it was wise to cry at the second stroke. Dry eyes or a pout earned you two more, much harder this time and your "Thank you, Miss Hilde" had to sound very sincere. One or two of the girls got up to six, three on each hand. This was rare, but I was one of them. The canings were always for just cause which is never hard to find with a room full of giggling girls. The first times my palm was seared I wept with the best of them and returned to my seat hugging my wounded members. But, being me, it was not long before I became aware of a strange excitement and a heat between my legs whenever the cane was displayed or used. When it was to be used on me and I made my way up before the class; my tremblings were very soon not of fear but of another emotion I could not understand. I kept this emotion a firm secret. I was quite sure no one would approve of it. Checking with the other girls I learned that all they felt was pain. I was different. I found the difference exciting. I am sure Miss Hilde recognized a kindred spirit. She was always kind to me and helped whenever I was stuck with work I could not master. But she caned my hands more and more often until it was understood by the other girls that she had it in for me. By that time I was being cautious, so I agreed with them. I had a good thing. I was not about to spoil it. Without a word spoken Miss Hilde and I arrived at a nice understanding. If I was to get caned more frequently, or if I was to get four slashes instead of two, or six instead of four, I had to give cause. Since we both wanted me to do well in school I could not fluff my work. So I became saucy, or cheeky, or petulant, or even engaged in a bit of bravado up before the fascinated eyes of the whole class to whom three on each palm was the absolute end. I varied my repertoire so that no pattern would show. I became shockingly crafty in my pandering to the lovely feeling between my legs. When I met Miss Hilde's eyes and she swished the cane I positively melted. I expect she did too. But I did not know that then. Two strokes was gorgeous. After that I had to grit my teeth. The fire in my loins inhibited tears, so I provoked four often enough that I could come up with copious salt water — I was wise enough to discern that, for Miss Hilde, tears were de rigueur. The first 'real' time was the day after my mother accompanied father on a three week business trip.

"Just the housekeeper looking after you, dear?" Miss Hilde asked kindly.

"She's very nice. She let's me do everything for myself, bathe, dress, everything." Instinct told me this information was important. Miss Hilde was not much over thirty. Ancient in a child's eye, but an attractive woman. I suppose, quite apart from the cane, I had a crush on her. She was avid but cautious.

"Do you bruise easily, Euphemia?"

"Yes, Miss Hilde, but they're gone in a couple of days."

"Hmmmm. Three weeks, you said?"

"Yes, Miss Hilde." I was breathlessly eager.

"Have you felt my caning of your hands beneficial to your general deportment, dear?"

"Oh yes, Miss Hilde, I'm terribly grateful." It was like a rehearsed play, but I don't suppose we could have managed it without the stilted preliminary. Besides, we loved every word.

"I do think punishment most helpful to a girl of your intelligence, Euphemia dear. I am considering taking you a step further than just the cane on your hands… a fresh perspective for you?"

"Oh, thank you, Miss Hilde! Oh, yes please." She was well ahead of me. The furthest I could see was six of the best on my bent over bottom. I was enchanted by the prospect and wondered if I'd get it on the bare.

"Do you think you could come to my apartment for a couple of hours this evening — for special coaching, of course?" So simple! I arrived early.

"I think it much the best if you are nude, dear."

"Take my clothes off!"

"Not shocked, I hope'?" I showed her how shocked I was by stripping bare as an egg in ten seconds flat. Miss Hilde locked the door.

"I think it would be nice if I cane your bottom for starters, dear. Don't you agree'?" I'd have agreed to anything. The gates of Enchantment had opened and I had entered. But "starters!" I was too shy to ask what might follow.

"Would you like me to touch my toes, Miss Hilde?" I asked helpfully.

"You are so sweet, and so innocent, dear." Miss Hilde, surprisingly, kissed me warmly. I was in a seventh heaven. Sight of the cords and bits of rope and the straps did nothing to lower my elevation. They simply made me gaspingly excited.

"Are you going to tie me up, Miss Hilde?"

"You want me to, don't you, dear?"

"Oh yes, oh please!" It was as though I was offered the Crown Jewels. The thought of Miss Hilde's strong adult fingers tightening bonds upon my newly aware female flesh had me in a ferment of sexual excitation. At the time I thought of it only as a form of affection for my teacher. At that moment I loved Miss Hilde with a frightening intensity.

"This nice little table is just right for you, Euphemia." I'll swear it was instinctive: I knew what to do. I draped my slight nudity upon the shining surface of the narrow table she had pulled to the center of the big room. My legs dangled over the end. My breasts were only just beginning, but when my nipples frictioned on the wood they sent an urgent signal to the fire between my legs. I had become a quivering nymphet. I have wondered since if Miss Hilde had the whole thing especially made, I fitted it so perfectly. The contoured pad beneath my hips was a surprise, but it too fed the fire. When my ankles were strapped to the back legs they were well clear of the carpet and left me slightly open. This openness was emphasized when the big strap went over the small of my back and was tugged tighter and tighter until I gasped. The effect was to make my pert small bottom rear itself demandingly upon the pad and to cause my puss to peek out backwards. I could not see it, but when Miss Hilde fingered it lovingly from the rear I knew for sure where it was. I didn't have a lot of hair then, just pouting lips.

"I do think it's best to have everything nice and tight, don't you dear." She kissed the back of my neck. The touch of her lips, coupled with the new strange immobility of my person below my waist and the thrust of the pad, just about drove me into incoherence. But I came up brightly with: "Oh, it's lovely, Miss Hilde. I can't move… down there." Once again Miss Hilde's wise fingers explored my protruding quim, entering its engorged lips. "Oh, naughty, naughty!" she exclaimed archly. "Such a wet little girl!" I almost exploded. She walked around the table and me several times as though assessing her work and my plight. I expect she was simply gloating and savouring the delectable tidbit I must have been. I got kissed again.

"Do you think I should tie your hands, dear?" I was tremendously flattered by being consulted in so momentous a decision. Actually, Miss Hilde was just musing aloud.

"I think just as you are to start with, Euphemia. Are you ready now to have your dear little bottom caned?"

"Yes, please." It sounds a bit absurd now. We were so damn formal and correct. But the tone of our voices spoke more than the words. Hers was husky with emotion, mine palpitated and quavered with more vivid awareness than I had known existed. I remember the moment so well. I was surprised my hands weren't tied. I didn't know what to do with them, so I put one on top of the other beneath my cheek like small warm pillows. I was bursting with an exquisite suspense. How much would it hurt! Would I bleed! The possibility it might be more than I could bear never entered my mind.

"It's so different from having your hands caned, dear." The searing cut took me into a new world of pain and sensation. Square across my taut twin curves it split me into orgasm. I did not know what an orgasm was then, it seemed no more than a transcendent part of the glory Miss Hilde had the power to bestow, a glory beyond anything I had ever dreamed of. I reared against the buckle round my waist, more in a need to give my climax free rein than in agony. My moan was of an ultimate ecstasy. My small fists clenched upon the table beneath my back-flung head. I did not know it but I had become a woman. Everywhere in the story of me there is the whip. I think to go on and on about it is a bore, not for me but for you. Miss Hilde caned my bottom with her own cruel artistry until I screamed. Then she tied my hands down to the front legs and gagged me. I did not mind. I adored it all. The gag was cute so that we laughed over popping the ping-pong ball in my mouth and sealing my lips with the wide adhesive. It kept me adequately quiet in deference to the demands of apartment dwelling. Even when I longed to scream I knew it wise that I did not. It could be said I was the victim of a woman's lust, but between us there arose a complicity cemented without words. Each of us knew we had discovered the end of the rainbow. Even the second phase of my unearned 'punishment' that was not a punishment at all did nothing to dampen the erotic fire that sustained me through the pain.

"You are a wonderful, wonderful girl, Euphemia." Miss Hilde's voice positively throbbed with happiness. "It is time now to really punish you. You do want me to, don't you?" The moment the loving fingers peeled away my gag I spit out the celluloid ball and gasped ardently: "Yes, oh yes! Oh, Miss Hilde, you're so good to me." I was utterly sincere, utterly hers, loving her in a way I had never known love in all my eleven years. The bitter and awful scald of my caned bottom was instantly forgotten in the fresh promise of erotic fulfillment.

"It is a punishment for big girls." I swelled with pride and, I suppose, lust.

"You will be tied more beautifully, dear." What a wrenching of the heart it was to be set free! I parted from my bonds with sorrow, looking in awe at the red indentations on my wrists. But I was a'quiver with expectation.

"Sit on the floor, Euphemia." I watched the tight buckling of the leather anklets with fast beating heart. I was seeped in happiness. The black bands held all the beauty of costly jewels. I was to be punished as a 'big girl', but how were big girls punished? I was soon to know.

"I don't want anything ordinary for you, Euphemia, you have become so very special. Don't be frightened. Just trust me." I would have trusted Miss Hilde with my life. I watched the ropes come down from the small pulleys in the ceiling and wondered only how she had got them there. When the hooks slipped into the rings of my anklets I could put two and two together, but thought of retreat never entered my mind. I helped all I could with the replacement of my gag, my eyes sparkling into Miss Hilde's that were so very close as she worked on me. I was kissed. When my feet were spread and raised by the tautening ropes I knew only a tremendous sense of being female, a oneness with the woman who had caned me. Since my hands were still free I was able to ease my transformation from horizontal to vertical. My gag got a stern test in those first moments when I swung free of the carpet, but I had no thought of tearing at it, my fingers were busy seeking a tenuous contact with the floor. Miss Hilde mischievously raised me to where I could touch it with one finger only.

"A strap over your gag, dear, just in case-" It was broad and tight and pliant. My fingers would not easily loosen its buckle at the back of my neck. They did explore but were gently slapped away.

"I would tie your hands, dear, but I'm curious to see what you will do with them." To me, at the age of eleven, a whip was just a name. I surveyed the one now in Miss Hilde's hand with wide-eyed curiosity. I was more concerned with the exposure of my pubes. I was sure it must be proper for me to be to be so spread, just so long as it was a teacher who had done it to me. But I was not sure if mother would approve. I adored it. I went into writhing orgasm again when Miss Hilde artfully cupped my wet lips and kneaded them. The whip took me into a new enchantment of sensation. Miss Hilde used it on my back and waist, and for the first few blows the frightening new pain did not more than prolong my contortions as though the orgasm went on and on. Whilst I could wriggle and bend and buck, my widely spread legs prevented me changing my basic position. I was totally available. Miss Hilde whipped me with care and artistry. The lash curled on my slenderness and, often enough, licked at my breasts. But they were not sufficiently developed to provide a hazard. I am sure my hands were erotically entertaining for the woman with the whip. They sought my wounds, they sought the floor, they waved in frantic acknowledgement of agony. Once they flew to the buckle of my gag, but were thereafter dissuaded from such tampering by a vicious slash of the cutting thong into the cleft of my sundered thighs. I screamed in pain and amazement that a girl be whipped upon her puss. The gag muted the peal of anguish, but the message was clear. My hands heeded it, their frantic frustration was total. The fear came gradually with the rhythm of the scorching strokes. Not fear of Miss Hilde or of the whip, but fear that my fire would die and its glory depart. I think my complete helplessness and the upside down exposure alarmed me in the same manner as a fish must be astounded to find itself hauled up on dry land. It was then that Miss Hilde received my full, but unconscious, gift of writhings and twistings and the clutching of hands which I wish now I could have witnessed myself. I put on quite a show. No matter what I did, the whip cut me. I could not escape it, but in a purely primal instinct I tried, oh how I tried! When I knew I would die, the lashes stopped, a strong firm tongue entered my puss-lips. I did not recognize what was happening to me at first, only that I was ablaze with something far too beautiful to understand. Within seconds I longed only that the glory and the whip go on forever. With Yolanda it does. Forever and ever… I'm terribly lucky. It is Yola's cords upon my elbows that dissolve my misty memories of Miss Hilde. They are now hurting me enough to gain my full attention. I cannot see them but I know how deeply they must be embedded in my skin. I twist my shoulders fretfully against the strain, my eyes rove for some expedient by which I may gain release, hopelessly of course. I always go through these motions, it is instinctive. But I cannot get loose, I know I can't. I am tied for sure. I will have to endure the punishment of my corded elbows. It has now reached an intensity of pain that contributes nothing to the warmth between my legs. I just hurt, and I wish it was not happening to me. When the light fails I will cry. By darkness there has been no Yola and no supper. I have been a bad girl. Bad girls do not eat much when chained in dungeons. Before total gloom possesses me I amuse myself by walking to the length of the chain on my ankle and then contorting and stretching to see if I can hook a toe in the blanket. But my most painful striving leaves me many feet short. I shrug resignedly, I am getting only what I deserve. I return to my corner and my chain and look down at the stone. It seems impossible that I can sleep. But I am used to pain and discomfort. I fall into a dream laden slumber and do not properly wake until the light of morning is feeling its way into my prison. It is the day. I have thought much of the whip while waiting for Yolanda. I cannot possibly sustain joy through so severe a flogging. I have no expectation of acquitting myself nobly. I will probably plead and make a fuss. Yola may be forced to gag me.

"Is your puritan conscience purged, silly girl?" Yolanda turns me about and examines my roped elbows, the penalty I provoked her into inflicting. It has made me pliably contrite.

"I'm sorry, darling. I was stupid."

"And now you want me to untie your arms?"

"Oh Yola, yes… yes! I'm dying."

"You're not, y'know! I'm a good mind to leave you like this."

"Oh please, no!" I wail in anguish. It is a game she plays often, but I am never sure. Sometimes she actually does leave me to go on suffering. I never know. I sink to my knees and press my head hard against her sex. Even though she is clothed it will affect her. Perhaps she will take me to bed. But even then she may not untie me…

"You're a saucy pusscat and I know what you're trying to do." Her fingers are loving in my hair. "I'll give you a choice. You can stay as you are, elbows roped, or we can start your whipping." It seems a cruel choice, but it is not. I know I must wade into my punishment and get it over with. "Start my whipping, please," I ask meekly. It is heaven to get rid of the ropes. I squeal as they are peeled from me. The weals are beautiful and shocking. My ankles are then chained so that I may attend the bathroom and eat my apple and drink my water. I long for food but dare not ask. Soon I stand naked with one wrist strapped each side of the whipping post. I am ready. My ankles are still chained. Yola loves to hear the clatter of the links as I kick against the pain.

"One hundred, Phemie."

"Yes, darling."

"Want to be gagged?"

"Not yet." It is not the worst whip. With some of the whips a hundred would kill me. I know this one of old. It will hurt bitterly but not injure. Unless Yolanda strikes me unduly hard I may not bleed. But a hundred! My poor back! The heat burns hard in my loins as the thong snaps across my shoulders and burns deep. How beautiful is pain when it is Yola who bestows it on me! I twist within my bonds as sensuously as I can to give her happiness. Motion helps me too. Being whipped hurts twice as bad if I cannot move, at least I think it does. The second strike bites the center of my back and curls beneath a breast. My motions now are the pure artistry of suffering. I need not simulate. Both of us are happy beyond words. Whipping posts are cruel. I have seen pictures of those in which a girl embraces them, her hands pulled 'round and bound on the other side, or perhaps they are tied to a hook above her head. But not this one! The straps upon my wrists are broad and tight at the level of my chin. I can neither advance or retreat or bend my elbows. I must stand at arm's length so that all of me is fully exposed, the whip can curl. It is a really wonderful whip and curls beautifully around my waist. I quiver and gasp with the pain and try to look down to examine the slim belt of scarlet that I will wear. What I can see is marvelous, but I cannot see it all. It will wait. It will have lots of company. As darling Yola strikes me again and again the pain mounts to where I begin to wish I had never allowed James Pollard to lure me from that room. Without meaning to I kick and stamp my naked feet so that my chain clatters delightfully on the stone. If Yola is pleased at the sound I am glad. What I long to do is raise one foot, brace it against the post and tug. It is a thing I have done often. It is quite useless except that it gives me an emotional release. I am fighting, trying to get free. The fact that I cannot does not matter. I am lucky I cannot do this, for the act carries a penalty. Whenever I have done it Yola seizes the opportunity to snake the lash into the thigh I have exposed. It is one of the places where I cannot bear the agony, I always howl. Sometimes I look over my shoulder at the girl who is whipping my nakedness. It is not to plead or in apprehension. I simply need the small smile she grants me. It tells me I am loved but that the end of my whipping is far away. I have lost count. I am supposed to keep a count, but when the number I must bear is great I always forget. I have to hope my darling knows. A hundred strokes will take so long. They will go on and on and on in the calm measured rhythm Yola employs with pauses only long enough to keep me continually at the peak of the crescendo. Cessation means mischief. The blows stop now. While I am panting to catch up with my lost poise, a small enquiring hand inserts itself between my legs and palms my puss.

"Naughty, naughty, you're enjoying it, love." Yola wipes her wet hand on my flank. It is very wet indeed and leaves a smear I cannot touch. My fire between my legs is unkind to me in punishment. It goes on burning and supplying my puss with secretions long after I begin to find the pain unbearable. I have tried to explain this to Yola, but a wet hand is a wet hand, a sopping puss is hard to excuse. I cannot be sure my treacherous little slit will not continue to leak through the whole hundred. I am betrayed.

"I can't stop it," I complain. "But I'm hurting terribly. I'm ever so sorry for what I did."

"Want to ask forgiveness. Phemie?"

"No, darling, but I'll soon be crying."

"I'm not whipping you all out, y'know."

"Thank you. Honest, I really am grateful."

"Would you like a few between your legs? I'll take off the chains?"

"I can't bear the whip there, Yola, I just can't."

"If you like to ask for twenty I'll bring your sentence down to ninety instead of a hundred?" It is pure torture. Mischievous torture, but torture none the less. What a decision to confront a nude girl when she is strapped to the whipping post. I am positive that twenty up between my legs will drive me wild and make me scream. And yet… I do examine the offer, seeking an advantage that is not there. "No thank you, darling. But I'm ever so grateful," I say meekly.

"Are you being sarky with the gratitude bit, Phemie?"

"Oh no! Oh darling!" My denial is swift and not strictly truthful. I should know by now the hazard of imprudent speech.

"I think you were, pussy-cat. So now it's a total of ninety with twenty of them up between your legs." I might have known! I blink back tears. Yola is not being cruel. Anytime she detects insubordination she nips it in the bud. I have been nipped. I am about to utter my meek and unprovoking 'thank you' when I gasp in joy. Once more the hand has sought my sex, this time it stays and is very clever. For a little while I will forget the whip and will go with my love to a far exciting land of rainbows and sharp ecstasies. Yola loves me terribly. When it is done I lose my chains. It is a sobering moment when Yola unlocks them from my ankles. How nearly free I am, yet how rigidly held for the whip. I wonder glumly how many strokes I can bear now before I plead for the gag. I would love to take my punishment without the gag but have little hope. It is just too much.

"You will stretch your little tootsies apart nicely, won't you, darling?" Yolanda's voice is honey.

"Yes, darling, I promise."

"Would you like a few between your legs now while you're a bit rested, Phemie, instead of the full twenty at the end?" The offer is kind or cruel according to how you look at it.

"Are you going to make the whip come up under and hit my pussy?" I quaver.

"Of course. About half of them." I cannot win this game. "Yes, I'll have a few of them now, darling," I concede without enthusiasm. When I part my legs and open wide my thighs so they and my puss may be efficiently whipped I see myself in an absurd simulation of those scenes on the telly where the cop makes the suspect straddle against the car or the wall with their hands up and apart. That's me right now. I feel silly and am afraid I look the same. I am also scared. The first is just a thigh, the soft part well up. I cannot hold my pose, but hop and kick and howl. It hurts shockingly with a peculiar sickening pain all its own. I am learning the lesson I am supposed to learn. Right now I would promise anything with total sincerity. I force myself back into position with a gritting of the teeth. It is not easy to offer my poor wet pussy for what she is about to receive. She receives it! I make the strangest sounds. I could almost believe it is my little slit beneath my fur that utters them. The agony and the protest comes from her. I feel certain the thong parted her lips and entered, a whipped girl is fanciful. Without thinking, I pull my little act, my foot against the post and tugging at the straps that hold my wrists. Yola seizes the opportunity and gives me a quick snapping crack where I want it least. My leg returns to join its mate. Moving one soft thigh against the other I can actually feel the raised ridge of punished flesh. Trembling, I once more open myself wide. The cut does not slice me at the moment I expect. Several moments of agonized waiting pass until I hear the opening of the door. I thrill with hope. My Mistress has gone for a drink for me, maybe brandy! I will get a respite and a stimulant. I could drink the whole bottle. I close my legs and peep over my shoulder. Yola has not gone. The whip trails from her hand as she stands astonished as I myself. It was not she who opened the door at all. It was James Pollard.

"Perfect timing," he said jauntily. "A world premiere, eh! Wouldn't have missed it for the world." He had us startled into a momentary silence. Girl-like, I knew only that I was naked and was being looked at by a man. Ridiculous, of course, but there it was. I longed to cover myself. I didn't want him looking at my nakedness and the marks of Yola's whip. Whip marks are a terribly private and intimate thing. These were Yola's and mine. James was looking at them as though he'd never seen such things before.

"Please don't stop on my account," he implored with sincerity.

"How did you get in here?"

"Front door, actually. Had a bit of help, of course."

"What d'you mean, a bit of help?"

"A couple of the chaps. Terribly sorry, they're tying up your staff. Be down in a jiffy."

"You must be insane!" Yola's voice trembled.

"Frightfully easy, really." He was sparing only the odd glance for my Mistress. His eyes returned to my scarlet weals as though fascinated. "Get away with anything with a bit of gall, y'know."

"But why! What d'you want?"

"Eh?" Reluctantly he gave Yolanda his full attention. "Oh, you mean what's behind the visit. We're taking little sweetheart here."

"I won't go!" I exclaimed with absurd vehemence.

"Kidnapping?" Yola's single word was more an acknowledgement rather than a question.

"Of course. Knew you'd understand."

"But you can't, it's impossible!"

"It's not, y'know. Job's as good as done right now. Just debating whether you shouldn't finish the job you're on first before we pop Euphemia in the sack. Jolly pretty stripes… " James Pollard was still the beaming small boy. He radiated goodwill. For some intuitive reason I felt more fearful for darling Yola than for myself.

"Get out before I call the police. How many times… " Yolanda's outraged voice held little conviction.

"Quite so, love. You have to say what's expected. There's still the 'Unhand me, villain!' and the 'We will never yield' to come."

"You can't possibly get away with this."

"Sorry, I overlooked that one. Trans-Atlantic, isn't it."

"Even if you took Phemie she would not obey you. You're wasting your time."

"We'll just whip her until she agrees to be a good little girl," James said blandly. "That's what you do."

"I won't! I won't!" I was being a very small girl indeed. "Get out of my way. I'm going to phone the police."

"Mind leaving me the whip, love? I might as well carry on."

"You're impossible!" Yola was close to tears. Whatever she did would be wrong, It's funny, but neither she nor I thought of releasing me. Her concern was what to believe of what she had been told. It was too preposterous to be true.

"If I go upstairs will you come too? We can talk." She asked with less belligerence.

"And leave poor little Euphemia strapped to the whipping post?" he asked reproachfully. "The dear child has quite a few more strokes to come, hasn't she?"

"She won't mind."

"But we mustn't rob her of her just desserts."

"It amuses you to be facetious. You are also being objectionable."

"Occupational hazard, I suppose. Kidnapping's not really my line. I say, Miss Harding, wouldn't like — to change your mind about selling the dear girl? Save a lot of bother. We could untie the cook and the housemaids."

"You're joking. You haven't?"

"We have. Only reason the boys haven't shown up here yet is they were considering a nice bit of crumpet with the red haired one."

"They're raping my staff?"

"Well, I don't suppose it's her first time. Doing her a favour actually. Give her something to ponder on while she's trying to get loose. I say, d'you mind if I use that whip on Euphemia for a few minutes while you sort of adjust. I mean, I may never get her in this convenient a position again."

"Surely if you kidnap her you can do as you please?"

"Not really. I'm not the principal, y'know. Just a humble instrument. You are silly, really you are, not to take Bolling's hundred thou. I mean, look at it from Euphemia's point of view. You can't say she's exactly having a ball at this moment."

"You don't understand. This is a woman thing."

"Do lesbians always lace into each other with a whip?" My Mistress flushed. I tugged helplessly at the straps on my wrists and wished most ardently I was free. James Pollard was a shrewd arguer, there was a mind behind the boyish grin. I had never felt more vulnerable or disposable in my life.

"Could I be unfastened, darling?" I asked tentatively.

"Keep quiet, Phemie. I'll deal with this." Yola was curt.

"Not a thing to worry about, Euphemia," James informed me sarcastically. "If she doesn't finish whipping you, I will."

"Maybe if you let him whip me a little he'll go away," I suggest diffidently. "It seems to be what he wants."

"You do enjoy being whipped, don't you Phemie?" His voice was shrewd and incisive. I kept silent, but my blush betrayed me. Whenever I have to explain me, I flounder. I turned my face back towards the whipping post. I was getting a crick in my neck. He could look at my whip marks all he wanted… damn him! But there were sounds. We had visitors. Fearfully, I once more looked back over a prisoned shoulder. They were an athletic looking pair. Their grins at sight of me were not as nice as James Pollard's. My fists clenched in their straps. Oh, how I longed to be free!

"Piece of cake, boys," James said brightly. "She's already parceled." It went like a drill. Each of the newcomers took one of Yola's arms. James pushed a wet wad of cloth into my mouth and produced a wide adhesive. "Lips tight clenched, Phemie, or we hurt your girl friend." It was beastly. Only Yolanda had done things like this to me. That a man should do them now… ugh! But I did what he said. I even held my head firm while he pressed hard on the tape that made me mute. My poor darling Yola! James Pollard snapped the handcuff on one of my wrists before he unfastened the straps. After that he had no trouble cuffing both my hands behind my back. I tried to fight, but I might as well have beat on a brick wall. He then produced a second pair and locked my elbows together. I was fixed for sure. I'd be no help to Yolanda whatever. For a few moments Yola was a snarling tigress fighting for her life. But she was handled with the same ease as myself. I stood, impotent, and watched my darling strapped as I had been. All three males seemed to regard what they were doing with pure amusement, but poor Yola's wrists were buckled brutally tight. We were both captive.

"We won't gag you, Miss Harding." James Pollard managed to make the concession sound munificent.

"You'll go to prison, you know that, don't you?" She glared defiantly at him over a prisoned arm. James ignored the threat. "Someone's bound to find you sooner or later," he consoled cheerfully.

"If you've made the servants helpless it could be days!" Yola was frightened, I could tell. I longed to speak. I'd have promised anything if only they would leave her free. I cursed the gag that filled and sealed my lips. I had a mental vision of my darling standing there strapped to that damn post all through the night. It would be terrible for her, much worse than for me.

"Shouldn't we undress the lady?" one of the helpers inquired brightly. "She doesn't look quite right as is."

"Nudity is implicit in her circumstance," James agreed pensively. "What are your sentiments, Miss Harding?"

"You are being beastly," Yola sniffed angrily.

"De rigueur, wouldn't you say?" Yolanda twisted uselessly in her bonds and said nothing. "I'm sure the servants deserve a treat when they release you," James said generously. "O.K. boys." It does not take long to undress a girl who is strapped helplessly. Yolanda stood, her wrists fastened to each side of the post and hands clenched 'till they showed white while she was stripped. What could not be unfastened was torn. I watched the blush envelop her. I knew what it was like.

"Lovely chassis."

"Super tits."

"Come 'round here and look at her quim. What a bush!" The boys enjoyed themselves. Yolanda stood, flushed and mute, while her naked attributes were frankly discussed.

"Shouldn't we take her along too?"

"Lovely crumpet, I bet." But it was James Pollard who dropped the bomb.

"Interrupted something, didn't we?" he recalled casually.

"Little Buttercup being swished, eh."

"Sweetie-pie getting her arse whipped."

"You're right! Hardly sporting… " I saw Yola tense, she was a frightened statue in marble, I myself was rigid with premonition.

"Only fair to carry on, wouldn't you say, Miss Harding?" It was cat and mouse. Yolanda had no chance. I think she instinctively knew that to plead would enhance their pleasure in what they were about to do. She kept silent and bowed her head between her captive arms. It was her only refuge.

"A par figure of a hundred, I believe? May we have the tally on the balance to go, Miss Harding?" He made it sound like a query at Bridge. There was complete silence. It was broken by a glib suggestion from one of the helots: "We can count the fresh stripes on Buttercup and subtract." It was a labour of love for them. Shamefully, but in an urgent need to reduce Yola's sentence, I spread my legs so that they could count any marks hidden where they might not think to look.

"Naughty, naughty! Whipped the poor girl's cunt, eh."

"And look at Flossie's things! Best way is to count the ridges with a finger." I stood while they had their fun with my whipmarks and my sex. They saw my wet and enjoyed it. Ruefully, I knew that had it not been for the agony about to befall Yolanda I would have enjoyed the piquancy of this erotic interlude. I belong to Yolanda, but I do not dislike men, not the right ones. The two sets of handcuffs so totally secured me I had little sensation of being more than a palpitating package. The shining steel and the gag divorced me from participation in anything.

"About three dozen, I'd say. Leaves sixty-four to go."

"Hard to tell — there's some overlap. I say, Miss Harding, would fifty leave honour satisfied?"

"There's no honour in what you're doing." Yola's voice was piteous.

"We're only finishing what you started, Miss." In argument Yola was lost. She had been whipping me. We all knew this. Logic would dictate that if they did not whip her they should finish whipping me. One of us would get it. But it is one thing to be whipped by a girl who loves you, it is something twice as fearful to be whipped by three vigorous men! I looked at my naked Mistress standing invitingly where I had stood, and quailed. They whipped my darling. Helplessly, I stood and watched the weals spring up and become scarlet on the innocent scented flesh I adored. Yolanda stood still for the first few, but soon she was writhing and moaning with each lash. When her first high scream pealed through the room I could endure no more. Furiously, I leaped to where she was bound and pressed my own nakedness against hers in the only protection I could offer. I glared balefully at James Pollard.

"Greater love hath no wench… " The voice was sarcastic. "Dammit, these two have a thing going!"

"Wish Flossie loved me like that." James shook his head sadly. "O.K., O.K. You've made me feel like a bastard. We'll return to the business at hand." He made a wry motion. "I'd never have believed what an erotic joy it is to whip a naked girl." He eyed his companions ruefully. "How'd it hit you?"

"I've got a simply shocking erection," one admitted.

"I couldn't have borne the fifty," said the other. "I'd have been obliged to fuck one of them if we'd continued." Men! They're nothing but a throbbing penis. They're like those metal detectors you scan the ground with. They pick up a girl's sex and go beep, beep! Absurd creatures!

"Sorry and all that, Miss Harding. Just too damn inviting, y'know." James sounded as though he meant it. I stepped away from my hurt darling. She was quietly sobbing and rubbing her wet cheeks against her strapped arms. I watched, amazed, the thing James did next. Extracting a slip of paper from his wallet he used a thumb tack to affix it to the whipping post before the eyes of the girl who was it's captive. Moving closer I read its message. It was a Roland Bolling cheque for one hundred thousand pounds in favour of Yolanda Harding. Whether she or I liked it or not, I was paid for. The rest was swift. My ankles were roped together. One of the boys had found the blanket I had yearned for through dungeon nights. I was laid on it and rolled into a dark bundle. The last I saw of Yola was a wealed back and two wide and anguished eyes. Rope went 'round and 'round the blanket and me. In helpless sightlessness I was carried from Castle Glynt.

It was a long journey. I guessed it to be in the back seat of a car. I wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was better than the boot. After a few experimental twitchings I gave up the idea of escape or getting loose. I just endured. Slave girls get used to it. There was conversation but it didn't come through the blanket enough to help. I was then carried around a lot, put down, picked up, and finally stood upright. Strong hands steadied me while others stripped me of the rope and the blanket. While I was still blinking they also untied my ankles.

"Superb!" The voice was foreign. The approval sincere. "We were certain you would be pleased, sir." James Pollard's tone was deferential. Everything I saw spelt money. The room was a library, or study, or office, or all three. There was a business-like desk. I stood before it where I had been placed. Gazing at me across it's polished surface was a man, undistinguished save for that faintly withered look that comes from a lifetime of worrying about large sums of money. James Pollard lolled negligently in a chair to one side. He winked at me. It was a nice boyish wink that hardly belonged in this oppressively opulent room. I had no idea what it was meant to convey. On the basis that attack is the best defense, I asked firmly: "Would someone like to take these things off my elbows?"

"Come, come, my dear," said the withered character. "They do wonders for your breasts. Indulge an old man." Believe it or not, it was the first moment I'd felt naked. "I can always stick my breasts out to be admired. They're very nice breasts. They don't need handcuffs on my elbows," I told him haughtily.

"May I introduce Mr. Gyorkos," James said helpfully. "Mr. Gyorkos: Miss Euphemia Carstairs, sometimes called Phemie."

"I am much honoured," said Mr. Gyorkos. I looked at him blankly, "You're not Roland Bolling!"

"Alas no." His shrewd eyes twinkled. "You have disappointment?" I glared at James. He had the grace to look sheepish.

"There have been certain business arrangements," he said vaguely.

"You mean you've sold me already? At a profit'!" He squirmed. "The details need not concern you, Phemie."

"You are much desired young woman," said my new owner.

"I may as well be running along." James rose awkwardly. It was the first time I'd seen him uncertain. "Good-bye, sir." They shook hand with what seemed a reasonable cordiality. There was a brief awkward pause before James determinedly took the few steps that separated us and, cupping my face in his hands, kissed me soundly on my lips. It felt so good I kissed him back, hard. I had needed that kiss. It did wonders for me. He disengaged and gave me his favourite grin. "You'll be alright, Phemie." His eyes were very deep, encompassing me. "It won't always be easy, but you'll come through O.K. You're good stuff." A moment later he was gone. I had never felt so lonely in my life.

"Is nice young man," said Mr. Gyorkos. "I am trusting he fucked you well. Is good to have memories."

"I have aching arms," I said pointedly, and rattled my handcuffs. Mr. Gyorkos was one of those men deaf to the irrelevant.

"You are no doubt most curious?" he suggested pleasantly. "Will set nice English worry at rest. You are not for fuck." Then added pensively: "At least not too much." I suddenly felt ninety-nine percent pubic.

"You are for most special employment, Miss Carstairs." He said it as though I should feel grateful. I was cringingly curious. I was also shockingly aware of being naked and helpless and providing Mr. Gyorkos with a frank female frontal view. The two pairs of handcuffs on my wrists and arms had about the same effect as a dozen dungeon doors. It was useless for me to even think of getting loose, let alone actually trying. He read my thoughts. "I am expecting handcuffs most trying for young woman when naked," he consoled.

"If you take them off, I promise not to run," I offered. Then added for good measure: "I won't fight either. I know it's hopeless."

"Most sensible," he approved. "But is much best you always be — what is word? Ah, yes: restrained. It saves much punishment." He eyed me benignly. "If free, you will do foolishness. Then would get whipped for much hurting. Better to have little wrist or neck or ankle in chain or rope." He sounded as though he spoke from experience. I wondered how many naked girls had stood where I stood now. "Do I get to wear clothes?" I asked innocently.

"Am having central heating," said Mr. Gyorkos grandly. In its way his boast answered my question. I tried another: "Why me, Mr. Gyorkos? Couldn't you send me back to Castle Glynt and get some… some… local girl who wants to make some spare cash? I mean, what's so special about me?"

"You are a slave." The way he said it endowed me with a gender all my own.

"But only to Yolanda Harding!" I wailed. "She and I love each other, so being her slave girl is… just… natural. But I don't want to be a slave to anyone else. It wouldn't be any good."

"So we keep you handcuffed."

"But there's more to it than that, Mr. Gyorkos. It's a thing of the psyche and the spirit. You can keep me a prisoner, but being a true slave girl is something else."

"We give help, Miss Carstairs." His assurance was expansive. We cane your bottom and we whip your back." As an extra boost to my morale he added: "And there are other things." I was sure there were! Mr. Gyorkos was the sort who would always have 'other things'. I was feeling more and more bare all the time. My twin sets of handcuffs weighed a ton. I tried again: "But, Mr. Gyorkos, maybe I'm not quite like other girls. Grandma would say I wasn't a nice girl at all. I'm erotic. I have erotic thoughts and responses. I adore being Yolanda's slave. I'm not really fond of men, but once in awhile one of them will excite me-"

"Like nice Mr. Pollard?" He was laughing at me.

"Oh alright," I admitted despairingly. "But don't you see how useless I'll be to you when I'm frightened and forced. I love wearing Miss Harding's chains and… things. But the way you'll keep me I'll be as unhappy as any other girl."

"Is best to try before complain."

"Do I get kept in a dungeon?"

"Is nice cell. Very clean sheets."

"I suppose you'll instruct me through the bars!"

"Have pleasant lady for purpose. She is very good with whip. You will obey. Then she is nice."

"Do I have to wear handcuffs in this… cell?"

"Of course! Do not pretend you do not enjoy." He nudged a file folder on his desk. "We have complete dossier. You are most charming and interesting young female." As an afterthought he added: "And so is the delectable Miss Harding."

"Yolanda hates being tied up." Mr. Gyorkos shrugged. "That is why we buy you, not her."

"You're going to use me as a sort of whore, aren't you?" My crudity had hurt. Mr. Gyorkos almost winced. "Are doing yourself injustice," he admonished huffily. "Whores are cheap and in good supply. We use you for very special gifts." His willingness to talk and accept my sarcasms was heartening. Evidently I would have to step well over some, as yet, undefined line before I earned punishment. I was glimpsing what I was in for. I know the ways in which I'm different. I could understand how this 'difference' might be marketable. My future was half erotically reassuring and half frightening. "You want me as a plaything for men?" I challenged. He shrugged. "It has always been the role of pretty girls." Decisively he pressed a button.

"Do they need to keep you handcuffed, or are you wearing them to please me?"

"I'm new. They're not certain of me," I admitted, then went the whole bit: "I'm not even certain of myself." He was a nice type. Not young, but clean and athletic. He did not have Gyorkos's withered look, but he was half preoccupied as though he was wedging whatever he was going to do to me in between appointments.

"You can get me a drink. I suppose you know how to serve it'?" The room had everything for my discomfort and his comfort. I mixed him his drink at the bar and knelt before him, slave girl style, and humbly proffered it.

"You're not bad, child." He took his drink and sipped, gazing down at my appropriately disposed nudity. "Did they have to hurt you much to get cooperation'!"

"The whip marks are from my former owner," I told him innocently. "The one from whom I was kidnapped and stolen yesterday." My momentous announcement failed to move him. "Not thinking of nagging me for help, are you'?" He was on the verge of irritability.

"Not if you don't want me to."

"I don't! What is it Sinclair's primed you to get out of me?"

"I don't know any Sinclair."

"Distinguished looking bastard. Mustache and Oxford accent'!"

"I was only brought here yesterday. I spent the night chained up in a rotten little cell." Actually the cell hadn't been all that bad, but I was feeling irritable too. Besides, I suspected I was going to get whipped whether I was polite or not.

"My name's Royden. Mean anything to you?"

"No. Should it'?"

"Sinclair would have mentioned it. How about Pawley Electronics'!"

"If you think I've been bribed to get information out of you I might as well stand up. Can I get you another drink? Or do I get whipped'!"

"Cool little baggage, aren't you!" He looked at me as though noticing me for the first time. "You're beautifully shaped." I got to my feet and made a pretty play with my cuffed hands. If I could please him with something simple, I'd try. "Sorry I don't know anything. I just don't." He nodded noncommittally. "Sure they haven't promised you a thrashing if you don't come up with something? It's the usual ploy."

"I only know Mr. Gyorkos and Mr. Pollard. They didn't promise me anything. I sort of got the idea my thrashing was going to come from you."

"Who's Pollard?"

"He works for Roland Bolling."

"Well, well!" He seemed pleased, as though I'd told him something. "So you're going to sweetly accept a whipping in order to soften me up!"

"I'd sooner go home," I said flatly. "If you'll take me back to Castle Glynt I'll let you whip me all you want. If you need money I can get you that too." He eyed me assessingly, then sighed. "Since we're both here I might as well enjoy the amenities." I filled his glass again. I moved as prettily as I could and made sure my handcuffs clinked a lot. "I'm a prisoner here," I told him without urgency. "I wish you'd believe me."

"What's your favourite whip?" he asked without humour. He seemed bored. "Actually I prefer to cane your bottom. It's the English thing, y'know. D'you mind?"

"Would it make any difference?" I asked coldly. "I mean, if I did mind?"

"Oh yes." He seemed faintly amused. "You'd kick up a fuss and get it twice as hard. Doing it your way I'll feel a bastard and go easy."

"Thank you."

"It's the nature of the male erection," he confided in the same bored tone. "If the female fights, it's potent. If she pleads and bowls and has to be gagged, it's a turn on. If she's beautiful and has a well curved behind she'll get no mercy."

"That last one's me, isn't it?" He actually laughed. "I like that. Yes, it's you. But I'm told you're different. One of those who want it, eh?"

"I can't convince them I'm only like that when I'm loved," I told him unhappily. "These people probably know all about making money, but they don't know a thing about girls."

"I can believe that too," he said musingly. "Sinclair and Gyorkos probably believe females should come in packages of a half dozen with quantity discounts. You're a commodity." He vouchsafed me a small commiserating smile. "You're in a bad spot, child, so far as communion goes. You're in a bad spot with me. I can understand what you say, but that won't prevent me from enjoying the privilege Gyorkos has handed me on a plate."

"You mean me?"

"Of course. They're crass and never heard of finesse. Making me a temporary gift of your body is hardly subtle. But I'm not fool enough to reject it." There was something decent under Royden's cynicism. I tried to touch it. "You intend to fuck me?" I deliberately used the ugly word.

"Oh come! You can do better than that."

"What are you going to do to me, or make me do for you?"

"You have certain talents?"

"With Yolanda, not with you."

"I can see they haven't brutalized you yet. You're pushy and you're clinging to something you've lost. It could be whipped out of you. In fact this may be the best way we can use our time together. I'd enjoy breaking you." The sum total effect of his casual suggestion made me angry with myself. The heat between my legs flamed. Royden had touched a chord in whatever makes me respond. I always see it as a betrayal of something or other, but I can't help it. I wondered if he could scent my femaleness as I suddenly could myself. I held up my handcuffed wrists, eyed them for a moment, them turned my gaze on him. "I can't stop you, can I," I said meekly.

"The way you say that is almost an invitation." I expect he was right. But I was frightened as well as sexually aroused. With me this is possible. "I don't want to be… broken," I said cautiously. "Couldn't we sort of compromise? Tell me what you enjoy most. I'll try and give it to you."

"You're in no position to give anything. You've lost it all."

"No I haven't! I'm still me inside." He nodded. "Fair enough. Select the cane you think will hurt you most."

"Is caning or whipping me your greatest pleasure?"

"Do what you're told." I recognized the moment. I knew it well. I took from the rack the instrument that would hurt most bitterly. On one knee I kissed its wickedness and offered it for his approval. He accepted and tested it without comment. "Refill my glass."

"Yes, Master."

"Have you had a man beat you before?"

"No, master."

"Where did you pick up this 'Master' thing?"

"I didn't. I just thought it would please you and show I was willing. I expect a lot of what I do is instinctive." He regarded me with new interest. "You are a bit special. I'm going to hurt you cruelly, but you're mixing that drink with a steady hand." He swished the cane through the air in a way that added fuel to my fire. "D'you know if you're up for sale?"

"I don't know anything, Master. I just got kidnapped. But someone was willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for me."

"Hmmmm! I'd consider it." I suddenly wanted Royden to buy me. He might be cruel, but he was more my kind than Gyorkos. Perhaps when he tired of me he would sell me back to Yolanda. Hope flared. "Please buy me," I pleaded. "I want you to. I'm frightened." I could tell he was pleased. But he was not going to allow a slave girl to direct the conversation. "Have you ever been hung up by your wrists?" He asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes, Master."

"Adds something to what we're about to do, don't you think?"

"Of course, Master. It makes me beautifully available."

"Good! Find what is needed." I delivered his drink and my obeisance on bended knee, then went in search of the requisite objects for my unearned punishment. The room had everything. It came up trumps. "They're padded. I hope you don't mind," I ventured tentatively as I handed him the leather wristlets. "But if you'd prefer something to hurt my wrists more, I'm sure I can find it. Or maybe rope?"

"These are perfect." He gave me a comradely grin. "Rings and all. Someone here must know what they're about. I suspect that trapeze affair is motivated by the switch in the wall." It was. I lowered the bar to where I could easily reach it. I was quivering. What I was doing was like being made to dig my own grave. But the emotion now uppermost within me was no longer pure fear. I set my Master's drink back on the bar and held out my hands so that he could relieve me of the handcuffs with the key that, sure enough, he had in his pockets. I took the steel bands, warm from my flesh, and hung them on the wall. I could positively feel his curiosity as to whether I was now going to cut up rough under the temptation of being free. I ended the suspense by proffering my hands once more so that he could buckle the wristlets. He did it with swift strong incisive motions. He made them tight. Cheerfully, I stood beneath the bar and raised my arms, looking at him with a respectful and inviting smile. A moment later my wristlets were snapped to each end of the trapeze, and my new Master was striding towards the switch. I am sure that for most girls, to be suspended naked by their wrists must be traumatic. You're so shockingly bare you feel almost entirely pussy and nipples, your helplessness is utter. It also hurts like blazes, a strange sort of hurt that isn't just your wrists. Your shoulders scream indignantly at what is being done to them. You have an instinctive compulsion to raise and lower your feet as though pedaling a bicycle that isn't there. For me it is not traumatic at all. For the first while I hang there in an erotic haze of sensation. I am bound, I am bare, I am delivered, I am vulnerable. But, above all, I belong to someone. I am completely female to be used. They can do what they please with me. It's a quite remarkable feeling. If a girl was not scared to death she would know herself exquisitely desirable. Silly, I suppose, but I was hoping Royden was enjoying me. I avoided his eyes, and just hung in sweet resigned nakedness. The burn of the cane across my bottom was so unexpected it drew a yelp of surprise from me, but its pain went only to feed my fire.

"We have a tendency to talk too much," Royden observed pleasantly, and struck me again. I knew that to keep silent would be an affront. I made the sounds of orgasm. They were not simulated. They are the most sensually satisfying sounds for a girl to emit in that context. They earned me a respite while Royden enjoyed them. I could hear his indrawn breath.

"I will concede that I have never beheld anything more beautiful." Some genuine quality in his voice made me glow with pride. I know I'm beautiful, but it's a lovely feeling when someone else agrees. He hit me again. I could not tell if he was striking me all out. The impacts were of the same intensity as when Yola hits me as hard as she can. It hurt fiercely. I wondered how many my fire could absorb before I started to scream. I passionately did not want to scream for a man. For darling Yola, yes, but not for the Male! I wanted to bestow on him only those sounds that would provoke his erection and agonize his desire. That way I would emerge the victor. Is that silly too? I expect it is. Royden caned my bottom with tremendous male verve and competence. The impacts of the cane burying itself in my flesh caused the bar to swing a little from side to side with me as a pendulum. Royden used my changing salient aspect to place his strokes to best advantage. I was being caned by a Master of the Craft. I had an absurd vision of him as a Head Master with morta-board and gown, and myself as some shockingly delinquent pupil. A little girl whose bottom had been bared for her iniquities.

"Do you cry at all, Miss Carstairs?" he inquired conversationally.

"I can if you want me to," I offered between gasps "A girl can, y'know, and they'd be quite genuine." He sliced me low on my bottom where it hurts most. "No. Just let tears flow if they're spontaneous. It's a nice effect."

"On the erection?" I tried to sound casual. He chuckled, pleased. "Naturally. The erection is the alpha and omega, isn't it! How about screaming?"

"I can't always control it. I'll try not to, but I probably will."

"Almost a challenge to me." His voice held dry humour. "I take it this gift of yours is not limitless, there's a brink you can cross so that you hurt and react like any other girl?"

"Yes," I admitted. "I'm terribly sorry. It's a bit of a let down for me too. I'd love to be able to laugh all through. But the pain's a lot more awful than you probably realize."

"Help if I cane you more slowly?"

"Yes. Thank you." The strike was as though he was making up for all the chitchat. I yelped again and kicked my legs. The pain worked its way through me from back to front. I could feel my nerves receiving it and passing it on, wave after wave. Being caned is quite an experience. It's like nothing else that can happen to a girl. There are worse things, but a girl's bottom has a responsiveness all its own.

"That one was most impressive, Mr. Royden." I paid maiden tribute to whatever his motivation might be. "Thank you for the pause." His next gift to me cut deep into the top of my thighs and produced that other kind of agony that eats into a girl's stomach and leaves you certain you can't bear another. My legs pedalled like mad. I made magnificent erection generating vocals that were quite impromptu.

"If I can make a deal I'm going to buy you, Miss Carstairs," said Mr. Royden, and struck me again on the same place. It was probably the most sincere tribute ever given to me. But I think I must have gone half mad with the pain. Two on my thighs, one on top of the other! For a moment they almost doused my fire. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, but my legs flailed like crazy and the rest of me writhed and twisted worse than a puppet on a string. I did not trouble to look, but I had a feeling he was standing back in awe. After a long while he made an important announcement.

"I think we can discard the cane now, Euphemia, and move on to the whip." I controlled my vocals long enough to say: "Thank you, Mr. Royden, that would be nice." How absurd we were! How formal and correct! I sensed that, for both of us, it was keeping my torture on a plane above the commonplace or the disagreeable. We were being frightfully British. His use of my Christian name gave me an inordinate pleasure. I made my small moans and used my feet to kick away the pain they could not touch.

"Have you any preference in the matter of a whip, my dear?" Royden's voice had taken on a new warmth during the caning of my bottom.

"Please, could I have one without knots?"

"Of course. But there's quite a collection here."

"Knots cut me, Mr. Royden, and I've found that multiple lashes tend to bunch and give me a miserable sort of blow that makes ugly marks and bruises. A single thong is the most aesthetic and they hurt terribly, You can choose the length according to how you want them to snap around me. The shorter ones are the most accurate if you want to mark me in certain places or ways."

"Knowledgeable little girl, aren't you!"

"Yes, Master. Thank you. I've been whipped a lot."

"And it still hurts?"

"Oh, Master, if you only knew!"

"What about your breasts, do they just take what comes?"

"I'd be grateful, Master if they were left safe. When the lash curls under my arm and goes on 'round, the tip snaps on them and cuts my skin. You could whip me more somewhere else."

"Where somewhere else?"

"I'll open my legs wide if it would please you there?"

"On this little lady here?" His masculine hand enveloped my puss and squeezed. I gasped with pleasure. It was as though Yola stood beside me. I knew I should be angry, but my blush was my only protest.

"If whipping her would give you pleasure, I won't mind," I told him prettily.

"You're right, you're not like other girls," he declared emphatically. "You're every man's dream… mine, at any rate. Did you know the lady was soaking wet?" He wiped his very wet hand on my thigh below the wounds.

"She's like that," I admitted apologetically. "She's always wet when I'm being punished, even when I scream."

"Don't feel badly about her." He chuckled. "She's one in a million. I suppose she's also wet at the proper time?" How could I tell him it had been just me and Yola! I giggled. Giggles help a girl a lot. "I'm afraid she is," I said demurely. I don't suppose there was a whip in that room that would not hurt a girl unbearably. The one Mr. Royden selected was a half and halfer. It would not wound me and it would not curl all the way 'round my nudity. But apart from that it was a whip well designed to hurt a girl.

"Stand on this a minute, you can use a rest." My toes were only six inches from the floor. The box he thrust beneath them was an unexpected boom. I stepped on it gratefully. Yolanda had suspended me all night once. I had been a very humble girl in the morning. Mr. Royden was an unknown quantity. Any respite was welcome. My flaming bottom was testimony to his enjoyment and skill in hurting girls. The whip was still to come. "You're being terribly kind," I said, and actually meant it.

"Want a drink'?" I almost wept when he handed me the glass. But I still could not lower my hands far enough, so he had to hold it to my lips. I don't drink, but I gulped this gratefully. It was shockingly strong. I hoped it might be at least faintly anesthetic.

"I'd sooner carry on with your bottom; but enough's enough. You did damn well. Is the whip going to be worse for you?"

"It's a different kind of pain. It's less sexy."

"But still a little?"

"Oh, yes. Especially if you use it between my legs. You'll have to tell me if you want to do that."

"Doesn't the suspension bother you?"

"In it's own way." I giggled. "But we've agreed I'm not like other girls. For an hour I love it. Then it gets increasingly awful."

"If a chap had the time to just be cruel to you up to the limit of your tolerance for pain, you'd be an astounding experience for any man, Euphemia." He gave me an incongruously comradely grin. "If I manage to buy you I can limit my baser instincts to a good bash every Saturday. The prospect appeal at all?" I expect I'm a silly girl with a warped set of values, but I was impelled by a wave of longing. "Please buy me, please, please," I begged with complete sincerity. "I'll make you very happy." Oh sure, I had a pretty mental picture of him selling me back to Yolanda. I felt certain Gyorkos never would. He was pleased. He gave me the rest of my drink and patted my wealed bottom in a paternal sort of way. "How many do you usually get with a whip like this, Euphemia?" He said it like asking how many sugars in my tea. I decided not to be too much of a cheat. "Fifteen," I said brightly.

"We'll make it twenty then," Royden said genially. He took away the box. Hanging suspended by my wrists again made me want to cry. My punishment was going on and on. A girl gets tired and scared and hurt, and she keeps wondering why men get so much happiness from giving her pain. About that time in a punishment it all seems terribly hopeless. I was wondering if I dared ask for another drink when the lash sang its warning whine and cut into my back. I am trying to tell you a story about me and Yolanda. You will already have realized I am a girl who gets whipped a lot. If I try and take you along to share every harrowing lash and stroke that slices my flesh it's going to be a bore. A whipped girl is a whipped girl any way you describe it. The variations of temperament by which girls endure their whippings all bring her to the same end. She is well striped with scarlet weals and very thankful when it's all over. The most pertinent impression of a girl being whipped is not so much the whip as helplessness. Always you are tied or strapped or chained. You have to be. You are naked and vulnerable. This is the paramount sensation: you have to stand there! Or hang. Or bend over! You never get reconciled to the seeming anomaly of having your bare skin whipped while you do nothing about it. You can't do anything about it! It was that way now with Mr. Royden. I was beautifully suspended. My nakedness was stretched from my wrists. I was all there to whip. I could generate a lot of motion, I could scream. But I could not get away from the lash that striated my skin, nor from the man who wielded it. It is an extraordinary frustrating impotence that everyone should endure once just to know what it's like so they can realize how lucky you are the rest of the time.

"You mark exquisitely, Euphemia."

"Thank you, Mr. Royden." The formal game we played satisfied some strange sense of propriety for both of us. Absurd! you say. Well perhaps but I'd swear the whip hurt me less because a gentleman was using it.

"Do they whip down to your knees?"

"Not usually. It hurts a nasty sexless hurt and isn't a bit aesthetic." He stopped whipping me. "You and this Miss Harding of yours place a lot of stress on aestheticism?" I was gasping with pain, but he had put his finger on a favorite theme. "Of course we do, Mr. Royden. To us the whole experience of two girls, one a slave to the other, is beautiful. Girls ought to be beautiful. Yolanda and I are. It sort of follows, then, we can't do anything ugly."

"A bit over-simplistic?" He hit me low so the tip snapped into my hip. It was hard to cope with the agony and carry on the dissertation, but I managed.

"You're thinking of the conventional pictures of brutality, Mr. Royden, in which it's always a man who flogs a girl. Most people would see it as disagreeable and unworthy of analysis. But I bet you see what you're doing to me right now as beautiful, don't you'!"

"It's you, hanging there naked, that's beautiful."

"But you're part of the scene. I wouldn't be hanging here decorated with lovely weals if it was not for you." He slashed the thong across the top of my shoulders. While I worked at absorbing it, he continued his casual observation: "Damn rummy, when you think of it. If I whip you for the pure cruelty of lust there is something transcendent and immaculate about the tableau the two of us create. But if I was whipping you as a real punishment for some delinquency the scene becomes sadistic. I'd probably feel sadistic in a way I don't now. The values are reversed somewhere." This time he was deliberately unkind. He wrapped a cut 'round my bottom on top of the cane stripes. It hurt like blazes, but I knew he was testing me, so I gave our small talk all I had. "It comes from a false premise, Mr. Royden," I pointed out innocently. "A thousand years ago no one would have given what you are doing to me a second glance. It seems wrong or brutal now only because society has decided it's not done. A matter of fashion or changing custom actually."

"Do you and your Yolanda chit-chat like this while she whips you, Euphemia?" I was framing my reply and tensing for his next stroke when the door opened. I was suspended at an angle which enabled me to see what then took place. It was very swift and very shocking. A man had entered. At sight of him, Royden's hand flew beneath his jacket and emerged with a pistol. But the shot from the doorway came too soon. The man who had been whipping me with such consummate finesse crumpled to the floor with a thud that, to my horrified eyes, spelled death.

"This is the place," said the man who had fired. He was joined by two companions. All of them were foreign, not distinctively so, nor by their speech, but by their complexions and the way they wore their clothes. I thought of the Arab states to the south and the East of the Mediterranean.

"We wanted Royden alive."

"Then he shouldn't have had a gun. It was him or me."

"I suppose that's the girl." All three gazed at me as though I was a piece of meat, but their eyes soon became carnal.

"Your name is Euphemia Carstairs?" I doubt it would have helped if I'd said no, I was Jennie Smith. They knew!

"Take her." I said no word as they tied me. There was that about them which told me pleadings would be useless. If I had known fear before, I shivered with it now. They let me down so that my feet found the floor. No sooner were my wrists released from the bar than they were instantly tied behind my back. When they also tied my elbows so tight they met, I knew I was for it. My captivities were rapidly degenerating. For the first time in my life I wished I was male and unmarketable.

"Search the house and get her to the car." Since they then tied my ankles, I was not hard to manage. A blanket tossed over my head and roped below my breasts completed my ensemble of what the kidnapped girl should wear. Somewhere along the way I passed out. I expect it was from lack of air.

"Pretty little bitch." The voice was male.

"I suppose the lot of you will screw her arse off?" This one was female and came from London. I opened my eyes and took in the scene. It wasn't much. A rotten little cell with none of Gyorkos's 'clean sheets', just a cot and a thin mattress on which I reclined, my arms and wrists hurting like fury. The man was mediocre. His trousers were a concession to the West, the rest of him was some sort of Arab. But the girl was London. But the wrong part of London! She was pretty enough in a wrong sort of way. Her dress was East End and skimpy. I weakly voiced my most demanding need.

"Please untie me. I won't fight." It amused them. But the man answered her, not me. "Ordinarily, yes," he agreed. "She's a prize of war. But take a good look. She's worth money. The Cause can use the cash."

"You'll spoil her with your tortures. I don't suppose she'll have the sense to talk. You'll screw her, won't you?" She looked at him accusingly.

"You're jealous, Jennie." He laughed. "Don't worry, screwing rarely loosens tongues."

"I don't know a thing about anything," I affirmed vehemently.

"See what I told you. She won't fetch much when you're through with her." Jennie eyed me without favor. He laughed again, enjoying her concern. "You underrate our skill. Fortunately, we have a lot of time."

"I suppose I'll have to look after her?"

"You know you'll enjoy a small victory over the upper classes. She will help your class consciousness."

"Have your joke," Jennie retorted without rancour. "I almost feel sorry for the poor little cunt. I've never seen anything more naked and helpless. Look at her!"

"Quite charming. I will leave her in your care. If you let her escape you will be killed."

"And up your's too!" said Jennie. It wasn't encouraging, was it? I was still tied hand and foot and elbow. I hurt too much to struggle. I wished Jennie was a different type, but the vulgarity of her last rejoinder gave me hope. She had some sense of humour of her own. "I'm sorry to be such a nuisance," I told her submissively. "I'll try and not give you any trouble."

"You won't get a chance, love," said Jennie.

"Could I just have the rope off my elbows please?" I asked tentatively. Jennie consulted her watch. "You've been tied like that less than an hour," she said calmly. "You can stand it awhile yet."

"Am I tied like this to keep me from escaping, or as some sort of punishment?" I ventured.

"Hurts that bad, eh?"

"It's beastly."

"They whipped you at the other place, didn't they?"

"Yes." Mr. Royden seemed a million miles away.

"Did that hurt much?" She was morbidly interested.

"Try it sometime." Her eyes shaded in retrospective thought. "It 'ud hurt me, love. I was thinking about you. Ain't you the gal what loves it?" Here too! It is not comforting to a girl, tied hand and foot, to realize her captors actually believe she would enjoy a dozen with the knout. I tried to touch any heart Jennie might possess.

"Look, you're a girl, you know how girls respond. From someone I love I can accept an awful whipping and feel only gorgeous eroticism. From strangers I'm scared of it, it hurts so bad I curl up inside and scream. Haven't you ever…" Her laugh was half a sneer, but it was progress. "Sure, kid, I know. We're silly bitches just the way they say we are." Her eyes narrowed, "How about that rope 'round your elbows, work the same way for you?"

"Yes. Right now I'd give anything to get it off." She nodded. "Yes. Can't say I'm like you, but I can guess. And being naked… how's that?"

"I'm nearly always naked. I've got used to it. There's just moments when a man says something or looks at me in a certain way…"

"O.K. You're just another girl, but a damn good looking one."

"That man told you to look after me. What… "

"Look, love, there ain't much chance of you and me liking each other, but we can try. Mostly I'll be hurting you. But it will be because I've been told to."

"You work for them?"

"In a way. But I'm one of the believers too. Ashad and I sleep together, in case you're curious. If the other boys have a long dry spell they have a go at me as well." It didn't sound like privilege. "You like all this?" I asked, puzzled.

"It's better than working at Mark's amp; Spencer's, love. But you wouldn't know."

"Don't hold it against me." I looked up at her appealingly. "You mentioned torture… honest, I don't know anything."

"They won't believe it. You'd better tall 'em something. They've got nasty ways of hurting a girl."

"But he also said something about me being saleable?"

"You are. We get a lot of our funds that way. It's the reason for this cell. You ain't the first inhabitant."

"And they got tortured too?"

"Hell no, just whipped enough to make 'em behave."

"Whoever buys us doesn't object to a few whipmarks?"

"Ducky, they love it. Puts the price up." She grinned confidingly, "If we get a group of three or four we torture one of 'em and make the others watch. You know, the hot iron or the electric shock or hanging by her thumbs. Amazing how obliging they all become: stick their hands out for the handcuffs and say 'thank you' nicely."

"Jennie, I'll do that. I'll stick my hands out. You don't have to… to… do anything to me."

"Poor kid." There was unexpected compassion in her voice.

"You really are scared, aren't you? But you'd best forget about any kind of freedom of choice. Right now you and I have a job." She chuckled at whatever expression showed on my face. "It ain't good and it ain't bad, love. I'm going to tidy you a bit and take you to talk to Ashad. I'm going to untie your feet, but don't get ideas." To get rid of any of those torturing ropes seemed good to me at that moment. I stretched luxuriously and kicked my legs about, but obeyed her instruction to lay still.

"Sorry about this, love." Jennie held up a pair of pliers and a length of wire. Sitting beside me on the cot she possessed herself of one of my feet. "We'll call these ornaments, ducky. Nice little anklets." I could feel myself curling up inside. "Why can't I just be tied or hobbled with rope?" I asked fearfully.

"Because we do it this way. It's beautifully painful and very practical. You won't run. Hold still… you'll see." I held still, breathless with suspense. My ankle was circled with the wire. Then the pliers gripped and pulled and twisted until the thin band of metal was well into my skin. The twist was at the back. The cutting blades of the pliers neatly snipped off the excess. My fingers, even if I had them, would be powerless against the join. Humming cheerfully, Jennie affixed a similar circlet round my other leg. "Neat and tidy, love. How's it feel?"

"Tight! And they hurt."

"But not more than you can bear, eh?"

"I suppose not."

"Good. This way to the bathroom."

"Aren't you going to join them'!" Jennie laughed. "No need. You'll see. Come on. Want a hand'! You really are trussed."

"I expect I can manage, thank you." I sat up on the cot and took a good look at my ankles. The wire was indeed neat within my skin… but thought of the bathroom was enticing. I swung my legs over the side of the cot and lunged my tied nudity forward to stand up. Maybe you've guessed! I had not. When my tendons tautened under my weight the wire bands came into their own. With a yelp of agony I let myself fall back on the cot. I looked up at Jennie's interested features with frightened supplication. "I can't! I can't stand."

"Hurts a bit, love, but you'll manage. Leaves you free to walk about," she snickered, "if you want to."

"But I can't stand the pain! They're too tight. It's when my sinews swell or something."

"That's right, love. Ashad thought it up. He's clever about such things."

"Please take them off. I promise-"

"That isn't the idea. We know you'll promise. Those bits of wire are to get you talking 'bout something worth while."

"I don't know anything. But regardless, I can't even stand."

"Ashad's a clever bugger. This is his idea too." Seeing my agonized appraisal of the object she held up to view, she added: "There's one thing to be said for stuff like this. It sure does help a girl make up her mind."

"That's a sort of battery clip, isn't it?"

"That's right, love."

"And you're going to snap it on me somewhere?"

"Handy to have you naked. Guess where it bites." I could guess alright. In a spasm of anxiety to avoid the ugly thing being clipped on my nipple I stood up again, only to fall back once more, moaning. I longed for hands and arms, but they were no more than a burning misery behind my back. I was cruelly helpless and felt like tears.

"It's a sort of leash, see? I pull, you follow." There was a cord attached to the pair of serrated jaws. I knew that, ordinarily, I would indeed follow with alacrity. But now! "You're asking the impossible," I told Jennie miserably.

"Never know 'till we try, love."

"Please, not on my breast." She was right about my nakedness being convenient. What she did then she did with ease. It caught me unaware. A moment later I was gasping at a fresh pain and looking down between my legs to where the metal clip was firmly biting one full lip of my vulva. From it the cord trailed to Jennie's hand.

"Oh please, please take it off. It's awful! I'll do anything!" The cruelty of its intimacy within my being had me demoralized. Jennie did not bother to answer. She knew what she was doing. I expect she had done it often enough. In response to the tug on my most sacred flesh I stood up and took a step. Talking about pain can be the same sort of bore as harping on the moments and strokes of being whipped. What I was feeling now on my ankles was a whole new dimension, something I had never tried before. It's principle awfulness was the knowledge I could end most of it my sitting down. In other words, I was torturing myself. That the clip on my cunt compelled me to was incidental. I knew, for sure, that given choice of a chair or a chance to run from the house I'd immediately sit on the chair. I glanced back longingly at the cot as I took my second step and gasped at what the wire band did to me.

"See what a brave little girl can do when she tries." Jennie sounded almost sincere. The tension on my leash was minimal. I looked at her with a strange mixture of appeal and wonderment at what I was managing to do. The bathroom was nice. I mean about being washed and my hair tidied more than the other things. Jennie allowed me to sit while she did what she wished with me. I could not do a thing for myself. The ropes on wrist and elbow had become a part of poor little Euphemia. When the tug finally came, I plunged into agony once more. Ashad stood looking out of the bay window at a couple of suburban elms and a ragged sycamore. I was led to the center of the big drawing room and made to stand. Jennie did not even bother to hold my leash. I would not run and I was too scared of authority to sit down. My latest owner turned and appraised me with eyes preoccupied with more important things, probably murder. He nodded in approval at what he saw. I was not thrusting my nipples at him on purpose, the rope 'round my elbows did it for me.

"You are a delightful property, Miss Carstairs." How does a naked girl answer a remark like that? I didn't. "I deplore your status as something more than merchandise." He gave me a lovely insincere smile before adding: "But we're going to have a heart to heart talk now, I'm sure?"

"May I sit down please?"

"No." It was not auspicious, was it! I hurt all over the place. "Please take this clip off my… my-"

"What did Royden say about Sinclair and the options?"

"I don't know. You've got the wrong girl or something."

"Where is Sinclair now? Surely Gyorkos let that slip?"

"Don't you understand? Gyorkos had me kidnapped so I could entertain his V.I.P.'s. Mr. Royden was whipping me for his own pure enjoyment when you came."

"You slept with them both. You heard them talking."

"I didn't! I didn't! Oh please believe me, you must!"

"You are in a good deal of pain, aren't you?"

"Yes. It's awful."

"Yet you invite more?" It was hopeless. I was lost in his disbelief. I moaned in desolation and burst into tears.

"You know what to do, Jennie." He turned once more to the window. Jennie knew what to do. So did I! Only once on the return journey did I pause long enough to get a peremptory tug on my puss lip. Deliberately, I invited punishing pain with each step, but I took them and ended up back on my cot in the cell.

"Well, we got that over with," Jennie said matter-of-factly.

"Now for phase two. Sorry, love." This time the wire was a bit heavier. I couldn't fight. I couldn't do anything except turn this way and that as she directed while she contrived my torture.

"Nice and simple, ducky. Takes a bit of time to get the full benefit."

"Can't you take that beastly thing off the lip of my pussy now?"

"It's part of the picture, love," she snickered. "You may become fond of it." Certainly it was simple. Everything was simple — for her! The rope was peeled off my wrists but left on my elbows. My hands were placed palm to palm and my hurt wrists circled with a single strand of wire. The pliers and Jennie's strong fingers did the rest. When the ends of wire were clipped my wrists were welded together by a band of scorching fire.

"If I knew anything, I'd tell you now," I said heartbrokenly. My hands were helpless behind my back, so it was easy for her to loosen my elbows and put another single length of wire 'round them too. She had to take a bit of trouble to cinch my forearms as close together as she wanted. Throughout the operation of readying my arms for torture I sobbed and pleaded without pride. I had never known such miserable impotence. I was helpless and hopeless and afraid. I kept vowing I'd do anything… I'm ashamed at the memory. But I'd had enough experience with being tied to make a good estimate of what I was in for after the pliers made their final clip.

"You can always get these off, love," Jennie said comfortingly. "You have only to ask and say a few words."

"I can't! You know I can't! If I could, d'you think I'd bear this?" It was not finished. My arms screamed, but Jennie's voice was firm. "Stand up, ducky." I was so obedient!

"Exhale and tuck your tummy in." There was a sort of logic about the wire 'round the narrowest part of my waist. It would hurt cruelly as I breathed or moved. I made my middle as concave as I could, and was surprised at how little wire it took to circle me. By the time it was tightened and snipped at my back it was indented too far into my flesh for me to see. "If I knew, I'd tell," I sobbed. It had become a litany.

"I believe you, love," Jennie assured me unemotionally.

"Maybe tomorrow you can convince Ashad. Then all you have to worry about is who buys you. You can sit down now." Sitting saved my ankles but made the wire 'round my tummy hurt more. I moaned and relapsed full length on my side. But even with the pain I was femininely curious. "Where will I be sold?"

"Could be anywhere, love. Surprised me when I first got in on this. I'd thought slavery was long gone. But it's everywhere. All you need is a great deal of money and a big enough house so you can keep the girl out of sight. I 'spose they chain 'em up or something. It's not all Arabian oil millionaires either, could be in Belgrave Square." That looked after that. My concern returned to the wires by which I was bound. "You're not going to leave me like this all night, are you?"

"Of course."

"But the circulation?"

"Don't worry. We know what we're doing."

"It will cut my skin — I'm sure it will on my elbows."

"It may do. Depends how you struggle. But the customers won't mind. The weals are quite good. They get a hard on over them same as with the whip marks. I tell you, kid, a girl can't win."

"You could let me loose, help me escape. I'd get you ever so much money?"

"Couldn't spend it with my throat cut."

"They wouldn't really kill you?" Jennie shrugged. "They kill the ones they sort of like. If they are really mad at a gal' they slice her breasts off or the fingers of her right hand and, of course, her ears. Sorry, no escape."

"Please don't leave me like this all night." I was whimpering.

"Sorry, love, no choice." She took her pliers and the rest of the wire and went out, locking the cell door and blowing me a girl to girl kiss through the bars. I was alone with what had been done to me. Urgently I sought what ease I could. It wasn't much. The explorations themselves were pure torture, but I had the night to think of. I ended up face down, my breasts flattened on the hard little mattress. Even that way I had to use caution because of that damned clip biting between my legs. If I got it the wrong way on the cot the result drove me wild. My fire had gone out completely. I thought longingly of Yolanda but she was in another world. There was nothing nice between my legs at all. Only that blasted clip biting steadily. Being a prisoner affects a girl strangely. She does silly inconsequential things. The biggest compulsion is to use whatever freedom she may have been left with. The other is to find what solace she can with a finger, or whatever's available, in her puss — that one was out for sure! So I essayed the other, even though it all hurt so bad I wanted to scream. I stood up and hobbled to the bars and looked out into the passage, rubbing my breasts and nipples against the cold steel. I got only the faintest response from them, not enough to compensate for the pain. Next I got up against the door, it was firm as rock. I was captive in more ways than one. Then I knelt down and had a drink from the pan Jennie had left me. By then I'd had enough. After a lot more pain I got myself flat on the cot again and called it a day. I cried myself to sleep. My cheeks were wet all night. " In the morning Jennie was kind in the things she did for me, except for the wires now deep in my flesh. With those she was unrelenting. I had to wear them to my next interview with Ashad. I was a sad and dispirited young female as I hobbled my agonizing way behind my wardress, striving with every nerve and sinew to prevent the jerking of the leash that held my pussy as much captive as the rest of me. But when we entered the big room there came a moment when I forgot my travail. Sitting across from Ashad was a man I knew. It was James Pollard.

"Good morning, Phemie." At the sound of the familiar endearment I almost wept. But the pain re-asserted itself so that I burst out with the first spontaneous exclamation that came to mind. "Are you at the bottom of all this?"

"Mr. Pollard is without guilt." Ashad's voice was cold. "Thanks, old chap." James eyes devoured my nudity and as many of the wires as he could see. Even hurting as I was I longed to do something with my legs that would hide the shameful clip between them from view. "Dammit, man! Do you have to have the girl tortured like this?"

"She is an uncooperative little bitch, Mr. Pollard."

"Well, if there's going to be any discussion you can damn well get those wires and that… that… thing off her." The words were magic. Ashad motioned with his hand in a manner eloquent enough for Jennie. The pliers snipped and snipped and firm fingers relieved my pussy of its enemy. I gasped in an ecstatic mixture of relief and agony as each infliction was peeled from my skin.

"You're a brutal lot. The poor girl's bleeding." Again the magic gesture. Jennie hurried away for a damp cloth. Without permission I sank down on the carpet. While she laved my wounds I stayed there in a sort of blissful coma. When she handcuffed my wrists behind my back it seemed a very trivial indignity.

"Do you have to handcuff her?" James was in great form.

"Come, Mr. Pollard, she is a girl and a captive. Let us be reasonable."

"Well, I suppose…" James was eyeing me anxiously. His concern did me a world of good. Suddenly aware that I was naked and helpless before two men my fire rekindled. It was tiny, but true. After a bit of an awkward silence James said to me with a bit of a break in his voice: "Phemie, things have gone wrong. This is not the way it was supposed to be."

"Take me home then and we'll start afresh." I was feeling better.

"You will not go home," said Ashad. I had a sudden inspiration. I looked at my Arab owner. "Miss Harding can give you the hundred thousand she got from Bolling and buy me back?" He actually smiled. "There are impediments, Miss Carstairs."

"She sent the cheque back and is talking about the police," James contributed uncomfortably.

"And why not the police?" I demanded.

"Oh, she'd get 'em alright! But she faces the awkwardness of her original purchase of you. She's a bit vulnerable."

"So who do I belong to now?"

"You are a prize of war. Never doubt your status," Ashad said grimly.

"Don't be so damn theatrical," James Pollard pleaded testily. "Roland Bolling took her in the first place, Bolling will deal with Miss Harding one way or another; Bolling wants her. He will not calmly hand her over to you." His voice hardened. "He can cause you trouble, y'know. You could use him as a friend." The familiar feeling of nakedness and impotence fell on me again. I tugged at the handcuffs. How symbolic of my condition they had become! I was a slave girl, bartered for. My tiny fire burned greedily. Ashad's voice plainly told of playing a trump card: "We have the girl, you do not. Leave her with us a couple of day, then give us the hundred thousand and she is yours."

"You'll torture her."

"She has information we must have."

"Gyorkos didn't have her long enough. Why on Earth would he or Royden blabber to a slave?" Ashad shrugged. "Men do. Even a chance remark she does not understand might tell us much."

"Absolutely no torture!"

"She is but a girl. Your concern for her flesh is… stupid." To me, handcuffed and naked on the rug, it seemed simple. I looked at James and asked crisply: "Why don't you go to the police?" Their faces told me I had said something silly and faintly humourous. James viewed me sadly. "There are wheels within wheels, Phemie, Sort of interlocking interests. Big business doesn't know much charity."

"Why can't you walk out of here with me now?"

"Because we won't let him," said Ashad.

"These blokes are having themselves a little Holy War all their own, Phemie. There's no reasoning with them outside money and influence." James shook his head at me regretfully. "If Bolling could give 'em a battleship or a fleet of tanks, they'd hand you over like a shot."

"I bet there's oil in there somewhere?" I asked bitterly.

"Of course." Ashad made a dismissive gesture. "Go back to your superior, Mr. Pollard. I am sure the two of you can come up with something we can examine. In the meantime we will keep the wench. I will accept your suggestion that she be viewed only as merchandise. No torture."

"That's a lot better!" James boyish grin returned. "Is there a deadline?"

"Not with us, Mr. Pollard. We simply sell her to the first good offer. Let us hope it is yours. We have other things to concern us than breasts and buttocks and pubic hair." He made me sound like a soiled spot on his carpet. James's chaste kiss on my forehead helped a bit. He raised me to my feet and said: "You'll be alright, Phemie," Then he was gone. Ashad and Jennie and I looked at each other without much enthusiasm. "Your champion is very young, Miss Carstairs." Ashad's few words dismissed James utterly. Right there I knew I was lost. "You promised no torture!" My exclamation was spontaneous.

"Did I?" He spoke as though I was reminding him of something he could not recollect. I followed Jennie from the room. I had to, she had clipped the jaws back on my vagina, this time on the opposite lip. The leash from it to her hand was not a bond of love. When we got back to the cell, I stood like a tethered puppy. Jennie held the other end of the cord and surveyed me pensively. "Ashad won't kill you and he won't seriously injure you, love, if that's any help."

"Can't I just be left in here with the door locked — and the handcuffs, of course?" Again I was made to feel I'd said something childish. It was hard for me to see myself as the object of interest, desire, lust or just plain pleasure that I was in the eyes of others, even Jennie.

"You're just unlucky, kid," she told me. "You'll have to get used to it."

"Not those wires again!"

"A nice easy day, ducks. I'm going to hang you up by your thumbs." She did too! She actually did. In spite of my protestations that I would not fight, I was made to stand on a box with my back to the wall. The odd tug on my cunt clip made me very anxious to please. My ankles were then wired together, tight.

"Not that again, oh please!"

"I'll take it off when you're fixed. It just makes sure you won't be silly, dear." I was very careful not to be a bit silly. When my handcuffs were unlocked, I offered my hands limply for whatever was to be done to them. Thoughts of a struggle with that wire cutting into my ankles was out of the question. I watched with a bit of real curiosity and with my fire sort of holding its own while the soft leather bands were looped below the knuckle of each of my thumbs. It was medieval, but it was happening. It was happening to me!

"Mustn't have 'em so they cut, love. Spoils the effect." What small consolations are meaningful to slaves! It appeared I was not to hang free.. Jennie went and got a small stepladder so she could raise my hand up and outstretched to be tied to a ring in the wall. Tied by my thumb, that is. My hand was free in an odd sort of way. She then did the same for the other side. I stood on the box with my wired feet and my arms and torso well stretched up. "You look real sweet, love," Jennie admired. She then took away the box. It was another first, different! I moaned with its shock and special kind of pain. It didn't just hurt my thumbs, but my shoulders and arms and wrists. I felt quite certain my thumbs could not last long, there would soon be some horrific sundering. This was not something to make me want to behave, this was torture. Jennie's face looked up at me with wry compassion.

"You'll make it, kid. I done this before."

"I can't tell him anything. I can't! Oh Jennie!" It was the only pertinent thing I could say. Jennie mowed it down.

"I don't think he expects it, love. This is just what we do with girls." It soaked in gradually. "You mean… this is his way of keeping me prisoner?"

"He don't see it as torture, ducks. It's their way of keeping you docile. If you've got anything to tell 'em they take it as a bonus." While she snipped away the wire from my ankles my moans were as sincere as any I have ever uttered. I was finding hanging by my thumbs every bit as bad as the story books lead you to believe. When the wire was gone I flexed my legs gratefully, but instantly desisted. Any motion brought an instant protest from my looped digits.

"But it's you who looks after me," I ventured hesitantly.

"Couldn't you go a bit easy?" Jennie made a move of disparagement. "You've got a gift, love, for making me feel like a bitch. I am one, of course, but I don't usually admit it. You see, I'm enjoying this. You've no idea how beautiful you look hanging there. I'm no lesbian, but you make me feel like one. There's something so damned erotically female about you. I suppose that's the reason all these fool men are so willing to pay." She left me with no answers. But I hurt so much I kept trying. "We're both English, Jennie. Doesn't that count?"

"We've both got cunts."

"Oh Jennie, there's more to two girls than just each having a pussy. You wouldn't want to hang naked like this."

"Kid, it's no good. If I say a wrong word to Ashad or his boys, or if he catches me doing you a favor, I'll be hanging on the opposite wall the same way you are."

"You said I was beautiful. Jennie… if you want me! I mean… I will, y'know. I'll be ever so nice." My shamed offer touched her more than anything I had said. "You poor sweetheart!" She reached up and gently allowed her fingertips to hover across one of my breasts. "If I liked eating cunts I'd be at you ravenously this minute." Transient as her touch had been it told me my fire was still alive. How strange girls are! My hunger for Jennie flamed from nowhere. "Please… I want to make love to you," I gasped. She was as strange as I. For moments her fingers traced themselves across the taut skin between my breasts and the junction of my thighs. Impetuously, they went to my pussy as a homing pigeon might fly to its nest. Hotly, they clutched to send a spasm of joy through my whole being. One of them entered my wet warmth. Then, with an inarticulate cry of distress, she turned and ran from the cell. She did not even stop to close or lock the door. Punishment is timeless. It is forever. Alone with pain, a girl can not envision its termination. Even reason defeats you, it tells that the dragging hours are no more than seconds or minutes by the clock. You hang forgotten. Pain has become the purpose of your being. The heat between your legs subsides and dwindles… I would much sooner be whipped. I am an epicure of female punishment. Compared to suspension or those beastly wires the whip is kind. It places its wound upon your skin then goes away. Its agony is short and fierce, it does not nag. Beneath its cruelty a girl can writhe, she can scream. But hanging like this from pinioned thumbs I dare not move, I dare not scream, even the scream would mean extra pain. I am robbed of all the normal expressions and reliefs of punishment. I hang motionless trying to control my panting breaths. If Ashad thinks this is not torture he is crazy. One of Ashad's men comes in to gloat. He sits on the box and enjoys my nakedness and my discomfort. His lewd eyes focus constantly on my puss. I cannot move it from his sight. Within it the heat returns. Neither of us speak. What is there to say! It is he who finally breaks the silence.

"You get fucked a lot?" he enquires politely. I think it best to lie. It should make me less desirable. "Quite a lot," I murmur untruthfully.

"You enjoy?" A second lie seemed prudent. "Why, of course I do!" I exclaimed warmly, on the basis that if I liked it I would not get it.

"You give it away or you charge money?" That one was easier. "I'm a slave girl. If someone wants to use my pussy they just do."

"I do not pay." There was a boasting in his declaration. "These foolish English with their charge for entry!" He chuckled obscenely. "It is surprising their women do not carry tickets to sell."

"If we're going to talk, how'd you like to shove that box under my feet for awhile? You can sit on the cot."

"Why?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.

"To give me a rest. I'm hurting terribly. I could talk to you a lot better if I wasn't in such pain."

"But you are just a girl!"

"What's being a girl got to do with it?" I had him stymied: how does a man analyze the obvious for a stupid female who does not understand her own lack of identity. He gave me an irritated stare that made me glad there wasn't a whip laying around.

"A girl is a girl…" Even to him this sounded a bit weak. He gestured with a majestic male arm. "If a girl hangs by her thumbs it is because she is supposed to hang by her thumbs. There is no more to say or to do." I was neatly tossed into the limbo of his faith's regard for my sex. "Wouldn't you like to fuck me?" I flung at him with venom.

"It is not permitted. Before buying you will be tested for conception." His male conceit in his potency was almost funny. There are many desolations for a punished naked girl. One is to be closeted with a human being with whom communion is a blank. In a foolish desperation, a resentment against his fatuity, I burst out with: "Royden said he was going to Cairo. He also said something about taking up options there with this chap Sinclair you're so concerned about. Go and tell that to Ashad and get me down off this wall. I've had enough." He was shocked and pleased. I wondered what sort of a pitfall I had dug for myself. "This is simple stuff, easy to tell. Why not tell us before?" he asked shrewdly.

"Because there was a friend of Miss Harding's in it," I floundered. "His name is Mynarski. I didn't see why he should get murdered too."

"This Mynarski, what does he do?"

"He's a sort of financier. He arranges deals." I must have struck the right note. He departed, grinning. It was not long before Ashad and Jennie made an appearance. Neither of them were smiling. Jennie carried something I could not see.

"Put them on her." Ashad's order was crisp and definite. What had I done wrong! Opening her hand, Jennie disclosed, not one but two, of the avid jawed battery clips.

"But I've told you!" I wailed. "I've told you what you wanted to know."

"That's the trouble, love. You knew what we wanted so you gave it to us. Mind you, I can understand you wanting to get down off that wall."

"Girls are stupid," Ashad said contemptuously. I gave my best gasp of horror yet when it became evident where I was to get the clips. "No, no, no, not on my nipples!" I pleaded. No one gave heed. All of Jennie's attention was focused on my breasts. With careful deliberation she opened the jaws over one of my nipples and pushed it to encompass the aureola, then let it close. I screamed. Jennie calmly positioned and let bite the other set of jaws on my other breast. Holding my flesh beyond the base of each nipple they had the anchorage to stick out arrogantly like enormous metal teats. I screamed again.

"You're sure they won't damage?" Ashad's anxiety was not humane.

"We certainly can't leave 'em on her all night." Jennie sounded faintly on my side. My heart went out to her. "Let me down, oh, please let me down." I sobbed without caring for anything except an end to the punishment. "I'll do or say anything!"

"You've said too much, love."

"I'm sorry. I apologize. The pain is so awful…"

"How long do you want her to hang?" Jennie asked her master. Ashad shrugged. "Does it matter! It keeps her out of the way." He laughed grimly. "If we have to hold on to her, she'll be obedient."

"The clips… my breasts!" I wailed. "I've said I'm sorry. Please take them off me."

"Of course you're sorry, love. Stands to reason… " Jennie seemed to think I was belaboring the obvious. I expect I was.

"Let her wear them for an hour. Next time she can have one on her tongue too." As far as Ashad was concerned, his crisp order disposed of me. I tried to feel lucky that I had to wear the beastly things on my breasts for only an hour. But I couldn't feel lucky about anything, I hurt too much. I was getting hysterical.

"If you'll stop torturing me and let me just… just wear handcuffs I'll join your… " I was about to say 'gang', but thought better of it. "your… your movement," I ended lamely.

"Women!" There was a wealth of derision in Ashad's one word. He swept angrily from the cell.

"Those clips on your tits must really hurt!" Jennie observed sagely. "How about another pair down below?"

"Please kill me, I've had enough."

"You almost mean that, don't you! I wish things were different, kid. I'm beginning to like you." Then Jennie, too, was gone. I just hung there with my eyes closed. The cell was too depressing to look at. Once in awhile I would open one eye to examine the metal things protruding from my breasts. There was about them an up-tilted jauntiness that, despite their pain, kept a spot of heat alive in my loins. I suppose I really am hopeless. I was quite sure that if I had been able to put my hand on my puss I would have found her sopping wet. The hours wore on. I knew their passing by the changing light. Little by little I knew something worse. The clips were not taken from my breasts. They remained fixed upon my nipples, biting on and on. The hour of my sentence to wear them had been violated. I wept and wept again. I screamed for help a few times. But the sound of my voice frightened me and did no good; no one came. If I had not been weakening rapidly I would have been in a fine old panic. Alone and forgotten! The day drifting into twilight. When James Pollard walked in I thought I was delirious.

We looked at each other in startled disbelief. But then joy and relief flooded me in a wave of thankfulness. James's angry eyes absorbed my punishment.

"The son of a bitch!" In a fury of motion he was at my bonds. The box beneath my feet was heaven while he worked at the leathers on my thumbs. The battery clips had been unclipped from my breasts and tossed aside in a gesture of disgust. Looking down at the indented points of my twin curves I wondered if they would ever get rid of the vivid marks of the jaws. When my hands fell from their stretched captivity, I raised them to look at the damage. My thumbs were scarlet and white, but were still there even though I could not move them. They were hurting. When my rescuer lifted me from the box, turned me around, and handcuffed my wrists behind my back, his act seemed the most natural thing in the world. I made no protest, but stood while I was made painlessly helpless, pure bliss flooding every crevice of my being.

"Sorry about this whole damn thing, Phemie." James turned me about again and implanted a kiss, this time on my lips. It didn't quite erase my torture but it helped. "My boys have got Ashad and that girl safe and sound. The other two left an hour ago. Come on! This lot is dangerous, they kill." I'd been a bit weak at the knees at first, but excitement sent the blood surging. I was alive, alive! I was free. At that moment I did not feel my handcuffs as an impediment to anything. The male hand on my bare arm was so warmly reassuring I would have let it lead me anywhere. I did not even wonder where we were going so long as we went. I wondered, afterwards, if any neighboring eye beheld James put a naked handcuffed girl into the little car. At the moment I did not care. I was like a small pussy cat, utterly dependent, unknowing, having no voice in anything its owner chose to do with it. James Pollard was my new owner. I was content. When he covered my nudity with a car rug I went to sleep. I'd had a hard day. You know what it's like sleeping in a car. Here and there you will sleepily 'rouse in response to motion or sound. But the motor is a lullaby soothing you back into dreams. I am so accustomed to being handcuffed I am unaware of them unless they stop me from doing something urgent. But the male hand that occasionally patted my knee told me urgencies were gone. I slept a long time. It was the gunshots that woke me.

"They've been on our tail all the way," James told me grimly. "I used this little beetle to be unobtrusive, but it won't shake what they're driving." The sleep had done me good. But now, rested, I was again vividly aware of being in the middle of something big and menacing. The revolver in James lap was frightening. "What do they want?" I asked, as if I did not know!

"You."

"Have you got another gun?" I asked boldly. It evoked the amusement most of my remarks seem to make. "You're handcuffed, Phemie. But, no, I don't have one. Never expected this wild west chase."

"Where are you taking me?"

"I was taking you to one of Bolling's country places." His use of the past tense was grim. My next question was cut short by a bullet through our roof. James twisted the wheel so that we dived into a gateway. Leaning through his window he fired again and again at a target down the road. There was a metallic jumble of sounds that ended by a number of spaced shots under which our small car actually flinched. Its motor coughed and died.

"Damn!" said James. "This way, Phemie." I knelt with him behind the bush. I was shivering with cold and fear. My owner endeared himself to me forever by clasping the rug around me from front to back and thrusting its 'loose ends into my captive hands. "Hold on to it, sweetheart," he whispered. "It's all you've got." Without pause he reloaded his empty gun. I'm so used to handcuffs that getting a firm grip on my only protection against the night was not too hard. It never occurred to me that James could use his key and give me my arms back. I made myself as small a bundle as possible in the dark. I have read a lot of books. Sometimes when Yola had me chained in the dungeon she would let me read. Always when perusing the adventures of Bill or Suzy I resented the descriptive passages that really didn't matter. I've already said this about telling of being whipped. The thrilling chase is only motion that gets the characters from point A to point B. So I'm going to absolve you from following James and me from bush to bush and tree to tree. Somewhere along the way we lost the two bloodhounds; that was what really counted! The only trouble was that, arriving at point B we found ourselves on a dismal stretch of moor with only an occasional copse of sad little trees and a few sheep. By then it was daylight.

"This is ridiculous!" James's boyish grin was troubled. When he turned it on me there was a touch of apology. "I can't shoot the bastards except as a last resort, but they can shoot us to their heart's content," he complained morosely. "Anyway, they're gone. They'll be trying to guess where we'll head for."

"All we need is a telephone," I contributed brightly. "Right, sweetheart. Point one out please." Having James beside me was keeping my fire nicely smoldering and making my spirits more ebullient than any girls would normally be in the circumstances. "I can't," I said with pixie humor. "I'm handcuffed." James ignored the hint. "I can't point one out either. We have a long walk ahead. Damn!"

"Where is Roland Bolling's place from here?"

"Too far, damn it. Besides, that's where they'll be watching for us. A phone's the thing."

"I don't mind walking."

"You're a remarkable girl, Phemie."

"Slave girls have to be, y'know. What are my master's wishes?"

"To get you somewhere safe." He dropped his preoccupation with our plight, and gave me his full attention. A moment later I was enfolded in his arms. Striving to embrace him my chained hands loosened their hold on the rug. Straining futilely against my handcuffs I kissed him as hard and as long as he kissed me. I forgot all about whatever injury he had done Yolanda and me, and remembered only that he had saved my life. When I've stood apart, breathless, the rug slithered to the ground leaving me as bare as I usually am.

"Don't bother," I told him when he stooped to pick it up. "Gosh, you're lovely!" It was as though he saw my nakedness for the first time. The heat between my legs scorched me with a fierce new intensity. "That coppice on the slope over there isn't far. Among the trees no one could see us," I suggested demurely. James took me by the arm. Neither of us said a word. The cluster of stunted trees was a sweet little sanctuary. He laid the rug on the fir cones for me to lie on. I had to position myself with one arm beneath my back on account of my hands being joined, but I scarcely noticed the discomfort. James did not notice it either. He was enraptured with my breasts and my puss… and the rest of me. I didn't tell him it was the first time with a man. I was in too much of a dither of golden emotion to either think or speak. But, wickedly, I spread my legs as far as they would go while he undressed. Naked he was impressive. I glowed. It was a lovely honeymoon. We stayed in the shelter of the trees for hours and hours, endlessly making love. I was beautifully mauled and bitten and kissed as well as being royally — I won't use that four letter word, it's not good enough! Not having any arms didn't matter. In a way it made the whole thing more real for me: a slave girl being ravished by her lord. I adored every moment and was shamelessly unfaithful to darling Yolanda. It was not until late afternoon that we woke up to the demands of hunger. Our council of war was short and decisive.

"I'm not going to take you back to Bolling," James said flatly, biting my left nipple. I didn't care where he took me as long as he did not leave me alone again. "Where are you taking me then?" I asked absently, not wanting to lose his lips and teeth.

"Castle Glynt." I sat up and took notice.

"It's not that far from here, and those gun happy bastards won't be expecting us there."

"But Bolling?" I looked at James in wonder, "Your job. Don't you have to take me back to him if you can?" His boy's grin was a trifle wry. "O.K. Phemie, as of now I'm unemployed."

"Because of what… we've done today?" He shrugged. "Male and female always end up doing what we've done." His smile to me was half apology. "But I've felt a bastard about you right along. At the start I hadn't realized what you are."

"What am I?"

"I've been telling you what you are all day. Do I have to say it again in poetry?"

"That would be nice. Please start."

"You are outrageous, you are sweet, you are a slave girl beyond any man's wildest dreams. That hundred thousand pounds confirms what I say now: You're real. That's the miracle of you, you actually exist."

"You mean because I have a wicked enjoyment in getting my bottom whipped or having my hands tied?"

"O.K. But show me another girl…" I did not want to show him another girl, the heat between my legs warned me not to. He was mine! Or I was his! To a slave girl the distinction does not matter. If I hadn't been so hungry I'd have wanted to stay in that coppice with James forever. "Would you like me to lie down and open my legs again?" I asked pertly. It seemed, right then, the most sensible question to ask.

"A remark like that deserves about six on your bottom just on general principles." He made a grimace at me, then turned sober. "Look, darling Phemie, we're still in trouble. Castle Glynt is a fairish hike. We'd best get going now it's twilight. If a telephone shows up between here and there we'll use it." I was troubled. You can imagine my roseate emotional dither. But I had seen enough of the forces and the power determined to possess me. What was going to happen to James if he betrayed what, to a man like Bolling, would be a sacred trust. I suddenly seemed absurdly unimportant measured against the rest of James Pollard's life.

"Darling, I think you should deliver me back to Bolling." I looked at him levelly and with love. "Don't invite… well… whatever he'll do."

"No more torture for you, sweetheart."

"But that was those… those… bandits. What they did to me is not what Bolling would do, is it?"

"No-" He was terribly troubled. "But it would be no picnic."

"I handled Royden. He and I were getting along famously when it… it happened."

"I can see you were, from the whipmarks'" I knew I was being foolishly female with that brand of feminine nobility that, I am told, afflicts girls my age. But I was getting visions of James Pollard dead in a ditch.

"I sort of collect whipmarks, darling." I giggled, "It's the way I get a living. If you take me back to Yolanda the first thing she'll do is thrash me for being so stupid in the first place… luring you into that bedroom."

"It was me who lured you. Bolling had picked up hints about you. No, Phemie, there's only one place for you right now, that's Castle Glynt." He smiled in genuine amusement. "If your beloved Yolanda whips your bottom for you, it's your hard luck. Incidentally, don't worry about me, there's a lot of Roland Bolling's in the world." It was all so lovely. I mean the falling into place. A sort of out of the fire back into the frying pan. I know I'm shameless and erotic and raging with lust at all times, but even with my darling naked James watching my nipples and puss and me with an amused and proprietary smile, the thought of Yolanda and Glynt and an end to fear sent my pulse racing. How good it would be! Me and James and Yolanda! The absurdity of such a triangle never entered my girlish head. "You mean it, darling'? You really truly want to take me back to Glynt?"

"I'd take you back even if you didn't want to go."

"Oh, darling!" I was breathless. "Then I'm no longer a prisoner'?"

"I've just rung up a 'No Sale'." Delightedly I turned my back to him and wiggled my handcuffs. "Then we don't need these, do we!" There was a silence. Waiting expectantly I became aware of it only after a good many moments had passed. I looked back coyly over one shoulder. James still knelt. He eyed me ruefully. I knew instantly what was coming. "I don't have a key, Phemie. Both of them were in the car." It was a funny feeling — not all bad! I mean, it's one thing for a girl to be handcuffed when she knows there's someone knocking about somewhere with the key, but it's quite something else again to suddenly discover there is no key. A silly vision of having my hands locked behind my back for life crossed my mind. I tittered.

"It's not funny," said James. I could see he was right. It wasn't funny! Looking over that deserted moor in the dusk told me no girl in her right mind would want to be wandering around across it, naked and with her wrists handcuffed behind her back. But I wasn't in my right mind. Maybe I never am! My predicament struck me as hilarious. I produced a fit of the giggles.

"Well, if you don't mind." There was faint reproof in James's voice.

"I am your slave girl, darling, it's quite appropriate. I'm sort of glad we don't have the key. It's you, of course. Without you I'd be scared to death and horrified, and probably very indignant. You will look after me extra special, won't you?"

"Extra special, Phemie girl. I love you." It was positively pussy puckering. I lay down instantly. No wandering shepherd's eye beheld the strangeness of our passing. One normally attired male and a naked girl in a blanket. James had torn a hole in the center of the rug so that I now wore it as a poncho. I did not miss the use of my hands at all. We were indeed an odd pair. But neither of us minded. Love is beautiful. James had to be severe with me from time to time when I got the giggles and wanted to lay down and spread my legs. He finally had to tell me, gorgeously embarrassed, that men can't do it every fifteen minutes the way I wanted. I promised I'd wait. It was hours before we walked over the gentle rise and saw the farm. The sight was not reassuring. It was as grim as the moor itself. All stone and slate, even the barn and few small sheds, a smallish place that missed rustic charm by miles. It sort of glowered at us in the gloom.

"Not a telephone pole in sight," James muttered disgustedly. I can't tell you why we did not rush to the door and knock. There was a quality about the place we both felt. It was like a small block house in the war. You felt sure a machine gun was trained on you from an embrasure somewhere and followed you as you moved. We half circled it before James guided me to a clump of bushes and made me kneel. "I'll go and thump on the door," he whispered. "They may not be too pally this time of night. You can come if I call." It was eerie. I wondered why we were acting like this. It was only a lonely farm. But we both felt something. I watched my hero. James strode in forthright manner in a straight line, climbing a fence and parting barbed wire. He did not have to open the gate, it was broken and sagged on its hinges. I saw him knock at what was presumably the back door. When there was no response he gave the panel a right royal thump that I could hear from a distance. When that got no results he walked round to the front and out of sight. It was then the hand clamped across my mouth. I didn't have any pants to get wet, but I peed just the way they say you do when scared nearly out of your skin. I was galvanized into a frenzy of ineffectual motion. The handcuffs defeated me. I cherish the belief I could have bit and scratched enough to have attracted James's attention when he came back into view. But with my wrists cuffed where they were I did not have a chance. My captor must have wondered at the unexpected ease in which he achieved the business of gagging me: a filthy handkerchief in my mouth and a spotted tie bound tight to keep it there and prison my tongue. It was knotted tight beneath my hair at the back of my neck. A large strong hand gathered up my hair and gave it a tug or two to exert authority. I found myself forced to continue to kneel and watch, sound and movement were denied. The distance to the house was littered with the odd bramble bush, scrub tree, or wrecked implement. I was thrown over a male shoulder so that my head hung behind and an iron arm embraced my legs. I was reduced to a silent package. My eyes were fearfully active so that I was able to understand that he who carried me was watching James. Whenever James was lost to sight in or around a building we took long loping strides from cover to cover until, when James disgustedly gave up and walked back to where he had left me, my captor was able to take the last steps to the stone portal, slip a key into the lock and get us both inside without James knowing a thing of what had happened. It was clever. There was no pause. My weight was as nothing to whoever carried me. I could have wept at the indignity of my utter impotence. I was a piece of baggage with a pussy! The absurd thought filled my fevered mind. A flap was pulled up from the middle of the floor, and a dank odor of rot swept up. In almost complete darkness I was carried down a few steps and dumped on damp earth, my feet were thrust against a post, lifted a foot from the floor to make me doubly helpless, and savagely bound there with what I guessed to be a bit of electric flex. It was very adequate and very tight. What happened then was one of the worst times of my life, frustrating and bereft of hope. Half sitting, half lying on my bare bottom, able to make no effectual motion at all and gagged into silence, I could still hear most of what took place above me. I even heard the slither of the mat thrust above the cracks of my dank prison and then the stentorian bellow of a country voice demanding of the outside night: "What's up, mate'! You in trouble?" James was back in short order. There was a jumble of voices, the last words of which I got distinctly: "I'll go and get her." In James's jubilant voice. Imagine it! The lout who had put me where I was and tied me tight must have been laughing his head off. I was going to be a silent audience to James's distress. Once he was back in the kitchen I heard it all.

"She's not there'"

"You sure she ever was, mate? You bin' drinking!"

"Of course I'm sure! I'll have to search. Will you help'!"

"Mebbe' she don't like yer company, jocko. She likely done a flit. There's enough cover… never find her in this light."

"Where's the nearest phone?"

"Over in the village. 'Bout three miles."

"But will you help me now? A few quick circles about?"

"Oh aye, if ye must. Ruddy waste o'time…" They went and left me to my thoughts and a cold bottom. I made my usual explorations of escape and soon abandoned them. I was foxed! For company I had the agonizing knowledge of what James must be thinking. He would suppose I had actually run away from him by my own choice or that our Middle Eastern enemies had trailed us and taken me. I wondered what he would do. Whatever it was it would take time. I moaned inwardly at thought of that time and what my captor would do with it… and me! When they returned their conversation was not inspiring. "Dammit, she had to be around somewhere'" A coarse chuckle. "She'll be two miles gone my now. Looking fer a longer cock most likely. That's wimmen!"

"Look, my name's Pollard, James Pollard. I don't mind spending money."

"You got extra cash, Pollard, yer best try the barmaid at the Cask and Hoop. Fine arse when she's sober."

"Thanks, no! What's your name?"

"Hennery. Call me Collin. How about a pot o' tea?"

"Tea'" There was a world of outrage in James' word. "Well, yer' screwed me night's sleep. I'm havin' one."

"Oh alright, and thanks. I suppose we might as well." James was making the best of a bad job. "Are there other farms near'!"

"Here and there. 'Bout a mile apart. T'old moor don't produce much. Ain't no telephones." Poor darling James! He was facing an enigma. My heart went out to him. He would never, never find me now. What would he think of the girl he had loved in the coppice! I would seem like a wraith of the moor. The familiar sounds came to me with bitter clarity. The comforting kitchen sounds in which I had no part. The clatter of cups and spoons, the prodding of a lazy fire, water in the kettle. When I heard the pouring of the hot water and the lid go on the teapot I was angry at the discovery I wanted a cup of tea so bad I was forgetting all else. Tea can help a girl through all sorts of agonies, but little Phemie was not going to get any. I went into a frenzy of striving to produce any kind of sound that would alert the defeated man sipping his tea upstairs. But it was pitch dark. If there was some object against which I could knock my head or reach with hobbled fingers, I could not see it. Raising my feet up to be bound against the post had been clever. I could not roll or kick or properly sit up. In between my futile struggles I lay back on my pinioned arms in despair. I tried to get my arms in a spot where I could clink the single link of my handcuffs. But the damn rug, which had slipped off most of me, was bunched in some way as to totally muffle the small metallic sound I might have contrived. I was infuriatingly helpless. That damn little cellar was an ideal place for keeping potatoes and turnips and naked girls!

"The village is Little Kirby," said the country voice. "That where you'll head for?"

"Any better idea'?" James sounded cheesed-off.

"No I ain't! Tell yer what though! Just in case there's a bit o' hank-panky with this filly o' yours — smart little bitches they are! Let's you and me do a thorough dekker through all the buildings. We'd feel proper Charlies if she's asleep with the hens." The sly clever bastard! What better way to divert poor James! I heard his disgusted voice say "She wouldn't do it, there'd be no point… but I suppose we might as well." They made a fine old commotion up above. They ransacked the house and went outside, talking into the distance where I could no longer hear. I filled the silence they left behind with tears. Hennery took his time. No doubt he wanted James well over the hills before he took a chance on him turning back. He had me safe! I could imagine him gloating at the treat he had tucked away in his cellar. I had no illusions as to what he wanted me for. I was going to get fucked, fucked, fucked! I used the hated word over and over in the savagery of my grief. I saw how apt its four letters were for what would be done to Me. He was big, about forty, a saturnine face with greying stubble. I shivered at the way his pale blue eyes devoured me when he whisked away the rug that had been my only covering.

"Stand in the middle o' the kitchen, lass, so's I can take a good long look at yer." I did as I was told. I was still gagged. Hennery's eyes made me five times naked. He got the kettle going again while I stood meekly for his approval. The heat in my sex was very low, but it was there. This creature was male and had me nude and helpless. Unattractive as my prospects might be they still held the tinder for my spark. As I said, I'm quite beyond hope. Incorrigible might be the word. Yolanda would know.

"I wouldn't suppose murder, lass. More likely a spot o' shoplifting, or maybe embezzlement." I must have looked so startled that it prompted him to laugh and remove my gag. There was a gamey smell of unwashed clothes. "Thank you," I said politely. "May I please have a cup of tea?" It was the right note. My rape might be delayed five minutes. He slapped his thigh and chuckled. "Oh aye, 'tis you I'm brewin' for. Tell us thy crime, lass!" The penny dropped. The light dawned. "You mean my being handcuffed?"

"The copper's gone. You're safe." Here was a new dilemma. Would I get fucked less with truth or with fiction." At a quick guess I'd get my legs parted as often one way as the other. He wasn't going to believe me anyway. I was about to tell him the whole story truthfully when I realized that nobody, absolutely nobody would believe it. It was too far out. If Hennery wanted to think me a fugitive from the Law, well and good. When he had finished fucking me he might make a hero of himself by returning me to custody. A nice large uniformed policeman would have been a godsend right then.

"It was the official secrets Act," I fabricated. "I sold a few papers." I pulled at my handcuffs fretfully to show him my contempt for authority. "Lot of fuss about nothing — a lot of dots and dashes… "

"Where'd you work'!"

"Delsington. With Marriot Dynamics. They do Government work." He nodded. It had sounded good. "Bloody little spy, eh?" He was amused and approving. "What yer' get paid'!"

"A lousy couple of hundred, and look where it got me'"

"How come you're wandering on the moor?"

"Detective Pollard was taking me from one prison to another when we got jumped and shot up. I suppose it was the people who paid me." I gave him what I hoped was a sly female glance. "If you want money I can tell you where to go. Someone will pay a lot to get hold of me."

"Don't you want ter' stay here, love?" He sounded hurt.

"You mean you'd harbour a spy? I'll get about seven years if they catch me. You'd get the same." It hit him. I could see the impact. But he was not about to relinquish a good thing. "I gotcha', see lass. I ain't never had none o' the likes o' you — lovely body an all! I'm going ter enjoy yer proper." I shrugged and kept silent. I was sure he would enjoy me. "In fact, gal', don't it occur ter you same as it has ter me, I could keep you here for life. You've done a vanishing act. I might as well take advantage of it." I cringed. He was so absolutely right. He got up and fingered the handcuffs. "Always bin' curious 'bout these things, love. Never got this close. Where's the key?"

"There isn't any. It's lost." He was startled at the prospect. "Sure it ain't up yer cunt'!" He asked suspiciously.

"If it was, I'm sure you'd have no trouble finding it."

"Well I'll be damned! I got tools and I expect I could get 'em off yer." He mused, silently considering, "but hell, I'd be crazy. You can keep 'em. Best things I ever see to keep a filly in her place." My heart sank again. My hands forever linked in steel behind my back! What a prospect for a girl! "I can't do much for you without my hands," I offered disconsolately. He chuckled, pleased as punch. "You'll be surprised, love." I would not be surprised, but I was not going to tell him so. Instead I asked: "Do you want a thousand pounds? If so, phone-" I gave him Yolanda's number.

"Not now, love. Right now you and me's going to have tea. After we've had it you're going to get the fucking of your life." I didn't know what to do or say to be right. I resorted to need: "Could I have breakfast please? I haven't eaten for a day and a night."

"Bacon and eggs do yer? I'm hungry myself." I drank the tea thankfully, and ate the food he shovelled into my mouth. I forbore mentioning the advantage of giving me my hands. He would only do that when he was damn good and ready, if ever! Then Mr. Colin Hennery fucked me with immense panache. Why talk about if! It's like being whipped. I could make a pun of the comparison. Stroke by stroke! I'd been fucked by an uncouth stranger who did it rather well. No doubt he would fuck me again. And that's that! I hoped that next time he would take off his trousers.

"Another cup, lass?" We were sitting in the afterglow, or whatever you want to call it. I said: "Yes, please."

"You're a lovely bit o' arse, lass. What's your name?"

"Thank you. My name is Euphemia: Phemie for short."

"Pleased ter' meetcha, Phemie. Finest cunt I ever see."

"You are too kind. What about toilet arrangements?" I was keeping him enough off balance to earn respect.

"You want to pee or something?" He seemed surprised.

"If you're going to keep me prisoner it's something we have to live with." Faced with feminine unreason he became irritable. "I ain't goin' ter let you run around loose. I go behind the barn meself."

"I don't mind if you watch," I offered brightly.

"Wouldn't be proper, lass." He affirmed with in-consistent purity. "Tell yer what though. I got a length o' chain. I'll padlock your ankle when yer want ter go."

"Thank you. It's a lovely arrangement." We made a solemn pilgrimage to a tree well removed from the house. I extended a naked ankle for the chain and padlock which seemed to weigh five pounds. There was another of the same to go round the tree. Since the chain was fairly long it gave a lady a bit of latitude for her toilet.

"Are you going to keep me naked, Mr. Hennery?" I asked brightly as we sat down for our second lot of tea.

"Ain't got no clothes, lass."

"There's the blanket I arrived in."

"Nah. Naked's more my style." I shed no tears. The rug had been untidy and draughty. No doubt I would become accustomed to being ogled full time. Colin Hennery was fascinated by my breasts. "I bet you haven't seen many naked girls, Mr. Hennery?" I enquired archly.

"The likes o' me don't get to," he retorted bitterly. "And them we do ain't in your class. Big rumps, big bellies, fat legs." He shook his head sadly. "Proper treat, you are. We'll have another go after yer finished yer tea." The second 'go' was much like the first. I could well see that, in Mr. Hennery's company, it would save a lot of trouble for a girl to be naked, or at least without panties.

"Don't you ever take your trousers off?" I asked innocently.

"What for'!" He seemed surprised.

"Never mind, thank you."

"You thinking of an extra inch?" He demanded. "I can put a pillow or a log o' wood under… "

"Never mind," I said hastily. "I was thinking more of being polite… and won't your trousers get a bit messy?"

"They're messy now. Bloke what has to work…" I let it drop and hoped he would. I sipped from the cup he held reverently to my lips. "Have you any other work in mind for me besides what we've been doing?"

"What yer up to, lass? You got ideas? Don't you try no tricks now! What you calling work?" I had sought tact. I abandoned it. "Fucking," I said briefly.

"Never looked at a piece o' arse that way," he reflected musingly. "But I suppose to a hoity-toity lady like you…" I could feel punishment hovering in the way he said it. Please don't call me that," I pleaded. "I'm not hoity-toity at all. I'm not a lady any more, even if I ever was. I'm a criminal, and if you hand me over to the police I'll become a convict for a long time." He was mollified. He now looked at me expansively as though moving on to the next order of business. "You're quite right," he agreed. "I can't be fucking you all the time. More's the pity! But there's other things I can do, ain't there!" He treated me to a broad wink.

"Such as?"

"They didn't give you them whip marks in Brixton?"

"Actually, no. I annoyed someone."

"So you stood still and let 'em whip you?" My courage drooped. What was the use? Wherever I went it would be the same. I thought yearningly of Yolanda and castle Glynt. Why, oh, why, oh, why!

"I'm sorry the marks bother you. They'll go away in a week or two. It doesn't matter how I got them, does it?"

"They don't bother me, love. They interest me. Come clean now, someone paid you to let 'em put them marks on your hide."

"The last thing I got was money," I said bitterly.

"How about me putting a few on you too?" There it was. Honest intent! "I'd rather you didn't," I said, looking him straight in the eye. "It hurts a girl far more than you'd believe."

"Some girls like it."

"You've been reading books."

"You like it. I can tell."

"How on Earth-?" I should have kept quiet. His confirmation was one sought from my puss a lot in recent days. I gasped at the clutch of the huge hand on my fur and winced as he wiped it's gathered wetness down one of my pinioned arms.

"Even talking about it… " He left the rest unsaid.

"I'm always wet," I wailed. "Surely you could tell when… when we… "

"You like that too, lass." I was betrayed by my glands. But the mind activates them, so I suppose I don't have a good excuse. I'm bad. But I ought to have been with Yola, not this oaf. Whatever Hennery did to me would be a sort of rape. The trouble was, he had me, had me good!

"What is it you are going to do to me?" I asked without spirit.

"I want to whip you."

"Can I stop you?"

"Not really. But I'd like it if you'd ask. I mean, show you're willing."

"But I'm not!" I gazed at him in desperation. "Can't you see, I'm tired and sore and scared. I know you can do anything you like with me, I'm helpless. All I can hope is you'll let me have a night's sleep arid talk about it then. I'm beat." It touched him. It also opened up a new vista of delight: his!

"You ever been tied up!"

"You've tied and chained me yourself."

"I don't mean that. Proper like. Artistic." If I'd have had a giggle left I'd have used it. I just admitted wearily: "O.K. Mr. Hennery, I've been tied up and chained up and handcuffed and the whole bit. How'd you like to tie me up now and let me go to sleep?" He was enraptured. Men are absurd. I let him guide me to his barn. There, in a loose box with bars he tied my ankles together with rope and locked a chain 'round my neck, the other end was fastened to an upright stanchion. Houdini would have been dismayed, but I'd given up caring. I said thank you for the fresh straw he threw on the ground, then reclined on it as best I could. He threw my faithful blanket over me. Almost instantly I went to sleep. The last words I heard from him beyond the locked stall door were: "Ain't nobody never comes here, Phemie gal'." I couldn't have cared less. I slept the rest of that day and on through the night. I'd wake up, cramped from the rope and chain and handcuffs, but I'd turn over and wiggle a bit and drop away again. Yola's dungeon had been good training for Mr. Hennery's hospitality. I suppose there could have been worse villains — for me anyway. Some other girl without my fire between her legs might have been in permanent hysterics. He had the decency to keep his erection until I woke up naturally and called out a few times until he came. It was morning and the sun was shining. He untied my ankles and fucked me right away with the chain still on my neck. They say it's better after a long sleep. They could be right.

"You'll have to wash me, y'know," I told him, still hinting. He loved it. I stood naked and handcuffed in his damn kitchen while he soaped and laved and rinsed me from a big bowl of hot water. My breasts and puss got lathered and rinsed until I began to pant. I mean, I'm only human and a girl! So I got fucked again and then another bath. I sure did get hungry.

"I'll whip ye today, Phemie gal'." My most recent owner exulted over the bacon and eggs. "We'll have ourselves a day!"

"You're terribly kind, Mr. Hennery." That remark would have got me at least six from Yolanda. It was pure sarcasm. But I don't think Hennery had ever heard the word. It slid right off.

"I'll tie you up in different ways."

"How nice!"

"I got a couple of whips and a good long crop. There's a cane around somewhere."

"I take it you do have lady visitors?" He looked faintly guilty. "There's a gal' on one of the farms, she'll let a chap have a go at her for a few quid."

"Is there a going rate?"

"Never less nor a fiver with Daisy. Can't rightly afford it."

"Must be a nice change for you to have me for nothing!"

"I ain't cheap, I ain't!" He eyed me sternly. "If you say the word I'll set aside a pound or so every time I lace into you. Surprise you the way it 'ud mount up." His well meant last words were not reassuring. "What would I do with the money?" I asked innocently. "I'm going to be handcuffed here for the rest of my life, aren't I?"

"I see what you mean," he acknowledged sagely. "Well, I'll get you a few things from the village sometimes. Not clothes, of course!"

"Wouldn't you like a nice ribbon in my hair?"

"I'd have to tie the bow meself," he said doubtfully. Then, in a burst of inspiration: "Wonder how it 'ud be to tie your elbows and ankles with some lovely blue ribbon!" Away we go again! Hennery was a new experience. "That would be fun," I said, and genuinely meant it. Maybe if he bought enough ribbon someone might begin to wonder. The barn was to be my place of punishment. "Seems more proper, like," Hennery proclaimed with stern morality. I was led to the place of execution like a criminal to justice. A rope round my neck and a tether, of all things!

"Saves you doing something silly." He explained the indignity.

"You do look after a girl awfully well, Mr. Hennery," I gushed. I was determined to keep whatever was between us on as light a plane as repartee and sweet innocence could contrive. My captor was oblivious of both sarcasm and subtlety. My problem would be the amount of pain he would inflict on my blameless flesh. I had an awful fear that should I degenerate into incoherent screaming he would get angry and lay on all the harder. It was hard to be cheerful, but I tried.