Joyce
by F. E. Campbell


CHAPTER ONE - TO WHIP A GIRL 

Joyce Cortland savagely crossed out the bracketed (Miss) and substituted an 
emphatic (Ms). The damn girl had been told. Now she could stay and do a 
re-run. The President of Cortland, Inc. was not a woman to tolerate anything 
less than total obedience. Reference to femininity in connection with 
herself was forbidden. Knowing herself in a vile mood she would deal with 
correspondence until Dwight Willard arrived. With bitter competence she 
dictated terse sentences of decision, beholding in her mind the shining 
mahogany of the Board Room and the eagle visage of the Sheik Haarami. 

Damn the blasted Arab! It had seemed politic to accept him on The Board. 
Cortland, Inc. would prosper from his power. But she had hated him on sight, 
he was the antithesis of what she had worked to build. Her unisexual image 
had wilted before his sarcasms. Haarami had made it clear: females were for 
harems...! She had held her own in the flight of vocal barbs across the 
polished wood. But the old man would be a continuing irritant. She was 
thankful that Dwight's holdings and her own could keep control. There would 
be no takeover nonsense! But still...! 

Her clear voice faltered, she was making mistakes and no sense. Angrily, she 
switched off the tape and turned her thoughts to the man who would soon 
arrive. Dwight Willard also was a power, a dual power with his money and his 
potent ability to extract from her the physical responses she despised. But 
he was a friend. He would remain so as long as his quiet sympathy for what 
she was did not lapse into boredom. He was a craggily handsome man in much 
demand. 

"You take me for granted." She pouted when he entered. "You could at least 
have knocked." 

Dwight Willard ignored her plaint. Grinning in assured authority, he went 
straight to the bar. "The usual, Joyce?" 

"Yes." She accepted the glass and motioned vaguely to chairs. Looking at him 
across the huge desk she said bitterly: "Dwight, I'm hopping mad." 

"Why didn't you go and bop the old boy? You might just as well have done. 
All of us there picked up the vibes." 

"Must I tolerate him?" 

"For the good of Cortlands, yes. Actually he's an amiable old duck if you 
take the trouble to know him." 

"And if you're a man!" 

Dwight shrugged. "Or if you're less aggressively female. I think half his 
little quips arose from amusement. You're probably his first liberated 
woman." 

"Is it true he keeps a harem and whips his girls if they fail to please?" 

"I have reason to believe it is." 

"He's of another century, he doesn't belong." 

"His money belongs. He is also remarkably astute. You should try and get 
along with him. He won't try and recruit you." He eyed her shrewdly. "What's 
the trouble, Joyce? You've been out of sorts for days. How's about your 
glands?" 

It was an old joke with them. Primly, she reminded: "Queen Victoria had no 
legs, Ms Joyce Cortland has no glands." 

"That's a laugh, they're bothering the hell out of you. 

Dammit, girl, you're only twenty-nine! If you hadn't inherited that block of 
stock and too much ambition you'd be married with a couple of squeakers." 

"Dwight, don't be morbid!" 

"Well, it's true. Look, sleep with me for a week and you'll feel better?" 

She was not offended. This, too, was an old theme. Joyce dismissed it 
wearily. "I've tried that over the years with some highly recommended studs. 
I found it simply messy and disagreeable." 

"That's because your mind was messy and disagreeable when you lay on your 
back and spread your legs for them." 

"I like you too much to add you to that dreary roster." 

"Feel better about it if we got married?" 

"No. Dwight, we've done this scenario before." 

"Right! And I'll tell you again: stop fighting being a woman. That's too big 
a load on top of managing Cortlands. Try being female, you'd find it a 
tremendous relief." 

"I'm not female, not in the way you mean." 

"You sit down to pee, don't you! Joyce, I could take you to a place where 
they'd turn you out as a raving beauty." 

"I don't want to be a raving beauty." 

"You don't have to look like a prissy schoolmarm those damn tailored suits 
and that hideous hair-do! You've got lovely hair. What you do with it is 
sacrilege." 

The president of Cortlands eyed Dwight Willard with affection. She was aware 
of a malaise within herself, and was in an introspective mood. "I'm not the 
only woman executive in London, y'know." She said gently. "And don't think I 
haven't had a look at all you've ever suggested. But that elderly scion of 
Allah raised my hackles." 

"He said what others think, Joyce." 

"Possibly, but I don't want to hear." She twisted irritably. "Don't think I 
don't see an increasing isolation when I reach an age in which men no longer 
fantasise about me. Maybe I fantasise about myself. Do you do it, Dwight, 
about me I mean?" 

"Of course. I dream of making you as beautiful as you are. I'd have to teach 
you to smile, and I'd have to dissolve Cortlands." 

"An impossible dream-and forget about me and beauty, we don't go together." 
Joyce Cortland mused silently for moments, then demanded: "What d'you know 
about Desmond House?" 

His surprise intrigued. "It's a place without interest for you." he said 
gruffly. "Where the devil -?" 

"It's where Haarami buys his girls, isn't it?" 

"Joyce, what have you been up to?" 

"Got a dossier on the old bastard. He and Gunderson have something to do 
with the place. Could you buy it for me?" 

"What on Earth for?" 

"An irritant... and curiosity." 

"Have you any idea of what goes on there?" 

"Some. I talked to a Mrs. Paula Gantry." 

"She runs it. Look, Joyce, there's nothing there for you." 

Joyce Cortland stretched luxuriously and became feline. "Why not? Some sort 
of male prerogative? Could be recreation for someone like me." 

"It's for kooks-or a rich idiot who wants to buy a slave-a girl, that is!" 
He frowned. "The only reason the authorities allow it to function is it 
provides a pulse they can sometimes put their finger on." 

She was amused by his concern. "Isn't that its virtue." She countered. "It's 
neutral. It deals in sexuality, but without mess. No obligations, no 
involvement beyond what you choose." 

"Try telling that to some of the little charmers in their inventory. There's 
no free choice for them." 

"How come you know so much about the place?" 

"Gunderson took me. Not that it's a hangout for bored men unless they want 
to buy. Its atmosphere is cloyingly female." 

"What's wrong with that?" 

"It's fine for lesbians." Dwight looked at her sharply. "Don't tell me that 
all these years-?" 

"Don't look so shocked. Sure, I've thought about it. I could promote that 
wench out at the front desk and replace her with something amenable I could 
take home every night. It would fill a vacuum. Keep the men at bay. I 
understand men have a built in antipathy for two women together." 

"I have. Seems a waste. Dammit, Joyce, is that what you got me here to talk 
about?" 

"That, and to buy me Desmond House. I also want to get rid of Haarami. Can 
we gather enough support to send him back across the Red Sea?" 

Dwight Willard laughed, enjoying her cold vehemence. "That's quite a bag. 
You can easily find yourself a lesbian popsie, but the other two 
requirements. Hmmmm mmmmmm...!" He shook his head. "But I'll talk to 
Gunderson, he's the best man for both." 

"I'm serious about those last two." 

"I think you're serious about the first, and I don't like it. I don't 
believe you can buy Desmond House. The real owners are legendary figures way 
off somewhere. As for Haarami...!" 

"Say it. You think I'm being female?" 

"Well, aren't you?" 

"I said it before: What's wrong with female?" 

"Female's fine if it isn't frustrated half to death." 

"That's laying it on the line, Dwight. The creed of the cock! The male 
assurance of the piercing with his prick.'.' He shrugged at her flushed 
cheeks and flashing eyes. "It works, Joyce." 

"Not for me!" 

"We're starting to bicker, Joyce. Look, I'm serious about what I'm going to 
say: Please marry me?" 

"Thank you, Dwight. I'm flattered... honest! But, no." He rose, heavily. 
"I'll phone you tomorrow." 

They gazed at each other in silent perplexity before he went away. Joyce 
Cortland watched the closed door pensively, then dialed her private line... 

"Mrs. Gantry? Remember Joyce Cortland...? It appears I'm a frustrated 
spinster." Her voice softened. "Would you happen to have a girl I could 
whip...?" 

* * * 

The girl wore the handcuffs with insouciant unconcern. She was attired in 
little else, but what there was provoked. Her eyes were serene and 
intelligent, her smile reserved, polite, perhaps faintly amused. The voice 
had been to school. "Mrs. Gantry says you'd like to whip me, Miss Cortland?" 

It was not as she had envisioned it, but nothing ever was. This might hold 
challenge. Joyce Cortland was aware of Paula Gantry's assessing smile across 
the desk. She was displeased with her words immediately she uttered them. 
"Yes, I do wish to if you don't mind." 

"Her name's Lorinda." Mrs. Gantry interposed. "We think she's special." 

"I'll be completely obedient." Said the handcuffed girl helpfully. 

Were they quietly laughing! Joyce tensed. This quiet understanding made her 
errand trebly outrageous. The girl she was to whip seemed unconcerned. She 
had envisioned a dolorous damsel securely bound to something and looking 
back over a bare shoulder in mute dismay. 

"You make your own drama. Miss Cortland," Paula had read the visitor's 
puzzlement. "Lorinda will aid you in any rough spots. You will enjoy total 
privacy and your time's your own." 

"You mean you won't be present! Not a part...?" 

"Not unless you wish. If you like, I'll give you time to get to know each 
other and drop by later?" 

"Er, thanks." The president of Cortland's clutched at authority. "I may as 
well admit this venture is by way of an experiment." 

"If you will come this way please." The girl she was to whip held out 
handcuffed hands. "And I promise I'll help..." London's most prestigious 
female executive followed silently to whip a girl. 

"I'm a disappointment." A cuffed hand rested sympathetically on a tailored 
arm. "I ought to be screaming or struggling or pleading for mercy or 
something...? I'm sorry. I'm a rotten actress." 

"You are one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. It's your 
serenity-!" 

"That throws you? I know! There's only one other girl we could have offered 
today, and she'd make such a commotion we felt sure it would put you off. 
Girls in a panic are sort of- messy." 

The word struck a chord. Joyce approved. Her gaze roved the room in amused 
shock. It was what she'd asked for. But, face to face, it was daunting. 

"Don't look at it as a torture chamber, Miss Cortland. It's just a place 
where us girls are taught to behave." 

"I have a feeling you're laughing up your sleeve." 

"Why should I! I'm about to be whipped." 

"That's exactly what's bothering me. You're so damned unconcerned. And this 
room's a bit much for starters. Bear with me. No Board Room was ever like 
this." 

"There's only one chair." Lorinda placed it apologetically and, herself, sat 
on the low bench of a set of stocks. "There's no hurry. Maybe I can explain 
things?" 

"You certainly can! First, yourself. You're just not real." 

"Oh, but I am! What you're really saying is that I'm beautifully trained. 
I'm a slave and I know I'm a slave." Amused, Lorinda held up her linked 
hands. "I can never escape, not ever." 

"You're hiding something." 

"Well, alright. I don't much want to escape. I belong to someone I love." 

"You're not the property of Desmond House?" 

"No. We have a joke about it. I'm being sort of-boarded. When you phoned 
Paula asked if I'd help. My owner gave permission, so here I am." 

"If I hadn't phoned what would you be going?" 

"Reading, Television... Of if I'd misbehaved, locked in a cell. Mostly I 
have the run of the house. The handcuffs are symbolic, a sort of badge I 
wear. Locked in front this way they don't really stop me doing things." 

Joyce Cortland was intrigued. This girl was lovely, she was intelligent, but 
she herself felt a loss of initiative. Desmond House might be doubly worth 
buying just to get it back. Impetuously, she asked: "Could I purchase you?" 

Lorinda was touched. This woman was lonely and lost. She was reaching out. 
She shook her head regretfully. "I'm afraid not. I'm heavily owned." She 
hated to sound trite, but offered the obvious. "If you very much wish to buy 
a girl I'm sure Paula will be able to come up with one. I never did know 
what I cost, but I think we're terrible expensive." Outrageous and absurd! 
But in this atmosphere rational. She could buy a girl, and the girl would be 
obedient to her whims, a slave. Joyce Cortland felt a novel excitement. Here 
was a relaxation indeed, the antithesis of the office and the world of men. 
Sensing the end of a prelude, she asked: "If I unlocked those handcuffs what 
would you do?" 

"Hang them neatly on the wall over there so you could lock them back on me 
when you are finished. The key's there now." 

"If the key's there, and you have access-why?" 

"Because if I unlocked myself I'd be punished, a more awful punishment than 
I want. I'm privileged, but that wouldn't save me. Desmond House couldn't 
function without Rules and discipline. It's good for us girls too. It tells 
us where we're at." 

"Bring me the key." 

"There, see! I'm not running away." Lorinda, secretly amused, hung the cuffs 
and key in their appointed place. She massaged her chafed wrists and did a 
few joyous exercises with her freed arms. "I expect if you're going to whip 
me you'd like to start. How would you like to fasten me?" 

"Must I?" 

"Gosh, yes. I'm only a girl, y'know. I can't possibly stand still while I'm 
whipped. Have you a preference... Rope, straps or maybe the pillory?" 

The chief executive of Cortlands was aware of a dry mouth and pounding 
pulse. "Well, is there-a usual--a favourite...?" 

"If you're going to whip all of me it's best to stand me on my toes with my 
arms way up. If you only want to cane or crop my bottom you can bend me over 
a bench or put me in the standing stocks." 

"Dammit, girl, aren't you the least bit frightened? You're so blasted casual 
you make me feel an idiot for wanting..." 

"I'm sorry, Mistress." Lorinda was sincerely contrite. "I've been whipped so 
many times that I'm not exactly afraid. It's more being sort of shivery in 
knowing how much it's going to hurt." She grinned apologetically. "Being 
whipped on your bare skin is more painful than you'd ever believe. And you 
mustn't feel bad about it. Please don't." 

"Why did you call me Mistress?" 

"Because that's what you will be while we're together." 

"I'm probably not much good at knots and such." Joyce hesitated. "Pick your 
own restraint." 

The surprising slave grinned and flitted to the stark timber of a post. 
Raising her arms, she inserted her hands within loops of strap on either 
side. "This is the whipping post, Mistress. It makes it easy for you. All 
you have to do is pull two buckles tight. Then you've got me." 

Dazedly, the head of Cortlands obeyed. Two slender wrists were trapped in 
bands of leather. Standing back, she beheld beauty and a pair of laughing 
eyes. This makes most of me available, Mistress. I just have to stand, I 
can't get away. If you don't want my feet to kick you can tie my ankles." 

"No. You're sweet as you are." 

"The whips and cops and things are over on those two shelves." 

Joyce made her choice. The slim cane seemed designed for the pert bottom 
over which satin was invitingly stretched. Her steps were slow, her heart 
thudding. 

"I'm supposed to be naked, Mistress." 

Of course! Why had she not thought of it! This girl was incredible. If 
possession was possible she must achieve it. Joyce's voice trembled. "Why 
didn't you undress?" 

"It is more potent when the slave is stripped by other hands, Mistress. It 
is easily done. I cannot hinder..." It was easily done! Lorinda nude was 
more exquisite than Lorinda clothed. The woman with the cane stood back in 
awe." 

"Surely you have seen other naked girls, Mistress?" 

"But none like you." Miss Cortland was unwilling to disclose how few she had 
bothered to examine. In night Clubs and at the pool they had seemed a part 
of the appointments. 

"I'll stick my bottom out as far as I can for number one, Mistress. After 
that I can't promise." 

Joyce's eyes widened. This girl was too pliant for her own good. The lovely 
slenderness leant against its strapped wrists, curved down its back, and 
straightened knees. Breasts jutted, but best of all the round cheeks of the 
impudent derriere thrust themselves into an insolent prominence. The 
Chairman of Cortlands, in an involuntary impulse she had no wish to control, 
cut the cane across both rosy rounds. 

Lorinda gasped and straightened erect, her strapped wrists did not allow her 
to hug the post. Instead, one foot raised itself and hovered against pain, 
and a pale cheek rubbed against a raised bare arm. Her breasts heaved. 
Across her bottom there was forming rapidly the telltale scarlet line. 

"Oh, damn, I'm sorry!" 

"Why, Mistress? You did that very competently." Lorinda cocked a bright eye 
sideways. "You mustn't worry about me." 

"But I hurt you frightfully. I can tell." 

"Of course. Now the next one please. You mustn't stop just because I hurt." 

Joyce could not resist. She cut again, savagely. The helpless beauty 
responded in ways to tear the heart. She watched, avid and breathless. Then, 
in sudden revulsion, threw aside the cane. Her voice was as savage as her 
cruelty. "That's enough of that!" 

They eyed each other ruefully. Two females, not so far apart in age, but 
light years distant in the manner of their lives. "I'm sorry." Lorinda 
whispered sadly. "We hoped I could give you happiness." 

"We-?" 

"Paula and I. Desmond House is very human, y'know." 

"Why don't you hate me?" 

"I'm not that silly, Miss Cortland. We both did something of our own free 
will. You must have wanted o whip me or else--" 

"I had the most shocking need to whip a girl. Not--" 

"But I'm a girl." Lorinda twinkled. "I bet you it's the scenario that's put 
you off-not the way you wrote it." 

"I like you too much." 

"Sometimes there's a girl who whips me terribly. She loves me. It's a form 
of love play, a prelude..." 

"You mean she's lesbian." 

"It's not an ugly name. The Isle of Lesbos must have been a lovely place. 
I'm still your slave. Would you like me to-?" 

"You would do that-actually?" 

"Of course! Why don't you undress. You can unstrap my wrists and handcuff me 
again." Once more the twinkle. "I'm very proficient in handcuffs." 

Joyce Cortland felt a flare of heat such as she had never known. This 
compliant nakedness was temptation. The strapped girl with her striped 
cheeks and clear eyes could well be heart's desire, but she was too much too 
soon. Joyce hesitated, and in that hesitation Cortlands re-affirmed 
authority. This loss of initiative was not to be tolerated, it could set a 
dangerous precedent. Lorinda nude and free would be a force she might not 
have the will to fight. It would be prudent to leave her strapped to the 
whipping post. Joyce cursed the regret she could not erase from her voice. 

"You're very sweet, Lorinda, but I can't- do that. You do understand...?" 

"If we were kids I'd call you 'Fraidy Cat." The slavegirl's moue of 
disappointment took the sting from her jibe. "You're being ever so silly... 
I've got the most marvelous tongue." 

Joyce fought the demon of temptation. Seeking words, she found none to meet 
her need. From the post came guidance. 

"There, I've called you silly! That's rude and impudent. It's punishable... 
so you might as well punish me." 

"Lorinda, are you asking me to pick up that cane?" 

"Well, that's what you started out wanting. And it's considered a suitable 
punishment for yappy slavegirls." 

"You do try, don't you! I mean, to give me my money's worth." 

"Yes. Really, Miss Cortland, I am trying. I think you need help, but I'm not 
sure in what direction. Look, let's forget the whip. Lock me in the 
pillory." 

The girl possessed empathy. Here was an opportunity to save face. Amused and 
once more excited, the president of Cortlands followed instructions. In this 
heated atmosphere of girls the pride of initiative dwindled. 

Lorinda nestled her neck into its half circle. Carefully, she arranged her 
hair beside her bent cheek, leaving the nape of her neck exposed for its 
prisonment. Dutifully, she placed her wrists in their appointed slots. 
"There you are, Miss Cortland. Lower the boom before I change my mind." 
Gingerly, Joyce obeyed. The fit was neat and snug. With a pang of pity she 
glimpsed the hopelessness of a girl thus held. But in the snapping of the 
padlock her heat returned. The trapped girl made a picture of submission she 
would never forget. "It's not hurting, is it?" She asked breathlessly. 

"Not really, Miss Cortland, it's just that Well, it's actually a beastly fix 
for a girl to be in. She's sort of cut in two, with all the good parts back 
out of sight. All I can see is my hands." 

"I can understand how helpless " 

"And vulnerable! Just think of the things you could do to me back there. 
Everything's up for grabs." 

Realisation dawned. Ms Joyce Cortland felt naive. "You really enjoy having 
girls do things to you?" 

"Of course. Don't forget I'm in a beautiful position for you to use that 
cane should the urge return. I don't exactly love that one but it goes with 
the package." 

"Suppose I just went away and left you like that?" 

"It would be bad. I'd become frightened, and in this thing it doesn't do to 
panic." 

"On and on--into the night-all alone...?" 

"Trying to scare me?" The captive cocked an accusing eye. "You'd like to do 
it--I can tell. You're getting a thrill?" 

"Probably like my urge to whip a girl. I'm chicken..." 

"A girl would have to have it really happen to her to know what it's like. I 
was locked in this thing all day once. Nobody did anything to me, nobody 
came near. I was scared out of my wits." 

"What did you do?" 

"Nothing! A girl can't do anything except stand and hope she hasn't been 
forgotten, or that they'll leave her all night. You cry of course, and 
struggle... But that's so silly." 

"You're a bundle of sensation, aren't you." Joyce mused. "It's never struck 
me before what a sensitive package a girl is. I was never like that myself, 
but talking to you I can see how a girl could be aroused and stimulated... 
I've always despised the giggly hysteria of the pubescent and the coyness of 
adolescence. But if anything as rational as you!" 

"Try putting a hand between my legs. I'll explode." 

"That's vulgar." 

"Then punish me. You really want to, y'know." 

"Yes, I do. You're so exquisitely sentient it seems a waste not to cause you 
to flare into agony or some other emotion. If I used the cane on you again 
would you eventually scream?" 

"If you hit me hard enough-or between my legs or if you tell me it would 
give you pleasure." 

"So you scream by special request?" 

Lorinda twisted against the clamps. "You're picking it up wrong, Miss 
Cortland. I wanted to scream when you gave me those two strokes. But screams 
are noisy and vulgar and distressing, and a girl feels ashamed afterwards... 
and a slave has to consider her Mistress's feelings. But actually it helps 
tremendously to scream, against the pain..." 

Unseen, Joyce retrieved the cane and cut shrewdly at the lonely isolated 
derriere. The captive of the pillory yelped in shock and kicked at nothing. 

"Sorry, you caught me unaware. Not a very good effort." 

"I couldn't bear to be locked in that hateful thing and have someone use a 
cane on me. I could never have your control, Lorinda. I find you--an 
experience." 

"I'm going to spread my legs way apart, Miss Cortland. Hit me hard up in 
there anywhere. I promise a response." It was in Joyce Cortland's mind to 
refuse. It would be cruel: and once again she was being robbed of 
initiative. But when the lovely legs sundered themselves for her attention 
and the small bare feet took a firm stance against the pain to come she knew 
herself lost. With all her dexterity she swept the cane up into the inviting 
arch. 

Lorinda's scream was a deeply satisfying ululation of agony. For the all too 
brief moments it saturated her consciousness Joyce Cortland knew a supreme 
and exultant joy. She watched the writhing hips and jerking foot in avid 
approval, and was erotically amused by the tight clenching of the soft 
thighs to shield the wound within. Here was the quintessence of femaleness 
delivered into her hands. "Thank you, Lorinda." She said softly as she 
walked to where she could meet the captive eyes. "You were very beautiful." 

"It hurts so much-I wasn't sure-" Lorinda was panting. "You were exquisite." 

"If you want to hit me in there again I'd be grateful if you'd tie my feet 
out. It's awfully hard " 

"I'm not going to hit you again, not anywhere." 

"No more screams? I've got lots?" 

"No. I've reached some sort of peak. I'm replenished. Again, thank you." 

"I'm not going to be heroic and pretend I want any more like that." The girl 
in the stocks made a wry grimace. "So I'll say thank you too. You're really 
terribly sweet "I'll get you out of this thing." Joyce was fumbling with a 
key. 

"Are you sure you want to? It holds me nicely available for conversation or 
pain. You could even give me a shameful orgasm with your hand. I couldn't do 
a thing "Stop it, you erotic bomb. This is habit forming. I'm going to have 
to watch myself... There!" Joyce lifted the upper yoke. "You're a free 
woman." 

The naked girl stepped back and stretched luxuriously. With unaffected 
naturalness she put her arms round the severe tailoring and kissed two 
startled lips. For moments she hugged and nestled as though within a loved 
one's arms, her voice a whisper close beside an ear. "Thank you, oh thank 
you..." 

"What on Earth for!" Joyce stepped back, flustered. "I was cruel to you." 

"No you weren't. You were sweet. You were darling...!" 

In bafflement, the executive watched the wealed nudity slip back into the 
erotic trifles she wore as covering. Lorinda tripped lightly to the wall, 
handing the handcuffs to her Mistress she turned her back and positioned her 
arms. "Must you wear these things?" 

"Yes." 

"Sure they're not for my benefit? And why behind your back?" 

"Because when I'm with my Mistress I should be helpless." 

Joyce Cortland notched the metal bands snug on the submissive wrists. 

It was one of Life's beautiful moments. 

 CHAPTER TWO - NAKED 

The Sheik Haarami was amused and knew a deep content. The will of Allah was 
abundantly demonstrated. The she cat had come to him, and of her own free 
will. The afternoon might be diverting. 

"Your journey, madam? Pleasant, I trust?" 

"A bore. But I very much wish this talk. Thank you for receiving me." 

He nodded, the acme of courtesy. Then clapped his hands. 

Joyce Cortland was startled, the girl who answered the summons was nearly 
nude. Around the slender neck was a metal collar, the slim wrists were 
joined by wristlets of silver and a foot long chain. She was white. She 
served the drinks competently and unobtrusively, refusing to raise her eyes. 
Her task completed she withdrew. 

"Her name is Wendy." The sheik's eyes twinkled at his guest's dismay. "I 
purchased her at Desmond House." 

The Chairman of the Board took a long pull at the frosty glass. With Haarami 
she could be sure of nothing. The girl might have enacted a charade to 
disconcert. A chained maiden in a Villa on the Riviera in this day and age 
was hardly credible. She dropped her own small bomb. 

"I'm making an offer for the place." 

"So I have heard. I fear, madam, it will not be accepted." 

Indignation flared. "I spoke to Mrs. Gantry and to the girl in strictest 
confidence. How on Earth-!" 

"I am much privileged, madam. Should either of those two breach that 
confidence I would personally order them whipped." 

Joyce swallowed again. She must keep her temper. She met the old eyes with a 
level gaze. "I would like to dispense with the medieval, if you wouldn't 
mind. Chained girls and talk of whippings... I find it out of context, 
theatrical. I hoped we might reach an understanding?" 

"My dear Miss Cortland, have you not glimpsed this understanding as a need 
all your own, a personal malaise?" Damn the old bastard! He was going to be 
difficult. "No, I have not glimpsed that." She retorted tartly. 

"Yet you visited Desmond House?" 

"So you know that too! Please, Mr. Haarami, can we confine ourselves to the 
business of the Company?" 

"That is what I am trying to do, Miss Cortland. You are the most vital facet 
of the corporation." 

"I am not ill or suffering aberration, Mr. Haarami." 

"Not in the accepted sense." The hawk features softened. "Would you do an 
old man a kindness and bear with an enchanting medievalism all my own?" 

"What is it?" 

"Don't you trust me? I am a man of honour." 

"Very well, if it pleases you." 

"It pleases me very much, my dear. It may please you. At least you will find 
it diverting." Haarami clapped his hands. "Wendy will lead you to our 
patio." 

The scent of flowers. Mellow stone and green grass. High walls around a 
garden, the tinkle of a fountain in a pool. 

Joyce failed to notice the disappearance of her guide. She saw only three 
girls, two of them scantily clad in gossamer scarves, the third naked. The 
naked girl faced the slender trunk of a tree. She was tied to it by tight 
bands of rope at waist and wrist, her discarded scarf lay abandoned on the 
grass. She looked back over her shoulder at the interruption, but it was one 
of the other's who gave greeting. 

"You're Joyce Cortland. Our Master calls us the Naiads. Our names are Niobe, 
Naomi and Nicole. That's Naomi tied to the tree. I'm Nicole." 

None of them were twenty, yet Joyce could not place them, they were ageless. 
They were extraordinarily lovely and bestowed upon her a sparkling interest 
faintly disconcerting. They spoke, not in unison, but with much the same 
effect. 

"They were just getting ready to whip me." Naomi volunteered without 
concern. "I expect they'll let you whip me too." 

"Isn't she darling!" Nicole enthused. 

"We do it for fun, Miss Cortland. Today was Naomi's turn." 

All three gazed upon their visitor with expectant love. 

Female sexuality! It was as though she was following a pattern. Desmond 
House, Lorinda, now this trio of enticement. Joyce Cortland wished she could 
stalk from Haarami's house in anger, but discovered herself rooted by 
curiosity and the erotic beauty of the tableau her advent held motionless. 
And, anyway, she had come to The Sheik for a purpose not yet explored. 

"Why don't you let that poor girl loose?" Joyce frowned. "I feel 
uncomfortable with her tied to that tree." 

"Oh, we couldn't possibly! You see, it's her turn." 

"We're never too terribly cruel to each other." 

"Would you like to take my place, Miss Cortland?" Naomi's invitation was 
slyly dulcet. 

"No, I wouldn't! Haven't you anything better to do?" 

"There isn't anything better, Miss Cortland." Three pairs of young lips 
tittered. "Our Master doesn't use us much. We only get fucked about once in 
ten days, and no other men are allowed in here. It would be an awful bore if 
we didn't play with each other." 

Innocence! Sadism! Lechery! And they were so beautiful, so youthfully 
lovely. Wryly, Joyce perceived their logic. She probed: "Actually you're 
prisoners?" 

"Oh, you mean these!" Niobe lifted one foot to exhibit the silver fetter 
linking her ankles. "We all have to wear them. We don't mind." 

Joyce had not noticed, but each girl was hobbled in exquisite silver. That 
she had failed to note the shackles was a measure of her disarray. In a 
world of female slavery she was far at sea. 

"Our Master bought us, y'know. He doesn't want us to run away. Our chains 
are never unlocked, except by him, he has the key." 

"Our Master often sits and watches what we're doing. He's fond of us. 
Sometimes he sends us a girl." 

"A girl! Oh, you mean a visitor like me?" 

More titters. "None of them are like you, Miss Cortland. Joyce flushed. She 
had not been flattered. But curiosity persisted. "What do these girls do? Or 
what do you do with them?" 

"We usually take their clothes off. They're so silly about clothes. Who 
needs clothes! Then we make them squeal. There's ever so many ways to make a 
girl squeal, Miss Cortland." 

"I hope you've no such silly idea about me!" 

"Oh no, Miss Cortland. But we would like you to help us whip Naomi. It's 
such fun. You'd like Miss Cortland to whip you, wouldn't you Naomi?" 

"Oh, yes please." 

It took on the ethereal quality of a dream, but was not a dream. Volition 
vanished. Joyce wondered if her drink had contained a drug. Dazed by Naiad 
magic she felt the slender hands flutter upon her person as they relieved 
her of the severe jacket... They lingered... touching in ways and places she 
would never, normally, have tolerated. 

"Ugh! You couldn't possibly whip Naomi properly in that suit of armour -and 
that's such a nice blouse." 

The thin slenderness, neither whip nor crop nor cane, was in her hand. Sweet 
fingers propelled her forward to the tree and its helpless nudity. Close, 
now, Joyce beheld the cunning cords by which Naomi was held for her unearned 
punishment. They were deft and cruel. The young forearms had been raised on 
either side of the trunk and bound there at wrist and elbow, the elbows 
being at the level of the captive chin, the hands above. Around the small 
waist were several bands, cinched tight, circling and across. Below the 
strictures the bottom swelled. Above, the white expanse of the young back 
was an unmarked canvas waiting to be etched. Joyce sought to stifle the 
sudden hot wave of desire, but her pulse throbbed, all her senses screaming 
in demand. As had happened once before, her arm swept in a swift arc of 
passion and a scarlet line sprang into being across the ivory shoulders. 

"Oh, Miss Cortland, not so hard!" 

"Our skin couldn't possibly last out, y'know." 

Naomi turned, dewy eyed. "That was yummy, Miss Cortland, but it sure does 
hurt... wow!" 

"We wouldn't mind whipping you like that though." 

The president of Cortlands stood back, sentiently quivering. Her passive 
hand surrendered the black withe. She watched in guilty, but unalloyed, 
delight as the two Naiads took turns whipping their bound beloved. They 
snapped the withe in crafty cruelty here and there upon the helpless nudity. 
Small shrewd cuts to evoke a pink response upon the skin and a gasp and 
flinch from the corded girl. 

No part of the exposed flesh was safe. The wicked flickering of the whip's 
tip was a steady infliction rising in an unceasing crescendo to make the 
young nakedness strain against her ropes. Joyce's scarlet wound stood out 
accusingly across Naomi's back, in contrast the flicks now raised no welt, 
scarlet was replaced by pink. In a day or two the skin would again be virgin 
and ready for its next turn in the Naiad's erotic play. 

When the pliant wand was returned to her willing hand Joyce Cortland knew 
content. She wanted no analysis, but only to ply the short arm and wrist 
dexterity by which the pink paint of pain sprang into life upon Naomi's 
skin. With flick after flick she explored the pulsing nudity bound for her 
delectation. Leg, thigh, armpit... There was no need to be orthodox. Emotion 
threatened to choke when she realised a girl could be bound to face the whip 
and to behold its play upon everything feminine such exposure offered. She 
knew herself watched. The Naiads would protect their own. Joyce was careful 
to snap her small cruelties within their tolerance. When the panting Naomi 
managed to turn and smile in gratitude back over a bare shoulder she knew 
herself accepted. When the bound girl heaved and twisted against the knotted 
bands deep within her flesh the woman with the whip sensed the sensuous 
writhings as a gift for her delight. 

In an austere life, the president of Cortlands had known little of physical 
contact, she distrusted it. But now, an untied Naomi threw perfumed arms 
around her neck and kissed her startled lips again and again. There emanated 
from the moist dew of pain a heady pungency of young girl. Naomi was 
redolent of musk and a sweet scent entirely her own. It enveloped the woman 
and the naked girl in an aura demandingly female. Again the thought of being 
drugged flitted through Joyce's mind as she felt the light fingers upon her 
everywhere and heard the sibilance of whispering that reached her only as 
the soft sweet sounds of love. Even when the three Naiads had achieved their 
purpose and she was naked she found herself unable or unwilling to protest. 
When the ropes were insinuated around her wrists it seemed but natural. This 
scented garden of the Naiads was a magic place. 

"Isn't she darling. Let's keep her always." 

"Poor dear, she's got no tits. She's flat as a boy. But the rest of her... 
Oh, yummy!" 

"Look at her gorgeous bush!" A delighted giggle. "A man would get lost in 
there. Some day we'll shave it." 

She was drugged! She had to be... How else could she be suspended by bands 
about her wrists, her toes off the ground, stark naked! Joyce felt no urgent 
pain, yet pain should surely be a part of this impossible dream. Or were the 
Naiads with their enraptured tracery of fingertips across her flash a 
narcotic in themselves. She moaned softly from a surfeit of sensation she 
could not name. 

"Maybe if we suck these tiny tits long enough she'll grow breasts." 

"I'll rub her fur. I bet she's never had her fur rubbed. "You can't get 
loose, darling. You're all our's." 

She belonged to three girl children in a perfumed patio. She was naked and 
helplessly bound. They could use her as they wished. The knowledge was there 
but it refused to impinge upon the proper cortex in her brain. Joyce 
Cortland did not care, nothing mattered except the two pairs of avid lips 
upon her aureoles and the small questing hand beneath her pubic hair. She 
hung passively without thought of struggling. 

"I bet she's never had an orgasm, she's so hard to arouse." 

"She's liking it though. Can't you tell." 

"Directly she starts to pant we'll stop and start her whipping." 

Joyce heard the mischievous words but they concerned her not at all. The 
Naiads were sweet. She had whipped Naomi, it was only fair she herself 
should take her turn. In the manner she was fastened they would be able to 
plant their small pink wounds upon her anywhere at all. The awareness caused 
a ripple of sensation to search every nerve... 

"She's felt something and she's panting... 

"You can be first, Naomi. Let's put marks all over her." 

"She's terribly rich and powerful out where she came from. Our Master's so 
kind to us. Isn't she hot-making." 

The first snapping flick across one cheek of her bottom was a kiss of love. 
The second, beneath her strained armpit, and the third biting inside the 
sharp curve of her waist were all an exquisitely new sensation of 
fulfillment. It was not until the fourth and fifth snapped the softness of 
her thighs that the taut stretched nudity gasped in shock. But the small 
moan which acknowledged a flicked nipple was one of complicity rather than 
complaint. The drug, if she was indeed drugged, worked another 
metamorphosis, this time upon her pain. Joyce Cortland's world faded into 
oblivion. 

"I wish she had lovely big boobs. This whip-tip on breasts is super." 

"Remember that Lebanese girl Master gave us? Hers bounced." 

"But this one's perfect everywhere else. Let's tell her to spread her legs 
apart she won't mind." 

Joyce obeyed without being asked. The withe flickered and burned within the 
most secret places of her being. She gasped and moaned but spread her feet 
even more widely apart. She was without sense of obscenity. Only of a wish 
to share. 

"You can snap her cunt best from the back. Try it." 

For the first time, Joyce jerker against her tethers. The Naiad's affection 
reached her in waves, diluting the pain of a whipped vulva. 

"She responded beautifully. Do that some more." 

"We must ask Master to let us keep this one." 

"He will if he wants. If he doesn't we'll be punished for asking. Remember 
that beastly little box he put all three of us in last time? Two days and 
nights and nothing to eat. I thought I'd die." 

A giggle. "Wouldn't it be fun to be locked in there with this one though!" 

"Whip her cunt just enough to make the lips swell up good and plump, not any 
more than that." 

"She's got lots of other lovely places." 

"Maybe we'll be allowed to whip her properly sometime. That curved bottom is 
perfect for good hard strokes. Think of it with weals." 

The Corporate president kept her legs widely spread as long as fortitude 
allowed. But the whip slaps, coming in quick succession, upon the tenderness 
of her pubes soon brought the burning thighs together in an instinctive 
defense of her previously cherished privacy. The Naiads rewarded her by 
diverting their attention to her concave belly. 

"Right across her navel." 

"It's a lovely navel. She should wear a jewel in it." 

"Darlings, we're forgetting her back and bottom." 

The unnamed sensation that was Joyce Cortland's pain mounted steadily as her 
nudity was patterned in pink by the unceasing strings of the cleverly 
applied wand. But the drug, or a strange hypnosis, kept it at bay, changing 
its nature to a tumescent demand. She moaned steadily in a feminine 
communion the Naiads understood. 

"She's loving it. She's so lucky." 

"So are we. I've climaxed twice: just listening." 

"She's getting ready. I can feel her heat." 

A hand stole between Joyce's legs and cupped swollen lips. The sensation was 
exquisite. She jerked and writhed. She could feel the wetness of her own 
secretions on fingers and palm. She closed her eyes and opened her legs. 
What happened then should have shocked her into violent protest, but the 
Corporate president was too far gone into the wilderness of the Naiad's 
Lotus Land. Lips found her nipples while Niobe sunk to her knees and 
hungrily engulfed the whipped vulva within her mouth, her Ups sucked avidly 
while her tongue sought joy... 

The Naiads were very competent. Their captive's explosive come fulfilled 
their sense of what was proper. Gently, they withdrew and left the sweating 
and naked executive to hang by her wrists. 

Only the tinkle of the fountain disturbed the stillness of the Patio. 

Joyce supposed she had slept or become unconscious. But the effect of the 
drug was dissolving. Pain fired her wrists and her wrenched shoulders. What 
she could see of her body and thighs was laced with pink. She moaned anew in 
a sudden fearful desuetude. 

"An enlightening experience, Miss Cortland?" 

The Sheik Haarami came from her back and stood surveying Joyce's punished 
helplessness. "My Naiads deserve praise, Madam. You are an artistic 
creation." 

Joyce longed to die, to scream, to demand. Never had a man seen her totally 
nude. That a male enemy should be able to enjoy her punished and suspended 
nakedness was pure nightmare. Unwilling to show emotion she kept silent, 
refusing to meet the male eyes, savouring her increasing pain. 

"It should happen thus once to every woman." 

Because her tethered wrists were wide apart she could not twist or turn or 
hide anything of herself. Joyce hung limp and passive, unwilling for this 
man to watch her kick and struggle. Why writhe under his impassive regard, 
it only enhanced her helplessness. 

"An excellent situation for negotiation, Madam." Suddenly breathless, she 
realised his power. She was naked and helpless. He could torture her into 
compliance. Joyce thought of her massive block of stock in Cortlands. 

Would pain bring her to the signing of a transfer! Half ashamed of her 
mission to Haarami's Villa, she had told no one of her destination. She had 
intended to fly home that night. But her absence for a day or two would 
concern nobody. Haarami had an abundance of time to bring her to heel in any 
manner he chose. Vehemently, she declaimed: "Don't you realise, what you are 
doing to me will defame you across the world." 

Reading her mind, he was amused. "I have done nothing to you, Miss Cortland. 
You have simply spent a very human interlude with my Naiads." 

"You are doing something to me now, Haarami, something shameful. Do you want 
me to plead or beg to be untied?" 

"It would be a forward step. Are you thinking of taking it?" 

"I am in considerable pain. Please untie me." 

"That sounded like a directive from Head Office." 

Joyce knew him right. She tried again. "I beg of you, sir: Please lower my 
feet to the ground and untie my wrists." 

"Thank you, Madam. I appreciate the effort that must have cost." 

"Well, am I to be untied?" 

"No." 

The bastard! He was playing with her. She felt doubly naked and became 
increasingly aware of her bound wrists. Without cordiality, she asked: "What 
are you going to do to me?" 

"You are thinking of torture?" 

"It would be in keeping " The hawk eyes were amused. "I will admit, Miss 
Cortland, there is an old Arabian discipline I would much love to have you 
suffer. Have you heard of the bastinado?" Joyce's heart almost stopped. 
"Yes." 

"You are placed on your belly on the ground, your hands are tied behind your 
back, your feet are raised and bound to expose the soles to the sky." 

"Thank you for the precis. I presume it gives you carnal satisfaction." Her 
words were icy but she was trembling. 

Your soles are then beaten in one of two ways: a steady tattoo prolonged for 
hours, or an outright whipping. The result is always the same. Screams, 
contortions, a general untidiness. Dignity vanishes." 

"When am I to enjoy this privilege?" 

"There is a more obvious method of teaching a woman she is a woman." 
Haarami's discourse was urbane, ignoring her sarcasm. "I could have you 
staked out to invite several of my male staff to inseminate you. In a few 
days, with any luck, we could send you home pregnant." 

"Do you have to be disgusting! And anyway, you forget abortion." 

"But in the process you would be much aware of what you are, a woman. Your 
liberated mind could not ignore the disabilities of your sex. There is no 
way, Miss Cortland, that woman can be the equal of man. Nature denies. The 
Chairmanship of The Board should not be in your hands." 

"I own the bloody Company!" 

"Enjoy it. I suggest you allow Mr. Willard to Head it for you. Dwight 
Willard is an excellent man." 

"And what do I do? Apply for entry to your Harem?" 

"A charming thought." Haarami's voice remained benign. "But there is one 
more possibility of penetrating your armour I would like to describe." 

"Go ahead. I seem to have plenty of time." 

"The removal of your hair: your head, eyebrows and pubic. A close shave on 
each changes feminine temperament amazingly." 

Joyce closed her eyes. She wished she could close her ears. Had this 
exchange taken place elsewhere she could have dismissed it as in vulgarly 
bad taste. But naked, and hanging by her wrists before these wise old 
eyes...! Any of the things Haarami spoke of became credible. He could do 
what he liked with her. "Haven't you thought of afterwards, Haarami?" She 
asked wearily. "There would be an afterwards and a reckoning--unless you 
kill me. I do not think you will kill me." 

"There will be no reckoning, Miss Cortland. You will desire silence far more 
than I." 

He was right, damn him! She would never cry her shame to the world. The 
simple fact frightened Joyce Cortland more than the threats. She was totally 
trapped. She would carry her wounds back to London and be forever after 
aware of this old man. "My torture will give you pleasant visions during the 
tedium of our Board Meetings." She suggested bitterly. 

"And aid you in compromise." 

"Please... please...!" Joyce could deny her pain no longer. "Let me down. Or 
at least allow me to stand. I could talk more rationally if you'd untie me 
and give me clothes. This exhibition you've made of me is obscene." 

"Not me, Madam, my Naiads." 

"What's the difference! Look, Haarami, I'm in agony. Untie me and you have 
my promise, my parole. I won't try to escape or make a silly fuss. I know 
I'm a prisoner." 

"Scarcely agony, Miss Cortland, perhaps pain... some feminine discomfort 
from exposure...?" 

She had not wept for years, but the sting of tears on her eyelids told the 
nude captive how close she was to hysteria, and how correct The Sheik's 
estimate of female frailty might be. Joyce Cortland was living wholly in the 
existing moment, divorced from her past, intensely fearful of her immediate 
future, so fearful she refused to contemplate it. "You want something of 
me." She acknowledged weakly. "Tell me what it is. I'll give it to you. I 
won't endure what you threaten." 

"You have it wrong, Madam. I am striving to give you something." 

"Then give me decency." 

"And with it your armour! No, Madam. My kindest act is to leave you as you 
are. Think of that hirsute patch between your legs so delightfully 
displayed. That is your enemy, not I." 

In disbelief she watched him go. As his venerable figure passed from the 
patio Joyce Cortland had to employ all her will to refrain from calling 
after him to return. Her mind was choked with things to say but none 
coherently emerged. In agonized indecision she let the moment pass. The 
president of Cortlands hung naked and alone in the garden of the Naiads. She 
could think of nothing she wanted less. 

Joyce realised there could be few positions more helpless. To be held only 
by her wrists was frustrating enough, but that she should hang suspended, 
her toes inches from the ground and naked! She had a vision of her office, 
and of herself therein. The contrast taxed credulity. Hopelessly she gazed 
up the bare length of her arms to where her wrists were circled by the cruel 
bands, now deep in her flesh. Her hands had gone numb long since. Escape 
from her simple bondage was impossible, she would hang forever unless 
someone released her. There was nothing heroic or resourceful she could do. 
All motion hurt. Weakly, she cried out: "Help me...! Please... someone...!" 
She was rewarded by silence and was ashamed. 

Soon she allowed her head to fall forward, losing all concern with anything 
but pain. In reverie there was no solace and no coherent thought. She was 
abandoned, a woman naked and alone. She never knew if it was minutes or 
hours before she heard the whispered Naiad voice. 

"Poor darling! Master didn't release her." 

"He must be very angry." 

"Look at her hands. She ought to be let down." 

Joyce Cortland gazed at their rapt young faces with a great thankfulness. 
"Please... oh, please!" Every particle of her being was in the plea. 

"She wants to be untied. Should we?" 

"But what could we do with her then? And she looks so sweet." 

"Please!" Joyce begged again. "Please let me loose." 

"We could tie her hands behind her back and make her eat us." 

At first the casual suggestion did not register. The unfamiliar term failed 
to pierce the daze of pain. The Naiads helped: "Poor dear, she doesn't know 
what that means." 

"I bet she's never done it." 

"Her tongue's going to be awful tired." 

She understood then and wailed denial: "No! Oh, no! You couldn't, not be so 
beastly." 

"We could, darling." 

"You'd love it after you got started." 

"We taste lovely, all different." 

She moaned in feeble protest as she was untied. But the joy of having her 
bare feet once more on solid ground overwhelmed all else. Had the girls not 
supported her she would have folded to the grass. She was weak with emotion. 
She scarcely noticed and did not protest when Nicole stole her hands, 
crossed her wrists gently behind her back, and bound them there with swift 
firm strands. Joyce Cortland wanted oblivion, to close her eyes and sleep 
and lose awareness, but her longing was denied. 

"We think it would be nice if you had this inside, darling." 

She shook her head and reluctantly returned to the Naiad's world. The eager 
young faces smiled at her with love. Naomi held up something for her 
inspection. 

"Isn't he lovely!" 

"We don't bother with little one's." 

"We brought the vaseline." 

The Company Chairman had never seen a dildo, but she knew what one was. She 
gazed at the plastic replica of a male organ with pure horror. It seemed 
immense.. Surely it could never be inserted in the sheath of these 
capricious youngsters! Most certainly it could never penetrate her own! It 
was a sculptured caricature. Her response was instant. "Put that thing away. 
It's disgusting." 

"We want you to spread your legs and stand still, dear." 

"I won't--!" 

The whip cut a band of fire around her waist and across her tied arms. As 
loving hands held her against the motions of agony her feet, seemingly of 
their own volition, separated themselves upon the grass. The hands remained 
on her arms as the voices exulted. 

"You have to obey us, darling, you're tied." 

"We'll whip you terribly if you act silly." 

"We're going to make you ready." 

The whip and the cords and her own dismay robbed Joyce Cortland of will. She 
stood, dazed and passive, as lips and hands plied their skill upon her 
female sexuality. She was soon panting. 

"She's nice and wet now, darlings." 

She was spared nothing. She had to watch the lubricating of the huge prong 
by which she was to be impaled. Pain of the whip had been such as to 
discourage further protest but she was content to believe entry by such a 
monster impossible. She stood nakedly with spread thighs while a small hand 
busied itself with the swollen lips about to be pierced. When the grotesque 
head was thrust against her prepared flesh she was shocked to discover her 
portal's stretch to accommodate the questing predator. 

"He's started. She's taken his head." 

"Be gentle with her. Grease him and twist a little." 

"Mmmmmm, she's going to take him all." 

They were skilled. The pain was small and did not last. Joyce moaned as she 
was pierced. It was a moan of disbelief that it could happen. 

"She'll have to be harnessed." 

The belt now buckled round her waist was tight. Joyce could swear it 
compressed the phallus within. A leather spread the cheeks of her bottom and 
was run through a slot in the base of the thing now fully inside her. It was 
buckled, back and front to her belt. 

"Just right, darling. He can't come out." 

A giggle. "And he can't go on up either." 

"Aren't you a lucky girl, Miss Cortland!" 

She would have to wear the hateful thing. Her bound hands could touch 
nothing of it that mattered. In a way, she was as helpless as when 
suspended. Appealingly, her eyes roved the enraptured trio. 

"We'll whip you if you aren't obedient, darling." 

"You may as well stop twisting your arms, you can't get loose." 

"We want you to kneel. We'll position ourselves." 

A single scald of the whip ended hesitation. Joyce knelt. Niobe's thighs 
straddled her upturned face as Niobe's hands grasped her hair and thrust her 
lips where they must go. She was enveloped in pubic hair and the pungent 
scent of girl. Small firm hands shook her head demandingly. With a sob of 
helplessness the chief executive of Cortlands did what she must. Between her 
own legs a fire was beginning to bum. 

 CHAPTER THREE - FEMALE FEMALE 

My Naiads have attended you adequately, Miss Cortland?" Haarami was again 
the perfect host. 

Resigned to the loss of initiative, Joyce accepted the cocktail proffered by 
the kneeling slave. For a moment the girl caught her eye and they were 
sisters. Wendy knew! Probably she had spied on shame. The mortified woman 
sipped the tart fluid avidly and sought for the right thing to say. It was 
not there. 

"They were sweet to me." She said slowly. "You behold me bathed and 
perfumed. I am even clothed in my own attire." 

"And you can catch your night flight to London. But was there not some 
matter of business...?" 

The sly old devil! The patio, and now back to normal. Against her turmoil 
within, the affairs of Cortlands seemed trivial. "I came bearing an olive 
branch." She admitted wryly. "Seems silly now." 

"But your day was not wasted?" 

"Not if there is profit in shame and hurt." 

The Sheik nodded. "There are angry things you wish to say, but you have 
learned prudence. You have learned much. Perhaps I have learned something 
too. May I offer you a gift as a token of my esteem?" 

Joyce tensed. Beware a Greek--! But her host smiled and gave his signal 
clap. The girl, Wendy, appeared as by magic, and busied herself with 
glasses. 

"There, Miss Cortland. She is yours." 

That morning it would have been absurd, now it was not. Joyce looked at the 
young loveliness and knew the girl was trembling. She herself fought back a 
wave of desire. Rejecting anger and reproof, she said simply: "In my life 
there is no place for slaves." 

"Perhaps there should be. Keep her ankles chained. She is a sweet child." 

The drinks served, there seemed no need of words. Haarami motioned, and 
Wendy took a position between them. With swift deft motions she discarded 
all covering. Nude, she stood erect with hands clasped behind her neck and 
tight breasts outthrust. Turning slowly, she displayed every inch of her 
youthfulness for inspection. Joyce hoped her sudden hunger did not show. 

"Well, Miss Cortland?" 

"You know I cannot. I'm sorry. She is lovely." 

Another gesture and Wendy was gone. Haarami rose, his manner pensive. "Come 
please, Miss Cortland. I may tempt you yet." 

It was little more than a large wooden crate. But the widely spaced slats 
were sturdy and re-enforced. The three naked Naiads within were open to 
view. Their pixie features brightened at sight of visitors. 

"Thank you for putting us in the cage, Master." Gratitude for punishment 
appeared mandatory. Joyce gasped at the pathetic tangle of naked limbs. The 
cage was not large enough for three girls, but by some magic force or 
cunning they were inside. To make a comfortable adjustment to each other 
more difficult they were handcuffed. 

"We wish you were in here too, Miss Cortland." 

They were irrepressible, forever joyous. Joyce turned to their owner. "But 
what have they done...?" 

"Nothing, dear lady. What you behold is a counterbalance to ebullience." 

"It's so we don't get too bubbly, Miss Cortland. Punishments are very good 
for us." 

"But you're all- all-bent and twisted-!" 

"We have to be ever so nice. And we can scent each other. And we just have 
to hope it isn't too long - we can't move much." 

Joyce caught his eye. "They are incredible. You are a lucky man." 

"A wise man is aware of blessedness." The Sheik intoned gently. "You may 
take your pick--Any one of them. Choose." 

Tears welled in unexpected emotion at a gift unearned and of such stupendous 
cost. Joyce blinked them away, and with them a vision of a Naiad chained 
within her home forever plaint and adoring. Choked, she dared not speak. A 
silence lengthened. 

"Don't you want one of us, Miss Cortland?" 

She wanted one of the four girls offered more desperately than she would 
ever admit. Her flaring lust for them shocked her inmost being. It was 
something she must hide. In anguished disarray Joyce turned to the 
beneficent male. "I couldn't. It would be too cruel to separate them." 

"We wouldn't mind, Miss Cortland, as long as it was you. We're only slave 
girls. If you don't choose one of us I expect we'll all be whipped." 

"They speak truth." Said Haarami. "Have you no feeling for them?" 

"I adore them." 

The feminine exclamation left her shamed, telling more than she wanted to 
disclose. From within the small cage three young faces glowed with love. 

"Well then, Miss Cortland...?" 

"I cannot. You know I cannot." 

"I know nothing of the sort. Why flee from what you have learned?" 

"Because I must. There is no place in my life for chained girls." 

"Make a place. Be a woman." The old voice trailed away. "If you reject them 
they will each be flogged." 

"You wouldn't surely? Why?" 

"Their duty is to persuade you to my wish. Behold them, they ache for your 
approval. Your choice would come readily handcuffed." 

"That's so wrong. If you must whip someone, whip me." 

"My dear Miss Cortland--" 

"Why not! Prove your omnipotence on me. I'll strip naked for your whip." 

Joyce faced him furiously, her hand already at the button of her jacket. At 
the meeting of their eyes Haarami laughed delightedly. 

"Touche! Our lovebirds skins will not be marked." Amused by her vehemence, 
Haarami's eyes held hers captive. "That offer could not have been made 
yesterday. We progress. Your olive branch is not wasted." 

They returned to the balcony lounge, behind them a pathetic cry: "We love 
you, Miss Cortland." 

"Thank you, Master." 

"Each of us is very nice...!" 

It was the hardest rejection Joyce had ever made. 

In the short plane ride back to London Joyce Cortland drank three doubles 
but could not drown her memory of four girls. When the Stewardess noticed 
the red circles on her wrists she did not care. 

The next morning she used the office as a narcotic, allowing it to envelope 
her in work and the safety of the familiar. 

"Hear you visited the Desert Hawk yesterday?" Dwight Willard's voice was 
casual. 

"How the devil d'you know that?" 

"We had business. Haarami phoned." 

Joyce tensed with caution. Dwight was not above doing a bit of fishing. She 
shrugged. "What did he tell you?" 

"You offered an olive branch. He took it. That's good!" She was thankful for 
the long ruffled sleeves hiding her wounded wrists. "He's a really charming 
host." 

Dwight chuckled. "Did you see Wendy?" 

Once more the prickles of alarm. "The child who serves the drinks? Yes, I 
saw her." 

"Chain and all?" 

"It's an amusing affectation." 

"Like hell it is! That little lady can't go home." 

"I didn't notice her screaming for help." She was certain now that he was 
fishing. He knew her too well not to pick up vibrations. "Understanding his 
way of life makes him acceptable. It explains a lot." 

"Wendy came from Desmond House. Oh, and by the way, the place is not for 
sale. Money is no object to those who own it. I talked to Gunderson..." It 
did not matter. She would bide her time. After yesterday nothing was the 
same. On impulse, she said diffidently. "There's something I want to do... 
Maybe four or five weeks. Can you take care of things." 

They went to lunch together and talked of everything but what mattered. 
Returning to her office, Joyce locked the door and went immediately to the 
phone. 

"We're really flattered to have you." Paula Gantry admitted. 

"Was it my Lorinda who enticed you back?" Linda asked. 

"Lorinda was very sweet to me." Joyce Cortland mused. Shyly, she looked at 
her companions across the desk. "But what I want to explore is the other 
side of the coin." 

They absorbed her with interest. They could not be shocked. Linda giggled. 
"That sometimes hurts, y'know." 

"I want it to. I have to find out something." 

"Oh, you're not alone in that, Miss Cortland. You might be surprised..." 

"I don't think I would be." Joyce said slowly. "And I've been thinking..." 
She looked to them for help. "Does a month sound too ridiculous?" 

"Why should it?" 

"Well... Do girls tend to ask for more than they can handle?" 

"There's no general rule, dear. Most are a bit timid and take the ten day 
minimum. They're the ones who want to go home next day." 

"But you don't let them?" 

"Be pointless if we did... 

"What about hysteria... panic?" 

"The cure for that's simple. They can tidy up their act or be punished. 
Works every time." 

"What's the longest sentence any girl's committed herself to?" 

"Six months." Paula Gantry grinned. "Tessie had herself well assessed. Took 
three months to break her. For the second three months she was the happiest 
girl in the place." 

"Break? That's a frightening word." 

"We're not outrageously cruel. We soon find out the thing the girl hates 
most: it's a good persuader." 

Linda reached and patted a tense arm. "You can pick your own punishments 
before you start, Miss Cortland. If you wish...?" 

"No. That would impair authenticity." Joyce mused thoughtfully for several 
moments. "I want this to be real, a sort of playing for keeps. I've been 
saturated in authority. I want it taken from me. And I want that done your 
way, not mine." 

"Suspense won't bother you?" 

"I don't think so. Suspense must surely be a part of what I'm going to be." 

"But alone with suspense behind the bars of a cell...? It can be a bit 
daunting?" 

"I'll have to get used to it. Look, I've been thinking. I said a month. But 
make it more than that, anything up to six weeks. But I'm not to know. Don't 
give me a clue." 

Paula nodded. She recognized authority. This woman was quality, she was also 
wealth and power. "That's what I'd expect of you." She agreed. "As one woman 
to another, tell me what you're looking for." 

"Myself." 

"That's what I thought. It will be a painful journey." Joyce thought of the 
Naiad's patio, and smiled secretly. She was tempted to tell them. But 
curiosity kept her mute. Let it be a time of discovery for all of them. 
Suddenly she perceived a hazard. "There are two men associated with 
this-place, Karl Gunderson and the Sheik Haarami... I wouldn't want them to 
know about me?" 

"You picked two powerful names." Mrs. Gantry made a moue of disparagement. 
"They can overrule me--" 

"My position...! I couldn't possibly have this-this experiment bandied 
about. Those men don't outrank me-" 

"They would for your month." Paula grinned. "You're going to be a nothing. 
If the risk's too great we can call it off right now." 

"I don't want to. Damn them. Surely you can keep me well hidden?" 

"Look, my dear, will you leave this with me?" Paula asked gently. "It's 
possible this contretemps can be turned to your advantage." 

"How?" 

"Don't ask me. In a little while we may forbid you to ask questions. But, 
for now, trust me. O.K.?" 

"I suppose it has to be." 

"And sulky girls are punished...!" 

All three of them laughed. Each, in their own way, saw it as a good 
beginning. 

"Tomorrow morning then, not too early." The Chatelaine of Desmond House was 
suddenly businesslike. "Don't bring luggage." 

Joyce Cortland had primed herself for vacillation. It did not come. Desire 
for the course she had set remained constant. She thought longingly of the 
Naiads and their patio. But Desmond House must surely open a wider door! 
After her sentence had been served Haarami's offer might still be valid. Her 
pulse leaped at thought of chained Wendy. It would be too cruel to divide 
the Naiads themselves. And yet...! She set such thoughts aside. Tomorrow 
might give her more to think about than she wanted. Irrelevantly she 
envisioned Lorinda's breasts across one was a scarlet weal. 

"I'm going to prison. Joyce Cortland is going to prison." She repeated it to 
herself again and again as her time approached. It had an incongruous sound 
that suited her mood. Cortlands could damn well look after itself for 
awhile, and so could men. She was tired of both. She was about to immerse 
herself in cloying bonds of femininity. The prospect intrigued. She was also 
tossing aside decision. This was to be a holiday, probably her first ever. 
Tingling, she repeated her absurd exultation again and again: "I'm going to 
prison... I'm going to prison..." She felt the excitement of a little girl. 

It was not as expected. 

"My name's Marigold." Said the delightful girl brightly. "Do come in--and 
give me your handbag... Thank you. And now turn round." 

It happened swiftly. The handcuffs clicked as their chrome bands circled 
round Joyce's unprotesting wrists and were made snug. Her first question 
died unspoken as the small rubber ball entered her mouth and was strapped 
therein by a buckle at the back of her neck. The president of Cortlands 
found herself surprisingly helpless and annoyingly mute. She did not resist 
as young hands turned her about and sparkling eyes assessed. The verdict was 
instant: "Mmmmm, you've been a boss lady. I can tell. You're not going to 
like what I'm going to do to you, not one little bit." 

A blindfold and a walk in the dark, strong young fingers on an adult arm, 
uninhibited giggles. "I'm a trusty, Miss Cortland. If you try and bribe me 
you'll be punished." 

It was humiliating. Joyce was chagrined. No pleasant prelude, no familiar 
face, made helpless by a mere child! Marigold's laughing eyes were 
reassuring, but the woman in the tailored suit felt silly. Irritated, she 
tugged at the metal on her wrists and fought the intrusion in her mouth. Her 
brief rebellion was unrewarding. 

"Handcuffs are so final, aren't they." Marigold came up with another giggle. 
"They used to drive me bonkers. I was a slave myself once. I suppose I still 
am." 

Joyce managed an unsatisfactory sound. 

"Don't try and talk, Miss Cortland. I've got you nicely gagged. You may as 
well struggle a bit. When a girl finds she can't get loose it helps her 
settle down." 

Lectured by a moppet! It was not what she wanted. But Joyce had come 
prepared for tolerance under inflictions. To be obstreperous now was to show 
weakness. And, anyway, she was helpless and Marigold was rather sweet. She 
took blind steps forward. Not yet frightened. Not yet angry. 

"We've arrived, Miss Cortland." Marigold's giggle seemed inevitable. "Now 
I'm going to take your clothes off." 

She had forgotten nakedness. Joyce's first reaction was revolt. But that too 
was silly. Nudity was implicit to Desmond House. Urgently she explained the 
impossibility of undressing when handcuffed. Her message came out as a few 
wet shameful sounds. She longed to be rid of the blindfold, but the rubber 
ball in her mouth defeated protest. The noises emanating from stretched lips 
and flared nostrils were mortifying enough to inhibit a repeat. She gulped 
unhappily and flung her hair from side to side in the only gesture of 
disapproval permitted. 

"I know just how you feel, Miss Cortland." Marigold consoled brightly. "Just 
stand still and leave everything to me." Another giggle. "You sort of have 
to, don't you! I mean, what else can you do, except kick and if you kick 
I'll whip your legs." 

Joyce stood still. But when insistent hands tugged the tailored jacket from 
her shoulder she twisted in dismay. 

"I expect you think I should have asked you to strip naked before I 
handcuffed you, Miss Cortland. But that's not the proper way. You have to be 
stripped by someone else." 

Joyce shook her head in negation. She was taut as a bowstring. 

"Sure, sure! I know. You hate to think of this lovely jacket being ruined. 
But there's no other way. I've brought some shears... 

What was the price of a tailored jacket! Joyce was annoyed by her own 
concern. But her sense of efficiently was violated. She knew herself being 
led across an unfamiliar bridge. She actually winced as the shears made 
their first destructive cut up a tailored sleeve. 

"I'll soon have you naked, Miss Cortland." More giggles. Then you'll have 
something else to think about." 

The dark was beastly. For all she knew there might be a dozen pairs of eyes 
watching the emergence of her body. She had had no chance to ask the reason 
for the blindfold. It was hard to stand passively while the shears sliced. 
The air, warm though it might be, felt icy on exposed skin. 

"You haven't any breasts, have you, Miss Cortland. That's really lucky, 
y'know. I've got two beauties and they were always getting whipped. It 
doesn't matter how far a girl's into the scene she never likes a whip 
snapping at her tits. It scares me to death." 

Strange consolations! How long would it take to become as insouciant as 
Marigold! Breasts whipped...! Good lord! 

"But you sure do have a lovely puss patch, Miss Cortland. Isn't that a cute 
way to describe pubic hair. Gosh, it's a real forest and all shining and 
curled. I hope they won't shave it off. They do that sometimes as a 
punishment." 

Shorn and shamed! Joyce had a vision of herself clutching a naked sex. It 
was oddly intriguing. She winced again as the shears slit her panties. They 
were her last covering, and there was no need to cut them off. No doubt the 
deliberate act was symbolic. She had been stripped! Within her being she 
understood the potency of what had been done to her. 

"I'll help you lay down. Miss Cortland. Here... there's something to kneel 
on." 

Joyce could swear it was her own ruined clothes on which the loving but 
insistent hands laid her face down. She tensed, expecting the cut of a cane 
across her bottom. But, instead, her right ankle was captured by a cuff and 
drawn back and back until the link could be drawn over the similar link 
joining her hands. Then her left foot, tugged by strong young hands, until 
the other cuff could be snapped around its ankle. There came the careful 
adjusting clicks...! 

"You look very sweet, Miss Cortland. Here I'm real sorry about this..." She 
was pushed on to her side. The things on which she had lain were pulled 
away. Allowed to settle back into position Joyce found her belly and chin 
pressing against the unfriendly concrete. It was chill and probably needed 
sweeping... 

"This is sort of the start, y'know." 

The sympathy in Marigold's voice was alarming. Ashamed by her enforced 
posture, Joyce cried against her gag: "I'm hogtied! You can't not a hogtie!" 

"Yes, I know, Miss Cortland. You're hogtied." The giggle. "Or should we call 
it hogcuffed." 

Suddenly the blind was whisked away. Blinking from the floor, the captive 
woman beheld a vanishing Marigold and heard the dismal clang of a barred 
door. She was alone. 

She hurt! The cuffs were cruel. But, miserably. Joyce Cortland managed to 
examine the place in which she lay helpless. It was a narrow concrete cell. 
Barred to the passage, so that anyone passing could look in and observer her 
plight and her nudity. The lock on the metal door was massive. The most 
remarkable feature of the small prison was its bareness. It contained 
nothing. No cot, no bench, no stool, no plumbing. It held only a naked woman 
painfully handcuffed on its concrete floor. 

Joyce Cortland could not quench anger. A woman of her eminence should not be 
treated thus. On the other hand, just how should she have been received! She 
had envisioned a welcoming Paula and an erotic introduction to her servitude 
by way of a sympathetic Linda. But this! She shrank under the insidious 
prison panic Something was wrong! 

The concrete was beastly. To lay on it naked was a degradation. To be 
hogtied reduced her to a butt for coarse humour. It was also cold. But the 
twin handcuffs were her real punishment, they simply hurt. If she struggled 
they hurt more. They were without mercy, and she could never get herself 
free of them. They held her in a relentless bow. 

Marigold's gag was clever. Joyce knew that without it she would be 
screaming. Crying out in a fear of being forgotten or that something had 
indeed gone awry. To lay mute was agonizing, but at least she was saved the 
shame of giving voice to weakness. 

Joyce rolled over on her side. All she achieved was fresh cold concrete and 
a shoulder that hurt under her weight. She was as helpless as a gaffed fish. 
The handcuffs mocked every move she made. She belonged to the handcuffs. 
They made of her a package, tossed on the floor and forgotten. After awhile 
she struggled back to her original position. It was not easy. The rough 
stuff on which she lay chafed her bare skin. Quietly, she began to cry. It 
was a new experience. 

"You've been like this three hours, Miss Cortland. That's all. Did it seem 
like three days?" 

Joyce looked up in thankfulness at Linda's sympathetic smile. Even to do 
that was not easy. She longed to speak, but was still gagged. 

"It's not much fun the way you're fixed. We make a point of visiting half 
way through her time so a girl knows she's not forgotten." 

The cheerful words came like a blow. Half way through! It was not 
possible...! To remain as she was for more interminable hours was too awful 
a fate to contemplate. Despite pain and weariness Joyce threw herself into 
every motion of denial she could contrive. She no longer cared what sounds 
got past her gag, just so long as they were sounds of deep distress. The 
result of her effort came close to nothing at all. Linda watched, amused. 

"Gosh, you're all bothered, Miss Cortland." 

Miss Cortland raised her head enough to nod. "Disappointments are part of 
the treatment, y'know." It was more than disappointment. It was catastrophic 
agony. She would die. Joyce made more sounds. 

"We do understand how you feel. But you'll have to go through with it." 

Once more the bowed woman wept. Her tears fell, one by one to the concrete. 
Joyce Cortland no longer cared. 

"Such lovely tears!" Linda's laugh was warm. There were metallic sounds. 
Joyce Cortland's legs lost their stress, her feet fell naturally to the 
floor, bereft of handcuffs. "Keep crying, dear. It helps." 

She moaned in the agony of relief, but even that gratitude was distorted by 
the ball within her mouth. For moments Joyce did not move. It felt too good 
just to lay as she was without pain. Her wrists were still handcuffed but 
they felt free as air. Soon, strong young hands helped her to her feet. She 
stood erect but shakey as her tears were dried and her hair put back in 
place by feminine fingers. Her eyes were eloquent. 

"Sure, I'm a bitch, teasing you. You were petrified. But no apologies. 
That's part of the treatment too. We'll always keep you off balance, not 
knowing. Sometimes we won't be teasing..." To walk felt good. The bath felt 
better. It removed stigma along with the concrete's grime. Joyce remained 
helpless and without speech while Linda made her clean and scented. 

"I'm leaving the gag in your mouth, darling, because if I take it out you're 
still in that state where you'd explain you've made a great mistake and 
you're sorry and you'd like to go home." 

The chief executive of Cortlands blushed. Linda had read her mind. Or 
perhaps the response of all prisoners was the same. Either way, her 
awareness of prisonment became more real. It was humiliating, but her 
jailers were far too wise in female frailty. Her reactions were predictable. 
She walked where she was led in an agony of shame. 

Paula's office was comforting. Joyce thought sadly of her own. She 
envisioned herself sitting in it as naked as she was now. She had turned her 
world upside down. Paula's kiss was comforting too. But she was still 
handcuffed and still gagged. The straps tight across her cheeks were a 
reprimand. Linda poured brandy, but the glass upon the desk was 
unattainable, a mockery to her helplessness. 

"You can have that, dear, if you think you're ready for rational speech. No 
frantic pleading?" 

Joyce nodded vigorously. 

"It's much the best, dear. A girl is only ashamed of what she says when the 
gag comes out." 

This time the nod was doubly emphatic. When the strap was unbuckled and the 
ball taken from between her lips Joyce gulped the brandy Linda held for her, 
and said a weak and cautious: "Thank you." 

"Good. You're over the hump. Now blast away." Everything obvious would now 
sound trite. This left nothing to say. Joyce clinked her handcuffs and 
managed an apologetic smile. "Could I have another sip please?" 

She drank it all in awkward gulps until Linda was tilting an empty glass. 
"We actually are interested in anything you have to say." Paula prompted 
kindly. "We'll consider the going home bit as already said." 

"That doesn't leave me much to say." Joyce looked from one to the other of 
the attentive faces. "It was simply bloody awful." 

"The old Army treatment, dear. After the Barrack Square battle seems a 
breeze." 

"You mean I've had the worst?" 

"Oh, you'll have worse than that, love, but only sometimes." 

It was only a small reassurance. Joyce sought another. "Could I have my 
hands unlocked please? They've been behind my back so long." 

"No." 

Cortlands vanished. Joyce cursed her own idiocy. Suddenly the two of them 
were laughing at her dolor. Linda unlocked the handcuffs and placed them on 
the desk, she replenished the brandy. Joyce Cortland was warmly kissed by 
laughing lips. 

"Go on home, Miss Cortland." 

Joyce gazed at them both, stunned, speechless. 

"You've got a business to run. You don't need us." Paula was decisive. 

Linda handed her the brandy. "You probably need this one too. We told 
darling Marigold to be rough. She was. 

And don't worry about your spoiled clothes. Between us Paula and I have a 
sizable wardrobe. Enough to get you home." 

Anticlimax. Disenchantment. Joyce Cortland's surge of relief at release was 
melting into embarrassment. She drank brandy, and offered weakly: "It was 
that cold stone... and the bareness of the cell." 

"Not much fun being a prisoner." 

She looked at them appealingly. "I've let you down. I'm sorry." 

With a motherly hand Paula Gantry leaned over and patted a bare arm. "Call 
it a dummy run, Miss Cortland." 

"I feel an absolute fool." 

Paula nodded and said, equably: "Of. course. Why not. But it doesn't matter. 
Don't worry." 

"I was so damn sure of myself." Joyce was remembering the Naiads. 

"If you were not who you are, a woman of considerable eminence, you might 
not be going home." Paula Gantry admitted soberly. "We make most of 'em 
sweat it out. As I said, it's the old Army game. Makes good soldiers." 

"Now I'll never make corporal, let alone sergeant." 

"Good heavens, Miss Cortland, you're already a general and an admiral 
combined. You've got the world by the tail." Paula Gantry's shrewd eyes 
became compassionate. "I realise something's troubling you. But are you sure 
the answer's in Desmond House?" 

"I'm not sure of anything." 

"You're naked and hurt and disappointed. Look, Miss Cortland, if you want a 
real adventure let me sell you." Joyce Cortland groped her way through a 
stunned silence. "You mean that, don't you, you're not joking." 

"I'm not joking. The idea is entirely practical. You know perfectly well 
what goes on in Desmond House. You even tried to buy us." 

"I have to be insane to even consider the notion, but you intrigue me, Mrs. 
Gantry. Are you selling my life or only a month of it?" 

"A purchase is for life. But I've no doubt that Cortlands and ourselves 
possess enough clout to reverse the transaction should that seem desirable." 

"But surely I'd be held incommunicado?" 

"In theory. We would cope." 

Aware of two speculative pairs of eyes, Joyce Cortland took possession of 
her errant thoughts. She was reacting like an adolescent. "This is absurd. 
Forgive me. I'm being ridiculous." 

"No you're not." Linda's reassurance was warmly emphatic. "Paula's asking 
you to examine a human association unique in this age." 

"You'd make discoveries about yourself, dear." 

"But I'd be a slave! I'd be whipped and abused and and." 

"It might not be a man who buys you. It could be a woman. We had a case not 
long ago where a man bought a girl to amuse his daughter." 

Joyce knew guilt. The conversation was making heat flare within her loins, 
and she was doing nothing to stop it. She was, instead, enchanted by Arabian 
Nights visions in which she was delivered, tastefully chained, to a 
beautiful girl. 

"Lorinda is owned by a man. He leaves her with us about half the time while 
he's away. Lorinda is a slave. She was bought and paid for in this house." 

"The girl... that lovely girl I came to whip...?" 

"Yes. Lorinda's a darling." 

"That means I'd be whipped too." 

"So what! D'you expect the meat without the gravy?" 

"Nnnnnno, I didn't think I did. But after that cell...!" 

"Good thing Marigold cuffed you in there." 

"I suppose it was." Joyce viewed their kind regard in desolation. "I'm so 
terribly sorry." 

"Come along." Linda said briskly. "I'U fix you up with everything in my own 
room. Clothes affect a girl's reactions." 

"You're always welcome to visit, y'know, Miss Cortland." Paula's invitation 
was genuinely warm. "Us females get amazingly human over Tea" Joyce let 
herself be kissed. 

 CHAPTER FOUR - JOYCE CORTLAND 

It's all my own fault, every bit of it. Or maybe Dwight Willard's with his 
nonsense about my glands or maybe it is my glands! Oh, damn! 

I've made an absolute idiot of myself. 

These lovely bits of femininity are all assessing me, mostly with pity. I'm 
not the oldest of them. There's a voluptuous creature--Ripe! I notice her 
chains are heavier than those we other girls wear on our ankles and wrists 
not that our's are exactly featherweight. 

I suppose I've let Cortland's age me-mentally! I took to it like a fish to 
water, but probably that was because of daddy. Everyone seems suddenly to 
have discovered I'm only twenty-nine. Including me! 

"You don't look as though you belong." Says the pert brunette with the 
pageboy hair. 

"Wait 'till they've whipped you." Consoles the intelligent redhead. "It's 
like getting the keys to the City." 

"How come you rate a scarf to cover your cunt...?" The scarf is a sweetness 
of Linda's, knotted over my bare hip. "It's not much, dear, and you may not 
get to keep it " She had looked at me and listened to me with such 
understanding there in her bedroom as we sorted clothes in which I was to 
return to normal. When I blurted it out she had simply said: "Yes, I knew it 
was coming. So did Paula." 

"Then why?" 

"You have to do it yourself, darling." 

"I'm scared to ask any more. I'm such a coward." I dropped the bra' back on 
her bed. "But put me with the rest and treat me like the rest. Is it very 
bad?" 

"They think so. Poor dears! For the first couple of days they're in shock." 

"They've actually been kidnapped to to to -?" 

"To maintain your inventory. Yes. You'll miss that initial shock stage. 
You'll probably enjoy the girls." 

At that moment I wasn't thinking of enjoyment. I was concerned with saving 
face. I was smarting under the debacle of the cell and my sudden realisation 
I couldn't go back to my office, I just couldn't! "You really do understand 
about Cortlands...?" I implored. 

"Of course. If I were you, I couldn't face it. Paula's probably hit on a 
happy compromise." She kissed me and gave me a hug. "You're going to be a 
woman, darling." 

I had taken off what I'd put on. And that was that! "You'll be whipped 
later, or maybe tomorrow." A friendly young voice explained. She giggled. 
"They insist it isn't an initiation. It's supposed to help us be obedient 
and to make us take things seriously. Sort of like saying you're a slave and 
you'd better believe it." 

They all have whip marks in varying stages of fading. But some have fresh 
marks and old marks and intermediate marks well mixed. I suppose they have 
misbehaved. I try and not think of being whipped myself. I have been told it 
is a quaintly ritualistic affair and very painful. 

They are bored and anxious to impart information to a novice. A fresh voice 
says: "You're likely to be here a long time. You won't sell easily with that 
flat chest. Men like great big boobs." 

"Well, you've been here awhile with those huge floppers." The chiding voice 
is tart. "Myself, I think the bastards like 'em firm." 

She is a medium bra', probably a "D" with a "B" cup, most eminently 
saleable. Her whipmarks are fresh. I think how nice it would be to buy her 
myself and cane some of the conceit out of her bottom, I am becoming 
reconciled to these, increasingly frequent, flights of erotic fancy. They 
are not of Cortlands. But neither am I! Not now. 

There are seven of us, all naked except for my scarf. Six white, one Hindu 
named Nuala. Nuala is charming and highly educated. She talks of the London 
School of economics and the decline of trade between our countries. When I 
speak of her whipmarks she responds warmly: "Yes, aren't they lovely! They 
were really very decent about whipping me, y'know. So careful not to cut my 
skin." She is the least affected of us all by what has happened. 

We inhabit a huge room. Its only furnishings are cushions, all sorts and 
sizes of cushions on which we recline. At night we drape ourselves over them 
to sleep: what need have we of beds or bedrooms! The door leads to a vast 
bathroom, a feminine delight. There is a lot of window without much view. It 
is heavily barred. 

A girl tells me we are variously attended and kept beautiful by Linda and 
Marigold, sometimes Paula Gantry. They carry a whip which is the arbiter of 
arguments and is used savagely if we all crowd too close for their safety. 
True, we are chained, but we are not entirely helpless. Our shackles are 
inspected. If our skin is chafed we get a tighter set. 

I am told of the purchasers. Most are male. Their advent is sporadic and 
they follow no pattern. The girls take delight in male embarrassment as so 
many female eyes assess their masculinity as the merchandise stands in line 
and at attention with their hands clasped behind their necks and breasts 
protrusive. Anything less than a shining eyed demonstration of desire to be 
sold to that particular client is later punished. I am sure I will be 
punished, I like men less and less. 

I am continually teased about my impending whipping. It makes it hard for me 
to blot the punishment from my mind. They do not mean to be unkind, but they 
are bored. I gather they get to watch my shame and hear my cries. The event 
holds drama. In my turn I will get to watch others similarly conditioned. 

We are conditioned. That is the word. We are pets: kittens groomed and fed 
and watered to satisfy an ego someone else's, not our's! We are compliant 
female packages of breasts, nipples, pubic hair, vulvas and bottoms. I am 
told there are other portions of our persons also highly esteemed. In fact, 
there is no part of us without erotic lure to someone. It is hard not to 
feel flattered, complacent and conceited about being a girl. The word 'Girl' 
takes on a new significance. Properly trained and groomed we acquire magic. 
We also become amazingly expensive. 

In all this barrage of helpful hints and teasing innuendo I manage brief 
speculations on my sale. Will it even happen! If it does happen how will I 
feel when being bound for transit to my slavery. In honesty I must concede 
an outrageous excitation from these visions. I am ashamed of a nagging fear 
I may fail to please and will remain as part of the inventory. That's a 
purely feminine attitude damn!! 

My time has at last come. I am glad. When I have been given my pain I will 
be one of the girls instead of an interesting novice who is going to be 
whipped. Six chained maidens align themselves against a wall to watch my 
wrists strapped to a bar which is then raised to stand me on my toes. My 
hands are high and well apart. Linda removes my scarf and there is comment 
on the luxuriance of my pubic hair. I am trembling and have never felt more 
naked. 

I blush as the company arrives. I had not known. There are members of the 
staff, some male. The butler and, I suspect, the gardener. There are girls 
in handcuffs, Lorinda is one of them. There are no greetings. I lock glances 
here and there but must deduce there will be no familiarities. After all, I 
am only a slavegirl about to be whipped! Paula bustles in last of all and 
wastes no time: "Carry on, Linda dear. The usual twenty, medium hard." 

I take a deep breath. The lash catches me in the middle of the inhalation so 
that I choke and gasp in the shock of the worst pain I had ever known. Linda 
had spanned my bare shoulders with her thong. Recapturing my breath, I made 
a practical request. 

"Please may I be gagged. I'm afraid I'm going to scream?" 

"You will not be gagged, dear." Paula says comfortably. "You may scream as 
much as you like." 

Idiotically that means, to me, I must not scream at all. I mustn't, Mustn't, 
mustn't!!!! To have all these people watch and hear me scream is a shame I 
cannot bear, worse than the whip itself. I clench my teeth. 

The whip curls round my bottom with a snapping thunk. I cannot describe the 
agony, it was just too much! I did not scream but my foot kicked and kicked 
in mute protest. A girl tittered. I planted my toes as firmly as I could 
upon the floor. 

The not screaming is the worst. I am punishing myself as Linda whips me 
slowly with care and precision from my knees to my neck. I am forever 
unprepared for the new place where the leather will plant its weal. After 
the eleventh stroke I damn my sorry fate and scream to the content of my 
scalded flesh. After several screams I condemn my stupidity in not having 
screamed before. Screams are a relief and a retaliation. I also contort 
wildly against my bonds. Let 'em look, damn 'em! I no longer care. 

Thus are slavegirls conditioned. 

By the time the twenty strokes have marked me I am prepared to concede 
logic. 

Nothing is said. Everyone leaves, even Linda and her whip. I remain strapped 
on my toes. Deeply thankful it is over. 

"We have permission to leave you like that as long as we wish." 

My chained companions leave the wall and examine my wounds. The marks on my 
skin are professionally discussed. It appears I have been very well whipped 
indeed. Absurdly, I flush with pride. But I would like to be freed of 
stress, and tell them so. 

"Poor darling, she wants to be let loose." 

"Well, who in hell wants to stand like that all day!" 

They discuss the pros and cons of my release. I deduce it can be long 
delayed if the girl is in disfavor with her peers. But I have not been in 
the slave pen long enough to make enemies. Laughingly, they make me stand 
ten minutes for their amusement while their hands play with my body and make 
me gasp and wince. Then a button on the wall is pressed and the bar lowers. 
When my wrists are unstrapped they raise it again and my whipping is 
officially over. But, damn them, they have lit my fire. 

"Sorry, sweetheart, we have to put your chains back on." 

"If we don't we'll all be whipped." 

My lovely shackles had been unlocked for my punishment. Now, without much 
caring, I extend my limbs and watch the metal bands possess me once again. I 
can guess these small latitudes of authority are granted the girls as a 
relief from ennui. Perhaps I too will soon be grateful. 

After a couple of days my weals are no longer wincingly tender. They have 
become marks I must wear with pride or shame according to my nature. I 
realise that, strangely, my whipping did not frighten me as much as had the 
cell and the twin handcuffs. Pain needs company. If another captive girl had 
been cuffed with me in that awful cell I would have been O.K. 

I have been prodded and probed by prospective customers who did not realise 
how close they came to getting a good hard slap across their silly faces. I 
am told the punishment for such a natural reaction to insult is horrendous. 
Perhaps the knowledge stayed my hand. But my antipathy to the Male grows. I 
have to admit to myself that all along I have been hoping that if I am sold 
at all it will be to a woman. I find myself wanting a girl, quite young...! 
Of course I am thinking of the Naiads. The Sheik Haarami did more to me that 
afternoon then he may ever know. 

I have not spoken to the girls of my peculiar association with Desmond 
House. I would like to confess. But it would set me apart and make me 
suspect. I do not want to be alone. Our jailers make no sign, and I find 
their aloofness a loss. I can understand Lorinda's adoration of the girl she 
calls Mistress. I could love Linda too. But intimacies are impractical 
unless I earned a punishment and was taken from this room to receive it. I 
find myself toying with such absurdities. But now I am no longer ashamed of 
them. 

The girls confide. They have been kidnapped with frightening facility. I am 
astonished there are any girls left out there free at all. They have been 
"acquired" in tea rooms, bars, public parks and a cinema. One was taken from 
her flat. It appears that all the kidnapper needs is a bit of experience, a 
lot of gall and a bottle of chloroform. Oh, and a few bits of cord or 
handcuffs in case she regains consciousness sooner than desired. 

We are surprisingly passive in this captivity. All the girls recognize the 
potency of being initially whipped. It has changed us all. We discuss our 
reactions and find them similar: we do not wish to be whipped again. We 
cannot escape so we behave. Being chained affects us too. It is a constant 
emphasis. If we wore no chains we still could not escape, the slave pen 
would hold us. But having them locked upon us inhibits the movement of our 
limbs enough to forbid revolt. We can take only small steps and our hands 
are separate by only three links. 

It is my third day, and I am in trouble. I slapped the S.O.B. He had his 
finger half way to my womb and then bent and bit my nipple. I slapped him 
hard. I am standing before Paula's desk, awaiting my sentence, but I am 
still not sorry. Paula is irritated. Linda, who has brought me here looks 
forlornly perplexed. 

"Dammit, girl, you're boxed us all in. Don't you see?" Paula frowns at me 
across the desk. "The other girls saw you. You have to be punished. We can't 
forgive and forget." 

"I'm sorry." I said dismally. "But I'm afraid I'd do the same thing again. 
He was an animal." 

"Well, yes... If only it had been in private I could have told him he got 
what he asked for. But now...!" 

"We have to make an example of you." Linda mourned. I am still angry, and 
therefore brave. "You must have me whipped again then." I suggest 
tentatively. 

Their sadness deepens. "That's not enough, dear." Paula confides. "Not 
unless we gave you a real flogging, and we're not doing that." 

I stand bereft My chains have been taken from me. My wrists are handcuffed 
behind my back. I am in disgrace. Why oh why could I not have stood still 
and allowed the finger to explore my sheath! Damn! There is much of 
Cortlands in me yet. I suspect it is about to be expunged. 

"We have to do something to you they can witness." Linda says dolefully. She 
looks at Paula in sudden inspiration. "Suppose we sit the poor dear on The 
Horse and have the girls file by? If we time it right she'd only have to 
endure it for ten minutes?" 

They look at me brightly, and tell me about The Horse. 

For them it seems an obvious solution. I am thinking of the ten minutes. But 
I have made a contract. I tell them, yes, I think it's a wonderful idea. 

It seems a lot of bother to go to just to punish me. But there is a special 
room in which I will endure my pain, a nice light airy room in which my 
penance may be well examined. My hands are to remain cuffed behind my back. 
There are tight leather anklets for my feet. I stand nakedly astride the 
unfriendly edge on which I am to sit. 

"I'll go and get the girls." Says Paula. 

"I'll cinch her down when I hear their chains." Linda is busy with rope. 

I feel foolish standing there. The young Mistress and I look at each other 
woefully, then laugh. It is all too absurd. 

"Half a day of this is pretty bad." Linda confides. "Even an hour. We're 
going to tell the girls you're sitting there for the day, and they'd better 
mind their P's and Q's. Make all the fuss you like while they're here. The 
more the better." 

"Wouldn't the flogging be a lot simpler?" I ask hopefully. I do not like the 
look of what is about to happen to me. 

"Don't be silly. You're just frightened." 

I am indeed. But at the first sound of clinking chains I have other things 
to occupy my mind. Linda tugs on ropes and kicks away the box beneath my 
feet. I am sitting on a hard brutal edge of wood. I am certain it penetrates 
my naked unprotected loins. The pain is brand new and cringingly unbearable. 
While Linda tightens my ankle ropes out to either side I gaspingly assure 
her I cannot bear it, that it is not possible to bear such agony. At that 
moment the ten minutes might as well be ten centuries. 

When the girls enter I am well anchored. I cannot move. I do not want to 
move, it hurts too much. I am making shameful sounds such as I have never 
made or ever heard. I hear myself pleading for forgiveness as though the 
voice was someone else. 

If I was not astride the Horse I might be amused. Paula had the girls in a 
coffle. Each is collared. The collars are linked by a yard of chain so they 
must walk in file. The effect is delightful. They are unconcerned with the 
metal they must carry, their eyes are for me. None are amused. They view my 
torture in dismay. Each is thinking it could happen to her and probably 
will. They look cringingly at the cleft of my sundered thighs and distorted 
sex. 

"Pay attention to her." Paula admonishes. "If she'd had any sense she 
wouldn't be sitting there for the day." 

They shudder at my sentence, but their gaze is avidly curious. My punishment 
is well absorbed. In their mind they see themselves as I am now, and they 
wonder. One of the younger one's weeps in sympathy -or is it fear! They 
trail their chained procession past me on one side and then back on the 
other. I make my shaming sounds and meet no eyes. I want them gone. When 
they clatter their way out the door I know a great thankfulness. I am alone 
with Linda. 

Linda stands on the box and kisses me. "I'll have you loose in a jiffy, 
darling." She leaps to one of my taut ropes. 

It is a long jiffy. A disturbed Marigold appears in the doorway and beckons 
urgently. Perplexed, Linda gives me a glance of apology and goes with her 
down the passage. I am now entirely on my own. The sharp edge on which I sit 
burrows deep within me. I moan in desuetude. 

A minute? Two? I realise that in this predicament time is magnified. Any 
measurement of it is too damn slow. I yearn most urgently to get my pussy 
off this hateful edge. I cannot be forgotten, I cannot! Linda will be back 
to release me at any moment. But in the meantime I sit and hurt. I hurt, 
hurt, hurt abominably and outrageously. Even when alone I still make my 
mortifying sounds of pain, my breathing is laboured. 

No one comes. 

I weep. It is too, too cruel to leave me thus. This is an ancient torture 
designed for men. In this age no nude girl should have to endure it. I 
wonder dismally how long I can endure it without fainting. But even if I 
lose consciousness I will not fall off this beastly perch. The taut ropes 
will hold me here. 

Something is wrong. There has to be. This is not funny. Neither Paula or 
Linda would do this to me unless there was trouble. Panic clutches at my 
mind. Suppose, suppose, suppose...! I envision horrors. Suppose I am left to 
sit like this for hours or days! Panic prompts me enough to make me 
struggle. But, moaning with the fresh agony, I soon stop that. I can never 
free myself never! My handcuffs mock my wrists and grow tighter. 

"Well, well, and what have we here!" 

The voice is female. It evokes memories. I turn in joy to my rescuer. Then I 
freeze and wish to die. 

"Good heavens, Joyce! Are you imitating a chicken on a roost?" Lady 
Constance Taunton's laughter pealed delightedly. "You look absurd." 

I know I look absurd! I am also mantled in shame and a dishonour I will 
never live down. Desolately, I mutter: "How did you get here? Let me loose. 
Oh, Connie, quick! Untie me!" 

Lady Constance is delighted. She is London's best dressed, most beautiful... 
richest... and most cruel...! 

I can hear her sparkling account to a breathless coterie: "And there she 
was, my dears, naked as an egg and sitting on this sharp edge..." To me, she 
remarks brightly: "I bet you've been a naughty girl?" 

I could scream. Of all possible rescuers, Lady Constance Taunton is the last 
I would choose. Instinctively I realise she will not rescue me at all. I am 
a fortuitous amusement she will savour to the full. I swallow my pathos and 
ask, huskily: "Have you seen Mrs. Gantry?" 

"She's around somewhere. Left me sitting in her office, so I decided to 
explore. Damn glad I did. This is priceless." 

"Please try and find her, Connie. Quickly!" 

"Oh, she'll show up. Bound to. I say, darling, I really like that ensemble 
you're in. Damned original." 

"Please untie me." 

"Couldn't possibly do that. Bad form, y'know! I'm a visitor." 

"But I'm in the most awful agony!" 

"I'm so happy for you, dear." 

"I I'm not one of those. This isn't what you think "No...? Isn't it...?" 
Connie is avidly intrigued. 

I am trapped. The reality is worse than her guess. Frustration and 
disappointment vie with my pain. I don't know how to deal with this lovely 
creature. I start to cry. 

Lady Constance examines my tears with intent pleasure. "I'd never have 
guessed you knew how to cry." She says slowly. "Wouldn't this knock 'em for 
six at Cortlands." 

"Please, please..." I am blubbering like a child. 

"Please what, darling?" 

"Please let me loose. Please find Mrs. Gantry-- anything!" 

"I'll take the anything, dear, and just visit. I haven't had near enough of 
this yet." 

She circles like a stalking cat, examining my torture from every angle. 
"Can't possibly get loose, can you?" 

"No. Oh, Connie, please help me." 

"Let's hope it doesn't permanently dent your cunt, darling. Not that you use 
it much Do you?" 

"Oh Connie! Constance, can't you be a little kind?" 

"I am being kind. I'm not spoiling your fun. If I untied those ropes you'd 
hate me afterwards. Besides, you'd fall off and hurt yourself. And I don't 
have a key to those handcuffs... I think they're darling." 

If she really understood I think she might help. But I can never make her 
understand. I dare not try. I don't want her to know. So I must sit here and 
be mocked. I shed more tears and moan. It seems, to Constance, I have 
nothing to say, "Are they arranging for a man to come and see you like 
this?" Her query reflects a glowing interest. "I think that would be the 
real killer, f know I'd shrivel up." She consults her watch. "How long are 
you on there for? Is there time for me to phone Dwight?" 

I moan in a double anguish and shake my head in negation. 

"That gets to you, darling." She surveys my tortured face and figure in 
curiosity. "I must say, whatever treatment they're giving you here is 
certainly making you more interesting. You're more alive than you ever were 
at Cortlands. I do suggest you keep it up." 

"Oh, Constance...!" 

"Stripped off you'd interest a man. You even interest me." She chuckled. 
"I'm London's leading Lesbian, y'know Or didn't you know?" 

"Please get Paula." 

"Without that stuffy tailoring even your features have improved. And your 
figure...! Dammit, no one would have realised. No belly and a lovely 
bottom...! Not much in the way of breasts and nipples, but there's men who 
like us that way. I'm sort of partial to a boyish shape myself. 

Conversational Constance! I know her of old. She is capable of keeping me in 
torture forever while she natters. And the way she looks at me...! I am a 
goldmine of interest. We never admired each other much so I have only a 
small hope of mercy at her hands. Right now she examines my sundered sex 
with intent interest, secretly enjoying her ascendancy over Cortland's Chief 
Executive. "I should have a camera, darling. Think how your office would 
enjoy a picture. I wonder if Mrs. Gantry-?" 

I curl up inside. Of all the bad luck...! Constance can shatter the whole 
fabric of what I am trying to do. I am saved from saying something pathetic 
by the re-appearance of Linda. 

"I'm terribly sorry!" She beholds my visitor. "Lady Taunton!" The darling's 
voice is shocked. "We've been looking everywhere...!" 

"Oh, I'm quite happy. Joyce and I are old friends. We're just chatting." 

She is chatting. I am not. With a cry of distress, Linda reaches for my 
ropes, her voice guilty: "Poor darling, all this pain, and for so long...! I 
couldn't help " 

"Leave her alone, Linda. I'm rather enjoying this." Connie is suddenly Lady 
Constance. "A lovely case of 'how are the mighty fallen!', don't you think, 
dear." 

"But she's suffering terribly, and we promised- " 

"Do her a world of good. She and Cortland's were frightfully stuffy. A day 
with her cunt on that edge will loosen her up." Constance turns to me. "Tell 
her to leave you there, darling. The damn girl's officious." 

Connie still does not understand I am not a masochist. And, anyway, she is 
enjoying my plight. Linda again reaches for a knot and is sternly rebuked. 

"Dammit, girl, you know who I am. D'you want a thrashing? Leave Miss 
Cortland sitting as she is. I'll make it right with Mrs. Gantry." 

"Someone call me?" Paula enters frowning. "Lady Taunton...! What on 
Earth...?" 

"Just got bored. Glad I did, actually. Wouldn't have missed this for 
worlds." 

"Linda, hurry! Get Miss Cortland off that thing." 

"Dammit, no!" Constance has no mercy for me. "I want her left--" 

"This is a matter that does not concern you, M'Lady." Paula has become a 
very firm Mrs. Gantry. "Miss Cortland is long overdue for release. Here, 
Linda, I'll give you a hand." 

I am sobbing with relief and hysteria as the two of them literally lift me 
up and away from the cruelty within my cleft. They stand me erect and 
support me until I am stable. 

I am kissed. For a few moments the pain is worse, but then subsides. I do 
not look at the place where I was punished. I do not want to see. 

"Is this old Home week?" Constance is contemptuous. No one answers. I do not 
care if I never speak to her again. My jailers comfort me but do not unlock 
my handcuffs. My hands stay behind my back. I do not care. I am still 
panting from the pain. 

"I came here to buy a girl." Lady Constance sounds aggrieved. "Get rid of 
this weeping creature and show me your stock." 

"We're taking her back there. We can all go together " Linda suddenly 
remembers. She looks to Paula for guidance. "Ooops! I forgot. Miss Cortland 
can't go back with the girls yet. Shall I put her in a cell?" 

Damage has been done. Constance pounces. "You mean you keep this forlorn 
female in with your inventory?" 

"Yes. For reasons of our own." 

"I bet you've got reasons! The silly bitch has put herself up for sale, 
hasn't she." 

"Well, in a sense " 

"Holy cow! Cortlands gone broke?" 

"Please, Lady Taunton, you are embarrassing us all" 

"Good! I'll buy her." 

I quail, trembling inside. Paula seeks a diversion. 

"Linda dear, pop Miss Cortland in a cell somewhere, perhaps with another 
girl. Leave her handcuffed. I will take Lady Taunton to the girl's lounge." 

"No you don't!" Connie has scented blood. "Am I or am I not an honoured 
client?" 

"Of course you are, M'Lady. But " 

"No but's! I have formally offered to purchase one of your inventory." 

"But there are unusual circumstances!" Paula is fighting hard for me. "I do 
wish, Lady Taunton, you'd allow me to show you our girls. Today there is a 
delightful selection." 

"I've made my selection. I'll take her home in the boot of my car. We'll tie 
her in a bundle gagged." 

I am lost. I see it in their eyes. The hell of it is that Lady Constance 
will seem made to order for me. I suppose, in a way, she is. She will save 
me from men. But we know each other too well. It is like being purchased by 
an aunt of my own age. I don't suppose she's more than five years older than 
myself. Paula and Linda look at me, diffident and uncertain. It is only kind 
that I relieve them of distress. It is the decent thing to do. 

"If Lady Constance wishes to buy me, I expect she's entitled to." I offer 
bravely. "This is Desmond House, and we'll all understand." 

"Well, that's better." Connie is mollified and looks at me with favour. From 
the others I receive gratitude and love. I can tell. 

Paula kisses me. "Very well." She says firmly. "Linda, take Miss Cortland 
and arrange her as Lady Constance has described: you can drive her car into 
our garage for privacy. Come, Lady Taunton, we will go to my office." She 
does not look at me again. 

In the garage Linda shares my tears. She is very sweet. We assure each other 
my slavery will be of short duration something will be contrived. But there 
is a daunting air of finality about what she must now do. We both feel sure 
our parting is forever but we do not say so. I stand very still as she binds 
my elbows, not too cruelly. My wrists stay as they are. Connie gets a free 
pair of handcuffs. My hands and their cuffs are roped by bands round my 
tummy. I am delightfully helpless. Linda provides a box and a helping hand 
for me to climb into the boot. I sit, huddled and unhappy while Linda binds 
my ankles and my knees. Then my knees are pushed up under my chin and tied 
there with a rope round my shoulders. I cannot move at all. I am truly a 
package. When Constance slams the lid, after tightening my gag an extra 
hole, I think longingly of Cortlands. 

It is typical of Lady Constance Taunton that, on arrival, she opens the boot 
and positively gloats. I suppose she is entitled to. I have cost a lot of 
money and am now her property. I am sure it is a very satisfying feeling. If 
I'd had any sense I'd have accepted Haarami's offer and would now have Wendy 
or one of the Naiads sweetly chained in my own home. Instead, I am dusty, 
untidy and hurting in the back of Connie's car. 

"You look too, too pathetic, dear." 

I am tightly gagged. All I can do is shake my head. 

"I've a few things to do, darling. I'm sure you'll be happy in there." 

I am not happy in here, and she knows it. But she does not slam the lid. I 
sit here, bent and huddled and bound, with the jack and the spare tire and a 
smell of petrol. If I was ever rude to Connie she is getting her revenge. 

I struggle against the brutal ropes. What a victory it would be if I could 
get free, grab a covering and run. But I remember the handcuffs. Even if I 
defeated the bindings I could not defeat them. And anyway, I can scarcely 
twitch so what's the use! Linda is a good girl. She has rendered unto 
Caesar...! I am superbly bound. 

My gag remains in my mouth while I am untied. Connie evidently does not wish 
to hear anything I have to say. When my restraints are reduced to the rubber 
ball and the handcuffs on my wrists, Connie says brightly: "You can climb 
out of there yourself, Joyce. A big strong girl...!" The bitch! She stands 
and adores my struggles. Getting out of a luggage compartment when you're 
naked and your hands are cuffed behind your back is not easy. I am sure some 
of my contortions are obscene. She lends no helping hand when I slip back 
and hurt my bare skin. When I finally get over the hump and stand before my 
new Mistress I am dusty and untidy and scratched. I am grubby beside her 
femininity. 

She lives in splendor in an ancient Manor of mellow stone. She takes me to 
her room and shows me the massive four poster with the rings by which I can 
be fastened as an erotic enhancement of her slumber. She gives me a shower, 
doing with her own hands that I cannot do with mine. She then removes my gag 
and I say a polite 'thank you.' "That all you've got to say." Connie is 
petulant from her labor. "I might as well buckle it back in." 

"No. Oh, please Connie, I'm just waiting for you." 

"Hmmmmm...!" She eyes me with pride. "You're a beauty, in your way, y'know. 
I'm considering whether to make you a lady's maid or keep you chained in a 
tower room where I can go and be unkind to you as the mood takes me." 

I do not want to be her maid. Our backgrounds are all wrong for it. We would 
grate on each other and I would be forever punished. Cautiously, I feel my 
way. "Constance, do you want me to call you Mistress?" 

"Yes, I like it." 

"Mistress, have you done this before? How did you know about Desmond House?" 

Connie has a delightful laugh, pure silver. "Everybody who's anybody knows 
about Desmond House, you idiot. And yes, I've bought girls there before. I 
won't tell you what I've done with them. But there's one still in a dungeon 
down below. I keep her chained there because I'm spiteful and a bit of a 
bitch and all the things you're thinking about me. Watch out you don't join 
the poor girl." 

My future is bleak. Connie is wise to keep my hands behind my back. 
"Mistress, if I am to be your maid, what of my hands?" 

"Handcuffed in front. Your ankles chained so you can only take short steps." 

She has it down pat. Connie will never let me escape. I try and speak 
naturally as I might have done with her in the life I have lost. 

"Mistress, how must I talk? My attitudes...? I don't want to sound like a 
puppet... But we're so much the same, our backgrounds? We both come from 
wealth and authority...?" 

"That's why I purchased you, you delicious executive. Every time I whip you 
I'll picture Cortlands watching in a state of shock." 

So I am to be whipped for her amusement. Well, what else could I expect! 
"But, Mistress, wouldn't you be happier with one of those frightened girls 
who've been kidnapped and who would hold you in awe?" I ask hopefully. 

"Don't be silly, Joyce. I'll adore humiliating you. When I think of what you 
were I'll get about ten times the erotic impact I'd get from a frightened 
popsie." 

"Do you want companionship from me, or am I just a whipping girl?" 

"We'll strike a balance, darling. Don't fret." Constance goes to a drawer 
and produces cord. "I want you in a little pain, Joyce. Turn round." 

I turn and stand while she binds my elbows tight together. This time there 
is none of Linda's humanity I cringe with the pinch and scorch as my elbows 
are clamped tight and cinched with only a single strand so that I will hurt 
the more. 

"There! That feel better, darling?" 

"Yes, Mistress." 

I want to shed tears. The bite of that single cord deep in my flesh is the 
sort of pain against which a girl has no defense. I glimpse our 
communication as a perpetual repartee. 

"I'll try and keep you in a little pain always, Joyce. You'll find it 
terribly helpful in adjusting and keeping alert in your new status." 

"Thank you, Mistress." I could murder her! 

"You look charming, and so douce. With your elbows like that you almost have 
breasts." 

"Mistress, would it-help? I mean, if I gave you my parole?" 

"Don't be naive, darling. I think you'd honour it. Hell, I'd lose all the 
fun of having you the way you are right now. Don't you realise, seeing you 
hurting and helpless burns a fire in my puss. By the way, how's yours?" 

I don't want her feeling. I know how mine is! "It's wet too, Mistress." I 
admit with shame. 

"Good gosh, you're human! Y'know, Joyce that parole thing. If I accepted it 
and then levied a really terrible penalty for infraction-something like a 
hundred lashes...?" She tinkles laughter. "Poor darling... Don't you 
realise, you'd be in an agony of indecision all the time, especially if I 
left doors open and I would!" 

Connie is right. A slave cannot win. Even her own temperament is stacked 
against her. How absurd to be grateful for chains! "I would like to try it, 
Mistress." I say without hope. "This agony with my elbows is hard to bear." 

"But you are bearing it. You will always bear it, Joyce. You'll shed a few 
tears and I'll enjoy them. It's beautiful." Oh, how I hate myself! I say my 
"Yes, Mistress." and hope it sounds sincere. 

As though we were two rational beings, Constance and I discuss how best to 
humiliate me and bring me low. I must be shamed and mortified. She wishes to 
hear the tremors in my voice as I say the things I did not want to say, and 
to behold the reluctance of my flesh as I yield it for pain. She decides, as 
a commencement to my thralldom, to try me out in the duties of a lady's 
maid. She explains that undoubtedly I will botch the job, thus justifying 
the whipping she is aching to give me. She wants the justification. It adds 
to the thrill. Lady Constance is blandly honest in her disclosure of intent. 
I think, longingly, of my office. 

First, the linkage on my ankles. Click, click and clink. I take a step and 
am snubbed short. The gleaming shackle denies escape, I could not even 
struggle successfully. 

"I'd like to leave this on you." Connie admits regretfully as she peels the 
cord from my elbows. "But never mind, I'll think of something." 

There is an interesting moment when she unlocks one of my wrists and I have 
the use of my hands. We look at each other, a look loaded with terrible 
understanding. Hating myself for what I have made of Me, I extend both hands 
and watch my Mistress circle my wrist with chrome. 

"Before you bathe me you may as well perform your basic service, darling. 
We're both hot. You can go on wanting but I'm not going to." 

I wonder if Constance is really as cruel as she likes to think. She is so 
breathlessly lovely! I watch her dispose herself upon the bed. When she 
signals with her eyes I take little mincing steps, small linked paces of 
shame, and go to where I will give Constance my first homage with my tongue. 
I have no thought of rebellion and am ashamed. 

"I have lovely whips and crops, darling, so be sure and be a good little 
girl." 

I am more helpless than expected. My feet give me a message of caution with 
every step. The handcuffs gleam laughter as they rob me of my arms. My mind 
is captured by obedience. I sink submissively to my knees and seek the 
silken fronds of pubic hair. 

I give satisfaction. Constance is surprised. But she does not know of the 
Naiads, or of Lorinda, or of the girls in the slave pen. I am grateful to 
all of them. I am not whipped. But the bathing of this redolent beauty is 
less easy. 

"I'll make some allowances for the handcuffs, Joyce. But don't push your 
luck." 

I hate the handcuffs instantly. Leaning forward and having to use both hands 
as one is tiring and awkward. The extra hand does not help, it hinders. It 
follows the compulsion of the steel obediently but is forever in the way. I 
marvel in the joy I never felt when, long ago, I had both my hands and used 
them as I pleased. 

"I'll debit you with stripes as you earn them, darling. You'll collect them 
later." 

"Constance, honestly, I will try. Please don't be cruel. I'm going to try 
and please you. I want to." 

She is amused. "You want to because you love me or because you don't want to 
be shipped?" 

"Oh, Connie, that's a loaded question!" I ply the sponge assiduously. "I 
guess I don't want to be whipped." 

"One stroke for a wrong attitude, darling, and another for forgetting what 
to call me." 

Damn and double damn! But this is what it's going to be forever all the rest 
of my life... unless Paula...? Petulantly I say no thanks, but I lave the 
lovely skin with care and tenderness. 

"Give my cunt a good soaping, slavegirl, don't be afraid of it." 

Constance loves that beastly word. I expect I will hear a lot of it. I apply 
my hands to the most shocking familiarity with her sex. She coos with 
pleasure as my handcuffs clink their mockery. 

My enraptured Mistress allots me another stroke because she says my handcuff 
scratched her nipple. I can see no mark but express thanks for my punishment 
to come. I collect another stripe for the same offence when I wash her other 
breast. I am without guilt, but am being provoked by her mischievous desire 
to test my submission. 

The hair of Lady Constance Taunton nets me four more. It is alive with 
hazards for a handcuffed coiffeuse. She metes them out with such relish I am 
close to tears, tears of vexation that she can use me thus. Constantly I 
trip against the short tether between my feet. 

"Only eight strokes, darling. I'd say you did remarkably well." 

"Constance ! Oh, damn! Sorry, that makes it nine " I stumble out my self 
sentence as fast as I can. I start afresh: "Mistress, I'm no good at this. 
It's against everything I've ever done. I'll never be any good at it." 

"Yes you will, dear If I whip you enough." 

I am sure Connie is right. I gaze at her bleakly. She smiles at me with what 
might pass as love. I plead weakly: "I don't want to be whipped. Please... I 
don't want to be whipped." 

"Of course not, dear." Connie's voice is brisk as with a child. "But your 
whippings will do you no end of good. You'll come to recognize this and look 
forward to them." 

"I won't! I won't...!" 

Her voice softens. "I can whip you in ways and places you'll come to love. 
Give me time and I'll have you pleading for it." 

"No... oh, no...!" 

"But this time, of course, it's just going to hurt. I'm going to make it 
hurt terribly." 

I stand in misery. I don't want to be polite or subservient or say thank 
you, or anything else. I want to go home. 

"Would you like to have your nine now, darling, and start afresh?" 

"Yes." 

Why did I say that so meekly! I suppose I'm frightened. And what the hell 
else can I say! Connie is waiting to pounce on insubordination. 

"I've got the loveliest room, Joyce..." Hobbled, it takes me a long time to 
reach the loveliest room. On the way, Constance speaks of how she loves 
Taunton and of how I will come to love it too. A servant passes and makes no 
sign. It tells me I am not the first to walk like this through this lovely 
house. When we get to where I am to be whipped, a glance tells me how well 
it is equipped for the pain of girls. 

"There was a torture chamber of sorts, darling. But it was so morbid and 
gloomy. I'll show you sometime." 

"Don't bother " 

"And that makes ten, dear. No sarcasms." 

It is a sort of pedestal, a pillory effect at its top, holes where my hands 
will be held. I lose the handcuffs and, without even thinking of a tussle, 
meekly place my wrists where they must go. Lady Constance lowers the shaped 
timber and my arms are prisoned, stretching forward from my shoulders to 
where my wrists disappear. I can no longer see my hands. I stand straight 
and naked, almost at attention. 

"I always fasten a girl when she has to be whipped, Joyce. It's so 
undignified for the poor dears when they jinx around all over the place." 

"Thank you." I say it carefully. 

"I know you don't mean it, Joyce. I know what you'd love to say. But I do 
adore the way you come out with your sad little acknowledgements. This is 
doing you a world of good, y'know. Cortlands would be a better place if I 
ever set you free." 

My heart leaps. "Oh, Constance, would you? I mean, is there a chance?" I see 
her face cloud, and amend hastily. "I don't mean soon... But when you're 
tired of me?" 

"Can't wait, can you." She sounds bitter. "I'll never give you freedom, 
Joyce. If I ever tire of you I'll put you in the dungeon with that other 
girl. She'd be grateful for company." 

"There'll be a frightful to-do over my disappearance." 

"I'm sure there will be. But they won't look for you here. Just to be mean 
I'll let you read the papers." 

I lapse into hopelessness, but keep a woefully expectant eye upon the woman 
who will whip me. 

"When I've got a girl fastened for her punishment I always think it's nice 
to leave her alone awhile, gives her time to think about the pain to come 
and why she's getting it." 

I can't think of anything to say. 

Lady Constance runs her fingers lovingly over my nakedness. All of me stands 
there waiting. "Such a lot of gorgeous pain when I return, dear. Think about 
it. You can't get loose. And think about the way we used to be: The Chief 
Executive of Cortlands and Lady Constance Taunton. I find the contrast so 
damned piquant. I get the hots just thinking of us." She laughs delightedly. 
"Captivity is doing wonders for you, sweetheart. You're becoming almost 
sexy." 

I stand. This beastly post affair in which I am fastened is designed for 
frustration. It seems impossible I cannot walk away from it but I can't! I 
will stand nakedly and await M'Lady's whim. I realise, wanly, I could stand 
like this for hours...! With Connie laughing. Damn, damn, damn! I tug at my 
wrists. Nothing moves. 

Alone with unhappy thoughts the large bright room becomes more sinister. I 
cannot avoid speculating about the objects and instruments with which I 
will, no doubt, become more familiar. I can almost hear my screams and the 
laughter of Lady Constance. I also speculate about my eleven strokes for 
which I wait, and I wonder if they will be as cruel as Connie promises. I 
decide not to be heroic. Connie can damn well put up with whatever the pain 
makes me do. 

We know too much about each other. This enhances Constance's enjoyment of my 
enforced obedience, but it doubles my humiliations in submission. We see 
ourselves in a constant comparison to what I was. For me, it is shamemaking. 
Lady Constance Taunton is unchanged, except for this dark side of her which 
she has so well hidden. If someone had told me the truth about Connie a 
month ago I would have dismissed it as nonsense. Now it fills my life. I 
would be more frightened being owned by a stranger but much less shamed. 

I think about the girl in the dungeon. How sad and how terrible to be 
chained alone in silence. Shackled in a dungeon there would be no hope at 
all. I have been fastened here for but a very little while and already I am 
abandoning hope and conjuring awful visions. But maybe the girl does not 
exist. She is a creation of Connie's to make me pay attention. Surely 
Constance could not be that cruel! But a vision persists of a naked girl 
fingering her chains in loneliness. I could be me! 

Will Paula wait 'till my novelty wears off and then negotiate my freedom? 
Will she bother? She does not have to. If she told of my plight to Dwight 
Willard I would be out of here in short order. But I am not ready for such a 
devastating shame. Cortlands and I would not survive what the media would do 
to us. The Sheik Haarami would chuckle wisely and pick up the ruins of my 
Empire for a song. By then I might be thankful if he would acquire me too. I 
detect in myself the beginnings of the resignation by which slaves survive. 

There is something else too. It puzzles me. Connie was right in her 
observation, captivity is making me sexual. My mind tends to dwell on those 
parts of me which give pleasure to others. Now, the possession of pubes and 
nipples gives satisfaction to me too. The Naiads started it, and Lorinda, 
and now Constance! When I serviced Constance a little while ago I longed for 
her to love me too. She refused because she wants me excited and responsive 
and yearning. If she put her hand between my legs right now I'd fight these 
stocks in a frenzy of sensation. I am far. far away from Cortlands and my 
office. I wonder if the Sheik Haarami knows of my condition. It would 
delight his old age. 

I love it. Sexuality sustains me. Without these intense fires between my 
legs and in my belly I could not cope with Connie. The whipping I am soon to 
receive would devastate, and these stocks daunt me to hysteria or cringing 
fear. But I stand here with my prisoned wrists and am able to examine myself 
as Connie told me to. Wryly, I perceive something of which I should be 
bitterly ashamed but am not. I want a screaming orgasm. I need to climax all 
these sensations into a vast explosion. I cannot do this myself, I have lost 
my hands. But Connie could do it. I wonder if she will, or if I dare ask? 
But no, if I plead for her tongue or her fingers it is most certain I will 
not be given them. 

And this too is a part of this outrageous Me. To be so utterly in the power 
of a woman. To know only her hands can release me from this post, and that 
it will be her hand also which stripes my skin with a whip for her own 
pleasure. Neither of us makes pretence of believing I am being punished for 
a true delinquency. Connie herself created my misdemeanours. I shiver 
deliciously and wonder how badly the whip will hurt. 

 CHAPTER FIVE - THE LESSONS OF LADY CONSTANCE 

"Miss me, darling?" 

"Terribly, Mistress." 

I am kissed. I am chucked under the chin. From behind a hand insinuates 
itself between my legs and cups my sex. I heave and tug against the post and 
moan outrageously. 

"Wet and wanton. My, my, darling, you've come a long way. And no, I will not 
bring you to climax. You can hope the whip will, sometimes it does." 

Is this really me! This palpitating package of lubricity! I am blushing, and 
try not to meet her laughing eyes. I twist against the stocks and 
unwillingly smile. "I don't understand these reactions." I say grumpily. 
"They're not of my choosing." 

"Don't worry, Joyce. Leave everything to me. Don't you find it comforting no 
decisions." 

I have to leave everything to her. I'm so damn helpless! I watch with much 
interest Connie's selection of the whip which is to mark me eleven times. 
The stocks have become a personal enemy, holding my hands to ensure my 
passive readiness. My Mistress takes a stand well to my rear. I strain, 
apprehensively and awkwardly, to keep track of her. I wish, most 
passionately, not to be whipped. 

"Give your nice little bottom a rest, Joyce. You've got the loveliest back." 

Lady Constance Taunton proceeds to whip my naked back. I no longer look over 
my shoulder, I am concerned only with pain. I lunge away from the whip 
towards the post, but I cannot embrace it. Unless I want to break my wrists 
I have to stand at arm's length, shockingly exposed. Until the fourth stroke 
I manage to keep some control over myself, after that I prance, kick, 
contort, and howl to my heart's content. Constance has not forbidden these 
gymnastics under the whip, so I get what comfort I can. The pain is so great 
and so cunningly spaced I have no concern with shame. 

"I'm making them quite hard, darling. You're so beautiful." 

If that's supposed to be comfort it fails. 

"I'll try and make the last five harder still, Joyce. I do want this to be a 
nice experience for you." 

Sarcasm? Or is she sincere? Who cares! 

"Your weals are gorgeous, dear. You'll love them." Blindly, I cling to the 
number, eleven. Hang on, girl! Five, four, three to go... hang on...! If my 
sentence was twenty or thirty strokes I would go to pieces utterly. I am 
sure I would! But how can I ever be sure of anything, least of all of 
myself...! 

"Waist to shoulders, darling, it's such a virgin expanse. We're going to be 
able to count the whole eleven on you. I've kept them apart." 

Is it over? It must be. The whip has stopped cutting at me. I stand, panting 
and sweaty, and terribly fearful Constance may decide to give me a few more. 
I'm sure she could think up reasons. My hopeless nudity must be an enticing 
invitation. 

"No more this time, darling. I'd love to stripe you with another dozen, but 
I'm a firm believer in slaves and their Mistresses keeping contracts. Tell 
me about it, Joyce. Was it bad?" 

"Yes." 

I hope the single word carries more conviction than all the exclamations 
surging on my tongue. 

"Your motions... and sounds...! Mmmmmm, they were agonizingly exquisite." 

"Connie ? Oh, damn...! Mistress, have you ever been whipped... that hard? 
You've no idea " 

"Oh, but I have, dear." Connie giggles. "I've played games, y'know for a 
long while. As a Mistress I was curious... By the way, darling...? My 
title...?" 

"I forgot. It slipped. I'm sorry. Please forgive me."' "Would that be 
consistent, darling?" 

The slyness in Connie's voice tells me I am lost. From somewhere I find a 
scrap of courage. "No, Mistress, it wouldn't. Please whip me another 
stroke." I am anxious to placate, so add: "I expect it will teach me to 
watch my tongue." 

"It is, of course, the worst of all. Connie abandons my back and slices me 
across both cheeks of my bottom, the tip snapping on an unsuspecting hip. I 
yelp in anguish and do a busy tattoo with my bare feet. All of me moves 
except my wrists. My wrists seem a part of the wood in which they are 
imprisoned. My mind rallies to my rescue by reiterating over and over: 'It's 
only one... only one... Then, anxiously, I pay my dues: "Thank you, 
Mistress." 

"You are most welcome, Joyce." 

How absurd we are, and we both know it. Connie can laugh at our stilted 
exchange, but I dare not. I don't want any more strokes I just don't! My 
blazing bottom partly quenches the fire within my sex but not quite! I look 
at Lady Constance Taunton, a shy fearfully expectant peek, and wonder what 
she has in store for me next. 

"I've got the theatre this evening, darling. I think I'll put you away 
somewhere safe." 

When Constance separates the stocks I retrieve my hands and look at them as 
at strangers. My wrists are red. In obedience to prodding fingers I turn and 
place them behind my back. I am not allowed even one good stretch, but 
thought of revolt does not enter my mind. The metal bands bite and I am once 
more helpless. 

"I have the nicest idea for you, Joyce." 

From the direction in which I am guided I easily guess where I am to spend 
the night. We go down and down. I pitter-patter daintily with my bare 
closely shackled feet. Escape from Constance is just a lovely dream. I will 
never escape. 

"Isn't that a gorgeously forbidding door, darling. This is your dungeon." 

A huge key and the thud of bolts. The light is artificial, a pale yellow 
from some hidden source. The air is warm. For the rest, it is bare stone 
with beastly rings and hanging links on the walls. It is no place for a 
naked girl, but one is kneeling submissively to greet her Mistress. She is 
linked to the wall by chains from every conceivable part of her to which 
they may be attached. Her hair, falling across one shoulder, is lovely as is 
her pose. Instantly in my mind she becomes "The prisoner of Taunton." 

"Nancy, this is Joyce. She's spending the night with you." 

"Oh, thank you, Mistress!" The gratitude is sincere. Nancy and I exchange 
the glances of sole survivors. We are glad of each other. I don't think I 
could face Constance's dungeon alone. 

"I'll just chain darling Joyce and be on my way." 

The chains are not Gothically heavy, but heavy enough. They are new and 
shining and the metal bands are snug upon our flesh. Under Lady Constance's 
busy fingers I become attached to the stone at neck, tummy, wrists and 
ankles. My hobble and my handcuffs are taken away and placed in a far corner 
where I cannot reach. I am kissed good-bye. It is all rather breathless, and 
Connie's exit and the awful sounds of the closing door leave me in 
bewilderment, my new chains tugging at me everywhere. 

"When you sit down it eases the weight a bit." My companion says cheerfully. 
"I'm terribly pleased to see you." 

We are girl-girl instantly. We like each other. We are grateful for other 
breasts and pubic thatch and lips ripe with promise. Nancy's sweetness bears 
many fading stripes. 

"She's just whipped you, hasn't she, Joyce? Gosh, those marks are fresh." 
She grins. "Lady Constance is bored with me. I haven't been whipped for 
quite awhile." 

"But she keeps you here in this dungeon chained all alone! That's a lot 
worse. I couldn't bear-" 

"Did she tell you I'm like this for life?" Nancy laughs. "I'm not, y'know. I 
spend a lot of nights here, chained. But my days are spent in the kitchen. 
I'm hobbled short so I can't give cook any trouble and I do the odd jobs, a 
sort of scullery maid. Once in awhile M'Lady gets the hots for me and has me 
up to her bedroom. When I've orgasmed her to exhaustion she chains me to a 
ring in the floor and gives me a blanket." 

"You poor dear, what a rotten-!" 

"It's partly my own fault." Nancy assures me cheerily. "She was going to 
sell me to a real S.O.B. and I kicked up such a fuss wailing and pleading 
that she said, O.K., I could spend my life in the kitchen. She gave cook the 
right to whip me when she thinks I deserve it. Of course, her Highness whips 
me once in awhile just so I remember who I belong to." 

I am all sympathy. I move to take Nancy in my arms but am snubbed inches 
short of consummation. She laughs bitterly. "That ring you're locked to is 
exactly measured to keep the bits of us that matter inches apart. If we 
wiggle and strain we can kiss each other on the lips, but that's all." 

We kiss each other's lips. It is not easy but it is a small happiness. 
Straining at my chains I curse Connie's laughter. What she has done to us is 
not funny, it is cruel. We can touch a lot of each other but we cannot make 
love. Damn! 

I have a band round my tummy, lovely shining metal a trifle too tight. There 
are metal bands on my wrists and ankles and a metal collar on my neck. All 
are linked by chain to the big ring in the wall. The length of each tether 
has been gauged for maximum frustration. After I have struggled against them 
to assess my helplessness we look at each other woefully. "There's nothing a 
girl can do with chains." Nancy says philosophically. "I've been tied and 
chained for a couple of years now and I no longer think of getting loose. I 
wear 'em like clothes... The only one's I'll ever have, I guess. I'm always 
naked except when I prepare food. Then I'm allowed a tea towel over my 
pussy." 

I do not laugh easily, but Nancy does. She is making the best of a bad job. 
Her cheerfulness helps. When we decide to sleep we strain as close together 
as we can. We warm the cold stone with our flesh. That is our bed. 

* * * 

It is an ordinary bare room. Its only claim to attention is the short timber 
cross rising from the centre of the floor. I am strapped to the cross. 

I cannot move, and the wood to which I am fastened is solid as rock. I kneel 
erect, my back to the small structure which reaches no higher than my head. 
Its cross piece holds my outstretched arms. Tightly buckled straps bind me 
to it at wrists and elbows. Another strap is deep in my tummy, anchoring me 
to the little cross as though I was a part of it. I kneel with a leg on each 
side of the upright, placing my feet well behind where I cannot see them. My 
ankles are separately strapped to the floor. This arrangement separates my 
thighs to give full prominence to my pubic hair and sex. As a final punitive 
unkindness a broad strap is snug beneath my chin. It circles my neck and is 
buckled, like all the rest, at the back where I can neither see nor touch. I 
have never, previously, suffered a tight stricture on my throat. It is a 
strange feeling not to be able to move my head. It accentuates the erectness 
of this kneeling posture I cannot change. 

My Mistress sits on a stool, cross legged, negligent, where she can get the 
best view of what she has done to me. She has that pleased air of someone 
who has got a worthwhile project under way. 

"You look so sweet, Joyce." 

I am sure I do. Kneeling, suppliant... I probably appear to be pleading for 
punishment. I feel very certain punishment is what I am going to get. I have 
nothing to say, I cannot be forever intoning a meek 'Yes Mistress' like a 
litany. 

"What are you expecting to happen to you, dear?" Damn! I cannot keep a sulky 
silence. I have to play Connie's game. "I think I'm going to be punished, 
Mistress." 

"But you haven't done anything-have you?" 

"It is a Mistress's privilege to punish me anyway." 

"My, my, you're learning, darling! But do be a bit more specific. What sort 
of punishment?" 

"You're going to whip me, Mistress." 

"Oh, sweetheart, so unoriginal! You were whipped yesterday. If I whipped you 
the way you are now it would almost have to be your breasts. Such nice tight 
little breasts... Would you like me to whip them?" 

"No, Mistress. Thank you." 

"I'd love to do it if you asked me nicely?" 

Cat and mouse! She's positively gloating. Gosh, what I'd love to tell her 
right now! But Constance reads my thoughts. 

"You'd love to reverse our roles, and to give me a piece of your mind, a 
real blast, wouldn't you! Poor little Joyce! Little slavegirl Joyce who used 
to be Queen of Cortlands." 

She laughs delightedly at the telltale expression on my face. But you can't 
move, can you, darling! And you have to be so polite to me." 

"Please... Please, Mistress, don't rub it in. We both know what's in my 
mind. I can't help it." 

"Don't you think it merits punishment, dear?" 

"No, I don't! Please, Mistress, I'm trying my damndest." 

"You are rather sweet, y'know. I'm glad I bought you." 

"I'm glad too, Mistress." My admission is sincere. "I hated the thought of a 
man." 

"Never did like 'em, did you! I always wondered why you didn't grab Dwight. 
If you had you wouldn't be strapped the way you are now." 

"Mistress, please, could I have the strap taken from my neck? It makes me 
talk funny." 

"I like to see it on you. It's there for a purpose." Constance gives me a 
searching look. "I've been curious about you and men...?" 

"I told you, I slept with a few and didn't like 'em. They just make a mess 
of something clean." 

"But you never did play around... You never got earthily carnal?" 

"I don't know what you mean. If it's what I think, I don't want to." 

"I'm going to bring a man in here, darling." 

It's like a bomb, or a blow. I look at her askance. "You're not not really? 
Oh Constance... no! No... no... no! Please...?" 

"Yes I am." 

She is in her glory, and I am strapped like this. I take a fleeting comfort 
from my little cross. It is not designed for the ravishment of girls. But 
she will shame me, shame me horribly. The forest of fur between my legs will 
intrigue the grinning ape. I make the first plea that comes to mind. 
"Please, Mistress, don't bring a man in here to see me like this. I'm so 
shamed. Whip me instead." 

"You're obsessed with the whip, darling. I bet it makes you feel good 
between your legs?" 

"It doesn't! Ohhhh nooooo! I hate it! But I offered so you'd know. Please, 
Constance, no man?" 

"My, my, you are upset. You twice forget my title and you prefer having your 
skin striped to having a male take a look at you." 

"Yes, yes! Punish me another way." 

"Oh, I will. Don't think I won't, dear. And his name's Alfred. He's one of 
the gardeners. A good honest country yokel." 

I surge against my straps. Nothing moves, least of all Me. I wail over and 
over: "No... no... no...!" 

"Don't be silly, Joyce. Men must have seen you naked--Or did you wear 
clothes while you copulated?" 

"It's beastly horrible!" 

"It's not, y'know. You'll be doing a real kindness. He's quite young and 
hasn't seen a girl sans clothes yet. You'll have to excuse him leering at 
your pubic hair." 

"Anything else-anything!" 

"You're being ridiculous, Joyce. You can thank me for not taking you at your 
word. I could have you screaming your head off." 

Constance is right, damn her! Perhaps I am being silly. She will get great 
joy from watching me cringe while I am exhibited. And does it really matter 
that much to me! Does it...! I mutter a sad little "I'm sorry... I'm 
sorry... 

"If you've never done it before you'll find it interesting, darling. Such 
intriguing overtones!" 

I tense in my straps. There is something else! I hope my eyes are as 
anguished as my suspicion. The little cross takes on a frightening 
plausibility. 

"I remember Roger had to plead like crazy and get me excited half out of my 
mind before I'd do it that first time." Lady Constance's voice is musingly 
dreamy. "I'd never even thought of it. But when you come to consider..." She 
smiles at my horrified stare with sweet compassion. "It's sort of 
inevitable... I mean, there it is!" 

"Roger?" I repeat, stupidly. "And there's what?" 

"His cock, darling." 

I examine this fresh humiliation, this deliberate abasement of Cortlands and 
all I once was. I glimpse what she is going to make me do. It seems 
impossible. "What- what-do you mean?" I ask pathetically. 

"Oh, Joyce, come off it!" Constance peals her silvery laughter. "You worship 
a man's cock, sweetheart. You take it in your mouth and suck and lick it 
until it ejects: and then you swallow." 

"I won't do it." 

"Of course you won't, darling." Connie's voice sinks to a positive purr. 
"But a Mistress has to be prepared for these little contretemps when her 
slavegirl takes negative attitudes. I have a standard inducement--call it a 
penalty if you prefer of hanging by your wrists all day and receiving ten 
strokes every hour. It works out to a total of a hundred, all hard. The poor 
girl usually spends the next couple of days in bed convalescing." The voice 
becomes brightly helpful. "And, of course, she also does whatever it was she 
didn't want to do: I make sure of that." 

What's the use! She'd do it. I know she would. She talks as though she's 
already done it to others. Well, I'm damned if I'm going to endure anything 
that bloody awful. But, on the other hand...! "You can make me say yes to 
anything." I agree miserably. "But supposing I try...? I'll just puke and be 
disgusting over everything." 

"No you won't. A cock, prick, or penis is not nearly as appalling as it 
looks. And I've instructed Alfred: he's going to give his a good wash. I'm 
being very lenient. If you got one that hadn't been washed for a few days 
you'd really wrinkle your nose." 

"Oh, Connie...!" 

It is a cry of anguish from one girl to another. I twist demonstratively at 
the straps, and toss in for good measure: "O.K., that's the third or fourth 
time I've used your name. I expect to get whipped for each." 

"In that case I won't whip you. I'll think of something much nastier. I 
won't have you telling me how to punish you." 

She leaves me nothing. Constance is stripping me of more than clothes. 
Unhappily, I voice anxiety: "Mistress, I'll try. I have to. But I've never 
done such a hateful thing supposing I botch it?" 

"Try, try, try again, dear." Connie's laughter tinkles. "Look on it as 
having a light lunch." 

I sigh heavily. My plight is hopeless. "With you... that first time, 
Mistress, don't tell me you didn't gag... try to evade?" 

"Roger helped me, darling. Once he'd grabbed my ears it seemed best to be a 
good girl." 

Constance can carry such things off with panache. I can't. Now I understand 
this wide band round my neck. Oh, damn! Partly from the fear I had best show 
willing, and partly from a selfish need of guidance, I ask, absurdly: 
"Mistress, can you tell me things? About how?" 

Constance adores my surrender. "Just as I said, sweetheart. Suck as though 
you love it. Lick as though you worship it. Then get it as far down your 
throat as you can and sort of plow back and forth. When he orgasms swallow 
like crazy and keep up the motion. Then, at the finish, take it out and lick 
it clean and assure Alfred of your undying gratitude. Men love that bit. 
It's easy to kid 'em they've done you a favour, instead of the other way 
round." 

All that! Good gosh! 

"I'll go and bring him in now, darling. Be very polite." I am alone for 
several minutes. I strive uselessly against the straps, and allow my mind to 
run riot. If I dwell on the one specific thing I must do I'll become 
hysterical. 

"Alfred, this is Miss Cortland. Joyce, this is Alfred." 

"Pleased to meetcha', Miss." 

Alfred spares a sheepish grin at my face before lowering his focus. He is 
perspiring. Alfred is a big lumbering youth who is evidently as embarrassed 
as I am. He is roughly dressed and turns a cloth cap over and over in 
nervous hands. Since the object of my martyrdom is not yet visible I decide 
it is unfair for Constance to have all the fun. "It's so kind of you to 
spare me the time, Alfred." I gush outrageously. 

"My pleasure, Miss." The oaf is hypnotised. 

"You are enjoying my pubic hair, Alfred?" 

" 'Eh-what?" He stares blankly. 

"That's what you're looking at. I have a heavier bush than most girls. Isn't 
it lovely." 

"That it be, Miss." His poor cap is being torn asunder. "I was a'looking for 
summat'-suminat'--" 

"Were you looking for my cunt, Alfred?" 

He is devastated. Sweat stands out in beads. "Well, Miss, if that's what yer 
calls it " 

"It's well down, Alfred. Most of the hair's above. You can see my mound... 

"I expect yer right, Miss "Alfred is here on a mission." Constance's 
reminder is icy. 

"Ah, so I be." Alfred drags his attention from my pubic fronds and focuses 
on my mouth. He is a simple soul. 

"Then show Miss Cortland the gift you have brought." 

"Eh gift?" The penny suddenly drops and he blushes. "That s a caution, that 
is, M'Lady. Yer means yer want me ter take it out?" 

"Don't be shy, Alfred. Miss Cortland and I have both seen one before. I 
thought you were rather proud of yours." 

"Oh, aye, M'Lady. I'm just a bit awkward like. Ain't never seen nothin' like 
Miss Cortland afore'. Yer sure she won't mind?" 

"Tell him, Joyce." 

The hundred strokes are implicit in the request, so I go all out. "I'd love 
to see your prick, Alfred." I lie sweetly. 

"Can't rightly understand yer bein' strapped up like that there." 

"This is because girls are so silly, Alfred, and sometimes change their 
mind. I can't change my mind. Lady Constance has been very kind going to all 
this trouble. Just think, Alfred, the only thing I can move is my mouth." 
Mention of my mouth inspires him. Alfred fumbles at his flies. He must have 
inherited his trousers, they have buttons. From the gaping cavern in the 
heavy tweed there springs into view the most appalling weapon I have ever 
dreamed of. 

"I told you, Joyce. You're a lucky girl." 

I have seen only a few of these male objects. I have no criteria. Alfred's 
is a size larger than the largest to come my way. My Mistress's voice is 
alive with warning, it modifies my shock. I manage to exclaim: "Oh, 
Alfred...! Oh, Alfred...!" In what I hope is ecstatic awe. 

"Get on with it, man! The girl's had a good look." 

"Ah." Alfred takes a step forward. "I do 'ope yer don't think me forward 
like, Miss." 

If I could take a step back I would. But I cannot move. The engorged prong 
points at me like a cannon, the range at about ten inches. It appears clean. 
But every moment I can keep it out of my mouth is to the good. Ridiculously, 
I reassure: "Of course not, Alfred. Lady Constance has introduced us." 
Hysterically, I add: "Have you worked at Taunton long?" 

"Stop procrastinating, Joyce. Open your mouth." 

I have to obey. Alfred enters me like a well timed piston. My mouth is full. 
I cannot move my head or back away. I look up to my Mistress for help. 

"Use your lips, stupid, and your tongue. You don't have to inhale the whole 
thing. Alfred, you must remember Miss Cortland is strapped tight. It is you 
who must initiate whatever motion you desire." 

"That I will, M'Lady. Just at the start I'll give her the knob." 

I catch M'Lady's eye. We both resist a giggle. I find I can deal with 
Alfred's "Knob." Under dual guidance I work with a will. What the hell else 
can I do! I expect every slaves knows the point where it is "Best to get it 
over with." I try and think of it as a large banana emerging from soiled 
tweed. It has a salty taste. 

"Don't push it too far down her throat, Alfred, or she'll gag." 

Thank goodness for Lady Constance! Without her supervision I might not 
survive Alfred's enterprise. He is panting and sweating and has a hand in my 
hair. If only my neck was not strapped I could do so much better. But, held 
immovably, I am forced to rely on him to control his strokes. I suspect 
Alfred is in no condition to control anything. Some of his thrusts-!" 

The leather band is suddenly taken from beneath my chin. My Mistress's voice 
is soft. "There, darling, you don't need it now." 

It is as though I am a whore. I discover skills, techniques and ways and 
means. All I can do in gratitude is cock a thankful eye at Connie's smiling 
face. She is entranced. 

Alfred has staying power, or perhaps I am inept. Constance sweetly calls an 
intermission. When the thing on which I am working is withdrawn from my 
mouth I discover I am panting. My tongue feels as though it has walked 
twenty miles. 

"Miss Cortland is inexperienced, Alfred. We must make allowances." 

"Bloody marvel, she is, M'Lady. I'd be willing ter many 'er, so I would." 

It is my second proposal, and most sincere. I dare not look at Constance. I 
work at catching my breath and resting for the second half of my travail. 

"I am sure Miss Cortland will consider your offer after her term with me 
expires, Alfred." 

"Term, M'Lady...?" 

"Let us call it an indenture or contract. It has a little time yet to run." 

I can feel his disappointment. But he has respect for the nobility. He also 
has enterprise. "Well then, M'Lady, if it's a while ter go... mebbee' us 
could do this 'ere every so often-bein' engaged like?" 

"I'll think about it, Alfred. I'm sure Miss Cortland will too. She is a very 
obedient young woman. If you whipped her once a week she would make an 
excellent wife." 

"Whipped 'er, M'Ladyy...?" 

"To keep her lustful female impulses under control, Alfred." 

"Ah yes. M'Lady-See what yer mean Alfred obviously saw little, but was 
intrigued by an erotic responsibility hitherto unglimpsed. M'Lady nipped 
complications in the bud. "I think you can resume now, Alfred. I am sure 
dear Miss Cortland is anxious to demonstrate her ardour." 

The damn Thing has shrunk little during intermission. It regains what it 
lost as it re-enters between my lips. I am rested, resigned, and have 
acquired knowledge, my neck is free. Alfred has lost the initiative. It is I 
who advance to the attack. In a gratifyingly short time my mouth is filled 
with raw oysters which I must swallow in gulp after gulp as the hands 
tighten in my hair and the weapon thrusts and thrusts as it spurts and 
spurts. Maybe there is no great amount of his semen but it seems like a 
quart as I strive to cope. I am glad it is salty. Had it been sweet I would 
have retched. As he holds it for me at the finish I proudly lick and polish 
his receding knob. My task is done. I have learned something of men... and 
of women. I could laugh in joy. 

Alfred is busy with buttons. "D'you think Miss Cortland and me could 'ave a 
little walk in the garden, M'Lady? Sort of talk things over?" 

Poor Alfred! If only he knew! My Mistress makes short work of my romance. 
"Miss Cortland is under penance, Alfred. She stays as she is for the rest of 
the day." 

"Penance, M'Lady...? Sort of Catholic like?" 

"Exactly. She is also in one of the more beneficial postures of Yoga. Before 
you leave she has something to say." 

I have forgotten. Hastily I retrieve honour. "Thank you for allowing me to 
suck your cock, Alfred." 

"Yer right welcome, Miss " Lady Constance Taunton pushes her serf back into 
the wilderness. He does not want to go. At the door he takes a last look at 
my pubic hair, but is gentleman enough to also give me a leering wink of 
promise. "I've been meaning to speak to you about the roses... It is 
M'Lady's dismissal as she propels him down the passage. 

I kneel alone. I am honestly tired, and content in the clasp of my straps. I 
have done something inexpressibly awful and have been rewarded with more 
laughter than tears. Nothing about slavery ever makes sense. I feel sorry 
for poor simple Alfred. I doubt he will ever take me to wife. My knees are 
hurting. 

"I'm so proud of you, darling. I'll never, never sell you now." 

Constance is very sweet. She smells gorgeously of Constance as she bends to 
kiss me again and again. While she kisses me I do not mind that I must kneel 
like this through the whole day. 

"Enjoying your penance, Joyce, strapped to your cross?" 

"Yes, Mistress. I don't mind what you've sentenced me to- honest, I don't." 

She unbuckles the straps with gusto. First my arms to enable her to handcuff 
my wrists. I recognize her prudence, it has become routine. Then my tummy 
and feet... my ankles swiftly hobbled. 

"I wouldn't have resisted, Mistress." 

"I know, but I'll never give you the option." 

"I thought I was to stay strapped to the cross all day, Mistress?" 

"So did Alfred." She chuckles. "Mistresses can change their minds, y'know. 
You've made me so damn horny...!" 

She leads me upstairs to her bedroom. It is close to the following morning 
when she takes me from her bed and chains me to the ring in the floor. 

We are both exhausted and very happy. 

It is early afternoon when Lady Constance joins the stocks to imprison my 
ankles. I sit, naked, on the low bench and take a wry interest in the 
proceedings. I have already made my only protest: "But Mistress, my 
ankles...! So far apart! I'm almost split?" 

"Well, it doesn't matter, darling, you're not going anywhere." 

"It's not decent." 

"It is, between girls. Your pussy's chastely closed." 

"It feels wide open." 

"Don't complain, dear. This is about as simple a little penance as a girl 
could ask." 

Constance is right. If this is all I must bear I should not complain. During 
the night there came into being between us a rapport, a warm girlie 
something, quite precious. It does not absolve me from obedience. But I wish 
to be obedient, even though I am less afraid of this woman by whom I am 
owned. It is the usual jumble I cannot analyse. 

"There is a reason for spreading your legs, dear. That's why these stocks 
are made this way. But I won't tell you what it is. But there's no man in 
the picture and it's not so you can handily play with your puss." 

"But I can't play with anything, Mistress. You've locked my hands behind my 
back." 

"To keep you out of temptation, dear. Girls are not supposed to finger their 
clits." 

"You know I don't. But I can see how, if she sat like this long enough, a 
girl might relieve the boredom. Is that what the punishment is, there has to 
be something...?" 

Constance pats my exposed puss. "She's quite safe, dear, you can't touch 
her." 

"I can't touch anything." 

"Aren't you lucky." 

"How long do I have to sit here. Mistress?" 

"I won't tell you." 

My Mistress kisses me lovingly and goes away. The punishment room, with all 
its objects for making me uncomfortable, becomes lonely when she has gone. 
When Constance is kind she bestows sunshine. 

I assess my helplessness: two things emerge. Handcuffed as I am I cannot 
shift position, where my bottom sits now there it will stay. Secondly, my 
widespread legs. My loins are going to ache. Immobility will go to work. 
This thing in which I am fastened may not be as innocent as it first 
appears. I try and move. I can only twist my shoulders back and forth and 
flutter my joined arms. I shrug ruefully. As Connie has said, I should not 
complain. 

It is very frustrating. I can see a bit of the big padlock by which I am 
secured. I can see the key to it hanging on the wall. In a hundred years I 
could never reach either. I can also lean forward and look down to observe 
my Pussy. I don't know why I should wish to do this, it is just one more of 
the sexual impulses becoming increasingly common to my being. I seem to be 
forever aware of my nipples, my armpits, my genital hair, and the cheeks of 
my bottom. Constance says I have a gorgeous bottom. I am ashamed of my 
pride. But, anyway, my bottom seems likely to be less happy after an hour or 
so of this. The bench on which I sit is hard, and the place on it where my 
derriere is planted has been cunningly carved to give extra exposure to my 
sex between my spread thighs. I sigh and settle down to dream. If my dreams 
are coloured by sexuality it is something ! deplore but don't seem able to 
reject. 

A little time has passed. The opening and closing of the door makes me sit 
upright in hope. But it is not my Mistress. It is a girl in her early teens. 
A maid's apron labels her as staff. Her eyes are precocious and wise. Her 
voice is common: "Hello, Miss Cortland." 

"Go away. You've got the wrong room. Close the door." I say it firmly but 
without hope. 

"No I ain'." 

"What d'you want?" 

"I come ter visit. Yer oughta' be pleased." 

"Well, I'm not. Please leave." 

"You like sitting there like that, all alone?" 

"Never mind. Just go." 

She does not go. She moves close. "Yer all naked, aintcha'." 

"That's none of your affair. Stop looking at me like that." 

She moves behind and fingers my wrists. "Yer locked in 'andcuffs!" She is 
thrilled. "Just like ruddy criminals on T.V. Can't yer get out of 'em?" 

"No, I'm not supposed to." 

"Guess yer right. They ain't supposed to neither. What's it like- bein' 
'elpless and all?" 

"That's exactly what it's like Helpless." 

"You bin' naughty or summat?" 

Has this coarse little moppet drifted in here by accident, or has Constance 
sent her! It is something Connie might do. This child's account of my 
reactions might amuse her. I take the bull by the horns. "Kindly go and 
fetch Lady Taunton." I request coldly. 

"She wouldn't come. I know she wouldn't." The young voice is possessed of 
knowledge. "We all know about Lady Constance. You ain't the fust gel' I seen 
naked and locked up. Lady Constance, she's a rare one, she is." 

I am trapped. This little bitch can divert herself at my expense. I cannot 
be too angry with Lady Constance. She will be chuckling at my dismay. 
Perhaps if I had been sitting here long enough I might welcome the vulgar 
little so-and-so. "Then how about asking Nancy to drop in for a moment?" I 
ask guilelessly. 

The moppet guffaws. "She can't. Cook's got 'er locked in a closet with 'er 
'ands tied behind 'er back 'cos she dropped the dessert." 

"Does that ever happen to you?" I ask hopefully. 

"Not bloody likely. I ain't one of you lot." She looks indignant. "And me' 
name's Pansy, in case you're interested. I know yours. It's Miss Joyce 
Cortland, ain't it. Whatcha' want me to call you?" 

"I'd just as soon you went back to the kitchen Call me anything you want." 

With much deliberation the little horror announced: "I'm a'goin ter call yer 
Miss Cortland, all formal like. Makes yer look a lot sillier, sittin' there 
with a bare arse." 

How wonderful it would be to hurl her through a window! But I cannot. 
Instead, she seats herself on the stocks between my legs and looks, 
pointedly, up between my legs. "You sure got a crop of cunt hairs." she 
observes conversationally. "I wish mine was that thick." 

"You're still quite young. It will grow." 

"Never sprout as much as you've got." She predicts wisely. "And such a cunt! 
Them lovely plump lips!" 

"Couldn't you call it something else, Pansy? That's not a nice word." 

"Don't know none other. Yer won't mind me 'aving a feel?" 

It does me no good to mind. A grubby young hand clutches a handful of Me so 
hard I yelp. From where she sits I am beautifully available. As she leans 
forward her face is close. "Might as well bite one of yer tits while I'm at 
it." Her suggestion is utterly casual. 

"No, please don't!" 

"Why not? I want to." She giggled. "I want ter bite one of Miss Cortland's 
tits. 'Ow's that sound. They ain't all that big, are they." 

I twist away but the fingers follow. Oh, how I long for my hands! The 
handcuffs make me so damn helpless. I can twist all night but she can win 
the game any moment she chooses. Resignedly I keep still and allow my 
nipples to be frictioned. "Won't never be big, but they come up a real 
treat." Pansy exults. "I got bigger ones nor' you. Nice and 'ard they're 
gettin'." 

"Please leave them alone, Pansy." 

"Doncha' like it, Miss Cortland? Come off it, yer knows yer startin' ter 
twitch." 

"Stop it! Oh, please, stop it." 

Pansy exchanges a hand for her lips. I now have fingers busy on one of my 
nipples and a pair of eager lips on the other. The tides of sensation I do 
not want are starting to mount. Damn the girl, she knows altogether too 
much. Probably a lot more than I do about such things. Can I sit here in 
cold immobility while she brings me to climax! I am quite sure I cannot. I 
yelp again as small teeth nip my most sensitive bud. 

There is a brief reprieve. Pansy ceases her assault upon my femininity. She 
sits back on the stocks and surveys all of me as though I am a new and 
distant place. "Yer bin' hoity-toity afore' 'er Ladyship got yer." She 
opined shrewdly. "I can tell. Thinks I'm dirt, doncha'." 

I squirm awkwardly against my bonds, feeling certain I look guilty under her 
assessment. She is dirt! But how dare I say it! I look at Pansy appealingly, 
wondering what plea might find response. 

"See, yer can't deny it!" She is triumphant. "Lady Constance 'ull whittle 
yer down, yer see if she don't. And yer better be careful what yer say ter' 
me. Yer right 'elpless, yer can't do nothin'. No gel' can get out of them 
stocks." 

"Yes I'm helpless." I admit placatingly. "But please, Pansy don't be unkind 
to me." 

"All I done is work on them little tits." She sounds aggrieved. "Yer ought 
ter be thankin' me." 

"Oh, I do. Oh, Pansy, thank you." 

"Huh, just puttin' that on. Yer scared I'm goin' ter'urt yer. I can pinch 
them little things 'till yer scream, and I'm a good mind " 

"I'll be polite, Pansy. Honest I will. Please don't do that to me." 

This is hateful. I am at her mercy. I'm so damn exposed and vulnerable I 
could scream. I can't cover my breasts at all, she can do what she likes 
with them. And as for lower down...! Pansy will get down there soon, I know 
she will. Why, oh why did Constance have to do this to me! 

"Real scared, aintcha' " She relishes my distress. "Well, Miss Cortland, I 
just thought o' summat'..." With a giggle of delight she has gone and I am 
alone. 

I twist and squirm uselessly. I am firmly held. I try and fight down the 
tumescence Pansy's fingers have provoked. It obligingly recedes under my 
distress, but she will re-awaken it. She is the sort of little scruff whose 
horizons are sexual. I am sure she will be back, and when she comes it will 
be to extract from my body the spasms, the moans and gasps which are her 
gauge of pleasure. Damn and double damn! 

The dog is one of the larger and busier terriers with a long pointed nozzle. 
Pansy smirks with pride at her inspiration. Lest the animal be lacking in 
enterprise she wastes no time, but thrusts his cold snout into my widespread 
cleft. Once there, he does not turn away. "Yer goin' ter love Percy." She 
tells me as one girl to another. 

" 'Ee's real good at it is Percy." 

If anything could get me out of the stocks it would be Percy. At his first 
cold probe I seem to leap a foot. Actually I do not move but the impulse and 
the sensation is real. I am utterly appalled. This cannot possibly be 
happening to me. I am Joyce Cortland- ! 

"Gosh, yer really goosey, Miss Cortland. You and Percy are goin' ter 'ave 
the time of yer lives." 

The prurient moppet resumes her seat between my feet. For her, it is the 
front row at the Opera. She is immensely content. 

"Get him out of here! Stop him! Get rid of him! Oh, Pansy, take him away! P 
L--E--A--S--E--!!! 

"Dontcha' like 'im?" 

"Of course not! He's... he's " 

"He's lickin' yer cunt, Miss Cortland." 

"I know! Stop him! Right this minute! Oh, damn, I can't move." 

"Spreadin' yer legs out that way, Miss Cortland...! What else can yer 
expect." 

The little tramp! She's got me! And the damn dog's got me. His tongue is 
sending wave after wave of shuddering sensation all through my being. The 
Chief Executive of Cortlands is sitting naked on a bench while a dog licks 
and nibbles at her vulva. I twist and writhe and tug at my handcuffs, but it 
is only my arms and shoulders that move. The rest of me is immobilised for 
the enjoyment of Pansy and Percy. 

"Percy 'ull lick away like that all day if I let 'im." 

"Please, Pansy, what can I do or say to get you to take him away?" 

"Nothin'." 

"I'll give you anything--?" 

"Yer naked, Miss Cortland. Yer ain't got nothin'." 

She has summed me up well. I am naked and helpless. I have no assets. A dog 
is licking and probing steadily at my sex. A teen-age girl is watching 
avidly and will give me no help. There is nothing I can do but gasp and 
cringe. I can do nothing... nothing. 

"First time a dog's licked yer cunt, Miss Cortland?" 

"Yes, of course I abandon civility. "Damn you, you little bitch, stop him. 
Take your blasted dog away from me. It's not decent, it's beastly." 

Pansy enjoys my outburst. She is also enjoying the signs I cannot hide of an 
impending orgasm. Thoughtful, she reaches forward and pinches my left nipple 
so hard I scream. "That's for calling me a little bitch." She explains 
equably. 

I am sick with the pain of it. I sit in mute misery while the dog laps 
happily within my pubic hair. Pansy and I can battle verbally all we wish 
but Percy's intent application on my sex will continue undeterred. As the 
pain of my pinched nipple recedes it is overtaken by a sexual excitation I 
cannot control. Pansy resumes a crafty frictioning of my nipples until I 
burst into shameful climax before her eyes. Now, the sounds and motions I 
indulge in are of the obscenity of sex. I am a woman brought to a 
fulfillment unsought, gasping and moaning my way through the concupiscence 
generated by the fingers of a child and the snout and tongue of a dog. Pansy 
watches my bitter humiliation with a clinical appraisal. 

The dog continues hungrily. 

Pansy's fingers continue their play with my nipples. 

I am in the aftermath of orgasm. My nerves can stand no more. But they are 
getting more, the dual excitation of my senses does not stop. Inexorably the 
female fingers and the canine tongue take me on into a new world of ugliness 
and sensations I cannot endure. My being cries aloud for surcease. I scream 
hysterically. 

"Stoppit! Stoppit! You must stop, you're killing me, I can't bear it!" My 
voice screams to a crescendo: "P-L-E-A-S-E-" In the tumult of my distress I 
hear a sound. In the tossing of my head from side to side I spare a glance 
and am electrified. Lady Constance stands watching. Her face mirrors the 
horror of my own. 

"Pansy!" 

The moppet fingers leave me as though burnt. Pansy's mouth opens in dismay. 
In sudden realisation, she snatches the still busy Percy from my cleft and 
pretends to comfort him. Her smile is false and frightened. 

"Yes, M'Lady?" 

"Did I give you permission for this beastliness?" 

"No, M'Lady. But it's just a bit of fun like " 

"Throw that dog out in the passage and shut the door. Then remove your 
clothes." 

"Yes, M'Lady." 

I glory in Pansy's trepidation. I glory in my Mistress as she releases me 
from the stocks. I cannot hug her, my handcuffs are still prudently upon my 
wrists, but Constance hugs me enough for two. I am kissed and kissed, and 
these I can return. 

"Pansy, tell Miss Cortland what your orders were." 

The girl is blubbering as she undresses. She sniffs and gasps out her 
confession. 

"I was supposed to tease you, Miss Cortland Make you feel embarrassed like." 

"And the dog? Tell her." 

Pansy is now nude. She is trying to cover her breasts and her pubes with two 
hands. Her voice is anguished. "Percy was my idea, Miss Cortland. I didn't 
think anybody would come. Wot' I mean is... I didn't mean no 'arm..." 

"What do you deserve, Pansy?" 

"I don't know, M'Lady." She sniffs absurdly. "I'm right sorry 'bout what I 
done." 

"Pansy, you know perfectly well. Tell us." 

"I expects I oughtta' be whipped, M'Lady." The admission is sullen. 

"That's better. You can place yourself in the stocks. You should know how by 
this time." 

Pansy knows. I suspect she has been this way before. Before my astonished 
eyes and Connie's stem regard, the nude nymphet heaves up the yoke of the 
pillory and arranges her neck, her hair, and her wrists in their appointed 
slots. The structure is low. If I was in it I would be well bent, no doubt 
to expose my bottom, but for Pansy it is perfect. Lady Constance lowers the 
fateful section upon the delinquent's cringing segments and locks it with an 
authorative snap which causes me to share Pansy's wince. 

"I'm awful sorry for that there dog, M'Lady." 

"And you are about to be sorrier still, my girl." 

My heart leaps. Constance is locking the hobbles on my ankles. When my 
handcuffs are taken from my wrists I can guess. She places the lovely length 
of slender cane in my hand and winks archly. "I expect you know what to do 
with this, Joyce." 

Do I ever! Never in my life have I had a clearer conviction of purpose. I 
take up position behind the slender bareness of Pansy's bottom. It's a nice 
little bottom for her age and for what I am about to do to it. Aware of 
action at the rear, it weaves uncertainly in cringing anticipation. I know 
the feeling all too well. 

"Please don't 'urt me too 'ard, M'Lady. I didn't 'eal fer three weeks last 
time I got it." 

"This time we will try and make it six." My Mistress says sweetly. 

"I knows I bin' a bad gel' an' all, M'Lady, but please don't 'it me between 
me legs with that there cane." 

I suspect Pansy of being an experienced negotiator in these matters. I am 
glad we cannot see each other. The pillory neatly divorces us. I am about to 
punish a naked torso which terminates at wrist and neck. There are no 
reproachful eyes or quivering lips to dilute my courage. I take my most 
uninhibited act in many days and cut a lovely red line across the young 
posterior. The torso jerks and sways, a young leg kicks. From beyond the 
timber there rises a wail of anguish. 

"It's too 'ard, M'Lady! Oh crikey, it's too bloody 'ard. I can't stand no 
more 'ard one's like that." 

"A mere dusting of the surface." My Mistress declares airily. "Carry on, 
Joyce dear. A little harder, please." 

I am utterly ashamed, it feels so good! Inhibitions vanish. I suddenly 
understand why I myself am whipped at the caprice of others. For joy like 
this a maiden's pain is nobly spent. The striations spring to vivid life 
across the young bare bottom, and they are mine, mine, mine! The impacts of 
my cane on girl flesh are exquisite, a soft cutting thunk after the glorious 
swish and vibrant whirr. The pilloried female torso gives out with a 
magnificent performance of tugs and heaves, of twists and weaving hips. 
Sometimes the bare feet beat an agonized tattoo upon the floor, the rest of 
the time they kick and kick at an enemy which is only pain. 

Pansy's vocals are in the best tradition. Yelps, screams, cries are 
interspersed by harrowing moans. But the young mind is active. About every 
fourth stroke she lets us know we play with fire. 

"You just wait 'till my muvver' sees my arse." 

"Give her a few on her thighs and back, Joyce." 

"Killin' me you are. Yer goin' ter be sorry." 

I splat a couple over the dancing thighs. 

'My Ma 'ull go to the pleece, you see if she don't." 

"You deserve what you're getting, Pansy, and you know it. You're a 
despicable little fraud." 

"All I done, M'Lady was let Percy lick 'er cunt." 

"Give me the cane, Joyce. I'll finish this young lady off in style." 

I am not sorry to relinquish the wicked thing. I am beginning to feel guilt 
at sight of the blazing young bottom. 

Pansy is young and vulgar. But I have stood as she now stands...! 

"Your feet wide apart, Pansy." Connie exchanges the cane for a whip, a short 
snakelike horror that makes me cringe. 

"No! NO...! Oh please, M'Lady, not up in me crotch!" 

"You will do as I say, or receive an extra twenty." 

The command of Lady Constance is firm as granite. Fearfully, the youthful 
legs separate in a dire knowledge of things to come. Pansy sobs and moans in 
noisy repentance for Percy's pleasure. 

"You may dance all you wish after each stroke, Pansy. But I expect you to 
return immediately to the open legs." 

"Yes, M'Lady. Oh crikey!" 

It must feel like a knife, slicing up there between her thighs. Its 'splat' 
is impressive. I am sure it must have separated Pansy's labia. I am glad it 
is not me, glad, glad, glad! The sounds of girlish agony are intense. 

"You'll get a more entertaining view in front, Joyce." 

My Mistress is right. Pansy's tear stained face turns to me wanly without 
hope. Her hands clench and spread wide from the viselike grip of the wood in 
which she is secured. The whip snickers again, and I actually behold the 
thong slice the plump fig within the pubic hair and spend itself upon the 
flat belly where it leaves a four inch brand. 

I have to admire Pansy. She goes berserk after each lash. But, obediently, 
opens herself wide to expose her sex. Lady Constance whips the inside of 
each adolescent thigh with care. Then unlocks the yoke and lets her victim 
go. Pansy departs, weeping, her clothes under one arm. She does not look 
back. 

My Mistress handcuffs me, in front. Her eyes are lambent. She brushes my 
nipples lightly and feels my fur. "Horny, Joyce?" 

"Yes, Mistress." 

"So am I." She leads me to our bedroom by my joined hands. 

* * * 

It is the next evening, early, in the still of twilight. Our lovemaking 
carried us beyond the dawn, since then we have slept. I ask uncertainly: "Is 
this a punishment, Mistress?" 

"Not really, darling. Call it a vignette, a little cameo to cherish in 
memory. Maybe you'll see a leprechaun or a ghost. Perhaps a Druid seeking 
mistletoe." She laughs gaily at my anxiety. 

I back my nudity against the trunk of the sapling Connie has chosen for my 
binding. My handcuffs are swiftly changed from front to back. Behind the 
tree they hold me safe. Without other bonds I would still have to stand here 
in the darkening Wood, awaiting her pleasure. My Mistress backs away, 
surveying her work that is Me. 

"You look very sweet, darling, just as you are. I am almost tempted..." I 
dare not speak. There is a magic in the fading light, and I am a part of it. 
It would be nice if I could be held here by the handcuffs alone. I could 
lean back against my little tree and dream. I would not be hurting. But my 
Mistress resists temptation, she selects a strand of slender rope: "I'm 
conventional, darling. The picture calls for this." 

I share her mood. In this small glade at eventide we have gone back into the 
legends of time. There were no handcuffs a thousand years ago. 

"I won't be cruel to your elbows, dear, just tight enough to hold your 
shoulders back." 

She is very sweet. I have come to love her terribly. Perhaps I am a 
masochist or perhaps I am just discovering myself! I brace against my trunk 
to bear my bonds. 

"A cinch round the bands on your tummy, Joyce. It delineates your waist so 
enticingly." 

The tree and I are very close now. I am almost welded to it. But I am 
destined to be closer still. 

"A foot on each side, darling. I'm going to cinch them the same way I did 
your tummy." 

Now I cannot move much at all. I am tremendously relieved when Constance 
backs away and observes: "I'm not going to tie your shoulders, that hurts. 
You're nicely held up above. I won't tie your knees either. I'm rather proud 
of you as you are." 

I too am proud. I am the damsel in distress. My Mistress has created this 
picture of a nude bound girl from the mists of legend. It is not until I 
have been well kissed and Lady Constance is lost in the shadows on her way 
back to the house that a shiver of fear trickles down my spine. I am alone. 

I am a naked female bound to a tree in Taunton Park, and night is 
falling...! 

I am still the Joyce Cortland who does not panic. I repress imaginings of 
goblins and poachers and things that creep in the night. I wish to retain 
the spirit of what Joyce has achieved here in this glade. She promised me an 
experience. If I can compose myself sensibly these hours of darkness I face 
can hold enchantment. A strange and magic memory to conjure back at will. I 
do not hurt-at least not very much. But the tree and I are one. I can never 
escape. 

Constance and I have become lovers. Yet it is tacit between us that I be 
vouchsafed no faintest chance to escape. My handcuffs and the hobbles make 
this denial easy. Constance uses, and I accept, them in much the same manner 
as a caress. Without them I would be naked indeed. But now I find myself 
questioning what I would do if she forgot my chains or inadvertently allowed 
me access to their key, and suddenly I was free! I tell myself I would slip 
away and resume my former life, treating my escape as a small victory she 
and I would laugh over at some later time. I truly believe this is what I 
would do, but I no longer thrill with yearning at the thought. 

We forgot the mosquitoes. When the first of them alights upon my skin I 
fight my bonds in frantic distaste. The thought of it feeding on my blood 
while I stand helpless is not to be endured. I hurt myself against the ropes 
until I realise I cannot even shiver enough to hinder its search for the 
sustenance which is Me. It feeds busily upon me whilst I seethe with 
indignation. 

A faint memory eases my concern. If you slap the creature so as to break its 
beak off in your skin you get the itch and the bump. If it is allowed to 
drink its fill it will quietly withdraw its proboscis and go about its 
business, leaving no ill effect upon its donor. I hope it is true. I am 
certainly going to find out. 

But the mosquito's dining hour is evening. I am not beset by swarms. As 
darkness deepens I provide dinner for fewer and fewer of the avid pests. 
But, for as long as they feed upon me, I return to the same impotence I 
experienced with Percy the dog. This imposition may not be obscene. Even 
when one selects my nipple and inserts its probe I cannot accuse it of 
anything sexual. Yet every time I play unwilling hostess to one of the 
winged predators I have suffered a tiny rape. The play of my displeasure 
chafes my wrists within their cuffs. After awhile I neither see or feel 
them. It is very dark. 

It is possible to sleep. Bound as I am the tree supports me. My head falls 
forward, that is all. Because my Mistress and I slept but little it is easy 
for me to slip away into dreams. Night has brought no goblins, I am at 
peace. 

Sound wakes me with a start of fear. I twist anxiously but my tree holds me 
fast. There is no ambiguity about what I hear. It is footsteps, more than 
one. They approach from the direction of the road which borders Taunton on 
one side. There are two voices, one of each sex. 

This is one of the awful moments of bondage, to know you must escape but 
cannot. The footsteps are approaching this glade. They will pass close 
enough that they can scarcely fail to see me, even in the dark my white 
nakedness will proclaim my presence like a beacon. Strangely I sense no 
rescue, footsteps in the dark mean only menace. 

"It's right around here somewhere." The voice is male. "Makes a longish walk 
back." The woman is unenthused. "Looks like the clearing. Perhaps if we 
separate..." 

"No need. Look over this way." 

They tramp to my tree, unconcerned with noise. Our eyes are accustomed to 
the dark. In silence we assess. 

"A lovely woman." 

"And well fastened." The comment is amused. 

They are respectable and ordinary. My fear shrinks as my puzzlement grows. I 
shrink from saying the obvious, so say nothing. The woman speaks for me. Her 
voice is kind. "Please don't be frightened. We will do you no harm." 

"You are Miss Cortland, Miss Joyce Cortland?" 

I am now excitedly curious. I say: "Yes... Yes, I am." I watch the woman 
take the plastic pouch and the bottle from her bag. From the pouch comes a 
wad of cloth on which is poured part of the contents of the bottle. I know 
instantly what is about to happen. It is the woman who holds the chloroform 
against my face as she says gently: "Don't struggle, dear. It's going to be 
alright." 

It is not alright. But I am helpless. 

The darkness takes me. 

 CHAPTER SIX - WHODUNIT! 

When I slowly merge back into consciousness I am still in the twilight mood 
of Taunton Wood and the little Glade. I am fey with memories of other times, 
of centuries past, long, long ago. I can still feel my naked back against 
the tree. The man and the woman enter the focus of my mind but change 
nothing. I am not afraid of them. They did not hurt me. But something has 
happened. I think it must be like this when we die. 

I was chloroformed. I am still euphoric from a drug. But as memories clarify 
so does my vision. I am not tied to a tree in the dusk of evening. I lie 
upon a narrow bed in a white room. It is bright day. 

I am possessed by lassitude. But after a dream or two I am aware of a 
presence. A nurse stands beside my bed. We exchange smiles. 

"Everything O.K., Miss Cortland?" 

My answer is as silly as the question. How do I know how I am! I am as lost 
as a female can ever be. I tell her so. 

"No pain, no nausea?" 

I shake my head. "Where am I?" 

"The Braemar Nursing Home, dear." 

"Why? What for?" 

She gives me the professional smile which tells me I am a child to be 
treated kindly and told nothing. 

"Who brought me here?" 

She feels my pulse. I raise my forearm automatically to aid her in the 
routine motion-But I do not raise it! It refuses to move. In panic I test my 
fingers, they are normal. I flare up accusingly. 

"My wrist is strapped-?" 

"Just for a little while, dear. Don't worry." 

"My other wrist is strapped down too. You've got me strapped to the bed!" 

"Hush, dear, it doesn't matter. It's part of the treatment." 

"What treatment? And it does matter. It matters to me a lot." 

I get the smile. In panic I test my feet but find them free. I am fastened 
only by my wrists. They are strapped, one on each side, to the frame where I 
cannot reach. 

"You're nice and comfy, dear." 

I am patted and left alone. I tug fretfully at my wrists but they are 
tightly secured. This is a hospital cot equipped for all emergencies...! 
Panic strikes again. The damn place may be an asylum I have been put away! 
Hospitals don't keep their patients strapped down, I can't even reach for 
the glass of water on the stand. I can't do anything but fume. Out of my 
dismay emerges disquiet. Not pain, but a sense of something wrong. These 
people have been messing around with me! 

Being female, my first reaction is obvious. I have been raped or in some way 
impregnated. There is a word... Inseminated. For some reason these people 
are going to make me have a baby. I will be kept strapped to this cot until 
I conceive. It cannot be Constance who has had this done to me... it cannot! 

Or has some bizarre humour been practiced on me! A tattoo? Some obscene 
horror I will bear with loathing all my life? But tattoos don't need 
hospitals... Or do they? 

A brand! This is plausible. Constance would adore her brand on me and I 
would wear it with such pride. Tentatively I shift this way and that. I rub 
what I can move against the sheets. But I can locate nothing. The unease 
nags but I cannot pinpoint it. No bandages, no pads or tapes. 

Or is it internal? What may they have done to me inside! Removed my 
clitoris? I have- heard of it being done. Reshape my vulva? But surely there 
would be pain! No doubt I am heavily sedated. 

The doctor is a pleasant youngish type. The nurse hovers with a tray. Their 
professional smiles are defeating. 

"Wide awake, Miss Cortland?" 

He grasps the covers from beneath my chin. It is not until then I realise I 
am stark naked beneath them. Goodness knows, being naked should not bother 
me any more, but in this context it does. Tense, I freeze against the 
straps. "I... - There's no nightdress... I've got nothing on." 

He could not care less. Gently, he pulls the covers far down and my world is 
shattered. Joyce Cortland is destroyed. The fluffed up sheets had hidden 
them, but now they are nakedly revealed. 

I possess two huge firm breasts. 

* * * 

The days pass. I am certainly not shaped like a child but I am treated like 
one. Smiles, pats, and gentle reassurance, but never an answered question. 
They will discuss these female monstrosities upon my chest, but are mute as 
to why they are there. 

My wrists remain strapped. I must not finger my new breasts or the incisions 
by which they came into being. Tape holds gauze wads over my wounds. It is 
changed daily. 

I have never been so frustrated in my life. My need to handle these heavily 
nippled mounds becomes an obsession. But it is denied. They are fearful I 
will strive to undo their work. When the scalpel cuts are healed it will be 
too late. The breasts will be mine whether I want them or not. In an agony 
of loathing I reject them. But it does no good. They are there. 

I have plenty of time to think. Someone has had this done to me for a 
reason. I had a flat chest and was glad of it. Now I have blossoming boobs! 
The vulgarity aptly satisfies my sentiments about the two objects forever in 
my view. Only smiles greet my request for covering. My twin feminine 
volcanoes are kept ostentatiously bare. I hunt for a reason and cannot find 
anything except a pattern: Everyone who has possessed me since that day I 
visited the Sheik Haarami has chosen to emphasise my femaleness, a 
femininity I have always despised but which so many enforced orgasms have 
compelled me to acknowledge. One of them has done this. They have made me 
ultra female with a vengeance. 

Was it Constance? If these breasts are hers I can bear them happily. I have 
no illusions about being able to get rid of them, not while I am enslaved. 
But I have an uneasy suspicion of Haarami... To equip me thus would satisfy 
his sense of what is proper. I can see his wise old eyes admiring... If 
these have been bestowed upon me by a man they will drive me insane. 

My thoughts have been of my condition as a slave, a slavegirl with breasts. 
But I am suddenly appalled. These two breasts are bad enough in slavery, but 
outside...! Out in the world they are impossible. I can hear the sniggers 
and see the smirks... Joyce Cortland with breasts...! 

I can never face it. 

A Board Meeting at Cortlands. Every male eye would strive not to see these 
protuberances on my chest. Awareness of the Chief Executive's breasts would 
hang as a tangible cloud above the shining mahogany. And afterwards the 
snide comments: "She must be looking for a man." 

"Damn fine pair though! I wouldn't mind . . 

"Wonder what they cost her." 

But if I was free I could go to a surgeon-even that thought nauseates. 
Someone has trapped me in the similitude of womanhood. I am blatantly 
female. 

At the end of a week my wrists are no longer strapped tight to the bed. They 
are granted a little freedom with a short chain and a handcuff. I can reach 
my new breasts with fingertips only. But I am more comfortable in my 
enforced convalescence. I have passed the stage of wanting to do myself an 
injury. The incisions are healing. 

"They're really lovely, Miss Cortland. I wish I had them." The damn nurse is 
quite sincere. She never tires of running her fingers over my new curves. 

The doctor reminds me of something I do not want to know. "You'll be one of 
the most beautiful women in London." He chuckles. "It's quite a 
responsibility." 

"What you've done to me is cruel." 

"That feeling won't last, Miss Cortland." 

"Please tell me who...?" 

"Sorry. Confidential. Seriously now... You're going to get a lot more out of 
life with these... than the way you were before." 

"They'll be erotic symbols for someone to paw. Why must you leave them bare 
like this?" 

"I want you to become accustomed to them, to see them all day long while you 
are unable to... interfere." 

"I'm a prisoner, aren't I? Or are these chains on my wrists a part of 
surgery?" 

"Let's not worry about that. It's very necessary too for you to become aware 
of other people looking at them." 

"You certainly do that." I tell him crossly. "Tell me, do they give you an 
erotic stimulus?" 

"Yes." 

Damn him! He is the beginning. Wherever I go these huge breasts will promote 
erections, lewd glances, envy. From somewhere they draw upon a force to 
radiate sexuality. The force is in me. Oh, damn! 

"Why did you have to make them so immense?" 

"They aren't really. You're just not used to anything there. They are 
beautifully firm, they won't sag. I assure you, Miss Cortland, you'll end up 
being very proud..." 

"How the devil did you make my nipples like I mean stand out--up--so big? 
And they're always erect... as though" 

"Professional secret." He chuckles again. "I'm good at this work. It's 
possible to plump up the lips of a girl's vulva, but you're already well 
equipped down there. However, if any time you want some special effect...?" 

I blush like fury and we both laugh. 

"I'm a slave." I tell him carelessly. "I suppose you know?" 

"Yes." His voice becomes intense. "I wish I could afford to buy you, but 
you're way beyond my means." 

I make my query casual: "D'you happen to know if I'm for sale?" 

"Lovely weather for the time of year." He counters, and winks. 

On the fourteenth day I get my hobbles back. My ankles are joined by the 
lovely silver chain. The nurse locks them on me with the same care she 
employs with a bandage. My wrist chains are removed. The first thing I do is 
cup my huge breasts. Then, ashamed of my femininity, I blush and stretch my 
arms wide in glorious freedom. 

"Gosh, that feels good!" 

"Your breasts or the stretch, Miss Cortland?" The nurse is amused. 

There is now a fresh indignity. From the band on my right ankle a long chain 
runs to the far wall where it is firmly locked. "Sorry about this, dear, but 
we can't have you hovering around the door." 

"You mean I might bop you or jump you?" 

"That's right. We need to see where you are when we come in. Probably you'd 
never do it but just in case." 

I clink around, testing. ! can cover most of the room but cannot get near 
the door. I suppose the precaution is sensible- for them! 

"You'll be here another week, dear. We might as well all be comfortable." 

I stand and watch her go. The door locks with an emphatic snap. They must 
think me a resourceful prisoner! Trembling, I shuffle my hobbled steps to 
the mirror. 

They are gorgeous, incredible, beautiful beyond words! The doctor was right. 
Their proportions are the largest size suitable to the rest of Me. They ride 
high on my chest, their nipples are impertinent. They are the dream of every 
man and every woman and I hate them bitterly. 

Do I! 

Dammit, I don't know. I don't know anything. I envision a hundred scenes in 
which I am unutterably shamed by people gazing upon this evidence of my 
femaleness. But there are a hundred more in which I glory and a fire burns 
hot between my legs. In a tentative exploration I friction my new nipples 
and am rewarded by shafts of sensation at which I gasp and desist. It is too 
intense. It will take some getting used to. 

I wonder what they'll be like in a Bra'! 

As a slave, I may never know. 

My breasts are too firmly protuberant to lift. But by an upward pressure I 
can see the thin white lines that no one else will know are there. They are 
healed and will soon vanish. My breasts are prisoners within their own skin, 
and I am their prisoner too. I can never escape. 

They know my fate but will not tell. I see it in their eyes when we talk. I 
feel sure something has changed. I want Lady Constance, but when I ask for 
her I get only a blank stare. I test them with all the names, but they are 
terribly cautious. I get the dismissive smile. 

"The start of a wonderful new life, Miss Cortland. I envy you." 

"You'll be the talk of the town." 

Was that last one sarcasm! I shrug off their enthusiasm. I don't know how 
much they have been told. I wonder what they thought of the whipmarks that 
were on me when I came. I have prodded both with that query but they will 
have none of it. But I'll swear whipmarks on a girl do not embarrass them. 
Like the lines beneath my breasts the whipmarks have vanished. Some lucky 
owner is going to have a complete virgin skin to whip. I wonder, with 
considerable concern, who it will be. 

I cannot escape. 

I do not need to. 

"There is everything you need, Miss Cortland and money." 

It is the twenty-second day. We stand in the nurse's own room. I am free of 
all restraint. Around me on the bed and on chairs is truly all I need to go 
back into the world. Suspiciously, I begin to dress. 

"Nurse, are you really going to let me go?" 

She laughs at my incredulity. "As far as the Braemar is concerned you were 
never a prisoner, Miss Cortland." 

They are safe. I will never go to the police. I won't do anything... Dammit, 
how can I! Trembling, I pick up the exquisitely fabricated bra'. 

"I measured and picked it out specially, dear." 

It is utterly perfect. But my breasts do not need support. After being naked 
so long it feels like wearing a tent. "Do I really need a bra'?" I ask 
doubtfully. 

"Your nipples will drive you crazy if you don't." 

How right she is! I blush and make adjustments. My breasts respond in added 
glory. I finish clothing myself. I am in a maze of wonderment. I am 
outrageously beautiful. 

"I'm going to drive you home myself, Miss Cortland. This place is in London, 
y'know." 

It is all unreal. I am free! At least I think I am! Absurdly, I consider 
that someone has been cheated out of my purchase price, and wonder how huge 
a sum it may have been. Was it Connie? If so, I'll write her a cheque. 

"It's been lovely having you." My nurse is shyly sincere. We kiss in sudden 
affection. A moment later I stand on the pavement outside my own house. I am 
exquisitely attired, everything about me is right. 

But I have breasts. 

I thank providence it is not my butler but the maid. She is sufficiently 
startled by my advent to be flustered. I fob her off with trivia and go 
directly to my bedroom. I don't think she noticed...! 

But here in this haven I face decision. What the hell do I do now! In all 
that has happened this is the most tumultuous jumble of emotions I have had 
to cope with. I have a terrible fear that Joyce Cortland would know what to 
do. But I am not Joyce Cortland, not any more. I am two lovely breasts that 
everyone will admire, and behind which I will quiver in mortification. I 
will wear an endless blush. 

My breasts are vibrant with sensation. It is the Bra' and the clothes. My 
nipples, even though covered and confined, contrive a constant friction 
against my dress. Every quiver generated beneath my bra' transmits itself 
instantly to the fire already burning between my thighs. I see now why 
breasts make a woman so vulnerable. Lasciviously manipulated they can bring 
her to her knees or lay her on her back. It is disgusting. It is 
frightening. It can happen to me. It is like a disease flaring up 
unexpectedly, perhaps when you want it least. A disease for which there is 
no cure. 

But there is a cure! 

It shows my mental turmoil that I should forget. My doctor is also a friend. 
He will have me back to normal in no time flat and no one will know. In a 
wave of relief I go to the phone and start to dial. 

I dial three digits, then place the receiver back on its cradle. I don't 
know what I look like but I feel torn asunder. In a desperate reversion to 
childhood I fling myself across my bed and cry like a baby. I cry a long 
time. I go to sleep. 

"It's Mr. Willard, Miss." The maid's voice penetrates more forcefully than 
her discreet knock. For good measure, she adds: "He knows you're at home." 

Dwight! Oh damn! I say 'thank you, Millie' and fly to the dresser. I have 
the ravages of many tears to repair. My heart is thudding. I need Dwight 
desperately enough that I will walk in as though nothing has happened and 
come what may! 

I refuse to try and keep Dwight at arm's length. And anyway, he would not 
let me. He speaks my name and enfolds me with such a tenderness I wonder if 
he knows. But that is impossible. This is just a kindly man who loves me and 
for whom I am most grateful. We hold each other close and I feel him tense. 

"You look better than your best, Joyce." 

He has backed away and absorbs my new look. If he sees my breasts he gives 
no sign. I am Joyce and he sees me as a person. Perhaps he had not seen my 
breasts. But he must have...! He has certainly felt them against his chest. 
It is impossible he cannot be aware of them. Or is he just a gentleman! 

We talk business over Tea in my home office. There is much to talk about but 
it is all unreal. Since sitting here last I have been naked, chained and 
whipped and been loved by a woman. I can tell Dwight none of these things. I 
just can't. Starkly stated they would sound beastly, and he is so dear a 
friend. Instead, we talk of Cortlands and debentures and a possible merger. 
I feel sure my breasts must seem to point at him like the guns of a 
battleship, but his eyes rove across them without focusing. It is my 
business that I have acquired them, he will not pry. After he has gone I cry 
again. He would have helped me but I did not ask. Dwight will be hurt that I 
did not speak, but I could not speak, I cannot now. Under the compulsion of 
my breasts I leave a letter of explanation for a longer absence, then go and 
take the smallest of my two cars. 

On the outside Taunton is unchanged. On the inside it has acquired a new 
butler. But I am recognized and taken instantly to Connie's favourite room. 
Constance is there. 

So is the Sheik Haarami. 

Lady Constance Taunton is naked except for handcuffs. She wears them with a 
flair. I have caught the two of them over cocktails. Connie winks and goes 
to the bar to provide me with mine. 

"You are most welcome, Miss Cortland." The old hawk's voice is pure silk 
leavened with laughter. "We were expecting you." 

"In fact we had a wager over whether you would or would not stay with 
Dwight." Connie chimes in. "I won't tell you who won." 

I stand like an idiot. The world is insane. 

Or am I. 

Constance drops to one knee in a delightful curtsey and proffers my drink 
with her chained hands. I pick up her heavy vibrations and know I must 
follow her lead. I take a chair and sip. 

"In the business world you call it a takeover." Connie explains brightly. 
"The Sheik Haarami decided you and I need a lesson, so he has taken us over. 
He's been awfully clever." She displays her handcuffs. "I wear these all the 
time now." She snickers. "But that's about all. We're both slaves, darling, 
and tomorrow I get my first whipping, one of those solemn warning affairs." 

"Lady Taunton is a jewel beyond price." Intones my new master. "I am greatly 
blest. You will witness her first punishment, I hope?" 

"I expect that's an order?" 

"Subject to the will of Allah." He says piously, and I detect the very 
faintest of winks. 

"And I now address you as 'Master'?" 

"It is only fitting, dear child. Would you wish to be whipped with your 
beloved?" 

"Willingly, Master, if it lessens her stripes." 

Haarami sighs happily. "We both knew that would be your answer, my dear. 
Yes, perhaps a small concession." 

"Isn't she a darling, Master?" Connie sounds enraptured. "She is a pilgrim 
on a long journey, dear girl... 

The conversation wanes. An elderly Arab and a nude and handcuffed young 
woman are staring at me fixedly, and I suddenly realise they are not looking 
at me at all. 

"You will bare them for us." The Sheik says gently. Shock had driven from my 
mind the existence upon me of the two things which now concern me most. The 
order I have just received was inevitable, and if it was Connie for whom I 
must bare my breasts I would expose them joyfully. But for Haarami...! To 
protrude my new breasts naked for his inspection is the last thing I wish to 
do. 

"You have to do it, y'know, darling, you must." Connie's prompting is 
urgent. There is a thread of something in her voice which denies her 
insouciance. With a touch of pathos she adds: "A slavegirl should not 
displease her Master." 

I turn to the old male eyes. "Master, you wish me naked?" 

"No, child, simply bare your breasts that I may perceive those twin delights 
by which Allah, in his wisdom, has made you whole." 

I do not owe my breasts to Allah, I probably owe them to him. But I dare not 
say so. If Connie is frightened, I had better be frightened too. I discover 
I would sooner strip naked than bare these female things upon my chest 
alone. There is something shameful about the act, and Haarami knows it. If 
he was ever a hawk he is one now! 

I tug at the expensive things I have worn so short a time. I drag them down 
to below my rib cage and clutch them there in a tight band round my middle. 
I brace my shoulders back to offer our Master what he could easily take by 
force. The gifts of Allah proclaim themselves in all their glory. 

"Come closer, child." 

I am not a child. But, obediently, I kneel beside my lord. With an almost 
touching reverence he explores my globes and the two nipples which seem 
forever seeking trouble. When his fingertips brush them I gasp and wince in 
ecstatic response. The Sheik Haarami smiles. He is proud of what he has done 
with Miss Joyce Cortland. 

"Exquisite! Have you any idea how lovely you have become, child?" 

"Yes, Master." 

"You may now remove your clothes." 

I do a strip tease for him. I don't know what else to call it. I do not wish 
it so, but the seductively coy and feminine motions possess my totally and 
enact their witchery beyond my volition. If this is how breasts make a girl 
behave the Mohammedan Houri becomes most plausible. 

I stand before my Master, nude, and am no longer ashamed. He takes me by the 
hand and leads me to where I will give him pleasure. He no longer seems old. 
I look back at Lady Constance, she shrugs and puts a finger to her lips. She 
is the slavegirl who has not been chosen. I am about to behave outrageously. 

I am sure of it. 

* * * 

"I was only brave for the first ten minutes." 

My Mistress is sobbing, her head rests between my breasts. I have one free 
hand with which I smooth her hair. Her flesh is warm on mine, but she is 
trembling. 

"They didn't waste words or time. Joyce. They stripped me and hung me up by 
my wrists..." My beloved is racked by the agonies of memory. "I had no 
idea... I wouldn't have believed it could be so terrible... They let me hang 
the rest of the day and all through the night. By morning I said yes to 
anything and everything. I wasn't a Mistress any more, I was a slave. 
Darling, I'm a coward." 

"You're not! You're not. I'd have said yes too." 

"It wasn't 'till then that Haarami showed up and took possession- of a 
female who'd been completely subdued." The darling voice pauses unhappily. 
"I'm not a bit proud of the rest." 

"You don't have to be, Mistress." 

"I'm not a Mistress, I'm a slave, a lousy subservient female who'll crawl to 
escape a punishment. Oh darling... I understand how it was with you... Now 
I've gone the same way-Oh, damn!" 

"Mistress, don't fret. We're what Haarami's made us. That's all." 

"These lovely breasts, they're so gorgeous." 

"I wasn't thinking of them." 

"They're so exciting, so sweet against my cheek." She snuggles closer and 
pulls against the handcuff by which my left wrist and her right are joined. 
"But about the Sheik... He's as charming as he's wicked... and he was 
kind... and I suppose I'm weak. But there was a sort of instant rapport. I 
found it easy to fall into the... sort of privileged slave role you saw me 
in today. We talked a lot, and amused each other. He took me to bed almost 
every night. I surprised myself, I suppose I could say I was happy." 

"But he's having you whipped?" 

"Well, isn't that a part of the scene. The same as the handcuffs and the 
chain and collar with which he fastened me to the wall when he didn't want 
me in bed." Connie actually giggles. "The old boy's got the most musical 
snore." 

"Isn't it just that we're female, Mistress...?" I let my voice drift. I hate 
to complete an admission of which I am still ashamed. 

She hugs me with her left arm and kisses my nipples. 

Once more my breasts deliver me... 

We are in Nancy's dungeon. Nancy has vanished with the rest of Taunton. The 
sheik's mercy is kinder to us than Connie's was to her. We have a couple of 
blankets. We are not chained to the wall. The one pair of handcuffs linking 
our wrists is our only restraint. We wear it happily. It makes a sixty-nine 
awkward but denies us nothing else. 

Constance is till my Mistress. Or will I cease to see her in that role once 
our Master has had us both whipped! I no longer trust emotions, femininity 
makes them unstable. Neither Connie or I seem much concerned with the 
punishment awaiting us. This is one more anomaly. I suppose I am inured. But 
Lady Constance Taunton...! 

"When you tied me to the tree." I whisper. "Did you know?" 

"About your breasts, darling- yes, I'm afraid I did." 

"But who...?" 

"I can't tell you. But the request came from Desmond House- It's an order 
really because--well, never mind. They asked for it to be done the way we 
did it. I was supposed to get you back the way you are now. I was so 
excited... A darling slavegirl with sumptuous breasts...! I didn't care 
whether you wanted them or not. I wanted them." Her voice drifts musingly. 
"But something went wrong. This happened, and I'm damned if I know whether 
they're connected. Haarami has forbidden me to ask any more questions about 
it." 

I remember my brief freedom, and Dwight. The freedom I could not bear to 
face. But this is not the Taunton to which I fled for refuge. "Are we like 
this for life, Mistress?" 

I ask dejectedly. 

"You don't want to be owned by a man, darling?" 

"No. I want to be owned by you. I came back--" I am hugged again as my 
Mistress whispers: "The old boy's been hinting... having fun, I guess he's 
been so easy to talk to. I think he's got something up his sleeve. I get the 
idea it isn't for life at all... something's going to happen." 

"And in the meantime?" 

"Yes, Joyce, we're slaves and we'd better bloody well remember it. We've got 
along fine, he and I. But once I stepped over his line of tolerance--he's 
adamant about a girl's attitudes. I said the wrong thing. He just clapped 
his hands and in about three minutes flat I was standing naked with my 
wrists tied way up in the air and my feet about to leave the floor--" 

"For the second time!" 

"Yes. Our Master walked in to superintend the show and watch me dangle. But 
I created such a fuss and pleaded and begged and so abased myself that he 
told his boys to untie me and put the handcuffs back on. The moment they'd 
clicked tight on my wrists I flung myself at his feet and wept 
disgracefully... I'm ashamed to tell you..." 

"Don't be. D'you think I don't know the feeling!" 

"The hell of it was my performance was real. He knew it was real. That's why 
he let me off. But I won't be forgiven next time, I know I won't." 

We muse quietly and lightly kiss bare skin. I make an irrelevant 
observation. "He's amazingly potent." 

We leave it at that and go to sleep. 

The Sheik Haarami is a wily old fox who will forever keep us off balance. I 
have a terrible suspicion he has gone to all this trouble and expense to 
create a sort of Masque in which Constance and I are the stars, with him an 
omnipotent power in the wings. He amuses himself by changing our lives. He 
is so damnably rich...! 

Look at us now! The three of us are having breakfast, and Connie and I are 
clothed in the smart sort of things a girl would wear for a day in Town. 
Yes, we are actually clothed! And our hair-do's are sleek. The handcuffs on 
our wrists are the only incongruity. But our hands have become nimble in 
restraint and we have no trouble with our knife and fork. Needless to say, 
we are hoping our Master has forgotten about our whippings. 

Haarami twinkles. "With the right companion a dungeon becomes a Palace, does 
it not?" 

We demurely agree. We also blush. He knows our secret, he knows damn well 
what we do together. Perhaps this is a prelude to being punished for having 
busy tongues. 

He turns to me and blandly suggests: "I've been thinking about the new issue 
of Cortland debentures. Perhaps I should underwrite the whole thing myself. 
It is only sixty millions?" 

Damn him! This one leaves me high and dry. Am I supposed to take him 
seriously? His face betrays no clue. Will I shortly be hanging by my wrists! 

"I am but a slavegirl, Master. But this slavegirl believes the Board would 
view your offer favourably. Such funding does not effect control." I am 
trembling. 

"Thank you, Miss Cortland. Your opinion is valued." 

He turns his attention to my Mistress. "I believe there are considerable 
land holdings held in fee simple along with Taunton House, Lady Constance?" 

Connie concedes his assumption. The questions and answers broaden. He 
favours both of us with queries and information. We become three business 
people--absorbed. Our handcuffs clink unnoticed. 

Damn his infernal charm! 

When the last of the toast, marmalade and coffee have disappeared and talk 
of business loses animation, the Sheik Haarami bestows one of his best 
twinkles. "I would suggest half an hour, ladies. This will give you time...? 
And then- you know the room." He has not forgotten! 

"Silly of us to think he might." Constance admits as we share her bathroom. 
"You have to hand it to the bastard, he's got style." 

"He forgot to mention clothes, Mistress." 

Constance laughs delightedly and displays her handcuffs. "We can't undress 
with these on. Not unless we tear--" She makes a wry face. "It's probably on 
purpose. It will amuse him to see what we do." 

We do nothing. At the appointed time we walk sedately to The Room. Two 
svelte business women going to be whipped. 

It is too absurd. 

But that's its subtlety. Our Master will extract from the situation every 
cringe and humility with which it is loaded. We find him comfortably 
ensconced in a chair. He rises with his own grave courtesy at our entrance, 
then gestures us into the care of the two helots awaiting our disposition. 
Nobody says anything. What is there to say! But we are breathing faster than 
we would wish. 

We are dealt with one at a time. With two men attending her a girl will not 
revolt. Lady Taunton's handcuffs are unlocked. It is politely indicated she 
should bare her shoulders. When she has done so her wrists are strapped one 
on each side of the whipping post. She stands untidily while I am similarly 
disposed. It is the same post. Our strapped wrists compel us to face it at 
arm's length. The stark timber rises between us girls but we can lean to 
either side and smile at each other. We do so. The smiles are pale. 

Now we are both untidy. Our clothes are supported by our breasts. Mine 
counter gravity most adequately. But we look silly. It is not hard to 
realise we are supposed to. 

We are now stripped. Male hands on each of us, casually slow. We are 
exquisitely mortified. The Sheik Haarami smiles and nods. If we turn to him 
the smile seems for us alone. I know I am silly, but I could die of shame 
when the fingers slip inside my panties and tug them down. I obediently step 
out of them but I am close to tears. My morale is somewhat sustained by the 
gasps when they take my bra'. 

We are now nude. 

It was cleverly done. I have never felt more naked, or more aware of eyes. 
So far as my helplessness goes I begin to feel a veteran in such matters. My 
body is most efficiently exposed for the whip. 

"I had considered twenty as a pleasant introduction." Our Master explains 
suavely. "But in view of Miss Cortland's sacrifice the number is reduced to 
fifteen for each of you. Eight on your bottoms with a cane, and seven across 
your backs with the whip. I trust you concur?" 

"Yes, Master." Our voices are as one. 

We are to be whipped alternately, in segments so that our pain is fully 
shared. Lady Constance Taunton has the honour of being first. A meditative 
helot taps her waiting bottom with his cane, then flexes the limber horror 
back and forth between his hands. "You may begin." 

It is a skin cringing proclamation. I shrink from looking at my beloved as 
she receives her pain. She is unusued to it and may be shamed by her 
reactions. But there is a fascination, a compulsion. I lean and look as her 
whole being is galvanised by the thunking impact on her flesh. Her head 
rears and she strains against her straps. She catches my anxious gaze and 
tries to smile, but pain is etched too deeply on her face. 

Lady Constance accepts half her eight before she starts to scream. At number 
six I cease to look, and hide behind our post. I am quivering with the fear 
of my own turn. We approached this punishment light heartedly but now that 
it is real we cannot bear it. We are so naked and the cane on our bottoms 
cuts so cruelly. Worst of all, we are being thrashed by male hands. 

My own bottom is now to receive its portion. I am respectfully requested to 
extend it back into greater prominence and to keep it thus as it is slashed. 
My obedience is automatic. Experience has taught me it hurts just as much if 
I warp my loins this way or that. The first thud across my virgin skin jolts 
me into agony, all courage dissolves. A girl may be erotically aroused by a 
light caning. But not like this! Never, never like this! This is awful, 
awful, awful! I lean to see if Connie is watching. She is. I try to give her 
a smile but the second stroke erases it. My straps creak and hurt my 
plunging wrists. I stick my bottom out a bit further in order not to give 
offence. I follow my Mistress's lead and begin to scream at number five. 

"Allah has greatly blest me. I am doubly fortunate." Haarami sounds truly 
sincere. 

Constance and I stand, panting, glistening with the sweat of pain and fear. 
We manage smiles around our post. So far we are not going to die, but our 
bottoms are curved blazing furnaces. 

"I compliment you both, my dears. Your motions are pure poetry, your dolor 
is the song of nightingales." 

"Thank you, Master." Once more we hit the same key. I hope we do not sound 
eager. 

A whip is different than a cane. A girl's back is different from her bottom. 
With me, my back hurts worse. It must be the same with Lady Constance 
Taunton, she screams at the first whirring cut. It is a scream of shock. I 
cannot see her back but I can visualise the weal. She keeps silent at the 
second, as though ashamed, but surrenders to number three. I can see her 
hands clench and her wrists strain. Thereafter she screams with each stroke. 
After number seven she continues to moan. 

I give a duplicate performance. My seven seem an outrageous infliction on a 
girl, the blasted man must think he's flogging a criminal. I am well sweated 
and gasping when it is done, and my new breasts are heaving ..magnificently. 
They keep providing me with fresh vistas. I am tremendously grateful the 
whip tip did not reach their slopes. 

"This afternoon for cocktails, my dears." 

We express breathless thanks, and watch our Master and his retainers leave. 
No doubt we are to be left alone with our pain and our thoughts. This 
humiliating abandonment of a whipped girl in her bonds appears to be de 
rigueur in these situations. I lean as far to the side as my straps will let 
me, and cock an eyebrow at my love. 

"Oh darling!" Constance is vehement. It's simply ages since I've been 
whipped: and never by a man! I'd forgotten... and when I think what I've 
done to you...! Oh, Joyce!" 

"It doesn't matter. Honest it doesn't. Are you O.K.?" 

"I suppose so." She sounds uncertain. "Gosh, that hurt!" 

"Mistress...? Did you get anything between your legs? Heat, I mean? Should I 
have done?" 

"Hell no! Not with pain like that." Constance pants gently for several 
moments, then shyly concedes: "It's just beginning now... I'd never have 
believed... Darling, how about you?" 

"Yes, it's starting. But I think it's because of you. If you weren't here-" 

"Well, it won't do either of us any good the way we're fixed. Darling, I'll 
never strap you to this damn post again." 

"Yes you will, Mistress. You must." 

"We'll probably never get the chance. But look, sweetheart, if you ever have 
the opportunity to fasten me like this I want you to. Then give me a damn 
good thrashing to teach me a lesson. I've been so rotten mean to you." 

"Mistress... I'd never "Probably not, but you should. Joyce, dear, has it 
occurred to you how long it is to cocktail time? We're going to be standing 
strapped to this damn post for hours." 

"Yes, Mistress, I'd thought of it. But as long as you're here too-" 

"But, darling, we can't T--O--U--C- H -!" 

We sigh longingly and lean against our straps. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN - SHEIK'S JUSTICE 

We had hoped for gorgeous cocktail gowns. We did not get them. But we are 
not quite nude. A girl comes to where we bathe and affixes costly jewels 
after we are dry. Some we adore, some we do not. The sparkling choker is 
lovely, so are the glinting armbands above our elbows. We are not too keen 
on the big stone she glues into our navel, and when it comes to the little 
clips adorned with tiny gems we are even less than pleased. She bites one on 
each lip of our sex and does the same for our nipples. They do not hurt very 
much, but they do hurt. We will constantly be aware of them. When she clips 
mine on my nipples I nearly jump out of my skin. If they jiggle, and they 
will, I can envision endless orgasms. She completes our ensemble with a 
silver belt from which silver chains run to silver bands upon our wrists. 
All are locked. We discover the use of our hands is limited. We could not 
tilt a glass to our lips, but if we suck through a straw we may just strain 
our hand high enough to manage. We have lost our handcuffs but feel slightly 
more helpless. She then clips our ears. Admiring each other, we have to 
admit to being a gorgeously erotic pair of Houris. 

We forget our small pains. 

Our Master is benign. He enquires solicitously after our weals and examines 
them with pleasure as we turn and pose for his attention. We feel a 
ridiculous pride. 

He waves us to the bar where someone has thoughtfully provided the straws we 
are going to need, and also a squat footstool for us to stand on as we mix 
the drinks. Without it our chained hands could not perform the task. But our 
metal belts and the gleaming chains are almost jewelry, and the silver bands 
about our wrists are wide and exquisitely wrought. Everything fastened on us 
reflects light and sparkles as we move. We are costly odalisques, but under 
the Sheik's approving eye feel more like kittens. We serve our Master and 
ourselves, then dispose our shining nudities before him on the rug and gaze 
up at the Sheik Haarami with respectful attention. 

"The transition at Taunton will require some co-operation from you, my dear, 
if it is to take place without attracting undesired attention." Our Master 
smiles down at the kneeling nakedness which was once the Lady Constance 
Taunton. 

"What must I do, Master?" 

"Primarily you must be seen." 

What he says is obvious. Lady Taunton cannot just disappear any more than I 
can. 

"And when you are seen you must be happy." 

"Yes, Master." It is not assent. She is waiting. 

"Essential business contacts, small social affairs..." 

"Someone will guess, Master." 

His chuckle is dry. "Not necessarily, my dear. Remember, you will be 
clothed." 

He is right. Clothes affect females, even our thoughts. Connie cannot 
restrain humour. "I could show them my whipmarks, Master." She represses the 
giggle. "Perhaps in the powder room..." 

"You consider such liberty impractical?" 

"Yes, Master." 

"Why? Come, tell me. You will not be punished." 

Poor Constance. How can she tread so fine a line! She looks up appealingly 
at the man who now owns her body. "I am human, Master... I will be 
constantly tempted. A little while ago Taunton was mine and I was free." She 
looks at me with love. "I even had a slavegirl of my own..." 

"Are you sure you do not still possess her?" 

We blush. Constance feels her way slowly: "Now you have made me a slave, 
Master... If I must be a slave I will try and be a good slave... and often I 
will be happy. But it is not what I would choose for my life. If freedom was 
offered I would take it." She shook her left hand to agitate the links of 
its chain. "You need these on me, Master. Without them I would go." 

Haarami nods in agreement. "An excellent precis. You are honest. Once 
outside these walls, clothed and without chains you would invoke... 
forces... against me?" 

"Yes, Master." 

"In that case I must keep a chain on you, my dear. An invisible chain..." We 
rear our heads, our nostrils flare. We guess! 

"Please, Master, no. Not that way?" 

"Can you suggest another?" 

"No, Master." 

"I don't mind, darling-honest I don't!" My exclamation is spontaneous. 

Haarami is holding up his hand. We had best keep quiet. We relapse into an 
obedient silence: two slavegirls on their knees. 

"If there was another way I would use it." 

His regret is sincere. We know it is. We clutch our glasses in our chained 
hands, the straws forgotten. 

"When you go, Lady Taunton, Joyce will stay." 

"As hostage for my good behavior, Master?" 

"Yes." 

Lady Taunton gives me a fleeting smile of tenderness. I will behave, 
Master." 

"You will be obedient?" 

"I will be obedient, Master. I will not escape." 

"No, you will not escape." Haarami bestows upon me a regard in which I sense 
affection. "But, lest dubieties exist, I will be specific... During most of 
your excursions into your former status, Miss Cortland will do whatever she 
would do if you were still in Taunton House in handcuffs. Penalties would 
not be imposed on her unless you gave cause." 

"Yes, Master... But... penalties?" 

"Suffering is a part of life, my child." 

We know what he means. If Connie flees the coop I will be whipped half to 
death! But he is not yet finished. 

"There may be urgencies in which time is as vital as compliance." Haarami 
has become the desert hawk. "On these occasions, that you be not tempted. 
Miss Cortland will stand with her hands held high, her arms strained. The 
tension will increase too slowly to measure but it will increase until her 
toes no longer touch the floor. Her true punishment will then commence 
"Please, Master, no, oh no there is no need!" 

"You will be sorely tempted, child. This visual picture of your love will 
give you strength." 

"It's too awful " 

"With your obedience Miss Cortland will suffer little.' The rock and the 
hard place! We are betwixt. Haarami is an old fox, his judgment of us 
faultless. I think my role is easiest of the two. My poor darling's 
decisions will be agonizing. 

"Use your straws, dear girls." Our Master has compassion on our dolor. "When 
you consider it, this is a most happy solution." 

"Yes, Master." 

Our affirmative is perfunctory. We sip thoughtfully, seeing visions... 
mostly of a naked Me hanging from the bar. 

"Replenish our glasses. Miss Cortland." 

He uses my proper name with deadly effect in all the places where it 
emphasises what I have become. But there are three glasses and I have only 
two hands, both chained. In the fluster of trotting back and forth, of 
stepping up and down on the footstool, and of striving for one more inch of 
reach, I forget everything but what might happen to me if I spill a drink. 
Work is wonderful! When I once more kneel and sip from a straw I can barely 
reach, our Master drops his bomb. 

"There is also the matter of Cortlands..." It is inevitable. I should have 
realised! Haarami gives me his most serious smile. "Quite soon there will be 
many things demanding your attention." 

"Could I not... disappear... Master?" 

"No. I have an interest in Cortlands. You will protect it." 

"Don't worry about me, darling." Connie grins and shrugs. "If you can bear 
it so can I." 

"There need be little to bear, my dears. You play hostage to each other, but 
that which burns between you will protect." 

He is so wise. And we are so helpless! The silver on my wrists seems 
suddenly afire. 

The cocktails work their magic. Our Master sparkles, we sparkle too. The 
conversation, and later on dinner, is animated and worthwhile. Our new 
chains are well adapted to knife and fork. By bedtime Constance and I are 
giggly enough to enjoy the drama of the draw. 

The longest straw will entitle one of us to our Master's bed. 

It is too absurd, but we are still enchanted. 

"I would once have summoned you both, my dears, but my years are many." He 
is not embarrassed. 

We understand. 

Lady Constance Taunton draws the longest marker. The three of us love each 
other as they go upstairs. A hand is gentle on my arm. It is the girl, the 
girl who locked me as I am. She does not unlock me now, for if she did I 
would be free. She leads me downstairs. 

I had not expected the dungeon. 

But I do not demur. What the hell could I do anyway! She could handle me 
with ease. She takes my jewelry. When she unclips my nipples she plays with 
them, fascinated, and I flare into desire. But she only smiles and propels 
me through the devastating door. She nods brightly and leaves me in the 
dungeon alone. The door mocks me with thuds. 

I stand there, naked and desolate. But she has left me both blankets. I seek 
their refuge, and have the damndest time disposing them with my chained 
hands. I refuse to think of upstairs. I wriggle in discomfort and start to 
cry. 

* * * 

The door wakes me. I feel sure it is past midnight. I am frightened. I know 
a fleeting gladness I am not chained to the wall. 

It is Nancy. 

Nancy is clothed and self-possessed. She holds a finger to her lips and 
looks around for her former Mistress. She is disappointed. We whisper brief 
explanations and she fingers my chains. 

"I can't get these off. I could have loosed the others. I stole keys." 

"It doesn't matter. I can run." 

With Nancy's keys we defeat Taunton with ease. It had held only two 
captives, one in the Sheik's bed, the other in a dungeon. What need had they 
for guards or alarms. Our run through the park is a breathless adventure. On 
the road she has a small car. The tiny vehicle flees too, with us inside. 

"Where d'you want to go, Miss Cortland?" 

"Why are you doing this?" 

"Curiosity. Where to?" 

Oh, damn, I am back at square one! I want to go home and use the phone. But 
I can't knock at my door in the middle of the night, not naked and 
chained... and with breasts... bare breasts! I turn to Nancy. "Where are 
you?" 

"With friends I'm afraid..." So O.K.! I am grateful for what she has done. 
Inspired by compromise I plead: "Desmond House. Can you?" 

She laughs as though amused. "Cup of Tea, Miss Cortland. Hold on." Our 
chariot purrs with added fuel. "Are those chains bothering?" 

"Not unless I try and do something." I am flooded by relief. "Oh, Nancy, 
thank you, thank you!" 

"Never cared much for that dungeon myself, Miss Cortland." She giggles. 
"That Arab lot thought I was one of the staff. Gave me a week's wages." 

"We sit in the snug warmth and talk. The motor sings, as does my heart. I 
forget I am chained. By the time Taunton awakes in the morning the police 
will be there. Is it my heart taking me back to Taunton and the woman who 
purchased me, or is it my breasts that drive me from Cortlands and my home? 
The question rings incessantly in my mind but I cannot answer it. 

"I love your breasts." Says Nancy. 

My breasts have changed my life. 

Desmond House easily absorbs the shock of my nakedness and chains on its 
doorstep. Paula is intrigued. I babble absurdly, clinking my shackles in 
agitation. Nancy gets a word in here and there. When Linda comes my breasts 
are again the center of attention. Someone brings hot cocoa which Nancy 
holds to my lips. 

"We'll get those chains off you in the morning, love." Paula chuckles. "Need 
tools. Damn shame to spoil 'em though." 

"I don't mind a bit. I've got so used to not having my hands. The thing is 
to call the police and rescue Lady Constance. Please, Mrs. Gantry, quickly. 
Right now." 

"Of course, dear. Don't fret." Her hand goes to the receiver. "Now, who did 
you say this Arab chap is??" 

"It's the Sheik Haarami. Didn't I say -?" 

The silence is pregnant. Linda looks shocked. Paula's hand slips from the 
phone, she views me askance. "I suppose you don't know he's one of the 
owners of this place." She says tonelessly. 

My spine feels the chill of doom. Something is terribly wrong. I look down 
at the silver bands upon my wrists and long for the freedom of my limbs I 
never seem to have any more. 

"But because I've escaped he'll torture Constance. Please phone." 

"Are you quite sure you've escaped, dear?" 

Oh, no, no, no! This can't be happening. It can't! I look from one face to 
another in desperate appeal. Linda and Paula are embarrassed. Nancy looks 
uneasy. "Perhaps I should be on my way." She suggests diffidently. 

"Perhaps you shouldn't." Paula's tone says more than her words. 

"Yes, really I must. I can't help--" Poor child! Because of my breasts we 
are here instead of in my home, safe and secure and with a phone. Why the 
devil have I allowed these things on my chest to trap us. I should have had 
more sense. "Let Nancy go." I say without hope. "She's been more than kind." 

"Haarami is one of the most powerful men in the world." 

Paula's statement says everything. But I try. "Very well, I won't involve 
you. Nancy can drive me home. Perhaps you can lend me a blanket?" 

Paula Gantry sighs. "You're forgetting so much, Miss Cortland: you're 
forgetting everything. Desmond House sold you and Nancy to Lady Constance. 
We can't renege-" 

"But you promised to effect my release " 

"From Lady Taunton, yes. But since the Sheik now owns Lady Taunton he also 
owns both of you. Desmond House won't cross him " 

"But this is absurd this slavery nonsense!" 

"Is it! What's that thing locked round your waist!" 

She is right. For Nancy and I, and a few more, enslavement is starkly real. 
Mrs. Gantry gives my rescuer a sympathetic shrug. "I'm afraid you're going 
to have to revert, dear." 

"Oh no... please! Haven't I done my stint!" 

Paula locks the door and says, abruptly. "Strip." 

It is shocking to watch. The young face becomes lined and haggard. Nancy 
looks about her in desperation. "Please don't send me back." It is as simple 
a plea as a girl can make. I add my own: "I'll pay, I'll reimburse whatever 
money will cover?" 

"You have no money. Miss Courtland." 

Once more she is right. I am a slave. Salves do not have money. My fists 
clench in impotence as she says to Nancy: "If you prefer a tussle first, 
dear, Linda and I will oblige--seems a bit silly." 

Sulkily, Nancy undresses. She is young and lovely, and so forlorn. I could 
weep, and so could she. But she flares into protest when Linda produces 
rope. "Oh, please, that hurts so. Can't you handcuff me?" 

"Behind your back, Nancy." 

It is like an old, old drill, evoking memories. The rebellious hands are 
placed palm to palm and neatly tied. When Linda ties a girl's wrists they 
are tied to stay! When Nancy sees the second cord she grimaces in distaste 
but says no more as her bare elbows are carefully bound. She has been a 
slave and recognizes the inevitable. 

"We'll be punished horribly." I look at Paula with appeal. 

"Let's hope not, love. Haarami does have a streak of chivalry, y'know. I 
won't tell him you wanted to call the police." 

"Thanks." I expect my voice is bitter. "How about Lady Constance?" 

"I expect we can have you back there before her feet are too far off the 
ground." She grins at a sudden thought. "Be damned amusing to do a reversal 
if we can get you there in time..." Linda ties my elbows. I am too miserable 
to protest. She does not do it out of spite, but to keep me tractable. I am 
warmly kissed and patted by a regretful Paula. "This is a difficult 
business, dear." She shakes her head. "Sometimes too damn difficult..." She 
laughs dryly, "Good thing we didn't touch those chains." 

Linda leads us to the car. 

* * * 

To be back in the dungeon is unreal. But the keys and the dark made Linda's 
task possible. We could have fought and screamed but then might have been 
worse off. There is also a rueful humour in Haarami finding himself the 
beneficiary of Nancy as unearned increment. She and I stand in the dim 
artificial light and look at each other in despondency. 

"She forgot to untie us. Damn!" 

"Think we can get at each other's knots?" 

We try, but our fingers are numb. With her elbows bound behind her back a 
girl can't do much of anything. It is less painful to await the opening of 
the door. We crouch together on the blankets and survey our future. We will 
be punished. I may be punished terribly. 

Breakfast is an incongruity. 

I feel ridiculous. I am off balance. It is all too damn civilised. Haarami 
is playing with me. I can be sure of that. Underneath my skin I am 
frightened. For Nancy and I the bath was wonderful, and to get rid of the 
burning ropes more wonderful still. But punishment hangs like a cloud above 
our heads. It has not been mentioned but it is there. 

"Allah has blest me with increase." Our Master beams across the breakfast 
table at a naked and embarrassed Nancy. He holds up a silencing hand. "No, I 
want no details. I accept the gift with humility." 

Lady Constance and I exchange glances. She is probably more at sea than I. 
She is still chained as I am chained. Surely, during the night...? But our 
Master's use of his bedslave is not of pressing moment. 

We eat with enjoyment. The Sheik exudes tranquility. His grey eyes twinkle 
at me over the coffee cup. "You seem apprehensive, my child?" 

"Of my punishment, Master." 

"Ah, you believe you deserve one?" 

"Yes, Master." 

The table is electric with concern. Eyes flash back and forth. My Master 
gives me his full attention. "And what punishment do you suggest?" 

"Whatever pleases you. Master." 

"That is not an answer." 

"I expect I should be whipped." 

He sighs. "We speak overmuch of whips, dear child. Have you no other thought 
for your penance?" 

"I know little of such things, Master. I could be suspended. To hang by my 
wrists is terrible." 

"You become trebly desirable in your submission, child." 

"Thank you, Master." 

"A most practical reward for a runaway is to brand her with her Master's 
initials," The indrawn breaths are like a gust around the toast and bacon. 
For several moments three nudities are utterly still. 

"I will wear your brand with pride, Master." I fear I may have overdone the 
humility, but what is a girl to say. 

"On the other hand the whip need not be unoriginal. 

For instance... those exquisite breasts." 

My heart almost stops. I have hated my breasts! But now I cannot bear the 
thought of them being striped by a whip-or injured! My breasts are 
beautiful. My acknowledgement of their loveliness is also an admission. I am 
half way to being in love with them. I falter: "Please, Master, do not whip 
my breasts." 

"Ah, you have come by a regard for them. And so you should. Those breasts 
make you the most exquisite woman in the world." 

"Thank you, Master. I am yours." 

His quick glance is a flash of fire. "The words you are using are of the 
theatre, child?" 

"I know, Master. I am ashamed... They form upon my lips... I cannot tell you 
why... and then I utter them." 

"But they are not entirely false?" 

"Oh no, Master!" 

"In the matter of the whip, Miss Cortland, there are also your feet-the 
soles of the little feet that run." 

I almost choke with emotion. Haarami is giving me such vistas of agony that 
I would now welcome an ordinary whipping on my back as an act of mercy. 
Again my lips betray me. 

"Yes, Master. It would be fitting." 

He sighs again. Haarami is very clever with these sighs. They disconcert, 
they leave a girl viewing forbidding chasms. "We will consider these 
matters, Miss Cortland. There is no hurry, punishment is salutory whenever 
it is received. Today we have visitors. Three separate interviews relevant 
to Cortlands: Wickes, Gunderson, and Lord Glissing." 

I tense in horror. My breasts...! 

"You will be present, Miss Cortland, in your capacity as Chairman of The 
Board. Your breasts will be bare." 

I shudder most visibly. "Please, Master...!" 

"You will carry off these interviews as though nothing untoward is taking 
place. These three men are gentlemen, they will respect your modesty and my 
authority." 

"Oh, Master... why?" 

"That your breasts be seen and noted." He chuckles. "We should send out 
birth announcements: A woman has been born!" 

"Master, I cannot. I will die of shame." 

"Think, my dear, think...!" 

I think. I see my darling Mistress... hanging... whipped! I please: "Master, 
please... let me be clothed?" 

"There are occasions when you will be clothed, Miss Cortland. The attire 
chosen will be most flattering... above the waist." 

"Thank you. Master." 

"You are reconciled to being a bare breasted business woman?" 

"I will not cause Lady Constance to be punished, Master." 

"You are of a price beyond rubies, child..." At that moment I am sure I am. 

* * * 

It is exquisite cruelty. Haarami has me thoroughly perplexed. I am to be 
punished. I am to be exposed. I am to be shamed. I must also talk business 
as though I had no breasts at all. The girl attends me. In her own shy way 
she is a torturess. Her smile probably hides laughter at my shame. 

Waist high leotards. That is all! For my Master's purpose it is ample. They 
are tight, delineating my Venus mound and crotch: not too blatantly but 
enough to invite a glance--a male glance! Damn! My chains are still locked 
on me, I suppose it's a sensible precaution. But suppose they are not 
removed...! 

I have said I will obey. I hope I can, I hope...! Visions of Connie being 
tortured may give me courage But my breasts already burn at thought of 
flaunting themselves whilst Lord Glissing and I discuss contracts. 

A severe simplicity has been chosen for me. No jewelry, nothing to divert 
attention from my breasts. The girl carefully stains my nipples a 
maidenblush pink. Perhaps in mockery, she sculptures the most provocative 
coiffure I have ever had. It is not until we reach the door, within which my 
martyrdom awaits, that she unlocks my chains. 

I am lucky, or perhaps the Sheik is kind. The first of them is Gunderson. 
Gunderson is not easily shocked, and there are stories... Both Karl and the 
sheik rise as I enter. Karl and I shake hands. Beyond the first start of 
astonishment he does no more than raise an eyebrow and watches my face more 
intently than he does my pink nipples. With Haarami present I can make no 
appeal for help- and it could be a trap. 

"Miss Cortland is my honoured guest, Mr. Gunderson." 

"You are a lucky man, Haarami." 

Damn the man, surely he notices my breasts. They are the most prominent 
thing in the room. But even if he ogles them will they offer a clue that I 
need help. He has a poker face, I cannot tell. My nipples point like guns as 
we pass our papers back and forth. The girl has used cosmetics on my wrists, 
but appending my signature enables me to stick them under his nose. I 
consider turning to show him my whipped back, but that is as eloquent as 
words, and Haarami is watching. I think of Connie, nudely suspended, and am 
fortified. 

"You see, dear child, your breasts are glorious beyond comment." 

"Master, I think Karl knows or guesses." 

"I think so too, but he is a friend." 

"If he does, will I be punished? Or Constance?" 

"No. But take care with the ostentation of your wrists." He misses nothing. 
But there is a good feeling between us. Mine comes mostly from having 
crossed my first hurdle, a business man has seen my naked breasts. "Master," 
I say meekly and without intending to "I had no interest in what we have 
done. I have changed." 

"Have you only just noticed?" He is laughing at me. 

I produce my faithful blush and show temerity: "Should I sell you Cortlands, 
Master?" 

"What would you do with the money, child?" He is still laughing. 

My blush deepens. I go all out. "Slaves have no need of money, Master." 

"Are you telling me you need not be tortured into signing a transfer, Miss 
Cortland?" 

"Master, please don't call me Miss Cortland. It--it--throws me, I feel 
foolish." 

"Of course. It is what I intend. All your pretence of Corporate dignity must 
be incised." 

"Yes, Master." 

Good Heavens, I must be insane...! 

I am saved by the next arrival. It is William Wickes. Nobody calls him Bill. 
His reaction is instant. 

"Good heavens!" 

I am drugged with success. I am enjoying my breasts and my painted nipples. 
"It seemed a pity to cover them, Mr. Wickes. I do hope you approve?" 

He approves. But is not going to say so. "You are a most beautiful woman, 
Miss Cortland, but I would suggest a more conservative attire." 

"The Sheik Haarami feels this more in keeping with my present status, Mr. 
Wickes." 

"And what is your present status, Miss Cortland?" 

I dare not say it. I long to shock him but it is not worth agony. "Let us 
deal with the tenders, Mr. Wickes." I say sweetly, and flash my Master's 
stern features a reassuring glance. I am a good slave. 

When Wickes has gone I am penitent. "I am sorry, Master. It is a mood." 

"Be careful of it, child, I could bring you pain." 

I have not forgotten pain. I already have some shocking punishment hovering. 
I greet Lord Glissing sedately. 

"You are looking remarkably well, Miss Cortland." 

The old smoothie, he's had a few girls in his time! He also looks lower, 
which shows he is not as old as he looks. To be helpful I separate my legs a 
bit. I am still in the grip of what I can only call 'Breast euphoria.' I am 
longing for one of these idiots to speak of what I've got on my chest. "I 
thought you might enjoy this dress." 

"Er... well." He has not noticed a dress, only its absence. He sticks an 
eyeglass in his eye and peers. "Remarkable..." 

"You really like them?" 

"Where have you been keeping them all these years?" 

"The Sheik Haarami owns them." 

"You don't say! Pity! Might have made an offer myself." 

He opens his brief case. 

It is over. I eye my Master contritely. "I was not a good girl?" 

He laughs at my contrition. "You made a discovery, my dear. You found it 
heady stuff." 

"They will tell their wives." 

"Gunderson has no wife. The other two most assuredly will not." 

"What now, Master?" 

"For you, sleep. You got none last night. Tomorrow there is a gathering for 
cocktails." 

"A preview of my breasts, Master?" 

"Yes. I make no apologies." 

"There will be women present, Master?" 

"Indeed yes." 

"I would rather be punished." 

"You will also be punished. Have no fear." 

"Thank you, Master." 

How humble my thanks, and how absurd! But these humilities cover so many 
awkward moments, they are slave talk. I know myself in the influence of a 
female euphoria such as I have never known. The three men and my breasts 
have something to do with it, as though I have won a victory. In Haarami's 
eyes I have. I compound my submission. 

"Is it the dungeon, Master?" 

"You will get more sleep there than if I choose you." 

"Yes, Master." 

"But I do not want you pining. You shall have company." He sees me tense 
hopefully, and laughs. "No, it will not be your beloved, you would get no 
rest with her either." 

"Yes, Master." 

"I'll have that set of chains taken from you, they have served their purpose 
well." 

"Thank you, Master." 

"But I will order you well draped in shackles. They will not stop you 
sleeping." 

"Please, Master, not a collar on my throat?" 

"A light one. A girl is very conscious of a bond upon her neck." 

He is right. A metal circlet upon me there makes me ten times slave. But if 
the chain is not heavy...! For the rest of me I know what awaits. I will be 
banded and linked so I cannot move without metallic music. I will waken in 
the night and wonder at the weight upon my limbs. I say my thanks. 

"Your companion will be Nancy, a charming child." 

"Thank you, Master." 

"To ensure your rest, you will be chained to opposite walls." 

Oh damn, and double damn! 

 CHAPTER EIGHT - ON FEMALE TOES 

The process was slow, as had been promised. First, her bare feet flat upon 
the floor, her raised arms under no great tension from the bar to which her 
wrists were strapped. The naked hostage had been able to rest a cheek upon 
her bare arm and allow her mind to dwell, mortified, upon her shame. 

The shimmering sheath was enchanting. She had never worn a thing of such 
soignee loveliness. It was woven of moonbeams yet was opaque. Viewed in the 
huge mirror it was as though her body had been painted with its iridescence. 

"I am worse than naked, Master." 

"A poor choice of words, child. Nudity alone could never achieve such 
beauty." 

"Oh, Master, this rubber girdle thing-It doesn't show but it constricts 
outrageously-my breasts...?" 

"Superb." 

"Master, I cannot walk among them thus." 

"You will... and you know why." 

"But my nipples...! This stuff affects... it moulds itself... my nipples 
thrust out." 

"A charming effect. They compliment your breasts." 

"But, Master, my breasts are already outrageous." 

It had done no good. Shrinking and trembling, and unutterably lovely, she 
had been taken to view Lady Constance Taunton. Lady Constance was already 
almost on her toes. They had adored each other with their eyes, but that was 
all. They had not been allowed to touch... Lady Constance could touch 
nothing. 

"Please, Master, forgive us both... please!" 

A band of fire had been etched upon the taut abdomen of the tractioned girl. 
One of the helots had done it while she watched, and cried aloud in dismay 
that she would obey, obey... obey! The tapered lash had curled around the 
narrow waist to raise a weal of proud and scarlet flesh. Connie had 
screamed. 

After that she had done what she was told. 

The reactions had been predictable. Lady Elisabeth Haskell had been 
concisely vulgar. "Dammit, Joyce, why bother to wear it? I can see your 
cunt." 

And Pamela Crosbie: "Darling, those breasts! Can we go to the powder room? I 
want to feel." 

The males who chose to acknowledge her breasts were overly jocular: "Have 
you got something going with Haarami?" 

"Good heavens, Joyce...!" A shocked pause. "Will you marry me?" 

"I say, dear girl, are you thinking of the Stage?" 

There had been one wise and speculative appraisal. "You don't need the 
money, Joyce. But how much? I'll pay." 

It had taken nearly an hour for her blush to fade. 

Joyce Cortland sighed. It had been a river to cross and she had crossed it 
successfully. But there were so many rivers...! Uneasily, she became aware 
that her heels were not as solidly planted as they had been. It was 
starting. 

The girl was Haarami's, utterly. His authority showed in the amused 
insolence of her eyes. Yet between them had grown a regard. If the girl 
spoke English she refused to do so. Her hands sufficed. She used them with 
intent concentration to bestow pain upon the woman's body delivered to her 
care. Joyce no longer spoke or protested but, in silence, accepted what she 
must. Sometimes they smiled. 

They smiled now. Joyce did no more than gasp and raise a foot in reflex as 
the matter-of-fact fingers adjusted the clips upon her labia. A clip to 
each. Not the jewelled beauty previously used. These were strict utility. 
They hurt. It took several minutes after the girl had gone before pain 
merged and the cheek fell back upon the arm. 

"It's my own fault." Said Nancy without rancour. "I'll never get out of here 
now." She raised a fettered arm from which the links fell weightily. "It's 
like old times. Lady Constance was always loading me with hardware. It 
wasn't so I couldn't escape but just to show me who I belonged to." She 
giggled. "You and she have a marvelous time with your tongues, don't you--at 
least, you did?" 

"Yes... Oh, Nancy." 

"Yes, I know. I'd like to too. But we're foxed all this blasted iron. It's 
been figured out to about two inches. Gosh, the way young Pansy and I used 
to strain to reach! Some nights the agony got so bad we'd tug and heave on 
the chains to get as close as we could and then we'd just pick up scents... 
sniffing like things in a barnyard." 

"I can imagine, with Pansy." 

"Well, she was all I had. But there again it was my fault. Originally I was 
M'Lady's favourite. I was kept in handcuffs or light chains and I serviced 
Lady Connie quite happily she tastes gorgeous, doesn't she! But one day 
young Pansy tempted me and I ate, and Her Ladyship caught me in the act. 
That's when I got demoted to the kitchen." 

"How d'you stay so damn cheerful?" 

"Hopelessness, that's all. When all hope has gone you do your best with what 
you've got. I say, Miss Cortland, is this old Sheik actually fucking Lady 
Constance?" 

"I'm afraid he is." 

"Think he'll fuck me too?" 

"If he doesn't one of his retainers will. This is a male world. Haarami 
thinks every woman needs lessons on how to be female--his idea of female." 

"He's right, y'know. We're mostly a tight cunted lot of bitches." Nancy 
mused thoughtfully. "I used to be before I was kidnapped. But Lady Constance 
had me half hung with my feet apart and my shoulders on the floor and 
whipped away between my legs with a special little whip she had-splatted it 
right across my puss. Drove me crazy. I ended up begging. You know, 
anything, anything at all if only she'd stop. She didn't stop for a long 
time. I was never tight after that." 

"Nancy, are you going to be punished?" 

"I'm supposed to be whipped Arabian Justice, or something. But I think the 
old boy's stringing us along half the time. It's sort of... hovering." 

The heels were now definitely off the floor, the leather round her wrists 
beginning to hurt. There would begin now the tip-toe stance. It would last 
quite a while before the last of her toes left the floor. But it was going 
to happen. Connie would be hurrying... hurrying... Joyce shifted uneasily 
against the steady burn between her thighs. The clips were hateful, almost 
alive. Soon there would be two more. She looked down at her jutting breasts, 
the stress had not flattened them. No matter what was done to her they 
seemed to thrive, their nipples seeking beyond the anchorage of parent 
flesh. She felt a whimsical irritation that if the girl put clips on them it 
would serve them right. 

"I am forever exclaiming on your beauty." Haarami was studying her taut 
nakedness with the eye of an art critic before a masterpiece. "Your pose now 
is one every woman should insist upon." 

"But it hurts, Master." 

"Not more than you can bear. And of course, so much depends on Lady 
Constance." 

"Is it needful that I be slowly raised, Master? Lady Constance will return." 

"It pleases me--a small conceit." 

"The clips, Master, they are a hateful pain. Must I bear them?" 

"Since it pleases the child. She has permission for small inflictions." 

"But, Master-" 

"Her life is unexciting. You represent a world of wonder to her. I could 
give her no greater boon than freedom to use your body." 

"A girl sadist! Oh, Master " 

"Not at all. She would not understand the word, or what it implies. For her, 
pain is power. When she is bad she is whipped. When she is good she has no 
pain. She draws a simple conclusion and looks no further." 

"She thinks I am a bad girl?" 

"Naturally." 

"Master, is this I mean, am I being punished?" 

"No. This not the punishment for runaways. But I have considered your 
penalty for that. It is to be the bastinado." 

"The soles of my feet whipped?" 

"Yes, child. We will dispense with the long drawn out rapping with the rods. 
A cane or a crop will be used on you. Your travail will last no more than an 
hour." 

"I will believe it when it happens, Master. I dare not think of it now. I am 
already frightened." 

"Think of it, child. But I will pot tell you when." 

The naked woman pondered. She thought of Cortlands and of her breasts. Both 
were of diminishing impact on her being. Haarami was re-moulding her. The 
bastinado would take her deeper into his world. 

This time the girl stood with a hand on each naked flank. They were close, 
looking into each other's eyes, seeking woman secrets. Their gaze was 
intent, smoldering... Joyce flinched and gasped as the clips were taken from 
her sex and replaced with a cupping palm. 

The orgasm was inevitable. It was a part of pain. The girl would believe 
that if a woman was to be punished the gasping spasms of orgasm would 
belong. The small hand was very wise, its fingers trained. Joyce was soon 
alight with sensation. She did not plead, it was useless. And anyway, what 
did one more matter! Fingers frictioned a nipple and young lips encompassed 
its twin. She was sure too that, strained and bound as she was added the 
potency of other fingers and other lips. Miss Joyce Cortland writhed and 
twisted her way into a moaning upheaval of nerve and sinew. When the hands 
had shepherded her past the final fringe of sensation they replaced the 
clips on the soft flesh, now moist and swollen in tumescence. They bit into 
the trembling intimacy more venomously than before. The girl gently pulled 
and twisted the metal punishments to evoke more startled moans and the 
reflex kick of legs. Smiling, she went away. 

Joyce Cortland now stood well upon her toes. 

It was ten minutes before her visitor arrived. 

It was Dwight Willard. 

It was, of course, the end of her world. It was the end of everything. Her 
whole existence was shattered by this man's grave regard. He was shocked, 
she could tell. But no particle as much as she herself. Stretched naked, 
still glistening with the sweat of orgasm and pain, pungent with woman 
smell, shameful objects clutching within her pubic hair... It was a 
phantasmagoria. Above all, she was helpless. 

"Should I release you, Joyce?" 

Need of the question betrayed his suspicion. The tractioned beauty had no 
answer. 

"We are alone. You are free to speak, Joyce." 

"I cannot. Oh, Dwight, go away." 

"I would like to release you." 

Joyce realised her eyes were tight closed to shut out what she was afraid to 
see. Dismally, she opened them and met his. Clutching at sanity she asked, 
dully: "How much do you know?" 

"Probably everything." 

Why not! He was influential. He sat on Boards with Gunderson and Haarami. 
Her breasts would have given him a clue... and yesterday the party. Dwight 
was wonderful, her heart went out to him, but her lips were agonized. 

"Oh Dwight, to see me like this!" 

"You are very beautiful." 

"Tortured?" 

"Are you sure it's that?" 

She was not sure. She was sure of nothing. But Dwight must not stand and 
behold her thus, not to look and look. All her femaleness and frailties 
bared for his inspection, even her armpits, now darkly shadowed by Haarami's 
orders. "Please, Dwight, don't stand there. Go to Haarami... go to him... 
please!" 

"I must release you first." 

"No! No! You must not!" 

"He owns you?" 

"No! Oh, not the way you think. Oh, Dwight, I don't want you to see me like 
this." 

"I don't suppose you do. But I'm here. I can't see more of you than I've 
seen." His tone was faintly acerbic. "I didn't come to see your skin. I came 
to see what's underneath." 

"There's nothing underneath, not any more." 

"So it would seem. Joyce, you owe something to Cortlands...?" 

"Take Cortlands. I'm no good to Cortlands any more." 

"Dammit, woman, you must be in considerable pain! Are you drugged? Are you 
under coercion?" 

"No. Dwight, I'm not worth bothering with. Leave me here, go away. I can't 
tell you what's happened, but its happened. If you have to know details ask 
Haarami." 

"And leave you in this--this Hell, I don't know what to call it. Are you 
being punished or enjoying a spot of masochism?" 

"Oh, Dwight, don't... Oh don't!" 

"Don't what?" 

"Don't look for answers. I don't have any." 

"Good gosh, girl, what's that... between your legs?" She wanted to scream, 
or to giggle, or to cry. Dwight had only just focused on the clips. The 
clips were beyond explanation. She was one vast blush. "Nothing... they're 
nothing. Dwight, don't look down there." 

"Very well, I've no wish to. I'm damned if I am going to probe your 
sex--unless you wish? Joyce, can I help?" 

"No." 

When he was gone it was very quiet. The only sound was her own panting. Her 
breasts were heaving... Miss Joyce Cortland examined her rejection of 
release, her rejection of a man, her destruction of a life. Ruefully, she 
recalled her first visit to Desmond House--and now this! Why had she not 
allowed Dwight to take her in his arms and carry her away? Why, why, why? 
She suddenly realised she was standing on tip-toe and her wrists were 
screaming at her to ease their load. But she could do nothing. It was too 
late--too late. She moaned in bitterness, and the smiling girl came and 
snapped clips upon her nipples. 

Cortlands was gone. 

When Her Mistress, a handcuffed Mistress with chained feet, came to set her 
free, the slavegirl sank at her feet and wept in thankfulness. 

"I hurried, darling, I really hurried." 

"It's alright, Mistress. My feet weren't off the floor." 

"But you're so tired and sad and have you seen a ghost?" 

"Yes. His name was Dwight Willard. Oh, Connie...!" The Mistress smoothed the 
damp hair of her slave, kissing away the wrinkles on the lined face, 
bestowing all the tenderness of fingertips. "I was told." She said slowly. 
"You reached a decision." 

"Did I? Well, yes, I suppose I did. Mistress, I could have had us both free 
and I didn't." 

"And you don't know why? Darling, I know. It's because you're a slave." 

"I was your slave, now Haarami's stolen me. I'm nothing." 

"But I'm nothing too, darling. Look what they've got on my ankles. And these 
dear familiar handcuffs." 

The slave fingered the shining links, and suddenly realised: "Mistress, I'm 
free! I'm not tied or anything." 

"Just noticed, pet. It just shows how far Good heavens, what have they got 
on you down there?" 

"On my puss? I thought they were hurting so much... and now... I haven't 
noticed them either. They're clips... Ugh!" 

"Want me to take 'em off?" 

"You do it, Mistress. I daren't." 

"Little brutes. They've made you all swollen and pink. You're so lovely..." 

"Mistress, can we... dare we...?" 

"No we daren't. Not unless we want to get ourselves whipped. I'm supposed to 
take you to that damn girl. Something's cooking." 

"But I'm free!" Joyce looked around in quaint dismay. She flexed her limbs 
in a glorious stretch. "Has someone made a mistake?" 

"I don't think so." 

"You mean...? I'm being given another chance?" 

"Looks like it. You know your way around, you could grab a covering and walk 
away. You could avoid the staff." Joyce surveyed the incredible. "If I went 
free... that way, I'd be obligated to no man." She glimpsed clarifying 
vistas. Then gasped in disgust. "But, Mistress, your feet are chained!" 

"So I'd noticed. I'm also handcuffed." 

"Then I can't go." 

"Yes you can, you idiot. I can't but you can. Run like crazy." 

"Then he'll have you tortured. Oh, Mistress, that's awful... that thing 
you've just released me from. It's deadly cruel." 

"Darling, this is some sort of a test. Haarami loves 'em. He's playing 
dirty. It's like watching which hole a mouse will run to when you set him 
free. You've told him something already with Dwight -probably too damn much! 
But now, with this kind of freedom! If you get away he'll know you'll go to 
the police, and in some graceful and charming manner he'll let me loose too. 
He'll have had his money's worth." 

"No! Mistress, he'll hide you away somewhere, tied up tight." 

"He daren't. Not in my house. The police can insist on seeing me." 

"Then he'll take you away and they'll find Taunton empty." 

"Well, I suppose..." Lady Constance ruefully fingered her shackles. "Dammit, 
I can see how a girl can come to hate these things. There's no use me trying 
to hobble to the road. That's stretching luck too far." 

"Let's go and find the girl. I won't leave you." 

They looked at each other in perplexity. 

* * * 

The tailored suit evoked a blush. It had obviously been made to her new 
measurements. It was a severely perfect fit. Whether she wanted it or not, 
she was once again Miss Joyce Cortland. But she was also a figure ill suited 
to a tailored suit. Her breasts were imprisoned and sought release by a 
continual thrust. The two women were a screaming incongruity. Lady Constance 
Taunton was clothed only in the metal of her chains. 

"Lady Constance, if you will pour?" Haarami was laughing. 

A naked female, handcuffed, pouring Tea! Dwight Willard digested this as he 
had digested all else. His appraisal of the clothed figure of the woman he 
had once wanted to marry was approving, but he refused to meet her eyes. 

"I expect you think I'm awful." With joined hands Lady Constance Taunton 
proffered his cup and sparkled at him without a blush." 

"Not at all. The Sheik Haarami has explained a good deal I did not know." 

"I can imagine! There's a good deal of it. Are you going to rescue us?" 

"Miss Cortland is accompanying Mr. Willard back to the City, my dear." Said 
the Sheik blandly. "I trust her attire is appropriate?" 

Constance was unsure of herself, unsure of anything. But her tone was as 
bland as her captor's. "And I'm the little hostage?" 

"You could hardly fill that role without Mr. Willard's compliance, Lady 
Taunton." 

it was a waiting silence, charged. Lady Constance was well aware of eyes. In 
desperation she held up her cuffed hands. "Look, I can't do a thing. It's 
not fair to all look at me." 

For answer, Dwight Willard placed two keys upon the coffee table. He said 
nothing. 

"I suppose they fit my handcuffs and my leg irons?" Lady Constance was 
cross. 

"Yes. No conditions." 

She picked them up, fingering them slowly, looking for clues on the men's 
impassive faces and the troubled features of her love. Impulsively, acting 
purely on intuition, she handed the tiny bits of metal to The Sheik. "Thanks 
just the same." She offered a pixie grin. "And anyway, they probably 
wouldn't fit." 

"But why?" Dwight was exasperated. 

"I'll tell you why." She looked evenly and directly into the hawk eyes of 
her captor. "You've been playing with us. You've been kind and you've been 
cruel. But everything's been in your Court." She paused to gain momentum and 
a bit more courage. "I won't say I'm ungrateful for what you've shown me 
about females, and about Me. Poor Joyce had more to learn than I did, but 
just the same... Now, if we all go home I'm not sure..." 

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Dwight was impatient. 

"No decision, Lady Constance?" 

"That's right. It's been a holiday with you calling all the plays. Even when 
they hurt I sort of enjoyed it. So now you can make the last one. I won't 
go. You can forcibly eject me from my own house: in which case I'll make a 
legal re-possession. Or you can damn well keep me as I am. I can be curious 
too, y'know." 

"I've messed this up for you, Haarami." Dwight was annoyed. "Damn sorry. 
Don't pretend to understand all this, but I've a feeling I should have 
stayed away." 

"It does not matter, old friend. The tale is not yet told." Haarami's eyes 
twinkled. "I too am learning." 

Joyce was trembling as she walked with Willard down the front steps of 
Taunton House. Reaching the car, she stopped and said, bleakly: "I'm sorry, 
Dwight..." 

"Good-bye, Joyce." 

She watched him drive away. She felt numb. Slowly, she retraced her steps. 
The Sheik and his slave greeted her without surprise. 

"I had to come back- I had to." She removed the tailored jacket and fingered 
the fastening of her skirt. "Where would like me to hang these things?" 

 CHAPTER NINE - TRIAD 

Lady Constance Taunton had been seeking the knot securing her bound hands 
for the last hour without success. She tried again. "It's sort of hopeless 
when they're crossed behind your back." She admitted ruefully. "But it's 
something to do, and it's a change from that chrome hardware." 

Joyce Cortland gazed up sideways from the floor. Her view of things 
handicapped by the fact she lay flat on her stomach, her hands bound as 
Connie's were behind her back. She had not even tried to free them, knowing 
it hopeless. "It's not much of a pastime." She complained morosely. "If I 
got mine loose I'm not a bit sure I could reach my ankles." 

"He needn't have fastened you like that so early. Poor darling, all this 
waiting." 

Joyce strained to look back over one shoulder. Her left ankle came into 
view. It was strapped tight to a low bar. The knee bent, the leg raised. The 
soles of her feet pointed to the sky, and she could not move them. They were 
well apart, so would be whipped separately. In the meantime her strapped 
ankles held them, and her, in as demeaning a posture as she ever remembered. 
She considered it an injustice that her hands were bound as they were. They 
did not need to be tied at all, she could not reach the straps. In this 
agonizing wait for her punishment it would have been nice to possess her 
forearms to take her weight off her breasts. Once she could have lain thus 
without concern, but not now. Even her breathing frictioned her nipples 
against the rug, drawing from them an inevitable response and she could do 
nothing about it. She Could do nothing about anything. 

"It wouldn't have hurt him to let me take half your sentence." Connie said 
unhappily. "Ten on each foot's a lot." 

"Then you'd be laying the way I am, Mistress." 

"Well... I'm not very happy the way I am." 

"But you're not going to be punished, are you?" 

"Well, in a way. I've got to watch you get your feet whipped. Oh dammit, 
Joyce, what's wrong with us! We had it in the bag and we blew it, tossed 
liberty away. And it's all my fault. Just damn fool bravado." 

"Mistress, I don't mind." 

"He's calling my bluff, that's what this is. Oh shit! If only I'd been 
drunk...! But I was cold sober and look where its got us." 

"You'll still get the last word, darling." 

"We'll probably both get the last stripe across our bottoms!" 

"But, Mistress, he isn't calling a bluff. I was sentenced to this before 
Dwight showed up and he's not punishing you." 

"Give him time. I never dreamed he'd go through with what he's going to do 
to you now." Lady Constance shook her strained shoulders irritably. "Think, 
if I knelt and wiggled enough, could I get to unbuckle those straps on your 
ankles?" 

"Mistress, no! You mustn't. We'd be caught, and then you'd end up the way I 
am, and we'd both get fifteen on each foot instead of ten." 

"It's so blasted irritating-to walk around and still be helpless... tied 
like this. Darling, if somebody finally unties me I'll never tie a girl's 
hands behind her back again, it's too damn frustrating." 

"Yes you will. Mistress. You'll tie mine. You know you will." 

"Humph, if I ever get the chance. But look at the spot we've put ourselves 
in. Haarami's got us. He can keep us for life. We not only burned our 
bridges but we scattered the ashes. Oh damn, I can't reach a single knot. I 
wish the old bastard had had someone tie my feet at the same time, I 
wouldn't feel half as idiotic." 

"Did I hear the term 'Old Bastard,' Lady Constance?" The captive women 
gasped. The Sheik was eyeing them benevolently from around the door. From 
the depths of disgust, Connie exclaimed: "Oh shit, that's torn it!" 

"Indeed it has, your Ladyship." 

Constance squirmed. "Don't rub it in, Haarami. Can't you call me Connie-or 
something simple? Ladyships don't have their hands tied behind their back." 

"Conversely, you might address me with respect." Constance shrugged 
hopelessly. "If I call you 'Master' now and eat humble pie, you'll just 
think I'm scared and trying to weasel out." 

"Well... aren't you?" 

"Yes. I'm scared. And if I could sweet talk you into not punishing me I 
would." 

"You are engagingly honest, Lady Taunton. I am looking forward to your 
punishment. 'Old Bastard' indeed! And from a woman, and a slave..." 

"Master, she's upset. She's frightened for me and my feet." Joyce looked up 
imploringly from the floor. 

"Lady Taunton, frightened? Surely not?" 

"Haarami, you're still rubbing it in. Sure I'm frightened. Not so much from 
the punishment I'm going to get, but because of the fool thing we've both 
done. Because of some idiotic female compulsion Joyce and I have handed 
ourselves to you on a plate." 

"A gift for which I will be eternally grateful." 

"We're both sorry we did it. We want to go home." 

"A natural reaction. Surely you expected-?" 

"Haarami, are you going to hold on to us for the rest of our lives?" 

"If I tire of you I'll sell you. You are slaves." The old man smiled. "There 
is no slavery more abject than that deliberately sought." 

"Oh alright. But this rudeness of mine you overheard...? Couldn't we talk it 
over?" 

"Of course!" It was as though Haarami was bestowing riches. "A discussion as 
to the method of your correction should prove diverting. Would you care to 
suggest an appropriate penalty, Lady Taunton?" 

"How about ravishing me?" 

"That is not a punishment. Tonight, Miss Cortland will share my bed. A girl 
with whipped feet makes love superbly." 

"I'm sure you'd know. So couldn't I be chained or locked up or something?" 
Constance grinned ruefully. "I suppose something appropriate would be to gag 
me?" 

"An admirable thought-along with your main punishment, of course." 

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Connie tried an impish grin. "Look, I really am sorry 
I called you a bastard. It's just a--a--figure of speech. I'm sure you're 
not illegitimate." She wriggled enticingly. "How about ten on my bottom... 
Master?" 

"You are being deliberately provocative." 

"A girl has to try. Especially when her hands are tied behind her back." 

"Perhaps there is our answer." The Sheik glinted with enjoyment. "Suppose we 
leave your hands bound as they are for the next three months?" 

"Oh... Master...!" Connie's anguish was very real. "It would drive me 
crazy." 

"Excellent. Shall we settle 0II that -?" 

Connie was tugging feverishly at the rope round her wrists. "No... please 
no! And look, I'd be no earthly good in bed." 

"Quite the contrary, my dear." 

"Oh shit, I can't do anything. I'm so damn " 

"You will be adequately attended." 

"But, T H R E E - M O N T H S! If you're going to punish me that long, 
couldn't you forgive Joyce her bastinado?" 

The sheik clapped his hands. When the girl entered, he said curtly. "A gag 
for Lady Taunton." 

Constance submitted unhappily. With her mouth full of rubber she stood 
meekly while the strap was buckled savagely at the nape of her neck. Her 
lips were strained and her cheeks compressed by the unforgiving leather. She 
was then handled to one side as a package that no longer mattered. 

Haarami now turned his attention to the girl whose strapped ankles awaited 
his justice. "You are adjusted to your penalty, my dear?" 

"Yes, Master." Joyce was fighting hard against hysteria. Forlornly, she 
asked: "Could I be gagged, please... I'll scream?" 

"You will not be gagged, Miss Cortland. Your screams will enable Lady Taunto 
to share your anguish." 

"Yes. Master." There seemed no use arguing. 

The Master turned to the waiting girl who now held a limber crop. "You may 
begin. Ten on each of her feet. Medium severity." 

Joyce had never felt more alone. 

The crop bit at the flatly offered sole from toe to heel, expending its 
venom over the full length of the small foot. Joyce Cortland's scream filled 
the room. 

The girl, bound for punishment, had expected pain. But this was a quality of 
pain beyond bearing. There was nothing erotic or sensual about its nerve 
destroying, stomach turning horror. Her beaten foot was tugging madly at its 
strap but did not move. In desolation, she moaned: "Please! I can't stand--" 
The crop erased her words. Her second foot leaped into agony in an explosive 
blaze of pain. Joyce writhed and heaved, punishing her breasts, uncaring of 
the shameful sounds. 

"Excellent, most excellent." Haarami's voice was hushed. 

"Please... Oh, mercy--" There was no mercy. In Joyce's brain was a single 
thought: 'Twenty, twenty, twenty... No girl could stand twenty. Between 
screams she heard her own shaming words: "I'll be good. I will, I will, I 
will! I'll never escape never!" 

"Most darling child." It was as though he worshipped. 

The cuts were measured, cruelly accurate. The girl must have done such work 
before. They gave the woman with bent knees exactly enough time to catch her 
breath after her screams and broken words, then again the incisive stroke, 
shattering all preconceptions: "I'll do anything, be obedient... Oh, 
Master..." The old man nodded and gazed with love. "Perfect... perfect." 

Joyce was certain her feet must be cut and bleeding, that she would never 
walk again. Defying pain, she strained to look back. It was a defeating 
glimpse. Her foot appeared normal. It was not swollen to twice its size. 
Even as she watched, the crop impacted to trigger the involuntary reactions 
she could not control. After her screams her lips muttered. "No more... no 
more. Please let me rest." 

There was no rest. The strokes continued. In between pain, the punished girl 
realised, as every whipped girl must, that her travail was half way through 
its course. Each of her feet had received five blows. If she had survived 
thus far...! She caught a glimpse of Connie's wide eyed anguish, and tried 
to smile. 

The sheik turned to the gagged woman, seeking to share his ecstasy. "Is she 
not beautiful...?" 

But Lady Constance Taunton was mute. She nodded, hating to concede his 
point, yet unwilling to deny. Her wrists twisted against the hemp. She 
visibly winced as the next stroke cut the sole of the woman she loved. Her 
mind was filled with visions of what she and Joyce had once been, as against 
what they now were. And she could neither plead nor condemn. 

To Joyce, the last strokes of her sentence were a miasma of suffering in 
which her responses diminished to jerks and moans, more from exhaustion than 
any loss of awareness. 

"You were magnificent." 

When she said "Thank you, Master" it emerged as a whisper. 

"You will be released and handcuffed. Make your own way to the lounge, my 
dear. But you will be expected within fifteen minutes." 

Joyce watched them go. Her being was irradiated with a great thankfulness. 
She lay inert, her panting breaths thrusting her breasts hard against the 
rug. The girl's fingers, loosening the straps and untying the knots were a 
benediction. Obediently, she pushed her freed arms above her head, bending 
up her elbows to join her wrists. She watched them snugly handcuffed. 
Meeting the girl's eyes, she smiled. The girl smiled too and, bending, 
kissed her forehead before she went away. 

It was over. Joyce wished only to lay as she was, savouring her throbbing 
feet and the relief of surcease. She rolled cautiously upon her back and lay 
there looking reflectively at her breasts. It came to her then that her 
breasts were the answer to a riddle, without them she would have gone away 
with Dwight. Her breasts had changed her life. They made her more potently a 
slave than any chains had done. 

She sat up and did what she did not want to do: looked at her feet. 
Beholding them, she blinked back tears. They were red and purple and 
swollen. Not as bad as she had feared, but still... She bent a knee and 
tested on the rug. She could not walk... 

* * * 

Connie followed her Master to the lounge. Despite the punishment she had 
witnessed she was in a reckless mood, still determined to test Haarami's 
resolve. Surely a man of his eminence would not make a life's work of two 
women he had brought low from arrogance and high estate. The task must pall. 
True, he had detected in each the fatal flaw he had exploited to make them 
slaves, perhaps this flaw was in every woman. But now it was accomplished, 
what profit could there be in forever whipping them! His enjoyment of them 
in bed would eventually be nullified by their wounds. When he had found his 
favourite chair she knelt and pushed her luck. 

"Master, you see! With my hands bound thus I cannot serve my lord." 

The sheik found pleasure in her spirit. She was an admirable property, a 
female beyond price, rapidly becoming as high in his affection as the woman 
with wounded feet downstairs. He laughed at her dolor and taunted: "Are you 
quite sure?" 

Her nostrils flared. She was not sure. Even with bound hands...? She looked 
up and declared: "I am not sure, master. But I will probably spill his drink 
upon his rug." 

"For which you will be whipped." 

It was always the same. A slavegirl could not win. The whip made certain she 
could not win. With head high in dudgeon, Lady Constance Taunton went to the 
bar. 

"You are a woman of infinite delight, my dear." 

"Thank you, kind sir. I am a woman infinitely frightened." 

It was too absurd! Connie was certain her captor would be laughing. With 
hands bound behind her back her task was close to impossible. But not quite. 
With the aid of the footstool...! 

To pour a drink with her bottom rubbing the bar and her corded wrists 
hurting was as demeaning an act as Lady Constance had ever performed. Her 
pussy seemed everywhere. No matter how she turned or bent it became part of 
a picture the man must see. But this was Connie's first lesson in how much a 
girl can do, even when she supposed herself helpless. In a succession of 
outrageous postures she captured glass and bottles in a bound hand and used 
them to her need. The mix achieved, she faced the return journey to the Male 
enjoying her discomfort. With the glass held by its lip behind her back, 
Lady Constance began her return. 

It was agony. Each step fearful. After several short shuffles Lady Constance 
rebelled. She was acknowledging the mastery of the whip, her natural fear of 
pain. This was Haarami's game and she was playing it. She straightened up, 
clutching the glass behind her back as best she could, she strode to her 
doom. On arrival, she was forced to turn her back and proffer her Master 
both his drink and her bottom. It was then she saw the stains: the carefully 
nurtured glass had slopped. 

Haarami was holding a glass less than half full. He, too, was looking at the 
rug. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. 

"Well, I couldn't help it! I'm not a magician." Connie was furious with 
herself and with him. "I should never have tried. You shouldn't have made 
me." She sniffed disdainfully and awaited her sentence. 

He did not speak. Instead, he himself went to the bar and replenished the 
glass. Returning, he held it to her lips. "I'll drink it all." She warned 
after two frantic gulps. 

The old man held it to her lips until the last drop was gone. He replenished 
it for himself and resumed his chair. "You may kneel, my dear." 

"I don't want to kneel. How many lashes do I get?" Haarami shrugged as 
though the whipping of a careless woman was of small moment. He 
said,-simply: "Kneel." Lady Constance knelt. She recognized authority. 

"I have said before, we speak too much of whipping. I could easily suggest a 
number of strokes across your delectable back or bottom. But you are a 
noblewoman. You possess an irresistible charm when hanging by your wrists." 

"I am a slave, Master, and you know it." Connie looked up plaintively. "And 
I don't want to hang by my wrists, you know that too." 

"It was the reason I mentioned it." Haarami said affably. "But you are well 
equipped here. Various stocks, the pillory, a small cage in which the 
delinquent damsel sits crouched and bent. Have any of these an appeal?" 

"Alright, rub it in. I've used 'em on girls. I suppose I can't complain if 
you use them on me." 

"But you will?" 

"Yes, I will. Master, be a good chap and have my bottom caned or my back 
whipped so's we can go on to the next item of business." 

Haarami sighed. "You have a death wish, woman." 

"Something like that. I expect all I really want is for you to go back to 
Arabia and let me have my home back." Constance looked her Master squarely 
in the eye. "Why not do that? You've had a good innings. You've changed the 
lives of two women completely "I have not broken you." 

"Yes you have. Nothing's ever going to be the same for me again." 

"And you'd like your beloved returned to you too?" 

"Yes. You've robbed me of Joyce. Give her back." 

"Is this a slave or Lady Constance Taunton talking?" 

"I don't even know that. But punish me for it. Why not have one glorious 
Grand Finale in which I am ceremoniously whipped, violated by yourself and 
staff, and left hanging by my wrists when you exit " 

"Pure masochism, child." 

"If it is, it's your fault. Before you came I'd never " Haarami gestured 
towards the door. Joyce Cortland knelt there, her smile uncertain and 
apologetic. "I think I'm late. I -I can't walk... and I tried so hard... I'm 
sorry." She held up her cuffed hands. "It was difficult to come on all fours 
wearing these." 

"There is no penalty, my dear. Please mix us drinks. Lady Constance is 
handicapped." 

It was a shaming shuffle. Without the handcuffs it would have been easy, but 
with linked hands Joyce could contrive only a three legged effect. She felt 
certain that from the rear she must appear ninety percent bottom. At the bar 
she lifted herself up on a stool. The drinks were easy, but their delivery 
was not. She achieved it in two trips, walking slowly on her knees, erect as 
might an amputee. 

"You are an admirable woman, Miss Cortland." 

"Thank you, Master." 

Joyce was aware of tension. Her bound Mistress was upset. Holding the drink 
to Connie's lips she sought her eyes, but found in them only bafflement. 
Haarami sipped meditatively, looking down at his nude possessions with 
unmistakable affection. In spite of her scorching feet, she herself knew 
only happiness. Her punishment was done, her feet would heal, she was with 
the two people who now governed her life. She glowed, and hoped her 
companions would soon glow too. 

The quiet appearance of the girl was no longer a surprise. 

At Haarami's careless gesture they followed her beckoning finger. In the 
Hall, Joyce was picked up by one of the male retainers and carried. The sun 
and Taunton Park were a benediction. The two captives inhaled the perfumed 
English air gratefully. 

It was not the same glade. It did not need to be. It was another quiet 
place, well hidden. Two trees had been selected. Between them lay a small 
pile of rope and cord. The girls exchanged glances, their pulses racing. 

"You behave. I not hurt." 

Their male escort leant against a trunk and watched with benevolent 
amusement as the girl went about her familiar task. 

The fingers were gentle. They positioned Joyce to kneel between the two 
slender stems whose diameter was no more than three inches. They then bound 
her ankles, carefully, neatly, and very tight. Next, they pressed down on 
her bare shoulders until she was sitting back upon her heels. 

It was like being a toy or a pet. Joyce held out her hands and watched the 
shining bands unlocked and taken from her wrists. Her arm was guided out 
from her shoulder so that the back of its wrist pressed against the smooth 
bark. In response to the invitation of a shy smile she held it there while 
it was bound. The thick soft cord was loosely circled round the tree and the 
girl, then artistically cinched between to completely encircle the flesh. 
The job was cunningly competent and pleasingly neat. When her other wrist 
had been similarly treated, its owner felt like a Christmas package made 
secure with love. Her cheek was patted in approval. She could not pat back. 

With Lady Constance it was different. She was backed against a sapling and 
her neck tethered to it while her wrists were untied. "She doesn't trust 
me." She remarked to no one in particular. The man laughed, appreciating her 
dolor. 

No handcuffs. Lady Constance Taunton was bound to one of her own trees in 
her own Park with rope and cord. Her wrists were crossed and re-tied, this 
time behind the trunk. It would have pleased her mood to struggle but the 
rope upon her neck was tight and the man would undoubtedly maul her breasts 
and pubes in making her behave. She stood woefully and let herself be 
strictured by the wise small hands. Ankle, knees, waist and shoulders. It 
was very complete, an almost charming ensemble upon her nakedness. 

"And one through cunt." Suggested the watching male. But the girl shyly 
shook her head. Without trace of shyness she kissed each of Connie's nipples 
before she and her companion went away. 

"I think she likes us." Connie said disgustedly. "She's made us into the 
prettiest picture." 

"Is it hurting, Mistress?" 

"Hell no! That must have been why she took so much trouble. I'm damn tight 
but I don't hurt. It's suspiciously like we're going to be here a long time, 
they don't want constrictions. What the devil's that old son of Allah got 
planned for us now." 

"Maybe just fresh air." Joyce giggled. 

"Aw, shit!" Lady Constance fluttered against her bonds. "You got any slack, 
darling? I mean, d'you think we can get loose?" 

"I can't." The kneeling girl said with finality. "I'm practically welded to 
these trees." 

"Gee, you look sweet. Kneeling... and with your arms out." Constance laughed 
bitterly. "If there was someone with a camera we'd make a wonderful set of 
pictures for one of those magazines they sell in back rooms." 

"Remember what happened to me when you tied me in the glade, Mistress? D'you 
think it possible...?" 

Connie's nostrils flared. "You mean--?" She examined a possibility in 
fascinated horror. "You mean I'm going to get a pair of boobs as big as 
yours! Oh, damn it all... we're a pair of peaches waiting to be plucked." 
She gave her pixie grin. "You spell that with a 'P,' darling." 

"I suppose it could also happen to us with an 'F.' " Joyce Cortland said 
thoughtfully. "Any man who came along...?" 

"He wouldn't come here unless he knew something. That means if one comes he 
means business. Darling, are you sure you can't move a wrist up or down?" 

Joyce obligingly struggled. The net result was a wry grimace. She examined 
her bindings with an expert eye. The cords were arranged to hold her 
forever. Looking down the length of her arms they were so near and yet so 
far. She leaned and tugged, thinking of her teeth. But it was useless. 

"Alright, sweetheart, never mind. You're glued to those damn trees. I'll 
keep wiggling a bit whenever I'm bored with just standing here. But she 
pulled ropes over my shoulders, it hurts, and my tummy's cut in two." Lady 
Constance contrived what small motions she could, then asked, glumly: 
"Darling, suppose someone came and cut us loose: What would you do?" 

"I don't know." The slave admitted despondently. "If it wasn't for these 
breasts I've had foisted on me I'd go back to Cortlands. But with these 
female mountains I just can't." 

"You don't hate them any more, y'know. You just think you do." 

"So alright, I'm proud of them. But they've changed me. They've altered my 
glands or something. I behave outrageously." 

"The bitch in heat!" Lady Constance was delighted. "You probably owe some of 
your new sexuality to getting your bottom whipped. It's had the same effect 
on me. My morals were never the best. Now I belong in the barnyard. Gosh, 
I'd like to get my teeth into you!" 

"If we ever get the chance again..." 

"Well, I know what I'd do if I got loose." Connie's voice was disgusted. 
"I'd grab a bit of bush to cover my puss and head for the police. I was an 
idiot to think I could outsmart Haarami." She tugged fretfully at rope. 
"Before you came in the room he and I had been going hot and heavy. I'd 
racked up about a hundred stripes, or maybe something worse. Oh, shit, I've 
been a lousy Mistress. I've mucked up everything!" Connie broke off 
abruptly. "Did you hear something?" 

"Someone's coming." 

Both girls focused on the sound. When it took shape and form they gasped in 
unison: "Alfred!" 

"Pleased termeetcha', M'Lady. Ain't never seen yer wi'out yer clothes 
'afore." Alfred beamed with rustic goodwill. "You ladies sure do 'ave the 
loveliest times." 

"Alfred, cover us up." 

"Ain't got nothin'--" 

"Your jacket, man! Your shirt, anything!" 

"Wouldn't be decent, M'Lady... undressing in front o' girls." 

"Damn your decency! Untie us." 

"You sure you want me to? I mean... ain't this fun and games, like? I ain't 
no spoil sport. 

"Hurry up, Alfred. Be a hero. Rescue us." 

"What's it worth, M'Lady?" 

"Alfred!" Lady Taunton's voice was deeply shocked. "You mean to tell me you 
want money?" 

Alfred was unperturbed. "If yer don't want ter pay, then yer don't want ter 
get loose very bad." He pointed out reasonably. 

"Alfred, you're an idiot. We're both naked. How can we have money?" 

Alfred's gaze instinctively lowered to two mats of pubic hair. He had the 
grace to blush. 

"We don't use our cunts for a purse, you idiot But peep inside if you want 
to--or if you can." 

"Thought I'd use 'em fer summat' else." Alfred offered diffidently. He 
turned to the kneeling Joyce. "You don't really want to be untied, do you, 
Miss?" 

"Yes I do, Alfred. I'm tired, and my wrists hurt. Please be nice to us?" 

" 'Ow 'bout yer bein' nice ter me?" 

Both girls had seen it coming. The barter instinct blossomed. "What would 
you like me to do, Alfred?" Joyce contrived an outrageous coyness. 

"Same like yer done last time, Miss." 

"Qooooo, Alfred, you liked it!" Joyce registered sweet maiden modesty. "Just 
for you then. Untie my wrists." 

"You don't need 'em untied. Yer done real good 'afore." Joyce Cortland's 
heart sank. The oaf was right, she was perfectly positioned for his need. 
Even if she refused he could compel! 

"Alfred, behave yourself!" It was the voice of Lady Constance Taunton. "She 
did it last time. I'll do it this." Alfred was impressed, not so much by the 
words as by his good fortune. A Peeress of the Realm! And she was all his! 
His yokel eyes drank in pubic hair and breasts and the lovely features, now 
flushed and angry. "Don't see 'ow I can get me cock up ter yer mouth, 
M'Lady." He said, bemused. 

"Untie me, stupid, then I can kneel down for you." 

"I ain't that stupid, M'Lady. If I lets yer loose I've 'ad it." 

"My word of honour! How's that?" 

"Yer mean--?" 

"Yes, I'll get down on my knees and suck your cock. Think of telling that 
one in the pub-if anyone believes you!" 

Such a superfluity of riches was almost more than Alfred could comprehend. A 
blow job from a member of the Nobility! Envisioning the act, he beheld a 
further enrichment. "If I was ter untie yer there's nothin' ter stop...? I 
mean, that there cunt, like...?" 

"Oh alright, Alfred. Fuck me instead. Take your pick. 

I'll keep my word." 

The rustic mind considered options. "Don't need ter untie either of yer." He 
said complacently. "If I just loose yer legs so I can spread 'em apart " 

"Alfred, you're disgusting. We'd neither of us get much out of you impaling 
me against a tree. Dammit, let me loose!" Connie was desperate. "You can 
overpower me if you have to. What are you worried about. You could even tie 
me up again... after. If that's what you want." 

Alfred dissembled. "I was thinkin' o' 'aving the young lady do me fust, 
M'Lady." 

Lady Constance clutched feverishly at what she would normally have 
considered unmentionable. "That's not practical, Alfred, not if you want to 
use both of us. You'll need an erection to get inside me, but when you get 
out it's going to be limp. That's when Joyce can take over." 

The cautious rapist was impressed. "Cor blimey, M'Lady, yer don't 'arf think 
things out. But I'm scared o' you, I am. I don't want no fight wi' a 
Countess." 

"Keep a rope on one of my wrists. Tie it down to a root or something. Then I 
can't fight you. That way you can enjoy me to your heart's content." 

"Why couldn't I tie both yer wrists, nice and spread out like?" 

Constance was in despair. It was infuriating to think how easily Alfred 
could bestow freedom. But to be ravished, and remain helplessly tied...! 
"Forget the whole thing, Alfred." She said bitterly. "You're impossible to 
please. I think you're scared." 

She had hit the right key. Three minutes later her right wrist was being 
dragged down to an exposed oak root and firmly tied. She lay on her back, 
arm outstretched, and prayed she could cope. Even with only one hand tied 
she found herself more helpless than she had supposed. 

"I ain't never done this 'ere 'afore." Alfred was unashamed. 

"Aren't I lucky." 

"Yer got one 'and, M'Lady... if I needs 'elp." 

Lady Constance used her hand to the best advantage of her ravisher, and 
closed her eyes. Joyce Cortland watched unhappily and longed for freedom. 
When the male brought his offering for her mouth she strained at her bonds 
and comforted herself with the hope that what she was tasting came from her 
Mistress. 

Nature was kind. The regeneration of Alfred's glands took time. Whilst Joyce 
did her best with lips and tongue, Lady Constance Taunton tore savagely at 
her bound wrist. Her left hand was clumsy and the knots were harsh. She 
fought in panic. To have Alfred tie her again in helplessness was an all too 
real possibility. But when he staggered away from his second ecstasy she 
stood free. 

Alfred tucked his immaculately licked organ back into his trousers and 
buttoned them up. "That ain't fair, M'Lady." He said, aggrieved. "I was 
goin' ter tie yer up again." 

"Why?" 

"So's I cud' come back in an hour and do it again." Connie's heart raced. 
With Joyce still helplessly tied she was at his mercy. "You'll have to kill 
me." She said evenly. "I'll fight." 

Alfred was no hero. To do battle with a naked Countess was out of his Class: 
and Lady Constance would be a handful! He temporized. "Could I call on yer 
at the big 'ouse, M'Lady?" 

"What on Earth for?" 

"Well, M'Lady, I'm 'opin' yer enjoyed it a bit like. I sure did. 'Ow 'bout 
us doin' it agin'?" 

Lady Constance wanted to laugh and to scream. But she was magnanimous in 
victory. "Very well, Alfred. But phone first for an appointment." She 
watched him amble off through the trees, and wondered if he had detected the 
hysteria in her voice. 

"You're an indecent Mistress." Joyce pouted. 

"I am also a free Mistress, or hadn't you noticed?" 

The kneeling captive gazed up with love. "Am I to be a freed slave, 
Mistress?" 

"No. I'll make sure you are never free again. You don't know what to do with 
freedom." 

"Thank you, Mistress." 

They laughed over the familiar humility, then quickly sobered. "I think I'll 
leave you there until I come back with the police." Connie mused. "You don't 
want anyone to see your gorgeous breasts, so I'll run for help. But I'm not 
leaving you loose. Goodness knows what nonsense you'd think you had to do." 

"Please, Mistress." The kneeling nudity was mischievously contrite. "Don't 
leave me like this. Alfred may come back." 

"No he won't." 

"And bring his friends next time." Joyce twisted deliciously against her 
well secured wrists. "Please, Mistress...?" 

"Oh alright. But you'll come with me, breasts or no breasts." 

The slave watched her Mistress tug at knots. When the cords fell away she 
slowly massaged her chafed wrists, and said demurely: "Have you forgotten, 
Mistress, I can't walk?" 

"Damn and blast!" Connie looked at her askance. "I had forgotten." 

"But if I could lean on you I might make it back to the house?" 

"The House! Darling, what on Earth-!" 

"Yes, Mistress, hasn't it struck you as strange about Alfred? I mean, he 
came right to us. He knew where we were. Something's happened. I'm sure it 
has. I think he was sent to untie us. But he used us first." 

Constance considered the proposition. "The son of a bitch." She said, 
chuckling. "The best day of his life, and here we were begging! O.K. 
darling, you've got a point. I just can't part from you." She held out her 
arms. "So here we go--chains and slavery...! I have to be nuts." 

It was very painful for bastinadoed feet. But, leaning on her love, their 
owner's heart was singing. They hobbled slowly to Taunton House. When they 
got there they found it empty. 

"I told you, Mistress. I could feel..." 

"I don't believe it. That old bastard--" 

"Mistress, let's search." 

"But, darling, your feet!" 

"Damn my feet! They can put up with it!" 

They made their tour. Lady Constance's ancestral home was bare of intruders. 
Everything was polished and intact. Inevitably, they ended at the bar, 
feeling most potently the vacuum of Haarami's absence. On its polished 
surface was a cheque. The counterfoil declared it a month's rent for Taunton 
House. It was for one hundred thousand pounds. Lady Constance wept. It was 
the slavegirl who poured the drinks. 

It seemed only fitting to choose brandy. It was an occasion. Perhaps the 
greatest occasion of their lives. When Lady Constance dried her tears of 
gratitude she said determinedly: "There should be handcuffs." 

"I'll get them for you, Mistress." 

"But, darling, your feet! You can't--" 

"Yes I can. I'm getting a masochistic pleasure from my feet: agony in a good 
cause." 

Joyce Cortland limped upon her errand. When she returned she knelt and 
proffered cuffs and keys to her beloved. Rising, she held out her hands. "I 
wish the clicks were twice as loud." Connie mourned as she circled the 
already chafed wrists with steel. "They're so beautifully final, more 
binding than a wedding ring." Holding up her slave's linked hands she kissed 
them both. "You sleep with me tonight, slavegirl--chained." 

"Yes, Mistress." 

"And to think that in this room I was told my hands would remain tied behind 
my back for three months!" Connie shook her head. "Was it all a dream, 
darling?" 

"No, Mistress." 

"I'm going to phone Weems, the butler. He'll bring things back to 
normal--even Pansy." 

"Yes, Mistress. I'm so happy." 

"So am I. I'm happier than I deserve. I made such a mess..." Connie mused 
thoughtfully. "I want you to do something for me, darling, something you may 
not like." 

"Anything, Mistress." 

"I was going to be punished when you crawled back in here, and if any girl 
ever earned punishment I did then. I'm guilty about Haarami, he's actually a 
lovable old hawk. I need to do a penance. I want you to whip me. Twenty 
strokes-hard." 

"I can't do that, Mistress." 

"You just said you'd do anything." 

"I can't whip you." 

"Can you understand my wish?" 

"Yes." 

Quite suddenly, Joyce's loins were aflame. Her pussy pulsed with passion at 
thought of the crimson weals, her weals, being born upon the back and 
bottomcheeks of Lady Constance Taunton. 

"It will be the last and only time, darling girl. We will remember 
it--always." 

"When, Mistress?" 

"Now." 

The unlocking of the handcuffs was a rite, a symbol, a pledge. They 
swallowed their brandies, eyes meeting eyes alight with purpose. On impulse, 
the slave held up the handcuffs still warm from her own wrists. Lady 
Constance Taunton meekly held out her hands. They went downstairs. 

"The stocks hide us from each other, darling. The bar is best." 

Joyce Cortland was savouring an ecstasy she might never know again. She 
tugged straps tight on compliant wrists. The motor whirred, and Lady 
Constance's arms tautened high in a strange surrender. 

"My bottom and my back, darling." 

"Yes, Mistress." 

"Medium hard." 

"Yes, Mistress." 

Joyce Cortland slashed the crop across the impudence of a bottom she might 
never whip again. The owner of the bottom yelped. 

I "That's too hard, darling." 

"They're going to be all like that, Mistress." 

The Mistress did not complain again. Sometimes, when crop or whip cut her in 
the same place, she screamed. The slavegirl who was punishing her Mistress 
paused from time I to time to stand back and adore the greatest beauty she 
had ever beheld. But she did not lighten the impact of her strokes. 

"Thank you, darling." 

"You are welcome, Mistress." A pause. "I cannot wait until tonight." 

They did not wait. 

After that, too, had passed, Connie made an exclamation of dismay. "Darling, 
we forgot the dungeon--to look!" Nancy was a badly frightened girl. Unlocked 
from her fetters, she fell at the feet of the only Mistress she had ever 
known. "Don't send me away, please don't. I'm frightened out there." She 
clutched hungrily at bare legs. 

Joyce held up her own cuffed hands. "I'll get another pair." When they were 
tight upon Nancy's willing wrists, the Mistress looked at her two 
possessions lovingly. "Are you sure about this?" 

"Yes, Mistress." 

"I'll whip you terribly, y'know, and keep you chained." 

"Oh yes, Mistress." 

"I think we're all crazy, but it's beautiful." 

"Perhaps this will help, Mistress." Locked hands proffered a letter. "He 
told me to give you this whenever you found me." 

Haarami's note was brief. "A delightful child. She is my parting gift. Whip 
her with love. I suggest you think of yourselves as "The Triads." 

"Do you wish to be one of a Triad, Nancy?" 

"Yes, Mistress. Yes please!" 

"I like the sound of it, darlings." 

They went upstairs. 


THE END
