Dream Slave
by F. E. Campbell 


Chapter One 

Why? 

I must stop thinking about escape. There is no escape, and dwelling on it 
only weakens my ability to cope. It is by coping with Jason that may get me 
out of this jackpot. If he believes he has broken me - or that I wish to be 
broken! It is his obsession with the belief that every girl secretly wishes 
to be broken which may enable me to defeat him. 

Jason is not insane. I have to be glad of that. But it's bad enough the way 
it is. It is his very rationality which makes it possible for him to do what 
he has done. He has made me vanish. Miss Carrie Carstairs has ceased to 
exist. He has erased me with letters and phone calls as though I had never 
been. I have signed my name so many times, damn him! Always under duress, 
always aware of alternative pain. It is so easy to abduct a girl, so 
shockingly easy! 

He isn't always cruel. He keeps me handcuffed to something while he goes to 
work. If I make him angry he ties me up tight instead. But a bit of me 
remains handcuffed to something solid anyway, so there isn't even any use me 
struggling, I'm not going to get away, no matter what. And he keeps me 
naked, always naked. Oh shit! I keep trying to persuade him about some 
clothes, even a square to knot over one hip, but he never seems to hear. He 
says I'm easy to control when naked, and easy to punish, and it keeps me in 
the state of mind he thinks I should be. Damn him, he's right on all counts! 

He varies my security from day to day. At the moment I've got a chain 
padlocked round my tummy, the other end's attached to the house. I can do 
things, and it reaches to the bathroom. But my range has been stripped of 
anything I want. It's the most sterile bit of footage in America. There's no 
escape with hacksaws or bobby pins or anything. Where this damn house is 
I've no idea. My restraints keep me away from windows, and nobody ever rings 
the bell. I've screamed and screamed ....! I'm sure it's in the City 
someplace but it must be off on its own. 

Sitting alone in whatever way he's chained or tied me I'm always ashamed of 
myself for doing or being what Jason sees as natural in a girl. I'm 
twenty-four. Before he kidnapped me I was an executive secretary. I knew 
where I was and where I was going. I never came anywhere near being the 
submissive maiden with palpitating pussy which Jason believes all girls are 
beneath their surface. But a month's course of what he's doing to me, he 
calls it training, is turning me into just that. For the first week of this 
captivity I was a raging fury, fighting him tooth and nail. But I simply got 
a bellyfull of being punished and tied up. I'm not brainwashed, I'm being 
realistic. Jason's got me but good! It doesn't make sense to get my bottom 
whipped twice a day because I'm angry and cheesed off. That whip he uses to 
punish me hurts worse than all get out! 

My trouble is that Jason's charming and good company. I get so bored and 
lonely in my chain, or whatever, that I'm glad to see him when he comes back 
from the office. I'm absurdly glad and behave outrageously in my need to 
chatter and to be reassured I still mean something to someone. I play the 
douce damsel of his dream because it feels so good to have his hands 
lovingly in my hair or on my breasts or even lower down. Loneliness in 
chains is devastating in the way it drives me to think of sex, sex, sex 
....! 

My behaviour over the sexual act itself is what bugs me worst of all. Jason 
insists I have to be tied for it, and for the first week he was dead right 
on that. There was no way then I was willing to lay down and spread my legs. 
But the fact is Jason has a thing about tying me up. It's an end in itself 
which gives him immense sexual pleasure. I suppose it's having a naked girl 
so completely helpless and at his mercy that turns him on. Anyway, even 
after he'd whipped me into obedience, the tying continued when we had sex. 
Always the same with me spreadeagled on the bed, really conventional. But, 
gosh, it was awful that first time! I felt ninety percent pussy and pubic 
hair. 

But now it's a ritual. There's a room and a bed, and the bed has wristlets 
and anklets top and bottom. They attach to the four corners and can be 
easily tightened or loosened, not by me but by him! When he desires me he 
simply unlocks me from whatever I'm attached to, and says casually: "I want 
to fuck you, darling." Then darling, that's me, gratefully leads the way to 
the trick room and disposes herself on the bed for his utmost convenience in 
strapping me down with my legs a mile apart ....! 

I've come to look forward to it. Oh, damn! 

Of course there's still the nights. My nights vary by the grace and goodwill 
of His Majesty. Often I am allowed to share his bed. My ankle is chained to 
a ring in the floor but the chain is long and does not hinder me in doing 
whatever I must to please him. Jason has these rings all over the house so I 
can be conveniently attached anyplace he wants me. If I am not in favour he 
may chain me on the floor beside his bed with just a blanket to keep me 
company while he snores. But if I'm really in disgrace I could be tied to a 
post in the basement or to a chair in the kitchen. Jason is a great believer 
in variety. Once more I'm ashamed at hoping I'll be in bed with him tonight. 

The big question is: Where is Carrie Carstairs going? Jason refuses to talk 
about it, so I'm forced to suppose I'm not going anywhere, this is it! He's 
so damn happy with his possession of me. It's not as though he wants to 
marry me and I won't. Or that I'm holding out on some big secret. Or that 
somebody's paying him to keep me out of the way. Jason wanted to own a girt. 
He chose me. He abducted me, and here I am. I could scream at the way it's 
been so easy for him. I'm honestly surprised there's a girl walking around 
out there free. Gosh, the way we can be picked up and kept as pretty pets 
like a birdie in a cage ....! Oh, damn, damn, damn ...! 

I even feel guilty and ashamed about Jason punishing me. At least about some 
of the penalties he inflicts. I'm not the naughty little girl with a bad 
conscience, I'm the naughty big girl who gets an erotic thrill out of 
provoking a male who, to all intents and purposes, is my owner. I like to 
think I do it because I'm bored, I hope that is the reason. In this peculiar 
slavery it's so damn hard not to be a silly feminine hypocrite. The first 
time Jason tied me naked over a bench and gave my bare bottom six cuts with 
a riding crop I hated it and I howled in anger, shock and pain. I still 
don't ask for it to happen, but when it does I make quite different sounds 
and am so horny afterwards I want him to put me out of my agony right there. 
But Jason knows! He's a sly bastard. He leaves me tied and sweating and goes 
away, it's part of my punishment. I try and rub up against whatever I'm tied 
to: sometimes I'm lucky! You've no idea of the effect of a blazing bottom on 
a girl's libido. It shocked the pants off me! But there are also the other 
kinds of punishment, the one's which keep me behaving the way he wants. I 
don't like them at all. 

Women's Lib' may as well forget it. The physical strength of the Male knocks 
the props out from under all their pretence. Jason can subdue me so easily I 
want to weep in frustration. In those first days when I fought all the time 
I was rewarded only by humiliation and chagrin: and then punished to boot. 
Mostly now I don't bother to fight, I dispose my person for his pleasure and 
save myself some lumps. But once in awhile he'll surprise me into 
instinctive revolt with some of his erotic notions. Then, by the time he's 
subdued me or I've subdued myself, I've earned a punishment; one of the sort 
I don't want ...! So why bother! 

I don't hate Jason. I'm not sure of his feelings towards me. I'm a beautiful 
bundle comprising all sorts of things for male pleasure. I'm a naked female. 
I'm a good conversationalist. I can see good reasons for his sequestering me 
for his personal enjoyment. But beyond that I haven't managed to penetrate. 
He could be preparing me as a human sacrifice, or training me for sale to a 
rich lecher. I think of the damndest things and they could all happen. 

I'm nice. I know I'm nice. I think that word is right for me. I'm a 
delectable female package. My breasts are superlative they have to be to get 
the job I used - to have. My tummy's flat and I've got a really pretty 
little pussy, a neat slit in a curly bush. Jason knew what he was doing when 
he stole me. I'm not a bit hypocritical or shy about Me. I'm nice. I'm grade 
'A'. And being twenty-four makes me a lot more interesting than an eighteen 
year old. But, oh boy, if I ever get a chance to escape I'll run like a 
jackrabbit. 

I keep playing with this damn padlock. It's the only thing between me and 
freedom but it's enough. Right now it's right over my navel, but if I don't 
mind a bit of a chafe I can turn the chain so it hangs behind me like a tail 
and the padlock is out of sight. What a weighty decision! Hell, it's the 
only kind I have to face these days. 

Jason dangles carrots in front of my nose. They are just plausible enough I 
have to look at them. It's the 'Hope springs eternal' thing. It goes 
something like this: 

"I'd love to take you out to dinner, Carrie my sweet." 

"Why don't you? I'd love it." 

"A touch of sarcasm, darling. You're not quite ready." 

"Sure I'm ready, Jason. The waiter won't raise an eyebrow over my chains. 
You can let me wear a little something." 

"Clothes spoil the effect, darling." 

"I don't mind going naked, Jason. Just so long as you're not embarrassed. If 
I was neatly handcuffed wouldn't that do?" 

"It would do to get us both into the local Precinct. Carrie my love, we'll 
have to wait until your homing instinct gets stronger." 

"Jason, dear, please let me give you my word of honour: you know the parole 
thing? I'd love to go out to dinner. I'll be ever so obedient and come back 
here with you. I promise. " 

-That's the way we talk. Repartee with underlying possibilities. Lovely 
visions to keep me alive. Sometimes I think I'd honestly honour a parole and 
come back and let myself be chained again, my yearning for life and people 
and fun is that strong. But he can't trust me, he can't possibly, and I've 
no idea how I'd act if it ever happened. 

I hear the front door being unlocked, and am immediately a'quiver with 
excitement. Silly girl! But my owner is coming home and he's all I've got. 
Not that I really have him, he's got me. But still ... ! I've made up my 
mind to ask him the fatal question. 

"Hello, sweetness! Nice day?" 

"Jason, you know perfectly well I've been chained here like a puppy dog." 

"Sure, but was it a nice day?" 

"I suppose so. I don't seem to hurt anywhere." 

"That's my girl! I had a lousy day but coming home to you makes it right. 
Aren't you glad I don't take out my trials and trib's on you?" 

"Yes, Jason. Thank you. Jason, please unchain me. I hate this padlock, it 
sorts of mocks me. If you let me loose I can get your supper?" 

"Promises, promises! Darling, you look far too sweet to change. Anyway, I 
bought something home, it's in the oven. It can wait while we fuck." 

I make no demur. My spine is tingling and my sex a'flame. I could not care 
less about supper. I stand, quivering, while Jason turns the key in my 
padlock to cause the chain to uncurl from my waist and clatter to the floor. 
Without a word, I go to the room and to the bed. I lay nakedly on my back 
and spread my limbs. Jason buckles my wrists and ankles and pulls on the 
straps until I am as tight as he desires. While I watch him undress I savour 
all the erotic anticipations of every rape that ever was. I become the 
eternal maiden, bound and helpless, to appease the lust of Man. 

It's my lust too, and I love it! 

After satiety gives way to appetite I am dressed for dinner. My costume is 
classically simple, a pair of handcuffs, worn in front. Since they stop me 
doing very little, they are symbolic. They gleam and clink charmingly as we 
eat. Jason goes to the fridge and gets the bottle of wine he has brought 
home for this occasion. Two glasses of it give me courage. 

"Jason, what are you going to do with me?" 

I suppose it is a silly question, but it is the only one I have that really 
matters. It strikes his imperturbability and falls shattered into the 
silence in which he surveys me with that indulgence adults reserve for 
precocious children. He sips gently. 

"I'm already doing it." His tone is patient. 

"You're keeping me prisoner." I clink my handcuffs. "And you're fucking me." 
I try and look charmingly coy. "But it's a terribly limited existence." 

"About the same as the average housewife. The only difference is those 
handcuffs." 

I am shocked to realize how nearly right he is. But I retort, petulantly: 
"They get to go out and around. I can't even get out of the house." 

"Lucky girl! Saves you a lot of discontented window shopping. Being nude is 
woman's true emancipation. Every wife should be kept chained at home." 

"Alright then, how about marrying me?" 

"I don't follow your logic, sweetheart." 

I don't either, but I grope around and lamely suggest: "Well, marriage is a 
sort of bond, it makes me your property. It would be a lot more comfortable 
than being tied up." 

"We could honeymoon at Alcatraz." He says thoughtfully. "But no! You'd be 
off to mother the next day." 

"I don't have a mother." 

"A Lawyer ... maybe the police?" 

"Jason, be serious. Where will I be five years from now?" 

"Right here. Same handcuffs. ..." 

There is that in his voice which tells me to shut up. To nag him is a 
punishable offence, always painful. Beneath all this cheerful domesticity is 
the iron hand. If I was to run for the door ... ! Ugh! So now I pick up on 
one of his own little pleasantries. 

"So I'm your prisoner for life! O.K. But, Jason, you talked about taking me 
out to dinner ... ?" 

"Sweetness, I wish we could." He is sincere. 

"I promise to come back here with you and let myself be chained. Honest!" 

He shakes his head. "That's asking too much of a girl. You couldn't keep 
such a promise." 

"Jason, I could! You don't understand girls. I'd be so grateful ... I'd obey 
you." 

"Come back to all the punishments I use to keep you in line!" 

"Why not? Wives go back to husbands who beat them." For the moment I have 
become interesting. Jason eyes me as something more than a receptacle for 
sperm. Slowly he asks: "How about a ride in the car? It would get you out, 
be a change ... ?" 

His tone is so diffident I know he means it. I am instantly aglow. "Oh, 
Jason, would you! Oh, please?" 

"I'd have to tie you up ... tight?" 

"I don't mind. Jason, I want you to tie me. That way you won't worry. I 
won't be a nuisance." 

We settle for that. I am bubbling with wine and excitement. But at bedtime I 
am chained on the floor with the blanket. I suppose it's something to do 
with the male ego. 

I have to wonder if the way Jason and I talk is a false note. I've a feeling 
that in a book I'd be maintaining a haughty silence interspersed by screams, 
epithets should abound. After being flogged I would agree to call him 
"Master." But, somehow, it hasn't been like that. We both uttered a few bad 
words in the first week but a normal exchange seems to serve us best. I 
notice the way he keeps me polite and respectful. He insists on that. He had 
to remind me a few times with the riding crop, and that can still happen 
when I get carried away. But mostly I'm glad about it. I like myself better 
as a polite prisoner rather than a female who snarls or sulks. He won't go 
for sulking either. If I sulk he'll give me something to sulk about! He's 
almost turning me into what mother would have called "A nice young lady!" 

I'm so damned excited about this car ride I'm ashamed. It's no big deal, but 
I'm going to see people and things and places. I feel absurdly grateful to 
Jason. After all, he doesn't have to! Maybe he likes me a little ... The 
black body stocking is a relief. It fits like a glove but covers the bits of 
me society disapproves of. I'd fully expected to get my car ride naked. 
Jason has a Thing about tying bare skin, he distrusts clothes. He has told 
me more than once: "No way can you tie a girl safely over her clothes, 
she'll wiggle out for sure." I don't argue because I've never been tied up 
with my clothes on. Until Jason grabbed me I'd never been tied up at all. 

I'm trembling as I stand beside his car in the garage. I'm nervous and 
excited, a silly girl! Jason is fiddling with ropes. I would once have 
viewed those ropes with pure horror. Now they are old friends, by whose good 
graces I'm at last getting out of this house. 

"Hands behind you, sweetheart." 

I am ready for that command. My arms position themselves like trained 
soldiers. I thrill as my hands are placed palm to palm and my wrists tied 
together. I suspect Jason is clever with rope. It certainly feels clever as 
he makes me helpless. When another rope goes round my elbows and pulls them 
together so they hurt I try and sound helpfully informative. 

"That hurts a lot, Jason. You don't need to tie my elbows, I couldn't get my 
wrists free in a hundred years." 

"Stops you struggling, Carrie, makes you sit still." 

"But it makes my breasts stick way out!" 

"What's wrong with that!" 

"You don't want me to attract attention, do you?" 

"They'd have to stick their head in the window to see your tits. Hold still. 
I'm going to put several strands round to ease the pressure." 

I stand obediently. After all, what's a bit of pain! Jason pushes and pulls 
until my elbows almost touch, then he does the cinch thing that tells a girl 
she's never, never going to get herself free. I look down at my breasts, 
they are well worth a glance. My nipples must like the body stocking, they 
are pushing at it ... hard! 

"I'm beautifully helpless, Jason. You haven't a thing to worry about." 

"Good! Into the front with me - here, I'll help." 

It feels lovely. I snuggle. Jason ties my ankles together. I am now about as 
active as an Egyptian mummy. The motor starts and the door opens. I am 
blinded by light, and forget to look back at the house as we roll down the 
street. I know I'm ridiculous, but I felt impelled to ask: 

"Jason, shouldn't I be gagged? I mean, just suppose--!" 

He is delighted with me. I suppose I sounded sweetly naive. "I'm trusting 
you, Carrie." He chuckles. "Go ahead and scream. See what happens." 

"You mean you'll punish me?" 

"Hell no! With the windows up no one's going to hear. Go ahead. Just once." 

I screamed. It was a very lonely sound I did not like. It was as much a 
prisoner in the car as I myself. I had no wish to repeat. I snuggled back 
into the upholstery to ease my tied arms, then gave my attention to whatever 
I could see through the window. Seeing things was so damn good I wanted to 
cry. From time to time I gave my attention to Jason. His lips showed 
amusement, probably about me. Hell, why shouldn't he be amused! At this 
moment he and I are about the most bizarre couple in the U.S.A. 

I couldn't forget I was tied. My elbows hurt and my ankles were corded 
tighter than he need have tied them. But the last thing I was going to do 
was complain. At a theatre you pay money for a ticket. The pain of rope was 
what I was paying for a glimpse of a world I hadn't seen for a long time. I 
found it cheap. Soon we got out into the country and I felt Jason relax. Out 
here there's nothing I can do to disturb his peace of mind, not a damn 
thing! I relax too, it's lovely. I am happy. 

He took me on a wide scenic circle. It was on the way back we ran into the 
road block. Police cars were all over the place. To try and back and turn 
would be fatal. Poor Jason, he had to face it. All I could feel was 
embarrassment over my scanty covering. But I need not have worried. Jason 
reached back and produced a cape. It went from my neck to my knees. He 
arranged it deftly. We exchanged glances. His was enigmatic, there was 
something in his face I could not read. I don't know what he saw in mine. 

I am ashamed of what follows. Figure it if you can. But I am not in love 
with Jason ... ! At least, I don't think I am. I'll kick myself for life, I 
just know I will. We had to halt in line. An officer questioned each car. 
They were looking for someone. Jason rolled down the window, and once more 
we exchanged glances I could not fathom. For the policeman he presented only 
a bland curiosity. You know about road blocks. Questions and answers, purely 
perfunctory since you are not what they seek. But I was a volcano, seething 
to erupt, yet speechless. It must have showed. The uniformed attention 
swiveled to me and the cape. 

"You O.K., Lady?" 

The tucking in of my bare tied feet was instinctive. I swear it was! The 
last thing I wanted right then was to have my covering stripped away and be 
revealed as a bound and nearly nude captive who hadn't got whatever it took 
to ask for help. 

"Of course I'm alright." I said gracelessly. 

I don't suppose anything about me looked exactly right. I was uncomfortably 
tied and could not move. If I could have produced a hand or waved a 
cigarette ... I expect I looked pathetic. 

"Everything comfortable under that cape, Miss?" 

Fate was handing me freedom on a plate, and what did I do with it! I didn't 
do a damn thing except smile sweetly and say: "I've been ill. I keep well 
wrapped up." 

Jason and I find it hard to break the silence after the Road Block. The Road 
Block is past and gone but we don't know what to say. After awhile, Jason 
asks abruptly: 

"Why?" 

"I don't know why." I admit weakly. 

"You had me dead to rights. It was a hazard I hadn't covered." 

I wriggled to make the ropes hurt. I wanted to be reminded of what I was and 
what I'd thrown away. "I didn't want to get us into trouble." I offer 
lamely. 

"You wouldn't have been in trouble, Carrie." 

"Well, I guess I didn't want to get you into trouble. Look, Jason, it's no 
big thing. May we drop it?" 

"You in love with me?" I get a searching sideways glance. 

"I don't think so." 

"Hell, girl, don't you know?" 

"Well, alright then, I'm not! I just didn't want to see you in prison." 

He digests this silently, then grins sideways. "I bet you're mad as all get 
out at yourself?" 

As usual, he was right. "Sure I'm mad." I agree fervidly. "I expect I'll be 
a lot madder still." I struggled again to deliberately savour my impotence. 
"I just wish it hadn't happened. I suppose you'll never take me out of the 
house again?" 

Jason unclipped the cape and set it aside, viewing my near nudity and the 
ropes with immense satisfaction. "May as well get a dividend out of being 
scared half to death." He reflected. "You look damn erotic like that, 
sweets: Sure I'll take you out again, but damned if I know how. Any 
suggestions?" 

"I'll always give you a promise." 

"I think that chance to escape caught you with your pants down, love. If it 
happened again right now you'd turn me in?" He grinned at me demandingly. 
"Well, would you?" 

"I don't know. Oh, Jason, don't tease" 

"How's about a test? I've just thought of a honey?" 

I try and shrug but can't. Boy, am I trussed! Morosely, I ask: "Why would I 
have anything to say about it?" 

"Because this whole thing means something to me: maybe more than it does to 
you. I'm playing a kind of Russian Roulette with you as the gun." 

"Thanks a lot." 

"Don't be miffed. I'm going to give you another chance; I'll pull the 
trigger one more time." 

Jason is dead serious. I switch my attention from the scenery to him. I'm 
wishing more than ever we'd just had a nice uneventful ride. I find myself 
saying: "Jason, don't! I don't want another chance. It's too much of a 
strain, especially after ... I'm safely your prisoner. Be grateful." 

I expect what I'm trying to do is the feminine thing of giving a man all of 
me in the hope of getting a little something back. Break him down with 
sweetness, get under his skin, make him want me minus the rope. But, shit, 
that's playing a game the same way he is! What the hell am I trying to 
prove! He's smirking now ... he's hatched something up. 

"When we get home, Carrie, I'm going to whip you, whip you but good. I'll 
trice you up and do it properly as though you'd committed something 
unforgivable." Jason's tone is conversational, pleasantly outgoing as though 
he's promising me a real good time. I am suddenly trembling at the vision he 
invokes. "There's nothing you can do or say to get out of it. It will 
happen. You are going to be whipped, period. Understand?" 

"No. I don't understand. But I heard what you said." 

"O.K." I can tell he's really happy with his notion. "But it's not a one 
sided deal, sweetheart. You're still the kingpin because, when we get back 
to the City I'll put the cape back on and stop at the first cop and ask the 
way. I'll take as much time as I can over it. In an hour you can be a free 
girl." 

"It's cruel." 

"No it's not. You're free to make a choice." 

I say, stubbornly: "I won't send you to jail. So, as a reward, I get a 
bloody awful whipping." 

"I'm not too sure about the legal aspect, darling." Jason's voice is slow, 
musing, intrigued. "That's where the Russian Roulette comes in. If you ask 
the officer for help, but refuse to lay a charge or sign a complaint, we 
could find ourselves going our separate ways." 

"Jason, please ... ! It will tear me in two." 

"But delicious, don't you think?" 

Damn him! It is delicious. I can feel the secretions flooding my sex. He has 
captured me, not only with his rope but with his mood. What girl ever had to 
face such a dilemma! It is the most impossibly erotic situation I have ever 
head of. I know he will do exactly what he says. In an hour or two I may be 
writhing under the most awful whipping he has given me ... or back in my 
apartment - If I still have an apartment! More probably I will be signing 
statements in a police station and being viewed with suspicion .... ! We 
could both end up in a cell! But not the same cell! I quench an impulse to 
giggle. Dodging dilemma, I plead: "Jason, take me home. Never mind the 
policeman ... please?" 

"But you'd still be whipped. That wouldn't be fair." 

"There's nothing fair about a girl who's naked and tied up so she can't do a 
damn thing!" 

"You can scream, you can talk. There's a policeman in your future, darling." 

"Jason, this is ridiculous. Please don't do it?" 

"You enjoy being my captive maiden?" 

"No I don't. But I don't like the alternative either. Jason, please don't 
whip me." 

Here we are again, talking about the bizarre as though it was rational, 
accepting this fantasy of Jason's which he has made real. As though to 
assure myself of its reality I stretch out my tied feet and examine the 
cords cutting at my ankles. It is a very neat job, I cannot move them at 
all. I cannot see my bound arms but I can certainly feel their strictures. I 
am pushing them back into the corner to lean back on with comfort, thus I 
cannot even weave my shoulders. I am a very satisfying package for Jason, he 
approves of me like this. I have no doubt I look delectably helpless. Jason 
is considering my plea not to be whipped. He renders a calm judgment. 
"Sorry, sweets, It's something we have to do. I like it. It puts us both on 
the line." He grins charmingly. "But it gives you a head start." 

"You're trying to box me in, Jason." My tone has become petulant. "You're 
using that pretty little precept people hang on the wall in kitchens and 
bedrooms about: "If you love something set it free. If it comes back it is 
yours. If it does not it never was." I look down at my near nudity and the 
thrust of my breasts. "I don't think we're going to prove a thing, except I 
don't want to be dragged into a precinct station in this condition." 

"I don't pretend that whatever happens is Earth shattering, Carrie. But it's 
something I want to do, so we're going to do it." It is now my Lord and 
Master who is petulant, but his voice is firm. "Neither of us can be sure 
how you'll react until the moment comes - dammit,' girl, don't you see what 
a marvelously stupendous gamble this is for me?" 

Sure I can see! The male ego is rampant and tugging at the leash of a new 
experience in which I will play the role of hare to his hounds. He must feel 
terribly sure of me, damn him! I toy deliciously with a vision of me saying: 

"Officer, arrest this man. I have been kidnapped." Wow, that's a tremendous 
concept for me too! Soberly, I tell him: "Don't tempt me. These ropes hurt 
enough I'd like to get 'em untied." 

"They will be anyway, darling. I have to untie you before you get whipped." 

He's pushing me, playing his thrill for all that's in it. When I see that 
damn policeman I'm going to be hovering on the brink of another damn awful 
decision. I return my attention to the scenery. It is becoming increasingly 
urban. We drive in silence. 

The Law is obliging. The uniformed bulk is about to enter his car as we draw 
level. Jason leans across my caped nakedness and lowers the window. My heart 
is beating so hard I am sure they will both hear its thudding. I am 
outrageously sexually aroused. 

They make their pointless exchange of queries and directions. The officer 
looks more at me than at my companion. But girls are accustomed to being 
lusted for. That is his interest. I wish his eyes actually could strip me 
naked: I'd love to see his face. I sit demurely, repeating over and over in 
my mind: "I'm going to be terribly whipped ... whipped ... whipped! If 
anything will make me speak, surely that prospect should!! I smile sweetly 
at the minion of the law and say: "Officer, I am being kidnapped." 

He is a genial soul who appreciates a joke. He touches his cap and winks. 
"You look real good at it, Miss. Have fun." He nods and turns away. Jason 
slowly edges our car back into the traffic. 

I do not scream. 

"Thanks, sweetheart." Jason is euphoric with success. "That little final 
touch of yours capped the whole thing. Dammit, that was roulette the way no 
Russian ever dared play." 

"Do I get punished extra?" 

"Hell no! What you're getting is bad enough anyway. Besides, that was a 
stroke of pure genius." 

I am vexed. There is something I will not tell Jason. It is simply that I do 
not know whether I am glad or sorry over the outcome of my own game of 
chance in which my statement to the policeman was the same as pulling the 
trigger on a pistol that might or might not be loaded. I had cast my silly 
little loaf of bread upon the waters, what I would get back was going to be 
painful. I wriggle in my ropes and wish we were further from home. 

The house where Jason keeps me prisoner is at the end of a cul de sac, 
isolated only because development has demolished old structures around but 
not yet started to rebuild. There are no passersby. For the time being it is 
a perfect place in which to keep a captive girl. I drink it all in avidly as 
we approach our garage. Goodness knows when I may get to see it again. 

I am untied. We both exclaim over the weals the cords have imposed in my 
flesh. They are cruelly aesthetic. Everything about me is erotic. I divest 
myself of the body stocking and offer my wrists for the handcuffs. My owner 
has little need of orders, I know what to do. I make coffee and sandwiches 
which we share in the lounge. It is as though I was Jason's wife. Soon I 
will be whipped. 

"Alright, sweetheart, clue me in." 

Jason is delighted but puzzled. I am puzzled too. "It's just feminine 
instability, girlish emotions." I tell him diffidently. "I deserve 
everything it gets me." 

"But are you pleased?" 

"Jason, you're going to whip me! How can I be pleased? For the rest of it: 
I'd sooner be sitting here like this than in a detective's office." 

He is hot on some sort of scent, presumably mine. He explains earnestly: 
"Possessing you, Carrie, keeping you captive, training you, it means a lot 
to me. It's the biggest thing in my life. I won't let you go, and I won't 
show clemency for these two acts of mercy. But I have to know: Does being 
naked, tied, chained, punished make you happy?" 

"I threw away two chances of freedom. Is that your answer, Jason? But I 
still don't want to be whipped." 

"Ask me not to." 

"Please don't whip me?" 

"Request denied. You are going to be whipped." He twinkled at me. 
"Deliberate cruelty, eh?" 

I cannot answer. I am shamingly conscious of being wet between my legs. 

Chapter Two. 

Journey Back. 

It is very quiet in this room where I am waiting to be whipped. I am alone. 
It is understood I must ponder my sins, if any, before it happens. I stand, 
nude, with my bare arms held high by my wrists strapped far apart to a bar 
above my head. I am not hurting yet, but I cannot leave this spot. I am many 
times naked in a frightening vulnerability. All of me is available. 

I change my weight from foot to foot. I look up at the frustrating straps 
around my wrists. I project myself into a reverie in which I become two. I 
split. One is me awaiting punishment, the other is an admonishing alter ego 
quite out of patience. She is vehement. 

"You little idiot! You could have been free!" 

"Don't nag. It's bad enough knowing ..." 

"Jason's going to whip you horribly." 

"I'll have to put up with it, won't I. Besides, I'm helpless now and don't 
have any decision. Don't nag me on that either." 

"But, you absolute idiot, why ... Why?" 

"I'm not in love with him, if that's what you're thinking. But I don't hate 
him either. He's taken me into something I never knew existed, a sort of 
Magic Island. I want to find out about it." 

"There's nothing to find out. Most men want a slavegirl. Jason likes keeping 
his tied or chained so he knows, and she knows, he has her safe. He whips 
you because it gives him an erection, and because you make the moans and 
writhings of orgasm while he's doing it." 

"Never mind Jason. What about Me! Right now I've got a palpitating pussy 
with a fire burning inside." 

She phases away. I have won a temporary victory. I cross my legs and try to 
rub myself, but it does not work. The way I am fastened is not conducive to 
the assuagement of my arousal. My gaze drifts to the whip Jason has 
thoughtfully left on the floor a few feet away. It is supposed to make me 
shiver. It does, but I'm not sure if it's in the right way. I wonder, 
briefly, if Jason can be called cruel in the things he does to me. But if I 
believed that I would not be standing here now. I had my chance. 

"Chafing at the bit, darling?" 

Jason is brisk and very happy. He kisses me, plays with my nipples, then 
clasps my vulva and nods approvingly at his wet palm. "How about unstrapping 
me and we'll have sex?" I ask hopefully. 

"Don't be silly, love." He pats my bottom reprovingly. My poor bottom that 
soon will be blazing with welts! "You know perfectly well it's much better 
after. The girl who has to lay on a whipped back is the horniest girl there 
is." 

He is right about this. I should know! But my immediate prospects frighten 
me, so I embrace humiliation. "Jason, dear, please don't whip me. I'm 
scared. I don't want to be whipped." 

He kisses me tenderly and plays some more with my nipples. I cannot stop him 
but would not if I could. It is an incredibly erotic joy to stand with my 
arms fastened high, naked and helpless, while my erogenous zones are 
frictioned by an amused male I do not dislike. If he does it long enough I 
will melt and hang uncaring from my strapped wrists. When I have forgotten 
all about my plea for mercy he stops. I am still gasping in a roseate 
paradise when the first stroke slices across my shoulders and I scream in 
shock. 

Before Jason kidnapped me the word was fictional. One ran into it here and 
there like pneumonia and prison. It happened to someone else, never to you. 
Being whipped is a strangely primitive punishment. I expect cave men whipped 
their wives with a willow switch, Romans did it with a flagellum, the early 
penal systems devised horrendous instruments, the Russians had their knout, 
and the Boers their sjambok. But they were all essentially the same. You 
struck someone with them to inflict pain, preferably on the bare skin. My 
skin is bare and I am being whipped. 

It is so beautifully and exquisitely personal. It is from him to me. The 
marks of it are Jason's marks which I must wear whether I want to or not, 
just as I must stand here nakedly to receive them. Humanity has changed so 
many things, forever improving, but it has never changed this intimacy of 
pain. The whip is immutable. 

The whip cutting at me now is not the cruellest of its kind. Jason has a 
fine judgment in my punishments. I am not flayed. But, because of this 
moderation, he will be able to whip me far longer and with more strokes. 
Some flogging instruments might reduce me to insensibility in six blows, but 
not this one! I have a disquieting suspicion that with this I might sustain 
a hundred. 

Being whipped isn't a bit the way you expect. It's a different and more 
awful kind of pain than I'd ever experienced. It devastates me totally. It 
is made more awful by my strapped wrists compelling me to stand, and by my 
nakedness. It is unbelievable to be naked while such a thing is done to me, 
but it is happening. The swish of the thong and its impact on my skin 
explains my need to be bound. I could not stand still for it. No way! 

The first sounds I make are yelps, squeals, and cries of outrage. Anger is 
in there too, anger at the indignity and the violation of Me ... Me! I am 
being wealed, and I do not want to be wealed. But these vocal responses soon 
turn to screams. I scream on impact to vent some of the agony; I am sure it 
helps. I scream because, for me, it is almost impossible not to. But I 
scream also in the sneaky hope of breaking down Jason's determination in the 
face of the sickening female cacophony which appals me even as I peal it 
out. 

It is a false hope. Jason whips me slowly and with care. I fear he may enjoy 
my anguished vocals just as he enjoys the weals blossoming on my skin. From 
time to time he pauses to trace with his finger one of the proud ridges of 
scarlet which particularly intrigues him. It is the most erotic sensation I 
have ever felt. I stop writhing and kicking, and shiver instead. I cannot 
meet his eye. I am ashamed of my behaviour under punishment, in fact I am 
ashamed of being punished. I am also aware of damp hair and the gleam of 
sweat on my flesh. I have never sweat like this in my life, it is the 
perspiration of pain. 

"Feeling it a bit?" 

"Intensely-!" 

He handles my crotch. I spread my legs hopefully. But he is just testing. I 
pant and am rent by spasms of acute sensation. I manage a dry whisper. 
"Please, Jason, don't whip me any more. Please say this is enough?" 

It is not enough! 

"Intermission, darling, don't be tedious." 

He resumes my whipping. I try hard not to scream, it is I who hate the 
sound. I surge into fresh writhings and the flailing of my legs. As though 
in reprimand, the whip cuts upward into my crotch and pubic hair. It is a 
hateful invasion to which I respond with a different note and the tight 
closing of my thighs. Nonchalantly, Jason whips my bottom instead of my 
back. This would be easier to bear if he did not allow the lash to lap my 
hip. That hurts abominably and provokes me into fresh protests with my feet. 
I kick angrily at nothing and receive another shrewd down under cut where I 
want it least. I erupt into orgasm. 

It is a shaming climax for a girl. Jason beats me a couple of times to spur 
the lava flow, then stands to watch my dissolution into spasms of lust. I do 
not care, not at this moment! I moan and do all the things my flesh demands. 
He can watch all he likes, damn him! The straps round my wrists no longer 
creak, they have absorbed too much moisture from the skin they hold captive. 
When I droop limply in satiety, his whipping of my bottom resumes its casual 
cadence. 

I am not guilty of a thing, so cannot gauge this punishment. Jason is doing 
this to me as some sort of affirmation of authority. It will keep me in my 
place, I won't get ideas and notions. It is the final validating of his 
flirt with fate in the car. I chose this! I asked for this whipping he is 
giving me with such panache. Dammit,' I had to be crazy! I could be home 
free.... ! He gave me every chance - I leap and scream -I have thoughtlessly 
opened my legs .... ! 

My thoughts are instant fitful things. Mostly I think only of pain ... and 
wish Jason would stop. But he does not stop, and pain claims all of me. 

I remember the French movie about a girl named 'O'. After she had been 
whipped she hung against her tethered arms and tied wrists, wet with sweat, 
panting, glad it was over but still quivering under the remembered lash. The 
beauty of that pose negated the horror of her pain. I find myself doing the 
same thing, uncaring of who may see. This is an intensely female moment. I 
am alone with remembered agony but a fire is generating within my loins. I 
am not yet ready for a man, I am glad Jason has gone away. But when he 
returns ... ! 

I do not remember when the whip stopped. Pain and the dream blended. Perhaps 
I lost consciousness, though this I do not believe. I am well aware of 
hanging by my wrists and that Jason has left me to reflect on what I am and 
what he is going to do to me later. I am in a beautiful limbo, drifting into 
a reverie, a dream of something long ago. I wear Jason's weals, my wrists 
are strapped by Jason's straps and buckles, my back and bottom blaze with an 
erotic fire. A compelling intensity of sensation plucks me back into time 
.... 

In these dreams I have duality: the Me who observes and comprehends, and the 
Me who is of that moment in time alone. The first Me wonders how Jason knew. 
Did he know? Do I emanate something? Or is Jason a coincidence helping me to 
see who and what I am? I do not debate these matters, the dream does not 
permit. And, anyway, the detached Me is far too busy adjusting herself to 
what she now beholds. These visions span the centuries. In each I am a 
little girl lost. 

.... 

The headline of the newspaper on Auntie's desk proclaims the election of 
Millard Fillmore as President. That pins me down to eighteen forty-nine, as 
do the clothes we wear and the furniture .... My aunt Hester is speaking. "I 
am tired of you, Caroline, out of patience." 

I am silent, rebellious, sulky. I am not sure what is planned for me but I 
do not want it. I see menace in the respectful attention of the woman 
quietly standing to one side. 

"I have asked Fraulein Lotte Schopen to take you in hand." My Aunt pauses. 
She does these pauses very well, they diminish me to tremblings I strive not 
to show. "Fraulein Schopen comes highly recommended as a disciplinarian. She 
has come to us from one of Europe's noble Houses. She speaks excellent 
English." 

I bestow upon Fraulein Schopen a look of loathing consigning her back to 
whence she came. She is a beautiful woman, soigne, exuding power. 

"She will be your Governness-" 

"But, Auntie, I'm not a child! The Fraulein is little older than I am-!" 

"She will understand you, dear, far better than I. Have no fear that she 
cannot assert authority, she will control you firmly." 

"But, Auntie, I don't want to be firmly controlled! I want-I want-Oh, 
please-!" 

"You don't know what you want, dear. The loss of your parents has left you 
sadly without direction. You are completely dependent upon me, so I will 
provide that direction. Fraulein Schopen is exactly the help we need." 

I look, doubtfully, at the smiling German import. She smiles encouragingly 
but about her there is menace. I turn imploringly to my only relative. "I am 
already educated, Aunt Hester, I do not need ..." 

"We are speaking of deportment and behaviour, Caroline. Your improprieties - 
and this last shocking incident....!" My Aunt says no more. Nor have I a 
defence. I feel the implacability of convention closing in. I have sinned! 
Unhappily, I ask the obvious: "Is Fraulein Schopen here to punish me?" 

"She will guide and instruct. She will demand obedience. I have given her 
carte blanche." 

I cringe. I am helpless. I have no money, no one else to whom to turn. 
Fraulein Schopen eyes me with the lofty seniority of five years. "Have no 
fear, little one, I will be your friend." 

Aunt Hester's voice is soft. "There is the new room, dear, the one you have 
not seen. It is as Fraulein Schopen desires." 

My hand is taken. I am led away. Aunt Hester smiles and nods benignly. I 
long to snatch back my arm and flee. But where would I run to-where, where, 
where! 

I am an orphan! With a false willingness I allow this German girl to lead me 
to my room. 

"We will be most happy." Lotte Schopen says it as though she has no doubts. 
"You will please to undress." 

"But I have bathed! It's not bedtime - !" 

"Please to undress. Remove all clothes. Come, come, I am a woman." 

I fumble myself into nakedness and shame. It is my first time to be bare in 
just this way. I stand awkwardly, an arm across my breasts, a hand over my 
pubic hair. Fraulein Schopen firmly clasps my hands at the back of my neck, 
then tilts my chin to make me stand erect. 

"You have a beautiful body, Caroline. Your blush, it is most becoming. See, 
I caress your nipples to make them hard. Your breasts are as firm as mine." 

I gasp but dare not protest -- the unexpected ... ! "Please to close your 
eyes and to stand quite still." 

I obey, trembling. My nipples have never been so hard as when the German 
fingers fall away and I hear the sounds of a suitcase opening and being 
rummaged through .... Then, gentle hands possess my arms and place them at 
my back, straps circle my wrists and are pulled tight. There are small 
sounds of finality, clicks! I find myself panting but I know not why. 

"You may open the eyes, madchen." 

If I was not naked with breasts and a bushed puss I would feel a small girl 
playing games. Fraulein sits beside her ravaged case upon my bed. She is a 
cat who has already eaten the canary, she is pleased. She eyes the puzzled 
twistings of my arms and shoulders against her straps .... "The small wrists 
are fastened tightly, little one." 

They are indeed! I desist my ineffectual tuggings and stand primly at 
attention. I am more curious than frightened. 

"Your freedom has departed, Caroline." 

"But, Miss Schopen, I do not understand ?" - "You may call me Lotte. It is 
nicest. We are just two girls. But I am in charge. You will always remember 
... I will make sure you remember. As for your freedom: you did not use it 
well. It is gone." 

"You really mean ... ?" I start my tugging again, gazing at her in 
disbelief. 

"Always you will be fastened in some way, there are so many ways ... ! It is 
best." 

I digest this slowly, still twisting against the leather bands around my 
wrists. I recalled stories of strange disciplines. I am still panting, but 
my voice is crisp. "I cannot submit. I am sorry. No doubt you mean well. 
Unfasten me." 

Her silence mocks. 

"Get these things off my wrists! I'll speak to Aunt Hester." 

"Your Aunt Hester knows of the delights I bring for you. There is also the 
room ... You will be confined. You will be whipped, constantly whipped -" 

"Stoppit, you are being absurd! You cannot - ?" 

"Can I not, Madchen?" The mockery is patent. 

I run for the door. It is closed. While my strapped hands fumble at the knob 
strong German fingers possess themselves of my hair. Sobbing in frustration, 
I am led back to where I was. I have never been so helpless. 

"The little pigeon seeks to fly, but her wings are clipped. There are so 
many ways her wings may lose their feathers." 

Damn her, she makes me feel like a plucked bird! The simile is not that far 
afield. My strapped arms are indeed clipped wings. I fall back on a hurt and 
dignified silence while she buckles other straps above my elbows. When they 
are tight she joins them with some sort of linkage. My shoulders are 
wrenched back, my breasts tighten. 

"I suppose you know that hurts?" 

"Indeed yes, little one, it keeps the arms most secure." 

"There is no need of it. I am not trying to run away. - I am pushed to my 
bed and thrust face down upon the cover, my weight upon my protruding 
breasts. I feel lumpily ridiculous while my ankles are strapped in the same 
manner as my wrists. The case is taken from the bed and my nakedness 
arranged to Fraulein's satisfaction. I have become an inert nonentity. 
Postured to please, another linkage is used to bring my feet up and back, 
back, back to attach them to the unkind strictures on my arms. I can 
scarcely move. 

"You look very sweet, madchen, and so helpless!" 

"I don't feel sweet. This is awful! When I tell Aunt -" 

I will tell nothing! Not now! A ball enters my mouth, straps are buckled 
across my cheeks and over my hair at the nape of my neck. It is all terribly 
tight and catches me unawares. I am gagged! I protest furiously. But all 
that emerges are small pitiful sounds at which my captor smiles. 

She pats me affectionately, then leaves and closes the door. I lay, doubled 
up, upon my bed in silence and dismay. This has been too swift, too 
unexpected. I have no defence. 

If Aunt Hester was not somewhere in the house I would be frightened out of 
my wits. But, even so, I am delivered to this German girl ... and look at 
me, just look at me now! Only in fiction have I read of young ladies of good 
family being treated thus. But if in fiction why not in fact! I try to move 
but everything hurts. 

The gag is hateful, it hurts and I dribble. Lotte Schopen has strapped it 
into my mouth to prevent me calling out to Aunt Hester, calling for help. I 
can think of no other reason. I cannot wriggle my way to the door, I cannot 
kick to attract attention. Possibly I can flounder about enough to fall on 
the floor, but what good would that do! The bed is soft, the floor is not. 
In a fury of revolt I heave and thrust and twist against the leather bands. 
All I achieve is to fall over on my side. It takes all my exertion to get 
myself back the way I was. But I discover the sideways posture more 
comfortable, so I flop over again to lay panting and defeated. I will lay 
like this until someone chooses to release me. My struggles have loosened 
nothing, I am still strapped tight. 

There are only two things I can do. One is to hurt, and that is easy. The 
other is to think, and that is not easy at all. I have been delivered to 
some sort of European discipline. I recall more and more stories of what is 
done to delinquent girls in this country and that ... in Nunneries and 
Schools, and by a Governess. I shiver at the thought of being whipped: in 
all these stories the girl was whipped. Then there is The Room, the room 
Auntie has had made over and which I have not been allowed to see. It is my 
room, I am sure of it. It will contain ... things! Lotte Schopen will use 
these things ... on me! I shudder again and struggle briefly. 

But it is Fraulein Lotte Schopen herself who truly fills my thoughts while I 
lay as she has strapped me. Lotte Schopen is a force, a power. But she is an 
intensely female force. I know I would feel quite differently about myself 
if a man had buckled me like this. I am not sure what I see in her eyes ... 
it is not cruelty. She is also beautiful. She dresses severely, but if she 
was naked as I am and her hair loosed from its comb she would be 
breathtaking, I am sure of it! I don't suppose Auntie even notices. I 
meditate unhappily about my new world. Soon I wet the coverlet with my 
tears. I cannot move. 

"My little pigeon! So sweetly trussed! You have had two hours of blissful 
reflection." 

I make silly stupid sounds and gaze up imploringly at my Governess. She is 
smiling down, her eyes swiftly appraising the strictures by which I am made 
helpless. Laughing, she reaches for a strap, in a few moments the beastly 
gag is taken from my mouth. 

"Thank you, oh, thank you!" My gratitude is sincere. 

"You are feeling better, little one?" 

How can I 'feel better'! I am bound and naked and helpless! A girl does not 
'feel better' like that. She wants me to say I am ready to be obedient, a 
good girl. Instead, I mutter: "I feel ... different. It is all strange. I 
don't understand." 

Her fingertips find my nipples. She seems obsessed with them. "You enjoy 
this, madchen?" 

"Yes." 

"You say that grudgingly, but you enjoy. See, I continue." 

I am panting again. She has that effect on me. Or is it this playing with my 
breasts! When the fingers are withdrawn I say, without volition: "Don't 
stop! Please don't stop." Then feel ashamed. 

"It is good you like. But we have work to do, you and I." 

She becomes busy with the linkage of my bonds. Soon I stretch ecstatically, 
still tightly strapped but I have been given back my legs. I revel in their 
full stretch and repeat my "Thank you, thank you!" 

"It is good for a girl to be bound, Caroline." 

I do not argue. It just feels so good not to be doubled up any more. I flex 
and stretch and wriggle while she watches me with her omnipotent amusement. 
Her voice is soft. "Tell me how it feels, dear child." 

"Just helpless, terribly helpless. My elbows hurt something awful." 

"Good, and your elbows remain strapped. I wish to hear no more of them. Is 
there nothing more?" 

I know what she wants of me, so I part with it. "I have to obey you, 
Fraulein. I will try and do as you tell me." 

She laughs delightedly. "That hurt to say, little pigeon, did it not! So now 
we go to work." 

Fraulein Schopen handles my trussed nudity with frightening ease. She is 
strong. I am pulled around and set on my feet. I stand erect, frightened to 
move for fear I fall. I feel all breasts and black triangle. 

"The American corset is for plump hausfraus my dear. For you I have 
something more special." 

I eye it askance. I am sure I will hate it. Fraulein Schopen holds it up 
with pride. When she wraps it round my bare skin beneath my strapped arms I 
feel encased in armour, doubly bound. 

"At first a little shock, my dear. Then you will feel proud." 

I will never feel pride - not in this! It begins as something shapeless, but 
Lotte's fingers mould it upon me. Laces are inserted and pulled, tucks put 
in place, my breasts lifted and arranged. By the time the serious business 
of lacing me tight begins I am sheathed from the cleavage of my breasts down 
over my belly, over my hips to the beginning of my thighs. My pussy is open 
but hidden, there is a cut out into which my bottom thrusts itself in an 
increasing prominence as the ensemble tightens and takes shape. 

"I call it my 'Iron Maiden' dear." Fraulein Schopen says complacently as she 
busies herself with the prisonment of my body. "It has two benefits for the 
lucky girl who wears it. It banishes her sulks and perfects her figure. Hold 
still, dear child. Even though I tug I make sure you do not fall." 

I am a doll, a small girl-child, a manikin. Fear of the gag quenches 
protest. There is nothing I can do except stand still and accept this 
outrageous constriction. It is not a corset. It is a thing of punishment. I 
am being punished for being a young lady who has no money. "Please, not too 
tight." I plead wanly, but hasten to add: "Not this first time." 

"It will be as tight as I wish, dear." Lotte says absently as she prods and 
pulls. "You will think it be very tight indeed, but you will get used to it. 
You may complain a little, you are so sweetly plaintive. But too much 
protest will put the gag back in that pretty mouth." 

I can do nothing, so I stand and let myself be tightened within this 
constricting armour Fraulein Schopen calls a corset. I feel petulant and 
abused but the straps warn me to behave. Meekly, I say: "Yes, Fraulein. 
Thank you, Fraulein." 

"Are you being sarcastic, dear?" 

Of course I am! Swiftly I backtrack. "No. Honest! I'm just trying to be 
nice." 

"Hmmmmm, very well. How does this feel?" 

It feels terrible. I am in a vice shaped to my figure. The laces Lotte keeps 
tugging at run all the way from the top curve of my bottom to just below the 
level of my breasts. My poor tummy is vanishing, my bottom is being plumped 
out back beneath my strapped wrists, my breasts are thrust up and out in a 
magnificence I can scarcely believe. I am annoyed with my nipples, surely 
they do not need to be so hard or so large! It must be something to do with 
the circulation. "I don't know how it feels." I say hopelessly. "I just 
don't. If I say anything you don't like you'll gag me." 

I am warmly kissed. It is comforting. A mischievous finger reaches beneath 
the lower rim of this armour and tickles my pussy. I gasp and blush. No one 
has ever touched me like that there. I abandon all thoughts of rebellion. I 
deliver myself utterly to sensory perception. 

Tighter and tighter. It is done to me by small degrees. I take smaller and 
smaller breaths. The lower hem below the large orifice for the cheeks of my 
bottom is another strap. Tightened, it imposes authority upon my thighs, but 
not enough to stop me walking ... at least I do not think it will. Right now 
I cannot walk at all. Finally Lotte Schopen is satisfied. I can scarcely 
move. I can scarcely breathe. The contours of my figure must be grotesque. 

"You look adorable, madchen." 

The straps round my ankles are suddenly gone. I am led to the big mirror. I 
gasp at what I see: No tummy, proud breasts far larger than life, arrogantly 
nippled with hard scarlet buds. I have become femaleness multiplied. My 
bottom is a thing for maiden blushes. It blushes itself. ... It is 
outrageous! 

"Delightfully exposed for the cane, dear." Lotte has read my thoughts. She 
strokes and pats the tight constriction of my thrusting globes. I am aware 
of my bottom and my breasts in a way I have never been before. My pussy is 
hidden for the moment. But I am sure that in its turn ... ! "A girl's bottom 
should be caned regularly, its skin tight ...." 

My skin is tight, that is for sure. I can think of my bottom being caned 
only as an abstraction. It is all a dream from which, hopefully, I will 
awake. "It is all so tight." I say, stupidly. "It is all so tight .... !" 

"You may walk around the room, dear." 

I do so. It is good to have my feet and legs. The strap at the bottom of my 
corset bites deep at every step but, in spite of it, I can walk. It is a 
strange sort of perambulation. I sway and weave. I am indecent, it is the 
walk of whores. But it is all I have, so I walk joyously. 

"You have behaved well, dear, so now your elbows." Fraulein Schopen removes 
the strap and the link by which my elbows had been made to meet. The relief 
is glorious but my figure does not change at all. The corset has taken over. 
"I am still quite helpless, Fraulein." I say it as an admission, not an 
accusation. The straps round my wrists are still tight. They deny Me being 
Me. 

"It is so right for you, dear girl." 

I would like to say it is so right for her, but dare not. Instead, I say: 
"Thank you for my elbows, Lotte. It feels so good." 

"The first time you have used my name, madchen." I am again warmly kissed. 
"And now we visit your Aunt Hester." I am shocked. I had wanted Aunt Hester 
badly two hours ago, but I do not want her now, not to see me thus encased 
with my breasts and buttocks flaunting themselves and my nipples so large 
and hard. My response is instant. "But not like this! Oh please, don't let 
her see me like this." 

"But, Caroline, you are exquisite. You have never looked so much a girl." 

"I feel like a bad woman, a ... a - " 

"You are being shy and silly. Come, little madchen ... " She grasps my hair 
firmly in her strong fingers. "I am proud of you, and your aunt will be 
proud too." 

I could weep in frustration. I am so helpless, reduced to a nothing. I am 
ashamed, and Auntie will be ashamed of me too. But I have no choice, the 
hand in my hair impels. I take reluctant steps, hobbled and constrained by 
the corset strap below my puss. That is my only comfort, she will not see my 
black and curly fronds.... ! 

Aunt Hester is enraptured, she finds me entrancing. She approves! I stand 
beautifully erect; I have to, but I am scarlet with shame. "Auntie, stop 
this! Send her away. Oh, please ... ! Auntie, I can't - " 

"Turn round, dear, I must see - " 

I obey, sulkily, terribly aware of my pink bottom and strapped wrists. I 
twist my hands and arms to show her how unkindly I am controlled. 

"Her bottom remains available for punishment, Madam." 

"Wonderful! Quite remarkable." Aunt Hester smiles at me with love as I turn 
back to face her. "Fraulein Schopen has explained to you about being caned 
and whipped ?" - "Auntie, you can't! It's impossible! You mustn't let her?" 

"The cane for your bottom, dear, for the other parts of you, certain whips. 
On bare skin, of course." 

"But it isn't civilized, it isn't done!" 

"Indeed it is, dear. There are even schools in the United States." "But I'm 
too old! I'm not just a girl - " 

"You have been spoiled and indulged. It is a late start. But Fraulein 
Schopen will cope with you, have no fear." 

"I don't want to be coped with. I refuse to have my bottom caned. As for 
being whipped - !" 

"At the end of a year you will be a most desirable young woman." 

"A year!" I am aghast, "A year ... all strapped up?" 

"Of course not, dear. Fraulein has many methods of restraint. You will not 
be bored. There are ropes and cords and chains and things." 

"I don't see why I have to be restrained at all." 

"You know perfectly well why. Fraulein Schopen will now give your bottom a 
mild caning. You are altogether too argumentative." 

The strap and the cane have appeared as if by magic. The first is tightly 
buckled round my ankles, the second is pensively flexed back and forth in 
German hands. It is thin and very limber. I look from it up to German eyes 
whose smile is naught but kind. I moan. 

Fire cuts me beneath my bound hands. I raise them out of the way and yelp 
with shock. The second stroke is unobstructed and beds itself gleefully in 
my bouncing globes. I sway and would have fallen if Lotte had not encircled 
me with an arm. She kisses me gently before she steps back. 

"The poor dear has never been caned before. We must make allowances. But her 
bottom ... it is superb!" 

My superb bottom is sliced again. I cannot believe such pain. I screech 
protest. "Stop it! Oh ... stop it!" 

Fraulein cuts me six times with her cane. My bottom is scorched and seared, 
there must surely be blood! But she strokes the burning curves gently to 
make me moan anew. "Such a mild little punishment, dear. Can you now be more 
respectful?" 

"Auntie, let me loose, send her away, You mustn't let her - " 

The whirr of the cane puts a period to my plea. I scream. The pain is too 
much for any girl. I keep on screaming as my poor tightly constrained bottom 
is wounded again and again and again .... 

There is then a silence in which I pant and gasp and shed tears. The two who 
watch have become a blur. I do not care about them. I care only about Me. It 
has been agony, and perhaps it is not finished. I long to bend and writhe, 
but the corset confines me to being a curved statue, sobbing and compliant. 

"You feel better now, dear?" 

"Yes." 

"Perhaps you should thank Fraulein Schopen for her trouble?" 

I glimpse a fresh vista of humiliation. They want me abject. Involuntarily, 
I scream out against injustice. "No! No, no, no.... ! This is wrong. You 
have no right - " 

If the cane was mild before it is not so now. Lotte Schopen whips my bottom 
with it with verve arid lan. I forget my strapped hands and they receive a 
numbing and unnerving blow. I strive to writhe but manage only to tumble to 
the rug. Aunt Hester helpfully pulls back on my arms to leave my punished 
cheeks open for the fresh stripes which beat at me with implacable intent. 
As I scream and kick I marvel at my utter impotence. I cannot escape, I can 
do nothing. The agony mounts to a crescendo until I surrender, "I'm sorry, 
I'm sorry! Oh, please stop. I'll say thank you, I'll say anything ... !" I 
get two more, harder than ever. My will dissolves, my tears flow. I am not 
Caroline, I am whipped female flesh, pliant and quivering. As I am raised to 
my feet I remember to mutter, fervently: "Thank you for caning me, Fraulein, 
thank you." 

"You regret the trouble you have caused?" 

"Oh, yes, yes! I am sorry to have bothered you, Fraulein. I won't offend 
again. Please forgive me?" 

"What must I forgive, madchen?" Her voice is honey. "I don't know. I'm 
sorry. I - seem to do everything wrong." 

"She does not know." Aunt Hester's voice is gently insinuating. "Perhaps 
another dose, Fraulein?" 

I scream before the blow falls: anger, pain, outrage ... and an utter, utter 
helplessness. I deliberately let myself fall under the bruising impact. I 
seek the firm pull of auntie's grip on my arms to raise my joined hands out 
of Fraulein's way, perhaps she can thus feel what I suffer. My two, too 
resilient bottom cheeks jounce and throb beneath the shrewd slashes of a 
cane without mercy in the hand of a girl determined to break my spirit. It 
takes but six or seven strokes to crumble my defences. 

"I was impudent, rebellious, resentful ...." My surrender streams out of me 
with a shaming urgency. "I won't be any more. I won't, I won't .... ! Oh, 
please forgive me .... Please stop!" 

The hands fall from my arms, the cane pauses. I pant into the carpet, 
fearful and expectant. 

"It is the cane speaking with her voice, madam." 

"I am sure it is, but we have made progress." Aunt Hester sounds immensely 
pleased. "Let us give the dear girl a chance to prove sincerity. We can 
always whip her again tomorrow - perhaps next time on her back." - The 
strong German hands must surely feel my tremors and tremblings as they raise 
me to my feet. They take the strap from my ankles to aid me to stand. I 
blurt out an instant "Thank you." Most passionately I want no more pain. I 
stand, sniffing and untidy, until Lotte dries my eyes, lets me blow my nose, 
then tidies my damp hair. I am sure I look a mess. Aunt Hester's next words 
galvanize me into fresh shock. 

"We will now go for a nice walk, dear, perhaps some shopping." 

The cane has destroyed my world. I do not want that pliant horror biting at 
me again. I say nothing. I obey. Fraulein Schopen tends me like a baby. She 
has to, I have no hands. Some of the things she must do shame me deeply but 
bother her not at all. Soon I am a young woman of fashion, well corseted! 
"And now we give you your hands, little one." 

It seems a bit late, but I am grateful. It feels so good! I massage my 
wrists, and then I primp. I am a girl again. But I am a captive girl, the 
strap below my blazing bottom reminds me of my new condition at every step. 

"You will soon learn to walk, dear." 

"You are very much free, madchen." 

What they really mean is I will become accustomed to being what they have 
made me. I am a puppet on display. Strangely, I am not considering escape. I 
am annoyed with myself. A policeman might put an end to my subjection. But 
what can I tell him! That I wear a new kind of corset that is far too tight? 
That I have been a bad girl and my bottom has been caned? It is impossible. 
I am lost. My companions know this. I am sure they are enjoying my 
confusion. 

"We will often give you this diversion, Caroline, during the twelve months 
of your sentence." My Aunt tells me smoothly. 

"And you will be whipped only as may seem appropriate, dear child." 

I walk sedately, my heart thudding against my constricted ribs. 

"Fraulein Schopen has explained to me the uses and applications of the 
various whips, Caroline. I had no idea there was such a diversity and 
range." 

They intend to keep me trembling, and there is nothing I dare do to 
interrupt their suave discussion of my punishments. 

"The whipping of your breasts, the inside of your thighs, your cunt and 
belly ... these are sophistications awaiting you during your sentence, 
madchen. We will not hurry them." 

I am speechless. Her use of that awful word .... ! I do not want to believe 
what I have heard. It belongs in a nightmare, yet here we are out walking. I 
maintain a frightened silence which they understand. I am conditioned, and 
it is only the first day. 

The Tea Shoppe for afternoon Tea inflicts on me another shame. I must sit 
down! But I am rigidly sheathed, and my whipped bottom cries out in alarm, 
it desires no contact with anything. I look from one to the other of my 
companions imploringly. 

"Sit down, dear, you will find it possible." 

I sit, hoping something will break. But nothing does break. The strap over 
my thighs ensures the extra stress is on me and not on my armour. My wealed 
bottom weeps in its own anguished silence. I gasp, my eyes widening in 
dismay. That is all. 

"We know how you must be feeling, dear." Says Auntie gently. "Be a brave 
girl." 

I eat and drink in mute misery while my punishments are discussed. They 
debate the merit of thin cord: it cuts into a girl's flesh more painfully 
and discourages struggling. There are also chains and padlocks .... 

"They have their place." Fraulein Schopen muses. "But they are less 
feminine. I wish always to stress femininity: Caroline is a girl." She 
smiles modestly. "In my luggage are some beautifully fashioned shackles .... 
She will look ravishing." 

"You don't have to chain me or keep me prisoner." I complain nervously. 
"I'll obey you both, and I won't run away, there's nowhere for me to go." 

"Your time will be better spent under restraint, dear. You will meditate in 
solitude and be conveniently fastened for the infliction of discipline." 
Auntie's voice is patient and gentle. 

"But if I'm ... fastened, how can I do anything to deserve discipline - ?" 

"Discipline is to subdue the flesh, madchen. It punishes things of the 
past." 

The past is unsafe ground for me, I am aware of imprudence. "But couldn't I 
just be locked in a room?" I ask thinly. "Why must I be - restrained? It's 
only another way of saying tied up?" 

"For the same effect as your corset, dear, it keeps you amenable." Aunt 
Hester lifts my sulky chin with a playful finger. "You are quite free, but 
tell me honestly if you feel like running off down the road?" 

"Nooooo, I don't." I find the admission shameful. 

"Then the benefits are already manifest, madchen." 

I have nothing more to say. The corset grips me with an iron hand, goodness 
knows of what awful things it is constructed. Inside it I am as much a 
prisoner as behind iron bars. I take my quick hobbled steps in silence. 

Back home, I am relieved of clothing. I am told I have no further need ... ! 
But the corset stays. At dinner I work at being attentive and amusing. It is 
at bedtime I am again dismayed. I am to sleep in The Room, the fearful room 
.... ! 

It is a lovely room. But it is full of ... things. They cluster round the 
walls, waiting. My immediate concern is a wooden bench, its lower end 
screams my fate. 

"Please to lay down, Caroline. On your back." I obey. My corset imposes 
fresh strictures. "Your ankles placed within, please." 

Lotte has raised a bar. Its apertures match the half circles in the bed 
below. I place my ankles, gingerly, within. She lowers the bar to lock my 
feet snugly, well apart, a padlock clicks. 

"You are a safe and secure little girl, madchen." 

I am indeed! It is hateful. I cannot move my feet at all, and I am compelled 
to lay on my back. I have my hands and arms but all they can do is to raise 
me against my corset's denial to sit, awkward and unhappy, and survey my 
prisoned legs. My ankles are gripped in the wood as though it was tailored 
for them. I raise piteous eyes. "But, Lotte, the bench is so hard, and I 
won't be able to turn ... or anything." 

"In Germany it would be much worse, little one. There would be a bar above 
your head for your wrists. Be grateful." 

"I don't care about your old Germany, this is awful, I'll never be able to 
sleep - and I don't think you're German at all - " 

Surprisingly, she grins, laughing down at my dolour. "You are partly right, 
dear. My parents are German but I was born and raised in Milwaukee. I went 
to Germany when I was eighteen, and found a career there, a career I much 
enjoy." 

I sniff disdainfully. "Being unkind to defenceless girls." 

"Not really unkind. I train. We will come to love" Lotte's fingers find my 
nipples again. I sit, propped up by aching arms. I am panting, I expect it 
is the corset. But if I lower myself back down on the bench her fingers may 
not follow ... and I do not want to lose those fingers. 

But, suddenly, the fingers are gone. The voice of my Governess is mocking. 
"You like that too much. It is not for girls who have been bad, not for 
girls who have to sleep in the stocks." 

"I don't see why I have to," I am petulant and still panting. "And I don't 
see why you can't take off this beastly corset." 

"It is your penitent's hair shirt, dear child. Besides, think of your figure 
after I have tightened it daily for a month." 

"A month!" I am speechless in dismay. 

"Of course, dear. You are being moulded into a new girl. For thirty days 
your sweet bottom can take whatever whippings you deserve. There are other 
punishments I will show you tomorrow ----" 

"This is a punishment you've got me in now." I declare fretfully. "I don't 
see what else you can call it. A hard bench ... and I can't move my feet." 

"I can whip their soles a little, dear, if it will make you feel less ill 
used? It is very painful, and you will be so glad when I stop." 

Tears well from my eyes. Lotte watches me weep, then dries my cheeks. She 
kisses me and says good-night. In the dark I lay back and cry some more. It 
is all so hopeless. But I have my hands and arms, so I suppose I should be 
grateful. The corset and the way I am fixed prevents my fingers finding my 
pussy but they can certainly find my nipples .... ! If Fraulein Schopen 
guessed she would tie my hands .... ! 

I, who thought she could not sleep, am awakened in the night by a pungency I 
know well. Moist thighs envelop my face so that a musky pussy may be lowered 
to my mouth. I am a girl. I know what to do. 

Chapter Three. 

Part Time Slave. 

"Horny, darling?" 

Jason kneads my naked pussy and is pleased with what he finds. My dream 
fades before his masculinity. I feel guilty about how terribly real it was, 
my nose can still feel the wiry curls of Lotte's pubic hair pressing down 
hard upon my face. I have to suppose its vividness arises from what Jason is 
doing to me. Or was the dream first and Jason second .... ? I do not know. 
At any rate my master deigns to visit me ... and my wrists hurt like crazy. 

"Yes, I'm horny. I'm ashamed of it. Why would being whipped make me horny? 
Jason, please let my arms down?" 

"All in good time, love. Went to sleep, didn't you?" 

"I think I lost consciousness. That whipping hurt something awful. I'm so 
tired." 

"Time for bed, eh." 

I flame into desire. Hunger, thirst, everything is forgotten except my 
rampant loins. Jason is so mean not to unstrap my wrists - he knows -- he 
knows! He adores these moments when I am utterly female and entirely his. 
But I must be cautious. If I am too avid for his maleness he will play cat 
and mouse with me, excite me more, leave me fastened like this with my hands 
strapped high and my body excitingly bare. I say, modestly, "Yes, Jason, 
time for bed." 

It is tumultuous, explosive, a volcanic eruption. The chain locked on my 
ankle clinks joyously as we disport ourselves in this sexuality and that. My 
whipping has made us both inexhaustible with a, fire successive couplings 
does not quench. I do not care whether I am chained or not: in fact I adore 
the weight I carry on my foot. Repeatedly I snuggle beneath him on my 
whipped back, the pain is the most potent aphrodisiac in the world. I do not 
believe a whipped girl could ever be frigid. Jason owns me. 

Over breakfast he tortures me again, laughing at my disbelief. He is so 
terribly, terribly sure of me. I squirm inwardly in chagrin but adore every 
moment of this new shame. 

"You'll pick up your life where you left off, Carrie my sweet." 

Dazedly, I raise my hands and look at the handcuffs tight on my wrists. "You 
mean you're turning me loose, Jason?" 

"You sound like a jilted wife, darling." He grins expansively. "You'll never 
be free, you'll never escape. You're a slave." 

I suspect he is playing his Russian Roulette again, preening his ego. "I 
can't possibly go back. You've made me disappear." I tell him petulantly. 

"You'll manage. Tell 'em you've had a secret love affair with a name you 
dare not disclose. They'll buy it." 

"But you've made me into this!" I clink the handcuffs at him accusingly. 
"You've changed me. I can't possibly start over." 

"You can and you will - if you know what's good for you." 

"What's good for me is terrible. I'm ashamed of it. I really am a slave, 
damn you, and you've done it." 

"Just recognized the latent image, love." 

He is so damn assured, loving every bit of my confusion. And why not! I'm 
his possession to enjoy. "What happens to us?" I ask unhappily. 

"Nothing, sweetheart. Your job's nine to five, isn't it." 

"What do I do: come home and make your supper then slip into the handcuffs 
when I hear your key in the lock?" 

"Tremendous! We'll make that a must - suitably nude, of course." 

I will never defeat him. He finds everything about me erotic. I am a self 
renewing delicacy. But I love it - Oh dammit, what's wrong with me! As if I 
didn't know ... ! "You're playing that game again, like with the policeman." 

"So what! It's delicious. Man's finest sport." 

"It's unkind to me, walking out of slavery every morning, returning to it 
after five. It will tear me apart." 

"It will keep you vividly alive." 

Jason is always right. All my fighting is an outrageous retreat. I will do 
whatever he orders, be whatever he wants. I am not in love with him ... I'm 
not, I'm not! But I am in love with what he does to me and the way he shapes 
my being. If I am honest with myself I can see it as a woman's ultimate 
sexuality. I once wanted, desperately, to escape. But what was I running 
away from ... ? Or running to! I wouldn't have been running away from Jason, 
I'd have been fleeing from Me! That Me is lost, lost, lost. I don't want her 
back. Oh, damn! 

"People will suspect something" 

"Why not. They'll envy your glow." 

"Will they envy my whipped back and beaten bottom?" 

Jason chuckles. "Some of 'em might. You'd be surprised." 

I sniff, and have a mental vision of baring my weals in the Little Girl's 
Room ... Wow! 

**** 

The Minutes of the Board Meeting are in a neat pile to my left, to my right 
accumulates today's letters at which my I.B.M. hammers urgently. My In tray 
is full, my Out tray almost bare. The lights on my phone flicker .... 

Everything is normal. 

It has been a month, and Jason was right. I have become a femme fatale, and 
bask in glory. If they sense my double life, they cannot be sure. This adds 
to my mystique. I enjoy it ... even when it hurts. 

Jason has me - does he ever! I have given up being ashamed. I have become an 
interesting specimen under scrutiny: his and mine. I continually surprise 
myself, and am thereby edified. I look back in wonder at my Pre-Jason 
existence. It seems unreal. 

Everything is unreal. I will never be bored again. Adjectives flow from me 
as exclamations. Jason unleashes them from some inexhaustible source. My 
pains and slavery are the channel through which they vent. I ought to mind 
terribly but I do not. 

I ought to mind about my belt. It is one of Jason's toys. He will think of 
it cutting into my waist, knowing that with every breath I will be conscious 
of it and of him. It is his hand upon me when we are apart. 

The belt is his own invention, one of many designed for my discomfort. I 
guess slaves aren't supposed to be comfortable when away from their masters. 
We are expected to remember our Master. Jason ensures I do. It is a piece of 
heavy wire. He had had it chromed and circlets welded at each end. It 
constricts my waist to just short of cruelty. It cuts and burns and bothers. 
I cannot move without paying tribute to it, especially in my walk, it 
affects my walk most wantonly. I control it as best I can in the office, and 
such hip action as escapes me is attributed to my new status as someone's 
inamorata. 

This wire circlet round my tummy is locked on me every morning with a 
padlock, so placed as not to obtrude. It is an infuriating infliction 
against which I am helpless. Jason points out that I can always buy a pair 
of pliers during my noon hour and cut it off. But then I cannot put it back 
on, and must return home to face a terrible retribution for my crime. I must 
wear it in virtue and in pain. On my first day with it in the office, in 
desperation, I retired with it to the privacy of a rest room cubicle and 
bared enough of myself to see if I couldn't do something about the damn 
thing. But it was tightly indented into me, and unless I pawed at my flesh 
was not even visible. I worked on the padlock with a hairpin but that was a 
waste of time. I was foxed. I stalked back to my desk, quite sure everyone 
knew what I was hiding. But no one did. It is terribly easy to control a 
girl in public, all you need is an inventive mind. 

Jason gets things made for me. I expect he has a friend and they snicker 
together planning my subjections. He came home the other day with a hobble 
for my knees. It consists of two metal bands he locks tight above each knee. 
They are joined by a short length of woven wire cable so as to make no 
noise, a chain would clink as I make my quick hobbled steps, hoping 
desperately my gait appears natural. Since they lock and need a key, I have 
no hope of removing them. Again, there is the temptation to get pliers and 
cut the link. But I cannot splice it back. The severed ends would condemn me 
to Jason's justice. 

The penalty is one hundred strokes. I don't think he has ever been that 
cruel to me, and I don't want it to happen. He has figured out to a nicety 
the number of whip weals I can bear with erotic effect. Beyond that number 
pain increasingly devastates my capacity to endure. I cannot face a hundred, 
not hung by my wrists with my feet off the floor while he delivers them 
across my skin throughout a day. But it need not happen. Resolutely, I do 
not buy the pliers. 

Oh sure, the answer's simple. I hack off Jason's bondage and walk away from 
him, never to return. Like Hell it's simple! I can't, I can't, I can't! In 
me is a homing instinct which delivers me back to Jason every night at five. 
I am conditioned. The hell of it is I'm not unhappy. I live in a constant 
erotic glow of suspense, a heated excitement I cannot relinquish, it's too 
beautiful. I have never been so female. 

He holds me to my whimsical idea of making his supper and the handcuffs. 
Being Jason's slave leaves me lots of money, so I treat myself to the luxury 
of a taxi home at five. It gives me extra time. On arrival home I strip 
naked and ruefully survey whatever he's got locked on me, then I work like 
crazy on the meal. When I hear his lordship at the door I click the 
handcuffs on my wrists and go and make a wifely fuss over the weary 
breadwinner - I've probably worked harder than he has, but what the hell! 

But the handcuff idea was mine. The Male Ego demands something exclusively 
its own. So, after I've paid my loving homage, Jason unlocks one cuff, turns 
me around, and handcuffs my wrists behind my back. I then, having been well 
instructed, go to the nearest corner in the wall and stand there facing the 
wallpaper like a delinquent little girl in school. I have to get right in 
close so I have no view. I am forbidden to turn my head or glance sideways; 
and must stand like that meekly until given permission to do something else. 
It is one of the most difficult and demeaning acts he makes me do. 

Since his slave has been rendered helpless, the Master takes over. Before he 
kidnapped me he'd picked up culinary skills, he's quite a good cook. I have 
already laid the table, so all he has to do is finish things off. He does 
not hurry, but pours the cocktail I have mixed and shaken and sips it while 
he works. From time to time his hand and the glass appear before my 
submissive eyes and I gulp gratefully. I must not speak or take my eyes from 
the wall. After a few good gulps I find my humiliation rational. I have no 
hope for me at all. 

I am not allowed to take supper for granted, I may not even get any. Mostly 
I get to eat, but the manner of it varies. Often my hands are cuffed back in 
front and we sit and have a cosy dinner and talk as we eat. We are both good 
talkers so that's fun. Our only difference to any married couple is I'm nude 
and my hands have to do everything close together. 

Then there's times Jason eats and I wait table. My costume is the handcuffs 
and a dinky little apron he ties round my waist with a big bow at the small 
of my back. It is petite and absurd and makes me feel twice naked. From time 
to time he gravely lifts it up to: 'Make sure my pussy is, still there.' I 
am not allowed to laugh but am supposed to share his concern that all of me 
is still present and accounted for. Often he will play with his discovery 
enough to get me excited, then he returns to his knife and fork. I tug the 
tiny apron back into place and feel hot and bothered. 

The one I suspect he is most fond of is what I think of as The Classic. I am 
totally slave. I am completely nude. My hands are locked behind my back, 
though sometimes he will vary this by tying them with cord, I kneel 
submissively beside his chair and dutifully eat whatever he chooses to put 
in my mouth. I am quite helpless so have to be fed like an infant or an 
orphaned animal. Or perhaps not fed at all. Mostly I am allowed to kneel 
back on my heels, it is much the most comfortable. But Jason will often 
order me to kneel erect to place my breasts within easy reach as he eats. He 
then, in an absent minded sort of way, plays with my nipples until my breath 
quickens. He then tells me to sit back the way I was. 

One shames me beyond telling but I adore it. My wrists and elbows are corded 
tight. I have to shuffle under the table and attack the zipper on his pants 
until I worry it down and manage to get his penis out of his shorts without 
biting. Jason blissfully eats while I am thus engaged, it isn't a bit easy 
and takes time. Tied the way I am makes it infuriatingly frustrating. I am 
helpless to a point where I could weep. But eventually I will manage to 
engulf his rigid cock in my mouth and to service it in the ways I have been 
taught. Along with being a slave I have become an accomplished whore. 

It is not an ordinary blow job, Jason has finesse. After all, I must be 
given incentive. Unless I bring him to orgasm I will be whipped. The 
deadline is dessert. My whipping will not be frightful but one I will not 
enjoy, it will hurt horribly. So I employ my lips and my tongue with all the 
skills I know. He counters me by the power of his mind, refusing to think of 
me hard at work between his legs, giving all his attention to his food. I 
have been astounded by what an adversary food can be. Sometimes I am still 
lustily sucking and licking after the last of his steak has gone. His member 
is taken from my mouth and replaced where it belongs. It will enter me 
later, but between then and now I will be whipped. Ashamed, I crawl out and 
stand at attention close by where he can examine his naked and incompetent 
thrall while he finishes dessert and has his coffee. I am trembling and he 
knows it, damn him! 

Tonight I am lucky. I sit opposite Jason in the candlelight and eat in 
civilized fashion. Being handcuffed like this is almost freedom for me. I am 
happy. 

"How's the whip-marks, Carrie?" He asks kindly. "Fading nicely, darling. 
I've almost got space for some more." 

It is absurd but we enjoy. The Master sets the tone, the slave follows 
along. It is our own brand of repartee in which we manage to exchange a few 
serious thoughts. 

"Anyone suspicious about the way you walk?" 

He is speaking of my knee hobbles, he has left them locked on me through 
dinner. It does not matter much, and anyway I am not allowed to ask for the 
removal of anything he has placed on me. I answer demurely. "There's one 
girl. I'm sure she knows or suspects. She keeps trying to catch my eye." 

"Invite her home. I'll lock a set on her." 

Jason would love to have a harem, a bevy of us all bound, chained, or tied 
up to his taste, anxious to serve him or scared not to! I am outrageously 
jealous, and tremble at the thought of being whipped into a willingness to 
seduce susceptible damsels into his fold. If he sets his mind to it, it will 
happen. 

"Aren't I enough for you? I do everything you want." 

"Hmmmmm, we've scarcely started, sweetheart. It's a fallow field, 
unexplored." 

"If you get other girls in here you don't need me." I exclaim imprudently. 
"I'll look for an apartment." 

There comes one of those silences. His Majesty stops eating, and examines me 
as though I was a strange new species. My heart sinks. Why oh why can't I 
stop when I'm winning! Jason has not said a word but in his own way has told 
me I am in for something unpleasant after we have done the dishes. The 
moment passes and we resume our chatter. I am becoming quite good at passing 
these indiscretions. What will happen will happen, I refuse to think about 
it. 

The mood lasts through the dishes. Jason likes to make the dishes a together 
thing. I become almost vivacious. I have brought the handling of dishes 
while handcuffed to a fine art. I am inspired by the penalties Jason has set 
for breakages. Twenty strokes seems to me excessively painful for one little 
dish. But I do not drop the dish! 

When Jason sets the stool against the wall I know my punishment. Up above is 
a stout hook. When he motions I step blithely up on the stool, lean my bare 
back against the wall, then raise my arms and slip the single link of the 
handcuffs over the hook, Jason takes away the stool and there I am! 

If it was for thirty minutes or an hour it wouldn't be so bad. I am not 
suspended, the handcuffs don't cut my wrists. But he will keep me thus for a 
long time, all evening. He has never left me all night but has dropped 
enough hints to keep me scared he might. I look up often to wonder if, 
somehow, I couldn't get my hands up and back over the hook. But I can't, 
he's figured the tensioning just right. But even if I could I wouldn't dare. 
I hate to think what the punishment would be for that one! 

Jason has a gift for unconcern. Having attached me to the living room wall 
he goes about his evening as though I do not exist. He looks at me often but 
in the manner of glancing at a familiar picture. You'd think a naked girl 
chained prettily to the wall would bother him to death, but if it does it 
does not show. 

He reads the paper, writes a couple of letters, watches a movie on the 
television. My eyes are on him constantly. He is all I have, unless he frees 
me I will stand here forever. Through it all I become increasingly restive 
and sorry for myself. I change position as much as I can, it gives a limited 
relief from the one big ache that is Me. But I have to be careful about 
noise, grating the handcuffs on the hook is a no no, so are moans. I'd give 
a lot for some real honest to goodness moans but they are not permitted, my 
owner finds them distracting. The other prohibition is complaint or requests 
for clemency, Jason just doesn't want to hear. If I persist, he won't whip 
me but he'll strap the gag in my mouth. It's hateful to stand here gagged, 
so I'm foxed there too. 

I am getting tired and resentful. What I said wasn't all that bad, and look 
what its got me! I keep wondering if I can't devise some reasonable approach 
to catch his sympathy. But before I blurt half of it out he'll be shoving 
the blasted gag between my teeth. I must have stood here a couple of hours, 
surely that's enough! 

When Jason turns on the T.V. I could really moan. The announcer tells me 
I've only been punished an hour and a half, the evening stretches endlessly. 
I hope to get a bit of relief from the movie but Jason has thoughtfully 
placed my hook where all I can see of the screen is an acute angle which 
does me little good. He's done this on purpose, of course, it's damnably 
tantalizing. So I listen to the sound, it doesn't help much, my ache gets 
bigger. I have a nice quiet cry all by myself while His Majesty watches the 
show. 

When he turns the set off he makes coffee. Jason makes wonderful coffee and 
I yearn and yearn. He may or may not give me some. He is quite capable of 
sitting and sipping while I stand mute and longing. I am not allowed to ask. 
In this punishment I must stay silent no matter what. I am constantly tired 
now, it's been all of three hours. I have to keep consciously raising my 
half dead arms to stop the handcuffs cutting my wrists, they didn't hurt at 
the start but they do now. 

I get coffee. For several minutes I love my torturer dearly as he feeds me 
successive tilts of the cup between my lips. He has used exactly the right 
amount of cream and sugar, the brew is heavenly and I am reborn. What a 
treasure of a man Jason would be if only he did not fasten me like this. But 
then ... if I was free I would not be relishing it half as much, or needing 
it as I do now. 

Our eyes are close as he lifts the cup. The moment becomes potently 
personal, demandingly intimate, we feel each other's emanations. It seems 
impossible that I must not speak, even to say thank you. Jason's gaze is 
broodingly enigmatic, his silence too is part of my punishment. At this 
moment I wish he had whipped me and been done rather than that I stand here 
for what seems forever. I long to speak words of love to him but am afraid. 

Jason puts away the cup and devotes his fingertips to making me excited. He 
will get me sexually aroused then leave me cold. I know this is going to be 
the way of it, but I abandon myself to ecstasy, a girl in the spot I'm in 
had best take what she can get and be thankful. Even a minute or two in this 
desert of hours is welcome beyond words. I stick out my chest, giving him my 
nipples. I open my legs to give him access to my private place. I am 
shameless in a terrible female hunger. Our eyes remain locked as he does 
this, each of us knowing all there is to know. 

I have to stand another hour while he reads a book. When he finally pushes 
back the stool and I retrieve my hands and voice I am a little hysterical 
and want to hug and kiss and be a little girl loved and forgiven. But I am 
still handcuffed, so I lean my head against his chest and say, fervently: 
"Oh, Jason, thank you, thank you for letting me down. I'll try and never 
earn that one again." 

"You'll earn it." He assures me dryly. He pats my bottom. "Go and get ready 
for bed." 

I forget I am tired, I forget my punishment. What is four hours on the hook 
to a healthy girl! I squelch guilt at so easily forgetting something that 
had me in tears, I simply do not want to remember. I obey the male command, 
longing to feel Jason inside me. I make myself as beautiful as I can. When I 
join my waiting master I place my foot up upon the bed, and watch him 
shackle it, in about the same manner as I would once have donned pyjamas. 

But tonight Jason is whimsical. He removes my handcuffs, turns me around and 
crosses my wrists behind my back, then ties them tight with thin nylon. In 
bed I am allowed to be feminine, so I point out: "But, darling, I could be 
so much nicer for you if I had my hands!" 

"I like to see you make love without 'em, sweetheart. You flop around like 
an amorous seal." 

"Oh, Jason, I don't want to be a lovesick seal, I want to love you to bits." 

"Don't think you're not going to, love. You've been tied before." 

"Yes, but I still think -" 

"You're not supposed to think, sweets. You're supposed to provide me with a 
well lubricated cunt and a pair of red and ready lips." 

"I've got both, darling, obedient and ready for you. But if I had my hands 
-" 

He puts his finger on my lips. "Enough about your hands. I don't want to 
hear any more." 

I nod and am not unduly concerned. He has explained to me the benefit to his 
erection in having me tied so I have to lay across one of my arms, it raises 
my cunt for his convenience. The Master is all wise and always right. 

My hands are tied very tight. I expect they will stay tied that way through 
the night. I am used to it, they will not stop me sleeping. More 
importantly, they will not stop my being female to his Male. In much of our 
love play I will indeed emulate an anxious to please sea lion, flopping here 
and flopping there in pursuing my erotic duties. My lips and my pussy will 
always be where they are expected to be. I will fulfil him joyously and 
finally sleep beside him, utterly replete. The fact that I will twist and 
flounder and fall all over him will only add to our enjoyment, even mine. 
But I won't get my hands loose, never, never, never! 

I must have been good in bed, His Lordship allows me to go to the office 
sans impediments - or maybe he just forgot. No wire, no shackle, no nothing. 
I wish I could make him understand I think of him all the time regardless, I 
don't have to hurt to be faithful. But Jason's ego is such a tender growth 
it needs all my pain to nourish it. Strangely, I take pride in this. I'm 
nuts. 

Annoyingly, it is on this day when I am uncontrolled that Daphne picks up a 
clue: She's the girl who I figured had suspicions. She looks and looks at 
me, half smiling. She finds excuses to come to my desk ... Finally, I can't 
stand it any longer and ask her bluntly: "O.K., what's on your mind?" 

She's sort of cute, her giggle is infectious. She points a finger and 
laughs. "Your wrists ... you've been tied up." 

I could kick myself. It's become so commonplace I forget. Nice girls don't 
show up at the office with wealed wrists. I look at mine in dismay, my 
wristwatch and bracelet do little to disguise Jason's work. But I'm stuck 
with the entranced Daphne, so I shrug and ask. "Well ... so what?" 

"You're doing a number with someone, I can tell." She is trembling with 
eagerness. "Let me in on it ... please?" 

"Daphne, it's none of your business." 

"I know that, Carrie." She wriggles her attractive assets. "But it's so 
hard.... The men are usually all the wrong kind, and the girls won't admit a 
thing. It's driving me nuts." 

"Just forget it then." 

"Oh, Carrie ... !" Her reproach is a wail of anguish. "Don't be mean. Can 
you forget it?" 

"Forget what?" I ask blandly. 

"See, you're like all the rest." She is breathing hard, her nostrils 
flaring. "You clam right up as though you're guilty of something. I think 
it's just dog in the manger. Give me a break?" 

"Daphne, you're imagining things." 

"I'm not imagining those rope-marks on your wrists, and I'm not imagining 
the funny way you walk sometimes. Somebody locks things on you." Her eyes 
sparkle. "Is it a chastity belt?" 

"Oh, Daphne, please .... !" 

"Is it a He or a Her you do it with, or a Group?" 

"You've been reading the wrong magazines." 

"That long time you were away - I bet someone had you chained up or 
something." 

Her innocent earnestness gets to me. If Jason cast me adrift now I'd be in 
the same boat as she is. It would be fun to confide in her and tell her the 
whole story, but then she'd want me to take her home, and I'm not going to 
share my slavery with any cute little number, I just won't. I may belong to 
Jason but Jason belongs to me. On the other hand I have to feel sorry for 
the girl, she's outside looking in. I shrug regretfully and tell her. "Drop 
it, Daphne, leave it alone. Girls don't want to discuss their private 
affairs." 

She fishes in her bag and places a hundred dollar bill on my, desk, her gaze 
is defiant. "Carrie, I'll bet you this hundred that if we go to the restroom 
and you slip out of your clothes there will be marks all over. I bet you've 
been whipped?" 

"Daphne!" 

She is only slightly abashed by my reproof, her plea becomes intense. 
"Whoever you're doing it with must surely want a girl, girls aren't that 
easy to find, are they - I mean, girls like me? I've got a lovely body.... 
?" 

Poor kid! I lie like a bitch, and feel guilt. "These marks probably aren't 
what you think at all. Daphne dear, don't cheapen yourself." 

I don't think she heard me, she simply continues. "Look, I'll make myself 
completely available. They can tie me, chain me, lock me up ..." She takes a 
deep breath and plunges, "And they can whip me, they'd love whipping me, 
wouldn't they?" 

She has put it all on the line, bared naked her psyche. I want to take this 
lovely creature in my arms and comfort her. But I do nothing, nothing, 
nothing! After we have looked at each other through a long embarrassed 
silence she picked up her hundred dollars and flounces back to her desk. I 
feel more of a bitch than ever. It would have been so easy! 

I am punished. It is irrelevant and unrelated, but I see it as retribution. 
Jason springs a surprise, a surprise I do not like. 

I have the supper well along, I hear Jason's key, I handcuff myself snugly 
to keep the chrome circlets from slipping up and down. I go to meet my 
master. But my master is not alone, he has brought a friend. The friend is 
another Jason but less sophisticated. His eyes bug out at sight of my 
nakedness. In quick succession they focus on my handcuffs, my pubic hair, my 
breasts. His beaming smile is fatuous. 

"Her name's Carrie. You can give her orders through me, she's reasonably 
obedient." My master's tone is brisk. He nods from me to our guest. "You can 
call him Bill, darling." 

I say, shyly, "Hello, Bill." I then properly kiss Jason. But I have never 
felt so nude or embarrassed in my life. The handcuffs bother me as might the 
sudden sprouting of a third breast. Bill says, "Hello, Carrie." And 
continues to visually eat me alive. 

I suppose I have half expected this to happen. Why should not my owner be 
proud to show me off, it's not every man who owns a slavegirl. I stand and 
blush while I am told to finish dinner by myself but in the meantime to 
serve cocktails. 

Feminine intuition tells me the whip is hovering. I am on thin ice. Jason 
will expect me to put on a good show so he may bask in glory. Cringe as I 
may under the scrutiny of our concupiscent acquaintance, I had best ham it 
up. So I stick my breasts well out, deliver their tall cool glasses on 
bended knee, and I call each of them Master. I keep my handcuffs in full 
view but not so as to cover anything Bill wants to gawk at. Bill is 
obviously of the underprivileged who do not keep naked girls around the 
home. 

I attend the stove and I attend my two masters. I am a busy girl but know I 
must be constantly on display, I am what Bill has come to see. "I don't 
believe what I'm seeing." He says fervently. "Jason, how the devil d'you get 
one of these?" 

"Tell him, Carrie." 

"I was kidnapped." I inform brightly. "Jason kidnapped me." 

"But why - I mean ... how!" Bill is lost. 

I hold up my handcuffed wrists. "These keep me around - along with not 
having any clothes." 

"If you treat a slave girl right she falls in love with you." Jason says 
grandly. "You have to whip 'em regularly." 

I clasped my locked hands behind my neck and turn slowly round to give an 
entranced Bill a good look at the whip-marks on my skin. 

"I have to be a good girl." I explain demurely, "Or I get some more of 
these." 

"But ... but - they must hurt?" 

"Yes, terribly. I scream." 

"You mean, you just stand there ... and let him whip you?" 

"Oh no, Bill, I'm always tied." 

"She makes a very pretty picture, waiting to be whipped." Jason says it with 
total nonchalance. "Writhes beautifully while it's happening." 

"You two are putting me on." 

I back my whip-marked nudity up close. "I can't simulate these, Bill. Feel 
them, they're real." 

His finger is trembling and curious, it traces my most recent wounds 
lovingly. "I'll be damned!" His voice is reverent. "Jason, you've got to 
help me get one of these - or can I offer you ten thousand for this one?" -
 "Carrie's not for sale." 

"I'll make it twenty, seeing as you've trained her?" 

This intrigues Me. I am worth a lot of money. I am marketable! It is my 
first pleasurable thrill of the evening. My owner asks, casually: "Want me 
to sell you, Carrie?" 

"No, Master." 

"Loyalty's part of the package, Bill. A properly trained slave doesn't want 
to change owners. Carrie's a good girl." 

"I'll raise it to thirty?" 

I retire to my stove, but their conversation follows. I am getting a kick 
out of this male exchange over Me - Me - Me! 

"Bill, I think you'd be disappointed. You'd whip her too much or screw her 
too much - or maybe not enough. You'd have a rebel on your hands who'd 
always be trying to escape." 

"But Carrie's explained. She can't escape." 

"There's nothing to stop her running out in the street, naked and 
handcuffed, and asking for help - only embarrassment." 

"I don't notice her doing it." 

"Well, that's Carrie. Another girl might be long gone." 

"But couldn't I chain her and stuff?" 

"Oh sure. Your best bet would be to keep her locked up. But that becomes a 
bore for you both. You need to give 'em enough freedom so they do things to 
earn themselves punishments. When a girl knows she's guilty, punishing her 
becomes a real way out experience." 

The S.O.B.! Fancy having me figured like that! And I fall for it. I slam 
pots and pans and announce Dinner. 

"You won't need the extra place setting, darling, take it away." 

While I obey I almost make the faux pas of asking what about our guest. But 
then I suddenly realize the one who isn't going to eat is Me. It sort of 
figures, obviously the omnipotent Males must be waited on throughout the 
meal. Innocently, I ask. "Should I get my apron, master?" 

"You won't be needing that either, sweetheart." 

I'm not anxious to wait on Bill with my pussy and breasts staring him in the 
face, but then I feel the chill of premonition. I shouldn't jump to 
conclusions .... My quick glance at Jason is more than anxious. 

"Get everything underway, love. Then you know where to go and what to do." 

Surely it isn't possible! He won't make me! But my instinctive glance at the 
table legs and the lower hem of the tablecloth gets confirmation. "Right you 
are, Carrie: Be a good girl -" 

I look in horror at Bill. I'm sure he is unaware. Jason is going to spring 
me on him as a surprise. I catch my master's eye and he winks in complicity. 
It does not matter whether I want to do this thing or not, I'm going to have 
to. 

"Excellent source of protein, sweetheart, don't waste any." 

The bastard! He's telling me to swallow it all. 

"Protein ... ?" Bill looks vague. 

"The cheese sauce, Bill - my favourite." 

I get another wink, Jason is in the best of moods. I have not yet erred. 
It's going to be hard not to, but I'll try. Dolefully, I wonder which of 
these male so-and-so's I should service first. Jason tells me. 

"Nice variety here, Bill. A bit of this and a bit of that. Here, you go 
first." 

So it is Bill's male organ I must first get into my mouth! I've never seen 
the guy before, and here I am about to suck his cock! It's unreal! But, if I 
refuse it will cost me at least fifty strokes: and I can't stand fifty, it's 
too damn much! 

Jason fixes me with a firm eye. "If dinner turns out well, sweetheart, 
there's no penalties. I just hope everything tastes good." 

Damn, he's given me my briefing. I am fully informed. I have no excuse for 
making a boo boo. My principle hazard is Bill. He hasn't caught on. Who gets 
blamed if he goes through the roof! I give the table its final touches and 
serve the wine. Then I slip down under among the shoes and feet. Bill 
probably thinks I'm looking for something I've dropped. 

I know the hazards. Surveying the credit side, I am enormously grateful for 
my hands. The handcuffs won't impede me on this job at all. Jason's trick of 
tying my hands behind my back makes this more of a sporting proposition for 
him. It takes me half my allotted time to get his zipper down with my teeth 
and to pull his cock out of his shorts, if he's got an erection it's damn 
near an impossibility without hands. But today I've got hands! Having them 
makes me almost cheerful: that and the absence of a penalty. As a cautious 
prelude I softly stroke Bill's knees. 

Jason natters hospitably, but Bill is silent. As I touch the clip on his 
pants above the zipper I feel him tense. By the time I get the zipper all 
the way down and search inside his shorts I am bombarded by vibrations. 
Bill's voice is pathetic. 

"I say, Jason ... under the table ... ! There's something going on -" 

"Eh? Oh that!" My master does not pause in his eating. "I expect it's 
Carrie. The poor girl needs to eat something, y'know." 

"But she's -" 

I've got his damn thing out and it's limp. I inhale it and proceed with what 
I suspect is one of Woman's oldest tasks: When I feel evidence of life 
growing beneath my tongue I am thankful. If Bill couldn't get it up it would 
be my fault, Jason would think I hadn't tried. 

"I say, Jason, I'm not sure about this - !" 

"Eat hearty, Bill. Don't want to hurt Carrie's feelings." 

"Yeeeeel, no ... But ... but!" 

"The girl doing a good job?" 

"I, ... I ... expect so. Jason, this is difficult -" 

"If she's not pleasing you, we'll give her a whipping. The whip inspires 
these girls amazingly." 

At mention of the whip, the thing in my mouth grows two inches. I take it 
out and look. It's a medium size model. I run my tongue up and down ... it 
gets harder. 

"You wouldn't really whip her?" Bill sounds aghast, but the response of his 
prick belies his concern. "Really, Jason, I'm lost in this mnage of yours." 

I leave Bill's cock and go to my Master's. Bill needs to eat. With Jason's 
sizeable weapon between my lips I am having my own hors d'oeuvre, my main 
meal will take a little time to get to. 

"Of course, I'd whip her, Bill. You absolutely must keep discipline with 
these girls. They'll twist you if you don't." My Master is being macho for 
the benefit of Bill. I bite him playfully and am rewarded by the sudden grip 
of his thighs on my cheeks. I revert to his favourite motions. The thighs 
relax. Dolefully, I consider how long this may go on, with frequent rests it 
could be a long time. 

But I need not worry. Between my mouth and Jason's erotic goading talk poor 
Bill has no chance to show his mettle. Shortly after I return to him he 
rewards me with a deluge I dutifully swallow. I then lick his cock ship 
shape and dry and return it to where I found it. I have never zipped a 
zipper more thankfully. My Master, too, gets excited from his own talk. I 
have him defeated before dessert. It is best never to tell a man we women 
are sexually the strongest, but we are. 

Emergence from beneath the table taxes all my insouciance. I do my best. 
Bill is dazed, happily shocked, sweating. My Master is proud of me, for the 
moment I am a prized possession. He winks slyly to show we are having our 
little joke at Bill's expense. 

I have had Dinner. 

If I was a wife or a girl friend I would blow my top. But I am a slave, very 
conscious of what will happen to me if I cross Jason's will. When he catches 
me alone in the kitchen and springs his next demand I want to scream. 

"But, Jason, haven't I done enough! I didn't want Bill's silly cock in my 
mouth - and now you want ... ! What's so special about this Bill anyway?" 

"Carrie ... !" 

The way he says my name shrivels me up. But the whole thing's so unfair. "I 
don't want to be whipped." I complain dolefully. "I haven't done a thing to 
deserve it - and if it's only to amuse your fatuous friend" 

"Carrie ... !" 

"Oh alright! You aren't going to give me a choice anyway " - "That's better, 
love. Give the poor idiot a break, he's never been so happy." 

"At my expense." 

"Don't act miffed. If you're going to be sulky, you and I will have a little 
session after he's gone home." 

"So I get whipped either way! Jason, you're not a bit kind -" 

"I want you to continue to ham this up." Jason pats me affectionately, then 
kisses me for good measure. "Do anything you like to earn a punishment, then 
play up to the act I'll get going." 

What the hell! Grudgingly, I admit to myself some amusement in Bill's 
expressions, and I am a trifle flattered by his offer to buy me. He can't be 
too much of a dope if he has a loose thirty thousand kicking around. I 
choose an odd plate, the pattern which I have always disliked, and slam it 
down hard on the tile floor. It makes a most satisfactory clatter. I pick up 
the larger pieces and carry them mournfully to the living room. 

"I'm terribly sorry, Master." 

"Dammit, girl, that plate was my mother's!" 

"It ... it slipped." I hold up my hands. "It's these handcuffs." 

"That's no excuse, you've been wearing handcuffs for ages. You'll get the 
regular punishment." 

"Please, Master ... I don't feel like being whipped." 

"You never feel like being whipped. You'll get your strokes after you're 
through in the kitchen-and don't take all night." 

"But, please Master-!" I infuse tears. 

"Crying will earn you extra." He turns to Bill. "She always produces tears 
about now, they're supposed to soften me up." 

"I can't help crying -" I sob beautifully into the broken dish, and keep one 
eye on Bill's thunderstruck joy. "The way you whip me hurts something 
awful." 

I retire, snivelling, to the kitchen, dump the broken china noisily, dry my 
tears, then get cracking. Memory of Bill's facial expressions buoy my 
spirits, but not too much. I suddenly recall the penalty for a broken dish 
is twenty lashes! 

Why, oh why, didn't I think of something else that would have got me by with 
five or ten! I shed myself a few tears that aren't synthetic at all. 

I go to my whipping with a fine air of martyrdom, bestowing hurt reproachful 
looks upon my masters at every opportunity. I make much play with my 
handcuffs as though, if only I could get them off, I'd make a run for 
freedom. Bill most obviously has an erection. 

"Tell Bill what your penalty is, sweetheart." The sadistic S.O.B. He's going 
to wring every drop of eroticism he can out of me to give Bill a thrill. I 
pick up my cue. "The penalty for a broken dish, Bill, is twenty lashes on my 
bare back. It's very severe." 

"Twenty lashes!" It is an emotion charged exclamation. "And on your bare 
skin ... !" He likes the sound of that. 

"Can you really bear it?" 

"I have to, don't I!" I mix flippancy and bitterness in just the right 
degree. "And, anyway, I'll be tied so's there's nothing I can do about it." 

"Tied!" He is breathless. "You mean, really tied up so you can't get away?" 

"Of course. Unless you want to ask my Master for mercy for me? Please, Bill, 
ask Jason to let me off?" 

Poor Bill! The last thing he wants for me is mercy. On the other hand he is 
a nice guy. I can almost detect his conflict of emotions as he embraces 
nobility. "I say, Jason, she's a damn sweet girl. How's about forgiving her, 
I'll pay for the dish?" 

"Not a chance! With these slave girls punishment must be immutable. Once you 
start this mercy caper you ruin 'em." 

Bill's sigh of relief is almost audible. "We have a room for these affairs." 

Jason tries to make his pride casual as I usher my masters into the chamber 
where I will be punished. For Jason and I it is a place of memories, not all 
of them painful. For Bill it is a torture Chamber, a cornucopia of things to 
do with girls. Dutifully, I place myself beneath the bar to which my wrists 
will be raised and strapped. It is a spot I know all too well. 

"Not there, idiot girl, bend your pretty bottom over the pedestal." 

My heart flutters. A change, and change is usually painful! But I would 
sooner have my bottom caned than my back whipped. Perhaps Jason is finding 
an easy way out for both of us. I cannot imagine he really wants to give me 
twenty lashes on this occasion. I saunter to the pedestal and drape myself 
over its horizontal bar. 

"Nicely obedient." Jason comments. "She hates having her bottom punished in 
front of visitors. That's why I'm making the change. Damned humiliating for 
a grown woman." 

He's telling me! By the time I'm strapped tight my pussy and a few fronds of 
black hair will be coyly peeping out back where Bill can have a good look. 

"I won't be too hard on the dear girl in front of company." Jason concedes 
grandly. "Just a half dozen, all zingers." 

I actually feel grateful: it's better than twenty. I watch the straps make 
me helpless, wrists and ankles. My tummy and thighs are clamped down hard on 
the pad, my sacrificial bottom rears itself against my will, its skin 
cruelly tight. My discarded handcuffs are on the floor in front of my 
down-turned face. 

"She's a very beautiful girl, Jason." Bill is looking at my bottom. 

"Lovely bottom, 'eh! Round, ripe to be caned. Here, Bill, feel its texture." 

Their hands excite me, dammit! They linger lovingly. My pussy is well 
explored. Jason pulls out one of its hairs to make me gasp. 

"Try her nips too. They rise to the occasion." 

He is right. My nipples are traitors, rock hard. They get frictioned and 
pinched. I begin to breathe heavily. 

"I'm going to give her six, Bill. D'you want to lay on a couple yourself?" 

"I couldn't presume - !" 

"Hell, man, you want to!" 

"Well ... yes. Yes, I suppose - " 

"Here's the cane - nice and limber." 

Jason is partly right, it is limber but certainly not nice. I get an upside 
down view of Bill accepting it dubiously. I gasp in embarrassment as he 
swings, then gasp again as my tight skin gets the impact of his aim. The 
gasp is of relief. "Shit, man, Carrie won't even feel that. We won't count 
it." 

The bastard, he could have given me a break. Bill's cut at me lacked 
conviction, but it still hurt. Anything would hurt, the way I'm fixed. 
Bill's features take on stern resolve ... I gasp again. 

"Oh, much better! She actually noticed.... !" 

Jason is so damn happy with this whole thing he's staged for Bill, or really 
for himself. Maybe my pain is in a good cause! I gasp, and try to wriggle, 
to show Bill he's doing fine. 

"Attaboy! You're getting the hang of it, Bill. Carrie felt that one, I can 
tell." 

"Forty thousand dollars!" 

The increase in my price comes out of Bill in a strangled moan. His face is 
pink, he is breathing heavily. The bid frightens me, it shows what the 
whipping of an innocent girl does to a man. Even Jason is shocked. 

"You're excited, Bill. I'm not taking advantage -" 

"I mean it, Jason. Forty thousand! The girl's bloody marvellous." 

"Yes, I know. Carrie's really something. But don't let's get carried away by 
a little punishment. Here, give me the cane, she's still got six -" 

"But I've had two!" I wail at them. 

"They were from Bill. Are you complaining?" "Nnnnnno, sorry. No complaint." 

Jason gives me the six, well spaced with comments. He hits me with artistry 
and finesse. I recognize the blows as what he calls 'medium rare', but they 
hurt enough that I do not need to simulate the sounds I make or my surgings 
against the straps by which I am so erotically postured. Shocked with pain, 
I still manage to catch a glimpse of Bill's enraptured face. 

"Takes it nicely, eh!" 

"Good gosh -!" Bill gasps more than I. 

"Listen to her now." 

I pay him my dues. "Thank you for caning me, Jason." 

"Learn a lesson, dear?" 

"Oh yes, for sure! I'll try and not be clumsy again." 

"I wish you'd take the money for her - you could train another, couldn't 
you?" 

Jason laughs. 

When I am unstrapped the show goes on. I do the little girl trick I would 
normally scorn: I gingerly feel my wealed bottom, and I allow my fingertips 
to elicit gasps from my lips. I twist to look back and see ... That little 
charade done with, I offer my wrists for the handcuffs and watch Jason lock 
them on. When he has them snug to his fancy I say my: "Thank you, Master." 
as though to be handcuffed is the greatest boon a girl could ask of any man. 

We return to the living room. I try and act as though getting my bare bottom 
caned is an amusing diversion for which I hold no malice. I serve my masters 
brandy. I do it with a small tray on bended knee and gaze up at them 
adoringly. 

"Pour one for, yourself, sweetheart." 

I make it large, which is dangerous on a tummy as nearly empty as mine. But 
my bottom is heatedly remembering the cane, and I don't know how much longer 
I am going to have to cater to Bill. I weave my haunches at him so he can 
approve my marks, then I kneel at a respectful distance in their view and, 
most thankfully, sip while I am discussed. 

"I wish you'd consider that money, Jason?" 

"Wouldn't be fair to sell her, old chap. Carrie's got used to me now. I was 
a bit of a shock to her at first, so would you be." 

"I wouldn't whip her too much - honest!" 

"She's marvellous in bed, you'd waste her talent." 

"Jason, name a price?" 

My master waves at me. "Give Bill another blow job. He's overheated." 

I look at them askance. Bill is boggle eyed in desire for me, I turn to my 
nonchalant owner. "But, Master -?" 

"Do it!" 

I know I must, I am a slavegirl, the atmosphere in the room is of 
millenniums past. If I disobey I will be whipped again. I gulp down my 
brandy and say, meekly, "Yes, Master." 

I rise and dispose of my glass so Bill may have another nice look at my 
wounds. I manage to give Jason a reproachful look before I kneel once more 
between the waiting knees. 

"Like I said, Bill, she's perfectly trained." 

It is one thing to perform this disagreeable task in unseen anonymity. It is 
something else again to do it in the open before a critical audience. I 
yearn for the table ... ! But my triple brandy begins to blaze. My 
handcuffed fingers reach for Bill's zipper. 

"She's got the best lips and tongue I've ever known." Bill is more than 
ready. I put him in my mouth as though I was starving. 

After what seems to me a tong, long evening, Bill totters home, redolent of 
brandy, replete with the service of my lips. When I lift my foot up on our 
bed to have it shackled for the night, I say fervently and humbly: "Thanks, 
Jason, for not selling me." 

He clicks the metal band and grins at me quizzically. "You both took that 
seriously, didn't you." 

"Shouldn't I have? All that money ... ?" 

"Oh, Bill meant it alright. But how the devil did either of you expect to 
make it real?" 

"I suppose you'd have given him the key to my handcuffs." 

"How would he have got you back to his place?" 

"I don't know. I guess I figured it as his problem." 

"Would you have walked with him to his car?" 

"Naked and handcuffed? Oh, Jason, don't be silly. I wouldn't have gone with 
him at all unless the two of you had trussed me up into a package and bunged 
a gag in my mouth." 

"Interesting hypothesis though. Want to try it, sweetheart? See what 
happens?" 

"Noooooo ... no!" It is a wail of pure fright. "Bill would whip me to bits. 
Didn't you notice the effect caning my bottom had on him?" 

"Oh sure, a feast after deprivation." Jason is ruminating some sort of 
notion. I look at the shackle on my ankle and the handcuffs on my wrists. I 
cannot escape either. I am his! In actual face he can do what he likes with 
me. 

"Jason, you're not thinking of the money, are you?" 

He is tickled over something, and he reads my thoughts. "It's quite a chunk 
of cash, honeybunch. You're fixed well enough right now I could easy rope 
you in a rug and make delivery." 

I am shockingly bereft, not at the prospect but at what it implies. "But, 
Jason, there's more to you and me than that ... ?" 

"Want me to marry you?" 

He loves these little bombshells, they mix me up. "Sure I want that." I 
admit, defensively. "But what we have is better-at least I've been thinking 
it is ... for now." 

He nods, his thoughts still distant. "Look, Carrie, you go to work tomorrow 
same as always. But you know you'll be tied tight and delivered to Bill when 
you get home. What then?" 

"I wouldn't come home. Why should I? You'd have said you no longer wanted 
me." 

Jason is pleased. He gives me a very sincere kiss. But there's still 
something on his mind. "You're right." He says slowly. "We do have 
something, something rare and very precious. But the only reason we have it 
is because I was willing to take a risk: first in kidnapping you and 
secondly the game of Russian Roulette. I took one hell of a risk, and we 
both learned a lot." 

"I don't want to learn any more, Jason." Jason laughs. 

Chapter Four. 

Pirate's Prize. 

I do not know why the dream returns. Perhaps because of Bill, or Jason's 
laughing threat. I am annoyed with the dream. The part of me that observes 
sees me as a silly girl, much younger than I am, and with an unlikely German 
Governess. I recall bits and pieces ...! Gosh, is that the best my 
subconscious can do for me! 

I am aware of something different and terribly wrong. I am frightened and I 
hurt. I am looking through the rigging of a ship at an azure ocean sparkling 
under a tropic sun. A gentle wind fills our sails, ropes and spars creak 
rhythmically as we slice the swells. I make to step forward to the wooden 
rail, but cannot. I am bound. 

I recall the brief bitter thunder of guns, the looting, of which presumably 
I am a part, the slow sinking of the masts of the 'Plymouth Pride' into the 
depths. There were hands, hard brutal hands, and much coarse laughter. I 
suppose I fainted, or was hit on my head. I try to raise a hand to feel for 
wounds .... But my hands cannot respond. They are one of the reasons I hurt, 
the ropes on my arms and wrists are very tight. 

I am tied to the mast of a ship, my arms dragged back on either side, my 
belly corded so that its small concavity is made smaller still, as from a 
cruel corset. That is all, but it is enough. I think I have struggled a lot 
already, I do so again now. It is quite useless. I am a part of this 
creaking timber, I belong to the mast. I expect also that I belong to 
someone else .... ! 

Voices drift my way, I shrink in terror. I will have no friends aboard this 
vessel, I can be sure of it. They are two men attired as ship's officers, no 
doubt the owners of the uniforms are dead. Under their amused scrutiny I 
become aware of near nudity, but a square of my torn garments has been tied 
over one of my hips. I try to lean forward to discern such modesty as I may 
possess, but the ropes defeat my need. 

"For the moment it is respectably covered, madam." There is laughter in the 
male mockery. "But I must compliment you on your breasts, they are superb." 

They are also very, very bare! I long for hands .... Never before have I 
been naked before men. Their eyes are not hostile but I feel scorched. 

"She'll fetch a fine price, or grace thy bed, Captain." 

"And why not both, Mr. Matlock, she's durable merchandise." 

"Oh aye, she is that. I'd wager she's neer' been used." 

"Is he right, girl? Have we caught a virgin?" 

I am too frightened to answer, and know not what to say. I keep silent, 
surely my terror speaks for me. 

"Come, lass, ye have a tongue." 

I strain at my ropes and say, wearily. "I am a virgin. My family will pay ye 
ransom." Pathetically I add, "Please don't hurt me." 

"They may pay, but they'd get back no virgin. Come, girl, you're the 
property of a man." 

"I'll not do that beastly thing. Ye'd have to tie me down -" 

"Methinks she asks for it, Captain." 

"She wants the ropes to salve her conscience, 'tis an ancient comfort to a 
maid. But damme me, Matlock, we've got ourselves a beauty." 

There is a commotion on the lower deck. I am alone again, still tied, but 
possessing knowledge, an inevitable knowledge I do not like, the thing a 
virgin most dreads is going to be done to me. I will be spread wide and 
pierced with a weapon I have never yet seen but about which I have heard 
much. Impalement by a man will break my maidenhead. The bit of cloth now 
fastened on me will be torn away to enable untrammeled entry to my womb. I 
pull fretfully at the bindings which refuse to let me go. 

I must refuse to panic. That which is about to be done to me is done to 
every girl sooner or later, even though there is no sanctity in her piercing 
she will not die. Tentatively I make such play with my legs as my bonds 
allow, knowing that at their juncture is the secret thing, the value of 
which is the reason I am tied to a pirate mast instead of dead beneath the 
sea with the crew of the Plymouth Pride. In a perverse way I should be 
grateful. I think of the forbidden word I will soon be hearing. I am going 
to be fucked. 

It is an ordinary seaman who now confronts me. For a Pirate, he seems 
unexpectedly tidy. True, his eyes are lecherous as he observes my nakedness, 
but his voice is mild. 

"I'm a'goin' to untie ye, lady. Cap'n's orders." 

"Thank you." 

"I'll be a'tyin' ye agin, Miss. Would'ee be aiming to fight?" 

If he is a cutthroat he is a cautious cutthroat. Since a naked girl cannot 
escape from a ship at sea I assure him earnestly I will not fight. 

"Yell no be throwin' yourself overboard, Miss, doin' a suicide like?" 

"No. Why should I? Just get me untied, I'm hurting. I promise I'll behave," 

As the ropes fall away it feels so good to be free I almost forget what lies 
ahead. A rough arm gives me support I do not need. It clasps a naked breast 
no man has ever touched. Curbing my tongue, I thrust the man away and 
massage the livid rope marks in my flesh. 

"Thank you ... May I have some covering please?" 

"Cap'n didn't say nothin' 'bout that, lady." He surveys me appreciatively. 
"Pity to cover up what you got showing, Miss." 

I cannot argue. Probably I must get used to nudity! I have often been told 
of men's desire for a girl's body. These men, whoever they may be, possess 
my body. all of me except my mind. With that I must defeat them. But, now, I 
eye with distaste the cord this man tugs between his hands. I make the best 
of it. 

"How do you wish to tie me?" 

"Hands behind your back, lady. Cross your wrists." 

I despise this passive yielding of my freedom. But what else can I do! This 
oaf is at least civil. I turn my naked back and cross my already wealed 
wrists, the cord bites hard. I am well secured. I can slap no faces, nor can 
I cover aught of my nakedness. 

"Cap'n's apology, lady. But this be best." 

He is holding for me a length of rope and a noose. Its intent screams aloud, 
I am to be leashed. Outraged, I demand: "Why? It is an insult ... there is 
no need!" 

"Even with their hands tied, Miss, gals have been known to jump the rail." 
He laughs bitterly. "They prefer the sharks to good honest men." 

"Honest?" 

"That's as may be, maam, 'tis in the point of view. Now, if ye just keep 
still a moment ... ?" 

I blush for this indignity more than for my nakedness. But I stand with head 
erect while the noose is slipped over my head. My hair is gathered in a 
hand, almost reverent, so the rope may circle my throat in snug confinement. 
It is knotted so I cannot strangle. I can now be led, naked and helpless, 
anywhere my new owners please. I have a horror of force being used on me. 
Haughtily, I assure my jailor, "You will have no need to tug at me, I will 
follow where you lead." 

"Oh aye, Miss, 'tis sensible ye are. And now Cap'n Oaks and Mr. Matlock be 
a'waiting." 

I follow my rope to the stairhead, but there I pause in dismay so that it 
pulls tight and tugs. Below me are faces, too many faces for a naked girl. 

"None will hurt ye, Miss." 

Perhaps not, but their eyes sear me like flame. Obeying my leash, I descend 
to be led to face the Captain and his Mate. They stand beside the mainmast 
as on a stage. My humiliation is evidently a shipboard occasion. My hands 
work constantly at the cord by which they are joined. I can never free them, 
but the effort is solace. 

"Thy name, girl?" 

I am ready with a lie. They must never know my real name. If they wish to 
treat for ransom, then our family solicitor becomes my father. Sulkily, I 
fabricate. "Brigid Soames. My father is Obediah Soames of London. He will 
deal for my release." 

He nods, unconcerned. For this moment I am a naked female body with breasts 
and pubic hair on a ship full of I know not what, all male. His command is 
curt. "Miss Soames, turn and face the crew." 

Am I on trial? Am I to be executed? I take a deep breath and turn in my 
leash to show a crowd of buccaneers my total sexuality. My breasts seem to 
me unnaturally large and their nipples more erect, but I realize it is from 
the tug of my arms from my tied wrists. I can shield nothing. I gasp and 
long for oblivion as a deft hand looses the trifle on my hip and whisks away 
the covering of my secret place. I stand, utterly revealed, and have no 
hands ... ! 

"Look well, men. She is but a woman, Ye can get a dozen like her in any 
port." 

They regard me with concentrated lust, I am ravished in every mind. I'll 
wager the doxies they buy in Port Royal have not my shape nor comeliness. 
Each desires me. 

"By our Charter she is the perquisite of the Captain. Agreed?" 

There is a chorus of agreement. I suppose they lose little. Divided among so 
many I have little value to any one of them. I have a strange vision of them 
laying on me one by one, plunging their rods between my legs ... My owner's 
, voice rings out again. 

"None will touch this woman save by my orders. I will require certain things 
of her. Should she prove obdurate she will discover penalties. One of these 
might be for her to be shared among you. Ye would draw lots for order of 
precedence. But she may not sustain injury, and must be held safe from 
suicide. Understood?" 

He has his crew well in hand, their assent seems well enough satisfied, the 
hunger with which they gaze upon my t nakedness is controlled. Perhaps they 
possess a secret knowledge that, sooner or later, I will be given to them. I 
try to thrust the thought from my mind but it returns ... again and again! 

"Come, girl, we have things to speak of." 

My arm is grasped, my leash trails as I am led to the Captain's domain. It 
is spacious, it is bright, it is luxurious - no doubt from the loot of a 
dozen pirated ships. I wonder how many other bound and naked maidens have 
preceded me. My captor thrusts me toward the huge bed. 

"I'll not take you when you're weary, lass. Sleep. I'll join thee in the 
night." It is unexpected, a kindness to brim my eyes. My voice wavers in a 
request I have to make. "Captain, may my nakedness be covered?" 

"No." 

"My hands untied? The leash taken from my neck?" "No." 

Well, that is that! I am alone and naked, still bound. I am suddenly very 
weary without the will to seek impossible escape. What matters it if I have 
no hands ... ! I throw myself face down upon the bed and go to sleep. 
Sometime far into the night I am joined by a naked man who thrusts my legs 
apart, lays me on my bound arms and, with a strange tenderness, ravishes me 
and breaks my maidenhead. For the first time in my life I have been impaled. 

'Tis indeed a strange bridal night for any maid. My thoughts are incoherent, 
chaotic as are my emotions under the phallus thrust. My world is riven in 
great flares of pain which fade and yield before waves of sensation such as 
I have never known. For good or ill I am reborn, nothing will ever again be 
as I have known it. I hear a girl crying out fierce ecstasies in the 
darkness, it is the voice of the newly born. It is mine. 

I am wakened to bright day by the man who bound me as I still am. I sit up 
nakedly, still shamed before a man's regard. 

"Ye'll call me Zeke, Maam. I bring ye breakfast wi' Capn's compliments." 

He sets down the tray and unties my hands. I do not question why he leaves 
the leash upon my neck, perhaps I can loose it myself or mayhap it is a 
symbol of my new condition I must wear. 

"Captain Oaks will attend thee later, lady, ye may take thy time." 

Alone, I run to test the door. It is locked, so too is every cupboard and 
drawer and window. With my leash falling at my back I return to the bed and 
to my food. For a spoiled virgin, a ruined woman, I have good appetite. 
Reflecting on the loss of my virginity I am glad it is gone. To be a single 
naked girl among a boatload of seamen, my maidenhead forever threatened, a 
source of barter, would become a suspense impossible to bear. If I am fucked 
now I will be no different after than before. It is an immodest relief. 

Having eaten I sleep again. I have been sorely taxed. It is the Captain who 
wakens me. I wonder how long he has been looking at my nakedness with that 
infuriatingly amused stare. 

"Good morrow, Miss Soames. 'Tis good to see ye so refreshed." 

"Thank you, Captain." 

I yield no inch. The words are his. I look up questioningly, resisting the 
impulse to cover my breasts. "There's a problem of what to do with thee, 
Miss Soames." 

"Oh, you surprise me." I chill each word. "Have ye not found a pleasurable 
use for my person?" 

"Oh aye, but there's still the days." 

"Why not use thy brig? Put me in irons?" 

"Ye'd not like it, girl, nor love me for putting thee there." 

"Am I expected to love you, Captain? Dos't want more than to secure me from 
escape - or suicide?" 

"Ye'd find the irons little to thy liking, Miss Soames. They rest heavy on 
such small ankles, wrists and neck. 'Tis passing lonely locked in there 
alone." 

"No doubt you would visit me." 

For a moment I think I have gone too far. But he is only irritated. "I have 
other concerns with thee, maam, beyond our coupling. Ye pose a problem I 
little relish." 

My pulse quickens. I have a guilty secret. I suddenly realize fresh hazards 
unrelated to my pubic hair. 

"Your name is not Soames." 

I cling to silence as to a garment. 

"You are Dorcas Cavendish, daughter to the Admiral of England's Caribbean 
Fleet. Matlock has searched papers we took before the sinking of the 
'Plymouth Pride'." 

I sit there on the bed, stupidly naked, guilty of nothing yet feeling guilt. 
It is useless to prevaricate further. Boldly, I throw at him a single word: 
"So?" 

"You know where his fleet sails, and you must tell me." 

"'Tis no concern of yours." 

"His Majesty's Parliament and I are at odds, lady. There's a price on my 
head and on this ship. The whereabouts of your father's Command concerns all 
of us aboard." 

"You'll not learn it from me." 

His sombre regard tells me I am foolish. I should have tearfully denied 
knowledge. Now he is certain I possess it. His tone is as serious as his 
features: "Ye had best tell me, girl. This ship can do thy father's squadron 
no harm." 

"He is bound for Barbados, the port of Bridgetown." 

He sighs gently in patience for a bad girl. "That I know to be false, Miss 
Cavendish." 

I shrug. "Then I am sorry, Captain, I cannot help you." He nods in 
understanding. "Loyalties are elusive to deal with, Miss Cavendish, they 
have no logic. Think on this for an hour. I will then send Zeke for thy 
answer. Ye will demand of him escort to my presence, or to the ship's 
blacksmith for thine irons." 

"You have my answer now, Captain." 

But he is gone, and I must wait. I suspect I am being foolish, but my 
father's face is vivid in my thoughts. I can be sure of nothing save that I 
must not betray him. When Zeke comes I accept my fate without the shame of 
quibbling. "You must take me to the Smithy, Zeke." I tell him soberly. 

He nods. He has been briefed. His voice is decently respectful. "Thy piece 
of rope, lady?" 

I find it for him, and turn so he may tie my hands. I see the virtue of the 
leash upon my neck, by it he leads me to the smith. 

I am measured and fitted as for garments. Zeke holds my leash while the 
blacksmith leers and fingers me with bit of string. 

" 'Tis a smaller fetter than I'm used to, Zeke me boy. But when I'm done 
with her she'll be well secured." 

I am fascinated. This glowing metal, shedding sparks, will circle my flesh. 
This thud of hammer and ring of anvil is for me. When the first fruit of the 
blacksmith's skill is fitted on my ankle and riveted fast I am almost proud. 

"Best sit her, Zeke, I'll have need of both her feet." 

I am planted on a box, my leash still in good hands. The smith grasps my 
other leg and raises it to examine my pubic bush and that which it normally 
hides. "Has't a way to chain that as well?" I ask bitterly. 

"Oh aye, me gel'. I'll fashion thee a chastity belt an the Captain wishes 
it." 

Fascination returns as the hammer and the rivet enchain my limbs. My heavily 
linked ankles are swept from the forge to be replaced by my freed wrists. I 
am safe now, I cannot run. I kneel, my arms outstretched, and watch my 
wrists similarly gyved. 

"A pretty lass, ain't she!" The smith enthuses. "These baubles will make her 
prettier. And now I'll be needing her neck." 

The nadir of humiliation! I lose my leash and bend my neck within the open 
iron circlet awaiting it on the anvil. I am breathless in fear of injury as 
the iron is bent and turned and hammered fast. I dare not move as the rivets 
splat beneath the blows. 

"She'll run but little, and sink fast if she jumps the rail." The smith 
chortles, happy with the snug fit he has contrived on these new and shameful 
bonds. 

It is true I cannot run, I do not even walk. Zeke picks me up with my weight 
of iron and carries me to the brig. Sailors smirk as we pass, but I have 
nothing more to expose than men have already seen. 

" 'Tis a poor sad place for a lady, Miss." 

I heartily agree. The Brig is gloomy and dank, its timbers creak. I watch 
the chain from my collar padlocked to a huge ring set fast in the oak. There 
is a plank bench on which to sit, that is all. 

"I'll be leavin' ye, maam. I'd try and please the Captain if I was you, he's 
a kindly man." 

I am alone again, and survey my new home. It is small and implacable. I am 
attached to the hull only by my neck, but that is enough, the chain prevents 
me reaching the door and there is nothing else to touch. The irons on my 
hands and feet must be for punishment only, if they were not there I would 
be just as helpless. I sit down. 

It is hateful. There is nothing to see and nothing to do. I am totally naked 
and totally helpless. I can play with the metal things riveted on me and I 
can think, that is all. 

This is punishment, not just to keep me safe. After awhile I will be visited 
and asked a question. My answer will determine how long I stay like this. I 
sniff disdainfully in certain knowledge of my fate. I wonder how many days 
or weeks we are from port ... ! 

No one comes. I am to be subjected to the improbable and unexpected. I am 
being made to sit, chained, in a growing anxiety. At night my bed is hard 
and my chains unkind, there is no blanket. I am absurdly grateful for Zeke 
and breakfast, and more grateful still, an hour later, to behold Captain 
Oakes. He surveys my condition gravely. 

"You make a charming prisoner, Miss Cavendish." 

"Please, Captain, don't keep me in this hateful place. Take me hence, I will 
be obedient?" 

"I have asked a question?" 

"Oh that!" I clatter my wrist chains in disgust. "You would believe nothing 
I said." 

"Try me." 

I shrug unhappily. "It's no use, Captain ... Can't you understand - I'd only 
tell you another lie to get myself out of this mess." 

"You prefer to stay here in irons?" 

"Nooooo, oh no!" I peal my denial out beyond dispute. I hate this, I hate 
it!" 

"Shipboard disciplines are severe, Miss Cavendish." His tone has become that 
of a Judge. "If you find yourself unable to answer I will try and provide 
incentive. Before the assembled crew, you will be triced up, naked, to the 
rigging and flogged." 

I gasp at the enormity of it. I cannot speak. 

"The regulation 'cat' will not be used on you. A more simple whip without 
knots or metal inserts will suffice." 

"Am I supposed to say thank you?" 

We look at each other, each in our own despair, seeking the right words. But 
the right words do not come, perhaps there aren't any. Abruptly, he turns 
and leaves, the thud of the door and its bolts sound like an epitaph. I 
fling myself down on the bench and weep. 

I am to be a Roman holiday. The crew's dull duties will be enlivened by a 
production elaborately staged: the flogging of a naked girl, an uncommon 
treat for the underprivileged. I pick up the details from Zeke as he returns 
me to the smith. He is decently regretful but obviously excited. 

" 'Tis a waste o' my time." The smith is annoyed. "I'll be chaining her 
again afore long." 

But his work is simple now. Only the chain links are taken from me, the 
shackles remain. Each metal band has its own ring by which I can again be 
chained, or tied, or fastened in any way that may please my captors, a most 
convenient facility which has about it the implacable portent of long use. 

"Ye'll come and see her whipped?" Zeke asks. 

"Oh aye, can't miss that!" The smith agrees heartily as he pats my bottom. 
"Ye'll put on a good show for us, Missie, I haven't a doubt. That pretty 
skin O' your'n will bear some fine stripes. Right proud of 'em, you'll be, 
you mark my words." 

I am among friends. They love me for the diversion I provide. 

A roll of drums greets my nudity. I would turn and flee from the many eyes, 
but Zeke has my arm. He has cautioned me to be brave and not to fight him 
when the time comes. I expect he is wise. But, oh, it is so hard to be 
passively obedient at such a time! I catch the Captain's eye-there will be 
no reprieve. 

For insubordination and the giving of comfort to the enemy - fifty lashes on 
the bare back. 

I hear my sentence. It is hard to believe it relates to me, even though my 
stomach knots hard in fear. I have no experience by which to know if fifty 
whip- strokes on my bare skin is merciful or cruel. I obey Zeke's nudging 
fingers and move to where I must stand. I raise my arms. 

I face the infinity of the Sea through the taut latticework of rope to which 
my wrist rings will be tied. The rigging to which I am about to be handily 
triced slopes from the rail up to the Mast. I look up to observe the loss of 
my freedom as Zeke cords my shackles far apart to the thick and rigid ropes. 
Behind me are the male faces I do not want to see. I am thankful my breasts 
do not point at them or my open legs reveal my sex. I wonder if I will kick 
in agony, I still can. But for the rest of me, I cannot move enough to 
matter. My corded shackles hold me fast. 

The drum roll is fearsome, and it is all mine! It is for me and signals the 
beginning of my flogging. It will rise to an unbearable crescendo, and then 
...! It is suddenly silent. 

It cuts across my bare shoulders with unspeakable agony. I scream in 
disbelief. I do not wish to be a heroine, I scream. I scream again as the 
lash curls around my taut waist beneath my tensioned ribs. When it slices my 
bottom from hip to hip my feet flash and flail at the unseen enemy they 
cannot reach. 

I do not count. I simply hope the pain will stop. It does not stop, not for 
a long, long time. When it does stop my head is bowed, I am panting, I am 
wet with sweat. Twenty-five. 

There is much shuffling of feet. I steal a backward glance to behold my 
audience dispersing. From beside me comes the Captain's voice. It bears no 
malice. 

"Half your punishment is done, Miss Cavendish." 

Only half! I find it hard to believe, but know he speaks truth. I moan in 
desolation, I do not want to be whipped any more, not ever. I blurt out 
urgently: "Please forgive me ... forgive my sentence ... don't whip me any 
more?" 

"There remains the question, maam?" 

I weep. It is all I can do. I sob and sob. 

"Then you remain as you are for a few hours, Miss Cavendish. The men enjoy 
your situation. You will then receive the second half of your sentence." 

"Cover me. Please cover me?" 

"Your nudity is routine in punishment, madam." 

He is so formal, I don't want him to be so formal with me. I cry all the 
harder. 

"You have no need to be so cruel to me. You could stop my flogging, you 
could, you could ... !" 

"There are lives at stake, Miss Cavendish. I must consider my crew. Their 
concern with the question I ask is as great as mine." 

"If you continue my flogging it will kill me." 

"Nay, maam, you underrate yourself. You are suffering pain but no harm. 
Think not of death with me ... never!" 

"Torture then! Is this not torture?" 

"Of a mild kind. I ask you to end it - you can." His voice is 
heartbreakingly sincere. "Miss Cavendish, I implore ... ?" 

I moan but do not answer. I moan and moan! He goes away and leaves me triced 
to his rigging to await the rest of my stripes and gaze out to sea. 

This waiting is a punishment, cleverly designed. I will think and think of 
the whip and how easily I can avoid it. Temptation will never leave my mind 
... betray my father! Men come and go, I suspect their errands feigned for 
the pleasure of beholding this naked girl who is stretched taut to their 
ropes. They will look at the whip-marks on my skin and become sexually 
aroused, lingering as long as is plausibly possible. When there's a pair of 
them they talk. "Lovely bit o'stuff, eh!" 

"What I cud' do with that there, it don't bear thinking!" 

"Pity to waste 'er wi' the whip though." 

"Hell, man, the Mate's just tickling 'er up a bit. I seen worse whippings on 
a kid." 

"Oh aye, she's a lady, see! And the Captain's a gent. He's havin' her warmed 
up for his bed tonight. She ain't lost a drop o' blood yet, and ain't likely 
to." 

"Should lay 'er across a barrel and let us all 'ave a bang at 'er. Wouldn't 
do 'er no 'arm." 

"That could 'appen, matey. Peeved at 'er 'e is. She rub 'im the wrong way 
long enough, and we'll all 'ave a go at 'er-and more'n once too!" 

My fate is simple. 

But all of this is new and impossible and still has the quality of 
nightmare. The men speaking of me so lewdly was disgusting and frightening, 
but it compels me to consider the strange heat within my secret place, the 
place that once was secret but is so no more. This heat is a demanding 
sensation and I fear I know its origin and purpose! Does a harlot, whipped 
at the cart's tail through the streets, know this same shameful feeling when 
her whipping is done! Or is it only me ... am I wanton! I am smitten by a 
fearful vision of the faces when I am set free. 

All will know I was a pirate's prize and the only female on his ship. They 
will be polite while they ponder my ravishments, I will be used and spoiled 
....! My very survival will condemn me, a pure virgin would have killed 
herself or blithely walked the plank. 

But freedom is something I need not concern myself with. When the Captain 
and his men have done with me I will be sold to a bagnio or to one of the 
Planters on the islands. Dorcas Cavendish is lost. It is almost with relief 
I hear the re- assembly and the drum, and brace my nakedness for the rest of 
the lashes it must bear. If these frightful cuts I receive across my skin be 
no more than a `tickling up' I must be thankful I am not being properly 
flogged. But as the blows impact on me from shoulder to thigh I cannot be 
thankful for any of this. I scream and scream and scream. 

Zeke does not return me to the brig, but to the Captain's quarters. I am 
euphoric with gladness that I have been whipped and it is done. I care 
little for his apologetic explanation of the rope. 

"Cap'n wants ye tied, Miss. Ye'll no be minding?" 

"No, Zeke, I don't mind." I put my hands behind my back so their metal bands 
touch, and say blithely: "There, you see, I'm a model prisoner." 

"That ye be, Miss. Sorry, I am, to treat ye so." 

He cords the rings of my shackles so that my hands and arms are held fast 
behind my back. He sits me on the bed and similarly secures my feet. Then he 
asks me to arrange myself, face down, on the coverlet. When I have done so, 
wriggling desperately as no lady should, he ropes my ankles to my wrists. 

" 'Tis to stop thee roaming, Miss. Real sorry I be." 

I assure him of his innocence, his concern is real. When he has gone and I 
am alone I better comprehend his regret. I cannot move! I am bowed back and 
can only flounder painfully in a choice between laying face down with my 
breasts finding hard friction on the covers, or I can fall on my side. If I 
do too much floundering I will wriggle myself off the bed and on to the 
floor. I lay quite still and know that very soon I will hate to be thus 
bound. 

I cling to gladness, as to an anchor, as time works its will on me. This is 
a wearying way to be tied. It exposes my breasts and my sex more than need 
be. Surely I could be made helpless with less shame! I am like some farmyard 
creature trussed for the Market. I shed a good many tears before I hear my 
owner's step. 

Without greeting or comment I am untied. I sit up stiffly and say a meek 
'thank you' while I rub my weals. I will not ask him again for covering, to 
be refused is too demeaning. I look up at his enigmatic regard and inquire, 
innocently. "What are you going to do with me now, Captain?" 

"You took your whipping well, Miss Cavendish." 

"That isn't true, Captain, I screamed outrageously. I am ashamed of myself." 

"Don't be. The crew admired your courage." 

"Your crew admired my body. They would like to use it." 

Impatiently, he waves away my flippancy. "You are sorely marked, have ye no 
wish to speak?" 

"I heard men say my whipping was a child's punishment. Nay, Captain, I have 
nothing to say save to ask my fate?" 

"Ye called it torture. I can impose more?" 

"Yes?" 

This is a battle of wits which I must lose. My female curiosity prompts me 
to provoke. The captain recites, as though after much debate, his tone 
weary. "I can have ye hung from the yardarm - to let thee sway back and 
forth like a pendulum, high above the ocean." 

I churn inwardly but say nothing. "I could have ye keelhauled. ..." 

"Or you could have me whipped again." I offer helpfully. 

We survey each other, wary, on guard, alert for weakness. I raise my iron 
encircled wrists and ask: "Ye wish to keep me thus?" 

"Of course. They become you. You look passing sweet in irons." 

I turn my right hand in a way to emphasize its metal band so snug upon the 
wrist. "Could I not use this as a weapon against thee, Captain. 'Tis a heavy 
chunk of iron?" 

He smiles at my innocence. "Why tell me, girl? Why not wait 'till I am 
unaware?" 

I wish this handsome rogue no harm; if rogue he be! But can I tell him so! 
Ruefully, I admit my dilemma. "To what end would I stun thee, I would still 
be captive, and 'tis something I could not bring myself to do." 

The Captain nods, pleased. He locks the door and reaches for the buttons of 
his jacket. "I'll take temptation from thee, lass. When we are done with 
love I'll tie 'em behind thy back." 

I am quite shameless. I want this man terribly, I am afire. He enters my 
open arms, my open legs and me. My whipped back upon the bed cries out its 
own delight, my loins rear in welcome. Sometimes in the hours of our play 
the metal riveted on me makes contact and rings metallically. It has a 
joyful sound. 

Chapter Five. 

A Social Evening. 

I am annoyed with these dreams of mine, I behave like an idiot. I can blame 
Jason for the bondage and punishments, but I've had these excursions into 
fantasy for as far back as I can remember. Silly romantic kid's stuff 
mostly, until the teens introduced sex, manhandling, and an obsession with 
my pubic hair. I tended and mentally encouraged each curly frond. I even 
secretly anointed my crotch with patent preparations from the drug store 
.... Anyway, I wish I didn't have 'em, they're unsettling, and I think they 
denote a weakness in me. I'm not going to tell this one to Jason, he'd laugh 
his head off. 

We get up for a workday and everything's normal, we like each other. Bill 
has receded far away, but he's left me with a nag I have to get rid of. I 
can't possibly leave well enough alone. I blurt out my beef. 

"Jason, I'm coming home this evening, same as always. What happens?" 

He seems genuinely puzzled. "What would happen, honeybunch?" He asks 
blandly. "You get supper=" 

"You know what you said, Jason. Do I get tied up and delivered to Bill?" 

"Oh that! Hell no, Carrie. What a notion!" 

"Well, it's yours. You said you wanted to?" 

"That was last night." 

"You were in love with your Roulette idea. You seemed to think it wouldn't 
hurt me to go along with it?" 

"Forget it. What's your trouble, sweets?" 

"Only that I'm not coming home if it is still on the books." 

Jason looks at me with grave seriousness. "Really?" 

"Yes, really. I mean it. I don't want to be sold." 

"And I don't want to sell you." 

He takes me in his arms and makes me absurdly happy. But when I get to the 
office I'm still thinking of Bill and how shockingly helpless I am when 
Jason ties me up. Sometimes through the day I remember my dream. The Captain 
of that pirate ship looks more and more like Jason. I am more than ever 
annoyed. 

But as I prepare dinner in the kitchen after five I recover my equanimity. 
Bill was not panting at the door, there are no scattered pieces of rope, 
nothing to disturb an honest slavegirl in her duties. I sing as I work, and 
when Jason arrives with a bottle of our favourite wine I am very happy. He 
also has a package ... ! 

I have dinner kneeling beside his chair, my hands cuffed behind my back. I 
never know if this is punishment or just routine, but I am not too 
concerned. It's a happy enough meal, and I notice he gives me all the nicest 
bits and pieces from 

his plate, and I am sure he has me drink at least half the wine. Neither of 
us mention the package but we both know I am bursting with curiosity. 

The dishes get my hands locked round in front, the handcuffs have become 
symbolic instead of making me helpless. I think that if I went far away and 
never saw Jason again I would keep a pair of handcuffs in my home, and wear 
them sometimes .... 

"O.K. Sweetheart, you may open it." 

He unlocks my handcuffs. I should get a clue from this. For me, when in 
Jason's company, freedom is suspect. I tear at wrappings, and gasp. My dream 
floods back in an erotic wave .... But Jason could not have known ... he 
just couldn't! 

"Rings for remembrance, darling." 

They are not rings! They are the same iron bands the smith of the pirate 
ship welded on me in the night. They are beautiful, implacable ... 
deliciously frightening. There are three of them, and I can guess their use. 
I pick up the smallest of them; it is for my wrist, I know it is! But it has 
no hinge, I cannot pull it open. I look at my master, puzzled. "But, Jason, 
how - ?" 

He is proud of them and pleased with Me. He becomes the large and masterful 
Male as he takes the near circle from me and demonstrates with a strange 
sliver of steel and a tiny orifice I had not noticed. He tugs and, as if by 
magic, the band becomes two half circles, one has prongs, the other has 
holes into which they slide. Mechanically, I offer my wrist. 

It is exquisitely neat. Jason thrusts the two halves together with my wrist 
between. There is a lovely click and I wear a metal band. The pirate shackle 
had a ring but this is smooth: It is also heavy and unmistakable for what it 
is. "Like it, love?" 

I hug and kiss. It is gorgeous. I know I am absurd, but if it was gold or 
silver I could not be more pleased. My heart thumps. 

One for an ankle and one for my neck. I cannot call it a collar, it is an 
iron band like the others. Jason solemnly locks them on me and I feel most 
adequately dressed. 

"I'll have you wear one at a time, darling. All three at once might be too 
much for your office." 

I tense. I should have guessed. "Jason ... J-A--S-O-N, I can't possibly ... 
They're in full view!" 

"So what?" 

"But everyone can see! They'll ask questions." 

"Fob 'em off. You'll think of something." 

"I won't! I'll be terribly embarrassed." 

"Would you sooner wear the wire belt?" His tone becomes ominous. "I'll have 
one made an inch smaller, then you'll really know you've got it on." 

"No, you know I don't want that either." In spite of chagrin I can feel 
laughter welling. "You do think up the damndest things." 

"You love 'em." 

"Well, not always. Jason, are you really going to send me to the office with 
one of these things locked on me?" 

"You know I am. Hell, I can take two off and leave one on - and there you 
are! Which would you like first for starters?" 

"My wrist. Maybe I can hatch up a story about a bracelet. I don't know how I 
can possibly explain the others." 

"O.K." Jason takes the anklet and the neck band from me. I feel naked 
without them. "But I'll tell you this, Carrie, you look damn good with 'em 
on, they're beautifully erotic." 

He speaks truth. They are something of Him on Me. To the initiate they are a 
proclamation of my slavery. I feel the familiar heat and put out vibrations. 
I want to be fucked by Jason - no one else, just Him. I am confident I will 
be - later on! I watch in surprise as he unlocks the iron bracelet from my 
wrist. 

"Got something else, Carrie, you'll love it." 

It is a familiar enough object in our home, a heavy screwed eyelet such as 
Jason has installed here and there already. Grinning at my questioning gaze, 
he looks up at the ceiling. 

"Oh, no, Jason, not in the middle of the living room!" He pays no heed but 
goes to fetch his drill. When he is finished with this facility, intended 
for my discomfort, the ring is screwed fast into the ceiling joist, it is 
surprisingly inconspicuous. Jason's regard for my nakedness has become 
speculative. 

"You'll look adorable, sweetheart." 

"No I won't, I'll look all ... bare. Jason, why do you always have to make 
me feel ashamed!" 

"All in your mind, darling. Want to try it out?" 

"Not if I don't have to." 

"You have to." 

I sigh, audibly. I hope it sounds forlorn and makes him feel guilty. I then 
hold out my hands. 

He has acquired some clingy bandage stuff. He now proceeds to wrap my wrists 
with it. I instantly deduce his intent and protest. "J-A-S-O-N- ... ! I 
don't want to be hung up - I don't want to be hung up by my wrists!" 

"You won't be if you behave." 

I sniff. Behaving means doing whatever he says. I cannot share his 
enthusiasm as he completes my bandaging and then ties a rope through the 
middle between my wrists. Needless to say, the other end goes up through the 

ring. Jason is striving for an effect: when I am tensioned to his 
satisfaction I stand naked in the centre of our living room, my bound hands 
drawn up enough above my head that I cannot reach them with my teeth but not 
enough to make me stand on my toes. By the standards of being tied up it 
isn't all that bad. But I feel an idiot and thrice naked. The familiar 
furniture stares with disapproval, I am spoiling the decor. 

"Very cute." I concede, grudgingly. "How long's my sentence?" 

"All evening, darling. By using the bandages" 

"Jason, don't be mean. I don't want to stand naked in the middle of the 
living room all evening. I already feel silly." 

"That will wear off." 

"Jason ... please? Can't you be satisfied with an hour?" 

"Any more importunities, love, and your hands go up another couple of 
inches." 

I relapse into sulky silence. I have allowed Jason to do this to me so I can 
damn well put up with it! I am forever coming up against a confrontation 
with my submissions, I should be getting used to it by now. The fact is, I 
get a charge out of this, same as he does. I suppose the sulks come from 
being female, we never quite reconcile ourselves to being on the wrong end 
of the stick. 

"You see, you're really enjoying the spotlight, sweets. You add that touch 
of something this room's always needed." 

"All I add is a naked female who has to stand, uncomfortably, with her hands 
above her head. Chippendale or Grand Rapids would disown me." 

"Sharpen your pique, darling, I'm enjoying every plaint." 

I cannot win, so I sniff disdainfully and change weight from one foot to the 
other. "What are you going to do while I stand here, sit and look at my 
pubic hair?" 

"You have a Thing about your pubic hair, Carrie. How's about me shaving it 
oft?" 

"Don't you dare!" 

My exclamation is out before I can check it. I'm sure it's a tactical error. 
Without volition, my right leg rises and strives to curtail Jason's view of 
my sex. It is a ridiculous motion, belonging somewhere with maiden blushes, 
but he is entranced. 

"Do that again, darling." 

"Do what?" As if I didn't know! 

"Try and cover your curly fronds with your thigh. It's most lasciviously 
delicious." 

"Don't be horrible." 

"No, honest Carrie, when you do that you're a thing of beauty-the slicks 
would pay thousands ...." 

"You know that sort of thing makes me ashamed - I can't get over being 
ashamed ... sorry." 

"Half a dozen with the nicer crop, dear ... ?" 

There we go again, the Man Thing! I'd love to stamp my feet and scream, but 
I daren't be anything but a good little girl. I'd far sooner stand here in 
unmarked innocence than, rebelliously, with six stripes burning my bottom. I 
look reproachfully at the omniscient Male and once more raise my leg in 
maiden shame. 

"Lovely, lovely! Just a bit higher, darling, and twist a bit, I can still 
see some pubic hairs." 

I stand on one foot and do my duty. My duty is to obey my Master and to give 
him pleasure - never mind about me. I am sure I look sweet and innocent ... 
and mortified! I do not have to act, and my blush is something I cannot 
control. I wonder how long I will have to emulate a stork. 

"At ease, sweetheart. You were divinely erotic. I am the luckiest of men." 

I'm glad he knows it! Thankfully, I rearrange my nakedness with both feet on 
the floor, a slavegirl is thankful for the smallest of mercies. Without too 
much hope, I ask: "How'd you like to let me loose now?" 

"Don't be silly, dear." 

"Well, having me stand on one leg has given you the damndest erection ... I 
thought you'd like to use it?" 

"Darling girl, you know perfectly well I don't have to untie you to do 
that." 

"Jason, it's not as good standing up - and the things I have to do, tied the 
way you've got me, they make me so ... wanton." 

"But, Carrie, you are wanton, you little hypocrite. What I'm going to make 
you do now is -" 

The doorbell cuts Jason off short. With luck I may never find out what he 
was going to make me do. But I tense! No one at the door can possibly see 
me, but just suppose ... ! I feel fearfully naked, and I listen, oh, how I 
listen! 

I have a mental picture of a relative brushing past Jason to behold me as I 
am. Or of another idiot like Bill. Or the Landlord! I shrink and look up 
longingly at my bound wrists. But I am helpless, I have only my ears. 
Distantly there is the murmur of voices, one of which might be female, they 
drag on and on ... The front door closes but the voices continue. Someone is 
inside! 

"Hello, darling." Her voice is breathless. "Oooooo ... you're just too 
gorgeous like that - I knew I was right! Oh; Carrie!" 

It is Daphne Pilgrim, the cute one from the office. 

"I think you two know each other." Jason is entranced. "It was easy to get 
your address, and I followed you home, just to make sure. Carrie, dear, I 
just had to know. Please don't hate me." 

The poor girl is different and wants to be loved. Jason stands to one side, 
enjoying the show of his life. I am tied and naked and just plain 
embarrassed. 

"Go away, Daphne, just go away. Please!" 

"But, Carrie -" 

"This is none of your business, Daph'. I don't want you to see me like this. 
Jason, take her away." 

"Carrie!" 

His note of warning is loud and clear. My present state is bad enough 
without being whipped while this pretty bit of female watches. I temporize. 

"Well then, untie me and let me dress. We can visit." 

"Don't be silly, darling." 

"But this is awful, I'm naked!" 

It is Daphne who kisses me. She holds my head with gentle hands and looks 
deep into my eyes. "It isn't awful." She says slowly. "I think you're the 
most beautiful thing I've ever seen." 

I feel an object, and am sulkier than need be. Daphne Pilgrim is quite 
lovely, and her lips are warm. But my retort is sharp. "Then maybe you'd 
like to take my place?" 

"Yes, I would." 

I might have known. This enraptured damsel is ripe for Jason's cords, and I 
am helpless. Oh, damn! A pregnant silence lengthens until Jason says. "You 
may play with Carrie if you wish to, Miss Pilgrim. She can't get away." 

"Ohhhhhh ... Mmmmmm!" The sounds are exhalations of pure joy. "Oh, thank 
you!" 

The way I am tied leaves it possible for me to twist and turn, I could even 
kick. I can easily make my nipples elusive. But what is the use, such 
contortions will shame me more - and Jason will tie my feet or whip me. I am 
foxed. So I stand passively for a delighted girl to explore my body. 

"I've never touched a woman like this before." Young fingers extract a gasp 
from me as they caress and pull and twist. My nipples are instantly hard, 
her hands hold magic to make me gasp and moan. Our gaze locks in an exchange 
of feminine knowledge. 

"You'll find her exquisitely responsive." says my Master nonchalantly. "Try 
her cunt." 

The S.O.B.! Jason is punishing me. He wants Daphne to see my face go slack 
in orgasm. I would prefer to be whipped. I separate my thighs to facilitate 
her handling of my Venus Mound. I wish I was bone dry down there, but I am 
positive I am wet. 

"I think she's wonderful." My colleague from the office is getting the palm 
of her hand wet with my secretions. "I've been lusting after her for ages -" 

"You've been wanting someone to tie you up." I remind her tartly. 

"Yes, of course." Her response is absent with her preoccupation. "But I've 
never been able to do this before. I mean, to have a girl all naked and 
mine." 

"You a Lesbian, Daphne?" 

Jason's query echoes mine. He is enraptured by fresh visions. I would love 
to kick him. I would love to kick them both. Once more, in longing, I glance 
up at my tied wrists. 

"She wants to get loose." Daphne bites my left nipple admonishingly. "And 
the Lesbian thing ... ! Gosh, I don't really know. I think masterful men are 
super, but still ... ! Do you think I'm a Lesbian, Jason?" 

"Find out for yourself." My Master disposes of me with a grand gesture. "You 
kneel between her legs, and her slit's right handy. Carrie's got the neatest 
of slits." 

Poor Daphne! She is suffering from too much too soon. I am a plethora of 
goodies. I suspect she wishes Jason was not present to watch, but I don't 
like the way she is eying my triangle of curls. 

"You're not going to do that." I tell her firmly. "You kneel down there and 
I'll kick you." 

I think she is relieved, Jason is not. "She can't get free, Miss Pilgrim. 
Would you like to whip her until she becomes hospitable?" His voice oozes 
charity. 

"Oh, I couldn't!" Her exclamation said all too plainly she most happily 
could. "Do you really whip the poor darling?" 

"Count her stripes." 

"Mmmmm ... !" Daphne's finger traces some of my most recent weals. "They're 
yummy. But could I take a rain check? I mean, this is all so - so - Well, 
anyway, she and I do work in the same office." 

"Needn't stop you whipping her. She'd love it. Wouldn't you, Carrie?" 

"No, I would not!" 

Retribution glowers. I cringe. But Daphne saves me with another bright bit 
of innocence. "See, I didn't think she'd want to be whipped; not with me. I 
expect she loves it when you whip her alone." She looks back and forth at us 
happily. "But there's something I'd really like to do: may I tie her ankles 
together?" 

In the pervading mood Jason would agree to her painting me blue. As he 
provides rope, I content myself with knowing it is better to have my ankles 
tied than to have my back whipped or my bottom caned in front of curious 
female eyes. 

"Don't be scared to tie her tight." Says the omniscient Mate. "It's no good 
unless it bites." 

It bites! But I make no demur. Daphne is panting. Poor girl, I suppose to 
tie my feet with rope is a seventh heaven. She enters the gate with vigour 
and enthusiasm so I have to, bite my lip to keep from saying 'ouch!'. 

"I've read a lot of magazines." says Daphne. 

I bet she has! Round and round and the cinch between. I cool a derisive 
retort. 

"May as well tie her knees too." Jason suggests. "Makes a nice dressy 
effect." 

"I was wondering if I could do that bit --?" Miss Pilgrim is embarrassed. 
"You know how, in the pictures ... the rope goes down and under - ?" 

"Oh, the cunt cutter." Jason says brutally. "Go ahead." 

"You're both of you being unkind." I tell them reproachfully. "Just because 
I'm helpless. But please do use me. Have fun." 

"She loves it, Daphne." 

Daphne giggles. "I'm sure she does. I know I would." 

We enjoy a period in which Daphne's quick breathing is the only sound. I 
stand, naked, with my hands tied above my head while my waist is cinched by 
strand after strand ... and then the fatal thrusting and tugging between my 
thighs -" 

"You'll have to separate her labia with your fingers if you want the rope 
right inside her, Miss Pilgrim." 

"Oh, don't do it that way." I plead desperately. "If you use two ropes, one 
on each side of my - my - " 

"She's talking about her cunt." 

"Well ... yes. You can tug a rope each side and get a good effect, my Venus 
mound will thrust out" 

Daphne Pilgrim separates my labia and strictures the rope within. It doesn't 
hurt as much as you'd suppose, but I gasp anyway as the only reproach I dare 
make. She pulls and heaves unkindly, then ties the final knot. I wear a 
chastity belt of rope, designed only to hurt and to shame. It hurts. I am 
shamed. It is a successful tie. Thoughtfully, and obviously very happy, my 
comrade from the office now ties my knees as she has tied my ankles. 
Proudly, she steps back. 

"Nice bit of work, Miss Pilgrim." 

"Please don't call me Miss Pilgrim. I want to be Daphne to both of you." The 
little so-and-so's eyes are dewy with maiden innocence which turns to simple 
lechery 

when she, looks back at me. "I think Carrie's simply darling when she's like 
this. How long will you make her stand?" 

"Hmmmm, you suggest a time. Sentence her." 

"Mmmmmm, all evening?" 

"Why not!" 

They gaze upon me blandly. Bound thus, I give them great pleasure. Tears 
fill my eyes, but they would probably enjoy them so I blink them back. 

"Are you hurting, darling?" She sounds concerned. "I mean, a nice kind of 
hurt?" 

"Of course I'm hurting, and it isn't nice." 

"You'll have to whip her if you want gratitude." Jason advises cheerfully. 
"It's feminine pride, or some such nonsense." 

I am fervently kissed and my nipples are attended to until I start to pant. 
Then Daphne pats my breasts and says: "There, there, I mustn't excite you. 
I'll leave that to Jason." 

"Want to tie her some more?" 

Jason has become a voyeur. I am a pretty mannequin who is roped instead of 
clothed. Our visitor is inundated by a fresh wave of excitement. 

"But how? The darling's already - ?" 

"Tie her breasts. Let her arms down and tie her hands behind her back ... 
and - her elbows." 

"Oh, wow, may I?" Daphne's eyes sparkle. "But to do that I'd have to untie 
her hands first - " 

"So what!" 

Miss Pilgrim has the grace to be ashamed, but she looks at me boldly. 
"Carrie, d'you mind? May I? " 

"Go ahead. I'll be very obedient and put my arms wherever you want 'em." 
Bitterly, I add: "I'll be whipped if I don't." 

She knows how to shame me. My hands are lowered and freed before she binds 
my breasts. I have to help by raising an elbow, holding a rope, or 
separating my breasts so her bindings can go between. She ropes me 
beautifully as per the magazines, tight, tight, tight so it hurts to 
breathe. My breasts mock my modesty by sticking out a mile and my nipples 
are purely outrageous. I am ashamed of them - or am I! Oh, damn! 

"You've got a natural aptitude, Daphne." Jason approves. "I've never seen 
the dear girl look better." 

Little Miss Lechery places my hands palm to palm above my bottom. If my 
wrists could scream at the cut of cords they would do so now. I look at 
Jason, hopeful of reprieve. But he could care less, he is completely 
engrossed with Daphne's work of art - Me! All he does is drop a hint. 

"If you want to punish her elbows, tie 'em with a single rope. Otherwise, 
it's best to use a number, on account of her circulation." 

Miss Pilgrim is merciful. My elbows are looped and looped before they are 
drawn tight and cinched. If my breasts were wanton before; they are now like 
pointing cannons, their nipples flint. My audience of two stand back and 
drink me in. I stand very still, it would be awful to teeter and fall, I'd 
hit the rug like a sack of potatoes. 

"How about a drink?" Jason is a wonderful host. 

He mixes and pours. Only two glasses! I yearn avidly but dare not ask. I 
could be gagged! Jason has forgotten the gag and I won't remind him. Daphne 
comes to my rescue. 

"But poor dear Carrie? Doesn't she - ?" 

Jason shrugs. He is now looking more at Daphne's breasts than at mine. Her's 
are covered but distinctly noticeable. He fills another glass. "You can feed 
her." He says expansively. "She's your's." 

We exchange some more female eye play as I draw thirstily at the glass she 
holds to my lips. If she feels sorry for me she won't let on. She is still 
trembling with excitement. "You're so lucky, so terribly lucky, Carrie." She 
is achingly sincere. 

"Then ask Jason to tie you up like this." I suggest huffily. I'm sure he'd 
oblige." 

Her eyes become stars, she turns, "Jason-would you?" 

"Of course." 

"It's what I've always wanted, all my life." She is dreaming aloud, and 
accepts a second drink without noticing. "When I saw those marks on Carrie's 
wrists ... ! I can't tell you what it did to me." 

"What about tying me like this?" I accuse. "Don't tell me you haven't 
enjoyed - ?" 

"Oh, but I have! So much, so terribly much. But ... but - Gosh, I'm all 
confused." "Naked." Jason says casually. 

"Eh - ?" Daphne is momentarily startled. 

"I never tie a girl when she's clothed." 

"Oh yes, of course!" She takes a big swallow. "I do understand. Would you 
like me to undress?" 

"I want you completely nude. Do you know why?" 

He is playing with her the way he plays with me. Jason is a lucky S.O.B. and 
doesn't deserve us both, but it looks as though he's got us. I'm on fire 
with jealousy. But, trussed like this, I had best not let it show. Anyway, I 
don't think I can influence whatever is about to happen. 

Daphne is seeing Jason as a god omnipotent, her voice is hushed. "Well, I 
think I know. There's several reasons, aren't there? To make me know what I 
am ... and to be able to tie me more securely." She ventures a giggle. "Look 
at poor darling Carrie! And then - then - Well, I suppose it makes me a lot 
more convenient to punish?" 

"Punish? How?" 

"You whip Carrie. I suppose you'd whip me?" 

"Very good." Jason is magnanimous. "And the other reason?" 

Poor dear! she knows the next one but won't say it. Venomously, I say it for 
her. "He means when we're naked we're more convenient to fuck." 

She takes the blow bravely. "Yes, naturally -" She looks at my master 
dubiously. "I didn't know -" 

"You can leave anytime." Thoughtfully, he ignores her and finds a ball gag 
which he brings to me. "Darling, you talk too much." In shame and obedience 
I open my mouth for the ball. It has been purchased specially for me and 
slips right inside my mouth over my tongue. When Jason straps it tight I am 
very silent indeed. I should have kept quiet, this serves me right. 

Daphne watches my latest humiliation with shining eyes. The gag should be in 
her mouth, not mine. Decisively, she burns her bridges. "I don't want to 
leave, Jason." 

She is heartbreakingly lovely. When she throws aside her last stitch I know 
I am seeing one of the most beautiful female bodies extant. The two of us 
would tax a judge. I wonder if Jason realizes his blessedness ... ? I want, 
more than ever, to kick him where it hurts. Daphne starts to cover her 
important parts with her hands, then rejects hypocrisy. With fingers 
intertwined at the back of her neck she asks, impudently. "I'm nice, aren't 
I?" 

Jason is not going to let her win points. "You'll look damn good under the 
whip." he concedes. "Now spread your legs." 

Her blush is eloquent, but she obeys. She has a flourishing bush which 
shines in good health above and on her mound. 

"Ever seen these things?" 

Handcuffs are a shock the first time. A girl thinks they're only for 
criminals. Daphne manages a giggle. "Sure. On T.V. and the movies. I didn't 
know people like us -" 

"Come here and turn your back to me." 

I know the terrible potency of such an order. It tells a girl she is giving 
herself utterly, stepping across a point of no return. Without hesitation, 
Daphne takes the step. I watch her wince as the decisive clicks prison her 
wrists. But she is happy. 

"Step away and get yourself loose." 

Daphne obeys. For a minute she is absorbed with tugs and struggles. Then she 
looks at Jason. "But it's not possible, is it? I mean, I can't, I can't 
possibly get them off." 

"Good! Now here's what we're going to do." Jason is in his stride and 
enjoying himself immensely. "Quite soon I'm going to send you home. Get a 
good night's sleep, then tomorrow see if your courage holds up. If it does, 
you can come home here with Carrie and I'll tie you up so you can't even 
twitch. I will also whip you. You can ask Carrie about the whip: it hurts 
like blazes." 

She is still a'glow but her voice is tremulous. "Why would you whip me, 
Jason, I won't have done anything?" 

"If you think a minute you'll realize how silly that question was." Jason is 
dead serious. "Girls don't need to do anything to get themselves whipped. 
Whipping a girl is an end in itself, it doesn't need justifications." 

"You'll whip me because it gives you pleasure?" 

"I won't answer that. You can ask Carrie." 

Poor girl. Jason is being mean, driving a hard bargain. I suppose he doesn't 
care all that much if Daphne backs out, he still has me. He has me for sure. 
I feel an idiot standing like this, especially since it's a girl who trussed 
me like a turkey for the oven. The rope she has tugged into my pussy is a 
constant, reminder, it is catty girl talk made physical. And I hate this 
gag, it divorces me from them. I am a piece of furniture with breasts. 

"Alright. Jason." Daphne is concerned only with him, not with me. "I'll give 
myself. You can do what you like with me." 

"O.K." He is brisk and authoritative. "Lay yourself on the rug - the 
handcuffs won't stop you. Assume a proper position to be fucked." 

It is brutal and unkind, but it is Jason playing his Roulette. I watch the 
handcuffed naked girl absorb the blow. In her place I would have walked out 
... I think she would like to now. But Jason has been clever: she is 
handcuffed and she is nude. Sure, he would be a gentleman and free her on 
request, but it would rob her of the grand gesture, the dramatic exit. 
Jason's demand has been uncouth enough to daunt a whore, but a whore would 
not have her hands cuffed behind her back. By the time Daphne sorts this out 
in her flustered mind the crucial moment is lost. With a shrug of feigned 
indifference, Miss Daphne Pilgrim gets herself down on the floor, arranges 
one shackled arm beneath the small of her back, lifts her knees and spreads 
herself wide open. Her blush is delightful. 

Jason inspects his prize and prolongs a vulgar scrutiny of Daphne's plumpish 
labia. He is without shame, his tone is blandly innocent. "Thank you, 
Daphne, that will be all. You may rise." 

It is a good thing I am gagged. I long to tell my master he is a louse! 
Daphne is not gagged: in a little girlish voice she asks: "Don't you like 
me?" 

"I like you very much. I will fuck you tomorrow after you've been whipped." 

Her eyes never leave him as she struggles awkwardly back on her feet. When 
she stands erect Jason places the handcuff key in one of her prisoned hands. 

"Unlock yourself." 

He really is a bastard. Jason has got himself a front seat to watch a girl's 
humiliation as she nakedly contorts to achieve something only barely 
possible. After a mouth watering display of female twistings the poor girl 
drops the key and is guiltily apologetic. 

"I - I'm sorry, Jason, I can't." 

"Yes you can. If I didn't know it was possible I wouldn't tell you to do 
it." 

Daphne gives me a quick glance. I nod. Thus encouraged, she returns to the 
fray, ashamed at having to sit on the carpet to retrieve the tiny bit of 
metal which spells release. She is aware of Jason's absorbed attention which 
is more concerned with her female writhings than her skill as a Houdini. She 
blushes some more and takes a good ten minutes to loose a wrist. Even at a 
distance I can sense her relief. A girl handcuffed for the first time, feels 
sure they're forever. Proudly, she hands the shining chrome and the key to 
my master. 

"I managed. Was I clever?" 

"We will drink a toast to your cleverness." Jason is slightly euphoric from 
this abundance of female skin. "No, don't dress, a cocktail's twice as 
potent in the nude." 

Daphne is dubious about the nakedness but enchanted with the bondage. My 
tightly bound helplessness gets a lot of her attention. When my master 
raises his glass to her's and toasts: "To female slavery." she takes a 
thankful swallow and is then contrite. 

"But what about Carrie?" 

"Carrie?" It's as though the S.O.B. has heard my name for the first time. 
"Oh, Came, she's gagged, y'know." 

"But the poor darling ... ! Standing there ... ?" 

"Only a slave. Don't bother." 

"But she's been so sweet." 

"She knows she'd better be. But if you want ..." He grins charmingly. 
"You'll have to unstrap her gag and strap it back in again." 

With Daphne's breasts brushing my bare back as she tugs at my strap I can 
hear the thumping of her heart. Her excitement at my roped condition 
overrides embarrassment over nudity. When the hated ball is pulled from my 
mouth I hear her gasp in sympathy at my obvious thankfulness to be rid of 
it. I get abundantly kissed before my lips are ready. But I also receive the 
balance of her drink. 

"Is being gagged very awful, darling?" 

"It's bloody awful. Ask Jason if I can have another drink." 

As Daphne holds the refill to my lips she asks the amused Male: "Shouldn't 
we untie her now, I think she's hurting?" 

"No." 

His negative has finality, it tells me to watch my tongue. Daphne does not 
contest it, she is still enraptured by the way her ropes constrict me. She 
tests the one through my pussy and is pleased to find it taut as a 
bowstring. 

"Does it hurt, darling?" 

"What do you think!" I ought to be more gracious but I am burning up with 
jealousy. "This whole damn ensemble hurts. But thank you for the drink, 
Daph'." 

She tilts the glass to my lips but turns to Jason. "Carrie's being terribly 
sweet, Jason. She must absolutely hate me being here like this." 

"She knows better than to say so." 

Forlornly, I plead: "I won't say a thing out of line, Jason, please don't 
have me gagged again?" 

He shrugs with feigned indifference. "You'll be gagged when I decide." 

Except that the misery is gone I might as well be gagged, I dare not say 
anything I want to say. I am frustrated to the boiling point. Daphne picks 
up my vibes and looks at me with curiosity. 

"Can't you get loose, Carrie? Or mustn't you try?" 

"I can't possibly get loose. If I struggle I fall over." 

"Mmmm, you look scrumptious." 

"Give her the rest of her drink, then put her gag back. Make it tight." 

Daph' feels sorry for me. It doesn't help much. I make the cocktail last as 
long as I dare, then say a polite 'thank you' and open my mouth. She straps 
the rubber ball back in and makes it very tight indeed-she isn't taking any 
chances either. 

Jason and I watch Miss Pilgrim dress. She does it prettily. 

Chapter Six. 

Discipline & Daphne "You may as well whip me now and get it over with, I'm 
in a vile mood." 

Jason examines me with interest. I expect it's the weals in my skin left by 
Daphne's ropes he finds pleasing. 

"You didn't need to humiliate me so ... in front of that little snippet." 

"She's not a little snippet, she's a very beautiful girl." 

I am panting and spoiling for a fight. I can't help it, I am female. Jason 
makes his voice sweetly patient. 

"Bring me the handcuffs, darling, you need a balance. Oh, and ask me nicely 
to use them." 

I flounce to the chair where he had placed them with their key, and I 
flounce back. A whipping seems altogether too probable, so I make myself 
meek. "Jason dear, please handcuff me." I turn and put my hands in back. 

Gently, Jason turns me back round again and locks my wrists in front of me, 
good and tight. He then kisses me. "These always have a beneficial effect on 
you, Carrie. Be grateful for them." 

He's right, damn him. When he locks handcuffs on me it's like a sedative. I 
suppose I could analyse this but why bother. Ridiculously, I start to cry. 

"What the devil are you crying for?" Like all men, Jason hates tears. 
"You've been handcuffed before -" 

"It isn't the handcuffs, it's her." 

"Oh that! I wondered how long before -" 

"You were all over her. After she came you never noticed me." 

"Jealous, eh!" He is delighted. "Don't worry, sweets, you're my number one." 

I generate more tears. "I don't want a number two around." I sniff, sniff 
pathetically. "Aren't I enough for you?" 

"Dammit' Carrie, she offers herself on a plate, and she's certainly 
decorative. I don't see why you can't be amused." 

"I want to be amused with you, not with another girl." 

"Let's drop it, sweetheart, and go to bed. Get over there and I'll chain 
your ankle." 

The frustrations of Daphne's ropes and Jason's gag still irk. I forget 
prudence and become feminine. "I don't want to sleep with you, you'll be 
thinking of her all the time -" 

"Get on that bed." 

"You can chain me on the floor tonight, I expect that's where I belong -" 

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" I have got under Jason's male skin. "You're going to 
sleep with me whether you like it or not. Between the two of you you've give 
me the damndest hard -" 

"Don't include me in that, just to be polite." 

"Dammit', Carrie, I didn't fuck her on the floor down there!" 

"You were ashamed with me watching." 

His heavy patient sigh tells me I am lost. I could have shut up while I was 
winning, but I have chosen to wallow in feminine pique. I am almost glad of 
what Jason will now do to me, it will add fuel to my righteous martyrdom. It 
will also hurt. My Master shrugs and shakes his head in mock sorrow. "You 
know what to do, Carrie love, get with it." 

I fetch the whip. My tears dry up. I am now the proud beauty, disdainful and 
aloof. I hold out my cuffed hands. "I'll let you say you're sorry, Carrie?" 

I do not answer. I watch Jason loose the metal bands from my wrists. I go to 
our four poster and raise a bare arm up each side of the corner post 
designed for the punishment of recalcitrant girls. The straps are ready and 
waiting, Jason buckles them tight. 

"Too late for being sorry now, darling. You're a damn silly girl." 

I make my voice icy. "Never mind, you'll enjoy whipping me." 

"I'm not going to whip you." 

My heart thumps as I look past a raised arm. I feel very naked, and am 
beginning to feel sorry for myself. I am an idiot. I watch Jason go to the 
cupboard and exchange my whip for the most detestable riding crop in our 
collection. 

"Oh, Jason, no! Not that thing on my bottom!" 

"Why not? Beneath a lady's dignity?" 

"I have to sit down tomorrow at work. Please whip my back instead." 

Jason whips my bottom. 

The crop is hateful. Slender and sleek, it cuts at my cheeks with a personal 
venom. I try and stand still but I can't, I tug at my strapped wrists and 
writhe. The post holds me. No matter how I weave my hips my bottom is 
Jason's, exquisitely available. From his flashing arm the crop bites my 
curves with searing pain. I am an idiot indeed. 

"Jason, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Oh ... please!" 

"Well, well, not proud and haughty any more?" 

"Owwwww ... oh no! Oh, Jason, do please stop." 

Jason does not stop. My bottom is aflame as it is steadily slashed. His 
voice is very casual. "Hardly started yet, love." 

"Ohhhhh ... that was six - Oh, wowwww! Seven! Oh, Jason, that's enough." 

"I'm doing the counting, sweetheart." 

The pain is awful, and I've brought it on myself. Now I'm going to be so 
damned ashamed - I'm not all that brave. "I'll be nice about Daphne." I 
wail. "Ohhhhh, oh wow ... ! Jason, darling, please not so hard?" 

"You called me darling?" 

"Of course. Why not! And thank you for stopping." 

"I haven't stopped, it's just a pause while I marvel at the feminine 
mystique." 

"But, darling, I feel much more sensible now, you don't need to whip me any 
more." 

"Are you telling me?" His voice has lost its laugh. 

"I'm sorry!" I am instantly contrite. "I don't know when to keep my mouth 
shut. Jason, I really am sorry." 

I am to be sorrier still! My Master's only reply is the worst blow yet, it 
cuts both cheeks and laps my hip. I howl at the hateful burn, then yelp and 
contort as he hits the same spot again. 

"Jason ... P-L-E-A-S-E-..." 

The crop and my bottom make a steady continuing contact. I capitulate 
shamelessly: "I won't sulk - Oh, oh Ohhhhh! I'll be polite and obedient 
Wahhhh, oh damn! I won't play the haughty bit ... Wowwwww ... ! Oh, Jason, 
do S-T-O- P-P-P-P!" 

I get fifteen. It is severe. I weep. When I am unstrapped I fling my arms 
round my master's neck and kiss and kiss. We don't seem to need any words as 
he locks my wrists back in the handcuffs. With indecent eagerness I put my 
foot up on the bed for its shackle. Then we make love. We are both 
wonderful. 

I am very happy. 

I can't explain it and I don't care. 

The Office is bad, bad, bad. For me, that is. I'm so damn self conscious, 
like a bride who goes back to work the morning after the wedding night, and 
everybody wondering ... ? I should be used to such mornings by now, but I am 
not. And this time there's Daphne. 

My derriere is outrageously tender. To sit down and show no sign is well 
nigh impossible, if I set my features in grim determination they are as 
revealing as a wince. And its so damned erotic, my pussy palpitates every 
time I move. At noon I'll have to slip out and buy dry panties. 

And there's the iron band. His Majesty didn't forget. It is locked snugly on 
my right wrist, not my left. It had to be my right to get maximum exposure. 
In less than an hour I've had to explain it four times, and I haven't yet 
lowered a raised eyebrow. The damn thing is heavy enough to make my fingers 
unkind to my I.B.M. My day will not be easy, I am a punished slave. 

Daphne is decent, she waits two hours. But her first words flame my cheeks. 
"He whipped you, didn't he." 

"Is it that obvious?" 

"Just to me." 

Daph' is really a delightful girl, and my burning bottom makes me tolerant 
of today and ashamed of last night, so when she gushes, "Oh, darling, please 
may I see?" I go with her to the restroom without demur. Fortunately it is 
empty. 

"But they're beautiful ... they're gorgeous!" Enraptured, she fingers every 
one of my welts. To give her complete enchantment, I gasp over each as I 
bend down with my saturated panties round my ankles. "Do they hurt 
terribly?" 

"While I was getting them they did. Now, they're just sore." 

"It's true about it making a girl excited? I mean, your panties are all 
wet." 

"Yes, dammit, it's true." 

At noon we lunch together. We have never done this before, but between us 
now there is a strange bond. A cynic might ask if the bond is Jason or a 
length of rope. 

"Darling, you two are incredible." Daphne's eyes are sparkling. "I suppose 
it's Jason who's locked that thing on your wrist? I've been looking at it 
all morning." 

"So has everyone else." 

"Carrie, you often sound so bitter, like an irritated wife?" 

I suppose she's right. Ever since Jason stole me I've been fighting a sort 
of rearguard action, trying to hold on to a bit of myself, and always 
losing. Disjointedly, I tell her what is relevant of our story. At the end I 
frankly admit: "And right now I'm so jealous of you I'll get myself into 
nothing but trouble." 

Daph' nods, understanding. "You mean ... he's going to take me?" 

"Oh, he'll take you alright if you're crazy enough -" 

"But it's so wonderful. You're ... fulfilled." 

"I didn't walk into slavery with my eyes open. Jason kidnapped me." 

"And then you fell in love with your kidnapper. Carrie dear, it's pure 
romance." 

"It's a pure puzzle. I belong to Jason or Jason belongs to me, I don't know 
which." 

"But does it matter?" 

"It does when another pretty girl comes on the scene." 

"I'm a threat?" Her eyes are searching. "I never meant to be, I didn't dream 
love got mixed up with ropes and handcuffs and -" 

"Don't be silly, Daph. Where there's a man and a girl there's fire." 

She becomes serious. Daphne Pilgrim is a nice girl. She lays it nobly on the 
line. "If you want, I won't go home with you tonight. I won't see Jason 
again?" 

I put my hand on her's, the hand that bears Jason's iron. We are two girls 
who want to like each other. I manage a pale smile. "It's too late, Daph', 
we can't dispose of Jason. If I don't take you home he'll punish me terribly 
and go and hunt you down." I give her a wry grin. "I don't suppose you'd run 
too fast." 

We leave it at that. Once more the neophyte glows in animation. "Carrie, may 
I ask Jason if I can wear an iron, like you?" 

"If you wish, but it's awfully heavy. Take my advice and don't ask for 
anything, you'll get more than you want anyway." 

She nods; uncaring. At this moment she would wear a hundred pounds of irons 
and be happy - or so she thinks! Her voice trembles delightfully. "Darling, 
about the whip?" 

"What about it?" 

"Well, I never knew it belonged. I mean, the way Jason talks about whipping 
me ... ! I hadn't realised. I suppose that's the `D' in B & D?" 

"Along with a few other quaint notions." 

"I don't think I want to be whipped." 

"Neither do I!" 

Daphne makes an appealing little moue. "But it's the price of admission, 
isn't it? And, anyway, I suppose -" 

"That's right. Once you've allowed him to handcuff you or tie your hands 
behind your back a whipping becomes implicit to the scene." 

Miss Pilgrim wriggles deliciously. "Do we really want it, Carrie? 
Subconsciously? We do, don't we?" 

I would almost love to whip this tasty morsel myself. Daph' is radiating 
musk in potent waves, it gives me ideas. "Well, there's one good thing about 
being whipped." I console, "It's excruciatingly erotic when you're waiting 
and know it's coming, and it's wickedly erotic after - you saw my panties. 
While it's happening it's not so good." 

"Jason's testing me, isn't he. If I go, I get whipped?" 

"Yes. He likes his slave-girls abject. But you can't bet on Jason. If you 
show up he's proved a point, but he might let you off and whip me again 
instead." 

"Would you like that? Darling, I mean ... would it reassure you about his 
affection?" 

"Sort of. For sure, it won't stop me going home." 

"And I'll go with you." She is once more breathless. "Oh, Carrie, I'm so 
grateful. Try and like me ... Please try." 

It is not hard to like Daphne Pilgrim, she is so beautifully shining eyed. 
Being her mentor gets me half excited. Reaching the apartment, her 
exclamations are a series of accolades, the first is when I undress. 

"But naked, Carrie? Must you be? He isn't even here." 

"Well, I can't do a quick strip when he's at the door. Besides, I've given 
up trying to deceive Jason, he always finds out." 

"Should I be naked too?" Again she is breathless. 

"Wait until he tells you. We don't need two naked girls in one small 
kitchen. Look, Daph', I have to wear handcuffs, orders from His Majesty. 
Snap 'em on for me please." 

She accepts the bright steel things with reverence, Daphne is trembling. I 
hold out my hands. 

"I've never done this before. Oh Carrie -!" 

"The double circle on top please. It looks nicer. Get them up close to my 
hand and click them tight, I don't want them flopping while I get supper." 

"I don't see how you can do a thing when you're handcuffed. I thought they 
were supposed to stop -?" 

"They don't stop very much unless they're behind my back. Then I'm foxed. I 
guess with the police, and with Jason, they're mainly symbolic. They make 
you captive by embarrassment. Just imagine going to the corner store with 
them on! I could, easily, but I haven't the nerve." 

Poor Miss Pilgrim, she handcuffs me with great care, wincing at each click. 
"I'd sooner this was me." She admits wistfully. "Wearing them last night set 
me on fire." 

"Don't worry, Daph', Jason may get tears out of you. Another notch on each 
please." 

Two more clicks and an exhalation. "They look so silly when they're off and 
so yummy when they're on, Carrie. Gosh, with them on you look so sweet and 
helpless." 

"Helpless! Just you watch!" 

I go into my nightly act. Food flies, pots clatter, the taps splurge. My 
companion is entranced. But, Carrie, you do it so easily!" 

"I have to. He kept me handcuffed for a week once, day and night, and a 
whipping for each broken dish. By the way, that still holds, don't break 
anything." 

I am positive Daphne has an orgasm when The Master arrives. I kneel nakedly 
in my slave greeting, I mix his cocktail and serve it daintily with the one 
knee pose. I remove his shoes, kiss them reverently, and put on his 
slippers. Jason has ignored her totally so she is free to take in the show. 

"We have a guest, Jason." I want to give Daph' a cocktail and I want one 
myself. 

"You refer to what that overdressed spectator I've noticed around?" 

"Yes, Master." 

"I've told you not to call me Master. Call me Jason." 

"I thought on this occasion - ?" 

"Don't think. It is not your forte. Inform that hovering female that, in 
this house, girls do not wear clothes." 

He really is a S.O.B. The poor girl is blossoming in her panties and 
blushing and doesn't know what to do with her hands. His Majesty's edict 
catches her less ready than the night before. She looks at me, stricken by 
embarrassment, but I can only shrug. She and I are slaves, we do not talk 
back. Cheeks flaming, Daphne Pilgrim reaches for the clasp of her dress. 

"You may mix three more drinks." Says his Lordship. By the time I have done 
so Daphne is rude. She gets her first order. "Serve me, slave-girl." 

She is in seventh heaven, but slops the drink when she tries to kneel as I 
had knelt. 

"Handcuff her, Carrie. Give her three strokes on her bottom." 

There is a truly awful silence until I go to the cupboard. Daphne the 
delinquent eyes what I carry back in a mixture of awe and ecstasy. She holds 
out her hands before I ask. 

"Three hard one's, Carrie, square across her bottom. I want her to feel 
them." 

There is a general quickening of breath as I clasp the delicate wrists in 
rings of chrome. Our guest looks at them in bug eyed disbelief. 

"Touch your toes, Daph', knees stiff." 

She obeys with alacrity. She has entered Nirvana, but has bent in the wrong 
direction. I firmly turn her round so that our Master may get the best 
possible view of the cane marks to come, as well as a glimpse of a plump 
puss. 

"You will not move girl. When it is done you will thank me." Jason is 
savouring glory. 

I hit Daphne's bottom three times. I stroke her cruelly, knowing that 
nothing less will satisfy the watching man. I swing and cut the yellow cane 
bitterly across her tautened skin, it flexes to give full contact to her 
pretty curves. She gasps and gasps. 

But Daphne Pilgrim does not move! 

Much later she confides in me that if her punishment had been six she would 
have been rolling on the floor. As it is, Jason is impressed. The three 
scarlet bars are vivid, coming sweetly to life under the cane and flowering 
in agony. As though rehearsed, the punished Daphne turns and kneels before 
The Male. The way she says her lines flames me into lust, goodness knows 
what it does to Jason. "Thank you for having me caned ... sir. I deserved it 
for being so clumsy." 

The damn girl must have been reading books, she's letter perfect. If I was a 
man I would fuck her right now. However, she is not yet done. She hesitates, 
prettily, and asks, "How should I address you, sir ... ? I do not know." 

Jason is breathing hard. I hope he goes off in his pants, it would serve him 
right. "You struck a nice note there, girl." He says suavely. "You may 
address me as 'sir'. Pay no attention to Carrie and myself." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"You may now serve the drink properly." 

She does so, and she does it well. The cane is a good teacher. 

"Before she returns to her duties Carrie will seat herself for a minute or 
two. You will serve her, girl. The same penalty awaits." 

"Thank you, sir." 

I am faultlessly served by cuffed hands that are all too willing. Our eyes 
seek a female communion but we are scared. We both have tender bottoms. I 
sit and sip until I am dismissed. I hear the murmur of their voices as I 
work. It pleases me that Daphne's is hushed. 

Dinner and candlelight is a success. Jason is a delightful host, he swings 
back and forth across the spectrum of gambits from the Federal Budget to the 
whipping of our backs and behinds. We are hard pressed to keep abreast of 
his range. Daphne is sitting on her stripes and, if the conversation becomes 
too carnal, may have a second orgasm. With the dessert, Jason announces that 
Daphne is to receive ten more cuts on her bottom after she has helped with 
the dishes. He will administer them himself. Daphne says her 'thank you', 
her wrists glitter as she makes her discoveries about handcuffs. I suppose 
mine glitter too. Our nude breasts point at each other across the table. 

At the sink we whisper. "Ten will be pretty awful, won't they, Carrie? Is he 
breaking me in?" 

I nod and provide a sympathetic smile, but she has brought this on herself. 
I am hoping her intrusion into our home won't get me whipped any more than I 
usually am. "Be very docile." I caution, "He loves it. And don't hint about 
being tied, he'll tie you plenty." 

Demurely, we present our nudities for our Master's delectation. Our 
handcuffs clink and gleam, they are our only dress. 

"For ten, she'd better be fastened, eh Carrie?" 

"I think so, Jason, yes." 

Our punishment room is a bit of a shock for our guest. She looks at its 
appointments and at me in mute question. She is feeling very naked. I shrug 
and clink my handcuffs, it is all I can do. 

"A room for bad girls." says Jason cheerfully. "We can do a lot of things to 
you in here, Daphne." 

"Yes sir, so I see." She is looking at the pillory, the post and the hoist, 
their intent is easy to divine. Then she does something that tells me she is 
stiff competition. Daphne Pilgrim kneels at Jason's feet, head bowed, the 
picture of innocent submission. Her words are sweetly tremulous. "Please do 
all of these things to me as it may please you, sir. I want you to." 

Jason's cock is threatening the fabric of his pants. If I had one it would 
be the same. He raps the whipping bench with his cane, his voice is husky. 
"You may position yourself on this please." 

The straps make it self explanatory. When the little so-and-so has 
positioned her person within their loops Jason buckles lustily. I can tell 
she is scared half to death, but she offers me a small sad smile. She shares 
my knowledge that this is all her own fault. My heart goes out to her. I 
have been on that bench myself - once strapped, a girl can't move. Her 
bottom is ripened into taut resilience for the cane to splat itself upon 
with a nauseating sound and demoralising pain. Poor Daph' is consoling 
herself that she gets only ten strokes. On that bench ten can be bad. 

Thoughtfully, The Master slicks down some of his victim's pubic curls which 
are playing peek-a-boo from her rear. Jason is in his element, his demand is 
merciless. 

"The delinquent requests her punishment - if you please." 

I watch the little beauty swallow protest and pride. She knows she's had it, 
there is no retreat for Daphne. But she makes the best of what she's got. 
Her voice is clear. "Please give my bottom ten strokes with the cane, sir." 
She pauses, then plunges, "And thank you very much." 

"You thank me afterwards." 

"Yes, sir, I'll remember." 

Jason proceeds to cane Daphne's bottom. I wince at every splat, and find 
myself tugging at my handcuffs as though it is my turn next. Daphne's eyes 
widen at the first impact, they stay wide in shock and disbelief. She cannot 
move, her bottom glows rosily. 

"Please, sir, I can't stand this I'm ... I'm sorry." - It bursts out of her 
in lieu of the scream she is fighting to control. Daphne stretches to look 
back in fearful hope. "One extra for speaking during punishment," says Jason 
blandly. "Would you like to be gagged, Miss Pilgrim?" 

"Yeeeees please, sir." She swallows mightily. 

She wants the gag for two reasons: she loved mine yesterday and she 
genuinely does not want to scream. For Daphne, the gag will be another 
erotic first. She opens her mouth obediently for the rubber phallus thing, 
then closes !t as much as she can so that the black leather band may lock 
and compress her lips. She will be very silent. Jason tugs the buckle over 
her hair with gusto. Jason isn't really cruel, but this whole damn thing is 
just too erotic for words, I'm sexually aroused myself. Daphne must be 
bursting. 

The poor thing's caning continues. Jason is not being a bit kind to his 
voluntary submissive. If I was Daphne I'd pack up and go immediately I was 
unstrapped if - and when! It wouldn't have hurt the S.O.B. to break her in 
easily. I thrust aside the thought that, if our little heroine comes out of 
this smiling, I may no longer be number one. 

"Accepts them beautifully, eh?" says Jason. 

"She has to, she can't move." 

He slashes hard into her soft crease. "And not a peep out of her." 

"She can't, not with that gag." 

He is goading me. If I am not cautious I may end up strapped to that bench 
myself. The ten on Daphne's derriere will have gotten Jason nicely warmed 
up. Hastily, I add: "Yes, she's a real little trooper, she's doing fine." 

Jason is caning Daphne fairly slowly. She has time for a lot of head tossing 
and staring eyed appeals. She makes what sounds of denial the gag permits, 
they are small. Her bottom has become a flaming delight, a Turner sunset in 
flesh. The bench and her straps creak, it is her most eloquent sound. 

It ends. Daphne's head rests limply, eyes closed, her lovely nakedness is 
bedewed with the perspiration of pain. Without a word, Jason unbuckles the 
straps but ignores the gag. He grabs my handcuffs and leads me upstairs to 
the lounge. 

"Drinks, sweetheart." 

I clink busily. Hesitantly, I point out. "She's free, y'know. She knows 
where her clothes are, she can just walk out." 

"That's right, love." 

"You're playing your Russian Roulette with her too?" 

"What better test!" He eyes me dourly. "Look, precious, if you're going to 
act sulky you can have ten on that bench yourself." 

Below the glass I hold, my handcuffs shine. I am not free. I can be 
punished. Meekly, I say: "Sorry, Jason, I'll try. It's not easy for me, 
y'know, this having another girl. Don't be mad because I want all of you." 

He allows me to kneel and rest my head on his knee. I have always found this 
very comforting. I am just getting snuggy and happy when Daphnes shows up. 
She is still naked. She carries the handcuffs taken from her when she was 
put on the bench. She is radiantly lovely. Her whipped bottom is not visible 
at the moment but it would seem to have endowed her with a vivid new life. 
Gracefully and without a pause, she kneels. 

"Thank you for caning my bottom, sir. I am grateful." The little fox, she is 
doing it to perfection. Demurely, she offers the handcuffs. "Should these be 
locked on me, sir?" 

"Turn round and back close." 

When Daphne obeys we get a good look at what the cane did. It is most 
impressive, in its own way beautiful. Our pulses quicken. 

"Hands behind." 

Jason handcuffs the eager slender wrists. To me, he says: "Have her kneel. 
Get her a drink, a big one. Feed it to her." So I am everybody's little 
helper! Seething inwardly, I do as I am told. Daphne, with her beaten 
bottom, looks very cute kneeling there on the rug. She takes huge gulps from 
the glass I raise to her lips. Like every novice, her hands work ceaselessly 
at their cuffs. 

"You did well, kid. We're proud of you." Jason sounds human. 

"Thank you, sir." 

"Carrie, when she's finished her drink tie her up. Tie her anyway you like. 
Be mean." 

My heart leaps in eagerness. I see her tense, her eyes glow. Daphne gasps 
and gulps until her glass is empty. I hold out my fettered hands. "Please, 
Jason ... ?" 

"Hmmmmm, oh alright." 

Jason unlocks my right wrist but clasps it anew with the cuff on my left. 
The key is on a loop of tape which he hangs round my neck as a necklace. My 
hands are free for their delightful task. I go in search of rope and twine. 
Darling Daph' wants to be tied up. She is going to be ... but good! 

I use a heavy wooden kitchen chair. I place it before our omnipotent Male at 
a distance of ten feet. Jason is going to see every crevice of dear Daphne. 
I beckon our starry eyed neophyte and use my key to free her hands. The way 
Daphne is about to be tied she has no need of handcuffs. I proffer the 
sinister metal to my master. 

"Clip both cuffs on your right wrist, Carrie, keep 'em handy." 

"But, Jason, its already got the iron band." 

"I like it. Clasp 'em above, tight." 

I obey. I am very naked but my wrists are well endowed with chrome. I, too, 
want them tight. I don't want handcuffs slipping up and down as I work. 
Again, I beckon. 

Daphne gasps as she sits, the chair is cold and her bottom is blazing, the 
two surfaces should find comfort in contact. We exchange female vibes with 
an intensity I can feel. 

"Going to be a good girl, Daphne?" 

"Of course, sir. I'll do whatever Carrie tells me." 

"Your arms over the back of the chair." I order crisply. How sweet a task it 
is! Her wrists and arms roped to each outside bar of the chair's back. She 
is now helpless but I have scarcely started. I belt her tummy with half a 
dozen strands, and make her gasp as I tug them tight. Her waist was small, 
it is smaller now. 

Daphne's breasts and shoulders are my piece de resistance. I am going to 
make them hurt, but for Jason's pleasure I will make it a pretty hurt. 
Daphne is breathing fast, soon each inhalation will bed a cord deeper in her 
flesh. 

I tie back her shoulders, not that there is need but the effect is good and 
it is painful. Next I band her breasts. No rope touches them, the cluster of 
strands is above and below their swelling curves which are already 
exaggeratedly prominent, I do a little weaving job betwixt and around them 
to further enhance their contours, tight, tight, tight. Her nipples are 
huge, screaming for lips. In a sudden inspiration I go to the cupboard and 
return with the wicked little clips which elicit twin gasps as I allow their 
small jaws to close upon Daphne's helpless buds of sensitivity. 

"Who told you to do that?" 

Jason is on the prod. He will score points. Why in hell didn't I think, or 
at least ask, before I acted! Oh, shit! "Take them off her and put them on 
yourself. Do it properly. Wear them until I give you permission to take 'em 
off." 

"Yes, Jason, I'm sorry." 

I really am sorry. The little devils hurt, and now I am shamed before the 
girl I am supposed to be tying up. Our eyes meet, and I cannot be sure of 
what I see in her's. In mine there is only chagrin. Carefully, I unclasp 
each small metal jaw from her tits and clip them on my own. My breasts 
blaze. 

"Come here, I want to make sure." 

There are ways of attaching the clips so that they hurt more or hurt less. 
Jason inspects my breasts to ensure they are receiving maximum discomfort. I 
take a tip from Daphne's book and whisper "Thank you, Jason." The little 
metal torments bob prettily on my breasts as I go back to my work. The 
temptation to reach up and take them off is well-nigh irresistible, but I 
resist. There are worse things for a girl than wearing clips on her tits. 
Oh, damn! 

I was going to be mean anyway, so what I now do to Daphne is not because of 
my twin humiliations which bob up and down before her interested eyes. I 
bring strands of thin twine down from her waist: In order to get them within 
her crotch I have to lift her thigh and do a lot of tugging which hurts my 
nipples more than it hurts her. When I have the several slender strands in 
place I deliberately thrust apart the lips of her pussy and pull them 
inside. From the rear I pull each separately for a nice cutting penetration. 
Daph' grunts and tries to get her hips further back. But the waist bands 
have already got her as firmly against the chair as is possible. I give a 
final tug on the twine and knot it. She makes no protest but her eyes 
reproach. 

I grab an ankle and tie it fast high up the side, then the other. Her knees 
point at Jason: I noose one and tie it out and down. When I have done the 
same for the other she sits with pussy well in view, her bush of pubic hair 
a black triangle of delight, bisected by twine which disappears within the 
cleft of her crotch. Our beauty is bound. I am well content. But I wish I 
did not have to wear the clips. 

Jason is pleased. He sanctions another cocktail. Heavily braceleted in 
chrome, I attend the bar. I discover we are short of mix. It is my fault, I 
forgot. I am delinquent. 

We are a strangely potent trio. I suspect the immobilized beauty tied to the 
chair is having orgasm after orgasm, her gaze is lost and far away. Daph' 
hurts but is happy. I have been bad and must be punished; I am trembling. 
Jason is euphoric. 

"You can go and buy some, Carrie." 

"But, Jason, couldn't we just phone?" 

"That's your punishment, to go and pick it up the way you are." 

"What ... naked?" 

"You may wear a cape and shoes. Nothing more." 

I look, unhappily, at the handcuffs and the iron band on my wrist. Then, 
hopefully, at him. 

"Wear them, and wear the clips on your nipples. Don't you dare take 'em 
off." 

I button my lip. I absorb Daphne's delighted stare. I flounce to the bedroom 
for cape, bag and shoes. The clips on my nipples mock my cowardice as I go 
down in the elevator. It would be so easy to take them off and put them on 
again, just as it would be easy to remove the superabundance of 
handcuffs-the key hangs from my neck. But I am too frightened of Jason. He 
is quite capable of leaving Daph' tied to her chair and to come and meet me 
on the way back. Then I'd really be for it. I wear my punishments with the 
best grace I can muster. They are better than being whipped. The doorman 
stares and winks, I have long supposed him suspicious. The girl in the tiny 
grocery just stares and stares, bug eyed. But I walk out with my purchases, 
relieved and victorious. It wasn't so bad after all. 

The man is laying on the sidewalk half way down the block. He had not been 
there on my way up, his accident is recent. I put down my packages beside 
him, and ask "What's the matter? Are you -" 

The shapeless hulk uncoils like a spring, a wet wad is thrust against my 
face, a car door opens and I am grabbed from behind. Suddenly there is 
nothing. 

I have slept for a long time, I am sure of it. Something on that wad knocked 
me out. But I am comfortable. I am on a bed. I drowse peacefully. When 
wakefulness becomes insistent I sit up and find everything about par for my 
course. I am still naked. I am handcuffed. Someone has taken the key from my 
neck and used Jason's handcuffs. One pair is on my wrists, the other on my 
ankles. 

The room is pleasant. I have never been here before. The air is warm. 
Everything looks expensive. There are two doors, the one to the bathroom is 
ajar, the other is certain to be locked. When I stand the handcuffs bite 
painfully at my 

ankle tendons. But I am an old hand at this sort of thing, and take my tiny 
hobbled steps to where I have to go. It is a very nice bathroom with a lot 
of feminine stuff I can use. I feel grubby, and suspect I have been brought 
here in the trunk of a car. In two sets of handcuffs my chance of escape is 
zilch, so I have a bath. Hell, why not! 

I refuse to panic. This could be some quirk of Jason's humour. The warmth, 
the perfumes, the soaps, are all delicious. I take my time. Knowing I look 
my best, I hobble back. On the bed sits the dark bulk of a man. 

It is good old Bill. 

Chapter Seven. 

Behind Bars. 

"Hello, Carrie, sure good to see you." 

It figures, I recall the forty thousand this fatuous ass bid for my person, 
everything clicks into place. Cattily, I say: "So you've decided to pick me 
up free?" 

"Seemed like the only way." Looking at my pubic hair, he asks "Hope you 
don't mind?" He is absurd. 

"Would it do me any good if I did?" 

"Weeeel, no. Now I've got you I'm not letting you go." I sigh. The two pairs 
of handcuffs make it all seem hopeless. I state the obvious, "Jason will 
know it's you. You're only getting yourself into trouble. You've kidnapped 
me." 

"Jason kidnapped you. What's the difference, to you, I mean?" 

I dare not tell this oaf the difference is Jason. I recall Bill's 
inclination to the whip. I'd better go easy on his ego. Wearily, I tell him: 
"The police will be here at any time." 

"Go look out the window." 

It wouldn't hurt him to free my feet. But I am curious. I hobble and peer 
through the glass. 

"You're in Dogpatch, honey." 

I could believe him. A dusty road, some sagging wooden buildings. One red 
brick affair that might have been a Bank. There were a few signs of life, 
not much. 

"Guess what building you're in, Carrie. This is the old County jailhouse. I 
got it for a song. It's under another name, of course, same as the car you 
came in. Oh, and it wasn't me who grabbed you. I was at a party, a 
brassbound alibi. 

I am Alice in wonderland. Bill is just too much. "You bought this dump for 
me?" I ask incredulously. "You're going to keep me in a prison?" 

"That's right, honey. I've had the upstairs modernized, as you can see. But 
downstairs there's the damndest collection of cells and things so I can have 
you peering out through bars. Pictures of girls behind bars always grab me." 

The guy's a worse kook than I thought, I'm frightened. I make my sad little 
steps to a chair and sit down. 

"You didn't ask permission, Carrie." 

It takes a few moments to click. "You mean permission to sit!" I look at him 
in blank amazement. "You have to be kidding?" 

"Not at all, dear. I want you to stand in the centre of the room and face 
me." 

"But I don't want to, and the handcuffs hurt my ankles." 

"You can earn yourself a whipping. Carrie." 

I go and stand as directed. I want to cry. I long for Jason with an 
intensity I can scarcely believe. Holding on to a bit of sanity, I plead. 
"Bill, we're both adult, so you know I don't want to be whipped. I'll be 
obedient. But please screw me to your heart's content and then send me home. 
Get me out of your system." 

"I don't want to screw you, that isn't the idea. I want a slave-girl, like 
you were to Jason." 

"I can't be Jason's slave and your's too." I search desperately for logic. 
"Love enters into it too, y'know." 

"Jason's whipped you into loving him. ... I know how it is with you girls." 
Bill tries to look wise, like a maudlin Buddha. "If he can do it so can I". 

"Oh, Bill, you're out a mile." 

The idiot makes a mark in a little book. "I intend to keep a tally." He 
tells me seriously. "So many demerits mean an equal number of lashes." 

"How many did I earn that time?" 

He makes another mark. "You're up to seven. Please try and be more 
respectful. There's no use getting yourself a hundred because of snippity 
remarks." 

"Please, sir, can I have the handcuffs off my ankles, they're hurting like 
crazy." 

"Don't call me sir, call me Master." 

"Please, Master, may I have the handcuffs - ?" 

He waves an angry hand. "No you can't! You've been badly spoiled. Jason 
wasn't good for you at all. I'm going to turn you into something a man can 
be proud of." 

He's impossible. If Jason hadn't told me something of Bill's business 
affairs I'd think he was nuts. But, where girls are concerned, he's just 
plain simple, naive, immature. He's got whips on the brain. If I don't watch 
myself he'll whip me raw. Maybe he will anyway, just to hear me howl. That's 
what I'm most scared of. Suddenly I remember Scheherazade! Meekly, I 
suggest. "I'd love to see your prison if you'd like to show me, Bill." 

It is the right note, he is delighted. He chuffs a bit about my handcuffs, 
even considering carrying me on the tour, but compromises by changing my 
hands from front to back and leashing my neck with a collar and a lead, all 
very expensive. Not 'till then does he take those blasted cuffs off my 
ankles. 

"Don't you trust me, Bill?" 

"Don't be silly, Carrie, you know you're not to be trusted yet." He tugs 
experimentally at the leash, It's probably the first time he's held a strip 
of leather with a naked girl on the end. "Come along, and try not to earn 
any punishments." 

The stairs take us down a hundred years. I positively quail at sight of the 
mean bare passage and all those bars, some of the cells are just barred 
cages. Whoever's in one sure would be on exhibit. Others have stone walls. 
I'm not sure which is worse. Bill locks me in one of each just to try 'em 
out. The locks are new and oiled and ominous and the clang of the metal door 
is shattering. But, compared to the whipping I'm sure he's planning to give 
me, they're harmless. Brightly, I suggest: "Bill, you're figuring a sort of 
welcome punishment for me, aren't you. Why not imprison me in one of these 
old cells. I won't like it a bit?" 

He is instantly pleased. He is a kid with two new toys: me and this moth 
eaten jail. "In chains, of course?" He says grandly. 

"Oh, of course! It wouldn't seem right if I wasn't chained." 

I don't care if Bill is a good business man and makes a lot of money, when 
he's home he's odd. If I'm the first girl he's laid his hands on, there's 
something wrong. He must be close to forty - he's had the time and money. 
I'm naked and helpless in the power of a kook. The handcuffs on my wrists 
behind my back weigh a ton, and the collar round my neck is a clutching 
hand. Right now Bill is an amiable bumbling teddy bear, but can I keep him 
that way! 

"That reminds me, Carrie, we haven't yet gone below." Bill is off on a fresh 
enthusiasm. "That's where the chains are - and all the rest. I've had 
everything gone over and made like new." 

I would rather never know what's downstairs. But there's no denying the tug 
on my leash. I follow my new owner and say, brightly: "Bill, this is all so 
fascinating." 

In its way it is. But for a handcuffed and naked Me it is also scary. The 
windows are high so the light is subdued. The small compartments are 
punishment places. Bill puts me in one where it's completely dark when the 
steel door clangs. I don't suppose it's more than a minute before he lets me 
out but I was ready to scream. It's like being buried alive in a big coffin. 

"Aren't they wonderful." chirps Bill. "You'll really have to behave 
yourself, Carrie." 

I say nothing, and am led to a brighter room full of "things". If I was 
scared before, I am doubly scared now. The "things" are graphic and polished 
and have about them the air of waiting just for Me. 

"I call this the Arsenal." Bill says proudly. "There's everything here 
you'll need." 

"Me! Me need - ?" 

"Well then, let's say "We", shall we. We'll enjoy them together." 

I look at the whips, the pillory, the amazing collection of gyves, fetters, 
shackles, and just plain old chain. On a man they'd be ugly, if he puts them 
on me they'll be grotesque. 

"There's even an Oregon Boot - !" 

It appears I must try it on. I sit gingerly on a bench designed for the 
whipping of a girl and extend an unhappy foot. I have an absurd vision of a 
shoe salesmen in stores. 

"It was for transporting prisoners." Bill explains. "Mostly they went by 
train, and this saved the embarrassment of chains and things - they couldn't 
run." 

I am sure they couldn't. I'll be lucky if I can walk. This horrific creation 
is simply a boot made of iron. It is in two halves which close and lock on 
the prisoner's foot. Then a metal circlet goes round the ankle and is 
padlocked. It would handicap an elephant. I shrink up inside. 

"This is the original, Honey." Bill says busily. "I've had it reproduced: 
the same size and the same design but for a girl's foot." He fetches a box. 
"Here it is. Isn't it a wow!" 

It is a most frightening wow. It is new and without rust and is thus more 
personal. I want no part of his lousy Oregon Boot. So I try: "It's terribly 
interesting, Bill. What else have you got?" 

"I want you to try it on." 

Why argue. At least it doesn't screw up and crush my bones. I watch my bare 
foot encased in iron, the locks snap, and then the shackle round my ankle. 
The padlock seems redundant but I get that too. 

"Walk around, Carrie. I want to see." 

Its perfect fit is scary, its weight is daunting. The damn thing is a prison 
in itself. I have to really heave to get it off the ground. My progress is 
more of a dragging process than a walk. If I was given my freedom, but had 
to wear this boot, I wouldn't manage a mile in a day. "It's really lovely, 
Bill." I enthuse falsely. What comes next?" 

He actually takes it off, and looks hungrily around. "I guess you know what 
the rest of this stuff is for." He sounds so damn proud. "What you're 
sitting on is a whipping bench, then there's that cross over there for the 
same purpose, and of course the whipping post. Whipping is much the best 
thing for a girl -" 

Damn him, he makes it sound as though I'm here for therapy. The things he's 
named stare at me as though they have eyes. I am sure I will be tied to each 
of them, it is in my future. Meekly, I procrastinate. "The chains, Bill? 
Which of them do you prefer for me?" 

"Oh, of course, you're going to be my prisoner:" He becomes dreamy eyed and 
I can guess his visions. "There's a set here ... it's most becoming ..." 

Bill likes bars, so bars I get, just one stone wall with a high barred 
window. The furniture is a wooden bench and a pail. "Absolutely authentic." 
Bill assures me earnestly. "It was for prisoners they needed to watch." 

"And you're going to watch me?" 

"Of course! Carrie, you're terribly beautiful." 

"Not more than most girls." 

"Oh, but you are! It's being naked, of course, and handcuffed ... you're 
what I've always dreamed - !" 

My chains are an ensemble. It begins as a metallic jumble which takes on 
shape and purpose as I am attached. My ankles first, joined by about a foot 
of links. This keeps me under control while my handcuffs are removed. I am 
still collared and leashed. 

"You're not going to struggle, Carrie?" 

"Oh, Bill, how can I!" 

From each of my ankles a chain rises to a central ring. From the ring other 
linkage comes up to the heavy metal shackles Bill now locks on my wrists, 
they are joined by about a foot of chain. Standing upright, and tugging my 
fetters taut, my hands are at the level of my waist. Beyond that I cannot 
raise them. If I let my arms go limp the connecting chains hang slack. 

"It's so you can't hit your jailer with the iron bands." Bill explains. "You 
can't raise your hands enough. To eat or fuss with your hair you have to sit 
cross legged. That way you have lots of scope." 

"Gee thanks!" 

He eyes me sharply. "Sarcasm?" 

My heart pounds. "Just trying to be funny." I backtrack humbly. "I think 
they're beautiful. Thank you, Bill. Would you like me to walk around for 
you?" 

He is mollified and eager. I clink and rattle back and forth between the 
bars. I try out the cross legged idea, and manage to tidy my hair. Bill is 
ecstatic. I know myself implacably chained. There will be no escape. When I 
again stand meekly before him, his pathetic female prisoner, he kisses me 
with embarrassed awkwardness, and goes outside and clangs the door. I hate 
the sound of the lock. 

Left alone behind the bars, the place has a hundred eyes. It is 
inconceivable Bill will not have a peephole by which to observe his captive 
and her behaviour. Everything I am and do now will give him an erotic 
charge. I am able to reach my sex, and find it damp: I am not immune to the 
strange potency of what has been done to me. I may be frightened but the 
heat is there. 

Standing here, chained, the solitude is intense. I sense a lifetime of it 
stretching on and on. In a little while I will sit on the bench and finger 
links. It is not much of a repertoire. 

But I have reckoned without Bill. He now carries a quite comfortable chair 
which he sets to best advantage. "Can't leave you alone, Carrie." He admits 
cheerfully. "You won't mind if I watch?" 

I mind a lot, but I'm not going to say so. I'm a naked girl in a cage, and 
on display. Oh, damn! "Is there anything you want me to do for you?" I ask 
diffidently. 

"I'd like you to play with yourself. I've read so much -" I play with 
myself. I pose obscenely on the bench to give him the best possible view of 
my shame. Through the roseate brilliance of my eventual orgasm I glimpse 
Bill's staring avid eyes ... My chains make small music for my climax. 

"Thank you, Carrie. You've no idea how beautiful -" 

I tidy hair and fuss with myself, thoroughly ashamed. I make sure my chains 
make a lot of noise, he likes it. The heat of tumescence slowly dies. I 
resort to shock. "Bill, you like my breasts and my cunt, don't you?" 

"I adore all of you." 

"Why not use me then?" 

"I am using you, Carrie. This is wonderful." 

"Physically, I mean, not just as a voyeur. I'd try and be kind." 

With the wave of a hand Bill dismisses the carnal use of my person. "Not 
now, Carrie. Sometime perhaps - but now it would spoil something." 

"But this seems such a waste ... of Me." 

He becomes kindly tolerant. "I know what you're saying, honey. You think if 
I fuck you you'll be freed. But I wouldn't have to free you for that, 
there's all sorts of ways I can tie you to be fucked." 

"Tying isn't loving." 

"You don't love me, Carrie. Not now. Maybe after -" 

"Whipping a girl doesn't make her love you, Bill. Honest, it doesn't." 

"I don't believe that. I've read a lot - and there's the way you were with 
Jason. He whipped you." 

I can't win this one, so try a different tangent. Brightly, I ask: "How long 
is my sentence for, Bill?" 

"Life." 

I don't like the way he said that! "What, behind these bars!" Mv exclamation 
is pure anguish. "And chained ... ?" 

"You like it. I know you do. You just feel you have to protest. And Jason 
explained about whipping a girl: she hates it at the time - but before and 
after ... ! Carrie, I do know something about this." 

The bars seem closer, my chains heavier. Flippantly, I say: "I wonder if 
this place had a wardress in the old days. There must have been some female 
prisoners." 

Bill almost explodes with pride. "You're right, honey. I researched. They 
had a wardress for awhile, a real tough gal." 

"She'd have to be, in this place." 

"You're going to get one too." 

"Bill!" I am incredulous. 

"She's designing her own uniform. She'll look after you. There's female 
needs -" 

"Bill, thank you, that's sweet." 

He senses my hope, and kills it. "Jollie will punish propositions 
ruthlessly. She is NOT bribeable. Your best bet is obedience. You will find 
her a stiff disciplinarian. One wrong word ...." 

"She's done this sort of thing ?" -- He smiles. She'll tell you. She will 
also give you the whipping that hangs over your head. I have made up my 
mind. You simply must have a 'Welcome' flogging, just as in the old days." 

I wilt. It's so damn hopeless. Bill is going to have me whipped regardless. 
He's obsessed with his vision of the weals springing to life on my skin, and 
hearing me scream and maybe beg. These chains and this cell have only gained 
me a short delay. Abjectly, I plead. "Please don't have her whip me, Bill. I 
can give you so much happiness without being whipped?" 

"Everything about you gives me happiness. Whipping you is only one thing 
among so many, you let it worry you too much." 

Good gosh, he has to be nuts! What a thing to say to a girl! I keep my 
chains in motion for his pleasure while I think of Jason. If it was Jason 
who was going to whip me I'd hate the thought of it but I'd be terribly 
excited, my puss would be secreting like crazy. Unhappily, I tell him. 
"Women are nearly always unkind to girls. Is that why you've hired this 
Jollie?" 

"Hmmmm, not really. By the way, she's a lesbian and will make you service 
her." 

"Oh, great." 

"I intend to watch. Carrie, come to the bars and hold on to them while we 
talk." 

I clink over to face him. It is not a long walk. "I can't hold them and peer 
through the way you want me to." I point out reasonably, "I can't raise my 
hands that high. I'll do my best." 

"And keep your legs a little apart so I can see -" 

"Oh sure. D'you want me to press my breasts through?" 

"That would be nice. See, Honey, we're getting along wonderfully." 

Sure we are! I'm doing everything he likes. I position a cold iron bar 
within my cleavage and push a breast through on either side. "Are you going 
to play with them, Bill? You can, y'know, they belong to you." 

"Er ... no." He is breathing heavily. "You do such things so exquisitely, 
honey." 

"Please don't have me whipped?" 

"You're a natural slave, everything comes so easily to you." 

"I expect it's Jason's training. Men are awfully easy to please if they'll 
only leave a girl alone and let her do it." 

"Carrie, stop trying. You are going to be whipped." 

"Yes, yes, ,you've told me. Sorry about that." I clutch the bars with my 
chained hands, I long to scream. 

Bill's voice becomes moonstruck. "Carrie, those amazing breasts, and the way 
you press against that bar, and your hands clutching ..." He takes a deep 
breath. "And that thick dark triangle of hair!" 

"Thank you. Please fuck me, Bill?" 

He takes out his little book and I get some more demerits. "Every time you 
try to fox me." He says severely. "I'm wise to your little game." 

It is a strange social afternoon. I stand and hold the bars and point my 
breasts. Bill enjoys this. We talk, and from the talk Bill emerges as a 
middle aged adolescent, afraid of girls but adoring their bodies, determined 
to prove how macho he is by having them whipped. For me the talk is far from 
comforting. No girl, chained and naked, could ever cope with Bill. Free, she 
would simply dismiss him. I wish I could dismiss his fatuous features, but I 
can't. Bill's got me, he's got me good! 

I have cherished a dim hope about bedtime. But when twilight dims my cage he 
again kisses me sloppily and wishes me good-night. There are some sandwiches 
in wax paper and a promise of better things as my imprisonment continues. 
There is a cup of coffee and an apple. In silent solitude I sit on my bench 
and have supper. I clank and rattle like crazy. When it gets dark I lay in 
my chains and cry and cry. I'll never escape this place, not ever. 

It is hard to sleep on bare wood, especially when you've been refused a 
blanket, and when every time you move you make the most awful racket, the 
sound of my chains echoes dismally beyond the bars. I call to mind those 
silly dreams I used to have - I suppose there's some psychological 
explanation about them, but who cares. They were damn entertaining. I could 
use one now if it had a bit of humour in it and I didn't get whipped. I 
still remember odd bits of them ... poor Frau Lotte Schopen, I wonder if she 
ever really lived! 

What I eventually dream is a hodge-podge born of kidnappings and this cell. 
It is a science fiction extravaganza in which I flit from scene to scene in 
situations to entrance Bill, but which leave me tossing and turning and 
longing only for freedom. I don't want to be whipped, but that's all my free 
movie has to offer ... 

It is pure Maxfield Parrish, distinctly Grecian. A long open colonnade 
beneath an azure sky. The entablature has crumbled from an even more ancient 
time, but the columns still stand, white and pure in their symmetry. To each 
of them is bound a naked girl. Their colouring varies but all are beautiful, 
some look suspiciously like me or Daphne. They all seem tired as though they 
have been tied like that a long time. 

I have the dream convenience of mobility. I go from girl to girl, admiring 
the ropes deep in their flesh. They open their eyes for me and smile. None 
ask to be released, none speak. They are waiting. Whoever tied them is an 
artist. Their most secret femininities are cut with cord, they cannot move 
without pain. They do not try to twist free, it would be useless, and 
anyway, they do not seem to want to. But, no matter how harshly they are 
tied they are bound in an exquisite artistry of tight strictures. 

They alternate down the line of columns. The first girl faces me, the second 
has her breasts hard against the marble to offer me her flawless back and 
curved bottom. She, too, smiles at me, looking back shyly over her shoulder. 
I speak to them, but they shake their head. They do not understand, or they 
have been forbidden. I look round for the satyr, Pan, and his pipes, but 
this is a place of girls; we are alone. 

When the man comes he has the air of a superior slave, an overseer. His 
garments are little more than the girl's nudity. He is very businesslike and 
a trifle bored. He wastes no time. He carries two whips. Instinctively, I 
know how he will use them. 

One is for the breasts. 

She does not scream. She is mute. But she writhes deliciously under the 
lash, her ropes indent under the surges of her pain. The silken whip of many 
thongs laces the alabaster of her breasts with scarlet lines. The lashing 
goes on and on, her breasts become scarlet but there is no blood. Her 
nipples are lasciviously erect. I know if I could feel her sex it would be 
wet. While her breasts are whipped she is watched by the girl on the next 
column who is now vividly alert. She strains to see her sister's punishment 
but does not seem afraid. Perhaps in this place at this time it is an honour 
for girls to be thus punished, they may go home to glory. I wonder if 
tomorrow their positions on the columns will be reversed - breasts and back, 
breasts and back ... all down the line! 

The male changes the whip. I see the second girl tense, I feel for her, oh 
how I feel! I share, too, the first girl's relief that her whipping is done. 
I palm her breasts tenderly, they are hot as if on fire. When I play with 
her nipples she smiles and closes her eyes. These girls are highly sexed, 
perhaps they have erred ... ! 

To the man I am invisible. This is the magic of dreams. 

The second girl is being whipped in a way I know too well. It is shoulders 
to knees, never knowing. Her lovely head jerks back in rhythm to the blows, 
she strains against her bindings. But the whip has her for its own ... The 
scarlet etchings on her skin are indescribably exquisite. 

The dream fades in the irritating way dreams have. The new one is Me ... Me 
... Me! I am not the spectator, I am the delinquent damsel trembling in 
front of the Mother Superior's table. My arm is held firmly by Sister Mary. 
I am a novice who has erred. We indulge in a litany in which, I suspect, I 
have no choice. 

"You accept your guilt, Elaine?" 

"I am guilty, Reverend Mother." 

"And must be punished?" 

"I must be punished. I wish to be punished." 

"How old are you, Elaine?" 

"I am nineteen, reverend Mother. I knew better." 

"Ah yes." The old eyes within the coif search my soul. "I think a hard 
whipping will suffice. We are fond of you, Elaine." 

"Thank you, Mother Superior, oh, thank you - !" 

I don't know why I'm so damn thankful. What have they got that's worse! But 
the old and weary voice is not done with me. "Some of the strokes to be 
between your legs, Elaine. It is there lies your sin." 

"Of course, Reverend Mother. Thank you. Am I permitted to scream?" 

"You may scream, my dear. We will not be unkind. Sister Mary, you may take 
her now." 

The fingers on my arm tighten. I am led to the vaulted stone chamber where 
the post stands starkly. Waiting to behold my shame are five of my fellow 
novitiates. My pain will be good for them too, lest they should also be 
tempted to sin as I have sinned. They watch my disposition with discreet 
interest. Watching a companion whipped will be an exciting change from 
vespers. 

"You may remove your coverings, Elaine." 

"All of it, sister-everything?" 

"Of course. Come now, the girls are waiting, they are due at Collect with 
sister Stephanie before long. You will not be joining them." 

I strip myself naked. I am among females in a Convent, but it is my first 
time. As I disrobe I flame pinkly. 

"Against the post, Elaine." 

The wood is cold and rough on my breasts. I raise my arms to have my wrists 
bound well above my head. The novices are palpitating, I can feel their 
vibes. I tremble. 

"We do not want you doing a gavotte for us, Elaine." 

I will do no dancing while I am whipped. Ropes band my waist and weld my 
tummy to the post. My back and bottom are bare and unobstructed for the 
lash. Sister Mary has tied many girls as she is tying me. 

"Your legs remain free, Elaine." 

I can guess why. It would be better for me if they were tied. Mechanically I 
offer thanks. My 'Thank you, Sister' is abject. 

There is a short lecture. Sister Mary points graphically at my bound nudity 
so the novitiates may understand what awaits them should they sin. The 
lecture is not for me, I am finding out the hard way. I can hear the 
quickening of their breathing as they behold my mortification. 

Sister Mary whips my back and bottom with much skill and some venom. She 
does not approve of me. I scream, I weep, I make absurd avowals. I embrace 
purity heartily as the thong scores my skin. In this awful pain I am quite 
sure I will never have another carnal thought. I kick lustily with my 
unbound legs. When my back and bottom are blazing and I am sure I am going 
to die, the good Sister calls forth a girl to drag one of my ankles as far 
up and to the side as she can manage. In spite of my cinched waist my bottom 
extends in greater prominence and my pussy no longer nestles against the 
wood. 

"Observe the penalty of lust, dear girls." 

The first cut within my thigh demoralizes me totally, it is an utterly 
beastly pain. Pleas and promises spew from me in a steady stream between my 
screams as I am cut again and again between my thighs and the thong tip 
splats my puss. Soon, another breathless girl is called to serve my other 
leg in the same way so that I am obscenely spread and dragged back against 
the bindings round my waist. I cannot move. The girls easily control my 
responses as my cunt and the insides of my thighs are soundly flogged. As I 
howl and howl a strange new voice dissolves the dream ... 

"Morning, gal, I got yo' breakfast." 

Jollie is at least half black, she has a genial eye and a superb physique 
which deserves better than the severity of the wardress uniform she wears 
with seeming pride. 

"Yo' sure is fixed, honey." She views my sad condition with curiosity and 
approval. "No way is yo' escaping outta' here." 

"Please help me. This is against my will, y'know. Keeping me prisoner like 
this is a criminal offence. I'll get you money ... .?" 

Jollie acts with deliberation. She puts down the tray, she opens the cage 
door and comes in with me, she unhooks from her belt a strip of heavy pliant 
hide and slashes my nakedness with it three times, the blows falling where 
they may as I twist and turn in shock. 

"Every time yo' talks 'bout escape, honey, thass what yo' gits." She tells 
me amiably. "Now I brings in yo' breakfast and we can be friends." 

I nurse wounds, Jollie's flagellum hurt horribly. I eat and tell her, 
unhappily. "I haven't much to say, you've taken away the only topic of 
interest." 

"Hows 'bout yo' whipping, honey, ain't yo' interested in that? The Boss Man 
he's right lookin' forward to it." 

"I'd rather not talk about it. I know it's going to happen, that's bad 
enough." I eye the leather she has returned to her belt. "Is that what 
you're going to use on me?" 

"See, honey, yo' really is interested." Jollie says brightly. "Hell, gal', 
youse and me's got lots to talk 'bout." The coffee is good and it's hot. I 
gulp it gratefully. "You talk and I'll answer." I tell her morosely as I 
eat. "I don't want to be hit with that leather any more, so tell me what you 
want me to do and I'll do it." 

"O.K. honeychile. Yo' eats yo' food and then yo' sucks my cunt. Seein' yo' 
the way yo' is got me horny as hell." 

"You like girls in prison, in chains, and naked?" 

"Shit yes, wouldn't any gal'! Yo' real pretty that way." 

"If I do what you just asked, will you take these chains off me so I can do 
it properly?" 

"Ain't no need, yo' kin do fine as yo' is. Now, hold out that pretty little 
hand." 

Horrified, I watched her take the leather in her hand. My heart thumping, I 
ask. "Please, not on my hand. And anyway, what have I done?" 

"Yo' tries ter sucker me, kid. Take off yer chains indeed! Hell, yo' kin do 
most things in them chains. They's just so's yo' look pretty, pretty. C'mon 
now, out with that little flipper." 

I start to cry. This whole thing is too damn much. Sobbing, I extend an arm 
and a taut palm as far as my chains allow. Jollie cuts at my hand with swift 
cruelty. I yelp and moan and weep with a fresh pain hitherto unknown. 

"Real nasty on the palm, kid. Yo' remember that." She takes me in strong 
arms and fondles me, she is strangely comforting as I sob out my misery on 
her blue shirt and tie. "Yo' learn my rules, honey, and yo' won't git much 
hurt from me. What the Boss Man wants done to yo' is somethin' else." 

Our physical communion ends in my subjection as I slither down between her 
knees, nudge aside her skirt, and eat Jollie as dessert to breakfast. Hell, 
Jason made me do it for him, why shouldn't she make me do it for her! I'll 
do it anytime rather than be whipped. 

"Yo' done that real good, honey." Jollie is admiring and surprised. "I owes 
yo' one ... and seein yo's so helpless ... !" She disposes my nudity on the 
bench to suit her convenience, thrusting my chains out of her way, and takes 
me deep, deep, into the turgid joy of female love. As her mouth absorbs me I 
realise how much I have missed Jason. 

"Honey, we got ourselves off ter a good start. Even when I whips yo' later 
yo' gotta' remember we's doin' a number. What yo' and me does with our cunts 
don't hurt the Boss Man none." 

"He doesn't want to fuck me. I asked him to but he wouldn't." 

"He's crazy." Jollie sighs. "Men is all crazy, honey, guess yo' finds that 
out long since." 

Jollie, unlocks my chains. I stand, amazed, as she ties my hands behind my 
back. She is very adept. "Boss Man's orders, kid." She consoles. "Men like a 
tied gal. I bin' a whore and I knows their nutty notions. Hold still, yo' 
don' have ter do nothin'. I gotta' hog tie yo', but I handles yo' real 
easy." 

Jollie is right, I am a child in her hands. She ropes my ankles and lays me 
on the bench. My feet and hands are joined so I become a bow. I'm so damn 
helpless ... ! 

"Yo' lays on yo' tits or on yo' side, honey, yo' takes yer choice. Won't be 
all that long, I gotta' git yo' ready for the big deal." 

She takes the tray, locks my cell door, and departs. 

Jollie is an enigma, she is both friend and enemy. She gives me compassion 
but will never set me free. For a little while I know I prefer her to Bill, 
but the stress of my hogtie soon causes me to wonder, it is tight and very 
cruel. Bill did not use rope on me - ropes hurt. The way Jollie has me tied 
now is as painful as her flagellum, in a different cruelty. My nipples 
friction against the wood, I debate rolling on my side but am scared. This 
is hateful! Jason never hogtied me, not once. 

"Beautiful as ever, Carrie." It is beaming Bill, damn him! 

"Bill, this hurts horribly. Do you really want me like this?" 

"Just for awhile, you look cute bent back that way. Say, how do you like 
Jollie?" 

"She's nice. Implacable but nice." 

"Good. She tells me she's had to whip you?" 

"Yes. I suppose it was my own fault. Don't worry about me obeying her, I 
will. Bill, could I have my legs down?" 

"No. And anyway, I don't have the key. Jollie has it." 

"Oh alright, but aren't there going to be times when I'm just locked in this 
cage as a prisoner? Do I always have to be tied up or chained?" 

"Be damn boring for you if you weren't." 

In a way he's right. What a helluva' jackpot for a girl to be in. But 
couldn't you give me the occasional hour?" I ask hopefully. "I could stretch 
and walk around, and if I was free I could hold on to the bars and look out 
between them the way you say you like." 

"Hmmmm, it's an idea, Carrie. I'll think about it. I have to go now, but I 
want you to know how wonderful I think you are and how sweet you look like 
that. I'll see you later when it's time for your whipping - that's going to 
be wonderful too." 

Like Jollie says: men are all crazy. 

So here I am, hogtied and locked in a cage. I hurt and I don't know how long 
it's going to last. I struggle a little but that hurts worse and I'm scared 
of falling on the floor. I think of Jason and our home, I even think kindly 
of Daphne. The bite of Jollie's rope says I'll never see them again. This is 
my slavery now. I blink back tears. 

"Allus feels good when yo' gits untied, honey." 

It feels like hours but Jollie tells me I have been hogtied only seventy 
minutes. I lay on the bench and pant in relief. When she handcuffs my wrists 
behind my back I don't say a word, it seems all too natural, I am grateful 
it doesn't hurt. "Now I makes yo' real boofull, sweetheart." 

Jollie tends me like a child ... or a debutante, a very helpless debutante 
who is approaching the Gala event of her life. I had not realised that, to 
be whipped, a girl must be immaculately gorgeous. I expect the idea is 
Bill's. Anyway, I am female, and everything Jollie does for me delights my 
femininity, even when she paints my nipples. There is no suggestion from 
either of us that my handcuffs should be removed, even in the bath she makes 
sure I do not need my hands. 

"Now we go downstairs, Carrie. Yo' be good gal?" 

"This is it, isn't it?" I am breathing fast. "Oh sure, I'll behave." 

I am strangely glad of Jollie's hand clutching my bare arm as I walk to my 
whipping. There is something about Jollie's strength I find comforting, it 
is such a lovely contrast to the ridiculous Bill. I wonder if she can hear 
the thudding of my heart as we walk abreast. I am horribly scared. There's 
been so much fuss made over this business of whipping me I have to suppose 
it's going to be damn awful. 

And I haven't done anything! I'm innocent! 

Bill is my audience of one, he is waiting for us in the fatal room. His face 
tells me he approves of what Jollie has made of me. My handcuffed nudity 
makes me erotic to The Male, I know it does. When we halt I say, "Hello, 
Bill." as though the whole affair is casual. 

For Bill it is an event. He takes a deep breath. "We have a choice of things 
to fasten you to, Carrie." He explains kindly. "The pillory or the post, and 
there's the hoist ... But I do think we should carry on with authenticity, 
don't you?" 

I feel like sulking but it wouldn't pay off. Heartily, I agree. "Oh, by all 
means." 

"When a girl was to be whipped, back in those days they used this post with 
the bar across the top for her arms, you'll notice the shackle at each end." 

I notice; do I ever! Ugh! "I'm surprised they didn't want her fixed more 
tightly." I offer with spurious interest. "She could wriggle a good deal." 

"Well, not enough to matter." The idiot is actually taking this dialogue 
seriously. "You'll find you have to raise your arms enough to keep the rest 
of you in place." 

"Ah yes, I see what you mean." 

"And you'll notice the other shackles at the base. They've got ten inches of 
chain but it's not enough for an effective kick." 

"They seem to have thought of everything." 

"Sometimes, when they were whipping a very tall girl, she wasn't all that 
stretched, so they tied her waist to the post too. But they tried to avoid 
that because it covered an area of skin." 

"How thoughtful of them." 

Jollie knows I am being sarcastic but Bill is not sure. In any case I am 
about to be terribly punished, so what's a bit of sarcasm! Anyway, he's 
enjoying himself and takes another deep breath. 

"It was understood that a girl's punishment could be lengthened or shortened 
by her attitude at this time. It is a tense moment when her arms are freed 
preparatory to being fastened to the cross." 

"I bet it was!" 

"She could struggle and earn additional strokes, or she could obediently 
position herself to be fastened: in the latter event there was a small 
remission." 

"Only a small one?" "Well, something commensurate ..." 

"Did the statistics show any pattern of behaviour?" It is my first sincere 
response, but my curiosity goes unsatisfied. "I'm afraid not. But, of 
course, this leaves each case of interest in itself. For instance ... your 
own." 

"I'm not going to make an idiot of myself, Bill. You two can overpower me 
easily. But, anyway, if you shackle my ankles first before you remove my 
handcuffs I'm foxed, not a thing I can do." 

Poor Bill is disappointed by this rationale, he would have preferred the 
battle with the naughty girl fastened by force. Jollie squeezes my arm. I am 
impatient with the whole affair so, since no one says anything more, I step 
forward and put myself into position. I know I look sweet and helpless and 
beautiful and I hope Bill gets a hard on out of it that bothers him. I wait. 

"Fasten her." Says Bill after he's had a good look. 

Jollie clasps the metal bands round my ankles, she unlocks my handcuffs. I 
raise my arms to the waiting shackles at the two ends of the horizontal bar. 
Jollie snaps them shut on my wrists. I am helpless and ready to be whipped. 

"Beautiful!" 

I look back over a prisoned shoulder at Bill. He is in a trance. I've got to 
hand it to him, he has a camera eye for the erotic. At this moment I must be 
as erotic as all get out. I am also shivering with fright. I turn and I peer 
over my other shoulder at Jollie. She had discarded her flagellum and now 
holds a whip. I don't like the look of it, but it's neither the best or the 
worst. I expect it's about right for the punishment of girls. 

"You may begin the whipping, Wardress." Jollie whips me. 

It is hard to believe we are the same as those two who exchanged female love 
in the barred cell. Everything vanishes except pain. The beastly thing to 
which I am shackled must have been made for me. It is the right height, I 
cannot escape the whip at all. My involuntary kicks are well contained by 
the few links of my ankle chains. Whoever thought this thing up knew what 
they were doing. Jollie spaces out her blows but none are light. 

"A brief pause at five, Wardress." 

I am almost grateful to this pontifical ass for the break. I am panting and 
have already screamed once, this whip is a hateful thing, or maybe Jollie's 
using it on me hard. Pathetically, I mutter: "I haven't done anything to 
deserve this." 

"Your statement is duly noted." 

Oh, for Pete's sake, he's playing games! Now he's the Warden. I know it's 
useless but I have to plead: "Please don't whip me any more?" 

"Proceed." 

Jollie whips me five more strokes to the next pause. I scream steadily and 
hope it jars his nerves, but I'm afraid he likes it. Anyway, I want to 
scream, so there's nothing lost. Belatedly, I ask: "Please watch out for my 
breasts, Jollie." "Such requests must be made through me." Says the make 
believe Warden, loving every word. "Wardress, inflict an extra stroke now 
and make sure it finds one of her breasts." 

The dirty S.O.B. he's got me, and he's got Jollie! Her hands are sympathetic 
and she clasps my breasts and pulls me back from the post as far as my bonds 
allow. For my liking it is much too far. "Hold it like this, honey." She 
whispers. "Just for one." 

When it comes I really scream, I go a little crazy and give the lousy cross 
a bad time with my heavings and tuggings. Jollie has struck me across my 
shoulders so the end of her whip curls under my raised arm and spends its 
force upon the curve of my right breast. My howl is not all from pain, part 
of it is outrage. I relapse, panting, my forehead against the post. My 
breast burns warningly as I press it protectively against the wood. 

"You are feeling some benefit, Miss Carstairs?" 

"Oh yes, thank you. I'll be very obedient." 

"Continue the whipping." 

He's an absolute bastard, playing with me like this. Being humble does me no 
good at all, but I sure won't risk being lippy. While I'm still panting from 
number fifteen, I, respectfully, inquire, "What is my sentence please, 
Master?" 

"Eh? Oh, you mean how many strokes." The Warden is on his dignity. "That is 
not for you to know, girl. Apart from receiving them it is none of your 
concern. Wardress, her other breast for impertinence." 

I am now too frightened to speak. I back off from the post without help. The 
whip cuts my shoulders and snaps over my left breast. The pain is tummy 
turning and I scream and scream and thrust myself back upon the cross. 
"Perhaps you will learn respect, girl?" 

"Oh yes, Master. Oh ... Oh ... Ohhhh!" 

"You may resume her whipping, Wardress." Five more! In a dim haze of agony I 
hear myself plead and scream and scream. A bit of me is terribly ashamed, I 
wanted Jollie to think well of me, but who thinks well of a howling sweating 
nakedness! The rest of me does not care. My wrists and ankles are becoming 
chafed from my contortions. Up to now it has been my back on which the 
strokes are etched, this five is across my bottom, each laps a hip and hurts 
double. I will be marked for ages. 

"A rest, Wardress. You may caress her nipples." 

What the hell, he's wiser than I thought-or has he guessed! Willingly I back 
up, gloriously Jollie's fingers find my tits. I flare into pure lust. She 
palms my puss and laughs. Within seconds I climax transcendently, crying out 
with a joyous agony, it is the harvest of the whip. 

"I like that." Bill says dreamily and in a normal voice. The girl is 
wonderful. Give her only ten more strokes, but give them hard and without 
pause." I bear the ten. When I can see a limit I can bear a lot. I scream 
over each one, screaming makes pain easier, it really does. I have only a 
hazy awareness of fighting my shackles, I know I am doing it but there is 
too much pain. 

"An excellent whipping, Wardress. Congratulations." 

"Thank you, suh." 

"Just look at her, isn't she exquisite'?" 

"Sho' is, suh. You want I let her loose?" 

"No, she should stand awhile. It is a very lovely pose." I drift back into 
their world. I am not going to die, but I sure don't want to go back into 
that cage. I don't want any part of Bill Coro, I want to go home. This 
asshole is quite capable of having me whipped like this, again tomorrow. But 
for the moment I am a piece of decorative furniture, the 'Warden' is 
engrossed with his lousy Jail. 

"You must examine everything in this room, Jollie, it will either be an 
original or an authentic reproduction. As time goes by we will use 
everything on our little lady, favourites will emerge." 

Jollie is curious and amused, her eye roves. "Doggone it, suh, we uses all 
this here on that gal we's gonna' wear her out." 

"It's only the whippings and the suspensions that's hard on her, Jollie, the 
rest is mostly to immobilize." 

"Yeah, I guess so." She appears to be thinking deeply. "But this here set o' 
stocks for her feet ... ? There's sandpaper on the bench and lining each 
hole where her ankles go?" 

"A small innovation of my own." He sounds real proud. "I do feel some 
element of punishment was always intended. That sandpaper will make sitting 
there less of a bore." 

"Rough on her little ass." 

"Indeed yes." Bill is well away on his hobby. "And these wooden 
contraptions, they're hard to figure, but they hold a girl in various 
positions. Damned ingenious." 

"Sho' is. I'll try 'em out on Honeybunch. But, Mr. Coro suh, this here 
collection of irons ... ? They ain't goin' ter look all that pretty on yo' 
little sweetheart? I thinks they's ugly." 

"Yes, they're a bit crude. But you'll notice they're new, I've had 'em 
specially made girl size. Try the locks, they don't have a range of size 
like modern handcuffs, but they're effective and, since they'll fit snugly, 
won't spoil the femininity of Carrie's bondage. Try one, you'll see what I 
mean." 

I stand and hurt, but I also watch and listen. Bill's pomposities are 
preferable to that blasted cage and loneliness. I'm not sure about Jollie, I 
suspect she's bored and just being polite. Probably she couldn't care less 
about nineteenth century gyves. Absently, she fits one round her wrist and 
clasps it shut. Laughing, she asks, "Yo' got a key to this here?" 

"Of course, all brand new." 

"You're right, suh, looks better on than off. But it's heavy, a gal' 'ud 
know what she's wearin'." With the same air of suppressed boredom, Jollie 
locks her other wrist too. She pulls her hands apart to tighten six inches 
of tether. "Give 'em more leeway, eh?" 

"Likely used mostly to link a girl to an officer. The leg irons aren't that 
generous. I haven't yet figured their application." 

Who cares! I wish his rotten irons were at the bottom of a lake instead of 
waiting there for me. It's going to be real great sitting in a cell with 
nothing else to do but wear the beastly chunks of metal. They'd look better 
if I was dressed, but on me naked ... ! Oh, shit! Jollie is looking at the 
leg irons speculatively. "Sho' seems a bit short, mistah Coro suh." She 
bends down and snaps them on her ankles. 

I think all three of us realised the same thing at the same moment, and I'm 
willing to believe Bill didn't plan it. Because of Jollie's wish to show an 
interest, it happened. There is an awkward silence before she ask's, "Yo' 
got the key here, mistah Coro?" 

"Ah, yes." He is looking at Jollie as though seeing her for the first time, 
and he's still a bit dreamy eyed with the lust of watching me whipped. He 
makes no move. 

Giggling, Jollie takes hobbled steps, they are short. She is not yet willing 
to believe ... ! "A gal' sure ain't goin' far in these, mistah Coro." She 
holds out two joined hands. "Guess I bettah have the key, suh?" 

Dazed in a stupendous discovery, Bill Coro says slowly. "I'm not going to 
give you the key, Jollie." 

Another of those silences until Jollie says: "Yo's joking, suh." 

"No ... no I'm not." Bill is still wallowing in this superabundance of 
female flesh Fate has bestowed. "I'd be silly to unlock you, Jollie, you're 
helpless." 

"Sho' is. I wants out." 

"You're a very beautiful body under that uniform, Jollie." 

Jollie knows, just as I know. Steel on wrist and ankle is lucidly 
informative. She looks at her self imposed chains and says, uncertainly. 
"This ain't in our deal, Mistah Coro." 

"I'll make it right with you, Jollie, I'll be generous." 

"What yo' generous about?" She has dropped the 'sir'. 

"Well ..." Bill seems surprised she doesn't know. "About whipping and 
fucking you - it's something I have to do." 

She is a dark Amazon, magnificent in her fury. But Bill is a big heavy man, 
and Jollie is chained. There is a good deal of torn clothing, but my 
wardress ends up half suspended on her toes, the gyves on her wrists must be 
hurting cruelly. Her dark eyes flash at the male. "Yo' don' do this - yo' 
better not!" Bill seems not to hear. He is undressing her, cutting or 
tearing where he must. 

"Yo' let's me loose, Mistah Coro, and we talks turkey 'bout this here." 

Bill continues to strip her, she is emerging as magnificently female. She is 
as helpless as I am. "Oh, you mean the price." He says offhandedly. "Don't 
worry, I'll look after it." 

"Ah don' want no whippin'; ah don' want this bare nekked bit; an ah don' 
wanna' be tied up." Jollie almost growls her denials. "Yo' best let me loose 
right now." 

Bill is happy, he's gone overboard in a world all his own. Maybe he's nuts 
but so what! He's got himself two girls, hasn't he! A light and a dark. 
Girls are what Bill wants: girl, girls and more girls! If his luck lasts he 
can fill this jail with naked wenches and wear himself out whipping us. He 
suddenly notices me. 

"Carrie, sweetheart, let's make you more comfortable, and you'll be wanting 
to watch." He releases my arms from above, then handcuffs my wrists behind 
my back before he frees my feet. There isn't going to be any escape from 
Bill, not ever. But this feels better. I tell him a thank you, and then let 
him have it: 

"Bill, this is kidnapping ... and on two counts. You could get a life 
sentence." 

"Well worth it, honey." 

"With Jollie and me both covered in whipmarks they'd put you in an asylum. 
Bill, cool it!" 

"You want to be whipped some more, Carrie?" 

I shut up. What the hell's the use. I don't want to be whipped any more. I 
turn to the angry woman in her chains, she is a coffee coloured Juno, 
impressively sculptured. She is as helpless as I am. We both of us watch 
Bill Coro select the whip Jollie had used on me. "Won't kill you, 
sweetheart." He says jovially, "But it makes lovely marks. How about a 
hundred? You're a big girl.... !" 

"Yo' whips me, ah kills ,yo'." 

"Don't be silly, you couldn't kill a butterfly the way I've got you fixed." 
Bill shakes an admonishing finger. "Let me enjoy whipping you - you won't be 
sorry. I've never seen a female figure better shaped to be whipped." 

"Yo' rotten bastard, this ain't what yo' said." 

"And no bad mouthing. I don't have to stop at a hundred, y'know." 

Poor Jollie, she is glimpsing the infinity of pain and the omnipotence of 
men. Powerful as she may be, for a woman, she cannot claw her way to freedom 
through the combination of Bill Coro and his implacable chains. Wanly, she 
makes an offer. 

"Yo' set me free, Mistah Coro, and I don' say nothin' to no one. We pretend 
it don' happen. Ah take up lookin' after Miss Carrie where I left off." 

Bill whips Jollie: He is besotted with the whip and its effect on a girl. 
Our striped and scarlet skin is, for him, the most exquisite artistry. If 
only the silly bastard would fuck us and get some of the lust out of his 
system we'd be better off all around. But he cherishes that lust, it keeps 
him in a constant arousal in which he can whip us without the nag of 
conscience. With men, conscience begins when the erection dies. Jason fucked 
me constantly and was never more cruel than I could bear: or should I say 
than I wanted him to be! A girl is not always without her own lust and her 
own guilt. 

Jollie's danger is her own magnificence. She would make two of me, but 
without an ounce of fat. Her breasts are huge but do not sag, she has the 
most amazing thicket of black hair above her sex, her nipples are darkly 
demanding. Jollie is a large size Amazon, modern Juno. The hell of it is, 
Bill will whip her accordingly. His casual mention of a hundred lashes ... ! 
I suspect a hundred lashes would kill me. The weals are quickening on her 
rich skin but she has not screamed. 

Bill whips Jollie in bursts and crescendos, then pauses, panting, to watch 
the blossoming of his work, the lovely, lovely weals on the lovely, lovely 
woman-flesh. The chained woman does not stand still, she writhes gorgeously, 
lifting herself from the floor by her gyved wrists to kick ineffectually at 
nothing with guyved feet. I suppose she has some sort of nobility about 
screaming, an inhibition I do not possess. It is a long time and many lashes 
before she screams. But, sooner or later, a girl must always scream. After 
all, why not! 

My feet are free, it is an oversight Bill is too preoccupied to notice. 
Silently, I tip- toe on my bare feet around the terrible tableau I am forced 
to watch. Forced! Shit, let's be honest. I want to watch. At this moment 
Jollie is the most beautiful thing in the world. Not long ago it was I .... 
! A whipped girl is the most powerful aphrodisiac there is. My loins are 
flaming. My handcuffs inhibit silly notions, so too do the weals on my 
breasts, one vivid stripe on each. These two cuts I bear make me Bill's 
slave as potently as do my bonds, they make me fear his displeasure, this is 
the way slaves are supposed to be. Gosh, to have my breasts deliberately 
whipped with that whip, so many lashes on each one! Oh no, no, oh please 
don't let it ever happen! 

"Please, mistah Coro suh, not no more. I'se had all I kin take." 

It is Jollie's first plea. It is tremendously sincere. Bill counters it with 
the ancient chestnut of: "Only just got started, Jollie. You're doing fine." 

"Ah ain't doin' fine. Yo's killin' me." 

"I'd say you were as fine a woman to whip as exists anywhere, Jollie. When 
it's over you'll be real proud." 

"When'll that be, mistah Coro?" 

"Never you mind." Thoughtfully, he slashes the ripe contours of Jollie's 
rump, flicking her hip. "Hell, you'd last out a couple of days the way I'm 
whipping you. It's not a real flogging." 

Ridiculously, I fall to my knees in front of him, pleading for this woman 
who had whipped me. "Please, Bill, she's had enough. I can tell she's had 
enough. You shouldn't whip her any more." 

"Who gave you leave to tell me what to do? You want to take the rest of her 
hundred for her?" 

I hang my head. I am afraid. But I whisper. "Yes, yes, I'll take them. 
Please set her free." 

"Carrie, you're just being silly. You've had your's. Let me enjoy whipping 
this superlative ass; just look at it!" 

I look. It is indeed a glorious bottom. It is well streaked by thin weals 
but there is much space for more. Bill proceeds to fill them in .... 

I get up, feeling foolish. Besides, I am in his way as he plies his whip, 
following the revolving flesh as his blows cause Jollie to swing and sway in 
ceaseless motion. To be suspended as she is makes a naked girl an absolute 
nothing. 

"Don' you worry none, gal, we's both of us up the cri k!" 

My wardress is cut short by the whip. She screams. She goes on screaming for 
a long time. 

Bill is very happy, the splat and thunk of his thong across Jollie's firm 
but resilient flesh is sickeningly steady. 

In one of his pauses he assures me, generously, I will be whipped again 
quite soon. He seems to think girls enjoy it. Aren't I lucky? Chapter Eight. 

Stubbinsburg Jail. 

Possessing two females, Bill's field of erotic fantasy is much enlarged. 
Jollie and I are both in the cage, bars surround us as we sit, nakedly, on 
the solitary bench. My own nudity is untrammeled by constraints, Jollie is 
heavily ironed with the relics of another age. Thus, Bill enjoys the best of 
both worlds. Our backs and bottoms are similarly vivid with stripes. 

"That man outta' his mind. He plumb crazy 'bout us gals ... !" It is a 
repeat, Jollie has said it several times since she was whipped. In disbelief 
she tests the ancient irons Bill has locked on her everywhere: Ankles, 
wrists, waist, neck ... ! She is a walking hardware store. But she cannot 
walk, on her right foot is the Oregon boot. She is a graphic case of the 
Mighty fallen. The fact is her ripe plenitude has been too much for Bill's 
concupiscence, it has aroused in him a carnality I have not touched. She 
bemoans it now. 

"He's coming to fuck me - with yo' lookin'. The son-of-a-bitch, he's 
screwing me more ways'n one." She rattles her chains in disgust. "I done a 
lot o' things, but I ain't never bin' in no jackpot like this here. I bin 
fucked to a fare ye well, but I ain't never bin whipped since back with 
pappy ... The bastard! I like to die the way he was lacing into me." 

We nurse our wounds and our dolour for less than an hour before Bill shows 
up. Fact is, he can't stay away, punished naked girls have become the whole 
purpose of his life. He carries rope and an unpleasant riding crop. He 
beckons to me. 

"Are you going to whip me again?" My gaze is on the crop. 

He laughs. For him, anything we do or say is a delight. We are female, with 
marked skin. He waves the crop. "You don't, neither of you, need to feel 
this if you behave. You going to behave, Carrie?" 

I behave. I am too scared of punishment to do anything else. Bill locks me 
in the cage next door. Automatically I go to the bars, clutch them, and peer 
back into the cell from which he has taken me. Bill is enraptured and 
examines me from every angle. For him it is a Thing. He's welcome to it. 
"You going to behave too, Jollie?" 

"Shit, man, I gotta'! What yo' want?" 

What Bill wants is easy with a female as totally helpless as His Wardress. 
He only has to remove a chain between her ankles to be able to tie her down 
to the bench in the obscene manner he desires. Jollie says nothing, she is 
resigned - and, I suppose, having been a whore ... ! 

"I give yo' much better time, mistah, yo' lets me loose?" 

"Hmmmm, I don't think so." His eyes are alight with conquest. Bill Coro is 
about to copulate in a fantasy all his own. I am glad it's Jollie and not me 
tied down to that bench. Bill examines Jollie's exposed pussy, like all else 
about her it is superlative, a truly beautiful mound with plump but tidy 
lips. 

"You know what I'm going to do to this, don't you?" 

"I'spose. Go ahead, boss man. Yo' aint the fust." 

Bill Coro fucks his tied down Wardress, I watch. I have been told that, if I 
do not watch, he will use the crop on me. Human coitus is rarely a thing of 
beauty, it is not now. But I dare not close my eyes. 

Bill makes his shackled Wardress moan and make small female sounds - or 
perhaps Jollie is simply an accomplished whore, wishing to please. I wonder 
if wives make those sounds for the same reasons! I bet they don't bother. 
After Bill has had his orgasm be backs away and starts to lightly whip the 
cunt he has used. I tense in shock, Jollie pleads: "Don' do that, Mistah, 
there ain't no need." 

"There is every need, Jollie - watch!" 

He is right. Bill's cock responds to the flicking snaps of the crop across 
Jollie's place that is no longer secret. By the time her pubic area is well 
suffused he is once more hard. He fucks her again with vigour. 

It goes on and on. It is not so much the repeated penis thrusts that matter 
as the regenerating splats of the tip of the crop on female flesh and hair. 
They are effective but they are cruel. Finally they fail. Bill Coro is 
satisfied. It has been a long, long time, my fingers on the bars are white. 

"Carrie can untie you, she's got nothing else to do." He looks down at his 
rape, and makes a theatrical gesture. From his pocket he withdraws a 
thousand dollar bill. He exhibits it to Jollie and to me, he then rolls it 
into small compass and gently inserts it within the heated sheath he has 
violated so many times. With quick motions, the finality of satiety, he 
takes his crop, changes my cage, and departs. Everything is as it was except 
that Bill Coro's sperm now rests within Jollie's wet sheath where now 
nestles a damp one thousand dollar bill. 

I quickly untie my Wardress and throw aside the rope in disgust. Bill has 
forgotten to chain Jollie's ankles again, but it does not matter, she is 
still well loaded with iron and both of us are still locked behind bars. I 
lift the Oregon Boot for her back to the floor, she has worn it throughout 
Bill's assaults on her vagina, no doubt it was one of the eroticisms which 
spurred his potency. 

"Well, he done it, he done me good and proper." 

Jollie spreads her legs and starts fishing. With a sigh of relief she 
withdraws Bill's thousand dollar payment for her suffering. "Thass one 
helluva' lot o' money." She says reverently as she smoothes it out. "Ah 
ain't never made that much dough this quick before." 

"What good is it? You can't spend it in here." 

"Mebbee I can't, but for a thousand bucks he can whup my ass anytime, 
honey." 

I look at her glorious nakedness, it is terribly wealed, but Jollie shines 
through her wounds to make them only a passing irritant. I wish I could wear 
mine with equal unconcern. Incredulously I ask: "You'd ask him to whip you 
again for another of those bills?" 

"Sure. So would you if you was as broke as I bin'." She chuckles. "Don' know 
where I'm a'goin' to hide this grand, not lessen' I puts it back where it 
come from." 

"He can easy take it away from you. I bet he does." "Honey, it don' look it 
right now, but some way I'm goin' ter make somethin' outta' that asshole." 
She looks down at the Oregon boot in which her foot is lost. "Ain't no use 
me fightin'." She mourns. "What I gotta' do is sweet talk that bastard into 
puttin' me back in uniform." 

"And let him make you whip me again?" 

"Honey, yo' jest leave things to me. Jollie knows men from asshole to tip. 
I'm a goin' ter git me outta' this." 

"And what about me? Won't you help-?" 

Bill's voice cuts me off. Like I said, he can't stay away. He's got girls, 
so he's going to enjoy 'em. He beckons me to the bars. "Stick your arms back 
through, honey." 

Bill is taking no chances with a girl unbound. He pulls my hands back 
outside between two bars. With thin cord he ties my wrists. Not 'till then 
does he open the door and extract me from the cage. He has me half way down 
the passage before he explains. "A touch of solitude, sweetheart, I just 
have to see how it works." 

My wrists hurt and I am once more helpless, so I pad along beside him. Bill 
has a fine firm grip on my arm. We soon stand in the dismal place where 
girls were taken to be punished. He opens a narrow iron door beyond which 
there is only darkness. I quail. 

"Bill, oh please don't put me in there, I'll go crazy." 

"I don't think you will, honey, but I sure am interested." 

"Bill, you've had me whipped, isn't that enough for one day?" 

"But this won't hurt. It's something different. I want you to try it out and 
then tell me about it." He is wrong about the hurt. He ties my elbows, that 
hurts plenty. "What do I have to be tied for?" I ask petulantly. "I can't 
ever get out of a place like that." 

"They discovered that being tied had a very potent effect on a girl." He 
explains helpfully. "In the way of punishment, that is. They envision all 
sorts of things in the dark: snakes and rats and such, and without their 
hands -" 

"But that's awful!" 

"The records don't record any ill effects. They put a girl in here for a 
month once." 

"Bill, not ... not ... ?" 

"No not you, sweetheart, not a month for you. But, of course, I can't tell 
you how long." 

"Yes you could. I won't have any idea about time." I look into the black 
hole that has waited for me for a century, and all my courage dissolves. 
Bound and naked in there ... ! It is unthinkable. I turn in appeal. "Please, 
Bill, don't lock me in there, I'll scream myself into insanity the first 
hour." 

"You may not be there an hour." He says patiently. "Of course, it could be 
several days ... But what you said about screaming is interesting. The old 
boys found it best to gag their girls in solitary. The screaming did the 
little dears more harm than the dark, so they kept them mute." 

"Mute?" 

"Yes. They gagged the girl before she was put inside." 

"Bill, you're not going to gag me? I won't - !" 

The gag is of fine leather, it has a thick rubber penis to go inside my 
mouth. I am too demoralized to struggle, and too helpless. This way Bill has 
tied my wrists and arms is worse than a strait jacket, far worse than 
chains. I open my mouth and get it full of rubber cock, the leather 
compresses my lips and cheeks ... I shake my head in disbelief, I try and 
speak but there is nothing, nothing ... ! Bill laughs at my evident dismay. 
"I'm pleased with it." He assures me, "You look well with it, it's cute." 

Damn him! But when he propels me toward the narrow door I simply know I must 
not go inside. I fall to me knees and thrust my gagged face against the 
fabric of his pants in a mutely abject petition for mercy. He picks me up 
and carries me where I will not walk. He dumps me on the concrete, he goes, 
he locks the door. I am inside. 

The dark claims me. They were right about the rats; I people this black hole 
with everything girls hate. For all I know, there could be a rapist waiting 
for me to bump into him. Rats and snakes would be too commonplace for this, 
but the thought of mice causes me to cross my legs in terror. I scream and 
make no sound. 

The concrete is unkind so I get to my feet, and now I know what they meant 
about the loss of hands, I need to reach and to feel but I cannot. I can 
only explore this place by dragging a bare shoulder along the walls ... or 
with my toes. I find a wall and lean against it. I am trembling. 

I refuse to fight the dark, it has already defeated me. I would do anything 
or be anything to get out of here. It is worse than being back in the womb, 
it is not even warm. Impelled by the pathetic hope of prisoners I begin my 
inevitable survey, keeping my shoulder in contact with the concrete I take 
my fearful steps. Soon I find the door, I test it with shoulder and knee. It 
is as solid as the wall - but what else should I expect! I back against it 
and use my captive fingers to seek a handle, a lock, anything ... but there 
is nothing. I complete the circle and learn I am in a very small space which 
contains nothing at all except me, it contains Me with the finality of a 
grave. 

My elbows assert themselves. It is a hateful and wickedly effective tie 
which also wracks my shoulders and makes my breasts feel like melons. The 
nagging pain of it is my only companion in the dark. I try and set it aside 
to think of Bill and wonder if he is actually insane or only a bumbling 
buffoon. If he is insane I have nothing but perpetual imprisonment to look 
forward to. He will whip me constantly but will he know enough to stop when 
my body is covered with his weals! If only he would fuck me the way he has 
fucked Jollie, I think there would be hope then, sometime when he was on top 
of me and his lust appeased he might feel compassion. Without that he will 
continue to regard me as an inexhaustible reservoir of erotic delights. This 
jail is a testimony to the permanence of his intent. I am here for life. If 
my reaction to this black hole sparks his libido he will lock me in here 
often. 

The hours pass. I weep and weep again. My arms settle to a dull ache. 
Eventually I settle for the concrete floor, I cannot stand forever. I lean 
against the concrete wall and, I suppose, I go to sleep. 

It is understandable that Fraulein Lotte Schopen should open the door. The 
door is not of iron, it is of wood. Fraulein has given me a small 
imprisonment in the dark within a heavy wardrobe. I am bound and gagged as 
Bill left me. I step into daylight gratefully and fall to my knees, head 
bowed, I cannot speak. 

"Four hours, little one. You feel less contrary?" 

I nod vigorously, and am relieved of the gag. I express my thanks most 
humbly but remain in my penitent posture. Lotte has broken me thoroughly. My 
whole life now is an effort to evade punishments. She raises me to my feet 
and leads me to my Aunt Hester. "The wardrobe, madam. She is contrite." 

"Ah yes! I am so pleased with dear Caroline's progress under your authority, 
Fraulein. How beautifully she is bound! Really, you are an artiste in this 
discipline of girls." 

"Thank you, madam." 

"Do you think she can carry off our little demonstration for Mrs. Craigmyle 
and her outrageous child? They are almost due." 

"Indeed yes, madam. Caroline is becoming a model of deportment-and I have 
explained the penalties - !" 

This dream is absurd. I know I am dreaming but I don't want to wake, not in 
Bill's dark punishment cell. This Victorian nonsense is better than blind 
solitude. I follow Lotte Schopen to the bathroom where she washes my face 
and my pussy and tidies my hair. I am not untied, I can do nothing for 
myself. She perfumes me expensively and leads me forth. Dream imposed 
memories set me to trembling. 

Mrs. Craigmyle is another Aunt Hester, her outrageous child is another Me, 
but a year younger: They appraise my bound nakedness with awe. I suspect 
they have never before beheld Teutonic discipline. I am' to be an object 
lesson for this poor girl. 

"Fraulein Lotte Schopen gets right down to basics." Aunt Hester says 
proudly. "She has achieved miracles with Caroline. I am sure your dear Rosie 
will benefit 

from the punishment she is about to witness." 

"No clothes ... !" Mrs. Craigmyle has her mouth open and her startled gaze 
fixed on my pussy. "Nothing on - ?" 

"Nudity is implicit in discipline. Frauline says firmly. 

"Ah, yes! I suppose - !" Mrs. Craigmyle swallows twice. "Rosie, I trust you 
observe - ?" "Yes, Mother." Rosie, too, looks at my pubic hair and my 
budding breasts ... Both of us are at that age! "Mother, I think she's tied 
up." 

"Such severe strictures!" Mrs. Craigmyle is striving to cope. "And I suppose 
that is a gag?" 

"She has been prone to impudence, the gag inhibits. But she is about to be 
relieved of constraint in readiness for the punishment you have come to 
witness." 

"Ah, yes. How very interesting." Mrs. Craigmyle's mouth is dry. She swallows 
hard. "Rosie, pay attention." Rosie pays attention while I am untied. She is 
both scared and intrigued. When the gag comes from my mouth with a plop I 
say a meek "Thank you." I massage my rope weals under startled eyes. As 
though by magic Fraulein Schopen now holds a slender yellow cane. She flexes 
it to show how supple it can be for the tender palms of girls. "We are 
ready, madchen, you may commence your penance." 

It all comes back. I have been rehearsed. I step daintily into what has 
become a stage. "I request punishment." I intone demurely. "I have been a 
naughty girl." 

I kneel and kiss the cane, I extend a brave bare arm and ask, politely: 
"Please cane my hand." My palm is taut. 

The pain is withering. This has been done to me before but I will never get 
used to it. My voice trembles as I say "Thank you, Fraulein." And offer my 
other palm to be cut. Rosie's eyes are popping. Everyone seems to be 
breathing heavily, including me. 

It is a cruel thing to do to girls, this caning of their hands. We cannot 
bear it. It is too awful. But bear it we must, and do! But the pain bestows 
virtue: at least that is what we are told, and I cannot dispute. My 
throbbing hands and arms are making me vow virtues beyond imagining. Trying 
not to audibly sob, I thrust out hand number one for its second stroke. Each 
of my hands is to receive three. 

One would suppose that, enduring five, I could manage six. But I muff the 
last. My arm takes to itself a life of its own and pulls back to miss its 
punishment. I am only a girl, and my flesh is tender. 

Fraulein is furious. She controls her chagrin with polite regrets for my 
fallibility. But goodness knows how many hours I must spend in the wardrobe 
now. Rosie watches in shock as I am again bound and once more gagged. I walk 
ahead of Lotte to the bedroom for my new incarceration. Out of sight of 
company my tears flow freely. 

"I am disappointed, Caroline. This time your sentence will be long. You are 
a foolish child." She opens the wardroom door. "Please to step inside." 

Obediently I step into my tiny prison. The door is slammed and locked. 
Darkness possesses me. I allow myself to sink miserably to the floor, my 
palms throb unbearably, it is all hopeless ... ! 

I drift into wakefulness, cold concrete tells me I am back in Bill's 
solitary confinement. I open one eye but close it quickly, the blackness is 
too fearful. I want unconsciousness ... if I am to be here for hours or days 
... ! I mustn't panic, I mustn't! I drift away from the dark. Seven hours. 
It is past midnight when Jollie opens the iron door. She is dressed again as 
a wardress, her grin is from ear to ear. I remain mute and helpless, but am 
most willing, as she leads me silently from the Jailhouse into the garage. 
There my ropes are cut, my gag unbuckled. I am given a dress and shoes and a 
set of keys. "You'se goin' home, chicken." She says triumphantly. 

"But you, Jollie?" I am slipping into the dress and feeling for the shoes 
with bare feet. "You're coming too?" 

"Hell no, that man done me dirt, so I'm settin' yo' free. Ain't right nowhow 
ter keep a gal' like yo' in this here jail - and whippin' yo' and all. But 
it's different with me. I tole you I'd fuck him into bein' sensible, well 
thass what ah done. Soon as he locks you inside he comes back to the cage - 
that man can't stay away from nothin' with a cunt." _She chuckles gleefully. 
"I fixes him but good. Takes me an hour or two of sweet talk and a blow job 
to git rid o' them chains and that iron boot, and a couple more hours to git 
me job back, and that's 'bout it. Honey, you's home free. The boss man he's 
fast asleep, fucked to a frazzle." 

"You'll be all right, Jollie?" 

"Hell yes, he can't handle me the way he can you. I'll tie him in knots if 
he give me shit. Meanwhile I got me a job. Here, you better take this." She 
stuffs something in my hand. It is the thousand dollar bill. "Now get in 
that car and drive like crazy. I'll look after the door." 

We hug and we kiss. I am too overwrought and joyous to talk coherently. 
Within a minute I am driving down the road. Bill is losing his car as well 
as his slave. 

I let myself into our apartment in early afternoon. Bill had taken me miles 
and miles away, I got lost, I had trouble changing the thousand dollar bill. 
But I do not care. I am home, home, home! I phone my excuses to the office, 
I have a bath and make myself as beautiful as I can, and I don't bother to 
dress. When Jason comes home I will be handcuffed and ready. His dinner will 
be ready too. 

Jason does not come home, nor does Daphne. It is now too late to phone 
offices. In panic I rid myself of the handcuffs, I dress, I search in the 
garage but our car is gone. It is a last hope inspiration by which I search 
the scratch pad by the phone, and there it is in Jason's writing: 
'Stubbinsburg Jail', there is a dash and then the name: 'Bill Coro'. It 
tells me all. I thank heaven I have the bastard's car. 

The drive back takes only half the time. Viewed from my new status as 
private citizen instead of chained felon, Bill's jail looks a sad relic 
without hint of naked girls in irons. I park down the street and creep in by 
the garage, same way as Jollie let me out. I have no stomach for barred 
cages, so make my silent way to the living room upstairs. There comes the 
murmur of voices. 

"We wondered how long you'd be." says Jason. He is sipping a drink and does 
not bother to rise. "You've given Bill a damn bad time. Say you're sorry." 

Bill has the courtesy to get off his ass. "Welcome home, Carrie." He says 
heartily. "I'll fix you a drink." 

"Fix me one too." Jollie says comfortably. She gives me a wink. "Honey, I 
come with the premises, I bin' made head Wardress." I wish to scream, I wish 
to cry, I want to batter my fists on these grinning male faces. But I stand 
there, panting and mad. Mechanically I accept the drink Bill places in my 
hand. I down it like it was water, it is instantly refilled. 

"I owe you an apology, Miss Carstairs. I treated you outrageously. I'm 
afraid I'm not all that knowledgeable with girls. It takes Jason here -" 

"You treated me like a son-of-a-bitch." I turn to my master. "Jason, this 
bastard had me whipped horribly and then he locked me in a rotten black 
hole, all tied up ..." 

"You may apologize to him, Carrie. Poor old Bill's alright. You just didn't 
give him the right responses. Look at him, he's harmless." ' "He's a 
bastard." I pour the second drink down and allow a third to be pressed into 
my hand. "And he whipped Jollie too -" 

"I owe apologies all round." The drinks made Bill seem human. "Don't be hard 
on her, Jason, Carrie's a wonderful girl. I suppose that's why I kidnapped 
her. I figured you could spare her for a few days. Send me a bill for her 
rental." 

"Rental!" I look around in fury. I long for Jason. But the way he's treating 
me - ! 

"Take your clothes off." He says brutally. "You know damn well slaves don't 
wear clothes." 

"I'll never strip for you again. You're being a -" 

"Take 'em off, Carrie. NOW!" 

I take off my clothes, telling myself I want him to see my back. Naked, I 
turn it to him. "See what he did to me." 

"A lovely job. Thanks, Bill. You see its done her a world of good." 

Again fury. I have to smash something. But they are all smiling at me. My 
only recourse is tears. Jason deals with them tersely. "Lock her up 
somewhere, Jollie. She's tired and cranky. Make sure she is not 
comfortable." 

I am appalled, shocked heart-broken, the whole gambit of frustration. I let 
Jollie take my arm and lead me from the male presence. I have no doubt where 
we are going. 

"Will yo' trust me, honey?" Her squeeze is loving. "Oh, Jollie, yes, yes, 
yes, you're the only one -" 

"Men's all nuts, honey. Jest play along -" 

I let her put handcuffs on me, tight but in front. She opens a barred door 
and pushes me inside a cage. I turn and kiss, then stumble to the bench I 
can detect in the gloom. I am suddenly cruelly tired in an utter exhaustion. 
Too much has happened, and I am so baffled and lost ... ! I slump my 
nakedness upon the oak and thankfully find oblivion, I expect the drinks 
help. When I awake it is broad daylight. I sense the morning well advanced. 

"Hello, darling." I sit up, bemused. I feel a lot better but am prepared to 
be bitchy to men. This voice is female. 

"We didn't want to wake you. I bet you were dead beat." 

Daphne stares at me through bars. She looks very sweet and nudely innocent 
holding on to them the way Bill likes. She is well loaded with assorted 
irons. Strangely, they look well on her. 

"We felt sure you'd find us, darling." 

My mind becomes a computer, sorting out facts. My voice accuses. "You knew! 
Bill's kidnapping - of me, I mean. It was phoney?" 

"No, I didn't know. Honest, I didn't! I'm only number two girl, remember. 
Jason didn't tell me 'til after." 

"When he took you to bed?" If I could get at Daphne through the bars she 
wouldn't be safe. But I can't. Oh damn! 

"Darling, don't be like that, Jason loves you. He sent me home. We didn't 
come here until we got Bill's call. Carrie, don't you think these chains are 
simply gorgeous - and this Oregon Boot ... !" 

She wears them all, and most charmingly. She is more than welcome. I tell 
her so. I go to the door but, of course, I'm locked in. 

"Come over here, darling." 

We kiss for a long time, and play with each other through the bars. I 
suppose I'm weak. We still have wet fingers when Jollie shows with my 
breakfast. When I mention about letting me escape again she shakes an 
admonishing finger. "That there feller, he nuts 'bout yo', honey. Yo' best 
play along. May hurt a bit but it pays off. Looka' here!" She holds up 
another thousand dollar bill. 

I hold my coffee in handcuffed hands. It is good. I sip and try to figure 
where the hell I'm at. I nod towards my rival at the bars. "What's Daphne 
done to get herself in there like that?" 

Jollie giggles. "She don' do nothin' 'cept ask." 

"Darling, forgive me -" Daphne is unrepentant at the bars, her eyes are 
shining. "Directly I saw this place ... ! You know how I love -" 

"You're welcome." I tell her sourly. "I've had a bellyfull." 

"But, Carrie dear, I've asked them both to keep us here in this wonderful 
place for life." She rattles her chains against the bars. "This jailhouse is 
a dream come true. I really owe it all to you." 

"Wait until he whips you." 

"Oh, that's later on today. You may get whipped too. I heard Jason say 
something about if you didn't cool down and behave." 

"Dammit', you idiot girl, getting whipped in this place is, is just too 
awful - you saw my back!" 

"Yes, and I'm all excited. I know I'll hate it but it gives the men so much 
pleasure. Darling, I mean ... it really is in a good cause-and after it's 
over - !" 

"Daphne, you're nuts. You can't possibly want to spend your life in this 
dismal hole, all cages and cells and whipping posts?" 

"And Bill's promised to tie me in all sorts of different ways, and always 
real tight. He's given Jollie a job as wardress to look after us. It's her 
who's going to whip - me same as she did you - !" 

"You're out of your tree. Our only hope's to get Jollie to turn us loose -" 

"And they've got stocks and a pillory and that dark place you were in ... 
Oh, Carrie, it's just out of this world. I don't see why you're so 
miserable." 

I know why I'm miserable, but I'm not telling Daphne. I want my Jason, but 
Jason's mad at me and he's in a mood to punish. But the breakfast does help 
me to see a silver lining. If Daphne is in love with Stubbinsburg Jail she 
can have my share, and Bill along with it. Maybe they're made for each 
other. My immediate problem is I don't want to be her fellow prisoner. I 
want Jason to take me home, he can punish me all he likes then and I won't 
care. 

Jollie laughs at us both, and goes away chuckling. Maybe she knows 
something, but the potency of thousand dollar bills is great. Daphne and I 
are alone but in separate cages, I am still handcuffed. 

"Go easy on the enthusiasm." I tell Daphne. "You're in a sexual dither. A 
few whippings and a day in solitary, and you'll be a sad little girl wanting 
out." 

"I won't, I won't!" She kicks an ankle chain to make a clatter. "I've waited 
all my life. Bill and his jail, they're so perfect!" 

"That asshole! He'll have you screaming -" 

"Oh, Carrie, you're so - so - ! Bill's a great big Teddy Bear who's 
masculine at all the right times. The way he went about sentencing me to be 
whipped almost had me climaxing in my panties." 

"You don't have any panties, and you're never likely to have any again." 

"Well, you've always been naked for Jason - ?" 

"And I want to be again. But, can't you see what's coming? Those two 
bastards are going to keep us imprisoned in this dump. Jollie will look 
after us and punish us. They'll drive down weekends to fuck us and give us a 
whipping ... and gloat at us through the bars. All during the week when they 
think of us safely locked up and chained they'll get a hard on." 

Daphne giggled. "They'll have full time erections." 

"Which they'll probably use on other girls while we languish behind bars." 

"Oooo ... mmmm, yummy! You put that so well, darling. Don't tell me your 
puss isn't pouting happily. Mine is." I sigh. Why spoil her fun. If only 
Jason will take me home with him and leave Daphne here for Bill! It's not a 
bad idea, why buck it! But, right now, Stubbinsburg Jail holds me as 
securely as it holds her. In a sudden wanting, I go to where she stands at 
the bars and we play with each other again. It's not all that easy but it's 
better than moaning about what those twits upstairs are going to do with us. 
We are getting nicely excited by the time Jollie comes and takes me away. I 
don't want to go but it seems I don't have anything to say about it. 

"Yo' take my advice and be nice to them two assholes, Carrie." Jollie is 
really serious. "I thinks they's gonna' give yo' a bad time, but yo' plays 
yo' cards right and yo' gits what yo' want." She chuckles, "Jest the way I 
done." Her grip on me tightens. "You is trustin' me, ain't yo' yo' ain't 
gonna make no fuss?" 

"I trust you, Jollie. Torture me all you have to." 

"Yo' sure is cheesed off, kid." Jollie giggles, "Ain't no torture, leastways 
not right off. You do like I says, now." I gaze around the room full of the 
things to hurt girls and make them cry. It inspires no optimism. "You going 
to whip me, Jollie?" 

For answer, beaming complacently, she raises the top half of the pillory. I 
shrug, sulkily, but arrange my neck, my hair and my wrists in the obvious 
places. The yoke comes down, a padlock clicks. I am here to stay. It's a 
more demeaning position than I'd supposed. "How long is this for?" I ask 
morosely. 

Jollie pats my bare bottom. "I don' know nothin', honey. Yo' is on yer own 
now. Jest ,yo' play it cool." She goes and leaves me alone. 

This is my first time in the stocks, or the pillory, or whatever. It is 
certainly no position from which a girl may bargain. I have never felt more 
silly. I have been cut in half, most of me is in the rear where I can't see 
it. Anyone can do what they like with the portions of me sticking out 
behind. I am bare and vulnerable enough to please any male. I look at my 
hands, clamped on either side of my face, they look pathetic. And my neck 
... ! Oh, shit! 

"You look charming." Says Bill Coro. 

My heart plummets, I had hoped for Jason. If Jason came and whipped me like 
this he'd probably take me home after. But who wants bumbling Bill! "I don't 
feel charming." I say testily. 

"I've come to apologize again. I don't know what came over me ... treating 
you so rough." 

"I asked you to fuck me but you wouldn't. If you'd fucked me you'd have 
behaved a lot better." 

"Er ... well, yes, perhaps you're right. Say you forgive me. I do value 
Jason's friendship, y'know." 

"I'll forgive you when you take me out of this contraption and make Jason 
take me home. If he wants to whip me first, I'm sure I'm nicely positioned." 

"That's not quite what we have planned. Jason agrees it's a pity to waste 
this lovely old jail." He pauses diffidently. "I've raised my bid on you to 
an even hundred thousand." 

"Buy Daphne instead." 

The idiot seems embarrassed. "It seems I get Daphne free - she's so 
delighted. But, Carrie, you're the most beautiful -" 

I shift testily within the blasted stocks, and demand: "Is Jason really 
selling me to you?" 

"No, I'm afraid not. He's fond of you, y'know. But he feels you haven't 
treated me any better than I've treated you" 

"I offered to let you fuck me, what more d'you want!" 

"Oh that! No, he wants you to be polite and respectful." 

"I'm his slave, not your's!" 

"You don't have to be so short with me." He looks forlorn, but brightens 
with inspiration. "I think if I whip you a little - You won't mind?" 

"Of course I mind! That's what's wrong with you and girls, Bill, you're whip 
happy. Please go and ask Jason to come and speak to me." 

Bill goes in behind where I'm open and available. My breasts and pussy get 
well handled. His touch lacks finesse. Suddenly I am sundered in unexpected 
agony and yelp: "You bastard, you didn't have to whip me like that! You 
could have said!" 

Bill cuts at me again. I struggle enough to break the damn pillory in two, 
but it does not move. Stupidly, I howl: "Stoppit', that's me back there ... 
and I can't see." Bill slices me with the riding crop five times. I behave 
unheroically. When he comes back into my limited range of vision, he asks 
hopefully: "Has that helped, Carrie?" 

I really am absurd. I actually feel less exasperated with the idiot than I 
did before. I sniff and say. "Perhaps ... anyway, thank you." I am hating 
this damn pillory with all my heart. 

"We'll try the next five now?" 

"What for!" I am outraged. This whipping of my bottom is so damn unfair. 
"No, no, no - Please don't!" 

He slashes my bottom again. Urgently, I declare: "I'll be polite! Oh, Bill, 
I'll be ever so polite. Please stop." 

The next one is up between my thoughtlessly open legs. I howl and know 
defeat. Why, oh why can't I bear the whip in heroic silence! I probably 
wouldn't get any more strokes than I get anyway. But I can't, I just can't! 
It hurts so damn bad. I lock my thighs together and am nauseatingly humble. 
"Oh, thank you, Bill. Of course I accept your apology. Please accept mine 
for being so bitchy." 

Bill cuts at my bottom three more times for a total of ten. My voice 
trembles as I say my dues. "Thank you, Bill, I've behave much better now. It 
was clever of you to know what I needed." 

"You don't want five more?" "Thank you ... no!" 

Once more he is in view, pink faced, perspiring, happy. I am suddenly a 
convert to Women's Lib'. Bill doesn't deserve us. "If you'll let me out of 
this thing I'll be very obedient." I offer hopefully. "Jollie took off my 
handcuffs, they're on that stool -" 

It is then Jason walks in. I can see he approves my posture. "I've given her 
ten with the crop." Bill advises proudly. "She's started to be polite. I 
think she's beginning to like me." 

Jason grasps a handful of my hair and drags my head up to look into his 
basilisk glare. "Do you like Bill, Carrie?" My cowardice betrays the 
resounding "No" that surges to my lips. Meekly, I say: "Yes, Jason. Bill's 
really very sweet." 

"Well, that's that." Bill seems relieved. "I'll leave you two alone." His 
exit is un- noticed. 

"I'll be a good girl, Jason, whatever you want." Out of some secret recess 
in my heart I quaver, wistfully. "Please marry me?" 

"You are a prisoner in Stubbinsburg Jail." He says severely. "You and Daphne 
both draw life sentences." 

"Yes, I know. Daphne loves the idea. It makes me want to die. Jason, if you 
marry me you can still continue to do all these things. I promise I won't 
mind." 

"If I married you I'd whip you every Friday." 

"That's O.K. But wouldn't it be better on Thursday? People do things Friday 
evening?" 

The man I love gestures in disdain. "You see, an instant quibble! Carrie, 
you are not marriage material." 

"Alright then, Friday. Twice a week if you want." 

"Was ever a female more generous with her hind parts!" Jason sighs. 
"Actually, I came down here to cane your bottom." 

"Please do. Everyone else has." 

"Do I detect bitterness?" 

"No, Jason. My bottom is your's, cane it all you like." 

"Hmmmm, very generous. Would you, by any chance, enjoy having your bottom 
caned?" 

"Only if it's you, Jason." 

"Ah!" He seems to have scored a point. "What d'you say to fifty strokes?" 

I shrivel up inside. I'll howl my head off. But, brightly, I agree. "Oh, 
thank you, Jason. Fifty will be lovely." He goes to my rear, I brace myself 
for agony. But, instead, his hand burrows between my moist and heated 
thighs, my legs open wide. He cups my pussy in his palm and I climax 
instantly. His hand stays, on and on past my last gasp. It is a wise and 
loving hand. I regenerate surprisingly. After my third orgasm he unlocks the 
padlock and I am free. It is the funniest feeling. 

I get the handcuffs and turn my back to my master that he may make me 
helpless as a slave should be. Gruffly, he says: "No. Get me rope. "When I 
bring him rope he ties my wrists and my elbows at my back. It is an old 
familiar type. It is like coming home. I hurt with gorgeous hurt. He guides 
me to where Daphne leans, a trifle dejectedly, against the bars of her cage. 
She guesses instantly. 

"Darling, Jason's taking you home?" 

"Isn't it wonderful! I'd hug you both if I could." I am enveloped in joy. I 
even forget my elbows. 

Jason nobly does his duty. "Want to come with us, Daphne?" 

"No, Jason, but thanks." It is a sad moment for the poor girl, a moment of 
decision. "I have to stay, this whole place is just too wonderful." She eyes 
me wistfully. "I wish Carrie was staying." 

Jason puts his arm round me, it feels so good. But he speaks to the girl in 
chains behind the bars. "Old Bill's a bit fond of the whip, Daphne ... ?" 

"I know." Daphne's eyes sparkle. "I'll have to put up with it. Besides, 
Jollie's promised to watch over me -" 

"We'll both look after you." Bill's hearty boom intrudes. "I see you've 
decided to take Carrie home with you, Jason?" 

"We're returning to the way we were. But look, Bill old chap, go easy on 
Daphne." 

"No more than twenty strokes a day." Bill says expansively. He grins at me. 
"Sure you wouldn't like to stay for thirty?" 

He is a crass ass. Without thinking, I blurt out: "You don't deserve a girl, 
you think we're made of rubber. No way I'd want your moth eaten Jail." 

The silence is dark, pregnant, foreboding. I quail at what I have done. 
Jason's arm is gone, his words are of doom. "I'm afraid Carrie isn't ready 
to go home after all. Bill, d'you mind ... ?" 

"Not at all, old man." Bill's stock is soaring. He looks at my breasts and 
bottom with a proprietary eye. "By the time you come down next week Jollie 
will have her well whipped into a proper respect. A few days with a gag in 
her mouth would do no harm." 

I am tightly tied. All I can do is look at my Master pleadingly. "Please, 
Jason, take me home. Forgive me, I'll apologise." 

"Twenty for each of them this afternoon." Jason decides firmly. "I'll come 
and give Carrie an inspection next week-end." "You can rely on me, old man." 
says bumptious Bill. They unlock the door and put me in with Daphne, her 
gaze blends joy and sympathy. We are both helpless in restraint. My world is 
shattered. 

"Be seeing you." Jason says diffidently. "Be a good girl." 

"I'll make quite sure she is, Jason." 

That was three weeks ago. But I'm still here ... 

In Stubbinsburg Jail. 


End
