Manacled Maiden
by F. E. Campbell


CHAPTER ONE - THE PAIN AND THE PRIDE 

Catherine found it hard to docket him. In her mind, she labeled him "The 
Professor." There was about him an academic air. He was sleek and 
middle-aged, extremely fluent, though a trifle pedantic. He was a fluent 
lecturer. She was still straining and twisting her arms and shoulders 
against bound wrists, still in disbelief at what had been done to her. The 
attentive class had all been party to her present condition, so there was no 
advantage in appealing to them any more than to the Professor himself. They 
were obviously enjoying both herself and the lecture as she stood before 
them between the iron stanchions which were two lengths of four inch pipe, 
caped at their top, and fastened immovably below the surface of the rug on 
which she stood. Her strength had availed nothing against them. They were 
solid as rock and held her easily. Close to the top of each of these metal 
pillars hung a ring, and it was to these rings that she was attached by 
corded wrists. Miss Catherine Mordant could not suppress her panting or the 
swift rise and fall of her angry breasts. It had all happened so swiftly she 
was still trying to catch up. 

"What we have here," the Professor droned, in the full ride of his 
enthusiasm, "is a typical example of a young woman of the moneyed classes. 
Her father owns an investment house and sundry other interests. She will be 
a most suitable subject for the high born maiden, haughty and contemptuous 
of the hoi polloi, who we will reduce to complete humility--" 

"If it's ransom you want--" Catherine focused her indignation upon the 
lecturer. "I'm quite sure my father--" 

"It is not ransom, my dear girl," the Professor assured suavely. "We intend 
to extract from you something far more valuable than your father's dollars. 
The more I see of you, the more pleased I am at our selection. You're going 
to serve our purpose quite admirably." He returned his attention to the 
class. 

"What we are going to do with Miss Catherine Mordant is to reduce her step 
by step, studying her reactions to every inch of her descent to the common 
clay of enslavement." The Professor coughed gently. "I am uncertain of her 
eventual disposition, but should we have no further need of her, and should 
her company prove unrewarding, I am aware of certain brothels where such 
females may find a resting place in surroundings to preclude them becoming a 
nuisance." 

"Look here, you humbug," Catherine complained, tugging at her wrists and 
glaring at the master of ceremonies, "stop being ridiculous. We can put an 
end to this now, so we can all go home. I'm prepared to say nothing about 
it--just simply put it down to a piece of academic nonsense. I really don't 
know what you're trying to prove." 

"You see and hear this young woman in the full flush of her wealth-produced 
arrogance," the Professor continued, as though Catherine had remained 
silent. "We will all enjoy her descent into shame. I want you to take notes 
on what she has to say on these occasions. I anticipate using her in class 
twice a week until our objective is achieved. In the meantime, she can be 
kept safely incarcerated in premises I already have provided." 

"Oh, dry up, you ridiculous old fraud!" Catherine was panting even more 
heavily. Her cheeks were flushed by the lecturer's calm reference to 
herself. "This is an outrage! I'll never forgive you, and if you don't 
correct the situation immediately, I shall start proceedings." She sniffed 
haughtily. "I still think you're all having fun at my expense, but I'm 
prepared to overlook it if you let me go." 

"This young woman will be as predictable as a symphony," the Professor 
continued. "What we are hearing now is the prelude. She will go through all 
the various nuances of comprehension. At the moment it is no more than a 
faint light on her horizon. What she will subject us to now is a series of 
indignant protests, promises, and threats. Her father and his money will 
feature prominently." The Professor beamed benignly. "Now, to impress our 
captive maiden with the reality of her condition, I will from time to time 
remove an article of her clothing until we have her completely bare." He 
suited action to words by bending down and removing Catherine's left shoe. 
He held it up for her to see. "You will not be needing this any more, Miss 
Mordant." He threw it aside with a gesture of contempt. "Perhaps for the 
rest of your life you will need no covering at all." 

"This is going beyond a joie. Do you realize that your acts now are 
criminal? You could go to prison!" 

"Of course, of course," he said, as though soothing an erring child. 
"Everything is understood, Miss Mordant, and I do want you to know we will 
appreciate your remarks, providing of course they do not become redundant. 
If you could bring yourself to listen along with the class, you might find 
something interesting in what I have to say." 

Catherine Mordant was no fool. Moreover, she was an extremely rich young 
woman, with a father who was power in the community. If the Professor was to 
be taken at face value, she would indeed be an excellent subject for his 
discourse and whatever research into anthropology he might contemplate. But 
it had been no more than half an hour since she had been apprehended and 
bound to the two uprights. If this was not a joke, soon to be disclosed and 
apologized for, then there was an undercurrent of evil. She could not put 
her finger on it, but it was there. The hurt of the cords tied tightly 
around her wrists were an emphasis. The class was made up of young adults, 
old enough to know better. They were obviously under the Professor's thumb 
or shared with him whatever it was he pursued. Catherine found it difficult 
to stand with one shoe on and one off, so she kicked off the one she still 
wore and could then stand sensibly and not look stupidly awkward. 
Appearances were of extreme importance to Catherine Mordant. 

The Professor noted the second shoe flying after the first. He paused in his 
discourse long enough to reprimand. "That was a mistake, my dear. If I had 
wanted that shoe off your foot, I would have taken it. You'll wear it until 
I decide otherwise." 

"You pompous idiot!" Catherine stood, her arms outstretched, and glared at 
her tormentor. The Professor was not to be taken seriously. His behavior 
removed him from acceptable society. Icily, she informed, "I'm not impressed 
by any of these proceedings. The whole thing strikes me as supremely 
idiotic." 

The class made notes, and the Professor replaced the shoe. Catherine kept a 
discreet but frosty silence as this was done. When the Professor stood up, 
she snapped at his beaming features, "My wrists hurt! Untie them!" 

Her request was blandly ignored. The Professor returned to his class and 
continued his dissertation on feminine behavior under stress. Casually and 
without pause in his flow of speech, he relieved the captive girl of first 
this piece of clothing and then that. It was not until she was reduced to 
panties, bra, and nylons that he relieved her of the second shoe. She was 
sure he had kept it on to make her stand awkwardly as an emphasis of his 
authority. Catherine was blushing. To be stripped in this casual fashion was 
unflattering. She was being made to feel exactly what she was: an 
interesting subject, all of which must be fully revealed and studied 
academically. Her breasts never paused in their tempo of rise and fall. 
When, with the lecture continuing, a hand reached out to grasp her bra, she 
drew back the scant inches her bonds allowed and snapped furiously, "That 
will be enough! Leave me alone. If you uncover me, you will be compounding 
your felony." 

The bra was tom abruptly from her shoulders. Her breasts gleamed white in 
this fresh exposure. The class admired them fully, both male and female 
giving them instant and intent attention. The Professor's voice droned on. 
"You will note her reaction. The baring of the breasts of a girl of this 
class has its own significance, quite different from that of a lower class 
female. I suspect Miss Mordant is suffering acutely at this very moment. She 
is abstaining from protest simply because she does not wish to attract more 
attention to her naked breasts than need be. We will use this as part of the 
thesis you will write. I want you to trace the origins of this particular 
taboo that denies a female's breasts their inherent right to sun and air." 
The Professor's voice was savoring every word. 

Catherine knew herself scarlet. It was not a Victorian shame, for she was 
neither virgin nor stranger to male regard. She had undressed often enough 
in the casual love affairs by which her prestige was enhanced. She slept 
with only the most impressive names. But this was a different matter. This 
was something else again. To be forced to stand with arms outstretched while 
she was casually stripped as an exhibit in a lecture was an affront she 
would never forgive. It was also a new experience. She had never before 
realized the magnificent proportions of her breasts and the manner in which 
they defied gravity. This fact was now commented on and duly observed. 
Pencils scribbled busily. Miss Catherine Mordant was furious. 

The garter belt and nylons went next, accompanied by academic comment. It 
was not until only her panties remained that the bound girl contemplated the 
full horror of total exposure. She had always been shy of pubic hair and had 
debated the wisdom of shaving it off. It was an inexplicable growth girls 
shared with the male, but often the female feature luxuriated beyond the 
normal and became a cause for male humor and the girl's own chagrin. 
Catherine's pubic hair was a heavy mass of silken fronds. It was quite 
beautiful, denying sight of the skin beneath and acting almost as an 
expensive supplement to the female genitals she only discussed under the 
most urgent need. She was well aware of the four-letter words it had spawned 
through the centuries, and of that one in particular most commonly used 
today. She had used it once in the privacy of her own room, and had blushed 
for an hour afterwards. Catherine was neither shy, coy, nor a prude, but 
there were still certain limits beyond which she would not go. 

Catherine had given up pleading for release and struggling against the 
cords. She knew that her predicament would end only by someone else's 
choice. She would not influence it a particle by demeaning herself. She felt 
almost grateful to her bonds, for it would have been totally impossible to 
have stood thus without their compulsion. Then again, without them, the 
whole thing would have fallen apart. .The strictures on her wrists gave the 
lecture a significance the Professor could have achieved in no other way. 
Catherine Mordant waited breathlessly in certain knowledge of total 
nakedness, but when it came, it was no less loathsome for the delay. After 
the Professor's wrench and downward tug, she stood and offered his class a 
full frontal view of a wealthy, naked young woman. She was certain one or 
two girls of her acquaintance would find erotic stimulus in this exposure, 
but she certainly did not. Instinctively, she crossed her legs, but the act 
was far too reminiscent of a Victorian novel or underground erotica. It hid 
little, but made her look silly and lower class. Realizing this, she placed 
both feet solidly apart and glared back at the smiling students. It would be 
interesting to see what they wrote, but she was certain she never would. 
When the Professor thoughtfully plucked a pubic hair from among the black 
forest she offered, she kicked out savagely and sent him sprawling back. 
Regaining his balance, he seemed pleased rather than disgruntled. He turned 
to the expectant class and jubilantly exclaimed, "You see! A predictable 
response. This young woman will respond to a great many trivial impositions 
which touch her dignity, particularly the privacy of her sex. I will wish 
you to deal separately with this guardianship of Miss Mordant's genitals. A 
young woman of the class will use it judiciously and with a keen eye to an 
eventual favorable matrimonial venture. " The professor chuckled. "If I 
wished to be vulgar, I suppose we could say that she will experiment until 
she finds the most satisfactory cock and then obtain upon it a financial 
statement. The mating ceremonies of the Papuans are no more quaint. They 
probably are respectable by comparison." 

"You're a rotten son of a bitch!" Catherine exclaimed crisply. "If you touch 
me again, I'll kick you where it hurts." 

"Ah, excellent! Exactly as expected, but this now brings us to a second step 
in the understanding of this young woman." The Professor beamed around his 
class and chose a smiling face. "Ah, yes. Dorothy my dear, will you do the 
honors? It is now time for Miss Mordant to savor her first touch of 
discipline. I believe you know where we keep the strap." 

Catherine froze. Surely this absurd man would not so that far! Shocked and 
apprehensive, Catherine watched Dorothy go to a desk, open a drawer, and 
extract from it a strip of leather. It was fairly heavy leather and had been 
shaped into a weapon. Dorothy flexed it back and forth in her hands several 
times, then approached. 

"Don't you dare!" The archaic exclamation burst from Catherine's lips 
without volition. She strained back as far as her wrists permitted, her eyes 
focused in mesmerized horror upon the two-foot length of hide which 
presumably Dorothy intended to bring into sharp impact on her skin. When the 
girl took up position behind the posts and the naked girl they held, the 
naked girl looked back over her own bare shoulder and repeated what she had 
already said: "Don't you dare! If you touch me with that thing, I'll have 
you put in jail!" When Dorothy's arm swung back and she balanced on one 
heel, Catherine Mordant dared look no more. Instead, she whirled about as 
best she could and glared stonily at the enraptured class. 

The impact of the leather across Catherine's right cheek was positively 
vulgar. She presumed the pain was vulgar too, but she was too busy coping 
with it to bother. The only thing to penetrate the unexpected agony was the 
Professor's voice: "Excellent, Dorothy. I knew I could rely on you. I do 
suggest you follow that practice one cheek at a time. It is far more 
effective than trying to get a good cut at both at once. You can more easily 
choose your mark. May I suggest you leave the exposed hip bone alone on this 
occasion?" 

As the twin half of her posterior received its own impact, Catherine came 
alive, her voice ringing out in uncontrolled fury. "Stop it! Stop it! That 
hurts shockingly. Haven't you any sense?" 

No one paid attention, least of all Dorothy. The Professor stood back, 
gently nodding his approval as each humiliating blow extract its own thwack 
and slap. No matter how the recipient of this attention twisted her 
posterior, she never succeeded in moving it far enough from the target area 
to ease a single blow. Each one of them was carefully aimed and delivered 
with enthusiastic gusto. It was as though Dorothy had been offended by the 
attitude of a rich bitch who was now totally at her mercy. She delivered 
ringing stroke with only enough pause between to encourage their recipient 
to commence an exclamation of disapproval which never quite got finished. 
Catherine's flashing legs were a vivid expression of her discontent. They 
had borne the first few impacts in stoic immobility, but it did not last. It 
was not long before Catherine was performing an amusing little jig which was 
intended as evasive action but was totally unsuccessful. Her protests became 
more urgent as her bottom burned. 

"Please stop. Can't we talk about this? You're not being civilized. Don't 
you realize I don't know what you want of me? This is torture--it hurts 
abominably." Once again, she looked back over a shoulder to glare in 
semi-defiance. "And as for you, you sadistic little bitch--" The sentence 
went unfinished beneath the impact of the next stroke Dorothy implanted with 
the full youthful vigor of her arm. Catherine was shocked to discover she 
was fighting back her tears when, after twenty vulgar sounds, the beating 
ceased. The Professor was first to make his comment. "In times to come, Miss 
Mordant, you will realize the relative innocence of what you have just 
received. Dorothy was not being cruel--she is a delightful girl, and you may 
hope she will whip you again at some future date. Corporal punishment is 
very much a part of our curriculum. Dorothy has experienced it herself and, 
should you desire, will no doubt discuss it with you at a later date. The 
class has been observing your behavior under discipline and will draw their 
own conclusions from your behavior. We'd all like to express our thanks for 
your unsolicited contribution to our studies." 

The girl whose bottom flamed from contact with the leather was certain she 
had experienced the very nadir of human experience. For the first time since 
she had been brought to this place, she was frightened. The pain had done 
it. It was all too obvious to Catherine Mordant that if she could be whipped 
once, she could be whipped twice or twenty times, and the same would apply 
to being stripped naked. She was not yet prepared to accept the Professor's 
assurance that she might never wear clothes again. She was not prepared to 
accept any part of any of this, but she did not know what she could do about 
it. While heat flamed below, she awaited the next word in what she was now 
thinking of as her kidnapping. The Professor provided it without delay. 
"Ernest, Robert--would you be kind enough to escort Miss Mordant to her 
quarters?" 

They were two smiling boys her own age. If they had not witnessed her shame, 
she would have been prepared to like them. They bore that touch of class to 
which she was accustomed, but each of them took the liberty of patting her 
burning skin and testing the resilience of her breasts before untying her 
wrists. When she was free, she was given no chance for a scuffle but was 
securely held by strong male hands. 

"Sorry, sweetheart, you'll get the hang of this after awhile. Bit rough at 
first." They led her from the room. 

The apartment was pure luxury, matching her own in her own home. The smiling 
boys crossed her wrists behind her back and bound them fast. They also 
snapped closed upon her left ankle a shackle and a chain which appeared to 
trail on forever, since she could not see its end. Before leaving, each one 
of them kissed her, and had they not simultaneously clutched a handful of 
her helpless sex, she would have enjoyed their affection and kissed back. 
But Catherine was so busy thinking of something appropriate to condemn their 
male vulgarity that they had gone before she found the proper words. 
Dorothy, who followed along behind, remarked, "Aren't they sweethearts? I 
adore them both, and they're terribly clever, and in case you're interested, 
they are both very, very rich." She giggled. "The Professor works only with 
the best people." 

Catherine Mordant, still naked, was busily exploring her new condition. It 
was inconceivable that she could not free her hands, but all her writhing 
and twisting and tugging did no more than chafe her wrists. The shackle on 
her ankle was something she would deal with later. In the meantime, she 
fixed a deadly stare upon the offending Dorothy. "Please untie me. There's 
no need to carry this farce any further." She turned around and offered her 
captive hands for attention. 

"Sorry, love." Dorothy turned her around. "You have to stay as you are. 
Would you like a drink?" 

"You mean--" 

"Yes--a cocktail before dinner. Very civilized, you know. You don't have to 
worry about not having hands--I'll look after that." The apartment boasted a 
bar--well stocked. She watched Dorothy mix the two potions and gulped her 
own gratefully when it was held to her lips. It was no more than her due. 
Catherine felt no loss of face by this minor indulgence in alcohol. Dorothy 
was a pretty little snippet, quite obviously youthfully strong and very much 
in love with the Professor. Returning to the main topic, Dorothy said, "I 
loved strapping your ass. Did you get anything out of it?" 

"Pain! What else was there to get?" 

"Well, some of the girls enjoy getting their bottoms strapped if it isn't 
too hard. I enjoy a little of it myself. " She looked at Catherine 
searchingly. "It's all part of the study, you know. When we get around to 
it, the class is going to do a thesis on B&D--you know what I mean. You read 
about it in magazines and newspapers." 

"No, I do not know about it! What's more, I don't wish to know about it. I 
suppose that's the answer, isn't it? I suppose the Professor provides you 
with opportunities and excuses for your perversions." 

"Oh god, you sound like my grandmother--you disapprove of everything." 
Dorothy held up the glass. "Here, have another swallow--I think you need 
it." 

The bound, naked girl realized how difficult it was going to be for her to 
do anything without seeming to offer approval of the whole scene. But she 
was badly shaken by what had taken place so far. She gulped once and then 
again, and said a stiff "Thank you." 

"You really are a bit starchy, you know. Couldn't you sort of unbend a bit?" 
Dorothy anxiously inquired. "I mean, I want to be friends. I guess I forgot 
to tell you I'm supposed to look after you. The way you talk and act I feel 
like I'm with Queen Victoria or something." 

"Of course I'm stiff!" Catherine exclaimed angrily. "Figure it out for 
yourself. I've been kidnapped. I've been stripped naked, I've been tied so 
that an entire class of both sexes can examine my nudity, and then you have 
strapped my posterior so that it hurts something awful. Do you expect me to 
sing 'America the Beautiful' or something! It's you who ought to get some 
sense," the captive girl snorted angrily. "And now you can untie my hands. I 
don't care about the rules or what anybody's told you--simply untie my 
hands!" 

"My, you do take on so, dear. You mustn't get so bitchy. It's not good for 
you, and you may as well get used to tied hands because yours are going to 
be tied a great deal, and there's no use getting mad about me strapping your 
bottom with that lovely strap. We sort of hoped you'd enjoy it. But anyway, 
we'll try again." 

"Don't you dare!" 

"You said that before, darling. You really must watch these repetitions. The 
Professor doesn't like them, and if he gets it in for you, he'll punish you 
for every little thing." 

"Punish me!" Catherine vented all her fury on her innocent companion. "He's 
got no right, and neither do you. I absolutely refuse to accept punishment 
from anyone in this house, or for that matter, anyone else anywhere. You're 
all simply getting yourselves longer sentences in prison every time you hurt 
me." The distressed beauty took a long, deep breath. "The best thing you can 
do, Dorothy, is let me go and show me the way out of here. I'll have to have 
some clothes, of course. I refuse to go into the street naked." 

"In that case. I'm afraid you'll stay here for a long time, darling. But I 
do have to tell you that you'd just as well forget about either escape or 
rescue. Neither of those things is likely to happen." 

"My father--" 

"Yes, I know about your father, but his money won't do you a bit of good 
here. This abduction has been very cleverly planned. It's one of Professor 
Pomfret's life-long ambitions. You really ought to feel honored." 

"Don't be absurd! The man's an idiot. He's breaking all sort of laws, as 
well as frightening me to death." 

"Seems to me you've said all that before," Dorothy gently reminded. "Would 
you like to do a tour of the apartment in case there's things I can 
explain?" 

"Why on earth would I want to tour this idiot's apartment? It's none of my 
affair!" 

"But I'm afraid it is, darling. You see, you're going to live in it. Don't 
you want to see what it's like?" 

Dorothy sounded truly concerned. Catherine realized she was only trying to 
help. It would be silly to antagonize her. "Very well, if that's what you 
want," she agreed ungraciously. "I think what you're telling me is that this 
is my prison?" 

"Here, you'd better finish your drink before we start. You really are being 
terribly difficult. Anyway, come on along." Dorothy giggled. "I'd hold your 
hand if you were allowed to have one." The apartment had everything. It was 
pure luxury. But Catherine gave neither praise nor thanks. Her first and 
most important discovery was the length of the chain shackled to her foot. 
It enabled her to traverse the entire apartment. It made little sound on the 
expensive pile of the rugs. It allowed entry to every room but snubbed her 
short of the door by which an exit might be made. It slithered behind her 
like a watchful snake, and the drag on her foot never allowed her to forget 
its presence. It was solidly anchored to a ring bolt in the floor. Together 
with the cords around her wrists, it made a primitive contrast to the modem 
luxury she saw around her. There was, however, one more door which Dorothy 
had obviously saved for last, no doubt the piece de resistance of the tour. 
When her guide opened it, she disclosed another door of heavily barred iron, 
and through these bars Catherine beheld an exact replica of a prison cell. 
She shuddered. It was so precise in every detail of what she had seen on 
television and once in a tour of Attica. The wash basin, toilet, and 
pathetic cot were very much the real things. A girl could have been kept 
forever in such a place. Her food could have been pushed through a slot 
provided in the bars of the door. The walls were of stone and were 
illuminated by a barred window far above where she could reach. "Can't tell 
whether you'll get locked in there or not, dear," Dorothy told her. "It's 
got two purposes really. One is to keep you more securely prisoner, and the 
other is as punishment. I got locked in there once for a couple of days, and 
I hated every hour of it. Shit, I was sure glad to get out of there!" 

"Simply one more outrage," Catherine sniffed disdainfully. "Really, Dorothy, 
is there nothing normal anywhere in this place?" 

"I could whip you, dear. That ought to be normal enough for anyone," Dorothy 
suggested. "You're terribly hard to please, you know. I really thought you'd 
be tickled to death over this apartment. I know I was when I first got in 
here." 

"You mean you've been a prisoner in this place too?" 

"Well, yes. But I was a volunteer." Dorothy giggled deprecatingly. "You see, 
darling. I'm into it. I'm part of the scene. It's awfully hard for me to 
understand what you're making such a fuss about." She mused quietly for a 
few moments. "But I suppose it's all that money and your father and your 
social position. You're terribly handicapped in the business of being 
alive." Dorothy patted a bare breast. "I have to run along now, darling, so 
you'll be on your own for a little while, and I do want you to enjoy 
everything. Just forget about the cell. Leave the outer door closed so you 
don't see it. Why don't you have a bath? I always think that having a bath 
gets rid of time delightfully, and the bathroom here is super." Catherine 
watched her go. It was like the passing of a sunbeam. Dorothy was life 
exemplified. In the meantime, Dorothy's hands were tied behind her back and 
she could not get the free. She was confined to the apartment by the shackle 
on one ankle. All the windows were barred, and in any case, she discovered 
she was in an apartment high up beyond any hope of signaling or attracting 
attention. Morosely, she gazed out through the panes of glass, but the 
landscape was unfamiliar. 

She trailed her chain as far as the bar. wondering if she could contrive to 
pour herself a second drink with bound hands. She surprised herself. It was 
difficult, painful, and humiliating even though there was no one to watch 
her fumbling efforts. She did, however, finally contrive to make a drink 
almost as well as Dorothy had done. 

She was then confronted with the problem of how to drink it. After the first 
few sips, the level became too low and she couldn't raise or tilt the glass. 
She overcame the disability by utilizing a shallow bowl designed to hold a 
flower pot and in a manner no lady should be forced to do. Entering into the 
spirit of her lonely game, she started on number three. She had got as far 
as filling the shallow container and slurping some of its content when 
Professor Pomfret reentered her life. He appeared to be the eternally busy 
man. Bustling was the word that came to mind. He surveyed her effort with 
delight. 

"I'm so please! I would have been disappointed in you, Catherine, if you had 
not used your time to some advantage. Please continue--you make a charming 
picture." 

The captive deliberately did not continue. She flushed, quite certain her 
chin was wet and probably the tip of her nose too. Unwilling to be sulkily 
silent, she sneered, "Needs must when the devil drives." 

"Ah, you see! You're educated, my dear. It shows. I'm confident you'll be a 
rewarding subject." 

They stood and stared. Catherine supposed she would eventually get used to 
being naked, but she was not accustomed to it then. Under his scrutiny, she 
could feel the pink flush stealing down her cheeks towards her breasts. 
Despairingly, she pleaded, "Please untie my hands. There's no need to have 
them tied like this. You're being deliberately unkind. It's not asking 
much--you've got a shackle on my foot so I can't possibly leave the 
apartment." She studied him cautiously before asking, "And kind I have some 
clothes? I don't think keeping me naked proves anything." 

His reply was surprising. "Except that I'm a dirty old man. I'll tell you 
frankly, Catherine--I enjoy seeing a girl naked. I find her the most 
beautiful thing in the world, and you are most decidedly one of the most 
beautiful naked girls I've ever seen. You needn't be shy about it. You have 
something to be proud of." 

"I would prefer to be clothed, if you don't mind." 

"Forget it." He erased the testiness from his voice. "I do understand your 
concern. This is a bad time you're going through. I suppose I should 
apologize, but I'm not going to. It's you who has to make the adjustments. 
While you're doing so, I'll make you as comfortable as possible." 

"There is still time to send me home. I probably haven't yet been missed." 
Catherine put her heart into every word. "Please, please, please!" 

"No." The negative was like a blow--decisive and final. The bound girl felt 
its impact. For all his academic appearance, the Professor was a forceful 
male. The still-smarting cheeks of her bottom warned her to be cautious. 

Listlessly, she said, "It's a beautiful apartment--don't think I'm not 
grateful for that--but what am I going to do with myself in here?" 

Professor Pomfret cocked a sardonic eye. "Has it occurred to you what you 
just said represents a change in your attitude? You are now contemplating a 
stay here in this apartment with a shackled leg. How come?" 

"If you're going to analyze everything I say, I'd best keep quiet," 
Catherine said pettily. "There's nothing significant about it. I expect all 
it amounts to is Dorothy. She's a sweet little thing, and she's been kind to 
me." 

"No credit at all to that strap she used on your ass?" 

"All right, that too!" Catherine irritably conceded. "I won't deny it has an 
effect. You've instilled fear into me. I suppose that's what you want." 

"That's right, but mostly what I'm looking for is respect--not only for me 
but for the members of the class. What you're going to have to understand is 
that you've taken a drop in social status. You no longer give orders. Quite 
soon, in fact, you'll take orders as a matter of course." 

Catherine bit back a sardonic remark and instead asked, "But could you 
please untie my hands?" 

"No, my dear. Loss of liberty is one of the most potent factors in your 
training." 

"Training! What the hell does that mean! Look, Professor, can't we get right 
down to the nitty gritty, and then you send me home? 

We could stay friends. If you want to ask questions about feminine behavior, 
I'll answer them as best I can. But this business of keeping me prisoner is 
for the birds!" 

"It's for you, sweetheart. Get used to the idea. If you're bothered about 
your hands, let me show you something worse." 

It was one more segment in what could be called a nightmare. Not that it was 
a violent nightmare, just simply difficult to believe. As if by magic, the 
Professor produced cord. He turned her around in much the same manner as 
Dorothy had and looped her elbows. She too thunder-struck to protest, and by 
the time she did, it was too late. The several bands of twine had circled 
her and were being drawn tight and then tighter still. "You're hurting me! 
The cord's too thin! Please, you don't need to tie me like this--it's 
silly." Professor Pomfret made no reply. He seemed to be studiously engaged 
in getting Catherine's elbows as close together as possible and binding them 
tight. When he had succeeded in securing them beyond any hope she might have 
for escape, he answered, "You're going to have to get used to the idea of 
being bound without reason. Simply caprice on my part, or on the part of the 
class, is all we need. And as for your training, we'll do a few preliminary 
motions today. You're not ready yet, but I don't want to think you'll be 
cooling off your heels here for no purpose. Given time, we'll make a model 
girl of you. perhaps a prototype for a new breed." 

"I don't want to be a prototype for a new breed!" 

"That remark is irrelevant. From now on, what you like or dislike, Miss 
Mordant, influences nothing. Part of your training will be to persuade you 
to accept the premise of being nothing--absolutely nothing! And you have a 
very long way to go." 

The final knot was tied and made secure. Catherine was turned around to face 
her captor. Her immediate concern was pain. It was an incessant nag from the 
twine deep within her flesh. Her elbows screamed their own disapproval, and 
her wracked back shoulders added their own complaint. Disgusted, the naked 
girl realized this new binding had the effect of making her breasts far more 
demanding than she desired. They now jutted out beyond anything she 
remembered. Arrogance was a pale word to use in the face of this female 
glory. Catherine most ardently wanted her breasts covered. 

"They are beautiful!" the Professor enthused in tribute. "I know what you're 
going to say, though, so don't bother. I told you I was a dirty old man, and 
I intend to enjoy these breasts of yours to the fullest. What you have here, 
my dear, is probably the finest pair in the entire country. You should be 
proud of them. There are a few million girls who'd give half their lives to 
have what you appear to be ashamed of." 

"I am not ashamed!" Catherine snapped at him. "It's just that they shouldn't 
be on view in the first place, and in the second, they shouldn't be thrust 
into this abnormality by the binding of my elbows. Please be reasonable, 
Professor. Untie at least my elbows. The twine you've used hurts horribly, 
and it serves no earthly purpose." 

"Yes, it does, my dear," he said paternally. "It keeps you properly in line 
and decently subservient. Have you noticed that you've stopped calling me 
names?" . 

"I'm trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Is there any other part of me you 
intend to subject to the same indignity?" 

"Well, now that you mention it... " The Professor disappeared for a minute 
and returned bearing something Catherine viewed with fresh alarm. Why hadn't 
she kept her mouth shut and left well enough alone! The object was an 
exquisitely fabricated collar. "Does a lot for a girl, a collar does. Don't 
suppose you've ever been collared?" 

Catherine's angry denial was diverted by the casual manner in which the 
Professor used a free hand to test the taut resiliency of her right breast? 
He nodded approval. "Magnificent--simply magnificent! This collar is of 
metal. Miss Mordant. It locks around your neck, and needless to say, you'll 
not be given the key. Now just stand still." 

"Would you prefer me to call for help?" 

Catherine stood still, but with seething resentment. Male hands passed metal 
around her neck, adjusted it carefully, and then clicked it shut. It was 
exquisitely snug. In another time and place she might have been proud to 
wear it. The collar was a silver masterpiece studded with gems. The 
Professor sighed admiringly. "Go ahead and look in the mirror," he 
commanded. "And wipe that sulky look off your face." 

Catherine obeyed. She hated to admit to a feminine curiosity, but it was 
there. Standing before the glass, she gasped in admiration. The effect was 
stunning. Had she chosen it herself in the most expensive jewelry store in 
the city, she would have been immensely gratified at the effect. The 
barbaric beauty of the band matched her own vivid coloring. From her neck, 
her eyes traveled down to her thrusting breasts. She had no arms--they had 
vanished somewhere behind her back--but her breasts more than made up for 
their absence. Along with the newly clasped collar, they complimented each 
other in splendor. Despite herself, she was pleased with both. The effect 
was quite tremendous. She turned back to the Professor and casually said, 
"Nice. Yes, I'll agree that it suits me. Thank you. Now that you've had your 
fun, may I kindly be relieved of it?" 

"Only thing you'll be relieved of is the elbow tie," the Professor assured 
genially. "I only put it on you as a demonstration that things can always 
get worse. You remember that. " He turned her around in a manner how 
becoming familiar and commenced the task of undoing his own knots. Never had 
the captive girl felt more grateful than when they were peeled from the 
indentations and her skin. She said a fervid "thank you," but remained 
stiffly disapproving. 

"Well, that's that," Professor Pomfret said. "I'm a busy man, so I'll leave 
you here to get acquainted with your new home. You'll probably surprise 
yourself." 

The bound girl watched him go. She realized his leaving the door only 
partially closed was a chuckling emphasis on her chained foot. Closing the 
door no longer matter; she could not even reach out and touch it. She tamed 
her immediate attention to the most obvious; she went in search of a knife. 
If she could free her hands, it would at least be a moral victory, even 
though it got her no closer to freedom. But there was no knife. The tiny 
kitchen was well appointed with everything but a sharp edge. Such knives as 
the drawer contained were plastic. Instead of what she sought, there was a 
glaring note on a full sheet of paper: "You didn't really expect to find 
one, did you?" Catherine turned her back to grasp the missive in angry 
fingers, crumple it, and drop it in the waste basket. Somewhere the 
Professor would be having a quiet chuckle at her expense. It was a light 
note in the thread of her captivity, but it did not erase the suspicion that 
beneath the surface something was lingering, awaiting her for some terrible 
purpose of its own. Professor Pomfret and his class were about as far 
removed from her concept of kidnappers as they could get, yet here she was 
with her hands bound, ankles chained, and neck collared. She returned to the 
big mirror to admire herself again. Of everything done to her so far, the 
jeweled collar remained the single item from which she had drawn erotic 
stimulation. There was something about the collar; it was trying to tell her 
a story. She could well believe it had been worn by princesses of ancient 
times. It had that appearance, but its lock possessed a distinctly modern 
snap when it closed upon her throat. Involuntarily, she shuddered. 

Foiled in her search for a knife, Catherine turned her attentions elsewhere 
to a thorough search for anything by which she could fray the cord upon her 
wrists. Heroines in fiction always found some such surface and inevitably 
freed themselves. Surely she could do no less. But such objects as she chose 
to bite at the cords proved useless. The cords were nylon and not easily 
frayed. The knowledge she was thus bound only to emphasize her new condition 
did nothing for her temper. By the time Dorothy appeared, she was flushed 
and angry. 

"I bet you've been trying to get loose," Dorothy said, laughing at the 
sudden guilt on the flushed but lovely features. "Don't feel bad about not 
making it--you're not supposed to get loops, so there's simply no way you 
can manage it. Don't you enjoy being tied like that just a little bit?" 

"Of course not--don't be silly. Please untie me, Dorothy." 

Dorothy selected a chair and settled herself comfortably. "Do sit down, 
Catherine. Don't just stand there looking all stiff and red and angry. Don't 
you want to ask some questions?" 

"Yes, I do." Catherine found a chair of her own and sat down awkwardly. 
"What's this training or whatever it is that ridiculous man mentioned?" 

"He isn't ridiculous, dear--he's just not the way you think. He's nice and 
very clever. You ought to be pleased about the training; it means he's going 
to start you on it right away. He wouldn't do that if he didn't think you 
were intelligent and receptive. " 

"But what is it?" 

"Oh, it's really very simple: we teach you how to behave properly." Dorothy 
chuckled. "I suppose, really, it's pretty much like the army. The recruits 
all complain about the first few weeks because all they do is drill and 
stand in line and a whole bunch of stuff they figure is a waste of time. 
Probably the first thing the Professor will teach you is how to kneel." 

"I already know how to kneel. I am not an army recruit or a candidate for a 
harem." 

"You don't know how to kneel the way he will teach you," Dorothy admonished 
"You don't really know how to kneel at all. Would you like me to show you? I 
don't mean as a lesson, but simply to get you started painlessly." 

Catherine was aware of embarrassment. She was being treated like a child, 
and for no sensible purpose. But Dorothy was sweet. Her smile was 
infectious. She was obviously trying to help. Ungraciously, Catherine 
muttered, "You don't have to show me-- I'll show you. " The naked girl 
slipped to her knees and knelt before the seated girl. She glared angrily. 
"Well? What's so damn remarkable about this?" 

Dorothy's laughter was a trill of silvery sound. "Oh, darling, you look so 
funny like that. The proper way to do it is to first of all relax, then sit 
back on your heels. Go on, it's very simple." 

Suspecting she was the butt of a joke, Catherine cautiously obeyed. She 
supposed she had sat thus before, but she could not actually recall doing 
so. Finding herself stable in the new position, she looked up inquiringly at 
Dorothy's smile. 

"Ready for the second movement, dear?" 

"I would be if you'd untie my hands. I think it's best you do so now and 
stop this continual emphasis on my imprisonment." 

"That was a cute little speech," Dorothy agreed pleasantly. "But I don't 
want to hear any more about letting any part of you loose from anything. I'm 
allowed to whip you if you refuse to be sensible. Darling, please do be 
sensible." 

"Oh, very well," Catherine agreed testily. "Do we have to continue with this 
silly act?" 

"Of course we do. The next move is for you to separate your knees as far 
apart as you can get them. Please don't complain." 

"But--!" Catherine was viewing what, to her, was an impossibility. No 
self-respecting girl would ever sit or expose herself in the manner 
suggested. Acidly, she retorted, "I refuse to expose myself in that manner. 
You ought to know better than ask. It's obscene." 

"If it's obscene, then you're obscene. Actually, you'll look very lovely." 

"But you'll be looking straight at my--my--" 

"Your pussy?" Dorothy prompted helpfully. "Of course, dear. Pussies are 
supposes to be looked at. There's nothing shameful about a pussy. You don't 
have to keep the poor thing hidden away in darkness all its life." 

It would have been easier with hands with which to clutch and hide and give 
stability. But Catherine had no hands. Compelled by an inexplicable impulse 
which was half curiosity, the bound girl edged her knees apart at least six 
or eight inches, then stared defiantly. 

"That's a good start, darling. So much more comfortable, isn't it? And now 
the rest of the way, please." 

They understood each other. Catherine knew she would feel ashamed if she 
quibbled childishly with this delightful young woman. She separated her 
knees a couple more inches and then, almost as an act of desperation, threw 
them as wide apart as she could in the most deliberate exposure of her life. 
She was deeply thankful the Professor was not part of her audience. "Is that 
what you want?" she asked bitterly. "You ought to be ashamed making me do 
this." 

"I haven't made you do anything, dear. I've just suggested." Dorothy's tone 
was soothing and placatory. "You look simply gorgeous. The Professor will be 
so pleased." Dorothy giggled again. 

"You can get one up on him tomorrow when he starts to give you the do's and 
don't's. Simply slip into this position and you'll throw him for a loop." 

"If I do that, he'll think I'm enjoying it. You all seem to have this silly 
notion a girl should enjoy what I'm enduring. Do I get up now?" 

"No, we're not finished yet. There's more to kneeling than you think, 
Catherine. The next move is the bowed heat bit. You simply bow your head 
forward and down in shame or submission or homage or whatever. Go ahead, 
it's simple." 

It was not simple! It was one of the most difficult things Catherine Mordant 
had ever done. She did not share Dorothy's lightheartedness about the bowing 
of heads. There was only one reason a girl would bow her head, and she had 
no intention of being that humble or humiliated. On the other hand, since 
this was only a rehearsal, why not? Finding a strange and vibrant sensation 
in what she did, Catherine bowed her head. 

Dorothy gasped. "Oh, darling, if you could only see yourself! I can't do it 
half as well. And I don't think it's the actual doing of it--it's an 
atmosphere, an aura that clings to you. The Professor will absolutely flip 
his lid. Please stay like that just a minute. I want to enjoy this." 

Catherine was prey to several emotions. It had been easy to go this far with 
this girl, but supposing it had been a man who was directing the scene and 
who was looking down at her in masculine regard! She could not have borne 
it. With a man it would mean something utterly different, perhaps also with 
some women. But she remained in the pose of utter submission until her 
companion said, "Darling, thank you--thank you so much! That was really 
gorgeous." 

"Do I get up now?" 

"No, there are a couple more things. Your hands are tied now, and of course 
they often will be when you take this pose, but if they were free, you would 
hold them on your thighs, one on each with the palms up. Of if you are to be 
bound, you offer them up, keeping your head bowed by raising your arms so 
that your wrists are available to your owner." 

"And to what end do I suffer these subserviences?" 

"To make you the world's most perfect slave girl." Catherine considered the 
proposition. It was absurd and impractical. Under the threat of being 
whipped, any girl might make a temporary acquiescence to such a state, but 
it would be temporary; they would escape from it at the first opportunity. 
Sardonically, she ejaculated, "Hand maiden to a fat, pompous, middle-aged 
academic! Oh, Dorothy, come on!" 

"Not to Professor Pomfret. And don't keep speaking of him in that tone--I 
don't like it." Dorothy's own voice had taken on an icy tone. "When you've 
reached perfection, you'll be sold." 

"To J. C. Penny's or Sears?" The voice of the kneeling girl was heavily 
laden with sarcasm. "May I get up now?" 

"No! Stay as you are. I have other things to talk to you about, and you 
won't be sold through a department store. Believe it or not, the class and 
Professor Pomfret have already trained several girls to this degree of 
perfection and sold them. Really, darling, it leaves you astonished what 
rich men pay for beautiful girls who've learned to behave." Dorothy returned 
to her familiar giggle. "There's been times when I've thought of selling 
myself, except slave girls are not allowed to have money and couldn't sped 
it if they did." 

"A delightful fantasy. Now can we be serious? What happens to me?" 

"I've just told you. If you don't believe me, it doesn't matter. Things will 
move forward just the same. What I want you to do now is get back up on your 
feet. Back away a bit so you can step towards me as gracefully as you know 
how, then kneel and kiss my feet." 

"I'll do nothing of the sort." Catherine was still uncertain about the 
practical joke. Sometimes such things were carried a long way. This one had 
gone far enough. "It's time we stopped being silly. Untie me." 

"Which do you prefer dear, the riding crop or an English cane?" There it was 
again: the iron hand in the velvet glove. Dorothy, for all her youthful 
ebullience, was cold steel from a world Catherine did not understand. "You 
know I'm not going to do anything so demeaning, and all this talk of whips 
and canes is purely theatrical. Dorothy, please be sensible." 

"What I have to do with you," Dorothy said soberly, "is consider your 
background and make allowances. But, on the other hand, I absolutely must 
never allow you to manage me. You really are loaded with that beautiful 
arrogance of wealth in which you assume everyone will do whatever you ask. 
Darling, those days are gone. What we try and do is bring you to that 
realization without being too brutal. I'll get the riding crop; it's far the 
most flexible." They stood facing each other. Catherine gazed in mesmerized 
fascination at the limber length Dorothy was flexing back and forth. A few 
hours earlier she had been free, white, and twenty-one, going about her 
private affairs. She was still white and twenty-one, but her freedom seemed 
in great doubt. It wasn't fair--there hadn't been time. The whole thing was 
too much too soon. Brokenly, she said, "You're not giving me a chance. You 
can't take me back two hundred years in a couple of hours, especially when I 
don't want to go and have no intention of ever doing so." 

"We can try, darling. I'll go back to my chair and count to ten. In that 
time, you can pick up where we left off and there'll be not penalty. You 
know what's going to happen if you don't." Catherine knew. At the count of 
eight she was on her knees busily, kissing an expensive pair of feminine 
shoes. She consoled herself in this humiliation by assuring no one in 
particular that she would never have done it if Dorothy had been a man. She 
would have to draw the line somewhere. In the meantime, Dorothy was rather 
sweet. She kissed until she was breathless, then raised herself up. "Is that 
sufficient humiliation? Am I properly debased now?" Dorothy bent forward and 
kissed the hurt, sulky lips. "You see, dear, you can be sensible. You looked 
at my lovely riding crop and then my shoes. After that the choice was easy. 
It was easy for you, but some girls have found it quite impossible. They'd 
have fought and struggled and screamed and got themselves well cut up with 
an instrument really intended for horses, not bare-skinned girls. Any 
reactions?" 

"Shame and humiliation. Isn't that what I was supposed to feel? If you'd 
have been a man. I'd have died. I simply wouldn't have done it. I would 
sooner be whipped to bits." 

"Okay, okay, have it your way, Catherine. That name of yours-- it's 
cumbersome. I have to call you something else." Dorothy pondered for a 
moment. "I don't like Cathy, and I don't think much of Cath. I think I'll 
call you Kitten." 

"Don't you dare!" Catherine was aghast. "I am not a kitten--I don't act like 
one, and I don't act like one." 

"Yes, you do, dear. You've just been acting like a kitten, although you 
don't know it. When you made a choice between my riding crop and something 
you don't want to do, the riding crop wins every time. At least it has so 
far." 

"That's not fair. You're a girl, and I was trying to please you because I--I 
like you. Goodness knows why I like anyone in this place, but I seem to like 
you. But I'm so sick of the whole thing. Can't you realize how miserable it 
is for me? I'm a prisoner in what would be easy to describe as a madhouse. I 
mean, don't look at me--have a look at yourselves and consider how you 
appear to other people. Me, for instance. You're a hunch of kooks!" 

Dorothy sighed. She understood, but understanding made her task more 
difficult. She was apt to sympathize at wrong moments. She could easily be 
too tolerant. With this thought in mind, she slowly said, "Really, Kitten, 
you do ask for trouble. I realize it's part of being what you are and one of 
the reasons why we want you here, but you sure do make that pretty skin of 
yours vulnerable. If I were you, I'd tone it down. What I'm going to do 
right now is something I hadn't even thought of, but that word kook is 
unacceptable We are not kooks, and will not be called that under any 
circumstance. You won't like I'm going to do one little bit, and you'll be 
sorry you said you liked me. For a little while I'm sure you won't like me 
any more." 

The captive eyes widened. Catherine was already regretting her use of a 
distasteful word. These people were cultured and educated, and whatever 
their aims might be, they were going about it in what was quite probably a 
civilized manner. Certainly they would believe this was the case. Catherine 
eyed the two objects Dorothy held. Her comprehension was instant, her 
revulsion immediate. Once more the words of a cliche sprung out without 
volition: "You're not going to put those things on me--I absolutely forbid 
it!" 

"The virtue of them, Kitten, is their domestic nature. They will also hurt 
you. In your case, their effect will be to demoralize. With them properly 
clipped on your nipples, you will suffer more shame than pain. Are you going 
to stand still, or do you intend to be tiresome?" 

"If you think you're going to clip those things on my breasts, you're 
crazy!" Catherine exclaimed in a mixture of fear and outrage. "Keep away 
from me. If you come close, I'll kick you!" 

Dorothy came close. Catherine kicked hard and landed a heel on an enemy 
knee. She ran. It was a maneuver fully expected by a girl who held the crop. 
Dorothy would have been disappointed had it not happened. Without haste, and 
in a deliberately casual manner, she made pursuit, refusing to run but 
catching up with her quarry whenever Catherine paused for breath or to look 
around in evasive action. The chain to the captive leg clattered and rattled 
merrily as it was dragged back and forth across the rug. The two breasts, 
which were themselves the focal point and purpose of the chase, bobbed and 
heaved to keep pace with their owner's panting breath. Whenever Catherine 
trapped herself against a piece of furniture or the wall, Dorothy cut 
shrewdly with the crop to elicit a howl or protest and further evasive 
action in a fresh direction. In this manner the two girls toured the 
apartment from room to room with Catherine avoiding the bathroom since it 
was itself an obvious trap, a cul de sac in which she would be at the mercy 
of the crop. 

"Don't stop, dear--I'm enjoying this immensely." Dorothy was obviously 
telling the truth. 

Her chained ankle was Catherine's real enemy. It inevitably snagged around a 
bedpost to bring her headlong to the floor where she lay panting and 
dragging at a foot which refused to come free. While in that position, 
Dorothy took advantage of those portions of the captive girl most readily 
available. The crop cut again and again until Catherine struggled to her 
feet against the pain and surrendered. "All right, all right! I think you're 
mean, and you're taking a terrible advantage, but I'll stand still." 

Dorothy tidied her victim's hair before beginning the gentle massaging of 
the pink buds on the heaving breasts which were now hers to do with as she 
wished. Gentle fingertips alternating with palms of gentle hands frictioned 
each sensitive nipple until they were hard as flint, erect and demanding. 
With great care, which was in no way an affectation, she positioned the 
wooden clothespin above Catherine's heaving mound. With a precision seeking 
perfection rather than pain, she positioned the tiny jaws and allowed them 
to close. Catherine yelped and winced, looking down at something new, every 
fiber of her being in revolt against the stupid little domestic wooden 
horror biting at her with a steady pain. All she said was, "I still think 
you're being terribly mean." 

The positioning of the second wooden torment was equally cautious. Dorothy 
was seeking an effect. Properly positioned, its pin would stick out from its 
parent breast as though a part of the breast itself. They would bob and 
quiver enticingly as they continued their incessant nipping of maiden flesh. 
Dorothy stepped back to view in ecstasy. "Darling, they're marvelous! I've 
never seen a girl wear them as well as you. Do go to the mirror and have a 
look." 

It was in Catherine's heart to refuse, but she was impelled by a fervid 
curiosity of her own. What had been done was so far distant from anything 
she would have dreamed of a day ago that it merited attention. She could not 
believe it was happening except for the nagging pain, which fell just short 
of agony and which she suspected would increase rather than improve. She 
stalked angrily to the mirror and surveyed Dorothy's work. Despite herself, 
she could not avoid a gasp. She knew not if it was of admiration or horror 
or simply surprise at what she now beheld. The two little wooden pins danced 
and trembled as she breathed, but stuck out jauntily as though they were a 
pair of show-offs, exhibitionists in a public place. Even though it hurt, 
she shook her shoulders angrily in the hope that they would fall off, but 
she instantly realized that would not happen. The only way they would 
surrender their bite would be under the guidance of finger and thumb, and 
she herself had neither where they could be used. True to form, she turned 
and said with her usual arrogance, "Very well, you've done it. You've made 
me look at myself, and I think it's horrid, and they're hurting terrible. 
Please remove them." 

Dorothy's eyes were bright with mischief. "But, darling, you have to wear 
them quite a long time. I'm going to leave you now, and you can enjoy 
yourself. Just get used to them, and of course, if you can get them off, it 
is permissible. You won't be punished for that, so please do try." 

"That's a mean thing to say. You know I can't get them off. I can't do 
anything the way you've tied my hands! I suppose it's useless to ask again 
for them to be untied." 

"That's right dear--it's useless." Dorothy flicked each clothespin in turn 
to make them bob and dance and vibrate upon the taut breasts. She pulled 
rebellious lips toward her own and kissed them hard. "You're a terribly 
silly girl. Kitten, but you'll improve. I'll make sure you do. Now enjoy 
yourself. Think of it--a whole lovely apartment all your own. You can do 
anything you like except escape. Bye-bye, love." 

Catherine watched her leave and close the door, but it was not locked. She 
stood resolutely, pondering, unwilling to demean herself, but since there 
were no eyes to see, she might as well try to remove the biting little 
demons from the innocence of her nipples. To the musical accompaniment of 
her chain tether, she searched. Surely the was a way! 

But there was no way. Catherine tried a number of possibilities, even to the 
point of closing or striving to close a door upon the offending object so 
that that the jaws might spring open. She might have contrived this had she 
possessed hands, but robbed of them she was again and again foiled. The 
clothespins knocked, danced, bobbed, and vibrated to her anger and dismay, 
but would not be dislodged. Catherine sat, lay upon the bed, and leaned 
against the wall, but none of these did any good at all. It was like trying 
to walk away from her own shadow. Wherever she lounged or whatever she did, 
the clothespins were there. In defeat, she lounged in a big armchair and 
wept. But she could not dry her tears. They trickled down her cheeks to 
anoint her breasts. The mocking pins quivered as though in gratitude. 
Catherine longed to scream and beat her fists. 

On the following day, Miss Catherine Mordant was sold to Prince Abed Jamal. 

 CHAPTER TWO - BARTERED BEAUTY 

"I regret, Sir, that the young lady is almost completely untrained." 
Professor Pomfret was very apologetic. "But if you would like to leave her 
with us for a few weeks or months, I'm sure we could make her fit your 
needs." 

The dark-eyed descendent of Haroun El Raschid smiled and made a negligent 
gesture with one hand. The Prince spared the Professor a brief glance, then 
returned his intense regard upon the naked girl who stood before them, her 
hands still bound behind her back. "It does not matter. In fact, I believe I 
prefer this one as she is. She has a quality. At this moment I am picking up 
what you describe as vibes." He chuckled. "I accept them as a cry for help. 
Professor, I will rescue this young girl from your clutches and train her 
myself." 

"But, sir, you have always--" 

"Yes, yes, you are right--I have. I could not complain of any of your 
merchandise. It is of superlative quality. Your training methods are beyond 
reproach, but forgive me an aberration. In this case, I wish to take the 
girl in hand myself. I am a busy man, but I will spare a week or two." 

Catherine seethed. What was taking place was an international outrage. The 
crime was compounded by the Prince himself. He was undeniably handsome and 
everything a prince should be. She would have informed him of her equality 
of social status had not the Professor prudently gagged her. It was a neat 
and effective piece of work, and left her with a mouth wadded full to 
prohibit sound and a pair of lips solidly sealed by a band of soft leather 
buckled at the nape of her neck. Catherine stamped an indignant foot and 
shook her head vigorously enough to indicate a desire to speak. No one paid 
her the slightest attention other than the Prince's obvious enjoyment of her 
nudity. Prince Abed Jamal was by no means reticent. "You haven't thrashed 
her I notice. Why?" 

"I never thrash a girl too early in her confinement," Professor Pomfret 
said. "We train, rather than break our maidens." 

Once again the negligent notion with a princely hand. "No matter. In fact, I 
will be happy to do the job myself. I've always been intrigued by the 
outrage, the shock, the indignation, and sometimes the tears which are part 
of a girl's first communion with the whip. You say her name is Catherine? I 
will call her Jasmine." 

If she had not believed the result ludicrous, Catherine would have stalked 
angrily from the room, but the thought of dragging shackled feet with the 
clinking chain, plus the wiggling of her hips as she retreated out of sight, 
gave her pause. She could not be more exposed than she already was. In 
desolate resignation, she stood her ground and afforded the Prince an 
uninterrupted view of her pubic patch. He was studying it with unusual 
interest. "Best I've ever seen," he said with deep absorption. "It's one of 
the reasons I'm buying her. So many girls are so sparsely haired they might 
as well be shaved. That's what I do with them, but this one will keep it. 
How much do you want for her. Professor?" 

"I would rather not discuss her price while she is listening, sir." The 
Prince once more exercised his prerogative. He waved away, the concern of 
such niceties. Without preamble, he suggested casually, "One million?" 

"I was thinking more in terms of five." 

The princely hand waved away such quibbling. "Make it six," he suggested 
equably. "Money has become mere tokens to me. We produce the oil. and you 
give us the money. Then we give it back to you for treasures such as this." 
He indicated the infuriated maiden standing bound and gagged for his 
pleasure. "Before such loveliness, money is nothing. I'll give her her first 
thrashing and rename her at the same time." 

"May I ask, sir, how you intend to transport the young lady?" 

"Oh, that is no problem. I have my own plane. I thought you knew that. She 
can sit and talk to me, or preferably kneel and talk to me. It will simply 
be a continuation of the confinement you have instigated. She can even 
remain naked, as she is now. Once of the privileges of a title is diplomatic 
immunity. I find the manner in which you have her hands bound behind her 
back very pleasing. Perhaps I will heave her as she is." 

Apart from being frightened. Catherine was now outraged by the name Jasmine. 
It was impossible, the sort of name given to a cheap perfume or even a 
common dancing girl. She felt Professor Pomfret was being unkind and unfair 
in failing to mention to the Prince her own social superiority. No one in 
America would dream of naming the daughter of the Mordant family Jasmine. 
The absurd name conjured up visions of pantaloons and a tiny vest, both 
transparent. Once more she stamped and made such motions with her head as to 
indicate a most urgent desire to be heard. Once more nobody appeared to 
notice. However, the Prince was not as insensitive as the Professor. 
Blandly, he suggested, "Take that gag out of her mouth. We've arranged the 
details, so she can't interrupt us in any way that matters. I'd like to hear 
what has to say." 

Catherine was nothing if not an opportunist. When the wad was removed, she 
immediately burst out, "My father is the head of Mordant Investments! He 
possibly has more money than you have. Your six million dollars does not 
impress me." 

The Prince tilted his head. "It was not intended to, Miss Mordant. I'm well 
aware of who and what you are, and as a matter of fact, I have passing 
acquaintance with your father. We have done business. I'm sure he would be 
glad to know you have fallen into good hands." 

"You intend to tell him?" 

"Not at this moment, but perhaps later." The Prince smiled with a flashing 
of white teeth and another eloquent gesture. "You will understand, child, 
that I am unconcerned with social status, but I will admit I would not have 
purchased you had you been less than you are. Thrashing the young Miss 
Catherine Mordant carries far more distinction and panache than doing the 
same thing to little Jenny Smith or Zelda Schwartz. I'm sure you 
understand." 

jasmine understood all too well. She was by no means sure about the 
constantly repeated word thrashing. It might or might not happen. No doubt 
it was designed to intimidate and make her obedient. But she acknowledged 
shock in the fact that she had thought of herself under the new name the 
Prince had given her. She repeated it silently in her mind: Jasmine, 
Jasmine, Jasmine. It had a ring to it even though it evoked visions of 
see-through pantaloons and a tiny vest. But these people who owned the oil 
were now civilized. She could not be certain of the fate awaiting her. "If 
you do not release me and return me to my father, he will destroy you both, 
" she threatened dramatically. 

No one seemed impressed. The Prince eyes her heaving breasts and flat belly 
appreciatively. Dismissing all she had been and everything she had said, the 
Prince briefly stated, "You will not be rescued. Your father will do 
nothing. You have simply vanished. If I allow you to be resurrected at a 
later date, it will be for my own -reasons." 

"You must be mad. If I was some little trollop you'd picked up on the 
street, this would make some sense even though it is shockingly illegal, but 
to kidnap me is an act of madness. If you do dump me in the middle of your 
harem, or wherever you keep girls like me. I'll be nothing but trouble for 
you. I'm not going to be your ever-loving wife or slave or concubine or 
whatever you want to call it! You'll have to keep me tied up or chained all 
the time, and I don't see that that can possibly be much use to you. I'll 
repeat what I've said before. It would be much the best if you untied me and 
let me go." 

"Charming--quite charming!" the Prince enthused. "Anger animates you 
exquisitely, my dear. Often I will make you angry just for the pleasure of 
seeing the performance of your breasts and the flush you manage to 
manufacture in your cheeks. By the way, I notice it's spreading lower and 
lower. Does it ever get as far as your breasts?" 

He was insufferable. Catherine suspected she was being deliberately goaded. 
Possibly his grandfather had been kicked by a sergeant in the old Imperial 
Army of the British Raj, and now he was giving his own back. Whatever he did 
to her would be revenge. The thought was no comfort. The helpless girl's 
suppressed visions of Oriental tortures. Even though her father was a 
wealthy man, Catherine could not forebear a thrill of pride in the sum of 
money the Prince had paid for her. It had been done altogether too casually 
for her liking. She would have preferred some bartering coupled with an 
exposition of her virtues. Along with everything else, she cherished 
fictional visions of an auction block and herself the center of carnal 
attention. The least the Professor could have done was to extol the virtues 
of her breasts, her pubes, and her bottom. If a man was going to pay six 
million dollars for the whole collection, he might as well be given an 
inventory. She sniffed at the absurdity of the thought, but still felt 
cheated. No doubt it was the Prince's fault. He had probably purchased all 
too many girls for far too much money, but Catherine was nonetheless 
impressed. It seemed the only recognition of her social status she was 
likely to receive. 

There was nothing picayune about the Prince's plane. It was simply 
magnificent. The reluctant concubine mounted the steps with a guard in front 
and one behind. When she turned to wave in the hope of attracting attention, 
a gruff male hand swept swiftly up beneath the cape which hid her nakedness 
and clutched that portion of her she was most hesitant to name. By the time 
she had gathered aplomb, she was inside the plane and out of sight of 
possible aid. It was all well managed and wickedly contrived. As the engines 
revved and roared, the heir to the Mordant millions looked out of the 
portholes in a last despairing glance at her native land. Thereafter, she 
would be Jasmine and pliant to whatever laws the Prince might subject her 
to. 

Nothing is ever as we expect. Catherine was being kidnapped and taken to a 
foreign land on a foreign plane under the noses of the police, the army, the 
navy, and the air force, and no one either knew or cared. She was being 
purchased by a foreign prince, and no one seemed to be distressed about that 
either. The Prince was looking at her now with amused regard. His voice was 
as nonchalant was ever. She wondered if she might kick him on the kneecap 
and erase his smile. "Will you join us in canapes and cocktails, Jasmine?" 

The reply the purchased girl had ready was not uttered. The plane was now 
well off the ground and she was more totally in the power of this man than 
she had ever been of anyone in her whole life, other than her parents in 
early childhood. Catherine was annoyed with prudence, but prudence was 
there. It counseled caution. Instead of the angry words, she said a simple, 
unenthusiastic, "Thank you." 

"Come here." 

Catherine obeyed. Obedience would be less painful than disobedience--it was 
that simple. She stood before what she was now contemptuously thinking of as 
her lord and master, and was both shocked and surprised, and most 
regrettably pleased by him reaching up to the clasp of her cloak and tossing 
it aside to reveal her nakedness and her arms still pinioned at her back. He 
turned her around and cut away the cords with a convenient knife. Catherine 
had been bound since the day before, and the weals in her skin were still 
deep and red. The Prince massaged them as though the act was unworthy of 
note, while his newly purchased slave girl stood passively for the 
attention. Catherine's paramount impression was that the hands of a prince 
were exceedingly wise. She accepted the cocktail and made her selection from 
the plate proffered by an impassive butler. Both were superlative. 

"You will remain standing, Jasmine, until I give you permission to be 
seated," the Prince explained gently. "I will make allowances for your 
shock, your dismay, your distress--these are natural. I will not tolerate 
sulkiness, petulance, or disobedience. The thrashing already mentioned will 
happen to you sometime within a couple of days, perhaps in an hour's time. 
You are not to know this." His smile made Catherine wish she had met him in 
the proper place at the proper time. She knew he was too good to be true, 
and she was stolidly awaiting the denouement. But there was nothing 
conventional about Prince Abed. He raised his cocktail glass and glinted at 
her. His toast was outrageous, but it was something she could not 
contradict. "Here's to the new slave maiden," he suggested genially, then 
put the glass to his lips. Catherine did the same, but remained mute. She 
had not offered her glass to his, and now said with a firmness to belie her 
quaking heart, "I'm not a slave. I cannot be a slave. I'm sorry if this 
disappoints you, but you have purchased the wrong girl. When we reach our 
destination, you would be wise to ship me back home again and forget me." 

As usual her plea fell shattered in the face of indifference. Instead of 
replying, he commented with a frightening sobriety: "You need that thrashing 
in the worst way. Miss Mordant. When I'm through with you, you won't be 
Catherine Mordant any more--you'll be Jasmine. Tell me, have you ever been 
whipped?" 

"Of course not!" 

"A pity! It means you have a longer road to travel. We do things much better 
in the East. Really, I sometimes despair of your civilization. The way in 
which you have handed over your wealth in return for our oil has demeaned 
you in the yes not only of yourself but in the eyes of the world, 
particularly mine. You drilled the wells, and you could have reclaimed them 
with a few thousand troops, but you lacked the courage. The West has 
exhausted its courage in the two wars. It is not Mr. Chamberlain's peace at 
any price. Ten or twenty years ago, I would not have dared to buy you. Today 
I have done so, and nobody will care." The Prince sighed. "I suppose I am 
the principle beneficiary of the new order." The shook his head sadly. "But 
I find myself often regretting the passing of the British Raj." He smiled 
down at her. "You will receive your thrashing within a very short space of 
days. It will be something for you to look forward to, a great help in 
making adjustments." He waved a hand. "Don't bother to disagree--I know your 
sentiments." The Prince's smile was altogether charming. "I do wish you 
could stop looking so angry and distressed. Perhaps I should keep you 
occupied. A nice idea might be for you to take over the duties of a 
stewardess. The charming lady about to serve us drinks is Miss Susan White. 
She will instruct you." The Prince I turned his charm upon the smiling girl 
with her tray. "Susan, would you mind?" 

Once again, it was too much, too soon. The girl renamed Jasmine was furious, 
beholding in the smiles only ridicule. Decisively, she turned and backed 
against the man who presumably now owned j her. She once more crossed her 
wrists and demanded, "I'll have none of that nonsense! You may as well tie 
me up again." 

He pushed her gently away and nodded to the stewardess. Susan White 
evidently knew what to do. Perhaps the whole thing had been j preconceived. 
Jasmine watched in ill-concealed horror. As though by magic, Susan produced 
a small, wicked whip. She knelt before I the man and presented it humbly. 
She then rose, stripped to the waist, and to the watching girl's disgust, 
knelt submissively, offering her bared back to the man who now held the 
whip. Prince Abed wasted no words. "I will whip Susan until such time as you 
decide to be sensible. Her duties are light--they will not burden you." He 
raised an arm. 

"Stop! This is impossible--ridiculous! Please put that horrible thing away. 
You don't expect me to stand watch a half-naked girl get thrashed, do you!" 

"We expected you to react as you are now. I'm sure Susan is j not the least 
bit apprehensive." 

Anger again! Whichever way she turned she was stymied by those I who held 
the upper hand. Haughtily. she exclaimed, "Well, if that's the case then, 
you may as well go ahead and whip the silly creature! If you wish. I'll 
watch." 

Susan turned away and resumed her submission, her gleaming white back an 
open invitation to the cruelty of the whip. The Prince stood, rolled up his 
sleeves, and once more swept the whip in as wide an arc as the place 
allowed. 

"Oh, damn you--all right! I'll do it, but I think your both ridiculous and 
unkind." 

The naked girl realized the ordeal would not be easy. It would tax all her 
dignity and inflict a series of humiliations. She knew this at the start. It 
began simply with a tray containing two glasses, one for the Prince and the 
other presumably for herself, unless she and Susan and changed places. The 
first real tax upon her tolerance came when she was obviously expected to 
kneel when she offered the Prince his libation. It savored to much of 
fiction, of fairy tales, of silly sexual fantasies, but a vision of Susan's 
white back and her own so conveniently bare overcame her scruples. She 
knelt, she offered the tray. Of her own accord she offered the bonus of 
bowing her head. The act had the virtue of obviating the meeting of eyes. 

They sat opposite each other and chatted. Had it not been for her nakedness, 
the contact would have had a pleasantly casual atmosphere. There was an 
awkward and rebellious pause when the Prince instructed her to widen the 
space between her legs. "You're behaving like a dirty old man, looking at me 
down there." She glared defiantly. "It's not a natural way for a girl to 
sit, and you don't have to make me do it." 

"Oh, but I do indeed, and if you think I am dirty--well, perhaps a dirty 
young man?" His eyes sparkled mischievously. "Of course, if you prefer to 
see Susan whipped--" Disgustedly, Catherine provided him with a blatant view 
of her pubic hair and that which lay beneath. The Prince nodded, 
unblushingly enjoying what he beheld. Susan looked relieved. It was not much 
later that the girl beckoned. This time Jasmine discovered her duty was to 
present a cigar and then light it for her master. Susan had explained that 
this was how she must regard Prince Abed Jamal, and when necessary, it would 
be the name by which she would address him. Seething with anger and thoughts 
of terrible retributions, Jasmine performed the task, her flushed features 
revealing her hatred of every motion. 

"Thank you," the man said. "You are also forbidden to sulk, Miss Mordant. 
You understand that. I want those surly looks erased immediately." 

"Drop dead!" 

Even Jasmine herself was shocked. Susan's gasp was clearly audible. The 
Prince looked pleased. He turned to the waiting stewardess. 

"Susan, dear girl, once more if you please." 

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" With a forceful arm, Catherine propelled the 
stewardess toward her quarters, then turned her attention to a prince who 
was only slightly surprised. "If you're so damn whip-happy, whip me, you 
pompous idiot! No man with any chivalry at all would play the game you're 
playing with us. It's a game you have to win--there's no other way because 
if one of us doesn't get whipped, the other does. Neither of us could 
possibly admire you." Jasmine stood nakedly furious, panting in the 
vehemence of outrage. "You must have been reading Uncle Tom's Cabin! You're 
whip-happy, like Simon Legree. Don't you have a mattress or something you 
can beat to get it out of your system!" 

"I have you, Jasmine." 

The quiet voice was more frightening than angry. He had her indeed. The 
airplane was an effective prison. The Prince's tone remained gentle as he 
turned to the uncertain member of his staff. "Susan my dear, would you do me 
the kindness of taking this silly girl and whipping her for me? I'm not 
going to whip her myself, she's too ridiculous." 

"Yes, sir." It was as though the Prince had ordered one more drink. In this 
exchange, Jasmine had stepped back and now stepped back again surveying both 
the man and the stewardess in pure disbelief. "This is a charade," she 
declared venomously. "I'm not impressed. I would suggest all three of us 
return to normal." 

"What are you complaining about? It was you who asked to be whipped in 
Susan's place. You are supposed to be aiding our stewardess in the execution 
of her duties, so do so now. " The authoritative voice turned to the waiting 
girl. "Susan, explain to Jasmine how she will be fastened while receiving 
her thrashing." 

The two girls faced each other like boxers in the ring. Catherine was 
furious in the frustration of being constantly engineered into situations 
where she had a choice between violence and rationale. Violence was deeply 
satisfying but would avail her nothing. She had no wish to lay her hands on 
Susan, but it would be pure joy to claw, club, and scratch the male features 
to complacently watching her internal battle. Jasmine shrugged and turned to 
Susan. "Very welt, I will do what you want. Please show me." 

The private plane of Prince Abed Jamal had everything: luggage compartments 
high above the seats opened to disgorge a short length of chain and a 
handcuff, just a single band of steel one on each side so that when Susan 
raised the reluctant arms and clipped the manacle tight upon the angry 
wrist, Jasmine stood in the aisle her hands held up outstretched and solidly 
secured. While this was being done to her, she had completely forgotten the 
purpose, other than her own humiliation, but now it was forcibly borne upon 
her that she was naked and about to be whipped by a girl of inferior social 
status, and this in front of a man who might or might not be a prince but 
was most certainly an extremely wealthy member of another race. All she 
could think to say was the ancient cliche, "You'll both be sorry for this!" 

It was Jasmine herself who bore the sorrow. A seat folded back and set aside 
provided Susan with the necessary room in which to perform her task. It was 
obvious she had done it before. She was not embarrassed. If there was 
sympathy in her eye. it was imply that of maidens sharing a common 
experience. This time when her arm swept up and back there was no descent. 
Prince Abed Jamal watched. His attention was that of one artist watching the 
genius of another. He was appreciative of Susan's technique and of Jasmine's 
response. His features were studious, absorbed. 

Jasmine herself was fighting to stand still. This was a different experience 
to Dorothy and her strap. The cut of Susan's small whip bore no resemblance 
to the resounding impacts of Dorothy's leather. It was as though a child had 
graduated to an upper grade. There was no doubt in her mind she would stand 
haughtily while receiving this indecent infliction on her flesh. She must 
neither scream nor writhe. It was her duty to exhibit to these perverts a 
fine educated indifference to pain and exposure. But after the seventh 
stroke had bit cunningly in a place no whip should go, Miss Catherine 
Mordant discovered herself doing both, her scream was partly of anger, but 
her contortions were whole-heartedly dedicated to the distress of her 
whipped skin. The handcuffs and their chain, off to either side above her 
head, rattled and clinked merrily in accord with her struggles which Jasmine 
assured herself were involuntary and beyond her control. 

"Be careful of her breasts, Susan, we must save them for another occasion." 

The quiet comment penetrated Catherine's haze of agony. She had no doubt of 
an intention to break her spirit, to reduce her to subservience. In spite of 
her inability to remain silent or stand still beneath Susan's punishing 
whip, the girl whose skin was rapidly acquiring a pattern of tell-tale marks 
knew her spirit was intact, they would not touch it by crudities such as 
this. They were whipping her as they might whip the less sensitive skin of a 
delinquent in reform school. But Jasmine yelped and twisted as a couple of 
cunning cuts caught her one across the velvet expanse of her shoulders, the 
other lapping and biting at a hip. It was becoming increasingly evident to 
the girl named Jasmine that to be whipped by a woman was to be in the hands 
of an expert, one who knew all the worst possible places on a girl. 

"I think we might pause a moment, Susan." 

The quiet command stopped the whipping instantly, but it did not stop the 
thudding of a captive heart or the continued motions of revolt against the 
steel on haughty wrists. They continued until Jasmine realized the 
infliction had come to a stop. She was suddenly, shamingly aware of being 
bathed in the sweat of pain, her skin glistening in the porthole's light. 
For a minute the whipped girl was satisfied to regain her panting breath and 
her composure. Then, despite resolution, she looked back over a raised arm 
at the seated man. 

"I have thought of this as a possible termination, Susan, but it would 
appear that it is no more than an intermission. Please continue." 

It was too cruel. Catherine's first scream was a peel of pure outrage rather 
than of pain. What did he expect of her! What could she do fastened as she 
was! Resignedly, she uttered swift but well- controlled words, "I can't 
fight the whip, you know I can't. What is it you want?" 

"Nothing. You are being trained. Consider yourself lucky. I would not take 
this trouble with every young woman." 

"I can't bear it! Ooohhh! I've had enough--please!" 

The whip ceased its snapping cuts, but Susan stood in readiness for a 
resumption, the man said nothing. "I don't want to be whipped any more. Is 
there something you wish me to say?" 

"You could try 'please, master.' " The Prince's tone was dry. It was too 
much! They had stripped her skin bare, they had whipped it, and now they 
would strip and scour her mind. Bleakly, the chained girl said, "If all you 
want to do is rub my nose in the dust, you may as well go on whipping me." 

Jasmine had said the wrong thing and regretted it instantly. She had 
overrated her fortitude, and the snap of the whip seemed harder on her skin. 
After the fourth stroke she turned and her voice was heavy with misery. 
"Please... master." 

Susan unlocked the manacled wrists. Their owner stood dejectedly in defeat. 
Miss Catherine Mordant had spoken the unforgivable word and would condemn 
herself forever. Drearily, she muttered, "You can make me do or say anything 
if you whip me enough. It isn't significant. You have to realize a girl's 
acceptance of defeat that way is insincere." 

"It is what I asked of you. Forget the martyrdom. Please sit down, your 
cocktail is still waiting." 

Susan and her whip had discreetly vanished. Jasmine dejectedly sought to see 
the damage on her skin, only the overlaps were visible. In sudden need she 
sat opposite her owner and gulped gratefully. Perhaps in a little while she 
would feel better, but at the moment she was simply a naked girl who hurt. 

"There is now the matter of our disembarkation," the Prince said affably as 
though nothing untoward had occurred. "You have two possibilities. You can 
be carried screaming and struggling from the plane to the waiting car, or 
you can be clothed and escorted by myself in queenly fashion. Your 
conscience will tell you the first choice is the right one for you, but your 
reason will dictate the second. I recommend it highly." 

It was so stilted and formal. Kidnappers were supposed to be brutal men who 
kept their victims tied up or locked in a coal shed or some such dismal 
place and spoke to them only in monosyllables heavily laced with four-letter 
words. But could Prince Abed Jamal properly be described as a kidnapper! He 
had purchased her and paid a great deal of money. On the other hand, 
Professor Pomfret had in no way resembled her concept of a kidnapper either. 
Had she been treated in her own vision of the way kidnapped girls were 
manhandled she would now be a whimpering bundle of female anguish. But in 
these swift transitions she had contrived to retain a modicum of dignity. 
She was sitting across from her new owner rapidly gulping the contents of 
her glass, automatically and rejecting guilt, she deliberately spread wide 
her knees for his approval. She told herself she preferred the voluntary act 
rather than his male command. Still resentful, she asked bluntly, "What are 
you going to do with me? I mean, what is often referred to as what is my 
fate?" 

"I have a profitable use for you. That is all you need to know. Now, the 
matter of our disembarking?" 

"Yes, of course," she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I won't struggle and 
scream. I feel I ought to, but I'm quite sure you have all the bases 
covered. You may escort me in the manner you described. Do I get to keep the 
garments I wear?" 

"Oh, a touch of humor, but alas no, you do not remain clothed beyond the 
necessities of conveyance to my home." 

"A castle, a moat, and a drawbridge, I suppose?" 

"No. You appear to have been reading gothic paperbacks. I'm surprised at 
you. I am an admirer of Moorish architecture. You will see." 

Catherine was escorted from the plane to the limousine in style, but the 
arrival was not an event. The Prince was primarily a businessman. The press 
was not there. Had she chosen to scream and struggle, her efforts would have 
lacked drama. Wearing the clothes and shoes provided, Catherine almost 
wished for a larger audience. Settled inside the limousine with the 
community unfolding beyond the windows, she was confronted with one more 
cross to bear. This time a pair of handcuffs. The Prince handled them 
thoughtfully and perhaps lovingly, but his enforced guest viewed them with 
intense distaste. "You have no need of them at all. I told you I wouldn't 
struggle. Please, not that humiliation too!" 

"The same terms and conditions. Miss Mordant. May I suggest compliance?" 

Disgusted, she extended her hands. She was now being treated as a convict 
and wondered where this succession of humiliations would cease. She could 
not avoid a flinch as the shining steel was neatly arranged around each of 
her wrists and clicked tight. 

"Exquisite," the Prince said with great admiration. "You should always wear 
bracelets, Jasmine. I will see to it." 

"They are not bracelets; they are chains placed upon me under coercion." 

"Oh, for pete's sake, can't you unbend just once!" The princely voice was 
suddenly boyishly colloquial. "Do you always have to talk like a Victoria 
novel?" 

"Do you have to act like one?" she demanded acidly. "This whole affair could 
well be Victorian melodrama. Do you happen to have a snake pit or some red 
hot irons awaiting my arrival?" 

"Oh, shit! You're impossible." He was being deliberately uncouth in an 
effort to shock her into the human race. "No, I have none of those things. I 
may have some others you'll be equally shocked about. Of course, there is 
always another taste of what you've just had." 

"I have no wish for another taste of what I have just had. Surely you 
realize such methods are ineffective. You can make me scream, you can make 
me contort, you can even make me perform various acts, as for instance my 
behavior now, but you cannot change me. If that is an essential part of your 
ambition, please send me home immediately, you're wasting your time." 

Prince Abed Jamal looked at his purchase with a genuine admiration. "You're 
one for the book! I can see the Professor's point about getting a girl from 
the upper classes. Their behavior is far more entertaining than a girl from 
a Safeway checkout. I'll have to let the old boy know how long it takes and 
the means employed to get you down to normal." 

Jasmine sat primly, hands in lap, trying not to look at the shining metal on 
her wrists, but it had a fascination she could not resist. 

She remembered heroines of feet and fiction who had been similarly 
restrained. There were connotations to the chrome bands not to be ignored. 
She would have lifted them for close examination, but watched by princely 
eyes, she would not so demean herself. Instead, she asked as politely as she 
could contrive, "May I ask, in all sincerity, that you leave me clothed as I 
am now? I can see no possible profit for anyone in keeping me naked. If you 
wish to see my body, I presume you have the power to make me strip at any 
time. Surely that is sufficient." 

"Hmmm, for me, yes, but not for you. Nakedness is implicit in the state you 
now enter. You are a slave, Jasmine. Act like one." 

A slave! In a limousine! Gowned by Dior! Braceleted in gyves of shining 
steel! Jasmine was painfully aware of the contradictions her master ignored. 
But he was a contradiction himself, a relic of another age in the 
habiliments of today. Jasmine fully expected to be raped before the day was 
through. In an effort to provoke information, she asked stiffly, "There's a 
rape scene in here somewhere I have no doubt. When does it happen?" 

"You can hardly wait, can you?" he laughed at her discomfiture. "I have many 
willing bed girls who are far more comforting than you. Perhaps I will have 
Susan instruct you in that art too. I have no intention of wasting my 
virility on sulkiness, martyrdom, and immobility." 

He had said the words just to hurt her, she knew he had. The idiot had no 
knowledge of her prowess. If he ever gave her the chance, she would surprise 
him. Catherine prided herself on her techniques, but it was a subject she 
could not pursue and win. She dropped it. Soon, outside the perimeter of the 
town, she beheld the palace of the Prince. It was everything it should be: a 
Moorish dreamland of courtyards and patios, of trickling streams and 
fountains. There was lush green aplenty. Her heart sang at the sight of it. 
His home was beautiful, but that was not out of character but normalcy had 
ended. At the main doorway of his palace the Prince dismounted, nodded to 
her in a perfunctory manner, and departed. In his place were two servitors, 
a man and a woman. They helped her from the vehicle, but there courtesy 
ended. Each grasped one of her arms and led her not into the building but 
away from it. They traversed patios and gardens to reach a courtyard. It was 
of considerable dimensions, mostly paved with tile, a good many flower beds, 
and one or two palm trees. They led her to an anomaly. It was a quite 
separate square of a differently textured and colored tile, perhaps twelve 
foot square. In its center was a metal post about three feet high. From the 
top of it trailed something Jasmine recognized all too well. She did not 
believe it was happening, but knew it would. Once more refusing to fight, 
she stood stiffly while the woman removed her gown and all else to leave her 
once more nude. Gentle hands that were very, very firm compelled her forward 
to kneel beside the slender metal post while equally firm fingers encircled 
her neck with the waiting collar. When it was snapped shut, the sound told 
of a modem lock. It was also sufficiently snug to be almost a part of her. 
It weighed heavily, as did the trailing chain. The man and the woman 
salaamed and went away. No one had spoke a single word. 

The courtyard had a thousand eyes. True, no single human being marred its 
perfection. The prisonered girl searched in vain for company. Finding none, 
she turned her attention to her own plight. It was very simple: she was 
chained by the neck to a steel pillar in the middle of a rectangle of tile 
in which there was a grate above a drain. Gazing at it, its significance was 
suddenly apparent and brought a flush to captive cheeks. It also prompted a 
thrill of fear. It spoke of permanence. Exploring the collar, she found it 
costive and without sympathy. Lifting the chain and examining the links, she 
knew escape would be only a dream. It would be nice to sit down and gather 
her disorganized thoughts but to sit on the stone squares was unattractive. 
It would be extremely hard upon bare skin, and she saw no way of sitting 
down without appearing untidy and graceless. She shrank from the idea, 
instead she took tentative steps to test the length of the metal bond by 
which she was prisoner. It took her only as far as the outer limit of the 
tiles square, no more. She tried the other direction simply for something to 
do, but the result was the same. Disgusted, she returned to the central 
post, sat down, and leaned her back against it. If this was the best she 
could contrive, well so be it. 

The prisoner's day had been well advanced at its beginning. It would not be 
long before twilight. Catherine had take the precaution of seating herself 
to enable a full view of the house, and she was ever alert for any sign of 
life. But as the time wore on and evening fell, the only other human being 
to come into view was a servant girl who timidly deposited a container of 
water within her reach, then hastily returned to the house. Once more the 
act had been in silence. The maiden ignored Jasmine's urgent appeals. Quite 
probably she spoke no English. 

No food! No attention! Nothing! Jasmine well realized the situation 
contrived. She was going to be allowed to sit there chained, to stew in her 
own thoughts and fears. But despite this conviction, it was impossible not 
to feel the icy hand of fear in a possible abandonment. Perhaps she had been 
forgotten! She thrust the thought away. There was but one single comfort in 
this whole thing: the air was warm, so she would not suffer from exposure. 
When the serenity of stars took possession of the courtyard in their silvery 
light, the captive of the chain knew she was condemned. For her there would 
be no release. She wondered if she was watched from the blind eyes of the 
windows of the house. 

To sleep upon the squares of tile was unthinkable. Surrounding the rectangle 
on which she was captive was a fringe of grass, well tended and green. She 
made every effort to strain her tethering chain in such a way as to enable 
her to lay upon it, but she was denied. This too had no doubt been carefully 
planned by whoever had measured out the chain. Not that any of her bondage 
appeared freshly designed, it could have been as it was now for centuries, 
had that thought not been belied by the snap of the lock on the collar. 
Catherine disposed herself unhappily and uncomfortably upon the stone beside 
the metal post. She would try and sleep on what was probably the most 
uncomfortable bed in all of Africa. She cried and was thankful there was 
none to see. 

Morning brought no change. She had slept poorly and was still listless and 
irritable squatting beside the post and using it for support. Eventually the 
woman and the girl she had previously seen arrived with a pail of water, 
some clothes, a towel, and food. Washed and fed by impersonal hands, the 
girl called Jasmine surveyed her day. It was a bleak prospect. It was also 
evident the courtyard was out of bounds for the household staff. It remained 
deserted so that a pall of loneliness fell upon the naked maiden who was its 
only occupant. But Jasmine consoled herself with the thought that the Prince 
would surely come. She knew she would be inordinately glad to see him .She 
was still thinking in terms of "making him see the light" or "coming to his 
senses." To keep the daughter of the Mordant millions chained in his 
backyard was altogether too bizarre. And anyway, what was the profit? But 
when by evening no one of importance had come near, the chained girl 
realized a purpose. She was being softened up, conditioned, made humble and 
fearful so that when the Prince deigned to make an appearance she would be 
frightened and ready to please. When she complained to the girl who brought 
her water and food, the child only shook her head and smiled and went away. 
She refused to speak. The whole effect was eerie and disquieting, as though 
she was chained on a dead planet revolving in space. 

The first day passed and then the second. A squall of heavy rain did nothing 
to lift Jasmine's drooping spirits. She could do nothing but remain as she 
was with the water beating at her in fierce gusts, which were fortunately 
warm. The collar and its chain mocked her in everything. The band around her 
governed and controlled her every move, almost her every thought since she 
had to consider it any fantasy she dreamed. To repair the ravages of the 
rain, the girl provided a comb and brush and watched wide-eyed in solemn 
contemplation as the captive girl used it grateful to tidy her hair, then 
handed them back and watched her small jailer once more depart. 

Jasmine's loneliness ended on the fourth day. 

The heavy-set figure emerging from the house striding purposefully toward 
the captive girl was not the Prince. It was a large, fleshy man of less than 
middle-age. Immediately he spoke he proclaimed himself a Texan. He surveyed 
the chained nudity with approval. "Honey, you're a sight for sore eyes. Been 
out here long?" 

"Four days and nights!" 

"Huh! Bet you're ready got a good steak? They sure do know how to treat a 
girl in these parts. I'd have never thought to fix you this way. Do my old 
lady back home a world of good, it would. My name's Henry Kemp. Ever hear of 
me?" 

"No." 

"Guess that's because you ain't in oil." Henry Kemp spoke as though lowering 
her social standing. "You're Mordant's daughter, ain't ya? Bet the old boy'd 
bust a gut if he saw you like this. I've had dealings with Mordant. He's a 
tough cookie." 

"He'll pay ransom, though! Daddy would never leave me chained in this 
condition. Please help me." 

Henry Kemp waved away the nonsensical request. "Honey, ain't nobody going to 
help you. Forget the idea. What I likely am going to do is use you. You're 
damned expensive merchandise, but worth every penny. I see his nibs had you 
whipped, eh?" 

Jasmine flushed. The marks even after a lapse of four days were still 
clearly evident upon her skin. She did not bear them with pride. "I've been 
treated outrageously," Jasmine affirmed vehemently. "Surely I can look to 
you for some sort of help. You're not going to just stand there and make fun 
of me, are you?" 

"Well, not for too long, honey. But I don't have no key to that pretty 
collar around your neck, so I ain't letting you loose. What I'm figuring on 
is buying you. You're a damn pretty little trick. I suppose you know that. 
You've got a pair of knockers there like I've never seen, and that there 
pubic bush down below--honey, you got something there a man has to see to 
believe." 

She could not place him. She recognized him as a type but not a type she had 
dwelt amongst or dealt with. There was about him a ruthless geniality which 
could do her good or ill. Jasmine supposed his references to her physical 
features were to be expected from one of his kind. But to buy her from the 
Prince... ! It made no sense, these vast sums of money banded around in 
payment for a naked girl! Testily, she demanded, "What do you want for me? 
You can buy all sorts of pretty girls for far less than I think you'll have 
to pay for me." 

"But they ain't Mordant's daughter." 

Jasmine forced her hands away from her breasts. Kemp's reference to them had 
caused them to instinctively rise and shield. This was not a man with whom 
to be coy. There was a blunt decisiveness about him she wished to match. 
Unhappily, she inquired, "What you're saying is you and the Prince intend to 
extract something from my father as ransom for my return. Is that right?" 

"Something like that, honey. You don't need to bother your pretty head about 
it. Your dad and me, we'll fix the details. If Mordant knows you're going to 
get that little ass of yours whipped every day, it'll speed up negotiations 
right smart." 

"But I thought the Prince wanted me, I mean just me--" Jasmine blushed, her 
hasty words had betrayed more than she intended. In fact, more than she had 
realized herself. The big Texan instantly picked up the message. "Got the 
hots for him, eh! Well, can't say I blame you. He's a handsome son of a 
bitch, and he's got a way with him. When he talks about letting me buy you, 
you'd think he was slipping me the crown jewels of England or the Taj 
Mahal." There was another lewd chuckle. "I'd have thought, at his age, he'd 
have wanted to keep you for a bit of fun. He can afford it. I bet you're a 
damn good piece of ass." 

"There's no need to be offensive, Mr. Kemp. I'd be grateful if you'd get in 
touch with my father immediately and put an end to this whole sorry 
business." 

The Texas grin studied her with amused approval. "You always talk like that, 
honey?" He chuckled. "The Prince told me about you and the way you sound 
Mrs. Beaten's cookbook or that crap you recite in school. Honey, what you've 
got to do is loosen up. I was thinking of screwing a bit of ass of you 
myself before I passed you on. but damn it. I'd just as well screw that 
there pole you're chained to." 

"Please, if you have any chivalry at all--" 

"I ain't got none of that stuff at all, honey." The Texan laughed 
delightedly at her chagrin. "Ain't much of it around these days. Don't 
suppose they ever heard of it in these parts, and there's damn little in 
Texas. What a man would have to do with you is give you a damn good lacing 
on that round rump of yours first--get you warmed up. You're so damn frosty 
I bet you wouldn't feel a pin if I stuck one into you." 

Jasmine's breasts were once more heaving under the stress of emotion. Here 
was salvation! But Henry Kemp would grant it to her only under his own 
conditions. Jasmine was bitterly hurt that Prince Abed was so willing to 
part with her so soon. He was a romantic figure any girl could get a heart 
throb from, and now to learn she meant so little to him was shattering. 
Dully, she echoed her thoughts. "I'd do anything to get back home." 

Henry Kemp laughed. He was enjoying this lovely creature fastened to the end 
of a chain. He was picking up the vibrations of Jasmine's disgust, fear, 
outrage, and hope. He might amuse himself with her before sending her back 
to Mordant--if negotiations went that far. His tone was humorously mocking: 
"Honey, there ain't nothing you can do a man can't take without bargaining. 
If I want a piece of tail off you right now, what can you do about it? I'd 
take it. I could make you recite the Constitution or the Gettysburg Address. 
Best face up to it, girl--you ain't got nothing." 

Jasmine longed to dismiss him with something curt and acid. But Henry Kemp 
was the only communion she had enjoyed in her four days chained to the pole. 
He might be uncouth, vulgar, and certainly not gentleman, but he was of her 
own race and a man not to be ignored. He had even offered a possibility of 
her return to her parents' home, but viewing this seemed altogether 
nebulous. It made her more than ever conscious of being a pawn in a huge 
game without rules. A girl was disarmed indeed when she could not even 
bargain with her own flesh. In caustic sarcasm, she asked wearily, "Would 
you like me to stand up and pose for you so you can get a proper view of 
what you buy?" 

The shaft missed its mark. Henry Kemp beamed. "That's a damn fine idea, 
honey. I'm glad you thought of it. Sure, get up and wiggle them hips." 

It served her right. It also told Miss Catherine Mordant all the manner in 
which anything she said could be used against her to someone else's 
advantage. It seemed silly to make a fuss over doing something that, while 
once unthinkable, was now common place. She got to her feet, stood a little 
way from the post to rid herself of the chains, and turned and twisted 
beneath the intent Texan's regard. Blushing vividly, she retorted, "There, I 
hope you're satisfied! But I also hope you'll buy me and send me home. 
Please do." At Henry Kemp's departure, loneliness returned and all the 
nagging fears of isolation. It seemed impossible she would be forced to stay 
upon this small tile square in a huge foreign courtyard because of a collar 
around her neck and a length of chain. The naked girl was constantly aware 
of the weight of metal by which she was controlled, but nonetheless, for an 
intelligent adult it seemed tantalizingly improbable she could find or 
devise no means of freedom. Bitterly, she paraphrased a quotation: "Never 
had so much girl been held prisoner by so little." But bitterly, she knew, 
for her, there was no escape. 

 CHAPTER THREE - THE HATEFUL POST 

Jasmine's release, when it came on the sixth despairing day, was without 
drama. It took the form of the same wide-eyed servant girl who unexpectedly 
held up a key and stated words obviously rehearsed. "You come to house." 
Breathlessly, the chained girl held still while the key searched and found 
and the collar clattered to the tile. 

It was one more moment of glory. The naked girl rose, stretched, walked 
around the square of tile, and stepped beyond its confines as though in the 
discovery of a new continent. It was altogether wonderful. The girl stood 
and watched with her large, limpid eyes. She had gathered up the few items 
of her prisoner's need and stood waiting. But glory swiftly passes. It was 
only a matter of moments before Jasmine realized opportunity. The courtyard 
was huge. In their high walls were doors--some barred, some of solid wood. 
Surely one of them would yield to her need. Without thought or without a 
word to the waiting girl, she sped away toward the first of them. Motion was 
an exquisite sensation. She leaped and sped in exultant freedom. Careless of 
consequence, she enjoyed the flexing of her limbs in unrestrained flight. 

The door was solidly locked and barred. So was the second and the third and 
the fourth. Defeated, Jasmine turned away in disgust. 

She wondered if anyone had watched or if the girl would tel. Gloomily, she 
joined the grinning girl and walked with her to whatever fate she had now 
earned. 

"Enjoy your run. Jasmine?" Prince Abed Jamal surveyed hi captive without 
rancor. He lolled comfortably behind his desk, and before it, the girl 
called Jasmine stood in disarray, awaiting sentence. He laughed, reading her 
thoughts. "Don't worry, you won't be punished for it, and you needed the 
exercise." He grinned. "How did you enjoy Texas?" 

"You buy me and now you sell me." Her gaze was, if anything, reproachful. "I 
don't much understand any of this, but I'm being used for barter, aren't I?" 

"Right. Girls always have been, y'know, although mostly they use other names 
for it. I expect you'll be glad to be home." 

"Well, yes." She sought for words she could not find. "It'sa sort of 
anticlimax, isn't it?" 

"You would prefer to return to the courtyard and the chain?" 

"No, it's not that. You know it's not that. I don't ever want to see that 
chain again. But it all seems so much fuss and bother and expense over just 
me." 

"None of it wasted." Jamal assured her earnestly. "Here, put these on." 

Once the shining handcuffs pushed at her across the desk would have shocked, 
but they did not now. Feeling herself in the grip of a tide she could not 
stem, Jasmine picked up the metal circlets and their single link and slowly 
and in wry amusement fitted one around her left wrist. The second was more 
difficult upon her right hand, but by a few contortions she contrived to 
handcuff herself satisfactorily snug. The Prince watched appreciatively. "I 
think I told you, didn't I? Bracelets become you. If I had decided to keep 
you, you would have worn them always." 

There flashed through Jasmine's mind the simple words: "Then why not keep 
me?" But she bit them back. They were an utterance of a girl named Jasmine, 
not of Miss Catherine Mordant. She was being silly. Jamal read her mind and 
laughed. "Not all that keen on Henry Kemp, eh? Don't worry, he won't keep 
you long. Your father will claim you." 

"At some awful price," she said disgustedly. "And as for Kemp, I don't trust 
him--he frightens me." 

They remained silent as the minutes ticked by. Between them was the desk and 
all the ages of the ancient land. Reading the depth of her indecision, Jamal 
chuckled and suggested, "I'll make you a deal. I won't sell you to him if 
you tell me that you'd prefer thirty days in solitary confinement." His eyes 
were shrewd and searching. "I'm not talking about a dungeon and racks. You'd 
simply be chained in a stone room and sit it out. I've one in mind in which 
the lighting is good and there's a bit of a view." 

Decisions, decisions! Jasmine was uncertain if he was pulling her leg or 
deadly serious. In this place it could well be true. Forgetting reticence, 
she asked, "And after thirty days, what then?" 

"Well, well, you're actually considering it, aren't you?" Jamal's full 
attention was piqued. "But I won't be a bastard. I'll tell you frankly. 
Thirty days in solitary is more than most girls can handle." She was tempted 
to accept. She had no time to analyze, but the impulse was strong. But she 
owed it to her parents and herself to accept Kemp's hope for a return home. 
Before she could voice the thought, Jamal's voice came once again, still 
mocking. "If you don't think the penal servitude, I'll make you still 
another offer." He paused, his eyes still searching her for clues. "How 
about one hundred strokes?" 

He was being cruel, teasing and testing at the same time, stripping her mind 
as bare as her body. Morosely, she said, "I suppose a girl who was in love 
with you would pay the price. I expect I would. But this doesn't concern 
just me; it concerns my parents. I owe it to them to follow any avenue of 
escape." 

"Henry Kemp is it then!" Jamal gestured decisively. "His terms are instant 
delivery, and I can't promise what he'll do or fail to do with you while he 
awaits the definite transaction with your father. He may give you a bad 
time." 

"A hundred strokes," she said bitterly. 

"Don't hold them against me." Jamal's laugh was admonitory. "You might have 
been glad of the offer. I know you considered it. I was watching you. Your 
face is beautifully honest. I have to regret your decision even though it 
makes me quite a few million dollars." 

"All stolen from my father, I suppose." She pouted sulkily. "Do I now get 
shipped to Texas?" 

"Yes, and not strapped tight in a box the way Henry suggested. I'm loaning 
him my plane so you will return to America in the same comfort in which you 
approached Africa. I'm sorry you haven't seen this place. There are some 
things of interest." 

"Whips and chains, I suppose?" 

"Oh, come off it, girl. Gad, you're stiff! You just can't let go, can you?" 
The Prince shook his head at her sadly. "I'm afraid you'll find good old 
Henry far less receptive to either sulks or severity than I am. I think he 
has it in mind to frequently attend to those two lovely cheeks you sit on." 
He chuckled. "It's quite likely you won't be doing much sitting down in his 
possession." 

"You mean he's some sort of sadist!" 

"Oh no. he's not that. He's just a great big hulking lout whose had 
everything his own way ever since he made his first hundred million, which 
is a few years ago now. He's simply blunt and ruthless in all he does. I 
suspect this covers his treatment of slaves and probably his wife too, if he 
knew the truth of it." 

"I am a slave girl, aren't I?" Jasmine mused thoughtfully. "The bunch of you 
have had that effect on me. I think this business about buying and selling 
me has had an extraordinary impact. I'm still Catherine Mordant, and I'll go 
back to being Catherine Mordant and be just as bitchy as I ever was." She 
held up her joined hands for them both to see. "I suppose these things 
influence thinking too, and you know damn well what being chained to that 
post in your courtyard did for me. You had it all planned. If you'd come out 
to me instead of sending that girl, I'd have crawled. I'd have done anything 
to get that collar off my neck. I shouldn't tell you this, but we won't be 
seeing much of each other again, so why not!" Her glance was lingering. 
"When do I get put aboard the plane?" 

"Immediately. You know what Texans are. I'd tell you to go pack if you had 
anything to pack." 

Jasmine flushed, feeling cool air on nakedness. Spurred by a sudden vision, 
she pleaded, "Look, if you have any influence with Kemp, will you ask him a 
favor? Don't send me back to my father naked. When I am released or picked 
up or whatever is done with me in the exchange, please let me be clothed " 

"Not sure I have that much influence with Kemp, and he's not a man to like 
being told what to do, but I'll try. I can see your point, but we have to 
remember he's got it in for your father, and he'll go about selling you back 
where you belong in his own way. Best leave him alone." 

"But he'll be mean to me--I know he will." 

Jamal shrugged. "He talks a lot. I wouldn't believe everything he says. It 
amuses him to watch you react to premises of getting your bottom whipped. I 
know, he's told me. " Jamal paused. If the captive girl saw pity in his 
eyes, it was but a fleeting glance. Abruptly, he announced, "There's a 
couple of hours before the plane. Don't make a fuss about what my servant 
does with you " He pressed a buzzer on his desk. 

It was the same young woman. This time there was amusement in the dark eyes. 
She grasped Jasmine's bare arm and led her through a maze of corridors and 
passages. Before she opened a final door, she said simply, "I must make you 
so you not see." 

Miss Catherine Mordant made no demure other than to clench cuffed hands into 
fists while a bandage was wound around her hair and eyes, fold after fold, 
until the darkness was complete. Then one wrist only was unlocked from its 
cuff and she was led through the now open door and guided to sit upon what 
was unmistakably a bed. The insistent hands pushed her gently down upon her 
back. Her still cuffed hand was drawn up and out and clicked shut, 
presumably upon the framework of a bedstead or headboard. Another cuff 
sought her still free hand and closed upon it with the familiar clicks, and 
then the hand and arm were drawn as the other one had been and similarly 
fastened to leave the naked girl upon her back upon a bed with her hands and 
arms held high and wide. The thought was obvious: "Is someone going to rape 
me?" Her voice was trembling. 

But, as usual, there was no answer until the impressive female voice said, 
"I go. You keep still, you no fight." 

Fight! How could she fight! She supposed the woman had meant she should not 
kick. Kicking was the only effective motion left. She strived to reach the 
bandage on her eyes with a fettered hand, but no matter how she hurt her 
wrist, it fell inches short of its objective. Catherine lay quivering in 
total darkness but knowing something would happen. Something had to happen! 

It would be the Prince, she knew it would be. But then her conviction 
dissolved under the realization that the Prince was relinquishing his title 
to her. It could just as easily be Henry Kemp. It could, in fact, be anyone, 
but whoever it was she had been prepared for, he evidently had little faith 
in his own ability to charm. She had been fastened so that any man or woman 
could do anything they wished with her. A cut with the crop across her shin 
would readily stop any hostile kicks. She was most competently prepared for 
the oldest sacrifice in the world. Jasmine lay quivering. From time to time 
she made another abortive effort to reach the blindfold, but was always 
foiled. After the last of these efforts, she resigned herself to being 
blind. It was then that she first realized she was no longer alone. Someone 
was in the room with her. Unknown eyes were eating at her nudity. 

There was no sound, but Jasmine was positive. Tense and still, she heard 
breathing other than her own. Decisively, she said, "There's no need to 
blindfold me. Whatever you're going to do with me, please let me have my 
eyes." 

There was no answer, no sound. Plaintively, she tried again. "I know who you 
are, you know. Please don't do what I think you're going to--not in this 
mean way as though you're ashamed of it." Jasmine knew it was laughable, but 
her paramount thought was thankfulness that she was not a virgin. To have it 
done to her like this the first time would be unbearable. She would already 
be in screaming hysterics. But when the bed took the added weight and she 
felt the bare thighs between her own and then felt another's breath upon her 
breasts, she said as decisively as before, "I know who you are, but please 
be gentle with me." 

Miss Catherine Mordant was brought to unbearable excitation with consummate 
skill. There was no part of her nakedness untouched by lips, by tongue, and 
by the tips of fingers. They were wise and knowing, leaving her without 
defense. In the first motions of alarm her feet had been kicked to either 
side with rough force, but thereafter the rape of Jasmine was not a rape at 
all. She ceased to have need of words; her only concern became to match the 
rhythm of her impalement. After the first explosion there was no withdrawal. 
The lips started all over again and fingertips uncovered all her secrets. 

The second time was better than the first! 

Jasmine's journey back to the plane was less splendid than when she had left 
it. This time there were guards on either side ready to clutch her should 
she seek escape. She was not gorgeously gowned, but wore only a cloak from 
neck to knees beneath which she was naked, her hands cross and tied behind 
her back. She was most definitely merchandise being taken to market. Jamal 
was nowhere to be seen. This time Susan was both hostess and jailer. 

"I'm afraid he wants you fastened," the girl said regretfully. "But I 
understand this is with your consent. I take it therefore you will not give 
me any trouble. Jasmine?" 

It was very simple. The cloak was removed, her hands were untied. Had she 
wished to flee there were those outside waiting. Jasmine shrugged and made 
her wry admission. "I'll do what you want, Susan. I suppose the old goat 
wants to ogle me the whole time." 

"I'm afraid that's the way of it," Susan admitted apologetically. "He wants 
you facing him, not with your back turns the way you were before. I expect 
he prefers the scenery. I'll get the cuffs out if you'll just raise your 
arms." 

It was that simple. Two girls with the same idea. Jasmine raised her hands 
up and to either side to meet the waiting steel circlets which would ensure 
her helplessness. When they were both secured she stood in center aisle 
cruelly exposed to view. She could hide nothing, and before the trip was 
done would become weary with the standing. They had only a short wait for 
the man by whose behest this was being done. 

"Your name's Susan, ain't it? You got my little filly all fixed up the way I 
said?" The Texan's tone was unmistakable. The owner of the voice appeared to 
fill the fuselage with his bulk. He carefully selected the seat which would 
give him the best view of his exposed purchase. He produced an infectious 
grin. "Ain't the first time I've seen you bare, honey, but I will admit it's 
better than last time. Boy, them knockers! May fix them feet after awhile 
and see if we can improve things, but right now you're a sight for sore 
eyes. If there's one thing I do enjoy, it's a naked girl." 

Jasmine had once more become Miss Catherine Mordant. In icy disregard of 
ribaldry she said a cool, "Good day, Mr. Kemp. I hope you enjoy your 
flight." 

"Oh, I will, I will. Hey, Susan, give me a double whisky. Give little 
sweetheart here anything she wants, but you'll have to feed it to her. Just 
don't obstruct the view, just so long as you don't stand in front of them 
tits." He laughed brutally. "But she's going to have to get used to it. She 
can cover 'em up when she gets back to papa--if she ever does." 

The plight of Miss Catherine Mordant would have been hard to bear had she 
not had in view the possibility of eventual release. Surely these men could 
complete these negotiations in the bartering of her body within a week. In 
the meantime, she would bear what she must but always there would be the 
mental reservation that one day revenge might come her way. She would dearly 
love to rub this idiot's nose in the dirty. To have her fettered as she was 
and then unblushingly sit and examine her body, making his lewd and indecent 
comments to whatever part of her took his fancy. Since she could not win the 
battle of being either shy or sulky, she asked another icy question. 

"Could you give me some idea when I will be returned to my father, Mr. 
Kemp?" 

"Depends on papa, honey--don't it? I ain't in no real hurry. I aim to use 
you a few times first. You're figuring on being fucked, I hope?" 

"I have considered the possibility." 

"Well, that's damn nice of you, sweetheart! You can stop calling it a 
possibility. It's going to happen, and like I said. I'll warm your ass up 
first with a cane." 

"There is no need for sadism along with carnality, Mr. Kemp. 

I am trying to act the role of a civilized prisoner. I would have thought 
you could do the same." 

"Honey, I've taken a lot of shit from that old bastard of a father of yours. 
If I can't take it out on him, I'll take it out on you, and I'll make damn 
sure he knows about it too. You're going to cost the Mordant bank a pretty 
penny." 

"Do you have to look at me like that--staring?" 

"Ain't a question of have to--I want to. Can you give me a good reason why I 
shouldn't?" 

Catherine dropped an unprofitable subject. All she had learned from the 
exchange was the probability that this man had not been her visitor or when 
she was blindfolded on the bed. It was undoubtedly Prince Abed Jamal who had 
made love to her so skillfully. She could not imagine this loud-mouthed oaf 
making any decent quality of love, but you could never tell about men. They 
often surprised a girl. Fretfully, she tugged at the steel around her 
wrists. It was going to be a long flight if she would spend it standing with 
her arms held as they were. Did this rich buffoon intend to stare at her so 
fixedly the whole time! She knew she had no choice but to stand spread as 
she was for his enjoyment, but perhaps she could escape him within the 
latitudes of the mind. She was much concerned with thoughts of Jamal. Even 
though she chided herself for what she feared was a silly, girlish 
infatuation, the man's face returned to her vision again and again, and the 
memory of his maleness with her on the bed was still potent. In the even of 
her return to a normal life, it might be amusing to visit the place where he 
had held her captive. 

"You getting the hots, baby? Damn it, I'd swear you're thinking about tail. 
" Henry Kemp guffawed. "You girls don't fool nobody. You're as hot between 
your legs as anybody else." He laughed. "Wouldn't be me you've been thinking 
about, now would it?" Catherine ignored the jibe. She wondered if somewhere 
in the depths of this big bluff hearty man there might not be a streak of 
kindness. She suspected it was there. Henry Kemp was doing as so many others 
did--he played a role. His was the rich Texan. Relieved of the compulsion of 
this acting, he might be a quite decent type. Since she did not wish to be 
thrashed daily until release, it would be needful that she tap this vein of 
compassion. She wondered how many men possessed this mania for whipping 
girls. It would be easy to suppose it universal. Perhaps even her own father 
felt the urge! Catherine had been around enough to glimpse the strange 
impulses hidden beneath a business suit or a pair of jeans. In sudden 
curiosity, she inquired, "Have you possessed others girls in this fashion, 
Mr. Kemp?" 

"You mean do I go 'round kidnapping broads?" Henry Kemp laughed enjoyably. 
"Well, not exactly. I've had quite a few girls in my time, and I've come by 
them in a diversity of ways, but I ain't never run into anything as romantic 
as you and that there prince. Damn it, girl, you and me ought to get 
together and sell that to Hollywood. " He chuckled. "And not forgetting that 
bit with you on the chain out in the yard there, getting your little ass 
well whipped. Shit, they could give you the star part and make a mint. Think 
about it, honey." 

Catherine realized that it was in just such quick ideas in the minds of 
wealthy men that spawned fresh millions. Henry Kemp might very well do 
exactly that. She had no doubt that if he did, the role would be hers if she 
wanted it. Like most young women, she had a total conceit about herself and 
a camera. She wondered why she had not thought of this before. Now, to cover 
the embarrassment of standing naked on display, she asked, "Look, Mr. Kemp, 
I know when I'm beaten. I know you can chain me as I am and look at me for 
as long as you wish, but this is a damn tiring way for a girl to be held, 
and it hurts my wrists. Can I make a deal with you? Let me loose and I'll 
stand in all sorts of different ways for you to admire. I'm not that much of 
a prude I can't do it, and it's a great deal easier on my muscles." 

"Hell, the lady comes to life! Sweetheart, that's the longest speech you've 
ever made, but hell no, I'm not going to let you loose. That's the fun part 
of this, just having you so you can't get away or hide anything. You're 
gonna damn well stand there for as long as I want! I'd have thought you'd 
know that by now." 

Catherine bit back the angry words. The man was a boor. It was useless to 
demean herself. But once more she twisted against her steel bracelets, 
longing to be free. Her reverie was long, but was finally broken by a sharp 
command. "Hey, Susan, take a piece of rope and tie this silly bitch's leg up 
off to one side so she has to stand on one leg and show me her cunt." 

There was a strained silence, both girls hating the command. They exchanged 
looks of disgust. When Susan fetched the rope, she looked at the already 
helpless girl and said, "I'm sorry." 

It would be useless to fight and demeaning to protest. Catherine did 
neither. She allowed her right ankle to be noosed and tugged up to one side 
and out, to be fastened to the opposite wall of the fuselage. It was a 
useless, unkind act which exposed her in a way almost obscene and imposed 
upon her a new dimension of helplessness in as much as now everything was 
doubly stressed. To stand on one leg was bad enough, but with the other 
drawn tautly out to one side and raised to the level of her lips compelled 
fresh strain upon her ironed wrists. She longed to plead, to point out the 
impossibility of what had just been done, its shocking and outrageous 
revelation of herself, and of the pain entailed. But she bit back the angry 
words. Henry Kemp would probably enjoy them, so it was best to remain 
silent. If her features depicted martyrdom, well so be it. That was how she 
felt. 

"Honey, I'll be damned if that ain't an inspiration!" Henry Kemp boomed 
complacently. "Me and that guy Rodin--talk about a pose! Now, if we was to 
tie your other foot up the same way--I bet you'd hate me!" He slapped his 
massive thigh and guffawed. 

What could she say? What was there to say? Wearily, she enunciated, "This is 
indecent and painful. Is that was you desire?" 

"That's right, honey. I'm a dirty old man who's simply starting young. You 
stay with me long enough and I'll have that pretty little pussy of your 
sticking out in all directions. We only just got ourselves nicely started." 

The flight wore on. Susan, without being asked, lifted drinks to the captive 
lips, but the alcohol could not defeat anger. Catherine drank gratefully but 
found no relief. After a lapse of time she could not guess, her leg was 
lowered and the pose repeated with the other foot. There was neither pause 
nor remission. She was there to please her owner, and please him she did. 
Even when Henry Kemp dragged out a briefcase and scanned documents, his eyes 
constantly rose above the printed sheet to gaze at her and sometimes wink at 
his appreciation. So absorbed was he with both the chained girl and his 
briefcase of papers that he ignored the scenery beyond the portholes. But 
when the plane began its descent, he spared a glance for his native Heath. 
His strident exclamation was instant: "Damn if, that ain't Texas! What the 
hell!" 

Catherine was startled. It was difficult for her to see beyond the small 
panes. She twisted and tried to look, but got no other impression than that 
of an amount of verdure upon the still distant ground that certainly bore no 
resemblance to Texas. Texas should be grain or grass, but what she saw below 
was either forest or jungle. 

"Susan, go and see what those assholes up in the cockpit are doing. They got 
the wrong country." It was the first time Catherine had not been the center 
of attention, but she was not grateful. Intuition prompted fear in the 
awkward silence. When Susan returned, her face was white. "It's not our 
crew," she told them simply. "They're taking us down into place called 
Kandaka, somewhere in central Africa." She paused and looked from one to the 
other of her audience in obvious dismay. "I think we've been hijacked!" For 
Catherine it was a swift montage of dramatic impressions. Henry Kemp's 
bellicose bellowings made an irritating accompaniment while Susan lowered 
her raised leg and freed the roped ankle. The stewardess was frightened, but 
no more frightened than the chained girl who remained naked and helpless 
throughout. The arrival of the smartly uniformed soldiers was prompt. 
Obviously they had been ready and waiting. They freed the captive wrists but 
immediately clasped Catherine's arms behind her back and handcuffed them 
there. They then handcuffed her feet tightly together, picked her up, and 
carried her from the plane. The last she saw of Henry Kemp and Susan was a 
pair of shocked, startled faces. 

 CHAPTER FOUR - DARK BONDAGE 

"Ah yes, the American girl. Bring her in." It was the first time Catherine 
Mordant had heard the voice. It was a most disturbing voice and 
unquestionably African. If it had overtones of the London School of 
Economics and Harvard, they were no more than a thin veneer. Adam Madanda's 
voice was a force. Catherine sensed its power before she saw its owner. She 
saw it matched by the man himself as she was carefully stood erect before 
his desk. Her ankles were still handcuffed, as were her wrists behind her 
back in the manner in which she had been taken from the plane. She had been 
transported directly to the executive office. Once more her nakedness was 
intently studied, this time with amusement. The voice now held laughter. 
"Miss Catherine Mordant, I am quite sure you are an angry young woman." 

He was what Catherine labeled in her mind as a "handsome brute. " There was 
a lot of Adam Mandanda to see. He wore only shorts and sandals, yet 
strangely did not look out of place behind the massive desk. Adam Madanda 
was a presence: Catherine scorned all the things a girl was expected to say 
in this predicament. She kept silent and assessed this new factor in her 
life as he was assessing her. "My mother was English, Miss Mordant. My 
father was African." He smiled gently. "I fear I am not as black as I am 
painted." 

She recalled him now, one of the new group of black leaders who had seized 
power by simple audacity. She could believe it of him, and having seized 
power, this man would keep it. Adam Madanda was power personified. Very 
simply, she said, "I have nothing to say. The words are all yours. I will be 
glad to listen." 

"Ah, I do like that! You and I will become friends. In fact, we are friends 
already. Do you not feel it?" 

Catherine felt it. Here was a man to destroy his enemies and engulf his 
friends utterly by the strength of his personality. But she was naked and 
teetering on her ironed feet. Striving to match his tone, she said simply, 
"You are a strong man. Yes, I feel your strength, but do you want me 
standing in this disgrace before your desk? Need I be this helpless?" 

"It gives me pleasure to see you thus. Accept it. In fact, turn and show me 
your cuffed hands." He watched her obey, then quietly mused, "Ah yes, very 
neat, very effective." He rose, and taking her by the shoulders, turned her 
to face him. "I will now ravish you. That is what you expect, no?" 

It was what Catherine expected. It was also what she wanted, but she would 
tell him neither of these facts. She knew herself upon a tide beyond 
control. Madanda picked her up as though she was an incident in a busy day. 
In an adjoining room there was a couch and upon it Catherine paid one more 
tribute to a conqueror. With great deliberation, Madanda unlocked the 
handcuffs on her feet and her hands. He set them aside and mounted her with 
the same air of quiet purpose. The consummation of purpose took a long, long 
time and conveyed his subject to new worlds of sensation unexplored. When, 
after several centuries, it was done, Madanda turned her about with that 
same gentleness that comes only from immense strength and once again 
handcuffed her passive wrists. Her ankles were left free. The ravished girl 
likened his voice to black velvet. "You have been owned by three men--I know 
them all. I have taken you and you cost me nothing. This is the way of 
conquerors. " He chuckled. "No one will do anything about the hijacking. No 
one will do anything to rescue you. You are mine!" 

Standing before his desk, properly balanced on feet now free, Catherine made 
the inevitable inquiry: "Why? I don't understand." 

"Your father and two of the men who have owned you hold immense power in a 
matter vital to Kandaka." He surveyed her with a lingering caress which 
could be admiration for her flesh or her father's case. "Kandaka is my 
country. I will do what I must to make it survive and prosper. These men 
control something I must have. I control you." He grinned amiably. "It is an 
ancient game." 

"You're holding me for ransom?" 

"Yes, in a way. I have considered what to do with you while you are our 
guest. There will be no rack, no hot irons, no dungeon. I intend to bestow 
complete freedom. You will be appropriately dressed or undressed for each 
occasion. If you earn discipline by immodest behavior, it is I who will 
administer it. Do you understand?" 

"Not really, but never mind me--please continue." 

"In Kandaka none will aid your escape, not even your own consul. But since 
you must be identified as my property, your hands will stay as they are now, 
handcuffed behind your back. A female member of my staff will attend your 
needs." Adam Madanda smiled paternally. "And now, if you will excuse me, I 
am extremely busy." 

It took Miss Catherine Mordant several hours to pick up the courage to leave 
the official residence of the ruler. Since she was already within its 
confines, it imposed no additional shame to explore the building and be seen 
by those who served. But to emerge into the glare of sunlight in Kandaka's 
streets was something else again. The laughing girl who attended had 
contrived a tasteful arrangement of a sheath of cotton by which she was 
reasonably covered. Cunning hands deftly tugged the gaily colored material 
into the feminine art of revealing by concealing. But since other maidens 
were similarly attired it remained only for her handcuffed wrists to betray 
her condition. The laughing girl pointed out that they would be message to 
all that she belonged to Madanda. None would molest her. but on the other 
hand, none would offer aid in her escape either. In feet, should she show 
evidence of such intent, she would be brought back to the official residence 
and properly punished. It made Catherine feel like a small girl being 
cautioned before being sent out for a walk. Having explored what open doors 
revealed, the captive girl now had a choice between sitting and doing 
nothing, or boldly setting forth upon Kandaka's streets. Her destination 
seemed obvious. She would turn the handcuffs to good account. 

Catherine arrived at the American Consulate hot, dusty, and deeply shamed. 
Girls in Kandaka did not wear handcuffs. She had attracted attention from 
every passerby, not that the attentions had been demonstrative but they had 
evoked quiet smiles of secret knowledge. The embassy itself was 
unimpressive, and when inside, took on a peculiarly elusive quality. 
Catherine was warmly greeted, but it was all too evident they wished she had 
not come. 

"You see, my dear Miss Mordant, the situation here at the moment is 
extremely fluid." The balding middle-aged consul looked at his guest with 
faint disapproval as though convinced she would not be in her present 
predicament unless it was her own fault. "You appear to have got yourself 
into the middle of a power play in which our state department is deeply 
concerned that no one rock the boat. "What you're saying is that they lack 
the courage to deal with it." The consul squirmed. "Your hands, Miss 
Mordant--they appear to be handcuffed behind your back?" 

"By all means relieve me of them if they bother you. I'm not wearing them by 
choice." 

The consul visibly winced. Catherine bitterly suspected he winced often. 
"That is the point, Miss Mordant. A key to those things does not exist in 
this consulate. We have no need of them." 

"Don't bother then," the Catherine said bitterly. "I've become accustomed to 
them. I expect I'd miss them if you took them off. " 

"I will communicate with Washington--" 

"Don't bother." Catherine got to her feet and turned to give the dignitary a 
full view of her chained hands. Turning around, she retorted, "Madanda will 
do that quicker than you'll manage it. Goodbye!" 

Angry but determined, the frustrated girl continued her tour of the African 
town. She had no pockets and no money and no hands. All she could do was 
look. She could well believe none would help her. If she paused as though to 
speak, they edged away. But she was ill disposed to further entanglements. 
She had little doubt that Madanda, the Prince, and Henry Kemp, spurred by 
her father, would affect her release. All she would suffer would be a few 
days of shame and embarrassment as the plaything of an African dictator. Her 
thoughts flittered back and forth between Madanda and Prince Abed Jamal. 
Each had conquered her. But each seemed unconcerned with possession, seeing 
in her only a token for barter. Catherine clenched her cuffed hands in the 
biggest frustration of all. On her return to the residence, there awaited 
still one more shock. 

Adama Madanda flexed the thin yellow cane delicately between his hands. He 
and the startled girl stared back at one another. She in utter dismay, he in 
amusement. Catherine Mordant exclaimed, "You can't be serious! You can't 
be--" 

"You can chalk this up to the consulate, Catherine. Come here and I'll give 
you your hands so you may disrobe." 

"I don't want my hands for such a purpose. They can stay as they are." Her 
temper flared. "You're not going to turn me into a sniveling child." 

"I'll turn you into a woman if I have you long enough. Come, don't be silly. 
There's no need of force between us." 

She flounced to him and turned her back. At least a girl with free hands 
could argue more effectively than one with them locked behind her back. But 
she was given no time for debate. His voice was insistent. "Take it off, I 
want you naked." 

"You're doing this to shame me, aren't you?" 

"No, I'm going to cane your bottom. I want it out in the open." 

"There's no need for me to be naked. I could not it up--" Catherine flushed, 
realizing what she had said. The familiar blush began to suffuse her cheeks. 
"What I mean," she said defensively, "is there's absolutely no need to strip 
me bare." 

Madanda was enjoying her confusion. "Very well," he agreed amiably. "Let me 
see you lift the hem of your skirt. Way up, of course--don't hide anything." 

"I refuse. You're being outrageous." 

"I could tie you over a chair." 

Breathlessly, Catherine loosened the slip and tossed it aside. Shame 
enveloped her always at each unveiling. She never became accustomed to the 
deliberate stripping of herself to please a man. She backed away, eyeing the 
cane. The unctuous voice followed. "Very well, now finish the job. You know 
what to do." 

She knew all too well, but this man had just performed the act of love with 
her and now proposed to make her posterior scarlet with his ridiculous cane. 
It was too incongruous for words. She said stiffly, "You can make me do 
it--I know you can--but I wish you wouldn't. I ask you not to." 

"Do it. Touch your toes." 

The naked girl shrugged and obeyed. The cane rapped at her knees to stiffen 
them and at the small of her back to lower it and protrude that portion of 
herself about to be punished. The daughter of one of the world's richest men 
touched her toes and held her breath. 

Madanda was a giant of a man, and in his hands the yellow cane seemed so 
light and inoffensive, but the pain that flared across Catherine's twin 
cheeks was brutal. Instinctively, she leaped erect and clutched the wound. 
But when she turned to reproachfully meet the watching eyes, she realized 
the absurd picture she must make. As though seeking refuge in conformity, 
she resumed her shameful pose. As the next stroke bit and the others 
followed in a slow measured cadence, the punished girl reiterated again and 
again in silent wonder: I am Mordant's daughter, I am Mordant's 
daughter--and this is happening to me! 

When the sixth stroke bit savagely on top of number five, she could bear no 
more. She straightened up erect and turned to glare. "I can't stand it! 
Please, no more. You're a brute. You don't know when to stop. Then she said 
aloud that which she had said to herself: "I am Mordant's daughter! Don't 
you understand--I am Mordant's daughter! You can't do this to me!" 

"Resume position," the voice said impassively. 

In anguished indecision, Catherine gazed around as though seeking some 
avenue of escape, but there was none. In a feverish need of understanding, 
she blurted out, "I'm only a girl! Don't you understand? You can't beat a 
girl like this, I thought you'd stop at six, and I don't see why you can't." 

"Seven." The voice was as impassive as before. She knew his trick. He would 
demean her; he would yield nothing. He was prepare to stop, but not at her 
request. It would be by his own decision. Miserably aware she could endure 
one more cut, the hurt girl bent over again and offered herself to the 
yellow cane. When the seventh blow had added its scarlet line to the other 
six, Catherine rose erect, stiffly and doubtfully, uncaring of being seen, 
rubbing her weals. Both her cheeks were on fire. She turned slowly to the 
watching man. 

"You did remarkably well, Miss Mordant. You have what the Americans call a 
lovely ass. I have made it even more entrancing." 

"You had no need to do it at all. I don't understand why you felt you had 
to. I know men enjoy whipping girls, but I'd have thought you were above 
that sort of nonsense. Goodness knows you don't need it to make you potent." 

"Ah, you have been reading Freud, Miss Mordant, or the underground books." 
Madanda's voice was silk. "Since we're on the subject, may I ask the effect 
of your bottom being caned upon your own libido?" 

Damn him! He was pinpointing something of which the punished girl was 
disgustedly aware. Heat flamed within her loins. The mere thought of the 
cane, coupled with the insistent bum of her scarlet flesh, had lit a fire 
between her legs of which she had never previously been so aware. Stiffly, 
she retorted, "It's none of your business." 

Madanda laughed. "That answers my question. Would you like me to appease 
your pain?" 

"No, stay away from me. Haven't you done enough? You've made me hate myself 
and you too. I think you could be a nice man if you wanted to." 

"I am a nice man. Put on your slip, then come here and get handcuffed like a 
nice girl." 

Catherine had forgotten the slip. She supposed now it was indicative of 
something. She snatched it angrily and arranged it upon her curves with 
savage small motions. Facing Madanda again, she said. "I'm not going to go 
over there and let you do that to me again. I've behaved like a pussycat 
quite enough for today. I'm ashamed of myself, and you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself. You've ravished me and whipped me, but all I'm supposed to 
represent to you is a bargaining leverage." 

Madanda quietly ignored her tirade. He flexed the yellow length of cane 
suggestively while bestowing his quiet assured smile. "You may have this. 
Miss Mordant, or you may come and get your handcuffs. The choice is yours." 

Catherine longed for heroics to rend and tear and scream. Instead she 
shrugged in bitter frustration, marched toward her master, and turned her 
back. As the chrome slid around her wrists and clicked snugly tight, she 
proclaimed, "I don't see why you have to do this to me. You really don't 
have to do it at all. It's just an additional humiliation, isn't it?" 

Madanda slapped her bottom and pushed her gently away. She turned and faced 
him, her hands once more twisting against familiar steel. "This is the way 
to treat a desperate male criminal, not a girl," she accused. "I hope you've 
been in touch with my father so we can put an end to this farce." 

"Do you consider those seven strokes you've had so recently as farce?" 

"No, you know they're not. What they are is the sort of vulgarity that 
belonged to the old burlesque shows. It's simply vulgar." 

"You prefer something more sophisticated?" 

"I don't prefer any such punishments at all. and I don't deserve them." 

Madanda pressed a buzzer on his desk. His smile was benign. "I have 
underrated you. Miss Mordant. Let me make amends." 

The front of the residency was gardens. Its rear was pure utility. There was 
a coming and going, the parking of cars, the functions of domestic laborers. 
Placed centrally in the open space was the gibbet to which Catherine was now 
attached. Her breasts heaving from the struggle and this new fresh shame, 
she watched the retreat of the two soldiers who had stripped the shift from 
her, bound her hands, and raised them high above her head to the gibbet's 
arm. She stood nakedly for all to see. She supposed she could describe 
herself as in a public place, but those who came and went showed remarkably 
little interest in her. A glance or a nod was all she had received so far. 
She was undeniably piqued. The shame of such exposure was generating her 
usual blush. 

Madanda was an enigma, a mixture of so many things she could neither share 
nor exploit. If only he had refrained from the thrusts of humiliation which 
seemed to amuse him, she might still be in relatively comfortable 
circumstances. But she had fought every inch of the way until she could 
fight no more. She looked up at her pinioned wrists by which she was 
compelled to stand. As usual they offered no hope of release or escape. She 
would stand as she was at Madanda's pleasure. Her anger flared again at the 
thought of her dependence on an omnipotent male. She was sick of omnipotent 
males and now simply wanted to go home. She resented every hour of the 
negotiations by which she was held captive. 

Catherine twisted around on her tether. She could make a complete circle. 
She was not suspended, but the freedom she was allowed did no more than 
emphasize the compulsion of standing in this one place naked and with her 
arms raised. To add to her dolor, another hazard now came into view. It was 
several small children, grubby urchins in search of diversion. They had 
scented her as surely as a hunting dog scents its quarry. There were four of 
them. They stood wide-eyed to examine what was probably no phenomenon to 
them. Doubtless other unfortunate girls had stood as she stood now. 
Catherine viewed them with distaste and quite simply said, "Go away." 

Presumably they spoke no English. They viewed her in the same wide-eyed 
speculation until the oldest, a girl, stepped forward to grasp Catherine's 
exposed, helpless sex. She looked up and said something no doubt obscene. 
Catherine kicked her squarely to send her sprawling. 

The four urchins animatedly discussed this outrage. They wasted but little 
time. Going to an adjacent bush, they cut a switch. With it they proceeded 
to lash away busily at the legs of the helpless victim displayed for their 
enjoyment. The victim herself was horrified. These children, unsupervised, 
could half kill her. The untrimmed withe was horribly painful, and despite 
herself, she could not refrain from a humiliating dance from one foot to the 
other and one kick to the next in an effort to ward off as many blows as she 
could. But help came in the form of an irate native woman who gathered her 
progeny with a staccato of reprimands and sent them scurrying away. She 
glared at the helpless nakedness which had been no more than the innocent 
victim of her children's enjoyment. Her eyes roved and lit upon the 
discarded switch. Picking it up, she took a swift, wide sweep and cut it 
squarely across the innocent belly of the bound girl. It broke and 
disgustedly she looked at the half still held in her hands, threw it away, 
and said briefly, "You very bad girl. You not nice to my children." Then she 
stamped away in obvious self-righteousness. 

There were other visitors. One was a man apparently obsessed with breasts. 
He fondled and kneaded Catherine's to his heart's content. He then spared a 
few brief moments in exploring her crotch with an experimental hand. He 
shrugged, giving the impression that he had seen and done better. He went 
away, leaving the girl feeling utterly soiled. 

The next visitor was a girl of perhaps nineteen. She stood quietly surveying 
the white skin of the bound captive. She paid no heed to Catherine's plea 
for release. When Catherine offered money in return for help, she simply 
shook her head and said, "No can help. You never get away. No girl ever get 
away when she tied here. You wait, this afternoon they whip you good." 

There it was again! This everlasting reference to the whip. The words of 
whip and girl seemed synonymous. Miserably, Catherine watched the maiden 
depart on her affairs and was once more alone. She wished she had been less 
irritable with Adam Madanda. Anything he had done to her had been inflicted 
with a touch or humor. But there was nothing humorous about her present 
condition. The gibbet itself was daunting, and her arms were getting tired. 
Her next visitor was, surprisingly, a white man. 

"Heard you were out here. Least I could do was come and say hello." He was 
English. His eyes roved up and down Catherine's nudity with keen 
appreciation. 

"Thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "Get me out of here, please." 

"Sorry, old girl. Like to and all that, but you know how things are." 

"No, I don't know how things are!" she flared angrily. "Don't tell me you 
refuse to help!" 

"Well, it's not exactly that I refuse." her visitor explained. "It simply 
isn't in the cards. Everybody knows about you. You can't hide a thing in 
these small places, but the locals think it's great fun, and the rest of us 
have been told to see nothing, say nothing, and hear nothing." He chuckled 
gloomily. "That's the nature of life in these queer places. I wouldn't come 
near if it wasn't that there's money to be made." He made a deliberate 
circle of examination. "I suppose it was Madanda who whipped your bottom." 

"Does it matter? If you're refusing to help--" 

"Madanda's famous for it, you know. He's probably whipped the bottoms of 
more girls than any chap alive. " He beamed. "Harmless actually, but I 
expect it's a bit painful at the time." 

"If you're not going to help me, go away!" 

"Well, don't get so steamed about it, girl! I suppose it's because you're 
naked. " He searched his pockets and said with a wry grin, "I've got a 
fairly large handkerchief. Problem is how to keep it in place." 

"You're impossible!" Catherine tugged at her tethered hands to demonstrate 
helplessness. "I'd have thought any white man would have had the decency. 
What could possibly happen to you if you set me free?" 

"I'd disappear, that's what would happen to me. It would probably be a 
painful disappearance too. You see, what you have to realize is that these 
people are about a thousand years back in the past in their morality. 
Madanda's not a bad chap, but he's completely ruthless. It's a case of 
knowing just how far to go. If I were you, I'd test it out a bit and not 
step over the line. You must have stepped over the line already or you 
wouldn't be hung up the way you are now." He shrugged deprecatingly. "It's 
oil and minerals, you know. There isn't an outside power that will raise a 
finger against any of these black boys, and they know it. The Russians are 
behind the whole thing, of course, but I don't suppose you're interested in 
that. My word, he really did lace into your derriere! It's a regular Turner 
sunset." 

He went his way as had all the rest. Evidently prolonged conversations with 
girls beneath the gibbet was not encouraged. Catherine wondered if the 
maiden's information about being whipped later in the day was true or false. 
Quite probably she had been sent out to drop the hint as one more subtlety 
to disturb a captive girl. The hours passed in a slow succession of 
weariness. 

Miss Catherine Mordant was not whipped, but in the twilight was taken to the 
house, bathed, and made lovely by willing female hands and then delivered to 
Adam Madanda. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Interesting day, Miss 
Mordant?" 

"You know what my day was like. It was hateful. Am I expected to thank you?" 

"You were whipped, were you?" 

"Is it possible to have a conversation between a man and a woman in Kandaka 
without some reference to a whip?" 

"Lay on the bed and dispose yourself." 

"I refuse to act like a whore. You'll have to compel me. I don't want you 
to, but there's no other way I can keep my integrity." 

"Your integrity, my royal ass!" Madanda laughed as he picked her up and 
tossed her into the position he desired. 

Hating herself for the betrayal by her flesh, Catherine prepared herself for 
pleasure. 

When, eons later, Madanda's pleasure bore him into sleep, a servant appeared 
as if by magic, took the satiated maiden by her arm, and led her back to the 
gibbet. Something had been added. A chain was now padlocked around its base 
and trailed away a ten-foot long length to a metal shackle. The shackle was 
padlocked around Catherine's left ankle. The servant went away, leaving her 
abandoned in rejection. Furiously, she stamped a bare foot, but this did no 
more than hurt. She kicked at her shackle and was rewarded by the mocking 
sound of chain. Catherine lay down upon the warm Kandakan soil. 

Freedom came in the pale gray light of dawn. 

The first Catherine knew of escape was the solid click of bolt cutters 
severing the metal from her ankle. Her white visitor of the previous day had 
crept upon her unannounced and unaware. The Englishman had lost no time. 
Now, with the shackle cast aside, he grasped her hand. "Can you run?" 

"Yes! Oh yes! Ohhh, how wonderful!" 

They ran, hand in hand, and as they ran the male voice told the little there 
was to tell. "Couldn't sleep--kept thinking about you. Damn it, the way 
these assholes treat women and kick the rest of us around--I'm sick of it! 
If we get caught, we'll have had the biscuit--at least I will--but let's 
give it our best shot." 

Catherine could have loved him, hugged him, given him all of herself, but in 
her exultation of freedom her legs sped to keep pace with his until they 
found the jeep. Its engine was warm and started with little sound. It 
whispered them beyond earshot of the residence. They found a road. "I 
brought a blanket--here it is. It's not much, but it'll do you until we get 
to civilization. The border is only about twenty miles away, and the Johnny 
who runs the next state isn't all that friendly with Madanda. He isn't going 
to stop us. If we can get that far, we've got it made." 

The jeep spurned Kandakan soil beneath its wheels. Its motor purred.- They 
crossed the border without incidence, without having even seen anyone. There 
was no border post, as in more civilized states. Sunrise brought the first 
freedom the naked girl had known since before Professor Pomfret's class. 

 CHAPTER FIVE - THE WAITING CANE 

Freedom is relative. It takes different forms with different people. It was 
so with Catherine Mordant. She surprised herself with various seeming 
inconsistencies and was forced to the realization of change. She was not the 
same girl who had stood naked before Professor Pomfret's class. Just what 
she was or had become was a subject giving her a good deal of sober thought. 

The greetings and reunions had followed a natural course. She had saved her 
father vast amounts of money. Her mother had been dead a number of years, 
but there were other relatives who welcomed her home. But in all these 
welcomes, Catherine was aware that her absence had been of relatively short 
duration. To her it had seemed like half a lifetime. To all the others it 
was a space of less than three weeks, and in speaking of it the once captive 
girl found herself hindered by unexpected inhibitions. 

First of all there was the matter of the marks upon her skin. She had 
imagined herself joyfully displaying them and demanding redress. But she did 
not do this, even to her more intimate friends and most certainly not to her 
father. She unveiled no portion of her punished skin. The cheeks of her 
bottom gradually returned to their normal satin smoothness without evoking 
gasps or exclamations from anyone. With their final fading, Catherine came 
to a recognition of a new honesty. She wished to keep their memory alive 
between herself and the men who had thus marked her skin. It was a secret 
she wanted to share with no one else. When her father had anxiously inquired 
about injury, she had reassured him by telling him no more than of the 
handcuffs. She had shrugged away this joining of her hands as no more than 
normal in the circumstance. At the end of two weeks her adventures were 
ancient history. Her father returned to his preoccupation with business, and 
she herself was free to pick up the loose ends of her former life. When 
Catherine discovered those loose ends a bore, no one was more surprised than 
she. She was a vigorous young woman whose every instinct had been made 
vividly alive by the attentions of two men' Prince Abed Jamal and Adam 
Madanda. She could forget neither of them, and being feminine, she was 
doubly intrigued by her memory of being taken by force when blindfolded. It 
was like a story in which you are kept in suspense until the final chapter. 
The nagging question was if the final chapter had indeed been written. 

Her confidante was Allen Morehouse, the Englishman who had contrived her 
escape. They dated, but made no pretense of being in love. They had much to 
talk about, and she valued his advice. He appeared to be one of those men 
who vaguely wander the world "in oil." She was talking to him now. 

"But, Allen, I want to forget the whole silly business. Why don't it go 
away? I'm twenty-four--surely I ought to be past the 'silly girl' stage." 

"Not hard to figure, love. I suppose if any bastard had set out to get you 
erotically aroused and involved and perhaps forming a bad habit or two, he'd 
probably have done pretty much the same thing to you over pretty much the 
same period of time. " Allen Morehouse laughed easily at her concern. "Fact 
is, there's all sorts of dark desires down underneath the surface of all of 
us. It just takes something to bring them out. You could have gone two ways. 
One of them to morbid and hysterical broodings and isolation, and the other 
to where you are now." He frankly laughed. "You're eaten up with curiosity, 
aren't you? You've told me about Madanda and Jamal, and I can see that both 
of them started something they didn't have time to finish." He stared 
directly, "You want to go back and finish the job?" 

"Good heavens, no!" 

"That's probably the biggest lie you've ever told. But when you said it, you 
didn't know it was a lie." He squeezed her hand. "Do you recognize it now?" 

Catherine recognized it with an ache in her loins and an exclamation. "But 
this is ridiculous! I never used to be like this before- before--" 

"You don't need to say it, love--I know. I'll say it for you. You got laid, 
and you're little bottom got lashed. That's a damn potent combination." 

"But it's--it's primitive!" 

"Aren't we all?" His laugh was sardonic. "Civilization is not even skin 
deep, you know. Most of the world would wonder why you couldn't figure this 
out for yourself." 

"But I'm not a trollop. At least I never thought--" 

"I'd offer to lay the ghost for you, old girl, but I'm the wrong color, 
aren't I? What you need--" 

"Don't you dare say it! It's--it's obscene." 

Morehouse shrugged. "I know a girl whose boyfriend whips her every time 
before they get into bed. It's their thing. They've been doing it a long 
while, and they're now thinking of getting married. Can you comprehend 
that?" 

"But they're perverts--deviants!" 

"No, they're not. You could multiply them by a million and still not reach 
the right total. They're simply lucky in having found each other. Cheer up, 
Catherine old girl, you're not a monster." 

"But what you're telling me is almost like saying I should go back." 

"Why don't you? Lay yourself a ghost." He laughed cynically. "Take a 
bodyguard, of course, and have yourself well documented. I wouldn't suggest 
you visiting either of those boys alone and unattended. They're only human, 
you know." 

Allen Morehouse's cynicism evoked visions, but worse still, generated an 
unwelcome heat within Catherine's loins. She assured herself the heat was 
indeed unwelcome, but it was exciting. It made her feel superior to other 
girls of her circle. She was beginning to glimpse herself as having been a 
silly rich bitch who had now grown to maturity. It was, of course, 
ridiculous to suppose that a whipped bottom matured any female. She set the 
thought conveniently aside and consoled herself with the probability that 
the adventure as a whole had this effect. There germinated within her mind 
delicious visions of treating both Jamal and Madanda to a proper contempt on 
equal terms. It was playing with fire and she knew it. Had it not been for 
Allen Morehouse, she would have lacked the courage. 

"Look, I can spare a month, and there's odds and ends of business I can do 
in those places anyway. How 'bout I be your bodyguard?" He was laughing at 
her concern across the dinner table. "We'll do it properly--a visa properly 
recorded, a visit to the consulate. They won't like us, but they will be 
aware that we exist. Maybe I can manage a small item in the local newspaper. 
All in all, those two sons of bitches aren't going to have all that much 
gall. Goodness knows they've got enough, but they won't arrest either of us 
or kidnap you. You'll be too well documented." 

It was immensely plausible. Catherine thought about it often in the ensuing 
days. She wondered how much of her old self or how much of her new was doing 
the prompting. Repeatedly, she swept the whole idea under the carpet, but it 
constantly renewed itself with fresh insistence. It was not too long before 
a return to the scenes of her pains and humiliations took on an air of 
inevitability. She remembered some old saying to the effect that if you 
wanted something badly enough, you would surely get it. But there had been 
two men and only one of her! Could she be in love with both, or was her wish 
purely to rub their noses in the same dirt of shame and humility they had 
imposed on her? She frankly did not know. But the thought of discovering the 
man who had ravished her when she was manacled and blindfolded took on an 
ever increasing excitation. She was almost positive it had been Jamal, but 
suppose it had been another man! But she had gone over this ground 
previously and would have no more of it. Impatiently, she expelled the 
female curiosity. She was ashamed of herself, but nonetheless she remained 
intrigued with the thought of a journey. 

Catherine's father proved surprisingly amenable. No doubt he sensed her 
preoccupation and knew their cause. Perhaps too he wanted the whole affair 
stricken from her mind and was wise enough to know that a return to the 
scene was always inevitably disappointing, He regarded Catherine as still 
young and probably considered she would return from her pilgrimage prepared 
to pick up her normal life once more. Very simply he said, "If you must, you 
must, my dear. But yes, take Allen Morehouse. I've checked him out and he's 
okay." He allowed himself a pale smile. "You'll be interested to know the 
deal everyone was so concerned about has been consummated in my favor. It's 
over and done with. Any rich man's daughter is subject to kidnap, but no one 
is going to kidnap you as a leverage upon me for control of a company. You 
might very easily have an enjoyable holiday." 

But Catherine remained troubled. Her old self still had the power to deny. 
It refused to have any part of a fresh adventure. It told her she had things 
good as a rich man's daughter right where she was. To flit around Africa in 
search of answers to silly questions was ridiculous. 

Allen Morehouse approached her problem diffidently. "Do you want to visit 
the Howells, Catherine? I've know them a long time, and Melanie's a good 
sport. I've already spoken to them, and she says it's okay--that she'd do it 
for a friend of mine. She wouldn't do it for everyone." 

"Oh. Allen, please!" 

"Damn good offer, actually." Morehouse cocked a cynical eye. "Mustn't take 
these things too seriously, you know. You got to do it with a chuckle. 
Whatever a fellow's or a girl's thing may be, you'd best do it with a smile 
and stop being ponderous and portentous about it. Hell, what's a whipped 
bottom or being tied up and put in a closet for a couple of hours amount 
to?" He surveyed her with a wry grin. "With the right people, of 
course--that's for sure!" 

In her daily life, Melanie Howell was a young woman of some presence, but in 
her private existence she sparkled mischief and emanated an indefinable 
something Catherine could not name. She shared an adequate apartment with a 
young man who called himself Wilson Hayes. Between them was an obvious 
affection. After greetings in which Catherine was warmly hugged and kissed, 
Melanie discreetly vanished, leaving Wilson the official host. He had 
watched Catherine's stiffness soften and unbend. Now he took her a step 
further along the path. "Catherine, I want you simply to watch, both Melanie 
and I want you to reserve judgement. Remember this, though: We are not 
selling you a bill of good; we are not selling you anything. We are simply 
giving you a glance at something intensely private which we value. Don't 
bother to comment or exclaim. Take the experiment home with you and make 
what you wish of it. It is our gift." He grinned cheerfully, "But one thing 
you can remember is that there'd be a million men who'd pay a lot of money 
to watch as you will watch. Brace yourself--here comes our little sweetheart 
with the drinks." 

It was a Melanie none had seen before. To all intents and purposes, she was 
nude, but she did wear a pair of transparent gauze pantaloons in the harem 
tradition. There was a collar and some sparkling, barbaric decorations in 
her hair. She carried a tray, and on it were three glasses. Kneeling before 
her lover, she uttered the single word: "Master." She bowed her head 
submissively while Wilson selected his drink. Then, without pause, she 
flitted to kneel before the astounded Catherine, but in this case, she 
whispered, "Mistress." Dazed, Catherine reached for her glass, then watched 
the repeat performance with Allen Morehouse. There was no drink for the 
slave girl herself, and it was not until Melanie lowered the tray that 
Catherine observed the handcuffed wrists. The girl now retreated to kneel 
and bow submissively, looking at no one but simply there as might be 
required. She sat back on her heels and rested her handcuffed hands in her 
lap. She was very beautiful. 

They talked, but Melanie remained silent. Wilson spoke entertainingly about 
what he called their thing and the thing of others. After awhile the ritual 
of the cocktails was repeated. It was not until Wilson had sipped his drink 
and held up an empty glass that he demanded, "Here, dispose of this." When 
the slave girl did as she was told, her hands fumbled so that she dropped 
the glass and the tray with a clatter. The silence to follow could be felt 
"That was a damn silly thing to do," Wilson said sternly. "I'm sorry, 
Master." Melanie's voice had receded through the centuries. 

"I would hope you are sorry. Is that all?" 

"I should be punished, Master. Please punish me." 

The silence could be felt. Catherine looked at Allen Morehouse, but received 
only a raised eyebrow. Wilson Hayes held the stage. His voice was cold. "Get 
me the cane and rope. Come now-- hurry!" 

Melanie hurried away with tray and glass. She was flushed and confused, but 
her eyes were sparkling bright. She returned with the items demanded and 
kneeled before her master to proffer them, eyes downcast in shame. Wilson 
took them, and in the same cold, emotionless voice said, "Assume position." 

It had obviously been done before. Between these two there were no secrets; 
all was understood. The quaking slave girl went directly to a massive 
armchair and stood to its side facing across its two arms. Her master bound 
her feet, taking the rope between the chair's legs to bring it up beneath 
the opposite arm. The slave girl leaned forward and her handcuffed wrists 
were circled by the rope from her bound feet and pulled down, the rope 
pushing back beneath the chair to rise up the other side and provide more 
leverage. The master tugged until his slave was bent tautly across the two 
arms, Melanie's hair falling in disarray toward the floor. With a gesture of 
pure savagery, the master tore away the flimsy transparency covering the 
delinquent hips, stripping it away to the bound feet and then tearing it 
free. Melanie was nude. She cast a frightened eye at Catherine and tried to 
smile. 

"How many do you deserve, girl?" 

"Six strokes, please, master." 

"Six! Is that all?" 

"If it pleases you, master." 

"It does not please me, but I will give you six strokes on your bare bent 
bottom." 

"Thank you, master." 

Catherine watched and listened in amazement. There was something preordained 
and quite beautiful about this obvious ritual. Melanie's twin cheeks already 
showed fading marks of a previous caning. The girl was twisting and pulling 
at her bonds, whether in a sincere attempt to gel free or simply a 
demonstration of helplessness Catherine could only guess. Certainly, Melanie 
was exquisitely helpless. Catherine shivered. This had become terribly real 
"Six!" The master rapped the bare, taut curves with preliminary motions. 
"You will count your strokes, slave girl." 

The watching Catherine could swear the air positively thrummed as the cane 
cut it in a swift slash to bed itself upon female flesh. Melanie jerked, 
struggled, and gasped, visibly tearing at handcuffed wrists. She looked back 
up in genuine dismay, her face pink from the exposure and her bent posture. 
But she said no word, and quite suddenly was again still and waiting 
expectantly. From her dry lips the single word came in a loud whisper: 
"One." 

The watching girl's heart went out to she who has bound and in the process 
of punishment. They were indeed sisters, Catherine vicariously sharing every 
blow, wincing under each impact until the six strokes had planted their 
scarlet upon Melanie's skin. Controlling her gasping breathing, the punished 
girl said a meek but clearly audible "Thank you, master." 

Wilson Hayes turned to his audience. He had become very much the master of 
ceremonies and was in complete command. He flexed the yellow cane back and 
forth suggestively between his hands, he tested the weals that he himself 
had raised upon his girlfriend's skin, and the girlfriend winced and moaned. 
"A mere warming up." he said evenly. "We should now get down to giving this 
delinquent damsel and adequate caning." 

"No, master. Oh, please, not any more. Not any more!" 

"I will use a somewhat lighter cane," Wilson pronounced solemnly as though 
the whipped girl had said no word. He went to the cupboard and produced a 
slender length of yellow wickedness. It was indeed more slender than the one 
already used but whether it would hurt more or less was something Catherine 
could only guess. A pink-faced slave girl looked up at it in dismay. "Oh, 
please, master, not that one. Please not that one--it hurts terribly." 

"The better to teach you a lesson, my dear." 

"I'll be good! I promise! Please don't cane me any more. If I have to be 
punished, couldn't I be locked in the closet or something?" 

The master of ceremonies turned to the attentive pair who were his guests. 
"You see how abject she so easily becomes," he pointed out equably. "She 
actually hate the closet, and it's the last thing she wants me to do with 
her, but I will let her describe the experience to you. Melanie, go ahead 
and do so." 

Catherine could swear a tear fell from Melanie's eye onto the rug beneath 
but could not be sure. Melanie's voice came now gaspingly and charged with 
emotion. "My master punishes me often by tying my hands behind my back and 
putting me inside the closet where it's all dark, and then he closes and 
locks the door. I don't ever know how long I'm in there, and it's absolutely 
terribly awful. The time goes on and on, and I'm quite sure he's forgotten 
me and gone away somewhere, and I'm all alone and I'll stay there until I 
die." Pink-cheeked, she looked up at Allen and Catherine in an obviously 
earnest desire to convey to them the true rigors of her penalties. "But then 
when my master lets me out, I discover I've only been in there one or two 
hours. My longest time in the closet was three hours. I thought I'd die." 

The bent-over girl was prepared to say more, but the thrum of the cane cut 
short whatever she would have disclosed. The slender wand made a wicked 
snicker as it sliced the air and cut home upon the waiting curves. Catherine 
winced and Melanie gasped, "Should I count the strokes, master?" 

"No, I have not yet decided how many to give you. I shall just administer a 
sound thrashing." 

"Thank you, master." 

It was unreal and impossible. It was all so civilized and so polite in this 
pleasant living room in a modest apartment. A girl was being thrashed. She 
had been made naked and bound for this punishment now taking place, and she 
was enduring the punishment with an unbelievable fortitude. If this was the 
thing between these two. it was nonetheless incredibly real. The yellow 
withe thrummed, snickered, and cut. Melanie's gasps and moans became 
increasingly audible, her face more and more flushed. Catherine winced in 
sympathy. She knew had this scene been taking place in a dungeon or some 
stone-walled room with barred windows, it would have had an atmosphere of 
horror, but there in the conventional surroundings it had between these two 
a strange beauty. She knew herself witnessing a remarkable communion between 
the sexes. She found herself thinking of Wilson and Melanie as "lucky." 

The caning continued methodically, Catherine wincing with every cut until 
she could bear no more and cried out as though it was she herself beneath 
the cane. "She's had enough, Wilson. I think you ought to stop. You're 
punishing her terribly!" 

Once again the silence. All eyes turned upon Catherine in disapproval as 
though she had been guilty of an obscenity, even the startled gaze of the 
whipped girl beheld reproach. 

"Perhaps you would like to take her place. Miss Mordant?" 

"Don't you dare. Don't ever be so silly. It hurts something awful!" 
Melanie's sincerity could not be doubted. "Don't let anyone talk you into 
it, Catherine. Just because I--" 

"Quiet, girl!" Wilson's voice was once more stem. "If Miss Mordant wishes to 
take your place, we will allow her to do so." 

"I never said I wanted to be caned." Catherine's desperate gaze went from 
one to the other. "I simply said I think poor Melanie's had enough. I still 
think she has. You've caned her terribly." She turned her stricken gaze upon 
Allen Morehouse. "Perhaps we should go." 

Three people were suddenly laughing at her: Wilson, Melanie, and Allen 
Morehouse. It is true Melanie's laugh was not loud, but it was certainly a 
laugh. Wilson dropped his master of ceremonies routine and became human. 
"Show's over," he announced jovially. He grinned specifically at Catherine's 
indignation. "Just testing, that's all." 

Wilson Hayes free the caned girl with a few swift motions by which the rope 
was loosed and she stood erect. Melanie held out her hands and a minute 
later the shining cuffs were taken from her wrists. She stood naked and 
free, but only for a moment. She was then enveloped in two male arms and her 
own were tight around a male neck, hugging in a strange ecstasy of longing. 
Catherine realized she was witnessing a scene between two people deeply in 
love who had shared a vivid experience. A moment later Melanie turned her 
shining eyes to ask coyly, "Would you mind if we disappeared for just a 
little while?" 

The two who remained stared. The single word Allen Morehouse uttered had 
about it an inevitability: "Well?" 

"It has to be seen to be believed." Catherine admitted unwillingly. "She's 
quite incredible. She enjoyed it all, or maybe she just looks back at it 
with some sort of erotic joy. But she'd do it all over again. I'm sure!" 

"I told you." 

Catherine Mordant eyed him sternly. "I think what you're really saying is 
that you believe I'm the same as Melanie and would enjoy a good caning 
myself. Well, you're wrong. I'll admit there's a terrible eroticism about 
if. You can't watch and not be affected in some way." 

"Come on now, Catherine. There's more to what you're thinking than just 
that." 

"So, all right. I'm sexually aroused. Is that what you wanted me to say?" 
Catherine's cheeks were as scarlet as Melanie's had been. "I don't know what 
there is about the sort of thing we've just witnessed, but it probably 
affects everybody in the same way. It's intensely sexual... and then this 
obvious affection!" 

"She'll be giving Wilson the time of his life." 

"In those times when I was caned it wasn't like this at all." 

"But you still want to go and revisit the scene of the crime," Allen 
chuckled at her chagrin. "I'm not contesting that, but I do want you to get 
your priorities straight. Don't kid yourself you're going all that way for a 
cup of tea and a biscuit." 

Catherine was panting. She knew not from what emotion other than the deep 
feelings engendered by what she had seen and what Allen was now saying. She 
had an uncomfortable conviction that had they been in private she would have 
taken Morehouse, so intense was the heat she could not control. She was 
angry and perplexed and was grateful for the reappearance of the happy pair. 
Melanie had donned a wrap and lost no time in putting her arms around 
Catherine's neck. 

"Thank you for coming." It was a sweet small whisper in Catherine's ear. "I 
don't mind a bit that you're watching. I'd hate it if it was just men, but 
with you I felt good. Did it settle anything?" 

"Not really, but you love it, don't you?" 

"I'm afraid I do. Is that bad? I've never seen it as bad, and I only do it 
for Wilson. I think if you didn't love the man who was caning you, you'd 
hate it terribly." Melanie giggled. "Mind you, I'm not all that happy about 
it while it's happening. I manage not to scream, but there's times when it 
would be awful easy to do that. It's the before and after that's so 
wonderful. It's sort of rejuvenating, like being made over and starting 
fresh. Wilson and I will love each other immensely for quite awhile now 
until all of a sudden we'll realize it's time to do it again." She hugged 
and backed away, her eyes still bright. "He thinks up the damnedest ways to 
tie me, and he doesn't always use just a cane; sometimes it's something 
else, but the end result is always the same, and the motives are the same. 
Wilson and I often say that if everybody did it the way we do it, it would 
cure most of the world's troubles. It's the ultimate orgasm--complete 
fulfillment." 

For Catherine it solved nothing. It perplexed her even more. Allen's 
laughing references to caned feminine behinds were an irritation, making 
Catherine feel she should either yield herself for so drastic an infliction 
or simply put the past behind her and forget it all. She seemed forever 
condemning herself for her own sexuality. She had never thought of herself 
as either sensual or sexual. She recognized a difference. She had always 
aimed for the image of a girl faintly frigid with a fine disdain for the 
untidiness of sex. Now to find herself aflame with desire and a heat burning 
incessantly in her loins was irritant enough to cause her to consider the 
Victorian remedy of icy cold baths. She did, in fact, take one, but emerging 
shivering, decided it preferable to go to bed with Allen Morehouse. She was 
therefore open and vulnerable to Allen Morehouse's suggestions. 

"Look, it's bothering you, I can tell. You're ashamed of it, so you don't 
want to talk about it. Let me get it out of your system. How'd you like to 
bend over for a scarlet backside?" 

It would have been so easy. The two of them were now friends enough that it 
could have been achieved without embarrassment. They would approach the 
matter of caning her bottom in a spirit of achievement. There would be jokes 
and laughter until that fatal moment when she was bound beyond the point of 
no return. Catherine was positive that then Allen would refuse her pleas. No 
matter how she begged or changed her mind, it would be to no avail. She 
would suffer to the bitter end whatever she had started. Allen Morehouse was 
that kind of man, in fact, it would be hypocritical of her to approach the 
adventure in any other spirit. But determinedly she rejected the whole 
concept. She was still the daughter of the house of Mordant and mistress of 
her own destiny. The caning of her bottom was altogether ridiculous, and she 
told Allen so. Instead, she took a step into a far more dangerous 
wilderness. 

"Allen, I'm going to buy those two tickets. I want you to accompany me on 
the terms and in the way you suggested. What I need is to lay the ghosts on 
its own ground. That evening with Melanie and Wilson was really love 
play--it had no significance beyond getting them and us sexually aroused." 

"What do you think you're going to do by buying those tickets and going half 
way across the world?" 

"Frankly, I don't know, but it is at least a serious experiment. If it does 
no more than pass a couple of pleasant weeks, what are you complaining 
about?" 

"You can save yourself a lot of money, Catherine. I made you a good offer. A 
sound caning free of charge. Hell, what more do you want!" 

On the following week, Catherine Mordant and Allen Morehouse took a plane to 
the kingdom of Prince Abed Jamal. 

 CHAPTER SIX - SWEET SLAVERY 

The hall was wide and cool in the African day. It came close to being an art 
gallery, its walls lined with pictures and a considerable scattering of 
statuary in marble and bronze. In addition, there was a living statue of 
flesh and blood. 

The girl stood, her hands tied and raised upon her head, she was obviously 
weary and had probably stood there a long time. The man servant, Catherine's 
guide, made no comment other than to slow his stride to enable the honored 
guest to observe this feature of the palace of a prince. The girl lifted her 
bowed head and managed a pale smile, then contrived to turn herself to 
display a cruelly whipped bottom. The imprints of crop or cane were so 
interlaced as to make the lovely coffee-colored curves a single wound. When 
Catherine slowed her stride, the punished maiden gently shook her head in 
negation and the Major Domo said, "has been very bad girl, Miss Mordant. She 
deserves what you see. You coming this way, please. The Prince awaits." 

Catherine took a lingering glance back at the punished girl. It had started 
already, and there was instantly the familiar response within her sex. She 
had no doubt the incident was no accident. The girl had been placed there 
for her edification. It was as though Jamal was laughing in the wings. 

Jamal was a charming host. He awaited her upon a shaded terrace looking out 
into the sunlit African day. He kissed her hands with a quite devastating 
charm. His voice was silk. "The British stayed here briefly. They left some 
mementos of their stay. One was afternoon tea. We are about to enjoy this 
most civilized rite." 

They sat and faced each other across the small table. The Prince completely 
at ease. Catherine uncertain and uneasy about the spectacle she had just 
witnessed. It was on her tongue to mention the whipped girl back there in 
the hall, but the Prince had prepared yet one more shock. She stared in 
disbelief at a distant portion of the huge place to where a pillar rose in 
slender beauty from the floor to the ceiling. Bound to it tight with rope 
was a naked girl. She too was light coffee color and like her sister in the 
hall had obviously been as she was a long time. There were no whip marks; 
she was just very tightly bound and totally nude. The Prince intercepted 
Catherine's startled gaze. "A delinquent maiden, that is all, Miss Mordant. 
It is my practice to allow them to see and to be seen. 

I am not a devotee of dungeons." 

"They make beautiful statues," Catherine agreed casually. "Are you using 
them to convey a message?" 

"Yes." His smile was the usual flash of white teeth and deep dark eyes. "Or 
should we say a test? For you to see them thus makes me a perfect host." He 
paused. "Doesn't it?" 

Catherine needed no reply, her attention was instantly absorbed by a quite 
young girl whose hands and feet were joined with light silver chains and who 
wore the gossamer transparencies of the conventional vision of a harem. The 
child arranged the tea things and poured the tea with a singular grace, then 
clinked her way from the terrace. With a touch of her familiar ice. Miss 
Catherine Mordant queried briefly, "Charming, really charming! For my 
benefit?" 

"Of course. But I will inflict no more of these delightful maidens on you. I 
have presumed enough. But I'm curious--have they pleased you?" 

Catherine's gaze had reverted to the girl bound to the pillar. It was a 
fascinated mesmeric regard she could not resist. There was something 
ineffably beautiful about the slender curves welded tight against the stone 
by the thin strands indented in the flesh. She suspected the girl could not 
move, but there was a perfection in the pose completely fluid as though the 
limbs were free. Her fancies were shattered by a polite question. 

"Why are you come to visit me. Miss Mordant?" 

Catherine sipped her excellent tea and glinted at her host above the rim of 
the expensive china. She had made up her mind to be forthright. "To spit in 
your eye, I suppose. I intend to visit Kandaka and spit on Madanda too." 

The Prince smiled brightly. "And what about poor Henry Kemp?" 

"You and Madanda were never a bore. Henry Kemp was. I expect he lost a lot 
of money on me, did he not?" 

"The loss was mine. I returned Mr. Kemp his money. You were stolen on my 
plane, and I felt a responsibility." The Prince waved an airy hand. "But 
what is a few million dollars compared to a treasure such as you?" 

It was as Catherine had hoped. The thrill was coursing through every fiber 
of her being. Here she was playing with fire, across a tiny table sipping 
tea was a man who could imprison her and make her captive for the rest of 
her life but who was deterred in such a purpose by the most tenuous of 
threads: Morehouse, the American consulate, and the State Department. Jamal 
read her thoughts. 

"You feel completely safe. Miss Mordant, don't you? You come to gloat over 
your brief enslavement, and you have arrayed against me a formidable group 
of influences." He sipped as though quietly thinking. "I could have Allen 
Morehouse killed and disposed of, your consulate and State Department would 
do nothing. Yours is a race halfway to oblivion." 

Catherine Mordant was shivering deliciously and condemning herself for doing 
so. She had wished to play with fire and now she felt its heat. Jamal's 
smile held no menace, but his presence and the punished girls all spoke 
vividly of possible intent. The Prince had only to clap his hands or give 
some such signal to make her the fourth of a suffering quartet of feminine 
dolor. She imagined herself as the hours slipped by while she was bound 
without mercy to a marble pillar. She had returned to be once more Jasmine, 
but the Mordant side of her nature still chided her indulgence in the 
fancies of silly servant girls of an age now passed. Irrelevantly, she 
demanded, "That night when I was manacled to the be and blindfolded--it was 
you?" 

The Prince shrugged and refilled her cup. "Does it matter? Was it not for 
you the dream of every girl--the faceless, nameless masculinity to make you 
a woman?" 

"I don't know about that, but in my mind and in my heart I know it was you." 
She recognized deep water and changed the subject. "Now, why don't you untie 
that poor girl up there on the pillar and let her go so we can return to 
normal? She doesn't bother me, but hasn't she made your point for you?" 

"There is another pillar across the room from her. I suggest I bind you to 
that one. You would compliment each other delightfully." 

She was being played with, but it was a delicious play. She would not put it 
past this man to actually do what he had just described, simply to show his 
contempt for her precautions. But to be bound nakedly thus while the Prince 
transacted business or entertained upon the terrace as he now entertained 
her would be an undeniable quintessence of sensation. The girl, Jasmine, was 
sorely tempted She could not rid herself of the conviction that the Prince 
could read her thoughts and was quietly laughing at her, but his voice was 
quietly enticing. "Come. Miss Mordant, spit in my eye and then I will tie 
you to the pillar. It is a fair exchange. We will do it in the most 
civilized way. I will sit here for you, and you will stand there for me. 
Come, what do you say?" 

"I can't spit in your eye. It's just a figure of speech." 

"Uh, this I understand, but you most certainly can stand against that marble 
column. Come, drop your fears. Each of us is striving to prove a point, and 
it is so easily done. " He leaned forward, and with a determined finger, 
tilted up her chin. "Surely Jasmine is not frightened of her master? I will 
have you bound there for a single hour, then set you free. You never need 
see me again if that is your choice." 

It happened! Catherine never knew quite how. She was too confused, her mind 
too chaotic with conjecture and sensation. Her hands were nerveless, but it 
was the Prince's fingers who removed her clothes and set her back against 
the marble where she stood in palpitating breathlessness while she was 
bound. It seemed to Jasmine that the strands and strictures found every 
crevice of her femaleness. They were tugged and looped until she became a 
part of the pillar itself, her hands helpless at its back, her elbows almost 
joined. The greatest care and attention was given to those bindings by which 
her breasts would be made more prominently vulnerable. When it was done, the 
Prince's kiss was an undoubted seal of approval. Jasmine had forgotten her 
nakedness. She had forgotten everything except the touch of lips and hands. 
Such reason as still remained reminded her insistently: one hour, one hour! 

Jamal kissed each of the captive nipples, then went away to leave his most 
recent acquisition staring at the other girl bound as she herself was bound. 
The feminine voice was as dusky as the feminine skin. "You have pleased our 
master. You are a lucky girl." 

"I'm not lucky, I'm just plain silly," Jasmine assured her companion 
irritably. "How did you come to be tied like that?" 

"To please my master." There was a tinkle of silvery laughter. "Perhaps to 
please you. It does not matter. Slave girls cannot guess the motives of a 
prince." 

"There's a girl out in the hall--she's been whipped?" 

"She has also been naughty. We all get whipped sometime--even you." 

"Will he honor his promise and set me free at the end of an hour?" 

"Indeed he will--he is a prince." The low feminine tones became shadowed 
with amusement. "But before that happens, I think he has a surprise for 
you." 

The surprise was Allen Morehouse. He entered the terrace with the Prince, 
both in animated conversation. If they noticed the girls bound to the two 
pillars, they gave no sign. Instead, they sat down and discussed some sort 
of business deal Jasmine did not bother to comprehend. She was furious. If 
Allen Morehouse had set her up for this, she would never speak to him again, 
but at the moment she could be sure of nothing except being naked and in 
plain sight of two men who could discuss of examine her as they pleased. The 
fact that at the moment neither paid her the slightest attention was an 
additional affront. She considered breaking in upon their conversation and 
forcing her existence upon their attention, but she had a momentary vision 
of the whipped skin of the girl in the hall. Perhaps Jamal wanted only an 
excuse! 

In seething indignation, Jasmine tested her bonds, but she could not move 
enough to intrude upon the notice of the omnipotent male. She was furious 
with them both and with herself, but could not deny a touch of humor in the 
situation. She was a victim of her own femininity. She could have stayed at 
home; there was absolutely no good reason for her being naked and bound to a 
marble pillar in a prince's palace--none! When the two men, still busily 
talking, rose and went their way to leave the bound maidens untouched and 
apparently unseen, the fury of both Jasmine and Miss Catherine Mordant knew 
no bounds. It needed physical expression, but she could not move. No doubt 
it was her own agitation which now caused the ropes to bit more painfully. 
All Jasmine could do was compile bitter words for delivery if she ever got 
the chance. 

As time passed the bound girl became more and more certain she had become 
victim to either outrageous humor or sinister plot. She felt sure the hour 
had come and gone. But now all her calculations were awry; she could not 
believe either Allen Morehouse or the Prince could do her harm, but they 
might easily keep her captive to teach her want they would call "a lesson." 
She saw this as highly probable and denounced herself constantly for falling 
into such an obvious trap, but her concerns were within her own mind. At the 
end of an hour a polite servant released her, restored her clothes, and 
informed her that Prince Abed Jamal had been forced away on business. She 
returned to the motel like a small army advancing into battle. 

"You asked for it, sweetheart. Come on now be honest, if ever any girl 
sought that sort of adventure, it was you!" Allen Morehouse refused to be 
perturbed. He had borne the brunt of her accusations and denunciations with 
his usual equable cynicism. He was laughing at her still. "What do you want 
me to do, apologize? Get down on my knees and offer my resignation?" 

"You betrayed me! You let me down! You didn't need to be so mean. I'm not 
that stupid." 

Allen shrugged. "You made a deal, love, and it was honored to the letter. 
You wouldn't be here otherwise. Jamal put on a damn good show for you--he's 
a decent type. I'd say we about exhausted your experiment here. What you say 
we move on to number two?" 

"Suffer this! Then just walk away as though nothing ever happened?" 

"Well, you got what you wanted, didn't you?" Allen chuckled wisely. "Except 
the beaten bottom, of course. But I'll ask Jamal to arrange that for if you 
wish." 

"You're being deliberately unkind." 

"No, I'm not. It's become an obsession with you. You should have let me give 
you a good thrashing back in the U.S. Save all this money." He fell soberly 
silent. "But one thing is certain: If you go on probing around in these 
out-of-the-way places, you're going to find trouble. Honest, Catherine, I 
wish you wouldn't. Why the hell don't we go back home?" 

They did not go home. Instead, they toured the town which was a 
conglomeration spanning the centuries to make them one. They found it a 
place of infinite delights and allowed their footsteps to stray beyond the 
borderline of prudence. Within the emporium of a dealer in Arabic rugs Allen 
was struck on the head from behind at the same moment a bag was slipping 
over Catherine's head and drawn tight. Her last glance of her protector was 
of him slipping sideways in unconsciousness. 

No word was said. There was no need. Whoever the enemies were, they were 
well trained and well rehearsed. They crossed Catherine's wrists behind her 
back and bound them tight with what she suspected was thin rawhide. They 
bound her ankles with the same stuff. Both bindings were tight enough to 
hurt, no doubt an admonition to behave. Blind and helpless, she was tossed 
into a vehicle and driven away. She could not tell if Allen Morehouse had 
been taken too, but she had never felt more dismally alone. 

When the conveyance was well underway, someone thoughtfully raised her feet 
and legs to bring them back and then to tie them to her bound hands. It was 
the classic hogtie. Catherine recognized it from fiction and bound it 
outrageously uncomfortable. Within a few minutes it started to hurt, but her 
complaints were buried in the bag covering her head. If anyone heard them, 
they paid no heed. The wheels were swift upon the desert sand. 

The cage in which Catherine and the three other girls were imprisoned was of 
massive bars and supporting horizontal struts. It would have held an 
elephant, let alone four naked and very frightened maidens, each of them 
handcuffed with shining chrome. All four of them were naked. Her dusky 
companions lost no time in informing the new arrival of their status as 
merchandise in the slave market of a gentleman named Sirdar Ben Sirdar. They 
expected to be sold at any moment and cautioned Catherine to do everything 
she was told or she would be most terribly whipped. They exhibited the 
bottom of one of their number to demonstrate their point It had indeed been 
well and truly disciplined. When the talk was done, Catherine joined her 
companions in a listless and lethargic squatting on the floor. There was 
simply nothing else to do. She could see no hope of release or rescue. Her 
mind flitted back to when the hood had been lifted from her head. 

These men were Arabs in a way Jamal would never be. They were dirty, 
hawk-eyed sons of the desert. They appeared to have a brand of humor all 
their own and joked constantly as they stripped their recent acquisition and 
stood her up to be examined. They blandly ignored everything she said; she 
might as well have been mute. They peered clinically within her mouth and 
inside her other most secret places. Evidently, slave girls were expected to 
be in the best of health. No doubt their price was adjusted to what the 
examination revealed. Catherine's feet were quickly freed as an aid to this 
examination. The rope on her wrists was released only long enough to be 
replaced by handcuffs. 

"You will behave and do as you're told or we'll make you very sorry," said 
Sirdar Ben Sirdar. "You are white and will be very quickly sold. I suggest 
you make the best of your new condition." 

It had been that simple! They had opened the cage door and thrust her 
inside, closing it behind her with a horrendous clang of metal. There could 
be no doubt the four maidens had become the inventory, the stock and trade 
of a man who bought and sold girls. Catherine's companions assured her it 
was an ancient and honorable state that had never ceased to be in spite of 
the admonitions of the United Nations. Men with money wished to purchase 
beautiful girls. What was more natural therefore than that the demand be 
supplied? She gathered that Ben Sirdar was a highly respected member of the 
community. She gathered further that whether any girl living here abouts 
became a slave was largely a matter of convenience to Mr. Sirdar. Any girl 
who could be kidnapped without a fuss and repercussions was kidnapped. Often 
he went far afield to maintain his inventory. This had been the case with 
her. The rug dealer had received a small commission. 

Once more Catherine found herself disgusted by her own stupidity. Feminine 
caprice had led her into this and now she could easily become a lifelong 
captive of some idiotic man pursuing an idiotic fantasy. Along with this was 
the injury to Allen Morehouse. He had been an innocent victim seeking to 
protect her and betrayed by his own loyalty. He might very easily be dead. 
Mr. Sirdar's establishment was run on rituals long understood. The slave 
auction came punctually on every Wednesday. There might be one girl or a 
dozen, depending on the enterprise of Mr. Sirdar's assistants and his own 
endeavors. One of her three companions informed Catherine that she herself 
had not been kidnapped but purchased legitimately from a man who had tired 
of her. She had had no less than three masters before she had long ago been 
enslaved. Each one of them had whipped her and she expected no less from 
whoever might buy her now. She laughed at the dismay of the girl among them 
who had the bruised cheeks, explaining that all men whipped girls-- that it 
was a female's natural destiny and was no doubt the will of Allah. She 
counseled them on the need to acquire carnal skills and offered her 
experience for their benefit but deplored the market's policy that no girl 
within the cage should engage in any sexual undertaking. No doubt that was 
the will of Allah too. 

Wednesday came and the merchandise was groomed and polished to a degree of 
desirability no man surely could resist. It was understandable that 
Catherine, being white, should be reserved as the piece de resistance. She 
was placed to stand demurely at one side to be examined and hopefully 
excite. Horrific threats of what would be done to her if she made a fuss had 
frightened her enough to make her anxious to please. These men were for 
real, and what was being done with her was equally real and frighteningly 
permanent. Breathlessly, she watched the bidding as girl after girl stepped 
up onto the platform with the auctioneer and stood nakedly while her virtues 
were extolled. The girls remained handcuffed, but had been instructed on the 
manner of raising their arms back over their heads to clasp their hands at 
the back of their necks and thus expose themselves as fully as might be. 
There had also been an instruction on the separation of their feet. The 
closing of shy legs was forbidden! 

The amounts were stupendous, but this was oil country and money had become 
only tokens whereas the girls were flesh and blood and enticingly young. It 
appeared that many of the men who bid had no wish for recognition. They wore 
the conventional caftan and kept the hood sufficiently shadowing their face 
that the girl on whom they bid could know only the sound of their voice, but 
even that was denied since most bids were made by the raising of a hand. 
Miss Catherine Mordant stood in shamed amazement as her price passed the 
first million, then the second, then the third. Toe her each raised finger 
was the knell of doom. She was knocked down for the sum of six million 
dollars, the next figure for which she had been enslaved so long ago. It was 
not until she had been escorted to a waiting limousine that she discovered 
she was now the official possession of Prince Abed Jamal. 

They sat together in the back seat of the limousine, Catherine still naked 
and handcuffed. Bitterly, she exclaimed, "So now I've cost you twelve 
million dollars! I'm not worth it." 

Jamal kissed her. "Surely you're worth it." 

"You throw money around as though it's nothing." She sniffed unhappily. "But 
I suppose I have to say thank you for rescuing me. How did you know?" 

"It is my business to know, but believe me, I had no hand in this affair. 
You were legitimately abducted and legitimately sold. You are now most 
officially a slave." 

"All right, I'll enjoy the sensation while it lasts," she said ungraciously. 
"Will you be kind enough to drive me to the hotel and provide some sort of 
covering?" She held up her joined hands. "And I'd like to get rid of these 
too if you don't mind." 

There was a strained silence. It went on long enough to tell the captive 
girl all she needed to know. Feminine intuition told the rest, but still she 
had to ask. "You are rescuing me, aren't you?" 

"No." 

"Oh, don't tell me! Do we have to go through that again?" The Prince picked 
up her handcuffed hands and kissed each of them gently. His voice was 
designed to soothe. "It is so convenient. What has happened, my dear, is 
that your status as a slave girl has been legitimized. I want you to 
consider you have simply vanished. No one will ever find you again. Mr. 
Morehouse is in the local hospital and will recover. He has already informed 
all interested parties of what took place in the bazarre. All anyone will 
know is that you are somewhere in Africa." 

"But that doesn't legalize--" 

"I'm afraid it does, dear girl. Sirdar Ben Sirdar is a respected 
businessman. You fell victim to his assistants purely by chance, but that 
does not alter the fact that you became his possession. Your white skin 
excuses nothing. I have long had an acquaintance with Ben Sirdar, and I can 
assure you white skin is no stranger within his cage." Jamal chuckled and 
pinched her cheek playfully. "You were sold by a public auction and you were 
purchased by me. You are now my possession. Should the authorities make 
inquiries after you, particularly at the slave market itself, they will be 
blandly informed by all that no one ever heard of you." 

Once more she was in palpitating disarray. All she could think to say was, 
"Well, at any rate, please take these handcuffs off me. They're not doing 
any good--I'm not going to leap out of a speeding car." 

The request was ignored. Looking down at her cuffed wrists, she felt doubly 
captive. The trouble was she could be sure of nothing. This could still be 
some grandiose joke of a wealthy man. Allen Morehouse may not have been hit 
with anything too hard and may simply have enacted the role she had briefly 
seen. If he was in the hospital, she had no means of knowing but, conceding 
the facts as Jamal presented, she demanded, "What are you going to do with 
me?" 

"You are now a slave girl whose name is Jasmine. On arrival home I intend to 
thrash your bottom. You'll find it painful to sit down for several days." 

So there it was. Out in the open, a fait accompli. Her obsession was about 
to receive its own reward. Coldly, she announced, "If you expect me to enjoy 
it, you can think again. This silly business of whipping every girl's 
bottom--it's time all you men grew up!" 

"You are not frightened?" 

"What I am is angry. I'm angry with myself as much as with you. I think 
you're simple a rich man having fun with a silly girl, and that's exactly 
what I am." 

"You are a very beautiful woman, Jasmine." 

She sniffed disdainfully. "Yes, and tightly handcuffed too. I suppose now 
I'll walk around in chains the rest of my life." 

The girl whose name was now indisputably Jasmine sat, her breasts heaving, 
her pulse racing. She longed for something devastating to say but could 
think of nothing. She wondered if she became coy and loving whether she 
could prevail on some sort of lenience, but Jamal would not be easily 
deceived. She sat in stormy silence as the car took her closer and closer to 
punishment and a permanent enslavement. It took her thirty minutes of 
desultory conversation to reach a point where her mind fully comprehended 
she was about to receive the infliction Allen Morehouse had joked about so 
often and accused her of desiring. She was forced now to ask herself how 
much she did actually desire to have the cheeks of her bottom viciously 
caned. It would hurt abominably and be terribly shaming. It would reduce her 
to a nothing. She remembered the caning she had received from Madanda. In 
bravado, she inquired, "Will you can me yourself or have a servant do it for 
you?" 

"A servant. But I will be there. When it is done. I intend to exercise my 
right of purchase." 

"You mean you'll fuck me!" The bitter ugly word slipped past her lips and 
could not be retrieved. Shamed, she conceded, "So, all right, I shouldn't 
have said that--it's an ugly word. I'm sorry." Jamal patted her hands. He 
lifted them from where they covered her pubic patch and patted what was 
concealed beneath. To do so he had to thrust aside her knees. Jasmine made 
only a grudging concession. "All right, go ahead. There's nothing I can do. 
I belong to you--you can do anything you like with me. Enjoy yourself!" 
Jamal laughed gaily at her vehemence. This girl would be a delight. He would 
keep her well hidden and well secured. He would also ensure her 
entertainment. If it was sometimes painful, it was no more than she had 
secretly desired, but he did not jibe her about the caprice which returned 
her to his chains. It was a secret and private thing entirely her own. He 
would appease and would watch with amusement the effect of the appeasement 
on her temperament. He well understood that as the car sped closer and 
closer to the thrashing of her bottom, she would be understandably 
perturbed. He spoke casually of world affairs, and it was not long before 
they were in a heated argument. 

It was a bare, uninteresting room. Certainly no torture chamber. The term 
punishment room flitted through Jasmine's mind, but even that seemed 
inappropriate. It was simply a room littered with various odds and ends 
designed for the discomfort or pain of girls. She herself had come there to 
have her bottom whipped, and she was quite certain that some of the devices 
she was looking at would hold her securely while this was done. In the 
meantime, she stood naked, her hands still cuffed in front of her, her 
breasts heaving to await the arrival of the servant who would do her 
master's bidding. 

She devoutly wished she was anywhere but where she was. But she stood here 
now to await a punishment as the final end to a sequence of events she 
herself had set in motions. Surely she should have released in all this 
pandering to her caprice there could be but this single end. Her seeking had 
been known and understood. Now she was going to have to clench her teeth and 
try hard not to scream. - Jamal did not even deign to fasten her, but 
motioned to the man servant who appeared to perform the task. The device was 
simple. Metal bars had been welded to enable her ankles to be tied to the 
bottom of one horizontal strip, then she bent over another at the level of 
her hips to be painfully thrust forward and down and have her handcuffed 
hands cinched to one more bar close to the floor. It was extremely simple. 
She could have picked the contrivance, a simple framework, up herself but it 
would hold her securely and no struggle she could make would cause it to 
overturn. With her feet securely bound and resting on the floor at one side 
and her hands equally secured at the same level on the other, the metal bar 
over which she was now drawn tight was painful within her flesh, she 
wondered if it was painful enough to inhibit her struggles. But what good 
would struggles to her? She knew that her posterior was now stretched taut 
and tightly and cruelly exposed. Ashamed, she felt certain some fronds of 
pubic hair were now peeping coyly between her thighs. The servant had the 
gall to smooth the satin skin he was a bout to weal, to pat it suggestively 
and exhibit it in all its exposure to his master who had taken an 
advantageous chair. All Jasmine could do was peer up and back, her features 
suffused, and say, "I hope you're satisfied. I hope you're properly ashamed 
of doing this to me." 

The Prince did not reply. He simply waved one negligent hand as a signal to 
begin. 

This was much, much worse. It could not possibly be borne. The girl upon 
whose flesh the cane was impacting with swift, hard cuts knew she had to 
make someone understand or she would die. Frantically, she looked back and 
up, but received only a kindly nod and a smile from the man to whom she now 
belonged. From between clenched teeth, she muttered, "You mustn't, you 
mustn't! Please stop him--I can't bear it! I never wanted this at all. This 
wasn't the way I expected--" 

"What did you expect--love pats?" Jamal's query was dispassionate and 
faintly amused. 

"But this is a terrible punishment, and I haven't done anything wrong." 

"You are guilty of desire. Is that not enough?" 

The strokes had paused. They now resumed to Jasmine's total dismay. She was 
certain they were horrifically cruel and far worse than any other girl had 
ever suffered. For some reason of his own, Jamal was going overboard. If the 
cane continued its present rhythm upon her flesh, she would faint, she was 
quite certain. Between moans she expressed that opinion. 

"Don't be silly. Jasmine. In retrospect you'll enjoy every single cut. If I 
allow you to use your hands afterwards, you'll be fingering your weals and 
loving every one." 

"I won't! I won't! Ohhhhh, this is impossible! You're killing me!" 

"I could order you whipped up between your legs. That might give you 
something to complain about." Jamal's voice remained pleasantly controlled. 
"But your fantasy was to get your bottom whipped, and that's what we're 
doing to you. It's not your first time, y'know. Don't make such a fuss." 

"But it was never like this--never! Ohhhh, make him stop! Please! He's 
hitting me far too hard." A moan interspersed the tirade of complaints. 
"It's horrible having a man do this to me. It's not decent. I don't see why 
you can't do it yourself." 

"If I did, the strokes would be far more severe. Would you like that?" 

"Yes, yes! No, no! Oh, what am I saying? Oh, damn you! You've got me all--" 

"All pleasantly hot between your legs. Isn't that what you were going to 
say?" 

"You know it wasn't! And I can't help how I feel--" 

"Would you like me to feel?" 

"No, stay away, and tell this man to get away and stop caning me. He's being 
absolutely brutal. Look, if this has to be done to me, couldn't he wait a 
little longer between strokes? He's not giving me a break." 

"You are receiving the standard whipping of your bottom as prescribed in the 
slave girl's code. Jasmine. You have no complaint." 

"Code? Oh, don't be silly--there' no such thing. Oooohhhhh!" Jasmine's words 
availed her of nothing. When her control of them broke under pain, the 
resultant moans fell on deaf ears. What she was receiving might seem the end 
of everything to her, but by the law of this land it was purely routine. The 
bent round cheeks accepted impact after impact from the cane and accounted 
for each with a scarlet line. Fleetingly, the pinioned girl remembered 
someone saying she would not sit down easily for several days. She could now 
believe it. But her main concern was to have done with this steady cadence 
of the whippy weapon in the servant's hand. Until that stopped nothing else 
mattered. From her punished posterior there spread a network of pain which 
had no end. She greeted each fresh stroke with a fresh sound of anguish. 
They were feminine sounds to soften any man's heart. With them were the most 
genuine of moans, but Prince Abed Jamal evidently knew his girls and the 
tolerance of feminine bottoms. He sat quietly while the skin of this girl, 
who probably was in love with him, was close to flayed. When Jasmine's 
rotundities were a uniform red, he held up his hand. The servant put the 
yellow cane back on its rack and stood quietly to attention. The bent girl 
looked up in disbelief. She could not believe the miracle of cessation. The 
thrum and beat of the yellow wand had absorbed her totally. Weakly, she 
quavered, "Is that all?" 

"We can resume should you wish it." 

"I didn't mean that! You know I didn't mean it. I don't know what I mean. 
I've been hurt so bad." 

"A mere nothing. Jasmine. Your back is still virgin." 

In the intervals of laborious breathing, the caned girl demanded in 
disbelief, "You don't mean you'd whip my back too with that awful thing?" 

"It's not an 'awful thing.' It's a slender, yellow cane. But no, we don't 
use that on a girl's back. We have a special whip. Backs are for whipping; 
bottoms are for caning. It's very simple." The servant departed. Seeing him 
go. Jasmine angrily demanded, "Aren't you going to let me off this thing? 
Can't I be untied? This damn bar is cutting me in two." 

"Not noticeably, dear girl. You appear to be completely in one piece. I 
myself will let you loose. I wish you to use the mirror and observe the 
colors you will carry with you for several days." The room held a tall 
mirror. Evidently, the girls punished therein were invited to view 
themselves at some time during the proceedings. Doubtfully, the present 
victim backed up and bent forward and looked around at her own offering. She 
gasped. There was no blood, but it was far more picturesque than she had 
dreamed. It was a study in scarlet and purple and even black, to delight an 
artist's heart. Incredulously, she gasped. "But I can't possibly go home 
like this!" 

"Have you forgotten, dear girl? You are not going home. You will never go 
home again unless I tire of you." 

Uncaring, and as she had done once before in the long ago, Catherine 
clutched the burning, scalding surface on which she would be required to 
sit. Her concern for these injuries was now modified by a fresh realization 
of servitude. She had become, legally, a slave or as close thereto as native 
law allowed. She could well believe foreign diplomats would fight shy of 
interference with such a disposition of a girl. Girls here were very much 
merchandise, and she had been bought and sold. She wished she was not still 
handcuffed, that she could perform the task of mercy to her whipped flesh 
more competently. But she did not ask. Miss Catherine Mordant was becoming 
tired of silky cynicisms. She would not invite one more by asking for the 
steel to be taken from her wrists. She turned and faced the watching man, 
her voice querulous, "So you've done it to me! What now?" 

She had forgotten, but she remembered now and the flush on her cheeks 
rivaled that lower down. She was not unaware of the heat within her own 
loins. She was quite certain Jamal's would equal her own, but just the same 
she longed for the fortitude to deny the act which she felt sure was about 
to happen. 

But there was nothing she could do or say. At this moment, more than ever, 
Jasmine realized her fate. She was a slave girl and as such subject to the 
wishes of her master, and her master had risen purposefully from his chair. 
Instinctively, she backed away, but then, realizing futility, she stood firm 
and contented herself with a frigid stare. Jamal picked her up and carried 
her to the room she remembered. The bed was still there, the manacles at 
each of its comers. With outrageous masculine ease, he tossed her to where 
she had laid previously and then took her with a force and vigor beyond her 
memory. Jasmine said goodbye to a girl named Catherine. 

Jasmine supposed it altogether appropriate. She had wished to revive 
memories and lay ghosts. She had forgotten the post, the chain, and the 
collar, but Prince Abed Jamal had not. It was evident he desired her 
nostalgia properly complete. It was the same woman who escorted her across 
the deserted courtyard. The slave girl looked longingly at the closed doors 
and the distant walls, but she had tried them once and would not try again. 
Jasmine had distaste for being manhandled and was by no means sure this 
woman could not get the best of her in a tussle. She suspected she probably 
could. When ordered, she kneeled beside the post and kept still as the 
collar was fitted around her neck. The snap was exactly as she remembered, 
but the flood of heat within her loins was, this time, tenfold by 
comparison. The woman patted her hair as though she was a child. She told 
her her wants would be tended and then left her alone. 

Jasmine did not try and sit, but contented herself with leaning against the 
post to which she was chained and savoring the dream. She had gone full 
circle and was back where she had been before. This identical captivity had 
been vivid in her memory throughout her return to the U.S. It flooded back 
now as though there had been nothing intervening except the cane so recently 
impacted on her skin. She allowed herself to remain in a vacuum in which she 
did not look ahead but only back and that in a strange sort of longing for 
which once more she scolded herself. Surely her scorching flesh should 
convince her to be sensible! But then again, what was sensible about 
kneeling naked by a post to which she was chained by a collar around her 
neck? It was all crazy, just as it had been crazy once before and she had no 
better idea now where it would lead her than she had had then. She did not 
bother to test her chain, but sank gingerly down to recline upon one hip. it 
was not until she had rested thus a long time that she realized the path the 
Prince would take her on may only just be glimpsed. It would go on from 
agony to agony or shame to shame. He could take her to his bed as the mood 
might strike or he could have her punished and did not even need to be 
present. She existed by and for his pleasure. 

Angrily, Jasmine put a stop to profitless musings. She could prove nothing, 
and there was still a possibility the whole thing was a bad; bad joke. Had 
she been capable, she might have planned something, but that was silly. To 
reassure herself of its silliness, she got wearily to her feet and once more 
made the circle of her captivity. It was exactly as previously. The chain 
allowed her to walk to the end of the tiled square, that and no more. What 
it told her forcibly was that she no longer had a life to dispose of, it 
belonged to someone else. The tether and the collar were only the beginning 
in a long line of such restraints by which she would be held captive. She 
had ceased to cherish illusions. She no longer believed herself in love with 
Jamal. She supposed that if he married her, she would become a princess and 
the picture was entrancing. He was altogether a desirable match for any 
girl, but the music had dissolved. His impersonal sitting to watch the 
caning of her bottom earlier that day had been a turning point. If he had 
caned her himself, it would have been altogether different, but to delegate 
the task to a common servant, and that servant a man. was an affront to 
wound her deeply. As the hours dragged by, the excitation of being once more 
chained and collared to the post waned. She recalled now that the Prince's 
original purchase of her had been simply as a means of barter on a business 
deal. He had retained possession of her for little more than a week and in 
that time shown her remarkably little attention, then sold her to Henry Kemp 
for one more business advantage. It was hardly a romantic association on 
which a girl might build a life. She had behaved stupidly, allowing the 
vision of herself manacled to the bed and ravished by an unseen male to so 
possess her imagination as to once more make her a slave. Now she faced what 
all slaves face; an endless array of days and confinements and punishments. 
True, it would be in interspersed with carnal delight, but these incidents 
could be rare and fleeting. After all, how long does it actually take for a 
man to ravish a girl? It was in this frame of mind, and held only by the 
puppy-dog leash, that Susan White once more entered her life. 

It was on the fourth day. Behind the chained girl was an endless array of 
hours of self-recrimination and an increasing apprehension about her future. 
When Catherine Mordant thought of the continuance of life all about her 
while she remained chained to the tiny post, her frustrations intensified. 
There was nothing glamorous in being chained naked for the sun and the rain 
and the night winds to work their will on her. The experience of being thus 
collared was a thing becoming increasingly elemental by her oneness with the 
revolutions of the planet and the succession of dorms and noons and 
darkness. Trees stood thus, brooding to infinity. But Catherine had no wish 
for such Yoga-like philosophy. Catherine Mordant was twenty-four years old 
and vividly alive, and with a wish to live. The girl named Jasmine was once 
again fading from consciousness. 

"I've been bothered about you, Catherine. I simply had to come." 

The stewardess had crept upon the drowsing girl silently and unobserved. She 
stood now gazing down upon the prisoner of the post in sincere compassion. 
Then, with a rattle of chain, Catherine leapt to her feet and the two 
embraced as though from an ancient friendship. Catherine's first need had 
been of human communion, but this satisfied her second thought was purely 
slave. "But, Susan, you'll be punished. You're not supposed to be here. 
You're not supposed to talk to me. How did you manage to get here at all?" 

"Oh, that's easy. I have a lot of slack time between flights. The Prince 
isn't using the plane all the time, although sometimes he does lend it 
around. He's busy today outside somewhere in the town, and I've always had 
more or less the fun of the house. I'm sort of privileged." Susan grinned 
sheepishly. "I'm sure you can guess why." 

Once Catherine would not have understood, but her exclamation now was one of 
shocked urgency. "You mean--" 

"Yes, me. Of course me. Why not!" Susan remained unruffled. 

her smile as angelic as ever, her voice just as feminine. "It's a big cold 
world out there for little girls without rich fathers." There emerged a 
trace of bitterness in the silvery tinkle of her voice. "I was working as a 
stewardess when he met me. He liked me and propositioned me, and I accepted. 
He pays me a really shocking amount of money to be what I am: part-time 
stewardess and part- time slave. Weren't you surprised to see me do and say 
the things I did?" 

"Well, yes, but I never imagined. I mean, you're so sweet!" 

"Well, being mean to an occasional girl like you and getting my own bottom 
caned regularly doesn't have to turn me into something disagreeable. I've 
frankly loved most of it, and I've never been able to see it do much harm to 
anyone. These fellows like the Prince and Henry Kemp are simply overgrown 
children; they're, still schoolboys. Having all that money stops their 
growth. They never grow up." 

The chained and collared maiden could not rid herself of apprehension. She 
felt it positive that quite soon men servants would emerge from the house 
and apprehend this shining girl who seemed totally unaware of danger. But 
her own great need forced the words. "Susan, can you help me? Can you get me 
loose from this chain? I've been a damn silly idiot and what I want is out!" 

Susan laughed delightedly, fingered her purse, and held up a small metal 
object. "No problem, honey. This is what you need, but there's a price tag 
on it." 

"Anything--just get me out of here." 

"Think a bit, honey," Susan said soberly. "If I let you loose, I lose 
everything, and if we're caught, the penalties will be worse for me than for 
you. At the best, I'll be giving up a very profitable life. Its only 
disability is that I get my bottom caned from time to time when the mood 
strikes His Highness." Susan's voice quickened. "I don't mind telling you 
one of the reasons I'm here is that he's been increasingly dropping hints 
about moving up from my bottom to my back. Men are like that; they never 
stay satisfied with anything. Getting a schoolgirl caning is one thing, but 
to be flogged is something else again. I don't want it." 

"So what do you want? Susan, I know you've something in mind, but what is 
it?" 

"We'll both get out of this country, pronto. But all you'll have achieved, 
Catherine, is a change in ownership. You will then belong to me." 

Catherine heard the simple statement in disbelief. Susan was so sweet, so 
angelic, such a delightful teenage type who would never age. The solemnity 
of her pronouncement was out of character. Surely a girl so light hearted 
and sparkling eyed could never be cruel to another of her own sex! The idea 
was absurd, and whatever Susan might wish to do to her would most certainly 
be better than remaining as she was now. Without pause, Catherine exclaimed 
breathlessly, "Sure, anything! I really don't mine, but get me out of here. 
I'll go with you any way you like." At that moment, the removal of the 
collar from her throat was the most vital essential in life. So imbued was 
she with hunger for the outside world she scarcely heeded the crisp command. 

"Hands behind your back then, sweetheart. This is where it starts." 

It was almost pleasurable to do as she was told, to stand her back to 
another girl of her own age and cross her wrists, then to feel them tied 
with an unexpected competence. Susan was evidently a girl of many parts. 
Breathless with excitement, she whispered, "Susan, you don't need to tie me, 
you know. I'll do whatever you want. Oh, Susan, I'm so glad that you came!" 

The jeep was already loaded with Susan's personal possessions. Since the 
slave girl had no personal possessions, all she had to do was sit and, in 
doing so, was instantly and painfully reminded of the cane. But pain no 
longer mattered. She shifted as best she could to aid her companion in 
covering her nakedness with a flimsy native cloak. Bound hands would not 
matter. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN - FETTERED FEMALE 

In times to come, Catherine Mordant was to wonder why she had so joyfully 
accepted a fresh slavery to a girl called Susan White. She shrugged it off 
as being no more than an intense need of escape from another enslavement 
threatening everything she prized. Susan was her own age, a charming, 
carefree companion. She was also exceedingly wise in the ways of the world 
and of airlines in particular. Catherine had no doubt in being able to 
assert herself some way in the long journey between the post in the 
courtyard and Susan's miniature farm in upstate New York. True, her hands 
had been always secured behind her back, but at the time this had seemed no 
more than an amusing pleasantry between two girls. She could certainly have 
asked for help during any part of her transportation. Her feet had been 
free, so she could most certainly have run away. She could have kicked and 
made a fuss and drawn attention which would have gained her freedom and a 
return to her father's home. She thought of all these things too late and 
once more wryly admitted her own heatedly erotic involvement in a new 
adventure. Susan was a delight. She was immensely sexual, and this 
sensuality transferred itself to her captive to make the abduction a thing 
for giggling and an exchange of wise female eyes. Once more, Catherine's 
libido betrayed her. Nor could she deny the immense potency of that moment 
in which the two of them had stripped naked and examined the colorations of 
the cane on each other's flesh. Susan herself had been recently punished 
with the same severity as the girl she now called slave. They laughed about 
it and coined the phrase that it made them sisters of the cane instead of 
sisters under the skin, as in the old adage. 

The flight home had possessed a deliciousness all its own. By that time 
Susan had acquired handcuffs and discarded the cord. A fellow colleague was 
on duty and the three girls adjoined to a private place so that this friend 
might view the shining steel confining the hidden wrists. There had been 
much giggling and thereafter through the journey the girl had met 
Catherine's eyes with a knowing wink. Their journey had seemed a game 
between girls, so had the picking up of Susan's car and the ride to the tiny 
farm. It was when the two of them were alone within Susan's own domain that 
Catherine once more confronted reality. The reality was the removal of her 
coverings including her shoes and the retention on her wrists of the steel 
circlets. She was completely in Susan's power. 

Throughout the journey, Catherine had constantly asked herself why, why, 
why? But she had set doubts aside in her pleasure in the shining girl who 
had released her from the post. Susan had a way about her, an affectionate 
authority in which it was pleasant to bask free of all responsibility. 
Catherine had refused to be concerned about the handcuffs. They had become 
so much a part of her life that it seemed silly to question their presence 
on her wrists. If it pleased Susan to have them there, so what! The fact 
that Catherine could, successfully, sought relief again and again had been a 
reassurance. They were two girls playing an enchanting erotic game. Over and 
above the pleasure Catherine found in this association was the reiteration 
of the one marvelous word she was free, free, free! 

"Why did you let me get away with it, Catherine? You didn't have to, 
y'know." 

"I like you. I owe you. I'm not frightened of you. Isn't that enough?" 

Susan shrugged soberly. At that moment she felt infinitely older than this 
ebullient girl. Quietly, she warned, "Catherine dear, I'm not playing games. 
At least not innocent games. You're my prisoner and I'm going to keep you." 

"Yes, I know. You've told me. Here I am." Catherine raised her joined hands 
and rattled the single link by which they were held together. "See, I belong 
to you. What more do you want?" Susan sighed. It seemed a shamed to take 
this happy captive from her euphoria and plunge her once more into despair. 
Slowly, she ventured, "Men aren't the only ones to have silly fantasies, you 
know, dear. Goodness knows you had yours, and look what they got you into. 
I've had a fantasy myself all my life." She grinned a shameful grin. "I've 
always wanted to own a girl, a girl my own age and infinitely beautiful. We 
would love each other, but I would keep her always chained or bound or 
behind the bars of a cage. She would never, never escape. After awhile she 
would not want to; she would become a happy prisoner. Often I'd whip her and 
she would come to love that too." 

Catherine examined the proposition and came up with the obvious. "But, 
darling, isn't that us! Susan, I'm your fantasy. I am! What are you looking 
so sober about?" 

"You mean you're not bothered? I don't seem cruel?" 

"Goodness no! Right now I'm so sick of men and what they do to girls that 
you're a glorious relief. I say, Susan, can you get word to my father I 
won't be home for awhile?" 

"I'll look after it. But, Catherine, I'm not sure you get the point. Suppose 
you never do go home? Suppose I keep you always?" 

"What a lovely idea, darling. Could we make coffee?" 

They made coffee, but before doing so Susan used a length of chain and two 
padlocks upon the slender ankles of her captive girl. "I don't have proper 
shackles or leg irons, darling. But I will get some," she apologized as she 
snapped the locks. "I'll warn you now there will never be a time when you 
are not held in some way like this. Right now I'm going to change the 
handcuffs from front to back. For a moment you'll think you're free, but 
you're not. With your ankles joined as I have just locked the, you can't 
fight me effectively. You'll have to do as I ask." 

"Of course I'll do what you ask!" Catherine was wondering what all the fuss 
was about. If Susan had spent as much time chained to the small point in the 
courtyard as she herself, then Susan would certainly understand what was 
happening now was mere fun and games. 

Catherine kicked her newly acquired hobble to make the links clatter. She 
held out her hands. "But, Susan dear, I won't be able to lift my cup; you'll 
have to lift it for me." 

The exchange was swift. One moment Catherine had hands, the next they were 
securely locked behind her back. In a fever of emotion Susan turned the 
captive nude around and clasped her hungrily in her arms. "I've wanted this 
so long. I've wanted you so badly ever since I first saw you." Her voice was 
almost tearful. They kissed in an increasing need. "You know, don't you, 
what I'm going to make you do?" 

"Of course I know--I'm not stupid." Catherine wondered what all the drama 
was about. "Don't you understand, Susan darling, I've belonged to men, and 
they've done whatever they've wanted with me. Once I was manacled naked on a 
bed and then blindfolded. A man came and he used me over and over, and I've 
never known for sure who he was." Catherine laughed in the relief of 
retrospect. "I've had my bottom whipped and then been made to lay on it. 
What should we call it dear--the act?" 

"You've made love to a girl before?" 

"No, I haven't, but I'm not frightened. Not with you, Susan." Catherine 
laughed again. "You've bottled up your fantasy too long. It's obsessive, 
isn't it? It's making you more serious and concerned about owning me than 
there's any need to be. Okay, I'm owned. You own me. Now can I have my 
coffee?" 

There began then for the two girls a quivering, palpitating journey to the 
kingdom of Sappho and the lesbian isle. They found it a place of wonder and 
delight. In Catherine Mordant's mind the images of men faded and became hazy 
into an eventual disbelief they have ever existed. The days passed in 
idyllic happiness, but through it all Susan kept her promise. Never for a 
single moment was her slave girl free of bonds. Leaving her new possession 
safely bound, Susan went to town and returned with a boxful of metal and 
leather accessories by which a maiden could be constrained in any one of 
many ways. They tried them all, and the slave girl herself was happily 
amused by her owner's absorption with her purchases. Gladly , she offered 
her wrists, ankles, and neck to receive the benediction of the bonds. The 
union of the two girls and the domination of one over the other was 
accentuated and reaffirmed by Catherine's chance attempt at escape. 

It was necessary that the prisoner be left alone at times when her mistress 
went for supplies or to purchase additional erotic items for their armory. 
On this occasion Catherine had seemed safe enough. She was handcuffed, her 
ankles hobbled, and her neck tethered to their bed by a strand of rope. She 
had been patted and kissed and told to go to sleep like a good girl. On the 
face of it escape was impossible. But the slave was in a mischievous mood. 
After the mistress had departed, Catherine had contrived to back up to the 
terminal of her rope tether and work on it with handcuffed fingers. Her 
ability to do this was an oversight on her captor's part. But in the spirit 
of pure mischief she worked and worked until she had the knots undone and 
could either hop or take short, hobbled steps from the bed and from the 
room. She did this with an accelerating pulse. At first with no more than 
mischief in her mind but reaching the bottom of the stairs and then the back 
door of the farm house she realized the possibilities of this chained 
freedom. To reach a road on which help might come would be a long and 
arduous passage of tiny steps. But why not! There is an element of boredom 
in the life of any slave. Catherine suddenly found her pulse quickening with 
a vision of a return to a life in which there were no chains, no ropes, no 
collars on her neck, a life in which every moment of every day would be as 
she desired. It was a delightful dream, and she realized it did not preclude 
Susan from her life, but they would then meet on equal terms and she would 
never again offer her limbs to the chains or ropes of anyone. Imbued with 
the delightful prospect, she started on her fearfully handicapped journey. 

It was, surprisingly, easier than supposed. Before starting, she had draped 
her hips with a towel to enable her to face possible male regard without too 
deep a shame. Her ankles must inevitably be chafed. They were worked 
overtime in the tiny ten-inch strides permitted by the span of links. Her 
hands could not have helped her in any case. It would have been nicer had 
they not been cuffed behind her back, but she consoled herself with the 
thought she could not have everything. Her feet twinkled steadily to an 
accompanying clink of links. She giggled, thinking of Susan's shock and 
chagrin. Catherine looked around. There was no sign of life anywhere. 
Somewhere over the hill ahead lay the narrow country road which was her only 
hope. It was still far distant! 

There was an air of fate about the way it happened. It had taken a long, 
long time to reach her objective, and her ankles were cruelly red. Catherine 
surmounted the low ditch beside the narrow road as the last obstacle. 
Standing in the middle of the chamber, she looked up and down, but there was 
no sign of an approaching car. There was nothing. She sighed and sat down. 
At least she would not be ignored. 

It was some little time before the vehicle came into view. She saw it with a 
thrill of excitement and got instantly to her feet. She could not wave 
because she had no hands, but certainly a semi- naked girl in the middle of 
the road would halt any vehicle. Her hazard now was that whoever stopped at 
her behest would treat her kindly. She was wickedly vulnerable. When the 
approaching vehicle came close enough to be examined and assessed, 
Catherine's hopes crashed. Frantically, she turned to hobble her way back 
across the ditch. Halfway she heard the grind of brakes and the cheerful 
feminine voice. "Were you going somewhere, darling?" 

It was too, too cruel. Like a naughty child, she sat, her cheeks flushed, 
beside Susan in the seat of the busy little jeep. She felt silly and 
ineffectual. She was also scared. This was the first real test of Susan's 
tolerance. Catherine had no expectation her escape attempt would be 
unpunished. 

"You silly little idiot. Where did you expect to go? Who did you expect to 
rescue you? It's a miracle you got as far as you did with your feet chained 
the way they are." Susan sighed in mock exasperation. "I really don't know 
what I'm going to do with you. How would you like me to keep you in a cage?" 

It was all too delicious and heating to the loins. Never for a moment did 
they cease to be two girls in love, that one of them was delinquent changed 
nothing. Without a word being said it was completely understood the naughty 
member of the duo would be punished. 

Susan too was savoring the situation to the full. She would push nothing but 
allow her slave to quiver in her own particular apprehension. Catherine was 
allowed to help in the preparation of dinner. 

"For heaven's sake, stop looking like a forlorn sheep!" Susan demanded. "We 
both know I'm going to punish you and that's that. Surely you can behave 
normally until it happens!" 

"But will you forgive me?" Catherine's voice was almost tearful. "I feel so 
silly, just as though I've done something terribly wrong. Any prisoner is 
entitled to try and escape. " She gave a forlorn and questioning glance to 
her owner. "That is so, isn't it?" 

"You appear to think so. It's my job to teach you differently. Now for 
goodness sake, stop looking and peel the potatoes." 

She could be sure of nothing, but this was a condition of enslavement. 
Catherine understood this all too well. She was longing to ask what her 
punishment would be but did not dare. She was sure she would enjoy the 
dinner more if she did not know. She was not hungry, but dutifully, at the 
morsels offered on her mistress's fork. It was not until after the dishes 
were dried and put away that the awful moment came. 

"Are you ready, darling?" 

It would be silly to ask for what she should be ready. Catherine knew all 
too well. Briefly, she admitted a scared affirmative, "Yes. Oh, Susan, 
please don't hurt me too much!" 

It was a small, cylindrical pedestal which rose or fell according to the 
manipulations of the mistress. Across its top was a narrowly curved bar. 
Catherine's ankles were chained on one side. She leaned across the bar and 
then down to have her hands chained to other manacles waiting. Susan then 
exerted the necessary pressures to cause the pedestal to rise slowly and 
thrust and burrow itself into Catherine's most secret place. When the 
delinquent was tautly stretched, Catherine realized her bottom was more 
cruelly exposed than even the devices previously used on her could not 
compete. Despite fear and the questing fingers tracing themselves across the 
stretched skin about to be caned, Catherine's complaints were inhibited by 
an unmistakable heat rising from the bar across which she was literally 
draped. The delight in Susan's voice was unmistakable. 

"I've dreamed of this, darling, and now you've made it happen. You're 
beautifully guilty, and I can whip you with an easy conscience." She allowed 
the thought to simmer momentarily. "I do hope you agree." 

"Yes, I-I suppose so." 

"Well, I can't expect you to be singing in joy, darling, but isn't it 
wonderful the way you've healed up? My bottom's absolutely virgin again, and 
so is yours. It's sort of messy when you lay one whipping across another one 
that's still recent. I do wish you could see yourself. You're gorgeous!" 

"I hurt and I can't move--if that's what you want." 

"You know it is. You're only complaining just because you think you ought 
to. " The feminine voice became sly. "Do you think you'll be making another 
escape attempt, darling?" 

"You know I won't. Susan, please don't tease. This is awful. 

I really am terribly sorry." There was a pause and a pink-cheeked face 
looked doubtfully upward. "I suppose you couldn't possibly forgive me?" 

Susan's response was instant. "Don't be silly, darling. I'm not going to let 
you talk yourself out of anything." From somewhere she had obtained a 
slender yellow withe of wickedness. She was flexing it suggestively. "Isn't 
this a really marvelous cane, dear? Can't you simply feel in on these dear 
little cheeks of yours that are so nicely positioned?" 

"They're being tortured the way you've got them pushed up. Gosh, I feel all 
bottom. Susan, I wish--" The cane sang its song and cut its scarlet line 
across the virgin matrix tautly waiting. The fastened maiden wailed. "Susan, 
not like that--it's too hard!" 

"Would you like to be gagged, darling?" 

"No, I wouldn't! Susan, couldn't we talk this over?" 

"There's nothing to talk over, dear. My, you do mark beautifully. I'm going 
to try the next one lower down." 

Catherine was certain if hurt far worse, but her complaints were inhibited 
by a sudden realization of something happening upon the bar over which she 
was so rigidly bent. The heat engendered by the cane was fanned into a 
greater conflagration with each blow. Number three and number four flared it 
to a point beyond control. Hating what would happen, Catherine implored, 
"Susan, don't! Stop a little while--you're making me... well, you know 
what!" 

"Of course, dear. I'd be disappointed if it didn't. Enjoy it. I won't allow 
it to interfere with your punishment at all. Isn't that sweet of me?" 

It was shaming. It was wonderful. It was awful. It was everything Catherine 
did not want while being whipped. What she desired was to bear her 
punishment with fortitude and in as much silence as she could contrive, but 
the pending explosion was totally beyond her control and would possess her 
regardless of her wishes. In the meantime, the cane was making its steady 
impacts to build and build the pressure of internal spasms until nature took 
over and expended every fiber of the captive's being in one vast sensation 
and display of fireworks. Catherine panted her way in and out of ecstasy, 
tugging ruthlessly at chained ankles and chained wrists, but she could not 
move, and the rhythm of the cane continued remorselessly until, with the 
final fading of joy, she was compelled once more to plead. "Susan, please. 
It's happened, give me a break. Stop it for a little while, it's happened, 
don't you understand!" 

"Of course I understand, dear. Your climax has finished, but I haven't. I'm 
enjoying myself immensely. I do hope you don't mind." 

The caning of Catherine continued its steady cadence until, with the 
fifteenth stroke, it suddenly ceased. The relief was stupendous. Catherine 
refrained from mentioning her surprise in not receiving more. She had feared 
a minimum of twenty strokes Fifteen was a bonus, and she was grateful. She 
knew all too well that had the strokes continued to indent her flesh, there 
would have been still one more orgasm to bring her shame. She said weakly, 
"Thank you, Susan. I'm sorry I ran away." 

"Don't thank me yet, darling. I'm not finished with you. You've had the main 
course; now you get your dessert. Aren't you lucky?" Her blazing bottom 
absorbing most of her attention, the slave girl allowed herself to be 
manipulated until she was astride the bar instead of bending over it. An 
ankle was still chained down to each side, her hands now handcuffed behind 
her back. This had all been achieved without offering her a single 
possibility of argument or escape. She had come close to being free, but 
never close enough. Apprehensively, she watched as Susan's finger reached 
for the control. 

"Susan, what on earth!" The prisoner could feel the bar rising slower within 
her loins to press itself even more intimately within her most female place. 
The bar was hot from her own flesh, from her own suffering, and moist from 
her own secretions. When her heels left the floor and then her toes 
followed, she wailed frantically, "Susan, I'm off the ground! I'm sitting on 
this thing! Oh, stop it, stop it--please!" 

Nothing stopped. The helpless girl was elevated sufficiently to tauten the 
chains about her ankles. Her already handcuffed wrists could achieve 
nothing. She sat now astride the bar and could move nothing of herself to 
sufficiently help in what she recognized as an increasingly unhappy plight. 
When the upward pressure stopped, she and the bar were welded as one. 
Susan's voice was complacently proud. 

"I read about this thing, Catherine, and I knew I simply had to have it for 
you. Isn't it gorgeously simple? All you have to do is sit. " 

"But it hurts! And you know where it hurts. Oh, Susan, get me off here, 
please!" 

"I understand the idea with this is for you to suffer in silence and 
solitude. You just sit there and think about your sins and you resolve never 
to be a naughty girl again." 

"All right, all right. I've already resolved that. Let me down. 

Get me off this thing!" 

"Of course, dear, but that's superficial." The mistress's voice was gently 
soothing. "You're simply beginning this punishment, not finishing it. I'll 
go away and leave you to enjoy." 

"Enjoy!" The delinquent's cry was heavy with outrage. "Don't be a beast. How 
can I possibly enjoy this? Susan, it's too, too awful." 

"Did I hear you call me a beast, Catherine dear?" The tone was silky, the 
question deadly. "Would you care to rephrase that?" 

"Yes, oh yes! Susan, I really am sorry. It's just this pain--it drives me to 
say things. I'm sorry I called you a beast--you're not a beast at all. But, 
ooohhhh, please take me off this thing!" 

"Goodbye, dear. I'm sure you'll be a sadder and wiser girl when I come 
back." Susan kissed the hot, agitated lips and went away. A distraught slave 
girl watched her go in disbelief. With the closing of the door, Catherine 
realized her penance was indeed just beginning. 

Everything was hopeless. She could not move her feet, she could move her 
hands but to no avail, they could reach nothing. Catherine twisted her arms 
and reached with her fingers to no avail. The shackles on her ankles laughed 
at her dependence on their tug. Along with this horrible thing on which she 
was perched, there was the indignation of knowing her caning had not been 
sufficient punishment, but that her caned cheeks were now bisected by the 
bar which was absorbing some of the excess heat engendered by the rod. 
Catherine soon discovered there was no motion she could make to give any 
kind of comfort. She was prey to a steady upward thrust against her loins. 
As a crowning indignity, she was quite certain she appeared ridiculous. If 
only Susan knew how terrible this was then she would undoubtedly provide 
relief, but Susan was not here. It might be a long, long time before Susan 
returned. In the meantime... 

It was indeed a time for thought. Accompanied by the agony of her perch, the 
helpless nude allowed her thoughts to drift. What was happening now 
emphasized something she had ignored. This was both imprisonment and 
punishment. She was helpless and could not escape, and she was in this 
predicament because of the desire of a girl she had come increasingly to 
adore. She wondered now if that adoration arose from lust, love, or a 
dog-like devotion to a sweet authority. Unhappily, she realized the bar on 
which she sat in no way changed her feeling for the sparkling eyed mistress. 
Whatever had happened previously would happen again when she was released, 
but now she would understand punishment as a fact of her existence and not 
an abstract possibility. She would best mind her Ps and Qs. She was quite 
sure that after this abortive escape attempt she would be given no other 
chance. Susan's box of tricks would be utilized to their full. 

But Catherine was forced to wonder how long two girls, no matter how much in 
love, could go on entertaining each other to the exclusion of the rest of 
life. It had worked fine so far, but the punishment she now endured seemed a 
dividing line, a great big question mark or perhaps a period. She suspected 
now the whole thing had risen from an unsuspected element of boredom in 
their existence. She had sough escape and Susan was punishing that attempt, 
both in an erotic seeking of a new excitement. 

So where did they go from here? It was an imponderable Catherine could not 
cope with. Instead, she moaned and moaned again, the burrowing bar within 
her crotch becoming increasingly an enemy. She thought longingly of the 
moment, perhaps still far distant, when Susan would release her from the 
torment. She would be very humble and very obedient, but for how long she 
could only guess. 

"I can't possibly let you loose, darling." Susan's voice was lingeringly 
affectionate. "If you only knew how beautiful you look, you're tired and 
you're hurting and you've got a little glisten of perspiration all over you. 
When I came in, you had your head bowed down in the most delicious fashion. 
I wish I'd had a camera." 

Catherine said nothing. She knew Susan was aware of every word she might 
exclaim. She was terribly weary and terribly hurt, but she had crossed the 
borderline of sentence and passed over into a lethargic world without hope. 
She was quite prepared for her mistress to turn and leave her alone once 
more. 

It did not happen. Swiftly, Susan handled the controls to bring the pedestal 
down from its heated home within her slave girl's crotch. Suddenly 
Catherine's feet were on the floor and she stood erect without the agony of 
the iron but only its aftermath of ache and burn and tenderness. Once more 
she said the thing that came most naturally to her lips. She was always 
ashamed of it but it always seemed it need be said. "Oh, thank you. Susan. 
Thank you, thank you, thank you!" 

The two girls fell with unexpected ease back into the two roles neither 
could escape. There was a strange inevitability about Susan's possession of 
Mordant's daughter. They seldom referred to the punishment of the cane and 
the bar. It receded into an affirmation of Susan's dominance, its principle 
legacy being an increasingly use of metal in the confinement of her slave. 
It was not that cord or strap ceased to be used in Catherine's confinements, 
but now, whenever she was left alone, there would always be a metal linkage 
no key could touch, no hand undo. As Susan laughingly chided, "She was not 
to be trusted." 

They played their game in many ways. As though by mutual consent they broke 
the ties of boredom by an increasingly inventiveness of the shape of 
Catherine's captivities. The acreage of the small farm was largely composed 
of brush, within these green and pleasant glades in which a naked maiden, 
bound there to a tree for the day, might while away the time in relative 
contentedness. This was Catherine's condition on the day of her next 
confrontation. 

"It's a nice little tree, dear, just right for a naked girl and it's far too 
big for you to walk away with. " Susan stood back to survey her handiwork. 
She found it perfect. Catherine was backed against the trunk, her wrists had 
been crossed behind the bole and tightly bound. Other cords captured her 
ankles and ankles and were crisscrossed over her shoulder and breasts to tug 
her back until she was almost a part of the tree itself. But the safety 
feature was there too. Instead of a number of rope strands around her waist 
there was a single length of chain. Its links were moderately heavy and well 
indented within the softness of the captive belly. Its two ends were joined 
behind the trunk by a quite massive padlock that would yield to only the 
right key and could not be doctored with wire of similar expedience. 

"I'm going to get awfully tired of this before evening," Catherine pointed 
out doubtfully. "Do you really need all this rope on me?" 

"Of course not, dear. You know that as well as I do. What it achieves is 
simple effect. You're a beautiful picture like that. I wouldn't touch a 
single strand. If it hurts, you'll have to put up with it." 

It was a familiar theme. They played it often, as though by doing so they 
reaffirmed their roles. As always, the mistress kissed the slave girl's lips 
before she went away. 

It was pleasant in the sunlight of the tiny glade. Catherine knew she could 
be much worse off, but just the same, she wished there were fewer cords 
buried hard within her flesh. Susan never understood how difficult it was 
for a girl who had to be bound for hours at a time. Her own efforts to 
explain the hazards of such binding were laughed away. Along with her love, 
Susan was always a stem mistress. 

They both accepted the hazard of the exposure the slave girl was in. It was 
a situation which left them both with delicious apprehension. It was 
unlikely anyone would wander into this little stretch of uninteresting 
woodland, but it was still possible. Suppose someone did come upon the bound 
girl--what would they do? Catherine accepted the hazards to her flesh, and 
Susan accepted the possibility of losing the slave girl she adored. Still, 
it was indeed spice added to their relationship. 

Catherine always went through the motions. It helped to kill time, rather 
than being any real belief that she could find slack rope or an opportunity 
to free herself. As usual, she was bound extremely tight. She knew her best 
course was simply to relax. There was no use fighting the inevitable victory 
of the cords. As for the chain around her middle, it negated escape with a 
finality best accepted. 

The sun was Catherine's clock. By the time she heard the footsteps, they 
told her she had been tied to the tree for several hours. When Allen 
Morehouse walked into view, she was as speechless as though she were gagged. 
But Allen was not. 

"Well, there you are, sweetheart. I knew she'd have you kicking around 
somewhere. I've been keeping an eye on the place." He chuckled. "You really 
are one for the book, aren't you? How the devil did you get this little act 
going?" 

Shock receded and was replaced by joy. The man who stood before her had 
become dear to her in a way she would not have guessed. He had, in fact, 
risked his life on her behalf. All she could say was, "Oh, Allen!" 

"Damn, girl, you have a positive gift for this sort of thing!" He viewed her 
roped nudity with approval. "Whoever tied you certainly is an artist at it. 
You look quite lovely. I think I've got a knife here somewhere." 

"No, Allen, please don't! You mustn't cut me loose. Besides, you 
can't--there's the chain." 

Allen Morehouse came close, and before seeking her release, he kissed her 
gently, a nice brotherly sort of kiss in the best British tradition. 
Uncertainly, she exclaimed, "I'm so sorry! I'm such an eternal nuisance--I 
know. Oh, Allen, you'd best just go away and leave me alone." 

"You mean you've fallen in love with your dragon? I should just leave and be 
done with it? And here I thought I'd have a chance to polish up on my 
chivalry." 

"I know I sound terribly ungrateful. Oh, Allen, this is awful, and I know 
just what you're thinking." She eyed him doubtfully, then continued. "The 
trouble is you're absolutely right. I'm ashamed of myself." 

"The eternal damsel in distress, eh?" Allen walked a complete circle around 
the tree and its burden. "Reverting to instinct. I'd say. From what I can 
see of your bottom, it's been well whipped. You should be a very happy 
girl." 

"Yes, I--no, I'm not! Oh, Allen, you've got me so mixed up I don't know what 
I'm saying!" 

"This Susan White girl--did she grab you, or did you deliver yourself to her 
in a neat package?" 

In broken, sobbing sentences, she told him the complete story, omitting only 
the references to the sexual encounters between Susan and herself. The man 
listened, nodding from time to time in under- standing, his half smile 
remaining as cynical as ever. 

"With you it makes sense," he admitted slowly. "Most people would say you'd 
lost your marbles." He surveyed her again. "So where does that leave us? 
Where do you go from here?" 

"I don't go anywhere, Allen. Don't you understand--this is it. 

I belong to Susan, and what you're looking at now is something that 
intrigues us both. If it's silly--well, I can't help that." 

"Bullshit! This is one time I could cane that bottom of yours myself and 
enjoy every stroke. Really, Catherine, you're behaving like a little idiot. 
Let me get you loose--I'm sure I can." 

"Don't you dare! Anyway, you can't. You can't possibly get this chain off 
me. You'd need tools and things." 

"So? What's wrong with that? I can be back here within an hour and cut that 
goddamn chain in two before that bitch of yours gets back." 

"But I don't want you to, Allen. Don't you understand? It would spoil 
everything between Susan and me. Please, Allen, let me play this out. If it 
does wear itself out, then I'll be what I suppose you'd call cured. Please 
tell Daddy I'm all right--I feel so guilty about him. Tell him I'm visiting 
Susan and I'll call when I can." 

"You really expect me to just walk away and leave you here?" 

"I'm asking you to--I'm begging, Allen." She eyed him woefully. "Look, leave 
me alone, but if you're worried about me, why not check me out, say, once a 
month?" 

"Huh!" His voice was heavy with masculine disapproval. "You expect me to 
knock at this girl Susan's door and politely ask the little bitch how her 
slave girl is today? By that time, she'll have you well hidden and nobody 
will ever find you." His tone now changed to a warning. "And that will be 
the time you'll want out. Catherine, I know I went along with you before, 
but it was against my better judgement, and look what it got you into. Don't 
you realize you're playing with fire, girl?" 

Catherine told herself Allen Morehouse had ruined her day, but then admitted 
to a comforting glow of security in the knowledge that he was around and 
would be watching out for her. the fact that he had given in to her request 
to remain bound and chained was proof of his sincerity. She knew he believed 
she would soon tire of her captivity and long to return home. She wished she 
could share this belief, but she could not. Susan's magic was strong upon 
her. and their lesbian love was not easily tossed away. In the hours she 
remained bound, awaiting her mistress's return, she resolved to tell Susan 
nothing of Allen's visit. The little farm had endeared itself, and she had 
no wish to be transported to a less pleasant place. 

It happened on the fourth day. 

Old farms can be storehouses of antiquity, and Susan's was exactly that. 
Catherine brooded on the subject in the sunlight of another day outdoors. 
Susan had departed for the city, leaving her slave girl in the possession of 
a massive ancient relic. No doubt it had been originally intended for the 
tethering of animals. It was simply a huge rock through the center of which 
a hole had been drilled and a huge bolt threaded from one end to the other, 
its top a massive ring and the bottom riveted from the rock itself. 
Catherine's handcuffs had been threaded through the huge lock and then 
locked in another pair of the same chrome restraints. She could have stood 
had she wished to bend halfway to the ground to accommodate the rock. 
Instead, she kneeled at its side and held her hands at the ring to pose much 
the posture of a penitent in prayer. But this had not been all. Following 
her principle of always having an element of safety in her darling's 
bondage, Susan had padlocked a chain around the captive's neck and fastened 
the other end of it to the same ring which held her hands. This made it more 
than ever certain she would kneel, if she did so, there was little 
discomfort except for her forearms leaning, of necessity, upon the stone. 

"Think I'm mean, honey?" 

"Of course I do. I feel silly, and it's awkward. I'll have to kneel all day, 
like I'm saying my prayers." 

"Then say them, darling. Make use of your thing. You look absolutely 
charming." 

"I don't feel charming," the chained girl sniffed. "What time do you expect 
to be home?" 

Susan laughed gaily. "Sometime, sweetheart. You can just kneel there and 
hope. By the way, that's not a bad position for caning your sweet little 
bottom, or for that matter, whipping your back. You're very nicely posed." 

"Why don't you make a note of it?" the slave girl said bitterly, 'it's 
something I'd sooner forget." 

It was their usual delicious repartee. They adored it and each other. 
Catherine's memory of Allen Morehouse's visit was fading rapidly, leaving 
only thankfulness that he was safe. For a little while, he had reawakened 
the female yearning for the male, but that too had faded. Susan had 
repossessed her totally, absorbing all her attention and affection. Even the 
relatively unkind posture in which she was now chained did nothing to alter 
this love. Catherine was consciously aware of drifting day by day further 
into a lesbian slavery. She was positive even without the fleshly joys she 
would have remained content to be Susan's prisoner. She had survived the 
first awful punishment and had been told another would follow if she gave 
her mistress the least excuse. Catherine Mordant crouched down 
experimentally and nestled a cheek within the hollow of an arm, thinking 
that perhaps she could sleep. 

"Good god, the things that girl does to you!" 

Catherine awoke, startled. Dazed, she kneeled and looked gazed upon Allen 
Morehouse. He was his usual caustic self. 

"That's a real pose of penance. You look very charming. Damn shame to 
disturb you. In that position, I assume you are expecting a caning of your 
bottom?" 

"No, I am not! What you doing here again? You woke me up, you know. Look, 
you can't possibly set me free from this rock, so the best thing is to just 
turn around and go home." 

It was not until she had spoken that she noticed what he was carrying. Her 
heart sank, then raced in excitement. "No use visiting you without a pair of 
bolt cutters. Prepare to be released, my dear." 

"Don't you dare! Stay away, Allen--please. Don't spoil Susan's property with 
those awful things. I don't want them cutting my handcuffs in two." 
Catherine took a deep breath and strived for reason. "Look, Allen, be a 
friend. We talked about this the other day. Please leave me alone to play 
this out in my own way. It's something I want to do--something I want to do 
very much." 

"Ah, yes. Right there you put your finger on the key word: play. That's 
exactly what you and your dear little Susan have been doing-playing a 
delicious game that gets neither of you anywhere. You're wasting each 
other's time." 

"But it's none of your business, Allen. If Susan and I are happy, that's all 
that matters. Please respect our privacy." 

"Bit late for that. I'm afraid." Allen fitted the steel jaws of the cutters 
to cut the padlock holding Catherine. There was a brief snap, and then the 
chain fell down between Catherine's breasts. She could stop nothing. It 
would be foolish to seek evasion. She allowed him to tilt her chin and once 
again imprison metal in the brutal jaws. Again there was a snap. This time 
both padlock and link fell away to leave her throat free of any restraint. 
Allen set the bolt cutters aside and reached in a pocket. "Everyone has a 
handcuff key these days," he remarked casually. "Just hold still for a 
moment." She watched him unlock her hands from the huge ring in the rock, 
but it was not entirely as she expected. He unlocked a cuff, withdrew it 
from the ring, and then relocked it on her wrist. She was still a handcuffed 
girl. He then unlocked the handcuffs from her ankles and put the circles of 
shining steel in his own pocket. He grasped her arm and helped her to her 
feet. "There, how's that feel?" 

It felt good. It always felt good, but Catherine was not about to tell him 
so. She said a polite thank you, then stood waiting and wondering if he 
heard the beating of her heart. With only the slightest trace of bitterness, 
she asked, "If you're so keen on my freedom, why are my hands still cuffed?" 

"If you can't guess, I won't tell. In the meantime, there's something l want 
you to see. Come along, sweetheart." 

Catherine could guess. There was about Allen Morehouse that male assurance 
which spoke of deeds, not words. He kept a firm hold on her bare arm as he 
led her to the ancient barn. The barn was another relic of another age 
situated on the other side of the house. It was dilapidated and falling 
apart, but some of its timbers remained sound. Led inside its non-existent 
door, Catherine gasped in dismay at what she saw. Susan White stood in the 
center aisle. 

her hands high above her head tethered to a rafter by a long rope. She had 
been struggling before their entry, but upon their entry, she angrily 
demanded, "Look, you idiot, we don't want you! Can't you understand that? 
Hasn't Catherine told you? Surely you can believe what she says. Untie me 
and go about your business." 

The angry words slithered into silence as though absorbed by their own 
futility. Susan did not look like a maiden expecting release. She looked 
scared and apprehensive. She kept a stiff silence while the male lowered her 
arms and replaced the rope upon her wrists with the handcuffs he had taken 
from Catherine's ankles. He looked at the two handcuffed girls with 
satisfaction, then sat upon an ancient box and asked, "Care to hear the 
scenario? The two of you share the stellar role." 

"No, we don't!" Susan snapped. She paused, then grimaced and asked, "Okay, 
what is it?" 

"You said you didn't want to hear." 

"All right. I've changed my mind. What are you going to do with us?" 

"Ah, that's much better. I'm going to keep the two of you prisoner, that's 
what I'm going to do. I intend to cane your bottoms regularly." 

"Drop dead!" Susan said vehemently. "If you refuse to remove these 
handcuffs, I shall leave just as I am. I'm sure Catherine will wish to 
accompany me. Now goodbye!" 

Allen was swift. A rope circled Susan's cuffed hands and drew her tightly 
into an upright position. Ruthlessly and without preamble, he stripped her 
bare. What could not be undone, he tore away brutally. "Will you still be 
running away?" he inquired. 

"You son of a bitch! If you think being naked is going to stop me, you've 
got another thing coming. Anyway, even with chained hands, I can still 
drive. Catherine, are you coming?" 

"But you're tied to that post," Catherine said. "I don't think we're going 
anywhere." 

"That's the first sensible thing either of you have said," Allen conceded. 
"Is that a cane I see hanging on the wall?" 

"Leave it alone. Don't you dare!" Susan exclaimed. "I don't want you caning 
my bottom. You've got absolutely no right. You're trespassing." 

"Ah, I take it therefore. Miss White, you do not want your bottom caned." 
Allen was in an expansive mood. "But I see another little item hanging here 
as well." 

There was a strained silence. Both girls had also seen the quirt, the heavy 
braided stock, and the two heavy dangling thongs. In her first quivering 
doubt, Susan suggested, "Look, Mr. Morehouse, can't we talk this over? 
You're being ridiculous, you know. This is my property. You can't possibly 
come in here and use my own quirt on me. Or perhaps you're simply joking? 
For your sake, I hope you are." 

"Never more serious in my life, love. I'll just give you an introductory 
thrashing. Nothing to get excited about." 

"Allen, stop it--you're frightening Susan!" Catherine was genuinely 
concerned. She put her chained hands on a masculine arm and pleaded. 
"Please, leave us alone, or if you feel you absolutely have to talk to us, 
can't we make some coffee and be sensible about it? Poor Susan hasn't done a 
thing to deserve--" 

"Damn nice idea, sweetheart. She'll still get the thrashing, of course, so 
she has a hot ass to sit on while we have our coffee. Can I trust you not to 
go running off, or do you want to be tied?" 

"Oh, Allen, this is awful! Of course I don't want to be tied. I don't want 
any of this. I just want you to let Susan go." Catherine was genuinely 
concerned. She recognized the male quality of Allen's voice and heard in it 
the determination it might be hard to counter. Anxiously, she pleaded, 
"Look, this is all my fault. It's been fault from the beginning. You getting 
knocked on the head was my fault, and Susan being tied up in her own barn is 
my fault too. Let her go and tie me there instead--then whip me. You seem as 
though you have to whip somebody, and I'm sure I deserve it more than she 
does. Please, Allen?" 

He turned to grasp her by bare shoulders and twist her to face him. He 
kissed her, patted her bottom, and said, "You're a good girl, Catherine, and 
I won't have you being disappointed. You'll get that little bottom of yours 
caned as often as you want. In fact, more than you want. But in the 
meantime, this little bitch here needs my attention. Let's get it over 
with." 

"Don't you dare!" Poor Susan was still relying on feminine indignation to 
win the day, but her confidence in it waned as Allen selected the quirt from 
the hook on the wall. Breasts heaving, she pleaded, "Don't use that awful 
thing on me--please! If you must be brutal, then use the cane." 

"But you said--" 

"Never mine what I said," she responded, blushing. "I simply prefer the 
cane." 

"In that case, I should most certainly use the quirt." 

"Damn you, do what you like! I refuse to bargain with you. I think you're an 
unmannered boor." 

"And I think you're a spoiled little stewardess who needs her skin properly 
marked with her own quirt, and that's what I propose to do. You can leap 
around a bit the way you're fastened--I don't mind in the least." 

Catherine wanted to cry. Everything had gone wrong, and it was all her own 
fault. It all stemmed from her own silly fantasies and obsessions. She could 
well understand what Allen was dong. To him, it would seem like a rational 
act to try what he would call knocking some sense into a pair of silly 
females. She could well imagine the process would be painful. It would 
certainly be painful for poor Susan. Instead of weeping, she grasped Allen's 
arm and bluntly stated, "No, I won't let you. Allen, please don't. That 
thing probably hurts terribly. It's supposed to be used on horses, not on 
naked girls." 

It was demeaning and humiliating, and it left Catherine wanting to cry more 
than ever. It only took Allen a couple of minutes to fasten her the same way 
as Susan. The plight of the two girls was identical. They gazed upon each 
other in wry dismay. But they were given no time to argue. The first blow 
with the quirt was swift and sure. It lapped Susan's bottom from hip to hip, 
and evoked a squeal which was a mixture of pain and anger. "You bastard! You 
complete--" She got no further. The quirt punctuated her exclamations with a 
second singing snap across her skin. Defensively, the one-time stewardess 
leaped from side to side as best her tied hands would permit. All she 
achieved was to present a different target for Allen's attentions. He cut 
and swished away with casual unconcern at whatever portion of herself Susan 
made available to the quirt. As thought for a spectator's gallery, Catherine 
added her own pleadings to those of her mistress until Allen paused, looking 
from one to the other of the disturbed young woman in wry amusement. "My 
god, what a pair of cackling hens you two are!" He commented, forcefully 
pointing the quirt at Catherine. "Look here, you--I hadn't intended on 
whipping you. but if you keep up this racket, I will. Now keep quiet!" 

Catherine was actually awed. She had never seen Allen Morehouse in such a 
mood. The red streaks turning to scarlet upon Susan's skin were graphic 
proof of his resolve. Feeling herself a traitor, she remained mute while two 
more cuts were planted on Susan's skin. The one-time stewardess and now 
one-time mistress had given up her evasive actions and contented herself 
with burying her face against her bound hands to give the omnipotent male 
every opportunity to do his work. It was not an intentional pose, but it 
achieved a purpose. Allen stopped and allowed the quirt to dangle from a 
limp arm, surveying the damage he had done to his female victims. The 
scarlet lines should be enough to teach any girl a lesson, and anyway, it 
was just the beginning. For now, though, he was content to consider it phase 
one. The two girls still had far to go. 

For their walk back to the house, the two girls were linked by rope from 
neck to neck. It gave them only four feet of freedom, their hands still 
handcuffed. Behind them, Allen Morehouse swished the quirt suggestively to 
keep them aware of his authority. Both girls wanted to say much, but neither 
said a word. Reaching the living room, he seated himself comfortably and 
told his two captives to kneel facing him at a distance of ten feet. The 
girls looked at each other with questioning distaste. Neither wanted the 
humiliation, but each suspected what was likely to happen and knew there was 
nothing they could do about it. Dejected, they knelt before the male. 

"I'm not sure it's the same lesson for both of you," Allen explained 
patiently. "You need a lesson young lady," he said, pointing the quirt at 
the cringing Susan. "You need to be brought down a peg or two. You've been 
riding much too high." He turned his attention to Catherine and said, "As 
for you, you ridiculous creature, the only thing I can see is to beat you 
steadily until you've had enough. I won't be brutal about it. In fact, I 
shall do it with some finesse. But by the time I'm through with you, you'll 
have no unsatisfied yearnings to seek out sundry dictators in foreign lands. 
Your own parts will be hot enough without anything they might have to offer. 
" He surveyed them quietly and then added, "I want both of you to tell me 
you understand what I'm going to do." Once more there came the exchange of 
timid glances, and the same message passed between the restrained girls. 
Chained hands rose instinctively to roped necks, but the knots were not 
there to find. They were as captive as any pair of maidens could possibly 
be. "I understand all too well, you bastard! And you're going to regret 
this." Thus Susan made her declaration. 

Catherine stood irresolute. She felt certain if she could throw her arms 
around Allen's neck everything would be all right, but her roped neck and 
chained hands stopped her. She looked at her companion in distress and then 
at the stem man. Disgusted, she admitted, "Very well, I understand--of 
course I understand. I've already said the whole thing's my own fault. I 
suppose I deserve whatever you're going to do." She flowered and exclaimed 
vehemently, "And don't dare call me a masochist! I'll hate every stroke and 
every hour you keep me chained." Her defenses broke and she wailed in 
desolation, "Oh, Allen, please let us go! Please stop this horrible 
nonsense. You're frightening us. Look, if you'll only let us loose and be 
sensible, I promise I'll do anything you want from now on. I'll go to Daddy 
and be a good girl." 

"Oh, indeed you will, my love, but not until after I've attended to you. 
When you go back to Daddy, it will be to stay there, not go waltzing off on 
some damn fool quest to get your butt warmed up again. I know you, 
Catherine." 

Allen Morehouse had left neither of his captives much to say. They knelt in 
docile submission, their joined hands covering their pubic hair and the rope 
coffle tight upon their necks. Solemnly, their master continued his 
instructions: "I'm going to put you on a strict regime. Each morning when I 
free you from whatever bondage you have been put in. you will both assume 
the suitable position for me to cane your little asses. I promise you 
nothing too drastic, but enough to start you out properly on your day." 

Once again the two girls exchanged questioning glances. They knew there was 
nothing to stop this man from keeping his promise. If what he had just said 
was what he truly wanted, then most certainly they would be compelled to 
obedience. They listened silently to further instructions. 

"Another thing--neither of you do enough good, honest work. From now on, 
every day you will be allocated certain chores. To begin with, I am 
considering the sawing of logs for the fire. I noticed quite a lot of dead 
wood piled outside. Well, it will be your job to saw it into suitable 
lengths. How does that idea hit you?" 

"I'd prefer to go to prison for kidnapping," Susan retorted angrily. "I 
certainly don't intend to be a member of a two-girl chain gang." 

"Can you avoid it?" Allen asked sternly. "I'm not giving you any choice in 
the matter, and you know what disobedience will get you." 

The girls fell silent. Unhappily, they sank back upon their heels and, 
without intent, bowed their heads. They were a picture of penitence. But if 
Allen Morehouse's heart was touched, he gave no sign. "You can both address 
me as 'sir.' If you forget, you may then bend over for a nice hard one to 
your bottom. I consider that extremely merciful. You will soon become 
accustomed to addressing me formally and in the proper manner." He laughed. 
"I could insist on being called 'master,' but it's a bit theatrical for me. 
'Sir' will do nicely." 

"Sir, if you'll only let us go, I've got some money in the bank-- you can 
have it all." Susan's voice was tremulous. 

"Good god, girl, does it sound that bad! A warmed bottom every morning and a 
bit of hard work--it's not going to kill you." 

"But that's not all, is it... sir?" 

"Oh, by no means. You're very perceptive. Miss White. Just goes to show what 
a whipped bottom does for a girl. No, it's not all. In addition to what I 
have told you. you will be chained in the kitchen in the late afternoon, and 
I'll expect a banged-up dinner to be properly prepared." 

Another questing glance between the delinquents, but the dinner demand was 
hard to deny. They waited without hope. 

"In addition to the dinner duties, you will then serve me at the table. I 
will be the only guest. The two of you will play the role of maids. If you 
don't have anything here, I'll get you a couple of little aprons to cover 
your pubic hair when I go to town. Dinner will be a very formal meal. When I 
have finished, the two of you may enjoy the scraps, but you will do so on 
the floor--you will not sit at the table." 

"That's ridiculous! You're being absolutely absurd. I may as well get the 
whole thing over with right now and refuse. You should do the same, 
Catherine." Susan glared, her breasts heaving with indignation, but she 
watched the man who was now her master with increasing apprehension. 

Allen Morehouse rose, still holding the quirt. "You forgot the proper 
address," he said firmly, "Since this is all new to you, I will settle for a 
simple five strokes. Prepare yourself." 

It was a battle of wills. Catherine watched, awed by the electric current in 
the air. Susan's agitation was tugging at the rope upon their necks. She 
moved over to give the sentenced girl a greater latitude of movement. The 
hostile glares continued as the moments ticked by, and then with a stiffened 
sob, Susan twisted her nakedness to rear her already punished bottom into 
inviting prominence. Catherine could see her clenched fists and could well 
guess the clenching girl accepted the five strokes from the whistling quirt 
with an obvious trembling, but no more sound than gasping moans with each 
fresh impact from the quirt's two thongs. At the end of the punishment, 
Allen barked a belligerent, "Well?" 

"Thank you, sir." The words were uttered in bitter defeat. Susan White had 
met her match. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT - BOUND 

Except for the labored breathing of two girls, the room was silent. It was a 
pleasant, well-lit room. Its only fault was the bizarre furnishing. 
Catherine and Susan sat upon a low bench, their feet indecently spread wide 
and their ankles firmly locked in stocks. In addition to this indignity, 
they have been compelled to bend forward and offer their hands and arms to a 
second set of stocks above the first at the level of their eyes. Thus, with 
ankles and wrists firmly in the clutch of oak, they sat immobilized, angry, 
and far from happy. The strangely fabricated engine in which they were held 
was sufficiently implacable to have discouraged them from attempts at 
escape. They sat, dejected, consoling each other with moans and plaints. 

"I should have more sense than to have the damn thing made!" Susan avowed 
with wise hindsight. "A guy I know made it for me, and it was his idea to 
make it to hole two. At that time, I never dreamed it would hold even one. 
But look at us now! I'm so goddamn mad!" 

"I wish he'd at least made it so we didn't have to lean forward like this 
with our arms stuck out," Catherine said. "Allen's being so mean. I'd never 
have thought it of him. But I suppose I have been a bit of a pain in the ass 
for him." She sighed. "I've been a pain in the ass for everybody, including 
you." 

"If he hadn't used that damned quirt on us before planting our behinds on 
this wooden atrocity, it wouldn't be so bad." Susan wiggled ineffectually. 
"Anyway, this whole thing is for the birds. And to think it was me who 
bought the wood for it! Catherine, somehow we absolutely must escape. The 
thing this guy thinks up--" 

"We'll never escape," Catherine said dismally. "But after he's gotten bored 
with giving us a hard time, he'll let us go. I'm sure he will. Allen is 
really a good guy." 

"All right then, you go to work on him. I don't seem to have any charm at 
all for that son of a bitch." 

It was not an elevating conversation. They had no reason for optimism. It 
was their fourth day, and Allen Morehouse had kept his vow. Each morning the 
two girls were forced into the shameful posture with bottoms reared to 
receive the quirt. Thus, sore and shamed, they started their day. The hard 
wood on which they were seated was a constant reminder of this infliction. 
For Susan White, there was not only the question of a possible escape or 
release, but also the question mark looming large in her mind as to what 
would happen then. 

"So, okay, darling," Susan said, voicing her thoughts, "if he sets us free, 
which way will you be headed?" 

"He'll make certain I go back to Daddy," Catherine said with assurance. "If 
he didn't, then I'd let you handcuff me and we'd start all over again. 
Honest, I would! But it's not likely to happen. I don't think Allen likes 
lesbians. I think all men resent the idea of girls nibbling at each other. 
We're supposed to be exclusively for them." 

Catherine looked sideways at her companion in distress. She had seen Susan 
naked many times, but had never ceased to marvel at the exquisiteness of the 
golden-haired girl to whom she owed loyalty. Most girls in the bent posture 
she was in would have exhibited the weakness of drooping breasts, but 
neither Susan nor Catherine were guilty of the faintest sag. Both were young 
and taut and vibrant. It seemed so wrong that they should be held thus on a 
sunlit summer day. Catherine could comfort herself with guilt, but not 
Susan. She had done nothing to bring herself this masculine punishment. When 
their master came, he radiated good will. 

"Well, well, two damsels in distress." He made a slow circle of the prisoned 
pair. "If it's any comfort in your present circumstances, you look 
charming." 

"No, we don't. We look horrible and untidy--we're both a mess. Oh, Allen, 
please let us out of this. Can't you think of something else to do to a 
couple of girls you're mad at?" Catherine's demand carried sincerity. 

Allen laughed. "These old houses and that old barn offer all sorts of 
possibilities, love, but I don't think you'd care for any of them. If I were 
you. I'd enjoy this while you can." 

"How long do we have to enjoy it?" 

"I was thinking in terms of the rest of the day. You've only been sitting 
here a couple of hours, you know." 

"You mean a couple of centuries," Catherine said bitterly. "If you do leave 
us here all day, we'll both be dead. Allen, don't you understand? This 
horrible thing you've got us fastened into is an instrument of torture. I 
don't think it was ever intended for a couple of innocent girls." 

"Ah, but it was!" Allen leered at his unwilling captives. "How about it, 
Susan? It's your property, and you made it to fit girls. If it had been 
designed for men, the holes would be far too big for you, but the way you 
had it made, it's delightfully snug on you girls." 

The captives were doubtful about repartee. They could not be sure whether 
the man who held them prisoner was being facetious or serious. Their main 
concern was that he might not comprehend the rigor of what he was now 
inflicting. It seemed innocent enough, but as the hours passed it would 
become increasingly impossible to bear. Their backs ached, their seats 
burned horribly, and their arms were weary. Gloomily, they told him so. but 
received only the bright assurance that it was "good for them." They longed 
to scream, but Susan contented herself with a single indiscretion: "You're 
an absolute son of a bitch... sir!" Her emphasis on the title was an insult 
in itself. 

There was a strained silence. Both girls were breathless with fearful 
anticipation. Susan wished she had better control of her anger. She looked 
at the punished girl at her side. "I'm sorry, Catherine--it just slipped 
out. " She glared at the waiting man and retorted, "All right, punish me! 
You're holding the damn quirt, or do you prefer a hot iron this time?" 

"Ever had the soles of your feet whipped, Miss White?" Allen inquired 
casually. "I understand it's an interesting experience for a girl." 

This time the silence was from pure shock. Both girls instantly realized the 
terrible vulnerability of their feet. They were sitting on that portion of 
themselves usually reserved for punishment, but their feet were firmly held 
in a position to invite anything anyone wanted to do to them. The four soles 
of the two girls were the most prominent features of their predicament. 
Catherine's response was instant and predictable. 

"Allen, you mustn't--I mean... sir. Oh, please don't keep making me call you 
sir. It sounds so silly, and you mustn't punish Susan that awful way. This 
is bad enough the way you've got us fixed now. Whipping a girl's feet is 
absolutely barbaric." She turned upon the watching male her most soulful 
gaze. "Susan didn't mean it. You just make her so angry the words slip out. 
You mustn't punish her. If you have to punish somebody, punish me. At least 
we're old friends." 

Allen laughed in delight. "Are we back there again? I've heard that one 
several times. The noble friend who gives her all to save the skin of the 
one she loves. Would you like me to write a bit of poetry?" 

"Yes, all right, do that. Do anything, but don't whip Susan's feet. Allen, 
you're acting just the same as those dictator guys you disapprove of. Jamal 
never whipped my feet the whole time he had me." 

"He probably will whip them damn good and hard if he ever gets you back, 
sweetheart. And I happen to know the bastinado is in common use within his 
jurisdiction. He's had more than one little girl limping around for a week 
or two." 

It was simply dumb. Two swift strokes with the quirt, two agonizing peals of 
feminine anguish. Susan buried her cheek against a raised bare arm and 
quietly sobbed. Allen stood, watching what he had wrought and added a sober 
footnote. "I could just as easily have made that ten on each foot, or twenty 
for that matter. I'll tell you straight: I feel like an absolute bastard, 
but you two girls need the lesson. I'll probably feel this way a good many 
times before I'm through, though." He shook a warning finger at the weeping 
girl. "But don't you ever call me names again." 

The man who owned them and who could bestow his favors as he pleased did so 
with a strict partiality. No doubt as one more step in the process of 
teaching her a lesson, he possessed Susan in a savage assault upon her sex 
which might well be called a rape. But Catherine was often taken to his bed, 
which she and Susan had once shared. The fact that she was tethered to it by 
collar and chain in no way affected her gratitude for something soft on 
which to sleep and for the opportunity to speak to him in private. Sometimes 
she remained silent, but mostly he listened to what she had to say. If she 
earned punishment by imprudence, the risk was hers. After her day of 
punishment, it was pleasant to lay naked by his side and exert her feminine 
wiles. 

"But, Allen, you can't keep us forever. How long does this go on? I've told 
you I'll be good and go back to Daddy. Look, if you still believe I need 
more of your 'lessons,' keep me, but let Susan go. She doesn't deserve any 
of this." 

"Don't be silly, pet. We're in her home. Most of things I use to punish you 
belong to her. She bought them. I suppose, to use on you. I'm not all that 
fussy about lesbians, even she happens to be a Playboy centerfold." 

"Well, all right, but can't you keep her a prisoner while you sort of look 
after me. I mean, you don't have to punish Susan just because you punish 
me." Catherine sighed. "I do think I'm being awfully reasonable about this 
whole thing. I ought to be hating you, but I'm not. I know why you're doing 
this, but I do think you're carrying it a bit far." 

'I'm going to get the island of Lesbos out of your system, sweetheart, and 
I'm going to make you wish you didn't have a bottom. I'd just you to be 
about halfway there now." 

Men are so exasperating, Catherine thought. There were a hundred 
exclamations Catherine longed to make,' but prudence kept her silent. She 
hoped what she did say held validity. "Allen, it doesn't work always just 
the way you think. I'm not a bit sure the more you whip my bottom, the more 
I'm going to remember just that. I've already told you I hate it while 
you're doing it to me, but afterwards it comes back, and the more it hurts 
the more solidly fixed it gets in my mind. I'm sorry. I wish I could tell 
you I'm already cured, but I can't. I can only tell you the way it is." 

"Then let's say I'm a callous brute who likes doing it to you. I do, you 
know. Caning that pert little ass of yours gives me almost as much joy as 
having an orgasm with you. Not quite, but it does come close." 

"It's habit forming. It's bad for you." Catherine sad wisely. "I've heard of 
men getting so they have to whip a girl's bottom before they can sleep with 
her. The cane first and then the erection. I don't want you like that." 

"Sweetheart, we're not married, you know." 

"Well, we might as well be the way you're acting, and the way you hold me 
prisoner here is just like I was your wife. A wife gets held prisoner by a 
bit of paper. There's not much difference between that and a few bits of 
rope. Allen, please let Susan and me go. You can take me home in chains if 
it will tickle your male ego, but I doubt if my father will thank you for 
it." 

"He will when I tell him the whole story." Allen considered the proposition 
silently for a few moments and then added, "Probably the most sensible thing 
for me to do would be to marry you. You're not safe running around loose." 

The naked maiden, collared and naked upon the bed, stiffened tensely. For a 
moment she was breathless. She had never considered Allen in this light, and 
in view of what he had been doing to her and Susan, the idea seemed 
incongruous. At the moment he would have Susan somewhere about the house 
kept uncomfortably captive. Miss Catherine Mordant reasserted herself. 

"That's silly, Allen. If I did marry you, I bet you'd continue right on the 
way you're going. Whipping girls is habit forming for you men." She gave him 
a sly, mischievous sideways glance. "I suppose you'd insist on me 
positioning myself every morning for the quirt?" 

"Of course. I've come to have a lot of respect for the quirt. It would be 
the surest way to wedded bliss." 

"Well, you know what you can do with your old quirt!" Catherine suddenly 
realized possibilities and hastily added, "If I was to say I'd marry you, 
would you let Susan go free? I mean really free-- none of this handcuff 
stuff." 

The man beside her yawned in mock boredom. " I haven't even asked you to 
marry me, sweetheart. I just mentioned it as a possibility, one of the cures 
for your yearning for a beaten bottom." 

"There you go again! Having me with my bottom stuck up in the air and you 
slashing away at it with that horrible quirt or some beastly cane! If I 
didn't owe you so much, I wouldn't stand for it." 

"Do you have any choice, pet?" Allen was dryly amused. "I haven't noticed 
you walking away mad." 

"I would if I could, but you never give me a chance. You ought to be ashamed 
the way you keep me chained or tied. I haven't been free since you came." 

"I didn't exactly notice your freedom then, sweetheart. Seems to me you were 
attached to something." 

Catherine flushed, her fingers clutching the collar around her neck. Allen 
was right, of course; he was always right. He wrote the rules by which she 
must now live. The captive girl knew the condition could not last forever, 
but it could last a long, long time. She thought back wistfully to those 
halcyon days with just Susan and herself inhabiting the tiny female 
paradise. She believed that could have gone on forever except for the 
intrusion of the serpent in their Eden. Testily, she declared. All right 
then, don't marry me. But you'll still have to set Susan and me free 
sometime--you can't keep us like this forever. Sooner or later you'll get 
bored and start feeling guilty." 

"Bored!" Allen chuckled to himself. Bored with you two? Honey, with you two, 
I have two slave girls I can do anything with, and you don't have a hope of 
talking me into letting you go." He reached a male arm beneath her bare back 
and drew her to him. "Come here, you! There's always one argument you idiot 
females understand.' In the days to follow, Allen Morehouse made no further 
mention of marriage. He knew he enjoyed a unique privilege and took the 
greatest possible advantage of possessing two of the most beautiful girls he 
had ever seen, he became ingenious in inventing things for their discomfort. 

"This is getting desperate," Susan said irritably to the girl on the other 
side of the tree. "There has to be some way we can get out of the clutches 
of this son of a bitch. I don't see why you don't hate him the same as I do. 
He treats you badly enough. The only thing he does for you he doesn't do for 
me is screw you." Susan sniffed disdainfully. "He raped me that one time 
just to show he could, and since then he's left me alone. He really is a 
bastard the way he keeps us apart. We haven't managed to get at each other 
since he took over. Look, on those nights he takes you to bed, surely 
there's something you can do?" 

"Oh, Susan dear, don't be so demanding. I'm no more able to get the best of 
him than you are the way he fixes you every night, and look at us now. It's 
absolutely hopeless. We'll never get free of him. I thought at first he'd 
get bored, but he's loving every moment." 

It was one of the kinder days. Allen Morehouse's pair of naked maidens were 
back to back against the same tree. The right wrist of one was handcuffed to 
the left wrist of the other on one side and vice versa on the other. They 
had a considerable latitude in which to struggle and could, if they wished, 
circle around and around the tree from which there was no escape. By 
dragging on her companion's bare arm, it would be possible for either of 
them to examine their bonds, and they had done so several times in the 
forlorn hope of finding some trace of slack. But the cuffs were snug upon 
their wrists and after awhile they had given up hope and fallen into 
desultory conversation. Susan was tireless in her probings for release. She 
advanced a thought. "Look. Catherine, the guy has to be lonely. He doesn't 
have a wife or a girlfriend that we know about, and he's just walking around 
loose. Every man's looking for a female whether he knows it or not. Why 
don't you or I offer to marry him in return for freedom? I mean freedom for 
both of us! Think he'd go for it?" 

Catherine recounted the one reference to marriage already made. She had come 
to regard it as no more than one of Allen's cynical comments on his favorite 
theme of "teaching her a lesson" or "being good for her." She contrived an 
unseen shrug and suggested, "Why don't you ask him? Any man ought to be glad 
to get you." 

"That's the whole point, honey. He's already got me. He's got you too. He 
doesn't have to marry us, but surely he has to think a bit about the 
afterwards when he can't keep us here any longer." Susan sniffed. "But 
anyway. I'm too scared. He punishes me for damn near anything I say. I'd 
hate to think what he'd do to me if I proposed marriage." 

"But, Susan, if he keeps chaining us out here in the open the way he does, 
it's only a matter of time before somebody's going to find us. How do we act 
then? What do we say?" 

Susan laughed bitterly. "About the only person who's likely to find us is 
some tramp roaming the woods. It's too isolated for kids. So what happens is 
simple to figure: the guy screws us and goes away laughing. Don't even think 
about it!" 

It was always thus. They went around in conversational circles or in 
confrontations of apprehension. They were captives most securely held. They 
were grateful to have each other for company in the long days of whatever 
tribulation Allen had hatched up. But there had been days in which even that 
was denied. They hated the solitudes he devised. They emerged from such 
travails both humble and chastened. 

There had been the day of what they afterwards referred to as "the 
cupboards." It was very simply that their hands had been bound behind their 
backs, and they had been put into four-by-four compartments in the wall, but 
not together. Each cubicle had accepted a single naked girl and she had been 
locked therein. The cubicles were at the far ends of a largish room, and 
after they were left alone, the girls discovered they could hammer with 
their bare feet upon the walls and receive a similar but very faint message 
from their beloved. It had been an unsatisfying communication which soon 
died. They had sat upon the floor in almost total darkness and spent the day 
in an unsuccessful assault upon the nylon cords around their wrist. Upon 
release ail they had for the man who owned them was reproachful looks. They 
were inclined to be tearful. Allen found the punishment unsatisfactory and 
did not use it twice. 

The three of them fell into something of a routine. Resigned to male 
dominance, Catherine accepted each day and each solitude as they came. 
Gradually, she expected nothing else, but she did not always accept them in 
silence. She was usually extremely vocal. She suspected Allen sanctioned her 
complaints because he found them amusing. She was never punished for them, 
although quite often Susan was. Allen Morehouse shamelessly played 
favorites. 

"Are you going to untie my hands after you've got me fixed the way you want 
me, Allen? It's not nearly as frightening to a girl if she has her hands, 
even though she can't do a lot with them. Allen, stop looking like Oliver 
Cromwell and listen to me!" 

It was always the same. He spoke when he wanted to and listened when it 
suited his purpose. It did not suit his purpose now. Catherine stared at the 
contrivance on the grass behind the house without affection. "I bet you made 
this on purpose," she accused. "And I bet I'm not going to like it. What do 
I have to do?" 

It was a simple little piece of carpentry, a tiny platform from which rose a 
small wooden structure the height of a girl's foot. Catherine stood upon the 
platform, her legs well apart, while her master encased her ankles with a 
board from each side, there were suitable holes. When the boards were pushed 
tight upon the feminine ankles and locked with two padlocks in tantalizing 
view, the naked girl discovered her punishment was simply to stand, her 
ankles held snug and tight within the wood which had been raised by the tiny 
platform sufficiently high that it would not be practical for her to sit 
upon the ground. It would not even be possible without hurting. Catherine 
was still looking down at this quaint imprisonment when her hands were 
untied from behind her back. "I think you mentioned having your hands free, 
didn't you, honey?" Allen queried diffidently. "I like this." He stepped 
back to admire his work. "You'd look quite ravishing if you knew what to do 
with your hands now that you've got them." He laughed. "There's really not 
much you can do except hold them behind your back again. You really are a 
lucky girl." 

It would be nice to scream and stamp her feet and use her fingernails as 
claws, but Catherine could do none of these things, least of all the 
stamping of her feet. She spared a thread-bared glance of reproach and 
haughtily said. "No gentleman would do this to a girl--certainly not a girl 
to whom he had proposed marriage." 

"Hey, hold on now, sweetheart!" Allen laughed at her ready use of what he 
considered a slip of the tongue. "I didn't propose to you, but if I ever do. 
I'll keep this little gadget in mind. It has a real virtue all its own." He 
came close and reached up for her bare shoulders to pull her to where his 
lips met hers. He indulged in these intimate embraces often enough to keep 
his slave girl alert and wondering, but she had long since discovered they 
were no sign of male weakness. Allen simply enjoyed kissing her, so that's 
what he did. She watched him amble away, presumably to do something unkind 
to Susan. But Susan was not in view, and Allen soon disappeared from sight. 
All that was left was a very limited view of rural upstate New York. 
Catherine sighed and tried to shift her feet for an easement of weight and a 
little additional comfort, but they would not much; they were fixed 
immovably and would stay like that for the rest of the day. She sighed 
again, but at least she had her hands. She looked at them woefully in a wish 
that she could use them to her advantage, but the padlocks would laugh at 
anything her fingers could do. It seemed a terrible waste. She did not often 
have her hands to use. 

On the far side of the house and out towards the garden patch, Susan White 
was having her own travail. Her hands had not been untied, and her wrists 
were still crossed and bound behind her back. Allen's hand was heavy on her 
bare arm. She knew it was the beginning of another day, a period she never 
endured cheerfully or without as much complaint as she dared make. When she 
beheld the narrow hole deep in the ground, at its bottom a pool of muddy 
water, her dismay overcame prudence. "You're not going to put me in there! 
Damn it, it's a vertical grave!" 

"Do you want to sit down and slither yourself in there, or would you sooner 
I picked you up and dropped you?" Allen asked pleasantly. 

"But you can't possibly! Look, you ridiculous man, I'd be standing in mud. 
And anyway, you're not going to bury me, are you?" 

"Not in the true sense, dear girl, but this is an opportunity I just can't 
miss. If you've never had it done to you before--and I don't suppose you 
have--it's going to be a real experience for you." 

"I'll get pneumonia with my feet all wet and in that cold ground." 

"No, you won't, sweetheart. Your feet will get a mud bath which is supposed 
to be good for them, and it's no way chilly this time of year--you know 
that. Would you like your bottom caned again before I drop you in?" 

"Look... sir!" Susan's use of the title was, as usual, overdone. "My hands 
are tied. Do I have to have my hands tied for whatever horrible thing it is 
you're going to do to me?" 

"Are they indeed? I thought I noticed them. In fact, it was me who tied 
them, wasn't it?" Allen's conversational tone was deliberately infuriating. 
"Yes, they stay tied behind your back. You really have no use for them, 
believe me." 

The bound naked girl was being edged closer and closer to what she saw as a 
terrible fate. She looked down into the dark, clammy space which had all the 
appearance of a miniature well. She could half guess the man's intent for 
her and wanted no part of it. Wearily, she implored, "Look, Mr. Morehouse, 
can't we possibly talk this over? I'm so tired of being a prisoner, and I 
don't see that it's serving any purpose at all. You're being mean to me 
because--" 

"Because you've been nibbling on Catherine, and that's a damn bad habit to 
get an innocent girl into. I suspect you had her pretty well addicted by the 
time I showed up. I didn't come a moment too soon." Allen cupped Susan's 
breasts in exploratory fingers. One hand trailed down to perform the same 
intimacy upon the cleft between her thighs. His voice remained serious. "I 
suppose you've noticed. Susan, that I've left these little things alone. 
I've admired them, of course, and I've commented on them. You really are a 
beauty. Has it occurred to you that all three of them could be subject to 
separate punishments?" 

"Don't be horrible. Look, do whatever you're going to do with me and leave 
it at that. I wanted to talk to you seriously about letting me go. I think 
we ought to talk about it, but since you're in this mood... " The ease with 
which Allen Morehouse picked her up was almost frightening. There was about 
this male strength a message of hopelessness. She would never escape it, nor 
would Catherine. Keeping their hands bound or handcuffed, as Allen always 
did, turned them both into neat little packages he could handle with 
facility. He did so now, and the naked girl gasped in dismay as mud 
enveloped her feet and oozed between her toes. It was a disgusting sensation 
and she now found herself viewing the world from ground level. If she dipped 
her head, her chin came into contact with the soil. Hating herself for the 
abject humility, she pleaded. "Please don't, please don't!" 

It was simply a square of boards nailed together and hinged. They opened up 
to reveal the tiny circlet designed for a maiden's neck. A maiden's neck is 
of tiny dimensions, quite startling to anyone who has not dealt with them 
previously. Allen evidently had. The fit was perfect. The rough boards were 
harsh upon the maiden neck. Allen snapped the padlock and cheerily 
commented, "There! That makes you all neat and tidy. From a distance you 
might be mistaken for a watermelon. You're just the right height." 

"Don't be disgusting. I think you're being beastly cruel. You don't need to 
do a thing like this to me. It's horrible. I bet there's worms and beetles 
and things." 

The man was not yet through. He had provided a hammer and four stakes, and 
proceeded to drive each wooden peg deep into the ground beside a comer of 
the square of boards. When all four were driven as far as they could go, the 
square was held immovably. Since the square encompassed Susan's neck, she 
was as much a fixture as the wood itself. She voice the fact emphatically: 
"Mr. Morehouse, sir, I can't move. I can't do anything except stand here in 
the mud. look, you can't possibly leave me like this!" 

"Give me three good reasons why not, Susan. I'll listen." 

"No, you won't. You know damn well you won't. If you want three reasons, 
I'll give them to you. One is that this is no way to treat a girl. Another 
is there's something awful likely to happen to me before you come back. And 
the third is I've never done a thing to deserve this." She gazed at him 
soulfully. "Have I?" 

"I did mention something about nibbling." 

"Oh, all right. I knew you wouldn't listen. There isn't anything I could say 
that would make you listen. I think I'm going to cry, but I know you'll just 
watch the tears trickle down my cheeks and you couldn't care less. What have 
you done with poor Catherine?" Allen ignored her question and left her 
alone. Susan was annoyed by the tears staining her cheeks with no one to 
see. She tried to get a foothold against which to brace an upward thrust, 
but her bare foot slipped on the damp soil and she felt certain the square 
around her neck was immovable anyway. She sighed dismally as Catherine had 
sighed. It was one more day. 

Their nights too were not without travail. They could not be sure of them 
because there was no pattern. On the night when Allen had handcuffed Susan 
to the foot of her own bed so she might kneel to watch his play with 
Catherine, he broached a subject Catherine would have preferred to forget. 
She was chained with the familiar collar and chain which enabled uninhibited 
lovemaking, but this was the first time Susan had been witness. It was not 
too devastating a thought. The girls had seen enough of each other and done 
enough together that this enforced voyeurism would add nothing to their 
shame. Shame accompanied each hour of their day. They might have become 
blase had not their master varied his inflictions to keep their flesh 
forever quivering. Laying beside his chosen slave girl, he played idly with 
her nipples and that other part of her he had made so totally his own. His 
voice was reflective. "There's something you never got around to, 
honeybunch," he affirmed as though thinking aloud. "Our little sweetheart 
down at the end of the bed shaved a spoke in your wheel. She probably saved 
you from Jamal's wrath, but she robbed you of something else." 

"She didn't rob me of anything. She simply saved me from some awful fate I 
was foolish enough to get into. I'll be forever grateful to her." 

"And for the way she's nibbled your pussy too. I expect," he said dryly. "I 
expect you had so much fun between each other's legs you forgot about 
Kandaka and Madanda." The naked slave girl stiffened. The man must have felt 
her suddenly tautened flesh. "I had word from him the other day. He wants 
you back." Catherine was suddenly afraid. The two names brought back too 
many vivid memories which Susan had erased. She supposed Allen had erased 
them too with his unwelcome attentions. Now he must have something in mind 
or he wouldn't have mentioned Madanda at all. Quiet but scared, she asked, 
"What does he want?" 

Her owner laughed. "You, of course. What do men ever want except girls? You 
females are addictive. You're a menace." He laughed easily again. "Poor old 
Madanda's gone and caught your thing. I gather these things about whipping a 
girl's bottom are contagious. I gathered he would like to have another go at 
yours." 

"But. Allen, you didn't tell him where I was--did you? I mean, is he going 
to walk in here on us?" 

"I doubt it, sweetheart. I simply told him I had you in a safe place. He 
offered quite a lot of money. That little bottom of yours is earning itself 
a reputation. Here, I've been whipping it every morning without realizing 
what treasure I enjoyed. God, the way these African types toss around money 
for girls!" 

The collar and chain prevented Catherine's escape, but that was all. She 
turned in panic and grasped her master in her own bare arms and thrust 
herself against him in a terrible need for reassurance. "Allen, don't! Oh, 
please don't give me back to him. I'm cured. 

I know now how silly I was, but going back to Kandaka is the last thing I 
want. Don't you understand? The way you've been whipping us--it's got me so 
I don't ever want to see a whip or a cane again. Allen, I'm cured!" 

Allen Morehouse listened quietly. The amused smile never left his lips. 
"You'll never be cured," he assured her. "And I've discovered I don't want 
you cured. But you can bet your boots I'm not wasting you on Madanda or 
anybody else. Not even for his lousy five million dollars." 

"Five million dollars!" The shocked voice came from the bottom of the bed. 
Susan was kneeling upright, tugging at her handcuffed wrists. "You mean that 
idiot will pay five million dollars for whipping a white girl's bottom!" 

Allen laughed at her eagerness. "That's right, but I suspect there's a bit 
more to it than that. I'm pretty sure he'd want to keep the girl around for 
awhile, have a few repeats, you know. Probably some innovations even I 
haven't thought of. " He chuckled at a sudden realization. "Damn it, at 
current market rates, I'm getting five million dollars worth out of each of 
you for as long as I've got you safe. I'll have to make doubly sure you 
don't get away." 

The two girls exchanged another of their glances. Susan took the plunge. 
Vehemently, she said, "For five million dollars, I'd sell myself. If he'd 
put a period on whatever he wanted to do to me. 

I wouldn't want a life-long thing." Her voice trailed away into silence. She 
searched her master's eyes questioningly. "Would it be possible? I mean, 
could you arranged it so that I get delivered to him and the money gets put 
in a safe place until I'm freed?" 

"I don't sell girls," Allen announced abruptly. "Forget it. I'm certainly 
not going to engineer such a deal. I won't be a go-between. You ought to 
know damn well those guys over there could make what I do to you here seem 
like child's play. Consider yourself lucky I'm me." 

Susan knelt despondently where her handcuffed wrists compelled. She was not 
fastened to allow her to lay down and get out of sight. Since it was easier 
to watch, she simply watched, annoyed with her own envy of what she saw. She 
knew Catherine was treated more kindly than she during each day, except when 
they shared a similar punishment. But that her fellow captive should enjoy 
this Arabian nights' delight during the hours of darkness while she remained 
chained beyond participation was the unkindest cut of all. 

If only she could escape! 

Madanda was nor mentioned again, he became no more than a dark cloud beyond 
Catherine's horizon. A cloud which Allen dissolved a little more each day by 
his use of crop and cane and quirt. 

, A smarting bottom was an accompaniment which each girl had to bear each 
day of their less prosaic punishments. 

They cooked their master's meals in obedience to his edict. They served them 
in deep humility and ate only the scraps. Often they were left in the 
kitchen for lengthy periods of time. Heavy rings had been bolted into the 
floor, and each girl was chained to one of them by a single ankle. It was 
enough! It left the rest of them freed to do Allen's bidding. When they 
ruined so many knives in their futile efforts to defeat their locks on their 
ankles, they paid the penalty by being forced to extend their hands and 
received upon the taut palm of each no less than three strokes from a yellow 
can they had come to respect. The punishment had left the two of them 
weeping like little girls, their bare hands clasped beneath bare arm- pits 
in an instinctive effort to comfort hurt. They were forgiven nothing. 
Grudgingly, each girl realized the crumbling of her feminine defenses. They 
no longer uttered threats and rarely pleaded. One day Allen told them that 
if their progress continued as it was, they could look forward to a 
not-too-distant freedom. They did not believe a word of it, but nonetheless 
cherished the thought. It had been Susan who spoke most often of escape, but 
it was Catherine who actually achieved it. 

It had been a humiliating punishment, to sit astride the ancient gate, 
Catherine's feet bound to the weathered wood below and her thighs and waist 
solidly roped to keep her in position. Neither she nor her master had 
noticed that in his preoccupation with his other bindings he had forgotten 
to tie her hands. It took the naked slave girl several minutes of sad 
contemplation of their plight before she realized what had happened. Allen 
had made a mistake. No doubt he had become so bored and blase with his 
binding of his slaves that it had been easy to forget. It took the shocked 
girl nearly thirty minutes to twist and wriggle and tug herself free of her 
insecure perch. But when she did so, she found herself more free than either 
girl had ever expected to be again. She walked around in dazed ecstasy, then 
leaped joyously toward the bit of woodland which separated the farmhouse 
from the road. This time Susan would not be waiting in the car to make her 
captive a second time. 

But thought of Susan stopped the flight before it had got well started. She 
could not possibly flee and leave Susan captive. She dismissed the thought 
of finding her way home and then bringing her father's resources to bear 
upon Susan's rescue. By that time her darling girl would have vanished. She 
began the search. Never on any day could either girl be certain what their 
master did with their fellow captive. Today she discovered the one-time 
mistress securely enclosed within Allen's latest invention. It was nothing 
more than a square box, a packing case. It would hold a girl only if she sat 
crouched with her knees well up. In this case, nothing was visible of the 
captive Susan except her head and its tumbled mass of curls. The master had 
not even bothered with padlocks. He had simply fitted the boards, two of 
them shaped with the inevitable half circle, around the captive neck and 
nailed them down. No amount of pushing any girl could do would get her out 
of such a fix. The girl, now well and truly held, gazed at Catherine in 
stark amazement. 

It took only a few brief sentences to tell what there was to tell. "Darling, 
I'll get you out of here." Catherine surveyed the solid wood with both doubt 
and disfavor. "I don't know how I'll manage it, but I'll find some tools. 
There must be some somewhere." 

But of the two of them, Susan was the more practical. Her voice was urgent. 
"Don't fuss, Catherine. Don't bother with me. You get away and then bring 
help later. There has to be something wrong with this whole set-up. Look, 
I'm not hurting. Run like crazy and bring help after you're safe." 

"And leave you nailed into this beastly box? No way! If I can find some 
tools, I'll have you out of here in no time." 

Anxiously, the boxed-up Susan watched her savior depart. She sighed, perhaps 
it would be best for the two of them to be together, but she was desperately 
uneasy. But her heart leaped when her former slave girl jubilantly returned 
with a hammer and large screwdriver. "This ought to do it, sweetheart. Just 
keep still." Catherine was breathless. She fixed the screwdriver beneath the 
top plank and hit in a timid blow with the hammer. The hammer glanced off 
the polished handle and grazed her hand. She yelped and was busily rubbing 
the injured member when a male voice from the doorway remarked, "Need some 
help, sweetheart?" 

The two girls stared in dismay. Susan's worst tears were realized. Catherine 
burned with indignation, her voice accusing, "You thought this whole thing 
up! You rotten stinker! You laid a trap for me. You're supposed to be off on 
business." 

"You two are my business, sweetness. I'll go about my other affairs after 
I've got you safely boxed. Come here and get your hands tied." There was 
only one door. It was well behind the smiling man. Catherine knew her 
chances of reaching it were nil. She looked at Susan and shrugged in 
resignation, then turned her soulful gaze upon their master. "Allen, please 
don't be a beast. Now's your chance to let us go." She gestured with free 
arms. "It's so wonderful to be free--can't you understand?" 

"My heart's breaking," Allen said sarcastically. "Now if you'll just come 
over here and turn your back and cross your wrists." He chuckled. "It 
shouldn't be hard to do--you've had lots of practice." 

It was a bitter surrender, but what else could she do? Sulkily, the naked 
girl about to lose her freedom did her master's bidding. If her heat flared 
within her sex as the strong male fingers entwined her wrists and tugged the 
nylon tight, so what? At that moment Catherine could have cared less about 
any association between a fresh captivity and the generation of sexual 
excitement within her loins. Once more she disgusted herself--she had 
bungled. Standing, her hands safely bound behind her back, she watched their 
master drag in a second wooden box. At his gesture she distastefully stepped 
inside and crouched down to sit awkwardly as Susan must already be doing. 
She wanted to cry, but was too preoccupied for several minutes by the 
placing of the boards and the fitting of two of them around her neck, 
followed by the pounding blows of the hammer. She looked at the size of the 
nails being driven into cement her tiny imprisonment and realized how 
inadequate her screwdriver had been for such a task. When the last nail was 
driven home with a slamming crash, she felt almost as though encased in 
cement. The wood in contact with her neck had not been polished. It rasped 
horribly. In a final flare of anger, she said, "Allen, you're an absolute 
brute!" 

"Hurting, love?" 

Catherine twisted her bound wrists. She moved her head enough to test the 
snugness of the wooden grip, but there was no pain. Reluctantly, she 
conceded, "No, I suppose not." Instilling all the venom she possessed, she 
added the male title, "Sir!" 

Allen Morehouse nodded. He patted both the heads which were the only visible 
portions of his two slaves. "See, I'm not a brute at all. It's all in your 
mind. You can sit quietly in that box, Catherine, and think about your 
punishment for the escape attempt." 

The silence could be felt, but it was only momentary, giving way to 
Catherine's outraged indignation. "Punishment! You absolute idiot! Why would 
you punish me for something you deliberately did yourself? You surely didn't 
expect me to sit up on that rickety gate once I'd discovered I could get 
free." 

The male was delighted with her vehemence. Catherine could always be relied 
upon to come across with adequate indignation, but his voice was gently 
reproving. "Your proper course, honey- bunch, was to come in and sit with 
Susan until I returned. You could have had a nice talk, and since you could 
move around, you could have got her drinks and maybe lunch and had a real 
pleasant picnic." He shook his finger at her. "But not you! You go and get a 
hammer and screwdriver, and start messing up that lovely box I went to so 
much trouble to make. How'd you like to sit in there as you are right now' 
for the next week?" 

"I'd simply die." Catherine sniffed and wrinkled her nose in almost the only 
gesture she could make. "I don't deserve punishment at all, certainly not 
that." 

The master's tone became thoughtful, his voice quietly musing. "I've got a 
bit tired of lacing into your bottom with the quirt, Catherine. I'm 
wondering if you're not a big girl now. You've got the loveliest back. I 
wonder if we couldn't graduate you up to where you get it whipped. The 
proper whip, of course, and an appropriate number of strokes." He nodded 
brightly, as though confirming an inward vision. "I'm seeing something a bit 
ritualistic, sweetheart. Rather like they used to do with the military in 
ancient days when the delinquent was what they used to call triced up." 

"I refuse to discuss it," Catherine affirmed haughtily. But her dignity 
immediately dissolved. "Oh, Allen, please. Don't keep us in these boxes all 
day. If you let us out. I'll do anything--I'll agree to anything. Whip me 
all you want, but please get us out of these horrible little coffins." 

"They're not coffins, dear heart. They are simply square wooden boxes. You 
just happen to be inside one. If I'd wanted to be real mean, I'd have 
slipped a couple of mice in with you." He chuckled. "In fact, that's not a 
bad idea. Keep you both amused all day." 

"Don't you dare! Don't be so horrible. I'd absolutely die! You know what 
mice do to girls." 

"No, I don't. Tell me, what do mice do to girls?" 

"Well, never mind I'm not too sure about it myself. If you put mice in here 
with me, I'll never love you again." 

"My, my, so you really do care!" Allen cocked a sardonic eyebrow. "Just goes 
to show you, doesn't it? The surest way to a girl's heart is through her 
bottom." 

"You're still being beastly, and I wasn't talking about loving in that way 
at all. I was talking about behaving myself in bed with you. There's a 
difference, y'know." 

They watched their master leave. It was the saddest moment of their day. "It 
wasn't your fault, darling. Stop worrying about it and stop worrying about 
that threat of his. I bet he never does whip you. I bet that whole story 
about tricing you up and all that stuff is just done to scare you into being 
a good little girl. When he doesn't do it, you'll be so grateful you'll love 
him more than ever." 

"Do I love Allen?" The question was one of disbelief. "After the way he 
treats us--" 

"Don't tell me you don't know." Susan's reprimand held a tinge of acid. "It 
sticks out a mile, and when I was chained so I had to watch you make love 
the other night, you ought to have seen yourself. You adore the guy." 

The captive Catherine surveyed the proposition. It came as a surprise, and 
she was by no means sure it was correct. She had had this brother and sister 
feeling for Allen since the start, and she had always believed that brother 
and sister feelings led the couple nowhere. If she had responded to him in 
their lovemaking or in what she preferred to think of now as their coupling, 
it was only because of his immense competence and her own lonely need. Susan 
was dreaming, but it didn't matter. What mattered was a return to the brief 
freedom she had just enjoyed. "I don't suppose we can get out of these 
boxes?" she ventured tentatively. "Are your hands tied the same as mine?" 

"Of course they are. Not that it would do us any good even if our hands were 
free. You saw the size of those nails he was driving in. What we need is a 
friend with a wrecking bar, and you know the chances of that!" 

The boxed and bound maidens fell silent, fully aware of helplessness and 
also of a dreary day ahead. Allen Morehouse might be wonderful in bed, but 
he thought up the damnedest things for the daylight hours. In spite of 
herself, Catherine could not but consider marriage with this insouciant male 
who had first of all rescued her from an eastern enslavement and then 
diverted her neatly to his own devices. It was ironic indeed that striving 
to cure her of erotic inclination, he should have himself become addicted. 
But none of this altered the fact she was firmly encased within a box and 
her hands most competently bound behind her back. Catherine experimented 
with such motions as were possible, but decided immobility was best. Allen 
Morehouse had devised a most ingenious method of confining a girl in an 
infuriating frustration. Demandingly, she inquired, "Susan, if you had a 
chance to marry Allen, would you?" 

"Like a shot. But what I'd like a lot better is for you to marry him and 
persuade him to sell me to Madanda for that five million dollars. It would 
get us both out of this captivity and the one I'd be getting into might not 
have any wooden boxes with big long nails." 

"It would be a lot worse than that," Catherine affirmed with deep 
conviction. "If you push Allen hard enough, he may arrange it for you, but I 
think you'd be crazy." 

She giggled. "How would it be if I marry Allen and he and I keep you as our 
own personal little slave girl? I'd make sure he didn't whip you more than 
once a week." 

"What would you say to that if it was the other way around? I bet you 
wouldn't go for it." 

"There's only one thing would stop me, and that's the feeling I'd have of 
being redundant. Nobody wants to be the odd one out. What you and I need to 
do is escape." 

"But Allen is in possession of my property!" Susan wailed. "I suppose if we 
lived in an apartment in the city, he'd move in on us. Darling, I think we 
have to figure on Allen, whatever we do." She sniffed angrily and added, 
"Whatever we can do, that is." Each girl heard the sound and rasped her neck 
to turn and stare. Within the opened doorway stood the immensity of Adam 
Madanda. He was taking in their plight with undisguised amusement. His voice 
boomed, "Both of you ready for shipment, eh? I have to hand it to this 
Morehouse fellow, he's got the right idea about girls." Catherine's world 
shattered, the wood box became a tomb. The cord around her wrists became the 
cruelest of chains. Worst of all, she could think of nothing to say. It was 
useless to shout at Madanda to go away or go back home or any of the usual 
platitudes. Madanda would do exactly as he wished. He had undoubtedly come 
for her, but would take Susan along as a bonus. 

"I suppose you know what I'll do with the two of you back home." Madanda 
said. 

"Yes, I know. You'll whip us. It's what men always do with girls. Can't you 
think of something else?" 

Madanda nodded, seeing her point. "Like wooden boxes for instance?" he 
inquired. "I suppose you could call them a punishment after a girl's been in 
one for a week or two. It would take a bit of time. We'll be taking them 
along with us. In fact, I think we'll ship you in them. We can throw a tarp 
over your heads to take you onto the plane. It should work well." 

Madanda turned his attention to Susan. "I owe you quite a lot, don't I, my 
pretty little stewardess? You'll pay your debt with stripes across your 
skin. A little solitary confinement in heavy chains might do no harm either. 
This is what you expect, isn't it?" 

"Yes," the young voice said in despair. Madanda would be merciless. 

"I'll get you out of here before Morehouse gets back. I don't dislike the 
guy, so there's no need to know him around. Is this his house?" 

"No, it's mine," Susan said dismally. "Why can't you leave me here? I've 
never done you any harm." 

Madanda's laughter boomed through the big room. "Not by your standards 
perhaps, but certainly by mine. I'll tell you what, young lady, I'll make 
arrangements for this place to be looked after and kept in your name. You 
can return to it when I'm through with you. Let's say in about five years?" 

"Allen told us you offered five million dollars if he would deliver 
Catherine to you. How about paying that for me?" 

This was a language Madanda understood. "Why would I pay for you?" he asked 
contemptuously. "I can get you for nothing. I've got you now. I'll have you 
back in Kandanka tomorrow. I'll teach you then what is expected of a good 
servant." 

Catherine wanted to weep. This was too, too cruel. Allen Morehouse might be 
a trial and leave a girl with a permanently tender bottom, but Madanda was 
capable of almost anything. She knew this dark, huge man was fond of her, 
but that might ensure no more than her closer captivity. She looked in 
desolation at Susan White. "It's no good, darling, he's got us. You'd best 
accept his offer about looking after your place." 

"A wise child," Madanda approved. He stood there in the doorway in his 
immensity. For the purpose he had shed all clothing above the waist and his 
extraordinary masculinity shone and shimmered in the room in all its ebony 
power. Catherine wilted at the sight of what once again became her fate For 
Allen Morehouse to bind her and box her for no other eventual purpose than 
delivery to this ruler of a distant place was irony indeed. With the rough 
wood chafing her neck and the cords biting her wrists, she was terribly 
aware of impotence and mournfully pleaded. "You don't have to take us, 
Madanda. Please leave us alone. We're happy here, and you've no right to 
steal our lives away." 

"Happy!" Once more Madanda filled the room with the sound of laughter. 
"Nailed down in a box and with your heads sticking out as though awaiting 
the headsman's sword! I suppose you're naked and bound inside there?" 

"Yes we are, but--" Madanda paid no heed but shouted back down the passage 
and was almost immediately joined by a pair of servants Catherine recognized 
all too well. "Put them in the van. Leave them boxed as they are and cover 
them with a tarp when there's any danger of someone seeing them. Take them 
straight to the plane." He waved a genial goodbye to his repossessions and 
departed. The two servants summed the whole thing up neatly. Looking from 
one to the other of the captive maiden heads, one said, "You be plenty fuck, 
fuck. You be plenty whip, whip. You have plenty good time. You most lucky 
girls." 

They saw nothing of the ride, the van and the tarps defeated them. But, safe 
within the cargo bay of Madanda's aircraft, the wooden imprisonment of their 
necks was easily dealt with. Tears of chagrin came to Catherine's eyes as 
she winced beneath the blows and screech of raised nails and sundered wood. 
How easily men did things like this! How impossible such havoc for a girl! 
It was all too, too cruel. But when she was lifted from the crate, she could 
not repress a sigh of thankfulness as her bent knees returned to life and 
her neck no longer rasped as she moved. Susan White was given back her 
stewardess uniform, minus undergarments. Her hands were freed and she was 
roughly told to get back into the grave of her former occupation. Catherine 
was left simply naked and with her hands still tied with the cord Allen 
Morehouse had snared them in that morning. The plane had already taken off 
and when she went to the passenger area, she saw the diminishing homeland 
fade away beneath its raising wheels. Madanda was, as usual, busy with his 
documents. He nodded affably as though a naked girl whose hands were tied 
tightly behind her back was an everyday occurrence. "Susan will be serving 
drinks," he said absently as he turned a page. "You can stay as you are, I 
like the effect." 

It was humiliation plus. For Catherine to sit or stand in diffident 
awkwardness was a punishment in itself. Without hands she could do nothing 
useful but slump in a seat and gaze out of the window at a freedom she had 
lost. There would come an ocean and then another continent and there she 
faced a life imprisonment, the only bright spot of which would be the carnal 
attention of this magnificent creature sitting opposite her across the 
aisle. Being sexually possessed by Madanda as his mood dictated would give 
but temporary surcease from captivity. She hated his ability to transform 
her into bliss and cause her to moan in ecstasy. But this was as much a fact 
of her condition as bound hands. Slumped in her seat, she looked up in 
surprise at Susan White. 

Susan had been to the restroom. She had used the time to improve her hair 
and do all the things Catherine longed to do but could not. As though there 
had been no intervening period, she carried a tray on which were tall 
glasses in much the same manner and attitude as the first time Catherine had 
seen her. What else could she do! Both girls knew revolt would bring them 
only striped skin or a punishment such as suspension or a return to the 
hated boxes. Madanda nodded in approval and reached in an absent-minded 
fashion for his drink. He paid neither girl the slightest attention. The 
second drink was for Catherine and was held to her lips by the uniformed 
stewardess who sat close enough for them to pick up each other's scents. 
Catherine had no fondness for alcohol, but realized wryly how often she had 
gulped it during her captivities as an anesthetic against fear or pain. 
Broken-hearted, she whispered, "Oh, Susan, I'm so sorry. This wouldn't have 
happened without me. It was me he was looking for, not you. Now you're in 
this too, up to your neck." 

Susan White was "in it" indeed! When she picked up the empty glasses, she 
was curtly told to bare her bottom and expose it for the cane. It was no 
more than expected, but it came as a shock under the prosaic circumstances 
in which the three of them sat. She shrugged, bent over, flipped up the tiny 
skirt, and revealed the desired portion of her anatomy. 

"Get the cane, you idiot girl. You know where it is. Bring it to me." 

The stewardess flushed, but hastened to obey. She went one step further and, 
kneeling, presented it to her lord after kissing its sleek yellow length. 
Madanda accepted it with approval. Once more the shaming ritual of the bend 
and the lifting of the cane as it cut at the innocent skin of an innocent 
girl. Susan White said a trembling, "Thank you, sir," then rose, rearranged 
her skirt, and sought to return the hateful instrument to where it was 
normally kept. 

"Never mine, leave it here. I'll be using it again," Madanda said gruffly. 
"In the meantime, and until you need more drinks, I want you to kneel in the 
aisle. You know the pose, it presents no problem since you're not either 
bound or chained." He chuckled to some inward thought. "But that's something 
we can correct in our own good time, isn't it, Susan?" 

The stewardess arranged herself as ordered. Madanda's eye next settled upon 
Catherine huddled in her seat. "You look dejected," he remarked with heavy 
humor. "Come out of there. Stand up and look like what you are--a beautiful 
girl. Here, stand to the other side of me and stand erect with your head up, 
don't slouch." He guffawed at his own wit. "Tell you what, if you can wiggle 
out of those cords Morehouse put on you. I'll excuse you from the stripes 
you will otherwise receive. Go ahead, don't hesitate to try. There's no 
penalty for that." He returned in instant absorption to his work. 

The two girls looked at each other in shared dismay. They dared not speak, 
nor did they break pose. It took a space of minutes for Catherine to 
remember she had permission to strive to free her hands. But what was the 
use? The permission was probably nothing more than a sly piece of Madanda's 
humor. She could not have freed them in the box, and she could not now. Yet 
if she did not try, Madanda could easily be annoyed. Quite probably, he did 
not realize the depth of resignation to which she and Susan had sunk in 
their acceptance of bonds. They no longer expected to escape or gain freedom 
from their own efforts. As unobtrusively as possible, she twisted and tugged 
enough to give the illusion of intense effort. That she would be punished 
for failure was a foregone conclusion. 

Susan White was sent on another errand. On her return it seemed almost a 
matter of course for her to touch her toes and flip up her skirt once more 
to receive the stinging cut which she took with remarkable fortitude before 
resuming her kneeling shame. "I suspect young Morehouse tanned both your 
rumps sufficiently to get them toughened up," Adam Madanda observed 
shrewdly. "We'll see about that. A girl's got more than one place, you 
know." 

Catherine did not get free, but she was not punished. She watched unhappily 
while Susan was compelled to strip and place her hands for binding. The two 
repossessed slave girls were then marched down the steps to where the 
soldiers waited and the car was in readiness. Madanda's residence greeted 
them with a hundred memories. Susan was taken to a fate unknown, but 
Catherine had instantly guessed what would be done with her. There was an 
inevitability about the little post and the chain out in the courtyard. She 
was certain this punishment for girls had some symbolism in this eastern 
place and gave Madanda some particular satisfaction. She was marched back 
into the courtyard and to the concrete square with full military honors. 
When the collar was locked back upon her neck, it was as though the 
intervening time had not existed. The airplane had transported her back to 
the medieval disciplines of Kandanka. It was not until she had stood in 
silent meditation for a couple of minutes and watched her escort disappear 
beyond the walls that she realized they had forgotten to untie her hands. Or 
perhaps they had not forgotten at all. She walked the span of her tether in 
all directions. She looked around, but saw no watching eyes. In resignation 
to an ancient punishment, she sank to her knees and then slumped back 
against the pole from which her span of links tinkled and rattled every time 
she moved. She was willing to believe she would be here a long, long time 
before Adam Madanda decided on exactly what to do with her. She thought 
longingly of Susan White's little farm house in the country, realizing now 
the happiness it had given her, longing for a return she would never known. 
Allen Morehouse would have discovered their disappearance and if Madanda had 
left no written word, would have to draw his own conclusions as to what had 
happened. The only bright spot Catherine could see was his undoubted 
deduction. He would put two and two together and come up with the name of 
Adam Madanda. But what good would it do? He had rescued her once, but it 
would not happen again, she was sure of it. 

The captive girl was denied the solace of a pattern. She remained chained to 
the little post throughout the night, sleeping as best she could and as she 
had previously done when tethered to the post of Prince Abed Jamal, but 
finding oblivion in exhaustion. In the morning, she ruefully recognized how 
easy it would be to think of her condition as a homecoming, a return to 
something holding high reward. But the girl who brought her food and a bowl 
of water summed it up in the same manner as the soldier the day before. "You 
very silly girl. You be bad punished." She untied the captive hands and left 
the chained girl to her own device. An hour later a military escort took her 
upon a three-foot pedestal so fashioned as to provide a foothold at its apex 
and on either side of a tapering prong of stone rising between her legs to 
the inevitable sharp point precisely beneath the place she least desired. An 
ankle shackle clinked shut and the military departed after a smart but 
sardonic salute. 

It had happened so swiftly Catherine was uncertain of her condition until 
she had taken time to fully discover its animosity. Her ankle was chained 
with only a couple of links upon the truncated column to compel the soles of 
her feet to rest solidly upon spaces both provided and shaped for the 
purpose. There was no space for motion. The rising tapered shaft between her 
feet forbid much movement and was a constant threat, a girl thus fastened 
would not dare fall asleep! Catherine gazed at the floor below and instantly 
realized she dared not step down to it with her free foot. To do so would 
leave her condition worse than now, although since her hands were free, she 
debated the possibility of taking such a step, and if it proved unprofitable 
to swing herself up by the use of her hands against the tapering top of the 
column. She realized, of course, the whole situation had been cleverly 
designed to leave her in a quandary. She had little doubt eyes were watching 
the decisions she might reach. Undoubtedly, there would be traffic through 
the great hall and the passersby would view her with a keen amusement, 
perhaps even pausing to enjoy her discomfiture. Adam Madanda was the first. 

"A living statue, beloved child," his voice was silk. "You grace my home, it 
bids you welcome." 

Catherine was not yet tired, she was well aware of shame in the posture she 
must hold. Dejected, she said. "I thought you loved me, Adam. You did once. 
I thought you desires me, but you leave me chained to a post in the 
courtyard through the night, and now you exhibit me to be laughed at by all 
your staff. Adam, this is a beastly way for a girl to have to stand." 

"I still adore you, child. Why would I not? You will be loved full well in 
my own good time. It is not for you to ask or instruct." 

"You you've got that thread of punishment hanging over me. Some awful 
whipping or something." 

"That in its own time too." Madanda's eyes lingered lovingly upon her 
frustrated curves. "My men forgot your hands. I will have this attended to. 
I wish you could see yourself, dear. You are exquisitely lovely." 

"Adam, if you are fond of me, why must you torture me like this all the 
time?" 

"Torture! Would you say I have tortured you since the repossession?" His 
tone was seemingly one of genuine interest. "Is this torture the way you 
stand right now?" 

"Well, no, I suppose not. I don't suppose being chained to the post all 
night was torture either. I suppose it makes sense to you, but it does not 
to me. Please, don't make me stand here like this. " He paid no heed, but 
silently circled her standing nudity several times before nodding in 
satisfaction and departing. Half an hour later a girl came with handcuffs. 

"Behind your back, missy." 

The simple command almost prompted Catherine to step from her perch. That a 
servant girl should be sent on an errant to chain the hands Madanda 
professed to love was a deliberate indignity. But if she refused to so 
posture herself, undoubtedly it would be a man next time, and the girl to be 
handcuffed was acutely aware of the tapering point beneath her sex, a 
struggle was not practical. In abject surrender, she placed her hands behind 
her back and held them still while they were circled in the familiar steel 
and prisoned snug and tight. "I bet you not step down now," the laughing 
girl said slyly. "You not get back up again, you stand one foot high up and 
one foot very tired. You be very sorry girl." Laughing, she departed. 

It was not exactly lonely on the pedestal. Servants came and went, even some 
visitors who cocked an amused eye but seemingly considered her of less 
social consequence than merited their further attention. It was a loneliness 
within a loneliness, bearing its own shame. 

It was not long before weariness added its threat. It is hard for a human 
foot to sustain its owner's weight if not allowed movement. Whatever motions 
the captive girl dared make were small, not enough to ease tired tendons and 
aching muscles. More and more, she came to hate the tapering length 
advancing upward within her thighs to bring its points within the distance 
of a threat. Wryly, she tested the latitude allowed, flexing her knees to 
lower her cleft down upon the pointed prong. Contact was almost instant. She 
resumed her pretty pose and wept in bitter frustration. It was a sad and 
sorry young woman who was finally lifted from the pedestal and taken back to 
the courtyard, the post, and the collar around her neck. 

It was wickedly clever but only cruel enough to tax her to the limit. 
Catherine found herself scarcely daring to move, the least movement added to 
the agony of the little lumps on which she knelt. She looked to either side 
and realized there was nowhere to go. The small protuberances mocked her in 
all directions. Her bound ankles prohibited any real attempt at release, but 
it was her hands she found the most frustrating of all. The collar was of 
metal, firmly locked. She could forget about dislodging it. Her handcuffed 
wrists were tethered to it by a short length of locked chain. As on the 
previous occasion, Madanda was not far behind the departure of his men. 

"Most charming, as usual, dear girl. I trust you find the floor 
uncomfortable." 

Catherine looked at the ruler of the kingdom. She did not even think to 
plead, she had been cured of useless pleadings, and could think of nothing 
else to say except, "Does it give you pleasure to see me like this, Adam?" 

"An interesting arrangement of your person, don't you think?" 

"I can't do anything with my hands except dry my tears and arrange my hair." 

"For what other purpose would a woman desire hands? They will be freed in 
ample time for when we return to lovemaking." 

"When will that be?" 

"When you have learned a few lessons and some extra humility. You will be 
interested to know I have designed some delightful travail for your charming 
companion. Dear Susan is learning the same lessons as yourself. I suspect 
her little farm in the country is receding further and further into space. 
Oh, and by the way, l received a phone call from your Allen Morehouse. He's 
deduced where you are and demands your release. Unfortunately, he is in no 
position to offer me something of value in return. He is a reasonable man 
and will probably consider my offer of a female of lesser quality than 
yourself. I may carry on negotiations with him to this end." 

Catherine watched her master's retreating back. Her life seemed to be one of 
these retreating backs after another. She wept her tears and dried them with 
her chained hands. She looked in desolate resignation down at where her 
knees received their agony, an agony which did not recede with time but 
seemed instead to constantly increase. It was so simple and so deadly 
effective, if she had secrets to disclose, she would disclose them now. The 
hours stretched ahead in forbidding procession. 

There had been a change. The square was not of concrete but was of tiles 
since there had been no time for ought else but the post was as firmly 
imbedded in the center of the square as was her own. It was distant twenty 
or twenty-five feet where she stood collared and tethered. Upon the square 
of tile was a figure of a naked girl. 

Catherine viewed her companion in disbelief, the pose enforced upon her was 
grotesque. She had been laid down upon the ground with her feet against the 
post, then one foot alone had been raised and shackled to its blunt peak, 
there to stay and hold her in a posture impossible to ease. Susan White had 
been laying on her back when Catherine had been escorted back for the night, 
but now she twisted over to raise herself upon her elbows and watch the 
chaining of her companion. When the soldiers had departed, she said, "Look 
what he's don to me! This is the damnedest and lousiest fix he's had me in. 
I can't stand up unless I stretch myself to spitting and there's no point in 
that. Do you think he'll ever get over his peeve and treat us like girls?" 

Catherine walked to the limit of her chain. She was still far short of 
Susan's lovely nudity. The ex-stewardess was painfully turning and twisting 
to seek some sort of comfort while she talked but her ironed ankle denied 
anything she sought. She contented herself by allowing some portion of her 
weight to tug at her raised and prisoned leg while she twisted her torso 
into some semblance of normalcy, resting upon one arm. "You can't accuse 
Madanda of torturing us," she said in disgust. "But the things he thinks up 
are clever. They're all designed to reduce us to a couple of nothings." She 
tugged angrily at her prisoned foot above her head. "Look at this now! 
There's no way I can appear anything but ridiculous. Cathy, darling, can't 
you do something about him? He's in love with you. He's not in love with me. 
Couldn't you smile at him or part your legs or something?" 

"If he is in love with me, he isn't showing it. Look at me now! I'm chained 
our here in the courtyard same as you, and everyday I go through some rotten 
humiliation which is usually damned painful." 

"You're just being softened up to make a good African wife. Gosh, I wish 
he'd marry me--all that lovely money!" 

But there was no escape for the two girls. They spent the following day in 
each other's company, but their condition was no less onerous and held a 
quiet touch of pixie humor. The great hall appeared infinitely versatile in 
its provision for delinquent damsels. Their travail proved to be a vertical 
pillar of four to six inches in diameter and at above shoulder level a 
couple of heavy planks, the orifices in which clearly told their intent. 
Each girl was positioned by her guard, a yoke was raised and fitted to her 
neck covering only half of it. The timber itself finding its enter and pivot 
in a prepared grove in the pillar. The second yoke filled its function with 
obvious neatness. The girls obediently placed their wrists in the half 
prisoned necks and the final timber closed snugly upon the entire ensemble. 
Centered within the grove of the vertical post, the now locked halves of the 
yoke were held fast but gave freedom of a circular perambulation to its 
prisoners at a distance from each other of ten or twelve feet. With the 
final click of locks the guards departed laughing and the captives eyed each 
other in disgust. "It's just one more of the same," Susan said morosely. 
"But at least we can see each other." 

"Let's take a short walk," Catherine giggled. She was relieved by the 
absence of pain. "Let's see if we can go around and around." 

They could go around and around indeed! It was like being in two sections of 
a revolving door, except there was no emergence into freedom. The slow 
circular plodding of the two captives proved only the obvious. They could 
walk around and around to their hearts' content, but they would never ever 
get free. The massive yoke beneath their chins and their hands was expressly 
designed for the column within which it so neatly functioned. After a few 
revolutions, they stopped and stood in pathetic helplessness, awaiting 
visitors. 

Madanda was in high good humor. "It's a good thing you're the same height," 
he observed genially. "I've thought of a small diversion for you. After I've 
departed one of the servants will arrive with an appropriate instrument to 
urge you into motion. You will circle the pillar all day, no need for speed, 
just so you keep walking. The exercise will do you good. I loathe fat 
women." He departed obviously having enjoyed the interview with mischief. 

"The rotten son of a bitch!" Susan exclaimed bitterly when he was out of 
sight. 

"Well, walking probably isn't much tiring than standing still," Catherine 
consoled. "Look, darling, don't be too rebellious and get more marks on your 
skin. There's enough there now." 

To add insult to injury, the new arrival, instructed to ensure their 
constant movement for the day, turned out to be an adolescent maiden with 
mischievous eyes and an obvious intent to do her duty. Immediately upon 
arrival she gave each helpless bottom a sure swift stroke to make her 
charges twist and yelp before casually explaining, "You walk. You no walk, I 
whip. Master give me lovely cane. Now you start!" 

The youngster made the whole thing worse, but that was her function. She 
also inhibited frank speech, no doubt rebellious remarks would be reported 
to their owner and his disapproval etched upon their skin. The adolescent 
bundle of mischief informed them her name was Zenna, and they would be 
required to address her as Miss Zenna or face a terrible retribution. 
Catherine simply nodded, but Susan swallowed a torrent of bitter words. 
Without enthusiasm, they took their first step into an uninviting day. 

They would never know Zenna's terms of reference. Cathy suspected the 
youngster made her own rules as she desired. Their slow, circular 
perambulation was soon spurred by sly snaps of the cane into a faster and 
faster tempo until they were jog trotting in an awkward but earnest desire 
to avoid the next stroke. It was wickedly unkind, the heavy timbers about 
their necks chafed horribly, and the awkward posture of their raised arms 
prohibited grace. When they were panting, Susan dug in her heels and said, 
"Go ahead and whip me. I've had enough." 

Catherine waited in trepidation for wrath to come. But as usual, nothing was 
as she expected. Zenna grinned her broadest grin and agreed. "Very well, you 
now start walk. You warmed up nice. You sweat, I smell. That is good!" 

The prisoners found themselves in the hands of an uninhibited hoyden. When 
it pleased Zenna's fancy, she allowed the cane to fall to the ground within 
inches of where the prisoners must tread. She then used her hands upon their 
persons in whatever ways pleased her carnal interest. Like other girls of 
similar age, Zenna was consumed with an intense curiosity about the full 
development of those feminine attributes only partly formed upon herself. 
Catherine found herself walking around and around with a pair of immature 
breasts thrusting at her back and her own matured twins grasped firmly in a 
pair of small, hot hands which appeared to find delight in their size and 
symmetry. When this tension was transferred lower down between her legs, she 
realized miserably the inevitable climax she would have to endure while she 
took step after heated step. It was unlikely Zenna would permit a halt in 
progress while one of her charges had an orgasm. 

The nymphet was nimble. She devised the cute idea of standing in front of 
one of her captives and walking backwards ahead of them, with their nipples 
tightly clasped between each of her thumbs and fingers. By such means she 
was able to control the speed of the circle trek. She could pull on two 
rosebuds incapable of protest and thus compel their owner to quicken her 
steps. When this little play was in progress, it behooved the companion 
captive to watch and quicken her own steps in sympathy that her companion be 
hurt no more than need be. Another indulgence of the youthful wardress was 
to grasp a full handful of captive hair and then, holding her cane in 
shortened lengths, use it to gently reprimand whatever portions of her 
victim was easily accessible as they walked. There were few female features 
her cane could not thus reach. The right breast and armpit were particularly 
vulnerable and received an unwelcome attention neither captive could do 
anything about other than to twist and make ineffectual plaints and pleas. 
The morning progressed without boredom. Zenna enjoyed every fleeting minute, 
the captive girls did not. 

At midday, Zenna called a halt. They could stand and rest she informed them 
blithely, as though standing captive within the brutal yoke could be thus 
described. She would not be back in the afternoon. She kissed them both with 
surprising warmth and waltzed away to her midday meal. "I'd like to get my 
hands on that little madam sometime," Susan said bitterly. 

"We could easily get worse this afternoon," Catherine mused. "Is your neck 
badly chafed, darling?" 

They compared their wounds, looking at each other in disbelief that two 
girls could be thus compelled by a simple contrivance of wood around their 
necks and wrists. When their jailer of the afternoon came into view, they 
stood transfixed in shock. 

It was a boy, the same age and stature as Zenna and with Zenna's mischievous 
eyes and wide grin. He carried the same cane and was flexing it almost 
hungrily between his hands. However, he also carried a pail of water and a 
cup. Having satisfied their thirsts, he set the pail aside and picked up the 
wicked yellow length they had never ceased to be aware of. His young voice 
held a tremendous camaraderie. "One good whip before we start?" 

It was evidently a ritual, not to be escaped. The two girls bore the 
infliction in stoic silence, doing no more than lift and kick a captive leg 
under the scorch and burn of the impale of the unkind length. The adolescent 
young man informed them his name was Orrie, and they would now commence to 
walk. 

The girls were already tired and in no mood for masculine attention. This 
attention was distinctly different from Zenna's. It was even more highly 
sexual with the same intense absorbed interest in feminine attributes. Orrie 
felt them up and down and all around. There was no part of them he left 
unexplored. The bitter words Susan would once have uttered were now 
submerged in weariness and resignation. She could hide nothing of herself. 
Every particle of her nudity was available to any passerby. 

Orrie was an opportunist. He kept an alert eye on the comings and goings 
within the great hall. At the first opportunity he unsheathed his male 
weapon, and coming up behind the straining Catherine, clasped her about the 
waist and thrust at her lustily from behind. It was to be presumed motion 
defeated his true purpose, but nonetheless, he achieved a penetration of the 
hard-working cheeks from which he derived intense sensation. Having achieved 
orgasm from the friction of Catherine's labors, he transferred his 
attentions to Susan. He was proud of this innovation and repeated it as 
often as his forces would regenerate throughout the afternoon. 

The ruler of Kandaka turned and walked away. 

Kandaka's possible future queen gazed after the retreating figure with a 
faint, rising hope' She knew most American girls would view the future she 
had designed for herself with pure horror, but she knew the streak of 
tenderness in Adam and knew too his immense virility which, despite denials, 
was a deciding factor in so many male and female unions. By Kandaka's 
standards, she would be the luckiest girl in the world. 

It was an exhausting day, sustained only by hope. When, in the evening, 
Catherine was freed and led from the place of punishment, she was already in 
the courtyard before realizing something wrong. She stuck her heels hard and 
fast and pulled back on the tether from her neck, her command peremptory. 
"Stop, you mustn't take me out to the post. I'm supposed to be taken to Adam 
Madanda. He told me so this morning." 

Her guard shrugged and laughed. "Madanda, he called away on business. He say 
I tell you this. He say you not worry. He say be back tomorrow. Now I chain 
you nice and easy so you sleep and dream happy dream of master's big prick." 

Always something! Nothing ever as a slave girl expected. This was the 
essence of slavery. A slave girl was relegated to the sidelines with 
unconcern. You simply tethered her in a convenient place and then forgot. 
Without any sense of tragedy, Catherine allowed herself to be led to the 
familiar square of concrete and there tethered once more to the familiar. 

"The bastard must be ill," Susan proclaimed with grim satisfaction across 
the intervening space between the tolerance of their collars. "Look, 
darling, we're almost free. A collar and chain is almost nothing. Did you 
manage to get to him someway?" 

Catherine told of her day and its outcome. She warned against optimism. 
Slave girls should never be too optimistic about anything. But despite this 
air of caution, the two girls found a degree of hopefulness too long absent 
from their lives. They sought their sleep in pleasant expectation. 

It was in the dark of night that a male voice said, without preamble, "You 
two are a problem. You give a man more trouble--" It was like the repetition 
of a dream. Rising in alarm, Catherine looked at Allen Morehouse in pure 
dismay. If he were caught, the best he could hope for would be a swift 
death. But she could not disguise from herself the sudden rush of gladness 
at his voice and the sight of another pair of bolt cutters he was holding 
with his usual careless stanch. Choking with emotion, she exclaimed, "Oh. 
Allen--Allen darling!" 

From somewhere beyond the depths of her more ardent embrace, Catherine heard 
Susan declaim, "For pete's sake, don't stand there canoodling. Allen, use 
that damn tool you've got and get us loose!" Allen gave Catherine a final 
kiss and thrust her aside. "I was about to get around to that," he assured 
both girls. "I will use these only upon my own terms." 

"Oh. damn your terms, Allen! Let us loose. That's what you're here for, 
isn't it?" 

"Conditionally, yes." 

"Allen darling, is this safe? Aren't you likely to be caught? Can we 
possibly get away with this again?" 

"We can, dear heart. Madanda's out of town, and you can bet everyone's fast 
asleep in the big house. I've got a few friends, and we've scouted the 
ground thoroughly. If I choose to free you both, there will be no problem. 
The jeep awaits." 

"What do you mean if you choose to free us?" Susan asked irritably. 

"My terms are lifetime slavery for both of you," Allen assured them. "You, 
Miss Susan White, will be my number two slave girl. Catherine has the honor 
of my first choice. You will agree to this, plus my continued residence upon 
that delightfully little farm of yours, or I'll leave you both exactly as 
you are. Don't hurry about your decision." 

"Of course we've got to hurry. Someone's going to see or hear us. Allen 
you're taking a most shocking risk." 

"A risk for you. dear heart, and for sweet little Susan. You should both be 
flattered." Allen was his usual self and enjoying every moment. 

Susan was aghast. "You mean you're going to take us back into the same 
slavery you had us in before Madanda kidnapped us!" 

"That's exactly right," he said, and then turned to Catherine. 

"I think I know your answer. Should we leave little sweetheart chained here? 
She is a bit of a nuisance." 

"Don't you dare!" Susan said in alarm. "Look, you don't intend to whip my 
bottom every morning the way you were doing back there, do you?" 

"Of course. That is an essential part of my terms. Not that you'd have 
anything to say about it once I've got you chained." 

"Then drop dead!" Catherine took their rescuer in her arms. She was still 
chained and could still be left behind, but her whisper into the male ear 
was fierce. "Allen, take me. My answer is yes. I'll be your slave on the 
farm. But please don't pay attention to Susan. Bring her along. We can't 
possibly leave her, and she doesn't even want to be left. She's just being 
Susan, that's all." She made her voice more tender. "Darling?" 

The bolt cutter did its work swiftly, cutting away the tethering chain, but 
leaving the metal collars on each feminine neck. Holding hands and without a 
backward glance, the trio fled. When they reached the hidden jeep, Susan was 
unceremoniously deposited in the back and Catherine lifted to sit beside 
Allen in the front. He had brought two blankets which could be discreetly 
used should either maiden wish to hide her charms. Catherine resolutely 
dropped hers over into the back so that Susan could have two if she could 
use them. Catherine sat straight and upright, very naked in the seat beside 
her master. She gave him an arch sideways look which was returned by an 
equally goatish wink. The jeep slid forward into the night. 

Catherine found herself without doubt. Her heart sang, her spirits soared. 
The jeep was a Roman chariot, and the man beside her the warrior who had won 
her as his prize. Soberly, she considered the problem of Susan White. There 
would be a piquancy for Allen in the possession of two girls, one of whom 
was constantly in revolt. Allen would know how to deal with Susan and would 
no doubt whip out of herself whatever tendencies she might have to jealousy. 
It was the ancient parable of the half loaf. 

It was better than no bread. 


THE END
