Vanessa by
F. E. Campbell


CHAPTER ONE - VANESSA'S RAPE 

It was hot and dusty inside the Mission. Very hot. The children had been 
crowded into the dugout beneath the floor, the whites of their eyes peering 
up in apprehension and the eternal question of why, why, why? The wounded 
lay in a neat row and Vanessa Pilgrim and the Sisters of Charity did their 
best to relieve their misery. The five black soldiers in their tattered 
uniforms had, so far, held the guerrillas within the shelter of the scrub 
which encroached closely across the dusty and well- trod compound. But 
Vanessa's eyes strayed constantly to the scattering of cartridges which were 
now their only defense. Two rounds for each of the rifles. After that, what? 
The firing had stopped, giving way to a strange and unnatural silence in 
which all of them knew it was now very close to the end of their time and 
possibly their lives. The soldiers would be slaughtered and the women raped 
and possibly later killed. In a wave of disgust of the whole useless 
exercise, Vanessa wondered why their own five black soldiers did not seize 
the chance to rape her and the two remaining nuns while they had the chance 
before death claimed them all. It would seem a natural enough act to seize 
this last piece of masculine joy before the end. She shrugged, it did not 
matter, nothing mattered anymore. 

The Macusi had never before penetrated this deep into government held 
territory. They were unlikely to stay, they would level the village, destroy 
the Mission and work their will upon the those now huddled within its 
shelter. They would be safely gone before government troops were either 
alerted or on their way. In her assessment of her plight, Vanessa Pilgrim 
was certain of rape, it was the least she could expect. But she did not wish 
to die, although soiled by acts of lust, she would still long to live, and 
wondered, without much hope, if she would make terms with her captors. She 
supposed each of the nuns were thinking the same thoughts. Their habits 
probably concealed beauty. But if they had to die, they could only pray for 
a swift, merciful oblivion instead of the obscene tortures for which some 
branches of the Macusi were well known. 

The sound of the horn, amplifying a male voice, was shattering. It was in 
the local dialect Vanessa did not understand. Every face was intent as the 
sonorous words spoke out the message. When silence abruptly claimed them 
once again, there was an awkward shuffling of feet and furtive glances back 
and forth until the American girl knew herself the focus of every eye in the 
Mission. Disconcerted, she demanded, "What's the matter, what did they say?" 

Silence held, no one answered for a long time until Sister Faith poured 
anguish into words, "They told us that unless the American school teacher 
walks out to meet them somewhere in the trees they will destroy the Mission 
and kill us all." There was another shocked and pregnant silence before the 
young sister vehemently declared, "You mustn't do it, we won't let you. They 
are not to be trusted, they promise to leave us involute if you obey but we 
have only their word for it." 

"You do it, Missy, you do it, you save us all." It was the black corporal, 
he was gazing at her in stolid pragmatism, "You save many lives and the 
children. They not kill you, ain't no way they's going to kill you." As 
though in inducement he added, "Maybe later on when they tired of you they 
let you go." 

Vanessa Pilgrim allowed her eyes to rove over her companion's anxious gaze. 
Only the Corporal would tell her to obey the strident order but all were 
hoping she would do go. They were human and wished to live. Not daring to 
think or to delay Vanessa did what she had often done since childhood, 
closed her mind utterly to all except a single goal. She kissed the two 
sisters, motioned to the children down below, nodded smilingly at the 
watching men, then strode purposefully to the door and out into the African 
sun. 

Heat smote her as she walked, and the village smell mingled with the odors 
of vegetation. But most potent of all was the smell of the dust her feet 
disturbed on the parched soil of her children's playground. There was also 
the smell of smoke from the single village dwelling the guerrillas had 
fired, probably as a warning. The village dwellings were flimsy and burned 
with swift, bright flame to leave only the smoke by which to be remembered. 
Holding firm to every scrap of courage, Vanessa Pilgrim approached the 
trees. 

Safely out of sight of the Mission and those who watched, a black man rose 
silently from either side and took Vanessa's arms. She was turned around, 
her wrists crossed behind her back, and carefully tied with thin rawhide. 
There was the flash of white teeth and a deceptively bland assurance, "You 
no fight, Missy, you come very quiet with us, you no be hurt." 

She had never been so frightened; hands bound behind her back and a pair of 
grinning black rebels walking on either side. But, save for the cruel 
tightness of the strip of hide, they had not hurt her, they had called her 
Missy in respect. Only one bothered to hold her by the arm to guide their 
progress. Suddenly the Mission was a thousand miles away. 

They took her to their leader, a white man. He was a big, florid man in his 
early forties. Solid and massive, without an ounce of fat, he seemed 
insecure upon the folding chair behind the folding table. Vanessa's escort 
stood her squarely within his gaze and then, saluting, departed. Vanessa 
stood before the male regard, twisting at bound wrists, glaring indigently 
as a jocose American voice jeered, "Your name's Vanessa Pilgrim, you're one 
of these damned fool, do-good school teachers, who should have stayed back 
in the good old USA. My name's Rod Sykes. I'm a mercenary soldier who's 
working right now for the Macusi. You're my prisoner." He guffawed coarsely, 
"Glad to have you with us, Miss Pilgrim." 

"The Mission You truly will leave it alone?" 

"Oh, sure. " He chuckled at her concern. "That place and the people in it 
don't amount to much, and we do keep an eye on world opinion, you know. 
Everything here's political." His eyes met hers in frank enjoyment. "Ran a 
bit of a bluff, I'm afraid. Didn't want to walk in and grab you, much better 
this way. They can't point a finger and you'll mysteriously vanish." Again 
the frank chuckle. "I'm damned glad to see you. Black girls are OK but a man 
hankers after his own kind. You'll do nicely." 

Vanessa's mind was swift in assessment. It was humiliating to be tricked 
into surrender. But Sykes would have gotten her anyway. It was a relief to 
know the his word, in so far as the Mission was concerned, was good. Her 
worries would now be for herself alone. Testingly she probed, "Your men tied 
my hands. I'd appreciate it if you untied them?" 

"I like'm the way they are. You look damned pretty with your arms in back, 
in fact you look damned pretty all around. I'll get your clothes off when we 
get back to camp." 

"There's no need to keep me tied. I have enough sense to understand you have 
me and I'm not likely to escape. I'm not going to be foolish enough to run 
off into the trees, even if I could. Look, Mr. Sykes, let's both try and be 
reasonable about this. Please untie my hands? Whatever it is they tied me 
with is far too tight and it's hurting." 

"Good. It's suppose to. A bit of pain never did a girl any harm. When you 
meet any gal the first thing she needs is a good thrashing. After she's got 
over howling, you understand each other. I'll thrash you when I get around 
to it." 

"Please don't bother. I assure you I can be reasoned with. I'm quite willing 
to listen to anything you have to say." Vanessa's voice was far more even 
than her pulse. "I suppose there are possibilities of my being ransomed?" 

"Forget it, Sweetheart, too much trouble. Money's not much good out here, 
what really matter's guns and food and women." Sykes guffawed. "Hell, gal, 
out in these parts, you're almost legal tender. Shit, for the first time in 
your life you're worth a lot of money." Vanessa gazed around, there was only 
foliage, if men were hidden and watching she could not see. There were a few 
boxes and weapons around where her captor sat on his flimsy chair. But that 
was all. She felt as if she should ask a hundred questions but Sykes had 
already told her all she needed to know to assess her probable fate. Rod 
Sykes would take her and use her until he wearied of her flesh. After that ? 

She wanted to ask him what he would do with her then but it would be foolish 
to look that far ahead or to admit too easily to an acceptance of what he 
intended for her. It would be cruelly frustrating but all she could do was 
accept her captivity and wait. 

Hopelessly she said, "Look, Mr. Sykes, I'm resigned, I know I'm beaten, I 
know I'm your prisoner. But there's no need to brutalize me. I'll obey you. 
Please try to understand my wish to adjust to something I can not change." 

"Hell, girl, I don't want sweet reason, I want a rebellious little bitch 
who'll fight and claw and bite so I can knock her around a bit, a girl needs 
to be whittled down to size. I'm going to enjoy ironing out that schoolmarm 
image of yours. Damned rummy how it sticks out all over you. Always hated 
schoolmarms, you and me should get along damned good, after I've given you a 
going over." 

"But we're fellow Americans, doesn't that count for something with you?" 

"It's and twits and twats that count, Miss Pilgrim, not where they happen to 
come from. You're lucky you're white, you'll get special attention." He 
laughed delightedly, "You ought to see your face, Honey, boy, you'd kill me 
if you could." 

Vanessa stood like a prisoner before the bar, hating every moment and every 
word, yet deep inside there was a great thankfulness that she had not yet 
met the fate worse than death, it would be at the hands of a white man and 
not a grinning, renegade black. She believed that beneath Rod Sykes' gruff 
and hardy vulgarity lay a human being. But, for this moment, she felt only a 
frightening helplessness. Never in her life had she been bound or 
constrained in any way, but now her arms and hands were behind her back and 
tied there tightly. She could not defend herself, could not even scratch her 
nose or lift a cup to her lips, it was the strangest of feelings. She 
supposed it was rational enough to bind a prisoner, but Sykes had already 
assured her the only reason he kept her thus tied was for his own pleasure. 
She could well imagine he would find satisfaction in seeing the droop of her 
shoulders and detecting the constant emotions of revolt she could not deny 
her hands against their bonds. She was a captive girl and would not escape 
the consequences of her condition. Quietly she asked, "These things you are 
going to do to me, when do they happen?" 

"Hell, you in a hurry? I'd screw you right here on the grass if there's that 
much of a rush about it, but I'd sooner get back to camp. Me and my boys are 
a long way from home. Me and my boys have done what we set out to do. I got 
you as a bonus. You're what they used to call in other days the captain's 
perquisite." He winked broadly, "You know the old saying, 'To the victor the 
spoils.'" 

Vanessa was certain her humiliation was deliberate: a noose around her neck 
and a rope tether by which she was lead by a grinning soldier. Some thirty 
men had made a magical appearance and now marched in some semblance of order 
under Sykes directions. Rod Sykes did not hold her lease but sometimes 
walked at her side. His comments were always pithy, he leered at her now. 
"Bit better than marching in chains behind a Roman chariot, isn't it?" 

Vanessa sniffed disdainfully. "I'm sure that, if you had a chariot and the 
shackles, that's exactly what I'd be doing now," she retorted acidly. "I'm 
hot and I'm dusty and this rope you've got around my neck chaffs my skin. My 
hands are numb. I'm not sure the girl behind the chariot didn't have the 
best of it." 

"You want to be untied, hey?" 

"Of course, I do. You've only got me bound and collared to please some kink 
in your mind. If you took the ropes of me, I still wouldn't be able to 
escape. You surely don't imagine I'd go running off in the trees, do you?" 

Rod Sykes laughed enjoy ably while bestowing a touch, almost of affection on 
his girl. "You've got guts, Honey," he conceded congenially. "No hysterics 
and you haven't once mentioned the police and my going to jail. But you'd 
best stop beefing about your being tied. You're going to be tied a lot from 
now on, so you'd might as well get used to it. Sure, I'm enjoying your 
humiliation, it goes with the package." He chuckled at her discomfort. 
"Honey, there something you've got to learn and you'd best keep it in mind, 
for a girl like you are now things can always get worse." 

Vanessa sniffed and queried, not without curiosity, "Am I your first white 
captive female, Mr. Sykes?" 

"Hell no, Sweetheart. You'd be surprised how many damned fool females like 
you there are wandering around Africa. They're mostly do-gooders. But others 
are tourists mixed in there and I take them as they come. They just vanish 
and their consulates don't bother." He laughed bitterly, "Consulates have a 
bad time these days trying to sit on the fence and please both sides. A 
missing wench or two is something they've no time for. You'd best remember 
that. As of now you don't exist except for me and my boys." 

"You accumulate these unfortunates, you maintain a harem?" 

"Hell, no, I use them a while then hand them over to the boys. My boys are a 
good bunch and they deserve a bit of white ass from time to time. Not that 
it's any better than the black stuff, but a change is a change. I'm 
satisfied to get first crack for as long as I want and I don't begrudge the 
boys the fun of staking her out afterwards and going to town." He laughed 
reassuringly. "By the way, you can forget that old story about the girl 
dying from too many cocks. That doesn't happen. When the little dears get 
cut loose afterwards, their just as good as they were before they got tied 
down. You'll see what I mean when it comes your turn." Sykes pinched her 
bottom hard and laughed at her wince. "But don't start worrying about that, 
it's a long way off. I like the look of you and you and I may stay together 
a long time." Vanessa Pilgrim choked back anger and disgust. She knew she 
must play every weakness this man possessed. Casually she inquired, "Very 
well, but what happens to them then? They get gang raped and cut loose and 
then what? They surely can't just stand there." 

"Hell, no, Honey, nothing gets wasted on our side. We tie her hands behind 
her back again and sell her to a slave trader." He gave her a sly, sideways 
glance to see the effect of his information. "And don't you tell me there's 
no such thing as slave trading. It goes on all over the world, but 
particularly in these parts where wars sweep back and forth and no one asks 
questions. I could have you sold inside a couple of days and you could go 
anywhere in the world, where ever your owner wanted to take you. You'd fetch 
a lot of money and a lot of money has no nationality. You might end up doing 
your stuff in an English castle, a Miami penthouse or maybe even a Japanese 
holiday resort. Nice life for a girl if she can just forget her antipathy at 
being restrained." 

"You can't tell me, Mr. Sykes, that any girl enjoys being bound or forgets 
her position." 

"Sure I do, they get used to it. You'll get used to it. It will seem as 
natural to you to have your hands tied as yours are now as eating. If a girl 
can sort of roll with the punches she comes out on top every time." He 
chuckled sardonically. "Honey, you've got a great future ahead of you, 
damned sight better than school teaching. How the hell'd you get into such a 
piece of nonsense anyway?" 

"I wished to serve." 

Rod Sykes guffawed at her simple affirmation. "Honey, you've got the right 
word there. You're going to serve me and serve me well." 

"And if refuse, I suppose I get tortured, is that it?" 

"Well, you get your pretty little ass whipped to begin with. Twenty good 
hard strokes with a crop 'cross a girl's buns makes her see reason where she 
never thought there was any." 

Once more the newly captured school mistress from Michigan swallowed acid 
but kept silent. She had felt no curiosity as to their destination, 
supposing it a derelict village, but when it came into view she gasped with 
astonishment, not unmixed with a touch of admiration for the resourcefulness 
of the man whose property she now was. The camp was actually a cavalcade of 
vehicles and trailers drawn by a caterpillar tractor. Above the snake-like 
length of it was camouflaged canvas to hide it from the air. It looked 
wicked and purposeful and hinted that Macusi money and Sykes' ingenuity 
might be a formidable combination. Her tether was casually knotted to a 
wagon wheel while the business of getting the cavalcade under way was dealt 
with. Each man seemed to know his place and Sykes was everywhere with a word 
of command or a quip to draw a smile. Vanessa eyed the knots of her leash in 
speculation as to whether it was worthwhile trying to free herself with her 
teeth. But that was too absurd, she would only get laughed at and probably 
punished. She hoped the informality of her capture and during the short 
march could be maintained. But there was about this whole operation an air 
of discipline, an atmosphere of something planned and under way. It made her 
feel more helpless and feminine than ever. When Sykes himself took charge of 
her and led her to the most elaborate of the trailers, Vanessa Pilgrim felt 
certain the time of her martyrdom was close at hand. Once inside the homey 
masculinity of Rod Sykes' dwelling on wheels, the rope was taken from her 
neck and her hands untied. Sykes watched her vigorously massage her wrists 
and, when she no longer had an excuse for thus using her hands, he demanded 
crisply, "Strip." 

The single word was like a blow. Vanessa realized that she had expected to 
be made naked but not by so civilized a course. She had supposed her clothes 
would be torn from her by the savage wrenching of rough male hands. She 
could have born that better than what was now required. To strip naked of 
her own volition before these hungry male eyes, so close and so wickedly 
wise, was an act from which she instinctively shrunk with ever fiber of her 
being. Miserably she implored, "Please don't make me, please don't. It's 
something I simply can't do." 

Sykes shrugged. He rummaged around and produced the slender length of a 
riding crop which showed every evidence of much use, it was soiled and 
wickedly limber. He laid it, without comment, where it would be within her 
vision at all times, sarcastically suggesting, "You'd like to rephrase that 
last statement, Miss Pilgrim?" 

With a sob of defeat Miss Pilgrim reached for the fastening of her dress. 

It was Vanessa Pilgrim's first time. She had never thought of herself as 
naive or innocent, but she had never removed her clothes while a man, at 
little more than arm's length, watch her make herself naked for his 
pleasure. Her skin burned as if scorched and she knew a blush was mantling 
not only her face and neck but encroaching on her shoulders, now wickedly 
bare. 

"Your every bit as good as I hoped." Sykes conceded in a tone which told the 
now naked girl he was pleased. "Damned if I see what made you a school 
teacher, you could have made a fortune as a model or in the movies, that 
figure you're showing me is absolutely magnificent." He paused as though 
searching for superlatives. "Look, Sweetheart, take your hand away from your 
twat. Just let your arms hang limp, don't cover anything. I'm taking 
inventory." 

Rape would be very close now, and he had said something about a thrashing. 
It was all unreal and hard to reconcile to this man's amused attitude over 
her dismay in nudity. Seeing no profit in refusal, Vanessa raised first one 
leg up on a chair then the other to enable her owner to inspect her pubic 
area and the secret lips she longed to hid. But whenever she instinctively 
reached to cover a private place, she saw the crop and, even though she had 
never been struck in her life, could feel the cut and bit of it searing her 
skin. She contented herself with supposing that if a man saw a part of a 
girl's nudity he might as well see it all. She postured herself this way and 
that for his examination to a point almost clinical. He left her breasts 
until the last, slapping away her hands and using his own to judge and feel 
their firm contours. When he backed away he nodded again in confirmation, 
"You're prime, absolutely prime. Damned it, I never realized there was 
anything like you in that old mission house. I'm a lucky man. Let me tell 
you, Honey, you're being damned sensible." 

"Thank you. May I dress now?" 

It was days later before Vanessa Pilgrim could understand the truly genuine 
laughter with which her request was greeted. "Honey, you ain't got the 
message yet, have you. Damn it girl, you haven't any more need of clothes 
than one of those monkeys out there in the trees. What I want you to do is 
gather up everything you've just taken off, including your shoes, and put 
them over there inside that little cook stove. Then set fire to 'em." 

She obeyed but did so in a daze of misery. She knew Sykes was telling her 
something in the most forcible way he could devise. He was going to keep her 
naked and this almost ceremonial burning of her clothes was an accentuation 
she would not forget. Tearfully, she crammed the scanty things and expense 
shoes into the fire box and accepted his offer of a match and a bottle of 
lighter fluid. When the blaze was at its peak and she knew herself devoid of 
covering, she turned to face the Macusi mercenary. Beneath his approving 
gaze she longed for covering, for the covering which presumably she would 
never know again. Impelled by a loathing she asked, simply, "Please don't 
tie me again. Honest, Mr. Sykes, there's no need of it. You've got me. I'll 
give you my parole, if you wish." 

She could say nothing that did not delight or amuse. Dismally she watched 
him search and produce shiny metal, the sight of which made her winced. "I 
thought those things were for criminals. I'm not a criminal," she said 
defensively. 

"Hell no, Sweetheart, these are the handiest little domestic gadgets you 
ever saw. They're a real help to us men. Every home should have a couple 
sets of handcuffs and a pair of leg irons. Turn your back to me and stand 
still." 

Even in the heat the steel of the chrome cuffs was cold upon Vanessa's 
ankles. The racket sang its song of jubilation as the metal band was made 
snug and tight. The process was repeated on her other foot before she was 
turned around and told to hold out her hands, and she dutifully performed 
and watched while shining bit at each wrist to join her hands by a single 
link. Still thinking of criminal connotations, she said miserably, "I don't 
deserve this, these are hateful things." 

"Just a convenience, Sweetheart, nothing to do with deserving anything, but 
if you prefer rope we can easily go back to it?" 

"No, never mind!" 

"Discovered they're more comfortable, hey?" Sykes laughed at her 
unintentional admission, "Don't say I didn't do something for you. Those 
little trifles will keep you safe and out of harm and they won't hurt, not 
unless you tug and struggle with them. Look, Honey, I've got things to do. 
I'll be back to have coffee with you. In the meantime you can hunt around 
for the makings. It will give you something to do while I'm gone." 

Vanessa's first thought was of covering, a blanket, a towel, anything. But 
that was absurd. Her second thought was a conviction of helplessness, she 
had always equated handcuffs and leg irons with total loss of the limbs thus 
imprisonment. She was surprised now to discover there was so much she could 
easily do with linked hands and joined feet. It was humiliating and she felt 
ridiculous but nonetheless she had no trouble in gathering up what Sykes had 
called the "makings." The comforting smell of perking coffee returned her to 
a rational assessment of possibilities. One thing was sure, she could not 
escape. To stumble out into the trees thus handicapped would be madness. 
True, she could walk but she could not ran and would stumble constantly and 
would trip over the swirling chain by which her feet were captured and held 
captive. The handcuffs on her wrists would insure her loosing any tussle or 
fight which might ensue. Ironed as she was a child could control her easily. 
But above these consideration was the assurance of pain and rape. Both 
seemed remote in the quiet, rough comfort of this temporary dwelling. But it 
was only a partial comfort to know the use of her nakedness would come about 
by a more civilized process than she had expected while walking from the 
mission house into the trees. Vanessa was still hot with shame and anger at 
the thought of being duped, but she had only Sykes' word for the assurance 
the Mission and those within would not have been destroyed even had she 
failed to obey the demand of the bull-horn. From what Sykes had told her she 
had to believe he would have kidnapped her in any case. Perhaps all she had 
save by her sacrifice was the two nuns. She had no doubt Sister Faith and 
Sister Francis were as desirable beneath their clothes as she herself. She 
wondered, caustically, if Sykes would have had a sufficient supply of 
handcuffs and chains for all three. 

The coffee imposed its customary magic. The two of them, the man and his 
captive, sat and poured. They spoke of mundane things and Vanessa's spirits 
rose only to be dashed after the final cup by being picked up bodily, her 
linked hands snared over a convenient hook, so as to cause her to stand on 
the tips of her toes stretched and bare and frighteningly venerable. Without 
preamble, Rod Sykes picked up the riding crop and proceeded to give Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim the thrashing he had promised. In the confusion of 
unbearable pain, Vanessa pleaded, she yelled, she wounded her ironed wrists 
by lifting herself from the floor in futile anguish. Nothing helped, nothing 
stayed the male hand or the male purpose. She was to be thrashed as a matter 
of course, a part of her indoctrination into slavery by the manner of Sykes 
implanting that limber horror around her curves and planes and across her 
hips. Vanessa sensed his conviction in the purpose of what he did. To her it 
seemed a senseless cruelty, separating them forever. But her thoughts and 
exclamations were far from coherent as the pliant wand cut at her innocent 
again and again and again until, after the twentieth stroke, Rod Sykes 
lifted her from the hook and tossed her on the bunk that served as bed. He 
separated her knees and brought her feet hard up beneath her burning bottom 
to reveal that part of her his purpose now demanded. He stripped and she 
beheld his strength and masculinity. Rod Sykes was a big, hard male. And the 
weapon by which Vanessa would be impaled put to shame any previous knowledge 
or fantasies she had ever had. She viewed it in a momentary horror and 
dismay before he positioned himself and thrust his rigid hardness between 
her palpitating lips. 

To that point he had been brutal, the pain of her whipping was still a 
scolding distress of her flesh. But from the moment he slowly began to enter 
her wet sheath, he became surprisingly gentle and immensely competent. The 
naked girl Rod Sykes was ravishing had little experience in sexual conquests 
but sensed herself fortunately in the mercy of his expertise. Understanding 
her bewilderment at a new and frightening experience, Rod Sykes lifted her 
arms and thrust her handcuffed wrists behind her head to remove them from 
interference with his intent. When his immensity of hard rigidity was firmly 
implanted within the maiden loins he turned his attention to the twin 
breasts pointing so flagrantly in wanton curvatures beneath his eyes. By the 
time he had worked upon them for five minutes, Vanessa Pilgrim had been 
transported into a multi-hued ecstasy of sensations beyond anything she had 
ever known or guessed. When the slow rhythm began its protracted prelude to 
the planting of the seed, she moaned and delivered herself utterly to the 
moment which was now. 

Well satisfaction, Rod Sykes resumed his clothes, kissed her forehead as 
might a brother, and left her sprawled on his bed while he went about his 
affairs. Vanessa slept. 

The act was repeated throughout the night. The man and the girl would sleep 
in a dreamless appeasing of emotional fatigue only to awaken as though by 
instinct and once more plunge into their discovery of each other. Vanessa 
remained chained throughout but became adept in the use of cuffed hands and 
linked feet. She still thought of what was being done to her as rape until 
she finally realized she was as much a partner in the act as the thrusting 
male who she could now accommodate with simple easy and enjoy with a flame 
of ecstasy. As if to make her aware of the increased joy, her whipped flesh 
contributed it's own burning feelings to the act of love. She rejected the 
word "love" but could think of none other by which to describe the things 
they did. In the morning she made breakfast and she and Rod Sykes ate it 
together as might any man and wife. It was all utterly unreal. 

It was also the end of the beginning. 

 CHAPTER TWO - FETTERED FRUSTRATION 

It was strange and frightening to stand naked and chained to watch the 
cavalcade rumble and jolt its way through the brush. The soldiers frankly 
enjoyed her. This was their first glimpse of her nakedness. Rod Sykes stood 
beside her but even his bulk was dwarfed, as was her own, by the passing of 
the wagons and the encroachment of the loneliness of Africa. With the 
passing of the last of the cavalcade. Rod knelt down and freed her feet. 
With the silver leg irons dangling he said, jovially, "You're on your own, 
Sweetheart." He laughed at his own joke. "You've become a camp follower, you 
walk along behind. I could make you do it with the leg irons on you ankles 
but that might be a bit rough, so I won't. Have a nice day all to yourself." 

"But I can run, I can run away!" Vanessa said stupidly in suddenly dismay. 
"Why are you doing this?" 

"Just a whim, Sweetheart. Pretty little male fantasy I have of you. I'm 
going back up front. I'll have to run and if you want to come alone you best 
not stand here too long wondering what to do. Of course, if you're thinking 
of escape " he made a wide, all encompassing gesture with his arm, "why go 
right ahead. Take any direction you please. You'll find a path here and 
there, maybe one of them will lead you someplace." 

He was gone, his long strides slowly overtaking his tiny army and the hard 
working tractor at its head. Vanessa stood in naked bewilderment, her 
chained hands awkward in their limited freedom. Her first impulse was escape 
but the disappearing cavalcade left her in a frightening void, naked and 
handcuffed in an Africa wilderness... ! It was too utterly impossible. But 
might not this be Sykes way of getting rid of her? Yesterday and throughout 
the night he had enjoyed her to the full, used her in the totality of male 
desire, whipped and violated her flesh. Perhaps for all his talk of slave 
traders her would be glad to see her go... ! But that could not be true for 
he had left her wrists locked in shinning steel. Had he intended to cast her 
adrift he would have freed her hands as he had her feet. No, there must in 
another intention in his devious mind. With a sob of frustration she began 
to walk then to run after the last of the wagons before it disappeared 
around a bend. 

Vanessa was annoyed with everything, particularly with the handcuffs, not 
that they stopped her running, they simply made her feel ridiculous as her 
joined hands found no rhythm in motion. Where ever she held them they were 
in the way. Since she had apparently rejected the forest and sought only the 
seeming safety of the cavalcade, she was in a panic to catch up with it. She 
could imagine all sorts of horrors at her back and was thankful when she 
finally reached the last wagon and was greeted by the cheers and laughter of 
the men who rode in it while she must trudge along behind. She could cover 
nothing so they might as well look their full. Vanessa supposed she could 
continue to run and overtake other segments of the mobile encampment but 
where ever she went she would remain naked and men would laugh. Rod Sykes 
was probably back inside his trailer. Disgusted with herself and with the 
fate delivering her to this servitude she pouted sulkily and strode forward 
with a will and without any wish to be left behind. 

It was hot and it was dusty. Vanessa essayed excursions up besides the 
wagons, first one side then the other, in an effort to get away from the 
enveloping dust. She finally took a position half way along and to one side 
and, in spite of amused and watching eyes, tried to immerse herself in 
thought. It was a thankless task. Rod Sykes defeated her utterly. One moment 
kind and then suddenly cruel. She remembered his warning when she had 
finished their easy commune at breakfast, "Look girl, don't get ideas. I'm 
good in bed and so are you, that doesn't mean we have to get married or 
we're in love. That's all it does mean, we relate in sex. There's no mystery 
about it. I've had captive girls before fall in love with me, or what they 
think is love, simply because I'm the only white man in their life and when 
they look around Africa they're scared shitless of making a break for it or 
that I'll tire of them and cast them adrift. Forget romance, I'll enjoy you 
and you'll enjoy me. If you give me the least a bit of trouble or insolence, 
I'll whip your ass until you can't sit down." 

"You've done that already." 

"So, OK, you've got a sore ass but there's plenty of places to whip a girl 
besides her rump. Your back hurts twice as bad, remember that." 

Vanessa was annoyed by the truth of his remarks. Naked and chained and far 
from home it would be all too easy for a girl to fall in love with her 
captor, even though he be brutal. Rod Sykes was a pillar of strength to 
cling to and she warned herself against the insidious possibility of falling 
in love with his maleness. She could accept all he had done to her as an 
inevitable part of captivity, but she had best leave it at that and not get 
silly, girlish notions. His threats of whipping her for infractions of his 
rules would probably be born out and would aid her in this determination to 
avoid emotional entanglement. In frustration and a stolid determination not 
to be abandon she strode along besides the watching black faces and fought 
the incessant irritation of the best manner in which to hold her hands. 
Leaving the handcuffs on her wrists had been just plain mean. 

At midday they did not stop. The tractor with its roar kept stubbornly on 
its course, it was tireless. But the girl who walked in chained loneliness 
discovered weariness to make her look at the ugly vehicles with longing. Had 
she believed she could swing herself up on to one of them, she would have 
done so. But the attempt would probably only end in injury and she had 
troubles enough. 

In early afternoon Rod dismounted and walked beside her for a brief visit 
and to assure himself of her ability to withstand the ordeal he'd imposed. 
He rebuffed her instant request to be allowed to ride, and then laughed to 
scorn her pleading to be rid of the handcuffs on her wrists. He had set a 
course for her and she must follow it. In the meantime they could speak of 
other things. "Got yourself a boyfriend someplace?" he asked laconically. 

"I haven't." 

"Good. I hate boyfriends. Boyfriends are a pain in the ass for any girl -- 
even if that's not the side of her they use." He gave her his assessing, 
sideways glance. "You were damned near a virgin yesterday, weren't you?" 

"I suppose so, yes, by your standards. I don't mind admitting you taught me 
a lot, I expect you know." 

"Oh, I know alright, and let me tell you, you came along wonderfully after 
the first hesitations. I suppose you were expecting to be tom, and pierced 
and tossed to the blacks, weren't you?' "Yes, I suppose so. I'll admit you 
were a surprise." She faced him squarely, "Look, Mr. Sykes, what should I 
call you? You call me Vanessa except when you want to be rude, but for me to 
call you Mr. Sykes all the time seems ridiculous." 

"Call me Rod, that's my name." 

"But isn't that too intimate for what you've made of me? Wouldn't 'Sir' or 
maybe 'Master' be more appropriate?" 

"Sure. To you I'm all of those titles. Use any one you wish. I don't mind." 
His tone, generously good-natured, turned hard. "But remember this, I won't 
stand for insolence or any female twisting of the male. Try those tricks and 
you'll get the whipping of your life. And don't think I won't. I enjoy 
whipping you That's something else you'd best remember. I enjoy seeing those 
marks spring to life across your skin." 

Vanessa swallow hot. This man was venerable in a way he might not guess. 
Some woman must have hurt him in the past. She would make allowances and do 
her best to keep within the latitudes of his law. Instinct told her she 
would be whipped anyway, she sensed his hungry for this cruelty, this erotic 
indulgence of the flesh. But she would wait and watch for her chance. This 
was only the second day. 

Vanessa thought surprisingly little about escape. Knowing herself less a 
prisoner of Sykes than of Africa. After her captor had returned to his 
trailer and what he described vaguely as "work," she accused herself 
bitterly of cowardice for not allowing her steps to lag until she was once 
more behind the end wagon and then to quietly slip into the trees. It would 
be so easy. But probably Rod Sykes was having her watched and pursuit would 
begin the moment she was out of sight. Everything was ponderable and beyond 
the capacity of a handcuffed girl to cope. Disgusted with herself and with 
this whole adventure, she plodded steadily and doggedly to whatever fate had 
in store. 

By evening they skirted a river and stopped for the night. The black 
soldiers entertained by one of their number, chosen by Sykes, to remove the 
day's dust from the perspiring nakedness of the captive girl. This was done 
simply and efficiently with a bucket which splashed and poured water over 
her by the gallon while she was forced stand, an indignity she was glad 
enough to accede to. Even her hair was deluged and clean but left for 
handcuffed hands to deal with as best they could. In an excess of zeal, two 
of the men raised her by her legs to spread her wide and expose her most 
secret place for its own special cleaning by bucket after bucket of cold 
water. If Rod Sykes saw what was happening, he gave no sign nor did he 
interfere. By the time she was led to his trailer and thrust inside she was 
dripping and sodden and close to tears. But he had a towel ready and she 
used it vigorously along with the unsuspected comb and brush which 
accompanied it. Perhaps he told the truth when he spoke of other conquests 
of other girls for, indeed, here was evidence of feminine needs. Vanessa 
used them all to the fullest extent and felt vastly better. 

"Tired, Sweetheart?" There was a faint solicitude in the query. 

"Of course, I'm tired. I've walked steadily all day, my feet are chewed up 
by the things I've walked on." 

"I guess you'd like to give them a rest?" His tone showed concern. 

"Yes, may I sit down? Its going to feel so damned good." 

"OK. Hold out your hands." 

Vanessa saw the trap too late. Not that it would have done her any good to 
have seen it in time. Glumly she extended her wrists and watched them 
relieved of the now again shining steel. They were immediately retied with a 
bandage of cloth she recognized as a soldier's puttee. This in turn was 
circled by rope and Vanessa glimpsed her fate. 

"Bit of a disappointment, I'm sure, but I'm not going to whip your ass 
tonight. There's lots of ways to make a girl can feel sorry for herself 
besides wealing her skin." His voice was full of concern for her welfare. 

It was hateful and cruel. Vanessa knew she should have expected something of 
the sort. Rod Sykes cheerfully confirmed her worst suspicions. "Don't 
suppose you've ever been hung up, have you, Love?" 

Rod's facetious query was loaded with sarcasm. "Well, you're going to be 
hung up now. Just hold still a minute, I'll do all the work." 

Vanessa held still but was instantly raised to where her arms could be 
slipped over the familiar ring. But this time when the male strength 
released her nakedness it hung free, her toes searching for a floor they 
could not reach. The distance between them and the solid space on which to 
stand was small but it was enough. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim hung naked and in 
total suspension from bound wrists. True, her wrists were bound kindly 
enough with strip after strip of material that would not cut or injure but 
nevertheless the stress on her arms and shoulders was serve and it 
constituted a form of punishment she had never imagined. She wondered if it 
could be called torture, it was all so matter- of-fact and unconcerned. Mr. 
Rod Sykes had simply suspended his slavegirl for a period she could not 
determine and there was nothing she could do about it. Hating the indignity 
she determined not to plead nor demand his reasons. She knew herself the 
victim of caprice. If it pleased her captor to have a naked girl thus 
suspended by her wrists, Rod Sykes was omnipotent enough to get away with 
it. His voice was so cheerful she longed to scream. 

"Nice little diversion, get you off your feet after a hard day. You can 
watch me get dinner. I'm not a bad cook, we'll dine in style and there's a 
bottle of wine in the fridge. I'd advise you not to beef too much about what 
I've done to you. Like I've said, for a girl like you things can get much, 
much worse." 

Vanessa longed to plead. It was a hateful inflection to hang like a side of 
beef. Her feet could find nothing on which to bare her weight. Her pride 
forbid her kicking in contortions of frustrated distress. She quickly 
realized it best to hang limp and passive, that way it hurt the least. But 
it hurt enough, her shoulders were wracked and in spite of the bindings, her 
wrists protested in a constant nag of pain. She could well guess a girl hung 
up as she was hung up would, within an hour, come to the point of tears and 
screaming. She was already utterly disorganized by the unfamiliar ordeal. 
With only small comprehension she watched her master go about the business 
of preparing a gourmet dinner from a fridge she had not bothered to explore. 
He was obviously taking his time and enjoying her intent observation of all 
he did. He knew damned well she was longing for the moment of release. He 
would therefore prolong it as far into the near future as he decently could. 
From time to time he surveyed her stretched and wracked nakedness and, with 
an immense show of appreciation, palmed her sex so prominently displayed and 
available. Vanessa could kick him but did not dare. Instead she hung in a 
passivity she did not feel and allowed him to have his way with her. By the 
time pots were steaming and cutlery gleamed on white napery she was panting 
in full arousal and wondering what it would be like to have an orgasm thus 
suspended. 

"Think Fm a real bastard, Sweetheart?" For a moment Rod stood before her to 
appraise her suffering. Vanessa almost wished it was worse than it was to 
excuse screams by which to disturb his enjoyment. For her it was the 
strangest of punishments, something she had never dreamed of, a torture made 
bearable by a male hand which was not familiar with every crevasse of her 
body, and what was worse, her mind. She was totally possessed and allowed 
herself to hang limply and without complaint while he deal with her 
nakedness as a musician might deal with a violin, playing upon it to extract 
every sob and moan of anguish hidden in its wood and in its string. When, 
finally, his finger entered her sheath and sought her love bud, Miss Vanessa 
Pilgrim moaned in the strangest of ecstasies and howled herself into one of 
the most violent orgasms she had ever know. Rod Sykes was with her to the 
final twitch and exhalation of exhausted breath. When he knew her replete 
and satisfied he turned his back upon her suspended loveliness to attend to 
dinner. 

Everything fell into place. The bemused and tumescence slavegirl realized 
what had happened was no more than an incident likely to be repeated again 
and again in days to come. If it was not the whip upon her skin or 
suspension it would be some other equally ingenious and degrading 
punishment. In all he did to her Rod Sykes showed a keen appreciation of 
humiliation and shame, she would be made to know both to the utmost limits 
of her capacity. Hanging in the aftermath of climax she could wish with all 
her heart for a resumption of the ministrations of his hand but this was 
denied and the denial was a fresh affirmation of his mastery over her. She 
was a nothing, a puppet on a string. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim wished she could 
feel worse about it than she did. 

She hung in uncomplaining submission to her master. 

"I think you'll enjoy this. It's been frozen, of course, like everything 
else except the wine but they do wonders with frozen stuff these days and 
the Macusi can do anything these days with all that lovely Russian money. 
You must try and get a little comfort. Honey, from remembering that you're 
eating a hell of a lot better and drinking a finer wine than the people 
who're financing this war." 

Vanessa made no answer. She was existing in a vacuum of glorious relief, 
feeling only a great thankfulness to be able to sit down and examine the 
weals on her wrists the handcuffs could not hide. When the end of her 
punishment had come and her master desired her presence at the dinner table, 
being excused from farther suspension and her bandaged wrists unbound to be 
immediately placed once more in the bondage of the steel cuffs. Vanessa did 
not care. All she wanted was a cessation of pain and a return to normalcy. 
She accepted the glass of wine with an infinite thankfulness and drank it 
down like water. She knew her voice sounded broken and hopeless but did not 
care. 

"I suspect you've made a science of breaking a girl's will, Rod Sykes. You 
seem to have adequately broken mine, right now I wouldn't say boo to a 
goose. After what you've just done to me these handcuffs feel fine on my 
wrists, I'm almost grateful for them. 

Her host laughed delightedly, "And so you should be, my dear. You'll get a 
lot of comfort out of those handcuffs before I'm through with you. Damned 
sight better than being bound with cord or rawhide or anything else. It's 
best you get fond of them because you and those handcuffs are going to spend 
a lot of time together." He eyed her shrewdly as he refilled he glass, "Bit 
of a shock for you, wasn't it? I mean that hanging up with your toes unable 
to touch the floor." 

"Of course it was. I've led a normal life thus far. Everything you do to me 
is something I can't quite believe." She eyed him across the table, she 
tilted her glass for one more swallow, "Do you mind if I get drunk? I've 
never been drunk but I think this might be a good time to start." 

"Of course I mind, you little idiot." He was once again the rough, tough 
product of Africa. "I don't want to fuck a girl who flops all over the place 
or is mundane or tearful. Be yourself. Make that glass last. I'll ration 
you." 

Vanessa rationed herself. To get tipsy would probably lead to another 
punishment and she had had enough. Instead she proceeded to enjoy the fruits 
of her master's labors, they were extraordinarily good but, when she said 
so, his retort was typical. 

"Thank the Russians, not me. The Russians have financed this whole damned 
operation." He grinned across the table, "I'd pop a commissar in bed with 
you if I had one around handy, just to show our gratitude." Vanessa ignored 
the Russians but ate ravenously. Handcuffs no longer bothered her. She 
supposed Rod Sykes was correct in his assertion they would be a part of her. 
After the feast there was superlative coffee and she knew he watched for her 
approval. She gave it without stint, it was superlatively good. Replete, 
they sat and stared at each other until Vanessa's head drooped wearily 
within the comfort of locked arms and she went to sleep at the dinner table, 
a thing she had never done in all her life. When she awoke it was bright 
morning and Sykes was busy with his razor. 

"Figured I'd let you catch up on bye-bye, Honey," he said without concern. 
"In case you're wondering you'll discover one of you feet is sort of 
attached. Didn't want you to go wandering in the middle of the night." 

He was right. When she tried to leave the bunk Vanessa discovered her left 
ankle was firmly shackled to something very firm indeed. Rod Sykes had taken 
no chances and from this fact Vanessa gleamed the feminine intuition of 
affection. He had not some much desired to keep her prisoner as to avoid the 
danger of her wandering off into the wilderness naked and alone. She 
shrugged and wondered quietly to herself if she had scored a point. 

Breakfast was her chore. She prepared it while her master was busy beyond 
the confines of their trailer. The tractor started up while they were still 
eating and they finished their meal under the jolting discomfort of an 
African dirt track. Rod's voice was bantering. 

"Remember what I said about things always getting worse. Well, Honey, that's 
the way it's going to be for you today. I feel something of a hero over 
leaving you to sleep the night away so I'm getting my own back." He saw the 
sudden fear within her eyes and hastened to reassure, "But don't worry, it 
won't be nothing you can't bear. Everyday you'll become a more and more 
valuable property as we return to where a girl is appreciated for what she 
is, a slave to be bartered." He laughed at her obvious chagrin. But his tone 
suddenly lost its banter, "But not to worry. You're for me and me alone for 
a long, long time. If you cherish that female fantasy of being sold at 
auction on the slave block, forget it. The day may come but it's far away 
from now." 

Vanessa bore the changing of her hands from front to back without demur. 
This man who owned her now was a capricious schoolboy and she must always 
expect the unexpected. Yesterday she had walked almost free beside the 
caravan, but today was different. When Rod Sykes carried her from his 
trailer, unlocked the handcuffs but only to lock them again behind her back, 
Vanessa guessed her day would indeed carry more travail than yesterday. He 
strapped a collar around her throat, a quite lovely collar she had not time 
to examine, and from it he tied a lease to a ring in the back of his own 
personal trailer. She moaned inwardly but said no word. She would walk 
through the day, loosely tethered to the vehicle which would inexorably lead 
her into a permanent captivity. Knowing herself incapable of either defense 
or aggression, a girl with hands tightly cuffed behind her back is no longer 
a human entity, but has become a chattel. Without expectation of benefit she 
asked, "Do you have to do this to me, Rod? If I happen to fall or stumble I 
could break my neck. Why can't you let me walk free as I did yesterday?" 

He laughed. "Male caprice, that's all, Sweetheart, it pleases me to see you 
this way, so that's the way it is. Takes a bit of getting used to, I expect, 
but you'll adjust, all of them do. Not much different really except for the 
compulsion of the collar. All you have to do is keep walking same as 
before." He patted her bare bottom and drifted back to deal with matters 
beyond her ken. Throughout the morning, whenever he passed her in his leap 
up into his trailer, she forbore pleading and complaint, keeping instead a 
haughty and disdainful silence as she marched forward in a procession she 
could not control. By afternoon she pleaded whenever he came into view and 
by evening her pleas were heartbroken in fatigue. But by evening they had 
reached the town of Lakesh, the immediate destination of Rod Sykes and his 
troop and of his slave. Vanessa was never more thankful in her life as when 
the snorting monster belched its last diesel fumes and fell silent and the 
wheels she had followed all day ceased to revolve. She leaned against the 
trailer of her master in naked helplessness for a few minutes and was ever 
so grateful when he freed her lease and let her within the relative luxury 
of his mobile home. Within the silent interior she did not care even if she 
was whipped, it was so damned good to be given permission to sit down. 
Vanessa was expecting a repetition of the previous day, some humiliating 
pain followed by a gala dinning event and Rod Sykes' exposition of his 
views. But she had forgotten Lakesh. Lakesh boasted a military barracks and 
a jail, relics of British rule in past years. Since the women of the town 
wore little or nothing Vanessa was noticeable only for her white skin as she 
was led from the mobile home to the fortress-like bulk of the barracks. 
Looking at it she quailed -- if she had been prisoner before, she would be 
doubly prisoner now. 

"I've made myself comfortable, got a damned nice apartment fixed up and you 
can have a bath. There's plenty of things to tie you to or hook you up with 
a chain and downstairs there's the cells. We've kept those cells in good 
order and you'll be safe enough in any one of them." He laughed at her 
sudden dismay, "Don't worry you don't get put in a cell while I'm around, 
only when I'm called away in a big hurry, or maybe if you don't behave 
yourself." 

There it was again always this insistence on obedience, on being a good 
little girl according to the Sykes' precepts. Vanessa stifled pride and bore 
the curious stares of the passersby until they reached the shelter of the 
barrack walls. From somewhere came the smell of cooking and she realized the 
pangs of hunger. 

The apartment was a relief after the trailer. The walls were of mellow 
stone, untouched by interior decoration but there were hanging rugs and a 
picture or two and the effeminate prisoner couldn't help but noticing the 
heavy rings firmly embedded and waiting to be put to use. The place was a 
jumble of male gear and male furnishing but had an atmosphere of home. The 
entire of one long room was open to the air and the shaded side of the 
building. There was a balcony and a view of the huge courtyard below, 
surrounded by a forbidding wall. It was all very much in the British 
tradition of law and order. Rod Sykes instantly played host, "There's the 
bathroom, Sweetheart, enjoy it. You'll actually find hot water, you can soak 
in the tub as long as you like and there's a few odds and ends you'll 
probably enjoy using. Don't stay there all night. When you're through we'll 
have cocktails and they'll serve us dinner at our pleasure." He laughed 
delightedly, "I'm something of a person here, I'm the Commandant." 

Vanessa felt only relief. She might share Rod Sykes' pride in possession but 
for the moment she was tired and the prospect of a bath was almost 
compensation for the day on a leash. She held out her handcuffed wrists and 
made what seemed to her an obvious query, "Please?" 

"Never give up, do you?" he laughed at her innocent assumption that she 
would be freed. "Remember what I told you about things always getting worse 
for a girl if she didn't know when she was well off." He searched for and 
found the leg irons and fastened them on her rebellious ankles, then laughed 
again at even more rebellion in her features when he rose erect. His voice 
was mocking, "Go ahead and sulk but get in that bathroom before I deny you 
the privilege. Damn it girl, you're being treated like a princess and all 
you do is pout!" 

Vanessa was aware of a growing blush of shame at the truth of what he had 
said. She turned hurriedly and walked her shackled and hobbled steps to the 
door and was thankful for the seclusion when she closed it behind her back. 
She knew the handcuffs would impede little of her mission and resolves to 
complain about them less. 

The bathroom was scarcely equal to "American standards" but was surprisingly 
modem. The biggest surprise of all was the array of bottles and jars 
specifically designed for feminine use. Inconsistently she had to quench a 
pang of jealousy about those other girls who had entered this place in the 
same condition as she. Vanessa found herself unwilling to be one of a long 
line of captives who gave but a passing pleasure to their master before 
being dismissed and replaced. 

The hot, soapy water cured everything. For the moment there was nothing but 
a chained and naked girl playing with the soap under the sponge and 
luxuriating in purely sensuous pleasure. The handcuffs denied her nothing 
and the leg irons had never been more than a humiliating mark of a man's 
authority. When she was dry she turned her attention avidly to the jars and 
bottles and the electric hair drier, forgetting the girls who had used them 
previously and diverting their whole purpose to herself. The result was 
gratifying, gazing into the sizable mirror she felt better able to cope with 
what she must. No doubt this enhancement of her beauty would provoke Rod 
Sykes to fresh expressions of carnality. But she cheerfully went to seek his 
approval, the chain between her feet singing a metallic accompaniment to her 
captive walk, her joined hand passive above her pubic bush. 

Lakesh in the cool of evening offered comparative comfort to the soldier and 
his prize. The heat and dust and courtyard reaching them from across the 
open balcony were modified by approaching night. The man and the naked girl 
both knew themselves aliens in a strange and distant place. But a conqueror 
is a conqueror no matter where he may be and the same was true of the slave. 
Africa encircled them in a temporary benevolence. 

Vanessa supposed here was no great humiliation in being told to mix their 
cocktails and to serve her master on her knees. Since there was none to 
watch, the exercise was not without a quiet humor and a silent communion 
between the two of them. When she was told to kneel in her chains, to sip 
her drink beneath his satisfied regard, she made no complaint but arranged 
herself at his feet and did as she was told. The drink was pure nectar to a 
parched throat. 

"You looked damned good. Sweetheart," Rod Sykes conceded cheerfully. "I'm 
not a guy to fail to see when a woman's trying to look her best. With a girl 
like you that bathroom pays dividends." He sipped in quiet meditation before 
delivering his bombshell, "Would you like me to whip you before or after 
dinner?" 

"Is that a serious question or are you having me on?" 

"Dead serious, Sweetheart When you're around me you can figure on a certain 
amount of pain. It will never be enough to injure you but enough to keep 
chastened." 

"Suppose it has the other effect, makes me hostile and rebellious and filled 
with hate?" 

"That's a good question. But we'll find out, won't we. I wouldn't really 
recommend the course you've mentioned, but if it's the one you decide to 
take I'll find pleasure in breaking you." 

"That's horrible!" 

"Well, perhaps. What you have to remember, Vanessa, is I'm a much privileged 
man. I've got what most men dream of. Look at you now, a simply beautiful 
slavegirl kneeling in chains before her master. What man wouldn't give half 
his life to possess you." He laughed at the indignation clouding her 
features, "The only discordant note is the cocktail. The conventional 
picture would have you groveling in the dust at my feet." 

"I can do that for you in the courtyard, if you want to take that much 
trouble," Vanessa offered. "I don't see why we have to dwell so much on the 
pain you want to inflect on me. There must be other things we can talk 
about?" 

Rod Sykes tilted his empty glass upside down, "Didn't take as long to 
dispose of those. Sweetheart. Mix a couple more and we'll talk about the 
politics of Lakesh, if that would amuse you." 

"You like to watch my chained walk back and forth, don't you? You like to 
hear the sound of my shackled feet and the clink of my handcuffs. " Vanessa 
rose and collected his glass, as she walked towards the sideboard and its 
tiny bar she said resignedly, "Yes, you are a lucky man, don't think I fail 
to understand. If any girl was made to feel a slave that girl is me." 

Rod Sykes was enjoying himself. He accepted his drink from the kneeling girl 
but abruptly asked, "You didn't answer my question?" 

"Oh, that!" Vanessa shrugged. "I prefer to be whipped after dinner, thank 
you. " She laughed a sad, small laugh of deprecation. "And I'll frankly 
admit I'm choosing that time simply to delay the evil moment. I'm too hungry 
to allow it to spoil my dinner." 

"Never had one like you before," Rod Sykes commented, eyeing her with the 
pride of possession. "You're figuring everything to seek the ultimate 
advantage, not that you have much scope but just the same that's what you're 
doing and I admire you immensely. That's a quality I'm not going to whip out 
of you. You'd make a man a damned good wife if he could keep up with you." 

"Thank you. But you appear to have obviated that possibility in my future. I 
don't suppose girls like me ever get married." 

"If the Macusi ever did take over the Republic of Congi, I might sell you to 
the chap who'll take over in that case. He'd probably value a white consort 
and add a bit of respectability to his image with the United Nations." He 
considered the naked girl thoughtfully. "I could probably get quite a bit of 
cash out of him for you as well as promotion to head of the armed forces. 
Might work out pretty good all around. What do you think?" 

What Vanessa thought made the metal circles on her wrists and ankles feel 
doubly heavy and twice as tight. She could feel this hot, dry land clutching 
her forever in its maw. She doubted she would ever keep track of Sykes' 
changing moods to detect true feelings beneath his raillery. Seeking 
conversation she inquired, "Supposing this happened the way you say, would 
this Ruler whip me the way you do? Would I be meeting the foreign diplomats 
with a scarred back beneath by pretty clothes?" She sniffed and eyed Sykes 
dubiously over the rim of her glass. "That's not likely to happen and you 
know it isn't. Why, in such a circumstance, I could escape all over the 
place. I could appeal to the US consulate, I could get in a car and drive 
away, get on a plane and be back in the USA in no time." She snickered. "Or 
would I be chained at all times, even in public?" 

"Gosh, that's quite a mouthful, Sweetheart. With the attitude you've got now 
he'd probably keep you locked up and you ankles ironed. As for his whipping 
you, he wouldn't stoop so low. The guy who's in office right now has a sort 
of Lord High Executioner who does these little jobs. Whenever a lady of the 
court fails to please, even though she's someone's wife, she gets sent 
downstairs with a note and is dealt with accordingly. The name of the 
present incumbent in the presidency is Nagoda, I understand he only comes 
down to see the unfortunate maiden in the last stages by which time she is 
usually amenable to reason and likely to promise never to be naught again. 
Not a bad system, at least it's decisive and direct." 

"If I asked you to please not whip me after dinner, would it do any good?" 

"Not at all, you knew that before you asked." 

Vanessa gulped savagely at an empty glass." 

 CHAPTER THREE - IRON BARS 

The device was bitterly humiliating, that it was dragged out from under the 
bed simply made it worse. It was a segmented box with holes, the intent of 
which was all too obvious to Vanessa's apprehensive gaze. It was no ancient 
instrument of torture but of a recent construction with modem latches by 
which it could be separated and reassembled. "A little invention of my own, 
Sweetheart, make a nice change for you. Here, you see it's in three parts, 
one for your ankles, one for you wrists, and the other segment locks the 
whole together neatly and very securely. Care to step inside?" 

"Its a sad and demeaning end to a delightful dinner, Rod." 

"Mustn't confuse things, Honeybunch, dinner was dinner. This is punishment. 
After you've had your pain we'll move on to bed. So you see, you've a lot to 
look forward to." 

"You don't have to do this go me, Rod." She kept her voice low and even. "We 
both know you don't have to do it." 

"Is that a delaying ploy, Sweetheart, or are you working up to something?" 

Vanessa's silence was a miserable admission. She searched for words but 
found no more than an honest expression. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not working up 
to anything except to tell you I just don't want to be whipped. You've 
whipped me once already and what I learned from that was that I don't ever 
want to be whipped again. Please forgive me. I'm only human. Where is it I 
put my feet?" 

Sykes unlatched and separated his creation into its integral parts. Vanessa 
clinked her way unhappily to humiliation and a fresh ignominy. Suggestively 
she raised one shackled foot and clinked its chain. Without a word her 
master used his key to free her feet for their fresh captivity. Equally 
silent Vanessa stepped within the appointed place and fit her ankles into 
orifices apparently tailored for them. The center segment was thrust home to 
imprison them tightly, latches clicked. As though in a trance she held out 
her cuffed hands and watched the key work its magic to make them free. Still 
without a word she bent down and placed her hands as she had placed her 
feet, the third segment closed upon her wrists to clutch them tight. Latches 
clicked again and Miss Vanessa Pilgrim stood in the most shaming nakedness 
of her enslavement. Her feet and hands were held within the space of ten or 
twelve inches but her legs were more separated than her hands. Striving to 
move she discovered she could indeed move every part of herself except hands 
and feet, they were locked immovably within what Rod Sykes referred 
facetiously as the "Hot Box." Vanessa was wryly certain it would never be as 
hot as one other part of her person. "Recognize the pose, Honeybunch?" 

"Yes, I recognize it. It's the old English thing, isn't it, the touch your 
toes business?" 

"Right! The benefit of the Hot Box is it stops you from changing your mind. 
If you're in there for six or ten or twenty you have to stick it out. But 
you'll be surprised at the contortions you'll come up with... that is, 
unless you decide to play the haughty lady suffering martyrdom 
disdainfully?" 

"I wish I could, but it hurts too much. If you'll forgive me I'll just act 
naturally." 

"That a girl! You're probably thinking your poor bottom's had all it can 
take but, believe me, that's not so, a girl's bottom has a marvelous 
resiliency, it always comes back for more. But out of difference to your 
sentiments I'll give you a part of this little lot down below on your 
thighs. It hurts a lot worse but they're still delightfully virgin." He 
considered his captive, walking around several times to enjoy every facet of 
her humiliating pose. "Would I be right, Vanessa, "in supposing that at 
least half the punishment you are now commencing lays in the shame of being 
forced to bend over and expose your bottom in the same way as a delinquent 
Victorian miss?" 

"That's right. I'm hating every moment. But are there any other statistics 
you'd like me to comment on?" 

Vanessa had crossed the line into forbidden insolence, he reward was 
instant. She chocked back a cry of shock and outrage as her thighs were cut 
just below the curvature of her bottom by a blow she was certain was the 
cruelest yet. Despite noblest intentions she could not forbear sounds nor 
the weaving of her punished seat and the bending of her knees. It was all 
futile, no matter how she contorted she would always present a perfect 
target for whatever weapon Sykes chose to use on her flesh. She heard her 
own voice, as if from a distance, pleading, "Must you hit me that hard, must 
you?" 

"I'm afraid I must." He voice was controlled in calm and seeming regret. 
"That one was extra, of course, for the insolence I'm sure you now 
recognize. It will help you to watch your tongue. We now begin the 
punishment as planned." 

"But you're using a whip on me not the riding crop!" 

"I can change back, my dear, if you desire. But the whip is much better 
suited for the curves I'm attending to this evening than the good old riding 
crop. The crop might cut, the whip won't." 

Vanessa Pilgrim could well believe the Hot Box the worst of this present 
punishment. It held her implacably and was solidly fastened to the floor. As 
the lashes fell here and there upon her wealed bottom, and more viciously 
upon the softness of her thighs, she explored its latitudes to the full, 
bending and crouching and weaving in a mute eloquentness of agony. When the 
lash rose up between her thighs to bit her crotch and belly she screamed, a 
long keening of desolation, and made her only plea, "Don't! Not there, no 
please, not there!" 

"Yes, Vanessa, in there. Learn to like it." 

Vanessa Pilgrim had lost count, so could not tell how many strokes her 
punishment had been. She suspected twenty. When her master tossed aside the 
whip and devoted himself to the gentle massaging of her wounded parts, which 
were hot enough to almost scold his hands, she sobbed her way back from pain 
into a world in which she would soon be loved. Her concern at the moment was 
to be released from the hated Hot Box. But that was not to be! 

"Let you stand a while, Sweetheart, I like the pose. And move all you want." 
He laughed, "Or should I say all you can. Do you prefer the Hot Box to being 
hung up by your wrists?" 

"I'm sorry but I don't prefer anything, I hate it all. You've just hurt me 
cruelly, that all I know." 

"Well, like I said, things can always get worse. Maybe tomorrow I'll make 
sure they do. Or the next day or the next. It doesn't matter. I want to get 
you to where, when a punishment is over, you will say with deep sincerity, 
'Thank you, Sir.' I want you to be truly grateful for the attention I'm 
bothered to bestow." 

"I'll say a devotee 'thank you' now if it will do me any good." 

"No it won't. The way you're saying that sounds bitter as hell. I want a 
fervent thank you which comes from the heart, a genuine appreciation of a 
punishment to aid you in being a better slave." He was laughing at her. 
Vanessa was sure of it. She had wanted to cry but in her present posture, 
tears were and added indignity. They would splash down upon the Hot Box and 
be a glaring demonstration of femininity. She shifted in awkward rebellion 
but the box held her firm. Rod Sykes compelled her to stand as she was for 
thirty minutes before unlocking his contraptions and tossing her upon their 
bed, but was not even then satisfied until he had locked a metal collar 
around her neck and chained her by an adequate length of links to the 
inevitable ringbolt in the wall. When he slept she had best sleep to -- for 
Vanessa Pilgrim there was no escape. 

"Rump hurt?" Sykes inquired inquisitively. "It should, I tried to do a job 
on it." 

"Of course it hurts! So do my thighs and that awful stroke you gave me up 
inside. You didn't have to do that, it hurts abominably." 

"You'll get a better orgasm out of it, Honey." 

Vanessa knew he probably spoke truth. It was already hard for her to 
separate the pain of the whip from the heat of her loins, they had blended 
and become a single, burning flame. Mortified, she knew herself abundantly 
ready for what the two of them would now do. The sharp friction of the cover 
beneath her was only fresh fuel to a fire already almost beyond control. 

In the morning, in the relatively early sunshine, the slavegirl sat upon the 
bed and watched her master dress and shave. Her neck remained collared and 
the chain imposed its compulsion of a limited number of steps. Vanessa did 
not mind, she was still dreamingly content and beautifully replete. That she 
was ashamed of both of these sensation altered nothing. She was a slavegirl 
most adequately used by her master, feeling only gratitude. She hated it but 
knew it to be true. She resolved to take Sykes' advice and try to see 
everything done to her within its own context. She had been whipped and that 
was that! She had been loved and that also had fallen into its own segment 
of her consciousness. When she was detached from the wall the two of them 
would go to breakfast and that was something else again. Knowing each of 
them busy with their own thoughts, she sat in passive captivity to await the 
conqueror's attention. 

At breakfast she discovered herself wearing only the iron collar place on 
her neck the night before. She spoke of it in genuine curiosity, "Rod, had 
you forgotten? You've given me my hands and feet. I'm almost free?" 

"If you want to look at it that way," he conceded amiably. "I like the 
effect of that collar, good mind to leave it on you all the time. And it's 
handy to attach you to things." He chuckled at her earnest regard, "But so 
far as being free goes, you know you're not. You couldn't get half way 
across the courtyard or out into the street without being grabbed." 

"I didn't mean freedom in that way. I'm just grateful for having my hands 
and feet for a while, you've no idea how good it feels." 

"Make the best of it, Sweetheart, it won't last forever. After we've had 
coffee long enough, I'll show you why." 

There would be a price to pay, Vanessa was sure of it. Her conviction was 
confirmed when she was led downstairs by a firm grip on her arm, through an 
increasingly male part of the sizable premises, through doors, passages to 
where, beside a wide corridor, she saw the line of cells waiting as though 
expressly for her. There was six of them, each with three stone walls but 
blatantly open to the thoroughfare without which they could view through 
solid iron bars and could be themselves gazed upon by any curious passerby. 
When Sykes unlocked barred door and ushered her within, she said, aggrieved, 
"You said I wouldn't be put in one of these unless I'd misbehaved or unless 
you were going far away?" 

"Right. I'm not going far away but I've got things to attend to this 
morning. I've been away for a while. I'm putting you in here, Vanessa, so 
you can get the feeling of being in a cell. The world's a different place 
when you look at it through bars, try it and find out." He kissed her, 
ostentatiously locked the door with her within, waved cheerily and departed 
out of sight. Vanessa stood nakedly within the tiny space, figuring her 
collar as she looked around at sparse furnishing. A narrow cot without a 
mattress, more like a bench than a bed. A wash basin and a toilet. Lakesh 
was surprisingly modern but everything had an air of being well-used over a 
long, long time, even the air seemed to have been used and struck her with a 
strange chill even in the Congi heat. Here in this hateful cell she was 
confronted with the very basics of imprisonment. She could be kept for an 
hour or for life. Vanessa shivered and understood Sykes' motive for locking 
her inside. This place would teach her its own lesson in the same way as the 
biting blows of the whip and the sore places they left on her soft flesh. 
Instinctively she walked slowly to the bars, clutched them and looked 
beyond, but there was nothing to see except the wide passage, there was 
nothing to do except stand thus and yearn or go back and side upon the 
bench. She chose the latter, it was equally strange for Sykes to have failed 
to place irons upon wrists or ankles. But she realized that the cell itself 
was iron enough, the whole front of it was bars, heavy, ugly iron bars made 
doubly strong by lateral strips running horizontally from side to side. No 
one had ever escaped this tiny prison. Ruefully she clutched the door and 
shook it vigorously without result, it did not move. Seated back upon the 
bench she gave herself over to dreams of freedom and the life she had lost, 
but there was little privacy even for that, soldiers passed back and forth, 
pausing to admire her naked beauty in its cage. There was also civilians 
bent upon their business. They spoke in a language Vanessa could not reply 
in. Mischievously she developed a stock answer, "I've been kidnapped. Please 
tell the American Consul I'm here." 

The captive girl tried to divorce herself from peeping toms. Sitting 
sideways against the open bars and trying to compose her mind to a semblance 
of order. It was while thus postured she became aware of a different 
presence, of someone beyond the bars she had best not ignore. She turned and 
confronted a clean cut American type of about thirty-five or so, attired in 
a well-tailored business suit, he carried a briefcase and was obviously on 
business, but was now staring at her in frank astonishment. Without preamble 
he demanded, "Would you happen to be Miss Vanessa Pilgrim by any chance?" 

Vanessa was instantly at the bars, forgetting nakedness, forgetting 
everything except a ray of hope that at last here was a communion with the 
outer world to buy release. Breathlessly, she exclaimed, "Yes, but how did 
you know? You're American, aren't you? Please get me out of here. I've been 
kidnapped or stolen or anything you want to call it but it's all against my 
will." She gazed up beseechingly, "Please...?" 

"I'm with the State Department doing a tour of this place. We're concerned 
about Congi, it could go either way. The Consulate heard about your 
village," he laughed diffidently, "Weil, I suppose we could call it 
delivering yourself into slavery." 

"I thought I was going to rape and an unpleasant death," Vanessa confessed. 
"Look, I'm terribly sorry about being naked, no one will give me any clothes 
and I'll bet I'm a problem to you but please, please get me out of here. 
Take me home. I don't ever want to see Congi again." 

"Home... that's a tall order. Miss Pilgrim. By the way my name's Bill Patton 
and it's pure chance I walked down this passage. They've got a few 
government offices in this building I was doing business with." 

"But if you demand it surely they'll free me into your custody?" Her fists 
were white as she clutched them around the bars. 

"No they won't. The days when the Stars and Strips or the Union Jack meant 
something here are long gone. Only communication now is with foreign 
currency. If I'm likely to be a source of foreign aid I'm welcome, if not 
then I'd best go home." 

"But they can't hold me, I've not done anything. I'm innocent! This horrible 
place makes me feel a criminal and I expect I look like one, but I'm not, 
I'm not!" 

"That's right, you're not," Patton agreed slowly and reluctantly. "Your 
status is as a prisoner of the military, and it's the military that counts 
in these parts. You're a prisoner to a man calling himself Rod Sykes, and it 
could well be his proper name, but in Lakesh he's the Law." 

"I'm sure he is. He makes the laws. That doesn't mean you have to obey them, 
you're an American, you've got diplomatic status, don't you?" 

"For what it's worth. But it does not empower me to take sides. Certainly it 
gives me no authority by which to take a woman from a commandant. Lakesh 
sees you, Miss Pilgrim, as the property of Rod Sykes and to them this is 
natural and correct. You are simply part of the spoils of war." He shrugged 
and made a futile motion with his hands. "The reason the State Department 
wants to keep an eye on you is in case you get set adrift without any claim 
upon your person by either side. Its a slim possibility but it just might 
happen in this ridiculous place. If it does we'll give you every help we can 
to get you back to the USA in short order." 

Vanessa looked through the bars at the gravely smiling face of a fellow 
American and seethed with frustration and disbelief. Dramatically she turned 
her back to her visitor and demanded. "Look at that, look at those marks on 
my skin. They're the marks of a whip! Does the State Department condone that 
too!" 

Vanessa whirled around to confront an obviously troubled man, but the set of 
his jaw was firm and she realized she was dealing not with an individual but 
with government policy. Brokenly she exclaimed, "I'm sorry to trouble you. 
I'm sorry to have been a nuisance. " Bitterly she added, "If you care to 
report me to the Commandant I'm sure he'd be happy to have me whipped to 
your satisfaction." 

Bill Patton sighed. This naked girl behind the bars was just one more of 
many frustrations he dealt with daily. In Congi nothing was rational, mostly 
it was indecent, obscene, cruel. To leave this delightful creature 
incarcerated within these walls was bitterly against the grain, the thought 
was revolting. But that was his job and he knew no good could come from 
interference in local affairs. Vanessa Pilgrim was one of many such young 
women on whom the State Department tried to keep an eye. Mostly they would 
vanish without a trace but a rescue had been affected here and there to keep 
hope alive for others. Perhaps Vanessa Pilgrim's case would be one of them. 
Stiffly but warmly he told the watching girl, "I'd best leave you, if I 
linger we will only become increasingly bitter. I told you all there is to 
tell and I know there's not much hope for you but try and hold to what there 
is. Some reversal in the fortunates of war could set you free and cast you 
adrift on almost any day. Pray for it, we'll be there." 

To Vanessa Pilgrim it seemed doubly lonely after her compatriot had vanished 
from view, she shook the bars in petulance and to easy frustration. She 
wished the incident had not occurred, it only intensified her knowledge of 
captivity. It was only too evident she belonged to Rod Sykes and no one 
would say him nay. Unhappily she returned to the bench. 

It was easy to see visions, to relate herself to any girl sentenced to ten 
years, to twenty years, or to life, to be robbed of all she valued and 
compelled to live out her days behind the bars she could not even rattle. 
She realized with wry humor that, if her jailer were Rod Sykes, he would 
keep her chained to perpetually for his own enjoyment his vision of the 
pretty bird within a cage, a bird dependent on him alone and for whom there 
was no escape. It was not a happy fantasy. 

Another vision was of herself as a timid, youthful girl apprehended for some 
crime she did not understand. Handcuffed on arrest, taken to the precinct 
house and there lodged behind these bars to await a trial, the outcome of 
which she could guess all too readily. She had seen the issues and knew that 
after sentencing she would once more be handcuffed and perhaps legironed and 
taken to some institution in which to serve her sentence. There would be the 
drive, all too short, before the fingerprinting and the opening and 
clattering of doors and then finally the contemplation of bars which would 
look pretty much the same as held her now. All the visions spelt 
helplessness, spelt subservience to the will of others, a divergence of 
desire between herself and whoever held her captive. From beyond the iron 
and to either side down the passage there came to her ears the prison sounds 
or the military staccatos to tell of abundant life, a life in which she was 
forbidden to share. 

Vanessa took pride in her ability to set events in their proper place. She 
did this now in relation to her leashed and collared confinement through the 
night. The chain and the iron about her throat had disturbed her not at all, 
Rod Sykes had absolved her utterly and totally, reducing her to a 
palpitating package of sweetly obedient curves responding to his every 
thrust with cries of joy mounting to the sounds of anguish. Rod Sykes had 
the ability to so control her in their lovemaking as to reduce her to an 
avid appetite and an endless series of responses to his thrusts. He turned 
her this way and that, picking her up with frightening easy and often 
rearranging her in poses of utmost obscenity. Vanessa did not care. Whatever 
this man did to her in bed was as close as she ever expected to get to 
freedom or transcendent joy. She was cynically aware that had she remained a 
free girl and married a suitable suitor, her performance in bed with him 
would in no way match what she delivered now to the warrior whose prize she 
was. If the garish day was long and she must spend it in chains or solitary 
confinement, then so what! Nothing was without its price. 

Vanessa Pilgrim allowed her mind to focus on the incident of suspension in 
the trailer. It had been unexpected and bizarre and was a form of inflicting 
pain on her that was likely to be repeated and with deviations. She 
remembered Rod's bland assurance of there being many ways a girl could be 
bound in either discomfort or agony. He had not elucidated nor had she 
questioned. She was positive he spoke the truth. 

The suspension, the hanging from her wrists unable to touch the floor an 
inch or two away, unable to kick or fail her feet or legs to any useful 
purpose had reduced her to the status of a puppet on a string, it had also 
been shockingly painful, wracking her shoulders, tearing at her wrists, and 
stretching her to a taunt impotence. Neither of them had described the 
punishment as torture but Vanessa well understood that had he gone away and 
left her naked hanging by her wrists it would have been less than an hour 
before she was crying aloud for release or screaming in hysteria. Being hung 
up like that was a whole new dimension of punishment in captivity. She had 
read often enough about people being whipped, whipping was a guilty residue 
of times past which lingered in human conscience. The riding crop across her 
naked bottom had been less of a shock than the punishment by rope. Idly she 
wondered now the scope and range of what Rod Sykes would do with her for his 
pleasure. She wished she could hate the man but she could not. 

There were many names she could employee to describe Rod Sykes. A ruthless 
adventurer, a lustful kidnapper of youthful girls, a cheerful rogue who made 
his own rules as he went along, or perhaps simply as a mercenary male who 
was seeking whatever advantage a trouble world offered to his skills. He had 
told her often enough she was a part of the office he held, the captain's 
prize as in ancient days. She was an incident and not a reason for the way 
he lived. But she was well aware of adding enormously to his enjoyment of 
his job. She could well understand that after a hot and dusty day, harassed 
by the problems of his troop, it must indeed be pleasant for him to return 
home and inflict pain on a naked girl who would afterwards sleep with him in 
complete rapport. Ruefully, Vanessa saw herself as the ancient whipping-boy 
of medieval monarchs. But, of course, it was not the same, she was not a 
boy, she was very, very female, a female who had always gloried in the curve 
of breast, buttock or the crease of cunt. 

Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of a nondescript creature, half 
of the east and half of the west, who spoke a brand of English all his own. 
He took the usual inventory of her through the bars, an intensity of 
assessment she did not bother to hinder. When it had gone on too long to 
bear Vanessa and standing in front of his regard spread her legs and 
outrageously and wantonly pointed to each of her most feminine parts, 
describing them in detail and taunting his impotence to touch. She assured 
him she was a prize beyond his reach. As if spurred by the irritation of 
this frustration he became vocal, "You think you damned smart. You white 
bitch not so smart when whipped in public place." He laughed delightedly at 
the shadows crossing her features. "People come from all over to see white 
whore get whipped. Whipped on back and breast and up her cunt. " He laughed 
uproariously at his own vulgarity, "You wait and see, that's what you gonna 
gets before they cut off you head because you spy for CIA." 

It was a blow, a blow causing her to resume a normal stance and examine him 
with more care. Did he know something? Was this nonsense spouted anything 
more than a government indoctrination in the hatred of the USA! "Where did 
you hear that nonsense?" she demanded belligerently, "You're way off track. 
I belong to the Commandant, Rod Sykes." 

"You no belong anyone, you belong Congi. Congi punish girl spy real good. 
Congi knows plenty punishments for bad girls. You wish you stay at home by 
time Congi get through with you." He laughed, "You get plenty whip all over, 
you get fuck all three places, you be made to crawl in Congi dirt." He 
thumbed his nose at her derisively from between two bars then went away 
still chuckling. 

Vanessa Pilgrim stared after him in pure shock. 

Miss Vanessa Pilgrim within her cell took a sober assessment of Rod Sykes 
and Congi. At the moment Sykes was riding on a crest of conquest. He could 
do no wrong. But suppose the tide turned and other forces displaced him, how 
easy it would be for her to become involved and accused of espionage or any 
other crime the Republic so desired. The little man's prediction might then 
come true. At the moment she felt certain she should regard it as only 
wishful thinking on his part. He would love to see her publicly flogged or 
punished in any of many ways. If he had gazed upon her through the bars of 
any American prison cell and spouted his rubbish, she could have scorned, 
but not in the Republic of Congi. Here anything might be credible. It was 
one more anxiety to add to her list. It was added to by a soldier who, 
sauntering by, stopped long enough to explain that, since she was a prisoner 
behind bars, she would be subject to prison discipline which included a 
Welcome and Farewell, two names which simply meant that the girl got whipped 
on entry to her cell and whipped again on her departure. Apparently everyone 
got to watch. It was a gala occasion. The soldier assured her that he would 
certainly be there. 

"But I'm not a common prisoner, I'm not a prisoner at all, I belong to Rod 
Sykes, he's simply parked me here for a while." 

"If you not a prisoner, you no be locked inside." His logic was 
unassailable. "You get whipped good and hard for sure." He laughed delighted 
by her obvious discomfort, "Or maybe they hang you by your thumbs out in 
town square. That is very good to watch. When girl hang by thumbs she makes 
much promise. She willing to fuck or suck or bend over her little ass." He 
laughed uproariously at his own vulgarities. "Ain't no way you going to not 
get something. Commandant, he like to watch too. He get great fun from 
pretty girl having much pain." 

Vanessa watched him go. The cell was having an advantage of expose to a 
limited segment of the public but it also carried the hazard of the dire 
predictions and sly hints of agony. She knew all too well that Rod Sykes did 
enjoy the eroticism of female pain but she could not believe he would wish 
to share it with the multitude. Rod Sykes had established ownership of her 
body and her mind and would not easily relinquish either. He would wish 
anything she suffered to be of his own contrivance and not the brainchild of 
someone else. She thrust away the images of her visitors but could not 
entirely rid her mind of visions of flogging and whippings and things much 
worse. Suddenly she longed for the strong arms of her captor, the man who 
extracted from her the total obedience of her desires. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim 
knew for sure that if these horrors were perpetrated on her flesh by Rod 
Sykes himself in private they would hurt and demean her far, far less than 
if she received the harsh sentences in the public square for all to see. 
Either way it was not much to look forward to. 

It seemed visitors to her cell were neatly timed. Now it was a middle aged 
woman staring at the naked white girl, enigmatic and remote beyond the bars. 
Vanessa sensed a sympathy and poured out her tale of threats and pain. The 
woman listened quietly and rendered a verdict. "You belong Rod Sykes, you no 
get hurt unless he say. If he tire of you these things happen for sure. But 
maybe he make good sale of you for much money. If that happen, you very 
safe. You be taken far away." 

"Are girls really sold like that?" 

"Every day. If you not so beautiful, the Commandant sell you by now. He only 
keep you because you so pretty. You get much whip." 

Presumably the woman had said it all. Vanessa once more watched a retreating 
back. She wondered glumly if, in this place, it was possible to receive a 
visitor with good news. It seemed unlikely. 

Strangely she longed not only for Rod Sykes' arms but for his chains. The 
handcuffs on her wrists and leg irons on her ankles had come to mean for 
Vanessa Pilgrim some of the security in possession a new bride found in the 
wedding band upon the third finger of the left hand. She supposed both 
symbolic. If you bore a man's chains it meant he wanted you. Bitterly she 
reflected on the strange comforts a slavegirl could device to bolster 
courage. It was not Rod Sykes who ended her brief imprisonment but instead a 
soldier. He carried familiar shinning metal in his hands and fitted 
handcuffs and leg irons upon Vanessa's wrists and ankles with harsh 
severity, evidently she was valuable and must not be allow escape. "You 
come," he told her briskly. "You no can walk I carry." 

Vanessa assured him of her ability to walk even though shackled. She sensed 
his disappointment at not being able to hold a naked girl in his arms but 
also saw it as a measure of Sykes' authority. A man like this would 
doubtless would love to ravish her here and now but was exercising a 
military control because of his superior officer. He was dealing with his 
master's whore and had best be circumspect, no doubt expecting he would 
enjoy her in the course of time when she was discarded in favor of a 
successor. He contented himself with a firm clasp upon her arms as he led 
her through a passage and a corridor and down a flight of stairs. 

It was obviously a discipline room, a place of punishments. Rod Sykes was 
there and also a girl of about eighteen who was stripped as bare as Vanessa 
herself and suspended by her wrists with toes a bare inch of two above the 
floor. She was coffee colored beauty, across who's virgin flesh Vanessa 
beheld the marks so similar to those she also bore. 

It was not Rod Sykes who did the whipping, it was a majordomo or jailer or 
whatever his title might be who held the riding crop and eyed the pert, 
young bottom with avid interest. 

"Thought you might enjoy this, Sweetheart." Rod Sykes patted Vanessa 
affectionately and kissed her cheek. "This young lady has broken the rules 
and she's being disciplined, she doesn't like it any more than you would but 
I want you to watch so you can understand the nature of Congi justice, it's 
a bit rough on girls who misbehave." 

"But she's so young, so frightened!" Vanessa protested in instant reaction. 
"She shouldn't be punished by men. Haven't you got a woman who could use 
that awful riding crop?" 

"Not really. These girls respect men, the do not respect women. If a man 
whips her she'll pay far more attention that for anyone else. The little 
darling's only had a couple of strokes, you'll be able to get in on the rest 
of her discipline." 

"But I don't want to, I hate the idea. I feel sorry for the poor girl and 
all I can do is ask you to forgive her and let her loose. Look at the way 
her toes are reaching for the floor!" 

"Same as yours did, Sweetheart, no difference. I want you to watch and see 
how she reacts." 

Vanessa watched. There was not much else she could do. Once more she knew 
the strange thankfulness for being chained. The handcuffs and leg irons 
would keep her from fighting punishment. Her instinct was to go to the 
wealed and suspended nudity and clasp it in her arms and whisper comfort. 
But that was indeed wishful thinking. The girl would probably hate her for 
watching unaware of latent sympathy. As Rod Sykes' captive mistress, or as 
these people would call it, his whore, she knew herself apart and beyond 
their comprehension. This girl in her punishment would expect nothing from 
her. Chains undoubtedly imposed a social distinction beyond the norm. 

Sykes nodded briefly at the man who held the instrument of justice. The 
delinquent maiden's eyes followed ever move, even to the point of looking 
back over a raised arm and bare stressed shoulder to where her inquisitor 
now took his stance and swung the wicked wand. Upon impact she abandoned any 
inhibitions she might have had and thrashed and jerked wildly at the end of 
her rope, her coffee colored loveliness paid tribute to the crop by 
gyrations and contortions which left Vanessa breathless. From the young 
maiden mouth there spew forth volleys of what, not doubt, were pleas for 
mercy and promises of repentance. The suspension was clever, for as the 
young nudity turned this way and that she presented every portion of her 
person to the whip. Taking his time, the man who held it suddenly cut again 
and once more the wounded flesh responded once more in motion and in sound. 
The young girl's eyes were wide in fear and pain and implored more 
eloquently than did her voice. Vanessa covered her face with her hands and 
refused to watch, but Sykes slapped them angrily away and directed her gaze 
to where one more stroke exacted its homage from the helpless flesh. The 
punishment continued in its own slow rhythm until the cries became weaker 
and the contortions less vivid and the delinquent girl's punishment was 
over. 

For a few minutes after the whip had ceased it loving work against the naked 
body, her legs jerked in tiny tremors, a lingering reaction from the searing 
pain, but soon even they died leaving her hanging limp and passive, eyes 
closed. From beneath the dark, strained armpits beads of sweat still formed 
and trickled down her flank. 

Sykes' fingers were once more on Vanessa's arm, she allowed herself to be 
lead back to the pleasant balconied mezzanine, "These girls are different 
from you, Sweetheart. You'd probably learn some sort of lesson from being 
whipped the way you've just seen, but she won't, she'll probably just go 
right back and do it all over again. " He laughed at her disbelieving 
expression. "Yes, honest. They don't seem to relate punishment to the crime, 
they see each as being separate and apart. They expect to be punished 
frequently through their young lives, and I've no doubt they're well aware 
of the erotic impact on the male. They probably think that's the beginning 
and the end of it. Their crime, whatever it was, is incidental. I bet that 
little damsel will behave perfectly until her skin is once more virgin and 
they she'll steal and be whipped again and figure both acts as part of a 
day's work. Interesting." 

"I suppose so, if you're a criminologist," Vanessa agreed without much 
interest. "You probably said it all when you mentioned the male reaction, if 
men did not get erections out of whipped girls, girls would not be whipped. 
Why don't you lock the poor thing in a cell for a week or a month, I'm sure 
it would do as much good." 

They stood facing each other, each aware of things unsaid. Sykes chucked 
Vanessa under her chin and suggested slyly, "Wondering how you'll spend your 
day. Sweetheart?" 

"Of course I am. Rod, please don't have me whipped again." 

"Gosh, what gave you that idea! No, I'm a man of resource. I promised you 
variety and today I've got a little treat in store for you. I bet you're 
tired of wearing those pretty brackets and irons upon your feet?" 

"Not really, I've become used to them. Like you've often said, I'm sure 
there's things much worse." 

"That a girl! You see, you do learn. You're becoming a wise little 
slavegirl. No, today you will not be whipped. But I've got something else in 
store. You'll learn something from it especially as I'm not involved. I've 
got business today so this little amusement you'll be occupied with will 
leave you with unclouded reactions. I'll be glad to hear about them when we 
dine." He patted her bottom, kissed her lips, and let her standing on the 
nig. 

It was the same soldier as before who came for her, making the same offer to 
carry her and then sulkily leading her to the jeep. Without asking, he 
lifted her to place her comfortably upon the seat then climbed in beside her 
behind the wheel. "Where are you talking me?" Vanessa asked in surprise. 

"No tell. You wait. You see." He chuckled as at a private joke and sent the 
small vehicle speeding down a dusty trail into a country side more and more 
bleak until it became little more than a desert. 

Vanessa gazed about her in interest. It was nice to be out of doors again 
and the handcuffs and leg irons no longer seemed to matter. She was well 
aware of the encroachment of prisoner mentality. She expected little and 
refused to distress herself with useless longing. For the sake of something 
to say she again demanded, "OK, if you won't tell me where you're taking me, 
then tell me what you're going to do to me." 

"No tell that either. You not to know." The soldier's laughter was 
immoderate, he was a simple man and easily amused. He took the liberty of 
reaching with one hand and pinching her closest nipple. This too brought 
merriment until he admitted, "You have real fine day, no one bother, no one 
whip. You most lucky girl." 

It had become a sad, dreary countryside devoid of life. The single post 
standing starkly alone caught her eye long before they reached it. The post 
was a man-contrived intrusion upon the wilderness. Someone had planted the 
solid timber deep in the soil. Watching as they approached, Vanessa knew for 
certain she was the purpose of this solid menace, in some way she was going 
to give it purpose. It was not erected wit there in the sand for nothing! 

Vanessa was frightened, there was something hostile and brooding about the 
dismal scene. She longed to leap from the vehicle and flee back to the 
safety of Sykes' protection but that was a silly dream. She knew it best not 
to antagonize this military type who had her totally at his mercy in this 
lonely place. Apathetically she stood while her leg irons were removed and 
she was led to the post and trust against it to place her naked back upon 
the wood. A rope encircled her waist and was cinched tight. 

"Now I take off pretty handcuffs." 

It did not matter. Vanessa knew herself in the grip of an authority beyond 
that of this shoddy uniformed male. The rope around her middle held her 
comfortably erect and she made no protest or complain as her arms were drawn 
back and hands deftly tied tight behind the grim sentinel. "I tie you real 
good, Missy," her escort assured her. "You have much fun trying to get 
loose." 

Vanessa did not answer. She was trying to glimpse Sykes' purpose in 
subjecting her to this strange ordeal. Binding with rope and rawhide was not 
an entirely new experience, but being tied to a post was likely to give her 
a new dimension of captivity. She contented herself with wincing and yelping 
whenever a cord cut too tight or in a too secret place. She was soon roped 
securely to the massive post by ankles, knees, waist and shoulders. Her 
crossed wrists were firmly bound in back with the same rawhide strip she had 
previously known. She wished it was with something else, she hated that 
rawhide strip. When the army stood back to assess its work, obviously with 
an intent to further structures, she exclaimed, "Good Gosh, Man, haven't you 
tied me enough? I can hardly twitch now and every bit of it is too damned 
tight! 

He nodded and grinned but not in agreement, "Must be tight. Missy. Always 
must be tight. Missy get loose real quick if not tight. Now I tie your 
tits." 

It was not exactly as described. The strictures crossed and crisscrossed 
above and below and between her firm, young breasts but did not mar nor 
compress their contours. Instead the bite of the ropes accentuated their 
arrogant prominence, seeming to make them larger than they were and to 
extend them an inch or two beyond their previous projection. 

Vanessa looked down at herself in dismay and was annoyed at her nipples for 
their flint hard engorgement. Her breathing was now a continual thrusting at 
her bonds, a thrusting which hurt and would hurt more as time went by. She 
pleaded, "Please don't tie my breasts like that. It doesn't do any good. I 
couldn't get away before, and tying the way you have is a punishment, it 
won't keep me any more secure that I was." 

The army nodded in an infuriating agreement, "That's right, Missy, is just 
to hurt not hold. Now I tie pretty cunt." 

He did exactly that. Two strands of rope, one on each side of her pubic 
lips, drawn up within the cleft of her buttocks, then cinched tight to the 
pole. It was a hateful and useless harness, purely punitive. Solicitously he 
used a thumb and finger to insert the proper placement of his cords. Vanessa 
could not see herself down there but was certain her vaginal lips were 
plumply protruding and strictured on each side by bindings tight enough to 
hurt. This time, when the army stood back to survey its work, she knew that 
work was done and she would soon be alone in the desert with her post. 

"Missy have pleasant day." The army pinched her nipples but not too hard. 
The army laughed when she winched at the pain. "You no be afraid. No wild 
animals. No bad man. You have nice day all to yourself. Maybe you get loose 
and run away." 

It did not take long for the jeep to vanish from sight. The naked girl felt 
herself imprisoned not so much by rope and cord, but by space and silence 
and a terrible loneliness. If she was intended to learn something from her 
plight she could not tell what it was. She felt nothing and expected nothing 
except pain. It was already starting, every time she breathed and with a 
throbbing insistence within her crotch. There would be no orgasms for Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim today. 

Had she not been so tightly bound she would have struggled. It would have 
been something to do, not that she would have succeeded in freeing herself, 
but to struggle against bondage was an affirmation of existence, a 
reassurance to a slave of identity. There was always the improbably hope of 
success but that was pretty much like winning a sweepstakes -- you never 
did! Vanessa Pilgrim's eyes swept the horizon from rim to rim as best she 
could, it was a wide sweep revealing nothing. She most devoutly prayed the 
army had been correct in its assurance of "No bad men" and "no wild 
animals." Tied like this she was totally at the mercy of anything that 
happened by. Any small rodent could send her into hysterics. In sudden 
revolt she surged against the ropes, tugging at the rawhided wrists, but 
nothing moved, it was as though she had made no impulse or motion 
whatsoever. A tear formed in Vanessa Pilgrim's eye and trickled down her 
cheek. She could not touch it. It was going to be a long, long day. 

The cut of cords had begun before the jeep was out of sight. It increased 
with a slow attrition against the defense of her courage. It was an 
insidious and fearful encroachment upon ever curve and crevasse of her body. 
Vanessa's breasts, even though unmarked by rope, ached and burned from 
restricted breathing. The captive maiden was discovering the impossibility 
of a deep breath, she was force to small, slow inhalations, and any thought 
she had of struggling for release was soon abandoned. The unkindest cut of 
all was the nagging scorch within her crotch, it was like a human presence 
deliberately hurting. The only virtue in being so totally bound was it 
inability of her body to sag or droop. He nakedness was clamped solidly 
against the post as though a part of it. She could thus sleep without 
danger, her head would bow forward but that was all. As the heat of the day 
increased and overstrained emotions made their demands, Vanessa Pilgrim fell 
into fitful sleep, short periods of unconsciousness interspersed by sudden 
awakenings and a return to pain and solitude. Her breasts throbbed 
distressingly and her sex was in constant revolt against the cords but pain 
merge with pain to make her insensitive and enable the short periods of 
unconsciousness both possible and welcome. It was in her suddenly 
wakefulness after one had passed that she beheld the caravan. 

The slow moving collection of camels, domestic creatures and rickety 
vehicles had crept close before she had become aware of them. But they were 
still at some distance and Vanessa beheld them in almost disbelief. They 
might well be a mirage or a vision engendered by pain and overtaxed 
emotions. But when they were close enough to become a concrete fact she 
discovered herself in a strange mixture of fear of the unknown and a fervent 
hope of rescue. In the course of her ride she had been aware of trails and 
cross-trails indicating traffic even in this forbidding place. It was 
unlikely the caravan was here specifically on her account, but they must 
have beheld the strange, out-of-place post just as she had seen it at a 
distance. Perhaps they beheld her too and were curious. 

It was typically African, half ancient, half modem, a nomadic group who were 
probably forever on the move. Men and women walked among the vehicles or 
ahead of or behind the stoic camels. Those who rode the ungainly beasts were 
obviously the elders of the tribe. When the leader rose his hand to call a 
halt, he was very close to Vanessa's bound and strictured nudity. In 
passable English he demanded, "Who are you, girl? Why are you thus bound?" 

Vanessa choked back a hysterical need to giggle. The sharp demand had 
sounded incongruous considering her situation. Searching for something 
simple and concise, she briefly told her name, that she was kidnapped, that 
the American Consul would pay money for her safe delivery. 

Slowly the naked Vanessa was encircled by dark, solemn eyes, men women and 
children. The entire band numbered no more than twenty. The leader 
dismounted from his camel and came close to survey her nakedness with 
surprisingly little lasciviousness. He answer was simple. "How much CIA pay 
for you?" 

"Its not the CIA, it's my own country, it's the United States," Vanessa said 
in desperation. "I can't tell you how much they'll pay but it will be a 
great deal. Please cut me loose, I'm hurting." 

None of the solemn faces moved. The leader spoke as though thinking aloud, 
"If you belong to Commandant at Lakesh we must leave you alone. We do not 
interfere." 

Hope plummeted. Vanessa glimpsed the power of Rod Sykes and his men and 
perhaps of the Macusi itself. If these rough nomads could ignore a naked 
white girl, that power was indeed be great. Forced to quick decision she 
took an appealing chance, "I don't know what you're talking about, but I was 
taken by men far from here, I was bound and blindfolded and then tied to 
this post. That's all I know." 

There was an excited jabber of dialect. Vanessa knew herself discussed and 
tom verbally in shreds. The dark eyes of the leader gave her no clue but she 
sensed his disbelief, he would be reserving judgment and leaving his options 
open. Vanessa realized all too well how flimsily and improbable her 
statements must seem, but she had cast a stone upon the water and must watch 
it's ripples fade. Doggedly she reiterated, "There will be much money if you 
will just take me to the nearest American Consulate. Please forget about the 
CIA, I have nothing to do with them." 

She took it as a measure of their poverty. In the business of setting her 
free there was no flash of a knife but only a pair of teenage boys delegated 
to untie the army's knots and save the valuable rope and cords. It took a 
long time and there were a exclamations of ohs and ahs as the rope was 
peeled from the weals it had indented in her flesh. Even when the strictures 
were peeled away, the scarlet replacing them appeared to have changed 
nothing. There was much satisfied admiration of the rawhide strip thus 
salvaged. While she was she was still busily expressing thanks and massaging 
wounds she was roughly turned around, her wrists crossed behind her back and 
once more bound, not with the rawhide but with thin cord, thin enough to 
discourage attempts at freedom. Desperately she exclaimed, "But why are you 
tying me? There's no need! I want to go with you. I'll do whatever you tell 
me. All I ask is to be taken to a Consulate. Surely you can use money?" 

"I not sure of you," the leader said unemotionally. "I think maybe you make 
big lie. We take you but a consulate is far away. I will think upon it." 

Vanessa was left to stand in awkward nakedness. As always her hands 
instinctively twisted and tugged against the thin stuff around her wrists 
but soon stopped finding only pain against the inflexibility of skillful 
binding. A few small children stood regarding her with large, brown querying 
eyes while their elders discussed her fate. Only her hands were tied but 
Vanessa Pilgrim had never felt more helpless in her life. 

They drifted back, not all of them, but enough. Their leader appeared the 
only one of them able to speak English, his voice discouragingly neutral, 
"My name is Hamid. You will call me Master." 

His two wise eyes bored steadily searching her secrets. Calmly he pronounced 
sentence. "We make you prisoner. We take you where we go. We try consulate 
but is far away. Can send message only. You live with us. We make you work." 

The bound girl moaned inwardly. She had made a mistake and would willingly 
have retracted her lie if she thought these people would again tie her to 
the post and leave her there. But she realized they had embarked upon a 
decision and any retraction of hers would arouse only suspicion. Wearily she 
knew she had made her bed and must lie on it but was gripped by a sudden 
longing for Rod Sykes' arms and Rod Sykes' punishments. To be a part of this 
dreary band would be a punishment in itself, even through it was devoid of 
whips and tortures and treated Vanessa only as a captive girl. Her bound 
wrists were a poor augury of her immediate prospects. Listlessly she said, 
"Whatever you wish. Perhaps when you come to trust me we can talk again." 

"We no talk. We no trust. You know escape." 

It was a brutal statement of intent, beneath its forthright honest Vanessa 
quailed, cursing herself for a fool. If only she had told the truth she 
would still be bound to the post and would, within the space of hours, be 
back within Rod Sykes' arms. If she ever did return to them, which now 
seemed unlikely, she would ask him to give her the whipping of her life to 
knock some sense back into her bemused intelligence. 

A pubescent girl was thrust forward for Vanessa's attention. "This is 
Leisha. Leisha will look after you. You will obey her. If you do not obey 
her she will whip you. Leisha is a good girl but will not allow you to 
escape. You will call her by her name of Leisha and she will call you by the 
strange name you have given us, Vanessa. You will now say her name several 
times so we know you understand." Vanessa obeyed, her voice a mechanical 
monotone, "Leisha, Leisha, Leisha." Then, for the sake of clarity, she said, 
"My name is Vanessa, Vanessa, Vanessa. If you are kind to me I will give you 
no trouble." 

"I learn good the American." 

Leisha's voice was surprisingly civilized. It carried the carried a maturity 
beyond her age. The child had an amoral innocence but her words shocked, "I 
learn from American boys who look for oil. I sell them fucks, but my father 
catch me and whip me most terrible. He also take my money. Now American boys 
are gone. I very good girl. I not whip you too much. We be friends." 

Vanessa was digesting this naive but startling information while the not so 
childish teenager noosed her throat with a length of Rod Sykes' rope, the 
full length of it trailing away to her young hand. But the young hand tugged 
viciously to assert her authority and Vanessa knew for sure she was in good 
hands. Everything was crazy, stark raving mad! 

The caravan resumed its march. It's pause to absorb into itself a white 
female body had been brief. It's pace was slow but Vanessa did not complain, 
she walked in passive obedience besides the girl who held her leash, her 
thoughts stubbornly and irritatingly upon the man she had discarded for a 
tribe of gypsies. Leisha was the proudest of girls, the envy of the fellows. 
She looked adoring at the wealed flesh of her charge and spoke of it 
enviously as from long experience in the marking of a girl's skin. 

Leisha only rarely tugged the rope. 

 CHAPTER FOUR - LEISHA'S LEASH 

Vanessa Pilgrim's introduction into the Hamish tribe was slow but steady. 
Leashed, she walked among them but there were none with English speech other 
than the child who held her tether and the leader who now appeared to have 
forgotten her presence. Hamid rarely spoke and evidently regarded her as 
unreliable and without truth. He was obviously reserving judgment, possibly 
until they reached whatever might be their destination. In the meantime 
Vanessa Pilgrim was humbly dependent on the girl whose specific prisoner she 
was. Leisha accepted the responsibility with keen enjoyment and exploited it 
to the full. She was intently curious about America and asked Vanessa 
questions. She was also well-developed for her age and possessed an avid 
curiosity about all things sexual. Her experience in the brief selling of 
her maidenhead to a group of roughnecks had done little more than whet her 
girlish appetite. 

"You been very much fucked, Vanessa?" 

"No I haven't, and you shouldn't use that horrible word, it's a beastly 
word." 

Innocent young eyes regarded her in disapproval. "Is a proper word. Is no 
other." 

There was a sharp, admonitory tug on the leash. "You not tell Leisha what 
she say. Leisha not believe you not much used by men. You very beautiful. 
You lucky." There was a brief, reflective silence before she spoke again. "I 
think you so beautiful I whip you often. " She giggled and added, "Pretty 
girls get whipped more often, much more than girls not pretty. I been 
whipped many times." Pride was rampant in the later statement. 

"Are these men, these men who look for oil, still around somewhere?" 

"Is very sad. They pack and go away. But want to take Leisha with them. When 
my father find out he whip me much, that very sad, too." Leisha giggled 
resignedly, "You much want them to rescue you and untie hands, is not that 
so?" Her voice became arched, "Maybe they fuck you too and then everyone 
very happy." She sighed, "But is not to be. You and me not get fucked until 
another rig comes from USA. This time I no tell my father. I hide money. Is 
very much fun to lie down for such big, strong men who laugh so much and 
play with tits. I bet you like?" 

Vanessa Pilgrim sighed too and was ruefully aware she would gladly do the 
unmentionable things with an American crew if they would gain her release. 
Such men might actually demand their price in her flesh but would also lead 
her to freedom. "You should keep you eye open, Leisha, in case another crew 
should come." 

"My father whip you much if he hear." The youngster consoled wisely, "You 
best keep quiet about escape. I not let you escape. You try escape, I whip 
you most hard." 

It was frightening and almost beyond belief to be in the power of a girl so 
young. Bound hands and roped neck were a poor beginning. The rope was 
already chafing under Leisha's sometimes unconscious tugs. But the child had 
possibilities. Without urgency, Vanessa inquired, "What will you father do 
with me? You father is the leader, isn't he?" 

"My father most important man. He lead." Whippings had evidently not 
diminished Leisha's loyalty. "I listen but they not make up their mind. They 
think you not the way you say. They keep you prisoner and ask questions from 
those who travel. They make you work." 

"What would I have to work at?" 

"Is hard to tell. Maybe in the grinding of corn." The wise young eyes looked 
sideways with an almost pitting regard. "Not like one little bit." There 
came a lengthy pause before Leisha delivered her conclusion, "I think maybe 
my father sell you. He make you work a while first and see what he can 
learn. When he think there no more profit he sell you to slave trader." The 
young laughing eyes assessed her shrewdly. "Maybe you like be sold for 
slave? Is much fun if get right master." 

"I don't want to be sold as a slave," Vanessa vowed fervently. "Being a 
slave is horrible." 

"Then you been slave? You know? Maybe you slave who escape?" 

"Never mind about slaves. I was kidnapped. All I want is freedom." 

"You silly girl," Leisha passed judgment with conviction. "Is best life for 
any girl to be sold as slave. I ask my father to sell me for slave but all 
he do is whip me again. He whip me most often." 

"Will he whip me too?" 

"Of course. All girls get whipped. It makes most hard the cock when man whip 
girl. All girls get whipped often." The young voice was suddenly anxious, 
"they do, don't they?" 

Vanessa sighed. How could she make this waif of the wilderness understand 
the life from which she had been severed that day at the Mission? She could 
scarcely believe it herself. Why should this youngster place credence in 
anything she said. Unhappily she rejoined, "I suppose you're right. I've 
been whipped more than I've ever thought I would be. I'm afraid it's one of 
the reasons men value us." 

By evening Vanessa was exhausted. From somewhere in the conglomerate of 
nomadic life came and padlocks appeared as if my magic. They replaced rope 
around her neck and bound hands. The chain circled her throat and was 
stoutly padlocked. It's other end, a length of about six feet, was padlocked 
to the wheel of one of the wagons. She could stand, she could move in a 
shocking limited range, but that was all. It was fearsome and frustrating to 
know that her life was dependent upon a padlock on her neck. It was so small 
and innocent a bond. Leisha snapped it with a resounding click to the 
accompaniment of laughter. "I bet you not like be chained. I bet you think 
it much shame. But Leisha keep you chained always. No escape." 

Vanessa's nakedness was left to its own devices. It was fed and watered and 
provided with a rusty pail. Leisha checked the padlocks then waved goodnight 
and went to join her peers. No doubt she would boast to them of her new 
responsibility and of what she had learned thereof. She would be much 
envied. Vanessa lay upon the sand and went to sleep. 

It was all hateful and hopeless, out of the frying pan and into a fire. In 
the light of morning Vanessa viewed her predicament and found comfort only 
in the laughing Leisha and the hope some word of her plight might filter 
through to a consulate. Hamid remained a mystery. Sometimes she would look 
up and find his eyes upon her. But other than that she was ignored. She 
supposed she might be considered his perquisite in the same manner as with 
Rod Sykes, and was piqued by his indifference. Vanessa's chain was exchanged 
once more for the rope, her hands once more tied behind her back. Encouraged 
by Leisha, who had from somewhere obtained a wicked looking withe which she 
carried as a symbol of authority, the band resumed its march. "Leisha, why 
must I be the way I am? Why can't I have clothes?" 

"Hamid say we find you naked, we keep you naked." There was the inevitable 
giggle. "Is nice to see big white girl all bare, is lovely breasts, is much 
fur on top of cunt. We all enjoy." 

Vanessa sighed. It was as good an answer as she could expect. She was quite 
sure everybody did indeed enjoy her nudity. The women of the band were a 
jumble of shawls and cloaks and strange swathings. Leisha wore what appeared 
to be a made-over sheet. These people were poor. If they failed to pursue 
her demand for contact with a consulate, it would be only because of fear. 
Leisha amused herself by walking besides the adult girl whose leash she held 
and using her slender wand to touch, to rap and to flick just enough to 
hurt. The child was enraptured by Vanessa's wince and grimace. When the 
.prisoner protested such liberties, Leisha told her frankly, "It please me, 
I make you jump. It show you how bad I hurt if you not good girl. Leisha 
could make you scream." 

There is was again, the good girl thing and the everlasting threats. But if 
Leisha whipped her it would not be with cruel intent but with what the 
youngster would see as "fun." Until the Hamish made up its mind what to do 
with her, she was the plaything of a child. 

"I never see a naked white woman before," Leisha informed conversationally. 
"Is very nice, you very pretty, you very good to whip because all bare." 
Again the girlish giggle, "Hamid much like fuck you but his wife say no. If 
Hamid fuck you his wife whip you to pieces." The vivid youngster tugged 
playfully and added, equally playfully, "Hamid get you alone, you best cross 
your legs." 

Travelers whose path crossed that of the Hamish caravan were few but one of 
them, a swarthy type upon a camel, paused to greet Hamid as an old friend. 
His eye inevitably strayed to the white girl, her nakedness and bound hands. 
There was a babble of inquiry and then the two men advanced to where Leisha 
was told to stand aside and the newcomer proceeded to maul and prod Vanessa 
with the expertise of a cattle dealer about to bid upon a cow. There was a 
constant chatter in the dialect while a rough hand explored the nude girl's 
crotch and tested her breasts for resiliency. Her teeth were examined and 
she was turned around so the proportions of her back and buttocks could be 
assessed. There was a brief laughter over her wealed bottom. When the two of 
them went away and the passerby resumed his journey, Leisha explained that 
Hamid had tried to sell her but his friend was unwilling to pay the price. 
Leisha informed gleefully. "You worth very much money. Hamid no sell you 
cheap." 

It was disquieting. Slavery after slavery. To these people pretty girls were 
merchandise. One day Leisha would be sold and would be glad to be gone from 
the gypsy life. It was the child's burning ambition to be purchased by a 
rich man who would beat her and adore her at the same time. In Leisha's 
lexicon the two were synonymous. Concerned by the incident, Vanessa asked, 
"How much money does Hamid want for me?" 

The young girl's voice held awe, "Is very, very much. Hamid want only Yankee 
dollar. He say he sell you for one thousand Yankee dollar. " Leisha sighed. 
"Is so much money no one ever buy you." Vanessa felt a fresh anxiety. The 
one thousand dollars probably seemed a fortune to these poverty stricken 
people, but was small enough sum to enable her purchase by a multitude of 
people, hardly any of which she would desire to have as her new master. As 
they drew closer to the coast they would meet more and more people who whom 
a thousand dollars was small change. This meant her days with the gypsy 
caravan were numbered and a new life, a continuing enslavement, probably 
under frightful conditions, might start anytime. Longingly she thought of 
Rod Sykes and the security of Lakesh. They were still on Macusi territory 
and her eyes roamed the horizon frequently in the futile hope of seeing the 
advance of Sykes' troop and of Sykes himself. It would be wonderful to be 
desired enough to be pursued and rescued. Vanessa felt like a silly romantic 
girl. 

"I feel much sorrow you no get sold," Leisha mourned sympathetically. "So 
much money no one will pay. Hamid, he make you work." 

"But why wouldn't he go to the Americans? They'd give him his thousand 
dollars." 

"He frightened. They not like the Hamish that far towards the sea. And 
anyway, he no believe what you tell him. He think you so pretty you escape 
from whorehouse. He say if cannot sell you any other way he sell you to a 
house full of bad girls who get much fucked for money." Leisha sighed 
longingly. "But he will not sell me to one of these. He say my blood is his 
blood and would not be proper. Men are most strange, but they can beat us so 
is best to do their bidding." 

Leisha would have no problems with life. Vanessa envied the child, she was 
precocious but lovable. It would be nice to rescue her from gypsy ethics, 
but that was just a dream. Vanessa Pilgrim could not even rescue herself. 
She tugged fretfully at her securely tied wrists and shook an impatient head 
against the chafing of the rope around her neck. 

* * * 

It was a nothing place, neither village, hamlet, nor town, just a collection 
of derelict structures the Hamish found useful. Life was already there and 
there were greetings and the exchange of gossip. Leisha proudly led her 
naked charge through the dusty street and to where ever people congregated. 
Vanessa knew herself admired and envied and hated, emotions were primitive 
and vibrations strong. Hostility beat upon her in waves, along with the 
laughter and grins. She felt like a captive of the American Indians who was 
to shortly to be bound to the inevitable stake, tortured and burned. She 
shivered and cast such thoughts aside. Leisha would look after her. 

Vanessa's refuge for the night was a mud walled hovel, its only stability a 
stout pole firmly embedded in the soil to support what there was of a roof. 
While still bound she obeyed Leisha's order to sit and extend one of her 
feet on each side of this vertical support. Her ankles were then chained 
allowing enough length of the link tether between her feet to enable her to 
stand, to walk a pace or two, but to never let her stray too far from the 
anchoring post. Leisha made sure the links around each ankle were tight and 
the padlocks were firmly thrust home. The youngster then took the leash from 
the chafed neck and untied the bound wrists and assured cheerfully, "There. 
Is very nice, is very comfortable, you most lucky girl." 

Lucky! Vanessa turned the word over and over in her mind. 

Everything was comparative and no doubt to Leisha's mind, her present 
condition was merciful and kind. She was to all intents and purposes a free 
girl and should surely not complain because of a limited range. When Vanessa 
stood up and tested the latitudes of this new metal bondage it responded 
with the clink and rattle of metal against metal. Leisha gleefully assured 
her that everything was "Very nice," and left her for the night. In spite of 
chaotic emotions, Vanessa was exhausted enough to once again find sleep. 
When she awoke in the morning, the lack of metal on her wrists and neck made 
her feel free enough to make her forget the other chains. She blithely rose 
and headed for the door, only to be tripped by chained feet and to fall flat 
upon her face. Ruefully she went back to the anchoring pole. As Leisha had 
said she would never escape! 

It stood in the center dust bowl of the village, a shapeless mass of gears 
and belts and hoppers. There was a vertical shaft from which protruded a 
fifteen foot long pole extending off to one side about four feet off the 
ground. From it there hung two objects which caused Vanessa's heart to drop 
and skip an apprehensive beat. The thing was a crude grinding mechanism 
requiring only the thrust of human hands to bring it to life. "Is where we 
grind our com," Leisha informed helpfully. "Pole go round and round and it 
makes much noise while meal comes out of spout." Leisha sighed mournfully, 
"Sometimes it is good girl who must push on pole. Is not like now, sometimes 
we have no bad girls to push." 

"Girls! But why girls?" 

Leisha was shocked. Her voice reprimanded, "Such work is not for men! Men 
sometimes whip but never push." Her voice became comforting in reassurance, 
"You now have work, you most lucky girl." 

They had been followed by a donkey bearing two massive bags of corn which 
were unloaded beside the machine. Leisha, oozing importance, said, "I chain 
you now then I fill hopper, hopper is box to hold corn." 

There was only the leash upon her neck, she could have run. But Vanessa 
looked around and saw no avenue of escape not already blocked by someone 
going about their affairs. The village was a busy place and a fleeing, naked 
girl would be caught before she reached the trees. Resignedly she allowed 
Leisha to lead her to the pole which reached above the level of her waist 
and there the objects she had seen were fastened firmly on her wrists. They 
were simply two shackles a couple of feet apart and bolted firmly to the 
pole with only two or three links to spare thus enabling the unfortunate 
slave to grasp the horizontal wood bar and thrust. It was simple and 
efficient. She knew she would hate it bitterly. 

Leisha busied herself with pouring the corn while the chained girl watched. 
Vanessa could not sit down, the chains allowed her no freedom whatsoever 
other than to work. She watched her captor ladle corn into the hopper at the 
top of the contraption until it was full; this task completed, the child 
retrieved her wand of office, rapped it smartly across unsuspecting buttocks 
and advised with renewed authority, "Now you push on pole, pole go round and 
round, you not stop pushing or Leisha whip very hard the bottom and the back 
and maybe the legs." She giggled happily. "I stay and watch, you only stop 
when I say to rest." The gleeful imp tickled captive nipples with her wand 
and assured gravely, "You now work very hard." 

Vanessa suddenly needed hands to rub portions of herself which mischievously 
began to tickle, but she had no hands, the short linkage by which they were 
chained to the pole gave no freedom for anything except to push and to work 
as Leisha had explained, "Very hard." 

In a spasm of revolt the naked girl pulled hard against the iron but nothing 
yielded, the metal bands were tight upon her wrists and the pole itself 
implacable. 

The girlish voice was commanding, "You start now, you push." A modest cut of 
the withe across Vanessa's shoulders emphasized the command. But the mill 
was a costive enemy. Vanessa heaved and strained but it took the combined 
efforts of Lesiha added to her own to gain the initial impetus to make a one 
girl operation possible. When this was achieved, Leisha slipped away and 
Miss Vanessa Pilgrim was on her own. 

The small mill was an uncertain and cantankerous enemy, sometimes it choked 
on an overdose of grain and then it took every ounce of Vanessa's young 
strength to keep its wheels in motion. From time to time the chained girl 
found it necessary to lower her bare shoulder underneath the pole and heave 
with every ounce and muscle she possessed. When the grain moved slowly and 
evenly she was just able to manage her task. It was never easy but was 
within her strength. Soon the pole beneath her hands was wet with her sweat 
as was her skin, glistening but soon drying beneath the hot sun. Before long 
an overloaded machine brought Vanessa to a standstill, panting and 
distressed. She turned to Leisha and implored, "Please don't whip me. I just 
can't handle this." She gazed bleakly down at chained hands, "Its cruel to 
chain me to this thing, it's a punishment, it's not work at all." 

Vanessa saw the whip coming but the chains held her were she was. It cut 
across her back with a cruelty Leisha had not previously displayed. 
Evidently the young taskmistress believed in the work ethics of another age. 
Unconcerned Leisha advised, "You push or I whip much harder." 

With a bitter sob the chained nakedness strained and heaved and the little 
mill once more creaked and groaned and delivered its thin trickle of meal. 
Slowly the pole made its revolutions, the straining nudity panted and 
sweated at its task, Leisha squatted on the sand and surveyed the scene with 
the complacency of possession. 

Vanessa toiled, falling into a quiet rhythm of heaving steps and thrusting 
hands. From time to time the Hamish passed and paused in their affairs long 
enough to make some caustic comment to Leisha and Leisha's whip. Children 
gathered and laughed then ran away from a scene that, for them, held only 
boredom. Vanessa could not say she did not welcome these visitations, they 
relieved monotony. But as she worked she was fearfully aware of increasing 
fatigue and of her chained wrists. Should she reach a point of exhaustion 
where she could not continue, would Leisha truly whip her until she fainted 
from the pain or staggered into motion no longer within her tolerance. She 
did not know but supposed she would discover sometime before the day was 
done. 

Hamid came. He walked beside her at the end of the pole in its slow 
revolutions, admiring the play of muscle and sinew in the naked girl who 
chained wrists compelled her to an unwelcome labor. His voice held no more 
interest than previously, "Leisha makes you a good girl, does she not?" 

There was a lengthy pause before, "Do you wish to change your story? Has 
your family money with which to pay me ransom?" 

"No, my family has no money, I have no story to change other than what I 
told you. Please don't make me work this hard, it's beyond my strength." 

"Your strength will grow, you sweat out the weakness. A couple of years 
chained to the pole will make you very strong." He laughed and went away. 

Vanessa worked, shedding the bitter tears of a girl who has made a terrible 
mistake. Sometimes, when she slowed her pace, Leisha's whip cut its imprints 
on her skin. There was no escape. 

Vanessa was learning fast. It appeared a girl actually possessed a second 
wind, a fresh supply of breath and energy by which she could accomplish the 
impossible. There were moments almost of elation when she found herself well 
able to cope with a task once considered impossible. In one of the rest 
periods she was bold enough to ask, "Leisha, I'm new at this and I'm not 
good at it, please don't hit me so hard when I slow down. I'm not putting on 
an act, honest I'm not. You don't need to whip me as hard as you did that 
last time, it was terrible." 

The mischievous child put on a simulation of deep consideration, but for all 
Vanessa knew it could be real. Finally she tiptoed up to kiss Vanessa's 
parched lips and to tell her sweetly, "OK, I no whip so hard, not unless you 
real bad." 

The whipped and naked slave chained to the pole heard herself exclaim a 
fervent, "Thank you," and then again, "Oh, thank you, Leisha, thank you, 
thank you, thank you." It was all absurd and should not be happening. 

Vanessa survived day one upon the pole. She hated to admit it but day two 
came easier and day three easier still, her muscles were hardening as was 
her resolve to survive. True she got whipped often but more from the caprice 
of her impish jailer than from her lagered steps. Each night, chained to the 
pole either by hands, neck or feet, she fell into the almost instant stupor 
of utter fatigue and slept like a log until morning. On the fourth day she 
was able to grind com to the total approval of all who watched or passed her 
by. She was now a competent slave, trained, whipped, and useful to her 
owners. She was also increasingly obedient. She watched for chances to 
escape but, since there were none, she accepted passively her chaining and 
unchaining and gave her guardian no cause for complaint. It was on the night 
of the fourth day it happened. 

A female hand shook Vanessa gently back from dreamless sleep. For a moment 
the bemused slave supposed it was Leisha but instantly recognize one of the 
women who had passed her by when she was chained to the pole, a woman who 
sometimes lingered and looked deep. There was no door to the hovel and only 
half a roof, the African starlight enabled recognition. The woman place a 
finger against Vanessa's lips to enjoin silence. It was the night on which 
Vanessa was secured to the pole by the chain around her neck, when she sat 
up erect there was a silvery clatter of chain and then stark silence as the 
two women stared hard in assessment of each other. Then came the swift 
turning of a key in padlocks and a moment letter Vanessa stood naked and 
free. Her savior led her by the arm through the door and into the African 
night, she pointed said simple, "Go." 

In the intoxication of freedom Vanessa fled. It was not until much later she 
realized this freedom had been granted by Hamid's wife. 

It was wonderful to leap forward, to use her arms in the rhythm of flight. 
She knew not were she fled and did not care. All she wanted was to put as 
much distance as possible between herself and the Hamish. There had been 
something about the Hamish deadening to the spirit and the soul. The little 
mill, the pole and its chains were a vivid nightmare she cast ruthlessly 
aside. Vanessa Pilgrim knew that far ahead of her was the coast, and 
somewhere in one of its cities or towns she would find a US Consulate and 
help. Her heart sang in exultation. 

Vanessa Pilgrim ran or walked intermittently throughout the hours of 
darkness and walked on into the sunlight of dawn, but as the growing heat 
matched her fatigue she finally fell in a grassy hollow and was instantly 
asleep. When she awoke it was to see, in a circle around her, a group of 
unsmiling faces. They were soldiers of the Republic, uniformed and correct. 
She recognized them instantly and once again her spirits rose. It was a 
shameful shock to be wakened and examined by this circle of male regard, but 
in the certainty of a return to civilization Vanessa saw only good. Brightly 
she exclaimed, "My name is Vanessa Pilgrim. Please take me to your 
commanding officer." 

* * * 

The handcuffs had been a shock. The sergeant had produced them as though by 
magic and disregarded Vanessa's instant revolution of, "You don't need 
those, please don't put those things on me, I've had enough of leg irons and 
handcuffs and chains. I'll come with you, I want to come with you " They had 
paid no heed but gathered her arms behind her back and clicked the shining 
steel tight upon her wrists. Bitterly she reflected on the familiarity the 
act now held for her, if one faction did not handcuff her the other did. 
Handcuffs had become an integral part of her existence. 

She was rid of them now, but only because she was seated in a bare, small 
room across a bare, small table to a smartly uniformed and much decorated 
male figure who addressed her with studious courtesy as "Miss Pilgrim" and 
informed her blandly that she was to be tried of a charge of espionage 
against the Republic of Congi. He further assured her the US Consulate had 
been consulted but refused to intervene in any case where one of its 
nationals was convicted of spying or the breaking of local laws. Vanessa 
Pilgrim felt the world slipping away beneath her feet as she listened to 
courteous but decisive tones of ultimate authority. There would, of course, 
be a trial, Congi did everything with scrupulous attention to protocol. The 
uniformed man shrugged and gestured, in his own way he was being kind. But 
he had explained the facts of her case to a delinquent maiden who should 
have had more sense. He shrugged and went away. Vanessa Pilgrim was returned 
to her cell. As though fearful of her powers of magic, she was once more 
handcuffed, this time in front but nonetheless securely. She was left alone. 
The trial of Miss Vanessa Pilgrim was a farce, she understood only bits and 
pieces here and there but enough to know she was accused of consorting with 
the enemies of the Republic and, in particular, with the Commandant of the 
guerrilla forces of the Macusi, whose name was Rod Sykes, possibly a 
pseudonym but well enough known to convict her utterly. She had been granted 
the aid of console who was a pleasant young man quite probably floundering 
in his first real case. The marshaled array of facts and indisputable 
evidence overwhelmed him and his client. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim of the United 
States of America and possibly of the CIA, was sentenced to twenty years of 
hard labor. 

Vanessa stood stunned. It had happened too swiftly for comprehension. She 
wanted to shout and scream and tell them how far from the truth they really 
were, but was intelligent enough to see their point of view and to realize 
that from that view she had no foot on which to stand. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim 
was a spy! When she told them of being whipped and tortured and held naked 
in chains they gestured in an embarrassed silence as though to indicate, 
what else could she expect! In tears she was led back to her cell by firm 
female fingers on her bare arm. The native wardress was sympathetic but in a 
hurry, she was a busy woman and what was one spy more or less in Congi! 
Congi was full of spies. Vanessa Pilgrim was one of the few who got her just 
desserts. In an excess of zeal but in total authority she once more produced 
the fated handcuffs and locked them on the unresisting wrists of a girl who 
would be put work to under a sentence of hard labor for twenty years, 
thereby obliterating her youth, perhaps her life. 

For a long time Vanessa sat upon the hard bench in her tiny cell and cried 
her heart out in desolation. None had come to her defense, she was 
surrounded by enemies, all of them sincere in their belief of her 
delinquency. The US Consul had expressed his regrets but refused to 
intervene. The handcuffs on her wrists were a final insult, a token of 
Congi's assessment. Quite probably they would stay upon her wrists for 
twenty years. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim wept and wept again. 

Vanessa's journey to the prison wherein she would spend the next twenty 
years was in the best Hollywood tradition. She was informed that, in Congi, 
prisoners convicted of espionage were denied clothes, they spent their days 
in a shameful nakedness appropriate to their trade. First there was the 
chain with the big ring and then the handcuffs threaded through the iron and 
clasp on her wrists so she must hold them the level of her waist. She was 
very, very helpless. But Congi was not thus easily satisfied, it insisted 
also on leg irons on her feet before she was lifted and hoisted within the 
vehicle which would convey her to her fate. Within were two more girls 
similarly constrained, but since they could speak no English and Vanessa was 
ignorant of their own tongue, all they could do was smile and shrug in a 
feminine resignation to something now inevitable. 

The prison embraced Vanessa with relish. She was washed and scrubbed and 
left to dry herself with handcuffed hands. Then came the ignominious 
fingerprinting and the camera which would record her for all posterity as a 
wicked, wicked spy dangerous to the welfare of the Republic. Throughout the 
whole ritual she remained firmly handcuffed but without benefit of the chain 
around her middle. This had been retrieved by the driver of the van which 
had brought them to their living grave. Such items were rigorously accounted 
for in Congi. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim was thrust harshly within the barred 
confines of a cell and ostentatiously locked in. No tears or protests of 
innocence would ever set her free. 

Survival in implicit in human life. Vanessa's mind, after the first storms 
of tears had passed, dwelt assessingly upon her chances. True, the consulate 
had ignored her trial but this did not mean they were unaware of her 
existence or her fate. This was a tiny ray of hope. Secondly, her case had 
attracted enough attention that surely Rod Sykes would become aware and 
might himself take steps. True, he would be in enemy territory, but he was a 
strong and resourceful man and the Macusi had friends everywhere. These two 
factors were on the credit side, but balancing them were the iron bars of 
Vanessa's cell and the handcuffs on her wrists. The wardress had told her 
frankly she was under suspicion and regarded as dangerous. She would be kept 
always handcuffed and/or attached to the bars as might please the wishes of 
those who dealt with her, and she would be naked also to reflect the shame 
of her activities against Congi's benevolence. It was matter-of- factly 
conceded that to keep her naked was a great convenience, both in the matter 
of her bonds and in consideration of punishment inevitably to come. It 
appeared that the terms "hard labor" were euphemisms for the whip and the 
yokes and the cords. Vanessa was assured of a painful twenty years. 

Perhaps the bland assurances of torture to come were no more than a 
conditioning by which the actualities of prison were made bearable. Those 
who controlled the prison for female offenders of the Republic might, in 
their wisdom, take the trouble to assess and to test female responses to 
confinement; no doubt it was an interesting study. The inmates, in their 
recreation hour, laughingly admitted torture might be preferable to the 
prison farm, the laundry, the kitchen, and such other tasks as were found 
for them to do. None were given a chance to escape. Always they were 
legironed or handcuffed or coffled in continuing chain from one delinquent 
neck to another. The prison lost no opportunity of impressing upon them 
rigid standards of a new Republic under intense scrutiny by the world. 
Theirs was a model prison and their treatment the most humane. If they got 
whipped often it was, of course, entirely their own fault. 

Vanessa came to hate the hoeing of potatoes and weeding of corn. The days 
under the hot African sun while she labored with the hoe or sought elusive 
weeds with handcuffed hands were long and sweaty and without reward. All too 
often at the end of a brutal day her labors were declared inadequate and 
beneath Congi standards, in which event she would be hung up by bound wrists 
and whipped according to her wardress' whim. She and all the other girls 
complimented themselves on acquiring an insensitive skin, leather in place 
of satin innocence and blunt resignation in place of sentience. At the end 
of thirty days all of them were well conditioned to a legalized enslavement 
and legalized punished which Congi flaunted to the world as fine examples of 
penal reform. The cells was worst of all. When, in the evening, Vanessa was 
returned to the barred cubical, hosed down and disinfected but still 
handcuffed, she relapsed upon the narrow bench which passed for her bed and 
never failed to shed tears of bitter remorse for that other imprisonment far 
away which she had so thoughtless fled. She wanted Rod Sykes more and more 
each day. 

The longing for a man occupied most of the thought and conversation of the 
prison inmates. They were mostly young, as are all delinquents, and their 
longing for the male thrust was natural and to be expected. To be expected 
also was a reversion to the Lesbian Way and the feeding upon each other 
which the authorities condoned. Some of the wardresses were the most ardent 
exponents of this art of Lesbos and when one of the captive girls found 
approval in the eyes of authority she had best behave herself and give a 
good accounting with tongue and lips if she did not wish to be publicly 
flogged. It was all very methodical and followed an even course. Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim was given up into this stream of female despair and 
contributed her own desolation to its continuousness, but Vanessa's physical 
involvements were few and far between. For some reason known only to itself, 
the prison authorities kept her isolated at night in a single cell alone. 
Usually there were two or even four girls behind each set of bars. But 
Vanessa must have offended deeply, or perhaps been privileged, to rate a 
cell all to herself. It was a terrible solitude in which tears were her only 
companion. 

Vanessa was kept handcuffed constantly, the shining bracelets never left her 
wrists. In the field she was legironed and these impediments were locked 
upon her ankles in the morning and unlocked every night. Her nakedness was a 
constant shame, true there were other girls as naked as she, but all who 
wore no clothes were the butt derision and caustic sympathy. But the white 
girl had little time with her fellow captives, her most regular human 
communion was with the wardress whose special charge she appeared to be. It 
was not long before this muscular and heavy-lipped black explained the 
service she would require of the chained girl upon demand, and on the 
earliest occasion stood with legs wide apart and hand holding a ready riding 
crop should the attentions of her prisoner lag. Miserably, but facing the 
inevitable, Vanessa knelt and surveyed and wide and heavy lips, the massive 
pubic patch and sniffed the pungent redolence of the distasteful area. It 
was useless to invite the crop, she had been cropped enough, with an inward 
moan but stem determination to survive, the white captive maiden clasp black 
thighs in joined hands and thrust her face hard within the most private 
place of a uniformed wardress of the Republic of Congi. It was all 
incongruous but nothing mattered any more. Presumably she gave satisfaction, 
her rations improved. 

Fortunately the prison girls far outnumbered their jailers, the servicing of 
the sex of authority was therefore well spread around. The uniformed women 
were capricious in their choice, flitting from one preference to another. 
Only their chief penetrated Vanessa's cell, but in her daylight Vanessa was 
often approached, as were all the rest, by an overseer with a whip who had 
no need to speak but simply stood with legs apart and sex blatantly bared 
for the sweating prisoner's attention. After her initial revolution Vanessa 
came to know, not without shame, she was looking forward to these interludes 
as a strange substitute for male communion in the loneliness of 
imprisonment. She reflected wryly on how far down the latter of human 
intercourse she had fallen. 

The field work was hateful. There was always the threat of the whip and a 
constant demand for a better and better performance with the hoe. Each girl 
must complete her allotted number of rows by the time the evening whistle 
would blow. Vanessa failed on two occasions and was, without comment, 
dragged to one side beneath a gibbet, from whose outstretched pole her bound 
hands were rudely suspended and her sweaty nudity marked by a methodical 
application of the whip. Throughout this ordeal the officiating officer kept 
up a constant conversation of explanation as to why Vanessa was being 
whipped and how it was hoped by authority she would benefit therefrom. It 
was slyly and sarcastically suggested that no doubt she would complete her 
allotted tasks on the morrow. Hating herself for her compliance, Vanessa 
always followed this good advice and on the following day contrived 
sufficient approval to escape the whip, stumbling to her cell in the evening 
in a state of utter exhaustion. 

The prison was not without its own ingenuity. Authorities well understood 
the tendency to suicide when girls serving a long sentence were subjected 
too long to a single punishment or the same never-ending labor day after 
day. It was thus Vanessa made acquaintance with a strange device. 

The prison had many rooms devoted to damsel's despair. In one was a tread 
mill which ground no com, its function was purely punitive and the knowledge 
of that fact added greatly to the dolor of any maiden compelled to lend her 
steps to its endless revolutions. It was all very simple. Loops of wire were 
tightened behind the knuckle of each thumb. The victim was invited to step 
up on the platform as her arms were raised. The platform was simply one of 
the broad blades of the endless mill. When both bare feet were solidly 
planted on this blade and the bare arms raised to the desired height, the 
punished prisoner was invited to start her walk and told to watch the 
pulling of a lever by a black hand. Immediately the lever was pulled into a 
fresh position the blades began to slowly revolve and the naked girl being 
punished had a choice of hanging by wired thumbs, a fate quite unthinkable, 
or stepping up to the next blade as it came around and then the next, and 
the next, and the next If you were not the girl whose feet must seek the 
blades it was an amusing contrivance, absolute uselessness adding much to 
the punishment. When Vanessa had been chained to the pole she had been at 
least grinding com, but now she must step up and step again forever in an 
utter futility of effort. No one had bothered to remove her handcuffs, they 
simply did not interfere with the function of the wire bands around her 
thumbs. But at the start, bewildered and confused by a sudden loss of 
stability, Vanessa stumbled in her steps and once or twice was briefly 
suspended by the wire. The pain was so shocking she dared risk no repeat. 
Obediently she watched the slowly turning blades and stepped each as they 
came her way. She turned to the watching uniform to complain, "But I can't 
possibly go on like this all day! I'll become exhausted I'll... I'll " 

"Yes, you can." She was assured blandly. "You have very good walk. You lucky 
girl to have good walk." The uniform walked away with all its dignity 
intact. The naked girl had no dignity to loose. Vanessa stepped and stepped 
and longed to scream. There were evidently hidden controls. The treadmill 
would suddenly stop still and leave its occupant stumbling and uncertain. 
Always when it started up again it caught Vanessa unaware and once more her 
thumbs felt the bite of wire. But the hours slipped away as did the droplets 
of sweat from beneath the bare raised arms. It was in this dire distress, 
this sweaty disgrace, that Miss Vanessa Pilgrim received her second visit 
from Mr. Bill Patton. 

At first Vanessa only sensed his presence. He had come in quietly through an 
open door and it took a few moments for the scent of his cologne to 
penetrate and defeat the pungency of Vanessa's sweat. The working girl 
looked sideways in deep shock and involuntary exclaimed, "Go away, please go 
away, I don't want you to see me like this, it's horrible!" 

Patton pulled back the lever and the treadmill stopped to leave Vanessa 
panting with heaving breasts and mantled shame. No man should see a girl 
thus shamed and humiliated or so bathed in the pungency of her own sweat, 
she was positive she looked terrible. 

"I know how you feel," Patton's voice held some urgency. "But this was the 
only way I could get to see you, and believe me it cost a pretty penny, 
these people don't bribe easily." 

"Take me home, oh please send me back home. Get me off this hateful thing! 
Please...!" 

"I can't send you home right now. What I want you to do is listen to what I 
have to say." Patton's voice was urgent as his gaze traveled from glistening 
crotch to up to the bare arms and captive thumbs. "I won't repeat what I've 
said before, nothing has changed. But I'm damned if I like the memory of you 
in circumstances like this. We can't beat the system, we can only bribe it 
and I don't have that much dough." He paused and added, embarrassed, "But 
I've discovered someone who does and who will part with it on his own terms. 
I won't disguise the fact his terms are damned stiff for any girl to 
accept." 

"Yes Oh, yes Anything!" 

"You're distraught. You say that all too easily." Patton's voice held true 
concern. "I would like nothing better than to gather you up and carry you 
out of this place. But I have to play by the rules and so do you." He paused 
again and this time his cheeks began to pinken in true embarrassment. "This 
isn't easy to say, but the fact is you've been enduring punishments like 
this for a long, long time and I suppose you must be getting used to them. I 
don't mean you're getting to like them but they're a fact of your life and 
I'm supposing you've adjusted to that fact. Am I correct?" 

"Yes, yes, yes... ! Oh, Mr. Patton, I've told you I'll do anything, I'll be 
anything, I'll get into bed with anybody, I've no pride left. If this friend 
of yours wants to tie me to a post all day, whip me in the evening, then 
sleep with me each night, I'll willingly say yes just so long as he takes me 
to the USA and does these things to me there." She wailed in anguish. "Is 
that what you're trying to say?" 

Patton was obviously relieved. "He's really not a bad guy," he told Vanessa 
reassuringly. "In many ways he's a gentleman, he's just got this thing about 
girls. I'm sure he's not a sadist, in fact I'm not sure of what things he 
does do to any girl he gets hold of. I remember he married one once, but it 
didn't last, they got divorced. But anyway, he's got the money to get you 
out of this prison and into the USA. This is the damnedest proposition I've 
ever made a girl but it's the only one I've come up with to fit your 
circumstances. Your circumstances aren't exactly normal, you know." 

Vanessa gazed up at her wired thumbs and then at the immaculately clad 
member of the State Department. Patton's offer would have sounded fiendish 
once but not now. Vanessa had come a long, long way since her walk into the 
trees from the old Mission. Her mind was a phantasmagoria of impressions of 
punishments, none of them actually sadistic, but sufficiently onerous to 
build within her being its own strange immunity. She collected her own 
jumbled emotions sufficiently to stare calmly at her visitor and say, "Yes, 
Mr. Patton. I'll be glad and grateful and terribly thankful to accept your 
friend's offer. And I'm grateful to you, too. Believe me, you don't know how 
grateful I am. Please get me out of here." 

Bill Patton nodded, "Will do. May take a few days so don't panic. And I'll 
admit I'm doing this as much to ease my own guilt as to set you free, I've 
been having visions of you ever since I first saw you and the way I see you 
now is something I simply can't take." He put his hand on the fatal lever 
and apologized, "Sorry about this." He pulled the lever, the treadmill 
started again. Mr. William Patton went away. 

Vanessa Pilgrim would once have hated Bill Patton for leaving her thus. But 
that was long ago, today she felt only a vast and overwhelming gratitude. 
Patton was right, you did what you could and you paid the cost if you had 
the price either in money or in girlish flesh. The steps she took now upon 
the hated treadmill seemed lighter as a revival of hope sent the blood 
coursing through her veins. Vanessa gave only a casual consideration of the 
possibility of getting herself simply out of one frying pan and into another 
fire which might be hotter than what she endured now. She refused to believe 
Bill Patton would thus abuse her trust or would wish to see her thus used No 
doubt this friend of his would have some kinky quirks which she could easily 
cater to in a climate and place where fear did not lurk in every corner or 
over every hill. She had much to think of now as the big blades slowly 
turned beneath her feet. It's revolutions would not cease because of Bill 
Patton's visit, they would continue on and on and on, and she would do her 
best to keep up with them rather than be suspended by wired thumbs. Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim trod bravely and with a heart more buoyant than at any time 
since her sentencing. The day wore on. 

The following day Vanessa was returned to the fields, and was whipped for 
not paying attention to her task. It was the field's gain on the day after 
but in early afternoon she was recalled, hosed down and dressed in a white 
sarong, little better than a folded sheet fastened above her breasts. She 
was then vouchsafed a piece of string around the waist to give a more dressy 
appearance. It was a convenient covering leaving no necessity to unchain her 
hands. The matron led her to the bare, little room in which there was a 
bare, little table and two hard chairs. Vanessa was thrust inside and the 
door slammed at her back. 

There are a few of us who do not cherish romantic fantasies which we 
diminish and adjust little by little in the awareness of what we get would 
not always be what we like. It was so with Vanessa Pilgrim now. She had 
hoped for a second Bill Patton or perhaps even Bill Patton himself but the 
man who rose now to give her greeting was a quite different type. He was 
masculine enough but lacked Patton's dimensions. His face was worldly wise, 
his eyes sharp and knowing. He sported a short, well-trimmed beard. About 
him was a touch of the artist. He clasped Vanessa's handcuffed hands and 
kissed them both in a manner courtly enough to send a faint flutter to her 
heart. He was dressed in a business suit which cried aloud of money, his 
shoes alone must have cost a couple of hundred dollar. 

His voice also reflected stocks and bonds and title deeds, it was the voice 
of a man who did things and reaped a rich reward. It was also sufficiently 
vibrant to be exciting. He might not be another Bill Patton but Vanessa 
Pilgrim decided he would do. 

"My name is Justine Moore, and you are Miss Vanessa Pilgrim. I am an 
entrepreneur, or if you prefer, a speculator. My pleasures are unorthodox. I 
believe Bill Patton has told you something of them... ?' "He said I would be 
your prisoner and be punished as it might please you." Vanessa's eyes sought 
his in a level assessment. The vibrations she was getting spelt instant 
rapport. "This is acceptable to me. I yield myself to you. If I can make 
terms they are simply that you take me back to the United States and use me 
there. Everything about this place has come to frighten me. I want no more 
of it. Will you do that?" 

"Agreed." His smile changed his features for the better. "But I do want you 
to understand what you're getting into. I am utterly shameless about girls, 
I enjoy them immensely, but I also use them to the full. If you accept 
enslavement to me you will be kept a prisoner as it may please me, you will 
be punished in many ways, the principle one will, of course, be by the whip 
or similar instruments." He smiled again, "Of which I am sure you know there 
is a great many." 

"I'm not shocked," Vanessa admitted with a wry shrug of bare shoulders. 
"Maybe I should be, and I would have been once, but not now. What you've 
told me is pretty much what's been done to me all through my several 
imprisonments in this country, but I think you will do these things to me in 
a kindlier climate and with a greater consideration." 

She smiled, "I guess my willingness to accept what you offer will give you 
an idea how great my loathing of Congi has become. " Vanessa gazed down at 
her handcuffed wrists stretched before her on the table's surface. She 
lifted them and tugged to spay her fingers wide. "Congi has kept these on me 
all the time, I am never free of them." 

"You may never be free of them with me, Miss Pilgrim." 

She shrugged again and made a rueful grimace across the table. "Very well, 
so I spend the rest of my life handcuffed. There's one thing I'll say about 
handcuffs, they don't hurt if you don't fight them. I gave up fighting them 
long ago." 

His voice was faintly anxious as he asked, "You don't find this conversation 
between us in this place incongruous and impossible?" 

"No. I might have once but Congi has cured me of any inhibition I ever had. 
All I want is out." 

"Stand up if you please and step away from the table." 

Vanessa flushed, guessing his intent. She stood, stiffly expectant while he 
unpinned the folds of her garment and loosed the string. Naked she stood 
before him in all her loveliness. As thought to flaunt her beauty and 
emphasis her statement of being inured to every shame, she slowly raised her 
arms then crossed her fingers behind her neck in a total exposure of every 
feminine curve and plane, she even slowly separated her feet to show this 
man she would hide nothing from him. Justine Moore nodded reflectively, 
turning her this way and that and unblushingly palming her puss and testing 
the resiliency of her breasts. "You are a very beautiful girl, Miss Pilgrim, 
I will be honored to posses you." 

Deftly he repinned her sarong and retied its string. "Please sit down again, 
there are things yet to discuss." 

Vanessa obeyed. She took care to once again extend her forearms on the table 
to enable Justine Moore to enjoy her handcuffed wrists. His pleasure in this 
confinement would once have revolted her. It did not now. Rod Sykes had 
taught her a great deal about the sexual curiosities of men. Stumblingly she 
repeated, "I wish I could tell you how grateful I am for this opportunity 
you are giving me." 

Justine Moore nodded and laughed at her frank sincerity. "Even without 
knowing the time I intend to hold you captive?' "Why should I question that? 
I am sentenced in this place to twenty years hard labor. Would you hold me 
longer?" 

Moore shrugged indifferently. "I don't suppose so." He frankly chuckled at 
the blatancy of his suggestion, "There's always the possibility, you know, 
you may not wish to be released. Have you ever thought of that?" 

"No. I'm not a masochist, I should tell you that at the start. If you whip 
me it will hurt and I will hate it, but I'll also know it's something I must 
endure." 

"And the matter of your journey to the USA? Have you thought of that, Miss 
Pilgrim?" 

"No, I haven't, and please don't call me Miss Pilgrim, my name's Vanessa. 
What do you want me to call you?" 

"In public you will call me Justine. In private you will address me as 
'Master.'" He motioned disarmingly. "This is a small conceit of mine but 
very vital to the context of our relationship. You will always show me a 
modicum of respect even though you may not feel it. Now, about your return 
to the US. Would you like to travel as freight inside a box?" 

"Good, Gosh, no!" She stared aghast, "Do I have to?" 

He chuckled at her alarm but pointed out reasonable, "Its one of several 
ways, you know. You can be strapped and gagged immovably in a crate and 
you'll get by as a piece of freight. I'll make sure of it. Another way would 
be to drug you so you'll have no idea of what takes place and you'll wake up 
a long while after in the good old USA. Do you like that better?" 

Vanessa wrinkled her nose but was well aware that she should not tax this 
man's ingenuity or helpfulness beyond his temper. Quietly she admitted, "I 
won't like it, but it that's the only way... " 

"It is not the only way." Justine Moore was gazing at her reflectively as 
though to gage her tolerances. He smiled as thought at something absurd. 
"There is an alternative. You could simply be a fellow passenger with me 
upon an airplane. Or would the intoxication of that freedom spur you to 
flight immediately your feet reached the ground?" He chuckled. "I wouldn't 
blame you if it did. This last choice is a bad one, it thrusts a terrible 
decision at you." 

Of the three choices, the last was the one Vanessa infinitely preferred. But 
she could understand it would tax this man's credulity far more than her 
fortitude. It would be hard for him to believe in her willingness to once 
more submit to enslavement once her feet were firmly planted on US soil. He 
might consider her stupid if she did. "I'd be immensely grateful to be a 
passenger on an airplane," she admitted with a gesture of helplessness. "But 
I can understand how you could doubt my sincerity in yielding myself back to 
you once the journey was over. Could I give you my parole or promise or some 
assurance... ? I mean, I would be crazy to let myself be put inside a box if 
I can go as a normal passenger." Vanessa gazed in earnest supplication. "Can 
you understand how grateful I'd be for this, how willing to please?" She 
searched feverishly for adequate assurances. "Will you believe me if I tell 
you I'll yield my hands to you for the handcuffs at any moment you wish 
after we leave the airport." She laughed almost gaily. "I don't suppose you 
can keep me handcuffed on the plane or walking through the turnstiles. I 
won't object if that is what you want, but won't that get us in trouble with 
the stewardess?" Vanessa slyly allowed a moment or two to pass before she 
added the single word, "Master." Justine Moore smiled as her rose to his 
feet. "I'll consider your offer." He acknowledged amiably. "I'm inclined to 
believe you would keep your word. I may take a chance on you. One way or the 
other, you can feel assured of returning to the US." 

"I'm so tremendously grateful Master. I can hardly believe any of this is 
happening." 

"You will, my dear, you must assuredly will!" 

 CHAPTER FIVE - PRISONER ON PAROLE 

Congi's prison for delinquent females might be open to bribes but was a 
stickler for ritual and prescribed procedures. It took Miss Vanessa Pilgrim, 
stripped her as bare as a billiard ball, changed her handcuffs from front to 
back, and as an added precaution, firmly bound her elbows as close together 
as they would go. The pain of elbows thus constricted almost dampened 
Vanessa's euphoria, but not quite! She was then marched to a waiting and 
anonymous van in which a black driver sat behind his wheel, indifferent to 
proceedings, while the staff performed it last function on their departing 
guest. They bound her ankles cruelly with thin twine then knotted them to a 
ringbolt in the floor to leave Vanessa the option of awkwardly sitting 
upright or laying back upon bound arms or painfully on her side. Before 
closing the door they assured the naked captive she was a very naughty girl 
to be thus dubiously freed. But by the time the van had traversed rough and 
rutty roads for half its journey Vanessa lost much of her enthusiasm. She 
had never been so painfully bound or so helpless. But the time the van 
reached its destination, a garage beneath a house, Vanessa was unashamedly 
crying. She always seemed to end up alone and hurting. 

It was Justine Moore who cut her binding to the van and carried her bodily 
upstairs to a bedroom most obviously feminine. To Vanessa's immense relief 
he cut away the strictures on her arms and ankles to leave her only with 
hands cuffed behind her back. The relief was so great it felt like total 
freedom. "Insensitive lot," he commented dryly as he stood her erect. "I can 
understand your wanting to get away from them. "In their position I would 
still have tied you, but a great deal more artistically. There's no need to 
cut a girl's arms off just to keep her safe." He wiped tear stains from her 
cheeks and held a glass of brandy to her lips. "Sorry to rush you, Vanessa, 
but the plane is waiting and there's no point keeping you prisoner around 
this place any more. How do you feel?" 

Vanessa gulped greedily and assured him she had never felt better in her 
life. Her heart was singing and her hopes soaring to new heights, the brandy 
helped enormously as did the caring regard of this new human of whom she 
must pay the honor of calling "Master. " Urgently she repeated her old 
refrain, "I'll do anything you want. Master. Just tell me what it is I have 
to do." 

Justine Moore laughed at her eagerness. "You'll bath and you'll dress and 
I've got a girl in to do your hair. The immediate question is, you're still 
handcuffed. If I release your hands you'll be an entirely free girl. How do 
you intend to act?" 

"The same as if I was chained, of course. I belong to you now. I understand 
the whole thing now, I'm certainly no novice at being the prisoner of a man. 
Like I said, tell me what to do?" 

It was glorious beyond words to be entirely free. Vanessa had been 
handcuffed so long she felt cold without their clasp. But she reveled in the 
bath and the ministrations of a black maid servant who spoke no English but 
knew her craft. After Vanessa had been bathed and laved and dried and powder 
applied where ever the black girl considered it needed, she was seated 
before a dressing table and huge mirror and her hair attended to in a manner 
it had not been dealt with since leaving the United States. It all felt good 
and wonderful and beyond credence. The freed girl was flooded by wave after 
wave of relief and exaltation. 

There was no more rope, no handcuffs, nothing! Justine Moore sat comfortably 
on the bed while his most recent purchase was dress and pampered by the deft 
black fingers. He was satisfied as Vanessa herself, though in a different 
way and for a different cause. When she was declared a perfect product of 
the maid's Art, she walked directly to the man on the bed and extended both 
hands, her smile almost mocking. 

"No, no more handcuffs for you, young lady, at least for a while." 

Justine got to his feet, slipped her arm through his, and suggested suavely, 
"Shall we go, my dear? I think it's time." 

The airport embraced them with great goodwill, they were first class 
passengers and must be treated with respect. The airline almost groveled. 
Money had never fallen to the lot of Miss Vanessa Pilgrim and she reveled in 
it now. Justine Moore yielded to his slave by allowing her the window seat. 
The first class accommodations were spacious and oozed comfort. The drinks, 
appearing as if my magic and without command, were instantly available. 
Justine Moore accepted everything as is a normal and expected part of daily 
life but the girl at his side was a-quiver with delight. She did nothing but 
enjoyed it all. 

Miss Vanessa Pilgrim had decided to close her mind to everything except the 
exact moment that was now. She refused to look backward or forward but only 
to enjoy the authority of her master's money. She sipped her drink and 
remembered, in quiet satisfaction, the tension she had sensed in her new 
guardian as they traversed the aisles and dealt with officialdom. It was 
still there but in a far lesser degree now they were safely on board the 
plane. Once airborne, it disappeared. Vanessa supposed it would recur when 
they disembarked, but she gaily and silently decided this was not her worry 
but that of Justine Moore. She knew herself firm in her intention to deliver 
herself in honor. Beyond that she refused to think. 

"Pleased with your bargain, Vanessa?" the quiet voice by her side was mildly 
curious. 

"Of course I am. What girl wouldn't be! Bill Patton must have told you the 
circumstances under which he talked with me the other day. Compared to that, 
this is a miracle." 

Justine Moore nodded. He was finding tremendous satisfaction in his prize. 
He was a man around forty years of age and the stewardess probably mistook 
them for a couple on their honeymoon, they radiated that kind of excitement. 
Vanessa was radiant. "I can't help being curious, in fact this whole thing I 
do with girls is partly motivated by curiosity. I may write a book on it 
someday. Have you no apprehension at what awaits you at the end of this 
trip?" 

"No much. I'm refusing to think about it. Don't worry about it. I'll be a 
good girl." Vanessa laughed frankly at the serious man at her side. "You've 
got it all wrong, Justine, it's you who should be anxious. I can run away or 
call the police. I'm curious too, you know. Supposing I did that, where 
would it leave you?" 

"Up the creek." He laughed back at her. "Probably the most interesting air 
trip either of us will ever make." 

"Thank you for trusting me." Vanessa bombarded him with female vibrations 
which were mostly of eternal gratitude. "I know you are taking a chance. I'm 
curious, too, to know how much it cost you to get me out of that prison?" 

"Plenty. I could probably bought a girl from a slave trader for less, but 
not of your quality, not necessarily white. They do sometimes have something 
of quality, but not often. They would pay a fortune for you and get twice as 
much." Justine Moore laughed and added, "I can always get my investment back 
that way providing, of course, you don't elude my grasp." 

Vanessa was not afraid of this man, she would hold him in deep respect and 
probably he would whip some fear into her, but for the moment her curiosity 
made her ask, with a sly whisper no one else could hear, "But, Master, won't 
you tell me in dollars just what my price was?" 

She had touched him, she knew she had. His answer was without hesitation, "A 
hundred and fifty thousand American dollars. It had to be spread around 
quite a few places. Actually I had friends and got you cheap." Vanessa 
mulled over a sum greater than she would ever own. There was a thrill in it. 
Justine Moore had bought a girl in a poke, sight unseen, for a hundred and 
fifty thousand dollars and she was the girl. She knew, in his shoes, she 
would be damned nervous when they got off the plane. Simply she said, "Thank 
you for telling me. I'm glad you did. I'll try to give you value for your 
money." It was almost a Pact. 

They talked of many things. They ate, they drank, Vanessa reveled in all the 
luxury money could buy but, after a while, Justine Moore returned to a 
subject which evidently intrigued him. He admitted as much. "Look, Vanessa, 
I'm making a hundred and fifty thousand dollar experiment. In a way I'm 
playing a bit of Russian roulette with myself, you could prove the one live 
cartridge in my gun. But I'm making discoveries of you. Perhaps one more 
glimpse into the mysteries of your sex, although goodness knows I've seen 
enough. Don't hate me if I pile stress on top of stress." 

"Why should I, Justine! You've already told me the things, or at least some 
of the things you'll do to me when you get me to where ever you're taking 
me. As far as I'm concerned, that's it." She smiled into his intent regard, 
refusing to be perturbed. "If I told you about the Macusi, and the Hamish 
and the things they did to me in that beastly prison you rescued me from, 
you wouldn't feel guilty. I think maybe you feel just a little bit guilty 
now? I believe men mostly do." 

"When I've got you safely home and we've settled in. I'm going to whip you, 
Vanessa. It won't be a flogging but you won't enjoy it." His tone was a 
question in itself. 

"Thank you, very much, Master." Vanessa deliberately made her voice coy and 
absurdly loaded with gratitude. There was a moment's hesitation before they 
shared laughter. 

Their rapport intensified. It was hard for Vanessa to explain or understand 
but she was feminine and it didn't matter just so long as it was there. No 
doubt Justine Moore would be very cruel to her, but for the moment he was 
being very kind and, again with feminine logic, she was prepared to balance 
the two against each other and arrive at a comfortable acceptance at 
whatever fate he had in store for her. She still had no thought of running 
away. 

New York taxed Vanessa's fortitude to the full. Their stay there was brief 
but gave her plenty of opportunities for flight. Justine Moore was wise 
enough to keep silent on the subject while they toured the boutiques and 
made a few purchases. If she ran, well, she ran! Justine Moore in no way 
wanted her to run but was prepared to take his own sporting chance. He was a 
gambler. But Vanessa did not disappoint him, and it was not until they got 
on their fresh plane that she asked, "Where are we going and did I do OK?" 

"We're going to Los Angeles, and you did wonderfully and I'm proud of you." 

"Proud enough of me to not whip me on arrival?" Vanessa's femaleness was 
arched. 

"Whipping you on arrival has nothing to do with pride," Justine admonished 
firmly. "I'm doing it for reasons of my own. We're not going to talk about 
it any more, understand?" 

"Yes, Master." Vanessa twinkled at him in outrageous mischief. "Did I say 
that right or did I sound silly?" 

"You sound the ultimate in perfection," he assured her congenially. "Almost 
too good to be true, but keep it up, I like it." 

Vanessa was thrilled; she had won a tiny victory. 

"I've got a ransacked old ruin up in the hills," Justine informed her 
conversationally. "Keep a Japanese houseboy there to look after things, but 
watch your step with him, he won't set you free even if you offer your body 
or whatever else you happen to think will work. It's not my official 
residence. I keep it for purposes you'll understand when you see it. It's 
perfectly designed for damsels in distress. I should probably had Dante's 
injunction carved above the door, 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.' " 

"Is it that bad? You make it sound like dungeons, racks and thumbscrews." 

"Well, not really. Cato is a good chap, he'll feed you well but that's about 
as far as he'll go. He keeps the place in good trim." Justine chuckled 
mischievously, "He keeps the Brazier burning at all times and the branding 
irons are always hot, he keeps the rack well-oiled and the stocks and 
pillory dusted. He regularly airs out the dungeons and keeps the chains from 
getting rusty." 

"I think you're pulling my leg." Vanessa was feeling more and more herself 
as she turned and slyly protruded her tongue at the man she must call 
"Master." She would not have dared do it an hour ago. 

"That little bit of mischievous will cost you five strokes, my dear. " 
Justine's voice was even and equable as though speaking of dinner. "Remember 
what I told you about respect?" 

"Yes, Master, I'm sorry." Vanessa made an unconcerned grimace and said, 
"I've having the damnedest time calling you Justine. That 'Master' bit sort 
of comes naturally." 

The additional five stroke penalty, whether Justine intended to dish it out 
or not, did nothing to dampen the euphoria of his new possession. True, the 
stewardess thoughtfully provided replacement drinks, and their affect was to 
add fresh colors to Vanessa's rainbow, but in the quiet, logical recesses of 
her mind, Vanessa was satisfied with the bargain she had made. She realized 
how absurd it would seem to a third party for her to keep her word. By all 
normal standards the entire situation could not happen. But it had happened 
by virtue of Congi attitudes towards the female. By Congi standards all 
Vanessa was doing was correcting an imbalance and striking a happy medium. 
Justine Moore was an unknown quantity and might abuse her terribly once he 
had her helpless. But Vanessa did not believe this and it was upon what she 
did believe she based her judgment and her resultant attitudes. She lived 
with them happily throughout the voyage. 

Cato appeared to have eyes only for The Male. Meeting them at Los Angeles 
domestic airport, his concern lingered for only the briefest moment on 
Vanessa but he bestowed his full attention upon The Male who paid his wages. 
Having closed the Mercedes door upon the man and the woman, her returned 
behind the wheel and then forth did not look back. A glass panel rose 
between himself and the two passengers in the back seat. It was as much 
privacy as they had ever had. 

It was the moment for which Miss Vanessa Pilgrim had waited with a sort of 
"now or never" 

"do or die" conviction; forthrightly she offered her hands and asked 
demurely, "Please chain me, Master." 

"That was done beautifully," Justine conceded. "But I'll chain you in my own 
time and my own way. It is then that you'll show submission. Understand?" 

Vanessa understood, but she was still within the roseate glow of gratitude, 
her voice vibrant with anxiety to please, "Perhaps you would prefer my hands 
behind my back, Master?" 

"That will cost you five more strokes, little girl," Justine explained 
suavely. "You'll learn by these small mistakes to reach perfection. This 
business of behind your back was just a continuation of the offer of your 
hands in front." He laughed at her dismay. "Refer to instructions about 
excessive submission or redundant subservience. It's important to me." 

Vanessa swallowed hard. She was still a girl at reasonable liberty, all her 
limbs were completely free. It seemed at variance with what this man had 
claimed to be but she would contest nothing, no doubt the confinements would 
come soon enough, meanwhile she would be foolish not to enjoy the possession 
of hands and feet. Laughingly she accepted the cocktails from the bar 
Justine Moore had disclosed by pressing a button. Everything in this man's 
world was magic. That magic was turning her into a fairy princess. Ruefully 
Vanessa realized she did not know the extent of the initial whipping she was 
to receive and therefore could not relate the ten strokes she had picked up 
to it. For all she knew she might now be destined for ten or twenty or a 
hundred strips upon her skin. The cocktail vanished the horrendous thoughts 
into the multicolored mists along with her memories of Congi. When they left 
the San Diego Freeway at Sunset and passed the Sherriden Hotel, Justine 
Moore's voice barely penetrated Vanessa's intoxication of happiness, "Give 
me your hands, Vanessa." 

It was only the smallest of shocks, she had wondered how long it would be. 
Recognizing this quiet demand as a normal part of this new relationship, she 
offered her hands willingly. Justine took the glass and set it on the tray 
while he clasp the shining bracelets on her wrists. He then returned it to 
her fingers, quietly admonishing, "In my own time and in my own place, 
Vanessa." 

The girl, once more captive but still able to scream, admired the expensive 
cuffs that joined her hands. Eyes sparkling, she raised her glass to the man 
who had locked the handcuffs on her wrists and playfully made a toast, 
"Here's to handcuffs and masters. Keep them on me always, please." 

"You're up to fifteen now, my dear. " Justine said amusingly, "But I'll 
forget this last five you just earned by this 'always' bit. You're new to me 
and I have to make allowances. Actually you're doing damned well." 

Justine had been right. It was all too obviously the relic of some forget 
film star's caprice, an ancient castle in miniature nestling within a canyon 
north of Sunset. Like so many of the multimillion dollar homes, it was 
well-shrouded by tress and shrubs from the road. It was only when Cato 
steered the Mercedes up the open drive to the forbidding portal that the 
place became real. Vanessa eyed it in total delight. Whatever horrors it 
held for her were effaced by its dignity of architecture. There was no moat 
and drawbridge but there might well have been. Within Vanessa's mind was the 
fantasy of the captive maiden, dragged from her father's home, to be 
imprisoned within this mellow stone castle for the pleasure of its master. 
Delightedly she exclaimed, "Why, it's beautiful. I don't care if it does 
have dungeons, it's still a storybook castle and I'm the captive princess." 

Vanessa scarcely noticed the handcuffs, it was strange to wear them along 
with clothes but the clothes were now an anomaly in her life. She quivered 
in excited anticipation as she was led within the massive door and into the 
waiting hall. Justine's tone was that of the owner, proud of his home, "Left 
side modern, right side medieval. The latter is simulated, of course, but I 
bet it would stand up to anything you'd find in Europe and be in damned 
sight better repair. First off, we'll try the left, no use jumping into 
things too quickly. Cato will have dinner ready for us quiet soon and we 
need sleep. We'll save the fun and games until tomorrow. But there is a 
thing or two to get you back on track." 

Vanessa knew the absurdity of seeing herself as the wife or consort of this 
man. But she was young and still romantic and the vision rose easily to her 
eyes as they entered the beautifully expensive lounge. For several moments 
while she looked around the two of them stood in diffidence, each well aware 
of something lacking and about to take place. Justine's voice soon broke 
their enchantment, "I want your clothes off, Vanessa." 

She supposed it would always be a blow, this stem male desire to see her 
nakedness. But it was implicit in their bargain. Vanessa raised cuffed hands 
and said with feminine logic, "I can't undress with these, there's straps 
and things?" 

"I'll undress you. Stand firm while I tug. There's a lot of stuff I'm going 
to have to tear away. You're right about the handcuffs, but that's the way I 
want it." 

Vanessa knew that there would be much to learn. This was probably the first 
lesson. She did indeed stand firm and in her familiar deliverance of herself 
to others clasp her bound hands behind her neck while rude male fingers 
destroyed clothes she would have loved to keep. One by one they were riven 
from her until she stood before her master totally naked. Refusing to be coy 
or ashamed she said simply, "My nakedness is yours, Master. I hope you like 
it." 

"I like it more than you'll ever know." It was the hungry assurance of a 
young man at his first sight of nakedness in the girl of his choice. But 
Justine Moore was not that young a man, from him it came as a fervent 
affirmation of worship. Vanessa realized she was in the hands of a man to 
whom the aesthetics were a vital part of his cruelty to girls. Justine Moore 
would always want her beautiful, even when she screamed. His voice was that 
of an impatience artist to his model, "Bring your hands back down and allow 
them to rest passive above your pubic hair. Incidentally, that's a lovely 
patch you've got." Vanessa obeyed, adding a touch of her quiet wisdom in the 
protrusion of her breasts and the separation of her legs. She was still 
abundantly grateful to Justine Moore and would give him all she could. He 
surveyed her sacrificial offering as though lost in dreams of what was to 
come. They stood thus for a long time. The handcuffed girl had the good 
sense not to move but to remain in a pose that evidently pleased her master 
much. It was painless and easy to hold, Vanessa's euphoria ran high. His 
command was abrupt emerging from visions in his mind, "Kneel. I'll show you 
how to do it properly." 

Vanessa obediently knelt. She could think of ways to dispose her nakedness 
but, with wisdom, she decided to allow him to direct whatever erotic 
arrangement he desired. 

"Allow your hands to rest as they did when standing, separate your knees so 
I can see within the cleft. Bow your head." 

Vanessa did as she was told, picturing herself as the epitome of man's 
desire, the totally submissive maiden, quivering at male command and most 
anxious to please her master. It was a dream few men would ever realize, but 
it was now reality for this man before whom she knelt in the total sweetness 
of submission. Quite simply she said, "I obey you, Master." 

So much time passed in Justine's contemplation in the beauty he had created 
as to cause the kneeling girl to wonder if he had forgotten the promise of 
the whip. She found herself uncaring as to whether he had or not. She was in 
a strange, otherworldly fantasy of her own, wishing it could go on forever. 
But the male voice shattered the figments of imagination, "You are too 
beautiful to believe. Stand up." 

There was now a collar for her neck, a beautiful thing she was allowed to 
examine before it was locked about her neck. It was metal with gems but 
relentless in its sober promise, from the back of it dangled a ring, pendent 
and awaiting for chain or a padlock. The naked girl realized with the 
strangest of thrills that little by little her freedom was vanishing. When 
male fingers locked shackles on her ankles she supposed freedom was gone 
forever. It was their pact, she could not complain. 

In the retracing of their steps back across the hall, Vanessa knew she was 
also shuffling her shackled feet back through the centuries. She was led 
through passages and corridors and up and down stone steps until they 
reached The Room. It was a bare and barren place but salvaged from despair 
by the mellow stone which lacked the animosity of granite or concrete. 
Somehow or other, without Vanessa knowing just how it happened, the 
handcuffs left her wrists and she dutifully raised her arms to place her 
thumbs within the small circlets offered by her lord, there came the same 
small clicks as with the handcuffs and the bite of the steel below her 
knuckles. When she tried to move from the post, of which the thumbcuffs were 
an integral part, she discovered she could not move, her thumbs were firmly 
held and any effort towards release or motion was rewarded by a pain. 

"Something new, dear girl, an innovation," Justine informed her in quiet 
tones of a father-confessor. "That's all there is, just the grip of steel 
upon those pretty thumbs of yours. You'll stand facing that post as helpless 
as with twenty yards of rope or chains." His voice became vibrant with 
emotion, "Tell me why you are held thus?" 

"You are going to whip me, Master." Vanessa's voice matched his in firm 
intensity. 

"That is right, Vanessa. Do you believe you can stand what I am about to do 
to you without breaking your thumbs?" 

"Yes, Master. I will struggle and scream but I will be held thus for your 
pleasure." 

"Tell me the number of strips with which I mark your skin?" 

"I have earned two separate inflections of five strokes each, Master, that 
is ten. Beyond ten strokes I do not know. I must bear what your pleasure 
dictates." 

Vanessa could hear his indrawn breath of exaltation, she was saying all the 
right things and could only hope she would continue to say them. Little by 
little she was absolving Justine Moore's desires. They would demand much of 
her flesh, and perhaps the knowledge of them would be a weapon in her hands! 
Vanessa was about to break the awesome rule by saying, "Please whip me, 
Master," but bit back the words which would only earn her more strips. 
Seeking approval she very simply said, "I am helpless, Master -- I am 
yours." 

It was hateful, as were all whips to naked girls, rendered helpless to the 
lash; a short stock, a single thong. Vanessa kissed it dutifully as it was 
held up to her lips, she did it in some subconscious memory of the symbol of 
which she told The Male of total submission to his will. Once again she 
heard his indrawn breath before agony exploded across her naked back. It was 
not until agony was piled upon agony and stroke upon stroke to the count of 
ten, that the screaming girl realized she did not know the dimensions of her 
punishment. Justine Moore's quiet voice brought her back from the mists of 
pain, "You have twenty more, Vanessa. Do you wish to plead?" 

"No, Master." 

The whip began again, not as swiftly as before, but with a rhythmic cadence 
by which each nuance of anguish might be rendered from the sullen flesh 
before the next stroke fell to mark in crimson the wicked strip Vanessa 
would bare for many days. Quietly her master said, "You are quite 
magnificent. You have fifteen more to go." 

Vanessa was living vividly within the measured spacing of each stroke, each 
was cruel but the whip was not the worst her master could have used. She 
knew this and was grateful. Trying hard to contain her screams and assuage 
her pain with moans and the heavy gaspings of her breath. Thirty strokes was 
a truly terrible punishment for any naked girl but Vanessa was well aware 
the blows cutting across her back and bottom were not as hard as they might 
have been; her master was being merciful in this first "welcome" to his 
domicile. She twisted and contorted around and hurt her captive thumbs in 
the enduring of what she could not escape. She hoped most ardently to be 
beautiful in all of it, to generate within the man who held and used the 
whip a reverence for beauty beneath his lash. When the twentieth stroke had 
cut her skin, Vanessa would have subsided against the post in tears but the 
nature of the thumbcuffs denied that, they gave her only the choice of 
standing with arms stretched out from their clamps while she sweated, moaned 
and gasped her way from the mists of pain. Recovering, she supposed it a 
most satisfactory whipping which should have given her master great 
pleasure. Some innate wisdom prompted her to whisper, "Thank you, Master, 
you are very kind. You could have whipped me harder but were merciful." For 
good measure she added, "I'm helpless, you can do with me whatever you 
wish." 

Justine Moore used the little key then led his slavegirl into dinner. 
"Better or worse than expected?" Justine gazed at the handcuffed nakedness 
across the candle light of dinner. 

"It was what I expected. I am marked as you promised. Thank you for whipping 
me, Master." 

"You're almost too good to be true, Vanessa." Justine Moore surveyed her 
stripped beauty with intense approval. "If you were a novice, I'd think you 
were having me on. But, considering your background, I'm willing to believe 
in your sincerity. You're quite remarkable." 

Vanessa was feeling a considerable thankfulness that her initial punishment 
was passed. Justine Moore remained an unknown quantity, he had simply 
whipped her and that did not tell her too much. 

Men loved whipping naked girls and their reaction was apt to be simply a 
hardened cock. It was expected that any man coming into possession of a 
naked slave would loose no time in whipping her to appease his lust. Usually 
he would expend his seed within her womb after the last stroke had marked 
her flesh, but this was evidently not Justine Moore's way. Justine Moore was 
a Sybarite and would extract from his naked females far more subtle nuances 
of expression and response than most men would ever dream. Miss Vanessa 
Pilgrim was glad she belonged to him and not someone else. The lash marks 
across her skin hurt bitterly but she was deeply content and gave her full 
attention to the meal. If the pain and shame of what Justine Moore had so 
recently inflected was a frightening augury of things still to come, it was 
easy to reflect back upon the Hamish and their pole and Leisha's whip, or 
there was the treadmill and the floggings after a cruel day's work beneath 
the sun with her hated hoe. Such reflections set a balance and restored Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim to a realization of being a very lucky girl. When, after 
dinner, she was taken to a feminine bedroom and chained by her neck to a 
feminine bed, she knew only a continuation of overflowing gratitude to the 
man who had whipped her and brought her back to the United States. She was 
almost instantly asleep. 

* * * 

The faithful California sun was well up when Vanessa awoke. The collar and 
chain was still padlocked but she was untrammeled by any other bonds. She 
sat up to tune of links and wistfully eyed the bathroom door. It was then 
she noticed the chain trailing from her neck and from the post of the bed 
looped themselves down to the floor. Looking over the side of the bed, she 
beheld a pile of links awaiting her pleasure. Excited as at a big discovery, 
Vanessa got to her feet, clutch her chain in one hand, and walked backward 
towards her desired goal. The chain was amply long enough for her to achieve 
her purpose, but when she experimented with windows and doors it snubbed her 
short. But the bathroom was a victory and a sign of her master's 
benevolence. She wondered where Justine Moore might be. 

Even the most expensive and feminine of bathrooms is basically utilitarian. 
Soaking in the tub, the chained girl deliberately quenched euphoria and 
tried soberly to assess her new condition. She tenderly fingered the marks 
left by yesterday's whip, considered the utter incongruity of a naked girl 
maintained in a slavery amidst the respectability of Beverly Hills. No one 
would believe that in this house behind the trees she would be as much a 
slave as in the wilds of Africa. The chain upon her throat was just as 
secure as the bonds of Rod Sykes or the chains of the Hamish. Justine Moore 
or Rod Sykes were scarcely comparable but each had made her their slave and 
exacted the full toll of her femaleness. Vanessa chided herself over her too 
ready acceptance of a fresh bondage, but on the other hand to be a slave to 
Justine Moore seemed, on the face of it, to be a distinct improvement to the 
slavery which had held her for so long. Wisdom warned that enslavement in 
luxury could be as painful as in the desert. She had already been whipped by 
a man she had not ever seen a week ago. No doubt she would be whipped again. 
But the chained girl realized she had traveled far along a single path, she 
no longer thought of freedom in the sense she had once known and, in her 
first captivity, most ardently desired. Her captivities had molded her 
thoughts and mind to the perspectives of slavery. Her almost fawning anxiety 
to please her new owner had not been of a girl swished from the streets and 
so frightened she conceived no other course, but had risen from a more 
mature assessment of what Vanessa Pilgrim now knew her life to be. Even back 
in the United States and in the luxurious prestige of Beverly Hills the 
chain around her neck was all Justine Moore needed to keep her for him own. 
The chain separated her from the teeming millions of this fabled city. If 
she was to be happy, she had to realize there was no difference in form or 
intent between the handcuffs now upon her wrists and those she had worn in 
the wilds of Africa. It was hard to expel thoughts of the plane trip home. A 
nagging voice within told her constantly she could have run away, that 
Justine Moore could not possibly prevented escape. Vanessa countered by 
recalling the age of chivalry and the common practice of exacting a parole 
which, in fashion, was still resorted to in most penal systems. In whimsical 
amusement she shrugged away the doubts, the act of submission had been made 
and she was now a prisoner, possibly for twenty years. Vanessa looked 
forward toward the end of that period and wondered if she would still be an 
attractive woman. Then she cast speculation aside as profitless. 

Cato was far less silent than Justine had suggested. Carrying a breakfast 
tray, he caught Vanessa half way from the bathroom to the bed, clutching 
about herself a damp towel of no great dimensions. She stared in an absurd 
dismay. Numberless men had seen her naked but here and now it was something 
she most ardently did not desire. Cato's English was perfect, "Your 
breakfast. Madam. Your Master left a note." 

Vanessa dived for the bed as her most stable refuge before oriental eyes. 
Clutching the covers tight she held out a bare arm then read the single word 
written on a virgin page. It said simply, "Dinner." 

"Your Master will not be home until late afternoon, Ma'am. If you will allow 
me, I will arrange your tray." 

"You mean I'm going to be alone like this all day." 

"I am empowered to lock you in a cell, if you should prefer, Ma'am." If 
there was sarcasm in the suggestion, it was well hidden. 

"No, never mind. No thank you." Vanessa gulped coffee gratefully and then, 
to the still standing servant, "If you are going to stay here while I eat, 
you might as well sit down." 

"Thank you, Ma'am. I will do so." 

Vanessa turned from the grave-faced man of indeterminate age and gave her 
attention to the food. But it was instantly evident that if she was to hold 
one hand clutching covers with which to hide her breasts, she was going to 
be a very sloppy eater. She thought of asking the servant to leave and 
respect her privacy but was unsure of Cato's rank in Justine Moore's scheme 
of things. Cato's voice was silk, "You are not permitted covering, Ma'am. 
Might I suggest you enjoy your breakfast without concern for baring breasts 
and nipples, I have seen a great many of both, they are no novelty to me." 

Vanessa blushed, feeling herself a child doing a childish thing in seeking 
to cover her nakedness before male eyes. Knowing she blushed, but knowing 
also she had best get used to it, she allowed the covers to fall away to 
reveal her twin curves with their attendant rosebuds. The breakfast was good 
and Cato was sure to see her naked often enough, so what did it matter! 

Half way through her food she demanded, "How many girls has Mr. Moore had 
like this? Am I somewhere around the twentieth?" 

"I am not at liberty to say, Ma'am." 

She did not want to know anyway, Vanessa assured herself. She refrained from 
asking where the discarded mistresses were disposed of, Cato would surely 
not tell her that either. But, annoyed by the servant's indifference to her 
charms, she asked sulkily, "What am I expected to do with myself all day? " 
She fingered her chain, "This thing only allows me to go to the bathroom, I 
can't even look out the window." 

"Mr. Moore forbids what he calls 'noisemakers,' Ma'am. You can not therefore 
have either radio, television, or a machine for tapes. I can, however, bring 
you some books and magazines?" 

"Well... if you wish. Its going to be a damned boring day." 

"May I suggest, Ma'am, your boredom arises from an unusual degree of 
liberty, you are being held only by your collar. I should explain that I am 
also empowered to constrain you or inflect corporal punishment should your 
attitudes or behavior warrant. Would such inflections help you to pass the 
time, Ma'am?" 

"Oh, shit!" The vulgarity leap from Vanessa's lips unbidden. She looked up 
questioning, "You're kidding?" 

"No, Ma'am." 

There seemed nothing more to say. Vanessa shrugged and waited for him to 
gather up the things and leave. Alone she threw back the covers and stood up 
to test a strange, restricted liberty. Amused, she walked here and there to 
the limit of the tether around her neck. She fingered the collar and found 
it of implacable metal. The mirror told her it was probably of bronze; it 
lent a fine barbaric touch to her nudity. Idly, Vanessa opened draws, as 
though waiting for her attention there was a sheet of paper in each. One 
told her she was beautiful, another told how whippable she was. Humorously, 
one offered a ten thousand dollar prize should she be able to escape. They 
were amusing and a little frightening, indicating as they did Justine 
Moore's complete conviction of possession. He could afford to play with her 
body and emotions as he chose. She would not dare be sulky, but the effect 
of the little notes was lighthearted and spoke of a fun side to the complex 
man who had whipped her with such calm judgment the day before. 

Without distraction, the girl's mind flitted here and there in search of 
interest. It found a fleeting touch of amusement by remembering how, upon 
waking, she had considered herself free of bonds save for the collar upon 
her neck. It showed the degree in which handcuffs had become a part of her 
being, she wore them without consciousness. When they stopped her from 
performing an act of any kind, she simply shrugged and wrote it off as a 
part of her existence. Only the Hamish had failed to clasp the metal 
bracelets on her wrists. Justine Moore had replace the utilitarian prison 
irons with handcuffs of his own. She raised them up before her eyes to 
admire their beauty. Like everything else about Justine Moore, they were 
expensive, quite possibly tailored to his custom specifications. They 
clasped her wrists in a snug and loving intimacy. 

When Cato returned with books and magazines, he nonchalantly hung upon the 
wall a slim and wicked length of a riding crop for her to see. He made no 
comment, none was required. Vanessa got the message. Alone once more, 
Vanessa plunged into the fashion magazines and reveled in them for an hour. 
She saw them now as belonging to another world even here in Beverly Hills, 
which was their most exclusive market, they were not for her other than to 
look and visualize herself thus clad. But there was arising in her 
consciousness the awareness that, if she must be chained, she did not wish 
also to be garbed. The two extremes were in violent contrast. The books she 
could not settle to, well aware of her own story being more remarkable than 
any fiction There was, however, among the cluster of gaudy covers, a 
magazine she was positive must be aimed at her with deliberate intent. 

She had previously only hear of them as hearsay, but here in all the 
loveliness of color and the graphics of black and white were endless 
depictions of naked girls in bondage. The photos were ingeniously bound or 
chained or caged for the reader's delight. They were accompanied by a 
running commentary of text. The girls were extraordinarily beautiful and 
disposed themselves in varying degrees of confinement with appropriate 
facial expressions. The photographs might well be real and of girls who, 
like herself, had lost their liberty. It was an expensive publication, 
expensively produced. There was nothing shoddy about it and, as she turned 
its pages, Vanessa became aware of the aesthetics of bound beauties. There 
was a most appealing picture of a naked maiden, handcuffed and confined in a 
small cage little bigger than herself. She was peering through the heavy 
mesh she clutched with chained hands as though in search of succor or a 
friendly word from a master or a mistress. Vanessa had once been laughingly 
told that in California anything was possible and was happening all the 
time. She turned the pages to discover the publishing house was based in 
this vast city of which she was now a part. There was a strange thrill in 
realizing that in these very houses, hidden behind the trees and shrubs, 
there might be other girls like herself, girls snatched from life and 
imprisoned in the lap of luxury to cater to male lust. The magazine had an 
editorial which spoke of politically of the arts and crafts of bondage but 
there was nothing within its covers to indicate why men found such joy in 
captive maidens and the whipping of their flesh. She would ask Justine about 
it, he would be sure to know. In the afternoon, in a restless need of 
motion. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim had a second bath. 

When the working male returns at five pm from his labors it is hard not to 
think in terms of husband and wife. Vanessa thrust the whimsical thought 
aside. Justine Moore had no need to marry any girl, least of all herself. 
But he made his appearance carrying a tray on which four cocktails glistened 
frostily. "Two for you and two for me," he said congenially without any 
other greeting. 

"I like a drink before dinner, it's civilized. I don't usually drink in a 
girl's bedroom but let's say I'm visiting you. Had a good day?" It was 
annoying the way his presence changed everything and made it good. Handcuffs 
and collar were now the most natural things in the world as was her 
nakedness. Vanessa knelt and sipped and looked adoringly at her owner, 
lounging in an armchair. "I was bored being alone. I wanted you. You were 
right about Cato, he's not conversationalist. " 

"Cato's a good boy. I see he's hung a riding crop on the wall, he's got a 
sense of humor." 

"It doesn't show. He told me you allowed him to whip me if I give him 
cause." She hesitated uncertainly before adding, "Do I have to badly 
misbehave or is he allowed to whip me at his pleasure?" 

"Only with cause, dear girl. Mine is the privilege of caprice." His eye 
roved. "I see you've noticed that magazine?" 

"I was going to ask you. What's it all about? I mean, who buys it?" 

"Any one who can't afford to own a girl the way I own you." 

"All men want to bind us and whip us...?" she sounded incredulous. "A great 
many do." Justine Moore spoke causally of something he had long known. "The 
wish, in both sexes, is wide spread. I can't give you statistics, but if you 
don't have the dough for a girl, you buy the magazine." He laughed easily, 
"I'm one of the luck ones." 

A comfortable silence fell upon the man and the girl. The owner gazed with 
pleasure upon his property as he quietly sipped; his property basked under 
his regard, content to be desired, if she was desired in chains so what! 
After a long while Vanessa said, "I want you to know I'm still grateful over 
what you've done with me. If I'm silly about this, well then I'm silly. But 
kneeling here like this in California, talking with you is paradise compared 
with the life from which you rescued me." She shuddered physically. "It 
still frightens me to think about it." 

"If I asked you to give Cato a blow job, would you do it?" Vanessa flinched 
as from a blow. This man would always enjoy tossing bombs in her path and 
watching her react. Temporizing, she said anxiously, "I wish you wouldn't 
ask?" 

"You'd do it for me?" 

"Yes, of course I would. But you're different." 

"No, I'm not. The difference is in your mind. You know I can compel you and 
the compulsion will be painful. May I suppose you have the good sense to be 
obedient when I give the order?" 

The kneeling girl ruefully supposed slavery would always impose the bad with 
the good, not that the act required was brutal but mention of it seemed 
incongruous in this hour before dinner time. "When the time comes I will 
obey you," she said slowly and thoughtfully. "I'll do it because I have to, 
but also because I've got a feeling of sort of owing you something, owing 
you much more than what you've just spoken of." She shrugged and smiled 
apologetically, "Forgive me, I'll get used to things. Being a slavegirl 
within civilization is a whole new experience." 

Justine Moore was quietly enjoying his recent acquisition, testing her 
tolerances and watching her react. He was in the grip of a pleasant 
lassitude after the hard day and to find this delicious creature in her 
chains awaiting him was pure delight. Quietly he probed, "There will be days 
when you are not either tortured or punished. Will you be bored?" 

"Yes." Vanessa exclaimed the single affirmative in sweet simplicity. "A 
slave without her master is only half alive." She laughed gaily, "I must 
have read that somewhere. I'm quite sure I didn't make it up myself." 

"A charming thought, cling to it my dear. Its absolutely true." They sipped 
and talked like happy children. Occasionally the man slipped a rapier-like 
probe at her to catch her unaware. But Vanessa was becoming used to his 
moods and methods and finally thrust one of her own, "Would you like to fuck 
me. Master? I'm terribly ready." 

"I can't. I'm impotent." 

The silence was of shock, a shock of which Vanessa Pilgrim found herself 
utterly shattered. Instinctively she put down her glass and clasped her 
master's knees to lay her head upon his lap. "I'm terribly sorry. 

Oh, Master I never dreamed... " Justine stroked her hair with a lingering 
sensuality, ticking the nape of her neck. In spite of the terrible import of 
his statement, his voice was a quiet chuckle, "Sorry? For you or for me?" 

"For you, of course!" The affirmation was vehement, "I don't matter." 

"Yes, you do." Tenderly he raised her chin to look down into her eyes, he 
beheld tears. His voice was quietly unconcerned, "I have to somehow make you 
understand that what I've told you is of no matter or concern to me. I can 
extract from you or any girl such exquisite pleasures of the flesh that the 
carnal act pales into insignificance. As time passes you'll understand what 
I'm telling you. There are now two demands I impose, first that you never 
offer sympathy, second that you will never speak of this again unless I 
broach the subject. Understood?" 

"Yes, Master, I understand." Vanessa did not resume her kneel, her mind was 
agile in adjustment. She remained nestled against him as though in some sort 
of protection, her voice a whisper, "Would you like to whip me again, 
Master?" There followed a short pause of indecision, "That is your 
compensation, isn't it?" 

Justine Moore leaned down and kissed away her tears. "Kneel back again and 
drink your drink," he ordered amiably. "I should punish you for that 
question, surely you realize you are touching on the subject when you ask 
it. But this first time I'll let you get home free. You and I are going to 
make a lot of explorations together and in the course of them you're going 
to become far wiser that you are now. Let it at that. You have to understand 
neither of us has lost anything." Seeing her features still stricken, he 
added with laugher, "I know what you're mourning, but I'll make certain you 
get more orgasms than any other girl in Los Angeles, and that's saying a 
lot." 

"Its not the same. And you mustn't feel you have to do that for me Please!" 

"Don't underrate my ingenuity, child. There will be times when I'll make you 
the most satiated young woman in the USA. There are many ways I may even 
bestow you as a favor on a man." 

"I'd hate that." 

"You are a slave." 

It could not be said a mood was broken, but Vanessa felt nothing would be 
quite the same again. She was ashamed of the surge of lust which must now go 
unappeased and was doubly demanding as a consequence. She resolved to use 
her finger in the night. 

Justine unlocked the padlock but left the collar on her throat. He added a 
metal belt which fitted snugly within the softness of her waist. It locked 
and would require a key. While she was still kneeling, he fastened metal 
anklets in a viciously tight grip and told her to walk. When Vanessa 
essayed, her swelling tendons rewarded her with pain. She took several 
anguished steps in disbelief and wonder before slipping down once more to 
the rug. She looked up at her owner questioningly. 

"New idea, Vanessa. Something I thought up myself. With those bands locked 
on her ankles, a girl is not going to run. She won't ever want to walk, but 
it does save that inconvenience of the chain between her feet. I can't have 
my favorite slavegirl tripping and falling on her face. You may now consider 
yourself dressed for dinner." 

He was unexpectedly strong. Vanessa thrilled to the age old clasp of male 
arms. Her master smelt pleasantly of cologne, good cigars, and that 
indefinable aroma of wealth found only in the most expensive offices. So 
long as she did not stand upon her feet the anklets imposed no pain. She 
could quite probably bare their agony for half a dozen steps but they would 
swiftly bring her to her knees in any serious effort to escape. They were 
neat idea and typically Justine Moore. 

Vanessa was placed in a chair held ready by the impassive Cato. Justine took 
his place at the head of the table, opposite Vanessa, across the gleaming 
silver and white candles. The candlelight was soft and, had it not been for 
Vanessa's bare breasts, an onlooker might have supposed that with her 
anklets, the belt around her middle, the collar on her neck and then her 
handcuffed wrists that the maiden was adequately clothes for the intimate 
dinner between a man and his girl. The service was superb and the food 
impeccable. Cato was a jewel. 

"Consider the potency of contrast, my dear." Justine suggested quietly, 
"Your chains and whip marked skin against the tete-a-tete and candlelight." 
He chuckled at her rapt attention. "Think further of those days when your 
diet will be the fabled bread and water in your cage as against these 
gourmet masterpieces Cato now serves. You see my point?" 

"You're a Sybarite, Master. Is that the word?" 

"It will do. Sybarite is simply a civilized male, appreciative of the good 
things of life." He bestowed a sly, meaningful glance, "Of which you are the 
first and most important." 

Again there was the sense of being wanted and longing. Vanessa routed the 
insistent jibes of her being a coward, a masochist, and a lickspittle. If 
that was what she truly was then, once again, so what! If the only way a 
girl of her station could enjoy the wealth and luxury of power was to be a 
slave, then so be it, she would be a slave indeed! She was well aware of 
Justine's eyes admiring her dexterity with knife and fork while handcuffed. 
She deliberately made great play with handcuffed wrists and their gleaming 
bracelets. Perhaps, after being punished a great many times, she would cease 
to feel a gratitude towards this man, but for now the gratitude submerged 
all else. 

It was in the pause between the main course and dessert that Justine once 
more asserted himself as the owner of a slave. His voice was quiet but 
deadly, "You will now perform fellatio on Cato, my dear. You will remember 
our conversation." 

Vanessa supposed such hammer blows as this would always strike her at the 
peak of some particular enjoyment or perhaps as one emphasis on contrast. 
Her master was equably nibbling asparagus and appeared to have said nothing 
untoward. The chained girl longed to cry out against injustice and to ask 
why so lovely a moment should be shattered by the vulgarity of sex. She 
stole a glance at Cato as though seeking help. But Cato had stationed 
himself well within the master's view and was standing legs slightly apart, 
his hands disposed behind his back. He was a picture of studied unconcern 
whose gaze was somewhere beyond a horizon only he could see. 

"Why are you waiting, Vanessa?" The query was softly polite. Vanessa was not 
waiting, she was merely suffering from shock. This was a brutal time and a 
wrong place for what she was suppose to do Between the main course and 
dessert! With a small sob, she rose to her feet then collapsed with a gasp 
of agony upon the rug. 

Vanessa had forgotten the metal circlets on her ankles, they had brought her 
low as surely as if under an electronic impulse. Her master paid no heed but 
sipped wine, his eyes surveying another comer of the room. Cato stood as 
passive as ever, awaiting his tribute from a chained white girl. Vanessa 
treated her fall as a inevitable part of the exercise and crawled on hands 
and knees to the highly polished shoes of the waiting Major Domo. From the 
indecent vantage between Cato's legs, Vanessa looked back in wide-eyed 
appeal at the master, but Justine was still involved with food and gave her 
no more than a smile of approval and a quiet nod. Furious with the whole 
situation and herself, Vanessa raised her joined hands to the fastening of 
Cato's pants and drew the zipper down. Thus had a thousand maidens through 
the years paid tribute to the conquering male. The revealed exhibit was 
fully as large as expected. She took it inside her mouth as though in a 
great hunger, remembering the first time she had been compelled to perform 
this service with Rod Sykes. It seemed a long time ago. Following the 
ancient adage, she applied herself lustily to a phallus for which she felt 
no love. 

Justine Moore watched. He was enchanted. 

 CHAPTER SIX - SEXUALITY 

Impotent, Vanessa Pilgrim rolled the ugly word over and over in her mind. 
She supposed it would explain much of what Justine Moore was. And what his 
treatment of her would be. She was discovering in him a deep and throbbing 
sensuousness. She supposed nature's deprivation of the male function had 
made him something of a voyeur. But she could easily have done for her 
master what she had done for his servant. But Justine had preferred to 
watch. She had heard of complexities within the mind far keener and more 
sublimating than the ordinary physical things of everyday. Justine Moore was 
an uncharted ocean on which she was about to steer a course. Most certainly 
his voyeurism would not interfere with what he did to her himself. The 
whipping she had already received at his hands had hurt every bit as much as 
if delivered by Rod Sykes in the same degree. It had given Justine great 
pleasure, but Vanessa supposed it was so with all men. 

When Vanessa pilgrim had completed her assignment with Cato she experienced 
moments of deepest shame as she zipped up what she had previously zipped 
down and then turned back to be on all fours, handcuffed and ankleted, to 
make her ignominious return to Justine Moore's dinner table. She slipped 
back into her seat with a small gasp of pain and a furtive, sideways glance 
at her master. Justine was frankly looking at her with admiration and 
approval. He would not allow her to sit in sulky shame nursing the memory of 
what her mouth had held and her lips caressed. He spoke aloud the thoughts 
she hoped were true, "I don't want you ashamed, Vanessa. What you have just 
done is a nothing, a negative, a diversion without significance. There would 
have been little difference had you sucked Cato's thumb. Wipe those shadows 
from your face and smile." 

The chained girl might have found Justine's order difficult had he not 
followed it up with a demand for an accounting of her captivity since the 
Rod Sykes beginning at the old Mission. Soon she became animated and he 
listened attentively, asking questions relative to the individual 
punishments inflected upon her by a succession of captors. She found herself 
laughing and protesting, "Please don't install a treadmill, I couldn't bare 
it!" 

Night crept upon them both. For Vanessa it held terrible question marks. 
Justine seemed unconcerned. For an hour in the lounge before bedtime they 
were husband and wife, sipping brandy and recounting experiences. The man 
knew the girl was hungry for information as to what he intended to do with 
her, but this he deliberately withheld. Only once did she transgress and 
then the order was swift and firm, "Go to the cabinet, Vanessa, and fetch me 
the strap you'll find in the second draw." 

"But, Master, I can't walk?" 

"Crawl." 

Once more the shame. It would have been so much easier had she not been 
handcuffed, but as it was she progressed by undulation motions much like a 
caterpillar. The strap was there, it was an implement she had not previously 
seen; it was wickedly flexible and had the appearance of much use. On her 
return trip she carried it in her mouth. Vanessa Pilgrim knelt. She kissed 
the leather by which she was to be given pain, and offered it to her master 
with bowed head. 

Justine Moore did everything right. He was an artist employing the 
instruments and materials of his Craft. Since his slave girl could not 
stand, he arranged her instead in a kneeling posture with knees brought up 
to her elbows and her forearms flat upon the carpet. He thrust hard down on 
the small of her back where the metal band already constricted her waist, 
and patted her upraised bottom approvingly, "You will keep still for six. If 
you fall sideways, it will be twelve." 

Vanessa's slip of the tongue and her master's instant response had been so 
swift now she found herself in a turmoil of mixed emotions, the principle 
one of which was fear. It was going to hurt, she knew it was! She would be 
compelled to hold this shaming pose to received the six blows from the heavy 
leather but to make no complaint. She hoped she could; most desperately she 
would try. 

The first blow smacked across her bottom with a resounding crack. Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim moaned but did not move. 

"Excellent, my dear, I am proud of you. Try number two." 

For her master this would be better than orgasms, Vanessa was sure of it. In 
this shaming, pussy-protruding pose, Justine would find his own particular 
joy. In the thwack and thrum of the flagellum he would find the most 
exquisite joy. She knew instinctively he would prefer her to maintain the 
pose and not earn the extra six strokes. He was a sensualist, not a sadist. 
For Justine Moore, whatever he did with his slavegirl would have to be 
ritualistic and beautiful. He would find no pleasure in her groveling upon 
the floor and pleading for mercy. Vanessa did not wish to see the expression 
his features would bare if she fell short of perfection. She steeled her 
mind and clenched her teeth, her hands were already white-knuckled fists 
beyond the handcuffs. 

Vanessa was certain number two was worse than number one. But each separate 
stroke had its own venom on her flesh. A maiden bottom offered many curves 
for a flagellum's bite. When the wicked leather impacted across her cheeks, 
between which her pussy was coyly evident, she squealed in pain. Except for 
that one lapse she knew she had composed herself to good advantage. 

"You'll get used to these little interludes, my dear," Justine said affably. 
"We have to expect them, they're a part of your training, a part of our 
getting to know each other." He laughed at her woebegone expression. "And 
don't ever expect to be free of these corrections, you'll never fail an 
excuse. Very well, you may uncoil yourself and resume your chair. If your 
bottom hurts, they sit over on one hip." Miss Vanessa Pilgrim sat solidly 
upon her hurt. She was not going to sit in some shameful posture because of 
a bit of pain. But she not no sooner arranged herself when another curt 
order brought her back to her condition, "May as well put the strap back 
where you found it, Vanessa. Get with it." 

Again the shameful journey, the dog-like clenching of her teeth upon the 
instrument of pain. When it was done and she was once more seated upon her 
tender flesh her master said, pleasantly, "I'll always keep you alert, 
Vanessa, I'm going to make sure we never fall into a rut," he laughed at her 
stricken face. "The thing to avoid in these situations is the atmosphere of 
domesticity. If a girl does start to become domestic the instinct must be 
thrashed out of her. Just a warning." 

The easy with which they slipped in and our of normalcy amazed the chained 
girl. Vanessa had no sooner resigned herself to pain and pouts and sulkiness 
than she discovered herself suddenly animated about topic her master 
discussed with consummate easy and charm. Here was a man of many part, she 
might never know them all. Perhaps Justine Moore's impotence had accentuated 
his other faculties. Vanessa sensed his potency of pleasure in a girl went 
far beyond the norm, she could feel his vibrations and knew they spurred a 
volley of return fire from herself. By bedtime they were a man and a girl 
tremendously aware of each other. 

Vanessa had stopped comparing Justine Moore to Rod Sykes. They were such 
worlds apart, comparisons would be ridiculous. Justine was a new breed of 
The Male she had never previously encountered. But the nature and potential 
of her new master was not solely intellectual. When he had chained her to 
the bed in the same manner as the night before, he stripped himself of 
clothes and stood before her unashamed. Vanessa tried hard not to look at 
his genitals but inevitably her eyes focused thereon and told her this man 
was both large and normal. If the flaccid phallus had the power of erection, 
she knew she would be quivering in anticipation and excitement. She arranged 
her chain, the ankles would not matter through the night and her braceleted 
hands could cope with anything. Justine Moore got in besides her and turned 
off the light. 

The heat and pressure of the, by no means small, male body against her own 
flesh aroused both Vanessa's carnality and female sympathy. She put an arm 
across the hard male torso and whispered in the quiet male ear, "I'm so glad 
you bought me, Master. I'm terribly, terribly glad." She kissed his cheek 
and then his eyes and then her lips sought his willing mouth and glued 
themselves thereon with deep, deep passion. 

They cast aside the bed clothes and were swiftly engaged in adult love-play. 
Nipples were laved with tongues and nipped with teeth, no crevasse or cleft 
of either went unkissed. Their erotic joy went on and on a long, long time 
until male lips found the female vulva and entered therein to make their 
owner thrash and wildly toss her head and shackled hands in an abandonment 
to an ecstasy beyond previous knowledge. When Vanessa Pilgrim had exploded 
again and again and was still gasping and moaning from the last ecstatic 
agonies of sex, she was impelled by but a single thought, she had received 
abundantly and must now return her joy from whence it came. She had totally 
forgot the ugly word. It was not until Justine's phallus was deep and rigid 
in her throat, that she realized the miracle. 

Neither of them mentioned it. It was as though a pact of silence held the 
rigid male member thrustingly erect, words could do nothing for it and were 
best unsaid. The two of them gratefully entered a tremulous tumescence and 
played it to the full until, gasping and moaning in satiety, they fell 
asleep. 

"I want to do something tremendous, Vanessa." Justine was sitting astride 
his captive nakedness and playing with the nipples on her breasts. "I've 
been thinking that miracle, a miracle I can't explain and neither can you, 
but somehow I must show my gratitude." With majestic fervor he pronounced, 
"I hereby grant your freedom!" He chuckled at the growing comprehension in 
Vanessa's eyes. "Think of it, Darling, you'll walk out the door of this 
house then be driven down to Sunset Boulevard and then to Santa Monica 
Boulevard and after that the freeway to where ever your little heart 
desires. Is that reward enough?" 

Miss Vanessa Pilgrim was crying. One tear followed another down her cheeks 
without her handcuffed fingers making any effort to stem the tide. The man 
sitting astride her naked loveliness watched, motionless and absolved. After 
a while Justine asked, in a voice unlike his own, "Do those salt drops tell 
me you don't want to go?" 

"You know I don't." Vanessa's voice was almost aggrieved. "Don't you ever 
dare say something like that to me again." 

Instinctively they returned to the erotic love-making they had begun the 
night before. The male rod punished the female sheath with huge, satisfying 
thrusts. They made the age-old journey to the stars and returned to earth in 
time for a very late breakfast Cato had prudently delayed. "It won't make a 
bit of difference to the way I treat you, Sweetheart." Justine Moore 
studiously buttered a piece of toast. "I'll probably be extra cruel just to 
affirm what I've just said. " He paused to eye Vanessa thoughtfully, "You 
really would be smart to escape now while you still can. My offer is still 
open, you know?" 

"I wish you'd stop talking about that, you idiot Master." Vanessa flounced 
her hair and gulped coffee. "You can whip me after breakfast, if you want. 
I'll hate it but it will serve me right. Maybe you should. I'm not leaving 
you, you're stuck with me." 

"I can toss you out the front door with some clothes and some money, 
Sweetheart. What would you do then?" 

"Break a window and get back in." Vanessa's answer was instant, leaving no 
doubt of its sincerity. They referred to the miracle no more, it was a 
secret between them and no other, it transformed their lives and their 
relationship. Each understood that between them they had created some 
chemistry by which potency flowered once more in Justine's loins. Vanessa 
secretly hoped this virility would apply only to herself. Perhaps it would, 
but she did not mention this hope, she was wise enough to know when she was 
wining. 

Their days drifted comfortably by. For the first of them Vanessa was in 
halcyon mood and cared nothing about anything except the return of her 
master in the late afternoon. She was a bride, still enamored by sexual 
discoveries and the delights of possession and being possessed. When boredom 
asserted itself, as it was bound to do, in the loneliness of the afternoon 
she insisted Justine arrange, either with himself or with Cato, to assure 
her some diverting discomfort or, if he so willed, actual pain. In this 
incredible slavery Vanessa was catching sight of the devastation of ennui by 
which marriages dissolved. Hers would not dissolve, the chains would make 
sure of that. But she wanted it to endure in a constant sexual arousal and 
erotic excitation. This might have been an impossible ambition for most but 
certainly not for a slavegirl owned by Justine Moore. Justine's sexualities 
matched and surpassed her own, in one of them he contrived a situation his 
slavegirl would never have chosen of her own accord. 

The house had many room, it had cells and dungeons and an endless array of 
erotic punishments. Before leaving for the office one morning, Vanessa was 
led by her master through a fresh portal which disclosed a cage in the 
center of the floor. It was not a large cage, and its floor was wood. Its 
top was completely open but framed by metal groves. Vanessa was certain this 
boded her no good. Leaping to instant conclusion she exclaimed, "But Justine 
I can't possibly sit in that little thing all day, I simply can't!" 

"You don't have to, stupid girl. Step inside." 

Vanessa's feet bore no painful anklets, she was constrained only by 
handcuffs, the collar on her neck and the band around her waist, none 
stopped her doing anything. Blithely she threw a leg over the side and 
stepped up and into the heavy wire mesh enclosure, the upper level of which 
was at the height of her tummy. When Justine, thoughtfully taking his time, 
tied her ankles, one to each side against the heavy mesh, it caused her to 
exclaim, "They're so far apart, Justine! I can't possibly sit down." 

The master made no reply. Instead he selected a wide board which he thrust 
within the grove at Vanessa's back. It was shaped to accommodate her waist 
and, when locked tight, gave her something solid to lean back against. The 
fit was, as usual, tight to perfection. Another panel of wood fitted in the 
front and was thrust home to encase her middle solidly in heavy wood. 
Vanessa tested it and found it firm, it would not move. Because of it, she 
could see nothing of herself within the cage, she was a maiden sundered at 
the center of her being. Justine snapped locks tight then stood back to 
admire. "Nice, very nice." He approved grandly. "Try and get out, 
Sweetheart, I want to see you try." 

Vanessa did as she was told. She knew it a waste of time, her ankles were 
bound tight and out of sight, her waist held in the tight grip of the shaped 
boards. Her handcuffed hands could beat upon the wood or reach ineffectually 
to either side without results. She was fixed and helpless, but this was par 
for the course. She told her master this, with amused indifference. As 
punishments went, this one was mild, it would frustrate and prevent her 
playing with herself, not that she resorted to that relaxation much any 
more, it was just that she thought of it within her mind as a "funny 
feeling," this funny feeling resulting from her inability to see the lower 
half of her person. She laughingly saw herself as a girl cut in two halves 
and the top half placed upon a panel of wood, her wrists baring shining 
bracelets to render her hands ineffectual in any attempts to escape. 
Playfully she demanded, "Where on earth did you get this idea, Justine, I'm 
going to feel an awful idiot in front of Cato." 

"Not quite through, Pet, this cage is a bit more versatile than you 
suppose," Justine assured her cheerfully as he removed the vertical wire 
segment from the cage's end. His cheerful "back in a minute" left his 
slavegirl wondering but without a clue. 

The dog was an amiable collie. Justine must have borrowed or purchased or 
rented it from elsewhere. It was a friendly beast and walked to heel as 
though from long acquaintance. "Let's call him Bowser, shall we, 
Sweetheart?" Justine suggested, eyes gleaming in amusement and a secret 
knowledge. 

It did not instantly register in the captive's mind. It took several moments 
of looking at the long-snouted dog before a vision dawned, a vision Vanessa 
did not relish. Knowing the answer, she demanded, "You're not going to put 
that dog in here with me, Justine...?" 

The collie answered on his own. It seemed probably he was previously 
acquainted with the cage and what he might find therein. He left the 
master's side, as though tracking a sent, sniffed his way to the entrance to 
the cage, examined what he found waiting for him inside, then stepped within 
and out of Vanessa's sight. Trying not to laugh, Justine replaced the wire 
mesh segment to make Bowser prisoner in company with the naked lower half of 
a captive girl. He then kissed the upper half of the captive girl and 
departed for his day. 

It was unthinkable and outrageous! Vanessa longed to laugh or to scream or 
to do something effectual about her dilemma. She could guess what was going 
to happen and when, a moment later, a wet, cold canine snout nuzzled the 
twin lips of her waiting and exposed vulva, she gasped and beat at the panel 
of wood with clenched, chained hands. She could see nothing of what was 
taking place within the cage but could visualize it clearly from the 
messages imparted by her sacrificial sex. Down below, out of sight, within 
the cage her naked loins and belly were available to the collie dog to do 
with as he pleased. The cords around her ankles held them tight and far 
apart. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim could do nothing. 

Vanessa was, at first, thankful to be alone. She wanted no male eyes 
beholding this fresh shame. The dog was highly skilled or perhaps hungry for 
a female sex within to find a flavor long denied. Suffering the 
ministrations of Bowser's tongue and Bowser's wet nose, Vanessa found 
herself making motions with her free half above the panel, motions totally 
degrading and of which she was bitterly ashamed, but these witherings 
availed her nothing. She knew the busily lapping animal below was unaware of 
them. That portion of herself held motionless within the cage was available 
wholly for Bowser's pleasure and he was not a dog to turn his back on good 
fortune. Vanessa could only nourish a fleeting hope that after she had 
orgasmed the dog might be content and leave her alone. The hope was futile. 

The flowering of each successive orgasm under Bowser's busy tongue finally 
came to last fruition more and more slowly. Bowser did not mind, in fact 
Vanessa became convinced that each of her climaxes supplied him with a fresh 
secretion on which to feed. She ended up by burying her face within locked 
hands and standing to simply endure and endure She prayed the rasping tongue 
would do no injury. 

All things end. Suddenly as he had started, Bowser discontinued the 
unwelcome attention without notice. Presumably he had grown bored and 
Vanessa prayed he had curled himself up to sleep. She dared not try to find 
out, having no wish to arouse him from slumber. Ruefully she remembered some 
ancient saying about allowing sleeping dogs to lie... ! 

The concern of the captive girl now was to remain still enough so as to not 
disturb her company within the cage. It was a lonely vigil she must keep but 
with the exciting ingredient of the certainty of a return of canine 
attention. She judged it to be early afternoon when Bowser once more shook 
himself from slumber to feed once more at the nectar and ambrosia of Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim's maiden sheath. Bending with the wind, she had thrown 
herself into an particularly unseeming contortion when the door opened and 
she found herself confronted by Bill Patton's startled features. 

The captive's reaction was scarcely flattering. It was a long drawn- out cry 
of dismay and orgasm, "OH, OH NO!" 

Her next panting words sought to make amends, "Oh, Mr. Patton Bill, you 
shouldn't see me like this, please don't come in." 

Bill Patton came in. With his usual serious demeanor he advanced as close as 
decency dictated, his voice offering the comfort of male maturity, "Don't 
worry, Vanessa, Justine did warn me. Please don't be embarrassed." 

"But you always catch me in these awful circumstances," Vanessa wailed. 
"We've never seen each other when I'm normal. I'm always being punished. 
This thing you're forced to see me in makes me so damned ashamed...!" 

"Don't be." He was always studious, a courtly voyeur of something he did not 
wish to see. He laughed, "Don't worry, I'm accustomed to Justine's notions. 
If I had not known them a lot more humane than that bloody awful prison in 
Congi, I would never have gotten you into this." 

"Oh, don't feel guilty. Being with Justine is so... So... Well, it's so much 
better than all the others. But I do so wish you didn't have to catch me in 
jackpots like this. I can't help feeling so ashamed." In a sudden wild hope, 
she asked, "Would you get this dog out of this cage and get him away from 
me? Oh, please...?" 

"I can't. Sorry. Justine made me promise not to do a thing for you. Those 
were the only terms by which he would let me visit you." Bill Patton waved a 
distressed hand. "Please don't worry, Miss Pilgrim, my guilt matches your 
shame, we're even." 

The man and the girl looked at each other from poles apart, each aware of a 
Code never to be broken. Distressed, Vanessa asked, "Why did you come? Why 
did you wish to see me? You knew you would have to refuse help when I would 
probably ask for it, but you came anyway. I don't understand." 

Patton once more gestured as though tossing away something of value. "I'll 
level with you, Vanessa," he said, "I've got these same instincts as Justine 
and all those others who kept you in cages or tied you to trees. For me the 
most beautiful thing in the world is a bound girl." He laughed 
apologetically, "I don't care if she's tied with rope or handcuffed or in 
some incredible situation such as you are right now. All of it gets to me. 
If I had Justine's money I'd probably have a girl just like you and be just 
as mean to her." 

"Justine's not mean! He's -- he's mischievous and I'm so grateful to him for 
getting me out of Africa. I'm grateful to you, too." 

"I've always felt guilty about this, I mean this wish Justine indulges in. 
If I had the chance, I'd do it, I know that. But maybe it's as well I'm not 
a rich man. It would give me immense pleasure to whip your bare back as you 
stand there helpless." Once more the gesture and grimace of apology, "I tell 
myself I don't do it because I'm too civilized. I mean, men do have strange, 
erotic fantasies, and it's up to all of us to keep them under control. We 
can't possibly go around whipping girls or tying them up or imprisoning them 
in cages, much as we might like to." He looked at Vanessa imploringly, "Am I 
making sense?" Of course, he made sense! Vanessa felt sorry for this big, 
handsome man so obsessed and so frustrated in his obsession. She tried to 
explain what she herself had come to understand and the two of them, 
together with Bowser, made up a ridiculous trio because Patton had found a 
stick and was pushing it through the wire mesh to discourage Bowser's wet 
snout from its attention to Vanessa's most private place. Vanessa exclaimed 
her thank you and how she could not possibly talk properly while being 
licked into orgasm by a canine tongue. After that conversation became more 
relaxed. Vanessa stopped covering her breasts with handcuffed hands and 
earnestly consoled, "But why don't you ask Justine to get a girl for you? 
Why hasn't he given you one of those he's discarded? He's had quite a few, 
hasn't he?" 

"Yes. I've been damned silly, Vanessa. I don't suppose you realize how shy a 
man can be about things like this. I was a very well brought up man." 

"Well, then, why don't you advertise? California newspapers will print 
anything." 

Patton spoke with satire, "What do I say? Man wishes to whip young lady. 
Please phone?" He laughed disgustedly. "It's not as easy as you think. 
There's a number of clubs where a man can satisfy his fantasies at a price. 
I've been to them and I'll admit it wasn't a rip-off, it was a genuine 
service offered for a fee, but there was always a deadline and the deadline 
kills it." He shrugged, "If a man wants a girl in a cage, he wants both the 
cage and the girl in his own home, not in circumstances where he has to say, 
'Thank you very much, same time next week.' " 

Vanessa felt sorry for him, not that he was a pitiful figure, far from it, 
he was simply a man with a hangup he had not controlled or satisfied. Once 
more she suggested, "I'm quite certain Justine would help you out. I don't 
think he has a bit of difficulty getting a girl in a cage." She laughed at 
Patton's dismay. "I just bet if you did ask him he could deliver both girl 
and cage to you in short order, I think he's that kind of man. Have you come 
right out and asked him?" 

"Well, no, I haven't," Patton made a jab at a still-interested canine snout. 
"Justine and I aren't blood brothers, you know. And I never figured I had 
the right to ask that he spend that much money on my behalf. " Patton eyed 
her keenly, "I suppose you know how much you cost him, or how much any other 
girl would cost?" 

"Well, yes, I have. But I still think that's the way for you to go." 

"How about I ask him to lend me you?" Bill asked. 

It was unexpected. Vanessa had not seen it coming. She realized now it had 
been inevitable from the start. Patton had sincerely wished to rescue her 
from the Congi prison but had also desired her for himself. 

Since he could not afford her himself, he had introduced her to someone who 
could. 

"I don't think you should. I really do belong to Justine. I know he's mean 
to me, and I'm not a bit pleased about this dog. But you want me for things 
like that, too." She laughed with real amusement. "Can't you see how 
defeated I am, every man who sees me wants to whip me or put me in a cage. 
Seems once a girl's been kidnapped the first time, she never gets a chance 
to go back to real freedom. It's not long since Justine offered to let me 
go, to turned me loose, completely free, but I said 'No thank you,' I didn't 
want to go. Does that show you how crazy this whole thing is?" 

"It's not crazy when it produces a girl like you?" 

"Look, Mr. Patton," Vanessa said firmly, "you're fighting a Thing, an 
obsession. If it would give you pleasure why don't you whip my bare back 
right now? It's beautifully available, I can't possibly get away." 

"I can't possibly do a thing like that without asking Justine's permission." 

"Ask him then." Vanessa was in a mood of martyrdom. "See if you can get him 
on the phone. Oh, and be sure to ask him where he keeps the whips." 

The man and the captive girl stared at each other, Vanessa with amusement 
tinged with mischief, Bill Patton in dismay at an unexpected confrontation. 
He was obviously searching for words but, unable to find them, he muttered a 
hasty farewell and hurried from the room. The door closed behind him with 
finality. Between Vanessa's widely tied legs, Bowser once more entered the 
breach. 

* * * 

"Bill Patton come to call?" 

Vanessa had not spoken of Bill Patton's visit nor of his confidences. She 
was certain her master knew but was content to await his pleasure. It was 
pillow talk time and, as the two of them lay close, it was easy to unveil 
one's thoughts. Carelessly Vanessa said, "I wish you hadn't sent him, 
Master. He walked in on when that damned dog was giving me a really bad 
time. That tongue was driving me crazy and I must have looked simply awful." 

"Told me you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen," Justine said, 
noncommittally. "Poor old Bill has a hangup over you. I suppose you're aware 
of it?" 

"I wasn't until today. But today, and with that damned dog licking at me, he 
told me the whole thing. Please, Master, I would appreciate if you wouldn't 
let that kind of thing happen to me again." 

"That was coming awful close to punishment. Sweetheart. You sure do forget 
easily, don't you." Justine chuckled at the sudden tensing of the nakedness 
besides him in the bed. "But don't worry, I'm too drowsy to get up and whip 
your saucy bottom. Maybe another time. " 

"I suppose you know Bill Patton would like you to lend me to him?" 

"Oh, sure, he told me all about it. If you want me to, I will." 

"I don't want you to, I'd hate it. He's a nice guy and all that, but you're 
my Master and a girl can't serve two masters, can she?" 

"You solve all your conversational dilemmas by a corny saying, darling." 
Justine put a firm male hand upon her pubic patch. "And I'm not saying they 
don't fit well enough. How do you think old Bill would act if I let him take 
you home?" "He'd be cruel to me, I know he would. It's not that he's a cruel 
man but he's been deprived so long and he's so Well, so obsessed I'm scared 
he'd go overboard. He'd whip me to death." 

"No one would whip you to death, Vanessa, you're far too precious." 

"Well, OK, then, he'd whip me into unconsciousness. He'd whip me until I 
just hung there and didn't feel anything." 

"Well, I'll be damned! That's an analysis of poor old Bill that I wouldn't 
have dreamed of! I'd say he'd muff the whole thing simply because of a 
tender heart. The first time you let out a genuine scream he'd cut you 
free." 

"Couldn't we talk of something else, Master?" 

"OK, how about we talk of what I'll do to you tomorrow?" 

"That would be nice." 

"You little minx, you're trying to soften me up! Well, it won't do you a 
particle of good. How would you like to be hung up by your wrists for the 
day?" 

"You know I wouldn't, no girl would. Oh, Master, that's an awful punishment. 

"I was thinking I could have Cato come in once an hour or so and push a box 
under you feet to give you a rest for five minutes. How's that grab you?" 

"It doesn't grab me. It sounds awful. What would Cato and I do during the 
rest periods, make polite conversation?" 

"I thought I would liven it up for you a bit by having Cato give you a few 
sharp strokes each time. I realize how bored you are going to get just 
hanging there." 

Vanessa could never be sure of him. Justine Moore was many men in one. His 
pixy moods alternated with streaks of mild cruelty which he gauged with the 
uttermost nuance of the pain they gave. He had also become a superb lover. 
True, his love-making was often interspersed with small, erotic cruelties, 
but these had crept upon Vanessa so slowly and unaware that she now missed 
them when he forgot. The frustrating thing was that she was forbidden to ask 
for punishment, even though that punishment be trivial. But sometimes her 
frustration was so aggravating that she deliberately transgressed and was 
instantly rewarded by the scorching of her flesh with the crop or flagellum. 
It made their love-making tremendously exciting and the chained girl often 
wondered how the stayed and conservative couples she had know in her 
one-time freedom kept the excitement of bedtime alive without them. She saw 
herself as a marriage consular, but this was only if she ever needed a job 
and in the unlikely event she was ever again a free girl. During their 
pillow talk in bed, and before the drowsiness of sleep claimed her, Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim entered an enchanted land in which her glands throbbed 
wantonly and she quivered expectantly for The Male, or whatever agony 
Justine chose to impose as substitute for himself. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim 
sighed from the deeps of a great happiness. Vanessa woke late. Justine was 
gone. This often happened and Cato would look after her. She was always 
securely chained and was never in danger of escape or roaming. She had 
forgotten the things said the day before and was in a contented state of 
euphoria until breakfast was done and the tray cleared. Cato then ventured, 
"Now, Miss, if you are ready?" 

"Ready? For what?" Vanessa was striving to think of something forgotten. 

"Your day's diversion. Miss." The servant's voice was politely respectful. 

"OK, how do I get diverted?" 

"Mr. Moore gave me to understand you had been briefed, Miss." Vanessa had 
not taken it seriously at the time but now she remembered. Now, with Justine 
gone, there was nothing she could do about it. Justine had set in motion a 
wheel she could not stop, a wheel Cato would refuse to tamper with. In 
emotional disarray the handcuffed girl followed the butler downstairs. She 
was trembling. 

"I fear I must remove the handcuffs. Miss. I hope you don't mind?" 

"Why should I? I'm quite sure they'll go back on again." 

"Thank you, Ma'am. There will be a brief moment in which you will be 
relatively free. I trust you will behave yourself and do nothing foolish?" 

"You mean give you a chance to practice your karate... ? No way!" Vanessa 
was annoyed with herself. If she had taken Justine more seriously she might 
have talked him out of a punishment she did not relish. In fact, the more 
she thought of it the less she liked her immediately prospects. Five PM was 
a long way off. Sulkily she extended her hands and watched the lovely silver 
bracelets taken from her wrists. She felt a ridiculous pang at their being 
unlocked and removed, it was like loosing an intimate piece of clothing, but 
her wrists were bathed in cool air only briefly. Each was bandaged with soft 
elastic material which ended in several bindings of tough webbing from which 
there hung a ring. When this binding had been completed she was asked to 
step upon a box. If she had not guessed her fate before, she most certainly 
did now. She stepped upon the box a most unhappy young woman. 

"There are ropes from above and also hooks. If you will forgive me " Vanessa 
forgave him. Cato was as much a part of Justine's authority as she herself 
except that she suffered and he imposed. She watched with faint interest as 
the ropes descended and the hooks engaged with the rings and she was 
stretched taunt, her hands a couple of feet above. "I'm truly sorry about 
this. Ma'am. It is the master's instructions." The sudden removal of the box 
beneath her feet brought instant shock. It also brought wrenching pain to 
shoulders and arms. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim hung suspended, her toes only a 
couple of inches from the floor. In this case, two inches might have been a 
mile. 

"I am instructed to leave you as you are for a full hour. At that time I 
will return and allow you a short rest period upon the box. I trust this 
meets with your approval?" 

Vanessa wanted to scream but all she did was exclaim, "Oh, Cato, you know it 
doesn't meet with my approval! I hate the whole thing. Couldn't you come 
back every half hour, or even every fifteen minutes? No one would ever 
know!" 

"The master told me you would make this suggestion. I regret I will be 
compelled to report your indiscretion to him. Might I suggest you suffer 
your err with good grace. I'm sure if you occupy the time with pleasant 
thoughts it will pass quickly." 

"I'm going to hate every moment. Oh gosh, Cato, this if awful!" 

"You will suffer no damage, Ma'am, the bandages will protect." 

"Oh, piss on the bandages, my arms are coming out of their sockets. I'll be 
dead in an hour." 

"No, Ma'am. You will probably be more vividly alive than at any time in your 
life. May I be excused?" 

"You can excuse yourself," Vanessa said heatedly. "Any man who would do this 
to a girl...!" 

She wished she had not offended him. If she had kept her mouth shut he might 
have lingered and any company was better than none in this frightful 
predicament in which she momentarily expected the dislocation of her 
shoulders and other horrors she could not name. She was aware of her flat, 
concave tummy beneath the belt, which by some magic, appeared to shrink in 
order to maintain its snug hold on her vitals. 

Vanessa Pilgrim simply hung. It was one of the most frustrating and 
disorganizing experiences of her life. She could not say she was in agony, 
the soft bandage prevented hurt wrists but her shoulders cried aloud and she 
was shamingly conscious of her lower regions, her hanging legs and that 
which stood at the juncture of her thighs, all of it was outrageously on 
display and she wanted to cry. Only indignation and hurt feelings prevented 
the flow of tears. 

Cato was as good as his word. The captive girl was certain it had been hours 
since he had left her alone but she was well inured to the deceptiveness of 
time. When a girl hurt time passed slowly. Vanessa had been hurting. 

The box was a boon, a gift from paradise, an ineffable relief. She stood 
upon it thankfully, panting, breasts heaving, every fiber of her being 
crying out in gratitude, but also crying in distress at the prospect of once 
again being suspended. Vanessa looked up at the bandaged wrists to observe 
the hooks. She was still stretched too tightly to be relieved of them. Even 
in this rest period she was still in punishment. "I trust you feel the 
travail beneficial, Miss." Cato's voice was devoid of sarcasm but Vanessa 
was certain it was there. She was not above a little sarcasm herself and 
said acidly, "I enjoyed every moment of it, Cato. Is there any possibility I 
don't have to do it again?" 

"Alas, no Ma'am. My orders are specific." 

"Piss on your orders," Vanessa said in vulgar irritation at his suave 
imperturbability. "Look here, Cato, I'll make you a deal. If you'll forget 
about this punishment and let me go back to normal I'll let you fuck me and 
I won't tell the Master a thing." 

"Your suggestion is deplorable. Ma'am. It is I who will report it to the 
master. I fear you are earning additional discomforts." Vanessa could think 
of other vulgar exclamations but forbore. With a thrill of genuine concern 
she realized she had already piled up a number of demerits. If Cato was as 
good as his word The box was removed to leave the naked girl once more 
suspended. Cato placed it at the precise distance beyond which her toes 
could not reach, even though she swung herself like a puppet on a string. 
She moaned as she saw him go. Cato, with all his faults, was someone to talk 
to. And, if she fainted... ! 

Vanessa Pilgrim did not faint. She was annoyed with her own vitality which 
withheld that boon. She stepped on and off the beneficial box under Cato's 
commands and continued to build up demerits via outrageous offers and 
suggestions. In a state of semi-delirium she thought it impossible for Cato 
to ignore her offers. Damn it, he was only a man and human! If Justine took 
all she had said in seriousness, she would be in deep trouble. But what 
could she do about it? Nothing! 

On his next visit Cato paid an unusual compliment, "If I may be permitted 
the familiarity, Ma'am, I would like to tell you how exquisitely beautiful 
you are in suspension. You are exquisitely lovely beyond words." 

"I'm not. I'm horrible, sticking out in all sorts of places, all stretched 
and distorted. Oh, Cato...!" 

"You wished to say something, Ma'am?" 

"Of course, I want to say something, I want you to let me down. Please 
handcuff me again and let me go back to being a good little slavegirl." 

"You know I can not do that. Miss. Suffering builds character. I'm sure you 
are deriving good." 

Vanessa was unsure of possible sarcasm. Cato was so text-book correct a girl 
could never tell. She had despaired of offering her body. If a man would not 
accept that, he would accept nothing. No doubt men of less integrity would 
have accepted her offer but when their pleasure was over would have 
suspended her once more in punishment. Cato was honest! Vanessa belonged to 
her master and Cato was simply the instrument of her master's caprice. To 
hang with her feet off the floor in the knowledge of having done or said 
nothing to warrant the punishment, made it a doubly hard to bare. She voiced 
the thought unhappily, "Oh, Cato, I haven't done anything. I haven't done a 
thing to deserve punishment, certainly not this horrible punishment. This 
absolutely wicked hanging me up by my wrists ought to be reserved for the 
most frightening crimes I could commit. But I haven't committed them! I 
haven't committed anything. Cato, it's just not fair!" 

"Might I remind you, Ma'am, of your original acceptance of enslavement. What 
you suffer now was and still is implicit in your vow." 

"I never made a vow. I made a deal." 

"If I let you down, setting you free, give you clothes and money, and bid 
you farewell. Ma'am, what would you do?" 

"Oh, Cato I've heard that one before! I'm not going to answer, I refuse. 
Look, couldn't you put me in a cage or tie me to a post for the rest of the 
day?" 

"No, Ma'am. You are half way through this punishment. You have cause for 
optimism." 

Vanessa watched Cato's retreating back. She seemed to be forever watching 
retreating backs and to be left all to herself with pain. She couldn't 
decide whether she was happy or sad to be half way through this present 
punishment. It was good that half of the punishment was gone but the 
remaining hours stretched ahead interminably. She thought of other 
punishments and would have accepted any of them gratefully in place of what 
she now suffered. She was quite certain that to be suspended by the wrists 
was something she would never want again. She would tell Justine, but 
Justine would probably be in an irritable frame of mind from having received 
reports of her injudicious offers. She really had been extremely foolish and 
had brought upon herself whatever punishments lay in store. She was going to 
have to simply smarten up and pay attention. Slavegirls did not offer their 
bodies to a servant, their bodies were not their own, Vanessa's body 
belonged to Justine Moore. Surely she should be able to remember...! 

* * * 

"I gather your behavior was deplorable, Dear?" Justine interjected into 
their pillow talk that evening. "Cato has given me a full report." 

"So, OK, whip me or something, anything you like." Vanessa was still 
irritated by her punishment and her own behavior. She saw no way out of the 
inevitable and so became very feminine, "You shouldn't have given me such an 
awful punishment in the first place. Oh, Justine Master, if only you knew 
how horrible it is to hang like that hour after hour. A girl simply looses 
all hope." 

"You seemed in remarkably good shape at dinner, Vanessa." 

"So, OK, I was hungry and I was scared. Don't hold that against me. Master, 
I adore you, please don't have me punished any more." 

"That sounds a little like a bribe; adoration in return for immunity. You 
know what that will get you?" 

"Oh, Master, please ! I'm in a spot now where this is nothing I can say 
that's right. I can see all sorts of punishments building up and I don't 
want them, honest I don't. Can't I just be your slavegirl and make you 
happy?" 

"You know that's not possible, Darling." Justine's use of the term of 
endearment gave only momentary hope. "When you have earned punishment you 
have to have it. Once I start being merciful with you, there's no end to it. 
I may just as well unlock those handcuffs on your wrists and those anklets 
from your ankles and let you go." He sighed as though in dolor. "I offered 
you freedom, but you turned it down. Perhaps now, with all these punishments 
hanging above your head, you would like to reconsider?" 

"No. I won't. Punishment me." 

It was on that note they went to sleep. It was at least half the time 
Vanessa found herself alone upon waking in the morning. Justine would be 
gone about his affairs and Cato would attend to her. Still miserable, 
Vanessa toyed with her chain, visited the bathroom, then returned to the bed 
to await breakfast. When Cato showed up with the tray, she abruptly 
demanded, "So, OK, Cato, what's the bad news today?" 

"I am permitted to whip you today, Ma'am. However, the master is extremely 
generous and offers you an alternative. Should you find yourself adverse to 
a whipping, the number of strokes not to be divulged, you may choose to be 
incarcerated in a tiny cage, the one you are acquainted with in another 
connection." 

"Thanks, I'll take the cage." 

"I would advise against a hasty choice, Ma'am. The cage is small and the day 
is long. A whipping, thought severe, is soon over. Would you care to 
reconsider?" 

Vanessa longed to reject everything, the whip, the cage, and Cato as well, 
as she munched bacon and toast in deep thought. She knew from past 
experience she would regret whatever choice she would make. This was in the 
nature of slavery. But since she was compelled to a choice, she thought 
kindly of the cage. Surely it could in no way match the awful scorch and 
sear of the whip upon her skin. Cato had never whipped her, but she was 
certain he would do it with vigor. It was an agony she did not want to face, 
as it would be from a man she did not love. She knew she could bear the whip 
from Justine Moore but from no one else. She repeated, without enthusiasm, 
"Thank you, Cato, I'll still choose the cage." 

Vanessa ate her breakfast without the enjoyment she usually felt in a new 
day. She got an erotic stimulus from the sexual impositions Justine often 
left her in or which Cato was instructed to perform. But today was not like 
that. When Cato came for her, she followed him down stairs dejectedly. 

The cage was not as she remembered. The top was now solid wire mesh, the 
wooden panels gone. The only orifice was that the dog had used and which was 
now open for her own humiliation. Handcuffed, Vanessa wiggled within the 
small confinement. She twisted and managed to sit down, her knees beneath 
her chin, her braceleted wrists resting upon her legs. With a sinking heart 
she watched the closing of the door and heard the padlock snap. She had made 
her own choice. She had made her bed and would have to lie on it. 

"I will visit you from time to time to check upon your progress," Cato said 
gravely then went away. 

Miss Vanessa Pilgrim tried to raise her head to watch him go but could not. 
It remained bowed in unintentional submission. Its owner wept. 

The first hour was bearable, the second was not. By midday, Vanessa knew she 
had made a terrible mistake. Every muscle and sinew she possessed cried out 
in anguish at their immobility. Her knees mocked her before her eyes, her 
cuffed hands had no where to go nor could they help her a particle. It was a 
sad young woman who greeted Cato when he came to call. 

"Cato, let me out. You were right. This is unbearable. Please let me out and 
whip me instead." 

"But, Ma'am, in that case you would have suffered both punishments." 

"I can't help that, Cato. I'll willingly take a whipping if you will let me 
out of here." 

"But, Ma'am, you know the rules...?" 

"Piss on the rules. Let me out and whip me. Good gosh, surely that ought to 
be a good offer, isn't it?" 

"No, Ma'am. It contravenes your choice." 

"Well, piss on my choice, too. Can't a girl be forgiven a lapse in 
judgment?" 

"You would not enjoy being whipped any more than you enjoy this cage, 
Ma'am." Cato's tone was admonitory and disapproving. "Really, I have no wish 
to make further adverse reports on your behavior to your master. Please be 
prudent." 

"Fuck being prudent. I want out." 

Cato turned and departed. Possibly to save himself further pain, too. Miss 
Vanessa Pilgrim was left fuming in her cage. This time the tears welled and 
the cage permitted her to dry them only against her knees. For the rest of 
the day, Vanessa condemned herself for not accepting freedom when it was 
offered. 

"Had a bad day, Sweetheart?" Justine speared something with his fork and 
sipped his dinner wine. He eyed his slavegirl with tender affection. Even 
though, at the moment, she was out of sorts with him. 

"Of course, I had a bad time. Oh, Master, that cage is something else again. 
It's for the birds! I almost went crazy locked in there all day. When I 
chose it I thought I would be able to move at least a little. Please don't 
put me in there again." 

"A free choice, Beloved Child." 

"Yes, I know it was. I should have chosen the whipping. I would have had a 
lot of marks on my skin but I would have been happier." 

"Tired of your life with me, Sweetheart?" 

"Not with you, only with your punishments. Oh, Master, I've had an awful 
day!" 

"Very well, Vanessa, my sweet. Tomorrow you have no punishments at all. 
Think of it; a whole day with nothing to inhibit your desires except a pair 
of handcuffs and some anklets." 

It was in Vanessa's mind to plead the anklets be withheld. But she had best 
not push her luck, and with the anklets she could always crawl, it wasn't as 
though they attached her to anything. In fact, the prospect was delightful 
after her last two days. She said a simple and heartfelt, "Thank you, 
Master." 

"You'll have a visitor. Cato will serve tea. I want you to be the polite 
hostess. Can you manage that?" 

"Of course. Oh, Master, I'll be glad to. Who is it?" 

"Never you mind, you'll find out soon enough." 

Vanessa was compelled to leave it at that. 

They had experimented with their love-making. Since Justine's return to 
potency they had tested his rigidly erect organ with giggles from Vanessa 
but with serious intent on the part of its owner. Justine would never cease 
to owe this girl gratitude and feel wonder at the magic she possessed. But 
he was also curious about himself and, after many false leads, had arrived 
at a single stimulus which never failed to enhance and invigorate an already 
standing prick. It demanded of Vanessa only that, suddenly and out of the 
blue she ask, "Please, Master, whip my pussy?" 

It was an outrageous request which should, under normal circumstances, have 
been ignored. It was infrequent enough now, being uttered only when, from 
some deep well of mischief, the slavegirl felt certain of an increased 
virility within the man who owned and because she was herself in the throes 
of an intense sexual excitation. It was infallible. The one single wicked 
stroke was enough. Vanessa would rise, spread her feet outrageously apart, 
bend down to expose her uttermost privacy, and they invite the thong. When 
it impacted, wetly and cruelly, she scream and fell to the floor but was 
instantly aware of obligations and leaped back upon the bed, her chains 
rattling and singing their own song of expected anguish, to say, "I am 
ready, Master. Please, please, please?" 

Justine adored every inch and crevasse of her. She regenerated him 
endlessly. With Vanessa he was capable of endless orgasms. Those she 
extracted from his own libido were an endless miracle. 

The following morning was a delight for the slavegirl with no punishments 
pending- Cato was simply his usual polite self, tending to her needs and 
concerned for her comfort. Vanessa was still confined by the handcuffs and 
the anklets. She had never managed to conform to the anklets, they always 
defeated her. She would rise to her feet with good intentions to step out 
bravely, but always they brought her instantly to her knees. She had learned 
that, as long as they were locked on her ankles, she had better forgot about 
walking. The nice thing about them was she could sit or lay down or do 
anything save stand or walk and they did not bother her. Justine had 
purchased the most expensive handcuffs to be had and she wore them with an 
immense pride and without regret. 

Vanessa realized she should have know, she should have guessed. When Cato 
formally announced, "Mr. William Patton," she was totally unprepared. She 
had supposed Bill Patton would pass her by and forget her after their last 
meeting. She had suggested the ways by which his problem might be solved if 
only he had had the sense enough to follow those suggestions. Bill Patton 
was surely a person in his own right and should not need feminine guidance. 

"Nice to see you again, Vanessa," he laughed gaily. "This time completely 
normal, just handcuffs and those pretty rings around your ankles. Justine 
told me about them, so I won't ask you to go for a walk. " Vanessa accepted 
a brotherly kiss. She owed Bill Patton a lot but hoped he would not become a 
big, bearish brother who kissed her cheek while longing to take her to bed. 
Her greeting lacked cordiality. "I'm going to give you tea, Bill, we can 
talk about anything you like, but please, please don't lets get into 
heart-searching about whips and chains and cords. Please...?" 

"Hell, Vanessa, that's what I came about. You don't think I came up here 
just for a cup of tea, do you?" 

"Well, that's what Justine intimated... " 

"Tea, my ass! I'll drink a cup but what I want is you." 

He remained his boyish self but with a difference of now being mature and in 
command of the situation. Distrustful of the change, Vanessa saw herself as 
very much the slave, even as she poured the tea. 

"Justine has business in New York. He'll be away two or three days. He says 
I can borrow you for that length of time. Isn't it wonderful!" Vanessa's 
heart went out to the shining eyes and the boyish fervor. But, quietly, she 
suggested, "I've been thinking about you and me a lot. Bill, haven't you 
realized you're not ready for me yet?" She raised a hand to stem his 
outburst of protest. "I want you to think of all I've been through these 
last few months. You've seen me in the middle of some of it. You may think 
the result of all you have seen has been to make me some sort of a "she 
hesitated and blushed, "some sort of a whore." 

"Vanessa!" Patton's voice was shocked. "You don't know what you're saying. 
And, anyway, it's not true. There's something immaculate about you. You 
couldn't be that that word you said." 

"Not for cash. You're right there, Bill. But I've been conditioned to accept 
things, to understand them, to be a part of them. I suppose I always was a 
part of them but did not know it. That first time with Rod Sykes and the 
Macusi told me what I was, the rest confirmed it. Bill, you don't need me. 
What you need is a nice girl from a nice family in a suburban house with 
children and all the rest of that. This is stamped all over you. If you can 
get a girl who will go along with your whipping her bottom. I'd be terrible 
happy for you. I'm sure she's out there, waiting." 

"The only girl waiting for me is you," Patton said with deep conviction. 
"Justine has a gift with girls and he's got all that money, don't equate me 
with him. Justine has suggested I play out the game with you for the time of 
his absence. It's on a sort of kill or cure basis. Vanessa, darling, can you 
understand." 

She understood all too well. She wished she did not. What concerned her now 
was the means by which she could evade this obligation. She simply had no 
wish to spend two or three days along in the power of Bill Patton. Bill 
Patton was a nice guy but not a nice guy for her. She wished devoutly her 
master would not get her into such jackpots, such outrageous dilemmas, from 
which she would only gain more marks upon her skin. 

"You will like it, won't you? You will say you'll come?" 

"Do I have a choice?" Her tone was bitter. At that moment Vanessa knew for 
sure that, if during her captivity with this enthusiastic male, she could 
discover an opportunity for escape, she would take it instantly. Bill Patton 
would absolve her from guilt. Quietly she countered, "I must do what I am 
told. If Justine wishes to lend me to you, I will have no choice." She 
lifted up the handcuffed wrists, "You see these, I'm always kept restrained, 
on my ankles are metal bands to prevent me walking or running away. Why do 
you bother to ask me what I want! My only function is obedience." 

The transfer of the slavegirl named Vanessa into the safe keeping of Mr. 
William Patton was affected with extreme easy but also extreme caution. 
Vanessa remained nude, her hands were cuffed behind her back and her elbows 
drawn tight and cruelly bound. Her ankles remained banded as a deterrent to 
sudden flight, and around her waist was roped strands of cord which were 
drawn down between her legs and up within the cleft of her bottom cheeks. It 
was cinched cruelly tight and had no function other that to tell her who she 
was and impede struggles or an actual contest of strength and determination. 
It was very simple. Justine kissed her. Bill Patton put her in the trunk of 
his car and took her home. Within the darkness of his car, Vanessa's tears 
were salt and as bitter as gall. 

It was understandable Bill Patton would be inadequate in bed, not from a 
lack of virility but from the expression of endless frustrations. Vanessa 
bore his thrusts and immature ejaculations without complaint. She saw her 
role as only to suffer and be as pleasant about it as she could. She bore 
the secession of Bill Patton's couplings without complaint, telling herself 
they were something that matter not at all. His whipping her was different. 

It was inevitable from the first. To whip a naked girl was Bill Patton's 
heart's desire, along with millions of other men less privileged. In boyish 
eagerness he talked about it with her in their first night of sharing a bed. 
He had taken the precaution of keeping her heavily chained but was unwilling 
to forgo her hot presence by his side. "I'm going to whip you tomorrow, 
Vanessa. Will you mind?" 

Vanessa's laugh held genuine amusement, "You idiot, have I any choice? Of 
course, I'll mind. That's a myth about girl's liking to be whipped. It hurts 
like hell and I'll hate every stroke you give me. Does that answer you 
question?" 

"But Justine whips you all the time!" Bill Patton said aggrieved. "If you 
like it from him...?" 

"Oh, Bill, I can't explain it. If you don't know by your age, you never 
will." Vanessa had resigned herself to two or three bad days until her 
master returned. She was not disposed to quibble or split hairs over her own 
personal reactions. She had hoped the succession of orgasms Patton had 
planted in her sheath might have exhausted his erotic curiosity. Apparently 
she was wrong. 

"I want to do this sort of ritualistically," Patton informed her boyishly in 
the morning. "I hope you don't mind." 

"Bill, for Pete's sake, stop asking me if I mind!" Vanessa felt a cross 
between a mother and a frightened girl. "Don't you understand the whole 
essence of this thing is that what I mind doesn't matter. What you mind 
does. I'm owned, I'm chained. I'm naked, you can do whatever you like to me 
and I can't say boo. It's sweet of you to ask but you had best do some more 
thinking about whether you want a slavegirl or a wife." 

On the basis nothing lasts forever, Vanessa allowed herself to be 
manipulated to Bill Patton's desire. He had fixed up a room in his house for 
no other purpose than her punishments. It was not heavily furnished but held 
enough to promise pain. The most obvious object was an ancient, military 
triangle. "It's what they used to use in the army," Bill infused. "As I 
fasten you, you'll get the hang of the thing and realize how well suited the 
thing is to punishments of either sex. It's maybe a bit rough, but I'll go 
easy with the whip. That is," he added hopefully, "unless you tell me to 
whip you harder. You're far more expert about these things than I." 

Vanessa moaned silently within. Bill Patton would require careful handling. 
It was possible she might get out of this mess without too much injury. He 
was essentially a kind man and was doing this only under the compulsion of 
an unsatisfied obsession. This obsession was now to find vent upon her 
flesh. She thought of Justine and longed for his return. 

Once more her handcuffs were removed, but this time there were no soft 
bandages but only cord. Patton bound her crossed wrists in front with 
surprising skill. Vanessa wryly supposed he had been a Boy Scout in 
childhood. She was then invited to stand upon a box. It was all terribly 
familiar. Upon the box she was invited to hook the bindings on her wrists 
over a waiting hook at the apex of the timber frame. But when she could not 
contrive this, Patton lifted her bodily to aid her in this self-immuring in 
preparation for pain. For minutes she hung in suspension, her wrists 
screaming a silent protest, while her ankles were roped and drawn out to 
either side to the semi-vertical timbers of the tripod. When Bill Patton 
stepped back in complete satisfaction with his work. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim 
hung from her wrists at the apex of the triangle with her feet stretched 
obscenely wide to each of the side timbers of this instrument of pain. 

Bitterly she said, "You don't need to whip me, Bill. This is agony enough. 
Have you any faintest idea...?" 

Patton whipped the naked loveliness with crude vigor, each stroke appeasing 
by the minutest degree the pent up passions of his mind. He had promised to 
whip her only lightly but Vanessa instantly was aware of his forgetting. 
This plying of the lash might not be a cruel as he could contrive but it was 
cruel enough. She could scarcely move but did what she could with jerks and 
struggles and in the end screams, to tell him of excess. She could not 
recall ever being whipped upon such a archaic frame as that which held her 
now. Her wrists burned in agony as did her ankles. Her sex was so blatantly 
open and stretched wide as to be a punishment all its own. Bill Patton 
stopped his strokes long enough to make a slow circle of her nakedness and 
to observe, "You're terribly beautiful, Vanessa. You're more beautiful than 
anything I've ever seen." When he retired back out of sight she retorted, 
hopelessly, "I'm not beautiful at all. You were looking at my cunt and my 
stretched crotch. You were finding beauty in my pubic hair and the marks 
your whip has put upon my belly. If you call that beauty, you're nuts!" 

It was as though Patton had not heard a word she had said. He was beholding 
a glory he had never before known. Justine had made him a gift of heart's 
desire and, for Bill Patton right then, Miss Vanessa Pilgrim represented all 
the beauty of the world, she was Eve and Aphrodite, she was Bo Derek and the 
Venus de Milo, she was the subconscious vision of every man. Reverently he 
palmed the wet vulva so blatantly exposed. He did this with a sense of 
wonder and the panting, sweating girl wondered if indeed this was his first 
knowledge of nakedness in the female. Vanessa could not restrain a feminine 
thrill at the thought of being the first nudity Bill Patton had touched. She 
gasped as he easily evoked from her sensations she did not want, his fingers 
rising to trace their mark up her belly, over the metal stricture on her 
waist and to her breasts and nipples which were stretched and taunt in a 
manner she deplored, but which to this totally absorbed man, held all the 
wonder of the world. Bill Patton tilted her chin to look into her eyes and 
whisper, "Darling girl, I could whip you forever. Will you forgive me?" 

"I'll forgive you if you'll let me loose from this triangle," Vanessa said 
without hope. "How can you expect me to forgive the awful pain while you're 
using that terrible whip across my back. I'm not a saint. I'm not good at 
martyrdom." 

Patton whipped the inside of Miss Vanessa Pilgrim's thighs. He did this 
thoughtfully and deliberately and savoring each stroke. To achieve this 
purpose he deliberately stood facing her so she could see the swift curve of 
his arm and the arc of the whip. Vanessa tried desperately to suffer in 
silence, but his persistence was too much and soon she was screaming 
directly into Bill Patton's face. He smiled and nodded back at her as though 
she was doing fine and he was proud to be the instrument of her agony. Quite 
probably that was exactly how he felt! 

Patton ceased his cruelty to the soft thighs as suddenly as he had begun, he 
was almost panting, not all together from exertions, but from the intensity 
of emotion with which he had plied the thong. Distraught and clutching her 
courage like a cloak, Vanessa tried to stare him down as she gasped, "If 
you'll stop whipping me now, Bill, we can still be friends. Please?" 

"I'm sorry, darling." Patton's voice was vibrant with regret. "I can't stop 
whipping you. If I stop, I'll have cured nothing. I'll go on wanting and 
wanting. But you understand." 

"I do understand and I'm trying more and more to understand. But please. 
Bill, if you have to whip me some more, can't you do it tomorrow. Surely you 
don't have to get it all out of your system in one session? Justine has 
loaned me to you for more than just this one day." 

"Yes, I suppose that's true. You're a bright girl, Vanessa, way ahead of 
me." Patton's face brightened at a sudden thought. "Tell you what, 
Sweetheart, I'll untie you and let you rest now and you and I will go to the 
kitchen and make coffee. You're certain to feel better and then I can tie 
you on the triangle again and finish the job. How's that?" 

He was absurd. Vanessa felt maternal towards this man who chased a dream. 
She was sure it would take more than one or two whippings to assuage the 
demon in Bill Patton's mind. He would need to punish her in various ways 
until her reached total satiation and she recoiled from such a horrendous 
prospect. If only Justine had spoken to her before leaving, she might have 
suggested he simply purchased a girl off the streets for a few thousand 
dollars to endure these agonies. But she was fairly sure Justine had not 
guessed the depth and intensity of his friend's need. For the moment Vanessa 
knew herself defeated and abandoned, but she would pass up no advantage, no 
matter how small. Quietly she said, "Thank you. Bill, that would be very 
nice." She would leave the pleas for mercy until she had been freed. 

The pain was now in reverse. Patton freed her wide-spread feet and Vanessa 
closed them gratefully. But this still left her suspended and badly hurting 
until she was clasp in a bear hug and lifted high enough to where she could 
free her wrists. To be once more solidly upon the floor was a joy beyond 
expression. She was totally free of bonds except for her collar and her 
belt. But her joy in this freedom was so great she actually forgot what she 
might do with it. She stood, massaging hurt wrists and flexing strained 
limbs until Patton gently reminded her, "I think these are called for, 
aren't they?" He was holding her handcuffs. 

"If you wish." Vanessa knew she could not best him in a struggle so 
submission would be best. She offered her hands and even drew his attention 
to the possibility of clicking the lovely bracelets a notch tighter than he 
had done. Patton was breathing heavily and repeated his refrain, "You're 
marvelous, Vanessa. Justine is so damned lucky. Will you marry me?" 

The handcuffed, naked girl moaned inwardly. She was well aware of the 
susceptibility of the males to purpose marriage when in the throes of sexual 
excitation, especially when it went unappeased. But Patton's proposal had 
been direct, he was gazing at her steadily in mute admiration. She almost 
said the ancient cliche of, "This is so sudden," before saying gently, "That 
an unexpected honor, Bill. I think you're being hasty, but can we talk about 
it over coffee." 

The snug kitchen had a stabilizing effect for which the handcuffed girl was 
thankful. The two of them bustled around with spoons and canisters and pots 
until they sat, facing each other at the small table, sipping the fragrant 
brew their labors had produced. It was a bond. It was a bond Vanessa 
determined to strengthen and explore. "It's sweet of you to want to marry 
me. Bill. I'm only a slavegirl. You don't have to marry a slavegirl, you can 
do whatever you want to her." 

"You can if you own the girl," Bill Patton conceded morosely. "The only way 
I know to own you is to marry you. And it's something I'd want to do anyway. 
You're the most marvelous of girls." 

"If you take me to bed, and I guess Justine gave you permission. 

didn't he, some of the rainbow would dissolve, you know," she said soberly. 
"I think whipping me the way you've been doing has got you all excited." 

"Of course, it has, darling, but that's not the reason I want to marry you. 
I want to marry Vanessa Pilgrim not a naked girl screaming in pain." 

Vanessa stared directly at Patton's troubled features. Setting aside the 
nature of her wounds and the tight clasp of handcuffs on her wrists, she 
produced a maternal suggestion, "Are you forgetting, Bill, who owns me? I'm 
not a bit sure you and I should be talking about marriage when I belong to 
Justine Moore. You're a nice guy, Bill, don't get hurt over me." Vanessa put 
her heart into her words, "Please ask Justine, we both owe him that, you 
can't be a bit sure he won't say yes." 

"He'd be crazy if he did," Bill retorted. "In his shoes, I would never part 
with you, especially since he's got your loyalty the way he has. You 
shouldn't forget, Vanessa, that it was me who introduced you. You owe me 
loyalty, too." 

Vanessa sighed and quietly sipped. She felt herself getting deeper and 
deeper into the imponderable. If sex was not involved, then Bill Patton was 
a nice guy. Right now he was a time bomb ready to explode. And his explosion 
would take the form of a whip cutting at her skin. Hopefully she asked, "Why 
don't you just keep me prisoner until Justine returns then you can have a 
talk with him. Then the three of us can get together and arrive at what you 
want?" 

"You don't want to marry me," Patton's tone was dogged. 

"I didn't say that. It's just all so sudden. Gosh, Bill, be reasonable!" 

"I'll show you how reasonable I am, Vanessa." The male voice was suddenly 
firm and decisive. "I'll set you free right now and the two of us can go and 
find a Justice of the Peace and get married. How's that for a deal, you get 
me and freedom both at once?" 

The thought was shattering. It caught Vanessa unaware and for several 
moments the possibilities danced around her mind before she asked, "But, 
Bill, even if we did that you'd bring me home and whip me anyway, wouldn't 
you? I mean, it is this wish of yours to whip me that's really at the bottom 
of your desire for ownership. Am I right?" 

"Damn it, Vanessa! I'm making concession after concession. Don't you realize 
you and I can't possibly walk around town with you handcuffed. We can't go 
to a minister or Justice of the Peace with your hands chained. You'll be 
free, you'll have to be free, there's no other way. You can easily cheat me 
by running a way while I don't have a constraint on you. Damn it! I have to 
be sincere to offer you a deal like this!" 

"I know you are, I know you are. But, Bill, you're a nice guy, you'll trust 
me. But you haven't answered what I asked about being whipped. After we've 
been made man and wife and you've been told, 'you can now kiss the bride,' 
you'll take your bride home and whip her -- that is unless I run away in the 
meantime. But if I marry you I wouldn't want to run away. Oh, Bill, you've 
got me all mixed up! Gee, I wish you'd keep me prisoner some way until 
Justine comes back. Or maybe you'd like to take me back to Cato? Cato would 
lock me in a cell or something and we'd all be safe from temptation." 

Silence claimed them. The man and the naked, whip-marked girl quietly sipped 
coffee, each busy with their own thoughts until Bill Patton, ponderously and 
slowly suggested, "So, OK, I want to marry you. I want to marry you so 
damned bad it hurts. But I can see how you'd be scared about how you'd be 
whipped to death half the time. So, tell you what. Let's fix it this way. 
You'll be willing to let me whip you a certain amount and at times of your 
choosing. So, sometimes when you're at loose ends or in the mood, you'll 
simply say to me, 'Bill, darling, I'm ready to be whipped. Please whip me 
now because I'm going to be busy for the next two or three days,"' Bill 
Patton beamed genially. "How's that for putting control in your hands?" 

Her heart went out to him. At this moment Bill Patton was a shaggy puppy dog 
with a waggy tail. He was so anxious to please but was holding tenaciously 
to his most ardent need of whipping the bare skin of a willing girl. But 
Vanessa was no longer willing. She had been whipped enough already as a 
contribution to his needs, but from Bill Patton's point of view they had 
scarcely got started. He seemed quiet capable of slashing away at her all 
day. In a mixture of anger, disgust and fear, Vanessa sat down her cup and 
suddenly leaped for the door and down the passage to where the front door 
would give her access to the street. She cared nothing for nakedness or 
handcuffs or the iron around her neck. All she wanted was flight, the 
glorious freedom of speeding feet and leaping legs. If she would once get 
beyond the door she could probably outrun this lumbering, big male. She had 
no thought of consequences. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim simply wanted "OUT." 

Patton caught her when her locked hands were on the knob of his front door. 
He grasped her bare arm savagely and yanked her back. Vanessa held and 
struggled with all the strength born of fear and despair as he dragged her 
back to the fatal room. As he bound her once more to his triangle she 
screamed again in hysterical anger and dismay. It was quite hopeless, he 
handled her with easy and bound her more tightly spread than before. As he 
stepped back she screeched in fury into his face the horrible, inarticulate 
sounds of desolation. Neither wasted words. Bill Patton reclaimed his whip 
and Vanessa closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. 

Mr. William Patton whipped Miss Vanessa Pilgrim intermittently throughout 
the day. At first his blows were savage in the frustration and hurt of her 
attempted escape. But reason reasserted itself and he contented his mood 
with blows he presumed she could bare without loosing conscious. He was 
careful not to cut her skin and was feeling elements of guilt about his 
friend, Justine. By evening his wrath and lust were both appeased, probably 
from exhaustion, leaving him uncertain what he should next do with his 
prisoner. When he freed Vanessa from the triangle, she feel limply into his 
arms, clutching at him in a desperate need for succor and a comforting arms 
even though it be the arm of a captor. Patton carried his conquest to his 
bed and there expended the last of his passion upon the unresponsive flesh 
of a maiden seemingly unaware of his penetration of her sheath. When he had 
had his way with the almost unconscious girl, he chained her and went to 
sleep with his head upon her breasts. Later, he was to regard this pillow as 
his greatest dividend of a bad, bad day. 

* * * 

Breakfast was not a happy meal. Vanessa ankles were handcuffed close 
together in disapproval of a maiden who might seek escape. Patton carried 
her back and forth as need. He was no longer angry but appeared drained. 
Vanessa wisely guessed it was a case of too much, too soon. He had been 
immoderate the day before and was now paying the price of second thoughts 
and regrets it would be hard to voice. 

"I'm taking you back to Cato," he informed his prisoner, dismally. "I've 
mucked things up for both of us. I'll take you back to where you belong. 
Maybe we can try it again sometime." He laughed bitterly. "I'll try and 
borrow a book on the care and feeding of slavegirls." 

Vanessa knew a great thankfulness. She had been prepared for the most 
terrible of punishments, having supposed that this man would effect upon her 
flesh the frustrations of the day before. But evidently he had whipped her 
enough and expended his sterile conquest of her loins to a point of satiety. 
All she could think to say was, "Justine won't be home yet. I wish we could 
have talked with him." 

"You'll be save enough with Cato. He'll lock you in a cell." Another bitter 
laugh. "At least you won't get whipped again today." Patton raised an 
inquisitive eyebrow, "Or does Cato whip you along with everyone else?" 

"He is allowed to, but hasn't. He won't unless I do something stupid." 

"I'm sorry about yesterday, Sweetheart." 

"Don't be. I'm just not the right girl for you. Anyway, it was a case of too 
much, too soon. Before you try it again you should think about it a lot. Any 
maybe talk with Justine. Justine is terribly cleaver with us girls." 

"I feel a bit of a bastard about taking you back and having Cato lock you in 
a cell until Justine comes back. You'll be bored stiff." 

"Prisoners have to put up with being bored stiff, I'll survive." In a flash 
of inspiration she added demurely, "There's another alternative, Bill. You 
can set me free and give me some clothes and money and let me have a day all 
by myself in town. I'll go to Cato this evening and give myself up then." 

Patton stopped eating and sat tense in disbelief. But his features cleared 
and he emitted the first bellow of genuine laughter Vanessa had ever heard 
from this man. "You mean that, don't you! I'll be damned! And I'll bet 
you'll keep your word, you'd actually go back to Justine this evening to get 
locked up like a convict in a cell." 

"That's right I would. I'll be an absolutely good girl. I think you know 
that by now." 

"A good girl, sure you'd be a good girl for him but not for me." 

"Damn it, Bill, none of us girls can tell any man why we love one and not 
another. We can't love you all any more than you can love all of us. It's 
only a fact of life, please don't be angry." Vanessa knew she must be 
cautious if she was to be granted the boon of a day's freedom. "Don't let's 
be dramatic over this. You tried something out and it didn't work. But why 
can't we try it again? Why can't you set a date with Justine for a week or a 
month ahead in which you'll own me for one more day?" Vanessa laughed 
brightly. "By that time the whip marks will have faded or maybe be gone all 
together. The way you whipped me yesterday takes about a month to heal." 

Vanessa had struck the right note. She had divined it instantly. Bill Patton 
would content himself and find a joy in contemplating possessing her again 
and perhaps again. He might reasonably suppose that, if Justine loaned her 
once, he would loan her twice. Optimistically he felt that she would not 
complain to her master about harsh treatment. Justine might draw his own 
conclusion from her weals, but that was something he could no longer help. 
Watching his face, Vanessa knew she had won. 

"I have to be crazy," Patton said with caustic humor as he used the key upon 
her bracelets. "I suppose you had better take these with you, they belong to 
Justine, they're not mine. You can put them in your handbag." 

"I don't have any handbag, I don't even have clothes. You can loan me some 
money, Justine will pay it back. But I'm bare naked?" 

"I can fix that," Patton admitted, shamefaced. "There's a few things kicking 
around, they'll get you by." 

Over and over in the mind of the freed but naked girl a song repeated itself 
endless, "I'm free, I'm free, I'm free!" That her freedom would be short, 
all the more value. A thing to treasure and use wisely. She sorted out and 
chose feminine clothes and asked no questions. If Bill Patton kept some 
feminine stuff around the house, it was no affair of hers. Apparently he had 
some female visitors. She wondered why he did not whip them instead of her. 
But, of course, they would be free, they would not be handcuffed or 
enslaved. Men did not need to kidnap a girl for simple, good, old-fashion 
sex. 

Vanessa put Justine's handcuffs in the bag along with some money Patton gave 
her, then admired herself in the mirror, deciding she would do well enough 
for just one day. She considered getting a hairdo in the afternoon. The iron 
collar would have to stay upon her neck, there was no way of removing it. 
And it did add a little something to the ensemble. There would be no need to 
apologize for it to anyone. 

Their parting was awkward. Vanessa stood on tip-toe and kissed the man who 
had whipped her so cruelly. She tried to make it a sisterly kiss, avoiding 
arousal to passion which might cause Patton to change his mind; she was not 
yet beyond his door. It would be too easy for him to seize her once again 
and take her back to square one and possibly the beastly triangle. She 
banished the thought and said brightly, "Don't let either of us say a word 
about yesterday. It simply happened and that's an end to it. If Justine asks 
questions, I'll answer them but I'll volunteer nothing." 

"Like I said, Sweetheart, you're marvelous, simply wonderful, a jewel of a 
girl." Bill Patton was beginning to breathe heavily in a Vanessa recognized. 
She pecked his cheek once more and made her escape from his house while he 
was still content to let her go. From the safety of the street she looked 
back at the man standing dejectedly in the doorway. He waved and she waved 
back. That was the end of it. 

Miss Vanessa Pilgrim was free. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN - COMPULSIVE CAPTIVE 

Vanessa well understood her freedom arose from an impulsive remark made at 
the precise psychological moment. Bill Patton was probably already 
regretting his weakness in letting her go. But she was safe from him now and 
in the coming night there was Cato and the cell and Justine's return to look 
forward to. It did not strike Vanessa as the least bit strange she should 
consider nothing else except a return to her slavery. She was free and could 
stay free. She could contact her family and return to the fold. She knew if 
she dwelt too long on this subject she might succumb. It would be wise to 
look steadfastly ahead to a single goal, to think only of Justine Moore. 

An impulse had gained her this short freedom. Another impulse took her to a 
quiet and private phone booth. Again she refused to dwell on consequences or 
issues, she was simply being feminine. The call went through in surprisingly 
little time. Hearing the male voice she could never forget, she said, 
excitedly, "It's me. It's Vanessa." 

"Where the hell are you girl?" Rod Sykes sounded the same as ever. It was as 
though he were standing beside her in the confined space. 

Vanessa told him where she was, and how she had got there, she did this to 
the extent of approximately forty dollar's worth of the money in her bag. 
She finished on the accusing note, "It was all your fault. Master. I didn't 
escape, I didn't try to escape. I was stolen. You should never have had me 
tied to the post out there in the desert. You thought you were so damned 
smart...!" 

"Had yourself a bad time, hey?" 

"Awful! Oh, Master, you've no idea... " 

"Get your little ass back here right now, quick!" 

"But, Master, I can't... " 

"Why the hell not! Look, girl, you get back here on the first plane. I can't 
enter Congi territory but I'll arrange to have you picked up and delivered." 

Vanessa giggled. "In chains, or tied up in the trunk of a car?" she asked 
mischievously. 

"Never you mind. I want you back. You belong to me. Damn it, if it hadn't 
been for me you'd still be a half-assed schoolmarm. Hell, you owe me." 

The masculine voice of Rod Sykes sounded so damned good over the phone. 
Vanessa was thrilled by his wanting her, and already her life was falling 
into a better perspective. Rod Sykes could have given Bill Patton a few tips 
and pointers on how to use a slavegirl. She wondered about Rod and Justine, 
there would indeed be a case of Greek meets Greek. Inadequately she said, 
"Rod, I only made this call to revive an old memory. I've never forgotten 
you and never will, but we don't belong in each other's world." 

"You belong right here in this house, Vanessa. Like I said, get back here 
Pronto! I want you naked and in chains within forty-eight hours. Do I make 
myself clear?" 

"Well... yes. But couldn't you say you love me just a little?" 

"You damned girls!" A male snort of make-believe disgust reached the 
palpating maiden in the booth. "Of course, I love you! Why the hell to you 
suppose I've been turning the whole damned country upside down in search of 
you? I was scared the Hamish shitless, figuring they had you hidden 
someplace. You're excused for escaping, it wasn't your fault." 

"I'll have to say good-bye now, Master, my money is about used up." 

"You can't possibly hang up. Look here " The male expostulation was 
consigned to limbo as Vanessa thumbed back the receiver. Even if her money 
had lasted she dare not prolong a conversation becoming increasing intimate 
and more and more impossible. She condemned herself for making the call, but 
in some way she could not analyze, it had strengthened her and rid her mind 
of doubts and fancies and indecisions. Rod Sykes was a forthright male. She 
would be a steadfast woman. Feeling better, she made her way to the 
hairdressing salon. When she was through there, there would be just enough 
money left to treat her to the luxury of dinning out. All in all, it was not 
a bad day. 

* * * 

If Cato was surprised by the early return of his master's property, he gave 
no sign. Instead of the "May I take your hat, Sir?" he substituted with 
unconscious humor, "Your clothes please, Ma'am, I will put them away for 
you." 

Vanessa wanted to laugh, to jump for joy, even to kiss this impassive 
servant on his impassive cheek. It felt so damned good to be back where she 
belonged. She stripped as casually as might a male in tendering his hat. 
Handing Bill Patton's feminine garments to a waiting hand. Totally bare, she 
inquired with sparkling eyes, "How and where would you like me, Cato? I 
promise I won't be a nuisance." 

Her incarceration was not immediate. She roamed the familiar places while 
Cato disposed of her discarded coverings. When Cato returned and said, "If 
you will come this way. Ma'am?" she responded gaily by a saucy request, 
"Cato, could I have a drink first before you lock me up, or chain me, or 
whatever you're going to do with me?" 

"Indubitably, Ma'am. Would you wish me to mix it for you or will you mix 
your own?" 

"Why don't you mix it for me, Cato. And, while you're at it, fix one for 
yourself." 

Cato was visibly shaken but he bore up well. "An unorthodox suggestion. 
Ma'am, but thank you." 

Vanessa knew herself impishly testing the limits of this freedom. She had 
best make the most of it for it would not last long. She was well aware of 
Cato's responsibility to assure her imprisonment. While he was mixing drinks 
she said casually, "Oh, by the way, my handcuffs are in the bag. I forgot to 
mention... " 

"Quite so, Ma'am. I have already discovered them. They are in my pocket." 

Vanessa sighed. There was something so absolutely right about Cato. She 
accepted both an armchair and cocktail with the abandon of a thrilled 
teenager dabbling in the forbidden. But Cato did the correct thing and 
sipped his while standing. "The house has not seemed the same without you, 
Ma'am." He coughed deprecatingly, "If I may say so, you are in the nature of 
a ray of sunshine." 

"Oh, Cato, I'm so pleased." Vanessa's joy was genuine. "You're not going to 
whip me or something are you? I mean, you're not building me up for a let 
down?" 

"Indeed no, Ma'am. The master left no orders for this contingency. I will 
therefore keep you in what might be called a 'holding' situation." 

"Cato, you're so sweet." Vanessa stood and turned slowly for his inspection. 
"Look what Mr. Patton did to me. I've never been so terribly whipped in all 
my life." 

"I have already noted your wounds, Ma'am. I would never presume to place 
such marks upon you skin. You master will not be pleased. I doubt 
exceedingly you will be loaned again." 

Vanessa was grateful for tete-a-tete, it cemented a bond. But she would not 
presume, she would not push her luck. When her drink was finished, she set 
the glass aside and held out her hands to the man with the handcuffs in his 
pocket. No word was said, none needed. Cato carefully fitted each bracelet 
on its appropriate wrist. He went to much care to assure them being 
precisely snug then securely locked with the reserve end of the key. The 
now-restrained girl watched with approval and a comfortably secure sense of 
well-being. With Vanessa, handcuffs most definitely belonged! 

"If you will come this way, Ma'am?" Cato motioned to the door. The 
handcuffed girl knew the moment had come and, without demure, offered her 
bare arm to Cato's grip. She knew herself captive. 

"I believe this the most appropriate, Ma'am," Cato said as he unlocked the 
cell door and held it open. With an awareness of coming home the naked girl 
walked within. 

"Perhaps, if you would be seated a moment, Ma'am?" 

Cato's pockets held more than handcuffs. He produced the shining bands 
which, locked upon Vanessa's ankles, would inhibit walking. Vanessa simply 
shrugged, sat down and extended her shapely legs, one at a time. When the 
bands were locked upon her ankles, she said, wryly, "I wasn't going 
anywhere, Cato. But thanks just the same." 

"You are most welcome, Ma'am. I will bring you a dinner at an appropriate 
hour." 

"But I've already eaten." 

"A light snack, then Ma'am. A glass of warm milk will help you sleep." 

The cell door clanged shut most resoundingly. Upon the bed/bench Vanessa 
watched her jailer depart. Cato was a dear. Amused by his attention to 
detail, she fingered the metal bands around her ankles, then tried to stand. 
But the test proved she would do neither run or walk while wearing the 
wicked metal. Resignedly she lay back on the bed. She had not slept well the 
night before. She slept now. 

In the morning it was her master who freed her from the cell. Never had a 
reunion been more joyous. Justine picked his slavegirl up and carried her 
directly to their bed. He had no need to chain her for the anklets 
prohibited escape. They made such outrageous love it was noon before they 
blinked themselves back into the world. When Vanessa tried to tell her 
master of the one day of slavery to Bill Patton, he curtly said, "I have 
only to look at you. I'll talk to him. If you can, forget it." He grinned a 
reassurance. "But now I've got to run, there's something I have to do, I 
could be late." 

Vanessa was thankful for their time in bed, it had made everything right 
again. In his hurry Justine had forgotten her anklets but she shrugged and 
thought they did not matter. If she wanted to go somewhere around the house 
she could always crawl or ask Cato to carry her. The circlets were deadly 
things but she preferred them to the heaviness of shackles or the gross 
bulkiness of police irons which were not irons at all but simply a large set 
of handcuffs. She amused herself with baths and magazines until Cato arrived 
with tea. Having served it, he lingered. "I regret, Ma'am, I have some bad 
news." 

"Sit down and tell me." 

"I would prefer to stand. Miss. The master has just phoned. I fear you are 
in disgrace." 

"But I can't be. I haven't done anything." Vanessa nibbled a sandwich and 
sipped tea. "You make the nicest things, Cato, I do wish you would join me." 

"Thank you. Ma'am, but no. May I suggest you eat hardy." Vanessa picked up 
the inference but refused to pursue it farther. She was in one more of her 
light-hearted, joyous conditions from being loved and only lightly 
restrained. If Cato had bad news, he could keep it to himself. 

"I will leave you to your tea, Ma'am. I will be back for the tray. And, 
again, I suggest you leave nothing uneaten." 

Vanessa munched happily. She examined her bracelets and anklets and fingered 
the iron around her neck. The iron was an endless source of curiosity. She 
supposed being chained by it at night justified wearing it always. It was 
even more a part of her than the handcuffs. She finished the tea and 
sandwiches and rang the bell. When Cato returned, she said, "Well, let's 
have the bad news, I've finished tea. I'm well fortified." 

"I fear it is not a matter for levity. Ma'am. Your master is displeased." 

"OK, then, my Master is displeased. He can tell me about it when he comes 
home." 

"I fear his return may be delayed, Ma'am. He has phoned me instructions. I 
regret having to inform you that you have been sentenced to punishment." 

"Oh, Cato, don't be so solemn! What on earth have I done now?" 

"No doubt you master will inform you when you are next together. In the 
meantime I have my instructions. I regret I must unlock your anklets." 

Vanessa stuck out her feet and watched the departure of the metal bands 
around her ankles. She was never sorry to see them go. They were preferable 
to shackles but that was about all she could say about them. Still in the 
grip of euphoria she exclaimed, "Thank you, Cato, you're a darling. What 
happens now?" 

"Nothing you will like. Ma'am. I must ask you to come with me." 

"You sound like a policeman, Cato, making an arrest." 

Vanessa got willingly to her feet and motioned with chained hands in an 
uncertain questioning. But her bare arm was firmly grasped and she was led 
to a room in which an unwelcome structure stood bare and stark for her 
attention. Her response was instant, "Oh, Cato, not this horrible thing!" 

"It is a replica of a seventeenth century pillory. Ma'am. You master added 
it to his collection some time ago. You will find it accommodates your 
dimensions with remarkable accuracy." 

"I just bet it does! That isn't out of the seventeenth century, it was made 
especially for me. Look at the size of those holes!" 

"You will have every opportunity to test them, Ma'am," Cato assured her. 
"There is, however, one impediment I must deplore. You must lose your 
collar. I'm sure you'll miss it while it is gone from your neck." 

"I don't want to lose my collar. Oh, Cato, isn't there something else you 
could do to me besides put me in that awful thing?" 

"I fear not, Ma'am. The master's orders are explicit. I have here the key." 

It was a sad, sad moment, like a parting from an old friend. For Vanessa, 
the collar around her neck had been symbolic of something she could not 
name. She had a fear that, when it was taken from around her neck, a new era 
would commence. But she turned around, gathered up her hair as best she 
could with her joined hands and stool quietly while Cato used the key. When 
the collar was taken from her, she impulsively asked, "Oh, Cato, let me hold 
it. I've never held it before. Please... " The iron was warm from her flesh. 
It was almost like holding one of her fingers or ankles or a wrist. Vanessa 
looked and marveled at the small diameter needed to hold a girl in duress. 
She returned it to Cato with a shrug of regret. He said, "I fear your 
handcuffs, too, Ma'am." 

Vanessa had forgotten the handcuffs. How silly she was, a girl could not be 
place in the grip of a pillory with chained hands or a collared neck. She 
could wear the metal belt around her waist or shackles around her ankles but 
that was all. Unhappily she said, "Look after them, Cato, and put them back 
on me as soon as you can. I'd a lot sooner be handcuffed than what is going 
to happen to me now." 

It was one of those times when a girl needed to giggle. It was all too 
absurd, all too solemn and ritualistic, especially with Cato officiating. 
Cato lifted the top half of the yoke by which she would be imprisoned and 
invited her own participation in her punishment, "You may place your neck 
and wrists in their appointed places. I would appreciate it if you would 
arrange your head so it will cause no impediment." 

Vanessa did just that. She felt like stamping her bare foot in anger and 
impatience. She was sure she had done nothing to earn this punishment but 
maybe this was one of those cases where she didn't have to do anything, 
where Justine had come by a quaint notion he could not wait to impose. He 
would be picturing her the rest of the afternoon, a helpless captive 
awaiting his pleasure. She shrugged, whatever it might be, she had no say in 
the matter, her duty was to obey. The top half of the yoke was gently 
lowered to affirm Cato's assertion of a perfect fit. Her wrists and neck 
were locked in hardwood with such perfection as to become a part of it. She 
looked sideways as Cato lowered the hasp and inserted the padlock. He closed 
it with a deadly click. "I am instructed to leave you, Ma'am. I am not 
allowed to linger and exchange pleasantries. Good-bye." 

"But, Cato This isn't forever, is it? You'll come and unlock me later on, 
won't you?" 

"I am not at liberty to say, Ma'am." The door closed behind a model of 
discretion. The girl in the pillory actually stamped a bare foot against the 
floor but it hurt enough to dissuade her from stamping the other, too. She 
snorted in disgust. 

For any maiden ever incarcerated within the hardwood grip of a pillory, it 
is a memorable experience. The divorcing of her body and her legs behind the 
pillory and out of Vanessa's range of vision had a strange effect. She could 
look to either side at her hands, which were in exactly the same plight as 
her neck. She was only slightly bent but was certain the bend would be 
enough to exact its tribute in the form of an aching back. Carefully she 
thrust a foot forward until she could see it. It looked as it had always 
looked. She put it back where it had been. Vanessa sighed. There was not 
much left to do. 

She wished Cato had stuck around. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim felt in need of moral 
support. 

The captive of the pillory wracked her mind searching for a reason for this 
indignity, this horrible punishment once reserved for the convict class 
only. But she could think of nothing, and moodily reflected that, if this 
was an example of her master's pixie caprice, she could only hope he was not 
often so inspired. Vanessa was well aware of other rooms and within those 
rooms other things, but for the moment did not want to think of them. The 
pillory was enough for now! It was hateful to not be able to see herself, to 
be thus divided between hands and head and the rest of her person. She 
supposed that she should be thankful that no one else was present, she was 
wickedly vulnerable in the rear. If any one was disposed to cane her bottom 
or whip her back, she could scarcely be more disposed. She was alone and was 
wise enough to know the loneliness might be the worst punishment of all. 

The light was fading when Cato brought the glass and the straw. "I have 
taken the liberty, Ma'am, of making this a cocktail rather than a glass of 
water. I trust you approve?" 

Vanessa approved. She said so in no uncertain tones. She pleaded for 
release. But all she got out of the butler's visit was to suck the cocktail 
dry through the straw thoughtfully provided and to request another. 

"I fear not, Ma'am. Second cocktail would be, in my opinion, an indulgence." 

"Oh, damn your indulgence, Cato! Get me another drink. Get me tipsy, if I've 
got to stand in this awful contraption for long, I'll go crazy." 

"I'm sure you'll handle your punishment in your usual good style and with 
grace, Ma'am. I have always admired your control." 

"Piss on my control, Cato! Pleeeeeeeeease Just one more?" 

"Very well. Ma'am, I thrust this will not be mentioned to the master?" 

"Never! Oh, Cato, I adore you. You're so sweet!" 

Cato was absent a long time. The yoked girl struggled fretfully in useless 
attempts to gain some advantage over the wooden monster in which she was so 
cruelly clamped. The second drink would be a blessing, perhaps it would 
enable her to sleep! She would try by leaning her weight against her arms 
and neck and hoping neither of them broke in a sudden fall. Going to sleep 
within the grip of a pillory could well be hazardous. When Cato reappeared, 
her thankfulness was vocal. 

"Oh, Cato, you're a darling. I do admire the way you carry a glass on that 
little tray. It adds such consequence to something ordinary." 

"There is nothing ordinary about this cocktail. Miss. It is well fortified." 

It was indeed! Vanessa took a long pull and tried not to choke. She wondered 
if any other girl had experimented with intoxication while thus imprisoned. 
Under Cato's insistence, she imbibed it rapidly and then dolefully listened 
to one more goodbye. Cato went to the door. 

"But Cato, you can't leave me like this, can you? I mean, chivalry and all 
that and leaving a maiden in distress. Cato, I'm distressed, honest I am!" 

Cato was gone. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim was along and firmly locked within the 
pillory. 

She did not sleep. Every time slumber reached her limbs they proved 
traitors, bending beneath her weight and threatening suffocation and a 
broken neck. So long as she was conscious she could take whatever weight she 
wanted by her imprisoned hands, but that was not the idea. Vanessa wept, but 
it was now too dark to see her tears splash on the floor. When her master 
came home she received the unkindest cut of all. 

"You've been drinking, Vanessa. Where the Devil " 

"Only one, Master, Cato was so kind. He felt sorry for me." 

"He's not suppose to, and I'm damned sure he gave you more than one, I'll 
talk to him," the master was brusque. 

Vanessa hoped he had not had a bad day and would vent his displeasure on his 
slave. But she wasted no time, "Please let me loose, Master. Please take me 
out of this awful thing. I've been in here so long." 

"Not long enough, you little idiot. If you're wondering why you're standing 
there, I can tell you very simply, it's about a phone call." 

"How did you learn about that?" The words escaped her lips before Vanessa 
could clench her teeth. "I mean, what about a phone call? What's the harm in 
calling someone on the phone?" 

"That idiot, Bill Patton, gave you a day's freedom. To all intents and 
purposes he made you a free girl who could run away if she chose. You took 
the opportunity to call that mercenary fellow -- what's his name-Rod Sykes, 
I believe. You should not have allowed yourself to be loosed upon the street 
and you should not have made that phone call. Have you any idea what 
penalties you've earned by those two acts?" 

"I'm sorry. Master. I didn't know, honest I didn't." Vanessa contrived a sob 
in her voice. "Please don't punish me. Please don't punish me any more." 

"I can see you've been punished enough. Patton went overboard. I'll take 
that into account, but you've earned yourself more than just standing in the 
pillory for a few paltry hours. Look, Vanessa, I'm going to free you now. 
We'll have our normal dinner and then a chat. Then I'm going to put you 
right back where you are now." 

Vanessa tensed in disbelief. Her voice was involuntary, "Ooooooh, Master! 
Don't, oh, please don't. I've had a belly full of this hateful thing." 

She might as well kept silent. Justine used a key and freed the padlock, he 
lifted the yoke and said, roughly, "Ok, you're free now, get yourself out of 
there. Stop sniveling." 

"Was I sniveling?" Having made the question, Vanessa discovered she actually 
was sniveling. In a suddenly, glorious freedom of hands, she brushed away 
tears and gratefully accepted a white cambric square in which to blow her 
nose. She felt pathetic and frightfully abused. But she was aware of a need 
for caution, she was in trouble and best get in no deeper than she was. She 
allowed herself to be led to the bathroom and, a few minutes later, joined 
her master at dinner. Her only bond was the metal band around her middle. No 
one noticed. 

The naked delinquent soon realized that part of her punishment was normalcy. 
As Cato served the courses and conversation flowed (ignoring the subject 
closest to her mind), Vanessa more and more shrank from a return to the 
awful room and wicked machine to which she had been fastened. But if she 
allowed her mind to become hysterical, and she was certain Justine would not 
like that, she would fall in his estimation, something she must never allow 
herself to do. She drank as much wine as she was allowed and managed to 
match her master's conversational agility. When it was all over and even the 
coffee things were taken from the table, Justine said, without emphasis, 
"Well, I guess its time to go back downstairs, Vanessa. Come along." 

She followed like a whipped dog. But when Justine switched on the light in 
the awful room, she lost control and, falling to his feet, clasp his legs 
and wept bitterly upon his pants, imploring, "Please, Master, don't put me 
back in there. Please, please!" 

"You know what to do, Vanessa, behave yourself." 

It was hopeless, there was no way out. Miss Vanessa Pilgrim knew herself a 
girl condemned. She was sentenced by a man she had come to adore, sentenced 
to a punishment she hated and loathed. But, in her realization of the 
possibility of loosing Justine's respect, she knew there was only once 
course open. Miserable she went to the pillory and arranged herself for 
imprisonment, the yoke was lowered, the hasp fell into place and the padlock 
shut. She had gone a full circle and was back at the starting place. After 
Justine had gone, leaving her alone, she wept bitterly with none to see her 
tears. 

The pillory was bad enough in daylight, but in the dark it was truly 
fearsome. Ghosts lurked in the shadows and the captive girl was forever 
positive lewd hands were questing for her sex and for her breasts. She 
stepped from one bare foot to the other in a constant, but unjustified fear 
of ghostly hands clutching her nakedness or a ghostly whip descending upon 
her already marked skin. That none of these things happened helped not at 
all. She could not move, that was what mattered! She was held rigidly 
helpless as though in the grip of a living thing. Throughout the hours of 
darkness she came to hate the pillory more than the hatred she bore for any 
of the punishments or tortures she had experienced since that first day at 
the Mission. She tried screaming but her voice was lost against the walls 
and the closed doors. It sounded horrible to her own ears so she desisted. 
She had no weapon, none! Her only freedom was to shed her tears and this she 
did. 

It was well along towards morning before Justine flung open the door, 
unlocked the padlock, picked her up and carried her to their bed. If Vanessa 
had loved him before, she loved him tenfold now. Their lovemaking was the 
fiercest yet. 

* * * 

Miss Vanessa Pilgrim was glad when her master returned to punishments 
heavily sexual; sometimes they were purely and simply sex and need not be 
called punishments at all. Her interlude with Bill Patton, followed by the 
ordeal of the pillory, had made a deep impression on the captive girl. She 
believed she would never be the same again, but believed also she had caught 
a fresh, new glimpse of The Male. She still refused to analyze why men did 
these things to girl or why girls got wet between their thighs because of 
it. The whole thing was crazy, but sometimes the craziness was intensely 
pleasurable. 

Vanessa looked at the object and said, "You can't possibility expect me to 
take all of that, Justine!" 

"That and more. You can do it. Sweetheart." 

Vanessa had been told that she would be punished by a few hours spread upon 
the horse. At first she was unconcerned, that punishment did not matter, it 
would soon be over and wasn't too unpleasant. But this was not the horse she 
had seen in another of the rooms, this was something by itself, holding a 
menace of its own. She had given up her maidenly protests against the 
punishments her master sentenced her to. She had become inured to them and 
was well aware her quiet acceptance often gained her a shorter period of 
their inflection than otherwise. She was now almost always in a feverish 
anxiety to please and to immolate herself in anyway The Male desired. 
Luckily Justine had become more and more busy with his affairs and delegated 
the correction and discipline of his slave to Cato, who performed this 
function of inquisitor with a calm disinterest that made Vanessa long to 
tear her hair or, heaven forbid, claw his face. But she would never do that, 
Cato was sweet. As for tearing her hair or jumping up and down in anger -- 
she rarely had the chance. 

As though regretting the small liberties Vanessa had taken during her 
interlude with Bill Patton, she was now heavily ironed or stringently bound. 
Mourning this lose of freedom and the strictness of redundant bonds gave her 
something to think about in the boredom of her isolations. She was now 
warmly kissed, patted here and there, and told to await Cato's arrival. 

"This is a sexually immodest inflection I would prefer not to impose upon 
you, Ma'am." Cato's voice was as suave as ever. "But the master's orders 
were most explicit. Perhaps, as a commencement, I should lubricate the 
knob." 

"Lubricate the whole damned thing, Cato! It's a monster! It's simply awful." 

"Punishments have a tendency to be as you describe, Miss. I will now tie 
your hands behind your back." 

"Is that part of the drill? Why can't you use handcuffs?" 

"The tight stricture of cords is considered more suitable to this occasion, 
Ma'am." Cato's voice was bland. From one of his magic pockets he produced 
thin cord. 

"Cato, that stuffs going to cut my wrists, it's so thin!" 

"An impediment to struggling, Miss, nothing more, I do assure you." With the 
passing of time in her imprisonment, Vanessa had become increasingly 
cautious of rash statements or immoderate demands. She longed to suggest to 
the imperturbable servant that the two of them say that her punishment had 
taken place, and allow her to spend the day in the relative comfort of a 
cell. But Cato invariably reported all her frailties and they drew their own 
punishments in grim reward. She look dubiously at the immense phallus 
emerging upward from the sturdy pedestal. "I'm not going to like this, 
Cato," she said with certainly. 

"Quite so, Miss. It's design is punitive. The promise of the phallus is, I 
fear, deceptive. It is overly large for pleasurable impalement." 

"Its bloody awful. Its like being dropped on a telephone pole from a great 
height. Cato, must we really...?" 

"I fear so, Miss. There is no escape." 

"How do you get it inside me, it doesn't look possible?" 

"I will lift you. Ma'am. It is a cooperative effort." 

"That's all very well to say, you don't get the damned thing shoved up your 
thingummy. Are you sure it won't come up out of my mouth?" 

"You are indulging in hyperbole. Ma'am. It is not designed for pleasure but 
will do no injury. And now you hands...?" 

Vanessa stood erect and defiant, her nakedness taunt with indignation as she 
put her hands behind her back, crossed her wrists, and stood firmly beneath 
the bite of the thin cord she deplored. From time to time she winched and 
bit her lip but carefully maintained a prudent silence. Anything Cato made 
her suffer would be according to the book and had best not be protested if a 
girl knew what was good for her! 

Cato was immensely strong. He picked her up like a baby beneath her arms and 
Vanessa felt silly and effectual as she rose to find herself immediately 
above the object on which she must be impaled. It all seemed impossible but 
she knew it was going to happen. If Cato said she was going to suffer no 
injury, well, she took his word for it. 

"If you will open your legs, Ma'am, and direct proceedings, I will follow 
your instructions. Ma'am." Cato sounded a trifle breathless. He lowered her 
half an inch and she felt the first touch of the massive object. "I believe 
we are at the point of entry, Ma'am, I will move you back and forth to 
facilitate passage into what you describe as your 'thingummy.' We must 
observe strict caution." 

"You're damned right we must, Cato. Look, can't we abandon this whole 
project. I... I... Oh, damned! You've got the lousy thing right inside me." 

"A mere commencement. Ma'am. It is the protruding end you feel. The rest 
will follow." 

Vanessa wanted to laugh, to scream, to do anything but what she did. In a 
stressful knowledge of risk she guided Cato's slow lowering of her person 
upon the greased pole. Little by little her sheath absorbed the unbelievable 
immensity. She hear Cato sight with relief when her crotch was planted 
firmly on the saddle, designed not so much for support as for punishment. It 
was the strangest of feelings and she was much concerned that Cato should 
continue to support her weight. But Cato withdrew his hands and Miss Vanessa 
Pilgrim left herself sitting astride the strangest horse in all the world. 

"Cato, I can't possibly sit on this thing, it's hurting something awful!" 

"Quite so, Ma'am." 

"Don't say 'quite so' like that. It sounds as though I'm a babbling idiot 
you're trying to shut up or placate." 

"Quite so, Ma'am." 

"There you go again! Oh, Cato, lift me off, please lift me off!" 

"You are well adjusted, Miss. I am well proud of our joint effort. I will 
now fasten your ankles." 

Vanessa sat still in utter dismay, not that she could do much else, but a 
new dimension was making itself felt. The pedestal upon which she was 
impaled was now gently rising to lift the tiny saddle on which she sat and 
the wicked phallus deep within her womb to a height adequate to raise her 
feet from the floor and to allow Cato to shackle them loosely to the 
pedestal itself. Vanessa's indignation was vocal, "What are you doing? Why 
are you chaining my feet like that, Cato?" 

"A mere precaution, Miss. You may, in the course of time, be tempted to try 
to throw yourself from you perch. It is necessary, therefore, to fasten your 
feet to render such an act impossible. At the same time we must insure that 
your feet in no way bare your weight or support you by any means. Your 
weight is intended to rest entirely upon your narrow perch and, if I may say 
so, that thrust within your crotch." 

"Of course, you may say so, Cato. That's exactly what's happening. Look, I 
can't possibly stand this, it hurts too bloody awful. You ought to do these 
things to yourself to try them out." 

"It would not be the same. Ma'am. May I commend the admirable adjustment you 
are making to adverse circumstances." 

"Commend all you want, Cato, but for Pete's sake get me off here." 

"Alas, no, Ma'am. You are nicely postured. This will be your perch for some 
time to come. You are, in effect, riding the horse." 

"What's that you're doing to my hands?" 

"Binding the strictures down to the back of the small saddle, Ma'am. This 
will kept you erect and be a further assurance against escape." 

"Escape! Oh, Cato, don't be silly, how in hell could I escape from this?" 

"Quite so, Miss." 

When Cato left her along, Vanessa had never felt more lonely or more in need 
of moral support. The support she was getting now was wickedly painful and 
concentrated upon a portion of her being where she wanted it least of all. 
All the fastenings were craftily designed to position her and keep her 
sitting astride the saddle upon her pussy. 

She thought of the poor, pouting lips on which she sat and wondered if they 
would be totally ruined or if some vestige of female response might still be 
had from them. She had entertained a fleeting hope of present carnal arousal 
as the day wore on. But if this was to happen it would need be from the 
phallus and not the thing on which she sat. 

Justine Moore was never dull. His captive maiden, impaled upon the pedestal, 
conceded this fact with wry humor. In all he did to her there would always 
be moments when a giggle had to be suppressed or given rein. Vanessa had 
long since discovered how much depended on a state of mind. If Bill Patton 
had done this to her, she would simply feel miserable, hurt and untidy, and 
be longing for release but not expecting it. But now she recognized the 
originality of her plight and slyly conceded the hope of the phallus 
bestowing an obvious benefit as time wore on. There was no one to see her in 
the disarray of orgasm, so she did not have to worry about that. A twisting 
and shuddering girl, with her belly fill of rubber, her hands tied behind 
her back, and her feet shackled to the pedestal below could hardly be an 
aesthetic delight to an observer, at least that was the way Vanessa felt 
about it. If someone had to watch, she wanted that someone to be Justine 
Moore. 

Cato reported passage of time when he brought a drink. He was attentive with 
the drinks, alternating water with something stronger. The impaled girl 
could scare believe the hours passed so slowly. That on which she sat became 
increasingly a scorching bum of bitter discomfort. The thing deep within her 
being finally had its way and took her into what might once have been 
Rainbow Land, but which now was nothing more than an untidy, gasping, and 
moaning without release. The thing itself, so deep within her, inhibited the 
motions which would normally arise from a maiden climax. It was all terribly 
unsatisfactory and most unkind. Vanessa made up her mind to speak forcibly 
to Justine when he came home about her disgraceful day. She hoped he would 
think up something less demeaning for tomorrow. Vanessa, on her perch, 
wondered why she had come to love Justine. She supposed what she felt for 
him was, in actuality, exactly that. She was a girl in love with her master. 
Her captivities had awakened in Vanessa a latent talent for submission and 
carnality. She had given up being ashamed of herself and now drifted with 
the tide, a tide controlled by the man whose property she was. Justine was 
shrewd in his punishments. The one she suffered now was, by normal 
standards, outrageous and impossible. She should have been in raving 
hysterics and hating every minute of it. But this, like all her other 
punishments, simply took her to the brink of her endurance but no more. She 
knew it a tantalizing experience for both of them, the discovery of a girl's 
tolerance of pain and the effect pain had on her mental attitudes. The nag 
between her thighs and within her cleft she now suffered was a case in 
point. This thing upon which she was tied and chained was a refinement of 
the ancient "Horse," but it was still a refinement, a civilized and faintly 
humane approach to an old torture. Vanessa was quiet willing to tell Cato 
she would die unless released immediately, but she was well aware she would 
sit out the day and be a loving slavegirl to her master when he so willed. 

In these reflections she became once more aware of a growing fire kindled by 
the hateful prong she must keep within her belly. She could almost see it as 
a laughing male thing having its way with her against her will. Savagely, 
Vanessa turned her mind to pure thoughts, abandoning all carnality, but to 
no avail. The growing heat and the encroaching tide of sensation could not 
be ignored, she could not kill it or close her mind to it. Slowly it 
possessed her totally. In the middle of one more shameful surrender of the 
flesh, while she moaned and flung her damp hair from side to side, the door 
opened and Bill Patton walked in to stand speechless in amazement. 

It was not until the hateful spasm had fulfilled its purpose with her that 
Vanessa became aware of an audience. Her eyes had been closed during the 
flowering of her climax. Then now opened very wide indeed. Her voice was 
vivid with outrage, "You!" 

"Sorry, my dear. I seem to have a gift for catching you at awkward moments. 
Please don't feel as ashamed as you look. Oh, and by the way, Justine gave 
me permission for a short visit. Cato knows I'm here. I won't embarrass you 
long." 

"Go away." 

"You don't really mean that, Vanessa. You're just angry because I came in 
and watched what was happening to you. Damn it, girl, I've seen girls in 
orgasm before, it's nothing new." 

"You've never seen a girl have an orgasm in a fix like I'm in," Vanessa 
accused bitterly, then added, hopefully, "Are you going to get me off this 
thing?" 

"I'm afraid not, dear. Justine warned me I have to leave you alone. " Bill 
Patton flushed uncomfortably. "What I wanted to see you about was getting 
married. I asked you to marry me, now I ask again. How about it?" 

Bill was impossible! Bitterly Vanessa expressed her shame, "You can't tell 
me you still want to marry a girl who looks the way I do now and who was 
doing that horrible thing when you opened the door. Don't you realize I'm 
absolute impaled on this pedestal and there's a great big rubber thing up 
inside me and it brings me to an orgasm I don't want. And sitting on this 
little saddle things is pure agony. Good gosh. Bill, a man doesn't ask a 
girl to marry him under these circumstances! You're looking at a female 
Well, sort of tortured." 

"Justine explained about your punishment, Vanessa. I think he believed a 
visit from me would amuse you, take you mind of your discomfort." 

"You're both crazy. No girl wants to be seen the way I am now." Vanessa 
sniffed angrily. "Why won't you lift me off this thing and give me a break?" 

"I know I've always sounded ineffectual, Vanessa, my love, every time I've 
run into you. You're always in some kind of dire straights and I can't 
rescue you. I can't now. Don't you see, Sweetheart, I don't have the key to 
those shackles on your ankles and there's a matter of honor with Justine. 
It's decent of him to let me come and visit with you." 

"Go away. Bill. But before you go have a good look at all the whip marks you 
put on me. Everybody admires them but me." 

"They make you doubly beautiful," his voice had again returned to reverence. 
"I know you don't like me constantly telling you how beautiful you are. But 
I have to. I can't help myself." 

"Tea, Sir?" 

It was Cato with his tray. Upon it the appurtenances for tea for two. He 
drew up a small table and chair and place his burden upon it. "I am sure, 
Sir, I can rely on you to hold the cup up to the lady's lips." Discretely he 
left the young couple alone. 

"Jolly decent of him," Bill Patton said in surprise. "Damned civilized. Mind 
if I pour?" 

"It's for damned sure I can't," Vanessa said sharply. "I can't do a damned 
thing and I'll bet Cato's quietly laughing up his sleeve." 

Patton carried it off well. The incongruity of the situation appeared to 
pass him by. One might suppose that having tea with a young lady impaled 
upon a post was a daily occurrence with him, that the young lady's skin was 
crisscrossed with whip marks he had himself inflected affected him not at 
all. He found Vanessa exquisitely lovely in her distress. He had remembered 
her preference in sugar and cream, stirring the cup then holding it to her 
sulky lips. 

Vanessa sipped. It would prove nothing to thrust the cup away with her chin 
and, anyway, this idiot meant well. Tonelessly she said, "I'm not going 
marry you. Bill. And please don't talk about Justine's cruelty to me. If I 
married you and you took me home you might not be half as kind. Go buy 
yourself a girl on the street and whip you fancies out on her. Maybe you 
should whip two or three of them, if you can afford it, I'm sure you'd feel 
better." 

"You're making fun of me." 

"Not really. It's good advise. Bill, I do wish you'd go away. I feel 
terrible having you look at me like this. I'm in constant pain and not in 
the mood for polite conversation. I am certainly not in a position to 
consider a proposal of marriage." 

They stared at each other in silence. Suddenly Patton knelt beside Vanessa's 
pedestal and busied himself with the heavy shackles on her ankles, searching 
for some way to free her feet. He did not find a way. Vanessa Pilgrim would 
remain firmly a prisoner astride the tiny saddle so deeply embedded in her 
sex. Sadly he rose to his feet, "I can't free you without the key. Justine 
told me I couldn't. He's got the key in his pocket. Vanessa, I'm so damned 
sorry...!" 

"Don't be. I'm a slave. I'm being punished. It's all very simple, nothing 
for you to worry about." 

"But I want to marry you!" 

"So you said. I think it best you go, Bill, while we're still friends. If it 
pleases you to see me naked and in pain, I'm sure Justine will allow you to 
do a bit of voyeurism any time you're in the mood, he gets a kick out of it 
himself. I'll bet he's getting a chuckle out of thinking about the two of us 
alone here and not able to do a thing about it. Run along, I'll survive." 

Bill Patton's kiss was almost brotherly, his retreat out of sight almost a 
rout. With him gone the helpless girl eyed Cato's tray in longing, it 
contained unused sandwiches she wished Patton had fed her before leaving, 
but perhaps she could persuade Cato Everything was wrong, it was a bad day. 
Morosely, Miss Vanessa Pilgrim, shrank back upon her pain. 

"I thought it best to let him come," Justine said simply, as his eyes roved 
the tired nakedness of his slave. "He's got a thing about you, a fixation in 
his mind. I figured you might be able to put him on the right track." 

"I wish you won't exhibit me to people when you're punishing me in ways like 
this," Vanessa complained. "It was horrible having him stare, knowing what 
was up inside me and the way I must be feeling. I didn't even know he was 
standing there while I was making a idiot of myself, trying to kill what 
this beastly thing was doing to me and not having any luck. Oh, Justine...!" 

"Want me to get you off of there?" 

"Of course, I do! Oh, Master, please... 

I've had a belly full!" 

Vanessa blushed, "I didn't make that pun on purpose, it's bloody awful. 
Master, Please let me off." 

"Just one thing I want to do while you are so beautifully positioned. I've 
been saving it for myself rather than let Cato do it. And, anyway, it's not 
too wise to inflect it on you for too long." 

"I'm hurting enough, don't hurt me any more. Please. Justine!" 

"You're suppose to call me 'Master,' remember? Since you forgot, we'll treat 
these little trifles as your punishment." 

The "little trifles" were exactly what Vanessa expected. She knew the hated 
wooden clothespins would show up to good advantage on her breasts in the 
posture she was forced to hold. Her hands, tied down to the back of the 
saddle, drew her shoulders and arms back to make her breasts demanding. She 
wanted to moan at the injustice of it all as her master played with nipples 
already rampant, and then carefully positioned the tiny, gaping jaws, hungry 
to impose their pain. As each one bit hard, she could not restrain winching 
and a short gasp. Justine was pleased with his slave girl, standing back 
then walking around to get the full effect. He annoyed her further by 
whispering the same words as her visitor of that afternoon, "You're 
beautiful, Vanessa, more beautiful than any other girl." 

The clothespins hurt. Vanessa gazed down at them as they protruded from her 
breasts like spouting growths as part of her physical makeup. With the least 
motion, they bobbed and they danced as though with joy. Fretfully, and to 
please her master, Vanessa sharply motioned with her shoulders to extract 
pain from herself and make the wooden clips upon her nipples do their Thing 
for the man who put them there. She sniffed and said, more sharply than she 
should, "I hope you're enjoying yourself. I'm most certainly not." 

That night Justine Moore was doubly attentive to his slavegirl, clothing her 
chained nakedness in the rainbow hued garment of their love. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT - STOLEN BREASTS 

Vanessa's mind was soon disabused of the fallacious supposition her sex 
might be ruined by a day's sitting upon the pedestal. In fact, if anything, 
it appeared its energies and potency were improved by compression beneath 
her weight. She and her master appeared afflicted with a glut of pure lust 
in which they fed upon each other constantly and to the point where, for 
several days, Vanessa was not punished at all. She wore her collar and her 
belt and her handcuffs as symbols of her status, but that was all. It was on 
the fifth day, Vanessa came to while away the hours inside what her master 
laughingly described as a "prison without bars." When Vanessa was introduced 
to it, she laughed. 

It had no bars in the ordinary sense of the word. The bars had been cleverly 
twisted and fashioned into something not even a cage, it resembled nothing 
so much as the creation of a modern artist who had fashioned it with tongue 
in cheek. The metal was heavy enough and the whole thing was entirely 
constructed of shaped bars opening into two segments on a pair of hinges at 
its base. It came alive to take shape and form when a naked girl was 
introduced within its intricacies. "I should paint a picture of you in it. 
Sweetheart, and call it a study in frustration. I haven't used it before, 
you can tell me your reactions this evening." 

Vanessa reflected on always telling her master of reactions. There were 
plenty to tell. Looking down at the shapeless mass to which she found it 
difficult to relate, she was certain there would indeed be reactions. 

"You sit down inside the two halves, Vanessa, but be careful to arrange 
yourself as you go, step into the holes with the larger holes for your 
thighs and then, as I rise the front half, I want you to thrust your hands 
and arms within the two smaller holes above. Nothing will hurt. Go ahead, 
darling, it won't hurt, I promise." 

Vanessa sat down. Her day's punishment began to take shape. There were bars 
at her back culminating at a half-circle into which she nestled the back of 
her neck. Her collar and her beloved handcuffs had been taken from her to 
accommodate the demands of this fresh penalty into which her nakedness would 
be tightly inserted and inflexibly held. She placed her feet within the 
large orifices as directed and then, as Justine raised the frame, found it 
easy to thrust her hands inside the two smaller holes above which were 
advancing upon her steadily. There were actually two holes for each limb, 
one larger than the other, so that, as the frame came closer and closer to 
enclosing her, she discover that her thighs were tightly circled as she 
thrust her feet into the accompanying circles of round iron. At the top of 
this segment also, was a half circle which fitted neatly upon the front of 
her neck and was padlocked to its sister half behind. Vanessa found herself 
sitting, arms out thrust and held above her breasts and below her elbows, 
their grip was not either tight or close but she discovered she could 
neither move her arms or withdraw them. The same was true of her thighs and 
legs. Control of her nakedness ended below her knees. When the padlocks had 
clicked their jubilant note of finality, Justine stepped back to admire, and 
his slavegirl said, dolefully, "I feel supremely ridiculous, Master." 

"Doesn't hurt, though?" 

"Well, no, I suppose it doesn't. Do you want me to struggle as a 
demonstration and to give you an erection -- not that it would do you any 
good." 

Justine was delighted. "You forget your mouth, darling. But, yes. I'd like 
you to struggle, let's see what this thing amounts to." Vanessa struggled 
and twisted, but met defeat from the cold, round iron in which she was so 
frustratingly encased. She could pull neither arms nor legs back far enough 
to withdrew hands or feet. She could not stand up or lay down. The padlocked 
circle around her neck held her rigidly upright, inhibiting escape. At the 
end of a futile minute she exclaimed, "Well, there you are, Master, I hope 
you're satisfied. I still feel a fool sitting here the way I am. But I 
suppose that's the whole idea, isn't it?" 

Her master kissed Vanessa good-bye and left her to find what amusement she 
could from the wrought iron in which she was cunningly encased. By evening 
she would hate it bitterly, she was sure she would. Once more she struggled 
and fought but could withdraw no part of herself from anything. She supposed 
that if someone would set her on her feet she might contrive a shuffling 
walk which might end in disaster. She was very much like a turtle tipped 
over on its back. 

Cato hid his amusement. "An interesting configuration, ma'am. Most 
ingenious." 

"I'm glad you like it," Vanessa retorted. "I'm not enjoying myself a bit." 

"You are not intended to. Ma'am. May I offer coffee?" 

Cato was really a dear man. It was unkind to be abrupt or short with him. He 
was only doing his duty and was as kind as circumstances allowed. He never 
provided her with easement, but it was always worth a try. "Cato, can you 
get me out of this? If you can, I promise to let you put me back inside 
before the Master comes home." 

"No, ma'am. I must warn you about such offers, they are not permitted. In 
this instance I will not mention your indiscretion to your master." 

"Thank you. Damn it, Cato, I can't even give myself a drink. This is 
absolutely the most frustration contraption!" Vanessa's voice was anxious, 
"Cato, be a dear and tell me if my cunt is showing." 

"Not unduly so, Ma'am. Your pubic bush is quite well displayed." 

"How about my nipples?" 

"All is normal, Ma'am. Have no fear, you look extremely charming. I will now 
make coffee." 

Her day was long and Vanessa would have welcomed any diversion, even a visit 
from Bill Patton. But no one came, nothing happened. From time to time Cato 
ministered to her needs and provided brief conversation. It would have been 
amusing to kid him and tempt him to set her free. It would at least have 
provided scope for repartee, but since it was a punishable offense, Vanessa 
was reluctantly obliged to forego the pleasure. Whatever intimacy she might 
share with her master, it had not reached a point where transgressions went 
unpunished. Justine 

[missing text in original book] 

her that way and to please stop beefing. It was all very frustration, but 
the slavegirl was never unaware of an erotic stimulus within her own being 
because of it. Almost everything Justine did to her or in his casual 
conversation was a seasoning of wit and hot eroticism. If a girl had to be a 
slave and had to have a master, she supposed she was the most fortunate of 
all. Vanessa often reassured herself about this during those times when the 
pain threatened to get the best of her. But now there was no pain. By its 
ultimate simplicity, the prison without bars impelled a need to scream as 
potent as the whip. 

It was while thus engaged in quiet reflections in the early afternoon that 
Rod Sykes walked back into Vanessa's life. 

His greeting was typical, it was no more than information, "Brought a couple 
of the boys with me, they're looking after that Japanese chap downstairs, 
don't worry, they won't hurt him, they're locking him in a cupboard." Sykes 
bend down, grasped a handful of Vanessa's hair and dragged her head back to 
plant the hungriest of kisses on her shocked but ready mouth. He then got up 
to survey her situation and laughingly demanded, "What the hell is that 
thing! Who put you in that contraption? In fact, who the hell thought it up? 
You look damned cute in it." The quiet room was suddenly in Africa, Vanessa 
could smell the hot sun on dust and rotting vegetation. She could smell the 
man sweat and the scents of her own pungency. This shocking and outrageous 
intrusion seemed nothing more than normal, Rod Sykes was that kind of man, 
brutal, evocative, creating his own atmosphere as he desired and placing 
within it whatever female presence he might choose. 

"You're helpless, aren't you?" He was mocking her. "You can't do a damn 
thing except jiggle around a bit. Here, let me kiss you again. It's going to 
take me a while to get enough of you." 

Vanessa once more knew herself flotsam on a flowing tide. This great hulk of 
a man would do whatever he wished with her, disregarding whatever she might 
say. Strangely, she wanted to say nothing. What Vanessa Pilgrim most of all 
was exactly what was taking place, that she be audience to the vulgar, 
forceful polishing of a male ego in hot pursuit of its heart's desire. That 
she was the heart's desire did admittedly add a great deal to the situation. 

Rod Sykes filled any room and dominated any scene. Vanessa felt tiny and 
childlike within the clutch of the twisted iron. When Sykes had once more 
grasp her hair and fed eagerly upon her lips, she managed to gasp, "Oh, 
Master, why have you come, you shouldn't have. I belong to someone, can't 
you see, I'm owned." 

"Horseshit! You belong to me, you always did belong to me. These damned fool 
situations you've been victim to don't count. This bozo who thinks he owns 
you now probably has a lot of money and may not be a bad guy, but he can get 
himself another broad, there's plenty of them in LA. I'm taking you back 
where you belong." 

"Oh, Rod... Master, don't be so silly, you can't possibly take me back to 
Congi and, anyway, I don't want to go." 

"You don't know what you want. Of course, you want to go. I own you, I'm in 
charge. Tomorrow you'll be back in Macusi country and, if you give me any 
lip, you'll get a good thrashing first off. Can you understand that?" 

"Yes, Master." Vanessa's voice was weak. 

"Now about this scrap iron... " Sykes lifted both Vanessa and her prison to 
test it's quality. He suddenly chuckled at an idea. "Damn it, girl! When I 
come to look at it, it's made to order. Suppose you feel you have to put up 
some token resistance out of some damned fool loyalty to your new owner, so 
I'll leave you right were you are. We'll bung a blanket over you and carry 
you down to the van. Gosh, I should leave the guy a check for his neat 
delivery. By the way, are those your handcuffs?" 

"Yes, they're lovely handcuffs." 

Sykes retrieved them from the floor. He snapped a cuff around an 
unprotesting wrist and, since the link would not reach to her other captive 
hand, clasp it shut besides its fellow on her right wrist. More than ever 
the shining metal showed up as a massive bracelet. "Well, that looks after 
that. I'll go get the boys." 

"But, Master, you can't possibly take me in this thing I'm in. You can't 
possibly put me on an airplane in this!" 

"Want to bet, sweetheart?" 

Vanessa did not want to bet. She would never bet against Rod Sykes. Rod 
Sykes was a Force she could never cope with other than on her back. When he 
returned with his two "boys," appropriately attired in denims and shirts, 
Vanessa tried once more, this time from pure curiosity. "But, Master, I 
don't see how." 

"I bet you don't, sweetheart. Fact is, the Macusi have been damned obliging. 
Loaned me their executive airplane. I've hired a van and inside 

[missing text in original book] 

s carried from the Beverly Hills residence of Justine Moore. 

The staked-out, very naked girl ruefully realized some small stigma of guilt 
must inevitably attach itself to her in her master's eyes. Sykes would 
always suppose there was something she could have done in any one of her 
captivities to return to him instead of getting herself freshly embroiled in 
one more imprisonment. He had already hinted as to why. when free of the 
Hamish, she had run towards the coast instead of back into Macusi territory. 
Vanessa had no defense and would be punished accordingly. Strangely, she did 
not mind. Africa and Rod Sykes were all together too big for her and she was 
sure it was best to do and comply with whatever they desired to do to her. 

It was in this spirit she accepted her present punishment. To guard against 
the merciless African sun upon her upturned face, she had been planted 
beneath the spreading foliage of a big tree. The four stakes had been 
carefully measured against her outspread figure and then pounded deep into 
the African soil. Her wrist had been spread and tugged and securely bound to 
two of them as were her ankles to the others. She was not stretched taunt 
because her master decided he wanted some small mobility on those time when 
he visited and violated her in between looking after his other affairs. So 
far this had happened only twice, but the day was young! When Vanessa 
mentioned the possibility of other men finding her thus available and making 
use of her facilities. Rod Sykes simply laughed and assured her it was the 
luck of the draw. The possibility added an element of spice to a day already 
heavily laden with hazard. 

Vanessa twisted and twitched. She was prey to a constant stream of visitors 
from an adjacent ant hill. The ants might well be harmless, but she wished 
they might find amusement elsewhere. No crevasses were immune from their 
attentions. When she complained to her master, Rod Sykes again bellowed with 
laughter to assure her the ants were only Africa welcoming her home, as long 
as they found her helpless nudity attractive, she would never be alone. No 
girl would ever be lonely when ants were busy in her pubic hair. Vanessa 
wished she could share his laughter. 

It had been so easy! Vanessa realized she was in the hands of one of those 
giants who strode across the world like a colossus, striking down every 
obstacle, enemies and gathering unto themselves whatever they desired. Rod 
Sykes was utterly ruthless: a man who had stolen her heart from where she 
believed it had been immovably lodged in the person of Justine Moore. 
Justine and the United States were sinking into oblivion, and she now felt 
one more guilt in having deceived herself into the belief she could love any 
man other than this giant who's prisoner she was. Rod Sykes was Africa, just 
as these four stakes to which she was bound and the ants crawling over her 
nakedness was Africa. Vanessa Pilgrim belonged to Africa, and that was that. 
With a touch of humor, she realized it was not the end at all, but a 
beginning. 

In other circumstances it would have been pleasant beneath the tree. As it 
was, Vanessa was constantly twisting against the four stakes in hope of 
finding a bit of slack in one of the ropes. She did not have the faintest 
idea what she would did if she succeeded in freeing herself. But it was a 
diverting occupation, and if successful, would give her the deep 
satisfaction of killing a few ants before her master tied her back down 
tighter than before. It did not happen. Nice things like that never did. 

Rod Sykes had described it as "the unveiling" when she had been finally 
deposited in his house and the blanket whisked away from her imprisonment. 
Vanessa recognized the lovely room with its balcony and view out over the 
courtyard. Everything was immensely familiar and suddenly much loved. The 
USA had seemed her home, but now the scent of hot sun and jasmine and the 
tight clasp of bonds told her most potently of an enslavement from which she 
would never escape. She looked up at her smiling master and the tools he 
held whereby her padlocks fell asunder, the tiny prison pulled apart and her 
limbs extracted from the almost shapeless iron. Vanessa was stiff enough to 
be grateful for his lifting and his grasping her tight against his sweat. 
When Rod Sykes was done with kissing and biting his reclaimed slave, she was 
close to swooning with hunger and fatigue and a freshly kindled blaze within 
her loins. It was then she decided to purge all else from consciousness 
except this giant of a man by whom she was once more owned. She stood in a 
rainbow haze while a cuff was locked and relocked about the wrist it could 
not previously reach. She held up the lovely bracelets to ask, "Do you like 
them, Master?" 

"Of course, I do, and you'll wear them." He laughed his great bellow of a 
laugh. "Don't you ever doubt you'll wear them. Whenever I have to take them 
off, they'll go right back on first thing. I'll feed you now and then we'll 
go to bed. What do you say to a good thrashing tomor 

[TEXT MISSING IN THE ORIGINAL BOOK] 

ed slavegirl told her first master of the trials and tribulations of her 
enslavements and they shared the humor which always comes in retrospect. 
Considering she had been promised a thrashing, Vanessa was a very happy 
woman. 

Rod Sykes was a happy man. His love for the fragile loveliness he had 
ruthlessly reclaimed was strong and deep. He would continue to be cruel to 
her as was his wont but only in the degree by which their erotic lovemaking 
would be enhanced. He well knew that to whip a girl did not earn her hatred 
but, more often, her love. In spite of the marks already on her skin he had 
decided to make the thrashing he had promised a ritualistic affair to please 
his military sense of what was proper. The mechanics of administrating a 
disciplinary whipping were still in evidence in the barracks yard but seldom 
used. The whipping of a white girl, especially the mistress of the 
Commandant, would be an event to break the monotony of barracks life for all 
concerned. Rod Sykes gave the necessary orders. 

It had been hot in the barrack square. Vanessa nakedness was covered by a 
sheet, she was led to her martyrdom by a hand on each arm. No doubt she 
would feel flattered by being thus escorted to her fate before the eyes of 
what appeared to be a multitude. Her fate was a gibbet from the outstretched 
arm of which men might once have been hung, but now it innocently offered 
nothing more than a dangling length of rope. It was not even needed to 
remove her handcuffs. The rope was threaded between her wrists and hoisted 
up by a soldier on a ladder above her head. When she was in danger of 
standing on her toes she was left tautly stretched and the ladder removed. 
She was the focus of every eye. She and her master had examined her whipped 
back and decided the marks of Bill Patton's indiscretion had faded enough to 
not matter. Her hands held high, military fingers snatched away her covering 
to leave Vanessa standing naked before a hundred African eyes. 

Vanessa had been promised a thrashing but she no supposed the word 
"flogging" would be more appropriate. Rod Sykes was no where in sight but 
the stage was now taken by a Sergeant Major who solemnly read out the 
transgressions and her punishment. It appeared she had been guilty of both 
treason and unlawful escape. She was to receive twenty strokes with a 
sjambok. There was a frightening, heart-stopping rattle of drums before the 
first blow snapped across the bareness of her shoulders. Vanessa instantly 
realized the sjambok could not possibly be the standard model beloved by the 
Boers of the Cape. It hurt like hell but was a hurt she could bare. Twenty 
strokes with it would be bad enough but in what was taking place, she 
clearly discerned the mercy of her master. The assembly would be vastly 
entertained. She would dance at the end of her rope, she would kick and 
scream. But she would be returned to Sykes' waiting arms when it was all 
over and would, no doubt, be comforted. 

Vanessa bit her lip as the second stroke sliced her waist, then moaned as 
number three cut her from hip to hip. She was evidently to be beaten from 
her knees to her neck. It was a pleasantly literate sounding sentence. 

In the pause after the tenth stroke had sliced her skin. Rod Sykes made his 
appearance with a military Medic complete with stethoscope. Vanessa strongly 
suspected the dark fingers were simply playing with her breasts and nipples 
rather than performing a clinical attention. However the stethoscope was 
most certainly applied upon her person here and there and listened to with 
rapt attention. At the end of this exercise, authority pronounced the 
prisoner in excellent condition and well able to withstand the rest of her 
sentence. Before they walked away. Rod Sykes caught his slavegirl's eye and 
broadly winked. 

Vanessa had never been sure which was the worst between the first half and 
the second of any sentence she had endured. Both had their own particular 
awfulness, the first had the initial shock, the second the growing intensity 
of pain and a terrible longing for it to cease. Even though this ritual 
whipping was not the worst she had ever had or was likely to receive, it 
hurt bad enough to give her every encouragement in her performance for her 
audience. Vanessa danced and tugged against the rope above and flailed 
Hashing bare legs at nothing in particular When a stroke caught her twin 
buns with a square and resounding impact she had no need to act or simulate 
the weaving of her hips. All in all, it was no doubt a most satisfactory 
occasion. After the last blow had fallen on her flesh, Vanessa was left to 
stand beneath the gibbet's arm, in the full glare of the sun, in a court 
yard now empty of life. It was the strangest feeling of all. 

Her exposure lasted one hour. Vanessa seemed to remember reading of such 
things, it was pan of the ritual. 

No doubt it was intended to give the delinquent an opportunity to reflect on 
his sins and make a resolution to better behavior in the future. She 
wondered if those who watched would believe or comprehend the true reason 
for her being whipped. The thought was academic, it did not matter. Rod 
Sykes had wanted her whipped and that was that! 

Sykes fed her brandy, pouring it himself as a farther tribute to what he 
called her "bravery." 

"You did damned well, Vanessa. I was proud of you. That little farce after 
the tenth stroke was part of a deal, you know. I suppose some poor bastard 
who really and truly got flogged needed that attention. A real sjambok can 
kill. I had the one used on you especially made up as a, well, fairly 
innocent replica of the real thing. We can call it your welcome. You are now 
officially at home." 

It had been nice to be at her master's feet and quietly sip the brandy. It 
brought back memories. Vanessa was still restrained by handcuffed wrists. 
Her iron collar had been forgotten in the home of Justine Moore but the 
metal band around her middle met with Sykes' approval. He pronounced the 
effect as "dressy" and Vanessa had become so accustomed to it she did not 
care. "I'll get you a real collar, Sweetheart, something that will knock 
their eye out." 

Her whipping had been punishment number one, and for the moment appeared to 
appease Sykes' appetite for giving her pain. He laughed at her anxieties and 
told her not to worry because the punishments immediately in her future 
would leave no marks. Vanessa wryly wondered if their insistent couplings 
could be called punishment. For her they most certainly not. She was once 
again in the full flowering of concupiscence and forever guilty at the vivid 
and incandescent responses of her flesh. Sykes played upon his slavegirl's 
nakedness as might a musician upon a costly violin. He was innovatively 
skilled and highly ingenious in approach, even to the point of suspending 
his darling by handcuffed wrists to bestow an agony he immediately relieve 
by gathering her up in his great arms and impaling her as though she was a 
child clutched lovingly to his bosom. Before they were half way to climax 
the tortured girl resolved wickedly to request repeat performances. 

The days passed swiftly. 

The spread-eagle girl sighed in sweet lassitude. The ants were a nuisance, 
but like everything else a girl got used to them. She had almost achieved 
slumber in an effort to pass time when a new and different voice brought her 
into tense wakefulness. 

"Missy like fine big fuck? I give." 

She recognized one of the soldiers. He was gazing down at her with a broad, 
amiable grin, his eyes focusing on her most private place now fully exposed. 
Vanessa knew the clutch of fear at her belly was inappropriate. Sykes had 
told her of this possibility and spoken of it lightly as a "hazard of her 
trade." In swift submission she realized how doubly helpless she was. Not 
only in being bound spread-eagle for male attention but in the matter of any 
complaint she might wish to make. No one would hear her scream, she had been 
told of the possibility, she would have no wish to injure this laughing man 
prepared to enjoy her body. If her complain brought discipline upon his 
head, she would feel guilty. Vanessa was well aware of the potency of the 
nakedness thus bound, there would be few men who would even try to resist 
the allure of her loins. Quietly she warned, "I don't think you should. I 
don't think we are allowed to. I think you should go away." 

"You think, you think. You think too much! Your master will not mind. Is 
just one fuck, you have plenty left." 

"But soldiers aren't suppose to do that to their Commandant's mistress." 

"You not mistress, you slavegirl." 

He had her there! Vanessa already knew the four letter word was going to 
happen. She tried to shrug but couldn't. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she 
said evenly. "But I can't stop you, I can't stop any man." 

It did not take long. No doubt her visitor was over excited. Vanessa was 
quite sure he could put on a far longer performance in more favorable 
circumstances. But no doubt he did not wish to be discovered on top of her 
any more than she wished to be found underneath him. He thanked her 
profusely as though it had been she who offered him her body. He went away. 
The ants reclaimed that part of her he had so briefly used. Vanessa wondered 
if any of them could possibly get up inside. 

Laying spread-eagled in the quiet shade, Vanessa, in amusement, considered 
this would be another situation in which Bill Patton might follow his 
practice of discovering her in embarrassing circumstances. She felt more 
kindly towards him now in this far away land. He had convinced her of 
repentance for that one terrible punishment she had endured at his hands. 
Vanessa damned him utterly with her feminine wish he might find a nice girl 
who would satisfy his needs. Her half closed eyes opened to discover the 
subject of her thoughts standing, gazing down at her. "I don't believe it," 
she said. "Where on earth did you come from Bill?" 

Patton laughed easily, he was now on his home ground of a diplomatic 
mission. "Unfinished business with the Macusi, Sweetheart. I also felt 
pretty certain where I would find you." 

"Well, I hope you enjoy the way you find me," she said bitterly. "It's about 
par for the course, isn't it? Look, in case you're thinking it, don't you 
dare untie me. Let's just say hello and goodbye. I belong to Rod Sykes, and 
he's a bad man to tangle with. Please, just leave me be." 

What happened then was something the spread-eagle girl could scarce believe. 
As though in his own bedroom. Bill Patton divested himself of clothing and 
then possessed her with an assurance he had never previously manifested. 
There were no hesitations, no apologies, no questions. He entered her with 
authority and proceeded to work out the male rhythms as though forever 
regenerated from his poor showing back in California. Vanessa was shocked 
and frightened. If Rod Sykes found the two of them like this there would be 
a terrible, terrible time. She was trying hard not to respond to thrusts and 
refinements she had never known this man possessed. When raped, ravished or 
loved by Rod Sykes she tore wildly at bound wrists and ankles, humping her 
hips to meet his thrusts. Now she lay supine and unresponsive, not because 
fire was not rekindled but because she wanted this semi-rape over as quickly 
as possible. It was funny she should think of it as rape, but the place and 
the circumstances and the manner of Patton's possession of her loins made 
the word inevitable. In spite of grim determination she matched his orgasm 
with her own. 

There were no apologies nor was there any of that boyish enthusiasm 
manifested when a young man knows he was acquitted himself well with a 
woman. "That to show you I can do it, you aggravating wench," he told her 
good-naturedly as he dressed. "This mission of mine calls for an interview 
or two with this man Sykes. I'll arrange with him to take you back home when 
I go." 

Africa transformed him. Bill Patton was now very definitely the CIA and no 
longer a private citizen. He had things to do and authority to do them. 

"Rod Sykes will kill you, Bill. Don't be silly!" 

"No he won't. If he cuts up a rough about loosing you, I'll arrange to have 
you arrested." He laughed delightedly, "You can go back to the USA in 
chains, be a nice change for you!" 

Vanessa's heart contracted at the threat. It was probably something Patton 
could do very easily. Vanessa envisioned herself handcuffed to him on the 
plane and the sympathetic glances of the stewardess. But it would not get 
that far. Sykes would make sure of that. Yet she wanted neither of these men 
hurt. She tensed angrily against the ropes tying her to the stakes. She was 
almost tempted to ask this man for release, but in the eyes of her master 
that would be an unforgivable offense. Grimly Patton muttered, "You've made 
up your mind not to like me. When a girl does that you can't please her. You 
talk about how badly I'd treat you if we were married but for damn sure I'd 
never stake you out on an ant hill!" 

"I'm not staked out on an ant hill! The ant hill's a little way off. I can't 
help it if a few ants find their way over here." 

"I'm not going to leave you here in Macusi country, it's not safe, and one 
of these days this great hulk of yours is going to get himself killed and 
where will you be then?" 

"Oh, Bill, don't be so morbid. Isn't your mission to bring peace to this 
place instead of war?" 

"Yes, it is. And when that happens your Rod Sykes is going to be unemployed. 
He'll probably whisk you off to South American where there is another 
trouble spot hatching into guerrilla warfare fed by Russian aid. Vanessa, 
it's a hell of a life for you!" 

"What's so damned bad about it!" Rod Sykes had approached silently to catch 
the last remark. "You're name's Patton, isn't it? You're a CIA boy and you'd 
best go home pronto. And, what's more, you'd best leave that girl alone. If 
I chose to stake her out like this, it's none of your business. She's just 
resting." 

Sykes gave a great guffaw of laughter. At the same moment Patton's clenched 
fist struck him squarely on the chin. Sykes looked surprised and took a 
backward step before reaching out to grasp his assailant in both hands, 
shake him as he would have done a dog, then turn him around and kick him 
hard enough to send the representative of the CIA sprawling in the dust. 
"Get to hell away from me, and more particularly from Vanessa. Do you hear 
me!" 

Patton was a not inconsiderable chunk of man, there were few who could have 
treated him as Rod Sykes had done. He was untouched, unharmed, dismissed as 
a schoolboy might be dismissed and sent home. For moments he stood 
indecisively, eyeing the massive bulk of the man and the slender beauty of 
the staked-out girl. "That was a mistake," he said abruptly as the turned 
and went away. 

"Silly asshole," Sykes said genially. "Doesn't know his ass from a hole in 
the ground. Same with all those politicos. Look, honey, I was going to fuck 
you but he's put me out of the mood for it. I'll let you loose and we'll go 
back to the house." 

Vanessa was infinitely grateful. Sykes had not even suspected or thought to 
ask about anything Patton might have done to her. He did not even ask about 
the black man who had availed himself of her sex. He was angry and disturbed 
by the political presence of the man just gone. He might kick that man in 
the seat of the pants but he also knew the authority vested in him. Angrily 
he pulled up the four stakes as though there were matchsticks and helped his 
possession to her feet. "If he said anything to you. Sweetheart, forget it," 
he advised gruffly. "If I catch you so much as looking at him sideways 
you'll be a sorry girl." 

It was wonderful to be loved. But none of her loves were normal. Vanessa 
ruefully surveyed this fact on the walk back to the house. She was not 
handcuffed and for once was content to have her hands free. Her mood too was 
spoiled. "Next time you punishment me, you'd best do it in the house. 
Master," she said soberly. "Have you any idea how rotten it is to be tied 
down helpless and have strangers or enemies or a guy like Bill Patton come 
and look at you?" 

"You ought to get a charge out of it, honey," Sykes assured her with a 
complete return to goodwill. "I would if I was a girl. Shit! I get a bang 
out of just thinking about you under these circumstances Sure, I can see 
your point of view but it's a sort of Russian Roulette game, you never know 
your luck. Anybody else walk by?" 

"Yes. One of your soldiers. He fucked me." Her confession was angry. "I 
suppose it's me who gets punished for that." 

Rod Sykes was delighted. He paused in their walk, slapped her bottom, and 
then kissed her again and again. "Hell no, Sweetheart. I told you it might 
happen and it did! Come on, that cook of mine makes a damned good cup of 
coffee." He snorted disgustedly, "Piss on that tea the English used to drink 
in these parts all the time. Gave the servants the wrong idea." 

The Congi forces attacked in the middle of the night. At the first sound of 
firing Rod Sykes left their bed with a curse and flung over his shoulder as 
he left, "I'll soon sort this out, whatever it is. You're quite safe, don't 
worry." He laughed at his own joke and left Vanessa was indeed quite "safe." 
They had made love until exhausted and then in a pixie mood her master had 
returned the handcuffs and put a second pair upon her ankles to hold them 
close. The crowning achievement was the presentation of a truly beautiful 
collar to match the band around her waist. When he was through with these 
embellishments, Vanessa was very beautiful and very, very helpless. 

She sat up now in bed and lowered her joined feet to the floor with the 
intention of going to a window. But an unaccustomed weight upon her neck led 
her fingers to the new collar and discovered that, after she had fallen 
asleep, her master had continued his mood to the extent of locking a chain 
to her collar as an additional precaution. The other end of it was solidly 
padlocked to a ring in the wall in a fashion now old and familiar to the 
captive girl. Frantically Vanessa searched beneath the pillows for a key but 
none was there. The tethering chain was giving her only enough distance to 
move around the bed but not reach any of the furniture. She was frightened. 

The firing intensified, the rattle of rifles was now superseded by the heavy 
booms of artillery. The sound was terrific. She realized she was in the 
middle of a full scale war. Rod Sykes was out there somewhere and she could 
do nothing to help. 

The end came as suddenly as it had begun. The town of Lakesh had either been 
conquered by a hostile force or had conquered them. Vanessa was not left 
long in doubt. Sitting unhappily in what her master had laughingly described 
as "hardware," she awaited his return. 

Rod Sykes did not return. In his place the door was opened by three 
uniformed men. The chained girl recognized the insignia as those of the 
Congi government. Her heart sank before it started its rapid tattoo of fear. 
She was as much a surprise to the soldiers as they were to her. They 
gingerly advanced as though fearing land mines and beat questions at her in 
a tongue she could not answer. They examined the handcuffs and the chain 
upon her neck in what was obviously pleasurable surprise. She was thankful 
indeed when they were joined by an officer in search of his flock. This man 
spoke English. He shouldered his way to the bedside and demanded, "You are 
the whore of Sykes?" 

"Yes, I'm his whore." She spate the hated word at him like a bullet. "Where 
is he?" 

"Sykes is dead. Killed in action. You are a prisoner of the Republic of 
Congi." 

Vanessa had guessed it before the words were said. Tears overflowed and she 
buried her face in her cupped hands. They were ruthlessly beaten aside and 
she was told, "You should not weep, woman, Sykes was a mercenary and an 
enemy of the state. Where are the keys to these things in which you are 
locked?" 

While they searched, Vanessa collected her thoughts enough to ask, without 
hope, "You said I was a prisoner of the Congi. Why am I a prisoner? What 
have I done to be a prisoner?" 

"You are a whore, you are a spy, you are an enemy of the people." The 
captain flung the angry answer back over his shoulder as he rummaged through 
draws. 

Vanessa moaned inwardly. It was the same threadbare accusations as had been 
made around the world in the last decade, "Enemy of the People!" It was 
nonsense, but it might be enough to cost her her life. Her mind was speeding 
through possibilities but the best she could find now was to find favor in 
the eyes of someone in authority who would keep her for himself and from a 
firing squad. It was not much of a choice. Having found the key the officer 
gave thought as to its use. He carefully unlocked one cuff from her left 
ankle and thoughtfully clasp it above its twin on the right. She could now 
walk but the handcuffs were there if needed. He unlocked the chain from her 
collar and she could now leave the room. Her hands he left as they were. She 
was grateful he had not changed them to behind her back. Plaintively she 
asked. "Can I have some clothes?" No one answered. 

Vanessa Pilgrim was taken down stairs below the barracks and locked in a 
cell. It all seemed very appropriate and very official. Left alone, she 
expended her grief for the dead commandant as she sprawled out upon the hard 
bench and used her joined hands to shut away a world she had no wish to see. 

On the following day Vanessa was taken before a Court. There she was asked 
questions to which she had no answer. There she was described in the most 
vilifying and obscene of terms. Fortunately she did not understand the 
language. But what got through to her with a cold and cruel certainty was 
the sentence. As had happened once before, in that other town on the coast, 
Vanessa was sentenced to twenty years of hard labor without chance of time 
off for good behavior. Still handcuffed, she was led back to her cell. As 
they marched her down the central corridor of the barracks, they were passed 
by the hurrying figure of a well-dressed man who gave them only the briefest 
of glances. But in that glance Bill Patton's eyes had focused on hers and 
she had picked up the communication of the briefest of nods. That nod 
constituted Vanessa's only hope in a hopeless world. 

The handcuffs had never left her wrists, they did not now. She sat desolate 
in her cell still embellished with the lovely metal of Sykes' adoration. It 
was fast locked upon her limbs and she could not get rid of it. No doubt it 
would be seen and remarked upon as one more evidence of her depravity, or 
perhaps the perversion of the man who's slave she had been. Nothing 
mattered, her life was over. 

The Congi warriors retreated as quickly as they had come. Vanessa realized 
this was simply one more thrust at the enemy in much the same way that Rod 
Sykes had struck in the opposite direction back when he had taken her from 
the Mission. The cavalcade of vehicles and armor rumbled away one by one 
towards the distant coast. Some one had found Vanessa's tethering chain 
which was now locked back upon her collar and the other end of it to the 
last of the row of wagons being towed by a tank. She left Lakesh as she had 
come, a prisoner of war, the prize of battle. 

The march was long but at a speed with which the captive girl could cope. 
Vanessa Pilgrim arrived at the coastal city in superb physical condition but 
in utter dejection. As one day passed after another, as her chain and collar 
had compelled her to the most shameful journey of her life, she had glimpsed 
her fate. It was probably to be the same prison as before and the same 
privations and strictures. It appeared they were going to keep her 
handcuffed all the time and they had certainly put Sykes' collar to good 
use. Perhaps she would wear that all the rest of her days, too. Each day she 
was caked in dust from the rumbling wagons and each night she was hosed down 
by a grinning black soldier who insisted upon the most obscene postures into 
which he directed the full force of his jet. Vanessa was not raped. An 
officer curtly informed her this mercy was only because the Republic was 
concerned with journalistic fervor and wanted no scandal with the United 
Nations. He clearly inferred that, if this were not the case, he would turn 
his men loose upon her to enjoy her person to the fullest. Whenever she 
asked for clothes to cover her nakedness, she received a sharp blow from 
anything handy, a piece of rope, a branch torn from a bush, or, with the 
officers, the riding crop they carried as a badge of office. 

Perhaps they had forgotten she had been there before. The same rituals had 
been used a second time: the disinfecting and the fingerprinting and 
documentation. After it was done Vanessa Pilgrim wept bitterly in the same 
cell and wondered what kind of hard labor would be her lot. 

Nothing happened except that she was fed three times a day. Vanessa was 
beginning to suppose herself forgotten when a truly magnificent officer 
complete with much ribbons, metals and other decoration on his uniform and a 
star on each shoulder, visited her cell. He was ushered in by the Warden and 
left with her in such privacy as open bars can offer. His first words made 
her want to scream. 

"You are very beautiful, Miss Pilgrim." 

"Thank you." She said it automatically. 

"It is a pity for such loveliness as yours to waste itself chained and 
working beneath the hot sun in the field." He paused as though for effect. 

Vanessa's reply was swift and bitter, "Yes, it is truly shameful. Yes, I 
will accept your protection. Yes, you can chain be beside your bed. That is 
what you're about to say, isn't it?" 

The resplendent officer laughed in genuine amusement. Vanessa could not be 
sure if his English was Harvard or Oxford, it was most certainly not Congi. 
"Thank you for your offer," he said easily. "But I'm afraid that was not 
what I had in mind." He shrugged, "Even though it is, or might have been, a 
delightful prospect. Do you realize how that offer condemns you and confirms 
you description in the Court?" Vanessa gestured with chained hands, "It does 
not matter. I've lost everything. Why should I care what people call me? 
What is it you want with me if not to take me to your bed?" 

"I was about to offer you a return to the United States." His voice was 
quietly amused. 

Vanessa tensed. This had to be a trick. Her hands clenched into fists and 
tugged at the familiar bracelets on her wrists. She fell back upon a vulgar 
colloquialism, "You've got to be kidding?" 

"No, Miss Pilgrim. It is very simple. You have been condemned and sentenced 
but not to death. As long as you are alive you will be a source of interest 
to every journalist who comes to Africa. They will seek interviews and ask 
to take pictures. You will be tossed around by the press of the world as a 
curiosity, an erotic titillation to excite their readers. Our government 
does not want that. No doubt we should have executed you immediately. But 
since that precaution was overlooked, we find ourselves embarrassed. We are, 
therefore, going to send you home to serve out your sentence in an American 
prison." 

"Why must you have me imprisoned over there? Why can't you simply send me 
home? I'm only a girl, I can't hurt you or do you any harm." 

The officer was touched, his words became more kind, "We can not dictate 
what they do to you in the American penal system. Perhaps they will be 
merciful and give you your freedom after you have served only a few years. I 
believe that is common practice over there." 

It was hard to still the beating of her heart. A tremendous relief was 
flooding through Vanessa's nakedness. She was going home. Going home in 
disgrace, but to a system more humane the anything the Congi could ever 
dream up. Tentatively she said, "I'm immensely grateful, I'm sure you can 
understand. I'd like to say thank you over and over again." 

"There is no need, we take your thanks for granted. There is now the matter 
of your transportation." 

Vanessa raised questioning eyes. She had leapt to the absurd conclusion that 
they would simply give her a ticket and put her upon the plane under guard. 
Perhaps something would be said to the pilot or stewardess to keep an eye on 
her. But, of course, that was ridiculous. She was a prisoner sentenced to a 
long term and must be kept a captive. The quite male voice answered the 
question vivid in her mind. 

"There is an American diplomat conferring with our authorities who had 
consented to act as your... shall we say 'consort' and deliver you to the 
proper jurisdiction." 

Sardonically Vanessa was on the brink of exclaiming, "And I bet I know his 
name. It's Bill Patton. Mr. William Patton, isn't it." But she bit the words 
back in time, at this point they were imprudent and might raise suspicion. 
She waited and allowed the officer to tell her what she had already guessed. 

"Responsibility will end at the plane where you will be delivered to this 
Mr. Patton for safekeeping. I thrust you approve?" 

She said that she approved. She could have jumped with joy. Bill Patton, 
whatever he might be, was an American and in love with her and wanted to be 
her husband. Comfortably she replied, "Of course, I understand. I'm sure Mr. 
Patton will know what to do." She contrived a smile up at the stem military 
man and added coyly, "With me, that is." 

It was a long, long night. When morning came Vanessa lost her collar, her 
handcuffs from both wrists and ankles, but the metal band around her waist 
was left intact, no doubt because no one knew how to get it off. She was 
bathed more gently that with a hose and her hair was attended to by a 
skilled maiden who appeared much thrilled by the contact. She was then given 
clothes, not the clothes she would have chosen, but still covering for her 
nudity. When the time came she was escorted to the airport by no less a 
personage than the high ranking officer himself. Bill Patton was waiting and 
her exchange was affected by a number of compliments from both sides. 
Vanessa did not share those compliments but kept a proper and demure 
silence. With the air of a man who did this sort of thing every day, Bill 
Patton snapped a handcuff on Vanessa's right wrist and fitted the other cuff 
around his own left. He tightened both with the utmost care and locked both. 
With a mischief bubbling over from fresh hope, Vanessa looked up into his 
eyes and said sweetly, "Thank you, Mr. Patton, I'm sure you'll take good 
care of me." 

The officer saluted smartly, turned and departed. The Republic of Congi had 
washed its hands of an embarrassing young woman. 

"May as well have a cocktail, ay? The plane isn't scheduled to go for an 
hour." Bill Patton was laughing down at his prisoner. He tugged at her 
cuffed wrist to emphasize his suggestion. This was a new ball game. Vanessa 
was trying to rearrange her thoughts but was principally conscious of a 
terrible shame over her cuffed wrists. Everyone would suppose she was some 
sort of desperate criminal. Bill read her thoughts and laughed. "Most people 
won't even notice, Sweetheart. Come on, there's no way I'm going to set you 
free while we're on Congi soil. Come on, have a cocktail, you'll feel 
better." 

Her escort spoke the truth. It was not long before Vanessa was feeling a 
faint chagrin over the airport's failure to pay attention to her chained 
hand. There were a few who noticed but they were in a hurry and, anyway, it 
wasn't any of their business. If she was careful how she held her arm, the 
handcuff did not show. Bill Patton gave her every cooperation in this desire 
to hide her shame. 

"So, OK, what are you going to do with me, Bill," Vanessa asked after the 
first cocktail had worked its tiny miracle. "Where are we going?" 

"We're not going to prison, sweetheart, if that's what you're thinking. 
Congi doesn't even expect you to do your twenty years back home. All they 
wanted was to get rid of you." 

Vanessa considered. She was handcuffed to a man she did not dislike. She was 
on her way home. But suppose, when the time came to uncuff her wrist, Bill 
Patton became stubborn and refused? Suppose she was truly his prisoner? 

"Do you intend to keep me for yourself, Bill?" she asked without emotion. 

"Of course, what else would I do with you, sweetheart." 

"I wish you'd stop calling me sweetheart. I'm not really your sweetheart at 
all. If I was, I wouldn't be chained to your wrist. Bill, surely you know I 
don't want to be a prisoner all my life. I don't want to belong to different 
men and be whipped as a pretty little plaything that screams when she's 
hurt. I don't want to be fastened into all those awful things every man has 
put me into. Don't you understand?" 

"Yes, you do, Vanessa my pet. You just think you don't want it. But I'm 
willing to bet you can't go back to your old life as it used to be before 
you first went to Africa as a school teacher. You were bored stiff then. 
Think what it would be like now." 

"Well, at least I wasn't chained to men who wanted to keep me a captive 
plaything and whip the daylights out of me. Be sensible, don't you realize 
that once we're in the plane all I have to do is make a fuss and you'd be 
really up the creek. What the hell would you do? You'd have to let me go." 

"No, I wouldn't, Vanessa -- you underrate me. In my pouch I've got the 
official documents of your trial and sentencing and deportation. The 
handcuff joining us is an official seal of approval. Nobody, but nobody, is 
going to protest it." 

Vanessa wilted. She had done her best and even though she might still be 
captive to a man, she was rid of Congi. Without much concern, she watched 
her escort open the diplomatic pouch, not subject to X- rays and such 
things, and looked inside as he directed. There, nestling among the papers 
was a collar, her extra pair of handcuffs and a bunch of keys. Despite 
herself, she felt a familiar thrill course through her veins. The hidden 
erotica was beautiful and her thoughts leaped ahead to the moment when they 
would be locked upon her flesh. Almost without volition she said, "Yes, I 
know, I'm glad you've got them. May I have another cocktail?" 

Vanessa had her cocktail, and another after that. By the time she and 
William Patton walked, padlocked, to the plane, she could have cared less. 
She was riding another high tide of euphoria and was almost inclined to 
shake her cuffed hand at the stewardess. When they were seated, she stole a 
glance at the man to whom she was chained. He was undeniably handsome, a 
well set-up diplomatic type who had not fallen in her estimation over his 
encounter with Rod Sykes. He had simply refused to fight. Most girls, 
especially those sentenced to twenty years imprisonment, would be proud of 
him. And he did want to marry her! Perhaps, if she handled him carefully, he 
would whip her only once a week. 

She would have to try. 


THE END
