### HIT-213 ###
Ropes And Chains
By F.E. Campbell


CHAPTER ONE - QUIET WAIT

Bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun and surrounded by greenery, Linda Hawker 
waited patiently. She knew not for what she awaited, but wait she did, unmoving save for the 
occasional turn of her head from side to side to survey the garden glade in which she was 
compelled to pass the time idly. Orange and black butterflies danced upon the still spring air, 
weaving irregular patterns while pursuing their mysterious and unknown goals. Occasionally 
small white butterflies flitted about the multicolored blossoms, a silent intrusion into a world 
of black and orange darting shapes.

Linda often closed her eyes during her long wait, and when she did, she felt the warm 
sunlight were beams lanced between branches of the sheltering trees to touch her soft skin. 
The warmth felt very good for it had been cool when she had first been tied to that post in the
garden. And that was the reason she waited-no other choice-was available to her. Rope, white
cotton rope thick enough to not cut bitterly into her flesh but thin enough to tie firm, 
inescapable knots, was what held her body and limbs to the wooden post. Her struggles had 
meant nothing in the cool morning air as the two men had pulled her arms behind the post 
and bound them there with their endless supply of white rope. Not only the wrists, but also 
above the elbows, the rope pulled her arms together, and incidentally captured the wooden 
post between her arms and back.

More rope had secured her long, lovely legs first together then to the wooden shaft so 
solidly set into the ground. More rope around her waist welded her bottom to the wood, then
more around her arms and chest and post, dozens of feet of rope, tens of dozens, perhaps 
hundreds of feet. No one was counting, but when at last the young girl was left alone to her 
fate, none of her body could move save for the turning of her head. Perhaps it was hundreds 
of feet, they had employed it lavishly and did, indeed, seem to have an endless supply in the 
canvass backpack one of them, the short Frenchman, had brought.

To know how she was bound, the teenager had to feel most of the rope holding her for 
she could see only those windings passing around her body above her breasts. Their constant 
pressure around her chest had the effect, along with the pulling of her elbows together 
behind her, of thrusting her young, proud breasts outward and upward. Any downward glance
showed her the large breasts with their dark nipples sticking right out. For a while she 
wondered why those nipples were erect, usually a sign of sexual excitement. But she finally 
gave up wondering. Many strange things had been happening to her during the last three 
days since her kidnapping. Many times during those days the events leading her to this 
strange captivity had replayed through her mind, almost as if by reviewing them she could 
find a reason behind them. But no reason came to her. She had simply been walking home 
one night when someone came silently up behind her on that dark street. A moment later a 
cloth with some something strong smelling was clamped over her face and her struggles 
faded into blackness.

She awoke in a cell, devoid of her clothing, and with the feeling that she had been 
unconscious for a long time. There were marks on her wrists and ankles as if she had been 
bound with rope, both tightly and for a long time. And she was currently shacked in shinning 
steel restraints such as she had never been before in her life. As best she could tell, it was a 
regular pair of handcuffs that joined her wrists closely, but unlike all those she had seen on 
television, these had a chain going down to the metal shackles around her ankles, much like 
handcuffs but larger and with a longer chain between them. The chain was short enough to 
be a nuisance when she wished to touch her face, for she had to pull up her legs. She had to 
do that in order to explore with her fingers the metal collar around her neck, so snug and 
solid, and chained behind her to a ring in the wall.

Linda quickly found that she could do little save sit there, bare bottom against the hard 
concrete floor and back against the wall. The linkage between her neck and that ring was too 
short to allow her the luxury of laying down, and made standing up possible only if she were 
bend in half.

In that cell she had waited for a long time. Then the man came in. He gave no reply to her 
questions, nor did he make the slightest effort to free her from the metal shackles. The only 
comfort he offered was a tray bearing a couple sandwiches and a flask of water. He left the 
food, seemingly unconcerned as to whether she would be able to eat and drink in her 
restricted condition. She managed, mostly because she was hungry, although it was awkward 
to bring the food to her lips when she had to bend her knees so much.

The second day they brought her breakfast then tortured her. There were two men, the 
same on as the previous day and another, a Frenchman to judge by his appearance and heavy
accent when he spoke the few words to his companion. The torture to which they put the 
naked girl was perhaps mild as tortures go, but nevertheless painful to her. They had removed
her shackles while ignoring her protests and inquiries if this meant her freedom was at hand. 
Then they produced the first rope she had seen in that windowless room, and bound her with 
it. Between the two strong men, it was no problem holding her still while the ropes were 
applied. It was the first time in her eighteen years that Linda had been tied with ropes, and it 
became a strange experience for her, one which the long hours of being shackled had hardly 
prepared her for. In a very short time, she found a universal truth for prisoner females-being 
tied is much more restrictive and uncomfortable than being chained up.

They bound her arms behind her back, cording in her elbows along with binding the wrists
together. Then they bound her legs together with ropes around the ankles, and again both 
above and below her knees. While one rolled her over on the cold concrete floor, the other 
linked rope between her wrists and ankles, then pulled until her hands met her feet. She cried 
out in protest and discomfort but was ignored. They left her in what she later came to 
remember was called a hogtie, left her to loneliness and uncertainty for the entire day. Hour 
after long hour the naked girl lay on the floor, suffering from aching muscles and ropes 
cutting cruelly into her tender flesh. She rolled around the small floor of her cell, seeking 
comfort where there was none to be found. She moaned and cried out in anger and pain 
when she felt she had to. And she suffered.

Several times during the day she had the feeling she was being watched but when she 
turned her bound body around there was no one by the door.

They returned and calmly untied the naked girl, who cried as the ropes peeled from her 
flesh and aching limbs unfolded. As if it were a common occurrence, they removed the ropes, 
replaced them with the steel shackles, and allowed her a dinner that included a brownie for 
dessert in addition to the meat sandwiches and water. Then they closed the barred door to 
her cell and left her to another night of loneliness and imprisonment. A few seconds after they
walked out the light snapped off, leaving Linda to cry in darkness and ask the gods that be 
why she was being so mistreated.

The next morning they came for her, granted a breakfast, even waiting patiently while she 
ate it, then took her to the garden where she was lashed to that wooden post and left for the 
day. And not once had they addressed her, ask questions, or answered her questions. She 
finally stopped asking them, along with the demands that she be set free. She was being 
treated like a piece of property, a thing, perhaps an unusual toy, but certainly not a human 
being.

CHAPTER TWO - HOGTIE IN THE MIRROR

For a long time I studied the girl in the mirror, there being a fascination with each soft line 
of her unclothed body, each contour of feminine flesh, and each indentation of rope that both
brought her the feeling of helplessness and assured it.

She was young, only twenty years of age, yet of ripe body and in full womanhood. Her 
long blonde hair spread in a golden fan across the side of the bed and hung down to the 
carpet. The eyes that looked back to mine were a light blue with tints of violet, the eyes of an 
innocent and sweet young girl. Yet the full lips spoke of a sensual nature and desire that 
would run deep. Slowly those soft lips parted, the tip of her tongue pushing through to creep 
sensually along them.

My eyes could not help but pass on to the golden body as it lay on the red velvet cover. 
The single overhead light cast shadows that hid the flattened bulge of her breasts as they 
were pushed by her weight into the bed.. Her beautifully rounded bottom made my breath 
quicken. What pure innocent mixed with sweet lust this youthful woman projected! Men 
would ache to behold the sight I gazed upon, and women would be laid low with jealousy by 
her beauty and perfection of body.

Those delicate little fingers twitched a tiny bit, but nothing else of her body moved, save 
for the slow rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath. My eyes were pulled like a magnet 
to the white cotton rope wound about arms and legs, that inert plant material that held her 
limbs snug and secure within its grasp as if it were a living creature. My vision traced the white
lines where they pressed into her golden flesh above her elbows and again at her wrists, ever 
so tight and immobile. I could see knots peeking over the edge of her upper arms, and a loose
end of rope laying along the flesh. It took not an expert to see that those lovely fingers could 
never, not in a lifetime of effort, reach those knots, nor loosen them. Those slender arms were 
imprisoned, trapped, secured behind her back, and no effort on her part would ever change 
that.

And those legs! Oh, those lovely legs! Long, yet not too slender. They lay together, tightly 
held so by more rope at the ankles and again above the knees. And there was that small 
length of rope not even visible between her hands, yet the one that linked her wrists with her 
ankles so tightly that the backs of her ankles were pressed tightly into her palms. That ever so 
small length of rope that doubled back upon itself twice to secure her legs bent and prevent 
unfolding. It was there, I could sense it and feel its tautness.

Soft moonlight fell upon the floor not far from where this young beauty rested upon 
smooth covers in so helpless a state that movement was hardly possible. A single light from a 
lamp upon the night stand illuminated her nakedness, but there were no other eyes present to
see either her loveliness or helplessness. None save mine, and that was of little help to the girl 
in the mirror for she was me, you see.

Okay, enough waxing poetic already. What I was trying to convey was the very real sense 
of how incredibly beautiful was that woman in the mirror, who happened to be me. And I 
really was caught up in what an incredible sight it was, a wonderful combination of sexuality 
and harshly cruel bondage. It was delicious!

But to put the facts straight, I was laying on a bed in a hotel room on the top floor of one 
of the largest and most expensive hotels in Las Vegas. I was naked, I had been expertly tied 
with ropes quite tightly and securely. And I could not free myself. I had just spent over an hour
trying, struggling, pulling and straining, but all to no avail. I was, in a word, helpless.

And I’m not really exaggerating about my figure or beauty. I’ve won enough beauty 
contests as a teenager to hold claim to all my superlatives. I’ve seen men literally stop dead in 
their tracks when I walked by, and you don’t do that without some pretty good assets.

But how, you ask, did this lovely, youthful creature come to be naked and tightly bound 
upon a hotel bed in the most glamorous city in the world? Well, sit back and I’ll explain. It’s a 
bit of a story.





CHAPTER THREE - A LITTLE ADVENTURE


The problem is that I was bored. I had been working as a secretary for over a year, typing, 
filing, and avoiding the amorous overtones of my boss, plus the invitations to accompany him 
on business trips as a “private secretary.” It was a plain, dull, boring existence and not what I 
was used to or wanted at all.

I had been very active in high school, and used to an exciting, adventuresome life. Thanks 
to my mother’s pushing, I had entered and won an number of beauty contests and had a 
cabinet filled with ribbons and trophies sitting proudly in her front room. I had been the 
homecoming queen, sweetheart of the senior prom, and about every other honor a beautiful 
girl can get.

But all that was behind me. Now I was just a working girl in the big city. Oh, I got asked 
out on dates often enough. But it’s usually by middle-aged executives with receding hairlines, 
or macho young studs who think they’re really hot stuff, in and out of bed. I was not looking 
for anything like that. I wanted some excitement, some adventure, something special. And 
dinner followed by a romp in bed wasn’t it. I mean, that’s all anyone seemed interested in.

So far the most exciting offer I had gotten was free trip to Hawaii, and the way the guy 
who made it was drooling all over me told me exactly what he was expecting to be doing 
every night in the hotel room. It’s not that I mind sex, it’s just that it’s boring. I mean, it feels 
good, but there has to be something more after all that build up. Every time I had sex, it 
would be building up quite nicely, then suddenly it was over. The guy’s got a big grin on his 
face, and is asking me if it was good for me, too. And I was left feeling frustrated and strange. 
Sex had to be something more than that.

And where was the glamour? The idea of meeting with an account executive in some 
motel room because he doesn’t want his wife to know about it is not my idea of fun. I went 
out with a few of the single young men, but wasn’t satisfied. Their idea of a hot night was a 
steak dinner with wine, then back to their apartments for fifteen minutes of intense screwing 
then the big let down.

And there’s my Mother constantly telling me to find a nice boy and settle down to married
life so I can start having grandchildren for her. Phooey on that!

Well, I was sitting on a park bench one day, having a hot dog from one of the street 
vendors, and enjoying the spring sunshine, and trying not to think about going back to work 
after lunch hour was over, when fate stepped in. A piece of newspaper blew up and caught on
my shoe. I reached down, intending to toss it in the trash can next to me when a photo caught
my eye. I pulled the half page of newsprint closer to examine it.

What had caught my eye was a photo of a naked woman. She was not too pretty, only had
a fair figure, and was sitting on a couch with her legs raised in an obscene V. And there was a 
silly smile on her face. I had to wonder what kind of newspaper would print such photos. 
Across the top was a name: Lover’s Connection. Both sides of the torn page contained 
classified type ads, sprinkled with a few photos of naked people. Most were men proudly 
holding their erect penises and smiling at the camera. Except for a few which were close ups 
of erect penises and no smile. I was about to crumple up the smut sheet and throw it away 
when the top of one ad caught my attention. It read simply, “Want Adventure?” I looked 
around and decided it was too crowded in the park for me to read it there, so I folded the 
page and put it in my purse. Then I gulped down the hot dog and washed it down with the 
rest of my soda.

There were several messages waiting for me when I got back, and I was immediately busy. 
The sex paper was forgotten. Until I got back to my apartment, that is. I turned on the TV and 
microwave and settled down at the kitchen table to await dinner. Then I remembered the 
page and retrieved it from my purse to spread it out on the table.

My eyes passed over ads from men describing themselves as Greek Gods seeking any 
female for sex anytime, anyplace, and anyhow. There were a couple from really beautiful 
women promising sex, but most of those wanted you to send money to a post office box, or 
to call a 900 number. At three dollars, ninety-nine cents a minute.

Then there was that ad again:

Want Adventure?

Las Vegas showman needs female (18-25) for escape artist act. High pay. Interview 
expenses paid. Box 4468, McMasters, NV.

That was all. Escape artist? What was this, anyway? I had vague images of Harry Houdini 
getting out of all kinds of handcuffs and ropes. So that was all this big adventure was, 
someone looking for a show act. The bell on the microwave chimed. I crumpled up the paper 
and tossed it away, then went to get my dinner. I watched an inane, moronic, and not very 
funny sitcom while eating a previously frozen tray dinner that tasted nowhere as good as the 
photo on the package looked.

Later, while laying in bed trying to read a novel with boring characters and almost no plot 
in the first one hundred pages, I remembered that ad. Putting down my book, I closed my 
eyes and tried to imagine what kind of job was being advertised. They wanted a female, so she
would have to be sexy looking. Anyone in entertainment had to be beautiful. And fairly 
physical, if being and escape artist entailed what I thought it did.

A vision of a tall blonde with long legs clad in nylons and a skin tight costume came to me.
She was standing on a platform, smiling to a crowd while holding up one hand dramatically. 
Then she was being locked into several pairs of handcuffs while her ankles were secured in 
more pairs. Two male assistants picked her up and lowered her into a glass box filled with 
water. The water overflowed as her body went in. As soon as her head went underwater, they 
hurriedly shut the top of the box, locked it with padlocks. Then, while the audience watched in
nervous anticipation her chained body struggling underwater, they jumped down and quickly 
pulled curtains around the box.

There then passed a long minute during which nothing happened. The crowd grew more 
nervous. There was always, they thought, the possibility that something had gone wrong and 
she was drowning. Her assistants looked nervously at each other and the big clock but did 
nothing. curtain parted and out steps the escape artist, all the handcuffs rattling in her 
upraised hand. She smiles at the audience and drips water all over the stage.

Or several members of the audience were invited on stage, all male it should be noted, 
and given lengths of rope with which to bind the lovely escape artist. They do their job with 
enthusiasm, wrapping her body from head to toe with their ropes, trying to sneak in a feel 
without their wives seeing. Then she’s standing there, several hundred feet of rope wrapped 
around her lovely form, smiling to everyone. The assistants pull large box up behind her. The 
lid opens and she is picked up, set inside. She smiles again and lowers herself down into the 
box. The assistants close the lid and sit on it. Half a minute passes, then there is a knocking on 
the box. The assistants jump off, open the lid, and the escape artist stands up, holding all the 
ropes in her hands, her body totally free of them. The audience applauds.

I lay there with these visions and wondered if I would like doing that. Might be fun, I 
remember telling myself. Might be fun. Well, at least it was show business. I fell asleep 
thinking that it couldn’t do any harm to send off a letter. All it would cost me would be a 
stamp.

That night I awoke several times from dreams I couldn’t quite remember but which left me
feeling sexually frustrated and oddly excited.

The next day, while pounding away at the computer keyboard, I suddenly got the urge to 
do something for myself. I saved the file I was working on and started a new one. A minute 
later I had a letter ready to print:

Dear Sir, This is in response to your advertisement in “Lover’s Connection,” regarding the 
position of escape artist. If that position has not yet been filled, would you be so kind as to 
give me details about the job? I am pretty and have a good figure, plus I am in good physical 
shape. Thank you, I printed it on the laser printer, then hurriedly signed it and stuffed it in an 
envelope. Once safely stashed in my purse, I tried to get back to my work but had trouble 
concentrating.

That night I took the newspaper page from my trash can and smoothed out the wrinkles 
until I could read the address on that ad. With a careful hand, I copied it onto the envelope 
and sealed it. A stamp was added and it was ready to go out. For some reason, I found myself 
putting on a coat and walking out of my apartment complex. A postal box on the corner 
promised an early pick up the next day. I entrusted my letter to the metal box and went back 
to my apartment.

That night I had dreams of becoming a very famous escape artist. They were strangely 
erotic dreams, too.

It was five days later that a reply was sitting between an offer of a pre-approved credit 
card, and a solicitation for funds to save the muskrats of South Abliona. The envelope bore 
only the box return address, no company name. With more interest than I was willing to 
admit, I opened that letter first. It was short and to the point:

Dear Miss Larson,

Thank you for writing about the escape artist position. I am still

searching for the right person and would be interested in

interviewing you.

Could you possibly come to Las Vegas the weekend of the third?

Airline tickets and a hotel room will be reserved in your name. In

addition, you will be paid $200 as an interview fee, yours to keep

even if you are not offered or do not accept the job.

Instructions will be mailed to you.

Looking forward to meeting you,

Yours, Brian Carter

That was all. I had expected more information about the job, not just an invitation for an 
interview. But it was still interesting. An expense paid holiday in Las Vegas, heh? That sounded 
good to me. I had never been to the glitter capital of the US, but had always wanted to visit it. 
If this Mr. Carter was willing to pay for a hotel room and the air fare, well why not take him up 
on it. And two hundred dollars would certainly cover food and a little gambling.

Digging around in my dresser, I found a letter tablet and a pen. Even before considering 
dinner, I sat down to compose a reply:

Dear Mr. Carter,

Thank you for you offer. I would like to take you up on it, and talk

with you about this position. The date you mentioned will be fine. I

can fly up on Friday night or Saturday morning.

I would also appreciate more information about the position.

Thank you,

I signed it with a flourish. Then I discovered that I had no envelopes in the apartment. 
Discarding the idea of another TV dinner, I put on my jacket and went to the nearby shopping
mall. There I bought some envelopes and mailed the reply. Then I found a nice looking 
restaurant and celebrated my upcoming Las Vegas vacation with a good meal.

The reply, when it came, was again something less than informative:

Dear Miss Larson,

I am very glad to hear that you are interested in this position.

Enclosed you will find a ticket good for a round trip to Las Vegas

Saturday morning. A hotel room has been reserved in your name at the

Pirates Cove Hotel on the strip.

A hotel bus will take you there from the airport. Instructions for

the time and place of the interview will be waiting for you in your

hotel room.

Thank you again, Brian Carter

I was a little puzzled. I had thought that perhaps this Mr. Carter would ask some questions 
about me, my experience in acting, or to see a photo of me, or something. But there was only 
this short letter and two tickets. For a brief second my cautious nature kicked in and told me 
that there was something funny going on here. But what it might be was a little hard to see. I 
hadn’t been asked for any money, and the ticket looked real. I called the airline and confirmed
that a seat was reserved in my name. And in the first class cabin, too!

So I put the ticket away with a promise that I would be careful, but if someone wanted to 
give me a free Las Vegas vacation, why should I stop them?

Friday night came and I stopped at the mall on the way home to buy myself a new outfit. 
A girl always feels better when she has new clothes, and I wanted to make a good impression 
during the interview. The outfit I bought was a little more than I really could afford, but I told 
myself that one has, simply has, to make a good first impression. It was a blue velvet dress 
that clung to my figure and really showed it off. My Mother would be shocked if she could see
how low cut the neckline was, but she wasn’t going to be in Las Vegas, and it was a man I 
wanted to impress. You don’t win all the beauty contests I have without knowing how to best 
display your assets.

A pair of matching blue high heels and a purse completed the outfit. I packed it into my 
one suitcase, along with a couple pairs of blue jeans, my usual weekend clothing, and some 
miscellaneous blouses and underwear. I set the suitcase by the front door, and was ready to 
go.

The flight was uneventful, which is the way I like airplane flights. Las Vegas from the air 
wasn’t too impressive, just a good sized city in the middle of a flat valley surrounded by 
mountains. But in the trip from the airport to the hotel, I really began to see why Las Vegas is 
such a unique place. There were hotels of the oddest shapes, one a giant pyramid, black in 
color with a tiny clear pyramid at the top. There was a huge place that looked like a lion and 
you had to walk between his paws to enter. There was a castle with multicolored turrets at 
each corner. And a place with huge waterfalls in front and a pirate ship in a lagoon. It was all a
little hard to believe, a little larger than life.

The Pirate’s Cove wasn’t quite as splendid as some of the other places, but it was pretty 
impressive nevertheless. The front was shaped as a pirate ship with two huge masts and lots of
rigging. A very wide boarding ramp led up into the ship from the driveway. Inside was all 
lights, glitter, red carpeting, and pirate decorations. Very impressive.

What was most impressive was the size of the lobby that I walked into. Row after row of 
brightly colored, mechanical slot machines, gleaming under the lights stood ready to take 
your money. And hundreds of people were doing just that, feeding coins into the tops of 
these mechanical monsters, which rewarded them with whirling images, flashing lights, and, 
only occasionally, a tinkle of coins falling into a tray at the bottom. It was quite a sight. They 
didn’t do anything small in Las Vegas.

My room was far more than I had expected. To begin with, it was on the twenty-first floor. 
Second, it was almost as large as my apartment. The bellboy immediately went to the window 
and opened the curtains with a flourish. The view as really great. I couldn’t help myself from 
walking over to enjoy it. Below me spread out a thousand buildings and houses. And a dozen 
of those fantastic hotels, all colorful and sparkling in the bright desert sun.

Once alone I looked around at everything, all atwitter inside like a schoolgirl at her first 
dance. Opposite the bed was a large mirror, running from floor to ceiling. Over the bed was a 
mural depicting pirate scenes, ships blasting at each other, dashing pirates in over-sized boots
and colorful coats, some with eye patches and swords.

But what caught my attention was off to the side, next to the window. There was the edge 
of a ship with a plank extending outward. Standing there was a pretty woman with long, 
blonde hair blowing in the breeze. Her hands were behind her back and tied there. Her dress 
was torn and a fair amount of leg was showing. Behind her, a scruffy group of grinning pirates
were waving cutlasses and watching their victim walk the plank.

I knelt down and looked at the girl. She didn’t look much like me in the face but had long 
blonde hair, and a figure as good as mine. She had a most worried look on her face as she 
glanced back over her shoulder at the pirates urging her on.

I stood up and considered that picture. I was sure that it was only coincidence that it was 
in my hotel room and I was there to interview for a position as an escape artist. I crossed my 
hands behind my back and put my feet together. I looked back over my shoulder into the 
mirror, pretending that I was that girl walking her last few steps. I thrust my breasts out and 
tried to look dramatic. I thought I looked the part pretty good. Except that the victim of a 
pirate attack wouldn’t be wearing jeans and a denim blouse.

On an impulse, I unbuttoned my blouse, removed it and the bra. Better, but still not right. 
Then I peeled off my jeans and shoes. The panties were tossed on the pile, too. Standing there
before the mirror, I stuck the pose again. Much better. You could easily imagine that those 
randy pirates, having been at sea for months on end, would rather see a naked girl walking 
the plank then one fully clothed. Of course, being a horny bunch, they would have screwed 
her repeatedly before casting her to a watery grave. Probably for days on end.

I tried to imagine such a fate. In the acting classes, we were told to concentrate on small 
details, focus on little things that would make the scene more real to you. So I did. I felt the 
hard wood plank beneath my feet. I fluttered my fingers uselessly and felt the tight ropes 
digging into my wrists. I felt the sea breeze blowing my hair, even if it was really only the air 
conditioning.

Then I closed my eyes and imagined all that, and the fear that poor girl must be feeling. 
Then I opened my eyes and realized, with a start, that I was breathing hard and had a funny 
feeling in the pit of my stomach. And, oddly, a warmth in between my legs that could not be 
denied.

Being an escape artist probably wouldn’t involve walking the plank, and especially not 
while naked. But there would be some kind of costume that would probably be pretty 
skin-tight. Being naked was the closest I had to that. And getting tied up would certainly be a 
part of it.

I walked around the room, holding my wrists crossed and together, as if rope were 
wrapped around them, and practiced showing off before an audience. Then I stood by the 
bed, put my feet together, and looked down for a minute, pretending that I was watching an 
assistant tying my ankles with rope. When he was done, I leapt upon the bed, and began 
struggling against the ropes. I rolled around, pulled my arms this way and that and strained to
reach my feet with my “bound” hands.

After half a minute, I burst out in giggles and brought my hands around to hold my 
stomach. It was really too much, a grown woman, rolling around on her bed, pretending to be
tied up.

Ten minutes later, just as I was buttoning back up my blouse, there was a knock on the 
door and an envelope and a package was delivered to me. It was my instructions. Eagerly I 
tore open the envelope to find a single sheet of paper within. The letter read:

Dear Miss Larson,

I would like to meet with you this afternoon at 4:00 p.m. Please

follow my instructions exactly. In the package you will find a pair

of shoes. Just before 4:00 PM, remove all your clothes and put on

the shoes. I will be at your door exactly on time for your

interview.

Yours, Brian Carter

So what was going on? I had thought that this would be an interview at some studio or 
office someplace. But I was suppose to be standing completely naked in a hotel room waiting 
for him to come in?! And wearing a pair of special shoes!

My first reaction was simply to throw away the letter, and plan to be someplace else at 
four o’clock. This Brian didn’t really expect me to be naked when he came, did he??? How 
could he?

I tossed the page into the trash can and was about to do the same with the box when 
curiosity got the better of me. I tore off the wrapping and lifted the lid. The shoes inside 
surprised me, to say the least. Slowly I pulled one out and looked at it in disbelief. It was the a 
pump with a very slender high heel, the kind they call stiletto heels. And it was the tallest pair 
of heels I had ever seen! They must have been at least four inches! Maybe half an inch over 
that.

I had wore heels before, you had to in beauty contests, and I was well aware that high 
heels make a woman’s legs look much better. The idea of wearing these shoes and nothing 
else but bare skin struck me as also kinky. What kind of girl did he think I was, anyway? Of 
course there was little difference between some of those thin bathing suits I had worn with 
high heels for beauty contests, but still….

Then I saw something else in the box. Under the shoes was an 8x10 photo. I took it out 
and looked at it. It was a publicity photo, the kind that is used to advertise an act. There were 
three photos on the page, the largest one showing a beautiful woman dressed like a circus 
acrobat and wearing heels that looked every bit as tall as the ones laying on the bed. Her 
wrists were locked in shinning steel handcuff in front of her. A second pair were locked on her 
ankles. She was smiling at the camera. Across the bottom was printed, “Stella, the World’s 
Greatest Female Escape Artist!” The other two pictures showed her in what must have been 
stills from her act. One had her bound tightly with lots of rope and standing in a trunk, 
apparently about to locked inside it. The other photo showed her hanging by her ankles from 
a square section of wooden stocks. The stocks were supported by chains going up and out of 
the photo. Stella’s arms were bound behind her back in some kind of leather sleeve. It encased
her arms from fingers up to above her elbows. I could see laces from the wrists to top, and 
they pulled tight enough to force her elbows together behind her. Her long hair was falling 
out of the bottom of the photo and her head was turned enough so that she was smiling at 
the camera.

Wow! All those images of what an escape artist would do came flooding back to me. This 
was even more than I had been thinking. More striking, more impressive … And more erotic, I 
had to admit. Stella was a beautiful redhead with a figure at least as good as mine, which is 
saying a lot.

I looked at those long legs in the main photo and was impressed with what those high 
heels did for them. I propped up the photo on the dresser and took off my shoes. The high 
heels were exactly my size, a bit of surprise. I walked around the bed to see myself in the 
mirror better. Not bad but with a pair of jeans on, my legs didn’t really show best. I sat down, 
took off the shoes and tugged my jeans off. Then I put the shoes back on and stood before 
the mirror again. Much better! I don’t think that my legs ever looked better.

I walked around a bit, mimicking the runway walk of a model, and liked what it did for me. 
I wobbled a little, but got used to the extra high heels pretty quickly. Quickly enough I was 
comfortable with then and could have put on a good show. Not that I had the slightest 
intention of doing as this strange man said.

I tossed the shoes back into their box and replaced my jeans and sensible shoes. Then I 
slipped my wallet into a back pocket like a man would and went out to get myself some lunch.

When I got back that photo was still on the dresser, tempting me.





CHAPTER FOUR - INTERVIEW WITH ROPES


I had trouble getting that advertisement photo out of my mind all during lunch. Every time a 
girl walked by with long, nice legs, I saw Stella standing there, wrists locked in front of her and 
ankles secured rather closely. I mean, handcuffs on the ankles does rather hobble a girl.

And there was the image of that lovely woman hanging upside down in what had to be a 
painful position, her ankles locked in hard wood as she hung upside down. If she had been 
grimacing or looking pained, that would have been okay, but she was smiling! Like she were 
enjoying the whole thing.

And there was the other photos. The one where her body was wrapped tightly in ropes 
was pretty impressive, too. I found myself continually wondering what that felt like, to have 
your arms held behind you and ropes digging in around and around your body.

I glanced at the clock, still two hours until the interview time. Which, of course, I had no 
intention of making. I mean, what did this bozo expect, a girl to toss off her clothes just 
because he got her a nice hotel room and a little spending cash? It was ridiculous.

I took a shower. Not that I need it all that much, but it gave me something to do. When I 
got out, with the towel draped over one shoulder, there was that box with the high heels still 
sitting on the bed. I finished toweling off and tossed the damp cloth back into the bathroom. 
Then I put on the high heels and practiced walking around a bit more. It wasn’t too hard once 
you got used to almost standing on your toes. Keeping them on, I went into the bathroom to 
blow dry my hair. The high heels clicked on the hard floor in there.

When I was done, I went back into the main room again. The image that presented itself in
the mirror was rather good. Those high heels really made my legs look great. And the rest of 
me wasn’t too bad, either. I turned around. If this Mr. Carter interviewed me like this, he 
couldn’t help but be impressed. But I wasn’t going to do that.

The time was coming up for the interview so I had to make a decision: stay or leave. I 
could easily take the money he gave me and go find another, cheaper hotel. Then enjoy a 
Saturday evening in Las Vegas. I had the return ticket in my pocket, I’d just fly back home the 
next day. No nude interview, no funny business, no tricks.

I was about to get dressed when I saw Stella’s photo again. I was drawn to the images 
there for some reason I didn’t really understand. It was strange. Yet I couldn’t stop imagining 
myself to be that girl wearing the handcuffs and ropes.

Tossing the photo to the dresser, I made a decision. Maybe this guy was just playing a 
game with me and there was no escape artist job. Or maybe there was. There was only one 
way I was going to find out. But … I wasn’t going to play the game his way. I’d stay for the 
interview, I decided, but I’d be dressed, not naked. That would show him I’m no 
bubble-headed blonde.

I put on the blue velvet dress I had bought, deliberately omitted underwear. The soft 
velvet clung to my curves like it was painted on. Standing there in those high heels and that 
dress, I was one very sexy girl. He couldn’t fail to be impressed. And he didn’t have to see me 
naked, my figure was very obvious and on display in that dress. It was cut low and had a slit 
up one side, exposing enough skin to give a very good idea what I would look like naked.

I waited for Mr. Carter.

His knock came exactly at the appointed time. I opened the door to find a man much 
younger than I had expected standing there. He was maybe late twenties, short cut hair but 
not military short. And he wasn’t bad looking. Not at all. He was smiling politely. I looked for a
frown when he saw that I was not naked but couldn’t find one. I stood back to allow him to 
come in.

He took two steps inside then halted. He looked me up and down quickly then said evenly,
“Miss Larson, “you were instructed to be wearing only the shoes. I do not have time to play 
around with women who won’t obey orders. Good-bye.” He turned and walked out the door.

I gasped. This was certainly not expected. I found myself hurrying after him. “Mr. Carter, 
wait!” I called.

He paused for a moment then turned around, but said nothing, only stood there 
expectantly. He was eight or nine steps down the hall from my door, I was standing right 
outside it. I knew what was expected of me without his saying a word. Nervously, I glanced up 
and down the corridor. No one in sight. I reached behind me and unzipped the back of the 
dress. Then I wiggled it down until I could step out of it. Holding it in one hand, I turned 
completely around once, then retreated into my hotel room quick as I could. My heart was 
beating fast. This was pretty daring stuff!

Mr. Carter came in a few seconds later, not apparently in any kind of hurry. He waited until
I tossed the dress on the bed, then turned to face him before he closed the door. I was trying 
my hardest to be cool and not act like I was an embarrassed little teenager. Also like this was 
not the first time I ever stood naked before a stranger. Not sure what to do with them, first I 
held my hands together in front of me, then put them behind my back. My pubic bush was on
display but he expected it to be and I wasn’t going to give him the advantage of knowing how
nervous I was.

I tried to sound calm as I stood before him. “So,” I said, “tell me about this escape artist 
job.”

He set his briefcase down on the floor then took the chair and turned it around to sit in it 
backwards. “There is no escape artist job,” he said evenly.

“Then what the hell is all this?!” I exclaimed. “You going to all this trouble just to get a view
of me naked?”

He smiled, a sincere and honest smile. “No, although it would certainly be worth it. You are
a most beautiful woman. There is no escape artist job in the sense that you would be 
performing before audiences or cameras. But there is a job.”

I fought down the urge to insist on getting on my clothes before we continued this 
strange conversation. “I’m listening,” I said instead.

“I asked you to be naked because I wanted to see if you really did have a first class figure. 
You do.”

“You could have insisted on a photograph when you wrpte to me,” I commented. “And 
what would have happened if I didn’t have a good body?” I asked.

“I would have handed you this envelope with two hundred dollars in it, and told you that 
the job had been filled and you should enjoy the rest of your stay before flying home.” He 
pointed to the corner of an envelope in the inside pocket of his suit coat.

“I advertised an escape artist job because there are many aspects of the real job that are 
similar to that of an escape artist. You looked at the advertisement for Stella, did you not? 
What did you think?”

“I … Well, it was fascinating in a way. Can she really get out of those ways she was tied and 
chained up?”

“Stella worked as a professional escape artist for two years, mostly in Europe. You should 
know that most of her escapes were done with trick ropes, handcuffs and chains. There were 
trick levels to release them, ropes that stretched, and fake padlocks. She was very good but 
even a very good escape artist can be secured so that she cannot free herself.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do. But as I was saying, the job that I can offer you involves some of the same things as 
an escape artist. Tell me, have you ever been tied up, Miss Larson?”

Without thinking about it, I sat on the edge of the bed, crossed my legs and put my hands 
on my knees. “No. Oh, I think maybe a few times when I was a child. You know, playing 
cowboy games and stuff. But nothing like what Stella was shown in.”

“And how do you think you would feel about being tied with ropes or locked in handcuffs 
like Stella was?”

“Well, if it were part of the job, I guess it would be okay.”

“I’m talking about how you would emotionally feel about it. Would it be frightening? 
Exciting? Nothing?”

“It’s interesting,” I said, hoping that it would be a neutral reply.

He took a deep breath then continued, “My Grandfather is a man of unusual tastes,” he 
continued. “Among other things, he likes to view beautiful and sexy women tightly bound up 
in ropes. And he has the money to indulge his unusual tastes.”

“And you want me to be a … a … model? A model posing tied up?”

“Basically, yes. Think of it as an escape artist playing for an audience of one. But, yes, the 
job I am prepared to offer is one of modeling in various forms of restraint.”

“And that’s all?” I asked.

“Well, occasionally you’ll be asked to try and get free. Those times we would expect you to 
give it a very serious effort. And occasionally you might be asked to perform some simple task
while tied up. Like crawling across a room while tied up.” He tilted his head to one side and 
paused a second to see if I was going to say anything. Then he added, “You won’t be asked to 
perform any acts of a sexual nature. Beyond being naked during most of the modeling.”

I took a deep breath. This was certainly not what I had expected. Yet this man seemed 
honest in what he was saying. And he was right in his saying that his little deception in 
advertising for an escape artist was justified. I probably wouldn’t have answered the ad if it 
said a girl was wanted to model naked and tied up for an old man.

“I would like to think about this before I accept your job offer,” I said.

“The offer hasn’t been made yet,” he replied.

“I thought you did.”

“Before we agree on hiring you, we would like to be sure that you will be able to perform 
as the job requires.”

“If it’s modeling, then you can see that I have all I need,” I said.

“It’s not just that you are good looking, which, of course, you are. But what if we go to 
have your first modeling session in front of Grandfather and you discover that you panic when
tied up? You said that you had never been tied up, really tied up, before. If you can’t take it, it 
would ruin the presentation for Grandfather.”

It sounded reasonable, but I had a feeling I knew where it was leading. “And what would it 
take for you to feel comfortable that I can do the job?”

He smiled, but it wasn’t a leer. “You probably know the answer to that. I would like to give 
you a little test. It would be quite simple. There are three elements that I need to test. One, 
can you take being tied tightly with ropes without any circulation or other problem. My 
Grandfather likes the girls tied for real and that includes the ropes being tied tightly. Second, I 
would have to make sure that you can take being left alone while tied up and helpless. Often 
the little scenes Grandfather likes to create would require that you be alone for varying 
periods of time. And the third thing is that you can take being tied for those longer periods, 
say, at least a couple hours. If you can handle all of those, then I think you would do fine on 
the job.”

It was what I expected, but I hadn’t expected him to present them so logically. “And where 
would this test take place?”

“Right here is fine with me. After you’re tied, I’ll leave you for ten or fifteen minutes, then 
check on you to make sure there is no problems. If you’re doing okay, then I’ll leave you here 
for three hours. At the end of that time, I’ll untie you and we’ll talk about the job. You will be 
free to turn it down, if you find that the test was too much for you.”

“And among the details we’ll talk about will be the salary?”

“Of course. But I think you’ll find the pay to be more than adequate, even considering the 
unusual nature of the job. The monthly salary will be….” Then he named a dollar amount that 
was five times what I was making. I tried not to show the surprise I was feeling. That was a lot 
of money. “And, of course, if you wish, you will be paid in cash as a sub-contractor, so whether
you report it on your income tax or not is up to you.”

This man sure knew how to tempt a girl.

I thought that over in my mind. This guy wanted to tie me up and leave me in that hotel 
room for three hours, then he’ll offer me a job. Two things kept flashing before my mental eye:
an image of myself tightly bound in ropes and struggling around on the bed as I had done for
pretend earlier, and dollar signs.

“If you don’t want the job, I’ll still give you this two hundred for taking the test.” He pulled 
out the envelope and laid it on the bed next to me.

I tried to think fast. Did I want to trust this man? It would take some trust to let him tie me 
up. Once I was helpless he could do anything to me. Anything. Then disappear into a city full 
of tourists. I looked at him carefully, trying to read anything funny in his eyes. His gaze met 
mine steadily. At least he wasn’t ogling and drooling at my nakedness. Without realizing I had 
reached a decision, I found myself making a ridiculous offer.

“Okay. But I would like to add one little provision. You said it would be a test. Fine. But let’s
make it more interesting. This is Las Vegas, let’s make a bet. You can go ahead and tie me up. 
And leave me for three hours in this room. But if I manage to escape from the ropes, then 
you’ll have to pay me a bonus. In addition to the two hundred already promised. Let’s say … 
Ah, an additional three hundred? That would make it five hundred, a nice, round figure.”

He thought for all of a second before saying, “Agreed.”

“I’d like the money to be put on the dresser alone with this,” I said, picking up the 
envelope and tossing it on the dresser. “That way, when I escape, I’ll might just pick up the 
money and go back home.”

He nodded, a friendly sort of smile on his face. “That is fine with me. But I’ll have to go and
get some cash, I don’t have an extra three hundred on me. Shouldn’t take more than a few 
minutes. They are used to cashing checks downstairs.”

He stood up and replaced the chair at the small writing desk. “I’ll be back shortly.” Then he
left.

I immediately opened the envelope. Sure enough, there was two one hundred dollar bills 
in it. I closed it and left it on the dresser. Then I walked nervously around the room. Maybe I 
was making a mistake, but for some strange reason I trusted this Brian Carter. The whole thing
was pretty weird, but I just had a feeling that he would do exactly as he said and nothing 
more. Maybe it wasn’t logical, but I felt comfortable with him.

And for some really strange reason I was eager to try this little test. If I could work my way 
out of the ropes, I’d get a nice reward. If I didn’t, I’d be no worse off. Either way, I could decide
if I wanted to take this job after trying his test. I was all excited inside, sort the same feeling I 
had just before my first major beauty contest. The dollar signs faded but the image of me with
ropes wrapped around me, just like that photo of Stella, was intriguing. It overrode my usual 
common sense.

While I paced, I noticed he had left the briefcase.

Feeling like a school girl sneaking into someplace she knows she’s not suppose to be, I 
picked it up and set it down on the bed. There were two square buttons on each side. I 
pushed them and the top popped up. I was suddenly looking at five coils of rope laying there, 
all neatly coiled and wound. The rope was made of cotton, the old fashioned kind of white 
cotton clothesline that we used to use to dry clothes outside. I touched one of them. It was 
soft, it might well be comfortable around my arms and legs. But I had no illusions of my being 
able to break it. I was sure that breaking even a single strand of it was beyond my capability. I 
reached out a hand and felt a tingle of excitement as my finger came in contact with the 
cotton rope. Was I really going to be tied up with these ropes in only a few minutes?! 
Incredible! A shiver raced down my spine.

Hurriedly, I closed the briefcase and replaced it on the floor. Brian Carter might be back 
any second. Then I took a drink of water, partly to calm my nerves, and partly because a little 
part of my mind was telling me that I might get thirsty and won’t be able to get myself a drink
for a while.

I sat down on the bed. Did I really think that I could get free after he tied me? I honestly 
didn’t know. Seemed to me that people in movies can often work their way free of ropes. But 
some of those tie ups I’d seen in movies looked to be pretty poor. Just a few weeks before I 
had seen a movie heroine tied up with some ropes and it seemed to me that she was trying 
not to let them fall off her, so loose were they wrapped. Then there was the way Stella was tied
in that photo. I retrieved it and stared at her, the one where she was standing in a trunk and 
had rope wrapped around her. I couldn’t see all of her arms or how well they were bound 
behind her, but the ropes going around her chest looked pretty tight.

There was a knock and I quickly put the photo into the top dresser draw, right next to the 
bible. I opened the door to let Brian Carter in. He smiled at me and placed three additional 
hundred dollar bills on the dresser next to the envelope. Then he lifted an eyebrow in 
unspoken question: “Ready?”

I gulped and felt my mouth go dry. “I am ready,” I said, probably sounding braver than I 
felt inside. Brian Carter calmly picked up his briefcase and set it on the bed. I couldn’t see the 
ropes when he clicked the lid up, but I did as soon as his hand came out with the first coil. He 
pulled the end of the rope free from where it had been tucked under the windings. I could see
that there was a small loop tied in it. He tossed the rope out on the floor behind him and 
shook it until most of it was uncoiled and free. Then he took the small loop and doubled back 
the rope through it, making a sliding loop. Then he looked up at me. “Please turn your back to
me and put your hands behind you,” he said politely.

I gulped and turned my back. I crossed my wrists behind me and tried to fight down the 
doubts that were nagging at my mind. Now was the time to turn back, in a few minutes it 
would be too late. I said nothing.

His hands upon my wrists were gentle. He uncrossed my wrists and placed them side by 
side with the palms facing each other. Then I felt the rope loop going around them and 
tightening down. He made it snug but not extremely tight. I found myself breathing hard and 
thinking that maybe I would be able to free myself if he didn’t tie me any tighter than that.

I was a fool. After wrapping the rope around my wrists ten or twelve times, he began 
wrapping it between my arms and around the rope he just put on. After two turns, he pulled 
the rope and I could feel all the other ropes tighten down. Now they were very snug, actually 
tight, you could say. He tugged again and they tightened down even more.

I felt a shiver along my back, but he didn’t give me a chance to explore the feeling of my 
wrists being tied. His arms came around under my arms and he was pulling my elbows 
towards each other. He did it slowly, perhaps testing how easily they came together. When 
they touched, I felt him wrapping rope around them. After a half dozen windings, he hand left 
my arms. The ropes were now sufficient to keep my elbows touching. He wrapped more 
windings then tied the rope over that, the same as he had done with my wrists. He tugged 
that and I felt the rope around my elbows tighten. I don’t think they came any closer together,
they were-already touching, but the ropes definitely felt tighter.

Then he went back to the briefcase for another length of rope, leaving me with few 
seconds to see myself in the mirror. The first thing that stuck me was how much my breasts 
were sticking straight out in front of me. It took a second to realize that was a result of my 
elbows being together behind me. I have a fine pair of breasts, young, firm, large and very 
good shape. But they had never looked so good as they did right then. Even I was impressed.

I turned around and was amazed to see my arms. The white rope was very tightly wound 
about my wrists and elbows, very tightly. And those final windings that went over the other 
ropes really tightened down the whole things. I began to have serious doubts about escaping.

It was then that I realized I was still completely naked, save for a pair of high heels. I was a 
fool for not having put some clothes on, even if only some underwear. Brian hadn’t said that I 
had to be nude for the test. Well, it might have been implied since I was naked when he asked 
if I would like to take the test. But he couldn’t have argued much if I insisted on putting on 
some underwear. A pair of panties and a bra wouldn’t have interfered with his tying my body. 
But it was too late. With my arms tied behind me, there was no way I could get a bra on. I 
could ask him to put my panties on and pull them up for me, but that seemed a rather silly 
thing to do. I sighed and had to accept that I was going to stay naked, and had no one to 
blame but myself.

Then I remembered that he had said most of the modeling would be done naked. Might 
as well get used to it.

With a fresh length of rope in his hand, Brian was back beside me and asking me to sit 
down on the chair. I did, and he asked me to put my legs together and stretched out. I 
watched as he fitted the sliding loop around my ankles and then carefully wrapped the rope. It
was fascinating to watch my feet being tied while feeling my arms held behind me.

He finished my ankles with some rope around the main loops, tightening them down. 
Then he took a fresh length of rope and began the same process around my legs just above 
my knees. I wondered if he could tell that my breathing was coming a little faster and hear my 
heart beating a little harder. This was exciting stuff! Kind of scary, but exciting.

When he finished tying the final knots, I noticed that he had tied the ropes above my 
knees not as tight as those on my ankles. I wondered if that was a slip on his part, and if I 
might be able to use it to help escape. But a little thinking made me realize that even if I could
get the ropes completely off my knees, my arms would still be tied behind me. Which marked 
the point where I learned one of the main principles of tying a girl: the hands are the most 
important part. Secure them and she cannot free herself totally. Make a mistake on the hands,
and she will be able to use them to free the rest of herself.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” I said in what we both knew was an 
understatement.

“I’ve done this many times, mostly setting up a display for Grandfather. Is everything 
comfortable so far?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “My arms are tight but my fingers feel fine, so I guess there’s no 
circulation problems.”

“You’re lucky that you can easily touch your elbows behind your back. Some girls can’t do 
that at all. And if they touch with difficulty, the hands usually go to sleep rapidly. Okay, we’re 
finished with your legs. Can you stand up?”

I tried and almost fell. I had forgotten about the high heels. His strong hand caught me 
before I could hurt myself. “Let me help you to the bed,” he said. Then he simply picked me up
in his arms and carried me the couple of steps to the bed where he lay me on the velvet 
covers.

For a minute I couldn’t talk. The feeling of his strong arms around my body, easily lifting 
me up, had made me all quivery inside. Not since the first time I let a boy slip his hand under 
my dress had I felt so excited. And for the first time since he began tying me, I actually begin 
to feel helpless. Maybe it was the realization that he could do anything he wanted to me and I 
was powerless to resist that did it. Or maybe it was the realization that I couldn’t even stand 
on my feet. But whatever, I suddenly felt helpless, really helpless for the first time in my life. 
And it was a strange feeling, a mixture of fear and excitement. With heavy sexual overtones, 
although I didn’t have time o try and sort the reason for that out. But I was very much aware 
of my nudity before this good looking male.

“Can you roll over on your stomach?” he asked.

I looked up to see him standing there with another length of rope in his hands. I felt so 
very small and helpless that I couldn’t talk. But I did roll over and wiggle until I was more or 
less centered on the bed. I felt the mattress move as he knelt on it, then the rope being 
passed between my legs. The sliding loop tightened down around my ankle bondage. I felt 
rope being pushed between my forearms, then back around my ankles. He pulled on the rope
and I felt my legs slowly bending as the feet were drawn towards my wrists. Suddenly the 
name for this came into my mind; I was being hogtied.

How can I tell you of the incredible feeling as my legs folded up until I could feel my 
ankles pushing between my hands? My body was bent backwards, tightly restrained by ropes I
could never hope to break. I was, in fact, feeling truly helpless for the first time in my life. It 
was both a terrible and wonderful feeling at the same time. I was scared and felt an urge to 
open my mouth to tell him that I had changed my mind and he should immediately untie me. 
My lips parted, yet no words came out.

The moment of near panic passed as quickly as it had come. It left me a little nervous but 
something else had replaced the fear, something I didn’t quite understand. It took me as long 
as it took him to tie half a dozen knots at the end of that rope, all of them to the ropes around
my elbows, before I recognized what I was feeling. It was sexual excitement! Between my legs 
a heat and an itch were generated, quicker and more intense than I had ever felt before. I was 
very much aware of my female body, and of the strong male hands touching me. It wasn’t that
I wanted sex, it was like I was sex. Doesn’t make sense, but that’s the best way I can put it into 
words. I felt sexier than I had ever felt in my life.

I looked up to see Brian Carter closing his briefcase and setting it on the floor beside the 
dresser. Then I put my forehead against the bed and closed my eyes. By feel, I explored my 
body, each place where ropes dug into my flesh, each strain of my limbs as they were forced 
into and held in positions not quite normal. It was quite an experience.

“I will be back in half an hour,” a voice broke into my reverie. “I’ll check on you then. Have 
fun.” The last part was said with a good natured smile. Then he was gone.

I had a sudden urge to call him back, but easily fought it down. I was determined to go 
through with the test, and backing down as soon as the final knot was tied would make me a 
coward. Then the door clicked shut and I was alone. Alone, naked and helpless!

CHAPTER FIVE - A NEW WAY TO SEXUAL SATISFACTION

Which brings us to where I began this narrative-my looking at my hogtied nudity in the 
big mirrors of that Las Vegas hotel room.

I had struggled, fighting to pull my hands out of the rope loops so tight about my wrists. I 
wiggled and tugged and then rested while exploring the ropes that my fingers could touch. 
Going back in my mind, I confirmed what my fingers told me, there were no knots within 
reach. He had tied the knots where my fingers could never reach them. The final ones, those 
holding my legs bent double were knotted to the ropes around my elbows, every far, indeed, 
from my fingers.

When Brian Carter came back into the hotel room, he found a girl who had been working 
hard. Her hair was disheveled, the covers under her no longer neat and smooth. He also 
observed that she was still completely bound, still as completely helpless as when he had left 
her.

He bent over my body and I felt him touching my hands. “Any numbness, loss of feeling in
your hands?” he asked. I wiggled my fingers at him. “No, they feel fine,” I said honestly.

Brian walked back into my vision and sat on the chair. “So, how do you feel?”

“Helpless,” I responded honestly. “I’ve never been so helpless in my life.”

“And how do you find that feeling? Is it good or bad?”

I paused before answering. How honest should I be? “It’s not bad,” I ventured. “I guess you
could say that it’s an interesting feeling.” I couldn’t read what he was thinking in his eyes. “It’s 
sort of a challenge to try and get out,” I continued when he said nothing. “I feel that I should 
be able to work the ropes loose … If I just struggle hard enough.” I sighed. “But that doesn’t 
seem to work.”

There was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, I was sure of it. And I couldn’t 
stop talking. “It’s … Well, it’s sort of exciting. But I guess that’s just because I’m all naked … 
And you’re good looking. And….” I was getting flustered. I wanted to talk and tell him how I 
felt, but was embarrassed. “It is different. I … I….” I just couldn’t get the next part out.

“And it’s sexually exciting?” he prompted.

“Yes,” I admitted. At least he had been the one to utter the words, not I.

“That’s not unusual,” he said casually. “Girls that I’ve tied up for Grandfather’s displays 
often tell me that they feel sexually excited when bound up and naked. I suspect it’s quite 
normal for a healthy young girl with a healthy sex drive to feel excitement under these 
conditions.”

I looked to see if he was laughing at me or drooling at the thought of this naked woman 
being horny because of the ropes around her. He was neither. The smile on his face was not a 
leer, it was polite and friendly.

Then he stood up. “I’ll leave you now for the rest of the test. You’re welcome to continue 
your struggling, although I doubt you’ll escape. I have had considerable experience at tying 
girls. And you don’t have to struggle, you can simply lay there and relax for the next two and a
half hours. But that’s up to you.”

He paused at the door and I realized he was giving me one last chance to back out. I 
smiled and assured him, “I’ll be fine. Go ahead. Maybe I’ll manage to work these ropes off!”

We both knew it was false bravado. Those ropes were just as tight as the second his hands 
had left the last knot. I was not going to be getting free. He smiled and walked out. Just as he 
passed through the door I could see a couple in the corridor, a typical tourist couple with 
suitcases and a key in the man’s hand as he searched for his room number. The man’s head 
was not turned in my direction, and the woman was too busy nagging him to turn and look at
me. For just a second there, before Brian closed the door, either of them could have turned 
their heads and beheld a naked and tightly bound girl laying on the bed. I wondered what 
they would have thought about that.

Or what Brian would have said had they asked him about it. But Brian impressed me as a 
man who was in total control of every situation. He would probably have told them in a 
completely sincere voice that I was his wife, had become hooked on the slot machines and he 
had to keep me tied so I wouldn’t gamble away all their money. And they would have believed
him.

I spent a few seconds cursing myself for getting into such things, there was going to be 
two and a half more of this tight hogtie and my body was already feeling the stress of it and 
aching a bit here and there. That would be one hundred and fifty minutes of tight ropes, nine 
thousand seconds of my body being arched into an unnatural position. It would also be nine 
thousand seconds of my being horny with no satisfaction in sight. I was rapidly discovering 
that for a girl to be in a high state of sexual excitement but unable to even touch herself, let 
along have someone else touch her, was frustration with a capital “F!”

Sometime during the second hour of my being hogtied, I began to entertain thoughts 
about this handsome Brian Carter doing something about my horniness. If I simply indicated 
to him that I was willing, surely he wouldn’t deny a poor, frustrated girl some sexual release? 
And the thought occurred to me that he might well relieve my sexual desires while I was still 
tied up. That thought and the accompanying images in my mind set off a fresh wave of desire 
and frustration. I began banging my hips against the bed and squeezing my legs together. 
Both felt good for my poor pussy, but were simply not enough. Had my hands not been 
secured quite firmly behind my back, they would have flown to my sex to grant blessed relief.

I began thinking of what his penis would look like and what he might do to me without 
untying me. I hoped he would at least untie my legs so that he could enter me as I lay on my 
bound arms and moaned loudly. The visions of that were driving me wild. I fear I messed up 
that bed pretty badly with my thrashing around.

Suddenly the door opened and I looked up into Brian Carter’s dark blue eyes. For a long, 
very long second our eyes held and my soul was bared to his wise eyes. He knew of my desire 
and frustration. He knew how badly I wanted a man, how I wanted him. And he knew exactly 
what thoughts had been racing around my feverish mind.

I panted and moaned softly and had no secrets from this man.

He slowly closed the door behind him. The click was very loud to my ears. Then he crossed
the few steps to the bed and sat down. His hand touched my shoulder and I shivered again. 
Then he was rolling me over on my side. My breasts pointed sharply at him, my fury pubic 
patch his to see or touch. With my arms and legs pulled up behind me and secured ever so 
tightly, I felt as if my body was totally his. I prayed that he would touch my rock hard nipples, 
and knew that I would die of ecstasy if he did.

With closed eyes, I waited for his touch. But it did not come. I heard the snaps on his 
briefcase and opened my eyes. The case was on the chair and he was taking something out of 
it. It was another length of rope. What? my mind asked. What more could he do to make me 
helpless?

The answer was not long in coming. He lifted me and rolled me over until I was laying on 
my bend legs and bound arms. Then he tied the rope around my waist, pulled the loop down 
until the cotton clothesline was cutting into my flesh. Then he was on his knees, quickly 
passing the rope under the bed. I watched in a sort of daze as the rope came up the other 
side and went around my waist. Again the loop was tightened down until the rope 
disappeared into my waist. Under the bed and around my middle again, then he was knotting 
it. I could see the knots, three of them, small and tight, right in the middle of my tummy. I 
sucked in air then shook all over. I realized what he had done, he had lashed me down to the 
bed, face up, bound arms and legs under me. I had thought that I was helpless before, but 
now he made me feel doubly so. I could not even roll onto my side and escape was certainly 
impossible.

Wild thoughts danced across my mind. Some were fearful. He was a stranger with 
complete control over my body. Some were raw passion and begged me scream for his touch.
With my mind a turmoil of emotions, I saw his hand come to my mouth, a bit of cloth in it. 
Just before it disappeared into my mouth, I recognized my panties, retrieved from the dresser 
where I had tossed them. Then there was tape being smoothed over my mouth. It was wide 
tape, wide and strong. It covered my mouth all the way to my ears. It even passed under my 
jaw and up each cheek in an X pattern. I should have tried to scream but only moans escape 
my gagged mouth.

Then he was again sitting beside me on the bed, looking down into my eyes. How 
handsome and strong was that face! He was more than just a man, he was my captor, my 
controller, my whole world at that instant. The word came to my lips and I uttered it into my 
black silky panties: “Master.”

Then his was leaning over to plug something into the wall. A moment later I heard a 
humming noise but had no time to consider what it might be for suddenly my pussy was 
tingling wildly as something pressed against it. Part of my mind filled in the answer, a vibrator,
but most of me was disappearing into waves of desire and lust. I gladly gave up any thought 
of resistance, and surrendered my body and soul to the incredible emotions washing over me.

He used that vibrator skillfully to work me up to an incredibly high state of excitement, 
then make me linger there, trembling on the verge of fulfillment. For long agonizing minutes 
he played with me, bringing me so near then allowing me to drift away from the orgasm I so 
desperately desired.

When I began emitting small, wordless screams of repressed sexual agony, he plunged the
vibrator up against my more sensitive place and held it here while it worked its magic. I think I 
cried out as my mind exploded into colors and heat. I think I arched my body against the 
ropes until they dug deeply into my flesh, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

Much later I drifted back to this world, all warm and satisfied. I was laying on the bed amid
a tangle of covers and sheets. I opened dreamy eyes to see Brian Carter sitting on the chair, 
no ropes anywhere in sight and the briefcase set on the floor beside the chair. My limbs were 
free of the ropes but not the deep, red pressure marks left there by so much hard struggling. 
He was calm, resting his fingers together in a steeple before him.

I moaned and lifted myself onto one elbow. “Thank you,” I said simply. “That was good.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You are very fortunate, Miss Larson.”

“Please call me Sharon,” I interrupted.

“Sharon, then. Many woman can enjoy very intense and pleasurable feelings while bound 
up and sexually excited, if they will only allow themselves to relax and let it happen. Too many 
fight it because they think it’s wrong to feel pleasure from being tied up. You apparently do 
not have that hang up.”

“I just let it happen,” I said. “Just go with the flow, as they say.”

“Just so.” He paused for a while, maybe to see if I was going to say anything else. “You 
seem to have endured three hours of tight bondage with no adverse effects,” he began. “And I
would say that you had no adverse mental problems from the experience. You are beautiful 
and have a very fine body. I would be proud to include you in the displays for Grandfather. 
Would you like to accept the job?”

A part of my mind told me that it wasn’t fair for him to ask me if I would like a job being 
tied up when I was still all warm and cuddly inside from the most intense orgasm of my life, 
one caused by ropes rendering me helpless. I pushed myself up and swung my legs over the 
edge of the bed. I demurely closed my legs and rested my hands in my lap, modestly covering
my pubic bush.

“Mr. Carter,” I said carefully. “Please answer a question.”

“Of course. And please call me Brian.”

“When you came back into this room you saw that I was in a high state of sexual 
arousal….” He nodded and I continued, choosing my words carefully. “You granted me sexual 
satisfaction. I thank you for that. But what I would like to know is why did you use a vibrator?”

“And not perform sexual intercourse upon your helpless body as most men would have?” 
he prompted.

“Why didn’t you screw me?” I said, “To put it in plain language.”

“You’re most attractive,” he said with a faint smile. “And the idea did cross my mind. But I 
knew the type of orgasm I brought you to would be as intense and satisfying as any obtained 
through intercourse. And taking the time to untie your legs might diminish some of the 
intensity and pleasure for you.”

It made sense in a way. He was saying that to even partly untie me would have taken away
some of the helplessness, and that was a great deal of what was driving me. I found myself 
emotionally agreeing with him.

“I apologize if using a mechanical aid was any kind of insult to you, Sharon.” I considered it
in that light, and had to disagree. “It was not an insult. It was quite … nice. I have never had it 
that way before.”

“You mean you’ve never before experienced an orgasm educed by use of a vibrator. And 
while you were tied up?”

“No on both counts. It was pretty wild.”

He smiled and I felt very warm towards this man. “I am glad that you are satisfied,” he said.

“And what about you?” I asked. “Didn’t my body and condition do something for you?”

He smiled again. “Right on both counts. You are one of the most beautiful women I have 
even seen, and certainly the most beautiful I have ever had the pleasure to tie up. It would 
have been nice to have had sex with you. I simply felt it was better to do it this way. I knew 
you would enjoy it, and that you would not think I took advantage of you.”

I accepted that as a sign of respect for me. And it settled any lingering doubts in my mind.

“I will gladly accept your job offer,” I said grandly. “On one condition….”

One eyebrow went up on Brian. “And that is…?”

“Sometime in the not to distant future you will allow me to give you the same kind of 
pleasure you gave me. You must promise me that you will hogtie my naked body, leave it for 
three hours to get me warmed up, then untie only enough of my legs so that you can screw 
me. Long and hard, until you obtain an orgasm. Just like I did.”

He laughed aloud. “I agree to your condition of employment.”

I had to smile back at him. “I’ll hold you to that promise,” I told him earnestly. And 
sincerely. Little did I know the incredible extent to which he would fulfill this promise.

CHAPTER SIX - CAPTIVE MAIDEN IN BED

It was a metal cot, one of those folding kind, an angle iron frame with a net of wires to 
support a thin mattress. The whole arrangement could be folded up and rolled away on metal 
wheels. Only there was no mattress to cover the bare metal wires. Linda Hawker stared down 
at the metal bed and wondered if her captors would provide her with a mattress. The laughing
Frenchman had told her, in excellent English, that she was being promoted from sleeping on 
the bare wooden bench of that concrete cell to a real bed. Now, as she stood there, naked as 
she was constantly in this strange place, and with wrists crossed and bound with rope behind 
her back, she wondered if it were, indeed, a promotion.

“Sit here, on the edge,” said the Frenchman. Linda sighed and complied, placing her bare 
bottom on the cold metal edge. The bed shifted a bit, showing that it was not the most stable 
of devices. Humming some unknown melody to himself, the Frenchman produced lengths of 
rope from his pockets and proceeded to bind her legs together, first at the ankles then above 
and below the knees. Those ropes were pulled down tightly and knotted firmly.

With strong hands, he pushed her shoulders down until Linda was laying on her back on 
the framework of wire supports. He placed her legs centered on the bed, then, still humming 
to himself, proceeded to bind the naked girl to the frame. First he tied rope between her 
elbow and the frame. Same on the other side. Then he secured her feet to the end of the bed 
by lashing the ankles to the bottom frame, leaving the feet sticking over the edge. Working 
carefully but quickly, he attached rope around her waist and the frame, then passed rope over 
her chest above and below the beasts to hold her down. He even looped rope around her 
neck, securing it both to the sides and to the frame above her head. Then he went to work on 
her legs, binding them to the frame on either side just below her hips, above her knees, below
them, and again at the ankles.

When he stepped back, Miss Linda Hawker was completely lashed to the metal wire cot 
with little options for movement, and none for escape. She could roll her head from side to 
side, and lift it a few inches. And she could wiggle her feet. That was all. Even waggling her 
fingers was denied as they were under her back, pressed between her and the wires below 
her.

Frenchy, as she came to think of him, seemed happy with his task. And he was not yet 
finished. Although her body could hardly move, she was still not in the state of helplessness 
desired. Taking a rubber wedge with cord attached to it, he pushed the pointed end up 
against her lips. Linda had been a prisoner and tortured enough to know the uselessness of 
resistance. She parted her lips and opened her mouth wide to admit the hard rubber wedge. It
pressed down her tongue and the end pushed against the back of her mouth. She fought 
down the urge to gag on the object invading her mouth.

The cords attached to the wide end of the wedge provided a means of securing the gag in
place. They were tied to the wires below her head, quite tightly. The effect was to both silence 
the naked teenager, and to keep her head from lifting. A second set of cords from the wide 
end of the wedge went to the bed frame on either side of her head. When they were tightly 
secured, the wedge could not move to either side. That had the effect of preventing her head 
from turning to the side. Her head was quite solidly held in place, her youthful eyes staring 
straight up at the ceiling.

Frenchy checked all the restraints. “This,” he announced, “is the way you will be tied every 
night. Well, most every night. Unless they want you tied some other way. Pleasant dreams.” He
accented his parting words with a pinch of her left nipple, a pinch hard enough to evoke a cry 
of pain and leave her nipple hurting for several minutes after the departure of her tormentor.

The light went out in the small room, and Linda believed that Frenchy was serious about 
her spending the entire night in this uncomfortable position. And it was uncomfortable. The 
wires cut into her flesh from ankles all the way up to the back of her head. The wire was large 
enough to not cause extreme pain, nor break the skin, but thin enough to be uncomfortable. 
And she feared that the discomfort would grow much worse as the long hours of nighttime 
crept by.

As with all the restrained position they had left her in, Linda tested this new one, pitting 
her strength and flexibility against the ropes. She quickly found that struggling only earned 
her pain. Not extreme pain, but enough to make her stop. Besides, she had been paying 
attention as the ropes had gone on, and she had seen no weakness. For fifteen days she had 
been a prisoner of whatever mad place this was, and during that time she had endured many 
forms of bondage, mostly with tight ropes, although occasionally from handcuffs or chains. 
She had come to understand when ropes were tight enough and skillfully enough applied to 
prevent her removing them. And everyone who had bound her in this place was an expert. 
She had never loosened a single strand. Tonight would be no exception.

Linda hated that wedge gag. The rubber tasted terrible, a bitter taste that would haunt her
all night. She could not swallow properly and the taste would trickle down her throat. Not to 
mention that her jaw would ache in the morning from having been forced apart all night. The 
gag would be the worst part of the ordeal, she told herself. Then she wondered if she would 
sleep at all that night. Yet she knew she would. She was tired from long morning of rolling 
across a lawn, her arms and legs bound behind her in a hogtie, while a whip ensured that she 
would crawl and wiggle and roll back and froth across the grass until her captors tired of it. 
And there followed an even longer afternoon of being bent over a rail, her hands bound to 
her ankles. She had been gagged for that one, too, a rubber ball filling her mouth. And a 
riding crop had been hung from a peg on the rail that anyone desiring to could slash her bare,
upturned bottom as they passed.

Linda was tired and knew she would sleep that night. Not a restful sleep, but the sleep of a
slavegirl exhausted from her ordeals.





CHAPTER SEVEN - REPORTING FOR WORK


I turned in two weeks notice at my old job and prepared myself for the new one. And was I 
excited! Gone would be the old nine to five, boring routine sitting at a desk shuffling papers 
and trying to keep the boss from looking down the front of my dress and avoiding his 
propositions. In place of that would be a job modeling myself off for admiring eyes. And at a 
rate of pay I could never match in this male-oriented business world.

The idea of being tied up for hours on end in dozens of different ways wasn’t too hard to 
swallow, either. At least not after my experience in that Las Vegas hotel room.

Brian Carter had been very polite as he told me of the details of starting my new job. He 
even offered to leave the room while I dressed, but I told him that he had already seen all 
there was to see of me and might as well stay as I regained my clothing.

But I took a few moments to look at the red marks on my arms and legs. There were not 
bruises or abrasions, they were simply pressure marks, like what you get from a tight bathing 
suit. But I stared at those marks in fascination. They were deep in my skin, showing graphically
how tight the ropes had been. As they slowly faded, I knew that I would wear that badge of 
bondage for many minutes. So I dressed in a long sleeve blouse and jeans to cover my ankles 
and wrists. I would have been embarrassed to walk out into the crowded lobby with those 
marks loudly proclaiming that I had only minutes before been tightly bound up with ropes.

Not that I minded it. That I had passed the test was, for some reason I couldn’t quite 
fathom, a source of pride to me. I remembered how lovely that naked girl had looked in the 
mirror, how totally, deliciously helpless and sexy. It was something I was proud of.

It didn’t hurt, either, knowing that this handsome man had found me very attractive.

After I was dressed, Brian took a small camera from his briefcase and had me pose against 
one wall while he took half a dozen shots of me. Those were, he explained, to give to the 
person who would meet me at the airport so he would recognize me. Then he gave me an 
envelope containing a piece of paper with an address and phone number, an airline ticket 
dated two and a half weeks in the future, and what he called “expense” money. The address 
and phone number, he told me, were to his grandfather’s chateau, in case I needed them. I 
would be met at the airport and taken there. Brian explained that he probably wouldn’t be 
able to pick me up, but that he would see me shortly after I arrived at the Chateau. Then he 
kissed my hand most gallantly and left me alone to wonder about these events that would 
change my life forever.

I took the expense money out of the envelope and was surprised to find ten one hundred 
dollar bills, all nice and crisp and new. I smiled and told myself that it was going five hundred 
dollars-which he had left sitting on the dresser-and put all the money into my purse. I 
bothered me a bit to have so much money, but there was nothing I could do about it. Then I 
remembered I was in a hotel that catered to people with a lot of money, and went down to 
the desk to ask them to put the envelope in the hotel safe. But only after I stuffed a couple of 
the hundreds into my wallet. Then I went out to a very fancy late dinner and some gambling. I 
lost all the money, of course. Those gaming tables are designed to separate you from your 
money and they did their job efficiently. But I didn’t mind. And I had fun.

I might have felt differently about the whole evening had I known that after leaving me, 
Brian Carter had descended via elevator two floors and walked into room 1625 without 
knocking. Inside he concluded his interview with a lovely redheaded girl of nineteen by 
untying her from the tight hogtie she had spent the last three hours in.

And I might have been even more worried had I known about the blonde he untied an 
hour before returning to congratulate me on passing his little test. In one busy afternoon and 
evening, he had tested three different women from three different cities. Two of us passed and
were offered jobs. One failed, but only after spending three hours thrashing around in a state 
of almost constant panic after finding out that she really didn’t like being tied up.

Linda Hawker moaned and considered trying to shift her weight again in search for a less 
torturous position. But she decided against it. With a small cry of distress, the naked girl 
closed her eyes and tried to get her mind off the numbing ache in her sex.

It was a very small room. A tiny amount of light trickled in through an air vent near the 
ceiling, allowing Linda to see the gray concrete walls only a couple feet from her on every side.
The small door was behind her and it wasn’t worth the effort to turn her head just to break the
monotony of her view. There had been only three features in the small room, five in you count
the vent and door, but Linda’s attention was drawn immediately to the three items that 
forecast pain and a terrible day for her. One was the metal pipe, exactly like part of the 
plumbing, that stretched from one wall to the other. But this pipe didn’t channel water to 
some useful purpose. It existed only to provide a perch upon which a naked girl could suffer. 
The two men who had brought here lifted her and, despite her struggles, lowered her to 
straddle the pipe. Making it easier to handle the naked woman was the fact that her hands 
had been bound before she had come to this room of pain, they had been crossed and bound
in front of her, then rope wrapped around her chest just below her breasts. Her hands had 
then been lifted over her head and tied down to the rope around her chest, the connecting 
rope tugged until her arms could be forced no farther. With her arms secured behind her 
head, it had been easy for two men to bind Linda over the pipe. Her ankles had been looped 
and tied to two rings on opposite walls, pulled wide apart and knotted.

Linda had then been left to suffer for the day. And suffer she did. The lead pipe was only 
half an inch in diameter and cut terribly into her soft flesh as she sat there with all her weight 
upon it. She had tried to ease that pain but soon found that movement only made it hurt 
more and bury itself into her deeper. Staying perfectly still was the best way to minimize the 
pain, but it soon grew into a constant, nagging ache that threatened to drive her out of her 
mind.

She struggled to work her hands free, even though she didn’t know exactly what she 
would do if she managed to free her wrists. She would still be straddling that awful pipe and 
unable to reach down to either ankle. But she could have pushed down with her hands and 
eased the pain between her legs. So she struggled some more. It made little difference 
anyway, she could not escape from the ropes they had put on her.

So Linda sat there, moaning and whining softly in her loneliness, occasionally crying softly 
to leave tear streaks down both cheeks. Sometime in the afternoon she could no longer 
contain the suffer and let vent with a scream that sounded terribly loud in that tiny, harsh 
room. It helped to scream. But soon her frustration and anger and pain had gown again, and 
she began screaming for them to come to her and save her. She threatened and pleaded. She 
promised anything if only someone would take her off that terrible pipe. And she told the 
walls loudly that her sex would be ruined, useless to her forever, crushed by the metal trying 
to cut her in two.

In the evening they came for her. She had stopped crying. She no longer moaned. She was
silent as they untied her ankles. Only a soft moan escaped her lips as they lifted her off the 
pipe. She could not stand, her legs shook too much from muscles strained beyond reasonable
limits, so she sank to the floor. After they deposited her in one of the cells, not bothering to 
untie her hands from behind her head, she began crying loudly as the stabbing pain of 
returning circulation tortured her sex and other areas between her legs. She cried herself to 
sleep, certain in her mind that her sex was destroyed, that it would never respond to a man’s 
touch again, and that sex for her would be nothing.

The plane flight had been interesting but I really didn’t see much on the ground. Shortly 
after takeoff we flew over increasing clouds until all I could see out of my first class cabin 
window was a sea of white below me. I settled down to enjoying the good food and watching 
a movie that, while highly rated, was actually rather boring.

Many hours later I awoke to find the setting sun shining in my window. Below was a lush 
green countryside, alternating patches of farm land and forest. I could make out an occasional
car on the roads down there so I figured we were descending for a landing. The cloud cover 
we had flown over for so long was gone but I could see a gray band on the horizon.

I was met at the airport as promised. Just outside of customs, a short man with a mustache
that curled up slightly at the ends approached me. He spoke with a heavy French accent, but 
excellent English.

“Mademoiselle Larson? I am Jean. I will escort you to the Chateau Fontaine.”

He took my bags and escorted me passed those waiting for cabs to a most elegant silver 
Rolls Royce parked not far away.

“I thought Brian Carter was the name of my employer?” I said.

“And it is, Mademoiselle. But his grandfather, M. Fontaine is the lord of the chateau.”

“I see. Will I soon meet this M. Fontaine?”

“In good time, in good time. Please?” He opened the door for me. Inside I found that there
was a glass partition between the driver and passengers so conversation was ended. I could 
have pressed a button but talking on an intercom just didn’t seem very friendly. I settled back 
into the comfortable seat and figured I’d get to find out all I needed to know at the chateau.

The ride was long. We passed quickly out of the city and soon mile after mile of pleasant 
farm land and vineyards were rolling passed the car window. Gradually the road ascended into
the mountains and I saw fewer and fewer cars along the narrowing road. Soon I realized that 
almost an hour had passed without our encountering a farm house or car.

I grew drowsy from the long plane trip and now this lengthy drive through the country 
side. Just as I was nodded and trying to stay awake, we arrived at Chateau Fontaine.

It was right out of a fairy tale, right out of the Three Musketeers, a huge palace at the end 
of a lengthy driveway that passed gardens and statues on either side. We pulled up before the
three story, white painted palace, and came to a halt by the largest front doors I had ever 
seen. I was being properly impressed.

Jean came around and held the door open for me. As I stood there allowing him to take 
my suitcase, I noticed that the sky had clouded over and threatened rain at any time. I 
followed Jean through the big doors and into more wealth than I had imagined there could 
be.

But there was no one to greet me, which made me feel somewhat slighted. But I reminded
myself that I wasn’t a guest, only a paid employee, a model here to amuse the owner of this 
place and gain financial independence in the process. And maybe have some fun. I hoped 
Brian wouldn’t be too long in returning to Chateau Fontaine.

I was shown to a bedroom only slightly larger than my mother’s house, and informed that 
dinner would be at seven and he would come to show me the way at that time. I asked if I was
expected to dress formally for dinner, but Jean said not to bother, I was only going to dine 
with the servants. Again I had to remind myself that I was only hired help-of a sort.

There was Jean, three maids, a cook, and two gardeners at dinner. I think there might have
been others but that was all at the table when I was brought down to for dinner. Outside the 
rain had begun, a drizzle at first, growing into a steady but mild rain.

I tried to be polite and make conversation but it soon became obvious that these servants 
simply weren’t interested in talking to me. They treated me as an outsider whom they didn’t 
have to even pay attention to. I had never felt so strange before. It was almost as if I were 
simply a painting or part of the decoration-they looked at me now and then but didn’t treat 
me as a person. Yet no one had been rude to me, only passively ignoring me.

I hoped things would change as I became accepted as an employee. I figured much of the 
problem might have been because I was the only American in the group and I wasn’t too sure 
how much English they spoke. Except for Jean, who spoke it very well.

The food was excellent, and that went a long way towards making me feel less like I had 
made a mistake. Finally, I asked Jean point blank when Brian Carter was going to put in an 
appearance. He informed me, with an ever so slightly smug smile, that the lord’s grandson 
would return the next morning. I did a little fishing to see if Jean knew what my job was. “And 
then he’ll explain my duties so I can get started?” I asked. Jean smiled that superior smile all 
head servants have and agreed. “I’m sure he’ll show you the ropes, Miss,” he informed me. 
Which also told me that he knew what kind of modeling I was going to be doing. Unless it was
a coincidence he used that phrase.

I was about to head towards the back door of the small dinning room off the kitchen were 
we ate when Jean headed me off. “Miss should not go out in the rain,” he informed after 
placing his body between me and the door.

“Oh, I don’t mind a little water,” I said cheerfully.

“It is dark now and you do not know the grounds. It might be dangerous. Perhaps 
tomorrow you can walk around.”

Well, that was that. He didn’t seem inclined to move so I smiled at him and said I’d be 
going to my room to read a book. He nodded. On the stairs I humorously noted that 
tomorrow I would probably not be in any condition to do any walking around the grounds. 
Little did I know how right I was.

Outside, not a hundred yards from Sharon’s room, a very naked and very wet Linda 
Hawker slumped against the hard wood holding her up and wanted to cry. There were tight 
ropes digging into her wrists and ankles, both of which were behind the post as she knelt 
there, bare knees on the hard and wet concrete. It was a simple way that she was bound, just 
the wrists crossed and tied, and the ankles crossed and bound. But the ropes were very tight 
and her struggles and searching fingers had no effect upon her restraints.

From her position in one of the courtyards, she could see lights in some portions of the 
huge house that was the Chateau Fontaine. Inside she knew there were people who were 
warm and dry and not prisoners. And certainly not being tortured daily and needlessly as she 
was. She gave them no reason to punish her, she quickly learned to become the perfect 
slavegirl-obedient and submissive. Yet the almost daily tortures continue without rhyme or 
reason. It was as if someone simply wanted her to suffer.

One window on the second story came to life. Linda looked up, the rain drops sliding 
down her face, to see the silhouette of a woman against the light. Then it was gone. She did 
not know the girl briefly outlined was already as much a prisoner as she. The young American 
just didn’t know it yet, either.

CHAPTER EIGHT - FIRST DAY ON THE JOB

“My dear, I hope you had a good trip.”

Brian Carter greeted me as I was finishing up my breakfast in the small dinning room. He 
seemed cheerful enough, a contrast to the rest of the people in Chateau Fontaine.

“It was fine.” I told him truthfully.

“Good.” He looked down at her empty plate. “I’ll bet you’re anxious to begin your work.”

“Yes,” I said simply. Mostly it was because I was becoming bored already. I wiped my 
mouth very daintily and lady-like with the linen then sat back in the chair, knowing that I was 
projecting my breasts so both of them pointed directly at Brian’s eyes. Those eyes seemed to 
be smiling with an inner amusement.

“Fine. Why don’t you come with me?”

As he led me along a wide passageway, he began explaining what my first duties would 
be. “Grandpa usually doesn’t get up until mid morning. I thought that it might be nice for him 
to see you for the first time in the way he most enjoys seeing a beautiful young woman.” He 
glanced at his wristwatch. “I believe we should have about an hour to prepare you. Plenty of 
time.”

We came to a stairway and ascended. “Any special way you plan to tie me?” I asked. “I 
mean, does your grandfather have favorites?”

“Oh, yes, he has favorites. And I will definitely secure you in one of them.”

“By the way, what should I call him? I can’t very easily say Grandfather, as you do.”

Brian smiled again. “You should call him ‘Master.’ It may sound a little corny but he is the 
master of this house, after all.”

We reached the third floor where I was led through a door immediately next to the stairs. 
Inside, I found a room obviously set up for the placing of young females into bondage. There 
was a post in one corner, solidly set into the floor and ceiling, and about four inches in 
diameter. There was a pillory near the window. I walked over to it to inspect it with fascination.
“This is a real pillory,” I said. “A real, working pillory. Imagine that.”

There was also a chair made of very stout looking wood which was bolted to the floor so it
would not move. And there was a large selection of ropes hanging from pegs on the walls. I 
went to the nearest wall and gently touched the coils of rope hanging there. There were 
butterflies in my stomach, and a warmth in my loins that I tried to ignore.

Next to the ropes was a selection of handcuffs, leg irons and other metal shackles. There 
must have been at least a dozen different types of handcuffs, and at least ten pairs of the 
same design. That design was quite solid looking and had the cuffs hinged, not connected 
with a couple links like the handcuffs I was used to seeing on TV. On the wall next to the 
shackles was a row of whips of different varieties. A shiver raced down my spine at the sight of
them.

“Are those real, too?” I asked, turning to look at Brian.

“Quite,” he said with a smile. “But not used. They’re really there for decoration. Help set the
mood for this little dungeon.”

I smiled back. They certainly did set a mood but it was not one I wished to contemplate. 
Turning back to my employer, I linked my fingers behind my back. Brightly I lifted myself up 
on my toes and held that pose. “Well, when do we start?”

“Right now,” he said evenly. “You can start by taking off your clothes.”

What would my mother think? I wondered as I unbuttoned my blouse. This was quite a 
change from the conservative woman I had always been. A few weeks before I would have 
proclaimed it impossible that I would be willingly removing all my clothes before a man I 
hardly knew. And about to be tied up so I could be presented naked and bound for a man I 
had never met! That’s quite a change.

But I undressed, trying not to blush or feel any embarrassment. It was not as if Brian hadn’t
already seen me naked. He had seen about all there was to see in that hotel room in Las 
Vegas. And it wasn’t as if I had a body to be ashamed of. far from it. So I draped my blouse 
over the pillory and unhooked my bra. As I unbuttoned and shimmied out of my jeans, I found
myself looking at the wail of ropes. Which ones would he use to bind me, I wondered. I hung 
the jeans from the large padlock on the side of the pillory. With a slight shiver of anticipation, 
I pulled down my panties and laid them on top of my blouse.

“The shoes too?” I asked. Brian nodded. I was glad he wasn’t ogling my body. Most men 
would have been drooling at a figure like mine. Not bragging, just stating the truth. Brian 
looked at me and smiled to show he enjoyed it, but there wasn’t any leering. The shoes I set 
by the post of the pillory. I was ready.

I felt a thrill as the first loop went around my wrists and tightened down. I wasn’t sure what
kind of thrill it was, maybe a combination of sexual excitement and remembrance of the wild 
feeling I had experienced in that Las Vegas hotel room. The rope wound around my wrists, 
pulling them close. Then the rope was cinched down and knotted very tightly. I noted that the
knots were placed up between my forearms where my fingers would have trouble reaching, if 
they at all they could. Then a fresh loop of rope around my elbows and I began to feel 
helpless.

It probably was because I remembered how I was tied in that hotel room test, but as soon 
as my elbows touched behind my back, I felt a warm tingle inside. It felt so right for this man’s 
strong hands to be taking my arms away from me, making me helpless. I closed my eyes and 
followed the windings of rope and cinching down by feel. I counted three tight knots up 
between my elbows, and knew I would not be using my arms for anything soon.

There was a few seconds after my arms were finished while Brian selected another length 
of rope, during which I could explore the feeling of having my arms tightly bound behind my 
back again. Standing there in the middle of a room made up like some ancient torture 
chamber certainly was different from standing in a fancy hotel room in Las Vegas. This room 
was cold and gray while the hotel room had been light and colorful and in the middle of the 
most colorful town in the world. There was light and the air was warmed enough so that I 
didn’t shiver from cold. But a shiver nevertheless raced down my spine, a hint of fear. Did I 
really know what was I getting myself into?

What had seemed like a fun game in brightly lit Las Vegas was turning into something 
else. I sucked in air and told myself that I was being silly. I had enjoyed being tied up by this 
man before, I would enjoy it again. But still a bit of doubt nagged at me.

He tied my legs together, just above the knees and very tightly. I had expected him to bind
my ankles first, that was the way he had done it before, but he tied only my knees. And he 
made the ropes far tighter than he had before.

“You’ll be walking to see Grandpa,” he explained as he took a ball gag off the wall. “He 
doesn’t walk around too well anymore and I try to bring most displays to him or put them 
someplace where his wheelchair can easily go.”

That sounded reasonable, at least it explained why my feet were not tied. I opened my 
mouth wide to accept the rubber ball with the strap passing through it. It filled my mouth and
had to be pushed in to get it behind my teeth. He lifted my long hair to buckle the strap firmly
behind my head. It was about then that I really felt helpless. Probably because I suddenly 
realized that I couldn’t use my hands for anything, couldn’t run, and now couldn’t even speak. 
I was well on my way to becoming one helpless prisoner, I thought. If only I knew!

Brian continued his task of preparing me to meet my employer, the one who was really 
paying my salary. He buckled a leather collar around my neck, and attached a leash to the ring
in it. The collar was of black leather, rather thick and wide, and it made me have to keep my 
head tilted up slightly otherwise the edge of the leather cut into the soft flesh under my chin. 
The leash, I was a little surprised to see, was really a dog leash, with a handle and a snap at the
end. He snapped that into my collar and walked a couple steps back until the leash was taunt 
between us. He gave a slight tug and I figured that was a signal for me to follow.

I began walking and nearly fell flat on my face. Walking with my knees-tied together was 
going to take some getting used to, I could see. I concentrated on taking small steps and 
keeping my balance. By the time we reached the end of a rather long hall, I could walk pretty 
well and didn’t have to pay so much attention to the effort.

We paused before a door and Brian checked my bondage, but there were no loose knots, 
no slack ropes, nothing different from when he had first tied me. He checked the gag and 
actually tightened it a notch. The straps cut into the sides of my mouth and that hurt a little, 
making me want to protest. But I said nothing. That was partly because I figured I would have 
to endure a little pain on this job. And also because that ball really filled my mouth and I 
couldn’t have said an intelligent word if my life depended upon it.

Brian opened the door and tugged at my leash. Like an obedient pet, I followed. The room
was large, and done like no other room I had ever seen. The walls were a red wallpaper with 
embossed flowers. The ceiling was burgundy and the floor carpeted with lighter shape of 
burgundy, thick enough so my bare feet sank into the pile. The end where the door was had 
no furniture, but the other end had a small stage. That end of the room was not carpeted, but 
hardwood planks. The wooden stage was set about a foot above the floor and had bright 
lights shinning down to highlight it.

But it was what was on the stage that caught my attention immediately. It was another 
young woman. And she was naked and tied up! I had been expecting an old man in a wheel 
chair, not a girl almost my own age and in some pretty horrendous bondage. It really was. She
was standing in the middle of the stage, her arms bound and pulled up behind her back 
towards the ceiling. Her arms had been bound with the elbows together, and her legs had 
been tied at the ankles and above the knees. As I came closer to the stage I could see that the 
ropes around her legs were thin and cutting cruelly into the flesh. Likewise for her arms.

Just being tied that tightly with such thin rope, more like cord, actually, would have hurt. 
But her arms were stretched up behind her until she was standing on her toes, her heels 
unable to reach the wooden stage. I wondered why her shoulders didn’t dislocate, so racked 
upward where her arms.

Brian stopped me at the edge of the stage. I was only two or three feet from the naked 
teenager, close enough to hear tiny moans coming from a bowed head cloaked by long 
blonde hair hanging down. My heart went out to the poor, suffering girl. I was certain she was
suffering, both from tight cords and a terrible position to be bound in.

I turned to Brian. He was looking at the nude teenager. Then he turned to me and smiled 
as if he had just shown me something he was proud of. A small cry of bewilderment and 
protest came from my nose. This was something unexpected and not all that pleasant. A tiny 
knot of fear was growing in my stomach as I realized that these men-these men who I did not 
really know-could hurt me much more than I had assumed. The ropes felt tighter around my 
arms.

We were interrupted at that point by a door opening to the left of the stage. It was 
accompanied by an electrical humming, probably a motor that opened the door. In rolled a 
wheelchair. At least Mr. Fontaine, Grandfather as Brian called him, looked like what I had 
expected. He was in his seventies, I guessed, slender with gray hair and a thin mustache. He 
guided his powered chair with a small joy stick at his right hand.

He showed no surprise at finding a naked girl in contorted bondage on his stage, or 
another standing by, so I guess he expected her to be there. His interest was totally upon my 
naked and bound body. I didn’t like the way he looked at me. Icy shivers ran down my spine 
and I feared the touch of those wrinkled, leathery hands.

He made a motion with his hand and Brian tugged at my leash, making me know that I 
was to mount the stage so I could stand in the bright lights next to the suffering teenager. I 
wanted to cry out and flee but there was that ball gag and the ropes holding me prisoner. I 
told myself that this was all just a show Brian was putting on for his grandfather. Yes, that was 
it, just a show! Somewhat relieved, I tried to get up on the stage only to find that I couldn’t 
manage the single step with my knees so bound. Brian came to my aid, putting his arm 
around my waist and easily picking up. When my bare feet touched the wooden floor of the 
stage, his arm left my waist and I was left to stand there on display.

This wasn’t as I had imagined it would be, yet I was hard put to define what was wrong. I 
guess it was the harsh treatment of the other girl. But perhaps I was wrong about her. Maybe, 
I told myself, she is one of those who likes to be hurt. It would make sense that they might 
hire a … What did they call it when a girl likes to be hurt? Masso something? Well, whatever, 
she was one of those and she was enjoying her part in this show.

That was what one part of my mind was saying and it helped calm me down. But a 
nagging doubt would not go away. I was, after all, rather helpless and could not forget that.

Brian looked to his grandfather then turned back to me. I hadn’t seen any gesture nor had 
any words been exchanged, but an order had been given. He made a circular motion with his 
hand and told me to turn around.

Well, might as well go on along with the program, I told myself. Slowly and carefully, I 
made a full turn so the man in the wheelchair could see all sides of me. When my back was to 
him, I wiggled my fingers, not that he needed any confirmation that my arms were well 
bound. Finally I returned to facing him.

I tried to smile but that’s damn hard when your mouth is filled with rubber ball. I hoped 
the old man liked the show. Next to me the younger girl shook some of the hair from her face 
and looked at me. All I could see in her eyes was suffering. She hung her head again.

Brian walked over to stand next to his grandfather. The old man spoke without taking his 
eyes off me, “Does she know?” His voice was like old paper crumpling.

“No,” Brian said with a slight look of amusement on his face. The lord of Chateau Fontaine 
made a motion with his fingers towards me. Brian then launched into an explanation that I 
wish I had never heard.

“I am afraid I have lied to you, Miss Larson. You have not been hired as a model. In fact, 
you have not been hired for anything. The job I described was, I’m afraid, fiction.” He walked 
to the side where he was nearer me but not blocking his grandfather’s view. “Oh, the job 
functions are real. You will spend time in bondage, on display or alone, and be tied in many, 
many different ways. And Grandfather will often drop in to see you. But it will not be an eight 
to five job.” He laughed dryly. “No.

It will be a permanent job, twenty-four hours a day, every day. You, Miss Larson, have just 
become a slavegirl.”

I didn’t know where to cry or laugh. Was he joking? A tight knot of fear in my stomach said
no and I found it hard to disagree. I let loose with a whine of disbelief and protest.

“No, Miss Larson, I am not joking,” he said as if reading my mind. “And I’m not reading 
your mind. I have given this little speech before and know what the girls are thinking. We 
have, in effect, kidnapped you. The fact that you walked into our captivity willing does not 
change the fact that now you are our property. We own you.”

I whined louder and shook my head.

“You can deny it, but in your heart you know that I’m telling you the truth. Look at Linda 
there. Does she seem like she’s modeling?”

I looked at the teenager girl and our eyes met. I saw hopelessness and sympathy for me. 
She told me without words that what this man was saying was truth. I turned back to Brian.

“And,” he added before I could make a sound, “you will do more than model in bondage. 
You will be punished. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but simply because we like to
watch beautiful young women suffer.”

That was too much. Here this guy was telling me that he had kidnapped me and was going
to torture me. I back up a step and almost fell off the stage. Then I shook my body angrily as if
I could force the ropes off. I turned and tried to flee but the edge of the stage tripped me up. I
fell to the carpeted floor, my breath coming out with a whoosh. For a second I lay there, trying
to catch my breath. Before I could try to get up to flee, Brian’s strong hands were on me, 
picking me up. He deposited me back form his pocket and used it to bind my ankles together.

“You are welcome to fight your ropes,” he said as he backed away. I got the impression 
that he actually wished I would fight them. Maybe they both would like to watch me struggle 
against ropes I could not defeat.

I started to shake. My legs and stomach trembled from pure fear. This exciting adventure 
had turned terribly wrong and I felt sick inside. My legs gave way and I sank to the stage floor,
bumping my hip. Brian’s hands on my shoulders lifted me into a sitting position and turned 
me so that I was facing Linda, my feet almost touching hers.

“Just so you’ll believe that we are serious, I’ll demonstrate.”

Brian was out of sight for a few seconds but when he returned I wanted to scream. In his 
hand was a very wicked, ugly thing made of braided black leather. The end was thin and I just 
knew it was designed to hurt a girl. He positioned himself behind Linda.

For a few seconds he held off and there came into existence a tiny grain of hope that this 
was all a big joke and they would both burst into laughter at my fear. It died a horrible death 
when his arm lashed out and the whip cracked across Linda’s bare bottom.

Two things happened. The naked girl gave a small hop and she let out with a scream of 
pure pain. The fact that she was gagged the same as I was made the scream sound strange 
but it was surprising how loud she was. A strange thought flashed in my mind that these gags 
didn’t really keep us very silent, just prevented talking. Meantime Linda was struggling to get 
her feet back under her. I was to one side of her and could see part of the angry red line that 
was forming on the smooth skin of her bottom.

I turned to Brian and tried to say no. His reply was a second lash across that soft flesh, 
followed by a second muffled scream. I was sick to my stomach with fear. This handsome man 
was changing before my eyes into a villain, an evil monster. What gentleman could cause so 
much pain to a poor, innocent and helpless girl? Linda turned to me and I could see tears 
inching down her cheeks.

What the hell could I do? I was as much at the mercy of these two men as the girl they 
were whipping. A third slash crossed the other two. I couldn’t free myself. And if I could, what 
good would it do? They would simply recapture me. A naked girl in a strange house in a 
strange country has little she could do. The fourth stroke formed an X with the third.

Linda didn’t hop any more. I was sure that such a reaction to the explosion of pain in her 
bottom had hurt her arms terribly. But she let out with a strangled cry of anguish when the 
leather thong kissed her flesh. I was breathing hard and watching in fascination as the red 
lines formed on her soft flesh. They crossed and covered most of her ass in a pattern of what 
must have been pure agony. Brian continued. I counted ten. Linda was crying between the 
screams.

Between the tenth and eleventh strokes, Linda went a little crazy. The pain must have been
something terrible because she suddenly started a strange little dance, her feet leaving the 
floor and her body thrashing around like a fish at the end of a line. It must have hurt her 
shoulders terribly as she jerked and fought with illogical abandon the ropes holding her. In 
the end she hung limp, her toes again on the floor. Brian cut her bottom again but her scream
this time was less than the others. I wondered if she were about to pass out. I had heard 
someplace that too much pain will make a person pass out. I hoped she would.

I think the whipping of Linda’s bottom ended at twenty strokes. I’m not sure my count was
correct because the last five or so came fast. And they evoked renewed screams.

Brian walked around until he was next to me. “That,” he said grandly, “was for no reason 
other than to show you that we are serious.” I glared at him. “We do not need a reason to 
whip a girl in Chateau Fontaine, we do it simply because it pleases us. And sometimes only to 
remind a slave that she is a slave. I think you’ll agree that it’s rather effective.”

He waved the whip at the bruised and battered flesh before me. It was turning shades of 
blues and reds and purples, both ugly and strangely beautiful at the same time. I shook my 
head to clear it of such thoughts.

“If you’ll just wait there, it will be your turn next.”

I went cold inside at those words.

Brian Carter placed the whip on the floor by my feet and went to a wall. There must have 
been some kind of button there because when he put his hand to the wall I heard a humming 
and Linda’s arms began lowering. I would have thought it would be a relief to get her arms 
down but Linda cried out in pain as they lowered. Must have been something to do with how 
long she had been in that position.

When her arms were almost in the normal position and she could straighten out, the 
humming stopped. Brian then untied the rope from a hook at the end of a cable. Linda 
collapsed to the floor.

I might have been more sympathetic towards the poor blonde teenager before me had I 
not been so apprehensive about my own fate. Brian lifted her into his arms and carried her off 
the stage. He set her down on the floor then arranged her so she was laying on her stomach. 
But it wasn’t to keep her off the tortured bottom and bound arms, it was so he could use the 
rope still hanging from her wrists to hogtie her. He jerked the ropes taunt, forcing her ankles 
up against her palms before he knotted it off. Then he ignored that prisoner so he could pay 
attention to his other captive.

I fought. What girl wouldn’t? I didn’t want to be strung up and whipped like I had just 
seen. No way!

Unfortunately a naked and tightly bound girl can do little in the way of defending herself. I
tried to kick out as he came near but he easily avoided that. I wiggled and shook but his 
hands grabbed me and forced me over onto my stomach. As he held me down with one knee,
he tied a piece of rope to my wrists, and there was nothing I could do about it.

It took him only a few minutes to lift me to my feet and tie my wrists to that hook. Then 
the motor took over and I felt my arms lifting behind me. At first I leaned forward but then 
had to straighten up as my hands went higher. The strain on my back and shoulders was like 
nothing I had every felt. It hurt. Not enough to make me scream, but enough. At the end I had
to lift my heels off the floor in an attempt to ease the strain. He stopped the hoist at that 
point.

I wanted to say something, anything, to keep him from doing what he apparently intended
to do. But what? And how? There was still that ball gag to prevent coherent speech. I ended 
up saying nothing.

It was a shock when the first stroke landed. I had told myself to stand still and not jerk 
around but the pain that exploded in my bottom was something like I had never felt before. 
And I screamed. I didn’t want to but the pain jerked the scream out of me. Quickly I got my 
toes back to the floor. It was no fun to hang with your arms behind you, it felt as if they might 
actually rip out of my shoulders.

I didn’t count. Each stroke was pure hell, a fire in my flesh, a scream that raced along my 
nerves straight to my brain. I endured but only because I could do nothing else. It was terrible 
and part of my mind kept telling me that it couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t.

It was.

My bottom was totally covered with fire when Brian paused. I sensed him walk around in 
front of me but didn’t look up. Like Linda, my long blonde hair was hanging down around my 
bowed head.

“You don’t believe it,” he began, “but I could continue whipping you until there wasn’t a 
square inch of your body not covered in bruises and welts. I could change to a flagellum. 
That’s a whip the Romans used to whip men to death. It can cut the skin from a man’s back. I 
could use it to cut you ribbons. Slowly. Do you believe that?”

I said nothing. Did I believe him? I felt sick inside with belief.

“And don’t think that we’ll always stop short of killing you. You are property. We can do 
with you as we like. That includes disposing of you if we wish.”

Those last words were spoken evenly but were the worst thing I have ever heard. And I 
believed him. I began crying.

The whipping was not over, only paused while that information was imparted to their new 
slavegirl. Brian continued lashing my bottom and I continued screaming.

I don’t know how many strokes it was and don’t care. All I knew was that it was the most 
painful, most horrible thing that had every happened to me and I wanted to die. But not even 
the blessed relief of fainting was granted me.

It was a while before I realized that no more blows were falling upon my tenderized flesh. I
lifted my head to find myself alone in that showroom. The tears dried up. I guess no girl can 
cry forever. My bottom was one massive ache and my shoulders not too much less pained. 
And emotionally I was ruined. I was in terrible shape.

Later the pain in my ass dulled to a healthy ache, and I could concentrate on more than 
just the agony given me by that horrible man.

The first thing I did was to curse myself for being so trusting. What a fool I was! Then I 
cursed Brian Carter and Grandfather Fontaine. I threw in a few choice words for Jean. That 
chauffeur had known what was going to happen to me and had been laughing at me behind 
his smirk.

Before I could begin to wonder what I could do about all this, Brian returned. He 
approached me with a light step and a smile on his face.

“See that you’re able to think about other things now,” he said. “Good. There are a few 
things that I need to tell you. You are a slavegirl. A captive of Chateau Fontaine, if you wish to 
think of it that way. But this is a permanent change in your status. You will never be set free, 
you will never taste of freedom again. You might as well get used to that idea. You will be kept
in constant restraint. You will be punished-often. Your body is ours, to be used as we wish. 
And that means sexually. There will be times when I may wish to fuck you. When I wish to, I 
simply will do it. Your wishes in that matter are of no concern.”

He paused to push the hair away from my face. “Grandfather used to use the slaves here, 
but he’s gotten on in years and … Well, you know. Funny thing is that since he’s stopped being
sexually active, he’s become more and more interested in seeing young girls suffer.”

He sighed. “There are only a couple rules. One, you will make no attempt to escape. But I 
know you won’t obey that rule, that you’ll have to learn it the hard way. So be it. Rule number 
two, you obey any order given to you by anyone not a slave. Instantly and completely. Failure 
to do so will result in painful punishment. It doesn’t make any different who gives you an 
order, myself, Grandfather, Jean, Monique, Fifi, anyone. Except, of course, the other slavegirls.

“That’s it. Obey and you’ll be comfortable here. Or should I say less uncomfortable.” He 
laughed at a little joke I did not share. “Disobey and you’ll lean that there are many more 
punishments than a sore bottom. And some hurt worse than this. Much worse.”

I didn’t believe him. Nothing could hurt worse than that terrible lashing of my bottom had.

He turned to go and I made a cry through my nose. Why didn’t he untie me? At least let 
my arms down?

Brian turned around. “Oh, yes, I should tell you that you shouldn’t expect anyone to come 
and rescue you. After the initial testing in Las Vegas, I had a very comprehensive background 
check performed on you. Your parents are both dead, and you have no relatives beyond some
distant cousin who does not know you and I doubt you even know of him. You have no 
boyfriend, nor any close friends at the place you worked, nor where you lived. A private 
detective checked into everything. You, Miss Larson, have no one who will care that you have 
disappeared.”

He smiled at the woebegone look on my face, then continued, “If it had been otherwise, if 
someone would have come looking for you, then you would have gotten a letter telling you 
that the job offer has been revoked. You would have had an interesting experience in a Las 
Vegas hotel room and five hundred dollars. But nothing more. In short, you will not be missed.
And now you are our property.” He turned back to the door.

“Someone will come to let you down and take you to your new bedroom. Probably in 
about an hour or two. You’ll find your new accommodations quite different from the 
comfortable bed you slept in last night. Meantime, enjoy your new job.”

I wanted to cry again but my eyes were dry.

CHAPTER NINE - FIRST DAY OF TORTURE

The new living accommodations they assigned to me were something less than luxurious. 
In fact, Spartan. No, not Spartan, more Spanish Inquisition. Most prisons afford their guests 
more comfort than I got after that horrible whipping. And apparently these were to be my 
permanent quarters. Ugh!

First off they were underground. Well, a basement, at least. There was a small window up 
high on the back of my cell. And, yes, that what I call it, a prison cell. What else could you call 
a square space about six feet by six feet, three concrete walls and one wall made of stout iron 
bars with a door that locked shut with a big padlock? There was a small wooden bench along 
the back wall, and two heavy metal rings set into the concrete, about the level of my 
shoulders. Oh. and there was a drain in the corner. That was all. The rest of the room was 
about the same size as my cell and held only the door and a couple pegs on the wall. One peg
held two pairs of handcuffs and a strange looking pair I later learned were called “leg irons.” It 
was just a little larger pair of handcuffs connected by a short chain. I was to find out that the 
short chain allowed slow, careful walking but nothing more.

It was into this dismal environment Jean thrust me after taking me off that stage. And it 
was after what seems hours but might have been only one. I didn’t have a watch, nor was 
there a convenient clock upon the wall. Well, I was let down and discovered why that other girl
had cringed when her arms came down. It’s because your shoulders hurt. I don’t know if the 
muscles lock in position when your arms are above you for so long, or it’s just that unusual 
position, or what, but arms coming down, while appreciated, does cause a fair amount of 
discomfort for a minute or two.

Ignoring the pained look on my face, he proceeded to lower me to the floor, then remove 
the rope that had been connecting my wrists to the pulley. Those wrapped around my ankles 
and knees came next. I was surprised to see how deeply those ropes had cut into the flesh 
above my knees.

It would have been nice to lay on the floor for a while, recovering and trying to feel like a 
real person again, but I was not allowed that luxury. I was lifted to my feet to stand unsteadily 
while the leash was again attached to my neck collar. He tugged, making me know that I was 
expected to follow, and I did, awkwardly at first on legs still trembling from my ordeal.

I was taken down stairs, along passageways and through a couple doors, all of which I lost 
track of in my attempts to walk straight and ignore the ache in my poor bottom. Finally we 
came to a door with a number on it, the number five. Jean unlocked that door, then stood 
aside and motioned for me to walk in. It was a small room with a small cell. And I didn’t like it.

The only good part after that was that he did untie my arms. The bad news was that he 
then locked them in handcuffs behind my back. They were hanging limply at my side, unable 
to move when he grabbed then and locked them snugly in steel. Wasn’t very fair. Then he left.
Well, actually, he informed me that I would spend the rest of the day and all that night 
reflecting upon my new condition and future status. Tomorrow morning, he informed me, I 
would begin training and punishments. It sounded like a canned speech.

He locked the barred door with that large padlock and the wooden door of the room. 
Then the light flicked off and all I was left with was gray light oozing in through the small 
window. It was probably raining again because all I could see was gray without the slightly 
cheerful hint of sunlight.

I made the mistake of trying to sit down on the wooden bench. My battered bottom 
quickly let me know that it was in no condition to be sat upon. Well, how was I to know? I was 
new to all this, remember? I’d never had my bottom whipped with a real whip before.

I managed a sitting position that was really more just laying on my side. Then I wanted to 
cry again. I had been betrayed. Instead of a high paying job, I was a captive of crazy people. 
Make that sadistic crazy people. I think I remembered that old man chuckling between my 
screams.

The worst part was that Brian was right. I had no family who would come looking for me. I 
hadn’t told anyone at my old company where I was going, I had figured it was none of their 
business. Looking back, I should have … Oh, forget it! What good did it do to tell myself that I 
should have been more suspicious and cautious and not so greedy? I had made a big 
boo-boo and now I was paying for it.

But just what was paying for it going to cost me? So far, one terrible whipping of my bare 
bottom. But what else might these crazy people have in mind for me? A slavegirl? Such things 
didn’t exist in this modern era. And not in civilized countries like the one I was in.

Just before I slipped off into a sleep demanded by exhaustion, two thoughts crept into my 
mind. One was that I was certainly going to make them pay when I got out of here. The other 
was that, if I ever did get out, this would make a hell of a good story. I’d make millions on the 
book!

When I awoke, everything seemed the same. But by the stiffness of my body and some 
kind of internal clock (not to mention the hunger in my stomach), I knew that I had slept 
through the rest of yesterday and all night. My bottom was very sore, my wrists were sore, my 
shoulders ached and I wanted to cry when I saw the iron bars and bare walls of my cell. That 
told me the events of the previous day were real and not a bad dream.

I was taken to breakfast. It was like a cow being led to a feeding, one of those kinds where 
they lock the cow’s head in metal bars and allow her to eat while they steal her milk. They 
didn’t steal my milk, but I was secured in a strange way for the meal.

There was this wooden stool, well, sort of a bench. It was part of a collection of metal bars. 
I was taken from the cell with hands still locked behind my back and marched to a small room,
I think right below the kitchen. There I was made to sit down on the wooden bench. Jean held 
the leash to my collar while someone else, a maid I had never seen before, secured my ankles 
to the metal poles with wide leather straps. Then my waist was secured to the two metal pole 
that went up from each side of the bench. There was a wide leather belt that locked around 
my waist rather snugly, and then was snapped to the pole on either side. My head was then 
pushed down and forced under a cross-piece that ran before me at about chest level. When 
the hands finished fooling around with my wrists, I found that I couldn’t lower my hands from 
a position up and behind me. Nor could I back out of that framework because my neck was 
locked to the cross-piece by a short chain and lock. I think they locked my handcuffs to 
another cross-piece higher up. Anyway, I was secured in that device and quite unable to get 
out of it.

Before me, only a few inches from my bend down face was a wooden table. Upon that, 
and within reach of my head, they put a plate of food. It smelt wonderful and I was hungry, 
having been denied food since breakfast of the prior day. But how was I to eat?

“Are you going to feed me?” I asked of the maid who had accompanied Jean and helped 
secure me in place.

She chuckled. Jean, in calm tones said, “You will eat as best you can, Miss. And I would 
suggest you get started. You have only five minutes to eat, then the food will be taken away.”

I was feeling feisty, as well as hungry, and that angry streak in me overrode my hunger. 
“What if I refuse to eat?” I asked. “What if I starve myself to death?”

Jean chuckled.

I ate. It was awkward, messy and humiliating. But I was hungry and my sore bottom told 
me that these people were serious. Very serious. I was sure that at the end of five minutes the 
food would be taken away even if I hadn’t touched a bite.

Did you ever try to eat with only your mouth while straining to reach down to the plate? 
Don’t bother to try it, I can tell you it’s disgusting and not very lady-like. Good eggs cooked in
some kind of French sauce I’d never tried before. A bowl of water was put next to the plate 
which I just managed to reach with my mouth. I had to slurp the water but I needed it.

The plate was pretty much clean when it was taken away. For a while I was left in that 
harness and pole thing. Mostly I thought about my sore bottom sitting on that wooden 
bench, and the steel edges cutting into my wrists where my hands were pulled up and locked 
to something. If I had known what was going to happen to me that day, I would have wished 
to stay in that eating device all day.

They started with a simple bondage position. I was unstrapped and taken out of the 
dinning room, hands still locked behind me, leash attached to my collar, led around like an 
animal. It was a return to that room with the stage, not my cell. There Jean held me while that 
cute, dark-haired girl in the very short French maid uniform bound my ankles together then 
unlocked my wrists. My hands were quickly tied with the palms together, which meant that 
the elbows would be tied together. And they were. Then I was forced down to the floor on my
stomach and my ankles tied to my wrists in a hogtie. Fifi, as I was coming to think of that 
servant or maid or whatever she was, tied my hands and feet pretty tightly. It didn’t feel the 
same as when Brian had tied me in a hogtie but it was still quite tight and I didn’t think I could
free myself.

When the hogtie was finished, Jean picked me up by the bound wrists and ankles and 
placed me on a pedestal in the middle of the stage. The top of it was only large enough for 
my stomach so my knees and breasts hung out over each side. It wasn’t easy balancing there 
with most of me hanging over the edges, but I managed, mostly by not moving a muscle 
when Jean’s hands left my body.

A few seconds later there was a click and a spot light shone down on my helpless body. 
“You may struggle if you wish, Miss,” he informed me. “But be advised that you are on display 
and if you fall off that pedestal, you will be punished. I should think that a whipping of those 
fine breasts would teach you not to fall off your pedestal.”

Then they were gone and I was alone in a rather uncomfortable position, afraid to move 
for fear that I would fall to the hard stage floor which looked, right then, pretty far away. It 
didn’t help that Jean had promised a whipping of my breasts should I fall. When he said those 
words, my insides went cold. The idea of my poor breasts being whipped the same as my poor
bottom had been was frightening, to say the least.

I was left there all morning. With my legs trying to drag me down on that side, and my 
chest and head trying to drag me down on the other side, I was in poor shape. Any thoughts 
of struggling and trying to escape from those ropes fled when I found that any movement 
made me feel like I was falling.

After an eternity had passed, I heard footsteps on the wooden floor. I was tired and my 
muscles aching so I didn’t look up. Besides, the movement might have upset me.

“You look beautiful,” said Brian Carter’s voice.

“I feel terrible,” I replied. “Couldn’t you get me off this pedestal? The strain is killing me.”

Brian slowly walked around me, undoubtedly examining my nudity from all angles. “You’ve
got to learn the rules here. First off, a slavegirl does not speak without permission. Second, 
she does not ask for her restraints to be changed. She is bound and secured the way her 
master wishes and she will accept that. Understand?”

“Yes … Master.” That was not what I wanted to say by a long shot. But this was his game 
and I figured I had better play along. My bottom was still sore and reminding me that these 
people could hurt me any time they wanted and as much as they wanted. I added the 
“Master” bit just for good measure.

It must have helped because Brian stopped talking about the rules. I had the feeling that 
next would come a lecture about punishments for breaking those rules.

“You’re a smart girl. You’ll learn,” he said. “Jean will come to take you down around noon. 
But you may not like what will happen to your this afternoon.” He chuckled to himself. “Might 
not like it at all.”

Then he left me on my pedestal, not to mention my aches and pains. A while later Jean 
came in and lifted me from the small platform to lower me to the floor. My hogtie was 
undone, at least my feet were disconnected from my hands and my legs untied. My arms 
stayed bound behind me. But it felt so good to get off that pedestal that I didn’t really care 
about bound arms.

I was allowed a very small lunch, eaten on my knees doggie style from a plate on the floor.
And a bowl of water to suck up. Then I was taken to what was probably just one of many 
torture rooms in Chateau Fontaine. It was a small room in the basement part, containing only 
two devices. One was a very low platform that slip into three sections and had round holes cut
along the separations. I was puzzled about that device and Jean must have seen that for he 
said, “The holes, they fit the wrists and ankles. Like a stocks but you stand in it and bend over.”

I noticed the locks and decided that I would rather not be locked into place bent over.

I didn’t have to worry. It was the other device that was to be my fate. It was a cage made 
of chain link fence material and steel pipes. The front swung open as a door.

I was ordered to get into the box. I did but had to bend my knees because the top of it 
was lower than my head. Then Jean got down on his knees and tied my ankles together. As 
the door closed I realized what the punishment of this box was. It was just about as wide as 
my body and a little thicker. But it was shorter than I was so I could stand in it only by bending
my knees and lowering my head. After Jean clicked shut the padlock on the door, I realized 
the terrible part of this cage. I could not sit down. There wasn’t enough room for my knees. 
They were already hard against the wire door as I was in my half stoop. I called out as Jean left
the room, asking how long I would have to be in there. He didn’t answer and that scared me.

The problem, you see, is that I would have to continue standing on bent knees. I could not
straighten up, nor could I sit down. I couldn’t lower myself to my knees. I was stuck where I 
was. In addition to being locked in a cage. My arms being bound behind me was almost 
redundant.

It may sound silly to say that I was tortured by having to stand up, but that was exactly 
what happened. For half an hour or so things weren’t too bad. But then my muscles began to 
tire and ache. I lowered myself as much as I could, only to discover that the chain link fencing 
pressing into my knees was a pain by itself. And I couldn’t take much of my weight from those
leg muscles. By the end of an hour my legs were burning and trembling. They were sending 
shafts of pain upward into me, enough to make me cry. I knew, just knew, that if I were left 
like that for a long time I would be screaming.

I tried to distract my mind by thinking of things I would do when I got back home. I would 
get a small sports car, I told myself, and go for long rides along the coastline during summer 
days with the top down. I would learn to sail small boats. I would take lessons and learn how 
to fly a plane.

The trouble was that a mean part of my mind kept telling me that it was likely all I had to 
look forward to was a life of slavery, constant restrains and torture. The other trouble was that 
all my wishful thoughts couldn’t keep the pain at bay. At times my whole lower body shook 
with racking tremors as muscles pushed beyond endurance screamed their protests.

I don’t now how long I was in that cage but I cried with joy when I saw Jean walk into my 
vision. I pleaded in a little girl voice, “Please! I’ll do anything! Get me out of here! Please?”

“I hope you realize that I could easily leave you here all night….” he offered. The thought 
didn’t comfort me much. I whined like a beaten puppy. “This is an effective punishment, is it 
not?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes. Yes, Master.” I didn’t want to debate the merits of this or any punishment. I wanted 
out.

I shed tears of joy when he put the key in the lock and turned it until a click announced my
freedom. I fell out of the cage, unable to stand on tortured and still bound legs.

Perhaps it was kindness on Jean’s part, or perhaps they felt that punishment looses its 
effectiveness when slavegirls are tortured too much, but I was allowed to rest until my legs 
stopped trembling. Even then, I found it hard to walk. My legs could hardly support my 
weight. My arms were left bound behind me but that really didn’t matter much compared to 
what I had just been through. Oh, my elbows and shoulders hurt, but I am a pretty flexible girl 
and being bound with elbows touching just isn’t the torture it would be for some girls.

I was taken to the small dinning room they reserve for slave and strapped into the feeding 
device. The dinner was good and I licked the plate clean. Later I was taken to the cell where I 
had spent the prior night and locked in. My arms were finally untied and I gasped as the 
circulation returned to numb hands. I could hardly bring my arms around to the front of me, 
my shoulder muscles were so locked in place. Not that I was allowed much time to see my 
hands. As soon as I could move my fingers again, they were locked behind me with a pair of 
handcuffs. Very snugly, I might add. And two pairs of handcuffs were used to lock my ankles 
to bars of my cell, leaving me in a sitting position on the wooden bench with my legs spread 
wide and held that way. I didn’t much care. Not long after the lights went out, I fell asleep 
sitting against the wall, and didn’t wake up until morning. The next day brought more 
tortures.





CHAPTER TEN - TORTURED TEENAGER


Linda Hawker spent a day no better than that which had befallen the newest slavegirl at 
Chateau Fontaine. Her morning was spent dangling from a rope over a pond in one of the 
gardens, the rope being tied to that already wrapped around her wrists. Her toes rested in 
midair a good five feet from the dark surface of the still water. By noon what meager warmth 
the sun had provided faded as fresh clouds moved into the valley. Misty rain began to 
descend upon the naked and limp young woman around time for the noon meal, yet no one 
came to ease her suffering or offer food. After the servants had their meal and Jean had fixed 
Sharon in a wire cage designed to provide agony for its captive, the chief servant of Chateau 
Fontaine made his way down to the garden. For a while he stood by the edge of the water, 
simply gazing at the smooth curves and soft skin of the tethered girl. Her head was bowed, 
her hair covering most of her face. Completely limp she hung by wrists deeply cut into by the 
ropes taking all her weight. An old wooden derrick supported the girl over the water. Jean 
pulled on the wooden beam and it slowly turned with a loud creak until the girl was no longer
over water but a foot above grass. A handle and racket could lift the victim or lower her. He 
lowered her until her feet touched the ground and finally she folded slowly into a pile of girl 
flesh upon the wet grass.

When first the ropes came off, her hands remained numb, lifeless and feelingless. But they 
began to tingle, then pins and needles, then reawakening nerves screamed their torment and 
she cried softly for a few minutes..

When that had passed Linda meekly allowed her hands to be gathered together and 
locked behind her back with handcuffs. She was shivering as she was led back into the main 
house and down the stairs to where special chambers and equipment awaited her discomfort.

It was a huge barrel, as tall as a man and about the same distance across. Above it was a 
pulley with an electric motor. Several buttons on the wall near the vat controlled that pulley, 
the blue button causing the cable to lowered until the ring at the end was within Jean’s grasp. 
Leaning against the wall was a round wooden pole about seven feet long and four inches in 
diameter. Into the top of the pole was screwed a large hook. Jean brought the pole over 
under the pulley and attached the hook through the ring. A quick touch of another button 
lifted the ring until the pole was held upright with the end just touching the floor. Attached to 
that end was a thick disk of wood sticking out about six inches.

Linda’s handcuffs were removed and she was gently pushed back to the pole until her 
back pressed against the wood and her feet were on the round base. Meekly she stood there 
while Jean fetched rope from pegs on the wall. He gathered her hands together behind the 
pole and bound them tightly with the wrists crossed. Then he proceeded to lash her body to 
the pole with numerous windings of rope, tightly applied and knotted. When he was finished 
there was very little movement allowed the naked, shivering girl and escape could not be 
hoped for.

Using the buttons, he lifted the pole with its living captive high enough to clear the edge 
of the wooden vat, then slid it over until she was directly over its center. Then she descended 
into the cold water that filled the vat almost to the top. As the water rose up her legs and 
reached her thighs, she uttered the only sound she had made all during this operation, a gasp 
as the cold water covered her private parts and crept up towards her breasts. The pole was 
halted when the water reached Linda’s chin and she had to tilt her head up.

“You were probably cold out there,” Jean stated needlessly. “It’s only fair that I allow you to
warm up. I’ll set the thermostat at one hundred and ten degrees. That should warm you up.”

He turned a dial to the proclaimed setting and from somewhere behind the vat came a 
humming noise and the whoosh of gas flames coming into existence. Linda could feel a 
sluggish current begin to caress her naked body and shivered harder. Heating up that much 
water took time and she knew from past experience that she would be very cold for a while 
yet. Then the water would pass comfortably warm and become a heated caldron much like 
one would use to cook a lobster.

As she expected, and as had happened to her before, she was eventually quite hot, sweat 
forming on her forehead and running down into her eyes. Her breathing came heavy and 
labored. In one of the odd paradoxes of Chateau Fontaine, she was suffering from heat less 
than an hour after she had been shivering with icy cold.

That night, long after she had been removed limp and nearly unconscious from the 
steaming water she had been allowed a rest period in her cell, then given a hardy meal. Being 
young and healthy, she was nearly normal after the meal. Certainly ready for fresh torments at
this strange place. That night she spend tightly spread-eagle upon a concrete floor, her arms 
and legs pulled wide apart and held taunt by ropes. It was one of the mildest positions she 
had been forced to sleep in for a long time and she enjoyed it, sleeping very soundly and 
almost without dreams.

The next morning Linda was taken from the room where she had spent the night spread 
wide upon the floor to one of the many small chambers in the basement of Chateau Fontaine. 
This one, like most of them, was decorated with a device designed solely to make a young 
woman suffer. It was a simple device but many of the best are simple. Before her hands were 
freed of the metal cuffs, leather bands were fitted tightly over her thumbs, and tightened 
down behind the big knuckle. From each trailed two feet of small chain. The handcuffs were 
unlocked and her right arm immediately brought forward in the firm grasp of her jailer. He 
fitted the last link of the chain over a hook suspended from the ceiling. That was repeated 
with her left arm. It held her hands somewhat above her head.

Touching a button on the wall made those hooks rise, propelled by hidden motors. It 
stopped when her arms were straight above her, and parallel to each other. The bands about 
her thumbs were tight but not painful. Not yet.

Linda had no disillusions about what was going to happen. The fine details were unknown,
but she knew that she was going to be hung up by her thumbs, an ancient and famous 
torture, and one she had trouble believing was actually going to be used on her. Certainly that
was only something you read about in cheap adventure novels, not something anyone would 
actually do to a girl.

But, she sardonically reminded herself, if it was done to a girl anywhere, it would be at this 
place. It seemed as if she had endured a lifetime of torments, some mild, some quite painful. 
What would ripping her thumbs from the hands mean to these sadists?

Jean had been busy placing two additional bands on the big toe of each foot, straps that 
also had chains attached. Leaving those chains laying on the floor, he returned to the buttons 
on the wall. Accompanied by a hum, the chains lifted and pulled Linda with them. It was a 
slow ascension, which was good for it allowed her to ease into the suffering. The strain on her 
arms and thumbs was quite unlike anything she had ever experienced. The leather cut into the
soft flesh behind her knuckle with all the force of her entire weight. She felt her feet leaving 
the floor and gasped as more and more weight was taken by her thumbs.

The motors did not stop when her toes had left the floor, but continued until they were 
almost two feet off the floor. Linda moaned but held back protest. She had become very much
aware over the last painful couple months that protests did no good, and could result in 
additional torment. The leather band, which had seemed so wide at first, now felt like thin wire
cutting into her flesh. Her breathing became heavier.

There were two hooks on the opposite walls of that small room, one to either side of the 
naked teenager. Jean took the chains from one foot and pulled until that leg was spread wide.
Linda groaned as her body shifted and caused additional pain in her thumbs. He slipped the 
third link of the chain over the hook and let go. Then he went to the other side and secured 
her left foot to the other wall.

For a while he simply looked at her. It was an interesting play of muscles and smooth skin 
the way her legs were spread wide apart. And the taunt arms over her head. It also left her sex 
wide open, which would have certainly attracted another man. But Jean was always fully under
control and made no more move towards enjoying her nudity than to look at it, almost as if 
he were studying more than lusting after this female.

When that studying was done, he went to the legs and shortened each chain another link, 
evoking a whine of pain from Linda, which was ignored. Then he went to the door.

“How long?” Linda said in a quiet voice. She had disciplined herself to not speak, not to 
break any rules of this terrible place, yet she had to ask. The pain was already quite bad and 
she knew it could only get worse. How long she was to hang there would determine how 
much pain she would endure that morning.

Jean turned back to her. If there was any sympathy, it did not show on his Gallic features. 
“It is best you do not know, Mademoiselle,” he said simply. Then he was gone and the door 
closing loudly.

Linda felt like crying. When first they began to torture her, she often cried, both from pain 
and from frustration and anger. Now she rarely cried. Tears did nothing. But she had a very 
strong feeling that before long she would not only be crying, but screaming, too. Those bands
cutting into her thumbs and toes were like fiery wire, and she wondered how her poor thumbs
could possible stand it. Could a girl’s thumbs be ripped out of their sockets? she wondered. 
She hoped not.

The only small comfort was that, so far at least, they had not caused any damage to her 
body. Pain, yes. Suffering, certainly. Agony, of course. But damage, not really. Whip marks 
faded long before the memory of the terrible lashing did. She told herself that she would hurt 
but her thumbs would be okay. It was not in the patterns she saw for them to do permanent 
damage. She hoped she was right.

After an hour she was, indeed, crying. Looking up to the corner of the room, she pleaded 
with both eyes and utterances for mercy. “I cannot feel my thumbs,” she said. “They will be 
dead,” she assured with feeling. “Please, I cannot stand the pain,” she proclaimed.

There was, as always for slavegirls at Chateau Fontaine, no answer. The suffering 
continued.

Later, much later, perhaps near noon, the door opened. Brian Carter was outlined in the 
door frame as he stood there, looking at the taunt curves of the naked girl. The head was 
bowed and did not look up, so wrapped up in her own suffering was Linda. He approached 
and stood before her. With one finger he traced a line of dried tears down her cheek. Eyes 
slowly opened, eyes filled with pain. She did not speak, nor did she move. Even her breathing 
was as shallow as she could make it for every movement sent stabs of pain shooting into 
hands and up her arms.

Without a word of his own, his hands grabbed one large breast and kneaded it roughly. 
Moans from the tormented girl accompanied his handling of her helpless body, but those he 
ignored. So what if it hurt her a little? He wished her to become sexually excited, and to do 
that he had to play with her body.

He played with her. Not gently as a lover would. Not skillful as a man who really cared for 
women would. But effectively. With one hand cupping a breast, the other sought her private 
parts so very accessible in the position she was bound. He teased and probed. And had his 
desired effect. Finally his finger came away wet with secretions. Then he dropped his pants 
and placed his rigid rod at the entrance to her sex.

For a moment he paused there, perhaps savoring the pleasurable feeling of the tip 
between her labia, or perhaps waiting for her to realize what was coming. But the wait was not
long. He shoved hard with an upward thrust of his legs and impaled the teenager upon his 
shaft.

Linda cried loudly, not because it hurt her vagina, nor because it was rape, but because the
movement evoked stabbing pains shooting down her arms. As he pumped lustfully away 
within her, she moaned and cried with terrible ache. Between cries, she begged him to not do 
it this way because it hurt her too much. Any other way, she promised. Please!

It would not be true to say that her pleas were ignored. They were savored and enjoyed. 
Not only did her tight vagina feel good upon his shaft, not only was her stretched out body 
beautiful to behold, but the suffering obvious on her face and in her voice was a joy to 
behold.

It would have been nice to say that Linda was driven to an orgasm, a small amount of 
pleasure among all that suffering she had endured that morning, but such was not to be. 
Brian soon reached his climax, shoving deeply and grunting as he did. Then he withdrew, 
leaving Linda hanging in a strange mixture of sexual pleasure overlaid by pain.

When she stopped crying and looked up, he was gone and the door closed. For a minute 
her pussy twitched as if it had a mind of its own and wanted that male rod back. Or some kind
of sexual satisfaction. But there was none and would be none. She could not even touch 
herself to gain some tiny piece of pleasure amid much suffering. She was left alone to suffer 
for many hours after her rape. And she did.

CHAPTER ELEVEN - I MEET ANOTHER SLAVEGIRL

The next day I was secured for the day in the same room as that teenage girl I had seen on
the stage. Linda was her name, I found out, and she had been at Chateau Fontaine for a 
couple months, a lot longer then I. Which might well explain the submissive, docile look about
her.

That morning wasn’t too bad for me. I had spent the night in a hogtie that wasn’t all that 
tight. But tight enough to make sleeping uncomfortable. Linda, I later found out had spent the
night tightly bound to the wire mattress of her cot, apparently her usual sleeping 
arrangement. Sounded easy to me, but she told me that it was rather uncomfortable, what 
with the wires cutting into your body.

For whatever whim or devious purpose of the owners of Chateau Fontaine, they decided 
the two if us were to spend the entire day in the same torture chamber. When I was brought 
in, I found Linda already there and in a strange position. The teenager was standing near one 
wall, naked as usual in that place, and secured with one hand towards the floor and the other 
hand towards the ceiling. Each wrist was locked into a single shinning metal cuff, and a chain 
from that held the girl’s hands in place. The right arm was stretched upwards with the hand 
high above her head. The left arm was pointed downward with the hand just below the level 
of her knees. That was all. Her legs were unbound, she was not gagged.

I was brought in with my hands locked behind my back and naked. Jean bound my ankles 
together with rope before unlocking my wrists. Then he tied my arms behind me with rope, in 
the usual manner for them, elbows tight together and wrists also tightly bound. He added an 
extra rope around my wrists then threw that up and over a beam. He pulled until my arms 
were lifted behind my back, forcing me to bend forward. And a little more so my shoulders 
and arms were already hurting.

Then he left us alone.

I immediately noticed that we weren’t gagged. “Hi,” I said as cheerfully as a girl can under 
those circumstances. “My name is Sharon. What’s yours?”

The girl in the awkward position looked over my way and answered in a pale voice, “Linda. 
Linda Hawker.” She sounded like she didn’t care about anything.

“You were the girl on the stage two days ago, weren’t you? The girl tied like I am with your 
arms up behind you.”

“Yes.”

“Did it hurt you? I mean, really hurt?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t seem to want to talk but I wasn’t about to quit when here was my chance to 
find out some information about this place. And maybe make a friend.

“How long you been here?” I asked.

Linda looked up and sighed. I couldn’t see where her position was all that terrible. In fact, I
was sure that the way I was tied was worse. In a low voice, she told her story, short as it was. 
She had just graduated from high school and was going to enter college. Then she was 
kidnapped. One minute she was walking down a lonely street, the next a cloth with something
strong smelling was over her mouth. She figured that she was then bound with ropes and 
shipped out of the country. She awoke in Chateau Fontaine, a shackled prisoner.

Which didn’t tell me much about this place except that they didn’t get all their girls by 
advertising phony jobs. I told her what had happen to me. Her eyebrows went up a little when
I said that I had voluntarily come here expecting a job as a bondage model. But she took my 
story with little emotion.

It was time to get down to the serious business. “What are the chances of our getting out 
of here?” I asked.

She looked up and frowned. Then she pointed one finger towards the corner of the room. 
Up there, in shadows, I could just make out a television camera. “Most of the rooms have 
cameras,” she said. ‘They watch us all the time. Or maybe not all the time. I don’t think it’s 
because they’re worried about our escaping, it’s just that they like to watch us struggle and 
suffer.”

I hadn’t noticed the cameras before. But then there was so much new happening to me 
that it wasn’t surprising that I missed some details.

“Do you think they can hear us?” I asked.

“I don’t now. Maybe.”

“Well, I don’t care. I figure we’ve got the right to talk. Otherwise they would have gagged 
us. Or not put us in the same room.” She didn’t answer, so I continued, “I haven’t been able to 
free myself from anything yet. Have you?” A shake of the head. “Do you think one of us will 
ever be able to work ourselves free?”

“She looked at her wrist and then at my arms. “What do you think?” she asked, which was 
answer enough. I certainly wasn’t going to be going anywhere. Those ropes were tight.

“Have you tired to escape?” I asked.

“Yes. At first I tried often.”

“Any success?”

“Once a rope loosened on my ankles and I was able to wiggle my feet free.”

“Do any good?”

“No. My arms were still tightly bound and my head was in a pillory.”

“Well, it’s good that you got something done.”

“I was punished for it,” she said emotionlessly. “My breasts were whipped.”

I sucked in air. “They don’t look marked up,” I commented.

“The marks faded. And I guess they didn’t whip them all that hard. Just hard enough to 
make me scream.”

I gulped. The idea of my breasts being whipped sent a shiver down my spine. And yet 
should they wish to do that to me, there was nothing I could do about it.

“I think that we should try to escape. If one of us makes it out, she can send back the 
police to rescue the other. Don’t you agree?”

She looked up at the camera and said nothing. I shut up, too. No use telling them our 
plans. That camera might pick up sound as well as a picture. Maybe I had just condemned 
myself to some horrible punishment just for talking about escape.

For a while we stood there, two girls suffering in silence. Finally I could hold my tongue no 
longer. “Is that position uncomfortable?”

“I’ve been worse. It’s very awkward. My middle hurts.”

I could see what she meant. She was bent over, sort of half forward and half sideways. It 
didn’t look very comfortable.

“Well, at least they don’t force sex upon us,” I commented, trying to see the good side-if 
there was one.

Then Linda told me about Brian Carter screwing her while she hung by her thumbs. And 
how he had used her body in a rough and careless fashion on six other occasions. And how 
Jean was allowed to use the slavegirls when he wished but that he had used her body only 
twice since she came to Chateau Fontaine. And both times he had screwed her in the bottom, 
not the usual female orifice for that activity.

I wanted to change the subject. “Have you seen any other … Ah, slavegirls around here?”

“No. But I think there was a girl here when I first came. But she was gone pretty soon. I 
didn’t see her but I think they were punishing someone else. Some of the equipment had 
been changed between times they used it on me, and I think I heard screams one night.”

I thought about that. It didn’t bring up pleasant possibilities. I hoped that the other girl 
had been set free, but doubted it. I didn’t want to think about other possibilities.

We stopped talking about escape and our fate. There wasn’t much to say. She couldn’t tell 
me much that I didn’t already know. And there was the fear that they might be 
eavesdropping. We talked about our hometowns and where we had gone to school and 
unimportant things like that.

After a couple hours the talk trailed off. We were both facing increasing discomfort from 
out positions and talking seemed to become too much effort. By noon, when Jean came into 
the room, we were silent.

Linda was taken away first. She moaned loudly when her arm came down and she stood 
upright. I think her back was hurting her. Her arms were locked in handcuffs behind her and 
she was taken away. A little later Jean came back. For a while he stood there looking at me 
with just the slightest hint of smile on his face. Then he walked around behind me where I 
couldn’t see him.

“You talked of escape,” he said. “That’s one word you may not use. And you shouldn’t even
think it.” That proved that they did listen in on us. Or he was simply guessing that the subject 
of freedom would have to come up.

He didn’t continue a verbal reprimand. Instead my bottom suddenly burst into sharp pain. 
I cried out and gasped. It hurt something terrible. I figured out later that it was partly because 
my bottom was still sensitive from the first whipping given me the first day. But he had 
something in his hand and it hurt terribly when he slashed it across my bottom.

He cut my poor flesh with half a dozen strokes, evenly spaced in time and across my skin. I
was making loud cries with each fresh insult of my flesh, but holding back any words lest I 
gain additional punishment for saying the wrong thing.

“You will stand there a little while longer,” he told me, “to think about the wisdom of not 
thinking or speaking about escape. You will never be able to escape from Chateau Fontaine, 
no girl ever has.”

“Sir?” I ventured. “Has there been many slavegirls at Chateau Fontaine?”

He laughed. “Chateau Fontaine has held slavegirls all the way back to the day it was first 
finished, four hundred years ago. And before that. Oh, yes, hundreds of naked woman have 
lived within these walls.” He paused for a second. “All their lives. And died here.”

He left with those words hanging in the air, scaring me pretty well. My bottom burned and
my shoulders hurt pretty bad. I promised myself that I would not talk of escape openly again. 
At least not where there was a camera anywhere around.

About the middle of the afternoon the thought occurred to me that I wasn’t aware of my 
nudity any longer. At first it had bothered me that I was naked before strange men. And 
women, if you count that girl in the maid costume I called Fifi. But enough nudity and you get 
used to it. When Jean fixed me up in some position or was taking me back to my cell, I wasn’t 
blushing and aware of my nudity any more. As to whether that was progress or a sad 
commentary upon my new life, I don’t know.

I was taken down about the middle of the afternoon and cried out when my back was 
straightened out, much as Linda had.

That night I was introduced to my first lesbian lovemaking.





CHAPTER TWELVE - FORCED LOVE


I should have suspected something was up when I was left alone in my cell for the afternoon, 
wearing only a pair of handcuffs on behind my back. Such very mild treatment should have 
been my clue that something was going to happen, but I didn’t know the place that well then. 
After dinner, good food served strapped to that framework, I was taken and given a very 
soothing, warm bubble bath by none other than Fifi herself. My hands were left handcuffed 
behind me, but the rest of me was unfettered. She helped me into the wonderfully warm 
water and then soaped me down, paying particular attention to my breasts and pubic bush.

The water as wonderful and her hands felt surprisingly nice on my body. I couldn’t recall 
ever having another girl touching me in such intimate ways, but it was nice. The soap made 
her hands and my skin so very smooth….

She didn’t try to get me excited, but did pay far more attention to my personal parts than 
called for by even an extra complete bathing. It surprised me how good it felt and the fact 
that I didn’t mind her hands on my body. I told myself, of course, that my hands were secured 
behind my back and there was nothing I could do about it anyway.

I was dried off with a great deal of toweling until my skin glowed ruby. Then I was set on a 
bench before a vanity and mirror, and my hair done up very beautifully. If she weren’t a maid 
in this crazy place, Fifi could have made good money doing rich ladies’ hair. My hair is long 
and normally I let it just hang down in back. But she fixed it up into a very nice bun secured 
with a hair clip. She applied very light eye make up and didn’t touch my lips. Which was fine 
with me, I hardly ever use make up anyway.

Jean came and took over then. He unlocked my handcuffs, handing them to Fifi, then 
bound my arms behind me with thin cord. This stuff was not the normal rope they used, which
was basically that cotton clothesline every one used to use to hang their laundry. This was 
more like that thin cord called sash cord, I think. But whatever the proper name for it, I can tell
you that it bites into a girl’s arm. He looped my elbows and pulled them tight together before 
binding my wrists. Everyone in this place seemed to like binding me with elbows together, but
I don’t think my elbows were ever closer or more pained than when Jean used that thin cord 
on me.

“It really hurts,” I told him. I was ignored.

He bound my wrists equally as tight, then stood me on my feet. Fifi placed a pair of high 
heels at my feet and motioned for me to put them on. Now, I like high heels, they make my 
legs look so very good. But these were very, very high heels, at least 5 inch of heel. If it weren’t
for Jean’s hand upon my bound arms, I might have fallen over when the second shoe went on.
I was virtually on my tip-toes, trying to keep my balance with no arms to help.

Fifi, meantime, was down on her knees, buckling the ankle straps tightly on.

I was led from the dressing room and very grateful for Jean’s firm hand on my arm. It was 
like learning to walk all over again, and on my toes. I’ve never taken ballet but this must have 
been like what they call “on point.” Just before leaving, I caught a glimpse on myself in the 
mirror. Between the hair do, my breasts being thrust forward by the binding of my elbows 
behind me, and the high heels, I was more beautiful and sexier than I had ever been in my life.

A minute later I came to the conclusion that Brian was having me made pretty so he could 
rape me, just as he did to Linda.

It would be nice to say that I fought the coming rape with every ounce of my strength, 
making loud screams all the way down the hall, and making them drag me. But truth is that I 
walked forward, if not bravely, then at least with firm, if somewhat shaky, steps. I didn’t want it
to happen. I was no virgin but I wanted to pick the men I would go to bed with.

The odd thing is that back in Las Vegas I would have been happy if Brian had used my 
body, tied up or not, to give us both pleasure. But since the truth about my “job”, I knew him 
for the deceptive, lying bastard he really was. As I walked to what I thought of as my 
“ravishment”, I knew I should fight it but I was too scared of Brian, Jean, and this whole 
damned place. I’d had a taste of the pain they could cause me and a healthy wish to avoid as 
much of it as I could. Brian or Jean or anyone else could take my body and use it as they 
wished, that was a fact of life in Chateau Fontaine. I might not agree with their label of 
“slavegirl” for me, but it was correct in most ways. I was owned by them and they could do as 
they wished with me. I could only hope that this would not remain the state of affairs.

It was a lovely bedroom I was led into. There was a huge bed covered with scarlet satin. It 
had four massive posts and looked as if it would take half a dozen men to lift it, but was 
lovely. The whole room was done with what looked like red velvet wallpaper. Candles on the 
night stand and what looked like a coffee table gave a warm glow to the room. It certainly 
looked like a man’s idea of a love nest.

What didn’t fit in was the platform. It was raised above the floor by about a foot and a half,
and held a chair on one side. The other side had a ramp and was vacant. From the 
comfortable looking chair there would be a good view of the bed.

Jean led me to the bed and bid me get on it. I sat down on the edge. It was very soft and 
comfortable. I would have loved to sleep in that bed after the rather uncomfortable ways 
endured since I came to that place. Jean told me to lift my legs onto the bed and scoot over 
to nearly the center. Then I had to work my way up to my knees without the use of hands. 
Finally he told me to sit back on my heels, keep my back straight, bow my head, and wait. For 
what and how long, I was not told. Slavegirls do not have to know things, I told myself 
sarcastically.

I didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and Jean came in with Linda in tow. She 
must have been bathed and attended too as I had because she looked a hundred times better
than she had when last I saw her. Her lovely long blonde hair was fixed up like mine, and she 
was bound the same way, even to the high heels. Jean led her to the other side of the bed and
set about placing her a few inches to my right in the same position.

Boy, I thought, Brian must think a lot of his sexual prowess to take two girls to bed at the 
same time. But then I corrected myself. Two normal, unfettered girls who expected to be 
satisfied might be too much for most men. But that was not the case here. He had two girls 
with arms painfully bound behind them, and who dare not resist whatever he wished to do. 
And if he failed to satisfy both girls, it was not the Master’s fault. The slavegirls would probably
be punished for not being sexy enough.

Jean left and for a few minutes the two of us were left alone. I looked over but Linda was 
keeping her head bowed, looking at her knees. I dared a peek but the corners of the room 
were rather dark and I couldn’t really tell if there was a camera. I bowed my head, figuring 
Linda had probably been through this and knew what to do.

“Do your arms hurt as bad as mine?” I whispered.

For a few seconds I thought that she wasn’t going to answer but then I heard, “It is 
horrible. These cords are cutting my poor elbows in two.”

“I feel the same. Have you been through this before?”

“No. It is new to me. Sometimes I have been bound with this thin cord, it adds to the 
punishment and they like that. But no, I have not been in this room before.”

I considered that. When Brian had used Linda, he must have done it elsewhere. For one, 
the time he screwed her while she hung by her thumbs. So what was ahead? Was he going to 
be nice to us tonight? Those horribly tight cords didn’t suggest so.

“Should we try to leave?” I asked. “Our legs aren’t tied and we could walk out of here.”

“Shhhh!”

She must have had better hearing than I because it was a couple more seconds before I 
heard the sound of footsteps on the hardwood outside the door. Then it opened and in came 
Brian Carter, dressed in a burgundy smoking jacket and black slacks. I quickly looked down, 
remembering at the last second that I was suppose to be bowing my head.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see him walking around the bed, probably surveying 
the means of his pleasure for that night. He returned to the door when he heard a wheelchair 
coming. That’s when I realized what the ramp was for. Grandfather could roll up and set his 
chair in a perfect position to watch the bed. Was he going to watch his grandson screwing two
slavegirl!? This place was crazy enough for that.

The chair rolled into place with a hum of electric motors. Then there was silence for a 
minute, broken by the click clack of high heels coming into the room. Was he bringing in a 
third girl?

“You two may both look up,” came Brian’s command.

I did and found Brian seated in the chair, Grandfather next to him, an eager look on his 
wrinkled face, and Fifi setting down brandy snifters on the coffee table. She did a little curtsy 
and then left, but I saw her glance at us on the bed as she walked out. It was hard to read any 
emotion on her face, but I think she was jealous!

“You two slavegirls are to put on a little performance for us,” Brian said grandly. “You two 
will make love to each other.” He paused to pick up his brandy. “And you will both bring 
yourselves to at least one climax each.” He sniffed the brandy and then took a sip. “Failure will 
result in punishment. Very nasty punishment. Do I make myself clear?”

Linda said nothing but I could see the fear in her eyes and guessed that she as much a 
stranger to lesbian sex as I was. “I am not a lesbian,” I offered as meekly as I could manage. “I 
don’t know how. And I think Linda doesn’t, either.”

Brian smiled. “I did not ask if you knew how,” he said with just a touch more firmness in his
voice. “Besides, all girls know how to make love to each other. It’s instinctual.”

I swallowed hard and didn’t know what to say. I looked at Linda who was looking at me. 
We both knew that we would have to try. The alternative was suffering. We didn’t know what 
kind but neither of us wanted to find out. And even if we give it our best shot, we might still 
fall short. I had only a vague idea how to make another girl have an orgasm. The only times I 
had one myself was with a man inside me, or fingering myself. Oh, and once by a vibrator in 
Brian’s hand.

I could see in Linda’s eyes that she understood the situation. We rose to our knees and 
shuffled around to face each other. Wishing I had arms to put around her, I shuffled forward 
until our breasts were touching. Then I leaned forward and kissed Linda full on the lips.

It was something I hadn’t done for a long time, and then not in a sexual manner. I found 
her lips soft, not like a man’s. She tilted her head to one side and we kissed each other. It was 
a strange combination of not wanting to do this on general principles that I wasn’t a lesbian 
and such things were wrong, and surprise that the act was actually pleasant.

After a few seconds of awkwardness, Linda kissed me back and what started out as a 
something lacking emotion turned into something quite different. I was very much aware of 
her hard nipples pressing into my breasts and suspected my nipples were just as hard. It was a
new sensation, this pair of lovely breasts pressing against mine, but very nice. We kissed for a 
long time and I felt Linda push her body forward until it was hard against mine.

Then the dam broke. Suddenly we Were both filled with a passion I doubt either of us 
would have ever imagined. Her kiss became harder, more demanding, and her tongue lightly 
touched my lips. Without thinking about it, my lips parted and allowed her tongue freedom to
play. It was like some men kiss, strong, demanding and in control. Her tongue made its 
entrance to my mouth and a shiver of delight danced down my spine.

All thoughts of my ignorance in such matters fled. I didn’t have to think what to do next, it 
just happened. Fortunately Linda took command, I just followed.

Her breasts rubbed against mine, her hips were hard against mine. Most ardently I wished 
I had arms to enfold her desirable body but harsh cords prevented that. After a while she 
lowered herself until her mouth was at the level of my breasts. Then she lightly kissed my right
nipple and I groaned with desire. It was so very different from a man doing the same thing, 
yet I could not say exactly what the difference was. I thrust my chest forward and closed my 
eyes.

With the enthusiasm of youth, she worked my breasts with her tongue and mouth. Maybe 
she wasn’t an expert, but I certainly felt she would do until an expert came along. Maybe it 
was because we both had been denied any love, both treated in a painful and degrading 
manner, that we responded to each other’s kind attention. Suddenly I felt a very real love for 
this teenage girl who was my sister in captivity.

My pussy was getting warmed up and wet, and I could smell that she was too. Then she 
was telling me to lay on my back and I was. No thinking, just doing what seemed so right. It 
was most uncomfortable laying on my bound arms, the cords seemed to cut in even more, 
but that wasn’t important. In fact, it was almost-in some strange way—a part of the pleasure.

Then Linda was between my legs, pushing them apart with her knees. A moment later she 
was bent over, kissing my thighs, teasing my sensitive skin with her tongue, and marking a 
trail of kisses along my skin towards my sex. It took a couple tries but she managed to part my
labia and her tongue found my clitoris. I jerked as if shot with electricity. Nerves down there 
tingled and felt so good I couldn’t believe it. I arched my body and closed my eyes.

Sometimes, in the middle of some intense emotional experience, some logical part of your
mind whispers to you. It was that way as I lay there, becoming more and more excited under 
the lashing of this teenager’s tongue. I heard my mind telling me that if this was what lesbian 
sex was like, why the hell hadn’t I tried it before now?!

When the orgasm came, it was intense and wonderful. I think I clamped my legs around 
Linda’s head, ached my body tensely, and shuddered all over. It was the best orgasm I had 
ever had.

Sorry to put all men down, but a man just doesn’t now how to perform oral sex upon a 
woman the same as another woman knows. I believed Linda when she later told me that she 
had never made lesbian love before, but she sure know what to do. Maybe Brian was right, 
maybe it was instinctual.

I came back down to find Linda nudging me with her head. “Come on. Not time to sleep. 
They want both of us to get a climax.” she told me. I nodded and tried to get up. Without 
arms it wasn’t easy but I managed to get to my knees.

I don’t know if it felt as wonderful for her as it did for me. My feeling was that I just didn’t 
have the instinct for it, at least not the way she did. But I copied and tried to do the same for 
her that she had done for me. And it came out okay. She responded, perhaps as intensely as 
she did because she had been their captive a lot longer than I had, and was starved for both 
sex and affection. But whatever the reason, Linda panted, moaned and arched her body up 
until she was supported only by her head and feet. Meantime I knelt down between her legs 
and licked away at her pussy. It was a strange taste, but not unpleasant. And, besides, lust 
makes many things more pleasant then they would be otherwise. Even those terribly tight 
cords on our arms didn’t seem very bad. I had the feeling that some strange way, they were 
helping with the excitement.

She actually cried out when I felt her body tense with orgasm. She felt back to the bed. 
and I pushed my face into her pubic patch to keep sucking upon her clit. Instinct told me that 
would keep make her orgasm last longer. It certainly had with me.

Eventually we were both laying side by side, two naked, bound and exhausted young girls. 
I remember hoping that our performance would be enough to please our captors. It has 
certainly been much more than I expected.

Brian’s voice came through dimly. “They’re naturals,” he was saying. “I’ve never seen two 
take to lesbian love so fast.” There was amazement in his voice. I smiled. We had escaped 
whatever punishment they had in mind should we fail.

A moment later I felt the bed move. I opened my eyes to find Brian between Linda’s legs, 
pushing them apart. He was naked and obviously ready. Without preamble or warning, he 
shoved his tool hard into Linda’s vagina, evoking a grunt then a moan from the woman. He 
pumped away hard and fast. Within a minute he was holding his hips hard against hers and 
spurting his seed inside her. A minute after that he was pulling out. I could see why women 
didn’t find sex with him very satisfying, it was over so fast.

It would not have surprised me if Linda had cried. I think I would have had I been used so 
hard and cruelly. And, of course, totally against my will. But she just lay there with eyes closed 
and dry cheeks.

A few minutes later Brian was dressed and gone, his grandfather following. I sarcastically 
hoped that the old man had enjoyed the show.

Alone again, and not caring whether there was a camera watching or not, I wiggled over 
next to Linda and kissed her very gently on the lips. Her eyes opened and she smiled at me. It 
was the first smile I had seen from her. Then she kissed me back, also gently, filled with love 
not lust.

We lay there, bodies pressed together, while we tired to ignore how much our elbows and 
shoulders hurt. We would have gladly put arms around each other and fallen asleep, if would 
only could.

Later Jean dropped by to take us back to our cells. At least I assumed Linda would be 
going back to her cell, wherever that was. Only when safely inside my cell was the cords 
peeled from my flesh. I could hardly believe the deep red marks left there when my arms came
forward. I couldn’t move my hands and the pins and needles were enough to make me cry. 
But that passed and amazingly enough my arms seem no worse for wear the next morning. I 
spent the night with handcuffed wrists and glad that was all.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - AN ITCH FOR TORMENT

I stood on the crest of the small hill and watched the demonstration being set up by Jean 
and Brian. It was a sunny day after all the drizzling rain we’d had, and it was honestly good to 
be out of the dungeons. That is what I was coming to think of them as, dungeons. No other 
word for them. Dungeons. Places where girls are kept as prisoners and tortured. So far the 
only pleasant event in my career as a slavegirl was discovering that I loved Linda and lesbian 
lovemaking could be so wonderful. All else was punishment ranging from torment to torture.

On that sunny morning I was standing there, naked and chained like a dangerous prisoner,
next to my Master. That’s what Brian Carter told me to call him. Master! It stuck in my throat, 
yet I uttered it with all the sincerity and submission I could muster. No use earning additional 
punishments, now is there? Well, my hands were locked behind my back with handcuffs, and 
my ankles bore a pair of leg irons, like big handcuffs. I could walk with ankles shackled but 
wouldn’t like to try running. And even walking had to be done carefully so as not to snub the 
ankles with the metal edges. A steel collar had been locked around my neck with a small 
padlock, and a leash was snapped through the small ring in the front. By that ring I had been 
led to this small rise not far behind the Chateau Fontaine. Linda came along, her arms bound 
behind her and a similar collar and leash giving her orders.

Around us was a lovely forest dotted with green patches and faintly visible trails. I 
suspected a person could get lost among those trees, but they were lovely. Being out in the 
open like that reawakened urges for freedom. But I said nothing and tried to act like a good 
slavegirl. No use letting the masters know that within your heart there smoldered the fire of 
rebellion.

Linda’s hands were crossed and bound, and while we stood there, Jean removed the leash 
and collar from her neck. While Brian and I watched, he placed two pads of cotton over her 
eyes and taped them tightly on. He used much tape and smoothed it out carefully. Without 
hands, I was sure that Linda could not get that tape off. But why the blindfold?

There was a gentle slope before us extending down to a grassy area a hundred yards 
away. Covering that slope was ivy, but apparently nothing else. I had to wonder why we were 
standing there. Just before her eyes were covered, I could tell that Linda was puzzled too.

Brian handed my leash to Jean, then stepped over behind Linda. She heard footsteps and I
could see muscles tense. Perhaps she didn’t know what was coming but she feared anything 
these horrible men might do to us. With casual ease, Brian put his hand in the middle of her 
back and pushed.

Linda staggering a step forward then fell. Over and over she rolled, both forward then 
sideways, all the way bottom of the hill. It seemed as if she were rolling for a very long time 
before coming to a halt on the edge of the grass. I looked to Brian and saw him smiling. But 
something was wrong. Just pushing a girl down a slope was hardly in the class of these 
sadists. I still bore fading whip marks to attest to that.

Maybe I had a puzzled look on my face. Or maybe he just wanted to talk, but Brian 
answered my unasked question, “The fall won’t hurt her.” He turned to call down the hill, 
“Slave! Hear me. You must climb back up the hill. If you aren’t back up here within ten 
minutes, you’ll be punished this afternoon. And you won’t like it!” He seemed very amused.

We both watched the naked teenager struggle to her feet without hands to help then turn 
to start up the hill. Without eyes, she picked a path that wasn’t straight but would get her up 
here eventually. After a dozen feet she slipped and fell among the plants. I watched her 
struggle again to her feet.

“I suppose you wonder why we’re finding this amusing.” He didn’t pause for a reply but 
continued in a low voice, “It’s because that is poison ivy. By this evening she’ll be itching so 
bad she’ll think she’s going out of her mind. And she’ll be tied in such a way that she can’t 
possibly scratch herself. Isn’t that amusing?”

I wanted to shoot back a stinging retort but held back at the last second. Perhaps he was 
trying to provoke just such an attack.

“But we’re not inconsiderate, you will note,” he continued grandly. “I have had her eyes 
covered so she won’t get the toxin there. That could cause considerable damage.” He paused 
as if expecting me to thank him for that kindness. Meanwhile, down below us, Linda struggled 
up the hill, trying to hurry and falling down all the more often because of it. My heart went 
out to the poor girl. She was going to have terrible itching all over her body before long.

Brian turned his attention to the naked girl and honestly seemed to be enjoying the show.

It was more than ten minutes before the poor girl made her way to the top. Brian made 
ticking sounds and told her that she had earned additional punishment. I noticed that Jean 
wore gloves when he attached the collar back around her neck and snapped the leash on. 
Brian chuckled at the departing nudity. “She’ll figure out what happened when the itching 
really gets going.”

For a while he simply watched the keeper and kept walking back towards the main house. 
Maybe he was lost in thought for he didn’t speak until Jean was seen coming back, at least ten
minutes later. Meantime I stood by like a good little slavegirl.

“Have you ever watched a girl struggle wildly as her whole body burns with an intense 
itching? It’s quite a sight.”

I could believe him. Once, when I was a little girl, I got some poison oak on my arm. Even 
with lotions made for that, I wanted to scratch my skin off when the itching was at its worse.

Jean was back. He nodded to Brian, a sign, I figured, meaning that Linda was secured for 
her coming ordeal. Then they both turned to me.

Can you say “cringe with fear?” That’s what I did. I backed away, snubbing my ankles on 
the leg irons.

Brian laughed hardly. “Do you think we’d throw you down the ivy?” he asked. Then he 
paused and looked at the terrible plants. I feared he was making up his mind to do just that. 
When he looked back my way, he had an evil gleam in his eye.

“I’ll give you a choice, dear,” he said. “You can either take a trip down the hill or….” Pause 
for dramatic effect. “Or you can spend the day without punishment but I’ll have Linda tossed 
down the hill every other day for a week. Say four more times, total. Every other day will give 
her time to mostly recover before a fresh dose. What do you say?”

This man was a devil! Somehow he knew that I loved Linda, and he was testing just how 
much. One roll down the hill for me or four more for Linda! I didn’t know what to say. Linda 
was already doomed to agony from the poison coating her skin. But four more times! That 
was unthinkable.

“Will you cover my eyes,” I asked, partly stalling for time.

“Of course. We’re not cruel.”

I let that pass. The edge of the ivy patch was only a foot away from my bare toes. “You 
really will do it to Linda, won’t you? I mean, even if it torments her out of her mind?”

Brian nodded slowly. “It will be an ordeal,” he said quietly, “but she’ll probably survive with 
her mental facilities intact. Of course, she’ll hate the sight of ivy of the rest of her life!” He 
seemed to find that most amusing. “But I don’t think she’ll go crazy, only feel like she is. You 
can save her that suffering. It’s up to you.”

This man wasn’t a devil, he was The Devil. He would throw water on a drowning man. He 
would rip the wings off fairies. Or angels. And he would really torture Linda in just the manner 
he described.

I gulped. I looked at the slope covered with plants. I wanted to run away.

“She’s probably already starting to itch,” he said with a smile.

I took a step forward and turned my back. “Go ahead,” I said weakly. ‘Tie my hands and 
blindfold me.” Then I suddenly turned to Brian. “But remember you promised that you would 
not do this again to Linda.”

He smiled and I wondered why I ever found this man attractive. It was a most evil smile. 
“Of course. But I won’t promise it for all time, just for … say a couple months. After that the 
poison ivy hill goes back on the list of punishments for slavegirls at Chateau Fontaine.”

I didn’t know if I could believe him or not. But I also couldn’t let Linda suffer four times the
agony she was already condemned to. I meekly turned my back for Jean to unlock the 
handcuffs. When the steel was gone from my wrists and replaced with tight ropes, he placed 
pads over my eyes and taped them in place. Then the leg irons were unlocked. It occurred to 
me that they had planned on my going down the hill. Why else would Jean have brought out 
extra rope and pads?

It was very strange to stand there, not seeing but feeling the gentle breeze upon my bare 
flesh. And hearing soft footsteps as a demon in human form walked up behind me.

The hand pushed my back and I tried to keep my feet. If I could run down the hill, perhaps 
I could escape most of the poison. But it’s not easy to run with your eyes covered. I made it 
only a dozen steps before I tumbled sideways and fell into the dreaded leaves. Forewarned 
about the ivy, I tired my best to clamp my legs together. I had realized as my hands were 
being bound that getting any of that poison into my pussy could well be the most terrible 
part of the torture.

It seemed like an eternity before I finally stopped rolling over and over. Then there was the
feel of grass under me, not leaves. Uncertain if he would give me a time limit for making my 
way back up, I hurried to my feet, a surprisingly hard thing to do with your hands tied and no 
vision. I turned towards what I thought was straight back up the hill and felt forward with one 
foot. It almost immediately stuck leaves.

I’m not stupid. I saw how Linda had hurried as fast as she could, fallen many times, and still
not make it up before the deadline. So I didn’t try to hurry. Taking each step carefully, and 
trying to judge the slope of the land as I went, I walked up the hill. Part of me cringed every 
time I felt a leave brush my ankle or calf but there was nothing I could do about that.

“You didn’t make the time limit,” I was informed when I reached the top. But I didn’t care. 
It was a strange feeling inside to know that you’re going to have to endure a terrible ordeal, 
yet you felt nothing of the coming pain even though the poison is covering your body.

Jean attached my collar and I followed the tug on my leash. It would have been nice to 
have some parting words to put Brian in his place. Like, “It is a far, far better thing I do now 
than I have ever done before.” Or something like that. But I said nothing.

When the blindfold pads came off, I was in a room I had never been in before. It was 
underground, the only natural light coming from thin windows up high on one wall. I blinked 
under the bright light directly overhead, and in a few seconds could see Linda before me. The 
teenager had been strung up in a spread-eagle. It looked as if her hands had been tied high 
and wide, and then her ankles noosed and pulled wide until she was hanging in midair. The 
blindfold was off her and she was looking at me.

It wasn’t too long before I was stung up the same as Linda, and facing her about three feet
away. The ropes cut into my wrists and ankles but I knew that soon enough I would be too 
busy to notice that small amount of pain. Jean went around, adjusting several lights so that 
both of us were well illuminated. I looked up to find two cameras pointed at us. Whoever was 
watching would get a good show. I wondered if we were being video taped.

We were finally left alone. I asked Linda if she knew the camera were there, and she replied
that she did. She asked if my wrists hurt as much as hers did. I said they did.

Linda was moaning softly and I knew it was time to tell her. ” Linda, dear?” I ventured. She 
looked up. “Are you … Ah, itching a little bit?”

“Some,” she said in a tone that let me know it was an understatement. “I guess it was the 
grass against my skin.”

“Well, that would do it. But I’m afraid, dear, that it’s much worse than that. The ivy we 
rolled through was poison ivy….”

“What!” Suddenly she was alert. Her body sway back and forth a bit from the sudden jerk. 
“No! Please say you’re kidding.”

“No kidding. Brian thought it was real funny while you were rolling through it.”

“That bastard!” I hadn’t seen Linda so animated before. Well, maybe while I was licking her 
private parts in bed. “I had poison ivy once when I was a kid. It itched something awful! You 
mean…? All over my body? Oh, shit!”

I thought about telling her how close she came to four more rolls in the ivy but held back. 
She had enough on her mind right then. “At least we won’t hurt ourselves by scratching too 
hard,” I offered.

“We can’t scratch at all,” she replied. “Oh, Sharon, do you have any idea what we’re in for?”

“Sort of. I had a little once. It itched terribly.”

“Well, I’m itching all over and it’s no fun.” Her fingers fluttered uselessly. “Oh! OH!”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“My pussy … My poor little pussy. It’s already itching more than anything else. If any of 
that stuff got inside me, I’ll die. I’ll just die.”

I didn’t think she would die but she might wish to if the itching and irritation got as bad as
I thought it might. My legs and breasts were beginning to itch. Or was it my imagination?

“Oh, my pussy is on fire.” Linda whined loudly and was trying to pick at the ropes around 
her wrists with her fingernails. Which explained why my fingernails had been trimmed back to 
nothing when Fifi did my hair and face the other night. I had wondered about that. Makes 
sense if you don’t want slavegirls working through a rope with the edges of long fingernails.

My breasts definitely wanted to be scratched. No question about it. I found myself 
reaching for the ropes holding my arms pulled painfully up and out. But it was thick nylon 
rope and there were no knots I could reach. When the terrorists of Chateau Fontaine tied you, 
you were tied.

I could tell you of ever little detail during the next few hours but it would take a long time. 
That room saw two naked woman suffer like they never had before. At times my own agony 
was suspended as I watched Linda jerk and contort in an effort to touch herself. At times she 
threw herself violently back and forth in her bonds. Before long I fear I was doing the same 
thing.

We made noises. At first only moans and whining. Then cries of anguish. Then, much later 
when the itching was driving us out of our minds, screams. And I’m not talking about any half 
hearted little shrieks. We screamed and loudly. Each heart-rending cry was born of frustration 
and pain beyond what any girl should have to endure. It wasn’t that we itched a little, we 
itched A LOT! And despite my care to close my legs, some of that stuff got into my pussy 
where it burned as well as itched.

We both forgot about the camera in the corners. Linda was the first to curse Brian, his 
grandfather, and all of his ancestors, most of whom had never came down from the trees. She 
suggested that his mother should run out from under the front porch and bite him on the leg.
Which was about the most colorful way I had ever heard of calling someone a son of a bitch. 
She then launched into a series of curses that would make a dock worker blush. A few of the 
words I didn’t know but got the general drift of. And some of the suggestions for Brian to do 
were anatomical impossibilities. Or would have been extremely painful, if possible.

Eventually the curses fade away to be replaced by loud moaning and occasional cries of 
distress. I made a note to ask her where she learned such language.

But by then I was thinking in terms of some pretty colorful language myself and trying to 
dream up suitable punishments for the men who had done this to us. Most of them involved 
massive damage to their private parts, but a few involved the removal of their entire skins an 
inch at a time.

Do you know that I consider what I went through that day and night to be worse than the 
whipping of my bottom? I know that many people would not agree, but then they haven’t had
the pleasure of trying both. I have. The itching and burning all over my body was impossible 
to endure. Yet the ropes made sure that we did. It was terrible.

Eventually the itching and burning began to fade. When the suffering died down enough 
for me to become aware of other things, I looked up to find my hands a dark color and 
lifeless. I could not feel them and could only hope that no serious harm was being done. But 
all my weight was taken upon those wrists and the ropes, even though thicker than the 
clothesline usually used there, were really cutting into my wrists.

Sometime during the night I drifted in and out of a shallow, troubled sleep filled with 
dreams of rolling over and over endlessly on a hill side of needles. When morning came, so 
did Jean.

“I must say,” he commented dryly to the two naked, limp and exhausted girls he found, 
“you two did put on quite a show. I would never have thought that a girl so tied could move 
as much as you did.” He came closer. “Oh, I say, I really should get you down. You look rather 
worn out.”

I was too exhausted to care what he thought. At least the itching had died down. And my 
hands were totally numb, so they didn’t hurt. My shoulders and hips were what hurt the most. 
Having your legs spread wide for half a day and all of a night is rough on a girl’s body. Not to 
mention hanging by my arms for that period.

When Jean allowed my legs to come together, I felt stabs of pain in my hips. And when my
arms came down, the hands looked terrible. I feared they were destroyed forever. And it was a
long time before any feeling came back into them.

Of course, being young and healthy helps. A day later my hands, and the rest of me, 
showed no ill effects from our torment. Looking back and remembering how I struggled 
brings a kind of misty good feeling. I have hardly ever felt more helpless. And somehow, in 
some twisted way, that felt good. At least I remember it with a strange sort of warm feeling 
inside. I’m sure that at the time I did not feel that way. Time softens all memories.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - USED AND ABUSED SLAVEGIRLS

Linda recovered from her bout of poison ivy with little more than bad memories of a body 
crying out in agony and limbs unable to move. Both she and Sharon were allowed a warm, 
soothing bath after being lowered from their suspended spread-eagle. A soothing cream was 
gently rubbed on the redder portions of their bodies and it stopped the residue itching 
almost immediately. Then they were allowed a meal and to sleep that night wearing only a 
pair of handcuffs, a great relief after what they had gone through.

But it would be a long time before she even considered touching ivy again.

Two days later, Linda was again brought together with Sharon. As she was led into the 
bedroom where she and Sharon had been forced to display lesbian lovemaking for the 
pleasure of two men, her heart leapt at the sight of Sharon already there. The lovely body that
Linda had come to love was spread out on the bed, arms and legs stretched towards the four 
corners. As usual, both girls were naked. Linda and Sharon looked at each other with longing 
in their eyes but dared not say a word. There was too much punishment to be had in that 
place to risk additional.

Jean changed Linda’s restraints from handcuffs behind her to tight, thin cords joining her 
elbows and wrists behind her back in the same manner as the night she first made love to 
Sharon. She was told to kneel beside the bed, bow her head and wait. Jean then left.

It was a great temptation to lift her head and see the girl she loved. An even greater 
temptation to whisper words of encouragement and endearment over the few feet that 
separated them. But one never knew when one was being watched and listened to by ears 
eager to find fault and eyes eager to watch innocent girls suffer.

As she knelt there, she wondered about her strong feelings towards this girl. True, they 
were both Americans and both kidnapped into a life of slavery. Perhaps they would have 
loved each other had they met under different circumstances. Perhaps not. Maybe their 
shared suffering had formed a common bond between them. Linda smiled inwardly at the 
unintended pun.

Brian Carter came in and assumed the observation chair facing the beds. He was dressed 
in a purple robe, as Linda could see without rising her head. Imperially he gave orders to the 
bound and naked slavegirls, “You will crawl up on the bed and use your mouth to excite slave 
Sharon. Suck on her tits until they are hard and she is getting juicy. But do not allow her an 
orgasm. Do it!”

Linda rose without a word and knelt on the bed next to Sharon. As she leaned forward to 
place her mouth over the offered left breast, Linda could see the mixed emotions on the 
beautiful face of the girl she loved. There was hope and excitement-probably at the thought 
of having her body excited by a girl she cared for. And fear

-probably at the possibilities ahead. If he only wished to watch lesbian lovemaking, so 
much for the good. But….

Linda began her task with a happy heart. At least she was giving pleasure to her friend. 
And this creepy ancient house held little pleasure for slavegirls. She ran her tongue around the
stiffening nipple, teasing it and playing with it. Sharon moaned softly, and Linda knew that she
was having the desired effect. She sucked, very gently at first, then increasing. Sharon moaned
again.

Master Brian watched the performance with interest. Why he should be so fascinated by 
two women making love he did not know. Yet it was most exciting to watch them nibble at 
each other’s pussies, and see how incredibly excited they both became. His grandfather had 
not come for the performance that night, and Brian intended to take advantage of that 
absence to insert himself into the show.

The door opened and Fifi came in to place upon the low table a tray bearing one snifter of
brandy. Seeing Brian was intent upon the two naked woman on the bed, she withdrew slowly 
into the shadows in the far corner of the room. Then she eased over until she was almost 
behind his chair and had a good view of the lovemaking. For a while both Master and serving 
wench watched with avid interest as one woman excited and stimulated the body of another.

“Halt!” commanded Brian, surprising everyone in the room. “You, slave Linda, get off the 
bed.” Linda obeyed but she wanted to cry. It had been so good to be giving pleasure to 
Sharon. And she had gotten to where Sharon was nearing that wonderful ecstasy only women
can know. “There, on the floor. Pick up that riding crop.”

Linda looked down and found the riding crop. She knelt down gracefully and picked it up 
with bound hands.

Uncertainly she stood there awaiting the next order.

“Kneel on the bed,” it came. “Turn your back to her. Good. Now whip her breasts.”

Linda swallowed hard. The riding crop left like a serpent in her hand. Throwing the wicked 
instrument of pain to the floor was all she wished to do but fear of terrible punishments made
her tilt forward so she could rise her arms up. Uncertain of her aim, she brought the crop 
down. There was a small smacking sound as the end of the crop impacted against the bottom 
of Sharon’s breast. Sharon said nothing for the blow had little force behind it. But her eyes 
were wide with fear.

“Come now!” commanded their Master arrogantly. “You can hit much harder than that. 
Move the crop about two inches to your left. And hit harder.”

Linda closed her eyes and turned the crop slightly to the left. She brought her arms up 
slowly then down as rapidly as she could. The smack was much louder this time, and brought 
a grunt from the spread-eagled girl.

“Better. But snap your wrist downward. Get more flick out of the end of the crop. I want to 
hear that slave scream.”

Linda wanted to cry. She lifted her arms again. This time she moved her wrist. She was 
rewarded with a cry of pain and a much louder smack. Linda felt as if the whip was striking her
heart. She began slowly crying.

“Again.”

Meekly she obeyed and was soon striking downward with enough force to make Sharon 
gasp, cry and moan. Linda could not see what the crop in her hand was doing to her friend, 
but she feared that she was leaving red marks all over those soft and wonderful globes.

For a while Brian allowed one slavegirl to punish the other. Behind him, unseen in the 
shadows, Fifi stood there, also watching but feeling differently inside. Her hand had gone 
under her short skirt to play with her own pussy.

“Stop.” Brian stood up. Going to the side of the bed he took the riding crop from Linda’s 
hand. “You’ll never get her properly warmed up with little love taps like that. Get off the bed.”

Linda crawled off. “Stand with your legs wide spread,” he ordered. Trembling with fear, the 
naked woman obeyed. Brian drank in the fear in her eyes, enjoying it immensely. It was almost
as enjoyable as seeing true suffering on a slave’s face.

Suddenly he brought the riding crop up between her legs. Linda screamed and fell to the 
floor, doubled up with pain. Brian smiled and turned to the girl spread wide open on the bed. 
“She should have done the job better,” he muttered. “Now, let’s see what we can do here.”

If he had enjoyed the fear in Linda’s eyes, Sharon’s were a feast. She had seen her friend 
collapse in pain from a cruel blow in her most sensitive place. And she was very much aware 
of how wide open her legs were.

Brian tapped her right breast with the crop. “Should I whip here first?” he asked. Sharon 
did not answer. His reply was a swift and sharp blow directly upon the nipple of that 
previously unharmed breast. Sharon cried out loudly.

“Better.” He then landed four strokes upon her breast, encircling her nipple and evoking 
loud cries that bordered upon screams. Placing a finger roughly into her sex, he commented, 
“There is nothing like a whipping to get a girl’s love tunnel wet.” Then he tapped the sex just 
checked with the end of the crop. Sharon whined with fear.

It was as bad as she feared, and worse. She did scream a second after the crop impacted 
squarely upon her sex. Her body went rigid and she tried desperately to close her legs. But the
ropes encircling her ankles were quite solid. “No!” she uttered, despite her vow to remain 
silent. “No, please don’t! It’s terrible.”

“I know it is,” Brian said soothingly. “I know it is.” Then he hit her again.

The scream was delicious to his ears. On the floor Linda trembled and tried to curl up into 
a smaller ball. A few feet away Fifi grimaced and hugged herself with one hand while the other
rubbed frantically at her sex.

Brian tossed aside the riding crop and swept aside his robe. Rigid manhood sprang forth, 
pointed straight for its intended target. Wasting no time, he mounted the bed and drove his 
shaft into the sheath held open and ready for him. Sharon grunted at the harsh invasion of 
her private place.

Brian’s lovemaking was short and hard. Amazingly, Sharon found herself responding so 
rapidly that she was almost at a climax herself when he grunted loudly and shot his load into 
her. A few seconds later he was withdrawing, his load spent and weapon standing down. 
Sharon trembled and cried out, not with lust but frustration. Having been hurt so bad, she was
now denied the simple pleasure a woman’s body was made to give.

Brian casually walked from the room, his purpose in arranging this little drama finished. 
Linda continued to lay on the floor, legs drawn up and body bent. She would have hugged 
her legs had her arms not been bound behind her.

Fifi came slowly forward until she could see the red marks upon Sharon’s breasts. And the 
aftermath of Brian’s sexual satisfaction leaking out. Not caring if the camera was turned on, Fifi
untied Sharon’s legs, allowing the girl what comfort she could derive from clenching her legs 
tight together and doubling them up. Perhaps it made the pain a little less.

Fifi passed by Linda on the floor but did nothing for the slavegirl. The pain would simply 
have to pass. Pain always passed away at Chateau Fontaine. Until, that is, it is replaced with 
fresh pain.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN - RIDING THE HORSE


While walking back to her cell, Sharon found herself spreading her legs wide apart so as to 
ease the ache in her punished pussy, still stinging from the pain of a riding crop used squarely
there. The next morning the pain was gone, leaving only a small ache where her tender flesh 
had been bruised. But she remembered what it was like to be whipped directly between the 
legs and would do anything to keep that from happening again.

Linda’s pussy, having been hit only once and not ravished, had not hurt as much as 
Sharon’s but was still sore the next morning. She hated being struck there and resolved she 
would fight if they ever tried to whip her there again. Deep inside she knew it was a useless 
resolution but she made it nevertheless.

As was so common at Chateau Fontaine, Linda was taken from her cell, fed breakfast, and 
then restricted in an uncomfortable position for the day. This time she was led from her cell 
wearing handcuffs behind her, and taken to one of the stalls in the stables behind the main 
house. There she was made to stand upon a stool and swing one leg over the top of a short 
wooden wall built into the middle of the stall. A second stool on the other side allowed her to 
straddle the edge of wood while Jean prepared the rest of her restraints. He looped each 
ankle with a rope and tied that to a solid metal cleat on the side wall of the stall. Then he 
unlocked the handcuffs and tied her wrists crossed with rope, but only after pulling her arms 
up behind her until the wrists were at the level of her shoulder blades. Some rope was used 
over her shoulders to secure her hands just below her neck. It was not a comfortable way to 
have your arms bound, but no one asked if she was comfortable.

As the unfortunate girl expected, once her hands were secured and out of the way, those 
loops on her ankles were pulled tighter, forcing her legs apart. The soft area between her legs 
came in contact with the hard wooden edge, then was pressing hard as her feet were unable 
to support all her weight. The wooded edge was no more than an inch wide but looked to 
Linda like a knife edge.

“If Mademoiselle would ease her weight down upon the wood….” suggested Jean. “It will 
be easier on her when I pull out the stools….”

With a sigh, Linda lowered herself onto the cruelly thin board. Still she could not bring 
herself to put all her weight upon it, and there was a shock as she sank down an inch more 
when the stools were both pulled out from under her feet.

Biting back a whine of pain, Linda told herself that she would not cry out, nor protest this 
newest punishment. It hurt her a great deal already, and she knew that it could only get worse
as time went on, but she also knew that protests, not to mention pleas for mercy, would fall 
upon deaf ears, or worse, earn her additional punishment. The crop slash between her legs 
was still fresh in her memory.

Jean checked the ropes upon her arms, then left her to suffer alone. Linda had not been 
bound this way before, but the basic idea was devilishly cruel. She struggled a bit to see if she 
could force her arms down or maybe reach a knot with her fingers but again the bondage of 
Chateau Fontaine defeated her. She tugged at her legs but the ropes holding them spread 
wide were taunt and solidly tied. The action of trying caused the wood to burrow deeper into 
her flesh. A little experimentation showed her that leaning backwards would shift the weight 
somewhat. The board felt as if it were trying to dig into her asshole. Leaning forward also 
shifted the weight but more onto her sex. Neither of those provided much relief, only shifted 
the pain a bit.

The stall still smelled of straw and horse. Having held horses for so many centuries, it was 
seemed unlikely that the place would ever be free of that odor.

After an hour or so, Linda again tested the ropes holding her hands high on her back. The 
movement hurt her pussy but she had to do it. Just sitting still did not help much, for the pain 
and ache was constant, a terrible cutting feeling mixed with a numb ache. If it had been 
possible, she would have thrown herself to one side, but the ropes tied to her ankles 
prevented that.

After two hours she was crying softly to herself. Tears made slow tracks down her cheeks 
as she filled the place where a horse should have been, not a naked and tortured young girl.

After three hours she was calling out, begging for someone to come and take away all that
pain.

After four hours she was again crying, but now no tears marched down her cheeks for her 
eyes were dry.

After four and a half hours someone came into her stall.

Linda looked up slowly to behold the image of Fifi in her black French maid costume, long 
fishnet nylons and high heels. “Please….” Linda whispered.

“I am sorry, Mademoiselle,” Fifi said. “But I cannot untie you. It is painful, no?”

“It is painful,” agreed Linda emotionlessly. “If you haven’t come to take me down, then 
what are you here for? Do you like to watch me suffer, like all the others in this terrible place?”

Linda knew that she was risking punishment for talking that way, but she didn’t care. She 
was suffering a terrible torture already and couldn’t imagine them doing much more to her. 
Of course, she was wrong on that account, but it was too much effort to think straight when 
you’re in agony.

“It is not so bad,” Fifi offered. “The wood, it hurts, I know….”

“Do you? Have you ever been up here?”

“No. But I have seen other girls up there.” Fifi move closer until her hand rested on Linda’s 
thigh. “It is called ‘Riding the Horse.’ They said it is terrible but they survived.”

“My sex is being ruined,” Linda said. “It is totally numb and I ache all the way up to my 
head.”

“The sex, it is not ruined.”

Linda said nothing but closed her eyes.

“I wanted to talk to you,” ventured Fifi.

“Are you allowed to talk to the slavegirls?” asked Linda. “You’ve never talked to me 
before.”

“That is true. I am not suppose to talk to you. Only tie you and bath you and things.”

“Aren’t you going to get in trouble?”

“Maybe. There are no camera out here. They cannot hear us. If someone comes, I will just 
say I was told to check on your ropes.”

“The ropes are still tight,” said Linda dryly.

A minute passed in silence. Finally Linda asked, “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

Fifi nervously looked around. “When you make the love to slave Sharon, what is it like?”

Linda opened her eyes to stare at this servant. Finally she decided that the question was 
serious. “It is good. She excites me in ways that men never did. And I think I do good for her.”

“It is better than having a man inside you?”

“I think so.”

Fifi was silent for a bit. “If I could come to your cell at night, would you show me? Teach 
me?”

Linda looked at the girl standing next to her. She had long black hair and dark eyes. She 
was pretty and looked to be no more than twenty-two or three years old.

“Haven’t you ever made love with another girl?” Linda asked.

“No. They do not allow me to make the love with anyone.”

“Haven’t you ever dated boys?”

“I have lived here all my life. My mother was a servant for Chateau Fontaine. Our family 
have always been servants to the lord of the house. When I was younger, Master Brian came 
to me one night and used my body. It was not good. I bled some and it hurt. I cried. He acted 
disgusted and went away. He never used me again.”

Linda felt sympathy for his pretty French girl. To be that old and had sex only once, and 
that unsatisfactorily….

“I think it amuses the Master to make sure that I do not have sex with anyone. I think Jean 
would like to use me, but I also think Master Brian has ordered him not to.”

Fifi stood a little closer so that the tips of her pert breasts were touching Linda’s leg. Linda 
could fell taunt nipples through the thin fabric. The hand rose to touch her hip.

“Is sex good? Sometimes I lay in bed and play with myself. It feels good. And sometimes I 
feel strange, and then suddenly I burst into feeling so very good.” Fifi looked down at the 
stretched out leg she was pressing against. “When I think of you or some other slavegirls so 
tightly tied and … You are beautiful.”

Linda smiled weakly. It was amusing somehow that a girl living in a house were other girls 
were kept prisoners and used for whatever sexual purpose desired, should be so deprived of 
sex herself.

“If you come to see me, I’ll teach you what I can.” Then she added, “If they don’t have me 
so chained up or tied that I can’t move….”

Fifi gently reached up to touch a nipple. Linda felt a tremor as the fingernails softly teased 
the taut skin.

What might have happened after that will never be known. Footsteps came from outside 
the building and Fifi suddenly darted from the stall and out another door. Jean walked in a 
moment later.

He checked the ropes, sarcastically asked if Linda were comfortable, then informed that 
she would be taken down after another hour. Linda sighed. Jean patted her behind and left 
her to her suffering.

I was not very comfortable when that maid came in. Fifi, or whatever her name was, just 
stood there staring at me until I began to wonder what was on her mind. Not that I could 
have done anything even if she planned to torture me. As usual, I was tied up, immobile, and 
suffering a bit just from the tight ropes.

Earlier Jean had taken me from my cell and brought me to one of the numerous 
punishment rooms. There my handcuffs were taken off and replace with rope binding my 
arms behind me. He tied my elbows together, so I figured being tied for the day was to be my 
punishment de jour. Which wasn’t too bad. Just being tied for the day, I was coming to 
understand, wasn’t so bad. It certainly beat rolling in the poison ivy, or having your pussy 
whipped.

He put me on a table on my stomach and proceeded to bind my ankles together in a 
crossed position. Then he tied my ankles up to my wrists in a pretty tight hogtie. That would 
have been bad enough but then he turned me over so I was laying on my bound arms. The 
way my ankles were crossed and tied kept me from bringing my knees together which made 
my legs lay sort of flat. Then he tied ropes from my knees down and under table. And some 
rope round my waist and under the table. When he was finished, I couldn’t move off my 
bound arms and knew it wasn’t going to be a very comfortable day.

It was sometime during the afternoon that Fifi came in. With difficulty I could raise my 
head enough to see her between my breasts. She was just standing by the door. “What do 
you want?” I finally asked.

“Please do not talk. The camera in this room does not have a microphone but they may 
see your lips moving. And it would be better if you did not look at me.”

“Okay,” I said in a whisper as I looked away. “What gives?”

“When you make love to another woman,” she asked, “is it good? Very good?”

What kind of question was that to ask? Was she hinting that she was going to make 
lesbian love to me? My pussy was certainly open and available the way I was tied. “It’s good,” I
muttered.

She -edged along the wall, keeping under the camera. it. She asked if she could come to 
my cell and make love to me. And if I would show her how it’s done!

For a moment I wondered if this was some kind of trick. This same woman had tied me, 
chained me, and helped place me into some pretty terrible positions. I looked her over and 
wasn’t turned off by what I saw. A couple years older than I, but apparently a fine figure, to 
judge by those long legs and no apparent bra under that black material. I guessed that she 
was serious.

And any piece of comfort, any kindness was appreciated in that place of torture. If she 
would just come and hold me, that would be nice. The nights are long when you’re chained 
up and alone. I told her yes.

She smiled at me and left, still being careful to avoid the camera. I sighed and wondered 
what was to come of that. Probably more pain. If she was caught in my cell, while we were … 
Well, we’d both probably be punished, male ego being what it is.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN - BREAKOUT


I was trying to sleep, alone in my cell, when I heard the door creaking open. It didn’t groan 
like doors always do in monster movies and film dungeons, but it did need a touch of oil and I
could hear it opening. At first I wondered if Jean or even Brian had come back for a midnight 
quickie, my body being naked and chained down, an inviting target for male lust. It had 
amused Jean to secure me for the night in a position that offered little comfort and probably 
not much sleep. He had ordered me to lay on the floor next to the iron bars of my cell with my
bottom against them and place my legs straight up along the bars. He tied my ankles to a 
cross-piece, locking my legs in that position. Then he made me lift my body up and put my 
hands through the bars on either side of my legs. It took only a second to click the handcuffs 
on my wrists.

He must have thought it was funny, for he was chuckling as he turned of the light and left 
me alone for the night. I didn’t find it amusing at all. Not only were my legs straight up in the 
air, my body was held bent double by the steel cuffs tight about my wrists. I found that linking
my fingers helped me keep upright, but if I tried to rest, the pressure made those steel edges 
dig into my wrists. It must have been near midnight and I hadn’t yet managed to sleep a wink.

Since I was held in an upright position, it was easy for me to watch the door. What was 
strange was that the overhead light hadn’t come on. Instead I saw the faint beam of a 
flashlight. The beam searched my cell, starting with the wooden bench, then came to rest 
upon my locked wrist and legs pressing against the bars. For a few seconds whoever held that 
light just looked at me.

“Can you sleep like that?” came a puzzled female voice with a French accent.

“Not really,” I answered Fifi.

She came in and closed the door behind her. “I have come to set you free,” she whispered.

My heart skipped a beat. “Really?” I asked.

“Of course. I would not risk being punished like you slaves are unless it was serious, no?”

Setting the flashlight on the floor, she produced a handcuff key from the small pocket of 
her uniform. It was very nice to get those metal bracelets off my wrists. Then she was untying 
my ankles.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. Perhaps there was the faint doubt in the back of my 
mind that this could be a set up for some horrendous punishment. But then why did they 
have to set me up? They could punishment me any time they wanted.

“I want to go away, too,” she said. “I do not like this place any more. I want to go to 
American and learn to make this lesbian love like you two do.”

My feet came down and were grateful to touch the floor again. I was on my feet quickly. 
“How are we going to get out of here?” I asked, both incredibly grateful and scared at the 
same time.

“We will drive. There are cars in the garage.”

“What about the men? Brian and Jean? And the others?”

“They are all in town. It is the Feast of Saint Michael. They left an hour ago and will be 
there for several hours yet. The only other servants are in the house. I said that I would wait up
for the return of the men.”

By the light of the flash I could see her standing there with the handcuffs in her hand. 
“Why are you holding those?” I asked.

“I must put them on you. That way, if we are caught, I can say I was only taking you for 
some punishment. It is better than having slavegirls running around with no handcuffs.”

I couldn’t argue with the logic. If being handcuffed might save me from a terrible 
punishment for attempted escape, then it was a small price to pay. I put my hands out. But 
she turned me around and locked the cuffs on behind me. Again, it was only the normal way 
slavegirls were moved around Chateau Fontaine.

We started out, my guide going first with the flashlight pointed at the ground. In the main 
corridor, instead of heading for the door to the outside, we turned and went down a passage I
had never been before. “Garage?” I asked in a whisper.

“No. Slave Linda.”

Again my heart leapt for joy. Not only was freedom calling, but a chance to free Linda! I 
would have felt terrible if we had to leave Linda back in captivity.

As we headed down some stairs to another section of the underground rooms, there was 
something I had to ask. “I never heard your name. I need to call you something, what is your 
name?”

“Fifi.” Figured.

The door to Linda’s cell did not squeak and we found her sleeping. I wondered how she 
could manage sleep in the position she was secured but didn’t ask. A girl can put up with a lot
when she has to.

Linda was standing with her body pressed against the bars. Jean must have been in a 
mood to handcuff girls to bars that night. Linda’s hands were locked behind her back, then 
she had been made to stand up against the bars. A pair of handcuffs locked above each elbow
and then to the bar in front held her in place. And since there was a cross-piece just under the
handcuffs, she could not lower herself. She would have had to stand there all night, her 
breasts and body pressed against the bars and her legs braced to prop her up.

Fifi produced her handcuff key again along with the key for the cell door, which was kept, 
as usual, on a peg by the door. Linda awoke as the handcuffs were being unlocked from her 
elbows. Fifi and I quickly told her to be quiet and what was happening. For the first time I saw 
her face break into a smile. She was beautiful when she smiled. As soon as the second 
handcuff was off her elbow, she rushed up to me and pressed her body against mine. Happily 
and eagerly she kissed me, and it more than a friendly kiss. I kissed her back.

“Please … We must get going,” whispered Fifi.

“She’s right,” I said. “We have to be far away from here when the men get back.

“What about my hands?” asked Linda, turning and offering her still joined wrists to Fifi.

I explained the logic about keeping us handcuffed in case we were found. I don’t think she
agreed but there was little either of us could do, both of us had our hands secured behind us 
and Fifi had the key. We followed her back upstairs.

The garage wasn’t hard to find. The cars weren’t hard to find, there were half a dozen. The 
keys to start the cars were impossible to find.

“I thought they kept the keys in the cars,” said Fifi unhappily. “I thought we could just drive
away.” She seemed on the verge of tears.

“So what do we do now?” asked Linda. She sounded as if she were about to cry, too. So 
near, yet so far.

“Fifi, is there some other house near here? Someplace where they could call the police?” I 
asked.

“Of course!” said Fifi brightly. “There is the place of the Tremains. It is down the road. I 
have never been there but I know where it is.”

“Then let’s go,” offered Linda.

Fifi held back, thinking. “It would not be good to have you found outside with only those 
handcuffs on,” she said. “We cannot go down the road, the Master might be returning early. 
But we can run across the forest. But I must fix you up for the midnight run.”

“The midnight run?” I asked. “What the hell is that?”

“Sometime, the Master, he likes to make a slavegirl run through the dark forest at night. It 
is scary. When he does this, he makes her wear the leg irons and two pairs of the handcuffs.”

“We can’t run if we have leg irons on!” I protested.

“No,” agreed Fifi. “But I had better put the second pair of handcuffs on. If you are seen, it 
will look like you are doing this midnight run thing.”

I sighed. Linda looked nervous in the flashlight’s faint beam. “Whatever,” I exclaimed. “Just 
so we get going.”

Fifi produced an extra two pairs of handcuffs from a cabinet on the wall. Apparently they 
keep restraints all over this place. She went behind Linda and locked on cuff on her arm just 
above the elbow. “Hey, that’s tight,” protested Linda.

“But it is the way Master Brian puts for the handcuffs for the midnight run.” She locked the
other cuff on the other elbow and Linda’s arms were much more securely restrained than 
before.

I sighed again and turned my back. My elbows can touch pretty easily behind me, so it was
no strain for them to be locked in handcuffs. But it did make me feel more helpless. And I 
noted how much it limited my arms movement.

“Okay, you’ve got us locked up. Let’s get going.”

“This way.” Fifi headed out a side door and we were quickly disappearing into the dark 
forest that covers much of the countryside around there.

We ran most of the way, pausing now and then to catch our breath and curse the sticks 
and stone tormenting our bare feet. Oddly, we could run faster in our bare feet and shackled 
arms than Fifi in her high heels. But she would not take them off.

I could only hope that she really knew which direction to take, because that forest was 
awfully black to me. There were clouds overhead and in the faint glow of reflected light from 
them we could just make out a path we were following.

After a while we really couldn’t run any longer and settled into a fast walk. It might have 
been a couple hours when the rain started. Only a few drops at first but then a steady drizzle 
that soon had our hair wet and chilled our naked bodies.

Finally, and it must have been nearly dawn, we came through into a clearing. At the other 
end was a huge, dark house, only one window was illuminated faintly. We slowed our walk but
kept heading for that ground floor light. It meant freedom, and that sounded awful good.

The light, it turned out, was a small light someone had left on in a kitchen, perhaps 
inadvertently. There was a door nearby but it was locked solidly.

“Should we pound on the door?” I asked.

“It is possible,” admitted Fifi. “But it would not be good to awaken the master of the house
at this hour.”

Her servant mentality would not let her disturb the master of the house. I sighed. “So what
do we do? Just stand around out here, all naked and all wet?”

“There is a stable. We can stay there until morning,” Fifi suggested.

“Lead on,” Linda said. “I’d like to get out of this rain.”

The stable was dry inside and smelled of horse, mostly because there was half a dozen 
horses living there. In the dim light from a window we found a pile of straw and sat down, 
exhausted.

I turned my back to Fifi. “How about these handcuffs? We don’t need them as a disguise 
now.”

A second later I heard an “Oh!”

“Fifi, what does ‘Oh’ mean?” I asked.

“The handcuff key….” she said meekly. “I think I left it on the table in the garage.”

It was a good thing for Fifi that both of us ex-slavegirls had our arms securely locked 
behind out backs, or we might have strangled her. As it was, Linda called her a few choice 
names and I grumbled a bit. But in the end we all settled down in the straw, cuddling against 
each other for warmth. I would have been much more comfortable had my arms not been 
locked in steel behind me, but at least I was not in my cell any longer and would be a free 
woman in a few hours.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - NEW CAPTIVITY


“Well, well, what do we have here?”

I slowly came out of an exhausted sleep to find myself uncomfortably laying on straw and 
a man standing over me. He was middle aged, slender of build and rather handsome. He was 
dressed in tweeds like some country squire, and I guessed he was the French equivalent of 
such.

“Sir….” I began but halted when I found that I could not easily get into a sitting position. 
Those handcuffs on my wrists and elbows were a big hindrance. I forced myself up with a 
grunt. But before I could begin again, Fifi launched into a fast explanation which I could not 
follow because it was in French. The man nodded from time to time. His gaze shifted from 
Fifi’s animated face to the two naked and handcuffed woman sitting in his straw.

Finally Fifi ran down. The man rubbed his chin as he considered the situation. “You, Miss 
Sharon, was it? Were you kidnapped and held prisoner at Chateau Fontaine?”

“Not exactly kidnapped. But held prisoner.” I explained about the false job offer as briefly 
as I could. It was embarrassing to admit to a stranger that you had been duped. “I’m sure that 
if you will only let us see the American Consulate, they will help us get back home,” I pleaded.

He seemed a reasonable man and wasn’t drooling over our naked bodies as some men 
would. He asked Linda for confirmation of Fifi’s story and she told him what she could. Then 
she turned her back to him. “Sir, could you please get these off? They hurt.”

I seconded that motion.

“Sorry, don’t have a handcuff key on me,” he said. “But I’ll take you in the house and see 
what we can find.”

Just then a woman walked into the stable. She was tall, dressed in riding clothes and 
carried a riding crop. Her long black hair was allowed to hang down her back and even in the 
morning light I could see that she had the most remarkable green eyes.

“What’s this, darling? Been playing games behind my back?” She didn’t seem at all 
surprised to see two naked girls sitting on the floor of her stable. And the handcuffs didn’t 
seem to bother her at all, either.

He explained quickly, calling the woman by the pet name of “Princess.” I gathered that 
they were husband and wife. He fired some rapid questions at Fifi, who stammered and 
replied as best she could. She seemed nervous. Finally he rubbed his chin again and thought 
for a while. On the floor, I wiggled and wished they would get on with the removal of those 
handcuffs. Sleeping with your wrists handcuffed behind you is bad enough, but with the 
elbows joined too, it is quite uncomfortable.

Finally he leaned over and whispered something in his wife’s ear. She smiled and left. Then
he knelt by me and placed a hand upon my arm. “Let me help you up. We’ll take you in. I’m 
sure you would all like to get warm and have a good breakfast. My name, by the way, is 
Domanic Tremain. I own this estate. My wife is Katherine, but you can call her Princess. She 
prefers that.”

He didn’t have to make that offer twice. Quickly enough we three girls were walking 
towards the big house, every bit as large as Chateau Fontaine but more friendly somehow. 
The dinning room was warm and felt very good to me. There were delightful aromas drifting 
from the kitchen and I suddenly remembered how hungry I was. We all sat on chairs and 
awaited what would come next.

“My wife will be back shortly. She’s looking to see if we have something that might get 
those handcuffs off. If you’ll wait here, I’ll tell the cook to get extra plates of breakfast.”

Alone, we looked at each other. The smile had left Linda’s face, leaving a slightly worried 
look that must have been mirrored on mine. Fifi seemed less nervous but still not completely 
happy. In her case, I was sure that it was because she would not feel safe until she were in the 
United States and safe from Brian Carter and Chateau Fontaine. I tried to tell myself that not 
everyone carries around handcuff keys and it was only natural that they should have a little 
trouble getting the things off us.

The two of them returned. I didn’t see any key in Mr. Tremain’s hand but Mrs. Tremain held
hers behind her back. I didn’t like the way she was smiling.

“We’ll have those off in a little bit,” he told us as he came up behind Fifi’s chair. Then 
suddenly he grabbed her arms and held them. A second later his wife had snapped a pair of 
handcuffs on the startled girl’s wrists. She tried to stand but was held there while a second 
pair of handcuffs were brought out of his pocket and locked upon her elbows. Now Fifi was 
shackled the same as us.

Briefly I thought about running but had to reject the idea. I was only a naked girl with her 
arms snugly locked behind her. I wouldn’t have gotten a dozen feet before these two would 
have had their hands on me.

Linda protested but was ignored. Fifi looked terribly surprised for a minute. Then she 
shook her arms and tried to bring her joined wrists around to the front so she could see the 
handcuffs. Her surprise slowly turned to puzzlement mixed with delight.

“Does the Master wish to keep Fifi?” she asked. I wasn’t sure what she meant but 
apparently Domanic Tremain did.

“We shall see,” he said. Then he turned a chair around and sat on it, facing us and resting 
his arms on the back. It reminded me of the way Brian Carter sat on the chair in the Las Vegas 
hotel room so very long ago. “I’m afraid that things will not work out quite as you planned,” 
he began.

“You’re not going to turn us over to Brian Carter, are you?” I asked, unable to keep a little 
tremor of fear out of my voice.

“I should. You see, around these parts we stick to the old ways. And all the families around 
here used to own slaves. Mostly slavegirls since we don’t really need labor to till the lands. But 
it is nice to have a few young, healthy slavegirls around the place.”

“So you can torture them?” I interrupted.

“Well … Some of the nobility do like that. And I’ll admit that I’ve occasionally warmed the 
bottom of a young thing. It is invigorating. Brian Carter does, I believe, follow those old ways. 
But what he does with his slavegirls is his business. We all turn a deaf ear to screams coming 
from Chateau Fontaine. Just as he would turn a deaf ear to anything we wished to do to ours.”

“You have slavegirls!” exclaimed Linda.

“No. Actually not. Our family gave up that delightful pastime about forty years ago.”

This was sounding like something out of medieval times, not near the end of the twentieth
century.

“You two were his property and should be returned.” I noted the use of “were” instead of 
“are.” It was a hopeful sign.

“However I think that perhaps he does go a bit too far. There have been rumors … And I 
can see fading whip marks on your bodies. Perhaps it would be best if you two were not 
returned to the lifestyle you have lived there. Besides, he would punish you something terrible
for an escape attempt.”

He paused then motioned to his wife. She leaned down and put her ear next his mouth. 
Then she nodded in agreement with whatever he had whispered.

“We could arrange for you two to be taken to Paris and given enough money for you to 
get back to the United States. You will have to tell your consulate that you lost your passports 
when robbed. They may help you get back home. There may, however, be problems. But….” he
left the word dramatically dangling in the air. “But what is there in it for me?”

“I’ll find a way to repay the money,” I offered.

“I have all the money I could ever want,” he said honestly. “Perhaps I would want 
something more.”

I looked at Linda. Was he telling us he expected us to give our bodies to him? That was all 
we had. But I was not the kind of girl to go around jumping in bed with just any man and was 
about to tell him so. But he did hold our future in his hands. And he wasn’t a bad looking 
chap….

“And then we have Fifi,” he continued with a change in the subject. “Servants are little 
more than slaves, and are often treated that way. I really should give her back to Brian Carter. 
It is up to him how to deal with her. But I fear that he would be harsh when he finds out that 
she was the one who took you two out of your cells.”

For a minute we all looked at each other. I was trying to find something to say, anything 
that would influence this man to help us. His leaving our arms bound in handcuffs loudly 
proclaimed that he was not above keeping a girl prisoner. It was even likely that he had a 
dungeon under the house, the same as Chateau Fontaine and probably every chateau around 
there.

He rose to his feet. “My wife and I have to talk this over,” he said. “In the meantime 
perhaps you three would like to get some rest. In a bed, this time. But first the promised 
breakfast.”

The three of us had to eat without hands, a messy and embarrassing task. But we were 
hungry and the food was good. I licked my plate clean.

Our faces were wiped and we were led upstairs to a guest bedroom. The bed was large 
enough to hold soccer practice on, and covered with satin covers. Domanic turned down the 
covers. The bed looked inviting.

“But first there is a little matter to attend to.” While he watched, his wife, Princess, 
unbuttoned the maid’s uniform and pulled it down over Fifi’s hips. The sleeves had to be cut 
but that was all. As I had thought, she wore no bra, and the panties were lacy and brief. But 
they were also quickly gone, along with the nylons and high heels. Fifi, it was revealed, had a 
very nice figure. Her breasts weren’t as large as either Linda’s or mine, but quite nice. Perky is 
the term often used to describe such breasts with upturned nipples. Her public patch was lush
with ebony curls.

Princess seemed to like the sight of a naked Fifi very much. She stood face to face with the
trembling girl and stroked her nakedness with loving hands. Fifi’s nervousness and fear slowly 
turned into something else as those female hands teased her nipples, squeezed her breasts, 
and stroked her thighs. We were getting close to watching a lesbian show when Mr. Tremain 
cleared his throat.

“Later, Princess,” he suggested. She backed off but looked terribly disappointed. So did 
Fifi.

“Let us fix them up for a little nap.” He pointed to the bed. I was all for crawling between 
those soft, white sheets but that wasn’t exactly what our new captors had in mind. I was the 
first one to be put in bed, rolled over on my stomach, then felt my legs being doubled up. A 
familiar clicking sound and the feel of cold steel around my ankles made me know that this 
would not be the most comfortable nap I had ever taken. I knew it for certain when I felt the 
cuffs around my ankles dig in as my feet were pulled by the handcuff chain up to my wrists. A 
lock of some kind was used between the chains of the handcuffs, leaving me in an all steel 
hogtie. The metal edges dug into my wrists and ankles when I was released.

But it was not as bad as most of the treatment I had received at Chateau Fontaine, and I 
could put up with it. Keeping my legs bent back helped ease the strain. Rolling on my side 
also helped.

Linda was placed on the bed next to me and her ankles locked in another pair of 
handcuffs. Then she was padlocked into a hogtie. Fifi joined us and was treated to the same 
uncomfortable restrictions. When we were all three laying on our sides, Mr. Tremain pulled the
covers up to our necks and bid us pleasant dreams. Then they actually left us alone.

A little experimentation showed me that I was not going to get those handcuffs off and 
any attempt would only result in pain. And the advantage of handcuffs was apparent when I 
realized that none of us could help each other. We were going to stay secured and, unless we 
were foolish enough to roll out of bed, stay in bed. Which wasn’t so bad. As I grew warmer, 
and with a stomach full of good food, I grew sleepy. Since there was nothing else I could do, I 
let myself slip peacefully into sleep, my breasts pressed against Linda’s as we lay on our sides.

A few hours later I awoke because of movement of the bed. Through half opened eyes I 
saw Mrs. Tremain unlocking the handcuffs from Fifi’s ankles and helping the maid out of the 
bed. She placed a leather collar around her slender neck and snapped a leash onto it. Then 
she led the naked servant from the room. I could see that Fifi was smiling. So was Mrs. 
Tremain. I closed my eyes and surrendered again to sleep.

Finally I could no longer ignore the pain caused by steel edges digging into my wrists and 
ankles. The only thing to do about it was to bend my knees more to ease the pressure. Linda 
was still next to me, still sleeping and still locked in a handcuff hogtie. As I lay there, I 
wondered what was happening to Fifi. Nothing too terrible, I hoped.

Much later Mr. Tremain came for us. He unlocked the handcuffs upon our ankles and took 
the padlock off those on our wrists, placing the hardware on a dresser. Then he invited us to 
proceed him down the corridor.

I, for one, fully expected to be led down to a dungeon complete with cells and torture 
devices. Instead we were led to a lounge. Mrs. Tremain was already, as was Fifi. Brian’s former 
maid was kneeling at Mrs. Tremain’s feet as she lounged in a comfortable chair of leather. She 
had changed her costume from riding britches to an outfit consisting of a very, very short 
black leather skirt and white, long sleeved blouse. Her legs were clad in dark nylons held up by
a garter belt, and had very high spike heels on them. She looked wonderful and very much at 
home in that outfit. She toyed with the riding crop in her hands and smiled like a cat with a 
canary.

On the floor at her feet, like an adoring puppy dog, Fifi knelt. She was still naked but now 
only a single pair of handcuffs were on her wrists and those were in front. Her shackled hands 
were caressing the shinny patented leather shoes of her new mistress. She seemed very 
content and happier than we had ever seen her. My guess was that she found lesbian sex to 
her liking. Just peeking around the edge of her hips I could see fresh whip marks, vividly black 
and purple. But there were only a couple of them.

Linda looked at me with a smile on her face. Our little Fifi had finally found out what 
lesbian sex was like. And apparently she liked it.

“Please sit down,” Mr. Tremain said. “We have a little talking to do.” We sat on a leather 
couch that was cool against our bare skin. “As you can imagine, it would be tempting to keep 
you two as our own slaves. Oh, yes, we understand that lifestyle. We have both enjoyed the 
binding of a female, and the occasionally warming up of feminine asses. But we’ve restricted 
our activities to some very selected friends and an occasional prostitute hired for the 
weekend.”

The man who held our future in his hands parted his robe and snapped his fingers. Fifi 
immediately crawled over on her knees and eagerly placed his erect penis in her mouth. She 
might not have been very experienced at such things, but she seemed to be doing a good job
of pleasing her new master.

“However three slavegirls is a bit much for us. My wife and I have decided that Fifi would 
be quite enough. And she seems willing to become our permanent slavegirl. She seems to 
have taken to Princess quite well, in fact.” He put one hand behind her head as she worked 
her mouth along his rod. “And she’s learning quite rapidly how to please a man. Apparently 
she had never been treated properly, and I mean with both kindness as well as a firm hand.”

It seemed more natural to think of her as “Mistress” but Princess was what he called his 
wife. She rose gracefully to her feet to continue the lecture. “We intend to keep Fifi,” she 
purred. Her English was heavily accented but quite proper. “Of course, we’ll have to hide the 
fact from certain neighbors, but that shouldn’t be too hard.”

I wondered how she could walk on that thick carpet in those spike heels. Then I wondered 
what our fate would be. I was very much aware of the tight steel around my elbows and 
ankles.

“But what to do with you two?” she asked dramatically. “We could turn you over to that 
awful Brian.” She paused to let that sink in. “But I fear he would do some simply terrible things
to you delightful girls. Then we could keep you ourselves. But, as honey pointed out, we really 
don’t need the hassle of three slavegirls when one will do us quite fine. And he also pointed 
out that it would cost us to provide transportation back to your country. And I do think that 
we should get something for our money and effort. Don’t you?”

Linda looked at me and I stared back at her. I had the feeling that our fate had already 
been determined and all this was a play being acted out. Our naked and shackled condition 
dictated our roles in this play. “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, trying to sound just submissive 
enough. I feared that too submissive and they might consider us in the same class as Fifi. Too 
rebellious and they might think that they couldn’t let us go safely. “Of course,” I quickly added,
“we would be most grateful and would never do anything to get you two in trouble.”

Princess gave me a look that clearly told me she didn’t consider us much of a treat to 
begin with. I wished my arms weren’t joined behind me. Besides, my arms were hurting, 
mostly up at the elbows.

Mr. Tremain seemed to be having a little trouble concentrating on the conversation. “We 
have decided on several tasks that we would like you two to do for us. Tasks that we both 
think would be exciting.”

Between taming Fifi and thinking up a schedule of tasks for us, they must have been busy 
that morning. “Yes, Sir. Would we be allowed to go home after those tasks?”

“Yes. Fifi, that’s enough for now.” The kneeling maid backed reluctantly away from her 
Master. Tremain shook his head as if to clear it. “We have decided that you two will stay with 
us for two weeks. We will outline the tasks you are to perform during that time. At the end of 
it, you will be taken back to the United States and set free. I will see that you have enough 
money to go back to wherever your homes are.”

I looked at Linda. It wasn’t what we had expected but how hard could two more weeks be?
Especially when compared to a lifetime we would have spent at Chateau Fontaine. “We accept,
Sir,” I said.

Linda added, “Will we be hurt much?”

Mr and Mrs Tremain exchanged glances. “Most of the tasks will not involve your being 
hurt. Much,” he said. “But some may be a little unpleasant.”

Which didn’t tell us much. But that old saying about beggar not being choosers equally 
applies to slavegirls.

“When do we start?” I inquired. I guess I was anxious to get it over with. Princess smiled at 
me.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - JUST HANGING AROUND


When it was my turn, I found it one of the scariest experiences of my life. It hadn’t looked so 
terrible while Linda was doing it, but it was one of those things that always looked different 
than it felt.

My arms were tied behind my back with the elbows together. It turned out that the 
Tremains knew how to tie as well as anyone at Chateau Fontaine. The ropes were quite tight 
and impossible to wiggle off. Then they had me sit on a chair while my ankles were bound 
together. Next to the chair, Linda lay on the ground, shivering a little from her experience.

As Mr. Tremain was binding my ankle ropes to the larger rope hanging down from the 
tree, I reflected on the difference between these two and those people at Chateau Fontaine. 
Here we were being tortured, but it was without hostility or the severe pain of our prior 
captivity. Brian and Jean had been mean. They had wanted to hurt us. It was our pain they 
enjoyed. The Tremains loved to see us completely helpless, enjoyed seeing us struggling to 
escape where it was impossible, and adored when we showed on our faces and by body 
language how uncomfortable we found their little “tasks.” But they never inflicted serious pain
for it’s own sake. In the first week of our servitude for them, we had been spanked, my bottom
even whipped one day with a belt, but neither Linda nor myself had every undergone what 
would be called a proper whipping. Our bottoms sometimes hurt like hell, but the pain was 
gone a few hours later and no whip marks remained for a week to show where we had been 
tortured.

Mostly we had been tightly bound with ropes and made to crawl around or try to perform 
nearly impossible tasks for our captors. Each night we were taken to their bedroom and tightly
lashed to the massive posts of their bed. We were gagged with a wad of cloth filling our 
mouths, followed by tape over our tightly closed lips, and soft leather discipline hoods laced 
tight around our heads. In immobility, darkness, and silence we stood like sentinels at the end 
of their beds. And, after the first couple nights, we even found that we could sleep the whole 
night like that.

Mrs. Tremain took to waking us up by teasing our breasts until we were awake and 
moaning with desire. Then she would laughingly leave us alone for another hour before we 
were untied for breakfast. It was a very frustrating hour but oddly pleasant. I mean it was for 
me. That old tingle at the idea of being tied and helpless was coming back. There was 
something inside me that wanted to be tied up, wanted to be helpless and under the total 
control of another person. It had been there when Brian tied me in that Las Vegas hotel room. 
It had been there when I said yes to a job that would have been wonderful days filled with 
bondage but not slavery. And now, under the hand of two people I was coming to like, it was 
reborn. After the first two days, I found myself not fearing what they might do to me. It 
became apparent that they might enjoy seeing me contort in the gasp of tight strictures, but 
they did not wish me harm. I even came to like the nighttime when I had to stand up all night, 
my hands crossed and bound behind that wooden post, and my body lashed tightly to it. And 
I was getting used to being silent and blindfolded all night.

I don’t think Linda shared my increasing interest in being tied up. But she never did like it 
the way I did. She had been kidnapped, not suckered into accepting a job as a bondage 
model. In fact, I got the feeling that she would have gladly exchanged places with Princess 
Tremain. I saw the glow in her eyes when she watched our Mistress spank her new maid then 
make Fifi suck her pussy until she came to what must have been a wonderful orgasm. Linda, I 
think, was cut out to be a Mistress, not a slave.

But there was little she could do now. We had agreed to serve two weeks as slavegirls, and
nothing was going to change that.

There were little extras, of course. When Princess wasn’t having us service her with the 
talents and skills of Lesbos, or making us teach Fifi all we knew, her husband was tying us 
down to a bed or over a chair or just picking us up and impaling us upon that huge and 
always rigid shaft of his.

Yes, he raped us, starting that first afternoon right there in the lounge in front of his wife, 
new maid and my friend Linda. I was bent over the back of the couch and screwed to a 
fare-thee-well. That evening he performed the same service for Linda after positioning her 
over the edge of his bed. Then he tied both of us to the posts for the night.

Linda, as she told me, really didn’t like his using her body without even asking. I didn’t 
mind. In fact, I was beginning to enjoy it. Maybe that makes me a loose woman or something, 
but that’s the way I am. Linda just put up with it. We’re different.

Tremain had finished knotting the rope from my ankles and stepped over to the hoist. I 
watched in fascination as my feet rose before my eyes. Up and up they went until I was 
leaning back in the chair. Then I slid down a bit but continued to follow my feet upwards. The 
rope stopped pulling me up when my head was about four feet off the ground.

It was a strange and wonderful feeling to be hanging upside down by my ankles. It made 
me feel deliciously helpless but it was scary, too. I watched an upside down Tremain remove 
the chair, then pick up the still bound Linda. A few minutes later he came back without her 
and I wondered where she was tied. Princess was standing there, watching me so I knew that 
Linda wasn’t being administered to by her. Probably she was sitting in a chair or laying on the 
floor, additional ropes assuring that she would not move from that spot.

But my little “task” really became scary when his strong hands took hold of my arms and 
pulled me back until he could pull me no further. Then he let me go.

Do you remember what it was like to swing wildly on the swing set at the playground 
when you were a kid? Well, this was nothing like that. This was a thousand times scarier. I 
eeked out a small scream as I sailed across the clearing. At the peek of the other side I 
stopped, held there for a slit second, then swung back. The ground seemed to be rushing up 
at me very fast. At the end of my swing, his strong hands caught me then pushed me hard.

It took a couple dozen swings but I began to really like this. It was still scary but that only 
added to the excitement. I began giggling, it was hard to hold it in. I guess that ruined the 
scene. I mean, slavegirls being tormented like that aren’t suppose to like it. But it was fun!

The ropes creaked and groaned a bit and the old tree I was suspended from swayed just 
enough for me to feel it. I even tired bending at the waist to “pump”. You remember how you 
pumped your legs to make yourself swing higher? I don’t know if I was doing much, though.

Then I noticed that there were no hands pushing me. Slowly my swings diminished until I 
was just hanging straight down. My captors were no where to be seen. And that was a new 
scary feeling. How long would they leave me hanging? How long could a girl take hanging 
upside down? Wasn’t it suppose to eventually do some kind of damage?

Well, I thought, nothing I could do about that, so might as well enjoy it. Which should give
you an idea how much I had returned to the loving bondage. I hung there, trying to reach my 
pussy with my bound hands. Failing that, I tried to force my arms around to my breast. I could 
just touch the nipple with one finger tip. But that didn’t do much for the desire burning within
my body. Finally, as the only thing I could do, I grabbed my ass and squeezed until I felt my 
fingernails digging into my flesh. At the same time I was clenching and unclenching my thighs.
Which didn’t do much towards reaching the climax I so desperately wanted. But it felt good.

I think I was jerking around at the end of my rope when Fifi came in. I heard the pad of 
bare feet on the hard ground and opened my eyes to see a naked Fifi hurrying towards me. 
Her hands were handcuffed behind her, but she was grinning. Without a word, she pressed 
her body against mine and shoved my pubic hair aside with her nose. Quickly her tongue 
found my most sensitive spot and I discovered how sexually excited I already was. In less than 
two minutes I was arching my body backwards to get my pussy closer to that wonderful 
mouth. I was also trembling all over with one fantastic orgasm.

A little later I floated back down to this planet to find I was still hovering three feet off the 
ground and still quite helpless. It has started to rain. I sighed contentedly, and tired to get 
myself swinging again by pumping my body.

The two weeks flew passed. Linda and Sharon were both kept in constant restraints, just as
they had been at Chateau Fontaine, yet the feeling was different. Both girls seemed happy, but
Sharon much more than Linda. They talked with each other when their restraints allowed, and 
even were allowed to make love to each other. The newest slavegirl, Fifi, had informed her 
Master and Mistress, in glowing terms, how wonderfully these two made love to each other. 
So, of course, a demonstration was set up. Both girls were bound with arms behind their backs
and elbows tightly corded, and were ordered to make the “Lesbian love,” as Fifi called it. It was
extremely obvious to all who watched that neither direct command nor threat of punishment 
was necessary for the two former slavegirls of Chateau Fontaine to rub their breasts together, 
kiss passionately, and then begin what Master Tremain called “nibble each other.”

Shortly after the beginning of the show, the Princess, as they were finally coming to think 
of her, ordered Fifi on her knees and between her legs. Leaning far back in the chair with her 
legs spread wide, she watched the rest of the show in an increasing heat in her own loins. She 
reached a quite satisfactory climax herself about the same time as the two girls cavorting on 
the bed.

It was a pleasant evening at the Tremain estate.

Constant mild punishments and sexual use twenty-four hours a day were not possible, 
even if the Master and Mistress took turns, so there were periods when Linda and Sharon 
were “stored away” to await their Master and Mistress’ pleasure. During such times they talked
about what they would do when they returned to their homeland.

“I guess I should look for a job,” said Sharon. “But not back at the same company I left. I 
got tired of telling my boss and all the other men that I wasn’t that kind of girl.” She paused to
look down at her naked body stretched wide and bound to rings in the wall of a basement 
room. And remembered the very fine screwing given her just a few hours before by that 
handsome and endlessly ready Mr. Tremain. But that wasn’t the same, after all, they were 
slavegirls and had to do what they were ordered. “Besides,” she added, “I really told them 
where to go when I quit. I guess I’ll just have to find some other job.”

Linda looked up from the hogtie she endured on the concrete floor. “Maybe not.” Then 
she was silent, perhaps thinking.

“What do you mean?” asked Sharon. “Have to put food on the table and a roof over my 
head, as my father used to say.”

For a bit Linda didn’t say anything. When she did, it was in a quiet, more serious voice. “I’ll 
turn eighteen in a few weeks. When I do, I get the inheritance from my parents.”

“Yes…?” asked Sharon when Linda didn’t continue.

“Well, it will be a fairly good sum of money. When they died, their estate went into a trust 
fund until my eighteenth birthday.” Then she mentioned a number containing many digits 
that made Sharon whistle. “Of course, that’s just a round figure. Probably low. But what it 
means is that I don’t have to work again. If I don’t squander it, I won’t have to work the rest of
my life. And I get title to the house.”

“The house?”

“It’s only six bedrooms and the stables don’t have horses any more. But it’s paid for, has a 
pool, three fireplaces, and there’s plenty of room for us to play there. That is, if you would like 
to come live with me.” She sounded like a little girl begging for a piece of candy.

Sharon looked at her friend hard. “What kind of games?” she asked. “I mean, I love you, I 
really do. But we’ve hardly had a chance to do anything on our own. Every time we’ve made 
love, it was at the order or some master or another. What would we do on our own?”

Linda swallowed hard. “I would … I….” She whined and shifted her position on the floor. 
This was not easy for her to say. With a rush, she forced out, “I would like to keep you as a … a
slavegirl. There, I said it.”

Sharon’s jaw dropped. “A slavegirl,” she repeated.

“Oh, I hope I’m not upsetting you. It’s just that I’ve come to the conclusion that I really do 
like all this slavegirl and punishment stuff, but not being done to me. I would love,” she 
emphasized that word, “just love to have you as a slavegirl.”

“Oh, Linda….”

“Please understand that I won’t hurt you,” the teenager hurried on. “I’ll keep you tied up or
chained up all the time. And I’ll take you to bed with me every night. But I won’t whip you or 
torture you.”

“Or throw me in poison ivy?”

They both laughed at that one. “Yes. I won’t throw you in poison ivy. Oh, Sharon, I love 
you. I want to make you mine, all mine. I want to own you. Do you understand?”

It was Sharon’s turn to pause in thought. The last two weeks had been wonderful in most 
ways. The thrill of being tied up with ropes had returned and the thought of being someone’s 
slavegirl sent a shiver down her spine. But it was a good shiver. She really did love this 
teenager who was older and wiser than her years.

Very formally, Sharon stated, “I would love to be your slavegirl, Linda. From now on I will 
call you Mistress Linda. I will love you and obey you and be yours always.”

When Fifi came in a few minutes later she found both girls crying with happiness. Linda 
had rolled over and wiggled on her stomach until she reached the wall where Sharon hung 
spread-eagle from stout hooks. By reaching up with her head, she could just kiss Sharon’s 
foot. It would have been a submissive gesture for most, but in this case she meant it only as 
an expression of love, and Sharon took it as that. She wished she could reach down and kiss 
her new Mistress.

Fifi rattled her chains at the two. “What is here going on?” she demanded.

“We’re celebrating, Slave Fifi,” said Linda. “We’re happy.”

“Oh, I see. Soon you will be free girls and never have to be tied up or chained again.”

Both girls laughed. “Not quite, Fifi, not quite,” said Sharon.

Fifi did not understand until they explained. Then she brightened up and exclaimed, “Oh, 
you will set up a chateau in American. Maybe I can visit you sometime. Would you like a 
French slave, Mistress Linda?”

“Sure. We’d be happy to have you visit.”

“Of course, my Master and Mistress must give their permission for me to go. But if I 
promised to come back, maybe they will.”

“I’m sure they will,” said Linda. She wasn’t really sure but it was what Fifi wanted to hear.

The next morning the two slavegirls from the Chateau Fontaine were transported back to 
the United States. But it wasn’t exactly the way they had expected.





CHAPTER NINETEEN - HOMEWARD BOUND


That bastard Tremain, I should have known he’d have some trick up his sleeve. He enjoyed too
much the tormenting of naked helpless women for him to simply let us go. He had to get the 
last laugh. And it was a good one, too.

“This is my friend Jack,” he said on the morning he told us we were to go home. Both 
Linda and I had been bathed, our hair wonderfully arranged so we looked stunning, and our 
bodies perfumed. The French seem to love perfume a lot. But we were still locked in handcuffs
with wrists firmly behind our backs. I figured he was just stretching the captivity out as long as
he could. Any second he would unlock us, allow us to get dressed and give us plane tickets. I 
was sure of it.

I was also wrong. Instead we were ushered into a lounge and the presence of a man we 
had never been before. He looked like a jolly old shoemaker or something, not the millionaire 
we later found out he was. He looked both the naked girls up and down, then smiled. At least 
it was a smile of open admiration. His eyes twinkled at our nudity, like a lustful Santa Claus. He
turned to Mr. Tremain and said something in French. Both the men had a good laugh. 
Probably at our expense.

“Jack here is an old friend,” our host for the last two weeks said. “We go back a long ways. 
He has a boat, quite a large one, in fact, that he uses to travel around the world. He will be 
taking you two back home.”

Linda looked up. A cruise? That would be nice, I thought. I had thought that a quick flight 
back home, then Linda and I getting to her house as fast as we could. But….

“Of course, you will have to work your passage….” Tremain let that linger in the air while 
we tried to figure out what he meant. I hoped it wasn’t what I thought.

“But don’t worry. Jack here has agreed to not to, how to you Americans say it, screw you? 
Such a vulgar word. Well, better than fuck, no? So, he will not screw you. But it would be nice 
if you were to give him something to pay for your passage.” He smiled. Jack smiled. We didn’t.
“I hope you both are good at giving blow jobs. Another of your American vulgar terms.”

I looked at Linda. She looked at me. Neither of us wanted to do what Tremain suggested 
but did we have a choice? “Would there be some other way?” I asked.

“Well, the only alternative I can see would be for me to turn you over to your last owner….”
He let that sink in. ‘Brian has been by, asking if we’d seen any naked girls running around the 
country side. He seemed quite angered at your escaping.”

I sighed. “A sea cruise would be nice,” I said. “Will we have to be kept tied up?” I asked.

“It would be best, I think. That way you won’t go changing your minds.”

“Very well then. We will pay for our passage.” I glanced at Linda to see if she disagreed. 
She just shrugged. After what Brian and Jean had put us through, this wasn’t really so bad. 
The worst part was that our freedom was delayed yet again.

“The trip will not take more than two weeks. He has a fast boat. That means only about 
seven blow jobs each. Jack will expect at least one a day, maybe more.” Tremain turned to Jack
and said something in French. They both laughed again.

The down payment for our journey home was demanded right then and there. Linda and I 
were left to decide which of us would do it. “I’m the slavegirl,” I said to her. “I’ll do it.” I don’t 
think Tremain or Jack understood what I was talking about, but if I was going to be owned by 
my beloved Linda, I might as well get started protecting her. If she didn’t want to have to give 
oral sex to a strange man, then it was only right that I should be the one to do it. In fact, I 
planned right there and then to try and be the on to do it every day on the boat trip.

I got down on my knees and shuffled up to the Frenchman. He obliged me by unzipping 
his pants. It would be nice to say that it was fun for me, but truth is that it wasn’t. When Jack 
came, I swallowed as Tremain had taught me, then licked his limp penis clean. He put it away. I
felt a little disgusted and humiliated.

“And now I think we can get you girls on your way. If you will come this way.” He led us 
out to the garage. There, sitting on the floor, all bright and shinning, were two cages the likes 
of which I hadn’t seen before. Each was about the size of a girl, the size of the two of us, in 
fact. Each was made of steel bars, welded together except for the front side which was hinged 
and swung open like a door. There was a steel plate on the bottom of each.

I watched in disbelief as Linda was backed into her cage and the door closed over her. 
Tremain locked it with three different padlocks. The cage must have been custom made for it 
was exactly the same length and width and depth as the naked girl it now held. Or maybe a 
slight bit smaller for her breasts protruded through the bars in front. Even on the sides, her 
body was pressed tight against the bars until the flesh of her hips stuck between them. It was 
a nice, snug little cage. Linda could hardly move, save to shuffle her feet a bit and mover her 
head some. The main part of her was held pretty solidly in place, and her hands were still 
joined behind her with handcuffs.

It was my turn next. I was backed in and found, as I expected, that the cage just fit me. The
door closed and was locked with those three padlocks. The door pressed against my big 
breasts and squeezed them between two of the bars. It wasn’t painful but a nuisance to be 
sure.

I wanted to ask how long we would be in these cages, mostly to assure myself that these 
were only transportation devices to get us to Jack’s yacht. They couldn’t seriously expect us to 
travel all the way home in these.

“These keys,” Tremain said, holding up a small ring with several padlock keys attached to it.
“will be mailed to a friend of mine in California. When you two are delivered to him, he will 
unlock you and you will then be free. Enjoy your voyage.”

He dropped the keys into a small box, then handed that to Mrs. Tremain who had come in 
when we weren’t looking. She put the lid on the box and began wrapping tape around it. 
There was a mailing label on the table next to her.

“Oh, when Bert unlocks your cage, it would be nice if you two were to show your gratitude
to him. Since you’ll both be naked and handcuffed, it shouldn’t be to hard to figure out what 
you can do.”

“You’re a bastard,” I said. But it was hard to put much anger into it. He had kept us 
prisoners for the last two weeks, but hadn’t been to bad to us. And he was arranging for us to 
be free. Eventually.

“I’ve been called worse,” he said cheerfully. “Well, have a good journey.”

“Wait!” I called. “What about … I mean, if we’re kept in these cages, how will we…?”

“I’m sure that Jack will find a way to get his prick up to your mouths.”

“That’s not what I was talking about. I mean bodily functions.”

“Oh, that. Jack says that he has done this before and has a place in his yacht were you and 
the cages can be hosed down. I’m sure he’ll arrange for you to be cleaned every day, maybe a 
few times a day. Depends on whether you need it or not.”

I would have liked to cut him down with a snappy retort, but I had none. Truth was both 
Linda and I had learned the important and practical skill of not soiling yourself while in 
restraints. At least not until you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Mr. Tremain grinned. He was wining all the points in this game.

Two big men appeared with dollies. They shoved the blades under our cages and tilted us 
back like we were cargo. They didn’t seem to care that these cages clearly held two naked 
women.

It was thus that we took our leave of Master Tremain and Princess. The last I saw of them 
was the bastard smiling at our dismay and Princess smiling at her slavegirl Fifi, who was 
kneeling between her legs paying homage to female desire.

We took a long drive in the back of a truck, our cages lashed to the walls so that they 
wouldn’t fall over. At least they hadn’t gagged us and Linda and I could talk. In the coming 
two weeks, we had a lot of chances to talk. The main subject was whether we were ever going 
to really see freedom. It had been promised to us but so far withheld. Would the end of this 
sea journey see the shackles finally fall off?

Finally we were taken off the truck. First our cages were covered with canvass so no one 
could see us. Then we were carried a ways and put down. I never even saw the ship we were 
taken on board. Hours later Jack came down and supervised the securing of our cages to the 
walls of his brig so we wouldn’t fall down, even if the seas should turn rough. Then we got the 
first of the twice daily hosing down. The water was cold and stung where it was blasted on our
skin. The crewman holding the hose took delight in directing the beam into our private places 
and making my breasts flatten a bit under the pressure of the water.

Over the next couple days a pattern was established. We were given breakfast then had 
the first of the cold water hosing. Then we were left alone until lunch. It was a different 
crewman who fed us each time so I think they were taking turns ogling the naked women. 
And from the way most of them looked at our bodies, I was glad we were locked safely in 
those cages. At least rape was impossible. Well, unless the guy had penis the length of a 
baseball bat. And then it would have been impossible to spread our legs-Each evening Jack 
came in. I tried to let him know that I was to give all the blow jobs but he either didn’t 
understand English that well or didn’t want to. So we had to take turns paying for our 
passage. In order for this to be accomplished, our captor stood on a stool to present his tool 
for our servicing. We had to lean our heads forward and give him the blow job through the 
bars.

The worst part was the boredom. And that would have been a lot worse if Linda hadn’t 
been there. We talked for hours. She described each part of her home until I was sure I could 
find anything in it. We talked about our pasts and then about our futures. We made up 
tortures if we should ever get our hands on Brian Carter. Then Linda described some of the 
ways she would keep me restrained. Most echoed what we had experience at Chateau 
Fontaine but she had some ingenious plans that showed her dominant imagination. I 
especially liked the one about being hung upside down over the pool and then being dunked 
up and down like a yo-yo.

Eventually the trip was over. There had never been any communication between us and 
Jack or any of his crew. One morning we realized that the engines were not making their 
steady, low hum. Later that day our cages were wrapped with the canvass and we were taken 
from the ship. I never did see it. For all I know, we might have journeyed home on a tramp 
steamer.

There was another truck ride, spent lashed to the walls. The canvass was never taken off. 
so we didn’t see anything.

Can I begin to tell you how tired we were of standing in those cages? Can you imagine it? 
We were kept handcuffed and locked in those tiny cages for over two weeks. And do you 
know what was the single biggest torment? It was looking at Linda’s naked body only a few 
feet away and not being able to touch her. For that matter, it was no picnic not being able to 
touch myself. Some of those descriptions Linda gave me of what she was going to do to me 
made me awfully horny. We took turns tormenting each other with vivid descriptions of sexual
acts we would like to do to each other.

By the end of two weeks, we both were ready to scream in frustration. My poor little pussy 
ached for someone to touch it. Preferably Linda’s velvet tongue. Sigh!

Those two weeks were a torment, I can tell you. Especially for my darling Linda. She really 
isn’t cut out to be a slavegirl and I think that was much rougher on her than on me. I’m 
submissive by nature and it just sort of feels natural to be tied up. Or chained. Or caged. Linda
is a free spirit and meant to be the one holding the leash not the one at the end of it.

For at least an hour our cages just stood there. Then the canvass was pulled away to leave 
us blinking at the bright sunlight. We were in a home, the living room, sitting in the middle of 
the floor, facing picture windows overlooking a large yard with a big pool and lots of green 
grass and trees. As my eyes got used to the bright light, I could make out a man standing 
there with his hands on his hips.

“So these are the two slavegirls Tremain sent me.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Please, sir, we have been promised that we would be set 
free at the end of this trip. We have kept up our end of the bargain. Please set up free.”

“Hold long have you been in those cages?” he asked. As he stepped a little closer I could 
see that he was middle aged, pot-bellied and had very little of his hair left. He wore very 
expensive clothing and had a diamond that would have choked a horse on his finger.

I sighed. Was freedom to again be denied? “We have been in these for fifteen days, sir,” I 
said.

“Humph! Uncomfortable?”

“That would be an understatement. It would be so nice to lay down. Sir.”

He just stood there with his hands on his hips. “Humph!” he said again and then stepped 
closer to make a detailed inspection of all visible parts of Linda and me. “Humph!”

Then he picked up a box from his coffee table and my heart leapt with joy. It was the box 
with the keys! He unwrapped the numerous windings of paper tape Princess had put there, 
then pulled the lid off. It took several tries to get all the locks off, mostly because the keys 
weren’t marked. But eventually the door swung open and I almost fell forward. I tried to step 
but my legs trembled and I almost collapsed. The man helped me to the couch where I sat 
down. Then I eased my way down until I was laying on the couch. It felt so good to get off my 
feet. The muscles in the backs of my legs trembled and I wanted to cry.

A minute later Linda was laying on the couch next to mine.

“I don’t got no handcuff keys,” he said. But he wasn’t looking at the handcuffs, he was 
staring at my pubic bush.

“I’m sure Master Tremain figured you would be able to free us,” I said.

“Humph!” But he looked in the box again. “Well, what do you know! Here’s a little key.” He 
fumbled with the small key but finally the handcuffs fell away. I sighed with pleasure and 
brought my hands around in front of me for the first time in over two weeks. My shoulders 
ached but I didn’t mind.

I heard a gasp and looked up to see Linda bring her arms around in front of her. She 
grimaced and smiled at the same time. “Guess Tremain had the last laugh on us,” she said. “He
certainly made us feel like slavegirls.”

“That Tremain guy,” said our host, “he’s funny. He said I was to unlock you two then give 
you these.” He pointed to a pile of feminine clothing and an envelope. I started to reach for 
the clothing, the first I would have on for so very long.

“Not so fast,” the man said. “He also said that you two would pay me for doing all this.” 
The leer upon his lips made it clear what form of payment he expected.

I sighed and stepped in before Linda could say anything. “Do you want a blow job or…?”

He looked at my mouth then at my pussy. I could hear wheels turning slowly within his 
head. “Cunt,” he said.

Well, that was clear enough. I arranged myself on the couch so that my legs were spread 
and my pussy wide open. One leg was draped over the back of the couch. “Yes, sir,” I said. 
“Please go ahead and collect your payment.”

He did. It was not neat, it was not with any kind of regard for a woman’s comfort or 
pleasure, and it was over in a few minutes. And he had bad breath. All the while I keep my 
eyes on Linda, trying to tell her that I loved her and didn’t really mind doing this to save her 
from having to. I would have not minded it more had he made it a little more fun for me. I 
had, after all, been horny for a long, long time….

“That was good,” he grunted. I was glad he found it pleasurable, and felt sorry for his wife. 
If he had one.

“Can we get dressed now?” I asked.

He looked at Linda like a diner wondering if he had room for a second helping of mashed 
potatoes. “Yeah, I guess you can.” Must have figured he couldn’t manage a repeat 
performance any time in the near future.

Have you ever gone naked for weeks and weeks, then tried to put on clothes? The feel of 
cloth against my skin was strange, almost unnatural. I promised myself that when we got to 
Linda’s home, that dress would be discarded and I might just never wear clothing again.

The dress didn’t fit too well, but it covered the subject. There was no underwear but that 
was okay with me. Mine dress was a hideous dark green thing that did nothing for me. Linda 
had a red thing that looked about ten years out of date. And the shoes weren’t the right size 
but neither of us complained. Linda opened the envelope then closed it immediately. She 
straightened up and took a deep breath. “Could you show us the way out, please?”

He showed us the door. He even called us a taxi since his house was not near a bus stop. 
The last thing I heard was his muttering about what the hell was he going to do with those 
two stupid cages in the middle of his front room.

It was then that Linda made her first act as a dominant female. “Please store them in your 
garage. As soon as I can, I’ll arrange for someone to pick them up.”

I looked at Linda. She wanted those cages? Then a shiver of delightful dread raced along 
my spine. I knew I had not seen the last of the cage.

We found out when the taxi came that we were not far from where I lived. Or used to live 
before I abandoned my apartment. Linda asked the driver to take us to LA International 
Airport. As we wound our way down Sunset Blvd., she showed me the pile of hundred dollar 
bills in the envelope. I guess maybe ten thousand dollars total. It was a big envelope. It almost
made the two weeks in those steel cages worth it. Almost.

We flew to Seattle, holding hands all the way. I let Linda have the window seat. Then we 
rented a car and drove to her house. It was huge. Her family did, indeed, have money.

We had to go into a back door because the front door was locked and she didn’t have her 
key on her, but as soon as we were inside, alone for the first time, I put my arms around 
Linda’s neck, kissed her with all the passion in me. Then I stepped back, pulled off that dress, 
and knelt at her feet.

“Mistress,” I said as humbly as I could. “Please find some rope and tie me. Tie me very tight
so I’ll never be able to escape.”

“Gladly … Slave.”

I loved the way she said that word. It promised so much, so very much. I bowed my head 
submissively but was smiling with all the happiness within me.


Epilogue

In a cheap apartment not far from LA International Airport, a beautiful young woman with 
a fine figure was signing her name to a letter. As she licked the back of the envelope, she 
glanced down at the classified ad she had cut out of that adult newspaper:

Want Adventure?

Las Vegas showman needs female (18-25) for escape artist act. High pay. Interview 
expenses paid.

Box 4468, McMasters, NV.

THE END
