I can't explain me. I don't want to. Explanations savor of apology. I am not making one. I like me the way I am. I wouldn't change me even if I could. Yolanda would not change me. Yolanda paid a great deal of money for me. I feel guilty sometimes about how much. But she just laughs and says it makes my belonging to her legal. I don't suppose it does, but the psychological effect on me has been total, far more real than a chain on my wrist or my ankle or my neck. But the chain is there too. While I'm thinking about how I'll write this and what I'll say, I'm being punished. Nothing very terrible, but enough to impress me that a slave girl does not talk back. I'm not exactly in a dungeon and not quite in a cell. We call it 'Turpitude Tower', Instead of going downstairs to the dark and scary places I get put in sometimes, we go up. It's still all stone and a bit grim, but castles are like that, even small ones. The Tower room is circular and has a stone pillar in the center. The door is thick and heavy and closes with a spine crinkling thud and it's got big bolts on the outside that thunk into their sockets so that the girl inside positively curls up at the edges at the sound. There is a lovely window and a view, but it has lovely bars that even a very slender naked girl can't begin to wiggle through. I'm naked. Right now, for me, the door and the window are symbolic. I can't get near either. I have to stand against the pillar because there is a metal collar locked round my throat and it's attached to a ring in the stone at the level of my neck. The chain is only a foot long. Figure it out for yourself; I'm not going anywhere. I just stand. Yolanda thinks it's a big giggle. I can even laugh about my plight when she's here, but when she goes away on the other side of the thud and the thunks and I'm all alone, and naked, and chained, my fingers fly to my collar and tug and twist and then explore the chain and the ringbolt as though making sure they are real. I always do this. I know I can't free myself, but the frustration is so great I have to do something. So much held by so little — that's me! I suppose if you're to understand the cloak and dagger and the screams and the terror and the… well, never mind, you'll have to understand me. None of it could have happened if I didn't adore being captive. I love being tied, tight, tight, tight! I love being chained. I can't wait to get incarcerated in dungeons and cells and this lovely 'Turpitude Tower'. I cannot envisage life without being owned. I mean it! Enslaved! The way Yolanda owns me. I even cherish being whipped… up to a point! You are thinking up the names, aren't you! I know! I know them all. Keep 'em, they are not for me. All I know is a dream of beauty. It has always been there. It is the most permanent, real and vital thing in my psyche. It is a forest glade dappled with the misty sun of a June morn. It is a Grecian temple by a Lake. It is the ocean surf glinting and frothing as it spends itself upon a sandy beach. In each scene I am tied to a tree, chained to a column, or fettered to a rock to await the Sea Monster as was Andromeda long ago… And, of course, Yolanda. Take it or leave it. I squirmed, now, in pure sensual enjoyment of my punishment. Yola had not handcuffed my wrists behind my back the way she usually does so as to stop me from playing with my puss. My fingers were half way there when I remembered the Reception. She'd have to let me loose in time. Five, at the latest six p.m. I let my arm fall, I'd keep all my eroticism for the evening. I adored playing second hostess and watching the startled eyes focusing on my chained wrists. But that was hours away. I guessed the time as about an hour past noon. I would stand against my pillar a dreary span. I wished my chain was long enough so I could sit on the floor, but it wasn't, so that was that! Idly, I allowed my fingers to instinctively friction across my nipples, both at once. But it was too wickedly arousing, so I stopped that too. I could imagine Yolanda laughing… Yola is clever with me. She knows exactly where my adoration of the rope and of the whip dissolves into distress. She can detect the difference between my moans of joy and my moans of anguish. When she punishes me she simply uses excess. I am like a tennis player who finds zest in three hard sets, but make it six, then nine, then twelve, and you just can't take it. Right now; against my column, I am tingling with what I secretly call my 'nice feeling'. It will last an hour, perhaps two. But then I'll get tired and lonely and begin to wonder how long it will last. By the time another hour has gone I will be wishing I'd been a good girl.
"Oozing virtue and good intentions, I hope?" It is Yola at last. I must try and hide my relief. My column and I seem to have been together for ages. I have learned not to be flip at such moments. A witty bit of bravado can get me left here for the evening and maybe even the night. It's easy for me to smile in gratitude at her arrival. Even if her coming meant trouble I'd still be glad to see her. I always am and she knows it. So I smile brightly and exclaim: "I'll be ever such a good girl, darling, I promise." It sounds a bit trite, I know. I don't suppose I will be a good girl all that long. I am not reformed, just chastened. We both know this. But the niceties of our relationship have been observed, I will not go to the reception with a smarting bottom.
"You don't deserve to be let loose, Phemie. Just a bare four hours… " We both ignore the pun. We have discovered it's impossible to say much about me that does not have a bit of the risque surfacing somewhere. Incidentally, my name is Euphemia Carstairs. But after all! There are limits, aren't there. I make a very nice Phemie. We're both pleased with it.
"It's seemed the longest time."
"Don't try and con me. You know you're getting off easy. I shall expect some proper behavior this evening. Tease all you like, tell nothing."
"Yes, Mistress." I am sweetly demure.
"Save the Mistress bit 'till later. And I didn't like the way you said that, you're being sarky. You do ask for it, y'know."
"Yes, darling." Butter would not melt in my mouth. Yolanda loves it. It is a game we play. A Russian roulette of repartee with an unknown punishment for me instead of the bullet. It is gorgeously cunt warming because I am forever on a brink. Only Yolanda knows where the precipice is. By the time I have located it I may have stepped over too far and collected half a dozen nice scarlet stripes. I'm terribly lucky.
"If it wasn't for your entertainment value I'd leave you locked here," Yola threatens as she inserts the key. I step away from the pillar, for which I now feel an absurd affection. I rub my chafed neck and savor freedom. In a genuine rush of feeling I sink to my knees and clasp the beloved legs and rub my cheek against them hungrily. But when I raise her skirt and lift my lips, Yola slaps away my hands, laughing.
"No. There isn't time. We now make ourselves incredibly beautiful and decide how much of maiden charm we're going to cover, especially yours." We both know how lucky we are about breasts and tummies and mounds and curves. Ours are so very right! We are breathtakingly in love with each other's body, and with each other. We assuage our hunger in ways and times Yolanda chooses. If I am to be punished, mine is not assuaged at all. I am left with my fire burning in my sex so that I am almost consumed by its heat. As I said, I'm lucky.
"The silver lame's for you, with the matching wrist chains and the emeralds." Yola examines my bathed and perfumed nakedness with a professional eye. "You'll keep every man rigid all evening. I don't know how they keep their hands off you."
"They don't!"
"Watch it! If I catch you leaving the room except for the loo it means a hundred strokes and a week in the dungeon." My heart misses a beat. She means it, every word. Yola is beautifully jealous and protective. But what she orders isn't all that easy. I will indeed watch it. I don't want those hundred marks or that dark chained week any more than any other girl would. But men are so persistent and some of them are nice. "I can't help it if they paw me," I defend myself without sulkiness. Slave girls have to be awfully careful about the sulky bit and keep it for just the right moments.
"You provoke them. You deliberately exude eroticism." Yola is not angry. My eroticism is her favorite theme. Fortunately I affect her as drastically as I do the males. I can't explain that either but it's nice. "If you put a half naked girl whose hands are chained together with silver jewelled shackles into a room full of cocktail sippers she's bound to get a bit of attention." I point out reasonably. I am still thinking of the hundred stripes and the dungeon — some of the men are so terribly persistent!
"Confine your responses to repartee Phemie darling." Yola grins at me lovingly. "I'd lock you safe away if it wasn't that you're my star turn. Half the men only come because you're on display. Not even the females have quite convinced themselves about those chains."
"Can I let them finger them, darling? They all want to just to test if they're real."
"Oh, I suppose so. But don't let them move on to your breasts. You can explain your breasts don't lock and don't have keyholes. With you one thing leads to another; you just stand there starry eyed."
"You said to be nice, darling." This is the way it is with Yolanda and me. It's lovely. Do you sort of get the idea? If you haven't yet, you will. I love her terribly. I don't want her ever to sell me; I think I'd die. We make ourselves gorgeous and giggle about all the erections we'll generate. We are not a bit silly about such things. We know! The silver lame has just enough material to cover part of my curves and to justify the claim that I'm actually dressed. But, looking at me in the big mirror, I palpitate between my legs. It's beautiful and so am I! I want my Mistress to take me to bed right then, but she refuses. Chaining my hands is a darling moment. It's a ritual between us in which we stand close enough to touch and to make our hearts pound with longing. But we can't be nibbling each other constantly, so I just hope the trifle I wear between my legs won't show the stain of my wet, and hold out my hands. I am melting with obedience. I'm terribly proud of how much my chains cost. They are like me, a shocking extravagance of Yola's. The silver bands 'round my wrists are broad and heavy. The metal is cleverly chased and set with emeralds. They lock tight, but the lock is not visible, they become a part of me. The silver links that join them at an eight inch span are not silver at all but some shining wicked metal that won't cut. No one can get them off me except Yolanda. I sigh in pure ecstasy as the gorgeous things snap tight and captivate my wrists. When it is done I test and tug while our eyes sparkle at my lost liberty, then we kiss. We kiss a long time. My prisoned fingers have just enough freedom that they can find my darling's breasts. At last she slaps them away laughingly. I deliberately clink my chain as we go to meet our guests. They are a varied lot. Before Yolanda's parents died and left her all that lovely money their interests had roved over a wide periphery. They ran from the stuffy to the way out. It gave me a nice feeling between my legs to know they were all here because of me. Yola insists they only come to try and discover if I'm really real. Mrs. Pomfret-Jones is one of the stuffy ones.
"Still wearing those silly things on your wrists, I see," she admonishes gruffly. Her approach to any subject is always faintly accusing.
"I'm a slave girl," I tell her brightly. "Slave girls always have chains."
"Stuff and nonsense!" She dismisses all slave girls into the limbo beyond social acceptance. "Why don't you wear some clothes you're scarcely decent?"
"Slave girls don't wear much. It makes it simpler to whip us if we don't behave." I am exquisitely demure. Butter would not melt in my mouth. This is a game we play on every social occasion that brings Mrs. Pomfret-Jones to Castle Glynt.
"Humph! Mind if I have a look at those things?" I offer my chained hands and submit meekly to her tugging scrutiny of the lovely metal. Mrs. Pomfret-Jones worries at my chain in much the same manner as a dog with a bone. "You sure you can't get 'em off, some trick lock?" Her eyes accuse. I shake my head happily. "Only Yolanda." She dismisses me with a doubting "humph", and returns to her safe world of fox-hunts and recalcitrant tenants. The men are much more fun. I manoeuvre myself within the orbit of Major Sprigett and clink my chain.
"Euphemia the slave girl!" he beams, "Is our hostess in a mood to sell you to me today?" I think it is a game with the Major, but I'm not quite sure. He is not stuffy, he is delightfully carnal. "I am not for sale," I tell him primly.
"Think she'd rent us a bedroom?"
"You could ask her."
"I did. She said you were beyond rubies. That's Shakespeare, isn't it! Is it true she whips you?"
"Of course!" Yolanda and I have made our first score for the evening. His erection is visible to the practiced eye.
"Mind showing me some marks?" This is fun. I glow. Pretending a feminine fumble I contrive to give him a quick glimpse of flesh below my hip where Yolanda's whip had curled and bit. The scarlet wound is rampant on my white skin. I hear his indrawn breath. "I can't very well bare my bottom for you here," I apologize naively.
"Good lord! What about your back'?" His hunger is heartbreaking.
"You can see most of it, Major. It only gets whipped in between social functions." He is a nice man. I feel guilty at his burning eyes. He desires me so much he hurts. If it was not for Yolanda's injunction about leaving the room I would lead him by the hand and show him paradise. Yola is right to be strict with me. I am wanton. But a nice wanton.
"I want to plant my seed in you more than I have ever wanted anything in life." His declaration is utterly sincere. It infects me with a flame between my legs. His eyes adore and demand. I begin to wish I had stayed with Mrs. Pomfret-Jones. I tell him of the hundred lashes and the dungeon that will be my lot if I do not behave. I can hear his heart thumping — or is it my own! Gently he takes the chain of my fetters and examines them with a more informed eye than that of Mrs. Pomfret-Jones. When he relinquishes the gleaming silver he shakes his head and grins ruefully. "You are real. I've never been too sure. How much did Yolanda Harding actually pay for you?" My price is between Yolanda and me and… well, never mind. I do not want to discuss my purchase. But I unbend a little. "Fifty thousand pounds."
"You're kidding!"
"My bottom has a lot more scarlet stripes than the one you saw," He nods in understanding. Whipmarks and money, there is an affinity. The Major has been around. "I'll accept it that your chains are real, I don't believe you can get 'em off. Most people think you and Yolanda play some kinky game. But that mark!" He sighs. Raising my chained hands he kisses both, then merges back into the crowd. My eyes know tears. Molly Vinter is me or Yola without the curves. Not that she's bad looking, but she misses by small margins. She writes bits for newspapers and tries to be frightfully 'with it'. She picks up with me where she left off last time we met. "You and Yola do tongue each other, don't you?" she eyes me quizzically. "Or does the slave girl only serve her Mistress'?"
"I do whatever I'm told." I clink my links.
"You're a masochist."
"No I'm not! And if that's all you have to say I'll go and hand some drinks 'round."
"Don't get shirty. I'm just curious. You do get punished though, don't you?"
"Sure I do, but it doesn't make me that beastly word."
"It's the whip, isn't it? I'd suppose with a girl she'd either loathe it or love it?"
"Alright, I love Yolanda to whip me… a little." Molly Vinter gazes at me without defense. "Can you understand when I tell you I'm envious?" My understanding is vivid. To have a need of Yolanda yet to be out in the cold alone! My sympathy wells, but I must be sensible. "Most people think these chains on my wrists are fake and that Yola and I just play a cute game."
"If Yolanda would put chains on me I'd… I'd… I'd give up everything." In a surge of pity I reach out to enfold her. But with chained hands I cannot. I compromise by touching her arm with the age of old gentleness of feminine compassion. Suddenly I glimpse a thousand Molly Vinters around the world seeking a purchaser for something they cannot sell.
"She doesn't need to buy me like that story about you. I'd give myself. I'd sign a paper. Anything… " She is pathetically vehement.
"Why not ask?" I have no sooner uttered the words than a terrible jealousy flares within at thought of a companion in chains. Yolanda is mine just as much as I am hers! Yet suppose… Molly in her passionate need has become more female. I find myself stripping her and assessing her nakedness.
"I did ask. She said you were handful enough," Molly sniffed. "I could tell she wasn't interested."
"You might not like it. I'm always chained or tied, and I get whipped quite a lot. It hurts more than you'd believe." I have said the wrong thing. Molly is suddenly avid. "I would, oh I would!" Her hand is on my arm now. Curious eyes focus on us in the passing crowd. She becomes aware of them and lowers her voice. "Ask her. Oh, please? She loves you! If it's you that asks." It is very sad. I only tell it that you may get a picture I am trying to paint. I make a promise that will be hard for me to keep. I watch Molly Vinter fade away among the guests. I am wishing I had stayed with the men. Their little boy appetite for my puss is much easier to cope with.
"A touch of emotion, I suspect?" The voice was very male and very nice. Such man sounds make me think about my breasts and my pussy and my behind and hope they are all arranged to the best advantage. The tone of this one crinkled my pubic hair. It sounded faintly amused. He is even better than his voice. He was brand new. "The name is Pollard," he said gently. "Please call me James. I'm a gate crasher. I came because of you. May I shake your chain?" He did the proper male thing. Without waiting for me to say a thing he raised my left hand to his lips. My right hand had to follow, so he kissed that too. His fingers traced a path across my wristlets. "I recognize the workmanship," he said conversationally. "I don't have to ask if they are real." I was almost panting. I felt ashamed of myself. I'm not usually that susceptible. "Perhaps you'd like an introduction to your hostess?" I manage breathlessly.
"I have met Miss Harding elsewhere. I came to look at you."
"You make me feel like something in a cage."