It was a long journey. I guessed it to be in the back seat of a car. I wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was better than the boot. After a few experimental twitchings I gave up the idea of escape or getting loose. I just endured. Slave girls get used to it. There was conversation but it didn't come through the blanket enough to help. I was then carried around a lot, put down, picked up, and finally stood upright. Strong hands steadied me while others stripped me of the rope and the blanket. While I was still blinking they also untied my ankles.
"Superb!" The voice was foreign. The approval sincere. "We were certain you would be pleased, sir." James Pollard's tone was deferential. Everything I saw spelt money. The room was a library, or study, or office, or all three. There was a business-like desk. I stood before it where I had been placed. Gazing at me across it's polished surface was a man, undistinguished save for that faintly withered look that comes from a lifetime of worrying about large sums of money. James Pollard lolled negligently in a chair to one side. He winked at me. It was a nice boyish wink that hardly belonged in this oppressively opulent room. I had no idea what it was meant to convey. On the basis that attack is the best defense, I asked firmly: "Would someone like to take these things off my elbows?"
"Come, come, my dear," said the withered character. "They do wonders for your breasts. Indulge an old man." Believe it or not, it was the first moment I'd felt naked. "I can always stick my breasts out to be admired. They're very nice breasts. They don't need handcuffs on my elbows," I told him haughtily.
"May I introduce Mr. Gyorkos," James said helpfully. "Mr. Gyorkos: Miss Euphemia Carstairs, sometimes called Phemie."
"I am much honoured," said Mr. Gyorkos. I looked at him blankly, "You're not Roland Bolling!"
"Alas no." His shrewd eyes twinkled. "You have disappointment?" I glared at James. He had the grace to look sheepish.
"There have been certain business arrangements," he said vaguely.
"You mean you've sold me already? At a profit'!" He squirmed. "The details need not concern you, Phemie."
"You are much desired young woman," said my new owner.
"I may as well be running along." James rose awkwardly. It was the first time I'd seen him uncertain. "Good-bye, sir." They shook hand with what seemed a reasonable cordiality. There was a brief awkward pause before James determinedly took the few steps that separated us and, cupping my face in his hands, kissed me soundly on my lips. It felt so good I kissed him back, hard. I had needed that kiss. It did wonders for me. He disengaged and gave me his favourite grin. "You'll be alright, Phemie." His eyes were very deep, encompassing me. "It won't always be easy, but you'll come through O.K. You're good stuff." A moment later he was gone. I had never felt so lonely in my life.
"Is nice young man," said Mr. Gyorkos. "I am trusting he fucked you well. Is good to have memories."
"I have aching arms," I said pointedly, and rattled my handcuffs. Mr. Gyorkos was one of those men deaf to the irrelevant.
"You are no doubt most curious?" he suggested pleasantly. "Will set nice English worry at rest. You are not for fuck." Then added pensively: "At least not too much." I suddenly felt ninety-nine percent pubic.
"You are for most special employment, Miss Carstairs." He said it as though I should feel grateful. I was cringingly curious. I was also shockingly aware of being naked and helpless and providing Mr. Gyorkos with a frank female frontal view. The two pairs of handcuffs on my wrists and arms had about the same effect as a dozen dungeon doors. It was useless for me to even think of getting loose, let alone actually trying. He read my thoughts. "I am expecting handcuffs most trying for young woman when naked," he consoled.
"If you take them off, I promise not to run," I offered. Then added for good measure: "I won't fight either. I know it's hopeless."
"Most sensible," he approved. "But is much best you always be — what is word? Ah, yes: restrained. It saves much punishment." He eyed me benignly. "If free, you will do foolishness. Then would get whipped for much hurting. Better to have little wrist or neck or ankle in chain or rope." He sounded as though he spoke from experience. I wondered how many naked girls had stood where I stood now. "Do I get to wear clothes?" I asked innocently.
"Am having central heating," said Mr. Gyorkos grandly. In its way his boast answered my question. I tried another: "Why me, Mr. Gyorkos? Couldn't you send me back to Castle Glynt and get some… some… local girl who wants to make some spare cash? I mean, what's so special about me?"
"You are a slave." The way he said it endowed me with a gender all my own.
"But only to Yolanda Harding!" I wailed. "She and I love each other, so being her slave girl is… just… natural. But I don't want to be a slave to anyone else. It wouldn't be any good."
"So we keep you handcuffed."
"But there's more to it than that, Mr. Gyorkos. It's a thing of the psyche and the spirit. You can keep me a prisoner, but being a true slave girl is something else."
"We give help, Miss Carstairs." His assurance was expansive. We cane your bottom and we whip your back." As an extra boost to my morale he added: "And there are other things." I was sure there were! Mr. Gyorkos was the sort who would always have 'other things'. I was feeling more and more bare all the time. My twin sets of handcuffs weighed a ton. I tried again: "But, Mr. Gyorkos, maybe I'm not quite like other girls. Grandma would say I wasn't a nice girl at all. I'm erotic. I have erotic thoughts and responses. I adore being Yolanda's slave. I'm not really fond of men, but once in awhile one of them will excite me-"
"Like nice Mr. Pollard?" He was laughing at me.
"Oh alright," I admitted despairingly. "But don't you see how useless I'll be to you when I'm frightened and forced. I love wearing Miss Harding's chains and… things. But the way you'll keep me I'll be as unhappy as any other girl."
"Is best to try before complain."
"Do I get kept in a dungeon?"
"Is nice cell. Very clean sheets."
"I suppose you'll instruct me through the bars!"
"Have pleasant lady for purpose. She is very good with whip. You will obey. Then she is nice."
"Do I have to wear handcuffs in this… cell?"
"Of course! Do not pretend you do not enjoy." He nudged a file folder on his desk. "We have complete dossier. You are most charming and interesting young female." As an afterthought he added: "And so is the delectable Miss Harding."
"Yolanda hates being tied up." Mr. Gyorkos shrugged. "That is why we buy you, not her."
"You're going to use me as a sort of whore, aren't you?" My crudity had hurt. Mr. Gyorkos almost winced. "Are doing yourself injustice," he admonished huffily. "Whores are cheap and in good supply. We use you for very special gifts." His willingness to talk and accept my sarcasms was heartening. Evidently I would have to step well over some, as yet, undefined line before I earned punishment. I was glimpsing what I was in for. I know the ways in which I'm different. I could understand how this 'difference' might be marketable. My future was half erotically reassuring and half frightening. "You want me as a plaything for men?" I challenged. He shrugged. "It has always been the role of pretty girls." Decisively he pressed a button.
"Do they need to keep you handcuffed, or are you wearing them to please me?"
"I'm new. They're not certain of me," I admitted, then went the whole bit: "I'm not even certain of myself." He was a nice type. Not young, but clean and athletic. He did not have Gyorkos's withered look, but he was half preoccupied as though he was wedging whatever he was going to do to me in between appointments.
"You can get me a drink. I suppose you know how to serve it'?" The room had everything for my discomfort and his comfort. I mixed him his drink at the bar and knelt before him, slave girl style, and humbly proffered it.
"You're not bad, child." He took his drink and sipped, gazing down at my appropriately disposed nudity. "Did they have to hurt you much to get cooperation'!"
"The whip marks are from my former owner," I told him innocently. "The one from whom I was kidnapped and stolen yesterday." My momentous announcement failed to move him. "Not thinking of nagging me for help, are you'?" He was on the verge of irritability.
"Not if you don't want me to."
"I don't! What is it Sinclair's primed you to get out of me?"
"I don't know any Sinclair."
"Distinguished looking bastard. Mustache and Oxford accent'!"
"I was only brought here yesterday. I spent the night chained up in a rotten little cell." Actually the cell hadn't been all that bad, but I was feeling irritable too. Besides, I suspected I was going to get whipped whether I was polite or not.
"My name's Royden. Mean anything to you?"
"No. Should it'?"
"Sinclair would have mentioned it. How about Pawley Electronics'!"
"If you think I've been bribed to get information out of you I might as well stand up. Can I get you another drink? Or do I get whipped'!"
"Cool little baggage, aren't you!" He looked at me as though noticing me for the first time. "You're beautifully shaped." I got to my feet and made a pretty play with my cuffed hands. If I could please him with something simple, I'd try. "Sorry I don't know anything. I just don't." He nodded noncommittally. "Sure they haven't promised you a thrashing if you don't come up with something? It's the usual ploy."
"I only know Mr. Gyorkos and Mr. Pollard. They didn't promise me anything. I sort of got the idea my thrashing was going to come from you."