Sweet Slavery

F. E. Campbell Sweet Slavery

Chapter One

Female.

It had begun as one of those small jokes which, if the mood took them, could be turned into reality, a tacit but giggling contemplation of the delicious. They made a big deal of debating the length of time, they called it 'the sentence', during which Griselda would be handcuffed. They toyed delightfully with six months. . twelve?

Certainly nothing less than three! There was also the portentous question of in front or behind Griselda's back? and should she wear something or be nude? Each girl knew the answers but it was warmly erotic to roll alternatives off the tongue. And the lady must protest?!

'But, 'Tonia, behind my back I won't be able to do a thing.'

'I'll do it all, darling. It's not the first time, y'know.' Griselda pouted.

'You'll get tired of that. I bet you unlock me the second day.'

'You know I won't It's you who'l be pleading? and it never has stopped us making love.'

Each tucked the inevitable into a mental recess, the suspense of evanescence was too precious to deny. They savoured an erotic possibility they could so easily make real. Reflectively, Antonia Noyes questioned: 'How long have I owned you, Griselda?'

'Always.'

'Yes, I know. But since I first brought you here?'

Griselda laughed. 'I was handcuffed then, don't you remember? It was four years ago, four years and five months. I was twenty-two.' She laughed again. 'We'd both agreed on a week-end.'

'Suppose I never did unlock them, just left them on you?'

'So? So, alright. There's nothing to stop you.'

'That's a dare. You're being foxy.'

'Want me to go and get them?'

'That black pair, the expensive one's.'

'O.K.'

Ilona Paisley was uncertain whether to be intrigued or annoyed. They could be putting her on. Or perhaps her reputation had preceded her. In interviews like this it was so important to hold on to initiative, but her's had slipped. The naked girl on the floor, even though she had spoken no word, had stolen it.

'Paisley Publications.' She asserted. 'I am Ilona Paisley.'

'Yes, of course.' The voice was beautifully modulated. 'I have to feel honored, and I have to ask why?'

'Well, you are the daughter of Senator Noyes. He wasn't small potatoes.' Miss Ilona Paisley allowed her attention to stray to the nude beauty reclining against her hostess's knee. 'And word does get around, y'know. I've always given the avant garde a lot of space. They fascinate the middle classes, and that's where the circulation is.'

'I'm not one of them.'

Miss Paisley nodded at the girl on the rug. 'I'd say she was your price of admission.' She hesitated, then demanded: 'Her arms are handcuffed, aren't they, behind her back?'

'Yes.' The smile was amused. 'Does that make me 'way out'?'

'Way far out. What I'm looking at is good copy.'

'It's also private. I once read an article about you in one of your own magazines.

It called you the 'Sybarite Tycoon'.'

'Yeah, wrote it myself. Can't have people messing with me in print. Look, I'll give your story any treatment you like? write it yourself if you want?'

'Griselda, cocktails please.' The smile was still amused. Miss Ilona Paisley was entranced. Story or no, this was worth the price. Aware of excitation, she registered every motion for future reference. These were an elusive pair to docket. They appeared of an age, the late twenties. One of her favourite words, 'soignee' applied to both, even the nude was immaculately sophisticated. In a single unfolding fluidity it rose to its feet and went to the bar.

Ilona Paisley watched the impossible. The damn girl was handcuffed but it did not seem to matter. One bare arm circled back to accommodate the other, a twist of an exquisite torso, reaching fingers only partly inhibited by steel. Straining like that, the girl showed the loveliest breast the publisher had ever seen. There was the tinkle of glass and gurgle of a bottle. . By the same expedient the glass was carried and tendered without spillage. Miss Paisley had the feeling she was being laughed at. But she trod lightly. 'Care to tell me what goes?'

'Actually, nothing. Griselda belongs to me, that's all.'

'Hmmmmmm, Am I allowed to speak to her?'

'Oh, yes. She'll answer what she wishes to.'

Ilona Paisley was conscious of two pairs of extremely feminine eyes regarding her with polite attention. If one was subservient and the other a Mistress their faces gave no sign. The naked girl seemed totally self possessed, relaxed, intelligent.

'How long have you been wearing handcuffs, Miss. . ?' She searched back to the introduction, 'Miss Sanderson?'

'On and off for over four years, Miss Paisley.' It was another voice to remember, educated, articulate.

'But this time? Did you put them on 'specially for me?'

'They have been as they are now for more than two months.'

'You're putting me on?'

'No, really! It was something we both wanted.' The words were patient in understanding. 'You noticed with the drink, I'm not completely helpless. But what I can't do myself 'Tonia does for me.'

'Would you mind backing up and letting me see your wrists and hands. . and the cuffs?'

Again the exquisite fluidity, this girl was ageless. Miss Paisley found herself gazing at a round taut bottom, above which two hands were open and relaxed and two wrists pulled tight the metal linkage of their bond. But there was something else:

'Your derriere's got. . marks?'

'It was caned a few days ago.'

Ilona Paisley experienced lust. There was something wickedly sexual about what was being offered for her attention and about the quiet acquiesence of Griselda's tone. Momentarily at a loss, she fingered the shining chrome bands. They' had been made firmly snug on the wrists they confined. She could not tell the degree in which the skin was chafed, certainly it was slightly red. But then, if the girl did not struggle. . ! 'Thank you.' She said evenly. 'Naturally I'm curious. Care to tell me anything?'

'We're just what you see. No mystery. Griselda, give Miss Paisley another drink.'

'Could we make it first names? I'm Ilona.'

'Of course.' Antonia gave her Mona Lisa smile. 'I'd pictured publishers as fat and forty or tweedy British. You're a relief.'

'Mind if I watch this girl of your's, I find what she's doing utterly beyond belief.'

'Griselda's very special, she won't spill a drop.'

'What's with you? Mistress and slavegirl?'

'We don't see it like that. We're just two girls.'

'But those marks on her bottom?'

'She earned them. If she spilt your drink she'd earn some more. You could watch her receive them.'

Ilona's pulse thudded. She longed for a dropped glass. 'Alright then.' She conceded, 'What's with you two? B amp;D. . ? I've run a feature or two on S amp;M. I think they're for the birds. Anyone can get horny over a whipped