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.'
