The Contract

Chapter 3: The Invitation

Passing through the inner door, Kirsten temporarily forgot the nagging feeling between her legs. She was just glad to be back – glad to be home, she supposed, for that was what the Estate was to her now. Having no immediate duties, she headed straight for her room.

It was only a short walk: all the women's apartments were in the basement, looking out to the South, over the walled garden at the back of the house. There was a corridor with the rooms leading off it, and at the far end, the communal facilities. It was, she thought, a lovely place, and it was the only area on the whole Estate where she found any sense of privacy, for apart from the occasional maintenance technicians (who were supposed to work, not socialize) no men ever came here, not even the Master. Any entertainment of the male of the species was done in the guest chambers, or in the main part of the house up above. Not here. She walked along the mirror-lined corridor, and paused outside her room.

The door slid open, activated merely by her presence. Stepping through, it closed again behind her, giving a faint click as the lock engaged, ensuring her solitude. Unless she invited them in, one else could get in here to disturb her, for once she was inside, the door did not open unless she asked, speaking softly into her collar microphone. This is what she had to do to allow any of the other girls to enter, or to leave the room herself. On detecting her voice, the system would open the door for her. Except at night of course. It stayed shut at night. And, presumably, at any other time, if her employer set the system accordingly.

The first thing to catch Kirsten's attention on entering her domain was the very large bunch of red roses in a vase on the table. Standing next to it was a card with a tasteful illustration of a female nude. She smiled. She walked over to the table, turned around, grabbed the card and laid it flat, then turned again to read it. It was a lovely message from her employer, welcoming her back, soliciting any comments about anything not to her satisfaction with the accommodation, reminding her of her afternoon appointment. She glanced up. There were two other cards on the table too – single, gold embossed sheets, lying flat, the only word visible on them at present being "Invitation". The details would be on the back. Knowing they were not the sort of invitations that required an instant response, Kirsten decided to leave them a while.

It always struck Kirsten how beautifully light her room was. The entire wall of the room facing the garden was reinforced glass, and the sunlight, filtered through the spring green of the trees, bathed the whole chamber in its warming glow. The effect was further enhanced by the mirror that took up the entire right hand wall. Kirsten went to the window and stood looking out onto the enclosed area that was the women's garden. The pool and the hot tub were deserted at the moment, but the borders were in full bloom, firing the whole area with their vibrant colour and scent.

The apartment itself was large, perhaps twenty feet by thirty, with a small cut out on the left by the door, housing the bathroom, and it was ingeniously furnished to allow it to be enjoyed by a woman constrained by the conditions of Kirsten's contract. For a start, everything, lighting, curtains, heating, air conditioning, phone, music system, taps, shower, hair-and-body drier and drinks dispenser was voice-activated, working via her collar microphone. The heating and air conditioning usually did not need any commands however, for they sensed the temperature and adjusted themselves accordingly, so she was never too hot or too cold. This was especially useful at night, for it obviated the need for bedding, which she imagined would be difficult for her to manage unaided. Besides, she liked lying at night, admiring her naked, shackled form in the half light, reflected in the ceiling mirror above her.

The bathroom was basic: a toilet, bidet, bath and shower, the first with automatic flush, the latter three with automatic soap dispensers, and the drier which bypassed the need for towels, which would be impossible for her to use anyway. There was also a wall mounted electric toothbrush with toothpaste dispenser, which she could use simply by turning it on and then moving her head around the oscillating bristles until the job was done. A wall mounted hair-brush completed the facilities: it was fixed to a metal rod at head height, and could be operated by standing with your back to the wall and moving a lever mounted at hand level, which was to say cuffed-hand level of course. It had taken practice to get used to this, but it did an adequate job. For more complex operations, such as detailed hair styling, makeup, and feminine hygiene issues, Kirsten had to use the communal facilities down the corridor, where there was always at least one girl stationed to help out.

The drinks dispenser was another clever piece of design, a single command causing it to pour her choice of refreshment – soft drinks, no alcohol – into a sports cup and seal the lid, allowing her to put it on any surface and then bend to suck up the contents without need to do the impossible and lift it up to her lips.

There was, of course, no wardrobe. There was no call for one.

Kirsten sat on the end of the bed, wondering what to do. There were still a couple of hours to lunch. Her mind wandering, she considered the jaws at the end of the bed. Jaws was how she thought of it, but it was simply a snap lock, into which, when she was lying down, she could insert the chain joining her ankles. The jaws would then close, fastening her in place until she asked to be released. Oddly, the use of this device was not specified in her contract, so presumably it was an option, but she always used it anyway. She liked the sensation of knowing she was chained to her bed at night, even though as far as she knew the jaws always opened just for the asking. There was a similar jaws arrangement at the head of the bed, set into the headboard, but she had never found a way to use this. Perhaps if she had a chain attached to her collar she could have got this into it somehow, but she had no such chain and in any case getting it in place would not be easy whilst handcuffed.

Kirsten decided to check her email, and maybe afterwards to go and see who was on duty in the communal bathroom area. She might get her hair curled and have some eye-liner ready for the Master this afternoon. Maybe even have a chat in the jacuzzi. Anyway, first things first. She went and sat at the computer.

The chair was not a normal chair. It was based on one of those posture chairs, where there is a pad against which you kneel, and then you sit up with your back straight. This one, however, was adapted for women in Kirsten's special situation. For one thing, where her knees went there was a padded block about a foot wide, positioned so she had to kneel with one knee either side of it, keeping her legs apart – though Kirsten would probably have done this anyway. Keeping her legs apart when sitting or kneeling came naturally to her when she was chained. Further, and at the back of the chair, where her hands naturally rested in their cuffs, was fitted a specially adapted keyboard. It was basically a normal qwerty keyboard, but split into two halves, and with the halves mounted back-to-back so that a manacled female could pass her closely linked hands either side of it and thus reach all the keys. It also, on the right hand side, had a touch-pad mouse. Kirsten marvelled at the ingenious design of her chair and keyboard. It gave her full control over the computer, without her chains giving her the slightest inconvenience whatsoever. She grinned broadly, sensing the metal that encircled her neck wrists and ankles, her flesh tingling against the bonds' rubbery lining. She remembered her own experiments with self-bondage, and how they were always defeated by the practicalities. Here technology took care of all these problems, and she was left free to experience her confinement.

Whilst her contract of employment allowed Kirsten completely unrestricted communication with the outside world, saving only for a ban on photos, video or discussion of her living conditions, she had never much used the phone or email. After all, one of the reasons she had been so attracted the Estate when the idea was first put to her was a chance for a new start, away from all the hassles of her former life. A phone call every couple of weeks kept her mother happy, and apart from the news of her uncle's death the other week, her mother had generally honoured her request not to phone her. And, spam excepted, she only got two or three emails a day, and most of them were internal, to do with the Estate and from people she had first met here.

Today of course there was a clutch of messages, for she had not been able to check for several days. Most however, were just about rotas for the bathroom, kitchen and housekeeping duties that were up to the girls on the Estate to sort amongst themselves. There was only really one that demanded some kind of reply.

She remembered Michael. She had met him about two months ago at one of her employer's parties. She had chatted to him in the drawing room after dinner on the Saturday and had walked in the grounds with him, and some others, on the Sunday morning. A nice young man, tall and handsome in his way, who had obviously gone sweet on her, but he had plainly been inexperienced and totally overwhelmed by the situation. He had been too nervous to ask for more. Well, now he was coming again, and he was emailing her – not directly, he didn't have the address, but forwarded via the Master – to say he was returning and he had sent her an invitation.

Kirsten stood up and walked over to the table, where the two gold embossed cards were lying. That was how the system worked, according to the contract. Anyone visiting the estate, who wanted a more intimate interlude with any of the women, was free to send them an invitation, and the girls were free to accept, or not, as they chose. The contract explicitly stated that there was no compulsion whatsoever for a girl to go with anyone, unless she specifically wanted. Not even with the Master. The only constraints in this respect were that the women were required to turn up to the general gatherings, their nudity and bondage on show to all the guests, and they were expected to tolerate a certain level of what the contract described somewhat anodynely as "tactile behaviour" with good humour. But if they wished to refuse invitations, they just had to do so politely, not displaying annoyance at repeated requests, even if unwanted. And they could not themselves issue invitations to guests. Not, thought Kirsten, that this last part was a problem, for it was easy enough for a nude and manacled female to indicate that an invitation, if issued to her, would be well received, and that was all that was generally necessary when someone took her fancy.

Of course once an invitation was accepted, the dynamic changed a little. Once you were in someone's room, and the neck chain padlock snapped about your collar ring, shackling you to the wall, choices seemed to evaporate and there was no real alternative but to respond instantly and implicitly your host's requests. The only reassurance that a girl had after that stage was that she could rely on the security systems, and the Master, for protection if something went wrong. There was a safe word she could say into her collar microphone that would immediately bring help. This was, in fact, the only command a girl could use while she was chained in someone else's chamber. Everything else was up to her host, the system being set to reject a female employee's voice during this time.

Kirsten turned over the two gold-embossed cards and then turned around to read them. Michael's was on the left, written in what must be his own spidery handwriting. She could almost sense his nerves as he wrote it. It was for the following Saturday night. The other invitation was an alternative for the same night, from Clyde, a bulky American businessman she had been with before. She did not particularly like him as a person, but she had enjoyed his confidence in commanding her, and he had been a jolly good fuck.

Decisions decisions. She was not concerned about Clyde, who would certainly be happy with one of the other girls anyway, but Kirsten was not sure she could be bothered with Michael. He was very sweet, but he would need lots of guidance, and then there was the risk he would start falling in love with her, as young men tend to do with the first girl they find prepared to shag them. Did she have the energy to deal with this kind of thing? On the other hand, he was a nice boy and he clearly needed taking in hand. Perhaps she was the woman to do it. It might be fun, it might be a service to all her sisters in the world, and it was not as if she was overwhelmed with burdensome duties, after all.

Suddenly enthusiastic about the coming weekend, the naked girl returned to her chair, spread her knees either side of its block and eased her cuffed hands into position at the keyboard. She thought flirtatious thoughts and typed a respectful email back to Michael, agreeing to meet him in the late afternoon, before the party, and giving him, in the process, her direct contact details.

Kirsten's flirtatious thoughts cheered her up, but they had the side-effect of re-awakening the niggling between her legs. She savoured the feeling: there was nothing she could do about it anyway, for she was not permitted to keep anything in her room that might allow her to reach the necessary part. She eased her hands in the close confinement of her cuffs. There was no give of course, not now, not ever. No point in trying to fight it. It was not as if the sensation was unpleasant, after all: just distracting and insistent. Distracting and insistent feelings of this type were part of her lot since she had signed the contract. She just had to learn to enjoy them.