The Contract

Chapter 1: Kirsten Returns

As the house came into view, Kirsten put down her bag and paused. What was she doing back here? She looked over her shoulder, down the drive, the way she had come, but the gate was already out of site, masked by the large trees that surrounded the entire perimeter. Her cab was long gone. She picked up her bag again and walked on. The air was moist and still; there was no one about and only her footsteps, and an occasional cry from a bird disturbed the silence.

She did not go to the main door – that was for guests, not for such as herself. What was she? An employee, she supposed, since she had signed the contract those months ago. She headed around the back. A narrow path led to a small green door set into the solid stone walls of the house. She punched in the code for the combination, grasped the knob and turned. The door opened, allowing her to step through into the ante-room. A closer pulled the door gently closed behind her until the lock engaged. Another combination lock was visible on the inside. Kirsten thought nothing of it, but if she had tried it she would have discovered that its code – the code needed to leave the house – was not the same as the one required for entrance, and it was not one that Kirsten knew.

The ante-room was about ten feet square. It had two doors, the one she had entered by and another one opposite leading to the rest of the house. There were no windows, all the ample light coming from flourescent strips hidden behind panels in the roof. The walls were plain plaster, painted cream, the only relief to this being the wide, full length mirror on her left. On her right, in front of the door, the only furniture: a medium-sized table. The only other item of note was the small, circular eyeball of the security camera, set into the ceiling.

Kirsten put down her bag and considered her image in the mirror. An attractive young woman in a dark blue, formal suit. The fabric was well chosen, she thought. It made her 5'2" figure look taller, without in any way detracting from the full curve of her hips. The skirt was too long to show much leg, but her black court shoes and black stockings displayed her ankles well. Further up, beneath the dark blue, her white blouse looked efficient and businesslike, but also subtly emphasised the other full curves of her chest. Her fair hair was shoulder length – long enough anyway to frame her face, giving due prominence to the height of her cheekbones, her deep set, grey-green eyes and her sensual lips.

The girl thought again: why had she come back? For many months she had thought of leaving this strange place, and then this opportunity to walk away. She was intelligent, she had qualifications: a PhD in Arabic History for one thing. She could easily have found alternative employment, and yet she had come back of her own free will.

Shrugging her shoulders, Kirsten turned to the table and considered the objects on it. There were two boxes, one large one open, and another, much smaller, closed and with a note on top of it. She picked up the paper: "Welcome back. You have been missed. The arrangements are as before. I shall see you this afternoon." There was no signature, but only her - her what? Employer? could have written it.

Kirsten thought back to the contract. She still had no idea how she had been found, but her employer's lawyers had been very clear about the terms and conditions. She could never claim to have been deceived, except in so far as its very strangeness meant that until she had experienced this life, she had no real idea what it would mean. Fantasies, yes, but no notion of the day-to-day truth. The lawyers had also been clear about the duration and payment: a two-year initial period, five hundred thousand up front into a holding account, with regular statements, so she could see it grow, and another five hundred thousand when she had completed the contract. But if she left early, nothing except her twenty five thousand salary for the months worked. She had to live on the Estate and could leave only in exceptional circumstances, as she had just done for this funeral.

At the time, the contract had been easy to accept. It seemed like a fantasy come true. And she was after a new start anyway, and two years out of circulation from her old haunts – and hauntings – seemed the perfect solution. And then there was the money.

But that was before she understood exactly what she was required to do, or rather to be.

Well, anyway, she was here. She could have left for good, but she had come back. Better get on with it. Kirsten took her overnight bag and placed it in the large box. Then, working carefully and methodically, she began to undress, folding each garment as she removed it and placing it with the bag in the large box. Shoes, jacket, skirt, brassiere, stockings as well as her watch, necklace and bracelet all went into the container, until she stood almost naked.

Once all her attire was within the box, she closed the lid, engaging the locking mechanism. She would have no further need of her clothes or the other contents for the moment, and no further access to them, for she did not have the box key. Then, she turned and looked in the mirror again

Without the distraction of clothes, the girl's figure was revealed in all its glory: her full round breasts, narrow waist, smoothly curved thighs and perfectly turned calves. But it was not this that Kirsten considered: rather her attention was inexorably drawn by the second, and, unlike the money, totally imperative reason why she had returned. Not that being clothed had ever really allowed her to forget it.

The belt was made of shiny metal, about two inches high, lined for comfort with a black rubbery substance. It fitted snugly around the narrowest part of Kirsten's waist, subtly exaggerating the flare of her hips. The metal was not hinged; it was springy enough to get on and off without this, but now of course it was held closed by a lock at the rear, close to the small of her back. The lock also held a metal bar which depended between the cheeks of her backside, split either side of her back passage to form a hole small enough to let wastes out (but nothing in!) and gradually expanded to form a plate that completely enclosed Kirsten's sex. Only the tips of her labia could be seen, protruding through a narrow slit that allowed her bodily fluids to pass. Seen, but not touched, for the slit was covered by a tough shield made of wire gauze that totally prevented access. The plate was securely welded to the belt at the front. The assembly was completed by chains descending from the side of the belt to metal thigh rings, also locked, which were in turn held together by a short length of chain, preventing Kirsten from spreading her legs more than the distance required for a normal walk, and obviously preventing her from wearing panties, slacks or short skirts as well

Kirsten placed her hands behind her neck and turned, looking over her shoulder to admire herself in the mirror from every angle. The metal work that encased her was not unattractive, and neither, she had to admit, was it in any way uncomfortable, for it had been made to her exact measurements. But it was completely escape-proof, and totally efficient in its guard of her feminine intimacies. She faced forward again and felt the closeness of the fit of the belt about her middle. Sliding her fingers downward, she attempted, as she had done many many times over the last few days, to slip a finger between the metal and her flesh. It was, of course, quite useless. The device was simply not designed to permit her – or anyone else – to do this. Her sex would remain completely inaccessible until the belt was removed.

Kirsten turned again, straining to see the lock at her back. She did not tamper with it, for she had been told it contained an explosive charge which would kill her if she or anyone else attempted to pre-empt it. But in any case what could she do? It was not the sort of lock that required a key: it was opened by a radio signal. The locks on the thigh rings were just the same.

Once again facing the mirror, the girl stretched her legs apart until the chain linking her thigh rings jerked taught. She smiled to herself. Like the initial contract, the conditions that had allowed her to leave the Estate for her "exceptional circumstances" had been fully explained. She would be locked into the belt, and it would only be removed when she returned. Well, she had returned. Soon now.

Kirsten went over to the table and opened the other box, the one with the note. She opened it and lifted out the first item. It was made of metal just like her belt, but designed to fit closely around her neck. Like the belt, it had a radio lock fitted neatly into its structure. It had some other electronics in it too, and on the outside it had welded four metal rings, one at the front, one at the back and one at each side, to which padlocks and chains could be attached. Kirsten considered the collar, turning it over in her hands. It was quite familiar, for she had worn it constantly during the first months of her contract. It had only been removed a week ago, just after she was fitted with the belt. Unlike the belt, the collar was hinged: it was too small to spring open. She opened it wide and eased it around her neck. She found herself wondering, just as she had done the first time, what it would feel like, but as the rubbery lining touched her skin a wave of comforting familiarity coursed through her. It felt normal. She shut her eyes, held her breath and closed the ends of the collar together. The lock engaged with a click, confining Kirsten's neck securely within its grasp. Yes, it felt normal. That was how she was used to be, with a metal collar locked around her neck. Normal, and – nice. Instinctively, the girl's hand strayed down to her sex, though it encountered only the cold metal of the wire gauze. On the other side of this barrier, beads of moisture began to creep as the her flesh responded instinctively to the idea of helpless confinement.

The next item in the box was also familiar to Kirsten, for again, it had been her constant companion until she had left the estate those few days ago. It was a pair of stout leg irons: two anklets, built, and fastening in the same way as her belt and collar, linked by about fourteen inches of bright metal chain. The chain was not permanently fixed to the cuffs, but was padlocked at each end, allowing for re-arrangement if necessary. The girl held up the bonds by their chain, admiring their brightness and form. They were not particularly heavy: they did their job of restraint by means of strength, not weight. Kirsten looked at the padlocks. They were securely fastened. Like the locks on her collar and belt, and those on the ankle rings themselves, they worked by radio rather than a conventional key. Kirsten would never herself be able to release them. She let the metal links run through her fingers: her flesh shivered in anticipation of the confinement they promised. She knew what it was like to be locked into this this device, her limbs inexorably linked by the shining metal chain. She knew what it felt like to go to sleep in it, to wake up in it and to spend her hours and her days in it, until it was not so much something worn, but part of her. She knew exactly how the irons influenced her movement, not really affecting her ability to walk , but constantly asserting their presence as the chain linking the anklets jangled loose and then drew tight with each step. And of course, she could not run or climb. She knew how they kept her flesh exposed, their presence entirely destroying any notion of donning panties or slacks, which could not be got past the chain. She knew too how utterly escape-proof they were, how they would remain completely unmoved by any attempt she would make to free herself, but would continue to hold her flesh in their obdurate, metallic clasp. And she also knew too how beautiful they were, the hard bright metal the perfect foil to the soft curves of her legs.

Kirsten sighed. The itch behind her belt was growing difficult to ignore. Bending down, she fitted the anklets around her legs and clicked them closed. She was fettered. She walked around the room, looking down at her newly applied shackles as she did so, releasing herself to the feeling of confinement, the caress of the metal about her. A single drop of female moisture made its way through the gauze wire of her belt, and crept down her thigh.

Above her head, and entirely outwith her thoughts, the security camera inside its little bubble shaped housing zoomed in on Kirsten's ankles, double checking the radio indication that the bonds were locked in place.

Kirsten returned to the table, and the box. The handcuffs were much the same as the fetters: small metal rings, made to the exact shape and size of Kirsten's slim wrists. Hinges, radio locks, and the pair of them already fastened together with a small radio padlock, giving just an inch or so of play between them. She held them, looking at them, examining them in detail. They felt familiar, but she was not so acquainted with how they looked, for they were worn, of course, at the back, out of sight. She opened one of the cuffs. The rubbery lining was worn: but then until last week it had been constantly locked about her wrist for several months. She looked at the lock, the little clasps that would engage so securely as soon as she closed the ring about her arm. Somehow the bond seemed to grin at her, like it was alive. Hungry for female flesh to imprison, hungry and confident of its victory over its prey.

For a long time, Kirsten stood, holding the cuffs, remembering how it felt to be confined in them. How the metal would clasp her slender wrists with gentle but implacable mastery, defying even the thought of slipping them off. How on warm days the rubber lining would become moist with perspiration from her wrists. How she would only be able to move her hands as far as her hip on each side. How the linkage joining the cuffs was totally resistant to her struggles, and how it was far too short to allow her to slide her hands down past her backside and so bring them to the front of her body. How she could never clothe herself or in any way cover her nakedness. How she could not feed herself, or brush her hair, or teeth. How little she could do when handcuffed.

And how much she had learned to do when handcuffed. How she had learned to live handcuffed, to wake, move and sleep in handcuffs, to shower in handcuffs, read and think and talk in handcuffs, even to type in handcuffs. How she had learned to be helped by and to help other girls, who were also in handcuffs. Handcuffs that were never removed.

Her chest heaving, Kirsten took the first cuff and fitted it around her left wrist. The lock shut with its single, final sounding click. The other cuff dangled. She looked down at it, at the same time viewing her nakedness. She remembered that once the other wrist ring was locked into place, confining her small hands behind her, she could never, despite their constant exposure, touch her own breasts. One cuff still dangling, she cupped her breasts with her hands, feeling their weight and softness. How long before she could do this again? Her nipples, already hard, grew firmer at the thought.

Giving her breasts a valedictory squeeze, Kirsten reached behind her back, fumbled until the open cuff was in position about her right wrist, and squeezed it closed, engaging the lock. A gentle tug confirmed that it was properly in place: Kirsten was once again handcuffed, as required by the terms of her contract.

Suddenly, a fit of panic seized the girl: my God, what have I done? She thought. She collapsed to her knees, heaving at the cuffs that restrained her arms. She pulled her wrists first to one hip and then the other, as far as her bonds permitted. The padlock that linked the cuffs clinked violently, but remained of course entirely indifferent to the struggles. Then Kirsten grabbed each cuff in turn with the opposite hand, trying vainly to slide it down over her wrist. Neither cuff moved. Finally, still kneeling, still helplessly shackled, she tried to relax, concentrating hard on her breathing, searching for the mental space in which she could enjoy the secure embrace of her chains. It was not long in coming, for it had, she knew, been part of her from her earliest years. Relaxing, she felt once again the strange comfort of her implacable confinement.

Silently, above her head, the camera zoomed out. Kirsten's brief struggle had been a pleasing check that her cuffs were properly applied. A button was pressed, and the radio signal sent. The locks that held Kirsten's belt and thing rings opened, disturbing the girl's thoughts, bringing her to her senses.

Carefully, using her shackled hands, she was able to manouevre each thigh ring from her leg, and finally to ease the belt from her middle. The apparatus came away, fully exposing Kirsten's femininity, now moist and fragrant with frustrated arousal.

Kirsten knelt down on her heels, spreading her thighs as widely as she could and letting the cool air reach her pussy. She peered downwards, past her breasts, noting how her pubic hair had been squashed flat by the metal prison that had enclosed it. Again she moved her cuffed hands to her hip, exploring the exact limits of her bondage. How she longed to touch herself! But now, though her pussy was free, her handcuffs completely prevented her reaching her sex. She had tried many times over the months, sometimes managing, by stretching between her legs, to get a fingertip to the bottom of her opening, but never enough to reach her clit or to do anything to reduce her need: only to make it worse by inadequate stimulation. The only way she had found out of such predicaments was to use a smooth stick, like a broom handle, to reach between her legs, or of course to get help from someone else. Well there were no brooms in this room, but now she had returned she could hope for help reasonably soon.

" Greetings, Kirsten, Welcome back." The voice came from a speaker embedded in her collar. "Are you naked?"

" Yes, Sir, except for my chains." Her collar microphone carried her voice back to her employer.

" Good. And are all your chains all in place?"

" Yes Sir." She knew that he knew. The dialogue was just a formality.

" And they are comfortable for you?"

" Yes Sir, perfectly comfortable."

" Good. The inner door is open. You may go through, I shall see you in my study after lunch."

Chapter 2: Room Service

So far as Ruth knew, the only way to serve drinks while handcuffed was to use the trolley. She had discussed it with the other girls a few times, and they had wondered whether they could hang a tray round their necks, like the women that sell ice cream in the intervals at theatres, but they had not worked out how, with their hands securely chained behind them, they could put this down and distribute the drinks when they got to where they were wanted. So, the trolley it was. Fetters jangling merrily as she moved, the shapely brunette carefully transferred the coffee pot, milk jug and cups to the trolley. Her wrist rings, held closely together by their radio-operated padlock, allowed her just enough freedom to do this without spilling the hot liquid. The trick, she had discovered, was to know the exact extent to which she could move, so as not to try anything that her bonds did not permit. It was the sudden jerk of restraint that caused spillages. Of course, it had taken practice to perfect her technique, but she had had plenty of time. What was it? Nine months now? She seriously wondered if she would be able to do it if her hands were free, so used was she to them being constantly pinioned behind her.

With a rattle of leg irons, she moved to the front of the trolley, and grabbing its conveniently positioned handle she pulled it into the lobby. She did not need to press the lift call button; the electronics on her collar sensed she was waiting and saw to that automatically, just as they opened the doors through which she was permitted to go uninvited. The Estate was well organized like that. She supposed it had to be, given the fact that most of its inhabitants spent their lives in chains.

The lift was taking a while, so Ruth took to considering herself in the mirror. It was a full length mirror, one of the many spread throughout the house. How naked she looked! It always surprised her, whenever passed one of the mirrors, for she no longer felt particularly naked. She no longer thought of it at all. It was just normal to her to have no clothes. She giggled! Unless of course you counted the chains as clothes. They were a uniform of sorts, after all, and a very beautiful one at that. Ruth turned, looking over her shoulder and raising her hands up her back as far as she could, admiring the bright metal of her manacles. The enticing curve of her breast, seen in reflected profile, and the flare of her hips made, she thought, an alluring contrast to the sharp edges of her collar, cuffs and anklets. Turning once more to face the glass, she stretched her legs as far apart as her fetters permitted and jiggled her wrists in their cuffs, feeling the action of the metal that linked her limbs together. Enjoying the mastery of the bonds over her flesh. Noting, not for the first time, the tingle between her legs as she considered her lot. She smiled happily. She had always known that she would love being chained, right from when she had first come to the Estate, but she had not realised quite how much her bondage would come to mean. She looked in the mirror once more, her eyes now drawn to the exposed muff of soft brown hair and the softer still lips of flesh that nestled between her thighs. Pulling somewhat harder at her cuffs, Ruth stared forlornly at her femininity reflected in the mirror. Exposed, but sadly well out of the reach of her manacled hands. Giving a final, futile heave at her unyielding shackles, Ruth sighed. She loved being chained, but there was always a down side.

The lift opened onto a long corridor, again well furnished with large mirrors. Beautiful mirrors, spreading natural light through the depths of the house, but functional too: reminding the Estate's female staff of their chained and naked state, and providing discrete screening for the many cameras that followed their every move. As a guest had once commented, there is no point in spending a fortune filling your house with nude and manacled women if you are not going to watch them all the time.

Ruth made her way to the study door, the little trolley wheeling smoothly behind her. On arrival she spoke softly, her collar microphone relaying the message: "Coffee, Sir, as you requested." The door opened silently.

The study had always intrigued Ruth. Perhaps it was that it was the inner sanctum of the Estate, from where all the various security, surveillance controls and locks were operated. Or perhaps it was the overpowering maleness of her employer's dominion, with its dark wood shelves and leather seating, its lines of books and its humming electronics. Either way, it made a girl curious. Curious, but also nervous, and in Ruth's case more than ever grateful for the reassuring embrace of her chains. Entering this room she felt like a child who was somewhere she shouldn't be, and about to get into trouble. The metal on her wrists and ankles was her loving parent, giving a welcome restraining hand.

Ruth entered the room, pulling the drinks trolley behind her, and was greeted with a cheery hello from Emily, who was the Master's current PA. Emily stood to greet the new arrival. She was a blonde girl, with smiling grey eyes, hair just brushing her neck, cutely uneven teeth illustrating her grin, smallish breasts, a slim waist and well filled out hips and thighs. Being a female on the Estate, she was nude, and she was shackled just like Ruth, her exposed flesh imprisoned with perfect security in collar, handcuffs and fetters. Further, because she was stationed in her employer's domain, she had an extra security measure: a bright metal chain, its links about an inch long, depended from a radio-padlock which secured it to the front ring of her collar. As she stood, It passed down between her unclothed breasts and snaked sensuously across the floor to a metal ring, about four inches in diameter, set into the base of the wall. Another radio-padlock secured it there. It was a long chain, perhaps twenty feet long, allowing Emily to reach most areas of the room and the small bathroom in the corner, but it did not permit her to come too close to the security control panel set into the left-hand wall.

At the sight of the chain on the PA's neck, Ruth felt a surge of jealousy. The bond was really the most beautiful thing, the way it draped and dangled across the pale flesh of its helpless prisoner, its links reflecting the sunlight from the window. And the way the blonde girl wore it! Seemingly oblivious to its presence, to its restraint, to its barbaric loveliness.

Of course Ruth had herself been confined by such a device, many times, for it was part of the deal when any of the women accepted an invitation to spend time in the apartments of either their employer or one of his guests, that they would be chained by the neck to a metal ring. Ruth well remembered what it felt like to be held captive by such a bond: to feel the coldness of its links against her naked body and to know beyond doubt that, however long the chain might be, it would hold her implacably within its radius, regardless of anything she might do, until a man chose to unlock it. Ruth's eyes followed Emily's chain to its anchoring point, where, she noted, three or four other bonds of various lengths were also secured. They lay roughly coiled, ready to restrain women at a moment's notice. Ruth's pussy itched. Her gaze lighted on the padlock, open, waiting, looped through the end of one of them. God. She pulled silently at her cuffs, trying to maintain composure. She was sure she was gushing down below.

" Ah, there you are my dear. Thank you for the coffee." Behind her, his voice soft in her ear, his breath on her neck, making the little hairs stand on end. She could feel the closeness of him, his bulk towering over her, his power, his maleness. The warmth of his hands, poised half an inch from her hips, ready to grab the narrowness of her middle and draw her naked form back against himself, sliding his fingers forward and down as he did so. Goose-bumps on her flesh, she went weak at the knees.

But she did not turn round, for she knew he was not really there. It was just the effect of the clever , surround-sound speakers in her collar, combined with a poor, naked, horny and helplessly manacled female's over-active imagination.

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.

Chapter 4: The Master

Ruth was so mortified by the patch of damp stickiness on her left thigh that she nearly refused the Master's gentle invitation to stay and share the coffee she had brought. Nearly, but not quite, for despite the wording of her contract, her employer's invitations always seemed like commands to her, commands that a nude and shackled female had no choice but to obey. She knelt, glad of the opportunity to rest her juddery legs. Emily did the honours with a neck chain, fumbling behind her to get the padlock through Ruth's collar ring, the expanse of pale flesh that formed blonde girl's buttocks and thighs inches from the brunette's face, the cold links of the bond brushing lightly against her nipples. After what seemed like an age, the padlock clicked closed, confining Ruth to the wall of the study.

While Emily went to pour the refreshment, Ruth shuffled until her new restraint was comfortable between her breasts, at the same time fighting all her old anxieties: what will he think? Love handles, cellulite, tummy too floppy, breasts too saggy, arms too fat? In the old days she would have avoided the meeting, or at least been covered in some shapeless, frumpy old rag, but these were no longer options for her. Now she was chained to the wall, naked, and even her hands were no use to protect her modesty. Ruth smiled. Thank God. She did not need to fight any more, her bondage did that for her. She looked at the damp patch again, grown worse by the experience of being neck chained. No more choices, no more modesty: even her inmost needs were publicly displayed. Hearing, at last, the far door open, she spread her knees as wide as she could, waiting respectfully for her employer.

He sat on the leather sofa in front of the kneeling women, putting down the long, cloth-wrapped package he was carrying, helping by moving the low, wheeled coffee table so that the girls could lean forward and sip from their cups. Tall, over six feet, broad shoulders, black jeans and turtle-neck, carpet slippers. Brown hair, blue eyes with gold around the edge of the irises, eyelashes Ruth herself would have died for. A little older than the brunette – maybe mid forties? Her employer. The Master. A complete enigma.

He never discussed anything personal with Ruth, nor as far as she knew with any of the girls. She only knew what was public – his name, which she and the other staff were not permitted to use, that he was a millionaire due to his electronics firm, several clever patents in security systems, known as something of a recluse as far as the press and so on were concerned. A reputation as a bit of a nerd even. Of course, rumours and gossip abounded (how could they not with so many under-informed women around?): a wife killed in a road accident some years ago, children somewhere? Never in evidence here. Ruth did the only thing she could – she relied on her feminine intuition. He was certainly confident with women. You did not keep women naked and in chains without a certain level of self-assuredness, after all, and the frankness of his gaze, of his touch and of his own lustful response was always completely unashamed. But it seemed to Ruth that her employer's confidence tempered with a certain something – she could not say what, there was no word she knew. Something like a vestige or a legacy, of a time when it was not so, and which informed his assurance with a respect that made it no less effective, but yet utterly without threat to her, or indeed anyone else. It made her wonder, with sympathy, about his past. How else could she describe it? Being locked in his chains was like being his trophy, but she had had boyfriends in the past who viewed her as a trophy, the kind of trophy that is a sign of victory over ones peers. It wasn't like that here. Here she was made to feel like a treasured item in a collection, to be enjoyed for herself, with no bearing at all on how others might feel, No element of macho competition at all. It was really very refreshing. His eyes bored into hers. Oh God he was speaking!

" Sorry, Sir, I was miles away."

" I was just asking if you were still enjoying yourself here. It's been nine months now, hasn't it?"

" Yes Sir. And yes, I love it here." It was true, she did. It was a strange and wonderful adventure.

" And you are OK with your chains? It can be hard to wear them for so long. You don't get any pain or anything?"

" They are fine, Sir. A perfect fit."

" And no, how shall I put it, practical issues? With your restraint, I mean."

" The facilities are designed to deal with everything like that Sir. It all works brilliantly."

Ruth's heels were close together beneath her bottom, adjacent to her handcuffs. She allowed her finger to stray downwards, feeling her close-fitting anklet, running the tip along the line where the cold steel gave way to the warmth of her foot. What did she want to say? That she thought it was easy to wear chains, for what could be easier than being locked into rings of metal, when there was no hope of release and no chance of escape? That the feel of the bonds holding her was the very antithesis of pain, a warm and loving caress? To describe the thrill, when she stirred in the mornings and felt, as her very first sensation, her bondage, unbroken from the night before? The thrill when wakefulness took a fuller hold, and the knowledge, like returning daylight, poured anew into her brain, that her bondage would continue unbroken for that day and the next and the next, and that she had all her needs dealt with to leave not the slightest practical excuse to request release from her shackles? What could she say? She sensed that he knew all this anyway.

" And how is your course?" None of the girls had extensive duties. Ruth was filling her spare time with an on-line degree course. It was an interesting challenge: "Fine, Sir. I got an A for my last piece of course work."

He was taking the cloth-wrapped package. Out of it came a bright metal rod, shining bright. "Have you any idea what these are, Ruth?"

A giggle: "They are metal rods, about three feet long, with a ring at each end and another in the middle." Ruth was intrigued, excited by the items, and had her suspicions as to what they might be, in outline if not in detail, but she enjoyed her cheeky literalism. She smiled widely, and pushed her breasts forward a little, asserting herself. A slight, but quite deliberate clink of the links joining her cuffs was intended to remind her employer of her shackled helplessness. It was a by-product that it also reminded her, adding new drops of moisture to the tops of her legs.

" The thing is," smiled the Master, "I thought you might like to help with a little experiment. A little variation to your chains. Emily has already agreed to try it out, but I wanted two of you, so that you can compare notes and well, help each other if necessary. It might be a bit more restrictive than handcuffs." He gazed at the two naked girls. Emily worked here every day and was used to his presence. Ruth's little gesture and its rather personal result had not gone unnoticed. Of course he needed no reminder of her bondage, but he found her efforts stimulating and entertaining, none the less.

" Perhaps, Sir," said the blonde PA, "you should explain to Ruth how the devices work."

Taking one of the rods, the Master stood up and moved behind Ruth. He knelt: "This bar sits at the back of your neck, thus." He held it in position. "The middle ring padlocks to your collar at the back, and your cuffs padlock to the end rings. It is a yoke."

Ruth's nipples felt as if they would explode. She clenched her fists and pulled as hard and smoothly as she could against her handcuffs, using the tension to try and retain her composure. She genuinely felt that if the Master so much as touched her back, she would come there and then. Please don't touch my back she thought, Please touch my back. Please don't touch my back.

" Would you like to try it?"

Her voice seemed to come out as a squeak: "Yes, Sir."

" Good girl." She felt the bar being padlocked to the back of her collar.

" Now, it will be necessary to remove your cuffs so as to fit the yoke. We need to turn the cuffs round on your wrists, so that the ring is at the top. I want you to relax and hold your hands just there at your back. You are not to move them at all, do you understand? I will move them one by one when I am ready."

" Yes, Sir."

How strange it felt, just for an instant, to have nothing about her wrist, even though her employer's command held her just as securely as the chains had done. It was only a few seconds anyway. The cuffs were turned and locked back into place about her limbs, though no longer joined together. Then, he pulled each arm up in turn, and padlocked the cuff to the end of the bar. Ruth's arms dangled, helpless. She was yoked.

Ruth knelt, not daring to move, staring whilst the Master repeated the process with Emily. It was only when the blonde girl was ready, kneeling there in front of her, her arms held secure and useless by her metal bar, her unclothed flesh totally exposed, that Ruth dared turn her head to examine the linkage on her own shoulders. Oh God, she could actually see it! Her hand there, imprisoned in its cuff. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, feeling the metal locked on her wrist, and feeling, as she pulled down, the tendency of her other arm to rise up. But if she pulled with both at once, nothing happened – nothing except a clinking of the metal links and padlocks that joined the components of her yoke. She could not slide her hands from the cuffs. She could not pull the cuffs from the bar. She could not pull the bar from her collar, and nor, of course, could she pull the collar from her neck. She was yoked, and she was staying yoked. What could she do? She needed desperately to do something. She raised her left arm, thus allowing her right hand to move downwards. Her hand moved, but it went only so far, despite her twisting her body as far as she could. Her fingers came nowhere near her aching breasts, nowhere near the flowing wetness of her pussy. Nowhere near her flesh at all.

Later, she lay on the floor of the study, her right hand, comfortably encircled by its manacle, gripping the links of her neck chain, her right knee bent upwards as far as her fetters would allow. The Master, himself naked now, lay on her left, his right hand supporting his head, his left still on her body, its middle finger trailing gently in her still-moist slit, prolonging the memory of his other fullness within her, just a few moments ago. She, of course, was flat on her back: the only way she could lie with her arms chained in this way. Her head was turned to the left, looking from her own stoutly cuffed wrist to his eyes, and back again. In the background, her chains rattling merrily, Emily was pottering, tidying up, getting used to her new style of restraint. His voice was soft, but manly: "Thank you, my dear."

She smiled. "Thank you Sir, Thank you. For everything, thank you."

Chapter 5: The Library

Now that she spent her life in chains, Kirsten never really felt at ease sitting on furniture when men were around: it seemed much more natural to her to kneel on the floor. Stools like this one however were an exception. They were not devices that guests would ever use. The best way she could have described the seat would have been to say it was a bit like an old fashioned tractor seat, a sort of contoured metal affair, with shaped channels for the legs. But this one wasn't so deep as a tractor seat, so it required a certain poise to sit on it without falling off, and the leg channels diverged rapidly, so the only way you could relax was if your thighs were spread wide apart. The stool had a few other handy design features too: a jaw lock (like the ones on her bed) at the back which snapped to a girl's handcuffs, and similar arrangements near where her feet rested, fastening her legs in place, and so removing any last temptation to draw her thighs together. Finally, a screw mechanism, automatic of course, allowed the height of the seat to be adjusted over quite a wide range. Now, as she sat in the Master's study it was up quite high, presenting the tops of Kirsten's legs, and the other obvious attractions of that region, at a convenient height for viewing by the tall man, seated in his office chair. The naked girl on the stool made an attractive decorative feature for a room, and the only consolation as far as Kirsten was concerned was that she was near enough to a shelf for her to be able to bend and sip, through a straw, the large cocktail that the Master had made her.

The Master was working. He hadn't planned it, but a report had come in from one of the subsidiary companies requiring immediate input to meet a deadline. He only had a few paragraphs to write, but they needed to be correct and they needed to be done. His little chat with his recently returned employee would have to wait a bit, but in the meantime she was useful inspiration. Stuck for a word, he glanced up, following the line of the blonde girl's shapely thighs to her silky smooth bush. He smiled inwardly. He remembered as a frustrated and rather lonely student all those years ago, thinking that what he really wanted in a career was something that involved lots of naked women! He seemed to have achieved that. Finding his inspiration, he typed on.

Kirsten was irritated. It was not that she minded being a decorative feature so much – after all, it was arguably what she was paid to be. But she did not like being silent; she wanted to talk. She was annoyed at being chained to the stool as well. Handcuffs and fetters, and even her neck chain, applied as a matter of course when she had entered this room, were fine, but the stool was uncomfortable. She gave a frustrated tug at the jaws that held her cuffed hands to the seat, nearly, in the process, making herself overbalance. The resulting clink caused an dark glance from the Master. She smiled coyly, but he wasn't interested in making eye contact. He just went back to his monitor.

She was also in a draught. The fan that swung too and fro on the Master's desk, set at a convenient height to cool his head, traversed her spread thighs on each cycle of its movement, the strong breeze parting her pubic hair. The stool, and the way she was chained to it, prevented her moving out of the way or closing her legs, she just had to endure. Naturally the Master was well aware of this aspect of the Kirsten's predicament. He had not arranged it deliberately, but having noticed it, he found it rather amusing. It wasn't deliberate this time, but it might well be the next.

Bored, Kirsten stared around her, looking at the books that lined every wall, perhaps four thousand of them. What could they tell her about this man, with his money and his strange lifestyle? Had he read them all? Those immediately in front of her were technical, the ones higher up to do with the advanced electronics that had made the Master his millions – some of them sported his name on the spine. Those lower down were more basic: PC Maintenance for Dummies. She had read that one. It must be in a tea chest in her mother's attic. She remembered other girls at college boggling when they found her in her room at the residences with her computer stripped down to its basic componets, ready for a new motherboard and CPU. But even though she had studied arts, that kind of stuff had never intimidated Kirsten. It was just plugging together, wasn't it? How hard could it be? Anyone could read the manual. And now her was she, stripped down to her basic componets, as it were.

The blonde's eyes strayed further across the shelves. The next section was obviously more personal. Books on railways seemed common: pictorials of steam locomotives, books on signalling, some of it the modern technology, other tomes whose spines showed small illustrations of the older style of semaphore signal. Sailing ships and shipping history. An arcane set of interests? Boys' stuff, surely. But she remembered days out as a girl, spent riding on tourist railways with steam engines: she could see the attraction of the gleaming, hissing machines.

The next section was more thought provoking. Theology. Mostly Christian, but serious stuff, Old and New Testament analysis, biblical history, writings of the Church Fathers. None of the trashy paperpacks that the Christian Union had tried to flog her when she was at college. Kirsten cringed at the memory. There were other religions represented on the Master's shelves too; a couple of Sufi titles she knew from her own studies in Arabic history – in translation here. She knew them in the originals. And there was something in Amharic – the Ethiopian script of which she had picked up a smattering. What religions, she wondered, allowed you to keep women nude and in chains? Probably most of them, if the women had agreed. Having sex with them might be more difficult to reconcile. Then the more abstruse stuff, modern paganism, Wicca, and geomancy, dowsing, ley-lines, and Ancient British History, Stonehenge and the like. Books on relationships: men's stuff, Sam Keen's Fire in the Belly. Of course she hadn't read it, but an ex boyfriend had sworn by it. Men are from Mars...The blonde girl smirked, thinking of her own life, of the Estate. Why bother with all that communication! Just strip your women naked, clap them in irons and get on with it. Much simpler!

The Master typed on, occasionally glancing at his living nude sculpture, chained to her stool. He noted that she was looking at the bookshelves, that her breasts curved with enticing fullness as she turned her shoulders to examine her surroundings. Kirsten was oblivious to the physical man now, her brain having found occupation in his intellectual sustenance.

There was art in the literature too: books on photography. Books on female fashion. Another one, of classical theme, the spine illustrated with a small photograph of Hiram Powers' famous carving of The Greek Slave. Kirsten smiled. She had fantasized about that long ago, a nude female, bound in irons, her hands linked by a double line of chain. The fantasy had never been quite satisfying though, perhaps because the girl had her hands shackled in front of her. What was the point in that? It just turned the chain into a weapon. Kirsten felt her own handcuffs. Her fantasies depended hands being secured well out of the way, where they could not get into mischief. Just where they were now.

But there was the sex shelf: brazenly displayed. No hiding away of books under beds here. The Joy of Sex: she'd fantasized with that one too, particularly its strange drawings of bondage. She giggled inwardly at the bloke with the beard! Ugh! Some general sex guides she didn't recognize. Then Nancy Friday. Literature: Lady Chatterley, Anais Nin. And literature about bondage: copies of Aurelius' Rabbit Island saga – compulsive reading for Kirsten in between her PhD source material, and food for dreams of a desert island life, naked and in handcuffs. A couple of Gor books: she'd read those too, though they had too much violence and not enough nudity to really work for her. She noted that these examples were ones written supposedly from the female perspective, Captive or Gor, Kajira of Gor, Slavegirl of Gor. Barbary slave books by Allan Aldiss. They were too heavy for her, as well.

Music next. A considerable collection, most notably opera and oratorio scores, and other smaller stuff that she could not identify from its spines, but which must be short works or sheet music. There was a rumour that the Master could sing a bit, choral stuff and so on, but he never did do so as far as she knew. She wondered what voice he sang? Baritone, probably. He was took big and his speaking tones were too sonorous to be a tenor, but he did not have the gruffness she expected of a real bass. Not that she really knew: her own abilities were limited to grade 2 piano, taken when she was thirteen, but she enjoyed her classical music all the same.

There the built in shelving ended, but there was another, free-standing bookcase. It was at the extreme range of her eyesight to read the titles, but she had another sip of her cocktail and had a go anyway. Nothing else to do, chained to her stool. The first few seemed nondescript, but strangely girly. A couple of cookery books, some standard looking romances, and one or two slightly more serious titles. History and so on. Then, oddly, her own favourite novel: Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. It seemed out of place on the shelf. She scanned onwards. A tall, vaguely familiar looking volume, an inch and a half wide, gold lettered, black bound.

The stool and its captive crashed over, the scream was deafening.

Usually, Kirsten went through her days without really thinking about her bondage – which was not the same as imagining it wasn't there, or not noticing that it was. It was just, well, part of her life, part of her. And at other times – frequent, happy other times – she was aware of the intense and exquisite sexual stimulation that she obtained through, and so far as she knew only through, being naked and chained, from knowing how physically beautiful this state made her, from the inward feeling of openness and vulnerability it generated in her, from the gratification she derived from observing others' response to her vulnerability, and from knowing that she was helpless to free herself, that someone else held the keys to her shackles, and had either to choose or be persuaded to use them. But normally, manacles and nudity never made her feel more vulnerable than was desirable to her – just enough, in fact, to make her throat pleasantly dry and her pussy pleasantly wet with anticipation. Normally, nudity and chains enhanced, not eroded her sense of self. They were never a threat.

But, just occasionally, when in bondage, she lost her comfortable space. Something happened that temporarily changed her, that broke down the schema of existence she had developed and brought terrors of violation and enslavement flooding in. Something happened that made her feel with white-heat intensity the power of her chains, the totality of her nakedness, the impossibility of escape, the loss of control. Something that drove her in an instant to a desperation which went quite beyond her intellectual understanding of her bonds.

The Master was at her side, her seat disentangled from her in an instant, its jaw locks yielding to his simple command. But then she was launching at him, spitting like an angry cat, obscenities pouring from her, breasts quivering, handcuffs, fetters, neck-chain rattling. He gave an inch or two, surprised, and then frankly amused at the ridiculousness of a six foot man being attacked by a naked 5'2" girl who had her hands pinioned behind her. He did the only thing he could, and held her tight, her head into his shoulders, his arms enfolding her, strongly at first, easing from restraint to support as she calmed. The curses yielded to sobs; the shackles yielded to nothing, and continued to imprison the blonde girl's limbs with total security, utterly indifferent to her outburst.

"What is the matter, Kirsten? You gave me the fright of my life! Are you wanting to safe-word out?"

This last question had no impact on her. Somewhere her brain knew the safe-word, but it had no place in her consciousness. Nowhere within her was there any real desire to be unchained. It was a deeper, far less tangible experience that she had had.

"It is mine."

"What?"

"There, on the shelf. My PhD thesis!"

"Oh, I see. Yes. So?"

It was entitled Aspects of Political and Religious Life in Medieval Egypt, and there were as far as Kirsten knew only six copies of it in the world, two of those on microfilm. Such a lot of her soul was in it, and it was from another life, where she had worn panties and bras, T-shirts and jeans, and had not – or at least not often - been chained. To know he had read it felt closer to being raped than anything he could ever do to her body. Her mind was a private place. How had he got in there? And how could she tell him how she felt? It would seem ludicrous when put into words. It seemed ludicrous to her. The thesis was a public document. Anyone could read it, if they could be bothered to get the microfilm from the National Lending Library.

He turned her over, so he could see her face. She lay like a big baby, just as helpless, one of his arms under her knees, the other round her shoulders. She was naked. She was very beautiful. The swelling of her breasts. The curve of her hips. Her small blonde bush. The metal of her collar. The chain attached to it, shackling her to the wall. Held with padlocks. His padlocks. She had tears in her eyes, quivering lips. But she was breathing easier now. Silence.

"You've read it, Sir?"

"Of course I've read it. It is very interesting."

"I had not bargained on having my mind investigated when I came here. It was a surprise, I suppose. How did you get it?"

"I had the microfilms printed out and bound. Breach of copyright, Sorry."

"Why is it there Sir?"

"With all the girls' favourite books. That is what that bookcase is for." He looked down at her again, drinking in her manacled form. His manhood stirred. "It isn't just your body that interests me." He looked down at her again, sensing the irony of his thoughts. He believed what he said, but if there was no option, perhaps just her body would do. "I can't keep your mind in chains, but I can at least strip it naked, and enjoy its beauty. It is beautiful, Kirsten, your mind."

She looked back into his eyes. Did he mean it? Yes. Suddenly she wanted him in her brain. She wanted him to possess her totally. She wanted him now. "Sir, please fuck me."

He released her neck chain and carried her through to his bedroom, where he lay her on the large four-poster, with its starched linen sheets. Another neck-chain, shorter, just a couple of feet long, secured her in place. She pulled her hands up to the small of her back, avoiding the cuffs digging into her behind, and she was kissed, slowly, leisurely, from lips to lips. Then, unable whilst anchored to the headboard to help him, she watched him undress, and welcomed him into the moist softness of her femininity, her flesh clasping him and drawing him onwards, using the chain joining her anklets to encircle his body. He did not thrust: his action was slow and long, from the very tip of her opening to the the folds of her cervix and back again, filling her each time, letting her feel him inside her, and then withdrawing, wave after wave of gentle passion.

Together, they took many rests, making stillness in which, their flesh still one flesh, they talked, he asking her of her trip, of her thoughts on the chastity belt (an appropriate way to be asked about that, she thought, as his calm but insistent intrusion began once again to rattle doors of ecstasy within her brain), of her thoughts, of her studies, of her past. He asking, she answering. Willingly stripping her mind naked for him, as he possessed her flesh.

Only as the afternoon sun began to lose its intensity, when Kirsten's intellect was fully bared and offered, like her shackled body, to the Master's care, did their passion rise to complete their togetherness, the strength of their joint climax sapping, for many moments, all their energy for further speech.

After a while, he donned his robe and fetched his laptop from his desk. Kirsten, dreamy with fulfillment, still naked, still chained to the bed, lay with her head on his knee, where she could see the computer screen, helping him with the last of his edit. When it was done, he unlocked her from the bed, refixed her collar to a long, long neck chain, and carried her gently to the warmth of a bath. Then he rang for dinner to be brought to his apartments.

Very, very much later, Kirsten was back in her own room. As the door locked closed behind her, she lent against it, shutting out the outside world. She closed her eyes, sensing the here and now. She felt the coolness of the room against her nakedness, the snug embrace of the metal that continued its unbroken confinement her neck and limbs. She smiled, remembering the latter part of the evening, how it compared to dates she had had in former times. After they had bathed, he had dressed for dinner. She, of course had not. He had helped himself, and her, to their food and drink. She had sat, helplessly chained, depending on him to serve her. Yet it had all seemed so natural and normal, like any date: they had chatted and laughed, the elegantly attired man and the shackled, naked girl, two like-minded adults, enjoying each other's company, discussing the ways of the world, totally at ease. Finally they had retired to the sofa for coffee (her discomfort at sitting on the furniture temporarily gone), and to the bed once more for love. There had not been a single instant when she did not feel his equal, nor when she had felt that he regarded her as such as well.

Kirsten moved away from the door, now locked until morning. As she crossed the room, she caught sight of herself in the mirror: blonde, beautiful, hair a little awry from her afternoon and evening of passion, naked and chained in handcuffs and fetters. She pulled against her restraints, feeling her ankle chain tighten, forcing her hands as far as she could to each side, first to her right hip and then to her left, testing their strength and security. There was, of course, no give, no weakness whatsoever. She could not escape her bonds, not now, not ever. Nor could she defeat their confinement or exceed the precise limitation of movement that they allowed her. His equal perhaps. But a single word from him would unlock the metal rings that imprisoned her flesh so effectively, whilst nothing she could do would make the slightest iota of difference to them. His equal?