Chains in Mind Page 2
Eventually the gate buzzed and opened, and the intercom told him to enter.
Chapter Two
Stretching in front of him, James saw an elegant gravel driveway, bordered on each side by a regular line of poplars. It curved up through well-tended grass lawns to a great mansion, that was at least a quarter of a mile from the gate. It was early May, and the grounds were looking very fine in the sunshine. In front of this scene, however, demanding his attention, was a woman. It wasn’t his mistress: this was a blonde, only nineteen or twenty years old. She was about five foot four, plus the four inches that the stiletto heels on her leather boots gave her. She was wearing skin-tight black leather jeans and a heavily-studded biker jacket over a white tee-shirt. Her hair was tied back in a pony-tail, and she was standing with her legs apart and her hands on her hips, smirking at him.
“Ah, fresh meat!” she exclaimed. His mistress had simply told him to be obedient and co-operative when he got here. He stood, afraid, holding his forlorn-looking cardboard box like a shield. Behind him the gate shut with a clang.
“My name is Ms. Denton, but you can call me ‘ma’am’. Alright?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He realised that the thing she had in her right hand was a small coach whip: a stock about twenty inches long, and then a thin cord of leather of about the same length, ending in a nasty-looking knot. Behind her stood a cart. It was lightly built: two wheels resembling bicycle wheels, but slightly larger, were set about six feet apart. There was no axle going straight across between them; instead, a length of tubular steel rose from each hub to the level of the top of the wheels, which was perhaps two foot six, and a cross-member joined them at that level. A comfortable seat, resembling a car seat with arm rests, was fixed to the middle of this cross member. Another length of tubular steel emerged from under the seat at the front, kinked downwards for a few inches, and then continued forward to make a long shaft.
There was a naked young man standing astride this shaft, his backside about two feet in front of the edge of the seat. He was wearing a tough leather hip belt, and a strap hung from the front of it - just in front of his genitals - that supported the shaft. He was forced to bend over because his forearms were in leather sleeves that were pulled in and strapped to the shaft in front of him from elbow to wrist. With the hip belt supporting the shaft, he could allow the weight of his upper body to be taken on his forearms, letting him bend from the hips, not the waist, and keep his back dipped rather than arched, without strain. His face, from this angle, was obscured by a bridle; the reins were pulled tight, keeping his head up, and were tied round the upper part of a cross-shaped piece of metal, that rose from the shaft just behind his backside. From the side-arms of this cross hung little leather slings that almost brushed his buttocks. James could not immediately see the purpose of those. He was, in any case, in shock. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this.
“Come here,” said Ms. Denton, gesturing for him to stand beside the cart, next to the harnessed boy.
‘Obedient and co-operative’ - that was what his mistress had ordered, he reminded himself. Stumbling and slow, he obeyed Ms. Denton. She used a little metal step hanging down from the shaft to get into her seat. Now the slings were revealed to be stirrups: the tips of her four-inch heels were very thin and steely bright; she rested the backs of her feet - her natural heels - in the slings, and the tips of her boot heels pressed against the boy’s buttocks. James could see angry red marks on the skin, where she had previously spurred him.
“Keep up: keep that position,” she told James. She took the reins, flicked them, and pressed hard with her heels. The pony-boy started off much faster than James had expected: it took him a moment to react, to start running and keep pace. Ms. Denton gave James a lash with the whip.
“Keep up, I said.”
Even through the business suit he was wearing, it made him gasp with pain. This was awful! He faced front and ran beside the cart, his jacket flapping, holding his cardboard box in front of him, as the incongruent group of three made their way up to the house.
Ms. Denton drove round to the back of the building, and pulled her steed to a halt in front of the central rear entrance. James was panting: he wasn’t dressed for running, and Ms. Denton had given him several more lashes, apparently just for fun since he hadn’t been lagging. She tied the reins of her pony-boy to the cross-piece, making him keep his head up, and dismounted. Here, they were in the shade of the building, since this side faced North, and out of the sun it was much cooler. The mansion was built on a sloping site, so that the ground floor at the front was five feet above ground at the back, and the French doors of the rear entrance opened onto a small terrace, from which stone steps apparently descended on either side.
“Come with me,” she told James, ignoring the other boy, and strolled to the far steps. Her rear, covered in tight black leather, swayed back and forth with each stride. James trailed after her, and discovered that the symmetrical balustrade was deliberately misleading: hidden behind the rising wall, the steps on this side didn’t lead up, but down, to the lower ground level that would naturally be the service part of the house: all along this side he could see small windows at just about ground level. There was an entrance under the terrace. Ms. Denton passed inside, took two paces along a hallway, and turned left into a dim, empty, room, the size of a large kitchen. The walls were covered in white tiles, and on the floor the red quarry tiles from the hallway continued, sloping slightly to drain into a central gutter that ran the length of the room. On either side there was a row of shower heads in the ceiling, with a single old-fashioned brass tap on the wall for each one, meaning that twenty people could shower at once.
“Strip,” said Ms. Denton. His mistress, the light of his life - although he had only met her once and had yet to learn her name - obviously wanted him to be a slave, so of course he wanted to co-operate: anything, anything at all, to please her, to win a smile from her. That didn’t stop him regretting that this was what she wanted, though: it didn’t make it any easier: it didn’t make it fun.
He obeyed Ms. Denton’s order as rapidly as he could, while she tipped out the contents of his cardboard box, and poked through them with the stock of her whip. There was nothing of much value or interest there. She shrugged, and dismissed them. It seemed to make it worse that she was so young. James would normally have been, not patronising, but self-assured with a girl of her age, but her assumption of superiority was complete. She looked at him, standing naked in front of her, and her face seemed to show nothing but derision at what she saw. She went to the wall and turned on one of the taps.
“Shower.”
He left his clothes in a little crumpled heap, and got under the shower. The water was cold. There was a piece of soap on a little plastic shelf glued to the wall, and he washed himself, while blowing out his cheeks heavily and shivering. His manhood shrivelled. When he had finished, she threw him a thin towel.
“Please, ma’am, there’s my wallet in the jacket.” The contents were important, and he thought his mistress wouldn’t want them to get lost.
Ms. Denton gave him a lash with her whip, putting her whole arm behind it; the leather cord caught him round the upper arm, curled round his back, and the little knot flicked the biceps of his other arm: he cried out in pain.
“That’s no longer your concern,” she told him.
“No, ma’am,” he said. Despite himself, his eyes were watering.
“Drop the towel. Kneel.”
He fell to his knees on the hard floor.
“All males should be slaves, isn’t that right, boy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Say it.”
“All males should be slaves, ma’am.”
“And you in particular.”
“And me in particular, ma’am.”
“Kiss my boots.”
“Alright, that’s enough. Get up and follow me.”
Naked, defenceless, he followed her along a corridor, and up a flight of bare wooden stairs, and through a green baize door. As they passed through the door, their surroundings changed dramatically, from the drab and utilitarian servants’ area into the expensively-furnished comfort of the main part of the house. They arrived at a grand entrance hall; here, the floor was tiled with a chequerboard pattern of black and white marble. An expensive-looking French antique side table stood against the wall, and a tall grandfather clock stood magisterially in a corner. Ms. Denton passed through, her heels clicking loudly on the floor, and into a drawing room that looked out over the front grounds, to one side of the main entrance.
The room was richly furnished, with red velvet curtains at the full length windows, finished with gold brocade. There were three brown leather sofas, not overstuffed, but soft and comfortable-looking. What looked like original oil paintings hung on the walls. Ms. Denton flung herself down on a sofa, leaving James standing naked in the middle of the room, and took from her pocket something like a remote control. Frowning, she pressed a couple of buttons. Nothing appeared to happen. She sat back, looking him up and down without much interest. Her gaze shifted to the window. She seemed to be waiting for something, but for what, he didn’t know.
After a minute, the door opened and another young man appeared, panting heavily from running. He ran to Ms. Denton and knelt in front of her.
“Yes, mistress?”
He was wearing simple black trousers that came down to mid-calf, and a loose white cotton shirt. On his feet he had basic rope sandals, with a toe-post between his big toe and the rest, but with the addition of an ankle strap that tied in the front. The sandals were also black. There was a steel collar round his neck.
The distance happened to be just right: without stirring herself, she kicked him in the crotch, and he groaned, clutching himself, and fell sideways.
“Not fast enough!” she reprimanded him.
“I’m very sorry, mistress,” he managed to croak.
“Go and get the dose for this new boy,” she told him, waving a hand at James. The slave ran from the room, still bent almost double and hobbling, his whole body curved round his groin. Ms. Denton still lounged, swinging her leg idly, and looked at James.
“You know,” she said, sounding as if she didn’t much care whether he understood or not, “the drugs you’ve been given would wear off in a couple of days, and they’re not very specific: just a general feeling of loyalty and obedience, targeted on the first person you see.”
James was very concerned. If the drugs wore off, he understood quite clearly that he would hate the woman who had done this to him: he would try to escape and go to the police, and then she might go to prison. He could not bear the thought of it, that he might be the cause of distress to the love of his life, his queen. That mustn’t, couldn’t, be allowed to happen.
Ms. Denton saw the anxiety on his face, and smiled. “Not to worry. I’m going to inject you with some nano-devices. They’re tiny, tiny, machines that will make their way through your bloodstream into your brain, and make some small, but irreversible, changes to your neural circuitry. That’s completely permanent: you can’t be talked out of it, or go off the idea: your obedience will be unassailable.”
Oh, well, that was alright, then. Mistress would be safe, and have his service for life. He sighed with relief. The slave returned, still wincing and looking uncomfortable, and knelt again in front of Ms. Denton. He held out to her a small box, like a jewellery box. She took it from him. Inside, nestled in foam rubber, was a single syringe, a protective cover over the needle, sealed in plastic. Ms. Denton ripped off the packaging. She held the syringe up and squirted a little, while tapping on the glass to remove any air. Then she stood.
“Come here, boy,” she told him. She made him kneel, and she sat on the arm of the sofa while she gave his neck a quick antiseptic swab, and then injected him. It hurt: she wasn’t very expert at this; but after a few seconds she had successfully emptied the syringe into his bloodstream.
“All done,” she said, smiling. She looked at her watch. “So you’ll be ready for imprinting at about eight.” She gave the empty syringe and box back to the other slave, and dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“Now then,” she said, grinning evilly at him, “how do I kill a couple of hours before dinner?”
Chapter Three
James groaned loudly. He couldn’t help himself. He was still naked, and lying face up on a low footstool that extended from his shoulders to his hips; his legs were folded under him, so that his ankles could be chained to two legs of the stool, directly below his backside. His wrists were chained to the underside of the stool, making his pose reminiscent of a hog tie. His head lolled back, so that he viewed the room upside down.
Ms. Denton was sitting on the couch, with her feet up, using him as a footstool. She was supposedly reading, and maybe she was, but every minute or two she would idly scrape the heel of one or other boot across him. The result was that his abdomen was covered in red stripes running from one side to the other, so that he looked as if he had been lashed.
She frowned at the sound. Casually, she moved her right foot down, and shoved hard into his groin, her heel catching a testicle. He squealed and jerked.
“I didn’t tell you to make a noise, boy,” she told him.
He clenched his teeth and tried to stifle his cries and endure; his thoughts were a mass of confusion. The events of the day had moved so quickly that his life seemed to be a blur: all he really knew was that he needed to obey his mistress.
At that moment, he heard a car coming up the driveway. It came to a halt in front of the house; there was a scrunch of gravel, and a deferential greeting by some male voice at the front door. After a few seconds someone came in to the drawing room. He raised his head as far as he could. It was his mistress: his heart lifted to see her.
“Hello, Susan,” she said.
“Hi,” Ms. Denton answered, sitting up and twisting round to look at the door, one of her boots pressed against the side of James’s ribs, to give her purchase.
Mistress took in the scene. “James is settling in alright then?” she asked.
Ms. Denton sniggered. “He got here about half-past four,” she said, “and we’ve just been getting acquainted.”
“Mmm, well I don’t want him so sore that he can’t concentrate tomorrow.”
“Oh, no problem. I didn’t even break the skin. Look.” That wasn’t quite true. There were three or four grazes along his ribs.
“Yes, okay. Did you give him his shot?”
“Yup: should be ready for imprinting at eight.”
The centre of his world came and squatted beside him. She put a hand behind his head, supporting him, making him look at her. She was just as lovely as he remembered, with full red lips, classic cheekbones, and perfect green eyes.
“My name is Katherine Watson, and you are my slave. You call me ‘mistress’ at home, and ‘ma’am’ in public.”
“Yes, mistress.”
She let go of his head, and turned to Ms. Denton: “Are you going to change for dinner?”
Ms. Denton made a face. “Oh, alright, if you really want.” She stood up.
“I don’t like to make a fuss,” Mistress said, “but I do like to see standards maintained.”
“Standards from which century?” But Ms. Denton didn’t sound as though she really objected at all to having an excuse to dress up.
“Come on: you know you like it, once you’ve made the effort
,” Ms. Watson coaxed her. The two ladies went out together still talking, leaving James alone, chained and helpless.
After a few minutes, the boy who had brought the syringe came in. He seemed to have recovered from the kick to the groin, at least, he wasn’t hobbling any more. He unshackled James; he gave him a slight nod before he did it, but he didn’t speak. When he had freed James, he just said quietly: “This way,” and led him back through the baize door, down the stairs, and straight into a huge, old-fashioned, gloomy, kitchen, with small, high, windows that would be at ground level outside. A middle-aged man that James had not seen before was cooking dinner. He was clearly concentrating fiercely, rushing from one pan to another.
“Oh, Harry. Right, just don’t get in my way,” he said, amiably enough, but clearly distracted.
Harry turned to James, no longer keeping his voice down: “So, I’m Harry, and I’m one of Ms. Denton’s slaves,” he introduced himself, with no particular expression of dismay. “And you are ... ?”
“James. I, uh, belong to Ms. Watson.” Saying it seemed to bring the reality of it home to him: just for a moment, he felt faint, and leaned on the wall for support. Harry must have seen, but he didn’t comment.
“Okay. Well, there’s a lavatory just on the other side of the stairs, if you want it before you eat, and I’ve put out some clothes for you, same as mine.” He pointed back through the door.
When James returned, still tucking the white shirt into the black trousers, Harry was sitting at a bleached and scrubbed deal table against the wall. James joined him, moving gingerly because of his sore ribs and stiff legs.
“So, you’re her latest acquisition.” Harry gestured at the cook. “Thomas is one of Ms. Watson’s as well, and then there’s Hubert, her bodyguard cum chauffeur - ”
“I think I’ve seen him. Big bloke.”