“I don’t mind. It’s so nice to get out without being punished.”
“Hands through the bars, love.”
Trudy knew the drill. She was never given a chance to be difficult. The Mistress played it safe. The heavy wristlets were unlocked, the clanking shackle tossed back into the cage and replaced by handcuffs.
“Got you a new pair, dear. All black metal. More prettily made, and damned expensive. I’ll use ’em on you for dress occasions.”
The captive heart beat faster. ‘Dress’! It was a magic word. She examined the black circlets snug on her wrists. Compared with what she usually wore they were a thing of beauty. She was absorbed with her admiration while Rulua entered the cage and unlocked the metal from her ankles. The two sets of irons lay open on the ground like a malign promise for her return.
Trudy had been there before. The residence of Khalief Abhad was as magnificently extravagant as was to be expected, so was the bath, the perfume, the careful attention to her hair by a couple of young and dusky maidens whose sole vocabulary appeared to be giggles.
“Pay no attention to them,” Rulua advised sardonically. “They think because you’re getting a cleanup you’re also getting the President’s penis.”
Trudy flushed. “You mean, I’m going to—that he wants to—?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, dear. You get to serve the drinks. Here, put this on. Oops, sorry! Forgot the handcuffs! Let me . . .”
‘This’ was an apron to comfortably cover Trudy’s pubic hair. It left her bottom pertly bare, adorned only by a disproportionate bow which the Mistress took some pains to perfect.
“Is that all I get to wear?”
“It covers your bush, dear, that’s enough.”
“Not even as much as my Union Jack.”
“The President will accept you naked if you prefer?”
“Oh all right, I’m sorry! But it’s such a suggestive trifle. Anyone can lift it and look.”
“Of course!” Rulua’s agreement was coolly pragmatic. “If he wants to, let him. You’ve done this before. Remember, be seen and not heard. Serve him prettily—” She chuckled drily. “I mean with the Scotch and soda. He’s not likely to honour you with the other today.”
Trudy had played the serving wench before.
That time she had been stark-naked and bedecked with chains, collars, armbands, and a shameful ring clipped into her nose as though she was pierced. It hung over her upper lip as a badge of servitude. ‘Slave Girl,’ that’s what she had become. The uncrowned monarch of Zindawba had been entertaining the British Consul, and there was little doubt in Trudy’s mind she had been ‘laid on’ in nudity and chains as one more opportunity to rub the Empire’s nose in the dust. The Consul had been careful to avoid her reproachful eyes.
Khalief Abhad was versatile. His sense of humour was often Puckish. Like most of his breed, expensively educated, he could devastate his visitor with the impeccable accent of Oxford or the husky vowel sounds of his negro origins. With the Consul he had worn nothing but a loincloth, flaunting his colour in an offensive diplomacy of his own. But today he was the moneyed man of leisure. Bond Street and Paris had joined forces to clothe him casually in silken elegance. He lolled negligently with one knee bent over the arm of his chair. In one hand an empty glass. His greeting was cordiaclass="underline" “Yo’ come to git yo’ ass whipped, honeychile?”
He would always be disconcerting, there was so much of him! He radiated power but was not gross. ‘Khalief the Magnificent’ was a title drumming in Trudy’s mind as she spanned the vast rug to sink on her knees before her lord and bow her head in obeisance. Her “If it please you, sir,” was a husky whisper. She reached out her ebony-fettered hands for his depleted glass.
“Nice handcuffs, I like’ em.” The royal voice was now British and crisp. “Where’d you get them, girl?”
“Mistress Rulua, Sir. She recently acquired them.” She looked up shyly. “I like them too.”
His mood was benign. “Do you, now!” He chuckled expansively. “And d’you like my country and your cage?”
Holding the glass he had surrendered, Trudy searched for tact. Her dilemma was cut short by a familiar voice.
“Don’t tease the darling, Khalief. You know perfectly well she wants to go home.”
Trudy Ramsay pivoted on her knees to gaze in awe at the exquisitely gowned figure of a woman who had sat hidden in the recess of a huge wing chair. A woman who smiled and gestured with a welcoming hand.
It was Caroline Dowling.
2
The Gorgeous Rape
It was not strange they should have underrated James Dexter. He was an unknown, present that day in the Board Room by the invitation of Silas Ambrose. When he had, with immense panache, locked the handcuffs on Caroline’s tendered wrists and smiled down into her excited eyes, he had left upon the table a written offer in millions to leave speechless and chagrined a group of men whose wealth should have taken the prize he had whisked from beneath their fingers. Caroline was enthralled. James Dexter possessed the indefinable quality of class. He was intensely male. His smile was as devastating as her own. With a long-considered determination she had burned a bridge. Dexter was a bonus she had not expected on the other side. In the limousine she held out her cuffed wrists and the key.
“They’ve served their symbolism, Mr. Dexter. Would you mind . . . ?”
He took her locked hands, raised them to his lips and kissed them gently. Studiously he tightened each metal band another notch to make them more than snug. He laughed at her surprise, and repeated, mockingly. “Would you mind . . . ?” Thoughtfully he took possession of the key.
She could not deny the thrill. She would not plead. In fact, she did not care whether her hands remained locked or free. If a contest between them must be resolved it would be with words.
“Going to keep me chained, Mr. Dexter?”
“Make it James, please. And yes, the handcuffs stay.”
“Shouldn’t I call you ‘Master’ or something?”
“Perhaps later. James for now.”
Caroline had a good feeling about him, the sort of ‘good’ feeling she had never quite managed to have for Dowling. There was a rock-like strength, tinged with humour. “Am I shameless, James?” she asked demurely. “Doing what I’ve done?”
“You are shameless.”
She was a little shocked by his ready agreement.
But it was nice not having to dissemble. She clinked her handcuffs and gave him a sideways look of enquiry. “Despise me?”
“I am quite prepared to adore you. But you’ll still wear chains. I’ll get some for your ankles.”
Intrigued, she queried: “Were you thinking of such things before the meeting? I bought these handcuffs as a bit of a joke. They’re such a stodgy bunch, I thought it might excite ’em a bit.”
Without answering, he produced from the pocket of his jacket twin circlets joined by a link. They shared spontaneous laughter and were suddenly close. “Pity not to use ’em,” he said thoughtfully. “Wonder if they’ll fit . . .”
They were tight on her ankles, a strangely reassuring grip. There had been only two clicks before the metal was deep in her nylon. She knew herself helplessly his captive.
“Always watch a girl with slender ankles,” he said pleasantly. “She’ll be a fox.”
“Are mine that slender?”
“You can’t handcuff virtuous ankles.”
“You’ve tried?”
“Of course. True virtue is a bit heavy down there.” He grinned disarmingly. “Mean to tell me you’ve never been handcuffed before?”
“Goodness, no!”
“A bit of rope . . . ? a strap . . . ? A chain . . . ?”
Again the thrill. Her laughter pealed. “With Robert! You’re dreaming.” She was suddenly curious. “You mean—? Some girls do? A sort of love play?”
“Right! It’s fun.”
She lifted her hands, tugging them against the steel bands in a closer scrutiny than she had previously vouchsafed. Her eyebrow lifted at him. “My first lesson?”