When the job was done, I sent away a remarkably respectful pair of women. When they were gone, I sat back in my executive chair and let my heart slow down and recalled the two youthful bottoms I had ruthlessly slashed. I thought of Uncle Andrew with deep gratitude.
As I sat there in my chair, reviewing past pleasures and future delights, I had to remind myself that in some ways I was as much a prisoner in Rockley as the girls downstairs. I could not fathom Andrew Everleigh or any of his motives, particularly in regard to myself. It could have been chance or design by which I gained the strange power in this prison for girls. I tucked away in the corner of my mind the thought of walking out of this ancient house and going back to New York to pick up the pieces of my life. And give Hugo Markham a piece of my mind for his bungling. Hugo had made such a mess of things that, had it not been for Andrew Everleigh, I would not have been a stripped naked whore inside a cage of iron bars, a female body to be rented by the hour. Or to be bid for in the auctions.
I had to wonder if Everleigh’s power was such as to kidnap and bring me back to Rockley should I run. I could well imagine it was something he could do. And I knew myself well enough to realize some perverse compulsion might one day drive me to make the dash for freedom. For me, Rockley was a prison without bars. I could well imagine my spurious freedom getting me into trouble. I shivered at the thought and realized Rockley and its owner were causing me to shiver far too often. I decided to go downstairs.
The cage was not really a cage at all but a huge stone chamber enclosed on three sides by granite and the full width of the other side encompassed by iron bars and a barred door. As yet only about half of the final total of maidens had been delivered, and these were dwarfed by the space in which they were confined. Mostly they stood in small groups arguing, while two or three hopefuls clutched the bars. They were all still very much haughty young rich bitches, which was the reason most of them were here.
Upon seeing me, several of them came to the bars to demand freedom and protest the treatment of themselves. Intermixed were several threats of police action and promises of my soon being thrown into a state prison. I was also informed that their parents had certainly never expected the way they were being treated.
I ignored the protests. They were pert little canary birds singing in their cage. Most were arrogant and proud but a little afraid. I could see that in most eyes. And pure defiance in others. It made my heart glad to think of how much those girls were going to have to be ‘trained’ and punished.
Seeing that I was not about to reply to their protests, most faded off into silence. “Well, aren’t you going to do something!” came a firm and very haughty demand.
They were delightful and diverse. I stood drinking them in until I realized I should either speak or go away. I left them to their indignation and anger. I felt a bitch but I had felt a bitch with darling Ivory, with Ava and Wilma. The lord of Rockley had called me that, too. But Ivory had attracted me to distraction.
I slept that night alone.
2
A Plethora of Prisoners
It took me two or three days to truly believe what I was doing. With each fresh grasp of authority there came more assurance until I was back to the old New York confidence and a seething excitement. I was soon looking forward to the days ahead and counting each new arrival as Britain’s highborn delivered its delinquent daughters for discipline. The poor, bad-tempered little darlings hadn’t the faintest idea what they were in for. It seemed too good to be true. We had now reached a total of forty rebellious but still dewy-eyed little darlings behind the bars. More would trickle in as time went by, but I had to make a start somewhere so I had Constance and Betty bring them one at a time to my office to be interviewed and assessed and given an introduction to Rockley I had myself devised. My first was a redheaded, green-eyed bundle of sexuality, glowing with indignation.
I told her to stand before my desk as I completed a descriptive list of what and who she was, and where she came from. It was pretty much like extracting a tooth but I did wring from her an admission as to the faults which brought her to her present plight. Her greeting was forthright, “If you don’t let me go immediately, I shall phone the police.”
I am a lawyer, I know the pitfalls of chit-chat. My reply was brief and to the point. “Remove your clothes.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I told you to. Do it now.”
“I’m not a lesbian, you know. It won’t do you any good”
“Strip.”
She looked around uncertainly, noticing the array of whips and riding crops and the massive oak of a pillory I had ordered installed. Conversationally, but with a voice trembling just a little, she quipped, “I see you go in for torture.”
“Get those clothes off!”
“And what happens if I refuse?”
The three of us had prearranged our response to certain situations. I touched a button and immediately Constance and Betty came in to station themselves on each side of the girl. Once more, and very politely, I requested, “Please undress.”
My two aides make formidable guards, jailers, or matrons. After a shocked glance to either side, our first little treasure reached for the zipper of her dress. “Oh, all right, if you insist,” she muttered. “But you’ve made me sleep on the floor and in my clothes for two nights, and I hope I smell.”
“Her youthful perfume was delightful but this was neither the time nor the place. Constance and Betty discretely withdrew and closed the door. Her name was Paula Crombie, and she was one of those female creatures for whom the wearing of clothes was a real shame, The sons of the nobility always marry the most beautiful girls, so it is understandable that their offspring should be of centerfold quality. Paula most certainly was. Almost without a waist but flaring out below into as cute a bottom as I’ve ever seen. I went to the pillory and raised its yoke, once more wasting no words, “Please arrange yourself here, Paula. I’m sure you know how.”
“That thing’s a pillory. I absolutely refuse to stand in a pillory. Shove it!”
I was not expecting polished English. I raised the yoke an inch higher and asked a patient, “Please?”
“What do you want me to get fixed in that for?”
“Never mind, just arrange yourself.”
“Like bloody hell! You stick your own neck in there and see how you like it.”
I returned to my desk and was about to push the button when a youthful voice exclaimed, “Oh, very well! You needn’t call the guards in again. I know you’ve got me. Which way do you want me to face?” I wondered if her question bespoke awareness but realized it was sensible enough. If we were to converse, she would need to face my desk, since I would not wish conversation with her ass facing me. Sweetly, I suggested, “That’s thoughtful of you, dear, please face the wall.”
“That means you’re going to do something to me.” This girl was sharp. “Could I have my back to the wall? I’d feel a lot safer.”
“Do as I tell you.”
Paula Crombie gave the proposition considerable thought. Her final decision no doubt was influenced by the presence of my aides beyond the door. In ill-humor, she inserted her neck, arranged her hair, and then placed her wrists in the neat half circles. When I lowered the yoke, she commented remorsefully, “Mother never warned me about anything like this. Are you sure you’re not going to cane my arse?”
“How did you guess!” I exclaimed coyly. “Remember, dear, it’s because mother said so.”