Plunder of Gor (3 page)

One collar is fastened on one's neck, commonly, before the other is removed. In this way, even in a transition of masters, I remained collared. It was fitting. I was a slave.

Certainly there was little ambiguity about the third incident.

I twisted about, and awakened, suddenly.

I sat up in bed, and cried out with misery.

I jerked at my wrists.

They were encircled with metal!

I could scarcely part my hands!

I was handcuffed!

I struggled from bed. I stood, unsteadily, fighting to keep my balance. I was still clothed, in my long, blue, silken nightgown. It had not been removed. Did those who had put the metal on my wrists, who presumably could have done anything with me, not care to see me naked? Was this some sort of insult? Was I not beautiful? Was I not one in a thousand! In rage I tried to part my wrists. They were well held! I tried to thrust the cuffs from my wrists, and could not do so. I would only abrade my wrists. I thought of the ruffian who had so discomfited me in the office. I could not part my wrists, no more than the single link I was permitted! My hands, at least, were cuffed before my body! Had they been cuffed behind my body I would have been even more helpless, and my figure, despite what I might wish, and to my frustration and dismay, would have been emphasized. Were they not interested in emphasizing my helplessness? Were they not, in their brutal arrogance, interested in emphasizing my figure?

Surely I was beautiful!

I was suddenly affrighted by a possibility.

I wondered if I were still a virgin.

I was sure I was.

Was this yet another insult?

Anything might have been done with me in the night, but apparently nothing had been done. I had only been put in handcuffs!

I recalled that the gross boor in the office had dared to use expressions like “pot girl” and “kettle-and-mat girl” of me, whatever those terms might mean. He had referred to me as a “bitch.” He had said I was fit for “rep-cloth,” whatever that was, and not silk. But I was in silk, and I was still in silk. Surely they had seen that!

I was sure I was still a virgin.

I was sure this had not been taken from me.

If not, why?

Surely this omission was not inadvertent.

Had they no interest in this?

Could I believe that?

Did they not want my virginity, but left it to me, perhaps contemptuously, rather as they had not stripped me, but left me clothed, as they had left my hands fastened before me, not behind?

Were these things to show their scorn of me?

Were these things to show me that I was not special?

To me my virginity was of momentous consequence. How could it not be of such consequence to others?

Could it be they did not want it?

Could it be that they had no interest in it, that it was not important to them?

How could they regard as negligible so remarkable and precious a prize?

How was it possible that they had not imposed their will upon me? Surely I would be amongst the most beautiful women they had ever seen.

But I had not been bared, I had been but modestly restrained, I had been left, I was sure, my virginity; I did not think it had been reaped.

How was I to understand these things?

Was I not appealing, was I not desirable?

Consider my virginity. Was it, so momentous to me, of little, or no, concern to them, no more, perhaps, than that of a pig or dog?

How then could they view women, or women such as I?

I was accustomed to being regarded, even to being sought. I was not accustomed to being ignored.

I was angry.

But I had not been ignored, not wholly! There were metal circlets on my wrists!

I shook the cuffs.

I was not a “pot girl,” a “kettle-and-mat girl,” whatever such things might be!

I was not much interested in men.

They were nothing, or had been made so. Those I was familiar with, those with whom I commonly associated, were refined, effete, tentative, weak, apologetic, reluctant, well-trained, correct, embarrassed by their sex, taught to suspect it, if not despise it, so concerned they were to conform to the required stereotypes of the lubricated, well-tooled, socially acceptable interchangeable part, to whom sex and nature were irrelevant, even inimical, as they might threaten the functioning of the great, shiny beast, the immense machine, sharp-eyed and vigilant, like a vast, jealous, carefully constructed, watchful metal cat.

How swiftly that metal paw might reach out and strike any small, scurrying errant creature, should it presume to be careless of its assigned, tiny proprieties.

Where men were not men how could I be a woman?

I tried to gather my thoughts together, to control myself, to think clearly. I was afraid I might fall. I sank to my knees, on the carpet beside the bed, my head down. How secure and stable is such a posture! I must think clearly. I must decide what to do.

I was bewildered.

I felt vulnerable.

I was vulnerable.

I could call out, and perhaps others, in the hall, or adjoining apartments, might hear, and hurry to relieve my distress. Surely I could open the door for their entry. The door, I was sure, was locked, or had been relocked. Suppose neighbors, whom I knew only casually, only by sight, should enter the apartment, admitted, in answer to my cries? What would they think? Casting about, there was no sign of a forced entry. How, then, had the apartment been entered, how could it be that I was fastened, as I was? Must I not then have admitted, even welcomed, those who had so discomfited me? Surely some would think so. Perhaps all would think so. Too, how could I dare to appear before them, as I was? How could I explain my appearance, lightly gowned, my wrists in handcuffs? Would they take my plight seriously? Would they dismiss it, would they scorn me, with wise looks, would they find it amusing, no more than an embarrassing contretemps? And what if a man should see me as I was, so provocatively clad, so helpless, so restrained? Perhaps they had fantasized seeing me so, perhaps they would be pleased to see me so, while hastening, of course, to appear otherwise, feigning sympathy, and concern? Could I bear that? What would neighbors or strangers, or the police, or anyone, think? There was no sign in the apartment of violence, no broken latches, no door chains or bolts broken from the wall, no broken glass, no sign of robbery, no sign of anything rifled, or amiss, no sign of physical abuse on my body, no cuts, no marks, no bruises. My gown was not even awry, or rent or torn.

But I must elude these restraints, with the single link between the cuffs, my hands held so closely together.

But how?

Yes, I thought. I must call the police. I must prepare myself to endure their skepticism, their scarcely suppressed mockery. They would have tools, or access to tools. They might even have keys which might unclasp the impediments which so snugly enclosed my wrists! No, I thought, I could not endure the embarrassment. Surely such an appeal would be a recourse of last resort!

Better, I thought, perhaps I might open these locks, or one of them, myself. I rose, and hurried to my vanity, and flung open a drawer, and rummaged about. There were straight pins and safety pins, a small nail file, hairpins, bobby pins. An hour later I was sick with frustration. Perhaps a second person might have managed something but my hands were so closely pinioned that I could scarcely angle a pin into a lock, let alone address one directly, and the nail file was too short, as I could hold it, to do more than rest on the metal, and my fingers were too weak to exert more than a modicum of pressure on the steel.

I looked at the phone.

Perhaps a locksmith could be relied upon for discretion, though I doubted it. A locksmith might or might not possess a suitable key or keys for opening the cuff locks, but he might have, at least, tools, a file or hacksaw, which might eventually free me from the restraints. But how could I receive a locksmith, clad as I was, armed with no excuse that might not border on the inane or transparently meretricious? Too, might he not suspect my motivations? Might he not even fear a fraud, a scandal or extortion, of some sort, a girl who might suddenly struggle and scream, this outburst followed promptly by the arrival of male colleagues, seemingly outraged, threatening, and righteous?

Again I looked on the phone.

It seemed far away.

I felt weak, so weak.

I sank to my knees. I feared I might faint.

I fought to retain consciousness.

Surely I must contact someone.

But who?

It would be difficult to make the call, but it could be done. I could lay the receiver to the side, brace the phone, and press the numbers, carefully, with my right hand.

But I was miserable. I wore only the long, blue, sheer, silken nightgown. It would be almost impossible to dress. I could not even draw on a bathrobe or coat. Perhaps I could draw something up about me? Perhaps I could adjust a sheet or blanket about me, and clutch it in place?

I would manage.

Something must be done.

Then I realized what might be easily, and sensibly, done, something which would be less embarrassing, something unlikely to have negative repercussions. I must call someone I knew, whom I could trust, someone intelligent and reliable, someone who, I was sure, would listen to me sympathetically and do her best to help me. Such a person might obtain tools, expeditiously enough, innocently enough, arousing no suspicions, at a hardware store. I had few, if any, friends, for I am particular in the choosing of friends, and who, after all, would be worthy of being my friend, but I had several acquaintances. I knew several of the girls who worked in the same building that I did. Indeed, I frequently lunched with some of them. One was quiet, plain Paula, short, and sweetly bodied, simply and conservatively dressed, who seemed to live much within herself, shy, serious Paula, who listened well, so patiently, Paula, who refrained from participating in our gossip, often so frivolous and cruel, Paula, who, of all things, read books. I, and, I am sure, several of the others, rather pitied Paula. She did not carry herself with elegance or style. Despite the prescriptions and expectations of the day, she seemed unconcerned with wit and verve, with projecting a culturally recommended image. Did she not know how to do so? Surely she must wish to do so. Why, then, did she not do so or, at least, strive to do so? Too, she was clearly uninformed of many things of obvious importance. She seemed unaware of which journalists and politicians, which motion-picture and television personalities, and such, were to be approved, and, as important, those which were to be disapproved. We were not sure, at all, in many areas, that she had the right views, opinions, and attitudes. She seemed to make up her own mind about things, naturally with dismal results. Worst perhaps, as I have hinted, she seemed deplorably uninformed of fashion. I did not think she knew one designer or house from another. Such ignorance was inconceivable. I do not think she was really stupid, but what can one expect of someone who reads books? Still I was sure I could trust Paula, certainly more than the others. I sensed this about her. She seemed different from the others, somehow deeper, or more sound, or more aware, than the others. I was sure I could count on her to be compassionate and understanding. I could make use of her. She would listen carefully, strive to be of any assistance possible, and could be depended upon to keep a secret. So I would call her, and, when she arrived, which she would, I was sure, acquaint her with my surprising, untoward predicament, and send her forth to obtain what tools might be appropriate to free my wrists.

How easily then might things proceed!

I looked down at the handcuffs, so large, thick, heavy, and plain. How clumsy, simple, and ugly they were. How disproportionate they seemed to my wrists. How unlike they would be from the light, lovely restraints, so attractive, and perhaps even more secure, designed with the enhancement of beauty in mind, in which I would later, frequently, find myself helplessly emplaced.

I must call Paula.

I was so distraught I feared I might stumble, were I to stand.

I crawled toward the telephone on the night stand near the bed. It was an awkward business, my wrists pinioned before me. But I could move, a bit at a time, reaching forth, again and again. Then I was at the phone. I reached up and placed it on the floor, before me.

Next I must find Paula's number.

This would be easy.

In the drawer to the night stand was a small notebook containing my personal numbers. It contained, amongst others, the numbers of my frequent luncheon companions. Once, early in our luncheons, held in one restaurant or another, but usually in the restaurant on the fourth floor of the building, we had exchanged numbers. We had supposed this might prove a convenience for our small group, if it might prove desirable to contact one another, as if we would ever be interested in doing so. Certainly, hitherto I had never used any of these numbers. But Paula's number, I recalled, would be amongst them.

It was only necessary, now, to call her. I was sure she would be accommodating. It was her way. Surely, too, she, poor, plain Paula, should be flattered to receive a call from me, for I was smart and chic, and I stood near the pinnacle of our small hierarchy. If she were otherwise engaged, or had other plans, she must change them. That must be clear. Yet I should tell her nothing. My tone would be pleasant and social, and betray no inkling of my distress. The matter should be as if no more than if I were thinking of her, and felt like chatting, which chat could then lead naturally to an invitation, and a proposed afternoon's outing. We could meet at my apartment, perhaps for coffee, first. I might then, she having arrived, reveal my discomfiture to her, and explain, as I could, what I needed. If necessary, over the phone, though I trusted it would not be necessary, I might give her some sense of my earnestness.

I reached to the drawer of the night stand.

At that moment I cried out, startled, for the phone, placed before me on the carpet, rang.