F Campbell - Drusilla

“Oh, Bryce! All right—all right...!”

He kissed the back of her neck and left her alone. Immobility! Helplessness! The totality of it was scary.

For a few moments Drusilla fought the straps to assure herself again of the impossibility of escape. Then desisted. It would be too easy to get into a panic. She hoped it meant something that, despite the indignities, she wanted to hold on to her husband’s regard. A screaming, hysterical woman would get neither of them anywhere. She possessed a safety valve. She must make it sustain her over the humps! Resolutely she closed her mind against an unattractive vista.

On his way out Bryce had lowered the light. The bench and its nude captive reposed in a dim yellow gloom. Chafing at the restraint imposed on her by another’s will, Drusilla became aware of an enemy. It was the strap around her middle. It held her with a venom in which there was something almost personal. Idly she savored the strangeness of being unable to touch herself. Her hands were way off in a captivity of their own. She could not use one to reach down and seek easement. She could do nothing beyond wriggling her fingers and toes or resting her cheek against one or the other of her prisoned arms. She wondered if her pussy was wet! But that was a test impossible. Ignoring discomfort, the woman in bondage turned her thoughts to the increasingly exciting glimpses of eroticism which she had, at first, refused to recognize. She had enjoyed the handcuffs. Silly perhaps, but true. In retrospect, the punishments of her flesh had left her with a glow that burst into flame every time she allowed her mind to dwell on them. At that very moment her bottom was imparting a myriad of messages to which the cleft between her legs was vividly responsive. The straps holding her motionless were the imposition of a male hand—a hand that had loved her! By morning she might hate them. But now, save for the nag at her waist, they bound her with an erotic intimacy that joined forces with her burning bottom to excite... Drusilla’s mind drifted back and forth across the spectrum of her domestic captivity. Soon she slept.

Drusilla had decided to greet her husband in the morning with a remark couched in such a way as to make him properly ashamed of what he had done to her. But the flaring light and his cheery “good morning” caught her dozing in the aftermath of sleep.

“Oh, Bryce... !” Annoyed, she knew her greeting held nothing but thankfulness.

“Caught you asleep, eh! Bet you never thought—?”

“No, I didn’t! That strap across my back’s cutting me in two.”

“Hmmmm!” His fingers searched. “Bit tight, all right. Sorry, love. Here, I’ll unbuckle it.”

Drusilla remembered the story of the tight shoes. She gasped in the sensual ecstasy of release. “I love you, I love you, I love you... !” Her gratitude was heartfelt.

“All set for the day then, eh?”

She tensed. Surely not that! But she was still helpless... !

She looked up wanly at her captor’s smiling face and pleaded: “Please... oh, please?”

“Want to go to the bathroom?”

“Yes,”

“O.K. I won’t tease. Just a moment. There’s a little something—”

The “little something” was a length of chain. Drusilla was still fastened too tightly to be able to see her husband’s actions. But the cold links went round her tummy. They were pulled tighter and tighter. ... A padlock clicked shut. “What’s that for?” she asked uncertainly.

“Just a small reminder, pet. And now—!”

Drusilla wanted to cry with happiness. It felt so good to have her hands and feet. The agony of their stiffness was pure joy. She pushed herself achingly from her hard couch and was grateful for Bryce’s helpful arms. “Oh, darling... !” She hugged and cuddled, suddenly aware of how lonely the night had been. They made love with a tremendous urgency and new, strange agonies of delight.

Their time had been far too short.

When Bryce, in a flurry of motion, had dashed off to the office, Drusilla was left wondering if something had been forgotten. She was free! Had he forgotten to handcuff her! Or had she been promoted?

Exactly how free was she?

The chain was hurting. It was meant to, of course’ It divided her as neatly as had the corset. Her journey to and from the bathroom had told her all to graphically that her hips were once more wanton and that she walked as provocatively as did a whore. Her fingers searched the padlock at her back. It was secure. She belonged to the man who held its key.

The hurt was not unbearable. The chain was, as Bryce had said, a reminder. It would nag her constantly, telling her what she was. Yet, in the privacy of their home, its effect on her was intriguing. In their bedroom Drusilla strutted up and down before the big mirror and gigglingly admired the outrageous behavior of her hips. Try as she would she could not make them behave. She was not sure she wanted them to.

Drusilla bathed. She washed her hair. Luxuriating in her possession of hands no longer joined, she did slowly and pleasurably all the things she wanted to do, some of which the handcuffs had inhibited. She walked about her house. made coffee and toast, read the paper. It was not until she leant against the sink to do the dishes that she realized she was still naked.

She dressed, more from a sense of what was proper than any wish to be covered. Anxiously, she examined her contours in the mirror for any tell-tale intrusion at her waist. But the chain was sufficiently indented within her flesh to betray no hint of its presence. The padlock was at the small of her back and was only faintly discernible.

She considered phoning Diana. Diana would drool over the chain and lock. But today was hers alone. The metal constricting her waist made Bryce a tangible presence in the room. Another woman would be an intrusion. She was about to go downstairs to explore what shocks the new room might hold for her, when the phone rang.

“Thought you’d be at your lawyer’s,” Bryce’s voice was jaunty.

“You didn’t think any such thing.”

“You’re wearing some damaging evidence, y’know.” Drusilla sniffed. “You could say I locked it on myself.”

“How about your bottom? I bet it’s rosy red?”

“Never mind,” she said icily. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Hoity-toity, we are feeling our freedom, aren’t we?”

She was certain he was chuckling into the mouthpiece. “But actually, I did have something in mind.”

“Bryce, don’t be mean... ?”

“Oh, you’ll love this one!” His voice told her plainly she would not love it at all. “You’d like a bit of exercise? Get out of the house... ?”

“Not wearing this chain. You know what it does!”

“Well, that’s sort of the idea.” She could imagine him grinning. “I want you to walk down Tilbury Street.”

“No!” Outrage pronounced the negative. “Why not, pet?”

“You know perfectly well why. That’s where the whores solicit. I wouldn’t walk down there any time. I certainly won’t now the way you’ve got me fixed.”

“Fifty with the tawse, darling?”

“I don’t care! I won’t do it!”

“Plus a night against the post?”

“Oh, Bryce, don’t be so unkind.”

“Don’t say no too hastily, pet. Think a bit.”

“That’s mean. You give me such awful things to think about. It’s not fair. Either way I lose.”

“A free choice, darling.”

“There’s nothing free about it. It’s coercion.”

“You’ll get a tremendous charge.”

“Bryce, you’re spoiling my day. Are you serious about—about—what you’ll do to me?”

“You know I am, sweets. Stop quibbling.”

“I’ll be arrested—or accosted—or something.” In the midst of her protestation, inspiration dawned. “Very well then,” Drusilla amended crisply. “I’ll do it.”