F Campbell - Golden Wrists

I haven’t even seen Uncle Andrew this trip. After issuing the order by which I am now his captive, he went about his affairs and left Constance to do his dirty work. I think I have been cheated and swindled, but until I can talk to Uncle Andrew I can’t be sure. Constance says the least I know, the better.

Even this enclosure is better then the dungeon I was briefly shown, I think they wanted it to be a warning, along with the pile of rusty chains which would have held an elephant. At least here there is open air and I can see though the various slots what goes on outside, and sometimes Jacob passing on his errands. Sometimes he even says a few cheerful words. Juanita is cheerful enough, but she goes around naked to reveal her magnificent curves and wears a belt from which dangles a wicked looking quirt.

This whole thing stinks and I have to feel bitter and betrayed as I seek a bit of shade and press bound arms against stone. The walls are at least seven feet high and I look at them in longing and in a fury of anger that I cannot free my hands. Juanita must have faith in her knots, which I suspect are wired, since my wrists are the only restrains she has imposed. But even if I could climb the wall, I’d still be on an island, and I’d probably be given a very bad time for trying to escape. I’m up the creek for sure!

When I sit in the hot shade at noon, I think back to how this all happened. It repeats over and over in my mind in disbelief at the defeat right on that first day when Margo walked back into my office after a five day absence The poor girl had proved unworthy of Uncle Andrew’s chains and was thus sent home in disgrace. Her first question was if she could go back to Hugo Markham and be his slave forever. There was a letter from Uncle Andrew but Margo knew the terms anyway and was all too willing to provide graphic descriptions on request. The letter was simple and direct. If I didn’t immediately get on a plane and go to San Jancith, I would be kidnapped within twenty-four hours and would make the journey strapped within a stout wooden box. Poor Margo was frightened of the man. I wrote a brief, heart-broken message to Hugo and went straight to the airport. If I was chicken, then okay, I was chicken!

I had never been to Hemingway’s ‘Island in the Gulf’ and would have been thrilled to death had I not been going to my imprisonment. I had Margo’s fervid assurances of kindly treatment with maybe a week or two’s captivity and one real, honest-to-goodness whipping before being sent back home. I think she believed this but I did not, so I’ve only myself to blame for being naked in a slave pen with my hands tied behind my back. Oh, shit!

I think of Hugo a lot and feel I’ve let him down. Hugo would want to fight Uncle Andrew but I know better. My meek surrender to his ultimatum wasn’t being weak, it was simply a choice between going in a box and making the journey comfortably in a first class cabin, the ticket for which he had thoughtfully included with the letter. The ticket was for one way.

It was a let down finding Uncle Andrew gone but Constance was kind. “I’m afraid he wants you as a prisoner, dear,” she explained with seeming regret. “There’s no use telling you to go back home before you get fixed so you can’t go anywhere. This is an island and you’re here to stay. I hate the things you’ll have to put up with and it’s Juanita and Jacob who will follow their orders and make your life uncomfortable. But they’re an amiable couple and won’t hurt you beyond whatever instructions Mr. Everleigh has left with them. You’re a most courageous girl. If I’d been in your place, I would never had come here willingly.” She shrugged. “But you are here so that’s the end of it. Mr. Everleigh has left a program of punishments I’m afraid you’ll have to endure until he comes again.” She suddenly clasped me to her and kissed me warmly as though I was a relative going far away. “I hate the things Juanita has to do to you but there’s nothing I can do about any of them. Forgive me if I don’t see you too often.”

I suppose that was the beginning. Juanita had taken charge of me.

She stripped me naked and tied my wrists the way they still are tied. She then took me to see the dungeon, and anther equally horrifying stone room in which there were all sorts of horrible devices for punishing a girl. If they were not actually ancient, a simulation had been artfully achieved and I noted with cynical suspicion that every orifice was small sized and would in no way accommodate a male. The slave pen was actually a relief when she pushed me inside and closed the gate. Wanderings within the mind keep prisoners from going nuts. I keep thinking of Hugo and the golden handcuffs, and of Margo, who would certainly be tightly bound at that moment. And she would be getting a fine, wet snatch out of what is not really punishment at all. I hope Hugo knocks her around a bit, it would serve her right. As for myself. I don’t know if I’ll be moved on to my next ordeal tomorrow or left in this enclosure to rot a few more days. I wonder what Andrew Everleigh gets out of treating me this way. But I suppose he occasionally thinks of me tied in here like this, and feeds his ego by knowing he can keep me thus or turn me loose. Such power should not belong to any man!

Juanita is probably as bored as I. She decides my hands have been tied behind my back long enough and I deserve a change. She unlocks the gate and leads me to where Jacob and his tools await. I am still bound and she guides my steps by grasping my hair and shaking my head to tell me I must behave. I remember Hugo using this trick on Margo not long ago. It is wonderfully effective.

Jacob is waiting with his hammer, his anvil and rivets heating in the fire. I get carefully fitted with an iron belt just a little too small, and then held down to enable a glowing rivet to be thrust through waiting holes in the brutal iron and hammered flat. It is the beginning of a fresh control of a young woman who used to be Miss Diane Durrant, a lawyer.

At the back of the iron belt there is a ring and through this ring there is a chain. And at each end of it is a shackle for my wrist. Once more I am pushed and twisted into a desired contortion. Once more a glowing scrap of metal is thrust through waiting holes and I cringe as the hammer strikes it flat. The same thing now is done to my other wrist. When I am allowed to stand free. I discover that I can pull one hand up enough to scratch my nose but the other hand is then pulled up tight to that ring at my back. I can feed myself with a painful indignity. San Jancith is certainly striving for a historical atmosphere. These iron shackles are certainly not the same as smooth, efficient handcuffs.

“You is nice and comfortable, missy,” Jacob assures me earnestly. “You not get loose but you do not hurt.”

“You’ll probably wear then until the Master returns,” Juanita explains. “I think they’re cute and you look nice in them. Miss Durrant. Nice and tight, heh?”

They are indeed ‘nice and tight.’ The snug grip of the irons falls just short of pain. Remorsefully I explain, “You don’t have to keep me ironed like this. I’m not an animal, and I can’t possibly get off this island.” I hoped my voice sounded close to tears.

“We can make it much worse for you, Missy.” Juanita assures with a smile. “Would you like Jacob to iron your ankles and maybe rivet a collar around your neck?” Her tone is sugar sweet.

I hasten to disclaim desire for additional iron, and assure them both of gratitude for the way I am now. Good gosh, if I was once a lawyer, no one would know it now.

I get put in a different pen. I think Juanita is trying to be kind within the limits allowed my Uncle Andrew’s wishes for my discomfort. This pen is pretty much the same except a tree grows in one corner. But this tree will be a real boon at mid day. I have to feel I have met with approval and am moving up the ladder in some one’s approval. After Juanita has locked the gate and left. I went to the wall to experiment to see if my new bondage will permit me to climb. It won’t! No matter how I pull and tug my chained wrists back and forth through the ring. I cannot get the use of both my hands to attempt a climb. I am as foxed as ever. But if it was not for the terrifying solidity of hot rivets hammered flat, I could feel better off than with my crossed and bound behind by back. I go and gratefully sit in the shade of the small tree and wonder what will happen next. I don’t have to wonder what I will do. I can’t do anything!