F Campbell - Golden Wrists

The manner of my coming is guesswork, I suspect I was drugged and wafted across the Atlantic as cargo. I may never see New York again.

In the first two days of my imprisonment, I lost the two companions who’s fate had been similar to mine. I mourned their passing and yearned for Ivory Blake with a terrible hunger of the heart. Ivory had become the core and center of my life but now was gone. I returned to the island of Plessious, along with the sweet but omnipotent Naomi Samis. They are gone, gone, gone. And I am here alone in the stone prison with its central column to which my neck is chained.

An iron collar is locked upon my throat. From it the chain to the stone column allows me to pace back and forth, a good deal of freedom but not enough to do me any good. I constantly plead for its removal but am only laughed at by those who attend my needs. Sometimes when no one sees. I shed my tears in the bitterness of defeat.

I was cruelly whipped on arrival, my introduction to the ancient house named Rockley. I was then sentenced to the condition in which I now am, for seven days, only four of which have gone. At the end of it I am to be whipped again. How wonderful is the omnipotence of this man I know as Andrew Everleigh.

He visits me each day and I have no choice but to stand naked beneath his venerable regard as we discuss the affairs of The Estate, and the disposition of my body. Andrew Everleigh may be old but he is very shrewd.

“That young upstart, Hugo Markham, will be missing you,” the man who holds me prisoner remarked. “He’d best give up his claim and with you gone, I expect he will.”

His regard of my nakedness, which never had been carnal, made me think he was faintly aware of me as a human being. “You’ve only three days to go before being whipped again. How do you feel about it?”

“It’s medieval, I can’t believe it will happen.”

“It will happen. Do you think the first one did you any good?” That’s a question I’ve asked myself again and again in my loneliness. Being whipped so terribly made me humble in a way to cause me shame. It is, of course, nothing more than a demonstration of how a man’s will and a man’s strength can rob a girl of pride and self-esteem. I had not previously concerned myself with breasts and pubes, but I’m now frighteningly aware of these female sexual attributes. I do not want to be hurt again, the pain is beyond bearing. I hear my voice and am mortified a thousand-fold. “I don’t want to be whipped again. Please, is there not something I can do or say? I am now obedient.”

Andrew Everleigh nodded absently as if my pleading might be taken for granted. “As you have been, Diane, you are too big for the role you have to play. Whipping will diminish you and make you submissive to my needs. Can you understand?”

“I will be obedient to you now. Please don’t have me whipped again.”

He goes away and I sink down upon the stone to lean whipped skin back against the pillar which holds my neck by a chain.

The next day was one more step towards a destination I could not see. Fingering the iron band around my neck, I once more stood before a male gaze in which there was neither lust nor an awareness of my breasts, Andrew Everleigh continued where he had left off the day before, “You are aware of the seven days you must serve, my girl,” he said as a preamble, “After that there will be an eighth day and a ninth. What say you then?”

“After you’ve whipped me again I thought you would set me free.”

His ascetic smile comes through thin lips. “You engage in wishful thinking, girl. But that is to be expected. I’ll not be sending you back to that plush New York office and those pampered clients. You are going to serve me here at Rockley instead.”

“As a naked slave? Is that what you want of me?” Andrew Everleigh does not answer, Instead he repeats the dry chuckled I can’t interrupt. He goes away. The door slams shut. I was alone with stone walls and a chain.

I ask of my jailers. I am sure they know something but they do not speak. They are polite with their Miss Durrant this and Miss Durrant that. I can tell from the way they look at me I have much to learn. They get pleasure from examining my nudity, perhaps planning where their whip or cane will cut in that time when I would scream again.

My lonely imprisonment would drag were it not for knowing what will be done to me on the seventh day. And the seventh day approached with a speed to make me shiver. I told Andrew Everleigh that he has already reduced me to a naked nothing, but with this he does not agree. He asked me slyly if I would have preferred to stay with Naomi in the whorehouse cage without his ransom. Casually he mentions the sum of money he paid for my release. I am appalled and envision myself being whipped forever to compensate him for so huge a sum. Everything said and done to me here points to my jailer’s whips as the only valid currency I have left.

Instinct and my lawyer’s training tells me of hope. Andrew Everleigh probably sees the second whipping as cutting me down to size, but if it is no more than that, there lays behind it a purpose, Andrew Everleigh will demand a service from the chained and naked woman he will make grovel at his feet. This pathetic hope is all I have in my impotence.

I hope I appear more courageous than I feel as the last day comes. No one mentions what would be done to me tomorrow but it hangs heavy over me. Even the old man who holds me captive does not speak of it. I shiver constantly but not with cold.

It will be done to me in Rockley’s great Hall, a frightening vastness of space in which I will stand alone beneath the cynical eyes of centuries of ghosts, Goodness knows what the immensity of stone may once have seen. Today it will behold a naked Miss Diane Durrant unkindly whipped at the orders of a man who, a month ago, I did not even know.

The collar I had worn for seven days is unlocked and taken from my neck. One of my jailers, Constance, assures me that everything will be okay and I’ll be all right but I don’t believe a word of it. I am led downstairs.

The stark immensity of it is awesome even if I were clothed. Naked, it diminishes me to a frightened little girl who’s pleas for forgiveness and mercy have echoed uselessly against the stone. Encouragingly, Constance and Betty tell me that I am to be made ready for the grand event but will have to wait a while for it to happen. Silently I reflect that if they think making me wait to be whipped is a kindness, they’re crazy.

The stop is shockingly dead center. From above hang the two ropes whose purpose I can guess. The wristlets are buckled tight, each with it’s metal ring. There is a heavy crate on which I am told to stand. There is room for Constance, too, as she raises my arms one at a time to the ropes she gathers from beyond arms length. When I step back upon the floor I am neither suspended or stretched as I had supposed but simply stand with hands and arms held high and far apart. As the crate is carried away I realize I have been fastened in a manner to allow me to jerks and twist and kick to my heart’s content as leather marks my skin. My two jailers now strew upon the stone floor a fine array of whips and canes and crops. They say nothing and, indeed, what need is there for words. Once more they tell me not to worry. They go away and leave me there to stand.

I am ten times more naked than I have ever been. The great hall has that effect. I see among the whips there is a gag and know I will scream.

I wonder if there is watcher in the wings but do not care. I manage to spend some time in an exploration of what the ropes permit. They prevent me leaving the stone on which I stand but allow a twisting of arms and legs, and a reaching with my hands to the wristlets and the heavy snaps anchoring their rings. It is quite hopeless, I cannot get my hands anywhere near each other even though I can tease myself by motions meaning nothing.