Maxine Neville - Niece in bondage

Vanessa Ridgeway leaned back on the dark velvet upholstery of the train seat and watched the vast stretches of plains form an endless band of gold outside the window. She drummed her fingers on the armrest and then, aware of her nervous gesture, stopped as suddenly as she had started. She had no reason to be nervous. In fact, she was quite fortunate not to have been left all alone in the world after her mother's death. Yet it was all so strange in a way… the letter from the lawyers, the ticket, the offer of a home from an uncle she had never met.

She opened her purse and, for perhaps the hundredth time since her mother's funeral, she took out the envelope and withdrew the letter.

Your mother's estranged brother, Aleister Crawford, has been placed in trust of your inheritance until your twenty-first birthday. It has been arranged that you live with said Uncle until that time…

The law firm of Dodson, Dodsworth and Frowley in New York City had sent her the train ticket and had made arrangements for the trip. Yet, search her memory as she might, she could not recall that her mother had ever mentioned having a brother.

Vanessa never questioned the lawyers' instructions. She had been an obedient child and was now a dutiful orphan. She had never considered that she might, at eighteen, strike out and make a life of her own. She had been very attached to both her parents, and when her father had been killed in a plane crash several years earlier, she and her mother had grown even closer. She had no friends her own age, preferring the more sedate company of her mother's friends. And though she was an exceptional beauty, she had never had a date. Instructed all her life by tutors, she spoke fluent French, wrote charming little poems in the Japanese haiku form, and spent a great deal of time wandering dreamily over the grounds of the Hillsdale mansion. Hillsdale, until now, had been her entire world.

She was really a child in a woman's body – and an exquisite body it was, though she did not at all emphasize her considerable curves in her manner of dressing. And she was upset by the odd sensations that had troubled her ever since her fifteenth birthday, sensations that had made her feel feverish at times, made her feel as if her blood were pulsing too fast in her veins, made her think strange and wicked thoughts.

Vanessa was an incredible beauty, as her mother had been, with skin as smooth and clear as porcelain. She had high and finely sculptured cheekbones that served as a setting for the black jewels that were her eyes. And her mouth, though she never wore lipstick, was a deep ruby color, its shape as perfect as a cupid's bow. Her body was long and slender, with the same satin smooth skin that made her face so remarkable. She was as perfect in form as a Greek statue, a harmonious balance of smoothly rounded forms. Her tits had a perfection that would have caught the eye of any man.

She still felt the painful weight of grief, though she was too well bred to reveal any emotion in public. Those who looked at her saw only a perfectly stunning young woman, wearing an exquisite black suit and hat. She was the kind of young woman no one dared to address, so stilted was her air of elegance. But inside, she was just a frightened young girl whose world had been shattered by the death of the only person on earth she had truly loved.

As the train sped east across the continent, the setting sun turned the expanse of prairie just past a fiery gold. Ahead was the darkness of the eastern night, and Vanessa wondered what would emerge out of that darkness to form her future. She pulled the veil of her hat over her face and shut off the little light above her seat. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks and the burden in her heart lightened only a bit.

"Miss Ridgeway?" A curious high-pitched voice made Vanessa turn around. "Miss Vanessa Ridgeway?" Amidst the crowd of commuters in grey flannel at Grand Central Station, Vanessa found herself looking at the strangest person she had ever seen – a chubby, round-faced man, with very pink skin and a curly mop of yellow hair.

He extended a baby-soft hand to her. "I'm Billy Butter," he smiled. "Your uncle's manservant. It's a pleasure to meet you," he gushed.

"How do you do," she said, as he took her valise and led her to a waiting limousine. He opened the door for her and she slid into the soft leather seat. A uniformed chauffeur, with dark chocolate skin and a shaven head, sat at the wheel.

"The name is Kurt," he said in a deep rich baritone. "At your service." His tone was more arrogant and proud than subservient.

Vanessa had never before seen New York City. It made her feel cold. Everything was grey – the grey sky, the tall grey buildings like daggers spearing the heavens, the grey complexions of the people, the sounds of car horns arguing, people arguing. She felt a sense of her own fragility in this city, as if at any moment the violence in the air might pierce and extinguish her.

The limousine drove up Fifth Avenue and the farther north they traveled, the clearer was the landscape, fewer people, fewer sounds. They drove past Fifty-Seventh Street, and the grey park with its bare trees flew by on one side. At Eighty-Second Street they made a right turn and pulled up in front of an elegant old townhouse.

Billy showed her into the living room, then left her alone. There was a warming blaze in the fireplace, and she seated herself in a large leather armchair. And she waited.

How strange, she thought. Billy Butter and Kurt had disappeared, and she had assumed that her Uncle Aleister would appear at any moment. She listened for the sound of approaching footsteps, but there was nothing. Only dead silence.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, not knowing what to do, feeling too strange and shy to explore her surroundings. She felt frightened, but did not know why. It wasn't a normal or rational kind of fear. She was in her uncle's house, had been met by a gracious manservant, and had been driven here by a polite and obliging chauffeur. Perhaps her uncle was out and Billy meant for her to wait for his return.

But why hadn't Billy Butter shown her to her room? Surely that was the usual procedure. One would expect a manservant to consider that a guest, after a long journey across the continent, would want to bathe and rest.

She tapped her fingers nervously on her thigh. Her heart was beating quickly. Don't be foolish, she told herself. Don't go conjuring up things with your imagination. Then she thought, I'll go and find Billy and ask him to take me to my room.

She stood up and walked to the large oak sliding doors. To her utter astonishment, they were locked. Her heart jumped, but she told herself it was unreasonable to be frightened. The door was probably one of those doors that just locked automatically when you shut it.

She glanced about the room. There was another smaller door against the opposite wall. She walked quickly to it and tried the knob – it too was locked!

Suddenly a chill of terror ran through her slender frame. Certainly, she thought, there is some reasonable explanation for this. It's just my mother's death that makes me so nervous. I'll just sit back and wait. How ill-bred of me to be so impatient.

She returned to the leather chair and sat back in an attitude of poised relaxation. But her body was tense. She leaned forward again and glanced at the mahogany table in front of her. Strange – she hadn't noticed it before. There were cards laid out in a curious pattern on the table, cards with haunting pictures, not anything like playing cards. One of the cards in particular caught her eye. It seemed to be the center of the pattern. On top of the card was the roman numeral XV and the caption at the bottom read "The Devil".