F Campbell - Margo

"But the only answer to what you've just said is a couple of cliches: 'When in Rome do as the Romans do', or 'Ours is not to reason why, but doomed to die'."

Suddenly the two girls were laughing. Margo was aware of the inconsistency of her revolt. She had sold herself, and those who now owned her could called the shots. If they wanted to tie her hands behind her back, they most certainly could.

There came then the Academy's latest recruit, a sensation and an act with which she could become increasingly familiar; the passive surrendering of herself or a part of herself to the wall of someone else. Margo shrugged, grinned, and kicked her chain as she turned and crossed her wrists behind her back. Then she stood erect, quivering as the cords encircled her wrists and were drawn tight by the hands of a beautiful girl. It was a strange sensation and a potent one. If she wished to be fanciful, she could listen to the act of the bride, surrendering herself to her lord and master at the alter. Margo's breathing had quickened. Her nostrils flared, and deep within her sex, the fire flamed anew. She said nothing, and Jean said nothing, but both were aware of what was taking place. The girl being bound emanated vibrations in waves. Jean patted the final knot and cheerfully said, "Come on, you're going into a cage."

It was a large cage in a large, birth room. The cage already had inmates: four girls. All were bound. They had the appearance of preparing themselves for a day of boredom and discomfort. They viewed the newcomer with a fresh interest. Jean locked the door behind her charge and went away. Around her lips was a quivering smile.

Margo felt shy. She felt foolish. She was actually glad her hands were tied where they were. Had they been free, she would not have known what to do with them. It was one of those moments. True, the other girls were naked, as she was naked, but compared to them, she was almost free.

The first was bound in the same manner as herself, but had been backed against the bars and her neck roped by three bands of harsh hemp to compel her to stand upright. The second offering a variation. She wore no chains, but her hands were also tied behind her back. She lay upon the floor, and one ankle had been snared by a rope and lifted high toward the top of the converging bars. It had been drawn just sufficiently high to almost raise her bottom from the floor. Margo sensed her discomfort. The third stood in a pose of languid weariness. She bore no bounds whatsoever except on her wrists. They were handcuffed. But before being joined, the cuff had been slipped around a bar above her head to compel her to stand facing in or out, as she chose. But whatever her choice, her hands would remain high above the crosspiece which denied withdrawal. The fourth stood like an exquisite butterfly impaled against the side of the cage. Her arms had been draw out and wrists bound to the bars in the totally outspread position of a bird's wings. It was very simple, very effective, and after the hours had passed, would become very cruel.

"Welcome to the club, honey." It was the girl with the bound neck who now twisted and shook her head disdainfully to ease herself and improve articulation. The ropes were snug enough to impede speech. "You're getting the quivering treatment, sweetheart. They put you in here to let you see what's going to happen to you sometime. It may be today, or it may be a week from now. None of us have done anything to warrant being fixed this way, but it's been done to us just to educate us. You should feel flattered."

Margo did not feel flattered. She felt guilty for realizing herself so much a focus of so much feminine discomfort. The girl with the raised leg laughed up from her posture on the floor.

"Don't worry about it. Your name is Margo, isn't it? We're all delinquents together, and the girls get used to this sort of thing. Ask Patsy, the one with the handcuffs. She had to stay the way she is for an entire night once. Has the master used you yet?"

"The master?" Margo was groping for someone to fit the term. "Oh, you mean Mr. Ross, don't you? Is that what you call him?"

"Don't kid yourself. He is one. He's the only bright spot in our lesbian lives. If it weren't for him, men would become merely a memory." There was a bitter laugh. "The trouble is, there area lot of us, and only one of him."

There was a snickering pause until the handcuffed girl added her contribution.

"Don't get excited, sweetheart. If he happens to choose you, it's a very mixed blessing. A girl can't be positive whether she gets her bottom caned or whether she gets taken to bed. Usually, it's both. He's an extremely versatile man. He's an artist with rope, and a girl can get tied up by him in more ways that you can dream of. Mostly, you'd wish he'd cane your bottom. You get it over with quicker that way. You can pretty well rely on the cane or the riding crop with Miss Harridance. She likes to get you well heated before you service her. One of her favorite tricks is to have you do the servicing while another girl canes your bottom for her. That way she gets the best of both worlds." She gave a short, sharp laugh. "Don't worry, honey, you may even get to like the place."

Everything was an object lesson. Each girl had something to each. At a later time Margo was thrust together with a girl, Patsy, who in this first instance in the cage had been attached to the bars with handcuffs and forced to stand there in idle lassitude. In this particular instance, the Academy had seen fit to place the two girls in a bare compartment, placed them with their backs to the wall, extend their far hand, and bind it to a ring. This left each girl standing some feet apart with one hand outstretched and immovably lose to them. They were then very neatly linked by taking their free hands and cuffing them together. It was a strangely exasperating bond. Neither girl could reach her bound hand to use her teeth. Neither girl could pull the other's arm sufficiently to herself to reach anything. They simply stood with one arm outstretched to either side, the other joined to her companion in distress. They went nowhere.

Patsy was philosophical. She shrugged and grinned at her companion.

"We can try to reach each other, if you like. It would be a nice way to pass some time, and I bet we've got lots of time. It would be nice if we could play with each other, but you'll find that we can't. Thee have these cute little ties figured to the last inch. Come on, try."

They tried, but as Patsy had said, they failed. Their handcuffed hands were as lost to them as the outstretched ones so tightly bound with cords. They fell back on conversation.

"You've got the most gorgeous body," Patsy enthused enviously. "The master will be picking you all the time. But then you're one of the girls he's purchased, aren't you? You're not here because Mommy and Daddy sent you." She sighed. "I only rate the master's attention about once in two months. I'm trying to work up a crush on Miss Harridance. She isn't exactly second best. She's tops in her own way, but if you service her enough, you get out of gear with things. Men start to seem odd to you, and then when one comes along, you resent whatever he does. The Academy is for the birds."

"Did Henry Ross start it?"

"Sure, he did. How else would we get the name?"

Patsy laughed without rancor. "Ross gets around. And he soon discovered there was an awful lot of rich people with daughters who were a bit of a nuisance. So he started Rossland, and in his brochures and interviews, he promised the finished product when returned home after a period decided by the parents, she would behave herself and be a credit to the family. He never told them about Rossland's efforts. And I've got a notion they were just as happy not to know. He also failed to mention this interest in what we've got between our legs."