Peter was still horny from the fantastic sex he had enjoyed with Isabel and had thought of nothing but to get her back into bed with her legs chained about his back as usual.

At 7 p.m., they were back in the master bedroom, Isabel having doffed her blouse, stepping out of her skirt en route, leaving just the ankle chains and loincloth on while Peter literally hopped out of his work clothes. Isabel did not bother with her favourite nightgown - this night was to be just pure lust, nothing else - a good, firm fuck is what they both wanted and needed.

Goddamn these chains, Isabel thought to herself as she felt Peter lock the slim chain around her neck again. Goddamn, they're good; it's almost as though they are magic somehow.

Peter was in no mood to question her stranger-than-fiction shackles; tonight was going to be a "hard night" - all night long. He gently pulled the loincloth to one side and slipped easily underneath her ankle chains as Isabel spread her legs in their usual diamond for him.

Their lovemaking was no less amorous and intense as the night before and at 11 p.m. both collapsed into each other's arms, exhausted beyond words. Sleep came quickly to both as did the 7 a.m. alarm, which Isabel slept through. Peter got up, dressed and quickly kissed his woman as he planned the big trip to the jewellery store for the diamond ring he would surprise her with that night in his easy chair. He hoped.

Isabel was still sleeping when he dashed out the door and drove down the road to the construction site where he had just landed work the day before. He scarcely noticed the little black Renault driving past him as he planned his lunchbreak to get from the construction site to the jewellery, pick out the ring, get to the bank, back to the store, back to work, and back to the store after work to get the ring, then home and then . . . .

The man in the Renault was the same drunk that Peter had verbally dismissed at the Locksmith's Arms two days ago but he did not know. Or care.

The grey-haired, stocky man, unshaven and in his 50s, was a white slaver and British expatriate from Marseilles, France, whose target this ordinary day in June 1975 was Isabel Metcalfe, sound asleep in chains in her bed at home, in rural western Scotland.

This mission would make him impossibly rich, beyond his wildest dreams, he thought. It would also, instantly, change Isabel, a, attractive mill worker, into a chained thrall, an indentured woman. Isabel Metcalfe, 35, mother of two boys, was about to become the chattel of a bizarre genetic-engineering project in the remote reaches of Ushwant, a rugged, desolate country with mountains to the west and deserts sloping to the Indian Ocean to the east.

The country had a thriving slave trade and Bruce, the slaver, knew a white woman, especially a Scot, would "gather quid" - probably in the hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling.

He had it all plotted out since the chance meeting with his target at the pub a couple of days ago. He had seen Isabel's chains when she sat down two tables away from him and he knew she would make a good target - a good acquisition. If she and that bozo-husband of hers were into chains, so what? So much the easier for him to make sure she would be immobilized for the big trip.

He had the private jet from the Centre of Excellence for Genetic Engineering, and its crew, sworn to secrecy on pain of death, waiting for him at Prestwick Airport's general aviation area but the hardest part was about to begin: how to get her out of the house without alerting anyone.

He was tipped by a construction contractor friend that Peter had just started work at a site across town and that Isabel would be alone at home alone, probably in chains, he hoped. Bruce, an ex-British army commando, found the house easily and radioed his position back to the private jet on the GA runway at Prestwick.

The rest was easier than he thought. He jimmied the front lock with his tools, put on the black ski mask inside the house and found Isabel sound asleep in the master bedroom. With a commando's trained sense for acquiring details at first glance, Bruce saw the slender chain padlocked around Isabel's neck and the little brass key on the nightstand farthest away from her. She was still sleeping when he picked the key up and it was only when he was leaning over her that she awoke with a scream.

"A-a-agh! Who're you?" Isabel cried, as she scrambled with her hands to tug the neck chain over her head. Those were her last words. He plunged the disposable hypodermic into her shoulder and injected a large dose of a powerful sedative as he held her down onto the bed with a deathgrip on the chain that secured her head and neck to the bed. Isabel had five seconds only to thrash her chained ankles feebly underneath the bedsheets before she faded into oblivion.

Bruce unlocked her neck chain, pulled down the quilt and sheets, quickly appraised her near-nakedness and the sturdy, 18-in. chain between her ankles he had glimpsed in the pub - "Ar-r-r, that's the ticket; those chains are sure to get a few more quid" - and set to work binding and gagging the 35-year-old woman.

So what if the rough, 1/8th-in. hemp cord he knew and trusted made red indentations and welts if tied on feminine flesh for more than five minutes? She was going to be bound a lot longer than that so she may as well get used to it, he thought.

Isabel, clad only in her yellow-chiffon loincloth, ankle chains, nipple rings and earrings, was rolled hard over onto her belly and her arms were drawn into the middle of her back. Bruce quickly and easily looped three bights of cord around her elbows, drawing them tight together so her forearms ran down the middle of her back, then lashed her wrists together in eight overlapping figures-of-eight, tying elbows and wrists together at mid-forearm with doubled lengths of cord and a series of square knots which he doubly secured with fine stainless steel wire.

"Even Mrs. Houdini would have a helluva time getting out of that one," he laughed heartlessly, as he bent to lash her knees and ankles together in similar, methodical fashion. He then drew her chained ankles up to her wrists, noting the woman's gymnastic degree of flexibility as well as the fine craftsmanship of the shackles, and tied Isabel into her first-ever hogtie. He was familiar with that particularly brutal bondage after having practised on several prostitutes in Piccadilly Circus.

After his dishonourable discharge from the army in 1973 he prowled the streets of central London looking to fulfill his bondage fantasies.

He remembered Eliza, a slender blonde from Essex, commenting afterward it took him all of one minute to hogtie her into complete immobilization. Bruce told her the slightest movement would cause any of the eight key knots in his expertly-tied bondage to tighten down inexorably.

Isabel's bondage was total and complete - in just over one minute - and she couldn't move. And, soon, she wouldn't be able to speak. The ex-commando withdrew a 10-in.-diameter spherical sponge from his army fatigues pocket, pried Isabel's jaws open and stuffed her mouth with the sponge so fully that her cheeks bulged. He then applied a 25-ft. elastic bandage which he wound round and round her lips, chin and cheeks, followed by six layers of sticky medical adhesive bandage and, finally, a locking head harness to ensure everything stayed in firm place. The harness, which he acquired from a bondage equipment house in California, was made of half-in. chrome flexible steel straps that tightly circled her mouth and passed under her chin. Two attaching straps that joined in a V between her eyes were rivetted to another band that passed over her head and the whole ensemble locked with two hasps in back. She could never reach that when she comes to, Bruce said to himself, as he snapped the last lock closed. Isabel lay silent, still and unconscious, breathing shallowly through her nose only with the effects of the sedative injection.

Taking off his ski mask Bruce lit a cigarette as he walked back out to his car and got his oversize - "woman's size" he called it - kitbag from the backseat, walked nonchalantly back into the house into the bedroom and slid the bag over Isabel's doubled-up body. He zipped up the bag, fastened the sturdy buttons and Bruce and his female baggage were ready for a trip Isabel would never forget.

He hoisted the 115-lb. woman, bound, chained, gagged and immobile inside the kitbag, easily on his shoulder and walked out onto the front porch. He flicked the cigarette butt into the flower bed then put the kitbag in the waiting open trunk, slammed the lid and went back and closed and locked the front door.

Two crows flew overhead soundlessly and there was no one to be seen for miles. Smiling at the ease and success of his gambit, Bruce then got into the stolen Renault and drove off to Prestwick, about two hours away, humming the First World War soldiers' tune Pack Up Your Troubles (in your old kitbag).

Arriving at Prestwick after an uneventful 1 1/2-hour drive, he parked the little sedan in the long-term lot, got out and shouldered the kitbag, with Isabel still unconscious inside, and strode inconspicuously inside the air terminal building's GA area. He passed through customs easily, saw that the kitbag was gently loaded onto the small African-registered twin-engine jet and walked onto the apron, up the few steps into the little plane. Grounds crew closed the hatch quietly, pulled away the mobile staircase and the twin engines of the little jet purred and whined into life.

The little jet turned and taxied onto the GA runway, the pilots received clearance from the tower and, moments later, the plane was climbing high into the grey skies of southern Scotland with the first leg of the flight under way over England and across the English Channel into continental airspace.

At cruising altitude, Bruce got up from his seat and walked back into the jet's triangular-shaped rear compartment to check on his baggage: he unbuttoned and unzipped the duffel bag and pulled it off Isabel's silent, immobile, nearly-naked body.

For her "personal safety," he locked a six-ft. length of sturdy chain around her waist, using another padlock to secure it to a nearby padeye on the fuselage. Isabel Metcalfe lay bound and still as the jet continued its flight south. Her waist chain swayed to and fro slightly as the little aircraft passed through some light turbulence over the grey skies of Northern France but she was aware of nothing as the little jet continued its southerly course at 25,000-ft.

As the sedative's effects wore off, she became groggily awar of a jawbreaking feeling that nearly triggered her gag reflex. She panicked seconds later when she realized her mouth was filled with some object and it was firmly secured in place with material she could not identify. As well, her eyes could barely focus on the two thin metal bands of her head harness that passed up either side of her nose to join on top of her head.

A small "mmmmmpppphhhh" was all that she could manage over the quiet whine of the twin-engine jet, cruising now southeast over central France, heading into the airspace of the Federal Republic of Germany. She had never before been so securely, or viciously, bound. Hogtied since before 8 a.m., her arms and legs were now completely numb. Her eyes snapped open wide and all she could see were her head harness's two shiny, thin bands of metal on either side of her nose.

Unable to move a muscle in her arms or legs, she felt the addition of the heavy chain around her waist and, looking down her bound body, followed its length to where it was locked four-ft. away to a padeye.

Gathering her thoughts and getting her panic under control, the brave woman wriggled a little and found she could barely move - maybe a couple of inches - and quickly realized the numbness in her limbs would ensure she could not be able to walk unassisted even if she were freed of her bondage. Her kidnapper came back to gloat and she recognized him right away.

"Mmmmfffoou!" she shouted, glaring at him past her harness as she recognized him from the pub in Edinburgh.

"Yes, it's me," he replied.

"Wfffrrroogmmmfff? (What are you going to do with me?) "You're going to be sold."

"Hmmmffftt?" (What?)

"Sold. As a slave."

"Mrfffnshtngzz. Mmffnrd." (There's no such thing as a slave! Bastard.)

"Oh, yes, there is. Where we are going. By the way, would you like some water? Isabel nodded.

Bruce began to remove her harness, the sticky adhesive, elastic bandage and pulled the sponge out of her mouth. He then put the canteen of ice-cold water to her lips. Isabel drank deeply thinking she might not have another drink for a long while.

"I'll have to put all this kit back on you now, Isabel."

"How do you know my name? Who are you and where's Pewaaooo. . . " Her question about Peter was choked off as he expertly prised her jaws open with his powerful, gloved hand to accept the saliva-damp sponge.

"Close your lips; it'll be easier for you that way."

Isabel complied, closing her jaw and lips around the bulky sponge, making her cheeks bulge even further. Bruce dexterously reapplied the elastic bandage, another half-roll of sticky tape and the complex metal harness that kept everything locked in place.

"Mmmmfffff," Isabel said, as she shifted away from him to ease her cramped hogtie on the cool steel deck. Escape was impossible, bound as she was, and she ceased struggling. She had been starved for oxygen for a couple of hours in the kitbag but the oxygen-rich interior of the aircraft was having its desired effect.

She knew she would have to slow her breathing or risk becoming lightheaded and panicky again but it was a struggle to breathe through her nose only. She was thinking of the calming effect her pre-natal breathing exercises had on her before her sons were born when, suddenly, Bruce returned with an object in his right hand and a small tube in his left.

"I've brought you a friend to keep you company for the rest of the trip," he gloated, as he bent down to show Isabel the foot-long, three-in.-diameter silicone dildo with attached electronic hardware. "This little tube of SuperLube will help ease your introduction to your new lover," he added, as he swung Isabel's tightly bound and chained legs toward him. She attempted to wriggle away but he stepped on her ankle chain and she was going nowhere. As well, the chain holding her to the fuselage was pulled taut and she was immobile. Bruce knelt in front of her cramped legs, doubled up in twine, and inserted the tube's long probe into her vagina, emptying the entire contents into her.

He then slid the foot-long dong into her easily and used another long length of hemp cord to lash it in place using the waist chain as an anchor. He passed a bight of the cord through an eye at the base of the dildo, around between her ass cheeks and secured it at the waist chain in the small of her back, the knots facing away from her fingers.