Isabel the Slave - the End of the Beginning

Isabel awoke, as though from a dream, with a hangover from the sedative and the gritty achiness of the rough bondage she had endured all day. She still thought she was dreaming and shook her head to clear her mind. But the heavy steel collar sat at the base of her neck and the reality of her desperate situation sank in.

She was still in the back of the limousine, chained and naked except for a yellow loincloth, beside two well-dressed, but probably delusional African professionals en route to a destination she knew not.

"Ah, you're awake, finally," Sheikh, the doctor, said to her. "I've dressed your ligature wounds and they should heal in a couple of days. You'll be okay, I'm sure."

Omar, the economist, said, "Yes, and you'll soon meet Amina who will help you through your learning process."

The limousine and its three passengers continued its way along the rocky desert for another hour until Isabel thought she saw a mirage on the horizon.

"There's home," said Omar, "just over there about 10 miles. "Distances in the desert are as deceiving as they are at sea because you have no points of reference. Our Centre of Excellence over there actually looks closer to us than it actually is. In fact, if you were to walk to where we presently are from there in the midday heat, you would surely perish; am I correct, doctor?"

"Indubitably," the medical man replied. "Dehydration, hyperthermia, heat exhaustion, confusion, stroke, paralysis, death, in that symptomatic order," he said, in a suddenly cold, clinical tone.

"No escape," Isabel thought. "How could I get away, anyway, chained up like this? And I am sure they're going to lock me up at night."

Thousands of miles away, at precisely that time, Peter was barging through the front door of the little white bungalow in the Western Scottish Highlands with Isabel's brand-new engagement ring clutched firmly in his right hand.

"Isabel, where are you?" he called. "I'm home and I've something to give you. Isabel? Isabel?" Only silence greeted the tired carpenter. Peter dropped the one-carat diamond ring to the floor when she saw the unmade bed and Isabel's neck chain askew on the bed sheets. He balled his fists as he tried to quell the rising tide of panic as he fled down the hallway looking for any sign of his woman. He knew straight away something had happened to her but wasn't sure.

After five minutes of frantic searching, he looked into her closet to see what clothes she might have taken but nothing was disturbed, not even the ankle chains he had brought from Canada, and the first feelings of deep despair grabbed at his guts.

Ten minutes later, looking at the chain he had locked on her neck the night before, he wailed: "Isabel, where are you? I love you."

Isabel heard the limo's tires crunch on a gravel driveway as the Cadillac pulled into the forecourt of three modern, white buildings, with palm trees and a small pond in front, in the middle of the desert. Looking out the tinted windows, she noticed a high, razorwire-topped, chain-link fence along the perimeter as the vehicle pulled up to the front of the largest building, followed by the jeep with three dusty soldiers and a dead white slaver inside.

No one came out to greet them but Omar spoke first:

"We're here, Isabel. Time for you to get out and meet your new friends." Omar slid out of the back seat first and helped Isabel to her feet. Only three wide steps leading to the entrance of the main building greeted her this time. Omar took her left arm and Isabel wrenched it away with a clatter of her chains, growling at him. "I'll walk alone," she said. "I managed 25 steps at the University of Edinburgh's faculty of engineering; I can certainly walk up these." The two African men were quietly pleased at Isabel's pluck and determination; it was more than they had hoped for.

Isabel's chains rattled more noisily than before on the white limestone steps and she pushed open the wide front door with her shoulder, followed by Omar and Sheikh, into a large, open area at the front of the building. She looked around and saw what she believed to be offices, laboratories and a dining room further down the hall.

"Welcome to our Centre of Excellence for Genetic Engineering," the doctor said. "Amina should be here momentarily.

"Amina? Where are you, please? Our guest has arrived!"

"Just a moment," a cultured, feminine voice called out. "I'm on the wireless to my friend at USC."

Wireless, Isabel thought. So that's how they communicate with the outside world; no landlines out here. She also noted a cool draught of air circulating in the spacious lobby indicating the presence of air conditioning and a power source, possibly solar panels and battery storage, she thought, as she gathered information and evidence for the charges she was going to pursue once she got free.

She was determined to get free, despite her chains, her nakedness and her location (where in hell am I, anyway? she asked herself) and she would bring these crackpot quacks to justice somehow.

Isabel looked around and heard a slight rustle of chain in a hallway to her right. Turning, she saw a statuesque African woman, about 25, naked, slender and beautiful. Isabel was not the least bit surprised to see this woman's ankles shackled by a 24-in. chain - at least she would have a soulmate - and she walked as though she was free. Clearly, she was used to her bondage, Isabel thought, but as Amina drew closer she saws her additional jewellery: silver rings through her septum, her nipples and her vaginal labia, all linked together by light, decorative chain.

"Amina, come and meet Isabel, our new subject," Sheikh said. The African woman walked with a light clink up to Isabel, extended her right hand and said "Hello, Isabel; I am Amina and I will be your maid, your slave, your friend and your instructor."

Isabel raised her chained right hand and shook Amina's welcoming hand with a clink and rattle, wondering about the multiple roles Amina would play and the order in which they might occur.

"Well, I guess I am pleased to meet you," Isabel finally blurted. "I look forward to knowing more about you. Are you the graduate from the University of Southern California?"

"Yes, I am," the African woman said. "I will be assisting Dr. Sheikh in the genetic engineering initiatives of our study." Oh, great, Isabel said to herself. And I am the guinea pig.

Amina asked Isabel if she would like a bath before supper and Isabel quickly agreed.

"I'll show you to your quarters, Isabel. Come this way, please." The leggy African woman slowed her pace to accommodate Isabel's small, chained steps, noisy on the flooring, as the two women walked down a long, cool hardwood hallway into a suite of two apartments. The door on the left opened to Amina's chambers, she said, and Isabel's was next door.

As Amina opened Isabel's door, she fully expected a jail cell but was amazed to find a well-appointed, two-bedroom apartment, complete with living room, dinette, fully-appointed bath and small patio with a 16-ft.-high chain-link fence bordering three sides.

"This is your apartment, mine's identical, except for the chain-link fence," Amina said. "Please make yourself comfortable. I"ll come by in 90 minutes to take you to dinner. It's now just before 5 p.m. local time, dinner is at 6:30 p.m., on the dot; see you then."

Isabel's apartment door closed solidly and she heard two barrel-locks thudding home outside.

Here she was, locked inside a luxurious apartment in the middle of the desert, chained hand and foot with a steel collar rivetted around her neck, and being asked to get ready for supper at 6:30 p.m. What next?

Isabel clinked her chained way around the apartment, looking at the furniture, inside her refrigerator (there was no stove), at the dinette, the en suite bathroom, the large and small bedrooms - she suddenly had a pang of sexual hunger for her Peter - and decided she would enoy a bath - it had been a long and tiring day. She clinked into the tiled bathroom and ran a steamy, hot bath. She took off her sole piece of clothing - the eight-in.-wide strip of translucent, pale-yellow chiffon tied on her so long ago by Peter - and eased herself into the tub in a clash and clatter of chain.

"Mmm, noisy, noisy," she said, as she sank down into the hot, soapy water, feeling the suds rise up past her metal collar. Her ankle, wrist and waist chains scraped along the marble interior of her tub as she watched the desert grime, and the aches of her hemp bondage - wash away. Long, lingering moments later, she stood up, drained the tub and pulled the shower curtains closed in another loud clash of chains and ran the shower to wash her hair and rinse off, taking care to avoid the red welts on her wrists, elbows, knees and ankles.

Warm, relaxed and somewhat serene, she turned off the shower after 15 minutes, stepped out, nearly tripping over her chains on the edge of the tub and staggered to the towel rack to dry herself off in the large, fluffy towels.

Do I go to supper with a towel wrapped around me, she wondered, or have they given me any clothes at all? Maybe even a hospital johnny shirt? But even that wouldn't go on with her chained the way she was. She had to sit down on the edge of the tub to towel her hair with her tethered hands. She then stood up and took a step to the medicine cabinet. There were the usual contents: alcohol, perfumes, quality makeup but no razors or anything else that could be used as a weapon. She stood tiptoed and pulled her chains taut to reach into the cabinet to withdraw a small perfume bottle. Looking at it, she opened it and daubed a little scent behind her ears by kneeling down in front of the mirror. She also put a dot between her breasts with a little laugh; at her elbows where she noticed the dark-red, corrugated ligatures and behind her knees where she once again felt the inflamed roughness left by her hemp cords.

Freshly showered and with damp hair, she clinked into the master bedroom and looked in one of the two closets. There she saw a long row of hangers with the same garment - five-ft.-long lengths of 8-in.-wide chiffon - literally dozens of them. So this is to be my wardrobe, Isabel thought. The row of hangers was conveniently low enough for her to reach in her chains and she picked the first one - a champagne-coloured item - off the rack.

She put it on the usual way, over and under her waist chain, and straightened out the front and back lengths as though she was straightening hems on a skirt at home.

Freshened up, she shuffled stiffly into her fenced-in patio and let the hot desert air dry her hair. It was dry in five minutes and she came back in, lay on the bed in a clink and rattle of chain, organized her wrist, ankle and connecting chains and began running the day's events over in her mind.

Her right hand wandered down toward her vagina and she began idly to stroke her sensitive clit as she thought of her hours of tight bondage in the back of the little jet. She rotated the little nub with her right index and middle fingers, relishing the feel of the chain over her abdomen and upper thighs. Her reverie was soon interrupted by two sharp raps on her front door. "Isabel, it's me, Amina. Supper's in 10 minutes and we're expected."

"I'll be there," Isabel called out, struggling to get off the double bed. She clashed, clinked and clanked he way to her front door, found it unlocked from the outside and opened it to see Amina in a beautiful, white evening gown that revealed more than it covered.

Isabel's hands went instantly to her breasts and said: "I don't have a thing to wear; just this little loincloth. What am I going to wear to dinner, Amina?" The African-born, USC-educated engineer calmed the Scottish womanand said:

"You look just fine the way you are. Don't worry about it. If you want, I can put on the same thing you are wearing and we'll be two of a kind."

Isabel thought about this strange offer and replied: "Well, yes, Amina, if you would. That would greatly reduce my embarrassment if you and I appeared the same."

Amina agreed, returned to her apartment and emerged five minutes later in a loincloth nearly identical to Isabel's, her nipple and nose rings and their light chains flashing brilliantly against her dark skin.

Together, they walked into the dining hall and joined Omar and Sheikh in a formal, British-style, three-course evening meal brought them by white-jacketed male waiters.

Isabel and Amina sat at one side of the long table and the two African gentlemen sat across. Isabel had to place her feet on the lower rungs of her chair to allow her some slack in her chains to reach her plates and cutlery but other than that the dinner was a great success and she enjoyed the small talk offered by the two gentlemen-kooks.

The only difficulty Isabel had was reaching some of the silverware, justo ut of reach of her shackled hands. Instantly, a waiter would appear at her side and pass the fork, spoon or plate to her.

The smalltalk was far from the usual chat she was used to:

"How long have you been in chains, Isabel, not counting today?"

"Oh, about three days."

"Do they distract you?"

"Only when I'm doing something."

"Do you prefer rope? Or chain? Or both?

"Never both. I am getting used, slowly, to being chained. But the prospect of being tied and chained is not looked forward to at all."

"How did you acquire your ankle shackles? They look very strong and difficult, if impossible, to remove." "It happened at night not far from home. And that's all I'll tell you. The rest is too fantastic to believe. And you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you."

After supper, the two men, Amina and Isabel withdrew to a library where sherry, cigars and cigarettes were produced. Isabel, seated in a big easy chair, accepted a cigarette from one of the servants who placed it in her mouth, lit it for her adroitly and offered her a crystal glass of expensive sherry.

The sherry hit her like the proverbial ton of bricks, considering her exhausted physical and psychological states, and she was tipsy with the second glass.