Now that she spent her life in chains, Kirsten never really felt at ease sitting on furniture when men were around: it seemed much more natural to her to kneel on the floor. Stools like this one however were an exception. They were not devices that guests would ever use. The best way she could have described the seat would have been to say it was a bit like an old fashioned tractor seat, a sort of contoured metal affair, with shaped channels for the legs. But this one wasn't so deep as a tractor seat, so it required a certain poise to sit on it without falling off, and the leg channels diverged rapidly, so the only way you could relax was if your thighs were spread wide apart. The stool had a few other handy design features too: a jaw lock (like the ones on her bed) at the back which snapped to a girl's handcuffs, and similar arrangements near where her feet rested, fastening her legs in place, and so removing any last temptation to draw her thighs together. Finally, a screw mechanism, automatic of course, allowed the height of the seat to be adjusted over quite a wide range. Now, as she sat in the Master's study it was up quite high, presenting the tops of Kirsten's legs, and the other obvious attractions of that region, at a convenient height for viewing by the tall man, seated in his office chair. The naked girl on the stool made an attractive decorative feature for a room, and the only consolation as far as Kirsten was concerned was that she was near enough to a shelf for her to be able to bend and sip, through a straw, the large cocktail that the Master had made her.
The Master was working. He hadn't planned it, but a report had come in from one of the subsidiary companies requiring immediate input to meet a deadline. He only had a few paragraphs to write, but they needed to be correct and they needed to be done. His little chat with his recently returned employee would have to wait a bit, but in the meantime she was useful inspiration. Stuck for a word, he glanced up, following the line of the blonde girl's shapely thighs to her silky smooth bush. He smiled inwardly. He remembered as a frustrated and rather lonely student all those years ago, thinking that what he really wanted in a career was something that involved lots of naked women! He seemed to have achieved that. Finding his inspiration, he typed on.
Kirsten was irritated. It was not that she minded being a decorative feature so much -- after all, it was arguably what she was paid to be. But she did not like being silent; she wanted to talk. She was annoyed at being chained to the stool as well. Handcuffs and fetters, and even her neck chain, applied as a matter of course when she had entered this room, were fine, but the stool was uncomfortable. She gave a frustrated tug at the jaws that held her cuffed hands to the seat, nearly, in the process, making herself overbalance. The resulting clink caused an dark glance from the Master. She smiled coyly, but he wasn't interested in making eye contact. He just went back to his monitor.
She was also in a draught. The fan that swung too and fro on the Master's desk, set at a convenient height to cool his head, traversed her spread thighs on each cycle of its movement, the strong breeze parting her pubic hair. The stool, and the way she was chained to it, prevented her moving out of the way or closing her legs, she just had to endure. Naturally the Master was well aware of this aspect of the Kirsten's predicament. He had not arranged it deliberately, but having noticed it, he found it rather amusing. It wasn't deliberate this time, but it might well be the next.
Bored, Kirsten stared around her, looking at the books that lined every wall, perhaps four thousand of them. What could they tell her about this man, with his money and his strange lifestyle? Had he read them all? Those immediately in front of her were technical, the ones higher up to do with the advanced electronics that had made the Master his millions -- some of them sported his name on the spine. Those lower down were more basic: PC Maintenance for Dummies. She had read that one. It must be in a tea chest in her mother's attic. She remembered other girls at college boggling when they found her in her room at the residences with her computer stripped down to its basic componets, ready for a new motherboard and CPU. But even though she had studied arts, that kind of stuff had never intimidated Kirsten. It was just plugging together, wasn't it? How hard could it be? Anyone could read the manual. And now her was she, stripped down to her basic componets, as it were.
The blonde's eyes strayed further across the shelves. The next section was obviously more personal. Books on railways seemed common: pictorials of steam locomotives, books on signalling, some of it the modern technology, other tomes whose spines showed small illustrations of the older style of semaphore signal. Sailing ships and shipping history. An arcane set of interests? Boys' stuff, surely. But she remembered days out as a girl, spent riding on tourist railways with steam engines: she could see the attraction of the gleaming, hissing machines.
The next section was more thought provoking. Theology. Mostly Christian, but serious stuff, Old and New Testament analysis, biblical history, writings of the Church Fathers. None of the trashy paperpacks that the Christian Union had tried to flog her when she was at college. Kirsten cringed at the memory. There were other religions represented on the Master's shelves too; a couple of Sufi titles she knew from her own studies in Arabic history -- in translation here. She knew them in the originals. And there was something in Amharic -- the Ethiopian script of which she had picked up a smattering. What religions, she wondered, allowed you to keep women nude and in chains? Probably most of them, if the women had agreed. Having sex with them might be more difficult to reconcile. Then the more abstruse stuff, modern paganism, Wicca, and geomancy, dowsing, ley-lines, and Ancient British History, Stonehenge and the like. Books on relationships: men's stuff, Sam Keen's Fire in the Belly. Of course she hadn't read it, but an ex boyfriend had sworn by it. Men are from Mars...The blonde girl smirked, thinking of her own life, of the Estate. Why bother with all that communication! Just strip your women naked, clap them in irons and get on with it. Much simpler!
The Master typed on, occasionally glancing at his living nude sculpture, chained to her stool. He noted that she was looking at the bookshelves, that her breasts curved with enticing fullness as she turned her shoulders to examine her surroundings. Kirsten was oblivious to the physical man now, her brain having found occupation in his intellectual sustenance.
There was art in the literature too: books on photography. Books on female fashion. Another one, of classical theme, the spine illustrated with a small photograph of Hiram Powers' famous carving of The Greek Slave. Kirsten smiled. She had fantasized about that long ago, a nude female, bound in irons, her hands linked by a double line of chain. The fantasy had never been quite satisfying though, perhaps because the girl had her hands shackled in front of her. What was the point in that? It just turned the chain into a weapon. Kirsten felt her own handcuffs. Her fantasies depended hands being secured well out of the way, where they could not get into mischief. Just where they were now.
But there was the sex shelf: brazenly displayed. No hiding away of books under beds here. The Joy of Sex: she'd fantasized with that one too, particularly its strange drawings of bondage. She giggled inwardly at the bloke with the beard! Ugh! Some general sex guides she didn't recognize. Then Nancy Friday. Literature: Lady Chatterley, Anais Nin. And literature about bondage: copies of Aurelius' Rabbit Island saga -- compulsive reading for Kirsten in between her PhD source material, and food for dreams of a desert island life, naked and in handcuffs. A couple of Gor books: she'd read those too, though they had too much violence and not enough nudity to really work for her. She noted that these examples were ones written supposedly from the female perspective, Captive or Gor, Kajira of Gor, Slavegirl of Gor. Barbary slave books by Allan Aldiss. They were too heavy for her, as well.
Music next. A considerable collection, most notably opera and oratorio scores, and other smaller stuff that she could not identify from its spines, but which must be short works or sheet music. There was a rumour that the Master could sing a bit, choral stuff and so on, but he never did do so as far as she knew. She wondered what voice he sang? Baritone, probably. He was took big and his speaking tones were too sonorous to be a tenor, but he did not have the gruffness she expected of a real bass. Not that she really knew: her own abilities were limited to grade 2 piano, taken when she was thirteen, but she enjoyed her classical music all the same.
There the built in shelving ended, but there was another, free-standing bookcase. It was at the extreme range of her eyesight to read the titles, but she had another sip of her cocktail and had a go anyway. Nothing else to do, chained to her stool. The first few seemed nondescript, but strangely girly. A couple of cookery books, some standard looking romances, and one or two slightly more serious titles. History and so on. Then, oddly, her own favourite novel: Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. It seemed out of place on the shelf. She scanned onwards. A tall, vaguely familiar looking volume, an inch and a half wide, gold lettered, black bound.
The stool and its captive crashed over, the scream was deafening.
Usually, Kirsten went through her days without really thinking about her bondage -- which was not the same as imagining it wasn't there, or not noticing that it was. It was just, well, part of her life, part of her. And at other times -- frequent, happy other times -- she was aware of the intense and exquisite sexual stimulation that she obtained through, and so far as she knew only through, being naked and chained, from knowing how physically beautiful this state made her, from the inward feeling of openness and vulnerability it generated in her, from the gratification she derived from observing others' response to her vulnerability, and from knowing that she was helpless to free herself, that someone else held the keys to her shackles, and had either to choose or be persuaded to use them. But normally, manacles and nudity never made her feel more vulnerable than was desirable to her -- just enough, in fact, to make her throat pleasantly dry and her pussy pleasantly wet with anticipation. Normally, nudity and chains enhanced, not eroded her sense of self. They were never a threat.
But, just occasionally, when in bondage, she lost her comfortable space. Something happened that temporarily changed her, that broke down the schema of existence she had developed and brought terrors of violation and enslavement flooding in. Something happened that made her feel with white-heat intensity the power of her chains, the totality of her nakedness, the impossibility of escape, the loss of control. Something that drove her in an instant to a desperation which went quite beyond her intellectual understanding of her bonds.
The Master was at her side, her seat disentangled from her in an instant, its jaw locks yielding to his simple command. But then she was launching at him, spitting like an angry cat, obscenities pouring from her, breasts quivering, handcuffs, fetters, neck-chain rattling. He gave an inch or two, surprised, and then frankly amused at the ridiculousness of a six foot man being attacked by a naked 5'2" girl who had her hands pinioned behind her. He did the only thing he could, and held her tight, her head into his shoulders, his arms enfolding her, strongly at first, easing from restraint to support as she calmed. The curses yielded to sobs; the shackles yielded to nothing, and continued to imprison the blonde girl's limbs with total security, utterly indifferent to her outburst.
"What is the matter, Kirsten? You gave me the fright of my life! Are you wanting to safe-word out?"
This last question had no impact on her. Somewhere her brain knew the safe-word, but it had no place in her consciousness. Nowhere within her was there any real desire to be unchained. It was a deeper, far less tangible experience that she had had.
"It is mine."
"There, on the shelf. My PhD thesis!"
"Oh, I see. Yes. So?"
It was entitled Aspects of Political and Religious Life in Medieval Egypt, and there were as far as Kirsten knew only six copies of it in the world, two of those on microfilm. Such a lot of her soul was in it, and it was from another life, where she had worn panties and bras, T-shirts and jeans, and had not -- or at least not often - been chained. To know he had read it felt closer to being raped than anything he could ever do to her body. Her mind was a private place. How had he got in there? And how could she tell him how she felt? It would seem ludicrous when put into words. It seemed ludicrous to her. The thesis was a public document. Anyone could read it, if they could be bothered to get the microfilm from the National Lending Library.
He turned her over, so he could see her face. She lay like a big baby, just as helpless, one of his arms under her knees, the other round her shoulders. She was naked. She was very beautiful. The swelling of her breasts. The curve of her hips. Her small blonde bush. The metal of her collar. The chain attached to it, shackling her to the wall. Held with padlocks. His padlocks. She had tears in her eyes, quivering lips. But she was breathing easier now. Silence.
"You've read it, Sir?"
"Of course I've read it. It is very interesting."
"I had not bargained on having my mind investigated when I came here. It was a surprise, I suppose. How did you get it?"
"I had the microfilms printed out and bound. Breach of copyright, Sorry."
"Why is it there Sir?"
"With all the girls' favourite books. That is what that bookcase is for." He looked down at her again, drinking in her manacled form. His manhood stirred. "It isn't just your body that interests me." He looked down at her again, sensing the irony of his thoughts. He believed what he said, but if there was no option, perhaps just her body would do. "I can't keep your mind in chains, but I can at least strip it naked, and enjoy its beauty. It is beautiful, Kirsten, your mind."
She looked back into his eyes. Did he mean it? Yes. Suddenly she wanted him in her brain. She wanted him to possess her totally. She wanted him now. "Sir, please fuck me."
He released her neck chain and carried her through to his bedroom, where he lay her on the large four-poster, with its starched linen sheets. Another neck-chain, shorter, just a couple of feet long, secured her in place. She pulled her hands up to the small of her back, avoiding the cuffs digging into her behind, and she was kissed, slowly, leisurely, from lips to lips. Then, unable whilst anchored to the headboard to help him, she watched him undress, and welcomed him into the moist softness of her femininity, her flesh clasping him and drawing him onwards, using the chain joining her anklets to encircle his body. He did not thrust: his action was slow and long, from the very tip of her opening to the the folds of her cervix and back again, filling her each time, letting her feel him inside her, and then withdrawing, wave after wave of gentle passion.
Together, they took many rests, making stillness in which, their flesh still one flesh, they talked, he asking her of her trip, of her thoughts on the chastity belt (an appropriate way to be asked about that, she thought, as his calm but insistent intrusion began once again to rattle doors of ecstasy within her brain), of her thoughts, of her studies, of her past. He asking, she answering. Willingly stripping her mind naked for him, as he possessed her flesh.
Only as the afternoon sun began to lose its intensity, when Kirsten's intellect was fully bared and offered, like her shackled body, to the Master's care, did their passion rise to complete their togetherness, the strength of their joint climax sapping, for many moments, all their energy for further speech.
After a while, he donned his robe and fetched his laptop from his desk. Kirsten, dreamy with fulfillment, still naked, still chained to the bed, lay with her head on his knee, where she could see the computer screen, helping him with the last of his edit. When it was done, he unlocked her from the bed, refixed her collar to a long, long neck chain, and carried her gently to the warmth of a bath. Then he rang for dinner to be brought to his apartments.
Very, very much later, Kirsten was back in her own room. As the door locked closed behind her, she lent against it, shutting out the outside world. She closed her eyes, sensing the here and now. She felt the coolness of the room against her nakedness, the snug embrace of the metal that continued its unbroken confinement her neck and limbs. She smiled, remembering the latter part of the evening, how it compared to dates she had had in former times. After they had bathed, he had dressed for dinner. She, of course had not. He had helped himself, and her, to their food and drink. She had sat, helplessly chained, depending on him to serve her. Yet it had all seemed so natural and normal, like any date: they had chatted and laughed, the elegantly attired man and the shackled, naked girl, two like-minded adults, enjoying each other's company, discussing the ways of the world, totally at ease. Finally they had retired to the sofa for coffee (her discomfort at sitting on the furniture temporarily gone), and to the bed once more for love. There had not been a single instant when she did not feel his equal, nor when she had felt that he regarded her as such as well.
Kirsten moved away from the door, now locked until morning. As she crossed the room, she caught sight of herself in the mirror: blonde, beautiful, hair a little awry from her afternoon and evening of passion, naked and chained in handcuffs and fetters. She pulled against her restraints, feeling her fetter chain tighten, forcing her hands as far as she could to each side, first to her right hip and then to her left, testing their strength and security. There was, of course, no give, no weakness whatsoever. She could not escape her bonds, not now, not ever. Nor could she defeat their confinement or exceed the precise limitation of movement that they allowed her. His equal perhaps. But a single word from him would unlock the metal rings that imprisoned her flesh so effectively, whilst nothing she could do would make the slightest iota of difference to them. His equal?