“I’m sure they’ll enjoy the ridges on my bottom!”
“An occupational hazard of which you need not feel ashamed,” said Quigley primly.
“I’m going to feel damned good and ashamed of standing and offering all my erogenous zones for a bunch of strangers to sit and look at.”
“They are not all strangers, Drew. There are Minnie and I and the Pendletons.”
“I’m not sure that isn’t worse.”
“The evening will bring some surprises.”
“I bet!”
Quigley had shaken a warning finger. “I’ve told you before, watch that tongue. You’re ideally positioned for a correction.”
“Sorry, Quigley. I’ll try.”
Drusilla’s repentance had been sincere. It was hard to eschew normal retorts with people you had known for a long time. It was harder still to realize that such retorts were punishable by weals upon her skin. But her burning bottom was a helpful reminder, for which she was almost grateful. She had plenty of time in which to consider these matters. Having been safely prepared, she was abandoned to her musings while awaiting the arrival of the guests. The caterers were an unobtrusive husband and wife who affected not to notice her. She rejected the thought of appealing to them for help. It would only lead to another punishment. Wryly she recognized it as a slave decision.
No one had told Drusilla to meet the eyes. She shrank from recognitions. As the tabled filled, she kept her gaze detached and distant. It was her choice to observe far horizons or to bow her head in shame. She had already discovered that to bow her head placed an additional strain upon her arms and neck, so she stood erect, her skin tingling under the impact of delighted eyes.
“A little beauty,” Belinda Pendleton boomed.
“Shouldn’t have parted with her. You’ve made a good job of her, Minnie.”
“Just look at her bottom!” It was a feminine voice, ecstatic. “You never do that neat a job on mine, Timothy.”
“You don’t have as neat a rump.”
“Are you going to brand her, Quigley?”
“I noticed her underarms. Don’t tell me you’re letting her hair grow?”
Drusilla knew herself blushing. Hers was a cruel exposure. Her hands were strapped too high to make possible the crossing of her legs. It was a thing she longed to do to rob them of her pubic hair. But best not. They would find the pathetic effort hilarious.
“You haven’t shaved her cunt, Quigley.” The voice became pedantic: “It was the custom in ancient Rome to depilate a maiden slave’s bush. The theory was that it enhanced their defenselessness, made them conscious of their availability—”
There was a cackle. “Let ’em know they’d had something to hide, eh?”
“If you wish.” The pedantic voice sounded faintly irritated. “We may give some credence to their conviction that, once robbed of their pubic hair, the girls became more amenable, in much the same way as was noted when the first irons were riveted on their wrists or ankles.”
Another cackle. “You tried it out on Helen, Proctor?”
“Of course he has,” a feminine voice proclaimed proudly. “Proctor knows what he’s talking about.”
“Going to show us?”
“If Proctor wishes me to.”
“In this connection, the Romans used another interesting expedient.” Proctor’s drone washed over the facetiousness. “Should the slave girl prove intractable, her head was shaved. But usually the threat alone was sufficient to bring a change of heart.”
“That how he keeps you in line, Helen?”
The feminine retort was crisp and strangely proud. “I’m bald right now. What you’re looking at is a wig.”
There was an excited babble. Drusilla knew herself no longer the prime cynosure. She seized the opportunity to make a quick survey. The stricken gaze that instantly locked with hers almost stopped her heart.
It was Diana Winslow.
Her fellow captive was dressed in a simple white sheath.
Under the pretext of arranging its folds, Diana rose momentarily to give her former slave a view of the belt that circled her waist. A ring at its back held the chain joining her hands, the links slipping back and forth as she used one arm at the expense of the other. With a wristlet against the ring, she would have enough slack to enable her to raise a fork or cup. She could use either hand but only one at a time. When not in use, her hands would be loosely chained at her sides.
It was a desolate communion. They could view each other’s plight with pity. That was all. No doubt Belinda was chuckling. Diana shook her head in impotent despair. The wave of chatter reasserted its authority.
“Well, if you won’t show us yours, let’s shave Drusilla.” She recognized them now. Known for years, yet not known at all! She. would be a doubly delectable morsel, holding a greater potential for shame than a stranger. She and Diana Winslow. To humiliate and bring low the former Mrs. Winslow and the one-time Mrs. Bryce Hammill was an erotic feast indeed!
“I wonder if she’d sit and submit?”
“Hell, no We’d have to tie her so she couldn’t twitch.”
“Either way it would be one hell of a tum-on.”
“Saw some damned potent pictures in a mag’. They had the girl only handcuffed. But she was resigned. She just sat and accepted the inevitable. One guy I showed it to had to go the the bathroom for relief.”
“What d’you say, Quigley? After dinner?”
“I had something else in mind.”
Drusilla was thankful for Quigley’s prim evasion. The pack was in full cry. She could see herself shorn and shamed.
“We could get together in a few days.”
Quigley believed in extracting every essence. “Why don’t you ask Drusilla how she’d behave?” he suggested casually.
“Want to be a baldie, Drew?”
There was a throb in Helen Frobisher’s voice that warned of dark desires. She was sexually aroused. In spite of fear and horror, Drusilla felt a cruel fascination in a vision almost too erotically shocking to contemplate. She refused to answer, glaring her hostility.
“Silence means assent.”
“No! Oh, damn you all! No! You’re a rotten lot of—” Her panicked regard swept the assembly in search of an ally. Minnie’ looked embarrassed. Diana sat with head bowed, not wanting to see.
It was at that moment Drusilla became aware... !
A disorientation. When first strapped tight by her she had faced the open end of the ‘U’. Now she was looking squarely at one of the tables. She had not been aware of moving—in fact, she could not move! She was a fixture. But that to which she was fastened was moving. Imperceptibly, the steel column above was turning... The motion was so infinitesimal she had changed her stance without noticing the compulsion. But the compulsion was there. Testingly, she flexed her prisoned hands against their anchorage. But the motion was inexorable. Quigley was insuring his guests a complete inspection of her charms.
“She doesn’t like barbers!”
“An electric chair would be perfect to strap her tight.”
“It’s the most incredible turn-on, darling,” Helen Frobisher drawled. “You tell her, Proctor.”
“What about shaving her eyebrows, too?”
A sudden silence was reverent with awed approval.
Drusilla longed to hide, hide somewhere where her lovely hair was safe. She strained at the wrist straps, but what was the use!
“That notion deserves a medal.” Belinda Pendleton’s endorsement vibrated with lust. She paused for effect, then added: “If one’s good, wouldn’t two be better?”
Diana jerked erect, eyes wide. Drusilla kicked wildly at nothing and wailed. “No! Oh no, no, no!”
“You’ve hit pay dirt, Belinda. They’re actually paying attention. ”
“You mustn’t! Oh, please! Don’t be so cruel.” Drusilla fought her bonds wildly in the only outlet she had for her despair.
“I think perhaps it is time to eat,” said Quigley gently. Drusilla moved too. Slowly, shamingly, and helplessly.
One after the other, she met the amused regard of men and women who were no longer social acquaintances but initiates of an arcane esoterica whose captive she now was. They could do as they pleased with her. Or as much as Quigley would permit! Helpless and naked, Drusilla wondered if there was any hope in Quigley. Would Quigley allow her to be made hairless and hideous? Would he?