"Who is good old Dave?" She inquired politely. "I don’t know him."
He was still amused. "Bet the blight’s used another name. What did he call himself?"
"I was put here by a man named Michael Sandos. He’s never been called Dave that I know of. I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else."
"Why the handcuffs then?" Obviously he thought he had scored a point.
"Do all your female guests arrive suitably retrained?"
Dorinda felt she could afford to make her voice appropriately tart.
"If you buy one from good old Dave they certainly do."
Evidently he expected her to understand the cryptic reference.
"Well, I haven’t been bought from good old Dave!" Dorinda said with finality. "And, in case you might be interested, I’m hungry. And I’d be grateful if you could get these damn things off my wrists. After that, d’you think you could manage something for me to wear?" Her words surged against an intangible barrier she could sense but not define.
He said it with an emphasis that consigned her other requests into limbo.
"But I can’t eat with my hands like this," Dorinda wanted to come to grips with whatever was floating in the air.
"Don’t worry, we’ll feed you, dear girl."
"We?" She looked at him quizzically.
"Terry and me. She is my sister. Proper little baggage. Bought the place a week ago. Just moved in. Of course there’s Hislop and Amity." He chuckled. Hislop’s the butler cum handy man and Amity is the housekeeper. They probably sleep together. But then, Terry and I do too, so who are we to complain? Delightful menage. You’ll love it."
He was probably joking. But either way it sounded better than Mike had planned for her. She fluttered her shoulders and rattled the single link between her wrists. She knew she made a pretty picture of impotence. "They’ll all accept me like this?"
"Of course my dear girl" Matter of fact, young Terry is in a bit of a bind herself at just this moment." He grinned apologetically as though he shared some amusing knowledge. "Had to keep my hand in y’know, until you showed up. And Terry’s dying to get her hands on you
… When she can, of course!"
He gave her a broad, boyish wink of shared understanding.
Dorinda understood nothing accept a mistaken identity which her companion refused to recognise. It all sounded a bit risque but probably harmless. "My name is Dorinda Matson," she offered tentatively.
He advanced beaming, hand outstretched. "Mark Edmond," he announced brightly. Then, looking at his inappropriate member, "sorry and all that." A moment later, with complete naturalness, he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was quite a long kiss. Dorinda enjoyed it. She knew that if she had not been handcuffed she would have returned the embrace. When it was done she stood breathless and aware of another blush, his skin had felt warm and alive against her nipples. Mark took her arm in a brotherly clasp. "Breakfast ahead," he announced heartily. "Young Terry’s going to get the surprise of her life…"
It was Dorinda who was surprised. Terry seemed unaffectionately happy and unaware of anything untoward. She was very young and very beautiful and very naked. She stood against the fluted pillar on the terrace, a picture of grace and insouciance in no way marred by the silver chains that lifted her arms and held her wrists on each side of the column. Her nipples and the lips of her sex had been painted bright scarlet. Her pubic hair had been shaved into a perfect Cupid’s heart: the effect both startling and delightful. Her smile of greeting was as radiant as her voice: "Darling, I’m so glad. Now poor little me can shed her shackles again. Look at what Mark’s done to me. Isn’t he awful…!"
There was a delightful simplicity about brother and sister. A sort of puppy-dog exuberance that gathered others to the fold as though a shared enthusiasm in eccentricity was to be expected. Dorinda was far from naive, and not without knowledge of things outre. If the Edmonds played fun and games she was prepared to be tolerant. But she was demandingly aware of her handcuffs, her nudity and her appetite.
"I think Mark is very nice," she said evenly. "I’m just hoping he can get these handcuffs off me and give me something to eat. I’m hungry."
Terry surveyed her with curiosity. Dorinda had the feeling she had said something odd and out of place.
"Oh, I’ll feed you, darling," the happy captive assured her cheerfully. "But of course, you’re joking about the handcuffs…."
Dorinda had had a bad day and an uncomfortable night. Now she was confronted with what appeared to be light-hearted lunacy in which there was an undercurrent of the inexplicable. She was unsure weather to be pleased or frightened. She allowed herself to drift with the tide. Handcuffed as she was it became an easy decision.
She allowed herself to be daintily fed by a solicitous Terry. A Terry freed from captivity, but still innocently naked. All eager moppet deliciously enjoying a situation she seemed to understand. Dorinda strove to find comfort In the knowledge that, without a key, handcuffs posed a problem. It was not until the meal was done, that she had interrupted hew companion’s constant flow of chatter to try, once more, for a return to reality. But it was to Mark she turned. He had sat watching the two girls with a detached amusement, allowing his pert sister to take the floor.
"Perhaps you have some tools. Hacksaws or something," she inquired diffidently. "And I’ve heard that oil or grease might make them slip
…" She looked at them both appealingly. "I sure would like to get them off and get some clothes on." Even as she uttered them her words sounded lost.
"But darling, I’m sure we have a key!" Terry sounded surprised.
It was on the tip of Dorinda’s tongue to irritably demand: "For Pete’s sake use them!" But instinct curbed her waspishness. So far they had been kind. She tried again: "My hand must have been behind my back for fifteen hours…" She gave them both an expectant smile.
"Oh pouf! That’s nothing," Terry declaimed. "This awful monster kept me handcuffed for a week once."
"You had been a bad girl!" Dorinda hoped she had struck the right note.
"She’s always a bad girl." Mark contributed fortably. I sounded like a commendation.
"Well, I’m not a bad girl."
Her hint was broad. They ignored it.
"He doesn’t really mean I’m bad. He’s just sort of generalising. I’m not bad at all. I just like bad things." Terry giggled as though she had told all.
They were illusive as shadows. Dorinda was tired of their game. Best come to grips with whatever she must face. She caught Mark’s gaze. "Please unlock these handcuffs," she requested pleasantly but very firmly.
The silence made her feel like a child who had asked for a prohibited slice of cake. She could have sworn the glance exchanged between brother and sister was one of puzzlement. It was Terry who responded in a mildly reproachful voice.
"But darling, you don’t really expect to run around free, do you?"
"And why not?" This time the wasp was buzzing.
"Well… wouldn’t be right, would it?" Terry fluttered her hands as though dealing with an obstinately obtuse child.
"What on earth is wrong with wanting to use my hands and wear some clothes!" Dorinda demanded angrily.
The response shattered whatever equanimity she still possessed.
"I think the poor dear wants to be whipped." Terry offered her observation to her brother as though in explanation of an anomaly. "She’s probably shy," she added kindly.
"Now see here…! Dorinda sat up straight pulling futilely at her imprisoned wrists in instinctive anger. The motion thrust her breasts into a flattering prominence. She bore Mark’s appreciative scrutiny with flushed cheeks and an inward tremor. "I do not wish to be whipped," she assured them with flat finality. "Or anything else either," she added without being quite sure what she referred to. Having enjoyed her breasts, Mark’s eyes raised to meet her own angry stare. He was obviously puzzled. "Do you mean to tell us that absolute clod never briefed you on the drill?"