"A considerable linkage between the ankles, miss."
Dorinda watched, breathless as metal bands clicked shut upon her youthful companion’s slender ankles. The joining chain so long that it impeded no movement, inhibited no stride. But when its wearer essayed to walk the links were a swirling motion around her toes so that, for an escape minded captive, they were almost as great a handicap as a much shorter span.
"You think of everything, darling." Terry was ecstatic.
A similar wide union was placed upon her wrists with similar effect. She could do almost anything. But the chain was heavy. It told the girl it held her captive.
"I think miss, you would find the metal collar and the very long chain with all its weight most irksome. May I suggest confinement at the waist?" She might have been seeking a decision on a menu.
"Amity, you’re a darling."
The wide leather belt must have been fashioned for the girl. It was snug and perfect fit. The padlock that joined it to the heavy chain closed with quite an ominous sound.
"There are other confinements, miss. But I suggest this ensemble."
"It’s gorgeous. I can’t wait to see Dorinda…"
The wait was short. Feeling foolish, yet with a tingling fascination, Dorinda was soon testing her restraint. It was very heavy and very real. Her belt fitted with the same intimacy as did the younger girl’s. The chain that joined it to the wall was heavy enough that she would always be aware of it. She felt a little frightened at this unexpected confinement. While she was still kicking at her ankle chains to watch the linkage swirl, the door closed. Amity had discreetly withdrawn to leave the young mistress alone with her joy. There was a very solid thudding of a bolt. No doubt for the final effect.
"Oh, darling." The Two naked girls clinked their way to each other’s arms.
It could not be! It was impossible! It was too cruel! "Damn and blast." Terry was furious. "The silly bitch has chained us to opposite walls."
They could come close. Close enough to reach out and clasp hands. But their belts and heavy chains to the ring bolts in the stone allowed them no greater contact. Tug and strain as they did, they were held implacably. Two girls in a dungeon. Chained. Separate.
For a moment Dorinda wanted to laugh. Their plight had the element of cartoon humour. They were foxed. But she had no love for dungeons or such massive fetters. She had acquired a tolerant affection for the handcuffs. But these irons were grim. Disappointed, she felt like tears.
In pure frustration and rage Terry was fighting her chains. Not with any hope of escaping them. But as a vent for her spleen.
"What I’d like to do to her. Oh, how could she! It was going to be so beautiful, so absolutely gorgeous. I was going to eat you to pieces
…" she sobbed in desolation.
"Perhaps she’ll come back," Dorinda ventured.
"She won’t y’know. Why should she." The little mistresses are safe and sound…" she paused at a sudden vision, her face in a study. "Why, the rotten…"
"She fixed us like this on purpose, didn’t she?" Dorinda divined.
"She must have. Amity’s not dumb."
"That picnic would have been nice," Dorinda wailed.
"Oh darling. I’ve never felt helpless like this before. It’s awful. It’s…. It’s scary."
"But why? She’s got something up her sleeve."
"She’s got us," Dorinda mourned. "Is there any use in screaming?"
"No!" Terry screamed at the top of her voice. The stone absorbed the sound. "But it does make me feel better."
She screamed again. "Try it."
"No thanks, but hold my hand. I need you."
The two girls strained at their tethers, their belts cutting into their concave tummies. They could manage one hand. It was strangely comforting. The touch of someone you love had a power all of its own. When they reluctantly broke the link Dorinda sat upon the chest and Terry upon the bench. They belonged to the dungeon. They were its prey. Their chains were its hands upon their flesh.
"Don’t let’s just sit and weep," demanded Terry angrily. "Let’s talk. I was all primed to nuzzle you. I’m crinkly as blazes! Know what? I’m going to be carnal. If we can’t do it, at least I won’t be cheated out of talking about it."
Dorinda cocked a doubtful eye. It seemed a very small satisfaction. She looked with distaste at the links that joined her hands and rattled them petulantly.
"Two frustrated maidens in heat," Terry said bitterly. "Darling, how’s your clit?"
"Lonely. How’s yours?" Might as well play the game. They could certainly do nothing else.
"Throbbing of course. I’d play with it if it didn’t seem such a waste. I mean, with you over there. Those lovely nipples and breasts and belly and pubic hair and warm thighs and moist slit. Golly, I sound like the Song of Solomon. That old boy really must have liked girls. There’s a little fire burning in my cunny. Only you can put it out."
"My fire’s bigger than yours." Dorinda couldn’t resist.
"Darling! People are silly. Even me. We don’t talk about things the way we should. Right now all I want is your sex. I’m going to use the horrid word, just for emphasis. I want to crawl right into your cunt where it’s nice and warm and I’m surrounded by love. When I’m safely inside I’ll lick and play with your clit until I have you jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean."
She paused for a moment in thought. "Darling, looking at us right now it seems incredible that our mothers would never have admitted to possessing nipples or a cunt!"
Then, irrelevantly: "Do you get horny when Mark canes you? I do."
Dorinda laughed delightfully. Terry’s sunshine might save her day. Uninhibited girl talk might partially defeat her shackles. "Yes," she admitted. "One stroke and the fire really gets going. But if he keeps on caning me I just get hurt and scared. Until afterwards, of course. Then I’m all warm and wet and longing."
"Mark knows just where my turn off is," Terry admitted wryly. "My fire burns a lot longer than yours. But if he wants to he can put it right out and make me howl." She looked up suddenly. "Y’know, if he discovers us here he might just do that." She grinned confidingly. "I have to admit it, but Mark control me utterly. I’m like some musical instrument he plays. He can extract whatever he wants from me. I respond. His power to make me mind swamps the poor little tricks I play on him."
"Darling," Dorinda was diffident over what she must ask. "Which do we girls love best? A man’s phallus or each other’s tongues?" "Our tongues, silly. What a question. It’s lovely when Mark fucks me, but he’s only a zephyr compared to the storm that blows when your tongue is inside. Anyway, darling, men don’t have breasts. Or nipples like ours. Men aren’t made to play with. Girls are."
Dorinda explored again. She saw this ageless child as a storehouse of infinite wisdom. "When men whip us, do you think it is a sort of love play? A prelude to sticking their things into us?"
"That’s the least of it. But sure, it’s there. I think they find some sort of ineffable beauty in our striped skin. Like a brand. Their brand, marking us as their own. I’m damn sure that when we moan and cry and writhe it creates, for them, an endless orgasm. They can boil up and flow over for as long as it pleases them to whip us. The only reason they don’t whip us all day long is that we don’t have enough skin and they don’t want to waste a good girl by killing her. Simply really."
Dorinda was almost reverent before such knowledge. "I’ve read and heard about men who go to prostitutes to be whipped. It’s the only way they can become potent. Where does that fit?"
"They’re the chap who goes to an epicuran restaurant and orders a hamburger. Just dull clods."
"But girls love whipping girls. At least they do once they’ve tried it. What about that?"
"Would you love to whip me, darling?"
"With all my heart and soul! Right now there is nothing I can think of that would give me such joy, and I think a kind of peace…"