Escape! That was the first thing in any prisoner’s thoughts, was it not? But she wasted little time on it. From the moment Mike had set her on the sand and rowed away, she had been robbed not only of liberty but of hope. There is no escape from an island. She was faintly ashamed of her tractability with Amity. She could have fought. She was unsure if her compliance had been dictated by the compulsions of helplessness or from her instinctive liking for those cheerful people who held her captive.
Her wrists were beginning to hurt. She stood on tiptoe to easy the strain. She guessed that if she was left long in this position she would come to feel very sorry for herself.
Why were they unkind? Why must she be their slave? She felt guilt in being infected by their rational approach to a treatment of her that was nothing short of outrageous. She could not use the word criminal in thinking of any of them. But they had kidnapped her! Actually she had been delivered into their hands neatly stripped and chained. They had accepted her as a gift. She posed herself the question that she now be confronted by a couple of rescuing policemen, would she press charges? She knew she would not. So where did that leave her?
It left her thinking of Mark Esmond. He had reached out touched her with that power men have over women and which women have over men. In love? Nonsense! She scarcely knew him. But a girl did not have to know a man to feel what she felt. He would stay in her thoughts as she had first seen him. A golden Apollo enjoying her nakedness.
The whip!
Dorinda considered thus with urgency. Hung as she was she would be a ripe offering for its lash. It could find her everywhere. She could deny no part of herself. But it was too unreal. It was out of character. Or was it? She had a memory of how Terry had suddenly dropped banter and obeyed, of how Mark had become when he had shown her the black horror and assured her earnestly that she would feel it. She suspected unhappily that she might have to be cut by its thong before she could sentiently accept its reality.
The whip would make her a slave! That was the theses. Unhappily Dorinda glimpsed plausibility in the postulate. She did not feel slave now. She felt herself only a frightened girl, stripped, her hands chained high above her head. If Mark was to have his way there must come a division, a sundering, a confrontation! She considered humouring him. In his boyish moods it would be easy to make a play of his desire. To enact a charade. To kneel in submission and call him ‘Master’. Even to do the same for Terry, and for Amity and Hislop. If she must. But she had little hope that a voluntary surrender would satisfy. He would mould her as his fantasy had moulded him He would make her a dream come true.
She felt an erotic excitement.
Terry cam in like a breath of spring. She wore clothes. Not much, but enough to be considered dressed. "Darling, you look gorgeous! If only we had an artist! That pose should be immortalised." She did a small dance round and round the tethered girl. Her eyes feasting. "I say love, you do have a super shape, y’know, Mark’s damn lucky. How about lunch?"
Always to be caught off guard. Expected to be whipped she was given lunch. "Lunch? Like this?" She was annoyed at sounding shocked.
"Of course not, silly. I’d have to stand here and slip bits and pieces in your mouth. Up on the terrace, where we had breakfast." The captive’s heart leaped. Hope revived. A moment later her hands were once more free. Gratefully she rubbed the chafed wrists, then held them out questioningly to her exuberant companion.
"Not now, darling. Having you handcuffed makes a lot of work for poor little Terry. Come on, let’s make you devastatingly beautiful."
The bedroom of a wealthy girl. Closets full of clothes. A bathroom to put the Romans to shame. Pyramids of cosmetics. Suddenly Dorinda knew how naked she had been. How terribly bereft is a naked girl. Robbed of her armour, her secrets and her pride.
But she was not naked now. Terry was a fairy godmother with miracles galore. Dorinda was quite sure she had never before been so expensively bathed or clad. Never had she been given such perfumes of felt such nimble fingers so cunningly enhance her loveliness. When she finally stood before the mirror both girls gasped in approval of a svelte someone, enchantingly feminine, they had not previously met.
"Mark’s a lucky blighter," Terry was reverent.
Dorinda floated on a cloud of female ecstasy.
Mark’s radiance when he beheld the vision was her victory. Dorinda knew that she had captured him in bonds quite different from those she had so recently shed. She glowed and forgot about whips and handcuffs. Her moment was now. Terry flirted around them like a ray of pure sunlight. She was irrepressible.
Mark still wore only the briefs. On Kyrexos he would need no more. It was his island. His kingdom. Dorinda supposed she could add that she and Terry were his girls. If all he wanted was a slave, he already had a radiantly willing one in his sister. ‘Young Terry’ The way he said it spoke of love. She adored him. They allowed her chatter to envelop them in gaiety. Dorinda wished the moment could last forever, Mark amused and amusing, but faintly preoccupied.
No one of the three of them was anxious to bring it to a close. Each had their won reason to prolong the mood. When, finally, brother’s and sister’s gaze locked and held Terry said, flippantly: "I suppose it’s schooltime."
"Yes," Mark agreed heavily. "I’m afraid it is." He turned courteously to Dorinda. "Do you mind…"
She knew it was not a question but an order.
Meekly, with all the grace she could muster, she followed him from the room. As they left, Terry held out the silver handcuffs. As Mark thoughtfully tucked them in his belt, Dorinda reflected that the shining things had become a symbol of her new life.
The bare stone room had seemed appropriate when she, too, had been bare. Clothed she felt awkward and out of place in it. She felt foolish, not knowing where to stand or what to say. Mark solved her dilemma.
"Strip." It was an uncompromising word.
Dorinda revolted. Having gained the harbour of clothes, and such glorious clothes! She cringed from the thought of surrendering to him. "No," she told him flatly. "Please don’t make me."
Mark nodded thoughtfully and went to the big chest. When he turned he was carrying the black whip, or its twin.
"Please…!" Dorinda appealed desperately. "Don’t spoil it. We all felt something good at lunch. Don’t make me hate you."
"Terry doesn’t hate me. I whip her often."
Dorinda had no answer.
"I have explained it to you once," he continued patiently. "I won’t do it again."
Dorinda looked longingly at the closed door and the wide window. But realised, farcically, that she could have run better in bare feet than in the high heels with which she was now shod.
"All right then. I’ll do whatever it is you want me to do. I’ll even try and do it well. I’ll try to please you. But if I do that may I wear some little thing… anything at all?" she implored.
Mark considered. "Very well, your briefs."
It was a small victory. But it sustained her. She posed in front of him. "Do you want me to strip tease or just undress?" She wondered if she had anything to lose by provoking him.
"Please yourself." He was watching her with amusement. She supposed his great experiment was under way.
She had never been a bride, but supposed this was how it was on your weeding night. Not wanton. But very female. The fact that he had seen her naked over a period of hours, strangely enough, in no way diluted the shock of baring herself before him now. She divested herself of each bit of fabric lovingly and sorrowfully. She had worn them for such little time. They made such a sad pile against the wall where she dropped them on the stone. There was nowhere else to put them. The tempo of male breathing told her she had accomplished her task not without skill and artistry. Without shame she turned, in all her glory, and faced him.