by John Norman
“I had hoped I might qualify,” I said.
“I was confident you would,” he said. “You have the appearance, and, independently, the beauty and the dispositions. You are perfectly suited to our purposes.”
“Am I to gather that I have been found acceptable for what you spoke of as the more important position, or post, or something like that, then?” I asked.
“Precisely,” he said, warmly.
“Good,” I said, snuggling back against the seat. I was quite pleased. These men, it seemed, were rich, or, at least, had access to considerable wealth. They would doubtless be willing to pay highly for the use of my beauty.
“I recall, you said,” I said, “that I had already been selected for one thing, even at the photographer’s studio.”
“Yes,” he said.
“But it was less important, I gather, than this other, more prestigious assignment, or position?”
“Yes,” he said. “The other position, so to speak, could be filled by almost any beautiful woman.”
“I see,” I said.
“And if there should come a time in which your services are no longer required for this more important post, as I have put it, you might still, I am sure, meet the qualifications for this other thing.”
“That is reassuring,” I said.
The man on my left smiled.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Were you given permission to speak?” asked the man I knew, he who had originally seen me in the department store, he on my right.
I looked at him, startled.
“Kneel down here,” he said, pointing to the floor of the car, “your left side to the back of the front seat.” I did so, frightened. I was the only woman in the car. “Get on your hands and knees,” he said. I did so. I could then, facing as I was, see him, by lifting and turning my head. He was unfolding a blanket. “You will not speak,” he said, “until five minutes after you have left the limousine.” He then, opening the blanket, cast it over me. I on all fours before them, covered by the blanket, hidden by it, was in consternation. The limousine drove on. No one outside the car could have told that I was in the car. I was silent.
As I knelt on all fours before them my mind was racing.
Why had they done this? Perhaps they did not wish anyone to know that I was in the car with them. Perhaps they did not wish for me to be recognized with them, or they with me.
Perhaps they were driving to some secret location, which they did not wish me to know. I was frightened. I did not know what their purposes were. After a time they let me lie down at their feet, with my legs drawn up, still covered with the blanket. I lay near their shoes. Once they even stopped for gas. “Do not move,” I was told. I was perfectly quiet, at their feet. They drove about for at least four hours. It was all I could do to keep from rubbing my thighs together and moaning.
Then the limousine pulled to one side and stopped. The blanket was lifted from me.
“You may get out now,” said the man who seemed in charge, pleasantly.
I rose to my feet and, crouching down, my muscles aching, stepped from the limousine. The driver had remained in his place. The man who had been to my right when I was sitting, he who seemed to be in charge of the others, had opened the door. I stood outside then, on the curb. There was traffic. The lights were bright. I was in the same place where I had originally been picked up, at the southwest corner of the intersection in Manhattan. It was a little after midnight.
I watched the limousine drive away, disappearing in the traffic. I did not really understand what they had done, or why they had done it. I stood back on the sidewalk then. I was extremely disturbed. I was almost trembling. Too, inexplicably, it seemed, I was terribly aroused, sexually.
Why had they done what they did?
For the first time in my life I had been put to the feet of men, and kept, uncompromisingly, in ignorance and silence.
They had dominated me. I almost trembled, filled with unfamiliar sensations and emotions. These feelings, these responses, were not simply genital. They seemed to suffuse, overwhelmingly, my whole body and mind.
I became aware of a man asking me for directions.
I turned away from him, suddenly, and hurried away. I had not yet been out of the limousine for five minutes. I could not yet speak.
***
I took my hand from the shower handle. A few drops of water descended from the shower head. It was warm and steamy in the bathroom, from the warm water which I had been running. It was about ten or eleven minutes after eight P.M. It was Tuesday. Yesterday, on Monday evening, at eight P.M., I had received another call. I had been instructed to take a shower at precisely eight P.M. this evening. I had done so. I slid back the shower curtain. There was steam on the walls and mirrors. I looked for my robe. I had thought I had left it on the vanity. It was not there. I stepped from the shower stall, and picked up a towel and began to dry myself.
Suddenly I stopped, frightened. I had thought I had heard a noise on the other side of the bathroom door, from beyond the tiny hall outside, perhaps from the tiny kitchen or the combination living and dining room.
“Is there anyone there?” I called, frightened. “Who is it?”
“It is I, Miss Collins,” said a voice. “Do not be alarmed.” I recognized the voice. It was he I took to be the leader of the men with whom I had been in contact, that of he who had first seen me at the perfume counter.
“I am not dressed,” I called. I thrust shut the bolt on the bathroom door. I did not understand how he could have obtained entrance. I had had the door to the apartment not only locked but bolted.
“Have you cleaned your body?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I thought he had put that in an unusual fashion.
“Have you washed your hair?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I had done so.
“Come out,” he said.
“Do you see my robe out there?” I called.
“Use a towel,” he said.
“I will be out in a moment,” I said. I hastily dried my hair and put a towel about it, and then I wrapped a large towel about my body, tucking it shut under my left arm. I looked about for my slippers. I had thought I had put them at the foot of the vanity. But they, like the robe, did not seem to be where I thought I had left them. I slid back the bolt on the bathroom door and, barefoot, entered the hall. There were, I saw, three men in the kitchen. One was he whom I now knew well. The other two, who wore uniforms much of a sort one expects in professional movers, I did not recognize.
“You look lovely,” said the first man, he whom I recognized, he who was, by now, familiar to me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Make us some coffee,” he said.
I proceeded, frightened, to do so. I was very conscious of my state of dishabille. Their eyes, I could sense, were much on me. I felt very small among their powerful bodies. I was conscious, acutely, how different I was from them.
“How did you get in?” I asked, lightly, when the coffee was perking.
“With this,” he said, taking a small, metallic, pen like object from his left, inside jacket pocket. He clicked a switch on it. There was no visible beam. He then clicked the switch again, presumably turning it off.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Come along,” he said, smiling, and getting up from behind the kitchen table. I followed him into the combination living and dining room. I noticed the coarse, fibrous texture of the rug on my bare feet. The other two men followed us into this room.
“There is my robe,” I said, “and my slippers!” The robe was thrown over an easy chair. The slippers had been dropped at its base.
“Leave them,” he said.
I knew I had not put them there.
He opened the door to the apartment and looked outside.
He was seeing, I supposed, if anyone was in the hall.
He stepped outside. “Lock and bolt the door,” he said.
I did so. I then stood, waiting, behind the locked, bolted door. I glanced back at the other two men, in their garb like professional movers. They stood behind me, in the apartment, their arms folded.
I heard a tiny noise. Fascinated, I saw the bolt turn and slide back. I then heard the door click. The man re-entered the apartment. He closed the door behind him. He returned the pen-like object to his pocket.
“I did not know such things existed,” I said, Inadvertently, frightened, I put my hand to my breast. I was very much aware that only a towel stood between me and this stranger.
“They do,” he smiled.
“I didn’t hear you enter,” I said.
“It makes little noise,” he said. “Too, you had the water running.”
“You knew, of course,” I said, “that I would not hear you enter.”
“Of course,” he said.
It had been in accordance with his instructions that I had been showering at the time.
“What are those things?” I asked. I referred to two objects.
One was a large carton and the other was a weighty, sturdy metal box, about three feet square. The metal box looked as though it would fit into the carton, and, presumably, had been removed from it, after having been brought into the room.
“Never mind them now,” he said.
The metal box appeared extremely heavy and strong. It reminded me of a safe. I wondered if it was. Too, I wondered why it had been brought to the apartment.
“Is that a safe?” I asked, indicating the box. It was sitting on the rug, like the carton. It was squat and stout, and efficient looking. Because of its weight it was impressed, with sharp lines, into the rug.
“Not really,” he said. “But it may be used for the securing of valuables.”
I nodded. There seemed little doubt about that. It appeared to me, indeed, that it might serve very well, by virtue of its strength and weight, for the securing of valuables. I conjectured that I, with my strength, would scarcely be able to move it about.
“What is in it?” I asked. I was curious. In the side of the box facing me I could see two small holes, about the size of pennies. I could not, however, because of the light, and the size of the holes, see into the interior of the box. The interior of the box was, from my point of view, frustratingly dark.
“Nothing,” he said.
“I see,” I said, in an acid tone. I was certain he was not being candid with me.
“Come over here,” he said, pleasantly, beckoning to me.
I joined him.
I glanced over at my robe on the easy chair, and the slippers at its foot.
“My robe and slippers,” I said, “were in the bathroom, were they not?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You then entered the bathroom while I was showering, and removed them, did you not?”
“Yes,” he said.
I had neither seen nor heard him doing this, of course. The water had been running. The shower curtain had been drawn.
“Why?” I asked.
“We decided that you would appear before us much as you are,” he said.
“But, why?” I asked.
“It would be more convenient for us,” he said. “Matters might then proceed somewhat more simply for us than might otherwise have been the case.”
I was angry. Obviously I had been manipulated. I had been ordered to shower. Then, while I had showered, my apartment had been entered and my robe and slippers removed from the bathroom. I had been surprised in my own apartment. Then I had been given little alternative other than to present myself before them, doubtless as they had planned, well cleaned, fresh from the shower, and half naked.
“Are you angry?” he asked.
“No,” I said, suddenly, “of course not.” I was suddenly afraid that they might cease to find me pleasing. Doubtless their entry into my apartment had some purpose. I was then certain I understood their motivations. They had wished to take me by surprise, to observe my reactions, to see me as though I might be confused or startled, to see how fetching and exciting I might appear, captured, so to speak, in a moment of charming disarray. I hoped I had not disappointed them. Doubtless they were interested in testing me for a performance in some commercial, perhaps having to do with soaps or beauty products. I hoped that my responses had not jeopardized my chances for participation in whatever might be their intended projects. I did so want to please them. They paid well.
He was looking down at me. He was so large and strong. I was afraid he was not pleased. I smiled my prettiest up at him. I adjusted the towel a bit about my breasts, seemingly inadvertently, accidentally, pulling it down a bit, and then, hastily, with seeming modesty, tucking it securely, much higher, even more closely, about my body. “It is only,” I smiled, “that you took me by such surprise. I did not know what to do.”
“I understand,” he said.
“It is not every day,” I said, smiling, “that a girl finds herself surprised in her own apartment and then, in effect, forced to present herself before unexpected guests clad only in a towel.”
“That is true,” he said.
I smiled again.
“I hope that you are still interested in me,” I said, teasingly, and, I am afraid, a bit anxiously.
“Perhaps,” he said.
I would have preferred a more affirmative response.
There was a moment of awkward silence. I hoped they were not disappointed. I did not want to fail to please them. I would have been willing to do anything. I would even have been willing to let them hold me in their arms, or kiss me. I would even have been willing to let them make love to me. I knew such things were common. Why should a girl not turn her charms to her own profit? I did not want them to lose interest in me. They paid well.
“The coffee is ready,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, gratefully. I could no longer hear it perking.
I recalled I had been told to make it.
I hurried into the kitchen.
In a few moments I was serving them coffee, in white cups on the rectangular, black-legged, white-topped Formica table.
The kitchen tiles felt smooth and cool under my feet. They sat about the table. I felt aroused, and very feminine, serving them. I then poured myself a cup.
“Put your cup on the floor,” said the man, “there, on the tiles.”
Puzzled, crouching down, I did so.
“Now, kneel behind it,” he said.
I knelt down on the tiles, behind the cup, the refrigerator to my right, the table, with the men seated about it, in front of me.
They sipped their coffee.
“You may drink,” said the man.
I reached for the cup, before me, on the floor. I lifted it.
“No,” he said. “Do not hold it by the handle. Hold it in your hands, as a bowl.”
I then sipped the coffee in this fashion, the cup warm in my fingers. I then put it down. They were using the handles of their cups, I noted. And, too, of course, they were sitting at the table. Why should they be sitting, and I kneeling, I asked myself. Are we not the same? Are we not identical? I watched them drinking in the customary fashion. Then I, again, sipped coffee from the cup, holding it in both hands, like a small bowl. I felt an urge to put the cup aside, tear off the towel, and put my body naked to the cool tiles before them, at their feet. I wondered what the tiles would feel like against me, against my breasts, my belly, my thighs.
The men finished their coffee.
“Have you finished your coffee?” asked he who seemed in charge.
I finished the coffee, holding the cup as I had been instructed to do. “Yes,” I said.
“You may clear the table,” he said.
I rose to my feet and put my cup in the sink. I then went to the table. I began to gather together their cups. “What is in the metal box?” I asked, lightly.
“I told you,” he said. “Nothing.”
I stacked the cups and carried them to the sink. “Really?” I as
ked.
“I thought maybe you were delivering something to the apartment,” I said.
“No,” he said.
I rinsed off the cups.
“Is it really empty?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. I put the cups in the dishwasher.
“Do you want to store the box here for a time?” I asked. “Do you want me to keep it for you, for a time?”
“No,” he said.
I turned to regard them, puzzled.
The man made a sign to his two assistants and they took the table and turned it, lengthwise, in the kitchen.
“Please sit on the table, Miss Collins,” said the man.
I sat on the table, at one of the small ends, that nearest the dishwasher, puzzled, my feet dangling over the edge.
“No,” he said, “sit on the table, completely, your feet on it, as well.”
I slid myself back and then sat on the table, completely upon it. The formica top was cool and smooth. The sensations I felt were interesting and disturbing. I had never, of course, sat on the table in this fashion before. I held the towel tightly down by my thighs. I kept them closely together. The man in charge was by my feet, on my left. The other two men were behind me.
“We did not bring the box here to bring something to the apartment,” said the man, “but to take something from it.”
“But I have nothing of value here,” I said, “or at least not of much value.”
I saw the man then remove a heavy, sturdy steel anklet from the lower, right-hand pocket of his jacket. It was open. He then flipped it widely open. I then saw it with a casual, expert gesture, snapped shut about my left ankle.
“What are you doing!” I cried.
Something rounded and leathery was then thrust in my mouth, something attached at the back of a broad, leather rectangle, by one of the men behind me. There were straps and buckles attached to this and, apparently, a heavy, slotted leather pad which went behind the back of my neck. I felt the leather rectangle drawn tightly back and felt, too, the apparently slotted leather pad, through which the straps apparently passed, one above, and one below, pressing against the back of my neck. Then I winced as I felt the straps drawn back, even more tightly. Then they were buckled shut. The apparatus was then fixed upon me. I had been effectively gagged.