by John Norman
I looked wildly at the man who had put the anklet on me. I tried, wildly, with my right foot, to slide it from my left ankle. I could move it, of course, only a tiny bit. I hurt the instep of my right foot. I scraped my left ankle. I looked again, wildly, at the man who had ankleted me. There was no doubt it was fastened on me, locked shut. There had been no mistaking the heavy, efficient snap with which the device’s closure had been registered.
“Now,” he said, to one of his fellows, “we need not listen to her blithering.”
I felt my head pulled back. There was apparently a ring at the back of the leather pad now pressed so closely into the back of my neck.
I shook my head. I whimpered.
The man then jerked the towel from my hair. I looked at him. I shook my head. He then jerked away the towel I wore on my body. I was then turned and thrown on my belly, on the table, the two assistants pressing me helplessly against it, holding me tightly down by the arms. The men, when I had been stripped, had not even paused to look at me. They had seen, I gathered, many women.
I felt a piece of cotton or cloth touch my back, above and behind my left hip. It was wet. The area then felt cool. Then I whimpered. I felt a needle being entered into my flesh, in the center of that chemically chilled area. Tears sprang to my eyes. The needle was then withdrawn and I felt the area swabbed again with fluid. I was then drawn from the table and, by the arms, carried into the combination living and dining room of my small apartment. Their leader then, he who had ankleted me, opened the side of the stout, metal container. It had a heavy door. Inside were various straps, and rings.
I tried to struggle.
“Resistance is useless, Miss Collins,” said the man.
I looked at him pleadingly.
Then I was thrust, in a sitting position, into the box. The ring at the back of the gag, doubtless sewn into the slotted leather pad, was snapped about a ring mounted at a matching height in the box. My head was thus held in place. For a moment the room seemed to go dark and then I gathered my wits again. My left wrist, to my horror, was fastened back, and at my left side, by straps attached to a ring. My right wrist was then secured similarly. In moments both of my ankles, too, had been fastened in position. I fought to retain consciousness. Then I was thrust back further in the box. A broad leather strap was then drawn tightly about me. I winced. Then it was buckled shut. I could hardly move. I looked at the men, from the box. My eyes pleaded with them.
“She is secured,” said one of the men.
The man in charge nodded. “Close the container,” he said.
I looked at the door. There was no handle or device for opening it on my side, and, even had there been, I could not, restrained as I was, have begun to reach it.
I whimpered piteously, as an utterly helpless, restrained woman. I looked at them, piteously. They must show me mercy!
Then the door was closed.
I was plunged into darkness, save for the tiny bits of light coming through the two small, round holes on my right, near my face.
When the door had closed two snap-fastenings had shut, one near the top of the door and one near its bottom. I then sat inside, helpless. I heard ten screw bolts twisted shut, unhurriedly. Three were along the top of the door and three were along the bottom of the door; two each were at the sides of the door, two between the hinges and two between the locks.
Earlier I had asked the man if the box might have been a safe. I had gathered from his response that it was not really a safe but that it might, indeed, upon occasion, be used in the securing of valuables.
I struggled in the straps, helpless.
I wondered if I might take some bitter consolation in his laconic response, which now seemed so ironic. Perhaps I, now so well secured within the box, might, at least, count as a valuable.
I pressed my head back against the iron behind me. I heard the movement of the two rings.
But how valuable could I really be, I asked myself. I doubted, frankly, that I could be of much value. If I were really of value, of much value, I did not think I would be fastened like this, strapped naked in a box.
I tried to peer out the small holes in the door.
I could see very little, a part of the upper wall in the apartment, a small framed print, of flowers, which had been there when I had rented the apartment.
The box was then lifted, apparently by handles.
I suddenly felt extremely faint. I fought against the loss of consciousness.
The box was then lowered into the cardboard carton.
I turned my head, moaning. I heard the clink of the two rings. I tried to move my wrists and ankles. I could hardly move them. The broad leather strap, buckled shut, pressed, too, deeply into my belly, holding me in place.
Outside of the two small holes now lay the cardboard. I could see a little light from the overhead lamp.
I turned my head and struck with the side of it against the iron behind me.
“Do not be stupid, bitch,” said the man outside the box.
I sobbed.
I fought more fiercely to retain consciousness.
Because of the rings and straps, and the closeness with which they held me to the wall, I could gain little leverage. I could do little more than tap or rub my head against the iron.
I had indeed been stupid. Even under ideal conditions, fully conscious, and with an abundance of possible rescuers in the vicinity, any girl confined and gagged as expertly as I was would be able to do very little to call attention to her captivity. It was unlikely that even her fiercest and most desperate signals would be audible more than a yard or so from her tiny prison.
I began to moan and whimper. They must show me mercy!
The top of the cardboard carton was then closed.
I struggled, fiercely, for a moment, but then felt exhausted.
I heard a segment of sealing tape torn from a roll and then, apparently, the top of the carton was sealed shut.
I put my head back against the iron. The two rings made a tiny sound. I became very conscious of the feel of the leather straps binding me. I pressed back. This eased the pressure of the strap at my belly. I felt my hair, still damp from the shower, between my back and the iron. Beneath my body, where I sat upon it, the iron felt cool, smooth and hard. I felt it this way, too, beneath my heels.
Then the carton was lifted, and was being carried. It would appear to be a carton in the care of professional moving men.
No one would think twice about it.
The thought crossed my mind that it was Tuesday evening.
Tomorrow would be Wednesday, my day off at the store. I would not be missed until Thursday.
I then lost consciousness.
Chapter 3 – CORCYRUS
It was warm in the room.
It seemed a lazy morning.
My fingers felt at the red-silk coverlet. I lay on my stomach on the soft, broad, red-silk surface. I tried to collect my wits. I moved my body, a little. I felt the soft silk move beneath it. I was nude. Too, I felt the warm air on my body and legs. I was not covered. I was lying nude, uncovered, on my stomach, on a wide, soft, silken surface.
I remembered the men, the straps and the box.
I turned and sprang to my hands and knees on the soft surface. I was on a vast bed, or couch. It was round and some fifteen feet in diameter. I was, half sunk in its softness, near the center of it. I had not realized such luxury could exist. A glance informed me, to my relief, that I was alone in the room. The room was a large one, and extremely colorful.
The floor was of glossy, scarlet tiles. The walls, too, were tiled, and glossy, and covered with bold, swirling designs, largely worked out in yellow and black tiles. At one point there was a large, scarlet pelt on the floor. Against some of the walls there were chests, heavy chests, which opened from the top. There were mirrors, too, here and there, and one was behind something like a low vanity. I also saw a small, low table. It was near the couch. There were also, mostly near the walls, some cushio
ns about. To one side there was a large, sunken basin. This was, perhaps, I thought, a tub. There was no water in it, however, and no visible faucets.
I saw myself in one of the mirrors, on all fours in the great bed. I hastily looked away. To one side there appeared to be some sliding doors. On my right, and several feet away, there was, too, a heavy wooden door. It looked as though it might be very thick. I saw no way, no bars or locks, no chains or bolts, whereby its closure might be guaranteed on my side. It might be locked on the outside, I supposed. But, clearly, I could not lock it from the inside. I could not keep anyone out. I could, on the other hand, doubtless be kept in. At one point on the floor there was, fixed in the floor, a heavy metal ring. I also saw, in one wall, two such rings. One was mounted in the wall about a yard from the floor and the other, about a yard to its left, was mounted in the wall, about six feet from the floor.
I quickly, frightened, crawled back off the bed. It was not easy to do, given its softness. I felt the smoothness, the coolness, of the scarlet tiles on my feet. I saw that there was, anchored at one point in the couch, at what may have served as its foot, another such sturdy ring. Beneath it lay a coil of chain. Smaller rings, too, I noted, circling the couch, appeared at regular intervals about its perimeter, about every four or five feet, or so. Beneath these, however, there lay no chains. I fled to the window, which was narrow, about fifteen inches in width. It was set with heavy bars, spaced about three inches apart, reinforced with thick, flat, steel crosspieces, spaced at about every vertical foot. I shook the bars. They did not budge. I hurt my hands. I stood there for a moment, the shadows of the bars and crosspieces falling across my face and body. Then I fled back to the couch and, fearfully, crawled onto it.
There seemed something different, frighteningly so, about this place in which I now found myself. It seemed almost as though it might not be Earth. This did not have to do primarily with the room, and its appointments and furnishings, but rather with such things as the condition of my body and the very quality of the air I was breathing. I supposed this was the result of the lingering effects of the substance with which I had been sedated or drugged. The gravity seemed different, subtly so, from that of Earth. Too, my entire body felt alive and charged with oxygen. The air itself seemed vivifying and stimulating. These things, which appeared to be objective aspects of the environment were doubtless merely subjective illusions on my part, resulting from the drug or sedative. They had to be. The obviously suggested alternative would be just too unthinkable, just too absurd. I hoped I had not gone mad.
I sat on the bed, my chin on my knees. I became aware that I was very hungry.
One thing, at least, assured me that I had not gone mad.
That thing supplied a solid reference point in this seemingly incredible transition between environments. It had been locked on me in my own kitchen. It was a steel anklet. I still wore it.
I looked over to one of the mirrors. I looked small, sitting on the great bed. I was nude. I wondered in whose bed I was.
I then heard a sound at the door.
Terrified I knelt on the bed, snatching up a portion of the coverlet on which I knelt, and held it tightly, defensively, about me.
The door opened, admitting a small, exquisite, dark-haired woman. She wore a brief, whitish, summery, floral-print tunic, almost diaphanous, with a plunging neckline. The print was a tasteful scattering of delicate yellow flowers, perhaps silk-screened in place. The garment was belted, and rather snugly, with two turns of a narrow, silken, yellow cord, knotted at her left hip. She was barefoot. I noted that she did not wear an anklet, such as I wore. There was something on her neck, however, something fastened closely about it, encased in a silken yellow sheath or sleeve. I did not know what it was. It could not be metal, of course. That would be terrifying. I noted that the door, which now closed behind her, was some six inches thick.
“Oh,” said the girl, softly, startled, seeing me, and knelt.
She put her head down, and then lifted it. “Forgive me, Mistress,” she said. “I did not know whether or not you were yet awake. I did not knock, for fear of disturbing you.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I have come to serve Mistress,” she said. “I have come to see if Mistress desires aught.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Susan,” she said.
“Susan who?” I asked.
“Only Susan,” she said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“That is what I have been named,” she said.
“Named?” I asked.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“I am Tiffany,” I said. “Tiffany Collins.”
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“In the city of Corcyrus,” she said.
I had never heard of this city. I did not even know what country it was in. I did not even know in what continent it might be.
“In what country is this?” I asked.
“In the country of Corcyrus,” she said.
“That is the city,” I said.
You are then in the dominions of Corcyrus, Mistress,” she said.
“Where is Corcyrus?” I asked.
“Mistress?” asked the girl, puzzled.
“Where is Corcyrus?” I asked.
“It is here,” she said, puzzled. “We are in Corcyrus.”
“I see that I am to be kept in ignorance,” I said, angrily, clutching the coverlet about my neck.
“Corcyrus,” said the girl, “is south of the Vosk. It is southwest of the city of Ar. It lies to the east and somewhat north of Argentum.”
“Where is New York City?” I asked. “Where are the United States?”
“They are not here, Mistress,” smiled the girl.
“Where is the ocean?” I asked.
“It is more than a thousand pasangs to the west, Mistress,” said the girl.
“Is it the Atlantic Ocean or the Pacific Ocean?” I asked.
“No, Mistress,” said the girl.
“It is the Indian Ocean?” I asked.
“No, Mistress,” said the girl.
I looked at her, puzzled.
“It is Thassa, the Sea, Mistress,” said the girl.
“What sea is it?” I asked.
“That is how we think of her,” said the girl, “as the sea, Thassa.”
“Oh,” I said, bitterly.
“Has Mistress noted certain feelings or sensations in her body, perhaps of a sort with which she is unfamiliar?” asked the girl. “Has Mistress noted any unusual qualities in the air she is breathing?”
“Perhaps,” I said. These things I had construed as the lingering effects of the substance which had been injected into me, rendering me unconscious.
“Would Mistress like for me to have her bath prepared?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I am clean.”
“Yes, Mistress,” she said. I realized, uneasily, that I must have been cleaned.
“I have been perfumed, have I not?” I asked. I did not know if the room had been perfumed, or if it were I.
“Yes, Mistress,” said the girl.
I pulled the coverlet up, even more closely, about my neck.
I felt its soft silk on my naked, perfumed body. The perfume was exquisitely feminine.
“Am I still a virgin?” I asked.
“I suppose so,” said the girl. “I do not know.”
I looked uneasily at the heavy door, behind her. I did not know who might enter that door, to claim me.
“In whose bed am I?” I asked.
“In your own, Mistress,” said the girl.
“Mine?” I asked.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“Whose room is this?” I demanded.
“Yours, Mistress,” said the girl.
“There are bars at the window,” I said.
“They are for your protection, Mistress,” said the girl. “Such bars are not u
nusual in the rooms of women in Corcyrus.”
I looked at the girl in the light, floral-print tunic, kneeling a few feet from the bed. It was almost diaphanous. It was not difficult to detect the lineaments of her beauty beneath it seemed a garment which was, in its way, demure and yet, the same time, extremely provocative. To see a woman such a garment, I suspected, might drive a man half mad with passion. I wondered what was concealed in the silken sheath about her neck.
“Why have I been brought here?” I asked. “What am I doing here?”
“I do not know, Mistress,” said the girl. “I am not one such as would be informed.”
“Oh,” I said. I did not fully understand her response.
“Is Mistress hungry?” she inquired.
“Yes,” I said. I was ravenous.
Smiling, the girl rose lightly to her feet and left the room.
I left the bed and stood then on the tiles, near the bed, the coverlet still held about me, almost like a great cloak. The tiles felt cool to the bottoms of my feet. The weather seemed warm and sultry. I wondered if I might be in Africa or Asia.
I looked at the rings on the couch, at the ring in the floor, and the two rings in the wall, one about a yard from the floor and one about six feet from the floor.
I looked at the door. There was a handle on my side of the door, but no way to lock or bar it, at least from my side.
I heard a noise, and stepped back.
The door opened and the girl, carrying a tray, smiling, entered.
“Mistress is up,” she said. She then set the tray down on the small table. She arranged the articles on the tray, and then brought a cushion from the side of the room and placed it by the table. There was, on the tray, a plate of fruit, some yellow, wedge-shaped bread, and a bowl of hot, rich-looking, dark-brown, almost-black fluid.
“Let me relieve Mistress of the coverlet,” she said, approaching me.
I shrank back.
“It is too warm for it,” she smiled, reaching for it.