Chains in Mind

by S. May

  She focussed on the little man in the white coat kneeling in front of her.

  “This airborne mood-changer we used in the office toilets,” she said, “tell me again how permanent it is.”

  “Well, mistress, the direct effects will wear off in a few weeks after exposure stops, but people who have made decisions and come to conclusions about themselves while under the influence, probably won’t be in a rush to change their minds again. The new way of thinking becomes a habit after a while, I would expect. May I ask, mistress, how it’s going?”

  Patricia frowned slightly. She wanted to say it was none of his business, but it might help research if he got some feedback.

  “It’s going well,” she admitted, grudgingly. “Most of the females seem perfectly comfortable taking positions of control and authority, and happy to use males as convenient; and most of the males seem to have become unsure of themselves, more biddable and compliant.”

  “Oh, good, mistress. I think we have to expect some regression to previous standards, as people move away from exposure, but I would expect most of the changes to endure through habit, particularly if their new relationships continually reinforce them.”

  “Mmm,” she said. “And how about your literature watch?”

  She provided him, not with direct internet access, but with an electronic copy of all the latest biochemical and neuroscience journals, so that he could look for any danger that someone else might be close to his discovery.

  “Nothing at present, mistress.”

  “Right.” But it was only a matter of time, and Patricia still didn’t have a plan, for what to do when it happened. That was a worry.

  “How about the new project?” she asked.

  She wasn’t totally satisfied with the loyalty treatment that Donald had created. It wasn’t very easy to transfer slaves between ladies, because the male was fixated on his first owner; and it wasn’t very subtle: it was all or nothing: the woman became the light of his life. If it became more common, it wouldn’t be too difficult for other people to notice. And then, there were cases like Mr. Prentice: with him, she wanted total control, of course, but she also wanted him to be free to hate her, to be horribly dismayed at his life, not soaking it up gladly like a lap dog, eager to please.

  Instead, she wanted a drug, or something, so that someone could be dosed, and then would believe absolutely, hold as articles of faith like a religion, anything they were told while under the influence, and then keep those new beliefs afterwards. So, for example, a male could be told to believe generally that his proper role in life was to be the slave of females, rather than being obsessed with one particular woman: it ought to be less detectable, more flexible, more nuanced, depending on exactly what you told him to believe. But Donald had been working on it for six months, now, and didn’t seem to have made much progress.

  “It’s very difficult, mistress,” he whined.

  Patricia reached out and ran her hand through the remains of his hair.

  “Well then, you’ll just have to try harder, won’t you darling?”

  He moaned in pleasure at her touch. “Yes, mistress.”

  She checked that he had all the technical supplies he needed, and then left him, locking all the doors behind her: Donald never saw daylight any more: as her most valuable possession, she always kept him under lock and key. She no longer hated him: with his adoration of her, he was almost a different person, and she understood what he was worth to her. She never punished him hard - frankly, the treatment had already irrevocably committed him to serving her, so punishment would only really be about her gratification, and she had plenty of other slaves, more attractive slaves, for that. He slept, he ate, and he worked eighteen hours a day for her, and that was his life.

  Chapter Twenty

  Patricia emerged through the concealed door into the airy atmosphere and November sunshine of the main house; she looked at her watch: her guests for lunch would be arriving soon. There were now four ladies who had been brought into the secret. Katherine Watson, of course, and her young protégée, Susan Denton; the deputy chief constable of the local police force, ready to head off any investigation into any of the ladies; and a woman in a key position in the ‘Equality Commission’, who was actually working, of course, for inequality. They had never before come together all at once, not wanting to show themselves as a group, so this was a special occasion, and Patricia wanted to impress.

  She strolled to the front reception room. Lined up for her inspection were eight slaves who would be serving as waiters. They had been waiting for her for some time. Each male was on his knees, almost naked, wearing a red, elasticated, band that resembled nothing so much as a pair of braces; it started from a strap fastened around each leg, just above the knee; these two straps joined together after a few inches, like an inverted ‘Y’ and the main band, two inches wide, then ran vertically up his front to fix to the underside of the tray he was holding. All eight boys belonged to her, and so, of course, were gamely trying to be what she wanted them to be, but they were having difficulty. They shifted restlessly, uncomfortably, on their knees.

  On each waiter, as the elastic band passed his groin, it connected to a metal ring that pierced his scrotum. The result was that if the waiter held his tray too high, the band pulled up on his sac unbearably, and if he held the tray too low, then the elastic pulled down: he had to hold the tray at the right height, and vertically above his groin, neither right nor left nor too far forward, or suffer terribly. Another consequence of that same band was that his knees had to be directly below his groin: if he sat down on his heels, then the band would be drawn forward, and his piercing ring would be pulled savagely by the tension in the band.

  At first sight, one might think that a waiter could protect himself by letting go of his tray with one hand, and grabbing the red band in front of his groin,: then he could allow the grip of his hand to take the strain, not his sensitive genitals. Patricia had thought of that, of course: both hands were fixed flat to the underside of the tray the waiter carried. Each of his fingers went through a separate ring welded to the underside, and his wrists were secured by locked bracelets that were also welded in position.

  On each side, a four inch chain connected the corner of the tray to a ring piercing his nipple: he could not let go of the tray, or move it far, or interfere with the action of the braces. He was helpless to do anything except to fulfil his role as a mobile serving platform.

  Of the eight waiters, at present three of them held glasses of drinks, and five held canapés and other finger food. They all had muscular, waxed, chests, well brushed hair, and a white starched collar and black bow tie, but no shirt or other clothing, not even a posing pouch. Patricia went down the line, looking for faults, but couldn’t find anything much to criticise. They gazed up at her, adoringly, as males should.

  “Good,” she said. They looked massively relieved to receive her approval.

  The legs had been the most troublesome part. Her vision was to strap their ankles to their thighs so that they had to walk on their knees almost as if they were on stilts, but when she’d tried it, the boys had squealed and fallen and made no end of a fuss. Eventually, she had thought to ask them what the problem was: it turned out that folding the leg double, like that, changed the shape of the knee, brought the kneecap down, so they couldn’t shuffle along on it as normal. She had solved the difficulty by allowing them to wear thick kneepads, in white cotton covers with a frilly, lacy, edging, looking like something a French maid might wear while brushing the carpet.

  The slaves did have their ankles strapped to their thighs, and were shuffling back and forth gently, having to keep their balance on their knees. It was awkward, which was part of the effect she wanted, but didn’t seem to be excessively painful. If they lost their balance though, they would have to fall flat, because bending at the hips would be, because of the elasti
c band, just unbearable.

  There was another slave to take coats, and, naturally, a cook in the kitchen. Patricia passed on to the dining room. The imposing dinner table, polished mahogany, was twenty feet long. There were only five of them dining, but the setting would give a sense of occasion to the meeting, and Patricia wanted the ladies to take it seriously. The table was impressively loaded with silverware: all the settings had been completed before the majority of her slaves had been put into the ‘waiter’ restraints.

  Patricia wanted her guests to enjoy themselves as well, though, and checked that the five special chairs were in place and ready. She had recommended that each lady wear a loose-fitting skirt and bring a favourite slave, without explaining why, and she was keen to show off the chairs, her latest whimsical idea, and see them in use.

  The slave on coat duty came running, and knelt in front of her.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Watson and Ms. Denton are just arriving, mistress,” he told her.

  “Ah.” Patricia reached the front door in time to see Katherine’s red Bentley roll up. Her bodyguard, in a chauffeur’s uniform today, ran round to open the doors for her and Susan Denton.

  “Katherine, Susan, how lovely to see you.” She embraced Katherine, and gave Susan a friendly smile. “Come in, come in.” Behind them, the chauffeur got back behind the wheel, ready to park round the side of the house. He would spend the time until the ladies were ready to leave re-polishing the car, even though it gleamed already, and removing any little mud spots it had picked up on the trip over: the ladies did not generally like to see a male idle.

  The duty slave took the coats of the guests, and they all went through to the reception room that Patricia had selected. Floor length windows, a whole wall of sheet glass, looked out onto the formal garden, now presenting mostly hedges and lawns in the weak sunshine. The smaller perennials had died back for the winter, leaving the structure of the garden on show, like the frame around an empty picture. Here and there, at focal points, a statue added interest. Inside, in the warm, the waiter slaves stood around the room like shuffling statues themselves, shifting restlessly from knee to knee. They had been coached not to cluster round the ladies.

  Susan had chosen to wear a little black dress for the occasion: probably designed for dancing, it had a low neck line, a fitted crepe bodice with no sleeves, and a softly flared georgette skirt, ending at mid-thigh. Her legs were covered in sheer black-tinted stockings. Patricia had to admit that she looked very, very, good: as good as she herself had looked at that age, except that Patricia was fashionably tall, and Susan was rather petite.

  Susan strolled across to examine one of the waiters, working out how the restraint worked. The tray, which he was compelled to hold about level with his nipples, was at a convenient waist-height for her as she stood beside him, in her high heels. She grabbed the red strap underneath the tray and pulled upwards. That pulled directly on the piercing ring and the boy grimaced and squealed. Then she pulled downwards. That let the lower part of the braces pull the ring downwards, and again he was in pain. She pulled forward and then to either side with the same result. The slave’s eyes were watering now: he was almost whimpering as Susan tormented him. Casually, she put one hand on his smooth, muscular, shoulder, and took a wild-mushroom vol-au-vent off the tray with the other. She turned to Patricia.

  “That’s just so elegant!” she told her. “I love it.”

  The shoulder under Susan’s hand was in constant motion, as the boy kept his balance on his knees. She looked tempted to push him over, just for fun - it would only take one finger, he was so helpless - but evidently decided that it wouldn’t be polite, which Patricia was relieved to see: the vol-au-vents would spill all over the carpet. Susan took a second one, and looked round for a drink.

  Patricia smiled. “I aim to please,” she said. She turned to Katherine, who had also followed the recommendation to wear a loose skirt: she was wearing a floaty dress in pale blue. The two women smiled at each other.

  “Did you bring a favourite each with you?” Patricia asked.

  “Oh, yes,” said Katherine. “James and Harry. They’re in the boot.” Patricia nodded: sometimes slaves were ‘supposed’ to have moved away, so it wasn’t a good idea to show them off in public unnecessarily. Transporting them in the boot was a sensible precaution. She remembered the name, James: he was the programmer: he had taken a whipping well.

  “Well, I have a little surprise for later. If we could get them and set them up?”

  Katherine shrugged elegantly, and looked politely curious.

  “Certainly, the boot isn’t locked,” she said.

  The coat boy was despatched to fetch the slaves and take them to the dining room. Katherine and Susan were quizzical, but Patricia’s smile gave nothing away. They sipped their drinks.

  Amanda Patterson, the deputy chief constable, was the next to arrive, a formidably competent-looking lady in her forties. Patricia was momentarily alarmed to see a male police officer in uniform behind her, but it was alright: he was keeping to her heel, his head bowed deferentially, properly servile. He was despatched to the dining room to join James and Harry.

  The ladies chatted: Katherine and Susan had never met Amanda before. Unlike them, she was holding down a full time job, so she didn’t have the time to take so much trouble about her appearance. Her dark hair had a centre parting, and was pulled firmly back to a bun at the back. Her face was sharp and serious and rather plain, like a particularly strict Victorian governess.

  She was very amiable, though, at least to her equals, and smiled frequently, engagingly, to offset her more severe natural expression. She had been recruited by Patricia specifically to cover the experiment at the Sallis and Company offices, so she was still very new to the freedom, and the power, that she now enjoyed.

  She was married to a lawyer. Apparently, the marriage had been going through a rocky patch, perhaps heading for divorce, when Patricia had contacted her, but things were, of course, a lot better now. Her husband was her devoted slave.

  If the house wasn’t spotless, or dinner was less than perfect, or the laundry wasn’t done to her standards, then he would feel the effects of a thin rattan cane. It was obvious that she was eager, gleeful, in finding reasons to use it; that it was not so much to discipline present offences - after all, he had had the nanotech treatment - as to punish him for the grievances that had accumulated over the years.

  Actually, it sounded as though those grievances were quite minor: he had never had an affair, for example. It was just an accumulation of mundane irritations and annoyances and indifference - on both sides, it was easy to guess - that had gradually been sapping the life from the marriage, like bathwater gradually cooling, as the bather lies uncomfortably, unable to summon the energy to get out.

  Now, Amanda’s husband adored her, and didn’t object when she brought one or other of her favourite junior police officers home to please her, while he, after serving dinner, kept to the spare room and did extra legal casework through the evenings, so as to maximise the income that she could extract from him.

  Her face brightened in satisfaction as she spoke about it. Patricia, Katherine, and Susan, smiled indulgently at her fresh enthusiasm. He was good at his job, she told the ladies, and recommended that they come to her, free of charge, if they ever had a legal problem.

  “He’ll give it his full attention,” she said, with a smile that promised encouragement of his efforts with the cane.

  With Patricia’s approval, Amanda had enslaved the chief constable, so that she was, in effect, in control of the regional police force. But that was only true within limits: the great majority of police officers were unrecruited, so all her actions needed to be seen to be reasonable and proper.

  Even within those bounds, though, her own feelings - partly those she had always had, and partly new attitudes she had jus
t acquired - had affected police priorities. It only took a woman’s word, for example, to get her partner arrested and locked up for an unpleasant twenty-four hours on suspicion of domestic assault, even if it wasn’t true and there was no evidence. There were no consequences for her. If it was a man complaining about a woman, however, the police really weren’t interested at all. As awareness of this policy seeped through the population, it was subtly changing the balance of power within couples, even those where the possibility of a woman making a malicious accusation was remote: the man would still know that she could if she chose, and that therefore he was reliant on her goodwill.

  And then, kerb crawlers were now much more rigorously dealt with than the hookers that they were presumed to be looking for: even asking a woman for the time, in the wrong place at the wrong time, could get a man arrested: it encouraged men to keep their heads down and not make eye contact on the street, while women in general had no such restrictions.

  Katherine and Susan listened attentively: they hadn’t noticed the subtle changes in attitude, but of course they wouldn’t: they hadn’t been announced or publicised. Patricia could see that it was gradually dawning on them how society could be moved by means of thousands of such shifts: each one defensible and not hugely unreasonable in itself, but all tending one way. And so far this was just incidental: Amanda hadn’t been following any particular plan.

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the last guest, Nicola Redburn. Nicola was in her thirties and considerably overweight. She had never worried about it much, and now she didn’t worry about it at all, male preferences no longer being relevant to her. She had an ample bosom, and rolling masses of flesh round her hips, buttocks, and thighs. She was wearing a loose blouse, with some kind of Native American pattern on it, and a mid-brown cotton skirt, shapeless and baggy. It bulged out from the waist, to cover her hips. Patricia masked her displeasure. Even with her body shape, Nicola might have taken a little more trouble to dress for the occasion: even Amanda was wearing a formal black skirt, although, on her, it looked as though it should come with a witch’s broomstick. Nicola probably thought dressing up was giving in to bourgeois values, or some such thing: patriarchal oppression or capitalist manipulation, perhaps. Nicola was a bit of a radical, and fitted in perfectly at the Equality Commission.