Chapter 9: Meeting Maggie

And strangely enough it was my geekyness that saved her.

I’m a geek, a fact I freely admit that to anyone who would want to listen.

I’m the guy who actually buys things from the gadget catalogues you find on airplanes.

Lot’s of things that I own have computers in them even ones that don’t really need them.

It’s hardly surprising then that when I came to build a dream house it was a “smart building”.

I could talk at length about optical packet busses and redundant control but is enough to say that one machine is dedicated to the security aspects of keeping a slave.

Suicide was one unpleasantness that I’d been forced to consider.

Some people don’t react well to being locked up. Taking their own life is sometimes preferable and any prison warder can tell of ingenious suicides even when the inmate was being closely watched.

When Caroline collapsed she had enough slack chain to fall perhaps 3 feet before it became taught.

At the very least that could hurt as the collar pulled tight, at worst she could break her neck.

The moment the mounting point came under load a strain gauge registered the sudden impulse and this was sent to the computer.

Now the computer understands the difference between static and impulse loading, it will let much more than Caroline’s weight be applied to the chain but not suddenly.

In the instant she fell at a speed far faster that any human could react the machine determined she was in danger and fired an explosive bolt severing the mounting at the ceiling.

She lay on the floor winded and too surprised to do anything as the chain landed on her.

When my heart started beating again I reached down and helped her up.

With a strength I didn’t know I had I lifted her as if she was a rag doll.

“What the fuck is the matter with you!” I almost screamed, “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“You ... you said...”

“What the fuck does that mater!!” I shook her.

For the first time I came within a heartbeat of hitting her. She started to cry.

“About the baby being a GIRL.” She said as if the answer was somehow self evident.

I put her on the table, my anger started to subside.

In the background part of my mind continued to analyse what I’d discovered.

The conclusion was that I’d kidnapped a mad woman.

It wasn’t good but it did calm me down.

“A joke,” I said, “That’s all. If I’d realised there was lemming blood in your family I’d have been more careful.”

“So it’s a joke?”

“We need to discuss this,” I said, “But not now.”

I pushed her back against the table and locked the chain to one of the tables mountings.

I wanted her secure before I proceeded any further.

“Now take the gloves off.”

As she started to comply I went over to the cupboard and started to root around inside.

She was finished by the time I returned.

She eyed the new contraptions with some dread, she couldn’t tell how upset I was and she didn’t know if this was some new torture device. It took the treat of the crop to get her to place her hands behind her back and hold steady while I pulled the single sleeve up her arms.

When it reached the top I buckled the top strap and replaced her collar with the posture collar already attached to the sleeve.

Next came five minutes of tightening numerous straps.

When I finished I stepped back to admire my handiwork.

Houdini once said that straight jackets were easy to overcome once you realised that they were designed to hold crazy people.

This creation from a fetish supplier in England made no such mistakes, made from black leather with buckles everywhere it left no room for escape.

She was still struggling with it when I went to phase 2.

First, I again placed her hair in a ponytail.

Then I reached for a nest of straps on the table.

She didn’t know what most of it was for but she could guess were the rubber ball was going.

“Please?”

“Open!” I commanded in no mood to be messed around.

She hesitated but not for long and I pushed the large rubber ball firmly into her mouth.

For some reason they call this a ball gag trainer, despite the fact that it is considerably better designed than a ball gag.

As well as the usual ball and strap there is a harness that attaches to the strap then runs either side of the victims nose to buckle at the back of the head. A second strap passes under the chin to force the jaw tightly closed around the ball. It is very effective and has the added advantage that once locked in place it can’t be worked free even if the victim has the use of her hands.

Yesterdays fiasco would not happen again.

Once everything was strapped and locked I decided to keep her entertained and distracted.

I showed her what I had in mind, a vibrator and harness just as inescapable as the rest of the bondage.

It had an added twist, a block of tiny rubber fingers that fastened over the clit and which the designers claimed increased the stimulation without improving the chances of achieving orgasm.

This seemed like a good time to test it out.

There was a bit of a struggle getting it locked in place but when it was finished the harness looked just like a tight pair of latex panties.

The only exception was the speed control knob which jutted out between her legs.

Reaching down I set her to simmer, and listened to the small moans that escaped from behind the gag.

The head harness had a number of additional components which I’d put in my pocket I quickly retrieved the blindfold section and fastened it over her eyes using the snap fasteners provided.

She just stood and shivered as I completed my preparations.

She didn’t resist as I fastened a pair of leg irons to her booted ankles.

I looked down and started to breath again, she’d been made safe.

I didn’t know what all that was about but I was sure that there was no way she could hurt herself now.

I took her back to the cell, she started to whimper and tried to say something.

The trainer had been modified so that I didn’t need to remove it to get at the ball.

I gently unlocked a small padlock, undid a couple of buckles and popped the ball free.

“Please,” She said, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean...”

“You have one minute to furnish an explanation, or you are on punishment Slave.”

“Please, I can’t.”

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“A ss ... slave Master.”

“What do slaves do?”

“Give pleasure to my Master and all others he designates.”

Which was true but not what I wanted her to say.

“What is rule number one.”

“Obey first time, every time.”

“And if a slave doesn’t.”

Her lip trembled, “She is punished.”

“So I’m giving you a direct order, I want you to tell me what this is about right now!”

She paused, even with her eyes and most of her face covered I could see a conflict underway.

At last she said, “It was what you said about a baby girl.”

I smiled, though of course she couldn’t see it. “What of it Slave,” I said, “As Master that is my right!”

It was the wrong thing to say. She started crying again. I tried to get though but is was no good.

In the end I attached the wire and left her sobbing on the bed.

I now knew absolutely that there was something wrong.

Her reactions hadn’t been right from the beginning.

Her sudden mood swings, her lack of backbone and now this.

I had a number of theories most of which revolved around major mental illness. One thing was certain I was going to need expert help.

I made two calls.

First I called Vicky at work.

I explained that a last minute personal problem had come up and that I’d have to postpone things for a week.

She seemed disappointed until I offered to pay her for the cancelled session and take her to lunch to discuss future plans.

Next I called an old college friend, much to my relief she had most of the afternoon off so I arranged to meet her at a bar we both knew.

I made my preparations, gave Caroline a drink and helped her to the toilet.

She was silent though out and I said as little as possible.

Then satisfied that she would be all right for the next few hours I left.

Vicky worked as a Dental Hygienist in a section of town that didn’t have many good restaurants.

I’d arranged to meet her outside the front of her building then go to a little bistro I knew.

As she walked towards the car I knew I’d made a good choice.

She was almost exactly Caroline’s height and build.

Instead of Caroline’s mane of golden blond hair she had a short mousy bob and they didn’t look much alike in the face, but all in all I was satisfied.

Any of the outfits I had bought should fit with little difficulty and most importantly in a blond wig and wearing Caroline’s clothes they would be indistinguishable in long shot.

Once we were at the restaurant I showed her my portfolio, shot’s I’d taken with Andy Pearson using some of his models.

I had a few photo’s taken in Paris last year; Sam, Jean Paul and me, the two of us chatting with Claudia.

I’m not usually a name dropper but this was the girl’s first modelling job and I felt the need to convince her that I wasn’t some random freak.

I paid her and apologized again then we ordered.

She had a pleasing if somewhat dull personality and tended to limit conversations to subjects she felt comfortable with.

For the first part of the meal the subject of teeth made up a large part of the discussion.

Then I lucked out and discovered she had a liking for motorcycles.

This was more up my alley and the second half of the meal was more entertaining.

I said my goodbyes, promised to call and headed for Boston.

Mike’s is one of the hidden gems of Boston night life.

Those who know it call it the real “Cheers” a quiet unassuming Irish American bar with a loyal clientele which doesn’t feel the need to advertize or cash in on the tourist trade.

The regulars keep it their little secret and to be accepted there feels as much a privilege as being a member of some exclusive gentlemen’s club.

Mike’s draws most of it’s regulars from the academic staff of the local universities.

No one knows how that came about but I suspect that it is far enough away from any of the colleges to be outside undergraduate stagger range.

This allows the professors chance to meet, talk and drink without the risk of student interruption.

I arrived early and bought the first round planting myself in my usual booth and waited.

A number of regulars passed and a few stopped to chat and the business of Mike’s flowed around me.

I was part way through the Globe crossword when a damp figure noisily shook her umbrella next to me.

I glanced up, “Hello Maggie, is it raining?”

“No,” She said, “I just like carrying wet umbrellas about.

For a supposedly intelligent man Richard Cody you do say some of the most stupid things.” She pointed at the pint of Guinness on the table, “Is that mine?”

When I nodded she drank it at a surprising speed.

The waitress had already seen that coming and was heading in for the next round.

“Same again?” I asked.

“Hell no. If you asked me to drop everything and head on over, it means you’ve got yourself a problem and that being the case I’m on a professional rate.”

She smiled at the waitress. “Tell George I’ll have a brandy and ginger ale, and I want VSOP none of that cheap rubbish. Mr Cody here tells me he’s a paper millionaire lets see if we can’t make him spend some of it shall we.”

I’d met Margaret O’Hanks during my postgraduate research.

She was a short slim redhead with wonderful green eyes and a pushy personality.

I can’t remember exactly how we met but I think our attraction was based on common need; I needed a friend and she needed a TV set.

I could virtually guarantee that three minutes before the start of “Saturday Night Live” there would be a knock at the door and she would just walk in sit down and watch it as if she owned the place.

She had also been my first gay friend and we spent many happy hours cruising the bars for chicks.

It hadn’t done my ego any good that she seemed better at picking up women than I was.

For a time we had shared a house forming an unlikely threesome with a tall, willowy, bisexual blonde called Kathy.

Three in a bed sessions had been quite common though Maggie and I only ever did it together once which had been enough to persuade her that penile sex was over rated.

She was a keen if sometimes viscous practical joker, and being her friend was no protection.

Some of her exploits had become legends yet surprisingly she had been asked to stay on after graduation and had been there ever since.

She was now a well respected researcher in experimental clinical psychology. As always she had guessed right, I needed advice.

She hung up her coat and deposited the umbrella in the stand making it back to the booth about the same time the drink did.

“Keep an eye this way dear and keep them coming,” She said to the waitress who sensing a large tip in the air started to orbit a discrete distance from our table.

Maggie took a sip and then looked up and smiled.

“So Cody how’s the love life, finally got over the Ice Queen.”

“Her name is Samantha.”

“I know what her name is,” She said sharply. “And I also know that you’re well rid of her. Jumped up little bitch. Some women are made too beautiful for their own or anyone else’s good.”

“You’re only saying that because she turned you down!”

“She was tempted boy! Little miss smarty pants likes the boys all right but she’s got an itch in her pants only another woman can scratch.”

I smiled, this was an old argument one, we’d started almost twenty years ago and it was still going strong.

It was Maggie’s contention that everyone was bisexual, that screaming hetros and gays were just extremes being 90% plus in one direction or the other.

She believed that it was only social taboo that stopped people experimenting and realising the truth.

Of course she was willing to help any girl who wanted to see if this was true, but that she claimed did not invalidate the point.

I felt it was time to change the subject.

“Talking about itches how’s things with you?”

A strange mixture of emotions played across her face, “I’m thinking of becoming a nun.”

“Why?”

“Hey, I’ve been celibate for almost nine months. If I’m going to do without then I may as well get the recognition for it.”

She spat it out with a bitterness I’d never seen before.

“Cheers,” She downed the drink and as if by magic the waitress appeared.

“Same again.”

“Look,” I said feeling uncomfortable, “If this is a bad time...”

“No, look I’m just a little pissed off right now.”

She gave a deep sigh.

“Last Christmas there was a bit of a scandal, girl claimed a professor offered to fix her grades for sex.

Now just about everyone knew she was lying, the guy she accused was more interested in this years star quarterback for one thing but the Provost’s office sent around a memo about fraternization. Well you know.”

“And you’re taking it seriously?”

She scowled again, “It hasn’t really stopped anyone. I don’t think anyone really trades grades but there are a lot of smart young women attending college these days. If you’re getting close to a girl, especially if she’s gifted and you want to give her extra help, Well, you know.”

She took another sip, “Current Provost doesn’t like me. Oh he’ll turn a blind eye while some of this male friends play around but you can bet that if I so much as look at a girl.”

I nodded.

“And it’s so unfair,” She continued, “I’m interested, she’s interested and I know that if I see her some stoolie will blow the whistle so fast I won’t even have time to take my pantyhose off.” She sat and moped for a while I could tell she was twisted up inside.

I started to wish that I’d kept in contact more, but after Sam dumped me I was too preoccupied and the past few months had been full of preparations for the kidnapping.

Eventually she looked up and smiled “Anyway what about you.”

I was tempted to forget about it, but that would leave me with a dysfunctional and potentially suicidal slave.

So I let another round come by before I started into my story.

I couldn’t tell her the complete truth of course, Maggie was ok but I couldn’t really start with “There is this girl I kidnapped...” So instead I told her the story I had concocted in the car on the way up.

I said that I’d met a girl called Elizabeth at a college party.

That we’d been attracted and started dating, I said that she liked bondage sex and rough trade that we had been going steady except that she had these little incidents.

I recounted the stories as close to how they happened as possible omitting only the non consensual nature of her imprisonment and the existence of the dungeon.

Maggie listened without saying anything but I noticed the occasional flicker of interest most of which coincided with details of the bondage.

“You think she’s crazy.” It was a statement and her green eyes watched intensely.

“I think it’s a possibility,” I said, “If I hadn’t made such a bad job of tying off that rope she could have hung herself.”

“I’d really need to see her, do a full interview.” She paused,” Look, I have a little practice outside the university she could go there.”

I shook my head, “If she even suspects that I’ve spoken to a psychiatrist she’d walk, I’m sure. She’s a very private person if she won’t tell me, then god knows how she’d react to you.”

She sipped her drink and in a quiet voice said, “Was she abused as a child.”

I frowned. “I don’t think so. Her father was a minister,” I said hoping I hadn’t given enough way that could link Caroline with “Elizabeth”.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Nine times out of ten families involved in incest look perfectly respectable from outside. It doesn’t even have to be a family member just someone with perceived authority over the child. One thing to me seems telling, the girl has difficulty attaining orgasm except when forced.”

I scratched my head, I didn’t see that but then I wasn’t the professional.

She glanced out of the window.

It had stopped raining and was already quite dark.

A young woman was crossing the street dragging her seven or eight year old daughter with her.

For a moment I thought of Caroline’s imaginary dusty faced daughter.

“Look at that child,”

Maggie said, “Assume that you wanted to have sex with her.”

I pulled a face.

“Look just concentrate on the practicalities. She is smaller and weaker than you, something a lot of pedophiles find particularly attractive.

“She has no chance of stopping you but when you’re done there is a problem; what if she tells.

“You could bribe her, but that may not work, you could kill her but that’s even worse.

Threats are much better and the best yet is to suggest to the child that they have done something wrong.

“You see if you threaten to kill her or her parents that may work, but even a child knows that you can’t watch her all the time.

“Sooner or later they’ll feel safe enough to talk.

“Now what if you tell her that she was responsible, that she was the one that caused it and that if she is found out she will be the one punished?

“Then she is never safe.

“The trusted adult that she may otherwise talk to becomes a potential enemy.

“The rapist and the child share a secret, one which the child believes is her fault.

“She believes that any adult discovering the truth will punish her.”

“I still don’t see.” I said, “Sorry if I seem a little slow but what does this have to do with orgasms.”

“Ever have performance anxiety Dick?”

She smiled when she saw my face.

“Men’s sexual wiring is fairly straight forward, stimulus, erection ejaculation. Yet despite that a bit of emotional stress and the whole thing shuts down.

“Women are far more connected emotionally far more susceptible to emotional shutdown.

“Suppose that little girl grows up, she thinks sex is dirty, evil and her fault.

All the stress and trauma get transferred to the act whenever she has sex she associates it with that trauma and she shuts down.

“Now you perform a highly symbolic mock rape one were she is told that she is nothing, a slave with no choice, no responsibility.

“Do you see if she is forced she has no responsibility.

If you then demand orgasm as part of the ritual not only is part of the opposing stimulus removed you are adding extra incentive through threat of punishment.”

“Seems somewhat unlikely,” I said, “And it doesn’t explain the recent incident.”

“Has she had an abortion?”

“Hell I don’t know, it’s not something that comes up in conversation. She’s a bible belter, I doubt she could find a clinic that hadn’t been burnt down.”

“Exactly! To me that clinches it. Suppose he got her pregnant, he knows the baby means discovery so he want’s her to get rid of it.

“She’s been told all her life that abortion is evil so she resists. So he threatens her, there is still a lot of stigma associated with being an unmarried mother in some places, she’s probably seen what happened to other girls. So he tells her that her life is over if she keeps the baby, tells her about the pointed fingers, the accusing looks.”

The waitress swung in with yet another round.

“I need to see her Richard. If I’m even a little right about what’s going on here she needs at least counselling, possibly therapy.”

“I don’t think she’s ready for that.

“What could I do for her, perhaps if I could start the process then she may realise she has a problem.”

She shook her head, “You know my feelings about amateur psychotherapy. You’re likely to do more harm than good. What you need to do is get her to acknowledge the problem then find someone willing to take her case.

My offer still stands and you get the added benefit that I can’t hit on her if she’s a patient.”

I felt the need to extricate myself from the conversation.

“What else are you doing these days, at college.”

She took the hint, “The physiology of social responsibility. We have the use of an MRI. I’m trying to find what makes Mother Teressa different from Ted Bundy.”

“Oh,” I said starting to wish that I hadn’t changed the subject.

“What we discovered is quite interesting. Sociopaths tend to be very intelligent, fastidious beyond belief and have real difficulty dealing with people.

“Bit like you in fact.”

“Thanks,” I said, “Now you must excuse me I haven’t killed someone for over an hour.”

She rolled her eyes, “We also discovered that under an MRI they have certain abnormal characteristics, a general change in brain morphology.