Chapter 1

Clare and I had been talking about a camping trip for months. A chance to leave the city and it's hectic life behind and spend a week camping in the wilds of France; that is, if there was still such a thing as a wilderness to be found anywhere in Europe. If there was, we thought it must be in central France, away from the family campsites and crowds of tourists that drive on through and flock to the crowded coasts.

We arrived on the outskirts of Cressy, Burgundy in Clare's old Citroen after a long six-hour drive. It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and the bell in the old church was calling its message to the village faithful as we parked in the central square watched by three old men sipping tall, chilled glasses of white pastis outside a little cafe. Offering a friendly wave, we hoisted our packs and hiked off towards the woodland in search of a place to pitch our tent.

The village of Cressy was beautiful and before leaving, we stopped in a little store and bought long loaves of crusty bread that smelt delicious, hard local cheese and of course several bottles of good red wine to celebrate the first night of our holiday.

Once out of the village, a path led through the woods and opened into rolling hills covered with crops of sunflowers; their yellow faces following the progress of the hot June sun. We tramped along chatting happily for nearly two hours and then, just as the light was beginning to fade to the golden hue of evening, we came across the perfect camping spot.

It was an open grassy area, close to a small river and overshadowed by a large willow bowing its head towards the slowly setting sun, it was perfect, and as the last rays painted the sky a fiery red, we sat at rest with the tent up and a small cheery fire. A bottle of wine was opened and we began to get pleasantly drunk, giggling and talking the evening away - it really felt like we had found our Shangri-La.

I've known Clare for about three years. We both work in the same bank but in different departments so only get to socialise outside of the office. I have always thought she was pretty. She has a slim build and, at first glance, you might think she is still in her teens when actually you would be out by a good ten years. Firelight reflected from an elfish face with startling blue eyes and full lips that were quick to smile. Her best feature, which I wouldn't have dwelt upon that evening camping under the stars, but now some six months after the camping trip I do, are her long, beautiful legs that by the fire were curled beneath her. Most of that evening, while we became more drunk and giggly, was spent talking about the men in our office and how-on-earth a girl was supposed to find a good and decent one in this crazy modern world. It was fun and quite magical night that had us both becoming closer even if, at that point, it was still only as friends.

We awoke the next morning to the sounds of birds in the trees, the gentle rippling of water in the river, and the sound of a car engine coming to a stop close to the tent.

'Josie, someone's outside, 'whispered Clare. She was sitting up, scrambling to get out of her sleeping bag.

'Calm down, ' I answered sleepily. 'It's probably just the farmer checking his river hasn't run away.' I giggled and then sat upright as a voice intruded.

'Bonjour?' The voice was female and sounded cross. 'Est-ce que quelqu'un est dedans là?' Whoever it was shook the tent.

'Wait! We're coming, we're coming, ' called Clare. She unzipped the doorway and I followed her wonderful smooth legs and barely covered bottom out of the tent into the blinding light of early morning.

A woman was standing just a few feet away and she appeared to be angry.

'Anglais? Parlez vous Francais? Non ... tipique!' She glared at us and I began to feel foolish. We were both in skimpy t-shirts and knickers and I suddenly felt underdressed as this intimidating woman studied us.

'Désolés ... errr ... nous sommes... ' I began, but she interrupted me.

'Don't worry your pretty little head, English. I speak your language and I don't want to hear you murder mine. What do you do here? This place is private, no camping. It is wrong that you are here.' Her accent was strong but she obviously had a greater command of English than I did of French. She glanced around and shook her head in dismay at our desecration of her land and then, when she saw the fire, she grabbed my arm and pulled me around.

'Hey, ' I cried.

'What is this? You think to fire this whole field? Stupid English girls.'

I tore my arm back. 'Listen. We're sorry. We didn't mean any harm. We'll just pack up and leave.' I turned back to the tent but then heard Clare squeal.

'Let me go, ' Clare was struggling in the woman's grasp but she was too small to break free. 'Please!'

'No, you must come with me. La Gendarmes must be told.'

'Listen, you let her go or I'll hit you.' I snatched up a saucepan and stood brandishing it, ready to clout this rude woman if she didn't let Clare go. Things had gone too far. I couldn't see what we had done wrong but if we had to leave then we would leave, but she had no right to bully us.

'So you wish to assault me now, eh? You make things worse you know.' Calming herself, the woman pushed Clare to the ground. Clare scampered over to me and I threw down the saucepan and began pulling our clothes from the tent.

'Come on, Clare. Let's get dressed. We'll find a much nicer place than this, ' I promised. I turned my back on the woman as I pulled off my t-shirt and slipped on my bra and a blouse, and finally stepped into a skirt. As I put on my make-up she appeared ready to explode but I ignored her - I wasn't going anywhere without make-up!

'Hurry, ' insisted the awful French woman. 'Clear your things. I will drive you to the village.' She watched us as we silently dressed and then packed up our little campsite. As I threw things into my pack, I studied her from the corner of my eye. She was about forty and was wearing riding clothes; tight britches, high snug polished riding boots and a white blouse. Her chestnut hair was long and flowing hair, she would have been extremely attractive if she smiled rather than glaring at us.

I made a show of cleaning the fire, scattering the large stones we had used to form a fireplace and in the end, there was only a small circle of blackened earth to show we had ever been there.

'I am Madam Renard, you will call me Madam ... come.' She turned, strode to her car, and opened the back for our packs, obviously expecting us to follow and do as we were told.

'Oh, come on, Josie, ' hissed Clare. 'Let's just go.'

I shrugged, and then nodded. 'Okay I won't make trouble.' I followed Clare to the car but when she wasn't looking, I glared at Madam Renard, bobbed a fake curtsey, and said 'Thank you, Madam, ' in a lilting voice. I don't think she realised I was making fun of her stern manner. She merely nodded, got into the car and started the engine. The moment Clare and I got into the back seats, we set off, bouncing down a dusty track between fields of sunflowers - I remember think what a shame it was that she had to spoil our little holiday like this.

We had been driving for about ten minutes when I realised we were actually going away from where the village must be. 'Where are we going?' I asked, leaning forward so she could hear me over the squeaking and rumbling of the car. 'The village ... Cressy, is in the other direction isn't it?

She glanced back at me, muttered something in French and then, waving ahead into the distance, said. 'The road is this way, not through the forest ... I cannot drive through trees, n'est pas ... comprenez, ' she tapped her head. 'You understand, English girl?'

'Bitch, ' I muttered, and then felt better as Clare's hand found mine, feeling a strange, small thrill at our intimate contact and the way our bare knees were touching as the car bounced along.

Another ten minutes of driving and we finally bumped up from the fields onto a gravel path and drove past a beautiful lake with swans gliding across the surface between ornamental lilies towards a huge intimidating chateau. A gardener stood with head bowed as we passed and then we were driving through gates and pulled up in an inner courtyard.

'Wow, ' exclaimed Clare as she got out of the car. 'This place is incredible. Where are we?'

Slamming the car door, Madam Renard tossed the keys to a waiting maid and called over her shoulder. 'Welcome to Chateau de la Bouche.' She made a mocking bow. 'Please, enter, you are my guests.'

'I thought we were going back to Cressy to get our car?' I called. Madam Renard stopped on the steps to the house and turned around. It was pretty obvious she wasn't used to being questioned and I was beginning to annoy her.

'We are going to the village ... soon. I need to fetch a few things and then we will be away. Please, for a short while, be welcome in my home.'

The Chateau really was fabulous - this was old France. I even stopped thinking about its nasty owner who had disappeared giving orders to the maid to make us comfortable - my French is bad but I could understand most of what was being said. The maid was in her late forties and dressed in a traditional maid's uniform - black dress, cut a little short, with white lace apron and bonnet, and black seamed stockings - she looked quite sweet as she smiled and ushered us in.

Old portraits and tapestries adorned the walls of a long impressive hallway and we gazed about, taking in the rich opulence like the tourists we were.

'My name is Claudette. I will bring you drinks in the... ' she thought for a moment to find the right word, ' ... in the summer room.' She smiled. 'Iz nice room, you come with me.'

We followed her through a succession of rooms and corridors, finally ending up in a beautiful sitting room decorated in pale, pastel greens. The sun was streaming in through lace curtains that billowed gently with the summer breeze - it really was a nice room. It smelt old and musty from the leather furniture and polished wood that filled the room but it was clean and welcoming and spoke of times long past.

Claudette disappeared and returned a few moments later holding a tinkling tray of glasses and an icy jug and she poured two glasses that we gratefully accepted. The lemonade was ice cold, sweet and delicious - we drank several glasses.

I remembered drinking the lemonade ... but then the room became hazy and I remember sitting down on a leather couch.

The next thing I knew, was looking at Madam Renard now wearing a dress. She was smiling at me, sitting on a chair opposite. I tried to focus my eyes and felt strange.

'Well, my naughty girls. The way I see our little situation is that I found two pretty, lesbian girls camping on my land. You were touching, kissing and playing with each other in your little tent, away from prying eyes, yes?'

I tried to say no, to shake my head, but I couldn't move. Clare and I were friends, not lovers ... and why couldn't I move?

'Oh, yes.' She smiled and crossed her legs, smoothing her dress with a satisfied air. 'There was a little something in your drinks that will make you easier for me to play with ... and to punish you. You will find that you can only move or say something when I give you a direct order, or at least that is what Claudette has assured me.' She glanced to the maid who smiled and nodded happily. 'We will see.'

I felt a tremor of fear run through me.

'It all sounds rather delicious really, ' she went on. 'Shall we see how much control we have? You.' She pointed at me. 'I think you should put your hand on your friend's leg ... do it.'

Without meaning to, my head glanced down beside me to look at Clare's legs. I saw her short yellow skirt lying just above her pretty, pink knees, and watched in horror as my hand moved across to rest on her right leg, my fingers slipped gently between warm thighs. It felt strange to be touching her like this and I wanted to pull my hand away, but couldn't.

' ... and move your hand up, push her skirt a little higher ... good.' Beside me, Clare wasn't moving and I couldn't see her face. Whether I liked it or not my attention was on her legs.

'Open your legs a little for your friend.' This was to Clare and I watched as her legs spread obediently to the command.

'Pull your skirt higher ... that's right, good girl.'

I saw Clare's hands grip the hem of her skirt and lift it high. I then gazed in horror as my hand slid up Clare's inner thigh until my fingers were brushing her white knickers. I felt hot and terribly uncomfortable to be touching her like this, and I dreaded the next instruction from our tormentor.