I started in on my hobby of writing by doing sequels to stories by other writers. That is the way my imagination often runs. Now it has happened again. This one is the third of a set of sequels to Girls Friday, by Morlock. I have asked him for permission, which he granted. He is getting advance copies before the sequels are posted on Writings of Leviticus.
This is a sequel, so it begins with the action already well underway. In order to understand what is happening, you need to read Morlock's original story and my sequels Girls Friday 2 and Girls Friday 3 first.
Girls Friday 4: Two Honeymoons
I have been on two honeymoons with My Sir. One of them was His and mine, obviously. I need to tell you about the other one. It was quite different from ours.
An Example of the Extremes amongCoral Sea Queen cruises; the Amy Grandborough Wedding Charter
I have had the honor of becoming quite friendly with Amy Grandborough. She was on the Coral Sea Queen for her wedding and honeymoon events. That one charter included examples of two extremes in the nature of our cruises.
Yes, I am discussing the real Amy Grandborough, the guitarist, singer, songwriter, international beauty, and double-A-list celebrity. There might be a few people in the world who haven't heard of her. In case you are one of them, I can summarize her status very simply: when a gossip webzine has a headline like "What Dress will Amy Wear to the Oscars", Amy Grandborough is the one they are writing about.
Her wedding to a young Australian cattle station owner took place at 9:00 am one Saturday, in an intimate little chapel. It was covered by a professional camera crew and broadcast live on the Internet using the very insecure security code "Amy". Several million people watched the ceremony. I was one of them. My Sir had the wall screen in the cottage living room tuned to that webcast.
The next step in the celebration was a Grand Reception for over a thousand of Amy's closest friends. She and her bridegroom walked the tables, and gave welcoming and thank-you speeches from the head table, and danced the traditional wedding dance. They never got a chance to sit down at that event and eat lunch with the guests.
The Grand Reception wasn't covered by the webcast. During the reception, My Sir ordered me to get dressed, non-kinky style. I put on a blouse and jeans over bra and panties, a totally ordinary outfit except for the safety orange color and the two-inch bared-waist gap between the blouse and jeans. My Sir chained me into a sirik, transferred me to the Coral Sea Queen, undid the sirik, and locked me onto the girl rail in my special space. I kept my non-kinky outfit on.
Amy, her bridegroom, their immediate families, the members of the wedding party, and a few other genuine friends boarded the ship after attending the Grand Reception. There were about 50 in the party, which included children as young as age 4. Tables and chairs were set up on the main deck and in the main cabin one deck down. An excellent meal was catered by one of the best restaurants in Sydney.
I was responsible for supplying the wedding champagne, wine, and other beverages to the restaurant's waiters and waitresses; the beverages were chilling on the special storage shelves used for alcohol on the Queen. A wedding is supposed to be a special celebration for the bride, so I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. Of course that wasn't easy; I was working in my display cage area and wearing safety orange, which is even easier to notice than bridal white. My Sir helped by setting my collar to silence me.
We cruised Sydney harbor, giving the guests excellent views of the Opera House, the bridge, the Royal Australian Navy ships at anchor, and other famous sights on our shoreline. The weather was superb. There was hardly any wind, so we raised the sails mainly for decoration. Almost all of the propulsion came from the diesel engines.
When we got back to the dock, the families, friends, waiters, and waitresses left the ship. The tables and chairs went ashore also. When we left again we were down to just six crewmembers - Mr. Saburo, My Sir, the usual three women, and one extra watch-keeping seaman named Olaf Svennson - plus the bridegroom and Amy.
The bridegroom brought Amy over by the exhibit area where I work. He took a pair of handcuffs out of a tuxedo pocket; he must have been carrying them all through the day's ceremonies. He cuffed her behind her back to one of the exhibit cage bars. He kissed her. Then he left her there in a white wedding dress and steel cuffs while he went to get more bondage supplies.
Mr. Saburo helped with the next step. He pulled some chain from a winch mounted on the starboard bulkhead and threaded it through pulleys which he attached to the overhead. Soon he had two snap hooks dangling about two feet apart.
Amy's bridegroom passed me a handcuff key and said "Undo her." I gave her hand a quick squeeze, trying to signal "Be brave", and then I followed the order. The bridegroom put suspension cuffs on Amy's wrists, clipped those cuffs to the waiting overhead chains, turned to Mr. Saburo, and said "Please start cranking, slowly."
Her bridegroom kissed her once again. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back until the slowly-tightening overhead chains pulled her hands away. The bridegroom did not tell Mr. Saburo "enough" until Amy's feet were dangling about four inches over the deck. She swayed back and forth as the ship moved through the waves.
Amy was wearing a strapless bridal gown, with a hemline just a bit longer than knee-length. Her bridegroom began to strip her slowly. The first items were her dressy but low-heel shoes. He reached up under her gown and pulled her half-slip, and then both of her petticoats off, one by one. Each of these items was put into a waiting suitcase.
At the slow tempo he was using, it must have taken him at least a minute just to pull down the zipper of her gown while he kissed her backbone, rib by rib. He continued to kiss newly-bared flesh as the gown came off. The gown was carefully hung in a garment bag.
Her bra and panties were very feminine, with lots of lace for decoration. But these garments were full-cut and had no see-through panels, so they weren't super-erotic. The sexiest thing that Amy was still wearing was the sturdy golden chain padlocked around her waist. I don't know who had had the key to that padlock at the beginning of the wedding celebration. I was reasonably confident that her bridegroom had it by this late in the game.
My Sir had been standing just outside one end of the exhibit area. At this point he told me to "Come here." I pulled my collar chain along the overhead girl rail and followed his order. More orders followed: "Face the bulkhead. Lean your back against the cage bars." He reached around me, undid my blouse and jeans, and peeled my clothing off me. I was then wearing nothing but a bikini-cut safety orange bra and panties. My Sir turned to Amy's bridegroom and said "More?"
Amy's bridegroom said "Yes", and he began to remove her bra. My Sir did the same to me. Soon Amy and I were both naked.
Amy Grandborough was confined naked and helpless continuously for the next two weeks on her honeymoon cruise. At various times she wore portable stocks, a fiddle, a straitjacket with a cut-out baring her breasts, shackles behind her back, shackles in front attached to a belt, a singleglove, and perhaps a few other types of restraints that I can't remember right now. When she wasn't wearing bondage gear, she was spreadeagled, or attached to an X-frame, or a whipping post, or a spanking bench, or a charlotte, or she was tucked tightly in a small cage. Her bridegroom fed her all of her food one mouthful at a time. He tended to her needs in the bathroom. He gave her showers, either belowdecks in a bathroom or on deck with a hose while she was suspended by her wrists from the mainmast boom. She never had any control over what would happen to her next.
I stayed just as naked as she was, and I wore more chains than usual. I was more loosely confined than Amy, because I still had to prepare food and drinks as requested. I found that I could do my job almost as efficiently as normal while wearing ten-inch chains between my wrist cuffs and also between my ankle cuffs. Of course as a matter of routine My Sir did keep me on my girl rail at all times, and he chained me to our bed at night.
An Important Conversation
On the next-last night of this cruise, I had an opportunity to chat with Amy. It wasn't a really balanced conversation, because My Sir had set my collar to silence me. But we were able to communicate.
It seems that Mr. Saburo had gotten into a vigorous discussion with Amy's bridegroom about who was the better poker player. They decided to settle the question in a poker tournament, to be held on the ship's main deck. My Sir and our extra seaman Olaf Svennson were brought in to make the game more interesting. They played for table stakes, with everybody starting even, so the differences in personal wealth would not be significant.
Jane was busy in the kitchen, cleaning up after supper and baking breakfast rolls and pastries for the next day. Mr. Saburo's other girlfriend Tomiko had been training on the ship's control console, and she was serving as navigating watchkeeper. I helped Jane mix pastry dough in the kitchen, and I supplied chips, pretzels, nuts, and beer to the poker players who came over to the exhibit space when they were thirsty or hungry. My Sir unchained my wrists and ankles so that I could get back and forth faster while doing these two jobs at once. In between requests for help or food, I spent some of my time sitting on a chair that folded down from the starboard side of the hull, right at the end of the exhibit space.
About half an hour into the game, Amy's bridegroom brought Amy over to me. She wore only leg shackles, and wrist cuffs which were chained to opposite shoulders so that her forearms were parallel across her back. A chain across her upper chest kept the straps around her shoulders from slipping down her arms. He tossed a pillow onto the deck just outside the exhibit space and ordered "Sit. Fold your knees to your chest." Then he added a chain and a single padlock to link her ankle cuffs together and connect them to the chain across her chest. That put Amy into an instant seated semi-ball tie. He asked me for a beer, I pulled a Foster's from the tap for him, and he returned to the game.
When I sat down again on my folding chair, Amy turned to me and said "He's decided he can't keep me with him while he's playing serious poker. He thinks that I am a distraction, or perhaps I'm just simple bad luck." I nodded.
She asked "How long have you been doing this sort of thing?" I tapped my collar with my right hand and pinched my lips together with left finger and thumb to indicate that I was silenced. Then I shivered in an imaginary cold breeze, wiped imaginary sweat off my brow under an imaginary hot sun, and repeated the shivering and brow wiping.
She didn't catch on at first. She asked "Can't you talk?" I shook my head, tapped my collar again, and pinched my lips again. "You can't talk while wearing the collar?" I nodded. "I have noticed that you don't talk much. What would happen?" I winced and flinched. "Electric shock?" I nodded.
"So I guess you can't tell me how long you have been doing this." I repeated shivering and wiping my brow, twice. "Oh, I get it. Winter, summer, winter, summer. Two years?" I nodded.
"How did you get started?" I put my left forearm over my right forearm in front of me, palms down and flat, to suggest a judge's bench. I looked imperiously down and pronounced a totally silent legal sentencing. I whacked the nonexistent bench with an equally imaginary gavel. Then I turned away from Amy, pulled my hair aside, and let her read the "CONVICT. Prisoner" tag on the back of my collar. "Oh, that's right. You kind of came with the ship, didn't you?" I gave one quick short nod, to indicate 'Yes, kind of'.
She began to ask me a series of questions which could all be answered either Yes or No. She played this game well, and she soon had a good idea of my background. Eventually she asked "Were you really guilty as charged?" I gave her a rueful expression and nodded Yes once again.
My honesty inspired her to open up about her own background. Her father was a househusband, cleaning and cooking and acting as his wife's business manager. Her mother was a well-paid artist and interior decorator. They moved from project to project while Amy was growing up, so she had never had a long-term family home. Both of her parents were talented amateur musicians who played in bands and sang in choruses. She had known from early childhood that she would want to make a career of music herself. She hit the big time with her first song release, before she had her twentieth birthday.
Then she got down to the real nitty gritty. "I'm not exactly a volunteer for this kind of thing, either," she said, shaking her ankles to make the connecting padlock and chains jingle. "I'm an addict, to tobacco and to alcohol. After the money started rolling in, I could buy all of the booze that I wanted. I had invitations to lots of parties. When I had trouble writing a song, I paced the floor and smoked, a pack at a time, lighting the next cigarette from the butt of the last one. The tobacco was ruining my lungs and my voice. When I needed to get over my nervousness before a concert, I chugged a couple of shots of whatever was available. The concerts didn't go so well anymore. I was getting poor reviews, and drinking more to drown my disappointment in myself.
"I knew that I could do better, if only I could quit drinking. But I couldn't do it alone. And I was Amy Grandborough, the superstar. Nobody was willing to get on my case and stop me.
"And then I met My True Love. His seat was reserved next to mine in a first-class compartment on a crowded train carriage. He was not impressed at all about my being a superstar; as a matter of fact, he didn't even recognized me. He didn't care I'm six-feet-one. I've always been tall, and very pretty, and it always frightened the boys away, all through school. They felt outclassed. They didn't want to date somebody who was taller than they were. And once I became rich and famous and all it really frightened most men away. The ones who came on to me anyway were usually too stuck up to be worth my time. My True Love is different. I'm about an inch taller than he is, and I've got a lot more money, and he doesn't give a damn.
"He doesn't smoke. He hardly drinks. He won't let me have any alcohol when we are out together. I had had a few before one of our early dates, trying to deal with my nervousness. At the end of that date, he warned me that he would spank me if I had alcohol on my breath at the start of the next date. And I did, and he did. He flipped me over his knee and whacked away, and I couldn't do a thing to stop him. He's strong, in more than one sense of the word. And he cares! He cares for me! He wants me, the person, not the superstar. We never went out that night. We stayed in my flat, and I cried, and we talked, and I confessed, and I said that I would turn myself over to him without reservation if he would help me.
"And now it's official. I said 'love, honor, and obey' during my wedding, with millions of people listening. If he wants to keep me in chains, I am pledged to say yes. And I'm scared. I'm not going to have my tobacco and alcohol, my crutches, to lean on ever again.
"Tell me, are you happy? Can you be happy, leading a life in chains?"
That was a very big question. I am not very good at introspection. I hadn't really thought about my own happiness before. I stared up at the bulkhead, and I thought. If I had a time machine, and I could go back and give advice to my younger self, what would I tell myself to do to make my life come out differently?
I could have stayed on my parents' sheep farm. But I had had some bad experiences with the local boys, and I hadn't been very happy there in the first place. That was why I had left.
I could have kept my job as a sales clerk, for a pineapple a day. But that hadn't been a happy time either.
I could have turned down Captain Marie's offer of a sailing job. But then where would I have gone? And how would I ever have met My Sir? Would he have looked twice at me, if I hadn't been given to him by the judge? He had an active sex life before he got me. Since then he still had an active sex life, but he had lost all interest in other women. Would I still have the same attraction for him, if I didn't have his collar inescapably sealed around my neck?
One cruise with Captain Marie had put such dark stains on my soul that I needed to be punished. My Sir knew just how hard to punish me. I wouldn't be as happy living with anyone else.
If I wouldn't be as happy with anyone else, then I must be happy. Didn't that follow logically?
Most men and women can't enjoy sex 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. But wearing My Sir's chains is a full-time act of foreplay for me. Seeing me in those chains seems to have about the same effect on him. How could either of us do any better than that?
I must have stared at the bulkhead for about a minute, thinking about all of these things. I would bet that a smile was growing on my face the whole time. Then I turned to Amy with my smile full force, and I nodded my head very firmly. Yes, I wanted to tell her, you can be happy, leading a life in chains, if you are lucky enough to find the right man for you. I have found the right man for me. I think that your new husband is the right man for you.
She said "Really?" I nodded and tried to look convincing while still smiling. Then I tried to think of a way to explain something important to her.
I reached off to my left, and I picked up an imaginary cigarette and matchbook. I lit the cigarette and took a puff. Then I shook my head and traced a circle and diagonal slash in the air, the international symbol for "not allowed". I stubbed the cigarette out in an imaginary ashtray and pushed it away to my right.
I reached again to my left, and I picked up an imaginary glass and bottle. I poured a drink and took a sip. Then I traced another circle and diagonal slash, and I dumped the rest of my imaginary drink into a real sink (which was set into the bulkhead right behind me; why not use it?). I pushed the glass and bottle away to my right.
I reached again to my left, and I picked up an imaginary set of bondage chains. I used the chains to lock myself stretched out in an X, with my feet spread and my hands above my head. I humped the chair I was sitting in for a few seconds, and then I relaxed and gave an enormous sigh. And then I grinned at Amy.
"So you are saying no cigarettes and no drinks, but you're getting really great sex now to make up for missing them?" I gave a quick nod, but she still didn't have the entire thought. I twirled my hands to indicate forward motion, Don't stop there, and I traced a big heart in the air with both hands to show her the direction her thoughts should follow. She asked "Are you saying 'My bighearted man loves me'? And he'll be there to help me?" I nodded much more enthusiastically and gave her a broad smile. She said "You know, I think you are right. Thank you, Cindy. I'm really glad I got this chance to talk with you."
Several hours later My Sir and Amy's husband both came down from the main deck to retrieve us for the night. I faced My Sir, pulled an imaginary gag from my mouth, and tossed it aside; I used my best puppy-dog eyes and put my hands together in front as if in prayer, to signal "please". My Sir punched a button on his combined wristwatch and collar controller. My collar signaled "blurp". Then I could finally really talk with Amy.
I told her "Thank you too. I might never have realized some important things about myself if you hadn't asked me such good questions."
My Sir ordered me to go back to the cabin. He joined me there and chained me to the bed, stretched out in an X, for real. I asked him how he had done in the poker game. Who won, Mr. Saburo or Amy's husband? Neither had won. Olaf Svennson had cleaned both of them out, besides taking over a hundred dollars from My Sir.
Amy and her husband went to his station in the outback a few days later when their honeymoon cruise ended. I don't know how he treats her out there. I do know that he still treats her the same whenever they're on the ship. They have been on several cruises, usually after long and strenuous concert tours, and she still spends all of her time in chains while at sea.
She wrote a new album, called "Amy Sings Love Songs". Many music critics have called it her best work in years. It went right to the top of the charts. The no-booze, no-cigarettes, lots-of-love-and-moral-support policy has apparently been a big success.
Unless there is a divorce, she will never be as big in the gossip webzines as she used to be. Before her marriage, the webzines covered her showing up at all of the parties with the other A-list people and getting at least a little bit drunk. The headlines used to read "Whose husband is Amy hitting on now?", and "Yet another DUI for Amy", and "Photos of Amy in Her Newest Reveal-All Dress". Now when she goes on tour or to big events like awards ceremonies, she is more likely to stay with her husband in their hotel room instead of going to parties. He has become her business manager, and he travels with her on tour. He is always there for her backstage, helping her deal with her stage fright just before she performs. I expect that she drinks only what he gives her. She probably wears even more revealing outfits, but her husband is the only one who sees her in them.
A Short Comment by My Sir
I have seen only one other woman who has ever worn the expression that was on Amy's face when she looked at her bridegroom as they went ashore after her honeymoon. The expression said: You own me. I am helplessly in love with you. You can treat me however you wish, and I will still love you. Please be kind.
Our Own Wedding and Honeymoon
I'll tell this one myself.
The ceremony took place in the same courtroom where Cindy and I had been tried. One of the same judges presided. The result was a legal document issued by a Noumean court of law. The treaty about mutual acceptance of legal decisions ensured that nobody in the USA could challenge the legitimacy of our marriage.
I still treasure my memory of Cindy's expression when she looked at me on our wedding night. She was chained spread-eagled on the bed at the time. She was the other woman whose expression said: You own me. I am helplessly in love with you. You can treat me however you wish, and I will still love you. Please be kind.
I told her "I love you enough that I would have married you anyway." Then I kissed her, very gently, and then I tickled her to total exhaustion. I hugged her until she caught her breath, and then I began caressing her. Her body always seems to be more sensitive to my caresses if she is well-tickled first.
She has since told me that the night of passion as my bride was the greatest thrill of her life.
Our Honeymoon Journey
We went to Chicago, my hometown in the USA. I have sold my old place in Florida. When it is winter in Chicago, you will find us either at the cottage in Noumea City, or else on board the Coral Sea Queen.
Cindy started the journey wearing one of her usual safety orange outfits. It left her bare from just below her breasts to a bit above her hips. The cabin temperature in an airplane can be cool, so I let her have long sleeves, and a close-fitting neckline, and ankle-length pants. She wore her usual cuffs with the bright copper and nickel finish. The wrist cuffs were linked to her collar by a foot-long rod that converted the assembly into a fiddle. Her ankle cuffs were connected together by a 14-inch chain.
I changed her to USA style during our stopover in Kwajalein. Most transpacific flights stop there now. Ever since the lagoon was converted into the world's largest solar biocrude pond and the refineries were built, fuel has been less expensive there than anywhere else.
Her USA-service safety-orange prisoner suit fits more loosely than most of her clothing. It covers everything from neck to ankles, with no bare waist. Instead of her usual bondage cuffs, I put her in a regulation US-made prisoner transport kit: steel handcuffs attached in front to a leather belt, and ankle shackles with a half-meter chain. My lawyer warned me that self-appointed legal busybodies would be watching every move that I made. Nobody could accuse me of cruel and unusual punishment if the convict that I was transporting wore the exact-same transport kit as thousands of other prisoners in the USA.
We took the direct flight from Kwajalein to Los Angeles, the one with no stopover in Hawaii. The airline saves money by not burning fuel to land, taxi around an airport, and then take off and climb back to altitude, so the air fare is the same either way. Of course it does mean several more hours of being squeezed continuously into cramped seats together with 598 other people who all have little chance of getting up and walking around.
Owing to FAA safety regulations, I had to take Cindy's handcuffs and leg shackles off once the airplane door was closed on the flight to the USA. I wasn't allowed to hamper her ability to escape from the burning or sinking wreckage in case the airplane crashed. Like any official US police prisoner, she flew in a window seat so that she would have to climb over her guard - me, of course - in order to go anywhere. I thought that she would enjoy the freedom from shackles. I was wrong. Her actual reaction was "Freedom? What freedom? The slave cage in our cottage allows me more room."
On arrival in Los Angeles, I had to argue my way past Customs, and Immigration, and Transportation Security.
Customs was easy. The only unusual items I was bringing in were Cindy's restraints, and I had been careful to pick restraints that were made in the USA and hence were duty-free on re-importation.
The Immigration inspector shunted me away from the regular entry lines and called his boss, who called his boss, who called the US Embassy in Noumea, before finally accepting that Cindy's prisoner card was a valid government-issued ID from a nation on the US favored-treatment list. The process took several hours.
I had to show my prisoner-guard badge to an upper-level official in Transportation Security to convince him that I was authorized to keep Cindy in transport restraints. My lawyer had warned me that US authorities like to see badges. I didn't tell that official that Noumean prison guards don't have badges, only uniforms and ID cards. I did have a valid ID card, issued by order of the Noumean court which sentenced Cindy. But my badge had no official status at all. It was made to order for me by the same 3D printing company in Noumea Ville that had made Cindy's collar.
We took the train for the last leg of our journey, from Los Angeles to Chicago. I had had enough of being squashed into an airplane seat for a while. Besides, it gave Cindy a chance to see the scenery of the American West. It also gave both of us a better opportunity to re-set our internal clocks to Chicago time.
Soon after I became rich, I put some money into a start-up real-estate operating company which has since built several multi-use residential/shopping/office complexes. The deal included about half a per cent of the company's stock shares, and ownership of an apartment in one of the complexes. Since I own the apartment, I can remodel it however I please.
An important part of the deal for me is that my apartment is within the security perimeter of the complex. Video cameras feed images of the apartment entrance to a station where guards are on duty 24/7/365. I had expected to spend my winters in Florida, and I didn't want vandals trashing my apartment while I was away. Now, of course, I have a more important reason to have full-time guards watching my apartment.
When we arrived at the apartment, Cindy was of course still wearing her USA-style coverall and transport chains. I took her on a quick tour of the place, a tour that ended by the door of the back bedroom.
There was a fancy electronic control panel alongside that door. Most residential controls today are inexpensive flat tablets which can be programmed to look like dozens of different real panels. On those panels, virtual switches can be set by poking or sliding fingers across the display. My new panel was the latest deluxe model, with real touch-feedback buttons and levers that each do just one thing.
The unusual panel caught Cindy's attention. I explained "It controls your new cell. Like all cell controllers, it is completely hardwired. There are no portable keys that could be stolen, and no radio signals that could be intercepted, analyzed, and duplicated." I pressed my thumb against one corner of the panel. After a few seconds, the panel beeped and a green LED lit up to signal that my thumbprint had been recognized and accepted.
I opened the ordinary bedroom door. Three feet inward was a wall, apparently solid metal, with a black and tan enamel finish and a shelf sticking out at waist height from the middle. I flipped a switch on the control panel. Whir whir whirr . . thump. The middle of the wall was a remote-controlled sliding door, and it slid out of the way to the right.
I took Cindy into the cell. We looked around. The entire room was a single tan metallic-looking molded hollow space, and that included almost everything in it. There were no crevices, cabinets, drawers, or other hiding places where prisoners could keep contraband. Nothing could be broken off to be used as a weapon.
The left front had a table or desk area against the wall, with a bench to sit on while that area was being used. The left wall had some shelves. A very small shower stall occupied the left rear corner. The commode and sink were on the back wall. The right rear corner had bench seating against the wall; above that bench, some windows looked out across my outdoor patio space which is on the complex roof, with a typical cityscape beyond. All of these features were normal options for prefabricated cells like this one. But the right front corner was unique. The cell company salesman told me that it was the only queen-sized bed that had ever been molded into one of their prison cells. The only separate object in the room was the mattress for that queen-sized bed.
I ordered "Stay here." I stepped out of the room and flipped the door switch back. Whir whir whirr . . clink, and Cindy was locked in. Another switch on the control panel caused a bzzzzip, and two narrow horizontal hatches opened in the door. When she followed my next order to "Come to the door", I was able to reach in and undo her ankle shackles through the hatch near the floor, and then her waist belt and handcuffs through the waist-level hatch.
I said "Take your clothes off and pile them on the door shelf". She followed that order and I took the clothes away. Then I stepped back to the control panel and turned a knob. The black color of the panel that made up the top half of the door faded until the door was transparent. It had looked like enameled metal, but it obviously wasn't. Cindy was revealed standing naked on the other side of the door. I gave her an evil grin. She gave me her very best oh-I-am-shocked expression and used her hands to cover her breasts and crotch.
The storage closets for my apartment are right across the corridor from the bedroom that had become Cindy's cell. I transferred sheets, blankets, towels, toilet paper, a washcloth, soap, and shampoo from those storage closets to the door shelf, and I ordered "Make the bed and take a shower. You are allowed to wrap yourself in one of the bath towels." Then I left, closing the ordinary bedroom door behind me.
I was back about an hour later, carrying a small tray of cookies. The time was almost midnight. My hair was still wet from my own shower. I wore nothing but a bathrobe. Whir whir whirr . . thump. I walked into the cell.
Whir whir whirr . . clink.
Cindy was on the bed, covered as I had suggested by a bath towel. I stood and grinned at her, and I waited for her reaction.
Her expression became puzzled. What was I waiting for? And then it hit her. She said "Didn't you say that the cell was controlled entirely by that panel on the corridor wall? Now that you are in here, how are you going to open the door?"
I answered "I'm not. I can't. This cell is now in total lock-down. There is no way to get out. I'll admit that there is a panic button on that wall to declare an emergency, but if either of us does that, the apartment will soon be filled with security patrolmen from the complex, and cops from the city, and firefighters and EMTs and complex managers. There better be a real emergency. If not, then I will take a serious kick in the wallet, and I might have to spend some time in another jail cell downtown. If it's your fault then I will see to it that you regret having done it. If you push that button, it better be because I am having a heart attack and I can't push it myself."
"So how does this lock-down end?"
"The main panel in the security office is also connected to this door by hardwire. The complex security staff is authorized to open this door during the day between seven a.m. and midnight, if I ask over the intercom on that wall and if I give the guard my security phrase. The phrase is in French; you could never say it well enough, at a low enough pitch, to convince the voice recognition software that you are me. At night between midnight and seven a.m., nobody is authorized to open that door. It was open at midnight, so they shut it."
"So now I am trapped in a jail cell with a raving sadistic sex fiend." Cindy grinned at me.
I answered "A raving sadistic torturing sex fiend. Let's try a few tortures. I will crush you under heavy weight." I jumped up on the bed, pushed her down on her back, and stretched my body so that all of my weight was on top of her. "Next comes interfering with your normal breathing." My lips clamped down on hers.
I held that position for at least a minute. Then I backed off and asked "Are you in agony yet?"
Cindy wriggled one leg out from under me. She bent that knee, pushed down with her foot, pushed up on one of my shoulders while pulling down on the other side, and she managed to roll us both over until she was on top. I didn't fight her very hard. She said "Let's see how you like having your breathing interfered with", and her lips clamped down on mine.
That was the start of the first of many wonderful nights of passion on a queen-size bed while we are locked up together in a cell. It feels very different from passion between a man who is free and a woman who is chained to the bed. The bed is wide enough so that we can both be comfortable, but narrow enough to keep us touching each other. I am not sure whether one flavor of passion is better or worse than the other. I like them both.
My lawyer had warned me that self-appointed legal busybodies would be watching me. Soon after I arrived, they sicced a couple of Department of Prisons inspectors on me. My facilities, and my treatment of Cindy, had to be up to contemporary standards.
The inspectors got into the only elevator that can be used to reach my apartment. It went up to halfway between floors, and stopped. I ordered the inspectors to "Show your badges and ID cards to the camera in the roof of the car. Hold them closer. Wait a short while." I phoned the Department of Prisons to confirm that the inspectors were legitimate before allowing the elevator to complete its journey. When I greeted them, I observed that "If a phony inspector, or any other unauthorized person, were to try to reach this apartment, the elevator would have gone back down without ever reaching my place, and they would be arrested for trespassing by the building security patrol." The inspectors couldn't fault me for insufficient perimeter protection.
There is a Department of Justice Standard on Design and Construction of Prefabricated Semi-Permanent Prison Facilities. The usual locations for these facilities are in boom towns where new permanent jails haven't been built yet, or in boom towns that are expected to become bust towns when a construction project such as a big bridge is finished. I didn't want anything to be installed that couldn't be taken back out again if I ever wanted to sell my apartment, which is why I had ordered my special semi-permanent cell from a regular supplier of that type of equipment. Of course my supplier makes sure that their products comply with the DOJ standard. The inspectors couldn't fault my holding facilities.
There is a textbook on Proper Treatment of Prisoners, written for guards and prison administrators, that collects and summarizes the decisions of the courts on the rights of prisoners in the USA. I had read it, and I supplied Cindy with access so that she could read it.
-- Three square meals a day: check.
-- Proper clothing, bath towels, etc. laundered once a day: check.
-- Minimum space per prisoner: check, Cindy has more than required.
-- Access to entertainment, which could be censored: check, her cell has a book reader and a video screen on the wall.
-- Opportunity to learn an honest trade: check, Cindy did most of the cooking. She was supposed to be improving her skills as a short-order cook. Allowing her out of her cell while I guarded her did not cause a risk of her escaping. She wore her leg shackles in the kitchen, I had high-security locks on the main entry door to the apartment, and I had a secure door installed between the front hall and the rest of the place.
-- Daily exercise: check, I took her for walks in the mall on the ground floor of the complex each evening after the stores closed. Of course she took these walks in full police-model restraints.
-- Restraints used only as appropriate, check: I used only standard police-model cuffs and belt on her, and I did not keep her in these cuffs when she was locked in her cell.
-- Same-sex guards, NO check: but that regulation obviously would not apply when the only close guard who watched her was also married to her. That variance had been approved by the court which sentenced Cindy. The inspectors hemmed and hawed, and read the copies of the legal documents from the court in Noumea. One of them finally asked Cindy "Do you want to be married to this man?"
Cindy answered "Yes, for three reasons. One, I love him. Two, he loves me. Three, a divorce would probably mean extradition back to Noumea to face a death sentence there."
The inspectors finally accepted that Cindy's circumstances in this respect were unusual, even unique. They turned in a report which silenced the legal busybodies. We haven't been bothered since.
Since Our Honeymoon
The Noumea Maritime Patrol no longer owns their own sail training ship. Instead they take over the Coral Sea Queen for six weeks every autumn, according to their calendar, which is every spring in Chicago or in Japan. The Patrol switches off and dismantles all of the automation on the ship, and their cadets handle the sails and rigging the old-fashioned way.
Saburo was delighted to make this arrangement with the Patrol. He and his women need vacation time, just like everybody else. They travel back to Japan.
As far as Cindy and I are concerned, our first trip to Chicago was a honeymoon. We have been back, on vacation, during the Patrol sail training interlude every year since.
These trips are a vacation for Cindy from the kinds of close confinement that she lives in while in Noumea Ville or on the Coral Sea Queen. There are no girl rails, no slave cages, no shackles hanging from the ceiling, no two-foot-long floor chains requiring her to crawl, no exhibitions of nudity or near-nudity in front of anybody else but me.
She slept very poorly during her first few nights in her Chicago cell. She finally asked me to strap her to the bed each night after the passion faded, since that is the way she has slept ever since the court assigned her to me. I bought a set of beginner's-bondage straps, which she could escape from if she really wanted to. Legal busybodies would have no grounds to challenge me if they ever found out about those straps. She wears them most nights, and she sleeps soundly while wearing them, and she still waits for me to release her each morning.
So she is my prisoner, and she is my lover, and she is my wife. What is the most important thing that she is to me? I wondered about that. I think that a first-year legal student working for the Census Bureau identified the best answer.
We were in Chicago a few years back at the time of the decennial census. I hadn't filled out any Census Bureau forms, since I was busy at sea until past the deadline for returning them. A young part-time agent came to ask me the relevant questions in person. The agent arrived just as we got back from our evening walk. Cindy was wearing her prisoner coverall, handcuffs, waist belt, and ankle shackles, in the living room of my apartment.
The agent listened to our descriptions of our life together, watched our behavior, and exclaimed "You are treating her as if she were your slave."
I answered "That might reasonably be argued. So what? Do you know the Thirteenth Amendment?" I had long since memorized it against the possibility that a discussion like this might occur. I quoted " 'Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.' "
I continued "Cindy committed some crimes. She has been duly convicted. So the Thirteenth Amendment does not apply in her case."
The agent thought about that for a few moments. Then he said "I will definitely have to use the Remarks area of the form for this one."
He must have done a great job of writing those remarks. Nobody argued with his conclusion, all the way up to the federal level.
Seats in the U.S. House of Representatives are allocated to the states based on population. In 1787, when the Constitution was written, the southern states wanted slaves to be included in the official population totals. The northern states wanted slaves to be ignored. The drafters compromised and decided to include all of the free people plus a fraction of the slaves.
That provision hadn't been applied since the Thirteenth Amendment went into force. There weren't any slaves to apply it to. But it is still in the Constitution.
Today the official population of the USA is 496,218,759.6. That's right. My Cindy is the ".6" .
Remarks by the Author:
Several items mentioned in this story may be seen as far-future Star-Trek-era gadgetry by the people who read it soon after it is written. I disagree. I remind you that the communicators which Kirk, Spock, and McCoy carried on their belts are now in most people's pockets and pocketbooks. We call them "cell phones" now.
This story was written in winter 2012-13. If you found it in a ten-year-old online archive, you may wonder why I mention 3D printing in this context. As of spring 2013, it still seemed that everything was being made in China, in large production lots. I believe that this will no longer be true in ten years. The revolution is that close.
Shima Seiki knitting machines can now convert yarn to gloves in one step, under computer control, with no intermediate cutting and sewing. These machines are too narrow to make blouses or shirts, but making wider knitting machines should not be a major technical challenge. If an enlarged Shima Seiki machine were installed in a mall store, and if it were properly coupled to a laser measuring system that could obtain the exact dimensions of anything, then that mall store would be able to make garments direct from yarn to exact fit while the intended wearer ate a snack. If somebody at JCPenney is paying attention to the possibility, they may yet be able to save the company.
B9 Energy is a real company. They operate wind farms in the UK. They are sponsoring research toward the building of a 21st-century commercial sailing ship, working with Scottish universities in wind tunnels and ship model tanks. They are drawing on experience with commercial motor vessels and also with racing sail yachts. If they decide to licence their technology, "PowerFurl" would be a good trademark for them. I hereby donate the idea.
ExxonMobil has a current long-term research program on obtaining crude biofuel from algae. They are still a long way from being able to scale that up to the size of the Kwajalein lagoon, or any other lagoons in that area. If such an action were seriously proposed, I suspect that half of the eco-freaks would scream in agony at the loss of biodiversity in the lagoons, while the other half would demand quick action to suppress global warming. The natives of Kwajalein might get the last word. I have assumed that they would generally prefer to be as rich as Arab oil sheiks, and would therefore approve the proposal.
We know for certain that it will take more than sixty years from first mention in science fiction until fuel really is made from algae and other plant life beneath the sun on South Pacific islands. But we know that only because the prediction is already more than sixty years old. Needle, by Hal Clement, was published in 1949 as a serial in Astounding Science Fiction. It's still available as a paperback through Amazon.com. It's a good story even though it is not at all erotic.
Copyright© 2013 by YFNR. All rights reserved.