The Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira

THE PERILOUS ADVENTURES OF ISABEL AND MOIRA

By Sailor 861

Isabel Metcalfe's nipples and pussy were still singing their sexy songs when she and husband Peter arrived home from their bondage weekend at Hotel Balmoral, near Cape Wrath, Scotland, with best friends Moira and Graham MacPeak that summer in 1975. Married just 1½ months, Isabel's sex life had taken stellar leaps forward in quality, duration and frequency since she arrived home in early June with her ankles chained following an alien encounter on a dark country road just two miles from her door. (See Through Night to Light

Afraid and anxious at first about her strange, new shackles and the effects they would have on her physically, sexually and emotionally, she confronted her doubt and committed herself to live with – and accept – her bondage when it became known they were made of a metal harder than any known on Earth. They could not be removed, she was told. Then, days later, she was kidnapped and transported, hogtied, to an East African country where she effected escape, in chains, and returned to Scotland relatively unscathed. She was later offered a position as a lab assistant/consultant in the metallurgy division of the University of Edinburgh's engineering faculty and her second week on the job would start tomorrow. Dr. Michael Ledstone had arranged for her employment to study this bizarre, new metal and the unique design of her shackles and with Mrs. Metcalfe in the office next door, he was free to conduct spectroscopic examinations and x-rays to his heart's content. He promised Isabel would be the first to review his discussion paper on his proposal to the university board of governors to submit a new substance for inclusion in science's Periodic Table of Elements which, when approved, would make him and his chained colleague "rich beyond means," he said. "Whatever that means," Isabel said as she snapped out of her daydream, finishing up the dinner dishes.

"Wha'cha thinkin', Is.?", Peter said, in his Canadian East Coast drawl from the kitchen table. He loved to sit and watch as his bride moved so effortlessly in bondage. Her braless, 38-C breasts, with 1½-in.-diameter seamless rings inserted with surgical precision through her nipples – courtesy of the ETs – were an ongoing source of fascination and stimulation.

"It looked like your mind was light-years away." "Yes," Isabel replied, "I was just thinking about work in the lab tomorrow. You know, the first week went by so quickly. I received my orientation, I was interviewed, got the paperwork signed, sealed and delivered and everybody was just so nice. But some of the snoopy staff and students would gaggle in the hallway outside my door just to get a glimpse of my chains. I would look up, smile and they would all turn bright red, like Scots do when embarrassed, or angry, and turn away. One young stud even asked me for tea at 3 one day but I turned him down smartly." Isabel finished tidying up in the kitchen and noticed the hall clock chiming 9 p.m. It was Sunday, September 1, 1975, and another work week also lay just ahead for Moira MacPeak, Isabel's best friend, who had agreed to have her ankles chained for one year during the bondage weekend just past. (See Moira's Story) Down the road, Moira MacPeak, 33, was going through the same physiological symptoms as her pal, Isabel, 35, just a mile away. She and husband, Graham, also had a glorious, sexy long weekend that culminated in her agreement to have leg shackles welded on her trim ankles for 52 weeks. Tonight, she was practising walking about the living room to get ready to start her new position as administrative assistant in the offices of the local woolen mill in the small western Scotland town five miles away from their country homes. The mill agreed to transfer her off the machinery floor, as a "safety risk," to the general office when it became known she would be coming to work in chains.

A vaguely-written subsection in the mill's 75-year-old Terms of Employment allowed female employees to come to work wearing modest jewellery, such as rings and bracelets as well as unspecified "decorative chains," provided they were not a risk to the safe, effective and efficient operation of the mill's machinery floor. Her husband watched Moira dutifully from his armchair and noted her motions were becoming more fluid, graceful and relaxed as she got used to the sensations of taking 18-in., chain-snubbed strides. By 9:30, Sunday, Sept. 1, both couples were ready for bed. Sexually satiated from the activities of Friday and Saturday nights at the strange, erotic Hotel Balmoral, they were content to snuggle their way to sleep. Bedside clocks in the Metcalfe and MacPeak households clattered together at exactly 6:30 a.m. and Isabel and Moira swung their chained legs out of bed to get ready for work. Moira chose a new linen business suit she had just purchased for her new office job and Isabel picked her favourite white translucent silk blouse and straight grey skirt that showed her braless, 38-26-39 figure to best effect. She, like Moira, was comfortable going braless – Isabel wore an African-style loincloth under her skirt while Moira's loins were bare – and their breasts, as well as their chains, became the subject of the men's water-cooler talk and quiet, curious glances and envious stares from female staff at the mill, at Edinburgh U and pubs, offices, buildings and homes across town and throughout western Scotland. Moira and Isabel refused to acknowledge the glances, open-mouthed stares and whispers that abounded, and they sailed through their first day and second week of work respectively, returning home tired but satisfied about 6 p.m. to watch the evening news and get supper going before watching a bit of telly before bed. Isabel walked easily into the kitchen, her ankle chains clattering noisily on the vinyl tiles, and saw the registered letter Peter had left for her on the kitchen table when he arrived home before her.

Isabel ripped the envelope open and read the watermarked, classy blue stationery:

Balmoral Hotel Cape Wrath, Scotland 31 August 1975 Dear Isabel: We were so pleased to receive you and your husband, Peter, at our hotel this past weekend and trust the accommodations and amenities were to your satisfaction. Dr. Byron Lord, of Glasgow, an eminent surgeon and psychologist, will be with us next weekend and has asked whether you and your friend, Moira MacPeak, would like to be his guests at our facility this weekend, Sept. 6 - 7. He is researching the physical, psychological and emotional effects of long-term restraint on the human body and would like to interview you and your friend as an important part of this project as soon as possible. If you agree, we will provide free transportation to and from Cape Wrath and, of course, all meals and lodging will be at our expense. Please feel free to call me, or Michael, at 01-224-265280, 9 - 5, Monday - Saturday. Thanks. We look forward to your affirmative reply. I have sent this letter to Moira as well. Yours sincerely, Sheila Baker. Isabel thought: Well, that's very generous of them; I wonder if Moira wants to go. I wouldn't mind another weekend up there and I am sure Peter would not mind a weekend apart. Peter walked in an hour later and Isabel played her cards to the fullest. She greeted him at the door with a warm hug, snuggling close to him so her breasts flattened hard against his muscular chest. "Mm-m, what's up, doll?" Peter said, kissing her on the lips. "Peter, dear, I want to go back up to Balmoral Hotel with Moira this weekend. Is that all right with you?" Peter sat in the living room and wondered. Moira and Isabel could not get into too much mischief by themselves at that remote hotel, could they? He wondered. "Let me think about it, Is. Call Moira and see if she wants to go." Isabel did so and Moira was agreeable, as along as Isabel would go with Peter's approval. She said Graham had agreed, with reservations; Isabel relayed this information and Peter acquiesced. "Yes, my dear; go with my blessings," Peter said. He would come to rue those words deeply, for the rest of his life, in less than a week. "You and Moira go and have the time and adventure of your life." He smiled quietly, unaware those words would ring too true to life in just four short days. Isabel showed Peter her letter from Sheila, the Balmoral Hotel proprietor, and Peter nodded his silent assent. The trip was on and Isabel and Moira were all smiles after Isabel phoned to say they would be coming up at the weekend. Meanwhile, at Balmoral Hotel, 150 miles northeast of their west coast country homes, Dr. Lord, Sheila and Michael Baker were comparing notes about last details to subdue, bind and "surgically alter" Isabel and Moira in preparation for delivery to the kidnapper-couriers, Catherine and Joanne, as requested by a powerful white-slavery cartel which had contracted their services.

Five-hundred-thousand pounds sterling, half the agreed amount, had already been deposited in unnumbered Swiss bank accounts in each of their names as down payment with the balance to follow on delivery – Isabel and Moira were to be C.O.D. slaves. Dr. Lord had brought along his surgical equipment and anesthesia suite; a wide variety of IV equipment, antibiotics, anti-inflammatories and analgesics had been delivered and unpacked; specially-screened medical staff had been hired and was to arrive at the appointed time, Friday night, Sept. 6, 1975, to be briefed on their duties by Dr. Lord and the Bakers; and, finally, Ned, a Tobermory metalworker, welder and artificer, had been engaged and briefed on the job requirements -- his silence assured with a generous sum of Scottish pounds – all paid for through the special joint bank account set up in the names of Blaker and Ford, at the Scottish national bank, Aberdeen.

"Well, I think all is in readiness, or nearly so, on our part, Dr. Lord," said Sheila. "What about your operating room and medical arrangements? Are you quite satisfied?" "Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Baker," said the handsome, fierce-eyed surgeon. "I have arranged for the staff to be at hand when needed, my OR is nearly ready and all post-operative care facilities, drugs and equipment are here and ready to be set up in the cells adjoining my operating theatre." Dr. Lord, recently disbarred from the Scottish medical society for professional misconduct, was a highly-skilled general surgeon with a background in clinical psychology. He disguised his psychotic/sadistic predilections well. Targeted by the Bakers to carry out the special bondages and surgeries required by the white slavers, he was the ideal man for the job -- sworn to silence but driven by avarice, money and power. "All we need now are the persons of Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe and Mrs. Moira MacPeak," the surgeon said, with a sinister glint in his ice-cold, blue eyes. His palms started to sweat in anticipation and there were only four days to go until they were scheduled to arrive, Friday, Sept. 6, 1975, about 10 p.m., well after the medical staff had arrived, briefed and gone to bed. He imagined what he was going to do with all that additional loot that would be stashed in his Swiss bank account after these little surgeries were completed – probably in less than three hours – this weekend.

A million quid for three hours' work; not bad, he said to himself. And most, if not all, of it could be done by someone with far-less experience than his. He chuckled grimly at the incentives to get this job done, quickly, safely and efficiently, and committed himself to keep uppermost the health and well-being of the slaves-to-be that would soon come under his demented attentions. At least that part of Dr. Lord's twisted code of medical ethics had not deserted him. But what happened to their safety and well-being after he finished and turned over to the post-op people and the couriers were none of his affair.

LOST, LONG WEEKEND

Ninety-six hours to the minute, at 10 p.m., Friday, Sept. 6, Isabel and Moira drove up the Hotel Balmoral driveway and parked their little black Austin Mini Minor in the lot nearby. They were dressed to the nines: Isabel wore her best grey, three-piece business suit with a straight skirt that fell to three in. above her knees, the grey skirt highlighting the steel of her alien ankle chains nicely, while Moira chose her "little black dress," a tight, little woollen number that showed off her 36C-24-37 braless figure and her man-made, welded ankle shackles extremely well. The women's chains clashed and clinked as they made their way over the gravel roadway to the front stairs but they did not seem to mind the distraction. It seemed they had just left as they were met by Sheila and Michael, the proprietors, in the lobby.

"Hello, Isabel and Moira; we are so glad you've come again," Sheila said, as she shook their hands warmly. Michael hung up the phone as they came in and stood in the background by the registration desk at the rear of the lobby looking for any telltale signs of a setup or that the slaves-to-be had been tipped to the scheme. There were, of course, no signs. Everything was in order and going like clockwork. So far. "Hello, Michael," Isabel and Moira chimed together, waving at him. "Nice to see you again." Michael nodded and smiled enigmatically.

"Hello, you two; I hope you have a nice rest tonight. Tomorrow looks like a very busy and interesting day for you with Dr. Lord who will be with us momentarily." Michael reddened as he paused to consider his near-faux pas. "This way, ladies," Sheila said. "Let me show you to your rooms. You must be tired after that three-hour journey from the west coast to 'way up here." Sheila was wearing her ankle shackles from the previous weekend and Isabel wondered whether they were welded. They didn't appear to be, at first glance. Oh well, Isabel said to herself. Three pairs of leg shackles clinked, clashed and clattered on the polished hardwood floor as Sheila led the way to their adjoining rooms. Once unpacked, handbags on dresser tables and settled in, Moira came into Isabel's room with a quiet rustle of links and sat on the bed. "This should be interesting, Isabel; all day with a surgeon tomorrow," Moira said. "I've never had that long a time with any doctor, ever, and all he wants is to talk about how we manage in these chains. It's not all that bad after all, I've discovered. How about you? Have you really gotten used to being chained all the time?" Isabel nodded and smiled. "Not exactly. I'll go into that in more detail but first, Moira, do you ever get that intuitive feeling things are not what they should be – that something's just not right – but you can't put your finger on it?" "Yes, occasionally." "There's something about this whole visit that strikes oddly. Why would Dr. Lord want to meet us up here? Why not in his offices? Who is he, anyway? And what is his involvement with the Bakers? And, most important, why were our husbands not invited? All this worries me – but I don't know why. "Let's sleep on it," Moira offered.

Two floors directly below them, the makeshift operating room sat in readiness for two unsuspecting women.

Isabel and Moira chatted about "girlfriend" things, the work week just past, their husbands and sons, and decided to go to bed after an hour. It was dark, late and they wanted to look their best tomorrow. "Good night, Is.," Moira said. "See you in the a.m." "G'night, Mo." Isabel and Moira undressed in their rooms, put on their nightgowns and crawled into bed. The women saw the same notes on their pillows:

Balmoral Hotel We have attached a collar and long chain to the bedframe. They are under the left pillow and the key is in the nightstand drawer. Enjoy. S and M, proprietors. "Ye-e-ah, why not?" Isabel thought, as she withdrew the collar and long, medium-weight chain from under the pillow. She expertly hefted the shiny steel collar to her neck, closed the two halves and inserted the padlock through the holed flanges in front. She pushed the hasp of the little brass lock through the perfectly-aligned holes and pushed it secure with a sharp snap, chaining herself in bed for the night. She had forgotten the key! "Well, no one can take me away from the hotel tonight like this," she said aloud. "Not if they don't have the key." Moira declined the collar and both women were soon sound asleep. Sheila called the two women at 7:30 next morning for breakfast and Isabel's steel collar was unlocked by Sheila who gave her a pleasant smile and pat on the head before leaving the room. Isabel and Moira put on their suit and dress and walked to the dining room, fresh after a good night's sleep and hot, invigorating showers.

Their faces shone and their smiles dazzled as they greeted the Bakers and Dr. Lord in the dining room.

The five, seated at a window table, introduced themselves and Moira and Isabel were at first shy to meet such a distinguished surgeon, with such pervasive, glinting-cold eyes, to talk about their bondage experiences. "Tea?" Sheila asked. "Yes, please," Moira and Isabel chorused. Sheila rose to the nearby buffet – her ankles were unchained today – got the brewed teapot and carefully poured Isabel and Moira cupfuls of the beverage laced with enough powerful benzodiazepines to put a horse to sleep. "Lemon?" "Please." Isabel and Moira were inveterate tea drinkers and they enjoyed savoring the delicious Twinings. Today, it had a slight, chemical taste but that didn't matter. Twinings was still the best tea in the world. "M-mm, delicious," Moira said. "There's lemon and something else I can't define." She took another, a larger sip and the room started to swim. Isabel's vision also started to blur after her second drink and, in 15 seconds, they knew something was seriously wrong as they tried to stand up from the table. Off-balance, with chained ankles and their brains being put to sleep by the powerful drug, Isabel's and Moira's knees turned to water as they tripped on their ankle chains and collapsed in a heap in the middle of the polished-oak dining room floor. Dr. Lord waited a minute, casually walked over to the pair, opened an eyelid on each attractively made-up, still face to examine pupil dilation and pronounced: "Yep, they're out. Colder than mackerels." He took each woman's pulse and confirmed they had slowed nicely in their narcosis.

They were ready for the OR as he injected a mild sedative. Two burly medical porters suddenly appeared with gurneys and easily lifted Isabel and Moira onto the wheeled cots. In less than five minutes they were downstairs in the well-organized and -equipped OR in the last 8 X 10 cell on the left– the same one Isabel and Peter had occupied just last weekend – and two nurses assisted Dr. Lord with the surgical prep. Their clothes were cut off and taken away to be burned as they were placed supine on the gurney which had been secured to ringbolts in the disinfected stone floor.

Dr. Lord excused the nurses and started to arrange his equipment and the patients. Moira was on a gurney at his left; four feet away, Isabel at his right hand. He could complete a procedure on one and immediately begin the next. The dual anesthesia suite was at the head of the gurneys, the sterilized-instrument tray at hand between the two and a professional OR light had been installed overhead to provide perfect lighting. Everything was in readiness and Dr. Lord began dictating to a tape recorder.

"Two white, female patients, unconscious, sedated, ages 35 and 33; one is five-ft. two-in., approx. 110 lbs., with ankle shackles welded on; the other, five-ft. four-in., approx. 115 lbs., with pierced nipples and ankle shackles of a type I have never seen before. No apparent deformities, good limbs, musculature and tone; evidence of previous childbirths, breasts healthy, normal, slightly pendulous, well-formed nipples bilaterally; good general health, BP 120/70, p. 60 (No. 1) and 122/72, p. 62 (No. 2), at 8 a.m., Saturday, Sept. 7, 1975. Both have been secured to gurneys with sterile cable ties through their chains. The operations now begin. I have just completed removal of pubic hair with razors and depilatory creams. Electrolysis to follow. Heart monitors, saline-solution and anesthetic IV lines in place; oxygen administered. Full GA established; expected duration, three hours; all vital signs normal."

Dr. Lord then bathed Isabel's and Moira's vaginal areas with betadine, a yellow topical antiseptic, and pierced Isabel's and Moira's labia majora bilaterally, twice, at 3/8th-in. intervals, with a long, thin scalpel, clamped the bleedings with small hemostats and inserted a two-in.-diameter, 1/8th-in.-thick tungsten-steel ring through each, closing each with a powerful forceps and welding the closures with a special surgical-steel-welding apparatus. Isabel and Moira were effectively rendered chaste by piercing – time elapsed: 3.5 minutes. Lord paused a few moments to check for bleeding at the pierces, saw none and carried on. He failed to hear a small hemostat fall off the tray onto a mat on the stone floor.

The mad surgeon then attached a three-ft. length of 1/8th-in.-thick, oblong-linked stainless-steel chain to each woman's lower vaginal ring with another, slightly heavier surgical-steel ring, which he again welded shut, and connected the chain similarly to the centre link of Isabel's ankle chain, leaving Moira's chain unattached to her ankles temporarily – time elapsed: three minutes. Dr. Lord paused. No one stirred and the only sounds were hums from the heart/BP monitors. The women's bare breasts rose and fell slowly, evenly and regularly. Everything was in order, except for the errant hemostat. Dr. Lord then began breast augmentations on Moira and Isabel, as requested by the slavers: he had easily decided, based on Moira's 36C breast size, that 750 cc soft, but durable, silicone-rubber sacks could be implanted without difficulty and each filled with 1000cc of saline solution. Isabel's 38C breast size could probably accommodate 1000 cc sacs, filled with 1200 cc saline. The implants would produce Hollywood-style heavy bosoms, Lord thought, and that Mrs. Metcalfe and Mrs. MacPeak would, most likely, have 45G- to 50G-sized breasts, which would look "exceptionally large on their petite frames," he thought. But these procedures were requested and he was determined to live up to the terms of his contract. Dr. Lord began by making 1½-in. incisions in each woman's armpits.

Lifting the breast tissue, he created pockets in the chest/breast area and carefully placed the sacks under their pectoral muscles. He then pumped in measured quantities of saline, carefully watching their breasts grow in volume before his eyes, and quickly closed the necks of the sacks and sutured the incisions -- time elapsed: one hour, 30 seconds. The surgeon, now working against the clock, stimulated Moira's long nipples into erection, pierced each with a 14-gauge needle, inserted 1½-in. rings through each, welded them closed and welded a 16-in. length of light surgical-steel chain to both rings. He turned around and attached an identical chain to Isabel's pre-existing nipple rings – time elapsed: five minutes, 10 seconds. The methodical Dr. Lord continued to dictate as he worked and looked up at his patients' vital signs monitors. All normal. "Bring in the metalworker," Dr. Lord called finally.

Ned Fianders of Tobermory, Scotland, had never been in an OR in his life and felt awkward as he wheeled his oxyacetylene-torch kit down the hallway in surgical greens. Michael Baker, the proprietor, signalled for him to go in. "They're yours; you have 25 minutes," Dr Lord said curtly, as Ned set down his sterilized tools. He quickly brought up the prefabricated, tungsten-steel collars to be welded onto Moira's and Isabel's necks. They would be snug: 6 1/4-in.-diameter, 1/8th-in. thick, 1-in. wide, with a 3/4-in. staple affixed solidly to the front. He slipped them onto their necks, closed them with a large metalworker's tool, went outside and came back in, his torch lit with a bright-blue flame. He placed an asbestos cloth between the women's collars and their neck and had the collars securely welded shut with blue-grey seams along the rear curvatures which were cooling satisfactorily in three minutes.

Ned then used large boltcutters to remove Moira's ankle shackles, welded a set of 18-in., tungsten-steel ankle chains in their place and completed their permanent steel bondage by welding pairs of 12-in., shiny tungsten shackles onto their wrists – total time elapsed: 20 minutes. "You're excused, with thanks," said Dr. Lord, as he completed attaching Moira's vagina-to-ankles chain exactly as he had secured her friend's. Fianders left in a hurry. He had never had such a job before in his 20 years of welding. He needed a drink – fast – but Michael Baker had other plans as Ned emerged from the OR cell. "I'll walk you to your truck, Ned," Michael said, fingering the blue-black .357 Magnum in his belt. They walked outside into the early-September Saturday morning sunshine and Michael let Ned move ahead three paces. Michael stopped, spread his legs, pulled the pistol and – Bang, Bang – Ned, 36, father of two small girls, fell dead on the grass, two tidy, half-in. holes blackening the upper rear curve of his skull; his forehead, sinuses, eye sockets, nose and upper cheekbones smashed utterly by the tumbling, heavy, hollow-nosed slugs which sped out to sea to bury themselves in a North Atlantic swell. In the cellblock, Dr. Lord heard a muffled bam, bam, nodded knowingly and began the "permanent-gagging" phase of the devilish work that would make him rich beyond imagination.

The 45-year-old surgeon was given instructions to place 3½-in.-diameter, stainless-steel ring gags behind their upper and lower front teeth, securing them with surgical wire through interstices of their upper and lower canine and premolar teeth at the 11, 1, 5 and 7 o'clock positions. This would ensure their mouths would heal and later be ready for any intrusion – from a flying insect to a cock – against which they were totally helpless.

It would also ensure Isabel and Moira would be unable to speak clearly, considering their destination and destinies – Ushwant, East Africa, to become field beasts of burden. Ushwant was a nation known to slavery for thousands of years, Dr. Lord had been informed, and Isabel and Moira would soon become a part of that nation's sad legacy. The only significant changes to their facial features were the perpetual looks of astonishment expressed by their perfectly O-shaped mouths, propped open by the 3½-in. rings. Time elapsed: one hour, 23 minutes. Dr. Lord looked at his stopwatch and noted 2.57.40, two minutes, 20 seconds, short of the three-hour deadline. "Nurses!" he called brusquely. Two teams of three nurses strode in quickly and disconnected Moira's and Isabel's IV lines, Foley catheters and sticky monitor-contact pads and wheeled the gurneys into the adjacent cell which was done over as an ICU. Isabel and Moira would sleep for another three hours before waking to discover Dr. Lord's intricate, evil work. The anesthetic ensured the last memory they had was of sipping tea in the dining room and feeling ill. The six nurses, all sworn to secrecy, had signed papers to indicate they had read patients' statements, forged over Isabel's and Moira's signatures that appeared in the hotel's registration book, stating they had "requested" the surgeries of their own free will to become bondage models and actors in the UK and US, and that they wanted to live in bondage 24/7 so that they would be more attractive to their husbands and marketable to the B and D community. Two young nurses attended the two unconscious, permanently-chained and -gagged women and pursed their lips as they drew sheets up over their naked bodies to their collarbones.

"Why they want to be chained now is beyond me," one nurse said to the other. "But we're being paid for this, and chains are what they said they want, so let's do it. The money's right." The other nodded.

They attached chains and locks to Isabel's and Moira's collars, handcuffs and ankle shackles, securing them to the corners of their gurneys, then passed a loop of chain twice around each woman's waist and locked it underneath the cot. "A bull elephant in a bad mood could not get free of all that," the chatty nurse said. Isabel and Moira slept on as the nurses reconnected their intravenous lines that coursed analgesic, antibiotic and sedative through their veins. Chains and IV tubes abounded as the nurses left the two women, silent, motionless, still unaware what had happened to them. Isabel's and Moira's IV supply bags were nearly empty when a late-model black sports car with professional kidnappers, Catherine and Joanne, pulled up to the hotel's main entrance. Known as "Women in Black," they were attired head to toe in the colour of the night – their tight, braless sweaters and hip-hugging jeans displaying the shapely, muscular figures of years of bodybuilding. "This must be the place," said Catherine, shutting the engine of the powerful little MG. "Our 'patients' are downstairs. Let's find 'em and get the hell out of here. I don't like northern Scotland – too fuckin' cold." Catherine 36, of London, and Joanne, 34, Exeter, Eng., walked into the hotel, found Michael and Sheila Baker talking to Dr. Lord about the surgeries and the disposal of Ned Fianders's body in a 35-ft.-deep firepit dug for that purpose. "Hello," said Joanne to the trio, who looked as one at the heavy firepower they packed on their hips. "I'm Joanne, this is Catherine, and we're here for Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak. Are they ready? Or can we see them?" She caressed her pistol grip sexually. "No, they are not ready," Dr. Lord said, "and yes, you can see them, provided you put on surgical gowns."

The kidnappers had never heard of this kink before, shrugged and followed Dr. Lord downstairs into the cellblock OR/ICU where a pile of green uniforms sat on a small table on the left. They put on drab surgical greens and Dr. Lord escorted them into the 2nd cell on the left. The two female kidnappers, each packing a Walther PPK 9 mm semiautomatic pistol with 15-round mags and 100 rounds in pouches, had been engaged by a white-slavery cartel, based in a 15th-Century Ushwanti fortress/prison, to subdue, bind, gag, crate and transport two women by plane to East Africa via van to Prestwick where they would meet an anonymous contact with information to board a private chartered jet with their cargoes – Isabel and Moira. Outside, another, larger black car with three men inside drove up quickly, silently, and parked beside the MG. The three got out and disappeared into the shrubbery at the sides and rear of the hotel. Catherine and Joanne had been hardened by five years of kidnapping and transporting women of all ages – 18 to 75, as Catherine was always saying – taken by them as "stock" for the powerful international slavery ring which employed the two. But they were hardly prepared for what they saw: Isabel and Moira were just coming out of their anesthetics and could barely see. Isabel tried to turn her head to see where she was and heard the shink as her chain moved slightly. She tried to move her arms and could only move them a few inches in any direction. Moira was still asleep. Isabel closed her eyes again, thinking it was all a dream. "Why are their mouths propped open like that?" Catherine asked Dr. Lord. "They have been permanently gagged, chained and rendered chaste by piercings, in accordance with requirements relayed to us, and me, by your parent organization," Dr. Lord said. "When will they be free to travel?" "In one day." "How are they chained?" "They have neck collars, handcuffs with a 12-in. chain and 18-in. leg shackles welded on. One, Isabel, I think her name is, was already wearing ankle shackles of a type I have never seen before. "They are unique and a first-rate piece of work. "Their vaginas have been closed by piercing rings. A chain is attached to the lower ring which connects to their ankle chains and their nipples have also been pierced and chained." Catherine and Joanne winced.

"They also have received 48-G breast augmentation and surgical-steel ring gags have been used to prop their mouths open. These, too, have been surgically affixed with wires through the interstices of their teeth. So, you can see they will be ready for transport, subject to recovery from the surgery and anesthetic, which they tolerated well. Give 'em 24 hours." Catherine shivered at the doctor's clinical commentary and Isabel shuddered involuntarily as she heard every word with closed eyes. Moira was just coming round. "No, no, no, this can't be happening!" Isabel cried to herself. "What have they done to me? What's going to happen? And why can't I move? Where am I?" She felt tears welling under her closed eyelids, too afraid to open them for what she might discover. Her jaws and pussy hurt like hell and her chest felt unusually heavy but the morphine drip sent her back to the cool darkness of narcotic-induced sleep. Moira's eyes rolled open and she coughed lightly through her wide-open mouth. That didn't feel right, she thought to herself, and it hurt her chest, pussy and nipples, too. "What's going on here?" she said to herself, as she, too, fell asleep again. Catherine and Joanne left the cell unbelieving what they just saw and heard. Two hours later, Moira and Isabel had rallied sufficiently to open their eyes and tried to look around. Heavily chained with the sedation wearing off, they felt as though they had been run over by a MacEwan's Brewery truck.

Moira turned her head and felt the slight chafe of her collar and an enormous mass, where her bosom used to be, under the bedsheet. She knew instantly she was back in bondage. She tried to move her hands the few inches her chained wrists would allow then moved her feet slightly and felt an unusual tug on her vagina. Isabel was motionless. A nurse came in and stood at the bottom of Moira's bed. "I want you to try and move your feet and legs to get the blood circulating to avoid clots, " she said. "Try." Moira heard and nodded her head silently. She did not have the strength to speak yet.

She moved her feet under the sheet and felt the rustle of chain but could not make the connection between her movements and the tug on her vagina. Isabel opened her eyes and saw the cell's ceiling with a ring bolt just above her head. She moved her arms a few inches and tried to move her legs but stopped when the strange tugging at her vagina startled her. "Mmooo" (Moira), Isabel moaned. The nurse looked over and saw Isabel's eyes were open but was not moving. "Wha-ooo?" (What happened?) Isabel was surprised at her inability to articulate. Moira turned her head, saw her friend looking at her and knew they were in serious difficulty. They had been tricked. Their sedatives and anesthetics continued to wear off but they could not lift the sheets with their handcuffs secured to the gurney rails to see how their bodies had been modified, nor could they look into a mirror to see what had been done to their mouths. Physical sensation was restoring slowly and by 7 p.m., less than a day since they had arrived, they were ready to be unshackled from their gurneys by the nurses. Two nurses completed that task and left their chains in an untidy pile at the foot of each gurney but locked 10-ft. chain tethers to their collars and to ringbolts near each cot.

Isabel and Moira were still not going anywhere. The six nurses then looked at their written instructions, put them into the blazing hotel fireplace, got into their cars and drove away as dusk fell. As the shadows lengthened around Hotel Balmoral the three men, dressed black skimasks and camouflage gear, emerged silently from the bushes, walked to their black Mercedes-Benz and withdrew three silencer-fitted, high-powered sniper rifles. Jogging around to the Georgian-style bay window of the restaurant-bar, each knelt in the gathering gloom in a 15-yard arc 100 yards away from the windows. Looking at each other, they then took aim at their pre-determined targets – Dr. Byron Lord, surgeon, and Michael and Sheila Baker, hotel proprietors – who were dining on roast pheasant at a window table. Kneeling for stability five yards apart, their weapons angled to zero on the table's centrepiece, each marksman focused his infrared nightscope on the pre-selected heads of the two men and attractive woman. Two seconds passed, then . . . "Shoot!" the centre man said softly, as three shots rang out as a single Thuk ! Instantly, Dr. Lord fell back, dead in his chair, as a 7.62 mm round passed through his formerly ice-cold-blue, right eye, ripped through his brain and exited through the left rear of his skull; Michael Baker died 2.5 seconds later as the left-hand assassin's slug tore through his tuxedo, piercing his cold heart into eternal stillness, while the bullet from the right-hand rifleman's weapon tore the cute pug nose off his wife, Sheila. Bright-red blood gushed down Mrs. Baker's face onto her formal black evening gown and cleavage, dripping in a small rivulet to the floor as she watched the three assassins walk casually into the restaurant. One strode quickly to the body of Dr. Lord and fired the remaining 14 rounds of his magazine, thuk, thuk, thuk . . . , into the surgeon's bloody face. With rimming-red vision, Sheila watched as another rifleman stepped up to her husband's body, lying four ft. away, and also emptied 14 rounds into his bloodstained white front.

She gasped as the third, heaviest man came up to her, still seated at the table, and felt the cool muzzle-mounted silencer nestle against her lower lip. "Fush yock . . . ." she choked, as a brilliant yellow flash extinguished her lights and sounds forever. Catherine and Joanne were asleep in their sumptuous bedrooms and the men had already left, as quickly and quietly as they came. They awoke and got dressed and downstairs at the time indicated in their one-page OpOrder. Arriving together in the dining room, Joanne announced: "Dinner is not being served. Well, these kooks have bought it. And that's a good thing, I guess. Now where's that goddam firepit again, Catherine? "Jeez, I hope we didn't forget the dynamite and avgas for these stiffs again like that last time." "No it's still in the car, Kate," Joanne replied. "Wamme go get it?"

"Yeah, let's get this shit over with while it's still dark. That friggin' hole back there is 25 - 35-ft. deep so no one is going to see the flames out to sea, anyway; too foggy. And the backhoe should still be there – at least it better be." Three hours later the dynamited, incinerated remains of Ned Fianders, Dr. Byron Lord and Mrs. And Mrs. Michael Baker lay at the bottom of the deep, narrow firepit that was being backfilled by Catherine, directed by Joanne, with a Ford backhoe. The job done and the pit tamped down with the backhoe's front bucket, Catherine drove the machine to the cliff, a quarter-mile away, put a weight on the gas pedal, jumped off skilfully and the rig crashed into the 600-ft.-deep Atlantic Ocean with four distant clangs and bangs. "Let's go back in," Joanne said. "I'm freezin' out here. Cor, northern Scotland is cold this time of year. And they say it's supposed to be nice up here. Ha!"

Inside the dining room, they avoided the broken glass and looked at the scene of broken glass, messy table-linen, cutlery and flatware. Pools of congealing blood, cerebral grey matter and other human tissue stained the polished oak floor. "Yuck, what a mess," Joanne said, diverting her head. "The OpOrd says the 'third wave' will be in tomorrow to clean up the place and do a thorough walkthrough to ensure the coppers don't sniff a trail. Now, let's go down and see how Mrs. Metcalfe and Mrs. MacPeak – I think that're their names – are doing." En route to the dungeon-cell suite, Catherine and Joanne paused to listen as a van pulled into the driveway, on schedule, to drop off a pile of specially-cut sheets of two-in.-thick, dense, blue styrofoam and two locking black, fibreglass shipping crates. Another small white cube van followed, that driver got out and left in the first vehicle. Silence fell again. "Well, the packagings got here," Catherine said to Joanne, as they passed the open front door to look at the trunks and styrofoam. "Let's go and see Isabel and Moira." They walked down the nearby short flight of stairs into the cellblock, down the short corridor and left into the cell that held Isabel and Moira. All medical gear would be cleared out tomorrow, they knew, so they paid close attention to their prisoners. Moira and Isabel were groggy but conscious, stretched out on their gurneys underneath lightly bloodstained sheets. Petrified, they lay perfectly still, looking at the pistol-packing figures of Kate and Joanne with fear and anger. Ten-ft. chains still tethered their collars to ringbolts but they could move their arms and legs as freely as their handcuffs and ankle chains would allow – a sign that circulation had restored and the drugs were wearing off nicely. "Well, you two," Catherine said, "you're coming with us on a nice, long trip tomorrow. To some place called Ushwant." Isabel's eyes opened suddenly and tears sprang. Only three months ago she had been kidnapped, hogtied and delivered there. (See Through Night to Light)

Moira moaned softly through her gaping mouth, recognizing the name immediately from Isabel's story. "You probably have seen enough of these cells to last a lifetime," Joanne piped in. "They give me the creeps, so I think we'll take you upstairs and fasten your chains to one of the beds up there. How does that suit?" Isabel and Moira looked at each other and nodded their assent, sadly recalling their stay upstairs in much more pleasant circumstances. "Right-eo, here we go," Kate said lightly, lifting Isabel's sheet to look at her piercings and chains casually. "Cor, I hope you guys can walk because I don't feel like carrying you all the way up there; not after what we just had to do back there in the north 40." "Can you talk?" Joanne asked Moira. "Mmnn" (no). "OK, I get the hint." Catherine and Joanne looked round the small cell and found the keys to Isabel's and Moira's neck chains and unlocked them from the ringbolts. "Upsy," Catherine said to Isabel. "And careful now. You've got quite a bit of steel hanging off you now so I don't want you to injure any of your nice parts. My, what lovely boobs that doctor gave you girls. They must be awfully heavy, though. "Too bad he's dead."

Moira and Isabel looked at each other in shock and Isabel looked closer at Moira, realizing, with a start, her body felt the same as Moira looked. Too afraid to look at their bodies underneath the sheets for the past several hours, both now looked at their huge, new bustlines, the added chains, rings and shackles, and gasped through their perfectly O-shaped mouths. They looked down, as saliva drooped from their gaping mouths, and could not see their feet – pendulous, 48-G breasts, topped with extremely-sensitive, chained-together nipples, blocked their downward glances.

Both women, red with embarrassment at seeing each other's nudity for the first time, and in such terrifying circumstances, had to straighten their shoulders consciously as they stood for the first time in 12 hours. Their unfamiliar, saline-filled breasts weighed five pounds each and tugged heavily at their pectoral muscles and shoulders. Isabel's still-pendulous, new breasts wobbled against the chain and she felt the familiar, now-unpleasant, tug against her nipple rings. Moira's heavy breasts also swung in tandem, gracefully, side to side, as she swung her chained legs over the edge of the gurney. "Oo-mm-ff" (ow), Moira cried, as the nipple-ring chain tugged hard at her long, sensitive nipples. Moira's slight frame now was extremely top-heavy with a 10-pound bustline -- increased by four cup sizes and 12 inches -- which threw her centre of gravity way off. The breast augmentations had given Isabel and Moira larger, heavier bustlines but the implants had not significantly altered the natural teardrop symmetry or graceful sway of their lovely breasts. Isabel and Moira staggered under the startling, new weight of their bodies and an additional 2.5 pounds of chains and cuffs. But they regained equilibrium by leaning back against their gurneys, bending their knees slightly so the chain would not tug against their vaginal rings. "Time for you gals to get mobile," Joanne said cheerily. "Here, I'll lock your tethers together and you can run along upstairs," she said, unlocking their chains from the wall ringbolts and locking the ends together to form a 20-ft. tether between their collars. "Run, or hop, along upstairs and wait for us in the lobby; we'll be up for you momentarily." Isabel and Moira hobbled gingerly out of the cell, each holding a portion of their long tether in their chained hands, as they bent slightly at the waist to ease their ankle chains' tension on their pussy rings.

'Run along,' Isabel groaned to herself. 'Who does she think we are? I talked to my boys like that 16 years ago.' Isabel then pledged she would get even with these two arrogant women at whatever cost as Catherine and Joanne embraced each with loving kisses and caresses in the cellblock as they heard Isabel and Moira clink and rattle down the hallway. "I love the way those two look all chained up," Catherine said to Joanne, leaning against Moira's gurney. "Kinda turns me on and I wouldn't mind seeing you like that someday. "Maybe," Joanne replied. "We'll see, once this job is over. Let's look at some of this gear here, first, though. Wow, they really did a number on those two, didn't they?" Isabel and Moira made their painful way up the short flight of stairs, breasts jostling and tugging, vaginal rings pulling at each gasping stride, to reach the lobby in about one minute. The same walk would have taken 15 seconds yesterday. Reaching the lobby, the profoundly sad strains of Renee Fleming's "September," from Richard Strauss' 4 Last Songs , greeted them from the dining-room sound system. Isabel and Moira dropped their long neck tether to the floor with a clatter as they looked out the open front door into the dark, northern Scotland night, saw the trunks and styrofoam and realized escape was futile. It had taken them a full minute to walk what otherwise would have taken seconds and they were naked, chained, gagged, miles from anywhere. The dark and cold reached their naked bodies and they shivered inconsolably. Isabel and Moira started to sob, their shoulders shaking with soft clinks of chain, their heavy breasts quaking painfully. Isabel's face, still beautiful despite her gag-distorted mouth, turned to the dining room again as Renata Tebaldi and Carlo Bergonzi began Giacomo Puccini's incredibly beautiful duet, "Si. Mi chiamano Mimi . . . O soave fanciulla," from La Boheme . Tears started again as she recognized her favorite lovesong and stood, enthralled, her chains made instantly weightless by the timeless music that professed undying love.

"Brrii-nn-gg, brrii-nn-gg," the registration desk's telephone rang suddenly at the rear of the lobby, startling Isabel out of her reverie. "Mmooofffwha!" (What is that?) Moira gasped, as they both turned toward the noise that interrupted the opera music. "Brrii-nn-gg, brrii-nn-gg." Moira looked at Isabel as if to say, 'What do we do now?' "Aaa-hhh-aaa" (I'll answer it), Isabel replied, tugging her friend by the chain toward the desk. Isabel picked up the clumsy Scottish receiver from the cradle with their chained hands and held it to her right ear with both hands. "HAAAA!" (help), she said, as loudly and clearly as she could. Her cry was only heard as an exhalation. "Hello? Hello?" said the voice at the other end. Isabel recognized Peter's voice right away. "Hello? Who's this?" "Ha-aaa-kkka!" (help, Peter), Isabel replied. "My name's Peter Metcalfe and I am looking for Isabel Metcalfe who should be there tonight? Can you connect me, please?" "Aahh-iiff-eee-rrr" (help us; it's me, Peter). "Blast, this must be a bad connection. Hello? I can't make you out. I'll call back again when the line is clear. Thank you. Good night, whoever you are." Click. Mmmm. He had hung up. Isabel stared, dumbfounded, at the receiver, as the Puccini aria soared to its climax. She had just talked to her husband, so near yet so far; rescue could have been at hand, but he did not recognize her voice. Moira's and Isabel's despair and plight suddenly deepened. "Ah-ha! What are you two slaves up to with that phone?" Catherine announced from the head of the dungeon stairs. She had watched the whole thing, laughing to herself. "C'mere, Joanne, and see what these slaves have been up to." Moira and Isabel thought they were about to be beaten – or worse. Isabel and Moira jumped back in clatters and tugs of chain as Joanne took aim at the phone with her Walther PPK semiautomatic, slamming three rounds -- crack! crack! crack! -- through the set and receiver. The phone was dead. Isabel and Moira had put their cuffed hands to their ears but the crashing noise was still deafening.

Cowering now in each other's arms, they became aware they would have to call on each other's strengths and wits to live another day at the hands of these psychopaths. Isabel's senses reeled as she heard the term – slave – used to describe her status for the first time. "Hllvv?" (Slave?) Isabel said, as she shuffled painfully over to Catherine and Joanne, who were standing at the doorway with their backs turned. Isabel pulled Moira reluctantly along behind her by the tether. The two kidnappers turned to face the chained women and Isabel's mouth worked painfully around the steel gag. "Fff-nnn-ssshhh!" (We're not slaves!) Isabel shouted liquidly through her gaping mouth, lifting her handcuffs and shaking her chained fists furiously at them. "Fff-nnn-ssshhh!" "There, there, Isabel," Kate said, grabbing Isabel's wrist and nipple chains firmly to hold her arms still. "Chill! We know you have been through a lot today but, please, we request you cooperate with us for the next day or so. "It will make our jobs easier -- and your situations less painful – otherwise, we may have to resort to more-drastic measures. "Tomorrow 's going to be a long day so why don't we make the most of a good night's sleep. Have you two ever slept together? You're 'best buds', so I am fairly sure you have. If you haven't, you probably should get used to each other's company. I suspect you'll be close to each other for quite some time to come." But neither Catherine nor Joanne had any idea of the strength and durability of Isabel's and Moira's friendship – infinitely stronger than the chains that joined them – nor did they gauge the depth and extent of their Gaelic determination, resourcefulness and inner strength.

The more muscular Joanne grabbed Isabel's and Moira's chain tether from the floor and led them slowly upstairs to the room Isabel had occupied the night before. The clock in Isabel's hotel room showed 11:30 p.m. as Jo. led the chained women to the bed and locked their tether to the neck-collar chain Isabel had used freely just the previous night. "Now, hop into bed and we'll get an early start tomorrow," Joanne said. "I'll get you a sleeping pill for a better rest. You probably have a lot of things to worry about now but it's more important you conserve your energy and strength for what lies ahead."

Isabel and Moira looked at each other as they pulled down the neatly-made bed together and slid awkwardly under the covers.

Catherine arrived with two glasses of water and two little white pills, handed them to Isabel and Moira, who tilted their heads back to swallow the pills past their gags and took drinks from the water glasses, handed back the empty classes and put their heads on the pillow. Catherine and Joanne snapped out the light, closed and locked the door from the outside as Isabel's tired eyes sprang wide open in the semi-dark hotel room. She saw her purse on the dresser table and knew she had a nail-file inside that might, just might, pick the lock holding their tethers to the bed. "Mm-ooo, w-waa-ff-ee" (Moira, watch me), Isabel said, as she wriggled out of bed, her ankle chain tugging painfully at her labia. I hope this chain is long enough for me to reach, Isabel thought, as she arranged her chains and carefully eased her way to the dresser to grab her purse. Gack! ! Not quite. Moira shifted closer to Isabel's edge of the bed and Isabel had two-ft. more slack that allowed her to grab her purse. Isabel limped back to bed, sat down and looked for her nail-file. She found it, at the bottom among the other contents, including a lipstick, tissues, cigarettes, lighter, wallet, ID and a little money – and a handcuff key. She withdrew the key and knew it would not fit anything. All their cuffs were welded and she needed a padlock key.

Undeterred, she placed the purse under the bed, where it would be found next day by the "third wave," and went to work on the padlock in the darkness, succeeding only in dulling the little file and reddening her fingers. She threw the little, mother-of-pearl-handled file away, unaware of its final resting spot behind the dresser where it would be found by a police forensics team weeks later. Moira looked at her friend's despairing face and started to weep with gasping sobs that wracked her compact, heavy-bosomed frame. They would have to accept whatever fate lay ahead for now. Isabel lay down and soon submitted to the powers of the drug she had taken 10 minutes earlier. The inky darkness of sleep quickly enveloped the two.

Sunday morning dawned grey and misty over the northern coast as Catherine and Joanne unlocked Isabel's and Moira's door on the sumptuous, second floor of Hotel Balmoral. Walking over to the sleeping pair, Joanne unlocked their chains from their collars and shook them awake. "We've gotta get going," Joanne said. "The third wave will be here any time and we have to be gone by that time. We've got just 15 minutes, girls, so please cooperate. " Isabel and Moira nodded sleepily. "We are going to give you two more pills – anti-anxiety medication and sedatives – that will make you a little tipsy, then sleepy," Catherine said. "It will help us in the next phase." Isabel and Moira doubted the explanation but in fear of being hurt, or killed, they agreed to swallow the two pills. What little strength and clarity of mind they had recovered were soon dissipated by the meds and, moments later, their naked, shapely bodies were the consistency of wet ragdolls. "Perfect," Catherine said, as she lifted Moira's left arm, letting it flop back on the bed again. Catherine and Joanne then rolled Isabel and Moira onto their stomachs and blindfolded them with thin, black felt taped over their eyes with 20 wrappings of industrial plastic black tape. "This is really overkill, you know, Kate," as Joanne finished wrapping Isabel's head. "Yeah, I know. Three wraps of this heavy, sticky stuff would have been enough for anyone. But the OpOrd says 20. Oh well," Kate replied, as she finished the 18th wrap around Moira's flopping head. The kidnappers then carried Isabel and Moira, inert, bound, gagged, and chastity-pierced, downstairs and carefully lay them on the lobby floor to work their arms down past their feet and up behind their backs, wire-hogtie their ankle and wrist cuffs together and snap small locks through their nipple rings -- for the heck of it – said Joanne. They then placed the nearly-doubled up women inside the packing cases and slid 16 pre-cut styrofoam sheets, with holes cut to fit over their hogtied forms, down over them, encasing them into immobility inside the 8-cu.-ft. trunks. The lids were slammed shut over the styrofoam, locks closed and the whole wrapped with two-in.-wide nylon straps.

Prestwick Airport labels were placed conspicuously and in less than two minutes, Catherine and Joanne had Isabel and Moira loaded into the back of the cube van and en route to Prestwick Airport – five hours away – passing a small minivan with six passengers as they left Hotel Balmoral for good. The meds and events of the past 24 hours combined to put Isabel and Moira into a euphoria that led to drowsiness and stupor but not unconsciousness. Their bodies lurched as the trunks were manhandled off the van at Prestwick Airport, at 1 p.m., Sunday, Sept. 7, but they were totally unaware of where they were or what was happening. The trunks passed through the baggage-handling area – x-ray machines had been ordered but not installed – were sorted, tied together and loaded onto a small, twin-engine charter jet in the general-aviation area by strong, tattooed hands of the Prestwick baggage handlers. Isabel and Moira awoke to black panic and bizarre sensations in their bodies as their nipple chains vibrated against them to the loud drone of the fuselage-mounted, small RollsRoyce jet engines immediately outside the aircraft hull from where their trunks were anchored to the deck. Communication was impossible inside the styrofoam so they lay there quietly, softly moaning, listening and wondering what was going to happen next. Minutes turned to half-hours, then hours, as the little jet flew south across England, over the English Channel into European airspace then due south across France to the Mediterranean, then altered southeast to Ushwant, East Africa. Moira and Isabel thought they were dreaming but when they heard the nylon straps being cut away and the trunk lids unlocked, they were snapped back to reality. The dense styrofoam sheets were squeaked up over their bodies and Catherine and Joanne's strong hands and arms pulled the two captives out easily and lay them on the carpeted deck to undo their painful hogties. "Hi, Isabel and Moira," Joanne said cheerfully. "We're over the Med. now and we have about two more hours of flying time before Ushwant. Thought you might like to get out and stretch your legs."

Isabel and Moira heard and felt their wires being cut away and their nipple rings unlocked before feeling sharp medical scissors cut away the black tape holding their blindfolds in place. Their eyes unbound, they blinked hard to focus. It took a couple of minutes before the black-garbed figures of their kidnappers became clear. Catherine and Joanne each pulled Isabel and Moira to their feet and guided them to a pair of first-class accommodation seats facing each other several feet away. A long chain, rove through a ringbolt between the chairs, would ensure they didn't stray. Isabel and Moira were seated in the large, comfortable chairs and their collars locked with the common chain. Isabel and Moira looked at each other with open mouths and tried to get their bearings. "No more heavy meds for you guys," Joanne advised. "Just water, ice chips, antibiotics and some acetaminophen with codeine for the next couple of hours." Catherine brought them large glasses of icewater, some powerful antibiotics and two Tylox painkillers each. Isabel and Moira tilted their heads back, put in the pills with both hands, took a big swallow of icewater. Calming down with the drowsing effect of the 60 mg codeine in their painkillers, Catherine brought each woman a hand mirror and Joanne began: "I spoke to the doctor who was responsible, up to his death last night, for the conditions you in which you find yourself this afternoon. In case you have not yet made your own discoveries, this is what happened: "Saturday morning, you were drugged, taken to the cell block where your collars, handcuffs and leg shackles, which are of tungsten-steel alloy, were welded; except your ankles, Isabel. "By the way, I have never seen a pair like yours before; they are a nice piece of work. Your vaginas were closed by piercing rings which have been attached to your ankle chains and your nipples, as you know, pierced and chained. "You also have received breast augmentation and, this is kinda hard to tell you guys, your mouths are propped open with steel rings that also have been surgically implanted. "Catherine and I have captured and transported a large number of women, younger and older than you, into white slavery during the past five years .

"And we have never seen women in such extensive bondage as yours. We, as professional kidnappers, are trained in subduing, binding, gagging and shipping women for the slavery cartel that employs us and your bonds are, clearly, the most-impressive display of steel bondage we have ever seen. "Right, Kate?" "Indubitably." "Let me add," Joanne continued, "that we have observed the degree to which you have accepted your chains thus far – chains are forever, you know – but we are also cognizant of the well-known Scottish characteristics of self-determination, self-reliance and inner strength that suggest to us you probably are seeking any, and all, means of escape and flight and will do what you can to seek and exercise retribution at the earliest.

"We have, therefore, forewarned your prospective buyers and I am advising you that you will be treated as 'extreme flight risks' on arrival and that your bondage may be even more severe when we arrive at Ushwant in a little less than two hours from now. Remember, this nation has been known to the slave trade for centuries and they invented bondage. I understand some guy wants to buy you as 'beasts of burden', whatever that means. "Kate, do you have anything to add?" No, thanks, Jo.," Catherine replied, "you're doing just fine. I would just like Isabel and Moira to know it was a business doing pleasure with them. And I hope they have a safe and comfortable journey." The two sardonic captors left to head to the cockpit to radio more pre-arrival arrangements for Isabel's and Moira's dispositions. They looked forward to their weekend off next week. Isabel and Moira stirred in their chairs and looked at each other. "Eff-eem-ff-rr-sshh?" (Extreme flight risks?), Isabel managed to slur to Moira, her eyes widening incredulously. Moira shrugged her shoulders. "How could they possibly consider us 'flight risks'?" Isabel thought to herself. "We're thousands of miles from home, our chains are welded, we can scarcely move, we're gagged, naked, our pussies have been ringed shut and we don't speak the language. How are we flight risks?"

Isabel wheezed a sigh and lifted the mirror from her lap to her face with joined hands and looked in awe at her gaping, O-shaped mouth that expressed continual astonishment. She angled the mirror to peer inside her mouth and could only see the silvery gleam of the circular gag wired to the interstices between her upper and lower canine teeth and premolars. Otherwise, everything looked fairly normal. Moira put the mirror to her face and immediately dropped it, looking at Isabel with a mixture of despair and embarrassment. She was proud of her Scottish good looks and could not bear to look at what that mad surgeon had done to her mouth. She placed her chained hands on her heavy breasts and felt the nipple-ring chain. She then hefted her new, 48G appendages and gasped her astonishment at their weight and size. They were going to flop, bounce and cause all sorts of back pain, now and in the future, she thought sadly. Her hands glided to her vagina and she gingerly traced the heavy, steel rings that pierced her labia. "Mmm," she moaned quietly, leaning back to the full length of her neck chain. Watching, Isabel crossed her knees delicately then immediately uncrossed them when the rings dug into the fresh pierces. They felt for their chairbacks' release button and angled them back for a nap as their long chain rasped through the ringbolt in the floor. Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak closed their eyes and dozed while the misty coast of Africa loomed on the horizon ahead. Slavery was just an hour away. "Put on your seatbelts, girls, and ensure your chairbacks are in the fully upright position," Catherine announced moments later. "We're on the Ushwanti airfield radar and will be landing in about 25 minutes." Isabel and Moira fumbled for their seatbelts and snapped them in place over their naked hips. They were ready. Soon, the floor dipped, the pitch of the engine noise changed and the little jet started to tremble and bounce as it descended through thermal layers and cloud. The cabin darkened slightly and sunlight soon streamed through the cabin windows again as the altimeter unwound with the jet's descent. They knew they were minutes from touchdown.

Their ears popped easily with their propped-open mouths and, soon, they felt the thuds as the landing gear's wheels rolled along the dusty airfield's gravel runway. The bouncing, lurching ride down the mile-long runway bounced their big boobs about painfully and Isabel and Moira had to grab them with their small hands to ease the painful tugs on their nipple rings. Soon the rapid jarring slowed as the plane reached the taxiway and slowed to brake precisely on a gravel apron. They were here. Wherever here was.

MEANWHILE . . . Four-thousand miles away, at exactly the same time, Peter Metcalfe picked up the phone in the living room of their country home in western Scotland. "Peter? It's Graham," said the voice at the other end. "Have you heard from Isabel and Moira? My wife should have called by now and I haven't heard a word. Have you?" "Graham, I was going to call you last night. I placed a call to Hotel Balmoral and all I got from the other end were some gasps and other airy sounds. I couldn't make out a single word so said I would call back later. And when I did, after a minute, the line was dead. So I am just as puzzled as you." "Peter, if we don't hear in the next 24 hours, I think we should notify the police. And Scotland Yard. I don't like this at all and this is not like my Moira at all." "I agree, Graham. I'll call you first thing tomorrow, or if I hear anything before then." Right-o, Peter. 'Bye for now." Isabel and Moira looked over their left shoulders as they head a hollow metallic thunk as the portable stairway was pushed against the jet's exit hatch. Catherine and Joanne unlocked the curved exit panel and slid it sideways. The brilliant early September sunshine of Ushwant, East Africa, bathed the interior of the aircraft and it was the last sight the captive women, still held down by their seatbelts, would see for hours.

Each sat still and silent as Catherine and Joanne again applied felt pads and 20 wraps of industrial-plastic tape over their eyes and around their brunette hair above their ears.

The kidnappers then moved in front of the two and kneeled down to lock their handcuff chains to their upper vaginal rings, ensuring they could not lift their hands above hip level. "They're ready," Joanne said. "Undo their seatbelts and let's get them to their prospective owners." Isabel and Moira shuddered at that information but sat perfectly still. They were determined to be as compliant as possible – to avoid a beating – but both were waiting for the chance to escape somehow. Their present circumstance did not afford any opportunity but they were Scots -- resourceful, determined and vigilant – despite their blindfolds, gags, chains and shackles. "We'll get out of this somehow," Isabel silently promised herself, while Moira hoped her friend would collaborate in the idea she had developed in the past hour: she and, she hoped, Isabel, could bribe one or more of their captors with sex, the only bargaining chip they had at the moment, to loosen a chain or leave a door unlocked. The success of the ploy was in immediate doubt, however, given the very determined natures and single-mindedness of their captors. Anyway, it was just a thought, Moira said to herself, trying to ease her tension as she heard Catherine unlock her neck chain from her collar, pull it out of the ringbolt in the floor and reattach it again, allowing Isabel and herself to stand and shuffle out of the plane. Joanne and Catherine took Isabel and Moira firmly by the left upper arm and guided them up and out of their comfortable chairs toward the door to the stairway. "There're 18 steps down and the angle is quite steep, Isabel and Moira," said Joanne, in the lead. "We'll keep holding your arms so you don't trip. Count them – 18 – and you will then be on the gravel of the airstrip. There's a small air terminal building here but you are not going there; I see your limousine has arrived."

Isabel and Moira took their terrified, tentative steps forward, chained together at the neck and their handcuffs attached to their vaginal rings, making them walk stooped forward like convicted felons. Isabel started to descend the warm, aluminum-alloy stairs and felt the heat on the bare soles of her feet.

Four-ft. behind her, Moira followed, making a racket as the combined chatter of their ankle chains could be heard for a half-mile in the silent stillness of the desert afternoon. Their bare, chained ankles and feet stirred little swirls of dust in the African gravel as they clinked their way barefoot across the aircraft apron to the waiting limo, guided by Catherine and Joanne. Their descent into slavery had begun.

Ushwant Prison, with its 15th-Century African chains, dark stone walls and huge fortress/dungeon ramparts and buttresses, overlooked the Indian Ocean as it did for nearly 600 years. It had seen many women and slaves come and go through its portcullis while it stood as a sinister sentinel of slavery. Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe and Mrs. Moira MacPeak were to be its latest thralls. Back in Scotland, no one at the woollen mill or in the University of Edinburgh had any idea where Isabel and Moira were – and the two women had no idea where they were going – as they were led to the long, low black limo at the side of the dusty, remote air terminal building on the eastern edge of the Ushwant desert. "You get in first, Isabel, slide over; you're going in the back seat; then you, Moira, squeeze in after her," Joanne said. The two chained women slid awkwardly across the leather-upholstered back seat, their wrist chains tugging painfully at their nether regions as their bare rumps squeaked over the cool, brown surface.

Catherine and Joanne reached across them to fasten seatbelts over the chained women's laps, securing their handcuffs, still attached to their rings, even more securely. They were enfolded in darkness in the cool, expensive interior of the slavery-cartel's expensive VIP limo and sat, leaning against each other as best they could, for comfort and just to let the other know she was still there. Moira mmmppphhh ed futilely through her open mouth and Isabel turned her head to try and determine what was going on. Their blindfolds were impossible to remove so they had no idea who might be looking at them, where they were, or what was going to happen next.

They heard the driver's side door latch open, heard someone get in behind the wheel, with a small rustle of chain, followed by the solid, expensive-sounding whump as the driver's door closed again. Someone was inside the vehicle with them. "Good afternoon, ladies," a cheery African voice greeted them. "My name is Olive and I will be your driver for the next two hours. Sit back and enjoy the trip. Do you want me to turn the radio on? OK. There's BBC-2."

The bouncy strains of the overture to Gioachino Rossini's opera, Italian Girl in Algiers , filled the car interior as Olive started the powerful V-8 engine and they were off in a cloud of dust and fine gravel that clinked and clattered against the fenders. "You girls are from Scotland, I understand." Olive said, looking in the rear-view mirror at Isabel's and Moira's astonished, blindfolded faces. "I'm told you are being sold into slavery. Well, that's no big surprise; you're the 4th and 5th women I've driven to Ushwant prison this month for what they call 'reception, sale and dispatch'." Moira and Isabel looked toward each other fearfully as Olive chatted away nonchalantly. "I'm a slave, too, by the way. I know you can't see me, maybe you never will, but I'm 27, I'm chained, but obviously not as severely as you. And I even have clothes – jean skirt and a T-shirt today -- which is considerably more than I had when my mother, Olivia, my two sisters and I were sold into slavery 11 years ago.

"My ankles were chained when I was 18 years of age and I have not been able to take a full step ever since. But I can do so many things in chained ankles that it really doesn't bother me anymore to be chained all the time. How about you two? Have you been chained a long time? "I have had the same owners for the past nine years and they have taken good care of me," she chattered on, as the miles slipped past. "I graduated from college through correspondence courses, majoring in English and sociology; I recently got my driver's licence and I've been looked after well physically, emotionally and, well, sexually, too. Now, I know you can't speak so I'll just clam up for now. I'll check in with you when we get closer to the prison."

Isabel was taken aback by Olive's articulation and candor and wondered if they would be treated half as well. The two-hour car ride was uneventful and Isabel and Moira, tired of tugging against their chains and trying to slip their handcuffs down over their wrist bones, tried to look through windows to their sides, seeing nothing except absolute blackness assured by their blindfolds, as the big car glided effortlessly across the desert. Suddenly it jolted onto a two-lane, paved coastal road and Isabel and Moira lurched about like marionettes against their seatbelts and chains. A smooth and even hour's drive later, they noticed the air temperature had cooled somewhat; they must be nearing the ocean, Isabel thought, feeling a tepid dampness on her body that the limousine's air conditioning could not dispel. They felt the car going uphill and, suddenly, brake to a gentle stop. Darkness and ocean mist swathed the enormous walls, buttresses and iron portcullis of Ushwant Prison that barred the limo's way to the gravel courtyard inside. Two Ushwanti guards walked around the car, glanced in at Isabel and Moira, checked Olive's papers, driver's licence and registration and signalled the driver to enter the courtyard.

The barred gateway creaked open, the limo moved forward and the grinding crash of the portcullis closing behind them with a solid clang told Isabel and Moira they were indeed behind bars – their first-ever imprisonment – and they were sorely, deeply afraid. "End of the road, guys," Olive chirped. "Here, I'll help you out." Olive got out easily, despite her ankle chains, opened Isabel's door, unlocked her neck tether, unbuckled her seatbelt and helped her out of the vehicle by her shoulder and handcuff chain; she then clinked around the vehicle and assisted Moira the same way. The two Scotswomen stood 10-ft. apart, looking blindly in opposite directions, while Olive clinked back into the limo, turned around, drove up to the gateway, stopped while it clanked and creaked open and drove away into the African night. Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak stood alone in the middle of the large, gravel courtyard, silent, chained, gagged and blindfolded. Moira suddenly knelt in front of Isabel and put her head near Isabel's chained hands.

"Ss-ff-hh-ee, Ifff-lll" (it's my face, Isabel), she said, as Isabel felt around Moira's head with her close-chained hands to find seams in the black tape. She found the top two wraps and started picking with her index fingernails. In about 10 minutes, Moira was unblindfolded but still unable to see clearly. As her vision restored, she was able to unwrap Isabel's blindfold and the two stood, blinking, in the gathering gloom. They then saw two armed guards walking toward them and they recoiled in their chains.

"Oh, no!" Isabel said to herself. "Ohmigod!!" Moira thought. "This is it; we're lost, doomed and forgotten!" Lost and doomed? Yes. Forgotten? No, indeed. For, exactly at that time, Graham MacPeak and Peter Metcalfe were making plans to drive to Hotel Balmoral, near Cape Wrath, where their wives had been just two days ago. In the East African prison, meanwhile, the big, burly Ushwanti guards each took the new slaves firmly by the right arm -- they were informed these two were "flight risks" – and led them toward a small stone stairwell set in the 25-ft.-thick stone walls that overlooked a dark, moonless seacoast like silent sentinels of a long-bygone era.

The old oak door creaked open and Isabel and Moira staggered inside and up two steep flights of hewn-stone stairs, their chains making a fearsome, chattering clangor that would wake the dead. The cling, ring, clang, shang, clang, shing of their ankle chains shattered the eerie silence and echoed down the long narrow passageway, lit by feebly-guttering oil lamps here and there, until they came to a cellblock with long banks and rows of new, white-painted steel-barred cells facing each other. "You here, and you, over there," one of the guards ordered, as they stopped Moira and Isabel at mid-stride in a long, stone corridor between two rows of cages. Isabel was turned to her left and Moira right into cells that faced each other across the 10-ft.-wide passageway.

Each newly-constructed cell, equipped only with a small metal toilet, a cot and small table, was well-equipped with additional chains and shackles – as if the Scotswomen needed to be bound even further (not) – and Isabel and Moira were told to walk in, turn about and face each other. Fear and anxiety etched into the astonished looks on their faces. "Stand still!" the other guard ordered in a British sergeant-major's voice from the corridor. Isabel and Moira stood at attention, hands cuffed by 12-in. chains to their nether-region rings. The two guards then entered the cells and locked heavy chains to their collars, each handcuff and each ankle shackle and passed loops of chain around each woman's waist, locking all securely in place. The guards ensured all six chains were fastened securely to individual ringbolts, double-checked the locks on their cuffs, grunted, left the cells and slammed the solid-barred celldoors behind them. Isabel and Moira, bound as never before with 15 pounds of heavy steel chain, were absolutely helpless. But the women, aged 35 and 33, were strong and fairly athletic – bowling, walking and hiking in Scotland in their spare time an age ago -- and Moira was the first to move.

The slim, busty brunette took a tentative half-step to the rear of her 8- X 10-ft. cell and her chains bunched up everywhere, nearly tripping her as she collected a bunch of them to sit on the edge of the thin mattress. Isabel, watching her chained friend's progress, did the same and they sat, and sat, staring at their cells, their fearsome surroundings – neither had seen the inside of a jail, let alone a prison – and looked at each other in shock, anger, dismay and fear.

Their wrists were still chained to their upper vaginal rings and they could hardly move. Sleep would elude them tonight. "Ooo-uuu-aaa-hhh!! Moira cried out in despair. "Ggg-mmm, eee-lll-eee!!" (Graham, help me) she cried, sobs gasping through her gaping mouth. Isabel's tears trickled off her chin onto her enormous breasts as she realized she and her friend had sunk to the deepest depths of despair and enslavement. Isabel groaned aloud when she realized suddenly that she had encouraged Moira to explore steel bondage as a sexual sidebar – now so long ago. Moira looked at her friend's pain and her eyes lightened ever so slightly as she tried to force a meagre smile past her steel-gagged mouth with its surgically-altered interior.

Isabel nodded tacit acknowledgment of her friend's understanding and both pulled themselves gingerly up onto their mattresses, turned their heads away and dozed in the twilight of their cellblock. "Good morning, you two!" another infectious, African voice called out, too loudly for either Moira or Isabel. "It's 6:30 a.m. of a Wednesday morning and time to shake out the cobwebs, get mobile, pardon the pun, and on with the day. "My name's Olivia, Olive's mother," said the statuesque, beautiful, 40-something African woman, standing in front of Moira's cell in three-piece business suit and chained ankles. Two-ft. of grey-silver chain joined her shapely ankles but she appeared and acted as though she was entirely free. "I'm looking after your sale today. We are expecting some 20 or 30 buyers to look at you today and make bids to purchase you. But first, I have to give you these antibiotics to ensure your bodies are fighting off any infection and I have combs, brushes, some makeup and one mirror for you to doll yourself up before the Order of Business begins at 9:30." Olivia asked Isabel and Moira to step up to the bars of their cell doors so she could unlock their 12-in. handcuffs from their vaginal rings, which she did, and passed them their makeup kits, combs and brushes through the bars. She passed them one large white pill and glass of water each and Isabel and Moira tilted their heads back, put the pills in and swallowed them with two gulps of the fresh, cool spring water Olivia had given them. The powerful antibiotics coursing through their bodies would ensure they would be infection- and disease-free for the foreseeable future. "You've got one hour to get yourselves presentable; slaves are always kept naked so don't expect any clothing today or, most probably, for the rest of your lives," the business-suited Olivia said darkly. Isabel noted Olivia's trim ankles were chained in expensive, chrome-plated shackles that limited her stride to 20-in. "I'll be back about 7:30 to take you to breakfast," she said, as she clinked and clattered her way back down the passageway. It sounded to Isabel and Moira like the condemned prisoners' last meal but they looked at each other and opened their cosmetics bags, dumping their contents onto the mattress and began applying lipstick, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil and other, quality products to their faces.

Their chains chattered and rustled quietly as they made their faces up as attractively as they could. Isabel, looking at her gagged face in the hand mirror, examined the results of her well-practised makeup technique and was reasonably satisfied, although she thought her lipstick made her mouth look more garish than it already was.

"Eee-Mooo" (here, Moira), Isabel called, waving the hand mirror at her friend. Isabel slid the mirror across a 10-ft. corridor and watched as it slid quickly under the bars of her friend's cell. Moira picked up the mirror and began her time-honored ritual for the first time in chains. In a half-hour, both women had brushed and combed their hair into neat, conservative 'dos, were made up and listened as their stomachs growled for food. Ten minutes later, Olivia's chains rattled musically on the stone of the cellblock floor as she walked down to unleash the slave women and take them to breakfast, on schedule, at 7:30 a.m. The sun was well up, warming the cool, damp interior of Ushwant prison, as Olivia unlocked Isabel's and Moira's six heavy chain tethers and escorted them to the prison dining area. Isabel and Moira, thoroughly astonished, were seated at a well-appointed table for two, complete with white linen, African violets, British flatware and sterling silver cutlery – settings more for royalty than slaves – and they looked at each other in wonder. How would they eat, anyway, with their mouths gagged open? Would all their meals be like this? Or was this just a softening-up for a far-worse fate? A white-jacketed waiter arrived with a trayful of orange juice, large bowls of yogurt, semi-liquid cream of wheat, some pureed fruit and steaming Twinings tea, which they detected right away. He placed each dish in front of Isabel and Moira -- who thought for a moment they were in the Savoy -- and walked away silently. The two women looked at their breakfasts and dug in, their handcuffs hindering them only slightly, as they struggled not to choke on their juice and yogurt. The key, they learned, was to keep their heads slightly back, hold their breaths and take small swallows. It took them a while but they were able to ingest their juice, then yogurt, followed by the cream of wheat and tea. They tried to savor their cups of tea in chained hands but could not get in the mood; they were still too afraid of what lay ahead.

The waiter reappeared, refilled their teacups and disappeared again. Isabel and Moira sipped at their tea in disbelief at this display of civility in such barbarity – this irony could only get worse, they suspected – but they took best advantage of the delicious tea and breakfast. Olivia reappeared and said they would have 10 minutes to go to the bathroom in preparation for the morning events. Isabel and Moira rose as one from the table, their ankle chains tugging against their pussy rings, and clinked and clashed behind Olivia as she took them to a bathroom down the hallway from the dining room. Isabel and Moira went in, relieved themselves awkwardly around their pussy rings and checked their appearances in the bathroom's tall mirrors. Isabel thought she looked like a fantasy dream woman. Moira was aghast at her blatant sexuality, with "everything on display," particularly her big breasts and red-lipped, open mouth these are powerful invitations to any man – or woman -- she thought suddenly. Her sex-for-freedom gambit flashed back to mind for an instant.

THE AUCTION "Time's up, girls," Olivia called from outside. "Let's get a move on." Isabel and Moira turned, looked at each other, forced a stoic smile at one another, exited the bathroom and followed Olivia again to a small auditorium with rows of stacking chairs arranged in a shallow arc in front of a raised platform with two sturdy chains hanging down from ceiling-mounted ringbolts. The three women's ankle chains made a fearsome clatter as they mounted the 10-ft.-square platform. "You're centre stage," Olivia said, as she guided them to the centre of the plywood stage. "Stop here." She locked the chains onto their collars and Isabel and Moira would have to stand for the next two hours while they were viewed and questioned by prospective buyers from around the world. Olivia clinked casually over to the side of the platform and adjusted a microphone.

At her signal, the buyers started to trickle in and Isabel and Moira avoided their glances, comments and stares, preferring to look at the floor, the ceiling, their hands or each other. After 10 minutes, a total of 40 buyers – 32 men and eight women – had been seated and Olivia began:

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Ushwant prison. My name is Olivia and I will be the auctioneer and sales agent for the two fine specimens you see here. "Isabel, on your left, is 35 years of age, a mother of two, well-educated, physically fit and is chained, rendered chaste, gagged and shackled in accordance with standard operating procedures of the slavery organization that owns me and operates out of this prison. "This well-endowed Scotswoman who, incidentally, was chained in those extraordinary ankle chains she is wearing before she was observed by us and kidnapped, will be an asset to any household or institution in Africa, Europe, Great Britain, the United States or anywhere in the world. "The Scottish work ethic is renowned for its perspicacity and she is, therefore, highly recommended to your discernment. Bidding for Isabel starts at 500,000 pounds sterling, ladies and gentlemen. Now, Isabel's equally well-endowed colleague, Moira, is a 33-year-old mother of two, a Scottish millworker, physically fit, with a clever, agile mind, apparently, and she also is chained, shackled and gagged in accordance with the SOPs and requirements of this prison. She also was chained before seen by our agents and has taken well to her steel bondage. Bidding for Moira also starts at half-a-million pounds sterling. They made be sold singly or together and I am recommending them to you as a 'matched pair'. "Please use the numbered cards you were given to enter your bids which must be written on the pads that have been provided. This will preclude any confusion, shouting and cross-bidding and will improve efficiency as well as your satisfaction with our administrative procedures. Thank you for your attention. If there are no questions, then, I am very pleased now to open the floor to accept bids, starting at 1,000,000 pounds for the pair, 500,000 pounds for either Isabel or Moira, of Scotland."

Isabel and Moira had never been assessed as commodities for purchase and were amazed at the stellar prices called out by Olivia. They also wondered at her choice of noun to describe their work ethic. "No. 138," Olivia said. "Five-hundred and 10-thousand pounds for Moira." "No. 88, 515,000 pounds for Isabel. "No. 44, the woman at the far left, one-million pounds for the pair. "No. 9, one-million, ten-thousand pounds for the pair." Pause. "Turn them around, please, " a cultured voice called from the rear. "Please turn around, girls," Olivia asked. Moira and Isabel shuffled around, their chains clinking and swaying, nearly tilting them off balance as their breasts swayed and bobbed invitingly. Murmurs of admiration and appreciation arose from the small crowd and Isabel and Moira blushed crimson. "Have they been beaten, Olivia?" a woman asked. "I see no marks." "No, no. 44, they have not; they have been very compliant." "Turn 'em 'round agin," asked an American man with a Texan drawl. "Purty please? "Any brands on 'em -- like my Longhorns back home?" "No, they are unmarked. But they can be branded if the buyer wishes to place his or her monogram or cipher on them." Isabel and Moira turned around, unbidden, and, a strange, erotic mood overtaking them, placed their hands at hip level, pulling their handcuffs taut, to display their ringed and chained pussies. Gasps of astonishment from men and women alike arose from the audience "No. 45, one-million, one-hundred-thousand pounds." The auctioneer paused to gauge the audience's hushed reaction of soft whistles, gasps and murmurs. Olivia looked around. "Any further bids, please? Any further bids? "Going once, going twice . . . sold to no. 45, Isabel and Moira, of Scotland, for 1,100,000 pounds sterling, payable today." Ladies and gentlemen, this transaction has been completed. The gentleman with card no. 45 is requested to meet with me and the witnesses in the office just next door to sign the agreement of sale. "You are welcome to come onto the stage and chat with Isabel and Moira while refreshments are being readied for you in the dining room. Thank you. No. 45, please?" Individually and in pairs and threes, members of the audience walked onto the stage to look at Moira and Isabel who had nowhere to turn. "Where are you from?" a woman of Isabel's age asked Moira. "Ffo-lnd" (Scotland), Moira replied, looking away. "Are those beautiful breasts yours? Or are they implants?" a man, in his 50s, asked Isabel.

"Hrr-mm-pp-tt-ff . . . nn-tt-rrtt-bgg" (they're implants . . . and they're too big), Isabel replied. "Where did you get those special ankle chains, Isabel?" another woman asked. "I don't see any locks, rivets or bolts. How are they secured?" "Hh-dd-nn-tt-cc-mm-nnfff, vvrr" (they don't come off, ever) Isabel sighed, looking away. A variety of other questions, ranging from sex in bondage to the Scottish work ethic, kept Isabel's and Moira's minds busy and their mouths working as they politely gasped and slurred their answers to each well-dressed person's questions, maintaining rebellious eye contact with their questioners throughout. They feigned their airs of respectfulness to avoid beatings that they feared would follow if they behaved otherwise. At last, the question period ended, Olivia reappeared with a handsome, 30-something African man and two unbound female assistants and said: "Isabel and Moira, Sheikh Abbadi is your new owner. Your sale has been transacted and finalized and I am now empowered to turn you over to him. You are now his property. Sheikh, here is the key to their collar chains. Isabel and Moira are yours. Good day." With that curt summation, Isabel's and Moira's new lives as beasts of burden were about to begin. Meanwhile, in northern Scotland, Graham and Peter had just arrived at Hotel Balmoral to do investigate the disappearance of their wives three days ago. They found the hotel cold, dark, empty and locked, and decided to contact the Northern Constabulary, Inverness. They discussed what they would have to do to rescue their wives from fates and places unknown and when they arrived home three hours later, Peter and Graham had decided they would call to request an appointment with the chief constable. With Graham on the extension, Peter phoned the police offices at Inverness and was connected to a helpful male voice in the section that investigated terrorism, organized crime, smuggling and kidnapping. By turns, Peter and Graham explained the mysterious disappearance of their wives four days ago from Hotel Balmoral and added that they would like to come to the offices to make formal statements and request a formal investigation.

Insp. Mackay informed them he would be glad to meet with them to discuss the case further which, he added, would likely receive priority attention from MI-5 and Interpol.

The inspector's administrative assistant called back next day to set up an appointment for the following Monday morning, at 9 a.m., to receive any and all information they could provide to assist the investigation which would begin promptly afterward, he assured.

Peter and Graham booked off work from their employers and planned their trip to Inverness after the weekend. They spent a restless 48 hours and by the time they were en route to the police offices, the trail leading to the whereabouts of Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak had become more tortuous: Sheikh Abbadi had taken the two women, by limo, to his hidden, fortified ranch, complete with dungeons, a company of well-armed and -trained prison guards and a throng of female slaves and attendants, where he planned to turn his latest acquisitions into field beasts of burden – yoked to sugar-cane carts they would haul from the fields to warehouses, cutting cane, picking rocks and plowing fields by hand – for the rest of their natural lives. Isabel and Moira were blindfolded again and once again had no idea where they were going as they heard and felt the limousine drive off the paved coastal road onto a winding, rough gravel byway, the only way into and out of Abbadi's palatial properties in a semi-arid region of the desert, two hours from Ushwant prison and three hours from the capital city. "Isabel and Moira, you are my property now," said Sheikh Abbadi, as the limo made its way to his palace from the prison. "I have paid an enormous sum -- more than 1 million pounds -- to acquire you and I have been advised you are 'extreme flight risks'. You can expect, therefore, that your present bondage will remain and you will be chained at night to preclude any attempt at escape. It will not be as harsh as you recently endured at Ushwant prison but the additional chains you will wear, day and night, will deter any possibility of you wandering away." The women looked toward him and were silent, incredulous, that an innocent experiment with steel bondage at home had led to these depths of depravity and servitude so far away.

AT THE RANCH

Two more hours of idle chat between owner and slaves helped pass the time as the limo drove south along the coast then inland a short distance to arrive at dusk at the main gate of Sheikh Abbadi's farm and residence. Two turbanned armed guards in combat gear salaamed as the sleek, black car drove quietly inside the compound and the chain-link fence gate, topped with barbed wire, was closed and locked securely as the vehicle drove a short distance to the cellblock that would house Isabel and Moira for many weeks and months to come. Their accommodation was a squat, one-storey rectangular bunker, with eight-ft.-thick walls and roof whose interior had been done over into two large cells, each with a separate barred-door entrance opening onto a short corridor. From the white-painted stone exterior, barred windows and fortified casemates overlooked the courtyard that surrounded the little cellblock and guard towers at strategic points along the wired security perimeter were used to keep a close eye on the two women, still considered "extreme flight risks" by their captors. Despite the extravagant security precautions, Isabel's and Moira's cells were comfortably appointed: Included were electricity, a three-piece bath, small bedroom, kitchenette, complete with range and stocked refrigerator, and living space as well as barred windows and smaller casemates that looked out onto the compound courtyard and other farm buildings. Ringbolts were securely fitted into all walls of the women's newly-refurbished apartments and their captors had installed five long chains, fastened securely by ringbolts through the concrete living-room wall, that ensured they could be chained anywhere, anytime, giving them a 30-ft. radius of movement. Despite their chains, however, they would be living in relative comfort. Sheikh Abbadi and his two female assistants escorted the still-blindfolded Isabel and Moira into their new quarters and each woman's eyes were unwrapped only once they were locked inside their apartments.

Isabel's and Moira's collars were then locked to a 30-ft. chain that was fastened to a ringbolt on the stone wall above their beds and they were advised they would be branded tomorrow at 12 noon.

Isabel and Moira were chained in separate cells but their thoughts were united as they struggled to make sense of the whirlwind of events that led to their incredible journey and introduction to slavery and bondage so far from home. Everything had happened so fast – they had not had enough time to think about let alone come to terms with – their slavery. Thoughts of their husbands and home intruded as the two lay in open-mouthed silence, staring at the rough-stone ceiling and walls that surrounded them. What would Graham and Peter be doing at this time? Could they have any idea where they were? How would they rescue us from this fortification in which we are so securely chained? And they insist on calling us "extreme flight risks!" The possibility of engineering their escape from captivity seemed extremely remote to both of them, Isabel thought, considering their circumstances: we are kept naked and chained 24 hours a day, we do not know where we are, we neither speak nor understand the native language, I doubt we could even bribe the guards with our bodies – the list goes on. Isabel and Moira lay back on their comfortable single beds, fingering their chains sadly, feeling the cool resoluteness of the bonds against the warm feminine flesh of their necks, breasts, wrists, nether regions and ankles. In the dim silence of their bedrooms, their fears were overcome by a strange, erotic contentment and perverse sense of security enforced by the 2.5 pounds of steel attached to them by unseen hand and unknown method. Moira rolled over onto her stomach, chains rattling, to try to forget the day's events but was immediately thwarted by her heavy 48-G breasts. She turned again on her back and held her wrist chains at hip level, wondering, gazing into nothingness as she drifted into slumber. Isabel, who had been dozing, awoke with a start as she felt her chains warming up while a glowing iridescence bathed her shackles and bonds.

Moira, whose chains also were being transformed, slept through the strange, otherworldly event. Isabel, who had her chains first placed on her during an alien encounter in Scotland three months ago, was about to be revisited by communications from the wayward Venusian spacecraft. (See Through Night to Light) Isabel pinched herself to make sure she was awake and stared, alone, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as she heard a telepathic message, with a strange electronically-feminine lilt:

"Isabel Metcalfe, this is Venusian spacecraft DDE224-A. We intercepted you and your vehicle at a point in rural Western Scotland three Earth moons ago during our survey of life-forms on your primitive planet. You were restrained, examined, assessed and released with your breast and ankle bondages in place as we saw fit following our examination. "Your bonds are of Venusian origin and, thus, are unable to be removed by any conventional earthly means. You will be interested to know they provide us with a beacon that indicates to us your whereabouts at all times. "That is why your ankle chains and the rest of your shackles – and those of your friend, Moira MacPeak – were glowing just a moment ago as we located you with our positioning systems. "Since we last met, we have seen that you and your colleague have become accustomed to, and apparently have enjoyed, wearing steel bondage continuously. "We will report this curious anomaly to our headquarters when we return to Blintz, our homeport, 200 light-years from Earth. In this respect, we have taken the liberty, pardon the pun, to alter the atomic structure of your crude man-made chains so that they match the material and fabrication of the Venusian shackles you were fitted with earlier. "We hope you will be pleased to know your present chains now will be with you always. As you appear to enjoy steel bondage, I am sure you will appreciate this small gesture and token of our appreciation from all of us in DDE224-A. "Good night."

Isabel was aghast at the communication and looked about frantically to try and believe it did not just happen. These misunderstandings of flight risk and mistaken enjoyment of their bondage were taking on cosmic proportions. Their situation had deepened and the women were unprepared for what was to come next. Isabel's first conscious moment was to feel the shackles on her wrists and neck to confirm what the Venusian voice had told her. She shuddered in disbelief as she felt for the original welded seams and could not find them in the dim light. She reached over to snap on the bedside table light and saw that, indeed, all her chains, rings and shackles had been transformed into the same, implacable steel-grey form of her alien ankle chains. The welds were gone and now, seamless bands of steel gripped her neck and wrists as well as her ankles. She wondered if Moira was awake and panicking as she was but Moira drowsed on, unaware what had happened to her steel. She would make her own discoveries in the morning. Isabel put this sudden turn of events quickly out of her head – there was just too much going on at the same time – and tried to fall asleep. She tossed and turned for a few moments, trying to get used to the strange, new weight on her chest and the reality of the permanency of her shackles until, finally, sleep overcame her. The Ushwanti September dawn broke bright, hot and muggy as sunlight streamed into Moira's and Isabel's tidy little bedrooms in their cellblock in Sheikh Abbadi's palace compound. Moira awoke first and swung her legs out of bed, feeling the familiar, now slightly erotic tugs of her chains on wrists, ankles and pussy. The metallic chatter of her chains sounded different to her but she was unaware of the bizarre, otherworldly events overnight that forever proscribed her freedom. She too had been permanently chained but was still unaware of the transformation. Isabel, too, swung her legs out of bed, only too aware of the implacability of her steel bondage and their lifelong permanence, and made her way into the living room as far as her 30-ft. chain tether would allow. She could open her front door but could not unlock the barred door that faced her. She heard Moira rattling her way to her front door and, soon, the two were looking at each other. "Moo-oo, wr-chnd-fr-gd-nmw, ll-ch ach-yr-chns!" (Moira, we're chained for good now, look at your chains), Isabel called to her friend, signalling her to look at and feel her chains. Moira looked at her cuffs and her eyes opened wide. "Whaa? Haa? Whaaus, Iffbull" (Why? How? Why us, Isabel?) Isabel shrugged her shoulders and tried to indicate she would explain later. She made writing motions with her chained hands, suggesting she would try and get her hands on a pen and paper to tell her what had happened the night before. The two women stood in their doorways, looking at each other as they tugged and pulled at their chains, trying futilely to push the cuffs up off their necks or down their wrists and ankles. They failed utterly.

They were on snugly and for good. Time passed and they clinked their sad ways back into their living rooms to wait. And wait. No one came for them. They walked heavily to the kitchen, dragging their neck tethers with both hands, dropping them with a clash of links to open their small refrigerators. They saw a variety of fruit drinks, yogurts, rice pudding and pureed African concoctions they could not describe. Each took a small bottle of water and yogurt for breakfast and carefully tried to swallow the liquid and creamy dairy product – which had been spiked with Vuka-Vuka , a powerful African herbal aphrodisiac – through their gagged-open mouths. They were getting better at it and both were relieved they were able to accomplish breakfast without gagging or spitting up. Isabel went into the bathroom to freshen up with the quality cosmetics and other feminine accessories that the captors had stocked and finished by brushing her hair with both hands. Looking fairly presentable, despite the lack of a good night's sleep, she went back into the living room to commiserate with her friend, Moira, who had been unlocked from her cell and was waiting for her inside Isabel's living room. Together, they sat on a small couch and looked out the barred window as they watched male and female field hands, young and old, pushing or hauling carts and equipment into the nearby canefields for a day under the blistering sun. Looking away at the grim reminder of their future, Isabel tuned the nearby radio to the BBC World Service and their situation became almost normal, just for a moment. Isabel and Moira looked at each other's bonds carefully and saw they were identical in every way now. BBC newscasts, at 10 and 11 a.m., had no information about their plight and they considered themselves lost women. At 12 noon, two armed guards presented at the door and Isabel and Moira rose submissively to greet them. It was too early, Moira thought, to begin her sex-for-freedom ploy as the guards roughly unlocked their tethers and re-chained their neck collars together with a 6-ft. steel tether. They were led away, out of their cellblock and across the courtyard to a medical building where they would be branded. Isabel, unlocked from her colleague, was led into the small medical room, while Moira waited outside. Isabel was shocked to see a branding iron, with a white-hot, one-in.-square tip, protruding from a small brazier nearby.

A tall, thin black man, in a white lab coat, sprayed topical antiseptic on Isabel's left breast as her burly guard held her arms firmly behind her, pulling her wrist chain firmly into her waist. He then donned heavy blacksmith's gloves, withdrew the iron from the fire and plunged it for the count of five seconds into her left breast's upper inner curve. The antiseptic spray also had anesthetic qualities and she felt only a slight burning sensation only as the roast-pork smell of her scorched flesh rose to assail her sense of smell. The medical man quickly withdrew the branding iron, put it back into the brazier and gave Isabel a bottle of alcohol with instructions to keep the site bandaged clean and dry at all times for three days. Isabel now was permanently marked with a one-in.-square Ushwanti ideogram which said she was a "slave - beast of burden." Isabel looked at her branded breast and noticed the fine, cursive work of the brand that forever named her slave to whoever looked at her ample bosom. The guard escorted Isabel to the waiting area and Moira was hauled in, branded, quickly, quietly and efficiently in the same spot and both women were escorted back to their cells, holding their left breasts in both hands, waiting for the pain to set in. "The rest of the day is yours," the guard said, as he locked Isabel and Moira together in Isabel's apartment, still chained by the neck. They took care looking after each other's brands for a few hours and enjoyed each other's company for supper that night.

With tender breasts and heavy shackles on their bodies, the powerful aphrodisiac had already begun to work and their dreams that night were of their erotic lovemaking with their husbands back in Scotland. Isabel and Moira cuddled each other in their chains and the thought of sex was never far away. Moira was tempted to snuggle close to her friend's breast but pushed the thought away. She could never be the sexual aggressor, she thought, least of all with her best friend. They stayed chained to each other until next morning when their first day in the fields would begin.

THE SEARCH BEGINS

Thousands of miles away, Graham and Peter had finished giving their statements to the northern Constabulary and an investigation team was being assembled to scour the grounds of the now-vacant Balmoral Hotel with its infamous recent history. A careful screening of the bedrooms would turn up Isabel's hastily-thrown nailfile which she had used to try to open a lock and a discarded, bloodstained hemostat in the dungeon cell that had served as Dr. Lord's operating room the previous weekend. The trail leading to the kidnapped women's whereabouts had been established. More dogged police work, information-sharing and cooperation with Interpol would reveal to Graham and Peter that their wives had, indeed, been kidnapped by an international slavery cartel operating out of a long-vacant prison in Ushwant, East Africa, and that patience, cooperation, cooperation and diplomacy at high levels, as opposed to armed force, would be the preferred courses of action to secure their release. "Patience? My arse," said Peter disgustedly to Graham, when the chief constable of the Scottish Northern Constabulary told them what the next steps would be. "Those bloody boffins would take months, years, to get anywhere and I am not prepared to wait that long." Graham and Peter's sons were both in the Royal Navy's Special Boat Service and, despite their late-teenaged years, they had two years each of commando training and access to some high-tech weaponry and other commando hardware that would be useful in the expedition they had in mind. Graham and Peter thanked the chief constable for the time and effort of his department and drove home to hatch their own plan. Once they located their wives, they would mount their own commando raid and extract their loved ones from captivity. Finding they would be the first order of business, however, and Graham and Peter agreed to convene a meeting between them and their four sons as soon as possible. The next day, however, Moira and Isabel were awoken by two young Ushwanti women who would take them to be yoked to the canefield wagons -- the most-despised job on the farm. The young black women looked sadly at the two Scottish captives, sexy and beautiful despite their haggard looks and lack of sleep, and motioned for them to get out of bed.

Isabel and Moira rose as one, entered the bathroom as a pair and took turns on the toilet and freshening up slightly, annoyed at their chains that hindered and clattered at the least movement in the small bathroom. "Wu-hv-tt-pln-nscpah, Iffbl!" (We have to plan an escape, Isabel!), Moira whispered to her friend in the bathroom. "Eff, lfts-rry-nn-gt-sm-pprr frsff." (Yes, let's try and get some paper first), Isabel replied, thinking they may be able to smuggle out a note. Moira nodded and they walked out to join their attendants. One young woman handed both captives a large bottle each of sunscreen and motioned they should put it on each other to protect their bodies from the harsh equatorial sun. She then locked a tether to the centre link of their neck tether and escorted them out of their cellblock, across the wide courtyard to an open building that housed carts, farm implements, a blacksmith's shop and other machinery. Their yokes, two, four-ft.-long, three-in.-diameter poles with strategically-placed cuffs, waited for them outside the toolshed. Moira and Isabel were unchained from each other and began coating each other's bodies with the sweet-smelling sunscreen. Isabel did Moira's back and then turned and let her friend do her back and shoulders. Then both slathered their faces, chests and legs, turning their bodies the color of a shiny pearl that would change to a golden brown under hours of exposure each day from the merciless sun. When they were done, the young women placed the captives' chained hands at their waists and slid the thick, polished hardwood poles in front of their bent elbows slid them across the small of their backs. They quickly snapped the cuffs closed just above each elbow and walked them toward their carts, stopping them in front of the two pairs of cart-tongues. They were then turned around, with their backs toward the cart, and the ends of their yokes were bolted to each end of the tongue and each sturdy 2½-in. bolt tightened down securely with a socket wrench, fastening each woman to a 4- X 8-ft. cart.

They were now ready to go to work in the fields. Their female escorts reappeared with two pairs of African sandals and strapped them to their captives' feet. They informed them they would bring them water at 10 a.m., 12 noon and 2 p.m. and that their workday would run from 8 a.m. - 4 p.m., daily, Monday - Friday, with most weekends off.

This schedule came as a minor shock to Isabel and Moira who had steeled themselves to be worked endlessly; their hours in the field were comparable to a nearly-civilized work week in the UK. But the similarities ended there as their African captors pointed the direction of the fields to them and said they had 15 minutes to get into position to have their carts loaded with sugar cane for the day's processing. Isabel and Moira looked at each other and tried to shrug their shoulders in mute acceptance of their assignment. Their escorts left them alone and they turned their carts awkwardly toward the canefields and began pulling their large, light-wheeled carts with their wrists and arms cuffed and yoked and their 18-in. ankle chains still tethered to their pussy rings. Clearly, the gagged Scotswomen would not be the most efficient workers in the canefields that day but, fearing punishment for poor performance, they decided reluctantly to work as well as they could. The fields were about a half-mile away from the compound and they slowly pulled their carts up to the gate where the guards allowed them through. The sun was well overhead by the time they had made the 15-minute trudge to the fields, their chains clinking and tugging annoyingly the entire time, and they were pointed to a spot where workers would load their carts for a return trip to a cane storage area and buildings. Isabel and Moira were panting through their wide-open mouths, their ankles, wrists, elbows and pussies were sore already and they were very thirsty. Waiting for them at the field-loading area were two bottles of water but when they arrived, all they could do was look at them; they could kneel but could not reach the water yoked as they were to their carts. They looked around at the workers still in the fields and decided to stand and wait until someone came along.

Their Scottish pride, and thirst, told them they were not going to go a step further until someone came to water them. A few minutes later, two young native men walked out of the field and took pity on the two slaves. The men looked appraisingly at the women, picked up the canteens and Isabel and Moira tilted their heads back, allowing the men to pour small quantities of tepid water down their parched throats.

Unknown to the field workers and the female slaves, all their food and water had been ordered to be laced with vuka-vuka to keep them sexed up for any sexual interlude that the sheik had in mind. Isabel and Moira had already received significant doses of the herbal aphrodisiac and their libidos were being stimulated again as they glanced at the sweat-bathed, dark-brown bodies of the men who were giving them water – and appraising glances. "You very pretty ladies," said the older of the two, a young man in his early-20s. "We never see white wimmin out here, 'specially wif all doze chains on and attached like you is to dem carts. "Whuffo bring you to us, anyway? Where you from? Can you speak to us thro' doze gags?" Isabel spoke first: "Wf-rm-sclnd-nn-ff-bn-kkdnnppdd! (We are from Scotland and we have been kidnapped!). "Ccnn-ooff-hh-llff-ss? Pfff?" (Can you help us? Please?) The two men looked at each other and shrugged. "Ah kin only guess you askin' us hep you. Ma'am, we slaves oursef an' I can see by yo' bran' on yo' big tit you slaves, too. Wha'se worse, if'n we heps you escape, we goan git kilt or, worsted, beaten." A small, single-engine plane droned overhead, reminding Isabel and Moira they were still in the 20th century. "But we could make your existence here jus' a lil bit better if'n you could allow us to, shall we say, take a few liberties wif you, if you knows what we means." Isabel's and Moira's eyes widened as the vuka-vuka began its work on their sex drives and they saw the growing bulges in the young men's torn and tattered jeans as they looked at the women's chained bodies, bronzed and naked in the bright morning sun. Realizing they did not have any means to defend themselves, Isabel and Moira nodded in mute assent and knelt down, still yoked to their wagons, and opened their gaping mouths a little wider to accept the violations that were about to come. Isabel noticed her ring gag move slightly against the backs of upper and lower premolars as she did so and remembered to look more closely at her mouth when she had a chance. Moira and Isabel were stock-still on their knees in the brilliant, hot daylight of the Ushwanti canefield as the young men took full advantage of their helplessness. The first, the spokesman, slipped his huge, hard dong easily into Moira's waiting mouth and she gasped and gagged as he quickly forced it home into the back of her throat. The younger man also slid his cock deeply into Isabel's mouth and she, too, gaped and gasped in astonishment at its firm girth that squeezed in through her 3½-in.-diameter ring gag. Soon, both women were pushing their heads down, then backwards and forwards rhythmically and vigorously, giving head like they had never done before, stimulated by the mounting sexual tension induced by the aphrodisiac. Within three minutes, all four were gasping as orgasms wracked their taxed bodies in pulsating quick time. The African youths shot their huge loads of cum into the slavewomen's throats and left their flaccid members deep inside for a full minute as Isabel and Moira reached small climaxes on their own. The young men withdrew their organs, zipped up their jeans and wiped off the drips of semen and saliva that coated Isabel's and Moira's mouths, lips and chins. Isabel took advantage: "Plff, plff, cn-u-gt-uff- wwrrttnmm pprrff?" (Please, please can you get us some writing paper?), she said, making handwriting motions with her cuffed hands and wrists. "Writing paper? Shu', we can bring some dat tamarrah. Same place same time." The two men helped the Scottish slaves back to their feet and they walked away to resume work in the tall rows of green canestalks, emerging in a few minutes with armloads of stocks that they piled onto their carts.

A RESCUE PLANNED "Graham, can you get us some paper?" Peter Metcalfe asked his friend, as he gathered his two sons and Graham's two boys around the kitchen table to plan Isabel's and Moira's rescue. The four boys, aged 18 - 19, had been rushed home to western Scotland form their Royal Navy commando units in southern England to attend to a family matter of "extreme and confidential urgency." "Boys," Peter began, "Graham and I want to talk to you about your mothers. I'll be blunt. They have been kidnapped by an international slavery cartel and are somewhere in an East African country, Ushwant, where Isabel was kept confined for three days a couple of months ago. "Well, now," Peter said, nodding at the MacPeaks, "Moira and Isabel are there and we are going to rescue them.

"We have informed the Scottish northern constabulary but we are not going to wait for them or Scotland Yard or Interpol or the diplomats to secure their freedom through official channels, investigations and the courts; we are going to do it ourselves and we are calling on you lads, with your commando training, to help us develop an operations order -- everything from passports to transportation to firearms and plastic explosives, if necessary," Peter said, hammering his tradesman's fist onto the kitchen table for emphasis. The boys' eyes, wise beyond their late-teen years, were wide with the stunning, sudden news and they feared for their mothers. This was unbelievable, in small-town Scotland, but they quickly took strength in their two years of commando training with the Special Boat Squad. They were in top physical condition and highly motivated young men. They loved their mums deeply and they were quite ready, willing and able to lay down their lives for them.

Eighteen hours later, the six -- two fathers and four sons -- had 55 pages of neatly handwritten notes and a flowchart/action plan drawn on the back of an oilcloth that detailed step by step how they were going to locate Isabel and Moira, how they were going to get there, extract them and get them safely out of Africa and back home. The gallant six faced greater odds but they were armed with determination and a resourceful will that could not be equalled. The boys had requested long special leave which had been granted and they were very good at "rabbiting" things out of pussers' stores. The great Metcalfe - MacPeak plan was under way while the Scottish criminal investigator team continued to uncover more compelling evidence of the bizarre activities recently at the strange Hotel Balmoral near Cape Wrath. The police case file was growing and the evidence logbook had more and more entries as the young MacPeak and Metcalfe boys said a temporary heartfelt goodbye to their fathers to head back to their home bases to beg, borrow and steal commando tools and weaponry of the trade for great Metcalfe - MacPeak African expedition.

Meanwhile, Isabel and Moira stood patiently as the two young men loaded their carts with sugar cane. When the carts were fully loaded, they were pointed in the direction of the sugar-cane mill and told to start hauling their loads, which weighed about 100 pounds, toward the outskirts of the wire-enclosed palace compound. They leaned forward, pulling on the yokes cuffed to their elbows, and the wagons started to move over the dusty, little trail that had seen many decades of wagon traffic. Their heavy breasts bounced and swayed to and fro against the gentle tug of the 14-in. chain linking their nipple rings and their ankle chains created dusty swirls as they, too, tugged against their vaginal rings, giving the two already-aroused women sexual sensations they had never felt before. Pleasure and pain had become one and at 10 a.m., on their return trip to the cane fields, they were stopped and given water, again laced with vuka-vuka , and their sexual appetites were stimulated once again. Unaware of the presence of the herbal ingredients in their water and food, they thought their increased libidos were the result of their steel bondage as well as the attentions they had received recently from the field workers and the guards. The bright equatorial sunlight was hot on their bare shoulders and backs but their bodies were well-protected by extra-strength sunscreen that gave their pale bodies a sexy sheen. The hours of sun exposure would tan their white skins in a matter of days, ensured by the adequate suntan lotion that they applied generously to their bodies before the start of work. They continued to haul cane – making the half-mile trip in about a half-hour one way – and were stopped for water and pureed food at lunchtime, more water at 2 p.m., and walked one more trip until they were told to head back to the blacksmith's shop to be untethered. At 4 p.m., footsore and with tired, aching legs, arms and shoulders, the women clinked and clattered in their chains as they hauled their now-empty carts back into the compound where another worker unlocked their elbows from the yokes and unbolted the yokes from the wagon tongues. Their collars were once again chained together and they were escorted back to their cellblock to be unlocked again, and placed in their separate quarters. The rest of the day was theirs but next day, with the promised writing paper, they hoped to be able to make plans for their escape.

The two slave women made themselves a light supper, ran themselves a luxurious bath and eased their aching bodies into the hot, soapy water where they stayed in relative comfort until they started to nod in fatigue. Both women got out of their tubs, dried themselves off, paying close attention to their new brands, their huge breasts and ringed vaginas, and clinked their naked way to their beds where they were soon fast asleep. This was to be their routine, Monday - Friday, and their weekends were free, so to speak. But there was some recreation in store and they were the featured attraction at the sheikh's Saturday night reception and dance for his staff, slaves and invited guests. Next day, Tuesday, was a repeat of the first day – up at 6:30 a.m., breakfast, chained, escorted to the equipment shed to receive sunscreen then yoked to their carts and off to work, 8 - 4, with breaks at 10 a.m., 12 noon and 2 p.m., to receive water and food, always laced with vuka-vuka . By the end of their second day in the canefields, their libidos were in overdrive but Isabel had received a small pad of writing paper from one of the young men. She folded it up neatly in her cuffed hands and, during a break when they were not being observed, passed it to Moira, pointing to her collar. Isabel knelt down with great difficulty in front of Moira and Moira slipped the small pad and pencil under Isabel's steel collar behind her neck where it was hidden by her shoulder-length brown hair. At last, they had a method of communicating clearly and passing notes to someone who might be able to help them escape. But, alas, that help would not come for months. Wednesday and Thursday passed uneventfully, with no breaks in the field routine, but on Friday afternoon, when they were returned to their apartment-cells, as they called their quarters, they were surprised to see three articles of clothing waiting for them on their beds – a straight grey skirt, a floral-patterned, stretchy "tube top" and a pair of 3-in. high-heels – with a note from the sheikh saying they were to dress accordingly and attend a regular weekend social in the nearby palace at 8 p.m., Saturday. Isabel and Moira ignored the clothing and invitations for the moment, choosing instead to ease themselves into their bathtubs, prepare supper for themselves and lie down to think more about sex with their husbands, whenever they managed to get free, if ever.

Their fervent desire to escape somehow was always present but their plans gave way frequently to powerful, lurid sexual fantasies and appetites induced by the daily doses of vuka-vuka . Enslaved by her own libido as well as by steel, Isabel's recurring fantasies drove her frantic with desire and lust: she dreamed and fantasized regularly, during the day and at night, about her lovemaking with Peter at home and during their sexy long weekend away at Hotel Balmoral. Moira's imaginings, although less intense than Isabel's, were focused on her initiation to steel bondage and lovemaking while she was chained in bed with her husband, Graham. During the still African night, broken now and then by the cries and howls of desert denizens of the night, they would lie in bed and finger their chains, trying to imagine it was their loved ones doing it for them. Isabel tried to insert an exploratory finger into her vagina but the twin rings blocked access to the sensitive areas and she had to content herself by stimulating the outer surfaces of her sex which made her more frustrated sexually. Instead, she tried to work free the ring gag, wired in place behind her teeth, with her fingernails. Guided by her tongue, she found the small surgical wires the mad surgeon, Dr. Lord, had wound around her upper and lower bicuspids to hold the gag firmly in place. She found the wires were too snug but she managed, during the last couple of nights, to loosen the ring ever so slightly. She would tell Moira of her progress next morning. At daybreak, Isabel was chained as usual to Moira after breakfast to be escorted to the equipment shed and placed into further bondage. She slid Moira her first note in her neat handwriting: I've been able to loosen my ring gag a little. Will show you at 10. BTW, are you feeling a little more 'randy' than usual? I think our food and drink are spiked. Destroy this note. Moira read the note and quickly crammed it into a little ball and swallowed it with a grimace. Moira leaned closer to Isabel as they walked together across the compound and said:

"Mff, mmfllng mr rny thn ooffml. Sshh-mmhh-tt-llsssnn thff ggg." (Yes, I'm feeling more randy than usual! Show me how to loosen this gag), she said, wiping the drool from her chin. Isabel replied: "Oosthe ttnnng tt fll fftt wwrrzz, nn ppkk tt wif fingrff." (Use your tongue then pick at the wires with your fingers). Isabel showed Moira what to do by running her tongue around the rear contour of the stainless-steel ring and Moira followed suit, both of them unnoticed by their escorts who thought they were merely trying to moisten their lips and adjust their forced jaws. After coating themselves again with sunscreen, they stood passively as their elbows were cuffed to their yokes. They were then led, still chained together, to the waiting carts where their 4-ft. yokes were bolted firmly to the tongues and only then was their neck chain unlocked. They trudged off to the canefield – thought of escape was absurd, yoked and chained as they were – and another boring day of hauling cane got under way. At least it was the end of a slave's work week and they were promised Saturday and Sunday off, they thought. Friday night rolled around and they were returned to their cell-apartments to clean up, have something to eat and listen to the BBC World Service. Moira was taken out of her cell by a guard and taken by the arm into Isabel's cell for what was to be a regular Friday night get-together. Isabel's cell door was locked and barred shut and the two women were able to enjoy each other's company for the first time in their bizarre first week at the sheik's desert palace. Waiting for them on each of their beds was a straight grey skirt, an off-white, stretchy tube top and a pair of three-in. high heels. The women ignored the neat little piles of clothing as Isabel led Moira into the bathroom and told her to look in the mirror as she explained how she was able to loosen the ring gag slightly. Both women spent an hour trying to loosen the wires that held the rings in place and succeeded in freeing Isabel's heavy ring very slightly.

Next day, Saturday, they tried to approximate a weekend of relative normalcy by puttering around their apartments, doing some little housekeeping chores and preparing small meals for themselves in first Isabel's small, tidy kitchen, for brunch, then Moira's for tea at 3.

Thoughts of escape were always present but the impossibility of their situations discouraged discussion. As well, their conversation was difficult and Isabel was determined to loosen her ring gag even more before the Saturday night social. After an hour, she had succeeded in freeing up another millimetre of slack in the gag's wires but Moira continued to have difficulty with hers. As well, their slavery had become more obdurate than ever – they had been kept naked for almost two weeks and had begun to forget what it was like to wear clothes in the first place. Putting the skirt and tube top on over their chains would be a rare treat, they thought, and toward 6 p.m., Moira excused herself to get ready for the big weekend event. She and Isabel hugged as best they could in their chains and Moira headed to her bathroom to draw a bath, do her hair and make up her face as best she could. Putting lipstick on was going to be a challenge, she thought, as she soaked in her hot tub, her chains and cuffs clattering under the bathwater. Isabel, too, ceased trying to free her gag and enjoyed her bath to the fullest. She, too, also had trouble doing up her face, eyebrows, cheeks and lips but finally succeeded in doing a better-than-average job. She started brushing her hair but her handcuffs did not allow her freedom of movement to do a satisfactory job. Nevertheless, by 7 p.m., both women were ready to get dressed. The two had to sit on the bed to pull on their skirts, the first time in weeks they had felt clothing over their loins, then they pulled their tube tops down over their heads and tried to get them to fit comfortably around their huge bosoms. With consummate skill, however, they squeezed and patted their heavy, chained breasts and adjusted their tops to flatten themselves out somewhat so they did not look quite as top heavy as they did during the day. The three-in. pump heels were the final piece and they slipped them on easily over their now-tanned but tender feet. When they rose to look at themselves in their bedroom mirrors, they agreed they looked almost half-civilized, except for the ring gags, handcuffs and leg chains with tethers that ran up between their toned and shapely legs to disappear underneath their hemlines which fell to three-in. above their shapely knees. Otherwise, they looked like bosomy, casually-dressed young women -- who might be going to the cinema with their husbands on a Saturday night – except the chains showed everywhere, which reminded them constantly, by sight, sound and touch, of their permanency. And slavery.

Soon, two armed guards arrived to escort them across the compound into the huge, one-storey palace, its brightly-lit interior inviting them past the imposing marble pillars and stone staircase at the front. Isabel and Moira clinked their way up the stairs and the guards left them at the entranceway. Moira pushed open the heavy double doors with both hands and they entered. They were not at all prepared for what they saw: groups of 50 or so African and Caucasian young men and women, in semiformal evening wear, were gathered in small groups, chatting, smoking and drinking white wine, giving the appearance of civility in such barbaric surroundings. They saw Sheik Abbadi, their owner, in a corner talking to a bevy of young women, in evening dresses, and the sheik caught their eye. The tall, handsome African excused himself politely from his audience and made his way over to the chained Scotswomen. "Good evening, Isabel and Moira," he said. "I trust you have had an informative and productive first week in the canefields and that you have not been worked too severely. "May I add, please, that your loveliness tonight is second only to the way you look when you are at work in my fields during the week? You are indeed the vision of Gaelic loveliness and I am happy that I have purchased you." Isabel and Moira looked at him in disbelief and shrugged off his dubious compliments. Their intense dislike of this slimeball grew and their intent to escape, at all costs, was galvanized. A white-jacketed waiter arrived magically at his side with a tray of chilled white wine and the sheikh offered two glasses to Isabel and Moira who accepted them silently. The two women held their wine glasses decorously at waist level in both hands and delayed making small talk with this disreputable slaveowner and criminal. Other women came by and ooh 'ed and aah 'ed at their silver-grey slave chains as well as their deeply-tanned, buxom figures that their tube tops and skirts did nothing to hide. "Are you two real slaves?" one asked Moira, who shook her head negatively in reply. "Where are you from?" another asked Isabel. "Ffo-lnd" (Scotland), she replied. "And do you have to wear those terrible gags and chains all the time? The silver-grey of your chains sets off the grey of skirts, you know. Or were you chained tonight just for display purposes? I can't believe that mature women, such as you would be slaves. Really now!" Moira looked at her young questioner severely, as a mother would to a child, and coldly replied: "Nn-ff, whf tt wrmm lllttmmmff; nnowwfffofff!" (No we have to wear them all the time; now fuck off.) The young woman giggled, blushed and turned away to chat with her other airhead friends. Moira tried to suppress the urge to tell this young piece of fluff, who probably never wore anything heavier than a gold neck chain before, to step outside so she could emphatically even accounts with her. Isabel saw the steely anger in Moira's eyes as Moira's stare pursued the young white woman as she strode away with her gaggle of young pals. Isabel took her friend's arm gently but firmly: "Nnn, Mmm, ziff iff nnt tt plaff," (No, Moira, this is not the place), Isabel said, surprised that she was able to pronounce a couple of vowels finally after a week of trying to work her ring gag loose from behind her teeth. Although still wired into her mouth firmly in four places, its slight movement allowed Isabel to speak just a little bit more clearly. Moira's gag was still lodged in its original place and she was still muffled frustratingly in whatever she tried to say. Moira's heart was stilled when she heard Minnie Riperton's "Lovin' You" sinuate from a nearly sound system. It took her back to March that year when chains, bondage and slavery were the stuff of adult magazines and cartoons. This was real life and she was a part of it. Soon, a few couples wandered onto the wide parquet dance floor and began swaying gently to the lyrical ballad. Isabel and Moira missed their husbands even more and wondered what they were doing at exactly that time as Minnie's voice swept over them, transporting them back to a more agreeable time in rural Scotland. Suddenly, two handsome, well-dressed young men, in their mid-20s, approached and asked Isabel and Moira to dance. They looked at each other and nodded as the young men escorted them, one hand gently on their red, chafed elbows, onto the dance floor. Unsure where to put their linked hands, the women finally placed them flat against their partners' chests, which inflamed the males' passions intensely, and they swayed to the music, their chains adding a quiet arpeggio as they moved their legs gracefully against their steel tethers. Reason fought with passion in Isabel's and Moira's minds as they danced with their partners. They wanted to escape in the worst way but clear, rational thought was subdued by waves of sexual impulses induced by their daily doses of aphrodisiac-laden food and drink and the sight and feel of these two young men who held them so gently. "What good are these two chaps to our escape, anyway?" Isabel thought to herself. "But, oh, wouldn't I love to crawl this fellow's frame. I feel like a real good, long fuck right here, right now." Moira's mind was set on the face of her dance partner and she was shocked by her sexual thoughts of wanting to take him in her mouth and give him "the blow job of the century." "Can you speak through that gag?" the young man asked her suddenly. Moira shook her head negatively. "Oh, I see. Well, my name's Dan and that's Dave over there with your friend. We're from Seattle, Washington, and were invited here by Sheik Abbadi. Are you one of his wives? Or are you, can I say it, captives? Or, ah, er, slaves? "I say that only in because I see you and your friend are in chains." Moira was getting tired of being referred to as slave and she frowned at him but continued to dance, her chains rattling now and then against the parquet floor. The young man, suddenly circumspect, avoided her steely glares and icy demeanour and knew she was not to be trifled with. Isabel's partner, Dave, was content just to feel her hands on his chest and the soft but definite brush of Isabel's full breasts against his white shirt. He could feel himself getting tumescent and erect as he felt and heard Isabel's chains clink with her movements. The Riperton song ended and was replaced by an Olivia Newton-John ballad and the dancers continued. A few minutes later, Dan and Dave asked Isabel and Moira to join them in a circle of comfortable chairs just off the dance floor. Isabel and Moira were still footsore from the difficult work week and were only too glad to get off their high heels for a while. The young gentlemen escorted them off the dance floor and helped them to their seats. The women crossed their knees decorously and, except for their gags and chains, could have been mistaken for ordinary people. "Doof oof hff nny wrttng peffer?" (Do you have any writing paper?) Isabel asked Dave quietly, as she gestured a writing motion with her hands. "Writing paper? Well, yes, I think I have something here in my pocket. Will this napkin do?"

Isabel grabbed it from him. "Pmm rr pmfull?" (Pen or pencil?), she asked, gesturing again. Dave reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a pencil. Isabel began printing neatly as Moira looked on while the young men sat across from them: "We are Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak, of rural Renfrewshire, Scotland, and are held here against our will. We were taken, bound and gagged, from a hotel in northern Scotland and sold to Sheik Abbadi at some castle or jail in this country. Call our husbands, Peter and Graham, at 01-44-555-3434 and deliver this note immediately to police. Help! We fear for our lives." Isabel signed it and gave it to Moira to read and sign. Moira then passed it to Dan whose eyes widened as though he was just pole-axed. "Migod, sold into slavery?" he finally blurted. "FFShhhh!" scolded Isabel. "Nofolod" (Not so loud). "Yes, we will take this note into the capital tonight and we will have the police out here in no time," Dan continued. Isabel and Moira nodded their silent thanks and thought, at last, they were going to get a chance at release and an opportunity to bring their kidnappers to justice. Not. Dan and Dave quietly left the Abbadi palace compound later that night, after a warm embrace from the Scotswomen, and delivered the note to the dusty, decrepit police station in the Ushwanti capital Sunday morning. The bored police officer behind the desk said he would show it to his superior next day and nothing was done for several weeks. Sunday rolled around and Moira and Isabel, naked in chains once again but buoyed by the hope of imminent release, spoke about last night as they stood in their barred doorways facing each other. Isabel informed Moira she had been keeping a log of people, places and events and told Moira not to be discouraged. They passed Sunday morning listening for any possible news about their situation on the BBC World Service but international events passed them by. Sunday afternoon and Sunday evening passed and, still, no one came by. They crawled into bed at 7 p.m., weary and worried, until they were shaken awake by their guards at 6:30 a.m. Monday to start another work week in the fields. Monday - Friday rolled by with the same cane-hauling drudgery, but their sexual appetites continued unabated with the vuka-vuka -laced food and drink they received regularly throughout the day, as ordered by Sheik Abbadi. Clear, rational, sustained thought eluded them as their supercharged libidos kept flashing horny desires from their subconscious minds to their consciousness and bodies at every step. The constant tugging of the chains against their nipples and vaginas were sexual stimulants that kept them continually on edge while they hauled carts and they had no way of satisfying themselves and their kinky desires. Even at night, their gentle tuggings on their vagina and nipple chains only served to increase, but never satisfy, their lust. They were truly prisoners in their own bodies and slaves to their own desires. The young men who had accosted them the week before had been transferred to another field and their carts were loaded by another crew of men and women who eyed them suspiciously. They were always locked up at night, sometimes together, sometimes apart, but thoughts of home and their husbands and sons were never far away despite the sexual torments brought on every day by the herbal ingredients in their food and drink. The Saturday night routine of dressing in skirts, skimpy tops and heels continued every week for the first month but Dan and Dave were nowhere to be found. Isabel and Moira had a few dances with a couple of the palace staff but those liaisons led to nothing. Another two months passed and Moira and Isabel were turning into strong, hard workers. They were not starved or mistreated and the daily toil of hauling 100-pound carts of sugar cane had developed and sculpted their shoulders, biceps and back muscles into those of the other field workers. But for their bulging, heavy breasts, their soft, feminine lines were gone. Their stomach muscles rippled and their thigh and calf muscles became stronger every day. But despite their physical strength, they were still restrained by chains and cuffs linking them to their carts and shackling their necks, wrists, breasts and ankles together. As strong as they were, they were still slaves, physically and psychologically, and Isabel and Moira began to realize they might never escape. But in Scotland and southern England, the MacPeak and Metcalfe families had plans well under way to find and release Isabel and Moira.

Passports had been obtained and the sons had bribed some of their senior NCOs to release to them combat uniforms, steel helmets and desert camouflage as well as large quantities of small-arms ammunition, grenades, C-4 plastic explosive, pistols, submachineguns and semiautomatic rifles. At the end of two months, while their mothers were still anguishing in the desert palace compound, they had accumulated, stored and arranged for shipment enough weaponry and ammunition to outfit a platoon of commandos. Crated in several heavy-duty boxes, labelled "auto parts," they had made arrangements to have the military hardware couriered to a secret rendezvous not far from the Ushwant prison, where their mothers were taken and sold, while their fathers had secured air transportation to the Ushwanti capital from Prestwick, to Heathrow, to Tangier and onward to the Ushwant international airport. From there, they would launch Phase 2 of their daring rescue attempt. But a couple of obstacles stood in the way of success. The fathers and sons still did not know the exact location of Isabel and Moira and only chanced on the existence of the 15th Century fortress/dungeon, where they were sold, by researching the East African country in a public library in Edinburgh. Unknown to them, however, was the covert relationship Sheik Abbadi enjoyed with the local and state police forces. He was tipped to the note Isabel had written and that Dan and Dave had passed to the police and stepped in personally to take charge of his prized slaves. He would have them jailed, in Ushwant Prison, charges pending, while he investigated further and decided whether he would keep Isabel and Moira or have them quietly disposed of in the desert. It was grey, humid and overcast that Wednesday mid-morning when six armed guards drove into the canefields where Isabel and Moira were working and placed them under arrest. No reason was given and no charges were read. Constitutional rights had no place in Ushwant, or in dealings with white slaves, and these guards knew it. While two of the burly men sat in the jeep, two others snapped official police handcuffs and leg irons on Moira's and Isabel's wrists and ankles, just above their permanent chains, while the other two stood by with pistols drawn. Their collars were again locked together with a six-ft. chain and they were lifted roughly into the rear of the jeep for a long, dusty trip back toward Ushwant Prison, from whence they had come.

This time, however, they were not blindfolded but the weight of their chains and additional, unnecessary shackles told them they were going to be prisoners a long time. Isabel's and Moira's shoulders and chains shook as they wept watching the desert palace compound shrink into the desert horizon as the jeep, with its Keystone Kops and two beautiful prisoners in the rear, lurched down the dusty, rough single-lane road. Two hours later, they were back on a paved, two-lane highway en route to the coast and the prison. They had not seen the imposing sea -coast fortress before, blindfolded as they were on arrival months previously, and were shocked by sight of the imposing walls, ramparts and the portcullis, out of another age. The smell of the sea permeated the cool, damp stone of the prison's walls and they admitted defeat but refused to allow the word slave into their vocabulary. The chains would hold them well, they knew, and the cold, grey walls looked indestructible. Isabel and Moira were taken quickly and noisily up the same narrow passageway into the cellblock that held them previously and were thrust together into the same 8 X 10 cell with barred window that overlooked the highway and the Indian Ocean from the third level of the ancient prison. Their neck chains were unlocked and their collars were then locked to sturdy, six-in. ringbolts embedded in the cell wall above their cots. Only then were their shiny, zinc-plated handcuffs and leg irons unlocked, leaving them chained as before. Just as the last legcuff was being removed from Moira's right leg that dreary afternoon, however, a small, twin-engine passenger jet screeched down the main runway at Ushwant international airport with 27 people aboard. Peter Metcalfe, Graham MacPeak, and their four sons looked out the windows at the drizzly African afternoon in apprehension and excitement. Their courier had confirmed the arrival and disposition their arms shipments the day before and they had lucked in with direct connections from the UK to Tangier and on to East Africa. Their great desert adventure was about to begin. Moira and Isabel sat in the edge of their small cots, placed their heads in their chained hands and wept throughout the afternoon and night. They were bereft and utterly lost; no one could find them here and if someone did, they were so implacably chained, they could not easily be released, if at all.

Meanwhile, their husbands and sons got to know the Ushwant capital, got some road maps, drew the route and set a timetable to uncover their arms cache and stow it for use and made some discreet inquiries about the slave trade in the country. Unknown to them, the Uswanti police were tipped to their arrival and were preparing to take them into custody as persons of interest in connection with information and evidence of arms smuggling. They would wait and spring the trap at the opportune moment. "Sahib, Ushwant Prison, that was, how do you say it, the supermarket of the slave trade, from the 15th century until recently," one bazaar vendor told Peter and Graham while their sons listened intently. "Where is this prison?" Graham asked. "It's up the coast highway, about two hours from here; you can't miss it on the left. It overlooks the Indian Ocean. " It is not heavily guarded because it is virtually escape-proof and the political prisoners and convicts that it houses are chained up all the time -- men and women both -- and the only way they will leave there is inside a pine box." The sons and fathers shuddered at the thoughts of their loved ones being held in captivity in this way. They strongly suspected Moira and Isabel were being held there but they had to go there and find out – they couldn't just pick up the phone, dial Ushwant Prison and ask for the warden's office. Drastic situations call for drastic measures and they were ready, willing and able to do all they could to free their loved ones. Next day, they agreed, back in their seedy hotel rooms, they would rent a small van to stash their gear somewhere safe for quick and easy access. Thursday, they found a 1975 Chevy van with a V-6 engine and 40 cu. ft. of cargo space – just enough for their gear – and paid for the rental in British pounds. They saw three policemen watching them from the door of the rental agency but paid them no heed as the six men jumped in and drove out of the city into the desert alone. They found their unmarked desert arms cache, and the boys leaped into action, uncrating weapons and ammunition and placing it securely in the van. Their ammunition, grenades, thunderflashes and plastic explosives were kept in their metal containers and would be opened at the last moment. All other equipment, including grappling lines and rapelling gear, were stowed and the crates dismantled, burned and buried in the rough gravel soil -- while a small group of heavily-armed Ushwanti policemen watched discreetly from a distance. The Metcalfes and MacPeaks drove back into the city, made sure they dodged the police, paid a man for the use of his locked garage on a grimy, infrequently-used side street and walked away to plan their next move. Waiting for them at the hotel were six heavily-armed police officers who informed them they were under arrest on arms-smuggling suspicions – a capital offence punishable by 25 years hard labor – and they were manhandled roughly into a police wagon and driven to Ushwant Prison, two hours away. Moira and Isabel, languishing distraught in their cell, had no idea the prison van they heard driving up the highway held their would-be rescuers while Peter, Graham and their sons were unsure where their wives and mothers were. Inside the prison, the six men were roughly escorted into a wing farthest away from the women's section and were locked into three cells, two apiece. Peter's sons had wisely carried lock-picking keys and tools before leaving England and they knew at first glance the old, well-used deadbolt mechanisms could not withstand the gentle pryings and pickings of their new, slim tools.

Getting out of their cells would be a snap, as long they were not observed, and after 20 minutes of soft clicks, the boys had unlocked their cell door and began working on the cell door locks holding the other sons and Peter and Graham. With no guards or other physical security apparent apart from the appalling stone fortifications, cells and bars, the boys quickly worked in the dim light and soon all six were free once again. Gathered for a brief O-group in a small alcove near their cells, they decided they would force their way out, regroup in the city, gather their arms and equipment and return to extract Isabel and Moira. All agreed and, led by the sons, they found their way into the courtyard of the old prison and easily subdued two sleepy guards who were leaning against their semiautomatic weapons near a wall. Looking around, the six found their way into the mechanical room that operated the old portcullis that sealed off the main passageway. They managed to raise the barred gate and ran out in single file onto the two-lane ocean highway.

Isabel and Moira heard the clanks, creaks and groans of the opening gate from their cell and rose together, tripping and tangling in their chains, to look out the small, barred exterior window to see a sight that instantly gave them equal measures of hope and despair: there were their husbands and sons, running away down the prison road onto the highway. "Ha-aaaa, Piffr!" (Help, Peter) Isabel cried as loud as she could through her loosened ring gag. Moira wept and shouted: "Gggraahhh, ha-a-a-a; iff Moraw n Iffbbll. Uu-hhrrrr!" (Graham, help; it's Moira and Isabel. Up here!) Graham and Peter looked up over their shoulders as they ran at the little Square-barred window, about 50 yards away and saw two gaping-mouthed female forms that they thought must be their wives. "Stop boys," Peter ordered quietly, as he and the others stopped and turned to look at the women. "I think we've found them. Look, up there." Peter and Graham waved at them, frowned at their distant, vague faces – they could not make out the details -- but smiled at recognition and put their fingers to their lips to indicate no further sound from them. Graham indicated with hand-and-arm motions that they were going down the highway and would be back as fast as they could to rescue them. They did not want to chance a rescue attempt without adequate arms and gear but they would return in force before dawn next day. Incredulous at their easy escape but deeply saddened at leaving their loved ones behind, they located a parked four-door sedan about a mile down the road and the sons skilfully and quickly hot-wired it and they were on their way back to the capital to get their van, reorganize, plan their mission and return. All six wondered during their drive away whether they ought to have dared a rescue. They were not sure if they had enough time to free them or not and quietly agreed they were on the best tack for success. Meanwhile, Isabel and Moira embraced each other as best they could in their chains and prayed they would come back for them as soon as possible. Rescue was so near but their cell and chains were so incredibly daunting, they thought. Isabel set to work trying to loosen her ring gag even more and succeeded in freeing it just another millimetre or so. Moira's gag was still stuck in nearly its original position and she gave up after a few fruitless attempts at trying to pick at the wires with her broken fingernails.

Both women then started to tug as hard as they could on the chain linking their collars to the ringbolts above their cots but the chain and bolt were too strong for their slender, tanned arms. They had long ago given up trying to slide their wrist cuffs down over their wrist bones; they, too, were inescapable, as were chains, rings and shackles on their heavy breasts and ankles. They would just have to wait. And wait. The hours passed darkly as the women sat silently in their chains, sobbing softly as they heard the Indian Ocean's surf rumble in along the rocky foreshore near the prison fortress. Not a sound came out of the other cells along their tier and they were afraid for themselves and their husbands and sons. The effects of the vuka-vuka had started to wear off and they began to know a physical and emotional exhaustion that left them listless in their chains. By midnight, they had fallen into restive slumber and were unaware of the 50 additional guards arriving at the prison from the city -- at the insistence of Sheik Abbadi, whose underworld connections extended into the highest echelons of the police forces of Ushwant. By 1 a.m., sentries had been posted on each floor of the huge, three-storey prison and at 20-ft. intervals along the perimeter. Portable, powerful searchlights had been brought in and powered up by generators at strategic points on the battlements and the guards on interior and exterior patrols were equipped with flashlights and radios as well as grenades, ammunition, semiautomatic carbines and pistols. Isabel and Moira, at the command of their owner, Sheik Abbadi, had become the most heavily-guarded inmates in the 500-year history of Ushwant Prison and any attempt to free them – unless mounted by an armored division – would probably fail. Six lightly-armed and -equipped men against 50 heavily-armed, well-trained guards securing a prison with 25-ft.-thick walls overlooking a rocky seacoast, did not have much chance of success in any field commander's tactical handbook. At 2 a.m., four guards were stationed on either side of Isabel's and Moira's barred celldoor and a command post was set up nearby with more guards equipped with radios, small arms and big lights. The powerful beams shone across the entrance of their cell and Isabel and Moira were suddenly awake, with a start and clatter of chain, as their 8 X 10 cell was suddenly and completely bathed in blinding white light. "Mwafooo?" Isabel cried out in alarm, squinting as she looked out at the grim faces of the guards a few feet away. She tried to cover her nakedness with her chained hands and turned her head away as the guards looked in at her chained beauty. Moira, too, was awake and chose to look out the barred cell window at the greying dawn. She scarcely noticed the beige van drive up on the southernmost extremity of the fort, just out of eyesight. Six black-garbed men with rifles, helmets, ammo belts and boots slipped quickly and quietly into nearby bushes. Isabel's and Moira's rescue was under way.

CURSES, FOILED AGAIN The great Metcalfe - MacPeak African escape plan called for Peter and his two sons to create a diversion with thunderflashes, smoke grenades and small-arms fire at the north wall while Graham and his two boys would advance quickly to the west wall, at the side housing Isabel's and Moira's cell, scale the walls with one-in. nylon rope and grappling irons fired up with special line-throwing rifles, break the cell window bars from the outside with C-4 plastic explosive, enter, free the women and lower them by ropes to Graham below. Once the sons were back on the ground with Isabel and Moira, they would try circle around again, rejoin the Metcalfe group, fight a rearguard action back toward their vehicle and "bug out." It looked good on paper, they thought, but they were had no idea about the suddenly-increased numbers and arms of the vigilant defenders. "Bang, Bang, Bang!!" three thunderflashes exploded in a blinding flash on the north wall, dazing and blinding the guards temporarily. Isabel and Moira froze in horror as "Bang, Bang, Bang!!" rang out a second time. That was it -- Peter and his boys only had six thunderflashes. They quickly followed with short, sharp bursts of submachinegun fire and pistol shots, forcing the guards, who had lost their night vision, to dive for cover while Graham and his two boys sprinted toward the west wall and attempt the most difficult part of the rescue. They had not anticipated the strength and numbers of the defenders and were greeted immediately by a withering hail of searchlight-directed gunfire and grenades from the top ramparts of the fortress and from sandbagged locations at the base.

They quickly returned fire for about five minutes from their locations among the trees, scrub and rocks while three floors above Isabel and Moira cowered from the flash and noise at the bottom of their bunks, stretching their neck tethers taut, daring not to breathe. It soon became apparent that without heavier firepower the west-wall action was doomed to fail. The MacPeaks courageously exchanged volley after volley of rapid fire with the prison guards and soon realized they might have only 10 minutes' of small-arms ammunition left. They could only carry so much, including the 40 pounds of other gear they had to carry, and, soon, Graham had to make a tough decision: abandon the operation, retreat and rejoin the Metcalfes on the opposite side of the fortress. Graham hunkered down with his sons and told them in a loud voice over their swirling fire that splintered tree branches over their heads: "We've got to get away, lads; we don't have the ammo we need and it looks like there's many more of them'n we thought. I'll cover you two; now run back to the Metcalfes . . . Go! Now!!" Graham opened fire with his submachinegun as his sons took to their heels, crouching and returning fire as they ran back toward the north wall. Gunfire from the fortress followed Graham as he, too, stooped and ran behind to catch up, stopping now and then to fire blindly into the tops of the ramparts. They joined up with the Metcalfes behind a grove of trees, Graham explained to Peter briefly what had happened and they decided to "bug out" as a group. Soon, they were back in their van, blood, sweat and tears coursing down their gasping, blackened faces as they drove at high speed down the coastal highway in blackout. They stopped now and then to make sure they were not being trailed and took the long way back into the capital, through the desert, as dawn cracked the grey, muggy East African morning. The whole action took only 20 minutes and left Isabel and Moira shocked and wondering what had happened. They took solace in the knowledge their loved ones were attempting to rescue them as two armed guards entered their cell, unlocked their neck chains and took them down into the courtyard. The smell of cordite and thunderflash hung in the air as they saw a 1½-ton truck waiting for them near the portcullis. They were literally thrown into the back of the vehicle, unable to make the big step up, and were chained to the floorboards with links attached to their collars, rove through ringbolts and locked to their handcuffs.

Two guards got in the back with them, closed the flap as the truck drove away and brutally raped both women through their ring-gagged mouths in absurd retribution for the failed raid. For the second time in three months, the two women tasted the salty African cum of their guards and detested their condition, their chains and everything about this filthy, dusty, poor country that held them captive. The truck clashed gears as he shifted from third to fourth heading down the highway to the crossroads. About 90 minutes later, he would turn right into the desert and into the next chapter of Isabel Metcalfe's and Moira MacPeak's sordid ordeal. They bumped and bounced against their chains – even their heavy breasts bounced against their chain tethers -- and they did not feel, or react to, the steely tugs. They were now inured to being brutally chained. But the sparks of escape and retribution against their captors still glowed within. Two hours later, early on a Thursday morning, the dusty truck rolled into the desert compound of Sheik Abbadi's remote desert palace and the two tired, hungry and thirsty women were unchained from the floorboards and walked into their original prison-cell apartments where they were chained securely to the long rows of chains they had noticed earlier in their living rooms. They were stopped and backed against the wall as long chains were locked to their collars, wrist and ankle cuffs and they were left alone facing each other through their barred cell doors that opened onto a common short hallway. Isabel and Moira took several steps this way and that and found they had sufficient lengths of chain that allowed them slow movement into their bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchens. Fieldwork was not on the agenda this day, Isabel thought, as she heavily raised a double-chained hand to wave at Moira indicating she was going to have a long drink of water, a hot bath and a nap, if her chains allowed. She pulled and tugged and cursed aloud as she pulled what she thought was 30 pounds of chain behind her into the kitchen to get a cold glass of water to quench her thirst and rinse the desert dust and cum from her gaping mouth. Moira did the same and soon, five lengths of chain could be seen trailing from the living-room wall into the bathroom where the two captives eased themselves into their tubs for the first time in long days. Twenty miles away, a beige van was slowing to a crawl as it traced the army truck's wheel tracks across the rough gravel desert floor.

"We're still on the track," Peter said to Graham as he followed the tire indentations further into the blazing heat of the morning sun. Twenty minutes later, as Moira and Isabel were organizing their chains to get out of their tubs, the fence of the desert compound hove into view of the Metcalfe - MacPeak van. Another full day was about to begin for the tired young men. Fatigue, jet lag, hunger and anxiety combined to impair Graham's and Peter's judgment and reaction time and those of their sons. Again, serious mistakes would be made this day and their rescue attempt would cost them dearly. Peter scanned the wired compound as he drove and estimated that four guards were on the gate and several were in the watchtowers along the perimeter; otherwise, he could see no activity in the palace compound itself. He spotted the low, stone building near the centre of the compound and guessed that was where Isabel and Moira were being held. "How many grenades do we have? And what quantities of small-arms ammo do we have, boys?" Graham asked the sons in the rear. "There's two crates of grenades and about 1,000 rounds of SMG, rifle and pistol ammo, clipped and ready to go," came the reply. Quick discussion followed and the six quickly came to the decision they would kill the guards at the gate, blow the gate with grenades and shoot their way into the compound to the squat building about 50 yards inside the gate. The van would be left at the far side of a rock outcropping about a quarter-mile away and they would have to rely on the element of surprise, wits, speed, marksmanship and, above all, extreme good luck, to carry this off. The sons in the rear had readied packs of ammunition, grenades and plastic explosives but as they saw the low outline of the palace compound grow into prominence on the horizon, they began to doubt whether they would be able to carry this off in broad daylight. In five minutes they had driven quietly up to the lee of the rock promontory that fronted onto the palace gate and the boys slipped out of the van to do a recce. They returned in about 15 minutes and informed their fathers that they didn't think the palace guards patrolled out this far and doubted whether they could be observed from the watchtowers. The next several hours were engaged in planning, rest and testing and loading their machine guns, rifles and pistols for the assault which was scheduled for 10:30 p.m. The six men lay low as they watched the sun trek across the horizon and were thankful when they saw the first hints of the African desert sunset. Soon, it was pitch dark behind the rock outcropping and they watched as the palace security lights came on one by one, lighting the gate and watchtowers brightly. The approach to the gate was crossed here and there by shadows from the rock outcroppings and they would take full advantage of these elements. Finally, at O-hour, 10:30 p.m., they crawled out from behind the rocks, in single file, 10 yards apart, and performed the well-known infantryman's crawl to a small gravel dune within 200 yards of the gate. The sons, all marksmen, signed to their fathers they could easily take out the four gate guards, when the targets presented, and the fathers nodded in agreement. The Metcalfe and MacPeak sons fixed the black-market silencers onto the muzzles of their high-powered sniper rifles, loaded with flashless rounds, and aimed through their nightscopes to the shadowy figures moving around the well-lit gate. " Thuk, thuk ," and two guards slumped silently to the ground as two 7.62 mm steel-jacketed rounds, fired from the MacPeak rifles, pierced their hearts. The other two guards, stunned by the sudden, soundless collapse of their fellows, ran to their comrades' aid and were immediately shot to death by the Metcalfe sons. It took only five seconds. "Let's rock 'n' roll, lads," said Graham MacPeak, signalling a forward advance at the crouch. The six, sprinting from side to side into and out of the shadows, covered the 200-yard dash in 30 seconds and were still mysteriously unobserved by guards in the watchtowers who were either asleep, on drugs or looking at Isabel's and Moira's barred windows, hoping for a glance of their beautiful, chained bodies they saw only briefly during the day. They were to be disappointed on that account but some serious excitement waited for them moments later. The six Scotsmen arrived at the gatehouse, panting and perspiring in the humid night, and looked around quickly. No one in the guard towers had apparently heard or seen anything and the gate guards had not been missed. The sons hastily hauled the four dead bodies out of sight into the guardhouse.

The commandos, whose faces were already blackened, switched uniforms with the dead guards and took their places at the security checkpoint – all in less than a minute – while Peter and Graham gauged the distance to the cellblock-cum-apartment building that housed their chained wives and did a quick inventory of their ammunition and supplies. "Let's make a run for it; I can see a doorway on this side of the building that will give us some cover if we are seen," Peter said to Graham. "We must have the C-4 and fuses ready to blow the door as soon as we arrive. Hopefully, they're there -- and safe." "Right, Peter; I'm for it. And so are the boys," Graham replied. "But I think the shooting's about to start." He nodded over his shoulder as searchlights started moving about the gate and guardhouse and along the courtyard to the small prison holding Isabel and Moira. Peter thought he could hear the actions of machine guns being cleared but hoped it was just his imagination. "Get the boys in here, Graham, and we'll make a dash for it – in threes – we'll cover you from here and you may have to shoot your way to that doorway." Moments later, the hellfire of semiautomatic gunfire, probing searchlights and exploding hand grenades was loosed on the palace compound as Graham and his two sons sprinted the 50 yards to the cellblock doorway, firing their SMGs at the guard towers as they ran, while Peter and his boys provided covering fire with SMGs, rifles and well-tossed hand grenades. The dodging, heart-stopping sprint took 15 seconds and, miraculously, no one was hit or wounded, although two of the searchlights were shot out by sheer luck. Then, it was Peter's and his sons' turn. They quickly covered the 50 yards and made the now-crowded, six-ft.-deep doorway just as a hail of machine-gun fire raked past, spraying them with dirt, gravel and shrapnel. They, too, were uninjured and inside, Moira and Isabel cowered in their bedrooms in their chains, paralysed by fear wondering if they were about to be killed, helpless and silent as they were in chains and gags. Peter's sons placed the C-4 plastic in strips and gobs against the locked heavy oak door, set the charge and – "Bang!" – the door splintered on its hinges, allowing the six raiders into the short hallway between the women's cells and out of the guards' gunsights.

"Haaaaaa!" Isabel yelled at the top of her lungs, gasping in fear and excitement, as she clinked and clattered her chained way to the cell doorway. Moira was still making her slow progress out of her bedroom as Isabel staggered to greet her family on the other side of the barred door that was locked in front of the now-splintered oak door. Peter looked in awe and sorrow as his frightened, heavily-chained and gagged wife for the first time in months. "Isabel – Migod, are you all right?" Isabel nodded silently, her face and mouth betraying anguish and joy at the sight of her beloved husband, blackened by face paint and gunsmoke, panting with exhaustion in front of her. "Get more C-4 up here and blow this door!" Peter ordered. The boys acted promptly and Isabel was ordered to take cover just as Moira opened her door fearfully. Isabel retreated a few paces and knelt down, covering her face with her chained hands. "Bang!!" and the barred celldoor fell sideways. Peter and the boys rushed in to take charge of the situation and could not believe their eyes when they saw Isabel, naked, deeply tanned, ring-gagged and chained by five, 30-ft. tethers attaching her collar, wrist and ankle cuffs to ringbolts in the concrete living-room wall. "Bang!!!" and Moira's cell door fell uselessly to the floor as Graham and her boys ran in to release her. Outside, the palace guards sprang into action and peppered the outside doorway with small-arms and machine-gun fire, daring not to try and re-take the building by force of arms. The six Scotsmen fought like a rifle squad and the guards were unsure of the numbers of the attackers. The MacPeak boys took up riflemen's positions at the small, barred living room window while Graham sorted their weapons and ammunition. Graham showed Moira how to reload the Sterling submachineguns and her years of mechanical ability paid off as she grabbed the weapon in her heavily-chained arms, followed Graham's instructions and snapped the curved magazines in quickly and easily, trying to smile at her husband as she did so. Graham could not get over the dramatic, sexy appearance of his beautiful wife, chained and gagged as she was, naked and deeply tanned from long weeks in the canefields, and felt himself getting erect while his boys set up a deafening return fire into the guard towers, forcing them to keep their heads down. In the Metcalfe apartment the same thing was going on: Peter had shown Isabel how to reload the rifles, SMGs and pistols, which she did although not as swiftly as Moira, but she was able to drag her chains and carry the loaded weapons to the windows where Peter and her boys were firing steadily at the guard towers. After a minute of accurate sniper fire from the sons, all searchlights had been shot out and Peter and Graham told their boys to aim carefully, conserve ammunition and keep their heads down. The firefight continued for 10 minutes and Isabel and Moira, dragging their heavy chains behind them, helped keep their husbands and sons resupplied with loaded pistols, rifles and machine guns. But It was going to be a fight to the death, they all realized, as their opponents appeared to have much more ammunition and weapons than they did. Peter and Graham looked at their wives and suddenly realized they had to be released from the chains that were locked to their collars, handcuffs and leg irons. This was no time for the patient, time-consuming lock-picking exercise the boys had used to extract them from their Ushwant prison cells the night before. Peter packed C-4 plastic around the five ringbolts anchoring Isabel's chains to the concrete wall and ordered her to lie flat on her stomach and cover her ears while he wired all five charges to explode simultaneously. Blang !! and Isabel's five chains fell in heaps on the floor around her, releasing her from the wall. She could walk, just barely, and had five long trails of chain dragging behind her at every step. In Moira's apartment, Graham watched as Peter freed his wife from the wall and ordered Moira to do the same as he blasted the five ringbolts free from the concrete wall in her living room. That would prove his undoing. After another 10 minutes of trading potshots, Graham and Peter decided it was time to go: they would have to carry their wives out through the doorway, through a fusillade of fire across the compound and they knew it would be a miracle if they made it out alive. "We're going to have to carry you out, Isabel; it's the only way," Peter said. Isabel nodded as Graham told his wife the same thing. Quick-thinking and resourceful but extremely tired, Peter called out the plan: Graham's two boys would make a dash back to the guardhouse under cover fire from the Metcalfes; Graham would carry Moira, followed by Peter and Isabel, and the Metcalfe boys would bring up the rear with covering fire from those who had made it to the guardhouse. "This might work!" Peter said prophetically. "Let me know when you're ready." The plan was explained to the boys, still on guard at the windows, their weapons as their sides, and they nodded in grim agreement as the darkness deepened in the compound, lit only here and there by the flash and crack of a guard's rifle. "It's now or never," Peter told Isabel, gently moving his fingers through her hair sliding it away from her face. The MacPeak boys moved up to the door and took off, running like hares across the compound, making the distant guardhouse in seconds. Not a shot was fired. Graham and Moira were next: the big, red-haired Scot picked up Moira in his strong arms and sprinted an awkward zigzag with his chained wife in his arms, her chains dragging behind her. Moira's trailing chains tangled around Graham's ankles and he and Moira were pitched suddenly forward as a shot rang out, sharply, quietly, from a guard tower. Graham gasped, sighed and fell to his knees as a little red spot widened on his chest. His jaw sagged open and his vision blurred as he saw his wife for the last time. He dropped her and collapsed at her side, dead, Scottish blood oozing dark red into the foreign gravel, his open, sad eyes looking sightlessly into mysterious, deep and starless night sky. "Moo-ooo-hhh, Ggggg-mmm, mmmnn-ooo!!" Moira howled in animal intensity as she fell against him, offering her body as a shield against any more bullets. None came. The oldest MacPeak boy, galvanized by the wrenching scene, ran out from the safety of the guardhouse, swooped his mother up in his rangy arms and carried her out of the compound into the guardhouse. Again, not a shot was fired. Peter and Isabel, in each other's arms, saw the dreadful sight but Peter, ever resolute, knew that to stay where they were meant probable death. He kissed his wife firmly on her upper, ring-gagged lip, picked her up and ran for all he was worth. Halfway across, he stumbled, losing his balance and he and Isabel, too, tumbled into a heap not far from Graham's lifeless body as a palace guard sniper drew a bead on Peter's head through his scope. Crack ! and Peter lay motionless, shot through the temple. His two sons ran out as one, picked Isabel up easily in a fireman's carry and ran to the guardhouse.

With no time to waste, the boys had to make the heart-rending decision to leave their fathers' bodies behind -- the risk was too great to retrieve them – as they carried their mothers the remaining 200 yards to the rocky outcropping and the van. They literally threw their mothers in the back and piled into the van, the oldest Metcalfe hopping behind the wheel as the Chevrolet van roared off into the silent night as crewmembers in Venusian spacecraft DDE224-A, hovering unseen in the black sky at 3,000-ft., watched with passive interest. The two MacPeak boys sat in the back with their mothers, cranking down the rear windows to poke their rifles out and fire back in case of pursuit. The van sped across the desert at 85 m.p.h., shaking everyone and everything violently as the boys looked at the tangle of chains that wound around every limb of their mothers' bodies in the adrenalin-fuelled amazement and bewilderment felt by combat troops who had just fought a desperate action. Isabel and Moira held open their chained arms to hug and thank their boys for their rescue and they collapsed in a sobbing mix of disbelief, fear and shock at the sudden deaths of their fathers and husbands and their sudden deliverance from slavery. Life would never be the same, they thought, as they looked back at the now fully-lit desert palace, wondering if they, too, had long to live. The van sped across the desert leaving the desert palace far behind as the boys spread plastic groundsheets over their mothers' naked frames. The van lurched and bounced over the rough desert terrain and Isabel and Moira tried desperately to free their mouths from their gags so they could speak with their sons. The rings were still firmly in place as they switched to the locks holding the long chains attached to their collars and wrist and ankle cuffs. The little brass padlocks were on securely and they returned to try and pry the ring-gag wires off their teeth, again to no avail. They were determined not to give in to their chains and struggled valiantly to ungag themselves, unsuccessfully. Soon, the adrenalin rush began to wear off and their eyelids began to droop in fatigue. They slumbered as the van continued to speed down the rough desert road and awoke as it lurched, 90 minutes later, onto the smooth, two-lane coastal highway that would take them into the capital city.

The van slowed to 75 m.p.h. down the highway and six pairs of eyes were glued to the rearview mirror and through the rear windows looking for any sign of pursuit. The highway ribboned backwards into the black night. An hour later, the first lights of the Ushwant capital glimmered on the southern horizon and they soon saw a brightly lit hospital sign on their left. Brian, the driver, turned in sharply and drove quickly into the large H-shaped building with "emergency" painted in bold letters over a pair of double doors to the right of the parking lot. The sons agreed that one from each family would accompany their mothers into the hospital and provide moral support to them while the other two would drive into the city to alert Scotland Yard, Interpol and the local police, in that order. They were reluctant to bring in the local authorities but thought further that not to do so would invite consequences. One son from each family kissed their mothers firmly on the cheek, wished them well and said they would be back as soon as they had accomplished their mission in the city just as the van pulled up in front of the emergency and discharged two shaken, chained women and their 19-year-old sons into the brightly-lit triage centre of the Ushwant national hospital. The van sped off into the night as the triage nurse looked up solemnly from her paperwork and medical equipment and ran over to Isabel and Moira, still covered in groundsheets, and guided them onto gurneys. Without a word, the nurse replaced the groundsheets the two chained women were holding around their shoulders, doing their best to avoid tripping over the tangle of chain that followed them, and slipped green hospital dressing gowns over their shoulders. Another nurse, with sad eyes and telltale reddish-white scuff marks from the shackles she, too, had worn for years on her wrists and ankles, took the sons to a nearby conference room to take their statements while their mothers' vital signs were monitored. Isabel and Moira were put into separate, curtained-off cubicles and, soon, three white-coated ER doctors and three stocky nurses were by their sides. The nurses cleaned off Isabel's and Moira's forearms with surgical alcohol and started IV lines with saline and a mild sedative while the doctors began assessing their physical and psychological traumas.

Seeing no respiratory distress, cardiovascular failure or wounds, a doctor asked Isabel: "Can you please tell us what happened to you?" The young doctor was immediately embarrassed by the futile question when he saw the steel gag still in place behind her teeth. "Oh, we'll get that off very quickly, then you can speak to us so that we can determine what tests and treatments we will need to do." He rushed away to get more help and soon, two burly orderlies equipped with boltcutters and hacksaws appeared and began work cutting off the long chain tethers still attached to Isabel's and Moira's collars, wrist cuffs and leg irons. Five, 30-ft. lengths of hardened steel chain fell victim to the jaws of the hospitals only two boltcutters but when the tools were applied to their alien cuffs and chains, not a dent was made in them, much to the consternation of the several doctors and nurses who were now rushing about busily checking each woman's vital signs, blood pressures, heart rates and drawing blood for lab analysis. (It is a modern, well-equipped hospital). Isabel and Moira were too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to respond and lay and watched through tired eyes as hands and arms moved over and around them. Soon the sedatives began taking effect and a surgeon was summoned to examine and remove the gags. Dr. Ismail Prakesh, the on-duty general surgeon, arrived and looked carefully at Isabel's mouth then at Moira's face. Within minutes, using forceps, small wirecutters and wedges, he had cut the wires holding their rings gags in place and Isabel's and Moira's jaws dropped involuntarily as their facial muscles tried to contract again after their long inactivity. Isabel reached to her jaw with her chained hands and massaged her lips and gums, running her tongue over the teeth that had been wired so long. "Shank you, doctor," she said finally, the first comprehensible words she had spoken in months. Moira moaned and groaned as she, too, felt the soft contours of her mouth and lips that had been stretched unnaturally for the same long time. Dr. Prakesh then consulted the other attending physicians and began writing his report while another nurse looked suspiciously at Isabel and Moira, still lying on the gurneys in their slightly-lighter load of chains. Isabel and Moira were now bound by five pounds of chains linking their wrists, ankles and vaginas -- a load considerably lighter than the 25 pounds of links they dragged behind them into the hospital an hour earlier. Dr. Prakesh's scrawled report stated:

"Two white, female patients were admitted to Ushwant national hospital at 0200 hrs, 16 January, 1976, with sons in attendance. They were conscious but confused, anxious and bound in chains and manacles of a sort never before seen in this hospital. Both women, apparently of Scottish origin, have steel collars, wrist and ankle cuffs affixed but no locks, bolts or fastenings are apparent. Large seamless rings are pierced through nipples and vaginas. No signs of infection or trauma. Nipple rings are chained and the lower of each woman's pair of vaginal rings are connected by single chains to their ankle chains that allows them to stand upright without significant tension to labia majora. Long, heavy chains padlocked to their collars, wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs were removed with boltcutters; however, all attempts to cut or remove the cuffs and rings were unsuccessful as the metal was too dense to be detached with hospital equipment. Most unusual. "Each woman's mouths were propped wide with steel rings wired in place between their upper and lower canine and premolar teeth. I carefully removed these rings with wirecutters and forceps while they were under sedation. Their facial and jaw muscles are weak, without wasting, due to long placement of the gags, no doubt, but tone in these muscle groups will restore naturally and they should regain speech although some therapy may be in order as they have not exercised their vocal cords for months and there are bound to be some speech-clarity issues. According to statements from their sons, the women apparently have been chained for a long time and worked hard in a colony known to employ slave labor somewhere in the Ushwant desert. Despite these allegations, they are in robust condition with BP 120/70, p. 62, resp., 12/min., at 0215, 16/1/76. There are no deformities, posture good but ambulation poor, owing to their chained limbs which are, nevertheless, healthy in musculature and tone. Evidence of previous childbirths, breasts healthy, significantly augmented with silicone-and-saline implants, slightly pendulous and heavy, each left breast branded with an Ushwanti ideogram stating "slave - beast of burden", well-formed nipples bilaterally; good general health, deeply suntanned, no sign of melanoma.

"Refer to ICU and 'step-down' unit with followup psychiatric evaluation and monitoring. Orthopedics, speech therapy advised. Their sons, interviewed by Dr. I MacLennan, MD, allege the women, known as Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe and Mrs. Moira MacPeak, have endured long-term bondage and mistreatment in the desert and at the state prison. "They apparently were kidnapped in northern Scotland, transported to Ushwant in bondage, imprisoned, sold as slaves and sent to the desert colony where they were rescued by their husbands and sons in an overnight commando-style raid. Their husbands, Peter and Graham, were apparently shot and killed during the attempt. I have no independent confirmation of this alleged violence at this time. The attached statements, signed by the two sons, give more information in this matter. "Continuing saline IV and sedative and morphine for 24 hours. Pts. to be checked every two hours for vital signs, condition changes." Ismail Prakesh I. Prakesh, MD

Isabel and Moira dozed under the effects of the morphine and sedative while one of the ER nurses, a confidante of Sheik Abbadi, telephoned the sheik at his desert compound to inform him of the arrival of his rescued slaves who were now under the care of the state hospital and asked for instructions. "Return them at once, alive and in good condition, to Abbadi palace," was the terse reply. She immediately went to the nurses' station and wrote out a fictitious patient-transfer request authorizing the hospital to release the two women into the care of ambulance attendants for transfer to another hospital in the central part of the city where police and state officials would have ready access to them as a criminal investigation would soon begin. The ruse worked and, soon, Isabel and Moira, still groggy from the desert experience and the effects of the intravenous drugs, were disconnected from their IV lines and their gurneys were loaded into a modern ambulance, while their sons were detained in another part of the hospital to wait for police investigators. The ambulance vanished into the night; not towards the downtown but out into the desert from whence they came. Isabel and Moira, still well-sedated and re-connected to IV during transport, were compliant and barely aware of the trick to return them to captivity.

When they emerged from their stupors three hours later, they saw their familiar surroundings partially demolished by the raid a few hours previously, and they were lifted bodily off their gurneys and hustled into two cells in the basement of the palace, immediately below the salon where they participated in Saturday night socials for months on end. "Moira, can oof hear me?" Isabel whispered from her cell. "Yeff, I can hear foo, Ifabel. Thiff iff the firft time I've been able to fpeak in monff, fo . . . . " "We'fe been fricked again. We're vack affa palaff compound but at leeft we can falk. Fome doctor waf able to remoff our gagf an' a lot of our chainf are gone. Maybe we can make a break iff we can bribe fome offa guardfff. I fink our only chip iff our bodief. Now, iff only fomeone will come by." Isabel tried in vain once again to slide the wrist cuffs down but they were implacable as ever. She only glanced at her ankle cuffs and knew they would not budge. Ever.

MEANWHILE . . .

Back at the hospital, the sons had been thoroughly duped by the duplicitous nurse and some of her ER staff colleagues. The sons, returning to the ER after giving brief statements to two Ushwanti police officers, called the large hospital in the central part of the city and were shocked to be informed their mothers had not yet arrived. They knew, instantly, they had been tricked. Meanwhile, in the desert-palace cells, Isabel and Moira continued to plan their sex-for-freedom gambit as their guards, male and female, came by to check on them, give them food and drink, miraculously free of aphrodisiac, and chat with them briefly about the rescue attempt. They were told five guards – four at the main gate and one in a guard tower – were killed during the attempt but that the sheik had ordered them not to be chained additionally because he had further plans for them. He wanted to give them time, a guard said, to recover from their recent ordeal, while the palace got itself back into working order. Next day, the five dead palace guards were buried, the bodies of Peter Metcalfe and Graham MacPeak were picked up by the ambulance crew and taken to the state hospital for autopsies and Isabel and Moira listened while a backhoe and other heavy equipment demolished the cellblock-apartment building they had lived in for the past 5½ months.

Five nights later, after their sons had turned every city hospital upside down looking for their mothers, Isabel and Moira participated in their first lesbian love tryst with a pair of 30-something female guards who just wanted to sit with them, caress their breasts, and kiss them. The half-hour sexual encounters were in exchange for a promise to leave the cellblock unattended and their doors unlocked, under the pretence that Isabel and Moira would be able to walk about the compound for exercise while their chains ensured they would be unable to dash away. The guards, unusually accommodating and friendly, agreed to their request and next day, Isabel and Moira were surprised to see their cell doors unlocked and the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor slightly ajar. Isabel and Moira walked out into the daylight, saw the ambulance was still in the prison compound and Moira told Isabel she thought she might be able to hot-wire it, if she had a half-chance. Isabel and Moira walked as nonchalantly as they could, naked and in chains, their large, heavy breasts swaying to and fro with every 18-in. stride, while guards in the watchtowers watched, bemused at their chained progress -- toward the unattended ambulance. Their constant nudity was not an issue; they were desperate to escape and their lack of clothing did not matter at all. The ambulance?! They might try to escape!! The guard at the main gate was not alerted and it would take the guards in the watchtowers a minute to climb down and intercept the two women whose feet now were going pell-mell with rapid, 18-in. strides that chafed their ankles severely. Moira was the first to arrive and she dived up into the driver's side, snagging her wrist chains on the door handle, untangled herself and found the keys were still on the dashboard. Isabel struggled up the step into the passenger side. Moira started up the Ford ambulance van and the engine roared into life. "Hang on Iffabel, here we go!" Moira shouted with glee as she gripped the big steering wheel with both hands, her right foot extended, pulling her chains taut as she tramped on the accelerator.

The rear wheels spun gravel and the boxy, white vehicle reached 30 m.p.h. in three seconds. Moira slammed through the barbed-wire gates at 50 m.p.h. as though they were matchsticks and although the radiator steamed, they were soon back in the desert leaving the palace far behind them while the guards milled about in confusion, cursing their own inattentiveness and negligence. It was early Saturday morning and the regular guards had gone home for the weekend. Also, there were no other vehicles in the palace at the time, the sheik was away on business and the getaway ambulance had three-quarters of a tank of fuel. Moira, savoring freedom for the first time in months, drove like a woman possessed as Isabel watched her usually-reserved mate with amazement and admiration. "You're quite fa drifer, Moira," Isabel complimented. "Fry flowin' down a liffle; you're doin' 80, we're not being purfued and we might need to fave gaff." Moira agreed and the van slowed to 60 m.p.h. as it sped across the rough desert trail. Both women wondered what outlandish situation would confound them next. Isabel hoped quietly her speech would restore soon as she wiped some drool off her lower lip with her left hand. Moira was too busy trying to keep the ambulance on the dusty desert trail as the miles sped past. Soon, the black ribbon of the two-lane coastal highway loomed on the eastern horizon and the ambulance lurched onto the highway as Moira turned south toward the capital city and the first police station they saw. They had no idea where their sons were at the time and they kept a sharp eye out for any sign of four young white men who might, just might, happen along the highway. Isabel turned around and looked in the rear of the ambulance to find something she could drape over her shoulders to cover her nakedness if they ever did find their sons. She pulled two white sheets off the stretchers on either side and put it over herself like a cloak and placed the other beside Moira. Moira looked at the sheet and nodded to indicate she would put it on later. An hour later, driving down the coastal highway towards the city, they saw a small tight group of four white youths. "Iff 'em!" Isabel cried. "Iff haff to be fem. Hurry up, Moira, I haffa fee fair fafes," she said, brushing a tear away from her dirty, deeply-tanned face.

Moira tramped on the accelerator and the ambulance hit 85 m.p.h., closing the half-mile distance quickly. Moira honked the ambulance's horn as she pulled up to the group and the four young men turned around as one and instantly recognized their mothers inside the emergency vehicle. Moira braked and rolled down the window and told her first son: "Fop inna faack; wefa loffa falking to do." The son patted his mother's arm and the four ran around to the rear, opened the double doors and piled in as the ambulance sped off into the city. Much of the conversation that ensued focused on their mothers' conditions, the anguish and anxiety of the sudden deaths of their fathers, insistence on going to the police and state officials to lay criminal charges and effect their release from the country and how each person had coped with the trauma and crises of the past few months. The sons averted their glances when the white sheets covering Isabel's and Moira's frames fell away here and there to reveal a deeply-tanned, branded bosom, a handcuff or a length of chain that adorned their bodies. "Mum, are you sure you're all right?" Moira's oldest son asked her finally, after 25 minutes of intense, mother-and-son conversation and revelation, the sons straining to make sense of their mothers' garbled speech. "Yeff, fon, fonsidering whaff Iffabel and I haf been fru, we're all right. I'll tell you more when we get to the polife ftation." The ambulance motored on into the suburbs of the Ushwant capital with Moira still capably at the wheel. Suddenly, Moira started to shudder and shake as the shock and fear of the past few months caved in on her. Isabel looked at her friend and said: "Moira, fop the ambulanf at onfe!! Here, pull ofer, now; you're not well enough to drive," she said, holding onto the wheel with her two chained hands while the boys in the rear looked on, at once afraid for their mothers and their own safety, as the vehicle lurched onto the narrow, clay shoulder. "Oy, mum, you two ought to be in the back and we'll look after the driving," Isabel's oldest son said. "You've been through enough so you should be in the back, on these little carts, and we'll look after the driving from here on in. In fact, I think I know where the nearest cop-shop is." With that, the boys clambered out the back of the ambulance and helped their mothers out of the driver and passenger doors. The sons, still reeling from seeing their mothers naked and chained during the assault on the desert palace, were even more disturbed as Moira nearly fainted in her sons' arms as they helped her into the back of the ambulance. Moira's sheet fell away from her body and her sons picked it up quickly and threw it inside the cab beside her. Isabel, slightly more robust than her friend, allowed her two boys to take her by the arms while she clutched at her sheet to protect her modesty and hoist her into the back beside Moira. "We'll be OK for now, boys; you take care of the driving, don't turn around for the next few minutes while I get Moira sorted out here and let's find that police station," Isabel said, her speech clarity showing marked improvement with recent exercise of her disused jaw and facial muscles. "Now go!!" Isabel helped her friend lie down on the narrow stretcher and arranged her bedsheet over her busty body, covering her with a blanket. Isabel then lay down on the stretcher on the other side and ensured she was well-covered. The ambulance sped on. About 25 minutes later, Moira's sons recognized the Ushwanti symbol for police station and turned off the highway into the dusty little parking lot with its small, whitewashed, concrete-block building and a couple of little black police cars parked in front. The boys assisted their mothers out of the rear of the ambulance an escorted them inside to greet a surprised desk sergeant. After briefly explaining their presence and their mother's unusual garb, the sergeant said he would return immediately with the chief of detectives. Moments later, Isabel and Moira were dictating their statements into running tape recorders while the chief of detectives, Nick Asswami, took copious notes. Two hours later, Isabel and Moira completed their statements and, by turns, covered events from the September 1975 day they received invitations to Hotel Balmoral to meet Dr. Lord, in chains, to the present, January 16, 1976. Det. Asswami shook his head in disbelief and the desk sergeant stood in awe and admiration at the determination, fortitude and pluck of the women and their young sons to have endured such perilous adventures, complete with bondage, kidnappings, slavery, rescue, recapture and escape. "This sounds like the stuff of a weird adventure story but I believe every word you have spoken today, Mrs. Metcalfe and Mrs. MacPeak," the detective said.

"This matter obviously has international ramifications and it will most certainly involve Interpol, Scotland Yard and the Northern Constabulary as well as the departments of foreign affairs of both our countries. "The suspects you have named in your statement -- Catherine, Joanne, Olivia and Sheik Abbadi and his many consorts – have been known to police here and in Europe and Great Britain for years but we have been unable to make our charges stick. They are, as you say, 'teflon-coated'," he smiled, "because the activities of this slavery cartel, in which Sheik Abbadi is a key executive, were extremely difficult to prove because no one in the past had been able, or willing, to come forward and give statements and evidence such as you have today. We are extremely grateful for your cooperation and I would like to extend my deepest admiration for your determination and resourcefulness that you have displayed by enduring the tribulations as evidenced in your statements. "Please also accept my humble condolences on the demise of your husbands. They sounded like brave men, indeed, and it is a rare privilege for me to be associated with people such as yourselves and your sons." "Now, Mrs. Metcalfe and Mrs. MacPeak, I will have to ask you to be photographed so that we can begin assembling evidence to bring these suspects to justice." The desk sergeant hustled away and readied another room nearby that held the police station's photographic equipment. ""May I have your approval for these photos, please?" the detective asked politely. Isabel and Moira agreed and they were ushered into the nearby room to have each of their bonds, chains and brands photographed and identified by Ursula, a police officer, while the boys gave their statements to the desk sergeant who also ran the tape recorder and took reams of notes. Attorneys were telephoned, Isabel's and Moira's stories were checked and re-checked and in 24 hours, 25 charges, ranging from murder and kidnapping to procurement and living off the avails of slavery, were developed, agreed to and approved. Warrants were issued for the arrests of Abbadi, Olivia, Catherine and Joanne and several others directly or indirectly related to the kidnapping and enslavement of Moira MacPeak and Isabel Metcalfe and the murders of their husbands, Graham and Peter. Moira and Isabel, still swathed in their bedsheets, were shown into a witness waiting room where Ursula offered them their first clothes -- a pair of sensible sun dresses -- since the scanty items they had received at the Abbadi palace.

"Would you two ladies like some tea?" she offered. "I've just made a pot of Twinings and . . . . " Isabel and Moira perked up at hearing their favorite tea brand and nodded enthusiastically, still stunned at the rapidity of incredible events that washed over them. Once they were slaves, now they are key witnesses for the prosecution involving international slavery, kidnapping and murder. "May I please see your handcuffs so they may be removed?" Ursula asked Isabel and Moira politely as they sat sipping their tea in their bedsheets, eyeing the dresses. Moira walked over and showed her the cuffs that encircled her small, tanned wrists and their 12-in. chain. Ursula examined them and shook her head at their implacable appearance. "I don't know how these come off," she said finally, "unless we cut them off." "They don't come off," Isabel interjected. "You would not believe the long, incredible story how we came to be like this. I've already covered some of the details in our formal statements so please don't concern yourselves with them. We may have to wear them for the rest of our lives. Right, Moira?" Moira nodded, sipping her cup of Twinings, displaying no outward signs of distress at this realization. Ursula showed Isabel and Moira a pair of tropical sun dresses, sensible shoes and hats for them to wear and said she would wait outside while they got dressed. Moira, setting her tea down on the desk, clinked over to the neatly-folded dress and held the first one up against her bosom. "This might fit," she said, her voice restoring wonderfully as well. "My measurements have changed -- and 'er chained -- a whole lot since I last tried on a dress but let's see if we can squeeze into them, Is. Hee-hee." It was the first light moment they had experienced in months. The two women wriggled into the sun dresses awkwardly, setting their chains a-clatter, and managed to button the spaghetti straps over their shoulders. They stepped into the comfortable loafers and, once again, looked presentable except for their steel collars, handcuffs and chains that depended from under their knee-length hemlines to their leg irons. Except for the chains, they could have been Scottish tourists on vacation in Africa instead of recently-freed slaves.

Det. Asswami knocked on the door and said police forces had been dispatched to the Abbadi palace to round up the suspects, bring them in for questioning and the laying of charges. "Would you please identify them in a lineup in the next day or so?" he asked formally. "Yes, we certainly will," Moira and Isabel chorused, clenching their fists in their handcuffs with excitement and resolution. "Very well, then; I have been authorized to offer you two hotel accommodation, under police guard, of course, until our suspects have been arraigned in court and a trial date set; this may take several days, of course, and in the meantime, we will contact your government and Scotland Yard so that your return to Scotland will be completed as expeditiously as possible. After trial." This latter statement sank home heavily as Isabel and Moira became suddenly aware they would be the prosecution's key witnesses. "We need to talk to a lawyer," Isabel replied. "We've never testified before in court and we want to be advised of our rights." "Of course, and all in good time. You will be given a court-appointed lawyer in coming days. Rest assured your rights will be protected and that these suspects will feel the full effects of the law, if they are found guilty." Det. Asswami beamed as he thought of the possibility of a promotion in bringing the sheik and his clan to justice – a major coup for his small unit. "Of course, they are innocent until pr. . . ." "Oh, aye, they're guilty all right," Moira blurted. "Look what they've done to us and our bodies," she said, "shaking her handcuffs are him for emphasis. "I was a free woman, happily married, before I was kidnapped and saw my husband murdered before my eyes. Isabel and I endured slavery, we were worked almost to death for months on end, chained all the As well, Isabel and I had sensible figures before; now, we look like big-titted bimbos from Hollywood Hell, USA. Do you know how heavy these tits get, lugging them around every day? Put two 10-pound bags on your chest and walk around all day and see what it's like, mon!" Moira surprised even herself at her angry burst and Det. Asswami blushed and excused himself while Ursula re-entered to offer them a drive to a luxury hotel, under police guard, in the central part of the city.

They were shown out to a waiting police car and driven to a swank hotel in the downtown core where they were greeted by management and escorted by freight elevator to the penthouse. Isabel and Moira were reunited with their boys, who marvelled at the dramatic change in their mothers' appearance, and the six Scots enjoyed first-class accommodation and meals, at government expense, until they were summoned officially to identify the suspects in a lineup three days later. Isabel and Moira were quick to identify their kidnappers, the slave-auction master of ceremonies and Abbadi himself to Det. Asswami who grinned and turned quickly solemn. "You are certain these are the people you have identified?" Moira and Isabel nodded. "They will, therefore, be placed in custody and will appear in court tomorrow for arraignments on a total of 25 extremely-serious charges each. "Life imprisonment is the ultimate penalty in Ushwant, and if convictions are secured, then these people will never walk free again, rest assured of that." Meanwhile, a female doctor from Edinburgh, Scotland, along with senior government officials from Great Britain and Ushwant had arrived to respectively examine them for fitness to appear as trial witnesses and advise them of their return-travel arrangements and the interest each government had in their testimonies. The Scottish doctor conducted a cursory examination of the woman's bodies, hemming and hawing at their steel bonds and, after asking a series of questions pronounced them physically and psychologically fit to provide evidence for the prosecution. The government officials then stepped in and advised them how appreciative each authority was of their evidence and that they were being considered for formal commendations by the governments of Great Britain and Ushwant. The trial, they were told, would begin in about one week and they were to stay in the penthouse until summoned. The week passed uneventfully and Isabel and Moira were bemused to read the local newspapers' accounts of the police investigations, arrests in the desert and arraignments of the 10 people who had a total of 25 charges read out to each of them.

Each pleaded not guilty and the trial would be in six days. Moira and Isabel had received several more dresses from the hotel dress shop and, the day of the trial, were dressed in lovely, light summer outfits that displayed their bosomy figures, deep tans and chains to outstanding effect. Moira and Isabel tried to hide their slave brands underneath their bodices that strained with the weight of their heavy breasts. They and their sons were taken by escort to the courthouse, not far from the hotel, by police officers they did not recognize and as soon as they made their difficult, short-stepped way up the entranceway into the imposing Justice Building, they were grabbed by bailiffs and placed into holding cells in a case of mistaken identity. The ex-slaves could not believe their misfortune but the bailiffs believed the police were delivering inmates for some court procedure and had whisked them away to await assignment of a courtroom and time. The boys stood, mystified, in the cavernous hallways and stopped one of the bailiffs. "Those are our mothers you've taken away, Mrs. MacPeak and Mrs. Metcalfe, of Scotland, and they are being held by egregious error. Please them at once; they are witnesses for the prosecution in the Abbadi case. Please!" Once more, they were released from their small prison cells with profuse apologies from the director of security. Isabel and Moira were then led, their chains clinking noisily on the marble floors, to Courtroom No. 3 where the trial would begin. Isabel, Moira and their sons sat through the opening procedure and, soon, all six were called as prosecution witnesses after piece after piece of evidence was brought out, identified and placed in the record. Isabel and Moira were questioned and cross-examined politely and the judge listened carefully as they recounted the many sordid events of the past 51/2 months, from Hotel Balmoral to Ushwant prison, to the canefields and dungeons, and to eventual release. After two days only of hearing witnesses, statements, affidavits and closing arguments from the prosecution and defence, the judge retired to consider a verdict. Court was adjourned and Isabel and Moira sighed in relief when they were told the judge's verdict would be delivered in 24 hours.

Next day, they returned to the courtroom and the judge said he found all 10 guilty on all counts and sentenced each to life imprisonment with no opportunity for parole. Moira and Isabel, vindicated and relieved, shook hands and hugged with a clatter of chain and walked out of the courtroom as the 10 suspects were led away. Photographers and reporters gaggled on the steps outside the court and Isabel and Moira, with their sons in tow, stopped to have their pictures taken, holding their chained hands up in victory salute as flashbulbs popped. They were driven back to the hotel and told to get packed for their return trip, direct from Ushwant international airport, to Prestwick, Scotland, via executive jet. The women, still in their light sundresses, dozed during the seven-hour flight, restless in their seats as they tried to make themselves comfortable, recalling a similar flight under dire circumstances several months ago. The boys made plans for their fathers' funerals while the little jet droned on over the skies of Africa, the Mediterranean, France, the English Channel, England, and finally, Scotland. The plane screeched down the main runway at Prestwick in late-January 1976 and slowed to turn onto the taxiway and onto the apron in front of the arrivals platform. The Metcalfes and MacPeaks, exiting the plane slowly at their mothers' restricted paces, were unprepared for the throng of reporters and photographers that waited for them in the arrivals area and airport security officials escorted them quickly through customs and out through the double doors where limousines would drive them home to rural Renfrewshire, 2½ hours away. Isabel and Moira, jet-lagged and incredulous, clinked and clattered up their stairways into their quiet little houses in rural western Scotland. They were home at last but did not feel comfortable. Each bade their sons good night and Isabel and Moira walked into their bedrooms, undressed and fell into bed, naked as usual, as sleep eluded them hour after hour.

Each woman, restless and alone at home for the first time in many years, began to endure a series of flashbacks, some intense and some less so, as their minds recalled kidnaps and operations, the terrible Ushwant prison and their heavy chains – all crowded their minds as Isabel and Moira tossed and turned, tangling themselves in their chains uncomfortably night after night. Post-traumatic stress disorder had set in and Isabel and Moira and their sons knew they needed medical attention right away. After two days and nights of torment, Isabel called Moira to ask how she was getting on. "Not well, Isabel; the nightmares, you know," Moira replied. The boys also were having difficulty sleeping, she said, and she planned to ask her family doctor for a referral to a psychologist as soon as possible. First, they had to get their husbands' funerals behind them and that sad occasion passed solemnly as Isabel and Moira paid their last respects in the small-town church with its adjacent cemetery they had attended since childhood. Isabel and Moira, still in their African sun dresses, were warmed in the chill early February afternoon by woolen cloaks draped over their tanned, muscular shoulders. Both women, standing still as statues, wrung their chained hands in sorrow under the grey folds of their cloaks. Isabel's chains chinked softly but her shackles imparted a welcome sense of security. Her chains had become a part of her, a "friend, almost," and she vaguely welcomed the clutch of metal on her wrists, ankles, neck and breasts during the heartbreaking graveside scene. She knew she needed help -- fast.

Epilog Days after the funeral, Isabel and Moira saw their family doctors who examined them and referred them to psychologists for tests and counselling. Isabel's and Moira's psychologists, Dr. Peter Hayward and Dr. Eoin MacDougall, of Ediburgh, said each woman was physically fit, despite their steel bonds (which they found sexually attractive but would never admit it), but confirmed PTSD was present and they would have to be treated immediately. The Scottish-trained PhDs, who studied clinical psychology at the University of Edinburgh, were single, handsome and in their 30s.

They said they would do their best to help expunge Mrs. Metcalfe's and Mrs. MacPeak's demons -- and were successful after months of intensive therapy and counselling. The fours sons, stalwart and stoic throughout, returned early to their Royal Navy units and received counselling at their home units, after they were paraded before their executive officer for being "adrift" for more than 162 days. They recovered fully from their ordeals and were sources of strength and inspiration for their mothers who continued seeing their doctors three times a week. In late-1976, the doctors compared notes and found Isabel and Moira had progressed slowly but steadily and were well on their way to rehabilitation. Their patients' dreams were recurring less and less and their daily lives were returning to normal slowly. Both women began dating their doctors and Isabel, who resigned from the University of Edinburgh's metallurgy division that year, fell in love with Dr. Hayward. They became engaged in 1978 and were married in1980, the same year Moira, who had also resigned from the mill, and Isabel were summoned to the town hall to receive bravery commendations from the Scottish government – for "courage, fortitude and unwavering determination in the face of appalling conditions and events" -- in the East African desert four years ago. The four sons also received commendations from the Royal Navy and were promoted to the rank of leading seaman, while their fathers became legendary local heroes and their names and exploits were mentioned nearly every week by nearly everyone who knew them – and those who did not. In 1981, Isabel and Moira, still in chains, embarked on a public-speaking tour to describe, in first-person, the horrific events that swept them up in 1975-76. They were interviewed and photographed over and over by the media and became the "brave duchesses of bondage" in the Scottish tabloid press. In 1990 - 1992, at age 50, Moira and Isabel received generous pensions from the government, the woolen mill and the University of Edinburgh. Further tests by Dr. Michael Ledstone, the metallurgist you met in Through Night to Light, showed Isabel's and Moira's collars, handcuffs, leg chains, nipple and vaginal rings and connecting chains all were of the same, immutable metallic matter that defied science.

Later, Isabel and Moira married their doctors and the women, now financially secure with their tax-free government and (taxable) private pensions as well as their husbands' incomes, set up a public relations firm specializing in communications, public speaking, self-confidence and assertiveness training. Today, the women, still buxom, curvy and tanned in their early 60s, enjoy a satisfying and fulfilling sex life with their husbands after it was discovered that months and years of their chains tugging at their nether rings had elongated their labia majora slightly to allow penetration. The sensations were "wicked," their husbands told Isabel and Moira privately, feeling the sensation of metal rubbing against inside their orifices as Isabel and Moira embraced their husbands during their lovemaking with the same ardour as they did with Peter and Graham. (But they would not admit that to anyone; not even you, dear reader). Mrs. Isabel Hayward and Mrs. Moira MacDougall can be seen on the streets of their little Scottish town every day, coming and going from their little storefront office on High Street. They wear their chains proudly, almost like the bravery decorations they pin on their jackets once a year to mark the anniversaries of their late husbands' murders, and they long ago adapted their posture and pace to accommodate their handcuffs and leg irons. Small diamond-and-pearl pendants hang from each woman's collar-loop and the rest of their chains have become a part of their physical and psychological makeups; they were able to accept them during their slavery and, after years in the media limelight, Isabel and Moira can easily fend off or ignore the few furtive glances and quiet comments that passers-by and their clients might display from time to time. Isabel and Moira dressed fashionably and sensibly long before their adventures in bondage began in the mid-1970s. Still collared, handcuffed, pierced and chained as they were in 1975, they have had to adapt their wardrobe to accommodate their unremovable chains and shackles. A look inside the women's closets will show rows of fashionable dresses, skirts and specially-tailored tops cut so they can be slipped on over their heads and arms and fastened at the sides. Their knee-length dresses all have small shoulder straps that fasten with buttons or snaps at the tops of their bodices and they have given up long ago their search for a comfortable bra.

Their 48-G bustlines, in fact, have retained the same, heavy, teardrop shape they had been given by their plastic surgeries in 1975. And they are pleased and proud of their sexy, starlet-like figures and their clothes and figures underscore their pleasure with their bodies. They have become regular attendees at concerts in Glasgow by the Royal Scottish National Orchestra and the Haywards and MacDougalls never fail to turn heads at the upscale events when Isabel and Moira turn up in their snug, black, form-fitting, floor-length evening gowns that reveal spectacular cleavage, their steel collars and handcuffs at once. Their small strides, hidden in the graceful folds of their long dresses, give them a sexy, graceful walk as they take their seats front-row centre once a month at the concert hall. Orchestra members have been known to miss their cues and entries as their attentions were diverted from their scores and the conductor to the sexy pair sitting 25-ft. away. I know; I was one. It happened the night the orchestra was accompanying a young female solo violinist in Max Bruch's extremely difficult Scottish Fantasy and, well, that's another story. Today, Isabel's and Moira's bank accounts are reported to be in the seven-figure range; they and their husbands live in palatial country houses, drive Jaguars and expensive town cars and take extended vacations to Spain each year. The women have avoided travel to Africa although they have received invitations from the Government of the State of Ushwant to pay a courtesy call, at their expense. Each invitation has been ignored. Are Isabel Hayward and Moira MacDougall free women today? Or are they still slaves within? You will have to ask them.