DOT'S ISLAND

By Sailor861

Dorothy (Dot) Cochrane, 42, of Glasgow, Scotland, got out of bed this morning, showered, dried herself then strapped and locked her lubricated,10-in.-long, 3-in.-diameter stainless-steel dildo deep inside her pussy, slipped into her three-piece business suit and rushed off to work – annoyed.

As usual, the first, faint grey light of a cold March Monday morning fell dimly on the Scottish industrial city skyline and Dot did not want to go to her dreary office job at McDonald's Shipyard – not one more day -- in fact, she was desperately looking for a change. Or a good, hard fuck. The mother of three grown boys had never had one.

The heavy steel pressure inside her vagina would keep her company all day long, she knew, and she would go home tonight after 6 p.m., if there was no overtime, have supper and quietly stroke her clit on the ratty living-room couch of her dingy, little one-bedroom flat until she was ready for bed. She always had difficulty reaching her orgasm, or "pop," as she called it, and she hoped all that would soon change.

Dorothy Sarah Cochrane, "Dot" or "DS" to her friends, college-educated and experienced, had worked at McDonald's yard for nearly 15 years as executive secretary to the general manager. She was ready for a career move and was on the hunt for the right job to move up and away from the claustrophobic drudgery she had toiled at faithfully since December 12, 1987.

Her dismal greystone apartment building, at 123 Peter Street, Glasgow, depressed her; the shipyard workers annoyed her; the perpetually melancholy, grey, grimy shipyard sickened her, and her job did not pay enough for the long hours she put in, Monday - Friday, 8 am. to 6 p.m., and Saturday, 8 a.m. - 1 p.m.

"Fifteen years of this crap and I want out," Dot said, as she locked the cracked, grey-painted wood door to Apt. No. 2, her home, and strode out of the apartment building to her cold, little, rusty-white 1985 Ford Cortina with its clapped-out heater, battery and alternator.

She stepped into the car, relishing for a brief moment the sudden, deep thrust of "Mr. Steele," her intimate, stainless-steel friend, into the neck of her cervix, as she put the key in the ignition.

"RRR-rrr-rrr, click," the engine complained. "Rr-rr-r, click," it ground out again. "Click." Then nothing.

"Dammit to heck," Dot said, slamming her hand against the little steering wheel. "I changed that battery last year and it's dead again. Fords; you can hear them rust 10 miles way. Fiddle!"

Dot Cochrane, a fit , 5-ft. 6-in., 125-pound brunette with a knockout 40D-27-38 figure, had a sex life that bordered on nil since she left her husband in 2002. She and Graham Cochrane had had an active sex life during the first half of their 20-year marriage but she knew he had started running around on her when he began avoiding her sexual overtures for their regular Saturday night screw.

'Wham-bam, thank you, ma'am' was what she had put up with for most of her married life and when her divorce decree absolute came through in January 2003, she was glad for the opportunity to start over.

But starting over in her deadly-dull shipyard office meant finding another job, maybe in a warmer climate, and she started scanning the Glasgow dailies for employment opportunities.

Slipping out of the car again, she gave the Ford a swift kick on the fender and stomped back in to call a taxi to work that cold March morning. Cursing all Cortinas to their maker, Mrs. Cochrane arrived just after 8 a.m. to go through the weekend mail and check her in-basket.

She sat at her desk, the big, heavy, warm stainless-steel dildo nudging her innards again, tight against the wire-reinforced, black-leather strap she had padlocked around her waist and through her legs this morning in the chastity-belt style she saw in her ex-hubbie's bondage mags stashed in his sock drawer last fall.

One of the glossies, titled "Women in Steel," fascinated her the most after she discovered it while turfing his stuff into the street. Curious, never having seen such a publication before, she flipped through the 61 pages of photos, text and drawings of shapely, young women in snug steel bondage, indoors and outdoors, and set it aside. A week later, she ordered and paid for an eight-ounce steel dildo (at a cost of 50 Scottish pounds) from an advertiser in the mag. and was pleasantly surprised when a plain brown package arrived in the post about 10 days later.

Curious and excited, she took out the dildo and straps, arranged them on the coffee table and examined and stroked the steel cock.

"This will keep me occupied during the work-week," she said, as she put her sex toys away, together with the bondage mag, in her dresser drawer. Since that day, she has gone to work every day with the dildo strapped and locked inside her, enjoying the lusty feel of smooth steel penetration into her deepest erogenous zone.

"At least I don't have to talk to it in the morning," she had aloud one day at work when the big intruder slipped more deeply into her, causing her to gasp as she kneeled to pick up a paperclip.

Strapping in the solid, half-pound dildo was the first step in Dot's transformation which began in November 2003. By December 2003 she had trashed all 10 of her bras and became the "braless broad of the office," as her friend, Gail Penny, told her, letting her heavy, somewhat-pendulous jugs bounce, lurch and sway underneath her trim, white blouse and jacket. Her nipples, dark-brown, long and nearly always erect after nursing three hungry infants 20 years ago, poked hard through her blouse and jacket and she relished the thrill of her smooth silk against the nubs.

Her bralessness, together with the long, thick gleaming-steel cock deep within her, gave her a sexual "buzz" she hadn't felt since she was courted at college by Graham in the late-1970s.

She began to grin and grimace at the office in a way her co-workers had not seen for months, years. Usually quiet and reserved, she smiled only on payday when she and co-worker pal, Gail, trooped off to a pub for a small shandy and Scotch egg as a treat and to check out the "male meat," as Gail would say.

Today, though, Dot was ticked to tears: her crappy, little car and the five-pound taxi fare put a mean glare in her grey Scottish eyes; her full, red lips drawn into a flat crease and snarly silence.

Today, she was a woman not to be trifled with but, by 10 a.m., her furrowed scowl had turned to that expression of relaxed contentment women recognize when they feel their hormones hard at work during arousal.

The dildo and her silky blouse were doing a sexy number on her body -- and she knew it. She wondered whether she would "pop" at her desk before the lunchtime whistle blew.

Gail, sitting behind her, saw the change in her co-worker's face and posture as Dot bustled around the cluttered, grimy office and came over to inquire if she was OK.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Gail," Dot replied evenly through clenched teeth. "I just had a horny thought, that's all."

Gail, mother of two young boys, noticed the twin dark nubs of Dorothy's nipples poking through the translucent material of her creamy silk blouse and nodded knowingly. She saw Dot was not wearing a bra again today.

"Yes, Dorothy, I know the feeling. When I was divorced three years ago all I could think of was when, where and how I would get laid again. Then I met Hiram and things got back to normal. You know, he ties me up once in a while, Dot?"

"Oh, aye, that's the ticket," Dot replied crossly. "Just what I need, another goddam man. Not today, no thank you."

She winced as the heavy dildo moved more deeply into her as she crossed her knees under her desk.

"Ow, that hurt," Dot said aloud.

"Bump your knee?" Gail asked.

"Aye, this stupid old office chair an' this dumpy desk of mine; I'd love to trash the whole lot and move somewhere sunny and warm; Africa, maybe. Hee-hee, a good screw in the desert; that's what I need."

With the GM absent, Gail went back to work as Dorothy continued typing out last week's production reports and statements for the annual report, due from the printers March 31, 2004, end of the fiscal year. Dot noticed her dildo more today than she had in the past and wondered if she was getting her period.

Ah, she thought, four or five days without "Mr. Steele" looking around inside my cunt. "Absence makes the hard grow fonder," she said aloud. Gail looked up from her desk behind Dot's and smiled to herself. She wondered if Hiram would be in the mood tonight.

At 12 noon, the century-old rooftop steam whistle gave its annoying, five-second scream and Dot and Gail headed into the dingy, ill-lit lunchroom to devour their brown-bagged lunches, have a smoke and talk about their weekends, their kids, the job and their husbands/boyfriends/lovers.

The grimy, boilersuited tradesmen, always there before they arrived, watched carefully as Gail preceded Dot into the dim, first-floor lunchroom, added to the building in 1910, and waited quietly until Dot appeared in the doorway, her 40D breasts swaying gently under her blouse and jacket as she clacked her high-heeled way to a spot at the end of one of the long lunch tables. Dot's big steel dildo moved slightly as she walked and she smiled ever so lightly to herself with the welcome, poking sensations. "Hi Dorothy; hi Gail," the six burly men chorused. "Harya today? Gittin' lots? Lotsa work? Har, har, har."

"Gosh, this place depresses me," Dot said to Gail, as she bit into her stale Spam-and-mayo sandwich. "The men watch every move you make; the boss watches you like a hawk for any mistake you make and this December weather makes me want to puke," she said glumly.

"Dorothy, you should really look for a new man, maybe, or a new job," Gail chirped. "Did you check the papers today?"

"Nay, tomorrow."

"Well, stop complainin' an' eat," Gail replied. "Here, it's already 10 after 12 and we've got just 20 more minutes before back to th' grind." Yea, yea, I know," Dot groused as she munched her over-ripe apple and slurped her tepid tea.

"Gosh, what a depressing day."

By 6 p.m., Monday, December 8, 2003, Dorothy Sarah Cochrane was ready to call it quits. "Mr. Steele," still snuggled deep inside her pussy, kept her mildly excited for the rest of the afternoon and she could not wait to get back to her couch and "finger myself to death," as she would say. The evening-shift steam whistle blew and Dorothy and Gail got up, put on their winter coats, scarves and boots and trudged outside into the dark, blustery Glaswegian night. Dorothy had to take another cab back to her dismal apartment – 10 pounds this time! -- which really rankled her Scottish perspicacity.

Re-entering her first-floor flat, she undressed quickly, put on her long, sexy nightgown and left the 10-in. steel dildo still strapped inside her.

Too tired to turn on the telly, she fell asleep on the couch, only to wake up at 5 a.m. to start another drudge at McDonald shipyard.

"Fifteen years there," she said to herself in the bathroom mirror after her shower, the big dildo still lock-strapped deeply inside her. "Ten more to pension; ach, I'll be 52 and worn out.

"By gollies, I am going to look for another job today," she decided, finishing up her makeup. She put on her best pale-blue blouse and light-grey skirt and jacket – sans bra and panties – and called for a cab, her little Cortina now a hump in a grimy snowbank.

"Ga-ah, what a city," she said as she spotted the little black cab with its East Indian driver coming down Peter Street. "Another day, another 85 pence, so, hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work I go. Fiddle."

She donned her grey winter overcoat, stepped into her grey boots, feeling the big steel-grey dildo rub gently against her G-spot and cervix at the same time, winced and stepped out into the grey, -10-degree C. dawn.

"Everything's grey in this arfin' city," she told the driver. "Grey, grey, grey."

"Yesmiss,' the turbaned head replied in front of her. "It's December, you know, and we will not see the sun again until April in all probability. That is the Scottish way, is not it? In Bongladeesh we . . . . "

"Aye, aye, aye, that's the Scottish weather aright," Dorothy interrupted, crossing her knees to generate another steely poke into her womb. A cold draught from the partly-open driver's window caused her to change position and pull her overcoat more snugly around her knees and shoulders.

"Would you mind closing your window, driver, please?" Dorothy asked, getting annoyed again.

"Yessmiss," he said.

They drove across Glasgow in silence, Dorothy sinking into deeper gloom unrelieved by the sensations of her heavy breasts swelling naked, soft and warm under her blouse, or that half-pound, milled-steel cylinder strapped deeply into her moist recesses.

The cranes, buildings and docks of the grey, grimy shipyard loomed on the Clyde River bank and Dorothy gloomed to herself again: "I'm a bloody slave to that shipyard," she told no one. "McDonald's would chain me to that grotty desk of mine, throw away the key and not give me a second thought."

"Yessmiss," the driver said.

Dot paid the five-pound fare and got out of the backseat, her lower abdomen growling darkly with hunger and sensations from her dildo.

Mmm, speaking of chains, she thought, as she walked to her second-floor desk at 7:50 a.m., I must look in that bondage mag for some ideas for me, or a boyfriend, if I ever find one. She thought she would dig it out of her dresser drawer tonight after work and see how women look, consenting to being photographed in chains and gags, hoping their poses would give her some ideas. Graham, her ex-, had spreadeagled Dorothy in bed only once 13 years ago, tying her ankles and wrists wide to the bedframe with stout, grey twine he'd brought home from his butcher shop. Screwing her for all of five minutes before he "popped" inside her, she was left frustrated, unsatisfied and annoyed. He had left her bound, helpless and spreadeagled, for an hour and she wanted more.

After lying beside her silently, Graham cut her cords and fell asleep. Dorothy could not have cared less if she ever had sex with this man -- or any other -- again.

Next night, July 10, 1990, though, she had her first bondage fantasy. . She tossed and turned on the bed beside her snoring husband as the dream took shape: A big, dark and handsome man had followed her to work that morning, wrestled her to the ground and gagged her with an enormous white ballgag. She did not struggle. Dressed in her usual business suit, Dot dreamed on, she could not complain or utter anything than a single, soft mmmppphhh as the man skilfully hogtied her in thin, cotton cord .

Dot woke with a start as she realized she was in the sun-bathed parking lot of McDonald's Shipyard! The vivid, silent dream had left her perspiring, shaken and worried.

But that was then and this is now: at the 10 a.m. "stand easy," Dot was still daydreaming at her desk. She wanted to look at the girls' faces in her glossy bondage mag as they posed this way and that, tugging at their chained wrists or pulling at their shackled ankles -- all for the camera – and the male libido.

Six p.m. arrived slowly, inexorably, and Dorothy, who scarcely noticed the solid-steel intruder in her loins this day, accepted Gail's offer of a drive back home. Back in Apt. No. 2, she went into her bedroom, undressed and slipped into her long, grey nightgown, leaving the dildo inside a second night.

She dug out the lurid, red-covered glossy and started flipping through the pages as she made herself a pot of tea and a processed-cheese sandwich with grey, moldy bread.

Page after page of nubile, young things chained 50 different ways – naked, dressed, gagged or with open, pleading mouths – all "fake, money-driven and childish," she thought. Or were they?

'Ww-ow,' Dot said to herself; 'those knots and locks sure looked tight and secure on the women's limbs'. Putting down her stale, tasteless sandwich, she stopped to examine closely one picture of a mature woman, "Terry," possibly in her late 30s, who was chained at ankles with another, longer chain running from her ankle links to be locked just above her hips.

Her wrists were shackled with heavy, 16-in. chains and she was harness-gagged, a big white ball propping her mouth wide open around her thin, stretched lips.

But the eyes behind the gag straps pressed into the lovely model's face looked right at Dorothy. "Great Ovid's ghost, this woman looks like she's enjoying herself! How? Why? She doesn't look bored, sad or in pain. She does not look annoyed or aroused either. She looks content!" Dot said. "Hoot!" She put the mag down and ate another meagre cheese sandwich and a "cuppa" tepid tea before retiring at 8 p.m.

Another cold, wintry night in Glasgow, 15 days before Christmas, and Dorothy Cochrane's mood was far from festive. She wanted to get laid! And the eyes of Terry, the bondage model, followed her into bed that night. Was Terry's expression contrived? Or real? She shook her head on her pillow as sleep eluded her.

Her nights were usually dreamless but this Tuesday night, with her warm, Steel dildo nestling gently against the neck of her womb, her dream began, the first of its kind since that 3D, full-color fantasy she had that night 13 years ago:

Dorothy awoke with a start, hissing noisily through her nose only. She could not speak, her jaw ached and her wrists, hips and ankles felt heavy. She got up and out of bed awkwardly and looked down at her naked, chained body in the gloom of the bedroom.

She shuffled her chained feet over to the cracked, dingy mirror, snapped on the little 40-watt bare bulb in her cramped bedroom and stared in disbelief: she, like the model Terry, had been harness-gagged and chained at wrist, waist and ankle by an unseen hand.

Her eyes looked like Terry's!! "MMMMppphhhh!" Dot wheezed as she shook her head and looked again. She heard a clatter of locks from her head-harness's hasps. She did not look angry, frightened or annoyed. She looked content! How? Why?

"These chains are locked! This harness-looking thingy is locked, too!" Dorothy dreamed on. Where are the darn keys? Her heart leaped as she heard a thunderous thump at her front door and everything instantly went black . . . .

Dorothy gasped, suddenly awake, her heart pounding, cool sweat moistening her brow as her long, steel dildo reminded her once again of its lock-strapped presence deep inside her womb. The grimy, little tin alarm clock, clacking away on her cluttered night table, told her it was just 2:30 a.m.

"Whew, what a dream that was," Dot said. "Glad that didn't come true. Oh boy, but it was so-oo real! I felt I was that model." She got up, turned on the single bulb, and found the keys to her dildo harness she had kept locked around her hips and between her legs. She reached under her long nightgown, unsnapped the two locks below her navel and in the small of her back, withdrew the steel dildo with a moist schlup and a sigh and took it into the bathroom. She wiped it down with alcohol and stroked some KY on it, readying her pal for his next intrusion in three hours.

She went back to bed and was suddenly asleep, her pussy feeling strangely empty and alone.

Dorothy Sarah Cochrane, aged 42, had just begun to enter the world of steel bondage. And she didn't know it. Yet.

At 5:30 a.m., Wednesday, December 9, the alarm clattered its noisy way into Dorothy's sub-conscious and she dragged herself out of bed wearily.

"'Mr. Steele', where are you? Yoo-hoo?" she called out half-expectantly, stretching for a big yawn. She spotted the big steel dildo and its straps and locks, just where she left them, on the dresser top, polished, cleaned, lubed and ready to go home.

Dorothy slipped out of her sexy nightgown and into the dismal, grey shower stall for a tepid – never hot -- bath. "That awful hot-water tank is broken up again!" she cried, rinsing her voluptuous body from her lightly-scented feminine soap she had loved for so many years.

Dried, made-up and hair combed carefully around her attractive, pale face, she bent forward in front of her mirror, her 40D breasts pendulous, spread her shapely legs wide and slipped her oily steel friend slickly back inside her vagina.

"Ahhhh," Dorothy sighed, holding it in tightly. She then arranged the strong, leather-covered steel-cored straps, attached to the three-inch-diameter dildo base, around her waist and through her crotch, drew the locks into the sturdy, little hasps and -- snick, snick – she was locked up again, chaste as the scuzzy Scottish snow scudding in little siftings across her sill.

"There, ready for work again," she said as she stepped into her skirt, buttoned her blouse down over her soft, slightly-pendulous breasts, slipped on a clingy cashmere pullover and stepped into her comfortable loafers. She manoeuvred her hips and thighs to ensure the dildo found its favorite haven, snug against her Grafenberg spot on the upper inside of her pussy and deep inside, to its full, 10-in. length, nudging delightfully into her womb. She pressed the base in one more inch and smiled: "Ah, there it is, right there. "No heels for me today, she said, looking down her bosomy front to her feet she could just see. "They make my boobs bobble around too much for those welders and fitters. To heck with them."

Dot snapped off the dim, bare 40-watt bulb hanging from her bedroom ceiling and strode out to meet the day.

Wednesday started with yet another five-pound taxifare, prelude to another dismal day at the office, but at 10 a.m., she spotted a copy of The Times of London on the general manager's desk when she took in the mid-week work reports.

Dorothy's dismal workaday life was about to change irrevocably "Let's have a dekko," she said, "'n' see if there's any jobs to be had so I can get clear of this shipyard and this city."

She swiped the big, flimsy paper off the GM's desk -- he wouldn't know anyway --and returned to her desk nearby, feeling the gentle, urgent push of the dildo inside her as she sat down in the old, grey swivel chair, her breasts lurching softly under her sweater. She put on her glasses and began scanning the fine print.

Hmm, typist wanted. Nay.

Hmm, clerk-typist wanted. Nope.

Secretary/clerk-typist wanted. Hmm. Maybe. Naw.

Flipping the big pages, a display ad, on page 15, close to the stocks and bonds quotations, caught her eye.

WANTED

Experienced executive secretary -- Needed urgently by a Central African oil-exploration corporation listed with London Stock Exchange. Applicants must be British subjects or Commonwealth citizens with college diploma and/or university degree in commerce, business or public affairs; 10 years' directly-related experience at corporate/ business level; excellent communications, writing and presentation skills and proven, superior managerial, organizational and "trouble-shooting" abilities. Successful candidate will manage office staff of five, reporting to the chief executive officer. Other related duties to be assigned, subject to operational commitments. Some overseas travel required. Salary range: 50,000 - 65,000 pounds per annum, depending on experience and background. Must be bondageable. Attractive company benefits: sick leave, medical/dental programs, profit-sharing and generous pension plans in place for the right candidate. Apply with three-page resume and certified, true copy of passport to: Mr. Godfrey Smith, Esq., Chief, Human Resources and Administration, Benize Oil Corporation, 40 Sandy Street West, Bally, Benize, East Africa. (Tel. 044-666-2376; fax. 044-666-1154). Quote Competition No. 05-2003. All applications must be received before Wednesday, December. 24, 2003, 6 p.m., GMT.

{;-)BenizeOil We Are Here to Serve You

"Woo," Dorothy whistled, feeling her sensitive nipples erecting with excitement against her silk blouse. "Fifty to 65K a year for working in East Africa. With their cost of living, this could be a swan. But isn't that silly? Look at the typo in paragraph two; they mean bondable, surely."

She noted the competition closed three weeks today and she quickly told the general manager she wanted to book some overtime tonight to refresh and polish her resume. She would also write the best covering letter ever, photocopy her passport and arrange a courier delivery to Bally, Benize, East Africa.

She dug her passport out of her purse where she hid it for safekeeping, photocopied it and got the company accountant downstairs to certify the true copy. Climbing the stairs again to her second-floor desk, the dildo poking and turning at every step, she resumed her day's duties: filing, typing, updating ledgers, taking Mr. McDonald's dictation and typing up business letters and internal reports.

She did not hear the 12 noon or 6 p.m. whistles, so intent was she to clear her desk and apply for this BenizeOil job.

By 10:30 p.m., 4½ hours after quitting time, she had done the best job she could on her resume – three pages long – and had drafted and redrafted three times her covering letter, spellchecking it over and over to make sure it was perfect. Finally satisfied, and horny with excitement, she dug out her stash of Classic Crest bond stationery, put it into the laser printer and ran off her resume and one-page letter in 12-pt. Arial.

She put her documents and photocopy in a manilla folder and called a cab. Soon, she was home and a courier would pick it up first thing Thursday morning.

She scarcely felt her steel dildo, still locked deep inside her, that morning when the courier arrived, took delivery and sent it on its way to the Dark Continent.

Thursday and Friday sped by and, after a dull, quiet weekend, Dot was surprised by a knock on her door at 7 a.m., Monday, December 15. Opening the door in her grey dressing gown, steel dildo still in its proper place all weekend, she saw the same, grey-haired courier with a special-delivery envelope postmarked BenizeOil Corporation, Bally, Benize, East Africa.

"Yer signs 'ere, miss," he said. Dorothy penned her neat, feminine handwriting, returned the grey form to the man and closed the door, locking it firmly.

The letter, on classy bond stationery with colorful, odd logos, was from Mr. Godfrey Smith, Esq., Chief, Human Resources and Administration, Benize Oil Corporation, 40 Sandy Street West, Bally, Benize, East Africa, informing she had been selected for interview at the BOC head office, Bally, on Monday, December 22, 2003, at 2 p.m., subject to her confirmation, and that electronic tickets had been reserved for her at Prestwick Airport.

Would she please call to confirm the time and date?

"Oh, I most certainly will," Dorothy said to her grey wallpaper. She booked off sick, so excited was she about this potential job offer, and at the start of business, Benize time, dialled the number from the advertisement.

She got through straight away to Mr. Smith, a young, professional-sounding man with a rich, baritone voice, and confirmed the date and time. She rang off and shouted "I'm off to Benize, East Africa, in just seven days' time.

"Oh, golly, I hope I get that job! A new life. A new start!"

Too true, dear reader.

But now it was coming up 7:30 and Dot knew she was going to be late. She called her friend, Gail, at home and said she was not feeling well at all today and would be in Wednesday.

Dot planned to buy the most expensive, tailored business suit she could find in the clothing stores in Glasgow West. At 8:30, dressed in wool sweater, blouse, jeans and P-coat, her dildo still locked in, its keys on her little, grey nightstand, she grabbed another cab and found the most expensive-looking women's designer-wear store she could in the shopping district.

After two hours' combing through racks and racks and speaking to endless salesladies about blouses, jackets, skirts, hemlines, accessories and shoes, she settled on one: a super-wool, cream-colored, above-knee Versace pencil skirt with matching classic, single-breasted, vented jacket; designer-cut, Irish linen shirt with standup collar and gold bracelets, earrings and a slim pearl pendant for her neck.

Noticing for the first time that morning her persistent pal, Mr. Steele, the steel dildo inside her, she thought she should purchase a bra and settled on a light, off-white Victoria's Secret soft-cup 38D bra. She took her armful of new clothing into the fitting stall and emerged, looking like a million pounds – her flattering silhouette featured a curvy, 42-year-old woman in tailor-made skirt, jacket and blouse who would look good in any corporate boardroom.

Her locked-in steel dildo was furthest from her mind when she took her Visa card to the teller and paid for her purchases -- 512 Scottish pounds with VAT -- and told she could come back in two days for minor alterations to her jacket and skirt, if needed. No need; everything fit perfectly and snug, she told the clerk. Her personal chequing account stood at three pounds 50 pence but Dorothy didn't care.

She took her shopping bags back home, tried the garments all on again, adjusted her skirt, shirt and jacket and looked at herself critically in the cracked, tarnished mirror. She was beginning to turn herself on, imagining African oilmen looking at her tits in this smashing designer suit.

Checking her figure, she knew she had made the right choice and had it sent away for dry-cleaning in preparation for the big day. Monday, December 22, 2003, dawned cold, grey and snowy again in Glasgow but Dot was excited: she had risen at 3 a.m. to take a taxi to Prestwick to catch her 5:30 a.m. flight to the sunny south.

Soon, she was en route to Benize, East Africa, and a destiny she had never thought possible.

She had packed her dildo because she had planned to stay an extra two days, until Christmas eve, and return home to her dump in case she did not get the job. Wearing jeans, sweatshirt and comfortable shoes for the five-hour trip, she was thrilled about her first overseas job interview.

At 12 noon (local), she landed at Bally Airport and stepped out into the brilliant, hot African sunshine, squinting as she looked at the dusty air terminal building and the gravel runway. A company car was waiting for her, after customs and baggage pickup, and she was whisked to a big, four-star hotel in downtown Benize, a few blocks away from the BOC head office.

Checking into her pleasant, airy bright room -- a far cry, she thought, from the grubby flat she had in lowertown Glasgow -- she undressed, showered in the fanciest bathroom she had ever seen and, drying herself and towelling her hair, stepped into her new skirt, put on the new bra and slipped into her new shirt and jacket. The new bra did wonders for her figure, she noticed, not having worn one for months, but Dot was more comfortable without one and she would take it off afterwards. She thought.

"No dildo this afternoon," she said, "but he will be waiting for me when I get back."

Dressed to the tens, she stepped out, nervous but proud in conservative high heels, into the hallway to the elevator lobby and downstairs where the same driver met her to take her to the job interview.

Dot's breasts swayed slightly inside her soft bra from her high-heeled, purposeful walk and she hoped she would turn heads at the interview. Better them than those grimy dockyard maties back home, she thought.

Sitting in the backseat, she reached under her jacket discreetly, checking the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror, and gave her nipples a firm squeeze to ensure they were attractively erect and poking decorously through her white linen shirt and jacket for these oilmen. She gave them a second, harder squeeze, mmmppphhh, just to make sure, as the car braked to a stop in front of a glass-and-chrome, 12-storey office tower that looked distinctly out of place in the dusty, rundown main street of little Bally, Benize, East Africa.

"Oh boy, this is it," she sighed, as the driver helped her politely out of the backseat.

Dorothy was ushered into the mirrored elevator lobby, ascended to the 10th floor and escorted into a mahogany-panelled, expensively-appointed boardroom with a huge oval oak table and 16 executive chairs arranged neatly around the perimeter. Legal pads, pens and pencils were arranged and carafes of icewater sat by each spot. Four well-dressed, handsome Benizian men stood and came over to introduce themselves. Putting on her most charming smile, she shook hands with them all and tried to remember each name. Smith, Currie, ah, er, who were the other two?

"Please have a seat, Miss Cochrane," Godfrey Smith said, in his pleasant baritone voice his smile showing even, pearly-white teeth that contrasted brightly against his mahogany face.

The other three, one of whom included the CEO, Arthur Currie, M.Eng., looked on intently.

"We have reviewed and discussed in detail your resume and credentials, Miss Cochrane," Smith began. "We would now like to hear from you and how you relate your background, educational achievements and work history to the advertised job requirements. You have 15 minutes. Please begin."

Dorothy Cochrane felt her sensitive nipples erecting again through her translucent bra as she leaned forward, engaged each man's watery, dark-brown eyes and gave them every detail of her professional life and academic backgrounds she thought they should know.

She was clear, crisp and precise as she put the best spin possible on her 15 years of drudgery at McDonald's Shipyard, Clydeside, Glasgow.

At 12 minutes, 50 seconds, Arthur Currie spoke up:

"Miss Cochrane, you have travelled several thousand miles to tell us exactly what we wanted to know," he said in a steady, bass-baritone voice. Dot thought he was undressing her with his eyes. He was.

The handsome, 45-year-old, 6-ft., 200-pound African executive continued to address Dorothy's breasts and continued:

"We need a woman of your, ah, stature, background and experience to manage our office staff in head office; to problem-solve and work out human-resources issues that come to the fore in the oil-exploration business from time to time.

"As a man with more than 25 years' experience in oil, I believe you have a quick, sharp mind – you clearly are capable of 'thinking outside the box' (Dot knew what that meant); you have an enviable corporate and industrial work record and excellent credentials."

Dorothy was holding her breath, feeling her nipples harden with perfect timing against her blouse and jacket. "Mmm, thank you, boobs," she said to herself.

Currie continued: "Your performance reports are at consistent, 5/5 levels and your superiors' endorsements are effuse in praise of your work habits, punctuality and ability to get the job done, often with deadline pressure.

"Would you therefore kindly excuse us while we make our final deliberations?"

"Thank you, Mr. Currie," Dot said quietly. She rose and walked purposefully out of the big boardroom to the waiting area outside.

It would be the last time she would take free steps without hearing a chink, clink, shink of chain on her body for many, many years.

Dorothy Sarah Cochrane thought she was 20 years younger as she stepped nervously into the airy, brightly-lit boardroom foyer. She took a chair, crossed her knees and hoped for the best. She missed the comforting caress of her big steel dildo.

Thirty-five minutes later, Godfrey Smith opened the big, double oak doors to the boardroom and said solemnly: "Mrs. Cochrane, please step in."

Dot rose and walked as assertively erect as she could to hear the panel's decision.

The four men rose as one as she entered, their sign of corporate courtesy and goodwill, and sat down again after she took her seat across from them. The hot African sunshine gleamed blindingly on the tall windows of the boardroom and Dorothy had butterflies in her pussy as Mr. Currie began:

"Mrs. Cochrane, I apologize for my earlier misspeak about your marital status. This panel has listened carefully to your account of how you will relate your qualifications to the incumbent position," he said to her breasts again. He then engaged her eyes and continued, a little louder: "Your background and educational achievements; your career pattern, professional experiences and credentials have all been assessed thoroughly, scored and judged. Our choice is unanimous. "Subject to your acceptance, we are pleased to offer you the position of executive secretary to the chief executive officer, myself, at a starting salary of 65,000 British pounds sterling. Do you accept?"

Dot swallowed hard: 65K was more than she would earn in five years at that grubby Glasgow shipyard. The price was right. "Mr. Currie and members of the board, I am honored and delighted to accept your offer of employment. Thank you. When do I start?"

Godfrey Smith, the human resources guy, spoke up: "You may start at the open of business, at 9 a.m., tomorrow, Wednesday, December 23, Mrs. Cochrane. If you agree, the papers and contract for your employment and additional job requirements are waiting for your signature at the table outside."

"Mr. Currie, sir, with your permission, I would like to adjourn this meeting and offer Mrs. Cochrane refreshments after she has perused and signed the official paperwork."

"This meeting is adjourned," Currie said in his finest judicial tone. "Thank you, Mrs. Cochrane, and I look forward to a long association with you in chains."

Dot thought she had heard wrong.

"Pardon?" she asked. "In chains? Whatever do you mean?"

"Smith, show her the contract for her chains, please; I must go. I have another meeting in a half-hour. Good day, Mrs. Cochrane, I will see you in the forenoon tomorrow."

Dot could not believe her ears. This was 2003, not 1603!!

Godfrey Smith, human resources administrator and expert metalworker, appeared at her side with three pages: two standard employment information data sheets and the third a parchment original of her special contract. Dot reached for her glasses and quickly signed the employment info sheets, then took up the contract with a shaky hand. It said:

CONTRACT FOR INDENTURED SERVICES

December 22, 2003

I, the undersigned, Dorothy Sarah Cochrane (DoB, November 20, 1961), of 123 Peter Street, Apartment No. 2, Glasgow, Scotland, N4MB 4K2, being of sound mind and body, do hereby agree to have titanium-steel shackles rivetted and/or welded to my ankles and joined by a 16-inch-long, 3/16ths-inch, oblong-linked chain, the centre link of which is to be connected to my waist by a locked, 60-inch-long, similar chain, for a period not to exceed one year, which is my probationary term of employment with BenizeOil Corporation, Bally, Benize, East Africa. I further agree to have similar shackles rivetted and/or welded to my wrists which will be connected by 12-inch, 3/16ths-inch, oblong-linked chain and that a 1½-inch wide steel collar, complete with incorporated half-link, will be permanently affixed to my neck, in accordance with the Benizian Tribal Custom of 1603, that states: "White women in the employ of Benizian nationals, in the Free Nation of Benize, shall be chained and shackled for the duration of their employment so named and shall forever release their employers of any damages, public or private liability or injury she may occur as the result of her restraints.

"I hereby sign this contract, with free will and understanding, this date, to be chained in accordance with the aforementioned specifications, and forever release BenizeOil Corporation, of 40 Sandy Street West, Bally, Benize, East Africa, of any damages, public or private liability or injury that may, or will, occur as the result of wearing chains and shackles during my employment as executive secretary to the chief executive officer, Mr. Arthur Currie, M.Eng., B.Eng., Esq. Unauthorized removal of the restraints before the approved date will result in immediate termination.

_________________________ (Mrs.) Dorothy Sarah Cochrane {;-) BenizeOil We Are Here to Serve You

Dot at first could not believe her ears; now she could not believe her eyes. "This is a joke, isn't it, Mr. Smith?" she said, taking off her glasses to look at him incredulously. "This contract isn't legal. How could such a contract be enforced in the courts?"

"Mrs. Cochrane, please, let remind you are not in Great Britain today," he replied. "You are free to leave as soon as you wish if you choose not to sign and this will not be held against you in any way or form.

"But civil and contract laws in Benize have been, and continue to be, based on ancient tribal customs that predate some of Great Britain's civil codes. I cannot tell you of the provenance, or rationale, of the Benizian tribal custom of 1603 but I can tell you it has been upheld by Benizian supreme court decisions as recently as February 2003. This was reported in the international press and, naturally, caused outrage in certain human-rights organizations; however, your contract is still legal in this country only and we have not had official legal action brought to us in this respect.

"Legalities and the niceties of contract law are matters for barristers and civil courts; we are an oil-exploration company and are living up to our country's employment statutes, which we continue to do, in order to stay in business. I hope you understand."

Dot swallowed hard at this hard-nosed explanation and re-read the contract a second and third time.

"If it may influence your decision," Smith said smoothly, "BenizeOil is prepared to increase your per-annum salary to 75,000 British pounds sterling a year if you agree to be chained thus for a period not to exceed 365 days and nights."

Dot thought: '75K; that's seven-years' salary at McDonald's and I would be chained for only one year'.

"Do they come off at the end of the year?" Dot asked anxiously.

"Only if you leave voluntarily, absent yourself without leave, are dismissed for cause or try and have them removed before your probationary period is up, Mrs. Cochrane."

"Oh. In other words, if I sign this contract, I would be chained up until I decide to leave?"

"That is correct," the handsome, 35-year-old executive told her.

"And my salary will be increased to 75,000 pounds sterling a year if I do sign?"

"That is correct. Part of the agreement stipulates that a bank account will be established by you at the financial institution of your choice, either in Benize or in Scotland, and your salary will be deposited electronically on the 27th day of each month. As well, a starting salary advance of 10,000 pounds sterling has been authorized for you, provided you sign the contract."

"How much time do I have to think about this?"

"Mrs. Cochrane, please; we are an extremely busy office and I have other clients and matters to attend. I do not wish to rush your judgment but the sooner you sign, or not, the better it will be for you and me."

Smith smiled gently and added quietly: "Dorothy, for Pete's sake, think of the salary and benefits. My wife, who is Welsh, was employed here in 2000 - 2002 and wore her chains without complaint for the two years she was here in payroll.

"In fact, she still wears them around the house, from time to time, and has told me she does not mind them at all. "Considers them her African jewellery, she says," Godfrey said with a small chuckle.

"Oh my," Dot replied. " But I've never been chained, shackled or in trouble with the law ever before and I don't . . . . " Godfrey started to pick up the contract off the table. Dot held onto it. "Just a sec., Mr. Smith, please give me a minute."

"Fine, Mrs. Cochrane, one minute."

He looked at his watch and tapped his left index finger in time with the sweep of the second hand in his $3,500 Rolex Oyster wristwatch. Dorothy fretted. I'm in East Africa; I only have Gail as my friend; my boys are grown and gone to America an' I don't want to go back to McDonald's Shipyard ever again.

What do I have to lose? My dignity? In this big office? Probably not. On the street? Possibly. But didn't he say there are other white women here, or in town, who are chained up like I might be? They are paying me to agree to be chained up for a year. Am I putting my avarice for financial gain ahead of my principles? Dorothy could not find the answer to that one as the seconds ticked on.

"Time's up, Mrs. Cochrane," Smith said quietly.

"Mr. Smith," Dorothy said, looking at him squarely in the eye. "Chains will make me look like a criminal, like a slave, like someone kept here against her will."

"Let me assure you, Mrs. Cochrane, there are at least 10 other white women in this building who wear chains every day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, without a word of complaint."

"There are?" Dorothy gulped.

"Yes, two are on this floor this afternoon, Betty and Joan, in payroll. And now, Mrs. Cochrane, will you sign or not?"

Dorothy blinked hard and said, with a pounding lump in he throat:

"Yes, Mr. Smith, I will sign."

"Very good," Godfrey Smith sighed, as he slid the one-page parchment document back to her. Dot put on her glasses, sat up straight and put her neat feminine signature on the indicated spot.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cochrane; now if you will just wait here a moment I will get my tools and your chains."

Dot's heart was pounding when Godfrey left and re-emerged a few moments later, in black T-shirt and blue jeans, pushing a small cart with one long and two shorter lengths of silver-grey chain, each connected to four sturdily-hinged, small-diameter titanium shackles; her collar; a small, oak-mounted anvil; sturdy hammer, a bag of rivets and a small, portable oxyacetylene welding apparatus with asbestos cloths.

Dot closed her eyes as he placed the anvil at her feet with a heavy thump in front of her leather-upholstered boardroom chair. She thought of that noise that concluded her erotic dream a few days ago in her dingy Glasgow bedroom.

She could not believe this was happening. She closed her eyes.

"Please remove your shoes and place your left ankle on the anvil, Mrs. Cochrane." She did so without looking. She felt the cool clasp of titanium on her ankle for the first time and heard him slide the rivet home through the twin flanges.

Clang, clang, bing. "That's one," Godfrey said, kneeling at her feet. "Now your right ankle, please."

Bing, bing, clang. "Done."

Opening her eyes, she watched as he attached the 60-inch chain to the centre of her ankle links with a special tool and held out her arm as he helped her to her feet while he passed the upper end snugly around her waist.

Snap! A sturdy lock secured her waist chain. She saw no key.

Dot felt the cool steel chain over her Versace skirt for the first time but had not yet taken her first step.

Just one minute had passed.

"Please kneel for your handcuffs and collar," Godfrey said. Dot complied and she was chained at wrists and had a collar rivetted on her neck in less than a minute. Her ears rang from the metallic blows just below her left ear.

"There, we're nearly done," Godfrey said. "Now, all I have to do is weld the seams. Do not be alarmed; this damp asbestos cloth will prevent the flame from touching anything.

He slid a piece of the heavy, silver fabric around each of her ankles and wrists and taped them in place. He then adjusted valves on the gas tanks, put on his goggles and struck the torch. A hiss and a light pop preceded the yellow, then bright-blue flame and he knelt down with special welding rods to close permanently her ankle shackles' seams. Dot could smell the acrid, metallic smoke coming from her chains but said and felt nothing. She looked out the window as he continued.

"Please hold out your wrists; this will only take a minute," he said quietly. Dot complied and, soon, her handcuffs had bluish-black welds on the seams.

"Now, the collar." He slid a piece of asbestos under the back of her snug collar and had it welded shut in 30 seconds.

Turning off the torch and removing his goggles, he turned to her and asked: "How do they feel? They have a combined weight of just six pounds, you know, and there is a full-length mirror in the hallway outside should you wish to examine them and your appearance."

Dorothy was silent as he helped her to her bare feet and she immediately felt the cooling clasp and weight of titanium-alloy steel on her trim, white neck, wrists and ankles. Her first thought was: how on earth will I ever get my skirt off? She could see a tailor because she did not want to ruin the bank account-draining, lovely cream skirt that fit her so stylishly. Smith replaced Dot's high heels on her feet and encouraged her to take her first tentative step, limited to 16 inches. She tripped and nearly fell, grasping the back of her chair with a clash of chain.

"This may be difficult," Mr. Smith," Dot said warily. "I've never walked before in chains and this I will have to learn."

"This way, Dorothy; take your time, slow steps at first and I will show you the mirror. You can assess your appearance for yourself."

Godfrey led her out of the room, a hand solicitously on her left forearm, and directed her to the huge mirrored wall by the bank of elevators.

Dot was appalled as she felt and heard the clink-shink of her chains on the marble floor. Walking slowly on Mr. Smith's arm, they stopped at the mirrored wall by the bank of elevators.

Dorothy was shocked by what she saw: there, looking back at her, was a trim, buxom, Versace business-suited brunette, pale from the Scottish winter and chained like a slave; yet looking attractive, serious and professional in her new surroundings. Beside her stood a handsome African stud. She held her handcuffs at waist level and felt the snugness of the chain around her abdomen with the implacable, stainless-steel lock resting on the front of her skirt just below navel level.

She widened her stance to the full 16 inches her ankle chains allowed and found the span was just slightly shorter than the pace allowed by her Versace pencil skirt.

"You are free to go back to your hotel room today if you choose, Dorothy;" Smith told her, turning to collect his tools. "Please be back in the building on the 10th floor to meet your staff tomorrow at 9 a.m. Your Benizian work permit has been approved. Thank you. Good day."

Dot Cochrane was incredulous. There she was, in less than eight hours, a hum-drum, workaday woman with a steel dildo locked into her pussy; now, a businesswoman, collared, chained and shackled in titanium steel, and in a Versace suit, looking at herself in the executive suite of a wealthy oil exploration corporation.

She slowly pressed the elevator button with both hands and stepped in, her ankle chains clattering loudly in the 10-person, mahogany-and-chrome elevator car. She shook her head in disbelief at the rapid chain of events that had swept over here today.

Holding her wrists and forearms awkwardly in front of her, she descended and walked with slow, measured steps out of the building, seeing her hotel several blocks away. She felt her breasts joggle with a different rhythm as she took quick, 16-inch chained steps. It took her 25 minutes to walk six blocks and she was puffing with exertion when she got back to her hotel room.

She opened the door, sat on the bed and felt her handcuffs and leg shackles with her fingers for the first time.

"Snug, yep," she said. "They're not coming off today or tomorrow. Maybe next year."

She flipped on the television and snapped it back off after scanning the six color channels. All Benizian programs. "No 'Coronation Street' down here, I'll bet," she said. She lay back in her suite and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Hours later, she awoke with a start in her darkened room to find herself naked and under the covers, her skirt hanging immaculately over the chair by the bed. Her lovely jacket, blouse and new bra were nowhere to be seen but tidy stacks of light halter, tank and tube tops, skirts and spaghetti-strapped long and short sundresses waited on a rack by the door.

She rose, groggy and jetlagged, feeling the chains as she swung her legs out of bed and clinked over to the dark window to look onto the dusty, unlit, little main street.

She returned to her overnight bag, unpacked her housecoat and awkwardly draped it round her shoulders as she looked for a clock. The small digital display at her bedside told her it was 2:30:14 a.m., 23/12/03.

Wide awake, she emptied her two-days' supply of clothes, cosmetics and Mr. Steele, her 10-inch-long, 3-inch-diameter stainless-steel companion, onto the bed.

Feeling a new, sexy urge, she took a bath towel and polished and lubed the half-pound steel intruder carefully with her newly-chained hands. It had kept her company for the past several months, why not now? she reasoned.

Dorothy squatted by her bed, awkward in her chains, and slid the cool device, ever so gently, back into her waiting, moist vagina, snugging down the straps with practised ease, despite her chained ankles and wrists, and snapped the two locks closed at the front and back of her dildo harness. The sturdy dildo belt rested just below her waist chain and the steel was once again deep inside her.

One of those skirts or dresses over there will cover most, if not all this gear, she thought, as she patted her abdomen.

She waggled her hips to adjust the top convexity of the steel dildo against her G-spot so the business end nestled hard against her cervix, 10 inches up into her lower abdomen.

Ah-h, much better," she said finally, checking her chained, shackled, strapped and dildo-ed self in the big, elegant mirror. (Even today, the steel dildo gives her a sense of relief from the day-to-day pressures at work in the same way she used to unwind with a single-malt scotch and soda).

She thought she should call Gail in the shipyard's general office back in Glasgow in the morning. But for now, she wanted more sleep. Four hours later, she awoke more refreshed and clinked slowly, her breasts swaying with her altered stride, to the telephone by the window.

Nude, chained and impaled, she sat down and, with clattering chains, dialled the number she had given out over the phone so many times during the past 15 years. 01-44-325-7803.

"Ouch," she said, as the dildo lurched inside. She patted her lower abdomen with her chained hands, saying "Not so hard, Mr. Steele."

Brrring, brring , the call rang, with that irritating Scottish signal. "Good morning, McDonald's shipyard, Gail Penny speaking. How may I help you, please?"

"Gail, it's me, Dot. I'm in Bally, Benize, right now and you won't believe what has happened!" Dorothy said.

"You got the job, gal?"

"Yes, with a salary of 75,000 quid a year! Seventy-fiveK, Gail; s'more than I would make in seven years at McDonald's."

Dorothy held the receiver in both hands and Gail could hear a small rustle of chain against Dot's handset. "There's something else, Gail, and you're not going to believe this. I signed a special contract after the interview that said I am to be chained up for one year while employed with this oil company." "Wha-a-a-at?"

"Yes, a perfectly legal contract that increases my salary from 65K to 75K, providing I agree to be chained at ankles, wrists and neck for the duration of my employment. They only will be removed if I quit or am fired."

"You didn't sign, did you, Dot?"

A pause: "Yes, I did."

"Oh, Dorothy, no. "When will they do it to you?"

"Gail, honey, I don't know how to tell you this but . . . I'm chained right now as I sit talking to you. My ankles are chained, a chain runs from them to my waist; there're handcuffs on my wrists and a steel collar on my neck. Titanium alloy, or something like that, and everything is rivetted and welded on. The money they offered to me to be like this to satisfy some dumb, old tribal custom, was too much to pass up."

Gail Penny's imagination was fired.

"Holy mackerels, Dorothy, you probably look like a prisoner or some kind of slave! You're a secretary!!

" Do they hurt?"

"Well, yes and no," Dot replied. "I was wearing that Versace business suit I showed you when this guy, Godfrey somebody, rivetted and welded all this steel on me just after I signed that contract. Right in some big, gorgeous boardroom! Imagine!

"Well, after he turned off his welder, I looked at myself in the mirror and, well, eh, I don't look too bad. And no, they don't hurt at all; they just change the way I walk, do things and stuff."

"Knowing you, Dot Cochrane, you probably look like some big-boobed glamour doll in chains." Gail still could not believe what her best friend has just told her.

Dorothy laughed at Gail's humor attempt.

"Yeah, well, I can't put a shirt on anymore and I sure as heck can't wear a jacket. Don't need one here, though, the temp's about 40 degrees C. in the shade.

"What can you wear down there, Dot, if you're all chained up. You can't be running around naked are you?" Gail asked.

"No, no; they've given me piles and piles of summery stuff; you know, halters, skirts, sundresses, that sort of thing," Dorothy answered, unaware that a life of enforced chained nudity lay just ahead. "They're nice but, hee-hee, certainly not suited to the Scottish climate.

"What's it like in Glasgow?"

"Snowing and minus 10 degrees Celsius."

"Gotta go, Gail, call yer next week," Dot said, shivering as she remembered all to well the cold, wet snow.

"Okay, Dorothy, take care; love yer, too. I'll put your letter of resignation in for you this afternoon."

"'Bye."

"'Bye-'bye." Dot rang off from her pal of 15 years -- would be the last conversation Dot would have with Gail for more than a year – and tried to get used to the clutch of chain on her body. The familiar, poking pressure of the steel dildo deep inside calmly, warmly turned her on as she looked out at the pedestrians on the street.

"There! Across the street and down the block! A white woman and she's chained just as I am!!. Wow, lookit how she walks. No problem there at all."

Dot clattered over to examine her Versace suit and saw that it had been re-stitched up the side and was still wearable with a good pressing.

She then clinked her shuffling way to the neat piles of light, summer clothing that had mysteriously appeared on a rack by the door while she was asleep and held up a cute light halter top and denim knee-length skirt.

"These will have to do for now, I guess," she said, dropping them and heading into the bathroom.

Looking around the expensively-appointed bath, she saw a huge mirror on her right, a marble-topped sink and counter with gold fixtures, a huge shower stall with six, high- and low-pressure shower heads and tons of brilliant white towels – a far cry from her 40-watt-bulb-lit, rusty and grimy fixtures back home.

Dot stepped into the stall with a loud clash of her chains, closed the door and turned the tap. Six high-pressure needle streams of hot water blasted her body, front and back.

"Ye-oooww," she yelped. "That's hot. " She reached for the tap and adjusted the flow, feeling the warm, soothing water jet against her body and chains, sensations she had never felt before.

Turning round and round, she thrilled to the new experience of a high-pressure shower bath, remembering her old, clangy shower stall in Glasgow that merely dribbled in the grey gloom. Her chains and shackles chattered merrily as she shampooed her fine, mid-back-length brunette hair and she was happy.

Stepping out again, she took the biggest towel she could find and dried herself and the chains and dildo harness.

Refreshed and relaxed, Dot sat on the edge of the bed, wriggled into a snug, knee-length jean skirt then awkwardly slipped the halter top over her head and under her arms. She sat down, ran her chained hands down to her feet, pulled them up behind her and awkwardly did up the halter-top's strings in back. Her heavy, teardrop breasts bulged low and soft inside the snug, little top.

"I look like a friggin' 'bopper," she said, standing to look at herself in the mirror, breasts swaying gently. "Well, if this is what they want me to wear, so be it."

She heard her stomach growl and decided to go down to the dining room and sample some Benizian fare. Clinking and clattering down into the lobby, she attracted only mild attention from hotel staff and guests. There were a fairly large number of chained, white businesswomen in Bally and they often did not rate a second look. But Dorothy turned heads as she strolled as casually as she could in chains into the dining room.

She seated herself by a window, hoping desperately to see another white woman walk by in chains.

She ordered a breakfast of smoked, steamed kippers, stewed tomatoes, black bread and marmalade and Stilton cheese with ice-cold bottled water. Her tab was being picked up by BenizeOil, she was informed.

Finished, she clinked back up to her room, touched up her makeup and shuffled her small steps back down into the hot sunlight of the December 23, 2003, morning in Bally, Benize, East Africa.

"This may not be as hard as it appears," she said aloud as she hobbled, clinking and clattering, down the gravelled main street in her halter top and blue skirt to begin work at BenizeOil.

Her first day was a myriad of faces, names, places, people and paper and by the time 5 p.m. rolled around, she was exhausted again. She had been given her own small office, on the 10th floor, near the boardroom and CEO's office, and was beginning to settle in when Mr. Currie, the CEO, stopped her in the hallway.

"Dorothy, I am giving the corporation extra Christmas leave this season; effective this afternoon you are on official, paid leave until Friday, January 4, 2004, 10 days hence.

"There is some work you may have to do off Samoa in the new year and the travel section is making arrangements for your flight to Papua New Guinea and onwards to Samoa.

"A fight broke out in one of our offshore oil rigs and the investigators require a secretary to set things up, coordinate with the police, arrange accommodations and take notes, statements and affidavits. Will you go? "Yes, sir; of course I will," Dot replied, in her most professional way. This was too good to be true!!

"Very well, then, happy holidays, Dorothy. Might I add you look just splendid in chains? Have you worn them before? You appear to be such at ease in them."

No, sir; my first time."

"Good day."

"Good afternoon, sir; and thank you for everything." She raised her chained hands to wave goodbye as she turned to leave the 10th floor and clatter back to her hotel room again.

It took her 20 minutes to walk the six blocks back to her hotel and, famished, she decided to have supper straight away, having skipped dinner.

She looked around and saw no other women in chains.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," said the black woman who appeared instantly at her side. "We have New York cut of charcoal-broiled sirloin; roast beef au jus and cold lobster platter as evening specials. Would you care to order?" "Yes, please," Dorothy said, holding the big menu between her chained hands. " I'll have two lobsters, a glass of white wine and a small salad," she said with a smile.

"Thank you, ma'am. Might I add you look most attractive this afternoon."

"Thanks."

Dorothy's eyes arched as she saw her server was chained, too; although not as heavily as she was. The waitress turned and Dot saw a heavy chain dangling from under her uniform skirt swaying gently between her unchained legs. The woman strode toward the kitchen quietly and Dot's dildo dug into her firmly.

"Ah-h-h," she said as softly as she could. "That feels so-o good." Her wine arrived and she sipped the delicious, dry bouquet of the cool white Bordeaux that cleansed her palate for the North Atlantic crustacean she loved.

Two hours later, she was a little tipsy; she had ordered an entire bottle of Bordeaux for herself – to shell-a-brate, what else? – and was pleasantly full of lobster, salad and Black Forest cheesecake.

"Urp," she said quietly, patting her lips with a chained hand.

It had been a busy, rewarding day for the curvy Glaswegian secretary, dressed youthfully and provocatively in halter top and conservative jean skirt for the first time in her life. Nipples rampant under her thin top, she became aware of heads turning toward her in the lobby and elevators. She had never had such attention in Glasgow and began to revel in her new appearance.

She went back up to her 6th floor suite to check out the nightlife in this "burg."

"Mmm, so far so good," she said, as she sat looking at the tourist brochures and the empty little main street, bathed in the crimson-grey glows of a spectacular African sunset.

Dot smiled to herself: the accommodation was first-rate, the meals were excellent and here she was, on paid special leave, with money rolling electronically into her Bank of Scotland account, today and on the 27th of each month, for as long as she chose to wear chains, which were becoming more of a novelty than actual bondage to her. And already, payroll had told her this morning, a 10,000-pound cash advance had been authorized and deposited. She giggled when she remembered looking at her three-pound balance just before she left Scotland a couple of days ago.

"All this -- and all I have to do is be chained up," she said, looking at her handcuffs and thinking she was well on her way to wealth and independence. Not quite.

She spent her last pre-Christmas leave getting her personal life in order in Scotland and in Benize; she had formally resigned from McDonald's Shipyard and was now a full-time employee of BenizeOil Corp.

On the 26th, after a sumptuous brunch of Japanese sushi served by a different, harness-gagged black waitress in the dining room, she rented a sleek, new, red Mustang from the hotel's reservation desk, laughing at the memory of her clapped-out little Cortina now buried under a snowbank at home.

Outside, Dot slid easily into the driver's seat, dressed in the best halter, pencil skirt and sandals she could find in her new stash of clothing. Her big steel dildo pressed into its usual spots under her snug, grey skirt as she reached for the automatic gearshift, steering wheel and gas and brake pedals.

Her waist chain depended gracefully from under her hemline to her ankle chains; her titanium-steel alloy collar gleamed brightly in the hot African morning sunlight and her handcuff chains swayed and rattled joyfully as she started up.

" Vrroooommm !!" and she was away, motoring into the desert to see the sights. Driving along, she decided she would start wearing her locked-in dildo full-time – a perverse form of chastity, to be sure, she thought, given Africa high HIV/AIDS infection rate – "but something up there's better than nothing at all."

The warm draughts of air that gusted up her skirt titillated her thighs as she sped into the desert, rocks flying each way.

She spent five hours touring around the countryside, stopping at a remote village, about 100 miles south of Bally, to look at a group of tribespeople she was told had forced each and every woman there to be ballgagged continuously, from age 17 to 65.

A tourist guide in Bally had told her this practice arose after the tribal chief was bitten on his privates by a young slavegirl while giving him the blowjob of his life sometime in the 1920s. Afterwards, the enraged chief had ordered that each and every woman's mouth would henceforth be fitted with a two-inch-diameter hardwood ball tied in place by strong rawhide thongs.

In 1920, the storyteller said, removal became strictly prohibited and Dorothy gasped when she was told if these women were seen with gag-free mouths in the presence of white men or women, they either had their tongues surgically removed or were summarily put to death.

A total of 150 women in the little wood-and corrugated steel-shack community wore ballgags, she was told.

"How do they eat, drink and speak? How do they communicate?" Dorothy asked a young man who stood beside her powerful sports car at the end of the settlement's short, little road.

"Fairly easy, ma'am. To drink, they just open their mouths really wide and pour the water down. Eating is a bit of a problem, though; most of 'em are content to eat poi , which looks like Scottish oatmeal. They finger it in and lick it off the sides of their gags.

Dot had never thought this would be possible – and it could or would never happen to her. She thought.

"Talking? Well, I guess you can say they have developed their own dialect and sign language. Most all of our women can usually make each other out but their speech will sound a little effy to you."

"May I speak to one of them?" Dot asked, pointing with her chained hands to a group of topless, nipple-ringed and gagged young women chatting animatedly around the water pump.

"Sure, sure; step this way. There's Amina. She's nice. I think she's about to be sold, though."

Dot was introduced to Amina Allenby, great-granddaughter of a concubine of the famous First World War British general, and held out her chained right hand to greet her.

Amina looked at her, puzzled, but took her hand, shaking it timorously. It signalled the beginning of a lifelong relationship, complete with wedding, children and family home.

"Hello, my name is Dorothy Cochrane and I am from Glasgow, Scotland. Your name is Amina, right?'

"Yeff," the attractive, 22-year-old slave said around her snug gag, tied behind her neck with a tight, narrow thong.

"How long have you been gagged like this?"

"Fife yeerf, I fink," Amina replied, trying to smile around the two-inch, light-brown wood sphere between her brilliantly white teeth.

"Fo how flong haf oo bin shained?"

"Och, just a few days now but I'm getting used to them," Dot said, lifting her cuffs for emphasis. "Tell me, how long does it take you to get used to your, mmm, gag? Does it hurt?"

"Noo, iff duffn't hurff. Buff ish takkf munff ta get ooffed to."

"I love your hairdo," Dot said, changing the subject. "Is that a tribal custom and are your nipple rings required by custom?"

"Fank ooo for complint," she said. "Mah ringf are uff mah choiffe an' m boffriend luff 'em."

"Mmm, I see; they are lovely. May I see?" Amina stepped closer and pulled her dark shoulders back, baring her lovely, youthful, 36C breasts with long, dark ,ringed nipples, for Dot's perusal. She had never seen anything like nipple rings before in dour, old Glasgow.

"Ms. Allenby, I have been thinking of having mine done. Is there someone here that can do my nipples like yours?" She wondered what Gail would say when she talked to her in a few days.

"Yeff, I fink Gorge fill duff 'em; I sheck if oo wunt."

"That would be great."

Fifteen minutes later, Dorothy Cochrane's half-inch-long nipples, turgid with excitement and red from the piercing procedure, had sturdy, two-inch-diameter steel rings pierced through each base. The five-minute procedure, inside a dim, little shack down the road, had been painless:

Dorothy sat on a box while a 45-year-old black man swabbed her nipples with a natural African antiseptic/anesthetic solution. Then, with a long, 14-gauge surgical needle, he deftly pierced each nipple through the lateral centres. Dot did not feel a thing as he blotted one small drop of blood on each nipple. She watched him as he inserted the thick, steel-grey rings through the fresh, pink slits and looked down at them as he closed each carefully with a big pair of forceps. George swabbed her nipples again with antiseptic. Dot stood up causing her chains to clink lightly and reminding her of her new status.

"How much, George?" she said, allowing the man to do up her halter top afterwards. "My great pleasure, ma'am," he replied. "No charge."

Dot thanked him and privately exalted in the warm tingle they imparted to her soft bosom.

Her nipples and rings poked jauntily through of the flimsy fabric of her African halter top and she felt sexy and feminine as she clinked and clattered in her handcuffs and leg irons toward her Mustang, her breasts bounding lightly under her thin top. Seeing Amina en route, she thanked the beautiful, young slave woman, saved goodbye and slid easily into the driver's seat, feeling once again the steely, deep penetration of her locked-in dildo.

Amina gazed in admiration at the cherry-red 'Stang as Dorothy drove off, chained, dildoed and, now, nipple-pierced, trailing a cloud of light-grey dust. Further bondage for her lovely body was furthest from her mind as she drove the 100 miles back to Bally in one hour. Back in her hotel room just before sunset, she checked the piercings the medicine man had done. Dot tore her halter off and turned this way and that, looking at the curvature of her soft, heavy breasts she held up admiringly with chained hands.

Carefully, she pushed the steel rings through her long, stiff nipples, thrilling at the strange feeling that zapped through her breasts.

Satisfied with the workmanship and position of the rings, she undressed and crawled into bed. Her big steel dildo gave Dorothy her first, ear-burning, eye-watering orgasm that night as she lay in bed, fingering her rings, chains, collar and dildo feverishly. Her warm female ejaculate from her gushing, G-spot orgasm trickled down her leg from under the dildo as she fell asleep at 1 a.m.

Saturday, December 27, 2003, dawned bright and hot again and she was awoken by a 9 a.m. call on her telephone.

"Mrs. Cochrane? Front desk here. There is a young woman here, Amina Allenby, who wishes to see you. Shall I send her up?"

"Yes, give me five minutes to get dressed."

At 9:15 a.m., Amina, dressed in a fashionable, ankle-length African wraparound, knocked shyly on Room No. 615.

Dorothy, dressed in another halter and conservative skirt, opened the door and was shocked by what she saw. The 22-year-old African woman had a new, black head harness holding the hardwood ball in place in her mouth, framing her sad, sensual, dark eyes, high cheekbones and round chin tightly.

"Amina! Whatever happened to you? Come in, please! Tell me why you are wearing that gear, ah, those things, on your head!!"

Amina looked at her, tried to smile shyly and sat in the big, comfortable easy chair by the bed.

"Fank oo, ma'am," Amina replied with practised ease around a shy smile. "Fank oo fo feein' me fooday; I come to oo wif a biff-niff propoffiffin wif I kin explain fff oo haf a few minuteff?"

"Yes, of course, my name is Dorothy," the secretary said, taken aback slightly. "Please call me Dot, Amina."

"Yeff, Doff," the attractive, young black woman said, a slight smile curving around her gag. "Doff meanf flave in our tongue," Amina replied.

"I am a flave, defended fum a long line of flaves in Benive," she began. "I am educated buff I don' haff a life at a fettlement where oo met me yefferday.

"Thiff new gag waff put on me affer I waff feen talkin' to yo'; I waffn't fuppoffed to, you fee."

Dot nodded sadly.

"Dock, I about to be fent to a flavemarket in Foodan, norff-weff of here, an' I don' wanna co.

"Can oo pleafe he'p me? "

"How, Amina? I have no way of influencing your tribal customs and affairs and, you see, I may be mistaken for a slave myself," she said, holding her hands up, tugging at her strong chain.

"Whive wimmen in fiff country are neffer flaves, Dop. Fey are shained in accordanz wif an anfient tribal cufftom fat iff clearly ouff of dave.

"Oo are noff a flave; I'm, and I'm about to be fold to flavers.

"Can oo buy me, af oo flave, Doff? Fat way I will efape a horrible fate."

Dorothy stood and clinked around behind Amina's chair. Holding her handcuffs at her waist, she examined the three sturdy steel locks that fastened Amina's head harness behind her neck, atop her head and under her chin. "Amina, have you been beaten, tortured or maimed in any way? If so, you should go to the authorities!"

"Ma'am, oh, forry, Doff; I haff no rightff inna judiffial fyftem fhatfoeffer. I am a flave and will be owned aff a chaffel, a belonging, by my buyer . . . who may be ooo?" Amina looked at Dorothy imploringly around her head harness.

Dorothy, in turn, sat and looked at Amina's calm, leather-framed eyes for a moment. She, too, did not look terribly concerned about her fate but she was far from serene.

"Amina, when are you to be sold?"

Foo-morrowff!" A tear glistened at Dorothy's eye as Amina continued. "Aff age 23, I am to be faned and fold to sa hiffest biddah in Foodan. I am 23 foo-morrowff. Pleafe, hep me, Doth." Dorothy, heartbroken at this 22-year-old's difficult explanation, empathized with her new-found friend and said: "How much will it cost to buy you and free you from your indenture?"

"A fowfand Britifh powndff."

Ironically, Dot Cochrane, a free woman under Benizian law, had allowed herself to be chained by choice, her shackles merely a useless, out-of-date formality; Amina, a slave, was, ironically, free, except for her head harness, but faced a lifetime in chains -- in a far-off land -- in less than 24 hours.

Dot, ever-decisive in crisis, was determined to help this poor, young thing in any way she could.

"Let me make some inquiries, Amina," Dot said. She quickly wrote down some questions for the information desk, rang down and was told the local Bank of Benize handled transactions for the sale of female slaves.

"You stay here, Amina; make yourself comfortable."

Dorothy grabbed her purse, clattered out into the hallway and down into the lobby to find the bank. Just three doors away, she clinked in rapidly, demanding to see the general manager.

Ten minutes later, after discussion, explanation and a series of quick phone calls from the banker, Dorothy had written a 1,000-pound personal cheque, to be drawn on her Bank of Scotland savings account in far-off Glasgow, and received a receipt from the Benizian financial institution stating formally she had purchased one female slave, Amina Allenby, aged 22 years, 364 days, for the sum of 1,000 British pounds sterling.

Dorothy thanked the man cordially, shook his hand with a clatter of links and clinked and clashed as fast as she could back to the hotel room.

"Amina," Dot announced cheerfully from inside the doorway. "I have just purchased your way out of slavery. You are free to go."

Amina put her hands to her harnessed face and wept piteously:

"Doffy, I haf no plafe to go!" she cried. "Mah tribe haff exiled me -- fay are felling me an' I will become a freetperfon wiffout your he'p. May I fay here for juff one day?"

"Amina, of course you can stay. Here, let me show you the bathroom. Would you like to freshen up?" Amina snuffled away her tears and nodded her lovely head in affirmation. "It's just there," Dorothy said, pointing with a chained wrist. "Take all the time you want."

Amina "fank"-ed her profusely and walked gracefully into the bathroom. Switching on the light, Amina gasped; she had never seen such luxury. She had only seen pictures of deluxe shower stalls and the marble and gold fixtures throughout dazzled her.

Amina disrobed and stepped into the shower stall, curiously fingering the taps and temperature controls.

"Aaa-ccckkk!" she cried as a blast of cold water shot onto her back. "Fold!! Ga-ah!!" More adjustments later and she was enjoying a steamy, hot shower, front and back; the sensations of water slipping around the straps of her head harness gag distracting her as she turned this way and that in the steaming shower.

Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a big, fluffy towel around her slim, 36C-24-36, 110-pound body.

She stepped out of the steamy room to dry her hair as Dorothy stood up, arranging her waist chain that appeared from under mid-thigh miniskirt.

"Let me dry your face and your back, Amina," Dot said kindly. She patted Amina's harness dry and dried her back for her, asking: "Who has the keys to these locks, sweetie?"

"Fa flave owners in Foo-dan, 500 mileff norfweft of here."

Well, so much for freeing her today.

"Would you like to wear some of my clothes today, honey?" Dorothy asked helpfully. I am sure we can find something to fit you; some of them are pretty snug on me, especially the tops, and we're about the same size." Amina had long wished to look like a North American woman, in skirts, dresses and blouses, and she leaped at the chance.

"Ohhh, yeff, pleaffe, Doffy. I haf neffer worn a firt befoe. Or a nive fop!" Dot was getting tired of the gag talk and asked her friend to be quiet for a moment.

She carefully went through the pile of tops, skirts and dresses and selected a bright-red halter and blue-jean miniskirt for her friend's trim figure. She handed them to Amina and Dot's newfound slavegirl/pal easily stepped into the skirt but puzzled over the halter top.

She finally figured it out and had the straps in back done up and secure in a way that Dorothy could never easily do anymore.

"Fare, how oo like iff?" Amina said proudly around her gag. "I fee ike a weal woman now; fank-ooo, Doffy."

Amina was snuffling as she stepped over to her benefactor and hugged her, feeling Dorothy's big, warm bosom against her lighter frame.

They hugged and clutched for five minutes, Dot's handcuffs around Amina's back and Amina's arms around Dorothy's tanned neck. Amina whispered into Dorothy's ears and the news nearly caused Dot to faint:

"Ah-m gay, Doffy. Can oo affept 'at?"

"Yes, of course, sweetheart. I suppose, now that you are my slavegirl," she laughed, "you will have to do my bidding. Would you like to make love to me? To undress me and take me as your lover?"

"Yeff, mifreff, an' iff ooo want to shain me up, at's fine wif me."

"Later, dear."

Amina, unbound, took the initiative. She led her chained benefactor Dorothy over to the bed, turned the coverlet down for her and slipped Dot's halter top over her head, gazing covetously at her owner's big, nipple-ringed breasts for the first time. Amina then slid Dorothy's mid-thigh skirt down to her ankles and pulled it out from under her feet.

Amina was clothed and Dot, her owner, was naked. The big, silver protrusion sticking out of Dot's vagina stopped Amina in her tracks.

"Whaffat, Doffy?" she said.

"That, my darling, is Mr. Steele. It has been inside me for months and has served as my lover, up until now."

"Wa-ah, iff lookff biiiik," the young slavegirl said, gazing at the three-inch silver base that spread Dorothy's pussylips wide.

"Yes, it's about 10 inches long," her owner said lightly.

Amina had never seen a cock like that before and Dorothy showed her how it was fastened inside herself. Amina quickly undressed herself, her shapely breasts swaying nicely, and slid into bed beside Dorothy. The 42-year-old secretary and her 22-year-old lover held each other tightly, feeling each other's bodies and Dot's chains.

"May I tak it out iff oo?" Amina asked softly around her gag, looking into her mistress's eyes. Dot kissed her on the lips and gag.

"The keys are just over there, on the dresser, sweetheart," Dot replied. Two minutes later, Amina had withdrawn the big steel dildo from her mistress's pussy, cleaned, polished and re-lubed it and slipped it carefully and deeply into herself under her mistress's watchful eye. Amina gasped as finished sliding it home, snugging down each belt with the two locks and hasps.

"Awwfff, fo biiik," Amina said, wincing as her tight vaginal canal was forcibly dilated.

"I've had three boys, Amina; I am a little roomier down there than you are."

"Mmmm, I fee."

Amina, impaled on Dot's dildo, silently slid down to Dot's ankles and placed her ankle chain behind her neck. She then wriggled up, underneath Dot's chains, pushing the longer one out of the way so her harnessed face was buried in Dot's pussy.

Dorothy caressed Amina's muscular back with her chained hands and tightened her ankle chain's grasp at the back of her slavegirl's thighs, lifting and spreading her knees as wide as she could.

Amina, in turn, pushed the wood ball out with her tongue to the full extent the harness would allow and, moving her head up and down, back and forth, stroked the ball over Dot's exposed, swelling clitoris. Back and forth, up and down, Amina's head moved skilfully, first slowly, then more quickly as she felt Dot's moist pussy overflow with natural lubricants.

Dot, horny beyond words, felt her first big orgasm looming in just three minutes. Her breath coming in gasps and sobs, she cried:

"Aaa-gggg-hhhh, Amina, Iiiiii'mmmm coooommmminggggg! Gaa-aa-hhhh. Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me." Amina continued stroking her lover's pussy with her protruding ballgag and Dot reached another 'pop', and a third.

Dorothy Cochrane gasped as Amina reached up and tugged on Dot's new nipple rings, playing with them and massaging her soft, tanned breasts. "MMMmmmhhh," Dorothy groaned. "NNNmmmhhh. Oh, I can't take it any more, Amina, please stop.

"Agghhh, no, don't stop!" she cried, as another hip-bucking orgasm convulsed her loins. She pulled on her handcuffs, bucking as she ejaculated a full, forceful load of her hot juices onto her young lover's face. "NNNoooohhhhh,"

Dot moaned through clenched teeth as a sixth series of three powerful orgasmic waves made her ears ring and took her breath away again. Dorothy pulled hard on her handcuff chain on Amina's back and sighed ecstatically.

The parade of orgasms that swelled through Dot's brain and body had left her exhausted. But her slavegirl/lover was not through.

Amina gave one last poke at Dot's pussy with her ballgag, eliciting an mmmrrrppphhh from her Scottish owner, wriggled out from under the chains and stretched out, wiping Dot's love juices off her face and harness with an index finger. Dorothy felt the far-off tingle of another looming surge of orgasmic activity and quietly wished for more. But she was too tired just now.

"We will have to get that harness off you today, darling, if we are going to be a couple," Dot said, panting, bathed in sweat. Dorothy Cochrane's orgasms were the most powerful experiences she had since she delivered her first boy back in an old Glasgow hospital in 1969.

"Yeffm," Amina replied.

Suddenly the phone rang again; it was Godfrey Smith at work summoning Dot to a last-minute heads-of-department meeting. Her presence was required urgently, the CEO had told her. Could she be there in 15 minutes?

She would. Dorothy explained the situation to Amina and told her to be patient; she would be back within the hour. Sadly, it would be the last time Amina would see her in more than a year.

And their experiences in the interim would change each woman's lives forever, as time will tell.

For Amina, it would be the last time she would be able to speak; For Dorothy, a series of incredible, unplanned events, and quirky turns of fate, would test her Scottish strengths, determination and resourcefulness to the full. Yet she would emerge a still-chained, yet proud, indomitable woman, capable of nearly anything despite the pounds of steel that clutched her wrists, abdomen, legs and ankles.

Here is what happens:

Later that day, while Dot was being flown, chained, dildoed and gagged, into the Western Pacific by her employer, George, Amina's tribal medicine man turned up unannounced at Dot's suite. Amina, thinking it was Dorothy, unwisely opened the door and the menacing, big, black medicine man, barged in, grabbed her by the head harness and threw her onto the clammy bedsheets.

Amina was out cold 30 seconds later, a powerful sedative coursing through her veins. The madman unlocked Amina's head harness and, after rubbing powerful betadine into her oral cavity, skilfully cut out her tongue with a professional scalpel, stitching up the wound with fine sutures and packing her mouth with rolls of gauze. Her tongue would be cast into the sacred fire in his hovel in fulfilment of another ancient Benizian tribal custom.

He then wrapped a 50-foot elastic bandage around Amina's lower face and kissed her goodbye. Amina would never speak clearly again and would wear a harness gag for the rest of her life so as to discourage conversation.

Before Dorothy left for the office, however, she had quickly unlocked her dildo from Amina's loins and shoved it, still slick with Amina's cunt juices, swiftly inside herself with a small groan.

Comfortably impaled once again, she showered quickly, dressed in her longer skirt and halter, draping a light shawl over her shoulders to meet the other bosses. Chained as she was, it was the least she could do to maintain office decorum.

She gave Amina a goodbye kiss on the gag and clinked her way out of the room, down into the lobby into the bright noonhour sunlight, her chained ankles a virtual silvery blur as she walked as fast as she could the four blocks to the oil company office. Amina lay in bed and considered her future with this lovely woman who had just purchased her out of slavery,

Twelve minutes later, Dot, breathless and clattering, breasts swaying hard under her skimpy top, clinked quickly into the boardroom at BenizeOil Corporation.

The six (or more) crashing, ear-burning, eye-watering orgasms she had had in the last hour, followed by a fast, 12-minute walk in chains, had left her glowing, panting and forgetful -- Dorothy had forgotten her purse with the dildo-harness keys and ID!!

Taking her seat at the end of the big oval table, she gave her best, "just-laid" smile to Arthur Currie, the CEO; Smith, the admin guy who had chained her up so efficiently just a few days ago in the same chair she was now in, and a gaggle of other men she did not recognize.

"Mrs. Cochrane, gentlemen," Godfrey Smith began, "our chief wishes to address us."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith, for getting everyone here so quickly," the big, imposing CEO began. "I am calling this O-group to organize a critical response to trouble aboard two of our oil-drilling platforms off Samoa." Dot scribbled madly on the yellow legal pad, her silver chains rattling intrusively on the gleaming oak tabletop.

"We need to organize and go today, for violence has broken out in another platform. Police have been dispatched to the scene and we have been asked to send our own team of investigators and systems specialists after this latest incident which you see detailed in the SitReps in front of you.

"Mrs. Cochrane, this is your first opportunity to prove your mettle," Currie said, looking at her nipple-erect breasts severely. "You will fly out first this afternoon – it's a 12-hour flight – and once at site make all arrangements for accommodation, office setup, communications, police liaison and logistics support.

"You will be given a high-powered SatPhone and you are expected to call this office every four hours for the first few days and every eight hours thereafter, or until the situation stabilizes.

"The police will be there before you; they have been informed you are en route and you are to contact the chief of detectives as soon as you land in Samoa. They are expecting you and you must go today," he said.

"Cochrane, are you prepared to fly out this afternoon as soon as our corporate jet crew get here?"

"Yessir," Dorothy replied quickly, adjusting her steel collar for comfort as she felt a lump form in her throat. "Just get me to the airport and I'm on my way." The rapid chain of events had made her completely forget about her steel dildo and the keys to the two locks that held it so firmly and irretrievably inside her.

"Fine, then," Currie boomed. "Smith, you will drive Mrs. Cochrane to the airport forthwith, put her on our jet and communicate with her en route. Do you understand?" "Yes, chief." With those words, Godfrey, the company prankster with "pull," signalled for Dot to follow him downstairs to the company limo. Dot left the room in clashing chains, swaying hips and lurching boobs. Stepping into the elevator lobby, she looked at her refection in the same mirrored wall that looked back at her after her chains had been attached just seven days ago.

She looked more youthful, exhilarated and sexy than ever before and she panted in excitement at her first, big overseas mission, sexily attired by necessity than choice. Her clothes made her look like a woman ready for the beach in southern California, she thought, instead of one who was about to join an important, CEO-directed initiative.

The 36-year-old man and 42-year-old woman descended and walked out, Smith slowing his pace to Dot's furious, clattering, stumbling walk.

The driver was waiting in the big, black corporate limo with the flashy, red door logos, engine running, as Smith and the CEO's chained secretary slipped into the backseat. Godfrey had a beige package under his arm, Dot noted, but thought nothing of it.

"Dorothy," Godfrey began, as they sped to the small airport outside town, "this is probably just another 'flash in the pan', you know. What happens on the rigs usually is that some hands get into an argument about women, cards or pay and benefits, throw a few punches and curses then storm away. The roughnecks then smoke a little weed, do a pill and chill out on the helo deck.

"The police get there, find nothing really amiss, only a few cuts, bruises and hurt feelings, and they do a cursory investigation and report. We send our guys out there and all they do is sit around all day and 'fuck the dog', making like they're busy. The file is closed and the matter forgotten in a few days.

Dot smiled at the naval expression her ex- had used so often. "So, why don't you and me have a little fun for profit en route?" the admin guy asked.

"OK. What?"

"In here, I have a harness gag, specially for you." Dot frowned. But instead of a ball, there is a five-inch-long, three-inch-wide India rubber cock . . . which I am sure you can relate to."

"No!! You're nuts," Dot replied. "But go on." Dot, a longtime penny-pincher, wanted to know about the profit part.

"From my 'slush fund,' I will personally pay you12,000 British pounds sterling – 1,000 pounds an hour – if you can make the 12-hour trip with the gag in place. For every half-hour you are ungagged, the sum of 500 pounds will be deducted from the money that will be deposited for you." Neither noticed the gathering storm clouds on the western horizon.

"I will lock it on you right now, if you agree," Smith said, "and give the keys to the pilot to unlock you in case of emergency. There are three locks that attach it to you: behind your neck, atop your head and under your chin. It will be like giving head for 12 hours!!" he laughed in a Machiavellian manner.

"Wha-a-at!" Dot cried. "You're mad."

"Dot, 12,000 pounds for a 12-hour trip gagged; that's a lark and you know it. Who is going to know? You, me and the crew, who are up on this, are the only ones on the plane. Do you accept?"

Her first response was to smack this dude as hard as she could. But that might get her fired, she thought. Dorothy saw air terminal building and the corporate jet looming at the end of the road and thought quickly: 12,000 quid for this silly, little 12-hour game in the privacy of the company's jet. Jeepers, I don't know. How will I speak? He knows I have to talk to him only on the SatPhone and he's asking if I want to be gagged. But 12,000 pounds!!

"OK, put it in," the chained woman said warily. "But if I don't like it, it's coming off pronto, regardless what you tell the pilot."

Smith agreed and informed her 12,000 pounds would be deposited in her bank account at the start of business tomorrow, Monday, December 29, 2003, the same day she would arrive at Samoa, and that she would soon become a very wealthy secretary. After just a week of employment and leave, her bank balance at home would soon stand at more than 22,000 Scottish pounds – two years of wages at her dull shipyard job – she thought.

Back in Dot's hotel room, meanwhile, Amina was just coming to, not understanding the strange, chemical taste in her mouth and the different, vacant feeling between her teeth. She knew she was still gagged but she felt for the harness, saw it had been removed then – gasp!! – what was all this other bandage on her face? She looked in the mirror and screamed quietly as she tried to move her tongue to dislodge her surgical packing.

It was gone. Amina wailed in frustration and fear.

"Open, please," Smith said to Dot in the backseat. Dorothy complied, stretching her mouth as wide as she could, and Smith gently pushed the five-inch-long, three-inch-diameter lifelike India-rubber cock deep into Dot's hesitant, quaking mouth, arranged the straps, buckles and hasps over her cheekbones, under her chin and behind her neck and deftly snapped the three sturdy, heavy locks in place.

Dorothy had given her ex- oral sex only once many years ago and this was entirely new. She looked at her head in the rearview mirror and said "Mooowwfff. Iff-ooo-iiiiik!!"

"Yes, I know it is a large device," Smith said solicitously. "It's the same one my wife wore on our wedding night."

"Mowswowwfff!!" Dot said, trying to work her tongue and jaws around the big, hard dark-brown cock.

"Just click your SatPhone once for yes, twice for no, when I call you en route, OK? Safe trip now."

Those prophetic words were never so wrong; as events in six hours would show.

The limo quickly pulled up beside the little Buccaneer twin-engine jet and Dot stepped out in a clatter of links, easing herself up the 11 steps into the cool, well-appointed interior. She took cold comfort in realizing she was the sole passenger -- she did not want anyone she knew to see her like this -- as she took her seat at the right and buckled herself in over her lap chain.

Dorothy closed her eyes and prayed this was all a big joke. It wasn't. Moments later, the tired, hungover pilot, copilot and flight engineer straggled on board, ignored Dot, fortunately, and took their seats in the cockpit, flicking buttons, radioing the tower and organizing the charts. Fifteen minutes later, they were airborne, droning southeast over the Indian Ocean into the Southwestern Pacific and Samoa.

The darkling sky over the east African coast forewarned a weather disturbance but the flight deck crew were too tired – and too sick -- to listen carefully to the radioed weather warnings from transpacific air traffic services.

A typhoon, with windspeeds of 160 - 200 m.p.h., had to be avoided at all costs south of the Gilbert Islands, north of Samoa. The little jet cruised on over the blue-grey Indian Ocean, en route to a destination Dorothy Cochrane had never thought possible.

Seven-thousand miles to the northeast, the125-foot, rusty island steamer Patna was weighing anchor from a remote bay on a desolate island in the Ryukyu Archipelago, southwest of Japan.

Patna 's cargo -- Jamie Michener, 24, of San Francisco, and Jasmine St. Clair, 25, of San Diego, tightly tied shibari-style with yards of hemp rope in the dingy, little hold, were bound for slavery in Australia where their purchaser had informed the slavers the women were to become field beasts of burden.

Captured by white slavers during a holiday in Tokyo in mid-November, they were drugged, bound and carried on board the clapped-out, black-and-white steamer, captained by one muscular, stocky Ovid Bisescu, 28, of Constanta, Romania, a shrewd but unscrupulous mariner who couriered for the white slave trade to help support his failing steamship trading company, Patna and Co., of Constanta, Romania.

His eyes had gleamed in appreciation as he watched the two white-ballgagged young women being brought aboard late one night in handcuffs while his ship lay at anchor at the island anchorage south of Japan.

The two co-eds, ordered to be bound to jungle trees on a small island north of Samoa, were purchased for $500,000 (US) by a kinky, but wealthy, Australian sheep rancher. The delivery and pickup had to be offshore and Capt. Bisescu had agreed to transport them to an uncharted jungle atoll, 1½ miles west of Dot's Island, in the vast expanses of the Western Pacific Ocean. The rancher's Catalina flying boat was on standby, waiting for word from the Patna , and the rancher would pick them up in 15 days. The bound women were assured they would have a sufficient supply of food and water to sustain them on the island until they were picked up.

Dorothy Cochrane, meanwhile, stretched her chained arms and unsnapped her seatbelt to clink about the cabin. The little plane, flying due east, soared on through a menacing sky. With a wonky radar set, the pilots had set course straight for the big, westbound low-pressure system 700 miles away.

The copilot and flight engineer dozed as the captain scanned the sky warily at the worsening sky.

Suddenly, a huge bolt of lightning flashed silently in front of the cockpit, blinding the pilot and knocking out all radio communication. They were deaf and dumb and the crew knew they were in real trouble.

Dorothy had seen the flash, too, and heard a strange thump from the forward upper fuselage after the radio antenna has been electrocuted by the several-million-volt lightning bolt.

Dot resumed her seat, mmm'ing nervously to herself, and she turned on the SatPhone. Only static greeted her ear; she could not talk anyway so she shut it off and put it on the seat beside her.

Zaa-aapp!! Another bolt of lightning struck the little Buccaneer, extinguishing all the lights and instrument panel. POW!" The little plane began to buck and vibrate furiously with the deadly blows.

"Pan, pan, pan," the copilot called into his dead microphone. "Transpacific air traffic services, this is BenizeOil Corporation Flight No 126; estimate 5,000 miles west of Samoa; struck by lightning, nav instruments now defective. Awaiting your new course and instruction. Over. "

He pressed the button and heard only the drone of the jet's twin engines.

He repeated the message over and over. Only silence returned.

Hearing this, Dorothy got up anxiously and held onto the seatbacks as she clattered her way up to the open cockpit door.

"Mmmmmwwewwffffnnnn?" she called.

"Whaaatt?" the flight engineer said as the little jet leaped and dropped in the roiling, thunderous storm. Dot rolled her eyes at him and stood, bracing herself in the cockpit doorway as she saw enormous, roiling clouds slashed by lightning and heard distant, huge claps of thunder.

"MMMMMMWWWWWFFFFFNNNNNN!!!!" she shouted. (What's happening?)

"We've lost radio communication and have been struck by lightning, twice," the unshaven engineer said. "Go back to your seat, buckle up and sit tight. Go!"

Dorothy knew things were getting serious and she tapped the engineer on his shoulder, her stomach in knots, pointing to her triple-locked, head harness that held the dense rubber penis deep inside her. The steel dildo below and her chains now were merely afterthoughts.

"Kifffff!" she yelled. "Gifffeeekiiiiffff!!

"I don't have your goddam keys," the engineer said. "Fuckstick Smith never gave them to me! Go back to your seat while we try and get around this mess."

Dorothy's eyes opened wide behind the harness straps and she tried frantically to dislodge the dense, rubber cock. It didn't budge. She bit down on the shaft and was amazed at its hardness, far harder than any other cock she had known, except for her steel pal locked into womb.

Her chained hands tore at the network of flat, leather-covered wire straps on her cheeks, atop her head, under her chin and behind her neck but could not pry anything loose. Forgetting her chains and steel dildo, she shook her head violently in exasperation.

"NNNNNNN!!!"

Clickclickclick, the sturdy locks clacked in their hasps, laughing at her angry attempts to ungag herself. She shook her head again, harder, and the locks clacked even louder under her chin, on her head and behind her neck.

"Sit down, Mrs. Cochrane," the copilot said. "We have work to do and you will be safer back there with your seatbelt on." Please go."

"NNNnnnfff," Dot cried, tears coursing down her harnessed face, as the plane bucked and rocked violently in a powerful downdraft. Things were getting really dangerous now, the crew realized, and they had long forgotten their hangovers.

Suddenly, the pilot threw up, violently sick from the jarring motion and last night's 40-ouncer, jamming the stick violently forward as he spewed his guts onto the deck and instruments.

The plane took a 30-degree descent instantly and Dorothy was thrown forward onto her front, bruising her big, ringed tits painfully under her flimsy top and knocking the air out of her. Her nostrils flared and she drooled saliva, snot and tears down her face as she crawled back to her seat, the big steel dildo waggling inside her not giving her any joy whatsoever.

The copilot pulled up on his stick and the little jet started slowly to recover from the sudden, 5,000-foot plunge into darkness. Seated once again, shocked, anxious and gasping through her nose, she thought she saw glimpses of the dark Pacific Ocean far below her. But how could she unlock this cursed harness?!

We're way too low, she thought, thinking suddenly of the movie, Cast Away , she had seen several months earlier with Gail at the Capitol Theatre in downtown Glasgow.

That life seemed an eternity away tonight and she tried again, futilely, to pull the gag off her sweating face. Nothing budged, everything was as snug as that bastard, Smith, had planned.

"Get your lifejacket out, Dorothy, we may have to ditch," came the shout from the cockpit.

Heaven help us all, Dot said into her gag, we're going down. She got out the bright-red Mae West from under the seat and knew it was useless for her; she could not get her arms through the jacket!

The plane lurched, swayed and jarred, the emergency cabin lights flickering off, then on, then off forever, plunging Dot and the crew into darkness, fear and noise. Dorothy leaned out of her seat to look into the cockpit and saw the instrument panel was black!

The two pilots and the engineer behind them stared into black nothingness as they plunged, blind, deaf and dumb, through the tortured blackness of the Western Pacific night sky.

The little plane rocked, leaped and fell, caught up in one of the worst typhoons in that area since December 1944. If it had not been for the violence of the sky and sea, Dorothy thought she was on a demented amusement park ride.

The plane cavorted insanely across the sky, lost in the barren, black reaches of the dark Pacific somewhere off eastern Australia. Dot looked out her window and turned away, panic-stricken; there was the ocean, 1,000 feet below, getting closer.

Suddenly, the pitch of the droning engines changed, coughed, stopped and restarted as she heard cries and shouts from the cockpit.

"Hang on back there, we're going down. Prepare to ditch!" came the high-pitched, panicked shout from the cockpit. "Fuu-cckk me , it's . . . . "

Dorothy bent over, putting herself into the emergency position, and waited. Her big steel dildo pushed hard into her but she didn't care.

Far to the north of Dot's flight into danger, California co-eds Jamie Michener, 23, and Jasmine St. Clair, 25, struggled in their hemp bonds as the little steamer Patna lurches through gale-lashed seas to a South Seas island destination neither had ever dreamed of, the night of December 29, 2003. "Can you free anything, Jas.?" Jamie asks her college pal, after she was thrown to the end of the tether by the bucking little ship. "No, everything's just as tight as before," Jamie replied.

The two slim, young California women listened helplessly December 28, 2003, as their slave ship weighed anchor in a rugged, desolate small island cove south of Japan. Next day, the rusty, little tramp steamer was being thrown about by towering seas and 100-knot winds, slamming the bound, young women back and forth on their hemp tethers.

Jim Lord, Patna 's third mate, had bound them securely to tie-down fittings two days previously and Jamie and Jasmine feared they were going to drown. Little Patna lurched and pounded on, temporarily deaf, dumb and blind, as heavy seas knocked out the ship's wireless antenna, radar and GPS.

Captain Bisescu stood in the darkened wheelhouse and hung on as huge, black seas crashed over his little ship's small bows.

"Are those women all right down there, third?" he yelled to his third mate, who had just opened a hatch to check on them.

"Yeah, cap'., wet, scared, but they're still there, tied just as before when we hauled 'em on board. They can never undo that hemp and my knots. Never. Hah!"

Capt. Bisescu nodded and turned to the helmsman who was white-knuckling the old oaken wheel. Following seas were pushing them 20 - 30 degrees off course and all they had was steering by magnetic.

"Check on 'em when the watch changes, third. "They're worth a lot of money to me and may just keep this little rustbucket afloat another day." ---

Far to the south, the little jet was dying; the crew had given up trying to regain altitude and they were skimming the seas at 50 feet, hoping for a miracle that would never come. The pilot cut the engines, deployed the flaps and . . . .

Crash, Splash, Thud, Whooomp . The Buccaneer, not living up to its name, had bellyflopped on the crest of the wave and was breaking up. The windscreen smashed, black seawater careened in and the deck took an alarming angle downward. "MMMMNNNNNMMMMMHHHHH!!!!" Dorothy Cochrane screamed into her huge, hard black cockgag. She thought she was going to die. "Get out!" the flight engineer screamed, seconds before the front third of the plane buckled, sending him and the pilots into the cold, black depths of the 20,000-feet-deep ocean.

Dot unbuckled her seatbelt with scrabbling fingers as cold, green seawater reached her knees in an instant, sprawled out of her seat and sloshed to the huge, angled gash torn in the port side, ripping her skimpy halter top from her body and slashing her skirt as she thrust her way onto the wing. Nearly naked, she looked in horror at the growling, sputtering port engine, still spinning three yards away.

The seascape, lit here and there by burning avgas, looked hellish; mountainous waves heaved up seemingly out of nowhere and the gale-force winds splattered her sodden hair into her harnessed face.

Dorothy Sarah Cochrane, a 42-year-old secretary from Glasgow, Scotland, collared, chained at wrists, waist and ankles, nipple-pierced, penis-harness-gagged and with a big steel dildo locked in place, knew she had to take her life in her hands.

"MMMFFF-oooohhh!" she cried, closing her eyes against the lashing seaspray as she stepped off the sinking wing into the 5-degree C. ocean.

Dot hoped she would not suffer long; she had never drowned before but she had heard it took less than a minute.

She awkwardly treaded water, barely keeping her gagged head above water when,suddenly, a five-person liferaft came rocketing to the surface from the wrenched remains of the little jet plunging in an erratic spirals to the bottom, four miles away.

"MMM-RRR-FFF-GGG-HHH," Dorothy cried as she struggled to climb aboard the four-ft. bright-orange bundle beside her in the pitch darkness. Suddenly , Piffff, whifff, whump-fooomp boomp , and the little bundle transformed itself into a liferaft by its delayed-action CO2 bottles. Dot grabbed onto one of the synthetic ratlines around the oblong raft and held on for dear life, kicking her chained ankles desperately to get away from the sinking debris and dying flames.

Her hair plastered over her eyes, she could not see a thing and dared not let go the rope as she heard the wing, engine and tail slide with great gouts of steam and hissing air bubbles under the heaving, black seas.

EeeeOOOORRRROWWWWSSSShhhhh , the starboard turbine screamed, as it hit the water, extinguishing its devilish howl forever. Crrrrooooommmmp . Both engines exploded just 100 feet below her. More avgas rose to the surface and Dot could smell but not see it. Dorothy Cochrane, naked and chained, hung onto the little liferaft that bobbed on the hilly seas.

She had to get aboard somehow. Fifteen minutes later, Dorothy, her muscles screaming in an adrenalin-fuelled superhuman effort, hauled her naked body up over the side of the raft and she slid into the bottom of the lurching, sliding raft.

She fainted and the raft lurched on aimlessly in the storm-tossed, malevolent ocean.

Hours later, far overhead, the majestic Southern Cross constellation glinted into view as the storm clouds blew their terrible course to the northeast towards the little, southbound steamer , Patna , with Jamie and Jasmine bound below in the dark hold..

Towards dawn, two hours after, the sea rolled gently as a brilliant white light shone directly over Dorothy Cochrane and her little raft. Barely conscious, and frightened to death, Dorothy heard the soft Gaelic voice of her mother, dead five years.

"Dorothy, it's me, your mum. Your time is not up yet. Sleep, my child, sleep. The sun will rise again and you will be delivered from this vale of tears. Rest well, my darling Dorothy; I will see you in a few hours. Good night, sweetheart."

Dorothy slept on.

DOT'S ISLAND Dorothy Cochrane thought she was emerging from a bad dream when she heard the gentle sound of water lapping the liferaft. No. Wait. I'm not moving and I'm hearing the seashore.

She dared not open her bloodshot, burning eyes for what she might see and lay still for a long time. She continued to hear the lapping, gentle sound of water and the odd, lurching movement of her liferaft through her closed eyes.

Strange, she thought. Is this heaven? Or hell. Where am I, anyway? She felt the warmth of the morning sun on her breasts and face as she tried to move her legs. The rustle of chain told her she was still shackled as before. Maybe I'm not dead after all, she thought. She lay still, hoping someone would wake her up, give her a pair of wings, turn her into heaven's only angel in chains and tell her to fly off and rescue some soul somewhere.

Her jaw ached and her wet, brunette hair, plastered over her face and head harness, blinded her. Eyes still closed, she lifted her chained hands to her face and pulled locks of sodden hair out of the straps and from her eyes. Her eyes were still closed when she heard a distant thump. Was it Graham coming home late again? She felt at her crotch with her handcuffed hands and touched the warm metal of her stainless-steel dildo still locked firmly inside her, brushing her ringed, erect nipples en route.

Funny, I should have a nightgown on or something.

Thump. What is that? Dorothy opened one bleary, salt-caked eye and saw the brilliant blue sky of the South Pacific.

'Yeah, right; I've died. I'm in heaven. Where's mum now? I heard her talk to me last night. She's got to be around here somewhere, up there in those clouds. Mum?' she called quietly, her question emerging as a soft mmm from her India rubber-filled mouth.

Dorothy lay still for another hour as the sun traced its path across the sky; it was 4 p.m. before she was able to move her arms and legs slightly as she felt the air temperature cool slightly.

Thump.

Mum? Mmmm.

Silence.

Well, if this is heaven, there's no one around; I may as well get up and walk around to find St. Peter and explain myself, she thought, her eyes still closed.

The lapping sound of the seashore rested her but she was not ready for a nap. She had to get up, she thought, or "I'll be late for work!!"

Thump.

Dorothy opened her sand-and-salt-caked eyelids just a little and saw what appeared to be afternoon sky between her gag straps taut against her cheekbones.

"MMMMFFF," she said as strongly as she could. She lay back down again but knew she had to get back up. Was this a Saturday or Monday morning? I've got to get dressed for work or Gail will kill me.

She opened her eyes wider and looked around at the interior of the little liferaft that had saved her life. She eased her arms over to one side and pushed herself up into a semi-sitting position as she looked blearily around her.

Her little liferaft had been blown 55 miles to the northeast and had been swept up onto a deserted island with a white, sandy beach bordering a dense jungle. A coral atoll rumbled a half-mile offshore.

Dorothy sat up with a gasp and looked hard at her new surroundings. Awkwardly, bruising her breasts even more, she rolled herself out of the raft into the ankle-deep water and crawled up into the sand, the warm, fine grit coating her thighs, abdomen, breasts and face. Dorothy remembered an infantryman's crawl from her days in the militia many years ago and, holding an imaginary rifle in her chained arms, began the well-known slither known by soldiers worldwide.

Ten minutes later, with an abraded torso, she was off the foreshore and at the border of a coconut grove.

Thunk. One fell beside her and Dot's heart leaped into her mouth.

"MMFFF!!" she said, glaring at the uncaring coconut. I'll eat you first, she thought, then you'll be sorry for scaring the heck out of me.

Dot laid eyes on the first gracefully-curving coconut tree and crawled on her hands and knees to the base, catching her waist-to-ankle chain continuously, to find shelter from the cool onshore breeze. Curling up naked, her clothing long gone, she clutched her knees, pulling her chains around her and dozed.

Thump. Dot slept.

It was Thursday, January 1, 2004, and Dot was not celebrating with champers and party favors. Sand-covered, dishevelled, naked, chained, gagged, pierced and dildo-penetrated, the 42-year-old woman shivered in the failing sunlight. Crooooommmmm!!! she heard the distant seas ending their journeys on the coral atoll and she was frightened.

Darkness began to fall over the Western Pacific; Dorothy shivered again and pushed more hair out of her eyes.

'G-g-g-oo-ll-ee, it's cold here in Paradise', she thought. Darkness fell and that was a blessing; she did not have to open her eyes.

Thump. Another coconut startled her.

The cool night air kept her awake; she had 42 years of experience being warm and safe at night and she could not get used to this, sleeping outside under a tree somewhere in Paradise, naked, chained and gagged. She hoped her locked steel dildo would provide some relief. Not tonight; she was too afraid.

Dot opened her eyes fully and staggered to her feet woozily, her chains pulling at waist, ankles and wrists. She shook her head to get the sand out of her hair and her harness's three locks clacked at her again. She did not bother touching her face again that night.

Dorothy stumbled back down the beach and found the liferaft in the starlight, still where she had left it. She found a halyard at the front end and pulled with both hands, fully expecting to pull herself off her feet, chained as she was.

Surprised at the lightness, she found it slid fairly easily on the sand and she hauled it up the beach in about 15 minutes, tripping and stumbling the whole, 30-yard trip on her ankle and waist chains that kept snagging around her knees.

"UUUMMMPPPHHH!" she grunted through her locked and harnessed cockgag, as she pushed it over to her coconut tree. "NNNGGGHHH!" And she had it on its side, a liferaft lean-to against the towering coconut tree.

My tent, she thought. She dropped to her knees, pulled the liferaft down on top of her, smelling the salty, wet neoprene, made herself as comfortable as she could in her dark, little bright-yellow shelter and fell asleep again, awoken moments later by another coconut falling heavily on the inverted liferaft. Thunk.

My gosh, this must be coconut heaven, too, she thought.

Day 2 dawned just as brightly and Dot's stomach growled for sustenance. Her composure and lucidity slowly returning, she realized she needed a pee really bad. Crawling out of her liferaft/lean-to, she stood up, erect for the first time in hours, clinked over to a nearby bush, squatted and relieved herself, her dark-yellow urine spraying every which way around the steel dildo and straps that held it there.

Her bladder emptied, she felt a little better but now, she needed something to eat.

A nice burrito would be good right about now, she thought; nah, maybe not. Too early in the morning. Kippers and stewed tomatoes, mmm, that's what I want.

Hunger and the mechanics of eating would be big issues in Dot's survival on her island in the coming months but the chained, yet resourceful secretary was to find the island abounded with food. And adventure.

Surrounded by ocean, she realized there had to be fish, maybe even kippers, in there. She remembered the movie she saw on an Imax screen in Glasgow about sharks in the Pacific and shivered, remembering the ugly, big Hammerheads that cruised silently across the huge screen, frightening Gail and herself with their fearsome appearance.

Her steel dildo ached inside her pussy and she wondered why.

She hoped it was not another bout of cystitis. Oh, no; not that misery out here!!

Dot squatted down inside her liferaft, feeling her dildo squeeze heavily into her womb again, and looked around in the half-light. She bounced up and down a couple of times to put the dildo back in its proper place and felt horny for the first time in her desperate situation.

Looking around, she saw a few stencils on the inside of the hull – flares, signal lights, emergency packs, CO2 bottles, lights and paddles – and rifled through them in order. At the end of her frantic, silent search, she had two flares and lanterns, a 30-day supply of C-rations (bottled water, vitamins, dehydrated, protein-rich cans of stuff she had never heard of along with a small carton of Mars bars and sunscreen); two big CO2 cylinders, and two aluminum paddles -- but no matches.

Darn it, she said to herself. Now, how do I eat, gagged like this? Oh, well; I'll try. She opened a can of stuff that looked like the Spam she bought at her corner store once a week, pulled the zip-top off, found a spoon in one of the waterproof kits and tried to force it between her cheek and gag.

No way.

Throwing the spoon away, she managed squeeze her last, unbroken fingernail between her gag and cheek and pulled her flesh away from the hard rubber as gently as she could with her right hand. With her left index finger, she pushed a little of the Spam-looking concoction into her mouth, on the underside of the gag, and licked it off with her tongue. She tilted her head back and swallowed with difficulty.

Two hours later, she had consumed the entire six-ounce can and the effort had tired her out.

Now, she needed water: she tried to open one of the plastic canteens, their factory seals defying her finger strength until she bashed the neck with her titanium handcuff. It opened easily. Dot tilted her head far back, opened her mouth as wide as she could around the three-inch-diameter India-rubber intruder and carefully poured a couple of ounces into her mouth. She choked and sneezed but managed to get three ounces into her stomach before she gave that up.

She thought: three hours to eat that little bit and drink this little bit of water; I'm going to starve, or run out of patience, before too long. The chained woman shifted her weight onto her left hip and 'Mr. Steele', the big steel dildo still deep inside her, caused a ripple and flash of pain.

Oh no, Dot thought. It can't be that UTI!! Please, no. The little spasm subsided slowly and Dorothy hoped her pain was from the sand that had gotten into her when she made her long beach crawl. She went on arranging her stash of liferaft supplies.

Tomorrow, she would scan the beach for anything, or anyone, that might wash up.

Oddly enough, she felt kinda sexy, lying out underneath the southern sky constellations. It was still New Year's Day, January 1, 2004, she knew, and Dot wanted to get laid. She thought of Amina, now a drug-addled, harness-gagged streetwalker in Bally, as she pushed Mr. Steele around inside her pussy . It was in too snugly and all she did was slide it around the neck of her womb. Feeling in her G-spot was, temporarily, gone, too, as she lay her chained hands across her chained waist, moaning in gloom.

Some clothes would certainly be nice, she thought in the dark silence, recalling her beautiful, ruined Versace suit of two weeks ago. She wondered what she could use to cover her nudity and protect her skin from the sun.

Coconut tree leaves? Nah.

A grass skirt? No grass here.

The night passed and Dot dozed again. Next day, naked Dorothy, somewhat rejuvenated, got up had a few fingerfuls of meat paste and a few ounces of water and ventured out to patrol the beach. Moments later, she stopped as the permanency of her captivity – and her steel -- sank home.

Looking around with gagstrap-obscured vision, all she saw was open, endless ocean, a reef, jungle, white sand and an emptier blue sky. Another, smaller island loomed about a mile west but she did not care.

She could never paddle a raft way out there and get it over the reef, like Tom Hanks finally did in Cast Away , but she might have to try. She found a few seashells and picked a few up, thinking she could at least make herself a necklace. She already had a collar so what's the use? Fire. Yes!

Robinson Crusoe had a fire. Tom Hanks was able to start a fire! Yeaaah! Why not start a gosh-darn fire?

Dot looked around for the driest wood she could find and hauled a little handful back to her liferaft. Stick and board; that's what I need now. Five hours later, with red, blistered hands and handcuff-chafed wrists, Dorothy had her first friction-ignited fire going. It was a little one: just a foot or so in diameter but a fire, nevertheless.

'Fffrr!!" she said happily. 'Brrrm, b-b, brrm!!' as she warmed her body against the falling dusk.

She turned on her two emergency lights to keep her getting scared this night but shut them off 20 minutes later, fearing she should conserve the batteries.

Dot stared into the fire and thought about Glasgow: Yuck. Her apartment: Yuuuck!! The shipyard. Bleah! Her lucrative office job at BenizeOil: Aaahh, I wish I was back there now.

January 2, 2004, dawned grey, misty and rainy and Dot shivered, knowing she would have to find something to cloak her chained nudity from the elements. She hid under her liferaft and considered suicide. I could hang myself but the darn collar would probably get in the way, she mused. I could walk into the ocean and drown, she thought again, but the Hammerheads might get me. Naaah, all those things would hurt.

I'm gonna stay alive, she said to herself, and get off here, somehow; back to Amina and BenizeOil. I'll give them a piece of my mind when I get back!! Meanwhile, far to the north, Patna with Ms. Michener and Ms. St. Clair bound in the hold, had pulled into Taiwan for fuel, storm repairs an new electronics. The women were kept bound and gagged inside the hold, fed only bread and water twice a day, while shipyard workers clumped over the steel decks just over their heads.

They, too, thought they were going to die.

The burly, 200-pound Romanian captain, fearing the two would cry out, had ordered them strictly gagged: Lord, the third mate, climbed back down into the hold with a bag and Jamie and Jasmine looked at him, hate darkening their eyes.

The scruffy, muscular sailor went to Jamie first, bound to a bulkhead, her back to Jasmine.

"You first!" he roared. "Nooooo!" she cried.

"Open." Jamie sealed her lips. Lord drew his knife and pointed it at her bound right breast.

"Open."

Jamie opened her mouth a quarter-inch.

"Good. Thank you. Now, I'll just wad this cloth in here like this," he said, as he began stuffing a one-foot-square rag of towelling into her small mouth. Her cheeks bulged as he poked the last corner in seconds later. Jamie, helpless in rope, closed her eyes as he put a plastic zip tie around her head and between her lips, snugging it down to hold her cheek-bulging cloth gag firmly in place.

He then took out a roll of black electrical tape and wound 10 passes around her lower face, smoothing each layer flat. A 25-foot elastic bandage followed and he quickly wrapped that around her tape, taping it down. Total time: 90 seconds. Jamie would be silent until she was untied again in three days.

"Mmm Mmm," a faint, distant hum was all she could manage.

Lord turned his attention to the bound beauty behind Jamie and Jasmine St. Clair, a third-year English major at UCLA, was gagged into silence moments later.

Work on the ship's electronics and the damaged hatch covers took two more days as Jamie and Jasmine languished in the dark, fetid hold, gagged, bound and weeping.

Exhausted, tired and sore, they dangled against their ropes, expecting the worst.

Next day, slumping against their tethers and breast bondage, they jerked suddenly awake as Patna 's starting engine coughed into life in the mechanical room astern. It ground and ground away and finally the main engine began chugging, vibrating the clammy, dark hold as the big, bronze propeller churned the dirty, brown waters of the shipyard.

They were under way again.

Dorothy, meanwhile, had taken to more island exploration and decided to walk around the island's circumference to see how big it was and learn what was on the other side.

A nice luxury hotel would be really nice to see, she thought wistfully, and a lovely beefsteak-and-kidney pie for supper. Mmm, she thought, yummy. Dot found a stick and drew in the sand to figure out the distance: 5,280 feet to a mile X 12 inches to the foot = 63,360 inches. Her ankle chains were 16 inches long so that meant 3,960 steps to walk a mile.

Walk a mile in my shoes, er, chains, Dot thought as she stepped out for her first long walk ever -- , naked, chained, gagged and dildo-ed. Dot had to stop two hours later, after counting 3,960 paces, her ankles chafed and hurt, her wrists throbbed and her jaw ached, her shoulders and face burning from the broiling sun. She had forgotten sunscreen.

Offshore, she thought she saw something -- something was bobbing out there!! – about 100 feet away. Some object, half-submerged, had rivetted her attention. She hoped it was not a shark fin; she feared sharks the most, the ugly yet magnificent creatures from prehistoric times.

Timidly, the chained woman entered the tepid seawater and waded out to her hips; the object was 60 feet away. A few more steps brought the ocean up to her breasts which began to take a life of their own in the water.

She would have to swim to reach it.

Dorothy, never a good swimmer, was even worse in chains; nevertheless, she managed an awkward dogpaddle that kept her half-submerged and she got to her object in about two minutes.

It was a covered, rusty, blue-and-red, 30-gallon oildrum with BenizeOil Corp. and some technical specifications stencilled on the side. She reached out for it with her chained hands and it tipped and rolled away in the water that was well over her head.

"MMMMppp," Dot said in frustration, sinking toward the bottom. She flutter-kicked madly and rose to the surface again. She wanted this barrel! Dot kicked and twisted her body around to the open-ocean side of the barrel and gave it a hard shove, sending it 10 feet toward shore. Twenty-five more shoves later and an exhausted, chained Dorothy was ashore with her prize. An oil barrel ought to have oil in it and oil will smoke, she thought, panting on her knees on the shoreline, feeling her steel dildo sluice around her wet pussy. All I need now is to get another fire going; the other one is back at the lean-to and almost out. Gosh.

Dorothy, her breathing restored and her muscles aching a little less, stood up and carefully hunted around for more kindling above the water's edge. Amassing a little pile, she then found a piece of flat, dry driftwood and began rapidly stroking the driftwood with a stick, stopping every minute or so to put some dried beachgrass on the black, sightly smoky crease she created. Two hours later, her handcuffed wrists aching from the repetitive movements, she had her little fire going and she was proud.

"Ffrr!' she said gleefully, satisfied with her accomplishment. Mmm-mm-m. She fed the little blaze and soon had a small bonfire going.

Dot looked at the barrel lid and found it was secured with only three rusting screws. She banged at the screwheads with her titanium wrist cuffs and broke one in five minutes; 15 minutes later, the second screw disintegrated and she slid the lid off.

"Blll," Dot cried. "Yeffff." Nn-ffrr," she wheezed to herself as she sat beside her little fire and reached for the unlit end of a burning piece of wood.

She was about to throw it in to ignite to ignite the greasy sludge at the bottom but spotted something metal sticking out of the black ooze. She tipped the barrel over with her chained hands and knelt and reached in, smearing her head harness, face, neck and collar with smelly oil. She withdrew a rusty, all-metal, T-handled boat auger with an eight-inch-long, 3/8ths-inch bit.

She set it aside and heaved the barrel up on end again with a grunt from her gagged mouth. Soon, she had a smoky blaze going in the slim oildrum and the resourceful, chained woman decided to move camp. She would have to walk all the way back to her liferaft, drag it and her supplies out here because she did not want to risk putting out her smoke beacon and roll the barrel all the way back to camp.

It was 2 p.m., January 3, 2004, when she had fed and stoked the smoky blaze into a satisfactory plume of greasy smoke and ventured out. Four-thousand steps later, feet, ankles, pussy, wrists, neck and jaws aching for her to stop, she reached her liferaft. Now she had to drag it, in her chains, back the same way she came.

At midnight, utterly exhausted, the chained woman flopped into her liferaft and passed out with exhaustion. The barrel smoked on but no one saw it in the pitch-black sky.

Two-thousand miles to the north , Patna altered course directly for Dot's Island.

Dorothy awoke next morning and set up her liferaft/lean-to nearer to the adjoining island, leaned the raft against another coconut tree and organized her supplies.

She fed herself as before, fingering her protein paste between gag and lip, licking it off and swallowing. She followed by seven sips of tepid water and lay down, remembering the ice-cold water she had drunk so effortlessly back at her hotel dining room just a few days previously.

An hour later, she looked at the rusty auger a few feet away where she had thrown it yesterday afternoon.

She crawled over to it and placed it near her eyes, looking for identification and to see how sharp it was. She put her finger on the cutting edge and found it as sharp as one of her paring knives at home. Knowing the little bit would not touch the hardened steel-wire core she felt in her head harness, she would drill out her penis gag!!

Dot placed the drill bit at the front of her hard India rubber gag and started to twist the handle awkwardly in her chains. Kneeling, she wished she had a mirror as she continued turning the T.

After half an hour of awkward attempts she felt the bit take hold and pressed harder. Dozens of more turns and she had bored a 3/8ths-inch hole two inches through the heavy, five-inch-long rubber cock jammed deeply into her mouth.

She gently pulled the bit out and shook her head to get the rubber bits out of the hole. Shaking her head again, to the annoying clacks of the harness's three locks, she pushed the bit back in. Dozens of more turns again had given deepened her 3/8ths-inch hole two more inches. One inch of India rubber left to go but the little drill bit was getting bent.

How long is this thing anyway? she wondered, gauging the dark-brown dense rubber shaft with her tongue.

The shadows were starting to lengthen when she felt the bit push through the end of the rubber cock, deep inside her mouth, and she pulled it out quickly. She swallowed the little bits of rubber that had accumulated at the rear of her throat and blew hard.

"FFFFFFFF" came out of her little hole. At last, she could breathe, just barely, through her mouth. And drink! The success and hard work had buoyed her flagging spirits; she thought she was not doomed after all.

She would drill some more tomorrow; for now, it was sleeptime. Dorothy smiled to herself, thinking of rescue and eventual reunion with Amina would not be too far away. Dot told herself she should go back to Bally and start over. Glasgow was out of the question.

Dorothy would remain as she was on the island for another nine months, to September 2004, when she and two strangers would make their courageous escape under Dorothy's taut leadership.

Next day, she started drilling again in the same hole and the slim portion of the drill bit, between the handle and augur turns, bent more. Oh, oh, Dot said, pulling it out of the gag quickly and tried to straighten it against a nearby beach stone with blows from her handcuffs.

"Ping," and the augur fell away from the handle.

Dorothy stood up in a rage and cried silently. She knelt again, feeling the steel dildo, picked up the drill bit and was about to throw it as far as she could into the ocean.

Wait, this is still a tool! She lowered her arms and tossed it into the liferaft.

More exploration would be done that day, she thought, and she would take this rusty little implement along as a weapon. She slathered her body with the heavy-duty sunscreen and, smelling like honeysuckle, clinked and clattered into the jungle border to come face to face with a volcanic rock wall. End of the road, Dot, she thought. She could go no further. She looked left and right, sat down and wailed. The island was truly a prison with no escape.

"Hiiiiifffff," she cried. "MMMMMMmmmmnnnnn." No one could hear.

Wait! she thought suddenly. Someone will come eventually, find my skeleton and will not know who I am. They will think I was some kind of prisoner, or escaped slave; I gotta leave a message!!! She stood up, feeling the dildo move again, and began scratching on the rock face with the little augur bit Free woman, Dorothy S. Cochrane, 42, Scot., arrived c. 31/12/03, d., Days here - IIIII III I love you, Amina

Dorothy would scratch the number of days she would be on the island until her escape, near the end of 2004, more than 350 days away. Unknown to her at exactly that time, Patna had sighted the smaller, jungled island just 1½ miles off Dot's Island, and Jamie Michener and Jasmine St. Clair were being hauled roughly out of the hold, naked and hemp-bound but ungagged and relatively unharmed.

They were about to meet Dot and her island . . . .

Jamie had never been so angry in all her life. Her crotch ropes digging deeply into her tender pussy, her arms lashed tightly behind her and to a tree, she swore at her best friend as they watched their slave ship steam away.

"You can go fuck yourself right now, Jasmine St. Clair!" she yelled. "It's your fault we're in this god-awful spot and tied up for the last weeeek! "It was you who started talking to that wank in Tokyo and now, here were bound like this. Gosh, I don't know what's gonna happen."

Jasmine muttered to herself as she stood nearby watching the tramp steamer sail away from the island. She paced the length of her 10-foot tether and called back, changing the subject: "That's as far as I can walk, Jamie; you try," she called over her shoulder.

"I don't wanna!" she wailed. "I wanna get free. Look at how I am tied!! You just come over and look!!"

A little more softly, she added: "Can you please come over here and try to untie me? Pretty please??"

Jasmine walked over to her friend, squatting among their 15-day supply of rations, turned her back to her and tried to fumble with the knots tying her friend's arms into the small of her back, exactly as hers were.

Jasmine stopped and looked closely at Jamie's arm bindings. The knots were secured with tight wire lashings!!

"I've got some bad news and some good news, Jamie," she said, her friend turning around to look at her. "There're wires on all these knots, you can check on mine, but look, over there; I think there's another island out there. Look!!"

"There's got to be a way out of here," Jamie said exasperatedly, not interested in looking at her friend's dumb island. "Can't we cut these ropes with something? A rock, maybe?"

"Can you yell, Jamie?" Jasmine asked, still looking at Dot's Island, and its sole, chained inhabitant, about two miles away. "Your tits are not tied as tight as mine. 'G'wan, try.

Jamie Michener stood up, took the deepest breath she could and let out:

"HHHHAAALLLOOOOOOOOO!! IS ANYONE OUT THERE????" she bellowed, against the moderate wind that blew her hair into her face.

"Ouch," coughing for breath against her breast bindings, she sighed and yelled again:"HHHEEEELLLLPPPP!!! . . . ouch, my boobs. That's all I can shout, Jasmine, you try. And I hope you hurt your boobs, too. Go ahead, try!! Dare ya!!!"

"Ssshhhh," her bound friend said, too chicken to try. "I think I hear something."

A rising, unnerving cacophony of birds, jungle animals and "fearsome dragons," they thought, greeted their ears.

"Ohmigod, I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared," Jamie said. "We'll light a fire, we hafta. C'mon, Jasmine, help me. "

The bound girls awkwardly unpacked the boxes of supplies that had accompanied them, each showing the other what she pulled out of the three boxes.

Jamie found the matches – one little book of 25 strikes – and showed them to Jasmine.

"Here, we've got 25 tries and that's all. Is there anything around here that will burn?"

"Dunno," Jas replied. She pulled on her tether and uncovered a little clump of dried grass with her foot.

Six hours later, at midnight, the two bound girls, exhausted by their efforts had a little, smoky blaze going.

"Brrrrr, it's cold still, Jamie," Jasmine said, kneeling by the crackling, hissing wood. "Maybe we oughta lie together to conserve our body warmth."

"Yeah, right, Jasmine." If you think I'm gonna hug you all night you're sadly mistaken. I'll lie out here and freeze to death before I will be feeling your boobies all night. No way."

Jamie glared at her bound friend, her facial features ghostly in the flickering light, and they were silent, their anger diminishing to self-pity and hopelessness.

A few minutes later, Jamie overcame the awkward silence. She had changed her mind.

"All right, girlfriend, squeeze over here and lie beside me to keep us warm."

The two girls tugged on their tethers and lay as closely as they could to their little fire, their tightly-bound breasts snuggled flat against each other's.

They shivered in the damp sea air and sleep eluded them for hours. Meanwhile, back on Dot's Island, a still-energetic Dorothy was trying to coax more flame out of her burn barrel. She found some green leaves but that only succeeded in reducing the guttering fire.

Darnit, Dot thought, clanging the side of the barrel with her handcuffs; I need more dry wood.

An hour later, with Jasmine and Jamie in a fitful, bound sleep 1½ miles away, Dot had succeeded in stoking her little fire and lay back against her liferaft, content to watch the little flames lick up only a foot.

Rescue is at hand, Dorothy thought optimistically. "Someone will see this some time, somewhere."

Exhausted from her day's activities, her harnessed head drooped and she sagged into a deep, dreamless sleep inside her liferaft.

The next day, January 4, 2004, dawned sunny and hot again as Dot's first week on her island ended and Jamie and Jasmine's first day began. Neither knew of each other's existence and would not until Dorothy thought she heard something.

On their small, jungled and rocky island, Jasmine and Jamie got over their initial anger and frustration; realizing they could not free themselves, they may as well clear the air and try and be friends again. Jamie awkwardly tended the fire again, her crotch ropes digging into her as usual, while Jasmine scanned the horizon.

Nothing.

Dot, meanwhile, had awoken early, clinked down to the seashore to bathe lightly, returned to her liferaft encampment and slathered her face and body with the gooey sunscreen.

I should start developing a pretty good tan down here to show the friends at home, Dorothy thought, forgetting temporarily about the effect the sun would have on her harnessed face and shackled body.

Dorothy was, by now, fully used to walking and working in her chains, gagged and dildoed, and the her bondage became less and less a problem. She began regarding her chains more as decoration than functional restraints, thinking such a mindset would help stop her from going crazy.

Jasmine and Jamie, however, regarded their light-by-comparison rope bondage with less aplomb; they wanted to get free and off that damned island as soon as they could.

Patience, resourcefulness and determination were not among their virtues. But they were hallmarks of Dorothy's sturdy, resilient character and her leadership capabilities.

Jasmine looked up at the tree where her tether had been tightly and intricately knotted by Jim Lord, the third mate who had brought them to the island yesterday, and looked away, discouraged. The tightly-knotted cords could never be reached and her arms were as tightly bound today as they were yesterday.

"My tits hurt," Jamie said. "We've got to get this stuff off us today, Jasmine."

"Yeah, right; you try," she replied. "I tried all night and never got anywhere and there was you snuggling at my breast, sound asleep."

Was not."

"Were too."

"Wasn't"

"Too."

The girls pouted at each other and turned their backs. Little did they realize they would have to cooperate to survive and that included feeding themselves and tending the fire.

One and a half miles away, Dot was busy at work, stoking her barrel fire as best she could with her chained hands, relishing the feel once again of the big steel dildo moving inside her as it had for the past several months, while she planned her next steps to get off the island and back to Africa..

She looked out at the grey-blue sea and thought she should try fishing. After getting her fire going she scouted around, clattering about aimlessly in her chains – who's gonna hear? – to look for a suitable stick. Walking into the jungle, she saw a long, fairly straight stick of something or other and hauled it out with her two chained hands.

Squatting down in the sand by her liferaft, she reached in for her little, broken drill bit and, using it as a knife, fashioned a dull point at the end of her scrawny, eight-foot pole.

"FFFiffff," he said proudly through the 3/8ths-inch hole that she had pierced through her dense cock two days previously. Spear, she thought; fishing pole, weapon and status symbol, all rolled into one.

Dot, her comical side dormant for years, had to laugh at herself as she stood proudly erect, chained, gagged and dildo-ed permanently, holding her rickety, little pole as a fierce Zulu warrior.

Dorothy S. Cochrane, normally a pale Scottish office worker, was changing by the day, her light tan becoming darker and darker, giving her complexion a healthy glow.

With her labors and activity and a steady diet of C-rations, her muscle tone and endurance had improved significantly. These would soon be tested to the extreme.

One day, more energized and optimistic of an imminent release, she embarked on a one-woman PT program. She began with pushups and by the third day was doing 20 reps non-stop; situps were another matter, her flexing abs caused her to pelvic-floor muscle group to clench and release the dildo but she enjoyed every minute. Touching her toes 20 times a day, Dot began to sense the feeling of freedom in her restraints. She knew the limits the chains imposed on her, physically and psychologically, but she was able to adapt. A lifetime in steel bondage, at this point, was not an appalling thought for her. It was a reality.

"Fiiifff, " she thought, this day. I need fish.

She had never spear-fished before in her life and had no idea how it was done. But she was willing to give it a try. She clinked and clattered to a rocky shoal and looked through the clear-blue waters to see if she could find anything edible.

A couple of black shapes darted around her chained ankles and she stabbed at them in her chains, nearly tripping.

"IIIIIFFFFF!" she whistled through her gag, spinning around to try and lance another little shape.

Dorothy, persistent despite her heavy bondage, spent an hour slashing and spearing the water and came up with nothing.

Darn, she thought. I'll have to learn.

She strode back to her liferaft, sat down and forcefully pushed her steel dildo up inside her crammed vagina to relieve her frustration. Ahhh, that's better, she thought; at least I can do that. She ran her chained hands over her breasts once again to check on the viscous sunscreen she had put on hours before and decided she should coat herself again. Fifteen minutes later she was turning herself on in a big way, smoothing the white cream gently into her soft breasts thinking it was

Amina doing it for her. She massaged the protective compound into her shoulders, neck above the steel collar, her face, abdomen, legs and ankles. Sitting down on the raft, she put heavy coats on the badly-sunburnt tops of her feet and eased her ankle shackles around her trim legs.

She wriggled her left ankle cuff up a half-inch, organized her chain and saw her lily-white skin underneath.

Migosh, she said to herself, even if I ever get these off, I'll still look like I'm chained.

Thunderstruck, she paused to consider what she would look like after release with the white shadows of her head harness gag contrasting sharply with her deeply-tanned face.

She would not know until she was able to look in a mirror aboard the slave ship Patna in a few more weeks.

I gotta stay out of the sun more, she decided, as she stood up to walk further down the beach to the end of the island.

Suddenly, "hhhheeeeeepppppp," came floating across the open water between her island and the little, green hump 1½ miles away. Dot stopped in her tracks, chains swaying, and put cupped her ears awkwardly, straining to hear the sound. Again: "hhheeppp." Dot's eyes widened in amazement. Is someone out there? Dorothy thought.

"FFFFFIIIIFFFFFF," she called through her cock gag.

Distantly: "is anyone out there? Can you hear me?"

Migod, it's a woman's voice.

"FFFFFIIIIFFFFF!!!!"

"Please help us."

The wind changed and Dorothy heard her clearly. "Heeeeellllpppp!"

She turned and stepped frantically, taking fast, 16-inch strides the 200 yards back to her campsite, 200 yards away.

Arriving breathless, she put more green leaves into her barrel and fanned the flames.

"Mmmmm," Dorothy cried. Come on, smoke, you barrel from Hades. Smoke!

Dorothy fanned the flames harder with her chained hands and the foul-smelling smoke blew into her face, causing her to cough and sneeze, making her ears pop.

"Giiiiffff!" she wheezed, eyes stinging in the grey smoke. "Ah-feeef! Kiff, kiff, kiff."

Dot had to stop and sit down to catch her breath, her dildo making her stand up smartly again.

'Ow,' she said to herself. Every now and then . . . .

Dorothy wished she could be free of at least her gag to yell back at this unseen caller.

But she clattered quickly over to the barrel again, fanned the flames some more and, satisfied it would not blow in her face again, set out for the far end of the island, a 45-minute walk away for her.

It was 12 noon when Dorothy Cochrane waded into the water at the end of her island nearest the smaller adjacent islet that held Jasmine and Jamie.

She waded into the warm, shallow water, to her knees; stopped to listen; a little further, to her hips; stopped to listen – nothing – and continued up to her neck.

This isn't too smart, she thought, feeling her face burning against the water-reflected sun. All they can see is my darn head.

Suddenly: "We see you!! We see you!! We see you!!!"

"Fiiif?" Dorothy called out exasperatedly, spluttering and gasping against the seawater.

"Can you hear us? Give us a sign!! Please help us."

That was the ticket for Dorothy; she clinked awkwardly back out of the water and shuffle- walked the long distance back to her liferaft. She would paddle over to that island and be rescued!! Or rescue them!!

It was 3 p.m. on that deadly-hot January afternoon by the time Dorothy had dragged her liferaft the long distance to the end of her island. Foot-sore again, with chafed ankles and wrists, her pussy afire from the dildo and seawater, she fell into the liferaft, exhausted.

Jamie and Jasmine saw the little scene playing out offshore in miniature from their trees but could not figure out why that figure -- man or woman, they couldn't tell -- was taking so long.

"I wonder who it is?" Jamie asked.

"Dunno," Jasmine replied, tugging at her tether. "I think we're soon gonna find out soon, though, and I hope it's a guy." Dorothy, her strength barely restored, pushed the liferaft into the ocean as far as she could and hauled herself in, scraping her deeply-tanned breasts on the rock-hard side of the liferaft and began paddling awkwardly, her chains causing her to hold the paddle almost parallel to the surface. Dusk had fallen as Dorothy made it to the far island -- her first big venture in days -- and she pulled the raft up out of the water with difficulty.

Jasmine and Jamie, tree-bound a quarter-mile away, could not believe what they saw though the shoreline foliage.

"It's a woman!!" Jamie called. "A friggin' woman!!! And look, I think she's chained,. Migod.

"And what's that thing on her face? And look! Between her legs. . . . " "We're over here!" Jasmine yelled. "Over here, to your right. Heeeyyyy!" The girls wondered how this heavily-chained, deeply-tanned stranger out of nowhere was going to rescue them.

Forty minutes later, Dorothy staggered, clashing and clinking, into the bound women's little fire site, exhausted beyond words.

"Mmm," was all she could manage as she slumped down, nearly unconscious, in front of the fire.

Jamie and Jasmine were incredulous. 'Who is she? And why is she chained? Is she an escaped prisoner, or what? And what's that shiny thingy down there between her legs?'

These and more questions ranged through the coeds' minds as they squirmed to the ends of their tethers to look closely at Dot, flaked out in front of the fire, barely awake.

"Let her rest, Jamie," Jasmine said softly. "I think she had a rough time getting over here. Look at the way she is chained up. She can't harm us anyway."

The two tied girls sat by their respective trees and eyed the still form of Dorothy's shapely, deeply-suntanned, bound body. "Do you think she can unlock those chains of hers?" Jamie asked unthinkingly.

"Whaddayamean, dummy?" Jasmine replied. "You think she lives out here like that all the time chained up?"

"Mmmm," Dorothy replied through her India-rubber-cock-filled mouth. "Fiiifff."

"She's trying to talk to us; look, think she's opening her eyes," Jamie said, her crotch ropes pulling deeper and deeper into her as she strained to get close to the chained beauty. "I saw a head harness like that once in one of my ex-boyfriend's bondage flicks. Wow, and she's got one the same."

"Ooooh, dammit, those hurt," she said, easing her crotch ropes and shrugging her shoulder to shift the prickly hemp ropes around her breasts.

Dorothy eased her body a little closer to the fire and got up awkwardly to her knees, to tired to attempt conversation, if she could. The shifting steel dildo caused her hips to sway and her breasts, pendulous under her kneeling torso, gave Jasmine and Jamie their first real look at the nature and extent of Dorothy's bondage on her womanly figure.

Dorothy slumped back down and fell asleep.

Jasmine and Jamie, realizing the state of their rescuer, shrugged their shoulders at each other as moved closer together to snuggle once again, bound-breast to bound-breast, to ward off the cool, Western Pacific night air.

Next day dawned cool, grey and dismal and Jasmine and Jamie were the first to awake in their tight ropes. They had been bound on the island for about 48 hours and their hands and arms were getting numb; Jamie's crotch was a flame of heat.

Dorothy stirred on the jungle floor as she lay there on her side.

"I think she's coming 'round," Jas said.

"Can you reach her?" Jamie asked, tied furthest away.

"I'll try. Erf, erf, erf," Jasmine huffed, her breast ropes drawing tight around her as she strained to the full length of her tether. She was able to get about three feet away from Dorothy when her tether snubbed her back, nearly pulling her backwards.

"Oooops," Jasmine called.

Dorothy, hearing the cry, thought she was dreaming again. She opened her tired eyes, framed by the black head harness gag, and saw Jasmine St. Clair and Jamie Michener studying her closely.

She sat up with a great effort and kneeled as they were. Dot was silent, wondering how to communicate her story to this strangely-tied pair of young women on this island.

"Can you talk?" Jasmine asked her thoughtlessly.

Dot shook her head slowly.

"What a du-umb question, Jasmine," Jamie said, shaking her head in amazement. "Of course she can't talk; she's got that big thing jammed into her mouth.

"Is she some kinda prisoner? Or deranged psychopath like that dude in Silence of the Lambs ?"

"No, I don't think so," Jamie said. "He had eyes like a shark; this gal has eyes, well, let's see if she can write something, at least."

"Fiiiiffff," Dorothy wheezed faintly.

"Get her a stick, Jasmine," see if she can write her name or tell us something about her."

Jasmine pushed a stick with her leg toward Dorothy and asked: "Can you write something in the ground, lady?"

Dot eased her tired, sun-bronzed frame over to the stick and wrote in the brown earth.

Dorothy S. Cochrane, freewoman, Scotland

"If you are a free woman, why are you in chains?" Jamie asked suspiciously, fearing they had a kinky, deranged escaped convict on her hands. Dorothy shrugged and drew a line under the word freewoman.

"I think she means it," Jasmine said.

Dorothy nodded, wishing she could speak for the first time.

"Can you eat? Or drink?" Jamie asked.

Dot nodded her head. "Would you like something to eat? We've got some canned meat and stuff."

Jamie kicked a can of bully beef over to Dot who took it in her chained hands, opened it carefully and began feeding herself with her fingers, easing her cheek away from the gag and fingering in the glutinous, pink beef beside the cockgag.

She then licked it off with her tongue, tilted her head back and swallowed with difficulty.

Jamie and Jasmine sat and watched in amazement.

"How does she do that?" Jamie asked.

"Wiffer," Dot called out. "Wiiifffer."

"I think she wants water."

"Give her that canteen over there, Jasmine," Jamie said.

Jasmine rolled the canteen toward Dorothy and Dorothy unscrewed the metal cap, pouring a little rivulet down through the small hole in the centre of her gag.

Spitting up violently, she paused and started again.

After an hour, Dot had consumed a can of Spam and a pint of water.

Partially restored, she stood up, with a clink and clash of her chain, and shuffled over to examine Jasmine's, then Jamie's bondages.

"Hhmmmm," Dot said aloud, her strength restoring gradually; this might be difficult. She saw the wires on the knots and began picking at the wire ends with the edge of her handcuffs, managing to free one big knot, then another, and another.

Fifteen minutes later, Jamie was free of her crotch rope and breast bondage and was at Jasmine's side, trying to undo her ropes. "Dot, come over here with your handcuffs and undo these wires, wilya?" Jamie asked hurriedly.

Dorothy complied and 10 minutes later the other Californian girl was free; Dorothy was as before: chained, gagged and dildo-ed, but determined, intelligent and resourceful enough to deal with her bondage as well as these two newcomers and to organize an escape.

But how will they talk? Can Dot explain her situation? Do the women believe one another? And can they cooperate to escape? The answers follow. Jamie and Jasmine, unbound for the first time in weeks, stretched their arms and legs, flexed their bodies, rubbed the ropemarks deeply indented in their breasts, upper arms and wrists while Dorothy stood by, envious and silent in her chains, seeing full freedom of movement for the first time in a long while.

"Fiiifff," Dot exhaled through her gag. "Mmmmmmfffff!" Jamie and Jasmine stopped what they were doing and looked at Dorothy questioningly.

Dot picked up her little writing stick with her chained hands and began writing:

Dorothy, liferaft, my island, escape

The young university students looked at each other in amazement but agreed to follow Dorothy's initiative.

"OK, Dorothy, we'll paddle back to your island an organize an escape," Jamie said cautiously. "But wait: there's supposed to be a flying boat come by sometime in the next 10 days or two weeks to pick us up and take us to Australia. If we're seen at sea, we're doomed and heaven knows what those slaves would do with you, Dot.

"Gosh knows you would have a hard time defending yourself."

Dorothy nodded her head silently, frowning.

Dorothy then pointed to the girls' three boxes of supplies and hanks of rope that had bound them, then turned and nodded her head toward the raft. She then pointed with her arms to her island, 1½ miles away, and Jas. and Jamie got the message. Much more sign language, nods and written messages would follow in coming days and weeks.

Soon, the three boxes and Jasmine's and Jamie's long hemp ropes were back on board the little liferaft and Jas helped Dorothy descend the hill she had climbed the afternoon before.

Two trips and two hours later, the girls and woman were in Dorothy's liferaft, Jamie and Jasmine paddling for all their worth, the sun burning their shoulders, faces and chests.

Darkness fell and they were still a half-mile off the island; Dorothy could see the faint glows of her burn barrel and pointed the direction to the two paddlers from the bow.

"FFFFIIIFFFeee!" she whistled.

"What?" Jasmine asked.

Dorothy inclined her head forward to their island and they continued paddling. It was about midnight when they finally felt the liferaft bump against the rocky shoreline.

The girls hopped out quickly and Dot rolled out into the shallow water, crawling up after them, tripping on her ankle chains as they slid over rocky ledges under her feet.

The three women – two free and one heavily chained – worked as a team, under Dot's quiet guidance, to haul the bulky 10 x 6 raft with its three-box cargo out of the water and back to Dot's fire camp. Daybreak was just looming on the grey, distant horizon as the plucky trio arrived, exhausted, by the smouldering barrel.

"Whe-eww," Jamie gasped. "That was a long haul. I need some rest."

With those words, the three collapsed into the liferaft and were quickly asleep, snuggling against one another for warmth against the early-morning coolness.

Five hours later, not fully rested, but with the sun fully overhead, burning down on the them, the three got up, helped Dorothy to her feet and hauled the raft to Dot's coconut tree, lifting it up as a lean-to and crawling underneath, out of the burning sun.

It was dusk when Dorothy arose, hungry, tired, thirsty and worried. She had to check the beacon fire and clinked around the dozing girls' bodies. She thought she heard the far-off drone of a propeller-driven plane, looked up into the evening sky with her chained hands against her eyes to scan the greying evening sky but could not see anything.

She had a small supper of canned tuna and water that night as Jamie and Jasmine slept on, exhausted from their ordeal. Dot, too, was overtired and she staggered back to the lean-to, ducked down and fell into a deep sleep.

Next day, the women conversed and made hand and body gestures to Dorothy as the Scottish secretary tried to get them to agree to her plan for an escape attempt: their long discussion, with hmmpffs, sighs and whistles from Dot, and open questions and vague answers from the young girls resulted in a few preliminary objectives:

they would wait until they saw the slaveowner's Catalina flying boat arrive and, hopefully, take off again, discovering the two captives had escaped. Maybe. They would count and ration all supplies and wait for the calmest day to paddle out to the coral reef and cast their fates to the wind and sea. Palm fronds would be hauled to the raft before launch to protect them from the burning subequatorial sunrays and they would tie themselves to the raft in case anyone fell overboard or if the raft tipped by either a shark or wave.

Either possibility frightened the women to death but they agreed they had to work together to get away safely and without being spotted.

Hours later, Dot and Jasmine sorted through their supplies and counted and organized cans of tinned meat, C-rations, water, sweets, vitamins and lanterns. Dot double-checked them all and estimated they had enough for six weeks. Dorothy, noting the relative immaturity and skittishness of her companions, decided to take charge of all preparations. Rounding up Jamie and Jasmine for the third time that day, Dot, using her developing sign-language skills and body language, wrote cryptic notes in the sand as the three knelt in a semi-circle on the beach.

The surf rumbled in the background as they asked: What could they do to ensure they got over the coral reef intact? If they did, could they spent six weeks in the raft at sea without going crazy, drowning or being devoured by sharks? What would they do, and how would they signal, in the open ocean? How would they know where they were going? Were there really sea monsters out there that would swallow them up and disappear without a trace? Would they be rescued or die slow deaths at sea?.

Jasmine, the young English major, thought of Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner ("Water, water every where but no drop to drink.") All three agreed these were difficult questions but were unanimous in sticking together, under Dot's direction, to continue the escape.

Dot wrote her questions and answers laboriously with a stick on the sand and used her developing sign-language skills to get her point across. She listened as the girls added their points of view and made quiet note of all the important details.

During the long fireside discussions, that lasted frequently to dawn, Dot's chains became more of a hindrance than true bondage, yet her energy, commitment, drive and enthusiasm enthralled Jasmine and Jamie who listened and watched this determined woman intently.

Jasmine and Jamie had never before seen such a woman before: here was this attractive chained, gagged and dildo-ed woman, in her 40s, taking charge of them as one of their professors might.

They were free and naked; their older companion was naked but much more heavily bound than they, yet she had the energy and drive to organize and direct them.

Days passed and Jas. and Jamie got to know Dorothy much better, feeling confident in her leadership qualities, resourcefulness and determination, despite her implacable bondage.

Dot would write them cryptic, little messages in the sand, initiate discussion and guide the young women around the island to see what they had to work with to escape.

One afternoon, they came across the inscription Dorothy had scratched with her little augur bit into the massive, nearby volcanic deposit. She had scraped in more day-counting marks and this day it provoked thought and insight.

Free woman, Dorothy S. Cochrane, 42, Scot., arrived c. 31/12/03, d., Days here - IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII I love you, Amina After scratching their initials below the last line, Jamie and Jasmine asked Dorothy who Amina was: Dorothy drew an arrow-pierced valentine's heart on an open patch of jungle floor.

The girls looked and nodded knowingly.

Days passed slowly, nights were interminable and the women kept watch overhead and at sea for passing ships or overflying aircraft, especially that Australian PBY that was supposed to fly Jas and Jamie into slavery. Dot continued to scratch the passing days on the rock face and by Day 30, the plane still had not arrived.

Jamie and Jasmine were getting worried: would the plane come and land, see they were not there and decide to explore this island? What would the slavers do if they caught Dorothy? And what would happen to them? If they got out to sea and were spotted by the plane, what would happen then?

These and many other questions went unanswered and they agreed they would have to go into hiding in the jungle if they heard the plane. One day, the young girls tried their hand at spearfishing and Jamie, more athletic than Jasmine, managed to stab a three-pound flatfish. The women put it on a stick and cooked it on Dorothy's little bonfire that night.

The girls watched in amazement at Dot's dexterity, slipping pieces of succulent white fish into the left-lower side of her mouth, licking it off the gag, tilting her head back and chasing it with a squirt of water through the hole in her hard-rubber gag.

"Amazing, Dorothy," Jamie said. "How'd you ever learn to do that?" Dot shrugged her shoulders and left them to answer the question themselves. Scrounging though the young girls' rations cartons, Dot discovered a one-inch-long pencil stub and was overjoyed.

At last, she could communicate!!

She clinked over to the girls by the bonfire and took each by the hand over to the pile of cartons. Checking the lead on the little stub, Dorothy began to write in her neat hand:

I am from Glasgow, Scotland, and am a free woman; I am a secretary, not a slave, prisoner or pervert. I was hired by an African oil exploration

company and agreed to wear these chains as an employment pre-requisite (old tribal custom, don't ask). The gag was put in as a practical joke before I was flown out here last month to solve a personnel issue.

The dildo is my own. The girls, satisfied with this explanation, nodded quietly and Jasmine asked to have a closer look at Dorothy's chains in the flickering firelight.

Dot nodded and Jamie and Jasmine knelt beside the crouching Dorothy, running their hands lightly over her head harness, collar, nipple rings, waist chain and ankle shackles, carefully avoiding her ringed nipples and the stainless-steel knob jutting out of her dildo harness between her legs.

"Does that hurt?" Jasmine asked Dorothy. "How did you come to be wearing that inside you? Don't you have the keys?"

Dot closed her eyes and shook her head no to the first and third questions.

The second question was none of her business, she told herself.

"Those nipple rings of yours are huge, Dorothy," Jamie said. "Where did you get them? I would like to get a set like those for mine but you're better-endowed than both of us."

Dot wrote on the cardboard: "Africa and tnx for the compliment." Next day, after foraging around for coconuts, firewood and beach grass, the girls wanted to play tag on the beach and Dorothy agreed to referee.

No sooner had Jasmine and Jamie started running round under Dot's watchful eye than they froze: Dot heard it first, over the girls' shrieks and laughter.

"FFFFIIIIFFFF!" she shouted and the girls stopped. Dorothy pointed at the sound and they all heard the unmistakable drone of a propeller-driven flying boat, descending directly for Jamie's and Jasmine's island. The grey plane loomed into view behind the island, dipped and skimmed to a long, noisy landing near the shore they had left days previously.

"Ohmigod, it's them!" Jamie cried. "We gotta hide."

Dot followed as the two young women scampered into the jungle, grabbing a couple of cans of meat and some bottled water en route.

Three days later, they heard the plane take off again and were happy to emerge from their jungle hideaway. All thee had been scared to death by the snakes, spiders and other slimy things that came to visit them night and day and Dorothy nearly fainted when a huge, colorful spider landed on her shoulder as she sat under a towering tree.

But they were unhurt and looked carefully around to see that the plane had, indeed, left.

Only silence greeted them from the far-off island and Dot was confident they had been saved – for the moment. Dot signalled with a clash of chain for the girls to come round: Looking at them closely, she wrote,

Not sure plane and searchers have left area -- will wait another few days to ensure – must leave this island before food runs out or before something else happens. Agree? Jasmine and Jamie looked at each other and at Dot.

"Yes, we agree, Dorothy; you just tell us what we have to do and we'll do it."

Dorothy nodded assertively and directed them to muster all their supplies, check the liferaft, try and spear some more fish and get palm fronds to protect them from the broiling sun if they ever got over the coral reef. Jasmine and Jamie worked closely but too slowly for Dorothy's satisfaction and Dot had to keep continual watch on the two naked women. One afternoon, Dorothy, standing with her thumbs slung through her waist chain, thought she saw a distant smudge on the horizon. Turning her harness-limited gaze away from her two young colleagues, she looked out to sea and saw the small, grey shape of a ship.

"FFFFIIIIFFFFF" she whistled at the girls. They immediately stopped and ran to Dorothy's side.

"Fhip," Dorothy said, pointing with both arms to the little speck on the horizon. All three fell to work to stoke the signal fire but it was too late. The ship had sailed under the horizon, gone forever.

Capt. Bisescu and his crew were en route to Samoa to scrape up some work with the BenizeOil Corp. oil platforms and did not even see the island on their radar.

"Escape. Today," Dot wrote on the wet sandy foreshore.

The escape was on.

Dorothy indicated with sign language and little messages they should eat and drink their fill before heading out to sea.

They had a big lunch of canned meat, water and Mars bars, swallowed a couple of vitamins, and dragged the liferaft and all their supplies to the water edge. Dorothy hauled big piles of palm fronds down after them, checked the scene and the equipment and believed they were in all respects ready for sea.

Dot went over and shook Jasmine's, then Jamie's hands in her chains, they hugged, snuffled and climbed into the raft, ready to say adieu to their island prison.

Dorothy took position in the front while Jamie and Jasmine piled in the rear with the paddles. At Dot's instruction, they each tied Jamie's and Jasmine's long hemp ropes around their waists and secured them to the ratlines in case they were washed overboard.

The three women, now all bound but for safety reasons, quaked in fear as they saw huge rollers coming in to rumble and die on the coral reefs. It was windy and not the best day to breach the reef and Dot clutched at her wrist chain in despair.

Jasmine and Jamie paddled on and Dot hung on to the ratlines that had saved her life weeks earlier. The little, bright yellow craft was like a cork on the huge, low sea swells and Dot knew they had to time it right. Using sign language, she directed the girls to head for the smallest waves that were rolling in over the deepest coral. Jas. and Jamie paddled for all they were worth and found a pause in the endless parade of waves.

Dot pointed with her arms in the direction they should go and the girls leaned to their task. Suddenly, they were paddling uphill as a big wave rolled toward them and, in a heart-stopping instant, they were at the rumbling, rolling, white-flecked crest then coasting rapidly downhill as their wave continued its unerring course to the beach.

Another, larger wave loomed suddenly in front, swamped the raft and spilled them all into the cool sea, the carton of supplies barely floating on the surface.

Dot was thrown headfirst into the water instantly and, struggling with closed eyes, a finger over her gag-hole to prevent her from drowning she slowly regained the surface with frantic kicks of her chained feet; Jamie and Jasmine, still holding their lightweight aluminum paddles, were still at the surface and, fortunately, all three were still tied to the liferaft.

Dot clung on for dear life again, remembering too vividly the crash at sea that had nearly taken her life, while Jasmine and Jamie tried to rescue the slowly sinking cardboard boxes that held their supplies. The palm fronds floated in a heap nearby an after an hour of splashing, cries and superhuman efforts, all three were back inside the raft, paddling again for the open sea, wet, dishevelled and scared..

Dusk fell and they all shivered in the cold in the bottom of the liferaft. Lying closely together they knew they had to do something to generate body heat.

Sex, Dorothy thought, as she twisted herself into a more comfortable position. She spread her legs wide and began fucking herself furiously with her locked-in dildo which would only budge an inch, so tightly was it strapped inside her.

Jasmine and Jamie, watching Dorothy hard at work, got the message and they, too, started masturbating more vigorously than they ever had in their lives. After a few minutes, the three women each reached shattering orgasms, their sighs and cries reaching out into the blackness of the open ocean. They were warm, sexually satiated but still scared. Day broke in a few hours and saw three shivering women, still nestling under the clammy palm fronds, dreaming of the day when they would be back in a warm bed under much more comfortable circumstances. The days began to pass slowly, compared to the busy times they had on the island.

Early each morning, Dorothy organized the day's rations – two ounces of bully beef, four ounces of water, a small piece of Mars bar and a vitamin pill – which she handed to each girl twice a day, morning and evening. The sun shone brightly overhead and the girls and woman took refuge from the blaze under the palm fronds.

More days passed and not a sign -- they saw neither fish, bird, ship nor plane -- as their little raft bobbed on, caught up in the massive South Equatorial Current that was taking them inexorably toward the Solomon Islands, hundreds of miles to the east.

Dot had marked IIIII III II in pencil on the inside of the liferaft the day they heard the whistle.

There, about two miles stern of them was a little black shape steaming for them. It was the Patna coming straight at them at speed. Jasmine and Jamie nearly vomited in fear as they saw their nemesis again for the second time. "It's that goddam ship that brought us here, Dorothy!" Jamie cried. "What do we do?"

"Difff!!" Dot tried to shout. "FFFFFFF!"

The girls looked at one another and stopped shouting.

An hour later, the rusty, black hull of the little island steamer was nestling up against the little liferaft and crewmen were throwing over a scrambling net to help the women on board.

"We're all dead!' Jasmine cried. "We're doomed."

"FFFFF!!!" Dorothy remonstrated, gasping through her penis gag still wedged firmly as before into her mouth.

She forgot completely about her steel bondage and dildo as strong, hairy arms helped her up the rope ladder. Putting her feet on the cool steel deck for the first time, she shook as Capt. Bisescu strode by to look at this strange, sexy sight. Jasmine and Jamie were next and, in minutes, stood holding onto Dorothy's arms as the six-man, one-woman crew gathered in the little cargo deck to look at these deeply-suntanned, naked women, one of whom had been heavily chained.

The captain, shocked and deeply saddened by the sight of the three women, showed them quickly to his cramped, little stateroom and offered them food and water.

He ordered a crewman to find some tools to free Dot's gag and, moments later, Dorothy was able to pull the big India-rubber cock out of her mouth after a shipwright had hacksawed through the straps holding it in place these past months.

"Ohhh, thank you," Dorothy sighed, working her jaw with her chained left hand. Jasmine and Jamie looked up hearing their leader's Scottish accent for the first time. "I've worn that so long I began to think it would never come off."

She looked at the cock that had invaded her for so long and turned her head away, disgusted.

Turning to the stocky, unshaven sea captain, she said, "My name is Dorothy Cochrane; I am from Glasgow, Scotland, and I work for BenizeOil Corporation out of Bally, Benize, East Africa. My chains are part of my employment requirements as stated in ancient tribal law. I am not a slave or an escaped convict and you can radio BenizeOil to confirm my identity if you choose. "I understand you are acquainted with Jasmine and Jamie already," she continued. "They have done you no harm and we beg of you to return us to safety and freedom. We thank you most sincerely for rescuing us – I am sure we would have perished if we were another week out there – and we thank you for stopping.

"Please take us home?"

The young captain, moved by this heartfelt plea from this haggard, yet beautiful, chained woman, the white traces of her head harness tracing half-inch paths across her face, said:

"Madam, I am required by international law to save lives at sea. It is a law of the sea that has bound mariners to one another for centuries, in war and peace, and I am grateful for the opportunity to rescue you.

"Indeed, we are both fortunate; I was so saddened after I had ordered that Ms. Michener and Ms. St. Clair be cast way on that desert island. I did it for money only, to save my poor company from insolvency; I thought I would be arrested for attempted murder but the police never came.

"I will only hope and pray the laws of your country will be merciful to me and my crew and take into consideration the nominal fact that we have rescued you. "Please forgive me."

Jasmine and Jamie looked at each other and chorused: "Not today, you bugger."

The captain looked pleadingly at Dorothy, then quickly ordered the crewman, standing quietly nearby, to cut off Dorothy's chains.

Dorothy sat, a blanket wrapped over her sunburnt nudity, while the young Romanian crewman began sawing at her ankle cuffs. Fifteen minutes later the dull blade had not made a scratch in the titanium.

"Won't cut, captain," the young Filipino crewman said. "Blade's dull and I only have one more left."

"Ga-ah, dismissed," Capt. Bisescu said brusquely.

"Mrs. Cochrane, I have no idea what metal your bonds are made of but we have attempted today to remove them. I am sorry we cannot do more for you. Please accept my further apologies."

Dorothy nodded her head quietly and accepted her chains again as part of who she is and would be.

That night, Dorothy, Jamie and Jasmine slept in bunks for the first time in months; the little tramp steamer had one vacant, three-passenger stateroom and the women slept soundly, feeling the ship's thrumming engine deeply below them.

The next morning, at breakfast, Dorothy, clad in another snug-fitting sundress given her by the slender Filipino cook, Jasmine and Jamie in jeans and snug T-shirts lent them by the crew, sat with the captain to discuss their future.

Speaking for the first time over a huge plate of kippers and canned tomatoes (her favorite, the captain discovered), Dorothy agreed to speak for her two companions and asked the captain to listen carefully:

If he would agree to return them to East Africa and help ensure safe passage for herself back to Benize and the girls to California, she would ask the girls not to press charges.

Jamie and Jasmine said nothing as the captain excused himself, went directly to the bridge and ordered a course alteration to the African east coast, 10 days away.

"Are you kidding, Dorothy? And let him get away scot-free to do it all again?!" Jamie asked.

"Shhhh, I have a plan," Dorothy replied a finger to her lips.

Minutes later, the captain returned and listened again as Dorothy said she wanted him to accompany her to the nearest police station and give evidence against the white slave traders who had contracted him. In return, she said, she would provide sworn statements to the effect that she and her companions owed him their lives and that he should be given clemency.

The captain, scratching his 10-day growth of beard, considered these options from this bright, shrewd chained woman.

Hmmm, if he kept them aboard, they could possibly engineer an escape; they had already escaped from an island and were fit and clever enough to do so again. If he dropped them off at their requested destination and left suddenly, he would be followed and traced by Interpol. If he agreed to go to the authorities with Dorothy, explain his situation and hope that Dorothy would speak up for him, he had a chance to get off. His California captives said they would do whatever Dorothy told them to do.

After two hours of discussion, the man and three women had agreed: the captain would take them to a Benizian port, give Jasmine and Jamie enough money to buy clothes, new identification and air transportation back to California and would accompany Dorothy to the police. He hoped for the best. They all agreed and Dorothy and the girls added they would chip in and assist with chores aboard the little ship until they arrived port 10 days away.

Dorothy, in her sundress, dildo and chains, helped the young Filipino girl in the galley while Jasmine and Jamie stood engine-room watches night and day.

Captain Bisescu, quietly pleased at the cooperation he was receiving from his unusual passengers, asked Dorothy one night to join him for supper – alone.

Dorothy agreed and he put on his cleanest T-shirt while Dorothy undressed and showered in the crew's small washplace. Emerging refreshed but still tired from her ordeal, she clinked and clashed her way down the steel deck to join the captain in his maindeck cabin.

A sumptuous roast-chicken dinner awaited Dorothy and she devoured her second substantial meal in months with gusto.

The sea captain, a bachelor, took note of her great dexterity with chained hands and said:

"Mrs. Cochrane, I barely know you but it appears to me you have great use of your hands and legs despite these unusual chains that are attached to you. How do you explain that?"

"Captain," she replied between forkfuls. "Women are capable of most anything. I agreed to have myself chained to work for BenizeOil. In so doing, I told myself I had better get used to wearing them because the money was simply too good to turn down. I am Scottish, after all, and I mind my pence.

"But if you really want to know, I did not put my personal principles before creature comforts and I am steadfast in that resolution. In fact, I rather enjoy wearing them today," she said. She realized her deeply-implanted, locked-in steel dildo would prevent them from having sexual intercourse if she let the conversation drift that way.

"I am a paradox, you see," she said. "I am a free woman, yet chained. I appear to be a straggler from the sea yet my bank account is full. You may think that a woman in chains is to be feared, admonished or looked own upon; well, clearly, the opposite is true in my case.

"I organized and helped carry out an escape from our island and earned the gratitude of Jasmine and Jamie.

"I am in a position now to help you and, despite these pounds of chain and metal that I carry, I will do so in the expectation that Benizian laws, and those of your country, will exercise leniency toward you."

The captain, taken aback by this woman's clarity, was at a loss for words. "Madam, I do not know what to say," he stammered. "Let me just add that you look most attractive tonight in that dress and your ah, er, metal accoutrements. "

Dorothy felt the steel dildo move inside her but this garrulous sea captain, 14 years her junior, was not turning her on. She wanted to see Amina again. "I hope that we can be friends during the remainder of our trip," he said pleasantly.

"Please, let's eat," Dorothy said, giving him an icy stare that would freeze the bolts of the engine mountings, and they finished their supper in silence.

Ten days later, the greenish-grey coast of East Africa hove into view and Dorothy was beside herself with excitement. Freedom, or relative freedom, at long last. And a lovely reunion with Amina.

That afternoon, after the ship was directed by the harbormaster to a spot at a deserted wharf, Dorothy and Captain Bisescu found a small police station and made their respective statements. The tramp island steamer captain was not charged and was instructed to sail away from the country in 24 hours. His information, in exchange for the discharge, would be used to hunt down the traffickers, he was told.

Dorothy, after hearing this and explaining the reasons for her chains, contacted BenizeOil's head office, got through directly to Godfrey Smith and within hours a company car pulled up to return her to Bally, still chained as she was months before. Jasmine and Jamie, given bags of "hush money" from Capt. Bisescu, were given clean clothes at the police station and driven to Bally airport separately where transportation had been arranged for them.

They were never heard from again but Dorothy overheard years later they had secured employment with BenizeOil in Samoa, and were wearing chains similar to hers year-round to satisfy their employment contracts.

Dorothy was exhausted on her return to dusty, little Bally on that fateful, hot weekday afternoon and she needed a shower, a rest and a good meal. She told the driver to take her to the hotel she had stayed in months ago and was amazed to find her room still waiting for her.

After a long, languorous shower and small snack that night, Dot looked out her front mirror and saw Amina, dressed in skimpy black dress, heels, steel collar and head harness, trolling for johns on the little main street.

Dorothy tore out of the hotel as fast as her chains would allow, ran up to Amina and both women hugged and sobbed, thinking each other had died or fallen off the face of the earth.

Amina had become a drug-addled, HIV-free streetwalker and Dorothy rushed the still-gagged, mute ex-slavegirl back to her room to catch up on her news. Hours later, the women were lying together in bed, Amina's head harness still in place and Dorothy between her slave's legs, bring each of them to violent orgasms.

In return, Dorothy, still dildoed, allowed Amina to play with her deeply-tanned breasts and the two kissed and hugged like long-lost lovers. Next day, with Amina still sound asleep, Dorothy dressed in halter and miniskirt and clinked purposefully back to the corporate boardroom where here extraordinary adventure had begun months previously. "Mr. Smith, I want these chains removed forthwith," Dorothy said in her hardest voice, clacking her metal-enclosed right wrist on the polished oak boardroom table for emphasis. "I have been through pure hell and back in the last months after our plane crashed, and you know it. You and this corporation have no right, legal or otherwise, to keep me chained up.

"Get your tools out and unbind me this instant!"

"Mrs. Cochrane, I understand your frustration. But please let me explain. Your contract stated your chains would be struck off only if you ceased to be employed by the company. You are still with the company and, I might add, now a fairly wealthy woman.

"You did not communicate to us while you were en route to Samoa back in January and if you had done so, efforts could have been taken to help you; as it was, the SatPhone went down with the wreckage and you could not call us at all. I have no idea what happened on the plane that night but the crash is under investigation.

"You are lucky to be alive today and I am personally glad to see you back here again.," he said. Dorothy humphed and looked away, disgusted at this inane non sequitur.

"You have not breached your contract but it does activate a certain codicil, or addendum. I do not want to go into detail; suffice that I will be able legally to remove your collar and handcuffs but your ankle shackles will have to stay in order to satisfy the legalities of the contract.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes; in other words, my ankles are to remain chained for as long as I work for this company or until I l leave.

"Very well, then," she huffed, "you may remove these handcuffs and my collar and I will accept the requirement to be shackled in order to continue as a BenizeOil employee."

Two hours later, Dorothy strode back to her hotel, freer than she had been in months, but still ankle-chained and deeply-dildoed, to break the news to Amina.

Smith had also arranged for additional funds from the company's operational expenses account be deposited in her account. Dot's bank account totalled 850,000 pounds and she was glad. Back in the hotel room, she found a long note written to her by Amina to explain what happened to her the day Dorothy left for the South Seas. It was news to Dorothy and both women wept, distraught. Amina removed her head harness, withdrew a 2½-inch white ballgag and showed her lover the butchery inside her mouth.

Dorothy peeked inside, winced and wept anew.

Amina, living up to a centuries old slave tradition found in ancient Greece, consoled her mistress as only a slavegirl could.

Dorothy was determined now to quit BenizeOil – her bank balance boosted to 950,000 pounds with "hush money' from Capt. B. and Godfrey Smith, and told Amina she wanted to take her out of the country and start over.

The next day, Dorothy had tendered her resignation, still in chains, and left the building immediately, not waiting for Smith to strike her shackles from her. She would have that done at a later date, far away from this shabby, little country whose laws were based in the Dark Ages.

She drove Amina to a rehab centre north of Bally and got her admitted to a 28-day program while she went back to her hotel room to try and work out plans for their future.

Her first call was to Gail, her long-lost pal back at McDonald's shipyard in Glasgow and the two talked for hours while Dorothy explained in lurid detail what had happened to her since the last time they spoke.

Gail was enthralled, aghast and proud, all at the same time. She thought Dorothy deserved a medal for her courage and fortitude in engineering and executing an escape from a fate worse than death, chained hand and foot and dildo-ed constantly.

Dorothy, on the other hand, went on with finding a new country to live in while Amina got better.

In September that year, they moved to Nova Scotia, Canada, to start over.

-30- (to be continued)