by Van ©2013
More than an
hour had passed since Mistress Cressida abandoned Corky in her
tiny cage. More than an hour since Corky looked up the
word "immure" and learned her fate—or her possible
fate—or had learned nothing at all, other than the dictionary
meaning of the word.
The hour gave Corky a chance to calm down, and she had.
She was still anxious and conflicted, of course. Okay, she
was terrified and conflicted. Her tummy
butterflies had settled into a non-fluttering lump and her heart
was no longer pounding. That was something. Having
nothing to do but lie in a locked, cramped cage curled up in a
naked, freckled, tousle-haired ball and fret was the main
"To entomb in a wall" was only one of the meanings of
"immure," and the third meaning, at that. Also, everybody
in Tydwell Castle, from top to bottom, had been very
nice to Corky from day one—not counting the way the senior maids
had "hazed" her by refusing to boink her like the other junior
maids—and the way the Dragon Lady made life difficult with her
exacting standards—and the cruel and unusual (and wonderful)
things Mistress Cressida had done to her in the last few
hours. She didn't really believe Her Ladyship, the
Dragon Lady, or anybody was planning to wall her up in
an alcove in some secluded part of the castle—naked, in chains,
gagged, with a bunch or hungry rats and hairy spiders crawling
all over her, and...
"Stop it!" Corky muttered under her breath. Mistress
Cressida won't let it happen. And they aren't going to
do anything like that in the first place. So...
exactly what was Lady Jane talkin' about when
she said 'the immurement?'
Just then the bedroom door opened and Corky's interlude of
senseless, stupid worrying was over—either that or her
worst fears were about to come true! Corky watched as
Mistress Edna (the Dragon Lady, herself) and two senior maids
entered the bedroom and walked towards her cage.
"Get her dressed while I check on the Handmaiden's Hole," Edna
Corky's cage was unlocked and her fellow maids helped her crawl
out and climb to her bare feet (her bare everything).
"My hole?" she whispered.
"Hush," one of the maids whispered back. "She's not in a
"No, I'm not," Edna huffed. Obviously, the Dragon Lady had
overheard. The House Mistress was standing before a
section of wall on the far side of the bookcase. She
opened a hinged panel, revealing a doorknob set in a shallow
niche, then turned the knob and opened a door—a door that Corky
hadn't even noticed was there. It was one of those "secret
doors" that wasn't really secret. The frame and the door
itself were flush with the wall and matched the bedroom's
wallpaper and wainscoting. Granted, the doorknob was
hidden, but the door itself was not. It was hiding in
plain sight, so to speak.
What else have I been too busy to notice? Corky
resolved to examine her Mistress' bedchamber inch-by-inch the
first chance she got. She heard a rustling noise, turned
her head and— "Oh!" Her eyes popped wide.
While Corky had been watching Mistress Edna, one of the maids
had unrolled a canvas bundle, revealing it to be a
straitjacket! This particular model was natural canvas—heavy,
natural canvas—with butternut leather trim and reinforcing
panels, as well as a plethora of dangling straps of cotton
webbing with stainless steel friction buckles.
Corky cooperated as the maids dressed her in the jacket.
What choice did she have? This wasn't the first canvas
outerwear Corky had seen at Tydwell Castle. After all, she
was a graduate of the basic training for new maids held
in Training Room B and straitjackets had been a part of
the curriculum. During that particular class Corky had
been a passive student, observing how to secure a guest in
body-hugging canvas but not actively participating.
Anyway, the techniques Corky had been taught were now being used
After Corky's arms were in the sleeves the jacket was zipped
closed up the back—Ziiiiip! Then, seven straps were
buckled over the zipper's flap to reinforce the closure. Vrrrip,
vrrrip, vrrrip, vrrrip, vrrrip, vrrrip, vrrrip.
They're right, Corky mused, when you're the one in
the jacket, that noise is really unsettling.
And so were the accompanying tugs on the straps as the jacket
grew progressively tighter.
And the jacket was tight. It hugged Corky's torso
like the proverbial glove. She was under no delusion the
canvas sheath had been custom tailored to the exact measurements
of junior maid Corky O'Brien. Apparently, somewhere in the
castle was an inventory of crazy-coats in all
sizes. Either that or the jacket's more-or-less perfect
fit was blind luck. Corky's money was on the former.
Her canvas-sheathed arms were folded in the traditional
self-hug, under a loosely buckled strap in the front that ran
from just below her breasts to just above the jacket's lower
hem. The sleeves' left and right terminal straps slid
through a pair of additional straps on either side and were
buckled together behind her back. Vrrrip.
Next, straps were buckled over her upper arms—Vrrrip,
vrrrip—and through her crotch, framing her pussy on either
side. Vrrrip, vrrrip.
Corky knew what was coming next: "The Hug."
Working in concert, one maid embraced Corky from the side while
a second took in the resulting slack in the sleeves' terminal
straps. Vrrrip. They did this from either
side, twice, stopping only when no discernible slack
remained. The maids then went over all of the jacket's
ancillary straps, removing their remaining slack as well.
Vrrrip, etc. Finally, the senior maids took a step
back and smiled at their fellow maid.
That was Corky's signal. She twisted her upper body and
tugged on the sleeves. It was a "courtesy struggle,"
proper etiquette for any distressed damsel who found herself in
such a situation. Yes, the jacket was tight. Yes,
damsel Corky was completely helpless. Yes, the senior
maids' due diligence was confirmed.
In point of fact, Corky was very helpless. The
jacket squeezed her with every breath, and the canvas was
stretched taut over her shoulders, breasts, and around her arms,
sides, and tummy. The straps between her legs were also
taut. Her pussy was exposed, as was her ginger pubic bush,
but from the jacket's lower hem to its leather-trimmed collar,
the leather and canvas sheath hugged her body like a lovesick
The maids stepped forward and tucked the free ends of the straps
into various pockets. They finished by securing the velcro
closures of flaps that hid the straps and pockets, then turned
to face the House Mistress.
"Well?" Edna huffed. "What are you waiting for?"
She is in a bad mood, Corky
thought as she was led across the hidden door's threshold, even
for the Dragon Lady.
Corky found herself in a small bedroom. The bed was a
full-sized four-poster, but its frame was of stout timbers,
including a rectangular, horizontal top frame about five feet
above the level of the mattress. Style-wise, it was severely
spartan. Bondage-wise, it was a top-of-the-line deluxe
model. Steel rails were mounted on either side of the
lower bed-frame and numerous steel rings dangling from the lower
frame, upright posts, and upper frame. Lash-o-rama,
Corky thought. It would take a very long time to
run out of all the novel ways the bed could be used to bind a
hypothetical damsel—say, Corky O'Brien—on and/or above the
The remaining furniture were a solidly constructed straight
chair—two freestanding wardrobes, side by side—a dressing table,
bench, and mirror—and a chest of drawers. The bedroom was
fully furnished, but in an every-expense-spared sort of way, at
least with respect to style. However, like the bed, iron
rings dangled from the chair, dressing table bench, and even the
heavy timber rafters overhead. Corky sighed. More
lash-o-rama. Light in the windowless chamber came
from an overhead fixture, a double row of bulbs on either side
of the mirror, and a reading lamp on a small nightstand next to
Mistress Edna took the pitiful number of steps required to reach
a panel door on the far side of the room and slid it open.
Beyond was an even smaller room, perhaps better described as a
large alcove, with a commode, wall-mounted washbasin, and a
small shower stall with a transparent shower curtain of
heavy-duty vinyl. "None of this had been touched since the
last annual cleaning," Edna muttered, "but it will do for
tonight." She left the mini-loo's pocket door open, walked
to the wardrobes, and opened their doors. The first
wardrobe was empty, but hanging from pegs and hooks in the
second were coils of rope, leather straps, binders, gags of
various design (and severity), and heavy steel cuffs joined by
chains. "Hmm... not all of this is in Miss O'Brien's
size," Edna noted, then closed the wardrobe doors. "No
matter. There will be plenty of time to replace them
before the end of the immurement."
Corky stared at the House Mistress. There was that word
Edna walked to the door leading back to Mistress Cressida's
bedroom. Corky started to follow, but was stopped with a
preemptive gesture. "Stay!"
Corky remained behind, standing in the middle of the bedroom, as
ordered. The helpless maid watched as Edna slid a set of
vertical iron bars across the threshold. The gate locked
with an audible click. Then, without another word,
Mistress Edna closed the outer door. Corky heard a key
turn in a lock, and she was alone. The lights winked
out—!!!—but a pair of dim, blue-green nightlights took their
place. One glowed from somewhere inside the tiny bathroom
and the second from floor level, near the bed.
"So... I'm to wait here?" Corky inquired. There was no
answer, of course. She sighed, padded to the bed, and
flopped down on the mattress on her back. Her eyes
adjusted to the near-darkness as she stared up at the bed's
upper frame and the massive rafters beyond.
Obviously, the "Handmaiden's Hole," as Mistress Edna called it,
was her new bedroom, attached to Mistress' bedroom for ease of
service. Also obvious was the function of all the rings
and rails, rope, straps, cuffs, etc. When Mistress decided
her personal handmaiden required discipline, everything she
could possibly require would be readily at hand.
"Out of the cage and into the Handmaiden's Hole," Corky mused
aloud. "And what did the Dragon Lady mean by 'it will do
for tonight?' What happens tomorrow? And why am I
talking to myself?"
Minutes passed. Then, the door to Mistress Cressida's
bedroom was unlocked and opened, and one of the senior maids
slid a tray through a small, horizontal slot in the barred gate,
just above the floor. By the time Corky sat up and was
lifting her feet off the bed, the outer door had closed.
She heard the lock click, again.
Corky shuffled over and knelt before the tray. Even in the
dim light she could see that it held three sturdy stainless
steel bowls with flat bottoms and sloping sides. They were
pet bowls, eminently practical and just the thing for the care
and feeding of dogs, cats, and helpless damsels. The first
bowl held water with a floating slice of lemon. The second
held a dozen or so pastry nuggets that were like tiny burritos
or egg-rolls. The third held bite-sized pieces of mixed
fruit. "Dinner is served," Corky sighed and leaned forward
to enjoy her repast.
More pointless worrying about a possible entombment and the true
meaning of "the immurement" could wait.
Naked and chained to the bondage table in Training Room B,
Cressida had drifted off to sleep—but she was awake now!
Two or more maids—they were probably maids—were executing a
classic Sleeping Damsel Pounce and Full Hooding. Hands had
gripped Cressida's head, but before her eyes were open and fully
focused, a leather hood had slipped over her head and was being
laced up the back. During the process, rubber plugs were
inserted in her ears and her hair was gathered into a ponytail
and pulled through an opening in the back of the hood.
Cressida found she could breathe, so she surmised there must be
an opening in the hood over her nostrils. Mouth breathing
was also possible, albeit slightly more difficult than before,
so there had to be another opening over her ball-gagged mouth.
Senior maids, Cressida decided. They've got to
be senior maids. The cranial encasement had been
accomplished quickly and efficiently, with coordination and
minimal wasted effort. And spreadeagled as she was, she'd
been unable to resist. Full marks, ladies. You
do mother, Mistress Edna, and Castle Tydwell proud.
She tossed her head and tugged on her chains, a courtesy
struggle. Cressida might be angry with mother, but it
would be childish, indeed, to take it out on the staff.
A steel belt clicked closed around Cressida's waist. Like
her wrist and ankle cuffs, its finish was smooth, the edges
well-rounded, and it was a perfect fit. Another gift
from mother, no doubt. Her wrist cuffs were released
from their chains, she was "helped" into a sitting position, and
the cuffs locked together, behind her back and to the back of
the belt. Her ankles were released next, but immediately
linked together by a short, hobbling chain. Resistance had
been impossible, more evidence that she was under the control of
experienced handlers. Senior maids, she decided, assuredly.
Naked, in close chains, gagged, blind, and effectively deaf,
Cressida was led from Training Room B. A long journey
ensued with many left and right turns and the repeated ascent of
spiral and straight staircases. Cressida tried to discern
where she was being taken, but her handlers paused several times
to spin her helpless body in circles. The intent was to
disorient her, of course. Castle Tydwell was huge,
virtually a massive three dimensional maze. Getting lost
would be easy for someone in Cressida's condition.
However, Cressida had lived in the castle all of her life (not
counting boarding school and college) and she knew its floor
plan by heart. Well, ninety-percent of its floor
plan. Mother had her secrets, and there were doors barring
entire sections of certain towers and areas of the lower levels
to which Cressida did not have the key. In any case, the
maids' spin-the-damsel tactic had proved effective.
Cressida had no idea where she was—other than still in the
There was a pause—then Cressida was led forward and eased down
onto what felt like a soft bed. The maids' hands
disappeared. Several seconds later she thought she might
have heard the sound of a heavy door closing, but couldn't be
Hooded, gagged, her ears sealed and her eyes covered, naked and
in chains... time passed.
Eventually, Cressida went back to sleep.
totally refreshed. She was back in her Practice Room,
under the covers of her comfortable, faux-medieval pallet.
Her chastity belt was back in place, as was the long chain
linking her to the dungeon wall, but their presence hadn't
interfered with her slumber. A sly smile curled her
lips. She'd been totally exhausted when the maids
more-or-less carried her from the bath and back to her dungeon,
then more-or-less poured her into bed. It would have taken
a belt lined with sharp spikes to keep her awake—and the steel
panties mandated by Her Ladyship remained surprisingly
comfortable. Morena's right hand slid along the smooth
steel over her pussy, up and down the shield's vertical,
sawtooth slit. Comfortable and cruelly effective,
Yes, the masturbation embargo was back in effect, but Morena
didn't let that spoil her mood.
Early morning light was glowing from the south-facing window
shaft, the still dungeon air was pleasantly warm, and all was
quiet. Morena combed the tousled hair from her face with
her fingers, then closed her eyes. It was good to sleep
in... even chained in a dungeon... a nice, comfortable dungeon.
Suddenly, Morena heard the now familiar rattle of the dungeon's
outer door being unlocked. The heavy portal of iron-banded
oak opened as she sat up, and she beheld a pair of smiling
maids. One, a blond, was unlocking the dungeon's inner
gate of iron bars. The other, a brunette, was carrying a
tray. The gate squealed open and the maids entered the
"Good morning," the blond said with a friendly smile.
"Good morning," Morena answered, mustering a smile of her
own. She recognized both maids from last night, but didn't
know their names.
The brunette set the tray down several feet from the pallet and
curtsied. Then, together with her blond companion, she
returned to the far side of the gate.
"Enjoy your breakfast," the blond said as she closed the gate
and turned the key in its lock. "Your morning exercise
period is in two hours," she added. "Be ready."
"Thank you!" Morena called as the outer door closed.
Morena slid from under the covers, dragged her chain to the
tray, and knelt. Its contents were covered by a
faux-burlap cloth which would also serve as her napkin.
She whisked it away, and underneath found a covered plate, a tea
service, and a simple set of hand-forged cutlery.
Apparently, Her Ladyship wasn't bothered by the thought of
Morena using the knife, fork, and spoon to escape the
castle. No doubt the maids will inventory the tray
when they take it away, she reasoned, and missing
tableware would provide an excellent excuse for erotic torture...
as if they need an excuse.
Morena's spirits remained high. Thoughts of "erotic
torture" aside, she was very happy to be Lady Jane's
captive—happy in the manner of a terrified prisoner in a romance
novel pining for rescue, of course. She lifted the cover
and found a traditional English "fry-up": bacon, bangers, fried
eggs, fried tomato slices, fried mushrooms, fried mashed potato
cakes, and baked beans. All of which was substantially
heavier than her usual breakfast of toast with jam, honey, or
Nutella—maybe a little cheese—and coffee; but after last
night's orgy... Morena grinned. She'd make do.
Morena poured herself a cup of tea, took a sip, then picked up
the knife and fork and "tucked away" at her breakfast, as the
English would say.
awake, again—and for a while, total disorientation held sway.
"Mrrrf!" Cressida twisted and squirmed, and in so doing
realized she was was naked and in chains, her head was laced in
an isolation hood, a ball-gag was in her mouth, and plugs filled
her ears! She tugged on her implacable steel bonds, tossed
her head, and mewled into her gag. "Nrrrrr!"
Finally—in a matter of seconds, actually—her head cleared,
memory returned, and the panic dissipated. I was at
tea with mother and Edna, she recalled. My tea
was drugged, and I awoke spreadeagled to the table in the
maids' training room. Then, senior maids hooded me,
released me from the table, and brought me here, wherever
Cressida's wrists were still manacled behind her back with wide,
close-fitting, probably custom made steel cuffs and locked to
the back of the steel belt locked around her waist. Her
steel-fettered ankles remained hobbled by a few inches of steel
chain. Finally, she was on what was almost certainly a
bed. However, there had been a change, and it was
what had disturbed her slumber. Her hooded head and bare
shoulders were on someone's lap, and as soon as she stopped
thrashing and struggling, fingers began fiddling with the laces
of her hood. The grip of the leather encasement
relaxed. Cressida's nostrils flared and she recognized her
rescuer's perfume. Mother!
The fingers—mother's fingers—pulled the loosened hood
halfway off her head, plucked the rubber plugs from her ears,
then pulled the hood the rest of the way off. Cressida
blinked in the sudden light, then focused on her mother's
smiling face. Lady Tydwell was beautiful, as always, and
was dressed in one of her extensive collection of designer
summer dresses. This one was sky-blue and short sleeved,
with a generous décolletage.
Cressida faced something of a dilemma. How should she
react to a maternal kidnapping? Her main options were
anger and acquiescence. It was an absolute outrage
that mother was treating her like one of her celebrity
playthings, but Cressida knew her mother's love was as certain
as the sunrise. She decided on cool indifference, at least
for now. She could always throw a childish tantrum later,
if it seemed appropriate.
Lady Jane combed her fingers through her bound, gagged, and
naked daughter's tousled hair. "I know you're curious,
darling," she said, continuing to smile.
Cressida rolled her eyes in exasperation. I will NOT
sit through a classic Gloating Scene, she decided. Option
two be damned! I'm giving mother a piece of my
mind—in gag-speak, of course. Her eyes narrowed and
she growled through her gag.
"Oh, Honeybee," Lady Jane chuckled, "if you could see your
face." She reached to the side and produced a leather
bound book, opened its cover, and Cressida realized it was
actually a double picture frame. The left panel held a
sheet of parchment, elegantly illuminated in medieval
style. It bore the Tydwell coat-of-arms and underneath, in
exquisite calligraphy, the words:
Honorable Jane Penelope Rowena Tydwell
To Become the Seventeenth Marchioness Tydwell
Taken April the 5th, 1972
The Third Month of Her Immurement
The right panel held a
"Mrrrpfh?" Cressida's eyes widened in utter
astonishment. It was a portrait of mother, herself—but she
was young—by the date given, a few years younger then Cressida's
current age. And she was naked, or appeared to be
naked. Only her upper body was in the picture and she was
half-turned from the camera, but the flare of her just visible
hip suggested full nudity. She was posing before a
window. And, in a not-so-minor detail, a steel collar was
around her neck, with an attached, nearly vertical chain!
Mother is naked and tethered like a dog! Cressida
thought. Or a maid! Or a guest!
Cressida gazed at the photograph while the fingers of mother's
free hand continued combing and straightening her hair.
"My hair was very long in those days," Lady Jane purred, "to my
waist, in fact. It was something of a trademark.
Even Her Majesty noticed." She indicated their
surroundings with a wave of the hand. "The photo was taken
in this very chamber. One of mother's maids was something
of a shutterbug. Her name was Amanda, but I always called
her Mandy. She retired to Lyme Regis some years ago."
Cressida lifted her head and surveyed her surroundings, as best
she could from her mother's lap. The chamber had the stone
walls and floor typical of most rooms of the keep, and was an
elongated rectangle. At the far end was a single window
set in a shallow alcove, but it was unlike the window in
The photographed window was modern, by castle standards, a
double-hung design found in those parts of the castle that had
been renovated for day-to-day living. The windows of the
castle's "guest quarters" remained medieval in appearance, of
course, as they were often used for the day-to-day languishing
of naked damsels in chains. Most of the openings had been
made weather tight at some point, but they were almost always
protected by heavy iron bars on one or both sides.
The chamber's present window was decidedly of the "guest"
variety. A large, single pane of glass was set in a hefty
iron frame, and a curtain of vertical iron bars walled off the
"Yes, I had the window replaced," Lady Jane nodded. She
closed the picture frame, set it aside, and returned to combing
her captive daughter's hair. "The new glass is
shatterproof, more than an inch thick, and the frame and bars
incredibly strong. Nothing can be removed without the use
of specialized tools. Much better suited to the
Cressida stared up at her mother's smiling face. "Mrrrf?"
"I also had the plumbing and heating improved," Lady Jane
continued, then gestured towards the vaulted ceiling, "and the
chain-handling machine refurbished."
Cressida looked up and beheld an impressive mechanism of large,
nested metal gears and iron counterweights dangling from
chains. The assembly was mounted eight to ten feet above
the floor and was solidly bolted to the massive rafters.
Bottommost was a long metal track running the length of the
chamber. Riding in the track was a curved, horizontal
lever-arm, and dangling from the end of the arm was a long steel
"Don't trouble yourself with the machine, Honeybee," Her
Ladyship chuckled. "You'll have plenty of time to study
Cressida kicked her chained feet in frustration. Enough
was enough! Now it was really time for that
"Temper, young lady," Lady Jane purred. "Allow me to
unfold the tale in my own way."
Cressida glared—in the way a loving daughter who finds herself
the naked, helpless captive of her loving mother glares—and
heaved a long-suffering, gagged sigh.
"I know you've read many of the castle ledgers and family
papers," Lady Jane continued, "but I've held back certain
journals and letters in my private study. Among them is a
firsthand account of the betrothal of the first Marchioness
Tydwell. By modern standards the betrothal in question
would be characterized as an abduction and hostage-taking.
It's a stirring tale, worthy of Sir Walter Scott, more so as it
is history, family history, and not fiction. In
any case, Lady Ghislaine considered her new husband and
kidnapper to be something of an uncouth bumpkin, more interested
in his horses and dogs, hunting, and waging war on his neighbors
than he was in his abducted bride, and she resented being his
pawn. His response to her scorn was to keep her naked and
in chains until she came to know her place and
appreciate his many fine qualities. Strangely, the tactic
worked—and backfired. You see, Honeybee, Ghislaine
and her beloved Alerick fell madly and mutually in love.
By all accounts, he came to value her keen intelligence and
profited greatly by her shrewd political advice.
Eventually, he was made marquis by the king."
Cressida continued staring up at her mother. Strangest
mother-daughter family chat EVER!
"Anyway," Her Ladyship continued, "formally imprisoning Tydwell
women for some period of time became a family tradition, but
over the centuries the practice changed. What is known as
'the immurement,' is now a rite of passage for Tydwell
daughters. After your immurement, I'll allow you
to read the immurement journals of all of our ancestors.
You will keep a journal, as well."
Cressida's eyes popped wide, again. MY immurement?
"Tracing the gradual evolution of the tradition is fascinating,"
Lady Jane said. "Bridal abduction has become an extended
lesson in empathy and self control." Her Ladyship leaned
close and kissed her daughter's forehead. "Think of it as
your apprenticeship for a position on the castle staff."
Cressida blinked in surprise. What?
"I have never seen you actually mistreat one of the servants,"
Lady Jane purred, "nor has Edna reported any abuse. That
said, while immurement might not be a lesson you need or want,
it's one that I know will help you grow. It helped
me. In any case... tradition." She reached to the
side and lifted a steel collar attached to a chain.
The chain dangling from the mechanism overhead swayed and
rattled, and Cressida realized the collar and machine chains
were one. The collar was a thick, rounded, hinged torus,
and locked to the chain by means of a small ring in the back and
one of mother's figure-eight double locks. A second small
ring dangled from the collar's front.
"Of course," Her Ladyship continued as she fit the collar around
Cressida's neck and clicked it closed, "a key element of the
immurement is that your wants and wishes are completely
irrelevant. You are now a prisoner of the castle, and will
remain a prisoner until you are released." She turned
Cressida's head, unbuckled the ball-gag and eased it from her
mouth, then eased Cressida off her lap and stood. "If
you're truly unhappy, I suppose you can escape, of
course." Her smile broadened. "There's always a
Cressida licked her lips, worked her jaw, and tried to
swallow. Her ladyship was strolling to a gate of iron bars
set in the wall. She hadn't noticed the gate before as her
mother's body had blocked her view. "Mother!" she finally
managed to gasp. "Let's talk about this!"
Her Ladyship opened the gate and the steel-clad door beyond,
crossed the threshold, and turned. "Later, Honeybee," she
chuckled. "A few final arrangements remain." She
pulled the gate closed with a clang.
"Mother, please!" Cressida's plaintive cry was cut off by
the closing of the outer door. She stared at the iron bars
of the gate and the iron-clad portal beyond in stunned
disbelief, then heaved a despairing sigh. "Brilliant," she
muttered under her breath. So much for my shopping
trip to London next week. A frown knitted her brow.
Mother never said how long this 'immurement' nonsense is
supposed to last, she realized. What was the
last line on the parchment? She remembered—and
swallowed, nervously. 'The third month of her
immurement!' Three months! Mother isn't going to
keep me in here for THREE MONTHS! Is she?
"Oh, bollix!" Cressida muttered under her breath.
her eyes. The overhead light was on and the door of her
new bedroom, the Handmaiden's Hole, was being unlocked.
The portal opened and Mistress Edna stood in the doorway.
The sliding gate of iron bars still blocked the threshold.
"Relieve yourself," the Dragon Lady ordered. "You're going
to breakfast with Her Ladyship."
Corky shook her head, trying and failing to bring some degree of
order to her tousled mop of red curls. "But... What?"
The House Mistress rolled her eyes. "This is not an
invitation to chat, Miss O'Brien, it's an order. You have
five minutes." And with that, she slammed the door shut.
Corky blinked her sleep-crusted eyes in surprise, and decided
she wasn't dreaming. For one thing, the overhead
light was still on. For another, she was hungry. Breakfast
with Her Ladyship? Corky was naked, but for the
canvas and leather-trimmed straitjacket squeezing her upper
body. Her legs and crotch were completely bare, her hair
was beyond messy, and she needed a good bath. Breakfast
with Her Ladyship?
Corky heaved herself off the bed and padded to the bathroom
alcove. She'd already determined the commode operated by
means of foot pedals for both the flushing and bidet
functions. Elimination wouldn't be a problem.
Splashing her face in the wall-mounted washbasin while strapped
in a straitjacket? That was a problem.
| Chapter 6