Steel World Inc. Chapter Nine

 

“Oh, James, no, please, I’m not sure I’m really comfortable with this,” said Kissy Ryde as she moved closer to him. All around her, various men were cheering in a polite, well-mannered fashion, but there was something about their expressions that was slightly unsettling. Something almost wolf like, and hungry, as if they were anticipating a feast. It was probably my overactive imagination, gazing at these undoubtedly powerful men – captains of Industry, entrepreneurs, European aristocrats, and billionaires.  

 

For the most part the expressions on the faces of the lovely women who stood dutifully by the side of their men were rather more mixed. Some women cheered in a champagne fuelled party like atmosphere (for I noticed that many of the pretty girls had been generously served repeated flutes of champagne), pleased that someone other than them would be first up to take the challenge, and curious to see what it now entailed, before they too might be committed to take a turn at the wheel. I could see in their faces how exciting this seemed; exciting, thrilling, but also inherently dangerous, for none of them wished to be paraded about the hall tonight in a collar and slave tunic. The very thought! These women gazed at one another, perhaps speculating which of their sex might be humiliated tonight in such a fashion. Some other women gave Kissy disapproving looks, as if by being nominated, through no choice of her own, Kissy had revealed herself as being something less than the Free Woman she was reputed to be, as if she was perhaps secretly the sort of girl who belonged in a collar and short tunic, rather than an exquisite designer gown. I use the term Free Woman of course in the context I had been hearing the phrase used recently. I still found it an unusual turn of phrase, but for consistency’s sake, I will continue to refer to it. Interestingly, a few, a very few, of the women seemed to study Kissy dispassionately, almost as if they knew of this ‘game’ and they were privy to the details of the challenge, of the details of the forfeit, and that they themselves had no intention of being nominated (an understanding perhaps with their male partners here – for some of the men had not said a word) and so were simply observers who were only too aware of what this entailed. Perhaps these women had attended parties at Hampstead Lane before, and they had seen this scenario play out once or twice in the past. Was that a look of pity I saw on one woman’s face?  

 

Just before James had called out Kissy’s name, I had witnessed a small, possibly insignificant, altercation to the left of the room that proved interesting, for it suggested to me that there was some smouldering resentment between the finely dressed ladies tonight and the salaciously garbed and steel collared girls who served them. Among the privileged guests I saw a tall, burly man who tonight was accompanied by his companion - a tall, lithe, long legged woman, more steely than willowy, dressed in a sheath like claret coloured gown that emphasized her long thighs and flat bottom. They had been served champagne by a short, curly haired brunette in a collar and tight fitting tunic. She in contrast had a body that was an abundance of curves, and beside her, the female companion must have felt jealous. The woman in the sheath dress had been served first in a manner that suggested a degree of courtesy so exaggerated it was only two ticks away from mockery. But then when the collared girl served the man at her side, she did so elaborately, first kissing very delicately the far rim of the flute, then pressing the thin glass between her breasts, then sliding it down her body to her belly before lifting the sparkling fluid almost up to the man’s lips. It was a powerfully erotic serve and I felt jealous that I was not the man enjoying the experience. This was how a girl should serve a man champagne. It looked right. It looked… natural. All the while the man’s Free Companion watched silently, her eyes narrowing in barely restrained resentment. But then when the girl in the steel collar lifted herself on tiptoes to kiss the man, after suggestively whispering some flirtatious words, the incident occurred. It seemed possibly an accident, and certainly not something designed to draw attention to herself or cause embarrassment to her escort, but with a casual and fluid motion, the companion’s glass was now empty, and the slave had a face full of expensive champagne, about half on her face, and half on her upper chest, turning the thin material from a covering to something resembling a wet T-shirt contest. The companion never stopped smiling, nothing anyone would have noticed. As I watched, she took a handkerchief and mopped the face and chest of the slave, observing, “you poor thing, you spilled champagne all over yourself, let me help clean you, you must be so embarrassed.” Only I could see clearly enough that the face mopping was a little more emphatic than strictly necessary, and that the perfection of the slave’s makeup was marred just enough to be noticeable or that the mopping of the slave’s upper chest was uncomfortably strong, or that the companion ensured that some makeup got smeared on the girl’s white tunic.

 

The women’s eye met briefly. Smug satisfaction on the part of the companion, and a sense of fear and helpless, futile, anger that could never be expressed on the part of the collared girl. 

 

There was no love lost between the two, and the balance of power was obvious to anyone who watched. I began to see this party in a whole different light. 

 

“Hey, you’ll do great, baby,” said James as he put his arm around Kissy. “The odds are on your side, and I reckon you’ll be going home tonight with a lovely prize. Some designer shoes, perhaps? Or a new handbag?”

 

“But if I lose?” Kissy looked up at him, all doe-like. She seemed troubled by the thought of the forfeit. “Look at what Puta and Tessa are wearing. It’s so tight and revealing. So shameful. And the collars…” she pouted. “That will be me, all evening. How will I even be able to look at other women?”

 

“That’s them, baby, not you. Don’t let me down now. We’re all counting on you.”

 

James stroked her bottom through the expensive silk dress. I idly wondered who had paid for Kissy’s dress. It had to be designer haute couture, possibly ten thousand pounds in cost, if not more. There was no way Kissy could afford that, and I wouldn’t have thought James would or could have plundered his savings to that level of generosity.

 

“James, tell them you’ve changed your mind?”

 

“Can’t do that, honey. No backing out now. Make me proud, baby.” He kissed her softly on the cheek.

 

It was while I was looking around the room that I noticed a brunette over on the left who seemed familiar. I stared and saw a look of recognition on her face, and then a shy smile, as if she too recognised me, and was perhaps surprised that I was in the company of such rich and powerful older men. I think her name was Esme Hamilton, and she worked on my floor. A secretary, I think. She was of course very beautiful. I guessed a woman did not get to attend a gathering like this unless she was rich, powerful, or beautiful, and Miss Esme Hamilton of London was certainly not powerful, and her annual wealth could not possibly exceed twenty three thousand pounds a year. What was she doing here? She was in the company of a man I didn’t recognise – a man at least two decades older than her – a man who stood with the assurance of the privileged classes. Esme was also dressed exquisitely in an haute couture gown that she couldn’t possibly have afforded on her salary. And then I saw two other girls, whispering excitedly to one another as they gazed at the wheel and then, with sly, suspicious glances, at the sight of Kissy, as she hesitated to ascend the short steps of the podium. I didn’t know their names, but I felt sure I had seen them in the staff restaurant. They must work on the same floor as Arabella Whitlock – second floor girls, young, beautiful, and also expensively dressed. They seemed a bit flustered, perhaps torn between taking the gamble, and a fear that the men they were with might decide the matter themselves. 

 

And then I caught sight of Miss Madison. She was looking directly at me as Kissy protested to James, and she smiled knowingly when she saw me meet her gaze. Miss Madison nodded subtly, as if approving of the fact I was here. I nodded back, and tried to look grateful, even though I had no real idea what was going on. I still couldn’t believe that Miss Madison was the age she was. Forty-three, James had said! If anything, she looked… in her late twenties? Possibly twenty five, even? It was strange. When I first met Miss Madison, I remember assuming she was maybe  thirty three, but now I began to re-assess her age as closer to twenty five. Maybe it was her makeup, but lately she seemed even more youthful than that first day in her office when she had interviewed me. Tonight she wore an astonishingly beautiful beaded, grey metallic, lace decorated gown with bare shoulders and long translucent sleeves that set off her brown shoulder length hair tanned skin, and sparkling diamond effect hoop earrings. She look – exquisitely feminine. There was no other word for it. Feminine. I suddenly had the wild idea that she was a woman, a feminine woman, no different from Kissy. The air of authority she possessed at work seemed now to be gone, as she stood there in delicate high heels, make-up, earrings, and dressed in a close fitting sheath gown. How incongruous it now seemed that such an obviously feminine woman might hold authority, influence and power over men? I don’t know where that thought came from. Perhaps it was the confidence I felt from being dressed in such a fine suit, but as I gazed at Miss Madison I suddenly had the unexpected fantasy of her instead wearing a steel collar and serving men on her knees. The thought didn’t seem… wrong. I banished the thought of course, for I knew it was wrong, but still, Miss Madison now seemed, to my eyes at least, a very different kind of girl. 

 

Yes, a girl, not a woman. The term woman, it occurred to me, might be used to dignify a Lady. Would a Lady bare her shoulders like that? Of course not! Would a Lady wear such sensual earrings? A girl might. A certain type of girl most certainly would. I felt sure that Miss Madison was the kind of girl who would lavish large parts of her salary on expensive lingerie that she would wear secretly under her business clothes. The softest, most exquisite silk from Italian designer labels, with layers of lace and frills. She would be thrilled and excited by the sensation of such soft fabrics against her most tender, most sensitive skin. That would be her secret, too; a secret she wouldn’t dare reveal to anyone, least of all another woman. 

 

Miss Whitlock, on the other hand, was most certainly a dignified Lady, and therefore a woman. Miss Whitlock would not bare her shoulders in such a way, and would not wear such sexually promiscuous earrings. I suspected Miss Whitlock’s taste in underwear would be pretty, good quality, but sensible. Not for her the delicate wisps of silk and lace from exclusive boutiques in Milan, caressing her most private regions.  

 

Why was I thinking these things? Was it the air of authority that these men had? Was it perhaps influencing my thoughts?  

 

I watched as Miss Madison’s gaze lingered on me for a few more moments, before she then turned her back and walked slowly and gracefully towards the microphone, smiling to herself. 

 

I know your secret, Miss Madison. You are feminine. And at night you struggle with feminine thoughts that you are terrified of.

 

Miss Madison stood there and extended a welcoming arm, hand open, towards Kissy, where she still stood beside James.

 

“Kissy Ryde,” she said in a warm and friendly voice, enunciating the syllables of the girl’s full name. “A Free Woman of London,” her lip curled just a little as she described Kissy as a Free Woman, “who will stand with pride on behalf of her illustrious companion tonight.”

 

A strange thing then happened. The men in the room applauded, but not in the traditional manner, rather they struck their left shoulder with their right hand repeatedly. For a moment I thought it was perhaps some bizarre fascist salute, but no, this seemed to be a show of approval, but not one that I recognised.

 

“You’re up,” said James as he kissed his lovely girlfriend again. 

 

Kissy looked slightly bewildered as the men and women in the reception hall gathered around her, leaving a space only to the stage. She read the same mixture of expressions that I did, but was probably too giddy to analyse them all. 

 

“James…” Her fingers fluttered where her hands hung by her side.

 

“It’s cool,” he said. “Go win something amazing!”

 

Kissy walked slowly to the podium, lifting her long skirt at her thighs with the tips of her fingers, the inch or so required to clear the hem from the ground as her high heels clicked across the floor. And then she took the three steps one at a time and stood beside Miss Madison. She gave a nervous looking smile to the crowd of guests now watching her.

 

I was keenly aware of how the other women watched the podium closely. Again, the expressions were mixed. Many of the women watched, with a mixture of envy that Kissy might win a prize, but also nervously, wondering whether they would dare such a thing themselves. Other women watched impassively, as if they understood this, but they were few and far between. And some women gazed at Kissy with stern, disapproving faces, as if Kissy was somehow a rival that they wanted to see fail. 

 

“Your companion has staked your fortune to this wheel,” explained Miss Madison. “Win or lose, you honour him with your gamble.”

Kissy nodded and gazed back at James who raised a glass of champagne to her, in-between whispering words to an older man who grinned and nodded. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. 

 

There were twelve spaces on the wheel, and as I have already remarked, one of them had a strange sigil, much like a cursive letter ‘k’. Of the others, I could discern symbols for shoes, hand bags, jewellery, perfume and clothes – two of each. No doubt they corresponded to expensive designer commodities that women would risk a great deal to own. The twelfth space was empty.

 

I glanced to my left and saw Puta looking at me. I smiled, with the confidence that came from being so well dressed, and was delighted to see her eyes lower in humility before my gaze. Then, slowly, her eyes were raised again, but shyly, gazing at me in a manner that I can only describe as wantonly, shamefully seductive. I sipped from my own glass of champagne (and, yes, it was the good stuff) and felt something of the thrill that rich powerful men must feel when they have the world before them, at their beck and call. 

 

I thought some more about what Puta had said before James had appeared. Pleasure alcoves? Where Free Women were not permitted to go? And how she had been trained to give pleasure to a man. And how I might whip her if I found her service displeasing.

 

I tried to gather my thoughts, but it was difficult to look away from this erotic girl. She was very beautiful, and much of that beauty was enhanced by the tight, clinging, ever so brief slave tunic she wore and the steel collar locked around her throat. The idea that she couldn’t remove that collar was intoxicating. 

 

I pulled my attention away from Puta, though it was difficult to do so, and concentrated instead on Kissy Ryde as she contemplated the game wheel. She could see the odds clearly: a 1 in 12 chance of misfortune, but really, what was the possible misfortune compared to the much higher possibility of winning a prize that she could never afford to buy herself?

 

“In your own time,” said Miss Madison in a sweet and welcoming voice. Yes, as I gazed at her, I felt sure she was perhaps twenty five or twenty six years old, not forty three! 

 

Puta was still standing close to me. It was maddening. I wanted so much to speak with her again, but to do so now would be obvious and rude, while the game was underway. I glanced back and again saw her eyes submissively lower. I sensed her body tremble slight as I looked upon her. She knew she was being assessed by a man, and somehow that made her feel submissive! 

 

“Puta…” I whispered softly.

 

“Master,” she said, and the word was the most magical word I had ever heard from anyone. This girl, this beautiful, erotic girl, referred to me as Master! What man could not respond strongly to such a word from such beautiful lips? I was overcome with emotion. I wanted her so much. Her perfume was beguiling, and the way she stood, her slight movements, all so soft and sensual.

 

“Did you mean what you said?” I whispered.

 

“I am yours to command, Master. In the Pleasure Alcove I will bring you a whip between my teeth before I serve you. In the Pleasure Alcove, there you may chain me as you wish, and I will serve in any way you command.”

 

Oh God.

 

The thoughts in my head were now maddening. 

 

I wanted Puta. I wanted nothing more than to take her to this so-called Pleasure Alcove. 

 

But this couldn’t be real, could it? 

 

“Can you show me?” I said. “Where to go?”

 

“Of course, Master.”

 

I was vaguely aware that Kissy now had her right hand on the spoke of the wheel. With it she could turn the contraption, spin it and let the rotating mechanism move the device through the twelve symbols, to settle on her fortune. 

 

I felt Puta’s hand brush the back of mine. I felt her body brush my hip. Again, I inhaled her sensual perfume. I reached out and touched her thigh and felt her move enticingly to my touch. 

 

On the podium Kissy spun the wheel, stood back, and watched the device rotate several times, clicking past each sigil in turn.

 

“You going somewhere, Rogers?” said James with a sly smile.

 

I didn’t bother to answer. Puta’s hand was on mine and she led me back through the circle of guests who were keen to see Kissy’s fate. But then, so was I, and I paused just long enough to watch the wheel slow in its rotation. The pointer clicked finally in place beside the sigil of a shoe.

 

“Oh my God!” squealed Kissy with her hands in prayer fashion before her face. “I’ve won!”

 

Miss Madison seemed pleased for the girl, as she selected a gold envelope from one of five stacks on a nearby table. “My congratulations. This voucher entitles you to a pair of Dolce & Gabanna designer shoes. No limit to the price.”

 

Kissy was hopping up and down on the spot, overcome with emotion. She, an ordinary working class office girl, could never have dreamed of owning such footwear. She took the gold envelope and kissed it – a little motion that made Miss Madison’s lip curl in polite mockery, but only for a moment. Kissy had not noticed the brief expression. 

 

“Is that what you hoped for?” asked Miss Madison.

 

“Yes! Either that or the handbag!” Kissy was beside herself with excitement. I could see many women in the hall seeming uneasy – they were furiously jealous now of such a fabulous prize. I suspected many of these beautiful women were far from rich. In fact, I could tell from the sophisticated poise of just a few of the women, which ones possibly were accustomed to wealth, and were possibly the trophy wives of their powerful companions. But most of the women here were new to this kind of lifestyle. And some, as I have already noted, seemed to work in the offices of Steel World Inc.  

 

“A second spin of the wheel might win you a handbag,” suggested Miss Madison. This suggestion was met with murmurs of excitement amongst the less sophisticated women in the room – for now it seemed they began to realise more than one prize might be won! “Particularly since if the wheel lands on a prize already won, a girl gets to choose the prize she is offered.”

 

“I can spin again?!” cried Kissy, gazing at the prospect of a designer handbag to match with the shoes.

 

“Why, yes.” Again, there was a slight curl of mockery on Miss Madison’s upper lip.

 

Kissy was flushed with excitement as she span the wheel a second time. I watched the wheel rotate, as it had done before, and this time the pointer settled on a sigil representing a dress.

 

“Well, Miss Ryde, no handbag, but you seem to have won a personal day long dress fitting for the garment of your choice from the exquisite designer, Ermanno Scervino! Congratulations!” She handed Kissy a second gold envelope. Now the girl was close to fainting with excitement. “But let’s give the other fine Ladies here tonight a chance at the wheel, too,” she remarked, before Kissy might spin a third time. “Although ladies may risk the kef multiple times throughout the evening, let us now take it in single turns tonight, so as to maintain the desire and tension. Do we have another Free Woman willing to risk all on Gor?” She held out her hands in a welcoming gesture.

 

And now suddenly the room was alive with spontaneous chatter as many women turned excitedly to their rich, older companions, some perhaps pleading now to be staked, much to the amusement of their men, who, it seemed, were now requiring their ladies to plead, beg and cajole to be offered up to risk this so called ‘kef’. The men seemed playfully reluctant, and required their women to now press upon them their desire to win a prize. Perhaps, I pondered, the kef referred to the strange cursive ‘k’ symbol that was the forfeit? Was that its name? It seemed to me a beautiful sounding word for a beautiful symbol. 

 

“Kissy looks happy,” I said.

 

Puta smiled and lowered her eyes. “For now,”  she replied. 

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“She will spin again, I think, Master, later this evening, after she waits impatiently for other Free Women to risk their virtue. The waiting will be excruciating as she sees Lady after Lady win what she covets most. What if there are no more gold envelopes marked with the symbol of a handbag? What if the last one is taken before she gets to risk her virtue? When will she be allowed another opportunity? She will be agitated, she will plead with her companion to stake her again.”

 

I saw Miss Esme Hamilton apparently pleading with her companion for the night. Her eyes were bright and excited as she placed a hand delicately against his chest. Did she want to step up to the podium? Did she wish to risk this enigmatic kef? Many women seemed to be excited now, speaking in hushed tones with their companions. And many women gazed enviously at Kissy as she climbed down from the podium with not one, but two gold envelopes in her left hand. It was so easy!

 

But not all the women looked that way. Some, the ones I thought were established trophy wives who had been here before, looked still at Kissy with expressions of barely concealed scorn and made no sign of wishing to take part. 

 

“Some will forfeit, I suppose.”

 

“Yes, Master. Some will forfeit and soon be serving, with flushed cheeks, locked in steel collars, too embarrassed to look their peers in the face. For some, the prize tonight will be very different indeed.” Puta paused before she added, “but time enough for that, Master. Would you like me to show you the Pleasure Alcoves?”