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The Slave Girl

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They handled her with expert ease. The weight of knees on her spine pinned her face down on the floor. They tied her wrists with care. Then roped her elbows so that her forearms were welded as one. They went away, laughing. The sound of the door and its locks was, for Corey Gibson, a knell of doom. Weeping, she stayed where they left her, hurt and shamed and without hope. Her breasts thrust against the stone floor without love. She guessed her nipples inverted, they too would sense despair. But after a space of minutes she struggled to her feet and went to the bench. There was no thought in her mind save that that her elbows were hurting, scorched by their bindings, tugging back her shoulders and her breasts. She tried to wriggle her arms and hands but could not. They were tied tight. She was helpless. The collar round her neck became a greater mockery than before.

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