The Collection, bondage story | clothes, key, basement

Olivia Martlett gave herself a last check-over in her full-length mirror. Turning, she peered over her shoulder to check that her stocking seams were straight – perfectly straight. She was well aware that such things were outdated but she was equally aware that such things were also irresistible to most men.

Irresistibility was of the greatest importance for this interview. She was unquestionably lucky to have secured it because Robert John Mansell was the most retiring of bachelors - almost a recluse - who had never been known to give interviews. For a young freelance reporter, who could look great in just about anything, this could be the chance of a lifetime. The kind of opportunity that kick-starts careers.

She had made the application and then forgotten about it; make it she must but she well knew that the answer was always a quiet no! When, two weeks later, a telephone caller announced that he was Mr. Mansell's secretary and that Mr. Mansell was prepared to make an exception - she was flabbergasted. Then she was ... well ... flustered was the only word to describe her feelings. Almost dismay at the thought that now she had no option but to go through with it, beard the lion in his unassailable den?

The butterfly stomach was of course the result of inexperience. Perhaps that was the reason he had decided to agree to her proposal; he wouldn't expect a tough time from a cub reporter? Not that Olivia regarded herself as a cub but, as a relative unknown who worked freelance to women's magazines, she had to be a different proposition to a battle-hardened main-media type?

Satisfied with her inspection she fixed the formal wide-brimmed hat on her head at a carefully considered angle, collected her gloves and sallied forth to make her fortune.

The Mansell building was imposing enough to subdue all but the most brash professional and it wreaked its spell on Olivia as she stood outside the main entrance where the taxi had dropped her. Her gaze lifted up toward the penthouse suite where she knew he lived. It was not visible from her position on the pavement. The building tapered up into the sky and she wondered vaguely how far down it had to penetrate into the earth just to maintain its upright stability no matter the requirement for basement and sub-basement facilities. But ... the time had come ... it had to be done; she squared her shoulders and walked resolutely in through the outrageously imposing entrance.

The receptionist behind a surprisingly non-imposing structure knew instantly who she was and summoned an uniformed page to conduct her to the correct lift. The boy invited her to enter, stepped in behind her to press the only 'UP' button and then slipped out again as the doors silently glided together.

She expected a downward thrust on her legs as the lift started toward the sky but the acceleration was smoothly controlled and then, silently and without warning, Doors glided apart on the other side of the car. She was face to face with a quietly dressed man who stood in a reception area of elegant but equally quiet taste. From the rest of the building which she had seen so far, she had expected this apartment to be ostentatious in the extreme.

"Good afternoon. Miss Martlett I believe? Rob Mansell."

Certainly his organisation worked with smooth efficiency - he'd been waiting for her! His voice too was quiet and well modulated, his handshake firm and strong yet respectful of her less robust member. Surprise gave way to a comfortable pleasure; if indeed this was the great man then she had begun already to gain an inkling of the truth behind all the stories. He was reputedly one of the richest men in the British Isles but lived a quiet life. He was never seen in the circles of society; none had ever been to a party thrown by him; whenever he was seen abroad he was driven in a down-market car; he owned neither race-horse, yacht nor country estate.

Wasn't that why everyone was keen to interview him, to open up his life to the rapacious curiosity of the populace? He led her into a roomy and pleasant lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded a view across the city, which took her breath away. "You mustn't suffer from agoraphobia or vertigo if you wish to live here", she commented.

"It worries you?"

"Good lord, no. I think it's glorious. But I know some who would look away. If I'm right the sun sets over there?"

"You are indeed correct. At this height I often get sunset views when the city is in gloom. Can I offer you some refreshment? There is some excellent sherry here or, if you have stronger tastes, you have but to name it."

She accepted the sherry and he brought a decanter with two glasses and an exquisite biscuit barrel to a small table and invited her to sit. For several minutes, they engaged in small talk. She saw no point in pushing her luck and preferred to rely on well-mannered restraint hoping that he would introduce the line. In setting up the interview a time limit had not been mentioned and so it was a chance worth taking.

He offered the biscuits which were also quite irresistible and she abandoned her diet to nibble and sip between casual questions and answers. Repeatedly her eyes were drawn to that exciting panorama outside the windows and she realised that her gaze did not go unnoticed. She shifted to a discreet examination of the room and promptly forgot about discretion. "This is a truly marvellous room," she exclaimed with unconscious enthusiasm. "I feel bound to indiscretion and congratulate you on your taste."

He smiled: "Thank you. Which piece most takes your fancy?"

"I feel like a child who has been offered a plate of goodies. I can't choose one over any other. If the rest of your home is like this then it's surely pointless to ask why you are so seldom seen outside."

"Yes." He gave a short grunting laugh. "The media seem to think I sit here all day every day and do nothing except grow old. Apart, that is, from the fear of being robbed?"

"It is natural, surely, to be curious about someone like yourself. You're reputed to be rich enough to command anything you desire ... and yet you settle for the quietest of existences - apparently?"

"Ah," he said, and a twinkle began in his eyes - no, she decided it was the appearance of small crinkles at the outermost corners of those sharp eyes. "So the interview begins?"

"You're laughing at me." She knew she was colouring. "Truthfully ... I had forgotten about the interview. With equal truth ... you ... you're the most interesting ... most unexpected person ... I ever met. But ... so far ... not as interesting as your apartment."

"Thank you again."

"I've already put my foot in my mouth so ... just what do you do for pleasures inside this your fortress?"

"I've several hobbies ... but I suppose my greatest interest lies in my collection."

"Collection? Of what? What does someone with your tastes ... collect?"

"I'll answer that by showing you ... if you will accept?"

"That's very kind of you. Why do I get the impression that I am receiving special treatment?"

"Let's just say that you have demonstrated a suitable worthiness."

She felt a little thrill; it blossomed deep within and rose, swelling all the time, until it seemed to lodge in a tongue that, swelling, blocked off her voice. He held out a hand and she rose to take it; surely she was not having the great luck to score with this – of all - men?

He conducted her to the lift but, using a key he drew from his pocket, he opened a door right next to the one from which she had emerged. Inside was a full control panel; where the access lift had offered only the penthouse or the foyer, this one would deliver them to any floor including seven below the ground-floor entrance. Already she was privilege to information that would need very careful handling; she resolved then and there to get him to vet her article before she presented it to an Editor. Having scored this degree of success, only a fool would blot the copybook of a future career.

He pressed the button for the lowest floor but he did so with a staccato action that, vaguely, made her wonder if there was a security code attached to that button. They descended to a floor below the foyer and, as far as she could understand it, it was well below the indicated sub-basement that was seven down. He opened the door for her to leave before him. A corridor ran both to the left and to the right. Indicating the direction right he remarked that there lay the territory of his secretary, the man who had invited her to this interview; it was his reward for loyal service. With the growing cynicism of one entering a career in the media, she wondered if such an obvious privilege ensured absolute loyalty?

They turned left; a short distance and the corridor executed a sharp corner to end in a solid-looking wood door. With another key from his pocket he opened a small panel to reveal a keypad on which he entered a long series of digits. He was rewarded by a loud click and the door was free to open. But it swung only slowly and she guessed from the effort he put into it that it was a vault door!

"Do come in."

They were in another comfortable lounge but much smaller than the one they had just left. Of course, at some fifty feet underground at least, windows with panoramic views were not possible but large expertly-illuminated mural panels gave an impression of open space that saved any sense of claustrophobia.

He indicated a comfortable chair: "It will take a moment for me to select the tapes ... but, if you will forgive ...?"

Luxuriating in her surroundings, she readily nodded her acceptance and he left through a door at the side. As she let her gaze wander around she became aware of a mistiness in her sight; she rubbed her eyes and cleared it away. If all this and a glass of sherry was making her sleepy it was just as well he had not invited her to dinner?

She awoke slowly. The unfamiliar surroundings were a puzzle and she shook her head. That was enough to bring home the fact that she had her eyes closed and so she made the effort to open them. But they were open ... and the unfamiliar surroundings were still there. That shake of the head had caused her hair to fall over her face ... that was unusual because it should ... it was no longer held in that rather pretty snood?

She raised a hand to sweep it away only to find that the hand would rise only half the distance. The other hand was no more successful than the first. She looked down and realised that each wrist was encircled by a - gold? - band and it was anchored by a short similar chain to a band about her waist. As she tried to force her puzzled mind to deal with the problem she saw also that, beneath that waist belt and on across her lap, there was a - dress? - that most certainly was not hers. She had set out in a smart jacket-and-skirt two-piece business suit not...?

Abruptly her mind snapped into full consciousness. The interview. She had been in Robert John's penthouse apartment when ... she had no idea. She remembered The hitch in her vision ... had she been drugged? But he had drunk the same sherry and poured both from the same decanter ... she had no idea why she remembered that. He had offered her the fancy biscuits and she had indulged herself but ... that must be it ... Robert John had not eaten any!

She leaned forward to catapult herself upright only to receive a jolt across her throat. There was another - a metal collar - about her neck and it was attached to the high back of the chair in which she was seated. He had kidnapped her. Drugged and chained her. But who had removed her clothes and dressed her in this ... expensive gown?

Why? Drugged and kidnapped could have many reasons behind it but why the expensive clothes? She was still wrestling with the problem with a slowly clearing head when she heard a door open and a young woman came around from behind her.

"I'm glad to see that you have recovered." The voice was musical and soft and carried a hint of sympathy but failed to convey any sense of joy. The explanation was vouchsafed as she moved further into Olivia's view. The girl was dressed exactly as was Olivia, right down to the shackles, although her hands were not locked into the cuffs which hung from her waist-belt. It appeared as though it were a uniform of some sort.

Olivia shot a barrage of questions and indignant demands at her but all that came from her mouth was a series of moans.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but I can't remove that gag. Only Mr. Mansell has a key to the lock. You see, he only permits us to talk together at designated times."

Us? There were more?

"It's close to dinner time and we must be in the dining room shortly. Afraid it won't be too easy for you - nor for any of us normally - but I have special privileges today so that I may help you. It was I who had to get you into that gown - a strange man - he's very fussy about decorum. Except when ... " Her voice trailed away as she stooped in front of Olivia.

Until then she had not realised that her feet were secured. The girl released them as well as the fastening that was holding her neck and then helped her to rise. Her feet were hobbled and she could only shuffle as the girl supported her toward the door. Her indignation served no purpose whatever and so she saved it for later.

In a dining room with table laid for two he was waiting in front of an imitation log fire. With a brief gesture he sent them to the table where Olivia was helped into a seat; the girl then refastened the restraint from her neck. She returned to Mansell at the fireplace and he handed her something with which, bending, she hobbled herself. Then he took something from the over-mantle with which he gagged the girl and dismissed her. She was to re-appear later to wait on them at the table.

Crossing to Olivia he produced a small key from an inner pocket of his jacket and removed her gag. "Not a sound," he warned her, "unless you wish to sit there with this replaced and watch me eat!"

He took his place at the head of the table. "I have no doubt you wish to know what this is all about. Briefly ... our interview made it plain that you were suitable material and so I have added you to my collection. Yes, I collect beautiful women. I do not ask their permission - that would be to spoil the situation. The challenge is to remove them from their normal society without leaving a trace. That is why it was necessary to remove your clothes ... There are several people who are genuinely prepared to swear that they saw you enter the building, that you were shown to the penthouse elevator and that later, presumably at the end of our interview, you were seen to return to the foyer and leave the building.

"Perhaps I should apologise for administering a drug but it saves the distress, for us both, that would arise from a physical struggle. Also, of course, the clothes had to be removed without suffering damage. From now on please understand that you belong to me. There are no choices - you must accept it - or learn to accept it if only because you are never to have any other choice. You will remain in my possession; liken it if you will to the eastern potentates of old with whom it is said that, once a woman entered a harem, she was there for life. It was mandatory that she be well cared for and must want for nothing ... but freedom was hers no more.

"To keep you fit you will spend at least an hour each day in the gymnasium. Your mind will be provided for with whatever you wish but it is up to you to make appropriate use of the material. You get a half-hour association period every other day and, once a week on a rota basis as set by me, some of you spend a complete afternoon in company. On these social occasions you may talk amongst yourselves.

"No!" He held up his hand. "There is no discussion of the matter. Your status here is absolutely that of the slave. That is why you will always remain chained. Get to accept that. You obey instructions - or punishment follows. At first, while you are learning the routine, it will not be too stringent but it will become more so with each offence. Now ... that we may get to know each other better ... shall we eat?"

He reached out and pressed a small button close to his right hand and the captive of her last acquaintance entered to start the serving.

"Do you really expect me to eat?" she questioned.

"That is your decision," he replied. "There will not be a question of force feeding you ... yet. Do NOT make the mistake of becoming rebellious, I beg of you. You will quickly become convinced that there is no way out of here; be sensible and make the best of it. You will remain one of my slaves unless - and until – I dispose of you ... but it surely is obvious that there cannot be a return to your previous way of life. You need not fear for your life although, of course, should I decide to send you away then I cannot guarantee the behaviour of any future owner. The answer to your obvious question is No! Not even the original builders could find this part of the building. You are now exclusively in MY world and that is hidden with extraordinary skill."

His cold matter-of-fact tone left her stunned. She looked up at the serving girl but she could not offer comment if only because she was now gagged.

Suddenly his attitude changed. He smiled: "To continue the simile ... this part of London is as remote as any Saharan oasis. Olivia Martlett - as was – is now but a mystery - a statistic on the missing-persons files of the great British Police Force. But most of the girls will tell you, even though they must regret the loss of their freedom, that I am not an evil Master. I love my girls and treat them with respect. This ... ", he indicated the waitress who was now setting out the sweet course: " ... is not a typical example: she is only under punishment. So far tonight she has made progress toward earning forgivenness. Would you like to be loved tonight, Louise?"

The girl glanced briefly at Olivia. "Olivia," he continued," does not enter the equation. She is new to our company and must receive some consideration. But I would appreciate your company tonight. Do you think you have served for long enough Louise?"

"He's mad." Olivia kept the thought to herself however and watched in amazement as the girl set down her last dishes and, turning to Mansell, dropped to her knees.

"Good girl. When you have finished here you may retire and await me in the big lounge."

Olivia could only conjecture as to the treatment the girl had suffered while "under punishment"; certainly she was cowed and broken. The room was warm enough but Olivia shivered.

She looked down at her encircled wrists and the chain that depended between them. Beneath the table she stretched out her feet and felt the hobble draw taut between them. When she depressed her chin she could feel the steel circlet that mocked her at the throat and, whenever she leaned forward, that gave a gentle reminder of its associated chain tether.

This then was the future career which so joyfully she had been anticipating? It was a bitter pill and she was not sure that she could either accept it or live with it. A career was a matter of hope, of planning and hard work. With one small bite she had lost ... had been robbed of ... all hopes, all plans, all future. She had become no more than a Barbie Doll hidden away in a rich psychopath's collective dolls' house.

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