Slave Girl and the lash

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I can't explain me. I don't want to. Explanations savor of apology. I am not making one. I like me the way I am. I wouldn't change me even if I could. Yolanda would not change me. Yolanda paid a great deal of money for me. I feel guilty sometimes about how much. But she just laughs and says it makes my belonging to her legal. I don't suppose it does, but the psychological effect on me has been total, far more real than a chain on my wrist or my ankle or my neck. But the chain is there too. While I'm thinking about how I'll write this and what I'll say, I'm being punished. Nothing very terrible, but enough to impress me that a slave girl does not talk back. I'm not exactly in a dungeon and not quite in a cell. We call it 'Turpitude Tower', Instead of going downstairs to the dark and scary places I get put in sometimes, we go up. It's still all stone and a bit grim, but castles are like that, even small ones. The Tower room is circular and has a stone pillar in the center. The door is thick and heavy and closes with a spine crinkling thud and it's got big bolts on the outside that thunk into their sockets so that the girl inside positively curls up at the edges at the sound. There is a lovely window and a view, but it has lovely bars that even a very slender naked girl can't begin to wiggle through. I'm naked. Right now, for me, the door and the window are symbolic. I can't get near either. I have to stand against the pillar because there is a metal collar locked round my throat and it's attached to a ring in the stone at the level of my neck. The chain is only a foot long. Figure it out for yourself; I'm not going anywhere. I just stand. Yolanda thinks it's a big giggle.

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