The Mug, the Dress, and the Heavy Chains

“I’ve found it, master,” Rosie said, her voice muffled by the confined space.

When Rose van der Hijden joined the Hostage Corps, she did not expect to find herself crawling through trenches. Yet here she was. On the other hand, the space behind the kitchen cabinets was not exactly a trench. It was just tight – too tight for her master to squeeze into.

“You will damage your dress, my Rosie-slave,” Master Alaan said.

“Do you object, master?”

“No. But I will bring the heavy chain when you return.”

Rosie felt her owner’s hand on her bare leg and foot, then heard Master Alaan pad out of the kitchen.

It was a bisnik kitchen, also owned by Alaan Griimmook Deenivaar. He stood a hundred and eighty three centimeters tall, was covered with blue fur, and had a pair of short but very masculine horns. Several years ago he had purchased Rosie, just as she had arrived on the interstellar slave-trainer-and-transport Opal Oomel. Earth and Ustan did not directly exchange the prisoners taken in their decades-long war. Instead, each planet exchanged volunteer slave women for their captured space crews.

Rosie pushed herself a little bit further in, a little bit closer to Master Alaan’s favorite mug. How it had gotten there was a mystery, and why it hadn’t broken was another one. It was just out of reach, and Rosie squirmed. She felt her dress catch again. Fortunately, it was an everyday dress, made of a cheap fabric with green and yellow checks. She’d bought it locally, collecting a fish-bucket of curious looks as she did so. Human women could wear most bisnik women’s clothing (and vice versa) but Rosie’s lack of fur, her long and light brown head-hair, and the slave collar around her neck had marked her as an obvious alien here.

The dress tore again. If Master Alaan approved, she would buy a replacement at the same store. He probably would, and the store-clerks and other shoppers would be curious again. But not impolite. It was a point of pride, on both sides, that the alien slave women be treated well.

Rosie could touch the mug now, and she could now see the gap it had fallen through. They would have to block that gap, later.

Another push, another squirm, another tear in her dress, and Rosie now had a grip on her master’s favorite mug. It had been missing for several days, and Rosie wondered again why it hadn’t broken when it fell back behind the cabinets. Sheer good luck, most likely.

Now Rosie had to get back out. She kicked her bare feet. That didn’t do any good. She twisted her body and pushed with her free hand. That gained a few centimeters without her dress tearing again, but it did rub against a sharp corner. Rosie reminded herself to be careful. Master Alaan would tolerate the ruin of her dress, but he’d fuss over her if she damaged her skin. That would delay the heavy chain he’d promised.

It was really a set of chains, with locking connections to a set of comfortably-padded wrist and ankle cuffs. The steel chains weren’t as taut as slave-ropes, even when Master Alaan locked them short, but they still felt pleasantly restrictive. Their absurd, exciting weight added spice to their bondage. Rosie smiled. As a sexy human slavegirl she could be shamelessly goopy about showing her affection toward Master Alaan. He had to show a proper male-master reserve, but Rosie knew that he returned her affection.

Which was why she had to be careful not to injure herself. Cautiously, now: Another squirm, another twist, another push. Repeat. Finally Rosie was out on the kitchen floor, with more damage to her dress but without any cuts or scraps. She sat and grinned at the dusty mug, before rising to wash it out and set it ready for use again.

Then Rosie turned and stepped out to the middle of the kitchen floor. She stood there proudly in her tattered green and yellow dress, waiting for Master Alaan to come and put her in the heavy chains he’d promised.