Free Madeleine by Stephen Rawlings

beforehand, she gained the foyer without loss of dignity. Before she could think up any way to explain her presence, she was swept up by the Maitre d’, who expressed delight at seeing her, and requested her to ‘please to follow me’.
    Relieved at being expected, she duly followed him into the dining room and walked with the most grace that she could muster, tripping along with rapid short steps, her hands demurely together down on her belly, but her head held high as she traversed the long room, past a score of tables at which fashionably dressed women watched her bizarre progress, and their escorts looked at her with frank admiration, mixed with lust, and envy of the man who would possess her.
    He awaited her at a table set on a raised niche, at the far end of the room, the ascent of the steps giving any watchers a clear view of the cause: especially those who had not guessed the reason for her tiny paces. She saw he was of medium height, with short cropped dark hair, and a suggestion of the Eastern Mediterranean about him, although there was nothing of the Levant in his speech.
    “I am delighted to see you,” he informed her, “you are everything I was promised. I see you received my gifts and message safely.”
    “Thank you, yes,” she replied, as formally as he, “I am pleased I am satisfactory.”
    “I trust you will give every satisfaction,” he rejoined, “but first let me offer you a drink, and then we will see about the menu for this evening.”
    He ordered a Martini for her and then called for the menu and ordered for them both, without giving her any choice. When the waiter had departed, he passed her a small black suede pouch.
    “While the food is being prepared, we will have a starter. These are for your lips, though not those you are using to sip that Martini,” he added, “go to the powder room and put them on.”
    Mystified, but warmly aware of what lips he was referring to, she retraced her delicate path, down the steps and across the room. She was the subject of renewed speculation and desire, not by any means confined to the escorts. Safely in a cubicle, she opened the pouch and took out a short silver chain - was he a silver dealer by any chance, or was it just the trademark? - and saw, attached to each end of the chain, a pair of silver clips. They were of the toggle type, spring loaded for initial grip, and constructed in such a way that any pull on the chain would increase the grip even further ensuring that, however hard the pull, the clip would never slip, but only clamp the tighter. She understood at once what was required and hauled her sheath up over her hips as best she could with her manacled hands. She crouched and spread her thighs, prising open one of the clips, and placing it on her right labia. She hissed through her teeth at the unexpectedly vicious bite, but persevered, opening the other clip and letting it grip her left lip, to a further expression of pain. For a few seconds she remained crouching, trying to assimilate the sting in her tail then, as a certain numbness eased the hurt, she straightened and tried to restore some order to her dress. It was fortunate that the heavy clinging material fell naturally into place for, with her hands fettered, she found it difficult to reach round behind to adjust it. Her mincing gait made even more pronounced by the aching grip on her pussy, she ran the gauntlet of curious eyes, back to the table, and handed back the empty pouch without a word.
    “Good. Now you may have your iced melon,” he said in greeting, “but use your hands only. No knives and forks for you, unless I say so.”
    Obediently she picked up her half moon of juicy fruit in her fingers, and bit into the sweet flesh, the sticky syrup smearing her face as well as stray tendrils of hair that had fallen forward. She reached for her napkin.
    “Leave that,” he said, sharply, “time for your main course, which goes with the starter.” He handed over the pouch