The door was locked shut behind me. By the flickering light of the fireplace, I beheld my roommate.
She spoke.
"I will be your slave for the night. Use me in any way you wish. My name is Callista, which means 'most beautiful' in Spanish."
Well, I thought, this was going to be an interesting night, as my host had sealed me into these guest quarters at his mansion. Bars on the windows, only one door; apparently, I was in place for the next few hours with no chance of my sneaking around the place in the middle of the night, as I had intended.
Sealed in with this self-labeled beauty.
I'll give it to her, she was that; a mature Latina with rich dark hair that framed her head in gracious waves, generous breasts and hips, strong legs and arms. Her face was not "model" perfect—her features were perhaps a bit bolder than Hollywood’s ideal—but she had a beguiling smile, coupled with exotic, dark knowing eyes you could lose yourself in for hours.
She was lying on her side, facing me, one hand casually holding up her head, the other lightly caressing her breasts. Her lightly bronzed skin was flawless, showing no tan lines. I could tell, because she was lying on the cover of the large bed, naked.
Well, essentially naked.
Her neck was encircled by a leather slave collar, and her wrists and ankles were graced with formfitting—probably custom-made—leather bondage cuffs. All were equipped with metal rings designed to easily restrain her in whatever position required.
Right now, the only cuff being used for that was the one around her left ankle. A long, thin chain connected it to a padlock on the footboard.
I was not totally surprised by this erotic hospitality offering. After all, my host was acquiring, training, warehousing and selling high-value sex slaves throughout the region. One measly concubine set aside for a guest's usage would barely be an afterthought.
Callista’s offer was the cherry on top of an evening of fine dining and drinks with a group of powerful men in Governor Gregory Ramos' palatial mansion in this South American country.
There seemed to be a never-ending supply of gorgeous young women dressed in titillating outfits—some miniscule, some sheer, some both—to wait on us during dinner. From the groping and leering of all the men there, it was apparent that most of the females might have been available for our carnal or sadistic desires later that night.
The after-dinner entertainment of erotic dancing and exotic bondage displays took away all doubt.
They were.
I was attending the multi-day gathering posing as a disreputable international banking security advisor, there to help Ramos and his guests develop a system to hide and transfer money worldwide. They intended to form a network that would expand his regional slave trafficking to a global market.
It was my intention to stop him.
I did have experience as a banker, but I was actually an undercover agent for an international private detective agency.
The central government of this country didn't fully trust their local investigators with this matter and hired my firm to get details and proof of the Governor’s plans so they could move in at the right time.
The way the door was locked behind me, it appeared Ramos was not the trusting kind, either.
Anyway, back to the naked lady in my bed; my favorite part of the story.
Callista had caught my eye earlier in the evening as she helped to serve dinner and drinks. She was older than most of the women there, maybe thirty-five or so. Her dress was enticing, but with a little more fabric than the younger girls.
(Governor Ramos liked them young—some of them heartbreakingly young, the bastard. They weren't children; those in power who protected him didn’t want that kind of attention or heat, but the slaves were generally nubile teenagers.)
During dinner, Callista spoke to me in good English, and I heard her converse with other men in a variety of languages. She wasn’t chatty or familiar—her comments and questions were only about the food and our comfort and such—but she seemed intelligent and charming. I figured she might be a supervisor, not a slave.
Obviously, I was wrong. Or maybe she was both.
She watched me from the bed, a bit amused, as I swept the room for bugs with a pen which doubled as an electronics detector. Our phones and computers had been locked away for the night in the name of security.
I disabled the two microphones and two micro-cameras I uncovered. I knew there was little I could do about hidden peepholes in the walls, but I was damned if I was going to let my hosts listen in or film my activities.
(I wasn’t giving myself away by doing this. In my cover as a criminally-inclined banker and financial trouble-shooter, I would be expected to do exactly this.)
"Is anything wrong, Master?" she asked, although I was pretty sure she knew what I was doing. I decided I could speak my mind freely.
Well, semi-freely.
"Callista, I'm not your Master. In your culture, slaves may be a normal part of life, but in my culture, we are all free men and women."
"I am sorry, Master. I did not intend to offend you. What shall I call you?"
"As I told you at dinner, my name is Artemus Brandt. I never really cared for the first name; most people just call me ‘Brandt,’ Callista."
She smiled—a genuine smile—and her eyes lit up.
"Yes, Master Brandt. I mean, Mister Brandt."
Her words were perfectly subservient, but I read people pretty well, and I think she was playing with me the tiniest bit. I was warming up to this woman.
Good thing, since she was apparently my enforced companion until dawn.
"If you're my slave in a locked room,” I asked her, “why did they chain you up?"
She thought for a moment to gather her words.
"I know your country does not keep slaves; I think this is the Governor’s way to—how you say—enforce the notion that I am truly yours. Plus, they tell me you have the reputation of enjoying sex and bondage mixed together."
That was my reputation in the shady underworld in which I traveled. And I did enjoy it in real life.
She indicated her wrist cuffs. "Feel free to bind me any way you wish. There are many cords and chains in that cabinet. Sex toys as well. "
She hesitated a split second before continuing.
"Also whips and needles and shockers and other instruments of pain. As long as you do not kill me or cripple me permanently, my slavemasters will not object in any way."
Damn these people. I doubled my resolve to take them down.
I also resolved not to take advantage of this enshackled woman.
"Well, I would mind, Callista. Let me make one thing perfectly clear; yes, I like sex. And sometimes I like bondage during the act; exchanging trust and power and fantasies with a lover is exhilarating. But I do not have sex with anyone who cannot give their consent."
She was a bit stunned.
"Mister Brandt, I am sorry you do not find me attractive. At dinner, you indicated to the Governor that you favored me over the others."
"Yes," I replied. "The other women there were very young and cowed." She looked puzzled at that last word.
"It means intimidated or frightened. You seemed at ease. And you are beautiful."
"In your travels, Mister Brandt, have you never bedded a slave before? If I please you, why would you not take what I have to willingly offer?"
She spread her legs lasciviously, like a crude hooker.
"Because,” I explained, “you are not offering it willingly if you are a slave. And yes, I have bedded a couple of women captives in the past. I did not like the way it made me feel afterward. I'm not a rapist. Close your legs, Callista."
She did, somewhat puzzled.
"But you like to have sex with women who are tied up?"
"Yes,” I said, “and sometimes they tie me up. But it's always for fun, for a fantasy. And it’s consensual."
Again, I had to define a word she was unfamiliar with.
"It means it’s agreed upon by both people beforehand or during the act. Callista, either party can say 'no' at any time, and we stop or adjust the scene. Bondage for me is a part of play, an adventure, but never a matter of actual force. Even when there's some consensual pain involved."
“You do not believe in slavery,” she said, “and yet you help the Governor expand his trade? I know because I help him with translations and foreign correspondence.”
Cripes, I thought, I'm risking blowing my cover. I feigned getting a little pissed.
“Dammit, Callista, business is business, and I have a living to make. My actions here in this room, for this night, are a matter of personal preference. It’s not your place to question them.”
She went quiet and digested my words as I looked around the room. To change the subject I asked, "Is there a key to release you from that chain? And some clothes for you?"
"There is a key on the hook by the door,” she replied. There is no way that I could reach it from here and I would not try, anyway. They provided no clothing for me. A slave should be naked in the bed of her Master."