THE WHISPERERS

Without thinking she carefully moved one arm, hidden beneath the covers, intent on scratching an itch on her stomach. Her hand was half way there when she suddenly stopped it, touching her hip. “What in the Devil?.......!” She tried the other arm. She slid her feet back and forth under the sheet. Nothing. Her fear was choking her.

She tried to remember going to bed, separating it from the hundreds of times she had crawled into a bed to sleep. Everything had been normal - everything in its place.

Slowly, cautiously, she opened one eye. The room was empty, unless the unlikely, that someone was hiding under the bed. She opened the other eye, confirming the empty room. She slid her legs out from under the sheet, reaching for the floor, her breath painfully stuck in her throat. She looked down at the nightgown that covered her body, but barely hid the swell of her bountiful breasts. Wrong. She clutched her robe from the chair. She looked at it, puzzled by its sudden appearance in her bedroom. She couldn’t remember ever wearing a robe, yet it seemed perfectly familiar, as if she had worn it all her young life.

For that matter, why was she wearing a nightgown? She had slept in the nude since she was six! Yet, it felt completely normal to be wearing it. Just as with the robe, it somehow fit into her past life. She struggled with the puzzle, but there were no answers. She stopped thinking about it, deciding to ask her mother as soon as she had a chance.

She stood in the kitchen doorway. The woman at the stove looked up and smiled.

“Who are you? Where are my parents? And, where are my chains?”

Julie was half out of her mind with fear. To come down stairs and find a stranger busy cooking breakfast, on top of the mystery of the chains, the nightgown and the robe, was just too much. She felt faint, fighting for control of her body. The “Who are you” question took up all of her thinking capacity. She would have to wait for answers to the other two questions.

“Who are you?” she demanded again, her anger swelling. “Who are you!”

The woman ignored her questions until she had the food on the table. Julie stared, mouth gaping in total disbelief. She had put the food on the table! Not, beside the table. Not under the table. On the table! There were place settings for two. Plate, cup, saucer, knife, fork, spoon. Napkin folded neatly.

Julie couldn’t remember the last time she ate at the table, rather than on the floor beneath it. As she moved, slowly, aggressively, the fear intensified. This woman - whoever she was - was violating every rule that Julie’s father and mother had laid down as they brought up their only child.

“Who are you?” she demanded again, a tinge of panic in her voice. The woman ignored her, continuing to place the food on the table.

Julie stamped her foot in frustration and rage. Despite her anger she realized that she had just done something impossible in her entire life. She was about to do more.

There was a more pressing problem. She didn’t have a single restraint on her body. There were no familiar chains to lock her wrists behind her, no chains limiting her to ladylike short strides. No collar and leash on her neck. No permanent belt around her waist.

At her place a cup of coffee sent aromatic steam into the air. She had never been allowed to drink coffee. Something about religion. She would be consigned to Hell if she drank it. That was what the Whisperers said. Just one of many things they said, in a whisper.

The woman sat down, motioning Julie to her chair. Expecting punishment with every move, she did the unthinkable. She sat down in the chair. Her eyes darted nervously to the woman who was calmly sipping her coffee. She was smiling. Was it a trap?

The woman was sitting in a chair, so obviously something unusual was going on. Women did not sit in chairs. They knelt.

Women did not drink coffee. Men could, but they were treated entirely differently than women or girls. Only men sat in chairs. The cane waited for women who broke the rules and sat in chairs and drank coffee and ran around freely without chains.

The woman set her cup down, before starting her meal.

“You had three questions. First, I am your aunt Sylvia. I am your mother’s sister. I grew up in the next village. I was selected and married by a man, bore him three sons - Richard, Tom and James - and then he fell on a pitchfork and died.

It all sounded perfectly normal and rational. There was nothing unusual or unexpected about her matter-of-fact description of her life. Men selected a woman to marry. That was normal. Falling in love - now that was abnormal. The Whisperers spoke of love only in passing. It was a topic of little interest because love didn’t fit anywhere in the family relationships. The woman, being a woman, had absolutely no choice or say in her fate. What Julie did know was that a man looking for a wife rarely even spoke to the woman before leading her away.

Were it not for the Whisperers she wouldn’t even know that much. They were mum about what happened next.

Julie was annoyed by the way Sylvia was evading her questions, answering in her own good time, sure she was hiding something. Impatiently she interrupted. “You can tell me later. Tell me what happened to Mother and Father.”

A distant look came over the woman’s face. She stood up and swung her arm in a short arc, her hand slapping Julie’s cheek hard enough to knock her from the chair. She stood over Julie and in an even tone said, “Child, don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to you. I’ve put up with men for longer than you’ve been alive and I’m not going to take the same crap from you!”

“Yes, Aunt Sylvia.” Julie was dazed as well as surprised. The roundhouse swing had been completely unexpected and she thought for a moment her jaw was broken. She looked at the woman in a different light, no longer in sympathy with her.

“Living in a house with four males was not easy. All of them, father and sons, treated me like dirt. After their father died it was even worse. They blamed me for his death, even though he was out in the barn while I was chained in the house.”

“They saw they couldn’t use me to blame, at least in public. In the house they talked constantly about how I had mistreated their father and sent him to his death. I became a virtual prisoner in the house. You asked about your chains. You should have seen mine! Every where I went in the house I dragged yards and yards of chains. For punishment they would make me scoop up all my chains and stand, holding them in my arms, knowing I would tire quickly. Then they would beat me.”

“The town where I live has a prison, just like the one in your village. Three times I was charged by the boys with disorderly conduct or disturbing the peace, and three times I spent 10 days in the local jail, in an open barred cell, naked, chained to the wall, my every move 24 hours a day watched by gloating males. I’ve heard that the men pay to work there, rather than getting paid. When my sentence was finished, I had to walk home, whipped at every step and then whipped by all three of the boys when I made it to the house.

"They had a special punishment, that they called ‘The Woman’s Punishment.’ It was one of their favorites, and they repeated it time after time. I was made to stand with my legs tied out so I couldn’t bring them together. They used pulleys after I spread to pull them further apart. One arm was tied above my head. I had to hold the other hand over my pussy, while they whipped me between my legs from behind. That hand wasn’t tied, so I had to make myself keep it there. When my hand hurt so badly that I had to pull it away I had to count 20 more lashes, directly on my open slit.

“They would jeer me when I couldn’t protect myself any more, make fun of me and pretend to lighten up their strokes when they were actually heavier. The boys have been gone for months but I have nightmares every night, reliving their cruel punishments.”

“All three went in the Army, leaving me alone in the house, the first peace I’ve had since the day before I was married. I have to keep the house in perfect shape for them, ready for inspection at any moment. They gave me black marks, each equal to a stroke of the cane, for the slightest sign of dust. If I have ten or more black marks, the punishment is repeated the next day. They all have keys to the house so they can come in at any time, day or night. All three are stationed not far from here, so they have no trouble getting away.”

“They burned all my clothes, except what I have on and I can only wear this outfit on the rare occasions when I am given permission to leave the house. It’s often a month to six weeks between outings, so they keep a very close watch on me. I still can’t get used to living naked with my sons, but I have no choice.”

“Now, I told you that your parents are dead. I suspect, if they treated you like our parents treated your mother and I, that you hated them, so their deaths can’t affect you as much as it would have if you sincerely loved them.”

Julie looked puzzled at the mention of love. Sylvia was watching her closely and caught her look.

“Child, love has no place in these communities. Love is when two people like each other so much that they want to be together and willingly do the things that others, who are not loved, have to be forced to do. Don’t worry about it. You won’t find any love here.”

Sylvia patted Julie on the shoulder. “Even without love, you will find that you miss them, even their harsh cruelties.”

Julie, tears in her eyes, asked, “How did it happen?”

“Your parents were driving in the mountains. They missed a curve, without a guard rail, and went over a cliff. They were killed instantly and the car burned.”

Julie felt like she should cry, but only one or two tears came. She would miss Mother, but there was no ‘love’ for Father. She drank the last of the coffee while she considered her options. She wanted badly to crawl into Aunt Sylvia’s arms and cry while Sylvia comforted her, but she had serious doubts that her aunt would show that much compassion. She was a lot like Mother, but there were some nagging doubts in Julie’s mind.

Julie had a hundred more questions, but she didn’t dare open her mouth. Her aunt was still eating, with apparent relish, her whole demeanor warning “Do not disturb, I am eating.”

Julie awkwardly picked up the fork. Watching her aunt, she aped her movements, learning quickly a skill she should have learned a decade or more ago. Eating from the floor with your arms pinioned behind you is not the place to learn social skills to be used in polite society.

Sylvia cleaned the last crumbs on her plate. Julie was still eating, her awkwardness almost gone. Sylvia waited patiently for her to finish. Sylvia got up picked up both plates and put them in the sink. Julie had never been waited on like that. She was always the waitress, carrying dishes clutched in her hands behind her back. Usually her hobble was shortened, forcing her to take baby steps, her balance precarious. She wondered to herself if Aunt Sylvia had ever dropped a dish and how many cane strokes she received. She herself was up to 10, ‘To drum the clumsiness out.”

She glanced at the wall beside the outside door. Both the cane and the whip were gone. She gasped, knowing she would be blamed for their disappearance. She would be beaten until she revealed where she had hidden them. Despite the fact that she had nothing to do with it, she ‘would know’ exactly where they were hidden. She never realized her power was a rare gift, as it only worked with the missing whips. If she tried to explain she was accused of living in Fantasy Land, and usually beaten again ‘For taking on airs.’

Sylvia put her hand on Julie’s shoulder. “Come, child. I need to talk to you.”

Obediently Julie rose to her feet and followed her aunt to the front parlor. Sylvia pointed to a chair for her to sit on. Very cautiously, still expecting some sort of cruel trap, she sat, the first time ever in any of the chairs or the couch in the room.

“I am here to carry out the provisions of your parent’s wills.

"They left you the house, with much the same provisions that I have to contend with. You are to remain in the house, leaving only when you are low on food or other supplies. You are to inform the Village Council that you are of marrying age, and available so that they can pass the information to men who might be interested.”

Julie nodded in agreement. Although she wasn’t fully familiar with the process, she knew that she would be available to the first man who came by and wanted her.

“You asked about your chains. I was authorized to remove them from your body, before you choose.”

Julie was both puzzled and again frightened. Nobody had ever removed a chain from her body, or her arms or legs. ‘Once on, never off.’ She looked pleadingly at her aunt. “What am I supposed to choose?”

“Child, you have to choose between being my slave for the rest of your life, or being placed permanently in a cell in the Institute for the Criminally Insane.”

Julie jumped to her feet. “I’m not a criminal! And, I’m not insane!”

“Do you think you can convince a judge of that when you walk into court with 20 pounds of iron on your body? He’ll take one look and put you away forever.”

“I don’t care! I’m not a criminal. I’m not insane!”

The room started moving, spinning around Julie as if she were the pivot point. Dizzy, she stumbled, falling into the overstuffed chair. She opened her eyes wide and closed them slowly. She had fainted.

Sylvia felt her pulse and smiled to herself as she began to make the necessary arrangements.

Julie woke suddenly. Whatever it was, it scared her. She wanted to open her eyes, but she didn’t want to open them and give away the fact that she was wide awake and alert. Something was wrong. Radically wrong. She kept her breathing slow and quiet. Something was definitely wrong.

Julie tried to organize her thoughts. Nothing made sense and the fear steadily increased. She switched from mental to physical. She was lying as she normally did, her hands behind her. Her legs were pulled up, her knees bent, as she always slept.

Without thinking she carefully moved one arm, hidden beneath the covers, intent on scratching an itch on her stomach. Her hand moved an inch and jerked to a stop, snubbed by cold steel. She moved her legs, stopped again, with the muffled rattle of chain under the comforter. That, at least, was normal.

With her hands chained behind her - always behind her at night - she had to wriggle out of the bed, nearly trapped by the sheet, blanket and comforter carefully tucked in around her. She was nude, the way she always slept. Her thin robe hung over the chair, useless with her hands fixed. She hurried as fast as she could. Delay was a punishable offense. If she didn’t speed down the stairs Father would be waiting with the cane.

The Whisperers

Chapter 1 -- Something is Wrong