Gagged

Opening Gambit-3

“Here’s the thing,” she said slowly, still calculating. “I don’t know your thoughts about such things, but as far as I can tell, you don’t have any tatts either, so I’ll say that while I think it’s a matter of personal tastes, it has always seemed a shame to me that putting permanent ink under my skin, while it may be acceptable and trendy, always seemed to me as compulsive rather than kinky and driven by some needs that you and I apparently do not have.” She looked me in the eye and kept her expression neutral. “I have many friends who have one or two or half their body covered in tattoos and I frankly find it strange, as if they are somehow trying to change what they were born with and look like something or someone else.”

“I agree,” I said. “I have never had the desire or need for such, so maybe it’s my lack of commitment, but I think that many people get tatts on impulse, when they are drunk or stoned or trying to make some sort of impression on someone else,” I added.

“Well,” Jan said quickly. “It’s just me...and you, I guess, because its presently fashionable, like wearing jeans with the holes in the knees, but you can always throw away the jeans when some other crazy fashion comes into vogue, but the tattoos are forever, and that’s what bothers me.”

“Agreed,” I said.

“And while we’re on the subject, I know many people who defend it like they do graffiti, saying it’s art.”

“We’re in sync,” I said. “But graffiti is public and therefore may offend as many people as it appeals to. Tatts are personal until they are visible to anyone looking at you. Someone sees it and you have made an impression, good or bad. Even if it’s seen as art, I still have no use for them.”

Of the women in our household, there were some small tatts here and there, but it was no big deal and we seldom even talked about it. Conversely, nearly all of the women working on the house and property had tattoos. I don’t know what that says or the message it sends but the female contractors all seemed to be from the same formidable masochistic mold and were certainly worth watching while they hung new windows, doors and siding, not to mention some admirable acrobatics on the new roof. It was as if Jan had raided some kinky movie set and picked only the best to do my construction. I later discovered that several of them were fascinated by the prospect of building a pony barn. They probably hoped to participate as well.

The barn soon was livable, but, because I had to carefully budget my expenses, I decided to use small cast iron stoves and the fireplace for heating in the first winter and then covert over to central heat/air-conditioning in the spring. There was considerable debate among my helpers about this, most of them saying it would be nice to cozy up to a roaring fire in the middle of a snow storm, but that the barn lacked effective insulation and things could get a bit chilly before spring arrived. So, although not in the original plans, two heat sources were added to the structure: a small, heat-efficient stone fireplace in the main living room and a cast iron stove that would burn wood or coal in the bedroom. The wood stoves had another benefit that would be apparent later. For a good branding fire, nothing enhances the total scene more than a coal or wood fire sizzling and popping in a cast iron stove. One chilly day I heard what sounded like a scream from the small barn and as I headed in that direction I saw smoke coming from the newly installed chimney. Once I got inside, I saw a group of our contractors huddled around what looked like one of their gang lying on the new floor. She was tied down and gagged and two of the foremen on the job were applying what looked like a branding iron to her leg.

“Whoa,” I shouted. “What’s going on here?”

The two lead carpenters stopped in mid application of the glowing iron and looked at me in surprise.

“She has been stealing from you,’’ one said. “We don’t tolerate this and she will be marked as a thief.”

“If that’s true, you need to call the cops,” I said. “And I will gladly make the complaint, but you cannot maim or injure anyone on my property because, in the end, I am responsible for everyone’s safety, thief or not.”

“We gave her that option; us or the cops,” the first brander said. “She decided on us and a small brand.”

I was stuck. Although my university brotherhood practiced the brand marking of any member who merited it, (and a few who requested it), I had not ever personally branded anyone. Yet, this group of young woman contractors seemed to have their own rules and I was not going to interfere

unless whatever they were dong wasn’t consensual.

“What’s her name? Please remove the gag and let her speak,” I said.

“She gave up her rights to any hearing before the master when she joined the Craft and signed on with us,” the woman, who seemed to be the leader, said.

“You are the boss?” I asked. “What is your name?”

“I am called Bream. And yes, I am head of this local construction craft.”

“And you, Bream, sanctioned the branding?”

“Yes. And the rest of the craft agreed. This is our way. With respect, Sir, you are our boss, but you cannot tell us how to govern our group.”

I thought about this and then decided.

“I understand, but if you are going to do this and it is your way, may I suggest you get her up off the floor, hang her properly and administer the branding so that everyone can see and share the experience. You have my permission to do this here or down in the cellars, where the atmosphere might be more conducive to the penalty. I will also ask one of my colleagues who lives here to assist you. She will not interfere, but will report back to me that the punishment was properly carried out.”

“We will do as you suggest. Ingrid, take rope and chains and go to the cellars and prepare a proper punishment site. Simone, you let the labor logs reflect that this is not work time and the boss will not be charged for this time....if you agree Sir,” Bream added, looking me straight in the eyes.

I agreed and asked what time they planned this event. I asked that anyone from my group who wanted to attend, but not interfere, be allowed to do so. Bream quickly agreed. They pulled the woman to her feet and took her down the newly built stairs to the basement.

Bream nodded to me and said quietly, “nineteen hundred hours tonight.’’

I asked Diane to attend the event and told her to pass along the invitation to the rest of the gang with the strong warning that they were not to interfere, no matter what. And so we got to witness our first group punishment.