My name is Feorinda, but my friends call me Fay. I am a third year student at University, with a double major, seeking a double BA in Women’s Studies and Social Work. I had it all mapped out, I had the scholarships, the bursaries, and even strong lines on jobs post grad since my work experience semester was with the Ontario ministry office my uncle works out of. Everything was on track, until the Book.

I worked part time at Ching Wu’s Gallery, it is an upscale place on the edge of Chinatown where the amount of wasted space around an object served as a warning about its potential cost. Ching Wu was a hard eyed old man, with eyes colder than a December ice storm, but an amazing gift when it came to presentation. I was very quietly learning so much from him, as Ching Wu placed everything in the whole store just the way he wanted it, channeling people, controlling where they looked, and building their moods. There were hooks placed, odd out of place items to catch those who were drawn to a particular item. These were the ways he, and later I, knew a potential client for a special piece was in the store. One of those items caught more than the customer, it caught me.

Ching Wu’s China was not the China of today, cheap goods and quick deals. Ching Wu was selling a China that probably never existed, a China of ancient mysteries, timeless spirituality, and captivating sexuality. Why he hired a blonde female assistant I did not at first understand. I mean I had the art background to understand his pieces, and I had a decent grounding in Cantonese, and a smattering of Mandarin, but when I first attempted to speak in his presence, he forbid me to ever utter, “Those golden sounds from that pale stuttering mouth.”

My accent apparently offended his ears. As a condition of working their I agreed that if I ever spoke any Chinese language (he said Middle Kingdom tongue), then I would work the rest of the day and all the next one in the ball gag. He pointed to one of the odd devices that hung in the dark stained and intricately carved cabinet in the reserved private display room in the back. I agreed, because this job paid very well, and its location was close to the school and easy to get to. I know, as a Woman’s Study and Social Work major that his language, tone and bearing were relics of the sort of ugly sexism that we had been stomping out for a century, but for reasons of expedience I agreed.

There was a big green book, bound in leather, which lived alone on the long glass table before the private display room in the back. Once or twice a month, a customer would come in, nearly as cold eyed as Mr Wu, and open the book to the page that was marked with white silk, indicating what was in the back room for special guests to examine, and if lucky, purchase.

When Mr Wu and a guest were inside the room, I admit my curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the book. Inside were photographs of women, bound with ropes, or odd devices in a brutal display of male power and sexual dominance.

The poses had an artistry to them, the light and shadow, the rare splash of colour that stood in stark contrast to highlight the truth, a white girl bound for punishment, or for amusement of cold eyed Asian masters.

I was deeply offended, but my eyes caught the helpless look in the girls eyes, biting her lip as if determined to keep from crying out, and yet her nipples were hard as rocks, and her sex was open as a flower desperate to be sampled. This was misogynistic, racist bullshit.

Turning the page I saw…..

A post stood, carved in ebony, with scenes of Asian men using and punishing women in various states of dress and nudity that made it clear they were from the Colonial Period, perhaps from the ill fated Boxer Rebellion to expel the Europeans. Chain bracelets were on the post, and whips hung from it, but the red headed girl who knelt before it was secured only by a while silk scarf, wrapped around her neck, and tied to the pole.

She wore a green silk kimono, opened at the front to show pale white breasts that had never seen the sun. The breasts were thrust upward as the girls arms were bound behind her, as were her elbows, by ropes that passed over and under her young breasts. Two jade pendants hung from her engorged nipples and her downcast eyes failed to hide the panting eagerness with which she waited for her master, who was only a shadow at the edge of the picture.

With a snap I slammed the book shut and stumbled to my place at the front counter, shocked into action by the sounds of the electronic locks being activated from the show room. I had no idea how long I had been lost staring at that image, but my nipples were hard, and I had been rubbing at the front of my slacks to ease the burning need of my sex.

I was only half paying attention in Women’s Studies that night, in my mind I kept going back to the image in the big green book, but this time it was me kneeling and bound. I had to go to the ladies loo at break to finish masturbating, as there was no way I could concentrate until I had done that. Afterward I felt deeply ashamed of myself and promised to be more disciplined in future..

When I got home, I showered, and the massager and I had quite a good time as my resolve to not think about the picture could not handle the sight of running my hands over my breasts, and wondering what it would feel like to be bound helpless like that for another’s pleasure.

I got to the mirror while I was drying off, and quietly, I turned, pulled my arms back behind my back and thought about kneeling that way before Mr Wu, and the little old Chinese man was transformed in that moment into a flesh and blood copy of that ebony whipping post, for I was tied to him as that girl was tied to the post. Reaching up I pinched my nipples as hard as I could, and it HURT, but I CAME. That was wrong, I know the psychology of abuse, and no one has any control over me that I don’t give them. I was not bound to Mr Wu or any man.

When I went to get dressed the next day, I put on my bra, and went to get a blouse. My heart began pounding and my lips opened in a gasp when I saw I had a green kimono style silk blouse, just like the picture. I found a skirt that complimented it, a much sheerer one that I would wear to school or work usually, it was more for special occasions. Mr Wu would never know why I dressed this way, nor that I knew the secrets of his little Green book.

I looked at everything with a new eye in the store that day. Mr Wu’s artistry was not actually visible upon first inspection, his mixture of seamless flow and shocking eccentric were crafted to gently begin testing your boundaries, to lead you to begin testing them yourself, so that when you arrived at the end of the journey through the emporium, you were already sold on whatever mystery was behind the secret door, the only question that remained, is would he let you through that jade portal?

I returned to my post, and looked in the mirror behind me, noting that I was as much on display as any of the items, yet another of Mr Wu’s possessions. That thought caused me to catch my breath with a gasp.

Mr Wu looked over, and frowned slightly. His eyes drifted down the line of my ear, my falling golden hair, and neck, my shoulder, down to the swell of my breast before he frowned. I looked and the line of the brassiere really ruined the flow of the silk, and broke up the harmony of the lines. Without a thought, I asked Mr Wu to excuse me a moment and went to the bathroom and removed my bra. I wasn’t doing it to please him, it was about the artistry of the place, I was compromising it, and that could not be.

When I returned, Mr Wu smiled.

Later that day, Mr Wu was busy on an overseas dealer in Taiwan, when two older but fit Chinese women came in to look at a particular vase. They were discussing which dynasty it was from, which was fair, because it was a very rare example that reflected an esthetic that would not achieve full form until the middle of the next dynasty. I was overcome with knowledge, rather than wisdom, because in my own Cantonese I offered that information.

Mr Wu slammed his door, and glared at me. The two older Chinese women looked disapproving. Mr Wu gestured to the display case before the reserved room, the black armoir. He couldn’t be serious?

“If you will not still the jabbering gwaillo tongue, I will bridle it. Fetch the bridle”

I could not embarrass Mr Wu in front of guests when I had been in error. Surely this was simply a demonstration of my sincerity; a gesture. I could do that. I fetched the bridle like gag device.

Mr Wu gestured to his feet, and I was shocked at the dampening of my panties. He was serious. He cannot be serious! This is not the middle ages, this is the modern west and women are not property. I opened my mouth to object, and the older Chinese woman snapped her fingers and pointed down.

I sank to my knees, and Mr Wu fit the ball gag to my face, locking it under my hair at the back. To close it, he had me kneel with my hair thrown forward, over his shoes, so he could fasten it behind my neck. As I felt him lock it behind my head, he stroked my hair like you would a pet, and for reasons I cannot explain, I leaned farther forward and pressed my cheek against his shoe. The old women laughed, and worked out the details of the sale with Mr Wu.

I spent the rest of the shift with the ball gag on, not even taking a break. Mr Wu’s eyes followed me, and I strove always to move with as much grace as possible, communicating with my body motions what I wished people to look at. The few customers looked at me with hungry, knowing eyes, and I was in a frenzy of humiliated lust, unable to understand why I was excited, and unable to forgive myself for submitting like this.

As the shift ended, Mr Wu gestured to his feet, and I knelt again for him to remove my gag. I was going to quit, this place needed to be reported to the authorities, and Mr Wu needed to be made to understand that Western Women were not sexual toys for display and casual use!

Kneeling forward, my hair again over his shoe, I felt him remove the gag strap. Before I could move, he once again stroked the back of my head, and in a rough voice said simply.

“You are not a bad girl, simply untrained. I think you could be trained, and if you asked me nicely enough I would even consider it. Once trained properly, you would be a fine ornament to any home or business”

I pressed my lips to the leather of his dress shoes, and gently held his foot, before getting up. He was laughing soflty as I fled, my dignity in shattered pieces on the ground behind me, and my nipples showing the world how badly I needed to get home to my vibrator.

I was not coming back, for my sanity, for my soul, I was not coming back.

End of Chapter One.