Chapter 3: Estelle

As day followed day, and September slipped towards October, Jenny pushed Estelle into an obscure and rarely visited corner of her mind. Having abandoned the search for Estelle, she focused all her efforts on moulding the Ox into the slave she wanted her to be, putting her to long hard hours on the treadmill and the rowing machine, always under the threat of the cane or the lash. And she worked on the Ox’s mind, keeping her off-balance, never allowing her to settle into a predictable routine. At random times of the night she would enter the cellar, and woe betide the Ox if she was not in the submission position by the time her mistress reached the foot of the stairs. Gradually, Jenny’s confidence that she had broken the Ox’s will increased, and although she was never reckless, she became less obsessive about security.

Putting the Ox into harness would require a buggy, and whereas her brother had made his own, Jenny had no such manual skills, so she prowled the Internet looking for a supplier. Soon she placed an order with a firm in Denmark, and a week later her buggy arrived; it was flat-packed, and she spent a frustrating three hours assembling it in the garden. There was a note pinned to the thin seat of the buggy: I hope you enjoy, perhaps I am coming to see you? – Thomas. Jenny grimaced, there had been no way to acquire a buggy without letting someone know of her interest, that was why she had chosen an overseas supplier. The note increased her sense of vulnerability, perhaps she would have to move house again. But now was not the time to think about that, now was the time to fetch the Ox from the cellar, and put her between the shafts.

Night was falling when Jenny was ready to drive the Ox for the first time. With the reins in one hand, and a whip in the other, Jenny savoured the perfect moment; she had her own slave, harnessed to her own buggy – Bob would be so proud of her. Between the shafts, there was considerably less happiness, as the Ox waited for the start of this new ordeal. Naked in the cold evening air, she shivered, and tried to find a comfortable position for her tongue against the bit in her mouth. Now she knew the reason for all the physical training she had been put through; she had become a draft animal, a human pony to be worked in harness.

The harness was simple; Jenny had chosen a design that left the Ox’s mighty shoulders open to the coaxing caress of the whip. Two leather straps girdled the unfortunate slave, one around her thick waist and the other just below her breasts; rigid vertical pieces held the two straps a fixed distance apart. Traces from brass rings on the straps were connected to matching rings on the slender buggy shafts, to which the Ox’s wrists were manacled. Reins attached to either side of the Ox’s bit completed the tack; this was a last minute change of plan by Jenny, she had originally intended to steer the Ox by clipping the reins to her nipple-rings, but had feared that an over-enthusiastic tug would tear a nipple. A roar in the sky caused both women to glance upwards; a heavy jet out of Manchester was climbing on a northbound course, in a few minutes it would cross the Scottish border, and would then turn left, out over the Atlantic. If any of the passengers had possessed super-human eyesight, they could have seen Jenny set the Ox in motion with a touch of the whip.

* * * * * *

After running away from Bob Kern, Estelle had drifted around the country for a while. She had cleaned fish in Fleetwood, and offices in London; in Sheffield she had worked on an electronics assembly line, and in Bolton she had spent an unhappy three weeks in a fast-food outlet. All the time, her grasp of spoken English was improving, and although she made no real friends among the natives, she started to feel at home. This was a country where nobody would ever ask to see her ID card, because nobody had an ID card, and where nobody batted an eyelid at a foreigner without a social security number. In the black economy, it was easy to get cash-in-hand work, no questions asked, and no income tax or national insurance paid. Estelle never earned much from these jobs, but it was enough for her to live in cheap lodgings, and to give her more disposable income than she had ever enjoyed before.

She allowed men to take her out occasionally, but very rarely allowed them to reach their goals; only when Estelle needed it did a partner get the benefit of her energetic sexuality.  One of Estelle’s dates took to her to a lap-dancing club in Blackpool, the Magic Carpet, and she was fascinated by what she saw there. The girls did little more than rub their crotches against a pole, whilst wearing a look of ecstasy on their faces, but Estelle was amazed at the amounts of money the punters gave them. Within days, Estelle was appearing at the club, and soon introduced her own ideas. Possibly her life with Kern influenced the way she slanted her act; she appeared with a whip, running the thong between her small breasts as she wriggled and writhed, and rubbing it against her pubis. As she had anticipated, the customers loved it, they held up fistfuls of money to her, begging her to let them sniff and lick the whip. Estelle knew that some would pay anything to lay the whip across her back, and that others would sell their souls to have her flog them, but those were games that she would not play.

With a good income from her performance work, Estelle was able to rent a flat in a salubrious area of the West Midlands, far from the lap-dancing club; she hated the idea of bumping into one of the club’s patrons in the street. Every Wednesday, she would drive up to Blackpool to work at the club for four nights, and would return home in the early hours of Sunday morning. As soon as she arrived home, and it was the first real home of her own she had ever had, she would make herself a cup of tea, and take it to her little bedroom. She loved to sip her tea in bed, and savour the simple pleasure of being in her own private world, far from the baying of the drunken lap-dancing club patrons, and far from the world of Kern, where a woman had never been more than a heartbeat away from a flogging. Quite often those days came back to Estelle, and she was almost embarrassed by the memory of how easily she had slipped into the role of concubine and slave-mistress, but she had no shame about it, for she had only fitted into a peculiar set of circumstances as best she could. And life there had not been without its pleasures; she had rather enjoyed the unquestioning obedience of the slaves, and her absolute power over them.

Sometimes, on Sunday evenings, she would go to the Russian Orthodox Church in Walsall, just to hear the choir; sitting in a pew at the back of the church, she would close her eyes, and be enveloped by the solemn richness of the service. And quite often, on Mondays or Tuesdays, she would go to the Eastern Steppes club in Wolverhampton, which was mainly frequented by Russian and Ukrainian émigrés and their families. The club’s owner, Maslov Yaroslav, had become a friend to her; she would not have known how to get a driving licence without his assistance.

On one dull Tuesday in late September, Estelle went to the Eastern Steppes, partly out of boredom, and partly because she had an itch to see the Ukraine again, and Maslov would surely know how to put a passport in her hands. The club was very quiet, a couple of old men were playing cards at a table, and a fat woman with crudely bleached hair was feeding the fruit machine. Estelle perched on a bar stool, lit a cigarette, and waited. Yuliya Tymoshenko gazed down from a large portrait hung over the bar; the artist had improved her facial bone structure, and she looked very much like an older version of Estelle. From the back room, she could hear crates of bottles being manhandled noisily, and then Maslov appeared. ‘Hiya, Chicken, how you doing?’ He had said Estelle was like a scrawny chicken when he first met her, and the nickname had stuck.

Estelle patted his hand. ‘I’m doing good Maslov. How’s yourself?’

He scowled; he always scowled when anyone asked him how he was. ‘Ah, I’m not so bad, but business has been awful.’ He brightened. ‘Hey, there was someone here looking for you a few weeks ago.’

‘For me?’ Estelle was horrified, and she glanced nervously at the exit. ‘Who was it? What did they want?’

Maslov was entirely relaxed. ‘Steady, Chicken. It was just some old bird, she said she was looking for a Ukrainian girl she used to work with, and she knew your name. She wasn’t official, I guarantee it, she just didn’t ask the right questions.’

An old bird. There was only one older woman who could possibly be looking for her; Estelle began to feel easier. ‘Describe her for me, Maslov.’

He shrugged. ‘How can I describe her? She was just looked average, about forty. Good clothes though, I’d say she’s not short of a few bob.’

Estelle leaned forward across the bar top, her eyes bored into Maslov. ‘What did you tell her? Did you give her my address?’ It had to be Jenny, and although Estelle had no doubt that she could handle her, she did not want the former slave to come calling.

Maslov spread his hands in the universal gesture of innocence. ‘I told her nothing, of course. I just said I would keep my eyes open.’ Then he grinned. ‘What’s between you and the old bird anyway, can uncle Mas watch?’

Estelle pulled a face, but then she grinned back at him, he knew nothing of her background, and it was far better for him to think that she had been licking the fruit bowl than for him to enquire too closely about her relationship with Jenny. ‘Maslov,’ she asked, ‘Did she leave a phone number?’

A look of sly triumph appeared on Maslov’s face. ‘No phone number, no name, and no address.’ He paused. ‘But I got her car registration! I can have someone run it through the police computer for you, but I’ll have to give him a monkey.’ His eyebrows rose quizzically at Estelle, he was obviously interested to know if the information would be worth five hundred pounds to her. Estelle very much doubted that he would be paying his police contact more than fifty, but she had no choice; she nodded. ‘OK then, when will you want the money?’

Maslov looked pleased. ‘Anytime Chicken, I trust you. Now, are you going to order a drink? This is a bar, you know.’

Estelle left the club about forty minutes later; Maslov had made a phone call, and had given her a piece of paper with a name and address scrawled on it:

Jenny Kern
The Old Rectory
Water Lane
Over Kellet, Lancs.

Arriving home, she picked up the phone to call Directory Enquiries, but as she had rather expected, there was no listed number for that address. So, she would have to call on Jenny. Would it be safe? She briefly considered asking Maslov to come with her, but instantly saw a better plan that would not mean telling anyone her private business. She made a cup of instant soup, and took it with her to the bathroom. With her eyes half-closed, she lay in a steaming foam bath, sipping her soup, and making her plans. The Magic Carpet was closed for two weeks; it was the usual break at the end of the summer season. Rather than make a special journey north to see Jenny, Estelle decided that she would stay on in Blackpool after her next shift there, and go to see Jenny on the Monday or Tuesday.

* * * * * *

The Ox had been worked in harness every day for two weeks, and actually preferred it to being trained on the static machine, or to the other work Jenny found for her. A truckload of gravel had been delivered to the font garden, and Jenny was using the Ox to build a trotting circuit in the back garden. Without the benefit of any machinery, it was a huge task. Jenny would mark out a six-foot square section with pegs and string, the Ox then had to break up the soil in the section, rake it flat, pack it down with a roller, and finally lay two inches of gravel on it. Like vampires, both women slept from dawn to dusk, and then Jenny would harness the Ox for a short drive in the fading light; along the completed section of track they would go, and then around the rest of the garden. 

As an all-terrain vehicle, the Ox and the two-wheeled buggy were quite effective, and Jenny became a very confident driver. Using her weight to balance the buggy against toppling, she made diagonal descents of the steep banks at the rear of the garden, and sometimes ventured briefly into the pine forest behind. The Ox could not be described as a pretty thing in harness, the word elegant would not apply, but breathing hard, and grunting when she felt the whip, there seemed to be nowhere that she could not pull the buggy. Not that Jenny was a harsh driver; she was in fact very restrained with the whip, only using it as a switch to turn on the full power of the Ox in difficult sections.

After an hour in harness, the Ox would be fed, and then the real work would begin. For eight hours, the Ox would be a construction worker, and in that time she was not allowed to slacken for a second. Getting her trotting track finished was Jenny’s top priority, and she had the true slaveholder’s complete disregard for the suffering it meant for the Ox. In the glare of hissing gas lanterns, the Ox worked and sweated, and often the still of the night was broken by the sharp crack of leather on skin, followed by a despairing groan from the helpless slave. Jenny neither enjoyed nor disliked applying the lash to the Ox; it was simply something that had to be done, in order to extract the maximum work. If the Ox had been a bit younger, and a lot prettier, than perhaps there would have been pleasure in striping her, but it was almost impossible to find any erotic appeal in that massive frame.  At the end of each night’s work, Jenny would sponge the rancid Ox down, put her back in the cellar, and give her some breakfast. Then she would enjoy a quiet meal on her own, before showering and retiring to bed.

The start of an Indian summer sent warm sunshine through Jenny’s bedroom window one day, wakening her before noon. Looking out of the window, she decided that she would give the Ox a rare daytime run in the buggy, it would be a risk, but so was life. Half an hour later, the Ox was pulling mistress and buggy through the garden, which was buzzing with insects aroused by the Sun’s unexpected return. Jenny was wearing a yellow summer frock and a white wide-brimmed hat, the Ox was wearing only her harness and some welts that her mistress had given her during the night. Idling along, enjoying the warmth and the ride, Jenny became aware of a car on the road; she stopped the Ox, and waited for it to pass, but was mildly dismayed to hear it stop at her gate. She pulled a rein savagely, jerking the Ox’s head round to face the back of the house, and then she whipped the slave for speed. They were well away from the track, and Jenny knew that she ran the serious danger of injuring the Ox on rough ground, but still she had put several fresh stripes on that long-suffering back before they reached the house. Dismounting from the buggy, Jenny turned to the Ox. ‘Not a move, not a sound.’ Then she went into the house. There had been no need to fit hobbles or to make a threat, such was her confidence in the slave’s obedience.

Jenny’s confidence was not misplaced. Only briefly did the Ox think of crying out, or of running around the house to astonish the visitor. She had too often been caned or whipped for petty offences or failures; it was now impossible for her to stage a major rebellion. For even if there was a 99% chance of success, the Ox could not take the 1% chance of a flogging. An occasional stroke when pulling the buggy or working in the garden was bad enough, but to endure a long drawn-out agony at the whipping post, that was unthinkable. A different thought now came into the Ox’s head, as she awaited her mistress’s return. Her worst fear had come true, she had lost track of her days in slavery. She knew that she had counted up to twenty-three, but she was not sure how many days ago that had been. This really upset her, and - for the first time in weeks – hot tears welled up in her eyes.

When Jenny opened the front door, the face she saw there was familiar, yet somehow unrecognisable. She forced herself to acknowledge that it was Estelle, and she forced a smile onto her face. ‘Estelle.’ Then there was a long pause before she continued. ‘How nice to see you. And you’re as pretty as ever. Will you come inside?’

As she was speaking, Jenny noticed that there was a taxi outside her gate; the driver was watching her as he unfolded a newspaper. And Estelle was stood well back from the doorway; there was no possibility of giving the girl her just desserts today.

The briefest of smiles flickered around Estelle’s lips. ‘No, I don’t think so. I am here because you have been looking for me, and I want to know why.’

Jenny looked very open and honest. ‘Surely it’s obvious? We went through some, er, let’s just say some difficult times together. Who else can we talk to about it, if not each other?’

Estelle snapped her reply. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. It’s over, isn’t it?’ Then she stared hard at Jenny, as if trying to read her mind. The last time she had seen Jenny, it had been to whip her bare back; now she wondered if Jenny had any silly ideas of revenge. She licked her dry lips quickly, and then continued. ‘Jenny, I need to know that it’s over for you too, and that you are not going to bother me.’

‘Oh, Estelle.’ Now Jenny looked mortified. ‘Of course I am not going to bother you. I’m just trying to live a quiet and normal life now. And if you don’t want to hear from me, then I will respect that.’

With her head cocked slightly to one side, Estelle spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘If you do come near me Jenny, I will hurt you so bad, much worse than I ever hurt you before. Do you understand that?’

Looking down on Estelle, Jenny wondered how the little bitch could sound so scary. ‘Estelle, there is really no need to threaten me. I have said that I will not bother you, so I will thank you to leave my property now.’

Neither woman said another word, long icy stares were exchanged, and then Estelle turned on her heel, and walked quickly back to her taxi. The driver folded his copy of The Sun, and threw it onto the front passenger seat as Estelle clambered into the back. As she slammed the door, she made eye contact with the driver in his mirror; he caught a glimpse of a disturbed and dangerous thing there, and abandoned his pleasant fantasy of enjoying her head in his groin. ‘Back to town?’ he asked. Estelle nodded.

Jenny watched the taxi drive away, then she walked slowly back through the house, and out into the garden. The obedient Ox had not moved an inch; Jenny took her seat on the buggy, picked up the reins, and shook them. ‘Move on now.’ The Ox leaned slightly into her load, then straightened up as the buggy rolled forward; Jenny took the driving whip from its holder, but then decided that she would be content to let her beast just plod along. It would be too easy to carve her fury and anxiety into the Ox’s back, but Jenny knew it would be crazy to damage her own property out of spite for someone else; no, she would be a more sensible slaveholder than her brother had been. She smiled wryly; always the past was in her thoughts, it was as much a part of her as the scars on her back. And now Estelle had popped out of the woodwork, just when Jenny had made up her mind to forget her.

As circuit after circuit of the garden was completed, Jenny’s thoughts went around and around in her head. What she had said to Estelle had been the truth when she said it, but now the truth was changing. As two free women, with neither in control, they were a permanent threat to each other. That was how Jenny saw it, and she assumed that Estelle must be thinking along similar lines. If she left Estelle alone, how could she be sure that Estelle would not strike first? To ignore Estelle would just be too dangerous.

Once, when Jenny was eleven, she had awoken on a Saturday morning after everyone else had left the house. Bleary-eyed and yawning, she had gone straight to the bathroom, only to find that the spider from hell was lurking in the bath; it had seemed to gaze up at her with a calm and timeless malice, and she had fled. Around lunchtime, her big brother Bob had come home, and had scoffed at Jenny’s terror. ‘It doesn’t want to be there, stupid, it’s trapped there because it can’t climb out.’ And he had insisted that Jenny accompany him to the bathroom, to see how easy it was to just pick the spider up, and pop it out of the window. Sure enough, he grasped Jenny’s nightmare, and raised his hand to the window. As he turned his hand over, and opened it to release the spider, he jumped back. ‘Ouch,’ he said, ‘ the fucking thing bit me.’

Now, Jenny thought, Estelle was the spider in her bath, and she could look away, but the spider would still be there. What she had to do was clear to her, she had to grab that spider, and deal with it very firmly. After all, Estelle had belonged to Bob Kern, and Jenny was his only heir, so it would only be a matter of taking possession of her own property. A secret smile spread across her face at the thought of Estelle being her rightful property, a smile that vanished when she remembered that all spiders are predatory carnivores, and that sometimes they bite.