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."  

"Again, Callista, I'm not your Master. And judging by the locked door, I gather that I am somewhat of a captive myself for the night. Ramos does not trust me yet."  

I brought her the key and a dress shirt from my luggage. It was the first time that I was within arm's reach of her in this room. Damn, she smelled nice.  

 "Put this on and unlock yourself."  

She pouted. "You truly do not want to fuck me, Mister Brandt? I can see your penis is hard underneath your pants. Do you not see that I am wet for you?"  

Shit, this was going to be difficult. I had been busy preparing for this mission for two weeks. I had not been with a woman for some time and was pretty horny. I dare not touch her, so I backed up a bit.

"Let's be clear, Callista; I would very much love to fuck you. But I won’t for the reasons I've told you. Dammit, woman, I know you're bright; you speak and read several languages. You know what I'm saying."  

She thought for a moment. 

"Then what should we do tonight, Mister Brandt?” she asked in a semi-teasing way. “They will not let us out until morning. And you are so hard, sir."  

"Well, it's nighttime, Callista; we could always sleep. You can take the bed; I'll take the couch. If I get too excited, I can always go into the bathroom and … relieve my tensions."  

At that, her eyes flew open. She acted like I had struck her.  

"Oh, Mister Brandt, no! For you to pleasure yourself by hand while I am here, willing and able, would be a disgrace. Please, no sir, the other slaves would mock me, shun me. The Governor would punish me."  

She had just finished unlocking her chains. She was standing before me, head bowed, my shirt still in her hand.  

"Dammit, woman," I snarled, "I am trying to make the best of a bad situation. Fucking you would make me feel good for the moment, but bad later. Stop thinking like a slave.”  

She seemed to be at a loss at that request. 

“Tell you what,” I continued, stretching out my hand in her direction, as if imparting a blessing, “in this room, for this night, you are a free woman. I hereby dub you a free woman.” 

She looked unconvinced. I continued. 

“Think back to what you were like before you became a slave. Which, by the way, is actually illegal in this country, despite what the Governor is doing in this area."  

She kept her head down as she answered quietly. 

"I became a slave when I was just thirteen. First by the elders in our village when my parents died, and then by the Governor. I have known nothing else for over twenty years. And you cannot truly free me, only my owners can free me. And I do not deserve that."  

I asked her to go on.  

"At first, I was just a girl trained to please men at night and to do simple chores during the day. When the Governor bought me, I was thrown in with women from other lands, and given to men from other countries. I learned their languages easily. 

“He realized that I had a gift for it, and over the years, used me less for sex and more as a translator for his guests and business partners. And I help to train the foreign girls in their duties. I can speak and read eighteen languages and dialects.” 

A true polyglot. Handy to have around.

She finally looked me full in the face, as if she wanted to make sure I understood her plight. 

"But I am still a slave, Mister Brandt. At least once a month, I am taken and shackled and fucked. Hard. And I am also tortured for no good reason. Perhaps to remind me that I am only property. Or just because they can."  

She showed me her back. The marks from whipping were old and not pronounced—her Masters certainly were careful not to leave permanent scars—but from experience, I could tell she had been flogged many times in the past.  

She told me that they had been using electric torture devices on the women for the past few years for better control, and to cut down on the disfigurement of potential products for the sex marketplace.  

“Mister Brandt, I am only a slave. To be used, and to be hurt. It’s what I do. It’s all that I’m good for.” 

"I'm sorry, Callista," I replied. “I would never hurt you. But this is exactly why I cannot make love to you. Not in good conscience."  

I’m not sure she fully understood, but she complied, finally putting my shirt on. It covered her breasts and pelvis but showed a lot of perfectly toned leg. 

I've always loved seeing a woman wearing one of my shirts. Menswear is simply not tailored for a woman; it shows off her curves and accentuates her petite nature. I couldn’t help it; I looked her over. My eyes must have betrayed what I was thinking. 

In that moment, I believe that Callista realized the effect she was having on me; suddenly she was not a pitiful slave in chains, but a lovely, lustful woman who had had a hard life and perhaps needed some comfort. 

A semi-naked beauty with no inhibitions and two decades of advanced erotic training along with constant conditioning as a sexual submissive. Locked in with me all night.  

Shit. This was not going to be easy.  

"You are a good man, Mister Brandt," she said softly. "A very good man. Could this woman ask you a favor? Would you hold me for a minute? Just … hold me. I do not think I have been held by a good man since I was a child."  

Moisture shone in her eyes, in the firelight.  

I suspected I was being manipulated, but really, how can you say no, given the circumstances? I’m not a superman here.  

I stepped in and held her in my arms. She put her head on my chest and her body melted into mine. We fit together perfectly.  

After a moment, she began to cry softly.  

Okay, no one is that good an actress; she was genuinely relieved. And a bit lost, psychologically. Clearly, emotions from the slaves in this mansion, other than lust and subservience, were frowned upon.  

After a couple of minutes, she pulled herself together and stepped back. I handed her a clean handkerchief. Christ, that simple act of kindness threw her off balance again. She seemed flustered. 

"I am sorry, Mister Brandt.  I must look hideous."  

"I've seen running mascara before, Callista,” I reassured her with a smile. “You're still the prettiest woman in this building." 

She smiled a bit, gratefully.   

"But I am older than any of the others. And my face is not as good as the young ones."  

I held her by the chin. 

"The best part of your face, Callista, is in the eyes; the window into your soul. They are intelligent, they are loving; I do not think the hard years have quite broken you."  

And being me, I could not let the moment go by without a quip to break the tension.  

"And you also have a great rack."  

My gentle joke went unappreciated, because I had to explain what that American slang meant.  

(Stupid. Know your audience, Brandt.)  

We did not speak for a few minutes as I used the bathroom to clean up and to change into a tee-shirt and sleep shorts. When I came back, I saw that she had fixed her makeup. She made me a gin and tonic from the small bar in the room and handed it to me.  

And she had made herself one. Without asking permission. That simple non-submissive act showed promise. 

We sat on the couch, and she asked me about my life in the United States. We had a normal conversation like two regular people in a foreign country. She seemed to be re-jiggering her slave instincts.  

Eventually, she touched my naked knee and said, "I have another request, Mister Brandt. You say that here, in this room, I am a free woman. If I accept that, could this free woman ask this free man, this good man, to take me to bed?"  

I was stunned. And tempted. My cock stirred again.

"Really, Callista?” I asked. “Is this truly your desire? Not because it's expected of you?"  

"Yes, Mister Brandt,” she answered. “I would very much want that. As proof, I could tie you up to the bed and make love to you before you do the same to me. I want to share in this playful adventure you speak of.” 

She cast her eyes down again, demonstrating shyness in her request. 

“You will find me very competent in all the sexual arts, sir. But perhaps you can teach me about making love." 

I was silent for a few moments, reviewing my options.  

On the one hand, I did need more information on the Governor's slave-trade operation for my investigation. Having Callista, who had seen it for years, as my ally and witness to the authorities, would be a boon. 

On the other hand, outside of this room, she was a slave, a piece of property that was “owned” by some very dangerous people. Getting emotionally involved with her could be a fatal mistake.

On the other-other hand, a lovely and aroused woman was asking me for a bit of compassion. With a night of passion. I mulled it over for a time. 

She finally said with a smile, "I do not hear you saying “no,” Mister Brandt."  

"No," I said. She sighed, clearly disappointed.  

"No, you didn't hear me say that," I said quietly and took her in my arms again. 

Next chapter – Sparks fly. and complications set in.