by Limey

Uncle Herbert, always known affectionately by me as Uncle Sherbert, was dead! It was hard to take in. That such a dynamic confident efficient skilled lovable and loving man was never again to come breezing through my door to shake my hand with a vigour that threatened to part it from me ... it just was NOT possible?

And yet early this morning Mr. Penkinworth, that dry dusty old lawyer who for years had cared for Uncle Herbert's affairs, had called to tell me so. And the possibility that Mr. Penkinworth would indulge in something of which he was not absolutely sure - beyond any possible probable shadow of doubt - that was even more unlikely than the death of my mentor, guardian, confidant, friend, idol and role model.

My bedside telephone, an offspring of the Devil's Device, had roused me at precisely ten minutes after nine that morning. After a night such as that last night had been ... what kind of uneducated moron would ring in the middle of the night? Well - all right, the middle of what was left of the night. It refused to take No for an answer and so eventually I had rolled over and lifted it from its cradle. It spoke to me with the dry dusty voice of Uncle Herbert's lawyer Mr. Penkinworth. Everything about Mr. Penkinworth seemed dry and dusty as though all the juice had been sucked out of him by the mountains of dry and dusty documents amongst which it seems he spent his life.

Thus it was with some alarm that I heard that voice say that he must come and talk to me - in fact, by leaving the (dry and dusty) office immediately he would be with me in about forty minutes - because that was something Mr. Penkinworth had never been known to do, at any rate, never within my experience. Legal discussion and any other business matter (was there any other kind of matter?) was always conducted in that office where one sat face-to-face with him while perched on the chair that defied his overbearing desk. But forty minutes was sufficient time for me to roll from my bed, stagger into the shower, shave with a palsied hand and then climb into a dressing gown leaving enough time to descend to the kitchen and argue with the coffee pot. Just enough time as was proven by Mr. Penkinworth sounding on the front-door bell just as the kettle burst into its steam-driven whistling song.

Mr. Penkinworth accepted my invitation to enter after an attempt, in the style of Uncle Sherbert, to shake my hand from the end of my arm. Pretending not to notice that I was clad in late-night or early-morning attire for what was to be a business meeting he carefully removed his bowler hat and hung it with meticulous accuracy on the hat-stand. He followed me to the kitchen because, after the night before, I doubted the condition of any other room and there he took from under his arm that perennial hand-sewn leather document pouch of the magical properties and laid it on the table. Magical? Well, it had the surprising ability to absorb or disgorge any amount of documents he cared to produce without either gaining or losing girth; it always fitted neatly under his arm and seemed to dock there with the same natural ease as did his skin.

When he had been served with steaming hot coffee, no sugar and about half-a gallon of cream I was cogitating on his joint ability to pour both cream into coffee and documents into that hand-sewn leather case when he cleared his throat, with that well-remembered dry and dusty cough; "I regret, my young friend, that I have grave and sad news for you."

His eyes were the one thing about him that displayed life; sharp and clear they revealed the shrewdness that made him the man he was. They peered at me a second or two and then, having ascertained that I was not to make reply, he continued: "I received a call at three this morning to go to St. Winifred's Hospital where your Uncle was asking for me. He had been subjected to impact by a lorry which ran out of control; I moved with all possible haste, of course, but I regret my dear fellow that he was already dead by the time I reached him."

I sat there, silent. What was there to say?

"I decided to come in person to tell you, Mr. Richard, because there is no reason not to tell you and also because I am the Executor of your Uncle's Will ... and that will declares yourself as his sole executor. This regrettable accident has made you a wealthy man - very wealthy if I may say so - and therefor a man of many responsibilities."

That was not, by any means, presumption. Mr. Peckinworth had for many years had the management of my idle and carefree self. He it was who doled out my regular - and far too generous - monthly allowance and who regularly remonstrated with me when I over-spent. All my problems I took to him; all my problems Mr. Peckinworth duly solved or resolved.

But he had taught me well by example and I was more than aware of my natural inclinations and also that, given reason, I could rise above them. Mr. Peckinworth had come with the object of carrying me with him to Uncle Herbert's large residence there to assist in making the necessary inventory and to take possession ... firstly as resident caretaker and then, on probate of the will, to lead on to my permanent occupation as owner.

And so, after a few days of dry and dusty poking about imbued with awe at the seemingly endless revelations of workshops and strange devices, I found myself in sole possession of this quite large emporium and eager to see exactly what Uncle Herbert's enthusiasm for scientific speculation and his bent for invention had bequeathed me.

It was on my third day of playing in this magical playground that I decided that, for the time being at least, I would not seek staff to run the place but would keep it to myself after the style of the late Mr. H. The following day I discovered the concealed door that led to the cellars. A fifteen-foot staircase led down into a large cavernous place that held a vast stock of wines of all sorts; clearly I would have to get some instruction in this matter. Perhaps the ever resourceful Mr. Peckinworth?

I noted that, so deep below the earth, the cellar had a most pleasant cool and stable atmosphere. Just before I left I determined to sample my newly found treasure and sought a tipple of which I could claim cognition. Not that I intended an ignoble orgy such as that night on which Uncle H had died ... I was now a man of responsibility!

The second bottle which I handed down was covered in a thick layer of dust upon which I blew recklessly and without thought; it arose in an indignant cloud, penetrated my nose and threatened me with a monumental sneeze. Not wishing to risk starting a dust storm I snatched the handkerchief out of my trouser pocket but it brought with it my pocket knife. That useful device showed its independence by skittering across the floor to take shelter under a far wine rack.

I stifled those rising words which were far from complimentary, and which certainly did not fit my newly found status, and got down on hands and knees to peer into the darkness. I saw almost immediately a dark rectangular form exactly where I would expect it to be - right against the wall and almost out of reach - and I stretched under to grasp it and tried to pull it out. But it only came a couple of inches and stopped with a loud CLICK!

I was surprised - yes - but started to sweep my arm around seeking the knife when I noticed that the next section of racking was no longer in line. The end closest to me had receded. With just my forefinger I gave it the gentlest of prods and it continued to swing inward toward the wall. When I recovered from that greater surprise I found myself looking at a doorway which had opened in the wall with there, on the ground and in its exact centre, lay my errant knife.

Clearly this must be something of which Mr. Peckinworth lacked knowledge and I nipped across to close and lock the cellar door; this no doubt explained that stout bolt that was mounted on the INSIDE of that door? At first I hesitated as childhood stories of ghosts, ghouls and goblins squabbled for attention but then, groping inside the door, I found a light switch. No surprise there! The light revealed a short flight of steps, which led me into a small brick-lined chamber and thence to a stout wooden door. And, on the wall beside that door, hung a business-like key.

Now. Why lock a door and then leave the key right there? Clearly the purpose of the lock was not to keep people from entering? Curiouser and curiouser. I opened that door to find another chamber which was lined on both sides with large wooden ... I would have called them wardrobes? They left just a four-foot passage down the middle with, at the far end, another door. I opened the first cabinet to receive yet another surprise; it was filled with ladies swimwear! But, as I flicked along the shelves, I realised it was underwear and it ranged from modern find-it-if-you-can flimsies at one end to heavy multi-layered period horrors at the other!

The next cabinet revealed a similar range but this time in ladies dresses - of all styles periods and tastes. The final one however was the biggest shock of all; a whole collection of clothes from the wonderful to the exuberantly ... I can't think of the collective noun ... but all made from a variety of translucent to frankly transparent materials.

My God. Was Uncle Herbert a bent fetish collector or a cross-dresser - a transvestite? Or maybe he had been just a (very) dirty old man? Maybe the answer could be found beyond that further door? And again ... there was the key hanging beside the door. To be more accurate there were two keys hanging there; one large and one small. The larger one gave me access to a large open room with, in the centre, one steel cage! It measured about eight feet by ten feet and was about seven feet high. In one corner it sported a large - a king-size - bed! To my shocked mind things were beginning to look bad for Uncle Herbert. He was a man and so the double bed suggested that the cage and its bed was a place for keeping a woman. I was not so naive that I was unaware of bondage games but, if this was but a playroom, why the elaborate system of hidden and multiple doors? A careful search revealed no other cells and that perhaps cleared him from a suspicion of trading in flesh?

The cage room had two other doors. One opened to reveal a store cupboard with an astonishing variety of bondage restraints. The smaller of my two keys opened the other door which led into what appeared to be some kind of control-room. It was lined on two walls with racks and cabinets of equipment and in the centre, facing a window on to the cage, was an evident control desk. Uncle Herbert was less an inventor it seemed, more a mad scientist?

Immediately in front of the comfortable chair on which an operator would sit there was a large keypad - an overgrown version of a typical computer keyboard. Two keys in particular drew my attention because they were marked OPEN and LOCK which seemed strange functions in this setting. I went back out to the cage to take a closer look; there was one section which quite definitely was an access door but it lacked any obvious locking device into which a key might be inserted. About one-third from both the top and the bottom there were solid looking blocks which could indeed be locks but, if so, then they must be electrically operated.

Back in the control room I was not surprised to find that pressing either of the keys produced no observable effect because, I assumed, it would be necessary to power-up the system. Hence I began to look for switches with obvious functions such as OFF and ON and they proved easy to find. Just the operation of the ON switch caused the entire room to come to life; Uncle Herbert, if indeed it was he who put that lot together, had a tidy mind.

Now I pressed the OPEN key and believed that I heard a 'clonk!' of some sort. Back outside again and now I could open that cage door. One step on the path of learning but ... what on earth did all the rest of this sci-fi set-up accomplish?

Next to draw my attention was a large monitor screen which now was displaying an off-white background over which black dots were scurrying hither and thither. Closer inspection revealed that, not only did they look like ants - they WERE ants!

These ants were whistling about in the haphazard manner that seems normal for ants but which results in things getting done. But, if they knew what they were doing, the camera seemed to be less confident in itself. It would constantly shift its field of view so that it concentrated first on one particular ant and then on another. I bethought me that there was a key marked LOCK. A forefinger poised over that key, I transferred my gaze back to the monitor and pressed. The picture stabilised and focussed entirely on one particular ant which it thereafter kept in the exact centre of the frame.

Now I began to regret the waste of my days of instruction. Things engineering and matters scientific were always of interest but I could never abide the professor's insistence on working along a proper course; results must be calculated in advance and the experiments designed around the computed figures. To my anarchic mind the results of mathematical computation depended not only on the correctness of the formula to be applied but also on the insertion of the correct values, on ALL the relevant information being included, on the exclusion of any incorrect information and on not forgetting that the mathematical manipulations must be carried out in the manner which set up that equation in the first place.

With what must be the most fascinating toy ever handed out on a plate now come into my sole possession I yearned for the groundwork that would allow me to play. Meanwhile ... there was that great fallback ... suck-it-&-see.

A search of the keyboard turned up a key labelled - now what in hell did THAT hieroglyphic mean? It seemed to be in a group with LOCK and REV which, perhaps, meant Reverse? I watched the monitor as I pressed and ... my chosen ant disappeared ! I have no idea just why I looked through the observation window at the cage and its bed but there, in the middle of the white cover sheet, was unmistakably a whizzing black dot. I ran to the cage and, unwisely, entered to ascertain that it was indeed there and that it was indeed an ant.

No the cage did not lock behind me and I returned slowly to my chair with a million thought churning through my mind. It couldn't be the same ant. Could it? And where was this damned camera anyway? But a way of testing existed. I leaned forward to press the REV key and then, watching the bed-ridden ant, I pressed the strange key. The ant instantly disappeared and now there was an identical whizzing dot in the no-longer-empty centre of the display.

That it was NOT preposterous was quickly proved by a series of repeat performances. I conjured that ant back and forward from wherever it should have been to that bed-cover until pity for its sanity bade me stop. I watched the creature on camera for some time but it seemingly had not suffered any ill effects. Thus, in my untutored mind, that key came to be named the ZAP key!

So. Was Uncle Herbert the inventor and owner of the World's first - and only - matter transporter? Sci-fi stuff indeed but, although I enjoyed reading and watching sci-fi, I was amongst the first to regard it with extreme skepticism. But all puddings can be subjected to proof. A little blind experimenting soon showed that the arrow-keys on the numeral pad moved the camera and I set about looking for an alternative target. Something that would show incontrovertibly that this was just another computer game. OR would it?

After several random efforts the computer suddenly threw up a window headed SEARCH. For an unaccountable reason there came to me the voice of Uncle Sherbert raised in uproarious laughter as he learned of my nickname for him. "Very good, boy. That shall be recorded in my computer. NEVER let it be forgotten."

Computer? In those days I had no idea of what he was prattling but then much of what he said to me was incomprehensible. I entered Herbert as the search string but it returned a nil. I tried Uncle Herbert; nil again. I tried sherbert and then Sherbert and then SHERBERT; nil everytime. One last fling; I entered Uncle Sherbert and struck gold. Back came a file of greetings, explanations and instructions. The next month was a period of sheer magic as I got to grips with this extraordinary box of tricks.

Yes! It was indeed a matter transporter; a device dreamed up so long ago by fiction writers as the Teleporter. Uncle Sherbert claimed in his handed-down documentation that it had been rigorously tested and did not adversely affect living tissue. And it was somewhere about this point that my mind returned willy-nilly to his steel cage with remote electric locks, its outsize bed, his cupboard full of restraints and his enormous and varied wardrobe of feminine clothing; clothing beautiful, clothing hardly respectable, clothing downright indecent, clothing highly erotic, clothing almost non-existent and, as for that final closet - the one nearest to the door of the cage chamber - oh, dear Uncle Sherbert!!

Somehow I knew, I "felt it in my bones", read it in all this technological wizardry with which I was surrounded that Uncle H had indeed been a dirty - a VERY dirty - old man albeit he was also a very kindly old man. He must have been amusing himself by using his machine to abduct women. And who was to detect him let alone stop him. But, surely, he must have given those women a damn good time or scandal must have broken out.

Then again ... who would have given much credence to complaints by a lonely woman that she had been kidnapped, whisked away to an unknown destination there to be held in a steel cage and forced to dress in outrageous fashion. She would invite her own imprisonment in a different kind of cage and dressed in something resembling a straightjacket? No. If he had the sense - and he had possessed a deal of sense - to pick his targets with care then, I imagined, the world had been his oyster. And what of the occasional miscalculation? Could Uncle H be the source of these stories of alien abduction?

So it came to pass that my mind, being young and impressionable and backed by a libido equally young and eager to be impressed, began to degrade from the high and lofty ideals to which heretofore I had held. One obvious use for Uncle's viewer came easily to mind - it was possible to survey the market before making decisions. This conclusion was reinforced by the very careful instructions he had laid down on the method of making such a sweep.

Now it so happened that the top-story flat in which I had lived looked out on to an apartment block and from my window I had often peeked with longing at a nubile young woman who innocently flaunted her wares in the privacy of her own castle one story lower than mine. For many months I had resisted the temptation to acquire an optical device which would have increased my advantage but my innate sense of decorum had forbidden it. But here, right here and now, I had such a device; nay a much superior device which would enable me to observe without any chance of being observed and so causing offence. Ah! Get thee behind me Satan!

I built on the fantasy. I plotted out an entire scenario. Suppose that I should LOCK my device on to that nubile maiden, press that ZAP key and so behold her delivered to my large bed in my inescapable steel cage. What would I next have to do? For the sheer fun of it I worked it out in full detail even to the problem of what to do with her after. No, I tell a lie; the reason the ZAP button remained unused was simply because I could not write 'Finis' to the tale. I was faced with three choices; (a) return her immediately and so leave her with a belief in a strange dream (b) keep her for ever more - a wonderful idea but one which would surely put a serious crimp in further explorations? (c) dispose of her - a solution which was not in any way acceptable.

But was there a fourth way? I had long ago pontificated on Uncle Herbert's ability to keep a woman's tongue silent in her head by making her reluctant to expose herself to ridicule while at the same time terminating - either permanently or only temporarily - an exciting association. It was a tantalising possibility but, frankly, I doubted that my experience in both women and the arts of love could rise to such a challenge.

And so I lingered on the borders of decadence with my fantasies growing ever upon me but resisting ... resisting ... dreaming. There was plenty of planning left to do however and I contented myself with speculation. Supposing I were to bring this object of my desire on to that bed ... what next? Clearly, if I were not to lumber myself with her for ever and she had to be returned, then she must never see me because, having lived so close together she might recognise me.

She would have to be blindfolded with all possible speed. But, unless a lockable hood was employed, her hands would have to be restrained? Hence I passed into bondage. From that, via Uncle H's wardrobes which I passed twice on each and every trip to that dungeon, I moved to the question of the apparel I would require my slave to wear. So, inevitably, I came around in full repeating circles to the matter of the abduction itself.

There is nothing wrong in rehearsing a fantasy? And so I sat me down before that keyboard and guided the "camera" to the dwelling place of that innocent damsel of desire. In truth I was unhappy in the role of voyeur but seemed unable to deflect from the quest. I found her lying on her bed, clad only in undies, a paperback book turned down beside her, eyes closed and murmuring slightly. I homed in on the book and managed to read upside down the lurid title "Desert Abduction" and its sub-title "Held in Chains by Lecher of the Desert!"

Surely this was the ideal subject? I LOCKED and, finger poised over the ZAP key, I took a deep breath ... and got cold feet. My alter ego had stepped in. That better person still struggled for survival amidst all the temptation. I shut down and fled the place nor did I return for almost a week. But, as that week progressed, so I grew weaker in my resolve.

I sat down again in that chair and gathered myself together with a few deep breaths. I knew full well what I was going to do and, in just a few seconds, she would be mine. I had foolishly decked myself out in what I thought to be the garb of a desert sheik, the bed was laid out with the necessary chains and cuffs plus the translucent garb that the naked damsel was to wear.

I pressed the ON switch and watched as the monitor powered up. The co-ordinates had been stored in memory and, as the picture developed, I saw that the monitor was dead-centred on the lady's bed ... but the lady in question was not on the bed! As I watched - somewhat disconcerted - the camera suddenly dived to my left and there, twirling in front of a mirror, was my target. But ... and that 'but' gave me pause. She was now dressed in what, for better description, I might call a garment but which in reality made her appear more naked than naked. It was open-meshed net, a halter-necked dress in red/purple cord and it had been woven with a marvellous cunning that made it cling and swirl about her as she pivoted and turned to admire herself in the mirror.

Seemingly of its own volition my finger pressed LOCK and moved on to hover over the ZAP key. But I stayed to savour the moment; there around her waist, clearly visible under that open-weave dress, was an exquisite small-linked chain. Did she indeed share my own fetish for steel links? And had not that waist chain been there when last I beheld her? I couldn't be sure.

I zoomed in for a closer look. She was fingering her chain with both hands and working it round her body. As I watched I quickly came to realise that it was an endless loop; it fitted her small waist exactly but it lacked a fastening? But, if it did not open ... how did she put it on? Then I became aware that one hand was stealing up to her throat and there I beheld a choker necklace of design similar to her waist chain. But as she caressed that necklace it became clear too that similar chain was looped about her wrists forming an exquisite pair of handcuffs. I ran my eyes down that lovely body and I saw that even more of that delicate chain encircled each ankle and that in their turn these were linked to form a hobble. She was not dreaming of me; I was not even number-2; someone had been there before me. If she was dreaming at all it was of that other who had already taken her captive.

There was something about the look of those chains, endless, without fastenings or locks, something in the manner in which she constantly examined them and, however gently, struggled against them. I became convinced that they could only be removed by whoever had enslaved her. If she could not escape her bonds then, equally, they would keep me out.

I am not the man to horn in on somebody else's pitch nor would I knowingly disrupt her obvious euphoria. As I watched her undulating slowly in delight I felt my own madness declining, running down, oozing away even though I still obtained the greatest delight in the vision she presented.

Eventually, with some reluctance, I reached for the OFF switch and went to undo my foolish preparations for an unspeakable offence. Yet I knew that it was not the end. It was a fever that, once kindled, was not going to abate. I resolved that I would return and follow the course of her love life. I wished to know more of those exotic shackles. Meanwhile ... I had some serious searching to do that I might put my newly acquired bondage machine to work.

I was learning of the devil that had driven Uncle Sherbert against what I knew to be his own principles. It was a downward path too easy to follow; I uttered a silent prayer that I might be able to keep control and so not enter into utter depravity. The path however was getting progressively steeper and I doubted that I possessed the necessary braking power. And so ... today ... you perceive ...?