"There," Master says. I tug experimentally on the cuff she has just locked around my ankle, and that feeling of helplessness and trust washes over me like a warm, gentle wave. She looks at me appraisingly. "You know what happens next, slut."
The moment he put the phone down I felt a surge of joy rise inside of me. Okay, that's strictly not true; it had been there all day, like a troupe of ballet dancers in steel-toed boots had taken up residence in my gut. I was behaving, I knew, like some dorky teenager about to embark on a first date. The fact was, I wasn't and neither was he.
Synopsis; 'Plain Janes' are not always as they seem – some have been tutored by relatives who lurk in the background, waiting to receive those caught in a contrived web.
Jane Whistler's appearance was that of a well groomed, prim and clean living girl. At 30, she appeared to have been left on the shelf. She rarely socialised, other than to indulge her workmates on rare occasions – she was rarely asked to dance by the males as she was considered to be flat, a bit fat- not like the beanpole women that the 'blokes' seemed to lust after-and very plain.