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Peters. Her name was Jill, and she was not a weirdo just a man-eater with a predilection for virgin students - allegedly.-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-“So then, slave? When are you going to be at my beck and call?”In the cold light of another dank autumnal morning, I frowned at Grace. I should have gone straight home from lectures and hid for a month or three. My toxic hangover, a tribute to cheap lager and cheaper vodka shots, still rankled. The idea of spending any time with Frankenstein’s bride did not sit well with me. Goths kept to themselves, a coven of dyed crimped air and sun-starved skin. The men wore makeup, gazed at their shoes a lot, and looked glum. There was no way anyone was worth eighty pounds at that auction, not even Keith managed more than twenty pounds and a packet of crisps – cheese and onion.“Well?” she sounded very assertive.“Dunno, when you like I suppose.” I built up to a final flourish, “I am your slave.”Her neutral expression changed into one of amusement,. Instead of panicking, she calmly assessed her situation. Admittedly, it didn't look very good, but as far as she could tell nothing untoward had happened, at least not yet. Experimentally, she tugged on her bonds, but they were quite firm, no give at all.The sound of the door to the room opening drew her attention. To her shock Ashleigh's mother walked in, effortlessly carrying what appeared to be a large cooler. Despite it's apparent size and weight, she lifted it like it was nothing, not something Chelsea was used to seeing. Even stranger, she paid no attention to the bound teen on a bed in what presumably was her master bedroom. "Um, Miss Kershaw?" She tried to call out, but her mouth was dry and she coughed once, which was long enough to allow the older woman to exit the room without comment and shut the door, leaving the large cooler at the foot of the bed, out of view.Once the door was closed, the room was again silent except for the sound of a ceiling fan slowly rotating above.
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