The curtains closed, the audience applauded. The Oldford school play for this year was done but there was still the encore.

Miss Salken, History teacher and director of this little effort about a witch trial in Wyoming in 1890, started to push the children back on to the stage, reminding them to get into line and bow when the curtains re-opened. The kids ran to form a hasty line on the stage behind the still settling red velvet curtain.

Suddenly Miss Salken appeared with Pricilla Anderson, the girl who had been the villain of the piece, the one at the very end of the play who had been led off with her hands cuffed behind her, a longer chain on her ankles. She had been taken away bemoaning her fate, proclaiming her doubtful innocence. Now the teacher tugged the still restrained girl into the line, telling two of the others to make room for her and Pricilla.

'Miss! My hands and my ankles,' whispered Pricilla to the teacher as the curtain began to open again. 'They're still cuffed.'

'Be patient. Wait until after the bow,' whispered Miss Salken in reply. 'You're still in your part.'

The curtains parted, the children and Miss Salken bowed and the applause redoubled before the curtains swung closed again.

The line of kids dissolved. The cast, none of them older than eleven, were now either milling round Miss Salken in their excitement or running to the sides of the stage, ready to get out of their costumes, ready to meet their moms and dads and go home. Pricilla stood in the middle of the rapidly clearing stage, looking bewildered. Her hands were still fastened behind her, her ankles still joined by fourteen inches of chain and no one had offered to release her.

'Miss Salken!' Pricilla called as the teacher walked away, surrounded by eager, excited youngsters. The woman was congratulating the children for their work, their bravery at doing a play at this tender age. The teacher stopped and turned at the sound of the girl's urgent voice.

'Yes Pricilla, what is it?'

'Please Miss. My hands!' The child gestured as best she could to show that she was still cuffed.

'Oh, well... don't worry. Wait right there. I'll be back in a moment. Now, Donny,' she said turning to one little boy next to her, 'You did very well out there tonight as the judge...' She moved out of Pricilla's earshot, still surrounded by other children, all babbling at once, all demanding her attention.

All ignoring the chained girl as if it was nothing special. Part of the play, like one of the props.

Pricilla looked around desperately, looking for whoever had the key. She thought it might be the boy who played the sheriff, Jeff Kinlay, but she couldn't see him. In a moment, incredibly, she was all alone on an empty stage, the sound of the other children's excited chatter suddenly fading away. On the other side of the curtain the buzz of conversation among the adults had faded too as they moved towards the exits at the back of the hall. Pricilla felt lost. She shuffled forward and put her head through the curtain to look for her aunt Eleanor and ask her what to do. But the spotlights were still on and having got her head between the curtains she was dazzled by the glare.

'Aunt Eleanor?' she tried to call but there was no response from any of the adults disappearing through the doors. Nobody looked round. Nobody answered.

Pricilla felt annoyed and a little scared as she pulled her head back through. The child set off across the empty stage towards where most of her schoolmates had gone. To her horror she realized the door leading off the stage was closed. She tried to push it with her shoulder but it had been closed properly.

Remembering there was a door on the other side of the stage, the way several others had gone, the ten year old girl set off for that as fast as she could go with her walk restricted by the ankle chain. It was slow going, feeling it snap taut between her ankles and painfully limiting her walk. To her dismay the other door was closed firmly and try as she might she couldn't get her hands up high enough to grab the handle and open it.

Pricilla tried kicking the door but in her bare feet - as the part of the villain had called for in the last act - she couldn't make much noise. Certainly no one opened it from the other side.

It was awkward moving quickly in her restraints but Pricilla made her way across the stage and eased herself through the curtains. The spotlights and the normal lights had been turned off and there was only a couple of dim safety lights in the now empty auditorium. Still, there was enough light for her to see the steps at the side of the stage and she made her way down them carefully and towards the back of the hall.

But it was slow going, chained at the ankles. To her horror she found those doors were closed too and push as hard as she could they wouldn't move. 'Aunt! Aunt Eleanor!' Pricilla called and tried to make a noise by banging her shoulder against the solid oak doors. She couldn't make much noise and it was hurting her to try. She tried her knee but that was too painful.

The ten year old felt tears come to her eyes. Perhaps Miss Salken had come back for her and seeing the stage empty she had assumed Pricilla had left.

'Miss Salken, wait!' she called out as she half stumbled between the rows of chairs, back towards the stage steps. More than once the girl stubbed her naked toes on the legs of chairs or scraped her shin on the seat edges, making fresh tears roll down her cheeks.

She got up the steps as quickly as she could, desperately trying to get through the curtain. 'Miss Salken,' she shouted as she forced her way through the red velvet drapes.

The stage behind the curtain was as empty as before. With a loud click the last of the stage lights went off, leaving only a small glow from a safety bulb high above her head.

'No!' Cried the anxious girl in the near gloom. 'I'm here! You've forgotten me!' Then: 'Help! Miss Salken... help!'

There was no sound in reply: whoever had turned the lights off wasn't on the stage.

In panic Pricilla tried to run for the door, the first door she had tried, but her ankle chain snapped tight and she stumbled, half tumbling to the stage floor. She landed heavily on her upper left arm and the pain knocked the wind out of her. She lay, sobbing, on the floor of the stage.

'Goodness me!' Said a voice above the child. 'Is that you, Pricilla Anderson?'

The girl looked up, startled and relieved. It wasn't Miss Salken, or Aunt Eleanor. Wasn't even one of the other kids. It was Mrs Brooklyn, the Principal of Oldford School. A fearsome looking woman who always wore black and always seemed forbidding and distant. The limited light from the safety bulb above caught the woman's steel-frame spectacles and her scraped back blonde hair.

'Oh, Mrs Brooklyn, I'm so glad to see you... Miss Salken forgot me!' Pricilla sniffed and blinked away the tears, starting to scramble to her feet. Her arm was still hurting but she was so relieved to see someone, to get help, that she didn't mind.

'Here let me help you.' The woman all the kids at Oldford (and probably a few of the teachers) called Stoneface or Mrs Stern looked, even in this light, kind and concerned. Mrs Brooklyn took hold of Pricilla's arm and helped her to her feet. 'My, you're still in your costume, aren't you?'

'It isn't just that,' said Pricilla, urgently indicating her cuffed wrists. 'I haven't got a key for these!'

'Ah, I see,' said the woman, noticing the chain links gleam in what little light there was. 'I'm afraid I haven't either. Miss Salken must have it, I suppose. I wonder where she is?'

'Um, I dunno,' said Pricilla. 'She left with some of the others. Donny Larssen and Katie - Katie Simmons - were with her. Jeff Kinlay, he locked these on me. He might have the key.'

'I've no doubt,' said the Principal. 'Trouble is, Pricilla, I saw most of the children leave as soon as the play finished. I saw the Kinlays taking their son with them. Still, we could find Miss Salken and see if she can help. This way.'

Pricilla followed the Principal across the darkened stage and the middle aged woman - as always in her neat, trademark black - held the door open for the girl to go through. Pricilla was aware of her ankle chains now tinkling as she walked and looked up at the Principal. 'Um, I'm sorry about the noise I'm making.'

'Nonsense, young lady. It's entirely understandable.' The Principal, Pricilla decided, didn't look quite as stern (or stonefaced) as normal. She smiled down at the ten year old and put a hand on the child's shoulder. 'Don't try to hurry. I expect it isn't easy walking quickly in those ankle chains.'

'No, Ma'am. Thankyou Ma'am,' said a grateful Pricilla. She would soon be out of these horrible chains, she told herself. She also thought: this is what slaves wore in the olden days. Like those pictures of African slaves in history lessons. She remembered one drawing that caught her eye: a woman (naked from the waist up though modestly drawn from the back) with a torn skirt and chains on her ankles and her hands cuffed behind her. Pricilla also recalled however that the chains on the black slave's wrists were long like the ones on her ankles, and had thicker bands at wrists and ankles. Manacles, Miss Salken called them in history.

Slaves used to be manacled and I'm a slave, thought the girl with a gulp. I'm all manacled up for whatever my master or mistress wants. For a fleeting moment she thought she thought the woman in black close to her shoulder was her owner, her mistress. Pricilla shook the thought away. She wasn't a slave, was she? Just an actress who had been temporarily forgotten, overlooked in all that chaos at the end of the play.

Pricilla looked up at Mrs Brooklyn, anxiously searching the woman's face. Not so stern looking, as everyone said. The Principal looked down and smiled. Not cold at all.

'Uh, I'm sorry about this,' said Pricilla, feeling guilty. Partly guilty, she knew, for being one of those pupils who said bad things about the woman.

'Don't be,' said Mrs Brooklyn. 'Children always get into scrapes. Soon have you free then we can laugh about it.'

'You won't tell anyone, will you?' A panic seized the girl, She didn't want her friends knowing, laughing at her. 'I mean, it wasn't my fault someone went off with the keys!'

Mrs Brooklyn stopped and looked down at the girl. 'I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to. let's say it's our secret - so we'll laugh about it. Just us two.' The woman put her hand gently, tenderly on Pricilla's cheek. 'You really have no need to worry.'

'Thanks,' whispered Pricilla, smiling back with gratitude.

They resumed their walk to the staff room and for a minute or two Pricilla didn't mind being chained like this. It was kind of nice, sharing something with the Principal. Having a secret all of their own. Her very own. Even the tinkling of the chains at her ankles as she walked didn't seem so bad either.

The feeling didn't last long. Pricilla's hopes of finding Miss Salken and the key faded when they reached the staff room. It was locked with no light inside. Indeed most of the lights seemed to be out in the building and suddenly it was as cold and echoey as anything the girl had even known. Pricilla began to feel sorry for herself, sniffing back a few tears.

'Don't be upset. I'm sure we can find Miss Salken,' soothed Mrs Brooklyn, patting Pricilla's bony little shoulder. 'Or someone who can help.'

'Okay, ma'am,' said Pricilla, not believing it. They hadn't seen anyone on their walk through the school and while the girl was relieved no-one she knew had seen them she suddenly felt lost. As far as she could see everyone had gone home.

'Your nose is running,' said the Principal, producing a handkerchief from her jacket pocket. She squatted in front of the manacled girl and offered it to Pricilla, inviting her to blow into it. Pricilla did, and blushed a little.

'I feel kinda stupid, like a baby.'

'I'm just here to help,' smiled the woman kindly, dabbing away the little snot that remained. 'I guess with you all chained up like that I have to help some.'

Pricilla nodded and then colored up. A feeling had suddenly made itself known to the girl: her bladder was sending urgent signals. 'Um, Mrs Brooklyn... I have to go to the bathroom,' the girl whispered, embarrassed at needing the toilet.

'Okay, let's get you there.' Mrs Brooklyn stood and guided Pricilla towards the staff toilet just a couple of doors away. She didn't say anything but hoped they weren't locked like the staff room. Fortunately, the door was open and she flipped the light on as she shepherded the child in.

Pricilla went straight into the first cubicle and stood, looking even more awkward. 'I can't, you know...' The child trailed off.

'Sure, I know. You need me to help you get your pants down.' Once more, the woman squatted in front of the helpless child, lifted her long costume skirt and taking hold of the child's blue cotton pants slowly and carefully drew them down. Then she held the little girl's skirt up clear of her hips until Pricilla had wriggled up on to the seat.

The ten year old was looking embarrassed as she peed, avoiding Mrs Brooklyn's face just a few inches from her own. As the girl finished her urination there was a small, high pitched sound and the child blushed furiously at the unexpected and obvious noise from her little butt.

'You need to do something more, Pricilla?' Mrs Brooklyn was clam and collected, not shocked in any way.

'Uh-huh,' the child's voice was barely audible as she had her head down. 'I gotta, um...'

'Do a poo-poo?' The Principal didn't look embarrassed as she said it. 'It's okay if you do, Pricilla. I'm a teacher remember and I have helped a lot of children go to the toilet. So it's okay if you do. Just relax and don't think about me being here.'

The girl still didn't look at the Principal. 'I don't know if I can,' she managed to say.

'If you have to go, then you can. Honestly I'm not embarrassed, honey.'

Being called "Honey" made Pricilla look up. 'Y-you called me honey.'

'Of course. I'm not the ogre everyone thinks.'

Pricilla stared wide-eyed at the Principal. 'You know what they call you? The kids at school I mean.'

The woman laughed. 'Of course I do. Stoneface, Steel-eyes, Stern. Even Stain or Stink!' She still hadn't let go of the girl's skirt but didn't look distressed at repeating the names. 'They're just names.'

'Like mine. They call me Prissy,' confessed the girl.

'I know. Funny huh? But not as nice as Pricilla.'

Pricilla felt a wave of relief, that this woman was human. But at her relaxing she broke wind again, noisier than before. 'Oops,' she blushed. 'I guess I should go.'

'Fine,' nodded the woman in black.

For some reason - and this would always strike her as strange - she didn't take her eyes off the surprisingly kind face of the woman as she gave a small grunt and expelled the first of her solids. There was a splash from the water, followed by another. 'Um... I-I'm sorry about... the smell,' whispered the girl, her eyes on the woman's brown eyes.

'It's okay, honey,' whispered back the Principal, keeping her own eyes locked on the child's soft, blue eyes.

It was probably the strangest moment for this to happen - and no one would have believed either of them afterwards if they told - but as the third stool hit the water the girl in chains and the squatting teacher leaned forward and gave each other a small, precise kiss.

'Oh!' gasped Pricilla, suddenly pulling back. She had never kissed anyone before. Not like this at any rate: she was ten and kisses were for older girls. Like the ones between her aunt and her boyfriend. She'd seen Aunt Eleanor kissing Joe a few times and wondered why they did it.

Now she knew. Even a little kiss like that felt somehow, well, electric.

'I'm sorry,' said the woman. For the first time the Principal blushed. Just a little red to her cheeks. Pricilla wanted to stroke them and say it was okay, but she was blushing too. Anyway, her hands were still cuffed behind her and she hadn't quite finished on the toilet. There was a little more to be expelled and then she said, quietly. 'I've done now, Mrs Brooklyn.'

'Good,' smiled the woman, recovering her poise. 'So let's get you off and cleaned up, right?' She helped the girl off the toilet seat and took several sheets of paper from the holder. 'Just lean forward a little so I can get to your bottom and clean you up. Then we can get your pants back up.'

'Y-you don't mind?' Pricilla lifted her cuffed hands up, clear of her waist and offered her pale little rear to the woman.

The woman shrugged, even though Pricilla couldn't really see her do it. 'It's just part of my job, I guess.' She was wiping deep into the child's little crack, rubbing gently against her small, puckered anus.

Pricilla gave a small gasp.

'Am I hurting you, honey?' There was a note of concern in the woman's voice.

'Oh no... it's just, well... funny, I guess.' The child paused. 'A nice kinda funny.'

Pricilla couldn't see the Principal blush behind her. She had finished cleaning, tossed the paper into the pan and flushed the waste away before she busied herself pulling up the child's pants. Neatly, making sure they were up fully. 'There, all done,' said Mrs Brooklyn.

'Please, ma'am,' said Pricilla turning round to face the woman who had stepped to the sink to wash her hands. 'You called me honey again.'

'Sure,' smiled the woman, rinsing her hands under the faucet, looking at the girl in the mirror.

'Thankyou.'

'For what?'

'Um... You know, looking after me. Doing that.'

'We can't have you feeling bad, can we?' The woman had turned to dry her hands but the place where the towel hung was empty. 'Oh,' she said. 'There's usually a towel here.'

'What about the hand-drier?' suggested the girl, nodding at the white box on the wall nearby.

'Broken. Again,' sighed the woman, shaking her hands to get the excess water off them.

'You can use my skirt,' said the girl brightly. 'It's only a costume for the play and I don't need it again. Aunt won't mind at all.'

Mrs Brooklyn looked at the child. The cute innocence that had made the middle-aged woman - quite unexpectedly and against all her training and principles - kiss the child was still there. Plus some more: a look of intense desire to help suffused the small, bright face. 'Uh, if it's okay,' said the Principal. She was used to squatting in front of Pricilla by now and did so unhesitatingly once more. Without a moment's thought she scooped up the hem of the child's long skirt and began to wipe her hands on it.

'I like doing things for you,' said the child, quite unexpectedly.

'And I like it too,' said Mrs Brooklyn. She wiped her hands on the thin cloth but didn't let it drop when she finished. She simply held it and then eased it up, revealing the child's legs and then her pants. Blue, though she'd seen that when she helped Pricilla on the toilet a few minutes ago. Yet it seemed longer than that: like an age gone past. 'I like your pants too,' said the woman, staring at them. Blue cotton, with the merest white lace at the legs.

Mrs Brooklyn - Joan to her few friends - looked down at the thin ankle chain between the girl's thin ankles. 'Cute jewelry, too,' she laughed. A generous, easy laugh that made Pricilla chuckle too.

Then the girl said: 'Um, can I see your panties? Are they black, like your clothes?'

Black skirt, black jacket, almost black pantyhose and polished black shoes: the outfit the woman usually wore to school every day. Only her blonde hair, severely but carefully combed back and her steel frame glasses broke the all black look. The woman stared at the girl. 'You want to see what I wear underneath?'

'That's what I said. I mean, what I asked.' Pricilla wasn't scared any more. The woman was way too nice for that.

'Pricilla, I don't think that I should.' The woman gave a sigh as she straightened.

'Please,' implored the girl. ''S only fair. You saw mine.'

'Okay... perhaps you're right. Well, mine are black.'

'No, don't tell me! Show me. Please. You saw what I'm wearing!'

The woman went to say that was different but realized it wasn't. Without a word she grabbed her skirt and hoisted it up her legs to her hips, revealing her surprisingly shapely legs. 'See?'

'Black,' confirmed the girl with a snicker.

'Yes, black,' said the woman, pulling her skirt back down, suppressing a smile. 'We're even now.'

'I like them,' laughed the girl.

'They're just... pants.'

'But you're wearing them, and they've got lace on them. Black lace.' The girl said it without a second's thought. 'They're yours, so they're special.'

The Principal blushed slightly. She excused herself by making a gesture towards the girl. 'Well, you're wearing something special. Those chains.'

'Yeah! 'S funny, these chain things. I'm, uh, being made like a slave.' Pricilla felt happy for some strange reason. This was somehow fun.

'A slave?' Joan Brooklyn gave the girl a curious look. 'Are you a slave, honey?'

'Um... no. Well, maybe.' Suddenly the girl looked awkward.

The two females, the woman and the child looked at each other without speaking. They looked for a full minute, studying each other's faces.

It was Mrs Brooklyn who broke the silence, suddenly half turning away. She looked flushed, as if something was bothering her. 'Pricilla, we have to get you home. Your aunt will be worrying.'

The pre-teen girl looked lost. 'My aunt... she'll think I'm at Jessica's. She won't be really worried.'

'Jessica Hammond?' Inquired the Principal. 'She's older than you.'

'I know. Her mom and my aunt are kinda friends.' At this Pricilla dropped her voice, as if someone might overhear. 'I don't like her. She doesn't like me. I don't want to go to her place.'

'But we have to get you home. You can't stay in school. Not like this.'

The child took a deep breath and stared into the middle distance, thinking about home and Jessica's place. Then she refocused on the Principal. 'But I could stay with you. Aunt wouldn't mind.'

'Honey, you're ten!'

Pricilla frowned. 'I'm nearly eleven, but...' The girl allowed herself a smile. 'You called me honey again. I like it. Aunt doesn't call me that.' A small shadow slid across the girl's pretty face, dampening the happiness. 'No one does. Not since mom died.'

Joan nodded. She'd read the notes on Pricilla. No known dad, mom dead, living with her aunt who - the Principal suspected - didn't care too much about her niece. But she was her legal guardian, and that was what mattered. 'You have to go ho-'

'You kissed me,' interrupted the girl, looking up at the woman. 'When I was on the toilet.'

Joan shrugged, trying to dismiss the act, suddenly fearing trouble. 'It wasn't a real kiss,' she said. 'Just friendly. Reassuring.'

'I liked it though,' said the girl earnestly. 'No one's kissed me before. Would you do it again, please. Oh, and call me honey, too.'

The Principal stared at the cuffed and manacled girl but couldn't help smiling. Despite her misgivings about what she's done, what the child had said, a smile crept up on her. 'I can hardly call you honey and kiss you at the same time.'

'I know,' laughed the girl, pleased the woman didn't look worried any more. 'Honey first, then kiss.'

Joan's smile faded and she shook her head. 'I told you, I have to get you back.' She gestured at the girl. 'You know I haven't got keys for your chains.'

'Don't want to come out of them,' said the child, defiantly. 'Not with you. You can be my owner.'

'Owner?'

Pricilla laughed at the woman's astonished look. 'Sure. I'm in chains, like a slave girl and you can call me honey, and kiss me lots.'

'Honey... I mean Pricilla. I can't own you! Slavery's illegal!'

'But you like me. That's why you kissed me. That's why you wiped my bottom in there.' The girl nodded to the cubicle. 'That was why you looked at my panties when you lifted my skirt.'

'No, you said...' The woman trailed off, not sure what to say.

'If I'm chained like this you can feed me, do things for me.' A beat. 'I'd really like that.'

Joan Brooklyn, 41 years old, Principal of Oldford, a respected figure in the local community, felt her head spin. She managed to say: 'Do you know what you're saying?'

Pricilla nodded, her mind scampering over a dozen excitements. She had gone from unsure, scared child to a confident young female in a dizzying half hour with a woman the same age as her aunt. But she didn't care. Not now she'd been kissed on the lips, had her pants taken down and her little ass wiped for her.

Not now she'd been helped when she was helpless.

'I want to be with you. You can't send me away,' said the girl. 'You can't, can you?'

'We can't stay here,' said the woman, avoiding the question.

'Then take me to your house,' said the girl.

'What if there's someone there?' The question was hard edged, followed by another. 'What if I live with someone?'

The words hit the child like an arrow. Two arrows, both poisoned.

Pricilla staggered a little at the blows to her pride, her hopes. She hadn't thought of anything like that. She'd imagined that Mrs Brooklyn was lonely. The principal would be on her own all the time, like she seemed to be at school. Remote, cold. needing someone to like her. Suddenly denied, tears flooded into the girl's eyes and ran down her cheeks. She sobbed, loudly.

'Oh honey!' gasped the Principal. She grabbed Pricilla and pulled her to herself, not caring if the child's tears soaked her jacket. 'I don't want to hurt you. But I can't take you home, even if I wanted to!'

''S okay,' blubbered the girl, when it clearly wasn't.

'I think you are very sweet honey,' said the woman, clutching the chained, crying girl closer still. 'But I don't live alone. It wouldn't be fair to take you home!'

''S okay,' repeated the girl, shaking as she wept. It was clearly far from okay.

The woman bent her head to the child's face, kissing the tears away. Hot, salty tears. Licking them. Her lips couldn't stay away from the child's nose, the snot running down. The woman kissed it, licked it. Licked the girl's lips and planted her mouth on Pricilla's small but delightful lips. A kiss, unlike the first.

A long, deep kiss and the child grew quiet as the woman's tongue pressed into her small, sweet mouth.

'Uh... Mrs Brooklyn,' gasped the child as they broke.

'Honey, don't cry. I can't bear it,' said the woman.

'Okay,' said the girl. 'W-will you help me.'

'How sweetheart?'

Pricilla's heart stirred. No one had called her that before, either.

'Uh, my pants,' said the girl, eyes on the woman's, no more than a few inches from hers. 'They're kinda funny, inside.'

'Wet?' asked the woman, heart pounding.

'Uh, yes, ma'am.'

'Not ma'am, honey. Joan.'

'Yes, ma - uh, yes Joan.'

'Let me see.' The Principal had abandoned all inhibitions now. Without letting go of the girl with one arm she hoisted the costume skirt up with her other hand and felt the cotton of the blue pants with her fingers, searching for the waistband.

'Inside,' gasped the girl, knowing what was coming as if it was the most natural thing ever.

Joan Brooklyn's hand was in the child's pants now, reaching down to the damp, hairless cunny. Instinctively the pre-teen spread her legs as far as her ankle chains would allow. The woman's slender but strong fingers were working in the pants, up against the slit, looking for the clitoris. That small nub that would send the child into orbit.

The fingers slid into the lips of the child's sex. Pricilla, on cue, moaned in intense excitement. The woman moved her head forward, her full lips to the girl's lips, already open for the tongue. Natural, really.

Pricilla had never known anything even remotely like this before. She gripped the short chain between her wrists behind her back with one hand, as if the feeling of cold steel links would help. Oh, if only the ankle chain was longer she could have her legs wider apart. If only...

'What the hell are you doing?' The voice of a woman, standing in the door cut through both the Principal and the pupil. The kiss broke instantly, the wet hand snatched away. The bunched up skirt fell raggedly.

In the doorway of the toilets was Miss Salken, hands on hips. The young teacher stared at the older woman and child, a distinct look of cold anger on her face. 'I've been looking for you everywhere, Joan!'