Chapter 1

Sunlight pierced the dense canopy of water-laden leaves, driving up the humidity of the rainforest below. Upon a large moss-padded rock a woman stirred, woken by the steadily rising temperature of the air around her. Her skin was tepid with moisture, though whether from perspiration or the sultry air was impossible to tell.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around, dazed. For a moment she was placated by the many beautiful sights and smells around her: the golden glow of the morning sun and the fresh aroma of a hundred species of flora all thriving within a stone's throw.

Then her mind woke up and tried to comprehend what her senses were telling her. She was in the middle of a tropical rainforest, but had no memory of how she got here. Come to think of it, she had no memory of anything besides... No, she couldn't even remember her name. A note of panic set in, the ubiquitous jungle overwhelming her. She also realised she was unclothed, her warm skin completely exposed to the elements.

A sense of self-consciousness kicked in and she began to rationalise her situation. Her hair was raven black and silky smooth, two qualities that marked her about as suited to the rainforest as a tiger to the city. So if she wasn't a native or a nomad, why was she here? Unless...

A nearby rustle interrupted her thoughts. She didn't have to wait long to hear it again - the rustle was growing in volume, getting closer. Something was lumbering through the underbrush towards her, smashing everything out of its path. Her heart racing, she leapt to her feet and dashed off in the opposite direction. Adrenaline surged through her, urging her onward. But her mind quickly filled with terror as the futility of her plight set in. She had nowhere to run to, nor was she in any state for a marathon. Even as she thought this, she stumbled. Glancing down, her brow furrowed in bewilderment. She was wearing a pair of black six-inch stilettos, their glossy finish strikingly out of place in the green vegetation carpeting the jungle. She could have sworn she was barefoot when she woke up.

A roar at her back pushed her forwards, limping on through the brush. Only, the brush was no longer whipping past her as she ran - instead it sort of rushed past in a blur. Wait a moment... A tiger wouldn't announce its presence before a pounce. There was something else going on here. Then the colours around her shifted, the lush greens darkening to a black gloom. The rustle of her footfalls became sharp raps against cobbled stone and a cold chill engulfed her naked form. But she was naked no longer: scraps of clothing hung off her, the torn remains of a shamelessly lewd attire.

The roar was closer still, but it had deepened to resemble a man's cruel laugh. Cursing her glamorous yet awkward heels, she stumbled on down the alley that had materialised in front of her. It was night time now, apparently, and she was running through a deserted city street to flee this mystery man behind her. But she could go no faster, and he was swiftly gaining on her.

In moments he was upon her, his rough hands grabbing at her midriff from behind. She spun and faced the predator, but a featureless black mask concealed his expression. His hands continued to subdue, her struggles rendered futile by his effortless strength. She was no helpless maid, but it was as though the man possessed boundless brawn, matching her defiance with unfailing tenacity. His body even seemed physically superior to that of an average man, with burly arms built like bronze pistons and the hardy legs of a tireless sprinter. By some unjust fate, she was simply no match for him.

Rope appeared in his hands as he proceeded to secure his conquest. Her flailing limbs were tamed and tied in short order, her contrary efforts serving only to tire herself out. She let out a silent scream as a pair of clamps mercilessly pinched her nipples and held fast to those tiny sensitive buds. Where did they come from?

Realising she was defeated, her mind wasted no time in analysing the situation. She began noticing small details around her that were just slightly off. Her bent knees were pressed hard against the rough pavement, yet she felt no scratching nor bruises. From her attire she appeared to be a working girl, yet she had nowhere to stash tips. Then there was the man's implausible strength, the oddly deserted street...

As if on cue, the street began closing in around her, solid walls zooming into place as a ceiling materialised and the floor became wood. In moments, a dimly-lit dungeon had taken the place of the city street. She also abruptly became aware that she was suspended some distance above the ground, explaining why she'd never felt the road beneath her. And finally her masked captor shimmered and changed before her eyes. He was no less menacing, especially given the power he currently held over her, but she now saw him for an ordinary man, if somewhat cunning with a coil of rope. No mask, no burnished muscles, and no superhuman strength. Just a man with an uncanny ability to work rope around a woman's body.

"Good morning, sunshine," grinned the man as he saw her eyes come into focus. "That was an impressive turn-around for a first-timer. Barely thirty minutes."

Upon seeing her confusion he laughed gave her a teasing slap. The sting brought her memory flooding back in a hot flush. She was currently modelling for a fetish entertainment company known as eSensual Studios. But she was no model - she was Agent Isabella Winters, a trained agent on an undercover assignment to investigate rumours of illicit activity at the company. And she'd just confirmed those rumours with resounding success.

If she wasn't mistaken, the hallucinations she'd just experienced were induced by a drug known as eroxide, an illegal psychedelic drug. If models were normally dosed by the hour, her disciplined mind must have been the only reason she'd fought it from her system in so short a time. She now understood why the studio's profits had skyrocketed in recent months: the drug was addictive. A model might not even realised she'd been dosed - she'd just be left with a pleasant rush of endorphins and an insatiable desire to return as soon as possible.

The drug was illegal was because of its ability to deprive an individual of their free will. A small dose would leave the subject in a heightened state of euphoria no matter how extreme or painful the treatment that follows might be. There were similar drugs that made a person susceptible to suggestion - sodium pentathol, lysergic acid, alcohol - but each of these had their limits as to what that suggestion might entail. Not eroxide. It worked by giving its user an extrasensory experience derived from their real-world predicament. The catch was that this experience was always manufactured from the subject's own dark fantasies, simulating a deep satisfaction and emotional release no matter what foul reality they really inhabited. For the other models, this meant they would appear to be laughing and enjoying their ordeal when really their true reaction might be to scream in protest. And when they awake, they would be left with only vague memories of what transpired and an emotional high that would ensure they don't think too hard on it. Along with any physical evidence left on their body, of course.

That was why eroxide was illegal. In truth, many models might enjoy this sort of treatment anyway, but the drug ensured that those who didn't never got to express it and would even believe that they'd experienced pure bliss. Every model would become a regular, and word of mouth would inevitably draw others into the fold. Erotic entertainment was a booming industry to begin with; add eroxide into the fold and this company would have a monopoly on the industry before the average model's 21st birthday.

Isabella knew what was coming next. Her rigger would administer another dose and continue the scene. Trouble was, she didn't particularly feel like waking up in another rainforest, so he was going to have a hard time putting her back under.


Thirty Minutes Earlier

She walked into the room exactly one minute late. She was five feet and fifty kilograms of sass, her cheeky smile peering out between neck-length curtains of silky black hair. Her profession demanded infallible stealth on a daily basis, and her jet-black locks and caramel skin tone allowed her to slip into shadows like a silk dress. Her petite figure had saved her hide on numerous occasions, for underestimating Isabella Winters was the last mistake anyone could make. What she lacked in stature she compensated for with speed, agility, and an unmatched proficiency in hand-to-hand combat.

But if all went well, it was merely her looks that this job would require. Fortunately this was another area in which Isabella was a gifted woman. Her curvaceous figure was perhaps her most well-used asset as a spy, and her round amber eyes had melted away many a hostile man's resistance.

In place of her usual form-fitting reconnaissance suit, she was dressed in a lewd approximation of what a real fetish model might wear. Her slim waist was girded by a low-cut blouse several sizes too small, demanding no stretch of imagination to visualise her shapely assets in their entirety. A thigh-length stretch skirt hugged her rear, morphing to her wiry muscles perhaps a little too well - a real model probably wouldn't share the physique of an Olympic athlete. In any case, the attire was sexy and inexpensive, which was probably a good choice seeing as her garments would likely be ripped away in the course of the ensuing scene.

There was a man waiting for her - a middle-aged man with calloused hands and loose-fitting clothes. He smirked as he looked up, as if by her late arrival and audacious grin he immediately knew he'd enjoy their coming session.

They exchanged a few formalities and established that she knew roughly what she was getting into. Every word she spoke was a lie, of course, since her cover couldn't be traced back to her real purpose here. She was posing as a model named Scarlett Summers (somebody back at headquarters clearly had a sense of humour). Her background was the usual tripe, but she delivered the appropriate amount of detail with enough conviction to avoid raising suspicion.

Soon enough she was ordered to turn around and hold out her arms. As the man grabbed them and roped her elbows tightly together, it took every ounce of self-control she possessed to stop herself from retaliating. As much as she ached to put this lewd man in his place, she had to stick to the plan at least until she found out what was going on. So as he forced her shoulders back and bound her upper arms as closely as her strained muscles allowed, she merely grunted and clenched her fists. Even then she could have fought back and wriggled free were her nimble feet not buckled into a pair of glossy black stilettos - footwear she normally abhorred for how they chastened her effortless agility, but today a necessary accessory to her faux identity.

Having secured her arms to his satisfaction, the man pushed her to her knees and then to her chest, unceremoniously crushing her breasts inside her already-tight blouse. He then proceeded to bind her legs. Isabella groaned as he wrapped rope around her infernal footwear, passing the strands neatly between the spoke and heel to further prevent her from kicking them off. Then he pulled her ankles against her thighs and worked rope around and between each leg to glue calf and thigh snugly together.

At this point the secret agent was feeling somewhat less confident about her ability to escape. She was now effectively hogtied, a position notoriously difficult to achieve any movement in besides wriggling.

But the devious rope master was just getting started. Over the next few minutes he worked her over like a butcher binding a slab of meat, inspecting her for any freedom of movement so that he could promptly take it away.

Her breasts popped easily out of her blouse and were each wrapped in several coils of rope which ran between her legs and to her wrists, rubbing uncomfortably against her crotch with every twitch. Her hair was woven into strands of rope, natural and synthetic fibres entwined in an unbreakable cord holding her head back in an uncomfortable arch. The other end of the cord connected to a cold chrome hook that slid down her skirt and into her ass - Isabella threw her head back in shock when this happened, which unfortunately only made it easier for the man to tighten the bond. A wide leather collar was placed around her neck, its numerous rings and buckles foreshadowing future torments. Her skirt was cut slightly to allow her legs to part, then with more rope her knees were pried apart and connected to her collar, leaving her pantiless crotch exposed in a wide split.

Yet more rope was attached to several points around her trussed form and looped through a fixture on the ceiling. Then she was yanked into the air, her breath leaving her with an involuntary gasp.

The final touch, it seemed, was to gag her. The man disappeared from view for a moment and returned with a vivid red ballgag, grinning profusely. What the hell, she thought, I've come this far...

Isabella obediently opened her mouth to take the large gag between her lips. It was as lustrous as her strawberry lip gloss and ten times as vibrant. There was no doubt she looked the part of a fetish model now, floating in the air with every inch of her body on display and a shiny gag in her mouth - but was it worth it?

The man continued to move about her, preparing some predicament or another, but Isabella found her mind softly letting go. The rope was so snug and satisfying, her stretched muscles ached with warmth, her body swayed gently in the air... Without closing her eyes, she began to drift off into delicious fantasies. The world continued to spin around her, but the agent was soon oblivious to it, instead embroiled in her own private universe where life was simple and pleasure came easily.


The Present

Isabella wriggled experimentally, testing the ropes that held her. She had to admit that the man standing over her was no amateur - but then, neither was she. Escapology was a key discipline of every field agent, and she'd been at the top of the class.

First: identify the restraints. The rope was a three-strand weave of hemp fibres, evident from the strong aroma filling her nose and the rough texture against her skin. This was good, because the natural fibre held with more friction and hence required fewer knots for a secure suspension. The placement of those knots weren't going to be of any help - these people were far too professional to leave any loose ends near her fingers. If she had more time and wasn't floating in the air she could perhaps rub a strand until it became frayed, but as it was, her captor was already approaching with enough eroxide to have her fleeing from big cats for the better part of the evening.

Her mind raced to predict how the drug would be administered so that she could react in time. A needle would have the quickest effect, but the scar it left would be too obvious. Racking her brain, only one likely possibility presented itself - the drug was laced into the gag somehow. This would be nearly as effective as a chloroform-soaked cloth, but undetectable even by the model being dosed.

Sure enough, she heard him approaching from behind and felt him remove her gag to swap it with a new one. Quick as a flash, she jerked her head away and spun towards where he stood. At the last moment she rammed her skull into his, colliding with a satisfying thud that took him by surprise. As her hanging body swayed violently backwards in recoil, the rope master sank to the ground and began drooling, his eyes flickering briefly before they closed. That was the easy part. Now she had five, maybe ten minutes before he woke back up with a thirst for vengeance. If she was still bound in these ropes by that time, an illegal drug would be the least of her worries.

So, onwards to the second step in escaping restraints: identify the weakness. Her predicament was a cunning one, its purpose two-fold. Usually when a perpetrator tied up a victim it was to prevent them from escaping. While this was certainly true of her current bondage, there was also a second purpose: humiliation. That commendable andric desire to see a pretty woman rendered a helpless sex object had motivated more than just ropes to restrain; it had also demanded that each of her erogenous zones be flaunted and made available to any treatment the lecherous man might desire to inflict. To that end, she was splayed like a whore, and a camera blinking silently from one side ensured the world would know it if she couldn't get to the footage first.

Unfortunately, knowing all this did nothing to aid her quest. The ropes were everywhere, her every limb bound with countless strands that were each woven into a lattice of masterful ropework.

Isabella thrashed in frustration, as if a violent enough movement could shake the bonds off. Any one of these ties on their own she could escape from in the blink of an eye, but together? There was just too much damn rope. Even dislocating a shoulder would be no help, because her shoulders were already strained so far back that it would give her barely any extra slack. Yet she was running out of time. She had to think fast, work fast - and failing that, come up with a sound backup plan if she was still stuck here when the man awoke.

Her goal now was simple: destroy the video footage of her session, grab some evidence of eroxide usage from the room, and exfiltrate the complex. There was just this small problem of a mile of rope keeping her in place. Agent Isabella Winters, thwarted by a sex worker. She would not let that be her legacy in espionage.

She glared at the blinking camera, fervently hoping there was no one currently watching her. When she entered the business she'd known her body would be a valuable asset in this line of work - a female spy was rare, and one that could hold her own against a group of male agents was exceptional. She had long been comfortable with exploiting men with her sexual allure - an innuendo here, an intentional nipple slip there - but exposing her entire being to the world at its most sexualised was not something she was ready for.

But it wasn't long now until that was exactly what would happen. Adopting a stoic grimace, Isabella redoubled her efforts to free herself from the rope. Find the weakness. There's always a weakness. If only she had more time...


Chapter 2 (added: 2015/10/11)

The man stirred. Then he was on his feet, scowling at her with all the contempt he could muster.

"What? I don't like gags," Isabella pouted, shrugging off her attack as part of the role-play. With any luck he'd buy it. What else would he believe? That a trained agent had just slugged him but failed to escape his ropes?

He remained silent as he moved around her. Isabella shivered, uncomfortably aware of her every vulnerability. If he wanted revenge, she was his on a silver platter, and there wasn't the slightest thing she could do about it. She'd tried every avenue of escape, every sleight of hand, every manoeuvre she knew, but the ropes had held stubbornly to her form. They'd dug corrugated grooves into her flesh now-it would be days before she could wear a bikini without burning with shame. Apparently that wasn't enough for the bitter rope master, though, because he proceeded to tighten her bonds even further. If the crotch rope was chafing before, now it was rubbing her raw. He also added weights to her nipples, delivering a painful reminder of the clamps that had been applied while she was absorbed in another reality.

"Not too smart, angering your only hope of escape," said her rigger softly, clenching his arm around her collared neck. As he took her into a headlock, his other hand wandered across to her nether region, his fingers drumming against her raw pussy. Isabella quietly gasped-after nearly receiving a rope burn through her crotch the area was more sensitive than ever. His arm continued to tighten around her neck, halting her air supply. His other hand slid up and down her inner thigh as he flaunted his control over her, letting go of her neck just as she thought she would pass out.

"Alright. If you hate gags so much, I'll relent for now. But only so that I can hear your screams," he said, smiling with the confidence of a man who knew his craft and delighted in shooting down any sceptics in flames.

Isabella smirked. She didn't know anyone with a higher pain tolerance than her. The professional pervert was only setting himself up for disappointment.

The man noticed her smugness and kneeled before her, his face brought close to hers.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered. The smirk didn't falter. "You know why?"

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"Because you're mine." He reached out and took a breast, playing with the clamp as he continued to watch her face. Her nose twitched, the only indication of any discomfort. "All mine. For the next few hours, all of this"-he slapped her thigh-"is my property. And you know what? I'm pretty reckless with my property."

"Nothing like a good threat to start the day."

Now it was his turn to smile. "I'm not threatening you, Scarlett. We both know that would be a waste of time-I have no need for threats when I can do anything to you at my leisure. No, I'm merely explaining the situation to you."

"How chivalrous," she said dryly, wondering if there had ever been a less appropriate use of the word. Her rigger stood up and paced around her as he continued, ignoring the remark.

"They say women are superior at satisfying other women. That somehow their sex gives them insight into what another girl likes. But if that's true, then a woman can empathise with you. She knows what it takes to make you orgasm, but also when it's too intense. She knows what it feels like when you climax, and how sensitive that rosy little pussy of yours becomes afterwards."

"You're turning me lesbian here, bud. What's your point?"

"My point, dear Scarlett, is that as a mere simple male I have no clue what you feel. I have no idea what you feel when I pinch your nipple, or slap your pussy, or drag an orgasm out of you for the third time. The only clues I get are from watching you. So if you don't scream-"

"-You'll fuck me senseless," she finished, adding a sardonic edge to the trite phrase.

"To put it mildly. Before I'm done with you, not only will your name be a fitting description for that flawless skin of yours, you'll be so far gone that you won't even realise how many dirty sounds gush from your mouth."

"I do love a good road trip."

"Oh, you'll be tripping alright," he grinned. "Now stop yapping before I beat the sass out of you. And that, Miss Summers, was a threat. One that I'll likely carry out either way, so don't stress over it too much."

Isabella was silent. Tripping, she thought. Such an apt description. So the torture was to be of the sexual variety. Not exactly her area of expertise, but it couldn't be worse than pain, right?

"This," said the rigger, "is Mr Stumpy. Mr Stumpy, meet Scarlett." He held a short wooden baton in front of her, its end fixed with a black rubber dildo. She rolled her eyes. "Mr Stumpy likes warm, moist places that he can slide into and hide in."

"Then Mr- Mmmmfff-"

The hand-held dildo was suddenly shoved into Isabella's mouth, stifling the agent's words. She was unprepared for the intruder and silently chastised her carelessness as the dildo slid unobstructed to the back of her throat. But it was gone again before her gag reflex kicked in, stopping just short of where she could expel the shaft from her mouth. Then it slid forwards once more, lightly punching her fauces and repeating the process. Before she knew it, Isabella was being fucked in the mouth by a fake dick.

It was all the same to her on the receiving end, of course. The dildo was distinctly phallic-shaped, a fact not lost on the bound girl as it flew along her tongue. With each stroke the bulbous head conformed to her soft palate as though it was made to fit there, only to vacate her throat a moment later. After a minute or two of this frustrating cycle, her gag reflex never quite being triggered, the man removed the shaft entirely-whereupon she coughed, spluttered, and drooled all over the floor.

"Oh-ho, there is a way to shut you up," he taunted her. "What, nothing to say? I should document this phenomenon." He mimed writing on a dossier. "If model's backchat begins to irritate, oral intercourse suggested as an effective remedy."

"Don't forget to add a spoonful of sugar," Isabella coughed.

"Prolonged oral session suggested for longer-lasting results," he finished menacingly. He put down the invisible dossier and waved the dildo before her, now slick with saliva. "Now, the real reason I just shoved this in your mouth was so that Mr Stumpy could prepare for his next adventure in a somewhat... darker... locale."

Isabella watched with apprehension as her rigger moved behind her and loosened a few sections of her bondage. Most notably, the ass hook came out, and with it the rope eating into her crotch. But a moment later she realised this was not out of mercy, but necessity-the sleek black dildo was now easing its way into her rear. It was not an especially large object, but when a solid hunk of rubber is pushed through that hole it makes a girl's hair stand on end no matter what size it happens to be. Isabella had never had anything larger than a finger in there, and this was not the most desirable time for trying new experiences. Her thighs clenched up and tried to close, but she could no more stop the intrusion than she could escape the ropes.

When the dildo was buried to its hilt, her tormentor began sliding it back and forth as he had in her mouth. Had she not been subjected to a routine enema before commencing the shoot, Isabella would have been disgusted. Even so, it felt perverse, unnatural, and... strangely erotic. Then tremors erupted through her pussy and everything suddenly got a whole lot better.

The man held a vibrator against her puffy lips as he worked the dildo in her ass. Really? Give a girl a fighting chance, she thought. But despite every resolution to remain prudish, Isabella found herself gradually giving in to prurience. She was starting to enjoy the ordeal. In her defence, the rigger had been manhandling girls for years and knew just how far to push them before reeling them back into bliss. There really wasn't anything she could do to resist. The chafing ropes faded into the background, her discomfort forgotten as her world centred on a single sensation.

Isabella's whole body tensed, her petite form straining to spring free, but the ropes easily contained her struggles. Then she was on fire, her every nerve burning with pleasure as the stimulation took its toll. The sensation dragged on, rising in intensity until she could bear it no longer. A wild scream of protest tore from her throat, the most coherent sound she was capable of. Behind her, the man smiled knowingly and pressed on, kneading her erogenous zones with the humming vibrator as he plied his trade.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say this curvy little body of yours is trying to go somewhere," he observed, moving the vibrator up to her nipples briefly, rattling the weights. "Might I implore you to stay a while longer? I do so enjoy your company."

Two barely-coherent syllables escaped her breathless mouth. "Fff eww."

"I think you've got that one backwards, dear," replied the man, smiling.

It was some time later when he finally relented, putting the tools of his trade aside as he leaned back to survey his work. Isabella Winters was a feverish mess, her bound and suspended form rosy with exertion and quivering with raw nerves. The formerly-coolheaded agent was now anything but, her mouth still hanging agape from the last of her involuntary screams. There was only one thing that could complete this picture, he thought.

"I told you so," he said smugly, preparing another gag for the next scene of her shoot.

"Hello?"

Her voice echoed in the pitch-black darkness.

She was standing upright, her bearing that of a disciplined slave at attention. Except she wasn't standing of her own accord-her legs were held in place by solid metal bands just above the knees. These connected to a pole that ran from the floor up to her neck, where it ended in a rigid posture collar. The pole pressed against her spine, keeping her back straight and her head still. Behind it, her arms were shackled together at the wrists and elbows and laced up in a black leather sleeve. The bottom of the sleeve was locked to the central pole, preventing her wrists from wriggling. Her feet were encased in strict heels and similarly secured against the pole by her fettered ankles. At a glance, she might appear to be standing-but it would be more apt to say she was propped up, fastened so securely that she could move about as much as a piece of furniture.

What little movement she could manage was accompanied by the squeak of rubber, for she was decked out in gleaming black latex from neck to toe. The single-piece catsuit seemed to be custom-fitted to her curves, its skin-tight fit emphasised by the complete lack of undergarments she wore beneath it. She felt the material against every inch of her skin, tight yet flexible, light yet ubiquitous. But even though the glossy black surface enshrouded her entire form, she could scarcely imagine feeling more exposed. There wasn't a bump on her body that wasn't visible to every observer, such as the two rather prominent nubs on her chest. It didn't help that her waist was squeezed into a stiff corset of oiled leather which sat just below the two gleaming mounds of latex that held her proud assets. She supposed it made sense in some depraved way-if her body was to be on display, any accessory that squeezed extra sexuality from her was a no-brainer. The catsuit no doubt served the same purpose; inside it, her skin would be clammy and mottled, but from the outside, her figure was flawless.

"Hello?" she repeated, a note of desperation creeping into her voice as she realised just how thoroughly stuck she was.

"I'm right here, dear," said a deep voice by her ear, making her jump. She heard a chuckle and then her blindfold was removed.

Blinking against the light, she beheld a bustling hall filled with hundreds of people, some trapped in similar contraptions to her own, others attending to them or wandering around admiring other victims' predicaments. The atmosphere was one of high spirits and excitement, counter to what she might have expected from her first glance.

More than anything, it reminded her of a beauty pageant for pets, where proud owners would bring their excessively-groomed dogs and squabble for the most recognition. Except there were no dogs here-only subdued women whose individuality seemed to be held in no higher regard than their canine counterparts'.

Across the hall, a shapely young woman wore nothing but a dozen wide straps that held her on her knees before a devilish-looking machine. The machine had a large dildo levelled at her mouth, leaving the girl no choice but to suck on it in earnest. She was clearly skilled at this, too, but something about her staunch expression and the wires running from the machine to her parted legs told the unwitting catsuit model that the girl's proficiency did not develop from fooling around with boyfriends.

Not far from the fellatio training device, another girl was tied spread-eagled to a large X-shaped frame. Her nude body was hairless and smooth below the neck, a fact well-acknowledged by each passer-by. The next exhibit had a woman posed in a most elegant pirouette with one pointed foot secured above her head. Her skirt was hiked up to reveal her enticing pink labia, spread and displayed like a delicate rose. And so the line-up went on. Were they all just models? Why would anyone volunteer for this?

"See? You're not alone, Scarlett," the man assured her. "Now stop fidgeting, the judges are coming."

Scarlett. That must be her. The name sounded empty in her ears somehow, but for now it was the only one she had.

He replaced her blindfold, throwing her back into darkness. As her bewildered mind processed his words, she idly tried to flex her gloved fingers. Her hands were woven together in a clenched fist, wrapped in turn inside the snug leather armbinder. She couldn't fidget if she wanted to.

"What judg-"

Before she could finish, a large rubber ball was popped into her mouth and fastened firmly around her head. She tried to mumble around it, but received a quick slap for her efforts. Blinded, gagged, and stinging with pain, Scarlett fumed. Her questions had only grown in number: what was happening? Who was this man? Why did he think he had any right to treat her like this?

"... great thighs that are nicely showcased by the squatting position," said a new voice. Male.

"The rope works surprisingly well as a bra. Matches the wrist tie, too," said a deeper voice.

"Those creases, though. Fond of the sugary treats, is she?" A woman's voice this time.

The voices carried from a short distance to Scarlett's left, so the judges didn't seem to be directing their comments at her yet. Just as well, too. It sounded like the other girl was not only bound in an agonising position, but being publicly humiliated too. If they'd said that to her, Scarlett would have wasted no time in whipping back a retort. But there was no reply from the girl or her master-assuming she had one-and after a brief muttered conversation, the judges proceeded towards the shorter woman.

"And what do have we here?" the female judge inquired.

"Scarlett Summers," said her handler. "Five feet and one inch tall, 120 pounds, aged 31."

Hell. Is he trying to sell me off?

"Well, she's a bit on the small side..." said the woman as she scribbled down Scarlett's details.

"But makes one hell of a package!" whistled one of the male judges. "Just look at these puppies. What are they, an E cup?" He held one of the mounds in question, and Scarlett shook her chest reflexively to the general amusement of the judges.

"Great attitude, too," grinned the third judge, mistaking her recoil for salacity.

"30D, actually," the man replied, his knowledge of her bust size unnerving the fettered model.

"Then you've done a great job of making them prominent."

"Thank you."

The woman stepped closer and slid her hand down the length of Scarlett's catsuit, commentating as she did.

"Black hair. Black latex. Black leather. Black heels. I half expected the restraints to be black too, but the chrome finish is a nice touch," she admitted. "But why the catsuit? It's a common enough garment for pale girls, but your sub has a perfectly lush skin tone."

"The catsuit gives her security."

"Ah, a power play," said the judge, nodding her head appreciatively.

"Exactly. It tells her that even in her most empowering getup, she's mine."

Scarlett squirmed, her face burning an appropriate shade of red.

"We also need to view the sub's unobstructed visage," she continued. "No, the gag may stay in, just remove the blindfold, please."

The thick fabric came away and Scarlett blinked against the brightly-lit hall. The judges were certainly a motley bunch. The woman was their apparent leader, for she commanded obedience with her stern gaze alone. She would be fairly plain-featured herself if not for the heavy application of make-up glamorising her face. The second judge was smooth-shaven and unfairly handsome. Scarlett swallowed as a hot flush came over her. Why couldn't he be the one feeling her up? The final judge had a rugged beard and looked more suited to a sawmill than this urban edifice. When he spoke she identified him as the deeper-voiced judge.

"Why would anyone cover those eyes? They make me want to... I dunno, eat honey or something," he grinned.

"Nice job with the makeup, though," commented the handsome judge. Scarlett's heart skipped a beat. "Barely noticeable, but it highlights her amber eyes nicely."

"Thank you," said her handler, stealing the credit. Scarlett ground her teeth on the gag in frustration, earning her a frown from the heartthrob. Then the blindfold returned, her face no longer needing to be seen.

"So that's Style points, Presentation, Bondage..." the woman looked up from her clipboard and examined the steel restraints keeping Scarlett locked to the pole. "... More than adequate. The last category is Submission. May I?"

"She's all yours," her handler affirmed.

Scarlett heard a zip being pulled down and the next thing she felt were two manicured fingers entering her pussy. It must have been from the trapped body heat inside her catsuit and her racing pulse that her nether lips were already warm and lined with moisture, because the judge's fingers slipped right in. For once Scarlett was glad of the blindfold, for her unfocused eyes would only have embarrassed her. The woman probed for a just moment before withdrawing, but it was enough to leave Scarlett wanting more.

The moment of silence that followed was pure torture for the blindfolded girl. What was happening? How was molesting her supposed to indicate something as subjective as "submissiveness," anyway?

"Mhm, I'd say she's right where she needs to be," came the verdict. "That will be all for now. Your scores will be announced shortly. I'll just confer with my colleagues briefly and we'll leave you to it."

The woman didn't need to say what "it" was for a chill to travel down Scarlett's spine. Now that her purpose as a showgirl was fulfilled, there was no telling how her immobile form would be taken advantage of. She'd also noticed the judge had said his scores. His scores? They were her scores by right. Did the body they were scoring get none of the credit? What had he done?

But she wasn't going to be taken advantage of any further. She'd never submitted to power freaks before, and this was no different. She remembered now that the name Scarlett was just a cover. None of this was real. Not the other girls. Not the judges. Not even what she was wearing. Soon she'd wake up and-

"Well, well. Miss Winters, what have we here?"


Chapter 3 (added: 2016/01/02)

Isabella froze. No one should know that name. Yet she knew that voice, its subtle Italian lilt... It had to be her imagination. She was drugged; her mind could pull any number of tricks on her.

Then her blindfold was torn off.

And there he stood. Agent Leonardo Bandini, her sometimes-partner and all-round pain-in-the-ass. She might be imagining him, but that grin caused her no less irritation. The other occupants of the hall seemed to be oblivious to the male spy, their gazes passing right through him as they appraised the helpless latex-clad woman instead. Then in a phenomenon Isabella recognised all too well, the perverted beauty contest and its attendees began to dissolve away. She peered down at her chest just in time to see the glossy catsuit recede into thin air, her breasts jiggling free of the material.

But not everything disappeared. Her upright metal prison remained frustratingly intact, allowing not the slightest bit of slack in the posture it enforced. Her gag stayed put, now glistening with saliva. And Leo, that bastard, was still grinning at her like a bawdy frat boy. If that meant he was really there, she would look forward to slugging the pervert later.

"I never imagined you one for the flesh market, Izzy." And now I bet his imagination is in overdrive, she thought grimly as she tried and failed to twist her lady parts out of his roving gaze and save a shred of dignity.

Just get me out of here, Leo, she glared, her meaning unmistakable even without words.

Leo approached the immobilised agent and began inspecting the shackles binding her. His hands explored each of the restraints in turn, performing a thorough assessment of her prison. First her ankles, raised by the elegant stilettos that trapped her nimble feet. The fetters were solid steel bands welded to the central pole, holding Isabella's ankles neatly together and in place. No slack there. Leo's hands continued up her slender legs to her knees, noting as he did her calves trembling from prolonged confinement. The bands above her knees were similarly welded to the pole-probably the only thing keeping her unsteady knees from knocking together.

He kneeled behind her to examine her joined forearms. Steel cuffs bolted together around her wrists and elbows kept her arms fused and fixed, the only movement coming from her wriggling fingers. Circulation looked good, but he heard a sharp grunt as he tugged on her elbows. Maybe Isabella wasn't as supple as she liked to think.

Finally he came to the collar. It was elliptical in shape, keeping her head centred, and like the rest of the restraints it was part of the metal frame, rigid and unforgiving. Its position forced Isabella to keep her neck back and her chest forward, rather like a soldier standing to attention. A naked soldier whose look of contempt would see them punished for insolence, that is.

The design of the device also had the devious consequence that when viewed from the front it offered an unobstructed view of the victim from neck to knees. It was a feature Leo now enjoyed as he stood before his attractive colleague and soaked in her prominent curves, smiling with the knowledge she was entirely at his mercy.

"Wow, they really did a number on you, huh. What on earth compelled you to let them get this far?"

Her gold eyes flared in anger. Did he really think she'd let someone do this to her? If he'd remove the damn gag already she'd gladly tell him about the drug and perhaps even offer a demonstration.

Leo ignored her glare and continued, "Maybe you were enjoying the assignment a little bit too much." He smirked as his eyes travelled down her pert body, lingering on her swollen red labia.

Well, duh, she thought defensively. I've just had a finger shoved in my-

A muffled cry of protest escaped her gag as Leo rubbed his own fingers through her moist lips.

"I never thought I'd see that tough little body of yours helpless," he murmured.

And you'll never see again if you don't release me this instant, she bristled.

Even with her perfect posture, Leo towered over her. But Isabella was well-accustomed to being the shortest woman in the room and wasn't the slightest bit intimidated by the man before her. Yet.

Leo glanced at his watch. It was the standard-issue wrist watch for field agents, packed with a few handy features you wouldn't find in a retail store, but its main purpose was still to tell the time. In their operations synchronisation was often crucial, so every agent had to wear the same watch with the same configuration. Isabella had foregone hers in assuming her cover as a model, and the multiple drug-indused hells she'd lived through meant that her body clock was now completely out of whack. In short, she had no idea of the time or even if it was daylight outside. But Leo did. He was checking his watch for another reason, a reason that sent a chill down her spine―he wanted to know how much time he had with her.

Whatever he saw made him smile, and Isabella shivered in response. She watched silently as he looked up at her, noticing for the first time how his pupils grew with lust at each glance in her direction. So her ordeal wasn't over yet. Just how far would he go?

"Hmm, looks like this rig is missing a part," said Leo, grabbing something from behind her. Isabella couldn't look down to see what it was, so she huffed in surprise when a thick greased dildo eased its way into her. It was a snug fit, given how her legs were locked together, but it must have been designed for this prison because once the shaft was buried deep within her, she heard it latch onto the cuffs above her knees. But the dildo wasn't the only new accessory now locked in place. A second object was jury-rigged to the same pole, its bulbous head nestling snugly against her sensitive clitoris.

Another click and this object buzzed to life, thrashing her little nub into arousal and sending waves of vibrations through her entire body.

"Oops," ginned Leo. "Probably should keep it on low."

The vibrations died down slightly, but still had the helpless agent moaning before a single minute had passed. Leo then took her shapely breasts in his hands, circling her nipples with his thumbs as he locked eyes with her. Isabella's amber eyes snapped in and out of focus, lids drooping and rising as she tried to meet his smug gaze. If she were able to move, Isabella would probably be writhing in ecstasy. Instead her cheeks trembled and her nose twitched as sexual energy hijacked her body.

Leo could scarcely believe his luck. He'd been sent as backup when Isabella had failed to report for several hours, expecting to find her mopping up the place of evidence and feigning innocence when he berated her for going dark. Instead, the prodigious agent had gotten herself captured, and there was really nothing innocent about her current predicament. The contraption that snared her was a work of pure deviance, and it fascinated him to think what other ways the dungeon master had intended to exploit Isabella's bared form before Leo had arrived and taken his cane along with his consciousness.

Seeing the voluptuous agent reeling in the throes of an orgasm was like seeing a celebrity's sex tape. Isabella Winters was a legend in spy circles, and here she was foaming at the mouth with her dainty pink nipples jutting out like teepees and her pussy positively dripping with arousal. Surreal was an understatement. How could he not take advantage of this moment?

He smiled and turned to the tripod-mounted camera beside him. He'd been careful to stop the recording before entering the frame, but now he stepped behind it and flicked the record button. Starting at her feet, he slowly panned the camera up her trembling form to her distressed face, then zoomed out to capture the whole scene. The next few minutes passed in a flash as he filmed Isabella's every twitch in glorious high-definition. He lost count of how many times she climaxed, her thighs shaking uncontrollably under the spell of the wand vibrator. Then, stopping the recording, he swapped out the memory card with a pre-prepared blank card, making it look like the footage was wiped, and tucked the priceless cartridge into his boot. Mission complete. Or mission salvaged, anyway. Now to get out of here.

Sighing, he approached his squirming charge and switched off the wand vibrator. Then he detached the shaft from the frame and gently slid it from her pussy. It was so tempting to treat her to a few good thrusts, but he'd already done too much. So instead he began meticulously unlocking each shackle using the hex key he'd snatched from the snoozing man's pocket. Ankles, thighs, wrists, elbows, and finally the collar. By this point Isabella's eyes were shut, her breathing heavy and slow.

Leo took a step back, expecting to catch her, but the moment her neck was released Isabella's eyes flew open and she stepped forward, aiming a solid kick at Leo's crotch. It connected, and he sank to the ground a moment after she did. Though her legs were shaky, Isabella was very much in control and wasted no time in overpowering the man who'd degraded her into a common slut. There was rope discarded nearby from an earlier scene, so she put it to good use on the male agent. Rigging was not her profession, but after a few minutes and a plethora of knots she was satisfied with the result. Leo lay awkwardly trussed against the wooden floor, looking up at her apprehensively, his eyes slightly bloodshot from the pain in his groin.

Isabella ripped the ball gag from her mouth and stuffed it in his, taking great pleasure in pulling the thing as tightly as she could secure it.

"Numskull," she hissed at him, which coincidentally was exactly how the gag was starting to make him feel. Isabella tore the stiletto heels from her feet and got up to retrieve the camera's memory card, snapping it in two. Then she ransacked the cupboards until she found the evidence she needed: a canister of distilled eroxide. Finally, she stripped the unconscious rope master and donned his oversized clothes, reclaiming a shred of dignity after a long day of humiliation. She was too sore and too incensed to care about cleaning up her trail, so she simply stumbled out the door, leaving the two men sprawled on the ground.

Leo swore through the gag.

Fortunately Isabella had left him clothed, so he was able to slip a small knife from his boot-the one without the memory card-and work it against the ropes. At least he still had the real memory card intact.

With his arms still bound behind him, Leo heard a groan to his left and twisted to see Isabella's rigger getting to his feet wearing only underwear. Mustering his strength, Leo spun around and kicked the man's feet out from under him, then struck his temple with a boot. Poor guy-he was going to have one hell of a headache when he finally woke up.

A few minutes later and Leo was completely free. Taking care not to jostle his fragile manhood, he gingerly stepped over to the door and let out a whistle as he beheld the corridor. Bodies littered the floor, some moaning in pain, others simply unconscious. He must have really made her mad.

Breaking into a run, he took off down the corridor and up the stairs to the nearest exit. It was there he found Isabella dispatching the last conscious employee of eSensual Studios, a dominatrix decked out in black leather straps and fishnet stockings. Isabella glared at him as she dealt the finishing blow, dropping the other woman the ground. Then she started for the exit.

"Stop," Leo commanded, making his voice strong and authoritative. Isabella narrowed her eyes at the order, but paused momentarily to listen.

"I don't care if you forgive me for what I did," he said. "You're sexy as hell and that body deserves all the loving it can get. But unless you listen very carefully to what I'm about to say, the whole world is going to know exactly what Isabella Winters sounds like when she moans like a common slut."

That got her attention. Isabella crossed the space between them in three steps and pinned Leo to the wall.

"Are you trying to blackmail me, you little weasel?"

"Large weasel, if anything," he said calmly, smirking slightly as he towered over her. "And I'm getting to that part."

"I destroyed that footage."

"You destroyed a blank cartridge. I'd already secured that juicy footage for my own records."

Her rage subsided slightly, but Leo could tell her heart was beating faster.

"I'm listening," she said tersely.

"Glad to hear it. Now, I daresay the agency would have little use for a secret agent whose identity has been so deliciously spread across the wires. So I have just two requests in exchange for my word that that will never happen. First, whenever we are alone, you will drop your gaze to my boots and address me as Master. Second, that you will answer honestly every question I ever put to you, without deflecting or withholding information. So, what do you say, Izzy?" She glared. The threat of losing her job had reignited her temper. And he knew how much she hated that pet name.

Every fibre of her being ached to reach out and wipe that smile off his face with her fist. But he had a point. And she wasn't going to lose her career over this sorry excuse for a man. She had no doubt he'd do it. The worm didn't care about anyone but himself. Knowing him, he'd probably wait until a moment when the reveal would have the most devastating effect. She'd be on a deep-cover mission, attending a high-society party to investigate some rich black-market dealer, attired in her finest lace, jewellery, and glammed to perfection, drawing the lustful desire of every man and the fierce envy of every woman in the room... Then every screen and projector in the mansion would start rolling the footage of her naked, exposed, vulnerable, her wanton cries filling every corner of the decorous venue. In the blink of an eye she would fall from the highest esteem to the lowest, becoming an object of ridicule and disgust. Was her stubborn pride really worth running the risk of such humiliation?

But what was with those requests? The Master thing was probably some personal fetish, but always being honest? That just seemed tame by Leo's standards. There had to be a catch.

"That's it?" she asked, unimpressed. "Just... words? I don't have to be your sex slave, do your ironing, and give you my soul while I'm at it? I'm disappointed."

"Well, if you're offering..."

She kneed him in the shin.

"That's it, yes. So, what will it be? Words or unemployment?"

As much as she hated giving in, she really had no choice. Slowly, painstakingly, she bowed her head. "Fine. I agree to your terms." For now.

Leo raised an eyebrow.

"I agree to your terms, Master."

"Good girl," he smiled. "Now, let's return to headquarters so the clean-up crew can do their job."

The eSensual Studios extraction soon became known as the agency's messiest operation in four years. Isabella almost did lose her job, but of course all was forgiven once her boss calmed down; she was simply too versatile an asset to lose. There was, however, a period of several dull weeks in which she was confined to paperwork. This gave Leo ample opportunity to call her into his office for the bizarrest series of interviews, yanking her chain like an untrained puppy. His persistence caused Isabella no small amount of irritation, for it served as a consistent reminder of her subjugation by a man inferior to her in every way-they both knew she was the better agent.

So, swallowing her pride, she fielded questions about her past work, her regrets and failures, her relationships, even her dreams. All the while staring at a weathered pair of hardened leather boots, wondering where the copies of that demeaning footage might be hidden. Gradually, she subconsciously began to anticipate these sessions, enjoying the cathartic release of exposing her mind to an interested ear. She just wished she got more of a response than the boots afforded her.

It wasn't until several months later that Isabella got that response. She was out in the field, her first mission since the ESS debacle. It was a routine recon mission observing a local drug dealer. No contact. Except when she arrived at the site, it was deserted. At first she thought the intel was bad, but then she noticed some used needles and swabs in the corner. She took a closer look, examining the label on a bottle.

Eroxide.

Suddenly she felt a prick in her neck as a dose was swiftly injected into her jugular. She retaliated, spinning around with her fists out. Her assailant sidestepped with lightning speed-or maybe it was her reactions that were slowing. Her vision bloomed, illuminating the man's face.

"Master? What're you..."

"Haven't you figured it out yet, Izzy?"

Isabella's nose twitched. Even in her rapidly deteriorating sobriety she hated that name. Leo was grinning now, he features warped and drifting apart as her mind succumbed to the drug.

"Last time we did something like this together we were on a tight schedule, so I thought I'd clear your calendar for you and ensure we have plenty of time to play. How does that sound, Izzy?"

Her mouth moved as she fumbled for an honest answer that reflected her unwillingness. She found none. Because despite her reservations there was a primal hunger forming in her eyes. The drug was just a catalyst-it was her own desires that surfaced under its influence, and it was her own desires that now flooded her with euphoria and brushed away her inhibitions. Even though she knew the drug's effects perfectly well, she was powerless to fight its insidious influence. In five minutes she'd be begging to be used like a cheap slut and her years of advanced training would only shorten the humiliation by minutes at best. Damn drugs. She was in Leo's thrall now...

"First question," he said firmly, taking her chin in his hand to ensure he had whatever remained of her attention. "Would you rather be gagged or blindfolded?"

"Gagged," Isabella mumbled, her reply as automatic as breathing. Almost immediately a hard rubber ball was strapped into her pliable mouth. For a moment she felt indignation, for that wasn't how this honesty thing was supposed to work: she'd agreed to give answers, not compliance. Then her mind slipped into a fantasy of its own design and any prudish inhibitions were lost in a drug-induced haze of lust and wantonness.

The agent collapsed to the stone floor, her muscles no longer answering to her will. Leo knelt over her, smiling as he enjoyed the simple exchange of power, his hands on her cheeks, thumbs brushing her lips as he pressed the ball gag into place. This woman was his superior in every way, yet here she was drooling on the floor, a slave to his whim. But while her body was relaxed and defenceless, her mind was alive and over-stimulated with sights and sensations designed to awaken an insatiable appetite for sex and shameless depravity. Such a wonderful drug.

Leo began to strip his prey and prepared to feed that appetite long into the night.